𝔑𝔞𝔪𝔢

Guifort ^gee-fauht "Gui" ^gee d'Strohm ^deh-strom

𝔄𝔤𝔢

Thirty-Two

𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯

Male

ℜ𝔞𝔠𝔢

Breton & Orsimer

𝔄𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢

One would see the hat first. A worn, black leather thing with a wide brim, neat buckle, and a flouncy feather sewn in with new thread—almost as if it couldn’t stand the weather. Below that was Guifort, a man of average height with broad shoulders and a build that told of both days of toil and days of respite. His coarse muscles bunched over thick arms and across a barrel chest, which lead down to a soft paunch of a middle. To put in polite company, “he was a solid measure of a man,” and in impolite company, “I’d hate to try to drag his unconscious arse to bed.”

His skin was a dusky moss color with a penchant for peachy hues over his aquiline nose and pointed ears. He had full lips and a lazy smile that only widened so far, fast to show the top row of teeth but slow to reveal the bottom. Though one might see them when he laughed too loud—filling the room with a deep baritone. To put it simply, the Breton had diminutive tusks that sometimes muffled his diction. Sturdy cheekbones and jaw fought away the softness that he had collected, belying his physique as being strong instead of comfortable.

He wore the robes of Arkay, a dull orange and yellow tunic that peaked out underneath a peculiar set of armor. It was made of leather with strips of steel sewn over the more fragile parts of him. Loose canvas pants were easy to make out underneath the long tunic and scrunched at the knees due to heavy leather boots with pieces of steel covering ankles and toe. He wore gloves in a matching style to the boots, but his index and middle fingers were cut out of both hands. The tips of his fingers were rough pads, but he had well-manicured and cleaned nails. Over his shoulders draped leather satchels that rain beaded off of in storms. They held his collection of tomes and scrolls, nonmagical and filled with maps, religious texts, and his journals. Another looser bag was filled with an assortment of herbs and weeds all wrapped in cheesecloth with twine bundling them. His crossbow was strung over his shoulder, and a dagger was tucked into his belt. Draping on those shoulders was an oversized coath with fur around the collar that he sometimes rested his chin against in thought. His most prized possession, though, was the gleaming amulet of Arkay around his neck that rested atop his armor and caught the light whenever it could.

When Guifort would remove the hat that he was so fondly proud of, it revealed short-cropped auburn hair that had a slight wave to it. It was cut in a romantic fashion, whether this was by design or purely accidental was hard to tell. He had expressive brows that led to inquisitive eyes with harsh yellow irises from the Orsimer blood that pumped in his Breton veins. While his sclerae were pale, there was occasional darkness to them when he angered—though that was so infrequent one might not think it possible.

Guifort’s nature was always welcoming, arms out and head thrown back. His stance was wide, easy to take down if one had the training to sweep his leg and the strength to budge him.

𝔓𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶

What does faith unwavering and personified look like? Probably something akin to Guifort, but maybe with less of an interest in the bottom of a wine bottle. A spirit that couldn’t be dampened, Guifort exudes an affable nature even when the sky has darkened, and hail peppers one’s shoulders. So, one might find it strange he’s taken to a macabre duty such as funerary rites with the ease of a boatswain picking up an oar. It’s because death doesn’t mean the same thing to him as it does others. The words of Arkay have taught him that souls are eternal. Once they leave this place they enter the dreamsleeve, where they’re reset, cleaned, and returned. The person that you say goodbye to today will be someone new in the future. They’ll build relationships that were akin to your own, but in a new place with new people. Guifort doesn’t think what he does is macabre, he thinks it’s a solemn celebration held by words and hearts.

That may sound like nothing more than wishful thinking and bloated ideals, and Guifort is well aware of it. He’s not so caught up in the theology of the world to forget how harsh it is. He’s seen the manipulative, the greedy, and the mad, and he’s learned how to temper his words to leave such situations with his person fully intact. The teachings of Arkay aren’t as sweet as others. While a priest of death, he doesn’t coax anyone into it, but neither does he lure them away from it. He’s not self-sacrificing. If an errant crossbow bolt finds a way into one of his compatriot’s hearts, he doesn’t wish it was him. He bids them farewell and hopes to return the favor to their assailant—not wanting to die himself. If it happens, it truly happens, but he isn’t going to jump into the lava just because it’s cold outside.

One might ask if there’s even a fragment of Guifort beyond his theology, but lo and behold there’s an entire person. He’s the sort to be charitable to a fault, talkative to a point, and fond of espousing his opinions about most things. Yet, he’ll listen and respond with the eagerness of a new student. One might be a little off-put to see him writing down people’s stories in one of his journals, but he assures them that he changes the name—unless they don’t wish the name changed. He’ll then treat them to a bottle of wine and whatever vittles he can muster with the paltry sum he keeps on his person. Not the sort to labor a story out of someone and not return it with his own. Oh, and he does love to weave a tale. An unfortunate consequence of traveling with a narcissistic bard for as long as he did.

Guifort forms relationships quickly and deep, enjoying being swept up in their current of adventures and travels. He rarely does the sweeping himself, an unfortunate bystander to some of the larger events in his life. Honestly, if he was to find a flaw in his person it would be his tendency for inaction. Guifort always arrives after the deeds have been done and without a way to reverse them. It’s not bravery he lacks, but it’s the locomotion to put aside all words and wishes and just act. Guifort would rather talk himself out of a situation than anything else, even if he was asking a rolling boulder to stand down. It’s through either the will of Arkay or sheer luck that he stands before you in this day.

And mayhap, that’s why he wishes to have joined Isobel’s rebellion. Sure, the lives lost are needless and many, and he can help. Yet, it takes action to fight oppression, and Guifort is tired of being dragged along adventures not of his own making. Maybe, just maybe, this will lead him into his own story.

