MiddleEarthRoze

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

@Dervish

Hey! I'll get to replying to the collab tomorrow, now that exams are (thankfully) finally over!

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Despite the amount of time he had travelled the continent of Tamriel, and the various diverse peoples and jobs he had encountered, Solandil had never found himself at such close proximity to a Dwemer ruin before. When picking up the contract, the prospect of journeying so deep into the belly of a Dwemer construct didn't worry him in the slightest, but now, the pale Altmer considered his task of guarding those with him considerably more daunting. And he hadn't even really entered the place yet. While waiting with the others for Rhea to arrive, the lifeless, wicked automatons scattered around the group did not go unnoticed. Razor sharp spikes and pincers attached to many of the pieces, both broken and complete, didn't leave much to the imagination for how painful an encounter could be with one of them. One of the alive ones, that is, if you could even consider such mechanical demons to be living. Sol's silvery eyes darted over each construct in an almost feverish manner, examining everything he could to try and see potential weaknesses. Possibly the joints? No matter the type of creature, joints were nearly always an effective target to incapacitate a foe. But Solandil knew not what other surprises could come in the Dwemer creations. Ranged attacks? Larger, heavier constructs that relied on crushing rather than cutting? Whatever the case, Solandil swiftly decided that listening to the scholars would be the best route in protecting them. Otherwise his role as guard would swiftly become nothing more than a burden.

Nodding stiffly in response to Rhea as she acknowledged him and the other guards, Sol followed the group onto the lift, pondering other potential threats as they descended. Falmer would be an obvious one, of course. Chaurus' always bred with Falmer, so they'd be another issue. Spiders were another potential threat. This train of thought continued as the group made their way through the structure, his inner pondering only faltering as he caught sight of the motionless Centurion and the sheer size of the thing. It would take more than a few swings of his sword to take out the joints on that behemoth, that was for sure. The next lift ride was spent thinking about possible ways of bringing a fully-functioning Centurion down, when yet again, he was interrupted. Stumbling as the lift lurched to a stop, Sol, glanced at Rhea and the other experts, wondering if this was to be expected. And then suddenly, the rushing sensation of falling; the lift floor actually disappeared for a moment. For just a second, Sol wondered if this was really how he was going to die - surrounded by strangers, in a dark hole nobody civilised has been in for centuries, and his corpse never likely to be found again.

The sudden crash was jarring at best, mildly painful at the worst. Solandil had never been the most graceful of individual's, and he had fallen in a most cumbersome and uncomfortable manner. Hissing as he hit the floor and a spike of pain shot along his cheek as it connected to the metal floor, Sol could only find solace that pain meant there was no death. The darkness however, was extremely daunting, and gave one a feeling of utter isolation, even in the presence of others. Eyes squinting in irritation as a magelight suddenly appeared, Sol got to his feet, briefly checking himself for injuries as the others did the same. Nothing serious, beyond a bruised cheekbone.

"Fine." He muttered gruffly in response to Rhea's question of everyone's wellbeing, straightening one of his gauntlets. His weapons and armour were undamaged for now, and by the looks of things, that was his best case scenario right now - from what he could tell, the group would be stuck down here for a long time. Falmer would not make things any easier, either.

As the group ventured forth, Sol once again silently cursed his lack of talent for magic. His vision was already poor, but night vision even moreso. In the dark, he may as well be as blind as the damned Falmer... knowing Magelight would have been severely helpful more than once in his life, and particularly so down in the depths of the earth. For now, he'd just have to stick with a mage. Hanging as closely to Rhea and her magelight as much as he could, both of his blades were drawn; pale skin looking bone white as the it stretched thinly across flexing knuckles, fingers gripping the hilt of his weapons far too tightly to be comfortable. With the ruckus the group (or, more fairly, the faulty lift) had made, it was bound to attracted the unwanted attention of Falmer. Sol was just waiting for them to appear. And as he slowly followed Rhea out into the large cavern of ruins, just that occurred.

Sol could only sigh in annoyance as the group below became known to him. "I hate being right." He thought, readying his swords and sprinting to the building Rhea had pointed out. It was a useful choke point, and even with less numbers than normal, it would to be advantageous for them. Hopefully, anyway. As the Falmer swiftly descended on them, even Sol's poor eyesight couldn't avoid noticing the ugliness of their foe. He had heard they were blind, but up close, it was as if they had no eyes whatsoever. Skin paler than his, and sharp, yellowed teeth that looked more akin to weapons than tools for masticating. Nose wrinkling in disgust, Sol's first foe fell with a squeal as his head was cleaved in two.

