Just out of curiosity, if I were to make a Khajiit, not that I am, but I've always wondered about a name I once gave my Skyrim character. I gave her the name, Zakyra.
If someone were to submit a CS with that name for a Khajiit, what would be your responses? I mean, would it even be acceptable?
Just out of curiosity, if I were to make a Khajiit, not that I am, but I've always wondered about a name I once gave my Skyrim character. I gave her the name, Zakyra.
If someone were to submit a CS with that name for a Khajiit, what would be your responses? I mean, would it even be acceptable?
I don't mind the naming conventions as long as it sounds phonetically relevant. I mean, I named Sadri that just to see if I could fit a Turkish name into the RP.
@Dervish Master of Lore, your assistance is required.
@Peik Somehow I got away with Sevine for a Nord name. But my original name for her sister was Leiliana, Grand-Daddy Cold-Meister told me to drop the E or make it Leila. Kinda why I was curious about Zakyra. Could it be done? Could we smuggle it in? Lol
Just out of curiosity, if I were to make a Khajiit, not that I am, but I've always wondered about a name I once gave my Skyrim character. I gave her the name, Zakyra.
If someone were to submit a CS with that name for a Khajiit, what would be your responses? I mean, would it even be acceptable?
I'd be okay with it. Usually I just look at established character names from the game and loosely ballpark something in there, although Khajiit names don't typically use y's. It would probably be something closer to Zakhira, or Zakira, or Zakriha or something along those lines.
<Snipped quote by MacabreFox>
I don't mind the naming conventions as long as it sounds phonetically relevant. I mean, I named Sadri that just to see if I could fit a Turkish name into the RP.
inb4dervschokesme
I try not to cross you too much lest you revive the Ottoman Empire again.
But srsly, Sadri sounds like something you'd hear in the game for Dunmer names, so it's a happy coincidence. ;D
If anyone would know, it'd be Dervs imo.
I know everything. It's part of my charm.
I managed to name a Breton Gelina, which was a nonsense name for a D&D character I made when I was 12. :y
I'd be okay with it. Usually I just look at established character names from the game and loosely ballpark something in there, although Khajiit names don't typically use y's. It would probably be something closer to Zakhira, or Zakira, or Zakriha or something along those lines.
Would there be any .'. in it? Say, Za'kira, for example?
I try not to cross you too much lest you revive the Ottoman Empire again.
But srsly, Sadri sounds like something you'd hear in the game for Dunmer names, so it's a happy coincidence. ;D
the jihad slumbers
Jokes aside, I wouldn't have gone with the name if it didn't sound Dunmer. Plus we got Sadrith Mora in Vvardenfell, and UESP tells me that Sadrith Mora is 'mushroom forest' in Dunmeris, which would relate Sadri's name with... mushrooms.
Jokes aside, I wouldn't have gone with the name if it didn't sound Dunmer. Plus we got Sadrith Mora in Vvardenfell, and UESP tells me that Sadrith Mora is 'mushroom forest' in Dunmeris, which would relate Sadri's name with... mushrooms.
Best name I ever saw was Nyan Khat. That was the name that someone submitted in my old Skyrim Roleplay, as a serious Khajiit character. I had a good laugh. Then rejected him.
This topic will be on your character's spritual animal*.
*Note: you may also write about your character's attitude towards animals in general, or their view of nature in general, or their attachment to a certain geographical location**.
**Extra note: Bland is the new creative; try writing in essay form.
Well, I went for the 'certain geographical location' clause in the prompt, but I'm not sure if I managed to do it right. Wanted to write it in essay form but failed, changed it into the usual.
‘’Are you absolutely sure that you want to speak to the mer, sir? Moriche are no more than gritty, miserable ignoramuses. Especially this one, we've already interrogated him.’’
‘’You know very well that it is in the Dominion’s interests to learn all we can from our foes. We have an assassin on our hands, do we not? No doubt it was a premeditated attack, given how our foe came out of nowhere and started a barber shop. Of course, those damned Imperials did not expect us to see the connection with this Sadri fellow and the Penitus Oculatus. I am certain a trained assassin such as he would be well versed in resisting torture. This new method developed by Zigmundil Freudhar tells us even more than what they know about themselves!’’
Ganillon raised an eyebrow. What he had heard of the mer was nothing but rumors of his obsession with sexual organs and an alleged addiction to ground-up Moon Sugar snuff, or as its inventors the Bosmer called it, Co-Coinn.
