Skywatch, Summerset Isles

Catching Vin's eyes and taking in the frame of his face is to know exactly what 'poor decisions' looks like. His wry smile would try to outshine the nasty scars on his face, but even with his mouth entirely closed one could see a canine glittering in the lamplight. He has that strong altmer nose, prominet, and sloped at an even angle from between his brows down to the tip of it. Glittering dark gold eyes are set against dark gold skin, darker than most altmer. It's apparent that he doesn't shy into shade when the sun is out. He has a strong jaw to offset his nose and a perpetual smattering of dark red facial hair from missing a few days against the blade. His hair is kept short on the side with wavy locks ontop that dip down into his forehead. One of his ears is missing its tip, almost as if an inch or two had been removed from it. The other has a small crescent bitten out of it.

If one is not kicking at his drunken, passed-out form in the tavern floor, they might note the way he holds himself. There is something that is on edge with Vin, almost as if he's ready for someone to leap from the darkness with a blade in hand. It seems more practiced that intentional, seeing as he's never acting the part of the cautious adventurer. If he isn't drinking or shooting, then he's probably being a sarcastic loudmouth that has made him numerous enemies and almost no friends--except for a curious argonian that thought everything out Vin's mouth was peppered with hilarity.

His dress consists of a worn sleeveless leather tunic, a chinked metal chest pice, a nice coat that he's carefully slit up the backside of the arms for freedom of movement. If he slides his arms out of the sleeves, one can see leather fingerless gloves, with a few pieces of metal over his forearm and around his wrist--to hold it straight. He wears loose pants with a few peices of fabric around his waist, and cinched with a belt whose pack hangs low and is buckled around his thigh. His boots come to right below the knee and are quite worn. Vin is rather fond of his hat, which has a wide brim that hangs, obscuring his ears and some of his face. The only other thing on his form that is more treasured than that hat is his elven bow and quiver filled with arrows. He has broken many a thief's wrist in protection of it.

Vin is probably stouter than people are used to seeing the altmer, with a broad shoulder and a chubby middle. To his own kind, it's apparent their breeding standards didn't quite find its fit with the mer. Though it also may be training, expertise, or years away from the Summerset Isles. And rightfully oe might assume it's the intake of liquid calories that he's quite fond of. Who really knows, because Vin is not fond of talking about himself. He's not a secretive man that squirrels away in dark corners. No, you'll hear from him sooner rather than later. He's just not the sort that sits you down and explains his history in a fine and detailed manner.

...

4E 140, Skywatch
"I was born at the height of a blood-red dawn after a night of prophecy," is the way that Vin would tell it, leaning close into the fire. He'd find his flask and flick a bit of alcohol into the small blaze, causing it flare momentarily. His voice would stay low and quivering, and the embers would play against the gold of his eyes. And maybe you should hear that tale? Because the truth behind Vin is covered in poor decisions, folley, and disillusionment of the highest order.

Much like any Altmer born into the Dominion, his parents had been chosen for marriage and reproduction based on trying to remain true to their ancestors appearance. Honestly, to look at them, maybe they just placed the pair together because they contained similar features that were not ones of altmer beauty, but at least of consistancy. They did manage to quite fancy each other, though, and as the years passed they fell in love. Vin's childhood was actually quite enviable considering the world around him.

He grew up watching his mother tailor expensive gowns and tunics, for those of far more wealth than they had. He helped his father mend things, using small magics to make the old look new. Magic was not as strong in their bloodline as many of the altmeri. It was still there, though, as the lack of it probably would have led to more extreme culling measures in years prior. So, whatever proper training that Vin received in magic was subtle and invasive. No, his path was being an artisan's son. He learned how to mend, how to break and fix, how make something look far more beautiful than it should be, and how to carve a lifestyle out of nothing. But Vin's head was in the clouds. He didn't love this life. He'd read for hours about the heroes and tales of old. He wanted more. He wanted something substantial.

