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Name: Thorin Hammerheld
Age: 30
Race: Nord
Class: Warrior
Appearance: 6'4" high and weighing around 220 lbs. Thorin has long, but muscular limbs and broad shoulders, making his frame a powerful one. He has long black hair and light blue eyes. He has a small beard as well.
Personality: Thorin is firm and forceful in his approach to problems and commonly words things with certainty and confidence. Being a Nord, he is innately courageous and defiant of those who dare oppress him and will fight until his last breath to save his highly-valued freedom. He has high self-esteem and tends to care about what he looks like in public on occasions that don't involve combat. Thorin is extroverted and despises spending time alone, and will always seek to converse with someone nearby to gather any information for a cause of his. He generally believes he is right and has an immense stubbornness about admitting his flaws, mostly due to pride and his reckless nature. Despite these negative qualities, Thorin is a devoted, loving friend who would gladly take an arrow to the heart for those he holds dear. He is also very generous, has a forgiving nature and is strongly optimistic, refusing to fall into despair, regardless of the situation at hand. Thorin is not a racist for the most part, but he is not overly fond of High Elves: this suspicion is caused by his awareness of the fact that the Thalmor are constantly pulling the strings in all corners of the Empire.
Bio: Thorin was born on 7th of Last Seed, 4E 171, in Riverwood. His father was a childhood friend of the local blacksmith, Alvor, and in Riverwood they would continue their good terms. Thorin grew fond of Alvor, since he showed him many interesting weapons which sparked his desire to become a warrior. When he grew older, his father and Alvor taught him how to wield a sword, as well as other weapons of his choosing, because the young Nord grew tall, and he grew quickly for that matter. He soon mastered both one-handed and two-handed weapons, as well as the bow. His preference would soon go to two-handed weapons, and a Steel Greatsword, which was Alvor's gift to him. With news of a dragon burning Helgen and the further reappearance of dragons in Skyrim, Thorin saw a chance to go to Whiterun to look for the Dragonborn and aid him, yet sadly, as soon as he arrived in Whiterun, he received news of his death. Refusing to give up hope, Thorin bought a house in Whiterun, and started looking for other people that would dare stand up to the dragons, for he would not cower behind a window and watch them burn Skyrim and slaughter its people.
Equipment:
- Arms & Armor: Thorin is clad in Steel Plate Armor during his missions, optionally with a steel helmet for protection on certain occasions. The armor set itself was a gift to him from a Whiterun guard who is a friend of his. Thorin's preferred weapon for hand-to-hand combat is a Steel Greatsword, gifted to him when he was only 18 years old. His secondary weapon is also a two-handed weapon: a Steel Battleaxe. As far as ranged weapons are concerned, Thorin is armed with an Imperial bow, with which he shoots steel arrows.
- Potions: Thorin is fairly acquainted with alchemy and knows how to create the potion of healing, the potion of health and the potion of enhanced stamina. He likes to dip his arrows with Frostbite Spider venom, but mostly prefers the rare frenzy poison when performing stealth attacks on great numbers of foes.
Other: Thorin's house is located in Whiterun, adjacent to the Warmaiden's weapon store. He frequently visits the Bannered Mare, and occasionally, the Drunken Huntsman. He is fond of beer and occasionally smokes. If there are any gems or trinkets that he craves to sell, he will drop them off at Belethor's General Goods store.



Name: Lugdush gro-Shugur "The Blacksmith"
Age: 28
Race: Orsimer
Class: Warrior
Appearance: 6'6" high and weighs around 235 lbs. He has a herculean physique with very prominent biceps. His skin is a light green. He wears long, light brown dreadlocks tied into a ponytail. He has a small, snub nose, short lower fangs for an Orc, and slant brown eyes. His most distinctive trait are a couple of deep scars over the left side of his face, and the red war paint on it.
Personality: Lugdush is mostly soft-spoken and collected, and hardly ever raises his voice. He is a patient, hard-working and extremely trustworthy Orc: once a promise is made, he will most likely keep it. Lugdush has a good memory, but rarely holds grudges. He is not aggressive and never gets angry without a good reason. He is prudent and always makes sure he thinks things through before making a move, as he is somewhat afraid of doing things wrong. Though he is introverted and enjoys spending time on his own, Lugdush is social and loyal to those he deems as friends. He has some difficulty expressing emotions as he prefers to keep them bottled inside, rather than have loud outbursts of feelings. Instead of laughing out loud at the slightest provocation, a smile or a quiet chuckle proves enough for him. He blames himself if mistakes are made, even if it isn't his own fault. He is compassionate and merciful and will gladly help the weak in need.
Bio: Lugdush was born on the 18th of Sun's Height, 4E 173 in Orsinium. His father was a known blacksmith and he wanted to pass the knowledge of smithy onto his son. In progress, as he learned to forge, the young Orc started to use the weapons he created, becoming a self-taught fighter. Impressed by his original skills, his father commended him and encouraged him to continue both his work as a blacksmith and his training as a warrior. In search of a proper job, Lugdush traveled to Skyrim at the age of 20, and arrived to the village of Ivarstead. There, he became revered and quite wealthy for his craftsmanship, both common and Orcish, but he still generously sent part of his provisions to his parents in Orsinium. In Ivarstead, he met an Argonian named Scatha Lick-venom, who became his friend and frequent customer. Recently, he, like many, gained word of the dragon attack on Helgen, and the death of one known as a Dragonborn. Thinking that it's righteous to try and do something against the dragons, he listened to Scatha's advice and decided to join Dovahfeyn.
Equipment:
- Arms & Armor: Lugdush wears a full Orcish armor that he himself created. His main weapon for hand-to-hand combat is a self-made Orcish Greatsword of Chills, which was enchanted by Scatha. His secondary weapon is an Orcish Warhammer that was gifted to him by his father. He also has an Orcish bow, as well as arrows of the same origin.
- Potions: Lugdush receives many of the potions he uses from Scatha Lick-venom. In battle, he likes to use paralysis poison, as well as common poison.
Other: Lugdush frequently visits Vilemyr Inn when spending his free time. He doesn't drink often, but when he does, it's mostly mead.



Name: Scatha Cayasar "Lick-venom"
Age: 25
Race: Argonian
Class: Thief
Appearance: 5'10" high and weighs around 165 lbs. His skin is nearly black, while his physique is lanky, which doesn't necessarily make him weak. His skull is more elongated and his chin more prominent than in other Argonians, while his head is decorated with spikes on the brows and two backward-curving horns at the back of his head. He has a brown feathery mane, while his eyes are light blue with slit pupils.
Personality: Scatha is a quick-witted, boisterous and impatient Argonian. He finds spending time with people invigorating in any way, regardless if he knows them or not: time alone, though sometimes desirable, can bore him quickly. He is more of a talker than a listener and moves away from people he considers to be dull. He's quick to forgive and forget, and believes others should act in such a way, because he prefers to live in the moment, rather than dwell in the past. Scatha has an open sense of humor and can be very easy-going, encouraging people who take things too seriously to lighten up a little. He views things in a positive, optimistic manner. He is a show-off and has high self-esteem, making himself prone to bragging, but only to show how good he is, rather than deeming himself as better than others. The embarrassment of making a fool out of himself is outweighed in Scatha's desire to put on a show: he is excellent at creating a good distraction since he has a way with words.
Bio: Scatha was born on the 3rd of Midyear, 4E 176 in Riften. His father was part of the Thieves Guild, though he never insisted that his son follows in his footsteps. Still, the young Argonian managed to learn a few things by observing his father. When Scatha was 13, his father was arrested by the Riften authorities, and Brynjolf adopted him to succeed his father. At the age of 18, fearing that he might end up the way his father did, Scatha traveled west, to Ivarstead. There, he worked on several successful thief missions, though he is known merely as an alchemist in Ivarstead. His reputation rose over the years and his potions received high acclaim in the city that lies beneath High Hrothgar. With news of the Dragonborn's death, Scatha decided to urge his friend, Lugdush the blacksmith, to join him on the quest to join Dovahfeyn, in order to save the world from the clutches of the dragons.
Equipment:
- Arms and Armor: Scatha wears a set of Thieves Guild Armor, complete with gloves enchanted with fear, boots and a hood. His main weapons are a pair of Blades Swords, which he discovered in a cave on the road to Ivarstead. His ranged weapon is a Hunting Bow, and he shoots iron arrows.
- Potions: Being an alchemist, Scatha can mix up all sorts of potions. Whatever poison there is, the crafty Argonian will come up with a cure.
Other: Scatha spends every night after work at the Vilemyr Inn to find rumors and possible leads for thief missions.