Larendil saw the doubt in Ganillon’s eyes. He wasn’t the only one questioning the efficiency of this method. He knew all too well that was why he was no longer at Alinor, but instead in this damned outpost off Woodhearth. Thankfully his uncles had pulled some strings to give him a position prodigious enough to order these fools around.
‘’Bah, what would a simple warden like you know. Just bring him in,’’ he said to Ganillon with a dismissing gesture. The well-dressed, martial warden left and sighed in annoyance the moment he shut the door, no doubt frustrated about this fifty-year old brat being a superior to decorated veterans of the Great War.
‘’Take the damn Moriche here. Our esteemed superior wishes to see him.’’
When the prisoner was first brought in, Larendil wanted to protest, because from what he saw they had brought in a flesh Atronach, or somehow brought in a Bonewalker from Morrowind, so torn up was the arrival’s face and skin. It was only after the shackled individual walked a few steps closer to the light that he managed to make out the pointed ears and red eyes that marked a Dunmer. It seemed that his subordinates had tried to make the man talk through more conventional methods. How base and dreadfully foolish.
‘’Sit down,’’ Larendil commanded. The Dunmer practically threw himself onto the velvet-laden sofa, gasping in pain and a concentrated effort to feel the most he could of the fabric. Compared to the cobblestone floor on which he had been sleeping on for the last few days, this was almost heavenly.
‘’You are Sadri Beleth, correct? My subordinates have long mentioned their inability to get any leads out of you. Even our esteemed Inquisitors have conceded that their magic has failed to find any clues in your feeble brain.’’
Sadri looked at the man, mouth slightly ajar - the last interrogator had dislocated his jaw with a strong kick. With his cataract-laden eye, hunched back and hanging neck, he looked more like a puppet, or a recently reanimated corpse.
‘’Ah, playing hard to get, I see. Don’t worry, I am not here to hurt you. Please, tell me about your childhood.’’
Sadri’s good eye opened wide. ‘’What?’’ He slurred, trying to push back the spit gathering in his mouth with his tongue. It seemed to him that the Thalmor, frustrated with the ineffectiveness of their treatment (Mer such as Sadri often received lighter punishments, thanks to the privilege of their race), had decided to go with a much crueler and bone-chilling torture method – taking the piss with him. Truly there was no method more unpredictable.
‘’Your childhood,’’ the Altmer responded flatly.
Sadri blinked repeatedly. Not wishing to anger his latest interrogator and be forced to leave his latest seating (boy, the sofa was comfortable!), he took a deep, painful breath, and then began speaking after his interrogator inked his quill and gave him the go-ahead with a graceful gesture.
‘’Well, I was born in Bergama about fifty-sixty something years back. I really don’t remember much… I used to wander around with the local kids, play games, didn’t do much. Parents were well-off, they tried to get me educated instead of sending me off to be an apprentice.’’
‘’Interesting, interesting, never thought Dunmer parenting could be anything more than horrid. You weren’t specialized in your education, correct?’’
‘’I guess not?’’
‘’…Lackluster education, half-taught…’’ Larendil muttered to himself, weighing every word in his mouth before scrawling them to the paper in front of him. Sadri would have protested, but he assumed that he did not have the privilege. The Mer interrogating him right now felt like a kid pretending to play doctor with a toy – don’t budge, and he’ll break your limbs. Go with the flow, he’ll leave you, or so Sadri thought.
He thought wrong.
‘’Right. Now close your eyes. When you think ‘Bergama’, what comes to your mind?’’
Sadri was hesitant to close his eyes, expecting that the mer would electrocute him the moment he did so, but the childish naiveté in his voice convinced him, plus, he didn’t have any other choice, he complied.
‘’I, uh, the Old Well.’’
The Old Well was a ruin, overlooking the vast stretch of desert that lay beyond the southern edge of Bergama – some of the older children had come up with a rumor that the Old Well was once a tower, yet a volcano explosion had devoured the old city and left nothing but the tip of its tallest spire, that being the Old Well. Sadri remembered how his grandfather’s face had gone pale when he had asked whether the story was true or not. It had convinced him in his childhood that the story was correct.
‘’And what may this Old Well be?’’
