Peik

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Narzul's the kind of guy who would spend a lot of time in HR if he worked in an office.

@Dervish

"What do you mean I can't beat them up, my father's the boss!"

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

_{Featuring @Father Hank}

Noon, 3rd of Last Seed, 4E205
Solitude, Skyrim
The docks

After Wylendriel had begrudgingly tended to Narzul’s wounds as soon as they arrived in Solitude, the Dunmer had gathered up his belongings and made his way to Gustav’s warehouse. There he had found a suitable bed (though a far cry from the comforts of home) and stashed his gear. He had left most of his armor squirrelled away in a chest, and (now dressed only in his traditional Dunmeri tunic and his heavy iron boots) marched back down the docks in search of a spot for some silence and contemplation. His feet stomped down the stairs to the piers, thunk-thunk-thunk, the sound carrying far through the wooden platforms. Fishermen, traders, and merchants that had set up shop by the waterside turned their heads to look at the Dunmer approach, but he paid them no mind. He stretched when he reached the area of the docks where the Kyne’s Tear was moored, scanning the pier for a place to sit. The Tear was the only ship at this end of the docks, so strangers wouldn’t have any good reason to come this way. Narzul’s physique, normally hidden beneath the bulky shape of his hodge-podge armor, was clearly contoured in the thinner, well-fitted tunic, and he rolled up his sleeves to reveal a pair of powerful forearms. The Redoran warrior found a crate that looked reasonably comfortable and sat himself down, scarlet eyes squinting in the fierce rays of the midday sun, and looked down at the object he carried in his hands; his sword.

The ebony blade made a gritty rasping sound as he drew it from its plain, leather scabbard and Narzul held the weapon up in front of him, checking the edge for damage. It was the first time he had properly inspected the sword since Dawnstar. Niernen had confined him to a bed for a while until Wylendriel tended to him earlier that day (and even then his sister had double-checked -- nay, triple-checked him to see if he was truly well before she let him go). Ever the warrior, Narzul had decided to use his newfound freedom to immediately carry out some maintenance. He was pleased to see the sword was in near-perfect shape. While it was extremely heavy compared to every other material in Tamriel, that was one of the major benefits of ebony; strong enough to go edge-to-edge with any weapon and come out unscathed. Mostly, anyway. Narzul spotted some small imperfections when he pressed the blade almost up to his eyeball. Or maybe he just imagined it. Either way, he was looking for an excuse to pull the whetting stone from his pocket and began sharpening the blade’s edge -- it was an exercise he always found relaxing. He, too, had dreamed poorly, like so many others on this ship. The taunting grimace of the twisted helmet of the Smiling Lord, a foe long vanquished, had plagued the halls of his mind during the night. Narzul’s face contorted and his vigorous whetting drew sparks from his sword at the memory.

“Got to make sure it's sharp, no?” Sadri quipped to shake Narzul out of the concentration he had dedicated to his task, as he approached the crate the Redoran was sitting on. “It doesn't hurt to keep this sharper, though,” Sadri added as he tapped his forehead with the index finger of his metal arm. “One may find his blade failing him, but it's a much more unfortunate sight to see one failing his blade. And one much more prone to occurence, as I'm sure you can attest.” He smiled as he placed his foot on the side of the crate the Redoran was sitting on, resting his torso on the now raised knee. “I hope you don't mind my constant quipping, Serjo Venim; you see how close this line of work keeps people to meaningless deaths. It is a way to relieve the tension of such stakes, I’d like to believe. Plus, having saved your life for the... second time now, I'd like to think I have the privilege.” From his voice, one could easily tell that he liked rubbing in that Narzul was not as infallible as one would have thought, yet, it was certainly not antagonistic.

Sadri grinned as he stopped speaking for a moment to gather his thoughts. “But I digress. I'm glad to see you two out of that scrape alive and mostly well. How fares it with you and your sister?” He asked, with a much more mundane tone, suited for a less banter-oriented conversation.

“And I see that you, master Beleth, have found the time to add another disfiguration to your appearance,” Narzul retorted and pointed at the contusion that was still visible on the side of the older Dunmer’s head. He paused, blinked, and immediately regretted what he said. Sadri had nerve, but he was Narzul’s elder and as much as he hated it, his words were true. Narzul had failed his blade when he hesitated in his duel with the Armiger down in the ravine and then again when he lost his temper during the bizarre, insane duels the Armiger captain had them perform. Both times Sadri had been there to pull him to safety. Narzul looked down at his sword. He opened his mouth to speak; to say ‘thank you’, to admit that Sadri was right, to apologise -- but his lips refused to form the words.

He settled for answering Sadri’s question. “Better. I think being injured in combat made it easier for her to forgive me. She has been… very kind to me, these past few days,” Narzul said, the brief pause halfway through his response caused by the incident with Wylendriel. Niernen had not been very happy about that. He looked up to meet Sadri’s eyes again when he was finished. The Redoran didn’t know why the mercenary had such an easy time getting him to open up, or (apparently) to goad him into childish banter even after being humiliated because of his barbed tongue just a few hours ago, and that frustrated him. “Why do you ask?” he added, though it was obvious from his tone that he had wanted to say ‘why do you care?’.

Sadri grinned like a hunter with his prey in his sights upon hearing Narzul's response - the fact that he had managed to get the normally uptight nobleman stoop down to his level for a response was certainly satisfying, plus, he knew that he could read this as a sign of growing camaraderie as well, with the two exchanging words in a closer 'frequency'. While he noticed how Narzul's expression bundled into quiet introspection, Sadri decided not to prod further just yet, instead keeping to his 'mostly bothersome, barely tolerable, totally indispensable' act. But, from the way he looked at Sadri, it seemed that the Redoran himself was not in the mood to stick to the charade. Sadri could not help but feel sad for the poor bastard. In a way, he was no more than a petulant child, frustrated with the fact that the world did not work the way he wanted it to. Yet nonetheless, the Redoran was still lacking in emotional eloquence, and did not seem very cooperative with all that was going on around him, obviously flaws that could be fatal for any involved, in circumstances such as these. He could help him learn, Sadri thought - he just wouldn't pull any punches.

“It is certainly a mystery that a fellow of wits as sharp as yours cannot seem to understand concepts as base as empathy, Serjo Venim,” Sadri replied. “Perhaps it is a phenomenon experienced solely by us lowborn.” Scratching his chin, he rubbed a finger over his receding tooth gums before continuing.

“Although I could not help but notice the lack of the usual confidence in your tone as you replied; perhaps you noble folk merely stick to hiding it, for all the good it does you. We're comrades, whether we like it or not. It is only normal that I'd be concerned with one another's worries. As they say, no man is an island entire of itself.”

Narzul did not reply immediately. Where he had been idly fidgeting with his sword before, and the occasional scrape of the whetstone punctuated their conversation, he now stopped moving entirely. His eyes were fixed on Sadri’s face, drinking in the older mer’s expression, listening attentively to what he had to say. He blinked once, and then twice, but still did not move. The birds cried overhead and the bustle of the city at the height of midday rumbled in the distance.

For a brief second, he was reminded of his father; how the old elf would tower over him, talking and gesturing. Narzul did not remember the words, but he remembered the sentiment. How it was to be admonished.

The silence between them stretched on for several long, long seconds before Narzul spoke again. “You are lowborn,” he said, his voice heavy with restraint. “It has defined who you are and what you do. So uncouth, master Beleth, is your barbed tongue, and so unrefined your manners that you do not know just how misplaced your words are.” The tendons on the back of Narzul’s hand betrayed the strength of his grip on the hilt of his sword. The Redoran took a sharp breath and continued. “However… capable you are, we are only comrades through happenstance and misfortune. If it were not for my sister, we would not be having this conversation. Do not mistake me for an equal,” he said, his voice dropping lower, his stony-faced expression unrelenting. “One bad day does not bridge that gap.”

Narzul knew that Sadri was aware of his achievements in Black Marsh, and resisted the urge to bring up his victories and rub them in Sadri’s misshapen face. He did not need to stoop that low. Nor did he truly want to foster bad blood between them, so yet again his mouth opened to say something… sympathetic, or agreeable, but his pride wouldn’t let him. Instead, he remained silent, his jaw working and his fingers squeezing so hard it hurt.

“Oh, fret not, Serjo Venim,” Sadri replied from behind a venomous smirk after a moment of pause. “Merely your merit in combat alone has proven to me over and over that we indeed are not equals.” As he spoke these words, Sadri's smirk drooped down to a less pronounced shape, just as how a blade would become harder to see as its edge came cutting down towards its target. “It is certainly a joy to see that your psyche is not as easily wounded as your flesh, though, coming from the way you provide your usual compliments; I don't know if bearing your emotional burden would be as tolerable as bearing your highship's bleeding body. I should say that, however, despite ample evidence that we would never be equals, I cannot help but witness some potential in you possibly becoming more... welcoming towards the concerns and thoughts of the great unwashed. Surely such a capability would be of tremendous help to you, a proud and dignified member of House Redoran, whether in your future duties as administrator or current duty as warrior.”

He smiled. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“No,” came the immediate response, blunt and decisive -- or so Narzul liked to think. Truth be told, it was petulant, born from the overwhelmingly frustrating idea that if Narzul had simply been surrounded by Redoran warriors instead, his own people who knew their place (and, more importantly, Narzul’s place), and that if he had a proper suit of armor instead of the low-quality disguise he had stuffed into his chest with disgust, Bleakrock Isle would have been a completely different story. The Armiger’s spear would have glanced off an ebony cuirass and left him unharmed instead of gouging a deep wound into his abdomen. More importantly, nobody would have forced him to be at the vanguard of the party, crossing unstable bridges with mercenaries that looked like they should be dead four times over. He had been a general, for crying out loud, but Dumhuvud had reduced him to a ‘tin can’ without a second thought.

He could see from the look on Sadri’s broken face that the older Dunmer knew all that and was guiding him towards the obvious truth; he was not surrounded by his Redoran allies. Narzul was going to have to learn to make due with what he got and to accept his current place in life. Ashav had made it perfectly clear when Narzul went to properly sign up with the Company that he was just another soldier now, a member of the infantry, and no more. But Narzul’s innate reluctance to accept this was exacerbated by Sadri’s inflammatory tone and extremely disrespectful sarcasm. At the same time, Narzul realised that the only reason he was even listening to Sadri was because the latter wasn’t sugarcoating his words. Niernen had already told him the same things, but he didn’t listen to her. And so it dawned on Narzul why Sadri was so successful at prying open Narzul’s facade; his candidness. Nobody he cared about had dared to be so blunt with him since his time at the garrison as an ordinary guardsman, twenty years ago.

“Perhaps,” Narzul said eventually. His body language softened as he laid the ebony sword across his lap and he glanced away, avoiding Sadri’s face -- he did not need to see the look of triumph that would undoubtedly flit across it. “There’s an old saying that goes as follows: ‘One must row with the oars he has.’ I suppose it’s true,” he added and stared out over the sea.

The smug smirk on Sadri's face was wiped clean and replaced with an enthused and elated smile upon witnessing Narzul cave. “There, there, now we're making progress, aren't we?” He asked, deciding to hop on the crate Narzul was sitting on, and sit on one above it, as to come across as less confrontational, but still keep the 'higher ground'. Leaning down to his knee, Sadri came somewhat close to Narzul's ear, but finding the lack of physical distance awkward, he turned his head the other way. “You've fought in formation before, no doubt, Serjo; surely you know that not acting cohesively in, say, a shield wall, it creates an opening in it that is prone to get exploited. You would say your training would keep you safe, provide you with privileges withheld from others; that may be so, but then, even if you weren't torn down, the foes would push your comrades back through the gap you created, and that would leave you surrounded.”

Looking back to the sea that extended all the way into the horizon beyond, Sadri appreciated the dread he felt from finding himself, and other lives, so small and insignificant in face of such absolute and unchanging things.

“What you said is correct. One must row with the oars he has. Yet one must also remember that he himself is an oar in the larger scale, and often an oar that is off balance with the rest finds itself whittled down to a more suitable size and shape, if not outright discarded. It is not the material of the tool that matters here, but the intent of the owner who wishes to use it.”

He sighed. He didn't know why he even bothered, but yet there was something that forced him to try and help.

“Your sister is a nice girl. And she's troubled, like most of us here, no doubt because of the circumstances. You should try and approach her less as Serjo Venim of House Redoran, but as her brother. Both of you are far away from any Redoran settlement worth a damn. Your adherence to noble etiquette may prove more a burden than a privilege in such a situation.”

