"Ma'Kylir never lets them see her cry," the Khajiit growled through his teeth in pain. The Dunmer child frantically tried to wipe away the tears flowing from her eyes, only smearing her cheeks with dark blood for more tears to trace paths through. She couldn't take her hands away from the wound for too long. Blood poured from the gash in the massive warrior's gut and pooled in the sand. The ragged cloth under her small hands had become soaked and useless, but still she tried to stop the bleeding. She sniffled and gasped on the breaths her shaking body was trying to choke down.
"I-- I can't stop it," she squeaked.
"Look here, kitten," he hissed and reached for her arm.
She squirmed away still trying to keep pressure on the wound, "P'ah, no I need to--"
A single paw snared both her slender wrists and ripped her around to look into the black cat's yellow eyes. "Look!," he roared at her before choking for a few moments, "Leave this one. Leave this place."
"No!" she fought against him in vain, "I'm staying with you!"
"Ma'Kylir..." he sighed, "It is good to be brave, but it is necessary to run away."
She shook her head but knew better than to look away from him for too long, "You always say that. I-- I won't! I'm not leaving!" she sobbed and shivered as she felt his blood starting to pool around her knees.
"You were not meant for these lands or this life," he whispered weakly, "You must run. They will find us soon."
She shook her head again, clenching her teeth against a wobbling chin and another flow of heavy tears. She slumped over, putting her head on his chest and clinging to him as her body was wracked with her sobbing. Her face was hidden under matted locks of wild red hair. The unbeatable warrior was already growing cold.
"You grow strong, and clever and defiant... even to your great father," he chuckled, "I raised you well. This once, kitten, listen to your P'ah. Leave."
The girl rose up, ready to fight back once more, but dust on the horizon signaled that the soldiers were upon them. She looked at the dust then back at her father. He clumsily wiped the bloodied tears from her face with a thumb.
"Ma'Kylir never lets them see her cry."

---

"You caught the thieves?" The commander asked the Imperial soldier reporting.
"We arrested the gray-skin girl," he nodded, "We wounded the cat before they could leave town. The beast was already dead when we caught up to them, Sir."
The commander shrugged, "Good enough. She was the one we needed to question anyway."
"Sir, she stabbed one of my men in the neck when we arrested her."
"So put it in the report."
"He's dead, Sir! She should be executed regardless of her age!"
"There is unrest in the east and the Emperor may have use for her. Would you like to be the one to disobey His Majesty?"
The soldier was quiet a moment, "No, Sir."
"Back to your post then. The girl will be shipped off to the Imperial City prisons in the morning as planned."

---

The storm, the sound of waves smacking the side of the hull, the moisture that never seemed to stop clinging to her skin and most of all the smell. That hot, fetid, yet somehow sweet smell. She was still reeling from the events of the past few months when she stepped onto the docks of Seyda Neen. She scowled at the ship's crew, she scowled at the captain, and she scowled at the Imperial guard who came out to meet her. He was a credit to his race to be sure. Every stride was strong and purposefully placed. He stood straight with shoulders back and chest puffed. One hand wrapped around the hilt of his gladius, ever at the ready. When he spoke it was like velvet. He chose his words carefully in a masterful display of charisma and tact.
"We've been expecting you, Miss. Welcome to Morrowind and to the island of Vvardenfell," he said with a kind smile. He even went so far as to bow to her, "If you'll just follow me to the end of the docks to the Census and--"
"Imperial scum," she hissed as she pushed passed him roughly, "I'll find my own way."
The wrinkled balding man at the Census and Excise Office slid a stack of papers across the desk along with a pen. The Dunmer child looked between him and the paperwork. It was obvious she was vastly unimpressed with the whole process. She frowned and rolled the pen around slowly.
"If you don't mind," he started, "I'll need you to read over these papers--"
"I can't read," she interrupted.
"And fill in the appropriate information--" he continued.
"I can't write," she growled.
He sighed and looked at her from under sagging eye lids for what seemed an eternity. She glared right back. The old man took the papers from her and slid them back infront of himself and began to scrawl into various sections.
"What is your name?" he asked quietly.
"Ma'Ky--" she stopped and thought a moment, "S'Kylir," she replied.
"That's a Khajiiti name, isn't it? How does a mer come by such an... unusual title?" he jotted it down regardless.
She rose and leaned forward on the desk, "Is there something wrong with it?" she asked in a very low, very quiet voice.
He glanced up into her burning eyes, barely visible through the unkempt wild mess of long red hair.
"No," he responded.
With a flutter of robes and papers he bolted up from his chair and whisked the paperwork into a tight, neat roll and wrapped them with a small length of jute. He was careful not to look at the little demon child. The roll was thrust into her chest where she snatched it away roughly.
"You will present these papers to the lieutenant in the next building. He will have orders for you. If you choose not to follow them you will be considered a deserter of the Imperial Army. In which case you will not be sent back to the dungeons of Cyrodiil. You will remain in the dungeons of Fort Ebonhart here in Vvardenfell and believe me..." He finally looked at her, "Your kind have ways of breaking a prisoner that cannot be repaired."
She ignored him and stomped through the door that the guard opened for her.

