[CHAR] The Elder Scrolls: Rage of the Waves

[Dervish]

Race: Breton, Reachman mother

Family Origins: Born to a popular Northpoint whore, Cedric was taken by his father Duceppe and raised in the mountainous region of Rivenspire, growing up to be a hunter by trade under his father’s tutelage.

Appearance:

“The fook you lookin’ at? If yer gonna stare, at least buy me mead first.”

Cedric is an imposingly statured man standing at a towering 6’04” and weighing 198 lbs. of a heavily built frame with arms that seem more appropriate for swinging a pickaxe for a living or a battle axe. His arms, back, and chest are adorned with numerous tattoos reflecting his half-Reachman heritage and the local folklore, depicting various animals and creatures such as an elk, a bear, and curiously a beautiful feathered woman. He has startlingly emerald green eyes, a scar cleaving his left eyebrow, and his red hair is shaved short. Cedric also has an impressive scar in his right abdomen when he was gored by a charging elk that didn’t take kindly to being impaled by a somewhat off arrow.

His typical attire is a well-made green-black gambeson with a simple cotton undershirt, as well as black wool trousers. He keeps a green muffler around his neck that he pulls up to break up his profile when hunting. He keeps most of his smaller belongings and items in pouches along his waist belt, and a traveling backpack handles the larger items. Out in the wilderness, he often covers his face with dirt and soot to darken his face as a simple camouflage measure. His wrists are protected by leather bracers, although that’s mainly to stave off the bite of his bow string.

Age: 36

Equipment:

“What, this? It's a ball on a stick that's fer bashin' out yer teeth. You don't need to be from the Imperial University to figure that out.”

Cedric travels light with an oversized quiver of arrows, a well-crafted hunting bow, and a steel mace with a spiked ball head and leather-wrapped grip that sits ready for use in a loop on his belt. He has a six-inch long elk-horn handled hunting knife that he carved himself and commissioned a smith to forge the hooked blade that sits on his belt to his right closer to his back in a leather sheath.

Cedric carries a yew bow with a 175 pound draw-weight, something he has become intimately familiar with and uses to such skill and comfort that it's become as ever of a companion as Ruddy was. Cedric's bow is capable of out ranging near everyone in Tamriel with accuracy that is only matched by “those dirty bosmer bastards” down in Valenwood. His elk skin quiver holds 40 obsessively-sharpened and honed steel-tipped arrows.

Miscellanea:

"How the fook are you gonna camp out in a dress, lass? Use it as a fookin' tent?"

Outside of a leather traveling rucksack that has

a bed roll,
several carefully wrapped lengths of dried and cured meat,
lengths of snare,
a woodcutter’s axe,
a cooking pot, a wooden bowl,
a tinderbox,
and a change of small clothes,
some lengths of rope and a small impregnated cotton tarp,

Cedric has a prized wine skin he won in a wrestling match back in Northpoint, spare bowstring, and a water horn he carved himself. He also wears an Amulet of Kynareth, and he keeps a pair of separate vampire fangs in a small bag on his person, along with a werewolf claw.

Favored Skills:

Highly Proficient (Marksman, One-Handed), Moderately Proficient (Hand-to-Hand, Sneak), Somewhat Proficient (Smithing)

Character Background:

Born to a Northpoint whore his father only ever referred to as "Yer Mother" without any specifics by one Duceppe Sykes, the toddler who his mother named Cedric was eventually discovered by his father several months after his birth when he decided he had enough coin to justify paying for another night of enjoyment from the woman. Instead, he found a child thrust in his arms and told it was his, and that having a baby around a brothel was both not a place to raise a child and seriously hurting her income. Looking upon the baby and recognizing his hawk-beak nose and emerald eyes, took his son from the woman wordlessly and "Yer Mother" could rest, at least until the next customer arrived, knowing her son was off to a better life.

Better turned out being a subjective term, as the boy was raised without hearing his mother's forced cries and moaning of faked pleasure and grunts of countless men who were not his father, he grew up in the rocky crags and foothills in the region surrounding Northpoint, far from people. His playthings were sticks and stones, his clothing was pelts. Books, friends, and anything resembling a formal education were things that would not be in his formative years. Instead of learning to count, he learned how to fletch arrows. Instead of playing tag with other children, he learned how to set snares. Instead of helping his mother wash dishes, he learned how to skin elk. It was not to say his father was not an affectionate man; far from it. Even asking Cedric now about his father will prompt a smile on the man's face and an expressed intent to go visit the man, who "is still as likely to be wrestling bears and beating men half his age at drink".

Reaching his tenth birthday, Duceppe had decided his boy had gone long enough without a companion, and after heading into Northpoint for supplies, came back with an Elkhound puppy that had been born the month before. He never explained that it took a month of his earnings to afford the dog, but the look on Cedric's face was enough to convince the father that it was worth so much more than gold. The dog, who became named Ruddy, became a constant companion to Cedric as he hunted in the countryside for food for himself and his father, and now the dog. It had taken some time to teach Ruddy to begin to act like a proper hunting dog, but the dog was smart and after a few scarce months of poor income and meals, became indispensable for hunting. Cedric and Ruddy became an impressive team, soon bringing home more than the family needed. The extra meat and pelts turned into clothing and Cedric's first trips in the village, and Cedric's first time meeting the strangest thing in his young life; other children.

Not finding anything in common with the "soft, doughy pieces of shite", Cedric would find himself wondering why in Oblivion none of them knew how to harvest and prepare their own meals or start a fire, while the other children mocked him for being a barbarian simpleton who couldn't read. Fortunately for Cedric, he was in a much better condition to endure a fight than the other children, and he soon cemented a reputation of being more animal than boy. Duceppe did not punish Cedric for all of his fighting; indeed, he was proud of his boy for being prepared to defend himself against hatred. He told his son to embrace what others feared, and use it as his advantage. Duceppe told his son about the Reachmen and how they would do things like wear the antlers of deer to intimidate their foes. Taking the skull of an elk and a smaller rack of antlers, Duceppe fashioned a helm for his son to wear into town to scare the other children.

It should be noted that Duceppe was a well meaning, but not great father.

It didn't take long for Cedric to start being called "the elk boy" by the locals, and after a few more untimely fights with the more bold children, Cedric was soon turning into a man whom was a decidedly divisive figure by the time he was reaching his mid teens. Coming into town, wearing his improved and weathered elk skull helm with racks of smoked meat and pelts upon his shoulders, which he sold to vendors at a fair price, and he always spent his coin in town, keeping him well-liked by those he did business with on behalf of his father. Despite his youth, no one questioned him showing up to the tavern one day and requesting ale. Fewer still questioned when he showed up with tattoos across his face and brow shortly after his sixteenth birthday. Ever still, Ruddy was still by his side, older but no less fierce.

Things improved in Northpoint for some time, until one day two of Cedric's childhood enemies had beat Ruddy while Cedric had stepped into the tavern for a drink. Enraged, Ruddy had heard the commotion and immediately set upon the two assailants, flailing upon them with the metal tankard and fist alike, breaking bones, flesh, and teeth. He did not wait, knowing full well he would never be accepted back in town for some time. Picking up the battered dog in his arms, Cedric returned to his father, informing him he had to leave. Grabbing supplies, a heavy rucksack, and his bow, Cedric embraced his father one final time before heading East, towards the mountains all the while carrying Ruddy wrapped in a wool blanket all the while. Cedric would never find out what happened in the aftermath of his departure.

Years passed, and Cedric and Ruddy became wandering nomads, setting up camp and hunting for food and clothing. When Ruddy passed away, mercifully of old age instead of a violent end, Cedric became despondent for some time, having lost the only friend he had ever known. Burying the dog with a simple carved wooden headstone, Cedric knew it was time to move on and get on with his life. Looking West, out of the harsh mountains and foothills, he decided that it was where he would start over.

Of course, a man like Cedric can never stay out of trouble for long and he's found himself on the wrong side of the law on a few occasions, mainly over hunting rights and tavern brawls. While he's managed to carve out a niche selling meats and furs to small merchants, he has managed to step on the toes of more than a few people, including a certain Count who has had enough of him hunting on his lands...

Fighting Style:

"Tell ya what, if you can get yer ass over here without a feathered shaft stickin' out yer neck, and I'll give you yer dues."

A life-long hunter, Cedric is accustomed to sneaking up on even the most attentive and skittish animals, although his large stature keeps him out of the same league as smaller, lighter individuals of considerable talent. Still, when it comes to scaling to hard-to-reach perches where he can make the most of his formidable strength and range, he comes second to none, achieving astonishing practical accuracy at just about any distance his bow can reach.

While he prefers to keep out of stabbing-range when it comes to combat scenarios, Cedric certainly is no slouch and can swing his mace with incredible force, and despite his size, he is surprisingly quick and nimble on his feet, becoming a terror in single combat. He lives for moments where he can demonstrate his immense strength in fisticuffs and wrestling, and he considers it a source of pride that even well into his middle-age, he’s in far better physical condition than men a decade younger.

Personality:

Brash and proud, Cedric isn’t afraid to boast of his accomplishments and he relishes the opportunity to prove it to anyone who dares question him. Not afraid of a fight, and being rare for an archer in the sense that he’s more than happy to let his enemy see him because he’ll be killing them before they can get in range to do anything in return, he’s developed a somewhat arrogant and mirthful personality over the course of his life and he is fond of the drink, taking the chance to celebrate just about anything.

As a hunter, he loves nature and is more comfortable out of doors than in large towns, and despite his brash and aggressive disposition, he has a fondness for small villages with tight communities and he never turns down the opportunity to help someone in need. He’s fond of stories, both listening and telling them, and he has an impressively rich singing voice, which pairs well with his brother’s. He doesn’t care for politics or wars, thinking them as things that are of no interest for the common man, and while he often finds himself at odds with the local guards, he does have a respect for them and does his best to stay on the right side of the law... the best a man like him can, anyways.

Font Colour: Gold

[Leidenschaft]

Name: Brynn Tiptoe, Blood-Red Brynn, Whiskey Brynn, Brynnen-i-Cael

Race: Breton, Reachman

Family Origins: Born to a whore in Northpoint, given an Eastern Reach name and then dumped off in Morthal surrounded by nothing but Nords, he understandably never bought into the whole Forsworn business, mainly because he was busy trying to feed himself from the scraps in the gutter and make a living digging peat out of the mires after he was given away by the whore that birthed him. Roving with a fighting band come to Morthal out of Falkreath when they came around looking for fresh blood, he’s only ever known Nords and Bretons and the occasional Orc. A worldly man and the best scout in Skyrim, far as his crew was concerned, his crew was his only family in the world and one he was fiercely loyal to.



Appearance: A very intense man, he looks mean as a troll in heat, though many are surprised by his singing voice and his ready smile. The first scars one notices are the two crossing eachother on his face, framing his blue eyes. His long hair is only controlled by his cloth cap and his beard is half-assedly maintained, the mustache gathered and braided, blue beads at the ends. He is a thick built man but only stands at a fine 5 feet and 10 inches but can move unnervingly quiet for his bulk. He has thick fingers with nails bitten to the quick, knuckles scabbed and fingers scuffed, his palms are well-callused from hard use.

Age: 43, ages like an elf.

Equipment: He wears a gambeson of padded cloth and a large cloth cap. He also wears a leather band around his head to keep his hair from his eyes. He has trousers of doe-skin, with leather boots.

An impressive collection of six knives about his person. The smallest is a little whittler with a blade no bigger than a man’s thumb and only growing up until the last, a big bone-handle chopper, blade 14 inches long and thick with it on his hip, next to a hatchet. His bow was lost when he was left for dead.

Miscellaneous: None. His pack was on his horse and his crew took it with them.

Favored Skills: Highly Proficient (Sneak, Marksman), Moderately Proficient (One-Handed, Hand-to-Hand), Somewhat Proficient (Lockpicking)

Crime Committed: Several counts of poaching, robbery and murder. The sacking of a small hamlet called Greenwood as well as the sacking of a neighboring farmstead, inhabitants all killed or sold into slavery to Hammerfell pirates.

Character Background: “I don’t sing my own songs. I let these other bastards do it, cheerin’ my name and I’ll laugh along long after they’ve buried you, lad. Why don’t you go back to fucking pigs and I won’t have to put holes in the lot of you.” – Brynn’s words to Frithjolf the Furious, Siege of Greenwall, 4e201

Brynnen was given away nameless by his whore mother to the fur trader from Sharnhelm who fucked her. It was no more than six days out of the womb when he left his mother in that dockside whorehouse. His was a short time with the fur trader, the Bosmer only keeping him around for a few months, long enough to give him the name Brynnen-i-Cael. The name was made up on the spot by the Sharnhelm trader coming out of the Eastern Reach, and it was the name used for him by the peat digger that raised him most his life. Brynnen grew up wild, never listening to his Nord “father” or “mother”, and getting into fights with the local Nord lads who called him Knife-Ear Brynn, pummeling enough of the lads to warrant him a reputation in the village. He stayed around for three more years until he fell in with a fighting band looking for volunteers. Knowing he wouldn't have a life he wanted and with no shortage of enemies in the village, he was eager to see something of the world and he promised his mother that he would bring back enough gold and silver to make sure she or his sister never had to break their backs digging up shit with the thralls.

