Spoopy Scary

The Spoopiest Skeletons

Garil Mavos, Updated

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 _______________________________________________ 53 | ♂ | Dunmer _______________________________________________ Farmhand, Amateur Adventurer, and Mercenary ▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Build - Lean and athletic; built for dexterity. ► Skin Color - Sun-spotted 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. ▼ D O S S I E R ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Birthplace - Presumably Cheydinhal in Cyrodiil. ► Birthsign - The Ritual ► Biggest Regret - Garil would have you believe that it was his inability to seize ripe opportunities and rise above his humble origins, as well as cutting ties with his family. Also the fire, he feels pretty bad about that. ► Garil's Goal - To perform great, honorable deeds that would make his ancestors proud. Maybe make him a little famous. Fame and fortune, really. Maybe not fame. Probably fortune. Power and wisdom? Seeing the world, definitely that. Garil's goals are as protean as the Dunmer himself. ▼ F A V O R E D A T T R I B U T E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Personality ► Agility ▼ S K I L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Speechcraft - Adept ► Acrobatics - Adept ► One-Handed - Adept ► Conjuration - Apprentice ► Stealth - Apprentice ► Athletics - Apprentice ► Smithing - Apprentice ► Alchemy - Novice ► Pickpocket - Novice ► Hand to Hand - Novice ▼ S P E L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Conjuration - Conjure Dagger, Conjure Sword, Summon Ghost ▼ E Q U I P M E N T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Weapons - Three knives, though they look to be more for utility than anything else. There's a skinning knife with a gut hook, a filet knife, and a silver cheese knife. He also has the staff from his bindle. ► Armor - Nothing but the clothes on his back. ► Containers - A backpack, bindle, a 32 oz. waterskin. His backpack carries his miscellaneous belongings while the bindle sack carries his food. ► Food, Drink, Potions - A cheesecloth pouch filled with two pounds of assorted nuts and seeds, dried fruit, and dense preserved bread. Two large and round bottles with cork stoppers, and are filled with sujamma. ► Miscellaneous - Two small wooden bowls and two small clay bowls. Tightly packed in the satchel are small, folded mats and rugs, and soap. Assorted trinkets and mementos, cheap handmade jewelry, and old relics and antiquities. He also has a bundle of scrolled documents and a strange, tightly sealed and extremely hard malachite bottle.

══════ 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 -- 6'0". 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, a gait which other dunmer familiar to him have insultingly referred to as monkey-like. 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, also undercut, and behind his neck you'll often find residing loose, frizzy hair. He prefers to keep his 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. ═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════ He's a mer with many quirks and habits. He hates covering his feet -- they need to breathe, he says -- he has a habit of talking to himself aloud -- helps him think, he says -- and he clicks his tongue absentmindedly instead of whistling or singing. Despite generally being a peculiar person, Garil enjoys his privacy and does his best to appear unassuming and inconspicuous. This is best done when minding his own business, which he does successfully for the most part, but he's also irrepressibly curious. While he might do what he can to keep his hands and mind busy, such as sweeping or mopping the deck, overhearing a conversation will pique his interest enough so that he might pay undue attention to whomever he may be eavesdropping on. To others, he could very well just be some random, nosy s'wit, which in turn can -- counter-intuitively -- direct even less attentions towards himself if he can push others away. No one wants to be around somebody who can't mind his own business, and that's the genius of it. If he can convince others he's not worth paying attention to, then it makes his goal of staying inconspicuous even easier. He watches and listens, preferring to have the edge over others, just in case it's better to be safe than sorry. Then there are those who hears what he has to say and become intrigued. This is where his proclivity for gossip gets him in the trouble of being noticed, because despite his desire for solitude and obscurity, he has a conflicting desire for engaging in conversation. After spending much of his time on the road alone, with nothing to do but think, he likes to share his insights with others. He has a hungry mind that enjoys being fed, so sharing his thoughts with like-minded individuals is one of his favorite pastimes. It is one of his more selfish habits as he tends to share very little personal information, electing to dismiss such questions with claims of being a boring dunmer leading an uneventful life. In this regard, he limits his stories to the people he has met and the places he has been; stories about the "others" in his life instead of himself.

Getting to know Garil is not necessarily a bad thing though. He's quite an amiable fellow, if a tad odd in his habits and mannerisms. He has the ability to read people and read them well, a skill he's developed over years of people-watching and questioning. Kindly and well-spoken, he doesn't come across as the judgmental type, as if there was nothing you could say that could startle him and he'd accept you for who you are -- even argonians, who he is acutely aware might have a lesser opinion of him for being dunmer but cares little all the same. If anything, you might pique his curiosity and he'd harry you with more questions without fear of looking dumb or naive. His lack of judgement also shows itself through his liberal approach towards sexuality, thinking very little of the different races and genders of Tamriel intermingling with one another and uses flirtation as a brand of humor regardless of who he is talking to, only reinforcing the stereotype of sexual deviance often foisted upon dunmer. This is an unfair characterization, he feels, since his attitude as a lover is actually rather conservative in the sense that he reserves the action of touch for truly intimate matters. Otherwise, he is content to sit calmly and converse with his loved ones, and it is because of his liberal approach to sex that he doesn't hold it in such a high esteem, as he'd rather sit in candlelit silence and enjoy the calming peace. Much of his personality, in fact, is reflective of the endlessly infuriating duality of the Dunmer mentality, and yet he remains as one of the staunchest critics of his own kind.

Despite his predilection for philosophy, he has a complicated relationship with spirituality. He speaks very little of his ancestors and holds little regard for either the Reclamations or the Tribunal saints, all while completely disregarding the Divines as powerless lesser deities. This does not exactly translate into being a logical individual, as he does have his fair share of superstitions. He regards such matters of superstition and spirituality as private affairs, though that hardly seems like a profound statement considering he regards all of his affairs as private. Privacy is his primary value, and the invasion of which is one of the only ways to stoke the even-tempered dark elf's ire. Even then, you'll typically only be met with indignant irritation. He is not the type to explode in rage and anger, and even if the worst of his secrets should come to light, he would merely react to it as one would to any threat of danger -- run. He doesn't consider himself a murderer or dangerous mer, and he only resorts to such matters if there is no other choice. If bandits are intent on killing him, then he'll defend himself, but even in a fight he is more inclined to rely on his mind than his emotions.

Overall, his company is very calm and welcoming even if it is a bit foreign and bizarre, and his very presence promotes learning and curiosity. He frequently refers to himself as a parched, informational sponge, reflecting the fact that although he has no traditional education, he has a very keen mind that is quick to pick up on pragmatic information. He's a clever, patient, and resourceful mer if nothing else, and takes insult and injury with a saint's grace. One of his most notable talents is his ability to perform impressions, which might sound quite tame in a world where magic exists -- and it is -- but his keen eye and ear can have his constant people-watching pay off with impressive vocal reconfiguration, enabling him to mimic the sound of someone's voice. Aside from vocal impressions, he also has a knack for physical impersonations as well, such as body language, stride, and he can even copy other people's handwriting once he gets a good look at it. Eventually, this skill of his becomes creepily uncanny.

Garil is notoriously meticulous and methodical, almost to the degree of neuroticism. Part of his nightly rituals, even at the end of particularly long days, is to lay his possessions out before him and to keep track of everything he owns. If there's a list of chores that needs doing, he'll go down the list one by one, even if he is capable of striking multiple things off at once, and sees every task through to the end. Things must go precisely as he feels they should be; double check, nay, triple check your locks and belongings. You might blow out a candle, but you should light it again and blow it out once more just in case the first one didn't feel right. When you're drawing water from a river or a well, be sure to dump the bucket two or three times -- a fourth time if you must -- just in case, because you want the bucket to be clean and clean water is important. If you should see a crow or raven or a black cat during whatever thing you're doing, start all over again for it must be an omen. On one hand, this reassures his employers that he is not one to shirk responsibility and that he'll complete his duties with no mistakes left behind, but on the other hand, this can annoy everyone else to no end. At his best, Garil can be wise and dutiful, but at his worst, Garil can be secretive and selfish.

_{═══════ 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.

Perhaps

This may or may not be kept

He fails to mention that he was partly to blame for the barn's destruction, though perhaps for the reason that he does not feel at fault for it. The anti-undead culture in Cheydinhal is quite strong, especially after the attack from the floating Infernal City, and Garil is not immune to its influences nor the dominant Imperial influence despite dunmer presence within the city. Alienation from his people and constantly spited by his own family drove him to travel many days into Morrowind and into his family's crypt in Deshaan under the pretense that he was setting out to pay his respects, so that he could set the entire cairn ablaze and be free of ancestors' haunting. Without no one at the scene, he returned thinking it was a fool-proof plan; that the fire was a tragedy that must've occurred after he left. He did not think that at least one of his ancestors would remain tethered to Mundus and seek retribution. Indaryn Sadras was a particularly fickle great-great-uncle of his even before the arson, and in the ghost's attempt to incinerate Garil in his sleep for his descendant's transgression, he ended up burning down the entire barn instead.

After escaping, Garil payed a pretty sum to a discreet member of the local Synod chapter to keep his affairs under wraps while asking for a brief lesson in binding spirits. With the help of a Breton mage and a few overnight cram sessions in Conjuration magic, they were able to summon the unbound spirit of his ancestor to the confinement of a ritual circle where they were able to bind Indaryn to a phylactery for Garil to carry on his person. Inscribed upon the phylactery were daedric runes that compelled the spirit to obey his descendant's will and forbade him from uttering any information pertaining to his great-nephew. Though the affair was costly in more ways than one, Garil supposed that this technically made him some kind of mage like his family originally wanted, and that sort of left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Regardless, the fire left him without a job. So, in his attempt to move on and forget the fire ever happened, he began going around working odd jobs for people around Cheydinhal and relying on various short-lived paramours. His charm was only such that he could only couch surf for weeks at a time, and his air of intrigue and novelty shortly wore off the more his bummish behavior grated on them. He also had taken to a buy-sell formula of making money, buying cheap stocks from the local stores and selling them at markup, and even going so far as to sell fish oil as miracle elixirs. He was also something of an eavesdropper and gossip-monger, and for a cheap price, was willing to share with anyone the local rumors or the gossip he's overheard. This made him a few friends with some of local burghers, but also a few enemies. Complaints to the local guard had brought him bruises and threats of being thrown out of town later, Garil eventually learned that it was best to keep such businesses practices less in the open. The odd jobs he had picked up here and there went from fixing leaks and scrubbing floors to dredging the sewers and exterminating rats, managing to salvage his reputation as an untrustworthy miscreant to a somewhat reliable if quirky and gossipy handyman.

Yet, from the fruits of his labor arose another problem: his labor was cheap and people took advantage of that. 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: among them was his new taste for mercantilism, the farm was no longer tying him down, he finally had an opportunity to see the world and perhaps rise above his meager station, and he thought has gotten pretty good with a blade. Good enough to encroach on Fighter's Guild territory at least, so he thought to himself "How hard can adventuring 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 and armed guards who were less than enthused with his eccentricities. He would've bade farewell to his family had they cared to see him again, but his place as the family disappointment was alive and well.

Eventually, after about ten years of adventuring and surviving off of odd jobs or mercenary work, he managed to build up a resume. He's proven himself a fairly capable bodyguard, exterminator, private investigator, ruin explorer, tomb-raiding, or an all-purpose handyman. He learned how to effectively summon his ancestors ghost to do his bidding, much to his great-uncle's chagrin, relying on his destruction magic to clear out many a dungeon for him. Of course, he was a bitter old ghost each and every time he was summoned. The two hated each other, and at least that much was clear. Still, his discreet use of conjuration magic gave him something of a reputation to his employers as a one-man army when in reality he often relied on his ancestor to do much of the heavy lifting. All the while, he was peddling his treasures to merchants or selling them by auction, putting his mercantilism to decent use. Adventuring was easy, and sometimes even lucrative.

Much of the loot Garil collected was basically junk, save for the rarer finds such as valuable jewels. Oftentimes they were pieces of antique furniture or ceremonial displays, things that would be more interesting to historians and eccentric nobles than any general merchant. What he can say, at least, is that his travels took him to many different places, like High Rock and Hammerfell, boats from which brought him briefly to port in Auridon before making way to Elsweyr, and he even traveled into Black Marsh -- only to high-tail it out of there after a few weeks when he got chased by some of the more rabid tribes of argonians. He managed to pick up a lot of skills along the way as well, being a sponge for information and fascinated by other cultures. High Rock helped him hone his speechcraft and magic, Hammerfell taught him how to better swing his sword and sneak past their tomb sentinels, Auridon taught him some minor jewelry-crafting and that high elves were pricks, some Baandari in Senchal taught him some of their dances and to always watch his pockets, and Black Marsh taught him that not all cultures are created equal.

By now he has found himself in Woodhearth, ready to explore the region of Valenwood. His many years of travel has accustomed him to violence, be it blood, dramatic action, or change (though unfortunately so and albeit not yet desensitized to such violence), but in doing so has built his proficiency in both swordplay and mental resilience. He has come to the realization that his claim of being a mere farmhand might now be a lie, though he has no intent on changing that. Though an old bosmer alchemist he met once told him a thing or two about Valenwood, he still isn't quite sure what to expect. Still, as long as it was nothing like the customs agents in Black Marsh, he felt pretty secure in being here for the sole purpose of selling his wares at a local festival.

At least, that's what you're all made to believe.

