Place of Origin: Blacklight, Morrowind.

Appearance: Though probably not everyone's cup of tea, Niernen is an attractive woman by Dunmeri standards. Her eyes are large and expressive and have an unusual coppery hue to them, diluting the crimson iris that is so characteristic of her race. They are supported by prominent cheekbones; beneath that, Niernen's face narrows sharply, sporting a small chin and gaunt cheeks, though her jawline is well-defined. A ruddy scar runs over her left eye and cheek, almost touching the corner of her mouth. Niernen's lips are lush and display a peaked Cupid's bow. She takes pride in (and good care of) her hair, which is long and dark. Niernen usually wears it swept back, tucked away behind her ears, resting on her shoulders. Her body is rather conventional; neither thin nor overly curvy, not whipcord muscled nor flabby. However, if one got the chance to see her undressed they'd be able to tell faint scarring on her chest, abdomen and back, caused by wicked Argonian warblades. Niernen stands at 5'6", which makes her rather short for a Dunmeri woman.


Background: Born to parents that held influential positions in House Redoran, Niernen Venim came second to a favored son. Her birth under the sign of the Serpent was considered bad omen by Redoran traditions, and hopes for Niernen weren't high. Though she was by no means ever abused, her brother Narzul was a tough act to follow and her parents could be blind in their devotion. Niernen was always quietly bitter about this but didn't act out against her brother in any way; in fact, she was very fond of him herself. Besides, it wasn't his fault he was such a good son.

While Narzul was rather obviously being groomed to take his father's place as House Father, Niernen was left mostly to her own devices and became determined to excel somewhere her brother didn't. Narzul's martial prowess was stellar, as befitting a son of House Redoran, but Niernen's short stature and natural ineptitude with weapons prevented her from matching up to him. It is often said that Dunmer have three talents; the blade, the shadow and the flame. Niernen wanted to focus on the last.

Whether a sign of love or casual disregard Niernen couldn't figure out, but her parents allowed her to pursue an education in Destruction magic with the war-wizards of House Redoran. She traveled all over Morrowind for this, apprenticing for several such war-wizards. Because of their rarity, they were posted all over the province. One of them was able to teach her a little about Conjuration as well, especially how to summon and bound a Flame Atronach, and they all knew a little Alteration for general utility. A sympathetic Temple Priest taught her a few things about Restoration.

Niernen returned to Blacklight when she was 27. She was now reasonably skilled, far from a master, but remarkable for her age nonetheless. For the first time in her life, Niernen got to experience what it was like for her father to be impressed by something she had achieved after demonstrating her Flame Cloak spell. Narzul had risen to the rank of House Cousin on his own merits by now and the two siblings remained very supportive of each other.

Life seemed to trundle along on its scheduled course when the Nerevarine unexpectedly returned to Morrowind, intending to take the title of High King. Niernen was far too young to have been alive when the Nerevarine first appeared but she'd grown up with the stories, of course -- her ancestor, Bolvyn Venim, had been Archmaster of House Redoran at the time, and the Nerevarine had murdered him in a duel for that title. The Venim family never forgave the Nerevarine for that act, and while he was worshiped as a saint in the Dunmeri pantheon Niernen's father disapproved highly of the Nerevarine's claim to the throne. Openly opposing him was political suicide, however, so this particular Redoran family was forced to watch as the Nerevarine wrestled power away from their Great House (again) and became High King of all the Dunmer people.

Her father expected some kind of aggression from the Nerevarine towards the Venim family, but none came. Perhaps the Nerevarine had forgotten about the last name of the man he had to slay in his quest to become Hortator -- Bolvyn Venim was, after all, merely one of many on a mound of corpses the Neverarine had left in his wake. Seeing no reason to further hold that event against her new High King, Niernen obeyed the decree to aid in the rebuilding of the province, much to her father's chagrin. She didn't do it because she cared about the province, really, or the Nerevarine's ambitions. No, she merely wanted to prove the usefulness of her arcane studies. Narzul also participated, though this was decided to be politically necessary if the Venim family was to remain relevant. The two traveled to the south of Morrowind with a contingent of the Redoran army and joined the raids on Black Marsh.

Determination alone wasn't enough to completely repell the horrors of war. Niernen had never raised her magic against another person before and she was having difficulty processing the consequences. Narzul would lead the charge against the Argonians while Niernen and a conjured Flame Atronach lobbed fireballs at designated targets from a safe distance. From so far away it wasn't so bad, but being confronted with the charred, twisted corpses of Argonians she encountered on the battlefield afterwards haunted her dreams. Narzul was blind to her turmoil and merely proud of his sister, Niernen the battlemage.

It was fantastic practice however, and Niernen continued to develop her skills rapidly. She contributed significantly to a victory in the fight for Stormhold's gates, blanketing the area just inside the city walls with flames through a small hole in the gate, forcing the Argonian defenders back and allowing siege units to knock the gate down. Niernen started making a real name for herself and saw herself rise through the ranks of House Redoran on her own merits. This, and the encouragement from her brother, was enough for Niernen to persist.

Misfortune struck during an assault near the city of Thorn. The thick jungle-marsh prevented the Dunmer from anticipating a flanking strike and Niernen was almost asssassinated by a pair of Shadowscales. The two Argonians killed Niernen's bodyguards in the initial strike and struck her with quick jabs from their twisted daggers. Overcome with adrenaline, Niernen seared them both with gouts of hot flame, burning brighter than they ever had, but the Shadowscales were high on Hist sap and unstoppable. Within seconds, Niernen had been stabbed several times, including a horrific gash in the left side of her face, and collapsed. One of the Shadowscales made the mistake of stabbing the Flame Atronach through the chest; it exploded violently, killing the Argonians and knocking Niernen unconscious.

Narzul, having heard the detonation, abandoned his post at the head of the battle and rushed to save his sister. A retreat was organized and the Redoran army back off from Thorn momentarily. Niernen's life was saved by the combined efforts of seven Temple Priests; the daggers used to wound her were coated with a potent poison that was rapidly turning her insides to goop and an enormous amount of magicka was required to reverse the damage.

Alas, Niernen would never be quite the same. She was permanently weakened and her entire body hurt if she overexerted herself. Narzul was reprimanded for his actions in putting his sister's life over the success of the entire battle, but allowed to remain. Niernen was sent home with a commendation for valor in the face of mortal danger, but it was merely a small comfort. She was ashamed of having been a burden to her brother and traumatized by the near-death experience; the images of the Shadowscales, moving like frenzied blurs to inflict maximum damage, undeterred by the fire eating away at their flesh, was never far from her mind's eye. It took her more than a year to recover enough to start leaving the house in Blacklight. At first, short walks would leave her exhausted and gasping for air, but by the start of 4E 204 she had regained most of her former range of mobility, provided she didn't start to run. Most of the scarring had faded away except for the cut over her eye. It wasn't considered life-threatening at the time so little magicka was dedicated to repairing the damage by the Temple Priests, and it was too difficult to fix after the fact.

In 4E 205, the decree was lifted and Narzul returned home. He had served with distinction and replaced his father as House Father of the Great House Redoran, who gladly retired and started dedicating his time to literary pursuits and woodcrafting.

Tired of sitting at home like some kind of sickly woman, Niernen resolved to resume traveling and developing her abilities. She was also determined to face her fears and overcome them; it seemed to her that the nightmares weren't going away on their own. Narzul protested fiercely but Niernen had made up her mind. She promised to be cautious and brought one of the family's Nix-hounds with her, a fine specimen named Garm, who could protect her during a spell of weakness. Niernen traveled west, to Skyrim, and found herself applying for a mercenary company in the city of Windhelm, somewhat to her own bewilderment.

Personality: By nature, Niernen is resourceful, intelligent, witty, stubborn and kind-hearted. These traits are all inherent to her mind and personality and haven't changed over the years. She takes to new knowledge quickly, enjoys conversing at an engaging level, is quick to improvise when faced with problems, becomes nearly impossible to sway after she's made up her mind about a course of action, and tries to treat the people she meets with respect and compassion -- even 'outlanders'. She never thought highly of the xenophobia inherent to the Dunmer of Morrowind.

However, the course of her life has brought some nuance to all of the above. While still headstrong, she used to be far more so and has relented a lot after her injuries in Blackmarsh. Her confidence was significantly shaken by the whole ordeal and she struggles to regain her former level of self-assuredness. Brutality suffered at the hands of the Kamal have put another, even larger dent in her. Without moral and emotional support of her friends and comrades Niernen would undoubtedly relapse into powerful depression and anxiety, and she is vulnerable to horrific nightmares and flashbacks.

As for interpersonal relationships, Niernen gets along well with most people except Argonians and still finds it difficult to look at them, let alone have a proper conversation, due to strong feelings of guilt. The struggles she is dealing with internally (something that can only be described as post-traumatic stress disorder and soldier's remorse) make it difficult for her to be entirely honest about who she is, but she craves understanding and compassion all the same. This creates a deep-seated sense of vulnerability that she struggles to cope with.

She's proud of her magical abilities and relies on them heavily, refusing to carry physical weapons into combat, and resorts to telekinesis for heavy lifting. Because she was born into a wealthy, aristocratic family Niernen has no idea what it's like to be a peasant and may occasionally make off-the-cuff remarks that reflect this ignorance. Her greatest pleasures are fine dining, magical discoveries and moonlit nights, while her biggest peeves are uncultered brutes, the sight of knives and physical exertion. She worships the Reclamations.

Skills:
Expert: Destruction.
Adept: Alteration and Conjuration.
Apprentice: Restoration, Light Armor, Alchemy.
Novice: Tailoring, Speech, Enchanting.
Weaknesses:
Purity of Magic: Niernen carries no weapons on her and is entirely reliant on her magic, especially now that she's physically incapable of throwing a solid punch.

Foot in the Grave: Niernen came so close to death after the Shadowscale assassination attempt that she never fully recovered. The poisons took a hefty toll on her physical fortitude, reducing her strength to that of a child's and her endurance to that of an elder with rockjoint. She cannot march long distances, lift anything heavier than a sword or throw something larger than a pebble. Most of these inconveniences can be worked around with magic, but she's dead weight after her magicka is spent. Riding on horseback also doesn't solve the long-distance travel problem entirely, as it takes a lot of energy to merely stay seated; carriages, on the other hand, are ideal.

Mind Schism: Niernen hasn't overcome the mental trauma of her attack and is susceptible to moments of fear and weakness during combat, especially if the enemy combatants were to get close to her. This has only become worse after her capture and enslavement at the hands of the Kamal and now that her Nix-hound, Garm, is dead, Niernen is reliant on others to protect her from physical harm and highly susceptible to flashbacks and panic attacks.

Spells:
Destruction: Niernen commands most Fire-variety Destruction spells, though she favors Fireball from a distance and Incinerate on closer targets. Wall of Flames sees occasional use in large confrontations. Fire Storm is beyond her grasp. With great concentration, she can create fierce flames that burn so hot it causes an involuntary retreat in most targets, mimicking the Intense Flames perk from Skyrim.

Alteration: Telekinesis, Magelight and Detect Life for general utility. Stoneflesh in a pinch.

Conjuration: Flame Atronach, Flaming Familiar.

Restoration: Fast Healing, Healing Hands, Turn Lesser Undead.

Combat Style: Niernen staunchly refuses to engage her enemies up close unless absolutely forced to. She prefers to lob Fireballs at her enemies from a distance, preferably from a high vantage point, in support of other armed forces. She will often summon a Flame Atronach to double the rate of fire. She has never wielded a weapon into battle and isn't about to start now; not that it would do much good, what with her condition. If presented with an overwhelming force her tactic is to spray Wall of Flames as far as possible and retreat.

Other Capabilities: Niernen can read Daedric runes and speaks the Dunmeri language, something her father insisted on while she was growing up.

Relations and Affiliations: Narzul and the rest of her family in Blacklight. She was on friendly terms with all of her magic teachers when she left them, though some of them probably don't even remember her anymore.

Cash: Currently none.

Keys and Lockpicks: No lockpicks. Several keys, to such places as her house in Blacklight and the family coffers.

Clothing and Armor: Niernen wears a traditional Dunmer tunic beneath a set of form-fitting, lightweight leather armor, sans the helmet. She picked up a pale gray traveling cloak during her escape from Windhelm and she now wears it around her shoulders. It's clasped at her throat and so large that it obscures her form completely if she withdraws her arms beneath the folds of the robe and the large hood can hide her face in the dark.

Weapon and Ammunition: No weapons and no ammunition whatsoever.

Potion and Arcane Supplies: Several small, thin vials to hold magicka potions (currently empty) and the ingredients to make more in a pouch at her waist, though she lacks the equipment to do so while on the road.

Jewelry and Novelty Items: A Redoran signet ring on the ring finger of her left hand and a necklace given to her by her brother. She also carries a rosette, awarded for valor in the face of mortal danger, in her breast pocket. The signet ring is enchanted with a mild feather effect to help counteract the weakness of her condition.

Books and Documents: She lost all of her books and currently travels paperless.

Food, Drinks, Provisions: An empty hip flask that previously held sujamma to help calm her nerves and no food -- it's all run out.

Bags, Pouches, Packs: Several waist pouches to hold her alchemical ingredients, potion vials and money. Niernen also had a leather backpack that held her books and her map, but these have been lost.

Other: Nothing I can think of.

Place of Origin: Sadrith Mora, Vvardenfell, Morrowind

Appearance:


Kaliri stands at roughly 5’6” - not an overwhelming height by any means, but neither is she short. While her body is uncharacteristically well toned for a member of the Telvanni, a comfortable upbringing has given her a smooth and voluptuous body that hides any trace of muscle underneath. Her eyes, like alemandine garnets, are cold at first, but show a hidden warmth and good humor - but all the same with a hard edge that brooks no debate and shows no mercy. Her skin is reminiscent of dark volcanic ash, and her voice is low and husky, with a soft growl from years of breathing ash.

On top of her armor she wears a garment vaguely reminiscent of traditional mage’s robes, modified to accomodate the thick plating underneath.

Background:
Kaliri was born on Vvardenfell, in the city of Sadrith Mora. A shadow of its former fungal glory, the city was constantly beset by ash storms that battered the inhabitants - including the young Dunmer girl. While she was never caught in one for long, their frequency and intensity hardened her against Red Mountain’s fury. She now scoffs when Nords complain of snowstorms, for the ash blotted out the sun and chilled the land, the ash was always biting at them, choking their throats, yet still they soldiered on in the desolated city.

Her parents were fairly typical for members of House Telvanni - shut in scholars who rarely paid much attention to the events of the outside world, unless they involved Argonians. Despite their dedication to study and learning they simply lacked the power to go far in the House, remaining at a decidedly mediocre station throughout her youth.

Told detailed and gruesome stories from a young age of the Argonian invasion and the slaughter of any Telvanni unfortunate enough to be caught by them, Kaliri grew to loathe the Argonians with a burning passion. It didn’t help that, around age ten, she began to be haunted by nightmares whenever she closed her eyes. Paralyzingly real visions of pain and slaughter, she experienced the last moments of every Telvanni killed in the Argonian invasion. The nights came to be marked by visions of blood and agony rather than restful sleep.

Despite a near total lack of sleep, Kaliri showed incredible potential in the school of Destruction. Her parents were delighted to see this, and poured as much money and effort as they could into furthering her knowledge of Destruction. She hungrily devoured the knowledge, practicing whenever the ash wasn’t too thick - and soon the impact of fireballs against weatherbeaten stone became a common sound in the city.

At the same time she loved to practice with a small wooden sword she had found discarded one day, fancying herself a powerful battlemage bedecked in armor and wielding both blade and flame with deadly skill. Her parents seemed not to notice this, but one woman, a Redguard from Hammerfell who showed similar talent to what Kaliri herself aspired to, and soon she was taken under her wing. Kaliri would listen for hours to tales of heroic battles against bandits and other foes of Hammerfell, long treks through the Alik’r desert, the glory of Sentinel. She also learned everything the other woman could teach her about handling a blade, showing a preference for the two handed variety.

Once Kaliri reached adulthood she could no longer contain her wanderlust, and, bidding farewell to familiar faces, set out to see all of Tamriel, curiosity about the world burning inside her brighter than any flame. Her first destination was not the province of Cyrodill, bordering Morrowind, though she did trek through it, she was not much impressed by its forests. Her eyes were set on Hammerfell, the stories of Sentinel’s grandeur spurring her ever onwards.

She visited every province on the continent save for the Summerset Isles, the Thalmor were too strong for her to gain access, and, reluctantly, she had set sail back for Cyrodill where she had set off.

She was still in Cyrodill at the outbreak of the Great War, when the Thalmor -who she had come to loathe as much as she did Argonians- demanded ridiculous things of the Empire. What set her off more was their demand for much of Southern Hammerfell, her time in the province having enkindled a strong love for the land and its people. Immediately she offered her services to the Imperial Legion, seeking to spill the blood of as many Thalmor as she could. While she was never an official part of the Legion, few were inclined to turn down the aid of a skilled and experienced battlemaged of House Telvanni itself.

Kaliri was well and truly outraged at the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. She saw it as a betrayal of her, her people, the Redguards, and everyone else who had fought against the Thalmor. She immediately left Cyrodill and journeyed as fast as she could to Hammerfell, gleefully killing many more Thalmor and meeting many old friends in the province.

Her nightmares only grew worse during this time, and the deaths of every friend who died in either war soon began to haunt her dreams as well.

When the civil war in Skyrim broke out her allegiance was obvious, and despite some hesitation about her being a Dunmer and a battlemage she was accepted into the Stormcloaks to fight against the Empire, who she saw as betraying her people and everyone who had fought by giving in to the Thalmor.
When news reached her of the outbreak of civil war in Skyrim, she knew right away which side her allegiance lay with. Leaving Hammerfell she made her way to Windhelm where, despite some hesitation about her being both Dunmer and mage she was accepted into the Stormcloaks. Kaliri fought like a Daedra fresh out of Oblivion, slaying many of those she saw as traitors, and taking great delight in killing any Thalmor she could find.

During the war, despite her reservations, she met and befriended two Nord warriors by the name of Sevine and Leif. She fought ferociously to keep them safe and sound. After the war, she left to wander again, only returning to Skyrim when she received a letter from a certain Leif Raven-Stone.