The hull of the blasted Aldmeri monstrosity was as foul as the depths of Oblivion. Most of the passengers were prisoners in chains. Undesirables, traitors, petty criminals, people who knew too much, people who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, enemies of The Dominion. Some were passengers who had paid for passage to another world. It was a risk to leave it all behind and traverse into an untamed land where death was more likely than the freedom they were seeking. However, considering the abysmal and terrifying state Tamriel had fallen into, the risk was well worth it to those with enough desperation or fortitude. A large man hunched, cloaked, hooded and masked who sat silent and still belonged to the latter group. Prisoners and passengers alike were stuffed into the same dark, stinking hole. Little light, no beds and save for what they had brought on their backs, no food and filthy water. It had been three days since they had left port in Mournhold. Just as many prisoners had already died. Instead of throwing the bodies overboard the Aldmeri soldiers who crewed the ship simply left them to fester. Hopefully it wouldn't be long now. He would survive, but the little passenger inside his cloak was starting to slip away.

In the sparse glimmer of sunlight the trickled in through the grate that lead down into the hull he was able to examine it. Very carefully he fished the little burlap bag of soil out of it's pocket. The tiny pastel leaves poking out of the fabric around a tightly sealed bud, which were normally plump and waxy, were limp, thin and dry. His eyes flashed to the grate, open just enough for the soldiers to slip in and out of at their leisure. It was nearly dusk. They had been told not to go on deck, but a punishment had never been spoken of and nobody had tried for fear of the often brutal methods used by the elves. He lightly touched one of the vulnerable little leaves. He wasn't afraid. With aching and stiff muscles and joints he rose from the wooden bench and slid through the throngs of unwashed people and silently slipped up the large ladder and onto the deck.

With only one or two soldiers on patrol he was able to slip out of sight easily. He made his way to the front of the ship and dropped down to one of the catwalks below the main deck. It rattled under his weight and shifted. He stood still, listening and feeling his surroundings. He took a deep breath. Luck was on his side today else the rusty steel may have snapped under his feet leaving him to plummet into the ocean. The last rays of sun still glinted through the clouds that would be rolling in tonight. There wasn't much left but it would be enough for the starving seedling. He crouched slowly, and sat with his legs crossed before pulling it back out again so the sun could touch the leaves and hopefully refresh them. He let out a muffled sigh.

The wind was icy and damp and pulled at his cloak and pack. The last days of Frostfall were passing them by and soon a harsh winter would take the place of a hellish summer. He wondered what the seasons, plants and animals would be like on Akavir. Alien and strange probably, but would they be just as beautiful as the changes and life cycles of his first home in Cyrodiil had once been? Or would the landscape be war-torn and barren as it had become?

"You there!" a shout came from above him followed by dashing footsteps. He jumped to his feet and considered running but there was no point. He couldn't risk fighting back and the only place he could run was back the the hull. He waited for the young Aldmeri decked out in immaculate golden armor, clean shaven with long flaxen hair plaited perfectly down his back to reach him before putting the plant back in it's pocket inside his cloak. He glared up into the youth's dark eyes.

"What are you doing here!?" he stood straight and shouted.

He didn't respond.

"Speak, wretch!" the elf snarled.

He stood still and watched his every move with fiery orange eyes, the only part of his face that was visible under the mask, bandanna and hood.

The soldier raised a club over his shoulder ready to strike, "Fine. I'll loosen that tongue!"

"Cadet," A low, raspy voice stopped his hand.

The young elf dropped his arm and wheeled around to face a ragged figure that was walking slowly toward them, "S-Sir!" he stood at attention immediately, "Warden Kardryn, this passenger is trespassing on deck and he refuses to answer when questioned. Allow me to punish him."

"That one's mute," the Warden said matter-of-factly.

As he got closer the man in the cloak could make out the bastardized pieces of elven armor that once must have been part of an exquisite uniform, but which were now tarnished, torn down and refurbished with leather and furs and straps to make them more adequate for battle and the hard life on board a cramped airship. The Warden had a long, thin pipe clutched in his teeth and was whittling away at a piece of wood. Messy auburn hair flowed over his face and shoulders but he could just make out a strap of leather covering one of his eyes.

The Cadet hesitated a moment, but spoke again, "That does not excuse him from leaving the hull, Sir."

