Firsthold, Auridon, 4E 133 - 171
They were architects, foundation-layers of the great elven civilization. It was a profession that commanded much respect on the Summerset Isles. For anyone outside of the nobility, or the current Thalmor regime, architects' prestige are only paralleled by mages and artists. Skoerrho and Aervyn were such people, just as their fore-elders and their fore-elders' fore-elders. When a child was born, and a child of excellent measurements, Skoerrho and Aervyn was more than thrilled to continue two long lines of esteemed architects.
The newborn Thaleruim though, was anything but enthusiastic. He hated lessons in blueprint-drawing, frequently sneaked away from structural engineering and loathed nothing more than looking at brick and wood. However, Thaleruim learned rising above, or sneaking beneath, his station was a fate not to tempt. The society of Firsthold was a strict one, after all, there are no better place for the mighty Altmeri nation to enforce its superior values than its homeland. There were a myriad of punishments dished out for his rebellious nature, most of which are not appropriate for discussions in public. Nevertheless, Thaleruim grew up begrudgingly, not for one second interested in the path set by his parents. So at his thirtieth birthday, the young lad was taken to an “adjustment clinic”, ran by an illusionist mage specialized in “psychological correction”. Thaleruim thought it was the end of him, free will bound to be taken. However, the mage saw a peculiarity in him. The young mer was curious about magic, especially the school of illusion. He also had with him a quick wit, complemented by talk not so much posh but engaging to the audience. It was these curious traits that changed the mage's intent, she would not alter his mind; but instead, began secretly teaching Thaleruim the art of magic.
Eight years later, the old mage died in her sleep. Some say her years finally caught up to her, while others said it was poison from a bitter rival. Whatever the case was, Skoerrho and Aervyn were not impressed. Eight years of progress, Thaleruim was far from the fine elven specimen they hoped to sculpt. He became more focused in his studies, though it was merely a facade taught by the mage for his own sake. Beneath the surface, it was obvious this mer's heart was set on illusions, not architecture. His parents were desperate, Aervyn was infertile at this point, and the thought of their only heir dodging his destiny meant extreme measures must be taken. It was said the Thalmor operated a facility in Alinor City, a ward dedicated to the most ill of the mind. This was the future decided for Thaleruim. Fortunately, he intercepted the letter before it reached his parents. How could they do this? Was there any love for an offspring? Or was it entirely vengeance for his rebellious streak? Thaleruim didn't wait to find out, he ran for the fist ship in port.
Hammerfell, 4E 171
The ship sailed for several days, probably less than a week but more than four days. In the duration, Thaleruim hid in the ship's underbelly, making a nest of wooden crates and meals of rats. The conditions were miserable, he could not sleep with sounds of heavy footfall above, creaking wood below and nauseous embrace of the sea all around. Near the end of his journey, the young stowaway was discovered. Truthfully, he was somewhat glad to finally see daylight. The crates he hid behind were now being lifted away by armored soldiers. Thaleruim boarded a troopship, one headed for war.
War was much nearer than Taleruim thought. The day of his discovery happened off the coast of Hammerfell, targets for the Auridon Marines. This ship was one of dozens, a part of a massive invasion fleet. It was obvious he was not part of detachment, but there was little the captain could do. They were merely hours away from storming a beach firmly entrenched by Redguard soldiers. Thaleruim was told to stay out their way, so he held on tight to wooden railings while foreign sands stained with red.
The battle went on for hours, and it was clear from the beginning that the grim faces of elven soldiers predicted a costly fight. The Redguards erected obstacles along the beach, with nasty traps sprung underneath the sands and archers poised behind the treeline. The Marines, on the other hand, had access to shipborne siege weapons. Projectiles and spells pummeled the defenders. Their enemies were all native Redguards, not a single Legionnaire was in sight. These were men and women fighting for their homes, for their lives, and a fight to the last warrior. So it was, after a day of painstaking slaughter, hundreds of corpses from both sides littered the waterfront.
