BurningCold

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

@Leidenschaft I don't think you're supposed to post in the characters tab until the GMs approve your changes.

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

Changed the first two sentences of the second paragraph in appearance to reflect his need for scarring, reworked the skills to a level that I feel makes sense, added a spell, changed a sentence in the first (only) paragraph of part 2 in his bio, and added 500 septimes. I believe this summarizes all of the changes made.

Also Still Not Sheogorath

Character Name:

Veeza

Age:

32

Race:

Argonian

Sex:

Male

Birthsign:

The Lord

---

---

Specialisation:

Combat

Class:

Brawler

Skills:

• Expert- Hand to Hand
• Journeyman- Heavy Armor, Athletics, Suturing (Craft)
• Apprentice- Acrobatics, Restoration, Speechcraft, Alchemy (Craft)
• Novice-One Handed Blades, Two Handed Blades, One Handed Blunt, Block

---

---

Appearance:

When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it’s own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, tapering into sharp points at the tip. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with pupils as lizard-like as the rest of him.

While his scales act as a natural defense, fifteen years spent fighting for his life in the arena has left Veeza with a plethora of scars marring his body, leaving none of him untouched. The worst of them have been caused by a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach; the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. Rarely will one find the Argonian outside of his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.

Personality:

As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He never fails to speak his mind regardless of what he desires to say, and puts little stock in the opinions of others, especially those seeking to denounce him. Typically, those capable of intelligent, polite conversation as well as feats of valor upon the field of battle can earn his respect, while those that lack the former will also be subject to his ire.

In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet been in a situation forcing him to lose his cool.

Backstory:

Veeza’s Biography - Prologue - Drunken Lizard

Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.” Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I’ll never have to see your stupid face again.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor. Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 1 - Nothing But A Pair Of Fists

Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man, either things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become.

Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 2 - Graduation Day

The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid from compliant members at the local mages guild to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday he entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of the red team mourned for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them.

Besides, now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 3 - The Pit Dragon

The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the floor of the arena. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand.

The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new a new blood; a pit dog.

It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his one and only scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long pony tail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 4 - The New Arena

If the dead had the gift of hindsight, many of the arena combatants might have considered themselves lucky to have been torn apart by daedra hordes, as opposed to being torn apart by Veeza’s bare hands. Kvatch’s grand champion in specific was particularly lucky. As while many matches were planned in celebration of Count Goldwine’s birthday, the red team’s champion, Veeza, against the city’s grand champion, Langurius Nerich, was to be the main event. The two had a cordial, even friendly relationship, and Veeza’s challenge to Langurius’ title came as a surprise to all in the city. Tensions were running high, and this match was played up to be the biggest in decades. Fate seemed to have different plans for the two, however. Langurius would find himself a charred corpse on the floor of the bloodworks, indistinguishable from the others surrounding him. Meanwhile, Veeza would be fighting for his life to eventually reach safety within the walls of Kvatch’s chapel, waiting for what seemed to be an inevitable demise.

Spells:

• Restoration- Heal Minor Wounds (Self), Convalescence (Target)

Inventory:

• His iron armor, the gauntlets are reinforced with steel and have studs made of dwarven metal inlaid along the knuckles
• A hastily thrown together travel pack that includes
• A pair of trousers
• A mortar and pestle
• Needles and thread for sewing wounds
• Provisions of hard tack and dried jerky that could last around a week at full ration, double that at half
• 500 septims, the earnings from his last victory

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

@MiddleEarthRoze I figured that the first people to do anything taught themselves, which is why I have alchemy and suturing where they are. The idea was that alchemy and suturing together were his "first aid" skills, and I also reckoned that learning how to sew wounds would be easier than creating potions and salves to aid a healing process. If this explanation isn't satisfactory, I could bump then down a level if that would resolve things.

The rest of the skills that need to be changed will be, and I'll add scarring. And don't worry, I will play my posts out realistically.

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

@Leos Klien I understand much of where you are coming from, especially with the scars, but I think a lot of what you spin as realism is just preconceived notions from how Argonians are typically played in the game. In fact, I could make this exact character in Oblivion and he would outclass dremora and daedroths in terms of raw strength. Just because Orcs are stereotypically brutes and Argonians are stereotypically rogues doesn't mean outliers are impossible. And do we really know enough about the science dictating the nature of these races to say that anything unobscene is an impossibility?

You're very right about the scars, however. In regards to the skills, the idea was that he's a novice with a few of those skills just because having been in the arena, he's been able to observe a lot of different people training/fighting with a lot of different weaponry. I can get ride of the apprentice blade and block if that seems too far though.

EDIT: I'd also like to inquire as to why you even care about a 3 inch height difference, especially when you had nothing to say about Adamiir's height.

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

Veeza is here to rek face.

Also Not Sheogorath

Character Name:

Veeza

Age:

32

Race:

Argonian

Sex:

Male

Birthsign:

The Lord

---

---

Specialisation:

Combat

Class:

Brawler

Skills:

• Expert- Hand to Hand
• Journeyman- Heavy Armor, Athletics, Suturing (Craft)
• Apprentice- Acrobatics, One Handed Blades, Block, Alchemy (Craft)
• Novice- Restoration, Two Handed Blades, One Handed Blunt, Light Armor

---

---

Appearance:

When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it’s own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, tapering into sharp points at the tip. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with pupils as lizard-like as the rest of him.