He took up the spear, having no training with any other weapon before signing on with the band. His first friend that he made was a Nord man named Karling, who would rise to become leader of their band of Housecarls, and one of the best shots with a bow and the greatest fighter he’d ever seen. Karling agreed to teach him how to use a bow for a good price of two silver pieces a week. Each day, Karling would teach him how to nock his arrow, how to draw, how to sight and after a year of nothing but practice, Brynn had become one of the best shots in his seven-man band. Almost as good as Karling, but every time Brynn did something that could best what Karling had shown off, Karling would do something even more amazing. Karling reckoned that Brynn was so damn good with a bow because of he shared blood with the Bosmer savages from way down South who ate nothing but meat and even each other. He and Karling and the rest of the lads wasted no time in using Brynn and his Reachman and Bosmer ancestry to spread fear amongst their enemies and attract lads looking to put some brawn in their chests and thicken up their arms. Soon, their band under Karling would swell to a good number of three score fighting men.

Brynn had barely even gotten into a scrape yet but every time they came up against another band or some brigands on the road, they’d always get them to stand down by saying they had Blood-Red Brynn with them, a Reachman crossed with a Bosmer, who’d eat his enemies alive and dead and use their hearts for evil spells just like them Forsworn folk. None of it was true, Brynn thought the idea of eating people was right disgusting and he knew fuck-all about Reachman tradition, but so long as it earned him a name, that was fine. As the years went on, more and more folk in the killing business had heard of Blood-Red Brynn, and at the age of twenty-six, his legend had grown to be up there with some of the hardest names in Skyrim. Men had it that on the day of his birth, a thunderstorm had gathered overhead, where it had no place to be and that he took his first life when he was no older than eight. It was told that he’d hunted the Sybulfrykte through the mountains for seven days and speared the big frost troll in his cave on the eighth, among many other stories.

When others began asking him about it and treating him like a hero on one stay in Rorikstead, Brynn was called out by the warrior Ingvar Ironhead, a berserker in Rorik Four-Faces’ own fighting band. Ingvar challenged Brynn to a duel in the circle, just like the old days and vowed to “slay this Reach-Mer savage and prove his exploits were naught but dust and shit.” Brynn wanted nothing to do with it, but as the crowd cheered him on, and as Karling and his band cheered him on, Brynn felt his heart beating fast and the hot fire in his belly. He accepted Ingvar’s challenge and was given three days to prepare. He spent his three days holed up in his room in the tavern, refusing to leave and blaming his vomiting on too much drink. On the third day, the circle was drawn in the dirt and Karling and the five others from his band held their shields for him while Ingvar’s eight held shields for him. Brynn felt himself on the verge of pissing as it came time for the warriors to tell their names and list their exploits. Ingvar listed off man after man killed and battle after battle fought. All Brynn listed were lies that tasted bitter in his mouth. They spun a shield to choose weapons, painted side for Brynn’s spear or strap side for Ingvar’s axe. As the challenged, Brynn had to pick, and it landed strap side up. Brynn had never fought with an axe, but he reckoned Ingvar knew his way around a weapon like a spear.

Ingvar and Brynn came together in the circle and fought for ten minutes straight. In the fight, Brynn had been cut twice and poked something fierce in his leg. He knew those would be his last moments, fighting to the music of throaty cheers and grumbling boos. Maybe his exploits were naught but dust and shit and Ingvar Ironhead could add his name to the list of men he’s killed next duel he fights in. In the last seconds of the fight, though, Karling managed to trip Ingvar up, sending him stumbling. Seizing the moment, Brynn planted his axe between Ingvar’s eyes, splitting his face and ending the fight. Karling cheered Brynn’s name along with all the people of Rorikstead. All the ones who’d won their bets, anyway. Brynn was a smiling mess, loving the attention of the farmers’ daughters in the village doting upon him and his wounds, singing at the top of his lungs to the songs of the Dragonborn, of Hoag Merkiller, of Jorunn the Skald-King, and all the heroes long dead. Brynn kept Ingvar’s axe and was given his bone-handle chopper by a farmer. The one thing he couldn’t bring himself to do is look at Ingvar’s grave, knowing he won only because of Karling. They left Rorikstead soon after and Brynn took to the drink and took to handling his new role as Karling's Second with a hard, rough hand and a drive to never have to rely on Karling again to win his name, born of equal parts machismo and shame.

Karling and the others noticed that where Brynn had once drank with them and laughed along with their songs, he now drank alone and seemed angry at their singing of heroes both old and new. Truth be told, the reputation that Karling had heaped onto him was a godsend. But Ingvar was only the first, he knew, and he'd have to fight far more battles to defend an honor he'd never earned himself. Where Karling had been a beloved mentor, he soon became a lying braggart in Brynn's eyes, and one that he hated.

As the years went on, Brynn only got more practice killing, and where he used to tremble, he now held fast. He’d earned himself a name with some real deeds, whiskey by how much he could drink of the stuff and he earned his name Tiptoe when they took Fort Greenwall from Ulfric. He climbed the walls and opened the gate for Karling's Housecarls, securing a swift victory that was largely bloodless. The fighting only worked to swell Brynn’s name, as he held Greenwall too, where he and none but his fellow hundred Housecarls made sure their banner stood defiantly as wave after wave of Ulfric's boys fought to take back their fort for ten days as they waited on the Imperial reinforcements. Ten days of fighting both served to harden him up and to cement his place as a soldier in Karling’s band. The camaraderie of a fighting band helped take the stresses of war off of him the longer the time he spent with them, and he’d spent a long time building a name and fighting shoulder to shoulder with the boys. Overall, him and the rest of Karling’s band came out the other side of the Siege of Greenwall new men, brothers all and Brynn wouldn’t trade the warrior’s life for anything.

After the Siege and the battle for Riften, he entered into the blasted Ruin with the Empire and fought two days over the Jagged Crown and held off Ulfric’s men while the Imperials withdrew with it in their possession. A deed that still has his and Karling’s names toasted to by every legionnaire they fought beside. After the end of the war, Karling decided it was time for him to retire. After a long life of fighting, he passed the band onto Brynn. Brynn had never wanted to lead, he barely wanted to be Karling's Second, but he was pushed to the front of the band. On the night of Karling's leaving, Brynn took him aside and they talked of old battles and even just good moments they'd shared. But Brynn still had that niggling need to take Karling by his collar and shake him dizzy, ask him why he'd chosen him to be his puppet. He now viewed the fear in men's glances as a curse, and every time he had to keep up the lie. He never did. He knew the only reason he was the feared and respected man he was now, the only reason he was even alive to this day was Karling's cheat in the circle.

Blood-Red Brynn though, that’s a name he views as both a powerful tool and a bloody curse, as some men will only challenge the name while others back down in the face of it. But he knows how many duels he no longer has to fight to prove himself now that folk know that name and what that bloody bastard can do, and so he figures he can put the face on and act like a bloody Reachman if he has to. Deep down though, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the respect the name got him all these years. Although his mind has put the past in the past, and he’s always ready to stand and fight and kill without batting an eye, he still knows that most of his exploits are naught but dust and shit at their core.

Of course, there's a fine line between a soldier and a bandit. A soldier burns villages and sacks towns the same as a bandit, but the soldier has the excuse of war on his side. Get rid of a war, the soldier's a bandit and a murderer. Brynn found out too well that once you set to killing, there's hardly a place you can find to stop. During the wars, he'd become blood-drunk and glory-hungry, and after ending all the feuds he'd accrued over the years fighting for the Empire against the Stormcloaks, he'd only made more. When the war with the Dominion came, he instead went to High Rock, knowing there'd be easy business. Easy business turned into the same old thing. He'd caught himself up in feuds again. The feuds of nobles were well-paying ordeals it seemed. He'd thrown his lot in with a son of a noble house next in line for his family's holdings. He did everything between stand next to him and look dangerous to collecting taxes with the Lord's men, and even provoking the other houses in many ways both petty and bloody.

His men grew unhappy with the work, though it was good pay. Many of his men signed on looking for glory and hard names. There was only one way he knew how to deal with that, and the meanness he'd always had, the same meanness he'd used being Karling's Second came back again. So did the drinking. The men tired of having their brothers trussed up and left hanging or being beaten for insubordination. His Second, a man with the band for a year now, Hvitserk began arguing with Brynn more and more. It was one day, after the job that the young lord-to-be had them out on that saw Greenwood made ash and corpses, that he woke to Hvitserk's sword pointed to his throat. He was betrayed by his best friend, stabbed in the gut and then left to die. When the riders looking for the bottom of the pillar of smoke he'd made of Greenwood found him, they took him straight to Meir Thorvale to answer for his crimes.

Fighting Style: eing one of the best scouts this side of the Dragontail mountains, he prefers to stay in the shadows or be some distance away from the thick of it to make the most out of his impressive skill at archery. If he doesn’t want to be seen, he won’t be before he’s chopped your throat out, and he can put a bodkin through a fly’s arse at 80 strides, if you ask him. Maybe he can’t do quite as much as that, but a man’s a fair easier target than a fly’s arse, and he hasn’t gotten his reputation by not being a damn good archer.

Personality: Brynn Tiptoe is a trustworthy man. Trust him to lie, to cheat, to steal, to come out of a knife fight with another man's blood on his hands. Trust him to take a man at his back rather than his front, trust him to be a right black bastard, you'll never be let down. Brynn was never one to back down, those that turned the other cheek in the mires of Morthal got beat to shit for being weak. That mindset is still with him, so he'll hold where the better man will buckle. Tough like old leather, given over to dark moods and prone to violence, a man is still made of contradictions. He smiles, he laughs, he doubts and he has his regrets.

So long as a man is one of the pack and holds his own, Brynn will die for that man. Brynn Tiptoe, or Blood-Red Brynn, is a trustworthy man. Honest about his evils, made of contradictions, if the world is all lying snakes the exception is him.

Or so he says.

Font Colour: None

[Hank]

Name: Maulakanth gro-Urgak, the Hand of Mauloch.

Race: Orsimer, though the legend goes that his family has giant's blood.

Family Origins: Born and raised in the kingdom of Orsinium. Maulakanth's father was a renowned warrior and his mother was one of the city-state's many smiths. He was raised from birth to be a peerless combatant.

Appearance:

“Are you scared, welp? You should be.”

The first thing anyone would notice about Maulakanth is his sheer size – he's massive, even for an Orc, and makes the average Nord look like an adolescent Breton. He measures 7'2” from tip to toe and clocks in at 284 pounds of solid muscle. Maulakanth's thick skin is dark green, almost gray, mottled with even darker spots and covered in scars. His long, black hair recedes sharply from his forehead in a widow's peak and he wears it braided, tucked behind his ears, where his braids spill over his shoulders and run down his back. Once the initial shock at his stature has subsided, one would see a brooding, heavy face with strong features. Maulakanth's eyes are dark and deep-set, smouldering quietly in the shade of his powerful brow, his nose is short and squat and two fearsome tusks jut out of his lower jaw.

Maulakanth is large enough to ignore the elements and goes through life bare-chested, proudly displaying his muscular form for all the world to see. From the waist down, he wears a knee-length traditional Orsimer battle-dress made from leather, fur and painted cloth. Several potion vials and pouches hang from his belt and he has the skull of a ram in lieu of a belt-buckle. Maulakanth's feet are clad in sturdy fur-and-leather boots and his only protective equipment are two orichalcum gauntlets with extended vambraces that allow him to deflect incoming blows. And last but not least are Maulakanth's weapons, two large Orcish longswords, that he carries diagonally sheathed across his back.

Inspiration and reference image.

Age: 28.

Equipment:

“You shouldn't have brought a toothpick to fight a mountain. Go on... try to stab me.”

As mentioned before, Maulakanth mostly eschews the use of armor and leaves his torso bare at all times. His hands and forearms are protected by Orcish gauntlet-vambraces that are durable enough to block attacks from all but the deadliest of weapons, but that's about it.

Speaking of weapons, Maulakanth's swords are two impressive pieces of Orcish craftsmanship. They're identical longswords, perfectly weighted and balanced, forged specifically for him. As is typical of Orcish swords, they're slightly curved and the blade's edge is uneven, but what sets them apart are their size – between a one-handed sword and a greatsword in length and weight – and the hilt's design incorporates the use of a knuckle-bow, which Maulakanth uses to parry blows and bash people in the face.

Miscellaneous: Not much else. He carries a few alchemy ingredients, two potions that restore health, one potion that enhances his strength, a handful of septims, a whetstone and some food; dried meat, nuts and a waterskin.

Favored Skills:

“To face me is to face Malacath himself.”

Highly Proficient
One-Handed: Maulakanth is a master at dual-wielding, utilizing his prodigious strength to wield a longsword in each hand with the ease a child might swing a stick. His technique is unusually refined and disciplined for an Orc, combining fast, relentless strikes with patient, defensive parries. He is capable of fighting multiple opponents at once and becomes almost unstoppable when succumbing to the berserker's rage of his race.

Unarmored: The lack of armor on his person is obviously a risk, but Maulakanth sees it as an advantange. He is deceptively nimble and agile, dodging what cannot be blocked, and the lack of encumberment on his arms and upper torso gives him free range of movement that allows for impressive and complex swordplay.

Moderately Proficient
Alchemy: Magically completely inept, Maulakanth remedies this void in his skillset with alchemical concoctions to heal himself, boost his strength and poison his foes. He knows which ingredients to use, where to find them and how to prepare the potions themselves. Alas, alchemical equipment is too big and complicated to carry on his person, which means he can only restock on his potion supplies whenever he has access to an alchemy station.

Somewhat Proficient
Armorer: Maulakanth is far from a certified smith but he knows how to take care of his weapons. While the orichalcum used in their creation means that his swords require very little upkeep, a little touch-up with a whetstone is never a bad thing.

Athletics: Years of rigorous physical exercise have given Maulakanth high endurance and the ability to run for long distances without stopping.

Speechcraft: Despite his fiercely wild appearance, Maulakanth can be surprisingly eloquent and commanding – a skill that was necessary as the Hand of Mauloch.

