[CHAR] The Elder Scrolls: A World Torn

[Vortex]

Name: Keldir Occupation: Exile, Traveller, and a Court Wizard from time to time. Race: Altmer Class: Mage (Destruction, Conjuration, Thaumaturgy, Alteration) Gender: Male Age: 102 (Elves can naturally love from 200-300. It has also been known for powerful wizards to live even longer) Attitude: Once rash and arrogant, when Keldir was a young man he saw everyone as a inferior, unable to match him in the arcane, he especially looked on those who were not the same race as himself with the greatest disdain. But through his travels and exposure to the new lands and people he has become more tolerant to new ideas and customs. Furthermore he has even become a little friendlier albeit still reserved, often too deep in thought to focus on the happenings around him. Despite his travels, however he still thinks most people are dimwitted fools incapable of appreciating the world of the arcane. Hair Color/Style: Blonde, long and flowing Eye Color: Purple Height: 6'0 Weight: 130 lbs Weapons: Staff of Storm Atronach, Magic Items: Boots of Fortify Health, Hood and Robes of Magika Regeneration, Ring of Fortify Magika, Amulet if Forify Magika Interesting facts/bio: Keldir had always shown a affinity for the arcane but he was always drawn to the forrbidden and sometimes lost schools of Magicka, usually for good reason. It was not long before He found himself dabbling in ancient arts long forgotten by society. He locked himself in his study and with each day passing his power grew. Rumours began to spread about the strange lights and sounds coming from Keldirs study and soon enough he was being investigated by the authorities. The investigators easily managed to uncover the forbidden magics he was practicing as the unexpecting Keldir had not hidden his work. With a few strings pulled by the few family members who still stood by him Keldir only had to spend a few days in prison and was granted exile. Since then he has roamed the continent, working in the courts of several kings but never staying for long as his thirst for knowledge always drives him on. While he has been in Exile the Thalmor have come to power in Summerset and they have begun to recruit exiles who wronged society and were once renowned in their chosen school. It will not be long before they find Keldir Cheese for everyone! Or at least those who can match Keldir in skill.

[Saarebas]

Name Tagorn Nightthorn Occupation Assassin/Thief/Bard Race Bosmer/Vampire Class Shadow-Claw Stealth, Hand-To-Hand, Athletics, Acrobatics Tagorn relies on a combination of dodging and fast pace attacks to take down his opponents. He will use stealth when he can but won't turn down a fight. Gender Male Age 526 Personality Tagorn on the surface is cocky, arrogant, and sarcastic. He is rarely seen with out a devilish smirk on his face. He is quick with a joke and known to tell stories that can hold even a troll's interests, though most of them are complete and total mammoth crap. He is at one with the tavern scene, out drinking Nords and Orcs alike, besting some of the toughest drunkards in brawls, as well as playing some of the sweetest music this side of Tamriel. He is a relentless flirt, making a pass at any girl that catches his fancy. His light hearted nature takes a drastic turn when he enters true combat, he becomes bloodthirsty and slightly deranged. He loves the death and bloodshed, being thrilled by the defeat of his enemies. Though most don't know it Tagorn is an avid follower of the ways of Molag Bal, when he fights he wants to completely break his enemies before he kills them. General Appearance Tagorn has the usual short stature of his kind as he stands at five foot four, though he is a bit more muscular than the usual Bosmer. His long, pitch black hair is usually messy or tied back into a single ponytail, when he does that it can be seen better that the sides of his head is shaved. His skin pale even by the fair standers of Mer and his eyes are a deep crimson red, they give off a faint glow at some points, all of which leads most to think he is a Dunmer rather than a Bosmer. He has scars all over his body, most notably his hands from countless fist fights. He has a pair of large bat like wings, though they are only seen when he summons them.Tagorn wears a set of black leather armor that has varies markings on it written in what appears to be crimson paint, it would take a expert on the subject but most of the markings are vampire symbols and a few for Molag Bal. Also he has a helmet that covers the upper half of his face and has two horns mounted on it. Tagorn's left ear is pierced in different places toward the tip of his ear. He also has a crimson red tattoo that resembles a nasty gash over his left eye. Weapons Tagorn relies on his physical skills rather than weapons when he enters battle, being able to hold his own in some of the bloodiest battles and get away when needed Bio Tagorn was born to a elven whore that worked out of a brothel in Cyrodiil. He grew up piss poor in a city full of humans, he had to learn to fend for himself and do it quick. Luckily he was quick on his feet and knew how to throw a punch, and with a few pointers from the local beggars Tagorn also found out he was a gifted thief. So began the Bosmer's life of crime. Tagorn was pretty skilled at his new profession, building a name for himself as incredibly talented thief for hire. He spent decades doing this job, providing for his mother so she could quit her horrid job. It took him all over the map, from Valenwood to Morrowind. He covered up his thieving nature by posing as a bard, being able to play an abundant of instruments and even sing when needed. But that all changed when he was hired to take the job that ended his life. He was tasked with breaking into the stronghold of some cult was taking refuge in and steal an amulet that apparently was blessed by some Daedric prince, Tagorn didn't really care about the details he just wanted the coin. He had broke into castle, got passed the guards, into the master bed chamber, grabbed the amulet, and was almost out before he was caught by the leader of the cult. Tagorn was expecting an explosion of rage, but instead he was met by a chuckle and a congratulations. The leader of the cult was impressed with Bosmer to the point that he offered him power beyond his wildest dreams and a spot among his coven. Tagorn jumped at the chance of power and agreed hungrily. It turns out the power the cult leader offered was the power of blood, yes he turned Tagorn into a child of Molag Bal or in other words a vampire. Tagorn then spent centuries in service of the Coven as a thief, and retrieving items from all around Tamriel for the coven's blood rituals. It wasn't long until the coven started giving him more bloody mission, this being where Tagorn started his assassination career. But with the recent rumors of the Daedric prince Boethiah, the long time rival of Molag Bal, plotting something the coven decided to send Tagorn out to see if he could find any information and if possible stop the prince in the name of Molag Bal. Other Cheese for everyone! Yeah I did it too

[Rusalka]