‘’It was a well,’’ Sadri retorted, before hurriedly continuing into a more elaborate answer in fear of repercussions. ‘’Used to be a common spot for kids to play – at night, it was a teenage lovers’ meeting spot. Friend of mine Najad, he used to work as a carpenter’s apprentice back then – we used to make wooden ‘love idols’ for kids to buy, told them if they stashed it under their beds, the girl they loved would love them back. Spent that money on sweets, toys and wooden swords.’’
Larendil rolled his eyes at just how banal the excuse was. The Penitus Oculatus had instilled a quite believable story in this man’s mind – perhaps a sleeper agent? That was why this method was perfect. Picking apart semantics and themes, reactions… to know more about one than one oneself could know, no tool was more powerful.
‘’Hmm, hmm…’’ Larendil mused as he kept writing. ‘’And what comes to mind when you think of this Old Well?’’
Sadri took a breath, unable to sigh, in fear of the possible wrath of his interrogator.
‘’I had a crush of my own, Nevyna. We used to meet there. His father did not like my father, though, we never got together.’’
He felt sullen all of a sudden, not wishing to disclose any more details about his previous love. When he had returned to Bergama with the onset of the Great War, Nevyna’s husband had gone off to war. When news of his death reached the town in 173, Sadri and Nevyna’s relationship had made an attempt to rekindle itself, in what had begun as sincere consolation for a past friend. Unfortunately for Nevyna, her child had never taken a liking to Sadri. It had never taken off.
Here, now, Sadri was in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, Valenwood, waiting for his execution, and it was almost as if this new interrogator was his instrument of death, and this new instrument had chosen to take the metaphor of making his life ‘flash before his eyes’ literally. First his childhood, now his teenage years…
‘’And what of Nevyna?’’
‘’What about her?’’ Sadri asked, slightly defensive in tone.
‘’Tell me about her.’’
‘’She was a nice girl.’’
Larendil raised his eyebrows and lowered his head, looking derisively at Sadri.
‘’…Yeah, she was a nice girl. Pale skin for a Dunmer, thoughtful eyes, hooked nose. Dumber than she looked, but she had good intentions.’’
‘’…Mhm, yes, yes. It’s all good now, making itself more and more blatant.’’
‘’What?’’ Sadri asked, confused.
‘’Why, isn’t it obvious? The Well, teenage loves, thoughtful eyes… It all points to your love for your mother. Your focus on women, water and wells, these are all symptoms for desire for the vagina, why, it’s obvious. You want to be your father; you’re envious of him for having your mother. Not to worry, though, it’s all normal. I’ll have a more comprehensive analysis after a full month.’’
‘’A month?’’
‘’Yes, yes, we’ll have to postpone your execution for a month, but it’s all good. Your life may be forfeit, but you’ll leave an excellent psych evaluation behind. No better legacy... I can see it now, Larendil’s Assassin! You’ll be famous, my friend.’’
Sadri spent a moment in pain to spring up his muscles, and threw himself forward with all his strength to land a punch on Larendil’s face. When the Altmer fell off his chair with the impact, Sadri slumped over the table on which he had been writing to jump on the man, but found it impossible to raise his legs high enough to vault over it – pulling himself over the table, he fell on Larendil on his face, thankfully elbow first. He heard a loud crack.
Outside the door, Ganillon watched the debacle from the covered window on the door, smirking.
‘’Shall we intervene, sir?’’ One of the guards asked.
‘’Maybe in a few moments.’’
Sadri’s actions earned him a solitary confinement cell, with a mattress to sleep upon and an extra meal. He also got his execution expedited, from a month to two weeks’ time.
Larendil lost his position as the Master Warden of Seven-Roots Dungeon after the eponymous breakout that occurred a week later his failed psychoanalysis session. He wrote a heavily embellished paper on his experiences.
Ganillon was reinstated as Master Warden of Seven-Roots Dungeon after Larendil was expelled. He has since retired and returned to Alinor.
Well, I went for the 'certain geographical location' clause in the prompt, but I'm not sure if I managed to do it right. Wanted to write it in essay form but failed, changed it into the usual.
‘’Are you absolutely sure that you want to speak to the mer, sir? Moriche are no more than gritty, miserable ignoramuses. Especially this one, we've already interrogated him.’’
