As with many of the Yokudan myths and legends, the woman who would become Ansei did not start out gifted or soft in any way. Her life from birth had been one of the harsh desert sands, born among the nomadic tribes of the Alik'r who for one reason or another rarely visited the shade of the cities. Though in a way her life was a miracle in a way, as it had nearly never happened at all for her tribe's varied conflicts with neighboring provinces and within Hammerfell itself. One of those few who still hold true to the Warrior Wave philosophy, her people have lived a life of hardship for hundreds of years, seeking out any threats to Hammerfell no matter where they may dwell, and destroying them utterly. Whether it be the revered undead or a clan of Orsimer cursed by Malacath with a blood rage. It was the latter that brought her mother to her father, an Altmer woman gifted in restoration and dead set on sharing that gift with any in need of it. Her wanderings had brought her to a clan of Orcs beset by one tragedy after another, and soon she had been wed to the Chief and the thing thought impossible came to their clan. Peace.

But it didn't last long, as their blood boiled from the merest of slights, and eventually one of their clan struck a Redguard merchant down in cold blood, drawing the attention of the Alik'ri tribe. A mission of destruction was undertaken, with the only survivors being the youngest and eldest of Orcs, as well as Terandil of Shimmerene and her two unborn children. Jakir, the chief of the Alik'ri tribe, walked out of the main building of the stronghold a shaken man and gave the order himself, what had transpired between himself and the Orsimer chief remaining secret to this day. Of course, news spread quickly of the razing of the clan's land and soon an army began to draw against the Alik'ri. Little by little they were driven into a pass that was to be their grave until Jakir himself negotiated with the Reachman warleader, and showed that his people had taken in the most vulnerable of the Orcs as well as the Altmer Terandil.

Many tense years passed since that day, and on the eve of the seventh Khaliya was born to Terandil and Jakir, the two having found a love for each other in their time among the sands. Of course her childhood was a rather rough one though, not just for the biting winds of blown sand, or of the merciless sun during the day and the bone-chilling cold of night, but for her older step-siblings Yashar and Roshanara who had been fully adopted by the Alik'r since then. With half-orcs as siblings, she quickly learned to toughen up for the rough-housing of children, and over the years was made all the better for it. While her kin and tribespeople were given towards more martial skills because of their lifestyle, Khaliya found herself gifted in particular with the blade. As others branched and learned more of song, dance, pottery or weaving she did much the same, but always her eye was drawn more and more to the sword.

It was found all the more in the tales of the Ansei and her people's Yokudan history told through the songs of her tribe. Each was a tale of great heroes fighting the demons of their homeland, or fighting to secure a new home which future generations would call Hammerfell. And while most were told their song, dance and copious embellishment, there were a rare few which Khaliya became uniquely suited for. It started as just a whim on a visit to Rihad, she was a fresh teenager and already assisting on the hunts and defense rotas, and her father and uncle had just begun a tale of Frandar Hunding. Normally the tale would be told with a sword-dancer playing out the role of the hero himself as the elders spoke in reverent tones of his many deeds, but for some time her cousin who would have normally performed the role had been working off an injury. So without even asking for permission or waiting for the two to say something against it, she took up the ceremonial swords and simply joined in mid-act.

At first it was simply the usual crowd of spectators, a few elders watching with respect and curious younger passerby who perhaps had not heard the stories told in such a way. Steel caught the light as trailing red cloth painted the strokes of killing blows millenia past, Khaliya putting to work all the practice over the last few years to try and recreate what she had seen. She knew the steps as well as anyone else in the tribe, and she knew the story better than even her father at times, it being a favorite of hers. There was something else about acting it out though. More and more she let the crowd fade and the words guide her hands and feet, until at last she came to a standing rest and felt the heat of dozens of eyes staring at her and the wave of applause. Her performance had drawn quite the crowd with her easy motions, the swords lighter than air in her hands and acting more like an extension of herself than steel and silk. It was certainly a surprise, but she made herself quite scarce after a few stepped forward asking her name, the calls following her family as they headed back to the caravan to count coin and get ready for the night.

But it wouldn't be quite over for her by any means. Over the next few days as they rested and traded within Rihad there came numerous requests both to have another performance with the young sword-dancer and to know her name. Her father was equal parts frustrated and proud, one in having seen his daughter take up an honored role with such excellence, and the other in having to now deal with repeated advances from Hammerfell knights wanting to bring her into their order. Crimson Sands, Opal Watch, Rihadi Wardens, even the Sentinel White-Cloaks, each of them made it a point to try and speak with Khaliya either with or without her father present in order to convince her to give up the nomadic life and become a knight. "One with such skills cannot belong to the sands alone." As they said repeatedly, their goals clear as they sought her only for her skills and the potential glory for their own individual orders. All were of course turned away, and not always by her father. His word was final, but she had found her frustration mounting as the day they would leave Rihad could not come faster.

On the final day her last admirer arrived at the camp, just as they were hitching the camels and packing the last of their goods for the long road. Unlike the varied orders he came not with a grand escort, no banners, no emblems or symbols of office. There was no intent to impress, ingratiate, beg or intimidate for her attention. Instead the aging man presented himself to her and her father as a keeper of the old ways. He was just a man with a book, one that could be of use to a girl with so much potential, as he said of Khaliya. The book itself looked every bit older than the man, wrapped in delicate silks that preserved it from the arid heat and showed that while he himself looked nearly destitute, that it held more wealth than all of Hammerfell to him. It was offered freely with no expectations, the old man merely suggesting that it would be of interest to Khaliya and could help her make her own way some day in the future.

The significance of this gesture wouldn't be understood until far from Rihad, when she unwrapped the silks and stared at the interlocking rings on the cover, Yokudan script showing the title and author as something quite extraordinary. Within her hands was the Book of Circles, and not just some copy done clumsily by Cyrodillic hands or some Scholar who had never held a blade before. It was done in the tradition of the old Ansei, passed from teacher to student with the intent for them to one day write their own. The pages were old and weathered, the ink older than her entire tribe and calling back to another age where their traditions were a way of life to more than just a scant hundred. And there on the first page in the flowing script of a warrior wielding a pen instead of a blade, the name "Frandar Hunding". All of these books were written much the same, the man who had written the first given the honor of the first page of every copy written by every following Sword-Saint. This was to Khaliya, one of the most significant treasures she had ever seen, and her family knew it as well, allowing her the time to study it more than she had ever delved into any book before.