While his scales act as a natural defense, if not one that is entirely impressive, their propensity to regrow given enough time is the only boon that keeps him relatively scar free. In the case, however, of a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach, the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. Rarely will one find the Argonian outside of his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.

Personality:

As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He never fails to speak his mind regardless of what he desires to say, and puts little stock in the opinions of others, especially those seeking to denounce him. Typically, those capable of intelligent, polite conversation as well as feats of valor upon the field of battle can earn his respect, while those that lack the former will also be subject to his ire.

In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet been in a situation forcing him to lose his cool.

Backstory:

Veeza’s Biography - Prologue - Drunken Lizard

Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.” Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I’ll never have to see your stupid face again.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor. Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 1 - Nothing But A Pair Of Fists

Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man, either things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become.

Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 2 - Graduation Day

The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday he entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of the red team mourned for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them.

Besides, now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 3 - The Pit Dragon

The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the floor of the arena. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand.

The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new a new blood; a pit dog.

It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his one and only scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long pony tail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 4 - The New Arena

If the dead had the gift of hindsight, many of the arena combatants might have considered themselves lucky to have been torn apart by daedra hordes, as opposed to being torn apart by Veeza’s bare hands. Kvatch’s grand champion in specific was particularly lucky. As while many matches were planned in celebration of Count Goldwine’s birthday, the red team’s champion, Veeza, against the city’s grand champion, Langurius Nerich, was to be the main event. The two had a cordial, even friendly relationship, and Veeza’s challenge to Langurius’ title came as a surprise to all in the city. Tensions were running high, and this match was played up to be the biggest in decades. Fate seemed to have different plans for the two, however. Langurius would find himself a charred corpse on the floor of the bloodworks, indistinguishable from the others surrounding him. Meanwhile, Veeza would be fighting for his life to eventually reach safety within the walls of Kvatch’s chapel, waiting for what seemed to be an inevitable demise.

Spells:

• Restoration- Heal Minor Wounds (Self)

Inventory:

• His iron armor, the gauntlets are reinforced with steel and have studs made of dwarven metal inlaid along the knuckles
• A hastily thrown together travel pack that includes
• A pair of trousers
• A mortar and pestle
• Needles and thread for sewing wounds
• Provisions of hard tack and dried jerky that could last around a week at full ration, double that at half

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

I am having hellish formatting issues right now. Post is almost corrected.

EDIT: Everything is right in the world.

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

Adamiir Thiich - Kvatch Chapel - Pondering

As a rule, Adamiir liked to avoid any location that seemed particularly shifty. He and Morinus once passed through a town called Hackdirt, and since then Adamiir had given the place a wide berth on all future travels. This was a rule, one that he followed religiously. The problem then, with Kvatch, was that on no occasion did Adamiir even entertain the idea that the city might be anything more than just that; a city. What the Breton did not then understand, was why Mehrunes Dagon himself decided that parking the front door to his personal realm of hell in front of the city gates was a good idea. Not that the event didn’t intrigue Adamiir, quite the opposite in fact. The opening of a stable gate to any realm of Oblivion of that size was thought to be an impossibility. Being on the receiving end of an invasion of merciless daedra was proving to be a most exciting venture.

The experience was not without its drawbacks, however.

The end result of this misadventure was very clear to him. He, and everyone else in this godsforsaken chapel were going to wind up with their heads on pikes, or as scraps for the scampy’s perhaps. One thing was certain, however. They were all… “...going to die.” Adamiir’s voice rang out across the room, piercing the uncomfortable silence that until this point consisted mostly of murmured prayers and muted sobs. He paused for a moment, smiling warmly at anyone attempting to make eye contact with him, before taking long strides over to the other side of the chapel. The people over here were further away, and he would have appeared quieter to them, ergo, anyone here would be less likely to dislike him should he make an attempt at conversation. The most likely looking individual was a Bosmer talking to a small bird perched on her shoulder, a magpie if Adamiir was not mistaken. How delightful! He once had a vivid dream that he himself was a vulture, and had since then held a great respect for most if not all avian creatures.

The Bosmer girl began to feed her little friend, and Adamiir shuddered once with excitement, gripping at his pendant momentarily. He approached her carefully, being certain that he didn’t accidentally mimic any motions typically associated with any of the magpie’s known predators. “Greetings, Bosmer, friend of birds-” He paused, and his eyes found purchase looking into her’s, molten yellow globes in stark comparison to his muted grey. “I…” Adamiir’s voice trailed off again as he studied the multitude of scars marring her otherwise pretty face. Finding his voice once more, Adamiir began to speak. “You have seen battle. That is a good thing. It seems unlikely that the… uninitiated will see tomorrow without the help of those with experience. Or… you have not seen battle. And you were the victim of a horrendous attack in years past. In that case, you have my condolences, as your chances of survival just dropped significantly.”

