The Party
Yashar al-Rihad (NPC) - Half-Orc Paladin
Roshanara al-Rihad (NPC) - Half-Orc Berserker
Speaks-With-Blades (NPC) - The Lizard
2 Users
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[CHAR] The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion
- Large Group
- Fantasy
- Casual
- 18+
- GM Alfhedil
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Zeroth
Yashar al-Rihad (NPC) - Half-Orc Paladin
Roshanara al-Rihad (NPC) - Half-Orc Berserker
Speaks-With-Blades (NPC) - The Lizard
GM
Alfhedil What do you see Kaneda?
Member
Online
Age: 18
Race: Redguard/Altmer
Appearance
Wrapped in layers of masks and deceit, what may appear at first to be a noble lady of Rihad like her namesake with her rosy, almost light tones to her tanned and smooth skin, there is far more to her than at that first glance. It starts with the way she bears herself, just ever so distinctly aloof and with a subtle difference to those of the shaded cities. Every step is with a purpose, and a skilled eye can easily tell that it's not because she feels herself to own the very ground she walks upon, but that her mind is focused and determined. It comes with the sudden tensing of muscle that hadn't been obvious before, a woman who seemed rather soft and pampered suddenly revealing a life of hardship with the first tell of danger. With her heritage as a nomad of an Alik'ri tribe, all of this comes rather easily to Khaliya though, who bears the scars of that life plainly beneath soft silks, rough traveling leathers and ever so rarely the pale light of the moons. Small pink tears dot her sides and back where arrows or fangs broke skin, a few savage gashes ever so distinctly forming the shape of a large creature's maw framing her body showing where death nearly took her, and the calluses on her hands and feet tell the story of a young woman who did not have that easy life. But dark flowing ink also shows where she not only survived these encounters, but surpassed them and learned from them to better herself. In the twists and turns of the flowing Yokudan style, her accomplishments are there to be read by any fluent enough in the forgotten language, most prominent of which is the wyrm coiling around her arms up to her shoulders and neck to depict the greater duneripper that nearly took her life. But for all the hidden meanings and openly obvious signs of who and what she is, there is perhaps the most obvious. Despite how often she finds herself in combat or pretending to be someone she's not, there is always that rather girlish pixie-cut style she wears her white-blonde hair in, two long tails of hair banded with small Yokudan charms. And then there is that eerie silver tint to storm-gray eyes that shows her mixed heritage, a woman of many different worlds doing her best to blend in.
Personality
Tempered by a childhood living along the dunes of the Alik'r desert and the few years since leaving those familiar sands for the varied provinces of the Empire, Khaliya can be a woman hard to read at times, and quite straight forward at others. There is a genuineness to her willingness to help at a moment's notice, where she makes herself available to those in need to help guide them through whatever troubles they may have come into. Yet there is also that subtle ulterior motive as she learned while traveling with her people, in that it can always be easier to gain a read on someone when their own guard has come down. It is a subtle cunning in a way that is just barely visible in her eyes as she carefully watches her surroundings, constantly aware of herself as others view her, and the ever evolving way a person can be around others. To that end, who she really is, the quietly energetic and upbeat young woman looking towards an adventure around every corner, can often be masked by the practicality of wearing another face for the sake of learning more. But despite the cloak and dagger routine of her life's task, she still has a good heart and still seeks the best of others. That is because ultimately, she wants only to leave the world a better place than it was when she came to know it, just as her Yokudan ancestors taught.
Skills
Bladed Weapons
Borne of a life among the sands with her nomadic tribe, Khaliya was taught from an early age to familiarize herself with a sword and other manner of weapons to protect the tribe and hunt for it. While her skill with a bow leaves much to be desired, she took up enthusiasm for the sword and over years has become adept enough with it to have been named one of the foremost experts among her people. This was accelerated by her study of the Book of Circles and varied Yokudan legends until she was regarded as the first true Ansei in centuries. Truly Khaliya may have many skills and passions, but it is with a sword that she will always excel.
Armor Training
Almost as a matter of course, with a nomadic life there comes the need to be able to protect one's self with more than just a sword. Even the most skilled swordsman can still be taken out with an arrow to an uncovered head, and the sands of the Alik'r can be all the more deadly for those without the knowledge of how to dress for them while still maintaining protection. Primary for Khaliya and others in the tribe is learning how to dress for the heat of the day and the cold of the night, as well as how to fully utilize the bare minimum for protection against blades, arrows and worse. So it is that she's able to work folds of cloth mid-combat to snare blades when up close, using the cutting power against her opponent or reflexively bunching material up to soften concussive blows. But while she is adept in unarmored combat, she has also adapted quite well to lighter armors such as leather, cloth and even Altmeri/glass. Anything heavier would have been a detriment to someone of her size while traveling, so she remains unskilled in such things.
Escape Artist
Alongside the traditions of her people in song, dance and of course the martial arts of ancient Yokuda, there has also been another aspect of living the life of Alik'ri nomads. Because of how her people are regarded by most Redguards, Khaliya herself has learned the valued skill of masking who she is and wearing another persona like anyone else wears clothes. Names are like masks with histories draped over them, and the right name, the right mannerisms, the right way of speaking can get someone anywhere they want. It's become second nature to adapt to those around her to the point that she can even vanish in broad daylight, simply fading back into a crowd as if she was just another passerby. She also has a remarkable ability to find the quickest exit from a situation, both metaphorically and quite literally.
Infiltrator/Light Fingers
While not endorsed whatsoever by her father or her tribe, Khaliya did manage to pick up a few tricks from some rather unsavory contacts while among the cities of Hammerfell. It became first a game to play with the local Thieves Guild representatives as they communicated what information they had with the elders, and slowly she learned the makings of a good mark, how to read people and their potential wealth, as well as how to make it hers. It came with the ability to casually put her fingers in places they were certainly not welcome all the while with her mark right there oblivious until long after she had left. Her deftness also made her ideally suited for lockpicking, able to intuitively feel out the motions of the tumblers as they fall into place one by one. Of course it's not all picking pockets, locks and dealing in the shadows, as these primary skills in determining who to pick has made her ability to blend into crowds and social strata all the more potent.
Alchemy
While not particularly her forte, there is a degree of understanding of native flora and how best to use them, due in part from a life among the harsh sands of the Alik'r and the desolate eastern reaches of Hammerfell. Her mother also played a large part in teaching her what heals and what harms, focusing primarily on restorative medicine with limited resources.
Magic
Shehai- Second Class Ansei
Where the first spark came from can be argued as to whether it was her Yokudan heritage that she just so happened to inherit this gift, or the long study of the myths and realities of the Sword-Singers, or perhaps more practically when she first properly manifested the blade of light-made-steel. It is regardless, a gift that has not been seen for centuries, perhaps even thousands of years despite being what allowed those first Yokudans to settle Hammerfell and eventually become Redguards. Whether she goes by Ansei, Sword-Singer or even the more esoteric Sword-Saint, the truth of the matter is the same in that she has manifested the gift of the Shehai. First forged out of the battle of life and death she faced in the sands of the Alik'r, it is a weapon of unparralleled quality and might, and forever within her grasp so long as her will remains unbroken. Exactly what the Shehai is had always been debated fiercely of course, with the Psijic Order calling it a unique and unstudied magic native to Yokuda, implying that it may not be exclusive to them. The Yokudans of the First Era called it a manifestation of will, their warrior spirit in blade form. To Khaliya though, it is her make-way for lack of better words. From either hand she can summon the ethereal blades, the shape shifting depending on what she wills it to in the moment, from the curved scimitars native to her homeland to Legionary gladii and even the jagged edges of Morrowind glass.
Of course it is still no small feat to manifest the Shehai at all, and it is something she is always training in to keep it active for as long as possible. At first she was only able to manifest a single blade and for but a moment, but since her recovery and further practice she has now been able to keep it active for much longer and in both hands, something only rumored of the old Sword-Saints. There is a small matter though in her ascending to Second Rank Ansei, a rite in which she gave up a blade of significant importance to her to go further beyond her limitations. In seeking greater understanding of the Shehai mortal blades now no longer sit comfortably in her hands. Where before she could work a sword as if an extension of herself, it is becoming more and more difficult to hold a sword steady, her hands shaking as if unused to the weight. But for Khaliya it is a minor sacrifice to make when she knows she will always have her Shehai at the ready, and there is still much to learn.
Of course it is still no small feat to manifest the Shehai at all, and it is something she is always training in to keep it active for as long as possible. At first she was only able to manifest a single blade and for but a moment, but since her recovery and further practice she has now been able to keep it active for much longer and in both hands, something only rumored of the old Sword-Saints. There is a small matter though in her ascending to Second Rank Ansei, a rite in which she gave up a blade of significant importance to her to go further beyond her limitations. In seeking greater understanding of the Shehai mortal blades now no longer sit comfortably in her hands. Where before she could work a sword as if an extension of herself, it is becoming more and more difficult to hold a sword steady, her hands shaking as if unused to the weight. But for Khaliya it is a minor sacrifice to make when she knows she will always have her Shehai at the ready, and there is still much to learn.
Equipment
Personal Items
Work Clothes - Waitress outfit for Daggerfall Dan's
Small leather fold with Imperial papers within identifying her as Khaliya al-Rihad and a handful of septims
Caddach's wallet
Veeza's coin-purse, minus the septims
Set of keys to Daggerfall Dan's
Small leather fold with Imperial papers within identifying her as Khaliya al-Rihad and a handful of septims
Caddach's wallet
Veeza's coin-purse, minus the septims
Set of keys to Daggerfall Dan's
Lockbox
- None -
Stored Items
Collection of books from home, including the Book of Circles
Central Tamriel-geared traveling equipment, including fire-starting utensils, a small cookpot and a single bedroll with weather-proof leather tent.
Assorted armor/clothing such as traditional Hammerfell Knight armor, light traveling leathers, a hooded poncho, a light furred coat and a set of priestess of Dibella vestments.
Central Tamriel-geared traveling equipment, including fire-starting utensils, a small cookpot and a single bedroll with weather-proof leather tent.
Assorted armor/clothing such as traditional Hammerfell Knight armor, light traveling leathers, a hooded poncho, a light furred coat and a set of priestess of Dibella vestments.
As with many of the Yokudan myths and legends, the woman who would become Ansei did not start out gifted or soft in any way. Her life from birth had been one of the harsh desert sands, born among the nomadic tribes of the Alik'r who for one reason or another rarely visited the shade of the cities. Though in a way her life was a miracle in a way, as it had nearly never happened at all for her tribe's varied conflicts with neighboring provinces and within Hammerfell itself. One of those few who still hold true to the Warrior Wave philosophy, her people have lived a life of hardship for hundreds of years, seeking out any threats to Hammerfell no matter where they may dwell, and destroying them utterly. Whether it be the revered undead or a clan of Orsimer cursed by Malacath with a blood rage. It was the latter that brought her mother to her father, an Altmer woman gifted in restoration and dead set on sharing that gift with any in need of it. Her wanderings had brought her to a clan of Orcs beset by one tragedy after another, and soon she had been wed to the Chief and the thing thought impossible came to their clan. Peace.
But it didn't last long, as their blood boiled from the merest of slights, and eventually one of their clan struck a Redguard merchant down in cold blood, drawing the attention of the Alik'ri tribe. A mission of destruction was undertaken, with the only survivors being the youngest and eldest of Orcs, as well as Terandil of Shimmerene and her two unborn children. Jakir, the chief of the Alik'ri tribe, walked out of the main building of the stronghold a shaken man and gave the order himself, what had transpired between himself and the Orsimer chief remaining secret to this day. Of course, news spread quickly of the razing of the clan's land and soon an army began to draw against the Alik'ri. Little by little they were driven into a pass that was to be their grave until Jakir himself negotiated with the Reachman warleader, and showed that his people had taken in the most vulnerable of the Orcs as well as the Altmer Terandil.
Many tense years passed since that day, and on the eve of the seventh Khaliya was born to Terandil and Jakir, the two having found a love for each other in their time among the sands. Of course her childhood was a rather rough one though, not just for the biting winds of blown sand, or of the merciless sun during the day and the bone-chilling cold of night, but for her older step-siblings Yashar and Roshanara who had been fully adopted by the Alik'r since then. With half-orcs as siblings, she quickly learned to toughen up for the rough-housing of children, and over the years was made all the better for it. While her kin and tribespeople were given towards more martial skills because of their lifestyle, Khaliya found herself gifted in particular with the blade. As others branched and learned more of song, dance, pottery or weaving she did much the same, but always her eye was drawn more and more to the sword.
It was found all the more in the tales of the Ansei and her people's Yokudan history told through the songs of her tribe. Each was a tale of great heroes fighting the demons of their homeland, or fighting to secure a new home which future generations would call Hammerfell. And while most were told their song, dance and copious embellishment, there were a rare few which Khaliya became uniquely suited for. It started as just a whim on a visit to Rihad, she was a fresh teenager and already assisting on the hunts and defense rotas, and her father and uncle had just begun a tale of Frandar Hunding. Normally the tale would be told with a sword-dancer playing out the role of the hero himself as the elders spoke in reverent tones of his many deeds, but for some time her cousin who would have normally performed the role had been working off an injury. So without even asking for permission or waiting for the two to say something against it, she took up the ceremonial swords and simply joined in mid-act.
At first it was simply the usual crowd of spectators, a few elders watching with respect and curious younger passerby who perhaps had not heard the stories told in such a way. Steel caught the light as trailing red cloth painted the strokes of killing blows millenia past, Khaliya putting to work all the practice over the last few years to try and recreate what she had seen. She knew the steps as well as anyone else in the tribe, and she knew the story better than even her father at times, it being a favorite of hers. There was something else about acting it out though. More and more she let the crowd fade and the words guide her hands and feet, until at last she came to a standing rest and felt the heat of dozens of eyes staring at her and the wave of applause. Her performance had drawn quite the crowd with her easy motions, the swords lighter than air in her hands and acting more like an extension of herself than steel and silk. It was certainly a surprise, but she made herself quite scarce after a few stepped forward asking her name, the calls following her family as they headed back to the caravan to count coin and get ready for the night.