Days turned to weeks on the road, her feet stirring the sands in one rota after the other. Weeks became months, the sword of her father singing along the wind with a fervor of a woman who had realized her life's purpose. Months shifted into years one after the other and Khaliya had read the Book of Circles front to back, practiced every maneuver back to front and almost memorized the sword strokes that were meant for a blade infinitely lighter than the steel she held.

With three, almost four years passing since being gifted the Book of Circles, life had shifted quite drastically for Khaliya. Now sixteen she was leading expeditions across the sands ahead of the tribe, pathfinding for her people to avoid the dangers lurking beneath the dunes. The slightest mistake could lead to the death of dozens, far too many for any tribe, much less one who had made themselves known to seek out and destroy the undead, a taboo among all Redguard. That was why a good eye was often times more valuable than a strong arm, and she had learned all too well the little details that others missed. The way the dunes shift ever so slightly in the distance, ripples across the surface and the occasional breach of stone hinting at the lurking teeth and claws waiting for passing prey. Heat hazes could distort the horizon in more subtle ways, making one think an oasis was far closer than reality, if it was even there to begin with. Of course the haze was the lesser effect of such punishing heat, and she knew that spending too much time on the sands was lethal even under the shade of the main caravan.

So she learned to read the sands, to listen to and feel the winds, taking in all the signs that a skilled navigator could use to find their way to the sea. Yet it was on a day when she was relied upon most that she would be challenged by her greatest foe. Her brother Yashar had been spending the last couple years with her uncle along the northern shores, and Roshanara primarily stuck with their mother and the main caravan in case some danger bypassed the sentries. On this day she was out ahead with a dozen men walking the sands, feeling out a safe route towards Sentinel and avoiding the fringes of Craglorn. The sands had been whipped into a frenzy by westerly winds heated by the sun and driving the dune rippers into a maddened hunger. Each of the western sentry groups had encountered lesser rippers that would have normally never attacked a group like that, and the tribe as a whole knew that soon there would need to be a decision made. Either press on towards Sentinel regardless of the rippers and the approaching sandstorm, or break east and enter Sunforge. The latter had been regarded as a non-starter for years, ever since the conflict at the pass had nearly destroyed their tribe in Craglorn, they had kept their distance from the region and the many Orsimer strongholds that retained a grudge.

Sentinel though… Yashar was likely to be there, but the most pressing issue was that it was still more than three days of hard travel even if the camels were pressed without rest. All that could be done was to continue on with caution, to keep both options open until the very last moment. That was as her father had taught her, to never close a door until sure that it held no benefit. Pressing forward through the gusting winds and darkening skies there was the ever present looming danger of what may lie beneath, Khaliya herself on point and cresting each dune carefully. Little by little they made their way, glancing between the skies above, to the west and east, and in the far distance the banners of their tribe showing them on their way. That was a distraction though and she knew it. The tribe would be fine as long as they focused on their duty, to keep any dangers from the main caravan. Just one last dune before they would enter into the hinterlands where the sand would start to shift to rock and dirt. The wind shifted the sands around this one as it crested high into the horizon, looming like a barrier in their journey and curling towards them as a break against sea-borne winds. Though the closer her party got to the dune the more something seemed off. It was as if the dune had not formed over eons of gentle desert winds but… Too late they realized the danger they had come upon, one that they were trying to deliberately steer the caravan away from. Without hesitation Khaliya ordered a runner back to divert the tribe east and closer to the border to Sunforge. All she and her scouts needed to do was carefully maneuver themselves around the dune and leave marks for those to follow. But as they closed in and began to skirt around, the sands shifted. Great spires of hardened carapace erupted from the peaks of the dune, pitted and scored by years of desert life. A rumbling came from beneath them, disturbing the sands under their feet as the shape of the dune writhed back and forth lazily, and for a fraction of a moment in the darkening twilight of the impending sandstorm, they saw it.

Murderous intent gleaming behind eyes that had seen many tribes such as hers come and go, the shifting of sands across eras and the death of empires. It was a creature as old as the sands themselves and one of the most feared beings in all the Alik'r. To the Forebears within their safe cities and the Imperial travelers, it was just myth and legend, some creature from the Merethic that had long since passed. For her and the other Alik'ri tribes though, they knew it as the Greater Duneripper. A duneripper that had survived through its adulthood to become an elder and like all of their kind, old age was barely an inconvenience. All Khaliya remembered of what was to follow was a whisper under the howling sands as the creature slowly dove into the earth, meter after meter of ancient terror…

Dunefather.

---

It would be several weeks later that Khaliya would find herself in Sentinel, her mother resting beside the bed she lay in and a dull pain all over her body that told her that she had been through something rather significant. Fresh scars lay under the bandages wrapping her entire torso and lower body, flashes of that encounter in the sands and a bright spear of light erupting from her hands in a moment of stress. Her family would take the next few days between her resting to fill her in on what had happened. During the sandstorm that had engulfed the tribe's caravan and the scouting parties, her own had encountered a greater duneripper of significant size, one believed to be the Dunefather himself. That was something of debate among the tribe though, but they knew it to be a rather significant threat and six of their people were dead with several others wounded just as Khaliya had been. What was of particular note though was not their harrowing encounter with the Duneripper or the hastened march towards Sentinel, but in how it had been fended off and sent back into the sands. The survivors of her party spoke of how one by one each of them had been pulled beneath the sand screaming, only blood and cloth remaining as they were picked off. Suddenly Khaliya had been dragged down next, and the duneripper crested from the surface with her clinging on as best she could, sword simply slipping off the carapace of the beast. Everyone had thought her lost as she disappeared into its maw, only for a moment later to hear her voice knowing it to be one of anguish, and instead a blade made of pure starlight erupting from the top of the duneripper's skull and swinging outward. That had been enough for it to drop the wounded woman back onto the sands and retreat, not willing to continue that fight.