Personality:

Skills:

Expert Destruction - Almost eight decades of practice, battlefield experience, and skilled instruction make Kaliri a force to be reckoned with in the school of destruction. Her skills are almost unparalelled, with the experience of three major wars sharpening her talent with Destruction to a razor keen edge.

Adept Two-handed blade - As a battlemage, Kaliri cannot simply rely on her magic alone. She has exceptional skill with two handed blades, favoring a brutal, heavy weapon that cleaves through flesh and bone alike - yet has the versatility of a sword as compared to an axe.

Adept Heavy Armor - Kaliri can credit her armor to saving her more than once, and has worn it routinely. As a result, wearing it tires her considerably less, and she moves with it almost as if she weren’t wearing heavy plates over her entire body.

Adept Enchanting - Well made steel is all well and good, but with the addition of a little magical spark an ordinary steel sword can become a flaming harbinger of death. This pleases Kaliri.

Apprentice Athletics - Running around requires some stamina and training. While not her favorite thing, Kaliri has adequate endurance and speed for not dying horribly in a fight.

Apprentice Restoration - While her use of the school of Restoration is primarily for utility, she has devoted time to learning its application and basic theory, developing adequate skill in the field despite her using it almost exclusively for healing battlefield injuries.

Novice Alteration -Kaliri picked up the rudiments of alteration over time despite never opening a book on the subject in her life. She uses it exclusively for light and a minor boost to her armor.

Weaknesses:

Overspecialized - Kaliri has spent her life studying a few topics with great focus to the complete neglect of others. While she has incredible skill in her chosen fields, anything else is completely beyond her. While a door can be opened with enough fireballs, a merchant’s prices are less pliable.

Hypnophobia - Kaliri dreads sleep. Whenever she closes her eyes, nothing but horrific nightmares await her, never the same ones in a row. Incredibly powerful, the night terrors would bring her awake screaming, but she remains trapped in a prison of her own mind for hours. And when she wakes up? Sleep paralysis, the nightmares enter the world of the living and haunt her there until she has fully woken. She has not yet found a way to simply never need sleep. If and when she does sleep it is almost always in a drugged stupor to prevent dreams from befalling her. Consequently she’s almost never at 100%, Vaermina’s torment driving her to spend days if not over a week awake, fearful of what lies in wait behind closed eyelids.

Eccentric - Kaliri’s eccentric nature often leads her straight into mortal peril, or burns bridges before she’s even aware of their existence.

Relations and Affiliations:
Llandris Velothril - The Ex-Ordinator who she ran into many years back. For some reason he’s stuck with her, to carry things around, hit people in the face, and presumably so he has another Dunmer to grump to. (Will be EldritchOne’s PC if he makes a CS)

Sevine Varg-t’uk - A red haired Nord woman and an old friend and comrade in arms. Kaliri met her along with Leif during the Skyrim civil war,

Leif Raven-Stone - A Nord man she met along with Sevine in the civil war. Unlike many, she entertains his romantic advances, though tries not to let him down too hard. Maybe someday she’ll share a bed with him, maybe someday.

Spells:

Destruction -Incinerate, Fireball, Firebolt, Chain Lightning, Thunderbolt, Flames, Sparks, and myriad other destruction spells, primarily focusing on flame. Despite her years of experience, master level spells such as Fire Storm elude her.
Alteration -Oakflesh, Candlelight
Restoration -Fast Healing, Healing Hands, Cure Disease, Cure Poison

Combat Style:
Kaliri prefers to face combat head-on. She is not content to stay back with the archers and other mages, hurling fireballs into the enemy. Instead she charges into the thick of the melee, pelting her foes with fire and lightning before closing to finish things off. In battle her movements are almost like those of a dance. A deadly dance of blade and fire, but a dance nonetheless.

Other Capabilities:

Cash: 500 septims, the bag holding them has been Feather enchanted. Many thousands more in the bank.

Keys and Lockpicks:
Unless fireballs count, none.

Clothing and Armor:

Steel Plate Armor, Mail Shirt, and Padded Gambeson

Modified Mage Robege Robe

Steel Plate Boots - Nothing special about them. Fitted to her feet, that’s about it. Feather enchanted.

Steel Nordic Gauntlets- A gift from a Nord smith whose life she saved in battle, these gauntlets are of exceptionally high quality and fit her like a second skin. They have been specially made to allow her to cast spells with no extra difficulty. Feather enchanted.

Telvanni Robes - A set of simple yet elegant Telvanni robes - much shorter than usual and sporting cut down sleeves. Usually worn as casual wear over a soft tunic and loose linen pants.

Steel Helm - A generic steel helm, comes in two sizes - too big and too small. Feather enchanted.

Weapon and Ammunition: 1x Honed Kriegsmesser - A brutal and unelegant weapon that would look more at home in the hands of a Nord berserker or Orsimer warrior than in hers. Her blade is of the finest steel available and is heavily enchanted to burn any foes striken by its deadly edge.

Fine Iron Dagger - Rarely used, but still kept functional just in case.

Potion and Arcane Supplies:
x5 Potion of Vigorous Healing
x2 Potion of Vigorous Magicka
x2 Potion of Vigorous Stamina
x10 Filled Greater Soul Gem A stash that cost her quite the pretty penny, Kaliri keeps her stash of soul gems handy for recharging her sword and enchanting other items.

Jewelry and Novelty Items:
None.

Books and Documents:
An assortment of spell tomes, novels, and nonfictional works. Too many to keep track of and constantly changing.

Food, Drinks, Provisions:
x5 Bottle of Sujamma
x3 Bottle of Black-Briar Mead
x4 Red Apple
x2 Loaf of bread
x3 Smoked salmon
x4 Waterskins

Bags, Pouches, Packs:
x1 Large Leather Rucksack - Dyed black and overflowing with items. Feather enchanted.
x5 Leather Pouch Bandolier - Stuffed full of odds and ends. Feather enchanted.
x1 Belt - Reinforced, holds her sword and some other accoutrements.

Other:
Large Tent - Feather enchanted as well, fixes to straps on her rucksack.
Wool Blanket - Necessary for Skyrim.
Hairbrush - Fine glossy wood handle, well used.
Large sleeping roll and pillow - Luxurious camping bedroll and a soft pillow, room for morethan one person.

Place of Origin: Camlorn Principality, High Rock

Appearance: Marcel would best be described as timid and cautious. While these are mostly personality traits, Marcel is a person who has taken these traits to heart, and thus, manages to look timid and cautious as well, the traits having seeped into his visage, his clothing, and his expressions. He is of medium length and build, although admittedly in pretty good shape. His expression is a calm one - although also a distant looking one.

The man has a chiseled face, bony and oval, with questioning, distant green eyes, a tiny mouth, and an aquiline nose. His sunken cheeks further accentuate his gaunt look and make his cheekbones stand out more. His rather high hairline, which, combined with the onset of hair recession and short cropped hair, makes his head look somewhat bigger than it actually is. His brown hair has started to grey, with white streaks occasionally cutting through it. He has a trimmed, short beard, well groomed.

Marcel prefers to wear simple clothes that suit his line of work, with a well-crafted but plain gorget covering his neck, a leather buff coat covering his torso, and baggy pants covering his legs. He’s recently switched his suede shoes for riding boots, and bought a caped greatcoat alongside a fur-lined kolpak, to keep himself safe from the cold climate of Skyrim.

Personality: Marcel’s one of those sorts of people who are so nice it’s somewhat off-putting. Having gone through a good education, and having had good parents, he is polite, soft spoken, and nearly always means well, a bona fide nice guy. However, it’s this that makes him look unbelievable – he’s nice, sure, but he’s quiet, somewhat shy, and never seems to let people in his personal sphere, though the problem starts there. It’s hard to tell if he’s just hiding his true personality from people, or if the nice guy exterior really is also the interior. Despite his somewhat frustrating line of work, he has never been seen angry, not even once, and is well known for his soothing presence. His birthsign has reflected upon him in his personality, in that he never shows any outburst of emotion on his own, and in fact dulls others to a calmer, serene outlook with his lack of reaction to any emotion. An experienced witch hunter, he is cautious and prefers to plan every move, trying not to waste any of his time or energy. One can say he’s a nice guy – too nice, even, to a point it feels like he’s lying.

Background:

Skills:

• Expert Mysticism
• Adept Alchemy
• Adept One-Handed Blade
• Apprentice Speech
• Apprentice Light Armor
• Apprentice Athletics
• Novice Acrobatics
• Novice Hand to Hand
• Novice Marksman

Spells:
Mysticism: Detect Life, Dispel, Reflect Spell, Spell Absorption.

Combat Style: Having been trained in the art of fencing, Marcel’s fighting style is heavily technical, and is based mostly on quick, debilitating strikes. Marcel, being Marcel, is often unable to be in the aggressive position, and thus stays on the defense, waiting for openings in the enemy’s attack and striking whenever available with a quick hit, one that hopefully connects. Having mostly faced foes that have preferred to use their natural or magical capabilities, Marcel does not have much actual experience of the usual, to-the-death fighting against capable warriors. Still, he has not forgotten the fencing lessons he has taken during college.

Weaknesses:

Battery: Marcel is practically a magical coil, unable to cast anything conventional – he can only store, detect and reflect. Other schools of magic are beyond him, with disastrous results should he try to cast from scrolls.

Creep: Marcel’s manners are too nice for his own good. Most people are off-put by his good behavior, finding it quite creepy out of the fact that it often feels heavily out of place and insincere.

Magnetic: Marcel's absorbent quality has a rather unpleasant effect of magnetizing magical effects on him. Spells often end up homing in on him even when targeted at someone else.

Static Space: Marcel's presence makes mages uncomfortable and unable to focus, like a dog whistle would bother a dog. The stronger the magician, the stronger the effect.

Relations and Affiliations: Few would know, but Marcel was the consort of Fair Lady Theodora of Skingrad for some time. He still has some feelings for the woman. He was also made an honorary member of the Order of the Morning Star, a Cult of Meridia based in Hammerfell. He occasionally writes letters to his father, Adrien Gawain, to let him know that he's alive and doing well, but aside from that, he doesn't have much contact left with him.



Other Capabilities: Marcel is heavily magic resistant, owing to his Breton heritage. He’s also a fast reader, for reasons unknown.

Cash: 150 septims

Keys and Lockpicks: None

Tools and Crafting Materials:
-1 Needle Compass
-1 Candle Lantern

Clothing and Armor:

-1 Kolpak
-1 Greatcoat
-1 Gorget of Spell Absorption
-1 Leather Buffcoat
-2 Linen Trousers
-1 Pair of riding boots
-1 Pair of gloves
-3 Shirts
-4 Pairs of underwear

Weapon and Ammunition:
-1 Silver Smallsword
-1 Steel Sword

Potion and Arcane Supplies:
-2 Potions of Cure Disease
-2 Potions of Cure Poison
-2 Potions of Restoration

Jewelry, Valuables and Personal Belongings:
-1 Circular Locket, containing a tuft of hair

Books and Documents:
-1 Comprehensive Map of Tamriel

Food, Drinks and Ingredients:
-1 Satchel, containing nuts and berries
-1 Pouch full of madeleine cakes

Load Bearing Equipment:
-2 Sword belts with attached scabbards
-1 Belt with satchels and pouches attached
-1 Flask of water

Other:
-1 Woolen Blanket

Birthplace: Gideon, Black Marsh

Appearance: Daixanos is fit and powerfully built for an argonian. His sleek form is curved with cabled muscles. Various spikes and frills frame his long snouted face. The Argonian's skin is ruddy and blood colored, giving him a fierce appearance. He wears Iron armor and iron guantlets, along with sturdy leather breeches and traveling shoes. He tends not to wear a helmet, for it feels unnatural to him and might impede his vision with his bow.



Background: Born within Black Marsh at the base of a Hist Tree as the rest of his kin, his family hailed from Gideon. Dax's parents were tanners, and as the Argonian grew up he would often help around the shop, learning his father's trade. By age 12, want for skins was becoming high, so his father decided to moonlight as a hunter as well, bringing his son along to learn the trade.

By age 16, it was clear that Dax was a natural at hunting, his archery and tracking skills were now surpassing those of his father. He decided to set out on his own, having never left the greater Gideon area before. He traveled northward towards Stormhold to ply his trade. Skreexil the merchant decided to hire him as one of his hunters, giving Daixanos capital for how much the items his kills provided sold for. It was a smooth business for several years until a sizeable Dunmer incursion from the north not only threatened his business but his life.

The Argonians of the North gathered around the Hist trees and drank the sap once more, receiving visions and dreams of fighting back against the invaders, boosting their morale and giving them a sense of purpose for the coming conflict. Daixanos was filled with national loyalty and pride, and together with his fellow Argonians, joined in a successful guerrilla war against the Dunmer forces, even pushing a bit into southern Morrowind before retreating. By the time the skirmishes were done, Dax was 23 years old and found himself victorious but restless.

He decided to travel north east, into the nations of the Landstriders, hunting the local fauna and taking up the occasional bounty for criminals as well. He worked his way up through northern Cyrodiil, selling pelts and catching highwaymen in Cheydinhal and Bruma, until he found himself in Skyrim. By age 25, the Stormcloak/Imperial war was at its climax. At first he did his best to stay out of the politics, hunting Elk mostly. Perhaps he'd bag a Sabrecat or Bear every once in awhile. Dax learned the hardway that such large beasts had thick hides and skeletons. He needed something big to kill them with, so he chose the battle Axe to end fights quickly. He tended to hunt traveling between Markarth and Whiterun. He often stopped to rest at Rorikstead, taking the bounties he could from Mralki.

His policy changed somewhat during an Elk hunt near Whiteshore when he found a small band of Stormcloaks being harried by a giant. With a poisoned arrow, he hit the giant in the small of its back, buying the Stormcloaks an opportunity to hack at it as the giant slowed. He put another arrow in the monster's side, and then joined the stormcloaks as it weakened, finally cleaving the things skull.

They thanked Dax, and offered to share a meal with him. He accepted, after looting the giant of any pelts and items it had on its person (offering to share, but they declined). He learned of the Stormcloak's struggles, which echoed in his own experiences of fighting off oppression. He told them up front he would stay out of the politics, but he would accept particular bounties from them and favored their cause.

As the years progressed, he found smithing his own items and brewing his own poisons was a cheap and effective way to live. He didn't lack for anything and had no problem with hard work. At age 29, he decided he needed something new once again. He heard Dawnstar was particularly rough terrain, and troll pelts and fat might fetch a high price there. He managed to bag one troll as he traveled northward with a poisoned arrow and a flaming brand, though it was the fight of his life. Perhaps it was the troll, but he began to have terrible nightmares of his past and homeland not days before arriving in Dawnstar...

Personality: Dax is introverted and self sufficient. He's reserved, but when you meet him you'll realize there is a stark difference between being reserved and shy. He's confident in his abilities, and fears very little. His bravery and stoic nature comes from his idealistic view of the Hist and their wisdom. He is connected to his people and nation, and feels as if he is a representation of Black Marsh's strength in the outer world. A natural hunter, he has a dry wit, predator's cunning, and a single minded determination.

Skills:

• Expert: Archery
• Adept: Two Handed (Axe)
• Adept: Athletics
• Apprentice: Sneak
• Apprentice: Smithing
• Apprentice: Alchemy
• Novice: Language (Jel)
• Novice: Heavy Armor
• Novice: Unarmed

Weaknesses:

• Lack of Tact: Due to his solitary nature, and his main interactions being with his fellow introverted race, Dunmer slavers, frontier Nords, wild beasts, and hardened criminals of different races, he doesn't have much in the way of manners and will speak bluntly, or sometimes not answer at all if he doesn't feel like it.
• Fear of Chains/Bonds: Gets angry at the very idea of he or any Argonian being put into chains/being captured. Will grow increasingly angered and might be more liable to make rash decisions.
• Distrust of Magic: Gets wary and hesitates around magic, even if such spells are cast by allies. It won't hold him back in the end, but could keep him from taking a crucial opportunity due to hesitation.
• Loner: If around non-Argonians long enough (for instance, traveling with a group for days on end without going to scout ahead alone), he will leave for a small bit in order to collect his thoughts and keep his wits about him. Has made friends on his travels, but cannot remain in their company for long due to his introverted personality. Is not effected around his fellow Argonian/Hist brothers, with whom he feels unconditional kinship. If he does not get some space, he will become agitated and probably will grow unable to speak without effort.

Relations and Affiliations: Family back in Black Marsh. Skreexil the Merchant in Stormhold. Argonian Guerilla fighters. Whiterun Stormcloaks, Rorikstead townsfolk, Shopkeeps of Markarth and Whiterun.

Spells: N/A

Combat Style: Daixanos tends to scout out the correct terrain and right vantage point to strike with his bow. He then whittles the enemy down until he can close in with his Axe. If that is not possible, he will still attempt to use his bow until forced into melee, for it was what his father taught him. If not, he won't shy away from meeting a foe head to head with the Axe or claws. In fact sometimes he prefers it if particularly irked. He simply prefers a clean kill with little to no error, and he was used to such tactics.

Other Capabilities:

Cash: 189 Septims

Tools and Crafting Materials:
3 stalks of Nightshade
3 pounds of Venison
Fine Iron Dagger: Can be used in combat, but is mainly used for skinning.

Clothing and Armor:
Linen shirt, Leather Breeches, Iron Armor, Nordic Guantlets, Nordic Bracers.

Weapon and Ammunition: 32 iron Arrows. Fine Hunting Bow. Iron BattleAxe.

Potion and Arcane Supplies:
3 Healing Potions
4 Poison potions
Troll fat

Jewelry, Valuables and Personal Belongings:
Amethyst locket given to him by his father.

Books and Documents:
Bounty Ledger

Food, Drinks and Ingredients:
3 pounds of Elk Jerky. Water flask.

Load Bearing Equipment:
Coin Pouch, small travel bag on left hip and skins bag on right.

