Name: Eno Indarys, the Rogue Finger
Race: Dunmer
Age: 40
Birthsign: The Serpent
Family Origins: Necrom, Morrowind

Appearance:

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Standing at an average 5’8’’, at first glance Eno does not make a striking impression. With most of his body hidden underneath baggy robes, and his head clean shaven, he would likely be assumed to be a monk, which, while true, would be a gross understatement. On a closer look, one can realize that despite a strong jaw, an aquiline nose with wide nostrils, and an awfully prominent brow ridge, Eno’s face has been purposefully shaped to be inconspicuous; even the haughty, arrogant look on his face acts as not much more than a distraction for his ritually clipped ears, unnaturally colored eyes, and discolored skin. He is pale for a Dunmer, so off-color that he could pass as a (sickly) man in a passing glance, and his eyes are a cloudy blue, rather than the natural red of his race. There are merely two holes where his ears should be, with barely visible tattoos covering the scar lines. Yet the oddities only start here.

When unclothed, with his disproportionately broad shoulders, long, thick arms, and large, yet graceful, almost feminine hands, Eno sports a build that would not be out of place amongst the most skilled swimmers of Tamriel, or an anatomist’s wettest dreams. His back is well defined, corded with multiple, visible ridges of muscles, and the triangular, flat shape of his torso only lends to size it up further. While he looks less muscular from the front, thanks to a thin layer of fat covering his abs, the shape of his muscles and firmness of his skin still make it obvious that he is in peak physical shape. Were someone to spot him in the nude, they would quickly notice that Eno’s body is entirely absent of physical hair; his arms, legs, eyebrows, and even his crotch are free of even the loneliest tuft. However, thanks to him covering most of his lower torso, arms and lower legs in enchanted bandages, just how unblemished his body is stays unseen to even those who get intimate with him.

Although Eno likes not attracting undue attention, he still considers himself part of the New Temple, and thus has to make himself known, even if only to ‘those in the know’, and dresses so. The hem and sleeves of his robes have a thread of gold embroidered through them, signifying purity and affluence, while a large ritual dagger is stuffed through the sash wrapped around his waist, standing right above his groin with the sheath pointing down, signifying virility, power and prudence. While he claims he wears the white cowl wrapped around his head to signify clearness of mind, this is a lie; it is actually a multipurpose garment, enchanted as to keep magick intrusions into his mind, while also acting as a hood for colder climates, a towel for warmer ones, and, when necessary, a form of concealment for his lack of ears.

Just as he keeps his ‘true personality’ hidden underneath falsifying layers, Eno keeps his vital assets disguised the same way. He wears a chainmail vest underneath his robes, but this piece of protection doubles as a ruse, given that his robes are enchanted as to not yield to blades. He visibly wears many paper charms wrapped around his clothes, yet these are in fact simple disguises compared to the enchanted bandages that cover many portions of his body. The lines around his ears seem like scar tissue, yet they are in fact Daedric charms tattooed to amplify his hearing. He claims his eyes are discolored because of cataracts, yet in fact, they have been injected with an alchemical substance to make him able to see in the dark, like the Khajiit, albeit the permanence of the effect has led to him avoiding bright lights whenever possible, and a trademark squint.

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Personality: Outwardly, Eno is stereotypical – in typical Dunmer fashion, he’s callous, constantly unimpressed with, and equally dismissive of, others, their concerns, and their customs. While not proud of being Dunmer (for there is nothing to be proud of being superior by birth), he still knows that his race is also a reason for him being above others, and often views other races with pity, a pity which can pave way to slight and (still dismissive) admiration if he ever comes across someone who is capable, but isn’t Dunmer. In fashion typical to Eno, all of this is true, yet also a façade. Eno is not merely dismissive of other races; he is equally dismissive of Dunmer and their accomplishments, and simply shows it in a different fashion. He knows that one of the best ways to know someone is to frustrate them, and hides behind the classic Dunmer stereotypes to get to that point as quickly as possible, after which he rates his subjects.

In truth, Eno is a Mer of contradictions. He views the world as a ladder to climb, and himself as a representation of a force, the Ego, that is making its way to the top. Thanks to this outlook, he is able to harbor two seemingly contradictory feelings towards a subject at the same time, via viewing them through Ego-as-is, and Ego-as-him. Eno can hate and love equally, be most wary of the ones he trusts the most, and lie and believe in his own lies very convincingly. Yet, being aware of the pattern, he often creates false principles for himself as to confuse the idiots who may be close to understanding him. This seemingly impenetrable whirlpool of opinions is not without its flaws, however. Despite one of his core tenets being ‘to be an Agent of Discord’, Eno is a creature of order, and finds it hard to find in himself a lively, individual personality, that can exist outside of his definition of rituals and obligations. Because of this, he constantly categorizes even the most trivial actions and hobbies to self-legitimize them, and seeks to keep himself busy whenever possible because of his dislike of stray thought.

Ironically, his most ‘unique’ quirks seem to be a product of the very same obligations that limits his approach of sociality. He has a fixation with odd numbers, because he thinks they are pure, and prefers to make sure that his belongings stay pure through getting rid of amounts that make them even, often through charity, which is a convenient way of gaining good graces, while also being for him a declaration of superiority. He is an awfully competitive person, but surprisingly, despite the lengths he is willing to go just to ‘win’, he does not bear personal grudges towards those who defeat him, and often stays cordial with those that have bested him – although given his obligation to never concede defeat, he often reignites the conflict when the moment seems opportune (i.e. when he is most likely to win). While he is aware of social norms, they are not an integral part of his character. When busy, he can forget them completely, and be unable to comprehend the reasons laying behind any adverse reaction to his actions.

Despite his detached nature, Eno understands how social creatures work, and has found ways to appeal to them and gain their good graces. Being a proficient dream reader, he offers them to those he finds vulnerable to personal interaction and suggestion. However, he never gives his subjects the true interpretations, instead giving them ones more convenient for himself. A constant judge of character, and most constantly a judge of his own character, Eno is a keen observer of people, and so, knows how to present himself as needed, how to walk and act with certain demeanors when necessary and can impersonate various stereotypes with mathematical precision. When amongst a group of people, he decides on, and hides, a stereotype underneath the outer ‘classic Dunmer’ personality for them to discover over prolonged contact. When necessary he changes the stereotype as befits his needs.

While almost completely a creature of logic, Eno has certain traits that he has earned by circumstance, and some that he has not been able to find any logical explanation for. No matter what, Eno is obsessed with hygiene, most importantly smells, and will seek to clean himself whenever necessary. He despises having a smell, even good ones, and often categorizes people on their odor, and can recognize people by smell alone. He also finds himself prone to episodes of solemn sadness whenever he is not keeping himself ‘busy’, and thus, despises idleness. Thanks to the ritual clipping of his ears, and the charms tattooed on to give him ‘Secret Hearing’, Eno is better at hearing things that are not directed to him, but worse at hearing things directed at him. Thus, he can sometimes unwittingly leave an absent-minded impression. One thing that Eno is prodigal at is physical action, and he finds a strange serenity in his mind whenever he has to rely on muscle memory rather than his smarts. With very strong muscle memory, he’s good at repeating his own exact movements, at the cost of looking uncannily robotic.

---

History: As with most living creatures, Eno’s story begins with his parents. His mother Felara, and his father Daryn, were both artists; Daryn a poet, making a living off writing dirges for the constant funerary processions that gave Necrom its name, whereas Felara was a musician, who composed the poetry written by her husband into songs. However, well into their middle ages, they had been dealing with certain problems of an artistic nature – namely, a crippling lack of inspiration. For the two, who weren’t very financially minded, and were also incredibly passionate about their life’s work, the situation was worse than a death sentence, and that led them to seeking a cure; faith, in their case. Eno would never learn of his parents’ former life as wealthy burghers – for him, just like his parents, family was found somewhere else, and that family was in the Temple.

Felara and Daryn’s relative fame and strong donations to the Temple had already attracted all sorts of positive attention to them in the hierarchy; that their child was born under the sign of the Serpent was lauded as further proof of their righteousness of faith, and there was no objection by anyone when the Temple offered to take their child in amongst their cadre of Fingers. The Fingers were a group of monks of special position within the Temple, raised from birth to replace the old Ordinators of House Indoril. Thus, reborn as a Littlefinger, Eno was baptized in Waxwater to cleanse him of all impurities, a procedure which left him bereft of all body hair and gave his skin its faded color, and marked him as one of the Fingers permanently. As a child, Eno was noted for his very result-oriented demeanor and excellence in sports and handicraft, although, according to his overseer, he was horrible at meditation, and not well liked by his peers.

Eventually, towards the end of his strict education, it was decided that, given his piety, strong adherence to the obligations of the Reclamations, and physical prowess, he would best perform his duties to the Temple as a Longfinger – an inquisitor of the Temple. Eno found this most appropriate, and in fact earned a name for himself as one of the more prominent and capable Longfingers. So seriously he took his occupation, that he would go on to have his ears removed, and his eyes injected with an alchemical Nighteye solution; the first not only allowed him to use prosthetic ears and disguise himself as a man when necessary, but also the ritual cauterizing was done in such a way that enhanced his eavesdropping capabilities via enchanted lettering. While some of his higher ups found his self-modifications unsightly, Eno’s devotion to being a force of the Temple was generally met with praise. It was no surprise when he was ordered to be amongst the Longfingers sent to silence a curious rumor of heresy in Blacklight, the local Fingers having failed.

Disguised as a Breton antique collector, Eno quickly came into contact with the source; a bunch of elderly Dunmer priests, offering him an original copy of the 36 Lessons of Vivec, untouched by the Thumbs of the Temple. He arrested them for the crimes of Possession of Prohibited Artifacts and Intent to Sell Prohibited Artifacts, although curiously, never turned the book in for archival. Having always had sympathy for Saint Vivec, thanks to his proficiency with the spear (Eno’s weapon of choice) and his association with Mephala, he decided to sate his curiosity; while its contents were not a shocking revelation, thanks to how regarding the impulsiveness and fickleness of the Daedra constituted an important part of their worship, it did lead him to rethink his place in the hierarchy. Throughout his life, he’d been a servant to greater powers, with no regard to himself, his Ego. He’d been wasting his life to serve the powers that be; yet the forces that he thought he’d been worshipping were forces of change, forces of Ego, not order. His faith in the Padomaic triumphed over his faith in the Temple, and so, Eno decided to serve his faith better. He would reach Heaven by Violence.

Eno started by disappearing. He falsely reported that he had found an unauthorized cult of Namira but was at risk of compromising himself, and then promptly fell off the grid, expecting his superiors to put two and two together and write him off as deceased. Leaving for Skyrim, at first Eno found himself unsure on what to do; having lived according to ritual throughout his life, he realized he did not know how to lead a life for himself. He found an answer to that quickly, by setting down his own obligations and rituals. This line of thinking would eventually evolve and make him view others’ behavior in the same vein (although obviously of a lesser sort, since theirs was one without higher purpose), and, combined with the education on Daedra he’d received in the Temple, lead to a new occupation; an interpreter of dreams. While the oddly dressed Dunmer was not well received amongst the Nords, he found the minds of the Dunmer refugees in the land very malleable; his disguise as a monk only helped create an even better disposition. He began by interpreting for workers, maids, people who were bereft of their ancestors’ loftier, prouder lives. Their rumors snuck into the minds of their employers, however, and soon enough, Eno was interpreting dreams for Nords of the wealthier classes.

His gig did not go on for very long, however, and he was discovered to be having an affair with the wife and the children of a rather influential court figure in Whiterun. Skipping town with his profits, and a young lad he’d convinced to become his manservant, he fled to Jehanna. There, he led a simpler life, preying on the constantly bickering middle class by pretending to be a writer of charms. Having learned his lesson in Whiterun, he quickly changed occupations before anyone could find out that he was a fraud, and moved to Wayrest, serving as a martial arts instructor, teaching young nobles the way of the Spear. Introducing young men and women to the art of piercing, he earned some renown fairly quick under the name of Indar Serano; although the renown came with a fair amount of infamy, which led to all his property being confiscated and him wanted when he accidentally crushed the windpipe of the Court Wizard’s son during a training session. He fled south, to Hammerfell, taking up the even simpler trade of wood carving. Carving idols, spear shafts, and love spears for those in need, he found the work satisfying, but dulling in the long term for his goal. He had to seek Violence for Heaven, and so, he began searching for great tumult. A search that led him to a ship named Kismet.

---

Biggest Regret: Consciously, leaving the Temple. Eno believes that it has set him back where it could lead to him gaining even more power and influence, and respects this fault for teaching him the lessons of starting over. Subconsciously, however, he's not as above it all as he seems; it's hidden away even from him, but Eno bears resentment for the lack of vision he had as a youth, his past contentment with the positions he was given, and the enthusiasm with which he followed orders. Nothing but a glorified tool for somebody else's purpose.

Eno's Goal: A self-declared pursuer of 'Royalty', Eno claims to have great, world-shaping goals (as vague as they are) – but for that, he has to become strong enough to get to survive that stage. Eno views his body as no more than a vessel that needs to be prepared for the stormy paths he has set in mind, and as such, his current goal is to perfect his being against any sort of harm that he may come across on his journey, be it physical, mental or magical. Having received some amount of permanent body modifications in his earlier days, he may end up looking for similar options to further his prowess and progress.