Name: Valerion Draviis Age: 1284 Race: Breton Class: Lich King ( Specialises in Necromancy and dark magics, but is a fearsome wielder of a 2 handed blade and wears medium armour) 2handed, heavy armour, speech, conjuration, necromancy,dark destruction(an evil variation of destruction, essentially blood magic), enchanting and smithing. Appearance: Armour: Valerions face. Valerion is quite the daunting figure, he stands at 6'2, which is fairly tall for a Breton, as well as this his frame is fairly toned, but quite muscular. Personality: Manipulative, malicious, cold, twisted and enjoys a nice glass of port with his meals. This man is the manifestation of an upper class sociopath. Other than the fact that he is a very evil person and won't stop at murdering someone in order to achieve his goals he does however see the point in keeping the masses alive and without fear of his existence for this generally complicates life for Valerion and after all these years alive he has learnt a great deal in making others like him, or appreciate him being alive. So whilst his real personality is that of a demon, the one he shows is that of a nice person, happy and cheerful but he generally only shows that amongst the commoners. If he is with a group of people that can handle themselves he lets his true side show. Bio: Valerion has spent the majority of his life in Cyrodil, but travels back to his homeland of High Rock every now and then. He enjoys it in Cyrodil the diverse culture and people is something he enjoys, both him and his other side; Just like wines are different so are souls and Bretons souls can grow quite stale after constantly consuming them. This is one of the major sides to Valerion that few people know about until its too late. He steals souls in order to continue living. He either does this by using soul gems that are full, or using his spell Goethia which tears the recipients soul from their body and he then absorbs it. The length of time he accumulates from each method is as follows: Soul gems-24 hours (Regardless of size) Black soul gems-48 hours Goethia- 5 days And he can siphon souls from the dead around him, each dead body is one hour. 2 things caused this ability to arise. The first is his insatiable quest for strength and absolute power. And the second was his fear of death. Valerion one day wishes to become the Daedric Prince of Death and so he studies it with great enthusiasm. For a great deal of his time he has lived amongst necromancers within cyrodil, using them to achieve his own ends and further increasing his knowledge of the dark art of Necromancy. However the necromancers were all killed in a purge at the beginning of the 4th era and Manimarrco was one of them. With that Valerion decided to seclude himself in a abandoned fort in the Jeral mountains which was just near a trade route between Cheydinhal and Bruma. He caused this route to become infamous as traders and travelers would frequently go missing along it, sometimes even mercenary caravans that numbered in the 20's still vanished never to be seen again. This continued for about 190 years, the cause was never discovered and one day the route became safe again, the threat and evil that loomed over it seemingly vanished over night. The only reason for this was because Valerion felt that he had exhausted his methods and knowledge of Necromancy and he craved for some fresh air and to walk amongst the people once again. He traveled to numerous places all over Cyrodil, with the stray drunk being found dead in a ditch a night later from his arrival, thankfully drunks tended to befall tragedy quite often so suspicion never arose by his presence; although his attire did attract attention and queer looks, but other than that Valerion was treat like any other person. It wasn't till 4E 201 that Valerion felt that his precense was needed elsewhere. Reports of dragons on the border to the Imperial Occupied Skyrim started spreading throughout Cyrodil. This piqued Valerions interest, it'd been hundreds of years since anything worthy of note had happened and the fact that this Dragon Born; he decedent to Tiber Septim himself had died brought severe disappointment to him as that soul would surely have brought him closer to his end goal of Prince hood. But when some doors close new ones open, Valerian decided to head for Skyrim and tackle the growing Dragon threat for that amount of power he'd assume from their souls would surely benifit him. Equipment: His armour is called- "Deaths Regal Wear" Whilst the majority of it is padded velvet the other pieces of his armour is a Ebony-Moonstone composite. This is how it receives it's Dark grey and yet shiny sheen, it is also etched with gold in various points. The armour itself is what one would associate with a medium armour, it's quite light but offers protection to the important parts and good mobility to boot. He carries a large claymore- a large 3-foot 2 handed blade that is made from tempered steel and heavily enchanted, it steals life force from the enemy on the other side of the blade and chills their body, numbing sense and bringing them one step closer to the fires of Oblivion. For this reason it's named "Frost-bite". He also carries an array of knowledge in summoning and necromancy magics, he can ring back the fallen around him to fight for him as well as call dremora and daedra from the planes of Oblivon. His most used spell however is Goetia (Pronunciation- Go-ee-tia) This tears the soul from the other being, even if he fails to do so because the other foe is too strong the damage is massive. The sheer mental and physical trauma sustained from the process almost makes the other person wish for death. This can be used on Dragons too. List of Dark magic spells he has available: Fates spear- Much akin to what Icy spear looks like however it is a fluctuating spear of dark and deep purple energy that can tear through multiple opponents, upon doing so it begins to boil the blood and disintegrate, any armour that was in the vicinity of the impact point. Whilst crippling it doesn't last long and anyone who manages to walk away from this will likely survive. Eclipsing Strike- A variation of the touch magics from Cyrodiil, the hand that is used for this spell becomes a claw of absolute darkness it's very large and has 3 sharp and long talons. This shreds light armour and does large bleeding damage, whilst failing to penetrate deep through the body. Dimensional Lunge- The user pulls out their blade and performs a forward strike, they then disappear through a portal into Oblivion and reappear behind an enemy from over 150 meters away, the attack is likely to be lethal, however experienced enemies can prepare, as well as enemies in a 1v1. Reapers Embrace- Very useful magic, and oddly designed to protect others, something very rarely seen in dark magics. The user envelopes himself and another in a pitch black cloak, any damage inflicted on the shield will be unleashed in a powerful shock wave knocking back enemies outside of a 5 meter radius, but any enemy caught inside 5 meters of the shield will be disintegrated and their soul sent to oblivion. All of the spells mentioned require life energy, as a result the user must use a soul gem by crushing it in the palm they are about to use the spell in before they cast it, except for Valerion who can use them indefinitely but they weaken him in doing so. He may teach these spells to others if he grows fond of them, and they are prepared for the consequences that come with their use. Other: Enjoys High society and has a lot of gold to his name, accumulation of great deal of time has made him very rich. But he is conservative in its use. Valerion is slowly dying, he requires souls to continue living, every day he goes without absorbing a soul causes him to wither, bones grow weak, eyesight falters and his heart beats slower... after 1 week he will get desperate and take anyone's soul, innocent or otherwise, be it in the middle of a city or in the wilderness it matters not. Because he is technically not alive, restoration magic is useless on him.

