AlteredTundra
ButtsnBalls
LG
Lord Wraith
Qia
Fading Memory
Hound55
Little Bird
Abstract Proxy
TheMushroomLord
โ๐๐๐
Stijn "Sterling" VanCise
๐ธ๐๐
101
๐พ๐๐๐๐๐ฃ
Male
๐๐ก๐๐๐๐๐ค
Witch
๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ก๐๐๐๐๐๐ฅ๐๐๐ค
๐๐ฑ๐ฒ๐ป๐พ๐ป๐ฐ๐ - Back in the old country, they didn't call it such a delicate name. It was called "flesh stitching." And despite its name, that was exactly what it was. More precisely, Sterling has the ability to perform surgery with his bare hands. He mostly uses it to heal the wounded, graft flesh, or tend to organs, but it can be used as a weapon as well. Unfortunately, he has to be able to use his handsโhis fingers more accuratelyโto wield the ability. Meaning that if someone has decided to come after Sterling, they've decided to come after his hands.
๐๐ต๐ฌ๐ฑ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ - A more common art of magic, he was taught from a young age what herbs to mix with what to get what one wanted. Not interested in transmuting iron to gold, he uses it more to help facilitate his other healing abilities. Something to numb the pain, something to bring back appetite, something to stop the infection, and sometimes more cosmetic ones for the rough state that his chirurgy leaves the skin.
๐๐ช๐ป๐ฝ๐ธ๐ถ๐ช๐ท๐ฌ๐ - Sterling uses the cards that once belonged to his mother, an old Polish tarot deck. He's not good at divining any fate other than misfortuneโwhich has been unfortunately useful in his life.
๐๐ต๐ฌ๐ฑ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ - A more common art of magic, he was taught from a young age what herbs to mix with what to get what one wanted. Not interested in transmuting iron to gold, he uses it more to help facilitate his other healing abilities. Something to numb the pain, something to bring back appetite, something to stop the infection, and sometimes more cosmetic ones for the rough state that his chirurgy leaves the skin.
๐๐ช๐ป๐ฝ๐ธ๐ถ๐ช๐ท๐ฌ๐ - Sterling uses the cards that once belonged to his mother, an old Polish tarot deck. He's not good at divining any fate other than misfortuneโwhich has been unfortunately useful in his life.
โ๐๐ฃ๐ค๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ฅ๐ช
The bags under his eyes aren't there just for decor, they're where he carries his sour mood. Sardonic and indifferent are the two words that could easily describe him. He's quick to dismiss and scoff at things that aren't any of his concern. When asked for his adviceโwhy would do that, honestlyโhe'll spit the most obvious thing from his lips. It doesn't matter if it's insulting. It's the truth, laced with all the vinegar of borscht and just as pretty, too. It's not as if Sterling is beyond compassion, it's just piled underneath flake layers of dried molten that used to pour from a wellspring of his warmth. Now he only gives it to those that he views as worthy of his compassion. And "worthy" is an odd way to put it. It isn't quantitated based on personal wealth, status, or otherwise. There's a different equation there. One that many people have tried to figure out, only to be let down.
๐ธ๐ก๐ก๐๐๐ฃ๐๐๐๐
He used to be a very attractive man. Sun-kissed blond hair, pale green eyes, and a svelte form that could have been on the front page of any magazine. But his power had its price, and that coupled with the stress of keeping himself financially afloat has taken its toll.
Standing at 6'3", Sterling can fill the place of your door in the frame. If his skin has seen a lick of sun, you wouldn't be able to tell. Distilled green irises are vibrant against his almost gray scleraโa haunting change from its once leafy green set against a pale cloud. An aquiline nose slopes into full lips. He has a crooked smile but it hides a straight row of white teeth. His blond hair is a messy pile on top of his head. It's odd because he takes the time to get it shortened on the sides and layered on the top. Then he does nothing with it. He wears thick tortoiseshell glasses, though it's hard to say why as his sight doesn't seem badโand if it was, he's since corrected it. Maybe it's to bring a pop of color to his haunting eyes. A strong chin, once seemingly carved from marble, is soft around the edges.
That leads down to broad shoulders, muscular arms covered in arcane tattoos, and down to large hands with agile digits. He's barrel-chested, and a threat to all his button-up shirts, with a gut where his once Adonis-like abs were adorned. He has long legs usually clad in some form of dress pants. Never assume you'll see him in jeans orโheaven forbidโshorts. He's always dressed like he's going to a funeral or the world's most macabre date. Sterling slouches more than he should, having grown accustomed to ramming his head into every cabinet door. He's unassuming until you get a closer look and see that he's a piece of art barely held together with a heaping of plaster and paint.
Standing at 6'3", Sterling can fill the place of your door in the frame. If his skin has seen a lick of sun, you wouldn't be able to tell. Distilled green irises are vibrant against his almost gray scleraโa haunting change from its once leafy green set against a pale cloud. An aquiline nose slopes into full lips. He has a crooked smile but it hides a straight row of white teeth. His blond hair is a messy pile on top of his head. It's odd because he takes the time to get it shortened on the sides and layered on the top. Then he does nothing with it. He wears thick tortoiseshell glasses, though it's hard to say why as his sight doesn't seem badโand if it was, he's since corrected it. Maybe it's to bring a pop of color to his haunting eyes. A strong chin, once seemingly carved from marble, is soft around the edges.
That leads down to broad shoulders, muscular arms covered in arcane tattoos, and down to large hands with agile digits. He's barrel-chested, and a threat to all his button-up shirts, with a gut where his once Adonis-like abs were adorned. He has long legs usually clad in some form of dress pants. Never assume you'll see him in jeans orโheaven forbidโshorts. He's always dressed like he's going to a funeral or the world's most macabre date. Sterling slouches more than he should, having grown accustomed to ramming his head into every cabinet door. He's unassuming until you get a closer look and see that he's a piece of art barely held together with a heaping of plaster and paint.
โ๐๐ค๐ฅ๐ ๐ฃ๐ช
The son of a Polish witch and a Dutch gamblerโnot his true profession, but it's the one that had the most impact on Sterling's life. He spent most of his formative years in Poland, not able to travel to the Netherlands for some reason his father never fully explained. His mother was the matriarch of the house and everything within it was to her liking. She wasn't a cruel woman, but she didn't have any maternal instincts. Sterling may have taken to vodka at too young an age. What the young boy did remember was that his mother would sit him in front of a piano, with a needle and thread, or with bread dough. He'd have to practice small, minute movements for hours on end. Sometimes she'd disappear when someone would enter their homeโpassing the dried herbs that hung like chandeliers from the ceiling. Screaming would commence, but the person would leave thanking his mother for the torture that they endured. He didn't understand it until he was older. This was a good pain. And that his life would be filled with the bad kind.
They had to move to the US suddenly and without being able to take much beyond a few of his mother's books and his father's watches. Suddenly, Sterling had to acclimate to a new culture and language. He was also to keep quiet on the legality of them being there. His mother was devastated at the loss of occult knowledge and artifacts from their quick escape. It was something that she never forgave Sterling's father for, and no sooner had they arrived than they relocatedโjust him and his mother this time. She soon went about teaching him the ways of the "flesh stitchers." That along with the potion magic that she always seemed to be brewing. Her kitchen was a test of whether or not one could tell the difference between a pig-blood potion and a beet stew. Sterling was wrong more than he was right.
Though he was able to receive a proper education, anything higher than public schooling couldn't be achieved by legal status. Around that time WWII had started. They had been lucky to get out of Poland on a lark, instead of being dragged into the theater of war. Unfortunately, during that time he lost many friends and a few that he'd classify as more than that, but not in a public setting. Him and his mother's little kitchen clinic drummed a lot of business up around that time. That was until his mom contracted tuberculosis and passed. Without legality on their side, and his mother having paid cash for everything, Sterling couldn't keep their house. He instead headed out, having to move in with his father at that time.