---

_{"Truth is a fickle creature. I may be no farmhand, but does my harvest not reap life in service of life? Were my services not for sale?"}

---

Venwen

V E N W E N

---

_{"Like how neither men nor mer can seem to stomach the Old Ways, I can't seem to stomach the sight of them clutching their pearls."}

══════ 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 ══════ Venwen _______________________________________________ 68 | ♀️ | Bosmer _______________________________________________ Jaqspur, Green Pact Fanatic, Adventurer ▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Build - Lithe and lean. ► Skin Color - Pale bronze and freckled. ► Hair Color - A muddy red, like auburn. ► Eye Color - Green. ► Other - Small horn nubs are protruding from the top of her forehead, muddy warpaint swirling around her arms. ▼ D O S S I E R ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Birthplace - Malabal Tor ► Birthsign - The Steed ► Biggest Regret - Being forced to destroy her own tribe. Perhaps if she had seen the signs beforehand, she could've prevented her tribe's betrayal. ► Venwen's Goal - Venwen is still relatively young for a Bosmer and still has a life that she wants to live. That said, she greatly admires the Green Lady and Wilderqueen, and would perhaps like to be a personal bodyguard for either one one of them. She's also collecting trophies to create a full set of bone scale armor that she could use either for herself or give as a gift to the Green Lady. ▼ F A V O R E D A T T R I B U T E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Agility ► Speed ▼ S K I L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Archery - Expert ► Acrobatics - Expert ► Athletics - Adept ► Stealth - Adept ► Light Armor - Adept ► Pickpocket - Apprentice ► One-Handed - Novice ▼ S P E L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Racial: Forest Coupling ▼ E Q U I P M E N T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Weapons - A highly decorated Bosmeri bow made of bone and horn, and the bowstring is sinew made of Khajiiti gut. Also a bone-carved shortsword. ► Armor - Stiffened leather strips pleated over one another and stitched over soft hide provides comfortable and lightweight protection for her torso. ► Containers - A quiver made from leather and carapace that carries a variety of arrows, and two small pouches made from hoarvor sacks. ► Food, Drink, Potions - ► Miscellaneous -

══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════ A delightful savagery envelops the bosmer that is obvious at first glance, reeking of danger (among other things) from the intense focus of her predatory eyes to the wild tousling of her muddy red hair. From point A to point B, her gaze follows you with a familiar smile as if you were prey. While most people have had the pleasure of knowing at least one bosmer, it becomes clear upon meeting Venwen that, from her disposition and striking features to the paler and subdued bronze of her speckled and dirty skin, she's from the deeper and darker thickets of Valenwood's heart and is one of wild elves you might've read about in books. Those who've read of the cheerful ferocity of the Green Pact bosmer can pick out those traits rather quickly in Venwen, who carries herself proudly and casually, while simultaneously stalking -- not walking -- in a perpetual fox-trot and reminding you with her smile that she is religiously carnivorous, as indicated by a showing of half of her teeth that have been filed down to points as sharp as her ears. However, it can be easy to underestimate Venwen due to her comparatively diminutive stature to other Bosmer when you're standing on the ground next to her. She stands at a meager 5'2" and weighs as little as eight stones. Her level of fitness is as to be expected of one who lives and dies by their ability to hunt and escape from being hunted. She is tough and sinewy, capable of bounding through the boughs with grace and athleticism with almost unnatural ease for her size, and doing so for days on end with tireless stamina. Even with a lack of toning, watch as she climbs a tree or draws her bowstring to witness the wiry muscles flexing beneath the skin of her arms and back, or as she maneuvers and tumbles through the air with her acrobatics. Short horn nubs have grown out the sides of her forehead, not like a whole rack of antlers as some bosmer are known to possess, but regardless does little to comfort strangers to the Bosmeri and their culture. Even her nails seem to grow with a black keratin. Her big elven eyes are as green as the Green she resided in. Her attire is notably comprised solely of animal-based material, from leather to bone and fur and wool. Stiffened leather is pleated over soft hide as armor, strictly over her forearms as bracer and on her torso (which goes over her normal wraparound top), leaving her arms bare for freedom of movement and comfort. She is far more comfortable this way, worrying only about protecting vital spots when she worries at all as her first line of defense is the distance she puts between herself and her enemies and her second being her acrobatic ability to deftly dodge and weave. Wearing only else but simple pants and leathers boots to protect her shins and knees, she owns too few possessions to properly accessorize beyond the green shawl gifted to her by family, lovingly stitched with the complex embroidery of floral iconography, which she wears wrapped around her neck like a scarf. The most she'll wear in addition to this could be one of countless patterns of war-paint she'll apply, though whether it is made of mud, blood, or some kind of insect's innards might vary. ═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════ An Imperial scholar by the name of Flaccus Terentius once described the Bosmer with "cheerful ferocity," and there is perhaps no more appropriate description of Venwen's carpe diem attitude. Ask our favorite bosmer what her greatest strengths are and she'd reply not with any of her skills, but her self-proclaimed optimism and confidence. Her personality bleeds into her appearance quite a bit considering how she carries herself, so her complex dichotomy of intensity and chipper can-do spirit can catch most people unfamiliar with her off guard. She asserts herself as a hunter and a predator with a huge grin on her face and relishes in the possibility of conflict like any good adrenaline junkie would, and witnessing such an event has been compared to a manic dancing amidst chaos. If you can't help but wonder if the madness of Sheogorath has taken hold, either rest assured or with great anxiety (according to your preference) that Venwen is entirely lucid in these cases. The differences in culture has resulted in many misunderstandings and miscommunications between Venwen and others. Most certainly Venwen, in fact almost specifically Venwen, for the culture inherited from her tribe differs even from greater Valenwood. She is a Green Pact hardliner who holds fast to antiquated traditions that go as far back as the Second Era, such as the consumption of fallen enemies and family members, Mourning Wars, and taking it upon herself the burden of punishing apostates. So while she was raised to live in harmony with nature, violence is as much a part of the natural order as harmony if not more. Naturally, the young tribal bosmer would be raised to become accustomed to violence and death, and suddenly what came across as sociopathic before begins to look more like a survival instinct. The belief of being returned to the Green to join their kin closes the distance in Venwen's relationship with death, which plays as much a part in nature as life. This cycle, as she sees it, brings her comfort and has made her close friends with death. Naturally, her lifestyle hasn't exactly left her as an educated individual. Though she's sharp witted and a fast learner, most of her knowledge comprises of most natural forces within the Valenwood. She knows how to survive, hunt, track, she knows every branch and rock and blade of grass in her home forest -- but as far as the sciences go, she's rather hopeless. Her understanding of the world hinges almost entirely around superstition and her religion, convinced of the animus in all things, and she's mostly ignorant of many complex advances outside of her home province. She isn't particularly worldly as she's only stepped foot outside a couple years ago and hasn't exactly made any extensive efforts to appreciate foreign cultures and tends to just compare them to her own. Her skills of critical analysis are lacking as she'd rather just go with flow of whatever she feels like doing at the time, as that is far simpler.

Despite the threatening state of her disposition, she is very much capable of love and friendship, and her blase' expectation of danger and death around every corner does little to discourage her from engaging with others and looking for companionship. She's already familiar with death and understands that it to be unavoidable, so it would do her little good as a romantic to fear death or allow it to impede her desire to live life. She'd rather seize the day, which likely has a negative impact on her impulse control as far as her sexuality or penchant for partying goes and has seen her accused of wanton promiscuity and hedonism by the mild-mannered people of the world. This is all to say that she'd rather make a new friend than a new enemy, even if her abrasive approach to interacting with other people tends to make enemies all the same. As far as she's concerned, it's not her fault if some people don't have a sense of humor and humor is an important part of her interactions with others. However, her interactions with other also tends to indicate a certain level of disrespect for their boundaries with the unfair expectation of respect for her own. One prime example of this could be her fondness for a Bosmeri tradition known as the Rite of Theft, which claims that anything she can steal from others and get away with rightfully belongs to her and that she can demand something of equal value in return. This usually doesn't work very well outside of her home province however.

A surefire way to get her fuse running, however, would be to call into question her loyalty to the Green, her integrity as a bosmer, and her devotion to her religion. Pride is certainly her greatest vice and would be the most likely culprit of her undoing. As far as she's concerned, she has bled and given up as much as anybody else for the Green Pact to which she's devoted, and she's faithfully adhered to every one of its tenets and mandates. She has come to know and love every inch of the Green as far as she's concerned, and would probably rather die than to live as anything other than a sap-blooded bosmer. She wouldn't go so far as to be violent in the face of insult or disagreement, but it should be known that she is fiercely protective of her homeland and any transgression against it ought to be responded to in kind. There's only been one philosophy that's never failed her in dissuading those who would bring harm to her territory: a bone broken for each twig snapped underfoot.

_{═══════ B A C K G R O U N D ══════}

Y'ffre, the Storyteller, is the Spirit of the Now, and from his Earth Bones came the bosmer. To know origin of the Green Pact is to know the tragedy of the Houndsmen.

Y'ffre, Z'en, and Baan Dar were the three of the Bosmeri pantheon the tribe worshiped most. Y'ffre was their patron deity, Z'en was the God of Toil, and Baan Dar was the trickster spirit of thieves, and as one of the remote tribes of Valenwood, their traditions remained insulated from the influences of the outside world and every bloody facet of the Green Pact was upheld. What made the Houndsmen unique among the tribes however was the addition of their worship of Hircine, Daedric Prince of the Hunt -- and Venwen was one of these wild elves. Their worship of Hircine went as far back as the Second Era, and even through the ups and downs of their tribe with their precarious involvement with Daedra worship, they managed to survive. Most other bosmer acknowledge Hircine if nothing else, for his spirit and influence could be felt in every hunt. While many do not actively seek out his favor, they seek not to upset him lest he decide to starve the bosmer. The Houndsmen Tribe were one of the exceptions who, before each hunt, sung the Invocation of Hircine to guide their arrows into the hearts of their quarries. Venwen was, and still remains, no exception.

She became proficient enough with the use of a bow as a young teen to join her tribe's hunting parties, and it was from this age that she not only tracked down and killed large game, but defended the forest edge from would-be invaders. It is said that to be acknowledged as an adequate ranger, wood elven children are allegedly expected to be able to travel through Valenwood while blindfolded. Venwen claims this to be true, even if for no other person than herself. She'll tell you many tall tales about Valenwood myths and folklore and oftentimes the stories keep on changing, but one she'll always swear by and keep consistent is her claim of practicing for many years to always know her way through Valenwood with her eyes closed. True or not, it is hard to deny her familiarity with the Green and her aptitude for traversing it. It is a little wonder why then she was acknowledged by her tribe as a jaqspur many years younger than the average archer. She learned to shoot like a jaqspur, firing from far distances with a single flowing motion from her quiver to releasing the bowstring. Eventually the need for a quiver became optional, as any good archer may only need to carry what they can hold in their hand.

Venwen's view on Hircine was like that of the Houndsmen Tribe of days old, many generations prior. It was that the Huntsman ought to be treated like any beast: respected from a distance. But over the many years of bounding through the grahtwood boughs, she didn't notice the gradual change in her tribe's culture on the ground, where they were slowly offering themselves into the beast's maw. Harmony with nature was no longer at the forefront of their minds, and all else including the Green Pact was becoming secondary to the hunt. History was repeating itself, and the Houndsmen Tribe were reaching another low point as they re-embraced their origins from the Second Era. It might've been spurred on by the development of the Aldmeri Dominion and the Valenwood purges throughout the Green, some of which Venwen had fought against, always ready and able to protect her culture. Thinking back on it now, she might not be able to bring herself to blame them, but they crossed the line when they threw themselves wholly and willingly to the Huntsman's hunger.

When they uttered their words of sacrilege, spoke of their sacred and God-given forms as the shackles of Y'ffre and compared themselves to caged beasts, their final and most blasphemous act of defiance was to desecrate their own bodies with foul and accursed were-touched transformations. Venwen was the sole member of the tribe insulated from the Daedra's influence by the distance she put between herself and home. One could say it was because she was so free-spirited that the trappings of a tribe could never tie her down long enough for their influences to take hold, but now she was presented with an ugly reality and an impossible decision: everyone she's ever been close to had broken the Green Pact, their most sacred oath, and were now apostates. She could turn her back on them and allow them to run rampant and unchecked through Valenwood, or deliver this news to Silvenar and put an end to this madness once and for all.

As Venwen now says, mostly as a deflection, that it wouldn't have made for nearly as exciting a story if she had chosen the former. She returned to Malabal Tor backed by a squad of Vinedusks to hunt down and kill the rest of her tribe. That she is still standing today speaks of her success, but it is not a story that she tells fondly or often. It was her first experience with death that had actually shaken her, and it was because with every werewolf that she dropped, she'd see them returning to normal -- a face that she recognized with a name that she knew, and she could watch the light leave their eyes. It was a pain made even worse with the knowledge that they were going in death where she could not and would not follow. As with any bosmer who broke the pact, they would return to the Ouze, separated from the Earth Bones and the rest of the bosmer for eternity. That was the price they chose to pay in exchange for power.

She had since received an invitation to join the Vinedusk Rangers for her skill, service, and sacrifice for Valenwood and the Green Pact, but after such a painful ordeal, she decided it might've been better for her to leave for a while and explore Tamriel outside of Valenwood. She did intend to return at some point, but only after her heart had healed from what her hands had committed. As hurt as she was, she also felt intense anger and rage, as well as betrayal. To think that her own tribe would go and do something so ridiculous and so stupid that would force her to take the blood-stained burden of responsibility for them was worse than anything she could think of. The thought that she could've been one of them, a traitor to the Green Pact, was beyond her imagination. When she left Valenwood through the northern treeline and took her first steps into Cyrodiil, they were her first steps into a brand new world. A world that'd send her to High Rock, through Skyrim, into Morrowind, and cutting back through Cyrodiil to reach Elsweyr, and along the way, in Cheydinhal, found a friend in a dark elf alchemist named Inanna. Only now after many years of travel, exploration, adventuring, and a recent prodding by her new friend has Venwen decided that she was ready to return home and show Inanna the beauty of Valenwood.

---

_{"You call that disembowling? You ladies couldn't disembowl even if you -- oh! God! My bowels!"}

---

Soldiers of Fortune

The gravity of the day's mission was not lost on the company's chaplain. The black robed priest was up since before dawn in meditation and prayer, and finding himself once again in solemn contemplation over the map and the figures and units scrawled and placed over it. The heat of the coming day was beginning to rise, and he knew that the Jikari sun would not favor a drawn out battle for the fighters of the company. His fingers were tracing the distance from the treeline to the tower, then resting on the figures representing the bandits.

He looked around at the company, assessing what their strengths and weaknesses were -- what little he knew of them, at least. There were many archers in the company, that much he knew. That is something they should capitalize on, though they would be at a disadvantage when firing up at the crossbowmen, who possessed the high ground and tower battlements. Still, taking them out would ensure the fewest casualties. With Iroh’s blessing, there wouldn’t be any.