One day, a rich noble left an ancestral bow to be refurbished in Vin's father's workshop. After it was fixed, it sat there for a week. Vin eyed it. Bows were a weapon of heroes. When it had set there a month, Vin "borrowed" it. He carried it out back, and using rudimentary arrows started firing it. The arrows were so bad that nothing came of his practice. He bothered his father about it later. The man chastised him about abusing other's things. Yet, as the payment continued to remain upaid, he had no problem crafting arrows for his son to properly practice. This went on for years. Vin rising from someone who let his arrow burst out and fall to the ground like a limp noodle to a sure shot. The noble never looked for the bow for years, but inevitably he died and the family scrounged together any of his belongings. The bow went with it, along with Vin's heart.

Fortunately, his parents were decent beings and saved for when their son would get wild eyed about something. They hired archery specialist, and they both made Vin a bow to use for it. From there he'd learn and learn and learn until his fingers bled, but until he could hit most anything. He loved the thrill of it. Yet, it was subdued given the fact that it was only a past time. He still learned to tailor, to fix, to mend, and hold up a measily existance.

A child altmer, twenty or so, filled with wonder had no problem finding the Thalmor as an escape from his mundane life. So, he applied. His parents were furious, but he pushed on. They balked at his meager magic skills. But he impressed on him that his true skill was archery. They hesited, but let him show off. Capable of firing an arrow through numerous hoops, on a horse, and at a falling apple, he was given acceptance into the Thalmor, though a large stipulation was placed on him learning magic skills.

Ten years passed, and Vin became quite the battle archer with a few tricks up his sleeves. He had only been patrolling the Summerset Isles until there was a call to to the Imperial homelad of Cyrodil. Vin gathered upon those vessels, he sailed into Imperial lad, and he fought his way up to the capital. It is still a memory he holds fondly. He followed the Thalmor aggression up the lenght of the Imperial land wihout pause. Yet, as they took the capitol, he felt guilt dawn upon him. He watchd the great sacking of the Imperial City. While he could understand the aggression and the annoyance of the human citizens, what he beheld was far worse. Altmer were commiting atrocoties of unknowable lengths on humans.

In the middle of the night, Vin snuck away. While he was able to avoid the Thalmor, he was not able to avoid an Imperial raiding party. They took joy in tying him up, removing his garm and weapons, and torturing him. This went on for a long while until they were broken up by an Imperial guards company. Fearing the worst, Vin escaped with his bow and only his bow.

Vin fell into a group of carnival patrons. He earned his name as trick shot, capable of shooting arrows fast and precisely. He'd work for them for many years. Horseback, drunk, impssible stuants, he'd manage them all. Vin was an expert with a bow, hands down.

He was removed form his group of travellnig compatriots in Skyrim when he got into a fight with a Thalmor, which led to a lot of the group having to deal with the Thalor unless they were all jailed. So, they just cut Vin from the group and continued on.

As such, Vin takes on jobs with mercenary companies for septims. He's the best shot you'll ever see and the least expensive.

(See character section in OOC)

(See character section in OOC)

...

...

...

...

(For group members; fill after IC introduction)

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

Markarth, Skyrim

Dael is the sort of person that you would notice in almost any situation, if not for his size and orcish appearance, then for the fact that the man is quite the hugger. And if he's not touching you in any way, he's prone to standing lazily, hands on hips, with a cheap grin plastered on his face like he just remembered an old joke. He's the dusky green-gray of the orcs with chipper amber eyes usually folded into a squint from him smiling, a mildly aquiline noise, and a mouth filled with two tusks. They would not be overly large, but you could probably slide your rings down them for safe keeping. He wears his black hair short, taking to sideburns, but a well shaved chin.

His build would imply years of both hard labor and getting drunk and full around a campfire. Calloused fingers, arms corded with thick muscle all lead to a barrel chest and thick neck. He has a potbelly that he is far from ashamed about, it sits well on his hips and strong legs. The orc can easily consume a doorway if it was built by smaller races.

It is fair to say that Dael is not ashamed of wearing his religion on the outside, a pendant of Dibella is shown at all times. He also keeps small trinkets from the other Nine on his form. They are not displayed so brazenly, nor are they rubbed when he is thinking. He doesn't wear much else in the form of jewelry, but when not in his adventuring gear he is fond of deep blues with silver shining through them. He may or may not have a small collection of fine scarves tucked away at the bottom of his pack.

