an abomunist

Star Wars: The High Republic – The Bunum Impasse [CLOSED]

@Fiscbryne Thank you! I haven't read Light of the Jedi, but I think I'll pick it up- reviews seem pretty solid. And a cursory glance through a wikipage on Elzar was very interesting, he seems like a cool character.

Star Wars: The High Republic – The Bunum Impasse [CLOSED]

Kind of an eleventh hour submission, but here goes. I'm admittedly not massively up to snuff on my Star Wars lore; I hope this is okay, I took a little bit of a liberty. Willing to change anything if need be.

Quillow Noonot

QUILLOW NOONOT

Pacifistic Knight

"I would take this memory from you, that you might find peace."

Species: Ithorian

Gender: Male

Age: 30

Appearance:
Quillow looks like most Ithorians- the species' physical differences are slight, and Quillow fits the bill of a standard member; standing at seven feet, a wide-ended, snail-like head (More unscupulous folk tease them as "hammerheads") protrudes from a rougly humanoid torso. His long, lanky arms end in four spindly, segmented, twig-like fingers, and the toes on either of his feet are thick, squat, and arched, almost like the roots one may see poking up at the base of a trunk. In fact, with his branch-like limbs, outwardly sluggish demeanor, and mossy-brown skin tone, Quillow exudes an aura like that of a creaky, overgrown indyup tree. He doesn't stand so much as loom, and he lumbers moreso than walks. His voice is deep and croaking, and as Ithorian speech is stereophonic, strangely melodic. Thin bands of skin around Quillow's black sphere eyes are several shades darker than the rest, almost giving him the appearance of having eyelashes.

Quillow garbs himself alike his Master, in loose fitting, layered robes, belted at the waist. The bottom layer is deep beige in color, and a forest-green tabard is pulled over it, its hood usually pulled up and resting atop Quillow's head, obscuring his Ithorese translator (situated on the hump of his neck) from view. From the leather belt dangle various bits and bobs secured by string; if pressed, he describes these as "memories". The state of his dress leaves a lot to be desired, which could be why he prefers earthen colors.


Lightsaber/other personal effects:
Quillow's lightsaber is near-pristine, not from dedication to any sort of maintenance, but rather from a distinct lack of use. A shining silver bauble, it is more often seen decorating his belt than in his hands. Its handle is plain and cylindrical, with grooves cut to make it look almost like three segments stuck together. On the occasion it is activated, one will find it emits a deep green blade.

His more unique feature are the trinkets that hang off of his belt in an almost defiant contrast to the Jedi coda of forbidding posessions. Moreso, he will openly relent that he carries them as "memories" and that he has an attatchment to them. After the crash, there are three: a string of beads, a burnt scrap of a datapad, and a section of black leather.

Personality:
First and foremost, any conversation will quickly reveal that Quillow is a soft and sensitive soul. He wears a mild demeanor which makes him slow to anger, but being meditative and introspective, Quillow can often be sorrowful. He is supremely polite, if a little dull. Still, Quillow makes efforts to not outwardly exude his more negative emotions, giving him an air of false stoicism. A philosophical sort, Quillow often tries to engage others in like conversation, a byproduct from his late Master. While Quillow was never the sort to hold one view above another, the perishing of Master Welck has made him reluctant to accept other viewpoints, if only so Quillow may continue Welck's memories.

The second thing one will notice about Quillow is his fixation on memories. Following the teachings of Welck, who himself was influenced by Ithorian lifestyle (or perhaps even Mother Jungle), Quillow has dedicated himself to the removal of 'painful memories' of others, which he believes fuel malcontent and may even prevent one from transcending into the Force after death. As Quillow would put it, "The donar flower does not remember the foot that felled it; in forgetting, it blooms." But merely forgetting a painful memory isn't enough; to achieve peace, one has to let go, in this, Quillow seeks to aid others. This manifests as him taking a trinket from someone struggling, usually something tied to the memory in question, and taking it far away from them, so they might forget and thus grow tranquil. While it was never their immediate reaction to do so, Welck and Quillow weren't opposed to mind tricking or mind rubbing to force someone to forget. Quillow does not destroy his trinkets, for doing so would destroy the memory they hold, and destruction and consumption are the things of the dark side. He ultimately believes there is a set amount of suffering that will always pervade the universe- seekings its doom leads one down a dark path, but absorbing it from others less equipped to handle it is a virtuous thing.

From these beliefs stem Quillow's pacifism. He adheres to nonviolence so that he may avoid making painful memories for others or himself. He uses his lightsaber in a purely defensive manner- if absolutely driven to conflict, he will do his best to (relatively) harmlessly disarm his opponents. Even then, his physical faculties were always below average, buffeted by his ease of use of the Force, particularly mind tricks and telekenetics.

View of the Force:
The Force is a flowing autumnal river; muddied leaves occasionally pass by, practically begging they be plucked from the stream, cleaned, and observed as they are set back on their course.

Backstory:
Quillow was born a amongst a massive pool fathered by a single Ithorian. Quillow remembers naught from this time; not because the memories are painful, but becasue there's simply nothing to remember. He was one amongst thousands- a glassy-eyed, appendageless tadpole merely existing and wondering. As he metamorphosized, Quillow gained a hump on his back, a crater in his cranium, and a healthy appetite for ant-flies.

As a young and healthy Ithorian denizen of a great herdship above Ithor, he was taught the benevolence of the Mother Jungle below and of the Law of Life; that for every life taken, two more must be planted. Before he could even read and write, he was told by his herd's cleric that he would be now be travelling with a Human, one who was dressed in long and flowing robes, a disarming smile frozen on his bearded face. Quillow often wonders if this was perhaps a subterfugal move- Quillow was confirmed force sensitive, and force sensitive Ithorians are often selected to oversee a herd as a cleric. Perhaps that one simply could not let go.

During the journey from Ithor to Coruscant, Quillow learned his benefactor's name was Welck, a Knight of the Jedi order. He had been visiting the herdships above Ithor in a scholarly pursuit; Ithorian society and their respect for their environment made them skilled ecologists, and the Order saw a future in terraforming techniques could potientially be developed with them. While Quillow knew not of what the Jedi spoke, he made clear he had chosen Quillow because of a willingness to learn and sprout. This made Quillow happy, for a facet of the Law of Life stated that all things have a right to grow. The young Ithorian sought to share what he knew to the Knight, as well, but he merely smiled and offered endearing glances.

Upon arrival at Coruscant, Quillow as taken from Welck and placed with a group of unfamiliar faces and shapes. A mild mannered Ithorian, Quillow got along well with the other members of his Initiate clan as they began their journey of learning. He was taught to read and write Galactic basic, and with the help of a translator, could speak it as well, albeit with a heavy accent. Instructors would find Quillow to be lacking in most things physical, but extremely attentive and naturally skilled when it came to mental acuity and the Force. A few noted that the young Ithorian had a heightened sense of wisdom and curiosity- always asking the other Initiates why even when he fully understood, seemingly attempting to reach some higher level of understanding with them. In truth, Quillow took to heart the Ithorian teaching that all things have a right to grow, and he had noticed that in asking why, people would grow to view him or themselves amicably, in most cases; Quillow was regularly told he was an astute listener, even if he had little to say. His time amongst his Initiate clan fostered a healthy social growth, though some may have seen him as too empathetic. He was naturally curious and truly had a hunger to learn about others' ways of life and the life of a Jedi.

His skills in the saber were lacking; while Quillow had continued to excel in meditation, mental discipline, and self-control, these did not translate into physical acuity. Quillow's reactions were slow, he overtly avoided pain, and failure did not seem to bother him. He was nearing adolescence now, and had he stayed on this path, Quillow probably would've failed his Initiate trials. But it was then that Welck would again enter Quillow's life, though he was Master Welck now. While Quillow was elated, Welck seemed disappointed in the young Initiate. Luckily, he knew the strings to pull with the young Ithorian, and spoke with him:

"You believe all things have a right to grow, yes?"

Quillow nodded in reply.

"Then why do you deny youself such? Does not a toal tree seek to spread its own roots? Or does it merely ask the leaves to grow over it, retreating within itself and withering away? Should it fade, what would become of the life it helped grow?"