“The tower was made to be a defensible position,” Irae said with surprising levity, as he set down a cup of hot black tea in front of Amelia with a knowing look, “but they’re looking for trade caravans, not armed battalions. If we charge in and they see our numbers, the men on the ground will retreat inside the tower and lock themselves in while their crossbows fire down on our people.”

His finger returned to the treeline and continued, “What we can do is have a couple of our own archers and crossbowmen fire shots at the crossbowmen manning the battlements first, from the cover of the treeline while the rest of our troops stay a bit further behind. It's no longer than two-hundred yards, so your bows should make it, but they won't be easy shots. If the men on the ground think we’re only a few people that they can take care of, the moment we lure them over is the moment we gain control of the battlefield. We can then take them out and immediately take the tower with few to no arrows taking out our own men.”

His critical eyes scanned over the men and women in the company. Having only been with this group for a few months, he only knew what a few of them were capable of and wasn’t necessarily filled with confidence, but he’d try to keep them from needlessly dying regardless. They probably thought similar of him, who didn’t look the part of the fighter and smelled too nice, like sandalwood, and too clean to be telling them what to do. But he hoped that through respecting the men and women he was serving, he’d be respected in return. Among the crowd he was scouring, faeries were scarce in the company but they were around. The ability to fly was a tactical advantage that they ought to capitalize on.

“Those with the ability to fly should probably scale the walls and enter the tower from the top while the ground troops enter the tower from the ground. It’s a classic pincer maneuver used to great effect in the Siege of Maceron. Any arguments?”

Soldiers of Fortune

Dies Irae

D I E S I R A E

---

_{"I've long forsaken my mortal-bestowed name. I serve now only my God."}

══════ 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 ══════ Dies Irae _______________________________________________ 34 | ♂ | Human _______________________________________________ Father Irae ▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Build - Lithe and lean. ► Skin Color - Olive. ► Hair Color - Black. ► Eye Color - Brown. ► Other - Calloused hands and scraped knees. Clean shaven. ▼ D O S S I E R ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Birthplace - Talbor ► Career - Priest of Iroh ► Bonds - The Clergy of Iroh and the duties he must fulfill as a priest. ► Goals - Toppling corrupt regimes. Deliberately ambiguous. ▼ M A G I C ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► N/A - Irae chooses not to practice magic per his beliefs and condemns the harvest and consumption of Tears. ▼ S K I L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Medicine & Alchemy - As a priest who eschews the use of magic, he has turned to the more conventional means of healing. Alchemy allows him to tap into the energies imbued into the earth for quasi-magical means of healing, albeit slower and with greater side-effects. He's well versed in venom and poisons and can create antidotes fairly easily given the proper ingredients. Furthermore, he has in-depth anatomical knowledge of multiple difference races and can perform first-aid and even emergency surgeries. ► Diplomacy - It should be no surprise that someone as calm and level-headed as Father Irae is fit for defusing volatile situations. He has a way of reading people that helps him find the right word for most situations and bringing about momentary peace until the party can figure out the next best course of action. He is also capable of giving the members of his company spiritual guidance. ► Intelligent - Well-learned, knowing a great deal of both history and religious denominations. He has traveled a great deal which has given him a globalist perspective of the world, at least a little bit of knowledge of most places in the world, as well as a decent sense of direction. He has a cunning and strategic mind with a good grasp of tactics. Another huge boon is his unwavering faith bringing him such existential comfort that he maintains clarity of mind even in the midst of chaos. ► Performance - As a priest, he gives sermons and spiritual guidance. As part of his training, he knows some antiquated chants in a dead language - a practice which has granted him a decent singing voice. Irae, for reasons undisclosed, also happens to be a good actor and is uncomfortably proficient in deception. He claims that the trick is to treat it as nothing more than a performance. Do that, and your body will never reveal its tells. ► Combat - It is clear when you speak to Irae that he has a bit of a colored past, and one way or another, he learned how to use weaponry. Supposedly he had left that life behind him and is with the company now to give other souls the guidance he never received as a young man, but if a discerning eye watched him use or play with a knife, they could tell that his skills are as sharp as ever. ▼ E Q U I P M E N T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Weapons - A black ceremonial dagger with gold trimming. ► Armor - N/A ► Containers - A satchel containing medical supplies, with separate bag sections containing his rations and hygiene supplies. ► Food, Drink, Potions - One Near-Death potion. Salves and balms. Rations consisting of cured meat, dried fruits, nuts, roots, and bread. Also has soap made with whale fat, coconut oil, lavender, and lemon. Also a vial of perfume with an olive oil base infused with sandalwood and charcoal. ► Miscellaneous - A gold reliquary shaped like a cross with a sun in the center.

══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════ Nary ever was there a soul to see a man dressed so humbly or plain, and certainly not e'er such a soul as a mercenary. His actual person is oft obscured by his clergyman cassock made of black linen and cotton, complete with the clerical collar. It is topped off with a black shawl that is fashioned into a hood and drapes over his shoulders. To wear boots is to break tradition out of necessity, for his old moccasins have worn out long ago. However, underneath is neither a man too weak to fend for himself nor a warrior's physique, but perhaps one who is accustomed to travel and toiling over the land. Standing at an inch shy of six feet, his height is not particularly intimidating, but regardless a fair deal higher than most other humans. He carries with him a gait not unlike a bride walking down the aisle, as if he was savoring every moment on the way to his destination, and also reflects his own slow and steady, methodical nature. There's no need to rush if you know with absolute certainty you will be where you need to go. The pacing might infuriate his camaraderie, but he is considerate enough to pick up the pace a little bit if he's dragging everyone down, though he's more inclined to sit on the wagon or ride a horse than jog down the countryside. He weighs as much as twelve stones, speaking to his fitness if nothing else and is at least stronger than he appears. His face and his hands is the likely the most you'll ever see of him. His Veneran descent is apparent in his face, starkly contrasting him from the people of Talbor, through cut features like a sharp jawline and squared chin, high cheek bones, and olive skin. Thick black eyebrows rest over his deep brown eyes, and though his nose looks more Jikarian in its bridge, the tip of his nose curls down into a more hawkish shape to reclaim his Southern Isles bloodline. His hair, should you ever catch him with his hood down, is black and long and usually tied up in a low ponytail. His hygiene is very well maintained despite his willingness to perform painstaking labor, and regardless of how tired he may feel or how few hours in the day there is left, he makes a point of making sure he and his vestments are cleaned. His presence most often carries the smell of sandalwood and charcoal, and occasionally other aromatics such as sage, rose, jasmine, or dragon's blood. Father Irae is poised and put-together, usually keeping his hands where others can see them whether his fingers are steeple, holding them in front of his person, or held together in prayer. His posture is always straight, and has well-developed habits such as bowing his head to every newcomer or in acknowledgement of a person within a conversation. He tends to gesticulate when he speaks, and one of his more common gestures is a sweeping open palm as if he were giving someone a gift. His voice, though a low and fruity baritone timbre, speaks smoothly and softly. It's calming, a voice one might imagine as reading a story to them as they drift asleep. There's almost a musicality to it, like low rolling ocean waves on a quiet moonlit night in how it rises and falls, as if he were constantly musing in trochaic tetrameter. ═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════ Calm. Collected. He always seems certain and unafraid, but not to the point of arrogance or being brash. It's more like the certainty that no matter what happens, things will be okay in the end. However, being a man with layers of complexity, neither is he complacent. He sees it is better to be an agent of action in the world than it is to be its subject. There is something comforting about a person who seems so sure without being cocky, a feeling of safety and sincerity which is only complimented by Irae's voice and almost-paternal demeanor. What you might expect from any other honest priest, you can expect from him: charity, forgiveness, guidance -- nothing is off limits with him, and he doesn't seem to pass any sort of judgement on whoever speaks to him. It is as he claims, it is not his role to judge, but to hear your pleas and guide you thereafter. The only ones worthy of judging are the Gods. To say nothing of his own judgement, of course. He doesn't actually trust anybody as a rule of thumb, and has a tendency to withhold truths from others under the pretense that it wouldn't service them - and he is if nothing else a man of service. Aside from the secrets he himself holds that he withholds from others, the role he plays is that of the benevolent Priest of Iroh, Prophet of Man. There is an underlying sense of pity for the other races of Tithe, but he does not hate or dislike them, as the Ironian faith remains as a denomination of the dominant Maelan religion. Rather, it is an unfortunate case that not all of Tithe's creatures can be guaranteed the same fate as humanity. In fact, he even yields some respect for the faeries, as they are naturally able to wield magic and therefore must be descendants of divine blood. In all other cases, he finds the use and wielding of magic to be profane and that the consumption of a Tear is the equivalent to attempting godhood. It is for this reason he does not attempt to practice magic himself, though he'll keep those beliefs to himself in the company of those who practice (even if he can't hide his overall disdain for magic in general). Though there is nothing preventing Irae from starting a family, he has a few obligations that he believes prevents him from doing so. For one, he takes his oaths to leave behind earthly attachments quite seriously, and thus he'll likely never be able to love someone or devote himself to them in the way that they deserve. He is smitten most by his religion, and his devotion has gone so far as to leave his given name behind and adopt a new one to reflect his devotion. Secondly, he understands the life he leads is dangerous and that it would be irresponsible of him to bring a child into the world under his absence. Race is another important factor; of course he holds no prejudice toward any of the races and could feasibly be attracted to those close enough to appearing human, though he would forbid himself of any interracial relationship due to Iroh's promise of humanity inheriting the earth. It'd be similarly irresponsible and immoral to bring a child that was anything other than human into the world, knowing what fate awaited them. This is of course assuming Irae ever chose to break his abstinent and aromantic lifestyle. A remarkably intelligent individual, he is well-read and studied in-depth the workings of medicine and anatomy, history, and theology (though he couldn't be less interested in political sciences). He has the wisdom to back up his intelligence as well, which can be seen in his aptitude with tactics. Despite his aforementioned biases, he still comes across as a kind and understanding individual who is willing to lend spiritual guidance to anyone who asks for it. However, the calmness he displays in every situation is in fact displayed in every situation. Even in the presence of death, he appears unshaken, which would make him seem unmoving or callous. Whether this is truly the case or he's so fervently faithful that death doesn't scare him remains to be seen, but he is not so callous that he would ignore or forget those in mourning or trauma. At his best, Irae can be level-headed, decisive, and generous. At his worst, he can be dogmatic, deceitful, and cold. His favorite foods are cherries, pomegranates, roses, and red wines. ═══════ B A C K G R O U N D ══════ Irae is a very private individual who doesn't speak much of his past, and what he does speak of, he speaks of blood and regret. The tale he tells isn't so different from other Talbor men: he worked the land, and he bled for the land; a land ruled by corruption, a corruption that was succeeded by further corruption, and he fought and killed in three separate wars defending that corruption. The broken illusion of justice led to disillusionment, and the smell of iron in those God-forsaken mountains was indistinguishable from the blood that soaked into its infertile soil. Irae's most haunting moment, he says, was when he was about to slay his enemy, only to see the horror and remorse in his enemy's eyes and realized they were also human and from the same land. The moment lasted long enough for an ally to come in and kill the man in front of Irae for him, only to move on to the next one.

The tale Irae tells differs only in that he fled, marking him a deserter. He traveled far and wide to escape conflict wherever he went. He learned the roads mapping Tithe like the veins mapping his body, and he learned that, like veins, where the roads branched so too did the flow of blood. Wherever there were people, it seemed, so did conflict, and so did death. How ironic was it that the dominant religion of this world preached the sanctity of life -- all life -- and yet no one did a thing to preserve it? The war was where Irae's life began and where it ended. If you asked him where he found his faith, it was after he traveled Tithe and returned home to northeast Talbor. Only after traveling Tithe did he find a temple devoted to Iroh, and it was there he decided to commit himself to the prophet's teachings.

In truth, Irae's tale is a white lie. He harbors no malicious intent in his deceit, but in knowing that the greater public would rest easier in the shadows of lies. Though it is true he is a priest of Iroh, prophet of mankind, he has been one far longer than he lets on and he makes no mention of the secretive faction lurking beneath the institution's foundation. The indoctrination into this order occurred when he was a young man. Lost and without direction, having known love and having love lost, he turned to the faith of his late partner, Isna Ashken. It was originally as a way to heal, but in time, it became all he had. By the time he was a young adult, he was introduced to a secretive splinter group within the institution as a reward and an acknowledgment for his faith and devotion. There is no name or written doctrine, known only by its members as the Day of Wrath. Its cult-like practices were to remain secret from the rest of Tithe, and especially from the Maelan institution.

Death is as sacred as life, the only promised fate, and a necessity of the natural order; all life must die. In this respect, its members are as much a guardian of the grave as they are perpetrators of it, smiting the undead as often as condemning the living. This is not to say that Irae and his ilk are serial killers, but have unique views on death and don't deal with the same qualms as Maelan worshipers. However, as self-appointed defenders of the natural order, this unique priesthood also targets enemies of their faith. This aspect of their practices is treated with utmost severity and is typically reserved for those who violate the natural order, mass murderers, and high-ranking theological figures of corrupt bent -- that is to say the dominant Maelan theocracy. Where they sought to keep the other faiths in line, the Day of Wrath sought to keep them in line. Irae, among a few others, is in the unique position of being both an anointed priest as well as an anointed assassin.

He was active during the war, but he was not a soldier. He was an independent agent doling out justice where appropriate. Talbor has no shortage of corrupt lords and ladies seeking to take advantage of the chaotic environment, but was never caught out in the open and didn't lift a finger to help either side during the hob invasion. He had no political loyalty to whoever would inherit the throne and didn't seek to seat any one person upon it. He was also unique in his order that he chose not to inherit the magic of Mael for personal beliefs, but neither is he lesser in his accomplishments or efficiency for it. It is perhaps because he had less to lose than the other members, but it as though he sees death as an old friend and a ferryman to his way home. If man were truly meant to inherit the earth, then he would find home whether he lived or died.

With a duty to uphold to his order, he cannot simply stay put in his temple to Iroh. So, he began to travel under the guise of a wayward priest lending out his services. Only in recent months did he find the mercenary company. Figuring that was as good a cover as anything else for his purposes, he joined them under the pretense that they'd have someone to provide spiritual guidance, and offer diplomatic and minimal-collateral solutions should the situation call for it. In the time since then, however, at least one thing became clear if nothing else: he's a priest with a colored past and is more capable than he appears. Whether he's taking the path of redemption or is up to something else remains to be seen by his comrades.

