» Fri Dec 31, 2010 11:22 pm DISCLAIMER: Some minor things in this RP may or may not make sense to people who were not in ADETH's The End of an Era, but don't worry, it's totally newcomer friendly; you'll know all you need to by the end of this post. And then there will be some things that may just not make any sense no matter how you noodle them. Such is the nature of the Isles.
Now, on to the fun!
The date is 4E 06, six years after the horrors of the Oblivion Crisis. A group of unlikely misfits banded together, each for his or her own reasons, to fight the Daedric hordes and, after months of fighting the Daedra, their own personal ghosts and, sometimes, each other, they managed to push back the tide and reclaim Mundus from the brink of apocalypse. These men and women were, upon the end of the war, lauded as The Champions of Cyrodiil, and although they fought together, many have gone their separate ways since then.
Many innocent people perished in the ordeal, as well as a few not-so-innocent people, but folks are trying to forget about all of it now. They are rebuilding their cities, their homes and their lives. Reconstruction is going well, Kvatch has once again risen from the ashes and the Avatar of Akatosh stands proud and tall in the newly rebuilt Temple of the One.
But none of this would bear any significance in a land ruled by a cheese-obsessed man with a split personality and a Dremora for a son, would it?
On the other side of the Door in Niben Bay lies the Shivering Isles, home to Sheogorath, Prince of Madness and Lord of the Never There. Or at least his mortal replacement. Dunken Ilsutran rules over the Isles now, the Dunmer having grown into his station gradually over the years. The realm has begun to shift to match his brand of Madness, spawning new types of Daedra and transforming the landscape in subtle ways to suit the new Madgod better.
Dunken rose to become the first mortal to rule a Deadric realm during the Crisis and subsequently ignored Tamriel almost completely, preferring to leave such affairs to his Army Commander and Public Relations Representative, a young Imperial named Greldar Crehascrin. All was well in the Isles under the rule of the new Sheogorath for a time as they too rebuilt in the wake of an invasion. But as we know, in a place like the Isles, nothing stays the same for long.
Two years ago, a man that Dunken had clubbed within an inch of his life with a wooden ladle just prior to becoming a god finally caught up with him. He somehow tracked him to the Isles, got in and began plotting his revenge on the man that had ruined his life. Using the power contained in the decommissioned Obelisks of Order, he managed to bind Daedra into his service permanently, building an army. There was one hitch, though: he could only summon ducks. Since being beaten in the head by the future Madgod, the man had forgotten all of his past save for his immense knowledge on the subjects of Conjuration and Dwemer technology. The brain damage from the clubbing damaged his ability to weave magicka, leaving him only able to call these strange ducklike Daedra into his service. And so, based on the only thing that he could create, the only fruits he could reap from his labors, the Redguard named himself Ducky and swore to bring down the Isles in a flurry of bills and feathers.
__________
Our side of the story begins with one of the Champions of Cyrodiil, a small and haunted Khajiit named Karstine. After having bizarre dreams for the last two months straight, she finds herself suddenly compelled to find the place that appears when she falls asleep; it wants something from her and it won't let her be until it gets it. After a month of searching, she located the island that called to her, a small patch of land in the Niben Bay adorned with a strange, locked metal gate to nowhere. The gate informed her upon arrival, in a rather bored tone, that she would perish alone and instructed her to gather an adventuring party before coming back or its master would rip off her ears and nibble on them.
Disturbed, yet oddly more compelled than before to figure out the mystery behind her strange dreams and the door on the island, Karstine wrote a handful of letters to fellow Champions she'd lost contact with and scribbled up some posters calling for anyone strong of body, mind or adventurous spirit to see her about an expedition into the unknown. She pinned up the posters in all of the major cities, sat down in her home in Bruma, and waited. This is where you come in.
Sometime over the last month, Karst has met personally with several people (your characters) and arranged a meeting between them all, and the Champions she managed to get hold of. All still interested are to meet her at Silverhome on the Water in Bravil on the 18th of Rain's Hand, between 9 and 11AM.
__________
So, a couple notes first:
- Although they'll likely be a minority, those returning from The End of an Era can reprise their roles as Champions of Cyrodiil, though they're also more than welcome to make something entirely new as well.
- Those who are new, whom I expect to be the greater majority, may make almost whoever you want. You may also be a Demented or Manic from the Shivering Isles once we get there if you so wish. I may even consider allowing Mazken and Auriel characters as well, but don't count on it. Those entries will be accepted or declined based on how well written the sheet is. I'm not asking for a book, just a decently thought-out sheet. If you wanna be a Daedra just for the sake of being a Daedra, you'll likely be turned down, for instance.
General Rules and Stuff:
~ You must wait for me to approve your sheet before posting.
~ If you need to be gone for a while and intend to return, PM me or someone else to RP your character for you while you're gone. This will help keep things running smoothly.
~ No killing other people's peoples unless properly arranged. Same for controlling them.
~ Vampires and werebeasts are acceptable, though they must be played correctly and I will be limiting their numbers to avoid excess ridiculousness (providing ridiculousness is mostly my job here), so it's pretty much first come, first serve.
~ This is not an RP for the faint of heart; there will be some rather dark and twisted stuff in this, despite the comedic nature of the plot.
~ Romances are allowed, just try to keep it realistic. And no graphic sixing scenes. I personally couldn't care less, but Rohugh might frown at us if you do.
~ No 'Bob says 'Hi.' then picks his nose while he waits for you to respond.' posts. I want a good size and at least an attempt at proper grammar and staying in character. You can have Bob say hi and pick his nose at someone else, but try to embellish it a little and make it interesting to read, mm'kay?
~ Multiple characters are not only allowed, but encouraged, as long as you can handle them. The more the merrier.
~ Ubering is okay, but in small amounts and mostly for the sake of comedy. If you wanna slash through three-hundred Mazken, you better have a damn good explanation.
~ The scale of this will be bigger than ingame; New Sheoth is enormous, for instance, rather than just a decent-sized town with a lunatic in the middle.
~ You must have some sense of humor or you'll never enjoy yourself here. Your character doesn't, but you do.
~ If you ever want to do anything with and/or to my creations (I'll be having several active at any given time) just ask. Chances are I'll let you do whatever.
~ For anything I haven't covered here, use common sense. If it seems like a bad idea, it probably is. You're big boys and girls, you can figure it out, right?
______________
Encyclopedia Insania
Important Things in the New Realm
New Realm: The 'proper' term for the Shivering Isles under the rule of the new Madgod, effective since the beginning of the Fourth Era. The reason for this change is unknown to the general populace, but is assumed to exist to differentiate documents written after the Greymarch.
The Redguard Ducky: Though his birth name has been entirely forgotten, the name 'Ducky' strikes fear into the hearts of nearly every denizen of the Shivering Isles. He has been rumored to be everything from a giant beastman covered in feathers to a creation of Jyggalag come to destroy the world he could not have. Few but the Madgod himself know the truth of his origins.
The Duckmarch: Common term referencing the Greymarch for the war that has raged since 4E 04 between Dunken and Ducky. What started as an attack by strange beasts on Xedillian soon turned out to be a full-scale invasion from within the Realm. Many of the ruins that dot the Isles are called home by Ducky's forces, and many more strongholds have been erected around old Obelisks of Order. Currently, roughly thirty-five percent of the Shivering Isles have fallen to the seemingly endless tides of birds.
Dunken Ilsutran: During the Oblivion Crisis, Dunken was busy thwarting the Greymarch that threatened the Realm. His victory over Jyggalag and the forces of Order netted him the title of Madgod of the Isles, a role he has grown fully into over the past six years. He is now as much a Daedric god as his predecessor, possessing in his own way every bit of potency as the previous Sheogorath.
Anatidaedroth: More commonly known as 'Demon Ducks,' and sometimes just 'Ducks,' these feathered horrors are Ducky's fearless warriors, available in a frightening variety of forms. The average Duck is three feet tall, made of leathery black flesh covered in brown and black feathers and sports a stubby brown bill full of sharp blue teeth. Bright and angry gray eyes sit on either side of the bill, set into a human sized head. Possibly the most grotesque aspect of of the creature's body are the great, muscular legs upon which it travels, as thick as a Xivilai's thigh and ending in a large webbed foot nearly a foot across. In addition to these basic but dangerous Daedra, four 'augmented' forms have been observed in battle so far, with upgrades ranging from robotic limbs to magicka-fueled weaponry.
Xelinar Ilsutran: Dunken's only 'son'. Born of a strange incident involving a failed enchantment attempt that ended in the Madgod being impregnated with a Dremora's soul, Xelinar is about as strange as his origins. While fiercely intelligent, quick-witted and possessing the body of a teen, he has lived a scant five years in the world and is often naive and misinformed about a number of topics, despite being highly opinionated about many of them. Furthermore, he is reckless and promiscuous, qualities that annoy many around him, most notably the female Daedra who guard the Realm. While unofficially an heir to the 'throne', Xelinar is far from ready to lead anything, let alone an entire world. That does not, however, prevent him from trying.
~ Character Sheets ~
(In no particular order)
Aulakauss
Spoiler
Name: Karstine Maranay Zeterra (the Second)
Gender: Female
Race: Mixed-racial Dunmer and Khajiit
Age: 29
Birthsign: The Thief
Birthdate: 17th of Evening Star, 3E 409
Class: Vagabond
Class Focus: Stealth/Combat
Major Skills: Sneak, Light Armor, Security, Marksman, Short Blade
Minor Skills: Alteration, Acrobatics, Restoration, Unarmored, Athletics
Eyes: Bright Emerald Green
Hair: A cascade of blood red strands, perfectly groomed to end just at her shoulder blades. Kept ponytailed with a leather tie in combat situations.
Skin/Fur Color: Snow white with quarter inch long white fur. Fur has black striping on her sides and the outsides of her arms and legs. Also, the tip of her tail is black.
Height: 5' 6"
Weight: 148 lbs
Build: Slender, with stringy musculature.
Physical Description: Karstine is, in a sentence, a small but pretty Khajiiti woman. She has stark white skin and similarly colored fur with black striping on her sides, arms and legs, alongside a pair of sparkling emerald colored eyes, all attributes from her mother. From her father's elven lineage, Karst has blood colored hair and a soft elven face, as opposed to the usual feline snout that her mother bore.
In body she is somewhat curvy, though what beauty she has is a warrior's beauty rather than a maiden's; her arms, legs and stomach have stringy-yet-strong muscles under them and there's not an ounce of fat on her body. Her hands are scarred but otherwise delicate looking, her fingers oddly long for the size of the rest of her, and her toes, while human in appearance, bear little claws on the ends of them.
Karst's soft face often bears a look of determination, making her otherwise cute features look somewhat sinister. Like her hair, her eyebrows are a deep red color, a drastic contrast to the snowy fur, and the eyes themselves are slightly slanted inwards, almond shaped with long eyelashes and highly expressive. Like most Khajiit, her ears and tail are easily noticeable indicators of her mood at most times and her movements are graceful and smooth. Unlike most Khajiit, though, her voice is that of an elven woman, with only traces of her Khajiiti heritage audible.
Tattoos/Scars/Piercings: Many whip scars mar her back from mistreatment in the Imperial prisons, alongside a scar from a stab wound just under her collar bone and a gray gash just under her bottom left rib from a Dremora's blade. An extravagantly jeweled ring rests in her left ear and two iron rings offset it in her right, all usually hidden beneath her hair. Her only tattoo is a small inking of her name in Daedric, which lies dead center of her shoulder blades.
Clothing and Armor: In the casual everyday, Karst's usual outfit consists of a deep purple shortsleeve shirt overlaid by a fur lined black leather vest with silver buckles up top. Below that, a pair of comfortable linen pants the same shade as her shirt and and old set of adamantium boots, gashes everywhere in the blackened metal. When the weather takes a turn for the colder, a tattered old trenchcoat and padded leather gloves are added.
For combat situations, everything changes save the boots. The ornamental vest is traded for a mithril one to protect her vitals. This is worn beneath light leather armor, both greaves and cuirass, finished with similar fingerless gauntlets covered on the back with steel plating.
