"Five people have asked her to dance so far. That's five fewer people with purses." - Galerus Quintilius
Name: Sihava Blackthorn, the Smoke DancerRace: Half Nord, half Dunmer
Sex: Female
Age: 31
Birthsign: The Shadow
Origins: A working-class family in Windhelm
Appearance: Sihava largely takes after her mother in appearance. Tall, willowy and beautiful, she looks like more like a courtier than a priestess-thief. She doesn't have the defined musculature of a warrior, to be sure. But to call her weak would be a grave disservice. She's been wandering the length and breadth of Tamriel for over a decade, from southwestern sands to the wild oceans of Winterhold, and so her body reflects that. Her legs are pure muscle, from thighs to calves, and there is not an ounce of fat on her body; her constant roaming burns it all off far faster than she can build it. While her arms aren't as strong as her legs, they're plenty on their own. Years of illegal climbing have built them up (especially her shoulders) to a surprising degree. That's not to say she could arm-wrestle a Legionnaire, but she's certainly no pushover.
Her skin is a dusky Dunmer gray, though a bit warmer than most. Though it is roughened by decades of travel through sun, sand and snow, she does her damndest to keep it as soft and clean as possible. Though she takes after her Dunmer mother, her face is where her mixed blood is given away. Instead of the sunken cheekbones that so characterize the appearance of a Dunmer, her face is round. Not quite as much as a Nord's, but close. Her eyes, as well: instead of the swollen irises of an elf, hers--while Dunmer red--are more in line with the size you might see of a human's. Those eyes, a sign of her dual heritage, are also a study of the dual sides of her personality. While they glimmer with barely restrained excitement, they are also constantly shifting back and forth, searching, scoping, making sure things are safe, equal measure of innocent and calculating. Often, though, they are obscured; her long, fine hair, a pale gray-white, hangs loose most of the time, and can easily sweep in front of her face until she brushes it away with a finger or breath to behind one of her ears, which--while not as much as a full elf--are definitely a sharper shape than any human's.
The only time she ties up her hair of her own will is when she's wearing her thieves' clothing. Tight-fitting leggings and tunic of deepest blue and dappled with black, along with a matching mask and a headscarf to hide her distinctive white hair. A leather shoulderbelt dyed in the same colors cuts across it, filled with thievery supplies; lockpicks and key wax, a pry bar, a strong thin rope. As long as she's done it right, the only parts of her that show are her eyes and her hands.
When she's not wearing her thieves' clothing, she has fairly expensive tastes. Nothing too extreme; wouldn't want a simple merchant to look like royalty waltzing through the countryside and getting the attention of every bandit and guard within a hundred miles. But she is very fond of luxurious fabrics done in red. Mostly, she wears a simple burgundy tunic over brown leggings; her traveling clothes. But she does reserve some clothing for an occasion. When she wants to make an entrance, or an impression, she dons a stately floor-length dress of wine-red satin, coupled with a golden collar-style necklace studded with a large carnelian. She combs out the knots that usually infest her hair, and perhaps dabs some kohl on her eyes to complete the transformation: from scruffy wandering merchant to a woman that could blend in in the Blue Palace.
History: Demivah Rallaron was a Cyrodiil Dunmer. Born and raised as a carpenter in Cheydinhal, she felt a burgeoning wanderlust growing ever since she was a small child. Though her parents weren’t exactly thrilled (to say the least), the call of the road was stronger than the call of home, and when she grew up, she became a wandering trader, a caravaneer that poached and sold curios from all around Tamriel, ranging from ancient Akaviri daggers, to Welkynd stones from deep beneath the Ayleid ruins of her homeland, to branded Septims from the reign of the Wolf Queen, Potema, and everything in between. Nothing was safe from her questing grasp. But she never stole. Adamantly. She was an honest businesswoman, and proud of it.
Ulfskaar Blackthorn was a Skyrim fisherman, native to the beautiful city of Windhelm and intensely proud of that fact. The architecture! The history! Truly, Windhelm was the best city in Skyrim to live in. He’d never left Skyrim; he’d never even wanted to leave, really. Fishing was a taxing, time-consuming job, and what little leisure time he had was spent at the Candlehearth Hall. Warm fire, cold mead, good friends to chase away the chill. A good life.
