Bardek Gildenhart

25

Nord

Male

The Steed

Combat

Warrior

If Bardeck could be described in one word, it would be 'rugged.' His black hair is wavy and barely falls short of reaching his broad shoulders. This coupled with his 5'oclock shadow give him an unkempt visage. The young man's body is muscled yet lean, his skin having bronzed from the constant work outdoors (and thanks to his father's blood). He prefers wearing sturdy leather trousers, loose fitting but snug at the waist, tied by a plain brown sash belt. When in combat or preparing, he wears iron armor over a linen tunic. Outside of combat, he simply wears the tunic, usually opened in the center. If he's alone he'll go shirtless, simply enjoying the breeze and the heat of the day. His height is fairly average for an Imperial, not short by any means but not particularly tall. His callused and scarred hands are rough but firm to the touch (much like the rest of him). His caramel eyes are the softest part of him, full of life and passion, fiery wonder, and sometimes innocent curiosity.

Bradeck can be described as a rough and ready warrior. His fierce independence and rough nature can only be matched by his loyalty to those he deems worthy. He's not particularly book smart, and can miss a few finer details of a more subtle plan when he's ready to fight in combat. Despite that, he's intuitive and introspective, with a quick mind and a dry wit. He has a quiet, a down to earth wisdom that often views the world in a pragmatic, useful manner. He's quite a passionate and creative individual when opened up to someone.

Due to his childhood being spent with male friends, and the only females he spent much time with were family members or female Orcs that would sooner hit him than hit on him, he's quite confused when it comes to romance. It's a coin toss on whether he gets very defensive and stand offish, or very stuttering and shy. It's just not his element. He respects warriors and those who pull their own weight or who show great skill. He's annoyed at laziness and dishonesty. He doesn't pick fights easily however, and only do it when he truly thinks its called for, and that's after one too many times of blundering. Not after strike one. Though he might be outspoken and blunt at his disapproval.

Bardeck was born in Anvil, to an Imperial ex-soldier father and a Nordic mother. They resided there for 7 years. Bardeck enjoyed swimming and exploring the surrounding woods, fascinated by the untold wilderness. At age 8, his mother's father passed away, and they moved to Skyrim in Markarth where his grandmother still resided to help her live and keep her company. His parents began a moderately successful trading business.

Bradeck wasn't quite used to the new surroundings, and was bullied by the Nordic children other than a select few whom he'd later name as his best friends. On one occasion, the other children began to rough him up near the back end of Markarth, when the Orcish smith knocked them back and bared his great fangs, causing them to flee. He gave some gruff advice to Bradeck, telling him not to let other kids push him around. He went back to his smithy.

Bradeck began to visit the smith every now and then, watching him at his work. Eventually they exchanged names. Rogath was the Orc's name, and he took a liking to Bradeck's inquisitive nature, allowing him to learn a few tricks of the trade while they spent time together through offhand advice. During this time, Bradeck would learn a few pointers of combat from his father after helping unload the carts coming to the city.

Bradeck was there when his grandmother passed away, holding his mother and crying with her when he was 14 years old. The death of his grandmother sparked questions on who he was in his mind. He felt a sense of pride to both his stoic northern blood and southern mercantile roots, but felt a kinship to Rogath and his rough nature. One day, Rogath announced he was traveling back to his homeland, and Bradeck begged him to let him go with him.

At first the Orsimer refused, but then lamented if Bradeck had the strength to go and fetch a bear pelt out in the wild. The boy felt elated, for he knew how to hunt and had the knowledge of a few bear caves, though he knew it would not be an easy quarry. He set off one morning, and found one of the bear frequented caverns. He entered, but instead found the bear dead already. He exploded further, but was discovered by a hungry vampire that had decided to hide here in order to terrorize the travelers of Markarth with relative ease.

Bradeck, armed with a battlaxe, fought for his life. He had wounded the Vampire's hip when the beast had underestimated him, but was quickly overwhelmed and thrown down the cavern. The Vampire leaped at him, intending to kill him. He used the spike on the end of his Battleaxe to impale the flying creature, bowling him over and then decapitating the bloodsucker. Rogath was then presented with both a Bear pelt and Vampire Ash. He had become Blood-Kin.

They traveled to Orsinium and lived in one of the outer lying clans. He grew in both body and spirit, learning advanced combat and Smithing techniques. His fit frame turned muscular, and his mind grew sharper with his exposure to various cultures. The Nordic city of Markarth had helped him deal somewhat with the rough living of Orisinium, truth be told. He was given a warhound Puppy named Gideon on his 21st birthday.