Crime Committed: Battery and assault. Maulakanth was in the employment of the count of Meir Thorvale as a bodyguard and enforcer until the count was fed up with Maulakanth's pride and stubbornness and fired him; Maulakanth responded by punching him in the face.

Character Background:

“It's time, father. I am ready. Defend yourself.”

Maulakanth's father, Narzul gro-Urgak, was the Hand of Mauloch of Orsinium. Where the king focuses on ruling and governing, the task of defending the city against outside threats was mostly delegated to a fearless champion that received the aforementioned title. Narzul had been the Hand for several years when Maulakanth was born, one of Narzul's many children with his wife, Ushug gra-Urgak, a smith and daughter to the king. It was a perfect situation to be born in as an Orc – son to powerful, influential parents and with immediate access to martial schooling of the highest degree, during a time of great prosperity for Orsinium.

The young Orc didn't waste a single minute of his time. As soon as he could walk, Maulakanth enthusiastically took to his father's combat lessons. While the position of the Hand wasn't hereditary, Narzul was determined for one of his sons to succeed him... and for that to happen, they had to be skilled enough to kill him. Much like Orc chieftains, the successor of the Hand of Mauloch was chosen via a trial by combat. Maulakanth enjoyed a lively rivalry with his siblings but it became apparent very early on, when Maulakanth was only a few years old, that Malacath had blessed him in particular. Maulakanth grew faster than any of his brothers and exceeded his father's height and bulk when he was only fourteen years old.

This trend continued until Maulakanth finally finished growing in his twentieth year, having reached an impressive seven feet and two inches. None of his siblings could challenge him in a sparring duel anymore and his skill with dual-wielding meant he could fight up to three of his brothers and sisters at once without being overpowered. Narzul was pleased – he was growing old and he could feel Malacath's call to die in battle before it was too late.

The entire city came out to watch when Maulakanth challenged his father to a fight to the death for the position of the Hand of Mauloch. Narzul fought in full plate armor, carrying a tower shield and a morning star – Maulakanth had shown up bare-chested, brandishing two brand new orichalcum swords that his mother had forged just for this occasion. The duel was intense and lasted for longer than ten minutes (which is generally considered a protracted affair in Orc culture). The blows of Narzul's morning star were either deflected and turned aside by Maulakanth's swords or evaded entirely, but Narzul caught all of Maulakanth's slices and thrusts on his shield. Both warriors became more reckless as the duel went on and the climax came when Narzul managed to land a satisfying hit on Maulakanth's flank, the spikes of his morning star driving into Maulakanth's flesh. Doing his best to ignore the pain, Maulakanth stepped in behind Narzul's shield before his father had a chance to pull the morning star free from his side and Maulakanth drove his swords through Narzul's cuirass with two powerful thrusts, impaling his heart and his lungs. The Hand of Mauloch died almost instantly.

Maulakanth still wears the scars of his father's morning star to this day. It was a great victory, however, and Narzul's last wish had been granted – Maulakanth was the new Hand of Mauloch. After recovering from his injuries, the king of Orsinium officially bestowed the title upon Maulakanth in a ceremony, followed by a lavish feast.

As the Hand of Mauloch, Maulakanth was officially the supreme leader of the armed forces of Orsinium. In practice, most of the leading and commanding was done by veterans that had been commanding soldiers for decades. Instead of letting them carry on with their jobs, Maulakanth started interfering immediately and asserted his newfound authority wherever possible – within his first year, he demanded a reform of the soldiers' combat tactics, demoted four war-chiefs for speaking against him and challenged two others to a duel to the death. As the abuses of power piled up, the king was eventually forced to reign Maulakanth in and the proud Hand of Mauloch only relented grudgingly. This started a feud between Maulakanth and the king that would last for years.

Maulakanth was a fervent nationalist and supporter of Orsinium's expansion. The city-state was located near the border between Hammerfell and Skyrim and expansion in any direction would mean coming into direct conflict with the local peoples and authorities. The king of Orsinium was a wise, patient and diplomatic Orc – Maulakanth was none of these things. He had ousted all those who didn't agree with him from the leaderschip echelon of Orsinium's armed forces and was eventually able to force the king's hand into agreeing to a campaign of small-scale raids, designed to assert Orsinium's superiority over the nearby towns and their militias.

The Jarl of Falkreath hold and the leaders of Elinhir and Dragonstar suddenly found themselves having to deal with Orc warriors, personally led by Maulakanth, invading their lands and displacing the Nord and Redguard citizens. Many skirmishes were fought with mostly inconclusive results – the Nords and Redguards were both tough opponents and fiercely resisted the plans for Orcish expansion. Both sent pleas to the king of Orsinium to stop the senseless violence and the king consented. Maulakanth was furious upon hearing the news and strode into the king's longhouse, shoving past the guards, to rage at the king in person.

Finally having an excuse to get rid of Maulakanth once and for all, the king had the Hand of Mauloch stripped of his title and exiled for insubordination. Beyond himself with fury, Maulakanth drew his blades and was immediately beset on all sides by the king's bodyguard. Maulakanth fought savagely and roared at his king, calling him a traitor and a coward, demanding an honest one-on-one duel. The king wouldn't have any of it, however, and Maulakanth was forced out of the longhouse and eventually out of the city. Five Orcs fell beneath his blades that day but that merely served to reinforce the king's point and Maulakanth found no support from his erstwhile allies in the armed forces.

Disgraced and abandoned, Maulakanth fled to High Rock. He was now twenty-six years old and had nothing to his name, but he was still an excellent warrior and turned to mercenary work. He still referred to himself as the Hand of Mauloch, considering the king's actions to be false and traitorous, and has gained quite a reputation for himself under that name in High Rock over the past two years. Lords and merchants used him as a bodyguard and magistrates paid him to take care of bandits and thieves. None of his jobs lasted long, however, as all of his employers agreed on one thing; Maulakanth was impossible to work with. The count of Meir Thorvale thought no different.

Fighting Style:

“Do you even know who you're dealing with? I am the Hand of Mauloch! Flee before me, runts!”

Maulakanth is a fantastic duelist, capable of taking on several opponents at once with his flexible two-bladed fighting style. He uses his offhand sword to parry and feint, striking hard and fast with his mainhand sword – combining such speed with a frightfully powerful impact when his attacks connect is only possible because of his bulk and musculature. Of course, excellence in one area comes at the expense of others, and Maulakanth has no options for ranged combat. He relies entirely on either cornering his enemies or being on the defensive, forcing them to come to him, and his huge size and weight mean that sneaking up on enemies is practically impossible. Maulakanth amplifies his abilities in combat with potions that he brews himself, ritualistically downing them in one go while muttering a quick prayer to Malacath before every fight. Juiced up, well-rested and in the primal throes of his berserker's rage, there are precious few warriors who can face the Hand of Mauloch in melee combat and live to tell the tale.

Personality: His prodigious skill at arms is offset by having the most offensive and abrasive personality this side of the Imperial City. Maulakanth is obscenely prideful, stubborn and short-tempered, especially after his exile -- having become ostracized and spurned even among Orcs, Maulakanth sees himself as having become everything Malacath embodies and looks down on everyone else. As such, he seems to be fiercely allergic to advice, instructions and orders, doing everything his way or not at all, and the value of listening to others is almost totally lost on him. It has been years since he's had anything approaching a friend.

That said, he isn't always unpleasant. He loosens up after a few drinks, revealing himself to be a passionate storyteller and uproarious reveler, and should he drink far too much, he might tearfully confess he's just looking for somewhere to belong. All the rage he carries with him gets in the way of that constantly and expresses itself in self-destructive behavior. Should someone be capable of putting up with his bullshit, however, they might find there is more to Maulakanth than meets the eye.

While superficially arrogant, Maulakanth actually struggles with his compulsion to be physically superior and has become dependent on strength potions over the years. He can go for a few days without, but he will eventually start to feel inadequate and suffer from withdrawals, something that infuriates him to no end. Maulakanth is at his most dangerous during such a period.

Font Colour: Not sure what to call it... moderately green?

[Luminosity]

_{Fiona Haylius}

---

Name: Fiona Haylius
Race: Imperial
Age: 23
Family Origins: Born and raised in the village of White Haven in High Rock as an only child in a family that was more or less healthy and functional. Initially apprenticed to her father in the trade of blacksmithing.

---

"Is there something wrong with the way I look? Not like I need to impress anyone."

Appearance: Fiona stands at nearly 5'10", with an obvious strength to her bearing, honed first from long hours learning a physical trade, and then from long hours of training and exercise. Her hair stands out the most, with its vibrant shade of red, and its lack of any organization at all, falling down to the middle of her back. It's one of the many things that obviously define her lack of nobility.

She dresses comfortably for travel, work, and combat, mostly in leathers and linens, her preferred color for the latter being red. The leather is clearly well-worn and broken in, and fitted quite well both for her jacket and her trousers. Her few armor pieces are mismatched and clearly scavenged or bought pieces of iron plate, but the few that she has appear to be well-maintained. Her backpack is one large, simple sack. In all, Fiona appears to be barely holding together, but somehow, still quite attractive, in that wild, unrefined way.

---

"It's not much, but a woman isn't defined by her possessions. She's defined by her actions."

Equipment: Fiona carries two weapons on her, the most obvious being a steel greatsword that she carries across her back. It's clearly seen a lot of use, but she keeps it in good shape. Her other combat weapon is a dagger she keeps sheathed on her thigh. She has a blacksmith's hammer in her pack that could also be used as a weapon, but she has next to no experience fighting with it.

For armor, she doesn't have much, just a few pieces of worn steel plating, mostly on her right arm, which is well-protected enough to intercept lighter attacks if need be, though it wouldn't be her first choice of defense.

Miscellanea: In her pack she carries her bedroll, a blanket, some dried meats and fruits for rations, her hammer and other smithing tools, an extra jacket, and several changes of clothes.

---

"It won't be pretty, but I'll get the job done. Fighting's what I'm meant for."

Favored Skills:

Highly Proficient
Two-Handed: She's not well trained in the art, but Fiona's a natural with a large sword all the same, and physically she matches the weapon quite well. Strength, speed, ferocity, relentlessness... she's a terror on the offensive.

Moderately Proficient
Smithing: Her father was a much better smith than her, but Fiona managed to pick up much of his repertoire. She's good at repairing and maintaining equipment, and she can forge low-level weapons and armor if she has the materials. Sadly, she lacks those at the moment.

Light Armor: She's not bad at working with limited protection, and knows pretty well what attacks she can block, what she needs to dodge, and what she simply needs to brace for, and endure.

Somewhat Proficient
Athletics: Moving slow can mean death for a fighter that doesn't wear much armor, so Fiona has honed her body to be both swift and strong. She's in excellent shape. That said, her inefficient style of fighting is very taxing, physically, meaning it's still in her interest to resolve fights sooner rather than later.

Fighting Style: Fiona's no follower of the Imperial style of heavy armor, small weapons, and defensive combat. She doesn't have the resources to fight like that, or the temperament. Instead she relies on her aggression and natural talent in melee combat, overpowering opponents with strength, speed, and tenacity. Her swift swings of her two-handed sword are incredibly difficult to block outright, and she's quick to augment her attack with physical strikes from her fists, knees, feet, elbows, her head if need be. She has no reservations in a fight. It isn't graceful or pretty to watch, but it works for her.

She struggles against speed that outmatches her own, as when her swings are dodged entirely, Fiona's left vulnerable from the longer recovery time and her lack of proper armor. Typically she'll attempt to grapple swift enemies rather than immediately strike with her sword, to counter this. At range she has to rely on cover and speed, as she has no projectiles at her disposal, and little to defend herself from arrows.

She excels the most against large and slow enemies or creatures, able to inflict heavy damage with her sword, while dodging counter-attacks. Opponents that try to focus on defense often have a tough time against her as well, as a swing from her sword can stagger most opponents that try to take it head on, and her attack is relentless, never letting up once she seizes an advantage.

---

"I refuse to sit here and wait while the Dominion conquers us one province at a time. We must help!"

Crime Committed: Destruction of property during the course of a tavern brawl. Fiona received a cracked rib and bruised jaw during the fight, but you should see the other guys.

Character Background: Fiona's parents, Matel and Setia Haylius, came from Cyrodiil originally, Bruma specifically, but relocated to the village of White Haven in High Rock after a local lord named Velnette sought out her father's services as a blacksmith. His work was highly sought after, and the opportunity proved the greatest. By the time Fiona was born, her parents had established themselves as respected members of the White Haven community. She had a peaceful upbringing as an only child, and a promising future once she was apprenticed to her father.

Lord Velnette supplied all of his forces with arms and armor provided by Fiona's father, but once that was done, the work began to dry up. It was a peaceful region, and well protected now that the garrison there was well equipped, and so Fiona's family saw their income reduced, and worked small jobs on horseshoes, tools, and the like. They were not poor, but neither were they very wealthy.

Fiona was barely 13 when war came to the south, and High Rock began to divide itself as to what to do. When Matel's family, his brothers and sisters, sent word that they were joining the fight against the Dominion, he felt compelled to go with them, despite the pleas of his wife and daughter. Still loyal to the Empire, Fiona's father joined a volunteer company and departed for Cyrodiil, to lend his services to the war effort. Fiona took over the majority of the blacksmithing duties. Much of the work her family received vanished, with clients unwilling to entrust their coin to a young girl's craftsmanship.

Her father was supposed to be a non-combatant, but that hardly mattered when Dominion forces overran their encampment one night. All were slaughtered, and eventually word of her father's death reached Fiona, who was now 15. Her mother's response was to fall into a near catatonic depression, but Fiona harnessed anger instead, at the elves that killed her father, and at the inaction of High Rock, who hid in their homes and refused to help. She trained a rudimentary style, and strengthened her body in preparation for the day in which she would be able to fight, to avenge her father.