The city was not quite what he expected it to be. His father was mostly absentee but had a cash flow that was scary in its amount and irregularity. So, Sterling used it to take a break from the macabre of his family's witchy practices. A few years later the war ended, and the soldiers came home. Around that time, Sterling's father failed to come home himself. A few more nights passed before his door was beaten down by a local gang that his father owed a lot of money to. They were lenient on Sterlingโas in they didn't kill him outrightโand put him to work as gopher. During one fateful night and one bad gig gone wrong, Sterling saved a very rich man's daughter that they'd been extorting money from by using his magic. Of course, Sterling just made it look like he was quick with the first aid, but the daughter knew better. Realizing Sterling's "medical" aptitude would be useful, the criminal organization put him to use as their own personal pysician, and realizing she owed him his life, Hester Montgomery made it a point to schedule him into hers regularly. That, of course, turned into a whirlwind romance.
The fine minutae of that time would be lost to faulty memories and too much alcohol. But there came a time when Sterling had worked off his father's debt and thought about proposing to Hester. Of course, like any good Romeo and Juliet love story, it had to end in tragedy. Fortunately, it was not the bloody kind. Instead, she became engaged to the eldest son of an equally wealthy family and Sterling never saw her again. Not knowing what to do, he did what he knew bestโhe became a back alley doctor. There he was found out by the Rosenthal Coven and joined them with the understanding that his business was to use subterfuge to keep the witch hunters at bay.
Years would pass, Sterling would ageโbut not really. He'd use his mastery of his own power to retain some form of youth. He'd have a few more dalliances, but them along with his life experiences would begin to dwindle. That would be until he learned about one Valentine Montgomery-Hunter, the grandchild of his and Hester's secret love. Val had suddenly exhibited something close to magic, and she'd been given an address from her late great-grandmother's belongings. As if things couldn't be worse, he now had a teenager living with him.
They had to move to the US suddenly and without being able to take much beyond a few of his mother's books and his father's watches. Suddenly, Sterling had to acclimate to a new culture and language. He was also to keep quiet on the legality of them being there. His mother was devastated at the loss of occult knowledge and artifacts from their quick escape. It was something that she never forgave Sterling's father for, and no sooner had they arrived than they relocatedโjust him and his mother this time. She soon went about teaching him the ways of the "flesh stitchers." That along with the potion magic that she always seemed to be brewing. Her kitchen was a test of whether or not one could tell the difference between a pig-blood potion and a beet stew. Sterling was wrong more than he was right.
Though he was able to receive a proper education, anything higher than public schooling couldn't be achieved by legal status. Around that time WWII had started. They had been lucky to get out of Poland on a lark, instead of being dragged into the theater of war. Unfortunately, during that time he lost many friends and a few that he'd classify as more than that, but not in a public setting. Him and his mother's little kitchen clinic drummed a lot of business up around that time. That was until his mom contracted tuberculosis and passed. Without legality on their side, and his mother having paid cash for everything, Sterling couldn't keep their house. He instead headed out, having to move in with his father at that time.
The city was not quite what he expected it to be. His father was mostly absentee but had a cash flow that was scary in its amount and irregularity. So, Sterling used it to take a break from the macabre of his family's witchy practices. A few years later the war ended, and the soldiers came home. Around that time, Sterling's father failed to come home himself. A few more nights passed before his door was beaten down by a local gang that his father owed a lot of money to. They were lenient on Sterlingโas in they didn't kill him outrightโand put him to work as gopher. During one fateful night and one bad gig gone wrong, Sterling saved a very rich man's daughter that they'd been extorting money from by using his magic. Of course, Sterling just made it look like he was quick with the first aid, but the daughter knew better. Realizing Sterling's "medical" aptitude would be useful, the criminal organization put him to use as their own personal pysician, and realizing she owed him his life, Hester Montgomery made it a point to schedule him into hers regularly. That, of course, turned into a whirlwind romance.
The fine minutae of that time would be lost to faulty memories and too much alcohol. But there came a time when Sterling had worked off his father's debt and thought about proposing to Hester. Of course, like any good Romeo and Juliet love story, it had to end in tragedy. Fortunately, it was not the bloody kind. Instead, she became engaged to the eldest son of an equally wealthy family and Sterling never saw her again. Not knowing what to do, he did what he knew bestโhe became a back alley doctor. There he was found out by the Rosenthal Coven and joined them with the understanding that his business was to use subterfuge to keep the witch hunters at bay.
Years would pass, Sterling would ageโbut not really. He'd use his mastery of his own power to retain some form of youth. He'd have a few more dalliances, but them along with his life experiences would begin to dwindle. That would be until he learned about one Valentine Montgomery-Hunter, the grandchild of his and Hester's secret love. Val had suddenly exhibited something close to magic, and she'd been given an address from her late great-grandmother's belongings. As if things couldn't be worse, he now had a teenager living with him.
๐๐ ๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ ๐: ๐ฃ๐ฑ๐ฎ ๐๐ธ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ท
๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ฃ๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ ๐(๐ค):
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๐๐๐(๐ค):N/A
NAME | Fygawren "Fyg" Aescau
AGE | 31
GENDER | Female
FACTION/ALLEGIANCE | No one. Possibly TBD.
APPEARANCE |
Fyg stands a little under six-feet but hunches underneath her worn but well-hewn red cloak. She lets her long silvery locks hang down away from the hood as to give the appearance of a crone. Usually, only her tanned chin and full, but chapped, lips are showing. She leans heavily on a sturdy and gnarled staff with a thick amber-hued crystal embedded into the top of it. It has no luster when the sun hits it. Instead, it's heavy and provides quite the knock if swung at someone. People seem to leave her alone. Especially if she is coupled with a handful of homemade poultices and the unfortunate flock of birds that enjoy using her shoulders and staff as a perch. It'd help if she wouldn't feed them every chance she got.
When Fyg isn't trying to act with discretion, she abandons the shroud of the cloak to show her full form. Her silver hair is tied behind her in a long braid and wreathed with pretty, but terribly intrusive, flowers. Her skin is a deep tan, and her one visible eye is the same color as the crystal on her staff. The other is hidden behind an eyepatch. Of course, when the sun hits it just right it becomes evident that it's see-through. Her armor is a dusty, reinforced leather that she takes care of. Around her waist is an assortment of colorful clothes and scarves that are haphazardly woven together in some semblance of a belt. Her pants are a thick canvas with high leather boots that match her asymmetrical gloves adorning her arms. Yet, they cannot hide defined musculature from years of harsh living.
AGE | 31
GENDER | Female
FACTION/ALLEGIANCE | No one. Possibly TBD.
APPEARANCE |
Fyg stands a little under six-feet but hunches underneath her worn but well-hewn red cloak. She lets her long silvery locks hang down away from the hood as to give the appearance of a crone. Usually, only her tanned chin and full, but chapped, lips are showing. She leans heavily on a sturdy and gnarled staff with a thick amber-hued crystal embedded into the top of it. It has no luster when the sun hits it. Instead, it's heavy and provides quite the knock if swung at someone. People seem to leave her alone. Especially if she is coupled with a handful of homemade poultices and the unfortunate flock of birds that enjoy using her shoulders and staff as a perch. It'd help if she wouldn't feed them every chance she got.
When Fyg isn't trying to act with discretion, she abandons the shroud of the cloak to show her full form. Her silver hair is tied behind her in a long braid and wreathed with pretty, but terribly intrusive, flowers. Her skin is a deep tan, and her one visible eye is the same color as the crystal on her staff. The other is hidden behind an eyepatch. Of course, when the sun hits it just right it becomes evident that it's see-through. Her armor is a dusty, reinforced leather that she takes care of. Around her waist is an assortment of colorful clothes and scarves that are haphazardly woven together in some semblance of a belt. Her pants are a thick canvas with high leather boots that match her asymmetrical gloves adorning her arms. Yet, they cannot hide defined musculature from years of harsh living.
RELIC DESCRIPTION | THE IRIS / Elemental - Plant ๐ฟ
APPEARANCE The Iris is not only named as it allows one to harness the power of vegetation, but it is also ocular in shape and size. It has flowers and leaves embossed on its white surface. It's meant to be worn much as it appears.
