Spoopy Scary

Academy 003: Seeds of Change [CLOSED]

Ay, looks like I was beat to the punch lol

Reyna Baker

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⫸ B A S I C I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷

"Let's make history!"

▼ | BIRTH NAME : |

Reyna Baker

▼ | ALSO KNOWN AS: |

Rain, Rey/Ray, Big Buff Cheeto Puff

▼ | GENDER : |

Female

▼ | AGE : |

19

⫸ A P P E A R A N C E ⫷

"Take a picture, it lasts longer."

▼ | P H Y S I C A L S T A T S : |

▸ HEIGHT : | 5’6”
▸ WEIGHT : | 135
▸ ETHNICITY : | Irish, French, Norwegian; e.g. Caucasian persuasion
▸ HAIR COLOR : | Natural redhead (ginger, orange, w/e)
▸ EYE COLOR : | Green

▼ | PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION : |

Reyna is athletic and it shows in her body. Her arms and legs are well toned, and she’s got the tracing of abs outlined on her torso. Even so, Reyna is a woman who doesn’t reject her femininity and occasionally indulges in self-pampering when it suits her and time allows her to. She isn’t very tall, standing at the modest height of 5’6”, leaving her looking up at most other athletes and gym-junkies and she weighs in at around 135 lbs., 28F – which is rather heavy for her size, but most of it is muscle that she has earned through her interests. She has a sturdy frame and has just a few curves around her waist and back. Underestimating her because of her size that isn’t so wise, since she packs a lot of strength in her figure. She practically exudes confidence and pride in her posture.

Button nose, thin eyebrows, smooth skin, freckles – the latter which are absolutely littered across her body, much to her chagrin, and there’s one in particular on her cheek which she refers to as “Big Bertha.” It’s not as noticeable as the spotlight effect would have her believe, since it’s not any different in coloration, it’s just larger than the rest of the freckles on her face. Her soft facial features are occasionally tarnished by a scowl, which is not her standard go-to disposition like her enthusiastic and full of life demeanor, but rather a reflection of her quick temper. When you do get to see her when she is excited, you witness the emboldening her green eyes and the stretching of her lips to form a toothy grin that shows well taken care of teeth. Her natural bright-red and curly hair is fashioned into a curly faux-hawk and is well groomed. There is little oil that naturally accumulates in her hair, so you’ll often see it lightweight and fluffy. She has scars over her knuckles from the various fights she has gotten herself in, on her fingertips from climbing on rock, bricks, and concrete, but overall, doesn’t have too many aside from a long one next to her left eyebrow.

She has a couple of accessories, which compose mostly of piercings. She has two piercings on her left outer brow, one tongue piercing, and piercings that nobody has any right knowing about. On her right shoulder blade is a simple tattoo of a compass, which she got without her father’s knowledge when she was younger, which is special for her. It has part to do with her love of adventure and part to do with, despite its simplicity. She also has an industrial bar in her right ear, and other accessories include three hemp necklaces which are hopelessly tangled together, and on each one, is a thin stainless-steel heart. On one, it says Merry, on another, it says Mia, and the third depicts a raised fist symbolizing empowerment. She also likes to wear a black plastic wire choker.

▼ | ATTIRE : |

Her clothing is what one might call a mish-mash of style from both the girl’s side and the boy’s side of the clothing department. One of her favorite looks is wearing a loose and flowing white sundress that falls just barely below her knees, likely with a small, repeating print on it like Snoopy from Charlie Brown or the Misfits face logo, with a black and faux-leather jacket layered over the top of it. She completes the look with combat boot which climb just above her ankles or a pair of converse, and a wide-brimmed and floppy hat matching the dress she’s wearing. What you don’t get to see is the red tank-top underneath or the knee-length camouflaged cargo shorts underneath the dress, which is usually secured by a black fabric belt. Sometimes she changes up the style to seem more tomboyish or settle for a blouse and a pair of jeans. You'll never know with this girl.

But more on her jacket, it’s her iconic and signature article of clothing. Everyone knows about Reyna and her jacket, you simply don’t mess with it or ask her to take it off. It’s her thing, equated to her as much as Michael Jackson’s single glove or Freddie Mercury’s yellow jacket. It’s covered in patches, such as the raised fist on her necklace for female empowerment, a Misfits patch, a pink triangle, and a number of other patches that will be easier for me to bullshit on the spot in the middle of the RP.

⫸ P S Y C H O L O G Y ⫷

"I took the path less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."

▼ | PERSONALITY TRAITS : |

♦ Excitable ♦ Passionate ♦ Competitive ♦ Stubborn ♦ Impulsive ♦ Narrow-minded ♦ Confident ♦ Curious ♦ Short-tempered ♦
♦ Expressive ♦ Immature ♦ Protective ♦ Optimistic ♦ Flirty ♦ Liberal ♦ Critical ♦

She expresses herself freely and unabashedly. While unrelentingly cheerful, excitable, and playful on the surface, she is like an unmoving brick wall in any sort of conflict. If you disagree with her to any extent, she’ll tell you you’re wrong and will hold her ground. She was born with a quick temper that takes some time and attrition to coax down and is rarely the type to say sorry first, and this temperament was disciplined a fair bit after she took up a martial art, so she has a little more restraint and has gotten better at hiding her emotions, but that doesn't mean there still isn't a fire raging behind those blast doors. She’s also quite prideful of herself and she takes challenges and contests very seriously to the extent that she might be an obnoxious winner or bummed out loser, as either result can have a grand impact on her esteem and she has a tendency to carry all of her failures with her. She does a fantastic job at hiding her insecurities, but when her armor comes completely off, you'd be surprised to find how much baggage she's carrying.

Much of her tough competitive side stems from growing up in the densely populated city of Portland, Maine. With violent crime being disproportionately higher there than anywhere else in Maine, it meant that being tough equaled respect. There was also the fact that her father was never around, allowing her to easily plow over her hard-working father. When appealed to her interests however, she reacts in what many would consider exaggerated excitement. For example, she is an explorer at heart. She loves discovery and – surprisingly enough for a city girl – enjoys nature, especially at sites of caves, cliff faces, rivers, streams, or a remote location untouched by mankind. There also exists a fascination for bugs, fossils, artifacts, ancient relics and architecture, and bones. When these interests are appealed to, she shows a complete change in character: her eyes light up, a toothy grin from ear to ear, and her stern voice is replaced with what turns out to really be a talkative, excitable girl. This child-like giddiness often offsets anyone who is not wholly familiar with her and has only met with her abrasive side, and likewise, her innate aggression to those who have only seen her while she was happy. She also has a curious fondness for poetry—not that she practices, but she appreciates the art.

There are unique distinctions in the form of her interactions with others which are dependent upon the other’s gender. Even as someone who identifies as bisexual, she approaches men with greater caution and is usually dismissive of their advances after being spurned or harassed too many times. Even if acknowledging that a man might be attractive, she is still quick to judge and treats them with caution. She doesn't judge those who are or would engage in a relationship with someone who was an animal-based metahuman, though she wouldn't think she'd do so herself. She doesn’t make very many promises to herself, as she’s aware of her own reckless and impulsive behavior and if often at the mercy of her own sense of curiosity and wanderlust. One such example is the decision to travel out of state to attend Academy 003 – new life of exploration and discovery and to experience things that no one else has before. If Reyna has learned anything, it's that there is only one question she should ask herself before deciding anything: "Will I regret this?"

She has her shortcomings, such as her stubbornness and often narrow-minded approach to about everything. She isn’t academically inclined, and she finds studying in most cases to be a total snooze-fest, which might enable others to judge her as unintelligent despite her sharpness in other areas such as environmentalism. Despite her shortcomings, however, Reyna is an exuberant and faithful companion once you can look past her attitude. She exudes great positive energy when she’s in a good mood, and is very confident and flirty in social interactions, even if just to a playful or platonic extent. Once she considers you family, there’s virtually nothing that she’ll let stand in her way to protect you. While her disposition may allow her to thrive best while acting as a lone wolf, she prefers the sense of community that working in a team provides – just as expected from someone who puts so much value into family.

▼ | SKILLS : |

Okay, so there are a couple of things that she is obviously good at, so let's get one thing out of the way so I don't act like it is a big surprise later: Reyna's a pugilist. She has a thing for boxing and kickboxing, and if there’s an octagon and she’s allowed to punch people, she gets excited. This should not come as such a huge surprise; for an active and competitive girl like her, this comes naturally. Fighting is essentially the epitome of competition and whoever comes out on top is the true victor, standing over the defeated – the experience of such a defeat being inescapable – and proclaiming dominance. Western martial arts are obviously much more aggressive styles than defensive eastern martial arts, which suits Reyna perfectly. Over time, her style has come to more closely resemble MMA.

Now, more alarmingly, her other skills are a lot gentler. With her knowledge from reading survival books ever since she was a kid, and her fascination with nature and exploration, she could get lost in the woods for a month and come back alright; she knows her shit. Reyna is also an artist to some degree. She has talent in it is confident in herself, but she doesn't feel so confident that she'd consider herself a professional or would be ready to make a career out of it, wanting to hone her craft before she starts taking commissions. But her work is good, there's no doubt about it, and she wants to be good enough so that she can give tattoos to people and to be a reliable enough artist to do so. Though, admittedly, she is hesitant about using her own body as a practice canvas. Otherwise, she can draw, paint, and sketch, both traditionally and on a digital format.

While not terribly gifted in the music and whimsy department, she does have a terrific singing voice from the years of practicing in the shower or singing her sister to sleep – if only she could seriously partake in that activity in public and not shut down if put in the spotlight. This is the only area where she isn't confident and suffers from stage-fright, and she'll fake or pretend terrible singing otherwise as though it were a joke to avoid judgement of her actual ability. If it is only her, her sister, and her cousin, then she would feel comfortable enough to sing her heart out.

In order to purchase her used motorcycle, which is evidence on its own of her impulsive decision making and lack of foresight, she got a job back in Maine at a fireworks store. Long story short, she knows how to make a couple of different kinds of fireworks and knows some trivia about fireworks. She loved it, and between that and living in downtown Portland, she can easily tell if an explosion came from a firework or a firearm when she hears it. Reyna also had the bad habit of forgetting her keys, so she was forced into the position of learning how to pick her own front door's lock way late at night.

▼ | BACK STORY : |

Reyna was born to an unmarried family in Maine, a product of an accident to be honest, but they agree to birth her in the end. It was a typical babyhood at first, but with the dynamics in the family being rather conflicted, the relationship couldn’t work, and her mother left the house when she was young. Despite the disagreement between her parents, they never tried to separate her from either of them or alienate her. They mutually encouraged respect for both parents. Though being a single parent was a little rough on her father, they managed to truck right through the hardships, even though the father was never certain on how to raise a girl the traditional way. So, he rose her as he would any child, or what would be typically considered befitting of a boy. Being raised this way, she was never told to shy away from what was considered to be boys' toys or clothes or whatnot, and through all that, still maintained her “femininity” as typical people would call it.

During that time, her mother found another man, married, and had another child two years after her own birth. Her new half-sister was named Merry, and her surname, Bennet, took after her father's. Naturally, having already visited her mother every weekend, Reyna got to meet Merry at a very young age and got to spend much of her time growing up with her. Her young life went this pattern for a very long time. Every night she got to spend with her sister, she'd spend it singing lullabies until Merry fell asleep. It was a typical pattern. The next biggest change in her life was the year Reyna turned 13 years old. Her father took her and, with permission, Merry on a trip to a local state park. Naturally, with Reyna’s prankster disposition, snuck off with Merry and began exploring the woods on her own. Reyna was a good older sister in that she didn’t pressure her into anything that was too dangerous, and she didn’t run ahead on her own – she would’ve been a decent chaperone if she, personally, wasn’t so reckless. She made a bet with her sister that she could climb on top of this thirty foot tall boulder, and to her credit, she could – and she did, and when arrived at the top, found that there was much less space for her to stand than she thought, and the slickness of the moss on top of it caused her to slip and fall into a crevice that cracked the top of the boulder.

Merry’s screaming and crying and pleas for help eventually got the attention of Reyna’s father who was looking for them, who in turn called for the park ranger to help them. After a few hours, they arrived and were able to safely climb the boulder and lower themselves down into the crevice. There, they found Reyna with a gash on her forehead and wedged between two large and different colored crystals. It was that moment that sort of spurred her aspirations to become a ranger like them. More importantly however, between the extent of time she was exposed to the crystals and the highly stressful situation she was in, her powers developed a year later. It was noticed when she was able to perform physical activities for a long period of time without wearing out, perform greater feats of strength and speed, but easily dehydrate. She decided to take up boxing to help cope with the energy she had and to better control herself and her power – though another large part of it was that Reyna thought it would be fun, which explains why she didn't choose any eastern martial arts which were less aggressive and would have made more sense. Eventually though, as she and her powers matured, it became obvious to the other practitioners in the gym. She was much stronger and nearly three times as fast as the others, and the disparity in their abilities were enough to warrant asking her to leave.

That same year, Reyna's father introduced her to her extended cousin – their closest related family member being their great grand-mother – an older African-American girl named Mia, after convincing them to come into town. Her father knowing that Mia came from a town that was highly populated with meta-humans thought it would be good for his daughter to make friends with her. A crucial difference was that Mia came from Mendel, Louisiana, which meant a much dirtier and even more crime-ridden city than Portland due to gang violence, which had an influence on Mia and her disposition despite her kind demeanor. The relationship was a little tense at first due to their conflicting personalities, but they managed to befriend each other in due time. Mia made it a point to visit Maine often, for about a week or two every two or so months, even as cold as it was compared to the southern heat. She fortunately had the money to do so since both of her parents owned their respective tourist traps. They eventually grew to be inseparable. When all three could get together, they sang and played music together, fought together (or with each other), ate, slept, adventure, the whole works.

So when Reyna would be inflicted upon a certain trauma and indignity by someone who she suspected was a close friend, and in her moment of great stress, flames licked out from her body and burned the boy who assailed her. Cops were called and cops arrived. So, too, then did an ambulance. Then they brought her in for questions. They payed little heed to her own side of the story, dismissing it as a cover story for regretting typical teenage shenanigans or covering for her assault of a young man. She was a meta-human, how could a non-meta ever exercise any power over her? Reyna realized then that this would likely be politicized, either locally or on a much grander scale. They didn't care about the truth. They just cared about framing the event as meta on non-meta violence. When her father arrived at the station with Mia in tow, she curled into herself into their arms and sobbed helplessly. She couldn't bring herself to talk to her father, but she felt that Mia was someone who she could turn to for consolation. Fear, guilt, and uncertainty -- Mia washed them away and promised that she would see to it that nothing like that would ever happen again. Reyna never knew what happened with the boy afterward, but she never saw him again. Asking Mia turned up no answers other than, "Don't worry about him."

As Reyna got older, the process of going through high-school tends to socialize you to the larger world. The administration tries to get you connected to outside forces before you’re graduated so that you have an idea of which direction you want to go. She was able to receive state assistance due to her lower-income family and she received credits for her participating in art and music clubs and school sports like track or soccer, which was before they caught onto her meta-human status and decided that it gave her an unfair advantage over the other runners and players respectively. In this regard, her high-school experience wasn’t the happiest since she often felt like the grown-ups were deliberately trying to stunt her potential, and her middling grades in the academic side of the school (aside from Earth science and history) weren’t so impressive. Still, she seemed to have made enough of an impression upon graduation that, after she walked the stage and accepted her diploma, she would later be directed to talk to some FAMA ambassadors sitting at a table in one corner of the lobby. They suggested to apply to Academy 003, and once the application was received, they’ll perform an investigation and possibly send her an invitation letter. The invitation was permanent if she kept her record clean from that point on – no felonies or misdemeanors or anything, because then they’d have to launch another investigation and she’d have to wait even longer – but it meant that she could keep the letter as long as she wanted until she decided she wanted to go.

Even for someone as impulsive as Reyna, it was a difficult decision for her. She spent a lot of time trying to better educate herself on metahuman politics as she matured and the gravity of her abilities and their significance weighed on her, even as mind-numbingly boring politics was to her, so she knew what FAMA was all about and what the offer to join Academy 003 entailed. It was essentially a juvie of sorts, not in how only bad kids went there, but it was a sort of rehabilitation or conditioning center of sorts. It taught people how to be “functioning members of society.” Some people saw it alluring for the esteem it would grant in some circles – it was certainly a certifiable school of great repute, but other circles would see it as brainwashing, and attendance carried a stigma. Likewise, her father just wanted Reyna to be safe. Happy, but also safe. They agreed to let her apply, but to their surprise, the letter actually came – and they let it sit for a year, to let Reyna decide if she was ready to take such a huge step. It meant leaving home for a long time, but Reyna was an explorer at heart, so that wasn’t the issue. The issue was the uncertainty of her future. For once, the question she always asked herself, “will I regret this?” had no answer. Not one that she could provide, at least. She was wrought with enough anxiety about the question and about her future that her power singed the bed covers on more than one occasion.

Her father answered for her, “you’ll only regret never even trying.” He decided that it was best for her to learn how to control her power for good, and he was getting tired of buying new sheets and blankets for her. What’s more, having Academy 003 on her transcript might look pretty good on applications to future colleges. Besides, it was probably best to have an environmentalist or a park ranger who didn’t accidentally burn forests down on a routine basis. With that, her family saw off a nineteen-year-old Reyna at the train station where she’d head to South Carolina. From there, a taxi, and eventually to the front gates of the Academy 003 itself.

⫸ P O W E R I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷

"Hot n' ready like Little Caesar's!"

▼ | POWER CLASSIFICATION : |

Type Chromatic

▼ | POWER DESCRIPTION : |

Rocket-Man Girl
Reyna has a peculiar combination of red and yellow Delta-Point energy that makes her: one, super strong; two, super-duper fast; and three, a little bit of fire for good measure.

To pick back up what I’m breaking down, her speed is by far the crux of her power. She might be strong and wreathed in flame, but as far as comparing her powers to other, similar meta-humans, her speed is the most impressive. Her body’s endocrine system is at the ready, prepared to produce adrenaline at a moment’s notice, and filling to the brim with that sweet, sweet nectar. In fact, it’s slightly over-filled. A trickle of adrenaline slowly bleeds into her system and makes her ready to go. Though the type-yellow energy spread through her system, making everything tougher, stronger, and more reactive, it seemed to react better to areas of higher muscle density. This meant that her legs got most of the attention. She can spring from one place to another with powerful bounding leaps, or sprint with enough blistering speed to put Usain Bolt to shame and pounce atop of anybody unfortunate enough to proclaim themselves as her enemy before they even realize it. In this regard, it would be inaccurate to compare her to any record-holding human sprinter, but rather to a cheetah.

The energy affected her other abilities as well, not just her speed. Her arms and, hell, even the rest of her body get in on some of the fun as well. While her strength is not as comparable to her speed, she hides a lot of unassuming strength in her figure. Any person, regardless of fitness, can knock out or stagger someone with a good punch, but very few people can send you sliding back several feet after knocking you onto your ass. Her strength is such that it still exists within the realm of human achievement, but very few people short of a durability power are going to withstand a good slug coming from her direction. Combine that with the inertia she gets from her speed, and you’re down before you even realize what hit you. Because her system was souped-up from the Type-Yellow Delta-Point energy, she’s durable enough to withstand her own forces without seriously shattering herself.

The third component of her power comes from the traces of Type-Red energy. Compared to actual pyrokinetics, this aspect of her power is comparatively weak. It allows her to ignite the air around her and doing this is made relatively easier considering her super-system’s temperature it already hotter than average, and the friction that her high-speed movements has against the air gives it just enough of a push to make the actual effort of creating fire to be practically effortless. This means that, when she runs, if she so chose (and why wouldn’t she?) a streak of fire would probably be left where she was just a moment ago, and if she were to swing a punch, slow-motion capture would show a streak of flame from her fist and down to her elbow trailing behind her. For all intents and purposes, she is a literal trailblazer, and that adds just one more reason why you don’t want to be on her bad side. When all is said and done, you can see her standing post-carnage with plumes of steam rising from her body – from when the fire instantly evaporated her sweat.

▼ | LIMITS : |

Like a cheetah, the problem for Reyna is stamina. She can go fast, and for a short while, she can keep up the pace until she tires – and that kind of speed will tire quickly. An overall stronger system with that juicy adrenaline allows her to recuperate quickly and allow her another brief burst of speed, but that time she can keep that would be even shorter. It is best used for short spurts and not for an endurance race. While her perception is just reactive enough to get a pretty good idea of what she’s doing, it’s not so great that she’ll be able to notice sudden and immediate changes in her environment while she’s moving quickly. She has no control over fire beyond what she can produce. She might also be strong enough to just barely lift a small car enough for someone to slide a jack underneath it, but not strong enough to flip it on its side and send it rolling.

▼ | WEAKNESSES : |

Her power, for the most part, keeps Reyna from hurting herself too badly. Everything is kind of just “scaled up” so to speak, and while the force of a punch wouldn’t shatter her hand, it would hurt her as much as any fistfight would. A weird punch against a bony part of someone’s body might break her knuckle, even if that meant shattering the other person, but still. Perhaps more obviously is the fact of her endocrine system in overdrive. She’s much more prone to being dehydrated because of her power, so she must drink about as much water as a factory worker to keep herself going. This is one more reason why prolonged fights don’t work out so well in her favor. It’s also worth noting that inertial forces are incredibly strong and aren’t so easy to resist once you’ve built up enough kinetic energy. Once she’s in movement, it’s a little hard to stop herself.

⫸ O T H E R ⫷

"You set me up to get harassed by a creep, which turned into a fight he started, I get arrested for it, then you kidnap me, and now you want me to accept this dumb ass' offer to crawl into his bag?"

A notoriously bad liar.
Spotify playlist, yo

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

You Never Know

11th of Midyear -- 4E208
Gilane, Hammerfell

The Alik’r used camels to traverse the deserts, and it wasn’t that Hammerfell was without horses; the horses here were long-legged, slender beauties with blonde or golden sheen on their coats like the sands, their black manes and tails like thin wisps – but they were native to the craggy ecosystems like Bangkorai and Hew’s Bane, which still had grasses and shrubs and running water for them to survive off of. They couldn’t store water like camels could or conserve their energy. Muscle was more demanding of nutrients than fat was, but even with as much fat as the little pony Danish had, his thick coat meant for surviving the frozen tundra of Skyrim spelled a cruel fate. Even while injured, the responsibility of taking care of another life weighed on Calen’s shoulders.

As soon as he was able, he returned to his regular routine: get up early in the morning to draw water from the well. The desert night does well to keep that water chilled and being underground meant it was insulated from the day’s heat. Even though the weight of a bucket full of water hurt the torn muscles in his chest, he pressed on – he’d clean out Danish’s old water trough and replenish his hay and oats – an equally excruciating chore, before returning with more water to wash away the old sweat and stink from the pony overnight. The desert nights weren’t so cold that they could placate a cold-weather horse. Vigorously scrubbing through his thick coat with the brush was also excruciating, which amplified his irritation at Tobias, the stray goat of Rhona’s who seemed to have created a bond with Danish and constantly getting caught up in Calen’s feet while he’s working. Tobias would remind him of Rhona; he’d remind him of someone who had no place being in this warzone, who he hoped would simply find a way out of this land and someplace far away. He wasn’t so selfish to demand her company, no, he felt guilty. Part of him felt as though he was the reason she was still here, and Calen would shake his head at such thoughts. He was not someone worth risking their life over.

He made sure to talk with the stable-master to place Danish in a stall facing the ocean so that a breeze would be blowing against him throughout the day, then returning every two hours with more cool water from the well to wash the sweat away from his fur and cool Danish down in junction with the ocean breeze. About as often, he’d replace the water trough that’d also warm up throughout the day. Hours and days of this meant occasionally reopening his wounds, where he'd then have to find Raelynn or Brynja after stopping the bleeding on his own. Sometimes, when he tired of making repetitive trips, he’d sit out at the stable, enjoying the atmosphere and the company of his pony and others. It kept him distracted from thoughts of that day, when he saved Latro from that bullet. At times he repressed the memory, at others, he faced them and confronted his emotions – mostly, it was fear.

It caused him to reflect on his life and what he’s done so far—what little he’s done so far. In his distractions, he remembered how he left his instruments on his wagon back in Anvil – he had nothing to play, and quite frankly, it was upsetting. He had played countless songs on the tools of his trade and he left them behind. He had to resort to just using his voice to pass the time, which was superb and drew the company of a few spectators, but he didn’t feel like it was the same... and singing in excess also hurt his chest. Everything was hurting his chest. Images of his nightmare of Cezare, plunging his sword into his chest would make it feel sore too. It was a funny thought that, even if the Dwemer spurred all his recent troubles on, it was only because he was associated with this group. He wouldn’t have gotten shot and he wouldn’t have stoked Cezare’s ire if he went his own way; but those were toxic thoughts that wouldn’t get him anywhere. So, he focused on Danish, on humming songs to himself in the morning, and on trying to get better.

Part of getting better, he thought, was taking care of his mind. Seek out something productive to keep him occupied. He was never much of a cook or a baker, but he visited the local baker and dropped a few coins on their counter to trouble them for a lesson. He was no natural learner, and he messed up a few times, but he was determined to preoccupy himself. He learned quickly of the relaxed environment that a bakery had – it was neutral territory, and it was just the baker and the dough, a process of patience – as well as learning the process of milling wheat by hand. The grain was imported from the Gold Coast, that meant it became expensive ever since the Dominion embargo from Anvil. He’d mix it with water and kneaded the dough until he could stretch it out and it would still hold its shape. He’d ball it back up and allow it to rest for a short while, using his break to check back in with Danish. He’d return to the bakery to learn the next few steps. More exercising the dough and more resting. Adding the yeast and more rest. It was a waiting game, meaning it would be a day or two until the dough was ready.

When, yesterday, chaos filled the streets with blood and mayhem for reasons Calen could not discern – it was possible that Samara cell conducted another strike without his knowing; it was reasonable to assume they continued without him – all he could do was watch helplessly. The Dwemer were like an overwhelming force of nature, their weaponry like acts of god in how pulling their triggers were the summons for death. Hungering demands for blood. Still, he could not hate the deep elves; not when the citizenry of their people was as innocent as anyone. He watched from Danish’s stall in the stable as Dwemer women hid their children indoors and closed the curtains with as much fear in their eyes as the local Redguard mothers. He couldn’t hate them. He could fear them, reasonably so, but he couldn’t seek vengeance on them. Not with a clear conscience, knowing that he could possibly take it out on someone innocent—like that mother or her child. When the conflict began to dissipate and the resistance to Dwemer rule was quashed, he visited the Dwemer mother’s home and gifted them his first-ever loaf of handmade bread that he was hoping to eat after days of laboring, yet he offered it with a smile.

He didn’t keep much of a journal. It was mostly just a logbook of people he has met; sketches and descriptions and tales. Perhaps he should if he was going to record this segment of history, but such an aspiration seemed so… conceited. There was no promise that he’d survive this, that his name would be remembered, and it seemed like such a little thing in the shadow of actually doing something, but he already tried doing something before. Talos knows how well that turned out. So, as if to practice, he started talking to Danish as if his pony was a real person.

“So one of the gang came by earlier today.” He said, receiving no response. He continued, “Some kind of summons. Said Jude wanted everyone to gather around tomorrow at Three Crowns for some big news.”

Danish, being a pony, did not respond.

“I tried writing some lyrics lately. You know, to get back into the groove. How about it?” Calen said before continuing. “Yesteryear’s uncertainty… loses its charm, its luster of mystery, when you’re living through history?”

Surprisingly, he invoked a response from Danish as the animal nickered, but undoubtedly, he had no real idea what Calen was saying. The bard chuckled to himself and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, a little too on the nose. And rhyming excessively sounds forced, honestly. How about…” Calen thought carefully for a second before continuing.

“Don’t let the fires of your mind steal too much time?
Tears may be spilled, and with fear, your dreams overfilled,
and these cannot be fixed with just song and rhyme.
Be the early-riser and plant your seed,
sow the crops you wish to grow,
and only then can you be free.
Life is brief,
so don’t fear death, sweet child of mine.
Don’t let your mind steal too much time.”

There was a pause of silence after Calen’s recital, allowing him a moment of reflection.

“Yeah,” he finally said, “it needs some more work.”

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Aries Machella

Aries Machella

<sub>Female Breton/Imperial | 29 | The Lord | Daggerfall, High Rock

Playlist</sub>

Appearance

It's like someone put a dragon and shoved it inside a woman's body, the way her disposition conflicts with how she presents herself. Take a woman of fair skin and lithe frame, dabbed with bits of makeup and adorned in jewelry, and give her a resting bitch face. The natural blush on her face doesn't take away from her studious and razor sharp green eyes, only given contrast by the black eyeliner she typically wears and a few restless nights. Her body, lithe, still shows examples of a relatively fit lifestyle, however the ratio of body-to-muscle only really tones her body given how the total amount of muscle she has forces her to rely on her grace instead of her strength. Standing at 5'7", this would put her weight around around 135 lbs. While her face is definitely Breton, her jaw and her nose comes from her Imperial father with the angular shape of their appearances, which seems to call attention to her pink lips.

Depending on who you ask, she has been blessed with good genetics given the shape of her body with a narrow waist and endowed chest. While how she grew and developed was certainly out of her control, she wears and walks around in her body as if she was deserving of it. She wears her auburn hair in a variety of different ways. Sometimes it's braided, in a bun, in a braided bun, curled, straightened, wavy, let down after it's been braided so it looks loosely curled -- it depends on the occasion. It frames her face and falls down to her shoulders, with its longest strands falling just below. It looks carefully pampered along with her eyebrows. Her fair skin is practically porcelain; not in color, no, her skin is often flushed pink while under the sun, but it's smooth. Nary a blemish or freckle in sight and devoid of scars. The softness of her hands betrays a history of easy living, as does the tidiness of her fingernails.

It would be obvious at this point that she comes from a place of high living, and as would be expected, wears some form of makeup or another on a semi-regular basis. Winged black eyeliner, and only the faintest touch of blush which mostly serves to hide the natural blush that glows even brighter. She also uses a peach colored gloss on her lips, and a red polish on her fingernails which looks to have some kind of protective enamel over them. While obviously not practical, she has entertained the idea of putting scorpion venom on her nails in the case of some Redguard pirates or bandits during her stay in Hammerfell. Honestly, she doesn't need it, but it would make one hell of a statement.

Her preferred style of dress would be if she was back in the Imperial City. Her iconic look was a silky, very low-cut red dress which separated into straps around her naval, while slowly tapering as it approached her shoulders. It was wide enough at the breast to preserve her dignity while flaunting some cleavage -- but it was less about flaunting and more about comfort while under the heat of the sun and feeling the coolness of the breeze coming from the Niben; it was simply the fashion of Imperial patricians. The dress is secured around the waist by a golden colored cinch. A yellow-gold toga-like garment drapes over her left shoulder and on top of her dress before coming back around. To complete the regal appearance are bits of jewelry, such as ornate, golden bracelets which coil up her wrists, leafy golden armband like wreaths, and an elaborate golden necklace with chains dangling the Imperial emblem in the center of her chest. Golden colored clasps are secured to both shoulder straps of her chest, and a golden colored circlet like a wreath decorates her head and helps to keep her hair in place, as well as showing off her station. Though not quite as fanciful, she liked the comfortable, airy feeling of sandals that is popular in Imperial fashion.

But now? Her attire changes almost regularly, portraying the appearance of Hammerfell merchants while trying to maintain a certain standard of comfortable living.

Equipment

Aside from her clothes and bits of jewelry, Aries typically carries very little with her since all of her means of defense is magical. While masquerading around as a merchant, she does carry with her a pretty bulky bag full of little trinkets and trade items of moderate value. She does have one item that helps her deal with the heat of Hammerfell, as well as the side effects of her own magic: a ring of Fire Resist.

Misc. Possessions

A coin purse of 250 septims.

A bag from her merchant persona filled with all manner of stuff.

Rings and amulets of moderate value.
Uncommon alchemical ingredients such as frost salts.
Semi-precious gems and stones.
Some expensive-ish foods such as cured meats and artisan bread.
Crafting materials like spools of cotton, flax, and silk. Small chunks of ivory.
A small glass bottle of wine wrapped in cloth lined with frost salts.

Family and Associations

Aries Vindicari | Paternal Grandmother | Deceased via childbirth
Lulius Vindicari | Paternal Grandfather | Deceased via war
Lawrence Machella | Maternal Grandfather | Deceased via mariticide
Eileen Machella | Maternal Grandmother | Deceased via age
Janelle Machella | Maternal Aunt | Alive, 62
Belle Machella | Maternal Aunt | Alive, 58
Catherine Machella | Maternal Aunt | Status unknown, 52
Esther Machella | Mother | Alive, 56
Florentius Machella | Father | Deceased via assassination
Gabriel Machella | Eldest Brother | Alive, 33
Stefan Machella | Elder Brother | Alive, 32

Favored Skills

Highly Proficient: Speechcraft – (Aries has spent her entire life in the public eye and dealing in politics -- not Imperial politics, but High Rock politics. The really complicated and cutthroat type of politics. She played the game and came out on top, so tell me, do you really want to play the game of thrones with her?)

Highly Proficient: Destruction – (She didn't just study politics, she also studied magic, and the School of Julianos in Daggerfall is the premier school for training battlemages. Being Breton and having a natural affinity for magic, and deciding that there was no better way to defend herself then reducing her enemies to ashes within seconds, she was able to learn Destruction magic at a high level given due diligence. She displays finely tuned control for someone with the capability to utterly obliterate somebody.)

Moderately Proficient: One-handed – (She spent many years practicing with her father before he died, then continued her practice in respect of her memory of him. Dueling and fanciful swordplay was a staple sport in High Rock, so it was fitting for her to learn how to wield a rapier and a saber, especially in the event where someone challenged her to a duel of honorable combat. Her skill lies in her careful footwork, graceful maneuvering, and precision. )

Moderately Proficient: Illusion – (Illusion magic is practically a necessity for any magically able noble in the Breton homeland. What Aries makes up for in the raw power of her spells is the careful, precise control of her magicka. While she can cast one of her spells to full effect, she finds that it is just as useful when creating a sort of aura while interacting with others. A general feeling of calm, fear, or anger slowly rising or itching at the back of the minds of her target can occasionally be the little push she needs to get what she wants out of them without them even realizing she's using magic.)

Somewhat Proficient: Conjuration – (Carrying a weapon weighs a lot, so why bother? Sure, it might act as a deterrent, but that's rarely the case for a woman of Aries' size and figure. Besides, the look of surprise on their face when you've suddenly brandished a magical weapon and they're suddenly without a hand is too priceless to give up. Plus, the weapon is virtually weightless! What's not to like?)

Spells

Highly Proficient: Destruction

Wall of Flames
Incinerate
Chain Lightning

Moderately Proficient: Illusion

Fear
Calm
Frenzy

Somewhat Proficient: Conjuration

Bound Sword

History

The Rise to Power

Aries’ story begins along the far western coast of High Rock in the affluent city-state of Daggerfall. This begins her saga on a rather bleak note, though it is not clear on the surface, because indeed – the city’s luster and splendor knows no bounds. Fabulously wealthy and ripe with trade, even the impact of the Corsair Republic’s takeover of Wayrest, the seat of the Breton’s High King should such a day ever come again, is but an inconvenience to the economics of Daggerfall Castle. The comings and goings of grand merchant ships have stopped at the edge of the Iliac Bay and has perhaps even cemented this grand city’s monopoly on sea trade. One of the city’s major competitors were knocked off the global stage for a short time.

It's a peculiar and rather convenient consequence, one which many noble families tried to take advantage of.

One such noble family was that of the Machellas. The family tree bore the fruits of two faithful sons following in their father’s footsteps as soldiers, ready to take up the sword and live and die by the Empire, and a daughter, who was instead urged towards politics. Indeed, though, womanhood in the knightly orders were no rarity, a noblewoman’s preservation was of the utmost importance in the name of marriage alliances and keeping an heir who was not eager to die upon another’s blade. The mother and father, Esther Machella and her husband Florentius, was one such marriage.

Esther of the Machella family was nobility. Her family possessed a disgusting amount of wealth and has been cozy in Castle Daggerfall’s court for as long as she could remember. Florentius Machella, originally a Vindicari, wasn’t born as nobility, but he was a high-ranking member of the Imperial Army and had friends and connections that led all the way to the advisors of Imperial government. The Machellas have been a family loyal to the Empire for a long time, using its influence and favor to its advantage, so it was no surprise that one of them eventually married an Imperial captain.

The family itself has produced a notably high number of daughters over the years, Esther herself had three sisters, one of which, Janelle, wedded into the Lariats of Shornhelm, and there was Belle who had a gay marriage with a Bridwell. Catherine was out making her own living through trade in Camlorn. Yet most of the Machellan women remained the determinators of their own lineage, and often led to the men being forced to change their names. As influential as they were, they rarely met with disagreement as simply wearing the name Machella guaranteed a successful and lazy future. At least, this used to be the case until Esther’s father gambled half of their fortune away through a bad deal with the noble Motierre family. Half of what was left was spent on alcohol in his attempt to forget his failures before his wife, Esther’s senile mother, stabbed him to death. This meant that Esther had to step up to the plate and take control of the Machella family’s future. Even in her capable hands, they didn't have the same power and influence they once held.

When the time came for children of her own, first came the first-born son, Gabriel. An oddity to be certain, breaking the long-standing trend of first-born daughter. He was often the one most level headed and had the tendency to think ahead with remarkable insight and empathy for others, even if he could sometimes get carried away and become laxadacious in nature. That trait would not last long however, as a year later, Esther became pregnant again, and gave birth to her second-born son, Stefan. Now it was certain that whatever genes that Florentius had, it had provided the Machella family with sons that they had not seen in years. Stefan was much more serious than Gabriel, though more gullible. He didn’t have the same kind of critical thinking and skepticism that was prevalent in most Machellas, taking after his father in this regard. It was a foreboding trait, given the fate of his maternal grandfather. Last, but not least, came a daughter three years later. Florentius never knew his own mother, who perished in childbirth. He wanted to give their daughter an Imperial name after her grandmother: Aries.

Though she bore an Imperial name after her paternal grandmother, she was a Machella and was as much a Breton as any girl came. That is what Esther systematically drilled into her daughter’s head for years.

However, as the years passed and her daughter grew into her personality, it became clear that she was a little more spirited than she let on as a toddler. Entitled? Of course, like any child is and then some, considering her pampered upbringing. Aries found it suffocating. Familiarity bred resentment, and the lack of privacy and freedom afforded to her made her lash out in ways not before seen in her brothers, Gabriel and Stefan. Though truthfully, it was mostly directed at the maids and servants, for the busy political lives of her parents often kept them away from their homes until the end of the day -- busy playing and maneuvering through the game. When they arrived home, they would typically coddle the young girl and give her everything she asked for except for the freedom she wanted. However, the attitude she directed toward the servants and towards them was unbecoming of a lady and would not be tolerated for long.

The School of Julianos usually only took in those who were worth the investment. Distinguished mages or promising students were provided with an unrestricted learning experience unlike anything the rest of Tamriel could offer outside of the Crystal Tower in Summerset Isles or the Arcane University in Skyrim. However, you did not simply refuse a Machella when one arrived at your doorstep. It is difficult to say how swollen the coin purse may have been, but it was certainly enough to cinch an early and comprehensive education for the young Aries. It was a way to discipline the young lady and to keep her babysat, but here she wasn’t being coddled like at home, she was going to be taught. They couldn’t possibly start with magic, oh no, they’d have to start with arithmetic, language, and the sciences; the “general education requirements” so to speak, before they could even touch upon the subject of magic. However, the colorful, dramatic, and arcane displays of their magicka was enough to captivate the young noblewoman and the promises of how “one day, you could do it too” was enough to keep her rapt attention during her lessons.

Every now and then, her own parents made the time to attend her lessons and teach her what they knew as well. Florentius shared what he could, mostly strategies and tactics, and taking Aries out for a few training sessions in dueling with a blade like he did with her brothers. He valued the ability to defend oneself, especially in the snake pit of Daggerfall, though this concern was lost on Aries who only saw this as a fun recreational time that she got to spend with her father. She spent countless hours with rapiers and sabers; swords that used her grace to her advantage instead of the brute strength she lacked. What her mother had to offer on the other hand was something she couldn't easily teach to her martial-minded sons: she was a master of speechcraft and a shrewd politician. She could aptly manipulate other people by using their ideas, preconceptions, and emotions to direct them down a path as she saw fit, while also remaining mindful of cultural influences and her own sex (and how that would impact others' perception of her). The subtleties, nuances, ironies, and paradoxes of some of her lessons were mind-boggling and well above her level at the time, but repetitive lessons eventually drove them home whether she liked it or not. One of her first lessons was that every lady must have her own secrets to keep.

By the time she began understanding the political intricacies at the tender age of fourteen, the school was already prepared to teach her magic. It was an incredible accomplishment to be certain, but it was born out of opportunity, and it was hardly an opportunity she deserved. Being bought the finest education at a young age and receiving such careful attention and special treatment, this process of streaming and differentiated experience eventually made her a legitimate prodigy. So, when they first began teaching her the fundamentals of magicka, she absorbed it like a sponge. This is what she had been waiting years for! This would be worth suffering through all her mother’s boring lectures! The Daggerfall sect of the School of Julianos was the premier branch for battlemages, so the best type of learning they could provide the young Aries was in Destruction. The other schools they could teach to a lesser degree; illusion, they thought, would be a reliable defense that would also come in handy in the political minefield that awaited her.

Unfortunately, her father wouldn’t live long enough to witness Aries cast her first spell.

On Sun’s Dusk 23 4E 193, returning home to the family estate, Aries was met with her mother sobbing over a draped coffin. No word was sent to her, so she was completely blindsided by the discovery of who exactly it was resting peacefully inside. The soldiers adorned in Imperial armor held their salute and stood as still as statues, patiently allowing the family as much time as they needed to grieve before the ceremonial preparations could be made. Esther was of little comfort to Aries, seemingly too swept up in her own grief to properly console her daughter. It was a night of seemingly endless weeping until the tears ran dry.

Aries did not have a proper way of coping with these feelings. This was the first time she ever had to deal with any kind of loss, and her first experience being one that was so overwhelming, she cut herself off. After a sleepless night of ceaseless crying until her eyes were dry and couldn’t cry anymore, she cut herself off in some form of forced dissociation so that she could do better to process and face her father’s death as logically as she could. She turned to her mother for answers. Why did this happen?

Her answers were brushed off for now, urging only that now was the time to study and to study hard. Aries, now angered, refused. How was she to focus on her studies now, immediately after her father’s unexplained death? Her intense line of questioning aimed at her mother caused Esther to give in. She said it was the fault of the Motierre clan. Florentius was not careful enough in navigating through the politics in High Rock and this is what it got him. This was why she wanted Aries to study more, to study harder. Aries thought this meant that her mother wanted her to be safe and sound, protected from the cutthroat politics of the city, but all she could think about was revenge.

So, the young noblewoman hit the books with a fervor not before seen. Her education, Aries felt, was now more a tool of survival and self-defense than anything else. If she were to compete on the same level, on the same political stage as the Motierres and the other nobles. She had to think ahead of them, outmaneuver them, do whatever she could to have an edge over her opponents. Her mother constantly reminded her that with the Montierre clan’s decisive power looming over the other castes in Daggerfall, literally anybody could have been paid to eliminate competing houses or find ways to reduce their power and influence, and if the time ever comes that Aries just so happened to slip up, she had to be prepared to defend herself. So, they both looked to her instructors to teach her all they could of the Destruction school and then some.

She was not a self-made prodigy; perhaps money had done much of the legwork for her, but there was no doubt that it was her own drive that made the most of all the opportunities before her and made her a prodigy nonetheless. She became a capable mage in record time; fire and lightning could flow interchangeably between her fingertips Illusion spells also became a part of her repertoire thanks to the defensive utility they provided, and a few lessons in the school of Conjuration promised her a worthy defense if she suddenly needed a weapon, which she supplemented with further swordsmanship training through her brothers. They were difficult to use at first, but quickly learned that the weightlessness of a bound sword complemented her swift and precise style. In addition, the multiple lessons from her mother meant that her education was finally sufficient enough at this point that she could begin gaining practical experience in Daggerfall politics at the meager age of seventeen.

There was one more important lesson she received in politics before she entered the fray as Esther dolled her up in a beautiful dress and laced up her bodice: “politics is as much about making the peasantry happy as it is about maintaining your power among the other nobles.” Peasants are ubiquitous; if you ignore the peasantry, you’ll be worrying about them more than the other nobles. If you have them on your side, then you don’t have to worry about them being used as a weapon against you. A people-first campaign was the best way to ensure your own safety and undermine your opponents who had no problem with taking advantage of them. The lesson wasn’t about being nice to those who were less fortunate, but about taking advantage of the different social structures in place and using socioeconomic status as a leveraging tool. It was the synthesis of two fundamentally differing ideologies.

One of Aries’ first experiences in the public eye as a full-fledged lady occured when she attended court with her mother. There she saw the lords and ladies of the other houses, including the Motierres. She watched her mother meander through the court, setting an example to Aries as she approached the other nobles to engage in conversation. As she did so, Esther told Aries to find out everyone’s names and remember their faces. They certainly wouldn’t forget her’s.

Lorelei Motierre. Eleanor Julliard. Marquis Tariat. Bellamy Bridwell. Mirabelle Tarys. Laurent Bellamont. Gale Wickerman -- these lords and ladies and plenty more were scattered across the court, and by day’s end, she seared their names and faces into her mind. She personally met King Guilliot in a brief introduction and was quickly drowned out by the sea of sycophants, but it was a productive day. She got her foot in the door, and now she just had to make her entrance. The following year was spent essentially shadowing her mother. It was one thing to learn what it was like to be a lady and another thing entirely to be practicing it and watching all the other masters at work, but she was able to pick up on it quickly. More disturbingly, she was perturbed by the number of gross old men who couldn’t keep their lecherous eyes off of her, but her mother convinced her to tolerate them for now. Being born a woman by coincidence meant she had the opportunity to use it to her advantage. So she would pretend to be at least slightly interested in these men, give them what they want; the idea that a future with her could even be remotely possible. It wasn’t.

Within the next year, the Hawkfords, an aristocratic family, invited the noble families of Daggerfall to a ball being hosted at their own estate. They themselves weren't nobles and it was for that reason that Aries could see through the charade -- it was a ploy to cozy up to the people who had power, but Esther was able to convince her to attend anyway. It was as much an opportunity for her as much as it was for the Hawkfords, and her argument was supported by the number of rumors of who would be attending the ball. Among them was the young lord, Fontaine Motierre. Aries then realized that this ball would be her ticket into undermining the Motierres.

Arriving at the ball in an elaborate gown, it was clear that she wasn't the only one with her sights set on Fontaine. Aries was of the mind that it was her family’s tumultuous history with the Motierres that would lure him in to her over the others. It would be a great success for the Motierres if they could quell the bad blood between the two houses and take the Machellas off of their list of enemies. It would be one less angle from which to expect a stab in the back. It was perhaps for this reason that Fontaine was receptive to Aries’ approach and blew off the young Hawkford girl.

“A father’s wealth doth not a lady make,” she remembered him saying. So instead he danced with Aries. Though Fontaine led the dance, Aries led the conversation by leading it away from her personal life. She didn’t share much of it, only enough of her personal feelings to allude that there was perhaps little to glean from the Machella family or that she knew too little of her own family’s affairs to take advantage of. She played her deception well, but Fontaine on the other hand seemed quite proud of his heritage and had little to no problem bragging about how far the influence of his family’s name reached, how significant the power they held truly was. He was trying to impress her, of course, but he also clued her in on the ripples she could make if she played her hand right. He told her that a Motierre was on the Elder Council. Their family also acted out of Chorral in Cyrodiil. How else could their family wield so much power?

She left the ball that night with Fontained wrapped around her finger. He asked for her hand in marriage, to unite their houses and to invite Aries into the most powerful family in High Rock, perhaps in all of Tamriel. She made no promises, though she entertained him with the idea of an Aries Motierre, the first ever Machella woman to change her name. Fontaine thanked her for the dance, and she thanked him too, and they went their separate ways for the night. The young Motierre thought he had her hook, line, and sinker, but Aries didn’t tell him that she really thanked him for the inspiration. It was thanks to Fontaine that she now had a new plan: she wasn’t just going to undermine and destroy their house, she planned on ascending. To meet them on the same level if not utterly surpass them. If a scumbag Motierre could reach the Elder Council, then why not her?

That’s what she prepared herself for in the following four years.

It wasn’t enough to be conversant in the politics of Daggerfall and High Rock. She had to immerse herself in Imperial politics as well, study Imperial history and Imperial law, as well as the relationship between the Empire and the Bretons of High Rock spanning as far back as the First Era when St. Alessia became known as the Slave Queen. The politics between the Empire and the other provinces; becoming conversant in the politics of all the major power was crucial. It was also in the time that she became a frequent visitor of the Motierre estate. Her relationship with Fontaine looked to be a budding one, but she was careful to play it slow, being ever mindful of her endgame.

Speaking of her mother, all that Aries had done in the four years following the Hawkford ball did not just comprise of study and warming up to the Motierres. She was not wed to Fontaine and therefore did not owe them her allegiance, but their acquaintanceship seemed to have created a sort of tentative bond between the houses that promised a shaky political alliance. Not wanting to jeopardize the potential rewards it would yield, it allowed the Machellas to become more active without the threat of the Motierres quashing their efforts looming over them. Esther and Aries were able to cash in on their family’s investments and Aries’ brothers, Gabriel and Stefan, acted as a sort of muscle or enforcement for the family.

They were trained soldiers, which provided them connections to the Daggerfall army and the authorization to oversee safe transport of trading goods within their family’s interest. They didn’t study politics like Aries did, but Gabriel was at least savvy enough to spread some influence among their ranks. With this connection, Aries suggested that they leaned into their supportive stance for the throne, its military, and the Empire as a path back to power. Whatever skepticism her mother might’ve had for her daughter’s plan was quelled when she brought up the Motierres again. Any action they made against them at that point was unlikely; they already arranged a sort of cease-fire, and any action in undermining them may very well be acting against the interest of the Empire and of Daggerfall, provided the Machellas got far enough.