Name: Tarja Eaglethorn Height: 5'4'' Weight: Roughly 120 lbs, slightly muscular build Occupation: Bounty Hunter/Mercenary Race: Half Nord/Half Redguard/Werewolf Class: Archer Gender: Female Age: 27 Attitude: Cold, taciturn, and a woman of only a few words, Tarja isn't much when it comes to speaking, or smiling for that matter. Rather she mostly communicates through stern glares and harsh body motions. She's not afraid to get her hands dirty (or bloody) and has an absolute hatred for the Stormcloaks. For her, there is only one thrill, and that is the thrill of the hunt, but when it comes to matters other than hunting, Tarja enjoys to be out and about in nature, as it is where she feels most tranquil, whether it is traversing the high, jagged rocks of The Reach or taking a peaceful dip in the sparkling crystal waters of Lake Ilinalta. Tarja is also a bit more fond of women rather than men, though either man or woman, she finds it hard to trust others and mostly prefers to work alone. Clothing: Her attire is mostly a mix of Ancient Nord and Forsworn armor known as the Armor of the Huntress. She even has a hood that she wears when she is out hunting. Weapons: A Dragonbone Bow with Forsworn Arrows, a Forsworn War Axe, and a Steel Dagger. She also carries various poisons to coat her arrows and her blades with, all made by herself Interesting facts/Bio: Born in Markarth to a Nord silver smith and his Redguard wife after the Stormcloaks took the Reach, the woman was originally under the family name Cathis, and was being raised to craft beautiful silver jewelry just like her father. Over the years, her family accumulated such wealth in their trade and was among the most astute of merchants in Markarth, despite being under the thumb of the Silverblood family, making a name for themselves. Yet tragedy was soon to strike one horrible evening as the family traveled together, husband, wife, and their young child Tarja, from Markarth and through the treacherous terrain of the Reach, on their way to Solitude to trade silver and jewelry. Their wagon was attacked and seized by a band of savages known as the Forsworn. Her father tried to stop them and save his family, but in a matter of seconds the man was skewered with arrows. Tarja was even forced to watch as her mother was descended on by the savages and torn to pieces. All that was left...was her. She tried to run but was soon caught and about to have her throat slit, until the men were stopped by their chieftain, an intimdating Breton woman named Aeryn Eaglethorn. Aeryn was a fearsome Forsworn, having earned the title Eaglethorn for her deadly skill in archery. She could pin a moth to a tree from nearly leagues away and when it came to hunting her targets, she was downright ruthless in her pursual.Chief Aeryn ordered her Forsworn not to harm the girl, but nevertheless Tarja was taken prisoner, the Forsworn believing that since her family was prominent in Markarth, they would receive a generous ransom for her. They chained Tarja to a post outside the camp leaving her out in the cold without any food, and for years they abused her phsyically and verbally, yet it was only the men and a few women who engaged in such vile behavior towards her. The chieftain would have none of it, it seemed. A few months later while the rest of the camp slept and Tarja lied awake in pain during the night, the chieftain unlatched her from the post and brought the girl to her tent. As she tended to Tarja's wounds and fed her, Aeryn spoke of how she was in the same situation long ago, and how she disapproved of Tarja's treatment by her Forsworn, but decided to let them continue....because she was testing Tarja's strength and her resolve. She spoke of how impressed she was the girl stayed strong, even through months of rigorous torture, and that despite she wasn't a Breton, she had what it took to be a Forsworn. The girl held anger though for the woman killing her family, but nevertheless she decided to become a Forsworn...to survive longer. A few weeks after that night, the woman came to her again releasing her from her bounds. She told Tarja that they were going hunting and that she wanted Tarja to join them, despite what the others thought of the girl. It was there upon the jagged, tall rocks of the Reach that Tarja made her first kill, a lowly mountain goat. Eventually, she began hunting more often with the chieftain and her tribe, becoming more and more skillful with a bow every day, until she too was a formidable archer, just as the woman who trained her. She had even gone with them on raids of nearby villages and killed her fair share of people. Soon she began to lose touch with her old self, shedding away the doughy exterior of a rich, snobby debutante of Markarth and truly becoming....a child of the Reach. The other Forsworn began to accept her as part of the tribe and to the chieftain she became a valuable ally and a close companion, perhaps...even more...as there was talk among the tribe of the chieftain taking the girl to her tent each night. The Forsworn also taught Tarja other valuable skills, such as alchemy and close combat. Soon, Tarja had no desire at all to return to Markarth. She was happy with the Forsworn, the tribe had become her family, and the chieftain Aeryn....the woman she loved dearly. But...this happiness of hers would not last. On the night of the anniversary of King Madanach's rebellion, the Forsworn celebrated with a feast under the light of the moon, but their festivities were met with bloodshed as during the feast, the tribe was ambushed by a batallion of Stormcloaks sent to wipe out their camp. Many fought and many died, leaving only Chief Aeryn and Tarja alive. Tarja, though terrified her clan had been slaughtered, she tried to fight back, but Aeryn stood before her. Suddenly, the woman changed, her bones cracking and her limbs stretching, her body contorting into some mosntrous shape. Her fingers became sharp, vicious claws and her skin was covered in a thick black fur. Tarja couldn't believe her eyes. The woman...Aeryn...she was a werewolf! The werewolf's claws tore through the Stormcloak's ranks, limbs flying, blood spraying all over the place with horrible screams of agony. Tarja, as much death she had seen with the Forsworn, she couldn't even bare the sight of her beloved ripping apart men piece by piece, yet as horrible as it was, she couldn't look away, frozen with eyes wide as Masser above. Not only would she witness the slaughter of the Stormcloaks by Aeryn's hand, but she would also bare witness to....the woman's death. In her gory and violent frenzy, the werewolf was run through with a silver sword and wrenched back with a blood curdling howl of pain. She fell to the ground, trembling in such agony, trying her damndest to pull the wretched blade from her gut, but it was too late. The silver charred her flesh and boiled her blood with such a horrific heat. With her last breath, the chieftan called Tarja to her. Tarja fell to her knees by the woman's side, still in her beastly form, and sobbed into her chest as she felt the woman slowly fading into the distance. It was then, she gave one final request......drink her blood. Tarja did so....and as the woman died in her arms, she wrenched her head to the sky and cried out, her cry...turning into a howl. Soon, by the light of Masser falling upon her, she became the very beast Aeryn was, wolf blood now ran through her veins. She stormed off into the night with only one goal in mind, and soon that goal was met. The Stormcloak Camp in the Reach, by morning, nothing would be left of it...but nearly a hundred rotting, mutilated carcasses left strewn about their blood spattered tents and bedrolls. And it didn't just stop there. Soon, Tarja was seeking out all Stormcloak Camps across Skyrim, either leaving them bloody massacres after her werewolf form took over or picking off troops one by one with her deadly bow. Her savage deeds however didn't go unnoticed. After returning from another night of bloodshed, Tarja, now a woman in her mid twenties, rested beside Lake Ilinalta. Twas there, she was met by a ghostly apparition, taking the form of a majestic white stag. Tarja drew her arrow to the ethereal beast, but instead of flee...it spoke to her in a male voice. This was the voice of the Hunter, the Daedric Lord Hircine. Hircine was impressed with Tarja's ruthlessness and her keen hunting skills. He offered to make her his champion and give her power like no other, but at a cost. Tarja, being wolf-blood now, her soul would belong to Hircine, and when she died, she, like many, would become part of the hunt. Nevertheless, Tarja swore fealty to Hircine and was sent on her first task, kill another werewolf named Hrothi. Hrothi was a bandit chief, who led a gang of vagrants in Hjalmarch, he was also once a champion of Hircine as well, but abused his power for his own gain. It wasn't long, Tarja tracked Hrothi and his miscreants to a cavern in Hjalmarch. The lesser humans she easily picked off from the shadows with her bow, but Hrothi proved much of a challenge. Taking on his wolf form, he engaged the woman in a fearsome brawl, which ended with Tarja ripping his head off and carving the skin from his flesh as offering to Hircine. Twas from this skin Hircine made for her armor, cristening it the Armor of the Huntress. By wearing it, Tarja became an even deadlier foe. Her skills became sharpened. She could draw an arrow faster than before, her stamina and her speed increased and another effect...it allowed her the ability to transform whenever she felt, no longer needing the light of a full moon to provoke her. Now Tarja uses the power of Hircine to hunt and kill across Skyrim, taking whatever job she can find, mostly bounties out on the heads of notorious bandit leaders, but still her devotion lies with her Lord....and of course....to Aeryn, as she now carries the woman's title of Eaglethorn to honor the chieftain's memory. Other: To Oblivion with your damn cheese and your Wabbajacks! HAIL THE STAG PRINCE!! HAIL THE HUNT!!