Age 21, he left and decided to become a mercenary and journeyman smith, heading through Hammerfell and working there in various jobs for a year before making it to Cyrodiil, living there ever since. He was recently hired to Kvatch as a caravan guard. A relatively simple job he had thought...

Adamiir Thiich

28

Breton

Male

The Tower

Magic/Stealth

Treasure Seeker

Tall and gangly, an inch or two below the height of the average Altmer when standing straight, with sharp bony features and his shoulders bent forward in a slight stoop, Adamiir’s form carries with it an aura of wrongness, as though he was put together by an amateur craftsman with pieces that never quite matched. His face is pale and clean shaven, his nose long and thin, pointed downwards, vaguely resembling the beak of a hawk. His mouth is a crooked slash of a thing, resting uncomfortably on his face. Set above high cheekbones and hollow cheeks are Adamiir’s eyes, dark and nervous, always jittering around, changing their focus every few seconds. Atop his head lies a thick mop of shoulder length blonde hair, dark gold, like that of a lion’s mane.

Unusually spry, despite his unwieldy appearance, Adamiir has built a small amount of muscle from a lifetime climbing trees in the Great Forest and pushing through its brush. Without concern for armor, he dons nothing more than a pair of leather shoes, sturdy but simple, brown cloth pants, for ease of movement without sacrificing durability, and a navy blue tunic, a belt of dark leather around the waist. The only other item of noticeable interest would be a plan silver amulet, given to Adamiir by his master.

To call Adamiir eccentric would be both accurate and simultaneously a vast oversimplification. When it comes to the fine art of conversation, he is woefully awkward and unskilled, usually coming off of as somewhat touched in the head to the more judgemental folk populating Nirn. Despite these limitations, Adamiir prides himself as a teacher, always ready to educate present company with any information he has relevant to the conversation… whether his input was requested or not. As stilted as it may be, Adamiir does try his best to extend goodwill to those deserving of it; he is often caught between the desire to do good unto others and do what is best for himself. It would be correct in stating that Adamiir has a selfish streak running parallel to his generous one.

A particular fascination of his is the Ayleids, and while his enthusiasm for history is great, the passion he feels for the Ayleids’ mysterious nature is unmatched. Sometimes when he thinks no one can see him, he pulls out a welkynd stone, as full of magicka as the day he first claimed it, and stares deep into the crystalline blue surface, mesmerized by its glow.

Not a stranger to peril, Adamiir is confident in his abilities to escape most dangers with ease. More specifically, he puts stock in his prowess with the school of illusion, being able to manipulate the minds of others to cause chaos (or nullify it) while he makes a speedy exit from the scene. In cases where trickery wouldn’t be enough to solve the problem Adamiir faces, he is skilled in the fine art of melting faces.

He has a habit of gripping at his pendant when nervous, and often mumbles the end of a thought out loud when not actively refraining from doing so.

Adamiir’s Biography - Prologue - An Attempted Theft

For Jeriyn and Talasa Broell, the graveyard of Falkreath was like a candy shop. And they, of course, were the kids. As Jeriyn told Talasa often, there were enough dead soldiers buried there to take over the entire hold, and all it would take was two skilled necromancers, such as themselves. And as Talasa told Jeriyn often, the whole mess had better be worth their while, or she’d take Adamiir and turn tail right back to Cyrodiil, where it wasn’t so stupid cold. This exchange was repeated often between the two, all the way from Kvatch to the very graveyard in question. Talasa watched Jeriyn work incredulously, her babe pressed into her bosom to keep him warm during the chill of night.

Shiiick, shuck, ksh

Shiiick, shuck, ksh

Shiiick, shuck, ksh

Again and again Jeriyn labored, digging himself deeper into the earth, closer to the dead.

Shiiick, shuck, ksh

Shhckk

“I’ve got it!” Jeriyn exclaimed, the sound of metal striking wood one that he knew well. He dropped to his knees and began to scoop the dirt out of the way by hand, and sure enough the telltale planks of a coffin were revealed to him. “This is just the beginning,” he whispered to himself. “Soon, we’ll have an army.” Jeriyn hoisted himself out of the grave, and stood on its precipice. “Talasa, fetch the axe, I need it.” Wordlessly, she turned to leave. Talasa hated it when Jeriyn ordered her around in that manner, but refusing would just make him angry.