Adamiir peered at her, waiting to see if she felt as optimistic about this encounter as he did. “However,” He began, taking in a breath. “If the latter is the case, I will do my utmost to see to it that both you and your feathered ally escape this city unharmed.” He smiled at her, as though she were an old friend coming to visit for the first time in months, showing off near immaculate teeth. “You will be pleased to know that this raises your chances of survival by a small margin!”

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

Still Not Sheogorath

Character Name:

Adamiir Thiich

Age:

28

Race:

Breton

Sex:

Male

Birthsign:

The Tower

---

---

Specialisation:

Magic/Stealth

Class:

Treasure Seeker

Skills:

• Expert- Illusion
• Journeyman- Destruction, Acrobatics, Trap-setting (Craft), Translation (Ayleid, Craft)
• Apprentice- Athletics, Restoration, Sneak
• Novice- Mercantile, Security, Alteration, Foraging

---

---

Appearance:

Tall and gangly, an inch or two below the height of the average Altmer when standing straight, with sharp bony features and his shoulders bent forward in a slight stoop, Adamiir’s form carries with it an aura of wrongness, as though he was put together by an amateur craftsman with pieces that never quite matched. His face is pale and clean shaven, his nose long and thin, pointed downwards, vaguely resembling the beak of a hawk. His mouth is a crooked slash of a thing, resting uncomfortably on his face. Set above high cheekbones and hollow cheeks are Adamiir’s eyes, dark and nervous, always jittering around, changing their focus every few seconds. Atop his head lies a thick mop of shoulder length blonde hair, dark gold, like that of a lion’s mane.

Unusually spry, despite his unwieldy appearance, Adamiir has built a small amount of muscle from a lifetime climbing trees in the Great Forest and pushing through its brush. Without concern for armor, he dons nothing more than a pair of leather shoes, sturdy but simple, brown cloth pants, for ease of movement without sacrificing durability, and a navy blue tunic, a belt of dark leather around the waist. The only other item of noticeable interest would be a plan silver amulet, given to Adamiir by his master.

Personality:

To call Adamiir eccentric would be both accurate and simultaneously a vast oversimplification. When it comes to the fine art of conversation, he is woefully awkward and unskilled, usually coming off of as somewhat touched in the head to the more judgemental folk populating Nirn. Despite these limitations, Adamiir prides himself as a teacher, always ready to educate present company with any information he has relevant to the conversation… whether his input was requested or not. As stilted as it may be, Adamiir does try his best to extend goodwill to those deserving of it; he is often caught between the desire to do good unto others and do what is best for himself. It would be correct in stating that Adamiir has a selfish streak running parallel to his generous one.

A particular fascination of his is the Ayleids, and while his enthusiasm for history is great, the passion he feels for the Ayleids’ mysterious nature is unmatched. Sometimes when he thinks no one can see him, he pulls out a welkynd stone, as full of magicka as the day he first claimed it, and stares deep into the crystalline blue surface, mesmerized by its glow.

Not a stranger to peril, Adamiir is confident in his abilities to escape most dangers with ease. More specifically, he puts stock in his prowess with the school of illusion, being able to manipulate the minds of others to cause chaos (or nullify it) while he makes a speedy exit from the scene. In cases where trickery wouldn’t be enough to solve the problem Adamiir faces, he is skilled in the fine art of melting faces.

He has a habit of gripping at his pendant when nervous, and often mumbles the end of a thought out loud when not actively refraining from doing so.

Backstory:

Adamiir’s Biography - Prologue - An Attempted Theft

For Jeriyn and Talasa Broell, the graveyard of Falkreath was like a candy shop. And they, of course, were the kids. As Jeriyn told Talasa often, there were enough dead soldiers buried there to take over the entire hold, and all it would take was two skilled necromancers, such as themselves. And as Talasa told Jeriyn often, the whole mess had better be worth their while, or she’d take Adamiir and turn tail right back to Cyrodiil, where it wasn’t so stupid cold. This exchange was repeated often between the two, all the way from Kvatch to the very graveyard in question. Talasa watched Jeriyn work incredulously, her babe pressed into her bosom to keep him warm during the chill of night.

Shiiick, shuck, ksh

Shiiick, shuck, ksh

Shiiick, shuck, ksh

Again and again Jeriyn labored, digging himself deeper into the earth, closer to the dead.

Shiiick, shuck, ksh

Shhckk

“I’ve got it!” Jeriyn exclaimed, the sound of metal striking wood one that he knew well. He dropped to his knees and began to scoop the dirt out of the way by hand, and sure enough the telltale planks of a coffin were revealed to him. “This is just the beginning,” he whispered to himself. “Soon, we’ll have an army.” Jeriyn hoisted himself out of the grave, and stood on its precipice. “Talasa, fetch the axe, I need it.” Wordlessly, she turned to leave. Talasa hated it when Jeriyn ordered her around in that manner, but refusing would just make him angry.