And no matter the occasion, Karst always has about her neck a pair of necklaces. One is a gift from her mother, a silver chain with an emerald sphere entwined in silver vines hanging from it, enchanted to ward off diseases of all sorts. The other is a green crystal pendant, burnt and cracked, the only remnant of a friend she lost in the Oblivion Crisis.
Inventory:
Pack, Front Pocket: Food items, such as small bread loaves, a tin of cheese and some leather-wrapped meats, as well as a metal container of Flin, a canteen filled with homemade whiskey and a small leather pouch of moon sugar.
Pack, Main Pocket: 'Civilian' clothing, bathing supplies, basic makeup kit, sewing kit, purse of 300 gold, tin of tobacco and papers.
Coat Pockets: Square tin of premade cigarettes, flint stone, purse of 43 gold.
Weapons: Mithril-stringed Steel Longbow/50 Solid Steel Arrows, Elven Shortsword, Dremora Shortsword, Silver Dagger, claws.
Magic: Mara's Kiss [Restore Health, self/touch], Flash Bolt [mid-level Shock, target/touch], Wind's Companion [Invisibility 65 sec, self. Requires her to be almost fully charged], Dead Bolt [Lock 30pts/Easy Lock, target], Trespass [Open 50pts/Average Lock, touch], Lightning Grasp [mid-high-level Shock, touch]
History: Karst was born in Elsweyr, the product of an unlikely love between a Khajiiti wise woman and a Dunmeri man who was taken into the tribe after being rescued from the desert. For a while she lived a happy existence with her parents and elder brother and even when said brother left at coming of age –fifteen years old in their tribe– she remained a relatively happy little girl until the age of five and a half. Her mother fell mysteriously ill and, over the next seven months, died a slow and agonizing death. Her father’s grief had him follow within another year, leaving Karst very much alone in the world.
After the loss of her parents, she lived mostly off the charity of the kinder elders. As a half-breed, she was already unpopular with most of her tribesmen, but her frequent vandalisms, practical jokes and thefts made matters far worse for her. At age eleven, Karst pulled a prank on one of the younger warriors and, in his fit of rage, she was forced to kill him in self defense. The incident presented the more resentful elders with an excuse to get rid of her once and for all and so, the next day, she was accused of murder and exiled into the deserts.
Life didn’t improve much after that, either. Karst was forced to live as a wanderer, stealing food and valuables to stay alive, sleeping in alleys, never staying in one place for very long. Over the course of her travels, love was found and subsequently brought to a violent end on three separate occasions. By sixteen, her experiences had left her bitter, angry and mentally unstable. Eventually, after moving north into the southern Cyrodiilic town of Skingrad, she cracked. A nobleman had caught her stealing from him and had some of his guards harass her, to which her eventual, irrational response was to rob him at knifepoint. Karst doesn’t remember the details of what happened that night, but the next morning she awoke in the Imperial City Prison stripped of her belongings, covered in blood and, yet again, guilty of murder.
The Khajiit spent seven years of her life imprisoned there, all the while subjected to unspeakable torture and defilement at the hands of the prison guards. Her only luxury, and only means of retaining what little sanity she still had, came in the form of fights in the nearby Arena. Although at first her forced participation in the Arena was a subject of fear for her, she found she excelled at ending the lives of others and, despite her original revulsion at the thought, came to enjoy it. Then, just as Karst had gotten accustomed to the daily routine of torment and violence, she was unexpectedly released back into the world. As her luck would have it, her release came at the beginning of the end of the world. She fought in the Kvatch Arena for a living in the brief time before the Oblivion Crisis began and when it did, the first town to burn was the only one in Cyrodiil she really cared about.
Within a relatively short time, she met up with a ragtag band of adventurers, all claiming to be out to stop the Deadric invasion. With few thoughts but revenge, she lent herself to their cause. Over the course of two and a half months, Karst fought fiercely beside them, even the ones she detested, and made friends of many in the group, even managing to stumble upon her long estranged brother. Their efforts ultimately brought victory, though at terrible cost; some of her closest friends perished in the hells of the Deadlands, a burden borne with extreme difficulty. Karst and her companions were bestowed the title of Champions of Cyrodiil, given enough gold to live on for several years and treated as celebrities
In the six years following the crisis, Karst did scattered work for the Fighter's Guild and various others to keep busy for two years, briefly worked in the King and Queen Tavern, then, eventually, joined and shortly ended up running a small mercenary group known for their unusually strict morals (for a merc band) and pickiness with contracts. Here she stayed for another three years, saving up what she had to spare, living on the road, storing her money with her brother. Within the last few months, she decided to elect a close friend in the band as the new leader and left, buying a nice home in Bruma to be closer to her sibling, who had stayed with the Blades after the Crisis. When her dreams tormented her into finding the Door in Niben Bay, she contacted him first, and although he couldn't join her, he agreed to travel with her as far as the Imperial City and see her off.
Personality: Under normal circumstances, Karst is playful, energetic and witty. She boasts a strong will, a twisted and somewhat dark sense of humor and rather striking lack of physical shame. Karst is unusually tolerant of pain, able to endure amounts of it that would make most folk black out, a skilled marksman and swordswoman, excellent sneak and an extremely compassionate person to those who she thinks deserve it.
On the other side of the coin, Karst has problems with her temper, often speaks her mind when it'd be far better to be quiet. Displays of blatant arrogance and (what she views as) misuse of authority often garner fiery and violent reactions from the small woman. Though highly intelligent and quick-witted, she often does irrational and even incredibly stupid things in anger. She has a serious lack of confidence in herself in almost every way, is a frequent alcoholic and has a habit of judging people severely by first impression.
Her biggest weakness by far, however, is her emotions. At the best of times, she is subject to mood swings ranging from psychotically happy to violently irritable and broods sometimes for days after being angered. At the worst of times, she is manic-depressive and borderline suicidal. Despite all her weaknesses, though, Karst is a kindred woman and, if one earns her trust, a fiercely loyal friend.
Other Traits/Oddities:
- Despises arrogance.
- Enjoys pulling pranks.
- Drinks when depressed.
- Copes with certain kinds of trauma by masking it with humor. This sometimes leads to jokes at very inappropriate times.
- Her fingers are slightly longer than most humanoid creatures her size by about half an inch.
Misc Skills [Non-Combat]:
- Is a good cook, but never admits to it when complemented.
- Can be persuasive if need be, though she never claims to be smooth about it.
- Is good at creating medicines from raw ingredients, a skill she leaned from her mother when she was young.
- Has psychic potential that she cannot harness. Though she knows and accepts that she has it, the only use she currently has for it is the sort of sixth sense that it grants her, allowing her to sense and feel the emotions of those near her. This can often be as much a curse as it is a blessing, however.
Gender: Female
Race: Mixed-racial Dunmer and Khajiit
Age: 29
Birthsign: The Thief
Birthdate: 17th of Evening Star, 3E 409
Class: Vagabond
Class Focus: Stealth/Combat
Major Skills: Sneak, Light Armor, Security, Marksman, Short Blade
Minor Skills: Alteration, Acrobatics, Restoration, Unarmored, Athletics
Eyes: Bright Emerald Green
Hair: A cascade of blood red strands, perfectly groomed to end just at her shoulder blades. Kept ponytailed with a leather tie in combat situations.
Skin/Fur Color: Snow white with quarter inch long white fur. Fur has black striping on her sides and the outsides of her arms and legs. Also, the tip of her tail is black.
Height: 5' 6"
Weight: 148 lbs
Build: Slender, with stringy musculature.
Physical Description: Karstine is, in a sentence, a small but pretty Khajiiti woman. She has stark white skin and similarly colored fur with black striping on her sides, arms and legs, alongside a pair of sparkling emerald colored eyes, all attributes from her mother. From her father's elven lineage, Karst has blood colored hair and a soft elven face, as opposed to the usual feline snout that her mother bore.
In body she is somewhat curvy, though what beauty she has is a warrior's beauty rather than a maiden's; her arms, legs and stomach have stringy-yet-strong muscles under them and there's not an ounce of fat on her body. Her hands are scarred but otherwise delicate looking, her fingers oddly long for the size of the rest of her, and her toes, while human in appearance, bear little claws on the ends of them.
Karst's soft face often bears a look of determination, making her otherwise cute features look somewhat sinister. Like her hair, her eyebrows are a deep red color, a drastic contrast to the snowy fur, and the eyes themselves are slightly slanted inwards, almond shaped with long eyelashes and highly expressive. Like most Khajiit, her ears and tail are easily noticeable indicators of her mood at most times and her movements are graceful and smooth. Unlike most Khajiit, though, her voice is that of an elven woman, with only traces of her Khajiiti heritage audible.
Tattoos/Scars/Piercings: Many whip scars mar her back from mistreatment in the Imperial prisons, alongside a scar from a stab wound just under her collar bone and a gray gash just under her bottom left rib from a Dremora's blade. An extravagantly jeweled ring rests in her left ear and two iron rings offset it in her right, all usually hidden beneath her hair. Her only tattoo is a small inking of her name in Daedric, which lies dead center of her shoulder blades.
Clothing and Armor: In the casual everyday, Karst's usual outfit consists of a deep purple shortsleeve shirt overlaid by a fur lined black leather vest with silver buckles up top. Below that, a pair of comfortable linen pants the same shade as her shirt and and old set of adamantium boots, gashes everywhere in the blackened metal. When the weather takes a turn for the colder, a tattered old trenchcoat and padded leather gloves are added.
For combat situations, everything changes save the boots. The ornamental vest is traded for a mithril one to protect her vitals. This is worn beneath light leather armor, both greaves and cuirass, finished with similar fingerless gauntlets covered on the back with steel plating.
And no matter the occasion, Karst always has about her neck a pair of necklaces. One is a gift from her mother, a silver chain with an emerald sphere entwined in silver vines hanging from it, enchanted to ward off diseases of all sorts. The other is a green crystal pendant, burnt and cracked, the only remnant of a friend she lost in the Oblivion Crisis.
Inventory:
Pack, Front Pocket: Food items, such as small bread loaves, a tin of cheese and some leather-wrapped meats, as well as a metal container of Flin, a canteen filled with homemade whiskey and a small leather pouch of moon sugar.
Pack, Main Pocket: 'Civilian' clothing, bathing supplies, basic makeup kit, sewing kit, purse of 300 gold, tin of tobacco and papers.
Coat Pockets: Square tin of premade cigarettes, flint stone, purse of 43 gold.
Weapons: Mithril-stringed Steel Longbow/50 Solid Steel Arrows, Elven Shortsword, Dremora Shortsword, Silver Dagger, claws.
Magic: Mara's Kiss [Restore Health, self/touch], Flash Bolt [mid-level Shock, target/touch], Wind's Companion [Invisibility 65 sec, self. Requires her to be almost fully charged], Dead Bolt [Lock 30pts/Easy Lock, target], Trespass [Open 50pts/Average Lock, touch], Lightning Grasp [mid-high-level Shock, touch]
History: Karst was born in Elsweyr, the product of an unlikely love between a Khajiiti wise woman and a Dunmeri man who was taken into the tribe after being rescued from the desert. For a while she lived a happy existence with her parents and elder brother and even when said brother left at coming of age –fifteen years old in their tribe– she remained a relatively happy little girl until the age of five and a half. Her mother fell mysteriously ill and, over the next seven months, died a slow and agonizing death. Her father’s grief had him follow within another year, leaving Karst very much alone in the world.
After the loss of her parents, she lived mostly off the charity of the kinder elders. As a half-breed, she was already unpopular with most of her tribesmen, but her frequent vandalisms, practical jokes and thefts made matters far worse for her. At age eleven, Karst pulled a prank on one of the younger warriors and, in his fit of rage, she was forced to kill him in self defense. The incident presented the more resentful elders with an excuse to get rid of her once and for all and so, the next day, she was accused of murder and exiled into the deserts.
