-Basic Information

Name: Kharne

Age: 23

Race: Argonian

Appearance:


Kharne is a rather tall Argonian, taller than any other he had ever met. Maybe he lacked the beaten down slouch his people had outside of Black Marsh? Specific numbers have him at six feet and three inches tall and weighing in at two hundred and forty-six pounds. He lacks the typical head ornamentation of Argonians, instead he has large and strong scales going along his head and down his neck. His scales are a mottled mix of gray, dusky green, and black that blends together, perfect for blending in with swamps. Except his 'underbelly' which is a dark dark cream color. His reptilian eyes, which are normally narrowed with suspicion, are a dark orange red. His size has little fat, a life of labor and fighting doesn't allow such a thing, and the vast majority of it is dense muscle. His tail is much like an alligators, thick with muscle, tough scales and scutes, and being broad enough to be used as a bludgeon. His claws and teeth are like aged ivory, pointed, and sharp, the ones on his feet are significantly larger than his hands.

Personality:

Kharne has a rough history which has fed his mentality. He is almost always suspicious of people who are not Khajiit, Argonian, or Orc. He's especially distrustful of the Dunmer for all that they had done to him and his people. Given his distrustful nature he is secretive of any plans he has. Aside from that he can be....amicable at best, he does know how to deal with people and act the part. Being a suspicious jackass does not bring in the septims after all. Unfortunately even if he is coaxed into relaxing somewhat he's still tense and gruff, always keeping one eye out. The only exceptions to this attitude is around fellow Beastmen and the Orcs, the others ostracized and mistreated by society of Men and Mer alike. Although if anyone pays attention, few do, they'll see he enjoys carving little things of wood and that he seems to really like fighting. A final notice, if he is actually set off with anger he's a lot more bestial than is typically seen outside of Black Marsh and is quite a bit stronger.

-Abilities

Skills:

• Martial Mastery: He loves fighting. He loves training. He enjoys the physicality of it all and that helps keep him alive another day. Hand to hand he is self taught, fighting more like an animal than a humanoid. His pole-arm and cleaver he had more formal training from fellow mercenaries. He is by no means a master, but due to the unconventionality of his weapons and skill, he is better than most he has met.
• Little Armorer: He has learned over the years to take care of his own equipment for the most part, and if he's feeling nice other peoples equipment. He can repair his leather equipment and do the maintenance for the metal portions. Meaning he can polish the metal portions of his gear to prevent rust and bluntness while also making sure his leather equipment doesn't get dry and cracked into uselessness. Rudimentary knowledge in comparison to an actual metal and leather worker.
• People Skills: Despite being an Argonian he is decent when dealing with people who aren't Dunmer. One has to learn how to when you work as a mercenary so you can get better deals. Or when you're dealing with merchants selling long forgotten treasures or just the pelts of bears and wolves. He is able to roughly read the faces and body language of most of the races of Tamriel, the only ones that are difficult to are the orcs and the Khajiit.
• Skulduggery: Given his profession he has had to sneak past enemies, guards, whoever and has had to pick the locks of long forgotten chests or doors. He is no thief breaking the law, but these are useful skills for exploring ruins and enemy camps. Most of this is self-taught but he has come across others who were better than himself and got brief training.
• Survivalist: Completely self taught, through lots of trial and error, he has figured out how to survive out in the wilderness in Cyrodiil. Luckily because of his biology much of his failures were not light threatening, just hours in a bush, or figuring out green wood burns terribly and smokey. His knowledge of plants is based solely around fungus, everything else has gone untouched.

Magic:

• Restoration: Novice level with minimal knowledge. Can cast Heal Minor Wounds to heal himself or allies.
• Destruction: Novice level with minimal knowledge. Can cast Snowball and Flare.

Magic is not his forte and never will be, but he has enough knowledge to keep himself alive...if barely.

-Equipment

(Depending on their physical ability your character can only carry a certain amount of gear on their person. This includes bags, pouches, sacks and other containers. Heavy armor is heavy, and light armor is light. Take that into account when equipping your character. Arrows additionally have weight and are not infinite. This category is intended to stand on its own and is broken down into three sections, the latter two of which are optional. )

Personal Items:

• Studded Cuirass: A thick leather vest dotted with iron studs. The leather is well worn and well cared for, the black dye is faded to a smokey gray. There are thick stitches here and there from past battles.
• Chain-mail Vambraces: Well worn and well cared for vambraces made of chain with small plates linked along the forearms and one plate on the back of each of his hands that has a leather strip go around his palm. The worn metal is dulled with time despite the care and the leather is partially frayed.
• Leather Greaves: Simple well worn and well cared for leather greaves. The black dye, like his vest, has faded to a smokey gray color. Also like his vest there are numerous stitched lines from past battles.
• Leather Footings: Simple brown leather custom designed for his feet. There's no sole to these bindings, the leather goes from the tops of his feet to his knees and has thin and worn steel plates on the top of his foot and his on his shin. The leather is a deep brown, the color of dark mud, and look new.
• Clothing: Basic cotton shirt that is slightly loose and an extremely pale cream color. His pants, beneath his greaves, are a light gray and barely visible. The belt around his waist is leather with iron medallions every few inches and has empty spaces for his sheathes.

The Lock Box:

• Septims: 326
• Long Axe: A strangely designed weapon. The steel head of the axe is drawn out, making it from edge to spiked tip three feet long. The actual edge of the weapon is eight inches, the secondary edge along the whole underside of the head is sharpened to the grade of a sword. The haft of the weapon is seven feet long and made of a tough hard wood. About two feet from the head of the axe is a slightly narrowed grip guarded by a smaller curved steel blade.
• Cleaver: A three foot long single edged straight blade made of steel with a spike on the spine. The blade is roughly three four inches wide and a quarter inch thick with a curved ebony wood handle. The pommel and the near non-existent cross-guard are both made of blackened steel.
• Iron Dagger: A simple cheap and well used iron dagger that's used more as a multi-tool instead of an actual weapon.
• Pack: A typical pack full of various pieces of gear for travel and camp. Small tent, pitons, length of rope, bedroll, flint and steel, dry tinder, lock-picks, etc, etc.

