LadyTabris

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

While typically two days on the road would have Sinalare feeling more at ease than she would in a fort, the looming threat of undead, a headless horseman, and a strange cult certainly put a damper on her comfort. She spent the days in unyielding sobriety, thinking far too hard about the situation.

So, for once, being inside a keep was almost comforting. Almost. The tall stone walls of Ken Muhyr and the slightly damp, chilled air in the hallways was oppressive. As Sinalare wandered the halls, glancing into living chambers one after another. The swing of the heavy wooden doors and the sound of her boots thudding against the stone floors was uncomfortable. She brushed off the uncomfortable memories with the first gulp from her flask in two days.

“A good sized window would do…” she muttered to herself, pushing open the next door. This chamber took her request and up-sized; there was, in fact, a hole in the wall. What was perhaps once a window was now a hole three times the size, with rubble strewn around the floor. The Bosmer took three steps into the room and dropped her things.

Standing at the open ledge, the wind blew into the room. It would be chilly at night, she figured, but Sinalare would take the chill of a fresh gust of wind over the bone-chilling feeling of sitting in a stone room any day. You couldn’t pay her to head into the store rooms. She took a few long drinks, overlooking the valley below.

“‘Make yourself at home,’ he said,” Sinalare joked aloud. She shoved the two, old looking cots next to each other against the wall, near the hole-window but not so near that she may fall out. The rubble which dusted them wasn’t of much concern to her, since she’d slept many unsavory places.

As she set about making the room feel as un-dungeon-like as possible, banging and thudding as she moved and cleared pieces of rubble, she figured a fire would make the place feel more homey, and moved to the next task. Three move swigs from her flask.

With her work done, she flopped on her back across the cots, and finished off her drink. She lifted the flask, turning it over and tracing the engravings with her fingertip. She’s picked it up off someone she’d killed during a job in Elsweyr, like most of the other things she owned. A job clearing out bandits, along with the rest of her company. It was a different time, as she’d been alone since then - until now, she realized.

Quickly, she tossed the empty flask to the floor. Where else would she go, she wondered - what if they ran out of drinks? Was there more somewhere in this keep…? Her thoughts got to her more and more - what was she doing here, in some imperial castle?

Abruptly, Sinalare jumped to her feet, wobbling slightly from the drinks. Hurrying, she left the room, looking for just about anything that would occupy her - and ideally get her outside of the oppressive stone walls.

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

Sinalare

---

» Race: Bosmer
» Sex: Female
» Age: 50
» Birthsign: The Steed
» Origins: A small village community a small trek from Southpoint, Valenwood

---

» Favored Attributes
Major: Agility
Minor: Intelligence
» Favoured Skills
Hightly Proficient: Destruction, One-handed (Blade)
Moderately Proficient: Acrobatics, Archery

---

Sinalare is all speed and toned muscles, with a lithe form well-suited to treks through her native Valenwood’s rough terrain. Though more suited to speed than pure strength, her body is toned, flexible, and acrobatic. While she would lose a contest of pure strength when faced with a larger opponent, she is well used to lifting her own body weight and has a high level of control over her limbs when focused. She is more at home in flexible, patchy armour that allows her a mix of maneuverability and protection. She is tall for a wood elf - the tallest of all her sisters, in fact. Her tanned skin is littered with scars and her hands callused: wear-and-tear earned from years of war and mercenary work. Her hair is messy and cropped short, just long enough that she can tie it back when entering a fight. It often falls in front of her face in disarray, hiding her hazel eyes. Her most notable scar crosses her chest - a vast, bumpy gouge that, without magical healing, clearly would have been a fatal blow.

Her face rests with a scowling impression, which many, many people have found off-putting; though, when you’re looking to hire a mercenary, Sinalare’s rough looking face sold itself. Her general demeanor isn’t unapproachable, though her face often makes her look that way - on a good day, she’s friendly enough, so long as no one strikes a nerve. When she drinks, her face loosens up and her usually stiff body language loosens up.

Most often, Sinalare is in armour, since she is typically working as a mercenary. Her armour is a patchwork; the make-shift is made of mix-matched sets she has collected and worked together over her years as a mercenary. The original design is long-lost. However, while between jobs, she typically wears comfortable travelling clothes, often in greens, browns, and grays. While Sinalare is far from shy, the unobtrusive clothes are an advantage should she need to blend in. In armour or not, Sinalare is inseparable from the flask on her hip.

---

Sinalare is from a small, quite close-knit village in Valenwood. Her father, Faenlin, was a pelt trader and hunter, while her mother, Sifina, focused mostly on home life, though when she had the time, she helped with his business and was a capable huntress in her own right. Sinalare had two older brothers and three younger sisters, whom she was close with. Her childhood is remembered fondly, full of family hunting trips for the business and playful rough-housing.

However, the quiet, family oriented life of her parents wasn’t enough to satisfy Sinalare’s ambitions. Throughout her youth, extended family often visited. Most importantly, this included her uncle Banor, who was quite a storyteller. He would regale the children with tales of glory and war, which stuck with Sinalare passionately through her youth.

When she was 15, in 4E171, the Great War began. For several weeks, she talked incessantly to her parents about joining the military and going off to fight valiantly on behalf of their country, for glory. They, of course, told her she was too young. They told her not to go, and tried to convince her not too. Sinalare refused to listen, and eventually, she ran off to the nearest city, Southpoint, in order to enlist. Having lied about her age, they took her without much complaint, as they needed the numbers.

So, she began her training, for which she was sent to the Summerset Isles. It was a brief few months, and Sinalare, along her group, excelled with the bow and sword - or so she thought at the time. They outfitted her as an archer, armed with a light sword to use in a pinch, and sent her along with the rest of her training group, made up of other Bosmer and a few Khajiits, all the way to the front line in Hammerfell to join Lady Arannelya’s forces.

Her group was sent all the way up to the front lines. Sinalare's peaceful existence ended abruptly. The camp was run-down, though they were thrilled to receive the supplies that came along with the reinforcements. Unfortunately, the Imperials were not so thrilled, and attacked at sundown, targeting the newly-brought supplies. Sinalare was thrown head-first into a brutal, bloody battle where she could hardly tell friend from foe. The opponents fought by fire-light as supplies and tents raged in a burning inferno. She tumbled from her tent, just barely having fallen asleep, and after being shocked by her surroundings, she roused her companions and rallied them. Fearing that she would lose track of her friends in the fighting, she focused on keeping her small group organized. For what felt like hours but must have been mere minutes, Sinalare and her companions fought tooth and nail to defend their camp, lacking any orders or organization. When at last the officers organized the Dominion forces, to Sinalare’s relief, they drove off the Imperials, though at a great loss of supplies.

Her first taste of real war was grueling and horrific, and she threw up well into the night over the stench of blood and burning corpses. The rude awakening was discouraging at first, and for miserable hours she cried, wishing to return home, remembering those she had struck down in the night’s confusion. She saw her allies, dead bodies in heaps, and realized just how underprepared she and her friends truly were… They weren’t excellent students; they were cannon-fodder. However, when daylight broke, she found her friends around her were proud of how she had kept them together. With their encouragement, she applied herself to continuing to train with the rest of the camp, and worked hard alongside their companionship. She knew how unprepared the group was and she urged them all to improve. As it turned out, she was talented at it - both the sword, and the role as leader she had adopted among her training group.

She drew the attention of one of the officers, an old Altmer named Ceadur. He was a mage who quickly became a beloved mentor to Sinalare. He took her under his wing and discovered her affinity towards destruction magic. She excelled quickly, and continued her training with him. She abandoned her role as an archer, and focused all her attention on destruction magic and swordplay. Over the next four years, she fought and trained fiercely on the front lines in Hammerfell, determined to be more than cannon-fodder. She rose in the ranks at an incredible rate for her age, helped along by her mentor, and followed his example of exceptional loyalty to the Dominion.

In late 174, at 18, she was in command of her own squad, made up of many of her closest friends from the past few years, along with some new, young faces fresh out to the front lines. Sinalare’s friends believed in her ability as a leader, and perhaps more importantly, so did she. So when they, along with a couple other bands, were assigned to a mission similar to the one she had witnessed on her first night at war, she was eager. Sinalare was all fire and fury, and tore through her enemies at a formidable rate, and she inspired loyalty from her group. They were on a streak of wins, and feeling like they could take on the entire Imperial Army.
So they crept behind enemy lines, targeting a supply train which was supposed to be only lightly defended. Sinalare’s group attacked from the back. She had a small group of stealthy fighters, those she trained with and friends she cherished. Two other groups would come from the front, louder and larger, just before they would rush in to debilitate the supply train.

Unfortunately, they only got part of the way through their plan before additional hidden forces attacked them, snapping the Imperials’ trap closed. Sinalare and her group were in the back, blocked off from retreat as the other groups pulled out. The enemy forces descended on them, and as they fought fiercely, Sinalare tried to save her companions. She watched friends fall on enemy swords and die to enemy fire. She herself sustained a fatal injury, sliced across the chest as their stealth mission. As the blood poured out of her, she collapsed on the battlefield. She remained conscious only long enough for her to see her friend, a Khajiit healer, leaning over her, mumbling words and trying to keep her awake.

When she woke up next, she was in a prisoner cart with an angry scar across her chest.
In 4E174, she was tossed in a Hammerfell prison, where she remained, nearly forgotten, for six years. She rotted in a dark cell, antsy and on edge, with no companionship and little light. Her only possession remaining was the small, carved-bone ball, made by her little sister, which she hid carefully. She spent her time raging at the guards, from hysterical to exhausted in a matter of seconds. She exercised, scraping her skin against the rough stone floor as she had little protection. In her mind, she held onto one idea: she would get out, and she would fight for her country again.

But the years dragged on. She had no news from the outside. The last she had heard of her family was of her mother’s pregnancy. She wondered how long had it been. Was her new sibling healthy? She months turned into years, and Sinalare lost hope. She waited and wasted away. Though she held with the Green Pact throughout her life, after a few days without food, she could no longer resist even the stale bread when they tossed it through the slot in her cell. She focused on one thing: her survival.

As the war had continued in Hammerfell, Sinalare was not released until the Second Treaty of Stros M’Kai, in 4E180. However, the small prison she was in held mostly local criminals, and it was only by chance that she was left there. Instead of being sent back with a group, the guards left her outside the prison with only the clothes on her back. Having lost her faith in just about everything she believed in, she instead became a vagabond, a wandering mercenary. For the next two years, she wandered Hammerfell, avoiding large cities and gatherings, which were intensely stressful after six years of little human contact. War with the Dominion ravaged southern Hammerfell. Though they were long gone, the sentiments towards a wandering Bosmer were unkind. She set sail for Elsweyr once she had enough coin saved.

Booze was her unwavering friend. Elsweyr was kinder than Hammerfell, and she fit in a little better. There were other veterans around, and she joined up with a mercenary group in 4E187 which included many.
It was a relief to have someone else giving the commands; the fear she gained after her failure told her to never give orders again. So, she became comfortable in the mercenary band, and she stayed in Elsweyr, hopping from different mercenary companions in different parts of the province for twelve years. She was afraid to stay too long in one group, and avoided getting attached. Her life became a routine existence of fighting for money and then blowing it all on booze; her drunken stupor rarely left her. At times, she retreated to the wilderness, overwhelmed by the company of others and used her hunting skills to keep herself going. Tormented by nightmares and unable to get over her losses, Sinalare spent the years after the war alive, but hardly living. She had a thousand acquaintances - drinking buddies especially - across Elsweyr, but not one friend.