Not being counted among Dael's friends is as hard as convincing a Nord that Talos is definitely not a god. He's open with everyone. Mind you, he won't tell you his deepest dark secrets or where he stores his coin, but he will tell you about the one time that wrestled a bear or communed with a Daedric Prince. You should always assume that his stories are grand tales, very farcical and silly. He'll tell truths though, and a lot of them. Be prepared to know the number of times he's eaten a certain type of fancy cheese, what he thinks of certain political figures, and--of course--the teachings of Dibella. Getting out of a conversation with him is as hard as... well, convincing a Nord that Talos is not a god.

Dael will, thankfully, not attempt you to convert to Dibella. He will inform you that she is the goddess of love, waggle his brows, and then reply "yes, that one." What he will talk about is the beauty in everything. That what may be viewed as the perfect aesthetic to someone could be seen different by another. An inky black crag in a cliff could be an eyesore in the day, but at night it would glow as the moon hit the crystals in it just right. Not everything has to have appeal to you to be considered beautiful. Everyone and everything has their merit and their worth. You just have to look beyond what you view as ugly, he would say, and find the beauty within. He'd then smile wildly and point to himself, "I'm very well aware that I'm too beautiful to truly behold, but you have to understand that I have faults as well." The one thing someone would learn quite quickly with Dael is that he's quite self-deprecating.

The orc can and will get long winded, but he'll listen to your story as well. Everyone and everything is important in his eyes.

Dael would begin the story of his life, by telling you about his name. He’d explain, in tight detail, that “gro” was for men and “gra” was for women, and the second word was the name of their father. He’d always pronounce it “goan,” but he’d always spell it “gone.” He’d then chuckle at his cleverness, before explaining the reasoning behind it.

He never knew who his father was. The only thing Dael did know was that the man was not an orc. And the only reason he knew that was because his mother was screaming it—loudly—as she hurled her son into the river. Unfortunately, maybe her orcish strength was waning, or her eyes were covered in a thick veil of tears, or maybe she was just drunk and angry, because she missed the river entirely, and he landed into a well-fortified bush. A young Nord woman who was busy washing her clothing downstream heard the cry. She watched as the child sailed into the air and the orcish woman stomped off, cursing wildly.

She’d get up from her laundry and search for the babe. Inevitably, she would find him, just a few scratches as payment for being the first orc to glide seamlessly through the air like a bird. The woman would wrap him up in her laundry and take him back home. Unfortunately, she was a seamstress’s apprentice and didn’t have much in the way of septims to take care of a child. But there was a temple, she thought, a little down the ways in Markarth. Scrawling this information on a small piece of parchment, she tucked it in the basket with Dael and dropped him off at the doorstep of the temple.

When a priestess of Dibella found the young orc on her doorstep the next morning, she let out a ragged sigh. “We’re not the worshippers of that kind of love. Constantly mixing us up with Mara…” The complaining went on for some time as she took young Dael in and the other priestesses discussed what to do with him. Dibella was the goddess of beauty, but they argued that beauty could be seen in all things. Maybe it was fate that an orc babe ended up at their temple. Or they could find some childless couple and gift Dael to them, like a blessing. But what if they were cruel? He was an orc. The priestesses would tell Dael when he was older, that Dibella had ordered them to take him in. But it had truly boiled down to him be a very calm babe that had a penchant for grabbing at fingers and gurgling adorably.

As a baby, they took him all over the temple, well into the inner sanctum. Yet, as he grew older and more cognizant, he could only stay in the temple proper. And when he was capable of work, the priestesses would set up a nice arrangement at the Silverblood inn for the young boy to work and stay there. So, during the day, he’d labor away in the inn and during the evening he would visit the priestess where they’d teach him. He’d become literate in quite a short time, pouring over books with the thirst of an unquenchable drunk. They’d also teach him about Dibella, crafting the young orc into quite the devout follower. And when he got a little older, they’d try his hand with magic. Then, after he visited them, he’d head back to the inn where’d sleep, wake, and start it all over again. But there wouldn’t be a story if that was all there was to tell.