Kardryn was now uncomfortably close to the young elf. Just a few extra inches of height let him look down on his subordinate, "Get back to your post, Lord Tight-Britches. I'll take care of it." The Cadet obeyed but not without scowling over his shoulder as he strode away. With a hoarse sigh Kardryn dropped down and sat on the catwalk with his legs dangling through the railing, "Sorry about that, the newcomers are so fresh out of the divine system's cunt they're still wet behind the ears." He looked up at the masked man and smiled warmly and continued his carving. "Don't worry, I'm not sending you back below just yet. Not sure I could take someone your size in a fight anyhow," he chuckled.

Cautiously, the man sat down along side the Aldmer and pulled the seedling back out to breathe and sun.

"Everything about this place is disgusting isn't it? We'll be on the southern shores of Akavir by tomorrow evening. Lucky you. You get to get off this pile of horse shit. I'd get away from the prisoners quick, though if I were you. They aren't there by choice, got nothing to lose and don't have the well-being of the whole in mind. If you're a saint you'll grab a woman or two while you're busy running away from them," Kardryn went on and the man had long since started to stare at him intently.

Webs of old scars ran out from the eye patch but his other eye was deep brown, warm and still bright, even for the dark circle under it. It didn't seem like he was going to stop talking any time soon, though every word was so raspy and dry it sounded like it hurt. Braids fastened with beads, bones and other talismans were matted into his hair, which was flecked with a strand of gray here and there. Quite the opposite to common high elven fashion. It was all wrong. The long fingers were scarred, but still dexterous and soft. There weren't enough wrinkles on his face. While the elegant middle aged members of his species became chiseled like stone, he still had a roundness to his face. He was too young. Far too young to be in this condition. And yet people like him were common these days in Tamriel. Those who had seen too much, given up on everything and started to rot away before their time.

Eventually the sun set and the air grew too cold. The masked man put the little treasure away into the warmth and the Warden had no choice but to lead him back to the hull... without a punishment.

---

They all filed out into the brilliance of the Akaviri sun. The airship was a clamorous mess while the land was silent. They had touched down on a rocky beach covered in foliage he had never seen the likes of before. Massive tall trees with long fronds at the very top, curling vines, bright flowers, ferns larger than any on Tamriel, scrubs and mosses that covered every damp surface in shades of acid green and slate blue, and basin like leaves that poked out among the stumps of trees to catch the rains. The hum of insects could be heard deeper in the thick forest if one could tune out the noise of the soldiers and their machine. While the air above the ocean had been cold, the humidity, sun and millions upon billions of breathing, thriving living things on the continent made it uncomfortably warm for being so late in the year. For now he remained hidden underneath the sweltering clothes. He would have to. The Warden and the Captain of the ship were kind enough to separate the prisoners from the passengers who started to file off while the prisoners while released from their chains. All the while at the end of long, steel contraptions, not unlike a staff pointed at them. He watched the scene once clear of the soldiers and started to pack up what he didn't need to wear.

The cloak first revealing the hand axe he carried at his hip and several satchels. Then the mask which had been covering the dark veins that spread from his mouth, eyes and ears. Rolling up his sleeves revealed more of them webbing his arms and the back of his hands. He spit on the ground and wiped his mouth. Such a relief. He considered the bandanna next but heard someone behind him. He turned with a frown. There was nothing they could do to him on this soil. Nobody could touch him here. There were no laws. He would kill them. It was only the Warden who stopped and smirked.

"Came to tell you, we've heard rumors of a settlement of exiles to the west and thought you might be able to find sanctuary there... Or maybe not," He said looking him up and down, "Anyway, good luck out there and thanks for letting me prattle on at you... uh..."

The man smiled and snorted, showing off rows of jagged teeth and shook his head. He crouched and with a finger wrote a word in the sand. Kardryn watched.

"Cael?"

Cael stood and nodded while unfastening the bandanna. He refastened the tie around his long black hair and scratched his scalp. Freedom.

"Well then..." Kardryn pursed his lips, "Good luck, Cael... and yeah. I would stay away from the exile settlement. Things here are weird but not quiet as weird as that," he laughed and gestured at the short black horns that swept out of the man's forehead and back along his skull.

He nodded, finished packing his things, fastened the seedling to a safe spot on his pack and set out into the wild. Nobody could touch him here.

Name: Septimus Yelenyn
Race: Guardan
Age: 75
Occupation: Companion and friend to the Nerevarine.
Appearance:
Out of Armor
In Armor

Weapons:
He carries one main weapon, the Sword that signifies him as a Guardan General. Uniquely crafted solely for his hands only, the Sword Of The Ancient Tongues Is a sword taking on an old, nearly ancient symbol of Akatosh, one of the Guardan's primary gods, on the hilt. Well balanced and razor sharp, the Sword of the Ancient Tongues is a weapon perfectly suited for Septimus in his journeys and is one of the few things he has kept close to his heart after washing his hands clean of the Guardan.