---

_{"Have mercy on the soul I send to you, Iroh, as they meet their Day of Wrath."}

---

Soldiers of Fortune

@JunkMail @SepticGentleman @Fernstone Accepted.

@Spoopy Scary Ur gay.

...

...

But also accepted.

@Maxx

Your intimidation is the most flattering compliment I could ever receive.

Soldiers of Fortune

Dies Irae

D I E S I R A E

---

_{"I've long forsaken my mortal-bestowed name. I serve now only my God."}

══════ 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 ══════ Dies Irae _______________________________________________ 34 | ♂ | Human _______________________________________________ Father Irae ▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Build - Lithe and lean. ► Skin Color - Olive. ► Hair Color - Black. ► Eye Color - Brown. ► Other - Calloused hands and scraped knees. Clean shaven. ▼ D O S S I E R ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Birthplace - Talbor ► Career - Priest of Iroh ► Bonds - The Clergy of Iroh and the duties he must fulfill as a priest. ► Goals - Toppling corrupt regimes. Deliberately ambiguous. ▼ M A G I C ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► N/A - Irae chooses not to practice magic per his beliefs and condemns the harvest and consumption of Tears. ▼ S K I L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Medicine & Alchemy - As a priest who eschews the use of magic, he has turned to the more conventional means of healing. Alchemy allows him to tap into the energies imbued into the earth for quasi-magical means of healing, albeit slower and with greater side-effects. He's well versed in venom and poisons and can create antidotes fairly easily given the proper ingredients. Furthermore, he has in-depth anatomical knowledge of multiple difference races and can perform first-aid and even emergency surgeries. ► Diplomacy - It should be no surprise that someone as calm and level-headed as Father Irae is fit for defusing volatile situations. He has a way of reading people that helps him find the right word for most situations and bringing about momentary peace until the party can figure out the next best course of action. He is also capable of giving the members of his company spiritual guidance. ► Intelligent - Well-learned, knowing a great deal of both history and religious denominations. He has traveled a great deal which has given him a globalist perspective of the world, at least a little bit of knowledge of most places in the world, as well as a decent sense of direction. He has a cunning and strategic mind with a good grasp of tactics. Another huge boon is his unwavering faith bringing him such existential comfort that he maintains clarity of mind even in the midst of chaos. ► Performance - As a priest, he gives sermons and spiritual guidance. As part of his training, he knows some antiquated chants in a dead language, which has also given him a decent singing voice. Not especially useful in a mercenary company, but perhaps useful should a distraction be necessary. ► Combat - It is clear when you speak to Irae that he has a bit of a colored past, and one way or another, he learned how to use one-handed weaponry. Supposedly he had left that life behind him and is with the company now to give other souls the guidance he never received as a young man, but his skills are as sharp as ever. ▼ E Q U I P M E N T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Weapons - A black ceremonial dagger with gold trimming. ► Armor - N/A ► Containers - A satchel containing medical supplies. ► Food, Drink, Potions - Rations consisting of cured meat, dried fruits, nuts, roots, and bread. ► Miscellaneous - A gold reliquary shaped like a cross with a sun in the center.

══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════ Nary a one to ever see a man dressed so humbly or plain, and certainly not e'er a mercenary. His actual person is oft obscured by his clergyman cassock, complete with the clerical collar, made of black linen and cotton. It is topped off with a black shawl that is fashioned into a hood and drapes over his shoulders. To wear boots is to break tradition out of necessity, for his old moccasins have worn out long ago. However, underneath is neither a man too weak to fend for himself nor a warrior's physique, but perhaps one who is accustomed to travel and toiling over the land. Standing at an inch shy of six feet, his height is not particularly intimidating, but regardless a fair deal higher than most other humans. He weighs as much as twelve stones, speaking to his fitness if nothing else and is at least stronger than he appears. His face and his hands is the likely the most you'll ever see of him. His Veneran descent is apparent in his face, starkly contrasting him from the people of Talbor, through cut features like a sharp jawline and squared chin, high cheek bones, and olive skin. Thick black eyebrows rest over his deep brown eyes, and though his nose looks more Jikarian in its bridge, the tip of his nose curls down into a more hawkish shape to reclaim his Southern Isles bloodline. His hair, should you ever catch him with his hood down, is black and long and usually tied up in a low ponytail. His hygiene is very well maintained despite his willingness to perform painstaking labor, and regardless of how tired he may feel or how few hours in the day there is left, he makes a point to make sure he and his vestments are cleaned. Father Irae is poised and put-together, usually keeping his hands where others can see them whether his fingers are steeple, holding them in front of his person, or held together in prayer. His posture is always straight, and has well-developed habits such as bowing his head to every newcomer or in acknowledgement of a person within a conversation. He tends to gesticulate when he speaks, and one of his more common gestures is a sweeping open palm as if he were giving someone a gift. His voice, though a low and fruity baritone timbre, speaks smoothly and softly. It's calming, a voice one might imagine reading a story to them as they drift asleep. There's almost a musicality to it, like low rolling ocean waves on a quiet moonlit night in how it rises and falls, as if he were constantly musing in trochaic tetrameter. ═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════ Calm. Collected. He always seems certain and unafraid, but not to the point of arrogance or being brash. It's more like the certainty that no matter what happens, things will be okay in the end. However, being a man with layers of complexity, neither is he complacent. He sees it is better to be an agent of action in the world than it is to be its subject. There is something comforting about a person who seems so sure without being cocky, a feeling of safety and sincerity which is only complimented by Irae's voice and almost-paternal demeanor. What you might expect from any other honest priest, you can expect from him: charity, forgiveness, guidance -- nothing is off limits with him, and he doesn't seem to pass any sort of judgement on whoever speaks to him. It is as he claims, it is not his role to judge, but to hear your pleas and guide you thereafter. The only ones worthy of judging are the Gods. To say nothing of his own judgement, of course. Aside from the secrets he himself holds that he withholds from others, the role he plays is that of the benevolent Priest of Iroh, Prophet of Man. There is an underlying sense of superiority or pity for the other races of Tithe, but he does not hate or dislike them, as the Ironian faith remains as a denomination of the dominant Maelan religion. Rather, it is an unfortunate case that not all of Tithe's creatures can be guaranteed the same fate as humanity. In fact, he even yields some respect for the faeries, as they are naturally able to wield magic and therefore must be descendants of divine blood. In all other cases, he finds the use and wielding of magic to be profane and that the consumption of a Tear is the equivalent to attempting godhood. It is for this reason he does not attempt to practice magic himself, though he'll keep those beliefs to himself in the company of those who practice (even if he cant hide his overall disdain for magic in general). He is a remarkably intelligent individual, well-read and studied with an in-depth understanding of medicine and anatomy, history, and theology, though he couldn't seem less interested in political sciences. He has the wisdom to back up his intelligence as well, as the information you have is only as valuable as how you use it. Despite his aforementioned biases, he still comes across as a kind and understanding individual who is willing to lend spiritual guidance to anyone who asks for it. However, the calmness he displays in every situation is in fact displayed in every situation. Even in the presence of death, he appears unshaken, which would make him seem unmoving or callous. Whether this is truly the case or he's so fervently faithful that death doesn't scare him remains to be seen, but he is not so callous that he would ignore or forget those in mourning or trauma. At his best, Irae can be level-headed, decisive, and generous. At his worst, he can be dogmatic, deceitful, and cold. ═══════ B A C K G R O U N D ══════ Irae is a very private individual who doesn't speak much of his past, and what he does speak of, he speaks of blood and regret. The tale he tells isn't so different from other Talbor men: he worked the land, and he bled for the land; a land ruled by corruption, a corruption that was succeeded by further corruption, and he fought and killed in three separate wars defending that corruption. The broken illusion of justice led to disillusionment, and the smell of iron in those God-forsaken mountains was indistinguishable from the blood that soaked into its infertile soil. Irae's most haunting moment, he says, was when he was about to slay his enemy, only to see the horror and remorse in his enemy's eyes and realized they were also human and from the same land. The moment lasted long enough for an ally to come in and kill the man in front of Irae for him, only to move on to the next one. The tale Irae tells differs only in that he fled, marking him a deserter. He traveled far and wide to escape conflict wherever he went. He learned the roads mapping Tithe like the veins mapping his body, and he learned that, like veins, where the roads branched so too did the flow of blood. Wherever there were people, it seemed, so did conflict, and so did death. How ironic was it that the dominant religion of this world preached the sanctity of life -- all life -- and yet no one did a thing to preserve it? The war was where Irae's life began and where it ended. If you asked him where he found his faith, it was after he traveled Tithe and returned home to northeast Talbor. Only after traveling Tithe did he find a temple devoted to Iroh, and it was there he decided to commit himself to the prophet's teachings. In truth, Irae's tale is a white lie. He harbors no malicious intent in his deceit, but in knowing that the greater public would rest easier in the shadows of lies. Though it is true he is a Priest of Iroh, prophet of mankind, he has been one far longer than he lets on and he makes no mention of the secretive faction lurking beneath the institution's foundation. There is no name or written doctrine, known only by its members as the Day of Wrath. Death is as sacred as life, the only promised fate, and a necessity of the natural order; all life must die.

In this respect, its members are as much a guardian of the grave as they are perpetrators of it, smiting the undead as often as condemning the living. This is not to say that Irae and his ilk are serial killers, but have unique views on death and don't deal with the same qualms as Maelan worshipers. However, as self-appointed defenders of the natural order, this unique priesthood also targets enemies of their faith. This aspect of their practices is treated with utmost severity and is typically reserved for those who violate the natural order, mass murderers, and high-ranking theological figures of corrupt bent. Irae, among a few others, is in the unique position of being both a priest and an anointed assassin.

He was active during the war, but he was not a soldier. He was an independent agent doling out justice where appropriate. Talbor has no shortage of corrupt lords and ladies seeking to take advantage of the chaotic environment, but was never caught out in the open and didn't lift a finger to help either side during the hob invasion. He had no political loyalty to whoever would inherit the throne and didn't seek to seat any one person upon it. He was unique in his order that he chose not to inherit the magic of Mael for personal beliefs, but neither is he lesser for it.

With a duty to uphold to his order, he cannot simply stay put in his temple to Iroh. So, he began to travel under the guise of a wayward priest lending out his services. Only in recent months did he find the mercenary company. Figuring that was as good a cover as anything else for his purposes, he joined them under the pretense that they'd have someone to provide spiritual guidance, and offer diplomatic and minimal-collateral solutions should the situation call for it. In the time since then, however, at least one thing became clear if nothing else: he's a priest with a colored past and is more capable than he appears. Whether he's taking the path of redemption or up to something else remains to be seen.

---

_{"Have mercy on the soul I send to you, Iroh, as they meet their Day of Wrath."}

---

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

^{ft. @Leidenschaft and @Stormflyx}

Wheat was grounded in a wooden bowl with blue flower petals, its powdery germ caking with the plant’s moisture. A green egg was cracked into it as a binding agent and continued to be mixed until the mixture became like batter, and water was gradually whisked into the developing potion. Bruno wasn’t much of an alchemist. He saw himself as having no aptitude for magic, and what he did know of alchemy he just chalked up to basic medicine and was only a little better than eating raw poppy. He just knew that some ingredients had anti-inflammatory properties and that he could combine them. How much that would help Janus, though…

Bruno looked over the man sleeping in his bed, the salve over his wounds staining his bandages, and the medicine bowl on the nightstand empty. Either way, Janus was going to live. Whether or not he’d wake soon, or whether he’d still be in pain when he did, was uncertain.

The chair he sat in was by the bed’s foot, and his face was inches away from the only window in the cabin. An arrow was knocked on his short bow, firmly in the man’s grip. Bozo was as restless and alert as he was, it seemed, with a low growl perpetually sitting at the base of the dog’s throat, ready to bark the moment something was off. He was a well-trained and dutiful hound that seemed to ignore the requests for affection from Bruno’s guests, who was grateful to have a companion who’d keep watch should everyone else fall asleep. But sleep, he suspected, wasn’t going to find him tonight. Nor should it, for his home his last bastion and he wasn’t about to let it fall. He made a point of telling the others to keep quiet and to not make any light so that it would stay that way.

The sound of groaning from behind called for him, but the shepherd's eyes didn’t peel away from the fence outside.

“You owe me new bed covers.” Bruno grumbled.

“Ain’t crawled myself in here.” Janus squinted out at the big, dark silhouette of Bruno. More so from the headache, and he figured his irritability could be blamed on the same. “How long?”

“Not too long. Couldn’t have been more than an hour.” Bruno finally turned to look at his newly awakened guest. He still looked like he was in rough shape. “Sorry if you still feel like shit. I ain’t much of a doctor, I only know a few tricks. How are you holding up?”

“Ah,” Janus said, trying to sit up, but the words halted in his throat in a grunt when his body wanted nothing of that. He conceded and remained laying, “Could’ve swore you looked like a chirurgeon from the cities.”

He sighed, staring up at the ceiling in the dark room. There was almost no difference between the umbras of Bruno’s house and the sky outside. He looked at the big man’s gleaming eyes in the darkness, and then looked away, “I’m alive.” Janus said simply, “Figure that’s about as best an outcome as any.”

“Do you always do that?” He asked. “Crazy and stupid things, I mean, like charging toward your death. You’re lucky it wasn’t the sharp end that hit your head, lest you be tithing it to that monster’s shoulders.”

“I’d have done the rational thing, you and me wouldn’t be talking right now.”

“It’s impossible to say what would’ve happened, but by Akatosh, we’re here now.” Bruno sighed, looking back out the window. Still no sign of life -- or unlife, as it was now. Then again, it was still too dark to tell, and he was simply looking for any changes in shadow. “Your horse is outside and everyone else is safe. You might be crazy, but I’ll be damned if you haven’t earned your keep.”

“Oh, what consolation that is.” Janus said deadpan, growling as he fought through the hundred aches he felt just to win the battle of sitting up, “I left my sword. Don’t think they make them like that up here neither.”

“Don’t have any spares lying ‘round?” Janus fixed Bruno with a small smile.

