Don't shoot me for trying lol. I understand that it says "Full", but is there any chance you are still open to accepting?

<Snipped quote by PapaOso>

Of course!

If you have a character idea, feel free to send me a message or we can chat here :) Would be happy to have you!

You just have to kill Spoopy for your place.

Raznog and Shazali [+]

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 travellers 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

Spell List

Telekinesis
Waterbreathing
Ebonyflesh
Paralyze
Detect Dead/ Life
Transmutation
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.

Vraurdoin [+]

V R A U R D O I N

Race: Altmer
Age: 32
Birthsign: The Shadow

Appearance

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.

Attributes / Skills / Spells

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

History

..................................

Vraurdoin is the offspring of his mother Mystara and his father Alannor. They both were veterans of the Great War, she a healer patching together the misery behind the front lines and he a messenger swiftly carrying the orders that would create more of it. It was a couple as much in love of their only child as they were in love of each other, so they cared greatly for him. The first years in Vraurdoin's life were uneventful in the most positive sense. Lillandril, located close to the northwest border of the Sumerset Isles, was a big city that seemed to absord all the daily routine and real-life struggles of a newly established Third Dominion, not leaving much of that to bother about for the small village right at the coastline the three individuals lived in. He was taught what had become his father's passion after the war and together they went fishing in the Abecean Sea. Later on, as Vraurdoin had started to grow into a young boy of more respectable size, they also turned westwards and deeper into the Eltheric Ocean towards the island scattered across it there. They were careful enough not to sail right into the most violent storms or to try catching fish that were better suited for a vice versa operation, but still the young Vraurdoin gathered enough experience there to learn that Tamriel was not the infinite sandbox it had seemed to be just a few years earlier into his childhood.

It certainly proved to be anything but a sandbox when the Thalmor's long fingers finally noticed the village and took it and all able-bodied men and women into their firm grasp. The war was over, but natural fluctuation, less fruitful encounters and upcoming plans still maintained a rather high demand for a steady stream of fresh soldiers. From one day to another Vraurdoin found himself extracted from his former environment and put into a more or less anonymous training camp.

Years at sea from early on had formed Vraurdoin into someone who stood a bit out of crowd in terms of his physique. He was an easy catch for those hammering down on innocent recruits. Whether he liked it or not they engulfed him with that certain bit of an 'elite' aura and clad him into that fine moonstone and quicksilver armor a little earlier than the others. He was to go down the warrior route and so his training focused more on hard exercising than on magic, again with what felt like that certain extra touch to it compared to the others. In spite of the harshness he was surrounded with Vraurdoin did well. That was... until he didn't. Roughly a year into things he proved to have been pushed too hard as yet another exercising unit turned out to be bone-breaking quite literally. Despite the healers' efforts it was uncertain whether Vraurdoin would be able to make a full recovery or not, but it any case it was not possible for him to soldier on in the way he used to for a rather unforeseeable amount of time. His masters didn't want to let go of one of their potential elite soldiers, but where to put a man with a badly broken leg to good use while also maintaining one's firm graps around him ?

..................................

The answer appeared to be as unappealing and boring as it could be: administration. While pratically 'ordered' to maintain his training the best he could, Vraurdoin was relocated to Valenwood in order to serve the Dominion there by doing its paperwork. At least it seemed as if his superiors trusted his intellect almost as much as his body as he wasn't put into the very lowest ranking office available, but somewhere close above it.

..................................

There, over the course of several months, Vraurdoin learned that one can write much more on a piece of paper in a matter of minutes than a soldier can do in his entire life. It was an insight into how small of a gear he'd be in the Dominion's machinery even if his soldier's career would continue and succeed later on. Not that he had much of a chance in escaping it anyway depending on the progress of his recovery, but still a sobering and disillusional experience that planted a minor seed of doubt. That was not the primary problem however. Being able to peek into plans for resource distribution, troop allocation, jurisdiction and other topics on a local scale by shoving them around, he garnered some insight into the Dominion's general approach and started to ask himself a question: Is conquest the most effective way to improve one's wealth and quality of life ? Or is it prone to produce long-term problems one would never have to face otherwise ?

He reviewed the quantity of precious resources spent on the effort, estimated just how many of his own people were spending their lives on the steady maintenance of additional provinces instead of doing something else, added the numbers and came to a conclusion. A very private one though as nobody in his environment seemed to experience the same thing he did: Pity. Not only for his future self given the continuation of the present path, not only for his ex-comrades back in the camp who would be fed into the smouldering fire that was Tamriel torn apart between Dominion and Empire, but also for those who were on the receiving end on all that. In order to see how well they were doing and how likely it was for them to embrace the Aldmeri doings at least someday he hardly had to do more than to sniff out the candles and take a look out the window. It might have been a phenomenon of misery and openly held grudges restricted to the very local area, but a brief inspection of the papers on his desk forced him to extrapolate every time he hoped to relieve himself by thinking that. It was time for as much change as he could induce.