But it wouldn't be quite over for her by any means. Over the next few days as they rested and traded within Rihad there came numerous requests both to have another performance with the young sword-dancer and to know her name. Her father was equal parts frustrated and proud, one in having seen his daughter take up an honored role with such excellence, and the other in having to now deal with repeated advances from Hammerfell knights wanting to bring her into their order. Crimson Sands, Opal Watch, Rihadi Wardens, even the Sentinel White-Cloaks, each of them made it a point to try and speak with Khaliya either with or without her father present in order to convince her to give up the nomadic life and become a knight. "One with such skills cannot belong to the sands alone." As they said repeatedly, their goals clear as they sought her only for her skills and the potential glory for their own individual orders. All were of course turned away, and not always by her father. His word was final, but she had found her frustration mounting as the day they would leave Rihad could not come faster.
On the final day her last admirer arrived at the camp, just as they were hitching the camels and packing the last of their goods for the long road. Unlike the varied orders he came not with a grand escort, no banners, no emblems or symbols of office. There was no intent to impress, ingratiate, beg or intimidate for her attention. Instead the aging man presented himself to her and her father as a keeper of the old ways. He was just a man with a book, one that could be of use to a girl with so much potential, as he said of Khaliya. The book itself looked every bit older than the man, wrapped in delicate silks that preserved it from the arid heat and showed that while he himself looked nearly destitute, that it held more wealth than all of Hammerfell to him. It was offered freely with no expectations, the old man merely suggesting that it would be of interest to Khaliya and could help her make her own way some day in the future.
The significance of this gesture wouldn't be understood until far from Rihad, when she unwrapped the silks and stared at the interlocking rings on the cover, Yokudan script showing the title and author as something quite extraordinary. Within her hands was the Book of Circles, and not just some copy done clumsily by Cyrodillic hands or some Scholar who had never held a blade before. It was done in the tradition of the old Ansei, passed from teacher to student with the intent for them to one day write their own. The pages were old and weathered, the ink older than her entire tribe and calling back to another age where their traditions were a way of life to more than just a scant hundred. And there on the first page in the flowing script of a warrior wielding a pen instead of a blade, the name "Frandar Hunding". All of these books were written much the same, the man who had written the first given the honor of the first page of every copy written by every following Sword-Saint. This was to Khaliya, one of the most significant treasures she had ever seen, and her family knew it as well, allowing her the time to study it more than she had ever delved into any book before.
Days turned to weeks on the road, her feet stirring the sands in one rota after the other. Weeks became months, the sword of her father singing along the wind with a fervor of a woman who had realized her life's purpose. Months shifted into years one after the other and Khaliya had read the Book of Circles front to back, practiced every maneuver back to front and almost memorized the sword strokes that were meant for a blade infinitely lighter than the steel she held.
With three, almost four years passing since being gifted the Book of Circles, life had shifted quite drastically for Khaliya. Now sixteen she was leading expeditions across the sands ahead of the tribe, pathfinding for her people to avoid the dangers lurking beneath the dunes. The slightest mistake could lead to the death of dozens, far too many for any tribe, much less one who had made themselves known to seek out and destroy the undead, a taboo among all Redguard. That was why a good eye was often times more valuable than a strong arm, and she had learned all too well the little details that others missed. The way the dunes shift ever so slightly in the distance, ripples across the surface and the occasional breach of stone hinting at the lurking teeth and claws waiting for passing prey. Heat hazes could distort the horizon in more subtle ways, making one think an oasis was far closer than reality, if it was even there to begin with. Of course the haze was the lesser effect of such punishing heat, and she knew that spending too much time on the sands was lethal even under the shade of the main caravan.
So she learned to read the sands, to listen to and feel the winds, taking in all the signs that a skilled navigator could use to find their way to the sea. Yet it was on a day when she was relied upon most that she would be challenged by her greatest foe. Her brother Yashar had been spending the last couple years with her uncle along the northern shores, and Roshanara primarily stuck with their mother and the main caravan in case some danger bypassed the sentries. On this day she was out ahead with a dozen men walking the sands, feeling out a safe route towards Sentinel and avoiding the fringes of Craglorn. The sands had been whipped into a frenzy by westerly winds heated by the sun and driving the dune rippers into a maddened hunger. Each of the western sentry groups had encountered lesser rippers that would have normally never attacked a group like that, and the tribe as a whole knew that soon there would need to be a decision made. Either press on towards Sentinel regardless of the rippers and the approaching sandstorm, or break east and enter Sunforge. The latter had been regarded as a non-starter for years, ever since the conflict at the pass had nearly destroyed their tribe in Craglorn, they had kept their distance from the region and the many Orsimer strongholds that retained a grudge.
Sentinel though… Yashar was likely to be there, but the most pressing issue was that it was still more than three days of hard travel even if the camels were pressed without rest. All that could be done was to continue on with caution, to keep both options open until the very last moment. That was as her father had taught her, to never close a door until sure that it held no benefit. Pressing forward through the gusting winds and darkening skies there was the ever present looming danger of what may lie beneath, Khaliya herself on point and cresting each dune carefully. Little by little they made their way, glancing between the skies above, to the west and east, and in the far distance the banners of their tribe showing them on their way. That was a distraction though and she knew it. The tribe would be fine as long as they focused on their duty, to keep any dangers from the main caravan. Just one last dune before they would enter into the hinterlands where the sand would start to shift to rock and dirt. The wind shifted the sands around this one as it crested high into the horizon, looming like a barrier in their journey and curling towards them as a break against sea-borne winds. Though the closer her party got to the dune the more something seemed off. It was as if the dune had not formed over eons of gentle desert winds but… Too late they realized the danger they had come upon, one that they were trying to deliberately steer the caravan away from. Without hesitation Khaliya ordered a runner back to divert the tribe east and closer to the border to Sunforge. All she and her scouts needed to do was carefully maneuver themselves around the dune and leave marks for those to follow. But as they closed in and began to skirt around, the sands shifted. Great spires of hardened carapace erupted from the peaks of the dune, pitted and scored by years of desert life. A rumbling came from beneath them, disturbing the sands under their feet as the shape of the dune writhed back and forth lazily, and for a fraction of a moment in the darkening twilight of the impending sandstorm, they saw it.
Murderous intent gleaming behind eyes that had seen many tribes such as hers come and go, the shifting of sands across eras and the death of empires. It was a creature as old as the sands themselves and one of the most feared beings in all the Alik'r. To the Forebears within their safe cities and the Imperial travelers, it was just myth and legend, some creature from the Merethic that had long since passed. For her and the other Alik'ri tribes though, they knew it as the Greater Duneripper. A duneripper that had survived through its adulthood to become an elder and like all of their kind, old age was barely an inconvenience. All Khaliya remembered of what was to follow was a whisper under the howling sands as the creature slowly dove into the earth, meter after meter of ancient terror…
Dunefather.
It would be several weeks later that Khaliya would find herself in Sentinel, her mother resting beside the bed she lay in and a dull pain all over her body that told her that she had been through something rather significant. Fresh scars lay under the bandages wrapping her entire torso and lower body, flashes of that encounter in the sands and a bright spear of light erupting from her hands in a moment of stress. Her family would take the next few days between her resting to fill her in on what had happened. During the sandstorm that had engulfed the tribe's caravan and the scouting parties, her own had encountered a greater duneripper of significant size, one believed to be the Dunefather himself. That was something of debate among the tribe though, but they knew it to be a rather significant threat and six of their people were dead with several others wounded just as Khaliya had been. What was of particular note though was not their harrowing encounter with the Duneripper or the hastened march towards Sentinel, but in how it had been fended off and sent back into the sands. The survivors of her party spoke of how one by one each of them had been pulled beneath the sand screaming, only blood and cloth remaining as they were picked off. Suddenly Khaliya had been dragged down next, and the duneripper crested from the surface with her clinging on as best she could, sword simply slipping off the carapace of the beast. Everyone had thought her lost as she disappeared into its maw, only for a moment later to hear her voice knowing it to be one of anguish, and instead a blade made of pure starlight erupting from the top of the duneripper's skull and swinging outward. That had been enough for it to drop the wounded woman back onto the sands and retreat, not willing to continue that fight.
Luckily for her the main caravan had hastened to catch up once the sandstorm hit, and that had been when her mother saw the bloodied sands and her daughter barely clinging to life. From there they had set a maddened pace all the way to Sentinel, their rush nearly finding the city guard upon them if it weren't for Yashar there to vouch for them and the state of many of their scouts. But it was all past now, and all she had to do was look towards the future, one that seemed a little strange especially for she remembered little of the event. One visitor in particular though provided some insights, the same elder who had given her the Book of Circles now came to her as she recovered from her ordeal, and just as before he came with a gift free of expectations and once more, he gave her a choice. He sat beside her bed and offered the stories of old Yokuda and the Warrior Waves, some of which she knew already but not in the same ways. There were the same figures of old, the same heroic deeds, but this time a sudden clarity on those myths. Ansei they were called, a word whose meaning had been lost over the eras and merely relegated to the ancient heroes. Gone had been the truth of it, and the myths of warriors of peerless skill losing the why and how. To be an Ansei was to be a Sword-Singer of pre-eminent skill, a holder of the Shehai and one of unshakeable will and righteousness.
And what the Shehai was, it was something she had awakened within herself. The sons and daughters of Yokuda all held this gift within themselves, as the elder told her, but some were more capable of reaching for it than others, and of them there were further separations still. As he taught her of this ancient art, he told her of how she had taken the first step. Through a moment of extreme stress and a display of incredible willpower, she had refused to accept her death and chose to make-way in whatever manner she could. That was when the Shehai erupted from her hands in a display of starlight-made-steel. Try as she might though, she couldn't replicate the same blade she had awoken, only vague shapes clinging to her palms. Even that was remarkable, as all who witnessed it seemed to find their faith in Hoonding there before her, but she would need to steel herself in order to surpass this, and that was a final gift given without expectation.
Three weeks after her awakening of sorts, she embraced her mother and father for what may be the last time, having settled on what she must do with her life. The book had shown her another way of life, anchored her passions into something real. The duneripper had challenged her and through force of will she had not been found wanting. The elder had given her a light along the path before her and signposts pointing the way. With those three she was for the first time filled with determination, something her father Jakir would not stand in the way of, and her mother Terandil would see to it that at least she would have someone to rely upon along the way. Though their hearts ached for it, she was given her father's sword once more, even knowing what must be done with it, and her elder brother and sister would accompany her to provide some much needed assistance when needed, but to also ensure she would never be without a friend. Then with all said and done, she set out for that first step on the road to becoming a true Sword-Saint. It was a simple matter on the surface, to give up her most prized possession to Hoonding and offer it as a blade for those in need. Yet one never does give up their father's sword with ease…
That was two years ago and since then Khaliya has been steadily advancing towards a dream she never knew. The Shehai comes to her hands when called, a blade shimmering and sharper than any she had ever known or ever will know, so long as her will is focused. What lies ahead she can't possibly guess, though at the moment with her pockets filled with other people's wallets and sitting in the Imperial Prison, things seem to be a bit dark. At the very least the guards don't seem keen to keep them all there, having turned from gathering those beside her as potential belligerents in the bar-brawl turned riot, to escorting them to safety and keeping them away from the Imperial City proper. The City of a Thousand Cults and it seemed they found the one day where it was most inconvenient to visit…
But it didn't last long, as their blood boiled from the merest of slights, and eventually one of their clan struck a Redguard merchant down in cold blood, drawing the attention of the Alik'ri tribe. A mission of destruction was undertaken, with the only survivors being the youngest and eldest of Orcs, as well as Terandil of Shimmerene and her two unborn children. Jakir, the chief of the Alik'ri tribe, walked out of the main building of the stronghold a shaken man and gave the order himself, what had transpired between himself and the Orsimer chief remaining secret to this day. Of course, news spread quickly of the razing of the clan's land and soon an army began to draw against the Alik'ri. Little by little they were driven into a pass that was to be their grave until Jakir himself negotiated with the Reachman warleader, and showed that his people had taken in the most vulnerable of the Orcs as well as the Altmer Terandil.
Many tense years passed since that day, and on the eve of the seventh Khaliya was born to Terandil and Jakir, the two having found a love for each other in their time among the sands. Of course her childhood was a rather rough one though, not just for the biting winds of blown sand, or of the merciless sun during the day and the bone-chilling cold of night, but for her older step-siblings Yashar and Roshanara who had been fully adopted by the Alik'r since then. With half-orcs as siblings, she quickly learned to toughen up for the rough-housing of children, and over the years was made all the better for it. While her kin and tribespeople were given towards more martial skills because of their lifestyle, Khaliya found herself gifted in particular with the blade. As others branched and learned more of song, dance, pottery or weaving she did much the same, but always her eye was drawn more and more to the sword.
It was found all the more in the tales of the Ansei and her people's Yokudan history told through the songs of her tribe. Each was a tale of great heroes fighting the demons of their homeland, or fighting to secure a new home which future generations would call Hammerfell. And while most were told their song, dance and copious embellishment, there were a rare few which Khaliya became uniquely suited for. It started as just a whim on a visit to Rihad, she was a fresh teenager and already assisting on the hunts and defense rotas, and her father and uncle had just begun a tale of Frandar Hunding. Normally the tale would be told with a sword-dancer playing out the role of the hero himself as the elders spoke in reverent tones of his many deeds, but for some time her cousin who would have normally performed the role had been working off an injury. So without even asking for permission or waiting for the two to say something against it, she took up the ceremonial swords and simply joined in mid-act.
