[CHAR] The Elder Scrolls: Swords & Septims

The Party

- Hector Sibassius - 36, male Imperial - played by Hank
Ex-Legionnaire turned adventurer, proficient with the longsword and clad in heavy steel armor. A solid, dependable commander.
- Balen Oril - 50, male Dunmer - played by Peik
Scholar of history and metaphysics, with a strong constitution and experimental alchemical prowess. An introspective sage.
- Skall the Thirsty - 28, male Nord - played by Kassarock
Towering Nord hero-to-be, wielding a giant battleaxe and covered in fur armor. An unpredictable drunk who means well.
- Cyrus Vensor IV - 46, male Imperial - played by Hekazu
Stormcloak and Dawnguard veteran, skilled with the war-bow and Sun magic. An embittered noble stripped of his title.
- Sjara "Elf-Daughter" - 27, female Bosmer - played by Inkarnate
Lifelong hunter and tracker, a true markswoman with the hunting bow. A solitary scavenger who dreams of adventure.
- Daro'Vasora - 25, female Khajiit - played by Dervish
Professional dungeoneer and treasure hunter, crafty with a lockpick and skilled in acrobatics. A bold and cunning magpie.
- Raelynn Hawkford - 31, female Breton - played by Stormflyx
Fashionable witch, wielding powers of Restoration and minor necromancy. An adventurous but snobbish daughter of a wealthy family.

[Hank]

Name: Hector Sibassius.
Age: 36.
Gender: Male.
Race: Colovian Imperial.
Appearance: Tall and broad-shouldered, Hector is a man who takes pride in his appearance. He is strong and healthy, and his enthusiasm for physicality has not diminished with the years. Hector's body speaks volumes about his experiences in life; the myriad of small scars are souvenirs from his previous adventures and his hands are the rough hands of a man who has to fight to make a living. The most distinctive disfiguration is found on his back, where a long, gleaming scar stretches from his right shoulderblade to his left hip, telling the story of a blow that almost disemboweled him.

Hector's face is broad and expressive, sporting a strong jawline, pronounced cheekbones, a heavy brow and a noble aquiline nose. His deep-set eyes are cobalt blue, like gems glittering in the dark of an underground ore vein. Nord blood in his heritage has given him blond hair, but he wears in the short hairstyle, cropped close to his skull, that is so typical of the Imperial race. The only noticeable scar on his face is a small cut above his left eye, splitting his eyebrow in two. Usually, his expression is softened by a small smile playing around his full lips, creating the impression he is mildly amused about something without revealing what exactly.

Personality: Back when Hector Sibassius served in the Legions, his comrades and subordinates would always refer to him as 'agreeable'. Blessed with a mild temperament and a lot of patience, Hector can usually avoid unfortunate misunderstandings and defuse tense situations. This personality also allows him to stay calm in the heat of battle; keeping his cool in mortal danger is what has kept him alive this far. Because of these traits, many people naturally gravitate towards him and look to him for leadership or justice, which he dispenses fairly in equal measure. Despite his resignation from the Legions, Hector has the Empire’s best interests at heart and will go out of his way to protect her and her citizens from danger, but war jades every man’s soul at least a little bit and Hector isn’t one to cry over spilled milk.

While superficially friendly, if a little stoic and authoritative, he may seem aloof to people who deal with him for an extended period of time and he is slow to share personal details. This, combined with his tendency to move around a lot as an adventurer, means he has few long-term friends. However, he isn't immune to loneliness, and this new opportunity to go adventuring with a group of like-minded individuals has lifted his spirits.

History: Hector Sibassius was born in Sentinel, one of High Rock's various city-states. His parents had moved from Cyrodiil to High Rock for financial reasons: his mother was a tapestry weaver and his father was a potter and they discovered there was simply a bigger market for these things in High Rock than in Cyrodiil. Someone has to create all the tapestries that decorate High Rock's many castles, after all, and Bretons are fond of painted jugs and vases. Perhaps out of inherent childlike rebellion against everything one's parents do, Hector had zero interest in learning the trades of his parents. Fortunately, that wasn't a problem: Hector had two older sisters who were both willing to take up the crafts of their parents and continue the family business. As such, Hector was allowed to forge a future for himself.

Unfortunately he was never able to settle on anything in particular that kept his attention, and as time came and went he turned eighteen without having any idea of what he wanted in life. In an attempt to force him to choose something, his parents gave him a deadline: he had to leave the house and live on his own in three weeks time. As many disillusioned and uninspired young men do, Hector turned to the Legions.

This wasn't exactly what they had in mind, but it was already too late. Hector's papers had been signed. To leave now would be desertion. Besides, Hector told his parents (and himself), serving his Emperor was a noble cause that was sure to bring much honor to their family.

The Ruby Ranks taught Hector how to fight. His training taught him how to march, how to maintain his equipment, how to sharpen a blade, how to occupy a territory and tell citizens to stay put, how to kill and maim and erect fortifications on corpse-strewn ground, how to bind wounds and stem the bleeding, how to steel his soul in the face of overwhelming odds -- and Hector returned the favor by becoming an exemplary soldier. Within five years, Hector Sibassius had become a Captain of the Legion, fulfilling his promise of bringing his family much honor.

For many years, Hector served dutifully. In the aftermath of the Great War, which had occurred in the years shortly before his birth, Hector almost exclusively saw action in domestic disputes, like the Bravil riots in 4E 188 in which he almost died to a cowardly attack from behind. It wasn't until the Stormcloak Rebellion that Hector participated in an actual war, even if it was a civil one. The bitterness and unbridled warrior spirit of the Nord peoples of Skyrim that fueled the rebellion meant that the Empire was forced to strike the Stormcloaks down like the wrathful hammer-vengeance of Ebonarm himself. The brutality was shocking.

Hector spent much of his time trying to convince the locals to take the Empire’s side, especially in contested areas near Dawnstar and Whiterun, and his attention was equally divided between helping out those who needed a soldier’s assistance and actually fighting the Stormcloaks. And it was that conflict that convinced him to eventually resign from the Legion. Despite his best efforts, the war culminated in the savage sacking of Windhelm, led by the Dragonborn himself raining fire and death from the skies atop Odahviing’s back. Ulfric Stormcloak’s summary execution was the final trigger. It was too much like the stories Hector had heard about the sacking of the Imperial City at the hands of the Thalmor. Hector requested to be relieved of his duty and in acknowledge of his service he was honorably discharged.

After sixteen years in the Legion, Hector suddenly found himself free to do whatever he wanted. However, his only practical skills were combat- and survivalist-related. His career prospects were slim. It was either soldier-for-hire or... adventurer. After a short sabbatical in Whiterun Hector procured a new set of steel armor for himself and traveled to Falkreath, where he has learned about an undisturbed Nordic tomb in the forests and met a few skilled, like-minded individuals who are willing to join him and split the loot evenly.

Skills:
Major:

- Long Blade: Hector is a trained Legionnaire with almost two decades of fighting experience. He is a very competent swordsman and practices a patient, calculating style that involves lots of parries and counterattacks. He knows he can't match the blistering speed and flourish of the naturally talented Redguards or the brute strength of the Orcs, and the Legions always emphasized strategy over glory, so Hector fights with his brain and not with his heart.
- Speech: Despite coming from a humble background Hector's voice commands all the authority and respect of a powerful aristocrat. He is good at knowing when to speak and when to listen in order to get people to spill their secrets, and when to bark or softly request a command. In battle Hector is like a walking battle-standard, rallying his allies to fight harder, better, faster and stronger. He is also quite the ladies man, even if he doesn't indulge very often.

Minor:

- Blocking: Like every Legionnaire Hector knows how to use a shield. The fine art of shield-use is lost on him, however, and he simply uses it to augment his swordplay and to block blows he's reluctant to parry with a blade. The spike on his heart-shaped shield is an interesting addition to his arsenal and Hector is still experimenting with its use in combat.
- Heavy Armor: Used to wearing a lighter set of leather-and-mail armor in his time among the Legions, Hector is still warming up to wearing a heavier set of steel plate armor -- but he's beginning to get the hang of it.
- Alchemy: Hector's knowledge of alchemy is restricted to a few basic potions to restore & fortify his health, eradicate his fatigue and augment some of his skills (namely swordplay), but he brews them well and knows all the necessary ingredients off the top of his head.

Equipment: Hector's most prized possession is his master-crafted steel longsword, a gift from one of his commanding officers after the end of the Stormcloak Rebellion. It is forged in the Cyrodiilic style with a long, slim blade, sharp point and T-shaped crossguard & grip. A ruby is set into the pommel. The most notable fact about it is its enchantment; the blade burns with fierce heat and sets fire to anything it strikes. Hector carries a few filled soulgems with him to power the enchantment whenever it runs out of charge but does not know how to replenish that reserve without spending gold.

