Name: Full name, and any aliases/nickname used.
Race: Nord/Imperial/Breton/Redguard/Altmer/Bosmer/Dunmer/Argonian/Khajiit
Age:
Birthsign:
Family Origins: Place of birth, where they live/grew up etc.

Appearance: Pictures allowed, no anime. Try to keep lore friendly images. Pinterest is a great tool. A detailed written description is also necessary.

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Personality: I want to know who your character is. What makes them tick, what do other people think of them? Of all sections on this sheet, this should be the most thought out and detailed.

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History: A brief history of your character. How they got to where they are now, examples of 2 or 3 notable events. A glimpse of who they were to become who they are. Don’t be too hung up on it, part of Days of Night will be allowing players to reveal and flesh out the backstory through flashbacks in each episode. I don’t really want to know what they were doing at 5 years old unless it was really important.

Biggest Regret: This is incredibly important, it can be an event you didn’t cover in the history. But I want to see what has crippled your character, what decision has stayed with them since they made it.

Character Name ‘s Goal: Equally as important, if not more so than anything else on this sheet. This is how I will craft my story around you, and find you an arc in an episode. What is your characters dream now? If this was a solo adventure and your character was the hero - what happens to them? Do not write this section based on other characters submitted. Be selfish, tell me what you want. The dream of your character may well change, and that is also fine.

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Skills: This section gets a bit more complicated. Using the main skills of the game (two handed, smithing, destruction, illusion, lock picking, pick pocketing, shield, et cetera) things are rated by proficiency. You may have 1 expert skill, 3 adept skills, and 3 novice. You may, however, move up a class at the expense of another skill of the level below it (e.g. you pick 1 expert at the cost of 2 adept). Likewise, you can gain more skills if you downgrade a skill (1 adept becomes two novice, for example). Explain why your character is good at each skill in a brief sentence. (Thank you @Dervish ) If in doubt, ask!
Expert:
Adept:
Novice:

Spells: Please note, a max of 7. Must match the level you’ve put as the school of magicka. No Wall of Flames for a novice destruction mage, for example.

Equipment:
Misc. Possessions:

Despite the threatening state of her disposition, she is very much capable of love and friendship, and her blase' expectation of danger and death around every corner does little to discourage her from engaging with others and looking for companionship. She's already familiar with death and understands that it to be unavoidable, so it would do her little good as a romantic to fear death or allow it to impede her desire to live life. She'd rather seize the day, which likely has a negative impact on her impulse control as far as her sexuality or penchant for partying goes and has seen her accused of wanton promiscuity and hedonism by the mild-mannered people of the world. This is all to say that she'd rather make a new friend than a new enemy, even if her abrasive approach to interacting with other people tends to make enemies all the same. As far as she's concerned, it's not her fault if some people don't have a sense of humor and humor is an important part of her interactions with others. However, her interactions with other also tends to indicate a certain level of disrespect for their boundaries with the unfair expectation of respect for her own. One prime example of this could be her fondness for a Bosmeri tradition known as the Rite of Theft, which claims that anything she can steal from others and get away with rightfully belongs to her and that she can demand something of equal value in return. This usually doesn't work very well outside of her home province however.

A surefire way to get her fuse running, however, would be to call into question her loyalty to the Green, her integrity as a bosmer, and her devotion to her religion. Pride is certainly her greatest vice and would be the most likely culprit of her undoing. As far as she's concerned, she has bled and given up as much as anybody else for the Green Pact to which she's devoted, and she's faithfully adhered to every one of its tenets and mandates. She has come to know and love every inch of the Green as far as she's concerned, and would probably rather die than to live as anything other than a sap-blooded bosmer. She wouldn't go so far as to be violent in the face of insult or disagreement, but it should be known that she is fiercely protective of her homeland and any transgression against it ought to be responded to in kind. There's only been one philosophy that's never failed her in dissuading those who would bring harm to her territory: a bone broken for each twig snapped underfoot.


Y'ffre, the Storyteller, is the Spirit of the Now, and from his Earth Bones came the bosmer. It was his sacrifice that brought order to the ever-changing Ooze, and in exchange for giving the bosmer stable forms, they were to protect the Green. This is the Treaty of Frond and Leaf, and to know the origin of this Green Pact is to know the tragedy of the Houndsmen.

Y'ffre, Z'en, and Baan Dar were the three of the Bosmeri pantheon the tribe worshiped most. Y'ffre was their patron deity, Z'en was the God of Toil, and Baan Dar was the trickster spirit of thieves, and as one of the remote tribes of Valenwood, their traditions remained insulated from the influences of the outside world and every bloody facet of the Green Pact was upheld. What made the Houndsmen unique among the tribes however was the addition of their worship of Hircine, Daedric Prince of the Hunt -- and Venwen was one of these wild elves. Their worship of Hircine went as far back as the Second Era, and even through the ups and downs of their tribe with their precarious involvement with Daedra worship, they managed to survive. Most other bosmer acknowledge Hircine if nothing else, for his spirit and influence could be felt in every hunt. While many do not actively seek out his favor, they seek not to upset him lest he decide to starve the bosmer. The Houndsmen Tribe were one of the exceptions who, before each hunt, sung the Invocation of Hircine to guide their arrows into the hearts of their quarries. Venwen was, and still remains, no exception.

She became proficient enough with the use of a bow as a young teen to join her tribe's hunting parties, and it was from this age that she not only tracked down and killed large game, but defended the forest edge from would-be invaders. It is said that to be acknowledged as an adequate ranger, wood elven children are allegedly expected to be able to travel through Valenwood while blindfolded. Venwen claims this to be true, even if for no other person than herself. She'll tell you many tall tales about Valenwood myths and folklore and oftentimes the stories keep on changing, but one she'll always swear by and keep consistent is her claim of practicing for many years to always know her way through Valenwood with her eyes closed. True or not, it is hard to deny her familiarity with the Green and her aptitude for traversing it. It is a little wonder why then she was acknowledged by her tribe as a jaqspur many years younger than the average archer. She learned to shoot like a jaqspur, firing from far distances with a single flowing motion from her quiver to releasing the bowstring. Eventually the need for a quiver became optional, as any good archer may only need to carry what they can hold in their hand.

Venwen's view on Hircine was like that of the Houndsmen Tribe of days old, many generations prior. It was that the Huntsman ought to be treated like any beast: respected from a distance. But over the many years of bounding through the grahtwood boughs, she didn't notice the gradual change in her tribe's culture on the ground, where they were slowly offering themselves into the beast's maw. Harmony with nature was no longer at the forefront of their minds, and all else including the Green Pact was becoming secondary to the hunt. History was repeating itself, and the Houndsmen Tribe were reaching another low point as they re-embraced their origins from the Second Era. It might've been spurred on by the development of the Aldmeri Dominion and the Valenwood purges throughout the Green, some of which Venwen had fought against, always ready and able to protect her culture. Thinking back on it now, she might not be able to bring herself to blame them, but they crossed the line when they threw themselves wholly and willingly to the Huntsman's hunger.

When they uttered their words of sacrilege, spoke of their sacred and God-given forms as the shackles of Y'ffre and compared themselves to caged beasts, their final and most blasphemous act of defiance was to desecrate their own bodies with foul and accursed were-touched transformations. Venwen was the sole member of the tribe insulated from the Daedra's influence by the distance she put between herself and home. One could say it was because she was so free-spirited that the trappings of a tribe could never tie her down long enough for their influences to take hold, but now she was presented with an ugly reality and an impossible decision: everyone she's ever been close to had broken the Green Pact, their most sacred oath, and were now apostates. She could turn her back on them and allow them to run rampant and unchecked through Valenwood, or deliver this news to Silvenar and put an end to this madness once and for all.

As Venwen now says, mostly as a deflection, that it wouldn't have made for nearly as exciting a story if she had chosen the former. She returned to Malabal Tor backed by a squad of Vinedusks to hunt down and kill the rest of her tribe. That she is still standing today speaks of her success, but it is not a story that she tells fondly or often. It was her first experience with death that had actually shaken her, and it was because with every werewolf that she dropped, she'd see them returning to normal -- a face that she recognized with a name that she knew, and she could watch the light leave their eyes. It was a pain made even worse with the knowledge that they were going in death where she could not and would not follow. As with any bosmer who broke the pact, they would return to the Ouze, separated from the Earth Bones and the rest of the bosmer for eternity. That was the price they chose to pay in exchange for power.

She had since received an invitation to join the Vinedusk Rangers for her skill, service, and sacrifice for Valenwood and the Green Pact, but after such a painful ordeal, she decided it might've been better for her to leave for a while and explore Tamriel outside of Valenwood. She did intend to return at some point, but only after her heart had healed from what her hands had committed. As hurt as she was, she also felt intense anger and rage, as well as betrayal. To think that her own tribe would go and do something so ridiculous and so stupid that would force her to take the blood-stained burden of responsibility for them was worse than anything she could think of. The thought that she could've been one of them, a traitor to the Green Pact, was beyond her imagination. When she left Valenwood through the northern treeline and took her first steps into Cyrodiil, they were her first steps into a brand new world. A world that'd send her to High Rock, through Skyrim, into Morrowind, and cutting back through Cyrodiil to reach Elsweyr, and along the way, in Cheydinhal, found a friend in a dark elf alchemist named Inanna. Only now after many years of travel, exploration, adventuring, and a recent prodding by her new friend has Venwen decided that she was ready to return home and show Inanna the beauty of Valenwood.

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Name: Inanna Aryon, also known as Snow-Hair-Ash-Skin, Brightmane, and Sujamma -- or just Ina for short.
Race: Dunmer.
Sex: Female.
Age: 52.
Birthsign: The Mage.
Origins: Windhelm, Skyrim.

Appearance: Of average stature for a female Dunmer, Ina measures 5’7” from head to toe and clocks in at a reasonable 130 pounds. While she does not possess the lean musculature of an athlete or the bulky strength of a warrior, Ina is used to long walks out in the countryside to forage for ingredients and she’s in fit condition, giving her a normal figure that neither understates nor overstates her womanhood. Her skin is the characteristic ashen grey of her people and relatively free of blemishes -- in part due to a strict skincare regime -- aside from a large and noticeable alchemical burn on her left shoulder and breast, which has discolored the skin into a lighter shade of pale grey. Across her collarbones, down the nape of her neck and below her eyes, Ina has a series of bumps that are the result of a traditional Dunmer scarification ritual. Other than that she has no scars to speak of, indicative of a life that has not been martial in nature.

The features of Ina’s face are shaped by her race as well. She has a strong brow with powerful, dark eyebrows to match, which slope into a nose that is prominent, but modest by Dunmer standards. Her perceptive scarlet eyes, supported by sharp and high cheekbones, display a typically elvish slant and spacing, and she enhances her heavy-lidded gaze with kohl for a supercilious and smoky effect. Two large, rectangular, golden earrings dangle from her ears as another touch of fashion. Her lips, slightly darker than the skin of her face, are full and soft, but her mouth is modest and Ina does not smile broadly very often, adding to the overall aloof and unphased impression she gives off.

Most striking, however, is Ina’s voluminous and wavy hair, which is a frankly alarming shade of pale silver and the source of many nicknames over the years. She has given up trying to tame the unruly mass of hair for the most part and usually only bothers to sweep the bouncing curls to the side, leaving them free to cascade down her left shoulder. If she needs to keep her hair out of her face for whatever reason, Ina uses two black wooden pins to tie most of it together on top of her head, but there are always several locks that evade capture. Ina takes pride in and good care of her hair and it usually smells of the coconut oil that she uses to nourish its lustre.

Her mannerisms can best be described as unhurried and unbothered. Ina grew up in poverty in the Grey Quarter and even though she’s picked up some more metropolitan habits during her time with the Synod in Cyrodiil, she still vastly prefers to be comfortable over presentable and has no qualms with sitting down on the floor with her legs pulled up or taking off her shoes to walk barefoot over a field of grass. Ina is often seen smoking the hackle-lo leaf of her native Morrowind while she works, the smell of which mixes with the perfume she wears for a rich, smoky fragrance. If hackle-lo isn’t available, she’ll resort to chewing or fidgeting with something instead. Never one to hurry while walking, she’s equally relaxed when sitting down and her speech, spoken with a husky and resonant voice, tends to be just as languid. After a few drinks, Ina becomes significantly more familiar and handsy in a casual, flirtatious way, and her normally stoic gaze gains a salacious quality.