“You still have that axe, don’t ya? How many weapons do you need? Never mind that, I already gave you my bed.” He replied with a chuckle. It quickly subsided though, and he exhaled a long and tired sigh. Then, he asked, “Where did you get your training? You might look like one of them brigands infesting the roads, but you sure as hell don’t move like ‘em. You ain’t a mercenary either, because every damn merc I ever met is looking for work and won’t shut the hell up about how good they are. So, what is it?”

Janus’ eyes went to where Bruno’s were, wishing he at least had a crossbow to aim past the fence posts. He wouldn’t be crossing blades any time soon, but he could still shoot. He sighed, deciding not to avoid Bruno’s question any longer, “Ain’t a Legion man.” Janus said, hushed as if the dead might stir, “Just someone with skills the Empire wanted. Back then, I was more’n happy to.”

“Call me a patriot. But... I’d have done it for any reason back then, being honest.” He looked down at his hands, bloody and scabbed and scarred. “‘Fore tonight, I thought them days were done.”

“Anyway, the sword’s important.” It was a few long moments filled only with the chirping of crickets and a soft breeze before Janus wanted to turn the conversation away from where he’d come, “You’re handy with that axe.”

It didn’t surprise Bruno that his guest was a soldier. He might’ve looked a fool, but there was discipline about him even if it wasn’t always obvious. He was coy though, so the man must’ve had more brains than your average foot soldier. Whatever his story was, he didn’t intend on pressing for more details than that.

“It’s easier chopping logs, if I’m being honest.” Bruno answered. “But I live out here on my own, and the guards don’t patrol this far out. It ain’t the first time I had to turn the axe on somethin’ else. Actually the company is even worse out by the Reach, believe it or not.”

“I do.” Janus said, “There’s a reason nobody takes the high passes into Shornhelm and Northpoint.”

“If you’ve got an extra bow, I can help keep watch.” Janus offered, “I’ll take a shift.”

“You can barely sit up.” Bruno scoffed. “Even if I had another, I don’t think you could pull a hundred pound draw in your condition.”

“Fair ‘nough.” Janus said, another small smile as he settled back down in the bed, “Figure I’ve earned my keep already either way. You need another stupid thing done, I’m right here.”

There wasn’t enough room in Bruno’s cabin to sneak around in, and no other rooms to disappear into — and still, Joy managed to move quietly to the bedside, having kept herself busy for the most part in assisting Henry with making bandages. Maybe it was the silence, and the intense need to just talk that brought her to Bruno and Janus — a damp cloth in one hand, and a neat velvet pouch in the other. “Hmmm,” she began, timid compared to the boisterous bard she had been in the bar. An image of darkness had crept to mind, and her instinct had been to come to the men.

“I brought this,” she said, with however much of a smile as she could muster. “I can-“ she stopped and shook her head, just setting down on her knees at the side of the bed anyway. That tiny flicker of courage had her take the Imperial’s hand. The Nord was careful so as not to disturb his body, and she began to dab and wipe away at the blood that had collected there — dry and turning brown from the air. If he was fine with throwing himself at a demonic creature for her, he would have to be fine with letting her help him.

Janus only closed his eyes and let Joy work on the big knot on his face. The reminder of the pain brought an image of that scene in the sky, so unnatural and… demonic. A word he hadn’t used since the days of young Jan in his priest robes. He mustered up a smile for Joy, “I couldn’t die.” He said, laying patiently as she dabbed at his brow, “Not before I’d bought you that drink.”

“Is that what this is about?” She replied with a smile, her brow quirked upwards as she gently ran the cloth across his hairline. Joy eyed up the rest of his wounds, mostly covered now thanks to Bruno, whom she regarded with a smile and a nod of her head. “I should be the one buying you a drink — both of you.” She paused, glancing at Bruno again. “Wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you both.”

“Hope the accommodations are to your liking.” Bruno said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. A light deflection too, perhaps. He was fully aware that his cabin probably wasn’t to anybody’s liking, given its lack of both space and amenities. Bruno lived off of bare essentials, but at least everything was homemade, as small a comfort that might be. Though he wasn’t necessarily an expert in any one thing, so that comfort might be very small indeed.

A strange comment to make to a woman who’d never had so much of a home to call her own. A roof over her head, sure. Not that Bruno knew, or needed to. “Actually, I think your cabin is beautiful,” Joy’s head tilted to the side, and she curled her bare toes against the floorboards. She was completely sincere. “I’m sorry circumstance called for us to overrun it for the night,” she added with a dry laugh - turning her attention to Janus’s injury again.

Bruno looked down from the window at Joy’s feet. It was obvious a thought flashed across his face, something that softened his hard gaze for just a moment, before he leaned back and stared back out the window. Her words were kind, but he was sure that they both knew that there was no other option. He shrugged off the compliment and breathed in deeply the night air, the slight traces of Daggerfall smoke stinging his nose.

“Joy, right?” Bruno asked. “You should pull the trunk out from under the bed. It shouldn’t be that heavy.”

With a nod back at the Nord, Joy simply hummed in response “mhmm.” That was interesting though, a trunk under the bed? She let the cold cloth settle against Janus’ temple before scooching over to grab a handle. The woman couldn’t help but notice the patient dog at Bruno’s side either, but she dared not disturb him. He was right, it wasn’t all that heavy but she was also stronger than she looked. “Do you have more bandages in here?” She asked him, looking up at him from the floor.

The man shook his head, simply gesturing to her to open the trunk. It was unlocked, and the sight inside was at least a little peculiar. It was only filled up almost halfway, and the contents were all different clothes. A quick look at Bruno and it was easy to tell that they were much too small to fit him. One stack was probably half his size and another was probably only big enough for children. Beside the carefully folded stacks of clothes however, as Joy would be quick to notice, were fur boots and shoes. None of them looked like they were ever worn, though.

“If they’re too big, I could probably fill out the toes with wads of cotton or linen.” Bruno said, still looking out the window and his voice low. “I’m not much of a cordwainer or cobbler, but I hope they’ll do you just fine.”

Joy held them up into as much of the light as she could, they looked fine. It wasn’t something she couldn’t take her own needles to if need be. In the moment, she felt fortunate for Bruno — and even more gratitude. That swell of emotion got the better of her and she flung herself upwards towards the huge man, wrapping her arms around his wide shoulders and placing her head into his neck. “Thank you, thank you,” she whispered. It wasn’t happiness. Any happiness that could have been found there was drowned by the severity of the ominous situation.

He was overtaken by surprise, and all that the other nord could do, is slowly and awkwardly wrap his arm around her and gently pat her back a few times. He breathed in the night air deeply as he looked back out the window. He might have been slightly uncomfortable with the sudden touch, but he did manage to find a moment of solace in Joy’s warmth in the face of the night’s chill. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “they weren’t seeing much use anyway.”

Janus took the cloth from his head and placed it on the nightstand, chancing a look outside and finding his eyes still drawn to the blackness there. Flashes of the writhing serpent and the ghostlights ran through his mind and he shook his head, turning away from the window. That sight put fear in him more stabbing than any number of the walking dead, or even the Headless Rider. The unholy wailing like nails to his ears. He wondered why he’d been left alive, why they hadn’t been run down when he was dying in the saddle and killed. He hadn’t realized he was squeezing the rag or breathing hard until he felt his fist shaking.

The smell of smoke in the air brought back memories, the sight of the inn ablaze drudging up his past, and the past was nowhere he wanted to go. His hands yearned for a bottleneck and his mouth ran dry. For once, he couldn’t bare to lay still and sleep. The bed creaked with his effort and he soon found himself with the hard-fought victory of sitting on the edge of the bed. No matter how great his thirst though, he knew his body wasn’t going to let him make the long trek to his saddlebags. He admitted defeat once more and sat hunched over, knees resting on his thighs as he stared past the floor and straight back into that night sky, “I saw it.” He said, “I’ve heard stories of the dead walking, foul magicks and dark powers. And I saw it all.”

He swallowed, “Why in all the Hells am I still alive?”

Bruno looked over Joy’s shoulder, his hard countenance finally changing into something softer. Concern washed over him as the old soldier forced himself upright and bemoaned his own survival. There was nothing he could say, he thought, that could truly set his mind at ease. But if they were all gonna survive the night, everyone’s morale had to be up.

“Maybe you’re just better than you thought.” Bruno said simply. “Count yourself lucky. Or don’t. Either way, Talos ain’t done with you yet. You’d be best off making the most of this chance you were given.”

Joy let go of Bruno to watch Janus move and sit himself up, she felt a tight knot form in her stomach as she heard him speak. His pain and fear ran deep. She could feel it. Her concern were his wounds, if he didn’t lay back down he’d risk reopening, hurting himself more. She shot a worried sidelong glance at Bruno before excusing herself from him, approaching Janus gingerly, her posture soft and unthreatening.

At first she placed her hand over his shaking fist, she could feel the white-hot of his knuckles against the flat of her own palm and she came steadily to sit beside him. “You’re still here because you are. We all are,” Joy said, whisper quiet. She turned her gaze to the sky too, the burning orange casting sparkling freckles into her blue eyes. “You’re alive because you did good, because you’re strong.”

“I suppose.” He said to the both of them. For the first time in his life, he was met with a problem that wasn’t a simple question of who could get their blade clear of its scabbard first. Perhaps they could go East, to Skyrim. Or sail for Hammerfell. Or perhaps no amount of running was enough to escape. Their only option was to fight, to survive. “I don’t suppose we have a plan of action?”

Joy had no ideas, she didn’t have the knowledge that anyone else in the room would for planning survival past the night. Where to go, what to do. Still, she took in a deep breath and spoke again. “Only plan I’ve got is to get you to lie down again so you don’t get hurt more than you are now.” Her hand came up to meet his shoulder, as if she would begin pushing him back down if he didn’t do so himself. He did just that, grunting back to lay on the bed and offering Joy a small smile.

“Survive the night.” Bruno muttered. “See if the dead can walk beneath the sun. Supposing this night ever ends, that is…” The shepherd watched the deadlights dance, the constellation of the Serpent writhing in the sky. A blink later and they were back where they were, only for the optical illusion to begin anew. The stars were supposed to be guardians. What purpose was the Serpent serving here and why has its light cast a shadow upon its kin? His eyes turned toward the cellar. They were all going to need a few drinks before this night was over.

“I’ll just rest then,” Janus said from the bed, unable to do anything else but. Deep within his mind’s eye though, he couldn’t escape the gaze of that big serpent on high, nor keep the wails of those stars from chilling him deep as his bones, “We’ll need every blade to bear.”

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

^{ft. @Hank}

It would only be a brief jaunt, Bruno thought, but he still locked up his shack and restrung his bow to bring it and his arrows with him. It was better to be safe than sorry,, he noted as he felt the weakening dusk light cast its gloom over Glenumbra. Especially in times like these, and as much as he’d love to bring Bozo to see his friend at The Loyal Hound, any passerby to see a shack empty of its owner and its dog would be ripe for picking. It was probably best to leave Bozo here so people might at least assume that Bruno was here as well. He picked up the pack of provisions he sought to trade with the innkeep.

Not for gold, but something substantial. It was a recent deal, but apparently the man liked his beer enough to try to provide some for his patrons. It wasn’t a top-shelf brew or anything, but it was local and the rarity of being made by only a single person in single batches was enough novelty to attract certain customers to it. Which was fair, Bruno thought, just as long as he wasn’t expected to make any more than at the pace he was comfortable with. Along with the beer were some brined meats. Venison and pork and some fish, along with a bottle of goat milk and a small ball of goat cheese. This was quite a lot to give away, but being one man, he couldn’t eat it all, and it was best to trade the excess for things he couldn’t readily access in the wilds.

It took six miles of trekking to reach his destination. The wildlife had gone scarce ever since the ominous falling sun first lost a few hours of its light, as if they knew whatever this foreboding omen meant. Crops weren’t growing like they used to, and when he could get a successful hunt, they were sometimes sick and the meat was no good. By the time he reached the roadside inn, his legs were becoming sore with all the weight he was carrying on his back, and he thought briefly about building himself a wagon before abruptly jolting the door open with a shoulder-check and his heavy footfalls announced his presence to the tavern -- he wasn’t hunting, and he was tired, so there wasn’t any need for subtlety. He lumbered over with the gait of an angry giant and slung the burlap sack of provisions onto the innkeeper’s counter, and more carefully set down a small barrel of rye malt beer. He swung his head around looking for the innkeeper, only he was nowhere in sight. Just a few customers and a few women he didn’t recall seeing here before. He sighed, as if to relax the muscles in his body before he--

“SOLOMON!”

--did that.

The Imperial took a few seconds to materialize, having dipped out of the common room to take stock of the inn's inventory. Bruno's thunderous voice was unmistakable and Solomon saw the man immediately once he stepped out of the pantry and closed the door behind himself. He saw the sack of goods and the barrel of beer a split second later. Where another man might have smiled at the delivery, he merely nodded.

"Bruno Thunder-Blood," he retorted by way of greeting. "I thought that was you." His tone was dry and supremely calm compared to the Nord's exclamation. He stepped up to the bar and inspected the contents of the sack immediately. Solomon was, if nothing else, thorough and meticulous. "Good, good. And this is the malt rye?" he asked and pointed to the barrel.

“Aye,” he said. His resting tone was comparably louder and carried further than the Imperial’s. “Still surprised you wanted more of it. You honor me.”

Sirius bounded over to Bruno’s side, tail wagging with excitement as he investigated the smells on his hand, who looked down at the dog with a frown and, petting the dog’s head, said, “Sorry boy, Bozo ain’t wit’ me today.”

Facing Solomon once more, he opened up the sack and pulled out many different pieces of soaked paper, wrapped around massive cuts of meat. They were already salted and the moisture caught in the packaging was pulled out of the meat by the salt, but still as fresh as the day the animal was killed. “Butchered these this morning.” Bruno said. “The game’s getting skittish these days, as if they know what’s goin’ on. Hmph. Wish they were polite enough to tell us.”

Taking a cursory glance across the inn’s patrons, he continued, “Fewer layabouts than usual. You heard anything?”