Her strategy came in the form of redirecting investments into mines, quarries, blacksmiths, and lumber mills. Not only did this support the local businesses in the region, but also given the Empire’s fragile state after the Great War with the Dominion, the best way to make quick friends with a weak Empire is to support the recovery efforts of their infrastructure. Investing in stocks and reselling them to the Empire at a discount price only turned out a marginal profit, so the other half would be sold to kingdom of Daggerfall itself. Eventually however, their support for the local business allowed those businesses to grow and increase production. With increased production meant a greater share for the Machellas, and with a greater share to sell to the Empire, the Imperials began sending their own ships to retrieve the building materials in bulk, which took the cost of shipping off her family’s shoulders. Later in the third year, the Empire wished to renegotiate their trade deal with the Machellas.

The deal entailed less gold in exchange for the resources, but they offered shipments of Skingrad wine in exchange with the bonus of being sold at a slightly lower cost in hopes of her family’s continued support and lasting relationship with the Empire. Aries, knowing that her mother detested gambling, knew she would never accept the offer. So she accepted the offerwithout informing Esther and, through a few of the family’s retainers, sold the wine to Castle Daggerfall and to taverns throughout the city and even to neighboring cities. Although it was a gamble, the family’s income had never been higher, prompting Esther to question her daughter after the numbers in her ledger weren’t adding up which ended up in a massive, heated argument. Still, since Aries’ actions had reaped their intended benefits, there was never any real resolution to their argument.

The year Aries turned twenty-two years old, Skyrim’s High King Torygg was killed by Ulfric Stormcloak, breathing new life into their civil war. This barely affected Daggerfall in a significant way, but Aries knew that it wouldn’t be long before the city would feel the strain of a weakening Empire. They’d have to divide their resources to handle the situation in the North, meaning that their current trade agreement could be strained. The tension between her and her mother had been slowly but steadily rising ever since their first argument as Aries had been making decisions of her own accord, so with that still fresh on her mind, she took a moment to swallow her pride and confront her mother with her new idea. She knew that there might be repercussions of significant enough impact to warrant discussing them with the matriarch.

In order to anticipate the Empire’s strain, Aries pitched the idea of preemptively modifying their trade agreement with the Imperials and organizing support within Daggerfall for the Imperial army in Skyrim, campaigning on behalf of the Empire. Especially with news of a cave-in blocking one of their only routes to Skyrim, auxiliary forces from the West would be a boon that they couldn’t refuse, and hopefully, the payoff would mean less long-term profit loss from their trade agreement and the increased support of a grateful Empire. Earning a little less now was better than losing the entire deal later or being undercut by a much more significant margin. Though Esther was hesitant, she was grateful for her daughter’s disclosure, and tentatively agreed to her suggestion.

Only, Aries didn’t disclose everything. She didn’t disclose the fact that she had been talking with the Motierres about them taking a similar course of action. She hid just enough of her family’s finances from them that she put them under the impression that the Machellas couldn’t perform this maneuver on their own, and if they did so anyways, a less powerful family was doing more to aid the Empire than the most powerful noble family in Daggerfall who also had an Elder Council member among them. What would that look like? And why on earth would Aries want to marry into a family that didn’t support their own? Not only did she preemptively negotiate a better deal with the Empire and began organizing support for Imperial troops, she manipulated the Motierres into funding her campaign efforts. Most of the Daggerfall public didn’t seem to care much for the conflict or felt like they had a stake in the war to the East, but some loyalists or those desperate for a wage signed up and slowly, troops were being sent eastward towards Solitude.

Barely even a year later, while Aries was attending a banquet at the Motierre estate and buttering up the lords, ladies, and their sons, one of their personal couriers had delivered a newspaper. Its headline was emblazoned across the front: “EMPEROR TITUS MEDE II, MURDERED!”

Amidst a room of startled gasps and crocodile tears (for she thought she knew that none of them cared for anything outside of themselves), she excused herself from the Motierres’ table, returned home, and began organizing movements to be made to send gifts of condolences to the Mede family.

It wouldn’t be long after the death of the Emperor when the civil war in Skyrim reached its end. General Tullius brought the fight to the gates of Windhelm with the aid of the Dragonborn, but it left an Empire in a fragile state with a weakened province and depleted resources at their disposal. The war had left the land in dismay, infrastructure destroyed, and lives shattered and displaced. After a brief affair of correspondence between herself and some Imperial financers deep in Cyrodiil, Aries sought out her mother to discuss one of her biggest gambles yet: she planned on visiting Skyrim personally, stationing herself in Solitude, and using her own personal funds to aid in the reconstruction of a bridge and a roadway to reconnect Skyrim to High Rock and Skyrim to Cyrodiil. Her mother immediately refused.

If Aries didn’t keep a presence in Daggerfall, Esther argued, her influence would weaken, and her name would mean nothing. On the other hand, Aries argued that a Machella personally had to be there to serve as emissary and to discuss and sign a deal. Showing investment was the best way to catch the attention of the Empire. Her mother was exasperated with her and didn’t understand why she had such a fixation on a weak Empire that barely did anything for them in return. Only then it was revealed to her why Aries was trying so hard to appease them – the Motierres. Aries admitted that she knew Amaund Motierre was an Elder Council member and hoped to show that a Machella could reach the same level as well, but to do that, she felt like she had to take advantage of the Motierres and play the game better than they could just to get there. Only then did Esther finally understand what was driving her, and she admired her daughter’s ambition.

She gave her daughter some crucial advice: stay home. True, it would be helpful to be there personally, but it would be harder to manipulate the Motierres if she was gone for as long as it took to oversee the reparations of Skyrim’s infrastructure. Furthermore, if she spent all that time trying to fix another country, her status back home in Daggerfall would plummet. She should visit, yes, but only for as long as it took to sign her name on a deal. As soon as that was done, Aries’ brothers could move in to represent their presence. There was plenty of dirt to be found on the Motierres, Aries just had to dig deeper to find it. Simple dinner parties weren’t going to cut it.

So that is what happened: Aries organized a trip to visit Solitude in a horse drawn carriage and a small caravan of horses. She was being escorted personally by Gabriel and Stefan, the two who would be the most reliable means of defense. Along the journey was filled with awkward chit-chats which eventually broke down into humored and long-winded conversations. It had been some time since she had been able to talk to her brothers on a personal level. The few times they were actually home, Aries had so often been either studying or in the middle of her own work, playing the stuffy political game, that it had probably been years since they interacted like real siblings. For a while, her brothers had thought their baby sister had gone all stuffy on them, but after a day or two of travelling on the road, they had managed to find each other once again and all her plots and worries had temporarily ceased to be. Though admittedly there wasn’t much talk about the good old days since they were far and few between, but some of the attending retainers were caught quite off guard by the laughter and laid-back display Aries was openly displaying in her brothers’ company. It was quite nice to have her first vacation in a very long time; she didn’t have to hide herself here.

They were also caught off guard by a sudden bandit ambush a few miles past Camlorn, and perhaps equally as much when Aries proved herself capable of defending herself by setting fire to the trees in which their archers were hiding. A sudden, eruptive display of blinding flame was enough to breed fear in those remaining who weren’t immediately charred to a crisp and cause them to flee. It was the first time she had used her magic for self-defense, and for some reason, she always thought that her first time would’ve left her jarred and shocked. It didn’t. Yes, the adrenaline pumping through her comprised the fine tuning of her control, she used a bit more fire than she needed, but she didn’t feel remorseful about what she did. She didn’t feel haunted, she just did what was necessary. The amount of foliage burning hid the smell of burning flesh, and as she assessed the aftermath with a curious passiveness, her brothers looked at her as though a dragon had just swooped down. Partially, they felt useless, but mostly they felt a little intimidated and even a little disturbed. They knew she had studied magic, but not to such a degree. Neither did they know that their baby sister could be so ruthless.

Aries seemed eager to return to business as usual, but her brothers seemed to step more carefully around her from that point onward. It wouldn’t last, however, as eventually her caravan passed through the rest of High Rock and crossed the Skyrim border, rested her horses at the local Smallwood Stables, and met with Imperial officials at Castle Dour. The deal was quickly agreed upon, as it was weighed heavily in the Imperials favor, but organizing the logistics of the deal took hours and Aries wanted to make sure that every step of the plan was precisely calculated before she signed her name on any parchment. Once they figured out approximately how many stone bricks would be needed by number per few meters of road, where the road was going to be laid, it’s approximated mileage, and the schematics of the bridge, Aries didn’t have any qualms with signing her name on the dotted line. After spending a day or two to rest, she embarked on her return journey to High Rock with her brothers. After a long and tiring journey, her brothers would stay for a short while to rest before taking the journey once more, and that time they would stay until the project was complete.

In the meantime, however, Aries would be hard at work in her infiltration of House Motierre. If she wanted dirt, then she’d have to go deeper. Become more involved. She attended all the dances with Fontaine, slimy a man though he may be, spoke publicly in favor of their House, and for years, do whatever else she could do to get in their good graces. She found that Amaund had joined the Elder Council almost thirteen years ago, but beyond that, very little. They were a careful sort. They were so good at keeping secrets that there was no wonder they’ve reached the heights they have. She must’ve spent a couple years of fraternizing with the Motierres, for her brothers had finally returned home following the completion of the rebuilt road and bridge in Skyrim, with an official written recognition of House Machella by the Elder Council. In addition, her brothers Gabriel and Stefan were formally inducted into the Knights of the Dragon by King Guilliot in acknowledgement of their faithful service and ability – though it had more to do with their status, than anything. Regardless, it was a momentous occasion and the ceremony was wonderful, but the Council’s recognition meant little if she couldn’t achieve her objective in Daggerfall.

The only thing that Aries could do to punch a hole through the Motierres’ defense was to reopen the discussion of marriage. The Motierres weren’t in the same position as many other families though, the groom this time would have no need to change his name. So, when Aries broke tradition by suggesting the possibility of changing her own surname, that was something of an achievement that the Motierres didn’t want to pass up. Petty and relatively insignificant it may be, but House Machella was one of the long-time contesters to their power and having one of their daughters – one who was intelligent and powerful – join their family, it cemented their position in Daggerfall society. It would cement their position.

It left them open is what it did. Made them soft. Complacent. They were overconfident in thinking that they had her in the bag already, were planning the largest and most extravagant wedding that Daggerfall had never seen, and for some reason that made them think that it was time to treat her like she was family. Honestly, who thought it was okay to let their fiancée in on their family’s financial affairs? To help in their budgeting and financial planning? To be fair to them, she was quite good at it, and for a couple months, Aries helped them streamline their process and provided insight on big financial gambles… but it also gave her direct access to their ledgers. There were a few nights where she felt she could comfortably slip out of bed and wander through their lengthy, empty hallways and find the Motierre ledger in their office. Some nights she spent staying up studying the ledger. Where did they get their money? What did they spend it on?

She noted the additions and subtractions, the totals – and then she double-checked her work. Triple checked. Something wasn’t adding up. There weren’t nearly enough deposits to meet their total sum. Invisible money was being added from somewhere, they were laundering money from somewhere and it wasn’t being listed in this ledger. With a spare parchment from the desk, she grabbed a quill and began working backwards to find the value of the missing variables. It was like she was back in school practicing arithmetic all over again. She found that the first value was at least eight hundred septims, but then the next missing value was different. She found that the missing values weren’t consistent, the invisible numbers were constantly changing. She figured it was probably in the event of being found, someone couldn’t just plug one number in and multiply it by the number of invisible deposits. The only question now was where the gold is coming from. She went as far back in the dates as she could to see if she could find when they first started receiving this gold; 4E192 – almost thirteen years ago, around the same time Amaund joined the Elder Council.

The Motierres have been siphoning money from the Empire for over a dozen years now, no wonder they were so well off. She finally found the dirt she was looking for! It was so strange, she thought as she took a moment to reflect, that the Motierres found their fortune around the same time the Machellas fell into their rut. Not long before her dad…

Her dad! He was the reason why she set out on this crusade in the first place. How did he factor into everything? She was told for the first time so many years ago that the Motierres were responsible for his death, reminded so often since then, yet she still ended up losing sight of her purpose in the shadow of her ambitions. She looked through the ledger again, scanning for the day her father died a year later. The date itself didn’t have any transactions listed on it, but the surrounding dates did see the handling of large sums of gold with generic descriptions of the transactions like “human resources”, which seemed out of place amidst the specificity of the other records within the ledger.

Guided by candlelight, she scoured the office looking for where they kept their history of correspondence until she found a wooden cabinet with stacks upon stacks of folded letters. They were organized by date. She looked as far back as she could – it was about midnight by this point – found old letters, likely kept as proof of business and transactions between parties, but all the letters she could find on or surrounding the date of her father’s death had nothing to do with her family. Curiously, there was few to no correspondence at all from Amaund Motierre. She looked back even further, her eyes glazing over the dozens of tax papers, only mildly intrigued by the personal communications between the Motierres and other parties, until finally she found mention of a Machella in one letter sent by a Bellemont.

“Frostfall 29, 4E 193
Dearest Roswell,

You will be pleased to know that you are found in likeminded company. You have my most gracious sympathies upon my learning of the dishonor visited upon you and your prestigious family. The loss of Wayrest is a very real and mutual tragedy, and it would be utterly abhorrent – unthinkable, immoral even – to take advantage of such grief to gain the upper hand in a shallow political game.

I, too, have unfortunately come to conclusion of finding the conduct of Florentius Machella in poor taste, but an Imperial is as an Imperial does; following the orders barked at them by those above their stations, his intrusions are most assuredly directed by the machinations of Lady Esther Machella; his wife. I tried to advise against her dealings, but you know how Machella women are.

As Florentius is an Imperial captain of the Emperor’s army, I know him as a matter of fact to be of the honorable sort and a newcomer to Daggerfall’s political arena and that perhaps he was not made aware of the rippling effects of the path his wife had set him on, but speaking of facts, one still remains that a diplomatic confrontation is not advisable in your unique situation and neither is allowing him to continue his current trajectory.

We will remain in contact and I lend you my best wishes in hopes of a satisfying closure to your predicament.

Sincerely,
L. Bellemont”

Looking back through time and seeing the mention of her parents was a haunting feeling. Yet she knew that wasn’t likely to find the evidence she needed here; any correspondence implicating them of wrongdoing would’ve been burned. It was still a promising sign, and even through the early hours, she continued skimming through pointless mail received through the surrounding dates, no longer looking for mention of her family’s names. At this point, she was just looking for anything that could give her a hint. It must’ve been another hour of searching until she came across an odd letter will very little written on it and with very plain, stylized handwriting.

“Mr. R,

The highest offer the noblewoman’s man would give us was 1,500. Congratulations sir, you have yourself a new business partner.

Now it would seem that our mutual headache is overreaching – I might just accept their offer for the free pocket change and mail off the diamond a week after you drop off your promised 5,000.

I have to admit I feel a little bad*, but let this be a lesson to them about being cheap with their money. You get what you pay for.

*Just kidding. I don’t.

– K ♥ ”

The letter wasn’t dated, but it was located between letters written on Sun’s Dusk 6, 4E 193 and Sun’s Dusk and Sun’s Dusk 10, 4E 193. It would’ve been written somewhere between those times, from the seventh to the ninth. It was a long shot, but the mention of “a noblewoman’s man” raised red flags in her mind… and there was no way anyone would spend five thousand septims on a diamond unless the diamond mentioned was a codeword for something. She cross referenced the ledger – Sun’s Dusk 13, 4E 193, 5,000 septims were withdrawn. Three days later, there was another invisible deposit equal to 5,000. A week later would’ve been Sun’s Dusk 20, 4E 193. Her father died three days later that year.

On hand, she felt like she was so close to the truth, but on the other hand, it could’ve been coincidence. It wasn’t like it was mailed the same day or anything. She sighed and returned to the pile of letters. Perhaps she could skim through and look for more letters from whoever this “K” person was. Flipping through a few more, she found another barren letter.

“Mr. R,

Everything is stable in Wayrest.

– K”

Wayrest? But Wayrest was under control of the Corsairs at the time and three days away—

Oh Gods.

It took everything from Aries to keep herself from burning down the Motierre manor. For second, she had a fireball in her hand that was ready to bring the building down, but she controlled herself. She extinguished the flame and instead gathered the letters together and took with her the entire Motierre ledger. She was racing against time now, as it was a matter of when they would notice its and her disappearance. She dashed through the streets of Daggerfall barefoot and in a silken nightgown, tightly clutching a large book and several papers to her chest towards the Machella home. There was something she needed to check on before informing her mother. Much like the Motierres, her mother also kept a long stack of correspondence in her private office. She’s been in the room many times, and she studied her family’s history, but she never thought to investigate it. From the sounds of that “K” person, they were also in correspondence with her mother at the time. So was an L. Bellamont. She had to make sure.

It was easy enough to find. Her family didn’t receive nearly as much correspondence, and she already knew what date range to look for.

“Ms. E,

Your husband’s generous 1,500 offer is greatly appreciated.

You should receive a present very shortly.
– K”

“Frostwall 25, 4E 193
Dearest Esther,

Your strategy is ambitious, and I can appreciate what you are trying to do, but I feel that I must advise you that the Corsair Republic cannot be trusted. Just because they call themselves a Republic and pretend to suppose the mantle of governor does not make them a sovereign country; Wayrest is a nation held hostage by pirates. Indeed, though that may make them willing to do the work you would hire them to do, that does not make them willing to behold themselves to their word. Their only loyalty is to money. They will stab you in the back.

That said, if you insist on this venture, then perhaps you would think against sending Florentius in your stead. He may be capable and Imperial, but he is not Breton – he does not know how to dance the political ballad like we do. I fear you may be risking too much for what you will be getting in return.

As always, with love,
L. Bellamont”

It only took a minute for Aries, with her arms full of papers and books, to march towards her mother’s bed chamber, toss the ledger and letters at the foot of her bed, and abruptly light a wall sconce with the fire of her destruction magic. She confronted her and demanded to know the full truth of her father’s death, and it wasn’t long before the footsteps of her brothers came rampaging through the house, only to arrive in the room brandishing their swords with confounded expressions on their faces as they saw Aries fuming at their mother. She demanded again, in front of her brothers, the full truth of their father’s death… so they got it.

Esther had a plan to use the Corsairs to raid rivaling trade vessels – namely, the Motierres. If she could take them out of the picture, the Machella family would practically be second to only the King of Daggerfall himself. She felt responsible for staying home in Daggerfall to manage business as usual and behooved Aries’ father to go in her stead. She supposed that he didn’t know how to properly manipulate the situation, but the Corsairs backstabbed her metaphorically and Florentius literally, as well as stealing the money they originally offered them.

Aries revealed that Esther wasn’t just backstabbed, but outmaneuvered, and revealed to her the evidence she found in the Motierres’ estate. This didn’t mean she forgave her mother, though. Aries was furious, but she found herself in a rather unique predicament. She had the power in her hands to send her mother to the dungeon for a very long time, and the only reason why the Motierres didn’t do it themselves is because they were hopelessly tied to the situation and would’ve incriminated themselves in the process as well. However, she also had proof in her hands that the Motierres’ were not only responsible for the murder of her father as well as captain of the Imperial army, they paid for it using the money that they were stealing from the Empire. She didn’t even need her mother’s letters to incriminate them. They were just bonuses.

So Aries gave her mother an ultimatum: step down as matriarch of House Machella and make her the inheritor of the title, passing down all deeds and right to her, or to be imprisoned in the Daggerfall dungeon, making Aries the matriarch anyways. This was her punishment for being partially responsible for the death of her father and being stupid enough to leave a paper trail of evidence behind her. Though there was a hint of disappointment in Esther’s eyes, and a lifetime of guilt, she looked upon her daughter with a proud smile. Though she wished to have been succeeded in a more dignified way, her daughter outplayed her, and she wouldn’t have any reason to worry about her career as a politician in her retirement. She agreed to Aries’ demands.

The room went quiet for a few moments and the air was still. Esther looked at the old Motierre letters and looked at Aries expectantly, who nodded in understanding and then told her brothers to find Laurent Bellemont and kill him. The snake knew far too much about House Machella’s dirty laundry. Though there was hesitation from her brothers, everyone eventually concluded that their family would be torn apart again if they didn’t do what they could to preserve it.

In the meantime, Aries knew exactly where she was going next. Though she had a long night of little to no sleep, it was nearly sunrise when she personally marched into Castle Daggerfall and demanded one of the palace guard to see the captain immediately, as well as alerting the steward, on grounds of conspiracy. Upon their summoning, they were directed to a private room, and though they were sleepy, they were quickly awakened by the news Aries shared. Cross referencing the history of written correspondence with the ledger and the date of Captain Florentius Machella’s death strongly suggested a link to the Motierres. Also, with the help of the captain and the steward, tearing pages out of the ledger and dividing up thirteen years of money laundering since the induction of Amaund Motierre into the Elder Council, the total average of money estimated to have been stolen from the Empire was 127,660 septims, five thousand of which was spent to kill one of the Empire’s own high-ranking officials. If the steward was drinking coffee, he would’ve spit it back out.

Though it would be challenging to pin the murder on the Motierres thanks to their ability to play the system, it would be incriminating enough to get the public to turn on them and there was no possible way they could weasel their way out of the laundering and corruption charges. Perhaps on another day they could’ve bought their innocence through bribery, but the conspiracy was far too big to risk their own heads when the Elder Council launches their own investigation into the issue. When the patriarch of House Motierre, Roswell Motierre, was summoned to the court of Castle Daggerfall by King Guilliot, he was accompanied by his son, Fontaine, and his wife. Though the proceedings resulted in no one being tossed in a dungeon cell and their noble status remained (likely through what remaining influence they had), the fines were exorbitant and steep, and many of their titles and holdings were seized as punishment. Though there was not enough evidence available to hold them accountable for the murder of Imperial Captain Florentius Machella without Esther’s own correspondence, the heavy implication of their involvement was enough to damage their public perception. They couldn’t drag Esther down with them without damning themselves, either.

Aries and Esther Machella both demanded for them to seek out and interview Laurent Bellemont as a witness and confirm their involvement in Florentius’ death. Laurent was found dead in his home. Too little evidence was left behind in the wee hours of the morning to trace who had done the deed, and though there was no evidence that the Motierres did it, they seemed to conveniently benefit the most out of his death. There was one murder implication stacked upon another. The Motierres cried out for justice, accusing House Machella of foul play and conspiracy, but they had no ground to stand on and no evidence to prosecute them with. Then Fontaine Motierre came forward, hurt and betrayed. In his rage, he invoked his right to a duel in the defense of his and his family’s honor, and challenged his ex-fiancee: Aries. Under the eyes of the Divines themselves, it would be in the hands of fate who would be deemed innocent.

Gabriel and Stefan both jumped to offer themselves as her champion, but she turned them down. Though warned that the Motierres may have likely poisoned their blades, she insisted. She knew Fontaine well, so she knew that he did not have very many hours of practice with a blade. In addition, she also knew that his mind would be clouded by revenge while her’s was steel cold. After finally putting her years of swordsmanship practice to practical use, her duel was over in seconds. She publicly embarrassed Fontaine in front of King Guilliot himself and the Motierres were found guilty on counts of fraud.

Many of the trade agreements the Motierres had were revoked by their business partners to severe their association with the family. The king seized some of their holdings and their trading vessels. This left open many opportunities for not just the Machellas to take advantage of, but other houses too, inadvertently rebalancing the power of the noble houses in the kingdom. Claiming their property, the city-state itself would find itself prospering a little more. The invisible money income dried up, ending the siphoning of gold from the Empire, which over time, will be reimbursed what was stolen. Only a few days later, a newspaper spread around Daggerfall; Elder Counsel member Amaund Motierre was forced to denounce the actions of his own family and issued a public expression of gratitude to House Machella for their faithful loyalty to the Empire and their pursuit of justice.

It was an enormous victory for House Machella after a long twelve years, but now it was more important than ever to remain diligent. The Motierres were backstabbed and lost an immense amount because of Aries, so they were going to be gunning for them in the future. They gave a lot of money to Castle Daggerfall to buy their protection and between the money, the influence that her brothers have been spreading among the ranks, their status as Knights of the Dragon, and the years of support that House Machella has shown the guard, they were assuredly all but in their pockets.

They could afford such an expense because the trade and holdings the Motierres once had were up for grabs, and the money being returned to the Empire meant that they were able to afford fairer trade agreements and the rebuilt roads through Skyrim gave them better access to their resources. House Machella was seeing an economic surge.

Though protected, Aries’ mind seemed to fall back on the Motierres quite frequently as the months passed. They were without a doubt trying to plan something and they had to stay ahead of the curve. The reason the Motierres lost everything is because they became complacent. The Machellas had to work to keep them from trying to regain too much power. On that same note, the other houses were steadily gaining power too. What Aries would probably do, if she was in their situation, is to recover their reputation and try to use the surrounding houses to quickly elevate themselves by association. If she did that first, it would rob the Motierres of that opportunity, as well as giving her own house enough influence to be virtually untouchable… and she had two dashing older brothers to do it with.

It took as little as a couple weeks to organize a proper dinner with the Julliards and the Wickermans. She had already spoken to her brothers about the importance of being wed – their duties and responsibilities has already stolen away so much time from them, they deserved a bit of happiness, yes? From women of Houses deserving of them, of course, not from some common tart. She was forthcoming with her brothers that yes, her intentions are politically motivated, but her reasoning for them to be personally invested wasn’t flawed. She personally knew the daughters of the other houses, and she guaranteed that they would be happy. She wouldn’t dare give her brothers anything less.

So they had their dinner and her brothers met the families and talked to their daughters. Gabriel hit it off with Chey Julliard and Stefan with Matilda Wickerman. Aries talked to their fathers – she expressed her wish to support them and, in turn, be supported by them. Their daughters will lead happy and fulfilling lives with her brothers as their husbands. At first, they laughed at the idea of a sister arranging her own brothers’ marriages, as it was usually done by their parents, but there wasn’t any humor in the offer itself. Though the Machellas had been working hard for years to get where they were now, to the other houses, it looked as though they had cut down House Motierre in one fell swoop and suddenly became one of the richest houses in Daggerfall. Having the Machellas on their side would be highly beneficial. So, they agreed to her offer.

In as quick as a month, and in the span of a week, twice could wedding bells be heard from the chapel. Through marriage, Houses Julliard and Wickerman allied themselves with House Machella.

Aries was only the matriarch of her house for a year when, during her time in the court of Castle Daggerfall, an Imperial arrived with the accompaniment of an armored guard. The nature of their armor resembled the armor her father used to wear, but it was brighter and adorned with golden filigree and red paint. Horse hair was sticking out like a mohawk from the top of their helmet, and their discipline was absolute as they walked robotically alongside the man they were escorting. The Imperial introduced himself as a diplomat of the Empire, and pulling out a parchment, he read aloud an official invitation on behalf of the Elder Council to Aries Machella to become an ambassador of the Empire in recognition of her dutiful and steadfast service, political and diplomatic ability, and history of working for the betterment of the Empire.

She was allowed as much time as she desired to mull over her decision and the diplomat will remain in Daggerfall until she has given her answer. In truth, her decision was made right away. The few days she spent before accepting the offer was in preparation of her absence, discussing trading plans, plots, and other topics of intrigue. She talked with her mother about all these things to make sure that they would be well suited in her absence, and later renamed her the matriarch of House Machella in a public announcement during the same speech she made it known that she accepted the Empire’s offer to become an Imperial Ambassador. She took the ship to Cyrodiil where she would begin the next leg of her journey.

The seafaring journey was long and tiring, and Aries didn’t have her sea legs yet, but the sight of Anvil lighthouse on the Gold Coast of the Abecean Sea was a beacon that heralded promise beyond it. The rested in Anvil and took a carriage up the Gold Road, and from miles away, The White-Gold Tower came into view. She crossed the Talos Bridge, entered the Imperial City – she was met with a detachment of Imperial Watchmen who escorted her through the Talos Plaza District and directly to the Imperial Palace. She stood before the Elder Council, taking in each and one of their faces, looking for Amaund Motierre among them. They didn’t hesitate in getting to the point and beginning the process right away, at least by Breton standards. The process was expected to last a few hours for what was essentially just an interview and personal assessment, but if it was easy, then everybody would be an ambassador.

They began with introductions, and the High Chancellor personally discussed the history of observation of her actions and how they have benefited the Empire, hence the cause for this proceeding. Other Chief Councilors have given additional context, lacing their segments with humor as they mentioned that they may have extended the invitation sooner had Chief Councilor Motierre sooner agreed to have her here. He apparently had changed his vote to invite Aries not long after denouncing his own house. One of them mentioned that it was refreshing to see the objective good of the Empire being prioritized over politics.

Moving on, Aries anticipated that although the answers to their questions mattered, it mattered just as much as how she responded to them. They were critically reading her every movement and gesture. A passing comment was made on the impeccably clean streak she has had over her career, and when Aries so much as breathed, another councilor would pounce.

One thing Aries noticed during the proceeding is that they seemed to be focused on Chief Councilor Amaund as much as they were on her. Surely, he had some burning questions of his own, but he made no mention and asked no questions of her involvement with House Motierre. When he was finished with his segment, a Nord councilmember asked why he did not address the mammoth in the room, Amaund said dismissively that the matter of the Motierre house in Daggerfall has already been concluded.

By the end of the proceeding, Aries had answered every question tactfully and directly. She was sure not to dodge any of their questions in any way, knowing that they would catch it and call her out on it immediately. They asked what felt like a hundred questions about the history of the Empire and its current relationships with the neighboring sovereign powers. When it seemed clear that she had a clean record, had a working knowledge of the world, and was totally devoted to the betterment of the Empire, they held her ceremony where she recited an oath of loyalty.

The next couple of months was spent learning about the job from other diplomats and ambassadors inside the Imperial Palace and spending a disgusting amount of time on study and research of current events and the history of Imperial relationships with the other powers. It introduced her to an entirely different world by exposing her to information that wasn’t otherwise shared with the public. If she had enough free time in the week, she would spend a day to walk around the Imperial City with the escort of a city guard, hoping to familiarize herself with the beautiful city and its people, because she knew it wouldn’t be long before her real job would begin and take her away from it all.

The next two years of her career had her hard at work. In some ways, it was a transformative experience. It had been far too long since she was in a position of servitude. It took some time to transition from being at the top of the pecking order to serving the Elder Council, but she kept reminding herself of perspective. No matter who she was before, or who she thought she was before, she was less than she is now; an ambassador was far more important than the leader of a noble house. Aries was sent off from place to place, namely where there were still Imperial interests, such as Skyrim, to see how the reunification process was going.

However, the real focus over the course of her career is the relationship between the Empire and Hammerfell. The Great War and the White-Gold Concordant placed a massive wedge between the two powers, and the fact that Hammerfell defeated the Thalmor invaders had likely only reinforced their decision. Her efforts over the past two years have mostly been working towards attempting to negotiate an alliance with Hammerfell – not as a province of the Empire, but as its own sovereign power, with hopes that it would one day lead to Hammerfell once again becoming an Imperial province (of course, though, she left that part out.)

In some ways, she had made great strides. She broke the ice with the locals through displays of humility and a willingness to understand their culture and history on a personal level. She wasn’t too enraptured in the hubris seen in past diplomats -- as a woman who’s political experience was outside of Empire, she had that advantage, and was better at hiding her shortcomings. She made headway through trade deals and a willingness to support parts of Hammerfell that weren’t exactly lucrative, but in hopes that a divide and conquer strategy would help raise support for the Empire among the majority of people if not the rulers themselves. She wore their clothing, ate their food, and followed their customs, showing that merely the respect for their traditions goes a long way to developing a meaningful relationship between people.

However, all of it seemed to have come crashing down with the arrival of the dwemer. She couldn’t believe her eyes as massive ships sailed through the sky and occupied the once noble and proud Redguard of the Alik’r under the threat of massacre, still too weak from the aftermath of the Great War. The initial invasion force was sudden and ruthless, characterized by a display of power, superior resources, and callous tactics. They cut down the defense force of Sentinel with little difficulty, and like the palace, the Imperial embassy also found itself besieged. It’s soldiers and Aries’ own guards were being overwhelmed, and their resistance would’ve been meaningless if Aries stood idly behind them and allowed her forced to be routed.

A controlled arc of lightning bounced between the dwemer’s armored foot soldiers, that electricity contracting their muscles long enough for Aries to summon an ethereal sword through her conjuration magic and personally leading her men in the charge against the squad of dwemer. With her men at her back, Aries showcased her years of swordplay practice. Her footwork was measured and meticulous, her precision with the blade was unprecedented given her status as an ambassador. To the redguards who had witnessed the scene as her and her bodyguards cut a bloody swathe towards the palace, who valued strength and swordsmanship so highly in their society, her prowess, though not on an expert level, was a demonstration worthy of respect.

Unfortunately, their plan to hole themselves in the palace proved fruitless when they discovered multiple centurions upon their arrival. With few other options left, Aries decided to retreat from Sentinal. With the help of her bodyguards, they found some camels and began riding south with the dwemer following close behind. One by one, they picked her guards off from afar with their rifles until she was accompanied by only one. By that point, they were too far into the desert for the dwemer to follow.

They had since traveled from village to village, spreading the word of danger. It would seem that not long after their arrival, the dwemer would soon follow. When they could finally reach the next major city, they found it already occupied by the dwemer. After spending some time undercover in the new city, Aries was able to ascertain some of the current events over west. The Empire had fallen and the White-Gold Tower was under Dwemer control. News of the Dominion moving in to take advantage of the chaos had also spread. Now stranded in enemy-occupied Hammerfell, without her vast wealth and influence, Aries vowed vengeance against the Dwemer. She now operates out of the shadows, covertly attempting to sabotage the dwemer and the Dominion, and trying find a way to defeat them and recover the Empire. She hopes to stoke the flames of rebellion in Hammerfell and rekindle their faith in the Empire through joining forces against their mutual enemies. Under the guise of a merchant woman, she made her way southbound to meet her contact in Gilane.

Personality

In some ways, Aries reflects her heritage. The ferocity and regality she exudes matches the intensity of the dragons on Imperial and Daggerfall banners, giving the impression that when push came to shove, she might actually stare down a real, live dragon -- unflinchingly; and the aforementioned "intensity" might actually be the best word to describe her. Aries is intense. She has a powerful and assertive personality that commands space and screams a demand for respect, and it's present in the way she talks, walks, and carries herself. She knows what she wants. When it's nothing but her and an obstacle or pest obstructing her way, you can see her in her rawest state: not mincing her words, speaking the truth as she sees it, and the cold calculation of her eyes creating steam with the heat of her passion. By all means, a lot of her motivations are driven by her emotions, but they're logically processed and acted upon. Her emotions are tempered by an almost sociopathic measure of emotionally-dissociated calculation. When you cut deep down into the core of who Aries is, she is a woman with an ax to grind, and if you get in her way, she has no problem using your bones to do it.

But she is so much more complicated than her drive and passion. Odds are that you will never see her fired up. Like many people, she wears a mask, but hers is so much more decorated than the average person. Smoke and mirrors are her weapons of choice. She doesn't mince words when you've lathered her temper, but the rest of the time? It's like everything she says has two meanings, both clearly communicated with her precision of vocabulary. She is deliberate and carefully weighs her words every time she speaks, taking communication to an art form as she conveys her intended meaning every time. She can expertly weave her words together to persuade, bargain, seduce, and even intimidate. She's patient enough to wait for an opening and proactive enough to act on it. She knows the political game inside and out, so if she knows that you have a secret you want hidden, you can guarantee that she'll eventually find a way to lure it out of you if she cares enough to -- which leads into her ability to read people. As someone who has made a career out of talking and listening, she can has a sharp insight for deception and diversions, which is reflective of a keen mind and laser-like focus. If you tell a lie, it must be flawless. One stray thread in your story, and Aries will tug at that thread until the entire fabric unravels. Exposing someone bare brings a particular kind of joy to Aries, tearing someone down who might deserve it and simultaneously proving herself as someone to not take lightly by feeding her a load of bullshit.

She isn't infallible, though. Hard to deceive, yes, but she often defaults to not trusting anybody across the board. If her focus is currently on someone who might not deserve it, it creates an opening for her real enemies. She is also headstrong, preferring to have it her way even if there might be a better option, and although she's not a fool, she's also a gambler. She'd rather have a large victory than a small one. She is also arrogant, rarely ever viewing others below her station as deserving of the same respect. It would seem that it's because of her station that she believes she's wiser, smarter, or deserving of obedience to her authority. It sounds like your typical noble, right? But she isn't quite so outward with her disposition, showing at least some self-awareness. In her neutral state, she'll talk respectfully, but there might always be that feeling of alienation from her due to the power difference index. What's more, she is rather... desperate. Her high ambitions were suddenly whisked away with the collapse of an Empire, making instant enemies with the Dwemer. Mistaking her as fragile would be your undoing, but she's definitely desperate to regain what she's lost, so the clarity of her vision might be shaky at times -- especially during moments of high stress.

Intense, calculating, headstrong, and ambitious; the four cornerstones of her personality makes way for someone with the potential to become a great leader, provided that they learn an ounce of humility and sense of camaraderie. She is passionate, uncompromising, and loyal to the Empire. She rides a fine line between remaining faithful to the rule of law and the philosophy of "by any means necessary." Peeling past the layers of deception and social niceties is difficult, but even if you do and find that Aries seems to be in the political game only to seize power for herself, she ultimately wants what is best for the world. Her time serving the Empire has taught her a lot about the world, and now she genuinely believes that a Tamriel united under a single Empire would be to the benefit of everyone. She hopes to step into a rather large pair of boots in the absence of any Imperial leaders and defeat the Dwemer, so that she may rekindle the Empire. While there is no surefire way to her heart, the best way to earn any modicum of trust is by demonstrating loyalty and capability. If you show that you have no intention of undermining her and that you are competent, that's enough to earn a begrudging respect; and if your goals align, you might even find an ally in her. All that she asks is that you have faith in her vision.

The Spoopiest Skeletons

Woorah Sha, from Stormflx's Star Wars - The Old Republic: Legacy

Name:

Woorah Sha

Age:

30

Class:

Bounty Hunter / Mercenary / Arsenal

Home Planet:

Ryloth

---

Appearance:

Woorah stands out in a crowd, not just a a turquoise colored twi'lek, but also because she is an inch shy of being seven feet tall. Despite the tendency for female twi'leks to be sexually objectified, and she certainly could invest in her appearance if she tried, people are usually taken aback when they see her. She's not like most twi'leks; built like some kind of amazonian warrior, her arms, back, abs, and shoulders broad with what must have been a lifetime worth of strength training. Her features are striking, with high pronounce cheekbones creating a sort of shadow over cheeks and giving her face an angular appearance on an otherwise squared shape. A single claw-shaped scar stretches from the bottom of the right side of her jaw to the middle of her cheek. Her eyes contrasts her skin with an intense orange hue and violet colored make up or warpaint covering the whole ocular socket and winging off a little bit down her nose, but far off to the sides of her head by her temple. A similar shade paints her upper lip, but her bottom lip is barren of makeup except for a single stripe running down the center. Woorah's lekku have wavy stripes going down from base to tip, but that is as complex as the pattern goes.

Her demeanor and how she carries herself is rather unusual for the type of image the above description would evoke, though. Her eyelids are usually drooped over her eyes, in a rather bored, uninterested, unimpressed, or apathetic fashion. This does not suggest that she does not feel, though some people might come to think that, but rather she does not wear her emotions on her face and instead has adopted a boring persona. This impeccable poker face is often root of many a hilarious dead-pan remarks and comments at the expense of others, and sometimes her bored, uncaring countenance will be interrupted by an immature smirk once in a while, but usually she just gives the impression that she'd rather not devote too much energy to any particular task and would rather spend her time lazing around. Though the perceptive ones among us would take note that the lazy do not have the build of an alpha kath hound. This goes to tell you that this display of passiveness is a show of deception, and luring the people around her into a false sense of security. Even while she's lazing around, she carries and positions herself carefully like she's expecting trouble – it's the relaxed, disguised poise of a hunter.

Her casual wares is telling, wearing a “keeping it simple” fashion sense with a v-necked white shirt, though a closer inspection reveals that the fabric is duranex, making it lightweight yet cut-resistant. This shirt is tucked into some snug-fitting, padded, synthleather pants. By the time you meet the high-cut boots, it becomes clear that she dresses for practicality, because nobody would take her for a person with a fashion-sense. The only accessories she wears with this outfit is a utility belt, a holster that is strapped to her right thigh, and she wears on her left wrist a wrist link.

When she's wearing her gear, she's a completely different sight. She's decked out in Flex Heavy Armor and a personalized Mandalorian styled helmet, complete with the T-shaped visor, but with two rounded slots in the back to compensate for her lekku. To clarify, this helmet slides right onto her face – she doesn't have to thread her lekku through a couple of holes. To go into detail about what she carries with her besides her two micro-pulse blasters would be a long list of technobabble, but it suffices to say that it comes equipped with a JT-9 jetpack, an adrenaline stimulator belt that acts as a home for grenades and mines, a retractable blade underneath her right wrist, a wrist rocket launcher on both arms, a miniature rail-cannon right behind the launcher on her left arm, and all of the ammunition she needs to make use of her gadgets. She has at her disposal a huge arsenal, and she can't wait to show you what it looks like.

Personality:

Woorah is a little peculiar all things considered, because she doesn't carry herself in a way that would be expected of someone her size, shape, and age. She has mastered her poker face, carrying herself in a rather bored, uncaring, and even lazy manner. Indeed, she comes off to others as a very nonchalant individual and that things will usually work themselves out in the end, and perhaps not the whole presentation is a complete and utter facade and part of her might actually believe that not everything is worth putting all of her energy into. This apparent complacency does not equate to her being hospitable though. Instead, the delivery of the abrasive or blunt nature of her snark comes off as rather deadpan, since emotion is mostly filtered out of her casual everyday interactions. Jaded, uncaring, and seemingly impossible to impress, she mostly seems interested in chewing bubblegum and tinkering around.

That makes it especially hard to notice the other aspects of her personality. Her bluntness, for instance, is far more ingrained in her personality than her stoic presentation is. It's symptomatic of half a life lived while being raised and nurtured by Mandalorians. She speaks her mind and says what she means, always looking others in the eye, but her disposition sometimes makes others wonder if she's just being sarcastic or implying at something else. Which is fine by her, because as far as she cares, she did her job. She spoke her mind and how the other person receives that message isn't her problem. This devil may care attitude serves her well, as it keeps the other person guessing. A stranger being able to predict her is more unsettling than anything else, because she likes having the edge that being hard to read gives her over other people. Whether its one way or another, Woorah likes being in control even if the other party doesn't realize it. Having access to information or munitions unavailable to the other party makes her feel secure just in case she needs make an explosive exit or put the fear of Woorah into some poor bantha fodder.

Naturally, there is a side to her that she keeps to herself and doesn't ever show to anyone who isn't a part of her clan. She has proven to be intensely loyal to those she has devoted herself to protecting. Whether it's her sister or the other Mandalorians, they are her family, and to slight them is to slight Woorah. Though the years of discipline and number of firefights she has been in has steeled her nerves, tempered her resolve, and stoked her tenacity, she is not beyond losing her cool and tossing aside her poker face if it's in the name of survival or the absolute annihilation of her enemies. This telling emotional intensity can be counter-productive, making her easily readable and possibly manipulated, so she keeps this vulnerability under wraps as best she can. She rationalizes that if she can keep her emotions hidden, the enemy can't control them, which means to her that she's the one in control. Though it isn't readily apparent, love has actually been one of her greatest motivators in life.

Her relationship with the Mandalorians, and their multi-ethnic culture, means that she mostly doesn't suffer from racial prejudices – mostly. She still finds herself filled with hatred when she sees a Gamorrean or a Hutt, or any slaver, and heedful with Trandoshans at best. While there were one or two of the latter among their ranks, and they were the exception – not the rule. Her life philosophies reflect the philosophies taught in the Resol'nare and Canons of Honor. To live honestly and with honor, to seek glory in battle, and to be Mandalorian meant to readily die in the stead of a loved one. Though recently she has come in conflict with her code of honor; she is not sure if she could truly answer the Mandalore's call to arms if it meant potentially meeting her sister on the battlefield. She also wondered what it meant to be a leader. If the Mandalore did indeed lose to Exar Kun or whomever else, would they be a leader worth following if they dishonored themselves and all Mandalorians by dedicating the entire clan to another man's cause? A man who was not even Mandalorian?

Woorah, might not show it, but she has grown to be insightful, cunning, and acutely aware of her surroundings even if she might feign ignorance. She's intelligent enough to understand complex tactics and the construction and chemistry behind high-tech explosives and propulsion technology, and is a decent enough mechanic to perform some simple maintenance on her small freighter. At her best, Woorah is devoted and honest, but at her worst, she can be callous and volatile.

History:

The Makings of a Warrior

The Outer Rim planet of Ryloth was not home to many of the same luxuries that were afforded to the Core worlds, and given it's inhospitable environment of ripe volcanic activity and thick jungles filled with dangerous predators, it was also a risky investment for Imperial activity. With no major government keeping a close eye on the twi'lek home planet, this left it available to those who would exploit its resources and its people: the Hutts. Though it has been a target for so long, the Sha family stayed safe in the damp underground and never thought that it would ever happen to them. Unga'rasha and Ani'sha, her father and mother, cultivated edible fungi and made textiles to provide for their clan. There wasn't much time in her childhood for their parenting style or their philosophies to leave a mark on Woo'rasha and her younger sister, Allu'rasha, before they were dragged from their homes by Hutt cartel slavers with their mother. Trandoshans and Gamorreans sacked their home and when their father tried to defend them, a blaster bolt sent him dropping to the floor like a sack of bricks. Combined with brute force, they had broken their mother's fighting spirit and she allowed not just herself to be taken, but her children too. Woo'rasha was old enough to understand what was happening, and when she saw her mother give up, she felt betrayed.

Ani'sha was separated from her children and was probably sent to some backwater planet to act as some Hutt's trophy. It's difficult to say exactly where – Woo'rasha never saw her since then. She never committed herself to trying to get her back, accepting her fate like her mother did theirs when the three were first abducted from Ryloth, but that was also all the time she had to think on the matter. The cartel was keen on breaking the children to become subservient to their new Hutt master, Kabbura, on Nar Shaddaa. They knew better than to beat or whip them – you can't leave lasting marks on the merchandise after all... especially with the Cultural Exchange Festival coming soon. It was a series of days that came every couple of years where the merchants and traders would come to Nar Shaddaa to trade in exotic materials and products with one another, and there was a market for everything. Kaburra was of the mind that he would rent out some of his slaves for a night, and two young Ryloth-born twi'leks were bound to be popular with the other unlawful types. They were both above the average height – that must have meant that they were passable.

So instead they poked and prodded them with force pikes. Woo'rasha was the one between the two who gave them the most trouble, helplessly trying to defend her younger sister. It is entirely possible that her sister would have broken and succumbed were it not for her trying her damnedest to keep her together, but her younger sister was always the insightful and intuitive one. She was the one to tell her when she shouldn't fight back, as though she could see something Woo'rasha couldn't. The they were both too young and not matured enough for most people to try taking advantage of them, but that didn't stop Kabbura from parading two young twi'lek girls around like they were trophies.

Despite Woo'rasha's fighting spirit, she still felt afraid, and meeting Kabbura for the first time had put the fear of God in her. Whatever she did to the guards before, she never tried laying a single finger on the Hutt. Woo'rasha and Allu'rasha spent years grovelling underneath Kabbura's slimy thumb. While the older sister spent every waking moment she could wracking her mind to come up with a way to escape (that is, when the Hutt's enforcers weren't trying to beat her and make an example of her), the younger one had just about given up.

When the Cultural Exchange Festival finally arrived, Woo was 14 years old and Allu was 10, and though Woo was older, her temperament discouraged anyone who would be interested in renting her from Kaburra for a night. Allu, on the other hand, was far more... submissive. Thus began the most frightening and fury-filled night of Woo'rasha's life. She spat and fought, bit and raged against her captors, and was prodded and stunned by force pikes only to start fighting again as soon as she finally regained consciousness. It was beginning to anger Kaburra. One of the most important events of the decade, and one of his products was beginning to cost him! Who knows what he would have done to her, if a particular group of men in suits of armor hadn't come to watch her fight and spit. They were amused, watching her like it was some kind of show. When the spit came flying their way, one of the dissatisfied men violently kicked her down to the ground, but it wasn't enough to stop someone who was already hardened by years of abuse. Another person entering the fray was exactly the type of distraction she needed, for while she was on the ground, she used her feet to pull the bottom of a Gamorrean's force pike towards her and kicked it into the bruiser's face.

With the pike still on its stun setting, it was enough send the Gamorrean falling over and convulsing for a few moments. Woo'rasha scrambled to try wrapping her chains around its neck until the other Gamorrean at her side yanked harshly on them from behind and sent her flying back. The guard promptly set its foot on top of her to keep her from moving while it prodded her with its own force pike over and over again on a lower setting. The armored men's amusement were replaced with surprised satisfaction, as though they were impressed – they agreed to ask for the Gamorrean to stop and to lead them to Kaburra. Woo'rasha, still chained, was dragged with them to meet her Hutt master. There, the men introduced themselves as Mandalorians, and the senior among them was named Garter Oai, who offered to buy the young twi'lek's freedom. It wasn't a hard trade on Kaburra's part at all, for it was either to hold onto a slave girl that couldn't be easily controlled or make him any money, or to make some profit now and cut his losses. The two parties agreed on a price, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she felt her shackles come off.

It didn't stop Woo'rasha from fighting, however. As far as she was concerned she was trading one master for another, and more importantly, they were going to leave her sister behind. She kicked and screamed, refusing to be taken again, believing that the freedom they bought her was an illusion. Finally, they relented. They asked, “Who's your sister, girl?”

“Allu'rasha.” She answered. “I'm Woo'rasha.”

