Perhaps the most accurate overarching description of Narzul's appearance is 'regal' in the most Dunmeri sense of the word. His arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, narrow mouth and sharp nose combine to create the impression of a haughty and noble elf -- all characteristics Narzul inherited from his father. His eyes are the same blood-red as the rest of his race, with darker sclera and bright, scarlet irises. Narzul is possessed of an intense gaze that has a habit of discomforting those who stare into it too long, as if he is keenly judging their very souls. While Niernen takes more after their mother, one trait that Narzul shares with his sister is his full set of lips. One side of his head is shaved as part of a traditional Redoran hairstyle. The rest of Narzul's jet-black hair is swept aside out of his face and cascades down to his shoulder in luscious, straight locks.

Tall, broad and supremely physical, Narzul represents the highest ideals of House Redoran as one of its most capable members of his generation. His body is a finely-tuned instrument sporting unusually heavy musculature for a Dunmer, and yet he is capable of blistering speed and finesse -- the results of a lifetime of healthy eating, a brutal exercise regime and combat training. He toes the line between athlete and hulking juggernaut deliberately and it speaks volumes of Narzul's dedication that he does not falter in achieving this perfect balance.

A few scars here and there are unavoidable when one marches to war but Narzul's use of heavy armor and a shield has limited such marks on his skin to a minimum. Additionally, precious little hair grows on his chest and limbs and he is smooth-shaven, so aside from the scars and calluses on his hands and feet his skin (which is as dark as volcanic rock) is remarkably lustrous and unblemished.

There was never much room in Narzul's upbringing for him to become anything other than a true, ash-blooded Dunmer of Morrowind. He is appropriately grim, aloof and stubborn, with the Redoran warrior-code of honor totally and utterly ingrained into his very being. His sense of loyalty and duty overrules almost every other impulse that Narzul might be subjected to and it defines all of actions. Well, almost. The only thing in his life that can sway Narzul from his intended course is family.

While all of the above is easily attributable to nurture, some of Narzul's natural inborn traits are quick wit, calmness in the face of danger and a resistance to feelings of fear and horror. He is not easily distraught by the ravages of combat or war and has an iron resolve when presented with resistance in executing his plans. He is not nearly as academically capable or intelligent as his sister and lacks her perceptive grasp of theory and spellcasting, but they are equals when it comes to problem-solving and swift thinking on their feet.

In conversation, Narzul is curt and direct. He is used to commanding swaths of soldiers in the field who obey his every command and he does not waste his time with the frivolities of chit-chat; that he leaves that to House Hlaalu. A man of force and alacrity, Narzul prefers to have his actions speak for him. That is not to say he is entirely unfriendly -- Narzul has often enough gone to great lengths to save those he cares about, treats the elderly with respect, seldom raises his voice in anger and is quick to act against injustice.

What justice means, exactly, is naturally very subjective, but there are many in Tamriel who would not agree with Narzul's view on it. He has no sympathy for the beast-races that his nation shamelessly enslaves, barely counting them as sentient, and looks down his sculpted nose on the rest of the continent's peoples. This is not born out of hatred or dislike of them, but instead stems from deep-seated knowledge that the Dunmer race is superior and Narzul himself, as excellent specimen, even more so. He is supremely confident in himself, his path in life and his abilities as a warrior. His successes thus far seem to suggest this is merely accurate self-awareness, but the slope to vainglory and arrogance is only a short distance away. And yet... there is a small part of him, a resistant nugget, that chews away at him ever since his sister almost died in Black Marsh. Perhaps the great Narzul is not immune to making grave mistakes after all.

Recent events have shaken his confidence even further, but the murder of his parents at the hands of the treacherous Nerevarine has ignited an inferno of wrath in his heart that will steel his hands and guide his actions for the trials yet to come. With everything he ever worked for reduced to ash back home in Morrowind, he has finally accepted this reality and turned his natural ambition towards a lofty purpose: to become a new, self-made man, a peerless warrior and leader once more, until the day of reckoning comes and he returns his enemies to the dust from whence they came. Only then shall he rest.

He worships the Reclamations and the warrior-aspect of Boethiah in particular.

The older brother of Niernen Venim, Narzul was born into an aristocratic and influential family of House Redoran. He was groomed from birth to be his father's successor and, as first-born son, took to this calling with ease and enthusiasm. An intensive regimen had been prepared for the boy since before his birth and was imposed on Narzul as soon as he could walk. Even then, at such a young age, he never complained. Father commanded and Narzul obeyed. At the age of six Narzul began training for combat, clashing wooden swords with the sons of other Redoran prominents. He learned how to maintain arms and armor before he turned eight. Hours upon hours were spent in the training yard doing pushups, crunches, situps and other exercises. It got to the point where even Narzul's mother, devoted wife to his father, began questioning the intensity of what Narzul was subjected to. His father dismissed those thoughts, so engrossed was he with his son's prodigious aptitude for blade-dancing and long marches that he only saw the future of his family in Narzul. The boy bore this burden silently.

When Narzul was ten years old, his sister Niernen was born under poor auspices. The young elf relished the idea of gaining a sister and spent entire days by the crib looking at her with fascination and love. It is the nature of older brothers to be protective of their younger sisters and Narzul was no different. As she grew up and Narzul entered adolescence it became obvious that Niernen did not share his talent for warmongering and weaponry. Initially disappointed, Narzul quickly got over that hurdle when his father seemed to insist on Niernen following the same path as Narzul regardless. The boy fiercely protested and demanded that Niernen was allowed to determine her own future; only the first of many times in which he would leap to his sister's aid. Niernen was slightly bitter over Narzul's status as favored son but nevertheless loved him dearly and their bond was strong.

Narzul officially joined the ranks of House Redoran and its standing army as soon as he came of age and began putting all of his training into practice. It started with simple missions; defending Redoran lands against bandits, escorting trade caravans, serving as a guard, and various other tasks. Narzul immediately benefited from years of discipline and hard work by performing with distinction -- unlike many of his fellows, Narzul never complained, never tired and never faltered. Niernen left to pursue her own career in the arcane arts, something Narzul encouraged, and he redoubled his efforts. Narzul was rewarded with greater responsibilities and, proportionally, greater rewards. He was directly involved in the witch-hunt for the Cult of the Four Corners, slaying their Smiling Lord in single combat; commanded the initial resistance against the Dreugh Assault of 4E195; won the Tournament of Ashes in Necrom in the category Long-Blade-and-Shield and, finally, became the commanding officer of the Redoran garrison in Soluthis. By the time his sister returned to Blacklight from her studies Narzul had risen to the rank of House Cousin. He was then thirty-seven years old.

The return of the Nerevarine to Morrowind shook the very foundations of Narzul's life. His father had intended for him to become the next Archmaster, following in the footsteps of his ancestor Bolvyn Venim. Unfortunately, the long-lived Nerevarine had slain the very same Bolvyn Venym more than two hundred years ago in a duel for the title of Archmaster in his quest to become Hortator and unite the Great Houses against Dagoth-Ur. With the Nerevarine claiming the throne of High King for himself, not only did the influence wielded by the Archmaster of Redoran decrease significantly it was also likely to become much harder for Narzul to ever attain that position. Even worse; Narzul's father expected retributions against his family immediately following the Nerevarine's ascension. None came. Narzul and Niernen both reasoned that so much time had passed that the Nerevarine had no reason to hold a grudge against the Venim family anymore. Their father remained highly suspicious but nevertheless agreed to send Narzul to join the slave-raids in Black Marsh. If Narzul was to retain the momentum of his meteoric rise within House Redoran he had to make the most of this opportunity.

Narzul was given command over an entire regiment of soldiers of the Redoran standing army and clad in the finest ebony armor the Redoran war-smiths could forge. His sister insisted on accompanying him. Narzul was initially wary and shared his father's concerns -- for different reasons. Their father was afraid Niernen would die in Black Marsh. Narzul, instead, worried that Niernen's life of scrolls and quiet study hadn't prepared her for the grim reality of war. Either way, neither of them could technically forbid her from heeding the Nerevarine's call to action and Narzul acquiesced. While Narzul led his forces from the front, diving into the thick of it against the Argonians, he stationed Niernen at the edge of the battlefields from where she worked her (quite literal) magic.

The raids -- which quickly turned into a proper war -- were some of the heaviest fighting Narzul had ever been a part of. The long slogs through marshland and the asymmetrical warfare waged by the Argonians was exhausting. The lizard-folk would seemingly disappear and reappear at will within their half-aquatic, half-terrestrial environment and Narzul quickly learned that engaging them out in the field was pointless. He instead took to full-scale city-sieging, something the Argonians were unprepared for, and achieved great success in the Battle for Stormhold in combination with Niernen's seething flames. Now it was Narzul's turn to inherit his father's blindness in the face of success and he did not see how his sister struggled to cope with the charred corpses she left in her wake. Insensitive to such horrors, Narzul only felt pride at his achievements and his sister's and encouraged her to keep up the good fight.

After the horrifying incident that almost claimed Niernen's life in the Battle for Thorn, Narzul's confidence was shaken for the first time in his life. His sister was sent home so badly injured that she could barely walk and he received a stern admonishment for his actions from the Archmaster of House Redoran himself, Roark Farandras. Narzul had abandoned the frontlines and sprinted back to where his sister lay surrounded by the corpses of her bodyguards and two Argonian Shadowscales, arriving just in time to deliver her dying body to the outstretched arms of the Temple Priests that proceeded to save her from the brink of death. He was wracked with guilt and firmly of the opinion he should not have agreed to let her come with him. Despite this, the siege was only set back a few days and Narzul successfully led his soldiers to victory after all. Because of this, he was allowed to remain in his position.

The final years of the decree and Narzul's post in Black Marsh passed without great incident. The foothold Narzul and his colleagues had managed to secure in Black Marsh was enough to supply Morrowind with slaves by the thousands and Narzul spent the rest of his time in command over the field-garrison in Stormhold.

In 4E205, the decree was lifted. Satisfied with his achievements in Black Marsh, Narzul wagered it would suffice to ensure his position within the upper echelon of House Redoran for the foreseeable future and returned home to Blacklight. His father, now approaching old age rather rapidly, was more than happy to step aside for his son and Narzul was unanimously voted to replace him as House Father, one of the highest ranks within the Great House. He was the youngest to attain this position in over a century.

Now seemingly at the apex of his power and ready to finally rest on his laurels, Narzul was distraught to learn that Niernen insisted on traveling away from home by herself. He tried to talk her out of it and failed -- all he managed to negotiate was that she would bring one of the family's Nix-hounds with her for protection, and off she went. Narzul watched her go with a heavy heart and decided to deal with this in the same way he dealt with all of his problems; work harder.

The Nerevarine revealed his plans for an invasion of the rest of Tamriel with the aid of the mysterious "Kamal", a group that Narzul had never heard of before. Being such a high-ranking member of House Redoran Narzul was privy to more details than most, and a creeping feeling of impending doom came over him when he realized the full implications of the Nerevarine's plans. What if Niernen was in the wrong place in the wrong time? Alas, no mere mortal can sway the mind of a Godkiller, and Narzul was powerless to stop the Akaviri invasion. Abandoning his post to look for Niernen would put him out of his sphere of influence at a key moment in Morrowind's history and Narzul decided against risking everything he had ever worked for. He had to trust that Niernen would do the sensible thing and come home.

After the start of the invasion in Sun's Height, 4E205, Narzul had finally resigned himself to this idea and expected his sister's return any day when the Nerevarine's intelligence agency began spreading lists of Dunmer that had been branded 'traitors' by the government. Narzul's heart skipped a beat when he saw his sister's name on it -- she was accused of colluding with a 'foreign power', whatever that meant, and sentenced to slavery in the event of her capture. Terrified for her safety and simultaneously angry with his sister for getting caught up in this mess, Narzul was torn between leaving Blacklight and traveling to Skyrim to search for Niernen -- a reckless endeavor that could very well land him on the list of traitors himself -- and staying at his post and doing his duty to his country and his High King.

In the end it was Narzul's father that made the decision for him; an unexpected change of heart from the old elf.

"What are you still doing here? Go save your sister, n'wah!"

That turned out to be easier said than done. Narzul managed to track Niernen down to a mercenary company in Dawnstar. She had been captured after the siege of Windhelm by the Dunmer of Morrowind and sold to the Kamal as a slave, but escaped from one of their frigates during a reckless (and ultimately ill-fated) attack by pirates. Fate had reunited her with the Company, and determination had brought Narzul to her. He insisted that she return home with him but she refused, citing her camaraderie with the other mercenaries and a particular fondness for the Khajiit Do'Karth. Narzul was apoplectic. After a philosophical sparring match with Sadri Beleth, one of the Company's other Dunmer members, Narzul decided to stay with the mercenaries to look after Niernen. He would bide his time and when the moment came, he would convince her to come back home.

An expedition to Bleakrock Isle that turned into a disaster meant the moment never came. During combat against enemy Armigers Narzul hesitated and was humiliated when Sadri had to save him, and he well and truly condemned himself to the side of the resistance after he killed two enemy Dunmer in a fit of rage during a series of ritual duels demanded by the Armiger commander -- a feat that almost cost him his life. Sadri had to come to his aid once again and carried the fuming Redoran aristocrat to their ship as the Company escaped. His sister cared for his injuries as best she could, but he was not able to receive proper treatment from an expert until they reached Solitude. On top of his injuries, Narzul worries; when will he ever find an opportunity to bring Niernen home if they keep going even further away? Is it even possible for them to go home now, after their misadventure at Bleakrock Isle?