Dael was a very curious child and had a tendency to chat people up that came to the inn—much to the chagrin of the tavern owners. He’d listen in on tales or hear about how artisans went about their day honing their craft. He loved it as much as he’d loved reading. Learning more about the world was always exhilarating. One day an orcish woman entered the inn. He had seen other orcs before, but they never really had the time for him. This woman caught his glances and waved him over. She introduced herself as Yashta gra’Basha. She apparently had left the stronghold near Markarth, wanting a different sort of life for herself. Her hands were favored for craft and not bloodshed, she’d say. Still, Dael pressed to learn what strongholds were like, what his kin did. She’d tell him stories about their customs and about her time among them. His eyes would go wide with interest. But he would especially love the tales of battle. He’d probe and ask more about them. Yashta would laugh, stating for as much as the boy loved lore he couldn’t deny his orcish instinct for hearing about combat. This went on for a while until she decided to sate Dael’s interest by teaching him how to fight. He was thrilled to hear that. Little did the woman know what challenge that she had given herself.

The young boy didn’t have an aggressive bone in his body. Sure, the orcish blood pumped through him hot and angry, but he never really listened to that. He was always first with his head and maybe eighth or ninth with his fist—he had a pretty good technique that involved pretending to seize. So, the grit required to follow through with attacks was lost on him. Yashta explained that if someone was attacking him, their intent was to kill, and he should return that favor. He held back his blows though, tending to the bag of flour that he practiced on with a feather’s touch. She’d just sigh and shake her head. Still, she thought him to have promise with some years of training. The one thing that Dael did have was the capacity to learn and replicate. He mastered form before he mastered the art to actually fight.

Many years passed, Dael trained, spent time with the priestesses, and worked at the inn. Even though Yashta was far too young to be his mother, he liked to think she was. She checked up on him from time to time between training. She showed him several things that the priestesses couldn’t, and most of all she bequeathed him her orichalcum battle axe. She sighed into it and said that wasn’t her life anymore. Dael treasured it, and he still owns it to this day. His training with Yashta was finished, but that didn’t mean he didn’t see her around. Usually she would sit by the fire at the inn, fingers intertwined with a young dunmer woman, leaning into her as if she held up Yashta’s entire world. Dael smiled at that. The teaching of Dibella had taught him that there was beauty even in the mundane.

Later in life, he’d realize that he was pretty much raised by women. He’d laugh at that thought and say that’s why he was more cultured than most. Women were civilized.

When Dael hit puberty, the priestesses informed him that this was not really a temple for young men. He’d have to go out in the world and make his own strides. He understood. As much as Yashta was his orcish mother, these women were his true ones. They hugged and cried and told him to stop by from time to time—check in on them and them on him. The young orc didn’t know what to do. He hated leaving the shadow of Dibella’s temple, but they were right. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life tending to an inn and being taught by priestesses and passers-through. So, he asked his goddess for a sign. Of course, that’s the funny thing about signs, they can come in all shapes and sizes and be construed as many a different thing. Maybe that day he was supposed to go to war. Maybe that day he was supposed to wander into the hills, head to another town, find a beautiful woman, and settle down. But no, he took the floating petal of a flower, dancing in the wind, and landing at the doorstep of the temple as a sign. Dael needed to make a pilgrimage to the other chapels of his goddess. So, shouldering his pack he traveled to Cyrodiil.

Dael’s luck, so far, with strangers had been fairly fortuitous. He’d rarely come across a someone that was intent on doing him wrong. Not to say he was overly trusting, but he was a bit naïve. He managed to join a caravan heading that direction. They weren’t the chattiest of folk, but no one attempted to stab or steal from him. He helped keep watch at night and aided with the cooking—his time in the inn had taught him a few things about spices. He parted from them after he crossed the border.

Most of the trip, he traveled this way. He’d join groups of people and leave when they turned a different direction. He ran into a spot of trouble on one, where a member of the caravan—bosmer if he remembered correctly—rather liked the make of his battle axe. Unfortunately, trying to steal it in the middle of the night led to it falling over and alerting the entire caravan. The would-be thief was evicted and Dael still had his most prized possession. Though he learned to sleep with everything on his form, so any disturbance would awaken him.

When he eventually reached Anvil, quite a bit of time had passed. He’d grown taller and stouter, and more world-weary. Arriving at the Great Chapel was an experience he’d always yearned for. He entered, paying his respects and receiving blessings. He spent a short time discussing the temple in Markarth. Little did he know, someone was listening in on him. A pilgrim by the name of Tharius Marxen swooped in and managed to coax him into joining his pilgrimage to visit the shrines and chapels of the Nine Divines. Dael more than happy to join them. Later, he’d realize that Tharius had only wanted him because he was an orc wielding a very large axe. Yet, at the time, the charismatic cult of personality made him feel needed.