[Ves]

Name Vaynce the Slayer; surname unknown. Occupation Companion/Mercenary Race Nord/Werewolf Class Slayer One-handed/Two-handed, skill, grit, and strength. His 'class' is basically using his hard-earned skill, strength, and athleticism to just eviscerate the opponent. His weapon depends on his mood for the week, but generally you can see him wielding a large two-handed axe, or two long, jagged, and razor sharp swords. His defense is his offense, and the enemy is generally gutted and decapitated before he even knows what happened. Gender Male Age 28 Personality Vaynce has lived on the edge for quite a while, and thusly, he is experienced in many matters. For one, he is a distant man. Not in an 'edgy, going through puberty' way, but he's just, in general, a man that has outlived all of his family and friends, and thusly, not interested in making anymore. If someone would walk up to him in a tavern, he'd give them an acknowledging nod or a grunt, depending on his mood, before returning to whatever he had been doing beforehand; when you meet him, don't expect him to bow down and tell you the tales of his past; his past isn't fun, and he'll probably punch you in the face if you ask. That brings the topic to another stance; he's not passive-aggressive, but enough bothering, and you're asking for a gutting. Vaynce is a distant, powerful man that prefers the term 'actions speak louder than words', so if you try to talk him into a frenzy, he'll ignore the pre-battle banter and just decapitate you where you stand. He isn't one for joking, even though he himself has a rather vulgar plethora of jokes from past friends, and will probably ignore you. He enjoys cleaning his weapons, taking care of troublesome bandits and scum across the land, and generally his nomadic, mercenary lifestyle. A tough, but solitary and rewarding living, that keeps his battle senses sharp, and his sword and axe arm sharper. General Appearance Being a Nord, Vaynce is already rather large, standing at 6'3 or so, with a ripped, muscular build that boasts extreme strength, agility, and stamina, what with his long legs and defined calves. His skin is rather calloused, although it still holds the pale effect that most Nords have from their time in the cold, where the sun doesn't shine as much as in Cyrodiil. His hair is thick and long as well, like most of his Nord brethren, being dark and tied back into a few war-braids where the long, thick locks doesn't just go backwards down his shoulder-blades. His body is littered with scars, both from war and from battles with Giants, wolves, Frost-bite spiders, trolls...the list goes on and on. The most noticeable ones are the scars that litters his upper torso, and a lightning-bolt-like scar that is a livid red, going from his left pectoral, all the way to his right hip bone. His clothing consists of armor he crafted himself - Thick, durable armor made of the bones of his different enemies - and he has fought possibly every beast out there, and wrapped with the scaly hide of frost trolls, along with Nordic-Carved boots. He doesn't wear a helmet, preferring to keep his long hair free - a wolfish trait. His armor leaves not a skin uncovered, other than his muscular arms - for more agility and strength with his swings. Weapons A walking weaponry, Vaynce has two swords that has since served their purpose; an ebony, razor-sharp blade that he found poking around a vampire's lair; blessed with Fire enchants, along with an Orcish sword, also blessed with Fire enchants; a reward for beating an Orismer war chief in fair battle. A Skyforge-steel, lightning-enchanted battle axe is strapped to his back, the weight absolutely not bothering him - a gift from the companions. On the pouches on his legs, he keeps a few other necessities, like lock-picks, throwing darts, the likes. Bio Ah...the Bio...something Vaynce hates to remember. Born to a wandering bandit group, life on the cold, harsh roads were not very...safe for a little Vaynce. His father was a harsh Nordic warrior, and so was his mother, and thusly, he had to cope to growing up young. Life back then wasn't as lawful as it is now. He learned how to wield a sword at the age of three, and how to swing a battle-axe at the age of six. At the age of seven he was running with the wolves after elk, and at the age of ten he was already pillaging caravans and small village encampments. When he was merely a wee lad - around the age of twelve, he was already known by some caravans as the 'Little Slayer'. Of course, at that age he was no longer little. Already face-to-face with most eighteen year olds, and with the strength to toss a battle-axe and the speed to catch a dashing buck, no one messed with him. His parents were proud of the Slayer they created, and as if life was made to make them all animals, they abandoned Vaynce at the age of thirteen, so that he could learn and thrive on his own. He did. He continued to ambush and destroy caravans, using the Septims to buy him armor, food, water, and weaponry for more raiding. Life continued like this until the age of sixteen, where caravans were now wary of the teenager, and he had to settle for a more...fair and lawful trade. Mercenary work. He traveled the world, taking contracts from Jarls and shady business-men. Take out the Giant ravaging their crops? Easy enough. Chop off the hamstring, when they fall jump of their shoulder, and decapitation with the axe. His prodigal skill in slaying began to be known, and more contracts flew in, almost becoming over-encumbering. Eventually he became stressed with the work, and whilst taking out an entire cave of trolls and spiders, he slipped up, and death was upon him - what seemed like nine trolls tearing apart his steel armor and slamming into his chest, his ribs...Death was close, until he heard it. A wolfish roar. A large, furry...thing came charging from the cave's entrance, and even as the trolls fled, it leapt after them with beast-like grace. A werewolf. It made quick work, and it changed back, becoming a nude woman in only her breeches. Vaynce was enamored, and that night, was a night of passion. When he awoken, the female had invited him back to her home - The Companions. They had heard of him, and he was welcomed with open arms, eventually moving up in ranks to become their new Harbinger, at the age of twenty. He became a Werewolf, but rejected the invitation for Harbinger, not wanting the ties it would bring him. Life continued on, and eventually, battle happened, people died. It was his wife; the same one that saved his life two years ago. She had been attacked by Forsworn, and killed in cold blood. That night, he snapped, throwing away the condolences and ravaging the country side - unstoppable. He dashed into that place, and tore...shit...up. More then fifty deaths happened that night, the nighttime darkness and surprise allowing him to kill swaths of the bastards before they even knew a beast was upon them. Even as he changed back into his human form, he smoothly unsheathed his two blades and was upon them like a cyclone of snarls and roars, steel whistling as he decapitated, eviscerated, and dominated. This was the marking of his solitary life, and he never loved again, becoming a distant, powerful ally to the Companions; he no longer stayed there. They were still loyal, and he to them, but he lived in the cold, unforgiving mountains of Skyrim, no one seeing his face in any towns, only if he went in for a resupply of necessities; smithing, cooking, alchemy - he did it all on the road. Mercenary life became his life for the next six years; he was like a mystery, appearing in different locations to take out threats that no one else had the gall to. Giants, dragons, bandit encampments, Forsworn, Vampires...they all fell to his blade. Life stayed the same for him. He never took sides in the plenty wars that happened, only cutting people down when they acted aggressive with him, or innocent folks. The Slayer remained, and still is, a staple in today's history, being a previous villain, to a rather intimidating and scary mercenary that enjoys his meat raw. Other Cheese is not complete without milk. He has a pet wolf-bear; Yes, a wolf-bear. A bear bred with a wolf, creating a creature that has the large, bulky, and muscular body of a bear, but with a wolf's sharpness and head. It's called 'Fang'.