Name: Rozalia "Roze" Éathliel Age: 23 Race: Breton - although one can see a touch of Nord, from her Father's side. Class: Rogue Appearance: Standing at a height of about 5'5, with a slim and lithe body, Roze has the perfect figure for being quiet and sneaky. Her disarming grin and sweet dimpled cheeks often make others underestimate her, along with her warm, honey coloured eyes. She has a thick mane of black curls reaching nearly her mid-back, that she more often than not just ties up and stuffs into a hood when it misbehaves - which is always. Personality: Easy-going and naturally sweet, she can make a witty quip about pretty much anything and is quick to tease to lighten the atmosphere. However, she can turn bitter when people treat her badly, and her anger is something that you do not want to face, even with a sword in your hand. Other than that, she has an unwavering loyalty for those she cares about, and is quick to stand up for the down-trodden and discriminated. Bio: Roze's story is rather simple, yet tragic one. Ever since she was a young girl, hearing stories about the various adventurers while living in Cyrodiil, she wanted to join their ranks immediately. However, her life didn't go particularly as she had planned. Starting off in life in a small village just north of Bruma in Cyrodiil, adventure seemed unlikely. Her community were no more than farmers, the strongest man there being a Redguard blacksmith; who was getting on his years. A man kinder than his dour exterior showed, he gifted Rozalia a small steel dagger when she but four years old. Little did she know at that time how much she would come to rely on it. The Great War hadn't affected their small village all that much - Rozalia not even aware of it, due to her being born 3 years after the Concordat was signed. However, that all changed when a group of Thalmor came their way; one of the groups that had fought in Hammerfell and lingered in Cyrodiil, they passed through their village on the their way to Skyrim. However, seeing the sole Redguard in the village brought back sour memories for the group of Aldmeri Dominion warriors, and they issued an unwarranted search, spewing some nonsense that they had received intelligence of outlawed Talos Worship. As many in the village were Nords - such as Rozalia's father - Talos symbols and shrines remained, and were found. Being only simple farm-hands, they had no defense against the Thalmor that slaughtered their entire village and razed the houses to the ground. Rozalia only escaped thanks to that old Redguard blacksmith, who had been determined to save the only child of the village. He was shot in the back with an arrow as she fled into the icy wilderness, tears freezing on her face as she left behind the corpses of everyone she knew and loved, the last words of the Redguard still in her mind: "Don't look back. Don't forget." She made her way to Bruma, avoiding neighbouring villages in case Thalmor lingered there - even at four years old, she was a quick thinker. As soon as she reached the gates of Bruma, the various beggars dotted around the city quickly took her under their wing. Thankfully, she had some pretty quick street-smarts, and was able to avoid trouble while living on the streets with various other orphans and veterans of the war. For 19 years, she stayed on the streets - travelling to various cities, and eventually coming into contact with the Thieves Guild in the Imperial City. Although not actually joining them, they offered her basic training on how to defend herself - that old steel dagger she had received years ago had saved her life plenty of times; either from drug addicts, fellow pickpockets, or men who got far too personal. But she knew she needed something better if she were to get anywhere in life. Naturally talented with a bow, it was her favoured weapon - it was quick, quiet, and gave plenty of ranged shots. However, in order for the training to occur, the Guild wanted one thing - she had to steal the bow, and the arrows. Now, that was child's play for her - picking the most isolated armoury in the city was no problem, nor was picking the locks and getting away with ease. So, this way she received training, including the basics of swordplay and parrying, etc. When the word of dragons got to her, she made the decision to travel to Skyrim and help fight - ''borrowing'' some armour and weapons along her way, from some very unsuspecting - and no doubt furious - travelling merchants. After all, she could look after herself, both in the streets and in the wilds. She also knew that the Thalmor were prevalent in Skyrim, thanks to the uprisal of the Stormcloaks. She never fails to recall those last words of the Redguard Blacksmith. She didn't look back, that was true. But nor did she forget. Equipment: A fairly battered - but strong - set of leather armour, enchanted with a chameleon illusion, along with a leather mages hood, which gives her a boost in health. Also has a twin set of ebony daggers, found during one of her silent plunderings of giant camps. Also has a hunting bow, given by the Guild. She also carries with her at all times the old steel dagger - not used much, but still looked after - and an Amulet of Mara that always hangs around her neck, which belonged to her Mother. A man tried to steal it once. He didn't see daylight again. Other: Has a great love for music, and although tempted to join the Bard's College, couldn't simply be done with the cattiness of the other Bards and the endless chores one must do to learn how to play a drum. However, the Thieve's Guild of Skyrim has interested her - although it seemed almost unwise to make that big a commitment when she was younger, she has a better feeling about this.

Name: Faire Agarwen Age: Approximately 4000 years Race: Snow Elf (Falmer is considered insulting. Class: Arcane Archer (wielder of a bow and spells, primarily Alteration) Personality: Cold, short, distant. Hatred stews underneath knowing that everyone she has ever known was butchered in masses by Nordic scum and the traitorous Dwemer. For millennia, Faire sat in seclusion, dwelling upon the past did really do a number on her psychologically. She has an incredibly hard time trusting anyone, even though she has never had the chance. She just avoids people in general, especially Nords and the other Atmoran Races (Imperial, Breton, Redguard), due to the troubled past. However, she hates none more than a Nord (despite the fact her race started it), and would willing compromise her identity to silence a particularly ignorant one. She wasn't all hate. In her early years, she was well known to have been a cheerful individual who was a diehard romantic. She loved the idea of a true love story and the quickest way to her heart included the sappiest of poems and a bouquet of flowers. That was a long time ago and now she was different. Hardened but is someone who is very lonely. There has been no one in her life outside of her deities for over 4000 years. She does crave the warmth of friend and family but as no luck so far. Bio: Four thousand years ago, Faire was a famous big game hunter in Skyrim. Her popularity opened up the possibility of freelance work so Faire went from town to town, killing nasty creatures who would terrorize a town and whatnot. It was a thrilling lifestyle and Faire could double as an entertaining guest in any hold. Not only entertaining but some Snow Elf nobility and even one Nordic Jarl had the opportunity to experience her “afterhours”. Some used that against her and often brought it up, nicknaming her “Faire Game”. She hated it but didn’t let it show most times. Eventually war with the Nords happened and Faire was drafted into the military as things began getting desperate. She was there fighting alongside the historic “Snow Prince” before he perished in the Battle of Moesring. During the Snow Elven rout, Faire managed to run ahead of her kin as they were eradicated by the pursuing Nords. She made it just in time to have an encounter with the god of Luck, Sai. Despite not being an Elven deity, he offered Faire sanctuary from the pursuing Nords. Hesitantly, she took it fearing the consequences of siding with a “false” god. Sai had a secret alter devoted to himself built within a nearby mountain. It was often overlooked and only the most devote of priests knew of its location. For Faire’s safety and well-being, Sai commanded priests to deliver supplies under the guise of an offering to the location but they really were for Faire as she hid in shadows. For nearly four thousand years she lived like that. Hiding. During that time, she became rather loyal to Sai as he was really the only one who communicated with her at that point. She remained faithful to her deities, though. So Faire lived on. Throughout the many years, Sai taught her how to tap into her magical strength better, he kept her in the loop on major current events, and she honed her craft on archery and fetching (it wouldn't be good to get rusty). Her long life was due to either Sai or Auri-El, she couldn’t be sure, but she survived to this day. But now she wanted to see the world again, so despite Sai’s warning, she left in search of her kin. Sai did say it was possible others survived but he played not a part in their safety. Regardless, she couldn’t live inside that mountain forever. She had to leave. When she left, she always kept herself cloaked and disguised, cloak covering her body, charcoal rubbed on her face to hide the paleness, etc. Revealing her true identity would attract attention and who knows how people would react when they realized a Snow Elf was still alive. So she ditched some of the military gear she had and instead stole a new bow from a Nord and did what she did best. Hunted. She lived minimally as she wandered town to town, trying to pick up a lead on anything. The College of Winterhold was her last destination but it proved barren of information on Snow Elves. There just wasn’t a lead and now as Faire was writing her closing thoughts on today’s journal entry, she swear she just saw a dragon fly overhead. Dragons are still around? Equipment: Faire’s weaponry includes a steel bow in hand, a quiver of arrows (26 Iron, 6 Elven, 1 Daedric) on her back, and her unique Snow Elven dagger sheathed on her belt. Faire’s armor is a bit unique as well. She keeps herself cloaked in a massive polar bear skin, which includes a hood made out of the head. Extra items are wrapped in a deerskin pouch that she carries and it includes a journal wrapped in linen, two dry loaves of bread and bits of salted game, and a case containing ink and a quill. Lastly, her belt dangles a few items and they are a small tin of salt, a leather waterskin, and a second knife in a sheath for fletching and cleaning kills Other: ((Any extra information you'd like to add.))