‘’You know very well that it is in the Dominion’s interests to learn all we can from our foes. We have an assassin on our hands, do we not? No doubt it was a premeditated attack, given how our foe came out of nowhere and started a barber shop. Of course, those damned Imperials did not expect us to see the connection with this Sadri fellow and the Penitus Oculatus. I am certain a trained assassin such as he would be well versed in resisting torture. This new method developed by Zigmundil Freudhar tells us even more than what they know about themselves!’’
Ganillon raised an eyebrow. What he had heard of the mer was nothing but rumors of his obsession with sexual organs and an alleged addiction to ground-up Moon Sugar snuff, or as its inventors the Bosmer called it, Co-Coinn.
Larendil saw the doubt in Ganillon’s eyes. He wasn’t the only one questioning the efficiency of this method. He knew all too well that was why he was no longer at Alinor, but instead in this damned outpost off Woodhearth. Thankfully his uncles had pulled some strings to give him a position prodigious enough to order these fools around.
‘’Bah, what would a simple warden like you know. Just bring him in,’’ he said to Ganillon with a dismissing gesture. The well-dressed, martial warden left and sighed in annoyance the moment he shut the door, no doubt frustrated about this fifty-year old brat being a superior to decorated veterans of the Great War.
‘’Take the damn Moriche here. Our esteemed superior wishes to see him.’’
When the prisoner was first brought in, Larendil wanted to protest, because from what he saw they had brought in a flesh Atronach, or somehow brought in a Bonewalker from Morrowind, so torn up was the arrival’s face and skin. It was only after the shackled individual walked a few steps closer to the light that he managed to make out the pointed ears and red eyes that marked a Dunmer. It seemed that his subordinates had tried to make the man talk through more conventional methods. How base and dreadfully foolish.
‘’Sit down,’’ Larendil commanded. The Dunmer practically threw himself onto the velvet-laden sofa, gasping in pain and a concentrated effort to feel the most he could of the fabric. Compared to the cobblestone floor on which he had been sleeping on for the last few days, this was almost heavenly.
‘’You are Sadri Beleth, correct? My subordinates have long mentioned their inability to get any leads out of you. Even our esteemed Inquisitors have conceded that their magic has failed to find any clues in your feeble brain.’’
Sadri looked at the man, mouth slightly ajar - the last interrogator had dislocated his jaw with a strong kick. With his cataract-laden eye, hunched back and hanging neck, he looked more like a puppet, or a recently reanimated corpse.
‘’Ah, playing hard to get, I see. Don’t worry, I am not here to hurt you. Please, tell me about your childhood.’’
Sadri’s good eye opened wide. ‘’What?’’ He slurred, trying to push back the spit gathering in his mouth with his tongue. It seemed to him that the Thalmor, frustrated with the ineffectiveness of their treatment (Mer such as Sadri often received lighter punishments, thanks to the privilege of their race), had decided to go with a much crueler and bone-chilling torture method – taking the piss with him. Truly there was no method more unpredictable.
‘’Your childhood,’’ the Altmer responded flatly.
Sadri blinked repeatedly. Not wishing to anger his latest interrogator and be forced to leave his latest seating (boy, the sofa was comfortable!), he took a deep, painful breath, and then began speaking after his interrogator inked his quill and gave him the go-ahead with a graceful gesture.
‘’Well, I was born in Bergama about fifty-sixty something years back. I really don’t remember much… I used to wander around with the local kids, play games, didn’t do much. Parents were well-off, they tried to get me educated instead of sending me off to be an apprentice.’’
‘’Interesting, interesting, never thought Dunmer parenting could be anything more than horrid. You weren’t specialized in your education, correct?’’
‘’I guess not?’’
‘’…Lackluster education, half-taught…’’ Larendil muttered to himself, weighing every word in his mouth before scrawling them to the paper in front of him. Sadri would have protested, but he assumed that he did not have the privilege. The Mer interrogating him right now felt like a kid pretending to play doctor with a toy – don’t budge, and he’ll break your limbs. Go with the flow, he’ll leave you, or so Sadri thought.
He thought wrong.
‘’Right. Now close your eyes. When you think ‘Bergama’, what comes to your mind?’’
Sadri was hesitant to close his eyes, expecting that the mer would electrocute him the moment he did so, but the childish naiveté in his voice convinced him, plus, he didn’t have any other choice, he complied.
‘’I, uh, the Old Well.’’