Quillow took the sentiment to heart. In helping others grow, he denied himself the same service. Through dedication and focus, he became just average enough to pass his Initiate trial. Now a Padawan, he was of course taken underwing by Master Welck. Quillow perpetuated an extremely positive- albeit, almost submissive- relationship with Welck, who conditioned the young Padawan to the teachings of the Jedi Code, and always turned an attentive ear to Quillow when he had a refute.

"There is no death, there is the Force. Is that similar to the Law of 'We wither to bloom'?" The young Ithorian had asked. His master thought a moment.

"Perhaps. Do not take the meaning of death to be the opposite of life, it is moreso the opposite of birth. Life is something eternal- it continues on not only in the Force which connects us, but in our memories of each other, and the legacies we leave."

Quillow still struggled when it came to combat. His literal ability with a lightsaber was average, he simply lacked the intent to use it, even against droids, whom Quillow believed had a soul simply because they had a semblance of conscience and memory, even if it was programmed; and where there was a soul, there was a living being. Under Welck's tutelage, Quillow was taught that one needn't seek to harm with the blade, but rather it could be used as a tool for guidance, albeit a forceful one. To Quillow, guidance was essential to growth. Still, Master Welck frequently reinforced that his weapon's use should be a last resort, when all other options for understanding have been exhausted.

Eventually, Welck had seen enough growth in Quillow that he felt he was ready for the Trials. The Ithorian was twenty-four, and in Welck's teachings he found the success to become a Jedi Knight. As the two worked well together, Quillow still largely worked with Master Welck, and continued to view himself as his pupil. The two spent the next three years on Felucia, as a remote illness had taken a few tribal lives and threatened to spread. They aided a multi-cultural contingent sent to study it and hopefully develop a cure.

It was here that Quillow would watch as Master Welck changed. First came the woman; Quillow thought his Master higher than such temptations, but more than once he pretended not to notice Welck stealing glances. As if the universe sought to prove the Code, the relationship did not end well. Quillow remembers vividly the feeling of sorrow he sensed from Welck as he exited her hovel, shaking his head, a child's toy gripped tightly in one hand. Welck blinked away tears, but Quillow saw them. The woman was interred, and neither Quillow nor Welck saw her again, sickness had taken her.

Quillow had still looked to Welck for wisdom during this time, and he noticed when his teachings changed. It was at the behest of a member of the research team; the child's toy finally left Welck's ownership, and a weight was lifted from his shoulders- that researcher left the planet shortly afterwards. Welck spoke to Quillow about memory often, then, as he had before, but his views had shifted; he now spoke of how they bound people to discontent and wroth and struggle, and how neither should be afraid to pass them off to someone better equipped, a sentiment Quillow found odd at first, as Welck was a Master Jedi. Quillow pondered and accepted what Welck had said; after all, if living, thinking beings perpetuated suffering, then surely there was only a finite amount present in the Galaxy at any given time. He took his revelation to Master Welck, who seemed to agree. Shortly thereafter, Welck admitted he wished to travel far from Felucia, but not before he spoke to some of the tribals, offering to 'take their memories from them'. Quillow also took up the practice, seeing how much comfort and peace it could bring, as it had to his Master. Now decorated in various baubles, the two planet hopped, collecting painful memories from others so that they might reach an inner peace, taking them far away. And so the two ended up on Ilum when they received notice to return to Coruscant.

Master Welck did not survive the crash. In the wreckage, Quillow located his datapad; it was a personal work, cataloguing the words of the memories of others. Welck was afraid he would forget. Quillow is unsure of what to do with it.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Anatomy Lesson

The meeting had ended, but Durzum still felt discourse in his stomach. He stood at the edge of a slapped together fire, arms crossed, eyes locked on the lapping tongues of flame. Conversations were drowned out by the noise of his own thoughts and emotions. Doubt hovered now at the edges of his soul, prodding at him; its frayed edges felt wrong, like a puzzle piece that didn't fit. He often wished he could simply cut himself open and spill it out. Durzum felt a sudden weight on his foot- merely someone's misplaced hand, but it snapped him out of it.

"This is no way to spend the eve of battle," he thought to himself. The sentiment was a familiar one; several times had Durzum found a Voshu gazing at the horizon or a flame, eyes locked on nothing far away. His thoughts spilled into the Wrothgarian Mountains, then to Bruk giving orders, then-

Durzum shook his head- felt his tongue jostle in his mouth and his cheeks wobble. Tightened his fists and relented a few times. Steadied his bouncing heel. It was the eve of battle, but Durzum's conflict began now. Wordlessly, he turned from the fire, paused a moment to appreciate the heat on his neck, and retreated to his tent. Pulling back the rough hewn flap, he took quick stock of his mace, shield, and pack. Crouching at the lattermost, he fished around until he felt an odd textured metal. His Voshu token, a septim, one side blackened.

Emboldened, Durzum felt a new lump of frustration growing, aimed at his doubt. This conflict of soul was ending tonight; to march tomorrow otherwise would tarnish both the Voshu and Trinimac. Durzum wrapped his fingers around the haft of his mace, pulling it so the weapon now laid across his lap as he sat cross-legged in the middle of the tent. This was a technique he favored: to sift through scenes from his life that reminded him of how and why he ended up here as he bespoke Trinimac for wisdom by reciting the temple creed. "Like the burning of dry fields," Durzum muttered to himself. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he began:

---

'Never let your trials burden you, for from your conflicts you shall be transformed-'

"Durzum! Don't run near the traders! We've discussed this, boy-" the voice of his father boomed. It was one of his earliest memories. It was a brisk autumn day; the enticing scent of Grasza's roast permeated through and around the tight grouping of squat stone hovels along the main road through the city. The young Orsimer boy looked up confusedly at his burly, iron-clad father, then over to a thinner, beige-skinned man, loosely holding the leather reins of a barrel-laden, horse-drawn cart. The sudden roar from his father made the young Durzum forget his intention of petting the horses.

Moghul, axes at either hip, raised a quick apologetic hand towards the stranger. Looking over, Durzum saw a flicker of emotion dance across the Imperial's face- fear. The young Orsimer felt something sink. He had been taught the stigma the other races leveled at Orcs, but this was the first time he had ever seen it. Perhaps the displeasure came from an early realization that what he had been taught was true, or perhaps he was simply upset because the trader was upset. Either way, Durzum felt he was wrong. That he had done something, oblivious to the fact that to this Imperial, Moghul was nothing more than an addled barbarian looking for any reason to make him pay Blood Price.

'The Eternal Champion will chisel away your coarseness-'

"By the Code of Malacath, I would fight you to defend my honor!"

Durzum was still young, but his voice was now deep. He stood on one of the short and wide temple steps, dressed in matted furs over itchy, simple clothing, hefting the weight of his smithing hammer in one coal-stained hand; Durzum was being taught the basics of the forge at the time, but he never took to it. His resentment for the Orsimer stigma had turned into hate when Moghul left Orsinium, and poured over into lots of training.

Durzum's mind was racing so fast, he still doesn't recall what the other Orc had said, only that it stemmed from his worship of Trinimac against Durzum's worship of Malacath. He measured his opponent- the other Orc had a height advantage, but Durzum knew his own strength was superior. The other Orc obliged, but insisted only on using fists. No matter.

"Durzum, listen to me closely. We Orsimer have only our honor and our word. If we uphold those, Malacath will make us perfect." Moghul's words flashed through Durzum's head, calming him somewhat.

Stepping forward, hands raised in a high guard, Durzum flicked a few jabs at the sodding pig-faced idiot across from him, looking to draw out a response he could counter. Luckily, his opponent bit- Durzum accurately read the torque in his hips, which meant a spin was coming. Deftly ducking under a spinning elbow, Durzum stepped in as he put his full force behind an uppercut- a bolt of pain shot down his arm from knuckles to elbow as he felt his opponent go limp. Durzum thought the gathered crowd would be cheering, but instead he found only a deafening silence.