Ina’s preference for comfort extends to her wardrobe as well. Her work as an alchemist and an enchanter requires a certain level of protection, so the only mainstay in her day-to-day outfit is a thick, sturdy coat woven from cotton and wool, dyed in the earthy tones that are characteristic of her culture. Beneath that, she wears simple tunics and trousers and often adds fingerless gloves, pants, a colorful sash around her waist and an equally vibrant scarf around her neck. When lounging around, however -- her favorite time of the day -- Ina is content to potter around barefoot in a single loose, flowy robe, if the weather permits, most often black, that may slip to reveal a little more skin. Not one for melee combat, Ina doesn’t wear or even own any armor, but she does have a spear on her person at all times. It doubles as a pilgrim’s staff for support on long hikes.

History: Inanna Aryon was born in Windhelm, long after the Red Year that had decimated her homeland and forced her grandmother and father, still a swaddled babe, to flee to the west and seek refuge in the land of the Nords. Her grandfather, Master Aryon of House Telvanni, had been a powerful and influential sorcerer, but he was killed by the eruption as he had taken to cataloging the Sixth House relics left behind within the Ghostfence after Dagoth Ur had been defeated. His death and the devastation wrought upon the land left his wife without status or fortune and she reluctantly settled in Windhelm, relegated to a tiny apartment in the newly-designated Grey Quarter, working as a seamstress while she raised her son by herself. On Ina’s mother’s side the same story played out, and so it came to be that her parents grew up together in the coldest, darkest city in all of Tamriel.

She was born many years later, an unexpected child at the twilight of her parents’ reproductive years, a miracle -- their little Ina. Azura had answered their prayers at last and seen fit to bless them with a daughter. Ina’s father toiled in the fields outside the city walls and her mother worked as a barmaid in the New Gnisis Cornerclub, and they were poor. The Nords who had taken the Dunmer refugees in had been kind at first but as the tensions between the Dominion and the Empire increased prior to the Great War, they slowly turned on the Dunmer in their city as well -- elves are elves, after all. Ina mostly remembers her father, the embers of his hackle-lo smoke reflected in the window as snowflakes drifted through the high and narrow streets of the Grey Quarter, the the elf’s own hair turning gray with worry. “Soon, I’ll look just like you!” he would say and run his hand through Ina’s silver locks, and laugh. But she could hear he was forcing it.

Things did not improve after the Great War. Ina had never really felt at home in Windhelm, or in the Empire in general, but she hated the Dominion just as much as anyone else, and yet her Nordic peers would treat her with scorn and contempt. To them, she was just another knife-ear. Ina learned to stick to her own people and developed a livelong aversion to Nords as a result. She would assault the small handful of Dunmer in Windhelm that had been alive before the Red Year with an endless barrage of questions about the homeland that they had lost, and her mother made sure to pass on every morsel of knowledge she had about the histories of their families and the culture of Morrowind. Ina learned how to read, speak and write in Dunmeris, how to worship the Reclamations, heroes and saints of the New Temple faith, and even how to dance and play the kwama flute in the old Vvardenfell tradition. Morrowind still existed, of course, decimated by volcanic fire and Argonian invasions but alive, and Ina dreamed of going there instead of wasting away in the black stone city of the Nords she hated.

That longing was made even more powerful by the nighttime visits of her ancestors, Master Aryon and his forefathers, in her dreams. These visions were accompanied by ancient memories of lost Balmora, Ald’ruhn, Vivec, Tel Vos, and all the other places that had been destroyed in the Red Year. Her ancestors spoke to her in riddles and poems as the snowfall outside her window turned to flakes of ash that fell upon her face. Upon waking, she always felt like a child of two worlds that belonged in neither one and resolved to travel to Morrowind, no matter the danger, as soon as she was able.

But her parents had other plans. Despite their poverty, they saved up every last septim that they could for the duration of Ina’s childhood and on her nineteenth birthday, they insisted on sending her to Cyrodiil to train in the magical arts. The talent of her grandfather ran strong in her blood and Ina had been conjuring small tufts of flame to banish the reviled winter chill and moving toys around through magic ever since she could walk, but there was nobody in Windhelm with the skill -- or the inclination -- to teach her properly. The College of Winterhold was much closer by, of course, but her parents did not trust a Nordic institute to give their child a proper education, so Cyrodiil it was. Ina was to study with the Synod and become a great sorceress. Not one to disappoint the hardworking parents that she adored and was immensely grateful for, Ina agreed and decided to put her plans of visiting Morrowind on hold. Besides, it was true that it would be much safer to go there only once she knew how to cast powerful spells.

But staying in Windhelm had become almost as dangerous as going to Morrowind. Racial violence between the Nords and the Dunmer had intensified over the years and scorn and taunting had turned into beatings -- or worse. One of Ina’s friends was stabbed and left for dead in the gutter over a minor dispute and the Nord responsible was never punished. Jarl Ulfric turned out to be much worse than his father once he ascended to the throne in the Palace of the Kings and he turned a blind eye towards the discrimination and hatred that the Dunmer were forced to endure. As Ina left the gates of Windhelm and set off on her journey to the Imperial City, she spat on the threshold and mouthed a prayer to Azura to curse the Nords into an early grave if they ever did something to hurt her parents while she was away.

Her time in the Imperial City, studying with the Synod, was a revelation. The multicultural society of the metropolis was a shock to her system at first. She wasn’t the only Dunmer student attending the Synod that year and she naturally gravitated towards them at first, but she was surprised to find that all the other races were just as welcoming to her. Her first interracial friendships were forged in the fires of exam stress and binge drinking -- she gained the nickname Sujamma, a strong Dunmer spirit, for her ability to drink anyone under the table, courtesy of her upbringing among Nords -- and for the first time, Ina felt that the world was not such a bleak place after all. The much more agreeable climate also helped and Ina developed a lifelong fondness for loose, flowy robes that allowed her skin to breathe. From some of the other women that she studied with, Ina learned how to apply kohl around her eyes to make their red color pop and how to take better care of both her hair and her skin so that both shone with a healthy gloss.

She was drawn to the art of alchemy and the peace and serenity she experienced in the dutiful, precise measurements of ingredients and their preparation, with only the sound of a simmering alembic and the grinding of her mortal and pestle for company. It became her specialisation, but Ina made sure to stay invested in a broad range of topics and schools of magic, and she achieved varying levels of proficiency in Destruction, Alteration and Restoration as well. Enchanting was another magical art that interested her but one that she found she had less patience for. It was added to her arsenal mostly for its lucrative potential as a business venture, but she never became an expert.

She maintained a string of relationships throughout her years at the Synod’s college, leaving a trail of broken hearts and satisfied lovers in her wake in equal measure. She dipped her toes in both sides of the gender divide during this time and ultimately decided that she had no firm preference either way. Ina was not willing to settle down with anyone and she was a capricious and mercurial partner, as young Dunmer women often are, but all of that changed after she graduated and she met Theros.

Having wrapped up her education and learned the magic necessary to defend herself during a voyage into Morrowind, Ina spent some time working as an alchemist in the Imperial City’s market to save up the coin she needed to fund the expedition. On the corner of the street where she had her stall, another Dunmer took up residence as a busker, performing songs and poems of his own composition. Many of them were funny and delivered with an easygoing charm that caught Ina’s attention, and she often found herself chuckling along to his lyrics and stanzas. His name was Theros and he was a wandering bard from Cheydinhal, she learned when they started having their lunches together.

It wasn’t long before they became lovers. Theros made more money with comedic songs that made light of current events, but his real heart was in the profound lovesongs and poems that he wrote in his spare time, and he performed them for Ina around a campfire on a hill overlooking the Imperial City, with nobody else but the stars above for company. The emotion in his voice and the tender strumming of his lute captured Ina’s heart in a way that nobody else had ever done. She discovered a hidden pain behind those words, no matter how much he tried to hide his demons from her, and resolved to soothe his tortured soul with the love he deserved.

Theros had never been to Morrowind before either, so they pooled their earnings together and bought themselves a place on a heavily guarded trading caravan that was headed for Blacklight. Both had a romanticized image of Morrowind in their heads and the two dreamers were terribly excited to finally see their ancestral homeland for the first time.

Arriving there was a rude awakening. Even though it was close to two centuries since the Red Year, Blacklight was still bursting from the seams with refugees. The city center, a marvel of Dunmer architecture that brought a tear to Ina’s eye, so reminiscent was of it of her dreams of old Vvardenfell, was dwarfed by the slums that extended far beyond the city proper. Ash covered everything, as Red Mountain had continued to smoke and rumble in the long years since the eruption, during which new waves of refugees had arrived as the Argonians had continued to harass Morrowind’s southern border. Great House Redoran dominated Morrowind’s politics and policies and Ina found a significantly more martial and pragmatic society than the the mysterious and wondrous realm that the land had been in her grandfather’s days. She learned that there were still secluded Telvanni wizards in their bizarre mushroom towers scattered throughout Morrowind, and even one on Solstheim, but was assured that none would have time for nor interest in speaking with her.

Instead, she and Theros traveled to the smaller coastal community of Rhun Huk on the shores of the Inner Sea, overlooking the smoldering ruins of Vvardenfell, and they settled there for a while and plied their respective trades. Theros continued to be plagued by sullen moods and dark thoughts -- his ‘demons’, as it were. They were the fuel for the poetry and lyrics that Ina found so beautiful, but his own mind playing tricks on him was draining for the Dunmer bard and he would lash out in irrational anger sometimes, of which Ina bore the brunt. Other times Theros would turn his back to her in bed and remain cold and distant for days on end. With patience and love, Ina always managed to get her lover back to his normal self in the end, and that made his moods bearable. She knew that he was not like this through any fault of his own. Theros explained that he had left home specifically to avoid burdening his parents with his problems, since they were proper ash-blooded Dunmer that did not, and did not want to, understand him. But Ina promised him that she understood him just fine and that she loved him just the way he was.

She got used to the strange conditions of life in Morrowind and developed a sense of belonging, surrounded by nothing but her people and her culture at last. She wrote to her parents and told them that life in Morrowind was still possible and pleaded for them to join her as soon as they could. Life in Windhelm had become even harder for the Dunmer. Tensions had increased with the Nordic resistance against the White-Gold Concordat prompting Thalmor Justiciars to prowl the tundra, snatching people up in the middle of the night and dragging them away to hidden dungeons. The Nords, in their xenophobia, had started accusing the Dunmer of being Dominion collaborators and even banned her father from working the fields outside the walls. Her elderly parents managed to scrounge the funds together, in part from money that Ina sent back home to them, and made the trip. They welcomed Theros as a son-in-law with open arms and the four of them lived together as a family supported by Ina’s alchemy and enchanting business and Theros’ performances on the town square. Ina and Theros talked about starting a family one day, when they would be finished with being young and were ready to relinquish their freedom. Maybe they’d have one more grand journey, an adventure, perhaps to see the fabled Summerset Isles or the cities and castles of High Rock, before then. But they were in no rush. Life was good.

Then, on a cold winter morning in Frostfall, Theros took his own life.

Ina’s world collapsed. She had always known that Theros was plagued by anxiety and depression, invisible specters that had no name in the society in which she lived, but his mood had seemed to be improving in the last few weeks leading up to his death. She read the note he left behind through tears and choking sobs and learned the heartbreaking truth: Theros had never believed his own worth -- he had never believed her when she told him. His demons had convinced him that he was nothing but a burden to Ina and her parents and that her love for him was nothing but pity. He had only seemed in better spirits because he had already resolved to kill himself and therefore relieve his beloved Ina of the terrible weight of his presence. She threw the note away and cried until she was sick, weeping into the fabric of her pillow, begging and pleading with Azura to bring her lover back, and pulling her own hair out because she had not seen it coming. She’d failed him, and he had abandoned her.

But there was no coming back from the dead. The demons had won, and Ina had lost. Her wretched tears subsided into a sullen silence. Her parents helped her track down Theros’ ancestral tomb and his ashes were interred with the rest of his family, but Ina could not stand to even be around the ceremony for more than a few minutes. She was heartbroken, angry and upset with herself for being angry, but mostly she was wracked by guilt. Ina blamed herself for not being able to save him. She blamed herself for not having seen it coming. And she blamed herself for the fact that a part of her dared to feel like Theros had selfishly betrayed her and left her to deal with the aftermath.

Ina and her parents returned to Rhun Huk, but life there had lost all of its appeal. It was as if Ina could only now see the ash-covered and hostile land for what it truly was: Morrowind was nothing more than a tomb for her people. She only remained there because she had a duty to take care of her aging parents, who were too old and weary to travel back to Windhelm. Suffering in silence, Ina did just that, turning into a shadow of her former self, a shell of a woman that was merely going through the motions. Until both of her parents, first her mother and then her father, slipped off into peaceful eternal slumber, one quickly after the other. Old age had claimed them.

Ina packed her belongings, grabbed her spear and burned her house to the ground, cursing the land that had brought her nothing but woe.

