Name: Thror Hammerhand
Race: Nord Bandit, Werewolf
Family Origins: Hammerhands have rarely left Skyrim; for their generations of family have never had cause to leave the Nord homeland, those few who have left only did so as they served their time within the Imperial Legions. Originally residing in Whiterun, the Hammerhands knew of the Companions’ Inner Circle for their own reasons, every few generations of their blood brought forth a skinchanger, it was in their blood, and it was a curse they had kept hidden for so long that even some of the family itself didn’t realise they had Lycanthropes within their own kin. When one shows the signs of the full moon affecting them, the head of the family tries to teach them what he knows, handed down from the previous head of family, but as the generations came and went, it seemed the curse had faded from their blood, diluted with the mix of other families and even other races, Imperial, blood now runs in their veins. The Hammerhands were a well-known family within Solitude, working a blacksmith and weapon store, they were known to forge some of the best armour and arms within the northern Hold, and often those seeking equipment second only to Sky-Forge weaponry came to the Hammerhands to get it, such was their skill that Jarls and their household guards would even venture to the ancient city to equip their men with such fine weaponry and mail. The Hammerhands suffered during the Great War however, three of their children fell in battle, as did the two uncles who joined when the Great War began, and the head of the family, Thror, left everything to his three remaining children. The family never recovered, with no one capable to manage the dealings and supply of the forge and store, the three remaining Hammerhands sold what was left, the materials, the arms and armour, the store and the forge itself, and left Solitude, splitting the gold three ways. Such was the money they made that two went south to Cyrodil, to live comfortably within the Imperial City, rebuilding itself after the Great War, and became people of influence within the Empire’s capital. To Thror’s knowledge, they do not possess the Beast Curse, and while he is no fool, he could not wait to see if the new generation would produce more of them, he sent a message to old friends who knew of the curse, to keep an eye on his children in case they did show signs. Hammerhands are not the only ones who possess the Beast Blood afterall.
Age: 68 at beginning of Great War, 72 at the end before he vanished. Would be 106 during the timeline.
Appearance: Grizzled, and worn, Thror looks close to his age with his mane of grey hair is carefully tended, braided and kept drawn back from his leathery skin, and his impressive beard it similarly cared for. Standing as a giant of a man at 6’6, the Nord is built as a warrior, the working of the forge has granted him a build that is both powerful and impressive despite his age, his pale blue eyes are piercing and sharp, not one to miss much that happens around him, and his body scarred from his trials across Tamriel to see this man is to know the warrior’s heart and soul within him.
Obviously the right hand male one. Like the scar. Best image to suit my needs I believe.
Equipment: Superior-crafted studded armour, with leather bracers and boots, one steel longsword, one steel dagger, one Hunting Bow, with 20 iron arrows, amulet of Talos. (Shall explain in detail later on)
Miscellanea: Three iron ingots, two health potions, two whole rabbits (dead, replaces them daily when possible)
Favoured Skills: Highly Proficient: Smithing, One-Handed. Moderately Proficient: Archery, Light Armour. Mildly Proficient: Blocking (2/2/1)((Think I worked that out right, loss two on one to gain another of the next tier?))
Background: Thror was born in Whiterun and moved to Solitude with his father and two brothers during his teens. He was raised with the ideals of equality to all, his father having fallen in love with a Redguard woman not long after they reached Solitude, who was often shunned by the Nords who held power within the city. This has taught him to respect those of all races, even the Khajit, although when they entered the store he kept a closer eye on them than others, some habits and needs did not die with time. He became head of the Hammerhand family when his father entered Sovengarde at the hands of a Thieves Guild cutpurse who accidently killed him during his mugging, pushing the old Nord down the stone steps within the city. Thror vowed to keep the forge and store open despite the hardships of regaining the influence his father had earned, and despite the first couple of years coming hard, the quality of the equipment provided by Hammerhand Forge started to become known throughout the Hold, then all of Skyrim. Indeed it was how Thror met his wife, an Imperial Legionnaire who had been discharged after years of service, she wanted a good sword to have for her trip home to Anvil. The two spent some time discussing which blade would be better for her, Thror fancied a longsword, Nordic style, rather than the short swords the Imperial Legions fancied, while Julia argued that she would take six inches of point over reach any time. To settle the matter the pair decided to test one another, Thror was no stranger to fighting, he often took on the bounties the Jarl would post, it was a decent way to ensure his store always had profit and coin.