"These things do not deserve the title of Mer." He spat quietly, the rush of battle beginning to fire up his rage and adrenaline. Two more Falmer fell, the first's arms being lopped off in a swing of one blade and it's head removed by his other; the second found itself speared onto his right blade, twitching corpse pushed off with Sol's foot as he looked to find a new foe. With the shamans and archers being taken care of by the others, Sol could focus on those nearby - and something this pathetic was not going to kill him.

His fourth kill landed a lucky blow; coming from the side in a dark spot where the light did not reach, it had inadvertently taken advantage of a weakness it didn't know Sol had. Slashing down with it's blade, Sol exclaimed in pain as it caught the his arm, by some sheer luck finding the spot between his pauldrons and armour. The cut wasn't deep or debilitating, but it caused enough pain and anger for Sol to retaliate with fury, slicing the creature groin to head with such force that a portion of it's head flew off into the darkness somewhere. Breathing heavily, he glanced at his shoulder, being able to take a breather as the fighting tapered off. They could relax. For now.

---

---

As the group caught their breath, Solandil had kept to himself, wiping the foul blood of the Falmer from his weapons and armour in the dim light, wincing if he moved his shoulder too much. Sol had always had a hard time trusting people, and this instance was no different. Several minutes after receiving his wounds, he hadn't felt any giddiness or fever, which meant poison had been highly unlikely. With no healing magic of his own, and unwilling to ask Brynja or any others for aid, Solandil had simply ignored the throbbing pain in his shoulder - he had no doubt there'd be another fight soon enough, and adrenaline did wonders for washing away the pain. He certainly wasn't going to waste one of his potions on something this minor, that was for sure.

Listening quietly as the group moved on, Sol's ears pricked up as he heard the term "Snow Elf". It was a term he'd heard plenty of times, though usually by way of an insult directed at him. It was the lesser known name of the Falmer... although, one could consider the two terms to belong to different races now. The Snow Elves were beautiful, while the Falmer were abhorrent. The Snow Elves were civilised, intelligent... the Falmer being the total opposite. As he trudged on, Solandil bitterly thought once again how awful the Falmer were. They should be wiped out - and as the group was suddenly told to shush, he realised that perhaps he wasn't the only one with that idea. There on the ceiling, what could only have belonged to the Dwemer, seemed insistent on wiping out any trespassers. Normally, that would mean Falmer, and Sol couldn't complain. Unfortunately, he doubted that even the Dwemer could create something sentient enough to discern monster from person. Listening as the others discussed their options, Sol considered the Khajiit for a moment before stepping forwards quietly.

"I can go with you. I'm quieter than I look, though I'll understand if you want someone a bit more...subtle, to accompany you." He whispered, glancing up nervously as the spotlight shone again. Even with his eyesight, the dark seemed much safer than being in the spotlight of that thing.

Escaping the Blight: A Collaboration of POOHEAD189 & MiddleEarthRoze

Although the sky above held blue skies and a merry sun, there was a cold bite to the gentle wind carrying across the air. Whether it was because she sensed the beginnings of winter approaching, or impending doom in the shape of a darkspawn horde, Feri felt unsettled. There was but a moment of sweet bliss she held in the early morning, awaking in the comfortable (Well - more comfortable than the wilderness, anyhow) tavern bed to the hustle and bustle of an excited town. The memories of the night before; her conversation with Rannon, the closeness of them both on the table, and the bittersweet sensation of having a barmaid ruin their little bubble... all of it was recalled fondly, and with a touch of excitement. But as older, more foul memories returned to her still half-asleep mind, her happiness drained and was replaced with worry. Not just for what they had seen and encountered already, but what was to come. Rannon was in grave danger being in this town, what with having witnessed the traitorous events of Loghain Mac Tir at Ostagar - with a bent Guard-Captain and complacently widowed Bann, there was too much going on for Feri to have watched the tourney at ease. While she didn't doubt Rannon's capabilities, there were too many threats present for this to seem like a fair fight.

Placing what she hoped was an encouraging smile on her face as Rannon briefly looked their way, an unusually serious expression swiftly replaced it as Feri scanned the crowd. Eyes locked on Bann Heathor as he spoke to the crowd, the uncomfortable knot of concern in Feri's stomach tightened. This wasn't a man who was grieving a wife of many years whom he had loved with all his heart. It certainly wasn't a man who knew about the impending Blight practically knocking on his doorstep either. He sounded too out of place for the circumstances, and that alone stank. Noticing the rich fabric of his (tightly fitting) clothes and the rings on his fingers, Feri's eyes narrowed. They looked of similar make to the kind she had noticed in the Guard-Captain's office... was the Bann paying off the Guard-Captain? Or were they both being paid off to turn a blind eye by somebody else entirely? Perhaps Loghain's reach was longer than they had anticipated.

