Branwyn is a small, almost emaciated, girl of at least partial Wrelmsman descent, long pointed ears escaping the tangle of her course black hair. Her eyes, though very rarely seen, are a pure milky white, and her lips faded and pale. Her clothes are as modest and unassuming as she is, an old faded travelling cloak covering a discoloured smock, both fraying and a little too large for her frame. If you could see the skin beneath it you'd see a brutal map of the abuse she has suffered over the years, rough jagged scars and motley patches of thrice burnt skin. On the back of her right hand is a deep branding burn in the shape of an arrowhead, still sore and weeping.

Branwyn has lead a life of misery and constant cruelty, blind since birth, abandoned, the subject of mockery and scorn.
She was born to a prostitute in the great fortress city of Dawnguard, though she remembers little of her time with her mother, only the thick floral stench used to cover the squalor of the brothel. She does remember the day her mother abandoned her though, she could speak then, little bits and pieces but nothing of substance. Her mother had brought her out into the city with her, there was the smell of water and the sound of it sloshing against wood, then hands pushing her under. It was a short lived attempt on her life, and not the last she'd face. Her mother didn't, or couldn't, see it through. Instead she was dumped at an orphanage, where she'd spend the rest of her childhood.

The orphanage had no patience for those who couldn't earn their keep, and the other children only made it harder for Branwyn. They would snigger to themselves as they tracked dirt behind her as she cleaned or swapped out items from her basket when she went to get things for the adults. The consequences for her were swift and usually painful, a beating for her stupidity or denied her daily meal and locked away in the cold of the coal shed. Distrust was quick to bloom in her heart, every footstep and every suppressed snigger ringing in her ears as she immediately checked to see what had been done. But her tormentors got smarter just as quickly as she did, some days doing nothing but pretending to have resullied the floor countless times so she would have to recheck it again and again, or moving things around in the storeroom before she arrived so she would grab the wrong items.

One night the children had grabbed her, at least five of them, gagging and binding her before she was even awake enough to realise what was happening. They carried her struggling body for what felt like an hour before ditching her in the dirt and running off laughing. Returning to the orphanage had seemed almost impossible, so she didn't, instead she sat and she waited, waited for the warmth of the cresting sun on her face and the sound of people starting their daily business. No one had time for the grubby lost little girl though, no one but those who saw an opportunity for their own benefit. It was a rough hand that grabbed her shoulder, yanking her into the air and subtly palming a small bag into her hand. Whispered directions spoken through fetid breath, the cold point of a blade against her shoulders to keep her on the path. She felt her way to the wall, and navigated herself along it, tripping over the janky cobbles and hearing the clank of patrolling guards passing her by.

It became her life for what remained of her formative years, living off the rotten scraps they'd throw her every time she ended up where they wanted her. A courier for what she never really knew, but she was smart enough to know it wasn't anything good. The guards never stopped her though, barely passed her a second glance as she tapped her way around the city, every week building up a broader and broader map of the streets inside her head. Soon the scraps of food were replaced with the odd copper, a change of clothes, food without maggots. They called her their little lamb, but she knew better than to think they cared, beatings were never far away if she took too long on a job or said anything they hadn't asked for. When they didn't have need of her they'd let her wander the streets, a freedom the orphanage never allowed her. She'd spend her time near the great market, listnening to the sounds of commerce and smelling the heady spices. The merchants would usually chase her off like any other street rat if she got too close, but she rarely ended up drawing their ire. She fared less well with the noble brats however, who like the kids of the orphanage before seemed to delight in tormenting her. There was a decidedly darker tone to their attacks though, they didn't fear any reprisal for what they did and made no attempt to hide their laughter. Often they would announce themselves, with all their long titles and needless trills, before tripping her and heaping insults down upon her. One brat in particular made it his mission to increase her misery, Franz... she made a point of not remembering his family's name. Franz would follow her around, shouting all manner of slurs at her, promising her only the worst of fates for those not worthy of even the dirt of the empire. For her part Branwyn tried her best to ignore him, even when he tugged at her ears or slammed her to the ground she'd just ride out the pain and wait for him to get bored. It only got worse as they both got older though, and eventually she just decided it wasn't worth going to the market if it meant bumping into him again. Her 'work' kept her busy anyway, the motley scum trusted her to find her own paths through the city now and relied on her for transporting a lot of their stock between a myriad of locations. But it also meant she was the first blamed when a squad of guards raided one of their storehouses. The first she knew about it was a burning blade slicing through her arm as they screamed at her for betraying them. If they hadn't found the real snitch barely a day after the torture had begun they probably would have killed her. As it was they just gave their 'little lamb' some 'nice memories' to stew over if she ever betrayed them.