Nighteye guided her safely to the edge of the graveyard and beyond, into the brush where their horse, Whisper, was hidden, the animal’s reins tied to a sturdy, low hanging branch. Talasa retrieved the demanded axe from the saddlebags, its heavy weight feeling awkward and alien in her grasp. She started back towards Jeriyn, but froze mid step only a few paces later. There were angry shouts originating from where she came, followed by the unmistakable sight of Jeriyn’s spellfire. Talasa sucked in her breath, clutching at Adamiir, hoping against hope that her husband would come out of this unscathed.

It wasn’t to be. There were no more signs of magicka expenditure, yet the angry voices remained, and they were drawing closer. Talasa looked down in horror at the tracks in the snow that would lead her pursuers straight to her location. She took action in an instant, struggling to free Whisper’s reigns from the tree yet still managing. Pulling herself into the saddle, she seized the reins with one hand while her other arm held Adamiir close to her chest. The spurs digging into Whisper’s flanks were enough to get her moving, going at a full gallop out of the wood and onto the main road, Kvatch bound.

A storm of arrows whizzed past Talasa and Whisper, the former releasing the reins and trusting the latter to guide them in order to curl themselves around their child. Fire erupted in Talasa’s thigh, then again under her right shoulder blade. Both times she lurched forward in the saddle, crying with pain. The second time she spat blood flecked spit onto Adamiir’s face.

It did not take long before Whisper began to tire, and the horse slowed itself to a trot. Talasa held her head up slightly, surveying her surroundings as best she could as her vision began to darken. The Nords had not pursued. She lowered her head again, fixing her eyes on Adamiir. Alive. Unharmed. Tucking her chin against her chest and closing her eyes, Talasa allowed herself one small smile.

The infant Adamiir stared up at his mother’s serene face with curiosity, her heart beats echoing in his right ear slowly weakening, barely kept aflutter by desperate healing magics.

Whisper trotted on.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part One - The Master

Morinus Thiich needed an apprentice. It was only a short decade ago that he himself was the student, learning from the travelling mages and scholars delving deep into the Ayleid ruins for wealth and knowledge. However, his old teachers were now retired or dead, and in Morinus’ line of work, someone that had your back made the difference between life and death. An Ayleid temple tucked into the mountains separating Skyrim and Cyrodiil would mark the last time Morinus ever ventured into one of those dungeons alone. Now he would travel back south and scout the province’s various counties for an eligible apprentice.

Life, however, had different plans in store.

A blood stained babe clutched in the grip of what appeared to be said babe’s dying mother was not what Morinus Thiich expected to discover on his return trek home from the Jerall Mountains. But sure enough, there they both were, one atop the other, motionless on the side of the road, whoever or whatever brought them here already long gone. Morinus rushed over to the two, discovering the woman’s wounds to be much worse than he anticipated. Her left leg was mangled beyond repair, and a smouldering carcass of… something lay a few feet away. She tilted her head towards Morinus, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She lifted her arms once, feebly, raising her child towards the mage, before lowering them again, and growing still. This was not the ideal process that Morinus hoped to use, but he had been looking for someone malleable to pass his knowledge down to. The aging Breton sighed, and seized the infant up into his arms.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part Two - Rocks and Spells, Spells and Rocks

A few years passed since Morinus first found his pupil by the roadside, and the child that was known as Adamiir quickly became Morinus’ most promising student. Any free time seemed to have the child entirely absorbed in his studies. Learning of the lore and history of the world was one of Adamiir’s great passions. What took precedence above all other activities, however, was Morinus’ rigorous training regime, climbing trees and scaling large boulders would teach Adamiir to always remain agile and light on his feet, skills that would be tested when trees and boulders became the dilapidated ruins of ancient ayleid temples. Being able to bend the minds of friend and foe alike would always be an invaluable aid to Adamiir, as would spells of light that would guide Adamiir safely through even the darkest of crypts. Paralysis spells would come in handy whenever a quick escape was needed, while invisibility spells would ensure that he could not be tracked easily. Indeed, the many fine intricacies of the illusion school of magic were a great passion of Morinus’, one that he would ensure was passed down to Adamiir.

