It's quite fitting that Gaius looks as he does, considering his career. Standing at an imposing and unusual height (for an Imperial, at least) of 6'3" and weighing a little over 200 pounds, his broad, toned physique makes him look almost more as a wall than a man. His hair is neatly trimmed and fairly long for a soldier, cut in a hard, perfect line where his neck meets his spine, and much shorter in the front, falling in a chocolate-brown cut well over his hard, watery-brown eyes. His nose is aquiline and crooked to the left near the tip, set over a pale, thin mouth and a square jaw that looks like it could be used as an anvil, wrapped up in a combination of beard and mustache just prominent enough to make him look older.

His olive-toned skin is well tanned and leathery from long marches under the sun. That skin wraps a series of muscles that would be the envy of every adolescent boy in the Empire. From his powerful arms and fists that look like they could crush oxen, to his pronounced abdominals, to the calves that feel like bricks covered in a thin layer of skin, and everything in between, this is by far one of Gaius' most pronounced traits. Nothing about this man seems like it could use the descriptor 'small.'

As befits a seasoned campaigner, he is covered in more than his share of scars that range from small nicks in his arms and legs to an enormous, ropy line that stretches from his left shoulder to his right hip and still occasionally gives him trouble. The most notable of his injuries, though, is an unassuming one; a long, razor-thin scar slashing across the belly of his left bicep. While it might look unobtrusive at a glance, it becomes more significant when you watch him try to extend that arm. It is entirely unable to straighten past a certain point. It locks up upon reaching approximately a 130° angle.

When not otherwise occupied, he tends to dress in light, loose-fitting clothing, preferring tunics, in dark, regal colors. His personal favorite is a dark burgundy tunic worn underneath a rich, deep brown jerkin of soft, supple leather. When he's not at home, however, he tends to wear his armor most of the time. He cuts an imposing figure, to be sure; thick, solid plates of gilded steel forged in the Imperial style by some of the best smiths the Empire has to offer, complete with steel embossing and a full-face helmet.

Equipment:

- A gorgeously-worked heavy shield of Dwemer make that's been passed down the Milonem line for generations, since well before the Oblivion Crisis. It is a shield reverently known as Empire's Aegis in the family, and it is by far the most prized possession that Gaius owns. It has kept him alive through many battles.

- A simple blade made of steel in the Imperial style (similar to his armor). It's nothing special, but it's reliable and it's been his weapon for decades, ever since his first sword broke during an incautiously taken drunken bet with a long-forgotten friend.

- A set of heavy armor. It's largely been described in the prior section, but it's worth mentioning that it's made of steel backed with a layer of scale mail and leather, and weighs quite a lot. Thus, while it affords him a great deal of protection, his movements tend to be slower to start. It was gifted to him after serving with distinction in the Skyrim Civil War. In the center sits a single red stone with a diamond cut It is generally worn above a cloth gambeson for additional protection.

- A keen steel dagger carried in a small sheath on his right thigh, opposite his sword. While impractical for combat, it has saved his life a number of times in emergency situations. More importantly, though, no self-respecting soldier would chop vegetables with his sword. It was made for him by his younger brother Lucius, an apprentice blacksmith, before he left to serve the Legion in Skyrim.

- A stiff leather haversack, as a full-sized backpack is too inconvenient to wear with his armor on. It is highly adjustable based on whether or not he has his armor on, using a system of steel belt buckles and clasps and exceptionally long leather straps. This haversack contains his misc. possessions:


Family And Associations:


Favoured Skills:



History:

In the former Talos Plaza district of the Imperial City, there is a relatively unassuming house, insofar as any of the extravagant houses there can be referred to as "unassuming." In that house lived a man named Gaius Milonem II. His friends at the inn called him Milo, or Junior if they were feeling ready for a punch to the mouth. He was a Triarius of the Prima Cohort in the Imperial Legion. Such was an immensely illustrious position; he was immensely wealthy, and had the then-newly coronated Emperor Titus Mede II's ear. His wife was his pride and joy, a gorgeous Imperial woman several years younger than he was named Julia. His life was looking up, and though the Empire had been fractured after the breaking of the Septim line and the elves in the West were growing stronger, he was optimistic about the future. He had three beautiful children; his firstborn, Gaius; the middle child, Helena; and his youngest, Lucius. Everything seemed as though from that point on, things could only go up.

Then the Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion began.

Gaius II had grown...complacent. Lazy. Soft. He hadn't trained to his previous standards in a long time, and in his growing age, he was unfit to fight such a war. Still, however much he didn't possess that he'd once had, he still bore his pride, the fierce pride of a soldier of the Legion. Strapping on his now ill-fitting armor and gathering up his slightly-rusted spear and sword, he rode out on his aging horse, off to join the front lines. Before he left he kissed Julia, and promised her that once the war was over, they'd finally be able to get the peace they deserved, and the Empire would be strong once again, as in the days of the Septim Dynasty.

Thousands of stories ended the same way in those days: he didn't come home.