Life didn’t improve much after that, either. Karst was forced to live as a wanderer, stealing food and valuables to stay alive, sleeping in alleys, never staying in one place for very long. Over the course of her travels, love was found and subsequently brought to a violent end on three separate occasions. By sixteen, her experiences had left her bitter, angry and mentally unstable. Eventually, after moving north into the southern Cyrodiilic town of Skingrad, she cracked. A nobleman had caught her stealing from him and had some of his guards harass her, to which her eventual, irrational response was to rob him at knifepoint. Karst doesn’t remember the details of what happened that night, but the next morning she awoke in the Imperial City Prison stripped of her belongings, covered in blood and, yet again, guilty of murder.
The Khajiit spent seven years of her life imprisoned there, all the while subjected to unspeakable torture and defilement at the hands of the prison guards. Her only luxury, and only means of retaining what little sanity she still had, came in the form of fights in the nearby Arena. Although at first her forced participation in the Arena was a subject of fear for her, she found she excelled at ending the lives of others and, despite her original revulsion at the thought, came to enjoy it. Then, just as Karst had gotten accustomed to the daily routine of torment and violence, she was unexpectedly released back into the world. As her luck would have it, her release came at the beginning of the end of the world. She fought in the Kvatch Arena for a living in the brief time before the Oblivion Crisis began and when it did, the first town to burn was the only one in Cyrodiil she really cared about.
Within a relatively short time, she met up with a ragtag band of adventurers, all claiming to be out to stop the Deadric invasion. With few thoughts but revenge, she lent herself to their cause. Over the course of two and a half months, Karst fought fiercely beside them, even the ones she detested, and made friends of many in the group, even managing to stumble upon her long estranged brother. Their efforts ultimately brought victory, though at terrible cost; some of her closest friends perished in the hells of the Deadlands, a burden borne with extreme difficulty. Karst and her companions were bestowed the title of Champions of Cyrodiil, given enough gold to live on for several years and treated as celebrities
In the six years following the crisis, Karst did scattered work for the Fighter's Guild and various others to keep busy for two years, briefly worked in the King and Queen Tavern, then, eventually, joined and shortly ended up running a small mercenary group known for their unusually strict morals (for a merc band) and pickiness with contracts. Here she stayed for another three years, saving up what she had to spare, living on the road, storing her money with her brother. Within the last few months, she decided to elect a close friend in the band as the new leader and left, buying a nice home in Bruma to be closer to her sibling, who had stayed with the Blades after the Crisis. When her dreams tormented her into finding the Door in Niben Bay, she contacted him first, and although he couldn't join her, he agreed to travel with her as far as the Imperial City and see her off.
Personality: Under normal circumstances, Karst is playful, energetic and witty. She boasts a strong will, a twisted and somewhat dark sense of humor and rather striking lack of physical shame. Karst is unusually tolerant of pain, able to endure amounts of it that would make most folk black out, a skilled marksman and swordswoman, excellent sneak and an extremely compassionate person to those who she thinks deserve it.
On the other side of the coin, Karst has problems with her temper, often speaks her mind when it'd be far better to be quiet. Displays of blatant arrogance and (what she views as) misuse of authority often garner fiery and violent reactions from the small woman. Though highly intelligent and quick-witted, she often does irrational and even incredibly stupid things in anger. She has a serious lack of confidence in herself in almost every way, is a frequent alcoholic and has a habit of judging people severely by first impression.
Her biggest weakness by far, however, is her emotions. At the best of times, she is subject to mood swings ranging from psychotically happy to violently irritable and broods sometimes for days after being angered. At the worst of times, she is manic-depressive and borderline suicidal. Despite all her weaknesses, though, Karst is a kindred woman and, if one earns her trust, a fiercely loyal friend.
Other Traits/Oddities:
- Despises arrogance.
- Enjoys pulling pranks.
- Drinks when depressed.
- Copes with certain kinds of trauma by masking it with humor. This sometimes leads to jokes at very inappropriate times.
- Her fingers are slightly longer than most humanoid creatures her size by about half an inch.
Misc Skills [Non-Combat]:
- Is a good cook, but never admits to it when complemented.
- Can be persuasive if need be, though she never claims to be smooth about it.
- Is good at creating medicines from raw ingredients, a skill she leaned from her mother when she was young.
- Has psychic potential that she cannot harness. Though she knows and accepts that she has it, the only use she currently has for it is the sort of sixth sense that it grants her, allowing her to sense and feel the emotions of those near her. This can often be as much a curse as it is a blessing, however.
Shadow666
Spoiler
Name: Demona
Nickname(s): Mia
Gender: F
Race:Daedra Seducer (often uses a Mortal form of a Breton girl)
Age: Appears 23 in Main Mortal Form (true age unknown)
Birthdate: Unknown
Birthplace: Unknown
Mia
Class: Healer
Class Focus: Magic
Major Skills: Restoration, Alteration, Alchemy, Illusion, Unarmored
Minor Skills: blunt weapon, mysticism, destruction, block
Birthsign: The Lover
Eyes: Silver
Hair: Black and chest length, wavy small streak of red on right side
Skin/Fur Color: slightly tanned
Height: 1.7 m
Weight: 60 kgs
Build: slender
Physical Description: the Slender, almost fragile physique the mortal form demona uses allows her to be able to pass through most towns barely noticed, if kept at a distance from others. a faint blue glow resonates beneath her shirt on the back which is the only feature that betrays her true nature to those who know what the markings mean.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: a tattoo of a set of wings beginning from the middle of her spine to each shoulder, with daedric runes placed along the wingspan of the tattoo.
Clothing and Armor: white short-sleeved shirt, with a knee-length skirt, both embodied with small shield enchantment runes.
Personality: When Demona had no memories of her daedric nature, her mortal form had a personality of its own. Mia once had an innocent mind before the worst of the Oblivion Crisis, but this had began to deteriorate when she could not save some of the companions in her journey, the worst was a young Breton inventor who she had begun to bond with before her untimely end. As her memories of her daedric self returned the thoughts about what she was brought up to believe were questioned, but they were still the ideals that kept her humanity intact. Always thinking of others first, Mia will go out of her way to heal others of serious wounds, without thought about how draining it is for her frail body.
Spells: Heal, Cure Poison, Cure Disease, invisibility, Charm mortal, night eye
--
Demona
Class: Seducer
Class Focus: magic/combat (magic more-so)
Major Skills: Illusion, blade, light armour, Destruction, Conjuration
Minor Skills: Acrobatics, Mysticism, Alteration,
Eyes: Emerald green
Hair: long and wavy Crimson hair
Skin/Fur Color: Olive tan
Height: 1.7 m
Weight: 60 kgs
Build: Slender
Physical Description: Fairly similar to Mia's form, but Demona is much more darker, with the obvious difference of the wings on her back
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: daedric rune over one eyelid, branding her as a seducer and another rune on her stomach glowing a dull blue, similar to the one on her back in her mortal form.
Personality: Much more sadistic at times than her humane split personality, Demona knows that sometimes a swift and decisive move is better than staying on the sidelines waiting for someone to go down. as a seducer she tends to be open to either six, and will sometimes try this with the other companions if it amused her in any way.
Clothing and Armor: much darker style than Mia's Demona wears black tight-fitting pants, and a black-red corset type shirt, made so some cleavage is shown.
Magic: Fireball, shock, Absorb Health, Charm Mortal, Command Mortal, Night Eye, summon Clannefear, summon Daedric Katana.
----
Inventory: small medical pouch with alchemical supplies and potions. small silver ring with half of a cut diamond and ruby on it, given to her by someone Mia loved during the Oblivion Crisis.
Weapons: Duel Curved Knives, never used by Mia, but Demona uses them efficiently.
History: Many years separated from friends and lovers can change one's personality greatly after a long traumatic event.. you begin to lose focus on who you once were, and can even lead to someone become completely different from who they once were.. many cannot stand to lose all those they hold dear and can lead to much worse destinations. But these are only speculations on what can happen to a mortal's mental state. A daedroth's mind is another matter completely different. Those who have lived since the world was given the breath of life have no attachments to anyone, especially those who do not live for even a slither of their lifetimes. living through every excruciating torment of death on Nirn only to be reborn with all memories of their demise, many having many experiences of death when they are summoned to the mortal's world.
But then to remove all memories of a long life, have a mortal mentality applied to the empty slate, and then having the memories of a different being begin to resurface over time, is a completely new definition of mental instability.. And so begins the struggle of one such being and the torment that continues to barrage the walls of her mind.
--
Not much is Known about Demona before the Oblivion Crisis other than she was a Spy working for Dagon to find a way to weaken the defenses of the blades. The only way she could infiltrate completely was to be left at a priory in the form of a 14 year-old girl with all her memories removed. for 4 years she had grown up at the Chorrol Priory, trained in the arts of healing due to her natural ability to use magic easily.
As the Daedra did not know what she truly was, new memories of being human filled the Seducers mind, and so a new Personality was born. Mia.
When strangers came to speak with her adopted father Jauffre, little did she know that she would become involved in a quest to find the emperor's son and to fight the Daedra Hordes that threatened the Providence. The young healer had helped many of her new companions along the way, but not knowing how to fight, she was often the target of being captured by daedra or bandits, or the Mythic Dawn.
It was not until some of her companions began to die that the young Healer soon began to realize there was another force at work. After being captured by the Mythic dawn the dark Aura of the place had somehow reconnected her with her memories of her Seducer self, causing a change in her personality instantly. At that moment it seemed that everything that she had done for the good of mankind was to be destroyed almost instantly. But because if the rush of memories, the Mortal personality remained in the Daedroth's head and Mia had regained control.
In her Split-Persona state, Mia fell for the new self proclaimed leader of the group, Vivian after she helped to defeat the Wraith of Sithis sent to kill him. Both Personalities saw something in him, and their relationship grew. But as the final gates to Oblivion were closed and they were revered as the Champions of Cyrodill, a nagging thought was in the back of her mind.. She knew that by betraying Dagon in the final battle, she would be hunted down and slain in the mortal realm to be returned to the Dead-lands for judgment.
With the crisis over, the seducer and her friends were proclaimed as the champions and everything was well until the grandmaster of the blades became ill and was forced to retire. With the only one protecting her from the world about what she truly was out of the way, she as marked as the one responsible for causing the crisis in the first place. A few months after the Crisis, she left the bed she had shared with her lover, and vanished into the night, with only a letter and necklace she was meant to give him behind. The Letter mentioned that she knew that while the two of them were together they were too big a target, and that he should not search for her, for she feared her time on Nirn was limited.
For six years the woman had been hunted, by both foe and old allies.. the remnants of the Mythic dawn seeking to send the betrayer of their lord back to his realm for revenge on foiling his plans on taking Nirn, and the various bounty hunters and adventurers seeking fame glory and riches by capturing the seducer or bringing her head to the new grandmaster.
Even with the threats that faced her, the mortal personality Mia continued to help those who needed help... but left as soon as the were okay because of the danger that followed her. Anyone who did not care who she was always faced death when confronted for aiding her, and because of this she left everyone she ever cared about in the dark about where she was so they too did not get marked as traitors and get killed.
Many began to call her the "Siren" because of the danger that followed any who followed her. She continues to help those in need however, as by doing so, she hopes to make the message clear, that not all Daedra are evil. But with the many years or harsh treatment because she wasn't a mortal began to weigh heavily on her mind, and being away from all those she cared about brought more of her daedric side out from the depths, making her a much darker person.
Other Traits and Oddities:
- has a Split Personality
- Mia can be shy around new commers
- Demona can be quite flirtatious with either six
- Demona still has trust issues with new members concerning her true identity and does not show herself in her Seducer form often.
Misc Skills [non-combat]:
- can make Potions and Poisons
- can sense other daedra seducers even if the are in a mortal form
- can cook a bit after watching Karst on their travels
Nickname(s): Mia
Gender: F
Race:Daedra Seducer (often uses a Mortal form of a Breton girl)
Age: Appears 23 in Main Mortal Form (true age unknown)
Birthdate: Unknown
Birthplace: Unknown
Mia
Class: Healer
Class Focus: Magic
Major Skills: Restoration, Alteration, Alchemy, Illusion, Unarmored
Minor Skills: blunt weapon, mysticism, destruction, block
Birthsign: The Lover
Eyes: Silver
Hair: Black and chest length, wavy small streak of red on right side
Skin/Fur Color: slightly tanned
Height: 1.7 m
Weight: 60 kgs
Build: slender
Physical Description: the Slender, almost fragile physique the mortal form demona uses allows her to be able to pass through most towns barely noticed, if kept at a distance from others. a faint blue glow resonates beneath her shirt on the back which is the only feature that betrays her true nature to those who know what the markings mean.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: a tattoo of a set of wings beginning from the middle of her spine to each shoulder, with daedric runes placed along the wingspan of the tattoo.