Luckily for her the main caravan had hastened to catch up once the sandstorm hit, and that had been when her mother saw the bloodied sands and her daughter barely clinging to life. From there they had set a maddened pace all the way to Sentinel, their rush nearly finding the city guard upon them if it weren't for Yashar there to vouch for them and the state of many of their scouts. But it was all past now, and all she had to do was look towards the future, one that seemed a little strange especially for she remembered little of the event. One visitor in particular though provided some insights, the same elder who had given her the Book of Circles now came to her as she recovered from her ordeal, and just as before he came with a gift free of expectations and once more, he gave her a choice. He sat beside her bed and offered the stories of old Yokuda and the Warrior Waves, some of which she knew already but not in the same ways. There were the same figures of old, the same heroic deeds, but this time a sudden clarity on those myths. Ansei they were called, a word whose meaning had been lost over the eras and merely relegated to the ancient heroes. Gone had been the truth of it, and the myths of warriors of peerless skill losing the why and how. To be an Ansei was to be a Sword-Singer of pre-eminent skill, a holder of the Shehai and one of unshakeable will and righteousness.

And what the Shehai was, it was something she had awakened within herself. The sons and daughters of Yokuda all held this gift within themselves, as the elder told her, but some were more capable of reaching for it than others, and of them there were further separations still. As he taught her of this ancient art, he told her of how she had taken the first step. Through a moment of extreme stress and a display of incredible willpower, she had refused to accept her death and chose to make-way in whatever manner she could. That was when the Shehai erupted from her hands in a display of starlight-made-steel. Try as she might though, she couldn't replicate the same blade she had awoken, only vague shapes clinging to her palms. Even that was remarkable, as all who witnessed it seemed to find their faith in Hoonding there before her, but she would need to steel herself in order to surpass this, and that was a final gift given without expectation.

Three weeks after her awakening of sorts, she embraced her mother and father for what may be the last time, having settled on what she must do with her life. The book had shown her another way of life, anchored her passions into something real. The duneripper had challenged her and through force of will she had not been found wanting. The elder had given her a light along the path before her and signposts pointing the way. With those three she was for the first time filled with determination, something her father Jakir would not stand in the way of, and her mother Terandil would see to it that at least she would have someone to rely upon along the way. Though their hearts ached for it, she was given her father's sword once more, even knowing what must be done with it, and her elder brother and sister would accompany her to provide some much needed assistance when needed, but to also ensure she would never be without a friend. Then with all said and done, she set out for that first step on the road to becoming a true Sword-Saint. It was a simple matter on the surface, to give up her most prized possession to Hoonding and offer it as a blade for those in need. Yet one never does give up their father's sword with ease…

That was two years ago and since then Khaliya has been steadily advancing towards a dream she never knew. The Shehai comes to her hands when called, a blade shimmering and sharper than any she had ever known or ever will know, so long as her will is focused. What lies ahead she can't possibly guess, though at the moment with her pockets filled with other people's wallets and sitting in the Imperial Prison, things seem to be a bit dark. At the very least the guards don't seem keen to keep them all there, having turned from gathering those beside her as potential belligerents in the bar-brawl turned riot, to escorting them to safety and keeping them away from the Imperial City proper. The City of a Thousand Cults and it seemed they found the one day where it was most inconvenient to visit…

Drunken Lizard



Nothing But A Pair Of Fists



Graduation Day



The Pit Dragon



She In The Moonlight



The New Arena

Groundskeeper: Caddach's job is to maintain the Imperial Palace, and he's actually gotten pretty good at it; a bit of carpentry here, a bit of slating or masonry there, sweeping or scrubbing the floors... That kind of thing.

Innawoods Survival Training: A consequence of all those trips he took as a boy, and going out camping with his grandparents so often; Caddach is actually quite comfortable in the outdoors and can hunt, scavenge, fish, build a fire to cook the things he hunts, scavenges and fishes and doesn't do too bad of a job at the cooking part either. Can also do the basic things like building a lean-to to protect himself from the elements when he sleeps and knows where to, and more importantly, where not to dig a latrine.

Animal Knowledge: When you grow up with a Druid and a Reachman for grandparents, in a house with many animals, like, for example; a lazy sabrecat, a cuddly, very well taken care of and affectionate skeever and multiple horse-sized wolves... you learn a few things. Though this will likely not see much use outside of perhaps tracking game, identifying and warding off wild animals and perhaps, just maybe, deactivating a hostile— or just scared— beast with the application of precision scritches in the right spot.

Martial Knowledge: Though he hasn't seriously trained with a weapon in years, as a scion to a family of knights, a good chunk of his youth before entering the Arcane University (and even then, unofficially carrying it on under his 'tutor') was spent in martial training, making him familiar with weapons of all kinds— and having more of a knack for it at the time than maybe even he himself realised... Though the most he gets out of it these days is the occasional spar with bored palace guards or a few nobles.

Educated: Though Caddach doesn't speak, or usually act all that differently than your other average kid born and raised in the Imperial City, and generally keeps his mouth shut and his head down while doing his work, he's actually far more clever than he ever really lets on. Sharp, even for a Breton and not at all hindered by his family's relative wealth affording him a damned decent education from an early age and access to all the books he could ever want as a kid.

Magicka: Before his unceremonious booting from the Arcane University, Caddach managed to pick up a thing or two from his... particularly unorthodox teacher. Namely a bit of restoration, some uncommon tricks from the school of destruction (like the ability to use melee weapons as a magical focus, though he is somewhat out of practice with it) and an actually impressive amount from the school of alteration; some of which are technically forbidden under Tamrielic law.

Herbalism: Caddach's dear old grandma Elyza was a druid back in the day, and made sure to pass on some of her knowledge to her darling little 'Snuggle-Bug'. So while his tumultuous time at the Arcane University prevented him from becoming a proper alchemist, he still has more than enough knowledge to identify and make use of nature's bounty to know what can be eaten and to create everything from salves, tonics and remedies to more mundane things like good spices, soothing teas, refreshing poscas and some of grandma's assorted super-secret recipes for food and snacks.

-Work clothes; Leather boots with steel toe-caps, brown work pants with a whole lotta pockets bloused into said boots to stop them getting caught on things, and a simple, white short-sleeved shirt with more than a few stains on it from his job.
-A little paper bag of the Arena's home brand of jerky, sweet and spicy flavoured.
-Two little bread rolls.
-A wet cloth one of the guards gave him on request, one that he's frosted over to have something cool to hold against his now very sore head and black eye.

-His keys, both for around the palace and to his family home.
-A Wine-skin filled with honey-juniper posca.
-A set of dice.