Birthplace: Cyrodil

Appearance: A slight woman who smiles often and laughs more. She has bright, discerning eyes that look at people like she's examining a cut of meat. Her hair is wild and frayed from working on the road and she always seems to carry on her skin a thin patina of dirt. She wears a trooper uniform that seems to have been made on the spot for travel through Skyrim, having the typical striped leggings but also loose furs and a layer of scarves. She stands with the balance of an accomplished actor. The hand bracers and gloves seem practical for brawls in a tavern, but she doesn't seem like the kind of person to act in them. She wears what seems to be a fake white rose, some might know her as "the bard with the white rose". The beret on her head seems to fit loosely on her head but doesn't seem in danger of falling off.

Most wouldn't say she's particularly beautiful, but she has a sense of confidence and sureness she follows through with every movement that some might find attractive.

Background: A young woman raised in a traveling troupe where she learned to act and sing. Later, she went to the Bard College of Skyrim and learned to play. She spent countless hours pouring over the history books they had there. She became interested in the histories written out of the common tongue and sought several tutors. Paying out of what little she had in her pocket, she incurred many debts which she spent four years paying off.

In an ill advised move, she attempted to play in Elswyr, with little to no knowledge of Khajiit tavern custom. In a fit of frustration, she wrote a song intended to be a bawdy little tune meant to incite laughter. This song chased her out of Elswyr and out of spite she's been playing the song across Tamriel. The sudden hatred for her song by many Khajiit (and its popularity with racists) made her somewhat well known as a musician in Skyrim and The Summerset Isles. She travelled these places for a few years before being contacted by the Penitus Ocultus.

Her unique position as a musician popular to two areas of interest to Imperial politics and ability to travel freely as a musician made her a perfect agent for Imperial affairs. Contacted in the dead of night, Raelyn was offered a paying wage far above the meager pay she could make as a musician during wartime. They trained her in the basic arts of subterfuge for about a year and sent her off on a few tasks of varying difficulty before assigning her to her current task: discover and end Gustavs (Ashavs boss) shady dealings.

Raelyn is a experienced Inspector of the Penitus Oculatus though her title is also colloquially known as a "Spectre", which she finds overly dramatic. Her invitation into the Penitus Occulatus is actually quite strange, as they normally select from the Imperial Legions best. She's considered an experiment in tactics, a civilian that no one would possibly believe was any part of their organization, able to slip into almost any environment with the least effort. She doesn't often participate in raids, leading to some members of the organization holding resentment, though not many would tell this to her face.

Personality: Raelyn is before all other things an actor, so much of her outward personality reflects the story she's telling or the song she's playing. Under the surface she's obviously outgoing and capricious. She takes her craft seriously and has a serious single minded determination towards mastering it. Her body language typically exudes relaxation. She's an easy liar and friend to the weak, though she is very manipulative and finds it to her benefit to push people towards doing work for her.

Skills: Expert:(Speech)
Adept: (Tailoring, Hand-to-Hand)
Apprentice: (Ta'agra, Orcish, Dunmeri)
Novice: (Woodworking, Sneak, One-handed blade)

Weaknesses:
Yarn Spinner: Many stories she tells are often exaggerated, often times in ways that the subjects themselves might consider less than flattering.

Physically Unimposing: Absolutely everyone can be completely confident they can take at least ten Raelyns in a fight.

Weak: Due to her main job as a musician, Raelyn doesn't have a muscular build and has trouble wielding heavier military weapons or outpowering a warrior.

Relations and Affiliations:

Khajiit: Many traveling Khajiit have a strong dislike for Raelyn. This may in part be due to either the skooma incident or the popular tavern song, "Kharjo Own Maria, Yes?" which details the struggle of a hapless Khajiit to court a human woman by buying ownership of her.
Penitus Oculatus: Pays for Raelyns traveling and equipment, in return she offers the patriotic service of sniffing out information the Penitus Oculatus wants. She's an Inspector, so she often falls under the orders of the Commander.

Combat Style: Raelyn goes for throat punches and cheap shots. Not above throwing sand in someones eyes. Her style focuses mainly tripping over opponents then delivering a blow hard enough to take them down, or as quick an end as possible. She doesn't keep fit to keep up with her image, so this is often the only way she can win a fight.

Other Capabilities: A competent musician, Raelyn knows songs in several languages and can play the lute, the flute, and the harp.

Cash:100 septims

Tools and Crafting Materials: Needle and thread, a sharp woodcutting knife.

Clothing and Armor: A white feathered purple cap and a warm troupish uniform that seems to have been intended for travel between Cyrodil and Skyrim.

Jewelry, Valuables and Personal Belongings: A Lute, A Flute, a Lute Case wherein she hides her writ of free passage.

Books and Documents: A map of Tamriel and other countries, a writ stating she can move about all Imperial lands without fear of accostment by Imperial soldiers.

Food, Drinks and Ingredients: Some wrapped bread and apples, a waterskin.

Load Bearing Equipment: A pack.

Horn Bow; Short, compact and powerfull, the hornbow is a kind of shorbow made out of, you guessed it, horn. They are commonly used by horseback archers and nomad people due to their compactness. Valen is something of a virtouso with the bow.

Dunmer Half Spear: A shorter spear meant to be used together with a shield, it allows for easier control and positioning of the spear then a pike or a full spear.

Round Shield; A medium sized, leathercovered shield, round and made out of wood. hangs by his hip. Is used together with the spear and is meant more for bashing and deflecting then blocking anything head on.

Dunmer Gambeson; A long gambeson that reaches from a highcollar down to his knees. Its thickness is padded with horshair to help resist slashing weapons better.

Segmented plate armor: Covering his arms upper arms, legs are a few plates of steel.

Memento Ring: A silver ring given to him by Aivilo shortly befoe their affair was discovered. He hands it in silverchain around the neck. It is notably the only jewelry he wears.

Wineskin x 3
-
Waterskin x 2
-
Flint and Tinder.
-
Thirty arrows:

15 Spadetip Arrows: A broad, spade shaped kind of tip that is meant to slice and cut. It is less effecient against armored targets but cuts deep and broad swathes into softer opponent.

15 Narrow tipped: The opposite of the Spadetipped arrow, the narrow tip is meant to penetrate thicker types of armor. Its smaller and terminates in a needlesharp tip. It is meant to punch trough, rather then tear.

Valen keeps half his arrows in the quiver, and the rest in bundles tied to his packing, secured with his bedroll usually. Usually, he has a mix of arrows in his quiver.
-
Pipe and Tobacco

Birthplace: Larkegh Kraz, Dragontail Mountains

Appearance:

• Physique: Bharzak’s stature appears to have the most similarities with the typical ectomorphic body type, as she’s a bit on the short side for an orc, and definitely skinnier than the average one too. Her shoulders are relatively narrow and her body’s general shape is rather linear, with very little of either body fat or muscle on her frame. She’s built up enough of the latter to be lightly muscled enough able to swing around a one-handed axe, but her strength is less than average in terms of the typical individual. She also happens to have a very fast metabolism, making it very difficult for her to gain weight at all, unless she actually put effort into doing such a thing. Bharzak is not exactly unfit, but she’s not at the peak of her physical prowess either, as she far prefers scholarly pursuits to physical ones, but frequent travel and outings to find ingredients and supplies have kept her endurance up. Her constitution is rather weak, as she is slight of frame and relies on speed and distance for purposes of fighting, but her pain tolerance is much higher than average, likely as a byproduct of dealing with her very rowdy siblings. She is somewhat long-legged, adding a bit more height to her appearance than she actually has, and her features have an almost chiseled look to them, they’re so sharp yet smooth. Her face can be considered somewhat rectangular in shape, with her strong and defined jawline and slightly wide forehead. Her cheekbones are relatively prominent but not particularly high, and her rounded chin, while well-defined, softens the more angular parts of her face somewhat. She happens to look slightly older than she actually is, although this characteristic may be attributed to the stress of her early life and more recent events.
• Gait / Posture: She tends to move at a more or less average and somewhat relaxed pace, although when excited or in a hurry it becomes very uneven and erratic in nature. Her posture is decent enough, as growing up in the setting she did resulted in her being nagged and trained into sitting and standing with a ramrod straight back and even shoulders, giving her an almost militaristic air when she ‘stands at attention’. Nothing about the way she moves is particularly quirky or odd, although she does not actively try to be unassuming either to blend in with a crowd (in the way that a rogue or thief might). Bharzak’s stance gives off the impression that, while she’s not a particularly threatening figure, she can look out for herself, and that she’s almost always fully aware of her surroundings.
• Height: 6’1” (Alternatively 1.85 m)
• Hair: While it was once shaved close to her head in a practical if austere fashion, Bharzak has since allowed to grow out a bit over the years, and her coarse, coal black hair now reaches slightly past her shoulder blades in terms of length. It’s very thick and wiry in texture, and she has a good deal of it, which gives it a very voluminous and full appearance. She puts slightly more than a regular amount of effort into making it presentable when she can, and it’s usually very clean and pleasant-looking. On a day-to-day basis, she styles it in a large low bun, pinning her hair in place with a thin but sturdy blunted nine-inch wooden hairpin, with the larger tip wrapped in black leather in a modest attempt at decoration. However, she can also be found wearing it down on numerous occasions, but she does not frequently style it in any other fashion aside from those already mentioned.
• Eyes: Bharzak’s irises are a striking, intense crimson color at the center near the pupil, though it gradually darkens into a sort of bloodred around the edges. As is typical for orsimer, her sclera are a regular deep maroon color. They usually have a somewhat inquisitive and observant look to them, and are relatively unguarded, so it is not particularly difficult for one to tell how she feels about a situation or person at any given time.
• Skin: Her skin is an ashy yellow-green shade with undertones of tan, and it is ever so slightly tanned due to a childhood spent mostly outdoors. She does not sunburn easily at all, but she is prone to slight freckling when exposed to copious amounts of sunlight.
• Scars / Markings / Etc.: Bharzak has accumulated more than her fair share of scars both due to growing up in a stronghold and the large amounts of time she spends outside in the ‘wilds’ of Skyrim. In general, she has many small scratches and cicatrixes of varying newness and visibility, as relatively few of the blemishes on her skin are noticeable or striking enough to be worthy of note. However, she has a cluster of particularly visible and deep scars sweeping diagonally over her mouth and chin of varying lengths, width, and depths. She acquired these, as well as a few scars across the bridge of her nose, from a particularly disgruntled cave bear during her ‘escape’ from her former stronghold. During a childhood spent amongst very rambunctious and sometimes volatile siblings, she also bears scars from brawls with her relatives, her most visible one being a long and nearly faded horizontal scar located just below her collarbone. Another more recent and relatively acquired disfiguration would be a hypertrophic mass of scar tissue located on her right side, starting at roughly the middle of her waist and ending just above the hip and stretching about three inches in terms of width. She gained this marking when she accidentally stumbled into a necromancer’s lair during her travels, and although she kill them before they did her, they left her an unpleasant-looking ‘reminder’ to remember them by. In terms of piercings, her ears are double-pierced, although she wears nothing in them aside from rather plain steel studs. Bharzak has no tattoos, but she is relatively practiced at using warpaint, and frequently uses light blue paint made from blue mountain flowers for this purpose. The designs she utilizes vary depending on the time and energy she has at the time of putting warpaint on, but they’re all very traditional orcish patterns.
• Habits / Quirks: While she’s not the most talkative person by nature, if one finds the right subject, she often can get carried away when talking about an area of interest to her, and if she’s not aware of herself while speaking, will rarely let the unfortunate asker get a word in edgewise unless they outright interrupt her. Bharzak also has a habit of cracking her knuckles or neck when feeling stiff, bored, or tired, which, depending on the individual, can be more annoying or less than her tendency to ramble. She tends to speak very formally, and generally doesn’t curse for any reason at all, which can border on almost being uncomfortably scholastic and almost pretentious at times—although she never means it to sound that way.

Personality:


The first impression Bharzak generally leaves people with is that she is a somewhat reserved and highly independent individual, as well as being confusingly traditionalistic in spite of her unconventional skill set and interests. She is by no means an outgoing or extroverted person, instead preferring to keep her thoughts to herself unless explicitly asked to share them. She will usually respond to respectful attempts to instigate conversations initiated by another party, but depending on her mood and the subject may or may not make an effort to keep it going, as she’s not really one for engaging in idle chatting. However, Bharzak is by no means a creature of habit, and is very open to new experiences and traveling to unfamiliar places—she left the need for a comfort zone behind her long ago. She is a very open-minded individual, at least, when dealing with those with differing ideologies and heritages than her own, and is accepting of pretty much anything when it comes to others’ beliefs, and unless it seems harmful to others or something of that nature, she will be both respectful of it and be interested in learning more about an individual’s faith or customs. Being a very inquisitive individual with a drive to learn and experience whatever life has to offer, she often tries to seek out individuals or places that she could learn from in some form. Bharzak deals with situational changes well enough, although she is prone to falling into routines and may not be particularly pleased with having to alter hers in any major ways after she’s had time to get used to them.

She is not overly confident in herself and her own abilities, but she’s hardly insecure either; she can be a bit hard on herself and tends to underestimate her own abilities, but she isn’t particularly concerned with whatever opinions most other people have of her. She is far from vain, and also is not one to view herself as ‘above’ anyone else in any way, despite her extensive knowledge in some fields—scholastic snobbery is a trait she managed to avoid acquiring. In terms of intelligence, Bharzak is a very bright and creative individual, though her experience with how the ‘real world’ works is seriously lacking, and while she isn’t completely devoid of common sense, she doesn’t always put it to practical use when confronted with a dilemma. She tends to rely a bit too heavily on her ‘book smarts’ to get by. She is neither particularly observant nor ignorant of her surroundings or the actions and feelings of those around her, but may choose to appear more unaware than she actually is out of embarrassment, uncertainty, or unfamiliarity with how to deal with a certain situation. But, should she get an idea to take a particular course of action and decide to go through with it, there’s almost no stopping her. She has a rather obstinate side to her when it comes to decision-making, and she’s not overly fond of compromise. However, she can be made to see reason in most cases, though she’ll acknowledge flaws in her plans very begrudgingly when called out on it. As far as a sense of humor goes, Bharzak’s is somewhat odd, as she doesn’t always pick up on sarcasm or amusing euphemisms, yet she appreciates dark humor or situational irony quite a bit. Crude jokes don’t bother her, per se, but she doesn’t see the appeal of them, either. She rarely ever cracks a joke herself, however, and if she does, it’s likely a sign she’s in a particularly good mood.


Bharzak is very slow to anger, and it takes quite a bit of effort for something or someone to effectively annoy her. She generally doesn’t tend to express her displeasure with a person or object in passing, as she’s not much of a complainer, although while she might not say anything, she may become even more terse and quiet than usual as she attempts to ignore what’s bothering her. However, if a bothersome distraction goes on long enough that she can’t stand it, she’ll do her best to make it stop, if such a thing is possible. If a person is causing said disturbance, if it reaches a level of awfulness that she cannot ignore or avoid, she will eventually confront them, although she’ll attempt to do this as politely and impartially as possible, not wanting to assume any actions on their part were intentional (Unless it’s incredibly obvious that they were). Should she end up in an argument with someone over something of significant importance to her, she’ll attempt to keep things civil and use logic and reason to support her view of things rather than blind, raw feelings, and can generally keep her part void of the latter unless she gets particularly enraged.

And should she reach her boiling point during such an interaction, the person she becomes afterwards is rather disagreeable and threatening. She turns into a seething, passive-aggressive fiend, who, while not being outwardly unpleasant or violent, can be particularly cruel through inaction and pettiness. If someone causes her to reach this point and then tries to interact with her, she will be very chilly and impersonal towards them, and, depending on just how furious she is, might even give them misinformation or make scathing remarks about some aspect of their character. However, Bharzak would never actually respond with violence towards a regular person, no matter how heated or personal a dispute became between them. She finds that shows a lack of self-restraint, and she very rarely ever loses her composure, even in times of extreme stress. She is not above being petty, if she feels someone offended her enough, but she is not entirely unreasonable, either. If given a heartfelt apology, she will usually let quite a good many things slide, especially if she feels that their disagreement was foolish or heavily influenced by destructive feelings or outside influences. But, while she is willing to forgive people if they express their regret sincerely enough, she won’t forget about what transpired between them. If she happens to be in the wrong, however, she is usually quick to admit to it, and will apologize if she thinks she said or acted in a way that might’ve been hurtful to another party. She is more than willing to admit an overreaction on her part if she’s aware of it, and will do just about anything to make amends for any offense she caused.


Having dealt with grief several times over the course of her life, Bharzak is practiced in dealing with unpleasant feelings and emotions, and generally is able to keep her expression of said feelings from becoming destructive in any way. While she will initially express feelings of sorrow when something particularly traumatizing such as a death of a loved one transpires, she will do so in healthy ways, and will generally endeavor to do so in private as well. Deaths generally bother her more if the person in question did not die naturally or ‘honorably’, and she will generally spend less time being upset over someone dying a ‘good death’ and will move to a respectful acceptance of the fact somewhat quickly. However, during such a time, she will be more withdrawn and pensive than usual, and far less aware of her immediate surroundings, and may end up being more tired or prone to getting sick than usual during the temporary decrease of her self-awareness. She never goes out of her way to try and share her problems or suffering with anyone else, either for comfort or commiseration, as she prefers to deal with emotional anguish on her own—she’s used to it, for one, and also sees allowing oneself to be vulnerable in front of others without very good cause to be highly humiliating and pathetic. Something truly horrible would have to happen to her or someone she cared about for her to ever fully break down in front of another human being. Bharzak is generally able to move on from a personal tragedy in a very reasonable amount of time, and, while, from time to time, she may be reminded of it, she’s not the type to relapse back into grieving, as she takes a healthy amount of time to come to terms with misfortune when it first hits.


As far as moral alignments go, Bharzak’s code of ethics and morality would most closely match with “True Neutral”. While she sees the need for rules and regulations, she is not blind to the fact that some put into place were not made with those required to follow them in mind, and that people in power are not always worthy of respect. However, she does not see herself as one to judge the moral worth of a person, and therefore takes a near completely neutral position, more out of a philosophical preference, as she acknowledges that good and evil can be very subjective, and that a world of one cannot exist without at least a bit of the other, and it's not her place to try and influence it in the favor of either extreme. Therefore she generally doesn't care what a person does unless it negatively affects her, someone she cares about, or an ally, and may be more likely to completely ignore a thief or make a conscious effort to avoid wandering near a bandit camp not out of fear, but because she has no grudge against them. As for herself, Bharzak attempts to uphold the Code of Malacath the best she's able, despite having deserted stronghold life: she has never committed theft or murder (and it almost goes without saying she'd never willingly or knowingly commit a crime for anyone or for any purpose), nor does she actively instigate conflicts with intelligent entities - and she's not afraid to settle matters with someone who has wronged her person-to-person. While she no longer observes the traditions and rules of her former stronghold, she sees no problem to adhering to the other parts of her former way of life.