Clothing and Armor: white short-sleeved shirt, with a knee-length skirt, both embodied with small shield enchantment runes.
Personality: When Demona had no memories of her daedric nature, her mortal form had a personality of its own. Mia once had an innocent mind before the worst of the Oblivion Crisis, but this had began to deteriorate when she could not save some of the companions in her journey, the worst was a young Breton inventor who she had begun to bond with before her untimely end. As her memories of her daedric self returned the thoughts about what she was brought up to believe were questioned, but they were still the ideals that kept her humanity intact. Always thinking of others first, Mia will go out of her way to heal others of serious wounds, without thought about how draining it is for her frail body.
Spells: Heal, Cure Poison, Cure Disease, invisibility, Charm mortal, night eye
--
Demona
Class: Seducer
Class Focus: magic/combat (magic more-so)
Major Skills: Illusion, blade, light armour, Destruction, Conjuration
Minor Skills: Acrobatics, Mysticism, Alteration,
Eyes: Emerald green
Hair: long and wavy Crimson hair
Skin/Fur Color: Olive tan
Height: 1.7 m
Weight: 60 kgs
Build: Slender
Physical Description: Fairly similar to Mia's form, but Demona is much more darker, with the obvious difference of the wings on her back
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: daedric rune over one eyelid, branding her as a seducer and another rune on her stomach glowing a dull blue, similar to the one on her back in her mortal form.
Personality: Much more sadistic at times than her humane split personality, Demona knows that sometimes a swift and decisive move is better than staying on the sidelines waiting for someone to go down. as a seducer she tends to be open to either six, and will sometimes try this with the other companions if it amused her in any way.
Clothing and Armor: much darker style than Mia's Demona wears black tight-fitting pants, and a black-red corset type shirt, made so some cleavage is shown.
Magic: Fireball, shock, Absorb Health, Charm Mortal, Command Mortal, Night Eye, summon Clannefear, summon Daedric Katana.
----
Inventory: small medical pouch with alchemical supplies and potions. small silver ring with half of a cut diamond and ruby on it, given to her by someone Mia loved during the Oblivion Crisis.
Weapons: Duel Curved Knives, never used by Mia, but Demona uses them efficiently.
History: Many years separated from friends and lovers can change one's personality greatly after a long traumatic event.. you begin to lose focus on who you once were, and can even lead to someone become completely different from who they once were.. many cannot stand to lose all those they hold dear and can lead to much worse destinations. But these are only speculations on what can happen to a mortal's mental state. A daedroth's mind is another matter completely different. Those who have lived since the world was given the breath of life have no attachments to anyone, especially those who do not live for even a slither of their lifetimes. living through every excruciating torment of death on Nirn only to be reborn with all memories of their demise, many having many experiences of death when they are summoned to the mortal's world.
But then to remove all memories of a long life, have a mortal mentality applied to the empty slate, and then having the memories of a different being begin to resurface over time, is a completely new definition of mental instability.. And so begins the struggle of one such being and the torment that continues to barrage the walls of her mind.
--
Not much is Known about Demona before the Oblivion Crisis other than she was a Spy working for Dagon to find a way to weaken the defenses of the blades. The only way she could infiltrate completely was to be left at a priory in the form of a 14 year-old girl with all her memories removed. for 4 years she had grown up at the Chorrol Priory, trained in the arts of healing due to her natural ability to use magic easily.
As the Daedra did not know what she truly was, new memories of being human filled the Seducers mind, and so a new Personality was born. Mia.
When strangers came to speak with her adopted father Jauffre, little did she know that she would become involved in a quest to find the emperor's son and to fight the Daedra Hordes that threatened the Providence. The young healer had helped many of her new companions along the way, but not knowing how to fight, she was often the target of being captured by daedra or bandits, or the Mythic Dawn.
It was not until some of her companions began to die that the young Healer soon began to realize there was another force at work. After being captured by the Mythic dawn the dark Aura of the place had somehow reconnected her with her memories of her Seducer self, causing a change in her personality instantly. At that moment it seemed that everything that she had done for the good of mankind was to be destroyed almost instantly. But because if the rush of memories, the Mortal personality remained in the Daedroth's head and Mia had regained control.
In her Split-Persona state, Mia fell for the new self proclaimed leader of the group, Vivian after she helped to defeat the Wraith of Sithis sent to kill him. Both Personalities saw something in him, and their relationship grew. But as the final gates to Oblivion were closed and they were revered as the Champions of Cyrodill, a nagging thought was in the back of her mind.. She knew that by betraying Dagon in the final battle, she would be hunted down and slain in the mortal realm to be returned to the Dead-lands for judgment.
With the crisis over, the seducer and her friends were proclaimed as the champions and everything was well until the grandmaster of the blades became ill and was forced to retire. With the only one protecting her from the world about what she truly was out of the way, she as marked as the one responsible for causing the crisis in the first place. A few months after the Crisis, she left the bed she had shared with her lover, and vanished into the night, with only a letter and necklace she was meant to give him behind. The Letter mentioned that she knew that while the two of them were together they were too big a target, and that he should not search for her, for she feared her time on Nirn was limited.
For six years the woman had been hunted, by both foe and old allies.. the remnants of the Mythic dawn seeking to send the betrayer of their lord back to his realm for revenge on foiling his plans on taking Nirn, and the various bounty hunters and adventurers seeking fame glory and riches by capturing the seducer or bringing her head to the new grandmaster.
Even with the threats that faced her, the mortal personality Mia continued to help those who needed help... but left as soon as the were okay because of the danger that followed her. Anyone who did not care who she was always faced death when confronted for aiding her, and because of this she left everyone she ever cared about in the dark about where she was so they too did not get marked as traitors and get killed.
Many began to call her the "Siren" because of the danger that followed any who followed her. She continues to help those in need however, as by doing so, she hopes to make the message clear, that not all Daedra are evil. But with the many years or harsh treatment because she wasn't a mortal began to weigh heavily on her mind, and being away from all those she cared about brought more of her daedric side out from the depths, making her a much darker person.
Other Traits and Oddities:
- has a Split Personality
- Mia can be shy around new commers
- Demona can be quite flirtatious with either six
- Demona still has trust issues with new members concerning her true identity and does not show herself in her Seducer form often.
Misc Skills [non-combat]:
- can make Potions and Poisons
- can sense other daedra seducers even if the are in a mortal form
- can cook a bit after watching Karst on their travels
Fiore
Spoiler
Name: Clengo
Nickname(s):
Gender: male
Race: Bosmer
Age: Exact age unknown. Roughly 40.
Birth date: Exact date unknown. Imperial Census lists his birth (an estimate) as 3E 398 on the 1st of Rain’s Hand.
Birthplace: A remote ‘village’ in central Valenwood.
Class:Scout, Hunter, Warrior
Class Focus:Very much a marksman, he can fair well with slings, bows and arrows, javelins, spears, harpoons, and blowguns. He can also wield blades, though with considerably less skill.
Major Skills: Marksman, Athletics, Sneak, Unarmored, Spear
Minor Skills: Speechcraft, Acrobatics, Short Blade, Mysticism, Alteration
Birthsign:The Mage
Eyes:Solid Black.
Hair:A messy tangle of auburn. He is often observed pulling small bugs from it.
Skin/Fur Color:Skin has a lightly tanned, weathered look.
Height: 4’5’’
Weight: 65 lbs
Build: Very thin and sinewy, perhaps even slightly emancipated.
Physical Description:
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: Some ritualized scarring around the face, neck, back, and chest; forming nice little geometric patterns! His ears are pierced, but he currently wears no jewelry.
Clothing and Armor: Naked except for a pair of ragged, woolen pants that come down to his knees. Slung around his shoulder is a leather strap which holds a leather satchel at his left hip. Around his neck is a small leather pouch.
Inventory: Strips of jerky, a collection of dead insects and spiders, a few well-polished Septims, a whittle stone, some sinew rope, a flute, a few round stones, some sharpened bone and flint implements, darts, a blowgun, some feathers, a broken bottle, some bent silverware and a small woolen piece, about 6 inches square.
Weapons: A blowgun w/darts, an ivory knife (mainly for ritual purposes)decorated with shells and fish scales.
Magic: A few useful spells, including a detect life, a touch fire spell, dispel on oneself and upon others, a leaping and slow fall spell, and a light spell. These spells were a part of his ritual education in Valenwood, and although he is quite skilled with them, he is by no means a mage, and would be flabbergasted by magical theory and possibly even frightened by alarming, unfamiliar spells.
History:
Born to a isolated community in Valenwood during the chaotic Jagar Tharn’s reign, his birth (and that of his generation) went unrecorded until a few years following, when census’ were conducted across the Empire following the return of Septim rule. As such, his very early life remains a mystery, but by the time of the census in 3E 401, he was recorded as living with a small community north of Elden Root and being trained (along with other youths) in the traditional ways of his people. There he may have well remained, until, following the Oblivion crisis, he was chosen by his father to become a captive of the Empire in a sign of good faith between the tribe and the Imperials.
Feeling spurned, he was brought to the Imperial City to be looked after a kind Bosmeri couple who were to provide for his housing and education, but Clengo resisted most attempts. He was restless in school, and commonly sought to run away (once he tried joining a traveling merchant, who, after playing along, returned him to his guardians. He was also put on record by the Imperials as trying to swim Lake Rumare, pulled out by fishermen just as slaughterfish had begun nibbling on his toes).
It was only recently when he overheard some strangers speaking of a meeting upon the Bloated Float that was looking for “for anyone strong of body, mind or adventurous spirit to see her about an expedition into the unknown.” Seeing himself as a proud Bosmeri warrior and eager to escape the humiliation of life in the Capital where he was forced to wear itchy clothes and sit in hot rooms for endless hours, he ducked out of school and headed towards the Waterfront District, last seen by an Imperial Guard, who later described his demeanor as “perky” to his distraught Bosmeri guardians.
EDIT: Well, erm, lets just leave it a mystery for now as how he gets to Bravil. Stowaway probably. But who knows?
Personality:
Clengo is a bit of a mystery to outsiders. He is small and boyish, with a care-free attitude that is quite typical among those of his race. Eager and clever and charming, he was the adored object of many a dinner party during his tenure at the Imperial City, with enough“He’s-just-so-adorable” and “let-me-pinch-his-cute-little-cheek” to make a Sload retch with disgust.
He has a vicious streak though, for underneath this exterior which the city-dwellers found so charming is the hard truth. He’s not some talking piece and exotica display for your upper-class social events. He’s a rebellious and haughty young man, trained to be a proud warrior and schooled in all of the tenants of conservative Bosmeri religion since the day he was born. Even in the Imperial City, where makeup hid his scaring and clothes civilized his appearance, it was difficult to suppress the rumors that he had killed and eaten Ms. Vitellia’s cat…
Other Traits and Oddities:
-He cannot read, nor does he have much knowledge about the world beyond Valenwood. Regardless, he is quite clever.
-He follows the Green Pact and worships Y’ffre.
-No one knows just what he smokes. But he really enjoys it!
Misc Skills [non-combat]:
He can mimic sounds and throw his voice with particular skill.
He is well versed in tracking and trapping, with a good knowledge of poisons and other alchemical materials, although his ability is hindered by his refusal to use plants as ingredients.
He knows how to craft a manner of items, often making use of his whittling and carving skills.
He can play the flute.
In the Imperial City, he has shown himself to excel at board games.
Nickname(s):
Gender: male
Race: Bosmer
Age: Exact age unknown. Roughly 40.
Birth date: Exact date unknown. Imperial Census lists his birth (an estimate) as 3E 398 on the 1st of Rain’s Hand.
Birthplace: A remote ‘village’ in central Valenwood.