She wandered across Tamriel. wary of other people’s affairs and mostly keeping to herself. Bereft of her loved ones, Ina turned to the one and only constant in the world: the gods and her own faith. Through the arcane rituals of the Dunmer ancestor worship, she was able to commune briefly with Theros’ spirit -- just enough to sense that he was at peace now, wherever he was. Ina herself learned to accept through the teachings of Azura that everything that happened was part of the woven tapestry of fate, and ultimately served a purpose.

Over time, the pain of Theros’ passing lessened and she rediscovered a sense of tranquility and inner peace on the road as a wandering alchemist. Her work allowed her to take her mind off things and her travels gave her something new to discover each day. That way, the past couldn’t catch up to her, and if she always kept moving, she could never grow that close to anyone again, saving herself from experiencing pain and loss like that in the future. She had her happy memories with him, which became easier and easier to remember without feeling like she was drowning with every passing year, and drunken nights of revelry and easy sex with strangers kept her from being overwhelmed by her solitude. It would have to be enough.

Until a chance meeting with the wild and untamed Bosmer jaqspur Venwen during one of Ina’s yearly visits to Cheydinhal to quietly celebrate Theros’ birthday. An unlikely pair of opposites, the two two of them nevertheless become friends and headed out to visit Valenwood, Venwen’s homeland, said to be a magical land full of rare and exotic alchemical ingredients. The Dominion, whom Ina despised as much as the Nords or the even the Empire that had sacked her childhood home of Windhelm by that time, had kept her away from Valenwood until then. But under the guidance of a jaqspur… well, what could go wrong?

Personality: There are several sides to Ina. She has known poverty and discrimination, self-discovery and success, peace and domestic bliss, and love and loss. She has lived in xenophobic backwaters, bustling metropolises, rural countrysides and everything in between as a traveler on the road. All of these experiences combine to create the woman Ina is today.

Above all, she is reserved, aloof and collected. Ina doesn’t care much what other people think of her, as Dunmer often do, and also cares little for bothering others with her opinions of them. She is not unkind, and friendly enough in passing, but there is always an emotional distance between herself and the people she interacts with. Because she is so cool-blooded, Ina is slow to anger and she’d much rather shrug off any insults or threats than reach for her spear and her spells. In the same vein, she does not participate deeply in the joy or success of others, making jealousy a foreign emotion to her. She learned long ago that it’s best to focus on her own worth instead of comparing herself to anyone else.

That said, she is capable of powerful love and deep affection, but that door was closed after her lover’s death. That kind of emotional commitment comes with a risk of such tremendous pain and hurt that Ina can’t bear to experience that again. She had her happy years with Theros and those memories will have to be enough. Instead of emotional closeness, she seeks physical intimacy with attractive strangers, just like her Synod days, and keeps her lovers at an arm’s length afterwards. She needs to drink to loosen up sufficiently for that, however, and as such maintains a level of consumption -- from a glass of wine with lunch to a few shots of brandy after dinner -- that one can reasonably describe as functional alcoholism. The only other narcotic she indulges in is the smoking of hackle-lo leaf, which helps her focus during her work.

Ina possesses a dry, sarcastic wit that she applies liberally and without regard for custom or etiquette. She’s a pauper at heart, even though her time in the Imperial City has taught her how to take care of her appearance like a lady, and has no respect for wealth, birth or status. She judges people based on their character exclusively; that Theros, her lover, went through dry spells of inspiration and motivation where he earned little money didn’t bother her at all and she gladly made up the difference. She has a soft spot for sensitive souls, quite possibly because she has one lurking in the depths of her own heart. Not that she’d ever admit it to anyone, or even to herself. Even if people have fallen on hard times and done questionable things to survive, Ina will accept them as long as their hearts are in the right place.

The mundane tasks of alchemy that many consider tedious, preparing the ingredients and getting the brew just right, bring Ina peace and serenity and she spends most of her waking hours attending to her alembics and calcinators in silence. Predictably, she does not tolerate disturbances very well and is liable to become irritable when interrupted during her work. Outside of those hours, she can usually find time to make conversation with people and she enjoys drinking with strangers and listening to their stories, even if they are just tall tales. She becomes much more familiar and personable during such occasions and frequently ends up taking someone to bed afterwards, only to send them away again in the morning.

She is a pious and devout follower of the Reclamations, the heroes and the saints of the New Temple faith, but of Azura and Almalexia in particular. Ina maintains an active relationship with the gods and always makes sure she has the required incense and attributes with her for her nightly prayers, and lets the teachings of Almalexia stay her hand in revenge, preferring to err on the side of mercy when she is slighted. Even her carnal escapades are dedicated to Mephala with a quiet prayer; most of what Ina does is internally seen through the lens of her faith. It helped her a lot in processing the grief she has experienced in her life and she values it highly.

Biggest Regret: That she didn’t see Theros’ suicide coming, that she wasn’t able to prevent it, and that she wasn’t able to make him happy.

Inanna’s Goal: Ina can’t see a future beyond tomorrow. She doesn’t believe that she can ever truly recover from the loss of Theros, so Ina has abandoned her one-time dream of having a home and a family of her own. Now she merely wanders the continent in search of work and coin, which she spends as fast as she earns it in order to be comfortable.

Equipment:


Misc. Possessions:


Family and Associations:


Favored Attributes:


Favoured Skills:

Race: Orsimer
Sex: Male
Age: 39
Family Origins: Jehanna, High Rock
Birth Sign: The Tower
Appearance:


A powerful and physically imposing figure, Raznog stands at a commanding 6’03” (183cm) and weighing in around 250 pounds (113.4kg) with an endomorphic build, the Orsimer is heavily muscled with enough body fat to give him a somewhat soft appearance, not unlike a bear. While Raznog will never be accused of being small or weak, he often doesn’t carry himself with the best posture since he subconsciously shrinks himself to make himself approachable to those smaller than him and he often hunches over for the multitude of small, delicate tasks he seems to take an affinity for.

Raznog is a well-groomed individual, having a short chocolate brown quiff-style haircut to go with a neatly trimmed beard. Eschewing the more wild facial piercings and tattoos of many other orcs, save for a couple of bridge ring piercings. A small, modest pair of spectacles round out his appearance, only being put away when hard work or a fight is imminent in a small, wooden case. His green eyes are gentle and friendly, and he has an almost fatherly bearing towards others. His complexion is a mossy green with a slight brown tint.
Dressing in fine travel wear with flair from Orcish, Breton, and Nord sensibilities, Raznog travels with an oil-impregnated travel cloak to keep the elements off of his tunics, surcoats, vests, and trousers, and much of his gear is kept in an almost comically large rucksack or on his guar’s saddlebags, including a mail coat, platemail, a full helm, greaves, gauntlets, and sabatons made of finely crafted orchalcum.

Equipment:
-Orchalcum warhammer with a pick on the reverse face
-Full set of orchalcum heavy armour
-Frost enchanted gauntlets with a reinforced knuckle and finger plate for striking.
Misc. Possessions:
-A pack guar named Stomper
-Travel-sized painting set and parchments
-A small assortment of tea bags and kettle along with cups
-Cooking supplies
-A tent, bed rolls, blankets
-Fire starters
-Rations
-Change of clothing
-Journal and reading tomes
-Wood cutter’s axe and pickaxe
-Assorted spell scrolls in a waterproof carry case
-An amulet of a Malach, an axe

Family and Associates:
Shazali, travel companion and friend
Malak gro-Malzog, father
Nula gra-Lulgra, biological mother (deceased)
Faye LePetite, adoptive mother
Torug gro-Malak, brother
Cynthia LePetite, step-sister

Favoured Skills:
Major:
2h hammer
Heavy armour
Moderate:
Provisioning
Athletics
Mercantile
Novice:
Smithing
Woodworking

History:
Born into one of the oldest lines of Orsimer residing in Jehanna, Raznog gro-Malak grew up in the bitterly cold North of High Rock in a region with such a mixed cultural identity that it was effectively its own unique ecosystem; a kingdom under Breton rule founded by Orcs and settled and governed by Nords, Raznog entered the world in a land that couldn’t have been further from the strongholds to the East or the great city of Orsinium. The family business was working the shipyards and outfitting expeditions, so Raznog grew up with a hammer in hand patching up vessels from across Tamriel and running the modest supply shop in equal measure.

When he was only a few years old, his biological mother passed away from illness, and it wasn’t for a few more that Raznog’s father remarried a Breton woman named Faye who never tried to replace his mother, Nula, but she had no shortage of love for her two new adoptive sons and biological daughter from outside of wedlock. It was a happy family and Faye exposed her children to the art of mastering colours and Raznog took to it with glee, taking up a paintbrush and painting the ships and landscapes that dominated his home life. In particular, Raznog is proud of his contribution to the mural the town put together, bringing colour to the stone carvings of the Orc craftsman, the wooden totems and pillars that frame the homes of the Nords, and the paintings of the Bretons. Life in Jehanna was quiet and perfect, being so far removed from the troubles of the outside world. Raznog had a perfect family, a mix of blood and found additions he loved all the same, and from his father’s hand he learned strength and to uphold his Orcish heritage, and from his mother, a softer and more thoughtful approach to the world.

And so it came as something of a shock when Raznog and his siblings came of age and were adults in their 20s when their parents announced that they were going to be moving to Daggerfall to tend to Faye’s aging parents. The family business was to go to the children, should they want it, or it would be sold to help finance their future endeavors. On one hand, it was the opportunity for a clean break to pursue other passions and to see where all of these colourful travelers came from by sea, but it was also a hugely disruptive thing where what had seemed as unchanging as the Druadach Mountains was now eroding suddenly. 27 years old and the eldest of the siblings, the three sat down to discuss their future. In the end, Torug would go with their parents to meet with family he had yet to meet, Cynthia would travel to Imperial City to study and follow her ambitions to serve the Empire as a political figure, and this left Raznog with somewhat of an empty feeling; he simply did not know what he wished to do with his life. In the end, the eldest brother decided to sell the business with his siblings and he would simply take time to travel until Zenithar or Malach gave him some ideas of where he should go.

And so for the first time in his life, Raznog gro-Malak boarded one of the ships that came to Jehanna and left the only home he’d known for his entire life.

Because of his multicultural upbringing, Raznog found it easy to assimilate into whatever culture he came across and found differences between races more endearing than alienating. Knowing his coin wouldn’t last forever, the Orc often paid his way through his services as a woodworker and smith, and eventually a caravan guard given his size and strength; the Imperial who had watched Raznog lift up the side of a wagon with one hand and place a repaired wheel with the other had insisted the Orc use his strength to protect the caravan. Instead of paying a fee for travel, Raznog was now being paid to guard caravans, giving him free food and a chance to keep his body and mind sharp.

This somewhat nomadic lifestyle inevitably put him into contact with the Khajiiti Baandari caravans on a few occasions, and Raznog found a curious kinship with the catfolk of Elsweyr, finding their hospitality to be warming and he had spent many nights by their campfires, listening to the stories told by the clan fathers and mothers and enjoying the uniquely sweet meats and stews they served. It was one of these chance meetings near the border with Black Marsh where Raznog was confronted by a tiny Alfiq who dropped a bottle of Colovian whiskey beside Raznog as he rested against a tree trunk reading a book.

The tiny cat stared up at him defiantly. “Shazali bets she can outdrink you, dull-claws.” She challenged.

And so, on one of the more memorable and strange nights of Raznog’s life; the Alfiq had clearly already been drinking and had this desperate, dishevelled look to her. Instead of turning the challenge down, Raznog poured two equal glasses out of his tea set and under the guise of challenging the cat, he learned her story and how she was the youngest daughter and elder sister, yet being an Alfiq meant that she was often overlooked or shoved aside compared to her more noticeable family, despite her accomplishments as a mage, or how outsiders confused her as a housecat or treated her like a child despite being an adult. Her distressed reason for confronting the Orc was that her younger brother, a Cathay-raht who towered over everyone in camp, and her had gotten into a rather heated argument and he used his size to push her around, so in her drunken wisdom decided to challenge the next biggest person she could find. She wasn’t three drinks in before she had fallen asleep against Raznog’s leg, where he covered her with a blanket and fell asleep with the small Khajiit snoring gently against him.

Five years later, the duo had been constant travel companions, equals in many ways and discovering the world apart from their respective families. Although unlikely friends and companions, there is an air of comfort and familiarity with the two of them that makes it hard to imagine a time they weren’t with each other as they go from destination to destination to live life on their own terms, at least until they figure out what they’re looking for.



Race: Khajiit, Alfiq
Sex: Female
Age: 29
Family Origins: Dune, Anequina
Birth Sign: The Atronach
Appearance:


A cinnamon and white short-coated Alfiq, Shazali would be easily mistaken by outsiders at a glance as a common housecat if not for the curious clothing she wears, namely metal torc bracelets about her front ankles, a fetching embroidered blue scarf, an azurite pendant, and a prominent black leather eye patch covering her right eye. Her remaining eye is a pleasant and sharp amber hue with feline irises, which compliment her golden canine tooth on the right side of her face, which has long healed from whatever incident claimed her eye and tooth.