That question was answered by the cowardly murder of his family at the behest of the Nerevarine and at the hands of the Grandmaster of his very House. The Venim siblings were truly lost and alone in the world, save for the mercenary company they were traveling with. In shock, the pair of them slowly digested this turn of events while their adventures saw them square off against Sload, vampires and all manner of foes as the mercenaries traveled even further west. Before they made landfall at Wayrest, Narzul finally resigned himself to the fact that he could never return to his old life and let his sorrow and his wrath fuel the ambition he needed to aspire greatness once more -- even if it was amid the lesser races and under Gustav’s command. Now, a new chapter in his life begins; one that will be bathed in fire and blood.

Expert: One-Handed Blade, Heavy Armor.
Adept: Shield, Athletics.
Apprentice: None.
Novice: Dunmeris, Hand-to-Hand.

Ego Optimus Sum: Being so firm in his self-perceived superiority makes Narzul difficult to work with for people who want to be seen as equals, especially for Khajiit and Argonians. It hasn't been a problem before because of Narzul's immensely privileged upbringing and the hierarchy of Dunmer society but this is very likely to cause grief and woe now that Narzul is traveling outside of his comfort zone.

Avatar of Wrath: Recent events have forced Narzul to side with the resistance in a war he didn't want to be a part of in the first place, seen his family murdered by traitors that he thought were his allies, and his rightful place in Morrowind denied to him as long as the Nerevarine lives and rules those lands. As such, the desire for vengeance he harbors burns so brightly in his heart that there is no room left for anything else -- only the death of the thrice-cursed Hortator and the survival of his sister matter to him now, and he will stop at nothing to achieve either goal. He will readily deviate from any plan, risk victory and even sacrifice thousands of lives in a heartbeat, and woe betide any that get in his way… friend or foe.

Path of the Warrior: Having spent his entire life taken care of by servants that attended to his every need, Narzul only ever needed to learn how to do two things: fight and bark orders. While his ability as a warrior is undeniably immense he possesses absolutely zero utilitarian skills and is reliant on others to provide such services. This bothers him, though he’ll never admit it.

None.

Three decades of intensive training, two of which were also spent engaging in combat frequently and with enthusiasm, have honed Narzul into one of the most capable warriors this side of the Niben Basin. His skill with the long blade is such that his prized ebony longsword has become an extension of his arm, the power of its strikes fueled by his fearsome strength and dexterity. He practices an aggressive combat style that forgoes acrobatics and flashiness for hard-hitting, fast and relentless strikes. Capable of great precision and brute force, Narzul can pierce the weak link in his opponent's armor as easily as he can punch through steel plate with a powerful thrust.

Additionally, Narzul has spent so much time in heavy armor that he shoulders its burden like a lesser man might wield leather. Despite the weight he can be alarmingly fast when he needs to be -- Narzul has won many duels by dashing foward with great speed while his armor protects him from any potential counter-attacks. The addition of a shield further increases Narzul's defensive options, blocking and deflecting blows that would pierce even his armor, rounding out his skillset nicely.

When not trading blows with his opponents directly, Narzul is a capable and experienced battlefield commander that has presided over large-scale engagements and entire sieges and is well versed in strategy and the logistics of troop deployment. He knows how to delegate tasks, predict enemy movements and utilize force multipliers within his command to tip the scales in his favor. Last but not least is his talent for setting the example and leading from the front. Narzul’s most admirable quality is his fearlessness in the face of danger, which is something that can rally the troops behind him and turn the tide of battle when all hope looks lost. He will never surrender.

After the murder of his parents and the excommunication of the Venim family, Narzul has lost all friends and family he has ever had -- save for his sister, Niernen. The two scions are alone in the world.

(For group members; fill after IC introduction)

Narzul has successfully laid siege to several cities in Black Marsh during the war between Morrowind and Black Marsh, serving as general of the armies of House Redoran. Additionally, he faced the Smiling Lord in single combat and slew the Dremora for good.

Narzul's heavenly virtue is Diligence. His deadly sin is Pride.

Though probably not everyone's cup of tea, Niernen is an attractive woman by Dunmeri standards. Her eyes are large and expressive and have an unusual coppery hue to them, diluting the crimson iris that is so characteristic of her race. They are supported by prominent cheekbones; beneath that, Niernen's face narrows sharply, sporting a small chin and gaunt cheeks, though her jawline is well-defined. A ruddy scar runs over her left eye and cheek, almost touching the corner of her mouth. Niernen's lips are lush and display a peaked Cupid's bow. All that said, her ashen skin has become even more pale after her suffering at the hands of the Kamal and her face has thinned remarkably from weeks of starvation. She has only recently started recovering from the horrors she has faced and a little bit of life has returned to her cheeks.

While she takes pride in (and good care of) her hair, which is long and dark, the lustrous shine has faded and the split ends are too many to count. Niernen usually wears it swept back, tucked away behind her ears from where it cascades down to her shoulders, but it has a habit of swinging this way and that during combat and she has ended up looking like a disheveled madwoman more than once.

Her once rather conventional body has undergone rapid weight changes and it shows; her skin is marked by having been starved and her bones still shine through in more places than they should. If one got the chance to see her undressed they'd be able to spot faint scarring on her chest, abdomen and back, caused by wicked Argonian warblades, but these blemishes are overshadowed by the remnants of severe bruising from more recent injuries that are only healing very slowly.

Everything about her, from the intense, wary and haunted look in her eyes to the incessant tremor in her hands and even the state of her clothes, screams ‘traumatized’, which is absolutely true. She walks with a limp, is in constant pain and restlessly scans her surroundings, frequently jumping at shadows. When presented with actual danger, however, one of two things can happen: she either panics and shuts down, or is fueled by an immense, all-consuming wrath that would frighten even the most hardened veteran, streams of searing flames shooting from her hands as torrid arcs of electricity dance around her form. So, while her smile and laugh are both beautiful and infectious, Niernen can’t help but to make those around her wary with her own paranoia. One can only hope that she will find peace someday.

By nature, Niernen is resourceful, intelligent, witty, stubborn and kind-hearted. These traits are all inherent to her mind and personality and haven't changed over the years. She takes to new knowledge quickly, enjoys conversing at an engaging level, is quick to improvise when faced with problems, becomes nearly impossible to sway after she's made up her mind about a course of action, and tries to treat the people she meets with respect and compassion -- even 'outlanders'. She never thought highly of the xenophobia of her fellow Dunmer of Morrowind.

However, the course of her life has seriously damaged her, both emotionally and physically, and she is a shadow of the woman she was. While still headstrong, she used to be far more so and has relented a lot after her injuries in Blackmarsh. Her confidence was already significantly shaken by the whole ordeal and she struggles to regain her former level of self-assuredness, but brutality suffered at the hands of the Kamal have put another, even larger dent in her -- and the execution of her parents by the authorities in Morrowind nearly shattered her entirely. Without moral and emotional support of her friends and comrades Niernen would undoubtedly relapse into powerful depression and anxiety, and she is vulnerable to horrific nightmares, flashbacks and a near-constant sense of paranoia.

As for interpersonal relationships, Niernen gets along well with most people except Argonians and still finds it difficult to look at them, let alone have a proper conversation, due to strong feelings of guilt. However, spending time in the mercenary company has helped her cope, and recent events overshadow these emotions with far more powerful ones -- sorrow, fear, despair and wrath. She tries not to let these get in the way of her friendships but it is hard to ignore and she’s torn between seeking comfort and pushing people away. Niernen is desperate for healing, but has no idea where to turn other than her brother, but Narzul’s mind is elsewhere and he doesn’t know how to help her either.

She's proud of her magical abilities and relies on them heavily, refusing to carry physical weapons into combat, and resorts to telekinesis for heavy lifting. Because she was born into a wealthy, aristocratic family, Niernen used to have no idea what it's like to be a peasant and would occasionally make off-the-cuff remarks that reflect this ignorance. Her experiences as a slave of the Kamal have grounded her firmly into the misery of the unwashed masses, however, and there is no highborn ignorance left in her war-weary soul. Her greatest pleasures were fine dining, magical discoveries and moonlit nights, but now she is simply thankful for every moment of peace, however uncomfortable it may be -- it is always better than the horrors she has endured. She has decided that she needs to heal from her trauma, one way or another, and she endeavours to find someone that can help her with that while she continues her work with the company. Like her brother, she wants to avenge her family, but she does not feel like she is in any state to do so.

She worships the Reclamations, particularly Azura, but her faith is wavering.

Born to parents that held influential positions in House Redoran, Niernen Venim came second to a favored son. Her birth under the sign of the Serpent was considered bad omen by Redoran traditions, and hopes for Niernen weren't high. Though she was by no means ever abused, her brother Narzul was a tough act to follow and her parents could be blind in their devotion. Niernen was always quietly bitter about this but didn't act out against her brother in any way; in fact, she was very fond of him herself. Besides, it wasn't his fault he was such a good son.

While Narzul was rather obviously being groomed to take his father's place as House Father, Niernen was left mostly to her own devices and became determined to excel somewhere her brother didn't. Narzul's martial prowess was stellar, as befitting a son of House Redoran, but Niernen's short stature and natural ineptitude with weapons prevented her from matching up to him. It is often said that Dunmer have three talents; the blade, the shadow and the flame. Niernen wanted to focus on the last.

Whether a sign of love or casual disregard Niernen couldn't figure out, but her parents allowed her to pursue an education in Destruction magic with the war-wizards of House Redoran. She traveled all over Morrowind for this, apprenticing for several such war-wizards. Because of their rarity, they were posted all over the province. One of them was able to teach her a little about Conjuration as well, especially how to summon and bound a Flame Atronach, and they all knew a little Alteration for general utility. A sympathetic Temple Priest taught her a few things about Restoration.

Niernen returned to Blacklight when she was 27. She was now reasonably skilled, far from a master, but remarkable for her age nonetheless. For the first time in her life, Niernen got to experience what it was like for her father to be impressed by something she had achieved after demonstrating her Flame Cloak spell. Narzul had risen to the rank of House Cousin on his own merits by now and the two siblings remained very supportive of each other.

Life seemed to trundle along on its scheduled course when the Nerevarine unexpectedly returned to Morrowind, intending to take the title of High King. Niernen was far too young to have been alive when the Nerevarine first appeared but she'd grown up with the stories, of course -- her ancestor, Bolvyn Venim, had been Archmaster of House Redoran at the time, and the Nerevarine had murdered him in a duel for that title. The Venim family never forgave the Nerevarine for that act, and while he was worshiped as a saint in the Dunmeri pantheon Niernen's father disapproved highly of the Nerevarine's claim to the throne. Openly opposing him was political suicide, however, so this particular Redoran family was forced to watch as the Nerevarine wrestled power away from their Great House (again) and became High King of all the Dunmer people.

Her father expected some kind of aggression from the Nerevarine towards the Venim family, but none came. Perhaps the Nerevarine had forgotten about the last name of the man he had to slay in his quest to become Hortator -- Bolvyn Venim was, after all, merely one of many on a mound of corpses the Neverarine had left in his wake. Seeing no reason to further hold that event against her new High King, Niernen obeyed the decree to aid in the rebuilding of the province, much to her father's chagrin. She didn't do it because she cared about the province, really, or the Nerevarine's ambitions. No, she merely wanted to prove the usefulness of her arcane studies. Narzul also participated, though this was decided to be politically necessary if the Venim family was to remain relevant. The two traveled to the south of Morrowind with a contingent of the Redoran army and joined the raids on Black Marsh.

Determination alone wasn't enough to completely repell the horrors of war. Niernen had never raised her magic against another person before and she was having difficulty processing the consequences. Narzul would lead the charge against the Argonians while Niernen and a conjured Flame Atronach lobbed fireballs at designated targets from a safe distance. From so far away it wasn't so bad, but being confronted with the charred, twisted corpses of Argonians she encountered on the battlefield afterwards haunted her dreams. Narzul was blind to her turmoil and merely proud of his sister, Niernen the battlemage.

It was fantastic practice however, and Niernen continued to develop her skills rapidly. She contributed significantly to a victory in the fight for Stormhold's gates, blanketing the area just inside the city walls with flames through a small hole in the gate, forcing the Argonian defenders back and allowing siege units to knock the gate down. Niernen started making a real name for herself and saw herself rise through the ranks of House Redoran on her own merits. This, and the encouragement from her brother, was enough for Niernen to persist.

Misfortune struck during an assault near the city of Thorn. The thick jungle-marsh prevented the Dunmer from anticipating a flanking strike and Niernen was almost asssassinated by a pair of Shadowscales. The two Argonians killed Niernen's bodyguards in the initial strike and struck her with quick jabs from their twisted daggers. Overcome with adrenaline, Niernen seared them both with gouts of hot flame, burning brighter than they ever had, but the Shadowscales were high on Hist sap and unstoppable. Within seconds, Niernen had been stabbed several times, including a horrific gash in the left side of her face, and collapsed. One of the Shadowscales made the mistake of stabbing the Flame Atronach through the chest; it exploded violently, killing the Argonians and knocking Niernen unconscious.

Narzul, having heard the detonation, abandoned his post at the head of the battle and rushed to save his sister. A retreat was organized and the Redoran army back off from Thorn momentarily. Niernen's life was saved by the combined efforts of seven Temple Priests; the daggers used to wound her were coated with a potent poison that was rapidly turning her insides to goop and an enormous amount of magicka was required to reverse the damage.