Narzul gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Your advice is practical, but there is more at stake here than just survival. You say my sister is a ‘nice girl’ -- I think she’s a fool. We talked about this before. I don’t agree with anything she has done after leaving Blacklight. I didn’t even agree with her leaving in the first place. The situation has… escalated, and without the means to persuade my sister to leave there is damnably little I can do about it. Perhaps I’ve come too late and there is no way back for her. Or for me, after Bleakrock Isle.” He paused and ran a hand through his hair. The very thought made him feel sick.

“But despite all of that, what really separates my sister and I from the ‘great unwashed’, as you put it, if we abandon all of our principles when faced with hardship? I don’t suppose this is the case for someone such as yourself, but my ancestors are watching. I can’t imagine Bolvyn Venim, Archmaster of House Redoran, who died fighting the outlander that would become the Nerevarine, would be impressed by me setting aside my station and my heritage to… become an oar, in a manner of speaking. You are asking me to admit defeat, and not just my own, but the defeat of my entire bloodline -- that the dynasty ends here as I become one of you.”

By the time Narzul was nearing the end of his rant the sound of desperation was evident in his voice. He glanced up at Sadri and for the first time since the two elves had met there was an empathic look in his eyes, trying to get his point across. “We do not share similar struggles, you and I. Do you understand?”

“Last I heard, 'blood' was not a principle, Serjo Venim,” Sadri replied. “It is true that our struggles are not the same, and it is indeed true that I do not carry the weight of my ancestors' expectations upon my shoulders.” Sadri rubbed his mouth, swiping his recently grown mustache to the sides of his lips. “But that is not to say that I am not a man of principle. One should not stay stalwart in face of hardship for the sake of his blood, or what is expected of him, I would say, but solely for himself. A man is what he makes of himself, not what he's groomed or expected to be. Would you have bowed your head and lived a laborer or kwama miner, had you been born to such a bloodline? You surely are a great warrior. But do ask yourself, how much of it comes from your blood, and how much of it comes from your heart? It is the heart that pumps the blood in your veins.”

He took a deep breath, and continued.

“I mine my principles and valor from a different lode than my blood. My passion, my will to live. What I feel is right. You are Narzul Venim, of House Redoran, yes, but how much of that name and title do you deserve, if you cannot do anything for yourself? You do not reach heaven by adherence, Narzul. You reach heaven by violence.”

It would have been easy to dismiss Sadri’s message as plebeian convictions that were suitable for someone who came from nothing and had everything to gain, but Narzul was taken aback by Sadri’s last sentence. He knew the words, echoing in the memory of his childhood lessons with his family’s private tutor. Vivec, old god of the Tribunal, now revered as a saint, had written that in his Sermons. ”Reach heaven by violence.” Narzul had never understood the meaning of those texts before, obtuse and poetic as they were, but it was as if Sadri had cut through the bullshit in one fell swoop and explained that Sermon’s meaning to him.

Ironically enough, if Narzul remembered properly, that particular Sermon was often interpreted as a message to the Nerevarine. An outlander who came from nothing, allegedly destined by prophecy to become the Nerevarine… but who had become so much more. If any one person Narzul knew could be said to have reached heaven by violence, it would be him. He rubbed his chin and frowned. Sadri seemed to imply that nothing Narzul had done had been done of his own volition, because it was something he wanted. That felt wrong -- Narzul knew what he wanted. He always had. Or had he truly merely adopted his father’s wishes for him, and nothing more?

Either way, Narzul looked at Sadri and saw him in a new light. This maimed cripple wasn’t just a thoughtful peasant out of his depth in his line of work, as Narzul had first assumed, nor merely a capable veteran with a penchant for being unkillable, as he had later learned. No, Sadri was very specifically and most importantly another thing: free.

“I don’t know, master Beleth,” Narzul said at last. “You’ve made your point and I understand your philosophy, but…” He trailed off and ran his fingers up and down the spine of his ebony sword. “I am Serjo Venim of House Redoran. I want to be Serjo Venim of House Redoran. Is it not possible to do that for myself? Becoming who I was groomed to be?”

Sadri was momentarily taken aback by how heavily Narzul's current indecisive and contemplative demeanor contrasted against his usual, clear cut self; while he had been trying to get him to this point, he had not expected that the effects would be this profound. But, it was only normal that the sudden absence of something one would be so accustomed to would touch deeper than something one would already accept as fleeting. After all, wasn't that why earthquakes were much more unexpected, and often much more traumatic experiences than storms at open sea, shaking one's very trust in the firm ground under one's feet?

“You could, sure,” Sadri replied nonchalantly, sounding as if he himself was unsure as to where to take the conversation. “But I don't know if Serjo Venim of House Redoran would fight to the death for his sister's sake, against those serving underneath the flag of his High King, as I have seen you fight. He would see her, rightfully, as an outlaw, a traitor to the land. For that is indeed what she is, to King and Country. I would not hold it against you if you chose to be that man instead of something else. There is comfort in familiarity and privilege. But I would have to tell you that perhaps you would not be best fit to stay amongst us, were you to decide to be Serjo Venim of House Redoran. You would be better off amongst those you were so keen on butchering on that thrice-damned isle.”

He took a moment of pause, to let the words sink in, and to catch his breath. He hadn't expected to do mentoring of this sort when he'd signed up for this line of work.

“Or you could be whoever you want to be, whether that be Narzul Venim, or anything else. What matters is this,” Sadri said, pointing to Narzul's sword. “You are what you do. Fighting for what you believe in, and not what someone else does, does not make you any less a man of integrity.”

Sadri’s harsh words about the nature of his sister had almost caused Narzul to interrupt him with vehement protest, but he kept his mouth shut -- Sadri was right. Niernen was all of those things to the country he had always professed his loyalty to. And he had hesitated, back in Morrowind, when he saw her name on the list of traitors. It had been his father that practically yelled him out of the house and onto the road. The same father that had drilled the Redoran code of honor into him for as long as he could remember. Even when he defied his High King, it was because of a choice he had not made himself.

“It was never my plan to stay among you for very long,” Narzul said. “I’m still only here to bring my sister home, and then to find a way to obtain clemency from the High King.” His voice had regained its confidence and resolution. It was evident the moment had passed; Narzul was Serjo Venim once more. He got up from the crate, satisfied with the state of his weapon, and returned it to its scabbard. “That’s what I believe in; to protect my family without abandoning my country.”

“Very well then,” Sadri replied, his tone content albeit formal. “I can only respect a man who decides to become part of a larger structure, if he claims it is done out of his own free will. I pray you do not find cause to regret it.”

Narzul looked Sadri in the eye one more time and nodded -- however stiff, it was a sign of respect -- before turning around and walking back the way he came.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

@Sofaking Fancy, Dael is definitely a sleek and enjoyable read, and as someone who appreciates unorthodox characters, I personally like how he breaks the mold of the usual Orc tropes. However, I have two nitpicks:

One is that he seems to be an expert at wielding two handed axes, despite the fact that one of his traits that stood out to me in his character sheet is that he isn't that much of a martial character. I would make that skill Adept myself (and also gain an extra Adept skill, if my calculations are correct) for sake of consistency.

Two is that he wears heavy armor, even when he has a weakness about him having somewhat of a slow pace. That, combined with his pilgrim past, makes me think that he would opt for something lighter, like padded/quilted armor, or leather, or a shirt of mail.

Aside from these I'd say he's pretty crisp. The group could use the morale.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Marcel Gawain

Marcel Gawain

Male Breton | 33 | Atronach

Profile

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§ Birthplace

Camlorn Principality, High Rock

§ Appearance

Marcel would best be described as timid and cautious. While these are mostly personality traits, Marcel is a person who has taken these traits to heart, and thus, manages to look timid and cautious as well, the traits having seeped into his visage, his clothing, and his expressions. He is of medium length and build, although admittedly in pretty good shape. His expression is a calm one - although also a distant looking one.

The man has a chiseled face, bony and oval, with questioning, distant eyes, a tiny mouth, and an aquiline nose. His sunken cheeks further accentuate his gaunt look and make his cheekbones stand out more. His rather high hairline, which, combined with the slight onset of hair recession, makes his head look somewhat bigger than it actually is. His brown hair has started to grey, with white streaks occasionally cutting through it. He has a trimmed, short beard, well groomed.

Marcel prefers to wear simple clothes that suit his line of work, with a well-crafted but plain gorget covering his neck, a leather buff coat covering his torso, and baggy pants covering his legs. Even when dressed for an occasion, he opts to simply add more decoration on top of his usual attire, such as silken lining, reinforced collars and decorated sleeves. and He’s recently switched his suede shoes for riding boots, and bought a caped greatcoat alongside a fur-lined kolpak, to keep himself safe from the cold climate of Skyrim.

§ Personality

Marcel’s one of those sorts of people who are so nice it’s somewhat off-putting. Having gone through a good education, and having had good parents, he is polite, soft spoken, and nearly always means well, a bona fide nice guy. However, it’s this that makes him look unbelievable – he’s nice, sure, but he’s quiet, somewhat shy, and never seems to let people in his personal sphere, though the problem starts there. It’s hard to tell if he’s just hiding his true personality from people, or if the nice guy exterior really is also the interior. Despite his somewhat frustrating line of work, he has never been seen angry, not even once, and is well known for his soothing presence. His birthsign has reflected upon him in his personality, in that he never shows any outburst of emotion on his own, and in fact dulls others to a calmer, serene outlook with his lack of reaction to any emotion. An experienced witch hunter, he is cautious and prefers to plan every move, trying not to waste any of his time or energy. One can say he’s a nice guy – too nice, even, to a point it feels like he’s lying.

§ Background

Marcel's Story

Marcel Gawain was born to a wealthy burgher family in Sun’s Dusk 4E 172, on a cold Tirdas day. His father, Adrien, was a government official, and his mother, Jeanne, hailed from a family of wealthy traders. It was certainly no marriage of love, but it wasn’t a loveless marriage either, and Marcel spent a rather uneventful childhood as part of the upper-middle class in Camlorn, spending most of his time eating pastry and tending to his small aquarium. As Marcel grew up, he was educated by his mother, and after her untimely death, his governess, Mme de Camarille. It was a simple life, and Marcel was a simple child, and a quiet one after his mother’s death. He grew up to be admittedly quite dull a person, but undeniably a nice, decent one as well.

At 4E 188, Marcel was psychologically evaluated by a wandering Altmer diviner, who claimed that the boy’s dull, static nature was due to his birth sign, that of the Atronach – according to the man, the young lad was like a battery, draining all the magic and excitement in things. His father would realize that the diviner had used the word ‘magic’ in both senses of the word after witnessing Marcel read a magic scroll he had taken from the family archive while tending to his fish, get engorged in a ball of fire, and walk it off as if nothing had happened. His father decided to pay for his tutelage at the local Synod Hall, hoping that maybe his son was talented in magic, but the boy was never really accepted amongst the Synods, for they believed his presence somehow dulled the effects of their own magic. Thus, Marcel was well-educated in scholarship and magic, but never made into a proper mage.

Following his son’s rather disappointing tutelage at the Synod Hall, Adrien Gawain decided to send Marcel to a proper university instead of making his son pursue a line of work where he wouldn’t be accepted as a peer. Marcel enrolled at the College of Ykalon, where he was taught history and natural sciences. He also picked up the hobby of fencing, which, combined with his natural talent of absorbing magic, would lead to his employment as a ‘Witch Hunter’ after the events of 4E 192.

During Marcel’s second year of education at the College of Ykalon, a vile sorcerer had begun attacking the citizens of the city at night, either breaking in houses and absorbing the life energy of the inhabitants, or simply latching onto people on the streets and striking them with a touch of lightning. One Middas night, while walking back to their respective cottages, after attending the autopsy of a Spriggan, Marcel and the son of the Count of Ykalon were attacked by the ‘Lightning of Ykalon’, who, after paralyzing the Count’s son with magic, grasped onto Marcel’s face and attempted to shock the life out of him… and failed, Marcel having shrugged off the electricity and stabbed the Lightning in the side with his practice sword. The sword had acted as a conductor and led the electricity through Marcel’s body and back into the sorcerer, and crisped the bane of the citizens of Ykalon in an instant. Learning of these events from his son, and wanting to reward the young Marcel with a good position where he could continue his education and root out magical threats in the county, the Count of Ykalon employed Marcel Gawain as an apprentice Witch Hunter.