[JSwiftTehPwnlordXD]

Name: Walks-In-Light Occupation: Merchant/Smuggler (Does both) Race: Argonian Class: Rogue (Thoroughly but incompletely trained in Shadowscale assassination methods, but also uses a lot of street fighting) Gender: Female Age: 32 Personality: A somewhat mischevious but charismatic buisnesswoman, she has a strong love of the sea and foreign cultures, something she heavily dislikes about the cultures of Skyrim. General Appearance: Ruddy scaled with small protruding fins jutting from near the top of her head. Roughly 2 meters tall and quite imposing, with a long tail and generally well defined muscle structure for her race. Tends towards masculine and practical, if high quality, clothing, owning to her past and present activites and also the problems members of her race often face with tailoring around tails. She has a full set of She has a full set of Stahlrim light armor she keeps roughly wherever she is in case she expects trouble, adding a fur cloak if she does to hide her advantage. Weapons: While her primary weapons are two ebony daggers with fire enchantments, nicknamed Smoke and Fire, which she keeps on her person constantly, both out of fear of theft and being caught off guard. Said knives are heirlooms from her father, and are not unknown to blood by any stretch of the imagination. She also has training with a bow and is quite skilled in it, but bows are generally impractical in her line of work. Bio: Walks-In-Light was born as the only child, a bastard, of Jeizuaru, one of Cyrodil's last Shadowscales. Disenfranchised with the removal of his group's training centers and finding nothing but ruin and desolation from the other branches of the Dark Brotherhood, Jeizuaru was firmly convinced that Sithis had grown displeased with their complacency to the existence of groups like the Morag Tong, and, abandoning whatever was left of the Dark Brotherhood, he journeyed into Skyrim and to the seaport of Winterhold, gaining employment as a sailor on a small transport to Solstheim. He began his campaign of murder with suprising success, drawing on virtually all of his skills to confuse attempts by the group to find the murderer. While his intial spree ending successfully, the picking thinned as the group grew cautious and Jeizaru grew older, finding himself burdened further with a child after an ill-thought out night of passion with a female dockworker, who had grown sickly soon afterwards, the cold having evidently damaged her constitution to an extent that even her natural resistances could not protect her. Jeizuaru, raising the child, Walks-In-Light, decided to do something rather unprecdented: teach this child, born under the sign of the Thief, the skills of the Shadowscale, in order that the techniques not die completely. Of course, between raising a child, working legitimately, and continuing his crusade against the Morag Tang, something had to give. In this case, it was the man himself, finding himself dead at the hands of his enemies after a botched assassination attempt. Walks-In-Light still remembers the day she opened the box her father had said to open only if he gone when his ship returned. It contained two daggers of a demonic quality, noted as heirlooms in what documentation was contained within, as well as a letter explaining, with as few details as possible, that he had obligations to a higher power that took precedence even over him being her father. She'll always remember the last line, a reference to some folk tale he often referenced: "Cheese. Cheese, for everyone." Walks-In-Light found herself on the street at the age of 12 with only her skills, numerous as they were, and her wits, as well as suprising luck. Managing to scrap out a living in Windhelm, she managed to scrape out a living as a thief of sorts, before she accidentally tried pickpocketing a Thieves Guild member. Rather than punish her, the man saw potential in the confident young pickpocket, and took her back to Riften, getting her quite a way through the command structure on the back of her training. Eventually she decided to make a name for herself on her own in the town she once called home, following in what she knew of her father's footsteps and using her hoard of septims to found a small shipping company at 21 to ride on the back of a weakened Empire's susceptibility of smuggling, and has managed to become a major trader in Skyrim and to a degree throughout Cyrodil. While her main routes are to Argonian colonies in Vvardenfel (for liquor and ebony smuggling) and Solstheim (Stahlrim being a highly desirable mineral with the ongoing war), she has traveled much of the world and traded across most of it at one point or another, notably having managed to open the Forsaken to trade for their silver resources, as well as a famous trip that netted her the largest supply of Sload soap seen in one place in at least an era, something she's still riding off of financially. The slowly collapsing Empire worries her to some degree, but with a lack of political bodies to replace it and a war she lacks any real interest in outside of economics, she has resigned herself to whatever comes, at least until something better comes up. It's worth noting she still maintains a strong connection with the Thieves Guild, her boats occasionally used to smuggle thieves out of a city if they touched something too hot or get some into warehouses and other such locations where a crate is welcome. In turn, the Thieves Guild has helped "convince" competitors to halt certain activities and provide a willing buyer for certain materials, substances, and items of a dubious legality or ownership. Other: Knows quite a large amount about poisons and the anatomy of man and mer, as well as good old fashioned pickpocketing and lockpicking.