Nighteye guided her safely to the edge of the graveyard and beyond, into the brush where their horse, Whisper, was hidden, the animal’s reins tied to a sturdy, low hanging branch. Talasa retrieved the demanded axe from the saddlebags, its heavy weight feeling awkward and alien in her grasp. She started back towards Jeriyn, but froze mid step only a few paces later. There were angry shouts originating from where she came, followed by the unmistakable sight of Jeriyn’s spellfire. Talasa sucked in her breath, clutching at Adamiir, hoping against hope that her husband would come out of this unscathed.

It wasn’t to be. There were no more signs of magicka expenditure, yet the angry voices remained, and they were drawing closer. Talasa looked down in horror at the tracks in the snow that would lead her pursuers straight to her location. She took action in an instant, struggling to free Whisper’s reigns from the tree yet still managing. Pulling herself into the saddle, she seized the reins with one hand while her other arm held Adamiir close to her chest. The spurs digging into Whisper’s flanks were enough to get her moving, going at a full gallop out of the wood and onto the main road, Kvatch bound.

A storm of arrows whizzed past Talasa and Whisper, the former releasing the reins and trusting the latter to guide them in order to curl themselves around their child. Fire erupted in Talasa’s thigh, then again under her right shoulder blade. Both times she lurched forward in the saddle, crying with pain. The second time she spat blood flecked spit onto Adamiir’s face.

It did not take long before Whisper began to tire, and the horse slowed itself to a trot. Talasa held her head up slightly, surveying her surroundings as best she could as her vision began to darken. The Nords had not pursued. She lowered her head again, fixing her eyes on Adamiir. Alive. Unharmed. Tucking her chin against her chest and closing her eyes, Talasa allowed herself one small smile.

The infant Adamiir stared up at his mother’s serene face with curiosity, her heart beats echoing in his right ear slowly weakening, barely kept aflutter by desperate healing magics.

Whisper trotted on.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part One - The Master

Morinus Thiich needed an apprentice. It was only a short decade ago that he himself was the student, learning from the travelling mages and scholars delving deep into the Ayleid ruins for wealth and knowledge. However, his old teachers were now retired or dead, and in Morinus’ line of work, someone that had your back made the difference between life and death. An Ayleid temple tucked into the mountains separating Skyrim and Cyrodiil would mark the last time Morinus ever ventured into one of those dungeons alone. Now he would travel back south and scout the province’s various counties for an eligible apprentice.

Life, however, had different plans in store.

A blood stained babe clutched in the grip of what appeared to be said babe’s dying mother was not what Morinus Thiich expected to discover on his return trek home from the Jerall Mountains. But sure enough, there they both were, one atop the other, motionless on the side of the road, whoever or whatever brought them here already long gone. Morinus rushed over to the two, discovering the woman’s wounds to be much worse than he anticipated. Her left leg was mangled beyond repair, and a smouldering carcass of… something lay a few feet away. She tilted her head towards Morinus, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She lifted her arms once, feebly, raising her child towards the mage, before lowering them again, and growing still. This was not the ideal process that Morinus hoped to use, but he had been looking for someone malleable to pass his knowledge down to. The aging Breton sighed, and seized the infant up into his arms.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part Two - Rocks and Spells, Spells and Rocks

A few years passed since Morinus first found his pupil by the roadside, and the child that was known as Adamiir quickly became Morinus’ most promising student. Any free time seemed to have the child entirely absorbed in his studies. Learning of the lore and history of the world was one of Adamiir’s great passions. What took precedence above all other activities, however, was Morinus’ rigorous training regime, climbing trees and scaling large boulders would teach Adamiir to always remain agile and light on his feet, skills that would be tested when trees and boulders became the dilapidated ruins of ancient ayleid temples. Being able to bend the minds of friend and foe alike would always be an invaluable aid to Adamiir, as would spells of light that would guide Adamiir safely through even the darkest of crypts. Paralysis spells would come in handy whenever a quick escape was needed, while invisibility spells would ensure that he could not be tracked easily. Indeed, the many fine intricacies of the illusion school of magic were a great passion of Morinus’, one that he would ensure was passed down to Adamiir.

However, there are always times in life when smoke and mirrors cannot deflect the truth, or for every tricky ace one has up their sleeve, their adversary has two more. The destruction school of magic was ideal for dealing with these incidents, and this too, Morinus taught to his young breton pupil. Aside from rocks and spells, he also saw it fit to give Adamiir some amount of proficiency in the art of trapping. When on the road away from extended periods of time, one must learn to be self sufficient. Though a few other bits and bobs were thrown in to occasionally mix up the schedule, the curriculum Adamiir would follow for years to come was set in stone.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part Three - First Flight

It was at fifteen years of age when Adamiir first accompanied Morinus on his excursions to the Ayleid ruins. The sheer scope of how vast the empire of the Heartland Elves once was awed him, whilst simultaneously instilling a strange sense of forlorn melancholy in his heart. Crumbling ruins crawling with the dead were all that remained. The underground locale shown to Adamiir was small, and of relatively simple design. Threats were few and far between, only a few shambling skeletons waiting to be sent to the next world. They were no match for Adamiir’s magic - Morinus was simply observing, waiting to see if his protégé was prepared for future excursions - and he suspected that Morinus chose this specific location for those exact reasons.