"Feel honorable now, heretic?" Someone in the crowd called. A mix of emotions settled onto Durzum- frustration at their lack of understanding, anger at their refusal to acknowledge victory or Blood Price, sorrow at the absence of glory. His face flushed with embarrassment; tears were beginning to well in the corners of his eyes. He had no one to turn to- a Malacath worshiper amongst a populace of Trinimac loyalists was wont for friendship, and Moghul had been gone for months now. That feeling of being wrong was back, like a wad of wet blankets sloshing around his gut. In that moment, he hated everything- Malacath, himself, Moghul, the Orc whose crass comment started the whole ordeal. In his jog home, clutching his furs tight to his body, blinking away tears, Durzum made a promise to himself- he would prove to Orsinium, prove to Malacath himself that he could be perfect. That Orsimer could be perfect. They just need to follow the Code.

'Perfection will be yours, the sword of your God its vessel-'

A crack and a thud echoed throughout the dome-shaped chamber of the dark-stoned temple as a wooden head left its body and clattered along the floor far behind it. It came to a sudden stop as a burly, well-dressed Orc caught it underfoot.

"Nice hit, Durzum," Bruk said, smiling, rolling up the sleeves to his maroon tunic as he bent down to retrieve the now cracked lump of timber. Where once was carved a face now stood only a spider-webbed mess of splits and fractures.

Durzum shrugged at the compliment. Should Bruk expect any less of him? He had been adamant in his training routine the last few years, which had only supplemented by their new guard duty. Even on days like today, when the smell of a torrential rain filled the temple halls, Durzum would wait until the clergy cleared and move his fletched dummies inside. The irony of a Malacath faithful training martial skills in a holy place of Trinimac wasn't lost on him, but it was just that- the temple was simply the largest indoor space around, and Durzum liked to measure how far he could make the heads roll.

A slight chill slithered down Durzum's exposed back. Sweat came off of him in large droplets.

"Maybe someday I'll have to come in here and treat myself to the real thing-" Durzum jested with a chuckle. Bruk gave a puff of a laugh as he took a few steps forward and tossed the cracked head into Durzum's arms. Had he not been using a training mallet, Durzum was confident the whole thing would've splintered. A few moments passed as Durzum plunked the severed block awkwardly back onto the body.

"I mean it, you know. I've seen you train a few times in here. Your form could use work, but your sheer ferocity and determination are impressive."

Durzum shook his head. He was never good at accepting compliments. He always overthought what he should say in return to the point that he never would say anything at all. But this was a trait he admired in Bruk, the fact that he would speak so suddenly and poignantly about anything. Perhaps it was due to Bruk being the first true friend Durzum had made since he was a child, but compliments meant something coming from him. He wasn't like the other Trinimac worshipers.

Bruk's hand clasped hard on Durzum's shoulder.

"I know not what troubles you, Durzum, but I would be remiss to not share my admiration for your struggle. You've grown strong, and if I had a mere droplet of your determination I would be King tomorrow."

Durzum chortled, "Please, I'll never seek a crown, perfection's an easier goal."

"Durzum I don't think you understand- you've been following in the ways of Trinimac for a while now, you just need to..I don't know...see it. You already are perfect in his eyes."

The statement wormed through Durzum's brain down into his heart. His chest felt warm. Durzum had never made the connection before; he had long looked for what other Orcs saw in Trinimac, but Bruk had just made him realize it: they saw themselves. Somehow, what Bruk just said felt right.

Durzum smiled. "Alright, maybe I'll show up to the next sermon here."

Not more than a month later, Durzum's mother kicked him out of the house and left Orsinium a week thereafter, likening her son to a cultist.

'Take heart in your own strength. Take control of your own path. Take comfort in your own honor-'

Durzum's arms and legs were shaking- it was equal parts fatigue and the biting cold. His eyes remained locked on his boots as he followed in Bruk's footsteps through the deep snow of the Jerall Mountains. The aftermath of the Battle of Bruma was behind them, literally, but the two had shared little conversation during their day of travel afterwards. Durzum had spent the better part of the day in thought of what he had seen both leading up to and during the battle.

"We owe Trinimac our lives, but I think this is a lesson," Durzum had said to Bruk, "honor is not strict codes of conduct. Honor is minimizing suffering." Bruk had remained silent.

Now under a small rocky outcropping that at least buttressed them against the icy winds, Durzum dropped his warhammer and fell to his hands and knees. His armor felt too tight; he felt so weak. His worldview was shattered. He and Bruk had come here looking to honor their God, but found something unholy instead. It all felt wrong again.

"You're right, Durzum. There is nothing holy in something that causes such torment."

The supine Orsimer stretched his neck to look at Bruk, expecting him to be gazing out at the remains of the battlefield. Instead, he was gazing directly at Bruma.

Bruk draped a weary hand over his face and tried to fight the memories; Refugees starved in the streets- some took to killing for food. Mothers and fathers screamed at the heavens for children they could never see again. Some would stare into the distance with cloudy eyes until disease, despair, or Daedra took them. All of this for a war they won. This wasn't perfection, it was plague.

---

"In this, be perfected, and stand the unified and virtuous of Trinimac." Durzum whispered the final tenet of Trinimac to himself, taking a few more deep breaths afterwards. Opening his eyes, his gaze wandered from his mace to the token in his hand. His thoughts and doubts were seceding, at least for now. The reality of the morning was finally seeping in and he wanted something of a gameplan of his own. He thought of the Voshu goal- if even one person hears the tale of what will happen to Hruldan come the siege and acts more amicably, then this was all worth it. It had to be worth it.

'The Count has a wife and two sons; I should seek their ends as well. Nothing would stoke the fires of conflict more than a deposed heir, let alone three.'

"The burning of a dry field."

Durzum felt right again. All here would be transformed by the conflict- even Durzum. For he was Voshu Ornim, faith and steel, a worthy Orc.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

@an abomunist
Still here, broski?

@Tortoise

Sorry for disappearing there for a bit; unfortunately, I think I'm gonna back out of this, at least for now. I will gladly pass off Verdan and/or The Rift to whomever may want it/them though!

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Durzum gro-Moghul

Durzum gro-Moghul

"Choice is a luxury granted to us through peace. Conflict is man and mer's true nature."

Age: 35
Gender: Male
Race: Orsimer
Appearance: Slightly below average in height, for an Orsimer. He has broad, almost pointed shoulders and is covered in thick, functional muscle one commonly may see on miners or woodcutters. He moves and stands with the discipline of a career soldier, and has a habit of picking at lacerations in his armor, blunting his nails. His skin falls into the brownish, almost olive-colored shade of the Orc spectrum.

His face bears the stress marks and wrinkles of someone decades older than he. Though his round jawline, almond-shaped eyes, and beak of a nose, coupled with his skin tone, at times make him look man-like, the two small, hook-shaped tusks protruding past his lower lip and ears that come to a point would instantly betray the notion. Both his body and face have remained remarkably unmarred given his profession, and both remain free of any tattoos, as he is an instrument of Trinimac, and his blade, Penitent, bore no runes. His hair is the color of soot, and he keeps it pulled back into a ponytail, preferring to keep the sides cut short. He's never been able to grow facial hair.

His clothing is very simple and functional for the environment and season he finds himself in, consisting of plain trousers and whatever shirt he grabs, be it full of holes or no. Furs will supplement this in the colder months. Still, Durzum is most comfortable in some sort of armor, even if it's just his greaves or armlets, but preferably his shield. His mace is only ever off of his person when he sleeps, and even then he keeps it within arms reach.

---

History:

Durzum was born the child of Moghul gro-Ghornok and Dagatha gra-Mazg within the walls of Orsinium in 3E 413. Healthy and strong, his formative years saw him run the gamut of rearing techniques synonymous with Orsimer- before his seventh year, he was taught how to hold and handle a weapon, and afterwards learned to read and write as he was instructed in the ways of Malacath. He was destined to be a guardsman of Orsinium, and was one of many younglings to enter into extended training given to adolescents to turn them into warriors. It was a tough lifestyle, and Durzum was frequently mocked when he brought up Malacath; he would sometimes invoke the right of combat but this only garnered further disfavor. Around this time, Durzum's father would leave, taking the name Moghul gro-Orsinium as he travelled to Cyrodiil to try and make a name for himself in the Fighter's Guild, or perhaps the Legions, tempted by visions of glory.

