Sex:
Male.

Race:
Archelves (Ushelves), sometimes referred to as star elves. According to legend they descended from the stars to live amongst the other races. Distinctly different from most other sentient life, as their hairline consists partially of bird-like feather protrusions, often grown from either side of the skull in symbiotic persistence with more conventional hair growth. In addition, their strange albeit largely aesthetic eyes have garnered them both fame, reverence, and infamy, as their eyes and their unnatural glow provides them with an exceptional presence. Unlike most ocular organs, these eyes reflect a large portion of whatever light enters, thusly making them appear glowing, therefore granting them both poor vision and heightened sense of hearing. However, their nighttime vision as a result is increasingly impressive, more potent than even feline predators. Beyond this the Ushelves maintain common traits, such as slender and tall bodies with agile dispositions and compressed muscle-mass.

Personality:
The once-prince of the Ushelves is an increasingly bitter life due to what he remembers of the past, defeated in fact. Depressed but sharp-witted, silver-tongued, and an odd-joker, with all this in combination, makes him a rather strange companion for others to entertain should the find themselves in his presence for longer than expected. Having been humbled by the memories of his past, his sense of capabilities has been dwarfed in addition, making his skills difficult to manifest unless given assistance. As such, he is self-destructive in seclusion, but given the right support, may provide an exceptional asset. The estranged drive towards the summit being the only real force of will put into his crumbling mind, a drive that most certainly illustrates the utter oddity of the drive's existence in and of itself, as one glimps upon the once proud and mighty elven prince and general leaves little expectations for his future beyond darkness.

Appearance:
Iulden Anasthas was once a tall and noble warrior, capable of great feats of strenght all the whilst displaying his nigh-celestial appearance as he danced across the field of battle with his swords close at hand, but glories are only momentary, and his glory seems to have passed. The once bright crimson locks having been corrupted and despoiled by his defeat, now bearing themselves before the eyes in a dull grey. Even so, a speck of life remains in tact, with the feathers covering the left side of his head past his cut-shortened ear being the 'feathers of a king,' thusly called as the royal family of the Ushelves carried with them the genetic disposition for their feathers to bright violet appearance. Beyond his face, the man's body is scarred beyond compare, and his left arm dismembered and thereafter cut off by his foes, leading him towards a path of one-armed swordsmanship which could become quite daunting to tread.

The crown of the Ushelves rests upon his head, 9 pieces of ornamental metal melded into his flesh. The Ushelves venetrated the flame, and often utilized it to expand their appearance through "symbiosis." This basically entails the process of burning steel into the flesh, making it become part of the body.

Skills:
Advanced Swordsmastery, Experienced Tactics, Adept Strategic Awareness.

Memory:
"It was a reddened noon, the sun itself crying with blood. Our realms had been brought to the battlefield, with my palace, where myself and my fathered occupied ourselves at times of peace, merely minutes beyond the frontlines as the enemy crashed against our high walls and laid siege to our settlement. From the heavens rained flames and boulders, and together with my four blades I stood against the tide alongside my siblings and companions, alongside my armies and those of my father's. But our defiance would not last long, as a foe incomprehensible broke the walls and tore our security asunder. The tides had been let loose upon our homes and our people were forced into massacre.

I could do naught but watch as my father's blade shattered upon the force of his opponent's blade and its thrusts. The world quaked and moaned, as I did, with the falling of my father, and the soon-to-come death of myself. I could do nothing but utilizing everything I had to somehow produce a miracle beyond understanding, and as such I drew the blade of death, and charged at the foe who had slaughtered my progenitor.

With a swift slice from the lower left, my arms extending and retracting as the blade carried its momentum onwards, the very moons themselves would have surely shuddered, but as it came into contact, my blade of death shattered, and death itself had been defeated by this foe. I had garnered its attention thusly, but still undeterred I reach to my side, and with a swift slice from the hip, right out of the sheath, I would surely penetrate his defenses as he approached me with a world-ending charge. Again, my newly drawn blade of morning shattered upon touch, and I was forced to leap back in order to recovered even a semblance of safety.

As I tried to gain my situational awareness back, I could not help but notice that the sounds of fighting had ceased, and my surroundings were left in stillness. I shuddered, as the moons should have done at my first slash, for I realized that I was engaged in a duel with a foe, surrounded by the remainder of his armies, and the vanquished carcasses of my loyal soldiers.

Bolstered by my rage, I drew the sword of anger from my opposite hip, readying my starfall descent, a cut from above prepared by a crescent rise of both hands, joining together at the apex, to then descend with the force of the falling stars to demolish all that I sought to be destroyed.

Alas, with the crescent rise, my arm was felled and cut in a clean slice through my flesh and blood, amputating it in a clealiness incomprehensible to all who maintained reason. I gritted my teeth, my pride the only thing that allowed me to remain upright and defiant, as I screamed with grinding teeth. With the last strenght in my body I raised my right hand towards my shoulder, and drew the sword of life, but as I was in the midsts of deliverying my over-the-shoulder attack, my grip around my sword faltered, and the blade was sent soaring, as I felt my heart pierced and my gradually cooling body fall limp towards the floor."

Memento:
The Seal of a Thousand Moons, a form of prosthetic, though it can be largely be described as an end-cap to protect the skin of the amputated flesh from infection and disease. The seal was placed on the end of his limb, just before the elbow, and scorched into his flesh to ensure it would forever remain. The tip is flat, but upon it is a small protrusion with a lenghty scroll attached. It was written by the ancients and supposedly brought with them from the stars in preparation for potential serious injuries amongst royalty. The scroll itself, whilst incomprehensible to all alive at his time, supposedly spoke tales and rituals to summon the stars to guide your path and aide you in battle. Iulden does not remember when it was grafted onto him, as he died during the same battle where his limb was lost.

