TBA
GM
I have exhausted all other options.
Tamriel has bled for decades, and what prize is worth the cost of the countless lives thrown into maelstrom of battle? Kings, queens, warlords, all vying for the Ruby Throne. At least some have the decency to not pretend their reasons are altruistic. None want the throne to put an end to all these wars and to spare Tamriel from tyranny.
I do, and I will.
They say that history is written by the victor, and when I’m through, history will be whatever I decree it to be. Some might consider what I set out to do monstrous, but in the end, they will thank me for it. They simply will not know any better.
By Invitation Only
Welcome to The Elder Scrolls: Voice of the Sky, a story taking place roughly three decades after the events of Elder Scrolls Online and the beginning of the Three Banners War. This is the interregnum, a period with no Emperor and no stability, and before Tiber Septim rose to take the reigns of power and create the Septim Empire, an unlikely conqueror took the throne; the Witch-Emperor Raxus, a son of a Nibanese noblewoman who was shaped by Reachman culture. Having assembled a coalition of unlikely allies from disenfranchised corners of the world, Raxus has achieved stunning victory after stunning victory and has done what would have been unthinkable even a few short years ago; he has seized Imperial City and taken the Ruby Throne, outwitting and out-fighting the war-weary armies of Tamriel.
Before the world could come to terms with these events, mysterious auroras begin to form in the sky, seen across the breadth of Tamriel, from Solstheim to Summerset, with the most intense displays over Cyrodiil. Soon the fighting begins to die down across the battlefields and word begins to spread about this new Empire, and for the first time in a generation, enemies are beginning to find seats at the table to discuss peace terms. Raxus becomes a name that is spoken of in almost reverent tones, and peace seems to be just over the horizon… although no one can exactly explain why.
You are one of the characters who has witnessed these events unfold as either a soldier in one of the factions, a citizen trying to survive these dark times, or something in between and you are unaffected by whatever seems to have gripped the population of Tamriel. Your convictions are still your own, and Raxus is just another enemy or warlord to fight or be wary of, and although initially beautiful, the auroras have brought out something sinister. Voicing concern or protest has painted a target on your back and soon warriors garbed in a mixture of dragonbone and Akaviri armour apprehend you and your comrades in arms do nothing to stop this, some in fact cheering these warriors on.
You fall unconscious and when you wake up once more, you are somewhere dark and hidden from the light, terrible screams are heard in the next room with blinding flashes of violet light, chained up alongside those you considered enemies. And now, they are your only hope of survival.
- The year is 2E600
- It has been eighteen years since the Planemeld was stopped, ending Molag Bal's plans to merge Nirn with Coldharbour. This was due to the efforts of the reforged Five Companions, along with the combined aid of the Mages Guild and the Fighters Guild.
-The Gray Host, a First Era army comprising of vampires, werewolves and witches, has been defeated after their invasion of Western Skyrim and the Reach.
- The Dark Brotherhood is still finding its footing for all intents and purposes, mainly operating out of the Gold Coast and sanctuaries found as far as Black Marsh, but they have filled the void left by the Morag Tong’s fall from grace with ruthless efficiency and have achieved a presence across Tamriel to such a degree that many cannot remember a time before their rise to power.
- The Fighters Guild and Mages Guild are still flourishing across Tamriel
- Morag Tong is enjoying a resurgence of power after their initial fall from grace following the collapse of the Akaviri Potentate and the fallout that ensued. It has in recent years reintegrated into Dunmeri society and has proven to be a professional association that is seen as a necessary evil among the Great Houses. However, it still operates almost exclusively in Morrowind with the very seldom involvement outside of that province’s borders.
- The Thieves Guild is alive and well in all parts of Tamriel, some chapters are doing better than others.
Nirn: The name of the planet
Tamriel: The continent which the provinces of Cyrodiil, Skyrim, High Rock, Hammerfall, Valenwood, the Summerset Isles, Elswyer, The Black Marsh, and Morrowind are located.
Provinces:
Races:
Imperials: The olive skinned, cosmopolitan people that make up the natives of Cyrodiil and are the race of which each Emperor has descended from. They have an incredible talent for diplomacy and have proven to be exceptionally professional soldiers and merchants, carving empires from the ruins of oppression. They are an impressive race whose members can be found in just about any walk of life, profession, and discipline.
Altmer: The golden skinned high-elves are the tallest race in Tamriel. They aren’t as physically powerful as other races and aren’t nearly as agile or fast as their bosmer cousins, but they command magicka unlike any other race, and are capable of regenerating it very quickly. They are often the most powerful spell casters to be found, and are very formidable mages. They are oftentimes elitist and xenophobic, and look down on other races believing in elven superiority.
Nord: The fair skinned and haired people of Skyrim, they are strong, powerful people who have a love for fighting, drinking, and song. They are unmatched navigators of the seas, and are generally very devout people. Life is harsh for a nord, and they have a strong belief in doing things without waiting, as you may die tomorrow. They are physically the strongest race, matched only by the orcs, and have a legendary tolerance against the cold. Their battle cry is terrifying to behold, and their blood lust in combat is legendary.
Reachmen: A wild and free folk who call the Reach their home and have no ambitions beyond that, the Reach is a beautiful and untamed place that is covered in Dwarven ruins and is only loosely governed by ard Caddach in Markarth. They are people who embrace the Old Spirits, which other cultures know as Daedra, and have a life defined by their relationship with nature and the land and the hardships they endure. They are comprised of many different tribes with different ambitions, goals, and ways of life, with some being more open to outsiders than others, they have had a long animosity with the Nords and Orsimer, but with the world having endured years of war and the Planemeld, as well as their own invasion by an army of werewolves and vampires, the Reach is finally settling down as a place that seeks peace with its neighbours, provided outsiders leave them be.
Argonians: The lizard people of Black Marsh are curious as they are nearly immune to disease due to their nearly inhospitable homeland, are able to breathe underwater, and can recover from physical wounds quickly. They are quick, stealthy people and often find themselves caught up in the wars of others, such as when the Alyeids invaded and their ancestral struggles against the Dunmeri slavers. Now independent and members of the Ebonheart Pact, the Argonians have been enjoying a period of stability where their culture is thriving and their enemies are faced down with allies.
Bosmer: The wood-elves of Valenwood are unsurpassed archers and hunters, and while they are smaller in frame than other races, they make up for it in speed and dexterity. They are very in tune with their environment, and are able to speak to animals. This is often used to help with labour, defence, or in many cases, to get wildlife to attack an enemy.
Khajiit: The cat people of Elswyer, the form a khajiit assumes depends on the positioning and phase of the two moons of Nirn, Masser and Secunda. Many of the khajiit that are encountered outside of Elswyer are Suthay-Raht variety (See:
http://www.imperial-library.info/con...ases-and-forms). Khajiit are all able to see in the dark and have sharp, vicious claws that they often use for fighting, even in place of weapons and are a very stealthy race. They often find themselves marginalized by society outside of Elswyer, and as such find themselves as thieves, assassins, and other criminals.
Dunmer: The Dark elves of Morrowind have dark grey to green coloured skin and red eyes, and much more severe appearances than their altmer and bosmer cousins. They are ferocious fighters and have an aptitude for destruction magic. They believe they came into being from a curse from Azura, and they have a strong connection to their ancestors, which may come to their aid as a spirit. They are very versatile and while they are rumoured to be ill favoured by luck and are often discriminated against, they are a resilient and severe people.
Breton: Bretons are the fair-skinned, average magicka adept people of High Rock. They have an aptitude towards spell casting and are very intelligent people, capable of grasping new concepts quickly and mastering even the most complicated spells with relative ease. Only an altmer can put up an argument for being a better spell caster, but Bretons aren’t nearly as frail as the altmer and are capable of withstanding spells cast against them much easier.
Redguard: The dark-skinned desert people of Hammerfell, they are conditioned by a harsh climate and a warrior’s culture. Redguard are among the best swordsmen in Tamriel and are capable of incredible feats of endurance, favouring bladed weapons that are quick and light. They are fierce and independent, and usually aren’t suited for life as a rank and file soldier. They can take a great deal of punishment, but are sure to deal it back much worse. There are no better naturally talented people in Tamriel when it comes to weapons mastery.
Orsimer (Orcs): The sophisticated barbarian peoples of the mountains, orcs are prized for their skills as armourers as well as heavy soldiers in the Imperial ranks. Interestingly, the Orcs are actually relatives to the elves. They have a strict tribal nature and often stick to their clans, although many leave to see the world and employ their skills where they feel they can make the most of them, although they are not always welcome back by their tribes once they leave. They rival the Nords in size, have green shades of skin, corse black hair, and carry heavy weapons and armour with ease. They are unshakably brave and are famous for enduring hardships, and while they were initially feared and hated across Tamriel, they had earned acceptance amongst the Empire and are considered some of the finest soldiers and warriors in the continent.
Other:
Dragons: Once thought to be mythical creatures, dragons returned to Elsweyr after Imperial Grand Chancellor Abnur Tharn unwittingly released them from their confinement. While their leaders have been slain by the reemergent Dragonguard and other factions, a few still roam Tamriel’s wilds, an exceedingly rare but exceptionally dangerous encounter, to be sure.
Nightmother: The long dead spiritual leader of the Dark Brotherhood, the Night Mother is now nothing more than a well preserved corpse that is capable of communicating to the ‘Listener’ of the Dark Brotherhood, the only person alive that can hear her speak. She hears the ‘Prayers’ of those who perform the Black Sacrament to enlist the services of the Brotherhood, and relays this information to the Listener, who is the de facto leader of the Brotherhood.
Dwemer: While technically elves, the dwemer are best known as dwarves. Long extinct, they were centuries ahead of their time and created masterful and advanced machines that still function to this day, including automated robot warriors, spiders, and other contraptions that still roam their ruins as if their masters were still alive. They enslaved the falmer and paid for it with their lives when the falmer uprising happened. The Dwemer mysteriously disappeared at the Battle of Red Mountain in the 1st era against the Chimer, and their disappearance has been a mystery to all ever since.
Falmer: Formerly a race known as Snow Elves who were forced into slavery by the dwemmer for centuries, eventually rebelling against their former masters after being twisted into a twisted, blind, and hateful race. They are found underground, and often around dwemer ruins. They hate surface dwellers and will kill or capture any who dare venture into their domains in the deep.
Tamriel: The continent which the provinces of Cyrodiil, Skyrim, High Rock, Hammerfall, Valenwood, the Summerset Isles, Elswyer, The Black Marsh, and Morrowind are located.
Provinces:
Cyrodiil: Heart of the Empire and homeland of the Imperials, it is a large province with a largely temperate climate that was ruled by the Alessian and Reman empires, as well as the Akaviri Potentates. Now, the Raxus Empire has conquered Imperial City and is currently expanding his influence. Cyrodiil is covered with ancient ruins of the Ayleids, the heartland elvish empire that had at first oppressed or enslaved man but was ultimately overthrown and annihilated.
Skyrim: The homeland of the Nords, and is a cold Northern climate of ice, mountains, and evergreen forests where the first men settled in Tamriel in the 1st age. Covered in Ancient human and Dwemer ruins, it is a harsh, old country where tradition is everything and the people are hard. It is divided into three distinct kingdoms; Western Skyrim, governed from Solitude, Eastern Skyrim, governed from Windhelm and a member of the Ebonheart Pact, and the Reach, which is independently ruled by Reachmen and is currently in fairly warm relations with the rest of Skyrim following the Grey Host invasion, provided their independence is not infringed.
Black Marsh (Argonia): The swamp and jungle-filled homeland of the Argonians, the Black Marsh is a land inhospitable to most other races due to the virulent diseases that flourish in its humid and moist climate of almost entirely uncharted and vegetation rich geography. It is a member of the Ebonheart Pact and is governed from Shadowfen.
High Rock: Home of the Bretons, High Rock is a land of mountains, plains, and mostly agreeable weather. The land is home to the oldest structure in Tamriel, rumoured to have been constructed by the aedra (Gods). The Bretons are a “mongrel” race that descended from Direnni elves and Nedic men and as such are a race of men with an affinity for magicka that almost rivals the Altmer. Having endured invasions by the Redguard, Aleids, Nords, and most notably the Orcs, High Rock had endured and become a highly unified province of well-regarded nobility, a trades based middle class, and peasantry. It is ruled by King Emeric and is the principle kingdom of the Daggerfall Covenant. The Easternmost region of Wrothgar has been ceded to the Orsimer and Orsinium is a stalwart member of the Covenant.
Hammerfell: The arid, mostly desert region with mountains and few grasslands is inhabited by the Redguard, a renown warrior culture that has thrived in this harsh climate. Caught between the conflicting ideas of the Crowns and Forebearers over the direction their kingdom should go, Hammerfell is nevertheless a member of the Daggerfall Covenant, having married into the alliance with High Rock with Queen Maraja having married King Emeric, and Hammerfell is ruled by King Fahara'jad. As members of the Covenant, they have set aside their ancient feud with the Orsimer.
Summerset Isles: A nation comprising of two major islands of Summerset and Auridon, it is the home of the Altmer and the principal member of the Aldmeri Dominion. It is a highly traditional and ancient culture that places a high emphasis on magicka and successful warlocks, sorcerers and other mages hold high stations of power, and their shores have produced some of the most powerful mages in all of Tamriel. It is a wondrous place unlike anywhere else in Tamriel, although traditionalist elements have fought against opening the borders to other races against the decree of Queen Ayrenn.
Valenwood: The densely forested, subtropical province that serves as the home of the Bosmer and as a show of unity, the capital of Grahtwood was made the capital of the Aldmeri Dominion. It is diverse, with geography ranging from beautiful coastal land to thick rainforests to swampland. The Bosmer live in harmony with the natural environment due to their strict adherence to the Green Pact, and their cities exist on giant migratory trees called Falinesti. They have established embassies for their Altmer and Khajiit allies, and despite the widely different cultures and perspectives, it has remained a stable and devoted alliance between people that largely celebrate their differences.
Elsweyr: A diverse homeland that is home to the Khajiit, split into a confederacy of Pellitine (Southern half) and Anequina (Northern half). It holds some of the most ancient cities in Tamriel, and ranges from desert badlands and dry plains to the North, to subtropical forests in the South. The Khajiit follow the Mane, their spiritual leader, of which only one can be born at a time under how the lunar lattice works. Their government is ruled over by Queen Khamira, a descendant of Anequina herself, and Khajiit often serve proudly as warriors, thieves, and spies for the Aldmeri Dominion. The kingdom was ravaged by a rage of dragons that have largely been dealt with and pandemics such as the Khenatian flu, but they have emerged as a stronger people who have a diverse population that includes a significant demographic of loyal Imperials and the resettled ancestors of the Akaviri who had ruled not so long ago.
Morrowind: The homeland of the Dunmer, it is a land dominated by a large main island with a massive active volcano called the Red Mountain, producing flora and fauna that is shaped and twisted by the ash of the Red Mountain, and the landscape can appear alien at times to visitors. Morrowind is ruled over by the Tribunal of Almalexia, Vivec, and Sotha Sil and house the political capital of the Ebonheart Pact. Morrowind is politically divided into the Great Houses of Indoril, Redoran, Hlaalu, Dres, and Telvanni. House Telvanni is distinct as it is the only Great House that is not a member of the Pact and has adopted fairly isolationist policies to preserve their traditions and decrees.
Skyrim: The homeland of the Nords, and is a cold Northern climate of ice, mountains, and evergreen forests where the first men settled in Tamriel in the 1st age. Covered in Ancient human and Dwemer ruins, it is a harsh, old country where tradition is everything and the people are hard. It is divided into three distinct kingdoms; Western Skyrim, governed from Solitude, Eastern Skyrim, governed from Windhelm and a member of the Ebonheart Pact, and the Reach, which is independently ruled by Reachmen and is currently in fairly warm relations with the rest of Skyrim following the Grey Host invasion, provided their independence is not infringed.
Black Marsh (Argonia): The swamp and jungle-filled homeland of the Argonians, the Black Marsh is a land inhospitable to most other races due to the virulent diseases that flourish in its humid and moist climate of almost entirely uncharted and vegetation rich geography. It is a member of the Ebonheart Pact and is governed from Shadowfen.
High Rock: Home of the Bretons, High Rock is a land of mountains, plains, and mostly agreeable weather. The land is home to the oldest structure in Tamriel, rumoured to have been constructed by the aedra (Gods). The Bretons are a “mongrel” race that descended from Direnni elves and Nedic men and as such are a race of men with an affinity for magicka that almost rivals the Altmer. Having endured invasions by the Redguard, Aleids, Nords, and most notably the Orcs, High Rock had endured and become a highly unified province of well-regarded nobility, a trades based middle class, and peasantry. It is ruled by King Emeric and is the principle kingdom of the Daggerfall Covenant. The Easternmost region of Wrothgar has been ceded to the Orsimer and Orsinium is a stalwart member of the Covenant.
Hammerfell: The arid, mostly desert region with mountains and few grasslands is inhabited by the Redguard, a renown warrior culture that has thrived in this harsh climate. Caught between the conflicting ideas of the Crowns and Forebearers over the direction their kingdom should go, Hammerfell is nevertheless a member of the Daggerfall Covenant, having married into the alliance with High Rock with Queen Maraja having married King Emeric, and Hammerfell is ruled by King Fahara'jad. As members of the Covenant, they have set aside their ancient feud with the Orsimer.
Summerset Isles: A nation comprising of two major islands of Summerset and Auridon, it is the home of the Altmer and the principal member of the Aldmeri Dominion. It is a highly traditional and ancient culture that places a high emphasis on magicka and successful warlocks, sorcerers and other mages hold high stations of power, and their shores have produced some of the most powerful mages in all of Tamriel. It is a wondrous place unlike anywhere else in Tamriel, although traditionalist elements have fought against opening the borders to other races against the decree of Queen Ayrenn.
Valenwood: The densely forested, subtropical province that serves as the home of the Bosmer and as a show of unity, the capital of Grahtwood was made the capital of the Aldmeri Dominion. It is diverse, with geography ranging from beautiful coastal land to thick rainforests to swampland. The Bosmer live in harmony with the natural environment due to their strict adherence to the Green Pact, and their cities exist on giant migratory trees called Falinesti. They have established embassies for their Altmer and Khajiit allies, and despite the widely different cultures and perspectives, it has remained a stable and devoted alliance between people that largely celebrate their differences.
Elsweyr: A diverse homeland that is home to the Khajiit, split into a confederacy of Pellitine (Southern half) and Anequina (Northern half). It holds some of the most ancient cities in Tamriel, and ranges from desert badlands and dry plains to the North, to subtropical forests in the South. The Khajiit follow the Mane, their spiritual leader, of which only one can be born at a time under how the lunar lattice works. Their government is ruled over by Queen Khamira, a descendant of Anequina herself, and Khajiit often serve proudly as warriors, thieves, and spies for the Aldmeri Dominion. The kingdom was ravaged by a rage of dragons that have largely been dealt with and pandemics such as the Khenatian flu, but they have emerged as a stronger people who have a diverse population that includes a significant demographic of loyal Imperials and the resettled ancestors of the Akaviri who had ruled not so long ago.
Morrowind: The homeland of the Dunmer, it is a land dominated by a large main island with a massive active volcano called the Red Mountain, producing flora and fauna that is shaped and twisted by the ash of the Red Mountain, and the landscape can appear alien at times to visitors. Morrowind is ruled over by the Tribunal of Almalexia, Vivec, and Sotha Sil and house the political capital of the Ebonheart Pact. Morrowind is politically divided into the Great Houses of Indoril, Redoran, Hlaalu, Dres, and Telvanni. House Telvanni is distinct as it is the only Great House that is not a member of the Pact and has adopted fairly isolationist policies to preserve their traditions and decrees.
Races:
Imperials: The olive skinned, cosmopolitan people that make up the natives of Cyrodiil and are the race of which each Emperor has descended from. They have an incredible talent for diplomacy and have proven to be exceptionally professional soldiers and merchants, carving empires from the ruins of oppression. They are an impressive race whose members can be found in just about any walk of life, profession, and discipline.
Altmer: The golden skinned high-elves are the tallest race in Tamriel. They aren’t as physically powerful as other races and aren’t nearly as agile or fast as their bosmer cousins, but they command magicka unlike any other race, and are capable of regenerating it very quickly. They are often the most powerful spell casters to be found, and are very formidable mages. They are oftentimes elitist and xenophobic, and look down on other races believing in elven superiority.
Nord: The fair skinned and haired people of Skyrim, they are strong, powerful people who have a love for fighting, drinking, and song. They are unmatched navigators of the seas, and are generally very devout people. Life is harsh for a nord, and they have a strong belief in doing things without waiting, as you may die tomorrow. They are physically the strongest race, matched only by the orcs, and have a legendary tolerance against the cold. Their battle cry is terrifying to behold, and their blood lust in combat is legendary.
Reachmen: A wild and free folk who call the Reach their home and have no ambitions beyond that, the Reach is a beautiful and untamed place that is covered in Dwarven ruins and is only loosely governed by ard Caddach in Markarth. They are people who embrace the Old Spirits, which other cultures know as Daedra, and have a life defined by their relationship with nature and the land and the hardships they endure. They are comprised of many different tribes with different ambitions, goals, and ways of life, with some being more open to outsiders than others, they have had a long animosity with the Nords and Orsimer, but with the world having endured years of war and the Planemeld, as well as their own invasion by an army of werewolves and vampires, the Reach is finally settling down as a place that seeks peace with its neighbours, provided outsiders leave them be.
Argonians: The lizard people of Black Marsh are curious as they are nearly immune to disease due to their nearly inhospitable homeland, are able to breathe underwater, and can recover from physical wounds quickly. They are quick, stealthy people and often find themselves caught up in the wars of others, such as when the Alyeids invaded and their ancestral struggles against the Dunmeri slavers. Now independent and members of the Ebonheart Pact, the Argonians have been enjoying a period of stability where their culture is thriving and their enemies are faced down with allies.
Bosmer: The wood-elves of Valenwood are unsurpassed archers and hunters, and while they are smaller in frame than other races, they make up for it in speed and dexterity. They are very in tune with their environment, and are able to speak to animals. This is often used to help with labour, defence, or in many cases, to get wildlife to attack an enemy.
Khajiit: The cat people of Elswyer, the form a khajiit assumes depends on the positioning and phase of the two moons of Nirn, Masser and Secunda. Many of the khajiit that are encountered outside of Elswyer are Suthay-Raht variety (See:
http://www.imperial-library.info/con...ases-and-forms). Khajiit are all able to see in the dark and have sharp, vicious claws that they often use for fighting, even in place of weapons and are a very stealthy race. They often find themselves marginalized by society outside of Elswyer, and as such find themselves as thieves, assassins, and other criminals.
Dunmer: The Dark elves of Morrowind have dark grey to green coloured skin and red eyes, and much more severe appearances than their altmer and bosmer cousins. They are ferocious fighters and have an aptitude for destruction magic. They believe they came into being from a curse from Azura, and they have a strong connection to their ancestors, which may come to their aid as a spirit. They are very versatile and while they are rumoured to be ill favoured by luck and are often discriminated against, they are a resilient and severe people.
Breton: Bretons are the fair-skinned, average magicka adept people of High Rock. They have an aptitude towards spell casting and are very intelligent people, capable of grasping new concepts quickly and mastering even the most complicated spells with relative ease. Only an altmer can put up an argument for being a better spell caster, but Bretons aren’t nearly as frail as the altmer and are capable of withstanding spells cast against them much easier.
Redguard: The dark-skinned desert people of Hammerfell, they are conditioned by a harsh climate and a warrior’s culture. Redguard are among the best swordsmen in Tamriel and are capable of incredible feats of endurance, favouring bladed weapons that are quick and light. They are fierce and independent, and usually aren’t suited for life as a rank and file soldier. They can take a great deal of punishment, but are sure to deal it back much worse. There are no better naturally talented people in Tamriel when it comes to weapons mastery.
Orsimer (Orcs): The sophisticated barbarian peoples of the mountains, orcs are prized for their skills as armourers as well as heavy soldiers in the Imperial ranks. Interestingly, the Orcs are actually relatives to the elves. They have a strict tribal nature and often stick to their clans, although many leave to see the world and employ their skills where they feel they can make the most of them, although they are not always welcome back by their tribes once they leave. They rival the Nords in size, have green shades of skin, corse black hair, and carry heavy weapons and armour with ease. They are unshakably brave and are famous for enduring hardships, and while they were initially feared and hated across Tamriel, they had earned acceptance amongst the Empire and are considered some of the finest soldiers and warriors in the continent.