[TiredNihilist]

Name: Brannus "Wyrm's Bane" Krieg Occupation: Bandit chief/Veteran legionnaire Race: Nord Class: Warlord Gender: Male Age: 33 Personality: A dour man, with little in the way of a sense of humor, and a determination that could break down walls just as easily as the many siege engines he used and repaired in the civil war. Often in ill humor, he sees life by loss and gain, the age old rule that all power demands sacrifice. Be it your time, the lives of your men, or an entire country, all power demands sacrifice. Weapons: Steel Broadsword, Steel round shield, Steel Dagger. General Appearance: (look above~) Bio: Born into a military family, Brannus knew that he'd find himself in legion armor one day as well, he didn't expect to be wielding a legion sword against his own neighbors though. He spent much of the civil war siegeing and defending fortifications and camps, along the way gaining an appreciation for the bluntness and calculable nature of siege warfare. Brannus quickly found himself being promotoed to a Captain, and in a position of command over a fair number of soldiers, enough to occupy and defend one of the many smaller forts that dotted skyrim's landscape. For a time he and his men were on the front line, archers taking pot shots back and forth at each other from behind and outside of the fortress' walls, him and his men entrenched for months outside of the crumbling stormcloak bastion. As with any man or mer, time spent breaking the wall could break a man of his spirit, just as easily as defending the wall could. The men grew tired, and little in the way of support or even correspondence was available to him and his men, while the stormcloaks where holed away, doing all they could to try the Captain's patience. Then, like a miracle, or a curse, the siege was broken in almost an instant; not by one of the catapults, a charge through the battered defenses, or any sort of surrender, but by a dragon. Fear ran through the ranks on both sides, but all Brannus could feel was unbridled anger, at his situation, at his superiors, at the enemy, and at the damnable wyrm who had reared its head. Though small, the dragon was enough to break the defenders, and those who were not burnt to a crisp by its flames, hid within the fort while it toppled ontop of them. Others ran from the fort, scrambling past the imperial troops for safety in the wilds. His own men on the verge of breaking, and the losses mounting past acceptable, Brennus slew the closest man to him, bashing his face in with his armored hand, and as the soldiers, imperial and stormcloak turned to him, awestruck, he roared. "This, is the price of cowardice! That wyrm may rip you apart, swallow you whole, or burn you ash, but that is NOTHING compared to what I will do to you lot, if you do not hold!" His speech echoed like a warsong through the trenches as his men rallied, turning their great siege weapons to the fledgling beast. It was a shot through the neck with a ballista that felled the creature, leaving its lifeless body on the ground. Silence washed over the decimated remains of the two forces, as they watched Brannus Krieg, his broadsword in hand, sever its head. It was this battle that drove Brannus, and what remained of his men and the opposing army, nearly thirty men all together, to desert. Why should they fight this war, when the world itself seemed to be crumbling? Dragons, the Thalmor, and the assassination of the Emperor? He and his would have no part of it. Taking what they had with them, their horses, armaments, even the great ballista which ended the wyrm, they traveled, spending the remainder of the civil war moving from encampment to encampment, finally settling in a fort in the south of Falkreath hold. Strangely, the inhabitants, a band of orcs, were all dead,and in the basement, it seemed that someone had taken something precious from a pedestal. Luckily the stockpile of food, wines, and cheeses had yet to spoil, there was enough cheese for everyone. Brannus ordered his men to string the corpses from the walls of the keep, and to perch the ballista atop the small fortress. For the last ten years, Brannus "Wyrm's Bane" Krieg, and those few men who survived, have spent their time, raiding, stealing, ransoming, and fortifying, taking every chance they can to obtain resources, and slay the horrid dovah that now litter the skies of Tamriel.