At first it was simply the usual crowd of spectators, a few elders watching with respect and curious younger passerby who perhaps had not heard the stories told in such a way. Steel caught the light as trailing red cloth painted the strokes of killing blows millenia past, Khaliya putting to work all the practice over the last few years to try and recreate what she had seen. She knew the steps as well as anyone else in the tribe, and she knew the story better than even her father at times, it being a favorite of hers. There was something else about acting it out though. More and more she let the crowd fade and the words guide her hands and feet, until at last she came to a standing rest and felt the heat of dozens of eyes staring at her and the wave of applause. Her performance had drawn quite the crowd with her easy motions, the swords lighter than air in her hands and acting more like an extension of herself than steel and silk. It was certainly a surprise, but she made herself quite scarce after a few stepped forward asking her name, the calls following her family as they headed back to the caravan to count coin and get ready for the night.
But it wouldn't be quite over for her by any means. Over the next few days as they rested and traded within Rihad there came numerous requests both to have another performance with the young sword-dancer and to know her name. Her father was equal parts frustrated and proud, one in having seen his daughter take up an honored role with such excellence, and the other in having to now deal with repeated advances from Hammerfell knights wanting to bring her into their order. Crimson Sands, Opal Watch, Rihadi Wardens, even the Sentinel White-Cloaks, each of them made it a point to try and speak with Khaliya either with or without her father present in order to convince her to give up the nomadic life and become a knight. "One with such skills cannot belong to the sands alone." As they said repeatedly, their goals clear as they sought her only for her skills and the potential glory for their own individual orders. All were of course turned away, and not always by her father. His word was final, but she had found her frustration mounting as the day they would leave Rihad could not come faster.
On the final day her last admirer arrived at the camp, just as they were hitching the camels and packing the last of their goods for the long road. Unlike the varied orders he came not with a grand escort, no banners, no emblems or symbols of office. There was no intent to impress, ingratiate, beg or intimidate for her attention. Instead the aging man presented himself to her and her father as a keeper of the old ways. He was just a man with a book, one that could be of use to a girl with so much potential, as he said of Khaliya. The book itself looked every bit older than the man, wrapped in delicate silks that preserved it from the arid heat and showed that while he himself looked nearly destitute, that it held more wealth than all of Hammerfell to him. It was offered freely with no expectations, the old man merely suggesting that it would be of interest to Khaliya and could help her make her own way some day in the future.
The significance of this gesture wouldn't be understood until far from Rihad, when she unwrapped the silks and stared at the interlocking rings on the cover, Yokudan script showing the title and author as something quite extraordinary. Within her hands was the Book of Circles, and not just some copy done clumsily by Cyrodillic hands or some Scholar who had never held a blade before. It was done in the tradition of the old Ansei, passed from teacher to student with the intent for them to one day write their own. The pages were old and weathered, the ink older than her entire tribe and calling back to another age where their traditions were a way of life to more than just a scant hundred. And there on the first page in the flowing script of a warrior wielding a pen instead of a blade, the name "Frandar Hunding". All of these books were written much the same, the man who had written the first given the honor of the first page of every copy written by every following Sword-Saint. This was to Khaliya, one of the most significant treasures she had ever seen, and her family knew it as well, allowing her the time to study it more than she had ever delved into any book before.
Days turned to weeks on the road, her feet stirring the sands in one rota after the other. Weeks became months, the sword of her father singing along the wind with a fervor of a woman who had realized her life's purpose. Months shifted into years one after the other and Khaliya had read the Book of Circles front to back, practiced every maneuver back to front and almost memorized the sword strokes that were meant for a blade infinitely lighter than the steel she held.
With three, almost four years passing since being gifted the Book of Circles, life had shifted quite drastically for Khaliya. Now sixteen she was leading expeditions across the sands ahead of the tribe, pathfinding for her people to avoid the dangers lurking beneath the dunes. The slightest mistake could lead to the death of dozens, far too many for any tribe, much less one who had made themselves known to seek out and destroy the undead, a taboo among all Redguard. That was why a good eye was often times more valuable than a strong arm, and she had learned all too well the little details that others missed. The way the dunes shift ever so slightly in the distance, ripples across the surface and the occasional breach of stone hinting at the lurking teeth and claws waiting for passing prey. Heat hazes could distort the horizon in more subtle ways, making one think an oasis was far closer than reality, if it was even there to begin with. Of course the haze was the lesser effect of such punishing heat, and she knew that spending too much time on the sands was lethal even under the shade of the main caravan.
So she learned to read the sands, to listen to and feel the winds, taking in all the signs that a skilled navigator could use to find their way to the sea. Yet it was on a day when she was relied upon most that she would be challenged by her greatest foe. Her brother Yashar had been spending the last couple years with her uncle along the northern shores, and Roshanara primarily stuck with their mother and the main caravan in case some danger bypassed the sentries. On this day she was out ahead with a dozen men walking the sands, feeling out a safe route towards Sentinel and avoiding the fringes of Craglorn. The sands had been whipped into a frenzy by westerly winds heated by the sun and driving the dune rippers into a maddened hunger. Each of the western sentry groups had encountered lesser rippers that would have normally never attacked a group like that, and the tribe as a whole knew that soon there would need to be a decision made. Either press on towards Sentinel regardless of the rippers and the approaching sandstorm, or break east and enter Sunforge. The latter had been regarded as a non-starter for years, ever since the conflict at the pass had nearly destroyed their tribe in Craglorn, they had kept their distance from the region and the many Orsimer strongholds that retained a grudge.
Sentinel though… Yashar was likely to be there, but the most pressing issue was that it was still more than three days of hard travel even if the camels were pressed without rest. All that could be done was to continue on with caution, to keep both options open until the very last moment. That was as her father had taught her, to never close a door until sure that it held no benefit. Pressing forward through the gusting winds and darkening skies there was the ever present looming danger of what may lie beneath, Khaliya herself on point and cresting each dune carefully. Little by little they made their way, glancing between the skies above, to the west and east, and in the far distance the banners of their tribe showing them on their way. That was a distraction though and she knew it. The tribe would be fine as long as they focused on their duty, to keep any dangers from the main caravan. Just one last dune before they would enter into the hinterlands where the sand would start to shift to rock and dirt. The wind shifted the sands around this one as it crested high into the horizon, looming like a barrier in their journey and curling towards them as a break against sea-borne winds. Though the closer her party got to the dune the more something seemed off. It was as if the dune had not formed over eons of gentle desert winds but… Too late they realized the danger they had come upon, one that they were trying to deliberately steer the caravan away from. Without hesitation Khaliya ordered a runner back to divert the tribe east and closer to the border to Sunforge. All she and her scouts needed to do was carefully maneuver themselves around the dune and leave marks for those to follow. But as they closed in and began to skirt around, the sands shifted. Great spires of hardened carapace erupted from the peaks of the dune, pitted and scored by years of desert life. A rumbling came from beneath them, disturbing the sands under their feet as the shape of the dune writhed back and forth lazily, and for a fraction of a moment in the darkening twilight of the impending sandstorm, they saw it.
Murderous intent gleaming behind eyes that had seen many tribes such as hers come and go, the shifting of sands across eras and the death of empires. It was a creature as old as the sands themselves and one of the most feared beings in all the Alik'r. To the Forebears within their safe cities and the Imperial travelers, it was just myth and legend, some creature from the Merethic that had long since passed. For her and the other Alik'ri tribes though, they knew it as the Greater Duneripper. A duneripper that had survived through its adulthood to become an elder and like all of their kind, old age was barely an inconvenience. All Khaliya remembered of what was to follow was a whisper under the howling sands as the creature slowly dove into the earth, meter after meter of ancient terror…
Dunefather.
It would be several weeks later that Khaliya would find herself in Sentinel, her mother resting beside the bed she lay in and a dull pain all over her body that told her that she had been through something rather significant. Fresh scars lay under the bandages wrapping her entire torso and lower body, flashes of that encounter in the sands and a bright spear of light erupting from her hands in a moment of stress. Her family would take the next few days between her resting to fill her in on what had happened. During the sandstorm that had engulfed the tribe's caravan and the scouting parties, her own had encountered a greater duneripper of significant size, one believed to be the Dunefather himself. That was something of debate among the tribe though, but they knew it to be a rather significant threat and six of their people were dead with several others wounded just as Khaliya had been. What was of particular note though was not their harrowing encounter with the Duneripper or the hastened march towards Sentinel, but in how it had been fended off and sent back into the sands. The survivors of her party spoke of how one by one each of them had been pulled beneath the sand screaming, only blood and cloth remaining as they were picked off. Suddenly Khaliya had been dragged down next, and the duneripper crested from the surface with her clinging on as best she could, sword simply slipping off the carapace of the beast. Everyone had thought her lost as she disappeared into its maw, only for a moment later to hear her voice knowing it to be one of anguish, and instead a blade made of pure starlight erupting from the top of the duneripper's skull and swinging outward. That had been enough for it to drop the wounded woman back onto the sands and retreat, not willing to continue that fight.
Luckily for her the main caravan had hastened to catch up once the sandstorm hit, and that had been when her mother saw the bloodied sands and her daughter barely clinging to life. From there they had set a maddened pace all the way to Sentinel, their rush nearly finding the city guard upon them if it weren't for Yashar there to vouch for them and the state of many of their scouts. But it was all past now, and all she had to do was look towards the future, one that seemed a little strange especially for she remembered little of the event. One visitor in particular though provided some insights, the same elder who had given her the Book of Circles now came to her as she recovered from her ordeal, and just as before he came with a gift free of expectations and once more, he gave her a choice. He sat beside her bed and offered the stories of old Yokuda and the Warrior Waves, some of which she knew already but not in the same ways. There were the same figures of old, the same heroic deeds, but this time a sudden clarity on those myths. Ansei they were called, a word whose meaning had been lost over the eras and merely relegated to the ancient heroes. Gone had been the truth of it, and the myths of warriors of peerless skill losing the why and how. To be an Ansei was to be a Sword-Singer of pre-eminent skill, a holder of the Shehai and one of unshakeable will and righteousness.
And what the Shehai was, it was something she had awakened within herself. The sons and daughters of Yokuda all held this gift within themselves, as the elder told her, but some were more capable of reaching for it than others, and of them there were further separations still. As he taught her of this ancient art, he told her of how she had taken the first step. Through a moment of extreme stress and a display of incredible willpower, she had refused to accept her death and chose to make-way in whatever manner she could. That was when the Shehai erupted from her hands in a display of starlight-made-steel. Try as she might though, she couldn't replicate the same blade she had awoken, only vague shapes clinging to her palms. Even that was remarkable, as all who witnessed it seemed to find their faith in Hoonding there before her, but she would need to steel herself in order to surpass this, and that was a final gift given without expectation.
Three weeks after her awakening of sorts, she embraced her mother and father for what may be the last time, having settled on what she must do with her life. The book had shown her another way of life, anchored her passions into something real. The duneripper had challenged her and through force of will she had not been found wanting. The elder had given her a light along the path before her and signposts pointing the way. With those three she was for the first time filled with determination, something her father Jakir would not stand in the way of, and her mother Terandil would see to it that at least she would have someone to rely upon along the way. Though their hearts ached for it, she was given her father's sword once more, even knowing what must be done with it, and her elder brother and sister would accompany her to provide some much needed assistance when needed, but to also ensure she would never be without a friend. Then with all said and done, she set out for that first step on the road to becoming a true Sword-Saint. It was a simple matter on the surface, to give up her most prized possession to Hoonding and offer it as a blade for those in need. Yet one never does give up their father's sword with ease…
That was two years ago and since then Khaliya has been steadily advancing towards a dream she never knew. The Shehai comes to her hands when called, a blade shimmering and sharper than any she had ever known or ever will know, so long as her will is focused. What lies ahead she can't possibly guess, though at the moment with her pockets filled with other people's wallets and sitting in the Imperial Prison, things seem to be a bit dark. At the very least the guards don't seem keen to keep them all there, having turned from gathering those beside her as potential belligerents in the bar-brawl turned riot, to escorting them to safety and keeping them away from the Imperial City proper. The City of a Thousand Cults and it seemed they found the one day where it was most inconvenient to visit…
Ambition
Ever since awakening her spirit-sword and understanding what she was, there has been a burning ambition within her that she had yet to know until that moment. It is a drive to push further and further, to bring back the lost art of the sword-singers and to achieve what even they so very rarely could. And that comes in two parts, two different but not disconnected goals. The first is that to become a First-Rank Ansei, a warrior without peer whose shehai is starlight-made-steel and unrivaled by mortal weapons. That in and of itself would put her among the most highly regarded of Yokudan myth, warriors such as Frandar Hunding, Sai Sahan, The Four and the Warrior himself. But there is one other ambition of hers, one that she has spoken of only to her half-siblings and her parents. Though it may be reckless, foolish and entirely likely impossible... Khaliya seeks to complete her Book of Circles with the Seventeen Forbidden Sword-Strokes, or as they have been called in Yokudan myth, the Pankratosword.
BurningCold Magical Bastard
Member
Seen
3 hrs ago
Name:
Veeza
Age:
26
Race:
Argonian
Appearance:
When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it's own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, and tapering into sharp points. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with thin-slitted pupils that flare with intensity.
While his scales act as a natural defense, long years spent fighting for his life in the arena has left Veeza with a plethora of scars marring his body, leaving none of him untouched. The worst of them have been caused by a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach; the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. He is most comfortable when wearing his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.
While his scales act as a natural defense, long years spent fighting for his life in the arena has left Veeza with a plethora of scars marring his body, leaving none of him untouched. The worst of them have been caused by a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach; the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. He is most comfortable when wearing his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.
Personality:
As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He has a direct, somewhat blunt manner of speaking, but one always knows where they stand with him. All he asks of others, regardless of their level of ability, is to work hard and pull their own weight. He admires anyone capable of feats of valor in battle, whether they use sword or sorcery to get there.
In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet faced a foe capable of shaking his confidence.