Durzum would then meet Bruk gro-Bharmog, a young Orc four years his senior on a similar lifepath. Though he was one of the many Orsinium-born orcs who worshipped Trinimac, the two became good friends, though Durzum to this day believes Bruk took pity on him, as Bruk was always the better fighter. In time, he would teach Durzum the way of Trinimac, and his goals of martial, divine perfection. At the time, Bruk believed fighting in war was the preferred way to worship the deity, conflict being merely a lathe to shape oneself upon. Durzum took to his opinions over Malacath's, a fact that caused his mother to basically disown him; she, too, would leave Orsinium shortly afterwards. Now a man in his own right, Durzum entered the service of the Orsinium Guardsmen, though mirrored Bruk's desire of mercenary life, travelling Tamriel, honing what he saw as a divine craft.

Two years into his service, the Gates of Oblivion opened in Cyrodiil. Emperor Uriel Septim VII lay dead, and the countryside found itself in the throes of war. Bruk and Durzum saw this as an opportunity, and less-than-amicably left Orsinium, eventually finding their way to Bruma where they located a small force from the Fighter's Guild, to whom they offered their blades. By the time they had arrived, the Oblivion Crisis was reaching its end, and witnessing firsthand the sorrow and wroth brought on by such a conflict changed them. "There is no divinity to be found in something that causes such torment," Bruk would tell Durzum, who agreed.

The revelation shook them to their core. After the Crisis ended, the two travelled back to Orsinium, spending much of the journey in contemplation. In their conversing, the two arrived at the belief that it wasn't conflict that Trinimac desired, but the resolution thereof. The faster, the better- prolonged war only furthered its misery, which Trinimac certainly wouldn't want. Bruk referred to this as "Tearing out the heart", referring to Trinimac's legend wherein he tore out Lorkhan's heart in front of his army. Bruk would pen these beliefs in a journal that would later become the foundation of his "A Conjecture on the Code of Malacath."

Durzum and Bruk were mercifully returned to their posts within the Guard, where each would serve for the next decade. Durzum's service was quiet, whereas Bruk eventually published his beliefs in a pamphlet. It was received as little more than an interesting talking point, as most of Orsinium at that point now bowed to Trinimac. It was also fairly self-serving; Bruk became something of a captain as his martial skills only continued to impress as he bested his superiors.

Soon after the onset of the Interregnum, as the borders of Tamriel were beginning to blur, Orsinium watch posts reported a troop of Redguards and Bretons approaching. Their intent was clear, that being the sacking of Orsinium. King Gortwog gathered advisors and guard captains to discuss the coming conflict, Bruk among them. As the invading force had numbers and surprise on their side, it was apparently decided to battle conventionally, submitting to a loss, escorting as many refugees out of Orsimer as they could before it crumbled.

Bruk, however, had been developing his own military philosophy, influenced heavily by his belief that Trinimac values the resolution of war, rather than the process of it. He theorized that adhering to the moral and ethical deliberations during "measured war" works against the objective of war, and conforming to things such as "honorable" codes of conduct only served to prolong suffering from conflicts rather than belittle it. He proposed his own strategy- one that maximized cruelty, brutality, and fear in hopes of bringing as fast of an end to the war as possible, minimizing the true suffering he believed would be caused by sustaining it. Though he was rebuked for this, Bruk defied orders and rallied a faithful contingent (of which Durzum was a part of) to practice the tactic during the Sacking of the Third Orsinium. A sudden, rapid conquest was met with horrific massacres and the routing of a lot of the civilian support staff that had accompanied the offending force. They emphasized attacking things like civilian supply trains and food stores, making it a point to butcher all they came across, sparing none, not even those that surrendered.

This brutality established to the Breton and Redguard invaders that Bruk's tactic of waging war was far unlike their own, or even other Orsimer's, as they had clearly expected conventional, Code of Malacath conduct. Within a short period of time, a portion of the offensive had slowed dramatically. Though the rest of the year saw the invading force ultimately successful, Bruk claimed some credit in biding enough time for the refugees of Orsinium to escape safely into Skyrim.

Despite this, Bruk, Durzum, and the others decided not to rejoin their Orsimer brethren. They had come to another conclusion that an entire nation's military cannot be run this way, mostly because of what this style of warfare inflicts on those that carried it out. Most had begun to rely on various coping mechanisms to deal with the trauma, and were confident they would never be able to reintegrate into a normal society or life again. Instead, they retooled their beliefs and envisioned an independent group that would embrace these ideals as a way of life, its members traveling from conflict to conflict until battle took them.

Calling themselves Voshu Ornim (Worthy Orcs), this was their final development into a distinct independent order. "Philosophers" of Bruk's teachings sought to spread them to every corner of the world. Durzum himself was drawn to Cyrodiil once more, seeing it as a quickly fattening center of war and struggle. Following up on rumors of a resistance within Skingrad, Durzum was quick to offer his arm to them, seeing the Count did naught but perpetuate hardship and would surely only prolong campaigns to keep himself in power.

---

Personality:

"Even when the banners of war lay dirtied and unused, man and mer inspire strife- companions may argue with fists, beloveds whet jealousies, coinpushers wrestle with lies - no matter where man and mer may go, conflict will always follow.

The immediately notable thing one will certainly notice in any interaction with Durzum is his obsession with the concepts of conflict and strife. This can largely be attributed to both the zeal he harbors for his deity, and his time serving under Bruk, who also proselytized his own views on the matter. This wasn't always the case, and vestiges may occasionally be seen of a dispassionate and worried person, but his time spent amongst Voshu Ornim has largely shaped his worldview to match. Durzum believes that struggle and strife are the fundamental nature of all living things, and believes that those who can resolve their conflicts quickly are not only virtuous and right, but will also be viewed favorably in the eyes of Trinimac.

"We who worship Trinimac are not bewildered barbarians nor reclusive mystics. We stand as knights, guardsmen, bodyguards- craftsmen of conflict and discord, protectors of our families and homes; Trinimac is a God of war and perfection, not murder and conquest."

It wouldn't be a stretch to label Durzum a zealot. In a similar measure of his worship of conflict, so too does he bow to Trinimac, the warrior-god whose clergy could mostly be found within the Third Orsinium before its fall. Durzum, as many of the Voshu Ornim, worshipped the Paragon in their own way. He levies Trinimac's potential view of him as the measure of his own worth, and wholly believes his interpretation of war (that being, the resolution of control through violence) earns him favor in his eyes. He loathes things he believes will tarnish Trinimac's view of him; listlessness, weakness, unfaithfulness, the inability to help himself - these are a few of the things Durzum has encountered throughout his life that he thoroughly shuns.

Given the nature of Trinimac worship, Durzum resents any mention of Malacath, and will frequently refer to him as "the whore of Boethiah".

"I do not pray for strife- I view war as unwelcome as anyone else, but when it inevitably must be fought, I pray for the wisdom to resolve it quickly.

All of this is not to paint Durzum as a warmonger. Far from it, in fact. Durzum accepts and stands firm that war causes immense suffering, and in his brutality and cruelty, he looks to end it as quickly as possible, believing that doing so is genuinely better in the long term. These views can largely be expanded to all of his other facets of life; this results in a very blunt, humorless, and above all relentless Orsimer. He is not without reason or pragmatism, though. Much of his life has been spent serving under the command of others, but he will always be quick to state his opinion and goals, and at least appreciates strong decisions, even if they're ones he himself wouldn't have made. Ultimately, he is a warrior who believes he's deciphered the key to ending war, and thus creating a better world because of it.

In private, Durzum remains deeply troubled by the things he has done, and wrestles with doubt. He's more sensitive that he lets on, and is mortified at the thought that his views are entirely misguided, and he is nothing but a cruel and worthless blackguard. Nevertheless, he remains faithful to Bruk and Trinimac's ideals for the time being, doing his best to eschew the intrusive ideas by trying to avoid situations where he could be seen as merciful.

---

Attributes:

• Major: Endurance - Durzum is nothing if not relentless in all of his pursuits. The mental and physical exploits of the Voshu Ornim, to mention nothing of his upbringing, have honed his body, and though his mind remains traumatized, it is nonetheless steeled against what he views as lesser horrors.
• Minor: Personality - If one were to measure the strength of personality as an individual's ability to effect dispositions, Durzum is somewhat apt at the art. Whereas others may mingle with words or loosen tongues with coins, Durzum likens himself, and his "charm", to an executioner's axe.