ℌ𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔶

An Entirely Factual History According to Guifort [+]

"I was born on a dark and stormy night in the country of High Rock, or at least that's what I'd like to tell you. In truth, I was born on a balmy evening when the wind from the Iliac Bay was stifled halfway up the shoreline like an out of breath noble. According to my savior, Father Peryval d’Strohm, I was found in a shallow grave in a cemetery outside his temple, the Temple of Arkay. He had been awoken not by the mewling of a babe, but by a shriek of what assuredly were the products of necromancy. Armed with nothing more than his wits, prayers, and a dulled shovel—the Father had fully intended to slay the beast. To slay me, honestly. Instead, he used the blunt edge of the shovel to scrape away the light powdering of dirt that had been choking me. Hence, the shriek, or at least I like to justify the noise by saying that. Anyway, he told me that the soil had been excavated by fingers and nails in what could only be described as a frenzy. I had been left for dead, and the Father saved me. Or to put it in his eloquent words: 'It will be a long night, because the God Arkay has gifted me a damn bastard.”

Our story begins on the 19th of Morning Star 3E414 in a small town in the region of Stormhaven. The next morning, Father Peryval tried to find the parents of the babe to no avail, which only confirmed his suspicion of the bastard nature of the young Guifort. He considered depositing him at the temple of Dibella. They were surely more apt than himself to take care of a child. Yet, he shuddered at the thought of innocence growing up in such a place. All of Arkay's statues kept his breasts covered. Every evening Father Peryval would tell the child that would be his last night there. The nights ticked to days, and those ticked to weeks and then months. In that time, he found a wet nurse to tend to the things he couldn't provide, and he started bringing the babe with him to pray to Arkay. He stated, quite frankly, it was because the child would wail otherwise. Yet, maybe he found the way that Guifort pawed at the talisman around his neck delightful. Not that he would tell anyone.

As Guifort grew up, he grew odd. There were certain aspects about the young man that confirmed Father Peryval's thoughts. The point of his ears was something that the Bretons did display, but the faint green hue of his skin along with the blunt nature of what should have been angular features told a far different story. This was furthered by the way Guifort's bottom row of teeth grew in. This led the boy to barely smile with anything more than his lips. Yet, if that bothered anyone, they didn't say anything. Guifort was constantly helping throughout town. He had a lot of energy to expend, and there were so few things within the temple for him to busy himself with. So, he moved sacks of flour, pulled carts, thatched barrels, and even buried stones when the ground became too muddy for the horses to move through. The townsfolk were delighted and thought he was a cute boy no matter how awkward he looked or acted. They’ve said something about “it takes a village…” Every night, he returned back to the temple where he'd tell Father Peryval about his day. The Father would always correct Guifort when the young boy tried to call him "father" in a paternal sense. "Uppercase 'F,' not lowercase." Then he'd finish the evening by telling Guifort to bathe, tend to his prayers, and that this would be the last night in the temple.

And maybe Guifort would have followed that advice, leaving the temple for a normal life in the country with some young man or maiden, but there came a fateful autumn evening where things changed. You see, Guifort befriended a three-legged cat in town that he immediately called Mister Catterly. He’d rescued the beast from the river, half-drowned and mewling its head off. At first, it was a fight of claws and yowling—from both parties. Then it turned into a game of wits where Guifort would be slow to say that the cat won most of them. But one night, almost as if by a whim, Mister Catterly followed Guifort into his bed and slept next to him. They were everywhere together, and the cat more than proved his worth as an excellent mouser. So, people were glad to have them both in their house even if Guifort had a tendency to not know what to do with the dead rodents when presented with them. A lot of mouse corpses were found in bushes years later. Unfortunately, it was fair to say that Tamriel was not the sort of place a child and their pet grow old together. One of them usually had to say goodbye. Guifort found Mister Catterly tangled in wire with his throat slit right outside the temple. It was obviously a cruel prank performed by the other children. Mister Catterly had held on until the young boy clutched him closer, and then his final breath escaped his feline chest. Guifort couldn't feel anger for the loss of life. The only thing that clouded his thoughts was his sadness. He'd seen death through the temple, but he'd never felt the ramifications of it. The body of Mister Catterly, slowly losing warmth and fluidity in his muscles, was just a thing now. No more consequential than a stone. Yet, only an hour before had been so much more. That was gone now, and yet Guifort's tears remained. Father Peryval located him as the sun had started to set, and together they buried Mister Catterly in the cemetery that Guifort had been found in all those years before.

Father Peryval placed his hand gently on Guifort's head and smiled. "Do not mourn that he died. Be happy that he has completed the circle of his life, and has returned to the dreamsleeve. Because that is Arkay's will." The Father paused at the young boy's confusion and continued on. "There are multitudes of souls in existence, Gui, but there's only so much room for them here. So, we're allowed to come and experience life in its wholeness, and then we return back to allow another soul to experience life—wiped clean and started anew. So, Mister Catterly had that honor, and he's passed on to allow another cat to take his place. And so, the cycle continues."
"You think cats go to the dreamsleeve?" Guifort asked, his mind a series of jumbled questions that only cared about a destination.
"I don't truly know. Where do the Khajit go after they pass? Surely, it can’t be any different." Father Peryval, even though he had years of dealing with death, wanted to move beyond it at that moment.
Guifort laughed despite himself, his emotions more tired than his body had ever been. "That's racist, Father. You should love all things and not judge."
"And where did you learn that? All that mischief about love? Don't tell me you've been visiting the Temple of Dibella, again."
Guifort shrugged through red eyes, cracked lips, and a meek smile.
"And I highly doubt it was for the lessons. You just wanted to take a glance at her exposed bosom? I know you, Gui. And for that, you'll be staring at Arkay's fully clothed one and going over your prayers all tomorrow." And without realizing it, Father Peryval said tomorrow without inferring that Guifort would be gone in the morning. So, the boy stayed. If Arkay instilled so much in the cantankerous nature of Father Peryval, he had much to teach Guifort.

