MacabreFox

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion

Isai - Verena - Deia

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@Spoopy Scary & @spicykvnt

Ensnared was her attention over Deia, with the way the wild woman had drawn closer to Verena, she became entranced, her stare fixated in a hypnotic-like state as Deia caressed her curls. Her shoulders hitched with tension as a memory of her mother came to her, one that left her gazing at Deia in confusion. Verena’s brows pinched together in this haze of contemplation, she wanted to glance to Isai, to seek help. Yet… she couldn’t.

‘I’ve seen finer order in a pigsty than upon thy head, as a mop doth hold more grace than that wretched tangle!’

Her mother’s chastisement filled her head, echoing in a profound way to where she could almost smell her liquored breath assailing her nose.

She blinked. Instead of the red-rimmed eyes of her mother staring at her in disgust, Verena recentered herself with the simple action, where she regarded Deia, staring in miration at her dull grey eyes. The wild woman had fallen into a curious state of some sort, perhaps deep in recollection, her fingers hovering just over Verena’s mane. She had expected her to give a sharp tug, just like her mother, yet none came. Deia turned away from Verena with such suddenness that she stood there in confusion, blinking at the empty space that she had filled seconds before.

And then came Isai, his whispered words drawing her attention away, “A note from the history books: appear weak when you are strong and appear strong when you are weak.”

She swallowed the knot that had formed in her throat, shifting her weight uncomfortably as Isai began to placate Deia with her angered demands for release.

The following events transpired with such haste that Verena couldn’t help but liken herself to a tiny boat being tossed about a stormy sea. And just when she thought she couldn’t tolerate the noise and cacophony of voices… the Emperor appeared.

‘Either move up the stairs or down the tunnel… know there is danger no matter which direction you go…’

Upon the Emperor’s appearance, Verena heard Isai at her side, amidst a groan at what he must have perceived as amateurish wordplay, was suddenly gagged as he exclaimed, “Dominus noster!” Then looking over upon feeling him stir, he seemed to have the good sense to prostrate himself before Emperor Uriel Septim. His proskynesis was a peculiar state to see him in certainly, for although he frequently made shows of respect, he rarely showed any genuine reverence for anything. She could tell that his smile, though hard to see aimed at the ground, was nervously worn for how stiff he was and by droplets of sweat forming on his neck.

Tugging upon Isai’s sleeve, Verena whispered to him, glancing to Deia before looking down at him, her face twisted in concern, “Isai…” she said, her words soft with a notable tremble, “W-what… what are we to do?”

Already, others were beginning to follow after the Emperor into the tunnel…

“We keep our heads down!” Isai squawked quietly through gritted teeth. He wanted to look up at the Blades, but held his deep bow. Had they said something about riots and violence in the streets? Sounds of combat at the top of the stairwell? They pushed their way through the crowd to activate a secret doorway — whatever was happening, they thought the Emperor’s life was in danger and were going to escort him through a secret tunnel. Kissing the Emperor’s feet be damned, any sudden move aimed towards the elderly Septim would quickly see his head removed from his shoulders! He rather liked his head.

As the Emperor’s entourage moved away from his corner of the cell and as some of the prisoners rushed out upon their sudden pardon, Isai inched away and stood up, pushing his back against the bars of the cell.

“Uh, well, ah…” He began with a stammer. “Well, let’s be logical about this… I should probably keep my distance, yes? A dozen pardoned prisoners of no significant status rushing the Emperor to talk with him while his bodyguards are escorting him can not be a good idea… there’s danger outside, and maybe there’s less down there… those are the Blades, and they’re the best of the best, but they’ll protect the Emperor long before me… meanwhile the Imperial Watch—”

Isai flinched as a watchman’s dented helmet rolled down the spiral staircase with a loud bang for every step it fell onto, before finally rolling into a wall and leaving a bloody imprint.

“—they have their hands full, the mysterious tunnel it is then.” Isai quickly concluded. He looked to Verena, concerned yet decisively, “Mysterious tunnel. Which I suppose works quite well for me! I can record the events that transpire within proximity of the Emperor, if…”

Isai dug through his satchel to confirm that he still possessed the belongings he needed, then the bard beamed, “If I have my journal and quill! Blessed gods, I do!”

Then came the flood of ideas and questions he could harry the Blades with, and suddenly Isai’s previous thought of leaving them well enough alone seemed like the far less lucrative option.

Deia did not bow or turn to submission under the eyes of the Blades. Isai and Verena may have, but Deia remained unmoved. Poised. Taut. Waiting. Her gaze latched, and not in reverence - but in seeking any tremors or weakness beneath their well-trained discipline.

She did not fear the Emperor, either. To her, he was just a man, and no different from the nobles and courtiers she had long since been abandoned by. He too, would find his way to the soil and bloat and blacken all the same. The same worms that would feast on beggars in the slums of the Imperial City would feast on him. The gilded tombs of the Septim would not raise him above the reach of decay.

Verena’s eyes swept over those that lingered, though they would all have to make a decision with haste from the sound of it. Her attention drifted to Deia, almost as if some unearthly force drew her gaze back.

Gulping down the growing anxiety of the situation, she cleared her throat to address her, “You should come with us into the tunnels.”

“She should?” Isai quipped, eyeballing her nervously.

Verena spared a glance to Isai, the pit of her stomach twisting into a knot, partly composed of nervousness, the other portion nameless, “She should.”

“If the Emperor is going down this way, maybe it’s best we do too.” She replied, loud enough for both of them to hear.

Deia slipped the flask of Rotmeth into the folds of her cloak as her posture altered; alert, looming. The Bosmer may have disappeared into the tunnel, but Deia was not yet finished with her. “I am no servant or disciple to a King…” Deia muttered in response, reacting to a twitch in her neck that shuddered out her balanced poise and had her turn to meet the eyes of Verena. The woman’s nerves were palpable and had mixed to her scent. Isai was seeking opportunity this way, that much she could deduce. The poet and the King…

The broad silhouette of the Cathay-raht had already vanished into the long darkness of the tunnel and swallowed by its yawn. He couldn’t be trusted to watch over himself, let alone anyone else he called out to; announcing himself as some lead forward. No, his mind flitted too easily, slipping through questions like sand through fingers.