They allowed her to lead them to where they were usually kept, and it took some time for her sister to return. When she did, she was escorted by a single Gamorrean, and shuffled along the ground. Her eyes were aimed the ground, dispirited, and avoided eye contact. She was more submissive, yes, but this? This was different. It looked like she lost any hope of fighting back, even while presented with the opportunity to leave. Woo had no idea what she suffered while she was gone, but whatever it was, it must have been terrible. The Mandalorians looked on with pity.

They told her they couldn't take her. Naturally, they were met with indignation, but they explained; it was because they were Mandalorians that they could not take her. They were a culture of warriors, and someone whose spirit was already so broken could never hope to survive their way of life. In addition, she was wrapped around Kaburra the Hutt's finger, and he would not be so keen on losing her too. It costed them enough to get one of them out of slavery as it was. Though she was still angry, it was the prodding of Allu'rasha that convinced her. Woo's younger sister told her to leave while she had the chance, and when she was stronger, Woo could come back for her. They shared a heartfelt goodbye and a hug, and Woo'rasha found herself stepping onto a G-Type light shuttle and flew off world for the first time in what felt like... forever. Garter Oai tried to ease the tension on board by half-halfheartedly offering her a chewstim.

The life ahead of her would be rough grueling – she would become acquainted with the best and the worst the Mandalorians had to offer her, but the one who had saved her, Garter Oai, would be the one that would teach her all of life's basics, especially including survival and combat. This new life began as soon as her feet touched the ground on world of Mandalore. The planet was varied in its different environments, with white-sand deserts near the equator and massive forests to the north, and when Mandalore couldn't provide, she would be shipped to the orbiting moon of Concordia, covered in thick forests – though some spots were stripped down for mining at this point of time, it was still dangerous enough with the local fauna that she would get a nice scar on the right side of her face from a maalraas.

The trials ahead of her consisted of being forced to fend for herself in the wilderness, being thrown into intense obstacle courses, enduring the elements, strength and endurance training, weapon training, computer usage, repair, first aid, and so on. Some training exercises required her to react almost instantly, conditioning the instinct to draw her weapon or parry an attack at a moment's notice, even if you've no reason to suspect it. She was rated on how quickly she could draw her beskar blade – Mandalorian iron – at the sound of a force pike or other similar weapon being activated behind her back at random times. The sound was a familiar one to her, and it often evoked a quick reaction from her, but it's true purpose was to simulate a fight with a Sith or Jedi, who were regarded to be one of the strongest opponents.

Some exercises were especially brutal. Not just physically, but mentally. They sought to condition her in almost every way.

“What's your name?!” Garter yelled at her while she exercised in the midst of a tropical storm.

“Woo'rasha!” She'd yell back.

“Wrong!” He'd shout, kicking her in the ribs. She couldn't tell if the crack came from her ribs or the distant thunder. When she fell over, they'd tell her to get back up. The hutts and slavers never wanted her to get back up, they didn't encourage perseverance. They would then continue, “Your father died shamefully and your mother left you for dead! Why do you cling to your old clan? Your clan is nothing! You owe nothing! You're a Mandalorian now! What's your name?!”

“Woorah! Sha!” She'd answer.

“What's your name?!”

“Woorah! Sha!”

The conjoining of a twi'lek's personal and clan name was meant to signify unity. To break them apart was to be dishonored or exiled. While she was not exiled or dishonored in the truest sense, she was dishonored by her own family, and to be left for dead could be a form of exile. This way, Woorah severed her own connection to her former clan. She was in the Mandalorian clan now – that's all that mattered. They drilled her on the Canons of Honor and rules of battle, what it meant to be strong and what it meant to be a Mandalorian; the Six Actions. She spoke the language, wore the armor, and acted for the sake of the clan. Though she soon found herself at home here, she was told to never reveal to an enemy or potential enemy what you're thinking. If you keep them guessing, they won't be able to predict what your next move will be. So she began practicing her poker face. She wasn't very good at it.

She even learned from weapon smiths, and found her talent in the chemistry of demolition. They volatile reactions and how to control or provoke them came naturally to her, and she found herself helping them make everything from fireworks to land mines and jump packs. There were some close calls, but she dedicated enough time with the weapon smiths to build a small usable arsenal from dumb rockets to the higher tech remotely-detonated magnetic darts, becoming one of the clan's demolition experts. Over the course of five years of dedicated every day training, she was, for all intents and purposes, a Mandalorian.

Her first mission would be at the age of 19, and her first mission would be at the historical Battle of Iskadrell. The Mandalorian Crusaders raided the cyborg slavers, and leading their ranks was Mandalore the Indomitable himself, piloting their personal basilisk war droid. His power and prowess in battle was unmatched, cutting down swathes of the enemy forces single-handedly in an unparalleled display of martial prowess. If the zealotry of the crusaders weren't enough, the Mandalore leading the spearhead was bolstered their spirits even further. To them, the battle was nothing more but an exercise. To some, a statement. Others found nothing but honor in the glory of combat, and while Woorah too found herself caught up in the exhilaration of the fight – ripping holes through all of her enemies with her repeating heavy blaster, blasting and tearing them apart with her vibroblade and home-cooked explosives – it was the liberation and conversion of thousands of slaves that she found most worthwhile. Not only did it give the battle a purpose, to her it also felt like a taste of revenge against those who would practice slavery. In her eyes, it made the honor and spilled blood of their glorious victory taste even sweeter.

Hell, she even wanted a tattoo to commemorate the occasion, which most if not all Mandalorians respect, but Garter was a fussy adoptive dad of sorts. He pressed to minimize the number of permanent markers as much as possible. Woorah reluctantly conceded.

The many following years of her life would be filled with such battles, triumphs and defeats alike, but they never cowed in the faced of adversity and that's what kept their battles from being true defeats. It was shortly after the Battle of Iskadrell, now a blooded Mandalorian, did she ship out to return to Nar Shaddaa five years after she had initially left. She had two Mandalorians at her back in case things went south: Suna and Rayton, Mandalorians of her generations. The clan as a whole did not seek an all-out war between the trade planet and the many different cartels of Hutts that called it their home, but Woorah was following one of the Six Actions in defending her family, even if that family member was not one of the Mandalorians. Technically, there was no strict rule against it. If she were to fail here, it meant that the clan was obligated to back her up, and that meant war with all the Hutt cartels allied with Nar Shaddaa.

When she finally arrived and came face to face with Kaburra the Hutt once more, it took everything she had to keep herself from trying to kill him as he condescended to her. Mocked and belittled her as the same scared child that left him that day, and sarcastically commented on how glad he was to see her so grown up and strong, and that it was like watching his own children come of age. He continued to give her the run around when all she wanted to know was where her little sister was, until he was finally satisfied with exacting the kind of emotional response he wanted to get out of Woorah.

“She left me,” he said, “shortly after you did. Some men in robes asked for her, proposed a gamble I couldn't refuse.”

Though there was a look of desolation on her face, there was also a spark of hope. She wasn't here, but that wasn't a bad thing. Anywhere would be better than being a slave on this garbage planet.

Kaburra continued, “I don't like cheaters, so worry not Woo'rasha, I do intend on taking her back.”

Her hand immediately reached for the blaster pistol at her side, prompting all of the bodyguards in the room to draw their own weapons – and one of the Mandalorians at her side, Rayton, set his hand on hers, keeping her from drawing her weapon.

“That's all we came for.” He calmly reminded her. The twi'lek sighed out her frustration and nodded, leaving Kaburra alone in his chamber. He heard him call out after her, “If you ever come back here again, know that you'll never leave.”

The most she could hope for her sister from that moment was that wherever she was now, she was living a better life or that her suffering had ended. The brutal life of being a Mandalorian had her come to acknowledge and appreciate the brevity of life, and death was simply one part of it. She moved forward with her sister in mind, and though she was prepared for the worst, hoped that she may once again see her in the future. After seven years of many trials and hardships and stories to tell, fighting everything from beasts to battles and raids, she would get her wish at the age of 26.

Preceding the events that ignited the Great Sith War were years of boiling tension and preparations – the actions of Exar Kun and Ulric-Qel Droma were inciting unrest among countless factions across the galaxy. Some societies, like the Mandalorians, could practically smell war coming. It was a like a fog rolling across the stars, or a smoke billowing from a small handful of kindling. There were preparations to be made on their part as well if they were to play a part in the events to come. One such place where they could possibly use one of the Sith's ancient weapons against them was Malachor V, a planet that was deemed sacred by the Mandalorians, and mythed to be one of the locations for the originating Sith temples. Her clan sought to be the ones to prove the fact and Woorah was one of the ones who volunteered to find them. They were warned to come fully geared just in case, so she did just that. Covered in Flex Heavy Armor, sporting her jet-pack, armed to the teeth with wrist launchers and home-made demolitions, a couple of blaster pistols, and so on. There was a reason why she was famed in the clan for being a walking arsenal.

Unexpectedly, the fertile planet was lush, hospitable, and surprisingly devoid of any “crazy, unsettling, Dark-side voodoo magic” as the Mandalorians called it. No sign of civilization. There wasn't even a large abundance of predators, and their comlinks weren't suffering any interference, which was enough to convince the warriors that it was safe enough to split up to cover more ground. Woorah went ahead on her own to search the forest floor for any sign of an ancient civilization. She felt the tip of her boot hit a rock and she looked down –

The electrical sound of a weapon ignited nearby, and instantly, Woorah reacted with a retractable beskar blade ejecting from the underarm of her armor. She spun around and the blade immediately came into contact with a brilliant blue beam of light. Sparks flew between her blade and a lightsaber. Woorah had no time to get a visual on her assailant before they leaped away, but they were obviously a Jedi of some sort, and judging by the distance they put between them, they must have been alarmed by the fact that their weapon didn't immediately slice her in twain. It was that distance that helped her attacker to avoid an energy bolt that came screaming from the blaster in Woorah's other hand. The Jedi was swift and nimble, far more than Woorah was while covered in all of her armor and gear. They came flying at Woorah's back, so she activated her jetpack to send a rush of blistering hot fire and exhaust towards the Jedi's face, causing them to rear back just long enough for the propulsion to turn Woorah around while she was in the air so that she could face them directly –

That face... she'd know that deep ocean-blue face and elaborate lekku pattern anywhere.

Her moment of hesitation was enough to allow the Jedi to close the gap and swing an upward swipe towards Woorah as she landed, who only came to her senses just fast enough to narrowly avoid the lightsaber – but her helmet was scored up the center. The armor fell apart, revealing her face to Woorah's attacker. Revealing her face to Allu'rasha. Her face was stunned and speechless, her mouth agape, and Allu'rasha met her with an expression that was none too different.

“Allu'rasha...” Woorah said breathlessly, still not believing her eyes.

“Woo...” Her sister replied. Her body was covered in the iconic coarseweave tunic, but were dark brown in color and was lacking the tunic. Her pants were tucked into some black boots, and she wore a dark colored tunic. Woorah wasn't quite sure what she was seeing. Based on the illustrations she has seen, the way she dressed resembled both Jedi and Sith, but her lightsaber was definitively blue. The lightsaber itself was then suddenly deactivated. Alarmingly, the tone of Allu'rasha's voice suddenly sounded harsh as she asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I... ought to ask the same of you.” Woorah answered with some confusion. There was a sort of serenity in her sister's voice that she never remembered hearing before, although it almost sounded strained, as if she wasn't accustomed to using it. “What are you? A Jedi?”

“Yes...” She answered with some reluctance. Then she pointed towards the rock that Woorah had stepped on earlier. “And I came for that.”

Upon closer inspection, the partially buried rock had engravings upon the surface. Before Woorah had any time to even contemplate the discovery, the lightsaber ignited once again, and burned a hole straight into the ground. When the lightsaber turned off, the stone was destroyed and whatever script that was on it before was either gone or illegible.

“What was that for?” Woorah demanded. “And for a Jedi, you were awfully quick to try killing me.”

“I didn't know it was you!” Allu'rasha refuted. “The Jedi has its need for shadows, and Sith relics like these and those who seek to use them must be destroyed. The real question is why are you looking for them?”

“To fight the Sith, of course. Rumor has it there's a war brewing, haven't you heard?”

“Oh, Woo'rasha...” Her sister sighed.

“It's Woorah now.” She corrected.

“...What?” Allu'rasha spat, looking insulted. “Have you lost your senses?”

“Have you?” Woorah shot back. “Father died like a coward. Mother gave up on us. Why would you want to hold onto that? That sorry excuse of a clan did nothing for you or me, but the Mandalorians did everything.”

“Not for me.” Allu'rasha said. “But you did. That's why I kept it.”

“But Allura has such a pretty ring to it.”

“Don't... call me that.” Her sister said gravely at first, but then she sighed. Shaking her head, she took a few steps back. From that moment, a voice from Woorah's wristcom crackled to life.

“Sol`yc Ver`alor Woorah Sha, this is Alor`ad Garter Oai reporting in – nothing here to the west. What's your status? Over.”

Allu'rasha's voice called out to Woorah before she could answer, “I can't... let you do this to me. I can't allow myself to be compromised, but I need you to listen to me: there are events unfolding that you can't foresee. When the time for your battle does come, your Mandalore will not be able to defeat Exar Kun. The Mandalorians – your... people are already fetishizing the dark side's power. Whatever you do... just please promise me that you won't pick the wrong side.”

Woorah hesitated for a few seconds, wondering if she should be honest to her captain or if she should lie to him for her sister's sake. It was an excruciating few seconds until she made her decision.

“Negative, nothing to report. This place is a dump.”

“Ten-four, we'll rally back to the rendezvous point and try to find another location. Over and out.”

Following the exchange on the comlinks, there was a few awkward moments of silence shared between the two sisters. A few off glances, especially for Woorah, who was so used to looking every one of her clan members in the eye and speaking her mind directly. Finally, their eyes locked together.

“Nice moves.” Woorah commented dryly.

“You too.”

“Where'd you get them?”

“My master. Temple instructors. They found me not even a year after you left. You?”

“Right... Mandalorians. Battles. Fist fighting wild animals.”

“Right...”

“Freed some slaves on Iskadrell, too.” Woo added.

“I wondered if you were there. Sounds like something you'd do.”

“Allu... rasha...” Woorah began, “...will I see you again?”

Her sister took a deep breath and pondered the question for a moment before saying, “That will depend on you.”

Allu'rasha suddenly disappeared, as if vanishing into thin air, but the rustle of the grass gave her away. To think that her sister had been adopted by the Jedi after all this time, and now she had her cool new weapons and crazy space magic. It would take some time to get used to, but so would her new disposition. She was never the type to fight, let alone make a first strike. She was never the type to sound so confident... or so wise... and it got Woorah thinking about the warning her sister made about picking the wrong side. She wasn't sure if she meant the wrong side for herself or simply the side that was the opposite of her sister. It would require some extensive thought. She didn't feel like she could just leave the clan on a whim, but it was surprising how her sister was able to make her doubt everything so easily.

She wasn't wrong, though. The clan seemed convinced that this power was their answer to winning.

Woorah returned to the rendezvous point and they eventually returned home with no results. They questioned why she was missing her helmet, but she shrugged them off by saying the damn thing hasn't been fitting her right for a while and she got frustrated with it; but if there was ever a Sith temple on this planet, they couldn't find it. They thought that it had to be invisible or long gone by now, but the guilt of lying ate at her a little bit. She hid her feelings with a stoic poker face, mastered over many years of practice, and went back to business as usual. Except it wasn't business as usual. The next two years were spent critically analyzing her clan with the echoes of her sister's warning ringing in her head.

She watched and listened, payed attention to the politics of Mandalorian leadership that she payed no heed to before – so many of them talked about the honor it would be to fight with a “Not Jedi”; a Sith. A Jedi too, perhaps, but the Sith were closer to their way of life. Seeking power to fulfill victory, and what a grand duel it would be... but Woorah realized that if any of the Sith were any stronger with their Force powers and lightsaber skills than her sister was, then none of them stood a chance. Exar Kun? Allura was convinced that even Mandalore the Indomitable couldn't beat them. What would that mean for Woorah? Would she have to fight her sister? If she joined her side, she'd have to fight her clan, and that wasn't an option either. She never thought about the consequences of losing or fighting a battle like this before. There seemed to be so few choice available and the time remaining until the impending war boiled over was running short.

When she was 28, she finally talked to her clan. She explained that after spending fourteen long years learning all she could about how to be a proper Mandalorian and finding glory in the name of the clan, she thought that it finally came time for her to see more of the galaxy. See new planets and the kind of people they offered her. It may be her last chance to see it before the next big war spills over and destroys all of it. She was surprised to find out that her clan was supportive of her decision. Individuality was important after all, and the only condition was to answer the Mandalore's call when the time comes. Right. The Resol'nare. She accepted, not sure if she be true to her word, and bid her goodbyes before taking to the stars with her clan's parting gift: a Plug-6 heavy fighter. Although it was small and somewhat cramped if holding more than a few people, it packed a bunch firepower in its small size and was still a suitable freighter for storing the belongings of a nuclear family.

The past two years have been spent exploring the galaxy, getting into trouble, and working odd jobs until she got into bounty hunting. It was the kind of work that put her skill-set to good use and was able to give her a reputation, though muddied it may be. She's not clean, but she guarantees that she can get the job done. Now 30 years old, she has left her mark from the Outer Rim to Core Worlds, done work on remote worlds like Kashyyk and Malastare, and has made contact with some interesting friends. Among her recent associations is an old wookie matron probably gone senile and a sardonic dug engineer with a god complex. She was curious to see what kind of people that galaxy had to show her, and oh boy, did the galaxy not disappoint.

---

Equipment:

Flex heavy armor with retractable beskar blade, green and orange color motif, 15 kg
2 M-113 Micro-pulse blasters, 1 kg each
JT-9 jet pack, 9.1 kg
2 Wrist rocket launcher, 2 kg each
4 Dumb wrist rockets, .25 kg each
3 Homing wrist rockets, .25 kg each
3 Magnetic detonator darts, .25 kg each
2 Hollow-tip wrist rockets, .25 kg
1 Fusion missile, 3 kg
Miniature rail cannon, .5 kg
1 Flashbang grenade, .5 kg
2 Thermal detonators, .5 kg each
1 Ion grenade, .5 kg
Adrenaline stimulator belt, .5 kg
Total Weight: 95 lbs/43 kg

Skills:

Over the course of many years spent with the Mandalorians, Woorah had essentially mastered the art of warfare thanks to the tutelage of the artisans of war themselves. Tactically minded, gun savvy, physically capable, and one hell of a shot, she had honed her martial talent like a fine blade. Her strength and reflexes are fine tuned after years of intense conditioning. She also spent a lot of time with her clan's weapon builders, designing her own weapons her gear and building them from scratch. She has a mind for chemistry and mechanics judging from her ability to build, rebuild, and wire homemade demolitions and repulsor equipment, and make minor repairs on her freighter.

Like most soldiers, she has some basic first-aid training. While she's no battlefield surgeon, she knows how to use a medpac and how to inject stim-shots, and while she's no crack pilot, she's good enough at computers and vehicle operation to bring her from place to place and employ some evasive and combat maneuvers. She has been exposed to enough languages over the years to be fluent in a few of them. Aside from Galactic Basic, she can communicate in Ryl, Huttese, Mando'a, and can understand a little bit of Shyriiwook without a translater, and only knows how to speak back in one or two different gargles.

After a few years of bounty hunting, she was able to easily adapt the knowledge of hunting the Mandalorians armed her with and applied it to hunting people across an entire galaxy. Indeed, most of it pertains to extensive information gathering and computer operation, and with it, has once found a smuggler hiding in the Core Worlds all the way from the Outer Rim.

---

Misc:

Bubblegum in the Star Wars universe is called a chewstim and it's one of Woorah's favorites.

The Spoopiest Skeletons

Marlene "Mary" Antony, from Father Hank's The Elder Scrolls: Chapter's Dues

Marlene “Mary” Antony, Witchbane

| Female Breton | 25 | The Tower |

---

Appearance:

The Bretons of High Rock are often a fair folk, and Mary is no exception. There might be some Nord somewhere in that blood of hers like most of those in Jehanna, since her fair skin, blue eyes, dirty blonde hair, and sharp features seem all too Nordic in appearance, but they are softened by the serene countenance ever present in her face. Like many Bretons, she is short in stature at 5’6”, but she is fit and athletic like many warriors tend to be. She weighs in around 135-140 lbs.; she isn’t rippling with muscle like some warriors tend to be, has a humble chest, and her toning is quite poor, but it takes a bit of muscle to carry weapons and armor over the course of many miles.

Her hair is fair and wispy and usually floats around her shoulder, and one side of her head is usually lightly plaited into small braids. It frames her square jaw, a somewhat distinct feature in the midst of more conventionally feminine traits such as smooth skin, high cheekbones, and a thin and upturned nose above her pink lips. The lack of obvious scarring on her person denotes a successful career, and the most obvious ones are the knicks, cuts, and calluses on her hands from years of practice and wrestling with nasty beasts, and a few slashes on her upper arms, which are usually covered by clothes and her gambeson anyways.

As far as her garments are concerned, her arms and armor will be covered separately -- in her downtime, she dresses down as humble as she seems in what is usually a linen blouse or men’s shirt and, surprising to most of those who meet her, a thin ankle length skirt. These garments are typical white, off white, or cream in color; very simple and very modest, and as a jarring addition to this dainty outfit are her leather riding boots without their armor affixed to them.. However, under the skirt she often wears well-fitted equestrian's pants that are formed to her figure. Around her neck is not a true amulet of her gods of choice, but a hemp string with three dainty little charms: a four-pointed star for Mara, a horn for Stendarr, and a triangle for Julianos.

History:

The Rise of Mary Antony

Mary began her life under the stars of the Tower and in the Kingdom of Jehanna, located in northern High Rock. A society of both Bretons and Nords surrounded by Wrothgarian Mountains on one side, the Reach on another, the Sea of Ghosts on its north side, and Skyrim only spitting distance away, it has come to develop a strong warrior culture. What it lacked, however, was a center of faith. Most High Rock kingdoms, city states, and principalities had a temple of some kind. The Benevolence of Mara and School of Julianos, for instance, had presence in the rest of High Rock, but Jehanna was barren of a spiritual center for some time between years of defending themselves from vagabonds and conquerors alike and most who practiced only did so the privacy of their own homes. To establish a center of faith and spiritual and moral fulfillment is what the House of Trifection hoped to accomplish.

The Trifection was result of a joint effort between priests and priestess of Mara, Stendarr, and Julianos. It was intended as a model of moral perfection: love, mercy, and wisdom. Scholars of Julianos were seen as overreaching by outsiders at first, since they weren’t supposed to preach any moral philosophy, but they pushed back by maintaining that fighting against the sin of ignorance and complacency has always been their objective. Idle hands were the daedra’s work, after all. Together, they believed that through love, mercy, and wisdom, life's most challenging obstacles could be overcome. It was this doctrine and model of moral perfection that appealed to the natives, and the newly named Order of Trifection was allowed to come together and build the House of Trifection, a temple where people could be wed, counseled, seek forgiveness, and learn. Indeed, it was as much a place of learning as it was a place of worship, but one side effect was that their learning curriculum was heavily tied into their religion. As this temple gained in popularity and became a focal point around which to gather, it's influence grew.

As it grew, so did the influence of the more militant of Stendarr’s followers, who believed that justice should be preached as much as mercy. As this movement among that sect of the temple grew, the rest of the House conceded, and appealed to the king of Jehanna. The kingdom would then agree to outsource local cases to the House of Trifection, whereas more complex and political cases will be managed within the court. The House then became a place of worship, a school, and a courthouse all in one, and each of the three governing clergies came to represent a principle of reasoning; Mara’s clergy embodied emotional appeal, Stendarr’s embodied ethical appeal, and Julianos’ embodied logical appeal. As often happens with centers of law and justice, the House began to train their own holy warriors and merciful defenders of justice. This is where Mary finally fits into the picture years later

She came from a small family - a mom and pops with not much to their name other than a few sheep for shearing and a small plot of land for vegetables such as potatoes, carrots, and cabbages. However, the Trifection offered its services for free since they were fueled mostly by donations, avoiding tax, and government grants. Although she inherited her parents’ kind hearts, they were poor and low in the caste system, conditioning them into being intimidated by authority and power. This meant they lacked the assertiveness to raise their daughter with concerted cultivation, but still wanted to provide her with as many opportunities as possible; one of them was to send her to the House of Trifection for schooling when she was 10 years old. Stendarr’s mercy also kept the Julianos sect from being too picky with their applicants.

As a result, Mary’s life was positively enriched. The day before she was just a farm girl, but now? They've expanded her mind beyond her horizons. They helped her to think outside of the little box she was trapped in, introduced her to a world that was once leagues above her place in society and full of magic. Though it only provided the fundamentals of magic, and the House’s schooling program was mostly aimed towards a generally educated public, the fundamentals of magic that they did teach happened to set the groundwork for Mysticism. Perhaps even more profound than that, however, were the Divines. Sure, she has heard of them before. She got the general idea of what they were all about -- but they covered Stendarr, Mara, and Julianos in such intimate detail that Mary found herself virtually in love with the gods and was thoroughly convinced of the Trifection’s message: it was the model of moral perfection. “Forgive those thou cannot love, understand those thou cannot forgive, and love those thou cannot understand.”

Mary spent most of her time at the House the next couple of years, learning and worshipping, helping the temple from cleaning to performing errands, as well as helping those who were new or unfamiliar with the temple. She was, for all intents and purposes, one of their acolytes in all but title. The House created a sense of unity in a society that was once so combative, and Mary was sure that they were the best thing that ever happened to Jehanna. When the time came for the House to call forth the young and faithful to volunteer to do work for the Divines, the ever faithful Mary, at 12 years old, jumped and pulled at the bit for the chance. She was one of the few that they accepted with open arms. However, before she could do the work that they would have her do, she had to go through a few years of training. It was to make her an irrepressible force for good; the type that would go out into the world to save lives, seek justice, and dispel evil.

However, justice without love or understanding wasn't truly justice. How can one pass judgement upon the wicked if one was innocent? What could they possibly know about justice? In order to understand wickedness, you had to cast purity aside. The back rooms for these initiations would remain hidden for years to come, and even now Mary is still fuzzy on the details, but she remembered being told that it was alright to have been a dirty sinner. Stendarr forgives all who repents. This was also meant to be hidden. She was to be trained for the role of a House Templar and part of the role was to embody their model of moral perfection, and the reveal of her initiation would strip her of that honor. To study Julianos was to understand this contradiction and embrace the Theory of Mind. Through this process, the immoralities committed by the House itself was used and lorded over Mary like a show of power. It wasn't said at the time, and Mary didn't understand it -- she was effectively brainwashed into believing that the House was innocent and that she was doing the right thing -- but they used the evidence that could be used to incriminate them as a way to keep their initiates in line by making them believe they held power over them. They believed that their secrets were in the safe hands of the House of Trifection when it was in fact the opposite.

That would’ve been the end of that, though, for the next few years would be devoted to their training. The initiates either forced themselves to forget or forgot in light of what lies ahead. Mary and the other initiates would spend hours upon hours in training session with Stendarr Crusaders from other Temples in the region, and their sole purpose in Jehanna was to train the House’s first generation of templars. Their days were filled with practicing swordplay with wooden practice weapons, learning proper footwork, and donning armor. Their ability to defend themselves had to be up to par if they were going to be defending anybody else. Then their nights were filled with more in-depth study; of magic, restoration, and yes, the gods.

Their magical studies was built upon the fundamentals they’ve learned, but it was less about the actual use of magic, but the understanding of magic. There were many monsters out there in the world, and the worst of them were capable of bewitching and cursing innocent people, so the goal was to being able to identify their condition, recognizing the magic, and to know how to dispel it as well as protecting themselves against such magic. The study of controlling the ebb and flow of magic itself was known as Mysticism, a school that’s long been cast aside by most of Tamriel. The School of Julianos saw the abandonment of such knowledge as sacrilegious, and chose instead to preserve its history.

Similarly, learning Restoration magic from the Maran priests and priestess was essential for saving lives. One would be hard pressed to call themselves a templar if they couldn’t heal wounds, whether it was their own or someone else’s, and the light magic it used to destroy the undead would be similarly instrumental. Due to the nature of the school, it was often taken and related to the Divines, so the lessons were often two in one. As a templar, your faith must be unshakable, so they regularly tested their faith in the Divines and their belief in the Trifection’s model. Mary’s harsh and rigid training routine with her fellow initiates -- now seen as brothers and sisters -- would continue for eight years, even after Mary reached adulthood. Each templar’s training was mostly the same, but each one had their own skills and talents, so each one’s training was slightly tailored to their style.

Mary found her strength in a balance between offense and defense. With a shield in hand and donned in lightweight chainmail, she’d wait for her opponent to strike first before deftly closing the distance with her shield and sword. She wasn’t the best of the initiates; Carlisle’s strength and skill with the greatsword was far too great for her to defend against, and her reputation among them in hand-to-hand intimidated her from getting too close, and Fontaine was clever enough that he was able to take what limited knowledge they taught them of Mysticism and figure the rest out on his own. Jorgr was a fantastic healer who took to Restoration like a flea would take to a skeever -- but Mary’s generalism allowed her to outwit all of them outside of their preferred grounds, and nobody would ever think of questioning her loyalty to the gods or to the House. As a twenty year old Mary took her Oath of Devotion, she recited every word passionately and etched them into her heart.

The templars were armed with enchanted silver daggers, and the next four years of her life was spent doing work for the temple. She was a protector of the house, an enforcer of law, and a defender of the innocent. She performed her duties diligently, tackling down thieves in the streets with non-lethal force, settling drunken arguments in the tavern diplomatically -- she loved the people of her hometown and had no desire to harm them. The templars effectively became the public face for the House the more they were seen throughout the city. Their benevolence reflected back on the House, which in turned heightened their reputation. Then the House collected reports of disturbances aimed their templars toward the countryside of High Rock, hoping to put their years of training to the test. Mary was sent southwest toward the Duchy of Gastemarch where the report of an older gentleman had gone missing from his cottage for a few days. After some time spent on tracking, she found herself in the middle of a fen and face to face with a hideous hagraven. Her shield protected her from its claws, and her light armor kept her light enough on her feet to avoid the creature’s devastating spellcraft. After an intense fight with the witch, crippling but failing to kill the creature with her sword, she finished it off by slitting its throat with her silver dagger.

The old man was found as a captive in the hagraven’s cottage, who was paralyzed by some magical concoction that was forcibly fed to him which Mary was able to dispel with her magic. After some time, she nursed him mostly back to health with Restoration and carried him back home on her back before returning home to Jehanna. The other templars were apparently just as successful in their missions. Carlisle in particular seemed rather popular, for word of her work in the Reach had gotten around -- her driving away of Forsworn raiders had dubbed her the name of Carlisle the Adherent. She didn’t like it. Apparently people thought that dubbing her the opposite of their sworn enemy meant something. Much to Mary’s own embarrassment, her friend apparently thought of her, since that title sounded like one that Mary deserved more than she did. As word of Mary’s deed got around town, people started wanting to call her Witchbane; ironically enough, they both joked that perhaps they should’ve traded jobs.

It was for the best, though. Mary found it hard to stomach the idea of killing other people.

The deeds of the templars reflected back on the House of Trifection, and soon enough, the officials of Jehanna began calling upon the House to continue performing these deeds throughout the kingdom. During the next four years, the templars had found themselves being little more than contracted heroes. Mary didn’t mind it so much, though. She enjoyed the hero work, almost feeling like a real knight. For the next four years, she scoured northern High Rock, the Reach, and Wrothgarian mountains, helping all she came across and slaying all manner of foul monsters and beasts. Whether it was undead, vampires, trolls, werewolves, or even Forsworn and bandit raiders (as much as she detested it), she was up to the task -- but she became especially proficient in taking down hagravens. Though as dangerous as they were, her first experience taught her a lot about how to deal with them, as did each subsequent time she had to face one.

In fact, it was after one of those hunts for a hagraven far south of Jehanna did Mary stop to rest at Evermoor in the Kingdom of Ephesus -- they did not stop her, since the four years worth of braided favors hanging from her belt esteemed her as a local do-gooder. With a drink in hand the latest news in the paper, she learned of the fate that befell the House of Trifection back home:

“Jehanna Temple, the House of Trifection, was shut down by the order of King Darion following multiple allegations of sex related scandals with children. All leaders and officials are to be investigated and those found guilty will be tried and punished by means of--”

Mary couldn’t bring herself to read anymore. She had spent more than a decade fervently believing in the model of moral perfection that the house had preached to her. For more than a decade she had repressed the memories of her initiation to the point where she can barely even recall them now, but now she just felt an overwhelming sense of shame and disbelief. She couldn’t believe that the temple she devoted so much of her life to grew to be a corrupted sham. She was associated with them, and as much it pained her to think it, she didn’t want to be. Her world was suddenly turned upside down and she didn’t want to think about it anymore, so she turned her back on High Rock. She never returned home to Jehanna after that day, and crossed the treacherous Druadach Mountains separating the Breton homelands from Skyrim.

For the next year, she chose to preoccupy herself with doing what she’s been doing: helping people, being a hero; that part never changed. She still had an oath she had to uphold, even if only part of it was still relevant. For the next year, she took on jobs like a common mercenary might, but only those that she felt was morally just. With it having only been a short while after the country resolved its civil war and dragon crisis, there was plenty of work to be done in Skyrim. Eventually however, her travels brought her south into Cyrodiil and as she closed to distance towards Chorral, she happened across a flier nailed to one of the country’s many road signs:

“To all whom it may concern…”

Personality:

First impressions? Serene, calm, satisfied, humble, and at peace. There’s a certain air about her that radiates a sense of goodness and benevolence that makes people feel naturally inclined to trust her. A pious woman, certainly, and she makes no attempt at hiding it and her regular mention of the Divines and the breadth of their influence of the world, which may be one of the few things that could be a seen as a fault by her worst critics. The belief that the gods will provide instills a sort of complacency in any man, woman, or mer, and this still holds true for Mary. Even so, she sees herself as a sort of tool or servant of the Divines. She acts in what she believes to be their will, so she isn’t the type to stand idly by in the face suffering or injustice. She takes initiative in almost all aspects of her life and shows herself to be very disciplined in her faith and daily routines. People often mistake her for being a knight, which she does not hesitate in correcting.

Mary is difficult to anger and usually meets aggression with diplomacy and deliberation. She possesses a strong sense of justice and attempts to balance it with love and wisdom. She’s ever the optimist, perhaps even to the point of naivety, and she’s okay with that. Mary acknowledges that she’s still young and embraces it, even if she’s seasoned and was forced to grow up a bit sooner than others, choosing to not lord her experience over her friends and colleagues. It’s kind of difficult to stay mad at her -- she’s such a kind and free spirit without an ill bone in her body, aspiring to be the best possible version of herself at all times and seeking happiness through the betterment of others. You’d be forgiven for thinking that she’s being a martyr -- because you’re quite possibly right.

The former templar once felt a significant sense of betrayal that shook her to her core. She feels an unbearable sense of shame for her association with a particular temple in High Rock that no longer exists and for having devoted herself so intensely to its clergy. She sees her journey partially as a sort of pilgrimage or path towards redemption, or perhaps she simply seeks to do as much good as possible before she dies a death worthy of forgiveness in the eyes of her gods. She burdens herself with the sense of sharing the same shame and guilt of her former church and seeks to redeem the reputation of the templars through her actions.

What would such a person be doing in a group of mercenaries? Why would she ever be interested? Well, Mary has a strong desire to do good, which was why she became a templar in the first place. She’s almost infatuated with the idea of being a hero and a champion of the people, and it was as simple as being told that the Chapter sought to also do good across Tamriel. Always wanting to believe in the best of people, she’s quite easy to convince and lie to. Anyways, with an organization at her back, she would be able to do more good across Tamriel than she ever could on her own. The moment the Chapter takes a turn for the worse and forsake their promises to the people, Mary is either going to try convincing them to stay on track or jump ship. Her loyalty to the good and innocent cannot be bought.

---

Equipment:

• Steel longsword
• Metal-reinforced wood shield with the print of a rose on the front, battered from use
• Silver dagger with a Banish enchantment
• Chainmail armor layered over a long noble blue gambeson that stretches down to her knees. A gorget covers her neck and part of her shoulders. She also wears leather gauntlets and bracers which are affixed with metal plates for further protection. Likewise, she wears knee high leather boots with plates of metal affixed to the shins, vamps, and toes via buckled straps.
• She wears a leather belt around her chain from which her sword sheath hangs from, and a sheath for her silver dagger rests just above her tailbone. The belt itself is adorned with dozens of multi-colored braids of fabric, ribbons, and hemp; a collection of favors she has accumulated over her years of questing and performing heroic deeds for the poor country folk -- some of them she even ties around her bracers. Also affixed to her belt is a pouch filled with small trophies; werewolf claws and vampire ashes get lost among the collection of hagravan talons.
• A waterskin filled with fresh rainwater
• A pouch which contains another pouch, a cheese cloth full of nuts, seeds, and dried fruits and vegetable chips such as apple chips, strawberries, kale, collards, potatoes, and snap peas. The only kind of meat she carries with her are small strips of salt cod.
• A coin purse of 40 septims

Major Attribute:

Willpower

Minor Attribute:

Endurance

Skills:

Expert: ---

Adept: One-Handed (Sword), Block, Medium Armor, Restoration, Mysticism

Apprentice: Athletics, Speech, Hand to Hand

Spells:

Restoration: Close Wounds, Heal Other, Stendarr’s Aura, Turn Undead
Mysticism: (Greater) Dispel, (G) Dispel Other, (G)Life Detection, Clairvoyance

Combat Style:

Mary, as previously mentioned, balances offense and defense. Her light armor and athleticism allows her to move quickly through a battlefield or ring with ease or quickly adjust her footing, while her shieldplay covers the gaps in her defensive evasion. Said shield also allows her to bully her opponents and get in close with her sword. Through her willpower and endurance alone, she can easily fight a battle of attrition and wait for her opponent to wear out before she does. Her style doesn’t have any significant strengths that allows her to outmaneuver or overpower most of her enemies, but she doesn’t have any glaring weaknesses either. Even those with a purely defensive style has the weakness of being passive or reactionary, but Mary takes the initiative to strike every now and then, reminding her opponent to stay on their toes lest they fall victim to a fatal riposte.

She can also provide support for her allies via healing magic and the dispellation of any adverse magical effects, or even use them on herself mid-fight. Her magic allows her to keep fighting even after taking an injury or being disabled in some way. Her persistence to keep on fighting is admirable, and sometimes even downright frightening when there seems to be nothing that can keep this woman down.

Misc:

She is an awful cook. Keep her away from the pot.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2wGrKZLSr6sxebqGb7RUna

"Garil Mavos", Unused Elder Scrolls Character

" G A R I L M A V O S "

_{"I be just a simple farmhand, sera, though I may sell you my services if that is what you wish."}

══════ C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T ══════ _______________________________________________ _______________________________________________ ═══════ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y ══════ "Garil Mavos" _______________________________________________ 48 | ♂ | Dunmer _______________________________________________ Farmhand, Mercenary, and Impersonator ═══════ P R O F I L E ═══════ [+] ▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Build - Lean and athletic; built for dexterity. ► Skin Color - Ebony, with mild hues of dark blue and ashen grey ► Hair Color - Black, with grey strands. ► Eye Color - Deep red. ► Other - Body is littered with scars from small cuts and labor. - ═════ A B I L I T I E S ═════ [+] ▼ F A V O R E D A T T R I B U T E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Agility ► Willpower ▼ S K I L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Athletics - Adept ► Stealth - Adept ► Acrobatics - Apprentice ► Speechcraft - Apprentice ► Blade - Apprentice ► Restoration - Apprentice ► Conjuration - Novice ▼ S P E L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Restoration - Healing, Healing Hands, Turn Lesser Undead ► Conjuration - Conjure Dagger

══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════ Garil is as unassuming as a dunmer can get: he dresses modestly with threadbare clothing, he's clean shaven, and he carries himself with such a humble and passive disposition, so obviously trustworthy, that the only thing keeping him from being conspicuously unassuming would be his impressive height -- 6'2". Though his build is somewhat lanky, and not at all like one would would expect a soldier or mercenary from, he is still lean from what he claims to be years of hard farm work. Knicked and scratched by numerous petty scars across his hairless body, too few of them appear to be from life-threatening injuries by blade or creature, either lending credibility to his skills or undermining his integrity. He walks, stands, and sits with a slight hunch, and often rocks his jaw from side to side when in contemplation. He also tends to gesture his hands quite often when talking, and has a distinct tell whenever he's lying, where he cranes his head in as if to invade your personal space and his tone becomes suggestive. Curiously, he's quite acrobatic and has an impeccable sense of balance. He doesn't seem to have much reason to be as adept as he is, and any questioning is answered with a shrug and a blasé, "I like to climb things. I guess I just have good balance." He walks with a peculiar grace and sense of purpose, as if he has a clear destination in his mind's eye. You can occasionally catch him looking over his shoulder or staring at other dunmer. Watching Garil swing a blade, on the other hand, he doesn't seem so great at it. There's almost a hesitance or uncertainty as he cuts the air -- no confidence -- but a trained eye can find his perfect grip and footing, and figure out pretty quickly that he probably picked up a couple of lessons. His angular features are somewhat striking. His cheekbones are high and pronounced, almost jutting from his face and combined with the gauntness of his cheeks, this quality being particularly highlighted. His chin is long and comes down to a point. However, he also has a wide jaw, which adds to the strength of his facial features. Almost out of place upon his face are a pair of a thick lips, their shade a darker hue than the rest of his face. He's almost always munching on nuts or seeds, swelling his jowls as they fill with food, rocking his jaw side to side as he chews. His mouth sits beneath a long, hawkish nose that may have once been broken in the past if the vertical crookedness is not just another sharp facial feature on a long list of sharp facial features. His ears, low on the sides of his head, flare out quite a bit like two dishes waiting for signals. His peripheral extremities, his arms and legs, are quite spindly though not without lean muscle; you'd be forgiven for underestimating the strength in his figure due to his light toning, but even so, the dunmer is more agile than he is brutish. His black hair is long and well kept, the sides not shaved like in image, but the back of the neck where loose, frizzy hair resides. He prefers to keep the hair tied back and usually does so in the shape of the bun to keep the hair off his neck and back while he's working. Overall, Garil is a dunmer that seems very conscious of his personal hygiene despite his humility and humble occupation. Of course he has no qualms with getting himself dirty, but with as often as he seems to mock pride and vanity, he seems quite content to preen himself with the beginning and end of every day. That said, he is not so self-conscious either that he'd remove the gray hairs growing on his head. In fact, he seems quite fond of them. He is at least self-aware enough to acknowledge his contradictions and hypocrisies, though it's almost as if he occasionally forgets he holds such values. There aren't many accessories on his person. Little holes sit on his ears where there were once piercings, and as mentioned before, what little clothes he has appears old, weathered, and quite obviously favoring warmer colors such as reds and oranges -- they compliment his eyes, he says. What passes for a shirt is actually more like a red blanket or a shawl, which he wraps around his torso to cover himself during the day in a Nibenese-esque fashion. It's not uncommon to see him using the toga wrap to use as an arm sling after a long and tiring day of work. The pants he wears goes down to his knees and are held up by a leather cord, and his calloused, leather-like feet have not the luxury of proper footwear beyond a pair of sandals, which he occasionally forgoes in favor of the cool sensation of morning dew upon the grass.

_{═══════ B A C K G R O U N D ══════}

Garil's story is a simple one, as he says: a first generation Cyrodilian born in Cheydinhal after his family fled Morrowind following the eruption of Red Mountain. He grew up under kind, yet strict parents that had high expectations of him for living in a land ripe with opportunity and less hostile than the rugged ashlands of Morrowind. Garil calls himself a suitable family disappointment for repeatedly failing to rise above his parent's own humble occupations, whether it was failing to become a warrior or accomplished mage, he instead found himself working other people's land for pay. Sure, he picked up a few tricks, a couple of spells... nothing impressive though. He has no claim to power, status, or to land of his own, and though he has received no formal education of his own -- working hard only to help his family put food on the table and putting down payments on a nice, future Dunmer fusion house for future generations to live in -- he's always had been the wise sort, more keen to listen than to speak, and absurdly well-spoken despite his humble origins. Stories from his parents and stories passed down from their parents always helped to put things into perspective. Then when all else failed, a jaunt over the eastern mountains and into Deshaan, a journey that could last a week or more, he could find the cairns of his ancestors there. Communing with them, albeit a dreaded affair given his lineage of very accomplished and very disappointed mages, invited a wisdom that his parents never would've been able to provide. That is, as soon as they were done admonishing him for never rising above a meager farmhand.

For reasons he chooses not to disclose, he has not visited his ancestors in some time; not since the farm he was working on had burned down. In fact, he seems to address them with some measure of resentment that is almost childish in nature, like refusing to speak to one's parents after a petty injury. Interrogating him on the story seems to turn up no correlation between his resentment of his ancestors and the fire, which in itself was a mysterious circumstance. Anyone who has ever met Garil can attest that he is one of the most orderly and organized people they have ever met, hopelessly methodical and infuriatingly meticulous in how he arranges and categorizes his (few) personal possessions and running down the checklist of his responsibilities. The very idea that the fire was the result of an accident -- an oil lantern left burning or a candle left lit -- is inconceivable as long as Garil was around to tend to the farm's affairs. Everything from harvesting the wheat, repairing the barn or wagon, to defending the grounds from hungry and predatory animals and men alike, he was always a dutiful sort that never would've let anything adverse happen to anyone or anything that was under his care. Perhaps, then, it was done in the dead of night as a form of reprisal against the farm's owners for one reason or another.

Perhaps.

This left Garil without a job, so he began going around working odd jobs for people around Cheydinhal. From fixing leaks and scrubbing floors to trudging through sewers and exterminating rats, before long some of the jobs he began to take were beginning to steal low-level contracts from the local Fighter's Guild. After a thug or two from the guild confronted him in an act of intimidation, he backed down and decided it was best for him to start traveling the road. For a few reasons, really -- the farm was no longer tying him down, this was finally an opportunity to see the world and perhaps rise above the fate of a farmhand, and he has gotten pretty good with a blade, he thought. Good enough to encroach on Fighter's Guild territory at least, so he thought, "How hard can mercenary work be?" Besides, it would've done him no good to keep living where his next door neighbors were a band of blooded mercenaries whom he had slighted.

Eventually, after he found himself in Bravil, he found a post littered with papers, and one of them alerted him to a job opportunity to escort a treasure hunter through a crypt. The projected danger was presumably low as there had been no reports of undead from there in quite some time, so it was bound to be easy, right? Besides, his parents and the culture in Cheydinhal had instilled in him quite a strong bias against undead, since the invasion of the Infernal City, Umbriel. If he had the opportunity to kill at least one undead, then it would help his resume and possibly be a stepping stone to a much grander future.

At least, that's what you all thought...

The Spoopiest Skeletons

Wylendriel Greensky, from gcold's The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention

ESO

Wylendriel Greensky

Female Bosmer | 60 | The Lady

Profile

---

§ Birthplace

Grahtwood, Valenwood

§ Appearance

Her overall demeanor is as unsuspecting and as humble as she is dressed, in the layered robes bequeathed to her by the temple where she worships her goddess, Kynareth. One critical look at the Bosmer and her identity as a priestess becomes quite apparent. She seems as gentle and dainty a thing as one might suspect, looking doe-eyed around her as though she were at constant risk, and agile like so many of her kind with her lithe frame moving with a sort of disguised grace. She has become fairly fit though a nomadic lifestyle, though weighing in at just 110 lbs. Standing at 5'3", her height seems as any other wood-elven folk, but her stance is a tall one - or at least like she's attempting to make herself seem taller than she really is. The arc in her back supports shoulders weary from hardship. You wouldn't think so to look at her, but she's actually lived through sixty years of life! That's technically pretty short for a Bosmer and is considered to be barely scraping by as an adult.

A heart-shaped face bears a stiff upper lip, but perhaps only if to steady the quivering lip beneath it as she fights to maintain her appearance of discipline. It also bears an upturned button nose which she keeps raised high in the air, but not because of arrogance or nobility, but as though she was trying to hold herself above whatever disgrace that might be dogging her; haunted by old ghosts and seeking to prove herself to be above them. Her long and silky auburn hair is usually braided up haphazardly into a bun, which reveals a youthful - almost wild - face, given the thin jawline and pointed chin, the high cheekbones and wide forehead - but only attractive if a person could bring themselves to look past the the wide Bosmer pupils in her rich brown eyes and the array of sharp teeth that were filed down for tearing through meat.

Her robes are made from hide and thin leather in the middle of layers for durability and protection, with wool stitched over the outside as the outer layer, and treated with wax to protect against the rain. The inside of the robes is all grizzly bear fur warming her skin and absorbing whatever perspiration there may be. These robes adorned with a number of buttons made from polished bone and apparently just as many pouches hanging from a belt made from a thick leather, and with it, a curious trophy of an eagle skull. The robe's tailoring even applies to the hood, making this outfit a very heavy one to be lugging around - good for the regions of Skyrim, High Rock, and Wrothgar, but less so anywhere else south of Bruma. Beneath, she wears tight-fitted, black-colored, wool undergarments that cover her breasts and thighs, but otherwise leaves exposed her midriff and her arms and legs from the shoulders and knees down. Her feet are covered with fur boots and her hands are usually bare, but as a part time alchemist who follows the Green Pact, her hands are stained with all manners of ichors and ingredients, and frequently smell... obnoxiously robust, to be putting it gently. The sight of pointed nails that seem like claws tend to evoke even more anxious energy to bystanders. A leather satchel hangs at her side from a strap going across her chest and over one of her shoulders.

The robes can fortunately be separated from the inside layer of bear fur in case of warmer weather. The hide and wool outside layers function like a shell or windbreaker of the inside. Underneath her garments however, this young elf's sand colored skin is littered with scars. Some small, and others very, very large. If one didn't know better, they would think she had died terribly and was stitched right back up. Gnarly gouging scars in her abdomen, punctures in her legs, slashes over her arms, a smaller one down the side of both her lips, a bite mark on her chest, lashes across her back, and a long slash around her throat. Any attempt at questioning these are met with silence and are typically never answered. So gruesome is this sight, you may not immediately notice the tattoos on her body, markings of the winged herald. Feathered wings stretch out from the center of the back with the tips of its furthest feathers reaching down to her elbows. Smaller wings are placed on her chest by her collarbones, reaching to her shoulders. Feathers rest above both of her eyebrows.