Skills:

Expert:

• Heavy Armor: The Voshu Ornim infamously fought in Orsinium almost exclusively in heavy armor. It only added to their menacing visage- a wall of heavily armored orcs, standing shoulder to shoulder, tirelessly marching toward their charge.

Adept:

• Blunt: Durzum has always favored axes and hammers. They aid his strength and all-offense style, allowing him to somewhat eschew form and technique in favor of raw power.
• Block: Durzum's shield exists only to keep him in the fight longer. This, combined with his heavy armor, allow him to persistently harry foes on the battlefield.
• Athletics: A lifetime of training and a history of travel have honed Durzum's stamina to a fine point. Durzum's unrelenting willpower also supplements this, shrugging past the boundaries of his own limitations, careless to any consequences.

Journeyman:

• Illusion: Magic is something he's picked up only recently, and his selection of spells remains pitifully small. He prefers to use it as a last resort, for the simple fact that magical fear and courage wither away.
• Hand-to-hand: A byproduct of his upbringing. Durzum is supremely uncomfortable in situations where he feels powerless or weak, and as such trains a little without weapons, not wanting to rely on weaponry alone.
• Armorer: Durzum is self-taught and couldn't ever hold a candle to a real smith, but he's adequate in maintaining his own weapons and armor to an acceptable (read: functional) level.

Spells:

• Fear
• Courage

Equipment:

• Rugged Steel Plate - the same set of steel plate he wore during the Sacking of Orsinium. Its perpetually in a state of adequate repair, but there's nothing else notable about it. Durzum does his best to keep it functional, not only because it is a personal token, but his lack of funds have barred him from replacing it.
• Orcish Mace & Shield - Durzum's preferred tools of war. Like his plate, they are relics from the previous Orsinium

Belongings:

• A copy of "A Conjecture on the Code of Malacath by Bruk gro-Orsinium.
• Traveling Supplies - Little more than a bedroll, a pan, a handful of rations, a waterskin, and a tinderbox.
• Basic Armorer's Tools - A frequently used bag of various sizes types of tools one could repair light damage to arms and armor with.
• Token of Voshu Ornim - A single septim with various organic materials carefully burnt into it until both sides are soot black. A reminder to not be beholden to a nation, but to his ideals.
• Money - Carried in a fur coin pouch at his hip. Its usually only filled with around twenty-five septims as well as his Token; Durzum does not fight for money, but lodging and food require it.

Birthsign: The Lord

What Gods hath wrought

Early morning of the 6th of Sun's Dawn, 4E11, the Outskirts of Orsinium

"One... Two... Three..."

"What are you doing?"

"Well, Durzum, I'm counting my footsteps. You caught me pretty good, young mer. Counting makes me focus on something else, makes it hurt a little less." Durzum looked up at the Orsimer nearly twice his size as he paced a few more small circles, fingers gingerly prodding a growing lump of discolored flesh on his cheek. Durzum's toothy grin fought back any of his instructor's attempts to make eye contact.

"Maybe next time we'll practice with the real things? That oughta get you to focus and not slip up again, right?" Durzum's grip on the wooden mallet was still white-knuckled. His hand still stung from the impact - he never liked sparring hard in the colder months - but he felt he was hiding it well.

Durzum only received a bloody tooth spat at him.

The sudden metallic rustle of armor awoke Durzum with a start. Reflex dictated his hand reach for his mace, but in grasping for it he only found a handful of his bedroll.

"Forget this?" A gravelly voice inquired. The only lighting in the small tent was coming from the intruder, who carefully held an oil lamp. Durzum noticed stars in a black sky through the opening in the tent, betraying any semblance of sleep gained. As if the soreness creeping in from his shoulders didn't make it obvious enough.

The lamplight reveal of a familiar face followed a solid thud as Durzum's mace landed in the dirt next to him.

Durzum cleared his throat, "Can't allow me more than an hour of rest, Bruk?"

The steel-clad, burly orc grunted. "I know you barely sleep. An hour would be merciful." With more metallic rattles, Bruk turned and slipped out of the tent, leaving Durzum only the darkness and the faint smell of smoke and burnt flesh that slowly filled his senses. Bruk was right, Durzum always had a hard time sleeping after a battle. Wiping his eyes, he followed Bruk.

Now out on the rocky overlook, Durzum found the source of the smoke. A small campfire had been hastily erected not fifty feet to the right of his tent, near the edge of the plateau. Looking to his left, Durzum saw a few others like it down the line of tents, though only the nearest had an occupant. Below their position, a wide, snow-covered road twisted away and down

Bruk awkwardly sat on a small rock, the crackling flame illuminating only the left side of his face. Were his steel armor in better care, it might've looked golden. Bruk's gaze was locked on the road- specifically, a shrinking red and orange glow farther down it, just over where the path would dip out of sight, were it not night. Durzum knew what was there. He was surprised they were still burning.

"Those Bretons never burn right," Bruk wryly remarked as Durzum approached, footsteps plodding against the cool, uneven rockface beneath his feet. "Must be that Dragonskin or what have you."

Durzum couldn't find the words for a reply as he took a position on the other side of the fire. Though most of his face was shrouded in the shadow of pre-dawn, Durzum knew Bruk well enough that he could tell he was deep in thought. No doubt recalling the events of the night prior in his head. They had attacked the supply train while they were celebrating something, making quick work of the guards and several of the bystanders. Most were defenseless. The rest had quickly fled, hopefully back west. Bruk had uncharacteristically called off pursuit.

"Is what we do right, Durzum?"

The sudden question hit him in the gut like a steel hammer. The unexpectedness of it almost made him laugh.

"Of course," Durzum replied, almost mechanically, clearing his throat. Glancing over, he was surprised to see Bruk staring straight at him, his face set and unmoving.

"Don't tell me you're losing sight of our bigger picture now, Bruk. Remember what you've said- 'think not of him you've slain, but those you've dissuaded from picking up the sword?'"

Bruk scowled, turning his gaze back to the dimming horizon. Durzum could feel his eyes narrow. "I've seen what it does to you- the others. Your hands shake. Many have taken to the bottle, among other things." He shook his head, his squat, angled face looking particularly hellish when illuminated by the campfire.

"I had dreamt of something bigger. To influence all of Orsinium to fight this way. Craft ourselves a reputation so insidious that our presence on the battlefield alone would be cause for prompt surrender. There would be no faster a way to end any war. As Trinimac ripped out the heart."

"That's not unachievable," Durzum replied, rubbing his eyes, lowering himself into a squat next to the fire, "you saw how many fled when they realized it was us."

"No, Durzum, I think now you are the one missing the bigger picture. A whole nation's armies could not possibly wage war this way. Remember Urzoa, or Bruga. How they died with little protest. I think they longed for their demise."

A few moments passed as Durzum thought, silence only broken by the crackling of the fire. Finally, Bruk spoke: "Look at me-"

Durzum tilted his head and locked Bruk's gaze.

"-do you honestly plan to return to Orsinium when this is over? To try and return home?"

Durzum couldn't hold the stare. Visions of the commoners he slew flashed through his head- the worst were the younger ones. His words caught in his throat. Both of them already knew the answer, anyway. With a twist and a grunt, Durzum stood, turning away from Bruk, and slowly began walking back to his tent.

"One... Two... Three..."

"What are you doing?"

"Counting my footsteps."

Durzum's Thoughts on Everyone

Ando - Quick, decisive cuts are a cruel necessity in war. The problem is discipline. | 'Perfection may not look like what you think it does, Orc. And what if mastery over all things still could not answer even the most basic of questions?'

Velyn - Copes heavily, conflict weighs him. Be it God, man or woman, love or hope- he would be better served with a mind set on revenge, not sorrow. | 'Won't you end up the same? Strong judgement from someone gazing at his future.'

Reyna - Wears the face of a Voshu. Scrappy. Quick. Brutal. All she misses is the intent. She fears death- I think she robs herself of a higher purpose. | 'She follows Trinimac, but doesn't know it, as you once did. Bruk was always the better teacher, and still your hands shake. Would you have her wrestle with these same doubts?'