Other:
Dragons: Once thought to be mythical creatures, dragons returned to Elsweyr after Imperial Grand Chancellor Abnur Tharn unwittingly released them from their confinement. While their leaders have been slain by the reemergent Dragonguard and other factions, a few still roam Tamriel’s wilds, an exceedingly rare but exceptionally dangerous encounter, to be sure.
Nightmother: The long dead spiritual leader of the Dark Brotherhood, the Night Mother is now nothing more than a well preserved corpse that is capable of communicating to the ‘Listener’ of the Dark Brotherhood, the only person alive that can hear her speak. She hears the ‘Prayers’ of those who perform the Black Sacrament to enlist the services of the Brotherhood, and relays this information to the Listener, who is the de facto leader of the Brotherhood.
Dwemer: While technically elves, the dwemer are best known as dwarves. Long extinct, they were centuries ahead of their time and created masterful and advanced machines that still function to this day, including automated robot warriors, spiders, and other contraptions that still roam their ruins as if their masters were still alive. They enslaved the falmer and paid for it with their lives when the falmer uprising happened. The Dwemer mysteriously disappeared at the Battle of Red Mountain in the 1st era against the Chimer, and their disappearance has been a mystery to all ever since.
Falmer: Formerly a race known as Snow Elves who were forced into slavery by the dwemmer for centuries, eventually rebelling against their former masters after being twisted into a twisted, blind, and hateful race. They are found underground, and often around dwemer ruins. They hate surface dwellers and will kill or capture any who dare venture into their domains in the deep.
1. No Godmodding or power gaming of any kind. We're telling a story, not having a competition. Not to say you can't do awesome things when it comes around time for combat, but know your limitations. This includes self-insert characters, backstories that are designed to give the character access to abilities, skills, and equipment that would be considered an unfair or overpowered advantage, autokilling NPCs during fights with virtually no effort put into it, taking on a room full of people single handedly, meta gaming, trying to have everyone treat your character like they’re something unique and special, your character knowing things they shouldn’t, et cetera. The goal here is believable characters.
2. The writing standard is typical Advanced. Read what you wrote over before you post, and ensure you have acceptable spelling and grammar. That said, I'm not a perfectionist, and mistakes are made by everyone. Just make an honest effort and we'll get along just fine. As long as you are routinely able to write multiple detailed paragraphs and keep pace with the roleplay, everything should be fine. If you are only comfortable with one-liners or short paragraph replies, this is likely going to be overwhelming and outside of your comfort zone. For the sake of preventing friction, the GMs will be looking for players of similar writing skill and experience.
3. No speed posting. This means give other people a chance to post before you do. There won't be a strict posting order, but if I notice the same two people posting back and forward in a short time span without giving others involved in that group or conversation or whatever a chance to reply, I will not be happy. If you have characters involved in a conversation, consider opening up a Gdocs pad and doing collaborations; that will be done quite a lot in this RP so be prepared for that.
4. If you are going to be absent for any length of time, please let me know. I’m not going to kill your character or kick you to the curb because stuff came up. Real life comes first, but that said, do try to be fairly active. Your character will be controlled by a GM until you return. If you vanish without a word for more than 14 days, you will be removed from the game and your characters written off or killed. Consider this your only warning.
5. If you disagree with the contents of someone's posts, don't turn the OOC into some horrible flame fest. We're all hopefully mature enough to settle disagreements through logical discourse. If things start to go into flame war territory, I will warn the players. Failure to STFU will lead to your banishment from this RP. We’re here to have fun, not get in mud-slinging fights.
6. If you want to do something, and you aren't sure, ask in the OOC so it can be discussed. Or, if you want it to be a surprise, PM the GMs. If it's a good idea, we'll work it into the plot. I like to encourage creativity and think that all good RPs involve ideas from all their players. Sometimes this leads to amazing subplots and character development.
7. If you have questions or ideas for events, PM the GMs. Your input will help keep you not only invested, but it’ll give the GMs more fuel to work with for upcoming encounters and plot lines in the RP. Remember, it’s your story too! It’s important that your character is an important part of it, and players feel that they have agency and aren’t just along for the ride.
8. If you feel the need to start a romance between characters, that's cool. This isn't exactly a rated role play, and it’s bound to happen. I personally like to graphically describe violence and swear quite a bit, but if you feel the need to indulge in smut, please take that stuff to PM. 4 pages of graphic sex isn't going to save the world; it'll just cause everyone else to feel really awkward and need a cold shower afterwards. It is known.
9. The GMs may choose to do background checks to find out if you’re reliable and generally write at an acceptable quality, so beware that even if your character sheet is outstanding, if the GMs discover you’re argumentative, write at an unacceptable level, go AWOL frequently, power game, and so on, there’s a good chance you WILL NOT be accepted.
2. The writing standard is typical Advanced. Read what you wrote over before you post, and ensure you have acceptable spelling and grammar. That said, I'm not a perfectionist, and mistakes are made by everyone. Just make an honest effort and we'll get along just fine. As long as you are routinely able to write multiple detailed paragraphs and keep pace with the roleplay, everything should be fine. If you are only comfortable with one-liners or short paragraph replies, this is likely going to be overwhelming and outside of your comfort zone. For the sake of preventing friction, the GMs will be looking for players of similar writing skill and experience.
3. No speed posting. This means give other people a chance to post before you do. There won't be a strict posting order, but if I notice the same two people posting back and forward in a short time span without giving others involved in that group or conversation or whatever a chance to reply, I will not be happy. If you have characters involved in a conversation, consider opening up a Gdocs pad and doing collaborations; that will be done quite a lot in this RP so be prepared for that.
4. If you are going to be absent for any length of time, please let me know. I’m not going to kill your character or kick you to the curb because stuff came up. Real life comes first, but that said, do try to be fairly active. Your character will be controlled by a GM until you return. If you vanish without a word for more than 14 days, you will be removed from the game and your characters written off or killed. Consider this your only warning.
5. If you disagree with the contents of someone's posts, don't turn the OOC into some horrible flame fest. We're all hopefully mature enough to settle disagreements through logical discourse. If things start to go into flame war territory, I will warn the players. Failure to STFU will lead to your banishment from this RP. We’re here to have fun, not get in mud-slinging fights.
6. If you want to do something, and you aren't sure, ask in the OOC so it can be discussed. Or, if you want it to be a surprise, PM the GMs. If it's a good idea, we'll work it into the plot. I like to encourage creativity and think that all good RPs involve ideas from all their players. Sometimes this leads to amazing subplots and character development.
7. If you have questions or ideas for events, PM the GMs. Your input will help keep you not only invested, but it’ll give the GMs more fuel to work with for upcoming encounters and plot lines in the RP. Remember, it’s your story too! It’s important that your character is an important part of it, and players feel that they have agency and aren’t just along for the ride.
8. If you feel the need to start a romance between characters, that's cool. This isn't exactly a rated role play, and it’s bound to happen. I personally like to graphically describe violence and swear quite a bit, but if you feel the need to indulge in smut, please take that stuff to PM. 4 pages of graphic sex isn't going to save the world; it'll just cause everyone else to feel really awkward and need a cold shower afterwards. It is known.
9. The GMs may choose to do background checks to find out if you’re reliable and generally write at an acceptable quality, so beware that even if your character sheet is outstanding, if the GMs discover you’re argumentative, write at an unacceptable level, go AWOL frequently, power game, and so on, there’s a good chance you WILL NOT be accepted.
-Common Materials: Crafted and obtained in abundance, the vast majority of equipment won’t need justification to possess, such as iron, steel, leathers, and so on.
-Dwemer, or dwarven: This is relatively common in Skyrim, Morrowind, or Hammerfell if your character has been in the ruins. Most of their machines and defenses are still working, so chances are, your character is brave and tenacious if they got their hands on this stuff. Stores would sell limited stocks at pretty marked up prices considering how hard it is to obtain it.
-Stalhrim: A special, magic ice-crafted set of equipment that can only be forged by the greatest masters using techniques only known by the Skaal. Chances are, your character will have neither access to stalhrim, the equipment to mine it, or the knowledge to do anything with it. It is exceedingly rare and specialized material that holds significant importance for the Skall and as such almost certainly will not be in possession of the player characters.
-Ayleid/Akaviri: The Akaviri Potentate ended only a few decades prior and the last Akaviri invasion that had forged the Ebonheart Pact had only formed 3 decades ago, there are Akaviri bits of gear still fairly readily available, albeit in various condition and quantities. It has been decades of war at this point, and stockpiles of equipment aren’t likely to stay untouched for long.
-Falmer and Reach: Both sets of gear are crude but effective, being formed from the remains of animals and fashioned into weapons and armour. While the vast majority of people wouldn’t even know of the existence of the Falmer, let alone encounter them, the Reach is currently ruled by Reachmen; trade with some tribes is possible.
-Glass and Ebony: Both of these are high-end, expensive, and extremely well made weapons and armour that you'd be lucky to ever find. Ebony gear originates in Morrowind, so it would be found among the rich and powerful there, and likewise, Glass gear comes from the Aldmeri Dominion and is usually only found on their elite soldiers, although the Buoyant Armigers of Vivec also use a variation of volcanic glass in their designs that are similar to the Aldmeri glass craftsmanship. While possible to possess equipment from these kinds of materials, please justify it in your backstory.
-Dragon: The reemergence of Dragons in Elsweyr was brief over 28 years ago, and they have not been seen in Skyrim for thousands of years. The remains of dragons are exceptionally rare, you likely will never come into contact with this material. For the purposes of this roleplay, this is off limits.
-Daedric: As the Amulet of Kings still remains, Daedric incursions are still few and far between. Princes have to work through mortal intermediaries to have access to Mundus. While plenty of Dremora, Xivkyn, and other species of Daedra did come through and were killed in significant numbers during the Planemeld, there is still a massive stigma against these sorts of materials. For the purposes of the roleplay, this is off limits.
Any enchantments: Possible, but you'll need to find the soul gems to charge them. You will need to be or find an enchanter to have your gear enchanted.
-Daedric artifacts: No. Just no.
1. You can only carry so much on your person at a time. Think of real life, are you going to be carrying a bow, a claymore, 3 daggers, a staff, 400 arrows, steel plate armour, just as many potions and scrolls, and every book out of the public library? Keep it reasonable, keep it realistic. Collecting loot should never be your goal. You should also specify how your character is carrying around most of their inventory.
2. No matter how strong, talented, and experienced your character is, you're still only mortal. If you're running into 15 bandits, your odds don't look good. A troll is going to be the fight of your life. Herd of mammoths? Run like hell. You sustain injuries; you may die if you encounter a situation that is suicidal.
3. Potions take time to work in most cases, so you're not going to get gutted by an axe and then look brand new by chugging Tamriel Energy Drink. It'll help your body mesh the wounds and heal you, and it takes time for it to eliminate poisons and disease. In short, be careful. On that note, chugging potion after potion isn't going to happen unless you happen to be a whale with the body mass to do so.
4. Scrolls take time to read, so if you're reading one in combat to cast something, make sure you have someone watching your back and there isn't a group of Minotaurs looking to rip your arm off ten feet away.
7. Damage is realistic(ish), if you're hit by an ice spike or an arrow; you're going to need some serious medical attention if it hits something vital. But since this is Elder Scrolls, and potions work in impossible ways. People also aren’t going to die of an infection from a blade wound after three days of sickness or something. Point is, your character is mortal and will be taking wounds in combat.
8. Keep in mind that whatever weapons and armour you do have does not reflect how well your character is going to do in a fight or survive, so don’t doctor a CS around trying to make sure that they’re the best equipped person in the game so you have a combat advantage. There’s going to be tough-as-nails bandits out there running around in fur armour and iron weapons who’ve killed more people than your character has ever met who will not care if your character is decked out in full ebony armour, a shield, and a longsword. He’s light and fast, you’re low and heavy, and experience trumps expensive weapons and armour almost every time. Try to give your character equipment that makes sense for who they are and what they’ve been through.
9. Weapons do not necessarily have to be what you find in the games, but follow it as a template. As such, things like spears, throwing knives, throwing axes, glaives, halberds, javelins, and flails are fair game, even if most of that didn’t appear in any of the Elder Scrolls games. However, that isn’t free reign to try to put something that is high-fantasy or just ridiculous into the game. Do try to keep things lore appropriate where possible, as well.
10. To keep things simple, we will not be permitting werewolf, necromancer or vampire characters. It’s an extra layer of scrutiny to go through when reviewing character submissions, and there’s always a concern that players just want the conditions for the powers/ badass factor rather than for narrative purposes, as well as it complicates group dynamics because realistically, a character with said conditions would show symptoms sooner or later and likely be attacked before long because of it.
11. If you are trying to omit something in your character sheet saying that it will ‘be revealed later in the RP’ or just generally want to keep it a surprise, GMs need to be notified of the idea for approval and may be able to help incorporate ideas into the game.
12. Don’t have your characters have close personal relationships with canon characters. It’s one thing to say you served under King Emeric, but we don’t want to hear about how you were lovers or poker buddies or something. We aren’t fans of shrinking the world and since people tend to have their own personal ideas of what these characters are like, we’re keeping any canon NPCs firmly under GM lock and key.
[B]Name:[/B]
[B]Race:[/B]
[B]Sex:[/B]
[B]Age:[/B]
[B]Family Origins:[/B]
[B]Appearance:[/B]
[B]Equipment:[/B]
[B]Misc. Possessions:[/B]
[B]Family and Associations:[/B]
[B]Favoured Skills:[/B]
[Indent][B]Spell List:[/B][/Indent]
[B]History:[/B]
[B]Personality:[/B]
Name: Character's name and any alias they may go by
Race: What race they are (Altmer, Argonian, Bosmer, Breton, Dunmer, Imperial, Khajiit, Nord, Orsimer, or Redguard.)
Age: How old your character is. Age brings wisdom, youth brings strength and energy. Keep in mind elves tend to have longer lifespans than men and beast races but all races mature at a fairly similar rate. Queen Ayrenn, for instance, was 28 years old when the Three Banners War began, and as an Altmer she can expect to live a natural life of many centuries. She is 46 as of 2E600.
Family Origins: Where was your character born and raised? This may affect their cultural outlook. It can be anywhere in Tamriel, just bear in mind that, for example, a Cyrodiillic cosmopolitan orc will have a different culture and mentality than a Skyrim stronghold orc, or a Summerset Islands born and raised Altmer may hold different values than one who was born and raised in Morrowind.
Appearance: A detailed description of what your character looks like and a picture, if possible. The more people have to reference, the better if is for role playing purposes. Please try to find realistic or semi-realistic portraits for your character.
Equipment: Weapons and armour. As you fill this out, ask yourself, if you were your character, would you be able to carry all of this stuff? More stuff= more encumbered. Less stuff= less encumbered, but less resources at your disposal.
Misc. Possessions: Things like lock picks, food, smithing materials, scrolls, potions. The weight thing applies as well. Doesn’t necessarily have to be things from the games.
Favored Skills: This section gets a bit more complicated. Using the main skills of the game (two handed, smithing, destruction, illusion, lock picking, pick pocketing, shield, et cetera) things are rated by proficiency. You may have 1 highly proficient skill, 3 moderately proficient skills, and 3 somewhat proficient skills. You may, however, move up a class at the expense of another skill of the level below it (e.g. you pick 1 highly proficient at the cost of 2 moderately proficient). Likewise, you can gain more skills if you downgrade a skill (1 moderately proficient becomes two somewhat proficient, for example). Explain why your character is good at each skill in a brief sentence.
[SPECIAL NOTE FOR MAGES: For a quick understanding, Highly Proficient skills are equivalent of expert level spells, Moderately Proficient is Adept Level Spells, and Somewhat Proficient is Apprentice level. Keep that in mind when playing your character and picking your proficiencies. Please stick to spells you see in the games, but I’m not against combining some of them if it makes sense, but keep in mind your character would have to be exceptionally talented to do so. Run spell ideas by the GM if you aren’t sure for approval, but if you see it in the games, you should be okay.]
Spell list: Highly Proficient is 4 spells from that school, Moderately Proficient is 3 spells from that skill, Somewhat Proficient is 2 spells from that school.
History: Explain your character's back story, how they came to be who they are, and so on. Please make this fairly detailed as it really fleshes out who your character is supposed to be. This also will help determine if I think your writing quality is satisfactory for Advanced requirements. Be sure to include things like upbringing, important people in their lives, how they came into possession of their skills and equipment, where they’ve been and what they’ve experienced, and how historical events in their lifetime may have affected them, if applicable. Should be several good paragraphs in length, don’t be afraid to go crazy on this. It won’t be what’s expected for your usual posts, but the more information you have here the better you can play your character and the better invested you’ll be in the RP if you spent a good amount of time working on a character sheet instead of crapping one out in half an hour and expecting to care for your character with a two paragraph bio.
Personality: Explain what your character's personality is like, including quirks, faults, and so on. Nuance goes a long way; the goal is to make someone believable and relatable, not a flawless little diamond in the rough.
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POOHEAD189 The Abmin
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Oh no you don’t.
Not here son.
Not in my Tamriel.
Not here son.
Not in my Tamriel.
Oh no you don’t.
Not here son.
Not in my Tamriel.
Your Tamriel? Who gave you that?
spicykvnt Sponsored by Yorkshire Gold
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I banned a bot in here so now it belongs to me.
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coGM
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As a heads-up, this is invite only to start. We may reach out to others as the story picks up steam and it's determined we would like more players, but for now please bear in mind that a big part of our selection has to do with reliability and activity.
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coGM
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Hey gang! Let's try to have our character sheets in by Thurs-Friday!
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Joy
33 | ♀ | Orphan of Solitude | Nord/Imperial
_______________________________________________
Barmaid, Bard, Cook
_______________________________________________
Willpower (Major) Personality (Minor)
_______________________________________________
Barmaid, Bard, Cook
_______________________________________________
Willpower (Major) Personality (Minor)
══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════
Joy is of average height - standing at 5'6. Her figure is womanly, soft, and unthreatening and it is clear she has a fondness for food. Somehow, she keeps herself in an enviably svelte shape that has caught the eyes of more than a few men and women. During winter, she has the pale appearance typical of a Nord, her hair falls like fire to her collarbones, in soft curls -- one section happens to be far more unruly and so she often tucks it behind a hairband. Joy does not care too much for over grooming herself, she is not a vain individual, and yet she still radiates an undone kind of beauty, her smile is especially disarming in its sincerity.
If she is fair in winter, her Imperial heritage shows in the summer, the sun drawing out a more olive tone to her skin. Her hair, too, takes on a far more golden lustre in the sunlight.
Perhaps the most standout of her features are her eyes. They carry the colour of a brittle blue sky, and are warm with happiness. She communicates well with expression, not averse to raising a brow to be coquettish, or pulling her full lips downwards into a faux frown to coax a laugh from someone else. When Joy smiles, it is clearly a mischievous one that reflects her mind at work.
Under her clothing, she bears the scars of her trade, and more so than that, the scars of her life. An accident with a pan of boiling sugar has left a particularly nasty burn across her ribs. There are faded stripes that adorn her back from beatings at the Orphanage, and the reminder of a particularly violent mugging - the scar of a stab in her side. It makes her nervous and insecure, to have such scars; at the same time, they are her secret. She sees them as the reminders of her experiences. Her hands are frequently peppered with small knife cuts and little burns. Occupational hazards. She is not remotely as bothered by these as she is by her disfiguring marks.
If she is fair in winter, her Imperial heritage shows in the summer, the sun drawing out a more olive tone to her skin. Her hair, too, takes on a far more golden lustre in the sunlight.
Perhaps the most standout of her features are her eyes. They carry the colour of a brittle blue sky, and are warm with happiness. She communicates well with expression, not averse to raising a brow to be coquettish, or pulling her full lips downwards into a faux frown to coax a laugh from someone else. When Joy smiles, it is clearly a mischievous one that reflects her mind at work.
Under her clothing, she bears the scars of her trade, and more so than that, the scars of her life. An accident with a pan of boiling sugar has left a particularly nasty burn across her ribs. There are faded stripes that adorn her back from beatings at the Orphanage, and the reminder of a particularly violent mugging - the scar of a stab in her side. It makes her nervous and insecure, to have such scars; at the same time, they are her secret. She sees them as the reminders of her experiences. Her hands are frequently peppered with small knife cuts and little burns. Occupational hazards. She is not remotely as bothered by these as she is by her disfiguring marks.
═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════
Joy is at her very essence, a hopeless romantic. She has searched endlessly for requited love, whether that is familial, found in platonic friendship, or romantic love. It is the only thing she has ever felt that her life was truly lacking. A home. She found that, or so she believed, in The Blushing Hawk -- seeing the women she tended to with sisterly affection. During her time there, she saw many of them arrive, work, and then leave eventually, in a manner that was not too dissimilar to her upbringing in Honorhall.
The friendliness they shared ended when they would leave. Despite this, Joy has fond memories of them too - and so is drawn to women as friends quite quickly. The women saw her through her own heartbreaks, and soothed her when she was sad too.
She is naturally charismatic, with a curiosity about everyone and everything. She is the kind of woman who carries you away with her, and makes you feel as if you are the only one who matters to her. It is a byproduct of her living a life where people come and go as freely as they need to. She is poetic in her speech, and even more so in her thought. Observant of the world around her, she sees beauty in everything, even if her life has shown her nothing but ugliness. She has come to expect only short relationships from those she encounters. Her empathic nature lends itself well to finding trust in others quite quickly. They move on, and she stays behind - in the moments she shares with others, she wants to see the world through their eyes.
Having never been adopted by a family, and having been sold to a brothel, her unorthodox upbringing has left her riddled with her own insecurities. She opts to hide this behind her trademark smile - never letting her vulnerability show for fear of judgement. She fears that she will never find stability in her life, with someone, with a family. Like anyone else, Joy is not without the ability to feel deep sadness from time to time too. She grieves for the life she never had, and the mystery of her parentage will always haunt her on some level. Her own insecure questions that she carries in her heart for her mother and father sting her from time to time. It would take someone who knew similar feelings of pain and loss to find them within Joy.
The hardships she has faced have never truly broken her spirit, however, and instead they have only ever made her more adamant to find happiness in dark spaces. She brushes off negativity rather easily, and has an easy way of approaching almost anyone, finding it easy to make a good impression.
A practicing bard and performer of sorts, she adores music and brings a flair of musicality to most of the things that she does - writing songs about her experiences in love, life, and even penning songs about the tales of deeds of those she has met.
Joy is a caretaker to those around her, giving herself almost selflessly to the needs of others, she fills her cup by being a listening ear with a wise and uplifting word to others when they need it, even if they don’t know it.
One would be foolish to pass her off as a simple barmaid spouting loving words. Many have, and many came to regret that. Joy was never formally educated, so she has no real intelligence of the world and its history - only the stories she hears from others. Her emotional intelligence is much more astute and she is patient. This level of emotional intelligence has afforded her an almost fearless level of grit. She is more bold and daring than her lack of skills should allow her to be, and more outspoken than most too. She speaks for those in need, and is not afraid to speak her mind loud and proud when it comes to matters of morality and justice. She has no fear towards other people, no concept of authority and respecting a view because it has passed through a hierarchy. It is her ability to see the good in people that gives her the confidence to talk openly with anyone, about anything.
The friendliness they shared ended when they would leave. Despite this, Joy has fond memories of them too - and so is drawn to women as friends quite quickly. The women saw her through her own heartbreaks, and soothed her when she was sad too.
She is naturally charismatic, with a curiosity about everyone and everything. She is the kind of woman who carries you away with her, and makes you feel as if you are the only one who matters to her. It is a byproduct of her living a life where people come and go as freely as they need to. She is poetic in her speech, and even more so in her thought. Observant of the world around her, she sees beauty in everything, even if her life has shown her nothing but ugliness. She has come to expect only short relationships from those she encounters. Her empathic nature lends itself well to finding trust in others quite quickly. They move on, and she stays behind - in the moments she shares with others, she wants to see the world through their eyes.
Having never been adopted by a family, and having been sold to a brothel, her unorthodox upbringing has left her riddled with her own insecurities. She opts to hide this behind her trademark smile - never letting her vulnerability show for fear of judgement. She fears that she will never find stability in her life, with someone, with a family. Like anyone else, Joy is not without the ability to feel deep sadness from time to time too. She grieves for the life she never had, and the mystery of her parentage will always haunt her on some level. Her own insecure questions that she carries in her heart for her mother and father sting her from time to time. It would take someone who knew similar feelings of pain and loss to find them within Joy.
The hardships she has faced have never truly broken her spirit, however, and instead they have only ever made her more adamant to find happiness in dark spaces. She brushes off negativity rather easily, and has an easy way of approaching almost anyone, finding it easy to make a good impression.
A practicing bard and performer of sorts, she adores music and brings a flair of musicality to most of the things that she does - writing songs about her experiences in love, life, and even penning songs about the tales of deeds of those she has met.