At the end of the third era, the Oblivion Crisis did little to the immediate landscape of Guifort's life. Yet, it would have low, rumbling repercussions like thunder over peaks of mountains. Dark magicks and daedra were on the breath of everyone but only spoken about in dark corners of inns and alleys. That being said, Father Peryval went about the studious task of fortifying the temple. It wasn't much, but he flexed the long-unused muscles of magick to protect the small-town folk. He knew that the daedra were not the undead, but Arkay's purview only fell to the abominations that ignored the cycle of life and death. He figured it would ease the concern of the town, and that ease would keep them from banging on his doors. Guifort studied raptly and took notes—he was always writing much to Father Peryval’s chagrin. He'd been in the shadow of the Father when the older man had created concoctions, both for health and protection against diseases. He'd also studied vigorously in the school of restoration, the gift of magicka in his veins like the many Bretons before him. Guifort, much to Father Peryval's ire, was become quite the skillful successor.

And then came the day that the young Guifort would have never foreseen but had prepared for. While some were happy to sequester themselves away, there were others that took these unnatural happenings as a call to adventure. One such Breton Expedition found its way into the small town. They paused by the Temple of Arkay, hoping that they'd find resources for their quest.

Yarvis Belancourt was the leader of this expedition, a man with a stout mustache and a stouter charisma. He had once been a bard whose career on the road had led him to many secrets and many more septims. It was fair to say, he wished to exploit those secrets. He and Father Peryval immediately butt heads, which enamored Guifort to the bard. What had begun as nothing more than a bargain for goods and services became a way for the young man to leave the nestled fold of the town. The expedition was to head into Skyrim, and if their map was correct, well into the territory of Nordic Ruins. While a follower of Stendarr would have been the more logical choice for this journey, there was nary a temple around that could spare one so few years after the Crisis—if they had one at all. A disciple of Arkay had to do. Father Peryval stated that Guifort should accompany Yarvis and his men. That there weren’t enough people in their small town to warrant two priests of Arkay.

"You said every evening that it was my last night. I suppose tonight is my last night," Guifort said to Father Peryval, who had grown more diminutive through the flow of time. Yet, his spirit had not even sputtered once.
Father Peryval scoffed. "And good riddance to you, boy. You have left my coffers dwindling for too long." And that was that.
While Father Peryval didn't say anything with words, Guifort awoke the next morning to a tailored set of robes, an old potion whose contents seemed to sparkle in the light, a few rations, and an old dagger with the goddess Dibella roughly hewn into the wooden hilt. There was a handwritten note next to it, "I suppose you have questions. Well, you'll need to live to ask them." He wrote back that he would, and that’d he see the Father in the seasons to come. But, that would be the last thing Guifort ever received from Father Peryval.

The trip was arduous, and despite the pleasant nature of Yarvis Belancourt he didn't go easy on his men. This was especially true for Guifort. He'd grown up in the temple and had a sinewy physique attached to long limbs and smothered by his robes. He wasn't made for travel. That didn't mean he couldn't learn. Days were spent forging ahead, and nights they'd all gather around the fire and chat. The wine partook, stories were told, and laughter was to be had. At least, while they were still in the temperate climate of High Rock. Guifort learned more of the world in those few weeks than he had in his years previously. The nature of men not bound a divine duty was... interesting. He had been slow to take the wine skin, initially, but after a fortnight he was just in the cups as they. Guifort lazily recorded the stories that were told, adding markings in places where the presenter meandered a bit from the point. The one person he'd never had to do that with was Yarvis. The man was a masterful orator and had a flair for the dramatic. He'd fashioned himself as a bard of sorts. One with wealth to fund this trip and clout to make it all about himself.

Once they reached Skyrim, though, the evening’s festivities died down. During that time, Guifort used the knowledge of craftsmanship from the town to help keep things in order. He dug carts out of slushy potholes, carried packs that were twice his size, and foraged for what little he could. It wasn't for rations, but instead to create various incenses to keep the more curious wildlife away. Guifort started to fill his robes out, looking more the part of an adventurer. He'd actually taken to packing them away and wearing traveling clothes. The only thing to denote his priest hood was the talisman around his neck.

Yarvis's ruins were further away than the map had denoted. The old bard had to make the trip stretch, and by doing so had earned the ire of a few of his men. Some went without rations, some without water, and all without drink. Days turned long and conversation became short. Guifort was aware of this shift, and he tried to confer with Yarvis on more than one occasion. The man waved the young priest away, stating that he knew the natures of men better than he. When they did reach the ruins proper, half of the company was nearly in tatters. What once had been quite the stable expedition had crumbled to fine snow all around them. They decided to traverse the ruins in the morning, to have better light. Guifort was asked to stay behind despite the fact that the reasons for him being there were his healing prowess and power over the undead—the latter only in practice, though. So, Guifort waited with the horses and supplies. And waited. And waited... until a few days had passed and there'd been no sign of Yarvis or his men.

Anxiety bubbled in his stomach like a twisted knot. But he knew that he had to find out what happened to Yarvis and his crew. Securing the horses the best he could, he grabbed the dagger that Father Peryval had given him and donned his Robes of Arkay. The ruins were mostly uncovered, skeletal fingers of a time far past scraped at the gray sky above. What little flora thrived here at the base of the mountains made the path difficult to traverse, and Guifort had to pause many times to cut himself out of a tangle of root. He didn't have to travel far to start seeing the bodies. Cold, unmoving, and with eyes that found solace in the sky before death. Guifort paused over each of them, as was his duty as a priest of Arkay. Yet, he couldn't perform full funeral rites as he had to find Yarvis, or at least someone that had the map out of this place.

Maybe you know how this story ends, or maybe you don't. In the land of Tamriel, it's hard to fathom the price of lives and their impact on the world at large. What you need to know is that Guifort's retelling of it is never the same. What he will say, in a voice quiet and low, is that the undead do not bleed.