Deia’s lips curled and she ‘tsked’ in distaste for him. The tunnels breathed around them all now and she did not trust their silence amidst the chaos. Verena was small, fragile, and yet not. The scent of the roses clung to her in a familiar way that made Deia’s stomach twist. Something about her presence pulled and pinched at the edges of a memory. Something half formed or lost, a thread that had pulled and left a trail. The way she had flashed her loyalty to Isai – a fire beneath her soft exterior. Was it that? It was unwelcome, whatever it was. The feeling clawed and pressed against her ribs from the inside. Protect her.

“Stay at me,” she said to Verena, suppressing the feeling as she stepped closer. It was not a request. It was a demand. The shadows thickened still, and as her voice edged with something dangerous, her fingers flexed, magic coiling beneath her skin. “If anything tries to do harm to us this way,” she whispered, “I will show them true chaos.”

She meant it. Isai could tell that much, and whether she had talent that could back her confidence or not, he would’ve either way held the skeptical notion that the spillways of her magicka reserves would claim him as well if he kept too close if her allegations of true chaos held true. She claimed servitude to no king, but she clearly served different matters. She seemed too… mercurial; too little mastery over the dark forest of her heart, a spectacle claimed and entangled by nature and its thorns. Was she truly a mage or witch in the truest sense, having mastery over her powers, or was she simply a rip and tear in the fabric of Mundus, a conduit through which magicka flowed freely? In the eternal battle of mastering versus becoming mastered, the dichotomy between the two seemed like bubbles poised at distant ends of a level. He’d admit at least one thing though: he’d have to be closer to being like her if he wanted to balance himself at its center.

“A leashed and registered caliber of chaos, I hope...” He muttered to himself.

Verena inhaled, taking a deep breath to steel her nerves, and let the exhale roll through her. She fixed her cloak about her neck once more, securing its pin before she shook out her hands.

“Right… let’s not tarry a moment longer.” Verena said, grasping both of them by the elbows of their attire. She gave Isai a gentle nudge forward, taking the middle herself, and pulling Deia in behind her. With the three in tow and trailing behind the retinue following the Emperor, they ducked their heads under the stonework and descended into the darkness below the prison.

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion

Just commenting that I updated Verena's pic on her CS with something I made, as the original was just a placeholder.

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion

Verena

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"Little doveling. Do you believe that your knight here is clever enough to unmake the walls that hold us? Do you think that his tongue can turn the lock?" Verena hadn’t the chance to form a sentence so caught off guard was she by the visage of the wild Nord woman, not that the woman was unattractive, it was the mere intensity of her appearance that Verena could do nothing but gawk, though Isai came to her rescue with a proper introduction behest himself, of which she was readily grateful. Unlike Isai, Verena didn’t have as quick a wit. She preferred to look on in silence, taking note of the body language of those around her, interjecting when appropriate, and she relied on it now.

“Hm? Esquire of Cheydinhal actually, my lady, though I appreciate your estimation of my station. Isai Tegulatoris Sutris-Armaseptus da Leyawiin, Esquire. Alas, the gods permit me only to be but of the landed gentry before the peerage, and my tongue to turn naught but opinion, pleasure, and tied cherry stems.”

Isai had bowed as properly and respectfully as he could given the space in the cramped cell, “Though speaking of pleasure, it is mine to make your acquaintance, dear lady…?”

The massive Khajiit suddenly interjected, leaving Verena to gaze up at him in mortification, not because she was afraid of him, rather because of the sudden invasion of space. Though, given their cramped quarters and the Khajiit’s hulking figure, perhaps he did not mean to be intimidating.

"This one... It flirts with the witch-woman? Kiffar thinks she will eat you, too, but her way will be much less fun than yours. Scoot, scoot, fancy man-thing. Kiffar will sit here, and the man thing will be scooted or be a cushion. Treefling! Darmon-Thing! Come, come, sit with Kiffar, tell him of why the many manthings and elfthings are here, while we watch the fancy one be eaten by the witch-woman."

Having been jostled out of the way alongside Isai to make room for the orange and black striped Khajiit who identified himself as Kiffar, Verena quickly retracted her previous line of thinking. Her nose wrinkled in confusion, what purpose did his words serve? Did he mistake Isai’s words for flirting?

Verena dwelled on this for a few moments her eyes fixated upon the ground beneath her slippers as she clutched her woolen cloak to her chest, '...my tongue turn naught but opinion, pleasure, and tied cherry stems…'. Isai’s knack for conversation allowed him to indulge a wide manner of subjects, and he held an array of points of view. And he did indeed enjoy a good bottle of wine, music, dance, and all other forms of entertainment. She smiled softly to herself, her eyes flickering to Isai at the memory of him showing her how to tie cherry stems. After all, she had burdened him with the question after having an Imperial man approach her with a rather set of curious words. Almost a year ago now actually, something to the effect of, “A pretty thing like you ought to let me show you how well I can tie the stems of cherries.”

Of course at the time, Verena had declined the Imperial’s offer, thinking his suggestion rather dull and boring. Why would she want to do such a thing? When she came to Isai regarding the matter, he told her of a cherry stem tying contest he had once won and insisted he show her the skill, just in case such a challenge arose again. They had gone to the market and purchased a basket full of cherries, they then sat in the meadow while Isai taught her the trick the man had spoken of. Her mouth certainly was sore and her tongue ached, and she thought the trick even more foolish, like skipping rocks on the water. Though skipping rocks she found more pleasure in.

'...the man thing will be scooted or be a cushion…' Kiffar’s words repeated in her mind as she found herself frowning inward at the jest of Isai being sat upon. A kind of word could have been uttered instead, surely? Surely.