"I have a bad feeling about this, Giddy." Feri murmured to the Mabari, sejant beside her and peering at the crowd just as intently. As she looked, she noticed the man in question; having suddenly appeared behind the rather comfortable looking seat of the Bann's prim daughter. Nudging the strange man that stood beside her, Feri offered him a grin.

"Who's that strapping fellow over there? If he's after the Bann's daughter, I'd have thought he'd be participating in the tourney." She asked in a gossiping manner, knowing full well what small-town villagers were like for spreading stories. As anticipated, the man in question nodded in response, a somewhat leering grin appearing as he looked at the pair.

"Aye, she's a pretty one alright. Not worth the trouble though, if the stories from the maids up at the manor are anything to go by. That man though..." The man's expression sobered up slightly. "That's Guard-Captain Ransen. Only recently got the job too. Nasty piece of work, though you didn't hear it from me. I'd steer clear of him while your and your man are visiting."

"Recently, you say?" Feri murmured in response, still looking at Ransen before she fully realised what the man had said. Blushing furiously, she turned to look at him. "Rannon's not my man! He's just -" Trailing off as she realised the villager had left the crowd to source some food, the half-dwarf turned back round huffily, arms crossed and cheeks still red. "Just a friend." She muttered. Gideon woofed in disbelief, and the tourney began. Feri couldn't decide whether or not to keep her eyes on Rannon, or potential foes in the crowd surrounding them.

@POOHEAD189

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

@Dervish

Will definitely be done by then. Sorry again for the delay - I'm really not used to working so much and it's draining my creativity a hella lot. :(

Frokane's Mildly Politcal Hangout Thread

Never posted in here before, but saw something on my Facebook feed that I thought would provoke some interesting - and entertaining - debate.
Thoughts?

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

@POOHEAD189@Frizan@LadyTabris@BurningCold@Macabrefox

Post is (finally) done guys. Just to try and get things wrapped up quick, I've left the amount and types of Daedra up to you guys in your particular posts. Your characters can dispatch them as quickly and harmlessly as possible, as I won't be doing rolls this time round. :)

@MiddleEarthRoze

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

By the time the two pairs had greeted one another at the center of the second tower, and slowly made their way back across the treacherous bridge, the larger group had dispatched their foes. Most had avoided injury; Veeza had been left bleeding from several cuts thanks to close-quarter combat with a scamp, but the wounds didn't seem too deep. Naenya was still smoking slightly from her run in with the mage, and Orintur's hair was standing comically upright thanks to the Daedra's lightning bolt. However, beyond minor burns and a strange jitter to the limbs that wouldn't go away, the pair had fared far better than Renart. The last the group saw of him was running screaming from the room, having been set alight by two scamps ganging up on him. After the beasts were cut down to prevent them finishing him off, his fate was clear by the silence that came from the corridor he had fled down. While his companion Engel wished to track down the body, it was quickly decided that group had to move on, as swiftly as possible. Brona had retrieved a key to the upper levels, and they could soon end this nightmare once and for all. But with three of their number now dead, and several others wounded, hope was beginning to dwindle amongst some in the group.

Niko and Bardeck had both sustained the worst wounds of the lot; the former losing the use of his main sword arm, and the latter struggling due to a serious injury to the shoulder - even his earlier leg wound was throbbing more painfully now, but one could guess it was to do with the environment the intrepid group were in. All the cuts, pains and bruises seemed to sting more in the ash-filled air. Wounds didn't stem their bleeding quite as quickly as normal, and even the untouched, healthiest members were beginning to feel fatigued. Everything about the realm was oppressive, the very air they were breathing making each inhale and exhale a laboured task; the atmosphere almost physically weighing down on each already exhausted shoulder. Although the group took down the straggling enemies with apparent ease, it was clear on drawn-out faces that even the simplest of frays was becoming arduous. Even Naenya, excited at the prospect of learning and rarely gave in to tiredness was looking drained. Glimmers of curiosity remained in her eyes as they marched further up the tower; examining everything she came across as swiftly as she could - but her endless stem of chatter had ceased filling the dominating halls of the spire.

The injured nord looked particularly drained too; Niko hadn't dared to remove his bracer and examine his arm as of yet - there wasn't enough time for someone to pull and set his bones back into place, and then to heal the wound after; it would have to wait until they fixed this damned problem. Each time he felt a wave of exhaustion and pain, Niko pushed it away - there were still people in Kvatch. Innocents, who needed to be saved. Martin, who for some unknown reason was extremely important and had to leave the city alive. Mia, his daughter - the one good thing in his life that was stuck here thanks to him. If they failed here, everyone left would die. And he couldn't allow that.