Marcel was reluctant to be at such a position at a rather young age, and his rather sheltered upbringing also implied at possible failure in his newfound line of work. Fortunately for him, he was assigned as apprentice to Diarmid Goupeville, an old and experienced Witch Hunter hailing from the Reach, who used obscure magic to help him in his trade. Diarmid’s cordial nature and the wish to have a protégé meant that Marcel went through an extensive, but also good-natured and well balanced training. Unlike the Synods, this man believed that Marcel’s magic-dulling nature was a godsend, and made sure to capitalize on this, teaching Marcel the somewhat forgotten art of Mysticism – slowly, however, thanks to the boy’s muffling quality when it came to magic.

The old man was glad to see that he had managed to earn a successor in his craft, and began giving Marcel more important tasks as apprentice – while the boy had simply been organizing letters, learning directions and gathering information, he now had a more active role, following Diarmid to the source of the complaints and helping him get rid of it. No doubt the man’s older age also had a part in this, but Marcel had undeniably progressed in harnessing his anomalous talent. Marcel became a witch hunter in earnest after a scuffle in the Wrothgarian Mountains, with the two hunters chasing a Vampire of the Lyrezi clan. Having followed the beast into a tomb, Marcel and Diarmid were almost butchered by the Vampire, who bore the power of invisibility and silence. However, Marcel was able to put an end to the beast’s unnatural life after stabbing it in the back while it was too busy trying to take down his master, and then chasing it to a flooded part of the tombs, where its invisibility was unable to make an effect on hiding its direction of attack. After witnessing Marcel emerge with the beast’s head, Diarmid decided that Marcel was no longer an apprentice. Deeming the young lad his successor, he gifted the boy with a gorget of spell absorption after turning in the bounty, apparently a favorite of vampire hunters and a gift that would be helping Marcel in his future, and promptly retired, satisfied with his apparent successor.

The young witch hunter wasn’t very sure on what to do at that point. Having spent almost six years alongside his tutor Diarmid, he was an experienced hunter, sure, but not very experienced in living life itself. Deciding to go ‘wherever the wind blows’, he moved to Hammerfell, where he ended up accidentally becoming a member of a Cult of Meridia, and then to Colovia, where he had a short love life with a widowed noblewoman about fifteen years older than him. He moved to the Imperial City after the relationship was put on hiatus because of complications. Wanting a somewhat calmer life, he settled down in a room above a pastry in the Market District, where he spent almost half a year eating various forms of cake and educating wealthy residents’ children. He could not sustain this lifestyle, however, and eventually moved out and continued his original profession, wandering from village to village and rooting out problems (which more than often turned out to be products of pure superstition rather than actual magical threats).

While Marcel was visiting Winterhold, The College suffered from further catastrophe and was cut off from the mainland thanks to losing its bridge. The mages, and Marcel, were saved by a Mercenary Company, whose mission was to lead a relief effort to the college. Although the mages would end up losing their lives in a boating accident, Marcel, not having gone with them, was left alone once more, and in unfamiliar company. It was amongst them that he learned that the land was under invasion from the Akaviri. Ever the gallant gentleman, Marcel would offer to sign up with the Company as soon as they made it to mainland. While things haven't gone great for them, with Marcel having almost lost his life in an ambush where he would barely avoid getting decapitated, Marcel's not the sort of chap to get bummed about things very easily, and has so far stayed a reliable if not tiringly decorous companion.

Capabilities

---

§ Attributes

• Major Willpower
• Minor Speed

§ Skills

• Expert Negation
• Adept Alchemy
• Adept One-Handed Blade
• Apprentice Speech
• Apprentice Light Armor
• Apprentice Athletics
• Novice Acrobatics
• Novice Hand to Hand
• Novice Marksman

§ Weaknesses

Battery: Marcel is practically a magical coil, unable to cast anything conventional – he can only store, detect and reflect. Other schools of magic are beyond him, with disastrous results should he try to cast from scrolls.

Cutthroat: Having received an almost fatal wound to the neck, Marcel has found it harder for himself to breathe since, not to mention that talking has become somewhat of a pain.

Magnetic: Marcel's absorbent quality has a rather unpleasant effect of magnetizing magical effects on him. Spells often end up homing in on him even when targeted at someone else.

Static Space: Marcel's presence makes mages uncomfortable and unable to focus, like a dog whistle would bother a dog. The stronger the magician, the stronger the effect.

§ Spells

Mysticism: Detect Life, Dispel, Reflect Spell, Spell Absorption

§ Tactics

Having been trained in the art of fencing, Marcel’s fighting style is heavily technical, and is based mostly on quick, debilitating strikes. Mostly having faced foes of the inhuman and primitive kind, Marcel does not have much actual experience of the usual, to-the-death fighting against capable warriors, at the very least, not as much as a trained warrior. Still, he has not forgotten the fencing lessons he has taken during college, and knows how to keep people at a blade's distance well.

§ Relations & Affiliations

Adrien Gawain - Father
Ser Diarmid Gilfryd-Goupeville, 1st Earl of Goupeville - Mentor
Theodora the Fair, Countess of Skingrad - Ex-lover
Torchbearer Sidon, Leader of the Order of the Morning Star - Ex-colleague

§ Opinions

Opinions

Jorwen: Well, he was a sad, but well-meaning man. Sad to know that he was last seen surrounded by Kamal.

Solveig: She's gone. While the lack of her presence brings Marcel relief, it also seems to have taken down Sadri quite a bit.

Sadri: He's reached new lows since Solveig's leave. Marcel doesn't find him awfully amicable, given the situation he was in during the ship journey.

Sevine: Marcel's happy that she's not dead. It would be awful for morale, and she seems nice enough.

Leif: This man seems like the complete opposite of Marcel – an outgoing philanderer. Marcel wants to empathize, but is frankly unable to.

Sagax: His friend's death must have taken a toll on his psyche. Marcel feels sad about all the sorrow around him.

Keegan: While Marcel had slight dislike for the fellow, their attempt at saving a life together, and their mutual sorrow at their inability makes Marcel think of him as a comrade.

Tsleeixth: Another nice person trying to live his life with the trade of magic and sword. Hopefully Marcel won’t bother him.

Roze: She used to remind Marcel of her childhood loves because of her attitude - now she reminds them even more by being gone forever. Quite sad, honestly.

Rhasha’Dar: Marcel feels quite sad about the circumstances in which he perished, and has slight survivor's guilt, given that he died alongside Marcel.

Do’Karth: Even his convictions were broken, and his hopes smashed. He's gone. Marcel wonders what life will bring to him, given his lack of will compared to Do'Karth.

Daixanos: Quiet and effective. Good to know that he's on his side, and, well, yeah, good guy, Marcel would guess.

Dar'Jzo: Marcel only knows him as the cat who puked onboard. Maybe he's a good fellow aside from that tendency.

Narzul: This fellow eyes everyone with disgust. Why he bothers to be amongst them is anyone's guess. Perhpas he likes the negative attention.

Niernen: Another Dunmer. Her magic is potent enough to scare even Marcel, although outside of combat she seems a nice enough person to hang out with.

Wylendriel: Marcel enjoys Wylendriel's presence and her healing skills even moreso, although he feels that she hides some dark sorrow deep within herself.

Alim: Young, and looks like the sort of person Marcel would've envied and hated at the same time for his demeanor, back when he was a child.

§ Other

Marcel is heavily magic resistant, owing to his Breton heritage. He’s also a fast reader, for reasons unknown.

Inventory

---

§ Cash

Around 150 septims

§ Keys & Lockpicks

None

§ Tools & Crafting Materials

-1 Needle Compass
-1 Candle Lantern

§ Clothing & Armor

-1 Kolpak
-1 Greatcoat
-1 Gorget of Spell Absorption
-1 Decorated leather buffcoat
-1 Quilted fencing doublet
-3 Shirts
-1 Blue silk sash
-2 Linen Trousers
-1 Pair of riding boots
-1 Scaled leather dueling gauntlet
-1 Pair of gloves
-4 Pairs of underwear

§ Weapon & Ammo

-1 Silver Smallsword
-1 Steel Sword

§ Potion & Arcane Supplies

-3 Potions of Cure Disease
-3 Potions of Cure Poison
-3 Potions of Restoration

§ Jewelry & Valuables

-1 Circular Locket, containing a tuft of hair and a portrait

§ Books & Documents

-1 Comprehensive Map of Tamriel

§ Food/Drinks/Ingredients

-1 Satchel, containing nuts and berries
-1 Pouch full of madeleine cakes

§ Load Bearing Equipment

-2 Sword hangers with attached scabbards
-1 Belt with satchels and pouches attached
-1 Flask of water

§ Other

-1 Woolen Blanket

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Marcel Gawain

Marcel Gawain

Male Breton | 33 | Atronach

Profile

---

§ Birthplace

Camlorn Principality, High Rock

§ Appearance

Marcel would best be described as timid and cautious. While these are mostly personality traits, Marcel is a person who has taken these traits to heart, and thus, manages to look timid and cautious as well, the traits having seeped into his visage, his clothing, and his expressions. He is of medium length and build, although admittedly in pretty good shape. His expression is a calm one - although also a distant looking one.

The man has a chiseled face, bony and oval, with questioning, distant eyes, a tiny mouth, and an aquiline nose. His sunken cheeks further accentuate his gaunt look and make his cheekbones stand out more. His rather high hairline, which, combined with the slight onset of hair recession, makes his head look somewhat bigger than it actually is. His brown hair has started to grey, with white streaks occasionally cutting through it. He has a trimmed, short beard, well groomed.

Marcel prefers to wear simple clothes that suit his line of work, with a well-crafted but plain gorget covering his neck, a leather buff coat covering his torso, and baggy pants covering his legs. He’s recently switched his suede shoes for riding boots, and bought a caped greatcoat alongside a fur-lined kolpak, to keep himself safe from the cold climate of Skyrim.

§ Personality

Marcel’s one of those sorts of people who are so nice it’s somewhat off-putting. Having gone through a good education, and having had good parents, he is polite, soft spoken, and nearly always means well, a bona fide nice guy. However, it’s this that makes him look unbelievable – he’s nice, sure, but he’s quiet, somewhat shy, and never seems to let people in his personal sphere, though the problem starts there. It’s hard to tell if he’s just hiding his true personality from people, or if the nice guy exterior really is also the interior. Despite his somewhat frustrating line of work, he has never been seen angry, not even once, and is well known for his soothing presence. His birthsign has reflected upon him in his personality, in that he never shows any outburst of emotion on his own, and in fact dulls others to a calmer, serene outlook with his lack of reaction to any emotion. An experienced witch hunter, he is cautious and prefers to plan every move, trying not to waste any of his time or energy. One can say he’s a nice guy – too nice, even, to a point it feels like he’s lying.

§ Background

Thus-Far Life of Ordained Witch Hunter, Gentleman Marcel Gawain

Marcel Gawain was born to a wealthy burgher family in Sun’s Dusk 4E 172, on a cold Tirdas day. His father, Adrien, was a government official, and his mother, Jeanne, hailed from a family of wealthy traders. It was certainly no marriage of love, but it wasn’t a loveless marriage either, and Marcel spent a rather uneventful childhood as part of the upper-middle class in Camlorn, spending most of his time eating pastry and tending to his small aquarium. As Marcel grew up, he was educated by his mother, and after her untimely death, his governess, Mme de Camarille. It was a simple life, and Marcel was a simple child, and a quiet one after his mother’s death. He grew up to be admittedly quite dull a person, but undeniably a nice, decent one as well.

At 4E 188, Marcel was psychologically evaluated by a wandering Altmer diviner, who claimed that the boy’s dull, static nature was due to his birth sign, that of the Atronach – according to the man, the young lad was like a battery, draining all the magic and excitement in things. His father would realize that the diviner had used the word ‘magic’ in both senses of the word after witnessing Marcel read a magic scroll he had taken from the family archive while tending to his fish, get engorged in a ball of fire, and walk it off as if nothing had happened. His father decided to pay for his tutelage at the local Synod Hall, hoping that maybe his son was talented in magic, but the boy was never really accepted amongst the Synods, for they believed his presence somehow dulled the effects of their own magic. Thus, Marcel was well-educated in scholarship and magic, but never made into a proper mage.

Following his son’s rather disappointing tutelage at the Synod Hall, Adrien Gawain decided to send Marcel to a proper university instead of making his son pursue a line of work where he wouldn’t be accepted as a peer. Marcel enrolled at the College of Ykalon, where he was taught history and natural sciences. He also picked up the hobby of fencing, which, combined with his natural talent of absorbing magic, would lead to his employment as a ‘Witch Hunter’ after the events of 4E 192.