Stored Items:

• Nothing

Background:
Kharne had been young when he had been stolen from Black Marsh by the Dunmer in one of their typical raids. From there he was taken back to the Dunmer homeland of Morrowind, a harsh and ruthless land. The air felt worse than his homeland, dry and gritty with the flying ash and sand once the coast was left behind. He was used from a young age to run errands, being quite the speedy little hatchling given he was born under the Thief Sign. (Not as good as The Steed Speed but close!). That was his purpose to start with, to bring messages between whatever house he was owned by at that time. They all looked the same to him, Dunmer, Dunmer, Dunmer.

As he got older, and bigger, his 'jobs' changed from messenger to laborer. Moving luggage and goods around the capitol of Morrowind, At least he thought it was the capitol given the size of the place, Vivec. While he was worked with little rest he got to witness the trainers situated throughout the capitol train other people. Granted it was hard to learn that way since he couldn't just sit and listen or watch. He always had to be doing something otherwise he was punished by the lash or a beating. Slaves didn't get to learn after all except the tasks given to them. Which was never how to defend yourself.

It had been roughly ten years since he had been stolen and shackled. Having grown increasingly restless and agitated he eventually killed his handler who arrogantly thought he was a weak and cowed teenager. With rage fueled adrenaline combined with a laborers might, he tore the Dunmer slaver into pieces, used the key he had to unlock his shackles, and fled north west with what little he could steal off the body and his surroundings. He avoided the roads, preferring the wilderness to avoid as many people as he could. Thankfully his scales coloration blended in quite well in the Ascadian Isles portion of Morrowind.

While he moved through the wilderness, hunting the creatures of the island for food, he practiced what he remembered from observing the trainers. Discovering, with his wooden implements, that he was decent with a pole-arm and his fists. Although using his claws felt far more natural. While he wandered the wilderness, learning how to Argonian, he fought many of the local fauna of Morrowind, and ate them too. Granted everything he met wasn't an animal, he ran across people as well. Namely bandits, runaway slaves, slavers, and just travelers.

Bandits were interacted with since he had nothing to steal, he learned some combat from them in exchange for his help with dumb labor. Runaway slaves, which always seemed to be fellow Argonians and Khajiit, were released from their shackles by using lock-picks. A handy skill to have learned from the Khajiit, at least well enough for rudimentary locks. Slavers were ambushed and killed if there weren't many of them. Namely stalking them at day and going in at night to rip out their throats. His meeting of travelers gave him some insight of Morrowind and Tamriel as a whole, he had many questions. He was a young Argonian after all and the youth always had questions. Unless the travelers were Dunmer, he avoided the dark elves as much as he possibly could.

Unfortunately he became somewhat infamous in the area as numerous 'upstanding' workers went missing. He discovered that there were now small hunting parties to capture him. He had no choice but to flee the area, which led him to Seyda Neen. A small coastal village that seemed to be a drop off point for Imperial Prisoners. Thankfully a ship was in port dropping off a single prisoner, someone of human origin so he didn't care much. He quickly sold any goods he had, arms and armor, from deceased slavers. Mostly leather gear of varying grades with basic iron weapons like swords, daggers, and bows. With his pack lightened and his purse burdened he set about buying numerous weak fatigue potions, a waterproof sack, and dried foods.

If he was any other race he would not even think to attempt what he was going to do. Instead of going aboard, it was a prison transport ship after all, he clung to the hull of the barge like an oversized barnacle. That was where his potions came in handy, when he fatigued he drank them and ate small snacks. He was used to a lack of sleep so staying awake and subsisting on dried food and potions wasn't affecting him too badly. Granted by the time they reached harbor he was doing much worse, low on food, potions gone, body aching, bloodied from slaughter-fish, it was not an experience he wished to partake in a second time.

Not much changed once he reached the mainland, he learned what he could, traveled by foot, killed slavers and sold their kit for money, freed what slaves he found, and trained as he went. It took him some time, it was slow going, to reach Cyrodiil. He was a full adult by the time he reached the Imperial Province and he had learned much and earned much more. He had become a mercenary, taking whatever job he felt fit him or joining a crew for a short while. While in crews, without Dunmer, he learned more about how to fight which made him realize just how much of a brute he was. He had no real style, but he had power and grace which is why he now wields the weapons he does and the armor he wore allowed him the greatest motion.

With his knowledge fairly set, his ways seemed to work despite his disposition, and he had joined the Fighters Guild to earn extra cash on the side and get training whenever he needed it wherever a guild may be, he moved to the Imperial City. He had heard tales of the place but word of mouth never matched actually seeing it. A massive sprawling circle of a city that seemed to have everything if one had the cash for it.

His ambling bumpkin self wound up in the Arena District of the capitol, a district full of normal people and rougher types like himself. He decided to watch the fights, just to see how it worked, and the result was a bit of a let down. A brick, who the hell threw a damn brick?, decided it all instead of skill and the two combatants clashing. He wasn't all riled up like the citizens though, he didn't even know who was fighting!

But he did decide to go the a tavern to put his feet up, he had been traveling for a long time after all. Unfortunately a rumpus erupted and it absorbed pretty much everyone in the common room. Including Kharne who had been crashed into by a Dunmer man, which set off the Argonians harsh temper towards the Dunmer race. Being rougher than most earned him jail time without a chance of paying off a fine. Now he stewed in a cell, angry and frustrated but gradually working himself down.

Ambition: Kharne has a very simple, albeit lofty, ambition. He is working to become stronger, earn lots of money, and free any Argonian slave he finds. Sometimes Khajiit as well. Either by force or by currency, depends on the other person. He plans to go back to Morrowind, the worst culprits of it in his eyes to free them all.