Guifort found Yarvis, beset on by skeletons with a nasty cut on his brow and his long sword wavering. Alongside him were a good handful of his men is various stages of exhaustion. They had barricaded themselves in a hallway, and by the looks of it had been exiting the ruins at the time. One of the skeletons turned to Guifort, the rotted visage of its face boring into the young priest's eyes. He took a step back, the heel of his boot catching on rubble and sending him to the ground. He held out the symbol of Arkay and pulled the magicka from deep within his veins. In his other hand, he gripped the dagger, his fingers having slipped over the blade and his blood dripping onto the ground. The pain mixed with the fear and his heart stuttered in his chest. It was only a moment, but warmth filled what had felt like icy veins. Power comforting, yet foreign, ripped through him and out poured the light of Arkay. The skeleton froze, momentarily, before taking a step back and then another and another. Guifort stood, brandishing the talisman in one hand and extending it like a shield. The skeletons let him pass. Yarvis and his crew didn't speak a word of thanks as they fled the corridor, keeping pace with Guifort the best they could as they exited those ruins.

Once they were far from danger and back with their horses and carts, Yarvis laughed, his breath showing up against the coldness of the Skyrim sky. He pulled away a rotting canvas to an old Nord artifact made from a substance that Guifort had never seen before and would never see again. The young priest tried to tend to Yarvis's wounds, only for him to swat him away stating "the blood's not mine, priest."

The night after what happened, Guifort found himself wandering away from camp intent on prayer. He bandaged his hand while speaking to Arkay, asking the god to make sense of what had happened. He asked if this journey was cursed, or if he was cursed for taking it. There was silence, but it wasn't the bad sort of silence. It was the sort that led him to think and reaffirm. Guifort hadn't been strong enough to destroy those abominations, but he had been strong enough to repel them. They were unnatural, bucking against Akray’s wishes of death and life renewed. And in his time of need, he’d used his divine gifts to repel them. Sure, he’d healed some wounds before, but never had he truly felt a divine presence. That was all the validation he needed at that moment, and maybe it was enough for his sore bones.

The profit from the expedition was quite a bit, and the dividends had heavily increased after the death of half the crew—as did the rations. Yarvis had a buyer in Solitude that he didn't say much about stating that "the way things were after the Crisis, we'd do well not speak of such clandestine meetings." And, "they didn't travel this far from Cyrodiil for us to start asking why." Guifort knew that was Yarvis's way of telling him to shut up and enjoy the money. And he did. He purchased a rather nice hat with an elegant buckle and an odd feather, along with new robes and other items. After all that, Guifort assumed they were to part ways, septims in hand. Yet, Yarvis was slow to want to return to High Rock while his men swiftly wanted away from the madman that had led them there. Guifort was somewhere in the middle. His soul ached from the death he'd seen, but he'd also never felt so close to Arkay before. So, he conceded to travel with Yarvis... if only for a little while more.

A little while more turned into years.

"This part might be a bit boring, but there are some things I learned from it. For one, Yarvis Belancourt was not even this man's real name. He'd won it in a game of cards years before. He was an astute liar and frightfully loud conman. He was always finding 'adventures' and 'long lost ruins.' If you asked me now, a devout priest of Arkay, how I could have stayed with him for that long. I'd tell you it was because Yarvis had a personality that was addicting like wine... or skooma. Not that I've had the latter, but I've heard stories. I hadn't forgotten about that night in the ruins, but at that time I was slow to believe Yarvis had done anything beyond what had come naturally—survival. Once he started teaching me his tricks of the trade, though... I learned. I learned that he'd only gotten as far as he had by stepping on the heads of others, and unfortunately, my head was next."

Despite Yarvis's travels to wherever he deemed interesting, whether it be across the length of Skyrim or small dips into Cyrodiil, Guifort still tended to his duty as a priest of Arkay. He'd perform funeral rites for towns that didn't have their own priest. He'd tend to small undead nuisances for a small fee, despite Yarvis's opinion otherwise. He’d make sure that their traveling routes crossed temples of the Divines and Arkay—a pilgrimage of sorts. More importantly, he turned into quite the orator. They'd find themselves in inns or taverns (Guifort avoiding the brothels that Yarvis liked to dip into), and he'd tell the tales of the various things they'd seen. But more interestingly, he would discuss the stories of peoples’ lives. He'd heard quite a few in his time, tending to the funerary rites of many. There was so much wisdom people had accumulated over the years, and he'd written it all down. Yarvis would always ask him if he was writing a book. Guifort laughed "there are far more interesting books in Tamriel than mine." Which was true, but there were far more boring stories as well.

Guifort had traveled to be closer to Arkay, but a stormy evening right inside the border of Cyrodiil, he never felt further from him. It hadn’t been just Guifort and Yarvis. Guifort was always a slow-speaking accomplice to the louder and more verbose Yarvis, but just that... an accomplice. There were others in Yarvis's troupe, and they had a tendency to cycle through as easily as chattel with the exception of a Nord man by the name of Engrad. He'd around hung for a few missions and taken to the work of excavation and battle with the glee of a chopped log.

The rain pelted down, and Guifort had taken to the woods by the road to relieve himself. He grumbled about needing a better hat for weather like this. A flash of lighting, and a roll of thunder later, he had finished his business. He returned back to the road to find Yarvis dead, and his men gone. It had only been an instant. Blood mixed with rain and mud. Yarvis's cold eyes stared up at the stormy sky, not surprised but not welcoming either. It reminded Guifort of all those years before. The men at the ruins had the same look.

Yarvis's septims were gone, papers, and other things of value. All that was left were his clothes, an old crossbow that he had a rather salacious scene emblazoned on, maps, and the marked coin that he always used to win bets. Guifort pocketed the maps, crossbow, and the coin, and buried Yarvis in the deepest grave he could create in the deluge of rain and without the proper tools to do so. "I don't even know your real name to give you a proper send off. But Yarvis, whoever you may truly be, be well. May Arkay guide you. More so, may whatever soul that replaces you be as interesting if not more so than yourself. Though, I do ask it be far more moral and with a less fluid sense of right and wrong." Guifort chuckled at his words but only for a moment. It was hard to see his tears in all that rain.