Name: Narzul Reloth. Age: 87 (relatively young). Race: Dunmer. Class: Ashlander sorcerer. Appearance: Tall and gangly are some of the few appropriate words that come to mind when describing Narzul’s figure. There is hardly an ounce of fat on his body, nor much muscle, so he looks more like a gray-skinned skeleton than anything else. This wiry frame is usually hidden beneath dark, hooded robes, intricately woven and embroidered with symbols in the Daedric alphabet. Where the details are concerned, Narzul has all the traits typical of a Dunmer: a thin, angular face, ridged brow, slanted, crimson eyes and jet black hair. He usually wears his hair in a ponytail. A more defining characteristic is the facial tattoo that Narzul sports; white paste, created with ash and crushed moth wings, has bleached the skin of his face as pale as bone. Personality: Like most Ashlanders, Narzul doesn’t exactly sport a jolly disposition. Generally solemn and reserved, he is an elf of few words, and when he does speak, he often does so in veiled speech and allegory. His strong sense of duty to his people, his land and his faith, drives him to join the Dovahfeyn. Dragons, wielding powers granted by gods Narzul doesn’t recognize, are seen as blasphemous creatures by his kin, and their eradication is a top priority, lest the Dunmer suffer another Red Year. Bio: Born in the harsh wastelands of Vvardenfell, Narzul is one of the enigmatic Ashlanders, tribal people who were persecuted by the Tribunal Temple for hundreds of years before they were eventually vindicated by the fall of the Tribunal, the rise of the Dissident Priests to power in the priesthood and the devastating Red Year. These days, Dunmer from all over Tamriel travel to Vvardenfell to make arduous pilgrimages to visit the Wise Women of the Ashlander tribes, those who are now seen by the Dunmer to have had ‘true vision’ all along. Ashlanders usually don’t take any heed of the world at large. They are a deeply spiritual people that keep themselves to themselves. When dragons traveled across the sea to Vvardenfell, however, and attempted to extend their reign of destruction, the Ashlanders were among the first to act. Dunmer are the people of fire, the Ashlanders especially, and they fought back against the inferno of the dragons with vigor. Since the Red Year, there is no flame left in Tamriel that can frighten an Ashlander. Narzul, who was born more than a hundred years later, never saw these flames himself, but heard plenty of stories about them from the Wise Women of his tribe, the Urshilaku. Now, fire comes for them again. Narzul has traveled to Skyrim to join up with the Dovahfeyn, ready and willing to dedicate his life to stopping the dragon menace. Equipment: Narzul wears traditional chitin armor under his black robes for protection. He has no physical weapon on his person, fighting instead with Conjuration magic. He knows how to summon Daedric beings from the depths of Oblivion and how to conjure an ethereal blade in his hands. Like most Dunmer, he also knows a variety of flame spells of the school of Destruction, but he isn’t a master by any means. Other: Nothing much, really.

Name: Val Kesari Age: 72 Race: Altmer Class: Enchanter (Enchant, Destruction, Conjuration, with a bit of Restoration, Alchemy, and Illusion. He also has a sword and Bow, but they are only used when he runs out of Magicka, and therefore aren't very good.) Appearance: Personality: Self-righteous and stuck up. He fully buys into the superiority of the Altmer over all other races, and Elves over the other races, due to the sheltered life he was given in childhood. Bio: His parents were both high ranking, rich Thalmor. The only non-elves he ever saw growing up were servants, slaves, and menial workers, which only served to reinforce the idea of elven superiority. When he grew up, he too joined the Thalmor, pursuing his interest in Enchanting even further, until he was good enough to earn a position as a junior enchanter at an outpost in Soltheim. There he studied his craft even more, learning from a 452 year old Telvanni that lived nearby. One day he returned to the base after two days of hunting for souls among the local creatures, and found that a dragon was attacking. He helped fight it off, and they eventually killed it, though at great cost. Only he, a few mercenaries, and a few leading Thalmor were left alive. When he had recovered from the attack, he got a letter from his CO, ordering him to go to Skyrim. They had heard rumors of old wizards that studied dragons and new how to fight them. He was to learn from the Greybeards how to fight them, then return to teach the others so that they could fight this new threat. For his journey he was given much coin, a promotion, and a valuable bottle of Cyrodylic Brandy, his CO's favorite alcoholic drink. A few days later, he parted for Windhelm. Equipment: Thalmor robes with Destruction and magicka regen enchantments, Cowled Thalmor hood w/ extra magicka enchantment, Standard Thalmor hood with extra magicka enchantment, Elven longsword with fire damage enchantment, Elven Bow with soul trap enchantment, 50x elven arrows, Amulet of Akatosh, health and magicka regen potions, various soul gems (including black ones, as prisoners make great enchantment fodder), 2000 septims, food and drinks, one bottle of Cyrodylic Brandy 3e425 Other: Non-standard spells: Mark: Places a magical marker at a location, unique to him, therefore others can't use them, though they do leave a trace that can be detected slightly with a detect life spell. Recall: Teleports him to a magical marker. The more encumbered he is and the further he's traveling, the more magicka it takes. Fully encumbered, he can travel just over the distance from Whiterun to Rifton Levitate: Can hover in any direction as fast as he can sprint, but only lasts 60 seconds, and uses half his magicka

Name: Jelo Age: 23 Race: Redguard Class: Not sure if there's a particular class for this- very proficient in dual-wielding. Can also use a bow, but is better with swords. Some sneak skill, no magic. Appearance: Personality: Jelo is generally quiet, and doesn't particularly enjoy being in large groups. He is very loyal to his friends, once he makes them, but he finds that hard. He isn't a particularly intimidating person without his beloved swords in his hands, but in battle he's as fearsome as the next. Jelo was born and raised in Rorikstead but his parents immigrated from Hammerfell. As a result he has an endless fascination for his ancestor's country, and wishes to travel there. Bio: His parents immigrated from Elinhir in Hammerfell to Rorikstead, and a few years later gave birth to Jelo. As is the Redguard custom, Jelo was taught from a young age how to handle weapons, and like his father before him devoted most of his time to dual-wielding. At the age of 20, Jelo was sent from Rorikstead to travel Skyrim to develop his skills as a warrior, which was a major rite of passage in his parent's tribe. He knew joining the Dovafeyn would be a notable test of his strength, and if he passes the rite he hopes he will be able to travel to Hammerfell. Equipment: He carries two swords at all times- a Nordic sword and a white blade that has the same sort of design as Dragonbane: He wears pitch black light armour he was luckily gifted doing some high-value mercenary work up in Solitude. Other: He's always wanted to see a dragon in real life.