---

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Name: Darmon Saishir
Age: 36
Race: Redguard
Appearance: Not a large man by any measure, Darmon stands only about 5’5” and is quite lightly built; Though not a warrior by any means, his life being nearly perpetually ‘on the road’ as it were has kept him quite fit…despite his preference for richer food and drink. Like some redguard, his eyes are dark brown to the point of almost looking black though according to various women, at times they glow a deep rich brown, filled with warmth and charm. For practical reasons he keeps his head shaved, though he forgoes any facial hair because as to quote his own mother ‘It looks like you’ve got a half-drowned skeever pelt on your face.’

Like many of his people, he favours the flowing hoods and robe styles native to his home land; though not overly flashy compared to some of his peers, obvious wealth ‘on the road’ draws bandits like honey draws flies.

Personality:
A friendly and outgoing fellow, as any successful merchant should be; he's a man who tries to take work seriously but life, not so much. Growing up a ‘Merchant Prince’ of Sentinel, but spending plenty of time down on the docks, he’s as comfortable drinking in rough taverns with the average folk as he is trading polite nothings with ‘high society’ (though he prefers somewhat more of a middle ground; rough enough to have an actual fun time, but classy enough that people bathe regularly.)

His charming and outgoing nature, and good looks also has a tendency to make him rather popular with many of the women that he crosses paths with..and very unpopular with quite a few of their husbands/fathers/fiancees etc; he’s also fond of ‘justifying’ his actions by saying ”If the man was better at his duties as a partner, the lady wouldn’t have found me nearly as interesting.”

This philosophy has gotten him run out of numerous towns and establishments over the years.

---

Abilities

Swordsmanship - While he’d be the first to admit he’s no Arena Champion or Companion when it comes to swordplay, Darmon is certainly skilled enough to defend himself from the usual lowlifes, cutthroats or irate spouses he sometimes encounters.

Archery (Crossbow) - Like his swordsmanship, it’s not anything special, but he’s a good enough shot to both defend himself and keep fed between towns.

Hand-to-hand - Not every altercation can, or should, be fought with a live blade. So to keep his face un-broken and his neck off of a headsman's block, he’s a fair hand at fighting with his hands…though he generally does his best to leave if he can.

Merchant Prince - His actual job is all about the deal, finding what folks want, what they might have that you want and then talking and bargaining until both parties reach a happy agreement; it seems simple, but like most things that seem simply, they often rarely are…but the challenge of it is something Darmon enjoys.

Sleight of hand - He was taught by an ex-Thieves Guild man he knew in Sentinel as a boy, and over the years he’s learned a few new tricks in his travels. Though largely used as an ‘ice breaker’ in social moments, what he knows has saved his skin on a few occasions.

Alchemist - Another thing learned for its practicality for someone travelling the length and breadth of Tamriel. Though he only knows a handful of recipes by heart, he knows them quite well, though some more than others.


Magic: None

Equipment

Personal Items

• Typical clothing for a man from Hammerfell
• Saishir Family signet ring
• The Lock Box:
• Steel dagger

Stored Items

• Legion surplus crossbow
• Bolt quiver (12)
• Scimitar
• Trading Catalogue
• Travel Bag

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Background

Born the second son and third child of the head of the Saishir Trading Company, Sentinel’s third largest trading firm, he was born into the sort of wealth that most only find amongst Tamriel's nobility. That said, unlike too many of said nobility, his father wasn’t one to let his children become spoilt, idle layabouts that leeched off of the hard work of the folks that worked for Saishir Trading.

To his father’s credit, he also did his best to mould his children into jobs that most suited them. In Darmon’s case, his ‘itchy feet’ as his mother would put it and an easy and charming personality made him best suited to be one of the company’s point men, travelling Tamriel, searching out new products to bring to Hammerfell, buyers for goods coming the other way, making friends and contacts, in both high and low places.

By fourteen Darmon was travelling with his brother on the Sentinel to Anvil run, making friends, opening talks with other trading companies, and by sixteen he was setting off inland, eventually making his way as far as the edges of Morrowind and Black Marsh. At twenty his tiring, but freewheeling, life hit a bit of a hiccup as it was decided that he should be married to cement ties between his family and one of the noble houses of Sentinel. While a drag, he knew the young woman he was to marry and had always considered her a friend.

Though everything else proceeded as planned, all was not without issue. After some awkward confessions on the wedding night, Darmon and his wife Chan came to a few agreements and settled into ‘married’ life, with a lovely woman named Kiarsa as their servant and nanny once their son Limdon was born. While he spends much of his time on the road, both for his job and just because he enjoys the travel, he does his best to return home regularly to keep up with his family.

Currently he’s been in the Imperial City for a few days, overseeing some trade negotiations between Saishir Trading and the Imperial Trading Company. With his dealings having gone well, he decided to spend some time with a lovely lady while most of the city was off at the Arena for the big bout; sadly their plans fell apart rather quickly after the bout was cancelled suddenly and the lady’s father returned home sooner than expected, drunk, angry and with her equally drunk and unhappy fiancee in tow…though Darmon would swear to the Divines that he didn’t know the lady in question was already betrothed.

The two men were in no mood to debate such semantics, so he found himself dropping off a second story balcony and running, most likely for his life. Knowing he couldn’t run forever, he made the fateful decision to try and hide from his pursuers in a local place called ‘Daggerfall Dan’s’. Rushing through the door, he had just enough time to see a breton kid go crashing into a table of off-duty guardsmen…before several hundred pounds of angry, who’d been closer than he realised, hit him from behind.

Ambition

As it stands? He’d like to wrap up his dealings in the Imperial City, he’d had a couple of meetings planned for the day after the big match in the Arena, and then begin making his way back to Sentinel, partially update his mother on things and partially to see his boy.

That said, his interest in such unsubstantive ideas like creation that evade or bewilder even most existential philosophers and conjurers. He has studied figures and events such as Tiber Septim, the ALMSIVI, the towers, and the Dragon Break extensively, even if the most regarded research is still little more than speculative theory and intellectual junk food. Such is the reason for his studies into magics that reach across the planes, alter reality, influence minds, and its own essence.