Bharzak is neither ‘easy’ nor ‘difficult’ to befriend; she is not the kind of individual to be particularly open with someone unless she’s known them for quite some time and enjoys their company, though it helps if they share a common interest with her, or at least enjoy intelligent discussion or learning about new things. And, as she’s not overly chatty to begin with, getting to know her can be somewhat of a challenge, unless one catches her at a good time or asks the right questions—though it helps considerably if they’ve earned her trust. Once one has gotten into her good graces, however, she makes for a very reliable and generous friend. She is an incredibly loyal person, and once her confidence has been placed in someone, it’s near impossible for her to lose faith in them and their integrity—in fact, for those she values and considers close to her, she’d defend their honor to her dying breath. Also, should her friends and loved ones ever be in need of anything, if it is in her power to give them the item in question legally, she will do her utmost to see that they receive it. She is a relatively good listener, too, although she’s not much of an advice giver, as her solutions to friends’ problems are either offers to back them up in a fight or telling them not to let a problem get to them, that they’re above even giving the issue any further thought (Which usually isn’t too helpful). That’s not to say she doesn’t care about their problems—really, she does, she’s just bad at advice-giving, but will gladly offer to just sit, listen, and offer words of encouragement if it’s requested of her. Bharzak is willing to go to just about any amount of trouble to help a friend in need, and tends to prioritize their needs above her own, when she can. However, her loyalty can become blind very easily, as she is not practiced in telling the sincerity of another person’s feelings or actions towards her, and could very easily end up staying with someone who is just using her to further their own interests or simply doesn’t care in the slightest about her, but wants to keep up appearances. That aside, however, one couldn’t ask for a more steadfast and honorable ally.

Background:

Bharzak was born into a stronghold of relatively middling power and size within the Dragontail Mountains—Larkegh Kraz. As the second youngest of five children of Malkm gro-Karash, and being a female, there was no shining future set out for her in the stronghold, but there was a plan made for her nonetheless by the Code of Malacath. From almost the day she was born, she was made to know the code in its entirety, and not just to know it, but live it. Her place in society was made known to her immediately, and there was no question about her doing as she was told to in order to fit such a societal mold. At first, this didn’t bother or affect her much at all, as, being a young child, all that she really comprehended was that she was being taught to fight and hunt like her siblings had been, and that if she worked hard, she could be just as strong and talented as they were, if not more so. She certainly did put a lot of effort into trying to excel in what she was taught by both her mother, step-mothers, and siblings, and it showed, initially. She made just as much progress in learning how to fight as her siblings had at her age, and showed some promise with a war axe as well. Her father showed just as much interest in her progress as he did her other siblings, and even led some of her training sessions himself, as he was a very skilled warrior with many wisdoms and stratagems to pass on to future generations. During this unfortunately brief span of her life, Bharzak felt both accepted and supported by her blood family, and put her all into trying to become what was expected of her.

One thing that would soon set her apart from the rest of her family, however, would be her slight frame and generally scrawny stature. Initially, it was believed that she’d have a growth spurt some time in her childhood and fill out into a sturdier form, but such a thing never occurred. She began to lag behind in areas where she was supposedly meant to excel. Her ability to shoot accurately and with any actual power was abysmal, and she was nowhere near strong enough to make a skilled smith. The only weaponry she was half decent with were war axes and daggers, anything else became as good as useless in her hands when she attempted to use it in a duel. It became evident to her father and the other older members of the clan that she was not likely to be as much of an asset to her clan as any of her other siblings would.

She was not unaware of the change in their thoughts about her, either. Bharzak noticed their general loss of interest in training with her, and eventually, her siblings’ picked up on it too. Most of them didn’t react to it positively. She had been branded as weak before she’d even been allowed to find her strengths, and weakness was an ugly thing, something to be pitied, shunned, or sneered at. Oftentimes, from her siblings, it was the latter two of those things. Saying she was picked on might be an understatement, as she often faced derisive commentary from the brothers and sisters she once looked up to, and even more frequently found herself getting rather beaten up during training or honor-driven ‘duels’ over derisive remarks siblings made concerning her usefulness, most of which did not resolve in her favor. The adults in the stronghold did nothing to stop this, and, in fact, seemed either fully unaware of the situation or didn’t care enough to pay attention to the fact Bharzak frequently looked a bit worse for wear. It seemed that her biological brother, Shural, happened to be the only one who looked out for her, seeming to pity her a good deal, and if he caught any of the others picking on her he often would take her side, making for quite the show of honorable leadership to any adult that might witness such an occurrence. Bharzak wasn’t sure if she grew to dislike him or the others more because of that, as having to be defended was more humiliating than being beaten in ‘fair’ fights, the way she saw it. While she is not proud of this, she began to lash out at Shural when he attempted to aid her, taking out her own self-hate and insecurities on him rather undeservedly. It’s very likely he knew this was the case, but he took the hint, and, though he never once raised a hand against her or sought to bring her harm, did eventually stop trying to protect her. Unsurprisingly, things didn’t improve in the slightest.

For seventeen years of her life, Bharzak bore the life she was told she had an obligation to lead. She did not complain, and she did not act out towards her superiors. Because of her silent obedience and acceptance of her current quality of life, she was very unhappy. And this discontent simmered within the very core of her being and only grew as time progressed, to the point where it became almost suffocating. She learned that the only person she could rely upon in life was herself, and began to question whether or not the Code was as flawless as it had been made out to be in her early childhood. It appeared that someone like her was not meant to ‘happen’ in her society, and as she grew older and closer to a marriageable age, she was not exactly comfortable with the idea of being married off to a complete stranger. She knew that there were other ways of life beyond the rigidity of that she led in the stronghold, as sometimes caravaners, traveling merchants, and mercenaries would drop by to offer wares or services, and though few were ever let past stronghold walls, she had managed to glean from their mannerisms and stories that life was very different for most other folks. And Bharzak began to want the freedom to choose her own path for herself. The main problem was finding the courage to voice her discontent and her desire to leave the stifling and silently oppressive family she belonged to. Once she might’ve considered going to Shural for advice on the matter, but she figured she’d lost his support, so instead she merely waited in indecision, deciding to bide her time until she found the strength to leave everything she knew behind her.

As it would turn out, life wouldn’t wait for her to do that. After some searching, her father found a suitable chieftan to marry her off to, one whose family was relatively better off than their own, never mind the fact that the man was twice her age and she was to be his third wife. When Bharzak had been unpleasantly surprised to hear this news, her father’s response to her would stick with her for the rest of her life: “It’s lucky that anyone was interested. Be glad for the opportunities you’ve been given.”

That would turn out to be the final straw.

It was thanks to that statement that Bharzak, for the first time in her life, finally acted on her feelings. In a cold, concise fury that stunned those present to hear it, she gave a piece of her mind to those she felt had wronged her, and was particularly harsh towards her siblings — though she did leave Shural out of her ranting entirely. Though she felt slightly guilty about losing her temper afterwards, it was a somewhat cathartic experience for her, getting to finally express exactly how she felt about her treatment by her family just because she didn’t live up to expectations that never should’ve been placed upon her in the first place. She finished with a surprisingly bold ultimatum, saying that she either expected to be treated with a bit more respect or she would leave, regardless of what promises her family had made on her behalf to her supposed ‘future husband’. It was only after she said this that she fully realized what she’d done, and, while, much to her surprise, Shural attempted to smooth things over, but Malkm was furious at her for such blatant disrespect towards her superiors. It almost goes without saying that she was promptly disowned, as she had clearly become more of a liability than she was worth to her kin, and was given three days to get ready to leave. She left before the first day was over, taking nothing but the minimum amount of supplies she figured she’d need to survive, all while being entirely unsure of what awaited her in the wild, vast world she’d not had the chance to see much of before now. While Bharzak couldn’t pretend that it didn’t hurt terribly to lose everything she’d ever known, and the people she still thought she cared about, despite being angry with them, deep down, she knew that her departure was for the best. There was nothing for her in Larkegh Kraz. She would just have to find a life for herself elsewhere.


Living on her own would be much more difficult than Bharzak initially imagined. She had just started out merely wanting to leave her unsupportive former home, but hadn't really had a solid destination in mind. Having no map, no compass, or any other materials she could use by which to chart a course, she was forced to wander in the wilderness somewhat blindly, trying her best to follow what she assumed to be roads until she came across something resembling a settlement or even a signpost. Coming across any such indications ended up taking a while to occur, however, but she did run into several individuals during her travels, including bandits and two destruction mages in a heated battle with one another. Unfortunately, neither grouping of individuals was particularly helpful in answering her questions about her current location, as all attacked on sight with what Bharzak believed was for no discernible reason - except perhaps for the purpose of loot, in the bandit’s case. Her encounter with the mages would turn out to be somewhat useful to her in another way, however, as, once both the hedge witches had expired, she discovered an odd sort of book, one that the two might've been fighting over. It was a worn, orange-red tome with an odd symbol emblazoned across the front cover, one that most resembled a tree, the right half of its branches seeming full and healthy, and the left appearing entirely bare and dead. Intrigued, she picked it up and added it to her meager belongings, intending to study it in further detail later on, once she was in an area that would be relatively safe to stop in for a while.

However, she would not get such an opportunity for a while, and she forgot about taking a chance to look into the mysterious tome between exhaustion and dealing with hostile wildlife. At long last, she managed to come across a very clear dirt crossroads, illuminated by a lantern hanging down from a post and accompanied by several signs on another. Bharzak recognized the names of Windhelm and Solitude almost instantly as being those of Nordic holds, and figured she must've ended up in Skyrim. Now actually given the option to choose where she wanted to go, she decided to head towards Solitude, as she'd seen its location on a map once and it seemed like, thanks to its proximity to the sea, it likely saw all manners of different people, and she might have a better chance of figuring out what to do with her life there. There had to be something out there she was good at, and Solitude was as good a place as any to start her search for purpose. She started down the road with a new sense of direction, now feeling more eager than she did apprehensive. But she was not to Solitude quite yet, and little did she know that, despite how close she actually was, she would not see the city for several more months.

Later that evening, Bharzak had the misfortune of running into a threat much more serious than a few mangy, half-starved wolves or ill-equipped bandits. A cave bear had happened to wander into the marshlands of Hjaalmarch, and, being likely both very far from its natural habitat and hungry, it was almost upon the orc before she knew what was happening. She was quick to defend herself, but the bear had already managed to land a blow against her before she could react, and the following fight was exhausting and bloody. Both she and the bear were desperate and fierce fighters, and, for a frightening amount of time, were more or less evenly matched, blow for blow. Bharzak finally did manage to emerge victorious, but had acquired an unhealthy amount of wounds from her previous altercation—and, unbeknownst to her, the cave bear had been a carrier of Rockjoint. She knew something as pathetic as a mudcrab might become her undoing if she didn't come across civilization soon, but blood loss had slowed her down considerably, and soon her strength failed her, as her limbs grew oddly stiff and then refused to work for her altogether. In the middle of the unpleasant and bug-infested marshes of Hjaalmarch, she collapsed as the sun rose, unable to reach her desired destination.

Her life was far from over despite this, as, by sheer luck, she was discovered by an elderly alchemist and his daughter during a short expedition they’d taken to gather ingredients. In an act of selflessness and compassion, they abandoned their earlier plans and took her back to their home, saving her from a lonely and painful death. A few days later, Bharzak reawakened in a small but cosy wooden shack, her two rescuers waiting close by. It was in this way that she met Julien and Isaure Desrochers, the breton scholar and imperial swordswoman who would soon become the best and closest friends she'd ever made. She made her gratitude known to the two, and expressed that though she had very little coin of her own, she wished to repay them in some equal manner, if she could. It would turn out that she could, as Julien mentioned he planned on visiting an Ancient Nordic ruin by the name of Frostmere Crypt to study its structural design and decorations in a few days, and that he could use some extra help should the inhabitants of the ruin happen to be restless dead. But, until that day arrived, he was more than happy to allow Bharzak to stay in his house. As she continued to recover her strength, she did many menial chores in an attempt to be useful, and it was at this time she realized she could finally look into the book she'd discovered in depth. Even though her ability to read Cyrodilic was somewhat rudimentary at the time, she could tell she'd found a spell tome—and for some reason, its contents actually made sense to her. This particular tome held the Alteration spell, Candlelight, and, within less than an hour, she'd learned how to cast the brilliant, albeit small, glowing light without much difficulty. Julien had watched her rather unexpected magical capabilities with some interest, and asked if she had much experience with spellcasting. After telling him she hadn't, he replied that he would be glad to offer to try and teach her a few more spells to see what particular schools she had an aptitude for. She accepted, although she was still somewhat stunned at the realization that, all this time, she'd never once realized that she might have some luck with becoming a spellcaster.

Soon, she fell into a routine, as if she planned on spending more than a week or two with the Desrochers. She spent the mornings doing random chores or running short errands, and the afternoons sparring with Isaure, who'd been nothing short of elated to know their guest had a similar fighting style to her own, and evenings studying with Julien, either attempting to learn or successfully learning spells that he knew or had tomes for on hand. By the time the three set out for the crypt, there was really no question as to whether or not Bharzak would be leaving them anytime soon. She hadn't felt pressured or out of place once during her time amongst them, and they respected and valued her despite her obvious “oddities”. For this, she resolved to stay with them, if they would have her. And, as things would turn out, they would be happy to have her around.


Life in the marshes of Hjaalmarch turned out to be far more enjoyable for Bharzak than it might sound considering the location. While it was a dismal looking area of skyrim, to be sure, the years she spent there were some of the happiest of her life. She made massive improvements in her ability to read Cyrodilic, and, as her trips to Nordic ruins became more and more frequent, she came to learn enough about the Atmoran script to be able to translate some of the epithets and dedications in their tombs and temples. She gained experience with the latter of these two languages through the frequent excursions she took with Julien and Isaure to further supplement Julien’s extensive research on Ancient Nordic culture and art, which, while some might consider her constant accompaniment a chore, she always looked forward to these outings. And, with time and quite a bit of practice, she became a much quicker and more effective fighter, as did Isaure as they continued to practice with one another, their matches becoming progressively longer and more challenging for both parties involved. However, perhaps the most important and memorable part of her time spent with the Desrochers were the times she spent learning and practicing spellcasting with Julien, as she discovered she was practically a natural in the school of Alteration and showed some promise with alchemy and enchantment-casting. He seemed to enjoy having someone else who was interested in the arcane arts as much as he was around, as, while Isaure was willing to help him with his research projects, her interests lay elsewhere.

The relationship between Julien and Isaure confused Bharzak at first as she observed them, as they were very different people with different talents, yet they worked together very well and they seemed close and happy with one another despite this. She would later learn that this was how a healthy family unit functioned, one that did not adhere strictly to a code or religion before common human decency (and this applies even to strongholds, as hers was uncommonly unpleasant to her). And, with her addition to their family unit, nothing between the two changed—at least, not for a while yet—, which brought her great relief. As the years went by, she felt more and more a part of their family, with Isaure becoming almost a sister to her and Julien like a father, Bharzak came to call their small hut in the middle of a cold and unpleasantly humid swamp home. She did finally get to visit Solitude and on more than one occasion while living with them—as well as taking several trips to Dragon Bridge—, as their primary form of income came from the sales of the potions Julien and, eventually, Bharzak, made to local alchemists, healers, or people in need. Julien did eventually intend on presenting his ‘magnum opus’ to some academic guild or another, but always found his work lacking in some form or another, and continually put off trying to wrap up a tome on the subject matter he’d written on for a good twenty years of his life. While this frustrated his daughter and eventually even Bharzak to no end, they never gave him trouble over it, figuring that he’d get around to it eventually.

And he might have, if not for what transpired during her twenty-third summer. Before her death, Isaure’s mother (and Julien’s wife) had been a member of the Legion, albeit retired before her death, the young woman wished to join for the purpose of honoring her mother’s memory as tensions between the Empire and Skyrim grew in 4E 201. While initially Julien was very much opposed to this, he did not wish to give his daughter any reason to resent him, so he allowed her to enlist. At this time, Bharzak knew nothing about the tensions between provinces, and every mention of a faction in conversations between Isaure and Julien were news to her. Up until this point, the Empire, the Stormcloaks, and even the far-reaching Thalmor themselves had no impact upon her life whatsoever—and, once they did, they did not enhance it in any way that could be seen as favorable. She had no idea how complex Tamriel’s politics were, but even she got the feeling that taking a side in this Civil War was not a particularly wise course of action.

Bharzak could tell that Julien felt similarly, and, once Isaure had left to join the Legion, a tense, uncomfortable air settled over the now noticeably smaller household. The breton buried himself in work and research, and accomplished more over the following four months than he had in the past couple years concerning his studies of Ancient Nords. It was easy for the orsimer to tell that he was distracting himself from his fears about his child’s well-being, and attempted to help him do so in a healthy manner. She did this to distract herself, too, as she while she knew little about war, she had enough sense to know that there typically tended to be a high number of casualties before anything of importance was resolved by it. And while she clung to the hope that things would end in the Legion’s favor, solely on the basis that it meant a higher chance of Isaure surviving, even if the Empire did retain control of Skyrim, there was no guarantee that it meant she’d come home. So rather than allowing herself to ruminate on the subject, she dedicated herself to her studies, as well as taking on the duties and chores that once belonged to Isaure—although that tended to make her notice the lack of Isaure’s presence more.

She had no idea what she was in for when the young imperial’s absence was made permanent.