Her attention snapped back to the wild woman, the hair on her forearms stood on end, and an eerie sensation washed over her. Had she missed something when lost in thought?

"I could eat him," She addressed Kiffar as he had found his seat upon the ground after all. "He is well spiced, don't you think?" The woman sniffed at Isai, and then grinned wide. "Marinated in his importance. Sweetened just so with his honeyed words... Something foul in his belly from the ceiling."

For the wild woman, Verena felt as if her words were uttered in a more playful jest, and she couldn’t help but to smile softly. There was a peculiar familiarity to her words, having reminded her of Marius and Steffan, when they used to try and frighten her in the dark, a teasing play on words.

Then came the Bosmer, placing herself between Kiffar seated on the ground and Isai, effectively forcing Verena farther out of the way. All the while Verena still had yet to have a word in edgewise as this continual flow of interruptions into the matter with Isai carried on.

“This prey is beneath you,” The Bosmer woman began, “A better hunt could be had crushing bugs under our feet,” the Bosmer flashed a feral smile at Isaii. “We shall soon be rid of this place, and have our pick of prizes yet again. A wolf does not stay caged for long. This pest is not worth the effort.”

"Ma'am, I'd greatly appreciate it if you didn't terrorize that man any more than you have to." Caddach deadpanned in her direction. "It smells bad enough in here as it is; we don't need to make it any worse by adding something wet and brown to the inside of his trousers."

Oh surely this was too much. Verena’s headached from the overflowing activity and rabble of words that filled the cell, a cacophony of sound that made her temples throb.

This now felt like off-handed beratement towards Isai, and it made her heart clench at the mere sound of their words. And for what? What had he done to elicit such a targeted response? She would pay none of them any mind, it wasn’t worth the effort. They were all strangers crammed into this cell, and it seemed that they had latched onto her dear friend for wanton enjoyment. No one wanted to be here, and they were more or less victims of circumstance as a result of the riot.

The Khajiit had accused him of flirting with the wild woman, the Bosmer woman stated that Isai was no more than a pest and prey at that, and the young Breton man implied that Isai could be easily frightened to the point of defecating in his pants. Despite the wild woman’s remarks at eating Isai, at least she did not mock him. Teasing, surely. But not mocking.

Perhaps it was Verena’s soft heart that made her feel such things. Her mother’s jabs and jeers at her throughout her childhood had effectively chipped away at Verena’s self-esteem, leaving her with the penchant to avoid discourse, or making anyone feel lesser unless truly deserved, and even then, it hurt her to say a negative word.

Isai had taken a chance with her. He had given her a chance for a better life, to not end up like her mother, impoverished and ill from drink. She could do better. She would do better. A kind word went a long way, and it was that way in which she had kept her employment with Isai for as long as she did. Not once had he ever spoken to her poorly in nature.

...Insufferable little brat… you are naught but a sniveling wretch, born of my own flesh yet twice the burden!

...Had you been left upon the riverbank, even the fish would spurn you!

...I have seen dung heaps with more promise than thee, and they at least do serve the soil!

...A duller wit ne'er graced this earth, and yet you call me 'Mother' as if 'twere a blessing!

She inhaled softly, shaking the echoes of her mother’s ridicule from her head.

“Pardon me…” Verena said quietly, her voice soft and warm, like that of honey stirred in with hot brandy. She shifted her body so as not to jostle anyone uncouthly, moving in between the Bosmer and Isai, angling her body just so in a subconscious manner to act as a barrier.

Her pale green eyes swept over the wild woman, and wild she was indeed. It was almost inspiring to see such a woman. A subtle blush came to her cheeks before she dragged her gaze to Isai, commenting in that same warm tone, “I keep my faith in you, Isai.”

“You have seen us through the most unusual quarries. Perhaps when we leave this place, I would make us both some eidar cap.” She mused more to herself than anyone else.

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion

Just commenting that I’m working on a post for Verena that I aim to post later this evening

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion

Verena Luscinia

Verena Luscinia | 26 | Imperial | The Mage

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APPEARANCE

Verena

Verena’s most notable feature is her mane of wild dark brown hair that falls just past her shoulders, a set of white curtain styled bangs frames her face. Her thick manicured brows are typically pinched together, and her pale green eyes peer out from under thick eyelashes. She has a heart-shaped face, with a set of pouty rouge painted lips that mirror her contemplative expression drawn into a frown. Her rosy cheeks give her a rather youthful and innocent appearance, which has come in handy over the years much to her benefit. Verena is on the shorter end of the scale, and stands at a mere 5’5, with a lithe and delicate frame.

When it comes to a matter of physical dress, Verena prefers to dress in a simple, yet refined manner befitting of her status as Isai’s assistant, though she often cuts a slit into her dresses on both sides, and sports a pair of linen hosiery beneath for easier movement. She generally prefers to forgoe jewelry altogether, and she is careful to keep her hands clean, as it would be frowned upon to have an assistant with dirt underneath one’s fingernails. For her hair, she finds it difficult to manage, so she alternates between a half-up hairstyle, a messy bun, or flowing free.

The scent of roses is most noticeable when greeting Verena, as she prefers to use rosewater to wash her face, rose infused soaps, and makes her own rose scented perfume. It is not a pungent odor, but one that is pleasant to the nose.

---

PERSONALITY

Given her illiteracy, Verena often comes across as shy to others, though she is quick to smile, and keeps conversation well with others. She will purposefully avoid subjects surrounding books for fear of being found out that she cannot read. It is not uncommon to see her staring intently at the writing on parchment paper, or glowering at signposts.

Despite this, Verena has a positive disposition, and prefers to avoid discourse whenever possible. When situations grow tense, Verena is quick-witted, and often finds solutions that are overlooked.

---

ABILITIES

Skills & Magic

Skills

Athletics - While Verena is no long distance sprinter, she is quick on her feet, and can run for a good distance before tiring.