In 4E199, Sinalare was drinking in Orcrest. Due to an unfortunate combination of a nightmare, an alcohol-induced nap outside, and finally, an unlucky bystander’s kindness in trying to wake her up, Sinalare’s time in Elsweyr met a rather bloody end as she fled the city guards.

After that, she found herself in the forests of Valenwood, home again at last. She hardly knew how she found herself there - she walked the whole way, only focused on running away rather than toward. Once there at the edge of the Green, she turned away. The guilt of her past actions and lack of adherence to the Green Pact after her imprisonment drove her from Valenwood’s familiar trees and she went north. She hardly trusted herself around other for several years, and mostly travelled off the roads, only stopping in cities for alcohol, which she often stole if she couldn’t sell her game or her services as a mercenary. Over the next six years, her city visits grew more and more common as she readjusted.

By 4E206, she found herself in Daggerfall, having just completed a mercenary job and intending to blow all her coin on drinks before she moves on…

---

Sinalare’s personality is often like a field of landmines. While on the surface, she is often boisterous and fairly jovial. She is quick to learn about her companions, which helped her to be a good leader while at war, and often joins in with friendly teasing. She might know a lot about the people around her, but she struggles to express sympathy and will avoid the personal struggles of others when possible. At best, this makes her awkward, and at worst, downright mean.

Sinalare’s demeanor can change on a dime. If questioned about her past, she immediately closes up, becoming rude and short. When there is any sort of physical threat, she embraces it, releasing a violent side of herself. She relishes in fights, and holds the belief that the world is inherently violent - there’s no point in fighting against violent action, so instead she revels in being good at it. She isn’t downright bloodthirsty, and has had many a bar brawl without killing her opponent, however when it comes down to it, she has no hesitation about killing, especially on the job. She takes her mercenary work rather seriously - a job is a job, simple, and she completes them without question.

When sober and working, she is typically on her guard and always aware of her surroundings, but she easily falls into the trap of loosening up as soon as alcohol is involved and quickly loses her finesse. Alcohol makes her friendly, and she becomes more indifferent to her own problems and others’. She is not often an angry or violent drunk, but instead these traits come out while she is sobering up.

She has, thanks to her time in prison, a crippling fear of ever going back. At the simple threat of being locked in any sort of enclosed space sends Sinalare into a rage where she will fight tooth and nail to avoid it. Her claustrophobia extends further than only being imprisonned. When she was first released, she could hardly go inside buildings. Though she has improved past that point, she still often fears being in dark caves or rooms without windows and the like.

Sinalare avoids responsibility at all costs. Having failed her friends while in command, she swore she would never again be in charge of anyone at all. She will never be a leader again.

Because of her upbringing, Sinalare is very comfortable living off the land. She has a great sense of direction and often feels most comfortable away from large cities. Part of her longs for her childhood, in Valenwood. Once she broke the Green Pact, nihilism kept her from trying again, and guilt kept her from returning to her family in Valenwood. The additional guilt of so much blood on her hands makes her afraid to face her family, especially her younger siblings. She often believes she should have died with her allies in Hammerfell, rather than being taken prisoner, but she clings desperately to her own life because it is a gift that her friend gave her at the expense of her own in those last moments, leaving her the scar on her chest as a reminder.

---

» Mis-matched set of armour
» A steel one-handed sword, well used and well maintained
» A couple pairs of travelling clothes
» Her trusky flask and a waterskin
» Coin purse, currently holding 52 septims

---

Sinalare travels light, but she has held onto a carved ball, made of bone, which was clearly carved by a child due to its bumps and lack of artistry.

---

Family: Sinalare has a large family in Valenwood, though she lost contact with all of them. Her parents and five siblings were well before she left. While she was enlisted, she often sent letters home to her village, as well as money whenever she could. Once she was imprisoned, she lost contact with them and even once she was released, she never re-established a connection out of guilt, and cowardice. She hasn’t seen or had contact with any of her relatives since was imprisonned in 4E174.
Other Associations: Most of those she knew in the Dominion army were killed when she was captured. There are still many who would recognize her, though she would avoid them at all costs. Her former mercenary comrades and acquaintances remain in Elsweyr, as far as she knows.

---

» Thunderbolt
» Lightning Cloak
» Chain Lightning
» Incinerate
» Lightning Rune
» Whirlwind Cloak

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

Sinalare

---

» Race: Bosmer
» Sex: Female
» Age: 50
» Birthsign: The Steed
» Origins: A small village community a small trek from Southpoint, Valenwood

---

» Favored Attributes
Major: Agility
Minor: Intelligence
» Favoured Skills
Hightly Proficient: Destruction, One-handed (Blade)
Moderately Proficient: Acrobatics, Archery

---

Sinalare is all speed and toned muscles, with a lithe form well-suited to treks through her native Valenwood’s rough terrain. Though more suited to speed than pure strength, her body is toned, flexible, and acrobatic. While she would lose a contest of pure strength when faced with a larger opponent, she is well used to lifting her own body weight and has a high level of control over her limbs when focused. She is more at home in flexible, patchy armour that allows her a mix of maneuverability and protection. She is tall for a wood elf - the tallest of all her sisters, in fact. Her tanned skin is littered with scars and her hands callused: wear-and-tear earned from years of war and mercenary work. Her hair is messy and cropped short, just long enough that she can tie it back when entering a fight. It often falls in front of her face in disarray, hiding her hazel eyes. Her most notable scar crosses her chest - a vast, bumpy gouge that, without magical healing, clearly would have been a fatal blow.

Her face rests with a scowling impression, which many, many people have found off-putting; though, when you’re looking to hire a mercenary, Sinalare’s rough looking face sold itself. Her general demeanor isn’t unapproachable, though her face often makes her look that way - on a good day, she’s friendly enough, so long as no one strikes a nerve. When she drinks, her face loosens up and her usually stiff body language loosens up.

Most often, Sinalare is in armour, since she is typically working as a mercenary. Her armour is a patchwork; the make-shift is made of mix-matched sets she has collected and worked together over her years as a mercenary. The original design is long-lost. However, while between jobs, she typically wears comfortable travelling clothes, often in greens, browns, and grays. While Sinalare is far from shy, the unobtrusive clothes are an advantage should she need to blend in. In armour or not, Sinalare is inseparable from the flask on her hip.

---

Sinalare is from a small, quite close-knit village in Valenwood. Her father, Faenlin, was a pelt trader and hunter, while her mother, Sifina, focuses mostly on home life, though when she has the time, she helps with his business and is a capable huntress in her own right. Sinalare has two older brothers and three younger sisters, whom she was close with. Her childhood is remembered fondly, full of family hunting trips for the business and playful rough-housing.

However, the quiet, family oriented life of her parents wasn’t enough to satisfy Sinalare’s ambitions. Throughout her youth, extended family often visited. Most importantly, this included her uncle Banor, who was quite a storyteller. He would regale the children with tales of glory and war, which stuck with Sinalare passionately through her youth.

When she was 15, in 4E171, the Great War began. For several weeks, she talked incessantly to her parents about joining the military and going off to fight valiantly on behalf of their country, for glory. They, of course, told her she was too young. They told her not to go, and tried to convince her not too. Sinalare refused to listen, and eventually, she ran off to the nearest city, Southpoint, in order to enlist. Having lied about her age, they took her without much complaint, as they needed the numbers.

So, she began her training, for which she was sent to the Summerset Isles. It was a brief few months, and Sinalare, along her group, excelled with the bow and sword - or so she thought at the time. They outfitted her as an archer, armed with a light sword in a pinch, and sent her along with the rest of her training group, made up of other Bosmer and a few Khajiits, all the way to the front line in Hammerfell to join Lady Arannelya’s forces.

Her group was sent all the way up to the front lines. Sinalare's peaceful existence ended abruptly, and with a shock. The camp was run-down, though they were thrilled to receive the supplies that came along with the reinforcements. Unfortunately, the Imperials were not so thrilled, and attacked at sundown, targeting the newly-brought supplies. Sinalare was thrown head-first into a brutal, bloody battle where she could hardly tell friend from foe. The opponents fought by fire-light as supplies and tents raged in a burning inferno. She tumbled from her tent, just barely having fallen asleep, and after being shocked by her surroundings, she roused her companions and rallied them. Fearing that she would lose track of her friends in the fighting, she focused on keeping her small group organized. For what felt like hours but must have been mere minutes, Sinalare and her companions fought tooth and nail to defend their camp, lacking any orders or organization. When at last the officers organized the Dominion forces, to Sinalare’s relief, they drove off the Imperials, though at a great loss of supplies.

Her first taste of real war was grueling and horrific, and she threw up well into the night over the stench of blood and burning corpses. The rude awakening was discouraging at first, and for miserable hours she cried, wishing to return home, remembering those she had struck down in the night’s confusion. She saw her allies, dead bodies in heaps, and realized just how underprepared she and her friends truly were… They weren’t excellent students; they were cannon-fodder. However, when daylight broke, she found her friends around her were proud of how she had kept them together. With their encouragement, she applied herself to continuing to train with the rest of the camp, and worked hard alongside their companionship. She knew how unprepared the group was and she urged them all to improve. As it turned out, she was talented at it - both the sword, and the role as leader she had adopted among her training group.

She drew the attention of one of the officers, an old Altmer named Ceadur. He was a mage who quickly became a beloved mentor to Sinalare. He took her under his wing and discovered her affinity towards destruction magic. She excelled quickly, and continued her training with him. She abandoned her role as an archer, and focused all her attention on destruction magic and swordplay. Over the next four years, she fought and trained fiercely on the front lines in Hammerfell, determined to be more than cannon-fodder. She rose in the ranks at an incredible rate for her age, helped along by her mentor, and followed his example of exceptional loyalty to the Dominion.

In late 174, at 18, she was in command of her own squad, made up of many of her closest friends from the past few years, along with some new, young faces fresh out to the front lines. Sinalare’s friends believed in her ability as a leader, and perhaps more importantly, so did she. So when they, along with a couple other bands, were assigned to a mission similar to the one she had witnessed on her first night at war, she was eager. Sinalare was all fire and fury, and tore through her enemies at a formidable rate, and she inspired loyalty from her group. They were on a streak of wins, and feeling like they could take on the entire Imperial Army.
So they crept behind enemy lines, targeting a supply train which was supposed to be only lightly defended. Sinalare’s group attacked from the back. She had a small group of stealthy fighters, those she trained with and friends she cherished. Two other groups would come from the front, louder and larger, just before they would rush in to debilitate the supply train.

Unfortunately, they only got part of the way through their plan before additional hidden forces attacked them, snapping the Imperials’ trap closed. Sinalare and her group were in the back, blocked off from retreat as the other groups pulled out. The enemy forces descended on them, and as they fought fiercely, Sinalare tried to save her companions. She watched friends fall on enemy swords and die to enemy fire. She herself sustained a fatal injury, sliced across the chest as their stealth mission. As the blood poured out of her, she collapsed on the battlefield. She remained conscious only long enough for her to see her friend, a Khajiit healer, leaning over her, mumbling words and trying to keep her awake.