Born from the union of an Angel and a Human, they appear for the most part human save a few distinguishing features. While facial features and body types may vary as widely as with base humanity, universally Nephilim have pale golden eyes and silvery hair. They are also much larger, usually standing between 8-10’ tall, and poses a natural strength and vitality beyond human capacity.
Waking without knowing who one is, aside from a name, it would be easy to fall into despair; but Nezumes chose another path. She was brought back for a purpose, though she doesn’t know what it is yet, she move onwards to find it. This has led to a rather upbeat and positive outlook on things.

• Master One-handed Swordmanship
• Adept Archer

She has snippets of memories, a manor house in a vast field, standing on the deck of a ship at sea, still images with no context of what they mean. She also has a single more detailed one. She’s clad in armour, and stands overlooking the remains of a vast battlefield. It is a fight not long over and the cries and moans of the wounded can be head below her. Her whole body aches and it takes effort to stay standing and there is no joy, no elation of a battle won.
A silvery locket with the name ‘Danis’ engraved inside. She doesn’t remember anything of whomever the name is, only that meant a great deal to her.

Name: "Peregrine"
Sex: Male
Race: Human

Personality: Jolly and friendly, Peregrine is a rare sight to see in the desolation of the apocolypse. Peregrine works well enough as an independent agent, but does not mind the brief companionship when meeting others in his travel. He does not hesitate to help others when he is in the position to do so, and although can be dismissed as impulsive and delusional, is actually quite thoughtful and deliberate.
Peregrine makes a point of refraining judgement of others, especially of other Arisen. He knows that whatever their past may be, the future is what they make of it - which holds true in particular in the apocolypse, where the world holds no previous grudges. In similar spirit, Peregrine is also very driven to a certain goal when he sets his mind to it, but also holds no qualms if he deems such a pursuit a meaningless act. After all, no one is waiting for them, so why not take the long way around?
Peregrine feels sorrow for all that was lost in the apocolypse, and even moreso that he does not remember anything explicit from his past. He feels a sense of loneliness and conflicted as he is aware that he feels like he's lost something he never had in the first place. But knowing that there are much greater things to fight for than to be bitter over one's past, Peregrine strives to hide his pain and deflects much of it with jokes and pretense. Perhaps he will find the child from his dreams again, one day - but not today. Today he forges on.

Skills: Scouting and Pathfinding, Scavenging and Improvised Craftmanship, Ranged Weapons Mastery

Memory: Peregrine has nearly no memories of his past life, but he's pieced together what happened rather vaguely from the eulogies that were carved around his grave. Although the writings are nearly faded away, he managed to discover that his grave was the grave of a well-travelled frontiersman and adventurer, commissioned by the king to explore new lands to conquer. After staying behind to help another injured adventurer on the mountaintop, he died of unknown means and his cadaver was later found and reburied with modestly celebrated fortunes.
However, Peregrine does remember one fuzzy memory of a child calling out to him through a snowing day, and the smell of warm stew. But whenever he tries to recall any more of who that child was, he only cements his belief that he knows absolutely nothing about them, only a certain sense of longing and loss. Peregrine wishes he could believe that the child was his own, but is unsure if this delusion will only make him more lonely.

Memento: A short, silver chain with the falcon crest on the end of it, hanging from the hilt of Peregrine's armour. The crest is elaborately guilded in purple and gold, with the falcon holding a bundle of arrows in its beak. Although Peregrine isn't that emotionally attached to the crest, he believes that if he was indeed the man of the eulogies, something to signify his identity would be something that may come useful later, on the off chance that its supposed royal authority is recognized.

Name: Go'dur Ashtar

Sex: Male

Race: Orsimer (Orc) - Large, green-skinned peoples from the mountainous regions across Western Tamriel. Generally taller and bulkier than normal humans, though they share a similar body structure. All Orcs have several features setting them apart from man and mer, most notably the tone of their skin, ranging from darker shades of green to muddy gray or brown. Orcs also have a set of tusks on their lower jaw, usually extending a couple of inches past the upper lip. Their noses are pushed upwards, giving a faint semblance of a boar, though not quite so pronounced. Finally, some Orcs have horns on their forehead and/or brow line. Usually these horns are relatively short.

Personality: Go'dur is a proud Orcish warrior, having slain many does in battle. This has given him a sense of pride in his own strength, and he is independent and confident. He tempers his caution with experience in both life and combat. His determination and seriousness are large parts of his personality as well, and they go to great measures to hide his compassion for others.

Appearance: Go'dur is an excellent specimen of male Orc anatomy. He stands at 6'5" and weighs around 270 pounds of tempered muscle. He has black hair that is shaven on the sides and pulled into a warrior's knot at the back of his skull, neat and away from his deep orange eyes. His skin is a medium green, like that of pine needles, and he is phenomenally built, as would be someone of his power and reputation. He wears thick trousers with fur, sturdy boots with an iron studded toe, a leather vest backed with chainmail, and iron bracers on his forearms.

Skills: Seasoned warrior proficient with most melee weapons, from axes to spears and especially his fists. Hunter. Fisherman. Amateur musician.

Additionally, all Orcs possess the biological ability to enter a berserker state, ignoring damage and shrugging off blows while delivering crushing attacks and powering through, despite fatigue.

Memory: The stink of death rising from his burning stronghold, the screams of his people as the smoke and flame choke him like a scorching hand in his throat. The contrasting coldness as he slowly loses blood. Then, darkness.

Memento: Small wooden carving of a horse, symbolic of his birthsign, the Steed. Those born under the Steed are strong, with reserves of stamina.