During Marcel’s second year of education at the College of Ykalon, a vile sorcerer had begun attacking the citizens of the city at night, either breaking in houses and absorbing the life energy of the inhabitants, or simply latching onto people on the streets and striking them with a touch of lightning. One Middas night, while walking back to their respective cottages, after attending the autopsy of a Spriggan, Marcel and the son of the Count of Ykalon were attacked by the ‘Lightning of Ykalon’, who, after paralyzing the Count’s son with magic, grasped onto Marcel’s face and attempted to shock the life out of him… and failed, Marcel having shrugged off the electricity and stabbed the Lightning in the side with his practice sword. The sword had acted as a conductor and led the electricity through Marcel’s body and back into the sorcerer, and crisped the bane of the citizens of Ykalon in an instant. Learning of these events from his son, and wanting to reward the young Marcel with a good position where he could continue his education and root out magical threats in the county, the Count of Ykalon employed Marcel Gawain as an apprentice Witch Hunter.

Marcel was reluctant to be at such a position at a rather young age, and his rather sheltered upbringing also implied at possible failure in his newfound line of work. Fortunately for him, he was assigned as apprentice to Diarmid Goupeville, an old and experienced Witch Hunter hailing from the Reach, who used obscure magic to help him in his trade. Diarmid’s cordial nature and the wish to have a protégé meant that Marcel went through an extensive, but also good-natured and well balanced training. Unlike the Synods, this man believed that Marcel’s magic-dulling nature was a godsend, and made sure to capitalize on this, teaching Marcel the somewhat forgotten art of Mysticism – slowly, however, thanks to the boy’s muffling quality when it came to magic.

The old man was glad to see that he had managed to earn a successor in his craft, and began giving Marcel more important tasks as apprentice – while the boy had simply been organizing letters, learning directions and gathering information, he now had a more active role, following Diarmid to the source of the complaints and helping him get rid of it. No doubt the man’s older age also had a part in this, but Marcel had undeniably progressed in harnessing his anomalous talent. Marcel became a witch hunter in earnest after a scuffle in the Wrothgarian Mountains, with the two hunters chasing a Vampire of the Lyrezi clan. Having followed the beast into a tomb, Marcel and Diarmid were almost butchered by the Vampire, who bore the power of invisibility and silence. However, Marcel was able to put an end to the beast’s unnatural life after stabbing it in the back while it was too busy trying to take down his master, and then chasing it to a flooded part of the tombs, where its invisibility was unable to make an effect on hiding its direction of attack. After witnessing Marcel emerge with the beast’s head, Diarmid decided that Marcel was no longer an apprentice. Deeming the young lad his successor, he gifted the boy with a gorget of spell absorption after turning in the bounty, apparently a favorite of vampire hunters and a gift that would be helping Marcel in his future, and promptly retired, satisfied with his apparent successor.

The young witch hunter wasn’t very sure on what to do at that point. Having spent almost six years alongside his tutor Diarmid, he was an experienced hunter, sure, but not very experienced in living life itself. Deciding to go ‘wherever the wind blows’, he moved to Hammerfell, where he ended up accidentally becoming a member of a Cult of Meridia, and then to Colovia, where he had a short love life with a widowed noblewoman about fifteen years older than him. He moved to the Imperial City after the relationship was put on hiatus because of complications. Wanting a somewhat calmer life, he settled down in a room above a pastry in the Market District, where he spent almost half a year eating various forms of cake and educating wealthy residents’ children. He could not sustain this lifestyle, however, and eventually moved out and continued his original profession, wandering from village to village and rooting out problems (which more than often turned out to be products of pure superstition rather than actual magical threats).

While Marcel was visiting Winterhold, The College suffered from further catastrophe and was cut off from the mainland thanks to losing its bridge. The mages, and Marcel, were saved by a Mercenary Company, whose mission was to lead a relief effort to the college. Although the mages would end up losing their lives in a boating accident, Marcel, not having gone with them, was left alone once more, and in unfamiliar company. It was amongst them that he learned that the land was under invasion from the Akaviri. Ever the gallant gentleman, Marcel would offer to sign up with the Company as soon as they made it to mainland. While things haven't gone great for them, with Marcel having almost lost his life in an ambush where he would barely avoid getting decapitated, Marcel's not the sort of chap to get bummed about things very easily, and has so far stayed a reliable if not tiringly decorous companion.

Capabilities

---

§ Attributes

• Major Willpower
• Minor Speed

§ Skills

• Expert Mysticism
• Adept Alchemy
• Adept One-Handed Blade
• Apprentice Speech
• Apprentice Light Armor
• Apprentice Athletics
• Novice Acrobatics
• Novice Hand to Hand
• Novice Marksman

§ Weaknesses

Battery: Marcel is practically a magical coil, unable to cast anything conventional – he can only store, detect and reflect. Other schools of magic are beyond him, with disastrous results should he try to cast from scrolls.

Cutthroat: Having received an almost fatal wound to the neck, Marcel has found it harder for himself to breathe since, not to mention that talking has become somewhat of a pain.

Magnetic: Marcel's absorbent quality has a rather unpleasant effect of magnetizing magical effects on him. Spells often end up homing in on him even when targeted at someone else.

Static Space: Marcel's presence makes mages uncomfortable and unable to focus, like a dog whistle would bother a dog. The stronger the magician, the stronger the effect.

§ Spells

Mysticism: Detect Life, Dispel, Reflect Spell, Spell Absorption

§ Tactics

Having been trained in the art of fencing, Marcel’s fighting style is heavily technical, and is based mostly on quick, debilitating strikes. Mostly having faced foes of the inhuman and primitive kind, Marcel does not have much actual experience of the usual, to-the-death fighting against capable warriors, at the very least, not as much as a trained warrior. Still, he has not forgotten the fencing lessons he has taken during college, and knows how to keep people at a blade's distance well.

§ Relations & Affiliations

Adrien Gawain - Father
Ser Diarmid Gilfryd-Goupeville, 1st Earl of Goupeville - Mentor
Theodora the Fair, Countess of Skingrad - Ex-lover
Torchbearer Sidon, Leader of the Order of the Morning Star - Ex-colleague

§ Opinions

Opinions

Jorwen: Well, he was a sad, but well-meaning man. Sad to know that he was last seen surrounded by Kamal.

Solveig: Marcel's afraid of the new highs of anger she may reach upon learning of what happened to her father.

Sadri: He seems like a man hiding his sadness, a man longing for something. What is he sad about, and what he longs for, Marcel can only speculate.

Sevine: Marcel's happy that she's not dead. It would be awful for morale, and she seems nice enough.

Leif: This man seems like the complete opposite of Marcel – an outgoing philanderer. Marcel wants to empathize, but is frankly unable to.

Sagax: This young man reminds Marcel of himself, although he strikes Marcel as more sociable a person. Hopefully he’ll lead a good life.

Keegan: Marcel's kind of put off by Keegan's constant cowardice, but can't blame the fellow for being afraid - Marcel himself has saved the fellow from violent death at least twice.

Tsleeixth: Another nice person trying to live his life with the trade of magic and sword. Hopefully Marcel won’t bother him.

Roze: She seems like the sort of person who’s nice to her friends, but uncaring about anyone else. She reminds Marcel of his childhood loves – makes him feel a tinge of bitterness.

Rhasha’Dar: While Marcel's not exactly trustful of caravan cats, nearly getting mauled to death by a tree-witch isn't something he'd wish on someone he doesn't know much.

Vurwe: Well, she was annoying, but she was still on their side. Sad to see her go.

Do’Karth: This fellow has made his mistakes – and more importantly, made his peace. Marcel hopes that he can stay on the path he has chosen for himself.

Kaliri: Marcel is relieved by the fact that she's not around, mostly due to his fear of people that he can't understand.

Daixanos: Quiet and effective. Good to know that he's on his side, and, well, yeah, good guy, Marcel would guess.

Bharzak: She's quiet, and from what Marcel has seen not much of a fighter. Can't hold that against someone, but given the way they've met, he's not exactly very keen about her.

§ Other

Marcel is heavily magic resistant, owing to his Breton heritage. He’s also a fast reader, for reasons unknown.

Inventory

---

§ Cash

Around 150 septims

§ Keys & Lockpicks

None

§ Tools & Crafting Materials

-1 Needle Compass
-1 Candle Lantern

§ Clothing & Armor

-1 Kolpak
-1 Greatcoat
-1 Gorget of Spell Absorption
-1 Leather Buffcoat
-2 Linen Trousers
-1 Pair of riding boots
-1 Pair of gloves
-3 Shirts
-4 Pairs of underwear

§ Weapon & Ammo

-1 Silver Smallsword
-1 Steel Sword

§ Potion & Arcane Supplies

-2 Potions of Cure Disease
-2 Potions of Cure Poison
-2 Potions of Restoration

§ Jewelry & Valuables

-1 Circular Locket, containing a tuft of hair and a portrait

§ Books & Documents

-1 Comprehensive Map of Tamriel

§ Food/Drinks/Ingredients

-1 Satchel, containing nuts and berries
-1 Pouch full of madeleine cakes

§ Load Bearing Equipment

-2 Sword belts with attached scabbards
-1 Belt with satchels and pouches attached
-1 Flask of water

§ Other

-1 Woolen Blanket

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Sadri Beleth

Sadri Beleth

Dunmer Male | 75 | Lord

Profile

---

§ Birthplace

Bergama, Hammerfell

§ Appearance

Sadri Beleth has many eccentricities that make him stick out like a sore thumb in a crowd; the most easily noticeable one amongst all the others being his height. For a Dunmer, Sadri is unnaturally tall, reaching almost Altmer heights, although unfortunately for him, he lacks their graceful and proportionate physique; instead, Sadri is incredibly wiry and lanky, albeit broad-shouldered. He has practically no fat on his limbs, with quite long, sinewy arms (rather, arm) and legs, all covered with scars and bruises collected through years of life-threatening lines of work. Were he to go bare chested, it would be easy to assume that he'd been malnourished for years and still hadn't recovered. His good hand is large, almost reminiscent of a spider, with long, bony fingers with prominent knuckles.

With a face that has been described as 'horselike' in the past (not an inapt description), Sadri has long, sunken cheeks and an overall gaunt facial structure. However, over time, his face has evolved from gaunt to plain corpse-like, thanks to the no less than impressive amount of horrid scars that his face has accumulated over the years, reminders that even Restoration magic can do so much. His time in Skyrim has given an unhealthy pallor to his normally dark skin, thanks to lack of sleep and moon sugar withdrawal, which has made his already unhealthy and very busy-looking, cluttered face look plain half-dead. His right eye, suffering from cataracts, has been clouded with white from its natural red, although his chronic hyphema occasionally turns it back into its original color, even if for the wrong reasons.

Of course, not all these scars stay around as mere visual reminders these days - most debilitatingly, he has lost his right arm from halfway below the elbow and his left ear. Having had to find ways to cope with them, Sadri now bears a fully articulated prosthetic arm made of solid iron, which is dexterous enough to act as a substitute, while also being sturdy enough to act as an impromptu club when necessary. Because of his lost ear, he has gained a tendency to turn his head and listen with its right side when he has to be attentive, which conversely makes him look as if he's not paying attention.

Sadri often chooses to get himself a most comfortable and extravagant costume, and recent events have played right into his hand. Having been given a sizeable sum of money to 'suit up' for a banquet, Sadri has gone all out and outfitted himself with a large burgundy overcoat in Brumese style with false sleeves, whilst an ash colored tunic sporting a vide pattern of diagonal slashes is worn right underneath the overcoat, mimicking open wounds thanks to a a red doublet underneath. While opting to keep his trusty breeches and his wide, embroidered sash, he's nonetheless bought a garish codpiece to further reinforce his obnoxiously colorful look. In place of his usual knee-length Colovian boots, Sadri has opted for leather shoes and slim slashed gaiters of ash color, with red hose beneath, to bolster the profile of his upper body and mimick wounded bare legs in line with his tunic.

Beneath a plumed, slashed and puffy hat of Colovian style, Sadri has long hair, kept in a ponytail towards the neck. His hair is jet black and greasy, with a high hairline that seems as if it is receding, with only a soft widow's peak hanging on to the edge of his forehead. For the sake of 'moving forward', and for the sake of infiltrating a banquet, he's recently gotten a shave to tame his unkempt look, opting to sport large, intimidating sideburns while having the rest of his facial hair shaven clean.