Elara - Will soon she try and create a false God to lord over us? How proud this one can be - and how blind. In Oblivion lies a blueprint for a world I am trying to prevent, one that only persists struggle and suffering, it is not something to be studied or understood. | 'She commands true power and fear. Man and mer have killed each other since time immemorial, every conflict only fomenting new places and new ways to die. Will the future really be any different?'

Reinette - Information is the first principle of war and must be the foundation of all of our efforts. She is driven and decisive, but she is tempted by more. When we stand naked before our creators, only our strength of soul will be judged. | 'Stand naked, indeed. She's made you understand the temptations of flesh.'

Bahk - The fool still opens his legs to that whore of Boethiah. It's no wonder he suffers.

Guifort - An ignoble man doing a noble service. The Voshu also honored our dead and their names that they might be immortalized for their service. But people like him often only pump the heart that must be rent, for better or worse. | 'You worry what he and others of his ilk will write about you and the Voshu; remember Bruk's vision.'

Quintus - Another with the makings of a Voshu. Like the young one, he just misses the ambition. He needs a stronger "why" to his fight. I've heard his story; should've offed them all, strung them up. A group who embrace the totality of battle can win even with an inferior force. | 'Probably would've gotten them all killed in the end. Still, his bounty might better serve us.'

Akamon - Reminds me of Bruk. He thinks, he listens, he learns. He even fights well. | 'What if this is what Trinimac desires? An artisan of conflict with many learned tools?'

Janus - The worst of us. Someone who seems so capable yet chooses not to, even when he could, and even given a reason. I pity him. | 'Jealousy grows. How easy it would be to simply cast aside your doubts and beliefs. A simpler way to understand the world. Aetherius is worth it.'

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

Where are folks getting their symbols and flags from? Can't find a good site to save my life.

@Irredeemable

I made mine with Heromachine 3. Its a flash (RIP) program but you can get it running pretty easily. The only thing is the export function doesn't work, so you'll have to use something like Snipping Tool when you're done to get a screen grab to throw on imgur. The program was technically for making superhero character portraits, but there's a lot of shapes in the 'Background' and 'Insignia' sections that can make decent flags.

I know Inkscape is also very popular.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

Verdan WIP

Hallowed Regency of Verdan

_{Adjective & Demonym: Verdanian}

General Info

Government Form: Theocratic Dictatorship
Planet Name and Description:

Orbital View

Surface View

Verdan is located on The Rift, a tidally locked planet orbiting its red dwarf star, Lelande. Being in tidal lock, one side always faces the star, while the other is perpetually dark. Verdanians refer to these geographic zones as "The Wastrel" and "The Neuboreal", respectively. In between these two extremes lies a thin band of land in perpetual dusk- this is the true "Rift". The sky is a beautiful gradient of red and teal, and the megaflora from continual lowlight is often pleasing to the eyes, but life here has never been simple.

Firstly are the wind and storms. While they are a livable constant gust on the surface, they quickly become torrential at higher altitudes. Hurricane-like uproars are commonplace, and enshroud whole sections of the twilight band in dark clouds as they travel from one side to the other.

On the surface, one will discover the challenges of the planet itself. The Wastrel is perpetually scorching hot, leaving little to no room for plant life, or life in general; a searing, dry wasteland. The Neuboreal holds an abundance of geothermal vents and other volcanic activity that power the massive cold-to-hot flowing rivers, which in turn keep the atmosphere alive. The limitations of human anatomy, to say nothing of the culture here or scarcity of advanced resources, has made thorough exploration of these areas extremely slow. The land in the middle is fairly lively, and filled with luminescent megaflora living amongst the valleys carving up the mountainous, temperate landscape.

The unseen challenge humans had here, especially on first arrival, was much more subtle on this world of extremes: time. Being trapped in a perpetual dusk, time does not visibly pass here, and instead must be felt.

Demography

Population: 1.5 Billion
Races:

• Human - 98%
• Other - 2%

Languages:

• Common - 80%. "Common" is really a set of languages that mirror those previously found on Earth. They're sometimes referred to as the "Core Four", comprised of English, Portuguese, Oromo, and Hindi. In addition, each of these languages bear similar Earthborne dialects or slight offshoots that are considered part of this statistic.
• Verdanian - 20%. The Verdanian dialect is very close to English but has imparted its own twists, most notably the complete absence of the letters q, u (w takes its place and sound), x, y, and z. It grew out of the mixture of cultural slang and accents, and has only recently been designated as its own entity.

Urbanization:

• Rural - 30%, but growing. A "rural" lifestyle on The Rift is still highly technological, certainly more so than the historical notion of the word. The measurement includes the small number of flora researchers and their scientific growing efforts, as well as the energy infrastructure staff.
• Urban - 70%. Much of the populace on The Rift lives in one of its cities. It is simply the safest and easiest lifestyle for most people.

---

History

1st Century-

2nd Century-

3rd Century-

Culture and Society

(How do they live? Anything from ritual cannibals, to a surveillance state dystopia, to an integrated hivemind.)

Government and Politics

The power structure of Verdan refer to themselves as an "Interim Ecclisiocracy"; the nation is really under the rule of God, and the titled priesthood merely govern it until the time he returns to reclaim his sovereignty. Within the Protholic Church itself, eight rectors are elected to fill the seats of the Eventide Synod; their collective public voice is known as the Morning, but its members aren't technically afforded any additional powers beyond this.

---

Technology

In Verdan, power has never been an issue. In fact, Verdanians enjoy an abundance, owed in part to the bevy of methods consistently available, the main three being wind, solar, and thermoelectric. Massive turbines are erected on pyramid-shaped bases to make use of the constant zephyr. Supporting these are fields of glass-like panels, laid over flat areas near the borders of The Wastrel. Huge, tube-shaped generators run parallel to the rivers that cut across the thinner sections of the dusk band, using the solar side to heat the liquid while the darker side subsequently cools it.

Military

(This is the space to talk about any offensive capabilities you have. Given that most of these Colonies have been essentially stranded by themselves for three centuries, I don't imagine anyone has a large "conquer other planets" level fleet yet. But maybe your Colony has been in civil war for a hundred years, and has built up an impressive military in that time. Or maybe they even had to fend off a genuine alien invasion.)

---

Characters

---

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Durzum gro-Moghul

Durzum gro-Moghul

"Choice is a luxury granted to us through peace. Conflict is man and mer's true nature."

Age: 35
Gender: Male
Race: Orsimer
Appearance: Slightly below average in height, for an Orsimer. He has broad, almost pointed shoulders and is covered in thick, functional muscle one commonly may see on miners or woodcutters. He moves and stands with the discipline of a career soldier, and has a habit of picking at lacerations in his armor, blunting his nails. His skin falls into the brownish, almost olive-colored shade of the Orc spectrum.

His face bears the stress marks and wrinkles of someone decades older than he. Though his round jawline, almond-shaped eyes, and beak of a nose, coupled with his skin tone, at times make him look man-like, the two small, hook-shaped tusks protruding past his lower lip and ears that come to a point would instantly betray the notion. Both his body and face have remained remarkably unmarred given his profession, and both remain free of any tattoos, as he is an instrument of Trinimac, and his blade, Penitent, bore no runes. His hair is the color of soot, and he keeps it pulled back into a ponytail, preferring to keep the sides cut short. He's never been able to grow facial hair.

His clothing is very simple and functional for the environment and season he finds himself in, consisting of plain trousers and whatever shirt he grabs, be it full of holes or no. Furs will supplement this in the colder months. Still, Durzum is most comfortable in some sort of armor, even if it's just his greaves or armlets, but preferably his shield. His mace is only ever off of his person when he sleeps, and even then he keeps it within arms reach.

---

History:

Durzum was born the child of Moghul gro-Ghornok and Dagatha gra-Mazg within the walls of Orsinium in 3E 413. Healthy and strong, his formative years saw him run the gamut of rearing techniques synonymous with Orsimer- before his seventh year, he was taught how to hold and handle a weapon, and afterwards learned to read and write as he was instructed in the ways of Malacath. He was destined to be a guardsman of Orsinium, and was one of many younglings to enter into extended training given to adolescents to turn them into warriors. It was a tough lifestyle, and Durzum was frequently mocked when he brought up Malacath; he would sometimes invoke the right of combat but this only garnered further disfavor. Around this time, Durzum's father would leave, taking the name Moghul gro-Orsinium as he travelled to Cyrodiil to try and make a name for himself in the Fighter's Guild, or perhaps the Legions, tempted by visions of glory.