The “duel” lasted ten minutes, with each testing the other carefully, probing the defences, with Thror’s brothers grinning as Julia had enough of the testing, and lunged under his guard, turning the sword around so the pommel slammed into his face rather than the point. Thror’s nose broke that day, and despite having a healer’s touch upon it, the slight crookedness of it became a badge of honour for Julia, who he invited to stay with him for a while before moving south. What had been intended as a couple of days turned into a week, then a month, then marriage in the eyes of the Nine and their first child within a year. They lived happily for many years, earning a small fortune, eventually having four sons and two daughters, and they continued to forge and sell weapons and armour, even branching into a general goods store. But then the beginning of the Great War came, and the Legion called on all they could to join them in preparation of battling the Dominion. Thror allowed those of his children who wished to go to join, and Julia used some of her old contacts to get them assigned to units least likely to pull frontline duty, and all three were assigned to the Imperial City, and throughout the entire war did the Hammerhand Forge produce weapons for the Imperials.
When the Imperial City fell to the Dominion, their youngest son, Cestius, was captured, his tortured body had been placed on display for all to see what happens to those who fight the Dominion. Thror heard the news and flew in a rage, only the calming presence of his more logical thinking wife kept him from launching an all-out war on the Dominion himself. She reminded him of his other children, of how doing so would affect them, so Thror put his vengeance on hold, but from that day did all elves suffer his now cold stare, even other mer suffered such a gaze. When the Emperor lead the charge that reclaimed the Imperial City, did Thror’s daughter Amelia and son Thrain fall in battle, holding the Dominion in place as their comrade cut into them from the rear. They had died honourably, Thror could live with it, barely, but he could, but then the Empire agreed to the White-Gold Concordat, Thror couldn’t stand it. His beloved wife fell ill at the news of such a betrayal, the grief they had felt at the loss of three of their children had placed a great burden upon her heart, and seeing her Empire bow before those who killed her children proved too much. She would die in her sleep, peacefully as Thror and his remaining children sat beside her. Thror had sworn to avoid changing into his beast form so long as he had no reason to do so, he had spent so long hiding it that he could almost summon it at will, although with the full moon did his temper become short and the pressure the beast placed on his mind become more….
Incentive. It had been thirty-six years since he had last changed, but the night after his wife had died was a full moon, and Thror left Solitude without a word to his children, leaving into the wilderness to let the beast run wild.
He had fed the beast more and more often now, the great creature within his body gaining strength with every kill, be it animal or bandit, but with such a beast now within his body, Thror cannot risk a city, Altmer still walk within Skyrim, Cyrodil and other Imperial realms, even within Hammerfell, for not every Altmer is of the Dominion, but his temper is no longer secure, the beast does not need the full moon to come forth. During the horrors of the Dragon Crisis Thror felt the pull of the Great Hunt of Hircine, he had even attended the event, watching as hunter after hunter tried to kill a werewolf like him, and each fell to the ravages of the creature. Seeing what he could expect from Hircine should he not occasionally let the beast run free and hunt in the daedric prince’s name, he could find himself hunted by those who follow the prince as a god. Choosing to keep himself moving, Thror left Skyrim, keeping to the wilderness, keeping as far from the Altmer as he could, although the occasional Thalmor patrol comes up missing, only to be found torn apart days later. As he appears in cities, when he needs to replace his equipment, he comes under the guise of a werewolf hunter, should one see him if he changed it was a sound cover, and has served him well in some cases. Other cases are not as great, should another werewolf hear that he is coming, they often try to head him off, only to learn that he too is a werewolf, and while some understand the duplicity, others see it as a threat to their power, and many a werewolf has actually fallen to his claws, the largest of which is now his cloak, a great black were who wouldn’t back down now reinforces his claim as a werewolf hunter, and few get in his way or challenge his claim now.
While being a werewolf prolongs his life somewhat, Thror can feel the call of Hircine more often, to have his soul run the plains of the Great Hunt for all time, but his vengeance must come first, a Thalmor officer by the name of Federa Yvresse, the one who ordered young Cestius to be displayed as a trophy, he had spent several years looking for this particular Thalmor, catching the back end of the elf’s operations to hunt Talos worshippers now and again, but yet to see the Thalmor himself. His search has taken him far and wide, even so far as Hammerfell itself, where several outposts of the Dominion remained, despite the near constant probing attacks by Hammerfell’s desert warriors. Thror joined with a small group of Nord pirates who had a flotilla of seven ships to their name, and who had raided the Dominion’s shipping lanes for some time, during the rather fragile peace between the Empire and the Dominion. Although he had rarely set foot on a ship, the old wolf soon found his sea-legs, raiding with the best of the pirates, but while his new-found comrades looted the holds, Thror rummaged through the documents, searching for destinations and officer names, and while he found much information that would’ve been interesting to the Empire, he never found that one name he wanted. After some months with the pirates, the Dominion ambushed the small flotilla, sinking all but two of the ships, which fled to the winds. While only one ship truly escaped, the other having been crippled, boarded and then scuttled, Thror could only watch with faint sadness as the broken remains of the crew had lost the fight that had filled their hearts, their backs had been shattered. With almost a cowardly gait, the
Wind of Skyrim limped into dock at Sentinel, the first mate, now captain, sold what remained of the once proud ship, and the crew scattered to the city.