Lithe and agile, Shazali remains quite in good physical condition, able to climb people, trees, and other such obstacles with grace and ease. She usually has a mischievous, or at least curious, gleam to her eye, and considering her physiology manages to have quite an expressive face.

Equipment :
Enchanted channeling pendant and torcs

Misc. Possessions:

Spell books
Soul gems
Portable enchantment table
Grooming bowl and bathing items
Personal effects

Family and Associates:
Raznog gro-Malak, friend and companion
Dra’Zarri, clan mother (Cathay)
Chalsini, biological mother (Suthay)
J’Tashir, younger brother (Cathay-raht)
Hisrido, younger brother (Suthay-raht) (never met)
La’Purani, older sister (Ohmes-raht)
Ko’Kulira, older sister (Suthay-raht)

Favoured Skills:
Major
Alteration
Enchanting
Moderate
Conjuration
Merchantile
Minor
Provisioning

Telekinesis
Ebonyflesh
Paralyze
Detect Dead/ Life
Mage/ Candlelight
Summon Frost Atronach
Banish Daedra

History:
Shazali was born the middle child of 5 siblings without a father figure in the city of Dune, an ancient metropolis in Northern Elsweyr, one of the few permanent cities the nomadic tribes had bothered to establish. Much like the desert sands, Shazali’s life was constantly shifting and nothing was ever a sure thing for long; her mother took many paramours, resulting in 5 children from 3 different suitors over her life, and working long hours as a dancer that kept her from home for long. Shazali was raised largely by her older sisters rather than her mother, who seemed to bounce from one crisis to the next with unexpected efficiency, and the siblings had to find ways to help make ends meet. What resulted was a triad of teenagers and a child matured far beyond their years and grappling with the throes of poverty and an absentee mother.

It became apparent early on that Shazali had some form of magical acuity, probably a gift from her own unknown father, although being a small Alfiq limited her options considerably. Often being sent out to beg for donations given her small size and young age and a fairly compassionate community, one day Shazali stopped by a market stall operated by a mystic. Being young and ignorant, she hopped on the stool across from the merchant and demanded he tell her how she can escape her unfair life. The merchant smiled, twirled his finger, and a line of clairvoyance appeared, pointing to an old beginner’s tome for enchantment. “Magnus never lies, my child. A gift to your good fortunes!” the merchant said with a smile, helping her shove the tome in her pack and sending her on her way.
At the time, Shazali found the encounter strange and unproductive; she couldn’t eat a book or use it to pay her way out of the city, but in time she learned that the old mystic might have been onto something.

Spending all day and night when she could get away with it trying to understand the book and running through some basic exercise to teach herself magic, she had enchanted her first object two months later when a small wooden horse toy she was practicing on suddenly took on the lightning enchantment, briefly sending electrical bolts in all directions. The wood was scorched in beautiful burn marks and the house wasn’t destroyed; it was a breakthrough that was a clear turning point for Shazali; she was going to become a mage. The young Alfiq, almost reaching maturity, hurried back to the market where she had found the mystic, and she presented him with the toy horse. He took it with a proud smile. “Not the strangest form of payment I’ve received, but well done, rhook.” He said, sharing some of his lunch with the girl before sending her on her way.

The next few years were a bit easier on Shazali and her sisters, and now her baby brother, as Shazali honed her craft and used some of the family earnings to purchase enchantment supplies and before long, they had opened their own merchant stall in the same market as Shazali’s mystic patron. Her eldest sister, Kulira, was studying medicine and had taken up alchemy, selling all sort of tinctures alongside her sister’s enchanted goods, and their other sister, Purani, had an abundance of charisma and was a shrewd negotiator, and she was the one that often ran the stall. While it was strange for a trio of young girls to be running their own business, the locals were supportive; their situation at home was well known to the neighbours and it was something of a project to support the trio. For once, the three of them were mostly happy and able to make ends meet.

Trouble found them again before too long when their brother Tashir was beginning to grow and grow, given he was a Cathay-raht; not only was his hunger making their meager food supplies stretch to their limits, but without strong parental guidance, Tashir used his size and strength to push his sisters around; one time, he actually picked Shazira up and threw her against a wall in a fit of rage, an event that broke a rib and put her out of work for a month until the healers and potions could mend her. Their brother’s reign of terror eventually led to Purani to run away from home to locations unknown and Kulira to join a monastery. Shazira felt abandoned and irritable at being stuck with their mother and younger brother, but she tried to keep the merchant stall running, which was failing, and eventually did when thieves ransacked it and ran off with what goods she had left.

Just when things seemed like they couldn’t get any worse, the town guards came with sobering news; their mother had been found unresponsive in a skooma den and was being looked after by healers, but it was unclear if she would ever wake up again. It was too much for Shazali, not quite an adult yet, but she knew that nothing remained in Dune for her, or her brother, who had taken their mother’s condition especially hard. Shazali, desperate for answers, returned to her mystic patron, pleading with him for answers.
“Please, Shazali doesn’t know what to do.” She begged.

It wasn’t a clairvoyance spell that guided his hand next, but instead he picked up Shazali to hold like his own daughter and he took the hand of Tashir and led them to the outskirts of the city where a field of tents and colourful fabrics were set up. Finding the most elaborate tent of them all, the mystic presented Shazali and Tashir to Clan Mother Dra’Zarri, who looked upon them with kindness and love. The two siblings were brought into the arms of the Baandari. Shazali looked at the mystic as he left, and their eyes met for the final time, and she could have sworn a teardrop fell down the man’s face as he turned, pulling up his hood as he disappeared into the city gates once more.

The following years were full of wonder for the siblings and no shortage of hard, but fair, work. The Banndari was like a large family where everyone contributed and faced the same hardships; neither felt unwanted or out of place. Tashir finally found proper role models and learned to temper his anger much better while putting his strength to good use, and Shazali finally had teachers to help her hone her magical crafts. Unfortunately for Shazali, she overestimated her capabilities and one of her enchanting sessions went awry, causing a fire rune she was casting on a boulder to explode violently, striking her in the face; the incident cost her a tooth and blinded her in one eye, teaching her a humiliating and humbling lesson in hubris.

With more diligence and respect, Shazali became quite an impressive enchanter and she took lessons in Conjuration to help summon Atronachs to protect the caravan and she found Alteration a school that suited her well as it had some similar parallels to enchanting; at first it was to detect hostile presence from the living and dead alike, casting spells to protect herself (being hurled against a wall by Tashir certainly stayed in her psyche), and being able to help lift and move things with telekinesis made the gap between her size and other Khajiiti furstocks a lot smaller.

For the next 8 years, Shazali had seen much of Tamriel, been exposed to many different cultures and people and life constantly on the road suited her; she had nothing but contempt for her memories of an absentee mother she could no longer remember the face of and her two sisters who abandoned her and Tashir, even if they had their reasons. Her brother was now known as J’Tashir, and he was one of the tallest and strongest in the caravan, wielding a sword so large for most that it looked modest in size to him, and a spear that was as long as he was tall, which is to say the only thing getting past him was an arrow. It was hard not to be jealous that her baby brother was physically imposing and seemed to have everything he wanted, whereas Shazali was treated like a child still given her high voice and small-size. She was infuriated at being treated like a house pet by non-Khajiit.

And so, it was a fateful night after perhaps a bit too much drinking after another row with J’Tashir that Shazali found herself angrily taking her frustrations out on an Orsimer from another caravan and unknowingly finding the next stage in her life. She decided that she could no longer live under the metaphorical and literal shadow of her brother any longer, and despite the tearful and hard goodbye with the Baandari, she parted ways with fond memories of her found family that had given her a chance to grow into so much more than she ever dreamed. Now with Raznog gro-Malak she was free to discover herself outside of the lens of looking after community and family, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel small or lesser with a partner who had always treated her as an equal. Five years on and she hasn’t found a reason to doubt her decision.

Race: Altmer
Age: 32
Birthsign: The Shadow


Vraurdoin might be an Altmer, but his complexion lacks the golden hue that is the most prominent marker for distinguishing his kind from the other mer. This is not only due to prolonged exposure to Valenwood, but also due to his steady efforts in terms of durable body paint. The green lines on top of it are part of it as well, but they don't represent any real symbol. They're just there to help obfuscating the real shape of his face.

He has a broad and rounded, but strong jawline which is covered in a small jungle of a beard with a prominent, inverted spire at the center of it. Sharing its reddish color is his hair which probably also is the part of his facial appearance that has stayed the most original, meaning that it is separated into several woven strands that all reach well past his shoulders. Their thickness might survive more than one obese Nord being hung from them or they probably could to be used as a makeshift flail if one considers the small steel applications wrapped around them in order to keep them in shape.

His ears are greedy noise absorbers of respectable size, but his eyes are an average, albeit curious pair of optical instruments with a dirty green color to them.

His military training is a matter of the past, but that doesn't mean that he isn't fit. Having been used to physically very demanding activities from early years on and with him never having forgotten about exercising, Vraurdoin's physique has that extremely muscular, very indisputable brick aspect to it. At well-formed 6 feet and 5 inches of Altmeri prowess he silently delivers a message about not messing around with him before thinking twice.

His clothes are simplistic and casual pieces of linen with an added leather cloak if it should start raining and sturdy boots for long periods of walking, but for special tasks he also uses special equipment of course.

Vraurdoin limps slightly on his left leg. The latter also bears the only, though long scar of his body so far.


Attribute (major): Agility
Attribute (minor): Strength

Skill (expert): Lock picking
Skill (adept): Sneaking
Skill (adept): Acrobatics
Skill (adept): Pick pocketing
Skill (novice): Medium armor
Skill (novice): One-handed weapons
Skill (novice): Illusion

Spell (illusion): Muffle
Spell (illusion): Fury



Suppression of his own emotions has been a major part in Vraurdoin's life so far as, for quite a while, any accidental smirk, any outbreak of cold sweat or any shivering of his spine might have raised another attentive person's suspicion. While there is no real need for him to do so anymore he has not managed to break out of this self-created prison so far. He can enjoy himself, but he is quite bad at showing it and thus not the kind of guy that would be your preferred party guest.

Adding to that is a natural tendecy to maintain introvert. Small talk ? Okay, but he rarely starts that by himself and knows what not to talk about. And beware those densily packed crowds of people as they can be found in highly frequented taverns and at the core of festivities! He prefers subjecting his sensitive ears to more calm environments...

His strength of will and his sense for justice is developed well enough to openly decline the application of lethal force, but only because he simply is afraid of accidentally hitting those who don't really deserve it and not because he couldn't stand walking over dead bodies. His blood is cold enough to try and jeopardize anything he comes into contact with if he deems it to be the right thing and sees the chance. Other people's riches can be his riches and he can be in control of their further distribution.

From a more superficial point of view he gives away a rather intelligent impression, but moreso a cunning and daring one. He can perform well in environments where mannerisms and rituals are an important thing, but less so when it's all about everyday joyance and outspokenness. One might be a little surprised though about just how short-ranged his education is -- it's not like he has enjoyed a lot of schooling in an ordinary sense.

He has a habit of analyzing people, both from their outside appearance and when talking to them. His mind always wants to know whom he's dealing with as it has been important element of his survival so far. There are less subtle ways of doing it, but those he deems not to be of importance are mostly confronted with an intense stare until he has collected all the bits of information he wants.


Over all the training, all the plotting, all the careful observation of his surroundings and all the good will with which he has reached out to those around him, Vraurdoin has started to feel he might have forgotten about something very important: his family. He is in fear that his actions might have backfired onto them one way or another or might still do so in the future.

As for his goals: He's become a little tired of politics. Some more selfish adventuring can't hurt. The world will go on without him for a while just as well.

• Vraurdoin never left behind the set or elven armor he has been giving when joining the military, but he currently does not wear it anymore.
• Thick and studded leather armor covering all parts of the body
• An extensive set of lockpicks
• Climbing rope with grappling hook attached to it
• A large, but still easy to hide elven dagger
• Simple bow and arrows
• Simple linen clothing, cloak and boots suitable for traveling
• Food rations and water for one, maybe two days to come
• A small purse full of coin
• Linen bag of medium size

Name: Gwilym of House Ironarm
Race: Nordo-Brettic
Age: 25
Birthsign: The Lover
Family Origins: Born in Jehanna to Lord Marshal Braegen and Lady Marille, stripped of his titles and birthright after disgracing the House

---

Personality: Gwilym strikes those who are around him as a polite and kind man at best, and at his worst, an insolent and mischievous imp. Depending on what mood he finds himself in upon waking could mean all the difference between the two. He’d like to think he cuts the image of a handsome and rakish gentleman, though only those who live outside his head could tell what he really comes off as. If you were to ask him, he’d tell you he’s a gentleman looking only for a good time. He plays up his best qualities that are among those he could choose from, those being his affinity for wine and women, the ability to flirt in all manner of ways that has led to his reputation as a rampant adulterer and home wrecker, as well as the traditionally good- the ability to maintain a stiff upper lip in public and possess at least an iota of good manners.