Name: Sylvan F'eir Age: 127 (appears 24)Age Reference Race: Bosmer (Wood elf) Class: Beast Master Ranger (Animal companion/tamer, Archer) Appearance: Sylvan is 5"2 and slender, she has unique black eyes and redish brown hair that's styled similar to a mohawk, Sylvan weighs roughly 100 lbs Personality: Sylvan is very friendly but prefers the company of animals to people, she loves the forest and is always ready to defend herself against aggression. Bio: Sylvan followed in Lady Benoch's shadow, taking to the bow at an early age like all of her ancestors before her, mastering the skill of archery at the age of seventeen Sylvan had joined a hunting party of her tribe as a Jaqspur, a long distance shooter. Slyvan killed her first enemy at the age of eighteen in a fight against the Parikh Tribe, letting her arrow arch elegantly through the air striking the figure through the neck and falling him dead, the Parikh rampaged ruthlessly and over the coming months Sylvan and her bow killed many distant foes as she helped defend her home land, when the battle was over and things settled down Sylvan wished to learn conjuration magic, she heard talk that the best place to learn magic was at the College of Winterhold in Skyrim, having her mind set over the next thirty years Sylvan looked for a way to make the journey. She and a group of other warriors were approached by a group of merchants who wished to safely travel to Riften, hired as a convoy guard Sylvan and the small group traversed over the land, it was long and grueling. Sylvan was sixty two when they reached Riften and received their meager pay. Directing her attention to the College she went and studied conjuration magic for thirty years under Phinis Gestor, feeling she mastered the arts Sylan left the College and went to Riverwood, she decided to further her mastery in archery and trained with Faendal even though he wasn't a master archer, Sylvan liked his company and his similarity to her, she worked at the lumber mill with him, she stayed there for another twenty some odd years before going off as an adventurer, stopping occasionally in Riverwood to visit with Faendal who had become a good friend Sylvan made her money doing odd quests and trading aquired items, she'd often help out the town of Riverwood with its crime rate. When the dragons returned to Skyrim Sylvan went to see if she could help the growing group of warriors and mages to defeat the dragon menace. Equipment: Elven bow/arrows Spells:Command Animal, Conjure Familiar, Conjure Dread Zombie Other: Companions: Ice Wolf Horse Dog