Normally, Solomon was averse to giving away his knowledge to civilians, but he’d known Bruno for a while now -- not very well, but well enough to know that he was an authentic man, salt of the earth, free of duplicity or ulterior motives. The spymaster summoned Henry with a snap of his fingers and instructed him to hook up the barrel of homemade beer to the array of other barrels and bottles that lined the wall behind the bar with a few hushed words.

“I’ve heard plenty, but nothing but rumors,” Solomon said at length, keeping an eye on the boy while he struggled to hoist the barrel up to an empty spot. “Supposedly the dead are walking around the old mausoleum in the swamp, and a few people talked about an old logger that went stark raving mad up in Fisher’s Pond, blabbering to anyone that would listen to him about a giant in the woods, with four arms and fire for eyes.” The Imperial shrugged. “But nobody can confirm that, and I’m sure you’ve heard what the king has to say about all this, so… nothing to do about it but be cautious, eh?”

“Cautious?” He scoffed. “Walkin’ dead is one thing but a giant with four arms and fire eyes? Does somethin’ like that even have a name? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

There was a drinking horn slung around Bruno’s shoulder, and when Henry came to take the keg, he stopped him from walking away by clasping a having mitt over his shoulder before which he tapped the barrel to fill the horn halfway. He silently mouthed the word “tax” before drowning himself in beer. Judging by the bobbing of his throat, he only took two or three gulps or so, so he probably just poured most of it directly down his throat. Taking a disproportionately small breath after downing his mug’s worth, he leaned against the counter and looked at Solomon with a relaxed and rather laissez-faire attitude. “Undead, huh.” Bruno mused, as if he was testing the sound of the word in his mouth. “That’s why you won’t catch me settling anywhere near Camlorn. Folks up north can’t keep the dead dead. That or they can’t keep their ancestors appeased. Wonder what they’re doin’ that grandpa can’t remember to stay put in the dirt. Backstabbing? Stealing? Fornication? Bretons can’t give it a break, huh?”

It was the man’s own beer, Solomon thought. Having the first sip seemed only reasonable. He didn’t say anything while Bruno threw back the contents of his horn in the inimitable way that only Nords could drink and instead poured himself a small glass of brandy. “Cheers,” Solomon said and briefly gestured with his own drink in Bruno’s direction. “To a mutually lucrative partnership.”

The Nord’s other comments were crass, but Solomon couldn’t help but chuckle. “Big talk for a man whose own homeland is riddled with draugr barrows, if I remember correctly,” the Imperial said with a wry smile. Bruno did not like to mince his words and Solomon appreciated the frank and honest banter he could have with the shepherd -- Bruno’s implications about their character were perhaps a little excessive, but Bretons were, at the very least, a linguistically complicated bunch.

“Pfft, as if I don’t have words to say about the motherland either?” Bruno retorted. “Was still raised up at the foot of the Reach, mind you. The only real home I get to have is the one I build with my own two hands.”

“So,” the innkeeper said, turning serious once more. “What do I owe you again?”

Bruno scratched at this beard thoughtfully as he was figuring out the numbers in his head. Truthfully, he wasn’t much of a man who had a use for septims, but this wasn’t the market either. He doubted that Solomon had much to barter with him, so it might just be best to take his septims and spend them later this week at the market for some ingredients he’d have a hard time foraging. Or on tar to slather the roof with so he could reshingle the shack. Yeah, the dockmaster would probably be open to trading some tar.

“Fifteen septims for all the venison,” Bruno said decisively, “ten for the pork. Already trimmed. The beer… twenty-six septims, since a standard mug is worth five… tell me if I’m wrong: fifty-one spetims total.”

The circumstances in High Rock had deteriorated to the point that trade had diminished rather severely; merchants chanced the roads less and less, and Solomon’s usual supply lines had either hiked their prices or regularly failed to deliver in the first place. The Imperial had wisely built up a well-stocked pantry and cellar over the years precisely for situations such as this, but being able to source local meat and beer from Bruno was still a godsend, so he wasn’t about to argue with the man’s assessment.

“A fair price,” Solomon agreed and began to count out the coins from the hefty purse at his waist. Once he was about halfway through he suddenly looked up and summoned Henry with a snap of his fingers. “Fetch a bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy for the man,” he instructed the boy, who ducked out of sight and disappeared into the cellar. Looking back up at Bruno, Solomon smiled -- a rare sight -- and placed the coins on the counter in three neat stacks, ready to be counted.

“Us locals have to stick together in times like this,” he said, his voice low as not to be overheard. “And save the brandy for a special occasion. It’s the finest spirit my homeland has to offer.”

Bruno smiled at that and tipped his empty drinking horn into his direction and said, “May your belly be full and your booze be strong, you bastard.”

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

Bruno Thunder-Blood

B R U N O T H U N D E R - B L O O D

---

_{"Mind your step, child."}

══════ 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 ══════ Bruno Thunder-Blood _______________________________________________ 41 | ♂ | Nord _______________________________________________ Shepherd ▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Build - Heavy and muscular. ► Skin Color - Fair, but sun-kissed. ► Hair Color - Graying blonde. ► Eye Color - Blue. ► Other - Numerous small scars nick and pock his skin. ▼ D O S S I E R ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Birthplace - Raven Spring, High Rock. ► Birthsign - The Lord. ► Biggest Regret - That he wasn't able to protect his home when it mattered most, or kill at least one of those Forsworn bastards. ► Bruno's Goal - To live out the rest of his days in peace. Honestly, he's a simple man with simple needs. ▼ F A V O R E D A T T R I B U T E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Endurance ► Strength ▼ S K I L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Marksman - Adept ► Athletics - Adept ► Provisioning - Adept ► Speech - Apprentice ► Alchemy - Apprentice ► One-Handed (Axe) - Apprentice ► Two-Handed (Axe) - Apprentice ► Sneak - Apprentice ► Smithing - Apprentice ► Hand-to-Hand - Apprentice ▼ S P E L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► What's this magic bullshit? ▼ E Q U I P M E N T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Weapons - A woodcutter's axe, a hunting bow with a 100lb draw weight, and a quiver of 20 arrows. ► Armor - Fur armor. ► Containers - A 32 oz. waterskin, quiver, and a scroll case (for a map and some odd trinkets). ► Food, Drink, Potions - Venison jerky, nuts, roots, dried fruits, and dense home-baked crackers. A bottle of home-brewed rye beer. ► Miscellaneous - A fluffy shepherd dog. His name is Bozo.

══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════ A stocky man, heavy and built like a barrel, Bruno might not stand the tallest of all his friends, but certainly one of the hardest to knock down. 5'11" and a sack of potatoes over 200 lbs worth of bulk, you might be surprised by the dense muscle and bone hiding under his wool and linen clothes and a healthy amount of fat to fill out his figure and keep him warm at night. His muscle toning may not be very sharp, but underestimating him based on that assessment will see you flat on your ass before you knew what happened. He's built like a work horse thanks to the years of labor, and its thanks to that that he doesn't slow himself down with useless muscles and he knows how to use what he does have. His viking build doesn't sacrifice his potential for subtlety either and is capable of treading gently. There's a peculiar way to how he moves, leaning forward into his long purposeful strides while his feet rocking from heel to pads from the edges, incorporating a sort of foxtrot to his pace. Everything about the man from his composure to how he moves seems deliberate. Even when sitting down there's a stillness to him that's only seen in people who've learned to control their quirks and habits, and he does so with ease given his relaxed posture. His skin is fair like most Nords, though sun-kissed and often dirtied. There'd be no mistaking him as one of the local Bretons due to his build and his face. Whereas their features are generally softer or more angular, Bruno's is filled out, his jaw is wide, and a broad nose sits on his face. All of it sits on a short, thick neck. His face is covered in facial hair, once blonde and now fading into grey at the very bottom of his beard. It is styled in such a way that it looked as though he was trying to keep a goatee a month or two ago but decided to stop maintaining it. The result is a mustache and long beard with thick stubble covering the what's left of the bottom half of his face. His age is also beginning to show in his eyes, pale blue and accompanied by crow's feet. His hands are cracked with calluses and his cheeks have been burnt many times by the sun over many years. All the clothes Bruno wears was spun himself and it's obvious to see. Homemade wool and linen shirts and pants that aren't of exceptional make fit for nobility, but meant for functionality. They are certainly warm, durable, and rustic in appearance. Perhaps the leather boots he wears could be considered "nice," for he takes good care of them knowing how hard it is to actually make boots and the resources it takes to make them. He's probably most easily identified by his shoddily made hide cap that sits upon his head and rises to a point, making his head look a little bit like a fuzzy acorn. He wears it to keep his head warm, as male-pattern balding has begun to take place. What he does wear that might set him apart from your typical peasantry is the jewelry he wears, and he wears quite a bit of it. Many different rings of different designs and shapes made from pewter and copper adorn his fingers, solid plugs that he wears in his gauged ears, and a few different amulets. The strings are mostly made of hemp and decorated with teeth and claws from his hunts as well as colorful beads, but he does wear a necklace with a homemade chain and a pewter cast amulet of Talos that he wears unabashedly next to the amulet he wears for Zenithar. He also wears a torc with wolf-head caps and a few leather and chain mail bracelets. ═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════ Is it possible to be both kind and intimidating? He's as unpredictable as a storm and wears his emotions on his sleeve. It's obvious to tell when he's happy and it's obvious when he's pissed, singing shanties as the sun sets and bearly bellowing when his blood boils. He's as quick to offer you supper as he is to remind you not to cross him. This should tell you if nothing else of how earnest a soul he is. He lives honestly and with sincerity and will be respectful to you as long as you are to him. This might seem like a no-brainer to most people, but we all know somebody who will go out of their way to start some kind of drama and Bruno, quite frankly, doesn't think he has the time or energy for that kind of nonsense. Naturally a generous if a bit tempestuous spirit, he seems like your quintessential Nord: ready to party and ready to fight. Bruno values honesty and hard work. As long as you're upfront with your intentions and put actual effort into whatever you're doing you'll earn his respect, even begrudgingly if you're usually a dick about everything. He's also an active worshiper of Talos and Zenithar and lived far enough from the big cities for most of his life that he was allowed to practice his faith in the Man-God undisturbed by Thalmor inquisitors. As a faithful of the patrons of warriors and tradesfolk, he does his best to live with honor and honesty and that anything worth doing ought to be done right and to its fullest. Takes more time to half-ass something than it does to whole-ass something, as it were, and despite not being a trained or experienced warrior, he does have a warrior's spirit and is as quick to defend his home as any soldier. However, he is not without his flaws. Bruno can be quick to anger and offend, he doesn't respond to figures of authority very well, and he has a tendency to judge others based on a minimal interaction and on what he sees (which is generally without context). He absolutely hates the Forsworn without exception (though if you know his history, this can be forgiven), and although he doesn't dislike elves, he tends to take caution in his dealings with them for no other reason than their stereotypes. His morality can be rather black and white and he doesn't bother to appreciate the nuance and ambiguity of most situations or treat them with the delicacy they deserve.

Here, his honesty works against him. He can be brutally honest, blunt, and insensitive to those who might be going through a hard time or making a difficult decision and he doesn't really know how to emotionally connect with people. His idea of helping someone is by solving the problem, but being emotionally supportive isn't in his wheelhouse. He can also be unprecedentedly aggressive, and his idea to solving a conflict is to yell at it until it goes away. If it doesn't? Brute force the problem away.

But you know what? All that being said, there's really no one else you'd rather have at your side. I mean, maybe an expert swordsman if you're being attacked of course, but Bruno's at least got the spirit to tackle them down and pummel their face into a smoothie. He's loyal to a fault and would put himself against the law if it meant protecting a friend. While he never received a formal education, he has his own brand of smarts. His home-life is completely self-sustained and nearly everything he has, he made himself. If you need something that isn't, like, an expertly forged sword, enchantment, or a magical potion, he could probably do it for you. He is an extremely handy person to have around and seems to know how to do or make anything -- and if he doesn't, he'll probably figure it out or find a way to make it happen. Truly, his ingenuity is something to behold, and he can even extend this ability to self-defense via traps, snares, and improvised weapons. He is also a hunter, after all. His philosophy is the more skills he knows, the better off he'll be.

At his best, Bruno can be forthright, loyal, and generous. At his worst, he can be brash, judgmental, and stubborn. At his bestest best, Bruno has a dog. So he's pretty much the best guy ever.

_{═══════ B A C K G R O U N D ══════}

Bruno was born and raised in Eastern High Rock. By East, I mean East. Nestled between the Wrothgarian and Druadach mountains, he basically lived in the Reach, and yes, the Reachmen were absolutely a problem. You didn't have to worry about bandits, but you did have to worry about a gaggle of pissant tribals trying to raid your house and steal your cattle. So, he quickly had to learn how to make quick judgments, be proactive, and be especially aggressive in his defense of home. If you so much as see an antlered headdress peeking over the slopes, you best grab your bow and send a few Hail Mara's over the hill. Coyotes and wolves also loved to take a bite out of your livestock, so he got plenty used to bludgeoning and axe murdering a few of them into hash, and then there were the lord of the land who came by every so often to bully them into paying their taxes. Not that his family could say no to them, but they did have to stick up for themselves and remind those lords that they'll have their money when they have it. Any piece of land can only produce so much in a certain span of time, and the rocky land in these parts weren't suited to growing more than a few crops at a time, so livestock was their best bet.

As surviving soldiers of the Great War, his parents were both very disciplined and had a hatred for elves, and although Bruno never inherited it, his perceptions were very much colored by the mistrust his parents bestowed upon him. Any elf that came by their farm to do business, he suspected were secretly Thalmor agents for the longest time -- only he had never actually encountered one. The upbringing Raven Rock provided was actually quite tumultuous given the rising threat from the Reach, and the ever-present sense of danger made it difficult to sleep soundly at night. But this is our home, his parents said, we built this home and we will defend it. We will defend our right to be here with our lives. Eventually, they did.

When he was a young adult, he awoke to fire and smoke amid the night. He was dizzy and delirious from the inhalation, but he could see the door busted open with a broken hinge, and outside, a bright orange glow illuminating the many dead pigs, goats, and cow outside. The yipping of Forsworn war cries filled the night. The last thing he saw before succumbing to unconsciousness once again were their shadows being cast against the rocky outcrops. The next time he awoke, he was in a medical tent pitched by Evermore soldiers outside of his homestead. The ground was burnt, all the livestock were dead, and the bodies of his parents were retrieved. All of the Forsworn invaders were dead, his family avenged. His home was beyond repair, and he realized that the Reach was no longer a safe place to live. What's more, he kept a guard dog ever since that fateful day.