Durzum would then meet Bruk gro-Bharmog, a young Orc four years his senior on a similar lifepath. Though he was one of the many Orsinium-born orcs who worshipped Trinimac, the two became good friends, though Durzum to this day believes Bruk took pity on him, as Bruk was always the better fighter. In time, he would teach Durzum the way of Trinimac, and his goals of martial, divine perfection. At the time, Bruk believed fighting in war was the preferred way to worship the deity, conflict being merely a lathe to shape oneself upon. Durzum took to his opinions over Malacath's, a fact that caused his mother to basically disown him; she, too, would leave Orsinium shortly afterwards. Now a man in his own right, Durzum entered the service of the Orsinium Guardsmen, though mirrored Bruk's desire of mercenary life, travelling Tamriel, honing what he saw as a divine craft.

Two years into his service, the Gates of Oblivion opened in Cyrodiil. Emperor Uriel Septim VII lay dead, and the countryside found itself in the throes of war. Bruk and Durzum saw this as an opportunity, and less-than-amicably left Orsinium, eventually finding their way to Bruma where they located a small force from the Fighter's Guild, to whom they offered their blades. By the time they had arrived, the Oblivion Crisis was reaching its end, and witnessing firsthand the sorrow and wroth brought on by such a conflict changed them. "There is no divinity to be found in something that causes such torment," Bruk would tell Durzum, who agreed.

The revelation shook them to their core. After the Crisis ended, the two travelled back to Orsinium, spending much of the journey in contemplation. In their conversing, the two arrived at the belief that it wasn't conflict that Trinimac desired, but the resolution thereof. The faster, the better- prolonged war only furthered its misery, which Trinimac certainly wouldn't want. Bruk referred to this as "Tearing out the heart", referring to Trinimac's legend wherein he tore out Lorkhan's heart in front of his army. Bruk would pen these beliefs in a journal that would later become the foundation of his "A Conjecture on the Code of Malacath."

Durzum and Bruk were mercifully returned to their posts within the Guard, where each would serve for the next decade. Durzum's service was quiet, whereas Bruk eventually published his beliefs in a pamphlet. It was received as little more than an interesting talking point, as most of Orsinium at that point now bowed to Trinimac. It was also fairly self-serving; Bruk became something of a captain as his martial skills only continued to impress as he bested his superiors.

Soon after the onset of the Interregnum, as the borders of Tamriel were beginning to blur, Orsinium watch posts reported a troop of Redguards and Bretons approaching. Their intent was clear, that being the sacking of Orsinium. King Gortwog gathered advisors and guard captains to discuss the coming conflict, Bruk among them. As the invading force had numbers and surprise on their side, it was apparently decided to battle conventionally, submitting to a loss, escorting as many refugees out of Orsimer as they could before it crumbled.

Bruk, however, had been developing his own military philosophy, influenced heavily by his belief that Trinimac values the resolution of war, rather than the process of it. He theorized that adhering to the moral and ethical deliberations during "measured war" works against the objective of war, and conforming to things such as "honorable" codes of conduct only served to prolong suffering from conflicts rather than belittle it. He proposed his own strategy- one that maximized cruelty, brutality, and fear in hopes of bringing as fast of an end to the war as possible, minimizing the true suffering he believed would be caused by sustaining it. Though he was rebuked for this, Bruk defied orders and rallied a faithful contingent (of which Durzum was a part of) to practice the tactic during the Sacking of the Third Orsinium. A sudden, rapid conquest was met with horrific massacres and the routing of a lot of the civilian support staff that had accompanied the offending force. They emphasized attacking things like civilian supply trains and food stores, making it a point to butcher all they came across, sparing none, not even those that surrendered.

This brutality established to the Breton and Redguard invaders that Bruk's tactic of waging war was far unlike their own, or even other Orsimer's, as they had clearly expected conventional, Code of Malacath conduct. Within a short period of time, a portion of the offensive had slowed dramatically. Though the rest of the year saw the invading force ultimately successful, Bruk claimed some credit in biding enough time for the refugees of Orsinium to escape safely into Skyrim.

Despite this, Bruk, Durzum, and the others decided not to rejoin their Orsimer brethren. They had come to another conclusion that an entire nation's military cannot be run this way, mostly because of what this style of warfare inflicts on those that carried it out. Most had begun to rely on various coping mechanisms to deal with the trauma, and were confident they would never be able to reintegrate into a normal society or life again. Instead, they retooled their beliefs and envisioned an independent group that would embrace these ideals as a way of life, its members traveling from conflict to conflict until battle took them.

Calling themselves Voshu Ornim (Worthy Orcs), this was their final development into a distinct independent order. "Philosophers" of Bruk's teachings sought to spread them to every corner of the world. Durzum himself was drawn to Cyrodiil once more, seeing it as a quickly fattening center of war and struggle. Following up on rumors of a resistance within Skingrad, Durzum was quick to offer his arm to them, seeing the Count did naught but perpetuate hardship and would surely only prolong campaigns to keep himself in power.

---

Personality:

"Even when the banners of war lay dirtied and unused, man and mer inspire strife- companions may argue with fists, beloveds whet jealousies, coinpushers wrestle with lies - no matter where man and mer may go, conflict will always follow.

The immediately notable thing one will certainly notice in any interaction with Durzum is his obsession with the concepts of conflict and strife. This can largely be attributed to both the zeal he harbors for his deity, and his time serving under Bruk, who also proselytized his own views on the matter. This wasn't always the case, and vestiges may occasionally be seen of a dispassionate and worried person, but his time spent amongst Voshu Ornim has largely shaped his worldview to match. Durzum believes that struggle and strife are the fundamental nature of all living things, and believes that those who can resolve their conflicts quickly are not only virtuous and right, but will also be viewed favorably in the eyes of Trinimac.

"We who worship Trinimac are not bewildered barbarians nor reclusive mystics. We stand as knights, guardsmen, bodyguards- craftsmen of conflict and discord, protectors of our families and homes; Trinimac is a God of war and perfection, not murder and conquest."

It wouldn't be a stretch to label Durzum a zealot. In a similar measure of his worship of conflict, so too does he bow to Trinimac, the warrior-god whose clergy could mostly be found within the Third Orsinium before its fall. Durzum, as many of the Voshu Ornim, worshipped the Paragon in their own way. He levies Trinimac's potential view of him as the measure of his own worth, and wholly believes his interpretation of war (that being, the resolution of control through violence) earns him favor in his eyes. He loathes things he believes will tarnish Trinimac's view of him; listlessness, weakness, unfaithfulness, the inability to help himself - these are a few of the things Durzum has encountered throughout his life that he thoroughly shuns.

Given the nature of Trinimac worship, Durzum resents any mention of Malacath, and will frequently refer to him as "the whore of Boethiah".

"I do not pray for strife- I view war as unwelcome as anyone else, but when it inevitably must be fought, I pray for the wisdom to resolve it quickly.

All of this is not to paint Durzum as a warmonger. Far from it, in fact. Durzum accepts and stands firm that war causes immense suffering, and in his brutality and cruelty, he looks to end it as quickly as possible, believing that doing so is genuinely better in the long term. These views can largely be expanded to all of his other facets of life; this results in a very blunt, humorless, and above all relentless Orsimer. He is not without reason or pragmatism, though. Much of his life has been spent serving under the command of others, but he will always be quick to state his opinion and goals, and at least appreciates strong decisions, even if they're ones he himself wouldn't have made. Ultimately, he is a warrior who believes he's deciphered the key to ending war, and thus creating a better world because of it.

In private, Durzum remains deeply troubled by the things he has done, and wrestles with doubt. He's more sensitive that he lets on, and is mortified at the thought that his views are entirely misguided, and he is nothing but a cruel and worthless blackguard. Nevertheless, he remains faithful to Bruk and Trinimac's ideals for the time being, doing his best to eschew the intrusive ideas by trying to avoid situations where he could be seen as merciful.