Born to a branch of an ancient, though (until relatively recently) minor noble house from the Westreach region of High Rock that had migrated down to the Imperial City just over a century prior, Caddach had... honestly, a pretty damned decent childhood. Though not high enough on the social totem pole to be invited to those kinds of galas, banquets and balls the Nibenese elite like to throw every other day, partly due to being considered 'Foreigners', even after several generations of living in the capital and partly due to the sheer scandal of a family perceived to be far too friendly with those savages of the Reach— though that accusation in particular actually has some truth to it, as the young man's grandfather and namesake being very much a Reachman, his mother half-so, though she tried to hide it, and even his father's side of the family being suspiciously broad-shouldered and more sturdily built than most Bretons— the tidy profit his family earned from the overland trade of rare alchemical goods, ores and animals from their family's holdings in the Westreach, spices from eastern Hammerfell and lumber from Colovia meant that he and his family could live very comfortably indeed. Even moreso when his eldest brother took the two remaining ships the family had mothballed in Anvil after trade across the Abecean dried up in the wake of the War of Betony to extend their usual trade route down the Niben and into southern Elsweyr and Black Marsh.

So, Caddach whittled his days away as a youth playing in the streets with the other neighbourhood kids like any child of the Imperial City would, learning how to fight as any Thraigyr child should and every once in a while riding out on the back of his Karthwolf, Ryka (a very good girl, in case you were wondering) to visit his uncle out in Kvatch, or going up the trade route with his dad one way to visit friends and relatives in High Rock, Hammerfell and Orsinium or down the other to meet with new trading partners in Elsweyr and Argonia— One trip to the latter in particular resulting in a tattoo on his shoulder a local shaman insisted he should have after a certain incident, the boy himself thought was kind of neat and his mother absolutely hated.

Finally, at the age of fourteen, his second oldest brother began poking him about joining him in the Legions in a few years time. But his heart was set on writing his entrance exams and getting into the Arcane University, so he could stay close to home, which he did that very same year.

And incidentally, that's about when his life ceased to be a charming tale of a young lad traveling the world and making new friends along the way and became a outright fucking comedy.

For no sooner did he walk in the front door to the highest institution of learning in the entire Empire, did he encounter Saullon Ocato— or as he'll call him 'til the day he dies; 'The Fuckwit'— who took one look at him up and down and decided that there was no way in Nirn or Oblivion that this 'Little Barbarian Shit' was going to pollute his university. And very quickly, Caddach would find to his initial horror and eventual annoyance that any potion he mixed would either fail or just blow up in his face, any book he tried to study or report he tried to write would mysteriously either go missing, burst into flames, or some other crazy shit, and any official he tried to bring this apparent sabotage to the attention to, or Nine forbid asked to be taught by being dismissive, mocking, aloof, outright hostile or any combination of the above. And to top it all off, the one time he brought it up to his own mother she outright told him to keep his mouth shut and put up with it so as not to complicate things for their family.

Never mind all the times his clothes would just vanish off his body as he walked through the halls. Or freeze solid. Or spontaneously combust. Or all the times Saul and his ilk would just casually stroll up and punch him right in the godsdamned face, knowing full well he wasn't allowed to hit them back— Something in particular that galled Caddach as he was pretty certain he only needed to punch the spindly Altmer exactly once to snap every bone above his shoulders.

A few months into his tenure, unable to learn, no one willing to teach him but with his family having supported the university too generously in the past (while probably being unaware of it's inner workings) to get rid of him, the lad would find himself downgraded to being essentially an unpaid janitor. Which is where, oddly enough, he found the only instructor he'd ever have his whole time there- 'Ted', Saullon's own bound Daedra who'd been stuck with him for over a decade and hated the little bastard even more than Caddach did. And who was more than happy to teach him all sorts of things the instructors never would, even if they were doing their jobs; like how to fool magic wards, pop open locks with a touch, the first two phases of now very illegal levitation magic and how to really fight with magic. Things Caddach would use to get into the library to sneakily read all the books that were suddenly forbidden to him, and educate himself on all the gaps that Ted couldn't teach.

Two years past that, our boy had long since given up on ever rising above his status as the unofficial toilet-scrubber for the University and was simply learning for his own sake. Riiiiight up until he found one book in particular, one he realized he had to study thoroughly, spending an entire week on it, in fact. Following which he'd toss his mage robes directly into the trash, and go looking for Saullon, who he'd find as he typically did throughout the day, with his whole hypesquad of dipshits and a grumbling Ted in tow and immediately unbound the battle-hardened Daedra right on the spot with all he'd learned from that particular book. A last favour to the best friend he had ever made in that damned place. Who, in turn, must've been the happiest Dremora that ever fucking existed.

He had been waiting years to deliver this ass-whooping, after all.

As Caddach expected, he was immediately expelled from the Arcane University for that particular stunt, though officially he was let go for his poor grades; the full scope of the incident and all that led up to it being a serious threat to too many careers if it ever made the light of day in an official report— At that point, though, Caddach could really give less of a shit about it, and was just happy to leave. There were still... consequences for unleashing a Dremora Kynmarcher on the First Councillor's nephew, however; Caddach himself would be forever branded as a failure of a mage by the Arcane University— a black mark that would prevent him being accepted into most other magical institutions. His family was also told in no uncertain terms that Caddach's little sister, Elara, would not be permitted to study at the University either, as she was set to start in the summer... though to be fair, once she learned what had went on, she outright stated that she would 'Only ever enter that place to burn it to the fucking ground!'.

It also made his home life rather difficult. With his eldest brother and little sister having the boy's back, his mother and second oldest brother being quick to label him a disgrace and a stain on the family and his father caught in the middle; both disappointed in his son for what he'd done, but also furious at not only what led up to the incident, but that his own wife knew and hid it from him.

After less than a week of all this back and forth, it all became too much to deal with, so Caddach just packed a bag and left... yet only made it about a block away from his house by Renault, a Captain in the Blades and an old friend of his brother's, who had been politely asked (because nobody but the Septims orders the Blades to do anything) by First Councillor Ocato to bring the lad to the Imperial Palace for a 'chat'.

Where, assuming he was about to be quietly cut apart by spooky men with knives for his insult to the First Councillor's household... Caddach was instead quite surprised to meet with a suspiciously unassuming Alfiq Khajiit by the name of Riba— the official in charge of the Palace's day to day operations— who had been made aware of the boy and his little 'incident' in the Arcane University by Ocato himself and to Caddach's further surprise... offered him a job as a Groundskeeper. Where he'd be apprenticed to masons, slaters, carpenters and tradesmen of all kinds to learn how to best maintain the Palatial Grounds, that he could stay in the general servants quarters for a few months on a probationary period before getting his own little room, and that, most importantly— and she really stressed this— he was to "Pay attention."