The two met in the winter of 4E172, quite by chance, as Demivah passed North, fleeing from the Great War, and stopped in Windhelm to replenish her supplies for the journey north, to Winterhold and then to Dawnstar. Ulfskaar purchased a strange insect, trapped in Elsweyr amber from her, and the two began to talk. They talked for a long time. Days, which stretched into weeks, which stretched into months. Until both of their coin began to run short, and Demivah left for Winterhold, promising that she would return. He waited for her, and a month later, she kept her promise, coming back with a ring of Solstheim gold, and asked if he would marry her. And though the rumblings of war grew stronger in Cyrodiil, the two of them were wed. Then, two years later--Morning Star, 4E175--they had a single child. A girl, who they named Sihava.
And then came the White-Gold Concordat. And the goodwill that Demivah had built up with her neighbor Nords, the friends she’d made--it began to all peter away. Nationalism steadily rose at the thought of the worship of Talos being banned, and then shifted rapidly into a boiling racism. For as established as she was, Demivah became just another ‘grayskin’ spying for the Dominion. She was spared the Gray Quarter, living as she was in Ulfskaar’s ancestral home. But she was spared very little else. It was in that political climate that Sihava was raised. Windhelm isn’t the friendliest of cities for a growing girl. Growing up in a cultural center of anti-mer racism doesn’t help. Especially if you’re a “half-breed.”
Sihava had a target on the back of her head since she was born. Even as a little girl, she was scorned, insulted, bullied; by children, and even by adults. She didn’t know why at the time, but as she grew, she figured out what caused it. She heard the people calling her mother a grayskin, a Dominion spy, a filthy elf. She heard people calling her father an elf-lover, a supporter of the Dominion, despite the shrine to Talos in his home. And she grew bitter. Bitter at the Great War, for causing so much pain. Bitter at her neighbors, for hating her for such a stupid reason and for leaving her friendless. Bitter at her parents, for falling in love like they had, and for somehow remaining so happy with each other. And bitter at herself, for being so bitter. She lived a quiet life, stewing in her resentment. Against all odds, she managed to find a job when she was twelve. Sorting Wuunferth the Unliving’s workshop and laboratory. Nothing particularly interesting; arranging scrolls on a bookshelf, sorting the soul gems on the display racks, cleaning the alchemy and enchanting workbenches...something calm and quiet. And though Wuunferth didn’t particularly care for her, from his mumblings as he worked, he cared for ‘those clod-headed guards’ even less.
And then, all that bitterness that had build up in her came to a head when she was fourteen years old. She was walking back home from her job when she was jumped in front of her home by a boy--Aljor something-or-other--she’d seen grandstanding about his Nord heritage around the city. He was going to rebel against the Imperials, he’d said, and other things along those lines besides. He shoved her, hard. Her bag was dashed to the ground. The strap snapped. His eyes fell on her purse, the few Septims that she’d made from her work with Wuunferth. And he advanced on her as she scrabbled desperately to dig through her bag. That’s when, from out of her fallen bag, she snatched the spell scroll she’d stolen from Wuunferth in a fit of curiosity. She channeled it as he ran at her. She prayed it would save her. And she let the magic fly. Aljor stood poleaxed for a moment, eyes suddenly running with red light. And then he screamed. He shrieked in terror and ran from her, dropping her purse in his haste to escape from the nondescript girl. And as she returned to her home to escape the guards that his scream would surely have brought running, a knifelike smile formed on her lips.
She never forgot the look of terror on Aljor’s face, and she longed to experience that feeling of power again. From that point on, she devoted her life to procuring as many books on illusion magic as she could. And those texts that she wasn’t allowed to access by Wuunferth--who showed surprising interest in the development of her magic, remarking that perhaps she would make a decent apprentice in a few years’ time--she would steal, squirreling them away under a floor tile in her house. Never more than one or two at a time, but enough for her to grow...well, not good, but adequate enough. And she found that the feeling of power that magic had given her was almost more intensely given by that theft. She’d been schooled since she could remember by Demivah to never steal. But, she reasoned in a fit of anger, these Nords had stolen her childhood from her. So she would respond by stealing from them in kind.
She was eighteen, in 4E193, when she told her parents that she wanted to follow in her mother’s footsteps and become a traveling trader. They were--to her surprise--thrilled. They’d seen the way she had been treated by the people of Windhelm. And Demivah took her in her arms as she left: “Siha, you asked me once why we didn’t leave Windhelm and find somewhere else to live, and I told you it was because Windhelm is our home, and the heart follows home. But...it’s not your home, sweetling. And just as the heart follows home, home follows the heart. So go find yours, sweetling. I love you.”