---

Skills:

Expert:
Spear

Adept:
Speech
Sneak
Hand-to-Hand

Novice:
Athletics
Acrobatics
Illusion

Spells:

Calm, Courage, Fear, Fury

Equipment:

-Often hailing Eno’s arrival from afar is an umbrella carried on a long, dark pole by his spear bearer, Llaran. In truth, this bell is a cover for the thin ebony tip of his spear, the blade meticulously forged from a piece of evidence from an old smuggling case, a piece that Eno kept for himself.

-Pointing down Eno’s waist is a large scabbard, in which is holstered a steel dagger meant for ritual use, with a wavy blade and a conical hilt that ends in two round halves. While useful in a pinch, Eno prefers to keep it solely as a piece of attire, and in truth, has little idea on how to use it, except as a shorter spear.

-Eno likes to show himself as vulnerable, but in truth keeps himself ready for action. He pretends to try to cover the chainmail vest that he wears under his robes, but in truth, his robes have been cut from an enchanted cloth that makes it tough like buff leather when struck, a memento from his days in Whiterun.

-A white cowl is usually wrapped around Eno’s head, seemingly to further signify his disguise as a monk. It is actually back from his days in the Temple, a shirt that has been cut to act as a headwrap. It was for wandering priests, enchanted as to resist illusion and temptation; still works the same as a cowl.

-As part of his initiation into the Longfingers, Eno’s limbs were covered with a set of bandages that bear prearranged Daedric lettering, a form of enchanting meant to ease and strengthen his muscles. Oddly, they seem to be so porous that nothing sticks to them; allowing Eno to wear them without care like skin.

Misc. Possessions:

Eno is almost always followed by his manservant, healer and spear bearer, Llaran. A young, lithe lad quite fascinated and enamored with Eno, he’s been with him through thick and thin and carries most of the provisions and comforts required to make long journeys for the both of them.


On his person, Eno carries a very small carving knife, that he uses to carve idols in his spare time, as well as carrying a satchel of coffee beans that he likes to chew on before going to sleep.

@Peik

First of all, which hell dimension did you crawl out from, Peik? Just asking because I might have crawled from the same one. I know for sure Hank probably did as well.

Your ability to craft a character around an expansive knowledge of lore is probably the best I’ve come across in my (short) time roleplaying Elder Scrolls. It’s clear you know your stuff, and that builds a level of trust that is nice to have in a writer in a game. There’s so much to love about this sheet, and what gives me confidence in Eno is that you really give me the impression that you have been inside his mind and you know all of the inner workings.

As for me, I feel like I can’t get a handle on him. He’s like the literary version of a rubix cube lmao. I am curious as to how he’s going to fit in with the group, and how he will handle the adventures and horrors - but part of that trust in you as a writer makes me feel less concerned, and more intrigued. Everything adds up, but there are some things I need further clarification on, and would like you to consider;

In truth, Eno is a Mer of contradictions. He views the world as a ladder to climb, and himself as a representation of a force, the Ego, that is making its way to the top.

Nice imagery. Gives me instant ‘chaos is a laddah sansaaaah’ feels. Which I love, of course. The fast he was named Littlefinger just makes me all warm in places.

He has a fixation with odd numbers, because he thinks they are pure, and prefers to make sure that his belongings stay pure through getting rid of amounts that make them even, often through charity, which is a convenient way of gaining good graces, while also being for him a declaration of superiority

How odd and, strangely charming all at once. I adore quirks like this. I have a character who manages and does everything in threes, so this sticks out to me and I like it a lot.

One issue I’m having is with the walking handbag. I can see why, in the story he would have this young chap but it adds a level of unfairness by having this NPC that other players do not have. If you really want this character involved, I will require a shorter micro-sheet outlining his exact skills, and possibly at the cost of a skill slot for Eno (I see he’s a healer, so I need clarification there). In any case, I need further information about this fellow.

&

Eno's Goal: A self-declared pursuer of Royalty, Eno wishes to be an agent of great discord, break the status quo whenever and wherever possible, and impose his will upon great things, whatever he may be willing.

This is feeling slightly more like a personality quirk as opposed to a goal that I can work with. I can let that sit, but then that might put you at a disadvantage later down the track. Please have a real think about something as a goal, anyway!

A last slice of nitpicking, he has a hearing skill and a sight skill, I'm inclined to ask you to maybe pick one or the other, but I'm happy to discuss! Perhaps the sight is not permanent and he has to keep procuring the items to create the blend and re-inject.

@Greenie
Greenie is writing a Khajiit! Oooh la la!

The addition of a character like S’kandar really helps to balance out some of the more difficult personalities in the group, and he’s definitely on the sunny side of the rainbow which I love, and also who doesn’t love a flirty fellow? ;o

The appearance section is great and succinct and I like that you have added flares of personality to it, I would love to see more of that actually - how does he carry himself? How does his face change and what does that say about his mood? That kind of stuff, if you can’t tell from my other feedback, is like my crack cocaine haha. But do not feel obliged!

I really like this sheet, and the character. I think he’s going to add a lovely level of balance to the group as mentioned. The fact that he’s had tragedy in his life, and yet somehow still maintains a pleasant disposition is lovely and a great foil to characters like DS I think. I actually like the image of them as Black and White Yin/Yang Khajiit a lot. Where in ways they cross over but are very different.

I'm really impressed with your writing here. I actually just recently found Meg 1.0 in the S&S thread, and the way that your writing has improved since then really impresses me to no end. You've always been a fabulous writer, it's just so clear that you're now adding levels of polish that are distinctly Greenie. You're able to craft characters to play that are so different from each other and I know that you very easily get into the minds of your characters, and you do so well with emotive writing so I'm actually desperately pleading for, at some point, a flashback post of the vampire caravan attack.

For a young chap, he’s experienced a lot and I think that really shows in the way you’ve told his story!

For the most part, he finds it hard to turn away from somebody in need and will try to help them out. He has a very strict code of not leaving anyone behind when working with others,

A really nice trait that speaks a lot about him in a simple way, I love it.

A note; the vampire part of his history could be a topic of bonding with Dances-in-Milk!

A water skin filled with water
A water skin filled with ale

That tickled me.

Something I would like a bit more info on, and would ask you to work on would be the wolf - it’s a brief mention in his history but I’d like some more information. There’s something symbolic about a cat befriending a dog, and also wolves are hardy animals - is she a bit like Ghost from GoT? How does the wolf relate to S’kandar? Does she fight for him? Can she protect him? Or is she simply just a pet. I think there’s more to Jashi to be explored in the sheet and that’s probably the only missing link I’m finding there. Unlike a horse-mount, I'm feeling that the wolf is more a borderline NPC so we might need to work on this a bit.

I think that there is more Greenie polish to be added to this sheet, but I'd be happy to accept it simply with the clarifications on Jashi.

@POOHEAD189

Great sheet and concept - a change of pace from some of the personalities and Beren will add a great perspective. I see that you’ve already said that you’ll pretty the sheet up.

I love the concept Poo. You’re fantastic at making characters who I would say are roguish with a heart of gold, and you always manage to make their heart the biggest aspect of the personality and you never shy away from that. It’s really great to see and I’ve no doubt you’ll breathe fantastic life into this character and I cannot wait to see him finished and punching all the things in this rp!

I love that you've given him more than one goal, and that gives me a really great insight into his character, and a confidence that I know he's a good fit - plus all of them I can work with too!

As has been my feedback on many of the sheets - the appearance section is very lacking. It reads more like a snapshot as opposed to a painting. I get the image quite clearly, but I do wish there was more there to flesh him out. Mannerisms etc. How his appearance can change from time to time. You write ‘he seems both gentle and dangerous at the same time.’ Tell me more about this, how does he seem that way?

I have the same feedback with the personality section also. To me, personality is one of the most important parts of a sheet. I’d like to see how his history has influences his personality. I’d particularly like to know more about his humour. How does this manifest? Is it a defence mechanism? Has he just always been a natural comedian? We don’t have a lot of characters whereby humour has been a part of the personality and I see real potential for this to be a big part of his character overall, so I’d like you to touch on that more.

With Hank’s sheet, I was able to pull at a thread from the personality section that then gave me inspiration to pass on to weave through the history, the humour of Beren is certainly a thread that intrigues me and stands out above everything else.

Incidentally - ‘he never quite got along with the children in Leywiin when he visited. He was a scrawny, quiet boy more used to the forest than big town dinners and get-togethers.’
- Humour as deflection and defense makes sense based on this

Beren’s regret is really touching to me, because I feel like, especially the part about the dog came from your heart and I love that and you.

His history is great and believable, and you chose two key events in his life. His training with Sees-at-Night and the death of Sarah to focus on, but then towards the end there is this;

He left his home nearly 2 years ago, visiting Hammerfell first and managing (by the skin of his teeth) to defeat a Necromancer that had been harrying trade routes on the road from Skaven to Highrock

It’s really only a loose point covered, and I feel that considering the nature of this RP and the themes, that could be more heavily explored - how did it make him feel to fight a necromancer? I think there’s just more to be explored as opposed to it being so close to the end. I feel like this would have had a huge impact on him. Considering that death has been part of his regret was he disgusted by the necromancer for abusing life and death? Was he, in some ways haunted by it? Intrigued by the art because of his longing for Sarah - there’s a lot of themes in there that I think could add a really compelling layer to Beren that might be missing right now.

I’m pulling at the death of Sarah and his pupperoni with the Necromancer because I think I see potential and storyline there.

@Dervish
I’ve said it to you privately, your experience and expertise as a GM bleeds out into your sheet because you’ve crafted it beautifully. You’ve written it from the angle of what I’m looking for, and I tip my hat to you to be honest.

I love this;

He loves getting away with something that’s outside the rule of law, and he takes great pleasure at the explosive reactions of people who he had wronged

There’s not much else in this sheet that sums up Lurks quite as much as this, and I love his petty smugness - he’s a chaotic character but disarmingly so. It's a really hard to nail personality type in my opinion but you make it so subtle by adding these other layers that it’s like - yeah, even I wouldn’t suspect him of being a Jerk. I also think you’re at your best when you’re writing these borderline characters and I genuinely am so excited to see what comes out of your brain with this character.

Him making trinkets is a nice little quirk too :) as well as the focus on the financial mindset stuff. I actually love that detail because it gives a fascinating insight into who he is.

I just admire your attention to detail, and this sheet has a level of whimsy throughout it that I actually haven’t seen from you - and some undertones of humour to level out the tragedy. It’s like, the way you’ve written it is so light that it takes a moment to discover the melancholy. For example the way that they barely had money for food. Things like that are just such clever displays of writing.

A bolas is such a strange choice of weapon, but fits the character quite perfectly. On that, his skills really do add up well and make him well-rounded and interesting for this roleplay. All the skills match up to the history, personality, and appearance that you’ve written too. So, in my eyes this is a really airtight sheet and yeah, your GM is showing because there isn’t much that needs to be rectified. You clearly know this character, and you’ve given me a great insight into that too.

There are some minor grammatical bits here and there, and before posting the sheet on Wednesday I’d like you to maybe just sleep on the sheet and maybe take another look at it before the deadline in case something of another idea strikes you. That sometimes happens to me haha! But honestly, great work and Lurks-at-Night can be posted as is come Wednesday.

Name: Ercanoriel
Race: Altmer
Age: 45
Birthsign: The Lady
Family origins: Alinor (formerly known as the Sumerset Isles)



Appearance: Ercanoriel presents himself with an albedo close to 1 on his skin as if his body has never experienced the sun, his hair represents a purity of whiteness that even the elder can only seldomly hope for or be afraid of. There is as little of this golden hue his kind usually is so fond of as there is color in his eyes, yet he obviously is perfectly alive and of flesh and blood. The latter can be seen flowing beneath his skin im moments of great strain or anger, but even then the inability of his body to produce skin pigments is the dominating factor. Ercanoriel is a natural albino as it occurs only very rarely and it appears he doesn't want to apply any mundane stopgap like warpaint or tattoos to this.

The distinct jawline, the smoothness and purity of his skin and the density with which his head is populated by hairs following the flow of gravity well beyond his shoulders all betray the fact that, though only by a man's and not by an Altmer's standard, he's anything but juvenile anymore. His eyebrows are fully existent, but things like a white-to-white contrast simply cannot be produced so they can hardly be seen from further away. His head puts as much emphasis on vertical elongation in preference of width as does his slender nose, so his pointy and sturdy ears add a very noticeable silhouette of their own along with the extra feature of preventing hair spills into his face. He would grow a white beard, but as long as the circumstances allow for it he keeps his face clean cut.

Altmer are a race standing high quite literally and at 6'9" Ercanoriel is not a humble being. There have been years in his life during which he has tried to dilute his frustration with cheap beverages that only brought headaches and fat on his waistline, but there is no such thing to be seen around him right now. In fact one can see that he is used to wearing and dealing with the heavy stuff: Shoulders that not only seem broad because his neck is not thick, thighs and calves way too powerful for someone who'd rely on magic and ruggedized arms and hands. One probably doesn't want to carry Ercanoriel just in case of what of his elvish speed and dexterity still remain should unexpectedly become completely disabled.



Personality: Ercanoriel's behavior can basically be divided into three different layers stacked on top of each other:

The lowest layer is how he was born, the natural attitude that everybody has and that can only be bent, but never really eliminated. On this layer he is a curious, open-minded person with a generally bright outlook on life. One has to dare something in order to reach something, or, as one would put it in modern, stylish words: No risk, no fun. As such it sometimes can be necessary to try and throttle him down if he feels, well... over-enthusiastic. The thought of natural death is even more of a remote thing for him, maybe simply because it still is so far away for him. It can be a little startling for other people if they don't immediately recognize that mer, Altmer in particular, live a lot longer. His nature is a rather jovial one, one that knows the meaning of friendship and comradeship in general. Ercanoriel is quite, but not excessively intelligent and can find joy in solving problems, but he can also become very frustrated.