Name: Rawlith-Dar (This name does use the often perceived "childish" Khajiit suffix Dar which means "Thief." However the name is only translated into true translation, which in full is "Rain Thief", when he is telling stories of his background long ago. This instance is more specific to when he refers to his deceased wife. Otherwise it is perceived as a tribal name from the northern dunes of Elysweyr.) Age: 27 Race: Cathay(Lycan: Werelion.) Class: Spiritual Beastmaster (A spiritual Beastmaster is a Ranger or Beastmaster who has trained himself in the ways of the beastmaster's weapons and skills, everything from one-handed weapons to hunstmen/woodsmen skills, but rather then taking on a normal beast companion[s], he has a natural affinity for Conjuration magic and has learned to summon familiars, but these familiars are different then the standard wolf most novice and apprentice conjurers summon. Thee familiars are unique to the soul of the Caster, they attune to him and are bound to his magical pool. He can have multiples tied to him, as the soul of the lost familiar seeks out a Summoner, and chooses him as a worthy "companion." -- This is quite literally just a lore-based extension of the "Conjure Familiar" Spell that allows a caster's soul to summon more unique and personalized familiars.) Appearance: Personality: Rawlith is often calm, quiet, and collective, most often.. But he does have what he refers to as his "True Nature" or "Primal Self." This instance of his personality is his most blunt, true, and "powerful" form of personality. When he enters a rage, or a situation is so dire that it is needed, he becomes a steel-hearted, instinct-driven, intelligent predator and hunter. When he enters this state, he has the raw emotion and nature of the Apex Predator, but the control and intelligence of any sentient being. Bio: Rawlith-Dar is a Khajiit of many things, and while he may be relatively young, he has certainly utilized his time well over the years. Rawlith was born in the northern dunes of Elsweyr in a tribe, which like the majority of the northern Khajiit were a traveling tribe that moved across the Dunes constantly as their ancestors had done for ages. He was the son to pair of Khajiits who were rather special among their tribe. His mother was a Shamaness or a Sage for the tribe, while his Sire was a great hunter. WIP Still. Equipment: Rawlith's gear is collaboration of himself manifested in his own handiwork. He wears a suit of leather and fur armor, with bonemold plating. The leather and fur forms a simple set of armor. Leather boots, greaves, gauntlets, and a leather trenchcoat conform to the majority of it, with fur lined over the rim of the trenchcoat and placed over the back is a Lion's fur with the head mounted to work as a hood and leather half-helm. The bonemold plating is seen as plates on the Boots, greaves, gauntlets, and ribbed over the torso to an extremely sturdy set of custom Medium armor. His weapons are a pair war axes made out of Mammoth Bone, both are razor sharp and are curved much like hewing axes, but with sturdier blades and handles forged of Skyrim's sturdiest pines. Mammoth bone wouldn't naturally handle the punishment of being a weapon, but thanks to Rawlith's knowledge of bonemold equipment he was able to use the mammoth bones to forge a unique form of Bonemold weapon. These are the same bones in his armor plating. Other: (May fill in, may not, still debating.) ---------- Name: Varnadir Age: 132 Sex: Male Race: Bsomer Appearance: Height: 6'0" Eye Color: Fiery Topaz Birthsign: The Steed Latent Blood: Lycanthropy(Werewolf strain)- His Werewolf form is tall, and long, well built, but trimmed, both allowing great strength, endurance, and agility. His fur is a bit longer then normal, not shaggy, but still thick, much like an Ice wolf. His fur is a Mahogany color(deep, dark brown.) with lighter accents around his chest and down. Weapons: A bearded Axe A Bonemold Shortsword. The shortsword is crafted from Mammoth bone, and uses different resins then that of Morrowind's cultural Bonemold, so instead of coming out a golden color, it comes out a tainted blue color, like a bone slightly shaded by indigo dye. This short sword is styled like a Messer, a 15th century blade focused around control, and defensive forms, which is why he wields it in his off-hand in a reverse grip, to create an effective, counter balance. The Axe is steel, but has an edge finer then dwemer. Armor: Valenwood Hunter's Guild Armor Bio: A Bosmeri woman stood within her doorway, the glistening snow about her feet, her light skin vibrant as a smile stretched from ear to ear, and her nord husband, with his tall stature and broad shoulders, stood out with a deer over his shoulders and his bow at his feet. The pair met eyes and smiled at each other as she began to run her hand down over her stomach, rubbing the enlarged form, where their son sat, Varnadir. Varnadir was born in Frostfall, in Cyrodil, a few miles north of Bruma. There he was raised by his parents to hunt, fish, and survive, but his childhood had it's complications for years the simple quarrel between his parents about the Green Pact and their son, caused tension among the couple and it nearly split them apart. Though they pulled through and decided best to leave up to him when he came of age, and that is what happen for the next fifteen years of his life until his eighteenth year of birth, he simply worked, hunted, and learned. He was approached that morning after returning from a hunt about his view on the Green Pact. Both mother and father gave their views of the Pact, and left it up to him as to whether he wanted to follow it or not. He took some time to make his decision, and even left for the woods to think about the ideal of following the Green Pact. Upon his return he revealed accepting to follow the Green Pact under Bosmer religion and his mother fell ecstatic upon his shoulder with a large hug. Though his father smiled and nodded, showing of his acceptance, he was truly disheartened. Varnadir's life was different from that point on, he never seemed the same. He was of a fiercer disposition towards his enemies and followed the Green Pact diligently, but he also became closer to nature. He often meditated into the woods for hours at a time listening to the wild and hearing it's call. He would smell the scents and watch the sights taking in the primal essence of the land around him, this is where he met Clementine. He was meditating one day atop a large rock spire and Clementine, the beast she was before, prowled around him in the distance, closing in slowly while watching for movements and being wary of him. He although had heard her coming when she was a fair distance away. His meditation had led him to recognize the sounds of the beasts in the wild, and Clementine's was a common one in Cyrodil. Clementine drew closer and then, just before her attack, Varnadir began to speak using his Beast Tongue and coerced her into not attack, but into meditating with him. The pair sat and listened for the rest of the day as they got lost in the heart of the wild. The next few months past with Varnadir occasionally finding Clementine at his meditation spot awaiting his arrival. This action brought the pair closer and Varnadir gave Clementine her name and the pair became inseparable. They hunted together, fought together, and even meditated together. The pair faced every foe together as well as every non-combat obstacle. They were headstrong and ready for anything. Though they weren't expecting to be approached by Varnadir's Grandmother one day, who trekked from Valenwood to send for him, and asked to come to Valenwood in search for a name, a certain Silver Sorrows. Varnadir accepted this task although it seemed odd at first. He was given no information, just a name and a smile. Several months passed as he searched about Valenwood, asking around in each major settlement about this name and finding no results. He had heard of a few hunters speak of the name, but they were dead ends as well. He went out one day to hunt and hopefully gather enough food to hold himself over for a few days. He found himself following a game trail that soon held more tracks then just a Valenwood Elk. It had been trampled by a series of other boot and shoe prints of various sizes and gender. He followed them for several miles until he came upon an increasingly apparent trail of blood that led him to a ravenous sight of elk mutilation. He stood there a moment surveying the scene and looking for evidence of the killer. Large prints of unusual style were apparent all around the scene in a way that showed almost constant movement around the body and restless limbs. The evidence gave proof of viscous beings, but what exactly had done this didn't quite click just yet for Varnadir. A moment later, as he looked for another set of elk tracks, a group of people seemingly appeared form nowhere. Three came from the trees, two Bosmer female and an Imperial Male, and another four came from the thickets, two bosmer males and a pair of Nord females. They closed in around Varnadir and he kept his axe and blade sheathed while smiling and raising his chin. He greeted them and they replied with their own. They began to converse with short responses and questions, Varnadir's main concern was his health and whether they were going to attack him. They proved that they weren't and their conversation led into a description of their company and what they were doing. They were the Silver Sorrows and were a guild of hunters in Valenwood. When Varnadir gained their name and discovered that these were the people he was searching for, he revealed to them his reason for being in Valenwood and who sent him, which came with a delightful set of laughter and smiles from the Guild mates around him. They took him back to their home, a large estate built hidden in the deepest and thickest reached of the forest made of imported wood. They began to explain themselves to Varnadir and instructed him as to why he had come searching for them. His grandmother, and mother, were both Silver Sorrows and they intended to keep their family in the name. Varnadir was to become a Silver Sorrow and live with them for most of his life. For the next few centuries he learned and served the Silver Sorrows. He came to eventually be one of the best and soon after he was appointed the new Beastmaster. He trained all manner of beasts for the Huntsmen of the Silver Sorrows and even became one himself as these hunters offered him the choice to become a lycan. This Guild of Hunters, were created by the Bosmeri ideal of Hunters, but a few felt a closer connection through their lycanthropy, and while not all of them were lycans, nor was it mandatory, they were happily accepting of Lycans. Varnadir was offered the choice of several lycans, but do to his compassion for Clementine he chose the Werewolf as his lycan spirit. Years past as they all hunted and built on their estate, furthering their progress as a guild and even building their numbers as more and more were inducted under the name, Silver Sorrows. Decades past in the Valenwood Forest and life was grand, it was not the easiest life, but it was what he wanted. It gave him a goal, a purpose, something to live for, but it was one day taken from him when the Silver Hand attacked. The Lycan hunting group of the Silver Hand had heard over-exaggerated tales of a Guild of Lycan in Valenwood, when truly only a quarter of the Guild were Lycans. This didn't stop the Silver Hand though as they swarmed outside the Estate, shoulder to shoulder between the thick and heavy forest. The Guild gathered outside their numbers dwarfed by that of the SIlver Hand, but their spirit was much grander. A line was formed outside the main building of the estate that wrapped around it, while archers lined the balconies and roof. The Guildmates were ready for anything, and they watched as a wave of Silver Hand flooded forward. The Guild unleashed a stalwart fury as there heaviest hitters entered the early fray while the archer's took on other archer's in a long distance bout before the Silver Hand Archers began to take down the melee troops. It was a massacre as well as a stupid move, arrows struck Guild member and Silver Hand alike when the arrows began to fly and with the chaos of the battle the true Lycanthrope members of the Guild shifted and launched a ravenous slaughter against the Silver Hand. They suffered many losses that day, but they put blade to claw and fought off the only major threat they had... or so they thought. Several years later an army returned, Silver Hand branches from three provinces made a wave through Valenwood eradicating every known Lycan they could find until they reached the Guild, they burnt it to the ground and slaughtered anyone who tried to escape the event, all except for a handful of the members were killed and the few remaining were lucky enough to get away from the slaughter with their lives. Varnadiir never looked back... He now roams Skyrim, hunting, killing, and surviving off the land and the raiders he comes across while roaming. ------- Character Sheet: Please note that you are permitted to take any of the NPC's from the game and roleplay as them - just ask first, and I'll most likely say yes - just in case you've always wanted to go further with a certain character's storyline or dialogue. Name: ((Something applicable to your race, please.)) Age: ((No younger than 16.)) Race: ((You already know them...I hope.)) ((No more Khajiit's, and no more Bretons at the moment please.)) Class: ((See above.)) Appearance: ((You can use a picture or description.)) Personality: ((When stating personality here, please carry it over into the roleplay - trust me, sometimes it's tempting to stray.)) Bio: ((Doesn't have to be super in depth, just state why your character joined, basic backstory, aspirations, etc.)) Equipment: ((Any notable weapons, armour, etc, that your character carries. This can include self-made things and spells, just ask me first. Also, make sure your weapons/armour are in line with your Class. A Rogue won't be wearing Ebony Armour.)) Other: ((Any extra information you'd like to add.)) EDIT: No more undead, vampire, or werewolf characters please. If you particularly want to be one of these, it can occur further on during the roleplay - just ask me first.

((Deleted))

Name: Bjorn Wolve

Age: 48 years old

Race: Nord

Class: Warrior/Hunter

Appearance: Bjorn is a heavily built Nord, standing over six feet tall and certainly weighing over two hundred pounds. He has an oval-like cone shaped head with slight chiseled features. He has rather thin, dark eyebrows and has a full beard that is of black colour. He has really short hair which is also black, his natural hair colour. He has a large nose like most Nords and has high placed grayish eyes or at least once did... he is blind in one eye that has turned to stone white. A scar stretches across his eye and the rest of that side of his face. It was this nasty wound that made him blind in the first place. A tale that Bjorn does not like to tell strangers, but when questioned he simply tells him a large wolf managed to claw him when it leaped him.