Veeza is also a reader, eager to expand his understanding of the world around him. Combat temporarily shrouds life in the veil of simplicity, but in reality it is anything but. To be alive is to be part of the world, and Veeza is not keen on following in the footsteps of those that came before him. Mush-La was passionless and oftentimes cruel. His own father was so overwhelmed by reality that he turned to drink to cope. His mother chose to risk her life in battle near daily in order to provide for her family, rather than try any other way, and it cost her everything. Perhaps education and a bit of philosophy might have saved these people from themselves.
In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet faced a foe capable of shaking his confidence.
Veeza is also a reader, eager to expand his understanding of the world around him. Combat temporarily shrouds life in the veil of simplicity, but in reality it is anything but. To be alive is to be part of the world, and Veeza is not keen on following in the footsteps of those that came before him. Mush-La was passionless and oftentimes cruel. His own father was so overwhelmed by reality that he turned to drink to cope. His mother chose to risk her life in battle near daily in order to provide for her family, rather than try any other way, and it cost her everything. Perhaps education and a bit of philosophy might have saved these people from themselves.
Skills:
Veeza is trained in a variety of martial weaponry, being particularly proficient with bladed weapons. However, while he could hold his own against most inexperienced foes regardless of the tool he wields, his particular focus is on unarmed combat. Using his fists and tail to deliver crushing blows and unexpected maneuvers in a fighting style uniquely his own, or at the very least uniquely Argonian. He also has competent first aid capabilities, both with mundane tools and via the use of alchemy. He knows how to search for and prepare ingredients that could be used for restorative purposes.
Magic:
Veeza is skilled enough to call upon restorative magic to heal the wounds of himself or others.
Personal Items:
- A pair of trousers
The Lock Box:
- His iron armor, the gauntlets are reinforced with steel and have studs made of dwarven metal inlaid along the knuckles
- Kvatch arena raiment
- A steel shortsword
- A leather travel pack
- A mortar and pestle
- A suturing kit
Stored Items:
Nothing of note, perhaps some septims and additional equipment at his home in Kvatch.
Background:
Drunken Lizard
Nothing But A Pair Of Fists
Graduation Day
The Pit Dragon
She In The Moonlight
The New Arena
Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.”
Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I love you, you stupid kid. But I’ll never be the father you need. Your uncle’s a bastard, but he’ll make something out of you.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor.
Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.
Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I love you, you stupid kid. But I’ll never be the father you need. Your uncle’s a bastard, but he’ll make something out of you.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor.
Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.
Nothing But A Pair Of Fists
Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man; things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become.
Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.
Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.
Graduation Day
The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid from compliant members at the local mages guild to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday, his uncle entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of Kvatch’s arena felt sorrow for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them.
In his own way, in his own time, he would come to mourn Mush-La.
But now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.
In his own way, in his own time, he would come to mourn Mush-La.
But now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.
The Pit Dragon
The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the dusty stone. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand.
The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new blood; a pit dog.
It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his most grievous scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long ponytail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.
The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new blood; a pit dog.
It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his most grievous scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long ponytail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.
She In The Moonlight
Veeza made his prayers at night. The quiet, empty pews and the columns lining the hall of worship stood in stark contrast to the chaos that daylight hours brought. Here, things were calm. Simple. The first time he saw her, she was practicing her spellcraft beneath a willow tree clinging to the edge of the pond beside the chapel. The light of the moon filtered through the vines and cast her blue skin in an ethereal light. She was a Dunmer from Cheydinhal, recently transferred to Kvatch’s mages guild, and the most beautiful person Veeza had ever seen.
After the third night of curious, appreciative glances, he finally got the courage to approach her. She was as pleasant to converse with as she was to look upon. Her name was Ildrani, and though there was much history between their people, both of them were citizens of the empire first, having been born in Cyrodiil. The conflicts of Morrowind and Black Marsh were irrelevant to the burgeoning connection they had begun to nurture.
After the third night of curious, appreciative glances, he finally got the courage to approach her. She was as pleasant to converse with as she was to look upon. Her name was Ildrani, and though there was much history between their people, both of them were citizens of the empire first, having been born in Cyrodiil. The conflicts of Morrowind and Black Marsh were irrelevant to the burgeoning connection they had begun to nurture.
The New Arena
Veeza was part of the grand celebration thrown at the Imperial City. Before the Gray Prince’s ill-fated duel, many more exhibitions were held, including matches involving visiting gladiators from Kvatch. He had won his own match with relative ease, retiring from the festivities early to treat himself to some food and drink at a local tavern. The Gray Prince against a Companion from Skyrim? It wouldn’t be a real fight. He supposed there was nothing wrong with a fluffy bit of nationalism, but it held no interest for him.
Far earlier than expected, the tavern began to fill up with a crowd of very angry, riled citizens. There was something about a brick, blabbering about someone trying to kill the Gray Prince, and a general din of pointless and disquieting negativity that soon erupted into a full on brawl. Veeza kept to himself in the corner of the tavern for as long as he could. He really did.
But on principle, if someone snaps their jaws at the Pit Dragon, the Pit Dragon bites back.
So he broke more than a few noses.
Far earlier than expected, the tavern began to fill up with a crowd of very angry, riled citizens. There was something about a brick, blabbering about someone trying to kill the Gray Prince, and a general din of pointless and disquieting negativity that soon erupted into a full on brawl. Veeza kept to himself in the corner of the tavern for as long as he could. He really did.
But on principle, if someone snaps their jaws at the Pit Dragon, the Pit Dragon bites back.
So he broke more than a few noses.
Ambition:
Currently, to get back home to Kvatch and Ildrani. Also, track down the imperial guard that stole his 500 septims. No matter how long it takes.
Defeat Langurius, the current grand champion of Kvatch, and claim his title.
Defeat Langurius, the current grand champion of Kvatch, and claim his title.
Sir Lurksalot
Member
Online
"...So, would this be a bad time to point out that I have no idea what I'm doing?"
Name: Caddach Thraigyr
Age: 19
Race: Breton, Mostly
Appearance: Of relatively modest height— standing at only 5'6"— but surprisingly built as a consequence of both his occupation and the Karthic blood in his veins. Caddach's light brown hair (with the occasional tinge of the ginge) is cut short in the legionary fashion, both to keep it out of his sharp green eyes and to keep his head cool during those balmy Cyrodiil summers, where he often finds himself working on rooftops across the Palace District— which also accounts for his near constant farmer's tan.
The lad's not without his eccentricities, however; Like the scar on his left brow put there by one Altmer in particular that didn't like him too much, a few other nicks and claw marks here and there from a rowdy youth that included playfully wrestling with his grandma's sabrecat and an unusual tattoo on his left shoulder of Argonian origin, scarified and slightly raised, as it was put there by a mallet and chisel.
Personality: A child of Cyrodiil through and through, Caddach is a clever, hardworking, often sarcastic but all around good natured kind of lad who, despite all his family's wealth and being noble by birth, has never really acted the part; the result of growing up around many different kinds of people from all sorts of places as well as his House's general shutting out from 'Proper Society' by the Nibenese High-Nobility for their 'foreign' origins and ways. As such, to the eyes of anyone else, he's pretty much just your average kid from the Imperial City— knowing the place with the kind of intuition only a local could. Like where to get what you want, where you'll be ripped off and where to cover your coin-purse as well as being on a first-name basis with all sorts; beggars, mercs, shopkeeps, inn-keepers and guards— many of whom he's known since he was a kid and some he actually grew up with. Though that's not to say he's some soft-skinned city boy either, and his youthful travels as well as being raised largely by his grandparents have made him just as comfortable sitting at a campfire in Black Marsh, hiking through the Colovian Highlands or within the walls of Orsinium as he would be at home.
At the end of the day, despite his storied lineage and arguably much more successful siblings, our boy Caddach has never aspired to be anything more than what he actually is. Just a local guy, loyal to his Empire and Emperor, doing his job, paying his taxes and going out for a drink with his friends on the weekends to watch the Grey Prince stomp some ass.
Just a guy. Nothing more, nothing less.
Abilities:
Groundskeeper: Caddach's job is to maintain the Imperial Palace, and he's actually gotten pretty good at it; a bit of carpentry here, a bit of slating or masonry there, sweeping or scrubbing the floors... That kind of thing.
Innawoods Survival Training: A consequence of all those trips he took as a boy, and going out camping with his grandparents so often; Caddach is actually quite comfortable in the outdoors and can hunt, scavenge, fish, build a fire to cook the things he hunts, scavenges and fishes and doesn't do too bad of a job at the cooking part either. Can also do the basic things like building a lean-to to protect himself from the elements when he sleeps and knows where to, and more importantly, where not to dig a latrine.
Animal Knowledge: When you grow up with a Druid and a Reachman for grandparents, in a house with many animals, like, for example; a lazy sabrecat, a cuddly, very well taken care of and affectionate skeever and multiple horse-sized wolves... you learn a few things. Though this will likely not see much use outside of perhaps tracking game, identifying and warding off wild animals and perhaps, just maybe, deactivating a hostile— or just scared— beast with the application of precision scritches in the right spot.
Martial Knowledge: Though he hasn't seriously trained with a weapon in years, as a scion to a family of knights, a good chunk of his youth before entering the Arcane University (and even then, unofficially carrying it on under his 'tutor') was spent in martial training, making him familiar with weapons of all kinds— and having more of a knack for it at the time than maybe even he himself realised... Though the most he gets out of it these days is the occasional spar with bored palace guards or a few nobles.
Educated: Though Caddach doesn't speak, or usually act all that differently than your other average kid born and raised in the Imperial City, and generally keeps his mouth shut and his head down while doing his work, he's actually far more clever than he ever really lets on. Sharp, even for a Breton and not at all hindered by his family's relative wealth affording him a damned decent education from an early age and access to all the books he could ever want as a kid.
Magicka: Before his unceremonious booting from the Arcane University, Caddach managed to pick up a thing or two from his... particularly unorthodox teacher. Namely a bit of restoration, some uncommon tricks from the school of destruction (like the ability to use melee weapons as a magical focus, though he is somewhat out of practice with it) and an actually impressive amount from the school of alteration; some of which are technically forbidden under Tamrielic law.
Herbalism: Caddach's dear old grandma Elyza was a druid back in the day, and made sure to pass on some of her knowledge to her darling little 'Snuggle-Bug'. So while his tumultuous time at the Arcane University prevented him from becoming a proper alchemist, he still has more than enough knowledge to identify and make use of nature's bounty to know what can be eaten and to create everything from salves, tonics and remedies to more mundane things like good spices, soothing teas, refreshing poscas and some of grandma's assorted super-secret recipes for food and snacks.
Innawoods Survival Training: A consequence of all those trips he took as a boy, and going out camping with his grandparents so often; Caddach is actually quite comfortable in the outdoors and can hunt, scavenge, fish, build a fire to cook the things he hunts, scavenges and fishes and doesn't do too bad of a job at the cooking part either. Can also do the basic things like building a lean-to to protect himself from the elements when he sleeps and knows where to, and more importantly, where not to dig a latrine.
Animal Knowledge: When you grow up with a Druid and a Reachman for grandparents, in a house with many animals, like, for example; a lazy sabrecat, a cuddly, very well taken care of and affectionate skeever and multiple horse-sized wolves... you learn a few things. Though this will likely not see much use outside of perhaps tracking game, identifying and warding off wild animals and perhaps, just maybe, deactivating a hostile— or just scared— beast with the application of precision scritches in the right spot.
Martial Knowledge: Though he hasn't seriously trained with a weapon in years, as a scion to a family of knights, a good chunk of his youth before entering the Arcane University (and even then, unofficially carrying it on under his 'tutor') was spent in martial training, making him familiar with weapons of all kinds— and having more of a knack for it at the time than maybe even he himself realised... Though the most he gets out of it these days is the occasional spar with bored palace guards or a few nobles.
Educated: Though Caddach doesn't speak, or usually act all that differently than your other average kid born and raised in the Imperial City, and generally keeps his mouth shut and his head down while doing his work, he's actually far more clever than he ever really lets on. Sharp, even for a Breton and not at all hindered by his family's relative wealth affording him a damned decent education from an early age and access to all the books he could ever want as a kid.
Magicka: Before his unceremonious booting from the Arcane University, Caddach managed to pick up a thing or two from his... particularly unorthodox teacher. Namely a bit of restoration, some uncommon tricks from the school of destruction (like the ability to use melee weapons as a magical focus, though he is somewhat out of practice with it) and an actually impressive amount from the school of alteration; some of which are technically forbidden under Tamrielic law.
Herbalism: Caddach's dear old grandma Elyza was a druid back in the day, and made sure to pass on some of her knowledge to her darling little 'Snuggle-Bug'. So while his tumultuous time at the Arcane University prevented him from becoming a proper alchemist, he still has more than enough knowledge to identify and make use of nature's bounty to know what can be eaten and to create everything from salves, tonics and remedies to more mundane things like good spices, soothing teas, refreshing poscas and some of grandma's assorted super-secret recipes for food and snacks.
Frost: Skilled enough to use it offensively... maybe, but these days Caddach uses it mainly to chill his drink or, on a really hot day, on himself to cool off, so he's a bit out of practice.
Fire: As above, our boy is— theoretically, anyway— skilled enough to make use of fire spells on the attack. However, Caddach hasn't actually done so in a while, mainly using it for mundane things like heating his tea or cooking his lunch on the fly, so he's juuuuust a bit rusty.
Shock: Something Caddach was trained extensively in, both by Ted and his grandfather before that, as a Nine-Damned lightning bolt to the face is an immediate and particularly effective 'Fuck you and your mom' to anybody looking for the smoke. However, he basically hasn't used it at all since taking on his new job, as there isn't much place for lightning in the day-to-day life of a Groundskeeper, so he's severely out of practice.
Water: A neat, non-standard variation of the Frost spell Caddach picked up as a kid. Useful for a quick drink on the go, filling canteens and buckets or hosing down your friends as a cheeky prank. Actually gets a lot of use out of this one on hot days.
Fire: As above, our boy is— theoretically, anyway— skilled enough to make use of fire spells on the attack. However, Caddach hasn't actually done so in a while, mainly using it for mundane things like heating his tea or cooking his lunch on the fly, so he's juuuuust a bit rusty.