As she grew older, she began to stir up support for the Imperial cause in her village. Lord Velnette was disinterested in offering any support to a war that was far from him, and viewed the growing dissent with unease. When Fiona was 19, putting off joining a volunteer company in favor of trying to rouse people into revolt, Velnette took action, and had his men burn down Fiona's smithy and home in the night, while Fiona was away. Believing the smoke and fire would scare out anyone inside, the men were surprised to learn that Fiona's mother had suffocated inside, unwilling to leave.

Naturally, Fiona flew into a rage when she found out, but rather than make a futile attempt at vengeance that would leave her dead as well, she gathered what things she could, including one of her father's swords, and left White Haven behind. She spent the next few years wandering High Rock as an adventurer and sellsword, choosing jobs selectively, with little concern for making much wealth. There were things she wanted to do: see Velnette dead, make an impact on the fight against the Dominion, make something more of herself, but she didn't know how to do any of these things.

One night while she was particularly drunk in a tavern in Meir Thorvale, Fiona responded violently to repeated insults thrown at her after she was recognized. The ensuing fight left part of the tavern destroyed, and Fiona thrown into prison, with a cracked rib, bruised jaw, and very bloody knuckles.

Personality: Fiona's not exactly subtle. She's blunt, honest, and typically says what's on her mind. It gets her into trouble sometimes. She fears nothing, really, but she does her best to avoid being reckless when it isn't called for. At heart, she's a very good person, with almost no selfish motivations, apart from a desire for revenge. There's a bit of subconscious racism in there when it comes to elves, specifically Altmer, but it isn't overbearing. She seeks to do what is best for people. She wants to help, always, and if that means putting herself at risk, it rarely factors into the decision.

She has a sort of battered optimism, the bright-eyed outlook on the world instilled by her father somewhat dimmed after his death, her mother's death, and years of struggling to make it on her own in a country with rampant problems. She sees bad things, but most of the time uses them as motivation to do good things. That said, in the past few years Fiona has become more quick to anger, and she doesn't mix well with strong drink. Overall she's a bit restless, not sure what she's making of herself, but trying passionately to do her best in the world, and to do right by her father.

Font Color: Salmon!

[idlehands]

Name: Gaela ‘Greenfingers’ Dunywyr

Race: Breton

Family Origins: Born in Glenumbra in a hunter’s cabin on the edge of the woods, far from the bustle of the city. Her parents are Bretons, her mother’s family from Daggerfall and has a tradition of mages in their lines while her father's folk traditionally live off the land. Gaela and her siblings would follow their mother as she gathered herbs for her healing practice and learned how to track and survive in the wild forests and swamps of their homeland from their father, a ranger who was often gone for long stretches of time hunting not just to provide food and hides for his family but to collect bounties on the wolves and werewolves that plagued the land. A dangerous profession that would eventually claim his life.

Appearance: She stands around 5’6’’ with an ample, feminine build. A fair face with a scattering of freckles, her eyes are river blue and bright with curiosity. Her brown hair is worn in a messy bun at the nape of her neck to keep it out of her face. Gaela has a slight pointed tip to her otherwise human ears, a faint trace of the elvish blood in Breton race. She favors robes with plenty of hidden pockets and when she travels she carries a knapsack, with a belt of pouches around her waist. A hooded cloak to keep off the weather and sturdy supple leather boots are also worn.

"Everyone laughs at Restoration until they have a hole in their gut."

Age: 28

Equipment: A walking staff, can be wielded for self defense if her magic is depleted. A steel knife used mostly for utilitarian jobs.

Miscellaneous: In her pack is a hood and cloak, a bedroll, travel food, a waterskin, 15 septims. 4 vials of health potion, 2 vials of regeneration potion, 2 empty vials. Bundles of dried herbs and roots, a small mortar and pestle, a small ceramic crucible, and a change of clothes (wool robe, leather leggings). A silver arrow head on a chain worn around her neck, under her robes. Carved figures of Mara and Kynareth, a few small books and scrolls along with a quill, ink, and a small leather journal. A strangely engraved bit of metal, seemly of Dwemer make, a finger bone of a draugr and silver ring with a dark red garnet. A variety of bits and pieces picked up on her journey, she tends to hoard little things that attract her magpie sense of curiosity, with intention of figuring it out but often forgetting about it until much later which is why she has a knapsack but also pouches around her waist and another slung over her shoulder.

Favored Skills:
Highly Proficient : Alchemy
Moderately Proficient: Restoration: Healing, Fast Healing, Healing Hands, Steadfast Ward, Turn the Undead, Sunfire, Close Wounds, Greater Ward, Destruction: Flames, Ignite, Fireball, Lightning Bolt, Freeze, Runes of Flame, Freeze and Lightning.
Somewhat Proficient: Alteration-Candlelight and Oakflesh, Sneak, Small Blades

Crime Committed: Accused of selling poison to a woman to kill her husband.

Character Background: Gaela earned the nickname ‘Greenfingers’ when she was a child, coming back from the fields and woods surrounding the cabin her father built with her fists full of herbs, staining her pale skin. With an insatiable appetite for knowledge, she devoured any book she could get her hands on, surpassing her parent’s rudimentary schooling by the time she was eight. She showed an aptitude for magic but there were few mages in the countryside to learn from.

When she turned twelve, two major things happened that changed her life. Her father accompanied her into a wild untracked part of the forest, for she was seeking a rare herb to help with her mother’s chronic illness. There they were stalked and attacked by a particularly large and vicious werewolf. Gaela never spoke of the events, no one knew how she managed to survive but she came home alone and began to set fire to things. She blamed herself for putting him in danger, for forgetting the most simple rule he set for her exploring. Always return to camp before the sun starts to set. But she was distracted, lost in wandering and the shadows grew before she realized how late it was. If she had not ventured so far into the wild woods, her scent would not have been picked up by the cursed of Hircine and her father would not have had to come searching for her. The details of being stalked by the blood thirsty creature, the fear and the horror at facing the beast haunt her dreams but the guilt weighs on her even in her waking hours. What if...the two most bitter words to touch the tongue.

Without a husband to support her and her children, her mother returned to Daggerfall. Unable to handle the change in her oldest daughter, the trauma manifesting itself in the teenage girl acting out with fire and painful silence, so unlike Gaela's good natured personality. She was sent to live with an aunt who was a servant to the local Lord. There she would be given the chance to learn to harness her internal gift. She began to learn from the court mage and when her talent at healing was apparent, she went to apprentice at the Temple of the Divines. The priests and priestesses taught her not only about the art of Restoration magic but about mercy and temperance, to come to terms with her own guilt as much as she could. There she became accomplished at Restoration but Gaela continued to be Greenfingers and never forgot her love for herblore, continuing her study of alchemy.

Gaela has never married nor had any great loves. Her passions are for her study and though she has had her passing fancies and lovers, no one has stayed. Instead, she pours her heart into helping those in need and into her craft.

Despite the healing to her soul the work in the temple did, priesthood did not suit her though and her desire to travel led her away from the temple. She wandered around Highrock and western Skyrim and Hammerfell, visiting small villages to ply her healing trade as well as gather ingredients for her alchemy. Rare plants and fungi in out of the way areas was her specialty, she would gain the trust of the rural farmers and hunters, and they in turn showed her the caves and hidden glens that she would find her elusive flora.

"You know what caves have? Mushrooms. And skeevers, bears, and the occasional Necromancer's undead minions. But the mushrooms, worth it."

One of her trips took her through a small town in northern Highrock she met a woman who came to her for healing a broken arm of her youngest child. After a long talk and prying on Gaela’s part, she discovered the woman’s husband as an abusive drunk who kept his family in a state of constant fear. The time the woman did tried to escape with her children, he nearly killed her and forced her to miscarry. They are underfed and battered and when the woman mentions getting rid of her husband as the only solution, Gaela decided to help.

So it came to it, in the end the potion that was supposed to paralyze the man ended up killing him, for the wife was generous with the portion. They escaped but Gaela stood accused of murder and is now in chains with thieves and brawlers, the label of ‘poisoner’ now darkening her reputation and perhaps costing her own life.

Fighting Style: She is a mage and wields the elements as her weapon. While she prefers Restoration there is no doubt that Destruction is a useful tool to master. Gaela will use her staff for defense if her magic reserves are drained. Fire and shock being her favored offensive magic. Restoration magic is mostly healing but there are some defensive spells she calls upon such as wards and spells against the undead.

Personality: Bright and goodnatured, caring, dreamy, and sometimes flaky Gaela is not the image of the dark and mysterious mage. Perhaps experimenting too often with her own potions or spending too much time alone, she tends to be off in her own world unless focused on a task such a saving a life or destroying one. As a Restoration mage her idea of vengeance is not through blood but through healing the hurts caused by those that would prey on the weak and saving those she can. Though it takes much to raise her ire, she has little tolerance for those that would prey on the weak. Though a compassionate person by nature and trade, she harbors an old and deep hate for werecreatures.

Font Colour: None

-A page from the alchemy journal.

[ConstableWalrus]

Name: Cyrendil Grayfhar

Race: Altmer

Family Origins: Cyrendil grew up in the Province of Cyrodiil in the Imperial City, at it's height during the twilight of the third era to two Altmer parents, both of which were from the Summerset Isles. Not overly wealthy, but not at all like the poor down at the docks.

Appearance: Typical for his race Cyrendil stands at a solid seven feet tall. His body when not in his steel plate armor is toned and lithe, his height balancing himself out making him lean. But it simply hides the strength. His skin is a dark gold, fair in all places except for his face. Which he sports a beard and it is shaved in intricate swirls along his cheeks, a terrible hold-over from his youth, along his right eye lies a cut from the top of his eyebrow down to his cheek bone. His eyes bright green and sharp and his long ears can be seen easily with his golden hair pulled back behind them, lingering strands down the sides of his face but the bulk tied back to keep it free of his face.

When not wearing his travelers hood, he wears heavy steel plate armor that can easily be seen once held great beauty and designs long since worn from it. The armor rises high on the neck where a gap is seen usually in place for the helmet instead Cyrendil wears an amulet of Stendarr, the goblet pouring. The only remaining imagery of his armor lies in the heavy steel buckler, which has the symbol of Auri-El what the men of Tamriel call Akatosh. The sun was one could see at one point polished bronze, that must have shined bright, but once again has been long since worn down to a dull sheen. Along the belt, he had a leather waterskin and a dark leather scabbard, within it lie his longsword. It was not steel or Iron. But Silver. A gift from the Vigil, as it was the bane of evil creatures. Undead, Werewolves, Vampires. Burned at the touch of true silver.

It was the only thing left on him not tarnished, it was firmly kept the elaborate hilt still showed it's symbols of Auri-El crafted into it's pommel before rising up into the shining silver blade. And with it he had a shield Steel just like his plate, the Heater Shield was worn showing plenty of scratches and some slight dents but the symbol that was once blazoned on the steel could still be seen if peered at carefully in daylight. The Familiar sun design of Auri-El, worn and haggard but there.

"Walk always in the light, or I will drag you to it."

Age: 244

Equipment: Travelers cloth hood, his silver longsword, Steel Plate Shield and armor. And a small travel pack which included Dried Rations, set of extra underclothes, and a whetstone and cloth for keeping his sword in good order.

Miscellaneous: Whetstone, cleaning cloth for his blade, underclothes in the travel pack, and Dried Rations.

Favored Skills:
Highly Proficient (Block, Long Blade)
Moderately Proficient (Heavy Armor, Restoration)
Somewhat Proficient (Athletics)

Crime Committed: Destroying a suspected daedric worshiper in the hold.

Character Background: Born into a time when the Empire was at it's height, the twilight came swiftly on the third era in a reign of blood and terror. Growing up as an only child for most of his youth, he was showered in affection by his two loving parents. But eventually they wished for another, and because the lives of the Altmer are so long they waited until Cyrendil was nearing age. His younger brother Tunaril was born 3E 431 two years before the Oblivion Crisis; Before the empire would be thrown into chaos and the maw of Oblivion would open wide.

His father a prominent shipwright down at the Imperial City docks, and his mother was a jeweler capable of bringing out the shine in even the dullest of gemstones. He always kept the necklace she had given him, a make she had only replicated one other time; the twin amulet his brother wore. The two year old had finally learned to explore, and was becoming more than a handful even for his parents let alone the young Mer of Seventeen. Cyrendil loved his baby brother, but he was also just a young man. And they make mistakes.

It was an unusually hot day in Cyrodiil the climate was usually very mild and cool, it was the breadbasket of the Empire for a reason. Cyrendil had been asked to watch his brother that day, as he did most when his parents were off having to work the day. It was nearing the time of day when he'd usually be out strolling through the Elven Gardens District, trying to catch the eye of an Imperial smiths daughter. But he was there, watching his brother. Usually he would not have minded, but he had finally got her to agree to take a walk with him around the Arboretum near the entrance to the Arcane University. Taking a quick glance at the window and back to his brother, he lifted him up and put him in his crib. He'd be back, he promised. Just a quick walk with her, would not hurt.

He was halfway towards the Arboretum, making his way along the main street of the Talos district when it happened. The booming of horns, the sky above quickly darkening and turning the sky a blood red. The Oblivion Gates had opened in the city. The crowd started to panic, when a gate at the very end of the main road pulled itself from the ground, ripping a hole into oblivion and the Dremora poured through terrible smiles on their cruel faces as they started to cut down the innocent that were too stunned to start fleeing and started to chase the rest down.