He decided that was the end of his journey. It was time to head back to High Rock and it was time to take over Father Peryval's place as leader of the Temple of Arkay, in a town he could barely remember the name to. Yet, not long after he left Yarvis's makeshift grave did he come across Engrad and the others from the group. A crumpled paper in his hand and anger in his eyes, he cornered Guifort. "I have reason to believe that that fool Belancourt lied about your participation in the massacre at the Yseal Ruins. I have reason to believe that your hands did not dirty with blood. But I also know that it did not deter you from cavorting with a murderer and liar, priest. You can't tell me you're so naïve as to not have known. Hm?" He pointed at Guifort in the storm, his accusation punctuated by crisp lightning. "I should kill you. But, I'll spare you. Your god knows what you did. And if he still accepts you, then who am I to spit at his feet? But you are no longer welcome in Skyrim." He glared. "And you may think yourself clever, how could Engrad and his men patrol the country? Just know, priest, I have eyes in the ground and in the sky. If you step foot in my country again, you will die.” And that was that.

"I figure that Engrad had someone he'd known or loved on that first expedition. I figure that the members of Yarvis's troupe that lived had told the story. I figure that Yarvis had penned a letter or two blaming the entire thing on me. And either he'd forgotten to destroy them as we traveled together or he'd fully intended to blame me for the entire thing. What I did know, was that there was no direct route back to High Rock without traveling through Skyrim. And I didn't have the septims for a boat. So, I suppose Cyrodiil was my home now. I've had two father figures in my life. Both of them from opposite spectrums of the world, and both left with me weapons with lascivious imagery on them. How terribly lucky can one man be?"

So, Guifort found himself in Cyrodiil. With barely a septim to his name, he began his "pilgrimage" yet again. Things were direr here, the state of the country worse off for the events that had happened many years prior. So, it was of no surprise that his services as a priest of Arkay were welcome. Either by performing rites, healing, or tending to manageable abominations did he carve out a living for himself. No longer did he see the sights of ruins, dungeons, or the dark dens of interesting cities. Those went with Yarvis. But he did see a lot more of the temples of Arkay. It was almost as if someone had splashed cold water on his face to awaken him from years of the same drunken stupor. Though, ironically, he found himself more in the throes of a drink than before. This time, though, it was through chatter and camaraderie. He'd written more stories down in his books, he'd learn new things, and he'd see more sights. There was a culmination of a life he had in-between Father Peryval and Yarvis Belancourt. As much as Guifort hated to admit, he rather liked it. And that comfort showed itself on his form as he went from a sturdy adventurer to a well seeded one. But Guifort's story was far from over.

"With a renewed purpose, but a dark realization that home was to always be very far away from me, I tried to carve one out here. The sad thing was when I had come to an ultimatum, I'd come to it in Skingrad."

He'd been set upon by the Count's men for helping some poor townsfolk that found themselves restrained in stocks. A woman's wrist had been so bruised that the whelps were enormous, and she was losing circulation. He had realized she'd lose her hand if nothing was done, and then her life following it. The moment that the magicka of Arkay flowed through him, and into the wounds on woman's wrists, did he see stars in a bleary, black haze. Over him was a town guard, the butt having connected with Guifort’s head.
"Don't think because you're a priest, that we're goin' to give you a pass. Now shoo." There was a smugness to the guard’s tone that acted as if he was doing Guifort a favor.
Guifort shook his head. "Let me tend to this woman's wounds. It’s obvious her punishment isn’t death, but she’ll be dead soon if nothing is done.”
The guard laughed. "I don care, she broke the law. So, she's here. And ain't you a priest a death or sometin'? Let her just die."
"It doesn't work that way. If it did, the world would have eaten itself up from lack of giving a shit. Now move I'm tending to this woman. By Arkay's divine will, if you try to stop me..." Honestly, Guifort had hoped that had been enough. But another crack to the head proved otherwise.

When Guifort awoke, he did so in the stocks. The woman he'd tried to save laid limp in her restraints face red hot from fever. He had to do something—anything. This wasn't about to be the ruins again, he wasn’t about to let the time for action pass him by again. Guifort couldn't quite fight his way out of this situation, at least not in conventional ways. So, he began to speak.

"I'd tell you the whole speech, but honestly I was a bit out of it from the knock to the head and the fever that was setting in from dehydration. It was momentous, though. It sent the crowd into action. Or at least, I thought it had at the time. In truth, it had been a planned attack by Isobel and her troops."

When the dust had settled, he'd been free. The members of the rebellion had moved as quickly away as they had arrived—guerrilla tactics and all that. Guifort said what little he could muster over the dead. It was a day where the streets were painted with blood. Blood that didn't seem to end no matter where he went to. The funerary rites began to blur together. The dreamsleeve was getting its fill of souls, and a deficit was felt in Guifort's heart. He considered finding a temple and settling, hiding his face from the goings-on. But he remembered the rebels and their call to arms. He'd read about their growing movement in the Black Courier. The aimless wandering he'd called a "purpose" for so many years had to stop. He may not have been able to lead troops, but he could heal, and more so—he could provide comfort and knowledge. The circle of life needed not turn so much. So, he sought Isobel out. A priest of Arkay with an affable nature and a penchant for stories and wine could be of use. People tend to speak a little looser around those that promise redemption for secrets.

𝔄𝔱𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔟𝔲𝔱𝔢𝔰

Major - Luck

"Some say I've gotten away with all I have in life through luck, alone. I'm more apt to believe it's the divine will of Arkay. Though, sometimes I wonder if he's fond of me 'divinely' winning drinking contests."

Minor - Personality

"One can't speak the words of their god without knowing how to speak. It also helps that I know how to relate to all manner of people. Sometimes only the noble and proud think their words matter."

𝔖𝔨𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔰

Expert -

• Restoration: The power to heal the living and ward away the undead, this is Guifort's calling. He learned them from a young age in the Temple of Arkay, and he still uses them to this day. Doesn't help that they're also his bread and butter.

Adept -

• Speechcraft: While no poet, elocutionist, or statesman, he knows his way around the language in a way to come off as a comfort and an authority of his vocation. This gift isn't used for ruthless command or persuasion. It's just a warm blanket on a cold night.
• Alchemy:Probably one of Father Peryval's largest contributions to his small town was his knowledge of alchemy and potions. Guifort is far from a master and only had the time to learn healing, curing, and fortifying potions... and one poison. After Mister Catterly's death, Father Peryval had to take care of the mice somehow.
• Mysticism: The art of Soul Gems is one that Guifort considers blasphemous on all accounts. Yet the arts of mysticism fall in line with those of tending to the undead. The ability to absorb maladies and detect the living and undead is a helpful tool, and something that he built up when traveling.