Of his children, only his namesake, Gaius III, was old enough to truly understand what was happening. Helena was seven and Lucius was six. Neither were truly ready to comprehend the idea of mortality. As the Aldmeri Dominion rode into the Imperial City for their victory, he stared at them hatefully from his manor's window, watching as an Altmer mage gathered up a ball of explosive fire before unleashing it upon the statue of Tiber Septim that he'd grown up seeing from his bedroom window every day and night. The exquisitely carved stone erupted in a hail of shards that clattered to the ground amid the cheers of the elves, and he felt his teeth grind themselves together.

One day, he'd promised himself. One day, I will become strong enough to speak for the Empire and the Legion, and those elves will wish they'd never come out of the west!

From that day forward, he threw himself into mastering the art of combat. He sought out the best blademasters and soldiers that still remained after the slaughter and trained under them obsessively, totally disregarding his broken household and grieving mother in his mad lust for vengeance. This feverish rush of hatred kept him going for years. At fifteen, he was skilled enough to spar with members of the City Guard. At seventeen, he had graduated fighting them and moved on to fighting the younger members of the Imperial Legion, or what little of it remained. He trained until his muscles wrenched under the stress, and then he clenched his teeth, bit through the pain, and trained more. Finally, upon reaching his eighteenth birthday, he enlisted, strapping on his new armor—smaller, then—and awaiting the first call to serve.

It didn't come for quite a while. As his position in the Legion solidified, he slackened off in his training. That's not to say he'd become complacent, as his father did; he'd learned his lesson. No, he simply stopped training like a madman, turning some attention to the shattered wreck his family had become in the eight years since the end of the War. He set the determination that he'd previously applied to his training to healing his sick, depressed mother and being the elder brother that Helena and Lucius needed him to be. One one count, he was unable to succeed; Julia passed away, leaving the family's estate to be run by the barely-of-age Gaius. He had never fully appreciated the work that came with running a noble house, and it taxed him heavily. During that period and until Helena reached her own eighteenth birthday, about three years later, he was the least physically fit he's ever been. His mind, however, grew some; he reclaimed his childhood lessons about arithmetic and entertaining, and until Helena stepped in to help him, he managed.

With Helena largely running the family and Lucius about to come of age as well, he was largely free to return to his duties in the Legion. He served as best he could in a fairly uneventful post-bellum Empire until the next big event came to pass: the Stormcloak Rebellion and Skyrim Civil War. He was called to serve in its second year. He played an important role in the Battle For Whiterun, and in general, he served with distinction until the war dragged to its close. During the final battle in Windhelm, he caught a blade on his arm, severing the tendons in his left arm. It never fully recovered, leaving him with the unflexible arm.

Since then, he's been largely out of duty, pulling some strings with General Tullius to get himself stationed as a Captain of the Guard in the Imperial City so he can spend time with Helena. Lucius is stationed to the east of Falkreath, around the rebuilt town of Helgen. Until recently, he's sent regular correspondence, but within the past few months, his letters have mysteriously gone silent. Gaius was unable to totally curry his way back up into Skyrim, not while on active duty, and it's five years until he next receives a leave of duty. Instead, he found what he believed to be a relatively mundane posting up in the Jeralls, serving as a bodyguard for an archaeologist exploring a huge Dwemer ruin.

Personality:

The first cardinal point in Gaius' persona is determination. He has always been incredibly tenacious, firmly setting his mind to whatever he's trying to do and sticking with it until the end. Unfortunately, this has the somewhat less than desirable side effect of making him incredibly stubborn. Though he's constantly at pains to fix this flaw, he has a strong tendency to break rather than to bend.

He spent too much of his adolescence embroiled in bitter rage to want anything to do with that emotion now. Consequently, he's quite an amicable, easygoing fellow. There are two major exceptions to this rule: the first lies in the Thalmor, and to a lesser extent, all Altmer and Bosmer. He still has nightmares of the statue of Tiber Septim exploding, and he nurses a grudge against the Aldmeri Dominion that will never go away. After all, the main reason he joined the Legion to begin with—other than family tradition—was to make the Empire strong, so that it could break free of the Dominion's shackles.

The other exception is anybody who might threaten his family. Because of the years he spent ignoring them, and the guilt attached to blaming himself for his mother's death, he is very protective of them. Anybody who threatens them or—Divines forbid—actually harms them will receive an Imperial-style reckoning.

That protective nature carries over. He tends to be very protective of everybody he deems his friend, often superimposing himself between them and a blade, confident that his armor and shield can take the blow. The one thing that he will never leap in front of is fire. Fire alone gives him pause, causes those cold-sweat nightmares where he can still see the roaring flames enveloping the statue. He is afraid of it, and afraid of those who wield it. For that reason, he tends to steer clear of Destruction mages when he can. While he can bear a held torch, or sit next to a brazier on a cold Skyrim night, or watch his friend Tolquist working the forge, the screaming bolts of magical flame that are so common in Tamriel nowadays aren't something he wants to see ever again if he can help it.

He can often be found sitting next to a mundane fire, writing carefully with elegant, well-practiced handwriting in his journal. It is one of many that he has written in; he has an entire shelf full of journals back in his room in the Imperial City. It's become something bordering on a compulsive urge. If he doesn't write things down, he becomes frustrated until he can next take out his paper and quill. He always keeps his inkwell topped up, and is exceedingly careful to avoid breaking his quill.