From that day on, Thaleruim would bore a permanent hatred for violence. There were political reasoning behind this, as they always had. But on the battlefield, it all quickly became moot. The sands of Hammerfell, ones that collected bones since the first era, cared not for righteous causes, but only martial might and strokes of dumb luck. It was decided then, Thaleruim would rather risk his parents' ire back home than continued being exposed to bloodshed. However, the captain could not spare a ship for just one passenger. He marched with the troops to a minor village not far from Hegathe. Little resistance, the captain said, a village of children and elderly, they assumed. Reality was not so kind; they have stumbled upon a stronghold of 500 Forebear warriors, every single one armed to the teeth. They slugged it out in another chaotic bloodbath. Fighting was done from building to building, doors to doors. This time, the defenders were not easily uprooted. Smell of death would permeate through the village for years, and it was said that sand spirits nearby were forever corrupted by this wanton display of destruction. In the end, the Altmers were defeated. Many Marines would be executed by vengeful Redguards, but for Thaleruim, who was assumed a messenger, the fate of imprisonment awaits.
Hammerfell, 4E 172 - 175
After being captured, Thaleruim was immediately imprisoned in Hegathe. He was brought there on a moonless night, with nothing in sight but endless desert. When he and the other captives came near the city's edge, they were blindfolded, chained together and led down to some kind of dungeon. Thaleruim had a separate cell to himself, but just across the wall, he could hear pained groans of two Marine recruits. About five days into his predicament, one marine was dragged away, screaming and never to return. Some uncountable days later, Thaleruim could not longer hear the other marine. It all became clear that the desperate elf cut himself and bled to death, the long gash on his forearm was obvious despite how hard the wardens tried to cover it up. Thaleruim concluded that his fellow prisoners must have been tortured, but for what it seems, he himself was never subjected to mistreatment. Sure, the food was absolutely appalling, and the cramped stone walls didn't leave much room for comfort. But only a pair of Redguards, clad in chain-mail and masks would occasionally question him. They, a man and a woman, judging by their voice, asked him about military intelligence. Thaleruim answered truthfully every time; he simply didn't have anything to tell. The interrogators stopped coming after a time, probably just leaving the Altmer boy to rot.
But Thaleruim could not be left alone. Soon after that last visit, he heard fire and steel clashing outside the prison walls. Apparently, Dominion raiders attempted a prisoner rescue, only to be routed by defending wardens. That incident did, however, convinced the Redguards that Hegathe was no longer secure. By the next morning, Thaleruim was chained together with two Altmers and a Bosmer, put inside a dark wagon and shipped off to a Bankorai penitentiary. The two Altmers were probably the few remaining marines, and they accepted whatever fate awaited them by keeping quiet. The Bosmer, on the contrary, was a fresh capture and yelled non-stop. He talked about signing up in order to flee his demanding family, but only to be met with a disastrous ambush in southern Hammerfell. He even dug out a glass locket from Auriel-knows-where, and offered to the wardens in exchange for freedom. The Redguard captain was not impressed by this unforeseen bribery, he grumbled when the Wood Elf told how he stole this locket from his mother and regretting the act. The captain eventually heard enough, he snatched the locket away, and shattered it against the ground.
The Bosmer cried, he sunk to his knees, oblivious to the captain shouting at him.
The captain shouted, again and again, commanding the wood elf to shut up.
The wood elf did not.
And so, the captain took a nearby shovel. He aimed the broad side of its head against the Bosmer's head, intending to knock him out. After all, this individual could be a valuable prisoner, one that might give up information regarding Dominion troop movements. But the reality was that the captain was simply frustrated. He swung wider than anticipated, and the skull of a mortal creature suddenly seemed all too week in the face of iron. The Bosmer's head cracked, in just one impact, he was dead.
"No, no more interruptions, you all hear me!?" The captain tried to sound firm, but his voice undeniably wavered. His hands trembled with the gripped shovel, which still dripped blood. He herded the prisoners back into the wagon, and hesitated just a moment before closing the door. In front of three High Elves, he asked Tu'Whacca for forgiveness and proceeded to dig a makeshift grave for the deceased. Thaleruim was shocked, his mind raced to comprehend what had just transpired; what went through the minds of the Bosmer and the Redguard? Perhaps Thaleruim was also reminded of himself, how similar he was to the Wood Elf; just what went through his own head?