Apprentice -

• Archery: While not the most talented, Guifort can use a crossbow with some efficacy. Don't ask him to shoot an apple off of someone's head, but he can hit some part of a creature with it. Just, don't ask what part.
• Medium Armor: To no one's surprise, Guifort isn't the quickest. He isn't one to parry or dodge, and might even ask you what "parry" means. So, he has to have protection somewhere. Heavy enough to keep the slip of the blade from killing him, but light enough that he doesn't die of exhaustion--he's quite fond of the happy medium.
• Security: One doesn't travel with an infamous bard without picking up a few tricks. While Guifort is far from performing burglary, those sticky locks can be dealt with.

𝔖𝔭𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔰

• Circle of Protection (Restoration) Expert
• Repel Undead (Restoration) Expert
• Grand Healing (Restoration) Expert
• Heal Other (Restoration) Adept
• Cure Disease (Restoration) Adept
• Greater Ward (Restoration) Adept
• Sunfire (Restoration) Apprentice
• Greater Life Detection (Mysticism) Adept
• Greater Dispel Other (Mysticism) Adept
• Psychic Motion (Mysticism) Adept

𝔈𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔭𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱

• A Heavy Crossbow once owned by Yarvis Belancourt, and now named Mister Catterly by Guifort.
• Leather Armor Fortified by Steel is a polite way of saying that it was either an experiment by an armorer or an abomination that Guifort specifically asked for.
• Steel Knife that once belonged to Father Peryval with a rather interesting etching of Dibella on the hilt.
• Lockpicks of Various Metals that were once Yarvis's as well, but he gifted them to Guifort finding it amusing that the priest wished to trespass.
• Mortar and Pestal said to be of Imperial make that he got from a "fair" trade with a Khajit. They were not. Still works the same, though.
• An Assortment of Dried Herbs and Minerals to be able to create potions. Of course, they were taken from the side of the road. He didn't loot a noble woman's garden at all.
• Amulet of Arkay would be the first and only piece of equipment that Guifort thinks he might need. It's golden with a shining red stone in the middle.

𝔅𝔢𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰

• Robes of Arkay
• Fur-Topped Long Coat
• The Breton Hat of "Renown"
• Maps of Various Locations Throughout Skyrim, High Rock, and Cyrodiil. The distances may be off, and the landmarks may be false. Some of them seemed sullied by wine and others by jam.
• Religious Texts of Arkay
• Leatherbound Journals of his "Stories"
• A Marked Coin that is weighted to always land right-side-up
• Rations and Bedroll
• Incense

𝔅𝔦𝔯𝔱𝔥 𝔖𝔦𝔤𝔫

Ritual

𝔐𝔦𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔢𝔬𝔲𝔰

Guifort is skilled at a number of menial tasks, but the one he takes the most delight in is sewing. He enjoys stitching up the errant tear or lost button. He sometimes hums when doing so.

Name: Marlowe "Lowe" Cross
Age: 28
Gender: Female
Height: 5'8"
Entity: Normal

Nature of Expression: N/A

Containment: N/A

Risks: N/A

Test Scores:
Strength: 7/10
Intelligence: 4/10
Psychology: 8/10

Remarkable Skills: Marlowe Cross's abilities are reflective of her time within the FBI. That being said, her high marks fall into the categories of physical aptitude and mental compartmentalization. She can handle herself in a fight and is a skilled martial combatant that only becomes deadlier when given an instrument. She seems to favor knives and blunt objects--yes... blunt objects. She also has had adequate training in firearms and can be considered a decent marksman with a love for high-caliber weaponry. Beyond that, she shows apt mental fortitude. While she won't be drawing up plans for a highly complicated battle strategy or leading a team to victory, she will be getting the job done no matter the obstacle. On a note unrelated to her training, oddly enough, she is quite the autophile and an experienced driver to boot.

Personality: After reviewing her videos and conducting several interviews, I believe it was Agent Richards who described Marlowe Cross perfectly. "She's like talking to a wall. No matter what you say, her expression won't change. If you require an answer from her, she'll echo your question back at you. She does what she was built to do, stand there firmly and unmoving. And she doesn't give a shit who you are. She'll only flinch when you swing a sledgehammer at her." That being said, she's not insubordinate, but her personality is grating at best. Marlowe wants to shoot first and ask questions later. Honestly, she's fine without the questions. She's relentless, stubborn, and has a tendency to prioritize getting things done.

Social Liabilities:
██████ █████, Father: ██, █████
Henrietta Cross-Stanton, Mother: 52, Alive
Charles Stanton, Step-Father: 58, Alive
Annabelle Stanton, Half-Sister: 24, Alive
Remy Stanton, Half-Brother: 23, Alive
Fredrick Stanton, Half-Brother: 21, Alive (Currently Incarcerated)
Winifred "Whimsy" Parker, Ex-Fiancee: 26, Alive
Victor Davis, Ex-Fiancee: 30, ███

Service Record: Why were you considered for the Bureau? How has your performance been since joining? Also, if there are any note-worthy events in your life before the Bureau please also describe them in here. Any deep connections with other people? A summary of where you were before the Bureau took interest can also be important.

FULL NAME

Valka Nikolaev

AGE

Twenty-Eight

ID NUMBER

FY-0697-VN

NATIONALITY

Russia

- -- LINE BREAK -- -

APPEARANCE

The basic overall appearance of your character, including, but not limited to, hair, eye, and skin colour, height, weight, tattoos, scars or any other unusual physical feature. Every subject in Facility B wears either a set of grey trousers and shirt (males) or a long, one-piece dress similar to a hospital gown (female). The only difference between these clothing is in square patch on the chest, the colour matching the individual’s security ranking. Transgendered individuals are permitted to wear the clothing of the gender they identify with.