[PhoenixEye9]

Name: Jido'Kazkhar Sakar Occupation: Monk Race: Kahjiit Class: -not 100% sure what you mean so if I'm wrong please don't bite my head off I don't see classes anywhere in the RP- Monk Gender: Male Age: 25 Attitude: Peaceful, and calm as were the teachings of Temple Par'moor Hair Color/Style: -Hair Color: Black -Style: Kept in a thick mane with no rings Eye Color: Red Height: 6'3" Weight: 155 lbs General Appearance: Clothing: As pic Weapons: Quarter Staff- Not often used Unarmed (I.E knees, fists, claws, elbows, feet, etc.) Interesting facts/Bio: -Raised in a monastery -Will not fight unless someone else swings first -tattooed over his right eye in white -Likes to give cheese to everyone

[Rosette Christopher]

Appearance

Name: Flavia Augusta Decimus Occupation: Scholar Race: Imperial Class: Mage Gender: Female Age: 25 Personality: Flavia has will power, mostly evidenced by the fact she is one of the few to interact with the Black Books sanity intact. Her philosophical ideas, which are very much related to stoicism, are a factor that defines her actions and how she has stayed in the right mind so long. Being from an accomplished merchant family, interacting with others seems to be something that comes with her blood, and she tends to use her families former contacts as a means to track down things that she believes relevant to her collection. She is somewhat of a soothsayer due to her knowledge, and perceives the events going on as a work of a greater force, and in general has a good idea of what's currently causing them. Because of the deteriorating situation in Cyrodil, her recent actions have been less focused toward increasing the size of her Great Library, but rather, trying to see what she can do to stop Tamriel from going down a very dark path. Weapons/Items: As a Mage still learning and growing, Flavia's spell casting power is still somewhat limited compared to someone with more experience. Because of this gap, she attempts to make up for this by using a variety of items, with some limited success. Potions(Two to Three of each)- Fortify Health, Fortify Magicka, Potion of Invisibility, Potions of Mark and Recall, Potion of Levitation, Potion of Cure Disease Scrolls- Used for spells outside of her skill range or that would be to hard to use normally. What scrolls she carries with her is largely dependent on the situation at hand, and if she needs the extra power. Cheese- It's for everyone Enchanted Golden Necklace of Fortify Magicka, Ring of Fortify Magicka, Ring of Spell Absorption, Boots of Resist Lightning, Robe of Alteration, Underwear of Fortify Speechcraft Blank Books, Blank Scrolls, along with any books or spell tomes she may bring from her collection, Ink and Feather Silver Dagger Bio: The Decimus surname once belonged to a merchant family, of all things. Concerned primarily with trade in High Rock and the Empire as a whole, they had a certain amount of stake in the Empires prosperity. The steadily growing instability within Tamriel slowly but surely began to strain the Decimus family. Rather than the rebellion itself effecting them, it was the Empires instability and slowly loosening grip over its own lands, along with the subversion of the Empire by the Thalmor. This decline was solidified by the next in line of the family having little to no interest in the life of being a merchant, rather, they enjoyed the life of being a Mage. This was Flavia's late mother- a woman who grew to have an extensive interest in the pursuit of knowledge, not for herself, but rather for storage. With the instability of all Tamriel, and the clearly oppressive regime of the Thalmor, she took it upon herself to preserve the books, scrolls, and documents important to the world. Not only did this include books on magick and the occult, but also those of history, famous works of fiction, and copies of books and documents of almost any sort. Creating a large and secretive library full of arcane, occult, mundane, and historical knowledge was a daunting task, one that slowly tried her mothers sanity time and time again. As the library expanded and nearly all "mundane" knowledge was collected, she started to look toward rarer books, scrolls, tombs, and transcripts investigating ruins of all kinds of species, making deals with Daedra(Particularly Hermaeus Mora, for obvious reasons) and even going as far as theft through unsavory organizations to gather up rarer and more secretive information. Shortly before Flavia being born, her mother had finally begun to truly lose her sanity, something that started shortly before Flavia's conception. No longer able to fend for herself or continue her work, once of sufficient age Flavia took the mantle of her mother and began to follow in her footsteps. Unlike her mother, however, she was made of sterner stuff, and was fully capable of taking the tolls of forbidden knowledge without great problem. Flavia has travelled all over Tamriel collecting the rarest of books- such as the Black Books, along with transcribing and translating leftover knowledge from various ruins. The library after decades of work is huge, containing one of the largest collections of knowledge possible. Naturally, its location is not public. She uses limited selling of knowledge, along with her alchemiac and alteration based skills to fund continued collection. Flavia is still learning as a spell casting mage, but her knowledge of magicka, theory, and meaning behind spells and meta physics is extremely high due to the Great Library. Her chief spell casting talents are in Thaumaturgy, Mysticism, Destruction, and Alteration.

[Stephanie Dola]

Name: Drysyval Magiavan Occupation: Councilmen of the The Order of The Silver Twilight Race: Breton Class: Mage Gender: Male Age: 33 Personality: Drysyval comes off as a good person, wiling to do whatever it takes to keep his people (Mages) safe. He has a thirst for knowledge that will never be quenched as long as their information he doesn't know. Unlike others, he doesn't prohibit the study of any magic, believing that all magic is a form art that must be studied, and practiced. The magic itself isn't evil, only the person who uses the magic. All in all, the masses view him as a good man who wants nothing more than to advance magic further to assist people. Now for the kind of person Drysyval really is. While is thirst for knowledge is a fact, he cares very little about the mages who work for him. They are nothing more than pawns who serve his ultimate agenda, Divinity. His desire is to learn a way to ascend to godhood through power and magic alone. He wants to become the ultimate being, one who could submit all before his might, even the gods themselves will tremble before this supreme deity. He is charismatic, and this has led him to help create the new guild. Weapons: Staff of Frost Atronach, Hood and Robes of fortify Conjuration, Rings and Amulets of Fortify Magika, Ring of Spell Absorption and boots of resist Frost. Bio: Drysyval was born to a family with a long line of mages in High Rock. His family focused on Conjuration, all forms of it. Young Drysyval was no stranger to corpses, and making them do his bidding. He was considered a prodigy in this art, and brought on the envy of his peers. People within the magical community, especially Conjuration, began to speak of the young man, not that he truly cared. All he cared about was being the best, and the impressions of others meant nothing. Even at a young age, Drysuval was studying, and trying to find the key to ascension. He would use his fame, knowledge, and skill to find out the secret, and become the greatest. He even began to study enchantment, in the hope that the key could be hidden within the art, especially with soul gems. When he became of age, and his fame had done nothing but continue spread around Tamriel, he and several other mages opened up a new Mage guild, one that wouldn't turn away any form of magic, and embraced the idea of furthering all magic. Since it is his job to spread the guild's influence, he has made friends with many mages during his travels. He is currently trying his best to spread it around Tamriel, and will do all in his power to do so. His best strategy is Cheese for Everyone.