When she woke up next, she was in a prisoner cart with an angry scar across her chest.
In 4E174, she was tossed in a Hammerfell prison, where she remained, nearly forgotten, for six years. She rotted in a dark cell, antsy and on edge, with no companionship and little light. Her only possession remaining was the small, carved-bone ball, made by her little sister, which she hid carefully. She spent her time raging at the guards, from hysterical to exhausted in a matter of seconds. She exercised, scraping her skin against the rough stone floor as she had little protection. In her mind, she held onto one idea: she would get out, and she would fight for her country again.

But the years dragged on. She had no news from the outside. The last she had heard of her family was of her mother’s pregnancy. She wondered how long had it been. Was her new sibling healthy? She months turned into years, and Sinalare lost hope. She waited and wasted away. Though she held with the Green Pact throughout her life, after a few days without food, she could no longer resist even the stale bread when they tossed it through the slot in her cell. She focused on one thing: her survival.

As the war had continued in Hammerfell, Sinalare was not released until the Second Treaty of Stros M’Kai, in 4E180. However, the small prison she was in held mostly local criminals, and it was only by chance that she was left there. Instead of being sent back with a group, the guards left her outside the prison with only the clothes on her back. Having lost her faith in just about everything she believed in, she instead became a vagabond, a wandering mercenary. For the next two years, she wandered Hammerfell, avoiding large cities and gatherings, which were intensely stressful after six years of little human contact. War with the Dominion ravaged southern Hammerfell. Though they were long gone, the sentiments towards a wandering Bosmer were unkind. She set sail for Elsweyr once she had enough coin saved.

Booze was her unwavering friend. Elsweyr was kinder than Hammerfell, and she fit in a little better. There were other veterans around, and she joined up with a mercenary group in 4E187 which included many.
It was a relief to have someone else giving the commands; the fear she gained after her failure told her to never give orders again. So, she became comfortable in the mercenary band, and she stayed in Elsweyr, hopping from different mercenary companions in different parts of the province for twelve years. She was afraid to stay too long in one group, and avoided getting attached. Her life became a routine existence of fighting for money and then blowing it all on booze; her drunken stupor rarely left her. At times, she retreated to the wilderness, overwhelmed by the company of others and used her hunting skills to keep herself going. Tormented by nightmares and unable to get over her losses, Sinalare spent the years after the war alive, but hardly living. She had a thousand acquaintances - drinking buddies especially - across Elsweyr, but not one friend.

In 4E199, Sinalare was drinking in Orcrest. Due to an unfortunate combination of a nightmare, an alcohol-induced nap outside, and finally, an unlucky bystander’s kindness in trying to wake her up, Sinalare’s time in Elsweyr met a rather bloody end as she fled the city guards.

After that, she found herself in the forests of Valenwood, home again at last. She hardly knew how she found herself there - she walked the whole way, only focused on running away rather than toward. Once there at the edge of the Green, she turned away. The guilt of her past actions and lack of adherence to the Green Pact after her imprisonment drove her from Valenwood’s familiar trees and she went north. She hardly trusted herself around other for several years, and mostly travelled off the roads, only stopping in cities for alcohol, which she often stole if she couldn’t sell her game or her services as a mercenary. Over the next six years, her city visits grew more and more common as she readjusted.

By 4E206, she found herself in Daggerfall, having just completed a mercenary job and intending to blow all her coin on drinks before she moves on…

---

Sinalare’s personality is often like a field of landmines. While on the surface, she is often boisterous and fairly jovial. She is quick to learn about her companions, which helped her to be a good leader while at war, and often joins in with friendly teasing. She might know a lot about the people around her, but she struggles to express sympathy and will avoid the personal struggles of others when possible. At best, this makes her awkward, and at worst, downright mean.

Sinalare’s demeanor can change on a dime. If questioned about her past, she immediately closes up, becoming rude and short. When there is any sort of physical threat, she embraces it, releasing a violent side of herself. She relishes in fights, and holds the belief that the world is inherently violent - there’s no point in fighting against violent action, so instead she revels in being good at it. She isn’t downright bloodthirsty, and has had many a bar brawl without killing her opponent, however when it comes down to it, she has no hesitation about killing, especially on the job. She takes her mercenary work rather seriously - a job is a job, simple, and she completes them without question.

When sober and working, she is typically on her guard and always aware of her surroundings, but she easily falls into the trap of loosening up as soon as alcohol is involved and quickly loses her finesse. Alcohol makes her friendly, and she becomes more indifferent to her own problems and others’. She is not often an angry or violent drunk, but instead these traits come out while she is sobering up.

She has, thanks to her time in prison, a crippling fear of ever going back. At the simple threat of being locked in any sort of enclosed space sends Sinalare into a rage where she will fight tooth and nail to avoid it. Her claustrophobia extends further than only being imprisonned. When she was first released, she could hardly go inside buildings. Though she has improved past that point, she still often fears being in dark caves or rooms without windows and the like.

Sinalare avoids responsibility at all costs. Having failed her friends while in command, she swore she would never again be in charge of anyone at all. She will never be a leader again.

Because of her upbringing, Sinalare is very comfortable living off the land. She has a great sense of direction and often feels most comfortable away from large cities. Part of her longs for her childhood, in Valenwood. Once she broke the Green Pact, nihilism kept her from trying again, and guilt kept her from returning to her family in Valenwood. The additional guilt of so much blood on her hands makes her afraid to face her family, especially her younger siblings. She often believes she should have died with her allies in Hammerfell, rather than being taken prisoner, but she clings desperately to her own life because it is a gift that her friend gave her at the expense of her own in those last moments, leaving her the scar on her chest as a reminder.

---

» Mis-matched set of armour
» A steel one-handed sword, well used and well maintained
» A couple pairs of travelling clothes
» Her trusky flask and a waterskin
» Coin purse, currently holding 52 septims

---

Sinalare travels light, but she has held onto a carved ball, made of bone, which was clearly carved by a child due to its bumps and lack of artistry.

---

Family: Sinalare has a large family in Valenwood, though she lost contact with all of them. Her parents and five siblings were well before she left. While she was enlisted, she often sent letters home to her village, as well as money whenever she could. Once she was imprisoned, she lost contact with them and even once she was released, she never re-established a connection out of guilt, and cowardice. She hasn’t seen or had contact with any of her relatives since she left Valenwood in 4E171.
Other Associations: Most of those she knew in the Dominion army were killed when she was captured. There are still many who would recognize her, though she would avoid them at all costs. Her former mercenary comrades and acquaintances remain in Elsweyr, as far as she knows.

---

» Thunderbolt
» Lightning Cloak
» Chain Lightning
» Incinerate
» Lightning Rune
» Whirlwind Cloak

The Elder Scrolls: Legacy

Sinalare jolted awake from the endless darkness of sleep, the last echoes of her nightmare fading as she sprung from the bed and rushed to the open window. She braced her hands on the windowsill as she shook off the memories - grasping the iron bars on the door - her knuckles turning white. She peered out over the city from the second-floor room. The early-morning chill, fresh air which had already permeated her room overnight was refreshing - pitch darkness, scraping her hands on the stones along the floor - and the dream faded.

The dream faded. She loosened her grip on the windowsill, finally turning away from it. Her things, hardly unpacked despite the fact that she stayed in the room for four nights now, were easy to throw together. Her purse was getting light. If the Adventurer’s Guild didn’t pan out, she would need to look for other work today, soonest. But why wouldn’t it? Surely her name was selected. She didn’t know anyone who would turn down competency.

The inn room wasn’t quite busy yet when she descended the stairs. Sinalare was always an early riser, even back in Valenwood. Her difficulty remaining asleep was only an added factor. She waved at one of the workers on her way by.

“Breakfast, please, and a drink,” she requested, walking past to the table which was closest to the door, even if it was built for six people. She tossed her things down next to her and seated herself, putting the last of her coins on the table for the barmaid.

The drink arrived quickly. Ale, an unfortunate drink she had become accustomed to. She drank it without hesitation but with much reluctance. Sinalare was never a picky eater; it was best to take whatever was available, despite her preferences. When the waitress added eggs and two baked potatoes to the mix, she said nothing, despite her yearning for… ah, fresh venison, she daydreamed. She ignored the taste easily, from practice, and the strange texture; the eggs and potatoes were gone in minutes.

Sinalare glanced up at the barmaid. She wasn’t the same one as had been there the past few days, and she was staring at the bosmer as she nearly inhaled her food. The girl was young and clearly a bit disgusted. Sinalare glared at her; the girl nearly jumped. She pushed her plate away from her and slung her bag over her back, leaving the inn without a backwards glance at her.

If she was remembering correctly - and surely she was - the guild was to the right. She weaved her way through the streets. Bruma was different from her previous travels; the city was certainly colder than Valenwood or Elsweyr, where she’d spent the most time. The strangest thing about Cyrodiil, she thought as she approached the notice board, was how the war was a distant memory; the participants she had once fought had aged and the Imperials who looked her age hadn’t even been born. They didn’t look at her as an enemy, though perhaps they would an Altmer, and she tried to do the same.

As she scanned the list, she shook off the thoughts. There her name was, right near the top, of course. She tried not to admit to herself that it was a relief; she was sick of asking around for one-time jobs everywhere she went. This way, they’d come to her. Smiling, she made her way towards the guild hall.

The Elder Scrolls: Legacy

Name: Sinalare
Age: 57
Race: Bosmer
Class: Battlemage

Portrait:


Sum your life so far into a single paragraph:
“You want my life story? Fine. My family's from Valenwood, and it’s a big one. I’ve got got six siblings left at home. Father’s a hunter, course; he trades in furs. I left and joined the military under the Thalmor when I was 15, a damn stupid decision which I paid back through years as a prisoner of war. A long time ago, now. But damn, if nothing else, I was good at it. The itch to fight never left me and I’ve worked with mercenary groups the like ever since they finally let me out - I’ve got experience. That enough, or do you want the details of my love life as well?”

What was the most difficult decision you've ever had to make?:
“We were sent on a scouting mission… Fairly routine, but we ran into an ambush and things just went sour. I… well. It was my call and I thought we could take them. We couldn’t. My group died, or were taken prisoner, like me. They didn’t want us reporting back. I should’ve told them to flee… Well, end of story. Don’t ask again.”

Tell me how other people would describe you?:
“Well, I’m not so warm and cuddly, you know, but if they’ve got my back, I’ve got theirs. Maybe I’m mean, but I… hope others see me as trustworthy. I don’t concern myself with it too much. They can think what they like as long as they don’t think I’m some kind of coward. I’ve been told I’m standoffish - that trying to get close to me is just painful. I’ll be your best friend for a night over drinks, and I’ll have your back through a fight, but beyond that people normally say I’m too angry, too violent, too short-sighted. Personally, I think I just see the world as it is. Violence is inevitable, so I’d better be good at it.”

What are your outside interests?:
“I like hunting, and cooking fresh killed meat - it reminds me of my childhood. But really, I like going into the wilderness. Climbing, fishing, swimming - just being out in the open and fresh air, away from the stink of cities. It’s more peaceful out there, just me and the beasts. Not like people’s violence. But my trade is violence, and it pays, so I can’t complain.”