As for armor, Hector ditched the gear of the Legionnaires when he resigned and procured a set of Cyrodiilic steel armor reminiscent of the knights of the third era. He wears a hooded brown traveling cloak over his armor that evokes the image of a paladin of the Imperial Cult and simple, comfortable clothing beneath the steel plate. Rounding out Hector's wargear is a heart-shaped steel shield with a large spike on it; useful for bashing enemies.

Other items on his person include a map of Tamriel, vials and basic alchemy ingredients, a pouch filled with septims, dried meats and supplies to patch up his gear, all of which he carries in a leather satchel slung across his back.

Birthsign: The Lord.

Miscellaneous: Sibassius is a skilled chess player and likes to challenge his allies to a match whenever the opportunity arises.

[Peik]

Balen Oril

Name: Balen Oril

Age: 50

Gender: Male

Race: Dunmer

Appearance: Balen is a Dunmer of tall stature, almost as tall as an Altmer, and similarly wiry and long-limbed, though still, instead of having a graceful, lean and well-proportioned body akin to them, he possesses the sinewy, starved-looking physique and rugged complexion of his kin. He is, like most other Dunmer, ashen skinned, and red eyed, both his sclera and pupil blood red. Another defining trait of Balen is that his eyes are incredibly large, a trait further accentuated by his rather high hairline and large brow. Thanks to this, his weak chin and gaunt face, his upper head looks much larger than normal. He sports a rather large, so-called 'Akaviri style' mustache that people have likened to a pair of scimitars hanging down from the edges of his upper lip.

Balen prefers simple and practical clothing. His common attire consists of a grayish-blue waterproof broadcloth robe probably one size too large (or two) over a pale burgundy tunic tucked well into his baggy grey pants, which are also tucked into his knee-high leather boots. In hotter climates, he ditches most of the clothing entirely and wears only the robe, breeches that end at the knee joint and leather moccasins. He covers his head with a wide brimmed hat, and often tucks his ears within it when in the cold.

Personality: Balen is a rather still person. He’s not dull or dense – he simply believes that he does not have much to share with most of the people around him, so he keeps quiet and does not try to be a sore thumb. Still, he’s not the sort of person who’s oozing with calmness like a monk, but rather, he’s just contemplative. This passive demeanor does not mean that he tries to get along with everyone, however. As opposed to trying to be on good terms with everyone and thus being an ass-kisser, Balen simply prefers keeping quiet and picking his words, and the people he speaks to. He is a man of simple pleasures and rarely complains, making him a useful companion, though he can be hard to get used to. He wonders the secrets of creation and reality, and enjoys speaking about such matters, preferring the company of mages despite not having much skill or interest on the practical applications of magic. It’s easy to confuse him for a man of peace. This is wrong – he’s simply a considerate and practical person. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, though he’d much rather prefer that they’d stay clean.

History: Born in Blacklight on a foggy Middas of the First Seed, to an upper middle class family affiliated with House Hlaalu, Balen grew up through a rather uneventful childhood as the youngest child. For most of his childhood, he was educated by his grandparents and his father’s grandfather, who was an immensely elderly scholar who claimed to have been saved by the Nerevarine from Kagoutis in Vvardenfell hundreds of years ago. Perhaps thanks to this man’s countless stories, or perhaps thanks to natural disposition, Balen earned a penchant for reading, reading up on the past, of the times before the Red Year. It was during these times, while he was reading the Sermons of Vivec, when he first questioned his faith in Ancestor Worship and Daedra Worship.

Following his father’s death, Balen, the youngest child, was given the duty of taking care of his father’s remains, while his elder brothers tried to get the family profession running again. Seeing this as an opportunity, Balen decided to uphold his father’s last wish and take his remains to Necrom, and joined a trading caravan to go there. During this journey, Balen befriended a Bosmer bookseller, Godron, who told Balen that he’d be happy to work with him in Valenwood. After interring his father’s remains in Necrom and buying a bunch of trinkets claimed to be of Akaviri make, he and Godron began traveling to Southpoint by sea, changing ships and occasionally trading at port. In Southpoint, Balen’s fine writing skills, Godron’s original profession, and the money they made selling the so-called Akaviri artifacts, opened an interesting business venture – Godron would buy rare books, Balen would write down the content of books they’d find, Godron would sell the original copy to the highest bidder and then stock his shop with copies of the real book, written by Balen.

This time of his life was important to Balen, since it was when he really developed his skill of calligraphy. More importantly, during this time, he managed to get his hands on books he wouldn’t be able to hear of, let alone find, otherwise. Making spare copies of books that he found interesting, Balen eventually built up his own collection. Eventually, after some years spent as such, he parted ways with Godron amicably, and got on a ship to Alinor, to learn the secrets of the Aldmer. However, he could not get along with the Thalmor officials, and did not stay on the isles for long.

Balen got on a ship to Stros M’Kai to learn more about the Sload and perhaps Yokuda, but the ship was attacked by pirates before it could make it to port. It was during this time when Balen first took his first two lives, cutting down a pair of pirates trying to carry his chest out of his room. Following the attack, the ship’s captain decided to dock at Rihad instead, finding its original course too dangerous for the damaged ship to handle. Not wishing to risk another voyage to Stros M’Kai, Balen spent a good amount of time in Rihad, contemplating and meditating on the rather large amount of knowledge he had gathered in form of books so far, going over them in his mind and trying to carve his own world view out of his knowledge. During this time, Balen began pearl hunting as a hobby, but soon turned it into profit. He earned his fondness for Skooma in Rihad as well, finding its relaxing properties almost a necessity in sleepless nights spent theorizing and contemplating.

Balen left Rihad in a hurry after participating in a ritual to summon Hermaeus Mora that went awry. He had joined the ritual, as a guest, in hopes of learning more about the Dreamsleeve from the Daedric Prince itself. However, the ritual sigils seemed rather hastily prepared, and Balen, not wishing to risk the wrath of a Daedric Prince, made up an excuse to leave before the ritual could be completed, spending the night in a Chapel of Stendarr. He’d later learn that the participants had been literally merged with the walls of the Shrine. Heading south, Balen moved to Chorrol and settled there. He set up a small shop in an inn room with his finances, while spending his spare time with the members of the College of Whispers. Finding the members of the College rather more open-minded compared to his impressions of the Synod scholars, Balen took to spending his time in their lodge, although his almost entirely theoretical scholarship did not attract the same kind of attention that full-blooded displays of magic did. Nonetheless, the lodge offered him a position as a teacher of Metaphysics, and he accepted, finding the challenge much more welcome compared to the banality of trading in books. This went on for a while, and Balen even began feeling attached to the city, until one day when Godron showed up on his doorstep.

After a long talk about what he’d been doing with his life since Balen left, Godron made Balen an offer. Godron told Balen that he was no longer a book seller, but a trader of artifacts, and that he wished to work with his old friend and make use of his expertise. Of course, the risks were much higher, as Godron had to fund his own expeditions and often partake in them himself, but it was also much more profitable. Plus, Balen would be able to see first-hand sources, and stop having to rely on inaccurate accounts. Balen was convinced, and joined Godron on a trip to a Dwemer Ruin in the Velothi Mountains. Spending most of his time translating and drawing schematics of what they faced, Balen drew the ire of Godron’s henchmen, but soon proved his worth by toppling over a Steam Centurion by just disabling its gyroscope.

Unfortunately, the rest of the expedition was not as auspicious. About half of the crew, including Godron, was lost to a malfunctioning (or possibly trapped) elevator. Heavily demoralized and grieving over the loss of his old friend and business associate, Balen returned from the expedition alongside the survivors, bringing back what they could carry, alongside the captured Centurion, selling them all to Synod collectors in Cheydinhal.

The endeavor had cost him a friend, but it had also opened a new world of possibilities to Balen. He did not like to admit it, but he was quite thrilled to be able to enter and sense the world of adventure which he had only read about in the past. He was able breath the same air alongside those who had written the books that had inspired him, for all he knew he could write his own and leave his mark in history. Begrudgingly, he wanted more of it. Spending the cash he had earned from his first experience for more suitable equipment, Balen started looking for independent work, hoping to immerse himself in the unknown once more, and hopefully have a better experience.

Skills:
Major:

-Athletics: Balen's constitution would awe even the most well-trained Legionnaire, rivaling horses in speed, mules in carrying weight, and marathon runners in constistency and distance. Despite Balen's scholarly personality, his physique is quite predisposed towards physicality in contrast, and he has capitalized on this, keeping himself well conditioned through early morning jogs. He is also an excellent diver and swimmer, being able to hold his breath underwater for incredible amounts of time.
-Alchemy: Even though Balen rarely dabbles in it and claims it to be Thaumaturgy rather than Alchemy, he has read enough treatises on Alchemy to learn some fancy tricks such as making flesh-glue to mend wounds, or making salt-air to breathe where there's no air, and boiling seemingly random plants to make glowing water and burning oil, or liquids which carry tamed lightning. He has an extensive knowledge of flora and fauna, and effects they have on the body.