On the fifth of Last Seed, a courier showed up at their residence with imperial condolences. Isaure had been killed in action during the Stormcloak attack on Falkreath Hold, which they'd successfully taken. This news took Bharzak completely by surprise, and, although she didn't think it was possible, she felt her old friend's absence magnify by a thousandfold. It was some small comfort to know that she had—hopefully—died honorably and in the service of a cause she’d believed in, but the orc was greatly saddened to know she would never see Isaure alive again. The adventures and memories they’d shared together felt like lifetimes ago, and she clung to them desperately during this time of grief, as they provided some small scrap of comfort to her. At least she had gotten the chance to know her at all.

The only thing that hurt worse than learning the sad fate that had befallen Isaure was having to inform Julien. Needless to say, it didn’t go over well. Having lost both his wife and daughter ‘before their natural time’, the old man’s disposition changed dramatically. He became listless and despondent, finding little interest or joy in the things he’d once loved, and, while he still treated Bharzak as well as he had previously, he grew increasingly bitter about life, and sometimes wouldn’t even allow her to go off on her own to visit the holds to sell their creations or even do certain chores that took her far from the house. She did her best to adhere to his overprotective whims, even if it did make money and provisions a bit tighter than she would have liked them to be, and for a while, they managed well enough, although it was a depressing existence they led for the following few years. While Bharzak was able to move on from the tragedy that had befallen the household, Julien never did. He allowed his depression to consume him, and it did so in a mockingly slow and gradual manner, starting by killing his interest in things that had once been everything to him, and then attacking his desire to even do the most menial tasks.

During this time, Bharzak learned no more about magic or Atmoran history from Julien, and had to do the work of three to support her old friend. She didn’t mind doing it, but the time she spent in the now dismal hut started to take its toll on her, feeling stifled and dark where it once felt cheerful and cosy. It was almost impossible not to fall into the same sort of disheartenment he displayed, but by keeping herself as busy as possible and continuing to attempt to get Julien to show some of his old fascination with his former interests. The latter of the two aforementioned things was generally very unsuccessful, but Bharzak had never been one to give up, especially considering the things he’d done for her before this time. She was not about to abandon the aged breton in his time of need, but it was painful how powerless she was to help him snap out of his melancholy, and she felt as if she could do naught but watch him grow more and more distant with each passing day. Eventually, the day came that he left the waking world entirely, after which he was given a decent burial by his former house. And Bharzak was alone, once again.

She tried to tend to the house alone. She really did. She lasted about three days before the silence drove her out. As had happened with Larkegh Kraz, the small alchemist’s shack was no longer her home. There were no friendly, familiar faces to stay for. She would move, and find somewhere else to be useful. Now that she had an idea of what she was capable of, and knew the general layout of Skyrim’s wilderness, the thought of traveling alone scared her no longer. But, no matter how far she wandered, she would never forget the people she’d considered her family, and the gifts they’d given her—a place to belong, and a sense of self-worth, among many other things. Even though she never once returned to the wilds of Hjaalmarch after this, it still remains an important—and bright—piece of her past.


For the past several months prior to present day, Bharzak has wandered, looking for work and, underlying her need for a reliable source of income, a purpose. She has managed to scrape together enough money for a decent on-the-road living by taking on bounties to find and deal with dangerous groups of bandits or particularly problematic thieves, but from time to time, the amount of jobs available to her of this nature can be rather scarce, which has led to her searching for a more stable occupation that wouldn’t require to settle down anywhere. Seeing as Skyrim’s political situation has grown more and more unstable, the orsimer came to the conclusion that she didn’t want to stay in any one place long enough to witness something horrible happen to its residents, and that, until the province’s political state settled down, she wouldn’t either. In her time as a wanderer, she hasn’t accomplished anything particularly worthy of note, although she’s done her fair share of ‘cleaning up’ pesky highwaymen and amoral budding necromancers that might have given passing caravans and merchants trouble.

However, during Sun’s Height of the present year, her luck, and consequently, her life, took a turn for the worse. Bharzak’s travels had taken her to Eastmarch to dispatch some ice wraiths that had taken up terrorizing some road of semi-importance to a group of caravaners, but this task ended up bringing her very close to Windhelm itself—and the Kamal troops that happened to plan on invading the city that day. As a matter of fact, she walked straight into the figurative hornet’s nest, as she came across a small patrol of their soldiers who happened to be scouting out the wilds around the city, likely looking for any potential threats to their forces' plans. Though, at the time, she didn’t know who they were or what their motives were, Bharzak did not feel particularly optimistic about interacting with them as they drew nearer to her, especially as she initially hadn't the slightest clue as to what they were. It was clear to her that any attempts to fight or flee would be pointless, as her potential opponents had greater numbers and were overall better equipped for battle, and they did not attack her outright upon first seeing her. As she did not put up much resistance whatsoever, mostly due to confusion and a bit of immobilizing fear, she was made a prisoner of the Kamal rather than killed, which was some small mercy. While she was relieved to have not been attacked on sight, part of her was even more concerned about what would happen to her now that she’d been ‘spared’.

Little did she know that some small amount of freedom was about to be offered to her. After being questioned by a member of their forces and reluctantly displaying her magical and physical capabilities, she was offered the chance to do more than menial work for their army—as it had reached their attention that a pyromancer had been causing quite a bit of trouble in The Pale, which was more than an inconvenience to their invasion force. Another individual in a similar position to her was to be sent out to deal with them, but he would have need of others as backup (or possibly cannon fodder if the mage proved to be particularly tough to beat). Deciding that this was better than any other option that was currently available to her, and, as she wasn’t sure she was in the position to refuse, Bharzak agreed to undertake this task. Any ideas she had of deserting were promptly crushed, however, as the Kamal apparently had enchanters aside from her among their numbers, and she was required to wear a magically powered tracking device in the form of a rather uncomfortable iron collar. She hasn’t completely abandoned the idea that the enchantment could be broken somehow, but she doubts she’ll be capable of it herself. Until that would become an option, however, she resigned herself to the idea that she’d be serving the Kamal for the foreseeable future, and set out for the Pale to meet up with her other ‘allies’.

Skills:

• Expert Alteration
• Adept Alchemy
• Adept One-Handed Axe
• Adept Enchanting
• Apprentice Unarmored
• Apprentice Atmoran Language/Script
• Novice Speech

Weaknesses:

• Inexperienced: It’s not too much of a stretch to say that Bharzak was ‘sheltered’ for so much of her life that her ability to develop ‘street smarts’ of any kind have been seriously inhibited. She tends to make decisions to trust people or their word off the assumption that they all follow something even remotely resembling a code of honor, and could very easily be taken advantage of by someone crafty and convincing enough. Furthermore, she has never experienced shakedowns or other similar scams before in her life, and won't necessarily realize something is awry. She also doesn't know too much about current events, aside from the biased conversations she's overheard and the general unpleasantness that Skyrim’s Civil War had caused her ‘family’, which can be particularly dangerous should she ask the wrong person a question worded in a way they might find offensive.
• Lightweight: Having never particularly enjoyed alcoholic beverages to begin with, Bharzak has not built up much of an alcohol tolerance whatsoever, and at her size, her ability to drink and not get drunk is rather abysmal. This tends to make traditional Nordic “bonding” difficult for her, not to mention it severely inconveniences her the day after an attempt to drink-even if she had something as tame as a few pints of ale, she'll be feeling every ounce of it the next morning.
• Weak Immune System: One of her most detrimental physical weaknesses is her susceptibility to contracting sickness from her surroundings or another being. The chance of Bharzak catching something during a fight or even just traveling in unfavorable conditions is considerably higher than that of the average person. This can range from being a minor annoyance to a life-threatening issue, although so far she's managed to avoid serious harm.
• Stubbornly Independent: While this may not sound like a particularly terrible trait to have, Bharzak tends to take self-reliancy to a whole new extreme. She does not like accepting any form of aid from others if she can help it, to the point where she could inadvertently cause harm to others and herself through her obstinacy. Her unwillingness to depend on someone for anything is a flaw she has yet to overcome, and may stem from her forced self-reliancy as a child.
• Very Conspicuous: It's not often one comes across an orcish mage, not to mention the fact that Bharzak sports some memorable scarring on her face. This, along with the fact that she couldn't be stealthy unless her very life depended on it and her issues with committing any sort of subterfuge herself, make her a very undesirable candidate for any sort of missions requiring such skillsets and anonymity.
• Self-Image Issues: Thanks to her upbringing, Bharzak still has not fully accepted herself in terms of what she is and isn’t capable of, and still feels some shame over not being a more ‘conventional’ person. While living with Julien and Isaure for a time helped her considerably, their deaths caused her progress to regress a bit. She’s still somewhat insecure about her strengths and weaknesses class-wise, and may or may not still feel massive guilt over taking control of her own life and abandoning tradition in favor of trying to find happiness.

Spells:

Alteration

• Magelight
• Equilibrium
• Candlelight
• Detect Dead
• Ironflesh
• Telekinesis

Combat Style: Bharzak’s fighting style is a bizarre mix of traditional and somewhat unorthodox methods, although it is most similar to that of a spellsword’s. While she would never stoop to using cheap tactics to win a fight against a tough opponent, the ways she utilizes alteration magic and her surroundings can be very creative, if not bordering on ‘cheating’ as far as the traditional guidelines of a fair fight are concerned—she has used telekinesis to ensure she landed a physical blow with her axe on more than one occasion, executing moves that would’ve been impossible without her particular skillset, although use of this particular spell in battle can exhaust her very quickly. She typically utilizes Ironflesh before throwing herself into the thick of the fight, relying on speed, endurance, and the duration of her spellcasting to keep her from getting severely injured. There is an almost restrained brutality about the way she fights, reminiscent of the tactics she learned as a child but somewhat softened and refined by training outside of it, as well as her own personal limitations.

Relations and Affiliations:

• Family:
  
  
  
  • Malkm gro-Kharash: Father, living
  • Sharad gra-Urzag: Mother, living
  • Amaz gra-Tharm: Malkm’s second wife, living
  • Glarob gra-Urzoth: Malkm’s third wife, living
  • Belbat gra-Azlakh: Paternal grandmother, presumed living
  • Shural gro-Malkm: Eldest brother, half-sibling, living
  • Durhzmul gro-Malkm: Second Eldest brother, living
  • Durga gra-Amaz: Younger sister, half-sibling, living

• Friends and Acquaintances:
  
  
  
  • Khazor gro-Ular: Intended husband via arranged marriage, status unknown
  • Julien Desrochers: Mentor and father-figure, deceased (Cause(s): Old age, possibly grief)
  • Isaure Desrochers: Julien’s daughter and close friend of Bharzak’s, deceased (Cause(s): Died in the Civil War, sided with Imperials and was killed in action)

Opinions of Group Members: Bharzak hasn’t met anyone yet!

Other Capabilities:

• In some of her particular areas of expertise, being able to sketch something accurately is almost integral, and Bharzak has, through practice and some natural talent, become quite a skilled artist. She can easily draw accurate and detailed pictures of flora and fauna she's seen before, or just about anything if a reference is present. She does attempt to sketch people from time to time, but she is far less adept at creating portraits than she is practical botanical and archaeological references.
• Although she has never taken courses on the matter, Bharzak greatly enjoys listening to and participating in philosophical debates, as she feels she can learn more both about others and herself through thorough examination of one's values and beliefs about the world, those around them, and themselves. Her points may lack a verbose or refined quality to them, but the heart of a tough and legitimate topic to debate is usually present.

Birthplace



Appearance



Personality



Background

Skills



Weaknesses



Spells



Tactics



Relations & Affiliations



Opinions



Other

Grahtwood, Valenwood

Her overall demeanor is as unsuspecting and as humble as she is dressed, in the layered robes bequeathed to her by the temple where she worships her goddess, Kynareth. One critical look at the Bosmer and her identity as a priestess becomes quite apparent. She seems as gentle and dainty a thing as one might suspect, looking doe-eyed around her as though she were at constant risk, and as ever agile like so many of her kind, with her lithe frame moving with disguised grace. She has become fairly fit though a nomadic lifestyle, though weighing in at just 110 lbs. Standing at 5'3", her height seems as any other wood-elven folk, but her stance is a tall one, or at least like she's attempting to make herself seem taller than she really has; how the arc in her back seems to exist to support shoulders weary from hardship. You wouldn't think so to look at her, but she's actually lived through 60 years of life! That's technically pretty short for a Bosmer and is considered to be barely scraping by as an adult.

A heart-shaped face bears a stiff upper lip, but perhaps only to steady the quivering lip beneath it as she tries her damnedest to stay strong. It is this very same face that also bears an upturned button nose which she keeps raised high in the air, as if to hold herself above whatever degrading or shameful – inexplicable thing, in lack of better wording, for she does not carry with her an air of arrogance or nobility; more as though there are intrusive thoughts in her head that she seeks to prove herself to be above. Her long, silky auburn hair is usually braided up haphazardly into a bun. It reveals a youthful - almost wild - face, given the thin jawline and pointed chin, the high cheekbones and wide forehead - but only attractive if a person could bring themselves to look past the those wide Bosmer eyes and the array of sharp teeth made for tearing through meat.

Her robes are made from hide and thin leather in the middle of layers for durability and protection, with wool stitched over the outside as the outer layer, and treated with wax to protect against the rain. The inside of the robes is all grizzly bear fur warming her skin and absorbing whatever perspiration there may be. These robes adorned with a number of buttons made from polished bone and apparently just as many pouches hanging from a belt made from a thick leather, and with it, a curious trophy of an eagle skull. The robe's tailoring even applies to the hood, making this outfit a very heavy one to be lugging around - good for the regions of Skyrim, High Rock, and Wrothgar, but less so anywhere else south of Bruma. Beneath, she wears tight-fitted, black-colored, wool undergarments that cover her torso and thighs, but otherwise leaves exposed her arms and her legs from the knees down. Her feet are covered with fur boots and her hands are usually bare, but as a part time alchemist who follows the Green Pact, her hands are stained with all manners of ichors and ingredients, and frequently smell... obnoxiously robust, to be putting it gently. The sight of pointed nails that seem like claws can only lend more anxious energy to the smell of her hands. A leather satchel hangs at her side from a strap going across her chest and over one of her shoulders.

The robes can fortunately be separated from the inside layer of bear fur in case of warmer weather. The hide and wool outside layers function like a shell or windbreaker of the inside. Underneath her garments however, this young elf's sand colored skin is littered with scars. Some small, and others very, very large. If one didn't know better, they would think she had died terribly and was stitched right back up. Gnarly gouging scars in her abdomen, punctures in her legs, slashes over her arms, a smaller one down the side of both her lips, a bite mark on her chest, lashes across her back, and a slash around her throat. Any attempt at questioning these are met with silence and never answered. So gruesome is this sight, you may not immediately noticed the tattoos on her body, markings of the winged herald. Feathered wings stretch out from the center of the back with the tips of its furthest feathers reaching down the back of her arms. Smaller wings are placed on her chest by her collarbones, reaching to her shoulders. Feathers rest above both of her eyebrows.

Lately, there has been a buildup of disturbing events that have left her emotionally distant and afraid to get close to people. She doesn't want to put anybody at risk out of this acquired fear of accidentally hurting those around her through whatever accident may arise from her compulsions. Yet, there also exists an element of distrust that makes it difficult for her to get close to people. This distrust is not so pervasive in her personality that it breeds conflicts with others, but impedes any progress in the development of a real, meaningful relationship. How this distrust affects her most is how, over the last couple of weeks, she has learned to put her own life in her own hands instead of relying on others. She has great potential for love, platonic or otherwise - she feels those emotions, but she fearfully rejects any oncoming advances and closes her heart to interested parties.

Continuing with this duality theme of withdrawn concern, she, as suggested before, prefers to take measures into her own hands. While some of it may come from a priestess' humility in not wanting to burden others with her own responsibilities, it too comes from that same distrust factor. Unaccountable variables could compromise the outcome, and therefore she would prefer to do it herself and take responsibility for any failure should failure occur. Insisting to her that it does not have to be that way, that she can rely on others sometimes, is a vain effort since her stubbornness blocks off any attempt to appeal to her vulnerability. She is paranoid, stubborn, caught up in her own sense of responsibility, and would just as quickly sit them down by force if they continue to pester her. This hedgehog's dilemma is not an ingrained flaw, but was acquired, and only recently.

This doesn't Wylendriel make callous though. She is still a healer, she has compassionate - on that same note, she's not a pushover. Her commanding tone is useful for bedside manner and her timid nature is thrown out the window when her areas of responsibilities (healing, sermon, etc.) come around. This dutiful disposition is tempered with motherly care, putting every ounce of effort into making sure her patients have a healthy recovery. Additionally, she is nonjudgmental of the other races. This even applies to the Nords – she understands that she entered Skyrim during a time of fear and struggle. She takes no absurd amount of pride in her elven heritage like the Thalmor do. Instead, she believes that there is something to learn from every culture. Still, she is understandably cautious while approaching nords he hasn't met yet (or any race of men for that matter, considering the Dominion's siege on the rest of Tamriel has left them suspicious of elves, and even the Dominion itself wants her head on a pike). She also has a love for poetry.

Even through her endearing visage, it is not difficult to tell that there is something more beneath the surface, and it cannot be pointed toward any one thing. It is an anger, it is an itch, it is a compulsion, an intrusive thought - it is a guilty conscience. It is as though a seed of evil was planted in her heart, and with all of her might she tries to reject it - bury it - kill it - but try as she may, it is like a craving and it only grows hungrier with time. The line between her desires and the compulsions of this seed are blurred, the feelings that she feels feel alien, because - Gods help her, she's a priestess for Kyne's sake, a healer. All of these little suggestions in her head, ever-so-sublte, this feeling of craving - is almost like a lust for violence, to feel in control, a sort of bestial blood-lust that is so damn insatiable that she just barely feeds into it with just the barest degree of violence so that it does not totally overwhelm her. She knows it's not her, she knows it does not belong there, and she knows exactly where it came from.

Her guilt stems from many things – one being the doubt of her faith to her Lady. This guilt best summarizes her her real self. She feels guilty for making the decision of accepting a deal that costed her soul, for choosing a daedra over Kynareth, this evil that has planted itself inside her, and about her growing doubt in the Nine Divines. She once tried to justify it, after all, had they not left her to die at the hands of her betrayers? For Arkay's sake, perhaps it would be right for her to die, but where was Stendarr's mercy? Or Kynareth's gift to her faithful? Then comes the feelings of guilt regarding that sense of entitlement and her expectations of the gods. The guilt of her bloody crimes. The guilt of her own betrayal of another. She is torn in many different ways and wishes for peace inside herself to ease that discord, and there's little question as to why she has so little inner strength to spare.