Isai is ambitious if nothing else, always wanting a little more and not really caring about the means to seize it. He has an appreciation for law if not a respect for it, preferring to use it for his purposes and bending them if he can’t, but never brashly breaking them if he can help it. There is a limit to what he’ll do, as he wouldn’t dare, say, making a human sacrifice in a daedric ritual, though it’s hard to say if that’s simply because he doesn’t have the stomach for it, but he at least purports to have a moral code of not deliberately hurting anyone despite all of his seeming faults, he is undeniably a friendly person, and whether or not he remembers your name being beside the point, you are sure to feel welcomed and flattered in his presence, and if one is so keen, to enjoy a cold night made warmer. He enjoys traveling between the provinces to see the world and to document history as it occurs.




Isai's background is remarkably... varied to say the least, and superstitious at worst. He took after his father rather than his mother in his dominant traits, being born more of an Imperial than a Bosmer--which was uncommon enough to begin with--and he had a twin who the restorationists in Anvil suspected he ate in utero. His bosmer mother was from Anvil, not from Valenwood like many of the Colovians accused her of (though her ancestral memory ran strong in her blood), and Isai's father was from the Imperial City and born to a tiler of the city's streets, to whom his given middle name alludes to. He was born under the sign of the Ritual, but on the cusp of the Lover, and as the Serpent was travelling across the sky. So many strange happenings at once would make his father very nervous, but unfortunately Stephanus would not stay very long to care for the baby and returned to the Imperial City, since he and Isai's mother, Boniel, broke off their engagement. So it is for this reason, and among others to come that Isai has come to resent his father, while also finding great humor and irony in that what he did inherit from his father is that which comes further down his bloodline--for the man looked to be a proud Colovian imperial, whereas Isai inherited more Nibenese traits from much older and deader descendants.

Naturally, single-parent living was going to be much harder. His mother, originally studying to be a mage, resorted to working nights as an entertainer and a dancer and living in a cabin in the cheapest part of Leyawiin to supplement the stipends received from the local lord for working their land. In the few hours that remained left in her day, she delivered Isai his homeschooled education. He was often babysat by his argonian neighbors he often had little clue on rearing a mammalian child as opposed to a clutch of eggs. Some of their appetites may have rubbed off on him, though now he would not likely stand to stomach most of it outside of the crawfish boils, cornbread, and baked bananas.

His mother would eventually achieve the rank of apprentice within the Mage's Guild, and though she was a smart budding conjurer, barring the ability to conjure a warm house and filling meal, she wouldn't be able to save her income from drying up and her standing in the Mages Guild was only such that she could no longer to sustain even her meager housing, nor could she move her little family into the quarters of the guild. She had friends and connections with an entertainment troupe that they could travel with in caravan.

Isai has since found it to be a consistently enrapturing conversation starter that the solution to poverty is to be kidnapped by "Daedra worshippers" and join the circus, or at least that's how he puts it. True, the caravanning troupe were performers and entertainers, actors and musicians, but they also carried with them some trade skills and general merchants. Many of them were of the buy-sell businessmen sort, and Isai would learn to pull his weight amidst this community. Though he never felt as if he was particularly good with numbers and money, he was good enough at working people -- whether they were colleague or patron, always trying to get the best deal for himself, whether honest or swindle.

It doesn't take much to become disillusioned with this lifestyle, especially if one is always looking up at the wealthy from the ranks below. Isai had a talent for reading and writing, something that his mother was keen to instill, and he often had little to do but read while on the road and acquiring books with what little money he'd earn. When the collection of books took up too much space or became too heavy, they were sold at the next stop. He became more immersed in the arts, history, magic, and cosmology. That was the stuff he wanted to talk about at length, but at a higher level. It was only a matter of time until he got tired of not being on the same intellectual level as most of his community and found a way out.

Most of the retinue owed money to some lord who owned the land they originally lived on -- even Boniel. But clever Isai found a solution on his return to Leyawiin. While he worked for others in their homes to accumulate some wealth (and reading their books all the while), he collected swamp sludge and sewage from the surrounding area and directed it toward a naturally dry piece of land just outside of the walls and expressed interest in purchasing that land that was little more than 15x15 feet. Looking utterly worthless, Isai obtained it for almost literally a steal. While almost utterly uncultivatable, that wasn't the important part. By technicality, or fact, he now owned land. He upscaled his life from beginning from serfdom, to vagabond, domestic servant to, suddenly, a franklin -- a freeman, dispossessed of a lord.

Seeing now that such mobility was possible, he wondered what it would take to achieve more. From the cabin he had built here began the rest of his life, writing books upon books and engaging with the local academics, and as he traveled the provinces to return to his humble abode, his history of publications grew:

• Scamps of Avignaue _{(A genuinely well-crafted novel centered around a fictional Breton kingdom that is rife with romance and poignant political analogues and commentary)}
• Engaging the Works of Crassius Curio: A Deconstructionist Approach _{(Feckless and vain efforts to critically analyze soft and hardcore smut)}
• From the Blackwood _{(An earnest attempt at poetry was made in this collection)}
• Spinning Wheels: Observations of the Stars, the Serpent, and Aetherius _{(Seen by experts as an amateur's entry into cosmology making peculiar speculations)}
• 69 Aphrodisiacs: Tried and Tested _{(Tested is underlined on the cover)}
• Halfway There: Extraplanar Conjuring and What Lies in the Threshold Between Realms _{(An attempt to investigate the space between Mundus and the planes of Oblivion -- grants + ½ skill to Conjuration)}
• Halfway There II: Padomaic/Sithic Principles, the Paradoxical Improbability of Void, and Absent Idols _{(Continuation of prior research into sub-planar spaces and simultaneous challenge of metaphysical presence or expression of a "void," undermining the Dark Brotherhood's belief in Sithis)}
• Halfway There III: Shadows as Aurbic Expressions of Padomay and Redacting Speculation of the Void _{(Seems written under duress)}
• On the Constitution of Man and its Relationship to External Objects _{(Definitely not plagiarized)}
• In Defense of the Arts _{(Tone-deaf piece missing context of beggars given "enrichment" instead of food and shelter)}
• Marble Spokes: Bridging Mundus to the Meta-Aurbis _{(Raises more questions than it answers)}
• "Spindle Enhancement Balms, 15 Septims" _{(An ad placed in the Black Horse Courier)}
• Much Ado About ALMSIVI _{(Comparing the old Tribunal to the Mantling of Talos, he... wait, is this fanfiction?)}