ABILITIES
ABILITIES
- Plant Growth - Capable of causing rapid production of plants from seeds, ground, or inert vegetative material (i.e. her wooden staff.) The size and type of plant depends on how much power she expends. Fyg is quite fond of vines and nicely calls them 'her little helpers.'
- Restoration - Fyg can rejuvenate or revive a dead plant. She can even go as far as to remove pestilence and plague. That being said, she couldn't cure an entire field, but she could do enough for someone to survive off of.
- Speak with Plants - It works just as it sounds. Of course, the information exchanged is incredibly elementary, but it's good enough to not get lost in the woods.
FLAWS |
SKILLS|
- Flighty
- Fickle
- Unkempt
- Incessant Talker
- Blunt & Crass
- Untrusting
- Argumentative
- Headstrong
SKILLS|
- HEDGE ALCHEMY While nothing that could rival a well-tended lab, Fyg concocts her own poultices and elixirs. They're mostly for tending to wounds and ailments, but she knows a few that could wreak havoc on one's body. She's also aware of certain volatile mixtures.
- MERCANTILE One might argue that talking circles around someone and goading them into lowering the price or changing the exchange rate might not be the most important skill. Still, it's kept Fyg alive.
- APPRAISAL A bit of spit and a good shine, and Fyg can give a decent prediction about varied and numerous valuables. If she tells you it's worth nothing, be skeptical.
- ACROBATICS To traverse the ruins of the Great Plains, one needs to be fleet of foot and agile of fingers. Fyg is quite nimble and graceful when she needs to be.
- CARTOGRAPHY & MINOR STAR READING This is the only skill that Fyg cultivated out of a curiosity instead of a necessity. She loves making maps and star charts. They may not be entirely accurate, but they're better than a blank sheet of parchment and your head in the sand.
- FIGHTING DIRTY Sure, she can summon plants to her side, but a show of magic is not always needed or warranted. Fyg knows her way around taking out opponents without too many moves wasted. Does she feel good about it afterward? Sure. Why wouldn't she?
- BOTANY She can summon and speak with plants. This skill comes with the territory.
BIOGRAPHY |
Fyg grew up in the Great Plains underneath an old stone structure of hands, their moss-covered digits reaching towards the skies. Her mother, a strange woman by the name of Bautild, always told her that it was a monument to the old, believed to be false, god Kheris. The older woman would then spit the seeds of her fruit to the ground and wipe her lips before laughing. โLeave the men to their gods, and let them eat each other from the starvation of that divine grace.โ
The young girl was a spry thing of curiosity and tangled silver hair. Sheโd climb ruins, run across the plains, and โtameโ any animal she came across. Her mother taught her the ways of her people, how to survive and thrive in an environment filled to the brim with consequences. While the two lived alone, traveling caravans would stop by often to trade goods. Fyg would hear stories of the world. Sheโd hear about the dwarves of the mountains, the great Etrid, the destroyed throne of Kheris, the deep woods of the druids and long-forgotten elves, and the haunted ruins that dotted the plains. Having received a map from one of the merchants, she marked all these fantastical spots for further exploration. Her mother watched her and said nothing, except for when Fyg became curious about the forests. Bautild would always shush her with stories of relics and formulas for various โpotionsโ that she crafted.
Fyg was a teenager when she came across a settlement south of one of her favorite ruins by the Hands of Kheris. There she became fast, if not chatty, friends with several of the villagers and entreated them to the secrets that her mother shared. When she returned home, the pitch of night clawing at the sky, Bautild chastised her with vitriol that had never graced her voice before. She grabbed Fygโs chin and held it tight as her golden eyes pressed into her daughterโs. She begged the girl to never return to the village and never speak of their life again. Fyg nodded, eyes filled with tears. Sheโd never seen her mother so scared before.
Unfortunately, it only took that fateful day to incite flames upon their quaint home. It came, months later, in the form of figures bearing torches. Fyg didnโt remember much of that night, sleep and terror taking an equal part of her memory. What she did remember was her motherโs hands feverishly shaking her awake and telling her to grab what she could. Then there was their hurried sprint across the plains. Fyg turned back once to see her mother face the figures in the darkness. She could have sworn that light both otherworldly and natural poured from Bautild. The shadows called her a โwytchโ and Fyg her โwytch spawn.โ
They took shelter in some labyrinthine ruins far from where Fyg grew up. In the hazy light of the morning, Bautild kissed her daughterโs forehead before wrapping her in her old red cloak. That would be the last time Fyg would see her. The bleary image of her silhouette against the horizon before nothing. Fyg would spend the rest of the week numbly wandering the ruins around her, doing the bare minimum to take care of herself. One day, an old stone pathway gave way and sent her plummeting into the depths below. The incline was too steep and slick for her to climb back up, and so she had to traverse the ruin's innards to find her way out.
Of course, there wouldn't be a story if she didn't find something down there. After some time, there was a light at the end of a long stone tunnel. She found herself in an ancient arboretum. In the middle was a massive tree that poked out above the ceiling and into the sky above. That was her way out. Unfortunately, the branches were too high for her to reach. In her desperation, she caught sight of something that didn't belong. A skeleton jutted out from the trunk of the tree itself. It was only visible from the waist up, and its boney arm was outstretched and held aloft by vines. In its hand was a gorgeous wooden staff, seeming to sprout from the tree itself. Yet, what caught Fyg's attention was a glowing object in the skeleton's eye socket.
Assured that she had no other choice, she grabbed it. It was warm in her hand, and the grass underfoot awoke and sprouted anew. Yet, nothing else happened. Fyg stared between the skeleton, the tree, the staff, and her escape. She could die down here, or she could... one has to remember that she was a teenager in the middle of the Great Plains just having lost her mother to the faceless hunters in the night. Reason wasn't her bedfellow as she did what she had to to survive.
That day changed Fyg. She transitioned from a wide-eyed youth interested in what the world had to offer into a wry adult that wanted to take those offerings from the world. This was set in motion by a traveling grifter by the name of Fergus Nort who thought her powers and skills were useful. She made a living off brewing the alchemical elixirs and poultices that her mother showed her as a child, looting ruins she came across, selling coordinates of said looted ruins (omitting that she had removed the valuables,) and selling said valuables to the highest bidder. It helped her carve out a living amidst the transient turmoil of the Great Plains. Fyg was referred to by the loving moniker "Grass Wytch," which she denied vehemently while secretly reveling in such a title.
Time passed as it was wont to do, if anyone knew how to make it stop Fyg would be interested in having a word. After a while, shady business tactics became notoriety and said notoriety became problematic. Fyg decided to let her hustle across the Great Plains air out and head South. Of course, this wasn't entirely by coincidence. During the years that followed Bautild leaving, she'd learned of the ones responsible for her mother's disappearance all those years ago. The Third Moon had made an enemy, even if they didn't know or care.
Upon hearing of the Inquisitor's abdication of the throne to the prince, soon to become King, Fyg needed to see the entire thing for herself. A part of her wanted revenge. Another part wondered if her mother would be there. And the last part of her, the strongest instinct she possessed, wanted to make some more coin from the fools of Etrid.
Fyg grew up in the Great Plains underneath an old stone structure of hands, their moss-covered digits reaching towards the skies. Her mother, a strange woman by the name of Bautild, always told her that it was a monument to the old, believed to be false, god Kheris. The older woman would then spit the seeds of her fruit to the ground and wipe her lips before laughing. โLeave the men to their gods, and let them eat each other from the starvation of that divine grace.โ
The young girl was a spry thing of curiosity and tangled silver hair. Sheโd climb ruins, run across the plains, and โtameโ any animal she came across. Her mother taught her the ways of her people, how to survive and thrive in an environment filled to the brim with consequences. While the two lived alone, traveling caravans would stop by often to trade goods. Fyg would hear stories of the world. Sheโd hear about the dwarves of the mountains, the great Etrid, the destroyed throne of Kheris, the deep woods of the druids and long-forgotten elves, and the haunted ruins that dotted the plains. Having received a map from one of the merchants, she marked all these fantastical spots for further exploration. Her mother watched her and said nothing, except for when Fyg became curious about the forests. Bautild would always shush her with stories of relics and formulas for various โpotionsโ that she crafted.