As she walked from the city, with nothing but her clothes and a massive backpack filled with trinkets to sell, she let the tears fall down her face, and she apologized to her mother, and to the Divines. And then she embarked on an epic crime spree across Skyrim that took her from the Ratways of Riften through Dragonsreach and the Blue Palace of Solitude, and every town and city in between. The feeling of power grew stronger as she grew quicker and more confident in her crimes, pillaging not only coin and jewelry, but also the laboratories of court wizards all across Skyrim. She read voraciously, and her study of illusion grew feverish as she felt her aptitude growing. Soon, she could bend people to her will, or drive them mad. And with that accomplished, and Cyrodiil stabler than Skyrim now, with the tension reaching a fever pitch, and it seeming safer to leave than to stay--her crimes across the country, from the smallest settlements to the largest cities, had taken her through 4E197--she departed, heading south. The Imperial City looked mighty rich for someone like her, and she was hungry.
She quickly became something of an urban legend in the Imperial City. Nothing like the Gray Fox had been, so long ago; nowhere approaching that level of notoriety. But certainly, she had the guards feeling nervous. They even gave her a nickname: the Smoke Dancer. A wisp of whirling shadow, almost visible out of the corner of your eye, but impossible to catch. With her skill as a thief, and her expertise in illusion magic--she was so skilled now that she could turn invisible--she was like a shadow, dipping in and out of shops and well-to-do homes as she pleased and taking what wasn’t nailed down, hiding her finds in secret pouches throughout her backpack. She
did do some trading, to keep up a veneer of legitimacy, and to justify her huge bag, but it was mostly a side business to her real passion. And then a man approached her one day. Galerus Quintilius, he introduced himself. And told her to come to the ruins of the Waterfront district that night, at midnight, and tell the beggar Old Milky--named for her blind right eye--that she was there to see Quint.
Interest piqued despite her caution, she did so, and so came across the Cyrodiil Thieves’ Guild. She ran with them for many years, discovering a sense of comradery and compassion that had been sorely absent from her lonely, angry life. She and Galerus became close friends as she rose in the ranks, and she eventually met a figure that she’d believed to be a myth. Someone she’d only ever heard of in scattered legends and occasional books. Someone that caused her to, for the first time in her life, be truly awestruck: the Gray Fox.
Legends say that he stole the Cowl from Nocturnal herself, whispered Galerus to her, once. And so her interest in Nocturnal began to grow.
As she aged, that newfound friendship with the Guild’s members had unforeseen consequences. Namely, she stopped enjoying thievery. With her anger and bitterness ebbing, she no longer needed that same feeling of power that she once craved. She longed instead for something
bigger. Mysterious. Incomprehensible. Something to figure out, or attempt to, like she had done for magic. She hacked together, out of a novice’s study of mysticism and a creative mind, a way to impress images into another’s mind, and then she stopped talking. She commited herself to silence, for a reason that she scarcely understood. And then she felt an
urge. A calling, towards the north. And so, for the first time since she’d left--years later, in 4E203, after the end of the Stormcloak Uprising--she made a pilgrimage back to Skyrim, drawn by rumors, myths, and a half-forgotten dream to a cave in Falkreath Hold. Guided by an inexorable pull that she didn’t understand, she winged on silent, invisible feet through the Pilgrim’s Path, and emerged into the place that she now knew she’d been longing to find for her entire life.
The Ebonmere.
And as she stood there, beneath the darkness of the Evergloam, she heard a faint voice speak to her. She does not remember what it said. But she emerged from the Twilight Sepulcher with a new purpose in life. No more would she simply steal from those more fortunate than she was. No, her theft was part of a higher calling now: to embody the darkness, silence and mystery that was Nocturnal, and to spread the shadow of the Evergloam, until all the thieves of Nirn could feel Nocturnal’s shadow.
Ever since, she’s been wandering, ghosting through towns and cities and leaving them with a backpack maybe a bit heavier than it was before she got there. She may be out of practice with lockpicking and and...well, most of the thieves’ trades, but Nocturnal smiles upon her, and so she knows no fear. But now, roaming through Daggerfall, the nights have gotten colder. They have grown longer. And this is not the kind of darkness that Sihava knows.