Alas, Niernen would never be quite the same. She was permanently weakened and her entire body hurt if she overexerted herself. Narzul was reprimanded for his actions in putting his sister's life over the success of the entire battle, but allowed to remain. Niernen was sent home with a commendation for valor in the face of mortal danger, but it was merely a small comfort. She was ashamed of having been a burden to her brother and traumatized by the near-death experience; the images of the Shadowscales, moving like frenzied blurs to inflict maximum damage, undeterred by the fire eating away at their flesh, was never far from her mind's eye. It took her more than a year to recover enough to start leaving the house in Blacklight. At first, short walks would leave her exhausted and gasping for air, but by the start of 4E 204 she had regained most of her former range of mobility, provided she didn't start to run. Most of the scarring had faded away except for the cut over her eye. It wasn't considered life-threatening at the time so little magicka was dedicated to repairing the damage by the Temple Priests, and it was too difficult to fix after the fact.

In 4E 205, the decree was lifted and Narzul returned home. He had served with distinction and replaced his father as House Father of the Great House Redoran, who gladly retired and started dedicating his time to literary pursuits and woodcrafting.

Tired of sitting at home like some kind of sickly woman, Niernen resolved to resume traveling and developing her abilities. She was also determined to face her fears and overcome them; it seemed to her that the nightmares weren't going away on their own. Narzul protested fiercely but Niernen had made up her mind. She promised to be cautious and brought one of the family's Nix-hounds with her, a fine specimen named Garm, who could protect her during a spell of weakness. Niernen traveled west, to Skyrim, and found herself applying for a mercenary company in the city of Windhelm, somewhat to her own bewilderment.

This turned out to be an act of supremely poor timing, as Skyrim was invaded by Akaviri forces for the first time in hundreds of years the very day after she joined Ashav's company. Niernen helped defend the docks of Windhelm against the invaders and, working together with a brave and agile Khajiit known as Do'Karth, she scored two kills against the enormous, hulking monsters. They successfully repelled the initial assault but their success was short-lived. Windhelm fell to the overwhelmingly superior Kamal forces within twenty-four hours. The Company retreated but Niernen lost them in the chaos as she fell into a sewer when the ground collapsed beneath her feet. Her panicked flight carried her out of the city and into the frozen wilderness, where she was pursued by the Kamal and their horrifying, arachnidian mounts. After being surrounded and left with nowhere to run, Niernen used a scroll she had been given by one of her mentors to summon a ravenous firestorm. The Kamal were incinerated where they stood, melting away into clouds of mist, and Niernen lived to fight another day. Her Nix-hound, Garm, loyal to a fault, died defending her against the Kamal, and for the first time in her life Niernen was utterly alone.

And that spelled trouble. She was intercepted and captured by Armigers on her way to Morrowind on the suspicion of "treason". It was from them that she learned the Kamal had been brought to the shores of Tamriel by the Nerevarine, High King of Morrowind, the very leader whose decree she had so loyally carried out in Black Marsh. The Armigers sold her to the Kamal to be used as a slave aboard one of their soul-powered frigates. She was enslaved aboard this ship, forced to perform manual labor with the other captives (most of them fellow Dunmer) in the hold of the ship, suffering regular beatings at the hands of a particularly large and cruel Kamal. She managed to maintain hope (and her sanity) by remembering the mercenaries, especially Do'Karth, and dreaming she would see them again someday. When fearless (but foolish) pirates attacked the frigate she and and another Dunmer named Valen were able to escape in a raft, which left them bobbing about the Sea of Ghosts without direction -- but at least they were free. They came upon a small island chain and made landfall, where an almost unbelievable bout of luck brought her face to face with someone she thought she'd never see again: Ashav, and his company too. The island chain turned out to be home to an ancient Dwemer armory and Niernen accompanied the mercenaries down into the darkness. Her reunion with Do'Karth was a tearful, joyous encounter, but it became tinged with a hollow feeling of sorrow when she learned that the Khajiit had become lovers with a Nord woman named Sevine.

Not that there was much time to dwell upon that. After fighting with a group of Ashlander treasure hunters and a bunch of Dwemer automatons the Company was able to achieve their mission, retrieving powerful Dwemer ballistae that they mounted on their ship. Those weapons immediately became worth their weight in gold when the very Kamal frigate that Niernen and Valen had escaped from hunted them down at sea. Valen died in the ensuing naval battle, pulled beneath the waves by a dying Kamal, and Niernen's torture was avenged when a trio of her allies killed the large Kamal taskmaster that had beaten her so often. Once again confronted with the deaths around her of people she couldn't save, Niernen sank even deeper into despair.

After some much-needed rest in Dawnstar, their next mission saw them heading to Bleakrock Isle, an outpost of the Nerevarine-allied Armigers. What was supposed to be a mission of stealth quickly turned south when their cover was blown and they had to high-tail it out of there after a series of horrible ritual deathmatches, in which Niernen had to watch as Narzul cut down two Armigers before being severely wounded himself. She stabilized Narzul's wounds as best she could, but they did not reunite with the rest of the Company (that had remained behind in Dawnstar) until they reached Solitude, having set sail for the city after a Dreamsleeve message from Gustav. They retreated even further west, desperately in need of a win, and the resulting series of adventures brought even more horror and tragedy to her life. Her parents were murdered and she was forced to burn five innocent people to a crisp while under the command of a vampire’s frenzy spell. Horrified by her own powers, Niernen’s personal quest now turns to healing -- she must become whole again before she can be of any use to anyone.

Expert: Destruction.
Adept: Alteration and Conjuration.
Apprentice: Restoration, Light Armor, Alchemy, Illusion.
Novice: Tailoring, Speech, Dunmeris.

Foot in the Grave: Niernen came so close to death after the Shadowscale assassination attempt that she never fully recovered. The poisons took a hefty toll on her physical fortitude, reducing her strength to that of a child's and her endurance to that of an elder with rockjoint. She cannot march long distances, lift anything heavier than an axe or throw something larger than a coconut. Being tortured and starved by the Kamal for a few weeks did absolutely nothing to alleviate this problems, and Niernen is currently weaker than ever. Most of these inconveniences can be worked around with magic, but she's dead weight after her magicka is spent. Riding on horseback also doesn't solve the long-distance travel problem entirely, as it takes a lot of energy to merely stay seated; carriages, on the other hand, are ideal.

The Horror, The Horror: Niernen hasn't overcome the mental trauma of the brutality she has suffered at the hands of her enemies during her life. Her recent capture and enslavement by the Kamal was possibly even worse than her near-death experience in Black Marsh, and the death of her parents has pushed her firmly near the edge of insanity. Already reliant on others to protect her from physical harm, she has now also become highly susceptible to flashbacks, panic attacks, fits of extreme rage and randomly bursting into tears.

Destruction: Niernen commands most Fire-variety Destruction spells, though she favors Fireball from a distance and Incinerate on closer targets. Wall of Flames sees occasional use in large confrontations. Fire Storm is beyond her grasp. With great concentration, she can create fierce flames that burn so hot they drip with liquid plasma and generate arcs of lightning through sheer power, causing an involuntary retreat in most targets, mimicking the Intense Flames perk from Skyrim.

Alteration: Telekinesis, Magelight and Detect Life for general utility. Stoneflesh in a pinch.

Conjuration: Flame Atronach, Flaming Familiar.

Restoration: Fast Healing, Healing Hands, Turn Lesser Undead.

Illusion: Fear, Frenzy, Rally.

Niernen generally refuses to engage her enemies up close unless absolutely forced to. She prefers to lob Fireballs at her enemies from a distance, preferably from a high vantage point, in support of other armed forces. She will often summon a Flame Atronach to double the rate of fire. She has never wielded a weapon into battle and isn't about to start now; not that it would do much good, what with her condition. If presented with an overwhelming force her tactic is to spray Wall of Flames as far as possible and retreat.

That said, the power of Niernen's spells seems to be fueled by her anger, and particularly intense moments of wrath have seen her incinerating her enemies at close range with searing gouts of superheated plasma and wild and untamed infernos, and even blasting them apart with concussive detonations.

She has recently discovered the more offensive uses of telekinesis magic and has begun to incorporate that into her repertoire of spells, along with an assortment of Illusion spells to bolster the morale of her allies and sow discord among her enemies.

Since the execution of her parents and the excommunication of the Venim family, only her brother, Narzul, remains. The two scions are alone in the world.

(For group members; fill after IC introduction)

Niernen has killed several Kamal in combat, which she considers the only truly good use of her fire magic thus far.

Niernen's heavenly virtue is Charity. Her deadly sin Envy.

The first thing that one would notice about Oren is his immense frame. Simply put, Oren is huge – standing a head or two taller than even the average Altmer, with broad shoulders not unlike a troll’s, he is a hulk of a man, and an inevitably conspicuous sight wherever he finds himself. Endowed with beastlike physique as befits his size, Oren’s limbs are unbelievably muscular as well; although despite his immense physique, this is a fact that’s hard to ascertain, thanks to the sheer amount of fat that covers his torso and limbs. Let no description or compliment lie to you – a testament to physical might may lie beneath the adipose tissue that covers Oren’s entirety, yet nonetheless, rippling shoulders and arms aside, to an outsider’s glance, Oren is simply pudgy.

While one would expect a rough, barbarian-like visage to fill this monstrous silhouette, with his plump lips, unblemished, caramel-colored skin, prominent eyelashes and sky-blue eyes, Oren looks disconcertingly refined, and quite feminine, feminine enough to the point that he has been misgendered in the past, in spite of his gargantuan stature – as a precaution to this, and an odd gesture of masculine pride, he’s taken to shaving the top of his head to ascertain his sex to onlookers. Still, even with this show of machismo, his face stands utterly devoid of facial hair, being unable to grow any thanks to hormonal deficiencies, and with his defined nose, rosy cheeks and well-shaped chin, one could say that perhaps he could’ve been a looker, beautiful, even, if he weren’t so tubby.

Despite his frame and occupation, Oren does his best at being fashionable, wearing clothes of the finest colors and fabrics of floral pattern, although with time and experience he’s figured some go-to pieces of attire for himself, opting for voluminous breeches and loosely cut, false-sleeved robes to let his body breathe, a large sash wrapped around his waist to contain his bulging belly and narrow his frame, and a cloak of a faded yellow color, to hide his physique further, and keep him from the rays of the sun, and stronger winds. His lower arms and legs are often left bare regardless of climate, with simple leather slippers being his sole choice of footwear. Still, he carries gaiters with him for occasions where bared legs would be improper.

Oren’s hands and feet are quite delicate looking, despite their huge size, and even though a glance to the back of his hand shows well-maintained knuckles, fingers and nails, the insides of his hands have hardened enough to grow into some sort of organic armor tissue that no amount of scraping seems to get rid of, much to his chagrin.

Oren considers himself to be a simple man, with simple desires and simple views of life. Romance has never appealed to him, and with his nonexistent sexual drive and capacity thanks to his childhood castration, he has no physical pleasure to gain from a lover either. Nor does he have any particular yearning for authority, having had the chance to closely observe, from his employers, how the pursuit of power drains all joy out of one’s life – with no loved ones to speak of, this too seems to him a futile venture. While he’s crossed out certain motivations, Oren does have certain drives that let him suffer through his line of work with his mind unclouded, namely, a love of food and comfort that a different type of earning would not be able to sufficiently provide for, and secondly, the hope of earning enough riches to have a chance of passing on his legacy in different ways. Although he has no genes to pass on for posterity, the idea of being forgotten, of having suffered through life for no particular reason brings fear to him nonetheless, and thus, he hopes to find a way to cement his memory via non-biological means; whether those means be achieving deeds worthy of remembered in the future, or simply paying to create an institution or structure that will outlast the lives of regular mer and men, does not particularly matter.

While he is not an unintelligent man by any margin, Oren is somewhat uneducated about the wider world, and so is somewhat superstitious about people of other cultures. Nonetheless, he is actively aware of the fact that he is an uneducated man, and is not above getting more information about things, whether it be through asking directly or using more underhanded means. As a bodyguard, he’s well educated in the art of poker face – he often uses this to his advantage, to pretend he knows things he does not, or vice versa, to attain information he would not normally get, or to check for inconsistencies in others’ narratives. Similarly, he’s found that sometimes it is necessary to leave a dumber or smarter impression for one’s convenience, and so he’s quite keen on allowing others to underestimate or overestimate him via his nonplussed demeanor. Despite this tendency, Oren is not a particularly treacherous or manipulative man, and tries his best to be a pleasant person, so long as it does not hurt his work reputation, or make him come across as weak or dependent. As slowly as he makes friends, Oren still appreciates wittier colleagues, and will often get them gifts when appropriate, usually in the form of drinks – despite not being a drinker himself.

Thanks to his lack of formal education, Oren’s not very well versed in topics that go beyond the scope of a layman, though he does have a dilettante’s affinity for art, and his decent memory helps him remember certain remarks about things fairly easily. Having been converted to the Imperial Cult fairly recently, Oren is a keen, although not very devout follower of Julianos, though he also casually reveres certain figures from the Yokudan Pantheon such as Satakal, and finds blasphemous talk about any sort of spiritual figure to attract misfortune, avoiding them if necessary. Despite being a practitioner of Alteration himself, Oren outwardly has a distrust of magic and magic users, fearful of the possibilities that dabbling in the unknown can cause. Ironically enough, despite his tough physique and external demeanor, Oren does have a sensitive side in his budding hobbies, being an avid, if not somewhat unskilled woodcarver and aspirant poet, and can become quite intense if his hobbies are made the topic of a conversation. Thanks to his rather dogmatic training in martial arts, Oren has a rather dismissive outlook on arms and armor, believing that a true warrior has no need of such tools, and claiming that the prominence of swords in Redguard culture stem from a misunderstood metaphor for ‘decisiveness’.