Personality: Due to Bjorn being a werewolf, he has a sort of second personality in his head; the wolf, as he calls it. This is the more animalistic, aggressive, sexual, wild part of him. It’s still him of course, but to Bjorn it feels like a second person is living inside his head at all times. One of the more nasty cons of being a werewolf despite all the pros that he gains.

Generally Bjorn's human side displays a leader-like personality that has the desire to achieve something visible and noteworthy, and tries to always strive to reach his greatest potential. Luke has a healthy dose of ambition that can be seen by not only himself, but also from others who witness him in action. He has an inner voice that pushes him to get to the heart of an issue and find solutions. He searches for specific answers and doesn't give up until he gets them. His high energy is infectious as he consistently drives his priorities through the organizations that he is apart of or has close connections to. He works tenaciously for information that he is missing and keeps tweaking his mental models until he arrives at a positioning that works best for himself and others. He is able to listen to his own inner voice when he is able to push back the wolf side of him and can endure the lonely moments when an important decision falls on his very shoulders. He often speaks his mind and acts decisively knowing that he can withstand the consequences. It’s not a matter of acting tough for Bjorn, but having a tough inner core, or what some refer to as emotional fortitude, a fortress that he created many years ago. He has the willingness to allow himself to be influenced by other people and to share multiple ideas openly. He believes that this ultimately enhances the strength between him and his friends, and companions. Luke tries to seek diverse opinions, so that he can see and hear more and factor a wider range of information into his decisions.

However this completely changes when Bjorn becomes angered or aroused, the wolf will come out of him either by talking in his head, or by taking over his body completely, as it does when he turns into his wolf form. Often there will be a kind of battle between him and the other part of his personality. As Bjorn learnt how to better control the wolf, the two personalities have blended together in some unholy marriage. Bjorn is still learning how to better this control and at times he loses the struggle. It is still a constant battle despite how much he has mastered, but it is a was Bjorn hopes to master and win.

Bio: "Damn it Ulfric!! When did you become so blind!?!" I pound my fist on the table inside the tent of Ulfric Stormcloak, my oldest friend. My father was a blacksmith under the employ of Ulfric's father and as children we became fast friends, even taking an oath of brotherhood. When I wasn't tending the forge with my father we would be training with the guards in Windhelm, learning the ways of blade and axe. Ulfric eventually was taken to High Hrothgar, to be trained by the Greybeards, while I remained in Windhelm and joined the Guard. 10 years later the Aldmeri Dominion attacked Cyrodiil. As part of the Empire, Skyrim was called to aid in the war effort. Ulfric returned home from his training with the abilities of The Voice and together we enlisted to fight in the army. We fought alongside one another through numerous battles, winning some, but ultimately we were against impossible odds. During one long and bloody battle we had been overrun, Ulfric and I had been taken prisoner along with the rest of our comrades that had lived. Because of Ulfric's status as son of a Jarl, the Thalmor tortured him, trying to get information to aid their cause. The boy I had once known was forever changed by the horrors of war...

I can't blame my old friend from changing - how could I? I, too have seen the horrors of war and its a horror that I must carry for the rest of my life. Here is the tale of one such horror: It was 4E 175, a few months before the Battle of the Red Ring. Can't remember the exact date - my memory is clouded due to what transpired this particular evening. I recall over a dozen of us by the open fire, drinking, eating. We were all trying to forget what we've seen these past four years and we knew if we succeeded in the reclaiming of the capitol that we could all go home. However this night was different, it was the first time in a long time that I felt at peace. Couldn't explain the feeling then and couldn't explain the feeling now. But the night was quiet, only the sound of wind against the nearby trees, whistling through the leaves and branches were heard. I remember looking up, high in the sky, watching those full moons up high. A beautiful sight it was. Sadly, that beauty was disturbed by the sound of rustling in the tree line. I got up and so did Rikke, my partner in war. I recall asking her if she heard movement in the trees. She did not utter a single word, but I saw her head nod as her face glowed from the fire. Shortly others began to hear sounds from the wood and not long afterwards our swords were sheathed and our general roared to take up arms. I was scared, I thought the Elves found us, but no... it wasn't the Eves, but something else.

As soon as our swords and axes were lifted a scream was heard within our ranks. We moved into battle positions, but the enemy managed to break through our shields, and screams filled the meadow as we were getting slaughtered. I couldn't see what was killing my fellow soldiers. It was clear that it was no elf nor man, it was an animal, a beast. It was quick and strong, able to tear through our armor and break our shields. The sounds of the creature's roars and breath still echo in my ear. It was chaos that night, trained soldiers turning into boys. We were all frightened, a fear that felt possessive. I don't remember much more than that for one minute I am slashing into the darkness and the next - silence.

I awoke that morning on a bedroll, blood was everywhere and the sun blinded me as a sat up. I was covered in red and I lost the feeling on the left side of my face. I realized I was wrapped and last night was an utter blur. But I was a soldier and I gathered my strength and rose to my feet. I limped out of the tent and what I saw was straight out of Oblivion. Soldiers, dead on the ground. The grass stained with blood. Friends were being carried off and the sounds of confusion and conversation rattled my head. I collapsed to my knees, but soon caught by Rikke as she helped me to my feet. She told me what happened after I fell, but she did not know what attacked us that evening. For eventually the beast left and morning quickly followed. In a month's time however I found out what slaughtered my fellow men. For what attacked me had left its bloody curse in my veins. A spawn of Hircine himself... a werewolf.

I managed to keep the curse a secret, up until the day of when we retook the Imperial city from the Elves. We battled against them for days. I lost track of the time for we were battling throughout the nights as well. I completely forgot of the man I have became and shortly the moons rose high in the sky and the beast within tore its way out of my soul. I had turned, the beast took over. I could see, hear, smell, taste, and feel everything, but I couldn't stop it. The carnage was overwhelming and neither enemy or friend was safe. Thankfully, I was not seen when I transformed and as the battle waged on into the early morning I reverted back, unseen. The beast was still in the minds of both Elves and men, but the war did not halt. As the battle continued the Elves retreated and we had won. But the threat of the Elves was still present and because of this the White-Gold Concordat was formed.

Once the White-Gold Concordat had been signed, the Empire had bartered for our freedom. Ulfric returned home while I decided to remain in Cyrodiil and help return order to the Empire in any way I could. For bravery and valor in battle I was awarded, and quickly became recognized for both my charisma with the people, and skills at diplomacy within the courts. Years later, disturbing reports of the Dominion preparing for another assault had reached us, and shortly after it was reported that Ulfric had killed Torygg, the High King of Skyrim. If the information that the Aldmeri were planning on launching another assault on the Empire were true, then the full strength and co-operation of the Provinces would be needed. I was instantly dispatched as an ambassador to try and reason and negotiate a peace with Ulfric. Finding him encamped near Darkwater Crossing, I made my way to seek an audience with my old friend... It wasn't going well...

"Blind!? Is it blindness to want to live free!?!? To want to worship OUR Gods as our fathers did before us!?!?" He shouted back at me.

"You're blind because you can't see the larger picture Ulfric!! The troubles of the few pale in comparison to the troubles of the many!!!" I yelled back.