Pouring sand into the Dominion's gears was no trivial task though. Vraurdoin had do some ugly things to his leg in order to artificially slow down the healing process, thereby gaining time before anyone would think about pulling him out of the offices he was in. He used it to train himself in things like mimicking someone's handwriting or replicating a wax seal. The time of minor modifications had come, even if some of those would deliberately put some of his own people into a lot more danger than otherwise or cause goods to get 'lost'. From his position he could only do so much though and after the early successes he started to grant himself additional authority by more and more extensive use of the lockpick. All while maintaining that gentle smile many of his colleagues put up in the same building while walking around, meeting and greeting him before being their work was corrupted in the night after. He knew that manipulating not only his own message stream but also that of others higher up and further down would make it a lot harder for anyone to backtrack the root of the problem. At some point he overcooked it. The parchment seemed to be just so important and yet so available for manipulation that he just grabbed it and started to get to work, not realizing that it was a fake only put into existence for the sake of detective work.

..................................

Once he saw the stern look on the faces of the Thalmor agents entering the floor he was working on, Vaurdoin knew it was over. He bailed out just barely in time for an escape and went into hiding. Over the course of his presence in Valenwood he had build up some connections. Some of them were Altmer friends who, just like him, were not that much convinced by the concept of the Third Dominion and didn't speak about it publicly, but others were Bosmer and members of other races he had come into contact with more by ciphered messages than anything else.

..................................

They kept him supplied for the first months, helped him change his appearance so he could no longer be identified by each and every patrol and taught him more about the swamps and forests of the countryside he had been living in for long without ever really getting to know all of it in person. While he has never agreed upon being a member of any kind of resistance movement it is safe to say that Vraurdoin has been maintaining a preference for Dominion installations when it came to the acquisition of new supplies and spare coins. He refrained from killing soldiers or even workers since he never forgot many of them might come from families and might have been tossed into the torrent just like him, but aside from that his repertoire of crimes has grown fairly extensive. Treason is just the pinnacle of them. The Empire ? He has considered seeking their help and getting a foot into their door by presenting them with information only an Aldmeri insider can know about, but ultimately those Imperials are the same garbage just with more fancy names.

Personality

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.

Goals & regrets

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.

Equipment

• 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

Not as fancy as some, but I'm here anyway...

Gwilym [+]

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

Appearance [+]

Gwilym cuts the image of a handsome noble’s firstborn son, of hearty stock used to swinging swords and hefting shields on the fields of battle. His broad shoulders droop more often than not though, and the muscle in his arms has shrunk a bit since his last fencing lesson. He still overtops 6 feet by a good 6 inches like his father, though, no matter how much he’d like to shrink himself out of sight sometimes. In public, he puts on the best show he can, thrusting his chest out and walking with a purposeful stride. Catch him in those lonely moments and that pretty face droops.

---

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

Nimriell 'Lil Green' Briarwood [+]

better known as 'Green' or 'Lil Green'

Bosmer ~ Female ~ 42
Reaper's March/Malabal Tor, Valenwood ~ The Warrior

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.

A Man of Nibenay [+]

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

Certainly not as elaborate as most here, but hopefully she's good enough:

Aud Longspear [+]

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.

Shara [+]

---

---

Orsimer || Female || 28 || The Warrior
Dushnik Yal Stronghold, Skyrim

---

Shara takes after her mother’s beauty. She has soft features and less bulk on her than other orcs; she stands at only 5’5, well below average. Her skin is a dark shade of green. Though her body itself is scarred by her time fighting and mining, her face is unscathed and she often covers her scars with modest clothes. Her hair is black, wavy, and about shoulder length. She leaves it uncared for often, which is a leftover from her rebellious teenage years when she would do it to spite her mother. She never got into the habit of caring for it. Because her mother made such a big deal about her beauty, she does her best not to emphasize it and cares little for looks. Though she used to be very muscled, they deteriorated since she stopped training and fighting as hard and she has a more simply athletic build more suited to hunting and climbing than wearing heavy armour and wielding a mace.