Dig beneath the surface, and it takes quite some time, and you’ll find under the smooth shell to be a turbulent place filled with regrets and doubts. What is a man without a few? For all the goblets toasted with, there are two bottles downed in seclusion. For all the women bedded, there was always the one person he loved that he could never have. For all the whoops and hollers he’s let loose in a party while in a daze, there a hundred-hundred stifled sobs. Gwilym was always different. Prone to pick up the quill rather than the sword, prone to being a sensitive, rather than a stoic. Perhaps the divide between him and his father hurt the man as much as he hurt Gwilym. Perhaps not, and that isn’t a question he’s meaning to ask any time soon.

In any town or village he steps into, he comes with a tide of merriment and mirth. A good singing voice and a fine taste in drink has made him many short-lived friends, as he’s usually gone with the rising sun. When the great stage of those times dies down and the show is over, he resigns himself to more lonesome activities in a grey solitude. In any one of the duels he’s lost for money, there’s a certain look in his eye beforehand. If you were to tap his head and see the thoughts drip out, there’d be a morbid hope in there that the latest duel might be his last ever.

He’s more prone to drown out the world by doing his best to drown himself in wine nowadays. But damn, does his laugh sound so merry, his voice so light, and his eyes so full of life and lust...

---

History:
Gwilym was born to Lady Marille and Lord Braegan of House Ironarm, loyal defenders of the throne and the realm of the Kingdom of Jehanna. For generations, the Ironarms raised their sons to be as tough and hearty as their old Nordic ties to the first old warlords that came to High Rock. The two sons of the generation to come after their fathers were expected to not break this tradition, and so from the time they could walk, Gwilym and Desmond were put to work learning how to ride a warhorse, joust, and swing a blade. Gwilym took to it quicker than Desmond, and Desmond took to it quicker than most.

As the siblings trained together, they grew close in their bond, often playing Knight when their lessons in the blade, horsemanship, literature, mathematics, and other such subjects important to the nobility were done for the day. Leading an insular life had made them close, one another being the only friends they were allowed to have for the longest time. They spent their every waking moments together.

On Gwilym’s thirteenth Name Day, he is presented with the girl he is to marry, a beautiful specimen of Breton nobility. Though Gwilym held no knowledge of the weight of marriage, his father and Seville’s shake on it like two men agreeing to breed the best of their racehorses. Such is life in the nobility, and Gwilym carries on. Desmond, however, finds more friends among Seville’s family. As siblings do when they age, they grew apart, and Gwilym was happy to see Desmond making more friends that weren’t his elder brother. No matter that it pained him to spend less time with the brother he so loved.

But Desmond was not the only one to have Seville’s family members grow fond of him. Gwilym’s eyes snagged on Seville’s elder brother. He found himself admiring the other boy from afar, not knowing why he had such a fixation on him, and there was something in the way their eyes met when they finally did that made Gwilym’s cheeks red and warm. The two families went their separate ways after the deal was finalized, and Gwilym found after sharing a sparse few words of parting with Seville’s older brother, whose name was Artur he’d learned, that the two of them wished very much to meet again.

After that day, Gwilym could never go a long time without thinking of Artur. He wondered when next they’d meet, and what they would do when they did. Perhaps Artur liked fencing too, or would it be poetry? Gwilym was never good at that, so maybe Artur could teach him some things about it. No matter what it was, Gwilym knew he’d have fun. In the meantime, Gwilym and Desmond drilled on the fields with the Table Knights and Sergeants, spent time scribbling the words of great and old writers on parchment, and practicing mathematics. Gwilym was never good at anything that wasn’t to do with martial prowess, and Desmond’s exceeding in such went unnoticed by their gruff father. Lord Braegen’s position as Lord Marshal was well-earned, and a man like that surely favored only one thing in his sons- a talent for fighting, and the one who possessed it.

Surely, that fact didn’t help Gwilym and Desmond’s growing apart.

As they grew older and earned more autonomy with age, Desmond would frequent the training halls and tutoring libraries less and less, trading those pastimes with that of drinking and whoring. Lord Braegen quickly found that Desmond’s behavior was becoming a blight upon House Ironarm in the eyes of not only their fellow Houses, but of the commoners. It would just not do to have an unwashed peasant stepping over his absolute better face-down in the gutter when sun went down. Gwilym’s father disowned Desmond in every way but formally, laughing bitterly at his wayward son’s acting out, and often in his face in those seldom moments you could see him haunting the halls like a ghoul, moaning as he nursed another hangover.

Even so, Gwilym and Desmond attended the fencing tournaments held yearly in Jehanna as per tradition of keeping up their reputation with the lesser Houses and the public. Gwilym and Desmond were always at odds, the two seeming evenly matched until they faced each other. On those occasions, Gwilym would arise the victor, perhaps taking too much joy in the crowd’s cheering of his name. Had he been more mature, he may have been a better winner. And a better brother. But for the first time, he had his father’s blessings, and something that at least resembled love. Approval, at the very least.

It was around this time that Gwilym and Artur would inevitably meet during the tournaments, celebrating their wins and forgetting their losses both in each other’s arms when the sun went down. It was during the first time they’d seen each other since Gwilym’s engagement to Seville that the two of them learned much about each other. They had more things in common than they’d thought, and Gwilym had thought a lot on it. On one fateful night, Gwilym and Artur walk the streets in a drunken stupor, holding each other a bit too familiarly when Desmond spots them. In a rage, his brother challenges Artur to a duel, and in his drunken bravado Artur accepts. The two fight, but it does not end at first blood as Desmond gains the upper hand, knocking Artur unconscious and going for yet another blow with his sword. Gwilym, not wanting Artur dead by his brother’s hand, leaps to action. He lays low his own brother, spitting him with his dagger before he’s knocked to sleep as well by Desmond’s strong, heavy hands. It is the last thing he remembers of that night before he awakens again with the rising sun.

He is in bed, not in the streets. His father mourns Desmond’s life, his youngest son laid low by none other than Artur. Gwilym knows the truth. Gwilym keeps his mouth shut. He can not take the guilt, the weight of his own brother’s life on his shoulders. Artur is to stand trial for his crime. Instead of outing Gwilym as the murderer, he accepts his fate and pleads his guilt. He is hanged the next morning, and Gwilym packs his essentials that night. He leaves no note, says no goodbyes, only slips past the guards and stows away on the first ship out from Jehanna, going to any port.

Gwilym wanders further and further southward. He finds a place in Elsweyr, enjoying the comforts of the Khajiit that call that place their home. Wine, moon sugar, the occasional Imperial or Breton traveler that would share a bed with him. There would come a time when the septims he ran away with would be all spent, and so he asked for loans. It wasn’t long until he found himself in debt to the Renrijra Krin, among many other bad people. He took his cue that he’d overstayed his welcome in Elsweyr, and crossed the border into Valenwood first chance he got...

Biggest Regret: Perhaps being born the way he was. If women and wine were the cure, he’d have been well three times over by now, he reckons.

Never being able to tell Artur he was sorry for everything. Sorry that he’d saved his life only for it to be taken away in the end.

Or perhaps sullying his brother’s name, driving him away when he needed love the most. Hells, it’s hard to keep count anymore.

Gwilym‘s Goal: Gwilym doesn’t have many goals. Bed a woman? Live long enough to bed another, and have some wine in the meantime? Find someone who could beat him in a duel, and beat him bad?

---

Skills:
Expert: One-Handed
Adept: Sneak, Alteration, Illusion
Novice: Two-Handed, Hand-to-Hand, Acrobatics

Spells:

Clairvoyance
Calm
Muffle
Oakflesh
Stoneflesh
Candlelight

Equipment: His long steel, a rapier of elven Moonstone with intricate basket-work
His short steel, a dagger of the same material a little longer than his forearm, finger-rings above the pommel for a choice in grip

His clothes consist of a brown longcoat worn over a green cloth shirt, tucked into black trousers. He keeps his trousers tightly bloused into his Colovian leather boots. All of his clothes may be of expensive tailoring, but the age and wear shows when inspected closely.

Misc. Possessions: He keeps the ring Artur gave him suspended on a chain around his neck, hidden underneath his shirt.

Three days’ rations
A few maps of the local area and country
Flint and steel
Boot polish
Sewing kit
Beard oil and comb
Trimming scissors
A mirror
Hairbrush
Whetstones of different roughness
Bedroll - all kept in a traveling pack

Appearance: Despite being smaller than most people in a room, Nimriell carries herself with confidence and authority, often with a smile on her lips and a determined spark in her eyes. A little shorter than the average female Bosmer, she stands at a proud 5 feet tall, with a toned and wiry body though still soft and curved where it matters. Her skin is naturally tanned, and living the vagabond lifestyle has accounted for the sprinkle of freckles on her nose and cheeks. Those are often overlooked due the face marking she paints under her striking silver eyes and the sides of her face, in hopes to look more like her adoptive khajiiti family.

Another poignant feature that stands out are the small antlers that protrude from her temples and gracefully curl back into two points, resting just above her head. Her hair, once a dark brown now has an auburn tinge, once more due to constant exposure to the sun. Reaching her shoulders, it ranges from messy on most days to combed back when she puts an effort into looking good.

Lil Green lives up to her nickname, which is clear for all to see with the forest greens and browns that she prefers to don, sometimes with a little added blue here and there. She prefers to dress for practicality and comfort, and oftentimes her outfits consist of both khajiiti and bosmer mix of clothings.

Equipment:
-Bow and quiver of arrows
-Medium leather armour
-Rucksack which contains:
Mortar and pestle with various alchemical ingredients stored in pouches in a pack
-thin blanket
-Dried fruits, nuts, meat and other non perishables
-A couple of changes of clothes
-A small wooden carving that is supposedly Baan Dar, given to her by her elder adoptive brother

Family and Associates:
Ri’Jasha - Adoptive father (deceased)
Ko’Rani - Adoptive mother (deceased)
Do’Harir - Adoptive elder brother

Favoured Skills:
Major:
Archery
Acrobatics
Moderate:
Alchemy
Stealth
Athletics
Novice:
Provisioning

History: Nimriell (better known as Green or Lil Green by friends and family) was born in Reaper's March, though she had not stayed there long enough for her to personally consider that her homeland. Her parents had been travelling away from the arid land with a family of Baandari peddlars, and with the same goal of Malabal Tor in mind the two families became allies in the treacherous journey as well as friends, sharing food, stories and campfires at night. It was unfortunate that a couple of days before crossing the border to what they hoped was greener pastures, that the group were preyed upon by highway bandits at night. Attacks like these were nothing uncommon, yet for those affected, it was rather tragic. Nimriell lost both her parents, and the Baandari family suffered losses as well, the family of five now whittled down to three- Ri’Jasha the Ohmes Raht, his wife Ko’Rani, a Cathay, and their eleven year old son Harir, a Senche Raht who was already taller and heftier than both his parents. Their two youngest, a six year old Alfiq and an infant who was barely the size of a kitten, were trampled in the ambush and died instantly.

Naturally Ri’Jasha and Ko’Rani were devastated- they had eventually bested the bandits with the help of Harir, but at what cost? The two Khajiit didn’t wish to stay there longer than they had to, but didn’t quite wish to leave the bodies of their children and friends for the wildlife to pull apart. When the sun rose, they dug shallow graves and constructed a cairn from whatever stones they found nearby. It was then that they realized there was another survivor wriggling under one of the nearly collapsed tents the Bosmer family had been sleeping under. When Ri’Jasha pulled the cloth away, he found the tiny infant still laying on the fur blanket she had been put on earlier the previous night. Somehow, it seemed she had survived. Praising Baan Dar, he picked her up and brought her to his wife. A silent look between the two was enough to tell that they were not going to leave the helpless child behind. With heavy hearts but the small promise of light in the future, the new family of four once more commenced their journey to Malabal Tor, thankfully reaching without any further incidents.

And so Nimriell grew up with her khajiiti family, mimicking their ways and customs as if they were their own. Even as a small child it was clear to her that there was something different about her, and it wasn’t like Ri’Jasha or Ko’Rani kept her origins hidden from her, feeling that would be disrespectful to their friends and travel companions. However, they always made sure to tell the girl that it mattered not what race she was, she was as much their child as Harir, their Senche-Raht son. Unfortunately, he was prone to jealousy when he would find his parents doting on the little Bosmer, and when they would be busy with their tradings with their clientele, he would find opportunities to use his size and strength to scare her and chase her away from stalls. The end result would normally have her hiding under some bushes or high up in a tree, the acrobatic skills of her race already proving themself with how quick and nimbly she would be able to get there.