The years spent on pilgrimage were ones speckled with the good and bad. Dael became well versed in lore and theology. He also learned a lot from Tharius on how to speak and interact with people in a way that made them calm and compliant. And, he saw some battle as raiders and thieves thought that them easy pickings. The devout wandering the countryside? Yet, Dael would never kill the ones he fell. He’d hesitate over them, letting them scramble back and away. They never seemed to come back with a larger group, or if they did, the pilgrims were long since gone. This would end poorly for Dael, but our tale isn’t there yet.

And on that pilgrimage, Dael learned what it was like to truly be a follower of Dibella. He’d never forget her, and honestly, it was hard considering she was a khajiit. They spent many nights in bliss but none in love. They’d watch the sunrise, smile, and depart the warmth of their intertwined bodies. La’Kisasi Rojani was her name, and he’d never forget it. But there would be many that would come after her, and they’d come and go like the ebbing of the tide.

A time would come, though, where he too would leave the pilgrimage, but only after watching fires burn and lives taken. Dael finally paid the price for his mercy. The pilgrimage was outside a wayshrine, camping one night when a young thief entered their quarters. He was spotted by one of the look-outs as he was making off with quite a few septims and valuables. Dael was able to stop him, throwing him to the ground—his axe above his head. The boy was young—so young. So, the orc decided to scare him. The boy let out a tear-colored scream and scrambled away, leaving his bounty on the cool grass.

Long after he went to sleep, he’d awaken to the smell of smoke and a woman shaking him—a fire had been started. He crawled out of his tent to find that half the camp was ablaze. Raiders had taken to the camp like vultures over a carcass. They took no prisoners, slitting the throats of those that tried to fight them or tried to flee. Dael grabbed his axe and readied it. The young woman that had shaken him awake tried to pull him away from the camp, but she couldn’t get him to budge. He took only a few steps forward before he’d hear the woman scream. Turning, he watched as a knife was shoved into her gut and she fell to the ground. Blood blossomed out from her middle as she lay there convulsing amidst the chaos. Dael’s eyes would be met with the young boy. His face now covered in ash and blood, Dael knew what he was. He’d taken the boy for an innocent when he was nothing more than a forward scout meant to evoke mercy from those that might catch him.

Dael charged him, blood pumping in his ears and scream left his mouth that he would later not remember making. The boy would go to dodge, but Dael’s axe would catch him in the abdomen. And then again over the crest of his head. The boy’s body fell to the ground, not enough life left in him to even convulse. The orc turned towards the woman, but she was long gone—her face stretched in fear. Dael fell to his knees. What beauty was there in this, Dibella?

He left the pilgrimage the next day, the few that were left didn’t blame him, but they also didn’t relieve him of his guilt, either. Dael figured that heading home was the best option. He was a grown man now, and well-traveled. Finding a hearth to warm his feet by was all he could ask for.

Returning Skyrim was like returning to an entirely different place. He could tell by the landscape, and the way the people acted that something had happened. He heard snippets of stories but didn’t hear the real tale until he reached Markarth and the temple of Dibella. He was greeted by faces from his past, the young that had aged into dutiful matrons, and new ones that beamed with Dibella’s radiance. They told him of the events that transpired while he was away, and of the things on the horizon. He told him of his pilgrimage and how he'd cost the life of so many. The priestesses stated that he did no wrong, but if he felt like he did... maybe he needed another journey, one where he could see a different kind of life lived.

The orc sighed, he supposed it wasn’t quite time to hang up his battle axe. More so, he needed money to buy or build a house. The easiest way to gain that through his varied skill set was to sell his talents. Hanging around the inn, as he liked to do so long ago—led him to hear of a mercenary group, fairly large, gathering in Solitude. So, he bid the city farewell, again, and left to join their group.

Major: Strength
Minor: Personality

Expert: Speech, 2H Axe
Adept: Heavy Armor
Apprentice: Restoration, Provisioning
Novice: Medicine

Side of a Barn: Dael is a large figure, and as such he unfortunately will find himself a target before smaller, slimmer individuals. Also, consider sneaking out of the question, along with any other form of subterfuge. He talks too much and is far too big to be anything more than a boulder on a shore of pebbles.