Adamiir had been correct in assuming that a safer, more straightforward ruin was selected for the purpose of acting as a final test, as revealed by Morinus during their departure. From that point on, Morinus and Adamiir traveled across Cyrodiil as equals, the lessons taught by the former serving the latter well, and only magnifying in their usefulness.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part Four - Homeward Bound

For many more years, Adamiir and Morinus lined their pockets pilfering the riches of a long dead civilization. Mages across the province paid handsomely for the ethereal blue welkynd stones, while a contact in the Imperial City rewarded the pair handsomely for the more uncommon treasures they discovered. Lord Umbacano proved to be a most gracious associate, treating the two to fine meals whenever a particularly intriguing artifact was delivered.

It seemed that whenever Adamiir and Morinus weren’t on the road, they were resting in an inn, the concept of home becoming a foreign term, just another pit stop whenever it was convenient for the route the two had undertaken. There came a time, however, when they were forced to return to their humble cabin in the Great Forest, a few miles down the road from the city of Chorrol. Morinus was growing weaker and more frail in his old age, turning a homecoming into an inevitable necessity. Adamiir’s trapping talents became more invaluable than ever, the furs and excess meats being traded with the local farmers for food, while anything he kept was consumed. During this time Adamiir made many stews, as it was easier for Morinus to consume. He became quite good at making them too.

Despite Morinus’ weakened state, there was still one thing he could offer his apprentice. That was the secrets of the Ayleid language, and for the next few years leading up to his passing, the two spent much of their time together going over all of the knowledge at Morinus’ disposal.

Morinus had urged Adamiir a few times, before he became sickly, to let him be and go make a fortune, but Adamiir always refused, insisting that his place was at Morinus’ side. He vowed to watch over his master for as long as necessary.

And he did.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part Five - Bad News, Good News, More Bad News

After Morinus’ death, Adamiir was on the road once again. He couldn’t deny it, the call, the call that both he and his old master had felt. The secrets and treasures of the Ayleids called to him, their siren song luring him ever closer to his destiny, and further into the depths of the earth. For three more years Adamiir traveled Cyrodiil and fell deeper under the spell of his beguiling mistress, the lost Ayleid culture. It was on a routine stop to Kvatch to drop off some welkynd stones at the local mages guild that he first heard of the Emperor’s assassination, as well as the festivities to be held in celebration of the Count’s birthday. On a whim, Adamiir decided to stick around and participate in the festivities.

That choice was very quickly turning out to be a grave mistake.

Spells:

• Illusion- Immobilize (Touch), Dominate Creature/Human (Ranged), Eyes of Midnight (Self), Calming Touch (Touch), Rage (Ranged), Voice of Rapture (Ranged), Fearful Gaze (Ranged), Heroic Touch (Touch), Torchlight (Self), Ghostwalk (Self), Mute (Ranged), Shadow (Self)
• Destruction- Lightning Grasp (Touch), Dire Wound (Ranged), Frost Bolt (Ranged), Searing Grasp (Touch), Lightning Bolt (Ranged), Flare (Ranged)
• Restoration- Convalescence (Ranged), Heal Major Wounds (Self), Heal Minor Wounds (Self)
• Alteration- Protect (Self), Open Very Easy Lock (Touch)

Inventory:

• The clothes on Adamiir’s back
• A travel pack that the following items are either stored in or strapped to
• Sturdy twine for snares
• Two reusable bear traps
• Bedroll
• 243 septims
• 3 weak potions of sorcery
• Steel knife, utilitarian
• Flint & steel
• A welkynd stone

Also Still Not Sheogorath

Character Name:

Veeza

Age:

32

Race:

Argonian

Sex:

Male

Birthsign:

The Lord

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Specialisation:

Combat

Class:

Brawler

Skills:

• Expert- Hand to Hand
• Journeyman- Heavy Armor, Athletics, Suturing (Craft)
• Apprentice- Acrobatics, Restoration, Speechcraft, Alchemy (Craft)
• Novice-One Handed Blades, Two Handed Blades, One Handed Blunt, Block

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Appearance:

When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it’s own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, tapering into sharp points at the tip. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with pupils as lizard-like as the rest of him.

While his scales act as a natural defense, fifteen years spent fighting for his life in the arena has left Veeza with a plethora of scars marring his body, leaving none of him untouched. The worst of them have been caused by a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach; the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. Rarely will one find the Argonian outside of his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.

Personality:

As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He never fails to speak his mind regardless of what he desires to say, and puts little stock in the opinions of others, especially those seeking to denounce him. Typically, those capable of intelligent, polite conversation as well as feats of valor upon the field of battle can earn his respect, while those that lack the former will also be subject to his ire.

In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet been in a situation forcing him to lose his cool.

Backstory:

Veeza’s Biography - Prologue - Drunken Lizard

Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.” Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I’ll never have to see your stupid face again.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor. Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 1 - Nothing But A Pair Of Fists

Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man, either things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become.

Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 2 - Graduation Day

The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid from compliant members at the local mages guild to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday he entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of the red team mourned for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them.

Besides, now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 3 - The Pit Dragon

The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the floor of the arena. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand.