Oren, in spite of the fact that his castration and following health issues stem from his past as a slave, has no particularly negative outlook on slavery, thinking that the beast races make too much of a fuss over it. He also has an inherent dislike of Altmer, thanks to everyone blaming the Thalmor for the devastated Hammerfell that he grew up in.

Truth be told, Oren’s origins are of no consequence. Having been born into a poor Forebear family whose man was a cripple of the Great War and the following Continuation War, the amount of older siblings he had meant that either he was going to be another mouth to feed on the table, or somehow be sacrificed for the good of the rest of the family. He does not remember these times well, perhaps out of repression, or perhaps because of how brief they were – he remembers his father’s mangled hand, with only a thumb left on it, he remembers his mother’s braids, but not much else. He must’ve been ‘acquired’ as a ‘servant’ fairly early on in life, because unlike his family, he remembers his owner, Mu’ad, quite well. A somewhat short, plump and dark-skinned man, rich enough to buy his slaves at infancy, maintain them, and groom them for whatever role he desired. Because of his young age, and because he needed to be taken care of, he was put amongst the females of the household, the chambermaids substituting for a mother, sometimes even acting as wet nurses and ‘doctors’ in secret, while the younger concubines pretended to be his sisters. Perhaps it was this fondness that the females of the household had for Oren, that led Mu’ad to pay for his castration – this way, Oren could continue to spend time with them well beyond childhood, while also keeping Mu’ad’s honor intact.

Oren remembers the day of his castration – taken from amongst the women by a tall, gangly eunuch, given a nice meal of spiced rice and mutton, alongside a thick, white and sweet drink that numbed the throat as he drank, then laid to sleep for a while. When Oren woke up, he was on a coarse carpet, too numb to move, with Mu’ad supervising as an elderly woman lifted his manhood and, after some handling of his privates, took off his scrotum with a single dagger stroke. It was a clean and relatively painless procedure; Oren would learn later in life that such care would not normally be taken and that the surgeries were often horrifyingly painful and fatal. What came afterwards was a long period of celebration and recuperation, for while some of the touchier chambermaids were saddened about the loss of Oren’s sexual functions, most were happy about the fact that their ‘son’ and ‘brother’ would continue staying with them. And stay he did – for the next few years, most he did was eat, and grow larger and larger, to the point that he was about the size of a well-fed Redguard warrior at the mere age of fourteen. This unprecedented growth led Mu’ad to reconsider the role he had in mind for Oren, and he was sent to Sentinel for training. What sort of training it would be Oren did not know until he was led to the adobe-walled courtyard of the school and beheld, for the first time in his life, the Iron Palms of Sentinel smashing cut rocks with their bare hands.

The following five years of Oren’s life were spent in the Iron Palm School, where he was taught the Art of Hand and Foot. Their master, Khogan, was an extremely elderly man, to the point where he could not walk from one edge of the school courtyard to the other without some sort of aid. Despite this, his utterly dense flesh and mastery over the school allowed him to poke his fingers through flesh, bone and rock in the blink of an eye. For the first time in his life since he’d eaten spiced rice, Oren was amazed, and despite his steadily growing weight made it harder and harder for him to practice, he quickly became one of the most diligent pupils of the school, earning the title of Journeyman Trainer under three years. Although some of the other members of the school looked down on Oren for his unconventional methods of combat, such as simply grabbing his opponents mid-attack and throwing them around instead of dodging and landing his own strikes, these opinions would eventually be silenced by Khogan himself, who said that Oren ‘fought like an infirm master, not a healthy pupil’. While this praise was not without its own reprimand, the teachings of the Iron Palms were quite dogmatic, and gerontocratic – that Oren was likened to a master, even if for his lack of stamina, meant for them that he could no longer be a figure of contention.

By the time Oren returned to Mu’ad’s household, he had become like a small mountain, both in size, density, and strength. Trained to use nothing but his hardened flesh in combat, he thoroughly impressed Mu’ad by showing the capability to grasp onto tempered sabers with his bare hands, and throw his owner’s master bodyguard aside like he was a piece of reed. Much to the chagrin of his ‘mothers’ and ‘sisters’, and the previous bodyguard, Oren was assigned Mu’ad’s personal bodyguard, who had fallen into debt, and worse, sick with a growing lump in his stomach that not even magic could cure. To make up for his exorbitant health costs, Mu’ad had begun delving in the art of politics, ‘selling’ certain loyal slaves, so they could work their way to important positions in other figures’ households and provide information for his own maneuvering. Of course, Oren himself was far too vitally important to be thrown into such games, but in the following four years, Oren watched from behind his master’s back how stress and scheming drained the man further and further, leading him to eventually pale to a sickly yellow, and after a few weeks of bedridden life, die. What followed afterwards was total chaos – Mu’ad’s wives, free concubines, children, bastards, acquaintances and debt collectors all trying to get themselves a piece of the man’s wealth, suing, coercing, seducing and murdering one another to get more for themselves.

Oren himself, being a slave still, was inherited by one of Mu’ad’s sons, a young and ambitious man named Fajr. While he moved to Fajr’s household along with some of his ‘mothers’ and ‘sisters’ without making any fuss, Oren found life there to be a far less enjoyable experience, with their new owner too stressed, too greedy, and simply too cruel to internally justify being owned by. This opinion, it seemed, was not his alone; for one night, while patrolling Fajr’s bedchambers, Oren stumbled onto his owner fatally wounded, a fruit knife plunged into his throat by one of his ‘sisters’. While he comforted the bruised, traumatized woman at first, he soon found himself at a quandary – as things stood, the young woman would be executed, Oren himself sold in the public market for the lowest bidder for his incompetence, and the rest of the household scattered, bought or kidnapped. Oren decided to take another option and woke up his fellow slaves, explaining the situation, and then prompting them to take whatever they valuables they could find, buy their freedom from the flesh markets and leave for parts unknown, before someone from outside took notice. Surprisingly, it went without a fuss - the household scattered overnight, and Oren fled to Sentinel, where he used the valuables he’d taken from Fajr’s house to purchase his name off the Slave Register.

Despite being the place where he earned his freedom, Sentinel bore a tragedy of its own as well. The elderly Master Khogan had long passed away by the time Oren came back, murdered by one of his spurned students, and the events that’d followed had led to the Iron Palm School to be shut down. It was here that Oren felt despair for the first time in his life, having been so used to being led or ordered by someone else that finding out he had no masters left nearly broke him. He wandered in Sentinel for a while, trying to contact his fellow students at the Iron Palm, but the attempts turned out to be fruitless, most having either moved on, or not in the mood to make peace with whatever that had transpired. His funds were draining (Sentinel was an expensive city, and Oren had immense appetite), yet he’d made no progress; Oren realized fairly quickly that if he didn’t take action, he would be left on the streets as a gigantic bum. Figuring that he needed a roof over his head before anything else, he joined up with the Imperial Cult, taking residence in the homeless shelter that they’d converted their chapel’s basement into. It was for their mutual benefit – the mission was small and vulnerable, and Oren’s mere presence alongside them made possible harassers stay away. Oren used the chapel’s influx to start a simple self-defense course, teaching a watered-down version of the Iron Palm for those interested, receiving a meager sum in return.

What began as an arrangement of mutual benefit between Oren and the Imperial Mission eventually turned into something further; the priests of the Imperial Cult began to appreciate Oren for his helpful demeanor and the amount of young, enthusiastic people his self-defense course kept bringing in, while Oren himself began seeing actual goodwill in the toils of the Priests of the Eight Divines – led by a thin, bald man named Ionnaninus Bandelis, their Sisyphean attempts to teach Oren’s students how to read made a somewhat heartwarming impression on the gigantic man. In reality, Oren did not know how to read and write either, Mu’ad never having deemed it necessary for him to learn how – it took some time for Oren to grow the confidence inform the priests of this, but when he did it was not received with any surprise. He too became a pupil, like some of his own pupils, and soon enough (it did not take long for him to learn the basics), he could read and write with ease. As an act of gratitude, Oren swore that he would worship and honor the Divines for the rest of his days, and following that, to symbolize him being ‘a new person’, took a surname after the man who taught him how to read, being, from that moment on, Oren Bandeli.

Of course, things would not go happily ever after, and Oren would not really become a new person in the way that he hoped – instead of becoming a content monk, he became a killer, when he accidentally caved a man’s face in while trying to stop him from pissing on the Chapel walls. Word spread, and it evolved, and by the time the mob came knocking on the Chapel, they were demanding justice for the old man whose skull had been crushed by ‘that no-ball monster’ for not paying his respects while passing by the Chapel. While Oren knew that the Imperial Cult had lost its glamorous status in the province since the Great War, he did not expect that folks would come and ask for his head; he had to handle an angry, armed mob by himself for a few hours, preventing from coming in through the Chapel’s gate to hurt the others, an act that only resulted in more deaths. Eventually, the town guard came to the priests’ rescue and disperse the mob, although to placate them, Oren was sentenced to exile from Sentinel. Oren thought of this appropriate and let himself get cuffed and escorted out of the city limits, where he was left, to his surprise, without being unshackled from his iron bindings – Oren had to bash his cuffs against rocks and trees for an entire day to free himself. He followed the Iliac coastline to Lainlyn, where his reputation seemed to have reached before him; honest people would not deal with him, for what business did they have with an indiscriminate murderer?

It turned out that some people did, and soon enough Oren began getting approached by shady men who said they wanted to ‘talk’. He brushed them off the first few times, afraid that they were just muggers or troublemakers, but eventually one spoke to him plainly enough for Oren to realize that practically, he’d been brushing off job offers. There were people for whom having unscrupulous muscle on employ was a benefit, and Oren, the notorious, gargantuan outsider, was a perfect candidate. Thus, Oren found himself the personal bodyguard of a mob leader, a dandy with no teeth on one side of his mouth, aptly named Half-Mouth. Guarding a criminal was much different than guarding Mu’ad, for whom Oren was more a figure of deterrence and prestige, not actual combat; in contrast, Oren often found himself dirtying his hands with blood while keeping Half-Mouth safe, growing more and more used to it. His effectiveness grew on Half-Mouth, who began molding Oren in his shape, giving him dressing and etiquette tips; over time Oren’s reputation overshadowed even Half-Mouth’s, and perhaps this could’ve led to Half-Mouth contemplating on how to get rid of Oren, but the latter’s untimely death from a drug overdose prevented that from happening. With Half-Mouth gone, Oren could’ve inherited his organization, but he chose not to, and left for High Rock, where he made a living as a wandering debt collector until he ended up in the employ of a particular mercenary company.

Warning, Confined Space: Oren’s immense size prohibits him from making a subtle entrance, if he can make one at all. He takes up a large portion of physical space and can have trouble going in through doors, let alone maneuvering through small, cramped areas such as tunnels.

Short, Controlled Bursts: Even with his training and the aid of meditative magic, Oren simply carries too much weight for prolonged activities of exertion – he prefers to make the most with the least amount of physical effort, and extended movement will make him need to rest for a long time.

Extra Topping, Please: While he pays for it wherever he can, Oren consumes an immense amount of food and water even in short amounts of time. His appetite is insatiable, and without it placated, his performance can drop visibly, having to deal with cramps and the psychological urges of hunger.

Alteration: Burden, Equilibrium, Feather, Ironflesh, Jump, Slowfall, Transmute

Healing: Fast Healing, Fast Recovery, Healing Hands

Oren considers the first line of defense to be deterrence. It’s easier to win fights by convincing your opponent that fighting you will not be to their benefit, Oren thinks, and indeed when confronted with a hostile situation his first attempt will be to convince his opponents to stand down, usually through subtle intimidation. Still, Oren knows that a man needs more than one line of defense, and thankfully, has been taught how to walk the walk as much as he likes to talk the talk.

While Oren’s likely to make an impression of no more than dumb muscle, his way of combat is surprisingly technical and dependent on the subtleties of gravity – while the Iron Palm School taught him to amplify his mass and stand his ground like a rock against his opponents, Oren realized fairly quickly that it’s much more convenient and much less tiresome to simply make his opponent lose his footing, whether that be through the Art of Hand and Foot, or using Alteration to bend the laws of gravity for his convenience. He likes to be unconventional; if attacked in melee, his first response is not to avoid the strike but to actually catch it with his hands and guide it elsewhere, while amplifying the momentum of his opponent’s strike with his grasp to disrupt their balance and fling them away.

When he attacks, he likes to attack quickly and precisely, often using his feet to hook and kick at his foe’s ankles, amplifying the strength of his hits by hardening his flesh right before the moment of impact. He prefers to take the center stage of battle so that he does not exhaust himself trying to circle around opponents, although obviously that does not work against enemies who keep their distance. For them, Oren has a less subtle, more proactive and far more tiresome technique – using Alteration to propel himself towards the opponent as if he were a gigantic frog and smash into them with the strength of a catapulted rock.

Still, sometimes enemies require much less complicated methods to deal with, and Oren is not above simply caving his foes in with his fists and kicks, which would normally be applied as stomping finishers to his grounded opponents. Flattening windpipes and shattering bones may be far simpler when you can put your entire weight into the strike, but when life doesn’t give Oren the opportunity to do that, he can just smash his enemies apart, armored or not, although it’s not an approach he can keep up for long without needing rest for his and exerted muscles and mind.