Sneak - Coming from her childhood when her brothers would pickpocket the unfortunate, Verena developed the knack for moving without a sound, and often startles people as it feels as if she suddenly appears beside them without notice.

Mercantile - Though hindered by her illiteracy, Verena has an eye for detail, and her time at the castle gave her insight to items of value, and will often haggle and barter for a better deal.

Speechcraft - A quick learner, though no wordsmith unlike her counterpart, Verena tends to speak more eloquently, though at times uses the wrong words.

General Herbalism & First Aid - Coming from her time spent under Meralyn, Verena holds basic knowledge on herbs in the general locale. She can readily prepare herbal remedies, and isn’t squeamish when it comes to blood or injuries.

Sewing/Embroidery - A surprising talent Verena acquired through her series of jobs she held in her youth, shel often mends her own clothes in her spare time, or adds small embroidered details like rosettes, stars, beaded flowers and so on, and lends this to Isai as well.

Cooking - While not a jaw-dropping chef, Verena can certainly cook a meal that is more than edible. If one were to ask her, she would tell you that her favorite foods are eidar cap, mint chai, and shepherds pie, as these are comfort foods for her.

Magic: N/A - Despite being born under the Mage, Verena has never experienced wielding magic, and believes herself inept.

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EQUIPMENT

Personal Items

Only the clothes on her back: A sage green linen dress with a brown bodice, a pair of black linen hosiery, brown leather slippers, and a grey linen hooded cloak.

The Lock Box

A satchel with the pairs toiletries (soaps, hairbrush, etc), and a few essential cooking supplies for life on the road (a small cooking pot, two spoons, two forks, two knives, and two wooden bowls.)

An herbal bag containing lavender, mugwort, ginseng, motherwort, monkshood, St. Jahn’s Wort, and wormwood leaves) with a few bandages included.

A smaller pouch containing Verena’s vial of rose oil fragrance, sewing needle, and spool of thread.

Stored Items

A wider collection of dried herbs, and glass vials.

Bolts of fabric in varying colours, and matching thread.

Two sets of spare clothes, a winter set of clothing, and a summer set.

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BACKGROUND

Born into the maw of poverty, Verena faced many challenges as a child. The seemingly ever present gnaw of hunger, the stench of unwashed bodies and clothes, and the lack of education. She never knew her father, Adamus, as he met an early demise through a logging accident. Without a viable source of income, her mother, Gianna, made the difficult decision to uproot her family, and move them into Cheydinhal.

Gianna faced the task of trying to feed her three young children, and often left Verena in the care of her brothers, Marius then six years old, and Steffan four years of age. To say that Gianna’s absence resonated in their small family unit is an understatement. The young mother was forced to find work no matter the trade, though eventually she managed to find sustainable work as a basket-weaver.

Verena would like to think that her mother’s happiness fell victim to the iron-like claw of grief. While Gianna encouraged Steffan and Marius, few positive words reached Verena’s ears as a youth, a crucial time in any young person’s life when they needed encouragement most. After work, Gianna typically ventured out to the inn for a drink, spending what spare coin she could scrounge instead of food for her children, and drank herself into a stupor. Granted, Verena never felt the stinging slap of her mother’s hand, however, Gianna’s words were just as sharp. As a result, Verena stuck to her brothers side.

The trio spent most of their time begging for coin, though they were careful not to be caught. Most of it was innocent, they were hungry and filthy after all. Who wouldn’t spare a septim for those big doe-eyed children with their clothes in shambles? Yet, when they grew out of their childish looks, a life of begging in the streets of Cheydinhal became difficult. For a few years, Marius and Steffan tried their hand at pickpocketing, often using Verena as a distraction given her age. If one of them were caught, the other two would split up, dashing through the streets, and often knocking over goods in the market square.

Eventually, Steffan and Marius landed jobs in their early teens, with Marius working as a stable boy, and Steffan managed to find a job as an apprentice carpenter. This left Verena all by herself, and to avoid her mother’s ire, Verena did what she could to earn her own coin. For a while, she worked as a gatherer for a Dunmer herbalist by the name of Meralyn, who helped her identify what plants she needed. Arvela taught Verena the basic healing principles of the herbs in the surrounding locale. She taught her how to make poultices, tinctures, salves, and how to treat minor wounds, and the importance of keeping a wound clean.

When Verena turned seventeen, Marius, then twenty-three, decided to leave Cheydinhal behind, and head for the Imperial City to find work. While saddened, Verena admired her brother’s courage to seek a better life for himself. The following year, Steffan, only twenty-two, followed a similar path, and decided to head for Anvil, where he dreamt of sailing upon open waters. That left Verena behind to look after Gianna, as her mother had continued down the path of drowning her persistent grief at the bottom of a bottle. From the age of eighteen to twenty-two, Verena made herself scarce from the shoddy one-room family home her mother and her shared on the outskirts of the city, where Verena spent most of her time drifting from job to job, working for short periods of time as a seamstress, a cook, a scullery maid, an errand girl for the blacksmith, and so on.

The most important thing to note for Verena at this point in time, is her inability to read. Due to her impoverished upbringings, she remained illiterate, though her brothers fared no better than her. This often hindered her during certain tasks presented by her many bosses, yet she managed to find her way around the situation by memorizing images, and gleaning necessary information via context clues in conversations. For example, she knew the sign for the local blacksmith, as it displayed an anvil, though she couldn’t read the letters on the sign that spelled out The March Rider.

The year Verena would turn twenty-three, Gianna succumbed to her grief. Not knowing where her brothers were, and unable to compose a letter, only Verena attended her mother’s funeral, and what a great weight off her shoulders that felt. It was that day, that bleak day in Morning Star that she decided to forgoe her given name of Mariana Lupo, and changed her name to Verena Luscinia. A new name for a new start, unburdened by the challenges of a bitter mother. She could be anyone she wanted, and besides, it wasn’t as if Verena had any friends to notice the change in name.