The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new blood; a pit dog.

It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his most grievous scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long pony tail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.

Veeza’s Biography - Part 4 - The New Arena

If the dead had the gift of hindsight, many of the arena combatants might have considered themselves lucky to have been torn apart by daedra hordes, as opposed to being torn apart by Veeza’s bare hands. Kvatch’s grand champion in specific was particularly lucky. As while many matches were planned in celebration of Count Goldwine’s birthday, the red team’s champion, Veeza, against the city’s grand champion, Langurius Nerich, was to be the main event. The two had a cordial, even friendly relationship, and Veeza’s challenge to Langurius’ title came as a surprise to all in the city. Tensions were running high, and this match was played up to be the biggest in decades. Fate seemed to have different plans for the two, however. Langurius would find himself a charred corpse on the floor of the bloodworks, indistinguishable from the others surrounding him. Meanwhile, Veeza would be fighting for his life to eventually reach safety within the walls of Kvatch’s chapel, waiting for what seemed to be an inevitable demise.

Spells:

• Restoration- Heal Minor Wounds (Self), Convalescence (Target)

Inventory:

• His iron armor, the gauntlets are reinforced with steel and have studs made of dwarven metal inlaid along the knuckles
• A hastily thrown together travel pack that includes
• A pair of trousers
• A mortar and pestle
• Needles and thread for sewing wounds
• Provisions of hard tack and dried jerky that could last around a week at full ration, double that at half
• 500 septims, the earnings from his last victory

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

Oakflesh changed to protect, backstory revised (end of prologue, part 1, and part 4), the first sentence in appearance was edited slightly, and I added a few illusion spells.

Still Not Sheogorath

Character Name:

Adamiir Thiich

Age:

28

Race:

Breton

Sex:

Male

Birthsign:

The Tower

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Specialisation:

Magic/Stealth

Class:

Treasure Seeker

Skills:

• Expert- Illusion
• Journeyman- Destruction, Acrobatics, Trap-setting (Craft), Translation (Ayleid, Craft)
• Apprentice- Athletics, Restoration, Sneak
• Novice- Mercantile, Security, Alteration, Foraging

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Appearance:

Tall and gangly, an inch or two below the height of the average Altmer when standing straight, with sharp bony features and his shoulders bent forward in a slight stoop, Adamiir’s form carries with it an aura of wrongness, as though he was put together by an amateur craftsman with pieces that never quite matched. His face is pale and clean shaven, his nose long and thin, pointed downwards, vaguely resembling the beak of a hawk. His mouth is a crooked slash of a thing, resting uncomfortably on his face. Set above high cheekbones and hollow cheeks are Adamiir’s eyes, dark and nervous, always jittering around, changing their focus every few seconds. Atop his head lies a thick mop of shoulder length blonde hair, dark gold, like that of a lion’s mane.

Unusually spry, despite his unwieldy appearance, Adamiir has built a small amount of muscle from a lifetime climbing trees in the Great Forest and pushing through its brush. Without concern for armor, he dons nothing more than a pair of leather shoes, sturdy but simple, brown cloth pants, for ease of movement without sacrificing durability, and a navy blue tunic, a belt of dark leather around the waist. The only other item of noticeable interest would be a plan silver amulet, given to Adamiir by his master.

Personality:

To call Adamiir eccentric would be both accurate and simultaneously a vast oversimplification. When it comes to the fine art of conversation, he is woefully awkward and unskilled, usually coming off of as somewhat touched in the head to the more judgemental folk populating Nirn. Despite these limitations, Adamiir prides himself as a teacher, always ready to educate present company with any information he has relevant to the conversation… whether his input was requested or not. As stilted as it may be, Adamiir does try his best to extend goodwill to those deserving of it; he is often caught between the desire to do good unto others and do what is best for himself. It would be correct in stating that Adamiir has a selfish streak running parallel to his generous one.

A particular fascination of his is the Ayleids, and while his enthusiasm for history is great, the passion he feels for the Ayleids’ mysterious nature is unmatched. Sometimes when he thinks no one can see him, he pulls out a welkynd stone, as full of magicka as the day he first claimed it, and stares deep into the crystalline blue surface, mesmerized by its glow.

Not a stranger to peril, Adamiir is confident in his abilities to escape most dangers with ease. More specifically, he puts stock in his prowess with the school of illusion, being able to manipulate the minds of others to cause chaos (or nullify it) while he makes a speedy exit from the scene. In cases where trickery wouldn’t be enough to solve the problem Adamiir faces, he is skilled in the fine art of melting faces.

He has a habit of gripping at his pendant when nervous, and often mumbles the end of a thought out loud when not actively refraining from doing so.

Backstory:

Adamiir’s Biography - Prologue - An Attempted Theft

For Jeriyn and Talasa Broell, the graveyard of Falkreath was like a candy shop. And they, of course, were the kids. As Jeriyn told Talasa often, there were enough dead soldiers buried there to take over the entire hold, and all it would take was two skilled necromancers, such as themselves. And as Talasa told Jeriyn often, the whole mess had better be worth their while, or she’d take Adamiir and turn tail right back to Cyrodiil, where it wasn’t so stupid cold. This exchange was repeated often between the two, all the way from Kvatch to the very graveyard in question. Talasa watched Jeriyn work incredulously, her babe pressed into her bosom to keep him warm during the chill of night.