What are your greatest strengths?:
“I’m versatile. You won’t catch me stuck in any situation. I can devastate enemies with flame and lightning from a distance, but I do most of my fighting a bit more up close and personal. I’ve got a trusty sword and I’m good with it. I might not wear much armour, but it covers what counts, since my foes hardly catch me; I’m quick. Truth is, though, I work best in a team, and I’ll have my companions’ backs in any tough spot.”

What are your weaknesses?:
“Weaknesses? Bah! …. Well… just don’t shut me in any confined spaces, yeah?”

What are your aspirations for the future?:
“That’s rather simple: I plan to keep breathing, out of captivity. There’s plenty of this world I haven’t seen, and I’m thinking I’ll try some other countries next.”

Why do you want to join this guild?:
“I’m sick of not being sure where my next job will be, and sick of seeking them out. I want reliable work where I don’t have to give the commands. Tell me where to go and I’ll do it, and when I’ve got the coin for it don’t tell me how to spend it. If I spend my evenings in the nearest tavern that’s my business - I’ll get the jobs done. Yeah?”

What are your expectations of the guild?:
“Point me in the direction of work and pay me for it, end of story.”

Skill Level	Skill
Highly Proficient	Destruction
Moderately Proficient	One-Handed, Light Armour, Acrobatics
Somewhat Proficient	Athletics, Archery
Novice	Conjuration

Magic School	Spell[
Destruction	Thunderbolt, Lightning Cloak, Chain Lightning, Incinerate, Lightning Rune, Whirlwind Cloak
Conjuration	N/A
Restoration	N/A
Illusion	N/A
Alteration	N/A

Equipment Type	Item
Weapon	Steel longsword
Armour	Leather, but with a few heavier pieces of steel attached in a few places, clearly not part of the original design but practical
Food/Provisions	Waterskin, flask with a mixture of miscellaneous liquors, rations - mostly jerky and bread.
Alchemical Ingredients	N/A
Miscellaneous	28 septims

The Elder Scrolls: Days of Night

17th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E213
Daggerfall

---

Sigri Fire-Caller waited until the absolute last minute to board the Kismet. The Nord paced back and forth on the wharf, belongings clutched in her left hand. She was, despite the appearance, grateful to be returning to colder waters in Cyrodiil, though the method of transportation left her with a lot to be desired. In fact, she expected the journey to feel like nothing less than a jaunt through Oblivion.

When Sigri finally had to cross the boarding plank, when it could not be put off any longer, she did so with butterflies in her stomach -- only an inkling of the nausea to come, she thought. The steps she took down the stairs to below decks were agonizing as she moved, carefully and uncertain, as even without the sails down, the ship rocked gently in the waves.

The walls of the cabin were stifling; as was the heat. Sigri was already dressed down about as far as she could be without receiving comments, which she had little patience for in her state. Wrapped simply in her skirt, which was perhaps indecently short, usually worn with thick, protective leggings, and the remains of a shirt, wrapped around her torso, covering what little cleavage she had. Still, sweat pooled on her skin, leaving her hair feeling uncommonly gross, and she was certain it let off an undesirable odor, though she had more pressing concerns.

As much as she loved the rivers back home, the open ocean was a different beast entirely. Sigri couldn’t stop thinking about it with nervousness as she stowed her belongings. She had little of value, except the coins in her purse, on her person, so she thought nothing of leaving the meagre pack unattended. In truth, she hardly considered the idea that someone might actually take her things, so she turned and headed above decks on already-unsteady feet.

Though staring at the open ocean was disconcerting, it was preferable to the enclosed decks. She had discovered that on her way to Daggerfall, her first ever trip on a boat. The rivers near where she called home were comfortable. Immersed in the water, it didn’t feel as though she was being helplessly tossed around, the contents of her stomach forfeit, but instead she could flow with its movement. The ocean, on the contrary, was unexpectedly terrifying. She was a good swimmer, and yet, the ocean had no banks she could fall back on. Even swept away in a river’s current, all you had to do way stay afloat until it broke, so you could return to the bank.

The ocean had no banks. With water as far as the eye could see, Sigri couldn’t help but consider, as she endlessly gagged in attempts to empty her already-empty stomach over the railing, just how easy it would be to be swept away in it.

Though the pay for the job had been good -- she was hoping to send some back to her son and his grandparents -- she wasn’t sure it was worth the sea travel and the heat, and that didn’t even consider the four people she had killed over the course of it. Her count was at seven now, and she couldn’t quite forget it.

Sigri stumbled over next to the ship’s rail, as out of the way as she could manage, and leaned her back against it. The butterflies had yet to develop into unforgiving seasickness, yet she waited, anticipating its arrival and making it all the worse.

The rocking of the ship was unbearable, so Sigri tried to look around the decks. She saw the captain, speaking with another Nord. While once she would’ve felt glad for the companionship of someone from her homeland, she didn’t have it in her for friendliness yet. Despite it being a futile effort, destined to end up overboard with the breakfast she’s eaten this morning, the Nord took a swig from her flask. While once she might have cringed at the harsh flavour of blended liquors -- the dominant one seemed to be whiskey today -- she was well used to the burn by now, and simply wished the contents of the flask would stay inside her long enough to take the edge off of another sea journey.

“Wo-” A voice jolted Sigri out of her brooding as a deckhand nearly tripped over her leg. She shifted the leg but didn’t apologize. Instead, she spotted a bucket of fresh water in the gangly boy’s arms. Seeing the opportunity, she snatched it from the boy’s hands without protest.

“I’ll be needin’ this,” Sigri grumbled. She set it down next to her, hoping the water would keep her going when liquor couldn’t do its job. The boy didn’t say a word, but Sigri wasn’t sure if he was put off by her lack of manners or perhaps her scent; the smell, she would admit, was far more rancid than her usual musk.

She sighed, regretting that she didn’t thank him, at least, that would have been polite, but she let it go. There were worse offenses. With one hand, she splashed a bit of water on her face, slicking back her messy brown hair. The brief reprieve it offered from the heat was welcome; the nausea was not.

The Elder Scrolls: Days of Night

Sigri Fire-Caller

---

Art will be here

---

▷ Age: 28
▷ Race: Nord
▷ Birthsign: the Steed
▷ Family Origins: The rural area surrounding Windhelm

---

Sigri is built like a typical Nord woman: sturdy and tall. She stands at 5'11, the shortest of all her siblings. Her build is muscular, especially in her upper body. Her shoulders are broad and her arms strong from years of working a mill and practicing as an archer. Sigri moves fluidly, rarely making an unintentional movement and always aware of her footing from many times spent in rough terrain. This is often reversed in man-made settings, like city streets or tavern floors, where she feels disconnected from her sense of balance just slightly enough that after a couple of drinks, she could be found tripping over chairs in a crowded room. She is most at home with a forest floor or footpath beneath her. Her rough upbringing also left her littered in light scars, though none are so grotesque as to draw attention, many are sprinkled across her fair skin, especially on her arms and legs -- relics from the wilderness rather than battle, as far as can tell.

While too muscled to be considered a conventionally attractive woman, her face has soft features. Her warm, brown, almond-shaped eyes are kind and inviting combined with her round cheeks. Her face looks like that of an even younger woman -- Sigri could have been confused for a child if one judged her by face alone. Her hair adds to the impression. Her brown locks are messy and hardly brushed, though clean, and her natural waves often take over her looks. Her hair is just long enough to tuck behind her ears while hunting or working, but kept too short for proper braiding, which Sigri was never any good at. Even when practicing on her younger sisters, her mother's teachings in that regard never got through to her. She often tucks and un-tucks her hair when uncertain, or pushes it back before beginning a task that requires focus.

Sigri leans towards practical clothing. She doesn’t think about her appearance, but instead prefers to ensure that her clothes don’t get in the way of whatever she’s doing. Often, this means she wears simple travelling clothes, with thick fur or leather for protection. In hotter climates, she would prefer to recklessly forego thicker armour than overheat. She favours browns, and her clothes are often old and worn. Coming from a poor family, Sigri is more accustomed to wearing hand-me-downs and repairing or reusing fabric than buying new.

She had perhaps never worn clothing nicer than a simple dress on special occasions, and was never fond of it, even then. Anything that impedes her movement is bad and a waste of time, she thinks, and it's the same with people who do. As quickly as she would shed fancy clothing or uncomfortable shoes, Sigri would barrel right to the point in conversation. Similarly, she won't hesitate to rip or damage her clothing, despite them being a resource in a way -- something she would usually value -- as the clothes are impeding work. Sigri doesn't hesitate when given a task, and her footing shows it. At any given time, Sigri is ready on her feet; she can rarely be seen leaning, nor sitting or sleeping in a way which can't be quickly stood up from.

The heat is her worst enemy. Coming from an area with such a short summer season, the heat of Hammerfell was nightmarish in comparison. She rapidly strips off layers of clothing when even remotely warm, preferring anything as an alternative to heat. Sigri isn’t very modest, and usually dresses in whatever way is most comfortable or practical at the given time — and she understands nothing about sunburn.

---

Sigri’s rural nordic upbringing shows itself in her mannerisms, and her enjoyment of feasting and drinking. She’s small-town to her core - large cities and travel are filled with wonder for her, since until age 27, she had never left Skyrim, nor been to a city except Windhelm. She is fiercely loyal to friends and family, even if she isn’t with them because of her self-exile.

She typically comes off as jovial, and enthusiastic. Sigri buries her troubles deep. She loves talking about her family, but avoids any mention of her troubles with them as if they would burn her. Like she did when at the College of Winterhold, she makes friends quickly. She engages with others happily, but she rarely develops close relationships. After her experience with her husband, she doesn’t believe in romance. Sigri has never been in love, and doubts her ability to.

Sigri gets along best with others who are commoners, and those who are loud. People who are too refined rub her the wrong way, as she often does them. She holds no ill-will for those who are on the quiet and inconspicuous side, but rather they often find her prodding and joking more irritable, or dislike the attention it attracts.

The Nord feels most at home in the outdoors. She loves hunting, and sharing hunting stories. She feels most alive and most herself when stalking prey, without a building in sight. She also relishes the chance for a good ride on horseback, or a swim. Swimming is one advantage she believes to come out of warm weather. Back home, the water was often freezing for most of the year.

Sigri lacks refine, and femininity. She disdains “softness” and always wants to be recognized as strong and capable. Though she doesn’t realize it, Sigri has always been a caretaker; she always looked after her younger sisters, and later her son. She cares greatly for children, and animals, and likes to help where she is able to make a difference. She often believes her presence is detrimental, so her fashion of helping may appear to be avoiding - like in Jory’s case.

---

Sigri was born to a large family in rural Skyrim. Her parents owned a farm in the area outside of Windhelm - too far for casual visits, but close enough for the occasional business trip with her father. Hafgar and Alga, her parents, had four other living children when Sigri was growing up. The eldest two, her brothers Kari and Eric, were respectively two and three years older than her. Her sisters, Valensa, Sinda, and Ivana, were younger by over 7 years. During the gap, the family suffered a series of miscarriages and infant deaths. Alga held on tightly to all her children because of this, but Sigri, as the youngest during these events, was cherished by her in particular. She was a doting mother to the extreme, always hovering and worrying about Sigri’s scrapes and bruises.