However, there are always times in life when smoke and mirrors cannot deflect the truth, or for every tricky ace one has up their sleeve, their adversary has two more. The destruction school of magic was ideal for dealing with these incidents, and this too, Morinus taught to his young breton pupil. Aside from rocks and spells, he also saw it fit to give Adamiir some amount of proficiency in the art of trapping. When on the road away from extended periods of time, one must learn to be self sufficient. Though a few other bits and bobs were thrown in to occasionally mix up the schedule, the curriculum Adamiir would follow for years to come was set in stone.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part Three - First Flight

It was at fifteen years of age when Adamiir first accompanied Morinus on his excursions to the Ayleid ruins. The sheer scope of how vast the empire of the Heartland Elves once was awed him, whilst simultaneously instilling a strange sense of forlorn melancholy in his heart. Crumbling ruins crawling with the dead were all that remained. The underground locale shown to Adamiir was small, and of relatively simple design. Threats were few and far between, only a few shambling skeletons waiting to be sent to the next world. They were no match for Adamiir’s magic - Morinus was simply observing, waiting to see if his protégé was prepared for future excursions - and he suspected that Morinus chose this specific location for those exact reasons.

Adamiir had been correct in assuming that a safer, more straightforward ruin was selected for the purpose of acting as a final test, as revealed by Morinus during their departure. From that point on, Morinus and Adamiir traveled across Cyrodiil as equals, the lessons taught by the former serving the latter well, and only magnifying in their usefulness.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part Four - Homeward Bound

For many more years, Adamiir and Morinus lined their pockets pilfering the riches of a long dead civilization. Mages across the province paid handsomely for the ethereal blue welkynd stones, while a contact in the Imperial City rewarded the pair handsomely for the more uncommon treasures they discovered. Lord Umbacano proved to be a most gracious associate, treating the two to fine meals whenever a particularly intriguing artifact was delivered.

It seemed that whenever Adamiir and Morinus weren’t on the road, they were resting in an inn, the concept of home becoming a foreign term, just another pit stop whenever it was convenient for the route the two had undertaken. There came a time, however, when they were forced to return to their humble cabin in the Great Forest, a few miles down the road from the city of Chorrol. Morinus was growing weaker and more frail in his old age, turning a homecoming into an inevitable necessity. Adamiir’s trapping talents became more invaluable than ever, the furs and excess meats being traded with the local farmers for food, while anything he kept was consumed. During this time Adamiir made many stews, as it was easier for Morinus to consume. He became quite good at making them too.

Despite Morinus’ weakened state, there was still one thing he could offer his apprentice. That was the secrets of the Ayleid language, and for the next few years leading up to his passing, the two spent much of their time together going over all of the knowledge at Morinus’ disposal.

Morinus had urged Adamiir a few times, before he became sickly, to let him be and go make a fortune, but Adamiir always refused, insisting that his place was at Morinus’ side. He vowed to watch over his master for as long as necessary.

And he did.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part Five - Bad News, Good News, More Bad News

After Morinus’ death, Adamiir was on the road once again. He couldn’t deny it, the call, the call that both he and his old master had felt. The secrets and treasures of the Ayleids called to him, their siren song luring him ever closer to his destiny, and further into the depths of the earth. For three more years Adamiir traveled Cyrodiil and fell deeper under the spell of his beguiling mistress, the lost Ayleid culture. It was on a routine stop to Kvatch to drop off some welkynd stones at the local mages guild that he first heard of the Emperor’s assassination, as well as the festivities to be held in celebration of the Count’s birthday. On a whim, Adamiir decided to stick around and participate in the festivities.

That choice was very quickly turning out to be a grave mistake.

Tsavi Greenclaw.

Twenty-seven.

Cathay - Khajiit.

Female.

The Shadow.

Stealth.

Thief.

Tsavi has met a plethora of beautiful, majestic Khajiit in her lifetime, her mother included. They all seemed to have glossy, silken fur and muscles toned with clout – attentive unscarred ears and soft flushed noses and a long thick tail. Unfortunately, Tsavi does not consider herself to be one of these beautiful, majestic Khajiit – and others are likely to agree with her.