Class:Scout, Hunter, Warrior
Class Focus:Very much a marksman, he can fair well with slings, bows and arrows, javelins, spears, harpoons, and blowguns. He can also wield blades, though with considerably less skill.
Major Skills: Marksman, Athletics, Sneak, Unarmored, Spear
Minor Skills: Speechcraft, Acrobatics, Short Blade, Mysticism, Alteration
Birthsign:The Mage
Eyes:Solid Black.
Hair:A messy tangle of auburn. He is often observed pulling small bugs from it.
Skin/Fur Color:Skin has a lightly tanned, weathered look.
Height: 4’5’’
Weight: 65 lbs
Build: Very thin and sinewy, perhaps even slightly emancipated.
Physical Description:
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: Some ritualized scarring around the face, neck, back, and chest; forming nice little geometric patterns! His ears are pierced, but he currently wears no jewelry.
Clothing and Armor: Naked except for a pair of ragged, woolen pants that come down to his knees. Slung around his shoulder is a leather strap which holds a leather satchel at his left hip. Around his neck is a small leather pouch.
Inventory: Strips of jerky, a collection of dead insects and spiders, a few well-polished Septims, a whittle stone, some sinew rope, a flute, a few round stones, some sharpened bone and flint implements, darts, a blowgun, some feathers, a broken bottle, some bent silverware and a small woolen piece, about 6 inches square.
Weapons: A blowgun w/darts, an ivory knife (mainly for ritual purposes)decorated with shells and fish scales.
Magic: A few useful spells, including a detect life, a touch fire spell, dispel on oneself and upon others, a leaping and slow fall spell, and a light spell. These spells were a part of his ritual education in Valenwood, and although he is quite skilled with them, he is by no means a mage, and would be flabbergasted by magical theory and possibly even frightened by alarming, unfamiliar spells.
History:
Born to a isolated community in Valenwood during the chaotic Jagar Tharn’s reign, his birth (and that of his generation) went unrecorded until a few years following, when census’ were conducted across the Empire following the return of Septim rule. As such, his very early life remains a mystery, but by the time of the census in 3E 401, he was recorded as living with a small community north of Elden Root and being trained (along with other youths) in the traditional ways of his people. There he may have well remained, until, following the Oblivion crisis, he was chosen by his father to become a captive of the Empire in a sign of good faith between the tribe and the Imperials.
Feeling spurned, he was brought to the Imperial City to be looked after a kind Bosmeri couple who were to provide for his housing and education, but Clengo resisted most attempts. He was restless in school, and commonly sought to run away (once he tried joining a traveling merchant, who, after playing along, returned him to his guardians. He was also put on record by the Imperials as trying to swim Lake Rumare, pulled out by fishermen just as slaughterfish had begun nibbling on his toes).
EDIT: Well, erm, lets just leave it a mystery for now as how he gets to Bravil. Stowaway probably. But who knows?
Personality:
Clengo is a bit of a mystery to outsiders. He is small and boyish, with a care-free attitude that is quite typical among those of his race. Eager and clever and charming, he was the adored object of many a dinner party during his tenure at the Imperial City, with enough“He’s-just-so-adorable” and “let-me-pinch-his-cute-little-cheek” to make a Sload retch with disgust.
He has a vicious streak though, for underneath this exterior which the city-dwellers found so charming is the hard truth. He’s not some talking piece and exotica display for your upper-class social events. He’s a rebellious and haughty young man, trained to be a proud warrior and schooled in all of the tenants of conservative Bosmeri religion since the day he was born. Even in the Imperial City, where makeup hid his scaring and clothes civilized his appearance, it was difficult to suppress the rumors that he had killed and eaten Ms. Vitellia’s cat…
Other Traits and Oddities:
-He cannot read, nor does he have much knowledge about the world beyond Valenwood. Regardless, he is quite clever.
-He follows the Green Pact and worships Y’ffre.
-No one knows just what he smokes. But he really enjoys it!
Misc Skills [non-combat]:
He can mimic sounds and throw his voice with particular skill.
He is well versed in tracking and trapping, with a good knowledge of poisons and other alchemical materials, although his ability is hindered by his refusal to use plants as ingredients.
He knows how to craft a manner of items, often making use of his whittling and carving skills.
He can play the flute.
In the Imperial City, he has shown himself to excel at board games.
FC4
Spoiler
Name: Alexander Darius Herasin
Nickname(s): Alex, Dare
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial
Age: 24
Birthplace: Colovian Highlands
Class: Bravilian Guard
Class Focus: Primarily a melee warrior, the guards of the Imperial province's major cities are also taught discipline, honor, duty, and all that jazz. They also gain a remarkable affinity for alcohol and women.
Major Skills: Long sword, Blocking, Light Armors, Athletics, Hand-to-Hand combat
Minor Skills:Short sword, Blunt weapon, Atmorer
Birthsign: The Warrior
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Dingy Brown, with a hay-like quality, falls naturally and unkempt to around chin level.
Skin/Fur Color: His skin is so tan it's almost hard to tell he isn't part Redguard.
Height: 5' 8"
Weight: 155 lbs
Physical Description/Build: Alex has a stocky, farmer's boy build that lends itself towards a meager warrior demeanor. With a plain Colovian face and brown hair, he isn't that stunning of a lad in any real way, feature wise. He's not even intimidating, but looks more like a greenhorn than he really is.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: His hands are calloused, his arms are rough and hairy and scratched, and his feet are calloused as well. Basically, he has the scars of a laborer.
Clothing and Armor: He wears the standard Bravilian Guard Armor, a chain mail cuirass covered by the city's coat of arms. A chain skirt covers chainmail pants and his hands are covered by leather gloves, not chainmail, by his choice. He also wears leather rather than chainmail boots, but his chainmail pants are still tucked into the boots. Underneath it all he is wearing what any farmer would wear; cotton tunic and rough breeches, the tunic a dark dingy green and the breeches a stained tan. He tops his messy hair with a chainmail helm. He also carries the Bravil shield standard.
Inventory: Everything he carries with him on duty is either strung to his leather belt or over his shoulder. Typically he carries a flask of strong liquor for the bad days, a wineskin of beer across his shoulders for the better days, and rummages through the small gold sack at his hip for good ale on the best days. He also carries the keys to his chest at the Bravil Guard Tower.
Weapons: Steel longsword, steel dagger
Magic: None.
History: Alex was born and raised on a farm outside of Chorrol, in the Colovian highlands. Cattle, horses, and pigs were all the creatures he knew to handle and goblins and bandits the only things he ever really fought. He enjoyed the life of a farmer's son and planned to take over the farm when his father got too old.
The Oblivion Crisis changed all that. Bending under his father's will, Alex left the farmland to join the Imperial Legion like all the other Colovian boys. However, as the fighting progressed, his morale was often the first to drop, and eventually he deserted during an attack from an Oblivion Gate that opened in the center of an Imperial Fort.
He eventually ended up in Bravil, knowing he couldn't talk to his father without ridicule. Grudgingly, he took the more honorable of job opportunities in Bravil, using his apparent legend as the only survivor in the Fort attack to gain himself good bearing as a guard.
Personality: Alex is not much of a people person, he's more of an animal person. He likes his drinks, he likes his drinking buddies, but eventually he gets sick of people's crap and needs some time with animals who mull in it rather than spew it. Once fun-loving, worry free and light-heartened, he's grown more cynical and rebellious since joining the Imperial Legion.
However, he will plow through a situation with hardy determination if he sees no other way out. And he will look hard for a way out, because he was raised to think carefully before he makes a decision, and stick to his decision.
Not very brave or courageous, he does have his streaks of valor if he actually gives a damn about the situation. He'll loosen up and be more sociable with a beer, or three.
Other Traits and Oddities:
-There is just something animals like about him. He's always been told by his mother that he inherited her gentle touch, and animals like that. Regardless, he is often the one calming a frightful horse or even pig, not his father. The farm dog had a special affinity for him.
-Hates Daedra with a passion, but not as much as he hates Goblins.
-Wields farm tools as weapons better than he wields swords, but that's because he's been batting things with a rake since he was young.
Misc Skills [non-combat]: farming, horse riding, rope lashing, animal handling
Nickname(s): Alex, Dare
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial
Age: 24
Birthplace: Colovian Highlands
Class: Bravilian Guard
Class Focus: Primarily a melee warrior, the guards of the Imperial province's major cities are also taught discipline, honor, duty, and all that jazz. They also gain a remarkable affinity for alcohol and women.
Major Skills: Long sword, Blocking, Light Armors, Athletics, Hand-to-Hand combat
Minor Skills:Short sword, Blunt weapon, Atmorer
Birthsign: The Warrior
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Dingy Brown, with a hay-like quality, falls naturally and unkempt to around chin level.
Skin/Fur Color: His skin is so tan it's almost hard to tell he isn't part Redguard.
Height: 5' 8"
Weight: 155 lbs
Physical Description/Build: Alex has a stocky, farmer's boy build that lends itself towards a meager warrior demeanor. With a plain Colovian face and brown hair, he isn't that stunning of a lad in any real way, feature wise. He's not even intimidating, but looks more like a greenhorn than he really is.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: His hands are calloused, his arms are rough and hairy and scratched, and his feet are calloused as well. Basically, he has the scars of a laborer.
Clothing and Armor: He wears the standard Bravilian Guard Armor, a chain mail cuirass covered by the city's coat of arms. A chain skirt covers chainmail pants and his hands are covered by leather gloves, not chainmail, by his choice. He also wears leather rather than chainmail boots, but his chainmail pants are still tucked into the boots. Underneath it all he is wearing what any farmer would wear; cotton tunic and rough breeches, the tunic a dark dingy green and the breeches a stained tan. He tops his messy hair with a chainmail helm. He also carries the Bravil shield standard.
Inventory: Everything he carries with him on duty is either strung to his leather belt or over his shoulder. Typically he carries a flask of strong liquor for the bad days, a wineskin of beer across his shoulders for the better days, and rummages through the small gold sack at his hip for good ale on the best days. He also carries the keys to his chest at the Bravil Guard Tower.
Weapons: Steel longsword, steel dagger
Magic: None.
History: Alex was born and raised on a farm outside of Chorrol, in the Colovian highlands. Cattle, horses, and pigs were all the creatures he knew to handle and goblins and bandits the only things he ever really fought. He enjoyed the life of a farmer's son and planned to take over the farm when his father got too old.
The Oblivion Crisis changed all that. Bending under his father's will, Alex left the farmland to join the Imperial Legion like all the other Colovian boys. However, as the fighting progressed, his morale was often the first to drop, and eventually he deserted during an attack from an Oblivion Gate that opened in the center of an Imperial Fort.
He eventually ended up in Bravil, knowing he couldn't talk to his father without ridicule. Grudgingly, he took the more honorable of job opportunities in Bravil, using his apparent legend as the only survivor in the Fort attack to gain himself good bearing as a guard.
Personality: Alex is not much of a people person, he's more of an animal person. He likes his drinks, he likes his drinking buddies, but eventually he gets sick of people's crap and needs some time with animals who mull in it rather than spew it. Once fun-loving, worry free and light-heartened, he's grown more cynical and rebellious since joining the Imperial Legion.
However, he will plow through a situation with hardy determination if he sees no other way out. And he will look hard for a way out, because he was raised to think carefully before he makes a decision, and stick to his decision.
Not very brave or courageous, he does have his streaks of valor if he actually gives a damn about the situation. He'll loosen up and be more sociable with a beer, or three.
Other Traits and Oddities:
-There is just something animals like about him. He's always been told by his mother that he inherited her gentle touch, and animals like that. Regardless, he is often the one calming a frightful horse or even pig, not his father. The farm dog had a special affinity for him.
-Hates Daedra with a passion, but not as much as he hates Goblins.
-Wields farm tools as weapons better than he wields swords, but that's because he's been batting things with a rake since he was young.