The end would usually result in rather harsh scoldings for Harir and then a search for Nimriell, though after the tenth or twentieth time it was rather obvious to her parents where she would be hidden. “Come out, little green one, this one won’t let anyone hurt you.” And so it continued onward, until ‘little green one’ was simply shortened to ‘Lil Green’.

The two siblings continued to grow, as did Harir’s resentment for the way Nimriell was treated as if she was part of the family. As she could no longer be scared into hiding, and she was smart enough to stay in view of their parents, he would choose his moments to try and hurt her, using not just his size and strength, but also his words. Now age 15, Nimriell was quite adept at ignoring this most of the time, but one day his words stung a little too much.

“You will never be part of this family. This one’s siblings are dead!”

Without a word Nimriell left her brother’s company and headed out for the banks near the trading stalls. Silently she mixed dirt and water to make a paste before drawing patterns on her face to mimic those that were on her brother’s. Once she was done, she washed her hands and returned to the stall, confusing both her parents as well as Harir with how different her face looked. Ri’Jasha was quick to figure out that Harir must have prompted this sudden change in her appearance. Before he could say anything, however, Nimriell spoke up.

“Nimriell knows she is not a Khajiit, but she is still part of this family. This one has lived here, grown up here, and has worked as hard as the rest. But if it’s just this one’s looks that make her an outsider, then this one will keep painting these marks on her face, as the Ohmes do.”

Though her actions that day did not quite stop the resentment Harir would feel for her, it did give him food for thought, which led him to stop his misbehaviour against her. Perhaps the distraction of warriors visiting from Elsweyr also helped shift his focus from tormenting his little sister to how he could use his size and strength to be productive. This left Nimriell at peace for the first time in years, though truth be told when he told his family he would be leaving for Elsweyr, she was saddened, and was quite honest when she gave him a hug, pressed her forehead against his and told him she’d miss him. After all he had done to her, he was surprised to hear these words, and the seed of regret for his previous actions were sown into him. Before leaving, he gave her a small wooden carving that he had found as a child and picked up, naming it after Baan Dar.

Life did continue as it normally did, though with Nimriell growing older, so were her parents, so she found herself helping more than her share with their trading and peddling. It was a nice routine, and since most of what she did was manual work, it was easy to find some free time to pursue new hobbies. A traveling alchemist ignited her interest in learning how to make potions and poisons. Peddling books off merchants, she was able to further her knowledge in the field. At the same time, she also found that she had prowess with a bow, and would often head out in her free time to hunt small game for her family’s dinner. It was a good life, steady and calming.

And perhaps a little stagnant, because it wasn’t long before the family decided the stationary life was no longer what they wished- they were Baandari after all, and the call for the vagabond life was calling Ri’Jasha stronger than Ko’Rani. Nimriell was happy to follow along with her parents, enjoying the fact that she would be able to travel and see more than just the small area of Malabal Tor where she had spent her life. The family decided to delve further into Valenwood, passing through the forests of Grahtwood, where she could now meet other Bosmer like herself as well as those who followed the Green Pact. While Nimriell herself was a little familiar with the tenets, she still considered herself more Khajiit than anything else, and did not really see the need to actually follow the Green Pact.

It was during these travels through Valenwood that Nimriell became better known as ‘Green’ or ‘Lil Green’ by acquaintances and the friends she would make. Though she loved her vagabond way of life, she clearly enjoyed the forests of Valenwood, and felt as if she had returned home every time her family would venture back to the lands of the Bosmer from other provinces. As such, there were few places Nimriell hadn’t visited, including Elsweyr, Cyrodiil and Skyrim. During her travels, she would continue writing letters to Harir, now known as Do’Harir, and whenever she found a courier to send them, it would be the first thing she would do. With new meetings and experiences and the communication now flowing better than it had when they were young, the two adoptive siblings became close. It became a pleasant habit to reread letters whilst waiting for new ones, even if at times it would take over a month to receive missives.

As age would have it, Ri’Jasha and Ko’Rani were now quite elderly, and though Nimriell was still young for a Bosmer, her parents were feeling the years crawling up on them once more, and once more the family retreated to Malabal Tor. It wasn’t long after her 40th birthday that her parents passed away relatively peacefully, her mother first and her father a couple of months later. Do’Harir had returned when he had learned of his mother’s passing away, and he was there to see his father one last time before Ri’Jasha left for the Sands Behind the Stars. The two siblings spent a couple of days together, sharing stories and drinks, until at last Do’Harir decided it was time for him to return to Elsweyr.

With nothing tying her to one place any longer, Nimriell set out once more, Bosmer in race and body, but a Baandari at heart.

Name: Garo Secundus Minassian
Race: Imperial
Age: 32
Birthsign: The Lady
Family Origins: Cheydinhal, Cyrodiil

Appearance:

_{A portrait of Garo upon his return from Elsweyr}

With a somewhat thick figure and a welcoming expression on his face, Garo is about as Imperial as Imperial gets. Standing about 5’9’’, Garo’s silhouette stands rather average, although his large brown eyes, expressive, long eyebrows and thick neck do allow him bear a certain visual presence. His thick nose juts down from between his eyes like a stone pillar, flaring right above his reddish lips, whose vibrant color creates a slight contrast with his fair skin. While a curly reddish beard further accentuates his wide chin, his hairline has not been so lucky and, save a widow’s peak stalwartly hanging on, the remainder of his brown hair has entered a recession.

Garo carries himself with confidence, and though he is not muscular enough to look threatening or bear any martial connotations, his limbs are thick enough to persuade most from challenging his body language. Should he show it, Garo’s presence can be felt even when he is in a large crowd; the man seems certain that he has a right for the attention he attracts, and does not exert any caution in acting like he owns it, either. All this is further reinforced by a strong voice, which Garo holds commendable control over – it is not deep or fundamentally intimidating, but he has a stark voice, and he will make it heard should it be a necessity.

His attire, while not extravagant, also speak of a similar level of confidence; his green coat bears false sleeves, is fastened with silk cords and is trimmed with light embroidery, and his leggings are of a red color. Although he has a dagger tucked into his white, florally patterned waist sash, a sword belt also dangles below it, the weapon’s scabbard decorated with a velvet covering. A camel hair cape acts as his all-purpose insulator, being strong enough to deflect glancing blows, and wonderfully keeping cool in the summer and keeping warm in the winter.

While his physique is devoid of any scar or tattoo or any other kind of marking, Garo’s palms are lightly marred with dark, discolored spots, like faded ink spots; a side effect of the various dyes and alchemical substances that he had to handle in his youth.

---

Personality: Garo is a rational man, awfully rational, maybe one could say – oftentimes finding himself in situations far too irrational for his liking. Of course, he’s not an insufferable genius who is constantly infuriated with the world not playing by his whims, on the contrary, Garo has a strange, almost saintly resignation to the ways of the world, often finding the situations he finds himself in more darkly funny than truly harrowing. He’s come to realize that his plans may not go the way he wants and has become an adaptive creature, trying to present an amiable impression towards anyone he meets, not out of some moral duty, but merely because it is convenient. While he bears no joy in the more disturbing aspects of survival and adult life, he’s accepted them for what they are and, though he does not enjoy it, does not see himself above relying on them as a last resort.

A Nibenese gentleman at heart, Garo can be quite jolly when the opportunity presents himself, and although some may see this as a vice rather than a virtue, does have a streak of greed in his veins, never averse to a little profit. Perhaps the only thing keeping this in check is the well-earned wisdom that sometimes, moral profit outweighs financial profit, and Garo, while not a frivolous spender of money, is not above making ‘moral and social investments’ for his friends and comrades. Garo is often a serious man but can be witty when he needs, or wants to be – and although he hides it well, he can get about as petty as everyone else. Still, even though he is not without his darker side, if things should take a turn for the brutal, Garo does not have it in him to be actively life-threatening. He is a self-defender at best and a passive observer or a runaway at worst.

---

History: Garo has always considered himself a city man, and his story, fittingly, begins in a city – the City of Cheydinhal. Of course, born a Minassian, it would be hard to separate the early chapters of his life from the story of the Minassians – a family of well-known glassmakers, the family profession easily traced all the way back to Vvardenfell in the Third Era, being one of the few families brought along by the East Empire Company to overtake local glass production for the Empire. By the time Garo was born, however, the family was but a vestige of its former days, as with most of the rest of the Empire. Vvardenfell was long gone, with all their holdings and estates there, and the Minassian family had stooped down to the production of common glass. Still, once a craftsman, always a craftsman – even with such great losses, the family business soldiered on, as it had through the centuries.

Garo, named after a long-dead patriarch of the family just like one elder brother, was the eighth of thirteen brothers, all of them toiling in the family workshop. Their father, Aram, was a strict disciplinarian, more a master to his workers than a father to his children. That is not to say that Aram was a cruel, loveless or unfair man; the business had simply occupied too large a part of his life for him to see family outside the business. Schooled at home by his mother, Anush Minassian, until he was old enough to bear the heat of the workshop, Garo found himself handling the warm produces of the workshop to carry to the market at the age of thirteen. Minassian glass was in high demand, even outside Cheydinhal, and Aram’s ties to various wandering merchants meant that they got a cut from sales outside the province, let alone the city. It was not a significant amount of money, for the bulk of the profit still came from personal orders, but the fact that Minassian glass was a thing meant quite a lot to the man.

Of course, this all did not mean much to young. The Minassian family was respected in the city community, but there were greater families than them, Imperial, Breton, even Dunmer – the Indarys family, for one, founders of the Thorn Knights and Heroes of the Oblivion Crisis. Garo knew and appreciated the meager wealth and luxuries that he could only enjoy thanks to being Minassian, and while he did not want to downplay how glad he was for those, couldn’t there be a way to rise above molding and rolling red-hot glass all day? Garo yearned to find out, and in an attempt to do so, began spending more of his free time in the market, befriending traders and investing in safe venues such as antiques. His mother Anush, having been educated in the Synod as a youth, knew of Daedric tongues, and so he could easily verify if the things he bought were fake or not. One Ashlander idol, one fake Akaviri Katana and one giant’s thumb later, Garo finally found something of use – a Dwemer auto-drill, which, with the help of a carpenter and a blacksmith, was converted into a dough kneading machine for his mother.

While Aram was personally cautious about his son’s seemingly meaningless hobby, did not voice any concerns or act to stop him; it was his son’s own money, and he figured his son was old enough to know the value of it. It was a pleasant surprise when he found out that Garo was also selling them and even making a meager profit. What he definitely did not expect, however, was Garo approaching him with a business proposition one day. Still, his son had grown old enough to grow facial hair, and so, recognizing him as a fellow adult than one of his younger sons, he decided to sit down and hear what Garo was to say. It was not about antiques, as he expected, but instead a long and well-framed explanation of how they weren’t making all the money they could from exports; were a member of the Minassian family sell their wares by themselves, instead of selling them to a trader for them to sale wherever, they would be bringing in far more money.

Aram was more a craftsman than a tradesman, but he could tell a profitable deal when he saw it. Garo was far from his best glassworker, and he understood, from the very fact that Garo himself showed the opportunity, that the boy’s aptitude was outside the workshop. And thus, Aram loaned Garo the money necessary to join a trading caravan – were Garo to make a loss, he would have to pay for it; were Aram to make a profit, he would get his fee and the Minassian workshop would get its rightful due. For a true, dyed-in-the-wool tradesman, it wasn’t exactly the best deal, but for Garo, whose primary motivation was to get himself some agency than to get himself some Septims, it was perfectly acceptable. The young Imperial got to work immediately – he bought two small wagons, two horses, the precautions necessary for the glass to not shatter on the way to its destination, and off to Skyrim he was sent.

Garo’s journey towards the cold lands of the North was not a particularly favorable one, for even though he’d sold off half his inventory in Bruma (there was an upcoming wedding and the groom’s father wanted the best of the best), the journey through the Jerall Mountains made it a nerve-wracking endeavor to traverse with a wagon full of glassware. By the time they were down the Pale Pass and in Helgen, Garo had sacrificed one of his horses to save a wagon, and loaned the dogs of a musher in its place. Thankfully, the clientele of Whiterun were affluent enough for Garo to sell some of his remaining stock to make up for his losses during the journey, and from Whiterun on, it was smooth sailing. Plains were crossed, giants were observed from afar, and many an astonishing sight was witnessed on the way to Solitude, as if to strengthen Garo’s desire to stay on the road. It wasn’t without its problems, of course, but what experience was free to man without any toil and suffering?