She typically wears regular, cotton or leather traveller’s clothes, acquired during her time with Anthar as one of the commodities they often traded. She favours comfortable pants which are easy to run or climb in, as she has a fondness for such activities when she has the chance, and spurns dresses and other clothes which she believes attempt to enhance one’s beauty, such as jewelry. She no longer walks like a warrior, and on the contrary, she makes attempts to relax her fighter’s instincts rather than listen to them. Having once broken both of her legs, she is grateful to be able to walk at all, and running, jumping or climbing are now seen as luxuries to her. She often moves at a lively pace, leaving others to keep up.

---

As Shara was born in an Orsimer stronghold, her father was the chief of Dushnik Yal and her mother was his third wife. She had no full siblings, but several half-siblings through her father and his other wives. Her mother, Kuza, was the chief’s favourite wife, a delicate and soft woman who had put hard days working in the mine long behind her. She was beloved to her husband, but looked down on by others for her lack of work ethic.

Shara inherited Kuza’s delicate, beautiful features, to her mother’s delight. She told her daughter she would marry a chief, as her mother did, and she didn’t need to do the work of smithing and hunting the way the rest of the stronghold did. But Shara hated being restricted by her mother, and at every turn she would sneak off to play or train with the other children. Like other orcs, she learned blacksmithing, hunting, and fighting, though thanks to her mother, it was a spottier education than others received. Unfortunately for her, the others her age noticed the way Shara was smaller and softer than them, and simply less of a natural at the skills she tried to learn. Despite how hard she tried, Shara didn’t quite fit in with either her mother or the others her age.

In Shara’s teenage years, her mother doubled down on driving her in the direction of marriage and children. It drove Shara further and further from her mother as a rebellious streak kicked in. At every turn, Shara would avoid her mother in favour of hunting or mine work. It drove a wedge between them and by the time Shara was old enough for her mother to begin arranging marriage to another chief, she had no intentions of going. She spent increasing amounts of time hunting on her own, and argued furiously with her mother about how she did not, in fact, want a husband, nor children.

When Kuza’s attempts to marry Shara to another stronghold became too strong to ignore and the engagement too serious, Shara finally made a snap decision to leave the stronghold amidst a fight with her mother. The decision, made in haste, left her feeling adrift as she wandered Skyrim. She headed for the nearest city, Markarth.

It was a rude awakening for Shara when she realized, outside the stronghold, she would need money in exchange for a place to sleep and food to eat, as opposed to her previous communal lifestyle. After a few days and an unpaid tab at an inn, she was chased out onto the street.

It was the beginning of a new lifestyle, living among Nords, especially on the street. She realized quickly she would need to work, so she began looking for it. Shara was never one to let an opportunity slide by, so over the months she spent in Markarth, she worked as many different things, from blacksmithing and mining as she was used to, to working for a tanner, a fisherman (her favourite of the bunch), and even an alchemist. She picked up many things assisting skilled workers, but never found anything to excel at herself beyond assisting. She began to enjoy her life in Markarth, the jobs she did, and the skills she learned, even though she always felt like an outsider among the Nords, who weren’t always interested in hiring some orc. Her smaller size and less hard looks, compared to other orcs, worked in her favour.

The opportunity that took her away from Markarth came one evening when Shara was having a drink at an inn. The night began with several drinks too many, an arm-wrestling match with a muscled Khajiit woman, climaxed with a bar brawl and ended with a job offer. Though Shara took more to hunting than fighting, she was still born and raised in a stronghold, and her instincts were good. She held her own, and the Khajiit - Kihani - invited her aboard her band of mercenaries, who were on their way to High Rock.

As it turned out, Shara felt the most at home among the band as she had her whole life. They helped her improve her fighting and archery skills and accepted her as one of their own. They shared camps and meals, which comforted Shara as she felt most at home this way, and even as they took the odd mercenary job, the fighting wasn’t too hard.

She spent five years with the company, who she began to see as family. However, things changed over the years. Kihani and the others took their search for coin seriously, and spent it as quickly as they could earn it with mercenary work. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the group turned to banditry. It began with cutting corners on jobs, taking bribes, and, years in, ended as highwaymen set up along roads.

Shara didn’t think about it very hard. Feeling accepted for the first time, she was loyal to her new family to a fault. But it came to a head when a band of Fighter’s Guild members were sent to deal with the bandit problem. The ensuring battle ended poorly for Kihani’s band. They were scattered and killed, Kihani herself among the casualties. Shara was best with a bow rather, and during the fighting she was stationed high up a tree. A well-placed arrow struck her directly in the abdomen. She lost her grip on her own weapon and it plummeted to the forest floor. Stuck bleeding up a tree, she was no help as the rest of her band was routed.