Because, as Riba put it; "One clever servant is sometimes worth more than ten armed guards."

And there he's been ever since. Cleaning out eaves-troughs, scrubbing floors, re-slating the roofs in the Palace District and, most importantly watching, listening and learning just as he was instructed to do those three years ago. And honestly? Caddach kinda likes it. Sure, the labour can be rough sometimes, and you get a lot of weird things going on in the Imperial Palace, buuuuut, it pays well, the room, food and haircuts are free, he gets weekends off and he's actually made a few friends among the other palace staff and guards; even going out to the Arena then onto Daggerfall Dan's (a popular pub in the Arena District) after quittin' time every other Fredas.

All in all, not a bad life for a supposed 'Failed Mage'.

...Well, it was.

Right up until he was let off early to go see the big fight in the arena and some dickhead tripped him in the bar afterward, making him spill some beer on a very specific Orc. Which, subsequently, earned him the mother of all punches to the face.

He doesn't know it yet, but Caddach's life is about to get a whole lot more complicated.

...The massive shiner he's currently wearing aside.

An ancient, though relatively minor house, first attested in the records of the Direnni as one of eight 'Warden Houses' raised in the early First Era to stand sentinel over the Hegemony's frontier in the Westreach... though those same records are vague as to whether they were directly transplanted there by the Altmer of Balfiera— as the Direnni tended to do with their 'Manmeri' bastards— or if the family was already a known quantity in the region among the native Nedic and Karthic peoples. Though neither clan has ever refuted their family ties.

The only one of the eight 'Warden Houses' to survive into the modern day, House Thraigyr enjoys a unique position of being not only a Knightly House of High Rock (with all the privileges that brings) but also enjoys the fruits of a longstanding policy of prioritizing cooperation and commerce with their neighbours in Wrothgar and Druadach over conquest and subjugation. Enjoying strong ties not only with the Kingdom of Evermor, but the local Reachfolk and even the nearby Orcs as well, being one of the few Breton houses willing to deal fairly with (most) incarnations of Orsinium throughout the ages... and in fact being a direct vassal to the Orcish King in the modern day, due to the effects of the Warp in the West. Something that Gortwog gro-Nagorm felt no need to 'correct' afterward because, as the saying goes; "Thraigyr loyalty is like Wrothgarian rain— FUCKING CONSISTENT."

Though largely considered no more than an eccentric curiosity in the wider history of High Rock, the family is still at least widely respected in their local area. Though they are still occasionally subject to ridicule and sometimes outright reviled in other places for their perceived (actually, rather open) habit of 'intermingling' with the Orcs and the Reachfolk.

Thraigyrs of High Rock
The main branch of the family, with a long and storied history in Eastern High Rock, serving various Kings and Queens throughout the ages in both peace and war as both a loyal vassal and intermediary between Breton monarchs and their Karthic subjects— though not blindly, as they have been known to rise in rebellion when sufficiently provoked— and have produced at least two Regents for the Kingdom of Evermor and one in Jehenna and Dragonstar each over the centuries. In the modern day, they serve the Kingdom of Orsinium in their traditional role as 'Wardens of the Reach' and often as ambassadors to Evermor, being one of the few Breton Houses in King Gortwog's employ.

Thraigyrs of Hammerfell
The second oldest branch of the family, the (at the time, modest) presence of House Thraigyr in Dragonstar and Craglorn goes all the way back to the Direnni Hegemony, until they were abruptly forced out by the Yokudan Warrior Waves. Only to trickle back in again over the next few decades and centuries either by their own enterprise or at the invite of Forebear rulers, who requested their expertise in dealing with both the challenges on the frontiers of their new home, and in treating with those the Warrior Waves never managed to fully expel; the Reachmen and the Orcs. In the modern day, the Thraigyr of Hammerfell serve mostly as a source of chartered mercenaries in the province's East that can be relied upon to hold to a certain code of conduct, working in conjunction with local Fighters Guilds. And, more recently, to guard the family's trade caravans going to and from Cyrodiil.

Thraigyrs of Cyrodiil
The youngest branch of the family, House Thraigyr's presence in Cyrodiil began as a modest enterprise trading goods back and forth between Cyrodiil and High Rock just over a century ago. Evolving over the decades into a profitable trade enterprise using their contacts within the Reach to import rare alchemical goods (among other things) to the Imperial City and luxury items back to High Rock that damn near exploded during the chaos of the Simulacrum. Where the family gained a reputation of actually being able to deliver it's goods, even in the midst of the multiple wars happening at the time, though this would not be enough to prevent their maritime operations out of Anvil from drying up after the War of Betony. Where, in later decades, the Cyrodiilic branch would instead focus their remaining ships on trading up and down the Niben into Elsweyr and Black Marsh.

In the modern day, the Thraigyrs of Cyrodiil stand in a strange position in Imperial society; wealthy but not particularly influential, liked by the common people for bringing good jobs and affordable housing to the Capital during and after the Simulacrum but scorned by the old Nibenese houses for being foreign upstarts and 'barbarians', fitting in but not quite 'fitting in', as it were. The growth of what would become the neighborhood of 'Little Wrothgar' in the Imperial City standing as physical proof to their eccentricity.

An unofficial 'Burough' in the Market District of the Imperial City, Little Wrothgar finds it's roots as the relatively poor neighbourhood in which the Thraigyrs first set up shop in the early days of their trade ventures into Cyrodiil. Expanding in influence as the family reinvested their growing profits into buying more properties around their initial operation to not only house their own workforce coming down from High Rock and Hammerfell, but to offer good paying jobs and low rents (with the option to own) to the impoverished locals. Something that attracted more and more immigrants to the area (especially after the establishment of the initial overland ventures into Elsweyr and Argonia) and an accompanying flurry of construction to accommodate them.

This would eventually draw the ire of a certain few local Noble families. Who, already annoyed about an ongoing dispute regarding Colovian lumber and incensed by these 'upstarts' bringing so many foreigners into their city, would successfully petition the Elder Council for a ruling to not only halt the Thraigyrs from buying up any more of the surrounding property, but to force them to build a 'Suitable Wall' to keep their dangerous goods secure and to pay the City Watch for the inconvenience of guarding it... for everyone's safety, of course!