After several more minutes of traipsing down blood-red corridors, the group came to a stop outside a large, grim looking door. At how far they had walked, Niko could only hope beyond anything that this was the top of the spire, and the answer to closing the gate for good. Vigilant for enemies waiting on the other side, the adventurers crept through the door, finding themselves in a strange, volcanic looking passageway. Almost as if there had been a mountain there once, and someone had carved a path through it. Confusion and interest in the design gave way to sheer horror as they stepped into the final chamber.

A vast, circular room lay before them; the flaming spire of malevolent energy they had seen at the base coming to a stop just before exiting the tower, holding in place a black, circular item that could have only been the elusive Sigil Stone. Where a roof should have been was a gap, allowing the blood red sky to fill the gaze of anyone looking up, crimson lightning flashing as thunder boomed. But it was not the sudden exposure to the elements that had brought shock to those trespassing; it was everything else within the room. The first set of steps leading up the platform where the Sigil Stone hovered was grotesque; black and red spikes, like the ribs from some huge and hideous animal. But the second ramp and platform... was flesh. Red, bloodied flesh, with fat and sinew still attached; veins and capillaries illuminating in it at every flash of lightning from above. It had been stretched and hooked together to metal struts to form a walkway, and as Niko looked on, could only wonder in horror at how many had died to create something as pointless as a damned floor.

His eyes trailed from the flesh-made platform to what stood upon it; more Daedra, and if it were possible, they seemed even more pissed off than the last group they had encountered. Readying one of his swords in his left hand and keeping his injured right close to his chest, Niko nodded determinedly at those who happened to look at him.

"Let's finish this."

Buccaneers and Blades (Fantasy, High Casual)

@POOHEAD189

Will try my very best to get a post up tomorrow before work! Still hella interested in this roleplay (Any roleplay of yours, in fact XD), but it's certainly understandable if you wanted to shut it down.

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

Alrighty, Uni work took longer than expected, but it's out of the way for now. Will be getting a post written up tomorrow.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Sol

Solandil "Sol" Arenim

Race: Altmer
Sex: Male
Age: 87
Birth Sign: The Shadow
Family Origins: Shimmerene, Summerset Isles

Appearance:
One of the most striking and distinguishing features of Sol's that become obvious to those who meet him is his colouring - or rather, lack of. Born with albinism, Sol lacks the golden skin and richly coloured hair and eyes that the Altmer tend to pride themselves on. His genetic discrepancy leaves him with a skin tone that is a pallid and off-white; pale, ghostly grey eyes, and stark white hair. As for physical appearance however, this is all that sets him apart from his race. Sol has certainly inherited the height of his family, standing at a towering 6'8" - paired with a broad, muscular frame which has been honed for years to cope with heavy burdens and unwieldy weapons, his stature can be a formidable one to stand against, both on the battlefield, and beyond. Sol's face too has retained a lordly, handsome look courtesy of his parents, though he was made aware at a very young age that such looks were to be of no use to him in his "cursed" life. Like with most Altmers, his features are sharp and angled, and were he to set an amicable expression on his face more often, would be pleasant to look upon. However, after a life of being told he wasn't good enough, sourness has marred his features. Pale eyebrows flecked with faint gold here and there are constantly pulled down into a glower, as are his unexpectedly peach-coloured lips. When visible, his eyes are often narrowed and hold a scrutinising look about them, though this is more a byproduct of his poor distance vision and squinting to see something, than a look of suspicion. Depending on the situation, this glower can develop into a sneer of contempt, a snarl of rage, or a simple look of quite vulnerable exhaustion. Sol's life so far has given him plenty of reasons to look as he does, though he did once laugh and smile in his past.

Sol's past has left more marks on him than in just expression; his body is littered with scars from nearly three quarters of a century of fighting. None particularly stand out more than each other, and with how pale his skin is, it can be hard to see many of them at first. But when looking closely, silvery lines criss-cross most areas of his skin, with some patches here and there that were clearly made by some kind of fire, be it magical or not. Due to his lack of melanin, bruises and new wounds are far more vivid than they would be on any other person, and as such, many of his fresher scars retain their redness and stand out also.

His typical fashion is one of utility, more than anything - despite growing up in a noble household and being accustomed to pretty, expensive and well-made items of clothing and armour, Sol's more recent life has taught him that money isn't everything. While his quite old and dented armour matches, his clothing is generally quite sporadic in terms of style. He'll wear whatever fits, whatever will keep him the warmest, and whatever hides the most of his skin. Albinism brings with it a tendency to get sunburnt very quickly, and so he has taken to piling on layers to ensure the sun's rays don't hit him. Thick trousers tucked into heavy leather boots are usually paired with whatever shirt he's been able to find that fits, a knee-length leather coat over that, and leather gloves. When wearing this out of his armour, Sol also uses a hood similar to that of a chitin helmet; covering most of his face, a scarf covers his lower jaw and neck, tinted goggles protecting his eyes, and the lip of the hood falling well over his face so that it is constantly in shadow. This outfit has provided extremely useful in places like Morrowind and Hammerfell, but when travelling in Cyrodiil and Skyrim, Sol has noticed the several suspicious looks he receives while wearing his sun-blocking outfit. The term vampire has been thrown around more often than he'd care to admit, and unfortunately, showing his pale skin would likely only fuel such rumours. Due to this, Sol doesn't tend to stick around in small towns or villages all that much, though finding the larger cities easier to blend into.