Joy is a caretaker to those around her, giving herself almost selflessly to the needs of others, she fills her cup by being a listening ear with a wise and uplifting word to others when they need it, even if they don’t know it.
One would be foolish to pass her off as a simple barmaid spouting loving words. Many have, and many came to regret that. Joy was never formally educated, so she has no real intelligence of the world and its history - only the stories she hears from others. Her emotional intelligence is much more astute and she is patient. This level of emotional intelligence has afforded her an almost fearless level of grit. She is more bold and daring than her lack of skills should allow her to be, and more outspoken than most too. She speaks for those in need, and is not afraid to speak her mind loud and proud when it comes to matters of morality and justice. She has no fear towards other people, no concept of authority and respecting a view because it has passed through a hierarchy. It is her ability to see the good in people that gives her the confidence to talk openly with anyone, about anything.
═══════ H I S T O R Y ══════
My name is Joy, just Joy.
Nobody knows where or when I was born, only where I was found. I was discovered abandoned in Solitude, under the shawls of the first snow of Frostfall. It was the blurred vision of a blushing drunk, and his curiosity that followed that led to my being rescued from a sure death, and soon after that encounter, I was sent to the city Orphanage.
It was a bleak childhood. The Matron of the Orphanage was crueler behind closed doors and I spent most of my time dreaming about my future. I always felt so deeply unsettled, and I was never satisfied with the nonchalance and disregard of who I really was, of who left me, of who my parents were.
My fellow orphans and I would play together with the few toys we had, often we’d fashion dolls and the like from the sticks and stones in the yard and we would play out our lives in those hours of free time.
I have never been able to cast a spell, but I like to believe that the other orphans and I created magic by the fireplace from pure imagination. It was all I could do to turn their attention away from the cruel Matron who would punish us over the smallest slights. I know the sting of a stick across my back, the curled handle of a cane dug into my ribs, the whip of a belt across the back of my legs, and the feeling of a simple punch or a kick all too well. I always tried to take the brunt of her malice. If she was mad at one child, and looked to want to beat them, then I’d be naughtier instead. I sparked her ire so much one evening that a beating did not satisfy, and she cut off my hair in uneven clumps to make an example of me. Imagine her further rage when I cut the rest clean off and fashioned it so stylishly the very next day.
I watched over the years as one by one they were each adopted and I never saw them again. We had always promised to be friends forever, but once their ‘forever’ was with a family that loved and chose them… My forever with them was extinguished.
At 13, with no more hopes of adoption at my age (who would adopt the scrawny, naughty, unruly child, afterall?), I was simply sold for a meagre purse of coin to a Dunmer Madam named Minasi. I rode with her in the back of a cart from Solitude, across the border to High Rock where I wound up on the outskirts of Evermoree. I was frightened, my life, as miserable as it had been, was changing. I always believed that it was better the misfortune that you know, than the one that you did not. She barely spoke a word, only prodded and poked at me on the ride.
I was soon put to work in her brothel, The Blushing Hawk. I was bought as her maid, since she was frailer in her age now and ailed with a rattling cough. The other women she employed were too busy with duties of a different kind to be of any other use to her. Minasi worked me hard, and over time I learned that this was simply her pride, and her need to run a safe place for the people who stepped in.
She was certainly refined, and the unmistakable matriarch of her establishment, but I could see in the smouldering embers of her eyes that she was wounded in many ways more than her ill health. I theorised that perhaps once upon a time, she had been just a girl here too, how she may have loved and lost, as many of us did. Her temper was coarse, in a way that I could only liken to a saber-cat with a thorn wedged in her paw. She was eager to react to any touch. Her flame had gone out.
After a year or two of that, the last of her kitchen staff left and I was then put to work in there. I’d never even picked up a knife or peeled a potato, but I learned quickly. Before long, I’d moved on from simple stews, to pies, to some rather exquisite desserts. When I wasn’t cooking, I was plucking the strings of a lute that had been left behind by a patron. The very same one I have now. I taught myself to play music, putting myself through the rigorous torture of freezing the tips of my fingers in the snow just so that I could play as cleanly as possible. What else could I do, but give something my all? It was how I showed the dedication to my craft. I still do it to this day. After this, Minasi saw something valuable in me and at the late age of 19 she started teaching me how to read and write. Among my lessons were those in her mother-tongue, Dunmeris.
I struggled with it at first and she would slap the backs of my hands if my penmanship was anything less than perfect. I think for close to a year the skin was red raw -- but I learned. That’s my gift you see, persistence, and the voracious hunger to learn crafts. As she continued to lose her vitality, I became the one holding the establishment together. She was approaching the winter of her life, and I, my spring. I kept the girls and the patrons fed, I sang and played music while they waited, I kept the place clean, mended the sheets, curtains, and clothing. I found a life for myself. I made one, as best as I could, I made one. I was as close to happy as I’d ever been.
It had been a slow evening when I came to her in her bed, I could see that the colour from her eyes had drained completely, and there was no longer any light behind them. She was the cruel mother I had never wanted, a far cry from the kind woman in my dreams who nurtured and took care of me, held me, and fed me with warmth. But, however I looked at it, Minasi had raised me, and everything I had, I had her to thank for.
Minasi had told me once that we lived our lives like a stream, travelling in more or less one direction until we were broken off into something that led us to a new current, a new path...
That change came soon enough after Minasi had passed. While tending and cleaning out her room, I came upon the transactionary paperwork of my sale to Minasi, beside it - a package, wrapped in cloth, with my name written on a piece of parchment. It was a shawl. The very same one I was swaddled in as a baby, and wrapped inside that shawl was a brooch. A small pair of golden wings; in the very centre a blue stone.
It belonged to me.
I stared upon it with awe, and in the feather details of that brooch I saw opportunity, a clue to my past, a key to my future.
In that instance my life changed forever. Where I had only ever pictured The Blushing Hawk, and it’s many closed doors - suddenly there was a path stretching out across the land before it. How could I stay? Everything I had ever wanted could be answered by someone. Someone had to know where this brooch came from, and then perhaps, where I came from. That clue, to me, was love. Whomever had left me, had given me the first breadcrumb to find them again.
28 long years later I found it.
All I had seen day after day was The Blushing Hawk. It was so much so, that the only thing that had mattered in my world was that rickety brothel, in the backstreets of Evermore. As Minasi was laid to rest, I was forced to open my eyes and I observed that most people had nothing to do with my world at all. I couldn’t stop thinking about the life I could have led, had fate not carried me on that cart with Minasi from Solitude to the doors of the Hawk.
The next 5 years of my life had me travel from place to place, working in many a Tavern and Inn. I wrote songs for the strangers I met, danced with soldiers, tended to passing members of the Lion’s Guard. I’ve been a moment in the lives of so many people - just a passing, glimmer of a moment..
Life wasn’t miraculously easier when I left the Blushing Hawk. I’ve been mugged more times than I care to count now for a start… But there is romance to be found in the freedom of the road, that road is all I’ve had and I’ve walked it. I’ve witnessed the way of life change for so many recently, that strange phenomena. People are shadows of themselves… Even strangers that I’ve never met before, I can see that they’re not who they’re meant to be. I can feel it. Now I am here, in chains and darkness. I remember resisting them, my eyes turned to the strange colours in the sky until I met a painful darkness.
I am frightened, but sometimes the only way to carry ourselves through such fear is by believing that our dreams may come true, and our prayers are answered. My only hope now is that one day, in some quiet place, when all this has passed, there will be a house on a hill with a candle in the window for me.
Calling me home at last.
Nobody knows where or when I was born, only where I was found. I was discovered abandoned in Solitude, under the shawls of the first snow of Frostfall. It was the blurred vision of a blushing drunk, and his curiosity that followed that led to my being rescued from a sure death, and soon after that encounter, I was sent to the city Orphanage.
It was a bleak childhood. The Matron of the Orphanage was crueler behind closed doors and I spent most of my time dreaming about my future. I always felt so deeply unsettled, and I was never satisfied with the nonchalance and disregard of who I really was, of who left me, of who my parents were.
My fellow orphans and I would play together with the few toys we had, often we’d fashion dolls and the like from the sticks and stones in the yard and we would play out our lives in those hours of free time.
I have never been able to cast a spell, but I like to believe that the other orphans and I created magic by the fireplace from pure imagination. It was all I could do to turn their attention away from the cruel Matron who would punish us over the smallest slights. I know the sting of a stick across my back, the curled handle of a cane dug into my ribs, the whip of a belt across the back of my legs, and the feeling of a simple punch or a kick all too well. I always tried to take the brunt of her malice. If she was mad at one child, and looked to want to beat them, then I’d be naughtier instead. I sparked her ire so much one evening that a beating did not satisfy, and she cut off my hair in uneven clumps to make an example of me. Imagine her further rage when I cut the rest clean off and fashioned it so stylishly the very next day.
I watched over the years as one by one they were each adopted and I never saw them again. We had always promised to be friends forever, but once their ‘forever’ was with a family that loved and chose them… My forever with them was extinguished.
At 13, with no more hopes of adoption at my age (who would adopt the scrawny, naughty, unruly child, afterall?), I was simply sold for a meagre purse of coin to a Dunmer Madam named Minasi. I rode with her in the back of a cart from Solitude, across the border to High Rock where I wound up on the outskirts of Evermoree. I was frightened, my life, as miserable as it had been, was changing. I always believed that it was better the misfortune that you know, than the one that you did not. She barely spoke a word, only prodded and poked at me on the ride.
I was soon put to work in her brothel, The Blushing Hawk. I was bought as her maid, since she was frailer in her age now and ailed with a rattling cough. The other women she employed were too busy with duties of a different kind to be of any other use to her. Minasi worked me hard, and over time I learned that this was simply her pride, and her need to run a safe place for the people who stepped in.
She was certainly refined, and the unmistakable matriarch of her establishment, but I could see in the smouldering embers of her eyes that she was wounded in many ways more than her ill health. I theorised that perhaps once upon a time, she had been just a girl here too, how she may have loved and lost, as many of us did. Her temper was coarse, in a way that I could only liken to a saber-cat with a thorn wedged in her paw. She was eager to react to any touch. Her flame had gone out.
After a year or two of that, the last of her kitchen staff left and I was then put to work in there. I’d never even picked up a knife or peeled a potato, but I learned quickly. Before long, I’d moved on from simple stews, to pies, to some rather exquisite desserts. When I wasn’t cooking, I was plucking the strings of a lute that had been left behind by a patron. The very same one I have now. I taught myself to play music, putting myself through the rigorous torture of freezing the tips of my fingers in the snow just so that I could play as cleanly as possible. What else could I do, but give something my all? It was how I showed the dedication to my craft. I still do it to this day. After this, Minasi saw something valuable in me and at the late age of 19 she started teaching me how to read and write. Among my lessons were those in her mother-tongue, Dunmeris.
I struggled with it at first and she would slap the backs of my hands if my penmanship was anything less than perfect. I think for close to a year the skin was red raw -- but I learned. That’s my gift you see, persistence, and the voracious hunger to learn crafts. As she continued to lose her vitality, I became the one holding the establishment together. She was approaching the winter of her life, and I, my spring. I kept the girls and the patrons fed, I sang and played music while they waited, I kept the place clean, mended the sheets, curtains, and clothing. I found a life for myself. I made one, as best as I could, I made one. I was as close to happy as I’d ever been.
It had been a slow evening when I came to her in her bed, I could see that the colour from her eyes had drained completely, and there was no longer any light behind them. She was the cruel mother I had never wanted, a far cry from the kind woman in my dreams who nurtured and took care of me, held me, and fed me with warmth. But, however I looked at it, Minasi had raised me, and everything I had, I had her to thank for.
Minasi had told me once that we lived our lives like a stream, travelling in more or less one direction until we were broken off into something that led us to a new current, a new path...
That change came soon enough after Minasi had passed. While tending and cleaning out her room, I came upon the transactionary paperwork of my sale to Minasi, beside it - a package, wrapped in cloth, with my name written on a piece of parchment. It was a shawl. The very same one I was swaddled in as a baby, and wrapped inside that shawl was a brooch. A small pair of golden wings; in the very centre a blue stone.
It belonged to me.
I stared upon it with awe, and in the feather details of that brooch I saw opportunity, a clue to my past, a key to my future.
In that instance my life changed forever. Where I had only ever pictured The Blushing Hawk, and it’s many closed doors - suddenly there was a path stretching out across the land before it. How could I stay? Everything I had ever wanted could be answered by someone. Someone had to know where this brooch came from, and then perhaps, where I came from. That clue, to me, was love. Whomever had left me, had given me the first breadcrumb to find them again.
28 long years later I found it.
All I had seen day after day was The Blushing Hawk. It was so much so, that the only thing that had mattered in my world was that rickety brothel, in the backstreets of Evermore. As Minasi was laid to rest, I was forced to open my eyes and I observed that most people had nothing to do with my world at all. I couldn’t stop thinking about the life I could have led, had fate not carried me on that cart with Minasi from Solitude to the doors of the Hawk.
The next 5 years of my life had me travel from place to place, working in many a Tavern and Inn. I wrote songs for the strangers I met, danced with soldiers, tended to passing members of the Lion’s Guard. I’ve been a moment in the lives of so many people - just a passing, glimmer of a moment..
Life wasn’t miraculously easier when I left the Blushing Hawk. I’ve been mugged more times than I care to count now for a start… But there is romance to be found in the freedom of the road, that road is all I’ve had and I’ve walked it. I’ve witnessed the way of life change for so many recently, that strange phenomena. People are shadows of themselves… Even strangers that I’ve never met before, I can see that they’re not who they’re meant to be. I can feel it. Now I am here, in chains and darkness. I remember resisting them, my eyes turned to the strange colours in the sky until I met a painful darkness.
I am frightened, but sometimes the only way to carry ourselves through such fear is by believing that our dreams may come true, and our prayers are answered. My only hope now is that one day, in some quiet place, when all this has passed, there will be a house on a hill with a candle in the window for me.
Calling me home at last.
▼ S K I L L S
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
► Speechcraft - Music, Empathy, Mercantile - Highly Proficient
► Speechcraft - Bilingual - Dunmeris
► Provisioning - Culinary arts - Highly Proficient
► Tailoring - Moderately Proficient
► Athletics - Somewhat Proficient
▼ R E L A T I O N S & A F F I L I A T I O N S
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
► Solitude Orphanage
► The Blushing Hawk
► Minasi - The closest she has had to a mother - Deceased.
▼ E Q U I P M E N T
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
► Stylish linen rucksack.
► Coin Purse - 47 septims currently.
► Lyre, Lute, Ankle Chimes.
► A brooch in the shape of wings with a blue stone in the centre - the only clue she has to her parentage. She keeps this hidden.
► Sewing and knitting needles, threads.
► A set of 6 chef’s knives, and the tools to keep them sharp and well maintained.
► Tasting spoons seem to litter her pockets.
► Pinches and pouches of salt in various grind sizes, as well as sugars and other herbs - always somewhere on her person to sprinkle into a dish without searching too far.
► Parchments, notebooks, quills, and ink pots -- a supply of everything she needs to continue writing her songs, and more recently, a novel that she is working on drawn from the stories of those she meets..
▼ C L O T H I N G & A R M O U R
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
► Casual: Never one for vanity, Joy dresses in simple outfits - usually in shades of light hues, figure hugging feminine clothing that do not necessarily have grandiose embellishments, but little touches here and there in pretty stitching. Practical clothing, that allows her to move freely. She will often be wearing her apron as she gets to work in the kitchens, or to her other barmaid duties.
► Formal: When performing, she dresses slightly more luxuriously - as much as can be allowed. She’ll wear deeper hues, revealing cuts, and often opt to go barefoot, banded chimes adorn her ankles and she will show a lucrative amount of skin to display them.
GM
Joy33 | ♀ | Orphan of Solitude | Nord/Imperial
_______________________________________________
Barmaid, Bard, Cook
_______________________________________________
Willpower (Major) Personality (Minor)══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════Joy is of average height - standing at 5'6. Her figure is womanly, soft, and unthreatening and it is clear she has a fondness for food. Somehow, she keeps herself in an enviably svelte shape that has caught the eyes of more than a few men and women. During winter, she has the pale appearance typical of a Nord, her hair falls like fire to her collarbones, in soft curls -- one section happens to be far more unruly and so she often tucks it behind a hairband. Joy does not care too much for over grooming herself, she is not a vain individual, and yet she still radiates an undone kind of beauty, her smile is especially disarming in its sincerity.
If she is fair in winter, her Imperial heritage shows in the summer, the sun drawing out a more olive tone to her skin. Her hair, too, takes on a far more golden lustre in the sunlight.
Perhaps the most standout of her features are her eyes. They carry the colour of a brittle blue sky, and are warm with happiness. She communicates well with expression, not averse to raising a brow to be coquettish, or pulling her full lips downwards into a faux frown to coax a laugh from someone else. When Joy smiles, it is clearly a mischievous one that reflects her mind at work.
Under her clothing, she bears the scars of her trade, and more so than that, the scars of her life. An accident with a pan of boiling sugar has left a particularly nasty burn across her ribs. There are faded stripes that adorn her back from beatings at the Orphanage, and the reminder of a particularly violent mugging - the scar of a stab in her side. It makes her nervous and insecure, to have such scars; at the same time, they are her secret. She sees them as the reminders of her experiences. Her hands are frequently peppered with small knife cuts and little burns. Occupational hazards. She is not remotely as bothered by these as she is by her disfiguring marks.═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════Joy is at her very essence, a hopeless romantic. She has searched endlessly for requited love, whether that is familial, found in platonic friendship, or romantic love. It is the only thing she has ever felt that her life was truly lacking. A home. She found that, or so she believed, in The Blushing Hawk -- seeing the women she tended to with sisterly affection. During her time there, she saw many of them arrive, work, and then leave eventually, in a manner that was not too dissimilar to her upbringing in Honorhall.
The friendliness they shared ended when they would leave. Despite this, Joy has fond memories of them too - and so is drawn to women as friends quite quickly. The women saw her through her own heartbreaks, and soothed her when she was sad too.
She is naturally charismatic, with a curiosity about everyone and everything. She is the kind of woman who carries you away with her, and makes you feel as if you are the only one who matters to her. It is a byproduct of her living a life where people come and go as freely as they need to. She is poetic in her speech, and even more so in her thought. Observant of the world around her, she sees beauty in everything, even if her life has shown her nothing but ugliness. She has come to expect only short relationships from those she encounters. Her empathic nature lends itself well to finding trust in others quite quickly. They move on, and she stays behind - in the moments she shares with others, she wants to see the world through their eyes.
Having never been adopted by a family, and having been sold to a brothel, her unorthodox upbringing has left her riddled with her own insecurities. She opts to hide this behind her trademark smile - never letting her vulnerability show for fear of judgement. She fears that she will never find stability in her life, with someone, with a family. Like anyone else, Joy is not without the ability to feel deep sadness from time to time too. She grieves for the life she never had, and the mystery of her parentage will always haunt her on some level. Her own insecure questions that she carries in her heart for her mother and father sting her from time to time. It would take someone who knew similar feelings of pain and loss to find them within Joy.
The hardships she has faced have never truly broken her spirit, however, and instead they have only ever made her more adamant to find happiness in dark spaces. She brushes off negativity rather easily, and has an easy way of approaching almost anyone, finding it easy to make a good impression.
A practicing bard and performer of sorts, she adores music and brings a flair of musicality to most of the things that she does - writing songs about her experiences in love, life, and even penning songs about the tales of deeds of those she has met.
Joy is a caretaker to those around her, giving herself almost selflessly to the needs of others, she fills her cup by being a listening ear with a wise and uplifting word to others when they need it, even if they don’t know it.
One would be foolish to pass her off as a simple barmaid spouting loving words. Many have, and many came to regret that. Joy was never formally educated, so she has no real intelligence of the world and its history - only the stories she hears from others. Her emotional intelligence is much more astute and she is patient. This level of emotional intelligence has afforded her an almost fearless level of grit. She is more bold and daring than her lack of skills should allow her to be, and more outspoken than most too. She speaks for those in need, and is not afraid to speak her mind loud and proud when it comes to matters of morality and justice. She has no fear towards other people, no concept of authority and respecting a view because it has passed through a hierarchy. It is her ability to see the good in people that gives her the confidence to talk openly with anyone, about anything.═══════ H I S T O R Y ══════My name is Joy, just Joy.
Nobody knows where or when I was born, only where I was found. I was discovered abandoned in Solitude, under the shawls of the first snow of Frostfall. It was the blurred vision of a blushing drunk, and his curiosity that followed that led to my being rescued from a sure death, and soon after that encounter, I was sent to the city Orphanage.
It was a bleak childhood. The Matron of the Orphanage was crueler behind closed doors and I spent most of my time dreaming about my future. I always felt so deeply unsettled, and I was never satisfied with the nonchalance and disregard of who I really was, of who left me, of who my parents were.
My fellow orphans and I would play together with the few toys we had, often we’d fashion dolls and the like from the sticks and stones in the yard and we would play out our lives in those hours of free time.
I have never been able to cast a spell, but I like to believe that the other orphans and I created magic by the fireplace from pure imagination. It was all I could do to turn their attention away from the cruel Matron who would punish us over the smallest slights. I know the sting of a stick across my back, the curled handle of a cane dug into my ribs, the whip of a belt across the back of my legs, and the feeling of a simple punch or a kick all too well. I always tried to take the brunt of her malice. If she was mad at one child, and looked to want to beat them, then I’d be naughtier instead. I sparked her ire so much one evening that a beating did not satisfy, and she cut off my hair in uneven clumps to make an example of me. Imagine her further rage when I cut the rest clean off and fashioned it so stylishly the very next day.
I watched over the years as one by one they were each adopted and I never saw them again. We had always promised to be friends forever, but once their ‘forever’ was with a family that loved and chose them… My forever with them was extinguished.
At 13, with no more hopes of adoption at my age (who would adopt the scrawny, naughty, unruly child, afterall?), I was simply sold for a meagre purse of coin to a Dunmer Madam named Minasi. I rode with her in the back of a cart from Solitude, across the border to High Rock where I wound up on the outskirts of Evermoree. I was frightened, my life, as miserable as it had been, was changing. I always believed that it was better the misfortune that you know, than the one that you did not. She barely spoke a word, only prodded and poked at me on the ride.
I was soon put to work in her brothel, The Blushing Hawk. I was bought as her maid, since she was frailer in her age now and ailed with a rattling cough. The other women she employed were too busy with duties of a different kind to be of any other use to her. Minasi worked me hard, and over time I learned that this was simply her pride, and her need to run a safe place for the people who stepped in.
She was certainly refined, and the unmistakable matriarch of her establishment, but I could see in the smouldering embers of her eyes that she was wounded in many ways more than her ill health. I theorised that perhaps once upon a time, she had been just a girl here too, how she may have loved and lost, as many of us did. Her temper was coarse, in a way that I could only liken to a saber-cat with a thorn wedged in her paw. She was eager to react to any touch. Her flame had gone out.
After a year or two of that, the last of her kitchen staff left and I was then put to work in there. I’d never even picked up a knife or peeled a potato, but I learned quickly. Before long, I’d moved on from simple stews, to pies, to some rather exquisite desserts. When I wasn’t cooking, I was plucking the strings of a lute that had been left behind by a patron. The very same one I have now. I taught myself to play music, putting myself through the rigorous torture of freezing the tips of my fingers in the snow just so that I could play as cleanly as possible. What else could I do, but give something my all? It was how I showed the dedication to my craft. I still do it to this day. After this, Minasi saw something valuable in me and at the late age of 19 she started teaching me how to read and write. Among my lessons were those in her mother-tongue, Dunmeris.
I struggled with it at first and she would slap the backs of my hands if my penmanship was anything less than perfect. I think for close to a year the skin was red raw -- but I learned. That’s my gift you see, persistence, and the voracious hunger to learn crafts. As she continued to lose her vitality, I became the one holding the establishment together. She was approaching the winter of her life, and I, my spring. I kept the girls and the patrons fed, I sang and played music while they waited, I kept the place clean, mended the sheets, curtains, and clothing. I found a life for myself. I made one, as best as I could, I made one. I was as close to happy as I’d ever been.
It had been a slow evening when I came to her in her bed, I could see that the colour from her eyes had drained completely, and there was no longer any light behind them. She was the cruel mother I had never wanted, a far cry from the kind woman in my dreams who nurtured and took care of me, held me, and fed me with warmth. But, however I looked at it, Minasi had raised me, and everything I had, I had her to thank for.
Minasi had told me once that we lived our lives like a stream, travelling in more or less one direction until we were broken off into something that led us to a new current, a new path...