Knowing better than to argue with a decree from the Elder Council, the then-head of the Cyrodiilic Thraigyrs opted to adhere to the ruling in the most spiteful way he possibly could; by instead starting to build upward instead of outward and hiring Orcish Architects to build that bloody wall. A rather substantial and very 'distinct' structure that stands to this very day, not only demarcating the neighbourhood's borders, but standing as a gleeful monument to malicious compliance.

Today, Little Wrothgar stands as a relatively safe and prosperous section of the Market District, where housing still remains affordable to this day due to a regime of rent control and investments into local businesses. With eclectic architecture incorporating elements of cultures spanning the whole of the Thraigyr trade route (From High Rock to Elsweyr and Argonia) and a diverse smattering of people to match as a very deliberate flip of the bird in the direction to the Nibense Nobility. It's increasingly vertical architecture, incorporating towers with terraced gardens and shops built on bridges between them serving only to twist the knife even further.

The fact that the Watch like being posted there— the family having gone above and beyond the initial agreement and built them their own barracks— doesn't much help with schemes to 'Bring that eyesore down' either.

Scholar:Verinric is at his heart a scholar, years of study and curiousity have made him very well read, he's read and can quote from all the major tomes on magicka and metaphysics, from the Art of War Magic and Breathing Water to the Sermons of Vivec (though he doesn't claim to actually understand those).

Alchemy:No study of magic is complete without at least a basic level of alchemical study. It's far from his speciality, but he can work the various apparatus and knows the common ingedients for basic restorative potions.
Daedric Knowledge: Like any good conjurer, he can read daedric script and know the many forms of Daedra.

Magicka: His greatest strength, as breton born under the Mage he had a natural advantage, he's practiced since childhood and had ample opportunity for improvement as a professional magickal scholar in the Guild. Never really clicked with Destruction though.

Enchanting: He knows the theory well, but has only ever enchanted a handful of items, and that with the aid of the Arcane University's state of the art Altar. He does however spend a fair amount of time recharging items.

Mysticism: His primary area of focus, its combination of highly useful effects and esoteric philosophy that always appealed to him. He commands Telekinesis, Detection, Absorption, Reflection, Soul-Trap, Dispelling, Mark and Recall. He never loses his keys, can grab books from the top shelf on the other side of the room and only walks home when the weather is pleasant.

Alteration: The more physical counterpart to Mysticism, and equally as interesting, who could read Breathing Water and not want to study it? Verinric can use Water Breathing, Water Walking, Shield, Feather, Slowfall, Elemental Shields, Lock and Open (so he wouldn't technically need those lost keys). He really wishes he could levitate, indeed he's thoroughly confused that there's so much pushback on Trebon's pet Necromancy Ban, which is downright useless (daedra are so much more sanitary) yet this was succesfully banned.

Conjuration: Not something he uses as often, but he can summon Scamps, Flame Atronachs or Dremora.

Illusion: He knows both Night-Eye and Light spells, preferring conjured light to the unusual hues of night eye, he can also briefly become invisible.

Restoration: He knows how to heal wounds, purge poison and restore stamina, though not especially fast.

Personal Items:
-His current outfit: a comfortable dark red robe with black cuffs, a silver belt and some simple leather boots.
-A mostly empty coinpurse which held his spending money for the evening.

The Lock Box:Just a simple silver dagger.

Stored Items: A Mage's Staff of Paralysis, 2 lesser soul gems containing Scamp souls, a leather backpack with a constant Feather effect, a set of Journeyman alchemy equipment, two potions of restore magicka, mundane changes of clothes and some more gold.

Potion of Cure Disease
Potion of Strength
Potion of Healing
Potion of Stamina
Potion of Escape

Yarmira’s early life is a mystery to her. The Bosmer’s life began at 15, a mere child for the long-lived Bosmer.

Her first memory is waking up under the Valenwood canopy, light filtering through the dense foliage. She is surrounded by Bosmer men and women staring down at, chanting incessantly.

She is in pain. She cannot move. But she is alive.

Those around her break their spell and burst into revelry, shouting and hugging. Soft arms take up her broken body, the comforting touch of a loved one. She had been attacked, the stranger says. Her mother. Taken from the village in the dead of night by a Senche-Tiger and mauled half to death. But the village searched for her. Drove off the Senche-Tiger Saved her before the beast ate her beloved child. Yarmira’s body was ravaged with long slashes from tooth and claw, and her mind was destroyed by the trauma, but she was alive.

Y’ffre be praised.

Yarmira recovered slowly, nursed back to health by her loving parents. She had to relearn what they had already taught her. How to climb. How to hunt. How to remain true to their ancestor’s promise to Y’ffre, the Spirit of the Now, to honor the Green Pact. They hoped she’d only have to be reminded, but it took her much longer than expected to reintegrate into their village after her near-death experience.

They lived deep among the Grahtwood’s high branches, the darkest jungle in Valenwood. Secluded from the rest of the world, tucked away even from other Bosmer. Yarmira’s curiosity was limitless. She wanted to know everything, as she had much to catch up with her peers. She listened intently to their village Spinner, of how Y’ffre’s first story pulled the world free from the primordial Ooze, bringing the trees and the grass into form. Then came the Bosmer, the protectors of the Green. Forbidden by the Green Pact from ever harming Y’ffre’s first creations, and instead finding life in taking others. She was slow to relearn her people’s customs. Yarmira fell from the trees more times than she could count, missed her mark with the bow constantly, and could not keep all Y’ffre’s sacred ways in her head. The other villagers loathed her clumsy stalking and her unintended violations of the Green Pact, but Yarmira’s parents shielded her from most of their abuse.

Worse still, the young Bosmer was plagued by visions and nightmares. Sights she had never seen in the waking world. Things she couldn’t even imagine. A whirlwind of strange people, hulking giants with pale eyes and yellow hair, others that walked upright like Mer but bore the faces of jungle cats. Labyrinthian stone paths flanked by homes of shattered wood. There was one vision that dominated her dreams each night and occupied her thoughts each day. A sprawling forest of stone stretching as far as the eye could see, and in its center a Great Tree shimmering white that seemed to hold up the world. She spoke with her parents, her brothers and sisters, even the Spinner, but they told her it meant nothing. They encouraged her not dwell on these things, and instead focus on the present. The here and now. Yarmira took them for what they were, though. Visions from Y’ffre. There was something out there waiting for her, something she must discover, and the day would come where she would set out and find it.