The Old Well was a ruin, overlooking the vast stretch of desert that lay beyond the southern edge of Bergama – some of the older children had come up with a rumor that the Old Well was once a tower, yet a volcano explosion had devoured the old city and left nothing but the tip of its tallest spire, that being the Old Well. Sadri remembered how his grandfather’s face had gone pale when he had asked whether the story was true or not. It had convinced him in his childhood that the story was correct.
‘’And what may this Old Well be?’’
‘’It was a well,’’ Sadri retorted, before hurriedly continuing into a more elaborate answer in fear of repercussions. ‘’Used to be a common spot for kids to play – at night, it was a teenage lovers’ meeting spot. Friend of mine Najad, he used to work as a carpenter’s apprentice back then – we used to make wooden ‘love idols’ for kids to buy, told them if they stashed it under their beds, the girl they loved would love them back. Spent that money on sweets, toys and wooden swords.’’
Larendil rolled his eyes at just how banal the excuse was. The Penitus Oculatus had instilled a quite believable story in this man’s mind – perhaps a sleeper agent? That was why this method was perfect. Picking apart semantics and themes, reactions… to know more about one than one oneself could know, no tool was more powerful.
‘’Hmm, hmm…’’ Larendil mused as he kept writing. ‘’And what comes to mind when you think of this Old Well?’’
Sadri took a breath, unable to sigh, in fear of the possible wrath of his interrogator.
‘’I had a crush of my own, Nevyna. We used to meet there. His father did not like my father, though, we never got together.’’
He felt sullen all of a sudden, not wishing to disclose any more details about his previous love. When he had returned to Bergama with the onset of the Great War, Nevyna’s husband had gone off to war. When news of his death reached the town in 173, Sadri and Nevyna’s relationship had made an attempt to rekindle itself, in what had begun as sincere consolation for a past friend. Unfortunately for Nevyna, her child had never taken a liking to Sadri. It had never taken off.
Here, now, Sadri was in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, Valenwood, waiting for his execution, and it was almost as if this new interrogator was his instrument of death, and this new instrument had chosen to take the metaphor of making his life ‘flash before his eyes’ literally. First his childhood, now his teenage years…
‘’And what of Nevyna?’’
‘’What about her?’’ Sadri asked, slightly defensive in tone.
‘’Tell me about her.’’
‘’She was a nice girl.’’
Larendil raised his eyebrows and lowered his head, looking derisively at Sadri.
‘’…Yeah, she was a nice girl. Pale skin for a Dunmer, thoughtful eyes, hooked nose. Dumber than she looked, but she had good intentions.’’
‘’…Mhm, yes, yes. It’s all good now, making itself more and more blatant.’’
‘’What?’’ Sadri asked, confused.
‘’Why, isn’t it obvious? The Well, teenage loves, thoughtful eyes… It all points to your love for your mother. Your focus on women, water and wells, these are all symptoms for desire for the vagina, why, it’s obvious. You want to be your father; you’re envious of him for having your mother. Not to worry, though, it’s all normal. I’ll have a more comprehensive analysis after a full month.’’
‘’A month?’’
‘’Yes, yes, we’ll have to postpone your execution for a month, but it’s all good. Your life may be forfeit, but you’ll leave an excellent psych evaluation behind. No better legacy... I can see it now, Larendil’s Assassin! You’ll be famous, my friend.’’
Sadri spent a moment in pain to spring up his muscles, and threw himself forward with all his strength to land a punch on Larendil’s face. When the Altmer fell off his chair with the impact, Sadri slumped over the table on which he had been writing to jump on the man, but found it impossible to raise his legs high enough to vault over it – pulling himself over the table, he fell on Larendil on his face, thankfully elbow first. He heard a loud crack.
Outside the door, Ganillon watched the debacle from the covered window on the door, smirking.
‘’Shall we intervene, sir?’’ One of the guards asked.
‘’Maybe in a few moments.’’
Sadri’s actions earned him a solitary confinement cell, with a mattress to sleep upon and an extra meal. He also got his execution expedited, from a month to two weeks’ time.
Larendil lost his position as the Master Warden of Seven-Roots Dungeon after the eponymous breakout that occurred a week later his failed psychoanalysis session. He wrote a heavily embellished paper on his experiences.
Ganillon was reinstated as Master Warden of Seven-Roots Dungeon after Larendil was expelled. He has since retired and returned to Alinor.
1x Thank