That change came soon enough after Minasi had passed. While tending and cleaning out her room, I came upon the transactionary paperwork of my sale to Minasi, beside it - a package, wrapped in cloth, with my name written on a piece of parchment. It was a shawl. The very same one I was swaddled in as a baby, and wrapped inside that shawl was a brooch. A small pair of golden wings; in the very centre a blue stone.
It belonged to me.
I stared upon it with awe, and in the feather details of that brooch I saw opportunity, a clue to my past, a key to my future.
In that instance my life changed forever. Where I had only ever pictured The Blushing Hawk, and it’s many closed doors - suddenly there was a path stretching out across the land before it. How could I stay? Everything I had ever wanted could be answered by someone. Someone had to know where this brooch came from, and then perhaps, where I came from. That clue, to me, was love. Whomever had left me, had given me the first breadcrumb to find them again.
28 long years later I found it.
All I had seen day after day was The Blushing Hawk. It was so much so, that the only thing that had mattered in my world was that rickety brothel, in the backstreets of Evermore. As Minasi was laid to rest, I was forced to open my eyes and I observed that most people had nothing to do with my world at all. I couldn’t stop thinking about the life I could have led, had fate not carried me on that cart with Minasi from Solitude to the doors of the Hawk.
The next 5 years of my life had me travel from place to place, working in many a Tavern and Inn. I wrote songs for the strangers I met, danced with soldiers, tended to passing members of the Lion’s Guard. I’ve been a moment in the lives of so many people - just a passing, glimmer of a moment..
Life wasn’t miraculously easier when I left the Blushing Hawk. I’ve been mugged more times than I care to count now for a start… But there is romance to be found in the freedom of the road, that road is all I’ve had and I’ve walked it. I’ve witnessed the way of life change for so many recently, that strange phenomena. People are shadows of themselves… Even strangers that I’ve never met before, I can see that they’re not who they’re meant to be. I can feel it. Now I am here, in chains and darkness. I remember resisting them, my eyes turned to the strange colours in the sky until I met a painful darkness.
I am frightened, but sometimes the only way to carry ourselves through such fear is by believing that our dreams may come true, and our prayers are answered. My only hope now is that one day, in some quiet place, when all this has passed, there will be a house on a hill with a candle in the window for me.
Calling me home at last.
▼ S K I L L S
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
► Speechcraft - Music, Empathy, Mercantile - Highly Proficient
► Speechcraft - Bilingual - Dunmeris
► Provisioning - Culinary arts - Highly Proficient
► Tailoring - Moderately Proficient
► Athletics - Somewhat Proficient
▼ R E L A T I O N S & A F F I L I A T I O N S
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
► Solitude Orphanage
► The Blushing Hawk
► Minasi - The closest she has had to a mother - Deceased.
▼ E Q U I P M E N T
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
► Stylish linen rucksack.
► Coin Purse - 47 septims currently.
► Lyre, Lute, Ankle Chimes.
► A brooch in the shape of wings with a blue stone in the centre - the only clue she has to her parentage. She keeps this hidden.
► Sewing and knitting needles, threads.
► A set of 6 chef’s knives, and the tools to keep them sharp and well maintained.
► Tasting spoons seem to litter her pockets.
► Pinches and pouches of salt in various grind sizes, as well as sugars and other herbs - always somewhere on her person to sprinkle into a dish without searching too far.
► Parchments, notebooks, quills, and ink pots -- a supply of everything she needs to continue writing her songs, and more recently, a novel that she is working on drawn from the stories of those she meets..
▼ C L O T H I N G & A R M O U R
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
► Casual: Never one for vanity, Joy dresses in simple outfits - usually in shades of light hues, figure hugging feminine clothing that do not necessarily have grandiose embellishments, but little touches here and there in pretty stitching. Practical clothing, that allows her to move freely. She will often be wearing her apron as she gets to work in the kitchens, or to her other barmaid duties.
► Formal: When performing, she dresses slightly more luxuriously - as much as can be allowed. She’ll wear deeper hues, revealing cuts, and often opt to go barefoot, banded chimes adorn her ankles and she will show a lucrative amount of skin to display them.
From the outset, I am really liking Joy. She's so different from most of the characters I've seen you write, and that honestly very exciting; a new type of Stormy magic to experience!
Her appearance is really well written, as is her personality (both of which are my unfortunate bane), so hats off to you for making it seem as if I have already known Joy for a very long time. She is a well relatable character and I love how despite all the hardships she has been through, she still looks for the light and *ahem* joys of life.
I'm a sucker for first person point of view, so her history was a delight to read; it showed a window into her mind that I can appreciate; introspection is always a fun part of character building. You can clearly see that despite everything, she is a tough lass where it counts to have gone through all these hurdles in her life yet still remaining an optimist with a zest for life.
I'm really looking forward to how her journey will fare and cheer her along as she finds her way Home.
ps. I had to reign myself in from using more than one joy pun ^^; <3
1x Thank
ButtsnBalls Goderator
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Dervish Let's get volatile
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1 mo ago
I absolutely love how you describe appearances; it’s got this very poetic flourish to it that makes the imagery pop without feeling superfluous. I can picture Joy so vividly even without having seen your lovely artwork for her! I know you’re going for a kindly and gentle souled character and your word choice here really helps convey that sort of personality without even having to describe that aspect about Joy; you just have this beautiful talent for finding the best words that carry so much weight. It makes the sudden appearances of scars and old wounds that much more jarring and horrible; it’s like a splash of cold water while you’re dreaming. It makes you feel compassion for this character, and we haven’t even got to the bio yet!
If I had to find a way to describe Joy’s personality in a single word, it would be “seasonal”. There’s something about how she carries herself where she expects her encounters with people to be fleeting and temporary, but instead of finding that discouraging and a “why bother” sort of situation, she really takes the time to cherish the moments she has with people, and there’s just this genuine warmth and moment to moment love that really sticks out about her. It’s so easy to go with an orphan character who is distrustful and really negatively affected by their experiences, but Joy seems to have transcended that where possible, even after enduring abuse and carrying scars from the experience. There’s an inner strength to her that she’s weathered so many storms and instead of lashing out, she faces down her demons with a smile. I feel like she’s yearning for love and acceptance and a place where things stay for a change, but she’s not trying to force anything, and I find that really admirable.
“I have never been able to cast a spell, but I like to believe that the other orphans and I created magic by the fireplace from pure imagination.” < I quite love this line. It’s so sincere and it really makes it feel like there’s more magic than just the spells you can cast, but intangible things carry their own sort of spell. It’s just a delightful aside.
“across the border to High Rock where I wound up on the outskirts of Jehanna.” < Something that’s really easy to miss, but Jehanna hasn’t actually been founded yet! The closest city to the dock area that will one day become Jehanna is actually Orsinium, of all places. I’d say Evermore might be the next most feasible place, as it’s not too far away from the border of Hammerfell and Skyrim; I imagine a lot of travellers passed through there.
“Her temper was coarse, in a way that I could only liken to a saber-cat with a thorn wedged in her paw.” < another lovely descriptive bit!
I am *so* glad that Minasi didn’t take Joy to the brothel to work as a prostitute. That would have been super dark, and not that that’s a bad thing, but it was a pleasant surprise Joy was brought on to take care of the establishment and the people within it. It really shows the origins of her motherly and kind ways where this surrogate mother might have been harsh, but she clearly cared about Joy in a way that’s unique to her and maybe not ideal. Her parting gift is actually touching, and it’s really interesting to see how she shaped Joy into the woman she would grow up to be.
“tended to agents of the Empire.” < Worth noting, the Empire’s more or less been collapsed without an Emperor for a long while now;
“It began with the assassination of the last Akaviri Potentate, Savirien Chorak, and every one of his heirs on one bloody night during Sun's Dawn of 2E 430, by orders of the Night Mother. She hired members of the Morag Tong,[1] which then became the Dark Brotherhood in the 430th year of the Second Era.[2] It ended in the 854th year of the Second Era with the establishment of the Third Empire by Tiber Septim.
The Interregnum was a time of great turmoil. The Reman Empire, which had survived through the Akaviri Potentates, fell, and resulted in a series of "insurrections, misrules, and loss of power."[3] The Chim-el Adabal, or Amulet of Kings, was lost amid the "petty wars of gone-heathen kings." In Cyrodiil, the East and the West fought one another.[4] “
The Three Banners War started in 2E 582 and we are at 2E 600 in the timeline. For Joy living in High Rock, she’d be encountering Covenant soldiers from Hammerfell, High Rock, and Wrothgar. The High King’s personal guard is called the Lion’s Guard.
You have Speechcraft written as two separate skills; you can combine the two, even if they have different purposes. Maybe you could sub it out for something like Mercantile? She did work in a Brothel for ages; I imagine she had some hand in the accounting side of things and taking payment from clients.
Joy is a, well, absolute Joy of a character to read! I greatly appreciate you bringing her into this and I don’t see anything about her that’s brought up reason for concern. If you have any questions about my points or suggestions, don’t be a stranger!
If I had to find a way to describe Joy’s personality in a single word, it would be “seasonal”. There’s something about how she carries herself where she expects her encounters with people to be fleeting and temporary, but instead of finding that discouraging and a “why bother” sort of situation, she really takes the time to cherish the moments she has with people, and there’s just this genuine warmth and moment to moment love that really sticks out about her. It’s so easy to go with an orphan character who is distrustful and really negatively affected by their experiences, but Joy seems to have transcended that where possible, even after enduring abuse and carrying scars from the experience. There’s an inner strength to her that she’s weathered so many storms and instead of lashing out, she faces down her demons with a smile. I feel like she’s yearning for love and acceptance and a place where things stay for a change, but she’s not trying to force anything, and I find that really admirable.
“I have never been able to cast a spell, but I like to believe that the other orphans and I created magic by the fireplace from pure imagination.” < I quite love this line. It’s so sincere and it really makes it feel like there’s more magic than just the spells you can cast, but intangible things carry their own sort of spell. It’s just a delightful aside.
“across the border to High Rock where I wound up on the outskirts of Jehanna.” < Something that’s really easy to miss, but Jehanna hasn’t actually been founded yet! The closest city to the dock area that will one day become Jehanna is actually Orsinium, of all places. I’d say Evermore might be the next most feasible place, as it’s not too far away from the border of Hammerfell and Skyrim; I imagine a lot of travellers passed through there.
“Her temper was coarse, in a way that I could only liken to a saber-cat with a thorn wedged in her paw.” < another lovely descriptive bit!
I am *so* glad that Minasi didn’t take Joy to the brothel to work as a prostitute. That would have been super dark, and not that that’s a bad thing, but it was a pleasant surprise Joy was brought on to take care of the establishment and the people within it. It really shows the origins of her motherly and kind ways where this surrogate mother might have been harsh, but she clearly cared about Joy in a way that’s unique to her and maybe not ideal. Her parting gift is actually touching, and it’s really interesting to see how she shaped Joy into the woman she would grow up to be.
“tended to agents of the Empire.” < Worth noting, the Empire’s more or less been collapsed without an Emperor for a long while now;
“It began with the assassination of the last Akaviri Potentate, Savirien Chorak, and every one of his heirs on one bloody night during Sun's Dawn of 2E 430, by orders of the Night Mother. She hired members of the Morag Tong,[1] which then became the Dark Brotherhood in the 430th year of the Second Era.[2] It ended in the 854th year of the Second Era with the establishment of the Third Empire by Tiber Septim.
The Interregnum was a time of great turmoil. The Reman Empire, which had survived through the Akaviri Potentates, fell, and resulted in a series of "insurrections, misrules, and loss of power."[3] The Chim-el Adabal, or Amulet of Kings, was lost amid the "petty wars of gone-heathen kings." In Cyrodiil, the East and the West fought one another.[4] “
The Three Banners War started in 2E 582 and we are at 2E 600 in the timeline. For Joy living in High Rock, she’d be encountering Covenant soldiers from Hammerfell, High Rock, and Wrothgar. The High King’s personal guard is called the Lion’s Guard.
You have Speechcraft written as two separate skills; you can combine the two, even if they have different purposes. Maybe you could sub it out for something like Mercantile? She did work in a Brothel for ages; I imagine she had some hand in the accounting side of things and taking payment from clients.
Joy is a, well, absolute Joy of a character to read! I greatly appreciate you bringing her into this and I don’t see anything about her that’s brought up reason for concern. If you have any questions about my points or suggestions, don’t be a stranger!
Captain Jenno Waltzing for Zizi
Member
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4 yrs ago
Sait [Say-Et] Sunfall | The Migrant Mentalist | Redguard | Male
Family Origins:
Initially, Sait’s family were from Sentinel, Hammerfell - but Sait spent his formative years in High Rock, and a good many travelling Tamriel as a raggamuffin researcher. He considers himself to be a man without a nation; or else, a man whose country is in the people he works with.
Appearance:
Sait is a tall and lean figure; thin but not without the tell-tale toning of a body inherently built for resilience. Raised in the traditional Redguard way- that is, by the blade- Sait is as sturdy as a man with fluctuating food incomes could be.
His face is long, but kind; his eyes the honeyed colour of amber, they glister hopefully in spite of the weight of others' woes. They are oft underfixed by the shadows of restless nights and long days, however. His complexion is that of a dark rosewood, deep and warm - and broken up about his lower mouth by his facial hair, a burgundy beard tailored to a goatee.
Being of humble origins, and oft deprived, Sait has made no habit of cutting his hair - he wears it, thick tresses of warm-hued Auburn, in a chaotic twisted bun, clasped with a golden bond. Nonetheless, the volume means it carries with it a rebellious streak - and generally there are strands which, being too keen, instead hang in loosely-curled drills about his face.
Prior to this crisis, Sait regularly changed his clothes to compliment local fashions - but his final tarrying to Falkreath was unplanned, so he is wearing something reminiscent of his Redguard garb; black harem pants and a similarly pitch leather tunic, embroidered with bands of silver and over-crossed by the dark-tanned leather strap of his scabbard. About his waist, a woven belt of white and red fabric slings across and down to his left hip. The arrangement is shawled beneath an open-breasted white cloak, hemmed in black and gold - and above it all, crossing his scabbard's strap in the other direction, is an oak-coloured satchel.
His face is long, but kind; his eyes the honeyed colour of amber, they glister hopefully in spite of the weight of others' woes. They are oft underfixed by the shadows of restless nights and long days, however. His complexion is that of a dark rosewood, deep and warm - and broken up about his lower mouth by his facial hair, a burgundy beard tailored to a goatee.
Being of humble origins, and oft deprived, Sait has made no habit of cutting his hair - he wears it, thick tresses of warm-hued Auburn, in a chaotic twisted bun, clasped with a golden bond. Nonetheless, the volume means it carries with it a rebellious streak - and generally there are strands which, being too keen, instead hang in loosely-curled drills about his face.
Prior to this crisis, Sait regularly changed his clothes to compliment local fashions - but his final tarrying to Falkreath was unplanned, so he is wearing something reminiscent of his Redguard garb; black harem pants and a similarly pitch leather tunic, embroidered with bands of silver and over-crossed by the dark-tanned leather strap of his scabbard. About his waist, a woven belt of white and red fabric slings across and down to his left hip. The arrangement is shawled beneath an open-breasted white cloak, hemmed in black and gold - and above it all, crossing his scabbard's strap in the other direction, is an oak-coloured satchel.
Equipment:
Sadia, Sait's scimitar - His sister Eno's best design, forged by a Breton blacksmith.
A coin purse worked of a black suede; 100 septims.
A coin purse worked of a black suede; 100 septims.
Misc. Possessions:
- A heavy, leather-bound notebook containing Sait's research; it is sewn from patches of red hide and closed with a flintlock-style lock.
- A darkly hued leather satchel, wide at the base and sewn from hide.
- Several inkwells, wrapped in cloth.
- Parchment paper and envelopes.
- Pencils and quills.
- A golden hair clasp, forged by Eno.
- A copy of his first series of publications, To The Far Shores and Back - A Treatise on Mundus and Mind.
- An incomplete sequel to the aforementioned To The Far Shores and Back, with the working title To Sovengarde and Back - The Nord - Perspective on Mundus and the Mind.
- A flint and tinder.
- A darkly hued leather satchel, wide at the base and sewn from hide.
- Several inkwells, wrapped in cloth.
- Parchment paper and envelopes.
- Pencils and quills.
- A golden hair clasp, forged by Eno.
- A copy of his first series of publications, To The Far Shores and Back - A Treatise on Mundus and Mind.
- An incomplete sequel to the aforementioned To The Far Shores and Back, with the working title To Sovengarde and Back - The Nord - Perspective on Mundus and the Mind.
- A flint and tinder.
Family and Associations:
- Jed Sunfall - Father, deceased. Once a gentle priest, Jed succumbed to madness in old age, and, unable to care for himself, died bitter and confused.
- Mother - Deceased.
- Eno Larrin - Eldest Sister, proprietress of a small merchant company operating out of Camlorn.
- Immara Sunfall - Elder Sister, making ends meet in Sentinel.
- Torran Larrin - Brother-in-Law, pseudo-parental figure and all around fun fella. Blessed with the undeniable gift of the gab.
- Somebody’s Sundries - The humble Larrin mercantile endeavour, based in Camlorn.
- The Illusion and Restoration faculties of Winterhold - Fellow researchers, with whom Sait has shared lengthy correspondence.
- Various, lesser academics - Don't think of themselves as such.
- Mother - Deceased.
- Eno Larrin - Eldest Sister, proprietress of a small merchant company operating out of Camlorn.
- Immara Sunfall - Elder Sister, making ends meet in Sentinel.
- Torran Larrin - Brother-in-Law, pseudo-parental figure and all around fun fella. Blessed with the undeniable gift of the gab.
- Somebody’s Sundries - The humble Larrin mercantile endeavour, based in Camlorn.
- The Illusion and Restoration faculties of Winterhold - Fellow researchers, with whom Sait has shared lengthy correspondence.
- Various, lesser academics - Don't think of themselves as such.
Favoured Skills:
Speechcraft [Highly Proficient]
Sait is an old friend you've only just met; his verbal talents lying in a predisposition towards camaraderie and kindness. He is persuasive not on the basis that he is deceptive, but due to his good nature and his ability to read others; he picks his words carefully, and broadcasts sincerity. It is not just that Sait is a ‘trained talker’, though he is - Sait has dedicated his life to talking to others, and to persuading them to open the darkest vaults of their hearts to him.
Illusion [Highly Proficient]
Sait has always had an aptitude for illusions, though he was not always so proud of it - as a wain he worked silhouettes and shadows into more comforting shapes to ease his suffering father's fears. On instinct and from stolen glances at tabooed books. Many years later, with the aid of many a compatriot mage, such a skill would develop into Sait's Pacify technique. Likewise, to understand peace is to understand chaos, and in walking his path he has learned to use the psychology of those who would hurt him or others against them. After all, medicine is a double-edged sword - potions and poisons are indistinguishable out of their bottles.
Swordplay [Moderately Proficient]
Back when the old man's sword-arm was still strong, he raised Sait in the way of his ancestors… by the sword. When Jeb could no longer be trusted with a blade, it fell to Eno to keep the old ways alive. Though not as fervent a student as some other Redguard youth, Sait values Sadia and his capacity to use her greatly - one must have a weapon when one travels alone.
Restoration [Somewhat Proficient]
An inevitable element of Sait's walking the healing path: some people's minds fracture due to a treacherous body. And who better to comfort the sick than one who can heal with a touch?
Sait is an old friend you've only just met; his verbal talents lying in a predisposition towards camaraderie and kindness. He is persuasive not on the basis that he is deceptive, but due to his good nature and his ability to read others; he picks his words carefully, and broadcasts sincerity. It is not just that Sait is a ‘trained talker’, though he is - Sait has dedicated his life to talking to others, and to persuading them to open the darkest vaults of their hearts to him.
Illusion [Highly Proficient]
Sait has always had an aptitude for illusions, though he was not always so proud of it - as a wain he worked silhouettes and shadows into more comforting shapes to ease his suffering father's fears. On instinct and from stolen glances at tabooed books. Many years later, with the aid of many a compatriot mage, such a skill would develop into Sait's Pacify technique. Likewise, to understand peace is to understand chaos, and in walking his path he has learned to use the psychology of those who would hurt him or others against them. After all, medicine is a double-edged sword - potions and poisons are indistinguishable out of their bottles.
Swordplay [Moderately Proficient]
Back when the old man's sword-arm was still strong, he raised Sait in the way of his ancestors… by the sword. When Jeb could no longer be trusted with a blade, it fell to Eno to keep the old ways alive. Though not as fervent a student as some other Redguard youth, Sait values Sadia and his capacity to use her greatly - one must have a weapon when one travels alone.
Restoration [Somewhat Proficient]
An inevitable element of Sait's walking the healing path: some people's minds fracture due to a treacherous body. And who better to comfort the sick than one who can heal with a touch?
Spell List:
Pacify
Sait evokes wistful memories, and calm reverence which quells the urge towards violence. It is a moment from history, gold-hued and more perfect than it ever could have been - and for him it is a shade of childhood, where his fledgling magic smoothed the fury of his fitting father.
Rout
Having studied minds in crisis, Sait has built quite a repertoire of nightmares to induce - but none is more effective at scaring off a foe than the inexplicable, unexplainable dread.
Rally
Those overwhelmed by life can be pacified, and given due rest - but for those overcome by malaise, by existential dread, Sait has found that the more effective route is rallying them back to their feet.
Muffle
A hold out from childhood, Sait learned to muffle his steps before anything else - lest his father hear him coming, and catch him practicing his tricky magic.
Fast Healing
Though Sait has great empathy for those whose minds are elsewhere, some are violent. He doesn’t begrudge them this- his own father was likewise inclined- so in lieu of reacting harshly, Sait has learned to take care of himself.
Healing Hands
Most of the unwell are not violent, though. More often than not, they are persecuted. Tortured as treatment, beaten and broken under the misconception that fragile docility is recovery. In such a case, any good carer of the mind must be ready to heal the harmed.
Sait evokes wistful memories, and calm reverence which quells the urge towards violence. It is a moment from history, gold-hued and more perfect than it ever could have been - and for him it is a shade of childhood, where his fledgling magic smoothed the fury of his fitting father.
Rout
Having studied minds in crisis, Sait has built quite a repertoire of nightmares to induce - but none is more effective at scaring off a foe than the inexplicable, unexplainable dread.
Rally
Those overwhelmed by life can be pacified, and given due rest - but for those overcome by malaise, by existential dread, Sait has found that the more effective route is rallying them back to their feet.
Muffle
A hold out from childhood, Sait learned to muffle his steps before anything else - lest his father hear him coming, and catch him practicing his tricky magic.
Fast Healing
Though Sait has great empathy for those whose minds are elsewhere, some are violent. He doesn’t begrudge them this- his own father was likewise inclined- so in lieu of reacting harshly, Sait has learned to take care of himself.
Healing Hands
Most of the unwell are not violent, though. More often than not, they are persecuted. Tortured as treatment, beaten and broken under the misconception that fragile docility is recovery. In such a case, any good carer of the mind must be ready to heal the harmed.
History:
Sait's father was a madman. This was not all he was, but by the end, it was all that remained of him. All that mattered. Madness had hollowed him out; it grew fat on his accomplishments, on his quiet pride and gentle valour, and all the while it ravaged him from within. The slowest and most terrible of poisons - it overcame even Redguard resilience. And when it was done with his thoughts, and he was well and truly blind in his mind's eye, it chewed on his body - until the muscle atrophied and the teeth fell out of his head.
Jed Sunfall had been a family man, once; a holy man, even. But he died a stranger to them all, family and flock. In his final moments, he thought his children spiritual lepers, and their long-departed mother his last confidant. He cried his woes to the open air of her, comforted only by the shadows and smoke his son spun from nothing; the illusory magics Sait taught himself in secret, to combat the horrors only Jed could see.
But he could not fight the battle for Jed's mind. Sait would always remember that he had died scared; the howling ghost of a quiet and thoughtful man.
Jed had been a priest of Tu'whacca, and a guide to all who endeavoured to make their way to the Far Shores; a steady hand on the tiller who had, himself, tried to turn the tide of many a man's madness. But, as surely he knew, it was not enough to be versed in verse. Being a holy man, all who endeavoured to treat him took it to be an illness of the spirit- Sep's haunting hunger- and prayed for him. Salved him, saved him in the eyes of their Gods. And yet still he perished, lost long before he died - and truly dead in death. Not whole enough to see the Far Shores again.
Such circumstances shook Sait's faith, and though he had taught himself the tabooed fundamentals of illusory magic, he did not grow up mystically inclined. He knew of the many Divines, of course - the Redguard pantheon and their neighbours - but he began to suspect young that men and Mer had more say in their lives than they might otherwise have liked. In the same way, he supposed folks often overestimated the interest of Gods.