As she grew older, Yarmira’s features began to come into focus and her body underwent peculiar changes. Her canine teeth grew long and sharp. Her fingernails blackened and hardened like claws. Budding antlers grew from atop her head. These markings were rare among her people, and an ill portent. To change one’s shape into that of a beast was forbidden by Y’ffre, and these were signs of a wild and unruly soul. One whose very essence sought to break their pact with The Singer.

When Yarmira entered womanhood, it was time for her Becoming. A coming-of-age ritual that signified a young Bosmer was ready to take their place as an adult within the tribe. The ritual was a simple hunt, but with a catch; the inductee must name their prey before departing, and would leave the village with nothing. No weapons, no tools, and no clothes. They would prove their resourcefulness to the tribe by creating their own bow in the wild and use it to bring back a great prize. A meek hunter might come home with a rodent-like Kollopi, while a skilled Bosmer would set their sights on the elusive and fleet-footed Chital deer. Yarmira not only named the most dangerous prey in their jungle in her ritual, but a specific one. The Senche-Tiger that had nearly taken her life. She had much to prove.

Yarmira was in the jungle for months. She worked her way up the food chain, at first hunting like a beast with naught but her teeth as she gathered the means to whittle a crude dagger. Then a bow. Once she’d fashioned a handful of arrows, the real work began. The young Bosmer stalked through the jungle, her feet never touching the forest floor, as she searched for signs of the Senche-Tiger. Scratchings and secretions to mark its territory here. A water buffalo carcass there. Slowly, meticulously, she honed in on the creature until she could hear its harsh yowls call out into the night as it searched for a mate. She finally laid eyes on the beast as it prowled through the jungle. It was massive. Larger than any predator she’d seen, and it bore the marks of battle with her people on its skin. An unmistakable slash across its muzzle her mother dealt it. She’d heard the story so many times. Yarmira felt no hatred towards the beast; in fact, she admired it for its bravery. The tiger had snatched its prey from a den of predators.

A few days later, she strode into her village wearing its brilliant pelt as a cloak.

Yarmira’s tribe treated her much differently after her triumphant return, and much was expected of her. Perhaps she would be the next Spinner. She had the knack for storytelling, after all. Maybe the young woman was better suited as the lead hunter, or perhaps one day, even chieftain. But the thought of settling down into these rote positions, honorable though they were, did not appeal to Yarmira. It was not Y’ffre’s will. There was something out there for her to discover, something the Great Spinner wanted her to find, and she could not rest until this veil was lifted. Shortly after Yarmira’s Becoming, she slipped out of the village under the cover of night.

Yarmira travelled north. As good a direction as any. The forest became thinner, the climate cooler. She was forced to walk on the ground as the trees grew further and further apart. The young Bosmer felt exposed. And yet at night, when slept under the stars for the first time, she was amazed at how many of Y’ffre’s blessing she had never seen. Yarmira travelled through rough country, not knowing that roads cut through much of Cyrodiil, and never saw another soul save for the beasts of the wild. She hunted strange creatures (well, she tried to), admired beautiful new flora, swam in frigid rivers and slept in the branches of foreign trees. Yet many of these things were strangely familiar, present in her dreams. After months of travel and with no food remaining in her pack, it finally came into view on the horizon, as towering and beautiful as it was in her visions. The Great Tree which Holds up the World. Many others had come to see it too, filtering in from beaten paths. She joined their numbers, unknowingly entering the Imperial City.

It was not as wondrous as it had been in her dreams. Dirty, stinking, crowded. And yet she was here, beneath the Great Tree’s shadow. But she became caught up in the crowd, pushing and shoving, all pressing towards the sound of battle. Yarmira knew not to fight against the herd and instead went along lest she be trampled underfoot by these giants. She found herself pressed tight in a mass of bodies, unable to see what they were all enraptured by. Yarmira climbed higher and watched with great interest as two hulking creatures, one with pale green skin, the other with a shock of yellow hair, batter eachother to death. She wondered why they fought. Perhaps they were hungry. Unfortunately, they were both sent away with empty stomachs. Yarmira’s own stomach had been empty for days, and she followed her keen sense of smell to some kind of herbal meat. It looked like several others had as well.

Daggerfall Dan’s was packed to the brim when a brawl broke out. The diminutive Bosmer, accustomed to a more communal lifestyle, simply started eating from other’s plates, which earned her a black eye she’s still sporting. A bite here, a kick there, and the next time Yarmira opened her eyes, she was without her weapons, locked up tight, and quickly becoming familiar with the concept of claustrophobia.

Well Trained Warrior: Trained by Ivar Spell Breaker, Thane of Eastmarch, warrior poet, and most important to Sildun, his cherished uncle. Silden would learn the blade and spar against his adventuring compatriots in Markarth, as he grew older he would also be allowed to accompany them on jobs or explorations. Preferring axes, hammers, swords of any size paired with a shield, Sildun’s time in the legion also taught him how to fight in concert while adventuring he learned to fight alone.

Life on the Rim: From the impressive peaks and valleys of Skyrim's many wonderful views often nestled atop its many rocky cliffs, it ensures those who travel the region must have the ability to resist the cold. As well as the stamina, and strength of lung to ascend the high mountains in armor, with packs upon their backs. From near vertical free climbs, to enduring the harsh snow storms and winds, or marching up a mountain, Sildun has plentiful stamina.

Scholar and Philosopher: As the third son of the Jarl of Eastmarch, Sildun did not expect any great inheritance or title, not even that of Thane. However by the age of five his voracious appetite for books and knowledge was becoming an issue to the castle staff. So with Ivar for protection and guidance, Sildun’s father had him sent off to study with scholars by the time he was eight years old. His growth as a scholar and researcher would have been studying ruined walls when his uncle took him adventuring or if not that writing and trying to learn as to the reasons behind his lessons. He hopes one day to contribute that knowledge into a book of his own.

Deftly Maneuvers: Some folks think a big man has to be slow, or that they cannot be limber and agile. For those who choose strength in excess this is true, but it’s not practical in the slightest, as from riding to climbing to how to jump and recover. Sildun has learned well how to stay on his feet and dodge blows, while he is no Bosmer he is certainly more capable than most men.