Ionnaninus Bandelis, once head of the Imperial Mission in Sentinel, now assigned to a post in Cyrodiil
Rest of his relations either lost, dead or unworthy of note

After introductions.

Crimes:

• One count of theft in Rihad, unreported
• One count of homicide in Sentinel, ruled as involuntary manslaughter, sentenced to exile as punishment
• Two counts of homicide in Sentinel, ruled as self-defense
• Two counts of homicide in Lainlyn while employed by Half-Mouth, unreported
• Three counts of homicide in Lainlyn while employed by Half-Mouth, ruled as self-defense

Accomplishments:

• Certified Journeyman Trainer of the now defunct Sentinel Iron Palm Martial Arts School
• Certified Layman of the Imperial Cult
• Once prominent criminal figure of the Lainlyn underworld

Oren is an amateur poet.

Sagax is hardly an imposing figure, standing slightly shorter than your average Imperial with quite narrow shoulders and emerald eyes. He is thin enough that several people have given him worried glances, while in truth, he simply only eats what he absolutely must which leaves little meat to build on his bones; surviving on nothing during his teen years has given him the habit of rationing every morsel he has, though his experience with scaling walls and buildings gives him a little bit of visible muscle. Sagax's hair is near back to its original length, but now wears it in a short ponytail mimicking the fashions of nobility. He is also finally the proud owner of slight stubble. The man's body is littered with cuts, scars and smudges, and as of the siege of Windhelm, streaking burn marks over his arms and his upper body, reaching onto his neck slightly. Sagax accumulated the rest of his injuries from screwing up and losing his footing during deliveries and missing a grab when climbing in his childhood, getting into scuffs with animals making a bid for the same food as him, and other such mundane activities.

Sagax is a very passive and agreeable fellow, the kind of man who would rather be at the sidelines instead of in everyone's face. He enjoys listening to the stories of his comrades and adventurers who pass him by, despite how true they may be, and will very seldom interrupt a good tale. He believes that there is always more to see in the world, and that is what drives him and keeps him hopeful for that one day that will grant him the power to free his father and give his family a better life.

Sagax is not a man that is easily angered, though that no longer entails being prone to inaction. He will respond to threats against the innocent and his family with swift, overwhelming force. He is still a hard nut to crack emotionally, but those that are more perceptive will notice his trademark grin has vanished. Sagax still trusts readily, but not quite so easily as he used to, and has begun to speak less and less, preferring to be with himself and his own thoughts if possible. This does not mean, however, that he is entirely walled off to good conversation.

He will sometimes offer solutions to problems that crop up, and will more often than not lean toward the path of least bloodshed. For this, he used to be called "milk drinker" in some circles of the company, but no more. His various exploits have earned him a hardened reputation. Or perhaps they're simply afraid he'll toss a bomb at them.

Expert: Acrobatics
Adept: Athletics, One-Handed Blade
Apprentice: Legerdemain, Communication, Sneak
Novice:Light Armor, Alchemy, Medium Armor

Sagax is physically frail due to his time in poverty. He had not much to eat and often times the lake water would make him ill, weakening his body over time, so he cannot take much punishment.

Does not work well under pressure - In extreme circumstances, Sagax is liable to break lockpicks, fumble a grab during an escape, or alert an enemy to his location accidentally, amongst other things.

None

When he must fight, Sagax uses the secret art of going very very fast to wear down his opponent before striking with quick thrusts and slices. He is also able to easily outmaneuver most foes, be that by dashing around them or scaling obstacles to gain a height advantage. He is also quite good at parrying with his blade.

Equa Speculatus - Mother
Caius Speculatus - Father
Piper Speculatus - Sister
Varulae - Family friend

TBW

Crimes: Petty thievery
Crimes/Accomplishments: Not dying when he really should have

Despite being weak physically, his stamina is almost boundless, and is very quick on his feet. Sagax particularly loves the cold Skyrim wind against his body as he sprints to his destination, giving him a bit of extra energy on those longer journeys.

There's no mistaking Piper for anything other than an Imperial woman. She is of average Imperial height with shoulders slightly broader than Sagax's, is quite slender and, much to her chagrin, shapely, with few scars or blemishes to spare. Her sharp emerald irises and large eye shape she gets from her father, but Piper has inherited Equa's auburn locks and thin lips. She wears her shoulder-length hair loose aside from two side-braids. Piper has developed more muscle mass than her brother thanks to her smithing hobby and continued training in heavy armors and with blades, and that is not something she is ashamed to flaunt, though she could still be classed as "pretty" at the very least. If she looked more like a Nord or was simply uglier and had more scars, people would see past her looks and respect her more...or at least, so believes Piper, and so she prefers covering herself up in her armor whenever possible to hide her figure.

Take most things Sagax is, turn them around, and you've got Piper. A misanthropic, untrusting Imperial with a temper and knowledge of martial combat, it's a good idea to at least not be registered as an enemy. She cares not for boastful stories of supposedly-great triumphs or victories, and would much rather just be left alone. Much more reserved than Sagax, she will only rarely seek others out for conversation or small-talk, but more often than not she will only talk with others if there is something that has to be said.

Piper herself has lost some faith in her gods, though she still prays to them all in equal proportions, even if she feels that she is ignored. Unlike Sagax's subscription to Mara's "love for all", Piper believes that those that harm the innocent and kill indiscriminately are fair game for Stendarr's righteous might, and has no qualms about putting down the various kinds of villains that stalk the lands of Tamriel. Her brother believes this stance to be "extreme", but Piper puts little stock in Sagax's naivete and ignorance of how the world truly works; he would nurse a mass murderer if the bastard got a nasty cut from his victim before they passed.

Due to her perceptions on how being respected and being taken seriously ought to work, Piper takes offense to compliments about her looks, and will challenge any man or woman in one-on-one combat to prove her mettle to them...but mostly to herself. Compliments on her martial prowess, however, make her silently prideful, and more often than not she unknowingly wears a ridiculous grin, which is where her helmet comes in handy. She has great respect and even greater envy for well-regarded warriors, and will often try to mimic them, with varying degrees of success and humiliation.

Expert: None
Adept: Smithing, Shield, Heavy Armor, One-Handed
Apprentice: Communication, Tailoring, Medicine
Novice: Hand to Hand, Alchemy

Utter magical inability: For whatever reason, Piper just cannot seem to get a handle on magic. Varulae on several occasions tried teaching her some basic healing spells, but nothing ever came of it. Same for destruction spells, alteration spells, and all other spells the High Elf knew of; Piper is a martial combatant, not magical, and that's the end of it.

Insensitive: Piper can come across as rather cold and uncaring to the everyday passerby, and its very easy for her to offend without meaning to. This naturally makes it quite difficult for her to make many allies.

Poor Balance: Unfortunately, Piper does not share Sagax's uncanny ability to always stay on his feet. Though her armor helps in anchoring her, given the right amount of force, Piper can be toppled relatively easily.

Insecure: Having no real experience being outside of the Imperial City nor in live combat, deep down Piper doubts her supposed hardiness, so to prove to herself that she can handle the outside world she may lash out at those who criticize her abilities, even if all they may be doing is providing helpful advice. This insecurity hampers her ability to receive and absorb helpful information, and Piper will keep at something even if it's clear she could be doing it better.

None.

One could describe Piper's method of fighting as "Aggressively Defensive". Steadily advancing on her foe while her shield and armor deflect blows, Piper will strike out from behind her shield with heavy thrusts, alternating with swift cuts if her opponent is nimble. She will use her shield to try and knock her foe off balance, either by charging into them or simply hitting them with the front, as if she were punching. She operates as an anchor, an obstacle one must engage before getting to her squishier allies.

Equa Speculatus - Mother
Caius Speculatus - Father
Sagax Speculatus - Brother
Varulae - Family friend

TBW

Accomplishments: Piper is a fairly competent smith, and forge and repair most kinds of gear. And some cooking implements.

Strong Back: Her training in and continued usage of heavy armor has conditioned Piper's body for carrying large loads, and she can carry many things for a good distance before needing to rest.

HighRock

While he would be considered a fairly light skinned resident of Hammerfell, or perhaps a particularly suntanned Imperial from the southern regions, his caramel coloring causes Alim to stick out like a sore thumb in provinces such as Skyrim, or his home in HighRock. He has mannish features, though his Breton heritage allows him to retain a youthful appearance. Alim sports a trim and athletic physique, with dark eyes and shoulder length, unkempt black hair he keeps tied in the back. While his lips are a bit fuller, and his physique is sturdier than the average Breton, save his light chocolate skin, he looks very much akin to them. Some consider him quite handsome, though others find him unnerving by his mixed heritage.

Alim's personality, while often pragmatic and with a calm and collected demeanor, stems from a very rebellious and mischievous upbringing. He isn't afraid to question authority, or to undermine it if he genuinely sees it as the best course of action. He knows just how pivotal a chain of command is, and would only do so under extreme circumstances, something that he has become more cautious with in recent years due to the need to keep contracts.

He shares the belief that his fellow Bretons do, that with hard work and a little luck, one can aspire to greatness. He enjoys learning, and has a curiosity that many thought would be the death of him in High Rock. He enjoys learning other cultures, and making himself a melting pot of skills and ideas, simply because he feels that such diversity defines him. Being a bastard in a society of such tightly wrought places in society, he felt more fluid and freer in many ways than his family members. He began to use his half parentage as a means of strength, rather than a weakness to be exploited, and took pride at being unique among them.

While he relies on trustworthy tactics and equipment, he cannot help but feel a tug of wonder when it comes to dangerous concoctions or magic artifacts. Sometimes he catches himself doing very daring things, knowing that improvisation is key to surviving. Luckily, he improvises quite good he's discovered. Alim makes fast friends, and isn't above a good drink in a tavern or banter during a job or engagement. In fact, he quite enjoys one liners and having the upper hand in both verbal and martial duels. However, to many common folk, he seems married to his various jobs and sometimes unapproachable. He theorizes that's mainly because he cannot seem to stop his pursuit of his many interests, which leaves many others wondering what on Nirn could keep him busy so often.

Alim never knew his mother, only being in her care for a few short months before his father left for High Rock. He had been told his mother has requested his father take him to High Rock, to give him a better life. His father agreed, not wanting anyone of his blood to be found wanting. His father was William Blackmoore of Daggerfall, one of the minor Lords within the Kingdom. He sired 5 sons, all true heirs save the third child. William had extensive dealings of trade in the city of Skaven, and one day brought back a babe, who grew to truly look very much like his father, William.

Because of his darker skin and slightly fuller facial structure, many did not take Alim seriously despite his Breton name and features. He was often poked fun of as a child, at least by other Highborn. He took to a life of mischief, discovering he had quite the ability and enjoyment of climbing. The young Alim would often be discovered in someone's home upon the second story window, or perhaps on their roof to simply bask in the sun or watch the stars at night. He would often take food from the table at his house before his more esteemed family members, which in turn led to him becoming quite the food thief in the city (which caused his father two counts of embarrassment, and angry rants at Alim that he would never forget.)

His father did not mistreat him, per say. Of course, his father would give him a hard look if he ever requested the privileges of his brothers. For instance, they were purchased new swords and horses, and thrown extravagant parties for graduations and birthdays. Alim would be given hand-me-downs, and would be lucky to receive more than a few gifts, like a private affair. His father often told him he was lucky to be treated as one of his own, claiming that as a bastard, this was simply the way things were. That he loved him regardless, deep down.

Lord Blackmoore knew that with such mixed blood, to make Alim a representative of the household would simply not do. However, William deemed that Alim would be a Captain of the Guard and protector of his more true born brothers, and perhaps would be accepted into a Knightly Order when he came of age, so as to bring more esteem to the family. So the Lord had Alim trained in swordplay, and tested in magic when he was very young. Thankfully, Alim's Breton heritage did not betray him here, for his magic potential was not lacking.

For what it was worth, Alim enjoyed learning these skills. His training was given by the best Armsmen in the guard, when it came to martial matters. He was taught to read and write, but he was not encouraged to become more learned any further. Alim did that on his own volition, reading subjects such as history, and alchemy (though he never did practice much), and treatises on swordplay and magic use. He was inducted into the Dragon's Blood Academy (magical studies) at the age of 16, and it was there he met his first love. A Breton woman by the name of Nalia. Things seemed to be looking up for Alim, but the Divines had different plans that Alim slowly came to realize.

By age 18, he was inducted into the guard as its new Captain, the previous one now taking a well deserved retirement. Needless to say, Alim had less free time on his hands, re-configuring the guardsmen to what he deemed necessary, learning the schedules and making a relationship with his quartermaster, sergeants, etc. He was also required with accompanying his brothers and father on important meetings. Still, he did his best to find time to read, and study in the Dragon's Blood hall. He excelled in the two schools that helped enhance his swordplay, alteration and enchantment. He was encouraged to learn of such by his father as well, one of the few things they could agree on. It would aid in his guardsmen duties.

Perhaps it was an overwhelming sense of wanderlust that seemed to take him, or perhaps it was his newfound position weighing on him. He could only learn so much of the wider world through books, he knew. Perhaps it was because his new love, his new capabilities, were too good for himself in his eyes. He was not used to such a feeling, nor did he feel he deserved it. The Nine did give more concrete evidence it was nearing the end of one of his cycles in life, with the loss of two of his brothers over a three year period.