Along with it, he utilizes a pair of Parry Gauntlets As he does not utilize shields. The metal on them is more than able to deflect swords, leaving the attacker open for a lethal strike. They are also suited to blocking arrows, provided Septimus sees them coming.

Gear: He carries a small selection of gear, including:
[list]

Bedroll

3 alchemical bombs that disable magic

Red Leather Bound Journal

Spare clothing

Food and Water

Septimus was born into a noble family in his home city of Palaven, high in the Guardan homeland. His parents were well respected in the military, as was his father, and right from adolescence he had big shoes to fill. From an early age, he was shown to be very adept with the sword, being light on his feet, but also showing an ability to command those around him. He entered into service early, his eagerness getting the better of him as he was scolded and berated by the larger, mature Guardan soldiers around him, yet garnering the respect and admiration of the higher ups. The bravery he showed helped him greatly in his time as he was quickly made into a squad commander and eventually into a full fledged Templar, a highly respected and feared soldier that utilized anti-magic potions and bombs to disable foes that rely on magicka. He was a ruthless soldier, sparing no quarter to his enemies, gleefully executing magic wielders. By the time he was thirty-nine, he had taken a wife, taken a position as a Templar, and was a little too confident of himself. He felt invincible as his squad completed quest after quest, never losing a member and never failing. He eventually came to lead the squad and even ascend higher, eventually becoming a general of the anti-magic forces, the Templars.

But the fall from his tower would be a great one. During his service, there was a massacre at a local village. Guardans and Tsaesci both slaughtered in the night by an unknown group. The efficiency of the deaths made many believe that it was the Guardan's fault. Later in life, new evidenced surfaced. A survivor coming forth and picking out Septimus. He denied every allegation, but a Testimony from his beloved wife had him quickly exiled from the Guardan homeland. Thrown into Ka po'tun territory and left for dead in exile, he scraped himself out of the grave they had dug for him and found his way to a major city to work his feelers. Because his exploits had ranged far and wide all over Akavir, he had many friends in many high places, and was quickly able to find out what really happened.

The man that had come forth with evidence was paid off, given forged evidence in a plot to dethrone Septimus and elope with his wife to Tsaesci lands. Enraged, he returned home and tried to speak of the crimes against him and the truth, but he was ignored and thrown out again. In retaliation, he found the general that had replaced him. He was a member of his old squad and originally had orders to kill Septimus on sight, but he knew that his former commander had nothing to do with that massacre and gave him the armor and weapon that was taken from him. Vengeance in his heart, he set out for the Tsaesci lands, questioning the people about where the two had eloped to. According to the locals, they lived in a small estate on the northern cliffs near the Ocean. With sword in hand he set out to find them.

It was the middle of the knight when he found their abode. Servants asleep, husband and wife slumbering, even the family pet in dream land. He silenced the dog and found the estate's library, inside being the evidence he needed to clear his name. He then started to board up the doors and windows as silently as he could, using the sounds of the waves to silence the banging. When he had finished, he found a torch and some flint and went to the only door he had not touched, the front door. He set a spark and knelt down in a meditative stance, praying to his god Akatosh to not let one of these evil creatures escape.

The estate was engulfed in flame, and the only place the inhabitants could run would be into Septimus' path. Any that were not killed by the fire were cut down. The husband and wife were mounted to the wall as a warning as to what would happen if betrayal was afoot, and whatever life that was inside the estate.

After murdering every last one of them, he returned home one last time and presented the evidence to his commanders. They were taken aback by it and apologized for not believing their Templar General in the first place. They offered him his position, his reputation, his home, and his life back. For a split second, he considered returning to his duties, but he had been betrayed by his own people one time too many, and thus he spat at the floor in front of them and said that he would sooner see himself in Oblivion before he joined the traitors again. They had a feeling that he would say this and said that his position would be forever open should he ever find forgiveness in his soul. He left, disgusted.

After leaving the Guardan, he found his way around Akavir again, exploring and adventuring. Seeing what he had missed while in service. At one point, he even stumbled onto a peculiar woman while he was traveling. An old dark elven woman that was beyond the age of most anyone that he knew, yet had the spryness of a teenager. He offered his companionship to her, boasting very little. She reluctantly accepted his offer and it was not long after their first campfire together that he found out that she was the Nerevarine. Most would try to either kill her or treat her differently. But the shrug and offering of grilled bear meat said that he didn't care,