And many more "highly acclaimed" publications that have somewhat ballooned his ego. Eventually, his travels took him to Cheydinhal, where he sought to curry Count Andel Indarys' favor, so as to increase in social rank once again and position himself among the landed gentry. There, he encountered a young but well-organized Imperial castle administrator, Verena Luscinia, with whom he was able to conspire with (and possibly bribe) to learn information about the good Count, what he liked and didn't like, the things he seemed insecure about, and the controversies around him. After spending a meager amount of time in the Newlands Lodge writing his newest book, In Observance of Cheydinhal and Governance: Beauty, Culture, and Rumour, which was full of tailored and piecemeal interviews from the citizens of the county and painted a flattering state of affairs for the city and its Count. He took extra care to emphasize records of the Count's humility and dispelling the rumors surrounding his qualifications and his wife's passing by utilizing formalist theory to use the front-facing appearance of the city as "evidence from the text" (so to speak) to support the Count's reputation.

Through a combination of blowing smoke and pomp up the ass of Count Indarys, and a few well places signatures, check marks, and stamps from Verena Luscinia, Isai obtained legal evidence (through questionable means) of acquiring the courtesy title of esquire from County Cheydinhal, becoming formally recognized as a gentleman, though intending to perform no squirely duties on behalf of the Knights of the Thorn. From here on, he poached Verena as his own assistant, promising her adventure, excitement, and making a difference in the world... only to saddle her with carrying most of his stuff, few though they may be. Through thick and thin, they traveled together for almost a whole year, and eventually reached the Imperial City Arena by the skin of their teeth at Isai's behest, insisting that he recorded what was bound to be the greatest and most barbaric sporting event of the Era... only for fans to drunkenly riot, catching Isai and Verena in the mass arrest that occurred soon thereafter. He last remembers expressing excitement to Verena about how his readers would love to know what it's like to be in a bar fight before suddenly blacking out.

---

---

He is a fairly thin man, generally speaking, lacking a sort of cut fitness that he desires but lacking the interest in exerting the physical effort to obtain it, but also having a slight belly that lets you know that he routinely samples the best of the world's foods like Breton honey cakes and spicy wyress wine, Altmeri golden pear punch, Imperial dormice with marrow sauce, or a Dunmeri curried kwama scrib risotto. Conveniently, or perhaps by design, his cassock somehow both hides and flatters his figure. He is somewhat tall, but not particularly intimidating at 5'10".

All this to say, Isai looks younger than his years and the pep in his step instills in the passive observer a sense of energy and dynamism that undercuts a boyish charm. His presentation disarms and distracts from a genuinely curious mind trying to crack some kind of esoteric code not readily apparent to others.


Isai is an Imperial man (alleging to be half-Bosmer on his mother's side) with a wide range of self-ascribed titles relating to the arts, sciences, pseudo-sciences, philosophy, and magical studies. However, he is perhaps best known as an author who has and will write about anything and everything, though it is unclear whether it be from genuine academic interest/artistic expression or because he likes the attention of being heard and seen. He is also known for having an inclination towards being melodramatic.

A true renaissance man, he doesn't purport to be an expert in any one field, but it cannot be denied even by those chagrined by his self-indulgent behavior that he is very knowledgeable about a wide breadth of topics, even if some of them may be misinformed. He seems most interested in the world history of Tamriel, its mortal denizens, and the cosmology of the universe which provides magicka, gods, and daedra.

In league with such interests, he possesses apprentice-level knowledge of conjuration, alteration, and mysticism, as well as apprentice-level knowledge of the illusion school, only being invested insofar as to only become versed in the nature of illusions so as to “study how the mind behaves within its confines, and shatter that which allows reality to allude." ...Whatever that means. His clear eccentricities notwithstanding, he is a man who mostly has his wits about him in most situations. He’s an advocate for “training the mind,” being a considerable fan of theory — no matter the discipline — and appearing notably excitable when broaching even the most esoteric and cerebral topics of conversations. That said, his interest in such unsubstantive ideas like creation that evade or bewilder even most existential philosophers and conjurers. He has studied figures and events such as Tiber Septim, the ALMSIVI, the towers, and the Dragon Break extensively, even if the most regarded research is still little more than speculative theory and intellectual junk food. Such is the reason for his studies into magics that reach across the planes, alter reality, influence minds, and its own essence.

Isai is ambitious if nothing else, always wanting a little more and not really caring about the means to seize it. He has an appreciation for law if not a respect for it, preferring to use it for his purposes and bending them if he can’t, but never brashly breaking them if he can help it. There is a limit to what he’ll do, as he wouldn’t dare, say, making a human sacrifice in a daedric ritual, though it’s hard to say if that’s simply because he doesn’t have the stomach for it, but he at least purports to have a moral code of not deliberately hurting anyone despite all of his seeming faults, he is undeniably a friendly person, and whether or not he remembers your name being beside the point, you are sure to feel welcomed and flattered in his presence, and if one is so keen, to enjoy a cold night made warmer. He enjoys traveling between the provinces to see the world and to document history as it occurs.




Isai's background is remarkably... varied to say the least, and superstitious at worst. He took after his father rather than his mother in his dominant traits, being born more of an Imperial than a Bosmer--which was uncommon enough to begin with--and he had a twin who the restorationists in Anvil suspected he ate in utero. His bosmer mother was from Anvil, not from Valenwood like many of the Colovians accused her of (though her ancestral memory ran strong in her blood), and Isai's father was from the Imperial City and born to a tiler of the city's streets, to whom his given middle name alludes to. He was born under the sign of the Ritual, but on the cusp of the Lover, and as the Serpent was travelling across the sky. So many strange happenings at once would make his father very nervous, but unfortunately Stephanus would not stay very long to care for the baby and returned to the Imperial City, since he and Isai's mother, Boniel, broke off their engagement. So it is for this reason, and among others to come that Isai has come to resent his father, while also finding great humor and irony in that what he did inherit from his father is that which comes further down his bloodline--for the man looked to be a proud Colovian imperial, whereas Isai inherited more Nibenese traits from much older and deader descendants.