The middle layer has been constructed by how he was raised. A thing that becomes apparent for those knowing a little more about culture when they keep talking with him for a little longer is that his education in general falls a bit short of what one could expect from an Altmer. Not the part of education that revolves around manners, how to behave like a sociable man or common knowledge, but much more about what history his own people have. He simply never had a good reason to learn all that stuff. And of course his magical expertise is shockingly lousy for an Altmer, not only pratically but also theoretically even though he is far from being too old to change this. His circumstances simply did not allow for this earlier, but on the good side of things he also was never polluted with what many people dislike about Altmers: This high degree of proudness, self-glorification and, put more straightforwardly, arrogance. He lacks those aspects, sometimes even to the point that he noticeably hesitates to clearly point out his opinion and stand behind it with full force. For a major part of his life it counted less then the average after all.

The top layer is his active control that can override many of the underlying aspects in preference of something he makes up just in time. This layer is prone to miss or to make blunders and his case it's also particularly thick.

Ercanoriel is quite aware of the fact that many people have confused him with being living snow elf in the past, something that -- for the lack of real living falmers capable of contradicting him whereever he is -- puts him into the rather unique situation of being capable to define them, their attitude and their habits towards those other people. It is a dubious power he doesn't allow himself to touch unless telling the truth about his albinism really and absolutely is not an option he could get away with halfway unharmed. He has seen the crippled, wicked and miserable beings the falmer are now and feels pity for this extinct kind of mer. However he's also tired of telling the entirity of his story in its truth as quite a considerable fraction of everyday people either lacks the knowledge necessary to fully understand it, is an Altmer him or herself or could just start to make a mock of him and his weird look. People can be silly and his tolerance for more often than not bad jokes about his incredibly pale skin has dropped near to zero up to the point where he'll start to rant in a lecturing manner.

Ercanoriel doesn't stand behind Aldmeri ideals. For him they are a burden, even something that he deems to be in urgent need of reform. The presence of his own people in so many parts of Tamriel doesn't make him happy, but he sees it more as a danger. He'd even be willing to change things a little if he had anything to say on the large scale of politics. But how much of this can he tell about openly without endangering himself ? His confidence in revealing these thoughts depends on where he is and whom he's speaking to, so the answers given by him can vary greatly.



History: If Ercanoriel had been born among the naturally pale Nords his albinism would likely have been a mild annoyance. If he had joined the living in the regions of Vvardenfell or Hammerfell he might have been regarded, maybe despised as an aberration along with having problems with the sun. Existence would have been similarly special in the remaining core regions of the empire, but being 'gifted' with this otherweise pretty harmless defect in the middle of the Altmer society can be pretty much equivalent to reactor meltdown. Whether claims that the Altmer would dispose of many of their own children if they don't fit their idea of 'racial purity' are the truth or just propaganda created by those who dislike them is up to debate, but there is no way to deny that their will to preserve the appearance of their ancestors is particularly strong in them. In other words: Ercanoriel's parents knew instantly that they had given birth to a not-yet-walking, but all the more screaming and hungry disaster.

While momentarily agreeing upon hiding the birth of their son the best they could, the relationship between Ercanoriel's parents ultimately did not survive the struggle that broke out between them after his birth: His father was a not entirely unimportant participant in the business of internal politics and as such his entire income and social status was highly dependent upon his reputation. In his mind losing it was simply unaffordable, but still he wanted Ercanoriel to live. The solution he came up with was the idea of putting him up for adoption somewhere else in the world. They had enough money, they had a whole Aldmeri alliance between Alinor, Elsweyr and Valenvald to search for potential candidates that would take care of their child far away while they could state towards their Altmer friends that there was no more danger of Ercanoriel's bloodline feeding back into the core of the Altmer population. His mother however expressed her desire to move the entire three-person household away from the island in order to maintain direct control -- after all there was the white gold concordate making becoming an inhabitant of another part of Tamriel and finding work for Altmers easier than before.

Ultimately they themselves decided to part ways in a peaceful manner. Ercanoriel's father stayed back on Alinor while he moved with his mother to Valenwald. Much to Ercanoriel's fortune all of this happened in a very early stage of his environment when his mind was not yet developed enough to grasp the true extent of what was going on. While his present day ego is perfectly aware of those events the fact that he could only see his father on seldom and very discrete occasions did not have that much of an impact on his development. The young Ercanoriel just never knew what a father's presence meant: For him the word 'father' is defined much more on the cognitive level and seeing the physical incorporation of it was quite a bit more like seeing a very close relative.

Still there was no lack of problems: Ercanoriel's skin could be protected from sunlight by the dense forest of Valenvald, but being called a 'Falmer twerp' by those who wanted to refer to both his white skin and the often attribute arrogance of Altmer at the same time became a bit uncomfortable. Only having a substandard number of friends becoming a loner was partly unavoidable. Also Ercanoriel found himself in a dilemma education-wise: As an Altmer he had a great theoretical affinity to magic, but practically the resources avaiable to teach him how to use his full potential were severely limited without returning to Alinor. On the other hand there was no way he could ever hope to keep up with a Bosmer's talent for stealth or agility in general. He was a ship thrown onto land that was supposed to grow several legs and start crawling away from the sea that would never return. And why ? Because of a bit of color, or rather the general attitude of many of his own people that the lack thereof could hardly be tolerated.

The ship wouldn't grow legs for years to follow... Instead it gently slipped into the murky, acid pond that was a mixture of cheap beer and self-hatred. Valenvald wasn't Skyrim, but it still enough taverns for him to stop listening to the words of his mother and to simply let go of himself. He devolved into a even more lously representative of the prould Altmer, grew a stomach and adopted a shabby appearance and attitude in general. That was until the very organization showed up that had just run out of Stormcloaks to punish and of Blades to execute: the Thalmor.

It was a perfectly routine patrol with no particular goal except for checking if everything was alright, but once they entered the main hall and spotted the drunk and (in their eyes) misbehaving albino who was too tall and pointy-eared to be anything else than an Altmer he had their attention. Asked to get out for some 'questioning' he resisted in a flamboyant move, a little too flamboyant for the Thalmor agents. Ercanoriel's memory cuts off the moment he saw other patrons join the developing brawl, probably making things worse not only for themselves. It restarts with a very bad headache, in a rolling cage.

The ship had sunk and hit the seafloor, hard. In retrospect however coming so dangerously close the furnace at the bottom of the destillation tower that society felt like only helped to prople his subsequent ascent to heights not reached before. Humble heights, but still...

The prison mates he ended up with in an anonymous cellar were a bunch of adventurers that had specialized in making their living by going from place to place and scavening dwemer ruins for everything that looked like it could be sold to somebody. In the eyes of the Thalmor this was a violation of ownership rights (which they deemed themself to have), but it didn't deserve anything close to a death sentence. Ercanoriel's own crime wasn't this, but the fact that he had hit that damn agent right in his ugly face. And then, though never mentioned by them officially, there was the fact that the Thalmor found him to look inacceptable in general. What could be an adequate punishment for this ? Well... they banned him from Alinor, disallowing him to set a foot on the Altmer homeland. And he was forbidden to marry any of his kind. Both things couldn't have hurt Ercanoriel any less than they did. At this point of time the thought of doing any of those two things would never have crossed his mind. As an added bonus now it was at least official, something that could be looked up in the records so they'd already know him or so he at least hoped. He had not told any of his parents names and after decades of living in Valenvald the Thalmor also failed to find the link between him and his true origins.

He left prison together with the adventurers and some of them were curious about this pale mer. He could not truly fight yet, but that could be changed. These damn dwemer constructs often were a little resiliant to magic anyway, so why not go full melee ? The overall stature was good for that and they could use a guy who could trample on those pesky dwemer worker spiders... And on the transition from one ruin to the other there'd be ample time to train him. Ercanoriel could see the unique opportunity: He'd finally excel at something instead of being regarded as substandard, unsuitable or whatever other damn reason people could come up with, even if the circle of people he could compare himself against would be a quite small and ragtag one.

It is safe to say that he has gained the vast majority of his current fighting proficiency thanks to those people. Also seeing the famous dwemer homes from inside himself was a bit of an eye-opening experience. While he started to lose his self-hatred when first successes started to roll in his disliking for his own kind only increased. The dwemer had never been afraid of crossing thresholds, good and bad ones alike. So how were Altmer supposed to develop further if what they seemed to be best at apparently was conserving what had already been existing hundreds of years ago ? Also, to be quite honest, magic seemed to have a quite potent counterpart in technology. Too bad that those truly creating it have vanished.

Ercanoriel still is a member of this adventurer's group, but he currently is on a bit of an hiatus that isn't meant to last very long. The means of transportation for this little vacation happens to be the Kismet.



Biggest regret: It had been his father's own decision to see him only very seldomly, but his mother certainly had not wanted for contact to end so abruptly. Ercanoriel knows that and he also knows that, on the bottom line, he's the culprit and this time his appearance is not an excuse.



Ercanoriel's Goal(s):
Luckily Altmer live a lot longer then men, so there's still plenty of time to fix his regret, even if he can't prevent it from ever happening in the first place. However maybe even stronger than this is his hidden desire to kick the asses of a certain kind of people at least metaphorically: his own. If those dwemer were able to map the skies, to make holographic projections, to create walking, almost living machines that work up to this day couldn't there be something left undiscovered that could fix a certain cosmetic issue ? Or at least hide it so profoundly that he can go back to Alinor and laugh at all those bootlickers as they fail to see his true nature anymore. Some other fancy thing that he could use to turn the table and have some fun instead of being the sport himself would also be good though, though not the best.



Skills:

• Expert: Two-handed
• Adept: Archery, Restoration and Speech
• Novice: Destruction, Alteration, Illusion

Spells:

• Restoration: close wounds, greater ward, heal others
• Destruction: Sparks, Frostbite
• Alteration: Candlelight
• Illusion: Courage

Equipment:

• Two-handed steel axe
• Steel plate armor (full set)
• Set of 'civil' clothes. Not the cleanest, quite a little worn out but definitely preferrable to walking around in armor all day long
• Food and water for two days -- one can never now how good a ship's cook is in advance, right ?
• Misc: A few septims that might get him over another four days or so after the ship's arrival at its destination and of course a rucksack where he can carry all the loose stuff around.

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Name: Drujha Nagmesh.
Race: Argonian
Age: 24
Birthsign: The Atronach
Family Origins: Soulrest, the Black Marsh

Appearance:

Standing at approximately 5’5”, Drujha is not the tallest Argonian around and her more frail appearance makes her even less intimidating than most of her kin, even if she tries to carry herself at the tallest she can manage. To many, she still seems youthful, still seeming to be an innocent adolescent and oftentimes being confused as a young student in the magical arts. Her thinner build, does not help very much fitting the build that would be expected of someone who relies on more upon magic than any physical trait, however, it does help with first impressions. It is no doubt that she also takes great pride in maintaining her youthful appearance.

To hide her frailer nature, Drujha sports a heavy cloak, almost as dark as her scales and lined with white fur and adorned with traditional argonian patterns that ends just below her stomach though traveling the full length of her arms. Under the cloak she wears a tattered, dark purple tunic that extends to her knees but is missing the sides, which show the soft scales of the argonian. She wears blackened pants, with various argonian patterns sewn throughout, tucked into old brown boots that seem to be starting to fall apart. Overall, she seems to be a neat and always clean, with the exception of the tattered tunic and the patterned pants she wears beneath her cloak which seems to hardly see the light of day. Her hands are wrapped in linens, bloodied and dirty, almost ruining the appeal of her otherwise clean wardrobe and she never reveals what injury may have caused those bandages to become so bloody, never motioning to replace them while the stink of blood moves away from them.

Moving onto her physical attributes, this argonian has a head full of dark blue plumage that runs down to the base of her skull and goes outwards. While this may make wearing hoods a bit more difficult, they do not take away from her seemingly glowing yellow, reptilian eyes. Drujha’s skin is riddled with various deadric symbols that have either been burned into her skin or carved into her, not a sign of daedric worship but of her commitment to attempt controlling them, however, this does make people assume she worships them. Yet, despite all these symbols of horrid nature, she still moves with a skip in her step as if she were a child bursting with joy and happiness.

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Personality:

Over time, Drujha has grown to become what many would note as controlling and highly self-absorbed in a world that only she lives in. These claims have rooted in the fact that Drujha seeks control in order to keep others safe, in order to mold a world that she views as perfect in every regard, whether or not that means she has to alienate a few people does not bother her. In that light, it is clear that she has become a tad bit cynical and cold as she believes that nobody will understand, or even support, her vision of a world where the daedra were totally controlled. To many, it seems that her obsession with control borders that edge of sanity and insanity as she attempted to garner further power in her magic. Once, she was very eager and happy to share her ideals, but rejection and argument have tempered her to believe other things and while she does maintain a happy and outgoing appearance, it has been lessened.

She is one who will not expect others to understand her vision, though she does not actively force her ideals down another throat. If one does not agree with her ideals, then she tends to drop the subject altogether and move into other topics of converts. If it was not overtly apparent, it would seem that the only thing she cares about would be her great dream to an almost fanatical degree, but to say it is the only thing she cares about would be wrong. Drujha cares deeply for her argonian roots, caring deeply for the hist that made her who she is and her family that has raised her. Of course, while she does care deeply for her vision, she does know when and where to talk about it, often times away from prying eyes and when in seclusion with her comrades. Drujha, in that regard, comes across as coy and innocent in public, almost having a split personality from her far more cunning and serious side.