Ulfric only sneered, planting his fists firmly on the table opposite me, "Why should Skyrim care about the troubles of a weak and corrupt Empire!? We have always been strong! Once I drive the Empire out from Skyrim and unite the Jarls, we will have nothing to fear from the damned elves!!"

I drop my head in frustration. The young man I grew up with was destined to be wise and just. But he had changed, and not for the better. "Ulfric, if that is what you believe than you are both blind and a fool. There is no way that Skyrim alone can hope to stand against the Thalmor! In order for us to win this, protect our people, and preserve our way of life, YOU need to let go of this foolish crusade!! Sacrifices had to be made in order to ensure our survival. If we didn't make the choices we had NONE of us would be here today, or shackled in chains of servitude to the Dominion!"

Stubborn as ever, Ulfric refused to see reason, "When did you become such a mild-drinker!? Your father must look down from Sovngarde and WEEP for the Imperial lap dog his son has become!!!" He always had a way with words.

Enraged at Ulfric's talk of my Father I launch a fist directly into his jaw, he falls backwards from the force of the blow. If I can't talk sense into him then by Talos I'll beat it into him! I throw the table that was between us aside and move towards him, before I can throw another punch Ulfric is back on his feet.

"FUS RO DAH!!!!!"

Using the power of The Voice, Ulfric sends me flying out of the tent. I fly into a tree and with a heavy thud land a heap on the ground. Trying to regain my senses I look up to see Ulfric storming out of the wreckage of his tent, axe in hand. I spring to my feet and run to my horse, freeing my sword from it's sheath. I turn back around, swinging wide with my sword just in time to block Ulfric's downward swing. He may have the power of the voice, but I was always the stronger! With all the strength I can muster I drive myself forward, pushing Ulfric backwards and off balance before thrusting a boot into his stomach. He had fallen back and I had the dominant position, but just as I raised my sword overhead, havoc broke loose. An Imperial battalion, lead by General Tullius, had burst onto the scene. During the confusion of my dual with Ulfric, the Stormcloaks were quickly overrun. My attack on Ulfric brought to a halt, I paused to try and take in what was happening, and during my bewilderment something had hit me hard in the back of the head. The taste of blood and dirt in my mouth, the last thing I remember seeing was Ulfric being bound and gagged as consciousness slipped away...

It was two days later that I finally regained my senses. I had been loaded into a cart with Ulfric, a young Stormcloak, and a horse thief who had gotten caught up in the confusion. Talk among the guards was that Ulfric was sentenced to death for his crimes and we were being transported to Helgen for execution. When we arrived I saw the Headsman, sharpening his axe in preparation for its duty. Despite my death being close at hand, all I could feel was relief. At least now this war is over, and the Empire can focus on defending against the Thalmor. We're unloaded off the carts and the Imperial soldiers run through the list, calling out names. Ulfric Stormcloak Jarl of Windhelm, Ralof of Riverwood. The horse thief, Lokir, is called and tries to make a run for it, screaming that he was not part of the rebellion. Before he can run 10 paces he's shot down by Imperial archers, "Anyone else feel like running!?" The Imperial captain calls out to the rest of the captives.

"Wait a minute, you there! Who are you?" A young Nord soldier had picked me out of the crowd.

I look sidelong at Ulfric, who just stares back, a burning hatred in his eyes. I let out a sigh before looking back at the young Nord, "Just a Nord trying to save his home..."

"You picked a bad time to come back to Skyrim, Kinsman. Captain, what should we do with him? He's not on the list."

The Imperial captain looks me over before shrugging, "Forget the list, he dies with the rest of them!!"

"I'm sorry, but at least you'll die here, in your homeland. To the block prisoner, nice and easy." I am pushed in position among the rest of the prisoners. Everything is a blur as I close my eyes and breath in the cool, crisp air of Skyrim.

"Next, the Nord in the rags!!" I'm pulled from my thoughts by the announcement of my death, just as I take a step towards the block, a loud roaring bellows out from the mountains. I'm ordered to ignore it and take my place at the block. Accepting my fate, I look up for one last glance at the sky I was born under, when out of the clouds a beast tumbles towards the Earth!! Black wings and breathing fire, as impossible as it seems a dragon lands on the top of a tower and flaming boulders crash into the ground! I was able to break free and make my escape with the young Nord as well as another prisoner. The Imperial soldier told me that his name was Hadvar, but the other fellow didn't seem interested in sharing.

Hadvar urged us to take separate paths as he said, "It's probably best if we split up. Good luck, I wouldn't of made it without your help today."

I bolted towards the west, into the nearby wood as I looked back to see Hadvar and the mysterious man run down the path towards Riverwood. Their fate? I had no idea...

-

I settled in Falkreath, regaining my strength and composure. I spent a few nights here, allowing time to be my healer. However news would come that a Dragonborn was among us, here in Skyrim. After so many years and with the coming of the dragons. This was not by accident, but of fate. Fate or not however the Dragonborn's time here was short lived. The rumour of his death reached us as well. The tale says that he did not survive his first encounter with a dragon that was seen just outside of Whiterun. He managed to slay the beast, but in turn the beast slew him. If the Dragonborn couldn't save us, who shall? It is from this day on that my interests would shift. While Ulfric and his Stormcloaks pose a threat still, these dragons are of a worse kind.

I have spent the last few months gathering as much knowledge on the subject as possible, entering numerous tombs and crypts trying to figure out this complex puzzle from the Ancient Nords. I have even travelled to Whiterun where the battle between men and dragon took place. All there was left of the epic battle was a rotting carcass of burning bones, burnt earth and rubble of the watchtower. With no-one present, I managed to grab nearly one hundred pounds of what was left of the dragon. Thankfully, Spirit was able to take the burden.

After returning to Falkreath, I began to study the bones. A torch would pop inside my head and a brilliant idea came before me. I shall craft an armour set out of these bones, I told my self. A sign and symbol of my new mindset. However, the bones are like a material I have yet seen. They would not forge and it seems despite of my vast smithing skill they simply would not hold together. I shall continue my pursuit in working out the secret to forging dragon bones.

-

My resources are growing thin and the coin is drying out. I can no longer do this alone. I need answers and I need others who share my passion. Skyrim is my home and as her Son I shall protect her with my life. I just need to find like minded Sons and Daughters of Skyrim to help me on my quest for answers...

Equipment: Bjorn simply wears a hand crafted fur armor that he himself made to fit his built. Numerous pelts, leathers and hides were used in its making, giving the Nord a unique look. He typically wears a backpack, hood, and a cloak as well. A few pouches also dot here and there, and are used to carry lightweight goods like wild edibles and ingredients. In terms of weaponry he wields a unique sword that he located while searching for answers about the return of the dragons. Belonging to Acilius Bolar if the letter he found holds true, Bjorn found a rather interesting sword of old design. It has extremely polished for such an aged blade and had what looked to be some sort of claw or tooth on the end of the hilt. Other pieces of bone was also present. Bone that looked awfully similar to what he saw at Whiterun where that dragon once laid. There was also two rings of silver that circled a section of the hilt with strange markings on them. The sheath seemed to be made out of bone as well. Another weapon he has is a sleek, eloquent dagger gifted to him by a fellow named Valdr. He helped the man get revenge on some Spriggans and by handing him a healing potion. Finally, his most beloved weapon is his crafted longbow that he made when he was but a young lad. A bow he nicknamed: 'The Huntsman.'

Other:

• A half decent blacksmith of steel and iron.
• Enjoys heavy drinking and conversations about life.
• An excellent hunter and tracker.
• A war hero.
• Loves his horse Spirit and Garm his dog above all else.
• A werewolf, but not of the Companions strain.