He ran, Divines know how fast he ran but he ran. The screams were coming from everywhere, huge plumes of smoke rose above the walls that divided the districts showing that the gates had opened everywhere. They were inside. Cyrendil's thoughts flashed to his mother, and his father. And terror struck him, his brother. He was not with his brother. Cyrendil rushed back towards home, trying his best to avoid the many Daedra who were already ransacking house by house. Killing the inhabitants and setting the insides of the stone homes ablaze. Turning the far corner he saw his home, the door had been clawed open. The wood frame still struggling to hang on by the hinges and without thinking he rushed inside.

There it was, his brothers crib. Turned over, and nearby the sound of gnawing and gnashing teeth. The twin scamps surrounded his brother coated in the little boys blood and were gnawing at him through his tattered cloth clothes. Cyrendil tried not to vomit, and hardly realized he had already stepped into his own brothers blood until it started to soak through his cloth shoes. He stepped back horrified and frozen glancing around and finding the short blade his father kept above the fire. He ran for it and grasped it, the sound of shouting came from outside and it drew the attention of the feasting scamps. And they spotted him, it rose up on tiny hind legs about to his waist and hissed.

Cyrendil had kill them, the scamps were dead. The blood from the scamps and from the claw at his waist mingled in the royal green robes he wore; His gaze went to his brother, his lower half devoured and his green eyes wide stared back at him. Lifeless. Dropping the blade he went to his brother and cradled his head sobbing over him. That's how the Imperial Guard found him, it did not take long after the surprise attack for the guard to get organized and stable enough to start pushing back to somewhat of a defense of the city. And they dragged Cyrendil away from the young altmers body, who simply stared back to him with lifeless green eyes.

A month, he did not speak for a month. The city had recovered mostly, there were still many dead but the Empire was saved. His parents were distraught with grief at losing their youngest. Cyrendil bore his guilt alone, it was his fault his brother was dead. His fault that his parents were stricken with the loss of their youngest. The next year of his life was listless, grey, and devoid of life for not just him but his family, and part of him wondered if he should jump from the city walls. Leap to an end of this grey pain, the shame, the guilt.

But then murmurs of a new order. The Vigilants of Stendarr was forming, men and women who had lost everything in the terrible Oblivion Crisis. Paladins and warriors who were looking for the righteous to join up and drag the darkness into the light and smite it for all to see. Cyrendil gave it no thought, this was his chance... for revenge, redemption, For his brother. He left his home in the night, a simple note saying goodbye on the table with the twin amulets his mother made for him and his brother holding down the note.

The Vigil would train him, bore him, forge him into a weapon of holy retribution. The Vigil spread out through Tamriel with a harsh promise that he had now helped keep for over two hundred years. The promise that brought him to Highrock. The promise that bore him through the gates of Meir Thorvale. And the promise he whispered to the worshiper of the Daedra as he sank his blade into his black heart.

"None escape the Vigil. All come into the light."

Fighting Style: A front line fighter Cyrendil is committed to bring the fight to whatever evil creature and send it straight back to oblivion, his athletics makes him able to attempt to close the distance between him and his target. While he is fluent in Restoration Magic, it is used not to heal but to burn and turn the undead. Basking them in the light of Auri-El and Stendarr. At range he is at a disadvantage until he is able to close the gap.

Personality: Strong willed, proud, and determined are the traits that run deep within Cyrendil, his need to destroy the Daedra and all who worship them is paramount and his hunt for hidden worshipers, vampires, necromancers, and lycanthropes borders on obsession. On those afflicted and those who decided to deal with the dark powers of the Daedra. He will only wish Stendarr's mercy be upon them, for he has none to spare.

Font Colour: None

-Eight Divines from left to right: Akatosh (Auri-El), Kynareth, Arkay, Dibella, Mara, Julianos, Stendarr, Zenithar

[Spoopy Scary]

Name:

Pharasius Finch

Race:

Imperial

Family Origins:

Pharasius Finch was born in to an Imperial middle class family, his father was a soldier and his mother working within the Imperial City selling mortgages and so on. After his father came home leading an assault team against key Dominion targets, he was celebrated and honored, being promoted to commander, and the family went on a final tour with him to High Rock for tactical assessments following the strike. However, the Dominion’s assassination of the family left him orphaned in his mid-teenage years and forced him to live on the streets, stranded in Glenumbra, with nowhere else to go. He did what he could to survive while starving for vengeance, however he was not particularly strong-built and he was unfit to join the Imperial armies. Finch was forced to sit on the sidelines while at odds with the law.

---

"A little dirt hurt no one, come on, put your back into it. We can bathe in the river later."

Appearance:

A stringy physique doesn’t serve Finch very well to scare anybody who would see harm to him, and standing at 5’9” doesn’t do him any good either. He’s a scrawny build from the years of being a beggar and serving himself alone, barely a pinch of fat on him, and obviously hungry. He’s not totally helpless though, he does have some muscle on him from running and scavenging and working himself to the bone in nearly everything he does. He’s fast as hell, and was able to outrace law enforcement for a number of years. As an Imperial, he’s tanned and has black hair hanging to his shoulders, knotted up and dirty, contrasting with blue eyes, and thick stubble over his face. A number of nasty scars litter his body, some once infected and made the recovery process a little rocky. None of them, however, as severe as the ones you might find on a soldier. You would be hard pressed to find a patch of skin that isn’t smeared with dirt. Covered in tattered clothes and patches and rags, he pulls off the vagabond look quite well, but likely not able to contest with the Forsworn - for obvious reasons.

Age:

22

Equipment:

With Finch as he is now, he has nary a penny to his name. Raggy clothes and two leather flaps with string on them for sandals, and a blanket made from deer skin. In one of his secret caches surrounding the prison, he buried a small crossbow with a couple of bolts in it, inside of a sack. While he’s not much of a marksman, you don’t really need to be as long as you have one of those guys.

---

"There's two platoons coming over the north hill. If we take the east valley, we can pass them under the cover of the cliff face."

Favored Skills:

Highly Proficient
(Sneak: After all, you don't just steal things and hide from danger in plain sight unless you're the Gray Fox.)

Moderately Proficient
(Pickpocket: Finch has been lifting goodies from unassuming suckers for survival for the past five years. Tell him you want something that someone else has, you're gonna get it - but make no mistake, he is not a proud thief. That shame might be what holds back from ever mastering it.)
(Athletics: Finch has been running away from the law and from angry citizens for the past five years. Usually carrying something that didn't belong to him. He can turn tail and leave you in the dust.)
(Lockpicking: If you want something really bad, you learn to be real stubborn in getting that thing that you want. A couple bouts of fiddling with locks and Finch became quite the legerdemain.)

Somewhat proficient
(Marksman: He is actually not much good with a bow. In fact, he only has experience with a shitty crossbow, which does all the work for him. Finch just learned how to aim it in the right direction, shooting a brave squirrel under the best of circumstances.)
(Acrobatics: Finch does some climbing and jumping and balancing in his great escapes, but he is not much of a gymnast. He can go places, but lacks the conditioning to do so sustainably and or elegantly.)
(---)

Fighting Style:

Finch would be better served running toward the opposite direction or sitting high up in a tree, or hiding in a bush, with quite a few meters between his crossbow and the enemy. Otherwise, just use him for scouting.

Miscellaneous:

A very old, dulled, slightly rusty skinning knife is stashed away in the same cache, along with a number of lockpicks. Heck, he might even have at least one left on his person, hiding in... creative places.

---

"They're going to pay for what they did. I don't care what it takes."

Crime Committed:

Oh, Finch has many a petty theft and trespasses under his belt, however, he was never caught for those. No, the thing he was caught for this time was the stealing of a particular piece of illegal contraband, however, Finch was able to hide it away somewhere before he was caught...

Character Background:

Born under a soldier and Imperial estate agent, in the Imperial City, Finch had access to an early education and some fair amount of money. Nothing spectacular, nothing befitting of nobles, but it was suitable. When his father came back home after a tour, he’d sometimes show the young Finch around the barracks, sometimes show him how to shoot a crossbow and help him out when he had trouble pulling back the string. He was born in the city; he was no farm boy, so strength never played into his everyday life. His primary responsibility was to learn. Thinking was what he became good at.

It appeared he was set on a steady path, but everything changed after his father left to carry out a strike against a key Dominion target, something that might cripple their hold on a strong position. It was executed, and he came back sung as a hero. The father, Cassius Finch, was promoted to commander for his bravery and ability to lead, and he invited his family to visit High Rock with him while he met with the Breton leaders for tactical assessment following the strike. When they got there, they were given lodging, and one night a seventeen year old Finch wandered and looked in awe at the sights of Daggerfall under the full moons. It was that night that a Dominion agent assassinated his father, as well as his mother to eliminate any witnesses.

The assassin, as nimbly as he had entered, he had slipped away and from allied forces' grasp, melting through their fingers. The damage to Finch was done, coldly and efficiently. At the moment of their demise, the reality of war became too real, and his preconceived conceptions of object permanency were proven a fantastical daydream. Now he was on the streets, nowhere to go and with no one to take care of him, inheriting a wealth he could not access so far away from home. He found himself wanting, wishing for vengeance upon the Dominion. The first place he turned to were the Empire’s armies, but they would not take him, for he was unfit for the kind of hardships that soldiers were meant to endure. Nobody else wishing to take an Imperial child under their wing, Finch was forced to beg or otherwise serve himself. Putting him at odds with the law, he stole food and trespassed as he saw fit.

He still held hatred in his heart for the Dominion all this time. He would go out and sabotage their efforts if he ever could, but that was a fruitless endeavor. He never sought refuge with the Thieves Guild, since he never really took any pride in being a thief or vagabond. Neither did being a professional thief serve his longing for revenge. The Morag Tong no longer operated outside of Morrowind, and the Dark Brotherhood was ultimately destroyed, as told by the books he read in the Imperial City. He couldn’t take a sword up on his own. He wasn’t a fighter; he didn’t have the natural build for it, just as his mother was. He just kept as he did, and evacuating towns when he became too prevalent. His travels eventually brought him to Rivenspire, specifically in the town of Meir Thorvale.

While rummaging through things that did not belong to him, he came across a foot-locker, like a little jewelry box. He ended up breaking a half-dozen lockpicks just trying to open it, and when he did, all he found was a book. He nearly ripped it up out of frustration, but closer inspection revealed a darker secret. On the inside of the cover, it read “The Night Mother’s Truth”. Finch had thought all books relating to the Dark Brotherhood had been burned. He only had time to read halfway through before he heard a noise - he was discovered! Finch scrambled to his feet with the book in tow, sprinting around the city as fast as he could, leaving the ones chasing him behind and eating his dust. Word got around among the guard, and then it seemed half the force was cooperating to catch him.

Finch ran to the outskirts of the city, going to the backside of the wall just behind the barracks. There he lifted bricks out of the way to reveal a small compartment that hid bulging rucksack. He stashed the book there too and quickly set the bricks back in place and continued running. Eventually running into a platoon and becoming surrounded, he was commanded to surrender what he had stolen. Nothing save the rags on his back was on him. He was promptly escorted to the cells. In the meantime, the guard was left wondering where in the entire hold could he have hid that book, not ever suspecting it was under their nose.

Then, during the nights in his cell before his appearance in front of the count, all manner of thoughts and ideas creeped into Finch’s head - one being “where did that other person get that book”, another being the Night Mother herself, who she once was and who she might’ve been. Reportedly, she was destroyed along with the sanctuary she hid in – but from what he had read, her power was earned through a mysterious being named “Sithis”, who Finch had never heard of before. That she was made his wife through murdering her own begotten children. A thought of intrigue entered his head. What was to stop this Sithis figure from wedding another? Conceiving the reemergence of the Dark Brotherhood? What was stopping Finch from finding the right person, the right woman, not dribbling for revenge like Finch, no - something more primal, a woman who'd kill for its own sake. Such would be the seemly bride of the void?

Suddenly, the plot for finally exacting revenge against the Dominion began to form and the first pieces to an elaborate puzzle began coming together. It would be a hard earned victory should it ever come, he knew that, and the thought of the murderous path he would go down was haunting - even unsure if he would be able to carry it out, but he still saw no other options available to him. There were the daedra, and the Daedric Princes, but Finch still had his pride. He would let himself be a pawn or puppet of no demon's plot. He figured that he'd go his own way, let the Divines judge him as they might, he'd try to revive the Brotherhood on his own. Perhaps he'd let vengeance guide his hand. Perhaps he would guide a Brotherhood along routes different from the last one. Perhaps it was impossible. Even as he knelled and was chained down before the Count’s own feet, along with a number of other prisoners by his side, he thought that maybe he could at least see if he could. Surely, petty theft did not permit a death sentence... right? He still had a vendetta to carry out, Counts be damned.

Assassins have proven their worth.

Personality:

When a man’s hand is forced to beg and steal from a young age, he becomes pessimistic. Finch is something of an oddity in that regards and while there is undoubtedly lots of pessimism to go around, he keeps it contained, and tries to direct it towards his end game goal. He uses it as a sort of motivation to exact the revenge he wanted, and then tries to face the trials of everyday life with a smile, even if the smile is only a meager thing. At his core, Finch is well-meaning. Revenge and a life of begging has twisted that to absurd degrees, and the cruel reality of the world has made him distant and able to detach himself. He wants to make friends, but doesn’t, and usually paints all people with the same brush until a personal relationship is formed, and the old Finch starts coming through, the one before his family’s murder, the one before the begging and stealing.

After then, Finch is naturally generous and honest and he would share what little has with you without a second thought. If you have a favor, he’ll do it without asking too many questions. Perhaps it might have something to do with naivety, since normal life as he knew it stopped at age seventeen, and with any semblance of normalcy, he would fall back on what he knew. So he might come across as being younger than he is. Another reason could be that he’s just so desperate for a meaningful relationship he might just pour all the pressure weighing on his shoulders onto a listening ear. Finch has had a hard life for the past five years, and while he keeps a strong face, there is no doubt he’s suffering because of it.