Minor:

-Acrobatics: With arms not unlike those of an Imga, long legs and large hands, Balen has a natural advantage when it comes to scaling obstacles, and his naturally keen muscle coordination also helps immensely. However, he lacks any sort of training or knowledge on the matter except common sense, and mostly acts on instinct, lacking any extensive free running skills.
-Blade: Balen has read plenty of illustrated dueling guides from Hammerfell to help him utilize swordfighting techniques, but thanks to having nearly no practice in actual usage, he finds it hard to put what he knows to action. He also finds it awkward to use two-handed swords, preferring shortswords and broadswords instead, thanks to their ease of use.
-Hand to Hand: Had Balen done muscle training and weapon practice instead of running and swimming, he likely would have become an unstoppably strong brute. As he is, he still can swing a mean hook and his hardened, leathery flesh dishes out a lot of punch and kick when necessary, but aside from his conditioning and natural strength, he has no training on the matter.

Equipment: Balen prefers mobility over all, and thus, carries all his belongings, necessities and books in a rucksack, and prefers to keep them in the bag unless necessary. Alongside a small pot, a pestle and a piece of flint, he carries two leather canteens containing water and three wooden vials. He never travels without a map, hardtack, herbs and smoked fish, which he considers a delicacy.

For battle, he owns a steel 'dagger' of Ashlander make, which is a sword in all but name, having a blade too wide and too long to be a dagger. On the grip of the blade, the Daedric letters Meht, Ayem, Roht, Neht and Ekem are inscribed, though Balen has not been able to deduce what the letters mean and assumes that it’s some sort of tribal superstition. As for armor, Balen wears a sleeveless shirt of mail, a skullcap under his hat, and a steel gorget.

Birthsign: The Lord

Miscellaneous: Balen handles Skooma and other drugs like they are nothing and is impossibly hard to get drunk. His constitution is also somewhat resistant to poison and illness. These traits are often attributed to his birthsign.

[Kassarock]

Name: Skall the Thirsty

Age: 28

Gender: Male

Race: Nord

Appearance: Skall is one of the most stereotypical Nords one could hope to meet in all of Skyrim. A towering giant of a man, he stands head shoulders above lesser men and his chest is broad with rippling muscle. His arms are as large as tree trunks and end in great shovel like hands. A long tangled mane of golden hair spills down his powerful back, interwoven with braids and locks. Much of his wide face is covered with a great bristling beard and moustache of similar colour.

His face is large and square, mostly taken up by features that would seem monstrous on the visage of any other man, but curiously seem to make a somewhat cohesive whole on Skall's own face. The brow is low and thunderous, the nose like the prow of some titanic ship, each nostril capable of inhaling small passing songbirds. His lips are full and red, and pull back to reveal a smile that could comfortably sit in a draught horse's mouth. Skall's left cheek is adorned with a spiralling blue tattoo of a Nord Berserker, it trails down onto his corded neck and there joins a myriad of other tattoos that adorn his whole body.

Invariably Skall dresses in thick furs, often leaving his arms or chest exposed to show off his impressive physique. Around his wrists and on his neck are torcs of wrought gold, depicting animals twisting and swirling around each other. On his back he wears the pelt of a bear, its flayed head sometimes serving as a hood in cold weather.

Personality: Heroic. Noble. Glorious. These are all the things Skall wishes to be. Unfortunately his own behaviour is somewhat less inspiring than this. He is a drunken lout with more brawn than brains with an indignant temperament and a crude sense of humour. He has a fierce temper when he perceives someone is mocking him or has slighted him. He also struggles with discipline and self-control, especially when it comes to money - Skall will happily eat and drink himself out of a fortune.

This is not to say that Skall isn't a good person. He knows right from wrong and will most often err on the side of good. However, his fondness for drink and his general lack of wit prevents him from acting in the way he aspires to. He is generally affable to those who do right by him and don't make fun of him. Fortunately for those around him, Skall is more of a merry drunk than a particularly angry one. He has a curious soft spot for older women, he was very attached to his mother as a child.

History: Skall was born and raised in Rorikstead in Whiterun hold by his mother, called Marne, who worked as a farm hand in the fields there. From an early age he was larger and stronger than almost all the other children in the village, but was of a relatively sweet and gentle temperament. He was raised on the stories of Skyrim's great heroes: Hakon One-Eye, Ulfgar the Unending, Felldir the Old, and most of, Ysgramor who let the Atmorans across the sea to Tamriel. It was at this age that Skall decided that he too would be a great Nord hero, a warrior of wondrous repute and fame. The problem was how was he to do so? Skall had naught but the equipment of a farm hand to train with, so he made do, and picked up the wood-axe.

He became stronger and stronger over the years as he learned to swing his axe with deadly precision and tremendous power. None in all of the Whiterun hold could split logs thicker and more gnarled than Skall of Rorikstead he boasted. One day, when he was come of age he made the long journey to Jorrvaskr to try out for the legendary guild of fighters, The Companions. But it was late by the time he arrived at the city and so Skall made his way to tavern, something he was most unfamiliar with coming from such a small and rural holding like Rorikstead. It was here that Skall was introduced to the world of intoxicating liquor, and his life was forever changed.

The next morning he had awoke with a dull and throbbing head, sprawled in a pile of sick and sawdust that was strewn across the floor. He had overslept. When he rushed to the hall of The Companions he found them hard at training. They laughed at this slow boy, clumsy with drink and stained in a night's shameful revelry. They laughed him out of Whiterun and all the way back to Rorikstead.

But Skall was not deterred. He gave up on joining the ranks of The Companions, but they weren't the only way one could become a hero in Skyrim. First he went to Solitude, to try and become of the warrior-bards that did great deeds and wrote songs about them. But Skall had no talent for writing poetry and making sweet music, so he was laughed out of Solitude as well. Then he tried his hand at soldiering, serving as a guard in Morthal and Dawnstar. By this time he had come to rely upon his drinking as a method of coping with his shame in his failures in heroics. He would show up drunk for duty and oversleep before his shifts. He was swiftly dismissed. It was around this time he acquired his moniker, Skall the Thirsty.

When the civil war came to Skyrim Skall then went to Eastmarch to enlist in the ranks of Ulfric Stormcloak. For a while he excelled, as by now he was a competent fighter and had a great capacity for bravery and boldness. But as always, his fondness for mead got in the way, and after sleeping through one too many Skirmishes, he was dismissed once more. Since the war Skall has been somewhat aimless, wondering and adventuring on his own when he can, making ends meet by doing manual labour and foresting when he can't.

Skills:

Major:
- Two handed: Skall can use his immense strength in combination with the added leverage of two handed weaponry to deliver devastating blows that can cleave through flesh and bone like butter. His great height and the increased length of these two handed weapons also give him a reach advantage over almost all of his opponents.
- Axe: The axe is Skall's preferred choice of weapon. It is versatile, being able to hack, slash, hook and deliver powerful blows that can damage armour and break bones. It also comes in useful in a variety of other ways - such as finding employment chopping logs or felling trees when adventuring isn't going so well.

Minor:
- Light Armour: Acquiring some skill in light armour and its use was inevitable considering Skall's long term use of it. However, his style of fighting makes it clear he believes strongly in the maxim that a strong offence is the greatest defence.
- Blunt: Fighting with blunt weapons is quite similar to fighting with axes, but easier in many ways. However, since Skall does not prefer to fight using this method if he can, he is no master of it.
- Unarmed: You can't be in as many drunken tavern brawls as Skall without learning to throw a decent punch.

Equipment: In battle Skall carries his trusted Iron Battleaxe and wears his fur armour. He has an iron dagger and a woodaxe for carrying out everyday tasks. A large flagon filled with mead or ale almost invariably hangs at his side, along with a cloth sack filled with roasted meat or cheese. The only luxury item Skall carries is a small goatskin drum. Most of his wealth is tied up in the torcs, as evidenced where he had to chip some metal off them in the past to pay his way.

Birthsign: The Warrior

Miscellaneous: Skall believes himself to be a bard and likes to compose and perform terrible skaldic poetry, loudly banging tunelessly on a drum while doing so.

[Hekazu]

Name: Lord Cyrus Vensor IV, but god forbid anyone uses his first name.
Age: 46
Gender: Male
Race: Nibenese Imperial, born and raised in the Jerall Mountains
Appearance: In most groups of adventurers, the most obvious thing people note when they see Lord Vensor is that he is old. His stereotypically short hair has slowly began to turn grey from the black it has been for his entire life. He sports a boxed beard with a careful clean cut if he can maintain it, but he doesn't really grow much more beard than that anyhow so all that happens with extended breaks in shaving is the appearance of unkemptness and the longer length of it. He has a tall head, though no single part shines out as unusually big. It's just the way his head is. His nose shows signs of having been broken once in the past, and a scar has formed between it and the eye socket on the left. Both from the same incident actually.