She passed out from blood loss. Later, she woke up on the ground, many broken bones later but miraculously alive. An old Breton man stood above her, so old in fact that she groggily wondered if he was still living. He helped Shara crawl into his wagon and lay her on his bed, where she promptly passed out once again.

Over the next year, the Breton man helped her heal. He splinted both her broken legs and dressed her wound in anti-bacterial poultices and had her drinking healing potions. He taught her to walk again. And as he did so, Shara quietly learned.

He was a man of few words, named Anthar. With quiet words he explained each potion, poultice and splint calmly to her. He had a kind, old dog who often shared the bed with Shara as she recovered. Anthar slept on a cot, and despite Shara’s insistences, refused to trade with her and take the bed. He was a travelling healer, and stopped their wagon small settlements - Shara didn’t see another city in their entire time together. The locals recognized him and would purchase all sorts of ointments and tinctures from him, sometimes with coins but more often in trades, and if they couldn’t afford it, Anthar didn’t charge them at all.

Even once she was healed, Shara made no move to leave Anthar’s wagon, nor did he ever suggest she should. She grieved the loss of Kihani’s band, whom she saw as family, and also mourned her image of them and herself. She spent a lot of time considering the harm she had done and began living under a cloud of guilt. Shara stayed with Anthar and his dog for two more years as they travelled High Rock, learning his techniques of healing so that she could help him with his business. She came to terms with her life as a bandit as she spent time with Anthar, helping instead of harming.

Unfortunately, Anthar’s old age caught up to him. Shara cared for him. He insisted on continuing his practice up until his very last day, so Shara helped him do so. When he passed, he did so peacefully. At the end of his life, he bid Shara to let go of her guilt and live her own life - perhaps the most personal words he had ever spoken to her. She had no reply.

Shara hardly knew what to do with herself once he was gone. She had his wagon and his practice, but it wasn’t truly her own. She realized she had cared more for Anthar than for healing, the same way she had cared more for Kihani than banditry. Yet Anthar was wholly dedicated to his craft. She pondered his parting wish for her often, wondering what, exactly, a life of her own would look like.

The tranquil life she had lived for over two years ended as she entered Daggerfall, feeling much the same she did in Markarth. She picked up jobs of all kinds except fighting. The idea of once again having conflict with another person put her stomach in knots, and Anthar came to mind. She couldn’t go back to her old ways ever again, yet she slowly woke up from the dream that was her time with Anthar. She realized what Anthar meant about ‘living,’ as it seemed all the life in her had been sucked out. Determined to regain it, she pushed herself into a positive attitude and has been trying to live in a way which would make Anthar proud.

Her most recent endeavour is work as a sailor on merchant ships, and most recently docked in Woodhearth.

---

Shara, first and foremost, has strong personal beliefs. She doesn't quite believe in fate, but holds that things happen the way they are meant to in the end, and for the better. Opportunities are presented in order for her to take them, so she rarely passes one by and rushes to look for them at every turn. She swore off ever fighting with another person, right down to arm wrestling, and believes that she should end all conflicts without violence. She believes that most people are good at their core, even if not always towards her. She never holds others to her own beliefs, but will happily discuss them. Ultimately Shara still loves to live in a communal way and shares what is hers with others without a second thought. At her core, she wishes for acceptance. Yet, she also believes, thanks to Anthar, in living one's life to the fullest, which is part of why she is always looking to try new things and take risky chances.

The only activity she truly loves is running and climbing. She loves to be athletic and to use her body to its fullest ability, simply for fun. She has never had a passion for much else, not healing nor blacksmithing nor even hunting, though she enjoys all of those things as well. She's very much a jack of all trades and master of none, as she picks up as many skills as she can capably but never excels. She is very fond of dogs, as they remind her of Anthar and her time there.

---

Possessions
» Backpack, a few pairs of travelling clothes, sturdy leather boots
» Waterskin, flask, coinpurse with her most recent pay in it [~78]
» A basic sort of 'first aid kit' with some herbs, bandages, tincture ingredients
» Bedroll, blanket, basic gear for sleeping rough

Biggest Regret: Her biggest regret is allowing herself and Kihani's band to fall into banditry. She wishes she had thought about it, and actually realized the impact of their actions sooner so that she could have spoken up.

Shara's Goal: Shara's goal is to find 'her own life' as Anthar bid her.