Naturally, single-parent living was going to be much harder. His mother, originally studying to be a mage, resorted to working nights as an entertainer and a dancer and living in a cabin in the cheapest part of Leyawiin to supplement the stipends received from the local lord for working their land. In the few hours that remained left in her day, she delivered Isai his homeschooled education. He was often babysat by his argonian neighbors he often had little clue on rearing a mammalian child as opposed to a clutch of eggs. Some of their appetites may have rubbed off on him, though now he would not likely stand to stomach most of it outside of the crawfish boils, cornbread, and baked bananas.

His mother would eventually achieve the rank of apprentice within the Mage's Guild, and though she was a smart budding conjurer, barring the ability to conjure a warm house and filling meal, she wouldn't be able to save her income from drying up and her standing in the Mages Guild was only such that she could no longer to sustain even her meager housing, nor could she move her little family into the quarters of the guild. She had friends and connections with an entertainment troupe that they could travel with in caravan.

Isai has since found it to be a consistently enrapturing conversation starter that the solution to poverty is to be kidnapped by "Daedra worshippers" and join the circus, or at least that's how he puts it. True, the caravanning troupe were performers and entertainers, actors and musicians, but they also carried with them some trade skills and general merchants. Many of them were of the buy-sell businessmen sort, and Isai would learn to pull his weight amidst this community. Though he never felt as if he was particularly good with numbers and money, he was good enough at working people -- whether they were colleague or patron, always trying to get the best deal for himself, whether honest or swindle.

It doesn't take much to become disillusioned with this lifestyle, especially if one is always looking up at the wealthy from the ranks below. Isai had a talent for reading and writing, something that his mother was keen to instill, and he often had little to do but read while on the road and acquiring books with what little money he'd earn. When the collection of books took up too much space or became too heavy, they were sold at the next stop. He became more immersed in the arts, history, magic, and cosmology. That was the stuff he wanted to talk about at length, but at a higher level. It was only a matter of time until he got tired of not being on the same intellectual level as most of his community and found a way out.

Most of the retinue owed money to some lord who owned the land they originally lived on -- even Boniel. But clever Isai found a solution on his return to Leyawiin. While he worked for others in their homes to accumulate some wealth (and reading their books all the while), he collected swamp sludge and sewage from the surrounding area and directed it toward a naturally dry piece of land just outside of the walls and expressed interest in purchasing that land that was little more than 15x15 feet. Looking utterly worthless, Isai obtained it for almost literally a steal. While almost utterly uncultivatable, that wasn't the important part. By technicality, or fact, he now owned land. He upscaled his life from beginning from serfdom, to vagabond, domestic servant to, suddenly, a franklin -- a freeman, dispossessed of a lord.

Seeing now that such mobility was possible, he wondered what it would take to achieve more. From the cabin he had built here began the rest of his life, writing books upon books and engaging with the local academics, and as he traveled the provinces to return to his humble abode, his history of publications grew:

• Scamps of Avignaue _{(A genuinely well-crafted novel centered around a fictional Breton kingdom that is rife with romance and poignant political analogues and commentary)}
• Engaging the Works of Crassius Curio: A Deconstructionist Approach _{(Feckless and vain efforts to critically analyze soft and hardcore smut)}
• From the Blackwood _{(An earnest attempt at poetry was made in this collection)}
• Spinning Wheels: Observations of the Stars, the Serpent, and Aetherius _{(Seen by experts as an amateur's entry into cosmology making peculiar speculations)}
• 69 Aphrodisiacs: Tried and Tested _{(Tested is underlined on the cover)}
• Halfway There: Extraplanar Conjuring and What Lies in the Threshold Between Realms _{(An attempt to investigate the space between Mundus and the planes of Oblivion -- grants + ½ skill to Conjuration)}
• Halfway There II: Padomaic/Sithic Principles, the Paradoxical Improbability of Void, and Absent Idols _{(Continuation of prior research into sub-planar spaces and simultaneous challenge of metaphysical presence or expression of a "void," undermining the Dark Brotherhood's belief in Sithis)}
• Halfway There III: Shadows as Aurbic Expressions of Padomay and Redacting Speculation of the Void _{(Seems written under duress)}
• On the Constitution of Man and its Relationship to External Objects _{(Definitely not plagiarized)}
• In Defense of the Arts _{(Tone-deaf piece missing context of beggars given "enrichment" instead of food and shelter)}
• Marble Spokes: Bridging Mundus to the Meta-Aurbis _{(Raises more questions than it answers)}
• "Spindle Enhancement Balms, 15 Septims" _{(An ad placed in the Black Horse Courier)}
• Much Ado About ALMSIVI _{(Comparing the old Tribunal to the Mantling of Talos, he... wait, is this fanfiction?)}

And many more "highly acclaimed" publications that have somewhat ballooned his ego. Eventually, his travels took him to Cheydinhal, where he sought to curry Count Andel Indarys' favor, so as to increase in social rank once again and position himself among the landed gentry. There, he encountered a young but well-organized Imperial castle administrator, Verena Luscinia, with whom he was able to conspire with (and possibly bribe) to learn information about the good Count, what he liked and didn't like, the things he seemed insecure about, and the controversies around him. After spending a meager amount of time in the Newlands Lodge writing his newest book, In Observance of Cheydinhal and Governance: Beauty, Culture, and Rumour, which was full of tailored and piecemeal interviews from the citizens of the county and painted a flattering state of affairs for the city and its Count. He took extra care to emphasize records of the Count's humility and dispelling the rumors surrounding his qualifications and his wife's passing by utilizing formalist theory to use the front-facing appearance of the city as "evidence from the text" (so to speak) to support the Count's reputation.