Slow and Steady is a Lifestyle Choice: He's large and powerful, but he gets around with half the speed of others. While he might be able to break out of a grapple or slam somene into something, he's not avoiding an agile opponent with quick strikes. By the Divines, he'll be at the end of of every marching order, huffing as others run far ahead of him. He's built to stand ground and nothing more.

The Lingering Doubt: Having led to half of he pilgrims he travelled with being killed, Dael has a lot of hesitation. Usually, he's spare his opponents. Now, he might hover over them unsure of what action to take. They could easily take advantage of such a hesitation. This is only for the sentient species. He'll not pause to kill an animal, the undead, or any other sort of monster that faces him. No, these are only people with a possible family or loved one to go home to.

I'm Here to Talk about Jesus Dibella: Dael will always pray, will always protect a shrine, and he'll never hurt another follower of the Nine. The Daedric Princes are more open to debate, but he has to admit that Meridia and Kyne have their places. So, he'll put religious needs and symbolism before the wants of others.

Dael has no problem charging forward, battle axe drawn, and screaming at the enemy. Usually a crazed orc running full tilt is enough to scare most enemies. If they hold his ground, he will aggressively charge them. His attacks are slow but strong. He can, and will, eat a lot of damage. Fortunately, he is strapped into heavy armor. A lot of projectiles and poorly calculated attacks will bounce off of him. He'll heal himself if needed, but he may break away from the battle for a comrade that is injured. He tries to fight using book-learned maneuvers. If anyone knows of them, they may be able to counter. He's strong though.

Prone to using the blunt side of his axe, he won't outright maim and kill a sentient race. Though, anything else will receive the full brunt of his attack. He leaves the death blows to his comrades. Dael likes survivors more than the dead. If anything, they might provide intel.

Priestesses of the Markarth Dibella Temple: Practically his family, he grew up with them. He'd do anything for them.
Yashta gra’Basha: Basically his orc mother. She lives in Markarth with her wife.
Tharius Marxen: An Imperial pilgrim leader who became a close friend of Dael's. He's still out there in Cyrodiil.
La’Kisasi Rojani: The first woman to ever show him the beauty of Dibella.
Owners of the Silverblood Inn: They know him, probably not enough to lay down their life. But they can definitely pick the orc out in a crowd.

Temple of Dibella: His affiliation and knowledge can lead to possible sanctuary.
Other Temples of the Nine: He knows their ways and customs. While they won't recognize them, he knows the theology and symbology behind their beliefs. It might help in certain situations.
Pilgrims: Was a pilgrim once, he knows to how to communicate with them.

(For group members; fill after IC introduction)

...

34 Septims

...

...

Armor: Dael wears a mixture of steel plate armor that is adorned with blue robes that are indicative of Dibella's colors. Thick metal armor runs up his arms and over his chest, but he wears long swathes of fabric over his middle. He had steel plating over his upper legs, but his feet are comfortable boots.

Clothing: If not in armor, he usually wears a blue tunic, cinched under his belly with a belt, loose brown pants and comforable boots. There isn't much more to his attire. If he's feeling a bit festive, he'll wrap a scarf loosely around his neck.

Yashta's Battle Axe: the massive orichalcum battle axe is his only weapon. Over the years he's kept it sharp and covered it in cloth of blue.

Hunting Knife: Fine, he keeps another weapon on him. A small iron knife that he hides in his boot.

Necklace of Dibella: He puts it on after his armor, it's always visible. It's well worn from years of rubbing it.

The Nine Divines: He has a few scrolls and tomes he keeps on his form about the Nine Divines. They aren't large, but he can produce them easily.
Recreational Reading:He also has a few books the equivalent of the "Lusty Argonian Maid."

Provisions: Dael is quite decent at bringing along enough food and drink for a trip. He's also very good at cooking. So, nothing that he brings is flavorless or bland.
Flask: Whatever alcohol he can find to fill it. Dael always has it on him for moments of merriment.

A Large Belt with Straps: It mostly holds his few religious scrolls and tomes. It moves with him, sashaying a bit as he charges.
Pack: This contains everything else he owns. Provisions, camping equipment, rope, and basic survival gear. There's also about four scarves of glorious color in there as well.

...