Before she left Dawnstar, she mourned the loss of a friend, the argonian Pakseech, Tzinasha. As a part of honoring his memory, she wears a long quill on her hair: one of his feathers.

§ Personality

Lately, there has been a buildup of disturbing events that have left her emotionally distant and afraid to get close to people. She doesn't want to put anybody at risk out of this acquired fear of accidentally hurting those around her through whatever accident may arise from her compulsions. Yet, there also exists an element of distrust that makes it difficult for her to get close to people. This distrust is not so pervasive in her personality that it breeds conflicts with others, but impedes any progress in the development of a real, meaningful relationship. How this distrust affects her most is how, over the last couple of weeks, she has learned to put her own life in her own hands instead of relying on others. She has great potential for love, platonic or otherwise - she feels those emotions, but she fearfully rejects any oncoming advances and closes her heart to interested parties.

Continuing with this duality theme of withdrawn concern, she, as suggested before, prefers to take measures into her own hands. While some of it may come from a priestess' humility in not wanting to burden others with her own responsibilities, it too comes from that same distrust factor. Unaccountable variables could compromise the outcome, and therefore she would prefer to do it herself and take responsibility for any failure should failure occur. Insisting to her that it does not have to be that way, that she can rely on others sometimes, is a vain effort since her stubbornness blocks off any attempt to appeal to her vulnerability. She is paranoid, stubborn, caught up in her own sense of responsibility, and would just as quickly sit them down by force if they continue to pester her. This hedgehog's dilemma is not an ingrained flaw, but was acquired, and only recently.

This doesn't Wylendriel make callous though. She is still a healer, she has compassionate - on that same note, she's not a pushover. Her commanding tone is useful for bedside manner and her timid nature is thrown out the window when her areas of responsibilities (healing, sermon, etc.) come around. This dutiful disposition is tempered with motherly care, putting every ounce of effort into making sure her patients have a healthy recovery. Additionally, she is nonjudgmental of the other races. This even applies to the Nords – she understands that she entered Skyrim during a time of fear and struggle. She takes no absurd amount of pride in her elven heritage like the Thalmor do. Instead, she believes that there is something to learn from every culture. Still, she is understandably cautious while approaching nords she hasn't met yet (or any race of men for that matter, considering the Dominion's siege on the rest of Tamriel has left them suspicious of elves), Dominion races (the Dominion wanted her head on a pike), Dunmer (given the recent war and their association with the Kamal) - so perhaps it's safer to say that she's cautious of approaching basically anyone. At least that doesn't count as discrimination, right?

Even through her endearing visage, it is not difficult to tell that there is something more beneath the surface, and it cannot be pointed toward any one thing. It is an anger, it is an itch, it is a compulsion, an intrusive thought - a guilty conscience. It is as though a seed of evil was planted in her heart, and with all of her might she tries to reject it - bury it - kill it - but try as she may, it burns her inside like a craving and it only grows hungrier with time. The line between her desires and the compulsions of this seed are blurred, only distinguishable by how alien these sensations feel, because - Gods help her, she's a priestess for Kyne's sake, a healer. All of these little suggestions in her head, ever-so-subtle, this feeling of craving - is almost like a lust for violence, to feel in control, a sort of bestial blood-lust that is so damn insatiable that she just barely feeds into it to just the barest degree so that it does not overwhelm her; barely turning on the bleed valve before the pressure inside her head becomes too much. She knows it's not her, she knows it does not belong there, and she knows exactly where it came from... but fixing it isn't so easy.

Her guilt stems from many things: one being the doubt of her faith to her Lady. This guilt best summarizes her real self. She feels guilty for making the decision of accepting a deal that costed her soul, for choosing daedra over divinity, this evil that has planted itself inside her, and about her growing doubt in the Nine Divines. She once tried to justify it; after all, had they not left her to die at the hands of her betrayers? For Arkay's sake, perhaps it would be right for her to die, but where was Stendarr's mercy? Or Kynareth's gift to her faithful? Then comes the feelings of guilt regarding that sense of entitlement and her expectations of the gods. The guilt of her bloody crimes. The guilt of her own betrayal of another. She is torn in many different ways and wishes for peace inside herself to ease that discord, and there's little question as to why she has so little inner strength to spare.

With all her years as a healer and priestess under her belt, she thought herself ready for death, but in the end she found herself no more at peace than the lost and wounded souls she preached to. She beats herself up for it and belittles herself, and what she believes to be Molag Bal's corruption further taints her. With all of this inner turmoil, Wylendriel is growing more convinced there is no saving one such as herself. In the end though, she has come to find that there is greater justice to be found in healing as many as she can than in taking the easy way out. After some time and coming to terms with herself, she feels that it would be best to work at bettering herself one step at a time, and that the first step would be to remove the daedra's influence once and for all - which in itself is a monumental task, but prays that the mercy of the Nine Divines would be such that they would cleanse her spirit. The last few shreds of her faith clings to this desperate gambit; the deciding act that would finally determine her fate.

§ Background

Prologue

Wylendriel was born in Valenwood, to a respected mother and father that devoted their lives to Y'ffre in Elder Root, Grahtwood. They especially had taken to the Green Pact and were loyally faithful to the religion as Spinners, its enforcers. So much, in fact, their first born daughter, named Wylendriel, was conditioned to follow the Green Pact out the womb and would be raised with the intentions of making her a priestess as well - a Spinner. For the earliest years, the young and impressionable Bosmer lass adhered to family tradition, studying her people's history and following each and every rule obediently - there was nothing else, only Y'ffre - and was on the road to receiving the same kind of respect her parents had in her society. It went this way for a couple years, learning more and more about Valenwood, it's friends and enemies, healing; and all the while, the Aldmeri Dominion, formed a couple hundred years before she was even born, assumed a larger presence inside Valenwood. As she learned more about her allies, she learned more about their culture and about the Dominion's enemies, she discovered something about the Imperial Empire: their Nine Divines. They had a parallel to Y'ffre through Kynareth, except that she seemed to exemplify the beauty and force of nature. Wylendriel's family did not expect her to discover Kynareth in the world around her.

She didn't replace Y'ffre, no. Rather, the goddess only added to the enrichment of Wy's world. If Y'ffre was the father, the state of existing, of only being - Kynareth was the mother, its force, it's passion, beauty and danger, she breathed the soul into life and made it beautiful. Life was essential, yes, but it was simply existing - what would life be were it not the soul and beauty that made life worthwhile? Kynareth was nature. This self-found philosophy touched Wylendriel so profoundly that she chose to educate herself how she could in order to follow in the footsteps of her newfound Lady. Such material was hard to come by in Valenwood, so her knowledge was only rudimentary, and her family never quite looked at her the same after it - but as long as she didn't forsake the Green Pact, they figured there was nothing wrong with it. She looked happy! She was interested in helping others. They still intended on keeping her faith a secret from the Thalmor of the Dominion. Who knows what they might think of it?

All that the Altmer and the Aldmeri Dominion had brought to Valenwood were not so great, though. They brought also strife to a few, select Bosmer communities. Rumors of purges spread across Valenwood, of isolated executions by the hands of Altmer inquisitors in the north. Word had it that the victims were deserving of such a fate. They were "unworthy savages, not befitting to be part of this grand alliance of Mer." Not many questioned it, they had this idea that their "close bond" with the Altmer was far too valuable to forsake. Wylendriel's family would of course be spared, being far too valuable and important to Bosmer society. It was not unheard of that some Bosmer took the Green Pact to extremes, and it was no wonder that the Altmer thought they were a barbaric people. While Wylendriel followed a watered-down version of it, where she and others rejected cannibalism, the purists hunted their enemies and consumed their flesh. It was a revolting thought in her mind, though despite that, there was still the sense of racial kinship. Then you have the ones supporting Imperial occupation, which would no doubt prove them as traitors. It was depressing to hear of the Altmer killing them, but she followed two deities of nature, and death and rebirth was a part of the cycle of nature. All she felt she could do was pray for them in honor of perpetuating that cycle.

The years had gone on and Wylendriel was growing into a full-fledged woman, and she and some others of her community has remained fairly ignorant of the events occurring in the outside world. She practiced her skills of restoration magic to heal wounded hunters after their return from the forest, and using conventional medicine to follow after, or if the wounds were small. As her reputation grew, she found herself healing soldiers doing only-Gods-know-what, but it wasn't her place to ask or to judge. While she had taken a path of faith that had warranted some disappointment from her family, she gained value in the eyes of some few Altmer agents of the Dominion. They took notice of not just her intense devotion, but her skills as a healer. Offered ever so diplomatically to enlist with the Dominion as a field medic, Wylendriel felt obligated to decline for she was no warrior. They saw it as a reasonable defense, though she was curious about the influx of Aldmeri soldiers coming their way. Had they been at war all along? Though they found her naivety cute, all they said to her was that it was nothing to worry about. Just some few skirmishes with the human empire up north. They let her be without further harassment on that note, but continued to send Altmer infantry to her in Valenwood if they were near enough. She came to be idolized as a highly regarded citizen in her community, endeared for her compassion and healing ability.

She found it cute. Rarely was one found without the other.

Though ignorant of world events she may have been, the news of conflict that broke out in northern Valenwood spread like wildfire. Separatist dissenters lashed out against the Aldmeri Dominion, and with the help of the Empire, drove them south. Dominion presence became more prevalent in the south and were organizing to make counter-attacks against the separatists and the Imperial Empire that backed them. The outside world's trouble have broken in, and truth of the Dominion's deeds had gotten clearer. The rumors of executions of the Bosmeri people were more than just rumors, and they weren't just isolated incidents. The purges were more like a systematic slaughter. Indeed, they saw the Bosmer as little more than barbarians. Though elven, they were still more like second class citizens than trusted allies. When a close friend of Wylendriel was ruthlessly murdered, only because they found her on her haunches and leaning over a bloody rabbit - for simply eating - she saw these purges for what it really was: cultural cleansing. They were the judge, jury, and executioner of any that the Altmer thought weren't good or "civilized" enough to be their underlings.

It was at the turn of her adulthood when Wylendriel defamed the Aldmeri Dominion, and sure enough, it wasn't a popular opinion. She was branded as a traitor, and before she could turn to flee Valenwood, she was briefly stopped by her family. They parted ways with a hug and a kiss, proud of their daughter's courage, and with a gift in the form of an eagle's skull. It was the acknowledgement and acceptance of her faith in Kynareth. What could have been more symbolic of the nature goddess of the wind than that? She escaped shortly after to the far corners of Tamriel attempting to evade the Dominion with war waging around her as she went. Whether it was by foot or by caravan, she eventually found herself in the wilds of southern Skyrim by the end of the year. She was found by a Markarth patrol in the Reach, and they reigned her in for questioning – mostly to her potential ties to the Dominion. She managed to convince them that she was no friend of the Thalmor, but they were still suspicious of the elf passing through. Still fearful of the Dominion's discovery of her, Wylendriel fled once again as soon as she was fed and rested towards the east, where the Nords of Eastmarch were notorious for their particular disdain of elven kind. This didn't worry her though; whatever vulgarity or mud they wanted to sling her way would be nothing compared to the punishment the Thalmor would deliver unto her.

She payed the carriage a hearty sum to take her to the other side of Skyrim, and instead she landed in front of Whiterun. They learned that the road ahead was blockaded by bandits and the man refused to go further. So she remained in central Skyrim. From the beginning, things were hard, but it was though the goddess herself was watching over her - she found her place in a Temple of Kyne, much to her fortune, in front of the Gildergreen. Here, her restoration magic and medicinal skills were highly valued. Her safety was assured here, behind tall walls and Skyrim's staunch stance against the Aldmeri Dominion. Also being a servant of the goddess, she could find respite from the Dominion under the Jarl's protection. When she first arrived at the temple, she stood at the door in ragged furs and hide, nearly destroyed by the long trip across Tamriel. She nearly looked like a beggar! But her devotion was unquestionable. They took her in and made her sturdy, warm, and reliable robes that reflected her Green Pact, but was befitting of a priestess. They reminded her of home.

The path ahead presented far more difficulties than she had anticipated. Cultural roadblocks, miscommunication, and just a general misunderstanding of how nord society even functioned. It proved difficult to gain the trust of the local nords, but her devotion to the goddess Kynareth was almost tangible and she treated every visitor with the utmost respect and humility. She poured everything she had into every restoration spell and genuinely cared about her patients. Such diligence guaranteed her respect from even Skyrim's most stubborn nords. It was heartwarming to find a place where she belonged. During her stay at the Temple of Kyne, the priestesses that already lived there taught her everything there was to know about Kynareth. Wy's rudimentary understanding was greatly expanded upon and she was taught practices that seemed totally unnecessary back home. For instance, it was tradition to learn how to summon a familiar, a guardian of nature, to perhaps protect or lead the way. The familiar would, in one way or another, guide the caster along their path. In addition, human priesthood expanded their services beyond just healing. She was expected to learn how to repel and banish the undead and daedric forces that threatened Nirn. They helped to bolster her powers of Restoration magic, and gave her a basic understanding of Conjuration. After getting over the initial learning curve, conjuring familiars came easily, but banishment is where she really struggled with. Turns out she has a much harder time with making things go away than she does with making things stay.

It wasn't before long that she decided to go on a pilgrimage to visit the Eldergleam. On the 26th of Mid Year, she hired mercenaries. They were nords from Eastmarch, and their job was to escort her on her hike eastward and protect her from the likes of bandits, and honestly, it was also a precaution to increase her chance of survival should a dragon find her (assuming that there was still one in hiding that the last Dragonbon had not yet slain). She left with her temple's blessing and set out on the long road ahead.

But all went south once on the 30th once they circled around the mountain, High Hrothgar. In the middle of nowhere, miles from any sign of civilization, Wylendriel was struck by betrayal. The very men she payed to protect her turned around and jumped her, before dragging her off to some remote location at a ruined site where she was thrown onto a stone slab. She was mugged, beaten, stolen from, and... Gods, violated. They passed her around like a toy, taking turns, laughing! They told her, every time they beat her... stabbed her... lashed her, and bit her - they told her that she had this coming. This was she got for being an elf. When they were finally finished with her, when she finally thought they would leave her be and let her wallow in her suffering, one of them slid their knife across her throat. She was spat on and left for dead, Wylendriel was spending her final moments bleeding out, gurgling and drowning in her own blood and unable to breath, laying there and clutching her throat. She spent her last moments fearful and in tears and in silent prayer. First to her lady Kynareth, but she was silent. Thoughts of the circle of life intruded into her mind, the lessons of the temple - but she couldn't let go feeling so betrayed – it was too unfair. As she felt her life slipping away, she prayed to any of the Divines asking for mercy and a second chance. Her prayers went unheard, and with her consciousness on the verge of slipping, she made a final cry for mercy to anything that would listen.

A gutteral, malevolent voice filled her mind. "I can save your life," it offered, "if just for now, and if you would pledge your soul to me..."

Blinded by desperation, she accepted the offer. Her vision went black and she remembered nothing between then and when she finally awoke in the small village of Ivarstead three days later.

When she awoke on the 3rd of Sun's Height, she was seemingly in complete recovery, though covered in gruesome looking scars strewn across her body. As fortune would have it, a hunter found her unconscious far off in the middle of nowhere, but said he found her unharmed. If he didn't know better, it looked as though she lied down and took a nap... were her clothes not torn in several places, mostly over her chest and around her waist. They were folded next to her with a needle and some thread for her to fix her torn clothing – apparently whoever took her in didn't have any confidence in patching it. Physically, she felt fine save for a gross feeling pit in the center of her chest. It felt empty. She felt violated. As she recalled back to the last thing she could remember, the horrifying scenes of her abusers wracked her mind. The mere memory was torture and she felt sick to her stomach, and no longer felt at home inside her own skin - as her memory returned, so did the same malevolent voice. What happened? What had she just done?

Painful headaches wracked her head. Ear-splitting droning sounds, a cacophony of whispers, all trying to talk over one another, but nothing was getting through - all of it - it was too much! An onslaught of sensory overload hammered against the inside of her head as she felt tears well up her eyes over the stress of everything in the last couple of hours - what had to have been hours - the sounds, the screeching, the incoherent chaos - it fell silent. She took deep, heavy breathes as she looked around the room feeling traumatized.

"What... what in Oblivion was tha--" The piercing frequency came out louder than before and was accompanied by what had to have been a thousand red images in rapid succession, "--AAAAAHHH! Gah! Ha... ha! What... What is--"

A thousand more images, barely decipherable, and she was clutching her head and squeezing her eyes shut as the chaos unraveled itself in her head. A man burst through the door of the cabin she was in, a fretful looking man, alarmed by Wylendriel's screaming, found her in this position with tears silently rolling down her cheeks. Among these images, she was able to discern the bloodied maw of a laughing daedric face and the realization of what she has done finally hit her. The blasphemy of her actions stabbed sharper into her chest than any weapon her betrayers used.

"What happened?" Asked the panicked man. She couldn't see what he looked like, she was just wanting to make everything stop.

"This... this migraine..." She told him in weeping. "Make it stop..."

"You look like you've gone through Oblivion and back," he commented, "what's with all of your scars, what happened to you?"

Another thousand images played in her head, but they played slightly slower, almost like a recording of what happened to her. Her mind's eye stretched over Skyrim through red-colored spectacles, and found herself watching her own abuse from a bird's eye view. Over... and over again... she felt the rage and fury build up inside of her, this hatred. The images shot across Skyrim to the northeastern region of Eastmarch and into a cabin, where she got a close up view of her betrayers, their ugly mugs, laughing and drinking... Gods, this unnatural hatred that she did not understand, but at the same time... wasn't it natural? Wasn't it natural to hate the people who did this to hurt, the people who violated her as she watched over and over again... to crave their pitiful! Bloody! Murder--

No... no, no, no! No! This! Wasn't! Normal! Why is she thinking this? Why is she wanting and craving this?!

As she watched these images, as fast and as abrupt as they were, stalled for just a second on the slab she was layed on. Beneath the dust, she could barely trace out the faint imprints of daedric runes. One last image of herself being hurled into the mouth of a massive daedric beast before it stopped - an endless void of inky blackness, and a single whisper slowly echoed through her ears: "I own you."

Suddenly, everything stopped liked she was hoping it would. The stranger's voice was barely able to break through and Wylendriel was barely able to understand the flashes of images behind her eyes at face value, but something inside her gave this intuitive understanding of what was happening to her. The daedric face she was seeing had imprinted on her, and for some reason, recognizable. It's name was clear, and it wanted her to know what exactly that was. Molag Bal. Prince of Domination. Of Schemes.

"Ma'am? Can you hear me?" The stranger asked. "Where did you get your scars?"

The thought of her betrayers sprung back to mind. The sheer anger that she felt at just the image of their faces made her hands shake.

"Ask about my scars again, and I'll show you exactly how I got them." Wylendriels said without thinking. She paused and reeled for a moment. "That did not just happen..." she muttered to herself. The words had just fallen out of her mouth, there wasn't any hesitation, they just - they just...

"Shor's bones, fine!" The stranger retorted. "I won't pry any further, but I was just trying to help, damn it!"

Wylendriel speechlessly watched him march out of the cabin. She knew this wasn't good, but emphatically, for some reason, could not bring herself to care. What she was an image of the people who hurt her, and as far as she felt concerned, Molag Bal offered her a chance for revenge and she planned on taking him up on that offer. Stitching her robes back together the best she could (making it more of a patch job, she wasn't concerned with prettiness), and set out on the open road with nothing but the clothes on her back. Only resting when her knees felt like buckling marching across Eastmarch, finding raw food on the way - utilizing aspects of of Restoration magic she never dared to use before by sapping the vitality of animals and leaving their husks behind. It nearly took a whole week to reach the place that her visions scarred her mind with, but she eventually found the riverside shack in Eastmarch.

Staring it down, the same house from the images that flickered in her head, seemed to trigger flashes of individual images, almost like a magical flow, but something more sinister like a daedric energy. They made her aware of something that was apparently there from the moment she awoken in Ivarstead. Whatever it was she knew of Conjuration magic, it felt expanded upon. A sort of intuitive knowledge, but it didn't quite belong in her brain. She knew what it meant to take magicka and use it to summon a familiar. The sort of direction in which to swing it. The intuitive knowledge that Molag Bal had imparted unto her only concerned itself from where she could draw her power from. There was no plan of action. Calling upon this Conjuration magic, an ethereal daedric mace rippled into existence into her hand before she kicked open the door, surprising the three nords inside - and they looked at her in horror when recognition of her face set in.

Wylendriel roared at them in unbridled rage, fueling the hatred and blood lust that had seeped into her heart. "Did you think you could betray me?!"

Two of them scrambled for their weapons, but one of them was too surprised and confused as to how the Bosmer bitch was still alive, so much that he did not expect the wild aggression the Kynareth priestess exhibited as she lunged towards him and grabbed him by the throat with one hand with crushing force, her sharp nails sinking into his throat. A green aura surrounded her hand that sapped away the nord's energy. His arms fell weakly at his sides. The second and third nord came rushing towards her with axe and sword in hand. In her berserk, she ripped out the first nord's esophagus to be flung at one of their faces and swung the mace with all of her unrestrained might, knocking the second bearded attacker onto the ground with a crack of his sternum and another swift swing knocked away the third who was stunned by the bloody piece of flesh she threw at him - destroying his spine through the fur armor. Wylendriel contently watched them both squirm on the floor, savoring this moment while it lasted.

"I own you." She growled.

She turned to the bearded nord, squirming and scrambling to get away. She dropped onto her knees over his body with one palm firmly planted on his chest. It glowed a sickly green and steadily drained away the man's stamina, fueling repeated rage-filled swings of the spectral mace into the nord's head until virtually nothing was left but shards of bone and liquefied gore. She was unable to feel it at this moment, but muscles in her shoulder were tearing with each swing, unable to hold themselves together with all the force she was forcing herself to exert. The third, crippled nord was later met the same fate.

When the last deed was done, the energy and the bloodlust that she felt coursing through her body dissipated until her body felt pained and weary. The mace evaporated into the air, and she weakly fell to her knees. Her conscience was now clear, and she looked around at the scene that surrounded her. Three utterly obliterated men, now unidentifiable, their blood seeping into floorboards - the scenes kept replaying inside her traumatized head. The emotions. Rage and blood lust. Their faces - splitting, with each and every crack... crack! Crack! Crunch! She - she... these unspeakable acts of, just... violence - committed by her own hand - they betrayed her! They were supposed to deserve this! Yet - her memories fell back to home, both in Valenwood and to her place in the Temple of Kyne. Recalling everything they had known then, and her values - even the Green Pact said not to kill wastefully. It all came rushing back to her, and all of the justification she thought she had melted away. What she had done here was indisputably evil, and here she was... almost... enjoying it. She broke down into sobs, all the while hugging her arms in trying to bear the agony they were under. It took a long time to bring herself to move, but she eventually mustered herself the will to use Restoration magic on herself. She felt the muscles sort of stitch themselves back together, and she would be okay - at least physically - but the the phantom pains will remain for a little while longer.

The moment she could bring herself to her feet, she ran. She fled from the scene, from the cabin, as fast as she could - as far south as her legs could carry her. Until finally, she fell down exhausted in the middle of Eastmarch. After their deaths, Molag Bal's corruption seemed to have disappeared from her mind. The images hadn't returned, but she still feared the possibility of hearing his voice again like from the time he offered to "save" her life. She prayed and prayed as her tears soaked the ground, but the Divines were deathly silent. They'd forsaken her. She had to do something about this. She had to do something other than run - she had to make a pledge to herself to reject the daedric prince. She'd prove it through a pilgrimage around Tamriel. She had to pray to each of the Nine Divines at their shrines, then maybe she could cleanse herself of this evil... but a sinking feeling told her that she would have to do a lot more than just simply pray to earn their forgiveness. In spite of her doubts, she knew from her studies that there was a shrine to Akatosh here in Eastmarch, and it should have been nearby. But weak from the journey, she just found the nearest bush and fell fast asleep.

When she awoke the next day on the 11th, it took some looking around. When she found Akatosh's shrine, she spent an entire day devoted to prayer in front of the dragon god's shrine. Even after an entire day of prayer, she heard nothing. Found nothing, just silence. She had to be persistent. Word had it that Fort Amol held a shrine of Julianos, which wasn't far from here – it was still in Eastmarch. When she arrived at the fort on the 12th, it was bristling with activity, filled with nervous and suspicious nords. They questioned her immediately, brandishing weapons, and she quickly explained herself while withholding some of the truth: she was on pilgrimage. They allowed her to stay for just that one day only because she was on pilgrimage, but warned her not to head to Windhelm to pray at Arkay's shrine. That was when she learned the city was completely overrun and taken over by an Akaviri army. This was the reason for the crowded occupancy of Fort Amol.

“Please,” Wylendriel pleaded, “let me help you. Show me your wounded.”

“There aren't many to show you.” One of the soldiers replied. It wasn't as much a blessing as the soldier made it sound – the battle was catastrophic. Those who participated were lucky to escape with wounds. Most of them died. Those “lucky” few could only manage to escape at the cost of missing limbs. With what few there were to take care of, the medics had already attended to them. But they did manage to do one more thing for Wylendriel after her unanswered prayer to Julianos: they pointed her to a direction. To the west was a shrine of Dibella inside this old abandoned fort, but was likely overridden with bandits or occult practitioners. Necromancy and the like. Wylendriel was hesitant to pursue this shrine, fearful of not just the risk of going, but because there was also no telling what this damned curse might do to her. She asked for a different shrine.

“Well, to the northwest are a couple shrines to mighty Talos, just hugging the base of High Hrothgar. The closest one is actually where you follow the river north, then keep going north after it forks off.” They suggested. Then he narrowed his eyes at the Bosmer. “But last I checked, you knife-ears didn't like him very much. Damn near outlawed Talos worship a couple years back – I fought that war.”

“That was the Thalmor.” Wylendriel insisted. “I may not have prayed to Talos before, but I promise you that I will get to know him.”

After Wylendriel rested up and replenished her supplies, and set north for Talos' shrine, making sure to follow the river. Though a rather wet journey, she was greeted that day by the gorgeous sight of a weathered statue overlooking a pond. There she found another person in prayer. When she greeted him, he was alarmed and reeled back in terror. His face revealed pain with red eyes and a puffy faces. He was a man whose tears had run dry.

“What happened?” She asked.

“My wife,” the nord sobbed, “my home! Windhelm, ransacked. The akaviri... I... I've never seen anything like... like--”

The stranger took a deep breath to compose himself. Wylendriel's heart swelled with pain and fear. She had no idea what it meant when they spoke of the akaviri. An entire city was seized. By men or creatures she heard of only just yesterday by name. An alien force of unknown strength – chills ran up Wylendriel's spine as she looked over her shoulder expecting a monster, but found nothing there. When she looked at the man sitting on the ground, in the most humiliated and humble state possible, wracked with pain, she could help but feel tears well in her own eyes. He had something precious taken from him, and that was all it took for her to form an attachment with this stranger's kindred spirit.

“I'm just trying to make sense of it all.” The nord continued. “I want to know what Talos would do. What he'd have me do.”

Wylendriel sat beside the miserable widower, placed a soft hand over his own. “What's your name?” She asked.

“Torvald...” He answered.

“Wylendriel.” She whispered to him. “Let me pray with you, Torvald.” Torvald said nothing, but she felt his fingers wrap tightly around hers, occasionally quivering. The two sat in silence for what must've been hours, and she prayed and prayed – not just for forgiveness and not just in pledge to a god who, honestly, she did not even know, but also on Torvald's behalf. She prayed for his safety, his heart, and his fulfillment. She also prayed not for answers and direction, but for understanding, so that she could know who Talos was – she felt a guilty conscious for having ignorantly supported the Aldmeri Dominion and Thalmor. She wanted to seek peace with Talos on behalf of elven-kind. Her thoughts returned to home and those she left behind, wondering if they were safe or if any more of her friends or family would see themselves be victim to one of the Altmer's purges. A sudden chill breeze blew against her neck, prompting her eyes open. The sun had begun to set, casting a pink canopy across the sky. Her years of interpreting the signs of the divines instinctively led her to an epiphany, and read the situation as though the voice of an emperor was speaking to her:

“I am all that makes Skyrim; it's bite and it's boldness – but also it's beauty and it's glory. We are of blood spilled, but strength provided, we reward in bounty. Visit the North star at the break of dawn, then retrace your steps.”

Warmth filled her chest and she looked to Torvald beside her with a smile, his eyes still shut. There was a riddle to be solved. She was about to stand and help him to his feet, to help guide him along his way.

Her body suddenly seized. Her blood began boiling. Pain was stabbing her from behind her eyes. Her hand clenched around Torvald's -- he was shouting in pain!

'N-no... no! No, no!' Wylendriel thought desperately as squeezed her eyes as tightly she could. 'Gods, no, please! Save me!'

Dozens more of gruesome, haunting images burned her mind as they flickered through with hundreds of angry whispers in the background, but there was a difference this time. When before they sounded mindless and were whispering over one another, these were unified and had one clear message: punish.

Her emotions began flaring and became more intense with each passing second. She felt furious, but also powerful, tantalized, excited - but for what? She felt a growing hunger develop in the pit of her stomach as one suggestion after another inserted itself into her mind. For a moment, she managed hold down the urges and thoughts as her own emotions kept them at bay. They had arisen as soon as she realized what she was being made to do, and horror had begun to envelop her.

"Please... don't..." Wylendriel muttered to herself, struggling to keep herself from enjoying this moment as the corners of her mouth began twitching. “I don't want this.”

Torvald, too, in his fear and confusion, found tears welling in his eyes. “W-what are you doing? Wylendriel? Please... get off me!”

More images began rushing to her, the same blood-red sort of haze as they gave her rapid, broken up glimpses of Skyrim. Suddenly she saw herself. Walking, almost zombie-like, covered in blood. The gap across her throat was slowly closing itself. She fell limply onto the ground. Another image, almost as if it rewinded, and then more - she mindlessly picked something up while she was at the sight. A stone. The last few images that flickered into her head and revealed to her that it was a fragmented piece of the slab she was thrown upon, and on it was a daedric sigil. Then suddenly, there was darkness.

A slow laughter filled every crevice of her mind and felt to stretch on for years, until finally, after a long pause, she could hear Molag Bal's voice clear as day.

"Enjoy the meal."

Wylendriel felt her muscles jerk as every urge and every emotion she tried so hard to suppress came rushing back and overwhelmed her. This time, she was overcome by an animalistic frenzy, and she felt with her a presence infinitely more evil. She felt feelings inside her that she knew did not belong to her, but to something else that co-resided with her. Regardless of whatever it was she was feeling at the time, the priestess' cannibalized Torvald alive with a sense of euphoria. Her poor friend's screams and sobs cut the air. It, and the sound of wet gnashing of flesh and the tearing rips of muscle and skin were the most horrific band of instruments she'd ever heard, and for some reason, just made it more reason to love what was happening.

When Torvald's last scream finally cut short, her eyes stared into his as his eyes slowly fell back and the light vanished. The energy she felt coursing through her body vanished as well, just as quickly as it came. Everything that she knew to be normal came back, and what flesh that still resided in her mouth fell out as her jaw dropped in horror. Her gut wrenched and she threw her head to the side to let bile come pouring out. With each gag and each convulsion, her stomach removed the last drop of fluid in her stomach that it could until she was dry-hurling into the river. Gasping for breath, she took a long look at Torvald, lying lifeless on the ground with a gaping hole in his neck with streams of blood trickling down into the river. With tears streaming down her face, she went scrambling to rip open her robes and search every damned pocket to find the stone she saw in her visions. When she finally did, she pulled it out and threw it as hard as could with a scream and set herself off balance. She fell to her knees layed her head on the ground until sobs turned into whimpers.

'Kynareth, what have I done?'

She jumped down into the water to wash the blood off of her face. When she climbed back up the rocks, she stared at Torvald a couple minutes, her face just as red and puffy and tears ran dry as Torvald when she first found him. She dragged his eyelids shut with her fingers, and prayed for his spirit to cross safely into Sovngarde. Among her sorrows, being wracked with devastation at the loss of a new friend and a newfound crippling fear of the daedric prince and whatever curse he might have placed on her, what plagued her most was the sense of betrayal that Torvald must've felt in his last moments by her own hand. She knew what that betrayal was like. She felt she had to find solace in that he was lucky to remain dead. She had to find solace in blaming Molag Bal for this. She had to convince herself that this wasn't her fault, no matter how much it hurt. Wylendriel moved his body in front of Talos' statue and set a hand on his head – already cold – and her other hand grasping the eagle skull hanging from her belt. Closing her eyes, throat swollen in her mourning, she focused all of her restoration magic on him as she began reciting Arkay's rites of consecration. His spirit deserved to rest in peace and reunite with his lost love.

As she finished the final verses, she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Leaning down to gently kiss Torvald's forehead, she quickly muttered under her breath, “rest easy in Sovngarde, my friend...”

Later that night she turned west back towards the river, with her mind replaying the thoughts that played in her head. North star. Break of dawn. Retrace your steps. The only problem with this is that sunlight sheds the sky of its stars. Unless there was something she can only see in daylight, or if it referred to something else. Was it Dawnstar? It's along the northern coast, about another two days of travel! Sighing in resignation, she started setting up camp. She was treading unfamiliar ground in the middle of the night, and hasn't had any rest yet. For the next couple of days it followed this pattern. Ducking under branches, climbing over boulders, and treading through water. She knew that this was the river she followed at the start of her journey, but she think she was on the other side of it on her way there. This was a different angle and not as familiar.

Her mind fell back to the Eldergleam. Such a simple journey had gone so awry. She could've gone, could've finished it. She didn't want to desecrate such a holy place with her presence. Maybe once she was purified, she'll go back and try again - but not now. The sixth night, of travel, Wylendriel was exhausted. She swore that perhaps she had missed a turn somewhere. Did she miss civilization? Was it just around a tree that she didn't bother to look past? She was about to give up hope until torchlight shone some distance away, just north of a bunch of other flickering lights. She instantly recognized it. This was Whiterun Hold! That was Whitewatch Tower! Another twenty minutes straight of running on her weary, pained legs was dulled slightly at the sight of a familiar landmark, and as she inched closer, even the guards at the tower seems to have taken an interest.

“Who goes there?” One called out, waving their torch in front of them. As Wylendriel got closer, unable to answer through her panting, the light lit up her face. “Shor's bones – priestess! Where have you been! You've been missing for weeks!”

“Commander Sinmir!” Wylendriel exclaimed between breaths.

“Is that Wylendriel?” Another asked.

“It's... it's a long story...” Wylendriel answered. “But my journey has turned into pilgrimage... would you mind if I rest here?”

“Uh, of course priestess,” Sinmir replied, “but wouldn't you much rather resting inside the city where it's comfortable?”

She just laugh slightly in response, but it sounded hollow and fake in the face of what she has had to suffer through lately. “I'm afraid I don't feel up to spending all night explaining myself to the whole city...”

“Are you okay?”

“I will heal.” Wylendriel answered softly. “In time...”

That night, before she slept, she prayed a silent, unanswered prayer to the daedric prince - to allow her to finish her pilgrimage. She suggested it would present the lord with an opportunity not often seen: an opportunity to battle and dominate a Divine. While Wylendriel has great faith that the divines could easily purge the daedra and recover her soul, Molag Bal has so far remained silent and seems to be permitting her pilgrimage, indicating that she might have appealed to his arrogance and lust for power...

The next morning, she met with the townsfolk of Whiterun, shocked by the poor condition Wylendriel returned in - and her scars! Wylendriel kept the truth a secret, only telling that the men she hired had betrayed her. She told them that it was the kindness of Ivarstead that nursed her back to health, and here she was! She lied and said that she was motivated by her trip to the Eldergleam to make a full pilgrimage to communicate with the rest of the Nine Divines. She couldn't possibly allow them to know the truth. There wouldn't be any saving her. The rest of that day was spent preening herself and stocking up on supplies and belongings. She left by the carriage outside Whiterun on the 22nd of Sun's Height and payed the man to bring her to Dawnstar. It would take her there in half the time and would allow her an opportunity to reflect on the road that has brought her here. Her flee from home. The Temple of Kyne. Her betrayal. Her, Gods, her sickening... rape, her savior and then the voices.... her breakdown. Her mind fell back on Torvald as well, but her mind, in the end, always returned to home. Back to Valenwood.

Chapter 1

It was in the afternoon of the 25th of Sun's Height, 4E 205 when Wylendriel first rolled into Dawnstar. She had stopped first with an argonian refugee camp just outside the the city's perimeter and offered her aid to them. Though the group was cautious of strangers, they relaxed when she identified herself as a healer. She learned that these refuges, too, were displaced by the Kamal, and their wounds were severe and dramatic. Despite her lack of familiarity with argonian physiology, after some preparation with the help of their Pakseech, Tzinasha, she was able to heal first their senior warrior, Vija-Nim. Now that the test run was over, she instructed the others to gather all of their injured in one location and she was able to perform an expert level Restoration spell in order to heal everyone at once - sealing her place in their community as a trusted friend.

After some time between herself and Tzinasha, sharing thoughts and trading wisdom from their respective cultures, they bid each other farewell for now and she legged it toward Dawnstar. Though she had come here on pilgrimage and to track down a shrine to one of the Nine Divines in the area, she became troubled by how much this journey was costing her. Indeed, she was being payed back by the kindness and acceptance of people such as the argonian refugees, but she would not be able to keep up with the consumption of her supplies without first having a bit of coin to help replenish them. This brought her to Jarl's Skald's longhouse so that she could look for work. Though their reception to her was cold, they eventually directed her to Commander Ashav.

Though he was as jaded a man as she ever saw, and maybe slightly doubtful of her ability to protect herself, he was nonetheless impressed when she fixed his nose with barely any effort and took a chance on her and permitted her acquaintanceship in his company as their chaplain. Her first job: find the company throughout town and help some of their injured. They, too, had just come from Windhelm, and the Kamal had left them battered. One such mercenary was the dunmer woman, Niernan. They were cautious with one another at first, but as they talked to each other during Wy's treatment of her, from their reasons to being her, to the war, and then to handling their self-doubts, they warmed up to each other a little bit just before Niernen's exhaustion was beginning to overtake her. They bid their farewells, and they both resigned themselves to bed for the night.

When the town awoke the next morning, the town was in a buzz, and it wasn't until halfway through Wy's breakfast did she learn why. In a recent string of murders, there had been another victim: her new friend, Tzinashsa. This news had thrown Wy into a fury, and she immediately brought herself to Commander Ashav's tent and demanded a place in the murder investigation. Though she met some resistance out of concern of her race being a threat to the town's stability, she remembered to humble down a bit while addressing him halfway through the conversation and was able to secure her place. Her first stop was at the scene of the crime within the Argonian Refugee camp, and she spoke with their leaders. Vija-Nim, Wuska, and Inan - they all had a close relationship with Tzinasha, and together, they were able to help narrow down the options of the culprit to a dunmer or a dunmer taking advantage of the chaos instilled by hateful nords. Their meeting was interrupted when the camp was met with a khajiit woman, asking to see the body, and claimed to be one of the mercenaries.

Wy met with the khajiit personally, soon learning that her name was Khazki. Their meeting was tumultuous; Wy was cautious and Khazki was abrasive, and they tentatively entered a temporary partnership after learning that they were both on the same team. They followed a lead which lead them to some tracks outside of the argonian camp. When they eventually lead them nowhere and turned up dry, they had no where else to go other than back into town, and their conversation turned to a short-lived discussion of religion.

As they treaded back into town, they came upon a commotion: the murderer was here and was attacking the Jarl. Khazki pushed Wy off, urging her to find Ashav. Though Wy was overcome with thoughts of revenge, Khazki's sensibilities helped to ground her. Wy followed her direction and ran off to find Ashav. Upon returning to the scene with their commander, the deed was already done: the assassin was apprehended, but Jarl Skald was already dead. Ashav wanted the assassin guarded by his own men, and asked Wy to organize the local priests so that Dawnstar's dead could be sanctified and a proper funeral could be had. Wy tended to Khazki's wounds after some persuasion, and moved to heal the rest of their company.

Unfortunately, she wouldn't have the time to perform the ceremony before chaos in Dawnstar broke out.

Capabilities

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§ Attributes

Major: Willpower
Minor: Speed

§ Skills

Expert: Restoration (Healing) – (Wylendriel's long time commitment to Kynareth did not go without merit – she is valued as a healer and has fixed up even gutted soldiers on the brink of death, while supplementing her magic with practical medical expertise. On the other side of the coin, she can use the same magical powers that allows her to revitalized others to inflict great harm upon them... not that she'd ever willingly do so.)

Adept: Medicine – (The healers back home and the priestesses in the Temple of Kyne in Skyrim both taught her many things about medicine, and how to heal by utilizing Her Graciousness' gifts instead of relying on magicka. Specially talented, perhaps, as her Green Pact forbids her from harvesting her own vegetation for her craft. Working around that gave her a specialized niche in medicine using strictly animal-based ingredients, but still knows a select few recipes utilizing plant-life.)

Adept: Summoning (Conjuration) – (At first, Wylendriel was just a novice, just like any of us are when we learn something new, but in this case, Wylendriel has very little gained or practical knowledge. Most of what she now knows is intuitively gained. One of Molag Bal's "gifts" so to speak. When the Prince made a deal with Wy to help her get her revenge, he granted her a boon and used her existing knowledge of Conjuration as a foundation for him to selectively impart his intuitive understanding of magic onto her. He determined what she did and did not know. There's a cruel irony to be found in that he chose not to champion Wylendriel with the true Mace of Molag Bal, yet armed her with a magical, spectral mace anyways. In the end, the priestess walked away from the Prince and made the power her own.)

Adept: Bosmeri – (She's a Bosmer who grew up in the center of Valenwood, enough said.)

Novice: Marksman (Bow) - (Archery shapes Bosmeri culture and everyone must learn to hunt, and even a priestess like Wylendriel is no exception. She may not have dedicated all of her time and energy to the bow, but she is still shaped by her people's traditions and is capable of learning the art very quickly should she choose to practice it further in the future.)

Novice: One-handed (Blunt) – (Wylendriel doesn't have much in the way of actual skill in using maces. It's more like Wylendriel loses her shit, gets super angry, and swings it really fucking hard.)

Novice: Athletics – (Bosmer are naturally stringy and swift, and it only helps matters that Wylendriel enjoys being active and is prone to embarking on pilgrimages.)

Novice: Acrobatics – (Bosmer are agile, and Wylendriel is no exception. She spent much of her time growing up traversing the wilds, and she can climb trees with ease.)

Novice: Tailoring – (She has a basic grasp on how to stitch her clothing back together, but it's gonna look like patchwork. It's either that or sporting holes. Your choice.)

§ Weaknesses

Non-combatant: Wylendriel's naturally pacifistic nature is actually somewhat compromised, but now she consciously tries to avoid getting involved in the middle of the fray. She'll do anything to get out of fighting in all-out battle to avoid the risk of going mad. Also, a lack of conditioning, training, and natural strength keeps her from helping with any of the heavy lifting without hurting herself. Though to some degree, she has to learn to give herself in to these impulses just enough and direct them towards people who would do others ill, just so the glass won't overfill.

Hedgehog's dilemma: She's distant and emotionally unavailable even to her friends and allies. It's practically paranoia; on one hand, even if you're close enough to her that there's zero chance of you betraying her, she fears there's the possibility of her hurting you.

Foreign ignorance: She's was isolated in Valenwood for a while without much news of the outside world seeping into her circle. When she left Valenwood, she barely knew a thing about the other cultures outside of home except for a few details that are typically common knowledge across the world. I.E. Nords don't like elves, Altmer don't like humans or beast races, and Dunmer don't like anybody at all. Not even each other.

Trauma: Wylendriel has suffered a lot over the years, but the treachery and indignities which she suffered at the hands of her supposed protectors had left a scar upon her psyche. She doesn't realize it quite yet, having failed to confront her trauma and preferring to bury it, she believes (or perhaps rationalizes) that her change in behavior is instead a symptom of a daedric curse which seeks to corrupt her.

Wanted: Avoid Dominion soldiers.

Other priorities: She's still on a pilgrimage, and that might put her at odds with some of the party's plans. She's dead-set on finishing what she started and cleansing the curse from her soul as soon as possible.

§ Spells

Expert Restoration: Grand Healing, Circle of Protection, Repel Undead, Devour Health, Close Wounds, Heal Other, Fortify Fatigue, Absorb Fatigue, Cure

Adept Conjuration: Conjure Mace, Conjure Dagger, Banish Daedra, Summon Familiar, Soul Trap, Reanimate Dead

§ Tactics

If she can help it, Wylendriel won't fight. Aside from being a healer at heart, the stress of combat and intense feelings such as anger, misery, or fear actually has her run the risk of succumbing to Molag Bal's suggestions and her own dark urges and intrusive thoughts. Say she succumbs, though: there isn't any real strategy. She seeks to surprise and ambush her foes with unbridled aggression and a summoned, bound mace. Then she can use her restoration skills to drain away her foes' health or stamina, rendering them weak and helpless as she beats them repeatedly into the ground until they're liquefied.

Her mind is not so clouded and her willpower is not so weak that she cannot tell between foe or ally, so she will (at least for the most part) be able to restrain herself from taking out that same aggression on her friends. Anyways, in this respect, her "berserker mode" has her serve as a glass cannon. She cripples and executes her enemies, but is totally armorless and lacks the natural durability to take very many blows herself and lacks the strength and skill to stand toe-to-toe with a practiced fighter. Only in dire situations where she cannot fight an enemy on her own will she call upon Molag Bal's conjuration magic to summon daedra or reanimate corpses. Note that never in her right mind would she ever consider using such vile magic.

§ Relations & Affiliations

Wylendriel is a priestess of the Temple of Kyne in Whiterun, and is a rather respected member of the clergy among the locals despite her elven blood. She has not been there for very long, but she has proven her devotion and ability to the nords and they've taken her as one of their own. Most have, at least. Her family back in Valenwood is all she really has otherwise, and she doesn't even know how they're doing at the moment. Her mother, Virwe, and her father, Galandrel, are both highly respected Spinners within their communities.

§ Opinions

Ashav: Wylendriel didn't think much of him at first, but he earned her ire when he was nowhere to be seen while men and women and mer were dying on the Tear's deck at Smuggler's Cove. Still, he didn't deserve to die the way he did. She wonders if he was more self aware than she thought and felt terribly guilty over what happened. Perish the thought that Wy may have been criticizing a man who was so close to the edge already.

Niernen: She was the first person Wy talked to within the company aside from Ashav himself, and she took a liking to the young dunmer. Between taking care of her, her prickhole of a brother, and saving her life at Smuggler's Cove, part of her feels a little protective of the battle-mage due to the people she failed to save. They haven't gotten to talk nearly as much as she'd like to, but she'd like to change that.

Khazki: A royal bitch, but at least you can trust the fur ball to cut the shit and do the job. She earned some of Wy's respect when she ran headfirst into danger to apprehend Dawnstar assassin. Unexpectedly wise, if a bit jaded. It's a shame she left them. She could use a bit of her sardonic humor right about now.

Narzul: She'd dare not wish ill on Niernen or her family, but it should be fair to say that of those left surviving, he wasn't more deserving of his fortune than the ones who passed.

Ashna: Wy didn't know her, but she'll never forget her screams. The guilt of depriving the warrior of a dignified death weighed heavily on her heart.

Adaeze: Wy risked a lot to try saving the other Bosmer, but it was all for naught in the end. She wishes they got to know each other better.

Maj: If not for the conjurer, Wy may have fallen to her own recklessness. She doesn't know her very well, but she seems like a kind enough soul.

Tsleeixth: Th argonian was the first of the mercenaries to seek her counsel. It sounded a lot like he suffered much of what Wy has, and for that, he has her deepest sympathies. Unfortunately, she was unable to help him with his problem. He was also the first one to get to see all the scars hiding under her robes. It was easier than talking about it, but she still isn't sure why she did that.

§ Other

Has a cast iron stomach and is able to digest damn near any edible piece of food available. Having a strict meat-based diet, some of it even raw, tends to build up your immune system like crazy. She has some resistance to disease and poison effects because of this.

Inventory

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§ Cash

110 septims

§ Keys & Lockpicks

1 key to the Temple of Kyne in Whiterun.

§ Tools & Crafting Materials

• A skinning knife
• A feathered quill and inkjar.
• Threading needles and a spool of sinew fiber.

§ Clothing & Armor

• A set of robes; water-resistant (waxed wool), leather supported, cold-weather (bear fur), hooded, separable (bear fur). An explosion of fire tattered it to hell and back.
• Fur boots
• Black wool top, sleeveless
• Black wool tights, down to knees
• A leather belt

§ Weapon & Ammo

Though not really a weapon, she has a skinning knife if she's feeling desperate.

§ Potion & Arcane Supplies

• 3 bottles of Potion of Magicka

§ Jewelry & Valuables

An amulet of Kynareth with a minor stamina enchantment, and an eagle skull hanging from her belt (a memento from home, also serves as a second divine focus).

§ Books & Documents

• Unsent letters addressed to Valenwood, sealed with wax.
• Several pieces of blank parchment and empty envelopes.
• A copy of each: Healers Fieldbook, Herbalist's Guide to Skyrim, Notes on Racial Phylogeny, Nine Commands of the Eight Divines, The Consecrations of Arkay, and the poems Hymn to Kyne and Kyne's Tears on single pieces of parchment.
• A book containing a compilation of poetry, alphabetically listed, from the Death Blow of Abernanit to The Warrior's charge, and all of the lesser known poems that came before, in-between, and after.

§ Food/Drinks/Ingredients

Preserved beef and venison, water, and medicinal herbs. Other provisions include a mortar and pestle, dressings, bandages, a splint, and a tourniquet.