Shock: Something Caddach was trained extensively in, both by Ted and his grandfather before that, as a Nine-Damned lightning bolt to the face is an immediate and particularly effective 'Fuck you and your mom' to anybody looking for the smoke. However, he basically hasn't used it at all since taking on his new job, as there isn't much place for lightning in the day-to-day life of a Groundskeeper, so he's severely out of practice.
Water: A neat, non-standard variation of the Frost spell Caddach picked up as a kid. Useful for a quick drink on the go, filling canteens and buckets or hosing down your friends as a cheeky prank. Actually gets a lot of use out of this one on hot days.
Glowlight: One of Caddach's more day-to-day spells, mainly because it's a helluva lot better than carrying a torch around all day on the off-chance he has to keep working into the night. With the added bonus that it's a lot less likely to catch things (like, say, tar) on fire.
Waterwalking: One of the first spells Caddach ever learned as a child, and something he used so often it became almost second nature. Great for not drowning if you fall off a boat, getting to weird places or, if you were a dumb kid like he was in his youth, infinite amusement riding those big damned waves off the Gold Coast. Also very useful for catching slaughterfish, oddly enough; As all you really have to do is stand there, wiggle your feet to get one's attention, then step out of the way as it comes up— mad as all Oblivion and looking for your toes— and whack it with a stick.
Waterbreathing: Something else he learned early on when he was a kid, partly as a back up in case the waterwalking thing failed for some reason and partly because he had a lot of Argonian friends growing up, and the spell helped him keep up with their innate ability to breathe underwater all those times they went out for a dive in the Niben looking for cool stuff or for a bit of spear fishing.
Feather/Burden: A combo of spells Caddach's Dremora friend was damned sure to drill into his head for their utility and for the fact that, in his own words "Anything you can make weigh a few hundred pounds on the downswing is a damned fine weapon.". Unlike a lot of other things he learned from Ted, he actually uses these almost every damned day in his new job, as there's no shortage of heavy things he has to carry or hammers that could use juuuust a little more 'Oomph!'.
Shield: Another hand-me-down from Ted, who reasoned that if the boy was going to be throwing spells, he might as well learn how to protect against them, too— As well as any hypothetical jackass comes at him with a big damned axe or something of the like. Suffice to say, hasn't really had much use of it as of late.
Levitation: Another thing he learned from Ted; While Caddach is nowhere near the level of, say, the masters in Morrowind (who can outright fly), he can 'Jump good' and 'Not die' pretty great after coming down, too. And while these feats are technically illegal under the so-called Levitation Act of 3E 421, the Palace Guards have always looked the other way the one or two times where he (or a coworker) have fallen off the roof and he chose to break the law instead of making a big red mess all over the Emperor's lawn.
Unlock: Really great for when Caddach forgets his keys.
Waterwalking: One of the first spells Caddach ever learned as a child, and something he used so often it became almost second nature. Great for not drowning if you fall off a boat, getting to weird places or, if you were a dumb kid like he was in his youth, infinite amusement riding those big damned waves off the Gold Coast. Also very useful for catching slaughterfish, oddly enough; As all you really have to do is stand there, wiggle your feet to get one's attention, then step out of the way as it comes up— mad as all Oblivion and looking for your toes— and whack it with a stick.
Waterbreathing: Something else he learned early on when he was a kid, partly as a back up in case the waterwalking thing failed for some reason and partly because he had a lot of Argonian friends growing up, and the spell helped him keep up with their innate ability to breathe underwater all those times they went out for a dive in the Niben looking for cool stuff or for a bit of spear fishing.
Feather/Burden: A combo of spells Caddach's Dremora friend was damned sure to drill into his head for their utility and for the fact that, in his own words "Anything you can make weigh a few hundred pounds on the downswing is a damned fine weapon.". Unlike a lot of other things he learned from Ted, he actually uses these almost every damned day in his new job, as there's no shortage of heavy things he has to carry or hammers that could use juuuust a little more 'Oomph!'.
Shield: Another hand-me-down from Ted, who reasoned that if the boy was going to be throwing spells, he might as well learn how to protect against them, too— As well as any hypothetical jackass comes at him with a big damned axe or something of the like. Suffice to say, hasn't really had much use of it as of late.
Levitation: Another thing he learned from Ted; While Caddach is nowhere near the level of, say, the masters in Morrowind (who can outright fly), he can 'Jump good' and 'Not die' pretty great after coming down, too. And while these feats are technically illegal under the so-called Levitation Act of 3E 421, the Palace Guards have always looked the other way the one or two times where he (or a coworker) have fallen off the roof and he chose to break the law instead of making a big red mess all over the Emperor's lawn.
Unlock: Really great for when Caddach forgets his keys.
Healing: It was never his strong suit, but Caddach can heal his own wounds and to a lesser extent, others. Though it's a slower process than someone who's actually skilled in the art and a whole lot less... pleasant; with wounds still leaving behind gnarly scars afterward and bones roughly snapping back into place instead of gently weaving themselves back together as they normally would.
Fortify Strength/Speed: Something Caddach learned very quickly after he started going on those dives with his friends as a kid. More specifically, after encountering his first swarm of slaughterfish and having to piggyback a (slightly chewed) Argonian all the way home.
Fortify Strength/Speed: Something Caddach learned very quickly after he started going on those dives with his friends as a kid. More specifically, after encountering his first swarm of slaughterfish and having to piggyback a (slightly chewed) Argonian all the way home.
Equipment:
-Work clothes; Leather boots with steel toe-caps, brown work pants with a whole lotta pockets bloused into said boots to stop them getting caught on things, and a simple, white short-sleeved shirt with more than a few stains on it from his job.
-A little paper bag of the Arena's home brand of jerky, sweet and spicy flavoured.
-Two little bread rolls.
-A wet cloth one of the guards gave him on request, one that he's frosted over to have something cool to hold against his now very sore head and black eye.
-A little paper bag of the Arena's home brand of jerky, sweet and spicy flavoured.
-Two little bread rolls.
-A wet cloth one of the guards gave him on request, one that he's frosted over to have something cool to hold against his now very sore head and black eye.
-His keys, both for around the palace and to his family home.
-A Wine-skin filled with honey-juniper posca.
-A set of dice.
-A Wine-skin filled with honey-juniper posca.
-A set of dice.
Background:
Born to a branch of an ancient, though (until relatively recently) minor noble house from the Westreach region of High Rock that had migrated down to the Imperial City just over a century prior, Caddach had... honestly, a pretty damned decent childhood. Though not high enough on the social totem pole to be invited to those kinds of galas, banquets and balls the Nibenese elite like to throw every other day, partly due to being considered 'Foreigners', even after several generations of living in the capital and partly due to the sheer scandal of a family perceived to be far too friendly with those savages of the Reach— though that accusation in particular actually has some truth to it, as the young man's grandfather and namesake being very much a Reachman, his mother half-so, though she tried to hide it, and even his father's side of the family being suspiciously broad-shouldered and more sturdily built than most Bretons— the tidy profit his family earned from the overland trade of rare alchemical goods, ores and animals from their family's holdings in the Westreach, spices from eastern Hammerfell and lumber from Colovia meant that he and his family could live very comfortably indeed. Even moreso when his eldest brother took the two remaining ships the family had mothballed in Anvil after trade across the Abecean dried up in the wake of the War of Betony to extend their usual trade route down the Niben and into southern Elsweyr and Black Marsh.
So, Caddach whittled his days away as a youth playing in the streets with the other neighbourhood kids like any child of the Imperial City would, learning how to fight as any Thraigyr child should and every once in a while riding out on the back of his Karthwolf, Ryka (a very good girl, in case you were wondering) to visit his uncle out in Kvatch, or going up the trade route with his dad one way to visit friends and relatives in High Rock, Hammerfell and Orsinium or down the other to meet with new trading partners in Elsweyr and Argonia— One trip to the latter in particular resulting in a tattoo on his shoulder a local shaman insisted he should have after a certain incident, the boy himself thought was kind of neat and his mother absolutely hated.
Finally, at the age of fourteen, his second oldest brother began poking him about joining him in the Legions in a few years time. But his heart was set on writing his entrance exams and getting into the Arcane University, so he could stay close to home, which he did that very same year.
And incidentally, that's about when his life ceased to be a charming tale of a young lad traveling the world and making new friends along the way and became a outright fucking comedy.
For no sooner did he walk in the front door to the highest institution of learning in the entire Empire, did he encounter Saullon Ocato— or as he'll call him 'til the day he dies; 'The Fuckwit'— who took one look at him up and down and decided that there was no way in Nirn or Oblivion that this 'Little Barbarian Shit' was going to pollute his university. And very quickly, Caddach would find to his initial horror and eventual annoyance that any potion he mixed would either fail or just blow up in his face, any book he tried to study or report he tried to write would mysteriously either go missing, burst into flames, or some other crazy shit, and any official he tried to bring this apparent sabotage to the attention to, or Nine forbid asked to be taught by being dismissive, mocking, aloof, outright hostile or any combination of the above. And to top it all off, the one time he brought it up to his own mother she outright told him to keep his mouth shut and put up with it so as not to complicate things for their family.
Never mind all the times his clothes would just vanish off his body as he walked through the halls. Or freeze solid. Or spontaneously combust. Or all the times Saul and his ilk would just casually stroll up and punch him right in the godsdamned face, knowing full well he wasn't allowed to hit them back— Something in particular that galled Caddach as he was pretty certain he only needed to punch the spindly Altmer exactly once to snap every bone above his shoulders.
A few months into his tenure, unable to learn, no one willing to teach him but with his family having supported the university too generously in the past (while probably being unaware of it's inner workings) to get rid of him, the lad would find himself downgraded to being essentially an unpaid janitor. Which is where, oddly enough, he found the only instructor he'd ever have his whole time there- 'Ted', Saullon's own bound Daedra who'd been stuck with him for over a decade and hated the little bastard even more than Caddach did. And who was more than happy to teach him all sorts of things the instructors never would, even if they were doing their jobs; like how to fool magic wards, pop open locks with a touch, the first two phases of now very illegal levitation magic and how to really fight with magic. Things Caddach would use to get into the library to sneakily read all the books that were suddenly forbidden to him, and educate himself on all the gaps that Ted couldn't teach.
Two years past that, our boy had long since given up on ever rising above his status as the unofficial toilet-scrubber for the University and was simply learning for his own sake. Riiiiight up until he found one book in particular, one he realized he had to study thoroughly, spending an entire week on it, in fact. Following which he'd toss his mage robes directly into the trash, and go looking for Saullon, who he'd find as he typically did throughout the day, with his whole hypesquad of dipshits and a grumbling Ted in tow and immediately unbound the battle-hardened Daedra right on the spot with all he'd learned from that particular book. A last favour to the best friend he had ever made in that damned place. Who, in turn, must've been the happiest Dremora that ever fucking existed.
He had been waiting years to deliver this ass-whooping, after all.
As Caddach expected, he was immediately expelled from the Arcane University for that particular stunt, though officially he was let go for his poor grades; the full scope of the incident and all that led up to it being a serious threat to too many careers if it ever made the light of day in an official report— At that point, though, Caddach could really give less of a shit about it, and was just happy to leave. There were still... consequences for unleashing a Dremora Kynmarcher on the First Councillor's nephew, however; Caddach himself would be forever branded as a failure of a mage by the Arcane University— a black mark that would prevent him being accepted into most other magical institutions. His family was also told in no uncertain terms that Caddach's little sister, Elara, would not be permitted to study at the University either, as she was set to start in the summer... though to be fair, once she learned what had went on, she outright stated that she would 'Only ever enter that place to burn it to the fucking ground!'.
It also made his home life rather difficult. With his eldest brother and little sister having the boy's back, his mother and second oldest brother being quick to label him a disgrace and a stain on the family and his father caught in the middle; both disappointed in his son for what he'd done, but also furious at not only what led up to the incident, but that his own wife knew and hid it from him.
After less than a week of all this back and forth, it all became too much to deal with, so Caddach just packed a bag and left... yet only made it about a block away from his house by Renault, a Captain in the Blades and an old friend of his brother's, who had been politely asked (because nobody but the Septims orders the Blades to do anything) by First Councillor Ocato to bring the lad to the Imperial Palace for a 'chat'.
Where, assuming he was about to be quietly cut apart by spooky men with knives for his insult to the First Councillor's household... Caddach was instead quite surprised to meet with a suspiciously unassuming Alfiq Khajiit by the name of Riba— the official in charge of the Palace's day to day operations— who had been made aware of the boy and his little 'incident' in the Arcane University by Ocato himself and to Caddach's further surprise... offered him a job as a Groundskeeper. Where he'd be apprenticed to masons, slaters, carpenters and tradesmen of all kinds to learn how to best maintain the Palatial Grounds, that he could stay in the general servants quarters for a few months on a probationary period before getting his own little room, and that, most importantly— and she really stressed this— he was to "Pay attention."
Because, as Riba put it; "One clever servant is sometimes worth more than ten armed guards."
And there he's been ever since. Cleaning out eaves-troughs, scrubbing floors, re-slating the roofs in the Palace District and, most importantly watching, listening and learning just as he was instructed to do those three years ago. And honestly? Caddach kinda likes it. Sure, the labour can be rough sometimes, and you get a lot of weird things going on in the Imperial Palace, buuuuut, it pays well, the room, food and haircuts are free, he gets weekends off and he's actually made a few friends among the other palace staff and guards; even going out to the Arena then onto Daggerfall Dan's (a popular pub in the Arena District) after quittin' time every other Fredas.
All in all, not a bad life for a supposed 'Failed Mage'.
...Well, it was.
Right up until he was let off early to go see the big fight in the arena and some dickhead tripped him in the bar afterward, making him spill some beer on a very specific Orc. Which, subsequently, earned him the mother of all punches to the face.