After grieving, he decided to move towards southern High Rock. There, the soil was more fertile and the weather was nice, and he wouldn't have to worry about his livelihood being at risk if all of his livestock was stolen or killed. He built his home just a mile outside its walls, plowed a few acres of land for wheat and rye, built his fence and paddock, and he's been there for close to twenty years now. He makes his own beer and ale, hunts and grows his own food, makes his own clothes, raises his own cattle, and makes his own jewelry. Most of these skills were self-taught through trial and error. There was still the occasional brigand or highwayman who payed him a visit, but given the following: they usually just wanted his money, their lack of fanatical devotion to his death spoke little of their commitment to the cause, and his new penchant for keeping a dog to alert him to people and potential threats all meant that they were a significant upgrade to the Forsworn he had to deal with in the days of old.

Since his time living in Glenumbra, he's become somewhat recognized by the locals - at least, they know his name. He keeps a quaint little homestead outside of the city and rarely leaves, only coming into town to trade his food in the market and yell at nobles. In fact, the latter was how he got his name. Rumor has it that there was some lord or lady of the court, and there may or may not have been a tax collector involved, and Bruno was very pissed and seeking some kind of justice. So he entered the court where the peasantry usually made their appeals by kicking the door open and bellowing so loudly that someone's wine glass had shattered. Some say that isn't possible and that maybe he startled them and they dropped it, or they clenched their hands so tight that the neck snapped -- regardless of what happened, an irate, blood-boiled shepherd and a shattered wine glass was involved, and now people make jokes about Bruno having the Thu'um.

Who knows? Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. Anyways, his first dog died just a couple years ago, which saddened him greatly, and now he's on his second dog. His name is Bozo and he's the bestest and sweetest boy ever and he loves to bark.

---

_{"Bandits? Ah shit, here we go again."}

---

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

Bruno Thunder-Blood

B R U N O T H U N D E R - B L O O D

---

_{"Mind your step, child."}

══════ 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 ══════ Bruno Thunder-Blood _______________________________________________ 41 | ♂ | Nord _______________________________________________ Shepherd ▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Build - Heavy and muscular. ► Skin Color - Fair, but sun-kissed. ► Hair Color - Graying blonde. ► Eye Color - Blue. ► Other - Numerous small scars nick and pock his skin. ▼ D O S S I E R ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Birthplace - Raven Spring, High Rock. ► Birthsign - The Lord. ► Biggest Regret - That he wasn't able to protect his home when it mattered most, or kill at least one of those Forsworn bastards. ► Bruno's Goal - To live out the rest of his days in peace. Honestly, he's a simple man with simple needs. ▼ F A V O R E D A T T R I B U T E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Endurance ► Strength ▼ S K I L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Marksman - Adept ► Athletics - Adept ► Provisioning - Adept ► Speech - Apprentice ► Alchemy - Apprentice ► One-Handed (Axe) - Apprentice ► Two-Handed (Axe) - Apprentice ► Sneak - Apprentice ► Smithing - Apprentice ► Hand-to-Hand - Apprentice ▼ S P E L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► What's this magic bullshit? ▼ E Q U I P M E N T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Weapons - A woodcutter's axe, a hunting bow with a 100lb draw weight, and a quiver of 20 arrows. ► Armor - Fur armor. ► Containers - A 32 oz. waterskin, quiver, and a scroll case (for a map and some odd trinkets). ► Food, Drink, Potions - Venison jerky, nuts, roots, dried fruits, and dense home-baked crackers. A bottle of home-brewed rye beer. ► Miscellaneous - A fluffy shepherd dog. His name is Bozo.

══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════ A stocky man, heavy and built like a barrel, Bruno might not stand the tallest of all his friends, but certainly one of the hardest to knock down. 5'11" and a sack of potatoes over 200 lbs worth of bulk, you might be surprised by the dense muscle and bone hiding under his wool and linen clothes and a healthy amount of fat to fill out his figure and keep him warm at night. His muscle toning may not be very sharp, but underestimating him based on that assessment will see you flat on your ass before you knew what happened. He's built like a work horse thanks to the years of labor, and its thanks to that that he doesn't slow himself down with useless muscles and he knows how to use what he does have. His viking build doesn't sacrifice his potential for subtlety either and is capable of treading gently. There's a peculiar way to how he moves, leaning forward into his long purposeful strides while his feet rocking from heel to pads from the edges, incorporating a sort of foxtrot to his pace. Everything about the man from his composure to how he moves seems deliberate. Even when sitting down there's a stillness to him that's only seen in people who've learned to control their quirks and habits, and he does so with ease given his relaxed posture. His skin is fair like most Nords, though sun-kissed and often dirtied. There'd be no mistaking him as one of the local Bretons due to his build and his face. Whereas their features are generally softer or more angular, Bruno's is filled out, his jaw is wide, and a broad nose sits on his face. All of it sits on a short, thick neck. His face is covered in facial hair, once blonde and now fading into grey at the very bottom of his beard. It is styled in such a way that it looked as though he was trying to keep a goatee a month or two ago but decided to stop maintaining it. The result is a mustache and long beard with thick stubble covering the what's left of the bottom half of his face. His age is also beginning to show in his eyes, pale blue and accompanied by crow's feet. His hands are cracked with calluses and his cheeks have been burnt many times by the sun over many years. All the clothes Bruno wears was spun himself and it's obvious to see. Homemade wool and linen shirts and pants that aren't of exceptional make fit for nobility, but meant for functionality. They are certainly warm, durable, and rustic in appearance. Perhaps the leather boots he wears could be considered "nice," for he takes good care of them knowing how hard it is to actually make boots and the resources it takes to make them. He's probably most easily identified by his shoddily made hide cap that sits upon his head and rises to a point, making his head look a little bit like a fuzzy acorn. He wears it to keep his head warm, as male-pattern balding has begun to take place. What he does wear that might set him apart from your typical peasantry is the jewelry he wears, and he wears quite a bit of it. Many different rings of different designs and shapes made from pewter and copper adorn his fingers, solid plugs that he wears in his gauged ears, and a few different amulets. The strings are mostly made of hemp and decorated with teeth and claws from his hunts as well as colorful beads, but he does wear a necklace with a homemade chain and a pewter cast amulet of Talos that he wears unabashedly next to the amulet he wears for Zenithar. He also wears a torc with wolf-head caps and a few leather and chain mail bracelets. ═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════ Is it possible to be both kind and intimidating? He's as unpredictable as a storm and wears his emotions on his sleeve. It's obvious to tell when he's happy and it's obvious when he's pissed, singing shanties as the sun sets and bearly bellowing when his blood boils. He's as quick to offer you supper as he is to remind you not to cross him. This should tell you if nothing else of how earnest a soul he is. He lives honestly and with sincerity and will be respectful to you as long as you are to him. This might seem like a no-brainer to most people, but we all know somebody who will go out of their way to start some kind of drama and Bruno, quite frankly, doesn't think he has the time or energy for that kind of nonsense. Naturally a generous if a bit tempestuous spirit, he seems like your quintessential Nord: ready to party and ready to fight. Bruno values honesty and hard work. As long as you're upfront with your intentions and put actual effort into whatever you're doing you'll earn his respect, even begrudgingly if you're usually a dick about everything. He's also an active worshiper of Talos and Zenithar and lived far enough from the big cities for most of his life that he was allowed to practice his faith in the Man-God undisturbed by Thalmor inquisitors. As a faithful of the patrons of warriors and tradesfolk, he does his best to live with honor and honesty and that anything worth doing ought to be done right and to its fullest. Takes more time to half-ass something than it does to whole-ass something, as it were, and despite not being a trained or experienced warrior, he does have a warrior's spirit and is as quick to defend his home as any soldier. However, he is not without his flaws. Bruno can be quick to anger and offend, he doesn't respond to figures of authority very well, and he has a tendency to judge others based on a minimal interaction and on what he sees (which is generally without context). He absolutely hates the Forsworn without exception (though if you know his history, this can be forgiven), and although he doesn't dislike elves, he tends to take caution in his dealings with them for no other reason than their stereotypes. His morality can be rather black and white and he doesn't bother to appreciate the nuance and ambiguity of most situations or treat them with the delicacy they deserve.

Here, his honesty works against him. He can be brutally honest, blunt, and insensitive to those who might be going through a hard time or making a difficult decision and he doesn't really know how to emotionally connect with people. His idea of helping someone is by solving the problem, but being emotionally supportive isn't in his wheelhouse. He can also be unprecedentedly aggressive, and his idea to solving a conflict is to yell at it until it goes away. If it doesn't? Brute force the problem away.

But you know what? All that being said, there's really no one else you'd rather have at your side. I mean, maybe an expert swordsman if you're being attacked of course, but Bruno's at least got the spirit to tackle them down and pummel their face into a smoothie. He's loyal to a fault and would put himself against the law if it meant protecting a friend. While he never received a formal education, he has his own brand of smarts. His home-life is completely self-sustained and nearly everything he has, he made himself. If you need something that isn't, like, an expertly forged sword, enchantment, or a magical potion, he could probably do it for you. He is an extremely handy person to have around and seems to know how to do or make anything -- and if he doesn't, he'll probably figure it out or find a way to make it happen. Truly, his ingenuity is something to behold, and he can even extend this ability to self-defense via traps, snares, and improvised weapons. He is also a hunter, after all. His philosophy is the more skills he knows, the better off he'll be.

At his best, Bruno can be forthright, loyal, and generous. At his worst, he can be brash, judgmental, and stubborn. At his bestest best, Bruno has a dog. So he's pretty much the best guy ever.

_{═══════ B A C K G R O U N D ══════}

Bruno was born and raised in Eastern High Rock. By East, I mean East. Nestled between the Wrothgarian and Druadach mountains, he basically lived in the Reach, and yes, the Reachmen were absolutely a problem. You didn't have to worry about bandits, but you did have to worry about a gaggle of pissant tribals trying to raid your house and steal your cattle. So, he quickly had to learn how to make quick judgments, be proactive, and be especially aggressive in his defense of home. If you so much as see an antlered headdress peeking over the slopes, you best grab your bow and send a few Hail Mara's over the hill. Coyotes and wolves also loved to take a bite out of your livestock, so he got plenty used to bludgeoning and axe murdering a few of them into hash, and then there were the lord of the land who came by every so often to bully them into paying their taxes. Not that his family could say no to them, but they did have to stick up for themselves and remind those lords that they'll have their money when they have it. Any piece of land can only produce so much in a certain span of time, and the rocky land in these parts weren't suited to growing more than a few crops at a time, so livestock was their best bet.

As surviving soldiers of the Great War, his parents were both very disciplined and had a hatred for elves, and although Bruno never inherited it, his perceptions were very much colored by the mistrust his parents bestowed upon him. Any elf that came by their farm to do business, he suspected were secretly Thalmor agents for the longest time -- only he had never actually encountered one. The upbringing Raven Rock provided was actually quite tumultuous given the rising threat from the Reach, and the ever-present sense of danger made it difficult to sleep soundly at night. But this is our home, his parents said, we built this home and we will defend it. We will defend our right to be here with our lives. Eventually, they did.

When he was a young adult, he awoke to fire and smoke amid the night. He was dizzy and delirious from the inhalation, but he could see the door busted open with a broken hinge, and outside, a bright orange glow illuminating the many dead pigs, goats, and cow outside. The yipping of Forsworn war cries filled the night. The last thing he saw before succumbing to unconsciousness once again were their shadows being cast against the rocky outcrops. The next time he awoke, he was in a medical tent pitched by Evermore soldiers outside of his homestead. The ground was burnt, all the livestock were dead, and the bodies of his parents were retrieved. All of the Forsworn invaders were dead, his family avenged. His home was beyond repair, and he realized that the Reach was no longer a safe place to live. What's more, he kept a guard dog ever since that fateful day.

After grieving, he decided to move towards southern High Rock. There, the soil was more fertile and the weather was nice, and he wouldn't have to worry about his livelihood being at risk if all of his livestock was stolen or killed. He built his home just a mile outside its walls, plowed a few acres of land for wheat and rye, built his fence and paddock, and he's been there for close to twenty years now. He makes his own beer and ale, hunts and grows his own food, makes his own clothes, raises his own cattle, and makes his own jewelry. Most of these skills were self-taught through trial and error. There was still the occasional brigand or highwayman who payed him a visit, but given the following: they usually just wanted his money, their lack of fanatical devotion to his death spoke little of their commitment to the cause, and his new penchant for keeping a dog to alert him to people and potential threats all meant that they were a significant upgrade to the Forsworn he had to deal with in the days of old.

Since his time living in Glenumbra, he's become somewhat recognized by the locals - at least, they know his name. He keeps a quaint little homestead outside of the city and rarely leaves, only coming into town to sell his food in the market and yell at nobles. In fact, the latter was how he got his name. Rumor has it that there was some lord or lady of the court, and there may or may not have been a tax collector involved, and Bruno was very pissed and seeking some kind of justice. So he enter the court where the peasantry usually made their appeals by kicking the door open and bellowing so loudly that someone's wine glass had shattered. Some say that couldn't be possibly that maybe he startled them and they dropped it, or they clenched their hands so tight that the neck snapped -- regardless of what happened, an irate, blood-boiled shepherd and a shattered wine glass was involved, and now people make jokes about Bruno having the Thu'um.

Who knows? Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. Anyways, his first dog died just a couple years ago, which saddened him greatly, and now he's on his second dog. His name is Bozo and he's the bestest and sweetest boy ever and he loves to bark.