Skills
Moderately Proficient:
» Alchemy [Healing-related only]
» Archery
» Acrobatics/Athletics
» Blacksmithing
» Hand-to-Hand

Somewhat Proficient:
» One-Handed Blade

Pu Karanthi [+]

Name: Pu Karanthi
Race: Redguard
Age: 23
Birthsign: Steed
Family Origins: Rihad

Appearance:
Pu is a tall younger fellow, with kind brown eyes that can adopt a sharp, deadliness when he gets angered. His shoulders are broad and his legs are long, with strong hands and a trim physique. He has a simple way of dress in the form of long, loose trousers beneath a red sash belt tied about his slim waist. A sleeveless linen shirt covers his torso, however when it rains he's not above wearing his hide jacket he carries in his pack. Pu moves easily and agilely, with a confidence that belies his experiences in surviving dangerous situations. On his left ear, a silver stud gleams in the sunlight, and both of his wrists have bronze hoop bracelets with the signs of Akatosh on them.

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Personality: Pu has simple tastes. Good food, nice drink, and a soft place to sleep are good enough for him. Truth be told, he is somewhat lost in his life. Without his family to look after, he's trying to decide what he wants for himself. He's always had a strong work ethic, but recently he's had a restlessness that takes hold of him. Never in his early life did he think he would make it to the fabled land of Valenwood. Pu tries to keep a lid on his competitive streak, but he usually won't back down on a challenge, likely because he's had to do everything for himself most of his life where most other people haven't. Deep in his soul, he does long for adventure and riches, but not to impress anyone. More to feel fulfilled himself at what he's currently doing.

---

History: Pu grew up on a small manorial home outside of Rihad, born the oldest sibling of three. His great grandfather was granted the land for reward for service to the state in a time of war. Pu's father was a yeoman who farmed the land with his brother and his wife before they had children. When Pu was of age he began to work again as well, and he traveled with his father to Rihad and even Skaven to sell his goods far and wide. Pu's uncle was a well known sellsword, and he promised Pu's mother he would never teach Pu the sword at her insistence. So instead he taught Pu how to use his walking staff in self defense, and he gave him an iron dagger as well.

When he was eight years old, his two younger sisters were born, named Ajra and Bilne. They were inquisitive youngsters and trouble makers much like their older brother was, and he loved them above all else. Life continued as one might expect for the next few years as the sisters grew into children and Pu was growing into a young man.

One day, there was news of a band of marauders from the north moving south, ransacking small villages and towns in their wake. His father went to meet with King Blubamka of Rihad to ask if the King would send troops to protect the surrounding villages. The King offered for his family to take refuge in the city, but Pu's father grew angry, as he knew without the farm his family would have no means to survive. He argued with the King, and the King had him executed in a political sleight-of-hand and announced Pu's father was the leader of one of the many gangs in the city, as the King was trying to quell the crime wave wounding Rihad.

With no word from his father, his family was caught unawares as the ransackers attacked and burned the farm. Pu watched his mother be run through with a sword, and ran to get his sisters to safety. He took them both in his strong arms and took one of the family horses, narrowly escaping the bandits and riding hard east until he made it to Cyrodiil. There he found a Temple of Akatosh that they found refuge in, where the priests offered to raise his sisters. He took the priest's offer and then took to the road to find what remained of their farm and what happened to his father.

He was gone for three years, having buried his mother and found out the truth of his father's disappearance. Returning to the temple, he stayed there with them for another few years, farming for the priests and helping them around the temple until one day his uncle came to visit, having tracked them down. His uncle asked him if he would like to accompany with him on the road for a job in Eleswyr fighting against a contingent of Thalmor. He did so, and found himself in the life of a mercenary for another two years until he took the road northward, feeling tired of that kind of life. He bid his uncle farewell and decided to go and find what he could from traveling, his soul and mind lost. He was a man without a home and a scattered family.

He now finds himself in Valenwood, trapped by dangers and finding himself thrust into an adventure he didn't expect.

Biggest Regret: Not going with his father into Rihad that faithful day.

Character Name ‘s Goal:

• Finding his lot in life.
• Making a name for himself.
• The thrill of adventure.

---

Skills:

Expert:

• Two-handed Blunt (Staff Fighting)

Adept:

• Alchemy
• Pickpocketing
• Athletics

Novice:

• Acrobatics
• Marksman
• Unarmed

Equipment:

• Quarterstaff
• Akatosh Necklace
• Lore Tomes on Talos, Akatosh, and Ysgramor
• Rucksack with a water skin and some jerky, and most importantly, a fair sum of gold.

Misc. Possessions:

@Leidenschaft I see that Caleb goodness! Love the character xD.

<Snipped quote by PapaOso>

I’m almost insulted you’d liken any of my work to that bastard Spoops.