Perhaps it is time that whatever is causing this supernatural shadow learns what a
real night looks like...
Personality: Sihava’s personality comes across differently than most because of her silence. She moves through the world quietly in every way--quiet feel, quiet movements, quiet breaths--and with something that seems to most like great solemnity; like she has a terrible weight dogging her heels, pulling down on her shoulders, pressing her to the ground. And she does feel that she carries a great responsibility with her. But it doesn’t weigh her down the way that many people seem to think it does. The solemnity that they see is simply her way of walking. In fact, past the long-standing silence only broken with mysticism or writing, Sihava is a remarkably personable woman, with a wry smile, a dry streak of sardonic humor, and perhaps more than a touch of vanity.
In her trades as a thief and a merchant, she learned better than anybody how to roll with every punch she takes. Consequently, she’s as far away from stubborn as you can find: she is remarkably flexible, and if someone tells her that she’s doing something unfathomably stupid, she’s able to step back, analyze what she’s doing, and come to the conclusion that they’re probably correct.
Speaking of unfathomable stupidity; while her worship of Nocturnal has changed many things about her, it hasn’t changed her personality at its core. And so she is very, very reckless and easily excited, surprising those who have heard about the Smoke Dancer and her epic crime spree through the Imperial City and find out that’s who she is. While she’s learned how to take things slow and scope something out over a period of days or even weeks before making her move out of pure necessity, her natural proclivity is to jump into a situation headfirst, escaping with her illusion magic, her skill at stealth, and the seat of her own wit. Consequently, she’s excellent at thinking on her feet, able to come up with workable plans in a moment’s notice, even while under heat. The converse, however, is also true. Whenever she tries to plan something out meticulously, it backfires on her. Inevitably, and usually spectacularly. Doing her best work in the moment means she overcompensates and overplans, and when even one thing goes wrong, it all comes tumbling down. She’s no strategist. Keeping it simple is the only way she survives.
As for romance, she’s not interested. She once thought that perhaps she and Galerus might have something, but by the time anything could have developed, she’d given herself over to Nocturnal. Perhaps she could still find someone, but they would need to beat a Daedric Prince for her attention, and that is a steep task indeed for anyone who might wish to woo her. She does
love dancing, though.
It is in her nature to be slow to trust. Even now, so far removed from her troubled childhood, its scars still linger, and the years as a thief don’t exactly help. She is an incredibly suspicious person, second, third, and fourth-guessing anybody who she gives her companionship to. And while, after some time, she might begin to trust you more than she did, she’ll likely not really trust you. A full unconditional trust is something that she can only give after years of companionship, if ever, and she’s only ever given it to Galerus.
As might be surmised by Sihava’s particular occupation over the years, she’s not overly concerned with legality. There are, however, some lines to be drawn. She will not murder. Kill, yes. If someone comes at her with a sword and she has no lines of defense to withdraw behind, she is a fair hand with her daggers, and has no compunctions over self defense. But murdering someone is different. She also does not steal from those who have nothing to begin with. While the law might not care if you take the scant Septims from a beggar’s purse, Sihava will. Not only is it a waste of time for very little return, but she
does still have a conscience. Stealing every Septim of someone who has nowhere to go is similar to murder, in her mind, and she does not care for it. Not only that, but beggars are patroned by Nocturnal, just as thieves are. If she sees someone stealing from a beggar, she will follow them and slowly take every scrap of coin or jewelry on them and funneling it back to the beggar. So while the law is minimally important to her, ‘the law’ and ‘justice’ are not the same thing.
There is one glaring weakness that Sihava has, despite largely being imperturbable to threats and the like. She’s spent a long time distancing herself from her childhood in Windhelm, but has never been entirely successful. ‘Knife-ears.’ ‘Grayskin.’ ‘Half-breed.’ These words, and words like them, occupy a place of childish
terror in her heart. Hearing them leaves her scattered and flustered at best. At worst? She’ll break down crying, futilely trying to forget the past as it claws at her mind.
Equipment:A pair of elven-metal daggers: One of the very few weapons she’s ever stolen, she was taken by their fine design and snatched them up, almost without thinking. They are sheathed horizontally across the small of her back.
Lockpicks: Though she no longer makes a habit of breaking into every house she comes across during the night, there are some habits that are harder to break. She keeps her lockpicking tools in a pouch strapped to her left thigh, beneath her tunic at all times, and only takes them off to bathe or sleep. Sometimes not even then.