He doesn't know it yet, but Caddach's life is about to get a whole lot more complicated.
...The massive shiner he's currently wearing aside.
So, Caddach whittled his days away as a youth playing in the streets with the other neighbourhood kids like any child of the Imperial City would, learning how to fight as any Thraigyr child should and every once in a while riding out on the back of his Karthwolf, Ryka (a very good girl, in case you were wondering) to visit his uncle out in Kvatch, or going up the trade route with his dad one way to visit friends and relatives in High Rock, Hammerfell and Orsinium or down the other to meet with new trading partners in Elsweyr and Argonia— One trip to the latter in particular resulting in a tattoo on his shoulder a local shaman insisted he should have after a certain incident, the boy himself thought was kind of neat and his mother absolutely hated.
Finally, at the age of fourteen, his second oldest brother began poking him about joining him in the Legions in a few years time. But his heart was set on writing his entrance exams and getting into the Arcane University, so he could stay close to home, which he did that very same year.
And incidentally, that's about when his life ceased to be a charming tale of a young lad traveling the world and making new friends along the way and became a outright fucking comedy.
For no sooner did he walk in the front door to the highest institution of learning in the entire Empire, did he encounter Saullon Ocato— or as he'll call him 'til the day he dies; 'The Fuckwit'— who took one look at him up and down and decided that there was no way in Nirn or Oblivion that this 'Little Barbarian Shit' was going to pollute his university. And very quickly, Caddach would find to his initial horror and eventual annoyance that any potion he mixed would either fail or just blow up in his face, any book he tried to study or report he tried to write would mysteriously either go missing, burst into flames, or some other crazy shit, and any official he tried to bring this apparent sabotage to the attention to, or Nine forbid asked to be taught by being dismissive, mocking, aloof, outright hostile or any combination of the above. And to top it all off, the one time he brought it up to his own mother she outright told him to keep his mouth shut and put up with it so as not to complicate things for their family.
Never mind all the times his clothes would just vanish off his body as he walked through the halls. Or freeze solid. Or spontaneously combust. Or all the times Saul and his ilk would just casually stroll up and punch him right in the godsdamned face, knowing full well he wasn't allowed to hit them back— Something in particular that galled Caddach as he was pretty certain he only needed to punch the spindly Altmer exactly once to snap every bone above his shoulders.
A few months into his tenure, unable to learn, no one willing to teach him but with his family having supported the university too generously in the past (while probably being unaware of it's inner workings) to get rid of him, the lad would find himself downgraded to being essentially an unpaid janitor. Which is where, oddly enough, he found the only instructor he'd ever have his whole time there- 'Ted', Saullon's own bound Daedra who'd been stuck with him for over a decade and hated the little bastard even more than Caddach did. And who was more than happy to teach him all sorts of things the instructors never would, even if they were doing their jobs; like how to fool magic wards, pop open locks with a touch, the first two phases of now very illegal levitation magic and how to really fight with magic. Things Caddach would use to get into the library to sneakily read all the books that were suddenly forbidden to him, and educate himself on all the gaps that Ted couldn't teach.
Two years past that, our boy had long since given up on ever rising above his status as the unofficial toilet-scrubber for the University and was simply learning for his own sake. Riiiiight up until he found one book in particular, one he realized he had to study thoroughly, spending an entire week on it, in fact. Following which he'd toss his mage robes directly into the trash, and go looking for Saullon, who he'd find as he typically did throughout the day, with his whole hypesquad of dipshits and a grumbling Ted in tow and immediately unbound the battle-hardened Daedra right on the spot with all he'd learned from that particular book. A last favour to the best friend he had ever made in that damned place. Who, in turn, must've been the happiest Dremora that ever fucking existed.
He had been waiting years to deliver this ass-whooping, after all.
As Caddach expected, he was immediately expelled from the Arcane University for that particular stunt, though officially he was let go for his poor grades; the full scope of the incident and all that led up to it being a serious threat to too many careers if it ever made the light of day in an official report— At that point, though, Caddach could really give less of a shit about it, and was just happy to leave. There were still... consequences for unleashing a Dremora Kynmarcher on the First Councillor's nephew, however; Caddach himself would be forever branded as a failure of a mage by the Arcane University— a black mark that would prevent him being accepted into most other magical institutions. His family was also told in no uncertain terms that Caddach's little sister, Elara, would not be permitted to study at the University either, as she was set to start in the summer... though to be fair, once she learned what had went on, she outright stated that she would 'Only ever enter that place to burn it to the fucking ground!'.
It also made his home life rather difficult. With his eldest brother and little sister having the boy's back, his mother and second oldest brother being quick to label him a disgrace and a stain on the family and his father caught in the middle; both disappointed in his son for what he'd done, but also furious at not only what led up to the incident, but that his own wife knew and hid it from him.
After less than a week of all this back and forth, it all became too much to deal with, so Caddach just packed a bag and left... yet only made it about a block away from his house by Renault, a Captain in the Blades and an old friend of his brother's, who had been politely asked (because nobody but the Septims orders the Blades to do anything) by First Councillor Ocato to bring the lad to the Imperial Palace for a 'chat'.
Where, assuming he was about to be quietly cut apart by spooky men with knives for his insult to the First Councillor's household... Caddach was instead quite surprised to meet with a suspiciously unassuming Alfiq Khajiit by the name of Riba— the official in charge of the Palace's day to day operations— who had been made aware of the boy and his little 'incident' in the Arcane University by Ocato himself and to Caddach's further surprise... offered him a job as a Groundskeeper. Where he'd be apprenticed to masons, slaters, carpenters and tradesmen of all kinds to learn how to best maintain the Palatial Grounds, that he could stay in the general servants quarters for a few months on a probationary period before getting his own little room, and that, most importantly— and she really stressed this— he was to "Pay attention."
Because, as Riba put it; "One clever servant is sometimes worth more than ten armed guards."
And there he's been ever since. Cleaning out eaves-troughs, scrubbing floors, re-slating the roofs in the Palace District and, most importantly watching, listening and learning just as he was instructed to do those three years ago. And honestly? Caddach kinda likes it. Sure, the labour can be rough sometimes, and you get a lot of weird things going on in the Imperial Palace, buuuuut, it pays well, the room, food and haircuts are free, he gets weekends off and he's actually made a few friends among the other palace staff and guards; even going out to the Arena then onto Daggerfall Dan's (a popular pub in the Arena District) after quittin' time every other Fredas.
All in all, not a bad life for a supposed 'Failed Mage'.
...Well, it was.
Right up until he was let off early to go see the big fight in the arena and some dickhead tripped him in the bar afterward, making him spill some beer on a very specific Orc. Which, subsequently, earned him the mother of all punches to the face.
He doesn't know it yet, but Caddach's life is about to get a whole lot more complicated.
...The massive shiner he's currently wearing aside.
Ambition: Caddach... doesn't really have any great ambition or personal goals; he's quite satisfied in his career, thank you very much. Though he wouldn't mind reconciling with his family after having become the proverbial black sheep.
An ancient, though relatively minor house, first attested in the records of the Direnni as one of eight 'Warden Houses' raised in the early First Era to stand sentinel over the Hegemony's frontier in the Westreach... though those same records are vague as to whether they were directly transplanted there by the Altmer of Balfiera— as the Direnni tended to do with their 'Manmeri' bastards— or if the family was already a known quantity in the region among the native Nedic and Karthic peoples. Though neither clan has ever refuted their family ties.
The only one of the eight 'Warden Houses' to survive into the modern day, House Thraigyr enjoys a unique position of being not only a Knightly House of High Rock (with all the privileges that brings) but also enjoys the fruits of a longstanding policy of prioritizing cooperation and commerce with their neighbours in Wrothgar and Druadach over conquest and subjugation. Enjoying strong ties not only with the Kingdom of Evermor, but the local Reachfolk and even the nearby Orcs as well, being one of the few Breton houses willing to deal fairly with (most) incarnations of Orsinium throughout the ages... and in fact being a direct vassal to the Orcish King in the modern day, due to the effects of the Warp in the West. Something that Gortwog gro-Nagorm felt no need to 'correct' afterward because, as the saying goes; "Thraigyr loyalty is like Wrothgarian rain— FUCKING CONSISTENT."
Though largely considered no more than an eccentric curiosity in the wider history of High Rock, the family is still at least widely respected in their local area. Though they are still occasionally subject to ridicule and sometimes outright reviled in other places for their perceived (actually, rather open) habit of 'intermingling' with the Orcs and the Reachfolk.
Thraigyrs of High Rock
The main branch of the family, with a long and storied history in Eastern High Rock, serving various Kings and Queens throughout the ages in both peace and war as both a loyal vassal and intermediary between Breton monarchs and their Karthic subjects— though not blindly, as they have been known to rise in rebellion when sufficiently provoked— and have produced at least two Regents for the Kingdom of Evermor and one in Jehenna and Dragonstar each over the centuries. In the modern day, they serve the Kingdom of Orsinium in their traditional role as 'Wardens of the Reach' and often as ambassadors to Evermor, being one of the few Breton Houses in King Gortwog's employ.
Thraigyrs of Hammerfell
The second oldest branch of the family, the (at the time, modest) presence of House Thraigyr in Dragonstar and Craglorn goes all the way back to the Direnni Hegemony, until they were abruptly forced out by the Yokudan Warrior Waves. Only to trickle back in again over the next few decades and centuries either by their own enterprise or at the invite of Forebear rulers, who requested their expertise in dealing with both the challenges on the frontiers of their new home, and in treating with those the Warrior Waves never managed to fully expel; the Reachmen and the Orcs. In the modern day, the Thraigyr of Hammerfell serve mostly as a source of chartered mercenaries in the province's East that can be relied upon to hold to a certain code of conduct, working in conjunction with local Fighters Guilds. And, more recently, to guard the family's trade caravans going to and from Cyrodiil.
Thraigyrs of Cyrodiil
The youngest branch of the family, House Thraigyr's presence in Cyrodiil began as a modest enterprise trading goods back and forth between Cyrodiil and High Rock just over a century ago. Evolving over the decades into a profitable trade enterprise using their contacts within the Reach to import rare alchemical goods (among other things) to the Imperial City and luxury items back to High Rock that damn near exploded during the chaos of the Simulacrum. Where the family gained a reputation of actually being able to deliver it's goods, even in the midst of the multiple wars happening at the time, though this would not be enough to prevent their maritime operations out of Anvil from drying up after the War of Betony. Where, in later decades, the Cyrodiilic branch would instead focus their remaining ships on trading up and down the Niben into Elsweyr and Black Marsh.
In the modern day, the Thraigyrs of Cyrodiil stand in a strange position in Imperial society; wealthy but not particularly influential, liked by the common people for bringing good jobs and affordable housing to the Capital during and after the Simulacrum but scorned by the old Nibenese houses for being foreign upstarts and 'barbarians', fitting in but not quite 'fitting in', as it were. The growth of what would become the neighborhood of 'Little Wrothgar' in the Imperial City standing as physical proof to their eccentricity.
The only one of the eight 'Warden Houses' to survive into the modern day, House Thraigyr enjoys a unique position of being not only a Knightly House of High Rock (with all the privileges that brings) but also enjoys the fruits of a longstanding policy of prioritizing cooperation and commerce with their neighbours in Wrothgar and Druadach over conquest and subjugation. Enjoying strong ties not only with the Kingdom of Evermor, but the local Reachfolk and even the nearby Orcs as well, being one of the few Breton houses willing to deal fairly with (most) incarnations of Orsinium throughout the ages... and in fact being a direct vassal to the Orcish King in the modern day, due to the effects of the Warp in the West. Something that Gortwog gro-Nagorm felt no need to 'correct' afterward because, as the saying goes; "Thraigyr loyalty is like Wrothgarian rain— FUCKING CONSISTENT."
Though largely considered no more than an eccentric curiosity in the wider history of High Rock, the family is still at least widely respected in their local area. Though they are still occasionally subject to ridicule and sometimes outright reviled in other places for their perceived (actually, rather open) habit of 'intermingling' with the Orcs and the Reachfolk.
Thraigyrs of High Rock
The main branch of the family, with a long and storied history in Eastern High Rock, serving various Kings and Queens throughout the ages in both peace and war as both a loyal vassal and intermediary between Breton monarchs and their Karthic subjects— though not blindly, as they have been known to rise in rebellion when sufficiently provoked— and have produced at least two Regents for the Kingdom of Evermor and one in Jehenna and Dragonstar each over the centuries. In the modern day, they serve the Kingdom of Orsinium in their traditional role as 'Wardens of the Reach' and often as ambassadors to Evermor, being one of the few Breton Houses in King Gortwog's employ.
Thraigyrs of Hammerfell
The second oldest branch of the family, the (at the time, modest) presence of House Thraigyr in Dragonstar and Craglorn goes all the way back to the Direnni Hegemony, until they were abruptly forced out by the Yokudan Warrior Waves. Only to trickle back in again over the next few decades and centuries either by their own enterprise or at the invite of Forebear rulers, who requested their expertise in dealing with both the challenges on the frontiers of their new home, and in treating with those the Warrior Waves never managed to fully expel; the Reachmen and the Orcs. In the modern day, the Thraigyr of Hammerfell serve mostly as a source of chartered mercenaries in the province's East that can be relied upon to hold to a certain code of conduct, working in conjunction with local Fighters Guilds. And, more recently, to guard the family's trade caravans going to and from Cyrodiil.
Thraigyrs of Cyrodiil
The youngest branch of the family, House Thraigyr's presence in Cyrodiil began as a modest enterprise trading goods back and forth between Cyrodiil and High Rock just over a century ago. Evolving over the decades into a profitable trade enterprise using their contacts within the Reach to import rare alchemical goods (among other things) to the Imperial City and luxury items back to High Rock that damn near exploded during the chaos of the Simulacrum. Where the family gained a reputation of actually being able to deliver it's goods, even in the midst of the multiple wars happening at the time, though this would not be enough to prevent their maritime operations out of Anvil from drying up after the War of Betony. Where, in later decades, the Cyrodiilic branch would instead focus their remaining ships on trading up and down the Niben into Elsweyr and Black Marsh.