Fyg was a teenager when she came across a settlement south of one of her favorite ruins by the Hands of Kheris. There she became fast, if not chatty, friends with several of the villagers and entreated them to the secrets that her mother shared. When she returned home, the pitch of night clawing at the sky, Bautild chastised her with vitriol that had never graced her voice before. She grabbed Fygโs chin and held it tight as her golden eyes pressed into her daughterโs. She begged the girl to never return to the village and never speak of their life again. Fyg nodded, eyes filled with tears. Sheโd never seen her mother so scared before.
Unfortunately, it only took that fateful day to incite flames upon their quaint home. It came, months later, in the form of figures bearing torches. Fyg didnโt remember much of that night, sleep and terror taking an equal part of her memory. What she did remember was her motherโs hands feverishly shaking her awake and telling her to grab what she could. Then there was their hurried sprint across the plains. Fyg turned back once to see her mother face the figures in the darkness. She could have sworn that light both otherworldly and natural poured from Bautild. The shadows called her a โwytchโ and Fyg her โwytch spawn.โ
They took shelter in some labyrinthine ruins far from where Fyg grew up. In the hazy light of the morning, Bautild kissed her daughterโs forehead before wrapping her in her old red cloak. That would be the last time Fyg would see her. The bleary image of her silhouette against the horizon before nothing. Fyg would spend the rest of the week numbly wandering the ruins around her, doing the bare minimum to take care of herself. One day, an old stone pathway gave way and sent her plummeting into the depths below. The incline was too steep and slick for her to climb back up, and so she had to traverse the ruin's innards to find her way out.
Of course, there wouldn't be a story if she didn't find something down there. After some time, there was a light at the end of a long stone tunnel. She found herself in an ancient arboretum. In the middle was a massive tree that poked out above the ceiling and into the sky above. That was her way out. Unfortunately, the branches were too high for her to reach. In her desperation, she caught sight of something that didn't belong. A skeleton jutted out from the trunk of the tree itself. It was only visible from the waist up, and its boney arm was outstretched and held aloft by vines. In its hand was a gorgeous wooden staff, seeming to sprout from the tree itself. Yet, what caught Fyg's attention was a glowing object in the skeleton's eye socket.
Assured that she had no other choice, she grabbed it. It was warm in her hand, and the grass underfoot awoke and sprouted anew. Yet, nothing else happened. Fyg stared between the skeleton, the tree, the staff, and her escape. She could die down here, or she could... one has to remember that she was a teenager in the middle of the Great Plains just having lost her mother to the faceless hunters in the night. Reason wasn't her bedfellow as she did what she had to to survive.
That day changed Fyg. She transitioned from a wide-eyed youth interested in what the world had to offer into a wry adult that wanted to take those offerings from the world. This was set in motion by a traveling grifter by the name of Fergus Nort who thought her powers and skills were useful. She made a living off brewing the alchemical elixirs and poultices that her mother showed her as a child, looting ruins she came across, selling coordinates of said looted ruins (omitting that she had removed the valuables,) and selling said valuables to the highest bidder. It helped her carve out a living amidst the transient turmoil of the Great Plains. Fyg was referred to by the loving moniker "Grass Wytch," which she denied vehemently while secretly reveling in such a title.
Time passed as it was wont to do, if anyone knew how to make it stop Fyg would be interested in having a word. After a while, shady business tactics became notoriety and said notoriety became problematic. Fyg decided to let her hustle across the Great Plains air out and head South. Of course, this wasn't entirely by coincidence. During the years that followed Bautild leaving, she'd learned of the ones responsible for her mother's disappearance all those years ago. The Third Moon had made an enemy, even if they didn't know or care.
Upon hearing of the Inquisitor's abdication of the throne to the prince, soon to become King, Fyg needed to see the entire thing for herself. A part of her wanted revenge. Another part wondered if her mother would be there. And the last part of her, the strongest instinct she possessed, wanted to make some more coin from the fools of Etrid.
PERSONALITY/MOTIVATION | Fyg is an odd duck. Which is ironic, because sometimes ducks find her interesting. It may be her proclivity to create fruit and seed-bearing plants and feed fowl, bird, rodent, or otherwise from the bounty. She's quite close to being known as a "pigeon wytch." Yet, it's those actions that offer true insight into herself as a person.
She isn't cruel or corrupt, but her nature is much like running your hands harshly over bark. It may be uncomfortable and a little painful, but it doesn't provide any lasting damage and may take care of a forgotten itch. Fyg is slow to make friends but quick to make associates and "meat shields." A fast talker and even quicker with her hands, she can weave a ring of words around anyone with the competency of a scholar. Are those words born from eloquence and sensible sentence structure? Maybe one shouldn't listen too closely.
Fyg is slow to anger, hard to trick, and very hard to love. It might have to do with her fondness for the dirtiness of nature, proclivity to have heated discussions with trees, and tendency to be a roost for an exceptional amount of city birds.
RELATIONS |
SECRETS |
Bautild has kept many things from her, and she in turn has kept many things from Piotr.
She isn't cruel or corrupt, but her nature is much like running your hands harshly over bark. It may be uncomfortable and a little painful, but it doesn't provide any lasting damage and may take care of a forgotten itch. Fyg is slow to make friends but quick to make associates and "meat shields." A fast talker and even quicker with her hands, she can weave a ring of words around anyone with the competency of a scholar. Are those words born from eloquence and sensible sentence structure? Maybe one shouldn't listen too closely.
Fyg is slow to anger, hard to trick, and very hard to love. It might have to do with her fondness for the dirtiness of nature, proclivity to have heated discussions with trees, and tendency to be a roost for an exceptional amount of city birds.
RELATIONS |
- BAUTILD AESCAU Mother Despite their separation at Fyg's formative years, she still holds her mother in the highest esteem. She has no idea where to look for her, and fears that finding her would only provide problems for Bautild. Still, they did not part on harsh terms.
- FERGUS NORT Partner in "Crime" Someone had to teach Fyg to be a shady grifter. Yet, little did Fergus know that Fyg would become even shadier than himself. While they are friends, there's a bit of a rivalry there.
- ORDER OF THE THIRD MOON Religious Organization Can suck an anatomical part that she doesn't seem to own, but it's honestly anyone's guess on whether she's bluffing or not.
- PIOTR Her Animal Familiar? A fat, gray dove with a black beak and even blacker eyes. He finds himself a traveling companion of Fyg. He's quite judgemental of her decisions, or at least that's the entitlement Fyg imposes onto him.
SECRETS |
Bautild has kept many things from her, and she in turn has kept many things from Piotr.
| ๐๐๐๐๐ก๐๐๐ : Place - Greytry - Etrid | ๐๐๐ก๐๐๐๐๐ก๐๐๐๐ : None | ๐๐๐๐ก๐'๐ ๐๐๐๐ : Hungry |
"Fyg Dialogue."
"Bautild Dialogue."
"Bautild Dialogue."
| ๐ก๐๐(๐ ) : N/A |
๐๐๐ช๐ขGuifort gee-fauht "Gui" gee d'Strohm deh-strom๐๐ค๐ขThirty-Two๐๐ข๐ซ๐ก๐ข๐ฏMaleโ๐๐ ๐ขBreton & Orsimer๐๐ญ๐ญ๐ข๐๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ ๐ขOne would see the hat first. A worn, black leather thing with a wide brim, neat buckle, and a flouncy feather sewn in with new threadโalmost as if it couldnโt stand the weather. Below that was Guifort, a man of average height with broad shoulders and a build that told of both days of toil and days of respite. His coarse muscles bunched over thick arms and across a barrel chest, which lead down to a soft paunch of a middle. To put in polite company, โhe was a solid measure of a man,โ and in impolite company, โIโd hate to try to drag his unconscious arse to bed.โ
His skin was a dusky moss color with a penchant for peachy hues over his aquiline nose and pointed ears. He had full lips and a lazy smile that only widened so far, fast to show the top row of teeth but slow to reveal the bottom. Though one might see them when he laughed too loudโfilling the room with a deep baritone. To put it simply, the Breton had diminutive tusks that sometimes muffled his diction. Sturdy cheekbones and jaw fought away the softness that he had collected, belying his physique as being strong instead of comfortable.