Name: Woland "Revenant" Attuchak
Age: 47
Occupation: Dark Brotherhood Listener, Hunter.
Appearance: Headshot
Face shot closeup 1
Face Shot Closeup 2
Equipment: Woland is a light traveler, preferring to stay on his feet and never staying in one place too long.
1X Amulet that allows him to communicate with his wife, Myra, from great distances.
1x Ring that was given to him by Silvanus
40X Nordic-style arrows
1X set of Dark Brotherhood Listener Armor
1X Refined Steel Kite Shield
1X Ebony Wolf Katana
1X Nordic Style Longbow with long range sights.
1X Mask that conceals his identity.
1X week of food
3X jugs of water
1X coil of rope
1X Wood Axe
4X potion of Cure Disease

Woland was raised in his home of Atmora, a warrior of great skill and strength in his home village. He was an inquisitive man, seeking the secrets of the outer worlds. This yearning for knowledge made him a loner and introverted, only making him want to leave even more. When he turned eighteen, ignoring the pleas of his friends and family, he left with his sister, taking a ship out into the seas. Neither was never heard from again...least not by his family.

Four years later, the now grizzled man and sneaky young woman showed up in the land of prisoners: Akavir. Sporting four years of dungeon delving experience, he and his teenage sister was ready to take on Akavir. Not long after stepping onto Akavir, they met a powerful young warrior named Silvanus. With their trifecta of skills complementing each other, they became fast friends and ended up traveling all over Akavir together over the next four years, delving into ruins and, with time, Silvanus taught Woland a secret magic that allowed him to move at lightning fast speeds, much like blink, but without teleportation...after all the traveling, kinship, and adventures though..something snapped in Silvanus....

One cold and dark night, he had stormed into the tent, pointing his sword at Woland's sister, accusing her of being part of the evil dark brotherhood. Woland immediately sprang up and denied every word of it and rose his sword to his. A lightning fast backhand to Woland's face and a slash to his sister's throat ended the conversation, but started a long, bloody rivalry between two former best friends. As she lay there choking on her own blood, Silvanus departing quickly after and Woland being at her side, she had imprinted him with the Dark Brotherhood's mark, passing her knowledge onto him and continuing the chain. She passed soon after and felt Sithis talking to him, commanding him to recruit more brothers and sisters and kill in his name.

With revenge in his heart and anger consuming his soul, he accepted Sithis into his being and began his life with him. Over the next year, he quickly became much more honed and deadly, Faster in every regard, stronger than most Akavirians hope to be, and stealthier than any Tang-Mo assassin out there. He ascended through the ranks and gathered up a small handful of recruits, quickly becoming a listener for the dark brotherhood...But there is always that one contract, that hit that makes you consider life.

He was sent into the Tsaesci coast, a strange being had assisted in the destruction of a prison ship and a soul on the ship prayed to Sithis for her death. He had found her in the wreckage, wounded and dying already. She was totally unique, unlike any man or mer he had ever seen in his life, elegant and beyond beautiful. Even with Sithis pounding away in his skull, he chose to help her and heal her. Even though her wounds were great and she would need time to heal, plus a lack of exposure to the element she needed to live, water, she should have died. But instead he returned with her to his private sanctuary, one hidden in a cove on the edge of the Tsaesci realm. Hunter's Ridge. He prayed to Sithis and the Night Mother for forgiveness as he had very quickly fallen in love with this woman and asked that she be spared. They both were furious, demanding for him to kill her at first, but he adamantly refused. The night mother then offered a deal: her life in exchange for twenty years of service. He wholeheartedly agreed and the pact was made. Twenty years of his life thrown away for a woman he fell in love with at first sight.

For her however, it was a difficult adjustment. She was unable to get home, the waters far too treacherous and the people far too unforgiving of the unknown. While she respected Woland greatly for saving her, her love of him would form over time as he time and time again proved that he was a cut above the rest and made her feel as comfortable as he could, even building a small grotto within the home for her to privately use when she needed it. She was no adventurer, but she loved accompanying him on journeys, but when she was unable to or he was on a contract, she had instead given him a necklace, one she enchanted herself to allow her to communicate with him whenever it was needed. As her respect and adoration grew, she found herself not wanting to return home, but instead stay with Woland and eventually, the two married.

Now, twenty years later, it is approaching the date that Woland will finally be released from his contract, and he will be set free.

Name: Annette "Annie" Gibberon
Race: Born Ssythyan, Bosmer Raised


"Let me tell you a Story, Nerevarine..."
Annie breathed deeply as they sat around the campfire, a blanket around her shoulders as the rest of the group leaned in to listen. The bitter cold bit at them, but only served as a reminder of where they were.
"There was once...a little girl. Black haired and innocent. In the middle of a forest. The light of the moon shined down upon her as she sat in a grove, coiled up around herself and weeping. Her parents were gone, her brother had disappeared, and she was alone, scared, and she was going to die. She had no reason to continue on, the raiders had taken everything but the shirt on her back. She wept and wept for what seemed like hours, but not all was lost.