In the modern day, the Thraigyrs of Cyrodiil stand in a strange position in Imperial society; wealthy but not particularly influential, liked by the common people for bringing good jobs and affordable housing to the Capital during and after the Simulacrum but scorned by the old Nibenese houses for being foreign upstarts and 'barbarians', fitting in but not quite 'fitting in', as it were. The growth of what would become the neighborhood of 'Little Wrothgar' in the Imperial City standing as physical proof to their eccentricity.
An unofficial 'Burough' in the Market District of the Imperial City, Little Wrothgar finds it's roots as the relatively poor neighbourhood in which the Thraigyrs first set up shop in the early days of their trade ventures into Cyrodiil. Expanding in influence as the family reinvested their growing profits into buying more properties around their initial operation to not only house their own workforce coming down from High Rock and Hammerfell, but to offer good paying jobs and low rents (with the option to own) to the impoverished locals. Something that attracted more and more immigrants to the area (especially after the establishment of the initial overland ventures into Elsweyr and Argonia) and an accompanying flurry of construction to accommodate them.
This would eventually draw the ire of a certain few local Noble families. Who, already annoyed about an ongoing dispute regarding Colovian lumber and incensed by these 'upstarts' bringing so many foreigners into their city, would successfully petition the Elder Council for a ruling to not only halt the Thraigyrs from buying up any more of the surrounding property, but to force them to build a 'Suitable Wall' to keep their dangerous goods secure and to pay the City Watch for the inconvenience of guarding it... for everyone's safety, of course!
Knowing better than to argue with a decree from the Elder Council, the then-head of the Cyrodiilic Thraigyrs opted to adhere to the ruling in the most spiteful way he possibly could; by instead starting to build upward instead of outward and hiring Orcish Architects to build that bloody wall. A rather substantial and very 'distinct' structure that stands to this very day, not only demarcating the neighbourhood's borders, but standing as a gleeful monument to malicious compliance.
Today, Little Wrothgar stands as a relatively safe and prosperous section of the Market District, where housing still remains affordable to this day due to a regime of rent control and investments into local businesses. With eclectic architecture incorporating elements of cultures spanning the whole of the Thraigyr trade route (From High Rock to Elsweyr and Argonia) and a diverse smattering of people to match as a very deliberate flip of the bird in the direction to the Nibense Nobility. It's increasingly vertical architecture, incorporating towers with terraced gardens and shops built on bridges between them serving only to twist the knife even further.
The fact that the Watch like being posted there— the family having gone above and beyond the initial agreement and built them their own barracks— doesn't much help with schemes to 'Bring that eyesore down' either.
This would eventually draw the ire of a certain few local Noble families. Who, already annoyed about an ongoing dispute regarding Colovian lumber and incensed by these 'upstarts' bringing so many foreigners into their city, would successfully petition the Elder Council for a ruling to not only halt the Thraigyrs from buying up any more of the surrounding property, but to force them to build a 'Suitable Wall' to keep their dangerous goods secure and to pay the City Watch for the inconvenience of guarding it... for everyone's safety, of course!
Knowing better than to argue with a decree from the Elder Council, the then-head of the Cyrodiilic Thraigyrs opted to adhere to the ruling in the most spiteful way he possibly could; by instead starting to build upward instead of outward and hiring Orcish Architects to build that bloody wall. A rather substantial and very 'distinct' structure that stands to this very day, not only demarcating the neighbourhood's borders, but standing as a gleeful monument to malicious compliance.
Today, Little Wrothgar stands as a relatively safe and prosperous section of the Market District, where housing still remains affordable to this day due to a regime of rent control and investments into local businesses. With eclectic architecture incorporating elements of cultures spanning the whole of the Thraigyr trade route (From High Rock to Elsweyr and Argonia) and a diverse smattering of people to match as a very deliberate flip of the bird in the direction to the Nibense Nobility. It's increasingly vertical architecture, incorporating towers with terraced gardens and shops built on bridges between them serving only to twist the knife even further.
The fact that the Watch like being posted there— the family having gone above and beyond the initial agreement and built them their own barracks— doesn't much help with schemes to 'Bring that eyesore down' either.
Basic Information
Name: Arvela Favryn
Age: 120
Race: Dunmer
Appearance: Wiry build, slightly taller than average, ashen grey skin and blood-red eyes, sharp and angular facial features, charcoal black hair kept in a wild Dunmeri top knot. Usually adorns herself in simple yet elegant robes of Vvardenfell origin.
Personality: Silence is golden. Arvela is quiet and observant, rarely speaking and even more rarely being honest or direct. She figures that telling someone you’re going to kill them doesn’t make it so and prefers to sink her blade into an unaware back. Arvela is proud of her abilities and accomplishments but not arrogantly so. She despises willful weakness and dependence, firmly believing that everyone can and should make something out of themselves or die trying.
Abilities
Skills: Arvela is an adept swordswoman, though by no means a master. She is skilled in particular with the light blades of her homeland and is uncomfortable with the heavy, clumsy chunks of iron used by n’wah. Apart from this, she knows a few useful alchemical formulas for potions and salves. She can be discreet when necessary, both in speech and action, choosing her words or steps with graceful care.
Magic: As expected of someone in her trade, Arvela is proficient in Destruction and Alteration magic, knowing several spells for conjuring fire, raising shields, and levitating through the air. Having dabbled a bit in Mysticism, she knows how to Mark and Recall, as well as rudimentary soul-trapping. She is by no means adept in Conjuration magic but knows the traditional Dunmer spell to summon an ancestor spirit guardian. Though well-versed in the use of enchanted items, Arvela is not a great enchanter herself.
Equipment
Personal Items: Her robes and an unenchanted signet ring
The Lock Box: A demon wakizashi, enchanted with a Bound Weapon spell, a cephalopod helm and chitin pauldrons, a purse and belt satchels containing coin, ingredients and a soul gem.
Stored Items: None
Background: Arvela was born to pauper parents on the outskirts of Tel Mora, under the shadow of Mistress Dratha's tower on the east coast of Vvardenfell. Her childhood was one of poverty and desperation, always looking up to the towers above with a hunger in her belly and her heart. She was a clever child—she had to be to survive—and learned to listen and observe at an early age.
During her early adolescence, she broke into the tower and stole some books and scrolls. Thanks to the charity of the Temple, she had learned how to read and tried her best to understand the texts now in her possession. She did not sleep that night and was found slumped over the contraband in her home the following morning. One of Mistress Dratha's retainers brought her to the Mistress herself and reported the offense.
The Mistress, intrigued by the choice of stolen goods, asked the purpose of Arvela's actions. Arvela replied honestly, saying that she wished to learn what the mages knew to escape her lowborn life. The Mistress put her to the test, wanting to see what she had learned. Though she could not yet conjure magic, Arvela could recite much of the texts in detail. Whether impressed or amused, the Mistress decided to take her on as a servant in the tower.
Arvela received no payment beyond food, lodging, and whatever writing she could get her hands on, but that was enough. She no longer had to return to the failures that were her parents. Over time, Arvela came to accept and embody the tenets of Telvanni philosophy: individual prowess, rejecting excuses, and taking what you want when you can.
She rose through the ranks of Mistress Dratha's household, often by subterfuge or betrayal, and eventually became one of her spellblade retainers. Last year, she was sent on a strange mission: to travel far from her home to the Imperial heartland of Cyrodiil to gather intelligence. Arvela suspected this was a way to rid the tower of her, as some of the senior retainers had grown nervous about her rapid rise. She accepted the mission regardless, eager for the chance to see more of the world.
Cyrodiil proved to be an outlandish place, with strange customs. Especially the laws and the seemingly blind adherence to them. Arvela knew a bit about Imperials and their penchant for regulation from the ongoing feud with the Mages Guild, of course, but she had not understood the scope of it. The culture took time getting used to; in fact, it still frustrates her, but she made a point of learning to stay out of trouble.
Then Arvela came to the Imperial City, and she had to hand it to them - what a city it was! Alien, sure, but impressive none the less. She found suitable lodging at the King and Queen tavern in the Elven Gardens district, and began her inquiries on behalf of her Mistress. Her instructions were cryptic at best, concerning investigation into the workings and attitude towards Daedric cults and worship.
Arvela was only a few days into her work when talk reached her ears of an interesting event. Apparently there was to be a duel of sorts in the city Arena; a prince and a companion. She had heard much about the duels in the arena in Vivec, where nobles fought honorably to the death, and was intrigued. Deciding that she wanted to partake in this cultural phenomenon, she inquired about the time and date of the duel and made reservations.
Turns out, it was a sham. The duel, if it could even be called that, wasn't even to the death. It was more like a dance of sorts. And the audience... bah, n'wah! They were barbarians, the lot of them. Thankful that the "fight" finally ended, Arvela made her way to a local bar to cool her head with a drink and perhaps some conversation. Then things suddenly became tense, and before she knew it, she had been arrested along with a group of strangers for disturbing the peace. Again with the laws. Not wanting to endanger her mission or her life with resisting, Arvela played along for the time being and let herself be detained. Jail was, after all, another strange outlandish custom she had yet to experience.
Ambition: To learn more about the ways of magic and eventually return to her homeland as a Mistress of the Telvanni, with a tower and retainers of her own.
Thunder999999
Member
Seen
5 hrs ago
Now with added ill-fated trip to the Arena!
Name:Verinric Stieence
Age: 35
Race: Breton
Appearance: Verinric is on the taller side of average at 5'11 and while by no means muscular he has made an effort to stay in shape despite a largely sedentary career. He keeps his appearance neat if not particularly impressive, his black hair kept short and neatly combed, his face cleanly shaven and his small wardrobe of robes, largely dark blues and reds with silver or gold embroidery, is regularly professionally laundered. His dark brown eyes and black hair contrast notably with the pale skin spending most of his days indoors naturally causes.
Personality: Verinric is always polite, but often fails to hide the fact that he'd rather be alone with his research than talking to you as well as he thinks he does. He gets more enthusiastic when talking with fellow scholars of the Mage's Guild, particularly when debating. While it's usually about some magical theory or other, the truth is he'll argue most things if he thinks you're wrong, and that attitude has not done him any favours. He is not a particularly ambitious man, preferring to quietly get on with his personal research projects rather than trying to climb the ranks, or at least that's what he insists, in truth he would very much like to rise to a position of power.
Background: Verinric spent his early years in High Rock, in the port town of Aldcroft, where his parents made their wealth as merchants. In his 10th year the family moved to Cyrodil after a few bad deals soured their local reputation. Thus he spent the remainder of his childhood in Anvil. Displaying a natural inclination to magic from a young age, he was quickly apprenticed to a local Mage and was an Associate of the Mages Guild by the time he turned 18, he found himself enthralled by magic, taking well to the strange mix of practical skill and unusual philosphy that makes up both Alteration and Mysticise. Initially he was keen to rise through the ranks. Travelling from guildhall to guildhall and earning recommendations from their leaders was an interesting change of pace, and felt very much like the Quests that he grew up hearing endlessly of back in High Rock, he got into a few scrapes, whether travelling the Empires ever neglected roads or when a few of the 'simple tasks' turned out to be rather more dangerous than he was told.
Unfortunately he quickly realised that rather than simply being a way to test newcomers, the entire Guild seemed to run on favours and rank was tied as much to which of the higher ranked mages liked you as to your skill and knowledge. He stalled out at the rank of Evoker, entirely unwilling to play the ladder cliimbing game. Still, that's sufficient rank to have access to the Mystic Archives for all his research needs, and to provide various magical services to the citizens of the Empire, so long as the Guild get their dues, so that's what he's been doing ever since, he largely sticks to research, but offers his services to those with coin, recharging enchanted items (the trick is to charge more than the cost of a lesser soul gem and simply fill them with summoned scamps), selling spells or occasionally finding lost objects with Detect spells.
That brings us to this fateful Morndas, Verinric is not usually a patron of the Arena, he's never really got what's so thrilling about two people trying to stab each other to death that people pay good septims for it, but an aquaintance, who seemed to take the news that he'd not visited the Arena once since moving to the Imperial City personally, had purchased him a ticket for the exhibition match, insisting it would be "A display of pure martial skill". It certainly didn't impress, but he'd figured he'd at least try the food at the bar he'd been recommended. He was half way through his steak when the fighting started and elected to try and finish the excellent meal before leaving, the patrons were certainly putting on a better show than the Arena had. And now he's stuck in a prison cell full of drunks, wondering whether he should try to charm the door open when his fellow inmates are asleep or just hope this all gets sorted by the morning.
Ambition: He seeks to attain sufficient skill in magic that the Guild has no choice but to promote him, then campaign against the ban on Levitation.
Age: 35
Race: Breton
Appearance: Verinric is on the taller side of average at 5'11 and while by no means muscular he has made an effort to stay in shape despite a largely sedentary career. He keeps his appearance neat if not particularly impressive, his black hair kept short and neatly combed, his face cleanly shaven and his small wardrobe of robes, largely dark blues and reds with silver or gold embroidery, is regularly professionally laundered. His dark brown eyes and black hair contrast notably with the pale skin spending most of his days indoors naturally causes.
Personality: Verinric is always polite, but often fails to hide the fact that he'd rather be alone with his research than talking to you as well as he thinks he does. He gets more enthusiastic when talking with fellow scholars of the Mage's Guild, particularly when debating. While it's usually about some magical theory or other, the truth is he'll argue most things if he thinks you're wrong, and that attitude has not done him any favours. He is not a particularly ambitious man, preferring to quietly get on with his personal research projects rather than trying to climb the ranks, or at least that's what he insists, in truth he would very much like to rise to a position of power.
Scholar:Verinric is at his heart a scholar, years of study and curiousity have made him very well read, he's read and can quote from all the major tomes on magicka and metaphysics, from the Art of War Magic and Breathing Water to the Sermons of Vivec (though he doesn't claim to actually understand those).