And yet, something had taken Jeb's soul from him, of this much Sait was certain. Some terrible, transcendental hunger had cannibalised him from within - encroaching on the hearth of his heart until the warmth was wicked away, and all else was snuffed. But if not Divines, if not a spiritual sickness… then what?
The pursuit of answers to such questions became Sait's ouvre.
Sait was not yet a teen when they interred his father to the ground, to wander forever - devoid of the guidance he had offered others in life. It was not a ceremony which brought him peace - it seemed to him that it was all reverence to a tragic mystery. But there was nothing to be done - even in death, Jed's affliction could not be seen.
Following his passing, Sait became fixated with maladies of the mind - madness, melancholy and malaise. What sways a man to turn his weapon on himself, or on those he loves? Magic can sometimes alleviate these pains, but then, what does it affect to do this? Why do so many mages likewise go mad?
It became a fixation.
In lieu of a guardian, and of family to see them otherwise cared for, Sait's eldest sister- Eno- took it upon herself to provide for them. At first, life was paltry - she worked iron with intermediate skill, better accustomed to accoutrements than armaments. Her wares sold poorly, and often came back to her in pieces. And Sait could scarcely help her, for his fixation on his father's madness stupified him into an existential paralysis. He couldn't focus his mind for all the haul in Hammerfell. But Eno was young, strong and bonny - and soon enough made a good match with a visiting Breton merchant, hoping to establish further arms trades between High Rock and the City of Sentinel.
Torran, Eno's newfound husband, seemed a good match for her. He was spirited and keen, but nonetheless kind, and his merriment was boundless. He carried about him a bonhomie that was irresistable, and he drank Eno's love to its lees like a drunkard. In many ways, he was their late father's antithesis - but he made for a strong role model in young Sait's life, and took him for family at first they met.
"We're our very own little Daggerfall Covenant! One land, one emperor, right? Shame they named it after such a lousy city..."
Sait was scarcely 13 when Torran took Eno to Camlorn, with him in tow - though their middle sister, Immara, remained in Sentinel to mind what remained of their father's estate.
Jed had left little for them to inherit, and nothing they could take with them. A family home that Sait had no memory of joy in. But in Camlorn, Torran welcomed them to all he had - to his beds and business. To a life beyond the fallout of their father's decline. And yet still, Sait could not find peace in himself - cared for in comfort, his mind returned time and again to the invisible affliction of his father's mind. Though in time such things became baser - a simmering desire to know the workings and misworkings of people, always at play beneath his day-to-day adolescence. Torran was sure to keep him busy enough that such things only truly plagued him on quiet High Rock nights.
What struck Sait most about Torran, ultimately, was not his generosity - though it was evident in all he did for them. Sait came to love and admire a great many things about the man, but the thing he meditated on most was Torran's skill with people; with speech.
In the way of merchants, his business depended on barter - but this man did not simply hock wares; he sold airs along with them. Evoked value from his words; spoke new reality into being in the same way a mage might have conjured it. People swayed to the wind of his enthused effusion.
People had sought Jed out when Sait was very young, seeking guidance - but even in doing so with the reverence of believers, nobody had ever sought his company with the enthusiasm that total strangers soon sought Torran's. And they told him the stories of their lives, free of all charge save a joke and a witticism. If Sait were ever going to understand people, and the hidden corners of their minds, such a skill seemed essential.
"Torran, have you a minute?"
"For family? Always!"
"Can you be taught to speak? Like you do, I mean. Can I learn it?"
"Lad, not only can it be learned -- it can be mastered."
And so Sait subsequently began his journey into speech-craft. Under Torran's tutelage, and with the willing engagement of friendly regulars, he began to learn the way of words. How it is that strangers become fast friends, and the invisible machinery beneath it all. Torran confided in him the secrets of conversational strategy and social chameleonism; banter, baudiness and bardship.
Such lessons continued for Sait's teendom, and he worked diligently in his brother-in-law's service for so long as he received them; but as time pressed on, and Sait threatened to become a man, he began to feel unfulfilled. There was only so long that he could stave the ghost of his father's afflictions off. In growing older, he had come to look very much like Jed - back when the old man's face had been calm. When he'd smiled, and laughed softly, and waxed philosophical to his gaumless young. Jed had given him most every feature, save his instability - but the nature of the affliction was in itself maddening, and the root of it was no more evident in having mastered speaking to the sane.
Sait was not his father, despite all seemings. It was time to do what he and his colleagues could not - it was time to sate his cold, fearful hunger. It was time to dissect madness.
The Mad were not quite so easy to talk to as the sane. Not only due to their condition, but the conditions it otherwise left them in. Sait began to intern himself at temples and to local healers, not as a healer but as a comforting presence - and in doing so he saw men at their most pitiful. Deeply hollowed creatures; soldiers returning from the wars with eyes like smoke. Folks broken by the pressure - addicts fighting themselves. People whose every day was a new sphere of Oblivion. It seemed to Sait that madness was not one thing, but many - a spectrum of conditions left to linger, beyond the pale of potions and paltry spellwork.
But those with enough presence of mind to speak spoke volumes. Madness was a mystery to all but the mad - they were doctors unto themselves, scholars of the soul. Forced to introspection, and willing to share with a willing and non-judgemental ear. Like prisoners through the bars of their cages. They likewise marvelled at the comforting things he worked from air; in High Rock, illusory magic did not carry the taboo of his homeland, and that pressed Sait to further flex its capacity to heal the mentally unwell. Those that Sait worked under praised his efforts as humanitarian, but fruitless - those whose struggles he heard were beyond help. It was a small mercy. Such cruel compliments only further fuelled the fervor of Sait's undertaking.
"There has to be more than this. It isn't enough that people should suffer in company."
Sait felt that he had learned a lot through conversation alone - that those willing to speak to him had given him an insight beyond what watching alone could have. But he wanted to do more than listen, now. He wanted to provide the relief Jed had sorely needed - and he wanted to do more than cast comforting shadows in order to do it.
So he resolved to study; to find his niche among those who would otherwise see these souls as lost.
Later that same year, Sait departed High Rock, and now a young man of 23, he began his journey across the lands of men. He travelled from High Rock to Hammerfell, and from Hammerfell to Cyrodiil; and all the while he visited upon the domains of the mad. The dark spaces into which the rest of Tamriel stuffed their disparate, desperate folk. All of them from different places, practicing different magics and philosophies - but all alike in that their lives were often hard, and underpinned always by war, tragedy and stress. Mad houses were places of squalor - and the kindest of them were otherwise places of sterility, where maladies of the mind were not cured, but made silent through tedium and torture.
Everywhere he went, he broadened his perspective - he came to build theories and models of madness, even as the living conditions of his clients wore at the edges of his soul.
Not that life was especially glamorous on the road. At 26, Sait was nigh-penniless, and publishing his research from the eaves of The Witch's Tit, a graceless tavern in the port city of Anvil. He was on a crusade of tireless, tiring letter writing - corresponding with several colleges long after they had expressed disinterest in his theories. It was becoming evident that this was a field of research yet to be sown.
Dearest Professor Aluvirin, I am writing to propose to you that…
… and to whom it may concern, I am reaching out in search of like-minded individuals who…
Dr. Tauvurn, I’ve conducted my own research on this topic, and…
Dear Mr. Mallum, I know you told me to stop writing to you, but I really do think…
It took so long for any meaningful reply to return that Sait almost forgot that there was an end goal to the tedium of writing. It had become something of a ritual - in the mornings he would visit the lodgings of lunacy, and in the noon he would write until his hand began to cramp. Somewhere in there, somehow, several ales would manifest themselves about his makeshift desk, too. Such mysteries were as unsolvable as madness.
And then Gallenheim wrote to him.
Gallenheim- Gal- was a 'High Elf' of the progressive persuasion. A man who, like Sait, had come to see madness as something to be understood. He had taken some interest in Sait's writings, and in the prospect of therapeutic illusions - particularly as his sister had come to be haunted by hysteria. Through a regular and spirited correspondence, Gal disclosed his intentions to create an asylum in Southern Skyrim - a novel new facility intended to provide research-based alchemical and magical treatment. But he was himself, ostensibly, a man of fickle health - and so he was unable to conduct the necessary study alone.
That was serendipity enough for Sait - with Gal's funding, he travelled North and into Skyrim, where the wind carried such a chill that it made him feel that his blood might congeal.
Under Gal's guidance, Sait began to interview the Nord population, and visited again upon the places where they housed their mad. A hardy people, they oft had little to say in the way of their deeper feelings - though he found that they often lived short and stressful lives, and old age was nigh-synonymous with madness there. That didn't make the journey fruitless, however - in travelling Skyrim, young Sait began to become better acquainted with the country's small intelligentsia. The closed cult of academics who moved in similar circles to his own - people he would never have thought to write to, as their work seldom exceeded the borders of their cities, nevermind Skyrim as a whole.
It was during one such encounter, with a mage Sait had petitioned for help in his spellcraft, that he learned that things were not so clear cut as they seemed. In prioritising people, individually, Sait had lost sight of the bigger picture - the all-overarching war for the Ruby Throne. A battle fought not just on the field of combat, but through subterfuge - sometimes unwittingly.
Gallenheim, he came to learn, was a work of fiction - a wealthy ghost, whose prospective asylum existed in nobody's paperwork. It seemed likely to Sait's new academic friends, themselves a mixture of conscientious objectors and proud supporters of the Ebonheart Pact, that the entire pretense of Sait's visit was a ruse. A means to learn of local vulnerabilities, to perform a sort of surreal reconnaissance through an unwitting proxy - on behalf of The Aldmeri Dominion.
Sait was disheartened, he was outraged - but for the first time, he was amongst peers. Though this was an injustice, he was not without recompense.
He cut contact with "Gallenheim" immediately, but continued his research with the understanding that he would like to found a mental health facility - a place for the dishevelled and disenfranchised mad to feel safe and seek comfort at the hands of a new kind of healer. A place men like his father deserved.
He remained in Skyrim for two years, refining his methods with the help of his new colleagues, and establishing himself as a minor name in a fledgling field. By the time he was 28, however, the war was beginning to encroach - it was in the air that something significant was coming, and it seemed wise to leave when the locals began to grow increasingly incensed about it all. He made for the South, with the intention of returning to Anvil to collect some belongings, and then sailing on to Hammerfell, so that he might share what little money remained of The Aldmeri Dominion's generous research grants with his spinster sister Immara.
It was shortly before he'd cross the border into Cyrodiil that he learned of Raxus' upset victory - his sudden and prolific rise to power, seemingly from nowhere. By all accounts, a bloodied barbarian sat in the place of dragon's blood - and the Imperial City was well beneath his thumb.
Travelling through such a place would have been foolish for even the most prolific of warriors, nevermind a would-be academic. Having no delusions as to his nature, Sait made plans to leave Skyrim through Hammerfell directly; but the world felt different beneath Raxus' rule, there was something fundamentally unbalanced in it all. The air tasted different.
That unbalance was no more evident than when the aurora descended, though. Ribbons of ensnaring light, unfolding against Skyrim's darkling sky like a world-wide werelight. The plan changed again - such a thing had to be the work of a masterful illusionist, an entire band of them, and surely if such a thing were the case, his Nord colleagues would be well aware. Instead of Hammerfell, Sait veered towards Falkreath, and all along the way he met folks possessed by a strange and preternatural calm. Compelled also by the notion that something had shifted the minds of Skyrim's people, Sait's urgency increased.
By the time he reached Markarth, terrifying bliss had set in. The same Nords who had rattled swords at Raxus' upstart name were drifting towards a fondness for him. A generation of war, and the outrage it inspired, wiped from the zeitgeist of a country whose denizens prided themselves on battle. It would have been a beautiful thing, Sait supposed, had it been consensual. Was there such a thing as positive madness? Time and research would tell.
In Markarth, Sait descended upon the offices of a mage with whom he had worked to devise comforting illusions, and the two talked fervently of the news. To Sait's surprise, this keen Ebonheart enthusiast seemed to welcome the new regime -- and offered Sait a bed, so that the two could discuss such matters, and how they might affect his research going forwards, in the morning.
Sait awoke to an armed guard, in the most macabre or armour.
Sait's father was a madman - and now the whole world was mad.
Jed Sunfall had been a family man, once; a holy man, even. But he died a stranger to them all, family and flock. In his final moments, he thought his children spiritual lepers, and their long-departed mother his last confidant. He cried his woes to the open air of her, comforted only by the shadows and smoke his son spun from nothing; the illusory magics Sait taught himself in secret, to combat the horrors only Jed could see.
But he could not fight the battle for Jed's mind. Sait would always remember that he had died scared; the howling ghost of a quiet and thoughtful man.
Jed had been a priest of Tu'whacca, and a guide to all who endeavoured to make their way to the Far Shores; a steady hand on the tiller who had, himself, tried to turn the tide of many a man's madness. But, as surely he knew, it was not enough to be versed in verse. Being a holy man, all who endeavoured to treat him took it to be an illness of the spirit- Sep's haunting hunger- and prayed for him. Salved him, saved him in the eyes of their Gods. And yet still he perished, lost long before he died - and truly dead in death. Not whole enough to see the Far Shores again.
Such circumstances shook Sait's faith, and though he had taught himself the tabooed fundamentals of illusory magic, he did not grow up mystically inclined. He knew of the many Divines, of course - the Redguard pantheon and their neighbours - but he began to suspect young that men and Mer had more say in their lives than they might otherwise have liked. In the same way, he supposed folks often overestimated the interest of Gods.
And yet, something had taken Jeb's soul from him, of this much Sait was certain. Some terrible, transcendental hunger had cannibalised him from within - encroaching on the hearth of his heart until the warmth was wicked away, and all else was snuffed. But if not Divines, if not a spiritual sickness… then what?
The pursuit of answers to such questions became Sait's ouvre.
Sait was not yet a teen when they interred his father to the ground, to wander forever - devoid of the guidance he had offered others in life. It was not a ceremony which brought him peace - it seemed to him that it was all reverence to a tragic mystery. But there was nothing to be done - even in death, Jed's affliction could not be seen.
Following his passing, Sait became fixated with maladies of the mind - madness, melancholy and malaise. What sways a man to turn his weapon on himself, or on those he loves? Magic can sometimes alleviate these pains, but then, what does it affect to do this? Why do so many mages likewise go mad?
It became a fixation.
In lieu of a guardian, and of family to see them otherwise cared for, Sait's eldest sister- Eno- took it upon herself to provide for them. At first, life was paltry - she worked iron with intermediate skill, better accustomed to accoutrements than armaments. Her wares sold poorly, and often came back to her in pieces. And Sait could scarcely help her, for his fixation on his father's madness stupified him into an existential paralysis. He couldn't focus his mind for all the haul in Hammerfell. But Eno was young, strong and bonny - and soon enough made a good match with a visiting Breton merchant, hoping to establish further arms trades between High Rock and the City of Sentinel.
Torran, Eno's newfound husband, seemed a good match for her. He was spirited and keen, but nonetheless kind, and his merriment was boundless. He carried about him a bonhomie that was irresistable, and he drank Eno's love to its lees like a drunkard. In many ways, he was their late father's antithesis - but he made for a strong role model in young Sait's life, and took him for family at first they met.
"We're our very own little Daggerfall Covenant! One land, one emperor, right? Shame they named it after such a lousy city..."
Sait was scarcely 13 when Torran took Eno to Camlorn, with him in tow - though their middle sister, Immara, remained in Sentinel to mind what remained of their father's estate.
Jed had left little for them to inherit, and nothing they could take with them. A family home that Sait had no memory of joy in. But in Camlorn, Torran welcomed them to all he had - to his beds and business. To a life beyond the fallout of their father's decline. And yet still, Sait could not find peace in himself - cared for in comfort, his mind returned time and again to the invisible affliction of his father's mind. Though in time such things became baser - a simmering desire to know the workings and misworkings of people, always at play beneath his day-to-day adolescence. Torran was sure to keep him busy enough that such things only truly plagued him on quiet High Rock nights.
What struck Sait most about Torran, ultimately, was not his generosity - though it was evident in all he did for them. Sait came to love and admire a great many things about the man, but the thing he meditated on most was Torran's skill with people; with speech.
In the way of merchants, his business depended on barter - but this man did not simply hock wares; he sold airs along with them. Evoked value from his words; spoke new reality into being in the same way a mage might have conjured it. People swayed to the wind of his enthused effusion.
People had sought Jed out when Sait was very young, seeking guidance - but even in doing so with the reverence of believers, nobody had ever sought his company with the enthusiasm that total strangers soon sought Torran's. And they told him the stories of their lives, free of all charge save a joke and a witticism. If Sait were ever going to understand people, and the hidden corners of their minds, such a skill seemed essential.
"Torran, have you a minute?"
"For family? Always!"
"Can you be taught to speak? Like you do, I mean. Can I learn it?"
"Lad, not only can it be learned -- it can be mastered."
And so Sait subsequently began his journey into speech-craft. Under Torran's tutelage, and with the willing engagement of friendly regulars, he began to learn the way of words. How it is that strangers become fast friends, and the invisible machinery beneath it all. Torran confided in him the secrets of conversational strategy and social chameleonism; banter, baudiness and bardship.
Such lessons continued for Sait's teendom, and he worked diligently in his brother-in-law's service for so long as he received them; but as time pressed on, and Sait threatened to become a man, he began to feel unfulfilled. There was only so long that he could stave the ghost of his father's afflictions off. In growing older, he had come to look very much like Jed - back when the old man's face had been calm. When he'd smiled, and laughed softly, and waxed philosophical to his gaumless young. Jed had given him most every feature, save his instability - but the nature of the affliction was in itself maddening, and the root of it was no more evident in having mastered speaking to the sane.
Sait was not his father, despite all seemings. It was time to do what he and his colleagues could not - it was time to sate his cold, fearful hunger. It was time to dissect madness.
The Mad were not quite so easy to talk to as the sane. Not only due to their condition, but the conditions it otherwise left them in. Sait began to intern himself at temples and to local healers, not as a healer but as a comforting presence - and in doing so he saw men at their most pitiful. Deeply hollowed creatures; soldiers returning from the wars with eyes like smoke. Folks broken by the pressure - addicts fighting themselves. People whose every day was a new sphere of Oblivion. It seemed to Sait that madness was not one thing, but many - a spectrum of conditions left to linger, beyond the pale of potions and paltry spellwork.
But those with enough presence of mind to speak spoke volumes. Madness was a mystery to all but the mad - they were doctors unto themselves, scholars of the soul. Forced to introspection, and willing to share with a willing and non-judgemental ear. Like prisoners through the bars of their cages. They likewise marvelled at the comforting things he worked from air; in High Rock, illusory magic did not carry the taboo of his homeland, and that pressed Sait to further flex its capacity to heal the mentally unwell. Those that Sait worked under praised his efforts as humanitarian, but fruitless - those whose struggles he heard were beyond help. It was a small mercy. Such cruel compliments only further fuelled the fervor of Sait's undertaking.
"There has to be more than this. It isn't enough that people should suffer in company."
Sait felt that he had learned a lot through conversation alone - that those willing to speak to him had given him an insight beyond what watching alone could have. But he wanted to do more than listen, now. He wanted to provide the relief Jed had sorely needed - and he wanted to do more than cast comforting shadows in order to do it.
So he resolved to study; to find his niche among those who would otherwise see these souls as lost.
Later that same year, Sait departed High Rock, and now a young man of 23, he began his journey across the lands of men. He travelled from High Rock to Hammerfell, and from Hammerfell to Cyrodiil; and all the while he visited upon the domains of the mad. The dark spaces into which the rest of Tamriel stuffed their disparate, desperate folk. All of them from different places, practicing different magics and philosophies - but all alike in that their lives were often hard, and underpinned always by war, tragedy and stress. Mad houses were places of squalor - and the kindest of them were otherwise places of sterility, where maladies of the mind were not cured, but made silent through tedium and torture.
Everywhere he went, he broadened his perspective - he came to build theories and models of madness, even as the living conditions of his clients wore at the edges of his soul.
Not that life was especially glamorous on the road. At 26, Sait was nigh-penniless, and publishing his research from the eaves of The Witch's Tit, a graceless tavern in the port city of Anvil. He was on a crusade of tireless, tiring letter writing - corresponding with several colleges long after they had expressed disinterest in his theories. It was becoming evident that this was a field of research yet to be sown.
Dearest Professor Aluvirin, I am writing to propose to you that…
… and to whom it may concern, I am reaching out in search of like-minded individuals who…
Dr. Tauvurn, I’ve conducted my own research on this topic, and…
Dear Mr. Mallum, I know you told me to stop writing to you, but I really do think…
It took so long for any meaningful reply to return that Sait almost forgot that there was an end goal to the tedium of writing. It had become something of a ritual - in the mornings he would visit the lodgings of lunacy, and in the noon he would write until his hand began to cramp. Somewhere in there, somehow, several ales would manifest themselves about his makeshift desk, too. Such mysteries were as unsolvable as madness.
And then Gallenheim wrote to him.
Gallenheim- Gal- was a 'High Elf' of the progressive persuasion. A man who, like Sait, had come to see madness as something to be understood. He had taken some interest in Sait's writings, and in the prospect of therapeutic illusions - particularly as his sister had come to be haunted by hysteria. Through a regular and spirited correspondence, Gal disclosed his intentions to create an asylum in Southern Skyrim - a novel new facility intended to provide research-based alchemical and magical treatment. But he was himself, ostensibly, a man of fickle health - and so he was unable to conduct the necessary study alone.
That was serendipity enough for Sait - with Gal's funding, he travelled North and into Skyrim, where the wind carried such a chill that it made him feel that his blood might congeal.
Under Gal's guidance, Sait began to interview the Nord population, and visited again upon the places where they housed their mad. A hardy people, they oft had little to say in the way of their deeper feelings - though he found that they often lived short and stressful lives, and old age was nigh-synonymous with madness there. That didn't make the journey fruitless, however - in travelling Skyrim, young Sait began to become better acquainted with the country's small intelligentsia. The closed cult of academics who moved in similar circles to his own - people he would never have thought to write to, as their work seldom exceeded the borders of their cities, nevermind Skyrim as a whole.
It was during one such encounter, with a mage Sait had petitioned for help in his spellcraft, that he learned that things were not so clear cut as they seemed. In prioritising people, individually, Sait had lost sight of the bigger picture - the all-overarching war for the Ruby Throne. A battle fought not just on the field of combat, but through subterfuge - sometimes unwittingly.
Gallenheim, he came to learn, was a work of fiction - a wealthy ghost, whose prospective asylum existed in nobody's paperwork. It seemed likely to Sait's new academic friends, themselves a mixture of conscientious objectors and proud supporters of the Ebonheart Pact, that the entire pretense of Sait's visit was a ruse. A means to learn of local vulnerabilities, to perform a sort of surreal reconnaissance through an unwitting proxy - on behalf of The Aldmeri Dominion.
Sait was disheartened, he was outraged - but for the first time, he was amongst peers. Though this was an injustice, he was not without recompense.
He cut contact with "Gallenheim" immediately, but continued his research with the understanding that he would like to found a mental health facility - a place for the dishevelled and disenfranchised mad to feel safe and seek comfort at the hands of a new kind of healer. A place men like his father deserved.
He remained in Skyrim for two years, refining his methods with the help of his new colleagues, and establishing himself as a minor name in a fledgling field. By the time he was 28, however, the war was beginning to encroach - it was in the air that something significant was coming, and it seemed wise to leave when the locals began to grow increasingly incensed about it all. He made for the South, with the intention of returning to Anvil to collect some belongings, and then sailing on to Hammerfell, so that he might share what little money remained of The Aldmeri Dominion's generous research grants with his spinster sister Immara.
It was shortly before he'd cross the border into Cyrodiil that he learned of Raxus' upset victory - his sudden and prolific rise to power, seemingly from nowhere. By all accounts, a bloodied barbarian sat in the place of dragon's blood - and the Imperial City was well beneath his thumb.
Travelling through such a place would have been foolish for even the most prolific of warriors, nevermind a would-be academic. Having no delusions as to his nature, Sait made plans to leave Skyrim through Hammerfell directly; but the world felt different beneath Raxus' rule, there was something fundamentally unbalanced in it all. The air tasted different.
That unbalance was no more evident than when the aurora descended, though. Ribbons of ensnaring light, unfolding against Skyrim's darkling sky like a world-wide werelight. The plan changed again - such a thing had to be the work of a masterful illusionist, an entire band of them, and surely if such a thing were the case, his Nord colleagues would be well aware. Instead of Hammerfell, Sait veered towards Falkreath, and all along the way he met folks possessed by a strange and preternatural calm. Compelled also by the notion that something had shifted the minds of Skyrim's people, Sait's urgency increased.