§ Load Bearing Equipment

• A satchel, carrying most of her stuff.
• Five pouches hanging from her belt, carrying medicinal herbs.
• A waterskin, on sling slung over her shoulder.

§ Other

Wy has a love for poetry, and for no reason, she's self-conscious and slightly embarrassed about it.
Spotify Playlist

Dar'Jzo, from gcold's The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention

With a coat

Dar'Jzo

Male Khajiit | 57 | The Serpent

Profile

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§ Birthplace

Senchal, Pelletine (Elsweyr)

§ Appearance

Dar'Jzo was never good at first impressions. People often see the cat before they see the man, and Dar'Jzo is very much a proud cathay. He is covered head to toe in golden blonde fur and marked by subtle shadow striping across his body, and like a cathay, has a head shape that resemble a mountain lion. The face of which is gaunt, but not because he is skinny or malnourished - another look shows that he is quite good condition, if a bit slender and not powerfully built like a true warrior would be (he stands at about 5'10", weighs around 160 lbs) - but because of his age. True, while he may be in great condition for the number of years he has lived, time has taken its toll on the khajiit's body. His skin doesn't cling to his body as tightly as it once did, his claws have gotten a little brittle, and he has to remain active more often than most just to keep his muscle tone. His face is marred by more than just a few wrinkles, and he seems to have formed permanent bags underneath his eyes through a combination of age, countless sleepless nights, and chemical burns from irritating fumes that he was gradually exposed to when he was much younger.

It almost betrays the threatening quality of his presence. Almost.

There's a certain sharpness to him. How his brows hang low over his needle-like green eyes, or how the gauntness of his cheeks trace the faint outline of the array of sharp teeth hiding within his maw. His black mane is dreaded and adorned with a number of colorful, tribal beads and is wrapped up in a bun on top of his head. The long black fur on his chin is braided and similarly decorated with beads. Some patches of his fur is much shorter than the rest, indicating the many different scars he has earned through his life. His ears are short, with one of them shaped like a wide arrow while the other appears to have it's tip missing. He carries himself with poise, but it's not founded out of arrogance so much as it is confidence, subtle a difference though it may be. His face is forever stoic, stern, and serious, rarely breaking a smile that would dismiss the grim air his disposition stifles the atmosphere with.

His choice of wardrobe would make sense if he was still living in Senchal, but not so much in Skyrim. For starters, he doesn't wear a shirt. He just doesn't like to and not for any particular reason, but if he had to come up with one, it feels too constricting while he's pulling back his bowstring. He does though wear a black leather bandolier that goes across his chest and over one of his shoulders, and it looks something like a huge leather belt. With it, he carries a few pouches, bags, and a small pack. It is also this bandolier that he attaches his quiver of arrows to, from which Dar'Jzo hangs his bow.

The only actual garments of clothes he wears are loose-fitting, baggy, and breathable black linen pants which he secures to his person with a blood-red sash, and the bottom of his pants are tucked into black leather riding boots. While his fur would be enough to keep him warm for a short while in one of Skyrim's winters, it alone wouldn't protect him for long. During his time on board the ship that takes him from Senchal to Solitude, he was given a black wool long coat by one of the navy men should he be stuck in Skyrim for a while.

§ Personality

Dar'Jzo doesn't talk much, and because he doesn't talk much, it's kind of hard to tell why he doesn't talk much. It makes him somewhat of a mysterious individual to the people around him, since he seems to simply refuse talking about his life all that much. Every now and again he'll give you a blunt answer like, "I don't want to," or "I'm just an old hunter", but nobody really buys it because he just comes across as if you pressured him into giving you a half-assed answer just to shut you up. On the other hand, you have no choice but to take what you can get, because that was all he was willing to give you. A job or mission may require him to talk, and he will - he'll do whatever it takes without complaining - but he prefers spending his time watching others from a corner or spending some time to himself and meditating until the next job falls into his lap. Honestly, it's kind of creepy the way his smoldering stare just appraises everyone and everything. It's like he doesn't seem to trust anybody.

He is just as serious a cat as he seems. If he's going to get something done, he's going to get it done right. No fooling around, just business. He values hard work and being dutiful, and although he may not acknowledge it when he sees it, that is one of ways to earn his respect - though unspoken it may be. Indeed, he is one extremely jaded cat who has seen too much shit in his time, and though he may come across as unapproachable, that doesn't make him a despicable or foul individual. There is a paternal side to him that makes him protective of others who may be young or vulnerable, and he has a conscious that could quite possibly put him in danger if it meant serving the greater good. He doesn't waste time with making his enemies suffer, preferring instead to get the grisly deed done and over with. That being said, he doesn't close his eyes his to the suffering around him, and there is a delightful potential for cruelty within Dar'Jzo. If he doesn't need his enemy dead, then he's the type would do what it takes until he gets what does need.

Sometimes that cruelty is redirected on others, though not ever without reason. His temper is secure and it takes all of Oblivion for him to lose it and abandoned his cool demeanor, but once he does, he doesn't hold anything back. If you want to know what he thinks, you're going to know what he thinks. He won't sugar-coat anything, beat around the bush, or anything like that - he'll let you know the unadulterated truth and all of the harsh realty which surrounds it. He's not the type to apologize for it either, even if the world turns against him for it. He's old and stubborn and stuck in his ways like that. He's no enemy of reason, but hope that he finds your reasoning more reasonable than his own.

Even when strangers think they know Dar'Jzo, that they've finally gotten a bead on who he is as a person, they don't usually realize how far off they are. By now it's easy to conclude that he is a very private person. All of that privacy and alone time which he treasures so much actually hides a family man full of heart. His personality seems to flip around when he's near his friends and loved ones. His true friends. He might still be as quiet, but nowhere near as reclusive and shut off. He's involved and relaxed around them, and he cares oh so deeply for his family that he would go to the ends of the world in order to keep them safe and protected. Once witnessing that side of him, his coldness seems to make more sense when you realize he's weight down by responsibility and duty. He's only here because he has to, and any distractions could jeopardize everything he's worked so hard for. It's this epiphany that might make someone realize that he is just as much a person as anyone else and is plagued with his own insecurities.

For a long time, Dar'Jzo didn't know who he was or who he was supposed to be. What role he was supposed to play. He spent many years trying to formulate his identity, and for a while he got it right. Now, he's still not so sure, but at least he knows what his role in life his: a grandfather and the protector of his family. That's who he sees himself as at his core. He doesn't go out of his way to be unkind to others, he lends a helping hand when he's able, and he has some practical wisdom at his disposal that he's willing to give as long others ask him for it; he isn't the type to go around giving unsolicited advice. Just... don't expect him to hold up a conversation very well.

§ Background

The History of Dar'Jzo

Dar'Jzo was not always Dar'Jzo. Whether or not it was a crises of identity, he has gone through many names in his life. Some he has earned, but most were chosen for himself. His first was Kil before he earned his honorific, then Ja'kil in a fit of rebellion when he had finally come of age. S'kil when he fathered a daughter, thinking a mere name change could somehow change the person he was. Then Dro'kil when his daughter bore a child of her own, and he sought to shed the fur of the khajiit he used to be and lay down his tools for the betterment of his daughter's family. Never in his life would he have expected to become Dar'Jzo. Never in his life would he have expected to be Ra'gajal's attack cat.

It is difficult to pinpoint where exactly it all went wrong. Perhaps it was from the beginning, in 4E 149. He was born on a seafaring vessel by people who were truly no better than pirates - at least he thinks he was. The southeastern-most city of Pelletine was the port-town of Senchal, and it was as ripe with trade as it was with crime. When the ships were coming in steady, guards would watch every rundown nook and cranny, so some thieves got smart and only became active when business was slow, trading less risk for a less lucrative hit. It all depended on how big of a gambler you were. One of the Baandari, a clan of traders and peddlers, thought that she'd be saving a kitten from the big bad pirates and sneaked her way on board to pick him up from off the deck. When the smuggler made it back to the trading post inside town, poor Daro'Rista wasn't met with the praise she hoped for - she was met with scorn. The Baandari didn't deal in people, let alone babies. What started as a good-intentioned, albeit misguided attempt at philanthropy turned into all the reason in the world for an exile, and Daro'Rista became Cast-Cat.

Though this left everyone wondering what to do with the little young khajiit. Put it back on the boat with the pirates? The baby wouldn't survive! What was their intention with the baby anyway? They decided that it might have been best to either find someone willing to take him or raise the child themselves. Then they looked to Daro'Rista. Now a Cast-Cat she may be, but her act was at least done out of concern, yes? They took pity on her, though dare not re-initiate her because her gambling took too many risks. Perhaps too risky even to be taking care of a child, but Daro'Rista stopped them there - she took the child in the first place, so she will take responsibility for him. She only asked that the child could be raised Baandari like she was, and perhaps the child will do better. The Baandari agreed.

So a young cat was named Kil, raised by a trader-thief and a clan of peddlers. His origins were quite unknown to him, though Daro'Rista was no stranger when it came to sharing how he was found, so it was fair to say that Kil wasn't sure how he fit into the community around him. His mother wasn't really his mother and his father was essentially an entire clan that his mother used to be a part of, but she was exiled and yet he's allowed to be Baandari, and he came from a pirate ship where there was no telling if he was born to its crew-mates or if he was stolen away from someplace else. It was doubtless that he felt at least a little lost or had a fractured sense of identity. He just had to stick through it though, and he ended up learning the art of trade, hustling, and hawking, and perhaps the seedier aspects of life through Daro'Rista and some of the Baandari who were actually good at it.

Though in all fairness to Daro'Rista, it was she who taught him how to hunt. Learning to shoot a bow, learning the fox-trot - it was cheaper than buying the meat and the Baandari were nothing if not bargain hunters. The idea of saving money was sometimes more tantalizing than the boars and sand-crabs they were hunting! Kil never cared for trade like most of the Baandari seemed to, but they did instill into him a sort of resentment for government - not that he was your traditional rebel or anarchist, but the Baandari were a free people and he didn't want any pesky officials getting into his business.

It wasn't until his mid-teens did he really start getting into particularly seedy trade. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as illegal trade. If a customer wanted a particular item, who was anyone to stop them? Moon sugar was no such item, but when it was distilled? Skooma was an ever-present problem across Elsweyr! So popular a drug was it, that it seemed that as much as half of Senchal was addicted to it. Very few of the Baandari in Senchal were willing to handle such hot wares and they warned Kil against it. For a while, he adhered to their wisdom, but when Daro'Rista was caught with sticky-paws and thrown into a cell, Kil went forward with the idea in hopes of raising enough money to spring his godmother free. He was never going to touch the stuff, of course. He knew that it was basically poisonous garbage and he never had any intention of indulging himself in it.

If there were a couple things the Baandari told him about the skooma trade, it was that it was extremely cutthroat, illegal, and each and every dealer was a rival who had it out for you, so it wasn't as easy as finding someone to teach you how to make it. Luckily for him, he was Baandari, and the clan takes care of its own. One of their own people by the name of Saleel - a black Cathay-raht (otherwise known in Cyrodiil as "Smokes-the-Crack"), who was in and of himself of a drug problem who decided that skooma costed too much and decided to learn how to make it himself. Saleel argued that none know how to make skooma better than he, because he's the only one who samples his own wares! That cat was rarely ever sober, and sometimes that made learning how to make skooma a pain-staking task all on its own... but that was how he got into the trade.

If there was anything he learned about the skooma trade, it was that there's no such thing as easing into it. You can't hawk your wares without getting into trouble, and nobody will come to you unless they know who you are. So what does one do? You hunt down as many sugar-tooths as you can find in the city. Catch them while they're shivering with the skooma-shakes, and you... "help them out" by easing their withdrawal with an itty bitty free sample. Then you let them know where they can find you. He chose an old storehouse on the docks. Cats don't like water (him included), but if you were wracked with addiction, wasn't it a small price to pay? Sometimes, though, addicts who are poor and can't afford the skooma will simply see a small, young khajiit and just try to take it from him.

It was as the clan said: skooma dealings were cutthroat and dangerous.

He returned home battered, bruised, and fur soggy with seawater after he was pushed off the side of the docks. He was frustrated and angry that he was seen as nothing more than a child when he was at his seventeenth year. Though his clan felt sorry for the kid, they still laughed and joked about today being the day he became a man, ironically calling him Ja'kil - it became less funny to them when Kil went along with it. He called himself Ja'kil from that point onward, hoping that would make people take him more seriously. The clan tried to explain, it didn't matter how young or how old you were. There are some out there who will simply seek to take advantage of you and a fancy new name wasn't going to change that. It put him down at first, but they continued: what he needed to do was learn how to defend himself, and the Baandari weren't without their warriors.

They taught him moves and self-defense techniques that should allow him to take care of your average drugged-up cat. Anyone with any actual training he should be wary of, but for the most part, the practice did him good. When the same customer from the other day found him again, Ja'kil wasn't the one who was thrown into the water this time.

The next couple of years for Ja'Kil was pretty much spent honing his trade. He wasn't a good merchant by any means, but he learned how to make his business work and he learned how to make better skooma more efficiently, making himself no longer reliant on Saleel's tutelage. On the downside, it was in that amount of time that Ja'kil wasn't able to meet his goal of bailing Daro'Rista out of prison before she got out on good behavior - making a profit off of addicts wasn't exactly as lucrative as he imagined, but now he had the experience so he may as well stick with it. It added to the struggle of coming to terms with his identity, since he didn't feel like this was his calling. Daro'Rista didn't approve of her godson becoming a skooma peddler, but she understood why he turned to it. While she was never a part of the trade, she did move goods from time to time. She offered her aid to him in that regard nonetheless, hoping that she could keep him safe until the time came when he grows tired of this business.

Though it became clear that he didn't spend all of his time messing around while she was in jail; he became kinda good at it. He learned most of the tricks - his first experience hardened him enough to be able to demand respect without scaring away his customers. He learned to use dead drops instead of carrying the goods nearby or on his person. He learned not just the guards' rounds, but their names, and learned credible deniability by allowing himself to be seen at certain times of the day while his customer picked up their prescription - one can't be skulking about at all hours of the day. Even during his meetings, he'd be waiting for his customers at the docks with a basket of fish at his side, a fishing pole in hand, and his feet hanging off the docks.

At nineteen years old, 4E 168, he met the khajiit who would one day bear his child: Lalana, a black-furred Suthay-raht from a family who owned a plantation. Grew things from moon sugarcane to bananas, herded goats, and even owned an elephant which plowed the land for them. The land was protected by pahmar to discourage thieves from poaching what they owned. They made everything from banana rum to traditional Elsweyr Fondue - it was safe to say that she came from a totally different caste than Ja'kil did, but she didn't want to live her life being reliant on her family's wealth. Still, they were smitten by one another. The rustic man of few words giving the bad boy vibe was just as alluring to Lalana as much as her elegance and rebellious side was to Ja'kil. Her family warned against the dangers of running off with street cats like that dastardly Baandari, Ja'kil, but as far as Lalaana was concerned, there was no evidence of him being dangerous. He never told her the truth of what he did for a living.

Of course they were young and stupid and without restraint - but they loved each other. It didn't take long before they were with child, which marked one of the happiest days for Daro'Rista. The young cat she had saved and raised had finally become a father of his own and perhaps that was the day she stopped trying to hold his hand through life. The Baandari rejoiced for his happiness and welcomed both his lover and, months later, their daughter with open arms. For the first time, he felt like he actually had a purpose: to house and protect his new family. So as Lalana suggested that they gave their daughter the name Datta, after the first Mane. Ja'kil let her make the decision - it wouldn't be fair for him to decide two names in the same day, because from that day forward, he wasn't Ja'kil, he was S'kil; for he was no longer the same brat who thought changing his name made him a different person. No, it was the deed - and since the deed of fatherhood made him a different person, the old name no longer reflected him.

Of course, the Baandari clan couldn't help but make fun of him for being so melodramatic, but they respected his wishes.

You would be forgiven for thinking that there would be a drastic change in his lifestyle following that day. How does one explain to their family that they are a skooma dealer? What if that danger finds its way to them? Well, it was all the more reason to not be caught, yes? He figured that if he was good at something, then it would be a waste of ability to not use it - such was one of the ways the Baandari taught him. Of course, he had to get better at it if he was to keep safe. Get smarter. He made his reputation as a fisherman and a hunter apparent to Senchal - it was better to be known for something innocuous than to not be known at all... those sorts were the suspicious types that the guards made a point of keeping their eyes on. Now mindful of all these different things, his job became so much harder. He needed allies and people he could trust to help him do the dirty work when he couldn't do it himself. There was Saleel, but he was more likely to smoke the skooma than not. Within the Baandari in Senchal, there was only one other these days who was willing to move skooma around: Dar'sho, the son of Ra'Mada, one of the Baandari's leaders.

He was a few years older than S'kil, but given how he's been with them since he was a kitten, they've known each other for nearly twenty years. Dar'sho was more than happy to lend a helping hand to him, especially since he was the only other person ballsy enough to handle the drug. For the next sixteen years, they've been business partners, taking on the ups and downs together and battling their rivals. From moving skooma, to selling it - Dar'sho was always the better businessman, but S'kil was better at being discrete and actually knew how to make the stuff - to sabotaging business rivals and even having to bully and collect debts when they needed to. Dar'sho covered for him when he had to spend time with his family and even went as far as to provide an uncle for his daughter. They were partners, plain and simple. Even if the going got rough and certain customers thought that they could take from them, they took care of the problem together. When they came home with a cut or a bruise, the blamed it on a wild boar while on a bad hunting trip, or some other form of wildlife with a particularly nasty temper.

Though there were some close calls that resulted in some of their stock or one of their labs being ransacked by the guard, they made a point of never being caught. Don't gamble and don't take risks. Their lives weren't worth only a couple bottles of skooma. This was the start of a regional meme of a particular skooma dealer in Pelletine called the Senchal Sugar Ghost. The name got around, but nobody knew who it was - it was just used whenever someone stumbled upon an old skooma den or a dead drop with nobody there. It became more of a joke then anything, since it could have been any one of the handful of skooma peddlers in Senchal. What started off as a strategy to hunt down an unknown, wanted criminal ended up backfiring. Literally everyone called each other the ghost. Wanted posters were made for the Senchal Sugar Ghost depicting just the rough outline of a khajiit (because duh, ghosts were invisible) - at its core though, it was mostly a mockery of the guard. Hunting down an "unknown criminal" is like hunting down someone who doesn't exist. It was the Gray Fox all over again.

In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to be asking an entire population of khajiit to share some responsibility for the law.

All the while, his family has been growing as well. Lalana has earned herself a place in the Baandari with her connections to her side of the family and opening trade between them and the clan. She had a good head for mercantilism that the clan has ultimately come to respect, and their daughter Datta was grew up idolizing her and saw the Baandari as something of a huge extended family, many of which were more than happy to entertain her with their sleight of hand tricks and faux prophecies. Datta sought to follow in her mother footsteps, because in her words, "she's the prettiest and smartest person in the whole world!"

It's difficult to blame his daughter for picking a favorite. As much as he loved her, he essentially had two full-time jobs and one was required to hide the other, so he was almost as much of a ghost to his daughter as he was to Senchal. He was barely ever around to help raise her and he loathed himself for that. He got the sense that perhaps his daughter resented him too as she grew older. It was difficult to hunt, fish, be a big-time drug dealer, and then wash away all the smells and fumes from his fur after cooking the garbage up all in one day before it was her bedtime. It was difficult, but every time he entertained the thought of leaving the business, Dar'Sho would pull him back in. He couldn't just leave. "You can't waste talent."

4E 184 - sixteen years after Datta was born was the year his life was changed, and the skeletons in his closet that he tried so desperately to hide came storming out of the shadows. Sometimes you think you've tried so hard and made so sure to cover your tracks, anything to prevent the worst from happening, like how S'kil thought he made sure that nobody followed him home. Between he and Dar'sho, surely it was impossible for one of the rivaling skooma dealers to try and eliminate the competition by sending an assassin to kill him in his own home. Just seconds after arriving home one evening as S'kil leaned in to greet his lover with a nuzzle and waving hello at his daughter from across the room, taking in the smell of the wood smoke from the fire place and the smell of freshly cooked food... Lalana's eyes grew wide from a sight she saw from behind him. She threw S'kil aside, inadvertently taking a dagger in the chest with the assailant driving all of his weight behind it mid-leap. Even the assailant seemed shocked by the turn of events, shocked enough to remain frozen long enough for S'kil to process what was happening - his lover on the floor, bleeding out... he was overcome with rage.

With an agonized, ear-splitting scream he lunged at the cat who hurt his wife while drawing a knife from his belt. He grabbed their dagger-wielding paw with his free hand, and used his weight to pin the assailant's shoulders to the ground with his knees.

The assailant struggled as he yelled out loud, "Dark moons take you! You skooma vardariit-"

Nothing was stopping him from plunging his knife into their face. Then again and again, over and over...

Dar'sho was close enough to hear the commotion and sprinted his way to their front door, unable to even get a word out seeing before him the grisly horror of the scene which left him speechless. One khajiit undoubtedly dead, face unrecognizable amidst the gore, and Lalana being cradled in S'kil's arms who was rocking back and forth, trying to talk to her lifeless body through his tears. Their daughter was sobbing into her mother's belly. The family needed to mourn, and as much Dar'sho wanted to mourn too, he felt a responsibility to them to help take care of things while they were vulnerable. He immediately started looking through the pockets of the assailant's body.

"Dar'sho..." S'kil weakly said, "what are you..."

Dar'sho said nothing, but apparently found what he was looking for in the form of a crumpled up note. He quickly read it, his fur becoming increasingly bristled and tail increasingly anxious. He balled the the piece of parchment and threw it into the fireplace, the room glowing brighter for a moment as it lit up like kindling.

"It's Jo'Zhar." Dar'sho growled. "He knows it was us."

S'kil shook his head in shame and pressed his head against his wife's.

"We have to take care of this now, S'kil, before it gets any worse."

"Papa..." Datta whimpered. "What did he mean by skooma...?"

By that point, the sounds of footfalls from neighboring houses and from the clan's residence started storming closer, people calling to each other, asking questions like, "what was that?" S'kil shook his head and looked at his daughter, saying, "I'll explain later."

Datta stared solemnly, long and hard as her mother, as she mumbled, "It's always later..."

The words stung S'kil's heart and he frowned, then looked to Dar'sho with a crestfallen glance. "Go. I'll meet with you."

He nodded and fled the scene as S'kil's neighbors and clan fell upon his home, gasping in shock and mourning with him. Datta would stay with the clan that night, and the Clan-Mother would prep the body for safe passage to the Sands Behind the Stars. Tonight, S'kil would not find sleep, but instead Dar'Sho, who waited for him at the docks where they would begin their search for Jo'Zhar. Though his former hiding place still remained abandoned, they turned to the sugar-tooths on the street for information. It didn't take long, since many of these cats S'kil knew as his buyers, and he always kept himself composed - not tonight. He wasn't hiding a single ounce of his emotions. When he demanded to know the location of one of the former dealers in Senchal - the one who got hit hard by a rival - it didn't take long for them to understand what was happening and they knew better than to stand in the middle of it. They directed S'kil straight to Jo'Zhar, where he sat in a storehouse on the far western end of the outskirts of Senchal. S'kil didn't waste any time in trying to make an example of Jo'Zhar or making him suffer. He just made sure he saw him coming before he put him down like an animal. An arrow through the neck - fwp! His body dropped to the ground. They dragged the body out into the jungle to let the wildlife take care of what was left.

They returned in time for sunrise, exhausted from a night's lack of sleep and the emotional toll the day prior had on them. They did however return in time to prepare for the passing ceremony. Between Lalana's family and the Baandari clan, they afforded enough money to invest in carving out a place in a cave for her to rest instead of a simple burial cairn. Once placed in the cave, they buried Lalana's body in a collection of stones, the first ones to be layed were by her husband and child, then followed by her family. The members of the Baandari clan filled in the rest. It was a day of mourning for a great many people, for Datta especially, but she did not forget what her father had promised her. She confronted him again, wanting to know why her mother died the previous night. Why did the murderer choose them? Why did they call him a skooma sucker?

"Look into this one's eyes, child." S'kil said. "Do they wane like the moons? Or does your father's body shake and shiver like the sugar-tooths along the streets? Worry not, S'kil is well. Clawless coward was about to die. He sought to insult him."

Datta was quite for a moment, apparently not satisfied with the answer.

"Jer do?" S'kil asked.

"Skooma vardariit." She said. "Papa, what have you been up to? Who is Jo'Zhar? Why did mama have to die?"

S'kil sighed and said, "Jo'Zhar was a dealer in skooma. Dar'sho and S'kil put an end to his business."

"You are no dust-faced guard, papa." Datta replied bitingly. "What business is it of yours to get into matters like that? Why did your family not know of it?"

S'Kil was at a loss for words. No explanation for his daughter - the clever girl that she was, she had him cornered. Apparently she was sharper and more observant than he ever realized. Perhaps he would have known this if only he was with her more often.

"This one was hoping you'd come out with it." Datta continued. "She's seen you with baskets of nightshade, she sees your eyes irritated at the end of the day. Smells the sugar clinging to your fur. You and Datta are Baandari! They trade! This one visits the market and hears from fishermen how you are such a favorite customer of theirs. How much fish you buy. You say you fish them yourself!"

S'kil hung his head low wordlessly.

"This one feared you were trading in skooma, this one hoped she was wrong! Ziss, you're the reason mama is dead."

Those were the last words she spoke to him before she stopped talking to him for the next year. The year wasn't easy. Half the time, it seemed that he did nothing besides allowing himself to waste away. The other half, he looked into the mirror and hated what he saw. He wanted to change, change for the better; change for his daughter, even if she refused to talk to him... he wanted to changed for Lalana - bless her memory. He went out looking for his former labs and stockpiles and destroyed them. He destroyed every leftover trace of his skooma production, even letting Dar'sho know that it was over. His partner was slightly disappointed, but not upset. He thought that perhaps S'kil was right in doing so, for he had already lost so much because of it. The whole year, as short as it was, felt like it had gone oh so slowly for S'kil who had nothing to do as he let his home slowly become dilapidated.

It was a year later, 4E 185, when Datta finally visited him again, accompanied by a Cathay-raht.

"Uncle Dar'sho told this one what you have been up to." She spoke softly. "It can't erase what has happened... but I am proud of you."

S'kil bowed his head and flattened his ears, a remorseful frown taking over his face. He said, "S'kil only wishes that he had the clarity of mind to change himself sooner, so that he could be with his family."

"You might not have been there for Datta," she said, "but at least you can be there for the ma'khajiit."

S'kil looked down to see his daughter holding her tummy - apparently she had taken a page out of his own book when it came to early parenthood! His dejected disposition appeared instantly uplifted for the first time since Lalana's passing, though he remained speechless. He looked at Datta's partner with his ears perked.

"Do'garamba." She introduced as S'kil eagerly reached to shake his hand.

Datta continued, "Mama always told this one stories about you when you were younger. The Baandari, too. A fondness for changing your name, yes?" Datta teased, though the modulation in her voice suggested it was endearing.

"This one was never sure of who he was or was supposed to be." S'kil admitted. "Even now, S'kil wishes to be a different person."

"Please then, allow your daughter to do you the honors..." Datta softly said. "...Dro'kil."

That was it then - a name he has actually earned for the first time. Indeed, Dro'kil was rather young for a grandfather now, but his experiences have so far granted him a great deal of insight and wisdom. It's safe to say that a huge chunk of his life was actually normal after that point. He was there for his grandchild as she grew up, and he got to be there for his daughter as well. He got to know Do'garamba, who happened to be the warrior in his family and had the dream of being the Mane's personal guard - an honorable sort, even if it meant enforcing thjizzrini. It seemed that, for the next eighteen years, his life would resemble any normal citizen and he spent most of his free time hunting in the jungles. He put what he already knew of alchemy into crafting different kinds of elixers, mostly antidotes and antivenin - and learned the craft better in order to make other potions that enhanced his natural abilities that allowed him to hunt better. Nighteye, life detection, potions which helped him steady his aging body as he pulled back his bowstring. He made sure that there was never a night that neither his daughter's family nor none of the Baandari went to bed hungry.

For eighteen years, he finally found the role that suited him. He finally felt comfortable with his identity. Grandfather. Hunter. Baandari. He finally had a sense of who he was as a person.

4E 203 - eighteen years is a long time to watch the world pass you by. While Datta might not have noticed it with being preoccupied with her own son, Saddi, and her role and duties within the Baandari. That which had actually earned her the title of Dra'datta for her excellent wit and wisdom in trade agreements. Now, though, the land of Elsweyr was more tumultuous than ever. The khajiit were allied with the empire in order to leave the Dominion, and the price of such freedom was death. The Mane was issuing drafts, and Dro'kil has seen them escorting people from their homes, which he was fortunately spared from, but his grandson... well, he was not so lucky. "For the greater good," he would hear people say. It angered him. The boy was meant for better things - he was intelligent and cunning, had a fascination for prestidigitation and prophecies and sleight of hand. He wanted to learn how to be a mage! Dro'kil wasn't going to let any crown take that away from him. In confrontation with the local recruiter, he was directed to his regional commander who would be the one to decide. Upon talking to him, the commander simply laughed in his face and shoved him off with a warning, suggesting that Dro'kil would get hurt if he kept it up.

So then he met with Dar'sho. The old cat was still up to his usual tricks ever since their business dissolved, but they greeted each other like brothers all the same. He shared with him what was troubling him, and Dar'sho seemed to catch on to what he was implying.

"We are going to kill the Mane then, yes?"

Well, seemed to at least. Assassination attempts seemed to be the running joke around here since three years back, despite everyone's respect for the spiritual and cultural significance the Mane represented. Damnable Renrijra Krin Va'Aneqasa.

"No," Dro'kil said, "this one will be there for his grandson. Dro'kil will take his place. Soul for a soul."

"Your old tail?" Dar'sho retorted in disbelief.

"You and Dro'kil has cultivated their skills over the course of lifetimes!" He defended indignantly. "They will travel to Torval very soon. When they get there, this one needs your cleverness to find out who actually wants the Mane dead. Preferably anyone who is close to the crown."

"What is it you intend to do?" He asked.

Dro'kil looked at his partner in crime with a curious, innocuous expression and simply said, "Show why Dro'kil is more valuable to the Mane than unproven children."

The next day, the pair headed out toward Torvald. Not without explaining to the Baandari clan leaders first, of course. What basically entailed rescuing one of their own was enough to receive their approval and loan them the services of two senche (who were promised large piles of food upon their return), so that they could travel through the jungle of Pelletine in decent time. It costed them one or two sleepless nights in the jungle as they stayed awake and alert for any of the vicious predators that lurked behind every bush, but between a rogue, a hunter, and two vicious tigers, there were few things that the four of them couldn't handle.

When they did finally make it to Torval, they were amazed by the number of soldiers and guards stationed within the city. It was little wonder there was a draft if they were both fighting a war and worrying about assassinations within their own state. Dro'kil looked to Dar'sho, and the latter went to work collecting information, assuring his friend that they'd have everything they'd need the next day. Meanwhile, Dro'kil spent his time in an inn's private room with the company of an alchemy set consisting of a morter and pestle, alembic, retort, and calcinator, all working together in order to separate the properties of the alchemical ingredients being distilled. Nightshade, the other ingredient in making skooma was the easiest for him to get his hands on. Antlers, which were carved off one of his kills in the past and he kept as a trophy - he destroyed them and reduced them to powder, mixing it with the nightshade.

Finally, the jarrin root. Rare and hard to come by since it only grew on Stros M'Kai - but for a Baandari in Senchal? There were one or two from his own clan who had a sprig that they were holding on to for a while, and all it takes is a little extra money to compensate for what it takes to get a hold of one. The price didn't matter to Dro'kil. It would be worth every septim.

The end result was basically a pure and undiluted poison.

The next day came sooner than they expected, and both khajiit were quite tired from working throughout the night. They were not as young as they used to be and they could feel it, but they both have been through too much in their lives to let one sleepless night slow them down. They made their preparations: the poison was prepped. They put Dar'sho into some new, fresh clothes befitting of the palace's kitchen staff. Yesterday, he asked about any dissent among the leadership in Torval and he came back with quite a few names who were apparently displeased with the Mane and his ideas, most of whom were northern representatives from Anequina who had a distaste for the seat of power. He investigated their homes and half of the names he was given had written evidence for plots against the crown - correspondence between one another - which constituted as treason.

Ra'ssran. Ra'vada-dro. Dra'vansi. Dro'kil remembered these names. Less important it was for him, perhaps - more importantly it was for Dar'sho to know, but he wanted to know which lives had to pay for the betterment of his own family.

It took the rest of the day for him to get an audience with the Mane. Dar'sho went on ahead to assimilate with the servants inside while spent all day waiting in a long line of people asking for medicine or money or to do something about the law - but Dro'kil was patient. It wasn't until supper time was he able to meet with the court, at which point he was subjected to watch the Mane, all of his servants, trusted advisers, and other khajiiti leaders stuff their faces while he stood there on an empty stomach, but he was nonetheless grateful. It only made their plan easier for them.

"My Mane, this one seeks audience with you," Dro'kil began, "for the purpose of rescinding the draft order on my grandson, Saddi."

"By Alkosh, you look terrible." One cat commented, apparently ignoring his request.

"Dro'kil has spent many sleepless nights travelling from Senchal in order to beseech this of you." Dro'kil explained.

"Then I am afraid you should have spent that time sleeping, instead." The Mane said plainly. "If I agreed to rescind the draft on every person who asked, we would not have enough warriors to fight the Dominion to secure the freedom we khajiit deserve."

Dro'kil sighed. This was nothing he did not anticipate. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dar'sho hanging in the doorway watching them. It looked like it was time to proceed with the plan.

"Then perhaps we can come to an agreement--"

"This is no bargain you can win, Baandari." The Mane interrupted, looking at him knowingly. He tapped the side of his head with finger. Dro'kil was somewhat unsettled by his knowledge, but he regained his composure. The Mane only thought he knew enough about him. The truth was that if he did, then there was no way Dro'kil would even be allowed in this room.

Dro'kil pressed on, his face stoic and serious, "It is a fair trade: a life for a life. A soul for a soul. I will take the place of my grandson."

The whole room seemed to erupt in laughter, and Dro'kil could have sworn he even felt the air around him shift, but he remained still and stern.

"Don't take this the wrong way," the Mane began, "but don't you think we could get more use out of a young khajiit, easily molded and better able, than what we could out of his grandfather?"

"What is a child with sticks and stones compared to a lifetime of experience?" Dro'kil asserted confidently. "This one can be far more useful to you in the coming years than Saddi. Leaders cannot be formed overnight, no?"

"And you have proof that you are as competent as you suggest?"

Dro'kil smiled. Dro'kil rarely ever smiled - and that was the cue for Dar'sho to get ready. He saw from his periphery that he had begun moving.

"That is a most excellent idea, my Mane!" He said. He looked around the room at all the leaders and officials of Torval. "How about we all toast? To the Mane, and to proving Dro'kil worthy of his trust! He shall make a show of it!"

This prompted laughter from the Mane, which seemed to permit laughter from the rest of the court. "You're a mad cat," the Mane said, "but I like you. Very well - a toast then!"

Everyone in the room seemed to be finishing what little remained in their cups, so that - as per the custom - they may give their toast with full cups. Dar'sho came out of the kitchen with a platter in hand with fresh goblets of wine. Very few payed him little mind as he was very particular in which goblet he handed to whom. After he went around and handed out all the fresh cups of wine, he served Dro'kil last - the two averted eye contact - and he returned to the kitchen, his tail twitching in anticipation.

"To the old cat making a fool of himself!" The Mane declared.

"To the fool!" The room repeated in unison.

Everyone in the room took a drink from their cups except for Dro'kil. That was the moment he felt something cold and sharp on his neck, but nothing was there.

Then followed the sounds of three bodies hitting the floor. Ra'ssran, Ra'vada-dro, and Dra'vansi, with foam at their mouths, were dead in mere seconds. The Mane and the dozen other khajiit looked shocked, the personal guard were brandishing their own weapons but were unsure of what to do - the Mane was fine. Most of the people in the room were fine... but the unmoving, calm expression on Dro'kil's face was telling.

"What is the meaning of this?!" The Mane demanded.

Suddenly a knife apparated before Dro'kil, along with the wielder's hand - the veil of an invisibility spell was immediately dropped, revealing a tattooed ohmes woman much shorter than Dro'kil, holding the knife to his throat. Suddenly the the strange cold feeling at his neck and the shifting air around him made sense. She must have been there the entire time! But Dro'kil kept his composure, dropping the goblet of wine onto the floor and slowly raising his hands in the air.

He made sure to speak slowly and calmly while he was at the mercy of the ohmes woman, "Search Dro'kil's pouch. Right hip."

They hesitantly followed his direction as Dro'kil continued, "Dro'kil is proving himself, his Mane. Those renrij were traitors who plotted against you under your nose. Beneath the roof of your own home."

The ohmes whipped out the pieces of parchment from his pouch and began reading through the documents, her wild eyes unchanging and her knife still pressed against Dro'kil. It recorded much of the correspondence between the three khajiit and their plots to betray the Mane with their own handwriting. The ohmes looked up at the Mane unflinchingly and said, "What he says is true."

There were a few moments of silence as the Mane seemed to come to grips with this information, a solemn and mournful air overtaking him before he regained his composure. "At ease. Dro'kil, my apologies to you for not being more hospitable. This is Ra'gajal, my spymaster. Ra'gajal, did you foresee this coming?"

The ohmes took her knife away from Dro'kil and sheathed it, then stood at attention before the Mane. "They were but a few of the suspects I had identified. I did not yet have the evidence to act on my suspicions."

"Tell me Dro'kil," the Mane said, leaning forward in his chair, "how does an outsider such as yourself beat my spymaster to finding the evidence?"

"A fresh new perspective, this one supposes." He humbly lied. The truth was that he dared not let Dar'sho get mixed up in this mess.

"Indeed..." Ra'gajal muttered to herself as she inspected him inquisitively.

"Well, as sad as I am to lose friends this day..." the Man began with a sigh, "I am glad to earn at least one more friend. You have saved my life this day and have proven yourself, so I will agree to your request to rescind the order on your grandson. Saddi, from the Baandari clan in Senchal, yes?"

The Mane motioned for his guards to take care of the three dead bodies within the room, then looked back at Dro'kil. "Your... talents will be useful, yes. Warriors and conscripts are easy to come by, but Agents of the Mane... less so. I shall appoint you to Ra'gajal. She will inform you of your duties and assign you your missions. I will permit you time to return to Senchal and say your goodbyes to your family. When you return, your training will begin."

That was that. Dar'sho had gone on ahead without him - it was best to not be acquainted with this whole operation. Dro'kil would return at least a day after him to give the bittersweet news. Dra'datta was upset that her father would be leaving again, but ever so grateful that her own son would be spared from the horrors of war. She could never thank him enough. After saying goodbye to the rest of the clan, and giving his deepest thanks to Dar'sho for his help, Dro'kil returned to Torval to begin this new chapter of his life; but before doing so, he decided to meet with the regional commander near Senchal so that he could rub it in his face. That no good, rotted, slow-pawed, short-tail...

The first order of business, as far as Ra'gajal was concerned, was to suggest to Dro'kil to change his name if he wanted to protect his family. She of course did no such thing, for she had no family to protect. Dro'kil faced this issue with reluctance at first, but eventually conceded. He had struggled with a fractured identity for so much of his life... what were another few years? From that point on, they agreed to call him Dar'Jzo. Now the training begins.

The next two years was spent as an Agent of the Mane, the spymaster's very own executioner. They honed the skills he already knew and taught him actual techniques to use over what he taught himself, but otherwise he required very little work and turned out to be in better shape than his age indicated. Missions either required him to simply sit and watch a person or location for a certain amount of time, infiltrating a group or building, or taking out their enemies. Something changed within Dar'Jzo during this time that made him shut himself off to the rest of the world. He was still the same person as before, but he was less open with himself now. It became clear that Dar'Jzo was not the most charming individual, so they learned to keep him on missions where he wasn't supposed to be seen. Those missions he particularly excelled at, and they took him as far as the Summerset Isles to aid the coup in Alinor.

When the Mane was assassinated in 4E 205, everything was not so clear-cut. He was killed by jarrin root, the main component in Dar'Jzo's own concoction. Ra'gajal was never very trusting of Dar'Jzo, always suspecting that there was something more to him the day he approached the Mane than what he let on, but he was on a mission that was nowhere near Torval. As far as she was concerned, Dar'Jzo was the only one she could trust. This was unfortunate for him, because he thought that since the Mane died, that would be his chance at freedom and that he could finally return to his family. But the spymaster was stringent, even more stern than Dar'Jzo was, and possessed unwavering devotion to the throne which seated the Mane. As long as she was alive, she would see that Torval remained protected for the good of Elsweyr. That also meant getting Dar'Jzo involved in the civil war that followed, taking out members on both sides if they posed a great enough threat.

But something has been bothering Ra'gajal lately, and not just the fact that the cause of the Mane's death leads her to suspect that it was imperial treachery, but the movements going around the world. Word reached Elsweyr that the dunmer of Morrowind aligned themselves with Akaviri monsters and moved on Skyrim. She had agents all over Tamriel and half as many within Elsweyr, but she didn't have anyone up north. Khajiits had the bad habit of being turned into cloaks or carpets by the nords after the Stormcloaks took over. All of Elsweyr was vulnerable at the moment, and she didn't want another party taking advantage of that and entering the fray. So she directed Dar'Jzo toward the far end of Tamriel with the logic that his ability to stay hidden in the shadows should protect them from the most unruly of them. There, he'd also be far, far away from his family.

He almost told her no.

Instead, he obeyed. He remembered why he was doing this. If he went back on the oath he swore to the last Mane, then his grandson would be free picking. He couldn't subject him to the kinds of horrors he has seen and the sins he's committed. He was to take a ship that would circle around the west and be destined to dock in Solitude. As much as Dar'Jzo thought boats were bad luck, that was ironically the safest way to get there. There was one perk to it though: the boat was docked in Senchal. Before he'd leave, he'd get to visit his family. Except one thing was missing... Saddi had left two months ago to pursue mage training at the College of Winterhold. Winterhold was supposedly destroyed last month.

Despite his disdain for ships and water, Dar'Jzo boarded the vessel with the greatest of haste and convinced the captain to proceed with utmost urgency. Tracing along the south and western coast of Tamriel, stopping from port to port only to replenish their supplies. They zipped between Valenwood and the Summerset Isles with great caution, stopped by Hammerfell for one more replenishment, and went around High Rock to finally make anchor at the port just outside of Solitude. From there, Dar'Jzo's mission begins. Not just to keep an eye on the Akivir situation, but also to find any trace of his grandson. When he finds him - and come Oblivion or high water, he will find him - there was nothing or no one in this world that could make him turn his back on his family ever again. Not even Ra'gajal.

Word had it that there were some mercenaries who recently rolled into town and had a personal encounter with the Akavir. That would be as good a place as any to start.

Capabilities

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§ Attributes

Major Agility, Minor Intelligence

§ Skills

Expert: Sneak – (“This one has history in not being seen. As a broker, as a hunter, and as one of death's couriers. Consider this opportunity a privilege.”)

Adept: Marksman (Bow) – (“After years of practice, masters can take aim and spread doom's wings as fast as this one blinks. All Dar'Jzo has to do is take his time. There is no hurry. Death is patient.”)

Adept: Alchemy – (“Many years were spent distilling moon sugar. There rests a fine line between sweet brain candy and deadly poison. Other reagents are no different.”)

Adept: Ledgerdemain – (“If this one wants to go somewhere, then who's to say he can't? Hmph, dustfaced renrij knows not of the Three Promises: Gods fight. Mortals die. Dar'Jzo goes where he likes. Laws are useless in stopping these.”)

Apprentice: Hand to hand – (“Many customers think they can take khajiit's product from him. There was reason this one is still alive to see so many moons.”)

Novice: Communication (Mercantile) – (“Dar'Jzo may be Baandari, but he did not have to be a good trader to deal skooma. Skooma sells itself. Addiction is good for brand loyalty.”)

Novice: One-handed (Blade) – (“Skill with blade matters less when they don't see the blade, yes?”)

Novice: Ta'agra – (“Dar'Jzo knows how to read and write his own language. What else matters?”)

§ Weaknesses

Age: Time is the greatest, oldest enemy of mortalkind. We simply cannot have enough of it, and a long life is a lot to afford. Dar'Jzo is not as agile, as strong, or as durable as he was in the past. True, he's still capable of outpacing quite a few of these youngsters out here, he can't keep it up as long as he used to. To compensate for it, he now mostly saves his energy for when he really needs it and lies in waiting.

Lone... Cat?: Lone wolf would've been weird for a khajiit. Anyways, there are only a few people in Dar'Jzo's life that he could actually work well with. In other words, his teamwork isn't all that great. He prefers to get in, get the job done himself, and get out. He can trust in his own experience and ability to carry him through, but he is not as quick to rely on others to get their parts done except for his brother and his master.

Inhospitable: Let's face it, he doesn't exactly have a winning personality. He can't make friends very easily.

Foreigner: Dar'Jzo has spent most of his entire life within Pellentine. What could he possibly know of the world outside of Elsweyr?

§ Spells

N/A

§ Tactics

Now you see me, now you don't. Dar'Jzo's strategy almost entirely depends on him not being seen by the enemy while he takes his time lining up his shots. If he really wants them dead, he'll even lace his arrows with poison and take extra care that his shot fly true. That isn't to say that he doesn't have a back up plan in case he gets caught off-guard. He has his own fair share of practice in hand-to-hand combat, and knows techniques that will allow him to use his enemy's own weight and inertia against them. He's not against using his own bow as a melee weapon as well, one which he utilizes with great finesse as he uses its curvature to trip his enemies, and then uses a dagger to put them down for good. If his dagger doesn't happen to be at the ready, well, then he has the quiver full of arrows at his disposal which should do the job just as well.

§ Relations & Affiliations

Lalana - Wife (61) - Deceased (39)
Dra'datta - Daughter (37) - Alive
Do'garamba - Son-in-law (40) - Alive
Saddi - Grandson (20) - ???
Daro'Rista - Godmother (81) - ??? (Presumably deceased)
Dar'sho - Stepbrother (61) - Alive
Baandari Clan (Active)

§ Opinions

N/A

§ Other

• Dar'Jzo can't catch fish worth a damn, but that won't stop him from trying.
• Remarkably decent at swimming considering how he hates both boats and water.
• No, seriously. Dar'Jzo hates water. He thinks it tastes awful, too. He splashes a bit of rum in his canteen to make it more palatable.

Inventory

---

§ Cash

170 septims

§ Keys & Lockpicks

15 lockpicks, which he keeps stored in different locations. Different pouches, pockets, boots, et cetera. There's one in his bun that's basically serving as a hairpin and keeping it all together.

§ Tools & Crafting Materials

He has a knapsack that he carries around which carries an entire alchemy kit. Morter and pestle, calcinator, alembic, and retort. It requires some assembly, though.

§ Clothing & Armor

(Taken from appearance:) His choice of wardrobe would make sense if he was still living in Senchal, but not so much in Skyrim. For starters, he doesn't wear a shirt. He just doesn't like to and not for any particular reason, but if he had to come up with one, it feels too constricting while he's pulling back his bowstring. He does though wear a black leather bandolier that goes across his chest and over one of his shoulders, and it looks something like a huge leather belt. With it, he carries a few pouches, bags, and a small pack. It is also this bandolier that he attaches his quiver of arrows to, from which Dar'Jzo hangs his bow.

The only actual garments of clothes he wears are loose-fitting, baggy, and breathable black linen pants which he secures to his person with a blood-red sash, and the bottom of his pants are tucked into black leather riding boots. While his fur would be enough to keep him warm for a short while in one of Skyrim's winters, it alone wouldn't protect him for long. During his time on board the ship that takes him from Senchal to Solitude, he was given a black wool long coat by one of the navy men should he be stuck in Skyrim for a while.

§ Weapon & Ammo

• A well made bow made from Valenwood timber, intricately decorated with traditional khajiiti design. Now it's broken.
• A dwarven bow he inherited after Roze's death in the Battle of Smuggler's Cove. He hates how shiny it is.
• 15 steel arrows.
• A curved skinning knife with a gutting hook.

§ Potion & Arcane Supplies

• 1 Elixer of Keenshot
• 1 Potion of Detect Life
• 1 Potion of Cure Poison
• 3 Vials of deadly poison

§ Jewelry & Valuables

A wedding band on one of his fingers and that's about it.

§ Books & Documents

N/A. Don't leave paper trails.

§ Food/Drinks/Ingredients

• 10 strips of dried meat
• 5 smoked sardines
• Half a bottle of banana rum
• 2 sweetrolls
• 5 teaspoons of moon sugar
• 3 sprigs of Nightshade

§ Load Bearing Equipment

• Bandolier with 4 pouches and a brick-sized pack, carrying potions, poison, and alchemical ingredients.
• A knapsack, carrying his alchemy kit.
• A bindle, carrying his food.

§ Other

The Spoopiest Skeletons

Wow, I haven't used this in a while. Some of the characters up top might be outdated by now.

Calen Smallwood, from Dervish's The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Calen Smallwood

<sub>Male Nord | 23 | The Lover | Solitude, Skyrim

(Listen to some bardly music to accompany you on this journey!)</sub>

Appearance

Would you get a load of this guy? Look at him. He's such a cheeky young man, with his perpetual boyish smirk and gleaming white teeth. What's this boy doing in a place like this? This blonde-haired, big foreheaded, milk-drinker lookin' ass. Freckled rosy cheeks like a schoolboy-lookin' ass - sure, okay, he's got a little bit of height to him at 5'10", not much, but it's there. Sure, he's got some shoulders on him from a life of farm work, that's fair, I'll give you that; but even all that taken into consideration, and despite whatever his physical capability may be, he doesn't look like the type of person who belongs here. In the center of a war, I mean, or out on the open road like some two-bit adventurer. You see the child-like glee on his face, and you expect a man like him to be in the comfort of a city or partying his days away in a tavern. He has the weight on him, 165 lbs, but not the muscle tone, and he doesn't come across as the hero type. Simply put, he just looks too pretty. He's a conventionally handsome fellow, but he doesn't look like a tough or battle hardened Nord like a true Nord ought to be.