[EnergyWhale]

Worth a shot.

Name: Skharn Occupation: Cave Bear Race: Bear Class: Cave Bear - Cave Bears are large, tough and very aggressive creatures. Victims can contract bone break fever or rockjoint from cave bear attacks, which can be cured with a visit to a shrine or drinking a Potion of Cure Disease. True to their name, they can be found in and around caves or at random in mountainous terrain throughout Skyrim, and can be very dangerous if the an adventurer is inexperienced. Gender: Male Age: 15 Personality: Territorial and aggressive, but docile if left alone and a safe distance maintained. He also believes in the widespread distribution of cheese to everyone. General Appearance: Weapons: Claws, brutal strength and deadly fangs. Bio: Skharn was run from his subterranean home some years ago by the Dragonborn. Ever since, the animal has wandered aimlessly, looking to avenge his pride. His journeys of instinctual revenge have driven him all over Skyrim, where he has become somewhat of a myth. He hates humans, killing them at every opportunity, however his lust for revenge will never be satisfied until he finds the Dragonborn, and kills them. Recently, Skharn's aimless wandering has taken him to the Skyrim/Cyrodil borderlands. Other: Skharn commands some authority over woodland creatures, and can call other animals to his aid if in danger.

[nerminator]

Name: Asuma medillia Occupation: Refugee, Race: Imperial Class: nothin' though she could technically be a warrior due to her weapons (yet) Gender: Female Age: 15 Personality: She can't fight at all without going through severe Mental disorders which makes her a big liability at times, however she can also be a coward, a wimp, a mole, and refusing to listen in combat. but she can be also very cynical and sarcastic, often believing she can't do anything and being a downer, she will usually disobey everyone, however she can be a amazing cook, especially when it comes to cheese, She also has a big hatred for the storm cloaks General Appearance: she finds a bunch of armor in her basement, in the beginning she wears a simple villager uniform, Weapons: the only sword she has is a strong katana, Bio: Asuma came from a village near the border of skyrim, it was a simple cheese trading village, if you wanted cheese it was there, it generated a lot of money for the empire due to the value of cheese, Asuma's life was a easy one, her mother Aela was a villager, there wasn't anything special about her except she taught asuma how to cook, and make the bestest food in the world, especially from cheese, Asuma's father (who was named Riker) however was a different person however, he was constantly leaving on long "hunting" trips with his friends and he prevented Asuma from going into the basement of her own house, saying you can go in the basement when your older Her father also attempted to train her, which was unsuccessful, neither the less life was simple, although Asuma always wondered what was in the basement, and then when she was 15 she woke up to the smell of ashes and the sounds of shouting, she gotten up and looked outside the window and noticed, everything was on fire. everything. there were soldiers pillaging the village, killing everyone in sight, Other: one time she made a sandwitch, which was made entirely out of cheese, she managed to make 100 of them and gave them out to everyone yelling "Cheese for everyone!"

[Trigani]

Murkan Gro-Dushbak Ex-Legionnaire/Sellsword Orc Warrior Male 37 years

Appearance

Personality: Murkan is short-tempered and sullen, preferring to cleave Man, Mer, or beasts in half rather than talking situations out, and to act rather than to ponder. Being raised in a stronghold, he was brought up to believe in bringing honor to him and his family. He’d rather die with honor than to fight and live as a coward. He has a sort of distaste to outsiders, those from outside the Imperial Legion and his stronghold, and comes off as wary to them. He also has a stronger and more violent distaste towards those whom dabble in the schools of magic, believing they are cowards and less honorable. Height: 5’ 9” Weight: 202 lb Weapons: Orcish Battleaxe, 2x steel daggers Bio: Born in one of the strongholds of Skyrim, Murkan grew up learning the ways of the orcish smith, the ways of the warrior and the “Code of Malacath”. Most of his life was confined inside the wooden palisades of the stronghold. One of his seven brothers and himself were destined to challenge their father, the Chieftain, in order to succeed leadership. Murkan had no desire to become chieftain and strayed away from the squabbles of his other siblings. When the Stormcloak Rebellion raged out, Murkan was one of the several brothers who went to join the Imperial Legion. Murkan had his own influences. He desired for adventure and to prove himself as a capable warrior to Malacath, hoping to gain favor. He also heard that the Stormcloak leader, Ulfric Stormcloak, used his magical voice to murder the High King Torygg, which Murkan viewed as a cowardice act. Murkan was sent to the front lines, along with one of his other brothers. They were encamped with around thirty other men. They endured cold days and even colder nights, lurking wildlife, and the looming threat of Stormcloak soldiers. During one of the coldest nights, Stormcloak troops snuck past look-outs that were stationed around the camp. It was a downright slaughter. Murkan came back from gathering firewood to watch as his brothers and comrades were slaughtered in their sleep. He let out of a bloodcurdling roar, which woke up the soldiers who weren't being gutted. They quickly gathered together to repel the attack. Murkan charged a duo of archers with his brother’s battleaxe. He tore them apart before setting upon the rest of the Stormcloaks. Murkan and his band of the tired and wounded managed to send the Stormcloaks back to the depths of the night. When morning arose, only the frozen bloodied bodies of the fallen remained. Murkan and the rest had to move back and join up with another unit to maintain full strength. Later in the day, Murkan received word that some of his other brothers died in similar attacks to the one he experienced. By the time Murkan had joined the war, it had soonly ended. The Stormcloak had taken Solitude and Castle Dour, the Fourth Legion that was stationed in Skyrim had crumbled. Word was spread that the Stormcloak had won. Instead of retreating with the rest of the Imperial Legion, Murkan shed his soldier’s clothing and took up arms as a sellsword. For years after the war, Murkan worked for Jarls, merchants, noble families, anyone who could afford him. He preferred working alone, using his brute strength to get the job done. He knew he could work all over, gaining vast amounts of wealth, but he could never get the will to leave Skyrim, as if something was keeping him there. Other: Has armor as shown in image above.