As for his general build, the man has seen days when his muscles were more defined and he had more mass to himself, but as he has aged both his muscle and fat reserves have began shrivelling away. The situation is still quite manageable, with him being well more toned than the usual specimen of his age, he isn't quite in his prime any longer. Of specific interest are his arms, the bones of which have strengthened from using a heavy draw longbow on his journey. As for scars, he has very few, but bruises and such are not uncommon sights.

Personality: At his core, Lord Vensor is a stubborn man whose opinions are correct. While those who have earned his ire will find that the veteran of many battles is not an easy man to sway back to liking you, he does remarkably well in not succumbing to believing in stereotypes. Even if most of the Altmer have something to do with the Thalmor, they are not sympathisers of said cause until proven to be so. He gives everyone a chance, but unfortunately it is quite easy to ruin your first impression with him. After all, he does not enjoy people talking back to him.

Having buried two of his bodyguards already has also had an impact on him, so he will do his best to stop anyone he has allied himself with from dying in combat, whether he personally likes them or not. Digging graves for someone whose death you could have prevented and who did not actively try to murder you... it is heavy work. All lives have value to them and anyone but the undead, blatant unrepentant daedra worshippers and Thalmor he has been involved in slaying or just found dead in the wild usually receive a single blue mountain flower from him as a sign of respect.

History: Cyrus was born to the noble house Vensor in Cyrodiil back in the Frostfall of 4E156 as the first child who would inherit the family business. However, fate had other plans. While he technically did inherit the mining business of his family, he had only been in charge of the operation for half a year before the Great War broke out. Mining absolutely boomed for the duration of the war, but he was still relieved to hear of the end of it all... until he heard at which price.

There were some things he could not accept and the resignation of Tiber Septim's status as a god went too far. The first emperor had been more than legendary enough to earn said status and now they were just saying "No, we do not want them to be a god because he was a human." Beyond absurd. Had not all the elven gods also been elves back in the day? And unlike many other nobles who decided the peace was worth the sacrifice, he decided to begin the fight anew.

Naturally, the empire did not really appreciate him openly inciting riot against the Thalmor and, by extension, them. With all his siblings having perished one way or the other, some in the war, some at birth and parents of old age and the stress of war, the last remaining Vensor was quietly hauled over the Northern border for execution. He lost his title, wealth and the adoration of the public he had once carried, but he did not lose his life. Other more silent revolutionaries broke him out of the transport and he vanished to Skyrim, to join forces with Ulfric Stormcloak for quite the while.

In the ranks of the Stromcloaks, the imperial didn't really win the trust of the other warriors due to originating from the very empire whose legion was now enforcing the ban on Talos worship. However, once word of the Lord that had escaped reached their ears, they could believe that he was just as bent on the cause as them. The empire needed to fall. And when they could not even provide assistance to the capital of the Reach when it was needed, Stromcloaks marched. Vensor was present in the ranks around Ulfric themselves from the Markarth Incident onwards, but was eventually transferred to less important duty due to his age starting to show. He was stationed at their Riften outpost, but that deployment was cut short by a third party intervening with their business: Vampires.

It was still in the early days of the vampire menace and none was really taking the threat seriously, or in the case of these Stromcloaks, had heard of it in the first place. The attack took place at a night much like any other, and the whole camp would have been slaughtered had a group of Vigilants of Stendarr with more experience in combating these creatures not come by. With the orders of the leader of the group of the vigil and the ferocious might of the Stromcloak warriors, the vampires were driven back, few of them even slain. The living could not avoid all casualties though, and with as many of his former allies driven to the ground, Lord Vensor swore to avenge them. And soon he would meet up with a Dawnguard recruiter and leave the civil war behind for the time being. He did tell them to contact him if his bow was needed, but what he could not have known was that message would arrive all too late.

Nonetheless, he spent the next year or so aiding the Dawnguard in their battle, both by patrolling the countryside and occasionally meeting with his old friends as well as standing guard at Fort Dawnguard, to make sure the one place the hunters could call their safe haven would remain so. On one of these patrols he was out with some old Vigilants now recruited to vampire hunting and they requested to check up on the Hall of the Vigilant, something he found no reason to disagree to.

He should have.

By the time they arrived, the hall was up in flames and final few blows were being exchanged in the yard. The vampires had attacked the hall and were just wrapping things up when the Dawnguard arrived. His allies ran into the fight to help their old friends, but Vensor? A shameful thing to admit, but he ducked to cover and only returned after no sounds but the crackling of fire had made itself apparent for a good while. The vampires had had the numbers at least five times over... yet when he found his former allies among the slaughtered, he couldn't help feeling a pang of guilt. The choice had been hard, but he lived. Was that not the most important thing? He wanted to agree with himself. But something kept saying no.

After that, he became more and more reluctant to ever leave the Fort guard duty, only leaving once the task came to an end. The Dragonborn had defeated the leader of the vampires, another Lord something-or-other. Durkon? Harkon? Something like that. The news of their death sent Dawnguard on a slow path of dissolving and Lord Vensor was one of the first to go. If the vampires were dealt with, it was time to return serving the true High King of Skyrim. A war had been won, now it was time to march to the next victory. But as we all know, fate had other plans for the disgraced Imperial.

The day the Legion marched to Windhelm, Lord Vensor had been aiding the captain of the Winterhold Stormcloak camp in their plan to establish a forward camp in the Pale in an effort to liberate the Old Hold from the Empire's grasp. Said plan would never come to fruition as the message of the Legion's sudden arrival to the capital reached the soldiers and nearly all of them, including Lord Vensor rushed to Ulfric's defence. Needless to say, they were all much too late. All they saw was the vague silhouette of a dragon flying away from the city and the soldiers of the empire marching away.

The year that followed was difficult time for Lord Vensor. He dug out his old Dawnguard gear to avoid being found and executed by the Legion for his participation in the war against them, though Dawnguard held no real significance any longer. With fellow Stromcloaks scattering across the province just as well in an attempt to hide, the fallen lord no longer had anything they could call home or an ally. But a man had to make a living somehow. And since there was nowhere to put up a mining business, Lord Vensor chose to grasp his war bow firmly and head out there. There were always people who needed a capable mercenary out there.

Skills:
Major:

• Archery - Longbow is Lord Vensor's weapon of choice when he can spare the time to draw and fire said weapon. Which is to say, not very often. While he has been training in the art for as long as he can remember (and it shows), it does not make drawing the bow a fast task. After all, his bows of choice are those whose draw weight far exceeds the usual hunting bow. His weapons are for shooting at people and monsters, not game.
• Block - When not in organised battle and army formations, he has learnt that after a strong opener with his bow, he usually needs to get to preserving his own life. And what better way to do that than hide oneself behind a shield and turn potentially lethal blows aside? His considerable arm strength lends itself well for holding against assault, but does not really have the explosive strength to bash people about. His common strategy is to let his opponent tire striking at an immovable obstacle before striking back out.

Minor:

• Restoration - While he can heal wounds with his magic, he much prefers utilising this school for harming. It has never been his main tool of fighting the undead he despises so, leaving his skills wanting, but his knowledge in Sun magic has saved his behind when vampires have got just a bit too close and personal in the past.
• Axe - Vensor trained with swords in his youth, but those skills died away as he moved more and more into archery. But when he joined the Dawnguard in the fight against the vampire menace, he received the standard dawnguard axe to protect himself with and decided to go through a quick training with a few other soldiers. He didn't ever really grasp just how the weapon was supposed to be used against shields differently from swords, so he isn't really getting everything out of it. But wounds that follow a successful hit still bleed, and that's good enough for him.
• Heavy Armour - As funny as it would sound like, with how much focus Lord Vensor has placed on his shield he has been ignoring learning to get the best out of his next line of defence. He has no trouble wearing it or moving around in it out of combat, but when it comes to close quarters he does not quite take advantage of everything he could. Most of it is plain ignorance too. Having spent so long believing that he could not do something in his armour, he has built mental barriers against doing everything he could.

Equipment: Lord Vensor's equipment is more or less standard Dawnguard equipment of the heavy side. This suit of armour has yet to see much action and witness stories of legend unfold, but Vensor did deem a change in attire necessary post civil war. The most glaring difference has to be the absence of the crossbow, being replaced by the war bow he was more familiar with. As time went on and encounters with vampires became less and less frequent, he has replaced the dawnguard axe with a dwarven one to preserve the undead slaying tool.

And since it has now been a good while since the war came to an end, he has added a personal touch to his armour. He has dyed some parts blue and while that didn't exactly last long, traces of it are still visible. He has also begun wearing a bear pelt cloak he procured from some bandit who had obtained it one way or the other. But the cloak was the mark of a stormcloak commander and the veteran would not allow it to be worn by some brigand.