By the time he reached Markarth, terrifying bliss had set in. The same Nords who had rattled swords at Raxus' upstart name were drifting towards a fondness for him. A generation of war, and the outrage it inspired, wiped from the zeitgeist of a country whose denizens prided themselves on battle. It would have been a beautiful thing, Sait supposed, had it been consensual. Was there such a thing as positive madness? Time and research would tell.
In Markarth, Sait descended upon the offices of a mage with whom he had worked to devise comforting illusions, and the two talked fervently of the news. To Sait's surprise, this keen Ebonheart enthusiast seemed to welcome the new regime -- and offered Sait a bed, so that the two could discuss such matters, and how they might affect his research going forwards, in the morning.
Sait awoke to an armed guard, in the most macabre or armour.
Sait's father was a madman - and now the whole world was mad.
Personality:
Sait learned young that the world was unjust - that it was chaos, and that it would do undue harm to any and everybody. He learned that the Gods did not always heed a prayer, and that good men died the same as sinners. As a young man, it bred a coldness in him. A chamber of doubt, a paralysing fear of the enemy within his mind.
But that coldness is gone now.
Sait has outgrown his existential nihilism: in volunteering himself to the worst conditions, and mingling amongst the living damned, he has come to practice a personal philosophy of proactive happiness. Of kindness not in spite of cruelty, but because of it. The world is hard and cruel, it's true - but candlelight seems a great deal brighter in the dark. A passing friend's helping hand means more to a drowning man than a rock out to sea. An ironic perspective, perhaps, as Sait has never remained in one place long enough to have friends of his own.
Sait is a gentle soul, though one with a decent sword-arm, and he believes fundamentally that it is the duty of the well to uphold the weak - that a person ought to be a friend to the world. In his work, he has come to know a great many people whose lives turned on the callousness of others - people interred as punishment for an illness no soul has yet sussed. But in showing them even basic kindness, they have opened to him as flowers do. And he carries that experience with him always.
Being kind, however, does not spare Sait from being strange. He is a man of habitual ritual, and of vast over-presumption. Oftentimes frantic in the throes of his research, Sait has come to adopt some of the peculiarities of the people he has studied. He is terrified of insects, particularly the small ones, after a client divulged their delusions of subdermal intruders - beetles beneath the skin, spiders beneath the eyelids. Every itch is an end. He's likewise sceptical of the open ocean, and enraptured by the glare of a wildfire. He can scarcely sleep on cloudless nights, as he is strangely compelled to believe that something insidious may fall from the stars - and he is certain that his sword, Sadia, has a living will to her.
Still, these are mostly harmless - there are far worse things uttered in the halls of the mad.
But that coldness is gone now.
Sait has outgrown his existential nihilism: in volunteering himself to the worst conditions, and mingling amongst the living damned, he has come to practice a personal philosophy of proactive happiness. Of kindness not in spite of cruelty, but because of it. The world is hard and cruel, it's true - but candlelight seems a great deal brighter in the dark. A passing friend's helping hand means more to a drowning man than a rock out to sea. An ironic perspective, perhaps, as Sait has never remained in one place long enough to have friends of his own.
Sait is a gentle soul, though one with a decent sword-arm, and he believes fundamentally that it is the duty of the well to uphold the weak - that a person ought to be a friend to the world. In his work, he has come to know a great many people whose lives turned on the callousness of others - people interred as punishment for an illness no soul has yet sussed. But in showing them even basic kindness, they have opened to him as flowers do. And he carries that experience with him always.
Being kind, however, does not spare Sait from being strange. He is a man of habitual ritual, and of vast over-presumption. Oftentimes frantic in the throes of his research, Sait has come to adopt some of the peculiarities of the people he has studied. He is terrified of insects, particularly the small ones, after a client divulged their delusions of subdermal intruders - beetles beneath the skin, spiders beneath the eyelids. Every itch is an end. He's likewise sceptical of the open ocean, and enraptured by the glare of a wildfire. He can scarcely sleep on cloudless nights, as he is strangely compelled to believe that something insidious may fall from the stars - and he is certain that his sword, Sadia, has a living will to her.
Still, these are mostly harmless - there are far worse things uttered in the halls of the mad.
GM
Sait [Say-Et] Sunfall | The Migrant Mentalist | Redguard | Male
Family Origins:Initially, Sait’s family were from Sentinel, Hammerfell - but Sait spent his formative years in High Rock, and a good many travelling Tamriel as a raggamuffin researcher. He considers himself to be a man without a nation; or else, a man whose country is in the people he works with.
Appearance:Sait is a tall and lean figure; thin but not without the tell-tale toning of a body inherently built for resilience. Raised in the traditional Redguard way- that is, by the blade- Sait is as sturdy as a man with fluctuating food incomes could be.
His face is long, but kind; his eyes the honeyed colour of amber, they glister hopefully in spite of the weight of others' woes. They are oft underfixed by the shadows of restless nights and long days, however. His complexion is that of a dark rosewood, deep and warm - and broken up about his lower mouth by his facial hair, a burgundy beard tailored to a goatee.
Being of humble origins, and oft deprived, Sait has made no habit of cutting his hair - he wears it, thick tresses of warm-hued Auburn, in a chaotic twisted bun, clasped with a golden bond. Nonetheless, the volume means it carries with it a rebellious streak - and generally there are strands which, being too keen, instead hang in loosely-curled drills about his face.
Prior to this crisis, Sait regularly changed his clothes to compliment local fashions - but his final tarrying to Falkreath was unplanned, so he is wearing something reminiscent of his Redguard garb; black harem pants and a similarly pitch leather tunic, embroidered with bands of silver and over-crossed by the dark-tanned leather strap of his scabbard. About his waist, a woven belt of white and red fabric slings across and down to his left hip. The arrangement is shawled beneath an open-breasted white cloak, hemmed in black and gold - and above it all, crossing his scabbard's strap in the other direction, is an oak-coloured satchel.
Equipment:Sadia, Sait's scimitar - His sister Eno's best design, forged by a Breton blacksmith.
A coin purse worked of a black suede; 100 septims.
Misc. Possessions:- A heavy, leather-bound notebook containing Sait's research; it is sewn from patches of red hide and closed with a flintlock-style lock.
- A darkly hued leather satchel, wide at the base and sewn from hide.
- Several inkwells, wrapped in cloth.
- Parchment paper and envelopes.
- Pencils and quills.
- A golden hair clasp, forged by Eno.
- A copy of his first series of publications, To The Far Shores and Back - A Treatise on Mundus and Mind.
- An incomplete sequel to the aforementioned To The Far Shores and Back, with the working title To Sovengarde and Back - The Nord - Perspective on Mundus and the Mind.
- A flint and tinder.
Family and Associations:- Jed Sunfall - Father, deceased. Once a gentle priest, Jed succumbed to madness in old age, and, unable to care for himself, died bitter and confused.
- Mother - Deceased.
- Eno Larrin - Eldest Sister, proprietress of a small merchant company operating out of Camlorn.
- Immara Sunfall - Elder Sister, making ends meet in Sentinel.
- Torran Larrin - Brother-in-Law, pseudo-parental figure and all around fun fella. Blessed with the undeniable gift of the gab.
- Somebody’s Sundries - The humble Larrin mercantile endeavour, based in Camlorn.
- The Illusion and Restoration faculties of Winterhold - Fellow researchers, with whom Sait has shared lengthy correspondence.
- Various, lesser academics - Don't think of themselves as such.
Favoured Skills:Speechcraft [Highly Proficient]
Sait is an old friend you've only just met; his verbal talents lying in a predisposition towards camaraderie and kindness. He is persuasive not on the basis that he is deceptive, but due to his good nature and his ability to read others; he picks his words carefully, and broadcasts sincerity. It is not just that Sait is a ‘trained talker’, though he is - Sait has dedicated his life to talking to others, and to persuading them to open the darkest vaults of their hearts to him.
Illusion [Highly Proficient]
Sait has always had an aptitude for illusions, though he was not always so proud of it - as a wain he worked silhouettes and shadows into more comforting shapes to ease his suffering father's fears. On instinct and from stolen glances at tabooed books. Many years later, with the aid of many a compatriot mage, such a skill would develop into Sait's Pacify technique. Likewise, to understand peace is to understand chaos, and in walking his path he has learned to use the psychology of those who would hurt him or others against them. After all, medicine is a double-edged sword - potions and poisons are indistinguishable out of their bottles.
Swordplay [Moderately Proficient]
Back when the old man's sword-arm was still strong, he raised Sait in the way of his ancestors… by the sword. When Jeb could no longer be trusted with a blade, it fell to Eno to keep the old ways alive. Though not as fervent a student as some other Redguard youth, Sait values Sadia and his capacity to use her greatly - one must have a weapon when one travels alone.
Restoration [Somewhat Proficient]
An inevitable element of Sait's walking the healing path: some people's minds fracture due to a treacherous body. And who better to comfort the sick than one who can heal with a touch?
Spell List:Pacify
Sait evokes wistful memories, and calm reverence which quells the urge towards violence. It is a moment from history, gold-hued and more perfect than it ever could have been - and for him it is a shade of childhood, where his fledgling magic smoothed the fury of his fitting father.
Rout
Having studied minds in crisis, Sait has built quite a repertoire of nightmares to induce - but none is more effective at scaring off a foe than the inexplicable, unexplainable dread.
Rally
Those overwhelmed by life can be pacified, and given due rest - but for those overcome by malaise, by existential dread, Sait has found that the more effective route is rallying them back to their feet.
Muffle
A hold out from childhood, Sait learned to muffle his steps before anything else - lest his father hear him coming, and catch him practicing his tricky magic.
Fast Healing
Though Sait has great empathy for those whose minds are elsewhere, some are violent. He doesn’t begrudge them this- his own father was likewise inclined- so in lieu of reacting harshly, Sait has learned to take care of himself.
Healing Hands
Most of the unwell are not violent, though. More often than not, they are persecuted. Tortured as treatment, beaten and broken under the misconception that fragile docility is recovery. In such a case, any good carer of the mind must be ready to heal the harmed.
History:Sait's father was a madman. This was not all he was, but by the end, it was all that remained of him. All that mattered. Madness had hollowed him out; it grew fat on his accomplishments, on his quiet pride and gentle valour, and all the while it ravaged him from within. The slowest and most terrible of poisons - it overcame even Redguard resilience. And when it was done with his thoughts, and he was well and truly blind in his mind's eye, it chewed on his body - until the muscle atrophied and the teeth fell out of his head.
Jed Sunfall had been a family man, once; a holy man, even. But he died a stranger to them all, family and flock. In his final moments, he thought his children spiritual lepers, and their long-departed mother his last confidant. He cried his woes to the open air of her, comforted only by the shadows and smoke his son spun from nothing; the illusory magics Sait taught himself in secret, to combat the horrors only Jed could see.
But he could not fight the battle for Jed's mind. Sait would always remember that he had died scared; the howling ghost of a quiet and thoughtful man.
Jed had been a priest of Tu'whacca, and a guide to all who endeavoured to make their way to the Far Shores; a steady hand on the tiller who had, himself, tried to turn the tide of many a man's madness. But, as surely he knew, it was not enough to be versed in verse. Being a holy man, all who endeavoured to treat him took it to be an illness of the spirit- Sep's haunting hunger- and prayed for him. Salved him, saved him in the eyes of their Gods. And yet still he perished, lost long before he died - and truly dead in death. Not whole enough to see the Far Shores again.
Such circumstances shook Sait's faith, and though he had taught himself the tabooed fundamentals of illusory magic, he did not grow up mystically inclined. He knew of the many Divines, of course - the Redguard pantheon and their neighbours - but he began to suspect young that men and Mer had more say in their lives than they might otherwise have liked. In the same way, he supposed folks often overestimated the interest of Gods.
And yet, something had taken Jeb's soul from him, of this much Sait was certain. Some terrible, transcendental hunger had cannibalised him from within - encroaching on the hearth of his heart until the warmth was wicked away, and all else was snuffed. But if not Divines, if not a spiritual sickness… then what?
The pursuit of answers to such questions became Sait's ouvre.
Sait was not yet a teen when they interred his father to the ground, to wander forever - devoid of the guidance he had offered others in life. It was not a ceremony which brought him peace - it seemed to him that it was all reverence to a tragic mystery. But there was nothing to be done - even in death, Jed's affliction could not be seen.
Following his passing, Sait became fixated with maladies of the mind - madness, melancholy and malaise. What sways a man to turn his weapon on himself, or on those he loves? Magic can sometimes alleviate these pains, but then, what does it affect to do this? Why do so many mages likewise go mad?
It became a fixation.
In lieu of a guardian, and of family to see them otherwise cared for, Sait's eldest sister- Eno- took it upon herself to provide for them. At first, life was paltry - she worked iron with intermediate skill, better accustomed to accoutrements than armaments. Her wares sold poorly, and often came back to her in pieces. And Sait could scarcely help her, for his fixation on his father's madness stupified him into an existential paralysis. He couldn't focus his mind for all the haul in Hammerfell. But Eno was young, strong and bonny - and soon enough made a good match with a visiting Breton merchant, hoping to establish further arms trades between High Rock and the City of Sentinel.
Torran, Eno's newfound husband, seemed a good match for her. He was spirited and keen, but nonetheless kind, and his merriment was boundless. He carried about him a bonhomie that was irresistable, and he drank Eno's love to its lees like a drunkard. In many ways, he was their late father's antithesis - but he made for a strong role model in young Sait's life, and took him for family at first they met.
"We're our very own little Daggerfall Covenant! One land, one emperor, right? Shame they named it after such a lousy city..."
Sait was scarcely 13 when Torran took Eno to Camlorn, with him in tow - though their middle sister, Immara, remained in Sentinel to mind what remained of their father's estate.
Jed had left little for them to inherit, and nothing they could take with them. A family home that Sait had no memory of joy in. But in Camlorn, Torran welcomed them to all he had - to his beds and business. To a life beyond the fallout of their father's decline. And yet still, Sait could not find peace in himself - cared for in comfort, his mind returned time and again to the invisible affliction of his father's mind. Though in time such things became baser - a simmering desire to know the workings and misworkings of people, always at play beneath his day-to-day adolescence. Torran was sure to keep him busy enough that such things only truly plagued him on quiet High Rock nights.
What struck Sait most about Torran, ultimately, was not his generosity - though it was evident in all he did for them. Sait came to love and admire a great many things about the man, but the thing he meditated on most was Torran's skill with people; with speech.
In the way of merchants, his business depended on barter - but this man did not simply hock wares; he sold airs along with them. Evoked value from his words; spoke new reality into being in the same way a mage might have conjured it. People swayed to the wind of his enthused effusion.
People had sought Jed out when Sait was very young, seeking guidance - but even in doing so with the reverence of believers, nobody had ever sought his company with the enthusiasm that total strangers soon sought Torran's. And they told him the stories of their lives, free of all charge save a joke and a witticism. If Sait were ever going to understand people, and the hidden corners of their minds, such a skill seemed essential.
"Torran, have you a minute?"
"For family? Always!"
"Can you be taught to speak? Like you do, I mean. Can I learn it?"
"Lad, not only can it be learned -- it can be mastered."
And so Sait subsequently began his journey into speech-craft. Under Torran's tutelage, and with the willing engagement of friendly regulars, he began to learn the way of words. How it is that strangers become fast friends, and the invisible machinery beneath it all. Torran confided in him the secrets of conversational strategy and social chameleonism; banter, baudiness and bardship.
Such lessons continued for Sait's teendom, and he worked diligently in his brother-in-law's service for so long as he received them; but as time pressed on, and Sait threatened to become a man, he began to feel unfulfilled. There was only so long that he could stave the ghost of his father's afflictions off. In growing older, he had come to look very much like Jed - back when the old man's face had been calm. When he'd smiled, and laughed softly, and waxed philosophical to his gaumless young. Jed had given him most every feature, save his instability - but the nature of the affliction was in itself maddening, and the root of it was no more evident in having mastered speaking to the sane.
Sait was not his father, despite all seemings. It was time to do what he and his colleagues could not - it was time to sate his cold, fearful hunger. It was time to dissect madness.
The Mad were not quite so easy to talk to as the sane. Not only due to their condition, but the conditions it otherwise left them in. Sait began to intern himself at temples and to local healers, not as a healer but as a comforting presence - and in doing so he saw men at their most pitiful. Deeply hollowed creatures; soldiers returning from the wars with eyes like smoke. Folks broken by the pressure - addicts fighting themselves. People whose every day was a new sphere of Oblivion. It seemed to Sait that madness was not one thing, but many - a spectrum of conditions left to linger, beyond the pale of potions and paltry spellwork.
But those with enough presence of mind to speak spoke volumes. Madness was a mystery to all but the mad - they were doctors unto themselves, scholars of the soul. Forced to introspection, and willing to share with a willing and non-judgemental ear. Like prisoners through the bars of their cages. They likewise marvelled at the comforting things he worked from air; in High Rock, illusory magic did not carry the taboo of his homeland, and that pressed Sait to further flex its capacity to heal the mentally unwell. Those that Sait worked under praised his efforts as humanitarian, but fruitless - those whose struggles he heard were beyond help. It was a small mercy. Such cruel compliments only further fuelled the fervor of Sait's undertaking.
"There has to be more than this. It isn't enough that people should suffer in company."
Sait felt that he had learned a lot through conversation alone - that those willing to speak to him had given him an insight beyond what watching alone could have. But he wanted to do more than listen, now. He wanted to provide the relief Jed had sorely needed - and he wanted to do more than cast comforting shadows in order to do it.
So he resolved to study; to find his niche among those who would otherwise see these souls as lost.
Later that same year, Sait departed High Rock, and now a young man of 23, he began his journey across the lands of men. He travelled from High Rock to Hammerfell, and from Hammerfell to Cyrodiil; and all the while he visited upon the domains of the mad. The dark spaces into which the rest of Tamriel stuffed their disparate, desperate folk. All of them from different places, practicing different magics and philosophies - but all alike in that their lives were often hard, and underpinned always by war, tragedy and stress. Mad houses were places of squalor - and the kindest of them were otherwise places of sterility, where maladies of the mind were not cured, but made silent through tedium and torture.
Everywhere he went, he broadened his perspective - he came to build theories and models of madness, even as the living conditions of his clients wore at the edges of his soul.
Not that life was especially glamorous on the road. At 26, Sait was nigh-penniless, and publishing his research from the eaves of The Witch's Tit, a graceless tavern in the port city of Anvil. He was on a crusade of tireless, tiring letter writing - corresponding with several colleges long after they had expressed disinterest in his theories. It was becoming evident that this was a field of research yet to be sown.
Dearest Professor Aluvirin, I am writing to propose to you that…
… and to whom it may concern, I am reaching out in search of like-minded individuals who…
Dr. Tauvurn, I’ve conducted my own research on this topic, and…
Dear Mr. Mallum, I know you told me to stop writing to you, but I really do think…
It took so long for any meaningful reply to return that Sait almost forgot that there was an end goal to the tedium of writing. It had become something of a ritual - in the mornings he would visit the lodgings of lunacy, and in the noon he would write until his hand began to cramp. Somewhere in there, somehow, several ales would manifest themselves about his makeshift desk, too. Such mysteries were as unsolvable as madness.
And then Gallenheim wrote to him.
Gallenheim- Gal- was a 'High Elf' of the progressive persuasion. A man who, like Sait, had come to see madness as something to be understood. He had taken some interest in Sait's writings, and in the prospect of therapeutic illusions - particularly as his sister had come to be haunted by hysteria. Through a regular and spirited correspondence, Gal disclosed his intentions to create an asylum in Southern Skyrim - a novel new facility intended to provide research-based alchemical and magical treatment. But he was himself, ostensibly, a man of fickle health - and so he was unable to conduct the necessary study alone.
That was serendipity enough for Sait - with Gal's funding, he travelled North and into Skyrim, where the wind carried such a chill that it made him feel that his blood might congeal.
Under Gal's guidance, Sait began to interview the Nord population, and visited again upon the places where they housed their mad. A hardy people, they oft had little to say in the way of their deeper feelings - though he found that they often lived short and stressful lives, and old age was nigh-synonymous with madness there. That didn't make the journey fruitless, however - in travelling Skyrim, young Sait began to become better acquainted with the country's small intelligentsia. The closed cult of academics who moved in similar circles to his own - people he would never have thought to write to, as their work seldom exceeded the borders of their cities, nevermind Skyrim as a whole.
It was during one such encounter, with a mage Sait had petitioned for help in his spellcraft, that he learned that things were not so clear cut as they seemed. In prioritising people, individually, Sait had lost sight of the bigger picture - the all-overarching war for the Ruby Throne. A battle fought not just on the field of combat, but through subterfuge - sometimes unwittingly.
Gallenheim, he came to learn, was a work of fiction - a wealthy ghost, whose prospective asylum existed in nobody's paperwork. It seemed likely to Sait's new academic friends, themselves a mixture of conscientious objectors and proud supporters of the Ebonheart Pact, that the entire pretense of Sait's visit was a ruse. A means to learn of local vulnerabilities, to perform a sort of surreal reconnaissance through an unwitting proxy - on behalf of The Aldmeri Dominion.
Sait was disheartened, he was outraged - but for the first time, he was amongst peers. Though this was an injustice, he was not without recompense.
He cut contact with "Gallenheim" immediately, but continued his research with the understanding that he would like to found a mental health facility - a place for the dishevelled and disenfranchised mad to feel safe and seek comfort at the hands of a new kind of healer. A place men like his father deserved.
He remained in Skyrim for two years, refining his methods with the help of his new colleagues, and establishing himself as a minor name in a fledgling field. By the time he was 28, however, the war was beginning to encroach - it was in the air that something significant was coming, and it seemed wise to leave when the locals began to grow increasingly incensed about it all. He made for the South, with the intention of returning to Anvil to collect some belongings, and then sailing on to Hammerfell, so that he might share what little money remained of The Aldmeri Dominion's generous research grants with his spinster sister Immara.
It was shortly before he'd cross the border into Cyrodiil that he learned of Raxus' upset victory - his sudden and prolific rise to power, seemingly from nowhere. By all accounts, a bloodied barbarian sat in the place of dragon's blood - and the Imperial City was well beneath his thumb.
Travelling through such a place would have been foolish for even the most prolific of warriors, nevermind a would-be academic. Having no delusions as to his nature, Sait made plans to leave Skyrim through Hammerfell directly; but the world felt different beneath Raxus' rule, there was something fundamentally unbalanced in it all. The air tasted different.
That unbalance was no more evident than when the aurora descended, though. Ribbons of ensnaring light, unfolding against Skyrim's darkling sky like a world-wide werelight. The plan changed again - such a thing had to be the work of a masterful illusionist, an entire band of them, and surely if such a thing were the case, his Nord colleagues would be well aware. Instead of Hammerfell, Sait veered towards Falkreath, and all along the way he met folks possessed by a strange and preternatural calm. Compelled also by the notion that something had shifted the minds of Skyrim's people, Sait's urgency increased.
By the time he reached Markarth, terrifying bliss had set in. The same Nords who had rattled swords at Raxus' upstart name were drifting towards a fondness for him. A generation of war, and the outrage it inspired, wiped from the zeitgeist of a country whose denizens prided themselves on battle. It would have been a beautiful thing, Sait supposed, had it been consensual. Was there such a thing as positive madness? Time and research would tell.
In Markarth, Sait descended upon the offices of a mage with whom he had worked to devise comforting illusions, and the two talked fervently of the news. To Sait's surprise, this keen Ebonheart enthusiast seemed to welcome the new regime -- and offered Sait a bed, so that the two could discuss such matters, and how they might affect his research going forwards, in the morning.
Sait awoke to an armed guard, in the most macabre or armour.
Sait's father was a madman - and now the whole world was mad.
Personality:Sait learned young that the world was unjust - that it was chaos, and that it would do undue harm to any and everybody. He learned that the Gods did not always heed a prayer, and that good men died the same as sinners. As a young man, it bred a coldness in him. A chamber of doubt, a paralysing fear of the enemy within his mind.
But that coldness is gone now.
Sait has outgrown his existential nihilism: in volunteering himself to the worst conditions, and mingling amongst the living damned, he has come to practice a personal philosophy of proactive happiness. Of kindness not in spite of cruelty, but because of it. The world is hard and cruel, it's true - but candlelight seems a great deal brighter in the dark. A passing friend's helping hand means more to a drowning man than a rock out to sea. An ironic perspective, perhaps, as Sait has never remained in one place long enough to have friends of his own.
Sait is a gentle soul, though one with a decent sword-arm, and he believes fundamentally that it is the duty of the well to uphold the weak - that a person ought to be a friend to the world. In his work, he has come to know a great many people whose lives turned on the callousness of others - people interred as punishment for an illness no soul has yet sussed. But in showing them even basic kindness, they have opened to him as flowers do. And he carries that experience with him always.