He wore the robes of Arkay, a dull orange and yellow tunic that peaked out underneath a peculiar set of armor. It was made of leather with strips of steel sewn over the more fragile parts of him. Loose canvas pants were easy to make out underneath the long tunic and scrunched at the knees due to heavy leather boots with pieces of steel covering ankles and toe. He wore gloves in a matching style to the boots, but his index and middle fingers were cut out of both hands. The tips of his fingers were rough pads, but he had well-manicured and cleaned nails. Over his shoulders draped leather satchels that rain beaded off of in storms. They held his collection of tomes and scrolls, nonmagical and filled with maps, religious texts, and his journals. Another looser bag was filled with an assortment of herbs and weeds all wrapped in cheesecloth with twine bundling them. His crossbow was strung over his shoulder, and a dagger was tucked into his belt. Draping on those shoulders was an oversized coath with fur around the collar that he sometimes rested his chin against in thought. His most prized possession, though, was the gleaming amulet of Arkay around his neck that rested atop his armor and caught the light whenever it could.
When Guifort would remove the hat that he was so fondly proud of, it revealed short-cropped auburn hair that had a slight wave to it. It was cut in a romantic fashion, whether this was by design or purely accidental was hard to tell. He had expressive brows that led to inquisitive eyes with harsh yellow irises from the Orsimer blood that pumped in his Breton veins. While his sclerae were pale, there was occasional darkness to them when he angeredโthough that was so infrequent one might not think it possible.
Guifortโs nature was always welcoming, arms out and head thrown back. His stance was wide, easy to take down if one had the training to sweep his leg and the strength to budge him.
๐๐ข๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ฌ๐ซ๐๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฑ๐ถWhat does faith unwavering and personified look like? Probably something akin to Guifort, but maybe with less of an interest in the bottom of a wine bottle. A spirit that couldnโt be dampened, Guifort exudes an affable nature even when the sky has darkened, and hail peppers oneโs shoulders. So, one might find it strange heโs taken to a macabre duty such as funerary rites with the ease of a boatswain picking up an oar. Itโs because death doesnโt mean the same thing to him as it does others. The words of Arkay have taught him that souls are eternal. Once they leave this place they enter the dreamsleeve, where theyโre reset, cleaned, and returned. The person that you say goodbye to today will be someone new in the future. Theyโll build relationships that were akin to your own, but in a new place with new people. Guifort doesnโt think what he does is macabre, he thinks itโs a solemn celebration held by words and hearts.
That may sound like nothing more than wishful thinking and bloated ideals, and Guifort is well aware of it. Heโs not so caught up in the theology of the world to forget how harsh it is. Heโs seen the manipulative, the greedy, and the mad, and heโs learned how to temper his words to leave such situations with his person fully intact. The teachings of Arkay arenโt as sweet as others. While a priest of death, he doesnโt coax anyone into it, but neither does he lure them away from it. Heโs not self-sacrificing. If an errant crossbow bolt finds a way into one of his compatriotโs hearts, he doesnโt wish it was him. He bids them farewell and hopes to return the favor to their assailantโnot wanting to die himself. If it happens, it truly happens, but he isnโt going to jump into the lava just because itโs cold outside.
One might ask if thereโs even a fragment of Guifort beyond his theology, but lo and behold thereโs an entire person. Heโs the sort to be charitable to a fault, talkative to a point, and fond of espousing his opinions about most things. Yet, heโll listen and respond with the eagerness of a new student. One might be a little off-put to see him writing down peopleโs stories in one of his journals, but he assures them that he changes the nameโunless they donโt wish the name changed. Heโll then treat them to a bottle of wine and whatever vittles he can muster with the paltry sum he keeps on his person. Not the sort to labor a story out of someone and not return it with his own. Oh, and he does love to weave a tale. An unfortunate consequence of traveling with a narcissistic bard for as long as he did.
Guifort forms relationships quickly and deep, enjoying being swept up in their current of adventures and travels. He rarely does the sweeping himself, an unfortunate bystander to some of the larger events in his life. Honestly, if he was to find a flaw in his person it would be his tendency for inaction. Guifort always arrives after the deeds have been done and without a way to reverse them. Itโs not bravery he lacks, but itโs the locomotion to put aside all words and wishes and just act. Guifort would rather talk himself out of a situation than anything else, even if he was asking a rolling boulder to stand down. Itโs through either the will of Arkay or sheer luck that he stands before you in this day.
And mayhap, thatโs why he wishes to have joined Isobelโs rebellion. Sure, the lives lost are needless and many, and he can help. Yet, it takes action to fight oppression, and Guifort is tired of being dragged along adventures not of his own making. Maybe, just maybe, this will lead him into his own story.
โ๐ฆ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ถ"I was born on a dark and stormy night in the country of High Rock, or at least that's what I'd like to tell you. In truth, I was born on a balmy evening when the wind from the Iliac Bay was stifled halfway up the shoreline like an out of breath noble. According to my savior, Father Peryval dโStrohm, I was found in a shallow grave in a cemetery outside his temple, the Temple of Arkay. He had been awoken not by the mewling of a babe, but by a shriek of what assuredly were the products of necromancy. Armed with nothing more than his wits, prayers, and a dulled shovelโthe Father had fully intended to slay the beast. To slay me, honestly. Instead, he used the blunt edge of the shovel to scrape away the light powdering of dirt that had been choking me. Hence, the shriek, or at least I like to justify the noise by saying that. Anyway, he told me that the soil had been excavated by fingers and nails in what could only be described as a frenzy. I had been left for dead, and the Father saved me. Or to put it in his eloquent words: 'It will be a long night, because the God Arkay has gifted me a damn bastard.โ
Our story begins on the 19th of Morning Star 3E414 in a small town in the region of Stormhaven. The next morning, Father Peryval tried to find the parents of the babe to no avail, which only confirmed his suspicion of the bastard nature of the young Guifort. He considered depositing him at the temple of Dibella. They were surely more apt than himself to take care of a child. Yet, he shuddered at the thought of innocence growing up in such a place. All of Arkay's statues kept his breasts covered. Every evening Father Peryval would tell the child that would be his last night there. The nights ticked to days, and those ticked to weeks and then months. In that time, he found a wet nurse to tend to the things he couldn't provide, and he started bringing the babe with him to pray to Arkay. He stated, quite frankly, it was because the child would wail otherwise. Yet, maybe he found the way that Guifort pawed at the talisman around his neck delightful. Not that he would tell anyone.
As Guifort grew up, he grew odd. There were certain aspects about the young man that confirmed Father Peryval's thoughts. The point of his ears was something that the Bretons did display, but the faint green hue of his skin along with the blunt nature of what should have been angular features told a far different story. This was furthered by the way Guifort's bottom row of teeth grew in. This led the boy to barely smile with anything more than his lips. Yet, if that bothered anyone, they didn't say anything. Guifort was constantly helping throughout town. He had a lot of energy to expend, and there were so few things within the temple for him to busy himself with. So, he moved sacks of flour, pulled carts, thatched barrels, and even buried stones when the ground became too muddy for the horses to move through. The townsfolk were delighted and thought he was a cute boy no matter how awkward he looked or acted. Theyโve said something about โit takes a villageโฆโ Every night, he returned back to the temple where he'd tell Father Peryval about his day. The Father would always correct Guifort when the young boy tried to call him "father" in a paternal sense. "Uppercase 'F,' not lowercase." Then he'd finish the evening by telling Guifort to bathe, tend to his prayers, and that this would be the last night in the temple.