Through a combination of blowing smoke and pomp up the ass of Count Indarys, and a few well places signatures, check marks, and stamps from Verena Luscinia, Isai obtained legal evidence (through questionable means) of acquiring the courtesy title of esquire from County Cheydinhal, becoming formally recognized as a gentleman, though intending to perform no squirely duties on behalf of the Knights of the Thorn. From here on, he poached Verena as his own assistant, promising her adventure, excitement, and making a difference in the world... only to saddle her with carrying most of his stuff, few though they may be. Through thick and thin, they traveled together for almost a whole year, and eventually reached the Imperial City Arena by the skin of their teeth at Isai's behest, insisting that he recorded what was bound to be the greatest and most barbaric sporting event of the Era... only for fans to drunkenly riot, catching Isai and Verena in the mass arrest that occurred soon thereafter. He last remembers expressing excitement to Verena about how his readers would love to know what it's like to be in a bar fight before suddenly blacking out.

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Basic Information
Name: Sablyn Renault
Age: 22
Race: Breton
Appearance: Sablyn is a petite young Breton woman with long brown hair that she usually wears in a tight bun to keep it out of her way. Despite her small frame, she is athletic and well muscled from her years staying alive on the streets of Imperial City. She has a set of reliable netch leather armor that she wears on dangerous jobs, and otherwise dresses as fashionably as she can afford to.

Personality
Sablyn has had a rough life, but one wouldn’t know it from her jaunty, carefree demeanor. She’s not particularly talkative — she’s always expressed herself better in writing — but she enjoys good company and loves to laugh. She’s a careful planner, and stays away from drink and other substances that cloud the mind. While she’s taken a frugal turn in recent years as she saves money for her future, she has a bit of a weakness for fine clothes.

Abilities
Skills: Short blades, archery, light armor and unarmored, acrobatics, security, sneaking. Sablyn has spent her life learning to survive threats from people bigger and stronger than her, and so she has learned to use her speed and agility to great effect.
Magic: Sablyn knows some minor spells to help herself blend into the background or even become briefly invisible.

Equipment
Personal Items: Sablyn was dressed to blend in on the streets when she was arrested — a lucky break for her, since it meant she wasn’t wearing her armor or any of her more expensive clothes, which the guards would surely have confiscated. She’s dressed in a common shirt and skirt and inexpensive sandals. She has a set of lockpicks sewn into the hem of her shirt that the guards didn’t find.
The Lock Box: A dagger — well made, but fortunately not her best one — and a small purse of gold.
Stored Items: Locked safely away in her residence are her bow, a quiver of arrows, a pair of steel daggers (one of which carries a poisoning enchantment) a set of netch leather armor, a variety of tools for picking locks and disarming traps, and a wardrobe that includes some brightly colored and well-made clothing as well as several sturdy and unremarkable outfits for travel and for jobs where she doesn’t want to draw attention.

Background
An orphan, Sablyn grew up on the streets of Imperial City. A teenaged Khajiit thief named Kyra took Sablyn under her wing, and taught her to pick pockets and cut purses, and how to handle herself in a fight. The greatest skill Kyra taught her, however, was how to read. In her spare time, Sablyn read every book she could get her hands on. She fell in love with poetry and soon began writing her own. Her early attempts were silly imitations of better things she’d read, but she didn’t care. She was doing it for the love of it, not for anyone to read it.

Kyra and Sablyn worked together for more than a decade, making a living through thievery, cons, and occasional runs of luck at cards. Sablyn was 17, when a burglary job they tried to pull turned out to be a setup orchestrated by a fellow thief named M'desi, whose affections Kyra had spurned. Sablyn escaped, but Kyra was a step too slow and was cut down by a guard.

In her grief, Sablyn found refuge in poetry. For several months, all she did was read and write. When she ran out of money, she turned back to thievery, but now she had a plan: she was going to live lean, work smart, stay away from the card tables, and save money to open a used book shop.

For the past five years she’s been doing just that, continuing to write when she has the time. A few years ago, she had a brief affair with a traveling merchant, who was the first person other than Kyra to whom she’s showed her poetry. He was impressed and encouraged her to publish it, and perhaps she will someday, once she’s in a stable and legitimate business.

She hasn’t forgotten M'desi’s betrayal, and while she’s not going to jeopardize her future plans on his account, she has always kept an eye on him and intends to avenge Kyra as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

Ambition
To make enough money to open her book shop and to either kill M'desi or orchestrate his demise.

Name: Yarmira
Age: 60 (20 in pathetically short lives of men)
Race: Bosmer
Appearance

Personality

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Skills

Archer


Climber


Tracker



Bushcraft

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Green Pact Magic

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Equipment

Personal Items

Lockbox

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Ambition

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Appearance:
It can be seen that she was beautiful once, but Deia has grown thin, gaunt, and wild. There are echoes of things that consumed her etched across her being. Her hands are restless. Fingers always moving to trace unseen symbols in the air and across her limbs when she speaks. Her hair, once kept neat in the schools of High Rock and her courts, has since grown wild, long, and into curls. Her thin body is crisscrossed with scars. Her hands, her arms, her throat… Some were earned in battle, others carved there by her own blade and will in moments of ritualistic fervour.

There is a phantom elegance to the way she moves, her affluent upbringing existing still in her soul and she draws on it now in her new life. She has a habit of tilting her head when listening, as if she is catching voices no one else can hear. Thing unheard and unseen, a wisp of something from the other side. When she speaks, her voice is smooth until it isn't. Until her mania slips through in a burst of chilling laughter, her lips curled just a little too wide. The serpent ready to strike.

Personality:
Deia prays in the shadows with her teeth bared and jaw clenched, hands gripped around a blade. To her, faith is devotion carved into flesh and screamed into the harsh and rotten void. When she speaks of her gods, there is a gleam in her eyes that is wide and fevered.

When silence lingers too long, she fills it with laughter that blooms into something high and unhinged and frightening. She laughs at things that shouldn’t be funny. At sorrow, at regret, and at the trembling in a fearful voice. Fear delights her. She especially delights in other’s unease and in the way a man will flinch when she recites prayers not meant for his ears.