A few weeks later, Verena landed a position as an assistant cook within the castle. She flourished in this role, and others took note of her odd, yet exceptional organizational methods. She organized items in the kitchen by color, size, and quantity. It impressed the current castle administrator, Naspia Cosma, who extended an assistant position to her. Verena settled into the position with stride, and managed to hide her illiteracy all the while. She memorized seals, and identified significant royal documents, and maintained her organizational system of sorting by colours, though she adapted the method of sorting by images, the more ornate an item was, the more secured it needed to be placed on her bookshelf. She paid close attention to the general context clues in proceeding conversations, and learned where signatures needed to go, and where specific stamps were to be placed.

Shortly after turning twenty-five, that is when Verena met Isai. She liked the charismatic imperial, and noted how he treated her with a great deal of respect. So when the time came where Isai prompted her for information about Count Andel Indarys, and acquiring a title, she needn’t much coaxing nor convincing, though a few extra septims certainly did sweeten the deal. And it wasn’t long after that Isai encouraged her to leave her stuffy administrative position behind to travel with him, after all, she had wanted to see the world for herself.

Though, she certainly didn’t expect getting caught up in the riot and the arrest that followed suit.

---

AMBITION

Verena seeks a better life for herself, her greatest fear being that she ends up destitute, and in a similar manner as her mother, husbandless, and with hungry mouths to feed. Having never left Cyrodiil, Verena yearns to see the world beyond.

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion

okie dokie, meet Verena Luscinia.

Verena Luscinia

Verena Luscinia | 26 | Imperial | The Mage

---

APPEARANCE

Verena

Verena’s most notable feature is her mane of wild dark brown hair that falls just past her shoulders, a set of white curtain styled bangs frames her face. Her thick manicured brows are typically pinched together, and her pale green eyes peer out from under thick eyelashes. She has a heart-shaped face, with a set of pouty rouge painted lips that mirror her contemplative expression drawn into a frown. Her rosy cheeks give her a rather youthful and innocent appearance, which has come in handy over the years much to her benefit. Verena is on the shorter end of the scale, and stands at a mere 5’5, with a lithe and delicate frame.

When it comes to a matter of physical dress, Verena prefers to dress in a simple, yet refined manner befitting of her status as Isai’s assistant, though she often cuts a slit into her dresses on both sides, and sports a pair of linen hosiery beneath for easier movement. She generally prefers to forgoe jewelry altogether, and she is careful to keep her hands clean, as it would be frowned upon to have an assistant with dirt underneath one’s fingernails. For her hair, she finds it difficult to manage, so she alternates between a half-up hairstyle, a messy bun, or flowing free.

The scent of roses is most noticeable when greeting Verena, as she prefers to use rosewater to wash her face, rose infused soaps, and makes her own rose scented perfume. It is not a pungent odor, but one that is pleasant to the nose.

---

PERSONALITY

Given her illiteracy, Verena often comes across as shy to others, though she is quick to smile, and keeps conversation well with others. She will purposefully avoid subjects surrounding books for fear of being found out that she cannot read. It is not uncommon to see her staring intently at the writing on parchment paper, or glowering at signposts.

Despite this, Verena has a positive disposition, and prefers to avoid discourse whenever possible. When situations grow tense, Verena is quick-witted, and often finds solutions that are overlooked.

---

ABILITIES

Skills & Magic

Skills

Athletics - While Verena is no long distance sprinter, she is quick on her feet, and can run for a good distance before tiring.

Sneak - Coming from her childhood when her brothers would pickpocket the unfortunate, Verena developed the knack for moving without a sound, and often startles people as it feels as if she suddenly appears beside them without notice.

Mercantile - Though hindered by her illiteracy, Verena has an eye for detail, and her time at the castle gave her insight to items of value, and will often haggle and barter for a better deal.

Speechcraft - A quick learner, though no wordsmith unlike her counterpart, Verena tends to speak more eloquently, though at times uses the wrong words.

General Herbalism & First Aid - Coming from her time spent under Meralyn, Verena holds basic knowledge on herbs in the general locale. She can readily prepare herbal remedies, and isn’t squeamish when it comes to blood or injuries.

Sewing/Embroidery - A surprising talent Verena acquired through her series of jobs she held in her youth, shel often mends her own clothes in her spare time, or adds small embroidered details like rosettes, stars, beaded flowers and so on, and lends this to Isai as well.

Cooking - While not a jaw-dropping chef, Verena can certainly cook a meal that is more than edible. If one were to ask her, she would tell you that her favorite foods are eidar cap, mint chai, and shepherds pie, as these are comfort foods for her.

Magic: N/A - Despite being born under the Mage, Verena has never experienced wielding magic, and believes herself inept.

---

EQUIPMENT

Personal Items

Only the clothes on her back: A sage green linen dress with a brown bodice, a pair of black linen hosiery, brown leather slippers, and a grey linen hooded cloak.

The Lock Box[/hider

A satchel with the pairs toiletries (soaps, hairbrush, etc), and a few essential cooking supplies for life on the road (a small cooking pot, two spoons, two forks, two knives, and two wooden bowls.)

An herbal bag containing lavender, mugwort, ginseng, motherwort, monkshood, St. Jahn’s Wort, and wormwood leaves) with a few bandages included.

A smaller pouch containing Verena’s vial of rose oil fragrance, sewing needle, and spool of thread.

Stored Items

A wider collection of dried herbs, and glass vials.

Bolts of fabric in varying colours, and matching thread.

Two sets of spare clothes, a winter set of clothing, and a summer set.

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BACKGROUND

Born into the maw of poverty, Verena faced many challenges as a child. The seemingly ever present gnaw of hunger, the stench of unwashed bodies and clothes, and the lack of education. She never knew her father, Adamus, as he met an early demise through a logging accident. Without a viable source of income, her mother, Gianna, made the difficult decision to uproot her family, and move them into Cheydinhal.