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_{"Bandits? Ah shit, here we go again."}

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Fruits of Contention - Wayrest

Merry Flights

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11:55 PM, Last Seed 21
Dibella's House of Common Pleasures
Wayrest Temple of Eight and One

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Finch felt lighter on his feet now that his business with Gustav was squared away, and now he could finally set Everard’s plans into motion. He even scribbled a cryptic note and slid it beneath the door to the lord’s room to inform him that people have been hired and paid already. With the shield as a mere downpayment, Finch was anticipating having to pay Gustav at least half of what Everard was going to give him by the job’s end. Really, the only thing Finch was going to get out of this whole deal was some peace of mind, however much that was worth these days. He really couldn’t begin to guess what the mercenaries were going to plan, and as much as he hoped that they were men and women of their word, he couldn’t risk this whole job going wrong. If it did, there was no telling what Everard would do. The man seemed like a desperate lord. Should such a man be sitting on any throne? This insider look gave him a certain insight into this whole rebellion; if only he deigned to give a shit about such things. He didn’t plan on staying in High Rock for long anyways, much less Wayrest, the shit-hole of a city that it was at the moment.

But the job -- yes, the job -- Finch already had ideas in mind as he mentioned to Relyssa earlier. Finch paced down the establishment, deep in thought as he incomprehensibly muttered and strategized. Everard said Mathieu visited the temple quite often, so perhaps it might’ve been worth scouting the scene first to get a lay of the land. There was also a civil war within the city’s walls. There was quite a bit of chaos to take advantage of in this city, but the target also had a network of spies at his disposal. If one of them spotted a regiment of heavily armed mercenaries making a beeline to the temple, he’d probably be alerted. If Mathieu was as dangerous as Everard seemed to suggest, fighting him head-on was probably foolish. So…

Spymaster in a temple.

Don’t try to fight him.

Steal a sword.

What sense did it make to bring swords into places of worship anyway? Sure, there was a civil war at work and the man played an important role, but there had to have been rules. Were the grounds not sacred? As much as Finch didn’t want to bank on the good will of people, as precarious as it was, he had to rely on the religious narrative of sacred, neutral ground. Separate people from their weapons at the door, including the spymaster, and hope that as someone who knew to keep a low profile he would comply without making a scene.

That also meant the temple playing along with this policy. They might not be too hard to convince, since it’d appear to be in the interests of the temple and its patrons. That, or plant people who could pose as acolytes or volunteers. If one or two of the mercs were planted, then that might make the job easier… but if they suddenly disappeared, they might be easy to track down… unless they traded it off to someone else… yes. The plan was coming together!

He suddenly crashed his nose into somebody’s shoulder, releasing a startled and pained yelp. As he massaged the soreness away from his face, he disdainfully looked up to search the face of whoever it was he bumped into.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Mary chimed. Finch didn’t know who this dirty-blonde woman was, but she was much more solidly built than her appearance let on. A plain linen gown was draped over a pair of modest bloomers that barely peeked out from the bottom and she wore wool slippers. Mary knew this to be a stark difference from the apparel the rest of the company usually saw her wearing, but Finch didn’t have a clue who she really was and she didn’t look like the type who, uh… would work here. She looked too modest, but then again, he couldn’t be sure.

“No, it’s my fault.” Finch mumbled, averting eye contact. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I thought you looked distracted.” Mary said, holding back a chuckle. She wasn’t going to mention that she noticed Finch talking to himself so intensely. “Are you alright?”

“Huh? Uh, yeah.” Finch said, trying to brush this woman off. “Just going to head to the temple for a bit of... peace and quiet.”

“As was I. Would you mind the company, or are you a little…” A hint of blush showed on her cheeks as her eyes pointed upstairs. “...over-attended to?”

“What-- what?” Finch stammered, his face immediately going red. “N-no, no, I uh… no, that’s not my -- uh -- I was just working-- I mean, not like that, but uh, you know, just…”

Mary laughed. “Relax, it’s okay. I’m not a patron here either, I’m just boarding a room. Come on, I think we could both use a little bit of fresh air. What’s your name?”

“Uh… Finch.”

“Mary.”

For the life of him, Finch couldn’t understand how he got himself into these situations. The pair walked outside in the midst of a cool summer night, and for once, the call of cicadas were louder than the distant clashing of steel or yelling. In fact, the city was silent. Mary seemed to enjoy the outdoor jaunt, but something about it was rubbing Finch the wrong way.

“Do you know where to go?” Mary asked.

“Yeah.”

“It’s pleasant out.”

“It’s too quiet.”

Maybe the Trifection finally arranged a brief cease-fire between the opposing sides. Finch didn’t know a great deal of the politics behind the conflict, but he did try to pick up information about the city from the locals when he could. The beggars were every city’s eyes and ears, and as long as you could speak their language, you were practically omnipresent. Still, if both sides could agree to stop killing each other, he could only help but wonder what their attentions were aimed at instead. He looked curiously toward Mary, who was humming away as if she was taking a stroll through a park and not a war zone.

“You know there’s a war happening, right?”

“There always is.” Mary answered. “Give me some credit, Finch. The fact that it’s so quiet tonight is all the more reason to enjoy it, don’t you think?”

That was one way of looking at it. The young man usually took any good sign with a grain, pinch, or even a cup of salt. There was an otherworldly confidence to the woman walking the worn Wayrest streets in her pajamas that naming her “Mary” did little to ground or humanize her in his eyes. Of what he could be sure of, at least, was that she wasn’t as mundane as she appeared. So she must’ve been hiding something from him -- go figure, most people did. He finally led them to the large double doors of the Temple of the Eight and One, but with a tug, found that the doors were locked tight. He shot the temple a scornful grimace.

“Strange,” Mary commented, “it should still be open unless the king placed most of the city on lock down.”

Finch didn’t spare Mary a look, instead rummaging through his pockets for a lock pick. He wasn’t as particularly adept at picking locks as much as was at picking pockets, but he still had a job to do. As soon as he stuck it into the keyhole though, he felt Mary’s hands on his his, brushing them back. He was just about to snap at her until she knocked against the heavy wooden door three solid times, and instead stared at her feeling dumbfounded. However, he didn’t even have time to think of their difference of approach before a man mailed in metal chain and leather scales approached the pair.

“Halt there.” Called a guardsman as he approached. Actually, he looked more like a soldier. He was armed with a pike in hand and a sword at his side, and his grip on his weapon spoke to the mistrust he faced them with. “You are in violation of the curfew set by High King Ferrend Bellemont. What is your reason for being here?”

Finch could hear footsteps from inside the temple stop suddenly as the soldier detained them, swearing silently to himself by the rotten luck afforded to him. No doubt this only happened because this Mary woman thought it was a good idea to knock on the door. She probably didn’t know anything going on within the city. As Finch silently stood and stewed in his own aggravation, contemplating whether or not he should run, Mary simply bowed her head.

“Apologies, sir.” She said. “My companion and I were just restless and hoping to pray tonight.”

“Is it not awfully late for that?”

Mary shook her head. “It’s never too late to seek guidance, I think. Especially in times like these.”

“And under what authority grants you the permission to ignore the laws established by our king?”

“I act independently.” Mary said, her voice growing more serious. “As a templar, is it not my right to seek prayer? And my duty to escort this young man safely through the night?”

A tense silence fell over the three of them, and both pairs of eyes landed on Mary. Finch, in disbelief, and the soldier in a slowly rising anger.

“You? You’re one of those fuckin Tri--”

The lock on the temple door suddenly clicked and cracked open. Inside, a priest eagerly peeked out and looked Mary up and down and said, “Trifection Templar, oh good! We’ve been expecting one of you.”

Finch wasn’t the only one who was surprised; even Mary seemed off guard by the mixed reception she was receiving, and the apparent renown that her old temple still seemed to hold. The priest ushered both of them in while the soldier stared daggers into their backs, and the heavy door closing behind them was a much appreciated reprieve. The priest released a heavy sigh and massaged his forehead.

“What was that?” Finch demanded.

“I’m… not sure.” Mary admitted, looking to the priest.

“Your order made quite a few waves.” He explained. “Not everyone appreciates what you’ve done here, but the temple appreciates the cease-fire and the… few tense moments of peace it’s provided, so our doors are open to you. If there’s anything I can help you with, ask me. I will be grounds keeping throughout the night.”

Mary tried to blink away the incredulity fogging her mind as the priest walked away. Order? They weren’t a knightly order, they were a temple. And what have they done here? And what does it have to do with a cease-fire? Her eyes fell back on Finch awkwardly to notice that his eyes were staring daggers at her too, just less aggressively than the soldier seemed to stare at her earlier.

“What?”

“Templar, huh?”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing at all. It’s fine. Just, you know, seems like an important thing to mention or introduce yourself as.”

“You never asked.” Mary replied. A self-conscious bug began to creep into her mind. “Besides, my temple went defunct a long time ago, I’m not sure why those people were…”

“So, wait, did you lie? Are you lying?” Finch pressed. “Because I don’t know many defunct knightly orders brokering peace deals.”

“That’s not it at all!” Mary protested. “The House of Trifection wasn’t even a knightly order, we were a temple in Jehanna. What do you mean brokering peace deals? They shouldn’t even exist anymore…”

“Mary,” Finch said, sounding impatient, “the Order of Trifection is here. They’re the ones playing diplomat between the two warring factions.”

That paused the conversation for quite some time. It was a lot of information for Mary to take in, and she had nothing to say to Finch after that. She had to process what she heard. The next hour or so was spent in contemplative silence, sitting in the front pew. Finch sat with her for a short while at first while she prayed, but the longer she prayed in silence, the more antsy he got. He tried praying too, but he wasn’t nearly as practiced in it as Mary was, and his prayers were often short. He would get up, walk around, and sit back down. He'd walk around the temple, investigate possible hiding spots, vantage points, and so on, and he used the excuse of appreciating the artwork and architecture when the earlier priest asked him what he was doing -- but Mary stayed seated and prayed for what seemed like an impossibly long time.

Naturally, her mind was occupied with a mess of thoughts and worries. Had she really been so out of touch for so long? Had she really avoided newspapers for so long? Was her temple truly still standing and did it survive the scandal that had rocked its very foundations? Furthermore, what must have happened to it? Apparently it had converted to a knightly order from a religious institution; what had spurred that change? What happened to the leadership? Were her old friends still with the order? What would have happened if she returned? Did they think she abandoned them? Did she abandon them? They called her the most devoted of the templars, but if they truly survived, did she really deserve that title? Mary hadn’t returned home in so long and was so far removed from the politics of High Rock that everything she thought she knew was beginning to unravel.

About an hour into her prayers, Finch came back and tried to talk to her again. She then was fortunately free from whatever anxious high she was on and was able to hear him clearly again.

“So… uh, how about you tell me about them?”

“The templars?”

“The templars.”

“Well… we were a temple. We followed a religion. That’s how it started.” Mary began. “The House of Trifection. We followed the Tenets of Trifection, which was basically a model of moral perfection. Unattainable and always out of reach, of course, but that meant you could always work closer and closer toward it. Mara, Julianos, and Stendarr were our patron divines -- love, wisdom, and justice. We templars were supposed to embody those ideals. Healer… teacher… warrior.”

“So… you guys can do everything?”

Mary chuckled a bit, though a solemn sound it was. “Master of none, mind you.” She pinned on. “But we provided a service. It lasted until… well, a scandal hit the temple that I was sure was going to destroy us. It didn't even know about it, but it made me feel ashamed so I never went back. Now I learned that we survived, and I don't know how to feel. I had no idea, and apparently we’re-- they’re knights now, and are here in this city. I should feel happy, but… I’m afraid of seeing them again.”

Finch didn’t quite know what to say to that. There was much more backstory behind this woman than he anticipated and more than he really cared to hear about, more than he would bother to hear were he less of a bleeding heart. He couldn’t really relate. Like, he threw a rock once at a guard in the middle of a protest. Which turned into a riot, but that was more his fault while Mary’s entire ordeal seemed entirely out of her control. There was a difference between making shitty decisions and having shitty luck, though he could probably argue that he was good enough to manage both at the same time. Eh, on second thought, his own life was pretty eventful even if it was par for the course with most of the peasantry.

“So do you have any other surprises up your sleeves?” He asked.

“Um… I’m working as a mercenary?”

“No shit? Gustav?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Stendarr’s mercy,” Finch groaned, “yeah, I know him. I, uh… well, he’ll clue you in. Don’t worry about it for now, I guess.”

Well, this just got a little bit awkward. He didn’t expect her to be a templar nor one of the people he ended up employing. Then again, the company was taking lodging within the brothel, so it was probably just as likely he’d run into one of them as it was he ran into a whore. He spent the remainder of his time flagging down the grounds keeping priest and proposing to him a few practices that’d help Finch later with his job. Covertly of course, and through casual conversation. A suggestion that, perhaps with all the soldiers and tensions in the city, that it might be best for any guests to the temple to leave their weapons by the door before entering this place of worship and communion. After all, this was supposed to be a safe place. No one should not feel unsafe under the loving gaze of the Divines, and this was an argument that the priest couldn’t necessarily refute. At the mention of not having enough members of the clergy to fulfill all the daily duties and tasks of the temple in addition to manning such a position, Finch mentioned that he, Mary, and some friends would be more than happy to volunteer. Finch also had a feeling that the priest wouldn’t have trusted him if he hadn’t walked in with a Trifecta Templar by his side, but he was lucky. After some consideration, they seemed to reach an agreement and shook on it.

It was about twenty minutes after the conversation did Mary seem ready to leave. It was very late into the night now, and both of them seemed quite tired after staying up so late. Both received some pretty heavy news (though one more than the other), but got what they came for nonetheless. There was little telling what the following day would bring them, but both knew there was a lot to expect (for varying reasons). Upon their return to the brothel, they bid their goodnights to one another as Mary resigned herself to bed and Finch to his own quarters, where he’d remain restless and awake. To spend some of this energy, he wrote down what he’s been up to all night on a piece of parchment so that he could forward his plan to Gustav through the crack under his door. Everard wouldn’t care, just as long as he got his damned sword back.

He even wrote a very brief apology letter to Relyssa to slide under her door, he was so restless. Very brief. A few words brief. Something about noticing how something had shaken her and that he will be more careful in the future. He couldn’t really begin to guess what it was, but he figured that someone as powerful as her -- at least he presumed she was powerful -- would be a bad person to have disliking you. He didn’t particularly care for the noble types, but right now he had to rely on these people to work with him in order to get this job done right.

Finally, with all of his energy spent, he blew out the candles and quickly fell asleep with only a few hours left to spare. He’d be fine. If he could function with four hours of rest on a cold cobblestone street, then five hours in a warm plush bed would be more than enough.