Shiiick, shuck, ksh

Shiiick, shuck, ksh

Shiiick, shuck, ksh

Again and again Jeriyn labored, digging himself deeper into the earth, closer to the dead.

Shiiick, shuck, ksh

Shhckk

“I’ve got it!” Jeriyn exclaimed, the sound of metal striking wood one that he knew well. He dropped to his knees and began to scoop the dirt out of the way by hand, and sure enough the telltale planks of a coffin were revealed to him. “This is just the beginning,” he whispered to himself. “Soon, we’ll have an army.” Jeriyn hoisted himself out of the grave, and stood on its precipice. “Talasa, fetch the axe, I need it.” Wordlessly, she turned to leave. Talasa hated it when Jeriyn ordered her around in that manner, but refusing would just make him angry.

Nighteye guided her safely to the edge of the graveyard and beyond, into the brush where their horse, Whisper, was hidden, the animal’s reins tied to a sturdy, low hanging branch. Talasa retrieved the demanded axe from the saddlebags, its heavy weight feeling awkward and alien in her grasp. She started back towards Jeriyn, but froze mid step only a few paces later. There were angry shouts originating from where she came, followed by the unmistakable sight of Jeriyn’s spellfire. Talasa sucked in her breath, clutching at Adamiir, hoping against hope that her husband would come out of this unscathed.

It wasn’t to be. There were no more signs of magicka expenditure, yet the angry voices remained, and they were drawing closer. Talasa looked down in horror at the tracks in the snow that would lead her pursuers straight to her location. She took action in an instant, struggling to free Whisper’s reigns from the tree yet still managing. Pulling herself into the saddle, she seized the reins with one hand while her other arm held Adamiir close to her chest. The spurs digging into Whisper’s flanks were enough to get her moving, going at a full gallop out of the wood and onto the main road, Kvatch bound.

A storm of arrows whizzed past Talasa and Whisper, the former releasing the reins and trusting the latter to guide them in order to curl themselves around their child. Fire erupted in Talasa’s thigh, then again under her right shoulder blade. Both times she lurched forward in the saddle, crying with pain. The second time she spat blood flecked spit onto Adamiir’s face.

It did not take long before Whisper began to tire, and the horse slowed itself to a trot. Talasa held her head up slightly, surveying her surroundings as best she could as her vision began to darken. The Nords had not pursued. She lowered her head again, fixing her eyes on Adamiir. Alive. Unharmed. Tucking her chin against her chest and closing her eyes, Talasa allowed herself one small smile.

The infant Adamiir stared up at his mother’s serene face with curiosity, her heart beats echoing in his right ear slowly weakening, barely kept aflutter by desperate healing magics.

Whisper trotted on.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part One - The Master

Morinus Thiich needed an apprentice. It was only a short decade ago that he himself was the student, learning from the travelling mages and scholars delving deep into the Ayleid ruins for wealth and knowledge. However, his old teachers were now retired or dead, and in Morinus’ line of work, someone that had your back made the difference between life and death. An Ayleid temple tucked into the mountains separating Skyrim and Cyrodiil would mark the last time Morinus ever ventured into one of those dungeons alone. Now he would travel back south and scout the province’s various counties for an eligible apprentice.

Life, however, had different plans in store.

A blood stained babe clutched in the grip of what appeared to be said babe’s dying mother was not what Morinus Thiich expected to discover on his return trek home from the Jerall Mountains. But sure enough, there they both were, one atop the other, motionless on the side of the road, whoever or whatever brought them here already long gone. Morinus rushed over to the two, discovering the woman’s wounds to be much worse than he anticipated. Her left leg was mangled beyond repair, and a smouldering carcass of… something lay a few feet away. She tilted her head towards Morinus, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She lifted her arms once, feebly, raising her child towards the mage, before lowering them again, and growing still. This was not the ideal process that Morinus hoped to use, but he had been looking for someone malleable to pass his knowledge down to. The aging Breton sighed, and seized the infant up into his arms.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part Two - Rocks and Spells, Spells and Rocks

A few years passed since Morinus first found his pupil by the roadside, and the child that was known as Adamiir quickly became Morinus’ most promising student. Any free time seemed to have the child entirely absorbed in his studies. Learning of the lore and history of the world was one of Adamiir’s great passions. What took precedence above all other activities, however, was Morinus’ rigorous training regime, climbing trees and scaling large boulders would teach Adamiir to always remain agile and light on his feet, skills that would be tested when trees and boulders became the dilapidated ruins of ancient ayleid temples. Being able to bend the minds of friend and foe alike would always be an invaluable aid to Adamiir, as would spells of light that would guide Adamiir safely through even the darkest of crypts. Paralysis spells would come in handy whenever a quick escape was needed, while invisibility spells would ensure that he could not be tracked easily. Indeed, the many fine intricacies of the illusion school of magic were a great passion of Morinus’, one that he would ensure was passed down to Adamiir.