It is with that regard that Drujha is brutally cunning and cunningly brutal, often fooling people that she is messing with powers that she does not quite understand. When she is alone with her book, she writes with the face of someone who seems to never have smiled before, becoming so absorbed in her study that whatever veil she seems to hide behind fades into the background as if she were merely a host for some crazed demon. However, this appearance of crazed, maniacal individual can peek out at certain times in public. When she goes to summon something, when she hears words associated with daedra, when she talks to others deeply about her plans of a world with total control over the daedra. Drujha almost becomes insane as she allows this side to take over when it does, finding the sweet release of freedom to be intoxicating and maddening.

This crazed side, while maintaining the happiness and seeming innocence of Drujha, is very eager to do what it must to obtain the knowledge that Drujha so desperately seeks that moral boundaries almost evaporate. The death of people she has not grown attached to, those who would actively move against her plans, those who would have more knowledge of what she desires all become fair game. As such, against these people, she is not afraid to steal nor being afraid of what consequences might befall her as this obsession fueled side would run rampant. What is worse, Drujha knows how best to hide this side, knowing when to cut loose and when to fool others into believing her naivety and innocence.

On a lighter note, due to her studies of daedra, she is very much a fan of literature, finding great pleasure from reading various works of fiction. While, to a minor extent, this liking spreads to other arts, she views literature as more grasping than the others as she finds herself lost in words from time to time. Additionally, Drujha enjoys conversation, whether they be philosophical in nature or just to pass the time, and while her cynical nature may sometimes make others shy away from in depth conversation, she does her best to not let that cynicism actively drive one away. In that aspect, and others, she is a well mannered individual.

With her well mannered self, Drujha is a great guest, and a great host, never interrupting someone when they speak as well as giving them her undivided attention. She will smile, apologize, thank, etc as she has learned that it is with good manners that others are more likely to see you in a better light.

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History:

Even when Drujha was but a mere hatchling, heard tale of the Oblivion Crisis and how it seemed to have devastated the world over, only to be driven back by the likes of the ‘Hero of Kvatch’ and usher in a newer era of peace. However, Drujha was more enamored with the aspect of the Oblivion Crisis that is often forgotten to the outside world, that the Argonians had managed to invade the daedra and defeat them in their own plane of Oblivion. She remembered that she would always ask her elders to speak of those tales that had been passed down, and when they did not wish to speak, they would give her a book of the event and she would read it. Being born with a strong connection to magic, she felt that perhaps she could live up to and do even more than what her ancestors had done.

By consequence, it was these tales that started the, arguably, unhealthy obsession with the Daedra and how to control them since it had been shown that the Argonians are more than able to invade there likes. Drujha would study and study, leading her to the likes of magic and conjuration as she had read that powerful mages could summon Daedra from their planes and use them against their foes. This prompted her to seek a teacher from a young age, only barely reaching her adolescence before a begrudging mage would finally take her under his wing, teaching her the basics of magic. This teacher was known to some in Cyrodil as Walks-In-Water, and was commonly referred to as such by his peers. It was under Walks-In-Water that this young mind became focused on her goal as he demonstrated that mages could, in fact, summon dremora from other planes of existence.

Her favorite memory would be the time when she first managed to summon something, while it was not daedra or dremora, it had been something. After years of studying, years of practicing spells and other forms of magic, she had summoned a dagger from nothing and Drujha knew that she had to learn more, and so she did. Conjuration was a difficult aspect to learn, but Drujha was determined and eager to learn and practice anything that she needed in order to move forwards. Perhaps she was happier with the show of progress than the actually event, perhaps she was happier being able know that one day she would be able to summon even the daedra in the future. Perhaps, just perhaps, Drujha felt that madness that would later consume her work, blossom into existence.

For a time, she was happy. For a time, Drujha continued her practice in the arts of conjuration under the tutelage of Walks-In-Water. She was about seventeen when the trying times in her family had begun to show itself, as Drujha’s father, always known as a distant man, had left the family to carry out a personal mission to ‘teach the Dunmer a lesson’. Drujha knew of the slaves the Dunmer would take, but she never knew of what her father had meant or even why he wanted to go and stir up trouble with the Dunmer. The ripple of this was felt through the family, pushing her mother to a self-inflicted tragedy and forcing her egg-brothers and sisters away. For a time, Drujha fell into sadness and locked herself away in her room, ignoring the world as she read her books and began to try and piece together the reasons of why her father had left, refusing to believe it as anything to deal with Dunmer.

Until, she began to think that it was herself. Her own eccentricities and her obsessions that she kept confined to herself.

Drujha began to double down on her efforts to find a path to secure the daedra as her own, for if she had them at her command then she could set in path a world where she would be able to control ever small aspect. If she had their power before her father had left then she could have kept him from leaving and then, perhaps, she could keep those she loved together. It was this thought that grew the more crazed side of Drujha, making her mind focus further and further and doing what she must in order to discover what she must do in order to become that powerful.

Then, Walks-In-Water needed to check upon her, entering her home while she was hunched over a book with a dagger in her hand, heated by the glow of a fire. He saw her there, bleeding and carving various daedric symbols into her flesh. To him, he saw a distressed individual, broken by the loss of a majority of her family and he decided to stay and help, bringing the student he had taken under his wing back into reality. Walks-In-Water tended her wounds and spoke with her, telling her that none of what happened was her fault. Eventually, he resumed teaching her, believing her to be pieced back together.

For a few more years, Drujha seemed normal to the outside world, but they knew not what happened in the shadows of her dwellings. The young woman had continued her studies, refining her abilities and using what money she could gather from her parent’s old savings to buy scrolls and tomes in secret from black market dealers. With the skills taught to her by Walks-In-Water, and with him none the wiser, she eventually felt that she had finally gotten the breakthrough that she so desperately desired. In private, Drujha summoned a daedra that she was satisfied with summoning, she had summoned a Clannfear. Sure, it was feral, but it was still more powerful than a useless scamp (which for the most part she ignored for their weakness). However, the noise was loud enough to awake Walks-In-Water, who had allowed her to stay in his residence she could not afford to live on her own given the amount of wealth she wasted trading for daedric books.

He confronted her, attempting to break her out of her ecstasy. When she responded with saying how close she was growing to be able to control the daedra, Walks-In-Water grasped her and began to say how her desire and obsession had consumed her and that she needed to come back to reality. Then, the clannfear defended its master, jumping upon the teacher and ripping him apart. Drujha did not stay to watch the creature slay her teacher, instead running to gather what she could before she fled into the night.

Biggest Regret: Drujha is haunted by the slaying of her master, he had gotten in her way of her dream, but Walks-In-Water had encouraged her to use her powers. She may not be able to forgive him, or herself, but she knew that it was wrong to kill him just for denying to teach her any further when she could have left and sought out another teacher.

Drujha‘s Goal: The current goal of Drujha is to become powerful enough to summon a true daedra, not a feral or weak animal, no elemental, but a deadra far more capable. She seeks to learn to summon a daedra lord.

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Skills:

Expert:

• Conjuration - Years of study under her former master, Walks-in-Water, had proven that she possess a talent for the art of conjuration.
  Adept:
• Destruction - One of the first areas of magic that she had studied, first learning how to use the forces of flame, frost, and lighting in self-defence. This was refined throughout her life, but not so much the extend of Conjuration.
• One Handed - Travelling Cyrodil can be dangerous to the untrained, luckily the Walks-In-Water, as well as some of her family members, have taught her enough to where she knows what she is doing so that she may travel in peace.
• Enchanting - Another area taught by Walk-in-Water, imbuing objects with magic was difficult for her and thus she could never quite reach the rank of expert.
  Novice:
• Illusion - The last area of magic that Walks-in-Water had taught her, however, she never got far after killing Walks-in-Water.
• Speech - While not the best deceiver, or even speaker for that manner, she has learned how to put someone off through her words so that they do not know what lies beneath her exterior.

Spells:

• Conjure Clannfear
• Conjure Sword
• Conjure Familiar
• Conjure Storm Atronach
• Lightning Cloak
• Clairvoyance

Equipment: An Iron War-Axe, A satchel filled a waterskin and some bread, three notebooks with her findings on daedra and how best to control them, an ink and quill, and exactly thirty septims.
Misc. Possessions: She owns both volumes of the Lusty Argonian Maid

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Art will be here

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Sigri is built like a typical Nord woman: sturdy and tall. She stands at 5'11, the shortest of all her siblings. Her build is muscular, especially in her upper body. Her shoulders are broad and her arms strong from years of working a mill and practicing as an archer. Sigri moves fluidly, rarely making an unintentional movement and always aware of her footing from many times spent in rough terrain. This rough upbringing also left her littered in light scars, though none are so grotesque as to draw attention, many are sprinkled across her fair skin, especially on her arms and legs -- relics from the wilderness rather than battle, as far as can tell.

While too muscled to be considered a conventionally attractive woman, her face has soft features. Her warm, brown, almond-shaped eyes are kind and inviting combined with her round cheeks. Her face looks like that of an even younger woman -- Sigri could have been confused for a child if one judged her by face alone. Her hair adds to the impression. Her brown locks are messy and hardly brushed, though clean, and her natural waves often take over her looks. Her hair is just long enough to tuck behind her ears while hunting or working, but kept too short for proper braiding, which Sigri was never any good at.

Sigri leans towards practical clothing. She doesn’t think about her appearance, but instead prefers to ensure that her clothes don’t get in the way of whatever she’s doing. Often, this means she wears simple travelling clothes, with thick fur or leather for protection. In hotter climates, she would prefer to recklessly forego thicker armour than overheat. She favours browns, and her clothes are often old and worn. Coming from a poor family, Sigri is more accustomed to wearing hand-me-downs and repairing or reusing fabric than buying new.

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Sigri’s rural nordic upbringing shows itself in her mannerisms, and her enjoyment of feasting and drinking. She’s small-town to her core - large cities and travel are filled with wonder for her, since until age 27, she had never left Skyrim, nor been to a city except Windhelm. She is fiercely loyal to friends and family, even if she isn’t with them because of her self-exile.

She typically comes off as jovial, and enthusiastic. Sigri buries her troubles deep. She loves talking about her family, but avoids any mention of her troubles with them as if they would burn her. Like she did when at the College of Winterhold, she makes friends quickly. She engages with others happily, but she rarely develops close relationships. After her experience with her husband, she doesn’t believe in romance. Sigri has never been in love, and doubts her ability to.

Sigri gets along best with others who are commoners, and those who are loud. People who are too refined rub her the wrong way, as she often does them. She holds no ill-will for those who are on the quiet and inconspicuous side, but rather they often find her prodding and joking more irritable, or dislike the attention it attracts.

The heat is her worst enemy. Coming from an area with such a short summer season, the heat of Hammerfell was nightmarish in comparison. She rapidly strips off layers of clothing when even remotely warm, preferring anything as an alternative to heat. Sigri isn’t very modest, and usually dresses in whatever way is most comfortable or practical at the given time — and she understands nothing about sunburn.

Sigri feels most at home in the outdoors. She loves hunting, and sharing hunting stories. She feels most alive and most herself when stalking prey, without a building in sight. She also relishes the chance for a good ride on horseback, or a swim. Swimming is one advantage she believes to come out of warm weather. Back home, the water was often freezing for most of the year.

Sigri lacks refine, and femininity. She disdains “softness” and always wants to be recognized as strong and capable. Though she doesn’t realize it, Sigri has always been a caretaker; she always looked after her younger sisters, and later her son. She cares greatly for children, and animals, and likes to help where she is able to make a difference. She often believes her presence is detrimental, so her fashion of helping may appear to be avoiding - like in Jory’s case.

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Sigri was born to a large family in rural Skyrim. Her parents owned a farm in the area outside of Windhelm - too far for casual visits, but close enough for the occasional business trip with her father. Hafgar and Alga, her parents, had four other living children when Sigri was growing up. The eldest two, her brothers Kari and Eric, were respectively two and three years older than her. Her sisters, Valensa, Sinda, and Ivana, were younger by over 7 years. During the gap, the family suffered a series of miscarriages and infant deaths. Alga held on tightly to all her children because of this, but Sigri, as the youngest during these events, was cherished by her in particular. She was a doting mother to the extreme, always hovering and worrying about Sigri’s scrapes and bruises.

However, Sigri was always a rebellious child. Her mother took her under her wing, teaching her to keep care of the farm household. Helping the rest of her family with the fields was full time work during the growing season, and during the winter months her mother would teach her to care for the household. Though Sigri loved the time spent with her mother, she hated being cooped up. At every opportunity, Sigri would follow her older brothers out to hunt in the winter months, and occasionally during the summer. The neighbouring households were mill households, two of which were quite nearby. Frequently, the others in their age group would join in with them and a parent or another for these trips. The community was close-knit.

The seasons were hard on the farm. Sigri never shied away from the difficult work involved, often doing both tasks for her mother inside as well as helping with the more physically extorting outdoor tasks. Despite the work, the harvests were lean and times weren’t easy, especially considering the short growing season. Still, the memories are of a fond childhood.

Things changed when Sigri was about 15. Ulfric Stormcloak changed it; the Civil War broke out. There was a dramatic shift in tone in her life. Her friends spoke more about joining the army than hunting, and the usual concern her mother held in her eyes had turned to a pure fear.