Tsavi has blue-grey fur covering her body that may seem soft to the touch, but upon closer inspection is coarse and rough against the fingers with patches missing on her hips and legs. Her white maw is almost always stained with grime and rusty red from days of perilous adventuring – and more than a few times of being caught with her fingers in a pocket, earning her a quick strike across the cheek. Tsavi’s nose is a dull grey-pink with flecks of black around her nostrils and the whiskers underneath are crooked and chaotic. Her right ear is soft and silky, almost perfect, if it weren’t for the small, barely noticeable nick at the bottom and her left ear is worse off with the tip completely missing and a larger more noticeable clump is missing at the edge of her ear. While the frame of her body is relatively healthy with lean muscles and a perfect posture, there is a certain hollowness in her cheeks that gives the impression that no matter how much she eats, they will never fill out. Greenclaw’s tail almost has the same quality as her mother – velvety fur, so soft a babe could sleep on it, and with a full fresh coat – if it wasn’t for the crooked nature of it. Near the tip of her tail is a crook that ruins the graceful swish of a Khajiit.

The Khajiit is a scarred and battered one, with multiple wounds – most not from battle – splattered around her body. There’s a light scar on her left cheek that looks like an upside down crescent moon and shines silvery among blue fur. Her arms are dotted with scars like an Imperial might be dotted with freckles, and she has forgotten where she received most of them. On her back is a large stretching scar that starts at her right shoulder blade and carves in an arc to her left hip and on her stomach is three vertical angry red stripes.

When it comes to clothes, Tsavi typically does not like to wear armor – it is too heavy and it affects her ability to move, but after a tussle that was a hair-breadth away from becoming a fatal encounter, Tsavi has taken to wearing light leather armor when travelling. Underneath her armor, she typically wears a belted vest, huntsman leather pants, and stitched leather shoes. Amongst her clothes, she is usually seen wearing a red silk hood over her head – she’s almost never seen without it on, covering her ears.

Idiosyncratic is the only word that could possibly be used to sum up Tsavi’s personality. She has a personality that is rather hard to forget. With the most inappropriate timing and a seeming lack of social awareness, people who have met Tsavi make it a point to avoid Tsavi – to be fair, though, she has more social awareness than people give her credit for. Furthermore, people are often put off her rather lewd comments and penchant for wearing disguises. On the plus side, everyone knows she’s the best damn storyteller when she wants to be.

In truth, when it comes to her personality, Tsavi is almost completely all about the fun life. She does not like heavy burdens on her shoulders or being responsible – she just wants to live life while she can and enjoy the time she has on Nirn – and a serious Tsavi means something extremely severe has happened as she is almost never serious. Tsavi is a playful khajiit who incorporates her creative and imaginative side in her playtime. One could describe Tsavi as spontaneous, especially considering she never really seems to have a plan and plays everything by ear. One of the most – or, perhaps, least – endearing qualities of Tsavi’s playful personality is her predilection for tricks and pranks. Tsavi is rather mischievous and loves a good joke, at the expense of everybody.

Of course, there are downsides to Tsavi’s personality – well, a lot of looks like a downside considering. The hyperactive and energetic khajiit is impulsive and irresponsible. Her emotional and hot-headed nature often ends up with Tsavi acting before thinking, attacking someone out in the open after an offensive slur thrown her way (she does not make a fine rug, thank you very much) or, conversely, getting involved with people she should not. Even more so, Tsavi tends to get distracted pretty easily, whether it be in a battle or during a heist in a rather dangerous wealthy merch’s house, and it has led to more than a few undesirable situations. At the end of the day, too, Tsavi will never take responsibility for her actions and would rather place the blame on someone else or find a way out of her punishment – she has a couple of Septims on her head, at the moment, after running from guards that caught her hands in more than a few pockets.

Overall, Tsavi is an optimistic person and no one can deny the certain charming quality to her sarcasm and wit – people either really enjoy Tsavi’s company or hate it more than they would hate that one race or the other. For the former, it certainly helps that Tsavi is rather friendly – but she can also be impersonal and secretive, always lending an ear but never a mouth (no matter how talkative she is, no one can really pinpoint much about her past). And for the latter, it certainly doesn’t help Tsavi’s case that she is ultimately very greedy and is more than likely to be predisposed to abandon her friends for a pot of gold – though the almost strategic mind Tsavi can sometimes have can be a little helpful here and there.

Tsavi Greenclaw was born in Khenarthi’s Roost, the Khajiit island off the coast of Elsweyr. To say that Tsavi had an easy life in Elsweyr would be of the most ironic phrases Tsavi has ever heard in the short time she has been alive.

Tsavi was the last cub to be born to Ma’raji Greenclaw and her husband – before Tsavi, there were two born before her. However, by the age of eight, Tsavi became an only child.