Gianna faced the task of trying to feed her three young children, and often left Verena in the care of her brothers, Marius then six years old, and Steffan four years of age. To say that Gianna’s absence resonated in their small family unit is an understatement. The young mother was forced to find work no matter the trade, though eventually she managed to find sustainable work as a basket-weaver.

Verena would like to think that her mother’s happiness fell victim to the iron-like claw of grief. While Gianna encouraged Steffan and Marius, few positive words reached Verena’s ears as a youth, a crucial time in any young person’s life when they needed encouragement most. After work, Gianna typically ventured out to the inn for a drink, spending what spare coin she could scrounge instead of food for her children, and drank herself into a stupor. Granted, Verena never felt the stinging slap of her mother’s hand, however, Gianna’s words were just as sharp. As a result, Verena stuck to her brothers side.

The trio spent most of their time begging for coin, though they were careful not to be caught. Most of it was innocent, they were hungry and filthy after all. Who wouldn’t spare a septim for those big doe-eyed children with their clothes in shambles? Yet, when they grew out of their childish looks, a life of begging in the streets of Cheydinhal became difficult. For a few years, Marius and Steffan tried their hand at pickpocketing, often using Verena as a distraction given her age. If one of them were caught, the other two would split up, dashing through the streets, and often knocking over goods in the market square.

Eventually, Steffan and Marius landed jobs in their early teens, with Marius working as a stable boy, and Steffan managed to find a job as an apprentice carpenter. This left Verena all by herself, and to avoid her mother’s ire, Verena did what she could to earn her own coin. For a while, she worked as a gatherer for a Dunmer herbalist by the name of Meralyn, who helped her identify what plants she needed. Arvela taught Verena the basic healing principles of the herbs in the surrounding locale. She taught her how to make poultices, tinctures, salves, and how to treat minor wounds, and the importance of keeping a wound clean.

When Verena turned seventeen, Marius, then twenty-three, decided to leave Cheydinhal behind, and head for the Imperial City to find work. While saddened, Verena admired her brother’s courage to seek a better life for himself. The following year, Steffan, only twenty-two, followed a similar path, and decided to head for Anvil, where he dreamt of sailing upon open waters. That left Verena behind to look after Gianna, as her mother had continued down the path of drowning her persistent grief at the bottom of a bottle. From the age of eighteen to twenty-two, Verena made herself scarce from the shoddy one-room family home her mother and her shared on the outskirts of the city, where Verena spent most of her time drifting from job to job, working for short periods of time as a seamstress, a cook, a scullery maid, an errand girl for the blacksmith, and so on.

The most important thing to note for Verena at this point in time, is her inability to read. Due to her impoverished upbringings, she remained illiterate, though her brothers fared no better than her. This often hindered her during certain tasks presented by her many bosses, yet she managed to find her way around the situation by memorizing images, and gleaning necessary information via context clues in conversations. For example, she knew the sign for the local blacksmith, as it displayed an anvil, though she couldn’t read the letters on the sign that spelled out The March Rider.

The year Verena would turn twenty-three, Gianna succumbed to her grief. Not knowing where her brothers were, and unable to compose a letter, only Verena attended her mother’s funeral, and what a great weight off her shoulders that felt. It was that day, that bleak day in Morning Star that she decided to forgoe her given name of Mariana Lupo, and changed her name to Verena Luscinia. A new name for a new start, unburdened by the challenges of a bitter mother. She could be anyone she wanted, and besides, it wasn’t as if Verena had any friends to notice the change in name.

A few weeks later, Verena landed a position as an assistant cook within the castle. She flourished in this role, and others took note of her odd, yet exceptional organizational methods. She organized items in the kitchen by color, size, and quantity. It impressed the current castle administrator, Naspia Cosma, who extended an assistant position to her. Verena settled into the position with stride, and managed to hide her illiteracy all the while. She memorized seals, and identified significant royal documents, and maintained her organizational system of sorting by colours, though she adapted the method of sorting by images, the more ornate an item was, the more secured it needed to be placed on her bookshelf. She paid close attention to the general context clues in proceeding conversations, and learned where signatures needed to go, and where specific stamps were to be placed.

Shortly after turning twenty-five, that is when Verena met Isai. She liked the charismatic imperial, and noted how he treated her with a great deal of respect. So when the time came where Isai prompted her for information about Count Andel Indarys, and acquiring a title, she needn’t much coaxing nor convincing, though a few extra septims certainly did sweeten the deal. And it wasn’t long after that Isai encouraged her to leave her stuffy administrative position behind to travel with him, after all, she had wanted to see the world for herself.

Though, she certainly didn’t expect getting caught up in the riot and the arrest that followed suit.

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AMBITION

Verena seeks a better life for herself, her greatest fear being that she ends up destitute, and in a similar manner as her mother, husbandless, and with hungry mouths to feed. Having never left Cyrodiil, Verena yearns to see the world beyond.

The Elder Scrolls: In the Shadows of Oblivion

If you're still accepting CSs, me and another would be interested. I could have a sheet put together over this weekend.

The Blood & The Axe [POOHEAD189 & MacabreFox]

The rented room of the tavern did not leave for want, as far as Rhona was concerned. The room held a simple arrangement, to the left of the doorway sat a single bed, end table, and a silver candle holder, a fresh candle waiting to be lit. And to the right sat a wooden wash basin, stool, mirror, and a partition to afford privacy for the wash basin. While there was no fireplace in the room, as it was on the second floor of the inn, the far wall did have a simple wooden paned window to allow in sunlight and fresh air. On the floor stretched a large woven rug, it was clear that it was once dyed red, but had long since faded over time. Beneath the window stood a table with two chairs, a pitcher full of water, and a set of tin mugs.

Rhona investigated the room, moving from the bed where she admired the sheets, meticulously rubbing the fabric between her fingers, to the table and chairs, inspecting the quality. Eventually she ended up at the wash basin, inspecting it, and the large bucket of water that sat next to it. There was even a bar of soap and a washcloth. How long had it been since she had the chance to wash herself? She lifted her arm, and sniffed her armpit, pulling a face at the stench.