It didn’t take long for her brothers to depart for Windhelm, their friends in tow. Sigri had been the youngest, too young for war, her mother insisted. After the tears pooled in Alga’s eyes, Sigri didn’t mention the idea again.With Kari and Eric gone, and her sisters too young for heavy lifting, the workload was far heavier, leaving Sigri with little time for pleasure — or thinking.

It felt like an extended business trip. At times, her elder brothers, and often their father, would travel so Windhelm for a few nights. It wasn’t until the soldiers arrived home at the end that reality set in. Eric came first, the neighbour friends in tow, but the group was shattered. Only about two thirds of those who left returned.

When her father spotted Eric at the end of their property, Sigri and the rest of her family came running. As they stood at the door, the family could tell one thing: the second figure with him was female. Sigri’s mother reached down and clutched her hand tightly as they came closer. Eric stopped in front of them, and as they met eyes, he shook his head. Kari didn’t made it. Alga let go of Sigri’s hand and rushed to her son, clutching him and sobbing, as Sigri stood numbly in the door.

The woman who returned with her brother was his fiancé, another soldier who was done with war. The community held a funeral for the lost - there had been several others who didn’t return - and then a wedding, a month later.

As the time went on, Sigri waited eagerly for the return of the normalcy she had as a child, of hunting trips and play fighting, of archery practice and family time around the hearth. It never came back. Things because stable, and normal, yet her brother and the others her age weren’t the same. They were somber, haunted, and none interested in the return to old times Sigri desperately desired. With each day, she wished she’d left for war — perhaps if she had been there, Kari would still be around. Perhaps her lost friends would be. Perhaps at least she would understand why things were this way, now. Why everyone seemed older, and she like a child.

The attempt at returning to the way things were lasted only a few years. Just as her brother and his wife expected their first child, Sigri couldn’t stand the loneliness she felt around her own
home any longer. She set out to follow the only other opportunity she’d had as a child: magecraft.

When Sigri was 5, she earned her name, Fire-Caller, by accidentally setting a bale
of hay on fire. Fire, in particular, seemed to come naturally to her, in a way unlike the rest of her family. They said it came from her grandmother. So, seeking a way to be anything but stuck and isolated in her own life, she left for the College of Winterhold.

Her endeavours at the college lasted 3 years. She became an apprentice, excelling in destruction magic rapidly. She had little talent for much else, as others told her. Sigri has no trouble making acquaintances, yet she found herself missing the comfortable close relationship she used to have with her family. No matter how hard she tried at the College, she couldn’t escape her regret for leaving her family behind, a second time after staying behind from war, and eventually made the trek back to her farm.

On the day she returned, her mother greeted her with tears in her eyes and they embraced. She had a new niece and nephew to meet, and her sisters were suddenly grown-up. It felt like everyone had moved on without her, but they were welcoming.

Her family even threw a welcome party. They invited all the neighbours. Her childhood friends were adults now, with families of their own. A young man who she’d never liked, someone also stayed home from war since he was just barely younger than her, showed up with flowers in hand. As he stood in front of her, sharing kind words about how he had missed her in front of everyone, she couldn’t decline his flowers.

His name was Ingvar. As the year went on, Sigri dove back into work with her family, and on the evenings, Ingvar would show up and visit. He often sat with Sigri and her family, doting on Sigri in particular. He was a romantic, but he didn’t make her heart flutter. Each time they went for a walk or a ride, she humoured him. Each time he arrived, her mother’s eyes filled with joy at the prospect of her first daughter starting a family.

Sigri never had the beard to decline him. She spent time with him and found she liked him well enough, but when he proposed, with her family around the fire, and said he loved her, she knew she didn’t love him. She couldn’t let anyone down, and agreed, experssing her feelings in return.

They married a few months later. Sigri moved to his mill. His family was smaller, yet more successful. They had suffered losses from the war as well; the loss of Ingvar’s older brother left a hole in that family. Her life felt stale, like she simply listed from day to day. The things she enoyed, hunting in particular, lost their appeal. Things changed when she became pregnant. Her in-laws were delighted. She didn’t know how to feel, at first. Her mother’s miscarriages and stillborns certainly came to mind.

She smiled, and went through the motions of expressing her joy, yet she didn’t feel the joy at first, nor the fear. As the months went on, she began to feel something for the first time in ages. When she final gave birth to a little boy, she loved that child, more than anything she had ever loved in her life.

They named him after Ingvar’s brother, Jory. It was a nickname, but they gave it to their child as a full name, at Sigri’s request. She knew her mother in law was completely destroyed by Jory’s death, yet she wanted her child to be his own person.

By the time the child was born, Sigri and her family had their own small house on the property, separate from the main one. For four years, they lived there in a semblance of happiness. Sigri was more like her own mother than she wanted to be: overbearing. But Jory was everything she loved, and she held on too tightly.

When Jory was 4, Ingvar fell sick. Jory went to stay with his grandparents, across the yard, so he wouldn’t catch it, and Sigri cared for him.

Ingvar thought he was on his deathbed at times, and Sigri though there was a chance, too. As Sigri cared for him, they began fighting - Ingvar knew she’d never loved him, but he had loved her from childhood. The fight was fierce and the cruel words Sigri tossed at him were things she would regret forever. During the fight, the hearth fire grew higher until it poured out of the fireplace.

In the end, Sigri and Jory stood hand and hand, looking at the house as it burned.

Sigri couldn’t bear to stay on the farm after his death. As she departed, confusing her late husband’s parents and Jory both, she set out about a new existence. She began by hunting again, travelling by wilderness at every opportunity, and journeying into Skyrim’s cities to sell her leftover meat.

Eventually, her skill with a bow grew into mercenary work. She couldn’t face what she had become, travelling gradually further and further from Skyrim, until she found herself in Hammerfell, for only her second job. Once it was finished, Sigri was left with doubts. As natural as brawling and shooting felt to her, she was far more accustomed to her targets being animals than people, and it’s with these doubts that she boards the Kismet.

---

Sigri’s biggest regret is twofold. Firstly, she regrets her feelings surrounding her husband’s death, and feels immense guilt that she could never love him. Secondly, and most importantly, she regrets abandoning her family — first because she didn’t fight with her brothers in the Civil War, and again when she let her son down by depriving him of his parents.

---

goal

---

Expert
▷Archery: having learned to hunt from a young age, Sigri is a masterful marksman with a bow, with a good eye for her prey’s vulnerable points

Adept
▷Destruction: during her time at the College of Winterhold, Sigri honed her abilities wit destruction magic.
▷Athletics: Sigri has lived in rough conditions, doing hard labour for most of her life. She has spent a lot of time trekking in the wilderness, and is used to difficult terrain in particular from her hunting trips - it would be rare to see her trip.
▷Stealth: years of hunting has made it easy for Sigri to remain unseen and unheard, especially in an outdoors setting, where she can use nature’s sounds and foliage to her advantage.

Novice
▷Hand-to-Hand: growing up with as many siblings and friends as she did, Sigri is no stranger to the odd brawl. Sparring with her brothers has accustomed her to fighting in a pinch.
▷Restoration: during her time at the College of Winterhold, Sigri put some training into healing magic, even though her main focus was on destruction — she always wanted to be helpful for more than that.

---

▷Fireball
▷Flame Clock
▷Ice Storm
▷Fire Rune
▷Healing Hands
▷Healing

---

▷ A sturdy hunting bow, well worn and well maintained. Though not of the highest quality, Sigri knows exactly how to aim with it for the most precise shot.
▷ Travelling clothes, with some pieces of sturdy leather armour to go overtop.
▷ An iron dagger, simple and practical, more for everyday use than killing, and often used to skin animals.
▷ A necklace with a bear’s tooth on it, a hunting trophy.
▷ A torn piece of cloth which she wears around one wrist.
▷ A pouch with 75 coins, the pay from the job she just completed.
▷ Her travelling backpack, complete with water skin and some camping supplies for her usual wilderness lifestyle. A few days’ dried meat rations and some bread.
▷ A flask filled with miscellaneous liquor.

Race: Khajiit
Age: 28
Birthsign: The Lover
Family Origins: Rimmen, Elsweyr

Appearance: Standing at 5'9 and weighing near 180 lbs, S'Kandar has a muscular figure, his body strong due to the lifestyle he has chosen to pursue. A Cathay Khajiit, he stands tall on both feet with a mer/man like body. The colour of his fur could be compared to the snowy skies of Skyrim, white and light grey mixing in with darker grey stripes that blend seamlessly with his light fur. Countless scars litter his body from various battles he has found himself in, as well as quite a few tavern brawls, the most obvious of which is a scar that travels from the middle of his forehead and down his right cheek.

Aside from this slight disfiguring, his face is quite charming. Sporting a strong jaw and broad muzzle, he portrays a cool confidence even if he may be feeling otherwise. For the most part his face is free from stripes or markings save for a couple of spots below his black lined grey eyes, and a few black stripes above said eyes. The latter melds into his smaller grey ears, both of which are pierced with two silver earrings in each. His light grey hair is shorn on the sides but kept longer on top, which he then braids and ties off at the end.

As for his clothes, S’Kandar enjoys dressing for mobility. On a casual day where he is simply relaxing, he will wear loose shirts or tunics along with comfortable trousers and a pair of sturdy yet well worn boots. When he is out and about hunting, however, he is much more cautious of his attire, donning a mixture of furs and leather armour. Refusing to wear a cloak unless it’s extremely cold and snowy, he does keep a scarf wrapped around his neck and shoulders beneath the armour, though whether it's actually there for warmth or sentimental feelings is something S’Kandar does not care to discuss.

Unlike Men or Mer races, his mood doesn't necessarily show all on his face. When he is excited, for example, his pupils will widen and there may be a twitch to his tail, ears standing upright and tall. On the other hand, when saddened or upset, his ears will fall sideways against his head and his tail will be quite still. A person simply has to be observant to see how S'Kandar is feeling, even if his words and otherwise strong posture may say otherwise.

It's very rare that S'Kandar is brought to the point of extreme anger, but when he is, it can be seen by even the dimwittiest of person. Ears flat against his skull, his eyes will narrow into slits, mouth pulled back as he bares his teeth in a snarl, tail lashing out behind him- the term 'beast race' would be quite apt at these moments.

Personality: From the outset, S'Kandar is a man who seems to imbue warmth and charm. As a traveler his entire life, he had learned that people are more given to persuasion when treated with friendliness and respect, and so he inculcated that in his being until it became second nature to him. Almost always sporting a smile and keeping his tone casual, knowing when to add in a little charm and flattery to get the results he wishes- some would call this cunning and crafty, but S'Kandar truly enjoyed being able to make people smile when they were around him, and to have them leave completely satisfied once they left with whatever they purchased. Even if he hasn't been in the trading business for years, the same formula works for him.

That being said, he carries an invisible weight upon his shoulders and a burden in his heart. The tragedies he had faced in his life left their marks, and his feelings at leaving his siblings by themselves as well as causing his teacher's demise has caused him to constantly shoulder guilt, and this comes into play many times throughout his life. For the most part, he finds it hard to turn away from somebody in need and will try to help them out. He has a very strict code of not leaving anyone behind when working with others, and he can be quite passionate about these sentiments if someone were to argue otherwise. While he normally tries to keep his cool, abandoning people in need or ridiculing them is something that will upset him and cause his temper to rise.

Like most people are familiar with, S'Kandar has the usual khajiiti habit of referring to himself in third person. For a brief period in his life when he left his siblings, he had attempted to try and change this habit and tried to speak more like those around him, afraid of being seen as the odd one out. However, seeing it was much too ingrained in him as well as Afshan telling him it was silly to change something that needn't be an issue, the Khajiit decided to let it go. In fact, he now sees his way of speech as honouring his parents and his heritage in general. He is proud to be a Khajiit and sees his traveling and keeping the world safe as a way to show more close minded folk that Khajiit are not all the sneaky thieves they assume them to be.

In general, S’Kandar is people’s person and enjoys spending time socializing, conversing and sharing experiences, listening to their stories and tales from their past. Though he likes to talk, a lot of this time is also spent watching and listening to people, studying their tells and what makes them tick. That is, until he is distracted by a pretty face. Once upon a time S’Kandar’s weakness had been drinking, but as he tries to control the amount of alcohol he consumes, he found the fairer sex can be quite a pleasant distraction that does not amount to waking up with a hangover. Yet despite these many interactions, the Khajiit has not been able to make any long term friends or any sort of romantic relationship. Any time he finds himself growing close to a person, he reminds himself of his past failures and forces himself to step back. At these times, S’Kandar ends up secluding himself, and this occasionally causes slip ups where he may drink a little too much, leading to bouts of self loathing and need for temporary seclusion.

As such, the only witness to his different moods is his faithful companion, Jashi. S’Kandar treats her more like a friend than a pet and is quite protective of her, to the point that he will personally stay outside in the rain with his canine friend rather than inside without her. He knows people may find this odd or even obsessive, but he is unable to tolerate seeing her in any distress that could have been averted.

In the end, S’Kandar is a troubled man who would love nothing more than to hide the pain inside him and instead make sure the rest of the world needs not suffer as he did.

---

History: Though S’Kandar was born in Rimmen, Elsweyr, he does not actually recall much about his place of birth. Having been born into the Baandari clan, his parents were vagabond traders who spent their lives on the roads with their caravan, buying and trading goods as they travelled through Tamriel. S’Kandar was the first of three siblings, a younger brother and sister, both of who were born in Cyrodiil. His childhood was as normal as any wayfarer’s could be- he was exposed to many different people, creatures, climates and weathers from a young age, and the thought of settling down in one place seemed odd to him even as a child. How could he, when there was just so much to see?