In addition to his armaments, he carries a quiver of arrows for his bow, a whetstone for emergencies with his axes, rations, a one person leather tent, some firewood, a cooking pot and rations. Or, well, those camping supplies are mostly carried by his horse, but he is able to lug them around just as well if need be. IT will just slow him down. Oh, and he carries a bunch of blue mountain flowers around on the side of his backpack, just in case he needs to distribute them.

Birthsign: The Tower

Miscellaneous: Lord Vensor refuses to drop the title, even though it no longer technically holds any ground. He blames a Thalmor conspiracy for losing it, and since they are not authorities in the empire their will should hold no sway. But in truth, it was the very empire that took his noble title away. You will be very unlikely to convince him of that though, not in the name of Marne.
He also looked up to Ulfric Stormcloak's ability to shout and would love to learn the art himself. No success so far, though he is sure he will get the hang of the word "Fo" soon enough.

[mickilennial]

S j a r a

“It would be nice if you would stop asking about Valenwood. I’m from Skyrim. I know it's hard to believe.”

_{N A M E}

Sjara, “Elf-Daughter”

_{A G E}

27

_{G E N D E R}

Female

_{R A C E}

Bosmer

_{A P P E A R A N C E}

Sjara is a young Bosmer woman with reddish-brown hair and a paler variation of the atypical complexion of her race due to her fosterage in the wooded hills of Skyrim over the warmer more exotic lands her parents hail from. She stands at 4’8”, which is an approximate standard for someone of her gender and ethnic background. Due to a life guided by her mentor in the wooded hills of Falkreath Sjara is spry and athletic as such is reflected in her physical form; she may not be able to bench a Nord but she can certainly hold her own in a brawl.

As a woman who identifies as a denizen of Skyrim above all else, no hesitations or conceits of being an “elf” are present in her attire – if she’s killed it she’s probably worn it. In this she has been jokily deferred to as a “nord-elf” by others and whilst she doesn’t mind the term, she’s fashions herself to be more concerned with being protected and warm than bothered by words of expectations. She tends to prefer leather armor with hide cloaks over bulky heavy armor sets and likes to keep her rucksack set to organize most situations one would fine in the frozen hills of Skyrim. Sjara is not a woman who you will ever hear the complaint of it being cold.

_{P E R S O N A L I T Y}

Sjara’s heard all of the jokes and honestly by this point in her life she’s in-between being exhausted by them and simply not caring for them. Names like “elf-daughter” have been part of her identity with no consent on her part for the last twenty-seven years and it doesn’t seem that Skyrim-born Nords are changing their impressions of her no matter what she does. Due to this she’s developed a sort of scornful sense of humor that is prone to quips and passive-aggressive retorts; her vocal tone is flat and blade-edged. Sjara’s mentor, Skor, believes this to be a mental shield, to protect her inner self like a shield against a rampaging troll; but ultimately futile.

Scorn and wit aside, Sjara is a complicated individual who really doesn’t know what she wants out of life. In her own mind she likes to fashion herself as a survivalist who is content to be left alone as a scavenger and trader, but the idle curiosities of adventure still fill her head at night; as if the will of her parents follows her like a relentless shadow. It is clear that her reservations and contentment is canceled out by the desire for something greater and instinct of hating the sight of unfairness and bigotry (idle or active). She has no want of fortune or fame, but she wants more than the routine and perhaps at her core desires to connect with her parents in the only way she can. It’s part of what’s brought her to the path she now finds herself on.

A path she refuses to reject. Whether this is diligence or wanderlust, Sjara is trying to move forward and not letting the world deter her; which for those that know Sjara isn’t all that surprising considering the fact she’s always been bullheaded and stubborn; always firm and unbudging when she’s set her mind to a task or decision. This conviction can be difficult and challenging to deal with, but it also confirms that Sjara’s morals and ethics won’t be bent so easily by a pretty face or a few septims on the table. And assuming her conviction is to the group or a friend, it may turn into authentic trust. Though that speculation is entirely based that Sjara has the ability to connect with others on an emotional level.

_{H I S T O R Y}

A Bosmer that’s native to Skyrim? It isn’t as absurd as one might think.

Sjara is the sole survivor of a group of Valenwood adventurers that settled in Skyrim some ten-to-twenty years before the young sharpshooter was even a twinkle in her mother’s eye. As with the nature of Skyrim, Sjara’s parents found themselves involved throughout the region in situations and adventures that often endangered their lives and the lives of their comrades. Whether it was stamping out bandit activity, investigating an abandoned structure, or being in the service to the influence of Riften’s most dissolute and desperate, her parents found a lifestyle that was always thrilling and dangerous; oftentimes by dragging their most loyal of friends into their schemes and exploits. A fact that Sjara’s mentor and guardian, Skor of Riften, reflected upon to Sjara in her youth. A youth that was felt without her parents, Eloradan and Elpriel.

For reasons unknown to Sjara her parents had met untimely demises within the months leading up to her birth; her father had died on a venture alongside Skor in a dwemer ruin and complications in the birthing process led Elpriel dying several minutes after her child was born, crying as she laid in Skor’s trembling hands. The old Nord named her the name she now bears and the reason she holds a Nordic name instead of one that originated in Valenwood as he took to the promise he made to Eloradan shortly before his closest friend’s death in the ruin they had been tasked to explore, to watch over and raise his daughter as if she was Skor’s own. For the next fourteen years of Sjara’s life, Skor would keep that promise.

Sjara’s childhood began on the outskirts of Falkreath, taking lead from Skor as he taught her the various skills and knowledges that were necessary to know such as archery, knowing how to survive in the wilds, the dangers of Skyrim, the huntsman trade, and various other niches; if Skor knew it, Sjara was to know it in due time. These lessons were not easy ones to be learned, especially considering the turbulent times that Sjara experienced throughout her childhood that begun a spiral of events to turn Skyrim into a dangerous and unwelcome place. Skor oftentimes kept Sjara focused, telling her to ignore the stories about the Forsworn and that the tensions between Nords and non-Nords would eventually come to pass; describing it as a temporary distraction caused from the strife of war between the Dominion and the incompetency of the Imperium. Sjara took her mentor’s advice as truths, though she did often wondered if these truths would be seen in the immediate future.

Eventually, Sjara found herself growing into adulthood and knew what this would soon mean. In celebration of this Skor prepared several trials of blood, sweat, and tears for her to complete to prove herself as a daughter of Skyrim and to show him that she was no longer a child. Skor did not go easy on her and Sjara did not expect him to; he was her guardian and mentor, but he was also a meeting point, a challenge to beat, and a measure to defeat. Upon completing these trials and earning the respect of Skor, Sjara knew that this achievement was only the beginning of her life. Fourteen years after her birth and she was finally ready to leave Skor and Falkreath.

For the next decade or so, Sjara traveled throughout Skyrim and Northern Cyrodiil using the skills she had achieved as a hunter, tracker, and archer to the benefit of those that needed it and for those that could pay her the septims for her service. It wasn’t the most adventurous life and it certainly wasn’t as exciting as she imagined the quests her parents had gone through, but it was better than just sitting in Falkreath for the rest of her life trading pelts and meats for the rest of her days being content in her mundanity. Great quests and exciting ventures aside, the life she chose wasn’t exactly without its own merits and dangers; Sjara had found herself dealing with bandits, Forsworn raiders, and cavern-dwelling creatures more time than she could count and that wasn’t including the destabilization gained in her homeland from the ongoing civil war incited by the Stormcloak Rebellion; a rebellion she found herself involved in on occasion.

Involvement in the Skyrim Civil War was unofficial at best as by this point in her life Sjara was very much aware what people thought of her because of her race and not her nationality; disregarding her as another elf and doubting the sincerity of her efforts on the backroads in southernmost Skyrim for the cause merely because much like the Thalmor she too had pointy ears. Sjara discarded the bigotry and decided to focus on helping those effected by the ongoing rebellion and personally involved herself when she discovered Thalmor prisoner caravans – being a skilled sharpshooter and hunter it only made sense that she could at the very least free the men and women who found themselves in chains because a vicious group of invaders thought them inferior. It was ironic in a way.

Following the war, she decided to return to Falkreath for a time. It is one of the reasons she finds herself in a new albeit exciting situation.

_{S K I L L S}

Major Skills (2)
Acrobatics: A valid skill when being chased by a crazed bear or inching into a strategically viable perch, Sjara is a skilled in the art of acrobatics to the point she can move around a crowded forest whilst avoiding the busy well-trodden pathways. This can apply to certain caves and urban environments as well, though it takes a good eye to use her maneuverability in an environment that isn’t the backwoods of Falkreath.

Archery: A skilled marksman in the manners of the bow and arrow, Sjara has been trained since she was old enough to walk in the manners of conventional marksmanship. This is not the makings of some racial advantage but rather time-tested skill and diligent instruction as a child from her mentor whom has no elven blood running in his veins. Sjara isn’t even sure she could still beat Skor in a contest of archery even now as an adult with experience and refinement of skill behind her.