Being kind, however, does not spare Sait from being strange. He is a man of habitual ritual, and of vast over-presumption. Oftentimes frantic in the throes of his research, Sait has come to adopt some of the peculiarities of the people he has studied. He is terrified of insects, particularly the small ones, after a client divulged their delusions of subdermal intruders - beetles beneath the skin, spiders beneath the eyelids. Every itch is an end. He's likewise sceptical of the open ocean, and enraptured by the glare of a wildfire. He can scarcely sleep on cloudless nights, as he is strangely compelled to believe that something insidious may fall from the stars - and he is certain that his sword, Sadia, has a living will to her.
Still, these are mostly harmless - there are far worse things uttered in the halls of the mad.
I have to say I was really looking forward to your sheet, having heard so much about your writing. I'm very happy to report that I have definitely not been disappointed! Sait is such a unique seeming character, and honestly one that I find works really well with the sort of mad world rp chaos we're going to be venturing in. Maybe it's typecasting, lol, but I for one would not have expected a Redguard to be so involved in something that wasn't sword/beliefs related, rather focusing on magic as a way to help those with mental health issues.
I enjoyed the way you described his looks, even without a picture I can see him in my mind's eye. Similar to Janus, I like the way your character dresses himself up based on where he lives, although I'm guessing he's a bit of a mish mash once he wakes up. I also really liked the way you described his rebellious hair, I think for me that was the cherry on top of the cake that cemented his look for me. I'd mentioned in the server about how I appreciated his sword and the name for it, and the same goes for his golden hair clasp, and the sentimental value he seems to hold for the things his sister made for him. Perhaps I'm reading too much into it? Lol. It's just something that rings true to me though.
His possessions as well his skill set (especially the spells he uses) further speak to me of what a dedicated sort of person he is, and it ties in really well with his history. If I had to suspect, unless he's an extreme neat freak, that he has ink stains on his fingers more often than not, lol. His dedication to his mission in life speaks a lot for his character and personality, and something that has been consistent throughout the entirety of his history. It could almost be called an obsession, I reckon, though I feel kinda bad using that negative word since Sait is clearly trying to work towards a better future and possible cure for people suffering of illnesses that can't be seen.
The consistent efforts he put out to reach scholars who might listen to him and finally finding someone had me rooting for him, which made it hurt extra when he finds out that he had been duped by the gosh darn Aldmeri Dominion! x.x It was however heartening to see that instead of wallowing in despair, he took affairs into his own hands and continued to work on his life mission. It speaks of how true his dedication is.
All in all, I have to say I really love your sheet and the style in which you write; I can see why Dervs was speaking so highly of you! Your character sounds like someone real, relatable, and someone you'd want to get to know and be friends with. I'm really excited to read more of him, especially with how he'll interact with the rest of the group!
ps. sorry for using the word dedication so much ^^; I just really admire that in a person
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spicykvnt Sponsored by Yorkshire Gold
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I absolutely love how you describe appearances; it’s got this very poetic flourish to it that makes the imagery pop without feeling superfluous. I can picture Joy so vividly even without having seen your lovely artwork for her! I know you’re going for a kindly and gentle souled character and your word choice here really helps convey that sort of personality without even having to describe that aspect about Joy; you just have this beautiful talent for finding the best words that carry so much weight. It makes the sudden appearances of scars and old wounds that much more jarring and horrible; it’s like a splash of cold water while you’re dreaming. It makes you feel compassion for this character, and we haven’t even got to the bio yet!
If I had to find a way to describe Joy’s personality in a single word, it would be “seasonal”. There’s something about how she carries herself where she expects her encounters with people to be fleeting and temporary, but instead of finding that discouraging and a “why bother” sort of situation, she really takes the time to cherish the moments she has with people, and there’s just this genuine warmth and moment to moment love that really sticks out about her. It’s so easy to go with an orphan character who is distrustful and really negatively affected by their experiences, but Joy seems to have transcended that where possible, even after enduring abuse and carrying scars from the experience. There’s an inner strength to her that she’s weathered so many storms and instead of lashing out, she faces down her demons with a smile. I feel like she’s yearning for love and acceptance and a place where things stay for a change, but she’s not trying to force anything, and I find that really admirable.
“I have never been able to cast a spell, but I like to believe that the other orphans and I created magic by the fireplace from pure imagination.” < I quite love this line. It’s so sincere and it really makes it feel like there’s more magic than just the spells you can cast, but intangible things carry their own sort of spell. It’s just a delightful aside.
“across the border to High Rock where I wound up on the outskirts of Jehanna.” < Something that’s really easy to miss, but Jehanna hasn’t actually been founded yet! The closest city to the dock area that will one day become Jehanna is actually Orsinium, of all places. I’d say Evermore might be the next most feasible place, as it’s not too far away from the border of Hammerfell and Skyrim; I imagine a lot of travellers passed through there.
“Her temper was coarse, in a way that I could only liken to a saber-cat with a thorn wedged in her paw.” < another lovely descriptive bit!
I am *so* glad that Minasi didn’t take Joy to the brothel to work as a prostitute. That would have been super dark, and not that that’s a bad thing, but it was a pleasant surprise Joy was brought on to take care of the establishment and the people within it. It really shows the origins of her motherly and kind ways where this surrogate mother might have been harsh, but she clearly cared about Joy in a way that’s unique to her and maybe not ideal. Her parting gift is actually touching, and it’s really interesting to see how she shaped Joy into the woman she would grow up to be.
“tended to agents of the Empire.” < Worth noting, the Empire’s more or less been collapsed without an Emperor for a long while now;
“It began with the assassination of the last Akaviri Potentate, Savirien Chorak, and every one of his heirs on one bloody night during Sun's Dawn of 2E 430, by orders of the Night Mother. She hired members of the Morag Tong,[1] which then became the Dark Brotherhood in the 430th year of the Second Era.[2] It ended in the 854th year of the Second Era with the establishment of the Third Empire by Tiber Septim.
The Interregnum was a time of great turmoil. The Reman Empire, which had survived through the Akaviri Potentates, fell, and resulted in a series of "insurrections, misrules, and loss of power."[3] The Chim-el Adabal, or Amulet of Kings, was lost amid the "petty wars of gone-heathen kings." In Cyrodiil, the East and the West fought one another.[4] “
The Three Banners War started in 2E 582 and we are at 2E 600 in the timeline. For Joy living in High Rock, she’d be encountering Covenant soldiers from Hammerfell, High Rock, and Wrothgar. The High King’s personal guard is called the Lion’s Guard.
You have Speechcraft written as two separate skills; you can combine the two, even if they have different purposes. Maybe you could sub it out for something like Mercantile? She did work in a Brothel for ages; I imagine she had some hand in the accounting side of things and taking payment from clients.
Joy is a, well, absolute Joy of a character to read! I greatly appreciate you bringing her into this and I don’t see anything about her that’s brought up reason for concern. If you have any questions about my points or suggestions, don’t be a stranger!
thank you babe <3
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coGM
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@Captain Jenno
First off, *thank you* for showing out to pronounce Sait’s name; I was calling him Say-t because there’s a college in Alberta here called Southern Alberta Institute of Technology and that’s how it’s pronounced.
Ahem.
I really love the descriptive text you have for Sait’s skills and how he has learned and applies them; it brings out a lot in his personality. I really love how he feels like a real support character where his spells are really reflective of his personality and backstory, and it’s going to force you to be creative with how you apply them. The themes around his fixation on the mind and understanding it really shines through and how he has dedicated himself to helping others. I can’t wait to see how you apply this in the game.
I have genuinely missed your writing; right off the hop the way you hook into his backstory and set the stage is nothing short of enrapturing, and you have such a beautiful poetic prose that brings things to life so vibrantly and pulls me into the scene and the emotional weight of what’s going on. It’s not traditional in the way it doesn’t start from the beginning, but it provides such brilliant context for what’s to come that it’s really lovely. In a way, how Sait’s experience in losing his father and his quest to rationalize it and question his own faith really gives me some slight Lovecraft vibes where you can picture his obsession and fixations leading down a dark and dangerous path.
“He carried about him a bonhomie that was irresistible, and he drank Eno's love to its lees like a drunkard.” This is just a lovely bit of phrasing, I just thought I’d point that out. I like how Eno wasn’t an entirely successful blacksmith who was also taking on the mantle of being the provider of her family. I have a friend who lost her parents and had to raise her brothers on her own and try to maintain their estate, her struggles and love for her family really reminds me of Eno, and I can only hope she finds her own Torran.
I really love how Torran became a sort of paternal figure to Sait, even if he was his brother-in-law, it’s a very wholesome relationship that ended up building the foundation for Sait’s path and purpose in life and it’s a really effective use of auxiliary characters building on your main character. Torran and Eno matter to Sait, and were and are formulating characters that still play a part in his life as opposed to an Obi-wan style mentor that shows up, teaches a valuable skill and lesson, and promptly fucks off when their purpose has been expended. There’s genuine warmth here and it feels like a real family.
One trait you’ve woven into Sait I absolutely adore is how he uses Illusion magic as a form of healing and treatment for patients to comfort them, and it’s really heartwarming and brilliant in execution. It’s little things like that that give Sait this aura of goodness to him that really makes him stand out in a lovely way. It’s such an important thing; healing of the mind and soul is just as important as the body, and it’s conveyed really well in how you write this character.
“The Witch’s Tit” I’d love to see the sign for that particular establishment. Top’s pulled up for open, down for closed?
It’s an interesting turn of events for Sait heading to Skyrim at the behest of someone who seems to share Sait’s particular worldview, and even when the blinders come off and Sait realizes he’s been used, Gal not being real, it’s compelling that the situation still works to Sait’s benefit as it provides and avenue to pursue his fixation on understanding madness. It’s very pragmatic and interesting, and it’s a good window for him to learn the hard way that things aren’t always as they appear and motivations aren’t always altruistic.
And I really love how Sait’s background and motivations seem to reflect nicely on the plot itself; it’s a perspective about the alteration of mind that he’s got this innate connection with that really seals this off so nicely.
Honestly, Sait is a brilliant character and you have such a magnificent way of writing it really is such a genuine joy to read. There isn’t anything I’d change, and I welcome him and Sait into this story we’re all going to craft together.
First off, *thank you* for showing out to pronounce Sait’s name; I was calling him Say-t because there’s a college in Alberta here called Southern Alberta Institute of Technology and that’s how it’s pronounced.
Ahem.
I really love the descriptive text you have for Sait’s skills and how he has learned and applies them; it brings out a lot in his personality. I really love how he feels like a real support character where his spells are really reflective of his personality and backstory, and it’s going to force you to be creative with how you apply them. The themes around his fixation on the mind and understanding it really shines through and how he has dedicated himself to helping others. I can’t wait to see how you apply this in the game.
I have genuinely missed your writing; right off the hop the way you hook into his backstory and set the stage is nothing short of enrapturing, and you have such a beautiful poetic prose that brings things to life so vibrantly and pulls me into the scene and the emotional weight of what’s going on. It’s not traditional in the way it doesn’t start from the beginning, but it provides such brilliant context for what’s to come that it’s really lovely. In a way, how Sait’s experience in losing his father and his quest to rationalize it and question his own faith really gives me some slight Lovecraft vibes where you can picture his obsession and fixations leading down a dark and dangerous path.
“He carried about him a bonhomie that was irresistible, and he drank Eno's love to its lees like a drunkard.” This is just a lovely bit of phrasing, I just thought I’d point that out. I like how Eno wasn’t an entirely successful blacksmith who was also taking on the mantle of being the provider of her family. I have a friend who lost her parents and had to raise her brothers on her own and try to maintain their estate, her struggles and love for her family really reminds me of Eno, and I can only hope she finds her own Torran.
I really love how Torran became a sort of paternal figure to Sait, even if he was his brother-in-law, it’s a very wholesome relationship that ended up building the foundation for Sait’s path and purpose in life and it’s a really effective use of auxiliary characters building on your main character. Torran and Eno matter to Sait, and were and are formulating characters that still play a part in his life as opposed to an Obi-wan style mentor that shows up, teaches a valuable skill and lesson, and promptly fucks off when their purpose has been expended. There’s genuine warmth here and it feels like a real family.
One trait you’ve woven into Sait I absolutely adore is how he uses Illusion magic as a form of healing and treatment for patients to comfort them, and it’s really heartwarming and brilliant in execution. It’s little things like that that give Sait this aura of goodness to him that really makes him stand out in a lovely way. It’s such an important thing; healing of the mind and soul is just as important as the body, and it’s conveyed really well in how you write this character.
“The Witch’s Tit” I’d love to see the sign for that particular establishment. Top’s pulled up for open, down for closed?
It’s an interesting turn of events for Sait heading to Skyrim at the behest of someone who seems to share Sait’s particular worldview, and even when the blinders come off and Sait realizes he’s been used, Gal not being real, it’s compelling that the situation still works to Sait’s benefit as it provides and avenue to pursue his fixation on understanding madness. It’s very pragmatic and interesting, and it’s a good window for him to learn the hard way that things aren’t always as they appear and motivations aren’t always altruistic.
And I really love how Sait’s background and motivations seem to reflect nicely on the plot itself; it’s a perspective about the alteration of mind that he’s got this innate connection with that really seals this off so nicely.
Honestly, Sait is a brilliant character and you have such a magnificent way of writing it really is such a genuine joy to read. There isn’t anything I’d change, and I welcome him and Sait into this story we’re all going to craft together.
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 Image: Conducting experiment in Bangkorai, circa 2E 599 | Bolorma gra-Shulgin 185cm | 85kg | 33 years old ♀ | Orc | Apprentice Dra'bul, Malabal Tor, Valenwood MAJOR WILLPOWER | minor agility Highly Proficient: Destruction Moderately Proficient: Mysticism | Alchemy Somewhat Proficient: Conjuration | Restoration | Acrobatics | Provisioning | Enchanting |
Appearance
Despite having an atypical career for an Orc, Bolorma is quite typical for an Orc woman, physically.
Well, Wood Orc.
Like other Wood Orcs, she is more svelte than bulky, relative to their Orsimer counterparts in the north. Compared to those in Wrothgar, her limbs are more elongated, rather than squarely muscled. Her tusks are thin, long, and partly curved, rather than thick and stout. Her jawline is thinner, rather than round. Her neck is akin to a flexible palm tree, rather than a girthy oak. But to those unfamiliar with Orcs, Bolorma is just another big green woman.
She doesn't disagree. After all, Bolorma is taller and heavier than her standard Breton colleague. But no, she can't lift most of them. She can lift some heavy boxes filled with soul gems and alchemy flasks, though. This, combined with semi-routine exercising (mainly to get away from the stuffy guild hall), made Bolorma's arms and legs slightly muscled, and her core lightly toned.
Dark blue eyes that near amethyst under specific lighting. Platinum blond hair just past her shoulders, and often tucked into a ponytail. Darker eyebrows and eyelashes (due to washing her face and hair separately). Thin, dark lips that either curls up to a fascinated smirk, or a weary frown. Bolorma takes her hygiene seriously, especially after losing her lover to the Knahaten Flu.
Unlike her practical circlet, which is enchanted and doubles as a hairband, her earrings carry the weight of vanity and remembrance of lost loves. A pair of lozenge dangles, shaped like the Imperial red diamond, reminds her of a certain follower of Mara. Three hoops, popular among Orcs of Orsinium, pay tribute to an enchanter and mentor.
Well, Wood Orc.
Like other Wood Orcs, she is more svelte than bulky, relative to their Orsimer counterparts in the north. Compared to those in Wrothgar, her limbs are more elongated, rather than squarely muscled. Her tusks are thin, long, and partly curved, rather than thick and stout. Her jawline is thinner, rather than round. Her neck is akin to a flexible palm tree, rather than a girthy oak. But to those unfamiliar with Orcs, Bolorma is just another big green woman.
She doesn't disagree. After all, Bolorma is taller and heavier than her standard Breton colleague. But no, she can't lift most of them. She can lift some heavy boxes filled with soul gems and alchemy flasks, though. This, combined with semi-routine exercising (mainly to get away from the stuffy guild hall), made Bolorma's arms and legs slightly muscled, and her core lightly toned.
Dark blue eyes that near amethyst under specific lighting. Platinum blond hair just past her shoulders, and often tucked into a ponytail. Darker eyebrows and eyelashes (due to washing her face and hair separately). Thin, dark lips that either curls up to a fascinated smirk, or a weary frown. Bolorma takes her hygiene seriously, especially after losing her lover to the Knahaten Flu.
Unlike her practical circlet, which is enchanted and doubles as a hairband, her earrings carry the weight of vanity and remembrance of lost loves. A pair of lozenge dangles, shaped like the Imperial red diamond, reminds her of a certain follower of Mara. Three hoops, popular among Orcs of Orsinium, pay tribute to an enchanter and mentor.
Personality
On the surface, Bolorma is confident of her abilities. She believes in doing a job well, and a job well done warrants lucrative rewards. Therefore, she has a distaste for slackers and those who cut corners. Still, she isn't above walking away from something she couldn't do, or something not worth doing. After all, everyone has a limit; Bolorma certainly has hers.
Beneath the surface, Bolorma has many layers of doubt. She does not believe she was raised with love, and believes the world has torn away those she loved. She never quite belonged, never quite fit in, never certain of who she is supposed to be. She questions her identity, her faith, and her future. Will an Orc be accepted by the divines? Will the child of a villainous tribe build her home somewhere else? Will a heart broken by loss ever love again? Bolorma is uncertain of the answers, and nothing scares her like uncertainty.
With that said, Bolorma has a very much passionate, curious, and sometimes impulsive, mind. While she is most comfortable in familiar settings, and having everything under control, she delights in new challenges. Learning about current events is a hobby of hers. Learning among the books can be something she spends days losing herself in. Learning from her mistakes is necessity she begrudgingly accepts, though sometimes she rebels against. Learning about anything but herself works as a soothing distraction.
While Bolorma likes to think she is not prejudiced against anyone, she has no shortage of disdain for certain individuals, groups and cultures. She finds established organizations to be entrenched in old ways, thus stifling people like herself of their full potential. At the same time, she believes authority should always exist in any society. Good leadership, whatever that truly means, is sorely lacking in present day Tamriel. Bolorma sees the war in Cyrodiil as meaningless slaughter, and the alliances that perpetuate it as fundamentally flawed. She has no aspiration to become empress, chief, or arch-mage, but Bolorma will not hesitate to take charge to achieve common goals.
She has mixed feelings for battle. It is exciting, it is dangerous, it is exhausting, it is different. With devastating shock spells, Bolorma knows she can inflict as much as damage as a powerful warrior. But since she is unable to withstand nearly as much, she prefers to stay well away from the melee, and using her destructive capabilities as deterrence. If given the choice, she would rather protect her allies with conjured wards and heal the wounded.
In terms of faith, Bolorma believes in the eight divines and Trinimac. She does not pray to them frequently, not since three years ago.
Gold has rarely been a concern for Bolorma. She's not rich, but magic is always in demand somewhere.
Beneath the surface, Bolorma has many layers of doubt. She does not believe she was raised with love, and believes the world has torn away those she loved. She never quite belonged, never quite fit in, never certain of who she is supposed to be. She questions her identity, her faith, and her future. Will an Orc be accepted by the divines? Will the child of a villainous tribe build her home somewhere else? Will a heart broken by loss ever love again? Bolorma is uncertain of the answers, and nothing scares her like uncertainty.
With that said, Bolorma has a very much passionate, curious, and sometimes impulsive, mind. While she is most comfortable in familiar settings, and having everything under control, she delights in new challenges. Learning about current events is a hobby of hers. Learning among the books can be something she spends days losing herself in. Learning from her mistakes is necessity she begrudgingly accepts, though sometimes she rebels against. Learning about anything but herself works as a soothing distraction.
While Bolorma likes to think she is not prejudiced against anyone, she has no shortage of disdain for certain individuals, groups and cultures. She finds established organizations to be entrenched in old ways, thus stifling people like herself of their full potential. At the same time, she believes authority should always exist in any society. Good leadership, whatever that truly means, is sorely lacking in present day Tamriel. Bolorma sees the war in Cyrodiil as meaningless slaughter, and the alliances that perpetuate it as fundamentally flawed. She has no aspiration to become empress, chief, or arch-mage, but Bolorma will not hesitate to take charge to achieve common goals.
She has mixed feelings for battle. It is exciting, it is dangerous, it is exhausting, it is different. With devastating shock spells, Bolorma knows she can inflict as much as damage as a powerful warrior. But since she is unable to withstand nearly as much, she prefers to stay well away from the melee, and using her destructive capabilities as deterrence. If given the choice, she would rather protect her allies with conjured wards and heal the wounded.
In terms of faith, Bolorma believes in the eight divines and Trinimac. She does not pray to them frequently, not since three years ago.
Gold has rarely been a concern for Bolorma. She's not rich, but magic is always in demand somewhere.
History
When she was young, Bolorma prayed for lightning.
The shamans of her tribe saw the sparks the day she was born. The speckles of magicka shone through her like light through a prism. Bolorma, they told her mother, "crystal" in an ancient tongue.
Her mother was the hearth-wife to the chief, and the daughter was destined to be married to the chief of another stronghold, as it had been for generations. Those who stray from their destiny were forever forgotten.
The eldest shaman, Glazulg, was an eccentric Orc. While the select few with magical talent would study under his tutelage, his recent opposition to the chief caused Bolorma's mother to forbid any future of a young shamaness. Plus, the chiefs of neighboring tribes wanted an dutiful and obedient child-bearer, not a wild and impulsive storm-caller.
In her first fourteen years, Bolorma gra-Makhug learned how to be the best hearth-wife; cooking, mending clothes and cleaning the longhouse. Ever the willful, curious and nimble girl, she often sneaked out to climb the towering graht-trees of Malabal Tor and tussle with other children. Those escapades would end in her returning with scrapes on her skin, dirt in her nails and static in her hair. A harsh scolding, and sometimes a harsher beating, would come from her mother.
The lightning she prayed for never came, for without training, Bolorma's magic never developed. But on her fifteenth year, the warriors of her tribe made an unprecedented attack on Velyn Harbor. It failed, and a vengeful Dominion general ordered the ethnic cleansing of all Drublog Wood Orcs. Bolorma was one of the few survivors, because she sneaked out to play.
The forests of Malabal Tor could have spelled doom for Bolorma in many ways. Cultists, werewolves, bloodthirsty Dominion soldiers or just hungry beasts. Instead, she was found by members of the Mages Guild out on a runestone survey. The mages quickly recognized her latent magic potential and took her to their hall. Among the throngs of Altmer wizards, Bolorma was surprised to find another Orc. An enchanter from the north called Shulgin gro-Brushas.
From Shulgin, Bolorma would learn about his homeland, Wrothgar, and his divine, Trinimac. But more amazingly than a sovereign Orcish kingdom was an organization where Orcs could learn magic. She became Shulgin's assistant as he finished his surveys in Valenwood. Then they traveled north, where Bolorma found herself in awe of the people, their cultures and architectures. By her seventeenth year, Bolorma was Shulgin's apprentice and an associate of the Mages Guild. Their relationship grew intimate as they traveled through the Daggerfall Covenant.
When she was 18, Bolorma had her first heartbreak.
Shortly after Bolorma turned eighteen, Shulgin abruptly announced an end to their partnership. He felt inappropriate sleeping with an apprentice a decade younger, and felt like he was taking advantage of her. In addition, their skills branched in different directions. Whereas he was gifted in enchanting, her talents manifested in electromancy. Before parting ways, Shulgin finally gave Bolorma the endorsement for full guild membership.
Bolorma reacted like any other eighteen-year-old after a breakup. She cursed Shulgin's name, ate a lot of sweet snacks and buried herself in her studies. Her prowess as a sorceress heightened as she progressed in the guild's Wayrest chapter. Spell after spell, thesis after thesis, proving after proving; by the age of 24, Bolorma was qualified as an evoker.
When she was 24, Bolorma felt immortal.
Lightning crackled at her command, and the powers of soul and Oblivion was hers to harness. The only thing holding her back was surely the guild's bureaucracy. The old Breton wizards were just like the old Altmer wizards in Malabal Tor; racist and stuck in their old ways. In addition, she heard the guild would be restricting areal spells to be cast no often than once every three seconds, in fear of "sundering the foundation of Aurbis". What she needed were practical results to prove them wrong. An expedition was forming to study the aftermath of the Celestials in Craglorn: the perfect opportunity.
Reality was far more disappointing than expectation. Instead of fallen stars and otherworldly manticores, the expedition spent months digging up rocks, and more months examining them. Against regulations, Bolorma reactivated a dormant anomaly. Slumbering atronachs sprung to life and rampaged through the expedition camp. Four lives were lost.