BACKGROUND

A short, 1-3 paragraph extract of your character’s life up to and including them becoming subjects in Facility B. Doesn’t need to be huge.A short, 1-3 paragraph extract of your character’s life up to and including them becoming subjects in Facility B. Doesn’t need to be huge.

POWERS

This should be the meat of the character sheet. What exactly makes your character an anomalous individual? Characters should have no more than two powers and their requisite secondary powers, and there must be a relation between them (I.E, no telepathy and then laser eyes, they don’t go together.) Run powers past me first, as I will need to make sure everything’s kosher.

PRIVLEGES

Those who behave in Facility B earn improved privileges, enabling further good behaviour from them and encouraging it in others. A basic Facility B room contains a bed and (depending on security rating) a camera. Common privileges include desks, dressers, cupboards, books, writing implements, snacks such as coffee and cigarettes (although not alcohol.) Essentially, to what extent the staff view you as a cooperative individual, and gives us a little insight into your character’s personality, intentionally left off of this sheet.

RESEARCHER NOTES

Anomalous individuals are often shuffled between different researchers who handle their cases. Since information can be occasionally lost in this shuffle, researchers might amend notes, warning or informing future researchers on the individual.

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞

Sloane Southsühn

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 & 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬​​​​​

Technically Genderless but Masculine Presenting; (he/him/his)

𝐑𝐚𝐜𝐞/𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬​​​​​

Judeo-Christian Archangel

𝐀𝐠𝐞

Mentally Since the Dawn of Time; Physically Early Thirties

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞​​​​​

What does one visualize an angel looking like? In truth, if one studied any holy texts they'd note the form would be akin to something Clive Barker would make while on peyote and lost in an bird exhibit. So, what does their mortal husk look like? Probably something more like Michelangelo would produce on a good, non-petty day.

Sloane has all the makings of a gorgeous angelic figure, but with one resounding flaw. Tall, though probably not the tallest in the room, broad-shouldered, and with a bone structure that would make the aforementioned Clive Barker Michaelangelo cry. He has blond hair, short on the sides and longer on top with a slight curl to it. His brows are not like other natural blonds, non-existent and spooky in darkness. Instead, they are a darker shade and expressive. His eyes are downturned and a pale shade of hazel with flecks of blue in them. He has strong cheekbones and an even stronger jaw. The only part of his face that might be offputting to modern beauty standards would be his gold-rimmed, round spectacles set atop a Greek nose. Another deterring factor of what would be a rather picturesque Adonis is the fact that Sloane has been around for twenty or fifty or so years, and has not really known how to cope. His mechanism, at first, was his compulsive need to organize. But once things were organized, it was hard to re-organize them infinitely. And he did try. So, he turned to food. That was a hole that could be filled again and again. He's quite overweight, though he dresses in a way to appear slimmer. Still, it doesn't stop the round curves of his form and a noticeable belly that he attempts to girdle with a waistcoat. Notably pearshaped, his face remains equally as striking as his weight is a balance between broad shoulders and a long gait. And one might simply recommend a diet, but Sloane sees nothing wrong, or at least he finds nothing wrong with his habit. Mortals have far more destructive behaviors. And, he's quite fond of donuts.

His clothes are all tailored and bespoke. The colors follow the trends of the seasons as he's fashionable. Sloane adores three-piece suits, ties, and well-polished buckles and shoes. On his days off, he'll wear something only a smidgen less formal. Good luck ever seeing the angel in shorts, no matter the weather. He always smells of warm fires on a new winter morning with a dash of birch for lightness.

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲

The first thing to know about Sloane, and probably the most noticeable is that he doesn't lie. It's hard to tell if that's an angelic trait or a concept that he can't quite fathom and so can't enact. But he does have a tendency to not wax poetic, or wax at all. Everything from his lips is as blunt and square as a brick. He doesn't really care if it hurts your feelings, because quite frankly he thinks lies are childish padding that displays mortal's fallibility. And, of course, he's an instrument of God. He can't be prone to mistakes.

Except that he is. Trapped in a human husk has made him prone to the same machinations as any other mortal around him. In truth, he does try to hold himself to a higher standard. But the years on Earth have caused his gears to slip more and more. His angelic properties come to light in the form of his meticulous nature. His desk is absolutely organized, his sticky notes color-coded, and his office plants sufficiently watered and groomed. More so, he seems to be the most willing to fence phone calls and tend to secretarial duties with ease. Though, if you ask him to fetch you a coffee, you're getting a black liquid with congealed grounds in the bottom where he has coffee the color of a lightly toasted marshmallow. He enjoys work, but he doesn't live to serve. Well, he did, but he's currently on hiatus from that facet of his life.

And here we breach into Sloane's imperfections. He thinks he's right. He knows he's right. All the years of mortals blundering and butchering the simplest of things have just shown him that they're incapable of learning from their mistakes. That has led to him having a sense of pride that is both grating and self-aggrandizing. He gives in to his notions and compulsions because they must be right. Right? He'll take the last muffin from the break area because quite frankly mortals are neglectful and prone to wastefulness... even though he's already had two, and half the office hasn't had any. It's that justification he gives himself which leads him into compulsive and sometimes foolhardy decisions.

Sloane will get the job done with great speed and efficiency and will assume no one else could do what he could.

𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬, & 𝐀𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬​​​​​

In Heaven or the various Otherworlds of differing religions, Sloane is quite powerful. On Earth, he's not so much. As regent of the sun, he does contain the ability to bend light to his will. Only if it is made naturally, though. He can't just cause light to appear. He isn't a paltry magician. It's white-hot and filled with sanctified energy. Basically, it's a night light constructed of holy water. He uses it to mostly form weapons and takes to wielding long stave-like ones--grumbling if anyone asks him to make a sword. He seems to have a fond dislike for his sibling, Michael. He can also use the ability to refract and reflect the light in a way that can make him invisible (to sight) or blind his target. Don't ask him to make a rainbow, though.