However, Sigri was always a rebellious child. Her mother took her under her wing, teaching her to keep care of the farm household. Helping the rest of her family with the fields was full time work during the growing season, and during the winter months her mother would teach her to care for the household. Though Sigri loved the time spent with her mother, she hated being cooped up. At every opportunity, Sigri would follow her older brothers out to hunt in the winter months, and occasionally during the summer. The neighboring households were mill households, two of which were quite nearby. Frequently, the others in their age group would join in with them and a parent or another for these trips. The community was close-knit.

The seasons were hard on the farm. Sigri never shied away from the difficult work involved, often doing both tasks for her mother inside as well as helping with the more physically extorting outdoor tasks. Despite the work, the harvests were lean and times weren’t easy, especially considering the short growing season. Still, the memories are of a fond childhood.

Things changed when Sigri was about 15. Ulfric Stormcloak changed it; the Civil War broke out. There was a dramatic shift in tone in her life. Her friends spoke more about joining the army than hunting, and the usual concern her mother held in her eyes had turned to a pure fear.

It didn’t take long for her brothers to depart for Windhelm, their friends in tow. Sigri had been the youngest, too young for war, her mother insisted. After the tears pooled in Alga’s eyes, Sigri didn’t mention the idea again.With Kari and Eric gone, and her sisters too young for heavy lifting, the workload was far heavier, leaving Sigri with little time for pleasure — or thinking.

It felt like an extended business trip. At times, her elder brothers, and often their father, would travel so Windhelm for a few nights. It wasn’t until the soldiers arrived home at the end that reality set in. Eric came first, the neighbor friends in tow, but the group was shattered. Only about two thirds of those who left returned.

When her father spotted Eric at the end of their property, Sigri and the rest of her family came running. As they stood at the door, the family could tell one thing: the second figure with him was female. Sigri’s mother reached down and clutched her hand tightly as they came closer. Eric stopped in front of them, and as they met eyes, he shook his head. Kari didn’t made it. Alga let go of Sigri’s hand and rushed to her son, clutching him and sobbing, as Sigri stood numbly in the door.

The woman who returned with her brother was his fiancé, another soldier who was done with war. The community held a funeral for the lost - there had been several others who didn’t return - and then a wedding, a month later.

As the time went on, Sigri waited eagerly for the return of the normalcy she had as a child, of hunting trips and play fighting, of archery practice and family time around the hearth. It never came back. Things because stable, and normal, yet her brother and the others her age weren’t the same. They were somber, haunted, and none interested in the return to old times Sigri desperately desired. With each day, she wished she’d left for war — perhaps if she had been there, Kari would still be around. Perhaps her lost friends would be. Perhaps at least she would understand why things were this way, now. Why everyone seemed older, and she like a child.

The attempt at returning to the way things were lasted only a few years. Just as her brother and his wife expected their first child, Sigri couldn’t stand the loneliness she felt around her own home any longer. She set out to follow the only other opportunity she’d had as a child: magecraft.

When Sigri was 5, she earned her name, Fire-Caller, by accidentally setting a bale of hay on fire. Fire, in particular, seemed to come naturally to her, in a way unlike the rest of her family. They said it came from her grandmother, a mage who had trained at the college, but settled down with her grandfather on the farm later. So, seeking a way to be anything but stuck and isolated in her own life, she left for the College of Winterhold.

Her endeavors at the college lasted 3 years. She became an apprentice, excelling in destruction magic rapidly. She had little talent for much else, as others told her. Sigri had no trouble making acquaintances, yet she found herself missing the comfortable close relationship she used to have with her family. Some relationships came naturally, though she had some conflict with those who were higher-class. In some cases, perhaps they did think they were better than her, but Sigri didn't exactly give them time to show their intentions before making her judgements. No matter how hard she tried at the College, she couldn’t escape her regret for leaving her family behind, a second time after staying behind from war, and eventually made the trek back to her farm.

On the day she returned, her mother greeted her with tears in her eyes and they embraced. She had a new niece and nephew to meet, and her sisters were suddenly grown-up. It felt like everyone had moved on without her, but they were welcoming. Her family even threw a welcome party. They invited all the neighbors. Her childhood friends were adults now, with families of their own. A young man who she’d never liked, someone also stayed home from war since he was just barely younger than her, showed up with flowers in hand. As he stood in front of her, sharing kind words about how he had missed her in front of everyone, she couldn’t decline his flowers. As children, she hadn't liked how soft he was. He never wrestled with her like the others, and he didn't enjoy the blood involved with hunting. However, he appeared to have grown into a strong man, who contributed to his family's mill business well.

His name was Ingvar. As the year went on, Sigri dove back into work with her family, and on the evenings, Ingvar would show up and visit. He often sat with Sigri and her family, doting on Sigri in particular. He was a romantic, but he didn’t make her heart flutter. Each time they went for a walk or a ride, she couldn't help but feel that she humored him. Each time he arrived, her mother’s eyes filled with joy at the prospect of her first daughter starting a family, but Sigri couldn't find the same joy within herself. Ingvar was a kind man, and even if he did anger her, he was always kind in resolving contentions. Whenever she tried to bring herself to turn down his attentions, he would happen to show how he doted on her niece and nephew, found common ground with her family, and she couldn't find it in herself to turn him away, both because of his kindness and effort, and the hope in her mother's eyes.

Though she always felt distance with him, as he was quite different from her, she liked him, and appreciated a lot of the gestures he made with her and her family. Still, when he proposed, with her family around the fire, and said he loved her, she knew she didn’t love him. In her heart, she felt a twinge of guilt as she returned his words of affection. Looking at the expression of hope on his face, and the tears of joy in her mother's eyes behind him, she again couldn't let them down.

They married a few months later, and Sigri moved into the neighboring mill. His family was smaller, yet more successful financially. The house was nicer, though the work was still difficult, and Sigri threw herself into learning the new business immediately. As always, Sigri used hard work to fill her days.

Ingvar's family had suffered losses from the war as well; in particular, the loss of Ingvar’s older brother left a hole in that family. After settling into the mill, her life felt stale, like she simply listed from day to day. The things she enjoyed, hunting in particular, lost their appeal, though she still occasionally went on hunting trips with her brother, the time for those things was more limited, as mill work would continue through the winter.

Things changed when she became pregnant. Her in-laws were delighted. She didn’t know how to feel, at first. Her mother’s miscarriages and stillborns certainly came to mind. She smiled, and went through the motions of expressing her joy, yet she didn’t feel the emotion at first, nor the fear. As the months went on, she began to feel something for the first time in ages. When she final gave birth to a little boy, she loved that child, more than anything she had ever loved in her life.

They named him after Ingvar’s brother, Jory. It was a nickname, but they gave it to their child as a full name, at Sigri’s request. She knew her mother in law was completely destroyed by Jory’s death, and she wanted her child to be his own person. She hoped her in-laws would be helpful, yet in her heart, she just wanted privacy with her son. By the time the child was born, Sigri and her family had their own small house on the property, separate from the main one. For four years, they lived there in a semblance of happiness. In watching Ingvar be a loving father to their child, Sigri warmed up to him more, and she made an extra effort to make him happy. She tried her best, during this time, to be an ideal wife, and even found herself hoping for a second child. Sigri was more like her own mother than she wanted to be: overbearing. But Jory was everything she loved, and she held on too tightly.

When Jory was 4, Ingvar fell sick. Jory went to stay with his grandparents, across the yard, so he wouldn’t catch it, and Sigri cared for him, for several weeks on end. The doting wife in Sigri faded as she spent less time with her son, and she became more aggravated at the differences between herself and her husband, without Jory there to soften her up. Ingvar thought he was on his deathbed at times, and Sigri though there was a chance, too, but he did begin to make his recovery. As Sigri cared for him, they began fighting - Ingvar knew she’d never loved him, but he had loved her from childhood. For days, they began tensely bringing up all the fights they had never had in the years they spent together, dredging up every old issue. The fight, the only one they'd ever had, was fierce and the cruel words Sigri tossed at him were things she would regret forever. During the fight, the hearth fire grew higher until it poured out of the fireplace. It was unintentional, but caught in the moment, she allowed it to continue, not cutting it off where she should have, nor fetching water early enough. Neither the house, nor Ingvar, were saved.

In the end, Sigri and Jory stood hand and hand, looking at the house as it burned.

Afterwards, her in-laws held her as they grieved. Ingvar was too weak to walk, and of course, once the fire was so high. It was late -- they must have been sleeping -- how could she have carried him out? Sigri refused to speak of the specifics of that night, and they never pressed her, believing her to be grieving terribly, though Sigri herself wasn't sure what emotion her tears were coming from. Perhaps the look on her son's face, when he realized his father wasn't going to be well again.

Sigri couldn’t bear to stay on the farm after his death. As she departed, confusing her late husband’s parents and Jory both, she set out about a new existence. She began by hunting again, travelling by wilderness at every opportunity, and journeying into Skyrim’s cities to sell her leftover meat.

Eventually, her skill with a bow grew into mercenary work. She couldn’t face what she had become, travelling gradually further and further from Skyrim, until she found herself in Hammerfell, for only her second job. Once it was finished, Sigri was left with doubts. As natural as brawling and shooting felt to her, she was far more accustomed to her targets being animals than people, and it’s with these doubts that she boards the Kismet.

---

Sigri’s biggest regret is twofold. Firstly, she regrets her feelings surrounding her husband’s death, and feels immense guilt that she could never love him. Secondly, and most importantly, she regrets abandoning her family — first because she didn’t fight with her brothers in the Civil War, and again when she let her son down by depriving him of his parents.

---

Sigri is very much adrift. With the loss of the life she was used to, Sigri has no goal in mind. She is very much running away instead of towards. Deep in her heart, her strongest desire is to be with her son, but she believes she will only do worse by him, and doesn't deserve to be his mother. Therefore, her biggest desire is to prove to herself that somehow, she is a good person, and deserves to return and be a parent to Jory.

---

Expert
▷Archery: having learned to hunt from a young age, Sigri is a masterful marksman with a bow, with a good eye for her prey’s vulnerable points

Adept
▷Destruction: during her time at the College of Winterhold, Sigri honed her abilities wit destruction magic.
▷Athletics: Sigri has lived in rough conditions, doing hard labour for most of her life. She has spent a lot of time trekking in the wilderness, and is used to difficult terrain in particular from her hunting trips - it would be rare to see her trip.
▷Stealth: years of hunting has made it easy for Sigri to remain unseen and unheard, especially in an outdoors setting, where she can use nature’s sounds and foliage to her advantage.

Novice
▷Hand-to-Hand: growing up with as many siblings and friends as she did, Sigri is no stranger to the odd brawl. Sparring with her brothers has accustomed her to fighting in a pinch.
▷Restoration: during her time at the College of Winterhold, Sigri put some training into healing magic, even though her main focus was on destruction — she always wanted to be helpful for more than that.

---

▷Fireball
▷Flame Clock
▷Ice Storm
▷Fire Rune
▷Healing Hands
▷Healing

---

▷ A sturdy hunting bow, well worn and well maintained. Though not of the highest quality, Sigri knows exactly how to aim with it for the most precise shot.
▷ Travelling clothes, with some pieces of sturdy leather armour to go overtop.
▷ An iron dagger, simple and practical, more for everyday use than killing, and often used to skin animals.
▷ A necklace with a bear’s tooth on it, a hunting trophy.
▷ A torn piece of cloth which she wears around one wrist.
▷ A pouch with 75 coins, the pay from the job she just completed.
▷ Her travelling backpack, complete with water skin and some camping supplies for her usual wilderness lifestyle. A few days’ dried meat rations and some bread.
▷ A flask filled with miscellaneous liquor.