With all her years as a healer and priestess under her belt, she thought herself ready for death, but in the end she found herself no more at peace than the lost and wounded souls she preached to. She beats herself up for it and belittles herself, and Molag Bal's corruption further taints her. With all of this inner turmoil, Wylendriel is growing more convinced there is no saving one such as herself. In the end though, she has come to find that there is greater justice to be found in healing as many as she can than in taking the easy way out. After some time and coming to terms with herself, she feels that it would be best to work at bettering herself one step at a time, and that the first step would be to remove the daedra's influence once and for all - which in itself is a monumental task, but prays that the mercy of the Nine Divines would be such that they would cleanse her spirit: the last few shreds of her faith clings to this desperate gambit: the deciding act that would finally determine the fate of what remained.

Expert: Restoration – (Wylendriel's long time commitment to Kynareth did not go without merit – she is valued as a healer and has fixed up even gutted soldiers on the brink of death, while supplementing her magic with practical medical expertise. On the other side of the coin, she can use the same magical powers that allows her to revitalized others to inflict great harm upon them... not that she'd ever willingly do so.)

Adept: Medicine – (The healers back home and the priestesses in the Temple of Kyne in Skyrim both taught her many things about medicine, and how to heal by utilizing Her Graciousness' gifts instead of relying on magicka. Specially talented, perhaps, as her Green Pact forbids her from harvesting her own vegetation for her craft. Working around that gave her a specialized niche in medicine using strictly animal-based ingredients, but still knows a select few recipes utilizing plant-life.)

Adept: Conjuration – (At first, Wylendriel was just a novice. Just like any of us are when we learn something new. But in this case, Wylendriel has very little gained or practical knowledge. Most of what she now knows is intuitively gained. One of Molag Bal's "gifts". His boon used her existing knowledge of Conjuration as a foundation for him to selectively impart his intuitive understanding of magic onto her, and determining what she is and is not allowed to know. There's a cruel irony to be found in that he chooses not to champion Wylendriel with the true Mace of Molag Bal, yet arms her with a magic spectral daedric mace anyways.)

Adept: Bosmeri – (She's a Bosmer who grew up in the center of Valenwood, enough said.)

Novice: Speech - (Her nature and disposition keeps her from being a true silvertongue, but as a priestess, sure can give a mean sermon. This shows that she can at least publicly speak about something passionately enough that it could possibly convert prospective worshipers.)

Novice: One-handed (Blunt) – (Wylendriel doesn't have much in the way of actual skill in using maces. It's more like Molag Bal's curse making her really angry and putting her into a berserker state, and swinging it really fucking hard.)

Novice: Athletics – (Bosmer are naturally stringy and swift, and it only helps matters that Wylendriel enjoys being active and is prone to embarking on pilgrimages.)

Novice: Acrobatics – (Bosmer are agile, and Wylendriel is no exception. She spent much of her time growing up traversing the wilds, and she can climb trees with ease.)

Novice: Tailoring – (She has a basic grasp on how to stitch her clothing back together, but it's gonna look like patchwork. It's either that or sporting holes. Your choice.)

Pseudo-pacifist: Wylendriel's naturally pacifistic nature is actually somewhat compromised, but now she consciously tries to avoid getting involved in the middle of the fray. She'll do anything to get out of fighting in all-out battle to avoid the risk of going mad. Also, a lack of conditioning and natural strength keeps her from helping with any of the heavy lifting without hurting herself. Though to some degree, she has to learn to give herself in to these impulses just enough and direct them towards people who would do others ill, just so the glass won't overfill.

Hedgehog's dilemma: She's distant and emotionally unavailable even to her friends and allies. It's different parts paranoia – on one hand, even if you're close enough to her that there's zero chance of you betraying her, she fears there's the possibility of her hurting you.

Foreign ignornace: She's was isolated in Valenwood for a while without much news of the outside world seeping into her circle. When she left Valenwood, she barely knew a thing about the other cultures outside of home except for a few details that are typically common knowledge across the world. I.E. Nords don't like elves, Altmer don't like humans or beast races, and Dunmer don't like anybody at all. Not even each other.

Cursed: The curse is a slowly eroding corruption of her soul. She gets intrusive thoughts, feelings that shouldn't be there, and there are subtle inklings of violent urges implanted into her nature, and the compulsion to dominate. Another unfortunate side effect is, when she finally does give in to this curse, the sort of berserker mode she enters does not serve her well. She is going to hurt herself. The body puts limits on itself, and it's to keep things like that from happening.

Wanted: Avoid Dominion soldiers.

Other priorities: She's still on a pilgrimage, and that might put her at odds with some of the party's plans. She's dead-set on finishing what she started and cleansing the curse from her soul as soon as possible.

If she can help it, Wylendriel won't. Aside from being a healer at heart, the stress of combat and intense feelings such as anger, misery, or fear actually has her run the risk of succumbing to Molag Bal's suggestions and her own dark urges and intrusive thoughts. Say she succumbs, though: there isn't any real strategy. She seeks to surprise and overpower her foes with unbridled aggression and summons a bound mace. Then she can use her restoration skills to drain away her foes' health or stamina, rendering them weak and helpless as she beats them repeatedly into the ground until they're liquefied. Her mind is not so clouded and her willpower is not so weak that she cannot tell between foe or ally, so she will (at least for the most part) will be able to restrain herself from taking out that same aggression on her friends. Anyways, in this respect, her "berserker mode" has her serve as a glass cannon. She cripples and executing enemies, but is totally armorless and lacks the natural durability to take very many blows herself. Only in dire situations where she cannot fight an enemy or horde of enemies on her own will she call upon Molag Bal's conjuration magic to summon dremoras or reanimate corpses. Note that never in her right mind would she consider using such vile magic.

Wylendriel is a priestess of the Temple of Kyne in Whiterun, and is a rather respected member of the clergy among the locals despite her elven blood. She has not been there for very long, but she has proven her devotion and ability to the nords and they've taken her as one of their own. Most have, at least.

Has a cast iron stomach and is able to digest damn near any edible piece of food available. Having a strict meat-based diet, some of it even raw, tends to build up your immune system like crazy. She has some resistance to disease and poison effects because of this.

Her last 10 Septims

Only the key to the Temple of Kyne in Whiterun.

It's not really a weapon, but she has a skinning knife if she's feeling desperate.

An amulet of Kynareth with a minor stamina enchantment, and an eagle skull hanging from her belt (a memento from home, also serves as a second divine focus).

Preserved beef and venison, water, medicinal herbs, a mortar and pestle, dressings, bandages, a splint, and a tourniquet.

Travel-worn, rugged, and hard in both disposition and appearance, Khazki is the embodiment of someone who’s spent their entire adult life on the road, braving the weather, wildlife, and dangerous people alike. Standing at a modest 5’07” in height, Khazki certainly towers over few people, but she is certainly formidable for her somewhat defined musculature; although hardly approaching a well-fed and constantly training gladiator in terms of physique, she is in exceptional physical condition despite her somewhat scrawny appearance, given her training and long days marching and fighting in heavy armour; most of what she eats is burned away through physical exertion thanks to her non-sedimentary lifestyle.

Typical of a Cathay Khajiit, Khazki walks flatfooted like a human or elf and employs a short but symmetrical snout and muzzle that conceal a set of sharp, pointed feline teeth. Sporting high cheekbones and a wide jaw, she certainly appears to be robust, and she has the stories to confirm that. Her wide brow is adorned with a short-kept mane that is braided to neck-length black hair, each of which is ended with a golden ring, engraved in Pelletinian style. Likewise, her ears are pierced in a similar fashion, contrasting nicely against her stripped and spotted chocolate-brown fur coat that is lighter about the muzzle and chest, and the underside of her tail, arms, and her calves.

Perhaps Khazki’s most striking feature are her eyes, a dark amber that stare back with narrow feline slits nestled in a depression of dark brown fur, giving her the impression of having war paint that affords her a somewhat fierce appearance that matches her rather unapproachable personality. If any were to see her outside of her armour in her simple cotton clothing, her body has several scars that are mostly covered by fur, but still leave a few visible white streaks across her back, arms and abdomen, along with a couple of very slight markings on her right cheek that are barely visible to the casual onlooker.

Brutally honest, uninviting, and arrogant are all words that have described Khazki at some point or another. Preferring the company of herself and herself alone, Khazki wastes few words with people she does not know, and she expresses minimal interest in getting to know people. Unafraid of confrontation and at times deliberately antagonizing, she can be rather provocative when she sets her mind to it.

While most would expect a Khajiit to share a similar dialect and disposition as their peers, Khazki is an anomaly among her kind in that she speaks with a clear, almost Imperial infliction and entirely in first-person pronouns. She has explained this as such, ”Men and Mer do not cut Khajiit slack when interacting with them; to them, we’re all thieves, murderers, and skooma pushing low-lives that will ruin their lives. Even the most enlightened person can be a racist piece of troll shit, so I’ve found if you walk like them, talk like them, and act like them, the occasional person might forget that I’m not like them. Talk like a weirdo, get treated like a weirdo, it seems.” While some Khajiit might criticize her for hiding from her cultural heritage if not outright rejecting it, Khazki couldn’t care less about what they think. ”It’s earned me meals and safe places to rest my head at night. Let them squawk; I’m allowed in cities they aren’t.”

Khazki is very slow to trust, and she thinks even the kindest person has a selfish agenda behind their self-gratifying smiles. She thinks little of rank or station of birth, finding nobles in particular amusing in that they think their names mean anything worthwhile. However, Khazki is a survivor and will do whatever it takes to make it another day, even if it means offering her services to people who have something she needs, even if she does not trust their intentions.

While she is indeed standoffish and quick to brush people off, Khazki is a lonely individual who enjoys remote companionship, even if she would never admit it, and nights around a camp fire listening to other traveller’s stories have been some of the few bright spots on an otherwise trying life. While she doesn’t typically show vulnerability, she’s struggled since childhood with feeling discarded and inadequate, and much of her current behaviour and outlook is a result of her striking back at the world so she’ll never be seen as weak or a mistake again. This unfortunately results in her often having little empathy for others, even if they are in peril. It simply is not her problem to address.

Most of her interests are rustic in nature, including relaxing by the fireside, swimming, trapping, and the sounds of the forests. She enjoys wild flowers, songbirds, and even the howls of wolves. Not one who enjoys cities or crowds, Khazki nevertheless treasures good foods and the few times she doesn’t actually have to provide for herself. She is also an accomplished reader, and books have often been one of the few entertainment outlets she’s had while traveling, often bartering and trading books with other travelers to keep herself stimulated and her mind sharp. She also has an impressive visual memory and attention to detail, and she has often drawn up maps of places she’s been and routes traveled, a necessity if one does not wish to become lost.

Born during a terrible winter storm in the tropical Southern peninsula of the Kingdom of Pelletine under the sign of the Thief several months after her family was assaulted and mother raped by corsairs that had prowled along the Southern Elsweyr coast and finding a lone moon sugar plantation outside of the Senchal city limits to be an easy target, Marassa was thrust into the world with the odds already stacked against the unwanted bastard infant. Things would not get any easier, even from day one.

As an adolescent, Khazki’s parents, S’Riraya (mother) and Ra’Nair (father) tried to love and care of the 4th child of their family, but she remained a symbol of the horrible event that had seen their youngest son abducted and the mother defiled by one of the corsairs, a Khajiit man they had heard referred to as Dar’Nara. Having her biological father’s eyes and mane, Khazki took after the hated man more so than her mother, which infrequently set her father into fits of rage, loudly expressing his displeasure at having to care for a child that wasn’t his and should not have been born. It was a sentiment that was engrained in the young Khajiit, one her two brothers, J’Tagah and J’Zaddi were all too eager to embrace to not only please their father, and their malice extended to this younger half-sister, whom they viewed as always having one foot out of the door. J’Tagah was an Alfiq and incapable of speech, and J’Zaddi was an Ohmes, and as such looked far closer to a Bosmer than a typical Khajiit. The fact Khazki was of the same breed as both of her parents was seen as a slight and a cruel joke by the gods. As such, Khazki’s family never bothered to give her a prefix to her name. She simply wasn’t worthy of the endearment or acknowledgement past the bare essentials of keeping this girl alive.

Given her mother’s predisposition to overindulge in moon sugar and in a few cases, Skooma, it was clear she was struggling with her predicament and choices. On one particularly memorable day, a tearful, intoxicated and enraged S’Riraya threw a vase at Khazki, screaming that she should have thrown her into the sea when she was born. The admission shocked Khazki, who before that moment looked at her mother as the only supportive person in her life, and S’Riraya had tried to raise her and live her, as difficult as it was. However, the past was not easily overcome, and that single night changed Khazki destiny forever. It became exceedingly clear that she would never find a true place in her family and would have to find her own path.

And so the very next day, three weeks after her seventh birthday, Khazki left home and ventured into the city of Senchal, an hour walk away. Since Senchal was a port city, perhaps she could find a ship willing to whisk her away to some far away land. A child walking the streets of one of the most dangerous and crime ridden cities in all of Tamriel was asking for trouble, and sure enough, it found her before long. Confronted by two men, sailors from the Dominion on shore leave, Khazki was cornered in a back alley, with nothing but a stick to defend herself. It was a fearful situation she would never forget, but also, where her fortunes turned for the better; as one of the men grabbed her by the wrist, her suddenly cried out in pain as an unseen assailant bludgeoned him with a cane. Khazki was awestruck; an older gentleman, a Suthay-raht of middle age with greying fur brought down the two sailors with speed, grace, and precision that the young girl had never imagined possible. Having rescued the child, the man asked Khazki what she was thinking wandering the streets alone. His voice, weathered like an oak and unlike any she’d heard before, was kindly but authoritative. She answered dutifully that she was searching for her brother. Without breaking stride or hesitation, she immediately asked if he would teach her how to fight like he did.

With a smile, the gentleman said, “We’ll see.”

The man’s name was Ra’Rasargo, a modestly famous adventurer from years ago that had travelled Tamriel and writing a series of memoirs that became popular not only in the Khajiit kingdoms, but even finding their way within Bosmeri and even Imperial, Redguard, and Breton circles, since the Khajiit’s adventures took him to those exotic lands and he painted them all in a vivid, favorable light. In his retirement years, he decided to open a dojo to pass on his skills to those willing to pay the price of a man who had put Senchal on the map for something other than its unflattering reputation for crime and piracy. He had happened across Khazki when he was on the way back from the market, and he was intensely curious about how such a naïve and young girl was wandering Senchal’s streets alone.

Khazki explained her predicament at home, what her family was like and her plan to find her half-brother, to which Ra’Rasargo listened politely. He explained that he was not taking on any students, but he would offer a few lessons to help her be at least a little prepared for the world, but he’d have to take her back to her family since they’d be worried about her missing. Disheartened, but not in a position to argue, Khazki allowed herself to be escorted back home via carriage, where Ra’Rasargo witnessed firsthand exactly how unpleasant Khazki’s home was. Explaining to her parents exactly what had happened, they did not even wait for him to leave to begin chastising her. Intervening, Ra’Rasargo introduced himself formally, and with Khazki’s father, at least, the man was well known. Ra’Rasargo said that he was looking to take on a helper since his body wasn’t what it once was and that Khazki had proven to have been an exceptional help already. Agreeing to allow Khazki to help under Ra’Rasargo if for no other reason than to get her out of their lives for a good portion of each day, Khazki’s parents agreed, even arranging a carriage there and back to the plantation every day. And so, unbeknownst to Khazki’s family and the young girl, her apprenticeship had officially begun.

After a full year of cleaning the dojo, helping prepare meals and other housekeeping tasks, Khazki went to pick up the broom one day and found a long wooden practice sword in its place. Taking the practice weapon in hand, she sought out Ra’Rasargo out, asking if it were a gift. The mentor smiled, telling her that she’d have to earn it. Spending the day teaching her the basics of sword stances, Ra’Rasargo finished the day by telling her that she had earned her place, and his respect, by being responsible and a diligent worker for someone so young and he asked her if her goal was still to find her brother. Upon hearing her answer, the Suthay-raht enrolled Khazki as one of his students. And so began her training in earnest.

For the next ten years, Khazki developed from a young scrawny girl into a young woman who was disciplined, a quick study, and irrepressibly enthusiastic. While she was trained with a one-handed practice sword, her own lack of strength and bad habits that just couldn’t be drilled out of her made Khazki grow into a two-handed swordfighter, developing something of an unorthodox stance, but not something that was entirely unheard of. Even after her strength built, Khazki preferred the longer and heavier blades, finding confidence in the reach and power one could put into the weapon, and by her own sheepish admission, it made her look heroic. Likewise, while she was quick and agile, she did not have the instincts and reflexes to block blows reliably, and so heavier armour was introduced, which in turn built her strength and confidence considerably. By the end of her training, Khazki was an exceptional student and a proficient swordswoman.

At the age of nine, some measure of innate magical ability was noted in Khazki when herself and a pair of other students had found a beginner’s spell tome to try and cast Candlelight. While the other two gave up fairly easily, Khazki felt something of a connection and her own determination to succeed, especially after hearing Ra’Rasargo’s wife, Dra’Sasheira who was an accomplished mage and taught her own lessons to aspiring Khajiit mages in the same dojo, mention in one of her lessons that magical energy was present in all living things, but some people like the Altmer had the innate ability to tap into that energy like a runner taps into his stamina. Others, she reasoned, could learn to do such a thing through great concentration and practice. Khazki wanted to put that to the test. After two weeks of struggling with the tome, reading it cover to cover and treating its methods like her own swordsmanship and physical conditioning, the incredible happened; for a fleeting moment, a brilliant incandescent orb the size of an acorn emerged in her palm before becoming snuffed out. Elated and encouraged, even after several days between successes, and after two months of practice and guidance from Dra’Sasheira, Khazki was able to form a fully developed mage light spell. Khazki was well on her way to becoming a mage- of sorts. Augmenting her regular training with quick side lessons after training sessions, Khazki spent the next several years mastering a small handful of spells. While she still has a long way to go to even match the level of the average rung of magical intuitional proficiency one would expect from the College of Winterhold or the long defunct Mage’s Guild. That was never her end goal, regardless; it was simply another talent that could aid her in her eventual mission, a destination she never wavered from.