Deia still wears talismans of bone and feather hidden beneath her cloaks, still mutters old prayers to gods most fear to name. But beneath it all, buried under the weight she carries there is still something fragile, something that aches in the quiet moments when she remembers what was taken, what was done to her, what she lost. She does not speak of love, but it is her deepest wound that has never closed. She does not weep. Her grief lives and feeds on her rage. It propels her forward, bringing lucidity from her madness enough to disguise herself in the city streets now.

There is still fear that she is too far gone from humanity, that she will never attain a state of being recogniseable to the children who are searching for her. Not only will she live having had her children stolen - but that they will reject her as a thing of the wild, a creature, a monster. There are fleeting moments that something human from the past flickers behind her dull eyes and slips through and out of the madness. Something broken and bleeding.

But then she laughs, and it is gone again.

Background:
Skyrim’s chill was in her bones long before she was old enough to name it. Born to a Nord father and a Breton mother. Dhalia carried their two differing worlds in her veins. Unyeilding spirit of the north, and the thrum of magic in her breath. Having demonstrated affinity, she was sent westward, to High Rock and to the Mages Guild halls where they refined her wild talent. She devoured the secrets of the school of Destruction, binding herself to the fury of Kyne.

When her time came, she was welcomed in Cyrodiil courts as an advisory mage, where she served high born families. It suited her well, and she took to her position as a serpent among the wolves, astute to the politics. It didnt take long for them to whisper in contempt of her. They spun their stories of her seduction and sorcery; rumours of a woman who let too many hands touch her skin, took too many men and women alike to her bed. A witch who took what she wanted without asking. The gods do not grant mercy to a Maiden like that.

Such whispers of her indulgences turned to scandal and soon, undeniable proof swelled beneath her robes. Twins conceived in secrecy, their father highborn, bound to duty, and to his wife. Dahlia was hidden away, back over the border to Skyrim to hide the scandal. When her twins were born, she was poisoned by the very guards who had escorted her. Just like that, she was cast into the dark, taken far from the small town she had been imprisoned in, and left bleeding and broken. Mother for a day. She had been cast out and left for the wilds to consume her.

But the Reach does not waste what still breathes.

Reachmen found her among the briars, half buried in snow as a grieving, screaming spirit too stubborn to pass and too full of primordial rage to die. They took her in, reshaping her in their image, unmaking the woman of courts and remaking her as something wild. Their old magic was carved into her skin, bled into her bones until she spoke in tongues she did not understand. Namira whispered to her through her grief in words of rot and decay until she buried and burned her name and Dahlia was stripped away. Deia emerged - baptised in her antlered mask and crown of death, beneath a bleeding moon.

They called her sister. She let them. The wild life of ritual drowned her own. Her pain and grief was forgotten. Her past was gone. Or so she told herself.

It was the wind that brought the memories back. She heard them in her dreams, in the rustling of trees, in the flow of the rivers and streams, in the rain. In her rituals, the gods told her they were alive and raised by another. They needed her. The Reach could not hold her any more. She escaped the wilds with Kyne’s breath in her lungs. Stealing Namira’s hunger, folding it into herself.

And so she traveled across the border. A Crone trying to wear the skin and disguise of a woman closer to cosmopolitan than she had been for many years. To ignore her inclinations to the wild ways of the time she had spent in celebration of the rot, decay, and abundant life. She had to relearn manners and the ways of an invisible, mindless, godless life in the pursuit of her children.

Manners which were promptly lost when following a lead led her to a brawl... And led her to sinking her teeth into an unsuspecting arm. In defense, of course....

Skills:
Alchemy – Deia can craft deadly poisons from fungi, nightshade, and human /animal remains by smearing them on her blade. She is not above brewing hallucinogenic elixirs that bring her closer to her gods, particularly in her journey to find her children. Believing this communication to be paramount to her mission.
Blade – Primarily a mage, Deia is no stranger to carving symbols into flesh with her ritual dagger, whether it is her own or someone elses... She fights with swift, brutal precision, aiming for arteries and weak spots if cornered, and she does try not to be cornered...

Magic
Destruction – Her primary school of magic, she specialises in Lightning and Storm spells.
Lightning Bolt, Shocking Burst, Lightning Grasp.

Mysticism – The school of things unheard and unseen.
Detect Life, Soul Trap, Minor Dispel.

Conjuration – Having spent years among the Reachmen, she has learned minor conjuration.
Summon Ghost, Bound Dagger, Turn Undead.

Equipment:
Personal
A plain, hooded outfit which covers much of her skin, thin gloves, footwraps.
A silk sash around her waist.

Lockbox
Pouches of bone, herbs, and dirt.
Empty glass vials.
Saltpeter.
A ritual Reachman dagger.
A bloodied cloth.

Ambition:
Retribution and redemption. To reclaim her fragile humanity she once knew, to become the mother her children deserve while punishing those who abandoned her, and stole them from her.

Name: Sildun of Clan Oath-blood

Age: 28

Race: Nord

Appearance: Standing at around seven foot, nearly three feet shoulder to shoulder, with mountains of muscle and fiery hair indicative of his northern lineage and sheer size making it all the more obvious. With light scarring crossing his pale skin from lessons learned from a harsh upbringing in the frozen lands and deeper ones from service in the Legion, visible or not. Still even with wildly long braided hair and sizeable beard he keeps himself clean and well groomed. Often seen in steel plate with animal hide lining giving the appearance of the common Nordic warrior. Still the symbol of the Legion is pinned to his armor denotes his service and position.

Personality: Most would call him loud or foolhardy, Sildun does not pay them much mind, Nords have never been understood by men or mer. Often time philosophical and thoughtful when not wading into battle against foes, with imposing size and muscle. A careful few recognize the intelligence and cunning of scholar they see only the soldier, the warrior, the dumb brute of a Nord, he prefers it that way. His time in the Reach taught him that though honor and faith are important, battle takes more than heart and steel, cunning too is needed especially when foes have access to just as much steel and more magic. As such while comes off as any other Nord might there is a cunning and learned skill behind his demeanor that works to conceal, playing what others believe him to be so he always under estimated.









Ambition: To bring knowledge and learning back to his teachers.