Misc Skills [non-combat]: farming, horse riding, rope lashing, animal handling
venix_445
Spoiler
Name: Sarah Lawson
Nickname(s): Mustang (It was her agent codename)
Gender: Female
Race: Imperial
Age: 24
Birthdate: Mid-Year, 3E 415
Birthplace: Imperial City
Class: Infiltrator
Class Focus: Combat/Stealth
Major Skills: Blade, Marksman, Acrobatics, Sneak, Lockpick, Athletics, Speechcraft, Light Armor
Minor Skills: Heavy Armour, Mecentile and Hand to hand
Birthsign: The Steed
Appearance: Instead of filling out diffrent sections i thought i would do a picture instead: Linktacular
Height: 5ft 10
Weight: 9 stone
Build: Slender, slightly toned
Physical Description: Slender with recognizable feminine features
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: She has a scar which runs from her right hip to her stomach.
Clothing and Armor: Sarah wears a modified suit of Golden Saint Armor, it has been modfied to be more lightweight and reduce noise while sneaking, she still wears the bracers around her foerarm but wears no gauntlets but instead has bandages wrapped around her hands she also wears no helmet, the shoulder pads have also been cut down to be more fitting on her shouders and not so big also the "spikes" around the neck bit have been removed for a smoother neckpiece. For casual occasions Sarah is very parshal to wearing nice dresses, but it is rare a situation like this comes along so she is usually seen in her armor. When it gets colder Sarah has a cloak she wears over the armour to keep her warm. She also wears a necklace with a Jade pendant on it.
Inventory: Lockpick
Weapons: Golden Longsword, Golden Bow, Quiver of Lustrous Golden Arrows and Throwing knives attached around her right thigh
Magic: Minor helaing spells
History: Sarah was brought up in the Imperial City by parents who, for lack of a better word criminals. Her parents never taught her that crime was right or wrong, it just depended on the person at the recieving end. Sarah was trained in the art stealth, thievery, fighting and also the art of the con by her parents. Her mother taught her how to talk her way into and out of things while her father who served in the Imperial Legion taught her to fight. Sarah never really agreed with how their lives where but at the same time she understood the necessity of it. However they only targeted people who were arrogant and pompous with their wealth, those who looked down on others. When she was 12 her parents where finally caught and arrested by the Imperial guard.
The Imperial guard took her in and she was then taken to a special unknown part of the legion, much like the blades. She was further trained in combat and stealth. During the course of her training she met another boy, the two felt a connection over time, no one was going to say it was love, but there was something. The two spent plenty of time together, for a short time Sarah grew weak mentally dwelling on the past and her parent’s, He helped her through it and after that time she was stronger mentally than she’d ever been. When they both passed out from training he was killed on his first mission. Sarah was hurt and upset but she pushed forward. But her thoughts kept dwelling on the fact that she had lost the only person who could be in her life that she cared about.
Sarah carried out many undercover operations for the Imperial Legion. She had been on a few missions the Elsweyr and Skyrim as well, While in the province of Skyrim she decided that if she would ever settle down anywhere it would be there, she fell in love with the beauty of the land.
She was successful in many operations that ranged from recon to assassination. It was on one mission where she found the gear she uses now, she was sent to investigate and cult of Daedric worshipers, it was unsure which cult but it was suspected to be followers of Sheogorath as they were causing random havoc in strange ways across Tamriel, somehow they made a swarm of rats infest a village. While there she was discovered and she had to fight them all, it wasn’t a difficult fight until a creature in golden armour appeared, The creature was excellent in combat and this is what caused the scar on her stomach. Eventually she bested it in combat. Examining the corpse the creature’s skin glowed with a light golden hue, Looking at the armour and weapons she could not tell the material they were made of but it was good, and so she took it all for her own.
When she turned 24 Sarah had enough of the life she was leading, She tried fighting in the arena for a while but it wasn’t for her, it was mindless killing for entertainment and disagreed with it, Sarah knew she wanted some adventure and excitement. Then she saw the poster, still haunted by the personal demons of her past she decided to go for it.
Personality: Sarah can be quite cold, depending on what her first impressions of you are, however her mind can be changed. Once you know her she is kind and caring, looks to do the right thing most of the time but she can however be unsure of what the right decisions should be, which then causes her to question herself and her decision once the decision has nbeen made. She is also very feminine despite what some would call a rough life.
On the other hand, if you give her reason to dislike you dont hope for an easy ride with her, she will purposly make it hell for you and if you break her trust you will never get it back.
Sarah tries to see things for how they are, she looks through the crap to whats real. Sarah is also a fairly emotional person. Tries to be witty, dosn't always work. Sarah is also a hopeless romantic at heart, she truly believes in love and is happy for any two people that truly find it, although she never feels she will find it herself. Anyone she has ever cared about has been taken away and this causes her to somewhat push people who try to get close away, but push hard enough and she may let you in.
Other Traits and Oddities: Sarah is very prone to speaking her mind which can be a good or a bad thing, she strongly believes in karma and has a love for horses
Misc Skills [non-combat]: Dancing, Seduction, Climbing, Horsemanship and slight cooking skills, not great but enough, if you have anything from her there is a high chance it might be burnt.
Nickname(s): Mustang (It was her agent codename)
Gender: Female
Race: Imperial
Age: 24
Birthdate: Mid-Year, 3E 415
Birthplace: Imperial City
Class: Infiltrator
Class Focus: Combat/Stealth
Major Skills: Blade, Marksman, Acrobatics, Sneak, Lockpick, Athletics, Speechcraft, Light Armor
Minor Skills: Heavy Armour, Mecentile and Hand to hand
Birthsign: The Steed
Appearance: Instead of filling out diffrent sections i thought i would do a picture instead: Linktacular
Height: 5ft 10
Weight: 9 stone
Build: Slender, slightly toned
Physical Description: Slender with recognizable feminine features
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: She has a scar which runs from her right hip to her stomach.
Clothing and Armor: Sarah wears a modified suit of Golden Saint Armor, it has been modfied to be more lightweight and reduce noise while sneaking, she still wears the bracers around her foerarm but wears no gauntlets but instead has bandages wrapped around her hands she also wears no helmet, the shoulder pads have also been cut down to be more fitting on her shouders and not so big also the "spikes" around the neck bit have been removed for a smoother neckpiece. For casual occasions Sarah is very parshal to wearing nice dresses, but it is rare a situation like this comes along so she is usually seen in her armor. When it gets colder Sarah has a cloak she wears over the armour to keep her warm. She also wears a necklace with a Jade pendant on it.
Inventory: Lockpick
Weapons: Golden Longsword, Golden Bow, Quiver of Lustrous Golden Arrows and Throwing knives attached around her right thigh
Magic: Minor helaing spells
History: Sarah was brought up in the Imperial City by parents who, for lack of a better word criminals. Her parents never taught her that crime was right or wrong, it just depended on the person at the recieving end. Sarah was trained in the art stealth, thievery, fighting and also the art of the con by her parents. Her mother taught her how to talk her way into and out of things while her father who served in the Imperial Legion taught her to fight. Sarah never really agreed with how their lives where but at the same time she understood the necessity of it. However they only targeted people who were arrogant and pompous with their wealth, those who looked down on others. When she was 12 her parents where finally caught and arrested by the Imperial guard.
The Imperial guard took her in and she was then taken to a special unknown part of the legion, much like the blades. She was further trained in combat and stealth. During the course of her training she met another boy, the two felt a connection over time, no one was going to say it was love, but there was something. The two spent plenty of time together, for a short time Sarah grew weak mentally dwelling on the past and her parent’s, He helped her through it and after that time she was stronger mentally than she’d ever been. When they both passed out from training he was killed on his first mission. Sarah was hurt and upset but she pushed forward. But her thoughts kept dwelling on the fact that she had lost the only person who could be in her life that she cared about.
Sarah carried out many undercover operations for the Imperial Legion. She had been on a few missions the Elsweyr and Skyrim as well, While in the province of Skyrim she decided that if she would ever settle down anywhere it would be there, she fell in love with the beauty of the land.
She was successful in many operations that ranged from recon to assassination. It was on one mission where she found the gear she uses now, she was sent to investigate and cult of Daedric worshipers, it was unsure which cult but it was suspected to be followers of Sheogorath as they were causing random havoc in strange ways across Tamriel, somehow they made a swarm of rats infest a village. While there she was discovered and she had to fight them all, it wasn’t a difficult fight until a creature in golden armour appeared, The creature was excellent in combat and this is what caused the scar on her stomach. Eventually she bested it in combat. Examining the corpse the creature’s skin glowed with a light golden hue, Looking at the armour and weapons she could not tell the material they were made of but it was good, and so she took it all for her own.
When she turned 24 Sarah had enough of the life she was leading, She tried fighting in the arena for a while but it wasn’t for her, it was mindless killing for entertainment and disagreed with it, Sarah knew she wanted some adventure and excitement. Then she saw the poster, still haunted by the personal demons of her past she decided to go for it.
Personality: Sarah can be quite cold, depending on what her first impressions of you are, however her mind can be changed. Once you know her she is kind and caring, looks to do the right thing most of the time but she can however be unsure of what the right decisions should be, which then causes her to question herself and her decision once the decision has nbeen made. She is also very feminine despite what some would call a rough life.
On the other hand, if you give her reason to dislike you dont hope for an easy ride with her, she will purposly make it hell for you and if you break her trust you will never get it back.
Sarah tries to see things for how they are, she looks through the crap to whats real. Sarah is also a fairly emotional person. Tries to be witty, dosn't always work. Sarah is also a hopeless romantic at heart, she truly believes in love and is happy for any two people that truly find it, although she never feels she will find it herself. Anyone she has ever cared about has been taken away and this causes her to somewhat push people who try to get close away, but push hard enough and she may let you in.
Other Traits and Oddities: Sarah is very prone to speaking her mind which can be a good or a bad thing, she strongly believes in karma and has a love for horses
Misc Skills [non-combat]: Dancing, Seduction, Climbing, Horsemanship and slight cooking skills, not great but enough, if you have anything from her there is a high chance it might be burnt.
Tamira
Spoiler
Name: Renrij’Va.
Nickname(s): Ren’
Gender: Male.
Race: Khajiit (Pahmar).
Age: 25.
Birth date: Sometime in Spring he’s uncertain about the date.
Birthplace: Elsweyr, near Torval.
Class: Hunter/Ranger.
Class Focus: Stealth/Combat.
Major Skills: Sneak, Acrobatics, Athletics, Unarmored, Hand-to-Hand.
Minor Skills: Alchemy; more about disnering healing/poisonous herbs than actual making potions.
Birthsign: The Serpent.
Eyes: Pale blue-grey.
Hair: Pale blond almost white in colour, mane reminiscent of that seen in adolescent lions.
Skin/Fur Color: Pale ecru colour, with faded grey stripes and rosette spots.
Height: 110 cm (43 in) at the shoulder.
Weight: 221.2 kg (448 lbs).
Build: Slender.
Physical Description: Practically indistinguishable, as far as general physique is concerned from the wild mountain lions that inhabit the Cyrodiil, Elsweyr, Valenwood borders. His likeness to the wild insentient felines has had many confuse him for being just this; a simple animal. But he’s no more different than his bipedal Khajiit cousins, capable of both speech and thought processes like they are; his fur is generally kept is clean condition if not being rather unkempt he’s not necessarily sloppy when it comes to putting on a good visual first impression and is particularly proud of his tail which reminds of a rather thick furred, bushy dust mop, sporting pale blue-grey eyes and a well expressional face despite his inability to convey any advanced gestures to compliment their meanings.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: Three old scars marring the bridge of his nose.
Clothing and Armor: Nothing, apart from a pair of leather bracers on his forepaws, and a tattered, faded green scarf which holds great sentimental value to him.
Inventory: Nothing apart from what he wears.
Weapons: His natural teeth and claws.
Magic: Nothing beyond his natural night vision, and his ability to poison enemies.