He has short blonde hair which he keeps brushed back and fair skin like many a nord, and he has gleaming coffee-colored brown eyes, which gets brought out by thick eyelashes. His lips, a dark rosy color, and when he smiles, stretch wide from giant ear to giant ear and forming dimples on either sides of his cheeks, and that smile appears perfectly symmetrical with his jawline. There is nary a scar on his face, tattoo, or sign of hardship that can be seen on his person, save for maybe the callouses on his hands - the hands of a working man, who knows what it's like to pitch hay bales over his head and work some rope, but the callouses are thickest around his finger with which he uses to play his lute and drum and fiddle. His hands are in fact the exception and not the norm, as even the modulation and inflection of his sing-songy voice is smooth.

He wears simple clothes, though they are quite obviously nordic in style and design. He most often wears a white, short-sleeved undershirt with light blue trimming, which is covered in some variation of the usual work shirt that he wears. A tough, warm linen shirt with long sleeves that are usually rolled up to Calen's elbows, with strings around its v-neck in order to open or close the neckline as needed. Nordic runes trim the shoulders and collar with little bone beads decorating the shoulders. He also wears cotton jodhpurs - riding pants - that are darker brown in color. Though Calen prefers the comfort of moccasins on his feet, he finds that it's better to be wearing his riding boots since Tamriel has a habit of falling into the privy on a regular basis. He also wears a fur-lined leather broad belt, which is probably the best he has for means of protection, and even then, it's probably better used as a belly warmer.

Her also wears an amulet of Dibella with him at all times. It's his good luck charm, and he is never seen without it.

Equipment

A wooden cudgel that is carved with traditional Nordic decorations, and is only slightly stained with a little bit of blood. It hangs at his side by a loop from his belt.

An enchanted Amulet of Dibella that fortifies his Speechcraft, making him even more likable than before!

A simple set of durable and warm clothes that actually don't look too shabby on him. A fur-lined leather broad belt is the best he has for means of protection, and even then, it's probably better used as a belly warmer.

A gut hooked skinning knife is sheathed right where his tail-bone is at, where his back meets his ass, but he's more likely to use it as his primary eating utensil than anything else that's practical beyond that.

Misc. Possessions

A pouch of 75 septims.

A key to the trunk in his wagon.

While not on his person, per se, he is in possession of a reasonable carriage wagon and a driving pony to pull it along the road. It contains most of his belongings that he can't afford to hold onto his person, and while neither the wagon nor pony is large enough to carry an entire party, it fulfills its purpose in carrying just himself and a few other people. What it can do is at least lift some of the burden off of a traveling company. Within the wagon lies a trunk where most his belongings reside:

A weathered-looking lute that has seen its fair share of use, but still has plenty of songs left in its lifespan.

A small drum that one could easily carry under their arm without getting tired.

A violin that's nearly as aged as the lute, adorned with decorations similar to what's on his cudgel, and a bow to play it with.

A personal, leather-bound scrapbook recounting of almost all the people he has come across in his travels. Just pages and pages devoted to their sketched faces, their names, and what kind of impact they've left of him. Of course he couldn't get all of them - but he certainly got all of his customers. Most importantly though, what this journal does manage to get all of are each and every single one of his lovers and love interests throughout his life. Their faces are drawn with meticulous detail and are accompanied by passages which recounts their finest qualities and the experiences he's shared with them.

Two tall bottles of spiced wine, home-brewed back in Solitude. One of them is already halfway finished.

A sack of preserved or readily available foods, such as stag jerky, cheese, snowberries, and edible roots.

A small brown medicine bottle that is filled with delightfully pungent herbal oils with a hint of sweetness to its aroma. It is labeled as "Khenarthi's Breath".

A small tent that is simple in it's construction. Calen typically just pitches it to all four corners of his wagon and sleeps where he works. It comes with a thick, woolen blanket that keeps him warm at night.

Soap made from flowers and horker fat.

Spare clothes that are similar to one another in their style and design.

A pouch of 225 Septims.

A collection of books, many of which are related to history in one way or another, about art and poetry, foreign culture, and what looks to be a religious tome that tells you everything you'd like to know about Dibella's doctrines.

Family and Associations

Gungir Smallwood, Father; Alive

Mira Smallwood, Mother; Alive

Murtagh Smallwood, Elder Brother; Alive

Bard's College, Organization; Member in good standing.

Temple of Dibella, Organization; Patron

Favored Skills

Highly Proficient: Speechcraft – (He's a picker. He's a grinner. He's a lover and he's a sinner. You thought you had it going on back in school? Well, Calen went to the Bard's College in Solitude and that place taught him everything he knows from history and languages to singing and performing. Ladies, don't let his age fool you - what he makes up for experience? Raw talent and endless energy. Bastard could charm the loincloth off of a giant with his silver tongue... because... well, you know... he's good at Speechcraft.)

Moderately Proficient: Mercantile – (There's not much difference between making love and the art of the deal besides the fact you're trying to make money while you're at it, so there's only a little bit more lying than normal. But you know what? Calen got pretty good at it. He has a pretty good gig going on with his carriage business, so he had to get good at it.)

Moderately Proficient: Acrobatics – (Working with horses for most of his life has made him a rather able-bodied equestrian. See, it's all about keeping your balance, and if you fall then you try to fall as painlessly as possible. Pain (or the threat of pain) is a great motivator, just take it from Calen.)

Moderately Proficient: Athletics – (For bolting in the opposite direction when everything has gotten abso-fucking-lutely haywire. Years of hard farm labor, being on the road, and running from dangerous fathers (and a variety of other folk) has made Calen one hell of a speedy son-of-a-bitch. His cardio was worked out enough that he can run quickly across distances without being winded, which has done wonders for helping him to keep his asthma under control despite the issues it has caused for him to get to that point.)

Somewhat Proficient: One-Handed (Blunt) - (Calen carries a cudgel with him everywhere just in case his next customer is the kind that gets a little too handsy (like an orc trying to wrap their hands around his throat), or if his wagon comes across some vagabonds along the way to his destination. With a girly yelp and a shriek for help, he takes it and smacks it right across his assailant's kisser. And I'll tell you what: he's become quite accustomed to that entire routine. He's gotten pretty good at it.)

Somewhat Proficient: Restoration – (A priestess of Dibella showed Calen additional generosity on top of her usual services by teaching him a bit of restoration magic that can help him deal with his asthma. His hands start glowing with a radiant light, he cups them around his face, and he takes a huge breath in. One can even see the light running through his neck. Coincidentally, that was only one of the two lessons he received that night.)

Somewhat Proficient: Illusion – (He learned a bit of magic from some other bards at the college, as every bard needs to know how to escape a particularly tough crowd. For those occasions when he quickly needs to be somewhere, like, yesterday.)

Spells

Somewhat Proficient: Restoraton

Healing: He can heal himself at a steady rate as long as he concentrates - good for asthma too. Fond memories come to mind every time.

Healing Hands: As it happens, the healing that Calen uses for his asthma can be used to help others too, as long as he concentrates. Whether or not people want his healing hands after they learn where he got 'em from is up to them.

Fortify Luck: After a fool's prayer and a kiss on his necklace, Calen jumps into action with the highest of hopes that he doesn't freaking die. His prayer as it goes: "Under her skirt and into the bum, watch out Nirn, here I come."

Somewhat Proficient: Illusion

Clairvoyance: For as long as Calen concentrates on his destination, he has intuitive sense of direction and cannot lose his way. What? You think he ran his carriage business on his survival skills? Oh honey, bless your heart.

Muffle: For as long as Calen concentrates, he doesn't make any noise. Which is something a lot of people probably wished he did more often, but he'd rather use it to get his ass out of danger.

Calm: Calen can touch somebody and reduce their aggression for a short period of 30 seconds. Of course he knows this spell. Why wouldn't he? With the number of angry fathers he's had running after him, this spell has probably saved his life more times than he can count.

Courage: Calen can touch somebody and make them braver and steel their resolve for a short period of 30 seconds. Read again: somebody else. Not him, heavens no. He's going the other way.

History

Are you looking for a sob story, my friend? A grand ole tale o' tragedy, a misty-eyed epic of redemption and a hero hurling themselves at impossible obstacles? An Iliad recounting the moral quandary of man?

You poor son of a bitch.

Year 4E185 - a beautiful baby boy was born in Skyrim. The boy didn't know of the great things in store for him as he was still at his mother's breast, but his humble beginnings would serve him well in the future. Born and raised to two ranchers who worked and lived at a stable house just south of Solitude, raising and selling horses. His mother was indisputably much better at it, since Mira was a tried and tested rancher like her father before her. His dad, Gungir, was a farmer. He was better at making potatoes and onions grow than he was breaking in and taking care of a horse (but guess what makes more money). He also had a brother five years older than he by the name of Murtagh, and was already hard at work on the ranch pitching piles of hay over his head.

Now, Smallwood is one hell of a name to be stuck with, so it's natural that after some teasing, they're gonna wonder why they were stuck with it. Gungir was well familiar with this story, and it basically traces their family origin down to a group of fletchers who'd grow trees and chop them down when they're young for wood that was flexible enough for bows and whatnot. So they became known for what was basically a wide-spanning grove of baby trees. In time, Calen would learn that this knowledge that Gungir has passed onto him was ultimately useless. "It means fletcher!" isn't a very useful comeback when one of the people picking on you was a dunmer. Calen still doesn't know what "fetcher" means, and he still hates being called one. In time, however, Calen would learn to laugh at himself and use that sense of humor to his advantage.

Calen would also learn how to help his family complete their chores and fulfill their responsibilities, whether it was shoveling shit or breaking in the horses for the next buyer that was too much of a pansy ass to do the work themselves. Then he also had to deal with all manner of nasty critters going bump in the night that liked to prey on the foals, likes wolves and coyotes. Though usually that fell under the purview of his older brother Murtagh, he showed him the ropes and reveal that waving a torch around was usually enough to scare 'em off, but if that didn't work, a good old club to the snout always got the message across (the language of violence was ideal for inter-species communication). Digression aside, the two brothers got along swimmingly! They didn't share any sibling rivalries like you hear and read in tales, rather they complemented each other instead. Murtagh was more than happy to watch over his little rascal of a brother and always seemed to find himself inspired by his sense of curiosity and appreciation of the little things in life. Likewise, Calen naturally adored his older brother and saw him as a strong, adventurous type who he could always rely on. It was nothing less than pure.

Moments like scaring off wildlife, however, also seemed to present a huge problem with Calen's health. Aside from not being the bravest fellow you've ever layed your eyes on (read: he's pretty cowardly), and a lot of that was due to throwing Murtagh at all of life's scary problems, it presented an issue with his asthma. Now his parents were good-natured folk, if a bit rustic in their ways, especially Gungir. They believed that what didn't kill you made you stronger, so when the first asthma attack came around and didn't knock him out of the ball park right from the get-go, that looked to them like a sure sign that Calen was gonna survive the ones that came after, too. Despite their philosophy, the boy was awfully fond of being able to breathe. They only found a solution to the problem after a khajiit caravan passed through and one of the merchants was able to recognize the symptoms. He presented Calen with a traditional medicine to alleviate his symptoms, made of a moon sugar solution that was heavily diluted with lavender and blue mountain flower oils. Dabbing the solution just inside his nostrils and taking a deep breath allowed the fumes to work inside his windpipe and lungs and relaxed the muscles, clearing his airways.

His parents always tried to steer those two boys right. You work and live honest, and things would typically treat you in kind. As long as you weren't ashamed of hard and dirty labor, there was very little keeping you from getting what you wanted. It usually held true for other people as well. Their father would tell them, "As long as you do no wrong by your neighbor, your neighbor will have no reason to do wrong by you," while their mama always told them, "Don't you go around treating women like trash. Treat 'em with respect. Treat a lady like a queen and you ain't ever gonna lose her."

Though Gungir was the quieter of the two and mama Mira typically called all the shots, he was ultimately seen as the final authority. This was actually because of his quiet and laid back nature. If you goofed up enough to earn yourself a stern talking-to from Gungir, you know you goofed up hard. Otherwise, he was easy to get along with and was always eager to learn or teach someone else about a thing or how to do something. If you wanted to find him, look no further than the garden.

It's easy to see how both of the boys were able to become capable equestrians, as they not only had to learn how to ride, but how to teach horses how to be ridden. They were basically giant dumb dogs who had to learn what the cues were, except dogs didn't weigh nearly a ton or have deadly clubs attached to the ends of their feet. Calen's favorite of them all must have been their working horse, a massive draught named Edna, if for no other reason than her sweet temperament and the fact that she didn't get spooked by a thrice-damned LEAF rolling across the cobblestone (we're looking at you, Danish). Danish was a prime example of why ponies are the worst of animals: spooked by everything, dumb as bricks, and was only good as a towing beast of burden or carrying children on his back - and that was if you didn't care if the kid got bucked off.

By the time Murtagh came of age at sixteen years old, he marched his way up to Solitude to enlist in the Imperial Legion where he'd become a soldier of the Empire with the hope of protecting his home. There were lots of suffering after the Great War and he wanted to be sure he could protect his family should another one arise. Though his parents disapproved of the Empire for their lack of backbone in handling the White-Gold Concordant, they did approve of Murtagh's sense of honor. The Legion would see a strapping young man already fit by years of farm labor and take him in with open arms. This also happened to leave many of his responsibilities at home upon Calen's shoulders. Of his new responsibilities to his family's stable, he'd much preferred having to walk up the hill to Solitude and carry back heavy sacks of grain. As much of a pain in the ass the labor was, it meant that Calen got to see the city and its sights, listen to the hustle and bustle of the market, smell and try the delicious fruits, visit his brother at the barracks, and listen to a bard make sweet, sweet music. Music was a wonderful thing it was heaven against his ears! He'd toss a coin into the bard's hat laying on the ground before him, thank him for the tunes, and get on with carrying heavy sacks of grain to the wagon just outside the gate. If he was lucky, Danish wouldn't spook at the sound of the gates opening and closing and run all the way back to the stable and make him carry the grain back.

To be fair, it was only a matter of time that Calen decided that he was getting tired of shoveling shit and hard labor, and training horses was like herding cats. After a couple of years working the ranch, he made a heartfelt plea to his family to help him go to Solitude and learn at the Bard's College. At first they laughed. A child running off to become a bard was almost stereotypical, as if strumming a lute, beating a drum, or singing songs was ever going to get him anywhere in life - why not join his brother in the Legion? Why, just a year ago, Murt finished his two years of training in the barracks and was now out patrolling Skyrim's countryside. Then they realized that Calen was dead serious and they fixed their tone right up. So they scrounged up what they could, setting some money aside when they could, and on Calen's sweet sixteen, they surprised him by sending him on his way to learn the bard's craft.

When he arrived, he was greeted by a motley crew of bards and students from all walks of life, a variety of pungent smells where not all were good, and a cascade of music - where some of the chords being played were shrill and agonizing to the ears. It was at that point he realized: oh yeah. People come here to learn. Still, he'd suffer through these few and minor grievances if it meant following his heart and getting to live in the lovely city of Solitude every day, which was only a short jog away from visiting home! That was the same year when Ulfric Stormcloak came to Solitude, killed the High King of Skyrim, and dragons returned to the world. Honestly, shit started looking pretty bleak straight from the beginning.

As the Civil War progressed, he anxiously waited for word from his brother. When the injured would be carried into the city, he had waking nightmares about seeing Murtagh among them. The paranoia within the city was suffocating, and between seeing the damage done by the Stormcloaks on the soldiers and the Imperial bias within the city of Solitude, the fear of the people, Jarl Elisif's incompetence, Calen nearly found himself swept up in the confusion and anger had it not been for the Headmaster of the Bard's College, Viarmo. He reminded everyone to keep a level head. He said, "It is times like these where we are most needed. When the world appears to be on a sinking ship, we're there to remind them that we are close to shore. Though the waters are cold, the sand is warm and the timber is strong. We build a new ship and we keep on sailing with the wind at our backs... because that is what we do. That is what we have always done, and that won't end tomorrow."

Viarmo has proven his ability to lead, and he made sure to remind others to not involve themselves in politics too much. He often says, almost as if it was scripted, that "good tales deal with the issues of the day, but a wise bard remains a neutral observer." It was a lesson that Calen took to heart, and he had begun to learn that being a bard meant much more than just singing and playing instruments. By joining the College, he learned that it meant he was also a chronicler and a scholar. It turned people into leaders and historians without them even realizing it by presenting these subjects within a whimsical framework, which was really quite ingenious, and Calen found himself loving the College even more.

Activities within the College has done much and brought him to more places than he could ever imagine. Whether it was traveling between holds or raising morale among the wounded and amputated Imperial troops being held in the barracks. He helped to lift their spirits when they were in the deepest and darkest throes of their depression. He kept corresponding with his family, sharing what new things he learned every week, and whenever he had some available time, he'd run down the hill outside the gates and visit them in person. Apparently they had fallen on hard times ever since the war, since the Imperial war machine demanded horses and with the Smallwoods being the only horse breeders in the area, they were legally allowed to take what they needed, effectively robbing them of what they had to rely on for income. Suddenly, the Imperials didn't look like they were such good guys after all.

One thing that Calen was able to share with them is how some of the other bards knew a little bit of magic, mostly in the school of Illusion as it brought a bit of flare to their performances; but it was also because everyone knew that there's always that one heckler that proved to be too much. Calen learned about that part of a bard's life after a rough night in the local tavern. So on top of the vocal lessons, learning the lute, drum, violin, art, and history, he decided that learning a little bit of Illusion magic wasn't such a bad idea if he wanted to avoid his next black eye.

During his time in the College has also made him rather cheeky and self-assured, and after he got a taste of popularity, he developed the habit of falling in love at first sight with most of the women he met. This acquired panache curried favor with many of local girls his age, and some women even older, but less so with the favor of these ladies' fathers who just as frequently chased him down the streets with every intention of wringing the boy's neck. Despite his newfound reputation as a shameless womanizer, he always stuck by his mother's advice. Every lady that has come his way, he has treated with the utmost respect, dignity, and (for the most part) honesty. Well, emotional honesty shall we say - he wasn't above spinning a few tall tales to try impressing a girl that he had his eye on, but every lover and paramour on his life he has treated as though he had found a pile of treasure and nothing less. As long as he remained emotionally honest and upfront with his interests, he didn't take any shame in his polyamory. If a love interest didn't reciprocate or wasn't comfortable with it (it being sex, romance, or the idea of an open relationship), he backed off and didn't press the matter - valuing their friendship just as much as he would have their love. He made sure to never forget their names.

It wasn't long after the war had ended when Calen received a visit at the college from Murtagh, much to his joy and relief. Calen's peers had heard stories of his brother, but never realized how alike the two were. Spitting images their personalities virtually reflected one another, even if Murtagh came across a bit more boisterous and weathered. Murtagh didn't seem disappointed at all by Calen's choice in profession, and even seemed to admire it - almost to the point of envy. Calen, on the other hand, was interested to hear about where Murtagh has been all this time! It was then that his brother revealed that he had actually left the Legion just a week after Ulfric killed High King Torygg and figured that it would be safer that he didn't return in case his former superiors saw that as a sign of mutiny - leaving to join the Stormcloaks.

Murtagh never did, in fact, despite his similar belief that Skyrim should be independent. What set him apart was that he didn't want to be associated with the Stormcloaks by waving their flag; he saw them as representing more than just independence. So instead of being just another of Skyrim's sons shedding his brothers' blood, he took a step back from the conflict and looked for what he could do. He helped towns and villages organize small militias to defend themselves from brigands and bandits while their soldiers were stretched thin during the war. He also helped them set up defenses and safety measures in case of dragon attacks. While Murtagh never killed a dragon, he did help to lead an evacuation in Riverwood into the Embershard Mine after a dragon sighting - and occasionally, he'd do a bit of mercenary work for the jarls of a few different holds who couldn't divide manpower from the civil war.

Murtagh's stories had utterly captivated Calen. As far as the young bard was concerned, his brother was more of a bard than he was! Sure, Calen had the talent, the education, the singing voice - the looks - but Murtagh was out there living those stories. He experienced them first hand while Calen was sitting in this chapter-house reciting the same old stories that everyone has already heard a hundred times. Here he was, seeing his brother in the same skin as he did so many years ago: strong, courageous, adventurous - the stuff stories were made of. Just like him, Murtagh was also captivated by Calen's own skill in oration, musical talent, and intelligence. The two brothers found themselves inspired by one another to pursue something more than just the lives they've been living.

Over the course of five years studying the bard's art with the College, Calen finally left their company at the age of 21. Like a revolving door, Murtagh had just made his decision to maybe spend a year or two at the college to see what it was like, arriving just as Calen was leaving. Countless songs had been sung, tales have been spun, and epic poems were told about the Dragonborn who had stopped the coming of dragons and ended the Civil War. Despite the legendary tales of yesterday and their extraordinary accomplishments, they were already recorded and Calen had already learned them all. Though his years of study and practice had taught him not just the history of Skyrim, but the history of most of Tamriel, Murtagh taught him that history was being made out there right now. He knew he belonged out there, witnessing history and enjoying life along the way. He also knew that if he wanted to survive out there, he wasn't going to just walk on the roads by foot and rely on the charity of strangers. He was no warrior, no, but he had a different idea in mind.

Calen returned home to proud and happy parents, pleased at how grown up and handsome their son has become, who loved to listen to him play and sing. He wanted to ask them for one more favor: he wanted to borrow Edna. Explaining why, he said that he wanted to start a carriage business so that he could see more of Skyrim and Tamriel, more of its people, and still make enough money in the process to support himself. While they normally would've been more than happy to oblige, the only problem was that Edna was their only work horse left, and they couldn't afford to spare her.

"Well then, any of the riding horses would do." Calen said.

"We have our own business to run." His mom said. "You're an adult now conducting adult business, right? if I just give you a horse for free, that would put your father and I thousands of septims in the hole between the time and resources it takes to raise and train them."

Calen knew that he couldn't afford any of the horses his parents worked with, even at discount. He sighed in frustration and said, "Fine, fine, I get it. What can you spare, then?"

Both his mother and his father, wordlessly, turned and stared toward one small corner in the stable. Calen followed their stare right into the stupid little eyes of the daedra spawn himself - Danish.

"No." Calen immediately refused. "No, you can't be serious. That stupid pony?"

"You asked." His mother replied.

"Danish has gotten older too, but he's still plenty strong enough to pull a wagon full of wheat and hay bales." His father pitched in. "Fourteen hands, decent weight - you could still sit on his back if you wanted. Still a little spooky, though not nearly as much a handful as he once was."

Calen looked into Danish's eyes and Danish stared right back. There was no skeever's chance in Oblivion that this was gonna end in anything other than a total disaster.

But because Danish is a pony determined to make an embarrassment of everything that Calen believed in, the young bard ended up eating his words as this line of work seemed to be quite compatible with him. They ended up building a short four-person wagon that was low to the ground and had great, large wheels so that the wagon wasn't too heavy and it had a lot of traction on the ground. The front of the wagon had a tall, flat-topped chest that Calen could keep his belongings and use as his seat where he can drive Danish, while along sides had benches that were basically rectangular logs bolted to the bottom and connected to the framework of the wagon.

For the next two years following that moment, the young bard hit the open road and familiarized himself with the sights and sounds of Skyrim's landscape, picking up travelers along the way for a bit of coin. There was an additional, minute fee upon request if anyone wanted him to sing or perform during their travels. The number of interesting people he has come across in this time were countless, and almost every one of them he had found time to chit-chat and converse with as they traveled across the far-reaching landscapes. He learned their stories, what these people did, who they were related to; and the longer he ran this business, the more he seemed to understand how connected everyone was. Granted, not everyone he came across were the polite sort. The number of times he was forced to whip Danish into high gear or to resort to a good old fashioned surprise bludgeoning was enough to make him rather cautious, but on the other hand, now he knows which routes to avoid. Some valleys are practically begging you to get yourself killed.

Some people were rarities: those who came through once and were never heard from again, and those people usually had the most interesting stories. On the rarest of occasions, he would meet people or witness events that he'd make sure to write down and immortalize their deeds in song. One such example was a dunmer who Calen was taking from Riften to Windhelm after Morrowind was taken by the Argonians. The dunmer only said that he was going there so that he can protect what was left of his friends and family. The passenger turned out to be a former Ordinator, a fact that was only revealed after they were ambushed by group of bandits who all must've thought the wagon would be an easy target, and the passenger expertly dispatched the entire raiding party with minimal effort - and then tipped Calen some extra septims for the inconvenience.

To the bard's credit, he did manage to get a lick in with his cudgel. Right on the old dome piece, which got to dazing the bandit long enough for the Ordinator to finish the job.

But one of his most memorable patrons was one of his earliest. He took a ravishing Priestess of Dibella - Illia was her name - from Dragon Bridge and returned her home to Markarth. With this being his first time to Markarth, he decided to shift his pony into park and walk in through the front gates with his customer and had her show him her temple. If any of you know of what Dibella is the goddess of and what her priestesses do, then you know he was in for a very important lesson. And... well... it was quite easy to tell that he enjoyed the lesson, because then his asthma started acting up. Badly. Really badly. Right in the middle of their session, and he was in a bit of a pickle because his dumb ass left his medicine in the trunk of his carriage back by the stables outside the gates. In that brief moment of panic, Illia cupped her hands around his face as they began to glow and calmly told him to take a deep breath. Calen followed her directions to the letter, and within moments, he felt his airways opening up again. The light from her hands began to dim, and Calen, wanting to show the fullest extent of his gratitude, eagerly jumped back into his lesson.

When dawn broke the next day, Calen lingered a little longer than he normally would've. He didn't want to cheapen the priestess' favor with only a night of pleasantries and wished to show his gratitude by asking one more favor: to teach him just a little bit of Restoration magic. It wasn't only so that he can take better care of himself in the future, but also so that there was something from Illia that he could carry with him and remember her by. The priestess just smiled sweetly and kissed him on the cheek. She said to him, "Restoration magic is something that I believe everyone should know anyway. If you want a memento, I can think of something much better."

He didn't know what she meant, but anyways, she obliged to his request and spent the remainder of that day showing him the fundamentals of basic Restoration magic. She proved to be an exceptional teacher in more ways than one, as her knowledge of this particular school of magic was such that she could explain it in the simplest of terms that made it easily digestible for Calen. It was nearly midnight, a full day of what felt like non-stop practice, but by the end of it he was able to summon the same warm glow around his hands as Illia. Well, maybe not the same - hers was much brighter, but that was to be expected.

Before Calen left, the priestess presented to him a parting gift: a beaded amulet of Dibella with leaf-like accessories along the necklace until they met at the flowery centerpiece of Dibella's symbol.

"This is something that you can remember me by." She said before sharing a farewell kiss with the bard, then pushing him out the door. The cold Skyrim air did little to disturb his awed trance as he kept staring at the amulet. Never before has any of his previous flings had affected him with such magnitude - just like that, Illia was able to turn Calen into a holy man overnight. After a few moments of mere silence, his expression broke into a boyish smile. He kissed the amulet in his hand and said with glee, "Under her skirt and into the bum, watch out Nirn, here I come."

From that point onward, he was never seen without his amulet. He wore it for the largest majority of his time running his carriage. He read the books, learned the texts, her verses and commandments, and what it meant to follow the Blessed Lady to find that her teachings on beauty and love fell in line with his own beliefs. Perhaps Illia was able to see that. He also got a lot of mileage out of the Restoration magic that she taught him, because after all, on top of all the bandits and highwaymen just looking for easy pickings on the open road, Skyrim's dangerous wilderness can just be downright frightening sometimes.

Things recently hasn't changed much from how they were before. Calen is more experienced than he was, and now he's been running this gig for about two years now, so he's gotten pretty familiar with his country. He has something of a cult following when compared to other carriages, even if his cart is a little small, not covered, and was only pulled by a pony 14 hands high... but he's got a very recognizable face and has a unique business gimmick in also being a bard that makes otherwise long, boring trips a lot more pleasurable. He also makes a point in getting to know each of his passengers on a personal level, so he's a lot more likable than most - but even so, his wanderlust was starting to get the better of him as he looked beyond the Jerall Mountains.

There was still an entire continent left for him to explore.

So Calen headed to Falkreath, got in contact with a courier to send a letter back home to Solitude, and began heading south through the Pale Pass. Though the Lost Valley and Serpent's Trail was treacherous and challenged his nerves and his ability to handle the spooky Danish, he managed to break through into Cyrodiil, finding himself overlooking the distant Colovian city of Bruma. He eagerly followed the road down to its gates for some much needed rest and resupplying of his provisions - and he had become somewhat popular that evening as someone who was home-grown in Skyrim. Whether it was sharing news with people who had once lived there about certain events or people, or telling stories with the Colovian nords who had not yet been to the motherland, his presence there had become something of a sensation. It wasn't every day that an immigrant from across the rocks was a bard with a penchant for storytelling.

His latest passenger was a lady looking for a ride from Bruma to visit family in the Imperial City, and Calen was smitten by her. Long, wavy brown hair, piercing green eyes, a soft and sweet expression - and she was making it difficult for him! Toying and teasing with him, even! Sure, he didn't know the way to the Imperial City just yet, but the Empire took good care of the roads in Cyrodiil and if you threw a rock, there was a likely-hood that you would hit a road-sign - he didn't even need his clairvoyance spell. What's more, she wouldn't even tell him her name. As the White Gold Tower began creeping ever closer, Calen decided that he had to kick it up a notch.

"There I was, between the biggest all-Nordic, Talos-loving bastard you've never seen and this Thalmor inquisitor, trying my best to calm the situation. Big guy is losing it, but I'm holding it steady as she goes. I face the Thalmor and I speak to him in perfect Altmeri about how the other guy is my brother Murtagh, and how he survived a cannonball to the head and was never the same since. Thalmor guy is so impressed by my Altmeri that he just left without any further trouble, and everyone in carriage gave me a standing ovation."

"Wow..." Bemused the girl, trying to process what Calen just told her. She decided to roll with it, "I didn't know you could speak perfect Altmeri."

"Yeah, well, you know..." Calen started, trying to play it off like nothing. "Like any other elven language, it's practically derivative of Ayleidoon."

Was it Ayleid? Or was it Aldmeri?

"Oh? Ayleid?"

"Oh yeah. It especially came in handy when I went delving into this deep dwemer ruin and had to decipher the ancient texts to procure a centurion... dynamic core."

"You don't say?" She replied. "You wouldn't happen to have it with you, would you?"

"Oh Gods, no. Something that valuable is safe and sound back home!" Calen proclaimed.

"Well, if you happen to go back and decide to bring it with you, you know where to find me in case you'd like to prove it. The name's Freya."

Calen dipped his head toward her and gave her his most charming smile. A sound like steady thunder echoed in the distance. A curious noise, one that Calen asked was common here in Cyrodiil, but Freya seemed just as confounded as he was. The noise grew louder and louder, echoing from all around, until suddenly, a shadow like thick cloud cover quickly loomed over the carriage, prompting an alarmed glance from the driver and his passenger. Massive ships of gold and brass blocked out the sun as they rose above the Jerall Mountains, sailing through the air and dropping Calen's jaw in awe and bewilderment. The speed of them were astonishing, covering more ground in mere minutes than what Calen could cover all day with his little wagon at a slow pace. The ships ignored the wagon on the road, and instead barreled through the air towards the Imperial City. Freya was able to break out of her stunned state and was able to mutter a single word, "Mother..."

That was all it took to break Calen from his own trance, and although he had no idea of what was happening or what any of it meant, the sense of urgency overcame him. "Hya!" He yelled, whipping Danish into full gear with the reins. It wasn't exceptionally fast, Calen suspected that not even an Imperial warhorse could've carried them fast enough before smoke and fire began rising from inside the city. It was an excruciatingly long twenty minutes before they were even in front of the Imperial City bridge, at which point they had met with a small group of evacuating citizens herded by only one soldier.

"Mom!" Freya blindly cried out into the crowd of dirty, bloodied people.

"Freya?! Honey?!" Called out one voice from the crowd, hands waving. Calen's passenger jumped from the back of the carriage and cut through the crowd to reunite with her mother. Someone from the crowd abruptly grabbed Calen by the arm, and the bard turned to face a man clad in the steel of the Imperial City's guard. His face was half covered in blood, and he was gritting his teeth digging his eyes into Calen's with anger and urgency. "You! Help me evacuate these citizens to Skingrad! The city is under attack by dwemer!"

While Calen had no intention of abandoning anyone, the intensity of the man's face and the volume of his demands would've intimidated the bard into complying anyways. Though he nodded, the bewilderment in his eyes were only exaggerated as he repeated what the guard said to him: "Dwemer?"

"Come on, come on! Get on! GO!" The imperial guardsman shouted, gesturing to the evacuees as the climbed aboard the wagon. Though the wagon could only fit four comfortably, six or seven people could likely fit if they squeezed in - even then, Danish wouldn't be able to move at full speed. But when the wounded were taken into account, only five could be on board at a time while they gave the most critically injured man the space he needed on the floorboards. Calendar still didn't entirely feel he knew what was happening - the situation had shaken him to his core and now he truly knew what it meant to have fear gripping his heart. He climbed off from his seat and faced the guardsman, saying to him, "You drive the pony for now, I can walk! We need you rested!"

"We'll take shifts." The guard agreed. "I appreciate your help, sir. HEY! All able-bodied men and women will walk alongside the cart! Trade spots only when necessary!"

Most of the people were in agreement. The worst off of the bunch were already in the cart, which meant there were only two people who could rest at a time. Freya helped her mother onto the cart and helped to apply a bandage to her head before hopping off the cart and finding Calen in the chaos as the cart started to move. Danish whinnied in irritation, not liking the fact that he was being driven to haul so much weight.

"You're a dwemer expert, right?" Freya asked. Apparently she felt so scared by the current circumstances that she made herself believe in the stories Calen was telling her.

"Nope, I lied!" Calen cried out matter-of-factly to her, obviously panic-stricken. "That was just a story! And I am neither qualified nor brave enough to try talking sense to thousand year old flying groundhogs!"

The next day was filled with non-stop travel, and Calen was fortunate that he was athletic enough to go for a while before tiring, but some of the other civilians were having trouble organizing themselves to get proper rest. He and the guardsman swapped posts, giving Calen a rest and allowing him to drive Danish the rest of the way while the guard stripped some of his armor down to its chainmail and helped by using his strength to carry one civilian at a time. When they finally reached Skingrad, they found the gates closed and a camp of refugees was already littering the outside of the city in a large campsite. By the order of the Count, no refugees were allowed inside the gate, and apparently they seemed to think that included Calen. He was so far from home and had no idea of where to go or what to do, so he just did what could with what he knew: he entertained the refugees. He helped hand out food made by people who actually knew how to cook and he tried his best to raise everyone's spirits. He couldn't just run away from them.

Was this what it meant to live through history?

Personality

Had it not been apparent by this point, Calen is a creature of impulse, whimsy, and ardor, and is the bitterest pessimist's worst and most vexacious enemy. His casual, optimistic, cheerful disposition and lust for life is typically the first thing people notice about him if it isn't his lust for other people. He embodies the bardic spirit, wishing to experience what life has to offer him and to explore the world, to witness history first-hand, and somehow find a silver lining in every nook and cranny that he can. He truly believes that the world is a good place, or at least it can be, just as long as everyone puts an effort into making it so... and the first step in fulfilling that pipe dream is to stop and observe the beauty that already exists. How the pearl-like clouds migrate across the ocean-blue skies, the trees and flowers bathing in the sunlight and their elaborate network of roots sinking into the soil, or even the awesome stampede of storm clouds and how their rumbling and roaring thunder cracks as lightning whips Nirn in a divine flash of primal energy. How beauty is present even in the mundane, such as a wagon wheel, where mathematics and art can come together to create a tool which is as wondrous as it is taken for granted.

Perhaps it's easy to look past Calen's wonder and conviviality once people realize that that he's a shameless hedonist who's not afraid to admit it (he's more likely to correct you that hedonism encompasses all earthly pleasures, not just sex), and he's not the type to try to change other people's minds once they're explicitly set on something anyways. After all, his womanizing could easily be the most defining trait of his reputation and his impulsiveness only cements the image of him in others' minds as a fool who falls in and out of love as easily as a fish drinks water. It's just as easy to forget to give him credit where credit is due, for as far as he's concerned, monogamy and faithfulness are not mutually exclusive. Each and every lover or love-interest he treats and thinks back on with only the fondest and sweetest form of respect, and one relationship with one person doesn't necessarily means it overrides a relationship with another. The mere idea of putting a limit on love of all things seems to him to be one of the most oppressive forces on Nirn, which also happens to be a reflection of his Dibellan faith. In short, it's sacrilegious.

That doesn't mean he parted with every one of his previous partners on the best of terms though, even if Calen refuses to speak ill of them. He has a few cardinal rules, and one of them is to not take advantage of anyone's affection or trust. While he tries to be as upfront with his intentions as possible, occasionally even going as far as relenting the pursuit of a particular partner should they not feel comfortable with polyamory, they either don't always get across in translation or be made clear enough. This miscommunication has caused one or two heartbreaks in his time, much to the breaking of Calen's own heart, who never wished to make anyone feel hurt or as though they've been betrayed. Those individuals are more than just people who are near and dear to his heart, they're also reminders that he is still a foolish young man who is still lacking in wisdom and is too quick to get caught up in the heat of the moment. They're reminders that he needs to slow down.

Though often a forgetful person, there are certain areas of his mind that are like iron-clad traps. Despite the stupidity of yesteryear, all of his past relationships are precious memories of his and that is where the appraisal of his critics fall short. He remembers their names and their faces vividly because each one of them has contributed something special to his life, so he will continue to love them and their memory long into the future. Neither were all of his relationships romantic or sexual in nature; he treats his friendships with the same amount of ginger and intimate care as he does his romantic entanglements. One of Dibella's doctrines is that love knows no boundaries. He sees love in two friends sharing a bottle of mead just as much as he sees it in sex, so the medium to him doesn't matter. The form in which love takes - whether it's platonic or otherwise - has no bearing on that love's value. It follows that Calen might be a little bi-curious.

This left-field perspective might make Calen appear as either a sanctimonious dog attempting to rationalize his lecherous behavior (which could be just as likely) or make him out to be wise beyond his years, and make no mistake, he's not. He's a bona fide fool. He went to school and studied a lot, so sure, he's intelligent and can be a diligent study - but he's a fool. He doesn't think before he acts, and he's not considered cunning because the answers don't always come to him very quickly. He's lucky to be alive, if anything. He hasn't survived the wilderness because of his resourcefulness or because of his martial and magical skill, so the only answer left is that the Divines apparently favor fools. Maybe it's because it's amusing to watch the bewilderment of all the capable adventurers who were the skin of their fingertips away from certain death.

Which goes to say that the bard isn't without his flaws. One that might've been driven home by now is that he's short-sighted and doesn't always think through his decisions, possibly leaving him in embarrassing or life-threatening situations. He also isn't much of a fighter for two reasons: firstly, he isn't necessarily pacifistic, but he would reaaaally rather avoid hurting others if he can help it. Ugly beasties? Sure, easily. A bandit that just tried to slit his throat? He'd bonk him on the head with his cudgel and ask if he was alright afterwards. Secondly, he's as cowardly as they come and is prone to panic whenever things go wrong. He'll do what he can to avoid a conflict in favor of carefully worded diplomacy, or if that doesn't work, delivering a witty jab or snide comeback since he has zero confidence in his ability to hold his own in a scrap (which officially makes him the worst nord in Skyrim).

The only possible exception to this rule is if a loved one of his is in imminent danger, which puts his impulsive nature front and center in the position to have him do something incredibly reckless and stupid to try protecting them. He'll do so even if everyone would be better off if he doesn't butt in, because apparently his brain is hard-wired to his asshole, and he can't seem to stop trying to impress women even if he's digging a deeper hole for himself. His honesty seems to end with his emotions, since he seems to have no problem with spinning tall tales, exaggerating his skills and talents, or fabricating cockamamie farces for the very purpose of impressing love interests; though that could just as likely be derived from his inherent bardic desire to captivate and entertain, less so than to manipulate. Whether or not he realizes that's what it looks like he's doing is anybody's guess!

On the other hand, he can be quite easy to fool or manipulate himself, given his penchant to believe in the best of people.

Despite many of his shortcomings (and there are many), he still remains an incredibly friendly and kindhearted individual whose intentions are in the best of places even if they fall short in execution. He's as sharp as a tack, cultured, silver tongued, has a practiced singing voice, and is learned in history and in the practice of many different musical instruments and art forms, making him a creative force of nature. If you need someone to do the talking for you or to make friends in high places, Calen is the guy for the job. As a man who has lived with a foot in both worlds, he is capable of talking down nobles and peasantry alike and he has an inexplicable way with being a neutral voice in any sort of disagreement whether its in politics or religion.

Aries Machella, from Dervish's The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Aries Machella

<sub>Female Breton/Imperial | 29 | The Lord | Daggerfall, High Rock

Playlist</sub>

Appearance

It's like someone put a dragon and shoved it inside a woman's body, the way her disposition conflicts with how she presents herself. Take a woman of fair skin and lithe frame, dabbed with bits of makeup and adorned in jewelry, and give her a resting bitch face. The natural blush on her face doesn't take away from her studious and razor sharp green eyes, only given contrast by the black eyeliner she typically wears and a few restless nights. Her body, lithe, still shows examples of a relatively fit lifestyle, however the ratio of body-to-muscle only really tones her body given how the total amount of muscle she has forces her to rely on her grace instead of her strength. Standing at 5'7", this would put her weight around around 135 lbs. While her face is definitely Breton, her jaw and her nose comes from her Imperial father with the angular shape of their appearances, which seems to call attention to her pink lips.

Depending on who you ask, she has been blessed with good genetics given the shape of her body with a narrow waist and endowed chest. While how she grew and developed was certainly out of her control, she wears and walks around in her body as if she was deserving of it. She wears her auburn hair in a variety of different ways. Sometimes it's braided, in a bun, in a braided bun, curled, straightened, wavy, let down after it's been braided so it looks loosely curled -- it depends on the occasion. It frames her face and falls down to her shoulders, with its longest strands falling just below. It looks carefully pampered along with her eyebrows. Her fair skin is practically porcelain; not in color, no, her skin is often flushed pink while under the sun, but it's smooth. Nary a blemish or freckle in sight and devoid of scars. The softness of her hands betrays a history of easy living, as does the tidiness of her fingernails.

It would be obvious at this point that she comes from a place of high living, and as would be expected, wears some form of makeup or another on a semi-regular basis. Winged black eyeliner, and only the faintest touch of blush which mostly serves to hide the natural blush that glows even brighter. She also uses a peach colored gloss on her lips, and a red polish on her fingernails which looks to have some kind of protective enamel over them. While obviously not practical, she has entertained the idea of putting scorpion venom on her nails in the case of some Redguard pirates or bandits during her stay in Hammerfell. Honestly, she doesn't need it, but it would make one hell of a statement.

Her preferred style of dress would be if she was back in the Imperial City. Her iconic look was a silky, very low-cut red dress which separated into straps around her naval, while slowly tapering as it approached her shoulders. It was wide enough at the breast to preserve her dignity while flaunting some cleavage -- but it was less about flaunting and more about comfort while under the heat of the sun and feeling the coolness of the breeze coming from the Niben; it was simply the fashion of Imperial patricians. The dress is secured around the waist by a golden colored cinch. A yellow-gold toga-like garment drapes over her left shoulder and on top of her dress before coming back around. To complete the regal appearance are bits of jewelry, such as ornate, golden bracelets which coil up her wrists, leafy golden armband like wreaths, and an elaborate golden necklace with chains dangling the Imperial emblem in the center of her chest. Golden colored clasps are secured to both shoulder straps of her chest, and a golden colored circlet like a wreath decorates her head and helps to keep her hair in place, as well as showing off her station. Though not quite as fanciful, she liked the comfortable, airy feeling of sandals that is popular in Imperial fashion.

But now? Her attire changes almost regularly, portraying the appearance of Hammerfell merchants while trying to maintain a certain standard of comfortable living.

Equipment

Aside from her clothes and bits of jewelry, Aries typically carries very little with her since all of her means of defense is magical. While masquerading around as a merchant, she does carry with her a pretty bulky bag full of little trinkets and trade items of moderate value. She does have one item that helps her deal with the heat of Hammerfell, as well as the side effects of her own magic: a ring of Fire Resist.

Misc. Possessions

A coin purse of 250 septims.

A bag from her merchant persona filled with all manner of stuff.

Rings and amulets of moderate value.
Uncommon alchemical ingredients such as frost salts.
Semi-precious gems and stones.
Some expensive-ish foods such as cured meats and artisan bread.
Crafting materials like spools of cotton, flax, and silk. Small chunks of ivory.
A small glass bottle of wine wrapped in cloth lined with frost salts.

Family and Associations

Aries Vindicari | Paternal Grandmother | Deceased via childbirth
Lulius Vindicari | Paternal Grandfather | Deceased via war
Lawrence Machella | Maternal Grandfather | Deceased via mariticide
Eileen Machella | Maternal Grandmother | Deceased via age
Janelle Machella | Maternal Aunt | Alive, 62
Belle Machella | Maternal Aunt | Alive, 58
Catherine Machella | Maternal Aunt | Status unknown, 52
Esther Machella | Mother | Alive, 56
Florentius Machella | Father | Deceased via assassination
Gabriel Machella | Eldest Brother | Alive, 33
Stefan Machella | Elder Brother | Alive, 32

Favored Skills

Highly Proficient: Speechcraft – (Aries has spent her entire life in the public eye and dealing in politics -- not Imperial politics, but High Rock politics. The really complicated and cutthroat type of politics. She played the game and came out on top, so tell me, do you really want to play the game of thrones with her?)

Highly Proficient: Destruction – (She didn't just study politics, she also studied magic, and the School of Julianos in Daggerfall is the premier school for training battlemages. Being Breton and having a natural affinity for magic, and deciding that there was no better way to defend herself then reducing her enemies to ashes within seconds, she was able to learn Destruction magic at a high level given due diligence. She displays finely tuned control for someone with the capability to utterly obliterate somebody.)

Moderately Proficient: One-handed – (She spent many years practicing with her father before he died, then continued her practice in respect of her memory of him. Dueling and fanciful swordplay was a staple sport in High Rock, so it was fitting for her to learn how to wield a rapier and a saber, especially in the event where someone challenged her to a duel of honorable combat. Her skill lies in her careful footwork, graceful maneuvering, and precision. )

Moderately Proficient: Illusion – (Illusion magic is practically a necessity for any magically able noble in the Breton homeland. What Aries makes up for in the raw power of her spells is the careful, precise control of her magicka. While she can cast one of her spells to full effect, she finds that it is just as useful when creating a sort of aura while interacting with others. A general feeling of calm, fear, or anger slowly rising or itching at the back of the minds of her target can occasionally be the little push she needs to get what she wants out of them without them even realizing she's using magic.)

Somewhat Proficient: Conjuration – (Carrying a weapon weighs a lot, so why bother? Sure, it might act as a deterrent, but that's rarely the case for a woman of Aries' size and figure. Besides, the look of surprise on their face when you've suddenly brandished a magical weapon and they're suddenly without a hand is too priceless to give up. Plus, the weapon is virtually weightless! What's not to like?)

Spells

Highly Proficient: Destruction

Wall of Flames
Incinerate
Chain Lightning

Moderately Proficient: Illusion

Fear
Calm
Frenzy

Somewhat Proficient:

Bound Sword

History

The Rise to Power

Aries’ story begins along the far western coast of High Rock in the affluent city-state of Daggerfall. This begins her saga on a rather bleak note, though it is not clear on the surface, because indeed – the city’s luster and splendor knows no bounds. Fabulously wealthy and ripe with trade, even the impact of the Corsair Republic’s takeover of Wayrest, the seat of the Breton’s High King should such a day ever come again, is but an inconvenience to the economics of Daggerfall Castle. The comings and goings of grand merchant ships have stopped at the edge of the Iliac Bay and has perhaps even cemented this grand city’s monopoly on sea trade. One of the city’s major competitors were knocked off the global stage for a short time.

It's a peculiar and rather convenient consequence, one which many noble families tried to take advantage of.

One such noble family was that of the Machellas. The family tree bore the fruits of two faithful sons following in their father’s footsteps as soldiers, ready to take up the sword and live and die by the Empire, and a daughter, who was instead urged towards politics. Indeed, though, womanhood in the knightly orders were no rarity, a noblewoman’s preservation was of the utmost importance in the name of marriage alliances and keeping an heir who was not eager to die upon another’s blade. The mother and father, Esther Machella and her husband Florentius, was one such marriage.

Esther of the Machella family was nobility. Her family possessed a disgusting amount of wealth and has been cozy in Castle Daggerfall’s court for as long as she could remember. Florentius Machella, originally a Vindicari, wasn’t born as nobility, but he was a high-ranking member of the Imperial Army and had friends and connections that led all the way to the advisors of Imperial government. The Machellas have been a family loyal to the Empire for a long time, using its influence and favor to its advantage, so it was no surprise that one of them eventually married an Imperial captain.

The family itself has produced a notably high number of daughters over the years, Esther herself had three sisters, one of which, Janelle, wedded into the Lariats of Shornhelm, and there was Belle who had a gay marriage with a Bridwell. Catherine was out making her own living through trade in Camlorn. Yet most of the Machellan women remained the determinators of their own lineage, and often led to the men being forced to change their names. As influential as they were, they rarely met with disagreement as simply wearing the name Machella guaranteed a successful and lazy future. At least, this used to be the case until Esther’s father gambled half of their fortune away through a bad deal with the noble Motierre family. Half of what was left was spent on alcohol in his attempt to forget his failures before his wife, Esther’s senile mother, stabbed him to death. This meant that Esther had to step up to the plate and take control of the Machella family’s future. Even in her capable hands, they didn't have the same power and influence they once held.