It was at age sixteen when tragedy struck. S’Kandar and his family had been through High Rock once before and after a long and fruitful voyage through Hammerfell, with many many wares to sell, they had decided to try their luck once more with the Breton folk. For the most part the journey passed quite smoothly and most lucrative. Being attacked by a group of vampires had been the least of their expectations. His parents fell quickly after attempting to defend the rest of the caravan, and it was only sheer that a group of hunters came upon their location and killed their attackers. S’Kandar and his siblings suffered only some scratches and bruises, but those little grievances were nothing compared to the grief of losing their parents.

The group of hunters were ready to leave but one kind hearted huntress, a young Redguard woman named Afshan, felt rather empathetic towards the young Khajiit siblings and balked at the idea of leaving them by themselves. Despite the protests from her companions, she refused to go anywhere unless the three came along so that she could at least leave them somewhere safe and sound. After a couple of days travel, they reached the Wayrest, where S'Kandar and his siblings were to stay at an orphanage. However, the young Khajiit did not wish to stay stagnant- he had seen Afshan fight against the vampires and he wanted to learn as well. Part of the reason was some sense of revenge he wished to deliver on rotten beings who ruined innocent people's lives, but the other reason was because he truly wanted to become stronger. Afshan was hesitant at first, but remembering that she too had begun her life in adventurous much the same way, she decided to give the Khajiit boy a chance.

He was a quick learner, taking to both the sword and the bow, though he preferred archery to swordsmanship. S’Kandar found himself enjoying the hunting life- he was already used to travelling, gathering provisions and staying up to watch out for intruders late at night, but this was something new and thrilling, and it was enough to quell his grief over his parents as well as the guilt of leaving his siblings, though he knew they were taken care of. Charming ladies he met across Tamriel and experimenting with skooma as well as alcohol further alleviated any remaining feelings that may have hindered. Afshan was not too pleased with this development in her student and was rather strict about making sure he did not consume any intoxicants when they were on a mission.

S’Kandar in turn respected her, though that respect developed into romantic feelings that he tried to keep contained to himself. One night, however, after drinking a little too much, the Khajiit approached his teacher and confessed his love for her. Unwilling to give him any reply when he was in such a state, Afshan left the building, leaving S’Kandar to take her silence as rejection, thereafter drinking himself into a stupor. It was only after he woke up in the morning that he realized Afshan had left for the mission on her own. Suffering from a hangover, he managed to follow after her, hoping to catch her before she could reach the location on their agenda: a coven of witches and hagravens. Alas, he was too late- by the time he reached, she had already passed away from her wounds after killing off their marks.

This was probably the darkest period in S’Kandar’s life, worse than even when his caravan had been ambushed, as in his opinion he had been responsible for this folly. With no aim or purpose in mind, the Khajiit spent many months wandering through the mountains of Skyrim, killing what he needed to survive and nothing more. There were many times he wished to simply end his life, but he found himself too much of a coward- he wanted to live, but he didn’t know for what.

The balm of his soul came in an unusual fashion. As he was searching for his next meal, S’Kandar came across a dying wolf and her pup. It seemed she had gotten caught in a trap and had been unable to free herself. After mercifully ending her life, he found himself unable to simply walk away while knowing the pup would not be able to survive on its own. In a way, it reminded him of himself and Afshan, and how she had refused to leave him and his siblings behind.

Naming the young cub Jashi after a word in Ta'agra, S'Kandar treated her as if she was not simply a pet, but as if she were a member of his family. While he was still looking for a greater purpose to his life, he could now live day by day and simply care for his little companion, feeling satisfaction and happiness that someone was benifitting from his presence. Every wag of her tail and lick to his face caused a little of the grief he carried to lighten, even if it was just for a moment. He found himself overly protective of his wolf friend, making sure no harm came to her. In the same way, Jashi looked up to S'Kandar with utmost devotion, following him eagerly wherever he went. Though she was generally mild in temperament, she saw him as the 'Alpha' of their pack and in turn was protective of him as well. Alert and vigilant, she grew into a trustworthy companion who not only helped keep watch for intruders, but aided him against sour sorts.



No longer alone and with a partner who not only held her own but brightened his perspective on life once again, S'Kandar once more took on the helm of a hunter who sought to help protect the people of Tamriel.

Biggest Regret: S'Kandar cannot forgive himself for not keeping his feelings in check and confessing to his teacher, thereafter getting drunk, and subsequently not being there to help Afshan in her time of need against the coven of witches that eventually lead to her death.

S'Kandar's Goal: To redeem himself is probably the number one priority and reason to strive on S'Kandar's mind and in his heart. He wishes to become a hero, a saviour, somebody who can be relied on- no longer the man who failed his teacher.

---

Skills:
Expert

• Archery - By dedicated practice and honing his archery, along with his naturally good eyesight to pinpoint targets, S’Kandar has grown incredibly proficient with his bow, rarely missing a target.

Adept

• Sneak - Naturally a light stepping fellow, S’Kandar has furthered this skill out of necessity so that the targets he is after won't immediately hear him approaching.
• One hand (Sword) - Though melee combat isn't his preferred way of hunting his enemies and targets, S'Kandar knew full well that there would be times when he wouldn't be able to rely on his bow. Not one who liked to learn something in an ad hoc fashion, he took great pains in learning how to wield a sword and is quite proficient in using it on someone.

Novice

• Provisioning - From a young age, S'Kandar had learned to hunt and gather food for himself and his family as well as a keen sense of where to find fresh water. For the most part, he is confident he can help keep his companions happy and fed.
• Athletics - S'Kandar's active lifestyle has made him quite strong physically. He can walk long distances for hours as is the norm for any Baandari, and his arms and back are used to lifting and carrying heavy objects. The various climates he has lived in has made him rather adaptable to trying weather patterns.

Equipment:

• A short bow and quiver with 10 arrows
• A sheathed short sword to the left of waist
• A sheathed dagger to the right
• A couple of health potions in a pouch tied at his belt
• A mix of leather and fur armour

Misc. Possessions:

• A backpack stuffed with an extra pair of clothing, a small thin blanket, spices to cook with, some dried meats, and a small pouch of moon sugar.
• A water skin filled with water
• A water skin filled with ale
• A money pouch tied discreetly under his belt, containing 20 septims
• A red scarf he keeps loosely wrapped around his neck
• A bracelet made of blue painted beads, a keepsake from his sister when he had left with Afshan.

@fetzen

Ercanoriel is a very unique character in the way that I like my unique characters - just a bit... odd.

A really nicely written appearance section Fetzen!

The personality section took me a little to get to grips with, the concept of the three layers becomes a bit muddled. Maybe thats the point. My brain is also, admittedly, frazzled right now. Otherwise, I like the look of him. Very good traits, but some flaws too - his pride for instance.

In the history section, I'm reading that the parents split amicably - yet his regret is to do with his father, who really doesn't seem to play a large part in his life. I'm not sure if that is the point of it, it's a melancholic regret - a yearning for a father figure, but the regret should be based on something the character has actually done. It almost alludes to them having fought at some point but that's not in the sheet.

I'd like some detailing on how he learned to use a two-handed axe, maybe why he gravitated to that weapon. I think weapons speak a lot about characters and I'd like to know a bit more about that especially as that is listed as his expert skill over magic, which does get a mention in the history. Why did he favour restoration over say destruction or alteration too, for example.

A great sheet, and great concept. This was initially drawn from feedback I gave you based on an initial idea - so it's really great that you listened to it, and I hope this is a character you're excited about, with that in mind.

Just with a few tweaks to those points I've brought up, Ercanoriel will be ready.

@Tabris

A lovely description, I especially liked the line "relics from the wilderness". Quite a short appearance section - a lot of my feedback to others has been to add in mannerisms, and descriptions that just add a touch beyond the physical nature of the character. The bits that add flavour.

I like that she's a bright and enthusiastic character, having Sigri in the group gives us more to play with in terms of optimism within the group, and there's definitely a line now between the gruffest to the most optimistic, nobody really crosses over and that's going to be fun to play with. I like the note about her getting along with loud commoners haha. Perhaps the section about the heat can go in the appearance section. (Paragraph 4) - the parts about her lacking refine could also be expanded on in the appearance section, as a suggestion.

With Sigri, we have another character in the group whose history has been woven through with the Civil War, and I love that a few of our characters have really been touched by it, actually. Her story is very sweet, but I have a few questions. Did Sigri cause his death by burning the home down? Or did he die naturally and she let their home burn? Did anyone ever suspect her of murder? It's quite a big moment in her story but it's not very touched upon - although I understand you've been busy. Was her husband abusive? Even if she didn't love him did she at least like him? Were they happy without requited love, perhaps she found more love for him in her son?

Skills and Spells are fine, as is the regret - just waiting on that goal :) Otherwise, a good job on this sheet! I think it can be polished and some clarifications given, but I understand you've been very busy and for being on a road trip this sheet is stellar!

Name: Ercanoriel
Race: Altmer
Age: 45
Birthsign: The Lady
Family origins: Alinor (formerly known as the Sumerset Isles)



Appearance: Ercanoriel presents himself with an albedo close to 1 on his skin as if his body has never experienced the sun, his hair represents a purity of whiteness that even the elder can only seldomly hope for or be afraid of. There is as little of this golden hue his kind usually is so fond of as there is color in his eyes, yet he obviously is perfectly alive and of flesh and blood. The latter can be seen flowing beneath his skin im moments of great strain or anger, but even then the inability of his body to produce skin pigments is the dominating factor. Ercanoriel is a natural albino as it occurs only very rarely and it appears he doesn't want to apply any mundane stopgap like warpaint or tattoos to this.

The distinct jawline, the smoothness and purity of his skin and the density with which his head is populated by hairs following the flow of gravity well beyond his shoulders all hide the fact that, though only by a man's and not by an Altmer's standard, he's anything but juvenile anymore. His eyebrows are fully existent, but things like a white-to-white contrast simply cannot be produced so they can hardly be seen from further away. His head puts as much emphasis on vertical elongation in preference of width as does his slender nose, so his pointy and sturdy ears add a very noticeable silhouette of their own along with the extra feature of preventing hair spills into his face. He would grow a white beard, but as long as the circumstances allow for it he keeps his face clean cut.

Altmer are a race standing high quite literally and at 6'11" Ercanoriel is not a humble being. There have been years in his life during which he has tried to dilute his frustration with cheap beverages that only brought headaches and fat on his waistline, but there is no such thing to be seen around him right now. In fact one can see that he is used to wearing and dealing with the heavy stuff: Shoulders that not only seem broad because his neck is not thick, thighs and calves way too powerful for someone who'd rely on magic and ruggedized arms and hands. One probably doesn't want to carry Ercanoriel just in case of what of his elvish speed and dexterity still remain should unexpectedly become completely disabled.



Personality: Ercanoriel's behavior can basically be divided into three different layers stacked on top of each other:

The lowest layer is how he was born, the natural attitude that everybody has and that can only be bent, but never really eliminated. On this layer he is a curious, open-minded person with a generally bright outlook on life. One has to dare something in order to reach something, or, as one would put it in modern, stylish words: No risk, no fun. As such it sometimes can be necessary to try and throttle him down if he feels... well... over-enthusiastic. The thought of natural death is even more of a remote thing for him, maybe simply because it still is so far away for someone of his kind and age. It can be a little startling for other people if they don't immediately recognize that mer, Altmer in particular, live a lot longer. His nature is a rather jovial one, one that knows the meaning of friendship and comradeship in general. Ercanoriel is quite, but not excessively intelligent and can find joy in solving problems, but he can also become very frustrated.

The middle layer has been constructed by how he was raised. A not so obvious but still discoverable thing is that he lacks quite a bit of the degree of education that could be expected from an Altmer. He knows manners and how to behave like a sociable man and has also been equipped with a fair amount common knowledge, but simply never had a good reason to learn that much about the history of his own kind. Also his magical expertise is shockingly lousy for an Altmer, not only practically but also theoretically even though he is far from being too old to change this. His circumstances simply did not allow for a high amount of magical training to take place so what he currently has is mostly based on talent. On the good side of things he was never intoxicated with what many people dislike about Altmers: This high degree of proudness, self-glorification and, put more straightforwardly, arrogance. He lacks those aspects, sometimes even to the point that he noticeably hesitates to clearly point out his opinion and stand behind it with full force. For a major part of his life it counted less then the average after all.

The top layer is his active control that can override many of the underlying aspects in preference of something he makes up just in time. This layer is prone to miss or to make blunders and his case it's also particularly thick.

Ercanoriel is quite aware of the fact that many people have confused him with being living snow elf in the past, something that -- for the lack of real living falmers capable of contradicting him whereever he is -- puts him into the rather unique situation of being capable to define them, their attitude and their habits towards those other people. It is a dubious power he doesn't allow himself to touch unless telling the truth about his albinism really and absolutely is not an option he could get away with halfway unharmed. He has seen the crippled, wicked and miserable beings the falmer are now and feels pity for this extinct kind of mer. However he's also tired of telling the entirity of his story in its truth as quite a considerable fraction of everyday people either lacks the knowledge necessary to fully understand it, is an Altmer him or herself or could just start to make a mock of him and his weird look. People can be silly and his tolerance for more often than not bad jokes about his incredibly pale skin has dropped near to zero up to the point where he'll start to rant in a lecturing manner.