History: Born to an Ohmes mother and a Suthay-raht father, Ren was eldest child of the family with his Alfiq little sister. He spent his youth exploring the forests of the Elsweyr and Valenwood border, the fact that he was born a pahmar limited his choices of occupations common in a world dominated by bipedal creatures, and this was especially true outside the Elsweyr border where his type was incredibly rare. The only prospects he could hope for as far as paying jobs went were as a mercenary; joining the Renrija Krin or perhaps private guard, but Renrij’Va had never felt much at home in the urban places; preferring the open country and untamed wilderness to the crowded expanses of cities. During the Oblivion Crisis the pahmar was well aware what was going on the world and what dire implications it could have but he never took any active part in defending his home from the invading Daedric forces, having his family claimed by plague a few years earlier the Khajiit felt that any connection he had to Elsweyr was now gone. He spends the majority of his time wandering the wild lands and seeking wealth and treasure where ever he finds it; a travelling adventurer just like millions of others before and likely to come after him, his adventurer profession often drags him into unfamiliar territories like the cities and it’s various taverns. He knows he is very out of place in a city setting, at least outside his native Elsweyr, an uncomfortable feeling to say the least.
Personality: An individualist to a fault, Ren’ doesn’t really believe in teamwork unless it’s a critical survival situation, but most of all he dislike finding himself beholden to anyone a situation which common teamwork could impose upon him. The Khajiit rather anarchistic, holding a deep dislike for figures of authority and people with power, especially elves and human believing that no one is entitled by birth to their position of power. More than anything he claims to thrive in his solitary existence stating that he does better on his own than being dependant on another; this is merely a shield to mask a dislike for responsibility. This anti-social, solitary behavior and general distrust, and suspicion of others hide a spiritually wounded individual that has tried to make best for him-self in the face of overwhelming adversity. In response to the death and despair surrounding him he adopted a savage view of nature; the survival of the fittest is the only rules, and consequently he has strong ideas of self-reliance, self-awareness, and self-confidence, however as far as religion is concerned he’s an atheist. It’s difficult to gain his trust and respect but once you’ve earned it and manage to keep it he remains a loyal friend to the death and once he opens up to a person different sides of his personality become apparent; what was once an overly serious and sullen individual reveals his more frivolous sides; likes his affinity for pranks, storytelling, and generally just the enjoyment of life, rather different for one whom on the surface seem very wrapped up in the concept of death. Deep down he’s a little child-like with an easy, laidback view of the world around him; despite his philosophy’s serious overtones.
Other Traits and Oddities:
- Relies heavily on his sense of smell and hearing as much as his eyesight.
- He’s utterly illiterate.
- Has close to an obsession with fish.
- Strictly carnivorous in his diet.
- Bisixual.
Misc Skills [non-combat]:
- Tracking.
- Has photographic memory; unfortunately even if he can remember the look of a place doesn’t necessarily means he remembers the name, much less were it is.
Nickname(s): Ren’
Gender: Male.
Race: Khajiit (Pahmar).
Age: 25.
Birth date: Sometime in Spring he’s uncertain about the date.
Birthplace: Elsweyr, near Torval.
Class: Hunter/Ranger.
Class Focus: Stealth/Combat.
Major Skills: Sneak, Acrobatics, Athletics, Unarmored, Hand-to-Hand.
Minor Skills: Alchemy; more about disnering healing/poisonous herbs than actual making potions.
Birthsign: The Serpent.
Eyes: Pale blue-grey.
Hair: Pale blond almost white in colour, mane reminiscent of that seen in adolescent lions.
Skin/Fur Color: Pale ecru colour, with faded grey stripes and rosette spots.
Height: 110 cm (43 in) at the shoulder.
Weight: 221.2 kg (448 lbs).
Build: Slender.
Physical Description: Practically indistinguishable, as far as general physique is concerned from the wild mountain lions that inhabit the Cyrodiil, Elsweyr, Valenwood borders. His likeness to the wild insentient felines has had many confuse him for being just this; a simple animal. But he’s no more different than his bipedal Khajiit cousins, capable of both speech and thought processes like they are; his fur is generally kept is clean condition if not being rather unkempt he’s not necessarily sloppy when it comes to putting on a good visual first impression and is particularly proud of his tail which reminds of a rather thick furred, bushy dust mop, sporting pale blue-grey eyes and a well expressional face despite his inability to convey any advanced gestures to compliment their meanings.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: Three old scars marring the bridge of his nose.
Clothing and Armor: Nothing, apart from a pair of leather bracers on his forepaws, and a tattered, faded green scarf which holds great sentimental value to him.
Inventory: Nothing apart from what he wears.
Weapons: His natural teeth and claws.
Magic: Nothing beyond his natural night vision, and his ability to poison enemies.
History: Born to an Ohmes mother and a Suthay-raht father, Ren was eldest child of the family with his Alfiq little sister. He spent his youth exploring the forests of the Elsweyr and Valenwood border, the fact that he was born a pahmar limited his choices of occupations common in a world dominated by bipedal creatures, and this was especially true outside the Elsweyr border where his type was incredibly rare. The only prospects he could hope for as far as paying jobs went were as a mercenary; joining the Renrija Krin or perhaps private guard, but Renrij’Va had never felt much at home in the urban places; preferring the open country and untamed wilderness to the crowded expanses of cities. During the Oblivion Crisis the pahmar was well aware what was going on the world and what dire implications it could have but he never took any active part in defending his home from the invading Daedric forces, having his family claimed by plague a few years earlier the Khajiit felt that any connection he had to Elsweyr was now gone. He spends the majority of his time wandering the wild lands and seeking wealth and treasure where ever he finds it; a travelling adventurer just like millions of others before and likely to come after him, his adventurer profession often drags him into unfamiliar territories like the cities and it’s various taverns. He knows he is very out of place in a city setting, at least outside his native Elsweyr, an uncomfortable feeling to say the least.
Personality: An individualist to a fault, Ren’ doesn’t really believe in teamwork unless it’s a critical survival situation, but most of all he dislike finding himself beholden to anyone a situation which common teamwork could impose upon him. The Khajiit rather anarchistic, holding a deep dislike for figures of authority and people with power, especially elves and human believing that no one is entitled by birth to their position of power. More than anything he claims to thrive in his solitary existence stating that he does better on his own than being dependant on another; this is merely a shield to mask a dislike for responsibility. This anti-social, solitary behavior and general distrust, and suspicion of others hide a spiritually wounded individual that has tried to make best for him-self in the face of overwhelming adversity. In response to the death and despair surrounding him he adopted a savage view of nature; the survival of the fittest is the only rules, and consequently he has strong ideas of self-reliance, self-awareness, and self-confidence, however as far as religion is concerned he’s an atheist. It’s difficult to gain his trust and respect but once you’ve earned it and manage to keep it he remains a loyal friend to the death and once he opens up to a person different sides of his personality become apparent; what was once an overly serious and sullen individual reveals his more frivolous sides; likes his affinity for pranks, storytelling, and generally just the enjoyment of life, rather different for one whom on the surface seem very wrapped up in the concept of death. Deep down he’s a little child-like with an easy, laidback view of the world around him; despite his philosophy’s serious overtones.
Other Traits and Oddities:
- Relies heavily on his sense of smell and hearing as much as his eyesight.
- He’s utterly illiterate.
- Has close to an obsession with fish.
- Strictly carnivorous in his diet.
- Bisixual.
Misc Skills [non-combat]:
- Tracking.
- Has photographic memory; unfortunately even if he can remember the look of a place doesn’t necessarily means he remembers the name, much less were it is.
Adam of morrowind
Spoiler
Name: Adam
Nickname(s): Sir Adam (he likes to be called that)
Gender: Male
Race: Bosmer
Age: Elven age is 85, Age he looks like to humans is 46
Birthdate: 3E 375, Evening Star, 1rst
Birthplace: Valenwood
Class: Healer
Class Focus: Restoration/Healing Magic
Major Skills: Restoration, Blade, Apothecary/Alchemy, Illusion, Athleticism, Mysticism
Minor Skills: Destruction, Light Armor, Alteration, Block, Archery, Hand-to-hand
Birthsign: The Lord
Eyes: Light Green
Hair: Long (Neck length) shaggy, brown
Skin/Fur Color: Tan and White
Height:5'7
Weight: 156lbs
Build: Athletic and average muscle
Physical Description: He is average bosmer size and is sort of built but athleticly built. He has a calm, smooth gentle expression on his face but is deadly with his profession. His green eyes add a captivating feel to whomever looks at him. His hands rough and more smooth sometimes and his legs are strong. arms just as strong and eyes as pointy as an elves should be,
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: One steel small ring pierced on his right
Clothing and Armor: iron bracers, black cloth pants, leather boots, white long-sleeve shirt, iron chest and briastplate, red cloak and hood.
Inventory: Mortar and Pestle, healing herbs and poisonous herbs, some potions, a canteen of water, some bread and scrolls in his travel pack
Weapons: http://www.medievalweaponinfo.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/10/lxex1-excalibur-gold.jpg - http://www.medropship.com/images/hk2515.jpg
Magic: Heal, Heal Other, Drain Health, Absorb health, Drain Magicka, Absorb magicka, cure poison, Light path, Unlock (Average and under) Captivating touch, Fireball, Frost ball, Shock, The Blood of the North lesser power of the Lord. Beast Tongue (talks to animals to help)
History: Adam was born in Valenwood and moved into Battlehorn Castle when his family was being chased by Bandits. His father died and his Mother carried him to safety, she still lives but as a cook. Trained as Castle Mage and Healer, sometimes does work at the Chapel in Chorrol To further his knowledge in the arcane arts he attended the University in both Summerset Isle and the Imperial City. He then Joined the Fighters Guild and occasional does contracts but trains among the guild mates and is Warlock in the Mages Guild. He sometimes teaches his students and peers at the guild halls or the university. He knows swordplay well and the ways of apothecary and alchemy. - He witnessed the oblivion crisis and called to arms and took several mages helping the Imperial Legion garrison in Cyrodiil. He was in the final battle in the Imperial City Aboretum and did what he could, he saved who he could and was recognized as a true Champion of the legion, awarded a dagger and title for a spot within Legion as a Hero and Champion, but turned down the title simply because 'He did what he loved', If asked about or called Hero or Champion he will likely disagree. He once healed and battled along side the heroes of Cyrodiil. He now resides in Weye, collecting herbs, fish, field word and sometimes works in the Weye Tavern of tells his stories. He receives a letter from Karst, a adventurer like Adam. Karst taught Adam some interesting stuff and in exchanged he healed Karst whenever they were in battle together during the crisis. They met, incidentally, with Adam healing Karst. He joined her Mercenary company for awhile doing what he could and left on his own.
Personality: Smart, loving, caring and joking. Sarcastic and treats others the way he wants to be treated, both bad and good aspects.
Other Traits and Oddities: Attracted to Nord and High elven women. Can't turn down a good book. Thinks female spell casters and warriors are attractive. Fancies playing and owns a little duck
-
Misc Skills [non-combat]: Cooking, Singing, dancing, talking to animals, sweet talking
Nickname(s): Sir Adam (he likes to be called that)
Gender: Male
Race: Bosmer
Age: Elven age is 85, Age he looks like to humans is 46
Birthdate: 3E 375, Evening Star, 1rst
Birthplace: Valenwood
Class: Healer
Class Focus: Restoration/Healing Magic
Major Skills: Restoration, Blade, Apothecary/Alchemy, Illusion, Athleticism, Mysticism
Minor Skills: Destruction, Light Armor, Alteration, Block, Archery, Hand-to-hand
Birthsign: The Lord
Eyes: Light Green
Hair: Long (Neck length) shaggy, brown
Skin/Fur Color: Tan and White
Height:5'7
Weight: 156lbs
Build: Athletic and average muscle
Physical Description: He is average bosmer size and is sort of built but athleticly built. He has a calm, smooth gentle expression on his face but is deadly with his profession. His green eyes add a captivating feel to whomever looks at him. His hands rough and more smooth sometimes and his legs are strong. arms just as strong and eyes as pointy as an elves should be,
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: One steel small ring pierced on his right
Clothing and Armor: iron bracers, black cloth pants, leather boots, white long-sleeve shirt, iron chest and briastplate, red cloak and hood.