His angelic powers also allow him to see the lingering dead and speak with them. He can't help them cross over--anymore. But he can converse with them and point them in the direction they need to go to receive such relief. He's basically a glorified DMV employee for Heaven.

Sloane can also fly. He reminds people that the depictions of angels, humanoid figures with wings, aren't really how they look. So, when he sprouts wings and darts about, it's because mortals can comprehend that. They couldn't comprehend his true form, a mass of wings and eyes that would make even Lovecraft blush.

His mortal body can also be destroyed without it destroying him. He just shifts back to Heaven, regroups his power, and then creates another mortal husk for himself. His spirit can be stopped from regenerating, but one needs to know quite horrific and unnatural arts. Sloane has admitted to the fact that angels have been caught and snuffed out. He hasn't ever been caught, though. And it's apparent he doesn't even allow much damage to happen to his mortal husk considering the wear he's put on it.

All that said, if you want something that Sloane does wield like a sword look no further than his prowess with Excel. That angel can build tables, create graphs, assign budgets, and present and PowerPoint with all the numbers and talking points that you could ever imagine. If the angel could become an accountant without years of study and experience, he would.

In Sloane's off hours, he enjoys cooking--more prone to baking than anything else. He'll drive the next city over to participate in chili cook-offs and pie baking contests. He also owns a plethora of cats as he fosters them in hopes of relieving the local shelter of its overcrowding. Not that you would be able to tell considering he never has a single strand of fur on him. But he seems to relate to the cats, they're just as fat and self-absorbed as he is.

As much as Skiball is concerned. He just states that it's a game for hacks and mortals. Of course, that's right before he decides he'll play. Maybe he'll win this time around. He never does.

𝐘𝐞 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

“… so, I went on hiatus.” Sloane said into the phone’s receiver, fingers twirling his pen slowly. There was a beat when the person on the other side of the line didn’t respond. “Fine, I was asked to go on hiatus. But honestly, Gregory you have to look at the numbers. The socio-political climate of Earth was… well is… revving up for another massive influx. It’s hard to say if we have the infrastructure for such numbers.”

Another pause came across the end of the line. Gregory, the man who had called him, seemed flustered. “I don’t even remember the question I asked you or the answer.”

“Right.” Sloan leaned back, setting the pen down. It was an inch from this blue pen, which in turn was an inch from his red pen, which was an inch from his tablet pen. They were all about half-a-foot South from his bonsai plant. He eyed it. One of the branches was uneven. Where were his scissors?

“Sir?” Another pause. “Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Oh, right.” Sloane focused back on the phone. “You don’t wish for me to get into the conversation of my old boss’s son. That is a can of worms I do not wish to open. This brings me to my next questions. Where did that saying arise from?”

“You know what, Management doesn’t allow us to hang up, but I’m hanging up. Have a nice day Mister Soth-sun.”

“It’s South-sewn.” But those words were greeted with a solitary beep beep beep, letting Sloane know that he had truly been hung up on. He placed the starch white phone back on the receiver. “There’s an umlaut over the u.”

Sloane counted down the drawers to his third one and pulled it out. In it were the instruments to attend to the assortment of objects on his desk. He grabbed the pruning scissors and slowly closed the drawer. The counterweights grabbed it and pulled it into the housing. There wasn’t much difference between it and the rest of the other carbon copy desks around, except that Sloane’s was sparkling clean and perfectly manicured. He’d even added the counterweights after work one day, because the sound of them slamming was an ear sore.

He lined up his scissors to take care of the errant branch on the tree when a nasty “whump” of paperwork landed on his desk. Sloane snipped too soon and barely missed snipping off the entire branch. That didn’t stop him from narrowing his eyes at the interruption.

The shadow that had so unkindly caused an earthquake on his desk was one Turver. Maybe. Whatever his name was; it was dumb. Sloane glanced up at the other gentleman.

“Wow, you were on the phone for a while, Sloane.” He waggled his brows. “Was it a hot girl? Er, boy? Er, sentient, non-gendered blob? You know, I can’t tell what you like.”

“I like manners for one, Turver. It was a telemarketer asking me if I was happy with my life insurance.” Sloane lined up his scissors for another attempted snip at his tree. Turver huffed.

“It’s Trevor, and I’m assuming you told them all about Heaven’s infrastructure, and how you got into an argument with God about it.”

Sloane ignored the correction. “We didn’t get into an argument. It was a disagreement. A polite disagreement between a higher power that controls life as we know it, and me—the one person in that stinking place that can count higher than fifty-two.”

“I know I’m going to regret this, but why fifty-two?”

He lowered his scissors. “Right. You mortals count on your fingers, and there are ten of them if you don’t decide to involve your bottom fingers.”

“Toes, but sure.”

“So, we have fifty-two.”

“Fingers?”

“No, wings. Keep up, Turver.” Sloane laughed; it was an antiseptic sort of thing that cleaned the air of any merriment. “Fingers…”

“Oh my Go—osh. I owe Joanne five bucks. I cannot do this.” He patted the stack of files. “I was told you were more than happy to digitize these. So, digitize away. I’m going to try to remember which bathroom I hid the Fireball in.”

Sloane lined his scissors back up with the bonsai. “Thank you, Turver, for the enlightening conversation.” He paused. “That was sarcasm. How did I do?”

There was silence as Trevor walked away, making sure to hip check Sloane’s desk. It caused his elbow to swing inward, leading to him snipping way too much from his bonsai tree. The angel just stared. He slowly lowered the scissors, crossing his hands over them. A few deep breaths were taken before he stood. He rounded the side of the desk and grabbed his garbage can. Setting it underneath the edge of the desk where the bonsai tree was, he pushed the now-and-forever ruined shrubbery into it. It landed in the can with a deep ‘thud.’

Sloane took a deep breath before sitting the garbage can back to its place and returning to his seat. As he was tucking away his scissors, the beams of light seemed to intensify from their source until they pierced through the plastic can and ignited the bonsai within. A small, holy fire roiled upwards, producing quite a bit of smoke.

And that’s how Sloane Southsühn ended up overseeing the Fire Safety courses.