With that, Rhona finally turned her attention to the rug, she decided that that was where she would sleep. Then, her eyes landed on Beren, and a subtle blush spread over her cheeks then.

“Ah…” she didn’t know what to say, or even do now.

Beren leaned casually against the doorframe, muscled arms crossed when she turned to look at him. He looked amused. She had come in and had not even deigned to look back at him, her long ears, keen as any elf’s, did not flicker when he stepped in. He realized there it was not him she did not trust, but any unfamiliar environment. As far as she was concerned, she trusted him completely.

He wondered where she had come from, and what had caused someone like her to be here, now, like a skittish doe. He knew she needed a hug, but he didn’t know her well enough for that. All he could do was get to know her. “Seems clean, thank you for checking.” He said to her, warmly. She flashed him a sheepish smile. Pushing off the door, he closed it behind him and grabbed a wooden chair, turning it so he sat on it backwards, placing his big arms atop the chair’s back. There were two oil lamps in the room that were already blazing brightly.

“If we’re going to be roommates, would you mind telling me how you got to Greybridge? And maybe where you’re heading next?” He asked gently, before adding. “If you wouldn’t mind, that is.”

“Oh? Is that… ah… the name of this town?” Rhona asked, tipping her head to the side.

“I uh… was lost… and I was wandering through the woods… and um, ended up here.” She said, trying to explain her situation without saying too much.

Beren did not want to press too hard, but it was frustrating how every word out of her mouth made him want to protect this lost, gorgeous dark elf. A part of him still believed this was some sort of ploy, but his rational mind knew that wasn’t the case. Somehow he had bumped into a truly good person who was just lost.

“Yeah, that’s where we are,” He said, helpfully. “Ok so, were you going anywhere in particular?”

Panic.

Rhona shifted from one foot to the other, “Well, ah, I was going… north. If I had a map I could point it out specifically.” Her left hand rubbed against the back of her neck.

‘There’s no way he has a map…’ Rhona thought.

Beren blinked, and then gave a lopsided smile. Oh, all she needs is a map? Perfect!

“I just came from the north, actually. Luckily, I got a map right here!” He told her happily, reaching into his pack and producing a map of the wider region, unrolling it and placing it on the table. He seemed much like a helpful hound, smiling and glad to be of service.

Her grey skin paled as he procured a map, Gods… he…

She approached the table, and studied the map. She recognized that the map he had was one of the surface, not from below, where she had come from. Rhona swallowed hard, her dark green eyes sweeping over the map, the black ink scrawled with names of locations were unreadable to her illiterate gaze.

Just pick a spot, he won’t know. She thought, her hand reaching out to tap a random spot on the map, “Ah… right here.” she said, pointing to what was essentially a frozen wasteland.

Beren raised an eyebrow, and then both brows in soft surprise. Wow, she really wanted to go to the Grey Marches? He had gone north, but not that far. It was a good thing he had brought his jacket, he thought. Then he wondered why, as if he was going with her. He brushed the thought away.

“You’re going that way, past the Dragonback mountains? You sure?”

He did not sound too skeptical, as if she was untrustworthy. He was merely trying to ascertain if she read the map correctly.

Rhona glanced at him, and then leaned in closer to the map, “Ah… yes… past there. To… the Grey Marshes. No, Marches.” She said, correcting herself, trying to hide her inability to read with a confident nod.

Beren looked down at the map, and then back up at her. “Well… why?”

Rhona scratched her head, why was Beren so nosy? Well… she couldn’t necessarily be upset with him, he had helped her so much already.

“I’m… going to see family.” She said, flashing a bright smile at him.

“Oh, gotcha.” Beren replied, thinking that makes sense. He scratched his chin, the feel of sand paper from his stubble rubbing against his fingers. He pondered for a moment, and realized he was probably her best chance at getting to where she was going. A dark elf on the surface, particularly one who hasn’t been to where she was supposedly going, would need help. And he had just come from that way. The idea solidified in his head, and he realized he had made up his mind to ask.

“Would you like me to go with you?” He asked, letting the words linger in the air. “I have no real schedule to be somewhere, and I know the north road well enough. I could help out…?”

Briefly, he wondered if he was asking beyond his nice nature. It was true he thought she was incredibly attractive, but he liked to think that wasn’t his motivation. Still, if she said no he would take it as set in stone and not bring it up again.

Her face flushed a rosy hue at his words, “Ah… I… well… I couldn’t do that. You’ve already done so much for me!” She said, giving him a dismissive wave.

Gods, he wants to come with me?!, Rhona thought with a degree of apprehension.

“Sure, I just came from there.” He said, and pulled himself up off the chair to stand, placing his hands on his hips, as if he was ready to go right then. “I don’t imagine a lot of people have been nice, and if you’re really going there, you might need some help.”

I hope I’m not being pushy, he thought.

“If you don’t wish for me to, no hard feelings. But it would be no trouble, I promise. Might actually be fun!” He held his hand out to her to take, to shake on it. If she didn’t take it, he would just slide it back to himself and laugh it off, telling her it was ok. But he hoped she did. Gods, he actually hoped she did.

Rhona could do nothing but gaze back at him and his extended hand with a degree of suspicion. At first, her eyes had widened at the simple gesture, though it was passed within a microsecond. She swallowed hard, finding that her mouth felt as if it were full of sand. Her eyes narrowed, the light glinting in them, reflecting back pools of mossy green. Rhona could hear the blood pounding in her ears, almost crushingly from how strong her pulse was as her heart raced. She lifted her hand slowly, her eyes darting between his hand, and his face, watching for any signs of betrayal.

And then, her hand curled around in his in an awkward fashion. Her fingers were slender, yet the skin was cracked on the tops of her knuckles, her hands calloused.

“Ah… alright… only if you want to,” Rhona said, still regarding him with a look of hesitation.