Equipment:

• Iron Cuirass (Battered, old, and very dull.)
• Iron Greaves (Battered, old, and very dull.)
• Iron Helmet (Battered, old, and very dull.)
• Iron Gauntlets (Battered, old, and very dull.)
• Iron Boots (Battered, old, and very dull.)
• Steel Longsword x2
• Iron War Axe
• Iron dagger

Misc. Possessions:

• Protective hooded cloak
• Protective leather gloves
• Face protection (Scarf, goggles, hood)
• Tinderbox
• Dried rations (3 days worth)
• Health potion
• Waterskin
• Bedroll
• Whetstone
• Rucksack
• 27 septims

Family and Associates:
Mother: Vaarie Arenim (Alive)
Father: Corellian Arenim (Alive)
Brother: Lunardiel Arenim (Deceased)
Sister: Naralia Arenim (Alive)
Uncle: Zenotar (Unknown)

Favoured Skills:
Highly Proficient:
1 Handed Blade (Dual-Wielding): Thanks to his training from his brother, uncle, the Aldmeri Dominion army and then just general experience out in the wilds, Sol has honed his skill with the swords to expert levels.

Moderately Proficient:
Heavy Armour: After ditching the elven armour so as to avoid suspicion after his desertion, Sol returned to the heavy armour he once trained in as a teenager. Iron was the cheapest he could afford, and the weight of it suited him far better than the lightness he had grown accustomed to in the army.

Moderately Proficient:
Sneak: Between avoiding his bullying sister, hiding from disapproving parents, and running off to his forbidden uncle's house whenever he could, Sol developed a keen sense of the best hiding places and which shadows would cover his pale skin the best. Even now, despite his heavy armour, he can move with light feet and stop clanking as much as his fellow armoured comrades.

Moderately Proficient:
Athletics: Running around a lot with several weapons, supplies and heavy armour can do wonders for one's physical ability. He can run quite far when completely loaded down, and run very fast when in just clothes. A childhood of fleeing from his family members helps attribute to that.

Somewhat Proficient:
One-Handed Blunt: One thing he learnt as a child was that diversity was very important in your weapons. An axe hurts differently to a sword, and so Sol was trained in both. While he prefers his swords, the axe is always useful to have around.

Somewhat Proficient:
Two-Handed Blade: As above, Sol's uncle demanded he trained in a variety of fighting techniques. Using a two-handed sword helped build up his muscle and developed new ways of fighting, but again, Sol preferred his duel-wielding. A greatsword would do in a pinch if one was lying around, however.

Somewhat Proficient:
Speech: Life out on his own has created a surprising talent of persuasion, be it through coercion or more amicable techniques. The former works far better for Sol due to his slightly intimidating appearance, but the skill is a work in progress. He's been able to work some good deals out of merchants so far, anyway.

History:
The Arenim family of Shimmerene is a long-standing line of noblemen and women; their past is filled with conspiracy, secrets, and betrayals, but of course, no more than any other noble family of the Altmer. Despite less than tasteful loyalties cropping up here and there in their past, there is a weakness of their line that is abhorred above anything else. Some of the older, more senile members blame this weakness on a curse, laid upon them by Dunmeri witches several centuries ago. The younger Altmers of the family don't know what to make of it, beyond the repulsive way it affected their superior genetics so much. Of course, like all family embarrassments, this "curse" had been blown out of proportion. The more recent generations of the Arenim family knew this, but at the same time, a feeling of dread appeared each time a child was born under the starlight of The Shadow. A feeling which captured Corellian and Vaarie when they were expecting their third child, and to their dismay, when the baby was born, it was clear that the curse had inflicted him too. The wailing child was handed off swiftly to a waiting midwife, and his parents didn't dare to look upon him again until several weeks after the birth.

This was the start of Solandil's life.