§ Personality

Dejected, sarcastic, worldly, smartass, dour; all these are valid descriptions for Sadri. A mer who has lived most of his life amongst men, and a mer who has gathered stories and experiences that other mer could not reach in a lifetime in his yet (comparably) short life, he certainly doesn't fit in with either crowd, being too manlike for mer, and too merlike for men. Being born a particularly unwise person, Sadri has fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it) gone through many an incident and catastrophe to give him the wisdom that his upbringing has not. While he's still somewhat error prone, he's wise and worldly enough to see a smart course of action from a silly one, which has given him a somewhat diplomatic demeanor. Nonetheless, he is not the sort of person to completely avoid conflict, and when riled up or when he and/or others he values are in danger, can even become quite aggressive, having burned his fair share of bridges in the past. While not immune to his surroundings, Sadri often hides his true feelings beneath a veneer of sarcasm and a 'been there, done that' act, and even though he prides himself on being a professional, he's not completely loyal, valuing his comrades and friends more than orders. Despite his fervent disregard for the fact, he's somewhat addicted to moon sugar, and has found that its lack is making it harder and harder for him to sleep.

§ Background

Beleth's Journey

Sadri's journey begins in Bergama - far away from the homeland of his ancestors. Some say that his grandfather, a caravan leader, had settled in Bergama (which had originally been just a travel stop) after hearing of the Red Year; not willing to return to a desolate wasteland, and suffer the travel just to hammer his grief home, the mer had simply decided to stay put for the rest of his life. Thus, the Beleth bloodline would find itself settled and continued in a somewhat small oasis city in the midst of the Alik'r Desert, far away from any sort of possible commotion. Sadri never knew his grandfather; according to his father, his grandfather had lost all his joy of life and excitement in those years.

It was mostly thanks to this man and his father's business smarts that Sadri was born into a relatively rich household. While not nobility, or awfully rich, his parents still could afford reasonable amounts of comfort and luxury, and thus Sadri's childhood was spent much more pleasant than some of his peers. Nonetheless, it wouldn't always go on the same wavelength. After impressively pissing off his tutor and showing himself to be more of a brat than a studious child, his parents apprenticed him to a barber; while the barber was soft to him, mostly thanks to the fact that Sadri's father owned the building in which his shop was located, it was still an experience real enough to teach him the craft and soften his edges.

Sadri lived as a barber for almost a decade; for some reason, though, he was not satisfied with the way he lived his life. Perhaps it was the blood of his wandering trader ancestors urging him to walk on and free himself from the shackles of settled life that his grandfather had locked the family into, perhaps it was the tales he had heard of lands beyond, or perhaps it was something else. Whatever the cause was, nearing the age of thirty, Sadri decided to move on from Bergama, and join a caravan, as his grandfather once had. His parents, although somewhat bummed about the fact that their son had let go of a stable and safe job for a much more dangerous life (for good reason - both his parents had worked in his grandfather's caravan and thus spoke from experience), did not feel bitter about it. And so he was hailed off into the horizon.

His first 'voyage into the wide world' would not be as eventful as the second; setting out as a caravan guard, he spent about two years in this profession, which took him through every Imperial Province of mainland Tamriel. After leaving the job over a denied loan request (he had to pay for a gambling debt he'd made during a drunk night in Solitude), Sadri hurriedly enlisted with a whaling ship to take him away from debt collectors. He spent three years as a whaler, finding himself to be a solid rigger with his long limbs and endurance. However, when his last journey had the ship stuck in the ice and left them stranded in the midst of the Sea of Ghosts for almost a year, Sadri decided he would take a break from the job, and quit the moment they made it back to port.

After a few years that took him through various occupations and various provinces, he found himself in a scavenger party that dismantled Dwemer ruins in the Velothi mountains. During this time, he became romantically involved with an Orsimer named Nuran, who was second captain of the party, and began harboring thoughts of settling with her. Unfortunately for them, their plans would be thrown out of the window by an avalanche, which would take her (and most of the party's) life. Dejected and depressed, Sadri spent the next few years in a blur, and ended up having to use most of the money he'd made to travel back home, where his family welcomed him like a prodigal son. His father hired him as his personal bookkeeper; Sadri found himself checking and correcting ledgers and comparing tables.

It was during this time that the Great War began. Around this time, a caravan headed for Sentinel arrived in Bergama, attacked and most of its goods raided by brigands. Hearing that they had come to sell their goods to provide finances for their city's defense, Sadri's father bought the remainders of their goods for the price of the entire caravan (a financially unwise choice - very uncharacteristic for Dunmer). Lauded through the city for his patriotism, Sadri's father found himself in the Council of Finance of the Barony. Sadri requested to take on the job of selling the goods he'd bought from the caravan, and his father, eager to see his son in the family business, accepted.

Sadri found himself with the duty of selling almost a caravan's worth of books, one of the sole things that the brigands had not been interested in. Sadri rented a vacated building and set the place up as a bookstore. Business wasn't exactly booming, thanks to the war and Sadri's inexperience in trade, but when news of a city noble's death in battle against the Aldmeri reached the city, his widow decided to donate a large sum of money to the city library to freely educate children of the poor in his memory (the man was a battlemage). Only, there was one problem. There was no such thing as a city library in Bergama; at least, not until Sadri made a deal with the local Mages' Guild and made his bookstore into one with their help.

With his bookstore turned into a public library, Sadri found himself wealthy, but without anything to do. Deciding that he could make better use of his time (mostly spent playing backgammon and checkers in his office with friends), he began reading up on the contents of the library he theoretically owned. It was a slow process, thanks to Sadri not being suited for scholarly pursuits from birth, but his stubborn attitude won over his natural disposition, and thus Sadri found himself an autodidact. Finding that he did not have much aptitude with magic, he put those books aside and began reading other things, such as treatises, novels, encyclopedias, and travelogues.

Thus went by almost a decade. The Beleth family's tendency to stick to their relatively extravagant lifestyle against the exhaustion and economic downfall brought by years of warfare had taken a toll on their coffers, and by the war's end, Sadri had lost most of the money he had made by the beginning of it, having had to ransom a close friend from Khajiit slavers amongst other things. Sadri was now a well-read mer, with renewed idealism about the world, and the sight of the city where he'd spent most his life in practically ruined conditions was taking a toll on his nerves. He decided to set out into the world again, to, in his words, 'get away from it all'. His parents were sad to see him go, but now that he had their respect as a grown mer, they did not argue much against it.

Leaving for Sentinel with a caravan, Sadri hopped on a ship again, making sure that it was not a whaling ship this time, and with his previous experiences (and a lack of good men thanks to the war having taken them all to the grave), found himself as an able ship mate. Their ship was a frigate, part of a navy force (originally named the Sentinels) assigned to take care of the rampant piracy in the Iliac Bay, and it all went well, until they were relocated to Stros M'Kai, where news of an unstoppable pirate had emerged. With Stros M'Kai being only nominally in Hammerfell hands, the Sentinels found themselves starving for supplies, and under constant harassment from smaller ships. Eventually, they caught up with the so-called 'Pirate King', and found itself facing over a dozen ships.

Hopelessly outnumbered, although definitely not outgunned (most the pirate ships were galleys, small and weakly armed), the Sentinels took down more than half the pirate fleet before they began getting overrun. Sadri's ship was amongst those boarded; as ship mate, he was amongst those responsible for keeping order amongst the crew, and thus he found himself forced to make an example against the pirates. Armed with a cutlass and a three-legged stool, Sadri made a stand on the aftcastle against an onslaught of hardened sea dogs, getting wounded multiple times before finally getting put down by a stab to his side and another that went right between his collarbone and shoulderblade. While Sadri was pulled to the rear of the ship and the defense went on, the pirates were nonetheless close to breaking through.

Thankfully, the aftcastle's stalwart defense had not gone unnoticed, and the marines in the forecastle led a counteroffensive to relieve them and force the pirates to retreat once and for all. It was bloody, but it worked; by the time Sadri regained consciousness, he found himself bedridden and critically wounded, although in safe hands. He would learn that the battle had ended as a pyrrhic victory, with the Sentinels having managed to disperse the Pirate King's fleet and confirm his death, although losing all but two of their ships in the process, which were left in critical condition. For the ships, the conditions would not improve, and after getting caught in a maelstrom of unnatural conditions in the midst of the Abecean, one would be swallowed whole by it, and the other would break in half, sending its crew, and Sadri, into the open sea.

Sadri would come to his senses in a Bosmer tribe, where, to his horror, he'd find out that he and his dead crewmates were fished out of the water, and were now being prepared as the main course for a feast. Thanks to tribal Bosmer customs and superstition, he would be spared their fate and instead be hailed as a guest of honor, when they found out that he was yet alive. Conflicted on how to feel about the tribe that had admittedly saved him but was eating his friends' bodies, Sadri pretended to go along with their customs, until he could heal enough to allow him to run away. Reaching the city of Woodhearth a starving and disease ridden mess, he would find himself forced to live a sedentary life because of his ailing health.

In Woodhearth, he would pick up the trade of a barber, and make quite a name for himself thanks to his skill with the razor; this new occupation would not last long, however, when he would accidentally slit the throat of a Bosmer named Fargothur, who was the pro-Thalmor Viceroy of the area. Immediately jailed, Sadri would spend the next day getting tortured by Thalmor interrogators, who would quickly deduce that he had indeed made a mistake, and have him scheduled for execution instead of trying to get information out of him. Sadri was relieved that he was no longer getting electrocuted, but not very happy about the fact that he was going to lose his head. Sullen, he decided to accept his fate, until two days before his execution, when he was broken out of jail by an unknown party.

He would find out that he was saved by Bosmer Separatists, who believed that what he had done was an act of defiance against Thalmor oppressors. Not wishing to be abandoned in a province that was now out for his blood, Sadri would lie and say that he was indeed a fellow traveler with them, and end up becoming an insurgent against the Aldmeris Dominion. The following year was likely the most horrifying in Sadri's life, with him finding himself dealing with constant guerilla warfare against Thalmor and pro-Thalmor forces, the intense dampness of Valenwood's forests, and even more importantly, its murderous wildlife. Suffering from malaria, dysentery and two different kinds of fever, Sadri would flee for Elsweyr in the first opportunity.

Elsweyr was a familiar climate, and the life he lived there brought on a much more welcome change of pace. Drifting in and out of cities as he drifted in and out of jobs, Sadri found himself a frequenter of Skooma dens, where he would spend entire days smoking moon sugar from skooma pipes. Most thankfully, his sole experience with actual skooma gave him a trip bad enough to convince him that he had literally visited Oblivion, which halted his descent into becoming a skooma user, and kept him sticking to the pipe. After doing some work as a debt collector for an Alfiq loan shark, Sadri decided to join a caravan as a guard and left Elsweyr, suffering a crisis of conscience after having to shake down a junkie mother's money and leaving her without anything to feed her children with.

In a yet another unfortunate twist of fate, he ended up in a relationship with the caravan master's daughter, one that was kept secret because of a prearranged marriage that was to take place when they returned to Hammerfell. Eventually getting caught, Sadri would find himself at the caravan master's mercy, who was quite angered at the fact that Sadri had taken his daughter's virginity, which meant great dishonor to the family. The daughter would end up saving his life (or possibly, merely his sexual organs) by agreeing to become a Chaste Priestess of Dibella, which would ensure that nobody would find out about the incident. Thus, Sadri's punishment was reduced to 'merely' a severe beatdown, after which he would find himself tossed into the wilderness with a couple of broken bones.

Sadri would somehow make it to Leyawiin and spend the next few months recovering from the ordeal and practicing his rudimentary knowledge of restoration magic to make sure he wouldn't be at luck's mercy if he were to end up in a 'left for dead' situation again. This would end up saving his life not a long time after, when he would join the Leyawiin City Militia as a Mer-at-Arms, training the city populace against a roving band of deserters from the Imperial Legion, which were wandering the countryside and raiding every settlement they could find. Eventually, they would actually go out to ambush the deserters with the town guard, leading to a pitched battle where Sadri would first lose an ear to a broadhead arrow, and then lose his arm to a Nord wielding a large sword, when he would get ambushed in the forest while chasing after the routed deserters. Getting kicked downhill, he hit a tree stump and lost consciousness.

Coming to his senses and providing himself with first aid with what he'd learned of restoration magic, Sadri managed to walk back to camp, where he would receive further aid, taking him back from the brink of death. While Sadri was not exactly happy about his loss of an arm, his grievous wound, and the fifteen minutes of fame he got for 'coming back from the dead' made him a somewhat popular fellow in Leyawiin, which earned him a lot more money than he was supposed to get. With this money, Sadri moved to the Imperial City, where he spent most of it getting a prosthetic arm made for himself. Having commissioned a mage and a blacksmith to work together, Sadri got a bonemold stump charged with soul gems, that had telekinetic capabilities. It was all well again, as well as it could get without an arm, at least; however, Sadri was penniless again, and he had no idea where to go anymore, having had bad experiences practically everywhere.