He was only 16 when his closest and older brother Beric disappeared. One day, he had simply vanished without a trace. This was something that hit Alim like a mace. He had been Alim's closest friend, and sometimes even a mentor. They'd both had a rebellious streak growing up, something that Alim had not (nor would he) grown out of. Lord Blackmoore looked high and low throughout the city, but they never found traces of Beric. Alim was glad his father went to such lengths to find his older brother, but deep down, he wondered if the Lord would have done the same for him...

It was nearing his 19th birthday when the news reached him that his oldest brother had been assassinated. It came as a shock to many, for he had been an upstanding citizen and seemingly had no rivals, nor offended anyone. It was not until later that love notes with Jezebel Falthoren of the Daggerfall Falthoren Merchant Company were discovered. Her suitor was Donovan Kirkwall, a high ranking Knight in the Ironbrothers. The death of his oldest brother hit him hard, as it did his father. Unfortunately, his father began to blame Alim, citing that it was Alim's duty to keep tabs on his family, to protect them. It was his only duty, and he had failed. Father and son had such a heated argument that the common folk could hear it on the street passing by. It was later that night that Alim made a rash decision. He grabbed a small fortune of his father's money, only as much so it wouldn't be missed but just enough to give him some security, and he fled. He left the city, unable to go against his yearnings to break free any longer. He did not even tell Nalia, for fear of her rejection, for he would have asked her to go with him. Even to this day, he regrets that, and later swore to himself that he would never run from a loved one again.

He arrived in Hammerfell, hiring himself out as a guard for a caravan traveling through Bangkorai. He made it to the city of Skaven within the month. He had never been, and while deep within his heart he hoped he would find his mother, he knew he was here because it was the only convenient place he could end up at the moment. Still, he made the best of it. He sold his sword whenever he could, stealing food when in need but trying to keep his criminal activities to a minimum. Even a few months in the city, he realized the politics of Hammerfell was very abrupt and dangerous. The Crowns and The Forebears were often at odds with one another, though the Crowns seemed to fancy themselves as the rulers of Skaven.

He would remain in Skaven for a year, lending himself out as an extra sword for scouts or caravan guard duty, learning just how the warriors of Hammerfell fought. He went into mock combat with them once or twice, finding their dueling tactics fierce and tough to beat, and very unorthodox. While he wasn't helpless against them, after sparring, and then needing to fight Redguard raiders twice over the course of a year, he understood why they were referred to as the most feared warriors on Tamriel. These were his mother's people, and he felt somewhat more whole with having lived so very close to them.

A year had gone by, and the sun was just fading into the night as Alim made his way back from the marketplace. It seemed the fate decided he'd been walking in the wrong alleyway, for he was jumped by two Redguards. Without thought to the consequences, he unleashed his magic to defend himself (as well as his sword of course) and ran through one of the men, and the other ran.

To his growing horror, he realized just who he had killed. Kneeling down, he found the black and crimson sash of the Duskmoons, a group of Highwaymen and bandits that had made a name for themselves as ruthless cutthroats. Upon further inspection, he realized this man was Frajid, the cousin of the Duskmoon's leader, Jara. The one that got away would tell him who killed his cousin, and worse yet, that Alim was a mage.

He'd seen a few Duskmoon's on the streets, of course. That, and any rogue worth their salt knew to stay away or join them, at least in this section of the city. Alim also had an unfortunate altercation with them at one point, catching one of them cheating at a game in one of the local taverns he had been playing at. It led to Alim getting into a brawl with them, only for the fight to be halted by the appearance of their leader Jara, a man not known for his mercy, but was fair in this instance. He let Alim walk with only a minor beating. He would be far more creative with a punishment this time.

Needless to say, Alim went into hiding, taking no more contracts and keeping to himself. He felt the roads would be watched heavily by Duskmoon scouts, so he decided to lay low. The sun would rise and fall, and he would do his best to go near none of his usual haunts, which meant he decided to go to the one place that he had never been. Essentially, it was where the Crowns resided, the section of the city with the upper class. Towering spires, circular and oval in nature surrounded him like vast trees. Palaces stood between them, like soaring tidal waves of incredible architecture. He couldn't help himself, and began exploring, looking for good places to steal a trinket or two. The Crowns were not wanting, they would not miss a few jewels would they? He staked out the buildings, sleeping at the top of one of the spires. He could remain unseen if he wished, and so far his little project in the High Class area of Skaven was keeping his throat from being slit by the Duskmoons, who were surely looking for him now.

One night, he lay trying to sleep atop one of the spires, merely gazing at the moon and wondering what Nalia was doing. If she was looking at the same moon...
He shook the notion out of his head, and not moments after he had taken himself out of his reverie did he see a curious figure moving through the shadows.
Not below, for even he couldn't see the street well from so high up. But across. Upon one of the other spires, a lithe figure climbed expertly. As he made his way into the moonlight, Alim could see a wicked Knife clenched in the man's teeth.

Alim acted on impulse, making his way down his own spire and upon the closest parapet, his footfalls silent as he traversed the architecture to chase this man who must have had ill intent. He was halfway up the spire in pursuit when he heard a distant cry, and the young Spellsword thief pushed himself to greater speed. Moments later, he vaulted through the oddly shaped window into the chambers of a beautiful Crown woman, who was fighting for her life against this black clad assassin.

She was trained well, having held her own with her curved blade for close to a minute. But any misstep and the Knife wielder would have her. Alim leaped, and sliced the man on the back, causing him to stagger forward, right into the woman's blade. It erupted out of his back, and he slumped forward.

Alim asked if she was harmed, and she shook her head, unable to decipher if Alim was an enemy or not. He explained he was...in trouble in other parts of the city and thought to remain here, to stay hidden. He had seen this man climbing up, and went to investigate. She believed him, introducing herself as Savranah Mirel, and offered one of her necklaces in thanks for his good timing and helping hand. He was going to deny it, because in good faith he was probably going to steal what she was going to give him just then anyway. But...he was a bit enthralled by how pretty she was, and he let her go and get it without saying a word. As she went to fetch it, he slipped the Duskmoon sash onto the dead man's belt, to give the Duskmoons something to worry about now.

When she presented him with the necklace, they both shared a smile, and he graciously accepted. "On one condition," he told her.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Tell whoever asks, it was stolen." he said with a grin and a wink. She was confused, but nodded. He disappeared out the window, with a new jewel and perhaps a reputation.

Naturally, he couldn't stay here, and traveled to Helgathe. It reminded him of the coastal cities of High Rock somewhat, and he stayed there for a time. Two months, he reckoned.
The first two weeks in, he began wearing the jewel the High born had given him. He had thought to sell it, but there was a sense of honor, and indeed haughty arrogance, that had him keep it to wear.
His arrogance, for once, rewarded him. He feared hunters going after him, but instead he received a small contract from what he later to learn was the thieves guild. Despite his thieving and roguish behavior in his younger years, he never did seek the Guild, nor was he sought after. It seemed the reputation of his last altercation had caught up with him.

Once he had stolen a mere trinket from one of the more fortified towers overlooking the city, he began to take other jobs and he gained a few contacts, though when he found an opportunity to earn a living another way, he took it. Not because thieving wasn't exciting, but he found he wanted a blade in his hands again.
He set up as a crewman and hired sword for the ship called the SilverSaber. It was a warship now used for hauling cargo up and down Hammerfell and Cyrodiil, sometimes smuggling in Elsweyr. He only felt it was going to be a temporary job, perhaps for a few months. Alim spent three years in the crew, working his way up from deckhand to Quartermaster. He fought in four engagements, using his magic and sword skills to great effect. One particular instance where he was grievously sick in, and he managed to kill one Imperial who went bellow decks to the crews quarters by casting feather on his sword, his weakened body able to spin his blade nearly as deftly as he would normally.

It was nearing his fourth year when they took a special job to haul cargo to Elsweyr. Unfortunately, the ship was badly damaged in a storm and could not make it to its destination. Most of the crew drowned, but a few managed landfall on the shores of Elsweyr. It was a strange land, hot and humid with lowlands surrounded by lone hills of jungle. He was one of the few to live, and couldn't find more than a few corpses having washed ashore. He had kept a hand on his sword, but it was badly soaked and he set it in the sun for a long while to make sure it had as little rust as possible.

He made his way into the countryside and to Torval, where he was cared for by a Khajiit named S’Zin and his three children. During his state of heat exhaustion and starvation, he heard many strange rumors around town that confirmed the rumors he had heard at sea. Many Khajiit were disappearing into the wilderness for no true reason. He found himself in the position to find out why. Once he was healthy, he felt compelled to offer his help. On his honor, and with a few other Khajiit to aid him, they went out in search of recent disappearances.

One week out in their venture, they found Khajiit and Man tracks near one of the jungle hills further east, inland. They found an entrance under the waterfall of vines, making their way in, until they found themselves in a surprisingly dank cavern.

Alim and the Khajiit with him explored the lower depths of the hillside cavern, finding small sleeping areas and bags of supposedly stolen goods, but no people. That is, until they made it three corridors deep, and found the cavern they were in sloping upwards. It led to an upper landing that overlooked the inner canyon of a large cavern. At the center of it was nearly a dozen bound Khajiit, and swordsmen discussing heatedly on how to deal with the intruders that had tripped their traps.

Many of them ran outwards to find those who dare intruded on what was transpiring here. S’Zin and the other Khajiit went back to ambush them, for there was no other way out than where the captors were headed. Alim promised them he would free the Khajiit captives, and he shimmied down the upper cavern to the lower canyon, his sword drawn as he cautiously approached.

A man garbed in black cloth approached him, a one handed blade pointed at Alim's throat. In his offhand, he held a book bound in red and black leather. He asked Alim what his purpose here was, though the Spellsword knew he wouldn't get out of here if he simply walked away. It only took a short exchange of words before he realized this man's goal. To kill the Khajiit for their corpses, and perhaps to harness their life energies for himself. Alim struck the Necromancer first, but his blade was blocked with a deft movement.

The two dueled before the bound Khajiit, the prisoners knowing whoever won this fight decided their fates. Luckily, Alim was victorious after a minute of suspense, using a counter riposte that sent the necromancer stumbling back and bleeding into the stone. The book in his offhand fell onto the ground before Alim, scuffing his boot and opening by its front cover. He was about to kick it away when he saw a familiar script engraved just behind the cover. It was Beric's name penned into the book. It took him many moments to move, but when he did so, it was almost as if he was moving with a mechanical stiffness as he freed the Khajiit. He took a night or two to think on it in his own way, withdrawing into himself. He decided not to remain too long, and felt a wanderlust to flee this place. The book haunted him as he continued to flee the land that brought this revelation, and brought so many questions.

He traveled through the lands of Cyrodiil, heading along the northward roads until he came upon the Black Road leading to Chorrol. He barely made it past a few bandits, and arrived in Chorrol. He stayed there for a few days, road weary. After his time was done, he decided to head northward along the Orange Road. He thought it would be a quiet journey before he came upon footpads robbing a Dunmer merchant. There were four in all, but Alim came upon them from their flanks in a surprise attack, opening with his sword bursting into flames and searing the leader in the back (mid speech). With that, he charged forward on his horse to cut one down before he could properly defend himself.

The Dunmer merchant attempted to flee, but was stabbed by one of the highwaymen as Alim fought the second, finishing them both individually after having received a rough gash across his head and shoulder, as well as a stroke upon his blade that had broken it through its center. He wiped the blood from his vision, but realized he could not heal the wound in the dying Dunmer merchant. The Dunmer thanked him for attempting to help, but asked two boons of Alim. To take a letter to the Dunmer's sister (named Ferain, a smith), and to take his fine steel longsword as a gift for Alim's aid.

Alim traveled northward with his new blade and a final mission. He had just given the Dunmer's sister her letter when he signed onto Ashav's group, and helped stop a plot with the group.

Alim's following adventures were noteworthy, his initiation leading on an expedition on a ship and finding himself face to face with a Sload. However, his biggest claim to fame was being Gustav's agent and serving the lady Relyssa during the Chaos of Evermore, successfully stealing a valuable artifact whilst saving (and wooing) his charge for a night.

After the group had moved to Highrock, Alim had business in Hammerfell he needed to take care of before he caught up with the group, now finally making it to Wayrest to rendezvous with his employers. He now finds himself thrust into helping the Lady Relyssa again. Not that he'd complain.

§ Attributes



§ Skills



§ Weaknesses

Alim has always been varied on how he chooses to fight his foes, due to his wide ranging skill-set of spells and melee attacks. When fighting a single opponent, he tends to fight one on one via his sword, though he isn't above using enchantments on his blade. If he is fighting multiple opponents, he opens with an offensive spell/rush attack, or he dispatches one or two foes with a sneak attack to demoralize his opponents before fighting them more traditionally with his blade.

(For group members; fill after IC introduction)

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23 Gold

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4 Soul Gems

Chainmail, Hammerfell Garb, Cloak.

Fine Steel Longsword, Iron Dagger

4 Soul Gems

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Rucksack

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Gideon, Blackmarsh

Daixanos is fit and powerfully built for an argonian. His sleek form is curved with cabled muscles. Various spikes and frills frame his long snouted face. The Argonian's skin is ruddy and blood colored, giving him a fierce appearance. He wears Iron armor and iron guantlets, along with sturdy leather breeches and traveling shoes. He tends not to wear a helmet, for it feels unnatural to him and might impede his vision with his bow.