The Elder Scrolls: Days of Night

I've added a bit more padding to a few sections, specifically her appearance and the end of her history regarding her husband's death. I still intentionally tried to leave it vague -- the specifics are something I really want to reveal IC -- and I initially struggled to find a middle ground on how much to tell. I added details mostly about the aftermath of the situation, and hopefully it's slightly unclear on how things went down inside the house, but still more solid.

Sigri Fire-Caller

---

Art will be here

---

▷ Age: 28
▷ Race: Nord
▷ Birthsign: the Steed
▷ Family Origins: The rural area surrounding Windhelm

---

Sigri is built like a typical Nord woman: sturdy and tall. She stands at 5'11, the shortest of all her siblings. Her build is muscular, especially in her upper body. Her shoulders are broad and her arms strong from years of working a mill and practicing as an archer. Sigri moves fluidly, rarely making an unintentional movement and always aware of her footing from many times spent in rough terrain. This is often reversed in man-made settings, like city streets or tavern floors, where she feels disconnected from her sense of balance just slightly enough that after a couple of drinks, she could be found tripping over chairs in a crowded room. She is most at home with a forest floor or footpath beneath her. Her rough upbringing also left her littered in light scars, though none are so grotesque as to draw attention, many are sprinkled across her fair skin, especially on her arms and legs -- relics from the wilderness rather than battle, as far as can tell.

While too muscled to be considered a conventionally attractive woman, her face has soft features. Her warm, brown, almond-shaped eyes are kind and inviting combined with her round cheeks. Her face looks like that of an even younger woman -- Sigri could have been confused for a child if one judged her by face alone. Her hair adds to the impression. Her brown locks are messy and hardly brushed, though clean, and her natural waves often take over her looks. Her hair is just long enough to tuck behind her ears while hunting or working, but kept too short for proper braiding, which Sigri was never any good at. Even when practicing on her younger sisters, her mother's teachings in that regard never got through to her. She often tucks and un-tucks her hair when uncertain, or pushes it back before beginning a task that requires focus.

Sigri leans towards practical clothing. She doesn’t think about her appearance, but instead prefers to ensure that her clothes don’t get in the way of whatever she’s doing. Often, this means she wears simple travelling clothes, with thick fur or leather for protection. In hotter climates, she would prefer to recklessly forego thicker armour than overheat. She favours browns, and her clothes are often old and worn. Coming from a poor family, Sigri is more accustomed to wearing hand-me-downs and repairing or reusing fabric than buying new.

She had perhaps never worn clothing nicer than a simple dress on special occasions, and was never fond of it, even then. Anything that impedes her movement is bad and a waste of time, she thinks, and it's the same with people who do. As quickly as she would shed fancy clothing or uncomfortable shoes, Sigri would barrel right to the point in conversation. Similarly, she won't hesitate to rip or damage her clothing, despite them being a resource in a way -- something she would usually value -- as the clothes are impeding work. Sigri doesn't hesitate when given a task, and her footing shows it. At any given time, Sigri is ready on her feet; she can rarely be seen leaning, nor sitting or sleeping in a way which can't be quickly stood up from.

The heat is her worst enemy. Coming from an area with such a short summer season, the heat of Hammerfell was nightmarish in comparison. She rapidly strips off layers of clothing when even remotely warm, preferring anything as an alternative to heat. Sigri isn’t very modest, and usually dresses in whatever way is most comfortable or practical at the given time — and she understands nothing about sunburn.

---

Sigri’s rural nordic upbringing shows itself in her mannerisms, and her enjoyment of feasting and drinking. She’s small-town to her core - large cities and travel are filled with wonder for her, since until age 27, she had never left Skyrim, nor been to a city except Windhelm. She is fiercely loyal to friends and family, even if she isn’t with them because of her self-exile.

She typically comes off as jovial, and enthusiastic. Sigri buries her troubles deep. She loves talking about her family, but avoids any mention of her troubles with them as if they would burn her. Like she did when at the College of Winterhold, she makes friends quickly. She engages with others happily, but she rarely develops close relationships. After her experience with her husband, she doesn’t believe in romance. Sigri has never been in love, and doubts her ability to.

Sigri gets along best with others who are commoners, and those who are loud. People who are too refined rub her the wrong way, as she often does them. She holds no ill-will for those who are on the quiet and inconspicuous side, but rather they often find her prodding and joking more irritable, or dislike the attention it attracts.

The Nord feels most at home in the outdoors. She loves hunting, and sharing hunting stories. She feels most alive and most herself when stalking prey, without a building in sight. She also relishes the chance for a good ride on horseback, or a swim. Swimming is one advantage she believes to come out of warm weather. Back home, the water was often freezing for most of the year.

Sigri lacks refine, and femininity. She disdains “softness” and always wants to be recognized as strong and capable. Though she doesn’t realize it, Sigri has always been a caretaker; she always looked after her younger sisters, and later her son. She cares greatly for children, and animals, and likes to help where she is able to make a difference. She often believes her presence is detrimental, so her fashion of helping may appear to be avoiding - like in Jory’s case.

---

Sigri was born to a large family in rural Skyrim. Her parents owned a farm in the area outside of Windhelm - too far for casual visits, but close enough for the occasional business trip with her father. Hafgar and Alga, her parents, had four other living children when Sigri was growing up. The eldest two, her brothers Kari and Eric, were respectively two and three years older than her. Her sisters, Valensa, Sinda, and Ivana, were younger by over 7 years. During the gap, the family suffered a series of miscarriages and infant deaths. Alga held on tightly to all her children because of this, but Sigri, as the youngest during these events, was cherished by her in particular. She was a doting mother to the extreme, always hovering and worrying about Sigri’s scrapes and bruises.

However, Sigri was always a rebellious child. Her mother took her under her wing, teaching her to keep care of the farm household. Helping the rest of her family with the fields was full time work during the growing season, and during the winter months her mother would teach her to care for the household. Though Sigri loved the time spent with her mother, she hated being cooped up. At every opportunity, Sigri would follow her older brothers out to hunt in the winter months, and occasionally during the summer. The neighboring households were mill households, two of which were quite nearby. Frequently, the others in their age group would join in with them and a parent or another for these trips. The community was close-knit.

The seasons were hard on the farm. Sigri never shied away from the difficult work involved, often doing both tasks for her mother inside as well as helping with the more physically extorting outdoor tasks. Despite the work, the harvests were lean and times weren’t easy, especially considering the short growing season. Still, the memories are of a fond childhood.

Things changed when Sigri was about 15. Ulfric Stormcloak changed it; the Civil War broke out. There was a dramatic shift in tone in her life. Her friends spoke more about joining the army than hunting, and the usual concern her mother held in her eyes had turned to a pure fear.

It didn’t take long for her brothers to depart for Windhelm, their friends in tow. Sigri had been the youngest, too young for war, her mother insisted. After the tears pooled in Alga’s eyes, Sigri didn’t mention the idea again.With Kari and Eric gone, and her sisters too young for heavy lifting, the workload was far heavier, leaving Sigri with little time for pleasure — or thinking.

It felt like an extended business trip. At times, her elder brothers, and often their father, would travel so Windhelm for a few nights. It wasn’t until the soldiers arrived home at the end that reality set in. Eric came first, the neighbor friends in tow, but the group was shattered. Only about two thirds of those who left returned.

When her father spotted Eric at the end of their property, Sigri and the rest of her family came running. As they stood at the door, the family could tell one thing: the second figure with him was female. Sigri’s mother reached down and clutched her hand tightly as they came closer. Eric stopped in front of them, and as they met eyes, he shook his head. Kari didn’t made it. Alga let go of Sigri’s hand and rushed to her son, clutching him and sobbing, as Sigri stood numbly in the door.

The woman who returned with her brother was his fiancé, another soldier who was done with war. The community held a funeral for the lost - there had been several others who didn’t return - and then a wedding, a month later.

As the time went on, Sigri waited eagerly for the return of the normalcy she had as a child, of hunting trips and play fighting, of archery practice and family time around the hearth. It never came back. Things because stable, and normal, yet her brother and the others her age weren’t the same. They were somber, haunted, and none interested in the return to old times Sigri desperately desired. With each day, she wished she’d left for war — perhaps if she had been there, Kari would still be around. Perhaps her lost friends would be. Perhaps at least she would understand why things were this way, now. Why everyone seemed older, and she like a child.

The attempt at returning to the way things were lasted only a few years. Just as her brother and his wife expected their first child, Sigri couldn’t stand the loneliness she felt around her own home any longer. She set out to follow the only other opportunity she’d had as a child: magecraft.

When Sigri was 5, she earned her name, Fire-Caller, by accidentally setting a bale of hay on fire. Fire, in particular, seemed to come naturally to her, in a way unlike the rest of her family. They said it came from her grandmother, a mage who had trained at the college, but settled down with her grandfather on the farm later. So, seeking a way to be anything but stuck and isolated in her own life, she left for the College of Winterhold.

Her endeavors at the college lasted 3 years. She became an apprentice, excelling in destruction magic rapidly. She had little talent for much else, as others told her. Sigri had no trouble making acquaintances, yet she found herself missing the comfortable close relationship she used to have with her family. Some relationships came naturally, though she had some conflict with those who were higher-class. In some cases, perhaps they did think they were better than her, but Sigri didn't exactly give them time to show their intentions before making her judgements. No matter how hard she tried at the College, she couldn’t escape her regret for leaving her family behind, a second time after staying behind from war, and eventually made the trek back to her farm.

On the day she returned, her mother greeted her with tears in her eyes and they embraced. She had a new niece and nephew to meet, and her sisters were suddenly grown-up. It felt like everyone had moved on without her, but they were welcoming. Her family even threw a welcome party. They invited all the neighbors. Her childhood friends were adults now, with families of their own. A young man who she’d never liked, someone also stayed home from war since he was just barely younger than her, showed up with flowers in hand. As he stood in front of her, sharing kind words about how he had missed her in front of everyone, she couldn’t decline his flowers. As children, she hadn't liked how soft he was. He never wrestled with her like the others, and he didn't enjoy the blood involved with hunting. However, he appeared to have grown into a strong man, who contributed to his family's mill business well.

His name was Ingvar. As the year went on, Sigri dove back into work with her family, and on the evenings, Ingvar would show up and visit. He often sat with Sigri and her family, doting on Sigri in particular. He was a romantic, but he didn’t make her heart flutter. Each time they went for a walk or a ride, she couldn't help but feel that she humored him. Each time he arrived, her mother’s eyes filled with joy at the prospect of her first daughter starting a family, but Sigri couldn't find the same joy within herself. Ingvar was a kind man, and even if he did anger her, he was always kind in resolving contentions. Whenever she tried to bring herself to turn down his attentions, he would happen to show how he doted on her niece and nephew, found common ground with her family, and she couldn't find it in herself to turn him away, both because of his kindness and effort, and the hope in her mother's eyes.