Minor Skills (3)
Alchemy: A hunter needs to know what herbs in the forest and caves of Skyrim are favorable to one’s health and which ones will kill you if ingested. By this measure Sjara isn’t really an alchemist though she knows how to make a decent salve or poultice to her advantage, but she’s not a toxicologist or healer either so most of what she knows is rudimentary knowledge meant for survivals sake.

One-Handed Weapons: You need to be skilled with a knife to skin a deer. You need to be even more skilled to fell a group of bandits that thought ambushing a hunter’s camp was a good idea. Trained in the art of sword and knife by the same man who taught her to shoot things with point sticks, Sjara is not untested in the art of one-handed bladed weapons. That said, she has not made it her life goal to be an exceptional swordsman or duelist.

Sneak: Sjara is quiet, perhaps not as unnoticeable as a Riften thief or Brotherhood assassin, but she is skilled in stealth to an extent. As a hunter and adventurer, getting the “drop” on your targets is a valuable skillset to have and Sjara has basically been hunting all her life. But hunting animals and sneaking up on people are two different things entirely. Anyone with a good pair of ears might notice her attempts.

_{E Q U I P M E N T}

Sjara is ready for adventure. Paired with a normal quiver fitted with steel arrows, Sjara’s bow was once held by her mother before her passing and is one of two sentimental items in her inventory. This bow is unenchanted and otherwise seemingly mundane outside of the fact it is a skillfully made shortbow of elven make and design.

In terms of protection, as stated previously, Sjara fancies herself insulated leather armor and hide cloaks to protect her from the elements and dangers of Skyrim. It keeps her warm and doesn’t weigh her down. A good hunter knows that they need to be nimble and unfrozen to survive. She does not tend to use shields nor is she taken to helmets as they obscure her vision. Beyond her armor, cloak, bow, and supplies all she has for defense of her person is a Nordic short blade made of steel and while she knows how to use it the weapon tends to remain sheathed in most of her encounters. There’s also a simple skinning knife, but she hasn’t had to use it in combat in quite the amount of time and thus thinks of it more for its initial purpose.

Her rucksack tends to carry her miscellaneous items needed for scavenging and survival – torches, basic herbs in a cloth pouch, a coinpurse, a flask, and the usual accompaniment of supplies.

_{B I R T H S I G N}

The Lord

_{M I S C E L L A N E O U S}

Marne

[Dervish]

Daro’Vasora

(Goes by Vas or Sora when dealing with company that are more comfortable with nicknames)
Age: 25
Gender: Female
Race: Khajiit, Cathay Breed
Appearance:

Standing at 5’04” (152.4 centimeters) and weighing in at 135 pounds (61 kilograms), Daro’Vasora is a lithe woman of small stature that makes her appearance somewhat unassuming. Covered in a healthy and shiny slate grey coat of fur with a leopard-like coating of back spots, her colour is uniform save for the white-grey circles of her eyes, brow, muzzle, and abdomen from her throat down to her naval, as well as a similarly toned mane of hair that is kept cropped in a short, high riding ponytail that is thick enough to stay suspended at the back of her skullcap without hanging down.

Unmarked by birthmark, pox scars, scars, or anything else that may mar her appearance, save for the occasional oil, grease, or dirt stain in her coat, she maintains the appearance of someone who cares greatly for her appearance and natural good looks, which she’ll proudly say come from her mother’s side of the litter. Contrasting with the dull stormy tones of her coat are a pair of vibrant emerald eyes that have pupils that narrow into feline slits, giving her a predatory gaze that contradicts her “resting bitch face” that borders between a calculated disinterest and a subtle bemusement that wouldn’t look out of place on a housecat, her low brow sits furrowed as if she is perpetually concentrating. Her cheeks are gaunt, giving her powerful jawline a more severe appearance in contrast with other Khajiit that have impressive tufts of fur upon their faces that conceal their natural profile, and any Altmer that is proud of a pure lineage would likely find her high and pronounced cheekbones quite relatable.

Sporting a lean but wiry frame, broad shoulders, wide hips and a narrow waistline, it’s hard to tell if she’s not eating properly or just in exceptional physical condition, and the truth lies somewhere in between; a lifestyle of rarely sitting down long enough to enjoy a full meal and constant physical exertion have given her subtle but powerful musculature and a somewhat slouched posture that she constantly has to be mindful to try and walk with a straight back, but lurking around narrow confines and climbing tricky surfaces have given her a naturally compact default way of composing herself, as if she were a suspicious sort.

Liking reds, blacks, and greys, she dresses practically in jerkins, vests, trousers, and coats that often are lined with the fur of some native beast that is much better insulated against the cold of Skyrim than she is. Ever adaptable, her fashion changes with the region and she has an eye for aesthetics and on occasion takes to the gowns, dresses, and formalwear of city life, should the occasion arise. Like all Cathay, she walks flat-footed like a human and wears similar footwear to men and elves alike, preferring ankle high leather boots for support and comfort in her travels.

Personality:

Obstinate to a fault and constantly adapting to life’s hurdles with an ease that others would find reason to envy, Daro’Vasora is a woman who has gone through most of her life with a singular focus and the ability to shrug off all but the most difficult of circumstances with an easy pride in her step and a defiant grin upon her pointed teeth. Having had a relatively opulent and comfortable upbringing in the rather shabby city of Leyawiin in Cyrodiil, the Khajiit has never truly wanted for anything of consequence and most of what drives her is the thrill of the chase and earning her keep on her terms. Having used her education and literacy to great effect, there aren’t many libraries across the Empire that haven’t seen her paws digging up dusty tomes and scriptures that may hint at some great forgotten score hidden in the bowels of one of the many ruins that dot Tamriel as she has dedicated most of her early adulthood to unearthing some rare and expensive find and pilfering someone’s culture for profit. For Daro’Vasora, life is a game of finders keepers and if dead people really didn’t want their precious belongings sold on the open market, they would have become a lich before they died.

Daro’Vasora is equal parts charismatic and aloof, tending to keep to her own devices and not caring much for others’ sob stories while maintaining the ability to convince just about anyone that if she says she can do something, she can do it. Fortunately, she isn’t one for empty boasts and the nimble fingered and lithe footed Khajiit has a knack for finding her way through treacherous ruins, avoiding traps, and picking locks as though she designed them, making her invaluable for her talents in absence of thoughtful company. Because she actively tries to avoid being stuck in a situation where someone tries to become too chummy, she often volunteers to scout ahead to both avoid prying conversations and to show off her talents. She’d never admit it, but she craves validation and people stroking her already significant ego; Daro’Vasora seeks approval and acknowledgement from others even if she tells herself that that precise thing is meaningless. She aims to impress, and while she does it for her own gain, deep down its how she fits in a universe that often seems so chaotic and unpredictable. While the Khajiit thrives in chaotic environments, it’s precisely because she keeps her perspective focused on what’s around her and ignoring the bigger picture. Things work themselves out over time, and “consequences” is just another term for “hesitation”. This can make Daro’Vasora somewhat reckless and impulsive at times, but so far her luck has held, perhaps largely in part to her idle devotion to Rajhin and Baan Dar, deities in the Khajiiti pantheon associated with thievery and cleverness.

There are a few quirks that make Daro’Vasora tick, such as her oral-stage fixation which has her constantly having something to chew on or to lazily hang from her mouth, usually a small stick or a bone from a meal dangling from her lips, idly quieting her subconscious as she places her focus on more pressing matters. Without such a simple distraction, the Khajiit can become somewhat distracted, if not irritable. She is an individual that has a hard time sitting idle, and almost always has something on the go during her downtime, such as practicing her lock picking on a small lock she keeps in her pack, organizing her possessions, reading whatever literature she has on her person, or going on short walks back the way she came on the off chance she missed something. She also is the kind of person who rather than bother mending damaged or frayed clothing will simply elect to outright replace it; possessions are fleeting and not at all worth getting sentimental over in her mind.

Another thing that others would do well to heed is that Vasora is very stringent about her personal space and absolutely does not tolerate physical contact. Things she does appreciate, however, are sweets and music. Often losing herself in song, the Khajiit was brought up playing the lute and thanks to her claws is quite talented and precise at it, and she will often take a moment to appreciate others’ songs when she comes across someone preforming the universal language. Alternatively capable of a razor-keen focus and attention to detail and an impatient irritability when things do not go quickly or smoothly, Daro’Vasora has been known to brutishly overcome obstacles as a last-ditch effort and if something is beyond her ability, subsequently declare it beneath her time and effort.

Carrying a mace for both defense and bashing flimsy containers and locks, as well as flasks of acid and Dwemer oil, she will alternatively handle situations with a surgeon-like precision or an ogre-like forcefulness that are two sides of a very colourful Septim.