However, the prison in Bankorai didn't give him much time to ponder it. His new wardens were "extraction specialists", and they certainly lived up to the name. They brought every torture, terror and pain imaginable and unimaginable to Thaleruim. They took him to the brink, threatened to push him over, and did it over and over for weeks. Thaleruim tried everything he could to free himself; he would start with the truth, that he was no part of the war and merely an unfortunate victim in it. Unsurprisingly, it was not bought. Then, he made fake intelligence and fed it to the interrogators. Well, they still didn't trust him. It was either that his made-up troop movements simply did not sound plausible, or these jailers continued torturing him just to satisfy their own sadistic fantasy. They drowned his head in urine one day, stuck a spike in his foot the other and finished off by setting his hair ablaze. Humiliation and brutality continued endlessly, until the arrival of one Breton man.
Four years had passed when Jat the Traceless came to Bankorai prison from Skaven. The Great War was finished in Cyrodiil by the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. To the west, war went on for Hammerfell. The Redguards were no longer part of the Empire; a nation now stood alone against the onslaught. To the eyes of the Redguards, the Imperial Legions were just as to blame for their plight as the elven invaders. So it only made sense that in 4E 175, Bretons and Imperials became equally suspect as elves and Khajiits. Henceforth, Jat fell victim of a witch hunt. Once an expert illusionist and street performer, Jat abruptly found himself surrounded by a mob of his former patrons and was incarcerated by some he used to call friends. The Redguards threw him inside a damp and cold cell, there were two haystacks, and one Altmer slouched against the wall.
From Jat, Thaleruim's hope would be renewed. Three years had taken their toll on Thaleruim, who should be at an age where he transitioned from childhood to maturity. A time where he was vulnerable and a time when his enemies tore him down. Jat came through like a beacon to ship lost at sea. During their time as fellow prisoners, Jat would tell tales of his adventures; stories of his amazing performances across Tamriel. He also learned of Thaleruim's aptitude in illusion and vowed to train him as his apprentice when they escape. At first, Thaleruim laughed as such talk; for all intents and purposes, they were never getting out. No, Jat responded, they'll have to try. So they did, by secretly communicating with other prisoners, they were able to engineer a riot. Once the riot paralyzed the wardens, Jat and Thaleruim, along with an Altmer marine and a common thief, dashed out of Bankorai and crossed the border to High Rock.
Wayrest, High Rock 4E 176 – 4E 188
Four people, a motley band of wanted criminals made one of the most daring escapes in history. They had to thank other prisoners in Bankorai, because as soon as their riot was put down, every single one was executed. For Thaleruim, Jat, Castrine (the Altmer marine) and the nameless thief, their freedom was sweet indeed. Once arriving in Evermore, the group went their own ways. The thief was first disappear, he vanished without a sign during the first night. Castrine would find herself on a ship back to Alinor, intent on reuniting with her husband. Jat and Thaleruim hitched with a caravan to Wayrest, the city where Jat was born and a place where they could earn honest living.
From 176 to 180, Jat delivered on his promise. He took Thaleruim under his wing as they performed magic tricks for bewildered citizens. Thaleruim grew leaps and bounds with illusion, Jat was a patient teacher and his apprentice's eagerness furthered their progress. In just four years, Thaleruim could be called an adept. Though he lacked formal certification, his proficiency with a variety of spells could not be doubted. Magic was not all of Jat's trade, he also passed on mundane tricks, the sleight of hand and knowledge of machinery. They took Wayrest by storm, tales of two bewildering magicians and their bottomless bag of stunts would be commonplace on the streets. Through their success in Wayreset, Thaleruim would even reinvent himself with a new name. Keegan Vasque was someone Jat frequently murmured about in prison. As far as Thaleruim was concerned, Keegan was either Jat's own mentor, his grandfather's hound or the shoemaker from his youth. Either way, Jat said the name was fitting. So the Altmer man would no longer be Thaleruim the runaway, but as Keegan Vasque, the incredible magician.
180 also saw Castrine reunited with the former Thaleruim, now Keegan. While she was away, fighting for the Dominion and fate uncertain after capture, her husband took the liberty of remarrying a thirty-some year old girl. Castrine was furious, she could not believe her spouse cheated so easily. Moreover, it was because her ex-husband was the last link to Alinor. Her parents were deceased and her brother was killed in Cyrodiil. With nothing left, she took the return ship back to High Rock, intent on finding her friends from the prison break. For a man named the Traceless, Jat was remarkably easy to find. He and someone called Keegan Vasque were widely known across Stormhaven.