As any non-judgemental person would know, Solandil was not afflicted with a terrible curse. He was an Albino, and his star sign had nothing to do with this genetic fluke. After years of men and women being sullied by the "pale curse" as the family called it, they associated all children born under the Shadow to have this curse. Family stories and legends of this curse stated that it had occurred ten times more than it actually did, and every gossiping second cousin or great-great-aunt ensured their relatives that terrible things came with the pale ones. In reality, the few genetic defects that actually appeared (Which, when looking properly at their lineage, only occurred a handful of times, and by sheer coincidence all were born under the Shadow) was more likely the cause of selective breeding. Too selective, actually, but bloodlines being crossed over too many times when arranging political marriages tend to have backlashes here and there.

Due to his "pale curse", Solandil had a very lonely and shunned childhood. His mother and father refused to treat him as anything more than a potentially valuable asset in some way, and so his attempts at gaining affection from them was futile. He would be nothing until he discovered a skill or talent, and even then he would have to work to the level of global renown to get any sort of pride from his mother and father. Unfortunately, they didn't expect any kind of greatness from him, and therefore, didn't attempt to fuel his learning. While his older sister Naralia received all kinds of tutoring in anything she wished, Sol was expected to cope on his own as soon as he could walk and talk properly. Even the servants were frightened of spending time with him, fearing the stories associated with his paleness and being generally uneasy around a child who looked so odd. Up until the age of six, Sol didn't particularly have anyone. But then he met his older brother for the first time.

Lunardiel, being Sol's elder by 39 years, had been gallivanting around the continent for the past decade or so, picking up new techniques in fighting, casting spells, hunting, loving, and whatever else he could get his hands on. Lunardiel loved to learn, and was a surprisingly forthright and open-minded High Elf. When Sol met him for the very first time, he couldn't believe he was related to such a magnificent man. Lunardiel was the perfect image of Altmer supremacy, with skin and hair so golden it was like staring into the sun, and a comely body that was bringing forth all kinds of marriage proposals from various other noble houses. He was sure this was simply another family member who would hate him, but to Sol's surprise, Lunardiel lifted him up with a joyous laugh, proudly crowing at the fact that he finally had a little brother! It was as if he hadn't even noticed the stark difference in their colouring, and for once in his life, Sol felt as though perhaps he wasn't a mistake after all.

Although initially happy at their very first encounter, Solendil remained cautious of his brother for some time. He'd come to expect cruel tricks from Naralia already, who considered that ignoring him like their parents wasn't quite enough and that he should be punished for looking the way he did. But Lunardiel won him over eventually, and by his seventh birthday, he had taught his little brother to read and write almost perfectly. By his eighth birthday, Sol knew his numbers, and basic sword-fighting. By his ninth birthday, Lunardiel had spent as much time with his little brother as possible, but soon enough, other responsibilities beckoned him. After being given an ultimatum by his family (Get a job or get married), Lunardiel decided that joining the army would be a better choice than being tied up with some family he didn't know nor care for. Unfortunately, this meant he would have to leave Sol, and he was sure his little brother's sense of belonging and love would swiftly shrivel up in his absence. Letters and spare visitations wouldn't be enough. Lunardiel needed to find a friend for Solandil - and he just happened to know the perfect candidate.

Living in the outskirts of the city, the brother of Corellian lived alone. Named Zenotar, the centuries old Altmer had lived through plenty of tough times, and he had done so alone. One of the unlucky few born with "the pale curse", Zenotar was cast out by his parents as soon as he came of age, despite being the firstborn heir to the family line. Corellian took his place, and ensured that all contact was to be cut off from his ghost of a brother. Around this time was the Oblivion Crisis, so during the span of trying to evade Daedra and surviving the endlessly crimson nights, it was quite easy for Zenotar to avoid his family. Following the reconstruction of the Summerset Isles when the gates were closed, Corellian was extremely annoyed to discover that his brother continued to live nearby. Zenotar never visited, though he would sometimes give his younger brother a mocking grin from across the market place when they happened upon one another - a grin that quite plainly said "You're never getting rid of me, fuck-face."

Due to this distance, Zenotar had no idea that Corellian even had children, though he had guessed it would have happened to further their family line. The last thing he expected, however, was for two of the children to show up on his doorstep one day; one a proud, young Altmer glowing brilliantly in the sunlight, and beside him a tall, thin and sickly looking albino child. For what was quite a brash and cocky man, Zenotar was left speechless to see another albino stood before him. As Lunardiel explained his predicament, Solandil examined Zenotar closely. The man looked strikingly like his father did, though it was odd to see the difference between them. Not just in colour, but in expression too. Corellian had a permanent look of patronising disgust on his face, as if something smelly was forever stuck in his nose. Zenotar, however, had a far more expressive face. At that moment it held disbelief, curiosity, a touch of anger, and an even smaller touch of fear. Sol didn't listen much to what his brother and uncle discussed, but after a while it ended in a handshake, a beaming smile from Lunardiel and a somewhat less enthusiastic one from Zenotar. Upon saying goodbye to his brother, Sol watched him walk away from the isolated house for a moment before peering back up at his Uncle, waiting expectantly. Zenotar sighed, then reluctantly waved his youngest nephew inside.