History: The daughter of a river merchant and a court scribe, La’Vasora was brought into the world in Leyawiin, the Southernmost city of the Mede Empire and the daring frontier against the uncomfortably close Aldmeri Dominion. The second child and first surviving one of her parents, Ra’Rinjo (Ohmes-raht) and Ko’Juzuni (Ohmes), La’Vasora was born into relative opulence and a spoiled existence. While her would have been older brother died in infancy to a particularly nasty flu, it left La’Vasora’s parents with an urgency and protective drive towards their only child, and as such she wanted for nothing. With her father’s connections running a lucrative trade business at the mouth of Topal Bay and her mother’s position as a court scribe for Count Caro, clothing, toys, literature, and a fine education were hallmarks of the young Khajiit’s upbringing. Even when she was seven when her younger and only sister La’Shuni (Suthay) was born, La’Vasora continued to reap the benefits afforded to her years as a single child.

Known as Sora to her childhood friends, largely other Khajiit, Argonians, and a few humans and elves, she spoke Ta’agra and with third-person pronouns at home, but would often speak like her friends to fit in and to immerse herself in her stories, thinking it almost as a second language. By the time she was 9, La’Vasora was fluent in Ta’agra, Cyrodiilic, Aldmeris, and enough of a foundation in ancient languages that she was able to recognize several words and phrases in Dwemeri and Ayleidoon.

When she was old enough, La’Vasora became somewhat fixated on her father’s story of how he lost his leg during the Great War when Aldmeri forces captured Leyawiin and a roof collapsed on him due to a house fire, causing irreversible damage the required amputation. It was from the war that her father, once a landscaper, came to meet his future contacts in the Dominion in trading cities and turned a great loss into a productive working relationship with other merchants, trading goods between the Dominion and the Empire in the good years, and secretly smuggling in the bad. La’Vasora came into contact with many wondrous and foreign objects that her father instilled a sense of value in, prompting the young cat to take an active interest in valuables and trade.

Having always been something of a troublemaker thanks to her largely consequence-free life, it didn’t take long before she pressed her luck to see what she could knick off of shipments, her small statue and nimble movements helping her get away with a lot more than she had ever expected. However, her luck didn’t hold out; once she became trapped on a barge she was pilfering for spices and amulets and it wasn’t until she was well out in Topal Bay before she was discovered and forced to admit her crimes to the crew, “earning” herself the honourific of Daro. Her mother’s connections saved her from criminal charges, but Daro’Vasora as she was now known had earned an unsavory reputation.

Being pressed into work as a labourer for her father and a housekeeper for her mother, Daro'Vasora was forced to keep out of trouble and to give the impression that their daughter simply made an honest mistake of youth and could be trusted by the people of Leyawiin and its many visitors. The now teenage Khajiit was constantly filthy and exhausted, but with it came a stronger body and the experience with tricks and skills, solvents and oils that she’d later press into use in her later years; oiling hinges, replacing locks, and polishing precious materials.

Whenever possible, Daro’Vasora would spend time in Castle Leyawiin’s library, often volunteering to organize it and fetch tomes for those that would request it, a spark was ignited in Daro’Vasora’s imagination. Tamriel was covered with the remnants of an ancient and largely forgotten world and valuables beyond imaginations belonging to some of the most significant names in history. Names and artifacts stuck in her mind, and with a growing restlessness, the ambitious young woman declared to her family one day that Leyawiin was too small for her and the world was waiting. Knowing that trouble was going to find her sooner rather than later, her parents consented to letting Daro’Vasora travel. It was better to have her leave home under their guidance than to risk her running off on her own. Ra’Rinjo knew that the same wanderlust that consumed him as a youth was in his daughter, and it was better to put her on the right path with preparation that he never had when he was her age.

Taking his boat up river, Ra’Rinjo escorted his daughter to Imperial City where they would meet up with one of his contacts, an Orsimer named Zegol who ran an antiquities shop. After demonstrating some knowledge of Alyeids and the ruins they left behind, Zegol agreed to take the young Khajiit under his wing as an assistant and housekeeper with the understanding that if she lived up to her reputation, she’d be begging in the streets before sundown. The Orc’s trust was well earned as the capital city became an adventure of a lifetime for Daro’Vasora and before long she was escorting Zegol on a journey to one of the ruins in the Northwest. Proving herself invaluable at reaching places that the middle-aged Orsimer could not, he began to gradually pass his skills onto her, including making an arrangement that one a week she would clean the Arena’s fighting pits with her housekeeping experience in exchange for some rudimentary lessons in handling a weapon. There was seldom a day off for Daro’Vasora and the pay was abysmal, but she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Within a couple of years she was able to afford a room at a boarding house, and thanks to the numerous bookstores in the capital and Zegol’s own documents and experience, Daro’Vasora began to plot her first solo ventures into ruins. More often than not, the ones she visited had already been largely picked clean, but her multiple-week excursions eventually started to pay off and thanks to her ability to see in the dark and her extremely keen senses compared to elves and men, Daro’Vasora began to bring back more and more valuable finds, including the elusive Lady Marne’s jeweled broach dating back to the 2nd Era. With experience came danger, and with it came a rush of survival and outwitting rivals, ne’er-do-wells, and all manner of creatures alike, the Khajiit has left a trail of broken bones, gouged eyes, and battered bodies in her wake.

After a close call when her newly afforded apartment was torched by an arsonist that was likely one of her nemesis, Daro’Vasora decided to not stay rooted for the near future, and ever since her family have received letters and parcels from across the Empire from their wayward daughter containing cuts of her profits and relics she’d found along the way but didn’t find worth selling. She misses home, but she’s only just beginning; somewhere out there is the biggest find in history and she will be the one to claim it. Anything else is just a warmup.

Skills:

Major:

Lockpicking Daro’Vasora’s ability to pick apart locks and manipulate pins and tumblers is nothing short of impressive. Having an intimate knowledge of how many kinds of locks are assembled and exactly what it takes to get them moving, as well as what tools of the trade ensure the best chance of success, the Khajiit makes all but the toughest locks look like she has the key for it.

Acrobatics Nimble of foot and more coordinated than most, Daro’Vasora’s keen eyes pick out the safest or quickest paths and her body takes her there with athletic grace. She is a skilled climber, swimmer, and her impressive reaction time has been the difference between a grievous injury and living to fight another day. If Daro’Vasora sees a way forward, she takes it with confidence.

Minor:

Stealth A requirement for someone who aims to avoid fights or make off with goods undetected, Daro’Vasora can slink around most environments with adequate concealment and silence, but there isn’t much protection against plunder bouncing around or concealing some footfalls.

One-Handed Blunt Trained how to use a mace and quite fond of using it, Daro’Vasora can largely hold her own but she is hardly a warrior or a particularly skilled fighter. As long as she can dodge what the bad guy is trying to do to her and they are none too quick on the uptake, she can score a few surprising victories against unlikely opponents. However, she isn’t one to stand and fight; if she sees an opportunity to escape, she will take it. Better to make a daring get away than to end up a rich corpse.

Mercantile Being the daughter of a successful merchant and the associate of another, Daro’Vasora is rather handy at navigating the ins and outs of commerce and she has a knack of knowing where to unload her finds and make a fair deal off of her finds. She is hardly a haggler and she doesn’t religiously follow market trends or even know where hidden figurative goldmines are for the most part, but she certainly can turn a profit when she sets her mind to it.

Equipment:

-A steel mace with a deer-hide wrapped grip and wrist strap. It is pretty battered, but still very robust. She wears it off of her waist belt where the strap hangs from a curved steel hook.

-A small moonstone dagger she keeps strapped to her wrist that Ra’Rinjo gifted her before they parted ways, it is one of the few possessions she has that has sentimental value. It is well used and kept somewhat sharp, but it is used for almost exclusively utilitarian uses such as cutting rope, fabric, or even prying stubborn lids.

-A flat hard leather pauldron-like sleeve that contains a number of lockpicks and spares for ease of carry and easy access.

-A soft dark brown leather tunic and hard leather utility belt adorn her frame, offering both superficial protection for more flexibility and quiet movement and a stylish trim. There are a number of pouches kept about her waist that she keeps the majority of her tools and small finds. This includes a pair of pouches with interior loops that carry 8 glass vials each; the one on her right hip carries oil and acids, the one of the left an assortment of stamina and health potions, mostly to heal minor injuries and to make sure she doesn’t run out of strength or get winded in critical moments.

-A boiled hide hiking pack with strap and buckle closures and exterior loops and pockets for carrying an iron pry bar and objects that are too big to fit in the pack itself. The pack has exterior pockets that usually are packed with rations and her personal belongings, which are;

-A small lock

-A journal numbered 6 on the front

-A pair of books regarding Dwemer and Ancient Nord history and ruins

-A booklet of carefully folded maps that are covered in her markings, likely locations of potential ruins and suspected artifact locations

-A deerskin pouch for carrying up to 3 days of rations, mainly dried meat, berries, and nuts -A pair of waterskins, one of which is used for alcoholic beverages unless one is ripped

-A broach featuring a horse that belonged to her mother, a lapel badge for her father’s company, and a ring that belonged to her younger sister

Birthsign: The Serpent

Miscellaneous:

-Will speak in first-person pronouns in groups or meetings, but in more private moments or talking to herself, she reverts to her regular third-person manner of speech as it is more natural for her.