A Bear's Best Friend: During his time in Skyrim he would visit home in Windhelm before returning to the Legion he would be accosted by a Snow Bear while camping. During the struggle between the two as night fell a group of Falmer emerged from the caverns attempting to kill the pair, battling together as the injured duo struck down the Falmer and their pets with steel and claw.

Tending to the snow bear's wounds before his own he collapsed, passing out, trying to honor the creature who helped him fend off the damnable monsters. He would awaken to find the bear standing watch over him. With his ankle sprained he sat upon its back and directed the bear onwards. Now three years later, the duo is near inseparable. Naming her Bloodclaw, she has been his companion and inducted into the Imperial Legion herself.

Restoration training: Constantly finding himself in trouble and hurt while studying in Markath. Sildun ended up learning some restoration magic from Ivar’s fellow adventurers Jean Tamrith and Lady Ravyn Telvayn. The spell sword and mage of Ivar’s little band insisted on the fact the young man was going to make mistakes he should know how to heal them. Barely at an apprentice level being able to heal himself or another has saved his own life and others repeatedly. He has some small ability to fortify but he knows little outside of these skills, mostly enough to support himself or heal minor wounds.

Restoration:

Healing
Fortify Speed
Fortify Strength

Personal Items: Simple traveling clothes, bear skin cloak, and 300 septims

The Lock Box: Amulet of Talos, pocket guide to the Empire 1st edition, his room key for an inn outside the Imperial City paid for a week, and personal journal.

Stored Items: Signet Ring of Eastmarch, Sealed Letters from Markarth, Legionnaire heavy armor lined with fur and hides. Small personal book collection, Nord Hero Great hammer, Legionnaire Shield, Bastard Sword, and Bloodclaw his Snow Bear mount.

Background: Sildun was born in Windhelm, to his father, Jarl Harald “Peacemaker” Oath-Blood and his mother, Astrid Death Song, a Warrior Skald from the Rift. The youngest boy of six children and with two younger sisters, Sildun was really paid much attention at court. Like his brothers much was expected but little time was able to be given to him alone. As such from a young age he found comfort in books and tales of old. His training with a blade began as a child, sparring with his older brothers or being instructed in how to fight by his father’s Housecarl and Thanes. He was of passable skill but did not stand out, especially compared to his two older brother’s Leif and Agmundr Oath-blood.

Sildun’s love of knowledge and pestering curiosity did have an effect, namely getting him sent to study in Markarth as a ward there; from the time he was eight years old he found himself immersed in the study of history, philosophy, and even magic. While he studied hard, his father, believing any Oath-Blood must know how to defend himself, assigned a Thane to watch over and tutor the boy. Ivar Spell Breaker, a Nordic mercenary, turned Thane who had trained at the College of Winterhold, he was also Astrid’s brother as such Uncle Ivar regularly trained Sildun with a blade when he was not engaged in his scholarly pursuits.

It was Ivar’s tales of the wider world, of foreign cultures and introductions outside views via his Uncle's fellow mercenaries and adventurers. His fellow students were mostly Nords though he met many Breton’s and Reachmen while living in Markarth, he found it utterly interesting especially when compared to the stories heard mostly in the less developed eastern Skyrim. As the years went on his days were filled with studies, exploration, and hearty discussion around the hearths. It was during this time he took a small interest in restoration magic, less in the name of doing good or helping others more out naked self

Sildun's teenage years found his growth in swordplay and scholarly studies, becoming a talented researcher and historian. Though much like Nordic Skalds are warrior bards, Nordic researchers do not wait for others to find things, they go in search of things themselves. With armor and veteran adventurers in front of him, Sildun often came along to support the others with a lesser share of what they found to be a great deal of learning to be done. With sword or shield or warhammer, he found practical experience following those who made their riches delving into dangerous forgotten places in the oldest kingdom of men.

Eventually the adventurers his uncle had in his circle prepared to travel for the next few years towards the end Sildun's teenage years. Uncle Ivar planned to travel back to Eastmarch and renounce his Thaneship and travel with his friends as mercenaries and adventurers. Ravyn, Gahz, Jean, Verela who had taught the young man so much would give a final send off, a warhammer they had restored in Whiterun supposedly belonging to an ancient Nord Hero... It was no enchanted or storied weapon, but they said it would be his job to give it a tale.

Sildun would volunteer for the legion acting as auxiliary and support to the Legionaries in Skyrim, Highrock, and even Cyrodiil. While serving aboard or traveling home, he came to realize that the perception of Nords was dissimilar to how the Nords saw them themselves. An unconquered people who followed strength and power most of all, who preferred to live honest and simple lives did not much care for politics or power struggles. He found that outside of their homeland where Nords were cautious about outsiders, it was much worse in other places. Nords were viewed as strange and backwards people, by many and often thought as foolhardy or brutes. Attempts to challenge that notion of led chuckles or decision as ‘the scholarly Nord’ save for when he served with the Legion. During his time working under centurions he found he was often a valued asset and often well liked by his fellow soldiers. While he appreciated the comradery it was learning that others looked down upon Nords that taught him it was best to keep his knowledge to himself.

When not training, fighting, or traveling, Sildun was most often found reading or in a form of meditation. Since his companion mount and Bloodclaw joined him in service he has found himself traveling to more far flung places. Assigned to legion service alongside cavalry units he withdrew. He was strong of size and hand, with service to the Legion he only found himself growing stronger and more skilled. Whether facing bandits or more organized foes the crack of his hammer or the strength of his will, even his booming voice striking fear in the foes before him.

When not with the Legion and close enough to home he’d return to Markarth to study and learn more, if not he’d seek out other institutions of learning. Nearly a twenty year student, Sildun has recently traveled to the Imperial City with hopes to further educate himself. His fellow Legionnaires from Skyrim accompanied him to see the arena match. Sildun was more interested in visiting the Arcane University, these hopes were dashed when the soldiers he was accompanying decided to get angry with the bookie in the tavern. Said bookies goons then promptly tried to fight their way out when the brawl started... The last thing he remembers was one of the Bookie’s goons striking him as and Sildun throwing him so hard into the lock box it shattered and sent Septims scattering across the floor... Right before he brought a club down on the back of his head... Seven times after he tried to rise with each hit. Awakening in a cell, he's certainly realizing this will complicate plans to visit the university.