A humble Bosmer farmer-hunter, finding food for him and his wife for the coming winter. He heard her crying and found her alone in the grove. He considered shooting her, but his curiosity got the better of him as there was nary a day he could remember that he had seen a girl like her. He approached her and startled her, but proved he was kind and asked her her name. "I don't know..." she said. He asked her where she came from. "I don't know..." she said. Where are your parents, he said. She said that they were with Akatosh now and he grew sad.

Without a moments thought, he offered his own home to the girl, a place for her to live. The girl was not dumb, she knew that she would die should she take any other path, so she obliged him and accompanied him to her new home.

The farmer would be a generous and loving father, raising her to be strong and respectful, but she ended up very shy and wary of others but her father. Soon after arriving at the home, the Farmer's wife had taken a toll for the worse, falling to an unknown disease, but the girl's kindness would bring him from the brink of joining her. He continued to raise her, teaching her all he knew and looking at her no different than he would his own flesh and blood, if he had any.

There was a town nearby where many a people would pass through, wares and trinkets being sold by the dozen to travelers of all shapes and sizes, she made few friends there, the town was small and while they were friendly in person, they were afraid of races not of their own, and the girl's was the strangest by far. The one friend she had made, a dark elf, would eventually become her closest companion as they grew together.

As she matured, she would come to be infatuated with him, and him with her, regardless of the town's feelings. Even as she reached the age where she would have to mate once a year, he would gladly oblige. As she reached adulthood though...the town's patience would be stretched thin....

Coming of age to be considered a young lady, her father was stricken by a strange plague, one carried by rats. There were no doctors that could heal it, and no magic institute was close enough to study this slowly spreading disease. Though her love of him was strong, it was not enough, and he passed away quietly during the night. The town would quickly learn of this and blame the child, stating that she carried the disease and was spreading it to them all. They imprisoned her and planned for her execution. But her lover, the dark elf, was a town guard, and happened to be in the jail that very night. He came to her and embraced her, but told her that her fate was inevitable, he could not prove her innocent to the people. She was stricken by grief at first, but then he spoke again. He spoke of a ship heading to a land named Akavir and was leaving that night. He could help her to it and she could live, but they would have to part.

She was heart broken, but knew that this was the right choice as it would hurt him more to watch her die. She obliged with her savior and he escorted her to the boat, where she snuck on via a crate and watched him stand on the shore and watch her leave. She silently wept to herself the entire ride as her life before was now gone forever."

She was silent now, pulling the blanket tighter, memories flooding back. The group gave their condolences in their own ways and she smiled for the first time in a while.

The Miraluk are a very mysterious race from the deep southern, unexplored, isles. The only reason they are known of are due to their emergence just before the third era. Over history, one or two came to shore, looking to trade before disappearing into the murky depths. How they reached back home is a mystery.

In Akavir, there is one known Miraluk on the island: Myra. Captured by a prison ship as it was delivering prisoners to the island, she is the only known specimen.Unfortunately for her, the ship wrecked near the dangerous Akavirian shores, but she was injured. She was later found by a man named Woland Arttuchak at first she was apprehensive of the man, unwilling to even talk to him, fearing that he was no more than just another man that wanted to violate her, but his constant kindness and protection eventually caused her to open up, accept him, and even fall in love.

Basing off of her, one can see that her species is very thin and pale, almost blue, skinned. Pointy ears and fast growing green hair, they are a very elegant species, used to traveling in the water. They walk with a long gait and take ultra-precise movements in everything they do. While she is more than capable of traveling on land, it is very dangerous for her. Her species needs water to survive. If she strays away from water for more than a day, she'll die. Thankfully, Woland's home is situated in a cove.

As said before, she is very thin, nearly half the width of any man. Her hair reaches down to her calves and she is very slender, yet athletic in build. She has no pupils, just light green eyes. At times, she emits particles of light. She is very strong in magic, able to wield water itself as a weapon. She is a very shy person, not enjoying people other than Woland and will actively defend herself if somebody she doesn't know gets too close.

Her species also lives very very long lives due to rarely coming in contact with air. The water preserves their bodies and keeps them from rapidly aging, even if they are not in constant water. According to Myra, the oldest elder of her people was two thousand years old. She herself is 546, considered a "young woman" by her people. She is about the same maturity level as a 27 year old woman but with hundreds of years of experience.

Guarnad. (Goo-arr-nod)
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Guarnad are a noble avian-like race from the mountains, military based and very regal. Taking great pride in their social status and personal skills. Most are perfectionists and seek to excel in anything they do. Their race is quite well known to have some of the best warriors and blacksmiths, with very few rivals. The gender differences are small, but noticeable. Females are typically slimmer and a little more feminine in shape. They are equal in abilities and either side can do as they wish with their skills. A master blacksmith can be either a man or a woman, it does not matter. More on this as I develop it.