The eldest cub was killed by a kwama attack on the moon sugar plantation that the Greenclaw family lived on when Tsavi was five – Tsavi can still remember the attack like it was yesterday. Her mother had kept Tsavi clutched to her chest as they cowered inside the small hut – however, the other cubs were not quick enough to get inside. Tsavi remembers hearing the grunts of her father with his fishing spear – not quite adequate to deal with infestations of kwama, and he was no warrior but a simple farmer. There was a guttural scream that ripped through the sweltering night sky and Ma’raji had tossed her daughter to the side in order to scramble outside and fetch her babes. Though Tsavi was warned to stay inside, she wandered to the door with the morbid curiosity of a cat, pushed it open with the slightest struggle, in just the nick of time to see her older brother, Theazirr, die at the hands of the kwama. One large kwama had seized his shoulder blade between its pincers and gnawingly, terribly, and excruciatingly began to pull. Sensing the weakened prey, two more kwama latched onto his leg and neck respectively. Tsavi watched as her brother’s limbs were torn from his body and his throat mangled with furred flesh scraps hanging from his neck with only the thinnest corded, muscled thread holding it on.

The kwama attack had severely crippled the family in more than one way. Tsavi’s father’s leg had been mutilated during the attack which made their moon sugar farming that much harder for the family – and the thirteen-year-old Theazirr was put to rest, effectively cutting down the potential family members to support the family. The family had to work harder to survive, for food and money, now that they were almost hilariously undermanned. Even young, six-year-old Tsavi begun to go to the beach to fetch small fish for bait and did small jobs around the plantation. No matter how much they worked, however, it was hard for the small Khajiit family to make ends meet.

Against Ma’raji’s better judgement, Tsavi’s father begun to make skooma from their moon sugar supply in order to raise the prices and to avoid losing their farm. Ma’raji was against the practice and, subsequently, spent most of her time in the house, secluded, sewing outfits for Theazirr. No matter how well made they were, Ma’raji refused to sell them, but instead packed them away in a chest that was locked, the key hidden where only Ma’raji could find it. With Ma’raji using so much leather and thread, eating up their supplies but not making any gold to further the Greenclaw bank, Tsavi’s father reluctantly taught Tsavi and her last brother, Thejidarr, how to make skooma in order to make more profit. Thejidarr and Tsavi were young, the former being only nine and the latter having been seven, so irresponsibility should have been expected by Tsavi’s father – much more should have been expected. Thejidarr and Tsavi were not addicted to skooma, but every now and then they would dip into the supplies when the fights between Ma’raji and their father were too much to bear.

Tsavi lost Thejidarr when she was eight. They had been spotting ships along the beach, pretending that they were pirates who would be going on a voyage far, far away from Khenarthi’s Roost – perhaps to Skyrim or Hammerfell, but they mostly dreamed about Cyrodiil. Thejidarr had snuck two bottles of skooma from the inventory without their father’s notice and they had drunk the narcotic, figuring nothing could go wrong. It was hot that day – extremely hot, hotter than usual – and so it was only natural that they go in the water to swim around and cool off. However, Thejidarr, his intelligence slowed by the skooma and his inhibitions rather loose, had swam too far out and was caught by the tide. Tsavi tried to swim towards him, to save him, but she was such a small child and she was too weak. Instead, she ran home to her father and told him about Thejidarr. The two of them raced to the beach, but by the time they arrived, Thejidarr was nowhere to be seen.

Three days later, Thejidarr’s body washed up on the shore.

That, my dear friends, is how an eight-year-old Khajiit cub gets addicted to skooma. She had a ready supply of it and, after their second child’s death, Tsavi’s mother and father didn’t pay much attention to life at all. Tsavi’s father only moved through the motions – he was there, but he wasn’t. He saw Tsavi, but he didn’t see Tsavi. Tsavi’s mother holed up in her room, sewing clothes, staring vacantly at her needle and thread. She didn’t even look at Tsavi.

Years blurred by like that. They existed, but they didn’t live. Most of it, Tsavi can’t remember – there was very little time in between that she was sober. None of them talked to each other, not really. Tsavi can’t even remember her mother’s voice – but, at night, when eating the fish that she caught with her own hands, Tsavi would just stare at her mother. Her mother was very beautiful, you see. She was majestic and graceful, even when dead inside. Her fur was soft and silky – Tsavi made sure, even through her drugged haze, to brush her mother’s fur once a day and wash it twice a week – and her body was scarless, though perhaps her soul wasn’t. Her father wasn’t so handsome and beautiful like her mother. He had a limp in his leg, and his fur had started to fall out from stress. His claws were chipped and cracked from constantly working and a large chunk of his ear was missing from the kwama attack all those years ago.