It wasn’t a secret that Khazki was Ra’Rasargo’s favoured pupil; the two had shared an immediate bond from the first day they met by chance, and a strong bond of mutual respect developed between the two, even going so far that in some ways, Ra’Rasargo was like a surrogate father for Khazki, while she became something like the daughter him and Dra’Sasheira never had. He shared his tales with her of his time as an adventurer, his treasure collection, correspondence with some famous individuals across Tamriel, and a number of other things that only she was privileged to. As she decided she was of age to begin a journey of her own, Ra’Rasargo had a gift for her; using the Septims he had been saving from the leftover carriage fare her family had allotted over the years, Ra’Rasargo had managed to commission a Skyforge Steel greatsword through his contacts in Whiterun for Khazki, wanting to give her the best possible chance moving forward. Included in this parcel was a set of common steel armour of Nord craftsmanship, since Ra’Rasargo believed it to be the best quality one could buy on a modest budget. While the sword was something of a rarity and in some ways priceless due to its scarcity, it turns out calling in favours years after saving a life has perks.

Clad in new armour and with a deeply personal weapon in hand, Marassa bid her two mentors a tearful goodbye and promised to return when she had found a story of her own, Khazki departed Senchal, heading North, years of planning about to be put to the test. Showing up at her home one last time in her new equipment, finally putting to rest the suspicion she was receiving training at the dojo, Khazki told her family not to expect to see her again. There was no love lost at this departure; she no longer cared for their approval or acceptance.

That was nearly ten years ago, and it almost ended within a month when Khazki had attempted to cross the Anequina desert unprepared, only surviving thanks to one of the nomadic tribes of the North. Nursed back to health and given more adequate traveling materials to survive a desert crossing as well as the wisdom of those who called the desert sands home, Khazki set out again and in earnest began her quest, learning quickly that the road was a merciless place for the unprepared and the inexperienced. Still, despite the countless hardships she faced, learning how to make snares to catch small game, scavenging food, where to find clean water, each lesson prefaced with near-death experiences quite often including starvation and near-dehydration on top of illness, animal attacks, and exposure to the elements, each settlement and building was salvation, and whatever books on local flora and fauna, important landmarks and sources of water became worth their price in gold. Often paying her way with labour and odd jobs, Khazki was within two years no longer the wild-eyed and excitable young girl she used to be; the woman who emerged was something remarkably harder and far less enthusiastic. Every day was a new and often painful lesson, and even figuring out how to survive and make shelters resulted in burns, entrapment, puncture wounds, and all sorts of other unpleasant calamities. Had it not been for the handful of healing spells Khazki had learned from Dra’Sasheira, she would have died long ago. Despite the attack from wildlife and creatures of the lands, it turned out the real heartless beasts were those of the two legged variety; other people.

Khazki was only 17 when she first had to take a life; a trio of bandits that saw her as an easy mark as she was traversing Cyrodiil, not far from the Argonian border. The experience rattled her; she had always known people were capable of such depravity, but to witness it first hand was something else entirely. This was a situation of life and death; there would be no walking away from it if things didn’t turn the way she hoped. Forcing herself to remain calm and remember the years of drills and stances she’d trained with for years, she was surprised to find herself not only able to fend off their blows but the openings in their own defences were glaring and easy to exploit. The difference between a trained warrior, albeit inexperience, and a group of opportunistic bandits who likely only ever targeted victims they thought would be a quick kill, or at least wealthy enough to take the risk. The sword alone would have been enough to make Khazki a prime target for irrefutable sorts, she discovered. Killing one of the attackers with a decapitating swing and amputating a hand of another, the surviving bandits made off, leaving Khazki with a corpse. Not quite prepared for the harsh reality of such ferocious bloodshed, Khazki was awash with a typhoon of conflicting feelings, but she was pleasantly surprised she didn’t shed a tear over the incident. The bastard had what was coming.

And he certainly wasn’t the last to try.

Each new day brought peril, and even bedding down for the night was something that necessitated light sleeping and a hand on her sword at all times. This state of hyper-vigilance quickly drove Khazki into the distrustful person she would eventually become; literally anyone could be a threat, and often, they were. Some, like the bandits, were overt. Others were manipulative and tried to take her when her guard was down after some token generosity. Her armour became damaged in time, and what coin she could pick off her failed assailants were often spent on maintaining her equipment when she arrived in settlements. What precious little remained often went to a bed for the night or some fresh food, but for the most part, Khazki was alone in the wilds and discovering the reality that just because you’ve planned on something your entire life doesn’t mean it was going to be simple. Determined not to turn back and return in shame, she pressed on, and like shedding pieces of excess clothing, the young idealistic and naïve girl that had resolved many years ago to leave home to become a renown adventurer was left behind mile by mile, eventually refining her into the hard young woman she is today.

Crossing the border into Cyrodiil was a tricky feat, since border control crossings were tightly watched by Legion garrisons and that last thing she needed was to be mistaken as a Thalmor spy, and already having learned a few far too harsh lessons about traveling alone, Khazki crossed through the thick forests far from roads and into the Imperial province, heading North to Bravil to resupply and orient herself. Finding the city downcast and crime ridden, although not quite to the extent of Senchal, Khazki quickly managed to shed suspicions of her potential Aldmeri Dominion ties by hiring her sword out to protect businesses, escort the vulnerable late at night, and in one particular instance, volunteering her services to the city guard to help clear out a skooma den. This feat helped cement her reputation with the local authorities as someone who at the very least wasn't any better or worse than the locals and wasn't worth keeping a close eye on. One of the guard sergeants gave her a friendly bit of advice; lose the accent. If she maintained her typical manner of speech, she was never going to shed suspicion against her. And so over the next several months, Khazki practiced speaking in Imperial mannerisms and imitating the Nibenese accent. While hardly perfect, her efforts did pay off and in some cases she was able to blend in with the locals.

Having spent most of her first year in Cyrodiil, heading between cities and the surrounding countryside between odd jobs, Khazki eventually made her way to Cheydinhal, a city renown for its large population of Dunmer citizens. It wasn't long before she came across a group of traders that routinely made the journey between Cheydinhal and Mournhold, keeping a fairly lucrative and mutually beneficial trade relationship between the two cities, as well as the smaller towns and villages in between. With one of the caravan guards taking leave to spend time with his sister in Cheydinhal, the traders were looking for a new guard to help escort the supplies back to Mournhold. Not exactly enthusiastic about the prospect of spending weeks with people she did not know, and Dunmer at that, Khazki decided to bite down on her reservations and volunteer her services. After all, if she couldn't protect herself from a bunch of traders, what damn good was she?

As it turned out, her time with the traders turned out being one of the more memorable and enjoyable parts of Khazki's life. Jovial, light-spirited and always ready with a song, story, or joke, the Dunmer caravan was as curious about Khazki as she was about them, and for the first time since leaving Ra'Rasargo, Khazki felt unconditionally accepted for who and what she was. There were no questions about her origin, no prejudice against her species, and no fearing that she would make off in the night with their supplies. When she brought it up to the caravan's leader, Garvys, the Dunmer just laughed it off. "Well, Sera, you travel long enough, you meet people from all sorts. I've found if a Khajiit means you ill, they don't come up to you asking for a job. Besides, don't the Thalmor consider it blasphemy to be outfitted in that garb?" he asked, tapping her armour. It was a fair point, and one that seemed to resonate the more she traveled East. While the Thalmor had a long reach, it seemed like Morrowind was a world away from that particular trouble. It was almost reassuring.

For the next four years, Khazki made Morrowind her home, finding in the Dunmer a resourceful and hardy people that had some strange cultural traditions and a questionable predisposition towards legalized slavery, but that wasn't Khazki's concern. The plight of a few impoverished Dunmer or Argonian captives wasn't something that was going to change overnight, and being an outsider didn't exactly give one leverage for social change. Instead, Khazki spent most of her time traveling from village to village, offering her services in exchange for food and lodging, picking up parts of the Dunmeri language and finding the entire culture far more mage-centric than Pelletine. While Khazki faced her share of discrimination, it was still less severe than she'd expected, even going so far as to treating N'Wah as a nickname rather than an insult. Perhaps, she conceded, her initial skepticism towards the Dunmer had something to do with growing up under the Altmers' heel as a vassal state. Morrowind was a place to start over, and so long as she didn't stick her nose where it didn't belong, the Dark Elves were far more accommodating than they had the right to be. Perhaps after the apocalyptic nightmare of the Red Mountain erupting years ago made the Dunmer far less picky about people from far off lands coming to lend aid and earn a living. At least, in Khazki's mind, she wasn't a Nord. The Skyrim civil war and word of the treatment of the Dunmer in Windhelm was a sore point of contention for much of the citizens of Morrowind.

Spending most of her time mostly in the more vibrant East from Firewatch in the far North to Tear in the South, learning how to survive in the ash-sewn landscape and adopting Dunmeri garb to both assimilate into the culture and for practical reasons; clothing tends to wear out when you travel and work constantly and it is far more adapted to the Morrowind climate. Continuing her skills with trapping, Khazki made a meager living trapping and selling kwama, shalk, and even young guar to receptive vendors that could make use out the meats and crafting materials the creatures provided. This proved especially true for the Ashlanders in the North and even into Solstheim (a locale Khazki had only ever been to a handful of times, albeit for prolonged stays each time) since the nomadic tribes tended to live off the land and bartering far more than the more urbanized Dunmer in the South, although it took some time and effort to be even granted an audience; Ashlanders were notorious for being openly hostile and spiteful towards outsiders, especially those who were not of Dunmer descent. However, with stubborn perseverance and after proving herself to be a bane to the reavers that plagued the coasts, Khazki was reluctantly accepted as a friend by a few of the tribes.

It was with the Ashlanders that Khazki found the most kinship since their hardships were not unlike her own and once she proved herself to be a friend to the tribes, she was permitted to come and go as she pleased, usually bringing back bounties the Ashlanders found themselves in need of, particularly from the mainland. Adopting their way of life when under their host, Khazki had ample opportunities to practice and refine her magic, practice her swordsmanship, and take part in maintaining the camps. On occasion, she took up arms to defend the camps from rivals, bandits, Ash Spawn, and all sorts of other hostile intruders, often taking injuries for her actions. It took years, but eventually Khazki earned her place among the Ashlanders. For an outsider, they reasoned, she was at least capable and willing to respect their way of life.

Content to say in Morrowind, and even on occasion joining in on excursions into the various dungeons that littered the lands, the air shifted when the Nerevarine returned, and with him, a widespread devotion to this living god and a surge in Dunmeri nationalism. Sensing that it would be wise to leave the province sooner rather than later, and with the Civil War in Skyrim drawing to a close, Khazki made her way into Skyrim, where she has remained ever since.

Finding Skyrim to be a much more cold and inhospitable land, both with the climate and the people, Khazki has made a very meager living the past three years, traveling mostly in the more temperate South between Riften and Markarth, although rarely ever being permitted to enter any of the cities due to her being mistaken, or the distinction not being made, for a Khajiit caravan member. Once again, the stigma of being a cat that was going to steal and disperse illicit substances among the local Nord populace began to hound her, and her armour and sword brought up an unexpected wrinkle of hostility; Khazki has endured a lot of fights from Nords accusing her of having stolen her armour and weapon from the dead. What warmth she had enjoyed from the typically aloof and distrustful Ashlanders was becoming a distant memory fast; even most villages wouldn't tolerate Khazki's presence, often dealing with outright hostility. What people often gave her a chance to earn a bit of coin had her trap hares, defend livestock, chop wood or even on occasion go hunt down bandits that plagued the farms and unprotected settlements. Most of her time was spent around Riften, a city notorious for thieves and a seedy crime underbelly, since it had bigger worries than a long Khajiit that largely kept to herself and had openly told those that sought to canvas her for less than reputable work to "Fuck off.". She wasn't making any friends, but she gave no reason for anyone to assume she had ties to the Thieves Guild.

When the Akaviri invasion hit Windhelm, Khazki knew that it wasn't going to be safe in the Rift for long and so she began to make her way West once more, following rumours and refugees as she encountered them to stay away from known Kamal locations. The noose was tightening around Skyrim, as it were, and she quickly decided that her best bet to keep ahead of the war was to charter a ship far way from the invaders.

Arriving in Dawnstar, Khazki quickly learned of a short-handed mercenary company that had a ship, and they needed a sword. It was a match made in Aetherius.

Expert: 2H Blade
Adept: Heavy Armour, Alteration Magic
Apprentice: Restoration Magic, Ta'agra, Athletics, Provisioning
Novice: Dunmeris

Tactless: Khazki is prone to indifference at best, open callousness at worst to people she doesn’t care for, which is most. A combination of brutal honesty and a lack of empathy make her a difficult person to coexist with at times. She will say what she’s thinking, consequences be damned.

Aloof: Cold and distant,Khazki doesn’t take a keen interest in situations or people that don’t immediately involve her. A lack of passion for the severity of causes that don’t immediately relate to her own personal goals mean she is not one to volunteer or stick her neck out for others most of the time.

Distrustful: It takes a lot of work to have Khazki open up to strangers, and even more to trust their motivations. She keeps people at swords’ length and is neither surprised nor upset by betrayals; it’s simply what people do in her mind.

Non-military values and experience: Used to solitude and individual skill at arms, learning even rudimentary tactics and strategies is something that will be entirely new for her, and she will likely hate every minute of it. Not used to taking orders, giving them, or recognizing military maneuvers and strategies, she has no mind for logistics save for provisioning and all that matters to her is the moment she’s in.

Mild phobia towards Argonians: Growing up, Khazki heard the stories of how mysterious and deadly Argonia and its denizens were. This was a large reason for her avoiding the province altogether, and her time among the Dunmer reinforced the negative views of Argonians. She views Argonians as disease carriers that steal people away in the night and may or may not be mentally linked by the Hist. She keeps them at a distance.


Resentment towards Altmer: Altmer means Thalmor, and Thalmor means oppression. While she personally didn’t suffer at the hands of the Thalmor during Elsweyr’s time as a Dominion vassal state, Khazki heard enough stories and felt the resentment the public held towards the Thalmor in private. Being under the heel of another race, and an extremely militant and conquest minded one at that, has made Khazki more openly hostile towards Altmer on principle.

Resentment towards bosmer: Centuries of border clashes between Elsweyr and Valenwood have left their mark where even as former allies there was never any love lost between the Khajiit and the Bosmer. Seeing Bosmer as cannibalistic weirdos that rather butcher children than eat a corn cob have made them somewhat loathsome in her eyes.

Allergic to Blisterwort and Skeever: While at a glance these seem like easily avoided, blisterwort and skeever hide are two of the most common ingedients in health potion brewing and as such make taking any health potion a huge risk. While not typically fatal, for Khazki they tend to cause swelling, nausea, and in heavy doses a terrible fever. Since the reaction happens fairly quickly, it would be very unlikely she'd ingest enough to close off her airways.

Struggles against agile opponents: Khazki, while capable of bursts of speed and unexpectedly quick movements thanks to her feather spells and aggression, is still at a disadvantage when fighting opponents who are dedicated to more nimble fighting styles. While her armour is more than sufficient to take most hits, exposed areas are abundant and a lack of shield makes her defensive options limited to the discouraging length of the greatsword and the fact that lightly armoured opponents are putting themselves at a huge rosk if they even take a single hard blow.

Spell list:

Adept: Waterbreathing, Ironflesh, Ash Shell, Detect Life, Candlelight, Magelight, Lighten Load (Feather)
Apprentice: Fast Healing, Healing Hands, Steadfast Ward, Ease Burden (Feather)

An excellent fighter and something of an exceptionally trained skirmisher, Khazki is a fairly disciplined if unorthodox fighter who doesn’t believe in fair fights. Using even her alteration spells as weapons, the Khajiit seeks to create an opening by distracting or disabling an opponent and taking advantage with her massive greatsword, which offers an excellent reach unmatched by all but polearms. She is very aware of her surroundings and will use the terrain to her advantage, open putting things between her and her adversary to force them to work around it, taking the fight to somewhere with poor footing or ledges, and so on. She doesn’t shy away from brutality and dismemberment, and the psychological effects of that along with the Khajiits’ innate Eye of Fear give her a psychological edge on many opponents. She is capable of fighting multiple foes, and she is often able to close the gap between herself and mages with ward spells. For archers, she tries to keep terrain between herself and the archer, and will often seek to disengage to either escape or lure the archer into a situation of her choosing. Any hits that she is unable to parry are often absorbed by her armour, and simple healing spells can often limp her through a fight if need be.

Khazki can move with deceptive speed thanks to her Feather spells, which ultimately negate the weight of her weapon and armour, giving her reflexes and agility almost similar to someone wearing light armour. Using Ash Shell, she is capable of disabling limbs or weapons and creating an opening she can exploit, often fatally. Magelight is also used as a blinding weapon, often aimed for the face while she rushes in behind it. Khazki prefers to keep on the offense and not give her foes a change to get their footing.

S’Riraya (Khajiit, Cathay): Step-mother, estranged
Ra’Nair (Khajiit, Cathay): ep-father, estranged
Dar’Nara (Khajiit, unknown): Biological father, missing
J’Tagah (Khajiit, Alfiq): Half-Brother, estranged
J’Zaddi (Khajiit, Ohmes): Half-Brother, estranged
Dra’Sasheira (Khajiit, Ohmes-Raht): Friend and mentor, magic studies
Ra’Rasargo (Khajiit, Suthay-Raht): Friend and mentor, swordsmaster; Surrogate father figure

(For group members; fill after IC introduction)

Khazki is a survivalist at her core. She thinks nothing of spending extended times in the wilderness surviving off the land and she has an excellent instinct for trapping. As such, she can dress and skin an animal about as casually as a housewife can knit a scarf. She also enjoys the perks of her race, including Eye of Fear, Night Eye, and a deadly set of claws. She is also something of an amateur cartographer and she can reliably draw up a map of places she’s recently been, she has an excellent sense of special awareness and a memory for detail.