And maybe Guifort would have followed that advice, leaving the temple for a normal life in the country with some young man or maiden, but there came a fateful autumn evening where things changed. You see, Guifort befriended a three-legged cat in town that he immediately called Mister Catterly. Heโd rescued the beast from the river, half-drowned and mewling its head off. At first, it was a fight of claws and yowlingโfrom both parties. Then it turned into a game of wits where Guifort would be slow to say that the cat won most of them. But one night, almost as if by a whim, Mister Catterly followed Guifort into his bed and slept next to him. They were everywhere together, and the cat more than proved his worth as an excellent mouser. So, people were glad to have them both in their house even if Guifort had a tendency to not know what to do with the dead rodents when presented with them. A lot of mouse corpses were found in bushes years later. Unfortunately, it was fair to say that Tamriel was not the sort of place a child and their pet grow old together. One of them usually had to say goodbye. Guifort found Mister Catterly tangled in wire with his throat slit right outside the temple. It was obviously a cruel prank performed by the other children. Mister Catterly had held on until the young boy clutched him closer, and then his final breath escaped his feline chest. Guifort couldn't feel anger for the loss of life. The only thing that clouded his thoughts was his sadness. He'd seen death through the temple, but he'd never felt the ramifications of it. The body of Mister Catterly, slowly losing warmth and fluidity in his muscles, was just a thing now. No more consequential than a stone. Yet, only an hour before had been so much more. That was gone now, and yet Guifort's tears remained. Father Peryval located him as the sun had started to set, and together they buried Mister Catterly in the cemetery that Guifort had been found in all those years before.
Father Peryval placed his hand gently on Guifort's head and smiled. "Do not mourn that he died. Be happy that he has completed the circle of his life, and has returned to the dreamsleeve. Because that is Arkay's will." The Father paused at the young boy's confusion and continued on. "There are multitudes of souls in existence, Gui, but there's only so much room for them here. So, we're allowed to come and experience life in its wholeness, and then we return back to allow another soul to experience lifeโwiped clean and started anew. So, Mister Catterly had that honor, and he's passed on to allow another cat to take his place. And so, the cycle continues."
"You think cats go to the dreamsleeve?" Guifort asked, his mind a series of jumbled questions that only cared about a destination.
"I don't truly know. Where do the Khajit go after they pass? Surely, it canโt be any different." Father Peryval, even though he had years of dealing with death, wanted to move beyond it at that moment.
Guifort laughed despite himself, his emotions more tired than his body had ever been. "That's racist, Father. You should love all things and not judge."
"And where did you learn that? All that mischief about love? Don't tell me you've been visiting the Temple of Dibella, again."
Guifort shrugged through red eyes, cracked lips, and a meek smile.
"And I highly doubt it was for the lessons. You just wanted to take a glance at her exposed bosom? I know you, Gui. And for that, you'll be staring at Arkay's fully clothed one and going over your prayers all tomorrow." And without realizing it, Father Peryval said tomorrow without inferring that Guifort would be gone in the morning. So, the boy stayed. If Arkay instilled so much in the cantankerous nature of Father Peryval, he had much to teach Guifort.
At the end of the third era, the Oblivion Crisis did little to the immediate landscape of Guifort's life. Yet, it would have low, rumbling repercussions like thunder over peaks of mountains. Dark magicks and daedra were on the breath of everyone but only spoken about in dark corners of inns and alleys. That being said, Father Peryval went about the studious task of fortifying the temple. It wasn't much, but he flexed the long-unused muscles of magick to protect the small-town folk. He knew that the daedra were not the undead, but Arkay's purview only fell to the abominations that ignored the cycle of life and death. He figured it would ease the concern of the town, and that ease would keep them from banging on his doors. Guifort studied raptly and took notesโhe was always writing much to Father Peryvalโs chagrin. He'd been in the shadow of the Father when the older man had created concoctions, both for health and protection against diseases. He'd also studied vigorously in the school of restoration, the gift of magicka in his veins like the many Bretons before him. Guifort, much to Father Peryval's ire, was become quite the skillful successor.
And then came the day that the young Guifort would have never foreseen but had prepared for. While some were happy to sequester themselves away, there were others that took these unnatural happenings as a call to adventure. One such Breton Expedition found its way into the small town. They paused by the Temple of Arkay, hoping that they'd find resources for their quest.
Yarvis Belancourt was the leader of this expedition, a man with a stout mustache and a stouter charisma. He had once been a bard whose career on the road had led him to many secrets and many more septims. It was fair to say, he wished to exploit those secrets. He and Father Peryval immediately butt heads, which enamored Guifort to the bard. What had begun as nothing more than a bargain for goods and services became a way for the young man to leave the nestled fold of the town. The expedition was to head into Skyrim, and if their map was correct, well into the territory of Nordic Ruins. While a follower of Stendarr would have been the more logical choice for this journey, there was nary a temple around that could spare one so few years after the Crisisโif they had one at all. A disciple of Arkay had to do. Father Peryval stated that Guifort should accompany Yarvis and his men. That there werenโt enough people in their small town to warrant two priests of Arkay.
"You said every evening that it was my last night. I suppose tonight is my last night," Guifort said to Father Peryval, who had grown more diminutive through the flow of time. Yet, his spirit had not even sputtered once.
Father Peryval scoffed. "And good riddance to you, boy. You have left my coffers dwindling for too long." And that was that.
While Father Peryval didn't say anything with words, Guifort awoke the next morning to a tailored set of robes, an old potion whose contents seemed to sparkle in the light, a few rations, and an old dagger with the goddess Dibella roughly hewn into the wooden hilt. There was a handwritten note next to it, "I suppose you have questions. Well, you'll need to live to ask them." He wrote back that he would, and thatโd he see the Father in the seasons to come. But, that would be the last thing Guifort ever received from Father Peryval.
The trip was arduous, and despite the pleasant nature of Yarvis Belancourt he didn't go easy on his men. This was especially true for Guifort. He'd grown up in the temple and had a sinewy physique attached to long limbs and smothered by his robes. He wasn't made for travel. That didn't mean he couldn't learn. Days were spent forging ahead, and nights they'd all gather around the fire and chat. The wine partook, stories were told, and laughter was to be had. At least, while they were still in the temperate climate of High Rock. Guifort learned more of the world in those few weeks than he had in his years previously. The nature of men not bound a divine duty was... interesting. He had been slow to take the wine skin, initially, but after a fortnight he was just in the cups as they. Guifort lazily recorded the stories that were told, adding markings in places where the presenter meandered a bit from the point. The one person he'd never had to do that with was Yarvis. The man was a masterful orator and had a flair for the dramatic. He'd fashioned himself as a bard of sorts. One with wealth to fund this trip and clout to make it all about himself.
Once they reached Skyrim, though, the eveningโs festivities died down. During that time, Guifort used the knowledge of craftsmanship from the town to help keep things in order. He dug carts out of slushy potholes, carried packs that were twice his size, and foraged for what little he could. It wasn't for rations, but instead to create various incenses to keep the more curious wildlife away. Guifort started to fill his robes out, looking more the part of an adventurer. He'd actually taken to packing them away and wearing traveling clothes. The only thing to denote his priest hood was the talisman around his neck.
Yarvis's ruins were further away than the map had denoted. The old bard had to make the trip stretch, and by doing so had earned the ire of a few of his men. Some went without rations, some without water, and all without drink. Days turned long and conversation became short. Guifort was aware of this shift, and he tried to confer with Yarvis on more than one occasion. The man waved the young priest away, stating that he knew the natures of men better than he. When they did reach the ruins proper, half of the company was nearly in tatters. What once had been quite the stable expedition had crumbled to fine snow all around them. They decided to traverse the ruins in the morning, to have better light. Guifort was asked to stay behind despite the fact that the reasons for him being there were his healing prowess and power over the undeadโthe latter only in practice, though. So, Guifort waited with the horses and supplies. And waited. And waited... until a few days had passed and there'd been no sign of Yarvis or his men.
Anxiety bubbled in his stomach like a twisted knot. But he knew that he had to find out what happened to Yarvis and his crew. Securing the horses the best he could, he grabbed the dagger that Father Peryval had given him and donned his Robes of Arkay. The ruins were mostly uncovered, skeletal fingers of a time far past scraped at the gray sky above. What little flora thrived here at the base of the mountains made the path difficult to traverse, and Guifort had to pause many times to cut himself out of a tangle of root. He didn't have to travel far to start seeing the bodies. Cold, unmoving, and with eyes that found solace in the sky before death. Guifort paused over each of them, as was his duty as a priest of Arkay. Yet, he couldn't perform full funeral rites as he had to find Yarvis, or at least someone that had the map out of this place.