From there-on-out, Sol's days were filled with training. As soon as he arose in his family's mansion, muttered a good morning to his parents (Who ignored him, as usual), and avoided his sister like the plague, Sol fled to the outskirts of the city to spend time with his uncle Zenotar. Despite their similarities, the two didn't get along very well at first. Both with fiery hot tempers (And having never had the opportunity to really lose said tempers before without extremely harsh consequences), difficult training sessions with various weapons often ended up with said weapon being hefted at the wall, and Sol stomping away in anger, Zenotar yelling after him. Of course, he always came back and continued after cooling off, and Zenotar never sent him away. Despite the rough training and quite merciless teaching of Zenotar, he did enjoy the company, as did Sol. Regardless of their feelings, they were both in the same boat. As soon as Solandil was old enough to join the army, he would be kicked out of his house. Zenotar wanted to make sure he was ready for what was going to be a tough life.

Eight years later, and Lunardiel returned to a very different brother. By this time, Solandil had reached the far ends of puberty, and matched his brother in height. He was no longer skinny and underfed, but muscular and stocky, thanks to the weapons training (And decent meals) Zenotar had provided for him. The only talent Sol lacked was that of magic - no matter how hard his uncle tried, Sol couldn't even cast the most simple of spells. Writing it off as a byproduct of his albinism, they pair gave up and continued with weapons. The time had come for Sol to join his brother in the army, and thanks to Zenotar, he was ready for it.

With an underwhelming - but expected - farewell from his family, Solandil began his passage into adulthood with excitement. Although the years of being mistreated or ignored by all barring his uncle and brother had left him with a bitter streak, he still had some hope that he could go on to live a full, happy life. Perhaps, away from the over-bearing stigma attached to his condition by his family, things would be easier. In some ways, they were. In others, they were worse. Much, much worse.

While the lower soldiers contained a sense of camaraderie that he hadn't felt before, Sol's strangeness was still noticed by many of his peers. And as happens in groups such as this, many were compelled to point it out in hurtful ways. After a childhood of this behaviour, Sol had developed a thick skin to such teasing - what made things worse, however, was the way the officers treated him. His brother was a high-ranking officer at this point, and although he attempted to spend as much time as possible with Sol, it was impossible to do so on a permanent basis. Beyond the jibes of being "baby-sat" all the time, some of the officers treated Sol unfairly. Giving him punishments for no reason, regularly belittling him in front of the other recruits, and placing him in dangerous situations that he physically wasn't trained to handle. At each attack, Sol grew a little more angry, but also, a little more determined. Determined to prove them all wrong and to show he was just as good as them... maybe even better.

Decades pass, and despite his best efforts to change the minds of his superiors, Sol was still little more than a foot-soldier. It was considered very embarrassing to be left amongst young and fresh-faced recruits when he had been in the army for so long, but that was the aim of the officers. Many hoped he would just leave or die, as having such a pale face amongst golden ones made them look bad on the battlefield - particularly when the Aldmeri Dominion was building in strength against the faithless empire. As the Great War approached, Sol was amongst hundreds that fought on the front-lines. He began to keep count at how many foes he felled, but after five heavy, long years of toiling in the mud, sweat and blood of the battle field, his kill count was lost to him. But it was at the final push, the sacking of Imperial City, that Sol lost himself.

The sacking was a brutal, merciless fight - all out on war on the streets of Cyrodiil's greatest city, as their troops pillaged and plundered homes and shops. The Imperial Palace was set alight with citizens still inside, and the screams of the dying seemed to be endless in the air. The more Sol fought and slayed, the more automatic his movements became. Anyone not wearing the shimmering elven armour of their legions fell to his blade, and his pale skin became soaked with red within minutes. It was only when he saw a familiar face stagger to their knees in pain that he seemed to come back to his senses; not even paying attention to the fray around him, Solandil rushed to his brother's side, gathering him up in his arms with a wail. Lunardiel had fallen, the ghost of a smile on his face as the last sight he saw was his younger brother. As grief washed over him, the battle was forgotten. A blow to the head from behind took the breath from Sol, and he collapsed by his brother's corpse.