After a surprising reunion, Castrine started working as the duo's bodyguard. High Rock is a place of intrigue, backstabbing both figurative and literal. So the addition of a former soldier greatly enhanced their security. No longer would Jat and Keegan be harassed back stage, nor would their prized costumes be stolen while in transit. Castrine also started training the performers in the combative arts. Jat, as a human, was fairly well-aged at this point, anything entirely new did not come easy for him. Keegan, on the other hand, made some progress under Castrine's guidance. He acquired a novice's skills in polearms; which was later complemented by the purchase of a bladed staff.
Despite all of their success, nothing could prepare Keegan and his friends for 188. The Corsairs, pirates led by the vicious Ambrose Mackin and the cunning Blaise Dupont, sacked the Wayrest and murdered its monarchy. In that fateful night, Keegan, Jat and Castrine were finishing a performance in Wayrest Theatre. What would normally be a quiet evening was replaced with screams and fire. Busting through the theater doors was pirate captain Dupont himself, a dozen Corsair fighters in tow. Without a single regard for her own safety, Castrine charged with her blade drawn. She was outnumbered twelve to one, and was only able to injure one pirate before being disarmed. Jat, who saw an imminent danger in front and carnage beyond the theater doors, attempted a paralysis spell at Dupont. The magical projectile veered, it took down Dupont's lieutenant, not the captain himself. Keegan was not brave like his friends, he casted an invisibility spell, which allowed him to vanish in plain sight. He held his breath to the point of suffocation and flattened himself against the wall, he could inch his way past he pirates if they stay distracted. Indeed, Dupont's goons all fixed their eyes on Jat, who stood defiant in front of twelve swords. He glanced to exactly where the invisible Keegan hid, frowned, and spat straight into Dupont's eyes.
Time seemed to stop as Dupont calmly wiped spit off his face. The pirates held their ground behind their leader, waiting for his next command or move. Jat bore his gaze on the concealed Keegan, silently begging him to leave. Keegan couldn't, he froze like a deer caught in the carriage lights, clutching white-knuckled onto the invisibility spell. He had no courage to reveal himself, but also could not bring himself to leave. So the Altmer starred wide-eyed all the while Dupont aligned his saber with Jat's neck. The first first slash nested halfway into Jat's neck, and Dupont withdrew his saber with bits of blood and skin. Jat quickly dropped to his knees, unable to hold his own weight. Before Jat could fully tumble over, Dupont caught him and immediately beckoned two pirates to hold Jat in place. For the second time, saber evened with neck, and this time, metal would cut through clean.
The final expression on Jat's detached head was that of pain, probably from the first decapitation attempt. There were no calm acceptance commonly described in stories; severed windpipe did not produce tranquility during the last seconds of life. Keegan cursed himself, seeing Jat's head roll across the floor made bile tumble in his stomach. For all the fear he felt, twice the anger crushed over. When the pirates turn their attention to Castrine and started to rip off her armor, Keegan broke his spell and charged at the nearest pirate. He would not let his friend be violated by these villains.
Keegan's staff blade sunk into a pirate's thigh, eliciting a pained groan in response. He swung the staff over, knocking another pirate off balance. The momentary confusion gave Castrine time to tackle a Corsair and seizing his knife. Their element of surprise was lost, and the pair still had to contend with eight foes. So Castrine grabbed Keegan and ran, dodging a thrown dagger when they neared the doors. But another projectile came in the form of an ice spike. Keegan threw up his left hand in an futile effort to solidify a ward. Defensive magic was foreign to him, the hastily cast ward could not prevent the spike from impaling Keegan's hand. Thankfully, Keegan's defense did reduce the velocity and broke off half of projectile. If not for his quick thinking, that very spike would have been lethal. The pair of Altmers sprinted, sneaked and climbed their way out of Wayrest. When Keegan came a decent way from the wall, Castrine was no longer with him.