Ercanoriel doesn't stand behind Aldmeri ideals. For him they are a burden, even something that he deems to be in urgent need of reform. The presence of his own people in so many parts of Tamriel doesn't make him happy, but he sees it more as a danger. He'd even be willing to change things a little if he had anything to say on the large scale of politics. But how much of this can he tell about openly without endangering himself ? His confidence in revealing these thoughts depends on where he is and whom he's speaking to, so the answers given by him can vary greatly.



History: If Ercanoriel had been born among the naturally pale Nords his albinism would likely have been a mild annoyance. If he had joined the living in the regions of Vvardenfell or Hammerfell he might have been regarded, maybe despised as an aberration along with having problems with the sun. Existence would have been similarly special in the remaining core regions of the empire, but being 'gifted' with this otherweise pretty harmless defect in the middle of the Altmer society can be pretty much equivalent to reactor meltdown. Whether claims that the Altmer would dispose of many of their own children if they don't fit their idea of 'racial purity' are the truth or just propaganda created by those who dislike them is up to debate, but there is no way to deny that their will to preserve the appearance of their ancestors is particularly strong. In other words: Ercanoriel's parents knew instantly that they had given birth to a not-yet-walking, but all the more screaming and hungry disaster.

While momentarily agreeing upon hiding the birth of their son the best they could, the relationship between Ercanoriel's parents ultimately did not survive the struggle that broke out between them after that: His father was a not entirely unimportant participant in the business of internal politics and as such his entire income and social status was highly dependent upon his reputation. In his mind losing it was simply unaffordable, but still he wanted Ercanoriel to live. The solution he came up with was the idea of putting him up for adoption somewhere else in the world. They had enough money, they had a whole Aldmeri alliance between Alinor, Elsweyr and Valenvald to search for potential candidates that would take care of their child far away while they could state towards their Altmer friends that there was no more danger of Ercanoriel's bloodline feeding back into the core of the Altmer population. His mother however expressed her desire to move the entire three-person household away from the island in order to maintain direct control -- after all there was the white gold concordate making becoming an inhabitant of another part of Tamriel and finding work for Altmers easier than before.

Ultimately they decided to part ways in a peaceful manner. Ercanoriel's father stayed back on Alinor while his mother moved with their son to Valenwald. Much to Ercanoriel's fortune all of this happened in a very early stage of his development when his mind was not yet able to grasp the full extent of what was going on. While his present day ego is perfectly aware of those events, the fact that he could only see his father on seldom and very discrete occasions did not have that much of an impact on his development. The young Ercanoriel just never knew what a father's presence meant: For him the word 'father' is defined much more on the cognitive level and seeing the physical incorporation of it was quite a bit more like seeing a very close relative.

Still there was no lack of problems: Ercanoriel's skin could be protected from sunlight by the dense forest of Valenvald, but being called a 'Falmer twerp' by those who wanted to refer to both it and the often attributed arrogance of an Altmer at the same time became a bit uncomfortable. Only having a substandard number of friends becoming a loner was partly unavoidable. Also Ercanoriel found himself in a dilemma situation: As an Altmer he had a great theoretical affinity to magic, but practically the resources available to teach him how to use his full potential were severely limited without returning to Alinor. On the other hand there was no way he could ever hope to keep up with a Bosmer's talent for stealth and agility in general. He was a ship thrown onto land that was supposed to grow several legs and start crawling away from the sea that would never return. And why ? Because of a bit of color, or rather the general attitude of many of his own people that the lack thereof could hardly be tolerated.

The ship wouldn't grow legs for years to follow... Instead it gently slipped into the murky, acid pond that was a mixture of cheap beer and self-hatred. Valenvald wasn't Skyrim, but it still had enough taverns for him to stop listening to the calming words of his mother and to simply let go of himself. He devolved into an even more lously representative of the prould Altmer, grew a stomach and adopted a shabby appearance and attitude in general. That was until the very organization showed up that had just run out of Stormcloaks to punish and of Blades to execute: the Thalmor.

It was a perfectly routine patrol with no particular goal except for checking if everything was alright, but once they entered the main hall and spotted the drunk and (in their eyes) misbehaving albino who was too tall and pointy-eared to be anything else than an Altmer he had their attention. Asked to get out for some 'questioning' he resisted in a flamboyant move -- a little too flamboyant for the Thalmor agents. Ercanoriel's memory cuts off the moment he saw other patrons joining the developing brawl, probably making things worse not only for themselves. It restarts with a very bad headache, in a rolling cage.

The ship had sunk and hit the seafloor, hard. In retrospect however coming so dangerously close the furnace at the bottom of the destillation tower that society felt like only helped to propel his subsequent ascent to heights not reached before. Humble heights, but still...

Elcanoriel was being transported away from Valenvald and well into the cold and every-snowy climate of Skyrim. He never found out why the Thalmor had made the decision to do this, but the truth was a mixture of bureaucracy, management and a cunning decision: Due to the sun never reaching that high up in the North the Nords are a rather pale kind of people themselves, so disposing of an Albino there would be less of a shame for the Altmer nation. After all Elcanoriel had committed a crime far too petty to be punished with a death sentence, so he was banned from Alinor and forbidden to marry any of his own kind. Both things couldn't have hurt him any less than they did. At this point of time the thought of doing any of those two things would never have crossed Ercanoriel's mind. As an added bonus now it was at least official, something that could be looked up in the records so they'd already know him or so he at least hoped. He had not told any of his parents names and after decades of living in Valenvald the Thalmor also failed to find the link between him and his true origins.

Still he had to stay in prison for a while. The other inmates he ended up with in an anonymous cellar were a bunch of adventurers that had specialized in making their living by going from place to place and scavenging dwemer ruins for everything that looked like it could be sold to somebody. They always traveled together, so when it was found out that one of them was a follower of Talos they all had been put into arrest in order to watch the man's execution. Ercanoriel left prison together with the adventurers and some of them were curious about this pale mer. He could not truly fight yet, but that could be changed. These damn dwemer constructs often were a little resiliant to magic anyway, so why not go full melee ? The overall stature was good for that and they could use a guy who could trample on those pesky dwemer worker spiders... And on the transition from one ruin to the other there'd be ample time to train him. Ercanoriel could see the unique opportunity: He'd finally excel at something instead of being regarded as substandard, unsuitable or whatever other damn reason people could come up with, even if the circle of people he could compare himself against would be a quite small and ragtag one.

It is safe to say that he has gained the vast majority of his current fighting proficiency thanks to those people. Also seeing the famous dwemer homes from inside himself was a bit of an eye-opening experience. While he started to lose his self-hatred when first successes started to roll in his disliking for his own kind only increased. The dwemer had never been afraid of crossing thresholds, good and bad ones alike. So how were Altmer supposed to develop further if what they seemed to be best at apparently was conserving what had already been existing hundreds of years ago ? Also, to be quite honest, magic seemed to have a quite potent counterpart in technology. Too bad that those truly creating it have vanished.

Ercanoriel still is a member of this adventurer's group, but he currently is on a bit of an hiatus that isn't meant to last very long. The means of transportation for this little vacation happens to be the Kismet.



Biggest regret: It had been his father's own decision to see him only very seldomly, also he has not played that much of a role in his life. But what about his mother ? Since the Thalmor had never found out about this family bond and Ercanoriel had ended up in Skyrim she, up to this point, probably doesn't know why he never returned home. Ercanoriel knows that and he also knows that, on the bottom line, he's the culprit and this time his appearance is not an excuse.



Ercanoriel's Goal(s): Luckily Altmer live a lot longer then men, so there's still plenty of time to fix his regret, even if he can't prevent it from ever happening in the first place. However maybe even stronger than this is his hidden desire to kick the asses of a certain kind of people at least metaphorically: his own. If those dwemer were able to map the skies, to make holographic projections, to create walking, almost living machines that work up to this day couldn't there be something left undiscovered that could fix a certain cosmetic issue ? Or at least hide it so profoundly that he can go back to Alinor and laugh at all those bootlickers as they fail to see his true nature anymore. Some other fancy thing that he could use to turn the table and have some fun instead of being the sport himself would also be good though, though not the best.



Expert skill: Two-handed
Up to the point when Ercanoriel joined the adventurer's group he had had no very particular reason to learn any combat skill that works in a lethal manner. Punishing any of those who had insulted, annoyed or outright discriminated him in the past with death would have helped to lessen his inner pain, but also put himself into the grave very fast. Facing the rough environment of dwemer ruins however he had to learn something, anything, fast. Magic would not have done particularly good against dwemer constructs. Mer normally are fast and agile, but Altmer are not that good in that respect due to their height and Ercanoriel happens to be quite a giant. So he tried out a style that would not require him to present any of those feats, a style that would exchange agility for range and dexterity for the power of power. He has developed a quite massive lot of strength that can compensate for other deficiencies in his method that are rather obvious for others, especially martial artists.


Adept skills:

• Archery: A result of his prolonged stay in Valenvald. He has tried it, but never mastered it so far. It is an alternative skill in Ercanoriel's repertoire that he can use in case someone happens to have a bow and arrows around. He doesn't burden himself with these normally.
• Illusion: A natural choice for someone who has a strong desire to hide something about himself, but unfortunately permanently changing one's skin color is not part of the art, at least as far as it has been accessible to him outside of Alinor.
• Destruction: As much as he could learn it in Valenvald, primarily based on natural talent due to his Altmer origins.

Novice skills:

• Blacksmithing
• Restoration
• Alteration

Spells:

• Illusion: Muffle, Rally
• Destruction: Chain Lightning, Flame Cloak, Firebolt
• Restoration: Healing
• Alteration: Candlelight

Equipment:

• Two-handed steel axe
• Steel plate armor (full set)
• Set of 'civil' clothes. Not the cleanest, quite a little worn out but definitely preferrable to walking around in armor all day long. For what it's worth mentioning he is very fond of a thick, black cloak with a hood that is purely meant to protect his skin from as much sunlight as possible as he naturally gets sunburnt extremely easily. Function is more important than looking like some sort of monk.
• Food and water for two days -- one can never now how good a ship's cook is in advance, right ?
• Misc: A few septims that might get him over another four days or so after the ship's arrival at its destination and of course a rucksack where he can carry all the loose stuff around.

---

Art will be here

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Sigri is built like a typical Nord woman: sturdy and tall. She stands at 5'11, the shortest of all her siblings. Her build is muscular, especially in her upper body. Her shoulders are broad and her arms strong from years of working a mill and practicing as an archer. Sigri moves fluidly, rarely making an unintentional movement and always aware of her footing from many times spent in rough terrain. This is often reversed in man-made settings, like city streets or tavern floors, where she feels disconnected from her sense of balance just slightly enough that after a couple of drinks, she could be found tripping over chairs in a crowded room. She is most at home with a forest floor or footpath beneath her. Her rough upbringing also left her littered in light scars, though none are so grotesque as to draw attention, many are sprinkled across her fair skin, especially on her arms and legs -- relics from the wilderness rather than battle, as far as can tell.

While too muscled to be considered a conventionally attractive woman, her face has soft features. Her warm, brown, almond-shaped eyes are kind and inviting combined with her round cheeks. Her face looks like that of an even younger woman -- Sigri could have been confused for a child if one judged her by face alone. Her hair adds to the impression. Her brown locks are messy and hardly brushed, though clean, and her natural waves often take over her looks. Her hair is just long enough to tuck behind her ears while hunting or working, but kept too short for proper braiding, which Sigri was never any good at. Even when practicing on her younger sisters, her mother's teachings in that regard never got through to her. She often tucks and un-tucks her hair when uncertain, or pushes it back before beginning a task that requires focus.

Sigri leans towards practical clothing. She doesn’t think about her appearance, but instead prefers to ensure that her clothes don’t get in the way of whatever she’s doing. Often, this means she wears simple travelling clothes, with thick fur or leather for protection. In hotter climates, she would prefer to recklessly forego thicker armour than overheat. She favours browns, and her clothes are often old and worn. Coming from a poor family, Sigri is more accustomed to wearing hand-me-downs and repairing or reusing fabric than buying new.

She had perhaps never worn clothing nicer than a simple dress on special occasions, and was never fond of it, even then. Anything that impedes her movement is bad and a waste of time, she thinks, and it's the same with people who do. As quickly as she would shed fancy clothing or uncomfortable shoes, Sigri would barrel right to the point in conversation. Similarly, she won't hesitate to rip or damage her clothing, despite them being a resource in a way -- something she would usually value -- as the clothes are impeding work. Sigri doesn't hesitate when given a task, and her footing shows it. At any given time, Sigri is ready on her feet; she can rarely be seen leaning, nor sitting or sleeping in a way which can't be quickly stood up from.

The heat is her worst enemy. Coming from an area with such a short summer season, the heat of Hammerfell was nightmarish in comparison. She rapidly strips off layers of clothing when even remotely warm, preferring anything as an alternative to heat. Sigri isn’t very modest, and usually dresses in whatever way is most comfortable or practical at the given time — and she understands nothing about sunburn.

---

Sigri’s rural nordic upbringing shows itself in her mannerisms, and her enjoyment of feasting and drinking. She’s small-town to her core - large cities and travel are filled with wonder for her, since until age 27, she had never left Skyrim, nor been to a city except Windhelm. She is fiercely loyal to friends and family, even if she isn’t with them because of her self-exile.