Alchemy:No study of magic is complete without at least a basic level of alchemical study. It's far from his speciality, but he can work the various apparatus and knows the common ingedients for basic restorative potions.
Daedric Knowledge: Like any good conjurer, he can read daedric script and know the many forms of Daedra.
Magicka: His greatest strength, as breton born under the Mage he had a natural advantage, he's practiced since childhood and had ample opportunity for improvement as a professional magickal scholar in the Guild. Never really clicked with Destruction though.
Alchemy:No study of magic is complete without at least a basic level of alchemical study. It's far from his speciality, but he can work the various apparatus and knows the common ingedients for basic restorative potions.
Daedric Knowledge: Like any good conjurer, he can read daedric script and know the many forms of Daedra.
Magicka: His greatest strength, as breton born under the Mage he had a natural advantage, he's practiced since childhood and had ample opportunity for improvement as a professional magickal scholar in the Guild. Never really clicked with Destruction though.
Enchanting: He knows the theory well, but has only ever enchanted a handful of items, and that with the aid of the Arcane University's state of the art Altar. He does however spend a fair amount of time recharging items.
Mysticism: His primary area of focus, its combination of highly useful effects and esoteric philosophy that always appealed to him. He commands Telekinesis, Detection, Absorption, Reflection, Soul-Trap, Dispelling, Mark and Recall. He never loses his keys, can grab books from the top shelf on the other side of the room and only walks home when the weather is pleasant.
Alteration: The more physical counterpart to Mysticism, and equally as interesting, who could read Breathing Water and not want to study it? Verinric can use Water Breathing, Water Walking, Shield, Feather, Slowfall, Elemental Shields, Lock and Open (so he wouldn't technically need those lost keys). He realy wishes he could levitate, indeed he's thoroughly confused that there's so much pushback on Trebon's pet Necromancy Ban, which is downright useless (daedra are so much more sanitary) yet this was succesfully banned.
Conjuration: Not something he uses as often, but he can summon Scamps, Flame Atronachs or Dremora.
Illusion: He knows both Night-Eye and Light spells, preferring conjured light to the unusual hues of night eye, he can also briefly become invisible.
Restoration: He knows how to heal wounds, purge poison and resotore stamina, though not especially fast.
Mysticism: His primary area of focus, its combination of highly useful effects and esoteric philosophy that always appealed to him. He commands Telekinesis, Detection, Absorption, Reflection, Soul-Trap, Dispelling, Mark and Recall. He never loses his keys, can grab books from the top shelf on the other side of the room and only walks home when the weather is pleasant.
Alteration: The more physical counterpart to Mysticism, and equally as interesting, who could read Breathing Water and not want to study it? Verinric can use Water Breathing, Water Walking, Shield, Feather, Slowfall, Elemental Shields, Lock and Open (so he wouldn't technically need those lost keys). He realy wishes he could levitate, indeed he's thoroughly confused that there's so much pushback on Trebon's pet Necromancy Ban, which is downright useless (daedra are so much more sanitary) yet this was succesfully banned.
Conjuration: Not something he uses as often, but he can summon Scamps, Flame Atronachs or Dremora.
Illusion: He knows both Night-Eye and Light spells, preferring conjured light to the unusual hues of night eye, he can also briefly become invisible.
Restoration: He knows how to heal wounds, purge poison and resotore stamina, though not especially fast.
Personal Items:
-His current outfit: a comfortable dark red robe with black cuffs, a silver belt and some simple leather boots.
-A mostly empty coinpurse which held his spending money for the evening.
The Lock Box:Just a simple silver dagger.
Stored Items: A Mage's Staff of Paralysis, 2 lesser soul gems containing Scamp souls, a leather backpack with a constant Feather effect, a set of Journeyman alchemy equipment, two potions of restore magicka, mundane changes of clothes and some more gold.
-His current outfit: a comfortable dark red robe with black cuffs, a silver belt and some simple leather boots.
-A mostly empty coinpurse which held his spending money for the evening.
The Lock Box:Just a simple silver dagger.
Stored Items: A Mage's Staff of Paralysis, 2 lesser soul gems containing Scamp souls, a leather backpack with a constant Feather effect, a set of Journeyman alchemy equipment, two potions of restore magicka, mundane changes of clothes and some more gold.
Background: Verinric spent his early years in High Rock, in the port town of Aldcroft, where his parents made their wealth as merchants. In his 10th year the family moved to Cyrodil after a few bad deals soured their local reputation. Thus he spent the remainder of his childhood in Anvil. Displaying a natural inclination to magic from a young age, he was quickly apprenticed to a local Mage and was an Associate of the Mages Guild by the time he turned 18, he found himself enthralled by magic, taking well to the strange mix of practical skill and unusual philosphy that makes up both Alteration and Mysticise. Initially he was keen to rise through the ranks. Travelling from guildhall to guildhall and earning recommendations from their leaders was an interesting change of pace, and felt very much like the Quests that he grew up hearing endlessly of back in High Rock, he got into a few scrapes, whether travelling the Empires ever neglected roads or when a few of the 'simple tasks' turned out to be rather more dangerous than he was told.
Unfortunately he quickly realised that rather than simply being a way to test newcomers, the entire Guild seemed to run on favours and rank was tied as much to which of the higher ranked mages liked you as to your skill and knowledge. He stalled out at the rank of Evoker, entirely unwilling to play the ladder cliimbing game. Still, that's sufficient rank to have access to the Mystic Archives for all his research needs, and to provide various magical services to the citizens of the Empire, so long as the Guild get their dues, so that's what he's been doing ever since, he largely sticks to research, but offers his services to those with coin, recharging enchanted items (the trick is to charge more than the cost of a lesser soul gem and simply fill them with summoned scamps), selling spells or occasionally finding lost objects with Detect spells.
That brings us to this fateful Morndas, Verinric is not usually a patron of the Arena, he's never really got what's so thrilling about two people trying to stab each other to death that people pay good septims for it, but an aquaintance, who seemed to take the news that he'd not visited the Arena once since moving to the Imperial City personally, had purchased him a ticket for the exhibition match, insisting it would be "A display of pure martial skill". It certainly didn't impress, but he'd figured he'd at least try the food at the bar he'd been recommended. He was half way through his steak when the fighting started and elected to try and finish the excellent meal before leaving, the patrons were certainly putting on a better show than the Arena had. And now he's stuck in a prison cell full of drunks, wondering whether he should try to charm the door open when his fellow inmates are asleep or just hope this all gets sorted by the morning.
Ambition: He seeks to attain sufficient skill in magic that the Guild has no choice but to promote him, then campaign against the ban on Levitation.
LC Thirteen foxes in an overcoat
Member
Seen
7 hrs ago
Age: 36
Race: Khajiit (Cathay-Raht)
Appearance:
As a Cathay-Raht, Kiffar will never have an easy time blending into a crowd. Standing at a full three meters and change in height, with a broad, powerful physique, he towers over kin and strangers alike. Orange fur, striped with black and accented by cream, make him stand out all the more- for even amidst his fellow Cathay-Raht, commonly darkly hued, he is unusual. Eyes of an icy blue give his stare a disconcerting level of intensity, let alone the unwavering nature of a feline gaze.
Beyond the natural gift of size, he is well muscled by a life of hard training and effort, with a fair share of scars beneath the veil of his pelt- enough to suggest a life of violence, though not so many as to imply he does not know how to duck. So far as gigantic tiger men go, he may yet be considered handsome, despite the beginnings of grey sneaking through the orange and cream around his chin, brows and whiskers.
Personality:
Kiffar is a simple man, of simple drives. While it would be incorrect to call him stupid, he does not make a habit of concerning himself with intellectual matters, believing them best left to others with wiser heads than his own. He believes that there are very few problems that cannot be solved with either violence or flirting, and he vastly prefers the former option when possible. On his own, he is prone to aimless wandering- But with proper direction, he can be a terrible tool of brute force... So long as he remains fed and entertained.
Without one or the other, he can be prone to becoming moody, either growing increasingly irritable, or descending into a state of pouting from which it can be difficult to rouse him. Likewise, long bouts of discussion on matters which interest him little may drive him to wander off, bored, which rarely ends well for anybody nearby...
Skills:
Sharps:
Kiffar has always appreciated a good blade, and as a warrior and a manesguard, he was expected to know how to use them well. While he has a personal preference for a greatsword and a backup dagger as his standard kit, he is well versed in the use of swords and axes big and small, and is particularly fond of axes as a tool for throwing, when he can loot them off of somebody else. Blades overall, however, are tools to him, things used for killing on the job, not for fun. He greatly prefers to go without them entirely, where he can afford to have a little fun.
These Hands: Kiffar is a master of each of the Khajiiti traditional Claw-Dances- The Zhan Khaj, Vrin-Thak, Rawlith Kahj, and Ziz Kurah- and was, once, renowned for his prowess as an unarmed combatant. While he still maintains these skills, he has grown fonder and fonder of a more instinctive, wild brawling as the years passed, relying on his sheer power, speed, and reflexes to thread the formal techniques into a far less pretty and refined, but far more adaptive and brutal style all his own.
Yeet and Skeet: In the rare case that Kiffar's prey is too elusive for him to close the gap, he has grown adept in covering that distance with thrown weapons. While it is far from his best skill, there is something to be said for the raw power with which he can put a javelin, axe, or dagger into- and occasionally through- somebody's chest. While his strength allows him to cover incredible ranges, his accuracy leaves something to be desired beyond the length of a room.
You do not see Tyberos Kiffar: While it would be nearly impossible for Kiffar to actually conceal himself from view without the aid of magic, he is quite capable of standing still enough to go unnoticed in the right circumstances- And he moves with a shocking degree of care and silence for somebody of his scale. So long as he isn't in somebody's line of sight, he is more than capable of sneaking up on them.
Poison Tester: Due to his incredible constitution and keen senses, Kiffar occasionally acted as poison tester during his time as a Manesguard. While he is hopeless at brewing potions, he can expertly identify most common, and some rare, potions and poisons by taste and smell- And, generally, is able to survive imbibing the latter in small doses.
Magic:
Kiffar is orange. Kiffar is not good at silly spells and magics, and is offended that you would remind him of this fault in his incredibly narrow broad range of talents.
Equipment:
Personal Items:
Garb of the Unbound- A fancy title for the only clothes anywhere nearby that (Mostly) fit Kiffar. As pictured.
Scabbards (Empty)- The empty scabbards for Kiffar's favorite sword and dagger. He called them perverts for trying to take his belt.
Satchel- Kiffar's satchel. It contains mostly snacks, a pathetic scattering of septims, and several blacksmiths puzzles.
Amulet of the Kitten- A Malachite pendant, crafted for Kiffar by his beloved mother. His most prized possession.
The Lockbox:
Leg guards- Light weight, sturdy leg armor. Kiffar attempted to claim it was decorative. A Guardsman's broken shins begged to differ.
Sword and Dagger- Kiffar's favorite sword and dagger. Sized and weighted for him, they are almost comically large to others.
Moon Sugar- Kiffar was... Holding it for somebody else?
Wrist Weights- Taken for similar reasons to his leg guards.
Stored Items:
Storage? What is this storage you speak of? Why would Kiffar trust others with his things? You are silly, man-thing.
Background:
Kiffar, the Vast:
Born a Cathay-Raht, destiny marked Kiffar for war, to be used by his people as an instrument of brutality, in defense of their home, or in pursuit of their goals in other lands. Even amidst his kindred, he grew to be large, powerful limbs lending him speed and strength fit only for violent use. The Cathay-Raht were once described as large and fast enough to do battle with werewolves, and Kiffar is a breathing example of that truth.
He was tutored by warriors and by claw-dancers, and pit against his kindred to refine him. His life was one of training and of action, and it was upon his sixteenth nameday that they considered him ready.
They named him Kiffar the Vast, and for ten years, he did battle in their charge.
Kiffar, the Manesguard:
So great we're the actions of Kiffar the Vast, in the years of his youth, that honors were extended to his family- To come to the city-state of Torval, to be of the kin of the Mane. Kiffar was to serve as warrior guard, to be bastion and claw to the Mane himself, and he took this duty with pride. There he was refined further, and came to be among the most lethal and feared of his people, for all the Manesguard must be so.
For ten years did he protect and serve the leader of his people. For ten years, he bore the palanquin upon his shoulders when his master sought to wander his realm.
For ten years, they named him Kiffar the Manesguard.
Kiffar, the Unbound
Chaos came to Elsweyr in the dusk of the third era. Chaos came, for leadership was lost. Assassins came in the night for the Mane, and like ghosts, evaded the watch of his guard. The Mane was slaughtered in his bed, and Kiffar knows only that the deed was done in the wake of his master's treaty with Cyrodiil, and the rise of the Renrijra Krin. He believes, knows in his spine, that it was they who brought blades in the night. But this belief does not rid him of blame, and of guilt. The Manesguard failed in their charge, and were reviled for their failure.
The whole of them were removed of their posts, as war began in the sands of Elswyrr, and banished to wander, shamed and outcast.
They named him Kiffar the Unbound, and he left his home forever.
Kiffar, the Troublesome
It has been nearly a year now, since the day of his banishment, and Kiffar has wandered far beyond the warm sands of home. To the lands of the Empire proper did he roam, and there he sold his talents as a mercenary, as a bodyguard, as a champion, and as a common thug, for no duty was too little or too rough for his shame. He turned to mischief to ease his guilt, turned to fighting to ease his rage, and became a common face within the dungeons.
They knew him there, and in a way, that was a comfort, for he knew he would never again know home as it should have been, only as it could be found.
They did not name him here- And he believed he would never be named again.
Ambition:
Kiffar will find the Renrijra Krin agents who slaughtered the Mane, and he will rip them apart with claws and fangs, and leave the scraps for their betters to find. They, he will haunt to his final days, for the failure in his duty can be answered only with his end... And first, with theirs.
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