Maybe you know how this story ends, or maybe you don't. In the land of Tamriel, it's hard to fathom the price of lives and their impact on the world at large. What you need to know is that Guifort's retelling of it is never the same. What he will say, in a voice quiet and low, is that the undead do not bleed.
Guifort found Yarvis, beset on by skeletons with a nasty cut on his brow and his long sword wavering. Alongside him were a good handful of his men is various stages of exhaustion. They had barricaded themselves in a hallway, and by the looks of it had been exiting the ruins at the time. One of the skeletons turned to Guifort, the rotted visage of its face boring into the young priest's eyes. He took a step back, the heel of his boot catching on rubble and sending him to the ground. He held out the symbol of Arkay and pulled the magicka from deep within his veins. In his other hand, he gripped the dagger, his fingers having slipped over the blade and his blood dripping onto the ground. The pain mixed with the fear and his heart stuttered in his chest. It was only a moment, but warmth filled what had felt like icy veins. Power comforting, yet foreign, ripped through him and out poured the light of Arkay. The skeleton froze, momentarily, before taking a step back and then another and another. Guifort stood, brandishing the talisman in one hand and extending it like a shield. The skeletons let him pass. Yarvis and his crew didn't speak a word of thanks as they fled the corridor, keeping pace with Guifort the best they could as they exited those ruins.
Once they were far from danger and back with their horses and carts, Yarvis laughed, his breath showing up against the coldness of the Skyrim sky. He pulled away a rotting canvas to an old Nord artifact made from a substance that Guifort had never seen before and would never see again. The young priest tried to tend to Yarvis's wounds, only for him to swat him away stating "the blood's not mine, priest."
The night after what happened, Guifort found himself wandering away from camp intent on prayer. He bandaged his hand while speaking to Arkay, asking the god to make sense of what had happened. He asked if this journey was cursed, or if he was cursed for taking it. There was silence, but it wasn't the bad sort of silence. It was the sort that led him to think and reaffirm. Guifort hadn't been strong enough to destroy those abominations, but he had been strong enough to repel them. They were unnatural, bucking against Akrayโs wishes of death and life renewed. And in his time of need, heโd used his divine gifts to repel them. Sure, heโd healed some wounds before, but never had he truly felt a divine presence. That was all the validation he needed at that moment, and maybe it was enough for his sore bones.
The profit from the expedition was quite a bit, and the dividends had heavily increased after the death of half the crewโas did the rations. Yarvis had a buyer in Solitude that he didn't say much about stating that "the way things were after the Crisis, we'd do well not speak of such clandestine meetings." And, "they didn't travel this far from Cyrodiil for us to start asking why." Guifort knew that was Yarvis's way of telling him to shut up and enjoy the money. And he did. He purchased a rather nice hat with an elegant buckle and an odd feather, along with new robes and other items. After all that, Guifort assumed they were to part ways, septims in hand. Yet, Yarvis was slow to want to return to High Rock while his men swiftly wanted away from the madman that had led them there. Guifort was somewhere in the middle. His soul ached from the death he'd seen, but he'd also never felt so close to Arkay before. So, he conceded to travel with Yarvis... if only for a little while more.
A little while more turned into years."This part might be a bit boring, but there are some things I learned from it. For one, Yarvis Belancourt was not even this man's real name. He'd won it in a game of cards years before. He was an astute liar and frightfully loud conman. He was always finding 'adventures' and 'long lost ruins.' If you asked me now, a devout priest of Arkay, how I could have stayed with him for that long. I'd tell you it was because Yarvis had a personality that was addicting like wine... or skooma. Not that I've had the latter, but I've heard stories. I hadn't forgotten about that night in the ruins, but at that time I was slow to believe Yarvis had done anything beyond what had come naturallyโsurvival. Once he started teaching me his tricks of the trade, though... I learned. I learned that he'd only gotten as far as he had by stepping on the heads of others, and unfortunately, my head was next."
Despite Yarvis's travels to wherever he deemed interesting, whether it be across the length of Skyrim or small dips into Cyrodiil, Guifort still tended to his duty as a priest of Arkay. He'd perform funeral rites for towns that didn't have their own priest. He'd tend to small undead nuisances for a small fee, despite Yarvis's opinion otherwise. Heโd make sure that their traveling routes crossed temples of the Divines and Arkayโa pilgrimage of sorts. More importantly, he turned into quite the orator. They'd find themselves in inns or taverns (Guifort avoiding the brothels that Yarvis liked to dip into), and he'd tell the tales of the various things they'd seen. But more interestingly, he would discuss the stories of peoplesโ lives. He'd heard quite a few in his time, tending to the funerary rites of many. There was so much wisdom people had accumulated over the years, and he'd written it all down. Yarvis would always ask him if he was writing a book. Guifort laughed "there are far more interesting books in Tamriel than mine." Which was true, but there were far more boring stories as well.
Guifort had traveled to be closer to Arkay, but a stormy evening right inside the border of Cyrodiil, he never felt further from him. It hadnโt been just Guifort and Yarvis. Guifort was always a slow-speaking accomplice to the louder and more verbose Yarvis, but just that... an accomplice. There were others in Yarvis's troupe, and they had a tendency to cycle through as easily as chattel with the exception of a Nord man by the name of Engrad. He'd around hung for a few missions and taken to the work of excavation and battle with the glee of a chopped log.
The rain pelted down, and Guifort had taken to the woods by the road to relieve himself. He grumbled about needing a better hat for weather like this. A flash of lighting, and a roll of thunder later, he had finished his business. He returned back to the road to find Yarvis dead, and his men gone. It had only been an instant. Blood mixed with rain and mud. Yarvis's cold eyes stared up at the stormy sky, not surprised but not welcoming either. It reminded Guifort of all those years before. The men at the ruins had the same look.
Yarvis's septims were gone, papers, and other things of value. All that was left were his clothes, an old crossbow that he had a rather salacious scene emblazoned on, maps, and the marked coin that he always used to win bets. Guifort pocketed the maps, crossbow, and the coin, and buried Yarvis in the deepest grave he could create in the deluge of rain and without the proper tools to do so. "I don't even know your real name to give you a proper send off. But Yarvis, whoever you may truly be, be well. May Arkay guide you. More so, may whatever soul that replaces you be as interesting if not more so than yourself. Though, I do ask it be far more moral and with a less fluid sense of right and wrong." Guifort chuckled at his words but only for a moment. It was hard to see his tears in all that rain.
He decided that was the end of his journey. It was time to head back to High Rock and it was time to take over Father Peryval's place as leader of the Temple of Arkay, in a town he could barely remember the name to. Yet, not long after he left Yarvis's makeshift grave did he come across Engrad and the others from the group. A crumpled paper in his hand and anger in his eyes, he cornered Guifort. "I have reason to believe that that fool Belancourt lied about your participation in the massacre at the Yseal Ruins. I have reason to believe that your hands did not dirty with blood. But I also know that it did not deter you from cavorting with a murderer and liar, priest. You can't tell me you're so naรฏve as to not have known. Hm?" He pointed at Guifort in the storm, his accusation punctuated by crisp lightning. "I should kill you. But, I'll spare you. Your god knows what you did. And if he still accepts you, then who am I to spit at his feet? But you are no longer welcome in Skyrim." He glared. "And you may think yourself clever, how could Engrad and his men patrol the country? Just know, priest, I have eyes in the ground and in the sky. If you step foot in my country again, you will die.โ And that was that."I figure that Engrad had someone he'd known or loved on that first expedition. I figure that the members of Yarvis's troupe that lived had told the story. I figure that Yarvis had penned a letter or two blaming the entire thing on me. And either he'd forgotten to destroy them as we traveled together or he'd fully intended to blame me for the entire thing. What I did know, was that there was no direct route back to High Rock without traveling through Skyrim. And I didn't have the septims for a boat. So, I suppose Cyrodiil was my home now. I've had two father figures in my life. Both of them from opposite spectrums of the world, and both left with me weapons with lascivious imagery on them. How terribly lucky can one man be?"