---

Attributes:

• Major: Endurance - Durzum is nothing if not relentless in all of his pursuits. The mental and physical exploits of the Voshu Ornim, to mention nothing of his upbringing, have honed his body, and though his mind remains traumatized, it is nonetheless steeled against what he views as lesser horrors.
• Minor: Personality - If one were to measure the strength of personality as an individual's ability to effect dispositions, Durzum is somewhat apt at the art. Whereas others may mingle with words or loosen tongues with coins, Durzum likens himself, and his "charm", to an executioner's axe.

Skills:

Expert:

• Heavy Armor: The Voshu Ornim infamously fought in Orsinium almost exclusively in heavy armor. It only added to their menacing visage- a wall of heavily armored orcs, standing shoulder to shoulder, tirelessly marching toward their charge.

Adept:

• Blunt: Durzum has always favored axes and hammers. They aid his strength and all-offense style, allowing him to somewhat eschew form and technique in favor of raw power.
• Block: Durzum's shield exists only to keep him in the fight longer. This, combined with his heavy armor, allow him to persistently harry foes on the battlefield.
• Athletics: A lifetime of training and a history of travel have honed Durzum's stamina to a fine point. Durzum's unrelenting willpower also supplements this, shrugging past the boundaries of his own limitations, careless to any consequences.

Journeyman:

• Illusion: Magic is something he's picked up only recently, and his selection of spells remains pitifully small. He prefers to use it as a last resort, for the simple fact that magical fear and courage wither away.
• Hand-to-hand: A byproduct of his upbringing. Durzum is supremely uncomfortable in situations where he feels powerless or weak, and as such trains a little without weapons, not wanting to rely on weaponry alone.
• Armorer: Durzum is self-taught and couldn't ever hold a candle to a real smith, but he's adequate in maintaining his own weapons and armor to an acceptable (read: functional) level.

Spells:

• Fear
• Courage

Equipment:

• Rugged Steel Plate - the same set of steel plate he wore during the Sacking of Orsinium. Its perpetually in a state of adequate repair, but there's nothing else notable about it. Durzum does his best to keep it functional, not only because it is a personal token, but his lack of funds have barred him from replacing it.
• Orcish Mace & Shield - Durzum's preferred tools of war. Like his plate, they are relics from the previous Orsinium

Belongings:

• A copy of "A Conjecture on the Code of Malacath by Bruk gro-Orsinium.
• Traveling Supplies - Little more than a bedroll, a pan, a handful of rations, a waterskin, and a tinderbox.
• Basic Armorer's Tools - A frequently used bag of various sizes types of tools one could repair light damage to arms and armor with.
• Token of Voshu Ornim - A single septim with various organic materials carefully burnt into it until both sides are soot black. A reminder to not be beholden to a nation, but to his ideals.
• Money - Carried in a fur coin pouch at his hip. Its usually only filled with around twenty-five septims as well as his Token; Durzum does not fight for money, but lodging and food require it.

Birthsign: The Lord

What Gods hath wrought

Early morning of the 6th of Sun's Dawn, 4E11, the Outskirts of Orsinium

"One... Two... Three..."

"What are you doing?"

"Well, Durzum, I'm counting my footsteps. You caught me pretty good, young mer. Counting makes me focus on something else, makes it hurt a little less." Durzum looked up at the Orsimer nearly twice his size as he paced a few more small circles, fingers gingerly prodding a growing lump of discolored flesh on his cheek. Durzum's toothy grin fought back any of his instructor's attempts to make eye contact.

"Maybe next time we'll practice with the real things? That oughta get you to focus and not slip up again, right?" Durzum's grip on the wooden mallet was still white-knuckled. His hand still stung from the impact - he never liked sparring hard in the colder months - but he felt he was hiding it well.

Durzum only received a bloody tooth spat at him.

The sudden metallic rustle of armor awoke Durzum with a start. Reflex dictated his hand reach for his mace, but in grasping for it he only found a handful of his bedroll.

"Forget this?" A gravelly voice inquired. The only lighting in the small tent was coming from the intruder, who carefully held an oil lamp. Durzum noticed stars in a black sky through the opening in the tent, betraying any semblance of sleep gained. As if the soreness creeping in from his shoulders didn't make it obvious enough.

The lamplight reveal of a familiar face followed a solid thud as Durzum's mace landed in the dirt next to him.

Durzum cleared his throat, "Can't allow me more than an hour of rest, Bruk?"

The steel-clad, burly orc grunted. "I know you barely sleep. An hour would be merciful." With more metallic rattles, Bruk turned and slipped out of the tent, leaving Durzum only the darkness and the faint smell of smoke and burnt flesh that slowly filled his senses. Bruk was right, Durzum always had a hard time sleeping after a battle. Wiping his eyes, he followed Bruk.

Now out on the rocky overlook, Durzum found the source of the smoke. A small campfire had been hastily erected not fifty feet to the right of his tent, near the edge of the plateau. Looking to his left, Durzum saw a few others like it down the line of tents, though only the nearest had an occupant. Below their position, a wide, snow-covered road twisted away and down

Bruk awkwardly sat on a small rock, the crackling flame illuminating only the left side of his face. Were his steel armor in better care, it might've looked golden. Bruk's gaze was locked on the road- specifically, a shrinking red and orange glow farther down it, just over where the path would dip out of sight, were it not night. Durzum knew what was there. He was surprised they were still burning.

"Those Bretons never burn right," Bruk wryly remarked as Durzum approached, footsteps plodding against the cool, uneven rockface beneath his feet. "Must be that Dragonskin or what have you."

Durzum couldn't find the words for a reply as he took a position on the other side of the fire. Though most of his face was shrouded in the shadow of pre-dawn, Durzum knew Bruk well enough that he could tell he was deep in thought. No doubt recalling the events of the night prior in his head. They had attacked the supply train while they were celebrating something, making quick work of the guards and several of the bystanders. Most were defenseless. The rest had quickly fled, hopefully back west. Bruk had uncharacteristically called off pursuit.

"Is what we do right, Durzum?"

The sudden question hit him in the gut like a steel hammer. The unexpectedness of it almost made him laugh.

"Of course," Durzum replied, almost mechanically, clearing his throat. Glancing over, he was surprised to see Bruk staring straight at him, his face set and unmoving.

"Don't tell me you're losing sight of our bigger picture now, Bruk. Remember what you've said- 'think not of him you've slain, but those you've dissuaded from picking up the sword?'"

Bruk scowled, turning his gaze back to the dimming horizon. Durzum could feel his eyes narrow. "I've seen what it does to you- the others. Your hands shake. Many have taken to the bottle, among other things." He shook his head, his squat, angled face looking particularly hellish when illuminated by the campfire.

"I had dreamt of something bigger. To influence all of Orsinium to fight this way. Craft ourselves a reputation so insidious that our presence on the battlefield alone would be cause for prompt surrender. There would be no faster a way to end any war. As Trinimac ripped out the heart."

"That's not unachievable," Durzum replied, rubbing his eyes, lowering himself into a squat next to the fire, "you saw how many fled when they realized it was us."

"No, Durzum, I think now you are the one missing the bigger picture. A whole nation's armies could not possibly wage war this way. Remember Urzoa, or Bruga. How they died with little protest. I think they longed for their demise."

A few moments passed as Durzum thought, silence only broken by the crackling of the fire. Finally, Bruk spoke: "Look at me-"

Durzum tilted his head and locked Bruk's gaze.

"-do you honestly plan to return to Orsinium when this is over? To try and return home?"

Durzum couldn't hold the stare. Visions of the commoners he slew flashed through his head- the worst were the younger ones. His words caught in his throat. Both of them already knew the answer, anyway. With a twist and a grunt, Durzum stood, turning away from Bruk, and slowly began walking back to his tent.

"One... Two... Three..."

"What are you doing?"

"Counting my footsteps."

Through the Gateways: Humanity

This gives me sort of upscaled Sid Meier's Alpha Centauri vibes - I'm absolutely interested.

Falling Skies: Reboot (Mecha, Space Opera)

So I see this is full, but if one exists, add me to the waiting list for if more spots ever open up!