It was around this time that the Nerevarine came back from Akavir and took over Morrowind, calling for Dunmer all over Tamriel to come and bring back glory to their ancestors' homeland. Sadri, thinking that he could possibly earn his own land if he were to spend enough effort, and also having no option that offered him better circumstances, decided to take up arms for the glory of his nation. He applied to the Great Houses to become a contracted cavalryman in their employ, but was rejected on behalf of his lost arm, and thus, ended up as a mercenary on the government payroll. Leading a group of irregulars into Argonian territory as part of the Reparation War, Sadri and his company found it their specialty to gather prisoners for ransom, their independent berth allowing them to strike areas away from the frontlines.

The business was good, ransom money and booty creating a steady flow of income; however, Sadri found out the hard way that Argonians did not take to slavery kindly, and was almost killed in an inspection, when he was mauled by an Argonian who had managed to hide a broken piece of chitin within his palms. After recovering, Sadri decided to change business, sold every prisoner of his to House Dres in a vengeful fit, and disbanded the company, retreating to Vvardenfell where he bought a boat and began transporting supplies from mainland and ferrying people around the coasts. While it was a much more safer occupation, it was not as financially stable; competition was high, the prices low, and the constant sailing tiring.

Upon the end of the Reparation War, Sadri, amongst other veterans, was called to New Vivec, where he would meet the Nerevarine, if only for a minute, who congragulated him on his good work (as he did with all the others). Impressed by the Nerevarine's charisma and aura, yet bummed about the lack of a material reward, Sadri sold his boat upon his return, and left for Skyrim to go back into the whaling business, planning to take a loan, put his own money on top of it, and buy a proper ship. However, his associates would desert him and take off with his money, leading Sadri to chase after them to get back what was rightfully his. Sadri would follow them to a Nordic Barrow, where he would be ambushed by his prey and to fight them back.

Fate would not see to Sadri being reunited with his money, however, when in the fighting, one of the barrow's traps activated, and the floor of the corridor they were fighting in collapsed, causing all of them to fall to their deaths, except Sadri, who could only be able to watch his treasure chest smash into a rock, split open, then spill its contents into a gushing underground stream. Too exhausted and infuriated to actually comprehend his frustration, Sadri would grit his teeth and return to the living world, with not a copper to his name for all his effort. Hitching a wagon to the nearest city, Sadri joined a mercenary company, using the advance payment to sleep a good night's rest at a quality inn.

The mercenary work started quite well, in Sadri's regard - the company led a raid into a Reach redoubt full of Forsworn, where Sadri ended up having to save their squad leader and a few others from a crazed, mutated Briarheart bear. As usual with the occupations that Sadri found himself in, however, it would not continue with the same pace. The company would arrive at Windhelm for rest, consolidating their ranks and payment. Here, he met the daughter of one of his comrades, a hardy young girl named Solveig; Sadri found himself harboring feelings for her. Then Windhelm got besieged by invaders from a continent whose existence a skeptic could reasonably argue against.

Despite being outgunned, outnumbered and definitely overwhelmed, the defenders of Windhelm put an admirable defense against the Kamal invaders; and despite their Troll-like size and nigh-impenetrable armor, the company even managed to score a few kills against the Snow Demons, Sadri himself killing about two or three of them. However, these were small victories in face of the larger picture, and not long after, Windhelm fell, leading to a rather bleak retreat where they would find themselves under further attack by Kamal cavalry, where the company would lose many men. Nonetheless, the company managed to make it to Dawnstar, where they would be given a new mission to relieve the College of Winterhold by ship.

The mission was a total disaster, with the mages saved ending up nullifying all the effort spent to save them by hopping on a dinghy in the midst of a storm, and then promptly drowning in the maddened waters of the Sea of Ghosts. Then the ship would be beached after beginning to take in water, and the company would find itself fighting Falmer and Chaurus for a night's shelter. Not good overall. At the very least, reaching Dawnstar, the company would find some consolation in the whaling festival, which would help raise their spirits somewhat. Until one of their fold went crazy and murdered another member of the Company, and was them promptly killed in a duel by a new arrival.

Since then, Sadri has had to deal with nightmares, his love interest's father disappearing, his love interest leaving without a goodbye right afterwards, fanatical Ashlanders, murderous Dwemer ruins, Armigers out for blood, boarding actions against the Kamal, a second-in-command harboring a grudge against him, stuffed-up noblemen and the loss of his sugar pipe. All in all, it has not been a happy adventure for Sadri so far - however, he's trying to hope that maybe, just maybe, he'll at the very least get a happy ending in the end.

Capabilities

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§ Attributes

• Major Endurance
• Minor Agility

§ Skills

• Expert One-Handed Blade
• Adept Hand to Hand
• Adept Acrobatics
• Apprentice Sneak
• Apprentice Athletics
• Apprentice Enchanting
• Apprentice Mercantile
• Apprentice Medium Armor
• Novice Speech
• Novice Healing

§ Weaknesses

A Helping Hand: Has only one arm, having lost the other to a bandit somewhere in the Niben Bay. He substitutes for the other with enchanted prosthetics and learned ambidexterity.

Bloodshot: One eye is half-blind thanks to cataracts and piercing trauma, and often gets worse under stress or after blunt trauma, sometimes even filling up with blood.

Say What?: Sadri has only one ear, which impairs his hearing thanks to imbalanced reception, and also makes him easy to pick out from a crowd thanks to the asymmetry.

Get a Grip: Constant stress and moon sugar withdrawal, alongside the way the war has been going, has soured Sadri's mood somewhat. He's professional enough to keep it concealed, but he's only mortal after all.

§ Spells

Restoration: Minor Respite, Heal Minor Wounds

§ Tactics

Watching Sadri fight is an insult to men at arms everywhere. Having learned solely from experience, his untrained and amateur moves look horrifyingly ineffective, yet somehow he has managed to fell foes much superior than he with his quick and brutish maneuvers. He wields a heavy blade with a heavy hand, and uses all of his limbs dexterously enough to constantly move in combat, finding or creating openings in his foes, where he then applies a more than judicious amount of force to end the fight as quickly as possible.

§ Relations & Affiliations

Sanym Beleth - Father
Nelvana Beleth - Mother

§ Opinions

Opinions

Jorwen: He's gone, and he took Solveig with her, too. Sadri can't help but feel angry and bitter.

Solveig: She's gone, without a word, and, well, it hurts. Sadri's feeling sad about it, angry about it, guilty about it. He's pretending to be over it in hopes of, well, actually falling for his own lie.

Roze: Sadri feels guilty for her death, and tries to avoid the feelings by just not thinking about her, along with all the recent casualties. Easier said than done, though.

Do'Karth: It’s hard to believe that he of all people would give up, Sadri thinks. Shit’s going sour for sure. Deep down for Sadri, his leave is proof enough that they're losing.

Sevine: Wounded's better than dead, and Sadri would be sad to see such a lively person go. Sure, she's theatrical and too romantic, but she's cheerful and entertaining.

Leif: His infatuation about Sevine is somewhat angering Sadri. He can relate to Leif because he's also a clingy and jealous person, but he knows this and tries to let things slide. This fellow, on the other hand...

Sagax: Sadri might just buy a drink for him to sate his own guilt about Roze’s death. Poor kid must have it much worse.

Keegan: He’s been getting worse by the day, though Sadri definitely hasn’t been around him lately. For sure. Nothing to do at all.

Tsleeixth: He's practical and helpful, and can summon a big-ass fucking Atronach. That bottle incident feels more and more like a bigger mistake.

Marcel: Didn't look like he'd be able to hold his own, especially after all that shit the Pale group's gone through. Surprised to see he's alive. Then again, men are like potatoes - the good ones are all buried underground.

Daixanos: This fellow unnerves Sadri. He hasn't died yet, fights well, and keeps quiet. Not fun to be around, really. It's wise to fear all danger that you can't make friends with.

Niernen: She's getting more unhinged by the minute, Sadri feels, and that's, well, kind of scary when it's a friend, and also a fairly potent Destruction mage who's losing it.

Narzul: At first, Sadri'd thought that Niernen would be the one keeping Narzul in check for his brashness - after their latest conversations, Sadri feels as if the roles are getting reversed. Beneath the asshole actually lies a conflicted fellow, he feels.

Wylendriel: She definitely looks the part of a primitive, although she seems like she means well from what Sadri has seen. No reason to look down on a healer in this line of work.

Dar’Jzo: Sadri has no idea who you’re talking about. No, he wasn't talking to him in Jehanna, you must have mistaken Do'Karth for him.

Alim: Quick enough to keep up with a 'bad day Sadri' in battle. Even if young and brash, that deserves some respect.

§ Other

Sadri looks intimidating thanks to his height and lanky, scarred body, and he knows how to make good use of this. He is also a decent sailor, having spent a good amount of time at sea as ship mate. Knowledgeable in history, literature, rhetoric and metaphysics, Sadri also has some experience with riding Guars and horses, although by no means is he a capable rider.

Inventory

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§ Cash

Around 100 Septims

§ Keys & Lockpicks

Key to family house in Bergama

§ Tools & Crafting Materials

None

§ Clothing & Armor

-1 Bandana, often used as scarf
-1 Plumed puffy cap
-1 Chainmail coif
-1 Coat of chainmail
-1 Burgundy overcoat
-1 Slashed ash tunic
-1 Red doublet
-1 White undershirt
-1 Pair of gray breeches
-1 Pair of burgundy breeches
-1 Embroidered sash
-1 Pair of red hose
-1 Pair of ash colored gaiters
-1 Pair of leather shoes
-1 Pair of waterproof leather boots
-4 Pieces of underwear

§ Weapon & Ammo

-1 heavy backsword with guarded hilt

§ Potion & Arcane Supplies

-2 potions of Cure Common Disease
-2 potions of Restoration

§ Jewelry & Valuables

-3 discount amulets of Protection from Disease
-2 discount amulets of Luck Fortification
-2 rings of Protection from Disease
-1 ring of Poison Resistance
-2 rings of Luck Fortification
-1 ring of Hand to Hand Fortification
-1 small steel canteen full of water, inhabited by Mora the leech

§ Books & Documents

-Mercenary Contract
-On the Lusty Argonian Maid
-The Monomyth
-Single Collected Edition of The Mythic Dawn Commentaries

§ Food/Drinks/Ingredients

-1 sack of flour
-1 satchel of flame salts

§ Load Bearing Equipment

-1 duffle bag
-1 belt with satchels, containing potions
-1 sword belt with attached scabbard
-1 skin of water

§ Other

None

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Sadri

Sadri Beleth

Dunmer Male | 75 | The Lord

Profile

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§ Birthplace

Bergama, Hammerfell

§ Appearance

Sadri Beleth has many eccentricities that make him stick out like a sore thumb in a crowd; the most easily noticeable one amongst all the others being his height. For a Dunmer, Sadri is unnaturally tall, reaching almost Altmer heights, although unfortunately for him, he lacks their graceful and proportionate physique; instead, Sadri is incredibly wiry and lanky, albeit broad-shouldered. He has practically no fat on his limbs, with quite long, sinewy arms (rather, arm) and legs, all covered with scars and bruises collected through years of life-threatening lines of work. Were he to go bare chested, it would be easy to assume that he'd been malnourished for years and still hadn't recovered. His good hand is large, almost reminiscent of a spider, with long, bony fingers with prominent knuckles.

With a face that has been described as 'horselike' in the past (not an inapt description), Sadri has long, sunken cheeks and an overall gaunt facial structure. However, over time, his face has evolved from gaunt to plain corpse-like, thanks to the no less than impressive amount of horrid scars that his face has accumulated over the years, reminders that even Restoration magic can do so much. His time in Skyrim has given an unhealthy pallor to his normally dark skin, thanks to lack of sleep and moon sugar withdrawal, which has made his already unhealthy and very busy-looking, cluttered face look plain half-dead. His right eye, suffering from cataracts, has been clouded with white from its natural red, although his chronic hyphema occasionally turns it back into its original color, even if for the wrong reasons.

Of course, not all these scars stay around as mere visual reminders these days - most debilitatingly, he has lost his left arm from halfway below the elbow and his left ear. Having had to find ways to cope with them, Sadri now bears a fully articulated prosthetic arm made of solid iron, which is dexterous enough to act as a substitute, while also being sturdy enough to act as an impromptu club when necessary. Because of his lost ear, he has gained a tendency to turn his head and listen with its right side when he has to be attentive, which conversely makes him look as if he's not paying attention.