So, Guifort found himself in Cyrodiil. With barely a septim to his name, he began his "pilgrimage" yet again. Things were direr here, the state of the country worse off for the events that had happened many years prior. So, it was of no surprise that his services as a priest of Arkay were welcome. Either by performing rites, healing, or tending to manageable abominations did he carve out a living for himself. No longer did he see the sights of ruins, dungeons, or the dark dens of interesting cities. Those went with Yarvis. But he did see a lot more of the temples of Arkay. It was almost as if someone had splashed cold water on his face to awaken him from years of the same drunken stupor. Though, ironically, he found himself more in the throes of a drink than before. This time, though, it was through chatter and camaraderie. He'd written more stories down in his books, he'd learn new things, and he'd see more sights. There was a culmination of a life he had in-between Father Peryval and Yarvis Belancourt. As much as Guifort hated to admit, he rather liked it. And that comfort showed itself on his form as he went from a sturdy adventurer to a well seeded one. But Guifort's story was far from over."With a renewed purpose, but a dark realization that home was to always be very far away from me, I tried to carve one out here. The sad thing was when I had come to an ultimatum, I'd come to it in Skingrad."
He'd been set upon by the Count's men for helping some poor townsfolk that found themselves restrained in stocks. A woman's wrist had been so bruised that the whelps were enormous, and she was losing circulation. He had realized she'd lose her hand if nothing was done, and then her life following it. The moment that the magicka of Arkay flowed through him, and into the wounds on woman's wrists, did he see stars in a bleary, black haze. Over him was a town guard, the butt having connected with Guifortโs head.
"Don't think because you're a priest, that we're goin' to give you a pass. Now shoo." There was a smugness to the guardโs tone that acted as if he was doing Guifort a favor.
Guifort shook his head. "Let me tend to this woman's wounds. Itโs obvious her punishment isnโt death, but sheโll be dead soon if nothing is done.โ
The guard laughed. "I don care, she broke the law. So, she's here. And ain't you a priest a death or sometin'? Let her just die."
"It doesn't work that way. If it did, the world would have eaten itself up from lack of giving a shit. Now move I'm tending to this woman. By Arkay's divine will, if you try to stop me..." Honestly, Guifort had hoped that had been enough. But another crack to the head proved otherwise.
When Guifort awoke, he did so in the stocks. The woman he'd tried to save laid limp in her restraints face red hot from fever. He had to do somethingโanything. This wasn't about to be the ruins again, he wasnโt about to let the time for action pass him by again. Guifort couldn't quite fight his way out of this situation, at least not in conventional ways. So, he began to speak."I'd tell you the whole speech, but honestly I was a bit out of it from the knock to the head and the fever that was setting in from dehydration. It was momentous, though. It sent the crowd into action. Or at least, I thought it had at the time. In truth, it had been a planned attack by Isobel and her troops."
When the dust had settled, he'd been free. The members of the rebellion had moved as quickly away as they had arrivedโguerrilla tactics and all that. Guifort said what little he could muster over the dead. It was a day where the streets were painted with blood. Blood that didn't seem to end no matter where he went to. The funerary rites began to blur together. The dreamsleeve was getting its fill of souls, and a deficit was felt in Guifort's heart. He considered finding a temple and settling, hiding his face from the goings-on. But he remembered the rebels and their call to arms. He'd read about their growing movement in the Black Courier. The aimless wandering he'd called a "purpose" for so many years had to stop. He may not have been able to lead troops, but he could heal, and more soโhe could provide comfort and knowledge. The circle of life needed not turn so much. So, he sought Isobel out. A priest of Arkay with an affable nature and a penchant for stories and wine could be of use. People tend to speak a little looser around those that promise redemption for secrets.
๐๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐๐ฒ๐ฑ๐ข๐ฐMajor - Luck"Some say I've gotten away with all I have in life through luck, alone. I'm more apt to believe it's the divine will of Arkay. Though, sometimes I wonder if he's fond of me 'divinely' winning drinking contests."
Minor - Personality"One can't speak the words of their god without knowing how to speak. It also helps that I know how to relate to all manner of people. Sometimes only the noble and proud think their words matter."๐๐จ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ฉ๐ฐExpert -
- Restoration: The power to heal the living and ward away the undead, this is Guifort's calling. He learned them from a young age in the Temple of Arkay, and he still uses them to this day. Doesn't help that they're also his bread and butter.
Adept -
- Speechcraft: While no poet, elocutionist, or statesman, he knows his way around the language in a way to come off as a comfort and an authority of his vocation. This gift isn't used for ruthless command or persuasion. It's just a warm blanket on a cold night.
- Alchemy:Probably one of Father Peryval's largest contributions to his small town was his knowledge of alchemy and potions. Guifort is far from a master and only had the time to learn healing, curing, and fortifying potions... and one poison. After Mister Catterly's death, Father Peryval had to take care of the mice somehow.
- Mysticism: The art of Soul Gems is one that Guifort considers blasphemous on all accounts. Yet the arts of mysticism fall in line with those of tending to the undead. The ability to absorb maladies and detect the living and undead is a helpful tool, and something that he built up when traveling.
Apprentice -
- Archery: While not the most talented, Guifort can use a crossbow with some efficacy. Don't ask him to shoot an apple off of someone's head, but he can hit some part of a creature with it. Just, don't ask what part.
- Medium Armor: To no one's surprise, Guifort isn't the quickest. He isn't one to parry or dodge, and might even ask you what "parry" means. So, he has to have protection somewhere. Heavy enough to keep the slip of the blade from killing him, but light enough that he doesn't die of exhaustion--he's quite fond of the happy medium.
- Security: One doesn't travel with an infamous bard without picking up a few tricks. While Guifort is far from performing burglary, those sticky locks can be dealt with.
๐๐ญ๐ข๐ฉ๐ฉ๐ฐ
- Circle of Protection (Restoration) Expert
- Repel Undead (Restoration) Expert
- Grand Healing (Restoration) Expert
- Heal Other (Restoration) Adept
- Cure Disease (Restoration) Adept
- Greater Ward (Restoration) Adept
- Sunfire (Restoration) Apprentice
- Greater Life Detection (Mysticism) Adept
- Greater Dispel Other (Mysticism) Adept
- Psychic Motion (Mysticism) Adept
๐๐ฎ๐ฒ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ช๐ข๐ซ๐ฑ
- A Heavy Crossbow once owned by Yarvis Belancourt, and now named Mister Catterly by Guifort.
- Leather Armor Fortified by Steel is a polite way of saying that it was either an experiment by an armorer or an abomination that Guifort specifically asked for.
- Steel Knife that once belonged to Father Peryval with a rather interesting etching of Dibella on the hilt.
- Lockpicks of Various Metals that were once Yarvis's as well, but he gifted them to Guifort finding it amusing that the priest wished to trespass.
- Mortar and Pestal said to be of Imperial make that he got from a "fair" trade with a Khajit. They were not. Still works the same, though.
- An Assortment of Dried Herbs and Minerals to be able to create potions. Of course, they were taken from the side of the road. He didn't loot a noble woman's garden at all.
- Amulet of Arkay would be the first and only piece of equipment that Guifort thinks he might need. It's golden with a shining red stone in the middle.
๐ ๐ข๐ฉ๐ฌ๐ซ๐ค๐ฆ๐ซ๐ค๐ฐ
- Robes of Arkay
- Fur-Topped Long Coat
- The Breton Hat of "Renown"
- Maps of Various Locations Throughout Skyrim, High Rock, and Cyrodiil. The distances may be off, and the landmarks may be false. Some of them seemed sullied by wine and others by jam.
- Religious Texts of Arkay
- Leatherbound Journals of his "Stories"
- A Marked Coin that is weighted to always land right-side-up
- Rations and Bedroll
- Incense
๐ ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฑ๐ฅ ๐๐ฆ๐ค๐ซRitual๐๐ฆ๐ฐ๐ ๐ข๐ฉ๐ฉ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ฌ๐ฒ๐ฐGuifort is skilled at a number of menial tasks, but the one he takes the most delight in is sewing. He enjoys stitching up the errant tear or lost button. He sometimes hums when doing so.