As Solandil awoke, he remained in the same place where he had fallen. The night sky had turned to dawn, and the chaotic noise of war had faded. Struggling to sit up, Sol was momentarily aghast at what lay before him. The road had become a river of blood, scattered with mangled corpses, fallen weapons and random body parts. Nobody had been spared from the sword of the Aldmeri Dominion; even as he sat there, unarmed civilians and children were being dragged from their hiding places, being executed on the streets as they screamed. His own sword had likely taken innocent lives, but at that point, Sol didn't care. His brother's body had been taken, and after desperately asking around various soldier's, discovered that he had been taken to be cleaned up, and shipped back to the Isles for burial. Solandil had been left behind, nobody particularly caring what happened to the inferior Altmer. After being seen by a healer, an officer informed him stiffly that he was likely not going to be welcomed home, and it would be best if he stayed here. His parents weren't going to accept him back with his brother's corpse, that was for sure. He'd be run out of the country, let alone his home city. Solandil could only numbly nod, still in shock at what he had seen. While his superiors expected him to simply remain with legion in Cyrodiil, Sol developed a plan of his own. He was so readily abandoned on the battlefield, then he would abandon them in turn; the atrocities of what occured in the sacking hadn't even sunk in properly, but Sol knew at that moment that he no longer wanted to be an Altmer. His sole pride of being in his race had died with his brother, as had any reason to remain in an army that abhorred him just as much as his family. As night approached, Solandil slipped away, ready to begin his new life.

---

The past three decades or so were fairly uneventful for Sol. No large impact was made on him throughout his travels. Those that weren't immediately put off by his appearance he travelled with on the roads, only staying with them for the safety of numbers and slight warmth one got from having a companion. No real ties were made, be they negative or positive. It was too tiresome to make enemies, especially when he had a general dislike of most races. As for friends, he'd only had two in his life; one was dead, the other in an unreachable place. He had no intention of making any more, lest he lose them too. The only thing Sol really gained was experience; each new battle out in the wilderness was development in his fighting technique; each new encounter with a merchant was a chance to work out the best way to persuade - or intimidate - them into lowering their prices; each new country brought with it a new environment and climate to learn and adapt to in order to survive. Sol picked up whatever job he could to earn money, though he had to ensure it wasn't particularly high profile. Over the years, certain attackers were quite similar in that they held a bounty with his name on it. Not one issued by government or army, but by personal need - he could only guess it was the work of his sister. She hated him enough to want to take his life, and the death of Lunardiel was likely the last straw. The assassins have always failed, but it was tiresome to continue waiting for more to appear.

Solandil heard about the archaeological expedition when passing through Bruma. The pay seemed decent, the expedition undoubtedly needed guards, and the chances of an assassin following him beneath the earth into a Dwemer ruin was highly unlikely. Sol set out to approach this Rhea Valerius, hoping that as a scholar, she would look beyond the condition that he had been judged so harshly for for most of his life.

Personality:
A lifetime of mistreatment tends to mould one's personality into something very bitter. Tact, kindness, humour and patience has all leaked out of Solandil, and what is left over isn't a particularly nice person. Decades worth of pent-up anger is usually shown through his dismissive glares and constant glowering, but when in battle, he is truly ferocious. Although an unpleasant individual most of the time, Solandil doesn't want innocents to suffer on account of his temper. Hence why he avoids blowing up at those he travels with, but is blood-thirsty when cutting down his attackers. He rarely shows mercy on the battle-field, and when outside of that environment, tries to avoid scenarios in which he may show mercy or kindness. It has been ingrained in him from a very young age that while he was lesser than true Altmer, he was still better than everybody else and should always show that. A very confusing thing to be told as a child, but this was likely the attempt of his parents to isolate him from potential friends. Now as an adult, Sol still holds this regard, though because of the war, the hatred of non-Aldmeri Dominion species is a bit more personal. He has no idea what race killed his brother, so he holds contempt for all of them. However, amicability doesn't surface around Altmer or Bosmer. In fact, quite the opposite.

Sol expects to be shunned by everyone before he's even met them, so tends to approach everyone he meets in an almost defensive, sour manner. While polite to potential employers, most others will be met with surliness. Other Altmer's however, are met with an ounce of fear. Fear that one may recognise him as a deserter, or even worse, recognise him from knowing his family, and then begin mistreating him as they once did. Having the "pale curse" hanging over him his whole life has led to several issues with self-worth, trusting others, and simply learning to enjoy himself and potential company. It had been years since Sol learned to be open amongst anyone, and he truly doubts he'll ever be able to again.

Miscellaneous:

• The symptoms of his albinism are as follows: Aversion to bright light, poor long-vision, easily sunburnt, and discriminated by most Altmers he's met.
• Many people have mistaken him for a vampire in the past, and the screams of "blood-sucker" never cease to annoy him.
• Due to a lack of skin tone to cover it up, when Solandil blushes, his face generally turns a bright, raspberry red. It's very embarrassing, and he hates it when it happens. even moreso if someone points it out, as they all eventually do.
• When he thinks he is alone, Sol will sometimes hum a melody under his breath. He can't recall the words, but it has the sweet, soothing tone of a lullaby.