[rocketrobie2]

Character Sheet: Name: Tinore Reembrut Occupation: Sellsword Race: Altmer/Nord Lich Class: Beserker/Necromancer Conjuration, One-handed, heavy armour Primarily, Tinore uses two swords as his offensive but on the occasion he will raise the dead to do his bidding. His duel wielding prowess is legendary to some. Gender: Male Age: 570 Personality: Tinore has a very boisterous personality that doesn't come to the surface very often as he doesn't have a lot of interaction with others. He is just as comfortable with mer and men as he is talking to Sheograth so naturally his people skills aren't the best unless he and the person have something in common. While not many things send him into a fit of rage one thing that does are vampires, he has a strong dislike for vampires but understands that there are a few out there whom of which aren't inherently evil. General Appearance: Tinore stands at 5 feet 10 inches with his golden skin greyed quite a bit from its wear and tear over the years. His body is covered in scars making his divine elven beauty diminished quite a lot because of it. His eyes were once a vibrant bronze colour but have now faded into almost pure white almond shaped eyes in his head. His hair is short and very dark, it is stylized after common Nord hairstyles and is changed quite a bit. He is fairly muscular for a Mer and is leagues ahead of his brethren in terms of physical prowess. He is often seen wearing ancient Nord cuirass, steel horned helmet, Redguard boots and a pair of horker leather gloves. Weapons: One-handed: Orcish war-axe of absorb health Conjuration: conjure bound sword, Dread zombie and cheese for everyone. Bio: Tinore's mother was a highly respected noble in the summerset isle and was married to a successful Altmer wizard. His mother however was not very happy with her marriage as her husband didn't seem to care much for her so she would often time sleep with other men in the hopes of it being a good way to get back at her husband. Sadly after one of these occasions she found that she was pregnant with one of the men or mer's child. She didn't know whom it belonged to but she assumed the child would be Altmer as she tended to sleep with her own kind and only strayed on a few occasions. She told her husband that the child was his and the mer had no reason to not believe her. After a few decades of the boy named Tinore being alive he began to show a prowess in armed combat. His step father had hoped that his son would become a successful wizard like himself but the child seemed to show little to no signs of magical prowess and was only skilled in the conjuration school of magic mostly for its use of bound weaponry. Tinore kept up his training with the school of conjuration in the attempt to make his father proud but he only ever felt at home with a blade or axe. Around the age of 200 Tinore finally found out about his linage when his mother told him and his father on her deathbed. His father was outraged by this and shunned his son for quite a few decades not making any effort to contact him for years to come. Tinore was saddened by this but was now at peace with himself knowing that deep down he wasn't just an Altmer but also possibly a man from which he was a descendant from Skyrim or Cyrodil. He decided to make a voyage towards the two most likely places of his linage to be from. He traveled to Skyrim and began picking up odd jobs around mostly as a sellsword and on the rare occasion as a bounty hunter. One night while making his way from Solitude to Morthal he came face to face with a monstrous beast that stood even taller than him and possessed almost wing like appendages on its back. It was a vampire lord and it was hunting its prey which happened to be Tinore. The two fought vigorously but both were losing their vigor fast. The vampire lord was obviously ill experienced in fighting but still possessed quite a lot of strength and magical prowess to make up for it. The two fought until dawn and both got some good strikes on one another but the fight ultimately ended when the vampire had to make its escape due to the incoming light but not before Tinore got a good last few slashes in on the creatures chest. Tinore would come to fight this vampire on quite a few more occasions each growing stronger before it came down to the final fight years later. Tinore had managed to corner the vampire in its den thanks to help from a select few vigilantes of Stendar who had agreed to help. The band of righteous fighters would have gotten the vampire if it hadn't been for the beast's sudden surge of power from an unknown source. The vigilants began dying left and right as the vampiric beast began slaying them. Tinore realized there was no one they could beat the creature in its stare so he made one last push and got in close to the beast and tackled it towards its own coffin and commanded the remaining vigilants to use any destruction magic they had to collapse the den. The vigilants ran for it while also firing off barrages of spells as the walls. After making one last hit to the vampire Tinore made a made rush for the exit but as he ran he heard the vampire call out "no measly stone will defeat me! I live forever while your time is limited elf! I will rise after you have fallen!" and with those closing words the den collapsed with Tinore barley making it out. Those words haunted Tinore for days to come knowing that his enemy would have likely survived the ordeal and would be attempting to break free from its rocky tomb as it had said. Tinore couldn't die peacefully knowing that the creature was still alive somewhere so Tinore began seeking out ways of extending his own life to match the vampire's. He looked all around Tamriel and eventually came across the story of the King or worms whom managed to become a lich. This prospect was best suited for Tinore as he already had minor experience in the art of necromancy so he began studying the fabled works of the mer who became the king of worms and after decades of trial and error he finally managed to achieve lichdom. Now he waits for the day for his arch nemesis to rise from those stones so he can finally put an end to the creature and be able to rest in piece. Other: -he is often times unidentifiable as an Altmer or Nord thanks to his grotesque appearance thanks to his undeath and scars.

[Yuki Nagato]

Name: Crassius Macrin Occupation: Professional Hero Race: Imperial Class: Warrior Gender: Male Age: 32 Personality: What is best in life? To quest for honor, glory, and to crush your foes. Species, age, sex, physical capabilities, Crassius does not discriminate, all foes must be defeated for honor, especially Orcs and Elves, especially Elves. Talking is not a strong point. General Appearance: Short cut, brown hair, hazel eyes, clean shaven. Crassius's armor of choice is steel. He stands at 6'. Weapons: Steel sword, Iron shield, backup Iron sword(Dagger? Tiny ass knives bring you no honor), and a ring binding a rather unwilling dremora to his side(summonable using the ring). Bio: Crassius never really knew his father. When he was still young, his father, a legionary had told him that honor was the most important thing a man could have. Not even a week later, his father would die patroling the roads of Cyrodil, surprised and overwhelmed by bandits. Crassius joined the legion, following in his father's foot steps. However, they did not appreciate his unique brand of glory and honor. If it is brought up, he will assert that he left of his own volition. Following this falling out with the legion, Crassius decided to take up a more honorable and noble endeavour. One that would take all his bravery. He is questing for the relics linked to the Knights of the Nine and the nine divines. In his quest, he has made his way to skyrim in hopes that there may be relics or clues to their locations. Cheese for everyone!