Though she always felt distance with him, as he was quite different from her, she liked him, and appreciated a lot of the gestures he made with her and her family. Still, when he proposed, with her family around the fire, and said he loved her, she knew she didn’t love him. In her heart, she felt a twinge of guilt as she returned his words of affection. Looking at the expression of hope on his face, and the tears of joy in her mother's eyes behind him, she again couldn't let them down.

They married a few months later, and Sigri moved into the neighboring mill. His family was smaller, yet more successful financially. The house was nicer, though the work was still difficult, and Sigri threw herself into learning the new business immediately. As always, Sigri used hard work to fill her days.

Ingvar's family had suffered losses from the war as well; in particular, the loss of Ingvar’s older brother left a hole in that family. After settling into the mill, her life felt stale, like she simply listed from day to day. The things she enjoyed, hunting in particular, lost their appeal, though she still occasionally went on hunting trips with her brother, the time for those things was more limited, as mill work would continue through the winter.

Things changed when she became pregnant. Her in-laws were delighted. She didn’t know how to feel, at first. Her mother’s miscarriages and stillborns certainly came to mind. She smiled, and went through the motions of expressing her joy, yet she didn’t feel the emotion at first, nor the fear. As the months went on, she began to feel something for the first time in ages. When she final gave birth to a little boy, she loved that child, more than anything she had ever loved in her life.

They named him after Ingvar’s brother, Jory. It was a nickname, but they gave it to their child as a full name, at Sigri’s request. She knew her mother in law was completely destroyed by Jory’s death, and she wanted her child to be his own person. She hoped her in-laws would be helpful, yet in her heart, she just wanted privacy with her son. By the time the child was born, Sigri and her family had their own small house on the property, separate from the main one. For four years, they lived there in a semblance of happiness. In watching Ingvar be a loving father to their child, Sigri warmed up to him more, and she made an extra effort to make him happy. She tried her best, during this time, to be an ideal wife, and even found herself hoping for a second child. Sigri was more like her own mother than she wanted to be: overbearing. But Jory was everything she loved, and she held on too tightly.

When Jory was 4, Ingvar fell sick. Jory went to stay with his grandparents, across the yard, so he wouldn’t catch it, and Sigri cared for him, for several weeks on end. The doting wife in Sigri faded as she spent less time with her son, and she became more aggravated at the differences between herself and her husband, without Jory there to soften her up. Ingvar thought he was on his deathbed at times, and Sigri though there was a chance, too, but he did begin to make his recovery. As Sigri cared for him, they began fighting - Ingvar knew she’d never loved him, but he had loved her from childhood. For days, they began tensely bringing up all the fights they had never had in the years they spent together, dredging up every old issue. The fight, the only one they'd ever had, was fierce and the cruel words Sigri tossed at him were things she would regret forever. During the fight, the hearth fire grew higher until it poured out of the fireplace. It was unintentional, but caught in the moment, she allowed it to continue, not cutting it off where she should have, nor fetching water early enough. Neither the house, nor Ingvar, were saved.

In the end, Sigri and Jory stood hand and hand, looking at the house as it burned.

Afterwards, her in-laws held her as they grieved. Ingvar was too weak to walk, and of course, once the fire was so high. It was late -- they must have been sleeping -- how could she have carried him out? Sigri refused to speak of the specifics of that night, and they never pressed her, believing her to be grieving terribly, though Sigri herself wasn't sure what emotion her tears were coming from. Perhaps the look on her son's face, when he realized his father wasn't going to be well again.

Sigri couldn’t bear to stay on the farm after his death. As she departed, confusing her late husband’s parents and Jory both, she set out about a new existence. She began by hunting again, travelling by wilderness at every opportunity, and journeying into Skyrim’s cities to sell her leftover meat.

Eventually, her skill with a bow grew into mercenary work. She couldn’t face what she had become, travelling gradually further and further from Skyrim, until she found herself in Hammerfell, for only her second job. Once it was finished, Sigri was left with doubts. As natural as brawling and shooting felt to her, she was far more accustomed to her targets being animals than people, and it’s with these doubts that she boards the Kismet.

---

Sigri’s biggest regret is twofold. Firstly, she regrets her feelings surrounding her husband’s death, and feels immense guilt that she could never love him. Secondly, and most importantly, she regrets abandoning her family — first because she didn’t fight with her brothers in the Civil War, and again when she let her son down by depriving him of his parents.

---

Sigri is very much adrift. With the loss of the life she was used to, Sigri has no goal in mind. She is very much running away instead of towards. Deep in her heart, her strongest desire is to be with her son, but she believes she will only do worse by him, and doesn't deserve to be his mother. Therefore, her biggest desire is to prove to herself that somehow, she is a good person, and deserves to return and be a parent to Jory.

---

Expert
▷Archery: having learned to hunt from a young age, Sigri is a masterful marksman with a bow, with a good eye for her prey’s vulnerable points

Adept
▷Destruction: during her time at the College of Winterhold, Sigri honed her abilities wit destruction magic.
▷Athletics: Sigri has lived in rough conditions, doing hard labour for most of her life. She has spent a lot of time trekking in the wilderness, and is used to difficult terrain in particular from her hunting trips - it would be rare to see her trip.
▷Stealth: years of hunting has made it easy for Sigri to remain unseen and unheard, especially in an outdoors setting, where she can use nature’s sounds and foliage to her advantage.

Novice
▷Hand-to-Hand: growing up with as many siblings and friends as she did, Sigri is no stranger to the odd brawl. Sparring with her brothers has accustomed her to fighting in a pinch.
▷Restoration: during her time at the College of Winterhold, Sigri put some training into healing magic, even though her main focus was on destruction — she always wanted to be helpful for more than that.

---

▷Fireball
▷Flame Clock
▷Ice Storm
▷Fire Rune
▷Healing Hands
▷Healing

---

▷ A sturdy hunting bow, well worn and well maintained. Though not of the highest quality, Sigri knows exactly how to aim with it for the most precise shot.
▷ Travelling clothes, with some pieces of sturdy leather armour to go overtop.
▷ An iron dagger, simple and practical, more for everyday use than killing, and often used to skin animals.
▷ A necklace with a bear’s tooth on it, a hunting trophy.
▷ A torn piece of cloth which she wears around one wrist.
▷ A pouch with 75 coins, the pay from the job she just completed.
▷ Her travelling backpack, complete with water skin and some camping supplies for her usual wilderness lifestyle. A few days’ dried meat rations and some bread.
▷ A flask filled with miscellaneous liquor.

The Elder Scrolls: Days of Night

Sigri Fire-Caller

---

Art will be here

---

▷ Age: 28
▷ Race: Nord
▷ Birthsign: the Steed
▷ Family Origins: The rural area surrounding Windhelm

---

Sigri is built like a typical Nord woman: sturdy and tall. She stands at 5'11, the shortest of all her siblings. Her build is muscular, especially in her upper body. Her shoulders are broad and her arms strong from years of working a mill and practicing as an archer. Sigri moves fluidly, rarely making an unintentional movement and always aware of her footing from many times spent in rough terrain. This rough upbringing also left her littered in light scars, though none are so grotesque as to draw attention, many are sprinkled across her fair skin, especially on her arms and legs -- relics from the wilderness rather than battle, as far as can tell.

While too muscled to be considered a conventionally attractive woman, her face has soft features. Her warm, brown, almond-shaped eyes are kind and inviting combined with her round cheeks. Her face looks like that of an even younger woman -- Sigri could have been confused for a child if one judged her by face alone. Her hair adds to the impression. Her brown locks are messy and hardly brushed, though clean, and her natural waves often take over her looks. Her hair is just long enough to tuck behind her ears while hunting or working, but kept too short for proper braiding, which Sigri was never any good at.

Sigri leans towards practical clothing. She doesn’t think about her appearance, but instead prefers to ensure that her clothes don’t get in the way of whatever she’s doing. Often, this means she wears simple travelling clothes, with thick fur or leather for protection. In hotter climates, she would prefer to recklessly forego thicker armour than overheat. She favours browns, and her clothes are often old and worn. Coming from a poor family, Sigri is more accustomed to wearing hand-me-downs and repairing or reusing fabric than buying new.

---

Sigri’s rural nordic upbringing shows itself in her mannerisms, and her enjoyment of feasting and drinking. She’s small-town to her core - large cities and travel are filled with wonder for her, since until age 27, she had never left Skyrim, nor been to a city except Windhelm. She is fiercely loyal to friends and family, even if she isn’t with them because of her self-exile.

She typically comes off as jovial, and enthusiastic. Sigri buries her troubles deep. She loves talking about her family, but avoids any mention of her troubles with them as if they would burn her. Like she did when at the College of Winterhold, she makes friends quickly. She engages with others happily, but she rarely develops close relationships. After her experience with her husband, she doesn’t believe in romance. Sigri has never been in love, and doubts her ability to.

Sigri gets along best with others who are commoners, and those who are loud. People who are too refined rub her the wrong way, as she often does them. She holds no ill-will for those who are on the quiet and inconspicuous side, but rather they often find her prodding and joking more irritable, or dislike the attention it attracts.

The heat is her worst enemy. Coming from an area with such a short summer season, the heat of Hammerfell was nightmarish in comparison. She rapidly strips off layers of clothing when even remotely warm, preferring anything as an alternative to heat. Sigri isn’t very modest, and usually dresses in whatever way is most comfortable or practical at the given time — and she understands nothing about sunburn.

Sigri feels most at home in the outdoors. She loves hunting, and sharing hunting stories. She feels most alive and most herself when stalking prey, without a building in sight. She also relishes the chance for a good ride on horseback, or a swim. Swimming is one advantage she believes to come out of warm weather. Back home, the water was often freezing for most of the year.

Sigri lacks refine, and femininity. She disdains “softness” and always wants to be recognized as strong and capable. Though she doesn’t realize it, Sigri has always been a caretaker; she always looked after her younger sisters, and later her son. She cares greatly for children, and animals, and likes to help where she is able to make a difference. She often believes her presence is detrimental, so her fashion of helping may appear to be avoiding - like in Jory’s case.

---

Sigri was born to a large family in rural Skyrim. Her parents owned a farm in the area outside of Windhelm - too far for casual visits, but close enough for the occasional business trip with her father. Hafgar and Alga, her parents, had four other living children when Sigri was growing up. The eldest two, her brothers Kari and Eric, were respectively two and three years older than her. Her sisters, Valensa, Sinda, and Ivana, were younger by over 7 years. During the gap, the family suffered a series of miscarriages and infant deaths. Alga held on tightly to all her children because of this, but Sigri, as the youngest during these events, was cherished by her in particular. She was a doting mother to the extreme, always hovering and worrying about Sigri’s scrapes and bruises.

However, Sigri was always a rebellious child. Her mother took her under her wing, teaching her to keep care of the farm household. Helping the rest of her family with the fields was full time work during the growing season, and during the winter months her mother would teach her to care for the household. Though Sigri loved the time spent with her mother, she hated being cooped up. At every opportunity, Sigri would follow her older brothers out to hunt in the winter months, and occasionally during the summer. The neighbouring households were mill households, two of which were quite nearby. Frequently, the others in their age group would join in with them and a parent or another for these trips. The community was close-knit.

The seasons were hard on the farm. Sigri never shied away from the difficult work involved, often doing both tasks for her mother inside as well as helping with the more physically extorting outdoor tasks. Despite the work, the harvests were lean and times weren’t easy, especially considering the short growing season. Still, the memories are of a fond childhood.