Sadri’s clothing is unorthodox, worn and certainly shows a wide degree of influence from various fashion styles throughout Tamriel, with baggy breeches in Redguard style, whereas his tall, waterproof red leather boots betray to Colovian influence. Over his white shirt, he wears a thick, padded coat originally from Alik’r underneath a silver-embroidered open vest, with a multi-colored sash, worn under the vest but over the coat, holding the coat closed and secure.

His long hair, kept in a ponytail towards the neck, is jet black and greasy, with a high hairline that seems as if it is receding, with only a widow's peak hanging on to the edge of his forehead. Having not found the time or willpower to groom his facial hair, he sports a somewhat unkempt beard of medium length with a mustache that has recently begun to emerge.

§ Personality

Dejected, sarcastic, worldly, smartass, dour; all these are valid descriptions for Sadri. A mer who has lived most of his life amongst men, and a mer who has gathered stories and experiences that other mer could not reach in a lifetime in his yet (comparably) short life, he certainly doesn't fit in with either crowd, being too manlike for mer, and too merlike for men. Being born a particularly unwise person, Sadri has fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it) gone through many an incident and catastrophe to give him the wisdom that his upbringing has not. While he's still somewhat error prone, he's wise and worldly enough to see a smart course of action from a silly one, which has given him a somewhat diplomatic demeanor. Nonetheless, he is not the sort of person to completely avoid conflict, and when riled up or when he and/or others he values are in danger, can even become quite aggressive, having burned his fair share of bridges in the past. While not immune to his surroundings, Sadri often hides his true feelings beneath a veneer of sarcasm and a 'been there, done that' act, and even though he prides himself on being a professional, he's not completely loyal, valuing his comrades and friends more than orders. Despite his fervent disregard for the fact, he's somewhat addicted to moon sugar, and has found that its lack is making it harder and harder for him to sleep.

§ Background

Beleth's Journey

Sadri's journey begins in Bergama - far away from the homeland of his ancestors. Some say that his grandfather, a caravan leader, had settled in Bergama (which had originally been just a travel stop) after hearing of the Red Year; not willing to return to a desolate wasteland, and suffer the travel just to hammer his grief home, the mer had simply decided to stay put for the rest of his life. Thus, the Beleth bloodline would find itself settled and continued in a somewhat small oasis city in the midst of the Alik'r Desert, far away from any sort of possible commotion. Sadri never knew his grandfather; according to his father, his grandfather had lost all his joy of life and excitement in those years.

It was mostly thanks to this man and his father's business smarts that Sadri was born into a relatively rich household. While not nobility, or awfully rich, his parents still could afford reasonable amounts of comfort and luxury, and thus Sadri's childhood was spent much more pleasant than some of his peers. Nonetheless, it wouldn't always go on the same wavelength. After impressively pissing off his tutor and showing himself to be more of a brat than a studious child, his parents apprenticed him to a barber; while the barber was soft to him, mostly thanks to the fact that Sadri's father owned the building in which his shop was located, it was still an experience real enough to teach him the craft and soften his edges.

Sadri lived as a barber for almost a decade; for some reason, though, he was not satisfied with the way he lived his life. Perhaps it was the blood of his wandering trader ancestors urging him to walk on and free himself from the shackles of settled life that his grandfather had locked the family into, perhaps it was the tales he had heard of lands beyond, or perhaps it was something else. Whatever the cause was, nearing the age of thirty, Sadri decided to move on from Bergama, and join a caravan, as his grandfather once had. His parents, although somewhat bummed about the fact that their son had let go of a stable and safe job for a much more dangerous life (for good reason - both his parents had worked in his grandfather's caravan and thus spoke from experience), did not feel bitter about it. And so he was hailed off into the horizon.

His first 'voyage into the wide world' would not be as eventful as the second; setting out as a caravan guard, he spent about two years in this profession, which took him through every Imperial Province of mainland Tamriel. After leaving the job over a denied loan request (he had to pay for a gambling debt he'd made during a drunk night in Solitude), Sadri hurriedly enlisted with a whaling ship to take him away from debt collectors. He spent three years as a whaler, finding himself to be a solid rigger with his long limbs and endurance. However, when his last journey had the ship stuck in the ice and left them stranded in the midst of the Sea of Ghosts for almost a year, Sadri decided he would take a break from the job, and quit the moment they made it back to port.

After a few years that took him through various occupations and various provinces, he found himself in a scavenger party that dismantled Dwemer ruins in the Velothi mountains. During this time, he became romantically involved with an Orsimer named Nuran, who was second captain of the party, and began harboring thoughts of settling with her. Unfortunately for them, their plans would be thrown out of the window by an avalanche, which would take her (and most of the party's) life. Dejected and depressed, Sadri spent the next few years in a blur, and ended up having to use most of the money he'd made to travel back home, where his family welcomed him like a prodigal son. His father hired him as his personal bookkeeper; Sadri found himself checking and correcting ledgers and comparing tables.

It was during this time that the Great War began. Around this time, a caravan headed for Sentinel arrived in Bergama, attacked and most of its goods raided by brigands. Hearing that they had come to sell their goods to provide finances for their city's defense, Sadri's father bought the remainders of their goods for the price of the entire caravan (a financially unwise choice - very uncharacteristic for Dunmer). Lauded through the city for his patriotism, Sadri's father found himself in the Council of Finance of the Barony. Sadri requested to take on the job of selling the goods he'd bought from the caravan, and his father, eager to see his son in the family business, accepted.

Sadri found himself with the duty of selling almost a caravan's worth of books, one of the sole things that the brigands had not been interested in. Sadri rented a vacated building and set the place up as a bookstore. Business wasn't exactly booming, thanks to the war and Sadri's inexperience in trade, but when news of a city noble's death in battle against the Aldmeri reached the city, his widow decided to donate a large sum of money to the city library to freely educate children of the poor in his memory (the man was a battlemage). Only, there was one problem. There was no such thing as a city library in Bergama; at least, not until Sadri made a deal with the local Mages' Guild and made his bookstore into one with their help.

With his bookstore turned into a public library, Sadri found himself wealthy, but without anything to do. Deciding that he could make better use of his time (mostly spent playing backgammon and checkers in his office with friends), he began reading up on the contents of the library he theoretically owned. It was a slow process, thanks to Sadri not being suited for scholarly pursuits from birth, but his stubborn attitude won over his natural disposition, and thus Sadri found himself an autodidact. Finding that he did not have much aptitude with magic, he put those books aside and began reading other things, such as treatises, novels, encyclopedias, and travelogues.

Thus went by almost a decade. The Beleth family's tendency to stick to their relatively extravagant lifestyle against the exhaustion and economic downfall brought by years of warfare had taken a toll on their coffers, and by the war's end, Sadri had lost most of the money he had made by the beginning of it, having had to ransom a close friend from Khajiit slavers amongst other things. Sadri was now a well-read mer, with renewed idealism about the world, and the sight of the city where he'd spent most his life in practically ruined conditions was taking a toll on his nerves. He decided to set out into the world again, to, in his words, 'get away from it all'. His parents were sad to see him go, but now that he had their respect as a grown mer, they did not argue much against it.

Leaving for Sentinel with a caravan, Sadri hopped on a ship again, making sure that it was not a whaling ship this time, and with his previous experiences (and a lack of good men thanks to the war having taken them all to the grave), found himself as an able ship mate. Their ship was a frigate, part of a navy force (originally named the Sentinels) assigned to take care of the rampant piracy in the Iliac Bay, and it all went well, until they were relocated to Stros M'Kai, where news of an unstoppable pirate had emerged. With Stros M'Kai being only nominally in Hammerfell hands, the Sentinels found themselves starving for supplies, and under constant harassment from smaller ships. Eventually, they caught up with the so-called 'Pirate King', and found itself facing over a dozen ships.

Hopelessly outnumbered, although definitely not outgunned (most the pirate ships were galleys, small and weakly armed), the Sentinels took down more than half the pirate fleet before they began getting overrun. Sadri's ship was amongst those boarded; as ship mate, he was amongst those responsible for keeping order amongst the crew, and thus he found himself forced to make an example against the pirates. Armed with a cutlass and a three-legged stool, Sadri made a stand on the aftcastle against an onslaught of hardened sea dogs, getting wounded multiple times before finally getting put down by a stab to his side and another that went right between his collarbone and shoulderblade. While Sadri was pulled to the rear of the ship and the defense went on, the pirates were nonetheless close to breaking through.

Thankfully, the aftcastle's stalwart defense had not gone unnoticed, and the marines in the forecastle led a counteroffensive to relieve them and force the pirates to retreat once and for all. It was bloody, but it worked; by the time Sadri regained consciousness, he found himself bedridden and critically wounded, although in safe hands. He would learn that the battle had ended as a pyrrhic victory, with the Sentinels having managed to disperse the Pirate King's fleet and confirm his death, although losing all but two of their ships in the process, which were left in critical condition. For the ships, the conditions would not improve, and after getting caught in a maelstrom of unnatural conditions in the midst of the Abecean, one would be swallowed whole by it, and the other would break in half, sending its crew, and Sadri, into the open sea.

Sadri would come to his senses in a Bosmer tribe, where, to his horror, he'd find out that he and his dead crewmates were fished out of the water, and were now being prepared as the main course for a feast. Thanks to tribal Bosmer customs and superstition, he would be spared their fate and instead be hailed as a guest of honor, when they found out that he was yet alive. Conflicted on how to feel about the tribe that had admittedly saved him but was eating his friends' bodies, Sadri pretended to go along with their customs, until he could heal enough to allow him to run away. Reaching the city of Woodhearth a starving and disease ridden mess, he would find himself forced to live a sedentary life because of his ailing health.

In Woodhearth, he would pick up the trade of a barber, and make quite a name for himself thanks to his skill with the razor; this new occupation would not last long, however, when he would accidentally slit the throat of a Bosmer named Fargothur, who was the pro-Thalmor Viceroy of the area. Immediately jailed, Sadri would spend the next day getting tortured by Thalmor interrogators, who would quickly deduce that he had indeed made a mistake, and have him scheduled for execution instead of trying to get information out of him. Sadri was relieved that he was no longer getting electrocuted, but not very happy about the fact that he was going to lose his head. Sullen, he decided to accept his fate, until two days before his execution, when he was broken out of jail by an unknown party.

He would find out that he was saved by Bosmer Separatists, who believed that what he had done was an act of defiance against Thalmor oppressors. Not wishing to be abandoned in a province that was now out for his blood, Sadri would lie and say that he was indeed a fellow traveler with them, and end up becoming an insurgent against the Aldmeris Dominion. The following year was likely the most horrifying in Sadri's life, with him finding himself dealing with constant guerilla warfare against Thalmor and pro-Thalmor forces, the intense dampness of Valenwood's forests, and even more importantly, its murderous wildlife. Suffering from malaria, dysentery and two different kinds of fever, Sadri would flee for Elsweyr in the first opportunity.

Elsweyr was a familiar climate, and the life he lived there brought on a much more welcome change of pace. Drifting in and out of cities as he drifted in and out of jobs, Sadri found himself a frequenter of Skooma dens, where he would spend entire days smoking moon sugar from skooma pipes. Most thankfully, his sole experience with actual skooma gave him a trip bad enough to convince him that he had literally visited Oblivion, which halted his descent into becoming a skooma user, and kept him sticking to the pipe. After doing some work as a debt collector for an Alfiq loan shark, Sadri decided to join a caravan as a guard and left Elsweyr, suffering a crisis of conscience after having to shake down a junkie mother's money and leaving her without anything to feed her children with.

In a yet another unfortunate twist of fate, he ended up in a relationship with the caravan master's daughter, one that was kept secret because of a prearranged marriage that was to take place when they returned to Hammerfell. Eventually getting caught, Sadri would find himself at the caravan master's mercy, who was quite angered at the fact that Sadri had taken his daughter's virginity, which meant great dishonor to the family. The daughter would end up saving his life (or possibly, merely his sexual organs) by agreeing to become a Chaste Priestess of Dibella, which would ensure that nobody would find out about the incident. Thus, Sadri's punishment was reduced to 'merely' a severe beatdown, after which he would find himself tossed into the wilderness with a couple of broken bones.

Sadri would somehow make it to Leyawiin and spend the next few months recovering from the ordeal and practicing his rudimentary knowledge of restoration magic to make sure he wouldn't be at luck's mercy if he were to end up in a 'left for dead' situation again. This would end up saving his life not a long time after, when he would join the Leyawiin City Militia as a Mer-at-Arms, training the city populace against a roving band of deserters from the Imperial Legion, which were wandering the countryside and raiding every settlement they could find. Eventually, they would actually go out to ambush the deserters with the town guard, leading to a pitched battle where Sadri would first lose an ear to a broadhead arrow, and then lose his arm to a Nord wielding a large sword, when he would get ambushed in the forest while chasing after the routed deserters. Getting kicked downhill, he hit a tree stump and lost consciousness.