Still, that is a hard point to get to. He's very suspicious and is very slow to trust, as conditioned by the last couple of years. Beggars are no community, they'd back stab if it meant getting ahead. The life is a gambit for survival, and Finch feels that he cannot hold that against them. It takes a personality more stubborn than he to get past the constant rejection and break through his pessimism before he begins to acknowledge someone's help or good intentions. He feels as though someone is always watching, making him dart around, move about, and look incredibly anxious - owing to his nickname "Twitch". In addition, he has an incredible hatred of the Dominion. While he doesn't necessarily direct this hatred upon all elves, he is particularly distrusting of them, and is even a little racist when discussing them. However, this has never led to an altercation, as he is more likely to flee than to fight.

Even a homeless beggar, Finch isn't stupid. After all, he's had an education until his late teenage years. While it is certainly nothing advanced or befitting a mage or noble, he has a keen mind and a penchant for quick learning. Indeed, what he lacks in physical aptitude, he makes up for cleverness and the ability to think outside the box. Back in school, Finch also had an interest in politics. Whether it be casting doubt in legal cases or oration, getting involved in government was an intriguing thought. However, now, a political tongue gets a beggar nowhere. Rather, being able to lie well enough to talk down the guard and assure him that, no, you didn't steal the cabbage - all the while being capable of convincing fellow beggars to cover your back and keep promises, as they hide the cabbage behind a crate until the guard leaves.

Font Colour:

Crimson, because there was no sanguine.

[/hider]

[Macro]

Name: Berich Macer (Born Volstag Iron-Arm), the White-Gold Weasel

Race: Berich files as Imperial for tax purposes, however he was born full blooded Nord. Just conspicuously short.

Family Origins: Berich was born to Ingvar and Ganhild Iron-Arm in a small clan of Nordic barbarians in the mountains of Skyrim. He was raised with horses and goats in a family of barbarians, but dropped off said mountain on account of his short stature. He was then raised by an Imperial merchant named Eulalia.

Appearance: Many would remark Berich as being the smallest Nord they had ever met, if they in fact knew he was a Nord. Berich is slight in frame and stands at about 5 foot 7 inches. He dies his fair-blond hair black and wears it back in a ponytail yet cannot cover up his sky-blue eyes that he inherited from his parents. Berich has no less than three gold teeth. A scar runs across from the top of his right eye to the bottom of his chin, from an encounter with an Orcish booker looking to collect. He's missing his left index finger. Different orc booker, same situation. There always seem to be some whiskers on Berich's chin no matter how often he cares to shave.

Age: Berich is 37, although he'd usually tell you he's a hard 28.

Equipment: Berich travels light, with an Imperial white silk garment fitting of someone of his status, and a black fur cloak. He carries a finely sharpened Elvish dagger with many jewels encrusted in the hilt.

Miscellaneous: Some dried fruit and nuts, a skin of wine (ok, several skins of wine).

Also, poison. Like, a lot of poison. Like, a ridiculous amount of poison. Berich is very fond of avoiding combat through the use of poison. Don't worry, though, most of it is non-lethal. The bigger body trail he leaves, the more angered sons and lovers will be hunting him down, and that is just a hassle.

Favored Skills:

Highly efficient: Mercantile, Unarmoed

Moderately Efficient: Alchemy, Athletics

Somewhat Proficient: Short Blade

Crime Committed:

High Treason against the Meade Dynasty
Theft from the Imperial Treasury
21 Counts of theft from members of the Elder Council

Character Background: Volstag Iron-Arm was born in the snowy, mountainous area of Skyrim north of Cyrodiil's Bruma. He was raised by barbarians until the age of ten. This was a nomadic life, full of raiding nearby settlements and hunting animals or starving. Volstag despised this life, and on clear nights he would sneak off from his camp and gaze upon the lights and fires of Bruma. Volstag's parents were warriors, and he was expected to be too. When he grew up, however, the clan realized how small and weak the child would be as an adult. Ganhild, Volstag's mother, was ordered to kill him so he would not be a burden on the clan. Instead, the woman left Volstag on the road at the base of a mountain with a hug and a tearless farewell. He never saw his parents after that, but was shortly found by a travelling Imperial merchant, Eulalia Macer, who took the boy in and named him Berich.

Eulalia, a native of the Imperial City, took Berich back with her and raised him in her shop, The Golden Goose (a jewelry store). Berich went from the barbarians of Skyrim to the bourgeoisie of Cyrodiil, and the transition could not have been easier for him. Berich took very well to the education he received, making up for the years he went without. He proved himself a natural salesman in his adopted mother's store. When he was 16, he apprenticed at the Imperial Bank, the largest bank in Cyrodiil.

Berich was always very self centered. He'd always obsess about making sure his appearance was flawless, spending hours on his hair and clothing. The other boys would bully Berich mercilessly, but he didn't really let it get to him. He'd always go home to Eulalia and she'd reaffirm that he didn't need to play with those mean boys; mommy was the only friend Berich would ever need.

Berich took to banking as easily as he did life in the Imperial City. He was a natural not only at handling money, but at getting people to give him money. As he grew up and gained more of a prominent position within the Imperial Bank, he began to wonder: what if I could turn these peoples' money into even more money? That's when Berich began to begin lending money to more and more citizens who needed it, even those who he realistically knew could not pay him back. When they defaulted on their loans, Berich legally seized everything they owned. He became so successful he left to start his own bank, affectionately called the Golden Goose Bank.

Berich started as a small banker in a back corner of the Market District. Berich wanted to get ahead fast; so he did what few bankers brought up in pomp and nobility were willing to do. He invested in underground skooma houses, prostitute rings, and gambling dens. The illicit profits from these organizations propelled Berich into extreme wealth. He began to spread his business; soon he wasn't just dealing with the middle class, but rubbing elbows with the Imperial Council and the Emperor's court. Soon, Berich Macer was on the tongue of every nobleman in the Imperial City. Macer knows how to handle your money. You haven't invested in the Golden Goose? He handles' the Emperor's Skyrim funds. He was on top of the world; he was rich!

Another reason Berich was able to get ahead was the fact that he employed poison against his enemies. At first, it began very innocently: as an aspiring chef, Berich served one of his fellow bankers a pork with nightshade shavings for spice. Too much nightshade, in addition to a bad reaction with the other ingredients, and the banker fell into a month long coma. Ever since then, Berich has been crafting non-lethal poisons to take people of out the "game" so he could improve his own business with no competition. He also isn't that bad of an amateur chef, believe it or not.

Eventually, Berich wanted more than just money. He wanted influence; power. As a failsafe (Berich was very fond of the idea that even in defeat, he comes out ahead) Berich began passing along information to the Thalmor in the city, effectively becoming a Thalmor spy. In return, the Thalmor promised Berich that he would be able to keep his business in the event of a Thalmor takeover of the Imperial City. Berich has naked political ambitions born of his newfound power. He was an upstart, but one with the power to back up his desires. Berich began to court members of the Elder Council of the Empire. He was invited into their homes; began to give them personal tips on how to expand their wealth. Eventually, Berich took his proposition to the Elder Council as a petition: make me a Councilor, and we will become rich together. The Council, and Tamriel itself!

Berich was, unsurprisingly, laughed out of the Council chambers. You think a flash of wealth deserves a place next to families who have been in power for generations? Berich was mocked, his name dragged through the dirt. That's when he did something desperate, and very, very stupid. He held the Council's money as collateral. Appoint me Councilor, or I cannot guarantee that you'll see your money again. I sense an economic downturn. Perhaps if I had the connections of an Elder Councilor, I could save your investments.

This did not sit well with the Council, or the Emperor. Berich was accused of High Treason against the Meade crown for threatening to steal millions of septims worth of Council wealth and upset the balance of power in the Empire. Berich caught wind of this just moments before the guard came crashing into his estate. He ran to the Thalmor embassy in the city, and they managed to smuggle him out of the city in return for his services.

Berich was then on the run. He was pursued by Imperial guardsmen relentlessly... because Berich had implemented a failsafe. The money that the Meade dynasty had invested with the Golden Goose, the funds meant to serve as Skyrim's entire budget for the year, in addition to countless wealth from 21 different Councilors, were hidden by Berich's associates. Only Berich can order the funds recovered. As a result, he was chased by every guardsman in the Empire. He managed to flee until Meir Thornvale, where he was captured and was to be immediately transferred to the Imperial City.

Fighting Style: Berich really cannot fight. If cornered, he will use his dagger. If he wants someone dead, he'll put out a hit on them. He could also try and poison them when they're not looking, or coat his dagger in poison. Otherwise, he'll probably try and run. Berich is not a brave man.

Personality: Berich is, as described, a man without a moral code. He lusts after power and influence, but also craves excitement and intrigue. He loves the thrill of living dangerously, but loves the benefits of coming home to a mansion and being waited on by servants. He is fundamentally dishonest and will lie, cheat and steal just because he can. Berich couldn't be trusted to fetch a glass of water without stealing it.

That is not to say that he isn't fun to be around. Berich is an electric personality. He makes people like him; how else could he have sustained his practices for so long? He makes people feel important, and he showers them in gifts if they follow what he says.

Berich is also, perhaps unsurprisingly, deeply insecure. He is used to being surrounded by material wealth and the praises of bought friends. He is terrified that at his core, his stumped Nordic core, he is unlovable.

Berich is obsessed with the idea of getting the last laugh. He always thinks five steps ahead, even when having a casual conversation with someone. He creates backups and back doors in case he needs to escape a situation. Leverage is what keeps him alive; and he needs all he can get in order to stay above water in the situation he has found himself in.

Berich is a very, very sore loser. He gets angry and irrational, plotting your downfall and letting revenge cloud his mind. Despite his genius dealings, it can be undone with one brash action on Berich's part, as evident by his lording the investments over the crown.

Font Colour: Aquamarine

[DearTrickster]

---

Name: Kiralla Lima

8tracks Playlist - The Truth is Easy to See

Race: Breton/Redguard

Family Origins: Born in Jehanna, High Rock. Mother is a Breton Kynareth Priestess named Marie Lima. Her Father is a Redguard Merchant named Anwar Lima. One older brother, Abdul Lima who took to the family business.

Age: 31

Appearance: Kiralla stands back straight at 5'5. Smooth black hair that reaches a length below her shoulders, she often ties it off the side of her head. Small green eyes that can stare down the arrogant and console the lost. A couple scars on the left side of her face, one on her cheekbone while another just under her lip. While her hands are covered in scars and nicks of varying shades. Her calves and legs are well toned with muscle, after years of adventuring and walking through deep snow drifts in Northern Skyrim.

---

Equipment: Old Staff of Flames, Steel Dagger, Leather Gauntlets, Leather Boots, College Robes, a silver ruby family ring that she wears on her right hand, it is enchanted with a restoration buff. A leather book bag - with enough space for a couple books including her thick leafed journal, pencils and a small knife to sharpen. A snow fox fur blanket, belt pouches storing gold and soul gems.

Miscellaneous:
X1 Waterskin
X3 Red Apples
Scroll of Detect Dead
x2 Common Soul Gems (Filled)
x1 Greater Soul Gem (Empty)
x1 Grand Soul Gem (empty)

Favoured Skills:

Highly Proficient

Conjuration
Years spent learning and exploring her abilities at the College has elevated her abilities to that of an Expert. Her most used spells are Summoning Fire, Frost and Storm Atronachs, Dread Zombie, and Soul Trap.

Moderately Proficient

Destruction
Relies on Destruction magic to back up her Atronachs attacks using primarily Ice Spike and Lightning Bolt.

Alteration
Making distinct use of spells like Candlelight and Magelight for everyday lighting solutions. However during a fight she retreats allowing her Atronachs to fight she uses Ironflesh as mage armour while relying on on Detect Life to give herself strategic advantage.

Somewhat Proficient

Restoration
The first school of magic she learned although the least interesting one as far as Kiralla is concerned. Able to perform Fast Healing on herself and Healing Hands, her patients however always complain of her rough hands.

Sneak
Sneaking through camps and vampire dins was when Kiralla picked up some minor sneaking skills. Able to mask her approach but with little hope avoiding detection when in close proximity to her enemies. Sneaking also came in handy when she needed to study local wildlife to practice her sketching skills.

Enchantment
Experimentation with soul gems led to her interest in enchantment. She likes to experiment on what soul gems are the most effective for jewelry, weapons, and armour. Often scrounging such items solely to experiment with them.

Crime Committed: Accused of stealing a business ledger. Caught in the wrong place and the wrong time Kiralla stumbled upon a business ledger dropped haphazardly in the street by a clumsy thief, caught holding it and examining it when it's owner rounded the corner to catch it in her hands.

Character Background:

Born to a Breton mother and Redguard father her family and childhood consisted of a decent mix of both cultures. Her father is a successful fish merchant having built a business off generations of Lima Family work. While her mother a deeply spiritual woman being a priestess for the sky goddess Kynareth. Her older brother, Abdul was designated to carry on the family business.

Kiralla was born a few years younger than Abdul. She had been arranged to marry into another merchant family, the Cox, before she was born. As a child she had no patience to speak for despite being tutored and earning early childhood education through her mother. Thanks to her early exposure to magic Marie had tirelessly steered Kiralla toward the school of restoration. Despite Marie's best intentions Kiralla did not inherit her gentle hands and patience for the craft.