Dax is introverted and self sufficient. He's reserved, but when you meet him you'll realize there is a stark difference between being reserved and shy. He's confident in his abilities, and fears very little. His bravery and stoic nature comes from his idealistic view of the Hist and their wisdom. He is connected to his people and nation, and feels as if he is a representation of Black Marsh's strength in the outer world. A natural hunter, he has a dry wit, predator's cunning, and a single minded determination.

Born within Black Marsh at the base of a Hist Tree as the rest of his kin, his family hailed from Gideon. Dax's parents were tanners, and as the Argonian grew up he would often help around the shop, learning his father's trade. By age 12, want for skins was becoming high, so his father decided to moonlight as a hunter as well, bringing his son along to learn the trade.

By age 16, it was clear that Dax was a natural at hunting, his archery and tracking skills were now surpassing those of his father. He decided to set out on his own, having never left the greater Gideon area before. He traveled northward towards Stormhold to ply his trade. Skreexil the merchant decided to hire him as one of his hunters, giving Daixanos capital for how much the items his kills provided sold for. It was a smooth business for several years until a sizeable Dunmer incursion from the north not only threatened his business but his life.

The Argonians of the North gathered around the Hist trees and drank the sap once more, receiving visions and dreams of fighting back against the invaders, boosting their morale and giving them a sense of purpose for the coming conflict. Daixanos was filled with national loyalty and pride, and together with his fellow Argonians, joined in a successful guerrilla war against the Dunmer forces, even pushing a bit into southern Morrowind before retreating. By the time the skirmishes were done, Dax was 23 years old and found himself victorious but restless.

He decided to travel north east, into the nations of the Landstriders, hunting the local fauna and taking up the occasional bounty for criminals as well. He worked his way up through northern Cyrodiil, selling pelts and catching highwaymen in Cheydinhal and Bruma, until he found himself in Skyrim. By age 25, the Stormcloak/Imperial war was at its climax. At first he did his best to stay out of the politics, hunting Elk mostly. Perhaps he'd bag a Sabrecat or Bear every once in awhile. Dax learned the hardway that such large beasts had thick hides and skeletons. He needed something big to kill them with, so he chose the battle Axe to end fights quickly. He tended to hunt traveling between Markarth and Whiterun. He often stopped to rest at Rorikstead, taking the bounties he could from Mralki.

His policy changed somewhat during an Elk hunt near Whiteshore when he found a small band of Stormcloaks being harried by a giant. With a poisoned arrow, he hit the giant in the small of its back, buying the Stormcloaks an opportunity to hack at it as the giant slowed. He put another arrow in the monster's side, and then joined the stormcloaks as it weakened, finally cleaving the things skull.

They thanked Dax, and offered to share a meal with him. He accepted, after looting the giant of any pelts and items it had on its person (offering to share, but they declined). He learned of the Stormcloak's struggles, which echoed in his own experiences of fighting off oppression. He told them up front he would stay out of the politics, but he would accept particular bounties from them and favored their cause.

As the years progressed, he found smithing his own items and brewing his own poisons was a cheap and effective way to live. He didn't lack for anything and had no problem with hard work. At age 29, he decided he needed something new once again. He heard Dawnstar was particularly rough terrain, and troll pelts and fat might fetch a high price there. He managed to bag one troll as he traveled northward with a poisoned arrow and a flaming brand, though it was the fight of his life. Perhaps it was the troll, but he began to have terrible nightmares of his past and homeland not days before arriving in Dawnstar.

Once he set foot inside the city, he immediately found work with the Jarl, whom he would grow to rely on until the culling of the Argonians weeks later. As of then, the Jarl hired him after Dax entered the city with a filled bounty contract. The job was to halt an Argonian smuggling ship from enslaving his kin in the city and transporting them to Morrowind. He halted the operation through subterfuge and a fiery speech before the other Argonians, killing the slaver and ending such activities.

Afterwards, he approached Ashav. The mercenary leader offered Daixanos a position on the team if he would prove himself. A Redguard named Farid had become a murderer, and he had challenged Ashav's authority. Dax represented the mercenary captain in single combat against Farid, where he slew the Redguard and earned a place within the team. Despite his reserved nature, he befriended a few members of the group, Do'Karth being the first.

A series of skirmishes and pitched battles against the Amigers and Kamal followed the following weeks. Daixanos received numerous commendations and kills for his skills as a scout and warrior. It was looking as if he was one of the finest additions to the team yet, until Dawnstar erupted into a war over racial tensions. Daixanos, and his fellow friend and Argonian Tsleeixth were imprisoned unjustly during the riots.

His anger and bloodlust would be sated once he was let out, attacking and killing Amiger and Kamal supporters in savage displays of skill that even Dwarfed his initial exploits. But in his heart of hearts, he was torn. He wished to return home to Blackmarsh and protect it. He wondered what was stopping him? Shortly after followed the death of Tsleeixth, his close friend. Daixanos' slaying of the Vampire responsible led him to lose his way, and he returned to Blackmarsh to consult alone with the Hist Tree he was borne from.

Only now has he returned, weeks later, ready to rejoin Gustav. Whatever would need slaying, he would comply...for the right price.

§ Attributes



§ Skills



§ Weaknesses



§ Spells



§ Tactics



§ Relations & Affiliations



§ Opinions



§ Other

• Argonian abilities: Racial traits of limited regeneration, disease resilience, and underwater breathing.
• Skinner: Can successfully skin a beast.
• Trap maker: Can build snares and pitfalls, if given time.
• Tracker: Can find trails of people/beasts under fine conditions.

389 Septims

None

3 stalks of Nightshade
3 pounds of Venison
Fine Iron Dagger: Can be used in combat, but is mainly used for skinning.

Iron Armor, Leather vest and breeches.

Hunting Bow, Steel Axe

3 Healing Potions
4 Poison potions
Troll fat

Amethyst given to him by his father.

Bounty Ledger

3 pounds of Elk Jerky. Water flask.

Coin Pouch, small travel bag on left hip and skins bag on right.

...

Maj stands back straight at 5'4”. Wavy, often unruly long black hair that reaches a length below her shoulders, short uneven bangs falling around her face. She often ties it off to the side of her head. With a pair of full but often chapped lips, grinning wryly.

Her dark skin steeply contrasts her wickedly bright green eyes, deep purple circles line her under eye from lack of proper sleep. Rounded out cheeks, slimmed jaw with a naturally crooked nose. Two scars are visible on her face, one at her brow and another on her lower lip from a stray soul gem fragment bursting after an experiment. Bright silver earrings twinkle in the sunlight at her ears, enchanted to fortify her conjuration.

Maj has narrow hips, strong sea legs, and a small torso. She likes to make a strong first impression, taught by her Corsair crewmates the importance of reputation and presentation. She carries her small stature with the confidence of a man twice her size, as a result. Determined to fill the room with her presence, whether that succeeds or fails she tries regardless.

She has never been one built for the cold, as such she dresses in layers. High leather boots sealed against water or snow. Dark leggings, long white tunic, with a dark maroon jacket made of cotton, long soft leather gloves that stretch up to her forearm. When removed any curious eyes can see all the tiny light nicks and scars on her hands and fingers from soul gem experimentation. Rough calluses have hardened in her palms from years working at sea. Carries a dark green enchanted cloak with a hood to protect from rain and snow, enchanted to resist magicka, it provides some protection against magickal assailants. Around her waist is a belt holding up a two-part pouch at the small of her back where she keeps her money and some spare food.

As a young child, she was bratty as they came - bookish and demanding. Undoubtedly filled to the brim with an insufferable amount of attitude - enough to rival an adult. She proved to be a handful for both her father and her begrudging older brother. She had a true penchant for trouble; getting stuck while exploring or finding a way to break anything she got her hands on. She eventually grew out of her bratty ways but remains a demanding personality, entirely willful. Completely unaware to how much she enjoys instant gratification, a result of her father and brother giving into her tantrums just so they could find some peace.

She learned some patience from her stepmother, learned discipline when first aboard a ship. It strengthened her iron will, it lent well to controlling the chaotic beings of Oblivion. Her ability to focus on a task or spell is difficult to break, sleep deprivation remains her concentration’s greatest enemy. She greatly respects staying true to character in face of adversity - strength of mind, heart or body. Years spent with Captain Sette she learned to see holes in the heart as Captain Sette had once seen in her. An illusionist’s eyes accustomed to seeing past the illusions of others. However, that is where her emotional intelligence starts and ends. Maj has no patience for dealing with her own emotional or physical pain and even less for strangers. She can empathize and understand why someone is in pain but doesn't have enough empathy to help them deal with it.

She enjoys creating and acting out her pirate front, putting forth an act of bravado and confidence. Taught well by charismatic corsairs. Past those first impressions, Maj enjoys the quiet ambiance of waves lapping, boots marching, or the ramble of marketplaces. She is pulled toward activity. Genuinely enjoys the harsh life at sea, working as a well-oiled cog in the mechanism. Craves that support, stability, and familiarity of knowing where she fits and her purpose at the hands of someone she truly respected.

Quietly hopes to regain the approval of her father, blazing the trail to her own success regardless of what that success may look like.

A painful birth and short farewell, Maj Noor was born the 29th of Sun’s Height in the year 178 4E and Iman Noor died shortly thereafter, at the very least able to greet her newborn daughter before passing on. Months of complications leading to her birth only stood as a testament to Iman’s strength to carry Maj to term. Leaving behind Kinstel and Abdul to mourn her death and raise Maj.

Abdul at the age of seven held resentment toward Maj, blaming her for the death of their mother. Try as Kinstel did to teach his son otherwise. Maj being a fussy baby did not improve her worth in young Abdul’s eyes. Kinstel himself was a successful market merchant, silver-tongued and able to sell someone their own shirt. Born in Hammerfell to a Forebears family lineage, he carries belief and stories of The Nine Divines, passing on his beliefs to his children. Carrying extreme prejudice toward necromancy and conjuration. Kinstel taught them their letters and numbers, Abdul took to the lessons of mercantile while Maj decidedly checked out of them only pacified with a book in her hands.

Kinstel felt he could pursue greener pastures in High Rock, for years the trade had slowed to a crawl any resources were being funnelled to the recovery of Hammerfell’s southern shores after the Great War. Piracy was seeing a surge in activity choking what little was already getting through to Sentinel. Quietly with Iman’s passing, he felt his heart could truly heal disconnecting from Sentinel.

He packed up what he could, shuffling the children from their home to set new roots in Wayrest, High Rock. Seeing a bright future for his family there. He was proved to be correct, healing from the passing of his wife to meet and marry new love Annalise, a Kynareth priestess, leaving her priesthood behind to marry Kinstel but not leaving all of her secrets behind. She was gentle, with the patience of a true saint to help raise Abdul and Maj. Abdul didn’t take to his new mother well but Maj grew to respect her kindness and patience, likening her to a willow tree bending with a gale force winds as opposed to resisting it. She didn’t give in to Maj’s bratty demands but negotiated with her, it proved to be an effective form of parenting.

Annalise helped shape Maj’s budding aptitude in magicka, what she hadn’t expected was Maj’s keen nose for trouble. Maj at the age of 8 4E 188, rifled through some of Annalise’s old belongings looking for a new book in the home she hadn’t read yet stumbling upon a stack of conjuration spell books and research notes. Recognizing the symbol of the taboo school of magic, she was disgusted at first with the secret. As taboos go, Maj really wanted to know why it was as taboo as it was, fascinated to learn more. She stole them away finding her own hiding place to read them more. With her new magicka lessons, Maj spent the afternoon trying to learn some basic spells. As children are ones for carelessness Annalise soon discovered her belongings had been rifled through fearing the worst she went searching for where the books may have been taken only to catch Maj red-handed.

Furious and terrified of her secret becoming known to her husband, Annalise made it their shared secret promising in exchange to teach Maj how to safely practice Conjuration without summoning unbound daedra. Not trusting Maj to simply detach from her newfound fascination. Annalise saw sense in teaching Maj at least that much.

That summer the family decided it was time for Maj to learn some proper skills, Abdul followed his father to work the markets while Maj had stayed inside to read her days away. Magicka lessons weren’t enough. Annalise and Kinstel were hoping to start negotiating an arranged marriage with some other merchant families in Wayrest, Kinstel was keen on sending his daughter to join the Kynareth priesthood and learn restoration like her stepmother but Annalise knew Maj did not have the patience for healing. Instead suggested speaking with some of the families in Wayrest who had a ship. A few character-building months at sea matched up with a son could prove a good investment.

The Cox were a seafaring family, having made a successful business in shipment with reliable cargo protection, and more importantly had a son around Maj’s age. The Cox’s reluctantly agreed to take on Maj pairing her up with their youngest son, Quyon. They weren’t initially convinced a bookish child could handle being away from home for the first time and at sea. To their surprise Maj stepped in line, the structure and busy days aboard their ship was what she needed. Quyon and Maj became fast friends, he guided her aboard the ship and they completed chores together. When they returned at the end of the summer, she was sea brushed - beaming and full of stories to tell her family. The Cox agreed to arrange the marriage between Quyon and Maj when they became of age.

In the year 188 4E the piracy was at its peak and the Invasion of Wayrest was quick and decisive. Merchant families and other ship owning individuals were to submit to the Corsair Republic and cooperate or die. Sharing percentages of trade and safe passage through Iliac Bay. Some gave up and moved onto trading caravans while others submitted to the Republic, able to absorb the percentage to pay to continue their trade. The Cox were among the families that were able to continue sailing - begrudgingly cooperating with the Corsair Republic. There was a fair amount of distrust for the pirates but nobody trusted the Wayrest ruling nobility either after the betrayal. The Corsair’s true target was routing The Dark Brotherhood.