When the time came for children of her own, first came the first-born son, Gabriel. An oddity to be certain, breaking the long-standing trend of first-born daughter. He was often the one most level headed and had the tendency to think ahead with remarkable insight and empathy for others, even if he could sometimes get carried away and become laxadacious in nature. That trait would not last long however, as a year later, Esther became pregnant again, and gave birth to her second-born son, Stefan. Now it was certain that whatever genes that Florentius had, it had provided the Machella family with sons that they had not seen in years. Stefan was much more serious than Gabriel, though more gullible. He didn’t have the same kind of critical thinking and skepticism that was prevalent in most Machellas, taking after his father in this regard. It was a foreboding trait, given the fate of his maternal grandfather. Last, but not least, came a daughter three years later. Florentius never knew his own mother, who perished in childbirth. He wanted to give their daughter an Imperial name after her grandmother: Aries.

Though she bore an Imperial name after her paternal grandmother, she was a Machella and was as much a Breton as any girl came. That is what Esther systematically drilled into her daughter’s head for years.

However, as the years passed and her daughter grew into her personality, it became clear that she was a little more spirited than she let on as a toddler. Entitled? Of course, like any child is and then some, considering her pampered upbringing. Aries found it suffocating. Familiarity bred resentment, and the lack of privacy and freedom afforded to her made her lash out in ways not before seen in her brothers, Gabriel and Stefan. Though truthfully, it was mostly directed at the maids and servants, for the busy political lives of her parents often kept them away from their homes until the end of the day -- busy playing and maneuvering through the game. When they arrived home, they would typically coddle the young girl and give her everything she asked for except for the freedom she wanted. However, the attitude she directed toward the servants and towards them was unbecoming of a lady and would not be tolerated for long.

The School of Julianos usually only took in those who were worth the investment. Distinguished mages or promising students were provided with an unrestricted learning experience unlike anything the rest of Tamriel could offer outside of the Crystal Tower in Summerset Isles or the Arcane University in Skyrim. However, you did not simply refuse a Machella when one arrived at your doorstep. It is difficult to say how swollen the coin purse may have been, but it was certainly enough to cinch an early and comprehensive education for the young Aries. It was a way to discipline the young lady and to keep her babysat, but here she wasn’t being coddled like at home, she was going to be taught. They couldn’t possibly start with magic, oh no, they’d have to start with arithmetic, language, and the sciences; the “general education requirements” so to speak, before they could even touch upon the subject of magic. However, the colorful, dramatic, and arcane displays of their magicka was enough to captivate the young noblewoman and the promises of how “one day, you could do it too” was enough to keep her rapt attention during her lessons.

Every now and then, her own parents made the time to attend her lessons and teach her what they knew as well. Florentius shared what he could, mostly strategies and tactics, and taking Aries out for a few training sessions in dueling with a blade like he did with her brothers. He valued the ability to defend oneself, especially in the snake pit of Daggerfall, though this concern was lost on Aries who only saw this as a fun recreational time that she got to spend with her father. She spent countless hours with rapiers and sabers; swords that used her grace to her advantage instead of the brute strength she lacked. What her mother had to offer on the other hand was something she couldn't easily teach to her martial-minded sons: she was a master of speechcraft and a shrewd politician. She could aptly manipulate other people by using their ideas, preconceptions, and emotions to direct them down a path as she saw fit, while also remaining mindful of cultural influences and her own sex (and how that would impact others' perception of her). The subtleties, nuances, ironies, and paradoxes of some of her lessons were mind-boggling and well above her level at the time, but repetitive lessons eventually drove them home whether she liked it or not. One of her first lessons was that every lady must have her own secrets to keep.

By the time she began understanding the political intricacies at the tender age of fourteen, the school was already prepared to teach her magic. It was an incredible accomplishment to be certain, but it was born out of opportunity, and it was hardly an opportunity she deserved. Being bought the finest education at a young age and receiving such careful attention and special treatment, this process of streaming and differentiated experience eventually made her a legitimate prodigy. So, when they first began teaching her the fundamentals of magicka, she absorbed it like a sponge. This is what she had been waiting years for! This would be worth suffering through all her mother’s boring lectures! The Daggerfall sect of the School of Julianos was the premier branch for battlemages, so the best type of learning they could provide the young Aries was in Destruction. The other schools they could teach to a lesser degree; illusion, they thought, would be a reliable defense that would also come in handy in the political minefield that awaited her.

Unfortunately, her father wouldn’t live long enough to witness Aries cast her first spell.

On Sun’s Dusk 23 4E 193, returning home to the family estate, Aries was met with her mother sobbing over a draped coffin. No word was sent to her, so she was completely blindsided by the discovery of who exactly it was resting peacefully inside. The soldiers adorned in Imperial armor held their salute and stood as still as statues, patiently allowing the family as much time as they needed to grieve before the ceremonial preparations could be made. Esther was of little comfort to Aries, seemingly too swept up in her own grief to properly console her daughter. It was a night of seemingly endless weeping until the tears ran dry.

Aries did not have a proper way of coping with these feelings. This was the first time she ever had to deal with any kind of loss, and her first experience being one that was so overwhelming, she cut herself off. After a sleepless night of ceaseless crying until her eyes were dry and couldn’t cry anymore, she cut herself off in some form of forced dissociation so that she could do better to process and face her father’s death as logically as she could. She turned to her mother for answers. Why did this happen?

Her answers were brushed off for now, urging only that now was the time to study and to study hard. Aries, now angered, refused. How was she to focus on her studies now, immediately after her father’s unexplained death? Her intense line of questioning aimed at her mother caused Esther to give in. She said it was the fault of the Motierre clan. Florentius was not careful enough in navigating through the politics in High Rock and this is what it got him. This was why she wanted Aries to study more, to study harder. Aries thought this meant that her mother wanted her to be safe and sound, protected from the cutthroat politics of the city, but all she could think about was revenge.

So, the young noblewoman hit the books with a fervor not before seen. Her education, Aries felt, was now more a tool of survival and self-defense than anything else. If she were to compete on the same level, on the same political stage as the Motierres and the other nobles. She had to think ahead of them, outmaneuver them, do whatever she could to have an edge over her opponents. Her mother constantly reminded her that with the Montierre clan’s decisive power looming over the other castes in Daggerfall, literally anybody could have been paid to eliminate competing houses or find ways to reduce their power and influence, and if the time ever comes that Aries just so happened to slip up, she had to be prepared to defend herself. So, they both looked to her instructors to teach her all they could of the Destruction school and then some.

She was not a self-made prodigy; perhaps money had done much of the legwork for her, but there was no doubt that it was her own drive that made the most of all the opportunities before her and made her a prodigy nonetheless. She became a capable mage in record time; fire and lightning could flow interchangeably between her fingertips Illusion spells also became a part of her repertoire thanks to the defensive utility they provided, and a few lessons in the school of Conjuration promised her a worthy defense if she suddenly needed a weapon, which she supplemented with further swordsmanship training through her brothers. They were difficult to use at first, but quickly learned that the weightlessness of a bound sword complemented her swift and precise style. In addition, the multiple lessons from her mother meant that her education was finally sufficient enough at this point that she could begin gaining practical experience in Daggerfall politics at the meager age of seventeen.

There was one more important lesson she received in politics before she entered the fray as Esther dolled her up in a beautiful dress and laced up her bodice: “politics is as much about making the peasantry happy as it is about maintaining your power among the other nobles.” Peasants are ubiquitous; if you ignore the peasantry, you’ll be worrying about them more than the other nobles. If you have them on your side, then you don’t have to worry about them being used as a weapon against you. A people-first campaign was the best way to ensure your own safety and undermine your opponents who had no problem with taking advantage of them. The lesson wasn’t about being nice to those who were less fortunate, but about taking advantage of the different social structures in place and using socioeconomic status as a leveraging tool. It was the synthesis of two fundamentally differing ideologies.

One of Aries’ first experiences in the public eye as a full-fledged lady occured when she attended court with her mother. There she saw the lords and ladies of the other houses, including the Motierres. She watched her mother meander through the court, setting an example to Aries as she approached the other nobles to engage in conversation. As she did so, Esther told Aries to find out everyone’s names and remember their faces. They certainly wouldn’t forget her’s.

Lorelei Motierre. Eleanor Julliard. Marquis Tariat. Bellamy Bridwell. Mirabelle Tarys. Laurent Bellamont. Gale Wickerman -- these lords and ladies and plenty more were scattered across the court, and by day’s end, she seared their names and faces into her mind. She personally met King Guilliot in a brief introduction and was quickly drowned out by the sea of sycophants, but it was a productive day. She got her foot in the door, and now she just had to make her entrance. The following year was spent essentially shadowing her mother. It was one thing to learn what it was like to be a lady and another thing entirely to be practicing it and watching all the other masters at work, but she was able to pick up on it quickly. More disturbingly, she was perturbed by the number of gross old men who couldn’t keep their lecherous eyes off of her, but her mother convinced her to tolerate them for now. Being born a woman by coincidence meant she had the opportunity to use it to her advantage. So she would pretend to be at least slightly interested in these men, give them what they want; the idea that a future with her could even be remotely possible. It wasn’t.

Within the next year, the Hawkfords, an aristocratic family, invited the noble families of Daggerfall to a ball being hosted at their own estate. They themselves weren't nobles and it was for that reason that Aries could see through the charade -- it was a ploy to cozy up to the people who had power, but Esther was able to convince her to attend anyway. It was as much an opportunity for her as much as it was for the Hawkfords, and her argument was supported by the number of rumors of who would be attending the ball. Among them was the young lord, Fontaine Motierre. Aries then realized that this ball would be her ticket into undermining the Motierres.

Arriving at the ball in an elaborate gown, it was clear that she wasn't the only one with her sights set on Fontaine. Aries was of the mind that it was her family’s tumultuous history with the Motierres that would lure him in to her over the others. It would be a great success for the Motierres if they could quell the bad blood between the two houses and take the Machellas off of their list of enemies. It would be one less angle from which to expect a stab in the back. It was perhaps for this reason that Fontaine was receptive to Aries’ approach and blew off the young Hawkford girl.

“A father’s wealth doth not a lady make,” she remembered him saying. So instead he danced with Aries. Though Fontaine led the dance, Aries led the conversation by leading it away from her personal life. She didn’t share much of it, only enough of her personal feelings to allude that there was perhaps little to glean from the Machella family or that she knew too little of her own family’s affairs to take advantage of. She played her deception well, but Fontaine on the other hand seemed quite proud of his heritage and had little to no problem bragging about how far the influence of his family’s name reached, how significant the power they held truly was. He was trying to impress her, of course, but he also clued her in on the ripples she could make if she played her hand right. He told her that a Motierre was on the Elder Council. Their family also acted out of Chorral in Cyrodiil. How else could their family wield so much power?

She left the ball that night with Fontained wrapped around her finger. He asked for her hand in marriage, to unite their houses and to invite Aries into the most powerful family in High Rock, perhaps in all of Tamriel. She made no promises, though she entertained him with the idea of an Aries Motierre, the first ever Machella woman to change her name. Fontaine thanked her for the dance, and she thanked him too, and they went their separate ways for the night. The young Motierre thought he had her hook, line, and sinker, but Aries didn’t tell him that she really thanked him for the inspiration. It was thanks to Fontaine that she now had a new plan: she wasn’t just going to undermine and destroy their house, she planned on ascending. To meet them on the same level if not utterly surpass them. If a scumbag Motierre could reach the Elder Council, then why not her?

That’s what she prepared herself for in the following four years.

It wasn’t enough to be conversant in the politics of Daggerfall and High Rock. She had to immerse herself in Imperial politics as well, study Imperial history and Imperial law, as well as the relationship between the Empire and the Bretons of High Rock spanning as far back as the First Era when St. Alessia became known as the Slave Queen. The politics between the Empire and the other provinces; becoming conversant in the politics of all the major power was crucial. It was also in the time that she became a frequent visitor of the Motierre estate. Her relationship with Fontaine looked to be a budding one, but she was careful to play it slow, being ever mindful of her endgame.

Speaking of her mother, all that Aries had done in the four years following the Hawkford ball did not just comprise of study and warming up to the Motierres. She was not wed to Fontaine and therefore did not owe them her allegiance, but their acquaintanceship seemed to have created a sort of tentative bond between the houses that promised a shaky political alliance. Not wanting to jeopardize the potential rewards it would yield, it allowed the Machellas to become more active without the threat of the Motierres quashing their efforts looming over them. Esther and Aries were able to cash in on their family’s investments and Aries’ brothers, Gabriel and Stefan, acted as a sort of muscle or enforcement for the family.

They were trained soldiers, which provided them connections to the Daggerfall army and the authorization to oversee safe transport of trading goods within their family’s interest. They didn’t study politics like Aries did, but Gabriel was at least savvy enough to spread some influence among their ranks. With this connection, Aries suggested that they leaned into their supportive stance for the throne, its military, and the Empire as a path back to power. Whatever skepticism her mother might’ve had for her daughter’s plan was quelled when she brought up the Motierres again. Any action they made against them at that point was unlikely; they already arranged a sort of cease-fire, and any action in undermining them may very well be acting against the interest of the Empire and of Daggerfall, provided the Machellas got far enough.

Her strategy came in the form of redirecting investments into mines, quarries, blacksmiths, and lumber mills. Not only did this support the local businesses in the region, but also given the Empire’s fragile state after the Great War with the Dominion, the best way to make quick friends with a weak Empire is to support the recovery efforts of their infrastructure. Investing in stocks and reselling them to the Empire at a discount price only turned out a marginal profit, so the other half would be sold to kingdom of Daggerfall itself. Eventually however, their support for the local business allowed those businesses to grow and increase production. With increased production meant a greater share for the Machellas, and with a greater share to sell to the Empire, the Imperials began sending their own ships to retrieve the building materials in bulk, which took the cost of shipping off her family’s shoulders. Later in the third year, the Empire wished to renegotiate their trade deal with the Machellas.

The deal entailed less gold in exchange for the resources, but they offered shipments of Skingrad wine in exchange with the bonus of being sold at a slightly lower cost in hopes of her family’s continued support and lasting relationship with the Empire. Aries, knowing that her mother detested gambling, knew she would never accept the offer. So she accepted the offerwithout informing Esther and, through a few of the family’s retainers, sold the wine to Castle Daggerfall and to taverns throughout the city and even to neighboring cities. Although it was a gamble, the family’s income had never been higher, prompting Esther to question her daughter after the numbers in her ledger weren’t adding up which ended up in a massive, heated argument. Still, since Aries’ actions had reaped their intended benefits, there was never any real resolution to their argument.

The year Aries turned twenty-two years old, Skyrim’s High King Torygg was killed by Ulfric Stormcloak, breathing new life into their civil war. This barely affected Daggerfall in a significant way, but Aries knew that it wouldn’t be long before the city would feel the strain of a weakening Empire. They’d have to divide their resources to handle the situation in the North, meaning that their current trade agreement could be strained. The tension between her and her mother had been slowly but steadily rising ever since their first argument as Aries had been making decisions of her own accord, so with that still fresh on her mind, she took a moment to swallow her pride and confront her mother with her new idea. She knew that there might be repercussions of significant enough impact to warrant discussing them with the matriarch.

In order to anticipate the Empire’s strain, Aries pitched the idea of preemptively modifying their trade agreement with the Imperials and organizing support within Daggerfall for the Imperial army in Skyrim, campaigning on behalf of the Empire. Especially with news of a cave-in blocking one of their only routes to Skyrim, auxiliary forces from the West would be a boon that they couldn’t refuse, and hopefully, the payoff would mean less long-term profit loss from their trade agreement and the increased support of a grateful Empire. Earning a little less now was better than losing the entire deal later or being undercut by a much more significant margin. Though Esther was hesitant, she was grateful for her daughter’s disclosure, and tentatively agreed to her suggestion.

Only, Aries didn’t disclose everything. She didn’t disclose the fact that she had been talking with the Motierres about them taking a similar course of action. She hid just enough of her family’s finances from them that she put them under the impression that the Machellas couldn’t perform this maneuver on their own, and if they did so anyways, a less powerful family was doing more to aid the Empire than the most powerful noble family in Daggerfall who also had an Elder Council member among them. What would that look like? And why on earth would Aries want to marry into a family that didn’t support their own? Not only did she preemptively negotiate a better deal with the Empire and began organizing support for Imperial troops, she manipulated the Motierres into funding her campaign efforts. Most of the Daggerfall public didn’t seem to care much for the conflict or felt like they had a stake in the war to the East, but some loyalists or those desperate for a wage signed up and slowly, troops were being sent eastward towards Solitude.

Barely even a year later, while Aries was attending a banquet at the Motierre estate and buttering up the lords, ladies, and their sons, one of their personal couriers had delivered a newspaper. Its headline was emblazoned across the front: “EMPEROR TITUS MEDE II, MURDERED!”

Amidst a room of startled gasps and crocodile tears (for she thought she knew that none of them cared for anything outside of themselves), she excused herself from the Motierres’ table, returned home, and began organizing movements to be made to send gifts of condolences to the Mede family.

It wouldn’t be long after the death of the Emperor when the civil war in Skyrim reached its end. General Tullius brought the fight to the gates of Windhelm with the aid of the Dragonborn, but it left an Empire in a fragile state with a weakened province and depleted resources at their disposal. The war had left the land in dismay, infrastructure destroyed, and lives shattered and displaced. After a brief affair of correspondence between herself and some Imperial financers deep in Cyrodiil, Aries sought out her mother to discuss one of her biggest gambles yet: she planned on visiting Skyrim personally, stationing herself in Solitude, and using her own personal funds to aid in the reconstruction of a bridge and a roadway to reconnect Skyrim to High Rock and Skyrim to Cyrodiil. Her mother immediately refused.

If Aries didn’t keep a presence in Daggerfall, Esther argued, her influence would weaken, and her name would mean nothing. On the other hand, Aries argued that a Machella personally had to be there to serve as emissary and to discuss and sign a deal. Showing investment was the best way to catch the attention of the Empire. Her mother was exasperated with her and didn’t understand why she had such a fixation on a weak Empire that barely did anything for them in return. Only then it was revealed to her why Aries was trying so hard to appease them – the Motierres. Aries admitted that she knew Amaund Motierre was an Elder Council member and hoped to show that a Machella could reach the same level as well, but to do that, she felt like she had to take advantage of the Motierres and play the game better than they could just to get there. Only then did Esther finally understand what was driving her, and she admired her daughter’s ambition.

She gave her daughter some crucial advice: stay home. True, it would be helpful to be there personally, but it would be harder to manipulate the Motierres if she was gone for as long as it took to oversee the reparations of Skyrim’s infrastructure. Furthermore, if she spent all that time trying to fix another country, her status back home in Daggerfall would plummet. She should visit, yes, but only for as long as it took to sign her name on a deal. As soon as that was done, Aries’ brothers could move in to represent their presence. There was plenty of dirt to be found on the Motierres, Aries just had to dig deeper to find it. Simple dinner parties weren’t going to cut it.

So that is what happened: Aries organized a trip to visit Solitude in a horse drawn carriage and a small caravan of horses. She was being escorted personally by Gabriel and Stefan, the two who would be the most reliable means of defense. Along the journey was filled with awkward chit-chats which eventually broke down into humored and long-winded conversations. It had been some time since she had been able to talk to her brothers on a personal level. The few times they were actually home, Aries had so often been either studying or in the middle of her own work, playing the stuffy political game, that it had probably been years since they interacted like real siblings. For a while, her brothers had thought their baby sister had gone all stuffy on them, but after a day or two of travelling on the road, they had managed to find each other once again and all her plots and worries had temporarily ceased to be. Though admittedly there wasn’t much talk about the good old days since they were far and few between, but some of the attending retainers were caught quite off guard by the laughter and laid-back display Aries was openly displaying in her brothers’ company. It was quite nice to have her first vacation in a very long time; she didn’t have to hide herself here.

They were also caught off guard by a sudden bandit ambush a few miles past Camlorn, and perhaps equally as much when Aries proved herself capable of defending herself by setting fire to the trees in which their archers were hiding. A sudden, eruptive display of blinding flame was enough to breed fear in those remaining who weren’t immediately charred to a crisp and cause them to flee. It was the first time she had used her magic for self-defense, and for some reason, she always thought that her first time would’ve left her jarred and shocked. It didn’t. Yes, the adrenaline pumping through her comprised the fine tuning of her control, she used a bit more fire than she needed, but she didn’t feel remorseful about what she did. She didn’t feel haunted, she just did what was necessary. The amount of foliage burning hid the smell of burning flesh, and as she assessed the aftermath with a curious passiveness, her brothers looked at her as though a dragon had just swooped down. Partially, they felt useless, but mostly they felt a little intimidated and even a little disturbed. They knew she had studied magic, but not to such a degree. Neither did they know that their baby sister could be so ruthless.

Aries seemed eager to return to business as usual, but her brothers seemed to step more carefully around her from that point onward. It wouldn’t last, however, as eventually her caravan passed through the rest of High Rock and crossed the Skyrim border, rested her horses at the local Smallwood Stables, and met with Imperial officials at Castle Dour. The deal was quickly agreed upon, as it was weighed heavily in the Imperials favor, but organizing the logistics of the deal took hours and Aries wanted to make sure that every step of the plan was precisely calculated before she signed her name on any parchment. Once they figured out approximately how many stone bricks would be needed by number per few meters of road, where the road was going to be laid, it’s approximated mileage, and the schematics of the bridge, Aries didn’t have any qualms with signing her name on the dotted line. After spending a day or two to rest, she embarked on her return journey to High Rock with her brothers. After a long and tiring journey, her brothers would stay for a short while to rest before taking the journey once more, and that time they would stay until the project was complete.

In the meantime, however, Aries would be hard at work in her infiltration of House Motierre. If she wanted dirt, then she’d have to go deeper. Become more involved. She attended all the dances with Fontaine, slimy a man though he may be, spoke publicly in favor of their House, and for years, do whatever else she could do to get in their good graces. She found that Amaund had joined the Elder Council almost thirteen years ago, but beyond that, very little. They were a careful sort. They were so good at keeping secrets that there was no wonder they’ve reached the heights they have. She must’ve spent a couple years of fraternizing with the Motierres, for her brothers had finally returned home following the completion of the rebuilt road and bridge in Skyrim, with an official written recognition of House Machella by the Elder Council. In addition, her brothers Gabriel and Stefan were formally inducted into the Knights of the Dragon by King Guilliot in acknowledgement of their faithful service and ability – though it had more to do with their status, than anything. Regardless, it was a momentous occasion and the ceremony was wonderful, but the Council’s recognition meant little if she couldn’t achieve her objective in Daggerfall.

The only thing that Aries could do to punch a hole through the Motierres’ defense was to reopen the discussion of marriage. The Motierres weren’t in the same position as many other families though, the groom this time would have no need to change his name. So, when Aries broke tradition by suggesting the possibility of changing her own surname, that was something of an achievement that the Motierres didn’t want to pass up. Petty and relatively insignificant it may be, but House Machella was one of the long-time contesters to their power and having one of their daughters – one who was intelligent and powerful – join their family, it cemented their position in Daggerfall society. It would cement their position.

It left them open is what it did. Made them soft. Complacent. They were overconfident in thinking that they had her in the bag already, were planning the largest and most extravagant wedding that Daggerfall had never seen, and for some reason that made them think that it was time to treat her like she was family. Honestly, who thought it was okay to let their fiancée in on their family’s financial affairs? To help in their budgeting and financial planning? To be fair to them, she was quite good at it, and for a couple months, Aries helped them streamline their process and provided insight on big financial gambles… but it also gave her direct access to their ledgers. There were a few nights where she felt she could comfortably slip out of bed and wander through their lengthy, empty hallways and find the Motierre ledger in their office. Some nights she spent staying up studying the ledger. Where did they get their money? What did they spend it on?

She noted the additions and subtractions, the totals – and then she double-checked her work. Triple checked. Something wasn’t adding up. There weren’t nearly enough deposits to meet their total sum. Invisible money was being added from somewhere, they were laundering money from somewhere and it wasn’t being listed in this ledger. With a spare parchment from the desk, she grabbed a quill and began working backwards to find the value of the missing variables. It was like she was back in school practicing arithmetic all over again. She found that the first value was at least eight hundred septims, but then the next missing value was different. She found that the missing values weren’t consistent, the invisible numbers were constantly changing. She figured it was probably in the event of being found, someone couldn’t just plug one number in and multiply it by the number of invisible deposits. The only question now was where the gold is coming from. She went as far back in the dates as she could to see if she could find when they first started receiving this gold; 4E192 – almost thirteen years ago, around the same time Amaund joined the Elder Council.

The Motierres have been siphoning money from the Empire for over a dozen years now, no wonder they were so well off. She finally found the dirt she was looking for! It was so strange, she thought as she took a moment to reflect, that the Motierres found their fortune around the same time the Machellas fell into their rut. Not long before her dad…

Her dad! He was the reason why she set out on this crusade in the first place. How did he factor into everything? She was told for the first time so many years ago that the Motierres were responsible for his death, reminded so often since then, yet she still ended up losing sight of her purpose in the shadow of her ambitions. She looked through the ledger again, scanning for the day her father died a year later. The date itself didn’t have any transactions listed on it, but the surrounding dates did see the handling of large sums of gold with generic descriptions of the transactions like “human resources”, which seemed out of place amidst the specificity of the other records within the ledger.

Guided by candlelight, she scoured the office looking for where they kept their history of correspondence until she found a wooden cabinet with stacks upon stacks of folded letters. They were organized by date. She looked as far back as she could – it was about midnight by this point – found old letters, likely kept as proof of business and transactions between parties, but all the letters she could find on or surrounding the date of her father’s death had nothing to do with her family. Curiously, there was few to no correspondence at all from Amaund Motierre. She looked back even further, her eyes glazing over the dozens of tax papers, only mildly intrigued by the personal communications between the Motierres and other parties, until finally she found mention of a Machella in one letter sent by a Bellemont.

“Frostfall 29, 4E 193
Dearest Roswell,

You will be pleased to know that you are found in likeminded company. You have my most gracious sympathies upon my learning of the dishonor visited upon you and your prestigious family. The loss of Wayrest is a very real and mutual tragedy, and it would be utterly abhorrent – unthinkable, immoral even – to take advantage of such grief to gain the upper hand in a shallow political game.

I, too, have unfortunately come to conclusion of finding the conduct of Florentius Machella in poor taste, but an Imperial is as an Imperial does; following the orders barked at them by those above their stations, his intrusions are most assuredly directed by the machinations of Lady Esther Machella; his wife. I tried to advise against her dealings, but you know how Machella women are.

As Florentius is an Imperial captain of the Emperor’s army, I know him as a matter of fact to be of the honorable sort and a newcomer to Daggerfall’s political arena and that perhaps he was not made aware of the rippling effects of the path his wife had set him on, but speaking of facts, one still remains that a diplomatic confrontation is not advisable in your unique situation and neither is allowing him to continue his current trajectory.

We will remain in contact and I lend you my best wishes in hopes of a satisfying closure to your predicament.

Sincerely,
L. Bellemont”

Looking back through time and seeing the mention of her parents was a haunting feeling. Yet she knew that wasn’t likely to find the evidence she needed here; any correspondence implicating them of wrongdoing would’ve been burned. It was still a promising sign, and even through the early hours, she continued skimming through pointless mail received through the surrounding dates, no longer looking for mention of her family’s names. At this point, she was just looking for anything that could give her a hint. It must’ve been another hour of searching until she came across an odd letter will very little written on it and with very plain, stylized handwriting.

“Mr. R,

The highest offer the noblewoman’s man would give us was 1,500. Congratulations sir, you have yourself a new business partner.

Now it would seem that our mutual headache is overreaching – I might just accept their offer for the free pocket change and mail off the diamond a week after you drop off your promised 5,000.

I have to admit I feel a little bad*, but let this be a lesson to them about being cheap with their money. You get what you pay for.

*Just kidding. I don’t.

– K ♥ ”

The letter wasn’t dated, but it was located between letters written on Sun’s Dusk 6, 4E 193 and Sun’s Dusk and Sun’s Dusk 10, 4E 193. It would’ve been written somewhere between those times, from the seventh to the ninth. It was a long shot, but the mention of “a noblewoman’s man” raised red flags in her mind… and there was no way anyone would spend five thousand septims on a diamond unless the diamond mentioned was a codeword for something. She cross referenced the ledger – Sun’s Dusk 13, 4E 193, 5,000 septims were withdrawn. Three days later, there was another invisible deposit equal to 5,000. A week later would’ve been Sun’s Dusk 20, 4E 193. Her father died three days later that year.

On hand, she felt like she was so close to the truth, but on the other hand, it could’ve been coincidence. It wasn’t like it was mailed the same day or anything. She sighed and returned to the pile of letters. Perhaps she could skim through and look for more letters from whoever this “K” person was. Flipping through a few more, she found another barren letter.

“Mr. R,

Everything is stable in Wayrest.

– K”

Wayrest? But Wayrest was under control of the Corsairs at the time and three days away—

Oh Gods.

It took everything from Aries to keep herself from burning down the Motierre manor. For second, she had a fireball in her hand that was ready to bring the building down, but she controlled herself. She extinguished the flame and instead gathered the letters together and took with her the entire Motierre ledger. She was racing against time now, as it was a matter of when they would notice its and her disappearance. She dashed through the streets of Daggerfall barefoot and in a silken nightgown, tightly clutching a large book and several papers to her chest towards the Machella home. There was something she needed to check on before informing her mother. Much like the Motierres, her mother also kept a long stack of correspondence in her private office. She’s been in the room many times, and she studied her family’s history, but she never thought to investigate it. From the sounds of that “K” person, they were also in correspondence with her mother at the time. So was an L. Bellamont. She had to make sure.

It was easy enough to find. Her family didn’t receive nearly as much correspondence, and she already knew what date range to look for.

“Ms. E,

Your husband’s generous 1,500 offer is greatly appreciated.

You should receive a present very shortly.
– K”

“Frostwall 25, 4E 193
Dearest Esther,

Your strategy is ambitious, and I can appreciate what you are trying to do, but I feel that I must advise you that the Corsair Republic cannot be trusted. Just because they call themselves a Republic and pretend to suppose the mantle of governor does not make them a sovereign country; Wayrest is a nation held hostage by pirates. Indeed, though that may make them willing to do the work you would hire them to do, that does not make them willing to behold themselves to their word. Their only loyalty is to money. They will stab you in the back.

That said, if you insist on this venture, then perhaps you would think against sending Florentius in your stead. He may be capable and Imperial, but he is not Breton – he does not know how to dance the political ballad like we do. I fear you may be risking too much for what you will be getting in return.

As always, with love,
L. Bellamont”

It only took a minute for Aries, with her arms full of papers and books, to march towards her mother’s bed chamber, toss the ledger and letters at the foot of her bed, and abruptly light a wall sconce with the fire of her destruction magic. She confronted her and demanded to know the full truth of her father’s death, and it wasn’t long before the footsteps of her brothers came rampaging through the house, only to arrive in the room brandishing their swords with confounded expressions on their faces as they saw Aries fuming at their mother. She demanded again, in front of her brothers, the full truth of their father’s death… so they got it.

Esther had a plan to use the Corsairs to raid rivaling trade vessels – namely, the Motierres. If she could take them out of the picture, the Machella family would practically be second to only the King of Daggerfall himself. She felt responsible for staying home in Daggerfall to manage business as usual and behooved Aries’ father to go in her stead. She supposed that he didn’t know how to properly manipulate the situation, but the Corsairs backstabbed her metaphorically and Florentius literally, as well as stealing the money they originally offered them.

Aries revealed that Esther wasn’t just backstabbed, but outmaneuvered, and revealed to her the evidence she found in the Motierres’ estate. This didn’t mean she forgave her mother, though. Aries was furious, but she found herself in a rather unique predicament. She had the power in her hands to send her mother to the dungeon for a very long time, and the only reason why the Motierres didn’t do it themselves is because they were hopelessly tied to the situation and would’ve incriminated themselves in the process as well. However, she also had proof in her hands that the Motierres’ were not only responsible for the murder of her father as well as captain of the Imperial army, they paid for it using the money that they were stealing from the Empire. She didn’t even need her mother’s letters to incriminate them. They were just bonuses.

So Aries gave her mother an ultimatum: step down as matriarch of House Machella and make her the inheritor of the title, passing down all deeds and right to her, or to be imprisoned in the Daggerfall dungeon, making Aries the matriarch anyways. This was her punishment for being partially responsible for the death of her father and being stupid enough to leave a paper trail of evidence behind her. Though there was a hint of disappointment in Esther’s eyes, and a lifetime of guilt, she looked upon her daughter with a proud smile. Though she wished to have been succeeded in a more dignified way, her daughter outplayed her, and she wouldn’t have any reason to worry about her career as a politician in her retirement. She agreed to Aries’ demands.

The room went quiet for a few moments and the air was still. Esther looked at the old Motierre letters and looked at Aries expectantly, who nodded in understanding and then told her brothers to find Laurent Bellemont and kill him. The snake knew far too much about House Machella’s dirty laundry. Though there was hesitation from her brothers, everyone eventually concluded that their family would be torn apart again if they didn’t do what they could to preserve it.

In the meantime, Aries knew exactly where she was going next. Though she had a long night of little to no sleep, it was nearly sunrise when she personally marched into Castle Daggerfall and demanded one of the palace guard to see the captain immediately, as well as alerting the steward, on grounds of conspiracy. Upon their summoning, they were directed to a private room, and though they were sleepy, they were quickly awakened by the news Aries shared. Cross referencing the history of written correspondence with the ledger and the date of Captain Florentius Machella’s death strongly suggested a link to the Motierres. Also, with the help of the captain and the steward, tearing pages out of the ledger and dividing up thirteen years of money laundering since the induction of Amaund Motierre into the Elder Council, the total average of money estimated to have been stolen from the Empire was 127,660 septims, five thousand of which was spent to kill one of the Empire’s own high-ranking officials. If the steward was drinking coffee, he would’ve spit it back out.

Though it would be challenging to pin the murder on the Motierres thanks to their ability to play the system, it would be incriminating enough to get the public to turn on them and there was no possible way they could weasel their way out of the laundering and corruption charges. Perhaps on another day they could’ve bought their innocence through bribery, but the conspiracy was far too big to risk their own heads when the Elder Council launches their own investigation into the issue. When the patriarch of House Motierre, Roswell Motierre, was summoned to the court of Castle Daggerfall by King Guilliot, he was accompanied by his son, Fontaine, and his wife. Though the proceedings resulted in no one being tossed in a dungeon cell and their noble status remained (likely through what remaining influence they had), the fines were exorbitant and steep, and many of their titles and holdings were seized as punishment. Though there was not enough evidence available to hold them accountable for the murder of Imperial Captain Florentius Machella without Esther’s own correspondence, the heavy implication of their involvement was enough to damage their public perception. They couldn’t drag Esther down with them without damning themselves, either.

Aries and Esther Machella both demanded for them to seek out and interview Laurent Bellemont as a witness and confirm their involvement in Florentius’ death. Laurent was found dead in his home. Too little evidence was left behind in the wee hours of the morning to trace who had done the deed, and though there was no evidence that the Motierres did it, they seemed to conveniently benefit the most out of his death. There was one murder implication stacked upon another. The Motierres cried out for justice, accusing House Machella of foul play and conspiracy, but they had no ground to stand on and no evidence to prosecute them with. Then Fontaine Motierre came forward, hurt and betrayed. In his rage, he invoked his right to a duel in the defense of his and his family’s honor, and challenged his ex-fiancee: Aries. Under the eyes of the Divines themselves, it would be in the hands of fate who would be deemed innocent.

Gabriel and Stefan both jumped to offer themselves as her champion, but she turned them down. Though warned that the Motierres may have likely poisoned their blades, she insisted. She knew Fontaine well, so she knew that he did not have very many hours of practice with a blade. In addition, she also knew that his mind would be clouded by revenge while her’s was steel cold. After finally putting her years of swordsmanship practice to practical use, her duel was over in seconds. She publicly embarrassed Fontaine in front of King Guilliot himself and the Motierres were found guilty on counts of fraud.

Many of the trade agreements the Motierres had were revoked by their business partners to severe their association with the family. The king seized some of their holdings and their trading vessels. This left open many opportunities for not just the Machellas to take advantage of, but other houses too, inadvertently rebalancing the power of the noble houses in the kingdom. Claiming their property, the city-state itself would find itself prospering a little more. The invisible money income dried up, ending the siphoning of gold from the Empire, which over time, will be reimbursed what was stolen. Only a few days later, a newspaper spread around Daggerfall; Elder Counsel member Amaund Motierre was forced to denounce the actions of his own family and issued a public expression of gratitude to House Machella for their faithful loyalty to the Empire and their pursuit of justice.

It was an enormous victory for House Machella after a long twelve years, but now it was more important than ever to remain diligent. The Motierres were backstabbed and lost an immense amount because of Aries, so they were going to be gunning for them in the future. They gave a lot of money to Castle Daggerfall to buy their protection and between the money, the influence that her brothers have been spreading among the ranks, their status as Knights of the Dragon, and the years of support that House Machella has shown the guard, they were assuredly all but in their pockets.

They could afford such an expense because the trade and holdings the Motierres once had were up for grabs, and the money being returned to the Empire meant that they were able to afford fairer trade agreements and the rebuilt roads through Skyrim gave them better access to their resources. House Machella was seeing an economic surge.

Though protected, Aries’ mind seemed to fall back on the Motierres quite frequently as the months passed. They were without a doubt trying to plan something and they had to stay ahead of the curve. The reason the Motierres lost everything is because they became complacent. The Machellas had to work to keep them from trying to regain too much power. On that same note, the other houses were steadily gaining power too. What Aries would probably do, if she was in their situation, is to recover their reputation and try to use the surrounding houses to quickly elevate themselves by association. If she did that first, it would rob the Motierres of that opportunity, as well as giving her own house enough influence to be virtually untouchable… and she had two dashing older brothers to do it with.

It took as little as a couple weeks to organize a proper dinner with the Julliards and the Wickermans. She had already spoken to her brothers about the importance of being wed – their duties and responsibilities has already stolen away so much time from them, they deserved a bit of happiness, yes? From women of Houses deserving of them, of course, not from some common tart. She was forthcoming with her brothers that yes, her intentions are politically motivated, but her reasoning for them to be personally invested wasn’t flawed. She personally knew the daughters of the other houses, and she guaranteed that they would be happy. She wouldn’t dare give her brothers anything less.

So they had their dinner and her brothers met the families and talked to their daughters. Gabriel hit it off with Chey Julliard and Stefan with Matilda Wickerman. Aries talked to their fathers – she expressed her wish to support them and, in turn, be supported by them. Their daughters will lead happy and fulfilling lives with her brothers as their husbands. At first, they laughed at the idea of a sister arranging her own brothers’ marriages, as it was usually done by their parents, but there wasn’t any humor in the offer itself. Though the Machellas had been working hard for years to get where they were now, to the other houses, it looked as though they had cut down House Motierre in one fell swoop and suddenly became one of the richest houses in Daggerfall. Having the Machellas on their side would be highly beneficial. So, they agreed to her offer.

In as quick as a month, and in the span of a week, twice could wedding bells be heard from the chapel. Through marriage, Houses Julliard and Wickerman allied themselves with House Machella.

Aries was only the matriarch of her house for a year when, during her time in the court of Castle Daggerfall, an Imperial arrived with the accompaniment of an armored guard. The nature of their armor resembled the armor her father used to wear, but it was brighter and adorned with golden filigree and red paint. Horse hair was sticking out like a mohawk from the top of their helmet, and their discipline was absolute as they walked robotically alongside the man they were escorting. The Imperial introduced himself as a diplomat of the Empire, and pulling out a parchment, he read aloud an official invitation on behalf of the Elder Council to Aries Machella to become an ambassador of the Empire in recognition of her dutiful and steadfast service, political and diplomatic ability, and history of working for the betterment of the Empire.

She was allowed as much time as she desired to mull over her decision and the diplomat will remain in Daggerfall until she has given her answer. In truth, her decision was made right away. The few days she spent before accepting the offer was in preparation of her absence, discussing trading plans, plots, and other topics of intrigue. She talked with her mother about all these things to make sure that they would be well suited in her absence, and later renamed her the matriarch of House Machella in a public announcement during the same speech she made it known that she accepted the Empire’s offer to become an Imperial Ambassador. She took the ship to Cyrodiil where she would begin the next leg of her journey.

The seafaring journey was long and tiring, and Aries didn’t have her sea legs yet, but the sight of Anvil lighthouse on the Gold Coast of the Abecean Sea was a beacon that heralded promise beyond it. The rested in Anvil and took a carriage up the Gold Road, and from miles away, The White-Gold Tower came into view. She crossed the Talos Bridge, entered the Imperial City – she was met with a detachment of Imperial Watchmen who escorted her through the Talos Plaza District and directly to the Imperial Palace. She stood before the Elder Council, taking in each and one of their faces, looking for Amaund Motierre among them. They didn’t hesitate in getting to the point and beginning the process right away, at least by Breton standards. The process was expected to last a few hours for what was essentially just an interview and personal assessment, but if it was easy, then everybody would be an ambassador.

They began with introductions, and the High Chancellor personally discussed the history of observation of her actions and how they have benefited the Empire, hence the cause for this proceeding. Other Chief Councilors have given additional context, lacing their segments with humor as they mentioned that they may have extended the invitation sooner had Chief Councilor Motierre sooner agreed to have her here. He apparently had changed his vote to invite Aries not long after denouncing his own house. One of them mentioned that it was refreshing to see the objective good of the Empire being prioritized over politics.

Moving on, Aries anticipated that although the answers to their questions mattered, it mattered just as much as how she responded to them. They were critically reading her every movement and gesture. A passing comment was made on the impeccably clean streak she has had over her career, and when Aries so much as breathed, another councilor would pounce.

One thing Aries noticed during the proceeding is that they seemed to be focused on Chief Councilor Amaund as much as they were on her. Surely, he had some burning questions of his own, but he made no mention and asked no questions of her involvement with House Motierre. When he was finished with his segment, a Nord councilmember asked why he did not address the mammoth in the room, Amaund said dismissively that the matter of the Motierre house in Daggerfall has already been concluded.

By the end of the proceeding, Aries had answered every question tactfully and directly. She was sure not to dodge any of their questions in any way, knowing that they would catch it and call her out on it immediately. They asked what felt like a hundred questions about the history of the Empire and its current relationships with the neighboring sovereign powers. When it seemed clear that she had a clean record, had a working knowledge of the world, and was totally devoted to the betterment of the Empire, they held her ceremony where she recited an oath of loyalty.

The next couple of months was spent learning about the job from other diplomats and ambassadors inside the Imperial Palace and spending a disgusting amount of time on study and research of current events and the history of Imperial relationships with the other powers. It introduced her to an entirely different world by exposing her to information that wasn’t otherwise shared with the public. If she had enough free time in the week, she would spend a day to walk around the Imperial City with the escort of a city guard, hoping to familiarize herself with the beautiful city and its people, because she knew it wouldn’t be long before her real job would begin and take her away from it all.

The next two years of her career had her hard at work. In some ways, it was a transformative experience. It had been far too long since she was in a position of servitude. It took some time to transition from being at the top of the pecking order to serving the Elder Council, but she kept reminding herself of perspective. No matter who she was before, or who she thought she was before, she was less than she is now; an ambassador was far more important than the leader of a noble house. Aries was sent off from place to place, namely where there were still Imperial interests, such as Skyrim, to see how the reunification process was going.

However, the real focus over the course of her career is the relationship between the Empire and Hammerfell. The Great War and the White-Gold Concordant placed a massive wedge between the two powers, and the fact that Hammerfell defeated the Thalmor invaders had likely only reinforced their decision. Her efforts over the past two years have mostly been working towards attempting to negotiate an alliance with Hammerfell – not as a province of the Empire, but as its own sovereign power, with hopes that it would one day lead to Hammerfell once again becoming an Imperial province (of course, though, she left that part out.)

In some ways, she had made great strides. She broke the ice with the locals through displays of humility and a willingness to understand their culture and history on a personal level. She wasn’t too enraptured in the hubris seen in past diplomats -- as a woman who’s political experience was outside of Empire, she had that advantage, and was better at hiding her shortcomings. She made headway through trade deals and a willingness to support parts of Hammerfell that weren’t exactly lucrative, but in hopes that a divide and conquer strategy would help raise support for the Empire among the majority of people if not the rulers themselves. She wore their clothing, ate their food, and followed their customs, showing that merely the respect for their traditions goes a long way to developing a meaningful relationship between people.

However, all of it seemed to have come crashing down with the arrival of the dwemer. She couldn’t believe her eyes as massive ships sailed through the sky and occupied the once noble and proud Redguard of the Alik’r under the threat of massacre, still too weak from the aftermath of the Great War. The initial invasion force was sudden and ruthless, characterized by a display of power, superior resources, and callous tactics. They cut down the defense force of Sentinel with little difficulty, and like the palace, the Imperial embassy also found itself besieged. It’s soldiers and Aries’ own guards were being overwhelmed, and their resistance would’ve been meaningless if Aries stood idly behind them and allowed her forced to be routed.

A controlled arc of lightning bounced between the dwemer’s armored foot soldiers, that electricity contracting their muscles long enough for Aries to summon an ethereal sword through her conjuration magic and personally leading her men in the charge against the squad of dwemer. With her men at her back, Aries showcased her years of swordplay practice. Her footwork was measured and meticulous, her precision with the blade was unprecedented given her status as an ambassador. To the redguards who had witnessed the scene as her and her bodyguards cut a bloody swathe towards the palace, who valued strength and swordsmanship so highly in their society, her prowess, though not on an expert level, was a demonstration worthy of respect.

Unfortunately, their plan to hole themselves in the palace proved fruitless when they discovered multiple centurions upon their arrival. With few other options left, Aries decided to retreat from Sentinal. With the help of her bodyguards, they found some camels and began riding south with the dwemer following close behind. One by one, they picked her guards off from afar with their rifles until she was accompanied by only one. By that point, they were too far into the desert for the dwemer to follow.

They had since traveled from village to village, spreading the word of danger. It would seem that not long after their arrival, the dwemer would soon follow. When they could finally reach the next major city, they found it already occupied by the dwemer. After spending some time undercover in the new city, Aries was able to ascertain some of the current events over west. The Empire had fallen and the White-Gold Tower was under Dwemer control. News of the Dominion moving in to take advantage of the chaos had also spread. Now stranded in enemy-occupied Hammerfell, without her vast wealth and influence, Aries vowed vengeance against the Dwemer. She now operates out of the shadows, covertly attempting to sabotage the dwemer and the Dominion, and trying find a way to defeat them and recover the Empire. She hopes to stoke the flames of rebellion in Hammerfell and rekindle their faith in the Empire through joining forces against their mutual enemies. Under the guise of a merchant woman, she made her way southbound to meet her contact in Gilane.

Personality

In some ways, Aries reflects her heritage. The ferocity and regality she exudes matches the intensity of the dragons on Imperial and Daggerfall banners, giving the impression that when push came to shove, she might actually stare down a real, live dragon -- unflinchingly; and the aforementioned "intensity" might actually be the best word to describe her. Aries is intense. She has a powerful and assertive personality that commands space and screams a demand for respect, and it's present in the way she talks, walks, and carries herself. She knows what she wants. When it's nothing but her and an obstacle or pest obstructing her way, you can see her in her rawest state: not mincing her words, speaking the truth as she sees it, and the cold calculation of her eyes creating steam with the heat of her passion. By all means, a lot of her motivations are driven by her emotions, but they're logically processed and acted upon. Her emotions are tempered by an almost sociopathic measure of emotionally-dissociated calculation. When you cut deep down into the core of who Aries is, she is a woman with an ax to grind, and if you get in her way, she has no problem using your bones to do it.

But she is so much more complicated than her drive and passion. Odds are that you will never see her fired up. Like many people, she wears a mask, but hers is so much more decorated than the average person. Smoke and mirrors are her weapons of choice. She doesn't mince words when you've lathered her temper, but the rest of the time? It's like everything she says has two meanings, both clearly communicated with her precision of vocabulary. She is deliberate and carefully weighs her words every time she speaks, taking communication to an art form as she conveys her intended meaning every time. She can expertly weave her words together to persuade, bargain, seduce, and even intimidate. She knows the political game inside and out, so if she knows that you have a secret you want hidden, you can guarantee that she'll eventually find a way to lure it out of you if she cares enough to -- which leads into her ability to read people. As someone who has made a career out of talking and listening, she can has a sharp insight for deception and diversions, which is reflective of a keen mind and laser-like focus. If you tell a lie, it must be flawless. One stray thread in your story, and Aries will tug at that thread until the entire fabric unravels. Exposing someone bare brings a particular kind of joy to Aries, tearing someone down who might deserve it and simultaneously proving herself as someone to not take lightly by feeding her a load of bullshit.

She isn't infallible, though. Hard to deceive, yes, but she often defaults to not trusting anybody across the board. If her focus is currently on someone who might not deserve it, it creates an opening for her real enemies. She is also headstrong, preferring to have it her way even if there might be a better option, and although she's not a fool, she's also a gambler. She'd rather have a large victory than a small one. She is also arrogant, rarely ever viewing others below her station as deserving of the same respect. It would seem that it's because of her station that she believes she's wiser, smarter, or deserving of obedience to her authority. It sounds like your typical noble, right? But she isn't quite so outward with her disposition, showing at least some self-awareness. In her neutral state, she'll talk respectfully, but there might always be that feeling of alienation from her due to the power difference index. What's more, she is rather... desperate. Her high ambitions were suddenly whisked away with the collapse of an Empire, making instant enemies with the Dwemer. Mistaking her as fragile would be your undoing, but she's definitely desperate to regain what she's lost, so the clarity of her vision might be shaky at times -- especially during moments of high stress.