-She is equal parts fascinated and terrified of the Falmer; they are the boogeymen she hopes to never, ever encounter

-Wealth is easy come, easy go for her. She tends to stock up in times of plenty and purchase entirely new supplies or clothing

-While she doesn’t own one, she can play the lute rather well

-While she drinks, Sora is rather mortified of being intoxicated, especially around people

-Sora has reoccurring nightmares about being chased by ghosts or captured by necromancer, the undead are one of her greatest fears

-She has a soft spot for storytellers

[spicykvnt]

Name: Raelynn Hawkford
Age: 31
Gender: Female
Race: Breton

Appearance:

Raelynn is short of height with a waifish figure. She has no scars, something that surprises her - that she has made it to 31 and never received a scar. Her skin is mostly still smooth and soft, a result of having lived a good life with access to oils and herbs that keep one looking beautiful. In recent years she has found that she has begun to weather, and her face shows the subtle and very early signs of aging, lines appear when she makes certain expressions, and her skin does not have the rosiness that follows you from childhood to mid-twenties, a youthful glow. She is unsure whether it was really the physical side effect of reaching her thirties, or a result of the shocking things she has seen.

Unlike the rest of her body, her lips stand our for being full. She has a round, soft face, with high cheekbones. Her ears have that slight signature pointed tip and her eyebrows are arched - both signal to her Elvish ancestry. She has large steel blue eyes, which stand out against her light skin. Her eyes are expressive and to find out how she is feeling, one would only need to look at her eyes to see them bright with happiness, narrow with disgust, or watery with sadness.

She keeps her waist length hair tied tightly into braids, with only a few strands framing her face. To Raelynn, her hair is her favourite part of herself. The colour is that of her family, a cool ash blonde.

She wears embroidered mage robes (she never did like the plain clothing required of her to wear at the College). She will mostly wear clothes that are either black, violet, or lavender in hue. She does not always dress in mages robes, and will sometimes dress down into more casual attire. Even her 'casual attire' is more colourful and ornate than others. To Raelynn, looking the part of a Lady is important.

Personality:
To strangers, Raelynn would seem soft spoken and friendly. This is all part of a more questionable mirage to lure in those who would need her help. As a Healer she swore an oath to heal those who were suffering with disease and injuries - and she treats those who come to her with empathy, understanding, and great respect... If they can afford it. She can be quite manipulative and calculating in order to get what she wants. She wasn't always this way, living in Skyrim of all places has shown her that everyone is out to obtain something...

Raelynn refuses to let others say that she has snobbish and proud tendencies and will get defensive if they do. Her privileged upbringing has given her high standards of everything. She is not 'greedy', but she is certainly used to the finer things. She knows that her value as a healer and her level of skill in the art is worth a lot of gold, jewels, and other rare treasures. After all, what is more valuable to the average man than being able to live another day? Definitely not the rubies that he looted on his last adventure.

When she becomes comfortable around people, her temper can appear and she will often become passionate in her speech. In her life, Raelynn has only met a small handful of individuals who have been able to really get past the walls she has built around herself. She has an endearing lack of self-awareness and this has found her in spells of trouble, she will frequently accidentally offend other people.

She can be impatient and hot-headed, and will scold those she travels with for errors of judgement, even though she is not the kind of person who would step in to prevent them in the first place, she relies on those 'less fortunate' than herself to do the dirty work on excursions, after all, why should she dirty up a robe when the Nord in front is more than willing to do it?

History:
Born in Daggerfall, High Rock, to wealthy parents, Raelynn had a comfortable upbringing. As such, Raelynn never went without luxuries like great food, fashionable attire, and even her share of 'exotic pets'. This is the lifestyle that she grew accustomed too, and while she never wanted too much more than what she was privileged enough to have growing up, she has continued to have high expectations and standards since leaving her silver spoon back in Daggerfall...

As much as she loved her family very deeply, and would have loved to stay with them forever, their image of her life was far different to the image Raelynn was dreaming of. They would have her married into another rich family, something that made Raelynn feel deeply uncomfortable. When given the ultimatum that she wed someone of her parents choosing, or be cut off from them, she chose to follow her own path. At night, Raelynn would read books on Tamriel, reading about great mages throughout history who had done amazing things and adventurers, and of the hidden secrets scattered through the world. She wanted to be an adventurer, but she didn't really want to get her hands dirty - or put herself front and centre in battle. So, following the natural inclination of her race to wield magic, she was prompted to request to joined a newly 'reformed' Daggerfall Mages Guild when she came of age to begin learning the art of curative and restorative magic.

She soon found that this Guild was not for her, and instead chose to leave her home of High Rock forever and attend the College of Winterhold to study her chosen discipline even further. During her time as an apprentice of the College, she faced teasing from her peers for sticking solely to Restorative magic. This made her choose a secondary discipline of magic to study and she chose Conjuration.

As with her growing boredom of the Mages Guild, Raelynn got bored of the libraries and four walls of the College after some years. She grew tired of the bitter cold, the terribly plain food, and the putrid smells which wafted through the corridors and congregated in her chamber of all places. She began to dream of practicing her magic out in the field, going on adventures and making gold. With the blessing of Colette Marence, she finally left the College to travel the rest of Skyrim. She found herself frustrated on these travels, adventurers didn't pay all that much for her magic, nor did they ever seem to want to share the spoils. She had to think of something else, and so she began treat adventurers who would stumble into taverns with wounds and ailments, firstly plying them with alcohol and sweetening them up with her charm, before curing them and making sure she took a premium price from them.

During these years, she picked up a few new skills from those she travelled with. Until this point in her life she had not really had a need to learn any offensive combat skills. A traveling companion quickly told her that while a spell may keep disease at bay, a dagger or two hidden inside a cloak is likely to save her life.

During the time of the rise of the Dragonborn, Raelynn found herself amongst the aftermath of dragon attacks rather frequently. She would come across the bodies of the burnt. The sight of their armour that had melded to their skin gave them the appearance of steel men, of crumbled statues. There was nothing she could do help them. Some of the scenes she witnessed absolutely traumatised her, giving her a fear of fire and flames. She tries to keep this section of her past secret from those she meets, for fear of showing weakness and vulnerability.

Skills:
Major:
- Restoration: She is an impressive healer, and chooses to use only curative magic - save for the few offensive and defensive spells she keeps up her sleeve for sticky situations. Fast Healing, Healing Hands, Sun Fire, Greater Ward, Heal Other, Close Wounds, Repel Lesser Undead. She chooses these particular spells so that she can stay away from the direct front-line and out of immediate danger.

- Alchemy: Healing Knowledge. Raelynn has an advanced knowledge of the various plants and other items that are found throughout Tamriel that can provide healing qualities. She is also skilled with treating wounds that cannot be directly healed with magic. She enjoys brewing herbal teas which have been known to revitalise and 'perk up' some of her fellow adventurers.

Minor:
- Conjuration: Raelynn knows the spells Conjure Familiar, Raise Zombie, and Bound Sword. She very rarely uses these spells, and will only do so if she herself is in immediate danger, saving her Magicka for restorative purposes.

- Dual-Weapons: Raelynn uses twin daggers together to defend herself if need be. She is not an intimidating size, and so will generally only rely on her daggers if she is in absolute immediate danger and can get the upper hand. (Being small and thin sometimes has a speed advantage.)

- Lockpicking: She taught herself to pick through locks to get to the more interesting books in the library of the College. Now, she practices lock picking to find and pocket the best treasures in the dungeons and crypts she has found herself in.

Equipment:
Raelynn carries her Staff of the Healing Hand as well as two steel daggers which she keeps quite hidden in her cloak. She always carries a small cloth pouch full of dried blue mountain flowers, lavendar sprigs, and other flowers - to make teas with as well as a small knife for harvesting plants efficiently.

She has her notebook filled with her healing tricks and tips, and a journal which she writes in at the end of each day, documenting her whole life and journey for the day she finally sits down to write her memoirs and healing books. This is her secret journal, and she would hate for anyone to read it. Often pouring out her true feelings onto the parchment - whether those feelings are good or bad.

She always has a pouch full of gold, stating that it is to keep her safe in times of trouble. As most mages do, she carries at least 3 Magicka potions. She'd be stupid not too.

The only other thing she carries is a letter from her parents, wishing her well at the College of Winterhold. Despite being fond of fine things, she travels on a shoestring and only keeps what is absolutely necessary on her person - the rest she keeps in a locked trunk at the College of Winterhold, or has sent to her parents for them to keep safe.

Birthsign:
The Mage

Miscellaneous:
Raelynn is a terrible, terrible, terrible drunk. Being so small means that even the smallest of amounts of Marne wine, or Nord Ale are enough to tip her over the edge.