For the next 7 years, she spent every summer at sea with Quyon, always looking forward to her time with her best friend and their voyages. Learning more with the places they travelled to, growing up and out of her brattiness. As they grew older it was apparent they had been matched off, neither objecting but neither of them harboured romantic feelings for the other. Far as arranged marriages went they knew they could be matched with far worse. Secretly gaining more lessons about conjuration from Annalise, they bonded as they delved into her stepmother’s previous life as a conjurer. They quietly rejected her father’s prejudiced views.

In the year of 192 4E Quyon and Maj were wed and held the sacred duty as husband and wife to consummate their marriage and provide the next generation. Quyon was patient with Maj as she was with him, neither holding true for a spark of love or lust, in spite of that they wanted to do right by their families. They tried repeatedly to conceive children, only for Maj never showing signs of being with child. Annalise and a host of restoration mages tried potions and prayer for Maj unfortunately nothing stuck. A problem that the best healer in Wayrest wouldn’t be able to fix. Maj was pronounced barren. Both the Cox and Noor’s attempted to comfort Maj but there was an underline of disappointment. Their first year of marriage was akin to spending more time with each other than ever before, they took comfort in their strong bonds.

Unfortunately the borrowed time Annalise and Maj had with practicing conjuration finally ran out, as they headed to their usual private spot to practice using the usual excuse of shopping for dinner. Abdul went looking for them in the markets only for some having seen them wander off, they pointed him their way. Abdul found them midway practicing soul trap, conjuration spellbook at their feet. A damning scene to see and before Maj or Annalise could say a word he immediately ran to his father.

Kinstel flew into a rage, disgusted by his wife and daughter for practicing the most vile school of magic. Kinstel in his fit of rage blamed the fruitless marriage on Maj and the Divines visiting their consequences upon her by making her barren. Maj naturally fought back defending conjuration but it pushed Kinstel over the edge. Annalise - shocked and terrified of his rage, she held strong at Maj’s side unable to summon the same courage to argue.

Kinstel tore Maj from Annalise, with his teenage daughter in hand he marched her to the Cox household roughly pulling the wedding band from Maj’s finger he threw it before Quyon’s father, forcing her to break off the marriage for the sake of their reputation. He repeatedly berated Maj. Quyon attempted to defend his wife but the shame came crashing down on Maj’s head vocally consenting to her father’s order. Quyon silenced by his own father, he separated the enraged Kinstel from the teens trying to talk sense to him. Ashamed Maj took off at a run from both of them, tear faced and disgraced. Kinstel shouted after her, peppering the exit with more curses.

Maj spent the night at the docks, crying - cold and feeling like her life was being burned up before her. The next morning she was worse for wear - shouts of enthusiastic Corsair hiring booths had pulled her from her revere. Dry eyed and in the best place to make bad decisions Maj went wandering down the booths looking for work. If she were to be disgraced and without family she felt her only option for work would still be at sea. Passing a booth by until it’s captain called out to her, Captain Lily Sette. Surrounded by her crew, calling out to join the Scarlet Harpy. The Captain saw in Maj as she saw in all her crew members. She saw loss as clear as one would see reading a book.

Captain Sette briefly explained her crew was looking for women with sailing experience and welcomed apprenticeships for mages. A rare vessel crewed completely by women of all creeds and backgrounds, a gathering of widows, ex-slaves, and the disenfranchised women looking for purpose backed by a terrifyingly strong force of mages aboard. They held a philosophy of rescuing those fallen victim to shipwrecks and contracted to hunt slave ships when they made their odd appearance. They operated under the Corsair Republic so they participated in raiding fat and slow merchant ships for resources and gold to pay their tribute to the Republic but operated with good intentions. Maj signed up seeing no real reason not to.

Given a big and warm welcome aboard Maj was set to work and with her interest in conjuration was apprenticed by their master of conjuration, the dunmer Nephelle Avalone. Tall and willowy she regarded her new apprentice with kind red eyes, impossibly white silvery hair framed her angular features. Nephelle was 30 years Maj’s senior. Maj felt a fire ignite in the pit of her belly. At the young age of 16 she joined the crew of the Scarlet Harpy. It took some easing and adjustment to piracy for Maj, most prominently with killing others. While she was abhorrent to the thought of necromancy the pirates around her helped her adjust. She moved past her hesitation but never grew to like it, taking life was a natural part of raiding. As such - the pirate’s life was hers now. She enjoyed having a new family and purpose most of all, she reasoned the work was a fair trade. In her later years, she realized she would owe the crew of the Scarlet Harpy more than just loyalty.

Maj fit in quickly, many of the women empathizing with her story and Maj doing the same as she learned each of their own stories. Mages and warriors fought alongside each other with ferocity, the crew and her ship acted as one singular force united by the charismatic Captain Sette, a master of illusion. Over the next few years as Maj grew from a teenager into an adult so too did her feelings for her mentor, maturing with her. Nephelle was aware of Maj’s attraction, initially uncomfortable but doing little to rebuff her interest. Soon, in three years' time, Nephelle reciprocated. They eased into their relationship as one did trying on new boots. It was awkward to start, they faced a lot of adjustment. Once they settled - able to draw a line between their lessons from their relationship Nephelle and Maj became inseparable. They were a fearsome pair of conjurers coordinating their attacks. Their love-fueled their nights as it did their attacks.

As Maj’s expertise grew in conjuration she branched out, always admiring her Captain's mastery of the mind. She took on learning Illusion from her Captain, it complimented her conjuration adding more versatility. Maj took to it to like a fish to water. While she apprenticed as a mage she proved to be quite dexterous with her hands, she became one of the crew's tailors. Sewing holes in sails, mending clothing, even learning to apply enchantments. Any one crew member took on multiple jobs but Maj’s curiosity for soul gems grew as she learned more about enchantment.

For 11 years Maj remained aboard the Scarlet Harpy, happy and at home. The crew changed faces as some died and some left to pursue other goals. She wrote letters consistently to Quyon and her family, Annalise and Quyon were the only replies she received. She developed a distaste for meat, after eating nearly rotten meat one too many times while at sea. She switched decidedly to eating nuts, vegetables and occasionally fish if she saw it freshly caught.

They sailed along the western coast of Hammerfell and as far south as Cyrodiil, running from Dominion fleets and playing cat and mouse with Hammerfell’s. It was exciting, thrilling and ultimately not without consequences. In the year of 205 4E a fat and well stocked Dominion merchant ship fell prey to the Scarlet Harpy, as an act of revenge for the family victimized they sent bounty hunters after them. Two Hunter ships stalked the Scarlet Harpy and attacked in the night flanking the ship and her crew.

The attack was vicious and was prepared for their defenses. The crew fought and lost. They were overwhelmed on both sides. Maj was separated from Nephelle and fell below decks fighting for her life as their enemies blew holes in the Scarlet Harpy’s hull, she quickly took on water trapping Maj below decks with cargo blocking her exit. As the claustrophobic walls closed in and the ship began to sink, panic gripped Maj’s heart. She lost consciousness, waking several hours later vomiting seawater on a rocky beach. The fate of the Scarlet Harpy unknown and her own survival a mystery. Lighting a signal fire for help, the smoke signalled a nearby fishing boat a few days later carrying her to the safety of High Rock’s coast with only the clothes on her back.

Determined to find out the fate of the Scarlet Harpy Maj found herself in Daggerfall, without coin or a plan. She was stuck. She burned to know what happened to Nephelle. Rumours only confirmed what she knew, a notorious pirate crew was removed off the coast High Rock. Prisoners were taken with no leads to where exactly.

It was Sun’s Height, while the politics and wars raging on land did little to affect Maj directly, she heard of Skyrim’s High King - the legendary Dragonborn being assassinated followed by an unprecedented invasion of the Kamals. The news shocked her but she knew with the invasion of a foreign force there would be an opportunity for those who were looking for it. Maj decided to take advantage of it if she were to earn the coin and fund a new crew to seek out the fate of her former crew she could recover Nephelle at the very least. She prayed, as she rarely did to the Divines to give her strength. She worked to pay her way to Solitude, the voyage bringing her into Last Seed.

Mercenary work is what she found when she arrived, a thrilling voyage aboard the Kyne's Tear that was bringing her homeward to High Rock. The mercenary company faced off against The Golden Slug's crew, giving her the chance to study the strange recordings from The Sload alongside Ariane Fontaine. Things seemed to have been getting a smidge brighter but quickly was erased by news of the Corsair Republic's utter destruction. The one avenue she was pinning her hopes of reuniting with her pirate family. The company found themselves among Waywrest's apparent saviours from the pirate scourge - unfortunately landing Maj within crosshairs to be collected for bounty. Stolen away and imprisoned, her head was up for the block, an example to be made - but her guards would hardly think it with just how loud and frequent her shanties bounced off the stonewalls. Her fate rested in only Kynareth's hands now...

Expert: Summoning (Conjuration), Illusion
Adept: Enchanting
Apprentice: Tailoring, Language - Dunmeris*
Novice: Destruction

After the sinking of the Scarlet Harpy being trapped below decks, nearly drowning - Maj has developed a fear for swimming and drowning. Only recently aware of her newfound fear, still grappling with the fresh loss of her crew and lover. Fear freezes her from wading into the water above her waist, unaware of the true panic waiting for her if she ever finds herself ejected into open water, trapped below ice or debris.


Battling with insomnia ever since she was a teenager, she finds herself able to have a peaceful sleep at sea with the gentle rocking of the waves, salty air, and slight twinge of mildew and tar. On dry land she has fitful periods of sleep at best. Used to the fluctuating sleep schedule she is happy to take up guard postings, keeping herself busy. However, some terribly long bouts of sleeplessness will hit her with the full effects of sleep deprivation. Poor judgement, hallucinations, irritability, slow reflexes and of course low energy. However, menial tasks like sewing can be trusted with her, her hands know what to do even if her mind is gone. Stress, anxiety and sleeping on hard ground exasperates her condition, making it difficult to fall asleep.


Being born under The Apprentice constellation gave Maj early advantages in magicka and an above average reservoir - it also made her sensitive to magicka. She attempts to compensate with enchanted clothing but mages have proven to cause devastating damage to her person directly. She avoids directly engaging with other mages in a fight, traps and illusions have similarly intensified affects on her.

Conjuration: Summon Frost, Flame and Storm Atronach. Soul Trap, Expel Daedra.

Illusion: Calm, charm, fear, muffle, courage, frenzy, and invisibility.

Destruction: Sparks, Flames

Maj relies quite heavily on the actions of her atronach, she has been taught and mentored to use her daedric summons in the most creative ways possible. Unleashing them upon the environment around enemies, most notably destroying a ship and crippling it by setting flame to the mast, sending a storm atronach across the bow, dropping a frost atronach from above to come crashing through the deck. While her atronachs inspire chaos around them, she aids them by preying on her targets adrenaline washed minds. Whether that is to send them running in fear or inspiring them to take on more than can clearly handle.

Still holds a little ingrained prejudice toward true necromancy, refused to learn how to Raise the Dead. Doesn’t feel comfortable crossing that line.

With her back up against a wall she’ll use flames to create distance disappearing to the eye using invisibility. Always, always keeping a relatively large amount of distance between herself and an enemy. When out of magicka she will make a run for safety, making last-ditch efforts with her magicka to give herself a head start. Maj is not a naturally gifted fighter, she is physically fit and fairly flexible to withstand some hits to her person (given they aren't magicka). Her time aboard Scarlet Harpy she moved from climbing around the rig to unfurl sails, tying them back up, to hunching over desks mending clothing. Taught the basics of how to throw a punch or avoid one, she tries her best to keep enemies from getting close enough. In a one on one fist fight she would surely lose.

Iman Noor - Birth Mother, Fate Known: deceased, died during childbirth.
Kinstel & Annalise Noor - Father and Stepmother. Fate known, alive and well living in Wayrest.
Abdul Noor - Older brother. Fate Known, alive and well in Wayrest with parents.
Quyon Cox - Ex husband, childhood best friend. Fate Known, Alive and well in Wayrest.
Nephelle Avalone - Lover and conjuration mentor. Fate Unknown, missing and presumably imprisoned. Image
Captain Lily Sette - Scarlet Harpy’s Captain and Maj’s illusion mentor. Fate unknown, dead or imprisoned after the attack.

(For group members; fill after IC introduction)

Known and imprisoned for crimes of piracy. Charged for participating in the Corsair Republic. Raiding, sinking, and

Navigation & Map Reading: Years at sea, Maj has a great sense of direction and navigation. She can read the stars, a map and a compass.
Knot tying: Great with knots, with a large portion of her life at sea she is quite handy with rope.
Dunmeris*: Learning to speak Dunmeris from Nephelle she by association is familiar with the Daedric alphabet.
Sketch Artist: Maj takes pride in her ability to sketch, has an almost embarrassingly large amount of sketches of Nephelle in her sketchbook. They are fairly new and they help to fill the ache of missing her paramour. Caution to the Curious: Do not flip past page 10, the sketches continue but on a far more private level.
Name that Daedra!: Maj has a streak for silly names as pirates traditionally go, she of course named her atronachs. They are as such - Flames: Cinders (Cindy), Frost: Snowflake, Storm: Furgur Blitzcloud.
Vegetarian: Maj is vegetarian, she'll only eat meat when she sees it's freshly caught or cut. Plays it safe without eating meat.