Tsavi was twelve – or, at least, she thinks she is, it’s kind of hard to keep track. Rather than spend a night with her soulless, silent family, Tsavi had dipped her blood in skooma and fell asleep on the beach, in the exact spot that Thejidarr’s body washed up. When she woke up in the morning, her small supply of skooma gone, Tsavi reluctantly wandered back to their hut. Her father wasn’t in the fields working, something that should have tipped Tsavi off, but it didn’t. Rather, Tsavi didn’t notice anything at that moment – she felt like she was slowly drifting in the sea; she wasn’t in her body, she was everywhere else, anywhere else, but she wasn’t there.

The only thing Tsavi thought, when she opened the door, was that her mother was beautiful and her father was ugly, even in death. Tsavi stepped over the contorted and maimed body of her father, whose skin was scraped by claws that dug so deep she could see beyond the bone and flesh and into the organs. She only blinked at the still corpse of her mother swinging side to side by the noose around her neck, dried blood caked onto her hands. Instead, Tsavi gathered her things and all the skooma she could find. She almost left right then, but before she did, she scooped the red silk hood from her mother’s chest and left the plantation.

Tsavi found the first ship heading to Cyrodiil that she could and stowed away in the leaking storage bulk, never to set foot on Khenarthi’s Roost again. It was only a day away from Cyrodiil that her family’s death caught up to her and she cried her eyes out and drank more than half her supply of skooma, enough to kill her.

When she woke up the next morning, still alive, Tsavi took that as a sign and tossed the rest of her skooma supply overboard and departed her old life for her new one.

There was no way for Tsavi to make money in this new strange land, and so she started the life of a common thief – though she eventually started risking more when her skills began to heighten. She moved from city to city, never staying long, and in the process got more than a scrape and bruise, and more than a little trouble for a coin. There were times that life became rather hard for her, and she returned to her bad habit every now and then, but she had a general rule to stay away.

During one of these times, Tsavi had stolen a horse somewhere – she couldn’t remember where. Tsavi would have thought nothing of the horse and had let the horse run free wherever it wanted, she was better off on foot for shifty reasons. However, when the horse pushed her rucksack of skooma into a lake, Tsavi decided to keep her and affectionately named her Omabi – though she was more than a little pissed about losing her rucksack and having to buy more.

Currently, Tsavi and Omabi have found their way to Kvatch. What with the arena nearby, Tsavi considered it to be a good venture for some easy gold from richer folks.

None, _{though a good healing spell would really go a long way for this Khajiit.}

Aveca Ice-Bear

26

Nord

Female

The Steed

Magic/Stealth

Healer

Aveca stands at about 5’6” tall. She has the characteristic pale white skin of the Nords, as well as fair coloured features. Her hair is a light white-blonde colour with some yellowish tones. She has choppily cut bangs (done herself with a sharpened knife, quite carefully) that swoop in around her face, down to about nose length. The rest of her hair is usually kept either in a braid or in a messy bun, but when left long it goes down just past her armpits. Her eyes are a blue-gray tone, and her face is lightly freckled.

She is also able-bodied. She wouldn't get called a muscular person in general – you wouldn’t catch her in chainmail – but her body is accustomed to exercise and comfortable with the weight of drawing a bowstring. She never let herself get lax just because she practices magic.

As far as scarring and blemishes, Aveca has few. As a healer, she has usually been able to heal any more recent scars, but she has some very light markings (faded by time) up her legs and arms from the usual childhood rough activity and learning to hunt in her younger years. Between her youth and her training, she got one significant scar, which is a simple gash mark on her leg from a run in with a bear.

Aveca has little need for armor. She tries to avoid direct combat, so armor would in the end only inhibit the way she tries to weave around a battle and aid the injured. She prefers simple clothes, leggings and a tunic, or sometimes a dress or skirt. These she always wears over leggings and with boots, as she likes to be prepared for any situation.