At the age of 16 Kiralla was married to a young Breton man named Quyan Cox, the eldest son. Both families were excited for their union while the bride and groom were beset with unease. Kiralla enjoyed spending time with Quyan, he had proven to be strong and had a decent head on his shoulders. Within the first few months Kiralla still waited for butterflies to flutter at the sight of her husband, she wished every night before she went to sleep that she would be blessed with the love bards sang of. Her feelings for Quyan never pushed past fondness. Her hope was a child would fix her feelings, she faced disappointment for every time they tried Kiralla failed to conceive. Six months passed, it strained their relationship heavily, tonics nor healers could help. With no child the Cox's decided to annul the marriage and move on, Kiralla solely shouldered the blame for the failure.

Kiralla convinced her parents to set up another arranged marriage in hopes to prove that she could conceive, having convinced herself it was merely just the wrong time and wrong person. Reluctantly the Lima's sought out another match in the Tobias family. Kaden Tobias was born second in line, charming and handsome to boot. Within weeks Kiralla was married again. The terms of the marriage were shaky at best, leaving loopholes for the Tobias' to take advantage of in case Kiralla still could not conceive. Kiralla still struggled with her lack of attraction but determined to make this second chance work. When the marriage and ceremonies were completed did Kaden show his true colours. Kaden all but forced himself on her every chance he had. He hurt her and shattered what little confidence she had to begin with. The shame stacked on her shoulders growing desperate in hopes that a child would protect her from Kaden's abusive hands. 7 brutal months passed resulting in again no conception. The Tobias' retreated through a loophole to divorce the pair. After the papers were signed did Kiralla finally tell her family what Kaden had done to her. Her family gave up all notions of marriage again while attempting to press charges against Kaden Tobias for the physical and sexual abuse of their daughter. The Tobias family was protected under the vague conditions of the arranged marriage, which brought Kiralla no justice.

No longer able to bear the burdens of failure she felt she brought her family she struck out on her own on a dangerous journey to Skyrim to join the College of Winterhold, with only a little knowledge of survival and enough gold to travel out of High Rock. Her family had all but refused to let her go forcing Kiralla to disappear into the night leaving a note in her absence.

With the gold she saved up she joined the company of strangers heading to Skyrim. The travelers were kind and experienced merchants and adventurers. The following week she traveled out of High Rock had been the best days she had for over a year. They taught her great tips and tricks of survival by day and as they rested by campfires at night they filled her with stories of the world outside of High Rock. They inspired her with hope. Once they hit Skyrim’s border the little group split and went their separate ways the next leg of her trip proved to be harrowing against the harsh elements of northern Skyrim. It took her weeks to reach Winterhold often being trapped by blizzards or slowed substantially by poor footing in deep snow.

One night she found herself trapped in a cave with nothing but her empty rucksack, no food, no light. The fight for survival had withered away as she crawled deeper into the cave, hoping to die away from the howl of the wind. Stumbling upon the bones of a dead adventurer and an old Staff of Flames with only enough charge left for a few small sparks. Gathering as much dry material as she could to build a fire, with enough cursing did it start. The small fire helped her through the long night, fighting off the chill of hypothermia and frostbite. To this day she carries the staff as a good luck charm, despite it’s age, constant need to be fixed, and poor ability to hold a charge she took it everywhere.

Finally arriving to the College of Winterhold she all but collapsed in the road. It took a good week of recovery while she spent it in the local inn. Quietly she cried feeling a cathartic release of the guilt that strangled her heart. Her past was past. When she felt she was ready, Kiralla joined the student body at the College heading straight into destruction lessons. Her first few months were jumping from one school of magic to another but finally she settled on conjuration when the subject of soul gems caught her attention and held it.

While moving up the ranks of expertise Kiralla met another apprentice that made her heart flutter and her words scramble faster within every heartbeat. A willowy Dunmer woman named Nephelle. They grew to become close friends and eventually lovers, Kiralla opening up in ways she never thought she was capable of. There was little Nephelle and Kiralla didn’t share, Nephelle naturally being the first person Kiralla went to with her ideas and discoveries. As they grew older their relationship’s flame burned low and returned to friendship coming to a natural parting of ways. They keep in contact years later while they separately explored the world and their own research.

On one of her first research trips outside of the College did Kiralla get a taste of adventure. The Alteration students had asked Conjuration apprentices to accompany them into an ancient Nordic tomb where it was rumoured the dead still patrolled the hallways. Among the small handful to volunteer Kiralla saw an opportunity to take notes on the tomb first hand, not really believing the stories of the undead. When the students ventured deep into the tomb Kiralla was forced to defend herself and fellow students from Dragur. The Conjuration apprentices fought with summoned familiars and raising the dead to their enthrallment barely scraping through the encounter being chased out by the undead. Despite the nasty turn of events it earned Kiralla her first filled soul gem of her own. The experience didn't deter her in the slightest and set a precedence of seeking out such danger to fill her soul gems. It led to making many trips outside of Winterhold. Over the years she explored northern Skyrim ferreting out vampire covens, bandits, and dark mages. Even going so far as to invite Conjuration apprentices out on “field research” trips. The danger and thrill of the work being reward enough for the students. It often resulted in bolstering their confidence while testing their mettle.

She researched and pushed the envelope of understanding of soul gems aiming to make gems reusable by mortal means without making deals with the Daedra.

Throughout the 14 years spent mainly at the College and within Skyrim, she did travel back to High Rock twice a year to see her family. Having time to work through her previous guilt over the failures of marriage now understanding it was simply not meant to be. Through her hardships away from home and her family she learned true independence. Her family noting she had returned a completely different person.

Currently, Kiralla has returned home to High Rock In hopes she could publish her current research. Bolstering her contacts across the province and garner support. On her way from Wayrest to Shornhelm, she stopped in Meir Thorvale to restock.

Fighting Style: Always conjures an Fire Atronach first and foremost then puts distance between herself and her enemies. Relies heavily on her Atronachs while she retreats to apply magic armour then returns shortly thereafter to throw destruction spells quickly to end the fight. When caught in a corner she’ll summon a Storm Atronach despite the consequences of it’s Chain Lightning attacks. Often pragmatic while in a fight, though much like all mages who exhaust their magicka she is no stranger to running like hell.

Personality: Once a reserved child meaning to take after her mother, Kiralla was pushed further into reservation when her marriage arrangements failed to conceive children.

Her speech impediment manifested as a stutter, proper speech tutoring helped her control it to a degree but she would stumble over her words when flustered or angry. Self conscious throughout her childhood of the stutter, despite the control it exhausted her to constantly watch her words and speech. It wasn't until well into adulthood did she finally learn to accept it.

Until the moment she was fighting for her survival in Skyrim’s harsh wilderness did she truly start to grow. Emerging from those trials as a different person, shedding her shame and guilt like a snake sheds it’s skin.

Not the friendliest to strangers, Kiralla is often more absorbed with her research writing and sketching in her journal. In her travels through Skyrim she never picked up basic horse riding skills always prefers to walk.

Although her success and failures in love Kiralla is shamelessly quick to develop crushes and just as quick to get over it.

Despite her pragmatic approach to fights she insists on naming her atronachs, i.e Cindy, Snowflake and Furgur Blitzcloud. She would argue it helps her to connect to the spirits to ensure a stronger connection of control when honestly it brings her great amusement.

Can hardly stand to eat red meat, sticks to chicken and fish while she eats her weight in fruit and nuts.

Kiralla is a mixed bag of good intentions, confidence and an insatiable research monster. Wizened considerably by her own past experiences. Humble in her acceptance that life still had so much left in store for her.

Font Colour: Moccasin

[Lo Pellegrino]

Name: Faruq, Bone Knight

Race: Redguard

Family Origins: Faruq was born a humble shop-keep and lyrical sell-sword. Alas, his sell-sword father was present only through letters and coin brought by courier every fortnight. In the days Faruq would work with his mother running the shop or picking up supplies, in the evening she would read the letters and tell great tales of his father's feats. In all his years Faruq never heard a sour word pass her lips. He spent his youth in Windhelm, the place of his birth, and has grown accustomed to living under occupation. What he knows of his father was told through stories and letters, aside from that, Faruq knows he is redguard and spent much time in southwest Skyrim.

Appearance: http://steamcommunity.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=685032192

Faruq has the colour of his redguard father, but softened features of his imperial mother. His shoulders are broad and defined from constant use of a sword and shield. He lacks the height some full-blood redguard boast, but what he lacks in stature he makes up for in physical condition. Faruq is best described as thickly built. He is not toned like some knights, but his body is designed for hard work and abuse. His eyes are a warm brown and rest atop defined cheekbones with small scars faded with time. When not dressed for battle he can be seen strolling about wearing a leather doublet, the quality of which was moderate before enduring years of constant use, boots, and gloves. Faruq wears a soft expression in normal life and is known to paint a white skull upon his face in combat.

Age: 27

Equipment: Faruq wears a bone-handled sword on his hip and has a steel buckler hung over-top his leather traveler bag. He carries a curved, steel knife on the low of his back beside his water-skin and a simpler knife tucked into his belt for hunting. Within his bag are a day of rations, a leather journal, a bit of moon sugar, a small whetstone and cloth, his coin purse, and finally a writ declaring his knighthood. Atop a leather doublet he wears a black steel plate cuirass with rounded shoulders with a leather hood covering his mail coif.

Miscellaneous: Faruq keeps select letters from his father in his bag during travels. From time to time, one may find bundles of lavender and tea-making flowers as well.

Favored Skills:

Highly Proficient: Hand-to-Hand, One-Handed
Moderately Proficient: Shield, Heavy Armour
Somewhat Proficient: Armorer

Crime Committed: Slander, Rabble-Rousing, Criminal Threats -- including the words 'perhaps you will move when I shove this sword up your expletive expletive'

Character Background: Born to a mysterious father, a mother with a penchant for storytelling, and an ancient city, there could be no surprise that Faruq would grow hungry for adventure. Memories of his father come largely from the stories told by his mother and the letters that arrived each fortnight. As a child the stories seemed detailed and compelling, often Faruq saw his father, a vague image in his own mind, enacting the stories in his dreams. Such vivid stories brought warmth to the child even as Imperials lay siege and Windhelm changed. Where the stories offered distraction to the child, so too had they comforted his mother. However, age soon revealed that although told to entreat the senses, the stories were indeed quite cryptic. Faruq knew not for whom a bandit chief was slain, nor the precise details of their crimes, which so many tales deemed necessary. Naivety waned as the young redguard grew older and it became clear to his mother that he would not choose the life of a shop-keep as she had. Thankfully, she was a kind and patient and wise woman. As Faruq approached adulthood she tasked him greater duties. He began by picking up packages across the town, then to the docks, and eventually to the farms outside the city walls to the east. While she endured the Imperial guards, who years after the Stormcloak rebellion still warned of danger, the boy enjoyed a taste of adventure. Though the life of a shop-keep was indeed not his fancy, Faruq cannot deny today the skills gained from his youth.

A few years shy of a man grown, Faruq found himself travelling as far Anga's Mill. Mother had tasked him with securing regular shipments of lumber with the promise that this job could determine whether such trips became the norm. The young man wasted no time riding west from the Windhelm stables. In fact, he left in such a rush that the poor lad paid no mind to the eerie white clouds upon the horizon. A biting wind slowed his travels and though the boy fought desperately onward, the storm fought harder. Gods know how many died from Skyrim's cold embrace, gods know if Faruq will too, but he would not that day. An old cottage sat upon the hill not far from the road on which the boy had fallen. From there an old dunmer emerged, paying the cold no mind, taking in the boy and his horse so that their lives would be spared. Faruq stayed in the cottage under the dunmer's care as fever passed and his mind returned. He knew of the dunmer, well, he knew of the wives' tales. They called him crazed from too many years at war, some suggested he was a drinker of blood, but all the boy saw was a strange old mer whose tea smelled oddly sweet. When Faruq prepared to continue his trip to Anga's Mill the dunmer insisted on following. Though the boy protested, the old dunmer merely repeated, "You know nothing of the cold." The rest of the trip passed without issue. What marked Faruq were the outlandish stories the dunmer shared of vampire caverns and distant cities of ice. When the two separated, the old dunmer refusing to come too new to the city walls, the boy found his mind stuck on the strange mer. Several days passed after the boy's heartfelt return home, but it was clear to his mother something had changed. After a fortnight she sent a courier to the old cottage. Another fortnight passed before the reply. Despite so much time passed Faruq had continued speaking of the older dunmer, and while his mother worried, she knew what must be done.

With his next name day Faruq was sent to the cottage to begin apprenticeship under the old dunmer. He learned of the dunmer's decades of service, which included the Civil War, though the stories often meandered with references to impossible things. Training began early before his mentor tasted the sugar and continued until nightfall. Faruq practiced swordsmanship and combat akin to an Imperial soldier with unique twists that his mentor called 'flavour' before trailing off about colourful argonians and the like. The boy grew to appreciate the whimsy as wooden swords gave way to blunted swords and blunted swords to live steel. He found the old dunmer more than formidable and while the years slowed his mentor the skills faded little. After the second year Faruq was assigned tasks such as guarding trade caravans travelling nearby villages. On the third he began fulfilling bounties posted by the Jarl of Windhelm. By the fourth year of his training Faruq had grown in stature and reputation, and as the old dunmer hoped, earned the title of knight. Faruq returned to his mentor and mother a man of honour. Still, though the years offered much in the way of excitement and challenge, the stories of his father and indeed the old dunmer too echoed in his mind. He yearned for adventure. He yearned to see more than snow-flecked trees and unrelenting storms. When the Aldmeri Dominion and Mede Empire began their war that very year, Faruq found his calling. Before departing from Windhelm he paid his mother farewell. When he made to do the same to his mentor he found a gift waiting -- a bone-handled sword from one of the dunmer's impossible stories.