Worth noting, Khazki is unlike many other Khajiit in that she speaks using personal pronouns verses a third-person manner of speech. This more conventional manner of speech may suggest she has distanced herself from her culture and spiritual beliefs in order to assimilate into other cultures more readily.

20 Septims

A single key for her master’s dojo

Whetstone & oil, polishing cloth
Tinderbox
Snare wires
A jar of fire salts

Standard Nordic armour (non-Skaal)
Leather jerkin
Miner clothing
Dunmer outfit
Red scarf
Travel cloak

Skyforge Steel Greatsword
Orcish dagger

2x potion of cure disease
3x stamina potions
2x magica potions

Other than her sword and what coin she carries, nothing.

1x smoked hare
A bushel of snow berries
1x venison flank
2x water skin
1x wine skin
Bag of bait

Netch leather rucksack
Leather utility belt with 5 pouches of various sizes

Bed roll
Tarp
4 thin ropes

Birthplace


Appearance


Personality


Background

Skills



Weaknesses



Spells



Tactics



Relations & Affiliations



Opinions



Other Capabilities

High Rock

While he would be considered a fairly light skinned resident of Hammerfell, or perhaps a particularly suntanned Imperial from the southern regions, his caramel coloring causes Allen to stick out like a sore thumb in provinces such as Skyrim, or his home in HighRock. He has mannish features, though his Breton heritage allows him to retain a youthful appearance. Alim sports a trim and athletic physique, with dark eyes and shoulder length, unkempt black hair he keeps tied in the back. While his lips are a bit fuller, and his physique is sturdier than the average Breton, save his light chocolate skin, he looks very much akin to them. Some consider him quite handsome, though others find him unnerving by his mixed heritage.

Alim's personality, while often pragmatic and with a calm and collected demeanor, stems from a very rebellious and mischievous upbringing. He isn't afraid to question authority, or to undermine it if he genuinely sees it as the best course of action. He knows just how pivotal a chain of command is, and would only do so under extreme circumstances, something that he has become more cautious with in recent years due to the need to keep contracts.

He shares the belief that his fellow Bretons do, that with hard work and a little luck, one can aspire to greatness. He enjoys learning, and has a curiosity that many thought would be the death of him in High Rock. He enjoys learning other cultures, and making himself a melting pot of skills and ideas, simply because he feels that such diversity defines him. Being a bastard in a society of such tightly wrought places in society, he felt more fluid and freer in many ways than his family members. He began to use his half parentage as a means of strength, rather than a weakness to be exploited, and took pride at being unique among them.

While he relies on trustworthy tactics and equipment, he cannot help but feel a tug of wonder when it comes to dangerous concoctions or magic artifacts. Sometimes he catches himself doing very daring things, knowing that improvisation is key to surviving. Luckily, he improvises quite good he's discovered. Alim makes fast friends, and isn't above a good drink in a tavern or banter during a job or engagement. In fact, he quite enjoys one liners and having the upper hand in both verbal and martial duels. However, to many common folk, he seems married to his various jobs and sometimes unapproachable. He theorizes that's mainly because he cannot seem to stop his pursuit of his many interests, which leaves many others wondering what on Nirn could keep him busy so often.

Allen never knew his mother, only being in her care for a few short months before his father left for High Rock. He had been told that due to his mother's low station in life, it was best if he was taken back to High Rock and live among the Nobility. His father was William Blackmoore of Daggerfall, one of the minor Lords within the Kingdom. He sired 5 sons, all true heirs save the third child. William had extensive dealings of trade in the city of Skaven, and one day brought back a babe, who grew to truly look very much like his father, William.

Because of his darker skin and slightly fuller facial structure, many did not take Allen seriously despite his Breton name and features. He was often poked fun of as a child, at least by other Highborn. He took to a life of mischief, discovering he had quite the ability and enjoyment of climbing. The young Allen would often be discovered in someone's home upon the second story window, or perhaps on their roof to simply bask in the sun or watch the stars at night. He would often take food from the table at his house before his more esteemed family members, which in turn led to him becoming quite the food thief in the city (which caused his father two counts of embarrassment, and angry rants at Allen that he would never forget.)

His father did not mistreat him, per say. Of course, his father would give him a hard look if he ever requested the privileges of his brothers. For instance, they were purchased new swords and horses, and thrown extravagant parties for graduations and birthdays. Allen would be given hand-me-downs, and would be lucky to receive more than a few gifts, like a private affair. His father often told him he was lucky to be treated as one of his own, claiming that as a bastard, this was simply the way things were. That he loved him regardless, deep down.

Lord Blackmoor knew that with such mixed blood, to make Allen a representative of the household would simply not do. However, William deemed that Allen would be a Captain of the Guard and protector of his more true born brothers, and perhaps would be accepted into a Knightly Order when he came of age, so as to bring more esteem to the family. So the Lord had Allen trained in swordplay, and tested in magic when he was very young. Thankfully, Allen's Breton heritage did not betray him here, for his magic potential was not lacking.

For what it was worth, Allen enjoyed learning these skills. His training was given by the best Armsmen in the guard, when it came to martial matters. He was taught to read and write, but he was not encouraged to become more learned any further. Allen did that on his own volition, reading subjects such as history, and alchemy (though he never did practice much), and treatises on swordplay and magic use. He was inducted into the Mages Guild at the age of 16, and it was there he met his first love. A Breton woman by the name of Nalia. Things seemed to be looking up for Allen, but the Divines had different plans that Allen slowly came to realize.

By age 18, he was inducted into the guard as its new Captain, the previous one now taking a well deserved retirement. Needless to say, Allen had less free time on his hands, re-configuring the guardsmen to what he deemed necessary, learning the schedules and making a relationship with his quartermaster, sergeants, etc. He was also required with accompanying his brothers and father on important meetings. Still, he did his best to find time to read, and study in the mages guildhall. He excelled in the two schools that helped enhance his swordplay, alteration and enchantment. He was encouraged to learn of such by his father as well, one of the few things they could agree on. It would aid in his guardsmen duties.

Perhaps it was an overwhelming sense of wanderlust that seemed to take him, or perhaps it was his newfound position weighing on him. He could only learn so much of the wider world through books, he knew. Perhaps it was because his new love, his new capabilities, were too good for himself in his eyes. He was not used to such a feeling, nor did he feel he deserved it. The Nine did give more concrete evidence it was nearing the end of one of his cycles in life, with the loss of two of his brothers over a three year period.

He was only 16 when his closest and older brother Beric disappeared. One day, he had simply vanished without a trace. This was something that hit Allen like a mace. He had been Allen's closest friend, and sometimes even a mentor. They'd both had a rebellious streak growing up, something that Allen had not (nor would he) grown out of. Lord Blackmoore looked high and low throughout the city, but they never found traces of Beric. Allen was glad his father went to such lengths to find his older brother, but deep down, he wondered if the Lord would have done the same for him...

It was nearing his 19th birthday when the news reached him that his oldest brother had been assassinated. It came as a shock to many, for he had been an upstanding citizen and seemingly had no rivals, nor offended anyone. It was not until later that love notes with Jezebel Falthoren of the Daggerfall Falthoren Merchant Company were discovered. Her suitor was Donovan Kirkwall, a high ranking Knight in the Ironbrothers. The death of his oldest brother hit him hard, as it did his father. Unfortunately, his father began to blame Allen, citing that it was Allen's duty to keep tabs on his family, to protect them. It was his only duty, and he had failed. Father and son had such a heated argument that the common folk could hear it on the street passing by. It was later that night that Allen made a rash decision. He grabbed a small fortune of his father's money, only as much so it wouldn't be missed but just enough to give him some security, and he fled. He left the city, unable to go against his yearnings to break free any longer. He did not even tell Nalia, for fear of her rejection, for he would have asked her to go with him. Even to this day, he regrets that, and later swore to himself that he would never run from a loved one again.

He arrived in Hammerfell, hiring himself out as a guard for a caravan traveling through Bangkorai. He made it to the city of Skaven within the month. He had never been, and while deep within his heart he hoped he would find his mother, he knew he was here because it was the only convenient place he could end up at the moment. Still, he made the best of it. He sold his sword whenever he could, stealing food when in need but trying to keep his criminal activities to a minimum. Even a few months in the city, he realized the politics of Hammerfell was very abrupt and dangerous. The Crowns and The Forebears were often at odds with one another, though the Crowns seemed to fancy themselves as the rulers of Skaven.

He would remain in Skaven for a year, lending himself out as an extra sword for scouts or caravan guard duty, learning just how the warriors of Hammerfell fought. He went into mock combat with them once or twice, finding their dueling tactics fierce and tough to beat, and very unorthodox. While he wasn't helpless against them, after sparring, and then needing to fight Redguard raiders twice over the course of a year, he understood why they were referred to as the most feared warriors on Tamriel. These were his mother's people, and he felt somewhat more whole with having lived so very close to them.

A year had gone by, and the sun was just fading into the night as Allen made his way back from the marketplace. It seemed the fate decided he'd been walking in the wrong alleyway, for he was jumped by two Redguards. Without thought to the consequences, he unleashed his magic to defend himself (as well as his sword of course) and ran through one of the men, and the other ran.

To his growing horror, he realized just who he had killed. Kneeling down, he found the black and crimson sash of the Duskmoons, a group of Highwaymen and bandits that had made a name for themselves as ruthless cutthroats. Upon further inspection, he realized this man was Frajid, the cousin of the Duskmoon's leader, Jara. The one that got away would tell him who killed his cousin, and worse yet, that Allen was a mage.

He'd seen a few Duskmoon's on the streets, of course. That, and any rogue worth their salt knew to stay away or join them, at least in this section of the city. Allen also had an unfortunate altercation with them at one point, catching one of them cheating at a game in one of the local taverns he had been playing at. It led to Allen getting into a brawl with them, only for the fight to be halted by the appearance of their leader Jara, a man not known for his mercy, but was fair in this instance. He let Allen walk with only a minor beating. He would be far more creative with a punishment this time.

Needless to say, Allen went into hiding, taking no more contracts and keeping to himself. He felt the roads would be watched heavily by Duskmoon scouts, so he decided to lay low. The sun would rise and fall, and he would do his best to go near none of his usual haunts, which meant he decided to go to the one place that he had never been. Essentially, it was where the Crowns resided, the section of the city with the upper class. Towering spires, circular and oval in nature surrounded him like vast trees. Palaces stood between them, like soaring tidal waves of incredible architecture. He couldn't help himself, and began exploring, looking for good places to steal a trinket or two. The Crowns were not wanting, they would not miss a few jewels would they? He staked out the buildings, sleeping at the top of one of the spires. He could remain unseen if he wished, and so far his little project in the High Class area of Skaven was keeping his throat from being slit by the Duskmoons, who were surely looking for him now.

One night, he lay trying to sleep atop one of the spires, merely gazing at the moon and wondering what Nalia was doing. If she was looking at the same moon...
He shook the notion out of his head, and not moments after he had taken himself out of his reverie did he see a curious figure moving through the shadows.
Not below, for even he couldn't see the street well from so high up. But across. Upon one of the other spires, a lithe figure climbed expertly. As he made his way into the moonlight, Allen could see a wicked Knife clenched in the man's teeth.

Allen acted on impulse, making his way down his own spire and upon the closest parapet, his footfalls silent as he traversed the architecture to chase this man who must have had ill intent. He was halfway up the spire in pursuit when he heard a distant cry, and the young Spellsword thief pushed himself to greater speed. Moments later, he vaulted through the oddly shaped window into the chambers of a beautiful Crown woman, who was fighting for her life against this black clad assassin.

She was trained well, having held her own with her curved blade for close to a minute. But any misstep and the Knife wielder would have her. Allen leaped, and sliced the man on the back, causing him to stagger forward, right into the woman's blade. It erupted out of his back, and he slumped forward.

Allen asked if she was harmed, and she shook her head, unable to decipher if Allen was an enemy or not. He explained he was...in trouble in other parts of the city and thought to remain here, to stay hidden. He had seen this man climbing up, and went to investigate. She believed him, introducing herself as Savranah Mirel, and offered one of her necklaces in thanks for his good timing and helping hand. He was going to deny it, because in good faith he was probably going to steal what she was going to give him just then anyway. But...he was a bit enthralled by how pretty she was, and he let her go and get it without saying a word. As she went to fetch it, he slipped the Duskmoon sash onto the dead man's belt, to give the Duskmoons something to worry about now.

When she presented him with the necklace, they both shared a smile, and he graciously accepted. "On one condition," he told her.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Tell whoever asks, it was stolen." he said with a grin and a wink. She was confused, but nodded. He disappeared out the window, with a new jewel and perhaps a reputation.

Naturally, he couldn't stay here, and traveled to Helgathe. It reminded him of the coastal cities of High Rock somewhat, and he stayed there for a time. Two months, he reckoned.
The first two weeks in, he began wearing the jewel the High born had given him. He had thought to sell it, but there was a sense of honor, and indeed haughty arrogance, that had him keep it to wear.
His arrogance, for once, rewarded him. He feared hunters going after him, but instead he received a small contract from what he later to learn was the thieves guild. Despite his thieving and roguish behavior in his younger years, he never did seek the Guild, nor was he sought after. It seemed the reputation of his last altercation had caught up with him.

Once he had stolen a mere trinket from one of the more fortified towers overlooking the city, he began to take other jobs and he gained a few contacts, though when he found an opportunity to earn a living another way, he took it. Not because thieving wasn't exciting, but he found he wanted a blade in his hands again.
He set up as a crewman and hired sword for the ship called the SilverSaber. It was a warship now used for hauling cargo up and down Hammerfell and Cyrodiil. He only felt it was going to be a temporary job, perhaps for a few months. Allen spent three years in the crew, working his way up from deckhand to Quartermaster. He fought in four engagements, using his magic and sword skills to great effect. One particular instance where he was grievously sick in, and he managed to kill one Imperial who went bellow decks to the crews quarters by casting feather on his sword, his weakened body able to spin his blade nearly as deftly as he would normally.

It was nearing his fourth year when they took a special job to haul cargo to Elsweyr. Unfortunately, the ship was badly damaged in a storm and could not make it to its destination. Most of the crew drowned, but a few managed landfall on the shores of Elsweyr. It was a strange land, hot and humid with lowlands surrounded by lone hills of jungle. He was one of the few to live, and couldn't find more than a few corpses having washed ashore. He had kept a hand on his sword, but it was badly soaked and he set it in the sun for a long while to make sure it had as little rust as possible.

He made his way into the countryside and to Torval, where he was cared for by a Khajiit named S’Zin and his three children. During his state of heat exhaustion and starvation, he heard many strange rumors around town that confirmed the rumors he had heard at sea. Many Khajiit were disappearing into the wilderness for no true reason. He found himself in the position to find out why. Once he was healthy, he felt compelled to offer his help. On his honor, and with a few other Khajiit to aid him, they went out in search of recent disappearances.

One week out in their venture, they found Khajiit and Man tracks near one of the jungle hills further east, inland. They found an entrance under the waterfall of vines, making their way in, until they found themselves in a surprisingly dank cavern.

Allen and the Khajiit with him explored the lower depths of the hillside cavern, finding small sleeping areas and bags of supposedly stolen goods, but no people. That is, until they made it three corridors deep, and found the cavern they were in sloping upwards. It led to an upper landing that overlooked the inner canyon of a large cavern. At the center of it was nearly a dozen bound Khajiit, and swordsmen discussing heatedly on how to deal with the intruders that had tripped their traps.

Many of them ran outwards to find those who dare intruded on what was transpiring here. S’Zin and the other Khajiit went back to ambush them, for there was no other way out than where the captors were headed. Allen promised them he would free the Khajiit captives, and he shimmied down the upper cavern to the lower canyon, his sword drawn as he cautiously approached.

A man garbed in black cloth approached him, a one handed blade pointed at Allen's throat. In his offhand, he held a book bound in red and black leather. He asked Allen what his purpose here was, though the Spellsword knew he wouldn't get out of here if he simply walked away. It only took a short exchange of words before he realized this man's goal. To kill the Khajiit for their corpses, and perhaps to harness their life energies for himself. Allen struck the Necromancer first, but his blade was blocked with a deft movement.

The two dueled before the bound Khajiit, the prisoners knowing whoever won this fight decided their fates. Luckily, Allen was victorious after a minute of suspense, using a counter riposte that sent the necromancer stumbling back and bleeding into the stone. The book in his offhand fell onto the ground before Allen, scuffing his boot and opening by its front cover. He was about to kick it away when he saw a familiar script engraved just behind the cover. It was Beric's name penned into the book. It took him many moments to move, but when he did so, it was almost as if he was moving with a mechanical stiffness as he freed the Khajiit. He took a night or two to think on it in his own way, withdrawing into himself. He decided not to remain too long, and felt a wanderlust to flee this place. The book haunted him as he continued to flee the land that brought this revelation, and brought so many questions.

He traveled through the lands of Cyrodiil, heading along the northward roads until he came upon the Black Road leading to Chorrol. He barely made it past a few bandits, and arrived in Chorrol. He stayed there for a few days, road weary. After his time was done, he decided to head northward along the Orange Road. He thought it would be a quiet journey before he came upon footpads robbing a Dunmer merchant. There were four in all, but Allen came upon them from their flanks in a surprise attack, opening with his sword bursting into flames and searing the leader in the back (mid speech). With that, he charged forward on his horse to cut one down before he could properly defend himself.

The Dunmer merchant attempted to flee, but was stabbed by one of the highwaymen as Allen fought the second, finishing them both individually after having received a rough gash across his head and shoulder, as well as a stroke upon his blade that had broken it through its center. He wiped the blood from his vision, but realized he could not heal the wound in the dying Dunmer merchant. The Dunmer thanked him for attempting to help, but asked two boons of Allen. To take a letter to the Dunmer's sister in Dawnstar (named Ferain, a smith), and to take his fine steel longsword as a gift for Allen's aid.

Allen traveled northward with his new blade and a final mission. He had just given the Dunmer's sister her letter, and has been in Dawnstar for only a day, having heard of a band led by one named Ashav...

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