They also are a race almost entirely devoted to the sword, shunning magic in it's entirety. They utilize not only expert swordsmanship and marksmanship in battle, but alchemical bombs that, once thrown down, can disable magic for a small time in a small area. The bigger the bomb, the bigger the area and longer the time. They can bind the bombs to their arrows as well to disable enemies from afar. They guard the secret to the making of this bomb with their lives.

They also very often decorate their faces with permanent colored tattoos, signifying their home city and family.

Their home is high in the mountains outside of the Tsaesci lands, separating the Tsaesci from the ka po'tun. Their Capital city is Palaven.

Government:
The Guarnad government, known as the Guarnad Hierarchy, is a hierarchical meritocracy. While it has great potential for misuse, this is tempered by the civic duty and personal responsibility turians learn during their childhood.

Guarnad have 27 citizenship tiers, beginning with civilians (client races and children). The initial period of military service is the second tier. Formal citizenship is conferred at the third tier, after boot camp. For client races, citizenship is granted after the individual musters out. Higher-ranked citizens are expected to lead and protect subordinates. Lower-ranking citizens are expected to obey and support superiors. Promotion to another tier of citizenship is based on the personal assessment of one's superiors and co-rankers. At the top are the Primarchs, who each rule a colonization cluster. The Primarchs vote on matters of national importance. They otherwise maintain a "hands-off" policy, trusting the citizens on each level below them to do their jobs competently.

Throughout their lives, Guarnad ascend to the higher tiers and are occasionally "demoted" to lower ones. The stigma associated with demotion lies not on the individual, but on those who promoted him when he wasn't ready for additional responsibility. This curbs the tendency to promote individuals into positions beyond their capabilities. Settling into a role and rank is not considered stagnation. Guarnad value knowing one's own limitations more than being ambitious.

Guarnad enjoy broad freedoms. So long as one completes his duties, and does not prevent others from completing theirs, nothing is forbidden. For example, there are no laws against recreational drug use, but if someone is unable to complete his duties due to drug use, his superiors step in. Judicial proceedings are 'interventions.' Peers express their concern, and try to convince the offender to change. If rehabilitation fails, Guarnad have no qualms about sentencing dangerous individuals to life at hard labor for the state.

Ssythian (Suh-sith-ian)- Primarily from blackmarsh, their homes being near Soulrest. Their females are very snakelike while the males are Argonians.

Females are mostly very slim and agile, but their tails weigh them down until they are taught how to move with it much more easily. Their skin tones have a massive range depending on where they grow up. Due to their border with Elsweyr and the sea, their skin can come in most any colors. Most however are dark gray to green.
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Males are human like and are almost identical to male Argonians aside from skin tones having just as wide a range as the females.
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In Akavir, there is a second tribe of Ssythian, but they are called the Tsurask (Tss-err-ask). This tribe is similar but wildly different. The roles of male and female are switched via the massive change of region.

The land of the Tsurask is more desert-like, with rocky terrain and canyons. There are plenty of oasis where the Tsurask can grow and support itself, just like their Ssythian counterparts, their skin tones are wildly diverse.

The females are human-like, but very agile. They are much like the Argonians, but with very human-like facial features and tails.
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The males are much slower, their bodies being very broad and large, taking defensive roles and using large weapons. They rarely use their bodies against their enemies, unlike their female counterpart. Some even take up knight-like roles. They are able to grow extra skin and even "Fins" to protect their much bulkier bodies from the sun.

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The Dark Brotherhood was destroyed after the true dragonborn surfaced, choosing to eliminate them instead of assist them. Sithis and the night mother were forced to rebuild over the next couple centuries, the brotherhood utterly eradicated, they built it from the ground up yet again, the Night mother's body being strung along by expert smugglers and rogues. The Brotherhood began in skyrim and grew, finding it's way to the farthest reaches of the world. From Atmora to Black Marsh, Thras to Hammerfel. After two centuries they finally reached the shores of Akavir and have begun building a conclave there. Some sources even say that they have Conclaves in the Aldmeri Dominion and several of the Daedric Realms as well, however these are often rumors bred by the public, spread by agents to create strife and wonder among the populous...who knows if there is any truth to the accusations?

They are much more powerful now, Sithis and the Night Mother, their powers being varied and wonderous, able to enact curses and nightmares on targets or bring enlightenment or pleasure to the worthy. They are very powerful and are a force to be reckoned with as they together have rebuilt the dark brotherhood to be a dominant, hidden, force in Nirn and possibly even beyond.