When word reached Thror of the Dragons remerging in Skyrim, his heart soared at the fact his family were well south of the border, and while he wished his homeland the best for the crisis, he would not turn his back on a task that had been set in motion years before hand. He had prowled the desertlands of Hammerfell for months on end, stalking the Thalmor outposts and their patrols, learning their habits and routines, he had little time to worry about his homeland. By the end of the Dragon Crisis, Thror himself was being hunted, the Thalmor had grown tired of his predatory nature on their troops, and they continued to hunt him even as the events of auroras ran their course, joined by a trio of Praetorians, they soon had him cornered within a cavern system within the desert. Thirty Thalmor, joined by the trio of Praetorians, who decided to help the Thalmor in furthering their own task, entered the cavern system, that had been Thror’s home for nearly six months, so although they outnumbered him greatly, and his age was beginning to slow his skills, Thror picked the Thalmor apart, as they passed flowing falls of sand, his sword would flash, taking a life or two, as they passed beneath overpassing routes, his bow would sing, and when they had been reduced to but five, he allowed them to find him within the caverns. The central cavern was a large one, roughly fifty metres from wall to wall, and Thror stood in the centre of it, his cloak discarded, his armour removed, his almost ritually tattooed body completely visible to the approaching Thalmor and their Imperial compatriots. The first they knew of his change was the bone crunching sound as his skeletal frame reformed to his beast’s form, thick silvery grey fur sprouted across his body. Then the screams began, as the rather large werewolf emerged before them, hurtled into the shocked Thalmor. The Thalmor fell easily enough, not equipped to face an aged werewolf like Thror, their elven blade left their marks, but they could not pierce his hide deep enough to truly slow the beast. The Imperials watched carefully as the werewolf ripped the Thalmor apart, only stepping into the fray as the last Thalmor fell in a welter of blood and limbs. A mix of fire, ice and lightning magicks filled the cavern as the werewolf danced between the spells, unable to close with the battle mages, but in turn they were unable to lock him in place long enough to overwhelm him with their combined magicks. It lasted minutes, but in that time the mages began to tire, as did the were before them, flames scorched his fur, lightning contorted his muscles, ice slowed his movements, but now the mages had wounds of their own, claw marks through their armour, fresh cuts on exposed flesh, one was even bitten, casting fire with one hand while trying to heal the terrible wound with the other. Thror finally found the opening he needed, the other two were trying to cover their comrade as they fought, and left an opening to the exit route of the cavern, and the aged werewolf used the agility that had become second-nature to him to full effect, leaping between the ice and lightning to run into the cavern. The Praetorians would chase him down, but for now they would worry over their comrade possibly turning, Thror doubted he would but such was life, unpredictable and rather annoying that way.
Reverting back to his human form, Thror had grabbed his gear, before hurrying back into the desert, he had another haven some miles away, it would be hard going, to reach there before dawn, but it was possible. For the next few years Thror struggled to evade the battle mages, although one fell not long after their first encounter, the other two were far more aggressive and cautious at the same time, utilising the local forces in their attempts to capture or kill the werewolf, Thror never really learned what they wanted with him. The Nord moved across Hammerfell like a ghost, hounded from dusk till dawn by the Praetorians, and it would take some time before Thror could begin his own hunt again. When word of the Auroras event atop the Imperial City reached Thror, he had become so accustomed to the trouble the Praetorians brought, and he doubted they would leave now the Emperor had changed hands again. Indeed now the Emperor had recalled the Praetorians, the two who had hunted Thror for so long appeared to drop all the rules, launching an ambush as Thror was within the marketplace of Sentinel. A dozen innocents were caught in the crossfire, including several members of the local guards. And by the end of a brutal fight, the Praetorians lay dead, their throats ripped out, and Thror stood before a crowd of onlookers, his beast-form triumphantly roaring to the sky at the victory over the two mages. The werewolf swiftly left Sentinel, hounded by guards who gave a half-hearted chase, whether out of res
pect or fear, Thror did not know, nor did he care.
Now the Dwemer had returned, and Thror had suffered their automaton hunters more than even the Praetorians, and he could not use the fear his beast created against things that knew no fear. As the Dwemer occupy Tamriel without pause, Thror has crept across Hammerfell, his nature more cautionary that before, the automatons seemed able to sense his beast, but only when they were close enough to truly see him, but it would not be the first time he had awoken from his restless sleeps to find Dwemer Spheres cascading down the dunes towards him.
Personality: Once full of life and love, Thror rarely displays any emotion, he is considered cold and dour, but his eyes often shows signs of sadness as he sees younger generations that remind him of his family.
I'll finish this up when I get time, with everything going on I just haven't really had time. If you dislike something, or see a mistake hanging around, let me know and I'll add it to the list of things I have to do.