Intense, calculating, headstrong, and ambitious; the four cornerstones of her personality makes way for someone with the potential to become a great leader, provided that they learn an ounce of humility and sense of camaraderie. She is passionate, uncompromising, and loyal to the Empire. She rides a fine line between remaining faithful to the rule of law and the philosophy of "by any means necessary." Peeling past the layers of deception and social niceties is difficult, but even if you do and find that Aries seems to be in the political game only to seize power for herself, she ultimately wants what is best for the world. Her time serving the Empire has taught her a lot about the world, and now she genuinely believes that a Tamriel united under a single Empire would be to the benefit of everyone. She hopes to step into a rather large pair of boots in the absence of any Imperial leaders and defeat the Dwemer, so that she may rekindle the Empire. While there is no surefire way to her heart, the best way to earn any modicum of trust is by demonstrating loyalty and capability. If you show that you have no intention of undermining her and that you are competent, that's enough to earn a begrudging respect; and if your goals align, you might even find an ally in her. All that she asks is that you have faith in her vision.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

High Ideals, Low Means

^{by @Leidenschaft and @Spoopy Scary}

Night, 6th of Midyear 4E 208
Somewhere in Gilane, Hammerfell

Sevari kept walking past the creaking of the huge doors of the Governor’s Palace. They clunked shut and the sound of it locking with its newly-built Dwemer lock working it’s huge gears punctuated the otherwise noiseless walk across the courtyard he was making. Plenty of things were seeking to send his house of cards crashing down around him and his life’s work would all be for naught, twenty-some years wasted because of some Reachman and his woman. Because of an old love deciding to be on the same ship as his last and greatest personal foe’s son. And fucking him too. He needed a goddamn drink, or to get in a good fight. It was the right time for it, the sun falling below the high city walls and just dark enough for lamps and torches to send his shadow stretching across walls.

His contact would be waiting for him and he didn’t want to keep her, though. It was quite something, how the quest for revenge could bring two people into the fold of each other’s lives. It seemed every day he was making new acquaintances. Out of all of them so far, though, this one seemed the most competent and careful, cold and calculating. She was headstrong enough and cautious with it too. He almost could call her a friend. A mutual respect between them, and these days with how slim the selection was for Sevari, that pretty much constituted a friend.

He made his way through the city streets, dodging Dwemer patrols and Redguard watchmen too easily. He could always play it off that he was pursuing a lead for Major Kerztar in the name of the Ministry of Order, but it was best they didn’t even know he was there at all. Less loose ends, less homes and beds he’d have to sneak into with his garrote. Finally, he reached the slums and that tumbledown shack he and his special friend shared. It looked rundown from the outside like Sevari had wanted but as he stepped inside, he looked around at the more well-off and fanciful trappings he’d grown accustomed to.

“How long have you been here?” He said to the presence he could feel in the room. The firelight’s orange glow radiated warmth during the cold desert night, and it casted a wide shadow as hand gingerly set a quill pen onto the table in the corner.

“For as long as I cared to. Does it matter?” Replied simply a feminine voice. Following the quill was a goblet being set on the table. The woman continued, “Tell me, how well did your date go? Did you have fun?”

As she asked her question she stood to her full height. Doing so revealed a woman shorter than Sevari and adorned in modest clothing. She looked to be Breton, though had the sharp angular features of an Imperial. She looked to be little more than a merchant, draped in linen, cotton, and bits of silk. Though her skin was fair, it was still flushed red from the day’s heat, and her shoulder-length auburn hair had the kind of curls in it leftover from wearing it in a braid all day. Though the tone of her voice was pleasant, she did not smile, and was betrayed by the intensity of her eyes as they pierced across the room and into the Khajiit.

“I was just wondering,” Sevari frowned, voice brimming with exaggerated offense, looking the woman up and down before placing his hands in front of the fireplace, “I know this isn’t a palace with handmaidens ready to wipe your ass at a bell’s ring, but I hope you appreciate the new decor I spent half my wage on last week.”

Sevari got up, grabbing up a bottle of alcohol off the mantle above the fireplace. He knew it was alcohol, what kind didn’t often matter. He clamped down in the cork with his teeth and yanked it out with a pop. Spitting it across the room, he took his own seat across from the woman he knew so well the past few weeks. Under her intense eyes, he sat carelessly like at a tavern. She met his candor with a smirk as though Sevari was entertaining her, but it was faint. She picked up the goblet she set down a moment ago and held it out to him, tipped slightly forward -- a gesture for him to refill her cup.

“Your mission. How did it go?” She repeated.

“They managed to spot me and I had to kill them all.” Sevari frowned at her cup and gave her question a moment and her eyes a smug look before finally pouring a good portion into her cup, “Hotel staff and all.”

When no laugh came, he wasn’t expecting one anyway, he continued. “They were having a party. I managed to sketch out what some looked like,” he tossed a journal onto the table from his satchel, “The Altmer noble was there, the ex-Thalmor I didn’t get a look at. The Argonian was there too, you know, the one you trust wholeheartedly.”

“They’re quick to forgive. Interesting. Good for them, though…” She commented, then tasted from her cup. “I would still like more information on that one. Argonia is a sovereign state now, perish the thought that another power becomes involved. Do you have anything on the elves?”

“Nothing past what we already know. The Caliph’s old spies are looking for his Thalmor-loving sons in hopes of restoring Hammerfell’s sovereignty. Shame how short-sighted people with a loyalty to dynasties are.” He downed his glass and poured another, “The Emissary is still an issue but we can resolve that soon. No doubt the noble girl’s kidnapping will do well as bait for that Thalmor shit they have with them. He might not be flying their colors but it’s hard to forget friends and connections that might be here.”

“If worst comes to worst, a certain ambassador of a hostile power could prove to be even better bait.” She suggested innocuously, sipping her goblet as she side-eyed Sevari to gauge his reaction.

Sevari chewed on that, sipping at his glass for a moment before his eyes narrowed, “You want me to leak a little information of you?” Sevari shook his head, continuing incredulously, baffled, “Dangle you around like a worm on a hook?”

He nodded, a small crack of a smile on his lips, “I’m liking you more.”

“Don’t mistake me,” she began explaining, “I've no intention of letting myself be eaten, but a leader leads by example, yes? Someone eventually needs to assume the role. I might be the worm, but we're surrounded by two schools of sharks and I hope to turn them against each other.”

Although her words suggested that it was a burden to assume such a role, a slight smile appeared on her face, this time warmer, apparently pleased by his reaction and resumed her sip from the goblet before continuing.

“That's how we're going to win this: we're going to play the board right; maneuver our pieces, take advantage of everyone’s connections, and manipulate both sides into killing each other. It pays to play the long game, Sevari, step by step, not by running blind into the lion’s den on a personal whim.”

Sevari’s smile upended slightly, “We both know it wasn’t a personal whim. Entirely.” He spoke more softly, “It won’t happen again, I’ll make sure of it. Leaking the information of the Emissary to a more extremist cell in the insurgency would do well.”

He sniffed, throwing back another glassful, “Erincaro is our key to his father, a high-level officer of the Thalmor. Your revenge against the Dwemer was added to my orders of stewing unrest in Dwemer territory. We’re both in this room discussing our personal whims.” Sevari smiled again, though her bringing up the fiasco on the Indrik still stung.

“Our whims? Am I to understand you as suggesting that we no longer have to uphold our duties to the Empire?” She challenged.

“It was my understanding that my end of fulfilling my duties to the Empire were to entertain my personal whims. It’s what they’ve let me do for the past 20-odd years.” He shrugged, “What about Samara Cell? Keep feeding the Reachman or leave them to the wolves?”

“They have their uses.” She replied idley. “They’re wild cards, but as long as they’re the Dwemers’ enemies, they’re valuable -- to an extent. Keep doing what you’re doing with the Reachman, but if you can spare the time, keep some eyes on a few of them. The Argonian, the High Elf, the Imperial man; this situation is delicate and we don’t want to upset it.”

The woman paused for a moment in careful thought, before saying, “What was the name of their handler again? Not Poncy.”

“Daro’Vasora.” He said, “The Reachman and her are in relations. Keep getting close to the Reachman and we may have her.”

“Daro’Vasora…” She repeated, getting a feel for the name in her mouth. “I’ll keep it in mind. If it’s not too much to ask, there’s one more person I want to keep an eye on. Salosoix Hawkford.”

“Zaveed has been toying with him and his daughter. Raelynn is among Samara Cell.” He said, stretching in his chair, “That complicates things on that end. Treading where my brother goes might lead him to looking for you if he whiffs something. I don’t want to have to kill him.”

“That’s fine.” She replied casually. She set her goblet down on the table as she stared into fireplace. “I’m not asking you to protect the snake, but I know enough about Salosoix to know that he has his own agenda. I don’t know what he’s doing in Gilane at a time like this when he should be in Daggerfall, but he has the potential to complicate things. Believe me Sevari, I don’t wish to create a conflict of interest for you, but if your brother decides to come looking for me…”

The woman lined her free hand between with the painted portrait of an old Redguard king that was pinned to the wall above the fireplace. A sudden burst of magical fire sparked to life in her palm, and from her perspective, engulfed the man in flames. She looked back at Sevari, the fire reflecting in her eyes as she growled, “I invite him to try.”

Sevari pursed his lips, sighing and nodding before downing another drink, “He knows the risks.” Sevari sighed, “While we’re on the subject, I’m sure you heard about the grand parade today?”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, then clenched her hand, snuffing the fire in her hand. She looked as though she was just about to roll her eyes but had enough restraint to keep herself from doing so. “Yes, the people were causing quite a stir about it. I’d call it amusing if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

When she took a drink from her cup, she usually took light sips to savor it, but here she took a few heavy gulps before slamming the goblet down onto the table. She continued, her words now sharp and scathing, “The Samara cell is full of amateurs, so color me unsurprised, but at least they’ve chosen the right side. I’ve spent a few months here in Hammerfell, you know, before the Dwemer came. Before that, I’ve spent countless days educating myself on their history. The Redguard people never impressed onto me as being the type to enjoy being conquered.”

“They never were.” Sevari replied, letting a chuckle go, “Why do you think I’m here? Paving a path to a brighter future for the Redguard people, hearts and minds, pure altruism.”

“It will be wasted unless we take meaningful action soon.” She commented sharply. “Do you think the deep elves will think twice of your judgement if you hold the Dominion emissary under their jurisdiction?”

Sevari narrowed his eyes, frowning, and bringing his cup halfway to his lips, “You’re asking me to arrest a man that’s impossible to arrest. He’d have to…” Sevari slowly let the cup descend back down to the table while in his hands, “Do something heinous. Are you familiar with false-flag operations?”

“You deserve your station, Sevari. You decipher quickly.” She replied. “Yes, I’m familiar.”

Sevari snorted, rolling his eyes as he took a sip of his cup, “I thought you were above patronizing me. Hire thugs to go after another administrator of the Dwemer. Someone of Nblec’s station. Make it look like the noble girl and ex-Thalmor’s handiwork.” He shrugged, “I get to go after the ex-Thalmor in the group as a scapegoat and we get a mer who can give us names. I’ll have to construct some story to connect him to Erincaro’s father. Fangalto will have his son taken into custody and you know what they say about prisons. People die everyday.”

“If you can make it looked like they did it,” she said, “you can provoke the Dwemer. If you leak my name to the Thalmor one, he can attempt to get in contact with the emissary. After he does, we can take him out, then take the emissary and leave behind evidence of the Dwemer. Both sides believe they lost something important to each other. Agent, it sounds like we might have a plan.”

“Doesn’t it?” Sevari said. With a grunt, he pushed himself up from his chair and sighed, “I’d best get going. No sleep tonight, Kerztar will find it odd if I’m not on the job.”

He worked at the array of locks on the door and pushed past it, hanging at the threshold before he threw over his shoulder, “Keep the doors locked if you’re staying. Remember what I told you about the passageway under your bed.”

“Whyever would I indignify myself by taking the back door of my own abode?” She jested sardonically. She stood up from her seat with a sigh, her fingers idly tracing the embroidery stitched into the padded chair. Finally, she looked up at said with unexpected tenderness, “Akatosh bless you, Sevari. May He grant you His light.”

Sevari hung at the door, one foot past the threshold and a hand still on the knob. The sentiment froze him in place and maybe it was the drink, maybe it was everything that’s happened to him the past few days, but the woman’s words cut him. It was as if accepting it would be fraud of the highest order. Akin to stealing coins from a beggar’s purse. His head hung as he rolled his jaw, sighing. Finally, he let go a small, jagged smile, knowing all the things he’d done in his life was more likely to please Boethiah. “Thank you, Aries.” Without turning to her, he spoke low and bitter, “But I doubt he’d waste it.”

The door shut and he was gone.

A soft exhale escaped Aries' lips as her shoulders relaxed. She faced once again towards the warmth of the firelight, and slowly refilled her goblin until the bottle dripped empty. She breathed in its aroma before taking a small sip, then closed her eyes and smiled as she embraced the soothing heat of the flames. Holding her cup close to her chest, her eyes remained locked on the fire as she purred to herself, "The gears are in motion."

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Eyes of Mara

---

A Collab by @Spoopy Scary, @Stormflyx & @MacabreFox

Gilane, Infirmary - 1st Midyear evening

It was a familiar scene.

Lying on a red carpet like a river of blood. An armored man with an eye-patch and a billowing cloak seemingly connected to the bloody river on the floor. He understood now that the executioner looming over him was the source of the blood. With the phantom of Cezare and his claymore overhead, threatening to lop Calen’s head off, he heard it again -- three explosions of a Dwemer’s cannon. Except now with every blast, the cannons shattered his eardrums, images of the Gilane safehouse flashed before his eyes before returning to his execution by Cezare’s hand. Every time the cannons shattered his eardrums, he found himself looking at Latro at the mercy of a firing squad. He heard Latro’s voice again, “Good people detest violence. But good people doing nothing when it’s visited upon others is the only thing worse.” The third and final time the cannons fired, an explosion of pain filled his chest until everything went black.

A cold and sticky sensation smeared itself across his chest.

---

To see Calen lying there - he had colour in his cheeks again, a far cry from the deathly white he had been the night before. This alone indicated to her that he was doing better. Yet he was sound asleep, peaceful. She wondered what dreams may have been playing through his mind. As she approached, she reached into her bag - taking out a stalk of aloe which she placed on the bedside table beside him, for later use.

She took no time in peeling back the covers, to assess the wound now. The only reason she had been allowed in was because of her credentials as a healer. As far as she was aware, guests were not permitted yet. She could see the bruising on his chest, but the wounds were closed. There was pain there still. Restorative magic could only do so much. Just like in her nightmare, she could see at a glance that his rib was broken. That would be where most of his pain was. The poor lamb wouldn't like to laugh for a while yet. Not that there was much to laugh about. “I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you…” she said as she took the seat beside his bed, placing her hand on his. This was new to her - to comfort like this. But it felt right regardless.

Too much time had passed since Rhona had laid eyes on Calen, and it didn’t take long for her to catch word of what had happened to him. The worn leather soles of her boots slapped softly against the flooring, her pace a hurried one. She had been turned away from the infirmary twice, but not today. Rhona had been told that she should give him time to heal, but she had to see him. She just had to. When she reached the door, she pushed it open with one hand while the hinges creaked in protest. Rhona stepped inside, letting the door close softly behind her; her gaze sweeping over the room, looking for him. Her eyes landed on two familiar figures, her breath catching in her throat, there he was, seemingly asleep, with the blonde woman she had come to know as Raelynn by his side, with her hand atop his. She struggled to keep her emotions about her, the cold words Mortalmo spoke came filtering back in like a black fog. Her mind screamed at her, a bellow that urged her to turn tail and leave. But no, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She had waited impatiently since hearing of his injury to see him, and here she was first? No. She couldn’t think anything of it.

It doesn’t matter what Mortalmo said…, she thought, forcing her feet to move out from under her. Rhona closed the distance, where she came to stand at the foot of the bed, her eyes flickering between Raelynn and Calen. Her tongue felt like a heavy weight in her mouth, an iron that she had no strength to lift.

“I…”, she paused, her words failing her as a lengthy silence followed, “...how is he?” She asked. She didn’t know Raelynn well, and she doubted her intentions even moreso.

“He's alive,” Raelynn said to Rhona, it was all she could say. Her eyes met those of the girl and she could sense agitation within her. On a better day she would have retorted with a smirk and something bitter. She pulled the cover back over Calen’s wounds just so, and rose from her seat. “Truthfully we won't know until he wakes. He… It was not easy for him.”

She picked up the aloe from the table, applying pressure to the leaf until it's gel was forced out into the palm of her hand. She moved back over him, gingerly lifting the covers once more to apply the gel to his bruising, she was looking down at it, but could see Rhona in her peripheral vision -- watching her like a hawk. This also meant that she didn’t notice the faint twitching in Calen’s face.

It was only a moment or two after Raelynn applied the cold gel when the previously still Calen’s eyes flutter open before suddenly springing up in bed, crying out while gasping for air, “Lat--!”

But the name of his acquaintance couldn’t come out, as the sounds merged into moans of agony, and coughing fits as he clutched the wounded area on his chest. Beneath the coolness of the aloe gel, he could feel warmth beginning to spread out in his chest. He had forgotten what kind of condition he was in, and reopened something in the process. Still clutching at the pain, Calen fell back down onto the bed with his face twisting with pain. “Gah… d-damn!”

“Calen!” She moved from the foot of the bed to his side, a splash of crimson blotching the bandages, Rhona felt useless in this moment, she wasn’t equipped to handle something like this. She could only heal minor wounds and fractures, this was beyond her grasp. She grabbed his free hand, looking in earnest at Raelynn.

“Do something!” She begged.

“It’s alright Rhona, it’s normal dare I say it…” The mage sprung to action, peeling back the dressing to assess the tear.

“Rhona?” Calen repeated, turning his head to try looking at her through pained and squinted eyes.

“It’s the rib that hurts him.” She placed a hand above the wound and let her spell drift out - dropping into the opening like a heavy golden chain. He would feel as it entered and began to pull everything back together from the inside like a strange and ethereal pressure. “You should… You should hold his hand.” Her voice was a quiet mutter as she worked. She could heal the injured, but reassuring their loved ones was new. “Comfort is needed too, sit.” She indicated to the chair next to his bed with a free hand.

She did as beckoned without question, and took a seat in the chair, his hand in hers, “Everything will be alright. I promise.” Rhona managed to say over the hard lump forming in her throat. “Just squeeze my hand. I’m right here, I won’t leave you.”

“I, ah, I-I’m… is everyone okay?” Calen managed to sputter out. “Did… did everyone make it out?”

“Everyone made it, we made it Calen - as did you. Try to relax. You're putting tension in your chest right here…” two of her fingers pressed against the point of the broken rib, which he would feel like a stinging kiss until the warmth of her healing hand took over and placed relief there. “You gave us a scare and a half…”

“Oh, thank the Nine…” He sighed with relief. He finally allowed himself a moment to relax while under Raelynn’s care and limply rolled his head to the other side to look at Rhona. He found himself staring deep into her hazel eyes -- and for some odd reason, the olive-speckled brown colors of her irises had reminded him of the falafels he had been eating not so long ago; or at least thought so, he had no idea how much time had passed, but he was silently cursing himself at the absurdity because he knew that this meant Rhona was going to be reminding him of ground-up chickpeas with specks of parsley from now on. He wracked his brain for a suitable distraction from his thoughts.

“So how was your day?” He said with a strained voice, but it was clear that he was trying to pass it off as nonchalantly as he could muster. “Mine was great. First day on the job’s always a little rough, but everyone’s alive so it must’ve gone off without a hitch, right?”

“Hush, now. You’re talking too much.” She offered him a half-smile, her eyes starting to burn with tears. Rhona felt relief on seeing him being able to talk to her, to know that he was awake and conscious was all she had needed, a simple reassurance. Something to soothe the worry in her heart that he was alive and well. Anything. She lifted his hand to her lips, kissing it once before she lowered it, her thumb rubbing the top of his hand in an affectionate manner.

All Raelynn could do was watch them, she noticed the way Calen looked at Rhona. She was rather beautiful, who could blame him? But there was more there too. A connection forged from something else. She looked away and returned to his chest - stopping the flow of light before the wound had closed, it wasn't bleeding and she wanted to inspect it and clean it. She wondered if either of them now noticed her presence, or if they were too engrossed in each other.

Rhona shifted her gaze to Raelynn, she hadn’t forgotten the blonde in the least, she didn’t want to distract her from her work. She nodded at her, “Is… is that all?”

“For now… I just want to check the wound and make sure it is clean,” she spoke in response - her voice duller than before as she concentrated more on Calen than on Rhona’s questions. “I think to force it would leave scarring at this point, slow and steady can be far more precise when time allows for it.”

She took a cloth from the dresser beside the bed, and began to wipe away the blood from his chest. “Could you perhaps fetch some fresh water?” she asked in a stern tone - not realising it may come across as a biting remark instead of just a matter of her being lost in the work she was doing.

Rhona blinked slowly at her words, her mouth forming a small “o” shape before she drew her hand away from Calen’s, she glanced down at him and offered him a sympathetic smile, “I won’t be long.” She left the room without further delay, she had no intention of straying far from his side. Not at a time like this. As she left, Calen’s eyes followed after her. He thought the world of her, don’t get him wrong, but his eyes trailed down her back and focused on the sway of her rear with each step Rhona took until she disappeared from view.

“I guess I should soak in all the attention while I have it, huh?” Calen remarked sardonically to Raelynn, not taking his eyes off of the doorway. “Just leave it to me to be the one to get hurt.”

“It could have been any of us. It's the risk we took…” She washed away the last of the blood and looked closely at the still open wound. She felt… strange to be in the middle of them both, stranger to be around Calen - Gregor’s words came back to her, that he was the best of them all. She turned away, pretending to grab at some more supplies while she caught her breath.

She switched her tone from warmth to one more ice cold as she continued; “just try not to jump in front of actual bullets in future, it's not exactly the smart thing to do. You're incredibly lucky to have made it.” What she had wanted to say was much different. That already, without Calen in the group, they would all suffer. Satisfied with the condition of his injury, she placed her hand back over it - the magicka pouring in once more to finish closing it completely.

“I would be lying if I told you I’ll keep that in mind.” Calen admitted. “Truth be told, sometimes my body just moves on its own.”

A moan of relief escaped his lips as the restoration magic seeped into his body and stitched his wound together. Some of the pain subsided along with it, but his chest was still throbbing. He took a deep sigh and bemoaned, “I’m really not cut out for this, am I? I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Anvil was under attack, one thing led to another, and now I’m in a hospital bed after trying to play soldier.”

“You're asking me that question?” He wouldn't see it, but with her back to him again she rolled her eyes. Of course he would say such things - be this way, a soft soul would. There was not an ounce of arrogance in him. “I don't really know what you want me to say…” a lengthy sigh followed, and she tucked her hair back behind her ears and sat down in a chair next to the bed. Her hands resting in her lap now that they were done with their work. “Do any of us know what we are doing right now? I think we're all going through the motions - doing what it takes to survive.”

Just to look at him there, she felt a wave of emotion swell inside but she didn't show it outwardly, not knowing why she had such a trepidation about it. He wouldn't judge her for opening up, would he? “I think you're probably doing just fine. Save for almost dying, of course.”

“Did we at least win?” Calen asked, finally looking back at Raelynn. “I mean, the reason we were there… did we, I don’t know… was the mission successful?”

She exhaled sharply and her nostrils flared. “Define successful. The Dwemer died, you almost died, and we barely got back here. In short, I would say we're in the shit now.” That was putting it mildly, she saw no point in embellishing it with anything else. Those were the facts, she did feel guilty for tossing the information at him like that; “sorry, I just… It is what it is, we didn't fail but we hardly came out of the endeavor victorious.” She wondered if she should place a comforting hand on him, but she didn't, knowing that Rhona would be back soon. Calen had fallen quiet after the news.

After a few somber moments of silence, the bard finally said, “I should apologize -- to everyone. Especially to Latro.” Calen cupped one hand over his eyes and groaned. “I dragged everybody down and I could barely do anything to help. Gods, I...Talos damn me, what kind of Nord am I that I can’t do anything to protect anyone?”

If he was searching for pity from her, he wasn’t going to get it. “You could have benefited from that thinking before your body just moved…” she snorted a slight laugh out and sighed once again. Was it funny though? Was it fair of her to laugh? He had been selfless after all. She was being too harsh on him, especially as she did enjoy his company. Couldn’t she just drop her guard and offer him something more than a spiteful remark? But to her surprise, she found Calen chuckling with her.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

“I usually am,” she found herself saying without really taking time to register straight away which caused her to laugh again, more naturally this time. Finally she turned her head and made eye contact with him, offering him a heartfelt smile. “I'm sorry Calen. I'm sorry that I couldn't keep my promise.”

“To be honest,” he said again, “I, uh, don't actually remember what that was.”

“I promised I would keep Nblec safe.” It was said under her breath, her eyes moved away from his and she bit down on her fingernails, waiting for his response.

“Oh…”

There were yet another few moments of silence, tangibly stiff, awkward, and uncomfortable, and Calen shifted around in his bed as he tried to think of something to help defuse the tension. He kept getting distracted by thoughts of the argonian, Jaraleet, and his eagerness to jump straight to torturing Nblec. Then how he had apparently gotten so carried away with it that the dwemer died. He tried to push those accusatory thoughts aside and finally piped in with, “Well, hey, let’s just keeping blaming me for all of it. You had to help me, right? There was nothing you could do about it.”

The bard grunted as he pushed himself up and back enough to at least rest his head and part of his back against the wall. With a few sharp breaths to get into position, he found a place to relax. He looked at Raelynn with a weary smile and pointed a finger at her as he said, “You know what, let’s not stop with getting shot either. Why did the Dominion attack Anvil in the first place? ‘Oh, you know, was probably Calen again - damn boy couldn’t keep it in his pants.’ Dwemer invasion? ‘Calen must’ve offended them.’ The dragon crisis? ‘Probably Calen.’ The Warp in the West, the imperialism of Northpoint and Evermoor, or the Invasion of Wayrest? ‘Calen.’”

She placed her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh from the back of her throat. “Do stop it, I'm supposed to be making you smile, not the other way around… And I'm afraid as much as I'd like to, I can't blame any of High Rock’s history on you. It sounds like you might have travelled through there though, I dare say it's a place a damn sight better than Hammerfell right now…” Raelynn sighed longingly for home, strange, she never missed it before now. Something about her circumstances being so wildly out of her control…

“I'm not going to blame you for any of it… We should have listened to you…”

The door to the infirmary swung open, and instead of Rhona standing in the doorway with a pitcher in hand, it was the towering figure of Brynja White-Hand. Her eyes landed on Calen and Raelynn, her mouth set in a disapproving frown. Her long legs closed the distance between them in a matter of steps just as Rhona trailed in behind her.

“Raelynn.” Brynja nodded to her, seemingly none too happy, “Calen.” Her eyes swept over him, her brows knitted together, the frown creasing deeper before she shook her head.

“I spotted Brynja in the hallway, and I asked her to take a second look.” Rhona came around to his bedside where had been sitting previously, and poured him a tankard full of water, passing it to him to take.

“I’d be a lot happier if this whole damned group could keep from dying. How reckless do you have to be?” Brynja chastised, turning to face Raelynn where she gestured with a hand for her to move. “Let me take a look, I don’t have time to waste and lollygag with the lot of you.”

Through gritted teeth Raelynn stood back, practically shoved out of the way by Brynja as she barged into the room. “He's alright Brynja, he needs rest and hydration.” Her hands landed on her hips as she moved around to the other side of the bed to face her. “Your mood will upskuttle the poor boy!”

“Man.” Calen inserted.

“Mm,” she replied, not having the slightest care about what Raelynn had to say, “Rest and hydration won’t do him any good if the wound isn’t healed properly. Just because you healed him with magick, doesn’t mean an infection can’t set in.” Without any time for Calen to protest, she laid her hands upon him, poking and prodding around the wound, with perhaps a hand far too firm, trying to feel anything out of place. Her hands traveled outwards from the wound, her brows furrowed together in concentration.

She watched Brynja work on Calen, she doesn't trust me… she thought, taking a further step back. Realising she was cornered in this situation - by Brynja and by Rhona. She felt almost as if the two had conspired against her. She cast a glance to Calen, she would stay and bite back for him, but thought better of it.

“You're right,” she said with a sickly sweet smile. “I'm tired anyway, it's late - I think I'll go to bed. I'm glad Calen is at least in good hands now.” She didn't dare stick around for a response, and turned violently on her heel - her hair flipping as she did, nose in the air. Before she left the room, she hovered in the doorway briefly, “Feel better soon Calen, we all want to hear your songs again!” and with that, she left.

“Uh, yeah… toodles!” Calen called after her. After Raelynn disappeared past the doorway, his bewildered eyes slowly trailed back to Brynja as she continued to poke and prod him. He said, “You know that she’s a bona fide medic, right?”

Brynja’s eyes shot up in a glower, and drew her hands away, what the hell did he just say to her? Rhona could see the fire in her eyes, and tried to cut in, “I’m sorry, I wanted to make-”

“And you know that I served in the Civil War as a healer, right? You ever see a man screaming for Stendarr’s mercy as I sawed through his foot to save his leg? Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot, bard.”

“No, I only got shot by a miniature cannon.” Calen said with a shrug and a sardonic smile on his face. “But that’s not my point. You’re both healers and that alone is enough for me to respect you, but why not, oh I don’t know, treat the other people in the profession with more respect?”

“Treat them with respect? If she didn’t walk out like she had a stick up her ass, she would’ve heard my compliment on her handiwork. She did an exemplary job, this wound is going to heal up just fine, and you’ll live.” Brynja said, her eyes shifting to Rhona, “I told you that you didn’t need to fuss over him. He was in good hands to begin with, like I said.” She made her way to the door, without so much as another word, before glancing back over her shoulder, “If you need me, don’t.” Rhona watched as the Nord departed, leaving Calen and her alone. She wrung her hands in a terse fashion. Now she felt bad, she only meant well…

“...I’m sorry…”

“Oh, you’re fine. Everything’s good!” He said nonchalantly. “It is what it is.”

“I… wanted to be certain. I should have trusted in Raelynn. But… you’ll be alright, and that’s all I care about.” Rhona said, taking Calen’s hand in her’s and giving it a gentle squeeze. Her eyes lingering upon him before she leaned in and planted a kiss on his cheek. Calen sighed at her touch, as if it had released all tension in his body. He rolled his head back and closed his eyes as he muttered to himself, “Well… you can’t please everyone.”

---

As Brynja stepped out into the hallway, where she spotted Raelynn not too far, “I don’t know why you have a stick up your ass, Raelynn. You did a damned good job patching him up.”

Calen’s words of defense caught her off guard, he really was just all good and all light. She wasn't used to someone so fervently being in her corner. She certainly didn't deserve it. She placed a hand on her heart, an earnest expression of happiness shone over her eyes. Yet, she couldn't resist a harmless jab either, “You know Brynja, I wouldn't have to wedge a stick up my behind if you didn't swoop in as if thunderbolts were erupting from yours. I'm afraid it might catch,” she remarked in swift response, without making eye contact to the Nord.

“I just want a damned drink and to be left the fuck alone.” She said with a shake of her head, a small, but tired smile stretched across her face. “I meant what I said. You did one helluva job patching him up like that. Damn flawless. That’s a skill I don’t see often in healers these days.”

Calen had softened her this evening, and because of that Raelynn bit her tongue, resisted hitting back with sarcasm, and instead gave Brynja a nod of acknowledgement, “I did my job, that’s all. But thank you, anyway,” before continuing on her way, hiding a smile from the particularly parched medic.

The Elder Scrolls: Chapter's Dues

Marlene "Mary" Antony

Marlene “Mary” Antony, Witchbane

| Female Breton | 25 | The Tower |

---

Appearance:

The Bretons of High Rock are often a fair folk, and Mary is no exception. There might be some Nord somewhere in that blood of hers like most of those in Jehanna, since her fair skin, blue eyes, dirty blonde hair, and sharp features seem all too Nordic in appearance, but they are softened by the serene countenance ever present in her face. Like many Bretons, she is short in stature at 5’6”, but she is fit and athletic like many warriors tend to be. She weighs in around 135-140 lbs.; she isn’t rippling with muscle like some warriors tend to be, has a humble chest, and her toning is quite poor, but it takes a bit of muscle to carry weapons and armor over the course of many miles.

Her hair is fair and wispy and usually floats around her shoulder, and one side of her head is usually lightly plaited into small braids. It frames her square jaw, a somewhat distinct feature in the midst of more conventionally feminine traits such as smooth skin, high cheekbones, and a thin and upturned nose above her pink lips. The lack of obvious scarring on her person denotes a successful career, and the most obvious ones are the knicks, cuts, and calluses on her hands from years of practice and wrestling with nasty beasts, and a few slashes on her upper arms, which are usually covered by clothes and her gambeson anyways.

As far as her garments are concerned, her arms and armor will be covered separately -- in her downtime, she dresses down as humble as she seems in what is usually a linen blouse or men’s shirt and, surprising to most of those who meet her, a thin ankle length skirt. These garments are typical white, off white, or cream in color; very simple and very modest, and as a jarring addition to this dainty outfit are her leather riding boots without their armor affixed to them.. However, under the skirt she often wears well-fitted equestrian's pants that are formed to her figure. Around her neck is not a true amulet of her gods of choice, but a hemp string with three dainty little charms: a four-pointed star for Mara, a horn for Stendarr, and a triangle for Julianos.

History:

The Rise of Mary Antony

Mary began her life under the stars of the Tower and in the Kingdom of Jehanna, located in northern High Rock. A society of both Bretons and Nords surrounded by Wrothgarian Mountains on one side, the Reach on another, the Sea of Ghosts on its north side, and Skyrim only spitting distance away, it has come to develop a strong warrior culture. What it lacked, however, was a center of faith. Most High Rock kingdoms, city states, and principalities had a temple of some kind. The Benevolence of Mara and School of Julianos, for instance, had presence in the rest of High Rock, but Jehanna was barren of a spiritual center for some time between years of defending themselves from vagabonds and conquerors alike and most who practiced only did so the privacy of their own homes. To establish a center of faith and spiritual and moral fulfillment is what the House of Trifection hoped to accomplish.

The Trifection was result of a joint effort between priests and priestess of Mara, Stendarr, and Julianos. It was intended as a model of moral perfection: love, mercy, and wisdom. Scholars of Julianos were seen as overreaching by outsiders at first, since they weren’t supposed to preach any moral philosophy, but they pushed back by maintaining that fighting against the sin of ignorance and complacency has always been their objective. Idle hands were the daedra’s work, after all. Together, they believed that through love, mercy, and wisdom, life's most challenging obstacles could be overcome. It was this doctrine and model of moral perfection that appealed to the natives, and the newly named Order of Trifection was allowed to come together and build the House of Trifection, a temple where people could be wed, counseled, seek forgiveness, and learn. Indeed, it was as much a place of learning as it was a place of worship, but one side effect was that their learning curriculum was heavily tied into their religion. As this temple gained in popularity and became a focal point around which to gather, it's influence grew.

As it grew, so did the influence of the more militant of Stendarr’s followers, who believed that justice should be preached as much as mercy. As this movement among that sect of the temple grew, the rest of the House conceded, and appealed to the king of Jehanna. The kingdom would then agree to outsource local cases to the House of Trifection, whereas more complex and political cases will be managed within the court. The House then became a place of worship, a school, and a courthouse all in one, and each of the three governing clergies came to represent a principle of reasoning; Mara’s clergy embodied emotional appeal, Stendarr’s embodied ethical appeal, and Julianos’ embodied logical appeal. As often happens with centers of law and justice, the House began to train their own holy warriors and merciful defenders of justice. This is where Mary finally fits into the picture years later

She came from a small family - a mom and pops with not much to their name other than a few sheep for shearing and a small plot of land for vegetables such as potatoes, carrots, and cabbages. However, the Trifection offered its services for free since they were fueled mostly by donations, avoiding tax, and government grants. Although she inherited her parents’ kind hearts, they were poor and low in the caste system, conditioning them into being intimidated by authority and power. This meant they lacked the assertiveness to raise their daughter with concerted cultivation, but still wanted to provide her with as many opportunities as possible; one of them was to send her to the House of Trifection for schooling when she was 10 years old. Stendarr’s mercy also kept the Julianos sect from being too picky with their applicants.

As a result, Mary’s life was positively enriched. The day before she was just a farm girl, but now? They've expanded her mind beyond her horizons. They helped her to think outside of the little box she was trapped in, introduced her to a world that was once leagues above her place in society and full of magic. Though it only provided the fundamentals of magic, and the House’s schooling program was mostly aimed towards a generally educated public, the fundamentals of magic that they did teach happened to set the groundwork for Mysticism. Perhaps even more profound than that, however, were the Divines. Sure, she has heard of them before. She got the general idea of what they were all about -- but they covered Stendarr, Mara, and Julianos in such intimate detail that Mary found herself virtually in love with the gods and was thoroughly convinced of the Trifection’s message: it was the model of moral perfection. “Forgive those thou cannot love, understand those thou cannot forgive, and love those thou cannot understand.”

Mary spent most of her time at the House the next couple of years, learning and worshipping, helping the temple from cleaning to performing errands, as well as helping those who were new or unfamiliar with the temple. She was, for all intents and purposes, one of their acolytes in all but title. The House created a sense of unity in a society that was once so combative, and Mary was sure that they were the best thing that ever happened to Jehanna. When the time came for the House to call forth the young and faithful to volunteer to do work for the Divines, the ever faithful Mary, at 12 years old, jumped and pulled at the bit for the chance. She was one of the few that they accepted with open arms. However, before she could do the work that they would have her do, she had to go through a few years of training. It was to make her an irrepressible force for good; the type that would go out into the world to save lives, seek justice, and dispel evil.

However, justice without love or understanding wasn't truly justice. How can one pass judgement upon the wicked if one was innocent? What could they possibly know about justice? In order to understand wickedness, you had to cast purity aside. The back rooms for these initiations would remain hidden for years to come, and even now Mary is still fuzzy on the details, but she remembered being told that it was alright to have been a dirty sinner. Stendarr forgives all who repents. This was also meant to be hidden. She was to be trained for the role of a House Templar and part of the role was to embody their model of moral perfection, and the reveal of her initiation would strip her of that honor. To study Julianos was to understand this contradiction and embrace the Theory of Mind. Through this process, the immoralities committed by the House itself was used and lorded over Mary like a show of power. It wasn't said at the time, and Mary didn't understand it -- she was effectively brainwashed into believing that the House was innocent and that she was doing the right thing -- but they used the evidence that could be used to incriminate them as a way to keep their initiates in line by making them believe they held power over them. They believed that their secrets were in the safe hands of the House of Trifection when it was in fact the opposite.

That would’ve been the end of that, though, for the next few years would be devoted to their training. The initiates either forced themselves to forget or forgot in light of what lies ahead. Mary and the other initiates would spend hours upon hours in training session with Stendarr Crusaders from other Temples in the region, and their sole purpose in Jehanna was to train the House’s first generation of templars. Their days were filled with practicing swordplay with wooden practice weapons, learning proper footwork, and donning armor. Their ability to defend themselves had to be up to par if they were going to be defending anybody else. Then their nights were filled with more in-depth study; of magic, restoration, and yes, the gods.

Their magical studies was built upon the fundamentals they’ve learned, but it was less about the actual use of magic, but the understanding of magic. There were many monsters out there in the world, and the worst of them were capable of bewitching and cursing innocent people, so the goal was to being able to identify their condition, recognizing the magic, and to know how to dispel it as well as protecting themselves against such magic. The study of controlling the ebb and flow of magic itself was known as Mysticism, a school that’s long been cast aside by most of Tamriel. The School of Julianos saw the abandonment of such knowledge as sacrilegious, and chose instead to preserve its history.

Similarly, learning Restoration magic from the Maran priests and priestess was essential for saving lives. One would be hard pressed to call themselves a templar if they couldn’t heal wounds, whether it was their own or someone else’s, and the light magic it used to destroy the undead would be similarly instrumental. Due to the nature of the school, it was often taken and related to the Divines, so the lessons were often two in one. As a templar, your faith must be unshakable, so they regularly tested their faith in the Divines and their belief in the Trifection’s model. Mary’s harsh and rigid training routine with her fellow initiates -- now seen as brothers and sisters -- would continue for eight years, even after Mary reached adulthood. Each templar’s training was mostly the same, but each one had their own skills and talents, so each one’s training was slightly tailored to their style.

Mary found her strength in a balance between offense and defense. With a shield in hand and donned in lightweight chainmail, she’d wait for her opponent to strike first before deftly closing the distance with her shield and sword. She wasn’t the best of the initiates; Carlisle’s strength and skill with the greatsword was far too great for her to defend against, and her reputation among them in hand-to-hand intimidated her from getting too close, and Fontaine was clever enough that he was able to take what limited knowledge they taught them of Mysticism and figure the rest out on his own. Jorgr was a fantastic healer who took to Restoration like a flea would take to a skeever -- but Mary’s generalism allowed her to outwit all of them outside of their preferred grounds, and nobody would ever think of questioning her loyalty to the gods or to the House. As a twenty year old Mary took her Oath of Devotion, she recited every word passionately and etched them into her heart.

The templars were armed with enchanted silver daggers, and the next four years of her life was spent doing work for the temple. She was a protector of the house, an enforcer of law, and a defender of the innocent. She performed her duties diligently, tackling down thieves in the streets with non-lethal force, settling drunken arguments in the tavern diplomatically -- she loved the people of her hometown and had no desire to harm them. The templars effectively became the public face for the House the more they were seen throughout the city. Their benevolence reflected back on the House, which in turned heightened their reputation. Then the House collected reports of disturbances aimed their templars toward the countryside of High Rock, hoping to put their years of training to the test. Mary was sent southwest toward the Duchy of Gastemarch where the report of an older gentleman had gone missing from his cottage for a few days. After some time spent on tracking, she found herself in the middle of a fen and face to face with a hideous hagraven. Her shield protected her from its claws, and her light armor kept her light enough on her feet to avoid the creature’s devastating spellcraft. After an intense fight with the witch, crippling but failing to kill the creature with her sword, she finished it off by slitting its throat with her silver dagger.

The old man was found as a captive in the hagraven’s cottage, who was paralyzed by some magical concoction that was forcibly fed to him which Mary was able to dispel with her magic. After some time, she nursed him mostly back to health with Restoration and carried him back home on her back before returning home to Jehanna. The other templars were apparently just as successful in their missions. Carlisle in particular seemed rather popular, for word of her work in the Reach had gotten around -- her driving away of Forsworn raiders had dubbed her the name of Carlisle the Adherent. She didn’t like it. Apparently people thought that dubbing her the opposite of their sworn enemy meant something. Much to Mary’s own embarrassment, her friend apparently thought of her, since that title sounded like one that Mary deserved more than she did. As word of Mary’s deed got around town, people started wanting to call her Witchbane; ironically enough, they both joked that perhaps they should’ve traded jobs.

It was for the best, though. Mary found it hard to stomach the idea of killing other people.

The deeds of the templars reflected back on the House of Trifection, and soon enough, the officials of Jehanna began calling upon the House to continue performing these deeds throughout the kingdom. During the next four years, the templars had found themselves being little more than contracted heroes. Mary didn’t mind it so much, though. She enjoyed the hero work, almost feeling like a real knight. For the next four years, she scoured northern High Rock, the Reach, and Wrothgarian mountains, helping all she came across and slaying all manner of foul monsters and beasts. Whether it was undead, vampires, trolls, werewolves, or even Forsworn and bandit raiders (as much as she detested it), she was up to the task -- but she became especially proficient in taking down hagravens. Though as dangerous as they were, her first experience taught her a lot about how to deal with them, as did each subsequent time she had to face one.

In fact, it was after one of those hunts for a hagraven far south of Jehanna did Mary stop to rest at Evermoor in the Kingdom of Ephesus -- they did not stop her, since the four years worth of braided favors hanging from her belt esteemed her as a local do-gooder. With a drink in hand the latest news in the paper, she learned of the fate that befell the House of Trifection back home:

“Jehanna Temple, the House of Trifection, was shut down by the order of King Darion following multiple allegations of sex related scandals with children. All leaders and officials are to be investigated and those found guilty will be tried and punished by means of--”

Mary couldn’t bring herself to read anymore. She had spent more than a decade fervently believing in the model of moral perfection that the house had preached to her. For more than a decade she had repressed the memories of her initiation to the point where she can barely even recall them now, but now she just felt an overwhelming sense of shame and disbelief. She couldn’t believe that the temple she devoted so much of her life to grew to be a corrupted sham. She was associated with them, and as much it pained her to think it, she didn’t want to be. Her world was suddenly turned upside down and she didn’t want to think about it anymore, so she turned her back on High Rock. She never returned home to Jehanna after that day, and crossed the treacherous Druadach Mountains separating the Breton homelands from Skyrim.

For the next year, she chose to preoccupy herself with doing what she’s been doing: helping people, being a hero; that part never changed. She still had an oath she had to uphold, even if only part of it was still relevant. For the next year, she took on jobs like a common mercenary might, but only those that she felt was morally just. With it having only been a short while after the country resolved its civil war and dragon crisis, there was plenty of work to be done in Skyrim. Eventually however, her travels brought her south into Cyrodiil and as she closed to distance towards Chorral, she happened across a flier nailed to one of the country’s many road signs:

“To all whom it may concern…”

Personality:

First impressions? Serene, calm, satisfied, humble, and at peace. There’s a certain air about her that radiates a sense of goodness and benevolence that makes people feel naturally inclined to trust her. A pious woman, certainly, and she makes no attempt at hiding it and her regular mention of the Divines and the breadth of their influence of the world, which may be one of the few things that could be a seen as a fault by her worst critics. The belief that the gods will provide instills a sort of complacency in any man, woman, or mer, and this still holds true for Mary. Even so, she sees herself as a sort of tool or servant of the Divines. She acts in what she believes to be their will, so she isn’t the type to stand idly by in the face suffering or injustice. She takes initiative in almost all aspects of her life and shows herself to be very disciplined in her faith and daily routines. People often mistake her for being a knight, which she does not hesitate in correcting.

Mary is difficult to anger and usually meets aggression with diplomacy and deliberation. She possesses a strong sense of justice and attempts to balance it with love and wisdom. She’s ever the optimist, perhaps even to the point of naivety, and she’s okay with that. Mary acknowledges that she’s still young and embraces it, even if she’s seasoned and was forced to grow up a bit sooner than others, choosing to not lord her experience over her friends and colleagues. It’s kind of difficult to stay mad at her -- she’s such a kind and free spirit without an ill bone in her body, aspiring to be the best possible version of herself at all times and seeking happiness through the betterment of others. You’d be forgiven for thinking that she’s being a martyr -- because you’re quite possibly right.

The former templar once felt a significant sense of betrayal that shook her to her core. She feels an unbearable sense of shame for her association with a particular temple in High Rock that no longer exists and for having devoted herself so intensely to its clergy. She sees her journey partially as a sort of pilgrimage or path towards redemption, or perhaps she simply seeks to do as much good as possible before she dies a death worthy of forgiveness in the eyes of her gods. She burdens herself with the sense of sharing the same shame and guilt of her former church and seeks to redeem the reputation of the templars through her actions.

What would such a person be doing in a group of mercenaries? Why would she ever be interested? Well, Mary has a strong desire to do good, which was why she became a templar in the first place. She’s almost infatuated with the idea of being a hero and a champion of the people, and it was as simple as being told that the Chapter sought to also do good across Tamriel. Always wanting to believe in the best of people, she’s quite easy to convince and lie to. Anyways, with an organization at her back, she would be able to do more good across Tamriel than she ever could on her own. The moment the Chapter takes a turn for the worse and forsake their promises to the people, Mary is either going to try convincing them to stay on track or jump ship. Her loyalty to the good and innocent cannot be bought.

---

Equipment:

• Steel longsword
• Metal-reinforced wood shield with the print of a rose on the front, battered from use
• Silver dagger with a Banish enchantment
• Chainmail armor layered over a long noble blue gambeson that stretches down to her knees. A gorget covers her neck and part of her shoulders. She also wears leather gauntlets and bracers which are affixed with metal plates for further protection. Likewise, she wears knee high leather boots with plates of metal affixed to the shins, vamps, and toes via buckled straps.
• She wears a leather belt around her chain from which her sword sheath hangs from, and a sheath for her silver dagger rests just above her tailbone. The belt itself is adorned with dozens of multi-colored braids of fabric, ribbons, and hemp; a collection of favors she has accumulated over her years of questing and performing heroic deeds for the poor country folk -- some of them she even ties around her bracers. Also affixed to her belt is a pouch filled with small trophies; werewolf claws and vampire ashes get lost among the collection of hagravan talons.
• A waterskin filled with fresh rainwater
• A pouch which contains another pouch, a cheese cloth full of nuts, seeds, and dried fruits and vegetable chips such as apple chips, strawberries, kale, collards, potatoes, and snap peas. The only kind of meat she carries with her are small strips of salt cod.
• A coin purse of 40 septims

Major Attribute:

Willpower

Minor Attribute:

Endurance

Skills:

Expert: ---

Adept: One-Handed (Sword), Block, Medium Armor, Restoration, Mysticism

Apprentice: Athletics, Speech, Hand to Hand

Spells:

Restoration: Close Wounds, Heal Other, Stendarr’s Aura, Turn Undead
Mysticism: (Greater) Dispel, (G) Dispel Other, (G)Life Detection, Clairvoyance

Combat Style:

Mary, as previously mentioned, balances offense and defense. Her light armor and athleticism allows her to move quickly through a battlefield or ring with ease or quickly adjust her footing, while her shieldplay covers the gaps in her defensive evasion. Said shield also allows her to bully her opponents and get in close with her sword. Through her willpower and endurance alone, she can easily fight a battle of attrition and wait for her opponent to wear out before she does. Her style doesn’t have any significant strengths that allows her to outmaneuver or overpower most of her enemies, but she doesn’t have any glaring weaknesses either. Even those with a purely defensive style has the weakness of being passive or reactionary, but Mary takes the initiative to strike every now and then, reminding her opponent to stay on their toes lest they fall victim to a fatal riposte.

She can also provide support for her allies via healing magic and the dispellation of any adverse magical effects, or even use them on herself mid-fight. Her magic allows her to keep fighting even after taking an injury or being disabled in some way. Her persistence to keep on fighting is admirable, and sometimes even downright frightening when there seems to be nothing that can keep this woman down.

Misc:

She is an awful cook. Keep her away from the pot.
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