It was in Solitude where Garo revealed the crown jewels of his wares; flexible glass. Folks first thought of it as Malachite, but Garo was quick to prove the claimants otherwise by help of an alchemist who appraised it. While not as durable as something made of Malachite, it was bona fide glass, as opposed to a material with a glassy look, and more importantly, it was far cheaper. Though he’d only brought one exhibition piece and one dinner set, it was bought for the Blue Palace itself, selling for more than the worth of his entire wagon. While he would later learn that his profit from the dinner set was due to noble families competing for a unique gift for an upcoming wedding, and not because of its actual value, the profit was made, and so was the point – this was all the proof Garo needed for his father to continue this new business venture. In a hurry to bring the good news, Garo even sold the wagons to make for a faster return.

The entrepreneur’s return was much celebrated by the family, and the money he made was well accepted. Turned out that, in Garo’s absence, a fire had broken out in one of the apprentice workshops, and although insured, compensations had to be made for the families of the workers that had lost their lives. While the family was tangled in the ensuing busywork, Garo learned that his father had already paid for preparations for a repeat trip, this time with a much larger stock. Unable to explain the conditions in which he’d made such money, he found himself obliged to make even bigger profits, and with a younger brother in tow, he was sent again to Skyrim. While anxious about the increased responsibilities at first, on the road up to the Jeralls, he found enough time to socialize with his younger brother, Decimus, to realize that others in the family shared his feelings about the business. Perhaps it was brotherly vigor, or perhaps it was the desire to see his desires act further, but Garo managed to put his fears aside and begin considering how they could make a profit from the trip that they had found themselves in.

More knowledgeable about the Pale Pass than the last time, the brothers Minassian were able to pass the border without issue, and although the sights of Skyrim were no less exhilarating to see the second time than the first, foreboding omens clouded the brothers’ journey. Learning that the High King was killed on their way to Solitude, and that Nord separatists, named Stormcloaks, were rebelling throughout the land, Garo and Decimus decided to avoid the possible rumble awaiting them in the city and made their way back to Whiterun to unload their remaining goods, and leave the province for good. However, they ended up finding themselves beset by separatist bandits on the road. Decimus was about to unsheathe his sword when Garo decided to leave one wagon behind as an offering and get away with Decimus on the second. Although the bandits were quick to turn back on their heels once they found that the wagon was full of glassware, the brothers’ wagon had covered enough distance for the bandits to decide the chase was not worth it.

The rest they had in Whiterun was short, and was not exactly filling them with confidence. Glassware was not exactly in high demand during times of civil war, and the brothers had unloaded their wagon for a pittance. Decimus was fearful of looking like a failure upon their return, and Garo was fearful of his venture being shut down. But fear was no cure for fate, and thus, they accepted their lot and decided to return. While passing through Helgen, Decimus remarked of the Colovians’ demand for the beverages of the north, and Garo made his last gamble, buying some barrels of Helgen Juniper Mead before making their way back home. Their wagons filled with booze, their hearts filled with fear, the brothers made their way through the Pale Pass into the Jeralls – and woke in the early day to unearthly roars, bearing witness to a great black dragon laying waste to the town they’d spent the other day in.

Alduin had made the brothers rich.

Descending hurriedly to Bruma with news of the situation, the brothers were first lauded as fearmongers, but when official reports of Helgen’s destruction reached the city, they were promptly summoned to report for the Count of Bruma. For their ‘service to the Empire’, they were given a meager sum of money, but they would later learn that the jackpot lay in their wagons. With the breweries of Helgen burnt to ash, and their workers similarly gone, the brothers Minassian were in all likelihood the owners of the single largest amount of the remaining Juniper Mead on all Tamriel, a vessel with which they could strike deep into the pockets of rich Colovians. Saving a barrel for the family to keep, the brothers began traveling through Colovia, telling tales of how Alduin had laid waste to an entire town before their very eyes, and then selling the heavily impressed, fearful Nords the ‘last bottles of Helgen’s finest’. By the time they returned to Cheydinhal, their purses were full of gold.

Nonetheless, the experience was not without its damage. Garo was somewhat harrowed by their fear of being attacked through the journey, and the apocalyptic sight of an antediluvian monster wiping out a city before his very eyes was not exactly beneficial for his mindset. He quit traveling for a while, leaving it to his more adventurous brother Decimus and whoever Decimus could convince, himself taking to bookkeeping for the family’s trade venture and planning for the future. He began reading up on contemporary accounts of the Dominion, wondering if there was any money to be made in the southern provinces – they would not have the protection of the Empire, but it was not like it had served them any in Skyrim anyway. He figured that Aram would not mind if he spent some time for himself, having created an excellent business opportunity for the family to capitalize upon and bringing in the lion’s share of the profit.

Garo’s next five years were spent at home, refining himself – at first, he joined the town militia in case of the Civil War going awry and reaching south, although the Cheydinhal Trained Band soon proved to be no more than a bunch of grown men dressing and marching like soldiers. Nonetheless, because of his status as a member of a prominent family, and his presence in the militia, he was approached by a Knight of the Thorn to be inducted into their brotherhood. Garo accepted the offer and quickly made use of his newly forged connections to make his family the sole supplier of glassware for the young nobles that were now his brothers-in-arms. From his knighthood onward, Garo spent most of his time joining the Knights in hunting parties, drinking parties and, well, just parties. Not only was it a good time, but it also allowed him to deepen his family’s influence in the city, which never hurt.

It was around this time when Garo, constantly urged by his parents to settle down and start a family of his own, decided to heed their advice. While he’d had a few escapades in his youth, and some short-stint lovers to accompany his partying with the Knights of the Thorn, when he looked back upon it, there was nothing concrete in his personal life. He began accompanying his mother Anush to ladies’ gatherings, and after hours upon hours of listening to the tales of the wives of burghers and stealing glances at their daughters, he eventually found a suitable candidate. Elena Albarnian was her name, a well-built lass about eight years younger than Garo, and even though Anush was concerned about her having Colovian or Nord ancestry, her argument being that no true Nibenese woman could stand at the same height as a man, the Albarnian family was well established for their reputable ancestry as bankers, and more importantly, Garo had found something captivating in the girl’s gaze.

The marriage was arranged quickly, his father and his brothers congratulating Garo on finding a proper girl with a proper family (think of all the investments they could make!), and although Elena was not entirely loveless towards Garo, finding him a decent man, their feelings for each other did not seem to go beyond the initial spark. Along with that came the problem of Elena’s father, Hasphat, dying soon after their marriage – with no living child other than Elena and two other daughters, there was no man left to handle the family business, and the responsibility fell on his sons-in-law, one of them being Garo. Being properly introduced to his in-laws at a rather tense dinner, he found that oversight of the Albarnian banks were divided to three upon Hasphat’s death, with Garo being responsible for the bank’s activity in Elsweyr and Valenwood. While somewhat peeved about his lack of consent to his new responsibilities, Garo was not exactly in a position to refuse and ended up abiding, for the sake of his newly wed wife, if nothing else.

Of course, after some dinners and some time, Garo would receive news that his in-laws had used their position to take considerable loans from the Imperial Treasury, before selling their shares in the bank and running off to parts unknown; last Garo heard, they were in southern Morrowind, supposedly planning an expedition to Akavir. Whatever the plans of the two were, Garo found that he alone was responsible for paying off the in-laws’ loans, as to not get into further legal trouble with the bank’s new shareholders – one fat and quarrelsome Dunmer by the name of Helseth Girano, and one Khajiit whose name he forgets, even fatter than Helseth – and worse, the Imperial Treasury itself. Garo began seeing to the liquidation of the bank, considering it the safest option since he had no knowledge of banking nor any enthusiasm for it, and made his way to Elsweyr with the fat Khajiit to proceed.

And boy, it was a doozy.

Caught up in a chain of events involving a completely emptied bank vault, at least three drug syndicates, an attempted coup, a Daedric cult, a gigantic toad swordmaster and copious amounts of Skooma, Garo found himself returning to Cyrodiil three years later a disheveled, balding mess, and found that he was legally declared dead and that his wife had inherited his share of the Minassian wealth and remarried. While Garo did not hold any contempt against his now ex-wife, since he himself wasn’t sure if the whole ordeal wasn’t a dying dream, the fact that he was alive started a lengthy legal battle, which he was only able to fund thanks to his family. Some years later, the court was settled, with Garo still responsible for liquidating the bank assets in Valenwood, and Elena still a divorcee. In debt to his family both spiritually and financially, and in debt to the Imperial Treasury, Garo ended up journeying to Valenwood to wrap up his business, and had just managed to write off the Albarnian Bank and chase new trade opportunities with the Dominion before finding himself tangled in yet another adventure.

Biggest Regret: While he has since been divorced, Garo considers marrying his ex-wife Elena to be the worst mistake of his life, mostly because of the matters that he found himself having to contend with after marriage. He is still partial to Elena and the two are coolly civil with each other, but nonetheless, having lost nearly three years in Elsweyr, and almost his life, in trying to save his in-laws' debts from taking his family down with them, Garo is understandably not very chill about the matter.

Garo‘s Goal: Garo has a simple goal in life, to be rich enough to not worry about work or debts anymore. While he is not without greed, the goal is fueled more by a desire to settle back down and live his life in peace, rather than a Sisyphean desire to amass more money.

---

Skills:

Expert: Mercantile
Adept: Alchemy, Hand-to-Hand, Speechcraft
Novice: Acrobatics, Athletics, One-Handed Blade

Spells:
None

Equipment:
-A burgher’s outfit
-A sword belt
-A potion satchel
-A Nibenese sword
-A Khajiiti dagger
-A Camel hair cape
-A purse heavy with Septims

Misc. Possessions:
-A quill and inkwell set
-A few wraps of parchment
-A bundle of financial documents
-A ledger of sales
-A personal journal

Name: Aud Longspear
Race: Nord
Sex: Female
Age: 29
Birthsign: The Lord
Family Origins: The Skaal of Solstheim
Appearance:



Aud, as a Nord, is unsurprisingly tall, only an inch or so under six feet. She is a strong woman, and a compact one: her entire body is covered in corded, rippling muscle from a life lived in the harsh climate of Solstheim, and long days and nights spent hunting. Her skin is extremely fair, and burns easily. As pale as it is, though, the rough, almost leathery texture very clearly indicates the many-many long hours she’s spent under the sun and in the driving snow. She has raven-black hair that falls in a tight braid down to her mid-back, as it’s far harder for it to futz you up in a fight if it’s harder for it to get in eyes and mouth.

Her body is covered in scars, acquired over many years of hunting and defending the Skaal from bandit incursions and other threats. The largest and most important is a long series of parallel lines on her left shoulder, forming a jagged claw mark that runs all the way from her shoulder’s apex to just below her breast. It serves as a stark, potent reminder for her to never grow overconfident in her skills. She has a very sharp face with angular features, with the Nord high cheekbones so common to see in Skyrim and Solstheim. Those cheekbones frame a pair of glittering pale-grey eyes, narrow and suspicious. Underneath each of her eyes is a thick stripe of black war paint to guard her eyes against sunglare, and a narrow red stripe cuts vertically through each. Her nose is medium-sized and straight, narrowing to a sharp point.

When she’s not wearing her armor (which is essentially all the time that she’s not actively and consciously preparing for combat), her general clothing is a reflection of the harsh arctic climate where she was born and raised: a shirt and kilt of thick gray-black bear furs over horker-hide trousers, occasionally speckled with daubs of ground shells to break up her silhouette and make it a touch paler, depending on the climate in which she’s hunting. She wears a heavy bearskin hooded cloak just slightly lighter than the rest of her furs, pinned about her neck by a bear claw toggle. The clothing is rounded off by a pair of sturdy leather boots, light enough for a swift, easy run but heavy enough to withstand the constant wear and tear of the snow and stones of Solstheim. If you look closely, you can see them patched in several places.

However, describing her normally is only half of her description, because Aud just so happens to be a werebear. She has a wild, unpredictable strain of lycanthropy, a seemingly-random time passing between transformations, though it’s never more than twice a week and never less than once every fortnight. When she transforms, whatever she's wearing and bearing melds into her; she is much larger and bulkier, and her posture is hunched; her fur is the same color as her cloak, a charcoal-grey, and she has long, sharp claws and fangs. Her eyes remain the same pale grey, but turn bestial and glint angrily as she unleashes her frustrations.