However, there are always times in life when smoke and mirrors cannot deflect the truth, or for every tricky ace one has up their sleeve, their adversary has two more. The destruction school of magic was ideal for dealing with these incidents, and this too, Morinus taught to his young breton pupil. Aside from rocks and spells, he also saw it fit to give Adamiir some amount of proficiency in the art of trapping. When on the road away from extended periods of time, one must learn to be self sufficient. Though a few other bits and bobs were thrown in to occasionally mix up the schedule, the curriculum Adamiir would follow for years to come was set in stone.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part Three - First Flight

It was at fifteen years of age when Adamiir first accompanied Morinus on his excursions to the Ayleid ruins. The sheer scope of how vast the empire of the Heartland Elves once was awed him, whilst simultaneously instilling a strange sense of forlorn melancholy in his heart. Crumbling ruins crawling with the dead were all that remained. The underground locale shown to Adamiir was small, and of relatively simple design. Threats were few and far between, only a few shambling skeletons waiting to be sent to the next world. They were no match for Adamiir’s magic - Morinus was simply observing, waiting to see if his protégé was prepared for future excursions - and he suspected that Morinus chose this specific location for those exact reasons.

Adamiir had been correct in assuming that a safer, more straightforward ruin was selected for the purpose of acting as a final test, as revealed by Morinus during their departure. From that point on, Morinus and Adamiir traveled across Cyrodiil as equals, the lessons taught by the former serving the latter well, and only magnifying in their usefulness.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part Four - Homeward Bound

For many more years, Adamiir and Morinus lined their pockets pilfering the riches of a long dead civilization. Mages across the province paid handsomely for the ethereal blue welkynd stones, while a contact in the Imperial City rewarded the pair handsomely for the more uncommon treasures they discovered. Lord Umbacano proved to be a most gracious associate, treating the two to fine meals whenever a particularly intriguing artifact was delivered.

It seemed that whenever Adamiir and Morinus weren’t on the road, they were resting in an inn, the concept of home becoming a foreign term, just another pit stop whenever it was convenient for the route the two had undertaken. There came a time, however, when they were forced to return to their humble cabin in the Great Forest, a few miles down the road from the city of Chorrol. Morinus was growing weaker and more frail in his old age, turning a homecoming into an inevitable necessity. Adamiir’s trapping talents became more invaluable than ever, the furs and excess meats being traded with the local farmers for food, while anything he kept was consumed. During this time Adamiir made many stews, as it was easier for Morinus to consume. He became quite good at making them too.

Despite Morinus’ weakened state, there was still one thing he could offer his apprentice. That was the secrets of the Ayleid language, and for the next few years leading up to his passing, the two spent much of their time together going over all of the knowledge at Morinus’ disposal.

Morinus had urged Adamiir a few times, before he became sickly, to let him be and go make a fortune, but Adamiir always refused, insisting that his place was at Morinus’ side. He vowed to watch over his master for as long as necessary.

And he did.

Adamiir’s Biography - Part Five - Bad News, Good News, More Bad News

After Morinus’ death, Adamiir was on the road once again. He couldn’t deny it, the call, the call that both he and his old master had felt. The secrets and treasures of the Ayleids called to him, their siren song luring him ever closer to his destiny, and further into the depths of the earth. For three more years Adamiir traveled Cyrodiil and fell deeper under the spell of his beguiling mistress, the lost Ayleid culture. It was on a routine stop to Kvatch to drop off some welkynd stones at the local mages guild that he first heard of the Emperor’s assassination, as well as the festivities to be held in celebration of the Count’s birthday. On a whim, Adamiir decided to stick around and participate in the festivities.

That choice was very quickly turning out to be a grave mistake.

Spells:

• Illusion- Immobilize (Touch), Dominate Creature/Human (Ranged), Eyes of Midnight (Self), Calming Touch (Touch), Rage (Ranged), Voice of Rapture (Ranged), Fearful Gaze (Ranged), Heroic Touch (Touch), Torchlight (Self), Ghostwalk (Self), Mute (Ranged), Shadow (Self)
• Destruction- Lightning Grasp (Touch), Dire Wound (Ranged), Frost Bolt (Ranged), Searing Grasp (Touch), Lightning Bolt (Ranged), Flare (Ranged)
• Restoration- Convalescence (Ranged), Heal Major Wounds (Self), Heal Minor Wounds (Self)
• Alteration- Protect (Self), Open Very Easy Lock (Touch)

Inventory:

• The clothes on Adamiir’s back
• A travel pack that the following items are either stored in or strapped to
• Sturdy twine for snares
• Two reusable bear traps
• Bedroll
• 243 septims
• 3 weak potions of sorcery
• Steel knife, utilitarian
• Flint & steel
• A welkynd stone

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

@MiddleEarthRoze I used Altmer in his appearance to emphasize his height, as he is unnaturally tall for a Breton.

You make good points for everything else though, so I'll be adjusting/revising/editing as needed. I actually like how most of the criticisms are going to allow me to beef up the first part. I already have some ideas.