She typically comes off as jovial, and enthusiastic. Sigri buries her troubles deep. She loves talking about her family, but avoids any mention of her troubles with them as if they would burn her. Like she did when at the College of Winterhold, she makes friends quickly. She engages with others happily, but she rarely develops close relationships. After her experience with her husband, she doesn’t believe in romance. Sigri has never been in love, and doubts her ability to.

Sigri gets along best with others who are commoners, and those who are loud. People who are too refined rub her the wrong way, as she often does them. She holds no ill-will for those who are on the quiet and inconspicuous side, but rather they often find her prodding and joking more irritable, or dislike the attention it attracts.

The Nord feels most at home in the outdoors. She loves hunting, and sharing hunting stories. She feels most alive and most herself when stalking prey, without a building in sight. She also relishes the chance for a good ride on horseback, or a swim. Swimming is one advantage she believes to come out of warm weather. Back home, the water was often freezing for most of the year.

Sigri lacks refine, and femininity. She disdains “softness” and always wants to be recognized as strong and capable. Though she doesn’t realize it, Sigri has always been a caretaker; she always looked after her younger sisters, and later her son. She cares greatly for children, and animals, and likes to help where she is able to make a difference. She often believes her presence is detrimental, so her fashion of helping may appear to be avoiding - like in Jory’s case.

---

Sigri was born to a large family in rural Skyrim. Her parents owned a farm in the area outside of Windhelm - too far for casual visits, but close enough for the occasional business trip with her father. Hafgar and Alga, her parents, had four other living children when Sigri was growing up. The eldest two, her brothers Kari and Eric, were respectively two and three years older than her. Her sisters, Valensa, Sinda, and Ivana, were younger by over 7 years. During the gap, the family suffered a series of miscarriages and infant deaths. Alga held on tightly to all her children because of this, but Sigri, as the youngest during these events, was cherished by her in particular. She was a doting mother to the extreme, always hovering and worrying about Sigri’s scrapes and bruises.

However, Sigri was always a rebellious child. Her mother took her under her wing, teaching her to keep care of the farm household. Helping the rest of her family with the fields was full time work during the growing season, and during the winter months her mother would teach her to care for the household. Though Sigri loved the time spent with her mother, she hated being cooped up. At every opportunity, Sigri would follow her older brothers out to hunt in the winter months, and occasionally during the summer. The neighboring households were mill households, two of which were quite nearby. Frequently, the others in their age group would join in with them and a parent or another for these trips. The community was close-knit.

The seasons were hard on the farm. Sigri never shied away from the difficult work involved, often doing both tasks for her mother inside as well as helping with the more physically extorting outdoor tasks. Despite the work, the harvests were lean and times weren’t easy, especially considering the short growing season. Still, the memories are of a fond childhood.

Things changed when Sigri was about 15. Ulfric Stormcloak changed it; the Civil War broke out. There was a dramatic shift in tone in her life. Her friends spoke more about joining the army than hunting, and the usual concern her mother held in her eyes had turned to a pure fear.

It didn’t take long for her brothers to depart for Windhelm, their friends in tow. Sigri had been the youngest, too young for war, her mother insisted. After the tears pooled in Alga’s eyes, Sigri didn’t mention the idea again.With Kari and Eric gone, and her sisters too young for heavy lifting, the workload was far heavier, leaving Sigri with little time for pleasure — or thinking.

It felt like an extended business trip. At times, her elder brothers, and often their father, would travel so Windhelm for a few nights. It wasn’t until the soldiers arrived home at the end that reality set in. Eric came first, the neighbor friends in tow, but the group was shattered. Only about two thirds of those who left returned.

When her father spotted Eric at the end of their property, Sigri and the rest of her family came running. As they stood at the door, the family could tell one thing: the second figure with him was female. Sigri’s mother reached down and clutched her hand tightly as they came closer. Eric stopped in front of them, and as they met eyes, he shook his head. Kari didn’t made it. Alga let go of Sigri’s hand and rushed to her son, clutching him and sobbing, as Sigri stood numbly in the door.

The woman who returned with her brother was his fiancé, another soldier who was done with war. The community held a funeral for the lost - there had been several others who didn’t return - and then a wedding, a month later.

As the time went on, Sigri waited eagerly for the return of the normalcy she had as a child, of hunting trips and play fighting, of archery practice and family time around the hearth. It never came back. Things because stable, and normal, yet her brother and the others her age weren’t the same. They were somber, haunted, and none interested in the return to old times Sigri desperately desired. With each day, she wished she’d left for war — perhaps if she had been there, Kari would still be around. Perhaps her lost friends would be. Perhaps at least she would understand why things were this way, now. Why everyone seemed older, and she like a child.

The attempt at returning to the way things were lasted only a few years. Just as her brother and his wife expected their first child, Sigri couldn’t stand the loneliness she felt around her own home any longer. She set out to follow the only other opportunity she’d had as a child: magecraft.

When Sigri was 5, she earned her name, Fire-Caller, by accidentally setting a bale of hay on fire. Fire, in particular, seemed to come naturally to her, in a way unlike the rest of her family. They said it came from her grandmother, a mage who had trained at the college, but settled down with her grandfather on the farm later. So, seeking a way to be anything but stuck and isolated in her own life, she left for the College of Winterhold.

Her endeavors at the college lasted 3 years. She became an apprentice, excelling in destruction magic rapidly. She had little talent for much else, as others told her. Sigri had no trouble making acquaintances, yet she found herself missing the comfortable close relationship she used to have with her family. Some relationships came naturally, though she had some conflict with those who were higher-class. In some cases, perhaps they did think they were better than her, but Sigri didn't exactly give them time to show their intentions before making her judgements. No matter how hard she tried at the College, she couldn’t escape her regret for leaving her family behind, a second time after staying behind from war, and eventually made the trek back to her farm.

On the day she returned, her mother greeted her with tears in her eyes and they embraced. She had a new niece and nephew to meet, and her sisters were suddenly grown-up. It felt like everyone had moved on without her, but they were welcoming. Her family even threw a welcome party. They invited all the neighbors. Her childhood friends were adults now, with families of their own. A young man who she’d never liked, someone also stayed home from war since he was just barely younger than her, showed up with flowers in hand. As he stood in front of her, sharing kind words about how he had missed her in front of everyone, she couldn’t decline his flowers. As children, she hadn't liked how soft he was. He never wrestled with her like the others, and he didn't enjoy the blood involved with hunting. However, he appeared to have grown into a strong man, who contributed to his family's mill business well.

His name was Ingvar. As the year went on, Sigri dove back into work with her family, and on the evenings, Ingvar would show up and visit. He often sat with Sigri and her family, doting on Sigri in particular. He was a romantic, but he didn’t make her heart flutter. Each time they went for a walk or a ride, she couldn't help but feel that she humored him. Each time he arrived, her mother’s eyes filled with joy at the prospect of her first daughter starting a family, but Sigri couldn't find the same joy within herself. Ingvar was a kind man, and even if he did anger her, he was always kind in resolving contentions. Whenever she tried to bring herself to turn down his attentions, he would happen to show how he doted on her niece and nephew, found common ground with her family, and she couldn't find it in herself to turn him away, both because of his kindness and effort, and the hope in her mother's eyes.

Though she always felt distance with him, as he was quite different from her, she liked him, and appreciated a lot of the gestures he made with her and her family. Still, when he proposed, with her family around the fire, and said he loved her, she knew she didn’t love him. In her heart, she felt a twinge of guilt as she returned his words of affection. Looking at the expression of hope on his face, and the tears of joy in her mother's eyes behind him, she again couldn't let them down.

They married a few months later, and Sigri moved into the neighboring mill. His family was smaller, yet more successful financially. The house was nicer, though the work was still difficult, and Sigri threw herself into learning the new business immediately. As always, Sigri used hard work to fill her days.

Ingvar's family had suffered losses from the war as well; in particular, the loss of Ingvar’s older brother left a hole in that family. After settling into the mill, her life felt stale, like she simply listed from day to day. The things she enjoyed, hunting in particular, lost their appeal, though she still occasionally went on hunting trips with her brother, the time for those things was more limited, as mill work would continue through the winter.

Things changed when she became pregnant. Her in-laws were delighted. She didn’t know how to feel, at first. Her mother’s miscarriages and stillborns certainly came to mind. She smiled, and went through the motions of expressing her joy, yet she didn’t feel the emotion at first, nor the fear. As the months went on, she began to feel something for the first time in ages. When she final gave birth to a little boy, she loved that child, more than anything she had ever loved in her life.

They named him after Ingvar’s brother, Jory. It was a nickname, but they gave it to their child as a full name, at Sigri’s request. She knew her mother in law was completely destroyed by Jory’s death, and she wanted her child to be his own person. She hoped her in-laws would be helpful, yet in her heart, she just wanted privacy with her son. By the time the child was born, Sigri and her family had their own small house on the property, separate from the main one. For four years, they lived there in a semblance of happiness. In watching Ingvar be a loving father to their child, Sigri warmed up to him more, and she made an extra effort to make him happy. She tried her best, during this time, to be an ideal wife, and even found herself hoping for a second child. Sigri was more like her own mother than she wanted to be: overbearing. But Jory was everything she loved, and she held on too tightly.

When Jory was 4, Ingvar fell sick. Jory went to stay with his grandparents, across the yard, so he wouldn’t catch it, and Sigri cared for him, for several weeks on end. The doting wife in Sigri faded as she spent less time with her son, and she became more aggravated at the differences between herself and her husband, without Jory there to soften her up. Ingvar thought he was on his deathbed at times, and Sigri though there was a chance, too, but he did begin to make his recovery. As Sigri cared for him, they began fighting - Ingvar knew she’d never loved him, but he had loved her from childhood. For days, they began tensely bringing up all the fights they had never had in the years they spent together, dredging up every old issue. The fight, the only one they'd ever had, was fierce and the cruel words Sigri tossed at him were things she would regret forever. During the fight, the hearth fire grew higher until it poured out of the fireplace. It was unintentional, but caught in the moment, she allowed it to continue, not cutting it off where she should have, nor fetching water early enough. Neither the house, nor Ingvar, were saved.

In the end, Sigri and Jory stood hand and hand, looking at the house as it burned.

Afterwards, her in-laws held her as they grieved. Ingvar was too weak to walk, and of course, once the fire was so high. It was late -- they must have been sleeping -- how could she have carried him out? Sigri refused to speak of the specifics of that night, and they never pressed her, believing her to be grieving terribly, though Sigri herself wasn't sure what emotion her tears were coming from. Perhaps the look on her son's face, when he realized his father wasn't going to be well again.

Sigri couldn’t bear to stay on the farm after his death. As she departed, confusing her late husband’s parents and Jory both, she set out about a new existence. She began by hunting again, travelling by wilderness at every opportunity, and journeying into Skyrim’s cities to sell her leftover meat.

Eventually, her skill with a bow grew into mercenary work. She couldn’t face what she had become, travelling gradually further and further from Skyrim, until she found herself in Hammerfell, for only her second job. Once it was finished, Sigri was left with doubts. As natural as brawling and shooting felt to her, she was far more accustomed to her targets being animals than people, and it’s with these doubts that she boards the Kismet.

---

Sigri’s biggest regret is twofold. Firstly, she regrets her feelings surrounding her husband’s death, and feels immense guilt that she could never love him. Secondly, and most importantly, she regrets abandoning her family — first because she didn’t fight with her brothers in the Civil War, and again when she let her son down by depriving him of his parents.

---

Sigri is very much adrift. With the loss of the life she was used to, Sigri has no goal in mind. She is very much running away instead of towards. Deep in her heart, her strongest desire is to be with her son, but she believes she will only do worse by him, and doesn't deserve to be his mother. Therefore, her biggest desire is to prove to herself that somehow, she is a good person, and deserves to return and be a parent to Jory.

---

Expert
▷Archery: having learned to hunt from a young age, Sigri is a masterful marksman with a bow, with a good eye for her prey’s vulnerable points

Adept
▷Destruction: during her time at the College of Winterhold, Sigri honed her abilities wit destruction magic.
▷Athletics: Sigri has lived in rough conditions, doing hard labour for most of her life. She has spent a lot of time trekking in the wilderness, and is used to difficult terrain in particular from her hunting trips - it would be rare to see her trip.
▷Stealth: years of hunting has made it easy for Sigri to remain unseen and unheard, especially in an outdoors setting, where she can use nature’s sounds and foliage to her advantage.

Novice
▷Hand-to-Hand: growing up with as many siblings and friends as she did, Sigri is no stranger to the odd brawl. Sparring with her brothers has accustomed her to fighting in a pinch.
▷Restoration: during her time at the College of Winterhold, Sigri put some training into healing magic, even though her main focus was on destruction — she always wanted to be helpful for more than that.

---

▷Fireball
▷Flame Clock
▷Ice Storm
▷Fire Rune
▷Healing Hands
▷Healing

---

▷ A sturdy hunting bow, well worn and well maintained. Though not of the highest quality, Sigri knows exactly how to aim with it for the most precise shot.
▷ Travelling clothes, with some pieces of sturdy leather armour to go overtop.
▷ An iron dagger, simple and practical, more for everyday use than killing, and often used to skin animals.
▷ A necklace with a bear’s tooth on it, a hunting trophy.
▷ A torn piece of cloth which she wears around one wrist.
▷ A pouch with 75 coins, the pay from the job she just completed.
▷ Her travelling backpack, complete with water skin and some camping supplies for her usual wilderness lifestyle. A few days’ dried meat rations and some bread.
▷ A flask filled with miscellaneous liquor.