Everything changed when Franz stumbled upon her mid-job however, both of them now adults, and him leading a small group of guards on a boring night patrol. With his long lost punching bag finally back in his clutches, and little entertainment to be found in continuing to patrol, he didn't wait to restart their cycle of abuse. It was almost childish at first, simple taunting names and grabbing her roughly by the ears, but when they found what she was carrying any pretence that this would be no worse than what came before vanished. The first thing he broke was her arm, laughing as he did it, then each finger one by one. That alone she could have endured, but the long rasp of metal on metal sent sharp fingers of ice down her spine. He didn't even hide his intent, turning his back on her and boasting to the guards under his command exactly how slowly he'd kill her. And inside her something broke, something that she'd kept for many years, hoping . In its place was a bottomless well of fury, and a refusal to accept the fate laid out before her. She tackled Franz from behind, knocking him off his feet in the uneven backstreet, hearing the sword clatter away. Up close like this, they were both blind, rolling on the floor for purchase. But all Branwyn needed was to find his throat, she couldn't beat him on strength and if he kicked her away that would be the end of it for her. Even now Franz didn't see her as a threat, wasting his breath on insults and what he'd do to her for this. But in a battle of pride against survival, the desperate cornered wolf will draw blood against the arrogant hunter, and her fingers found his throat. She gripped, pulled, and pushed with all her might as he threw punches back at her head. She never let go, never gave him an inch with which to find new air, and when he slumped in her hold she kept pulling, even as the other guards began to shout and start prying her away.

The courtroom was loud, as far as she remembered, but none of it was for her. There were mothers wailing the innocence of their sons, fathers demanding to know what they did not. She was but one of many to be tried and sentenced before the court today, and none cared enough for her to quiet the overwhelming commotion. There was only one guard beside her, softly clinking in his armour as he subtly shifted his position to soothe his aching muscles; and they hadn't even tied her hands, so sure that a small blind girl could do nothing of consequence. The judge had scoffed at first, to the charges laid out against her, that she had beaten the young lord at all seemed ludicrous to him. When he finally asked, she answered clearly and unwaveringly, smiling to herself as the crowd slowly started to silence with her every word. It's not often you hear a blind woman describe how and why she killed a man almost twice her size. The sentence was obvious, they didn't even feel the need to bring in any witnesses to such a flagrant admission. She would be branded, so none might mistake her corpse for that of a decent person, and then hung. The brand itself sat in the courtroom, a relic of the distant past, the arrowhead said to have slain the first legionnaire and given hope back to the world. And as the pain of the searing metal started to overwhelm her senses, a soft voice murmured words of pride and an offer of survival, but it did not wait for her answer as she drifted into unconsciousness.

Branwyn awoke to the sight of an empty gallows and her body burning in every fibre of her being. But she wasn't queued up waiting for the noose, she was instead amidst the crowd watching in confusion as they played with the rope and then dropped the floor. No one had been placed into the noose, yet the crowd and the executioners acted as if there had. The voice in her head returned, stronger this time, he had taken her this far but now it was her turn to show him what she could do. And the first order of business was leaving Dawnguard, after burning every place she had known as 'home'.

Tollame inhabits the arrowhead that felled him, seeing a grim irony that the tool of his downfall would also be his salvation

Tollame was born frail, and rejected by the light of the Aetherwind. Indeed the light seemed to skim around him like his very existence was an abhorrent wound upon the world. To be born thus was already a curse, but to be the combined progeny of the two most dedicated and accomplished aether weavers of the Wrelm was a sin his parents never let him forget.

One could never say that Tollame did not try to be all his parents wished he could have been, he dedicated himself to the art of Aether weaving in a way few others have. For years he did not sleep, but instead practised the art, spent hours talking to the great masters to understand every element of the theory that surrounded it. He tried new technique over new technique, searching for some breakthrough of understanding, some way to overcome his own null soul that rejected the light aether. But no breakthrough ever came. In its place he discovered something new, the first spark of the dark Aether, or so he claims. And with the dark Aether he was finally able to conjure up his first true act of Aether weaving. Elated beyond words Tollame returned to his home, excited to share his discovery with his parents, to prove that he had not failed them, ready for them to accept him with a warmth they never had before. Instead he was met with scorn, judged for perverting the nature of Aether, and considered a pathetic mockery of their own superior art. He was no more accepted than when he had started this long journey. With rage boiling in his heart he struck down both of his parents for their hubris, their inability to understand the magnitude of what he had accomplished. And so began the cycle of hunting down his old teachers, those unable to accept the blossoming of this new school of Aether he slew, and those who marvelled at what he had achieved he taught.

Even so he rankled at the world, in its leaders he saw the same hubris that he had seen in his parents, the arrogance of people who had never had to suffer for their power. He turned his eyes down to the weak, and saw in them power that would never have the opportunity to flourish, fine minds trapped in bodies that society deemed worth less than the gutters in which they would all to often end up. His first disciple was a cripple, but with a mind like lightning; his second a mute who struggled with reading, but a will like iron. And so he continued his travels, finding ever more who only needed the opportunity and the patience, the willingness to find new methods of teaching. Whereas those for whom effort was not required grew ever fatter, ever more arrogant and superior. The world needed to change, to be broken along the axle of privilege. Only the 'weak' would inherit what was left, as the 'strong' could never adapt to the stripping of their own entitlement.

Tollame was the first of the legionnaires to be killed, a full year before the others would meet their fates, too confident in his own powers to pay much consideration to their limitations. He was snipped from outside the range of his powers with a toxicly treated projectile. But it was too convenient a set of circumstances, for one who hadn't already some deeper understanding of what he could do at least. Even now he questions which of his fellows may have plotted his downfall.