For the last ten years Faruq has fought hard against the Dominion. First, he traveled south to Cyrodiil where battles raged throughout. The good knight thought he would be of use, and after days of hard riding found himself put to work by nobles struggling to evacuate their people. Faruq learned the ways of war quickly. For each township or city suspecting attack camps would raise kilometers out and away. A few knights, those not needed to strategize, guarded the folk on the journey from bandits and raiders and others who might capitalize on chaos. A few times Faruq would return to battles nearly, if not already concluded. More often than not they fell in favour of the Dominion. Still, he continued his efforts until years passed and his aid reaped some measure of recognition. Faruq rode into Kvatch among a hardened legion intent of taking back the city from the Dominion. Beside the Imperial captain, from whom Faruq took orders, was a knight from a noble house in Kvatch. The entire lot were allowed through the city gates only to suffer traps and cruel magic. Faruq fought beside the noble-knight, and when the latter called for retreat, Faruq did not wait for the captain to agree. What few survivors escaped those bloody gates left speechless from the horror. It was then that Faruq heard the noble-knight say the words that would ultimately guide him to Meir Thorvale -- "We shan't survive this alone."

Faruq arrived to High Rock less than one month ago. Flustered with the apathy shown by lords from his native Skyrim, he entered the province with fire in his belly and politics far from his mind. He demanded an audience with the Count of Meir Thorvale citing important news of the war. A fortnight passed before he was received, shame to say, he smelled a touch of the sugar. When Faruq demanded aid to combat the looming threat of the Dominion, the Count bristled. When the Count explained their position -- a thing they need not do -- Faruq spat back insults. Foolishly, he called the Count traitorous and without mind and a few words he learned on the battlefield that still burned his own ears. The Count's guardsmen took hold of Faruq and had the situation still been salvageable, the redguard's fist into a guard's mouth saw otherwise. Today the Bone Knight sits in a cell with one lesson fresh in mind. "Be weary of calling a count a cunt."

Fighting Style: Defend your own then strike fast and true. The words passed down from his mentor perhaps referred to a style of combat less overt and heavy than what Faruq would pursue, but they remain true. Faruq trusts metal and has learned every piece to be a weapon. Whether the vambrace, which might catch a blade if struck, or a shield that may block or strike, he was taught to use everything at his disposal. He enters combat as if a knight of legend invulnerable to his foe. That is to say, given the opportunity to surprise Faruq will instead warn his opponent in order to conduct a proper battle. He prefers single combat with a blade and buckler, and while he is less mobile than those with lighter armour, what he lacks in movement upon the field he makes up for in quick strikes (relative to that of a two-handed blade, that is). Although Faruq does not typically indulge in destructive magics or poisons, he learned from his mentor to respect them. He will allow a blow in combat, but never if he suspects an enemy to have fouled their blade. Finally, despite a decade of campaigning in the war against the Dominion Faruq is in truth still learning. Much of his time has gone to evacuating citizens, building camps, and travel. He is a better warrior than the man who left Windhelm all those years ago, that is undoubted, but he is far from the level of a soldier.

Personality: The last years of youth are still upon Faruq. Despite years of war and hard training, at the core, he is still young redguard chasing stories. First he ran about all of Windhelm with an obscure image of his father in his mind. Eventually the old dunmer appeared in his life with grand tales that, if touched by the Mad Prince, served to inspire him further. That need to understand his father and to realize a life worthy of both him and his mentor is the driving force propelling Faruq forward. However, there is a deeper level to all this that even Faruq does not realize. In his heart of hearts he doubts that his father's stories are in fact noble, that the killing and feats, if true, were done for the betterment of a hold. Also, the old dunmer himself has recounted tales of killing and deaths clearly immoral. The core of the conflict deep within Faruq is not that his heroes are villains, but instead that Faruq is in fact tainted. Doomed to a life poisoning the world. This is perhaps his greatest fear.

On that note, Faruq actually makes for pleasant company. He has absorbed many a tale of brave knights and heroes, if nothing else good for entertainment, and sincerely cares what others feel and have to say. He can hold a decent conversation, but know that if wisdom more often spills from his tongue than is written in verse (wise words come accidentally, and perhaps ill-understood). He is young in heart, drinks like a lad given his first cup of ale, and is easily deceived by the promise of luxury. Of course, the trials of the last ten years have had their effects too. As exemplified during his audience with the Count of Meir Thorvale his anger towards those who does not live to his moral code can quickly swell. This is worsened by his recent use of moon sugar to aid sleep and quiet the nightmares from horrors long passed. But let's not get into that, say, have you ever heard the story of Grey Knight?

Font Colour: Faint purple ftw.

[Hellis]

Name: Valen Alveul

Race: Dunmer

Family Origins: Great Houses Dunmer. Born to one of the branch families loyal to the House Redoran, he was raised to be honorable and stoic. To value his house, his gods and to dedicate his life to betterment. Needless to say, due to his current state of disgrace, he is more or less rebelling against all of these aspects of his upbringing.

Appearance:



Standing tall for a Dunmer, Vonagus is quite the specimen. Having spent most his life the bodyguard of a important and often beset public figure and then over a decade fighting bandits and raiders, he is now covered in scars. The most obvious being a long gash down his face and across his eye. He has the usual red eyes of his race, and the elongated ears. Several metal rings pierce his right ear, from tip down to the earlobe and his face is sharp and distinguished. He has his raven black hair in a bun at all times to keep it out of his eyes.

He wears a mask as part of his helmet, it is mainly there to keep his face safe but it also work as a form of intimidation. Over his body he wears a thick weapon coat in the style of a gambeson. It's colored wine red and and it is fastened with a large, broad and black leather belt around his waist. His legs and arms are more often then not armored. This armor, aside from the protection of his gambeson means he wear light lammel styled plate that is fastened to his shoulders and upper arms as well as his thighs. His fore arms are armored with a pair of metal arm guards. His chin is similarly protected with a pair of greaves that terminate below his knees.

Age: 56

Equipment:

Horn Bow; Short, compact and powerfull, the hornbow is a kind of shorbow made out of, you guessed it, horn. They are commonly used by horseback archers and nomad people due to their compactness. Valen is something of a virtouso with the bow.

Dunmer Half Spear: A shorter spear meant to be used together with a shield, it allows for easier control and positioning of the spear then a pike or a full spear.

Round Shield; A medium sized, leathercovered shield, round and made out of wood. hangs by his hip. Is used together with the spear and is meant more for bashing and deflecting then blocking anything head on.

Dunmer Gambeson; A long gambeson that reaches from a highcollar down to his knees. Its thickness is padded with horshair to help resist slashing weapons better.

Segmented plate armor: Covering his arms upper arms, legs are a few plates of steel.

Miscellaneous:

Wineskin x 2
Waterskin x 1
Flint and Tinder.
Thirty arrows:

15 Spadetip Arrows: A broad, spade shaped kind of tip that is meant to slice and cut. It is less effecient against armored targets but cuts deep and broad swathes into softer opponent.

15 Narrow tipped: The opposite of the Spadetipped arrow, the narrow tip is meant to penetrate thicker types of armor. Its smaller and terminates in a needlesharp tip. It is meant to punch trough, rather then tear.

Valen keeps half his arrows in the quiver, and the rest in bundles tied to his packing, secured with his bedroll usually. Usually, he has a mix of arrows in his quiver.

Pipe and Tobacco

Favored Skills:
Archery and Acrobatics

Spear and Block

Short Blade and Stealth

Crime Committed: Manslaughter. Valen was drawn into a extensive brawl outside one of the citys more respected establishment after having insulted one of the local soldiers on leave for being sheep shaggers. The fight ended up causing a minor riot. While he had blood on his hands, witnesses all attest to the other three men striking first. However, his drunken antics had provoked the fight in the first place.

Character Background:
Born to one of the smaller families of the He was meant to be a cog in the machinations Dunmer nobility. The lone child of his family, he was groomed to become the bodyguard of a up and coming nobleman. Valens father was a ambitous and often times petty man, who's drive to establish a legacy and uplift his family came before all else.

And thus, Valen was raised from early age to be a man of of the sword as well as the tongue. He was trained by numerous men and women in the arts of combat as well as etiquette. He spent many a night studying the ways of the lower courts as well as the higher Houses machinations. During the day he was put to trough the paces, training with the spear and the sword. He was meant not only to be a warrior meant to protect his charge. But also to use his position to influence him and to provide councel. And as the plan was to insert him in governmental position once his tenure as a bodyguard was over, he needed to be a good talker as well as to command the respect of his peers. He was presented as a man of honor and skill, and they banked pretty hard on him. But as history likes to remind you, never put all your eggs in one basket.

Valen met Aivilo when they were both on the cusp of adulthood. This was the practice, as they were meant to form a brotherly bond. Valen was meant to sacrifice his life for Aivilo after all. The difference between the two could not be overstated. Valen was tall, strong, and with a stoic manner that would make a statue proud. Aivilo however, was languid and sharpwitted, a born talker and a poet to whom words were tools and weapons as deadly as a bow or a sword.

As he grew up, Valen and Aivilo grew closer then anybody could have realized ahead of time. The solemn and duty full Valen was enticing to Aivilo who spent all his time with ledgers and tomes, and rarely had the time to entertain himself. And to Valen, Aivilo was one of the most brilliant men he ever met. But there was something else at play as well. There was tension, a spark between the two that threatened to become a flame.

The two would became best friends as they weathered the machinations of the Houses and eventually became lovers. The latter part was of course, secret. It would not do for a man who was meant to marry into politics to be known to screw his own bodyguard after all. But as their night time escapades grew more common, so was the inevitable failure of such a candid relationship growing closer.

If people had realized that occasional didn't mean commitment, then maybe things would have ended on a more positive note. But alas, it was not to be for poor, stoic Valen. Aivilo, was a man of great appetites and his indiscretions were starting to grow bolder and more frequent. Even as he was paired with a daughter of a allied house, he still came to Valen. And even as Valen realized he was putting everything at risk, he was helpless against Aivilos charm.

It was only a month prior to Aivilos wedding that the two were cought. Not wanting a scandal on their hands neither house could afford the two to stay together. And Valen, who was ever the man of honor realized his life might be over. However, sensing their intent Aivilo pulled every string he could to stay Valens fate. But it was not to be, Valen was found to have compromised his vows to protect Aivilo and with it had sullied his familys name. Valen, realizing just how badly he messed things up, went to the elders to ask for mercy and promised to keep away from the young noble if only this would not go out over his family.

Their response was to send him him south to the borders between Dunmer and Argonian lands. here he joined a undermanned and underequipped unit that did everything they could to keep the peace even as Argonian raider and skirmishers took potshot at them. He soon found that he had been sent to a place were doomed men went to die. There were other parts of the border he could have ended up where the fights were as fierce, but the outpost he found himself on was set up to be the first to fall in case of a invasion. It was meant to hold with as little resources as possibly while the heavier forces was mobilized. Here he found a strange sense of comradeship with a fellow political outcast. Melvar was a Dunmer who had sided with the wrong house years ago, before the Oblivion crisis. He had however, been a man of indisputable honor and to kill him would have made him a martyr in the eyes of many who were undecided as to where their loyalties lay. Melvar saw much of himself in Valen, and took to teaching the young man what he knew. Valen learned quickly that engaging the Argonians in close combat was far from preferable as they were quick and cunning and their raiders were far to agile a force to be dragged into a melee fight. Instead, Melvar taught him in the art of archery. Valen protested at first, wishing to engage the enemy eye to eye. But he relented in time. As with all his preconceptions about combat were challenged, even his sense honor and loyalty was slowly eroded by the company he now kept.

As years passed. bitterness crept upon his soul. He realized he had been sent there to die, the hope was for him to fall in combat to repair his familys honor. He began to seethe and stew in himself. He told himself he would give them no such honor, no such pleasure. He kept escaping death time and time again while his once proud spirit and sense of loyalty dwindled. The last straw came late into his elevent year. Melvar was cought in the eye by a Argonian javelin during a border skirmish. When no one came to collect the corpse, and he was ordered to burn the body and forget the man ever existed, he snapped. He would not become another sacrifice to the corruption of the Nobility.

He bided his time and during another skirmish he used the chaos to slipped away. He stole one the lizard they used as mounts and hid it with supplies in a place where he often patrolled. Then, when the main force was busy mounting up for a excursion, he just didn't return from his patrol.

He travelled deeper into the Empire, to whom the Dunmers relationship was teneous at best. Living as a vagabond was hard, and many dirty looks were thrown his way as he kept on travelling, away from his past.

Another two year passes before he, in a drunken stupor decided to tell a bunch of garrison soldier that they should go back to sleeping with sheep before he paid their mothers a visit. As luck would have it, a brawl was already brewing between others in a similar situation. When that fight ensued, Valen was sucker punched and the fight was officially on. Somehow, the Dunmer was the victor. Even if he woke up in chains.

Fighting Style:

”A blade is useless when its wielders head rests on a pike”

Valen is a warrior of many talents but prefer to keep enemies at a distance. While he fights well with a spear and posses a round shield, he is more the type to keep his distance. He is much more comfortable his bow as result. When fighting in formation, his old unit would move around and take turns weaving and out from flanking position while the other fire arrows. Valen is as a skirmisher, opting instead to pepper his enemy with his arrows before finishing them off with his spear. He is useful as reinforcement to the heavier front line.

Personality:
Valen is the definition of down on his luck. Where once he was known for honor, integrity and stalwart poise, he is now known to easily take offense and getting in fights. He has grow disillusioned with the world and wants nothing to do with it for the most part. He is a ferocious fighter but a complete asshole when drunk. Which is often. Far to often.

Font Colour: #DF0101