Things changed when Sigri was about 15. Ulfric Stormcloak changed it; the Civil War broke out. There was a dramatic shift in tone in her life. Her friends spoke more about joining the army than hunting, and the usual concern her mother held in her eyes had turned to a pure fear.

It didn’t take long for her brothers to depart for Windhelm, their friends in tow. Sigri had been the youngest, too young for war, her mother insisted. After the tears pooled in Alga’s eyes, Sigri didn’t mention the idea again.With Kari and Eric gone, and her sisters too young for heavy lifting, the workload was far heavier, leaving Sigri with little time for pleasure — or thinking.

It felt like an extended business trip. At times, her elder brothers, and often their father, would travel so Windhelm for a few nights. It wasn’t until the soldiers arrived home at the end that reality set in. Eric came first, the neighbour friends in tow, but the group was shattered. Only about two thirds of those who left returned.

When her father spotted Eric at the end of their property, Sigri and the rest of her family came running. As they stood at the door, the family could tell one thing: the second figure with him was female. Sigri’s mother reached down and clutched her hand tightly as they came closer. Eric stopped in front of them, and as they met eyes, he shook his head. Kari didn’t made it. Alga let go of Sigri’s hand and rushed to her son, clutching him and sobbing, as Sigri stood numbly in the door.

The woman who returned with her brother was his fiancé, another soldier who was done with war. The community held a funeral for the lost - there had been several others who didn’t return - and then a wedding, a month later.

As the time went on, Sigri waited eagerly for the return of the normalcy she had as a child, of hunting trips and play fighting, of archery practice and family time around the hearth. It never came back. Things because stable, and normal, yet her brother and the others her age weren’t the same. They were somber, haunted, and none interested in the return to old times Sigri desperately desired. With each day, she wished she’d left for war — perhaps if she had been there, Kari would still be around. Perhaps her lost friends would be. Perhaps at least she would understand why things were this way, now. Why everyone seemed older, and she like a child.

The attempt at returning to the way things were lasted only a few years. Just as her brother and his wife expected their first child, Sigri couldn’t stand the loneliness she felt around her own
home any longer. She set out to follow the only other opportunity she’d had as a child: magecraft.

When Sigri was 5, she earned her name, Fire-Caller, by accidentally setting a bale
of hay on fire. Fire, in particular, seemed to come naturally to her, in a way unlike the rest of her family. They said it came from her grandmother. So, seeking a way to be anything but stuck and isolated in her own life, she left for the College of Winterhold.

Her endeavours at the college lasted 3 years. She became an apprentice, excelling in destruction magic rapidly. She had little talent for much else, as others told her. Sigri has no trouble making acquaintances, yet she found herself missing the comfortable close relationship she used to have with her family. No matter how hard she tried at the College, she couldn’t escape her regret for leaving her family behind, a second time after staying behind from war, and eventually made the trek back to her farm.

On the day she returned, her mother greeted her with tears in her eyes and they embraced. She had a new niece and nephew to meet, and her sisters were suddenly grown-up. It felt like everyone had moved on without her, but they were welcoming.

Her family even threw a welcome party. They invited all the neighbours. Her childhood friends were adults now, with families of their own. A young man who she’d never liked, someone also stayed home from war since he was just barely younger than her, showed up with flowers in hand. As he stood in front of her, sharing kind words about how he had missed her in front of everyone, she couldn’t decline his flowers.

His name was Ingvar. As the year went on, Sigri dove back into work with her family, and on the evenings, Ingvar would show up and visit. He often sat with Sigri and her family, doting on Sigri in particular. He was a romantic, but he didn’t make her heart flutter. Each time they went for a walk or a ride, she humoured him. Each time he arrived, her mother’s eyes filled with joy at the prospect of her first daughter starting a family.

Sigri never had the beard to decline him. She spent time with him and found she liked him well enough, but when he proposed, with her family around the fire, and said he loved her, she knew she didn’t love him. She couldn’t let anyone down, and agreed, experssing her feelings in return.

They married a few months later. Sigri moved to his mill. His family was smaller, yet more successful. They had suffered losses from the war as well; the loss of Ingvar’s older brother left a hole in that family. Her life felt stale, like she simply listed from day to day. The things she enoyed, hunting in particular, lost their appeal. Things changed when she became pregnant. Her in-laws were delighted. She didn’t know how to feel, at first. Her mother’s miscarriages and stillborns certainly came to mind.

She smiled, and went through the motions of expressing her joy, yet she didn’t feel the joy at first, nor the fear. As the months went on, she began to feel something for the first time in ages. When she final gave birth to a little boy, she loved that child, more than anything she had ever loved in her life.

They named him after Ingvar’s brother, Jory. It was a nickname, but they gave it to their child as a full name, at Sigri’s request. She knew her mother in law was completely destroyed by Jory’s death, yet she wanted her child to be his own person.

By the time the child was born, Sigri and her family had their own small house on the property, separate from the main one. For four years, they lived there in a semblance of happiness. Sigri was more like her own mother than she wanted to be: overbearing. But Jory was everything she loved, and she held on too tightly.

When Jory was 4, Ingvar fell sick. Jory went to stay with his grandparents, across the yard, so he wouldn’t catch it, and Sigri cared for him.

Ingvar thought he was on his deathbed at times, and Sigri though there was a chance, too. As Sigri cared for him, they began fighting - Ingvar knew she’d never loved him, but he had loved her from childhood. The fight was fierce and the cruel words Sigri tossed at him were things she would regret forever. During the fight, the hearth fire grew higher until it poured out of the fireplace.

In the end, Sigri and Jory stood hand and hand, looking at the house as it burned.

Sigri couldn’t bear to stay on the farm after his death. As she departed, confusing her late husband’s parents and Jory both, she set out about a new existence. She began by hunting again, travelling by wilderness at every opportunity, and journeying into Skyrim’s cities to sell her leftover meat.

Eventually, her skill with a bow grew into mercenary work. She couldn’t face what she had become, travelling gradually further and further from Skyrim, until she found herself in Hammerfell, for only her second job. Once it was finished, Sigri was left with doubts. As natural as brawling and shooting felt to her, she was far more accustomed to her targets being animals than people, and it’s with these doubts that she boards the Kismet.

---

Sigri’s biggest regret is twofold. Firstly, she regrets her feelings surrounding her husband’s death, and feels immense guilt that she could never love him. Secondly, and most importantly, she regrets abandoning her family — first because she didn’t fight with her brothers in the Civil War, and again when she let her son down by depriving him of his parents.

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goal

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Expert
▷Archery: having learned to hunt from a young age, Sigri is a masterful marksman with a bow, with a good eye for her prey’s vulnerable points

Adept
▷Destruction: during her time at the College of Winterhold, Sigri honed her abilities wit destruction magic.
▷Athletics: Sigri has lived in rough conditions, doing hard labour for most of her life. She has spent a lot of time trekking in the wilderness, and is used to difficult terrain in particular from her hunting trips - it would be rare to see her trip.
▷Stealth: years of hunting has made it easy for Sigri to remain unseen and unheard, especially in an outdoors setting, where she can use nature’s sounds and foliage to her advantage.

Novice
▷Hand-to-Hand: growing up with as many siblings and friends as she did, Sigri is no stranger to the odd brawl. Sparring with her brothers has accustomed her to fighting in a pinch.
▷Restoration: during her time at the College of Winterhold, Sigri put some training into healing magic, even though her main focus was on destruction — she always wanted to be helpful for more than that.

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▷Fireball
▷Flame Clock
▷Ice Storm
▷Fire Rune
▷Healing Hands
▷Healing

---

▷ A sturdy hunting bow, well worn and well maintained. Though not of the highest quality, Sigri knows exactly how to aim with it for the most precise shot.
▷ Travelling clothes, with some pieces of sturdy leather armour to go overtop.
▷ An iron dagger, simple and practical, more for everyday use than killing, and often used to skin animals.
▷ A necklace with a bear’s tooth on it, a hunting trophy.
▷ A torn piece of cloth which she wears around one wrist.
▷ A pouch with 75 coins, the pay from the job she just completed.
▷ Her travelling backpack, complete with water skin and some camping supplies for her usual wilderness lifestyle. A few days’ dried meat rations and some bread.
▷ A flask filled with miscellaneous liquor.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

I am Learning

The cooking fire had become something comforting to Anifaire. For all the time she had spent wallowing in her own uselessness, since leaving the Alik’r, she had learned that her time could be put to better use. Instead of wasting her time, she spent it learning around the cooking fire. She had slow success, but by now, she was able to handle herself.

So, while others were gathering more provisions, she spent the time alone by the fire, a pot propped up and filled with heating water. The Altmer sat on the hard ground next to it, something she might once have seen as unspeakable, but there was something enjoyable about it. The scent of campfire smoke was comfortable, and she smiled as she prepared a heap of leeks - there was little else left for her to cook at the time, but she hoped the others would bring something good. Perhaps some venison, she wished.

Anifaire glanced around the camp - where had Alim gone off to?. The thought of her... she paused at the question of what to call him and brushed forwards, allowing the warmth he made her feel to fill her mind instead. She hoped he would join her by the fire.

She shifted her attention back the the leeks, slicing and washing them individually before setting them in a pile. She knew she was slower than the others, but still, each time the group left her by herself to deal with the cooking, she felt the glow of pride in her chest.

Much of the situation at hand felt surreal to Anifaire: a journey to end the entire Dwemer threat. It was like something she would have read in a novel, in a life that felt increasingly distant with each day and each step. Except, it wasn’t - looking around the camp, it was all the ways that this wasn’t like an adventure in a story book were highlighted for her.

The danger was far more real, she thought, imagining how her companions - and herself, in a way - had sliced through dwemer guards leaving Gilane.

Yet at the same time, it was slower. The heroes in a story didn’t spend a month trekking through the mountains, or at least, you wouldn’t read about it; the healed and re-opened - reapeatedly - blisters on her feet told another tale.

She was here. She didn’t fit in a story. There was no way she could conceive of herself as a character a child might read about and root for. Daro’Vasora, Latro, they fit. But there was her, underwhelming and unabl--

The water bubbled, coming to a boil. She cut off her thoughts, instead focusing on something she tried to hold forefront in her mind as they traveled: I am learning. She reached out an arm to begin piling the leeks into the pot, but caught herself mid-action and sat back down. Instead, she raised an arm and focused, using telekinesis to lift and drop the leeks into the pot.

Practicing two skills at once: magic and cooking. At first she’d felt embarrassed using it, but there was a practical aspect to it as well; sometimes she moved things faster than she would have without magic, and she thought it might make up for some of her slowness.

She glanced around camp, Alim occupying her thoughts, but she didn’t spot him. The time she’d been able to spend with him brightened her moods; he seemed proud of how proud she was about learning to cook. A smile crept onto her face and she pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, idly remembering the borrowed hairpin she was using, and how she would have to return it to Aries once she’d found something else to use instead.

The last of the leeks dumped into the pot, she stood to mind them as they cooked, a large wooden spoon clutched in her hand. Truthfully, as the smell began to drift above the pot, she didn’t think she could stand one more leek, let alone a leek soup. Hopefully, she thought, those sent out for provisions would return soon.