---

Equipment:

• Her primary weapon is a replica of Hircine’s Daedric artifact, the Spear Of Bitter Mercy, forged out of good, quality steel. There’s nothing else special about it; it’s simply a well-crafted (if slightly rugged-looking compared to the original) spear about five and a half feet long, generally slung over her right shoulder. She did, however, make one major concession: instead of metal, the haft is made of a gray-stained fire hardened wood. It’s been enchanted with sun-magic, for better fighting of vampires.
• On her left shoulder, opposite her normal spear, is a somewhat strange object: it looks like a basic quiver, but nearly twice as long, sitting a hefty four feet. Inside of it are five spears slightly shorter than her main spear, much more simple in their forging (though no less effective) and specifically for throwing: steel and fire hardened wood. These are also sun-enchanted, so losing one is a big blow to Aud’s arsenal; they’re not easily replaced.
• A set of Nordic carved armor, significantly cut down to vastly reduce weight, for use during real combat: a chestplate, pauldrons, vambraces and tassets. She refuses the use of a full suit, insisting that it slows her down too much in combat. It’s been modified since her joining of the Dawnguard; instead of chainmail, it’s been mounted on a suit of light Dawnguard leathers.
• A brilliantly-crafted Stalhrim dagger, forged by the finest craftsman of the Skaal some hundred years ago. When she went exile, she stole it from the village as her only memento, something to remind her of her roots, however many paths she may wander down and however far she may stray. She hangs it from a leather thong around her neck underneath her clothing, but that does not diminish its potential as a weapon if she really, really needs it.

---

Misc. Possessions:
Always one to travel light, there isn’t much else that Aud carries with her. Most of her food comes with her hunting.

• A simple leather backpack (a fairly small one, compared to most traveler’s packs) that she carries most of her things in.
• Flint, steel and dry tinder kept in a pouch of oiled leather. Self-explanatory.
• Two-liter leather waterskin. Hung on the outside of her backpack by a leather thong.
• A small bottle of oil that she uses to lubricate the joints of her armor.
• Needle and heavy thread.
• A whetstone.
• A purse and a few septims, mostly to pay people to renew the enchantments on her weapons.

---

Family and Associations:
Gisli Horn-Blower - Father (Estranged)
Skið Swifteye - Mother (Estranged)
Basically The Whole Skaal Population Of Solstheim - Former tribemates, now estranged.
The Companions - She tried.
The Dawnguard - Current membership, and who she considers family. She’s fiercely protective of them.

---

Favoured Skills:
Highly proficient: Two-handed (Spear): Aud is an expert at the usage of a spear. While she’s not particularly acrobatic with the weapon (she’s no Mazrah), she’s exceptional at using it to space herself apart from shorter-range enemies, harrying them until she can find an opening. She’s mostly a defensive fighter, and due to the sheer quantity of animals and bandits that she would often end up fighting with a very small group, she’s become very skilled at fending off multiple adversaries at a time. All those scars gotta come from somewhere, after all.

Highly proficient: Marksmanship (Also Spear): And just as she excels in the use of spears in melee combat, so too does she excel at throwing them, perhaps even more so. It’s a fairly uncommon practice compared to archery, which she initially began after watching the rieklings of Solstheim bringing down far larger prey than themselves with the use of their spears. She found it far more effective than archery (which she was always rather incompetent at), and it became her primary hunting vector. She’s practiced throwing spears since she was barely a teenager, and it shows: she can throw them a very long distance (nearly 40m, or about 130 feet), and is very, very accurate with them. They cause far more severe wounds than a typical arrow, but she can only carry so many at a time.

Moderately proficient: Athletics: A native of an incredibly harsh climate and a hunter-warrior since her youth, Aud has become very fit. She can jog for hours at a time, and is capable of bursts of incredible speed to chase down deer, though she tires out quickly during them. She is also a capable climber, able to navigate her way around the rocky crags of Solstheim.

Moderately proficient: Stealth: Hand in hand with her athletic skill and her spearcraft, her skill in stealth comes with hunting. While in a city she wouldn’t know how to even begin to escape a view, whenever she’s in the wilderness she can melt into the background as long as she’s holding still or moving slowly. Moving quickly while hiding isn’t something in her wheelhouse, however, and she reveals herself rather quickly. Still, it’s useful for ambushing a deer. Or a bandit.

Somewhat proficient: Light Armor: While she doesn’t much like wearing armor, she recognizes how useful it is when she engages in combat and so has become fairly decent at moving around in it. She loses much of her explosive speed, but if it turns away a single lethal blow, it’s more than worth it to her.

---

History:
Aud was born to Gisli Hornblower and Skið Swifteye, in the deep winter of 4E184. Her life in the Skaal village was one of hardship from the beginning. Solstheim is not a kind place at the best of times. Crushing ashfalls and the winter weather are just as lethal as any living being on the island. But in addition to the hardships of life as Skaal, there’s a deep camaraderie there; in such a hostile place, you can’t afford divides in the tribe. That and the shared belief in the All-Maker foster a deep interconnectedness in the Skaal, and Aud threw herself into the center of it. If you asked her, she could still probably name everybody in the tribe when she lived there. Then she’d knock you out for asking her about it, but the point remains,

From the very beginning, she was a willful child, unwilling to sit inside. Many times in her childhood, she had very close escapes from life-threatening incidents. Her favorite story to recount is clinging to the rocks outside Frossel at only ten years old with groups of Rieklings both above and beneath her, unaware of her presence as she desperately looked for a way out without sending any loose stones showering down to show her presence.

As she matured, this willful nature settled into a fierce independence and athleticism. Roving far across Solstheim was a calling for her, and her keen eyes and strong muscles conspired with these qualities to turn her into a skilled hunter. Still...she felt that the bow in her hands tried to kill her more than it tried to kill her quarry. She simply could not get the hang of the weapon. She still has scars across her first three fingers from the string biting into her unskilled hands. Then, one day, she watched Rieklings bringing down a deer, peppering it with their arrow-sized spears, and an epiphany bloomed in her. Taking a trio of poorly-balanced spears from above the mantle of her home--her mother was always better with the bow anyway, and her father the axe--she stole off into the arctic night. She returned at sunup, exhausted and satisfied, with the corpse of a fully-grown horker dragged on a makeshift sled behind her.

That first hunting trip with spears changed Aud’s life. She came into her own as a consummate spear-wielder, and as she aged, she only grew more skillful. Her spears were just as brutal in combat as they were on the hunt, and at sixteen, she earned her epithet--Longspear--by killing a frost troll with a single spear to the back of the neck, cast from nearly thirty paces. This feat--combined with how effective her fighting style was at harrying bandits and raiders off from the Skaal, scars she’d acquired notwithstanding--had earned her ales and claps on the back from people much more seasoned, who’d seen things that she couldn’t have imagined.

Then, the next year, things in Solstheim got harder. Not the same kind of hardness; Aud was used to that. No; Skaal began to act strangely, and they clustered around the All-Maker Stones, building something while repeating an odd mantra over and over. In an attempt to help them, she traveled to the Beast Stone, thinking she would do something to make a difference. But she was unable to make any change at all. In powerless frustration, she lashed out at the Beast Stone, tried to demolish whatever structure they were building. And she only realized what a mistake she’d made when one of the people working on the structure morphed into an abomination: a werebear. And though she tried her best to fight it off, it mauled her savagely, carried her into the woods, and left her for dead.

And that is when Aud felt the Turning for the first time.

Her impotent rage manifested inside of her as she lashed out at the trees around her, the new-grown claws on her malformed paw-hands shredding the bark and wood like paper. Red descended over her eyes and assaulted the forest for a full night. When she returned to her shaken, pallid form in the morning, she looked around at the destruction she’d wrought, and bile rose in her throat. She vomited from the existential illness of what she’d become, and a deep self-loathing was born in her. She slunk back to her tribe and presented herself to Fanari Strong-Voice, asking what needed to be done to redeem herself in the All-Maker’s eyes. She was given two choices: she could let herself be killed to show the All-Maker her deference and respect, or she could leave and search for a way to remove her lycanthropy. She was a hair away from asking for death, but the smallest voice within her urged her to seek redemption. She gathered her things--her parents would no longer look at her--snatched a dagger of pure Stalhrim in a desperate fit of sadness, and departed for Skyrim. She was on the cusp of her eighteenth year.

She wandered Tamriel for a long time. Skyrim, Cyrodiil, Morrowind; in none of them could she find a sense of belonging. Her self-hatred refused to leave. Her werebear nature had her removed from the Companions before long. She balked at the strict rules of the Cyrodiil fighter’s guild. Everywhere else, everyone else, laughed her out for her uneducated nature, and her illiteracy.

When she returned to Skyrim after years of roaming--she was 26 at the time--she heard rumors of an organization that killed monsters--vampires, she later discovered--that had been rebuilt south of Riften. Traveling across the country, she saw the scars that the civil war had left deep within the nation, and--more important--she saw those scars exploited by all walks of villainy. It came to a head one night as she slept under the stars near Ivarstead. Her memory of the incident is crystal-clear, even now: the burning orange of her assailant’s eyes, and the baleful red of the magic that began to pull her life away. It was her dumb luck that it was a newly-turned, weak vampire, or she would have died that night. She pinned it to a tree with three spears through its torso and one through the neck, and let the sun take it in the morning. Then, galvanized by an urgent sense of self-preservation, she set forth for Fort Dawnguard with a renewed purpose.

And in the Dawnguard, she finally found a place that accepted her and her...condition. A place where she could belong. Over the next few years, she would come to a new resolution: her lycanthropy was not a damning curse, as she’d believed for a decade now. It was a boon. Her unnatural vitality, and her immunity to Sanguinaire Vampiris--her twisted ursine form--it was all a weapon to use against those who were truly cursed: the vampires. She learned to read. She made friends, armed herself better. And she set out from Fort Dawnguard. Now, she wanders Tamriel again. But this time, she is not aimlessly, despondently meandering. Hearing rumors muttered on the wind of a Higher Vampire in Valenwood, Aud has gone back to her roots, and is doing what she does best:

She is hunting.

---

Aud's Biggest Regret:
For a long time, it was going to the Beast Stone, and the subsequent choice to survive instead of to die. But now? Now, after finding people to care for and protect? Now it's that she spent so long living a half-life as she wandered, despondent, through Tamriel.

Aud's Goal:
For an equally long time, it was to find out a way to remove her lycanthropy so she could return to her home. But now, her goal is one that's more...open-ended, with no strict endpoint: now that she has a new home, she goal is to ALWAYS have that home to return to.

---

Personality:
Aud is an intense woman. Unnecessarily intense, many have said. Her years of self-loathing, believing that she was an abomination that could only escape by purging herself, or finding herself a cure, have worn the patience out of her soul through long abrasion. She has no time for social games, either her own or those of others. She is straightforward and stubborn, point-blank refusing anything she deems wrong without any preamble or justification. She is...not a quiet person. Never one to let things move on around her without having any say, she’s fairly practiced at slamming her hand on a table to shut people up so she can have her say, and she’s goddamn getting her say, no matter who tries to shush her.

And she’s not just that aggressive in conversation. She is an exceedingly confrontational person in most other aspects of her character as well. While she can, of course, discern when getting in a fight would probably kill her or make it impossible for her to do her job and thus avoid one, she’s not just an angry person. She loves fighting. Barroom brawls are a fairly common occurrence for her, and she’s won her fair share of coin by beating the tar out of overconfident men who can’t imagine being bested by a young woman. She’s lost just as much from having the tar beaten out of her as well. She takes the loss and the pain in stride; she doesn’t use much money, and it’s of fairly little importance to her.

Perhaps the picture being painted here is that Aud doesn’t know how to have fun. And most of the time, that’s...not inaccurate. Aud’s had a lot of disappointment over the past decade or so of her life. She doesn’t trust positive emotions easily, and she’s had so many holes poked in her self-esteem over the years that she’s more likely to be suspicious of happiness than to enjoy it. Still, there are times when little fragments of her old confidence resurface. Mostly, it’s when she’s inebriated. Drinking reminds her of the old camaraderie that she had in the Skaal, and of the new friendships she’s made in the Dawnguard. She relaxes and lets some of her spite go, and Aud without anger is almost a different person, with a penchant for bad jokes and bawdy songs. And when she is comfortable enough around somebody to show them that side of her, she becomes fiercely protective of them. And thus her Dawnguard zealotry. While it’s congealed by now into a deeply-rooted hatred of vampires, it began as a burning need to protect the ramshackle little family she has in the group from those who would see them killed.

Speaking of the Dawnguard, the way they operate--the loose structure they have, and the relatively few rules--speaks to perhaps the deepest-seated point of Aud’s personality. Ever since childhood, the thing most important to her has been freedom. Her maturation has given unto her the realization that total freedom--anarchy--is...less than a good thing, and in fact leads to people like the vampires doing whatever they want while the weaker people are beaten down by them. She extends her surprisingly protective nature out to them, but subscribes to a simple philosophy: the best defense is a good offense. Instead of shielding people and protecting them like a town guard, she takes it upon herself to remove what’s threatening them.