Coming to his senses and providing himself with first aid with what he'd learned of restoration magic, Sadri managed to walk back to camp, where he would receive further aid, taking him back from the brink of death. While Sadri was not exactly happy about his loss of an arm, his grievous wound, and the fifteen minutes of fame he got for 'coming back from the dead' made him a somewhat popular fellow in Leyawiin, which earned him a lot more money than he was supposed to get. With this money, Sadri moved to the Imperial City, where he spent most of it getting a prosthetic arm made for himself. Having commissioned a mage and a blacksmith to work together, Sadri got a bonemold stump charged with soul gems, that had telekinetic capabilities. It was all well again, as well as it could get without an arm, at least; however, Sadri was penniless again, and he had no idea where to go anymore, having had bad experiences practically everywhere.

It was around this time that the Nerevarine came back from Akavir and took over Morrowind, calling for Dunmer all over Tamriel to come and bring back glory to their ancestors' homeland. Sadri, thinking that he could possibly earn his own land if he were to spend enough effort, and also having no option that offered him better circumstances, decided to take up arms for the glory of his nation. He applied to the Great Houses to become a contracted cavalryman in their employ, but was rejected on behalf of his lost arm, and thus, ended up as a mercenary on the government payroll. Leading a group of irregulars into Argonian territory as part of the Reparation War, Sadri and his company found it their specialty to gather prisoners for ransom, their independent berth allowing them to strike areas away from the frontlines.

The business was good, ransom money and booty creating a steady flow of income; however, Sadri found out the hard way that Argonians did not take to slavery kindly, and was almost killed in an inspection, when he was mauled by an Argonian who had managed to hide a broken piece of chitin within his palms. After recovering, Sadri decided to change business, sold every prisoner of his to House Dres in a vengeful fit, and disbanded the company, retreating to Vvardenfell where he bought a boat and began transporting supplies from mainland and ferrying people around the coasts. While it was a much more safer occupation, it was not as financially stable; competition was high, the prices low, and the constant sailing tiring.

Upon the end of the Reparation War, Sadri, amongst other veterans, was called to New Vivec, where he would meet the Nerevarine, if only for a minute, who congragulated him on his good work (as he did with all the others). Impressed by the Nerevarine's charisma and aura, yet bummed about the lack of a material reward, Sadri sold his boat upon his return, and left for Skyrim to go back into the whaling business, planning to take a loan, put his own money on top of it, and buy a proper ship. However, his associates would desert him and take off with his money, leading Sadri to chase after them to get back what was rightfully his. Sadri would follow them to a Nordic Barrow, where he would be ambushed by his prey and to fight them back.

Fate would not see to Sadri being reunited with his money, however, when in the fighting, one of the barrow's traps activated, and the floor of the corridor they were fighting in collapsed, causing all of them to fall to their deaths, except Sadri, who could only be able to watch his treasure chest smash into a rock, split open, then spill its contents into a gushing underground stream. Too exhausted and infuriated to actually comprehend his frustration, Sadri would grit his teeth and return to the living world, with not a copper to his name for all his effort. Hitching a wagon to the nearest city, Sadri joined a mercenary company, using the advance payment to sleep a good night's rest at a quality inn.

The mercenary work started quite well, in Sadri's regard - the company led a raid into a Reach redoubt full of Forsworn, where Sadri ended up having to save their squad leader and a few others from a crazed, mutated Briarheart bear. As usual with the occupations that Sadri found himself in, however, it would not continue with the same pace. The company would arrive at Windhelm for rest, consolidating their ranks and payment. Here, he met the daughter of one of his comrades, a hardy young girl named Solveig; Sadri found himself harboring feelings for her. Then Windhelm got besieged by invaders from a continent whose existence a skeptic could reasonably argue against.

Despite being outgunned, outnumbered and definitely overwhelmed, the defenders of Windhelm put an admirable defense against the Kamal invaders; and despite their Troll-like size and nigh-impenetrable armor, the company even managed to score a few kills against the Snow Demons, Sadri himself killing about two or three of them. However, these were small victories in face of the larger picture, and not long after, Windhelm fell, leading to a rather bleak retreat where they would find themselves under further attack by Kamal cavalry, where the company would lose many men. Nonetheless, the company managed to make it to Dawnstar, where they would be given a new mission to relieve the College of Winterhold by ship.

The mission was a total disaster, with the mages saved ending up nullifying all the effort spent to save them by hopping on a dinghy in the midst of a storm, and then promptly drowning in the maddened waters of the Sea of Ghosts. Then the ship would be beached after beginning to take in water, and the company would find itself fighting Falmer and Chaurus for a night's shelter. Not good overall. At the very least, reaching Dawnstar, the company would find some consolation in the whaling festival, which would help raise their spirits somewhat. Until one of their fold went crazy and murdered another member of the Company, and was them promptly killed in a duel by a new arrival.

Since then, Sadri has had to deal with nightmares, his love interest's father disappearing, fanatical Ashlanders, murderous Dwemer ruins, Armigers out for their blood, boarding actions against the Kamal, a second-in-command harboring a grudge against him, stuffed-up noblemen and the loss of his sugar pipe. All in all, it has not been a happy adventure for Sadri so far - however, he's trying to hope that maybe, just maybe, he'll at the very least get a happy ending in the end.

Capabilities

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§ Attributes

• Major Endurance
• Minor Agility

§ Skills

• Expert One-Handed Blade
• Adept Hand to Hand
• Adept Acrobatics
• Apprentice One-Handed Blunt
• Apprentice Athletics
• Appprentice Enchanting
• Apprentice Mercantile
• Apprentice Light Armor
• Novice Smithing
• Novice Speech
• Novice Restoration

§ Weaknesses

A Helping Hand: Has only one arm, having lost the other to a bandit somewhere in the Niben Bay. He substitutes for the other with enchanted prosthetics and learned ambidexterity.

Bloodshot: One eye is half-blind thanks to cataracts and piercing trauma, and often gets worse under stress or after blunt trauma, sometimes even filling up with blood.

Say What?: Sadri has only one ear, which impairs his hearing thanks to imbalanced reception, and also makes him easy to pick out from a crowd thanks to the asymmetry.

Get a Grip: Constant stress and moon sugar withdrawal, alongside the way the war has been going, has soured Sadri's mood somewhat. He's professional enough to keep it concealed, but he's only mortal after all.

§ Spells

Restoration: Minor Respite, Heal Minor Wounds

§ Tactics

Watching Sadri fight is an insult to men at arms everywhere. Having learned solely from experience, his untrained and amateur moves look horrifyingly ineffective, yet somehow he has managed to fell foes much superior than he with his quick and brutish maneuvers. He wields a heavy blade with a heavy hand, and uses all of his limbs dexterously enough to constantly move in combat, finding or creating openings in his foes, where he then applies a more than judicious amount of force to end the fight as quickly as possible.

§ Relations & Affiliations

Sanym Beleth - Father
Nelvana Beleth - Mother

§ Opinions

Opinions

Jorwen: Missing? Last seen in enemy territory? Oh, shit.

Solveig: Sadri doesn't know what to feel - his rather abrupt confession, something that even he didn't expect, has put him in a situation that he hasn't been in for a long time. And now that Jorwen's gone, he's somewhat afraid of how it'll strike Solveig.

Sevine: Wounded's better than dead, and Sadri would be sad to see such a lively person go. Sure, she's theatrical and too romantic, but she's cheerful and entertaining.

Leif: His infatuation about Sevine is somewhat angering Sadri. He can relate to Leif because he's also a clingy and jealous person, but he knows this and tries to let things slide. This fellow, on the other hand...

Sagax: Sadri finds it nothing short of miraculous that Sagax hasn't gotten himself killed yet. Young, enthusiastic, and in a dangerous line of work? Sounds like a true fool. Then again, only fools have what it takes to be true heroes.

Keegan: Poor bastard looks quite shaken up by all that happened. Just keeps getting the shit end of the stick, doesn't he? Sadri wonders how long he can keep that up.

Tsleeixth: He's practical and helpful, and can summon a big-ass fucking Atronach. That bottle incident feels more and more like a bigger mistake.

Roze: Her perfect foil to Sagax and their friendship makes almost Sadri feel like he's reading some sort of novel. Hopefully fate won't cut their book short.

Rhasha'Dar: Spriggans can really fuck you up. They say cats have nine lives, although here's to hoping he doesn't spend them all dodging talon-branches or fireballs.

Vurwe: It's almost as if fate's trying to spell out that Sadri will get what's coming to him. A jerkoff murdered by an Argonian? Sounds awfully foreboding.

Do'Karth: The fact that he can hold his own against the Kamal with a bloody staff amazes Sadri to no end. He hopes that Do'Karth doesn't end up regretting his adherence to pacifism.

Marcel: Didn't look like he'd be able to hold his own, especially after all that shit the Pale group's gone through. Surprised to see he's alive. Then again, men are like potatoes - the best are all buried deep.

Daixanos: Having heard of his conduct in their mission, Sadri respects Dax somewhat more than back when they had first met, but that doesn't amount to much.

Raelyn: Sadri can say he's touched Raelyn like he's touched no woman before, what with trying to slide her guts back in and melding her skin back together. That's one for the tales.

Elmera: She was lucky that bolt didn't end up somewhere higher up and closer to center. That would've been an awful sight. Moral of the story - wear more armor.

Niernen: She's still alive, however bruised. That's actually good to know. At least not everyone he met in that bloody swamp has died.

Valen: He was a quiet fellow and a nice bowman, and, well... Sadri's seen his fair share of people falling into the depths of the sea, but it's still pretty unnerving to see.

Bharzak: Who? Oh, her? Oh. She's a part of the company?

Narzul: Most nobility are assholes and he seems no exception, although he does have respect for reason and a stalwart outlook, and Sadri can respect him for that.

§ Other

Sadri looks intimidating thanks to his height and lanky, scarred body, and he knows how to make good use of this. He is also a decent sailor, having spent a good amount of time at sea as ship mate. Knowledgeable in history, literature, rhetoric and metaphysics, Sadri also has some experience with riding Guars and horses, although by no means is he a capable rider.

Inventory

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§ Cash

Around 100 Septims

§ Keys & Lockpicks

Key to family house in Bergama

§ Tools & Crafting Materials

None

§ Clothing & Armor

-1 bandana, often used as scarf
-1 padded helmet
-1 chainmail coif
-1 coat of chainmail
-1 padded waterproof coat
-1 embroidered vest
-2 shirts and breeches
-1 sash
-1 pair of waterproof knee-high boots
-4 pieces of underwear

§ Weapon & Ammo

-1 heavy backsword with guarded hilt

§ Potion & Arcane Supplies

-2 potions of Cure Common Disease
-2 potions of Restoration

§ Jewelry & Valuables

-3 discount amulets of Protection from Disease
-2 discount amulets of Fortify Luck
-1 small steel canteen full of water, inhabited by Mora the leech

§ Books & Documents

-Mercenary Contract
-On the Lusty Argonian Maid
-The Monomyth
-The Mythic Dawn Commentaries

§ Food/Drinks/Ingredients

-1 sack of flour
-1 satchel of moon sugar

§ Load Bearing Equipment

-1 duffle bag
-1 belt with satchels, containing potions
-1 sword belt with attached scabbard
-1 skin of water
-1 skin of flin (mostly empty)

§ Other

None

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

@Chicken, Adaeze has my approval. However I think it'd be better if you included the attributes and skills within the character sheet, perhaps in the 'Additional Information' hider. Also, it says that her expert skill is One-Handed Blades within the sheet, whereas the attributes-stats information lists her expert skill is Two-Handed Blades.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

<Snipped quote by Peik>

Wasn't the bit about Altmer living for thousand years due to them prolonging their life through magic? The DUnmer able were to do so as well, I mean, one of Morrowind's NPCs was alive during the war with the Dwemer and that was a good hundred years ago in-universe.

@Mortarion

I mean if you know your magic you can live thousands of years even as a clipped wing butterfly so I didn't include that. I thought Altmer lived biologically to be a few thousand years old, hence the comment.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

One more question, since I can't find a solid answer:

How long, roughly, do Bosmer live? I'm considering my character starting at 40 years old. I understand Mer hit adulthood around 20-ish?

@Chicken

All Mer live for about a few hundred years to my knowledge. I remember real old lore about Altmer being able to live thousands of years, but I think that got retconned (or never existed).