His hands were strong and warm, but he shook her hand gently. There was a pause when he noticed her hesitation, but he held her hand a moment longer, opening his mouth to speak but finding no words. He withdrew his hand away, feeling as if the shake had become a bit too familiar. He had thought they were to give a quick once over, but her hand had clung to his, as if she did not know how to shake, and his hand clung back, and they had held there for moments longer than was proper. He did not know what to make of it, but he had to admit it felt nice.

“I do,” He said, his face flushing slightly. “I mean, happy to help, of course.” He gave a small, breathy chuckle to collect his dignity. “It’s not every day I meet a genuinely nice person, particularly in a big city.”

Rhona glanced between his hand, and his gaze once more, realizing that she ought to reclaim her hand, pulling away, and gazing down at the floor, “Ah. Yes… I… I’m still surprised that you helped me. I…” Her slender brows furrowed, her words dying on her lips then.

“What do we do now?” She asked, changing the subject as she glanced around the room, her eyes moving to linger upon the wash basin in the corner.

Beren caught her glance, and he gave an easy smile, “How about you wash up, and then I will, then we can plan our day? Or just talk? We still got an hour or two before I usually go to sleep.” He said, and then tilted his head, “Uh, when do you usually sleep? Do you tend to sleep in the day?” He assumed not since he met her in daylight, but it could have been strange circumstances. He just did not know dark elf sleep cycles well.

Rhona swallowed hard, her eyes widening softly at the sudden barrage of questions from Beren, “Um… we can… I… it would be nice to wash up,” she said, shifting from one foot to the other.

“I’ll do that,” she added, an uncertain smile on her lips.

The Blood & The Axe [POOHEAD189 & MacabreFox]

The Origin - Greybridge

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When concerning discussions of freedom, whether personal freedom, religious, or political, a singular question always presented itself, no matter the origins of the conversation. What price must one pay to obtain their desired freedom? For no matter what one desires, when it comes to freedom, true and liberated freedom, a price must always be paid, a sacrifice to be made. This much was especially true for Rhona. Long had she suffered under the heavy hands of her former master. Five nights had passed since her escape from the realm of the Abyssal Empire, the world beneath the surface, an escape embroidered with traversing the dangerous caverns until she emerged to the world above. As the single stroke of luck would have it, Rhona had exited via an old mining system. There, she was greeted by the brilliant sight of starlight, and the moon, a heavenly sight compared to the damp darkness of the Underempire. Tears of joy had streamed down her face, so moved that she fell to her knees, and wept, openly without fear of consequence for the first time in decades.

Over the course of the next three days, Rhona stumbled through the wilderness, scavenging for food and drinking from puddles. Her stomach ached viciously for sustenance, and kept her in a near state of delirium. Again her luck would change as she came upon a well traveled road alongside a mighty flowing river, here the trees were in bloom. She followed the road north, until a bustling city came into view. She stepped off the main road, not wanting to be seen. From the cover of bushes and shrubs, her dark green eyes surveyed the city, there was a great wooden sign that boasted the words, Greybridge, though to her illiterate eyes it was only fanciful markings. She had vaguely recalled what the dwellings of the surface looked like, so long had she spent her time underground. Here, she could see the hustle and bustle of the denizens, curiously, she noticed an influx of people arriving in the city in oxcarts, piled high with their valuables. There were far too many people arriving for it to be a mere marketday. She decided to brave the road, and slipped into the city, so great were the masses of people, that no one paid her any attention.

As Rhona navigated through the city, her tattered cloak concealed her features in shadows, she was careful to conceal her hands, the folds of the cloak falling around her in a woolen embrace. Greybridge sat perched alongside the same flowing river she had seen earlier. Near the riverfront were squalid homes made of daub, wattle and wicker. Farther into the city was a row of townhomes and manors, the homes of the merchants and upper class. For a few hours, Rhona navigated the streets, the soles of her boots slapped quietly against the cobblestone path. She was growing hungry, and knew she needed to eat soon, she had gone far too long without food. Circling back to the market square, Rhona lingered in the alleyways, watching, surveying, taking special interest in the food vendors, her eyes lingering on the butcher, fruit, and baker stalls alike. Her mouth watered, salivating heavily as she watched people flock to them, freshly baked bread, salted meat, shiny red apples, all of it looked inviting.

Desperation, the causation for foolish mistakes. Desperation, the price of her freedom. She stepped forward from the shadows of the alleyway, and wove in and out of the throngs of people. With quick, practiced ease, Rhona plucked an apple from the fruit vendor who was far too preoccupied with filling a basket of grapes, plums, and pears for one patron. One, red shiny apple acquired. Slinking by the butcher’s table, she watched as the rotund man cut down a cow carcass, showing a potential patron the quality of the meat with the marbling of fat. He was distracted. She moved deftly, her hand snaking out to steal a string of cooked sausages. However, just as she pivoted on the heel of her boot, Rhona stumbled, dropping both the sausages and the apple.

“Thief!”

She had been discovered.

At the cry echoing within the market square, the clanking of metal armor filled the air. Guards. Panic filled her, and in the blink of an eye, Rhona bolted, shoving aside anyone who dared get in her way.

“Stop! Someone, stop that thief!”

The cries of the guardsmen echoed through the air, drawing attention of those whom she sprinted past. Adrenaline was a long-term companion of Rhona’s, the notion of being caught pushed her on ahead, where she sprang over crates, vaulted over towering oxcarts piled high with wares and valuables alike. Without knowing the layout of the city, Rhona was running blind, following the curve of the cobblestone road. She spared one glance backwards, and was surprised to see that she had put a considerable distance between her and the guards.

WHAM!

“Ah!” Rhona cried out as she slammed into a wall. No… not a wall, a person. She glanced up at the person, her dark green eyes filling with fear and trepidation. This would be her undoing, this was the price she had to pay for her fleeting freedom, freedom that was short lived. She was certain of it.

Oblivion: Wrath of Akatosh

@Poohead189 Should we do a collab for this next scene, or would you like for us to do individual posts?