Aveca is a healer, and that is her passion, but it could in no way define all she is. She believes in aiding the wounded and sick, and wants to go out across the world and help good people, but she also has a fairly strong sense of justice and can be harsh with it at times. She won’t aid you regardless of who you are on the basis of you being a living being. After all, hunter and healer don’t tend to correlate. She isn’t afraid to throw fire around if it comes down to a fight, but she much prefers to avoid one. The bow she carries, she prefers to use for hunting than on people. Her passion is much more around the idea of widespread misery and sickness; her interests lie in sickness and disease, in the curing of plagues and foreign illnesses. She has an apt and interest for academic learning, but can become bored easily if it isn’t related to her interests (being healing, alchemy, living things, cultures, languages).

Despite this, she tends to help first and ask questions later. She will heal someone without a second thought in an instant, because she would rather help someone and expect them to be a good person than not take the risk in case they may be less savory. However, if ever she was betrayed she would retaliate in full force.

Overall, Aveca is a happy and optimistic person. She wants to travel and experience the world, to meet, to help, and to socialize with people from everywhere there is. She is generally willing to engage in a conversation at any time and with anyone, as long as she isn’t trying to heal. She takes her work seriously and doesn’t like distractions while she is actively doing a spell.

One thing is that you don’t want to get into an argument with her. She’ll get heated over anything she has an opinion on, and she won’t let go, either.

Katla and Eirn were rather typical Nords. They met in Markarth, where Katla lived with her family (merchants), and Eirn travelled through as a hunter selling meats. He trekked back and forth across Skyrim all his life, with his parents and then later on his own. He met Katla at the market there, and found himself coming to Markarth more and more often. Her family disapproved, but they married and she too to travelling with him. She enjoyed the adventure. When Aveca and her sister,
Laisa, were born, their parents stopped for a time at a camp they built outside of Whiterun. It provided some stabililty for the young girls.

As they grew older, their parents started travelling with them more. They had a cart and tents, so it wasn’t as though they lived in total discomfort. Aveca was quite fond of the dirt and the travel, whereas Laisa was jealous of the nicely dressed children they met in cities. Over the years, Aveca learned hunting from their father from a very young age, and their mother taught Laisa the ways of business so she could go out on her own someday, without having to depend on someone else.

When she was 13, Aveca asked her family to take her north to the College of Winterhold to learn, and they did. Her mother was a firm believer in doing what you want to do. At first try, the nice man at the gate told her and her mother that they simply couldn't let in a totally untrained mind, and at such an age, though he would have liked to. He asked her to gain some preliminary knowledge and to return in a few years. Her mother was frustrated, and, determined for her daughter to have what she wanted, they traveled to Markarth and left Aveca with a mage she knew from her life there. He was an Alteration mage named Aenar who worked in the temple. She spent a year and a half with him and helped him with his work, while developing a base knowledge of how magic works and how to preform it. She learned a solid base of novice spells and returned to the College with her family just as she was almost 15. This time, they let her in to learn more after she demonstrated that she had the skill for learning it.

For the first few years she studied generally and with vigor, but when she was 17, her family travelled north to tell her that her mother had died of an illness. She never got the chance to say goodbye because of the distance. Her sister was still ill with the same sickness, however it was less advanced and the mages in Winderhold healed her. This ignited Aveca’s passion more specifically for healing and she undertook learning all she possibly could about it. She had a knack for magic and dedicated her whole life to it from the age of 17 until she was 24. She still kept hunting on as a hobby, something she did for an afternoon every week, maybe.

As for Laisa, when she was 18 she made some business connections and set up a shop in Riften.

When Aveca was 24, she herself deemed her training temporarily complete. She had a very advanced training in healing, as well as alchemy and alteration, but she didn’t have the same knack for the rest of the schools and she didn’t focus on them nearly as much. She left the college of her own accord and again travelled Skyrim with her father for a good number of months until she passed south to Cyrodill from Riften, after a visit with her sister.

Once there, she used a mixture of hunting, healing, and alchemy to make an income. She started in the north in Burma, and travelled south through Chorrol, Skingrad, and finally Kvatch. During this time she travelled very light, with a sac on her back for various alchemical pursuits, and very little else. She stayed in inns in the cities as long as she could afford to do so.

Restoration: Heal Minor Wounds, Major Respite, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Heal Superior Wounds, Devour Health, Cure Disease, Superior Convalescence
Alteration: Lightning Shield, Water Breathing, Water Walking, Protect Other,
Destruction: Electric Touch, Flash Bolt, Frost Touch
Illusion: Illuminate, Soothing Touch