Name: The Walensium - The Ladies of the Forest
Race: Comprised of all races of Tamriel and Akavir
History: The "Ladies of the forest" are an ancient faction that was a small splinter faction of the first prisoners on the island comprised of mostly women and a few men. They fled into deep woods on akavir inside the Ka-po-Tun. They made their homes there, hidden from the monstrous other races, using guerrilla warfare to their advantage. Eventually, the races stopped attacking them, believing them to have been taken by the forest. They settled and reproduced. At first, they lived normally, but there was mix breeding and a refusal of inbreeding. There was a domination of women as well, men dying out quickly due to a dominant gene. The women went out, kidnapping men of all races and taking them back to the forest to be unwilling participants in the future of the race. This resulted in a mixture of all races, both prisoner and native. Mix breed and otherwise, female dominant.

Being of the forest, they quickly adapted, learning the secrets of the forest, becoming more agile, keen, and steady. They took up the bow, becoming rangers and guardians of the forest. Eventually they took on the name that was said of them in stories of the world outside, "The Ladies of the Forest".

They have no allies, nor enemies. Remaining neutral protectors of the forest. They degenerated enough to have forgotten basic dialects, developing their own in it's place. They are highly skilled marksman, refining their skills over several generations. They are master trapmakers and are very deadly.

Also known as "The Hive"

The Alvum are a highly dangerous and especially powerful daedric realm that has surfaced in recent years. Previously completely unknown among all the Daedric princes and princesses. The Alvum is an organism that feeds primarily upon Daedra of all types, their infinitely respawning lives providing the best food source for the Alvum. Their forces are focused on the daedric realms, but when they require new soldiers, they travel to nirn to attack the races of tamriel and beyond, their fleshy, malleable bodies providing the best structure to house Alvum young.

There are three castes of Alvum.

The Hunter caste
The first and least dangerous of the castes, the Hunters are comprised of the "Warriors" and the "Hunters"

The Warrior Is a powerful quadruped that is often employed as a forward scout or highly dispensable troop. Each of their legs has a razor sharp point to it and can pierce most armor, and they have phenomenal movement prowess, able to run on walls, ceilings, and jump to great heights. They are able to run faster than almost any human and some daedra.

The Hunter is the most dangerous of the hunter caste, giving it it's name. They are not directly potent, but are the first troops into the battlefield, relaying enemy troop numbers, landscape, and weaknesses to their bretheren. They are able to phase through almost any wall except for magical barriers and are even able to possess humans and daedra to return to the hive's brood chambers for use.

The Breeder Caste
What many consider to be the most terrifying of the castes. The Breeder caste is where many of the captured humans and Daedra are taken to to be...breeded with.

The Matron, also known as the mother, the Matrons are rarely on the battlefield, but are instead within the Daedric Realm itself, spreading their seeds into the victims of being captured. With razor sharp leg-points, talons, and jaws, the Matron is a deadly combatant up close. When on the battlefield, they charge their prey and disable them, often slicing off the legs, then holding them down, clamping down on their mouth with their jaws, they'll force feed them several dozen eggs that will be hatched mere moments later, spewing combat ready soldiers out of the victim's stomach. Many victims are brought back to their lairs and forced to live the rest of their magically enhanced lives as breeding factories for their wars on all the other Daedric realms.

The Child: These are the spawns of the Matrons. A smaller, less deadly version of the Hunter, the Child will fiercely defend the Matron. Outright killing most any attacker or disabling and dragging them back to the Matron to breed more soldiers. They are not to be underestimated, despite being half the size of human children.

The Legion Caste
The most dangerous and lethal of all the castes, the Legion is comprised of the forward soldiers and magic wielders of the Alvum.

The Thrall The results of Daedra and Human that become useless to the Matrons. The Alvum warp their bodies and minds to be useful cannon fodder for the Legion, serving as distractions so the other soldiers could close in or as a forward force. They have razor sharp talons and often ignore all pain until they have been beheaded.

The Knight. A massive warrior standing nearly twelve feet tall, wielding a beyond-razor-sharp blade for a right arm, these are the machines of war for the Alvum. Hardened armor, the only weakspots are their eyes and lightning magic. They can summon an impenetrable shield at any time, can bust through wooden gates, and are more than enough to handle a small legion of imperial soldiers. They are on equal grounds with the Daedras, but are slowly gaining ground.

The Warlock. The mages of the Alvum, wielding massive telekinetic power and secret magics that allow the preservation of life and the ability to create portals wherever they wish. When multiple wizards come together they can create massive portals for their armies to move through. They are easily able to lift and throw humans at will and crush them as well. They are intensely deadly enemies, but almost entirely rely on magic to move and live. The Guardans are a massive threat to them, as well as dispel spells.

Messorem. The "God" that is driving the Alvum forces, sharing a hive mind with them. He is able to contact any of them at any time and direct troops where needed. Messorem is a deadly adversary, taller than a knight and wielding a scythe of unknown material, he often takes the battlefield with "his children" to slaughter the Daedra with an almost cheerful demeanor.