Thieves’ Clothes: A special set of clothes for when she’s engaging in skulduggery. Tight-fitting and very dark blue, with numerous pockets spread across. Includes a headscarf for tying up her hair and covering her face.
Backpack: A big, burly backpack decades old, used by her mother in her caravaneer days. It’s held up admirably, though it’s been patched so many times there are almost more leather patches than original leather. Half a dozen or so hidden pouches are scattered throughout the lining for hiding things she doesn’t want people to see.
Misc. Possessions:Map of Tamriel: A map of the continent, with all major roads and cities marked in original ink. The thing is so marked up by her own ink, though, charting her journeys across Tamriel, that it’s barely recognizable anymore.
Amulet of Nocturnal: A metal disk perhaps an inch and a half wide strung on a leather thong underneath her tunic (or her thieves’ clothes, when the occasion calls) and emblazoned with the crest of Nocturnal. She hasn’t taken it off in three years.
Money: While in her purse she carries a modest sum, perhaps seventy Septims, she has an emergency fund of nearly three hundred kept under a false bottom in her backpack.
Merchant’s Goods: She still keeps up the persona of a merchant, and so she needs merchant’s goods to sell that, if you’ll pardon the pun. Includes such things as alchemical ingredients (nothing too rare), semiprecious gemstones and a few really precious ones, some jewelry, clothing both fine and rough, et cetera. All of it was and is acquired legitimately, in the case that someone in a town that she steals from searches her things.
Bedroll: A comfy bedroll of fur and leather strapped to the bottom of the pack's outside. She eschews a tent, preferring to sleep under the stars whenever she can.
Kohl: She keeps a bit of kohl with her at all times, for when she needs to make an entrance.
Family and Associations:Demivah Rallaron: Mother
Ulfskaar Blackthorn: Father
Galerus Quintilius (Quint): Still a very close friend
Favored Attributes:Major: Agility
Minor: Personality
Favoured Skills:Highly Proficient:
Sneak: You don’t become a thief as skillful as Sihava was (and in a sense still is) without being excellent at remaining unseen and unheard. She knows exactly where the least visible spot is on the edge of a campfire or torch or lantern, and if you didn’t know how much time she spent learning those skills, you’d think her supernatural, with how little noise she can make while moving. And attached to this is her skill as a pickpocket. Unlike lockpicking, she's never really stopped dipping her fingers into people's belongings. And so, she's able to take their belongings before they even know she's in the room.
Illusion: Since her childhood in Windhelm, she’s been obsessed with illusion magic. What started as a way to gain power over people for a powerless and vengeful girl became another tool in her bag of tricks for getting in and getting out completely unnoticed. She’s excellent at manipulating people with this, which is helpful, since she’s not very good at verbally calming people down. For obvious reasons.
Moderately Proficient:
Acrobatics: Flexible and spry, Sihava developed those traits into a real skill to help her slip in and out of sticky situations. While she’s not going to be unharmed by a twenty foot fall anytime soon, she can contort her way through spaces that look way too small, and climb up a building without great effort.
Somewhat Proficient:
Lockpicking: Once, Sihava could pick a lock faster than she could turn a key. She was a true master at it. But times change and time passes. She’s not been picking locks nearly as much, as she doesn’t steal nearly as much. Her old skill has passed, but if she was pressed, she could still pick a simple lock with relative ease, and though it would take a few minutes instead of a few seconds now, more complicated locks are still within her reach.
One-Handed: As a wanderer and roamer across Tamriel, Sihava has been accosted by her fair share of brigands and bandits. While she usually dissuades them with illusion magic, there are times when it’s simply more effective to fight back, and she does so with her elven daggers. She’s not particularly good at it, but she’s competent enough that she’s still alive after over a decade of wandering.
Mysticism: As mentioned, though she does not speak, Sihava can use a ramshackle, cobbled-together slew of Mysticism principles to telepathically convey images, emotions, and some scattered words. It’s an imperfect method of communication at best, but combined with her expressive face, she can...generally get a message across. She only learned any Mysticism for the sake of communication, so she doesn’t actually know any spells from the school.
Spell List:
Invisibility, Pacify, Rout, Frenzy Rune, Muffle, Alluring Gaze, Eyes Of Midnight