Daggerfall, High Rock 4E 189 - 4E 204
First stop off Wayrest was Camlorn, a city that Jat liked and where his ancestors hailed from. At a cemetery there, Keegan pondered what Jat meant to his life. Simply put, he owes his life to Jat; if not for his outrageous breakout, or his mentorship in magic, there would no Keegan today. Between rows of tombstones, a plaque was laid with Jat's name. By Auriel, Keegan never had the chance to ask if that was the real name at all. For the remainder of 188, Keegan traveled around High Rock looking for Castrine. By the end of the year, he was as clueless as he started with. So a prayer sent to the divines and Keegan moved to Daggerfall.
The first weeks at Daggerfall were rough. With Stormhaven now a Corsair Republic, Breton monarchies stumbled to comprehend this new balance of power. The people were uneasy, not many were in the mood for entertainment. The flickering fire in the Rosy Lion reminded how much he had fallen; in just a month, Keegan had drank away all of his savings. On his last night before forced eviction, Keegan started juggling bottles in the tavern, an act Jat used to be fond of. Three bottles, four bottles, soon Keegan was rotating seven bottles through the air. Dozens were gathered around to watch this fascinating elf, one of them would be Keegan's second chance at life.
Horace Fontaine was eager and brave, equipped with a fresh bag of coins inherited from his parents; he planned big business ventures. His gamble was the old theater, one that had fell out of use since the Great War. Sure enough, the city sold him the property for a bargain. Horace had a fancy stage, but he still needed shows to sell. There it was, a drunken elf juggling seven bottles in a tavern. The future star of Daggerfall. Under the patronage of Horace, Keegan found himself back on the stage, single handily dazing crowds with spectacular displays of illusion. Coins began flowing and fair-weathered friends flocked to his side. This time around, Keegan chose to diversify his stakes. He became an associate in Synod's Glenumbra chapter, where he partook in part-time study of conjuration and destruction in order to properly defend himself.
However, Keegan's next crisis didn't come from his own errors, but rather, other's error. In short, another magician's flaming familiar had gone awry, and a fire quickly consumed the entire theater. The building was burned down and many badly hurt. The magician responsible was the first to burn, and his corpse was nothing more than a pile of ash. Keegan, by sheer strokes of luck, survived perfectly intact. The survivor in this scenario became the scapegoat. Keegan was billed as the perpetrator behind the fire, he was also billed with a massive fine that was far beyond payable. That night, two massive thugs cornered him, but they immediately fell to an elven woman's blade. Castrine had escaped Wayrest and took up mercenary work. She never gave any explanations on why she was at Daggerfall, only that Keegan should go to Skyrim.
Skyrim, 4E 205
Skyrim was a frigid place, one that seemed inhospitable both naturally and socially. Crossing over the mountains in wintertime further compounded the problem. Most of Keegan's belongings have been repossessed by Horace, so he was left with little more than his clothes and a small batch of coins. The Morning Star of 205 was the coldest Keegan ever saw. According to the locals though, it was just snow as usual. With little cash on person, Keegan would have to work immediately, lest he be frozen to death in the wild. His first job in Skyrim was exploring a dwarven ruin with a group of adevnturers. The group were young and foolhardy, most of them made short work of the lesser machinations but only to become pulp under the hammer of a centurion. Keegan was always behind everyone else, so it only made sense that he came out unscathed besides a sphere breaking his staff. The other survivors were warriors, they claimed the mage did no work and deserved no rewards. Of course, the meatheads hauled off bags of dwarven ingots, anything that resembled gold and even ancient utensils. Keegan was left with one object; a stick.
The dwarven stick was apparently a control rod, but it failed to shut down any automatons. What it did do, however, was discharging sparks of lightning. It also had four metal prongs protecting its core, a charged soul gem. In a way, this rod would fill the role of Keegan's old staff.
By the time ice thawed and spring replaced winter, Keegan was also desperately low on funds. He chose to spend his last Septims to Markarth after hearing its mining business. Before he could enter the city, he was stopped by a man called Ashav. Mercenary work, Ashav told him, there are profits in war, just waiting for the right person. There would be danger, sure, but this company in particular only guarded the rear. Keep your head down and money will come to you in no time, Ashav promised. He offered a contract and a bag full of gold; it was irresistible.
Keegan Vasque, the runway, the prisoner, the magician; now, the mercenary.
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