Standing before the guild council took Bolorma back to her mother's scoldings. The shame of failing, of being caught, overwhelmed her senses. But she was an adult now, and she didn't have to suffer demotion like her mother's beatings.
When she was 25, Bolorma left the Mages Guild.
The next year was spent drifting from place to place. The stars that once guided Bolorma lost their aetherial inspiration. With every passing night, she looked up less to the sky, and deeper into whatever drink that drowned her sorrows. She found herself in Evermore on her 26th year, zapping skeevers for gold and spending them at a brothel called the Blushing Hawk.
On a caravan escort job to Skyrim, Bolorma found herself attacked by werewolves. Lightning arced from her fingertip, electrocuting the charging wolf-man. Her familiar emerged from Oblivion, her wards blunted the werewolves' claws. It was surreal to apply her sorcery in such a sudden manner; her training taking over as the beasts were driven off. Bolorma didn't talk much about it after, but the caravanners did, and the Silver Dawn recruiter at Falkreath heard.
Werewolf hunting sounded like the ideal job to regain her confidence. Bolorma purchased an elegant staff from the Silver Dawn armorer. Then she set out with a raiding party to the Moon Hunter pack's hideout in the Jeralls, hoping to find glory in battle.
Instead, she found numbing strikes, soaked blood, mangled flesh, torn limbs, disemboweled entrails, decapitated heads, and the screams of her dying comrades, and, oh, gods, the smell!
The smell was nauseous. She found vomit. Bolorma vomited over and over again.
Ran away, then vomited again. Dry heaving. Couldn't vomit anymore.
She found...where was she?
Even more nauseous. Passed out.
She found nothing.
But who found her?
The smell of incense, cinnamon tea, medicinal ingredients, an Imperial woman's perfume. Bolorma found herself on a narrow bed, silky fur bedding, soft feather-filled pillows, a comforting quilt. A chiseled candle colored like the graht-oak's bark, the dancing flame casting the shadow of an Imperial woman holding a towel and a bowl of balm.
Her name was Sperantia Solidagus, a healer and a follower of Mara. She was one the few remaining of a order torn by the Alliance War. It was pure coincidence to stumble upon a dazed Bolorma on her reagent gathering trip north of Bruma. But this was the second time for the Orc woman. She needed no convincing; it must've been divine intervention.
So Bolorma once again followed her savior. She and Sperantia traveled through the Colovian Highlands, aiding the ill along the way. Bolorma found peace in service and devotion, taking pride in every recovery like a sign from above. As they reached the Gold Coast, where the rest of the Maran order had relocated to, she found herself falling in love.
Unlike the youthful, fiery, rushed lovemaking with Shulgin, the nights with Sperantia were methodical, tender, but no less passionate. During the days, they would exchange magic techniques. Bolorma taught her to control electricity, and learned healing and alchemy. However, neither would quite master the other's specialty.
When she was 27, Bolorma thought she found everything she wanted.
Spending the next three years in the Gold Coast would be the most fulfilling time in Bolorma's life. She tutored wealthy children in magic, sold glyphs, donated to the poor (as a devout adherent of Mara), and was even considering asking her beloved's hand for marriage. That was, until duty called Sperantia to Elsweyr.
A high priest in Rimmen called for all Maran healers to cleanse Ocrest, which had been abandoned since the Knahaten Flu decades ago. Sperantia went, Bolorma waited in Rimmen. Several weeks later, only Sperantia's restoration wand returned. She and a few others contracted the flu and died; her body had to be cremated for sanitation.
Alone and devastated, Bolorma prayed at the shrine of the Mother Cat. She prayed and prayed, and turned her face to the sky, but there was nothing. Mara abandoned her.
Stumbled back to...home? No, just somewhere familiar.
Caravan, cart, bridge, ship.
Colovia, Gold Coast, Craglorn. Stock up at Mages Guild.
Shulgin?
This Shulgin was not the lively enchanter, he was a dying man clinging to the final weeks of his life. Soon after Bolorma left the guild, Shulgin was put in charge of the Craglorn expedition. He uncovered radioactive properties of nirncrux-infused minerals, but only after irreparable damage had been done to his body. His biggest regret? Leaving Bolorma when she needed him the most.
At this point, the only way Shulgin could apologize was using his position to restore Bolorma to good standing with guild. Even so, she was reluctant to accept. But upon returning to Evermore, she saw everything, even her favorite brothel, was in uncertainty. Maybe she should seek out that illusionist in Falkreath she heard about, the one that could heal wounded minds. Then again, Falkreath itself was enough bad memories to say otherwise. The Mages Guild was the only familiar place left.
When she was 30, Bolorma felt like her life's stuck in a loop.
Well? What would she change this time?
Besides her name, to gra-Shulgin, to honor the man who started this...loop?
Not much, really.
She would study harder than ever, her research and experiments would be perfect, and she would not let her heart distract her from becoming the best sorceress she could be. She would withdraw to her solitary side, though she made sure to not overindulge in alcohol and brothels again, substituting physical exercise in their places. She would reach heaven, wherever that is, through determination and violence of action. For Shulgin, for Sperantia.
When she was 33, Bolorma ascended to the position of warlock.
Her promotion came just days before strange lights appeared in the sky. Furthering the confusion was Raxus' unexpected ascension to the Ruby Throne. The guild had conflicting views on this latest turn of events. Bolorma (representing the Evermore guild hall), along with a few other Mages Guild members, were sent to Leyawiin to investigate on behalf of the High Rock chapters.
However, Bolorma thought this new power could be opportunity, rather than risk. Surely the Witchman Emperor and the conjuror of lights would accept the service of powerful mages. If they could end the Three Banner War, what couldn't they do?
And so she went alone to meet the figures in strange armor. They must know something. Maybe a contract and some gold right there? At the very least, they should shake hands and point her to the right direction. Nope, they knocked poor Bolorma out.
When she came to, it was the rattling of chains, the dampness of dungeons, the darkness of the unknown, the ever-present static of anxiousness, and three ageless words.
"You're finally awake."
Relations
- Chief Makhug (♂ Orc) - Father - Deceased
- Hearth-Wife Kora (♀ Orc) - Mother - Unknown
- Shulgin gro-Brushas (♂ Orc) - Mentor and former lover - Deceased
- Sperantia Solidagus (♀ Imperial) - Former lover - Deceased
- Guy Molose (♂ Breton) - Former instructor - Unknown
- Sernays Ancelet (♂ Breton) - Boss - Alive
- Anenya (♀ Altmer) - Shornhelm Mages Guild member, current colleague - Alive
- Bhisha-ka (♀ Khajiit) - Priestess of Mara, friend - Alive
Inventory
- Birch lightning staff - Silver Dawn style
- Hickory restoration wand - Imperial style
- Mages Guild robes, shirts, leggings
- Blue cotton hooded cloak - with moderate frost resistance enchantment
- Gray leather boots (for cold weather) and corkwood sandals (for warm weather)
- Sapphire circlet - with magicka regeneration enchantment
- Guar hide belt - with pouches and wand holster
- 4x alchemy bottles - health potion, magicka potion, cure disease potion, water
- 3x empty soul gems, 1x filled soul gem
- Leather backpack - with staff holster
- Runestones - 1x Jera, 1x Ode, 1x Oko, 1x Okoma, 2x Jejota
- Spellbook
- Dried food for traveling
- Compact utensils
- Soap and sanitation papers
2x Like
GM
Image: Conducting experiment in Bangkorai, circa 2E 599
185cm | 85kg | 33 years old
♀ | Orc | Apprentice
Dra'bul, Malabal Tor, Valenwood
MAJOR WILLPOWER | minor agility
Highly Proficient: Destruction
Moderately Proficient: Mysticism | Alchemy
Somewhat Proficient: Conjuration | Restoration | Acrobatics | Provisioning | EnchantingAppearanceDespite having an atypical career for an Orc, Bolorma is quite typical for an Orc woman, physically.
Well, Wood Orc.
Like other Wood Orcs, she is more svelte than bulky, relative to their Orsimer counterparts in the north. Compared to those in Wrothgar, her limbs are more elongated, rather than squarely muscled. Her tusks are thin, long, and partly curved, rather than thick and stout. Her jawline is thinner, rather than round. Her neck is akin to a flexible palm tree, rather than a girthy oak. But to those unfamiliar with Orcs, Bolorma is just another big green woman.
She doesn't disagree. After all, Bolorma is taller and heavier than her standard Breton colleague. But no, she can't lift most of them. She can lift some heavy boxes filled with soul gems and alchemy flasks, though. This, combined with semi-routine exercising (mainly to get away from the stuffy guild hall), made Bolorma's arms and legs slightly muscled, and her core lightly toned.
Dark blue eyes that near amethyst under specific lighting. Platinum blond hair just past her shoulders, and often tucked into a ponytail. Darker eyebrows and eyelashes (due to washing her face and hair separately). Thin, dark lips that either curls up to a fascinated smirk, or a weary frown. Bolorma takes her hygiene seriously, especially after losing her lover to the Knahaten Flu.
Unlike her practical circlet, which is enchanted and doubles as a hairband, her earrings carry the weight of vanity and remembrance of lost loves. A pair of lozenge dangles, shaped like the Imperial red diamond, reminds her of a certain follower of Mara. Three hoops, popular among Orcs of Orsinium, pay tribute to an enchanter and mentor.PersonalityOn the surface, Bolorma is confident of her abilities. She believes in doing a job well, and a job well done warrants lucrative rewards. Therefore, she has a distaste for slackers and those who cut corners. Still, she isn't above walking away from something she couldn't do, or something not worth doing. After all, everyone has a limit; Bolorma certainly has hers.
Beneath the surface, Bolorma has many layers of doubt. She does not believe she was raised with love, and believes the world has torn away those she loved. She never quite belonged, never quite fit in, never certain of who she is supposed to be. She questions her identity, her faith, and her future. Will an Orc be accepted by the divines? Will the child of a villainous tribe build her home somewhere else? Will a heart broken by loss ever love again? Bolorma is uncertain of the answers, and nothing scares her like uncertainty.
With that said, Bolorma has a very much passionate, curious, and sometimes impulsive, mind. While she is most comfortable in familiar settings, and having everything under control, she delights in new challenges. Learning about current events is a hobby of hers. Learning among the books can be something she spends days losing herself in. Learning from her mistakes is necessity she begrudgingly accepts, though sometimes she rebels against. Learning about anything but herself works as a soothing distraction.
While Bolorma likes to think she is not prejudiced against anyone, she has no shortage of disdain for certain individuals, groups and cultures. She finds established organizations to be entrenched in old ways, thus stifling people like herself of their full potential. At the same time, she believes authority should always exist in any society. Good leadership, whatever that truly means, is sorely lacking in present day Tamriel. Bolorma sees the war in Cyrodiil as meaningless slaughter, and the alliances that perpetuate it as fundamentally flawed. She has no aspiration to become empress, chief, or arch-mage, but Bolorma will not hesitate to take charge to achieve common goals.
She has mixed feelings for battle. It is exciting, it is dangerous, it is exhausting, it is different. With devastating shock spells, Bolorma knows she can inflict as much as damage as a powerful warrior. But since she is unable to withstand nearly as much, she prefers to stay well away from the melee, and using her destructive capabilities as deterrence. If given the choice, she would rather protect her allies with conjured wards and heal the wounded.
In terms of faith, Bolorma believes in the eight divines and Trinimac. She does not pray to them frequently, not since three years ago.
Gold has rarely been a concern for Bolorma. She's not rich, but magic is always in demand somewhere.HistoryWhen she was young, Bolorma prayed for lightning.
The shamans of her tribe saw the sparks the day she was born. The speckles of magicka shone through her like light through a prism. Bolorma, they told her mother, "crystal" in an ancient tongue.
Her mother was the hearth-wife to the chief, and the daughter was destined to be married to the chief of another stronghold, as it had been for generations. Those who stray from their destiny were forever forgotten.
The eldest shaman, Glazulg, was an eccentric Orc. While the select few with magical talent would study under his tutelage, his recent opposition to the chief caused Bolorma's mother to forbid any future of a young shamaness. Plus, the chiefs of neighboring tribes wanted an dutiful and obedient child-bearer, not a wild and impulsive storm-caller.
In her first fourteen years, Bolorma gra-Makhug learned how to be the best hearth-wife; cooking, mending clothes and cleaning the longhouse. Ever the willful, curious and nimble girl, she often sneaked out to climb the towering graht-trees of Malabal Tor and tussle with other children. Those escapades would end in her returning with scrapes on her skin, dirt in her nails and static in her hair. A harsh scolding, and sometimes a harsher beating, would come from her mother.
The lightning she prayed for never came, for without training, Bolorma's magic never developed. But on her fifteenth year, the warriors of her tribe made an unprecedented attack on Velyn Harbor. It failed, and a vengeful Dominion general ordered the ethnic cleansing of all Drublog Wood Orcs. Bolorma was one of the few survivors, because she sneaked out to play.
The forests of Malabal Tor could have spelled doom for Bolorma in many ways. Cultists, werewolves, bloodthirsty Dominion soldiers or just hungry beasts. Instead, she was found by members of the Mages Guild out on a runestone survey. The mages quickly recognized her latent magic potential and took her to their hall. Among the throngs of Altmer wizards, Bolorma was surprised to find another Orc. An enchanter from the north called Shulgin gro-Brushas.
From Shulgin, Bolorma would learn about his homeland, Wrothgar, and his divine, Trinimac. But more amazingly than a sovereign Orcish kingdom was an organization where Orcs could learn magic. She became Shulgin's assistant as he finished his surveys in Valenwood. Then they traveled north, where Bolorma found herself in awe of the people, their cultures and architectures. By her seventeenth year, Bolorma was Shulgin's apprentice and an associate of the Mages Guild. Their relationship grew intimate as they traveled through the Daggerfall Covenant.When she was 18, Bolorma had her first heartbreak.
Shortly after Bolorma turned eighteen, Shulgin abruptly announced an end to their partnership. He felt inappropriate sleeping with an apprentice a decade younger, and felt like he was taking advantage of her. In addition, their skills branched in different directions. Whereas he was gifted in enchanting, her talents manifested in electromancy. Before parting ways, Shulgin finally gave Bolorma the endorsement for full guild membership.
Bolorma reacted like any other eighteen-year-old after a breakup. She cursed Shulgin's name, ate a lot of sweet snacks and buried herself in her studies. Her prowess as a sorceress heightened as she progressed in the guild's Wayrest chapter. Spell after spell, thesis after thesis, proving after proving; by the age of 24, Bolorma was qualified as an evoker.When she was 24, Bolorma felt immortal.
Lightning crackled at her command, and the powers of soul and Oblivion was hers to harness. The only thing holding her back was surely the guild's bureaucracy. The old Breton wizards were just like the old Altmer wizards in Malabal Tor; racist and stuck in their old ways. In addition, she heard the guild would be restricting areal spells to be cast no often than once every three seconds, in fear of "sundering the foundation of Aurbis". What she needed were practical results to prove them wrong. An expedition was forming to study the aftermath of the Celestials in Craglorn: the perfect opportunity.
Reality was far more disappointing than expectation. Instead of fallen stars and otherworldly manticores, the expedition spent months digging up rocks, and more months examining them. Against regulations, Bolorma reactivated a dormant anomaly. Slumbering atronachs sprung to life and rampaged through the expedition camp. Four lives were lost.
Standing before the guild council took Bolorma back to her mother's scoldings. The shame of failing, of being caught, overwhelmed her senses. But she was an adult now, and she didn't have to suffer demotion like her mother's beatings.When she was 25, Bolorma left the Mages Guild.
The next year was spent drifting from place to place. The stars that once guided Bolorma lost their aetherial inspiration. With every passing night, she looked up less to the sky, and deeper into whatever drink that drowned her sorrows. She found herself in Evermore on her 26th year, zapping skeevers for gold and spending them at a brothel called the Blushing Hawk.
On a caravan escort job to Skyrim, Bolorma found herself attacked by werewolves. Lightning arced from her fingertip, electrocuting the charging wolf-man. Her familiar emerged from Oblivion, her wards blunted the werewolves' claws. It was surreal to apply her sorcery in such a sudden manner; her training taking over as the beasts were driven off. Bolorma didn't talk much about it after, but the caravanners did, and the Silver Dawn recruiter at Falkreath heard.
Werewolf hunting sounded like the ideal job to regain her confidence. Bolorma purchased an elegant staff from the Silver Dawn armorer. Then she set out with a raiding party to the Moon Hunter pack's hideout in the Jeralls, hoping to find glory in battle.
Instead, she found numbing strikes, soaked blood, mangled flesh, torn limbs, disemboweled entrails, decapitated heads, and the screams of her dying comrades, and, oh, gods, the smell!
The smell was nauseous. She found vomit. Bolorma vomited over and over again.Ran away, then vomited again. Dry heaving. Couldn't vomit anymore.She found...where was she?Even more nauseous. Passed out.She found nothing.But who found her?
The smell of incense, cinnamon tea, medicinal ingredients, an Imperial woman's perfume. Bolorma found herself on a narrow bed, silky fur bedding, soft feather-filled pillows, a comforting quilt. A chiseled candled colored like the graht-oak's bark, the dancing flame casting the shadow of an Imperial woman holding a towel and a bowl of balm.
Her name was Sperantia Solidagus, a healer and a follower of Mara. She was one the few remaining of a order torn by the Alliance War. It was pure coincidence to stumble upon a dazed Bolorma on her reagent gathering trip north of Bruma. But this was the second time for the Orc woman. She needed no convincing; it must've been divine intervention.
So Bolorma once again followed her savior. She and Sperantia traveled through the Colovian Highlands, aiding the ill along the way. Bolorma found peace in service and devotion, taking pride in every recovery like a sign from above. As they reached the Gold Coast, where the rest of the Maran order had relocated to, she found herself falling in love.
Unlike the youthful, fiery, rushed lovemaking with Shulgin, the nights with Sperantia were methodical, tender, but no less passionate. During the days, they would exchange magic techniques. Bolorma taught her to control electricity, and learned healing and alchemy. However, neither would quite master the other's specialty.When she was 27, Bolorma thought she found everything she wanted.
Spending the next three years in the Gold Coast would be the most fulfilling time in Bolorma's life. She tutored wealthy children in magic, sold glyphs, donated to the poor (as a devout adherent of Mara), and was even considering asking her beloved's hand for marriage. That was, until duty called Sperantia to Elsweyr.
A high priest in Rimmen called for all Maran healers to cleanse Ocrest, which had been abandoned since the Knahaten Flu decades ago. Sperantia went, Bolorma waited in Rimmen. Several weeks later, only Sperantia's restoration wand returned. She and a few others contracted the flu and died; her body had to be cremated for sanitation.
Alone and devastated, Bolorma prayed at the shrine of the Mother Cat. She prayed and prayed, and turned her face to the sky, but there was nothing. Mara abandoned her.
Stumbled back to...home? No, just somewhere familiar.Caravan, cart, bridge, ship.Colovia, Gold Coast, Craglorn. Stock up at Mages Guild.Shulgin?
This Shulgin was not the lively enchanter, he was a dying man clinging to the final weeks of his life. Soon after Bolorma left the guild, Shulgin was put in charge of the Craglorn expedition. He uncovered radioactive properties of nirncrux-infused minerals, but only after irreparable damage had been done to his body. His biggest regret? Leaving Bolorma when she needed him the most.
At this point, the only way Shulgin could apologize was using his position to restore Bolorma to good standing with guild. Even so, she was reluctant to accept. But upon returning to Evermore, she saw everything, even her favorite brothel, was in uncertainty. Maybe she should seek out that illusionist in Falkreath she heard about, the one that could heal wounded minds. Then again, Falkreath itself was enough bad memories to say otherwise. The Mages Guild was the only familiar place left.When she was 30, Bolorma felt like her life's stuck in a loop.
Well? What would she change this time?Besides her name, to gra-Shulgin, to honor the man who started this...loop?Not much, really.
She would study harder than ever, her research and experiments would be perfect, and she would not let her heart distract her from becoming the best sorceress she could be. She would withdraw to her solitary side, though she made sure to not overindulge in alcohol and brothels again, substituting physical exercise in their places. She would reach heaven, wherever that is, through determination and violence of action. For Shulgin, for Sperantia.When she was 33, Bolorma ascended to the position of warlock.
Her promotion came just days before strange lights appeared in the sky. Furthering the confusion was Raxus' unexpected ascension to the Ruby Throne. The guild had conflicting views on this latest turn of events. Bolorma (representing the Evermore guild hall), along with a few other Mages Guild members, were sent to Leyawiin to investigate on behalf of the High Rock chapters.
However, Bolorma thought this new power could be opportunity, rather than risk. Surely the Witchman Emperor and the conjuror of lights would accept the service of powerful mages. If they could end the Three Banner War, what couldn't they do?
And so she went alone to meet the figures in strange armor. They must know something. Maybe a contract and some gold right there? At the very least, they should shake hands and point her to the right direction. Nope, they knocked poor Bolorma out.
When she came to, it was the rattling of chains, the dampness of dungeons, the darkness of the unknown, the ever-present static of anxiousness, and three ageless words.
"You're finally awake."Relations
- Chief Makhug (♂ Orc) - Father - Deceased
- Hearth-Wife Kora (♀ Orc) - Mother - Unknown
- Shulgin gro-Brushas (♂ Orc) - Mentor and former lover - Deceased
- Sperantia Solidagus (♀ Imperial) - Former lover - Deceased
- Guy Molose (♂ Breton) - Former instructor - Unknown
- Sernays Ancelet (♂ Breton) - Boss - Alive
- Anenya (♀ Altmer) - Shornhelm Mages Guild member, current colleague - Alive
- Bhisha-ka (♀ Khajiit) - Priestess of Mara, friend - Alive
Inventory
- Birch lightning staff - Silver Dawn style
- Hickory restoration wand - Imperial style
- Mages Guild robes, shirts, leggings
- Blue cotton hooded cloak - with moderate frost resistance enchantment
- Gray leather boots (for cold weather) and corkwood sandals (for warm weather)
- Sapphire circlet - with magicka regeneration enchantment
- Guar hide belt - with pouches and wand holster
- 4x alchemy bottles - health potion, magicka potion, cure disease potion, water
- 3x empty soul gems, 1x filled soul gem
- Leather backpack - with staff holster
- Runestones - 1x Jera, 1x Ode, 1x Oko, 1x Okoma, 2x Jejota
- Spellbook
- Dried food for traveling
- Compact utensils
- Soap and sanitation papers
I was actually pretty darn surprised when I saw you were planning on making an orc, and a wood orc at that! I don't believe I've actually seen much about them except a quest or two in game, so it was a pleasant surprise. Once upon a time I would have type casted orcs as being grumpy cavemen sorts, but thankfully I know better now. Even then, to see a magicka inclined orc still ends up making me go "wait, what?" But then, I should have probably expected something like that from you :P
Her upbringing I found pretty relatable; being expected to grow up as one role and not having much of a choice in the matter, especially when you feel your talents could be better someplace else, can be frustrating. It's sad though that the way she finally found herself able to get away from what tradition required was the death of her tribe. Sad but not at all surprising, given the way of the world at the time. It's nice that she got picked up by people who could see her talents and help them grow. Her relationship with Shulgin was interesting to say the least, though I kinda felt like slapping him for the way he just dumped her like a hot potato. D:<
Still, I guess that's the only way to further grow at times, and it seemed to me as if that further helped her hone her talents, even if it was more disappointing than not for her. In a lot of ways, even as she grows up I find she has a youthful, teenager rebellion spirit to her, where she uses her mask of confidence to hide her inner insecurities- it makes her relatable and I love it. Her meeting up with Sperantia was another stroke of luck- maybe the gods really are looking over her, eh? ;D It's nice that she managed to find a fulfilling relationship after Shulgin, although you just had to go and ruin that, didn't you? But of course, in such a realistic manner that I can't blame you... much.
I like how you included her praying to a deity and feeling abandoned when there was no answer. It's probably a dark thing to like, but I think that sort of feeling can resonate with a lot of people. Her meeting up with Shulgin once again was a surprise, and it was actually sad to see the state he was reduced to.
I think the one constant I really liked was how her studies was the refuge she always returned to, and it reminded me quite a bit of Sait (NERDS!). I won't prattle on much more lol, but reading through her biography once more and then seeing her personality, you can easily pinpoint the what and whys and why she has been molded into the woman we will be meeting in the roleplay.
Also... " Bolorma is just another big green woman." This made me laugh lol
I am really pleased with Bolorma, she's honestly not what I expected! A pleasant surprise, it's going to be fun to have you and her along on this adventure!
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