Inventory: Mortar and Pestle, healing herbs and poisonous herbs, some potions, a canteen of water, some bread and scrolls in his travel pack
Weapons: http://www.medievalweaponinfo.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/10/lxex1-excalibur-gold.jpg - http://www.medropship.com/images/hk2515.jpg
Magic: Heal, Heal Other, Drain Health, Absorb health, Drain Magicka, Absorb magicka, cure poison, Light path, Unlock (Average and under) Captivating touch, Fireball, Frost ball, Shock, The Blood of the North lesser power of the Lord. Beast Tongue (talks to animals to help)
History: Adam was born in Valenwood and moved into Battlehorn Castle when his family was being chased by Bandits. His father died and his Mother carried him to safety, she still lives but as a cook. Trained as Castle Mage and Healer, sometimes does work at the Chapel in Chorrol To further his knowledge in the arcane arts he attended the University in both Summerset Isle and the Imperial City. He then Joined the Fighters Guild and occasional does contracts but trains among the guild mates and is Warlock in the Mages Guild. He sometimes teaches his students and peers at the guild halls or the university. He knows swordplay well and the ways of apothecary and alchemy. - He witnessed the oblivion crisis and called to arms and took several mages helping the Imperial Legion garrison in Cyrodiil. He was in the final battle in the Imperial City Aboretum and did what he could, he saved who he could and was recognized as a true Champion of the legion, awarded a dagger and title for a spot within Legion as a Hero and Champion, but turned down the title simply because 'He did what he loved', If asked about or called Hero or Champion he will likely disagree. He once healed and battled along side the heroes of Cyrodiil. He now resides in Weye, collecting herbs, fish, field word and sometimes works in the Weye Tavern of tells his stories. He receives a letter from Karst, a adventurer like Adam. Karst taught Adam some interesting stuff and in exchanged he healed Karst whenever they were in battle together during the crisis. They met, incidentally, with Adam healing Karst. He joined her Mercenary company for awhile doing what he could and left on his own.
Personality: Smart, loving, caring and joking. Sarcastic and treats others the way he wants to be treated, both bad and good aspects.
Other Traits and Oddities: Attracted to Nord and High elven women. Can't turn down a good book. Thinks female spell casters and warriors are attractive. Fancies playing and owns a little duck
-
Misc Skills [non-combat]: Cooking, Singing, dancing, talking to animals, sweet talking
Sryner of the Sword
Spoiler
Name: Armandsen Barbossa
Nickname(s): None
Gender: Male
Race: Redguard
Age: 29
Birthplace: Hammerfell
Class: Sword-Singer
Class Focus: Combat
Major Skills: Swordplay, Medium Armor, Alchemy, Archery
Minor Skills: Sneak, Block and Parry, Dual Wielding, Conjuration/Alteration
Birthsign: The Lord
Eyes: Dark brown
Hair: Medium, curled black hair
Skin/Fur Color: Dark complexion
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 225 lbs
Build: Athletic
Physical Description: Armandsen stands tall at 6’2”, and he is built around his height well. He is muscular, but not bulky, and his long legs can cover ground deceptively fast when in a spring.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: A single black winged tattoo that curls over his left eye-brow and curves down along his cheekbone. He had two rings pierced into his left eye-brow.
Clothing and Armor: Outside of battle, Armandson wears average clothes. In battle, he wears a black battle robe with refined leather pauldrons and a tight ring-mail coat.
Inventory: A small carrying bag, a golden amulet with a small ruby in the center with inscriptions along the rim, a few bottles of ale, enough food for a few days, a simple jar filled with water, a few ingredients he uses for alchemy.
Weapons: A silver longsword, a steel shortsword, an oak longbow, a quiver of self-crafted arrows with blue and black feathers and gilded arrowheads.
Magic: He knows the fundamental spells to some affect, basic fireballs, basic healing spells, but most of his time is spent trying to perfect a certain spell: summoning the Shehai; the spirit sword.
History: Armandsen Barbossa was born to one of the wealthiest clans of the Forebears; the warrior-clans who are descendants of the Ra Gada warrior class who drove the Orsimer from Hammerfell when the Yokudans first landed from their forsaken homeworld.
Armandsen himself was born to a specific clan of importance. His ancestors were mighty Ansei, or Saints of the Sword, who could command the Shehai so perfectly that they could become nearly invincible and incredibly mighty warriors. Their clans were bookkeepers who kept their secrets and their rituals written, but after the Third Era, their cultural ties to the Spirit Sword seemed to diminish, and only the most successful of Sword-Singers could loosely summon an unstable Shehai.
With such a fate befalling a group of Sword-Singers who fled Yokuda because of their beliefs in the Shehai, this was unacceptable. Due to his bloodline’s connection to the Shehai, he’s had his life forcibly dedicated to the Shehai Shen She Ru, the Way of the Spirit Sword.
Personality: Armandsen is a dedicated man to his culture. He refers to the Redguards as Yokudans and deals in other lost rituals. His mind has been set and every night he obsessively practices Shehai Shen She Ru to fulfill his duty and ascend to Ansei.
Other Traits and Oddities: He’s nearly obsessed with his hair as he is the Shehai, and he really… really likes to drink.
Nickname(s): None
Gender: Male
Race: Redguard
Age: 29
Birthplace: Hammerfell
Class: Sword-Singer
Class Focus: Combat
Major Skills: Swordplay, Medium Armor, Alchemy, Archery
Minor Skills: Sneak, Block and Parry, Dual Wielding, Conjuration/Alteration
Birthsign: The Lord
Eyes: Dark brown
Hair: Medium, curled black hair
Skin/Fur Color: Dark complexion
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 225 lbs
Build: Athletic
Physical Description: Armandsen stands tall at 6’2”, and he is built around his height well. He is muscular, but not bulky, and his long legs can cover ground deceptively fast when in a spring.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: A single black winged tattoo that curls over his left eye-brow and curves down along his cheekbone. He had two rings pierced into his left eye-brow.
Clothing and Armor: Outside of battle, Armandson wears average clothes. In battle, he wears a black battle robe with refined leather pauldrons and a tight ring-mail coat.
Inventory: A small carrying bag, a golden amulet with a small ruby in the center with inscriptions along the rim, a few bottles of ale, enough food for a few days, a simple jar filled with water, a few ingredients he uses for alchemy.
Weapons: A silver longsword, a steel shortsword, an oak longbow, a quiver of self-crafted arrows with blue and black feathers and gilded arrowheads.
Magic: He knows the fundamental spells to some affect, basic fireballs, basic healing spells, but most of his time is spent trying to perfect a certain spell: summoning the Shehai; the spirit sword.
History: Armandsen Barbossa was born to one of the wealthiest clans of the Forebears; the warrior-clans who are descendants of the Ra Gada warrior class who drove the Orsimer from Hammerfell when the Yokudans first landed from their forsaken homeworld.
Armandsen himself was born to a specific clan of importance. His ancestors were mighty Ansei, or Saints of the Sword, who could command the Shehai so perfectly that they could become nearly invincible and incredibly mighty warriors. Their clans were bookkeepers who kept their secrets and their rituals written, but after the Third Era, their cultural ties to the Spirit Sword seemed to diminish, and only the most successful of Sword-Singers could loosely summon an unstable Shehai.
With such a fate befalling a group of Sword-Singers who fled Yokuda because of their beliefs in the Shehai, this was unacceptable. Due to his bloodline’s connection to the Shehai, he’s had his life forcibly dedicated to the Shehai Shen She Ru, the Way of the Spirit Sword.
Personality: Armandsen is a dedicated man to his culture. He refers to the Redguards as Yokudans and deals in other lost rituals. His mind has been set and every night he obsessively practices Shehai Shen She Ru to fulfill his duty and ascend to Ansei.
Other Traits and Oddities: He’s nearly obsessed with his hair as he is the Shehai, and he really… really likes to drink.
The Master Thief
Spoiler
Name: Juhanor
Nickname: Juhanor
Gender: Male
Race: Cathay-raht Khajiit
Age: 27
Birthdate: On a certain day
Birthplace: Elsweyr
Class: Night Prowler
Class Focus: Martial Arts (Combat)
Major Skills: Hand-to-Hand, Athletics, Acrobatics, Unarmored
Minor Skills: Block, Sneak, Heavy Blade
Birthsign: The Steed
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Dusky orange fur
Skin/Fur Color: Dusky orange fur
Height: 6'7''
Weight: 200 pounds
Build: Well muscled, but not overtly so. Like a martial artist.
Physical Description: Dusky orange fur, well defined arm muscles
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: Two circular scars on his wrists
Clothing and Armor: Black silk pants, leather boots
Inventory: 15 sweet rolls, 3 bottles of wine, a Burlap Sack of Holding (for holding items)
Weapons: Glass Battle Gauntlets
Magic: Night Vision that activates in darkness, like a Khajiit
History: Juhanor was born in Elsweyr, hypothetically speaking, on a certain day to uncertain parents. After apparently growing up to learn the many different fighting styles of the Khajiit, Juhanor left his tribe at the age of 20, possibly. The young Khajiit traveled Tamriel, spent some time freeing slaves, became famous for it, and eventually found his way to Saarthal, a legendary city of the old Nords. However, at that point in time, the Dragon Broke, and Juhanor found himself, along with a few of his friends from Saarthal, working for a mercenary in Cyrodiil, just about seventy five years before the events of Saarthal would have occurred.
The Dragon Break would have awful repercussions; Juhanor was no longer connected to regular time and space, Juhanor began to exist as a multi-faceted, yet singular being, much like the Aedra; it was now impossible for the Cathay-raht to return to his regular life. He frequently finds himself in odd locations, but has no control over where, or even when, he is. However, Juhanor has had no special gains from this; he merely exists on a higher level, but does not know it, and is basically regular like everyone else.
Personality: Calm and carefree. Chivalrous; can't abide seeing a woman or innocent in danger. Loves sweetrolls.
Other Traits and Oddities: Defends sweetrolls with his life. He loves sugary foods to an extent that scares other sweet-loving Khajiiti. Cautious of animals.
Misc Skills [non-combat]: Drinking, Brewing, Light Sleeping
Nickname: Juhanor
Gender: Male
Race: Cathay-raht Khajiit
Age: 27
Birthdate: On a certain day
Birthplace: Elsweyr
Class: Night Prowler
Class Focus: Martial Arts (Combat)
Major Skills: Hand-to-Hand, Athletics, Acrobatics, Unarmored
Minor Skills: Block, Sneak, Heavy Blade
Birthsign: The Steed
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Dusky orange fur
Skin/Fur Color: Dusky orange fur
Height: 6'7''
Weight: 200 pounds
Build: Well muscled, but not overtly so. Like a martial artist.
Physical Description: Dusky orange fur, well defined arm muscles
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: Two circular scars on his wrists
Clothing and Armor: Black silk pants, leather boots
Inventory: 15 sweet rolls, 3 bottles of wine, a Burlap Sack of Holding (for holding items)
Weapons: Glass Battle Gauntlets
Magic: Night Vision that activates in darkness, like a Khajiit
History: Juhanor was born in Elsweyr, hypothetically speaking, on a certain day to uncertain parents. After apparently growing up to learn the many different fighting styles of the Khajiit, Juhanor left his tribe at the age of 20, possibly. The young Khajiit traveled Tamriel, spent some time freeing slaves, became famous for it, and eventually found his way to Saarthal, a legendary city of the old Nords. However, at that point in time, the Dragon Broke, and Juhanor found himself, along with a few of his friends from Saarthal, working for a mercenary in Cyrodiil, just about seventy five years before the events of Saarthal would have occurred.
The Dragon Break would have awful repercussions; Juhanor was no longer connected to regular time and space, Juhanor began to exist as a multi-faceted, yet singular being, much like the Aedra; it was now impossible for the Cathay-raht to return to his regular life. He frequently finds himself in odd locations, but has no control over where, or even when, he is. However, Juhanor has had no special gains from this; he merely exists on a higher level, but does not know it, and is basically regular like everyone else.
Personality: Calm and carefree. Chivalrous; can't abide seeing a woman or innocent in danger. Loves sweetrolls.
Other Traits and Oddities: Defends sweetrolls with his life. He loves sugary foods to an extent that scares other sweet-loving Khajiiti. Cautious of animals.
Misc Skills [non-combat]: Drinking, Brewing, Light Sleeping
Jonasvault101
Spoiler
Name: Big-Tree
Nickname(s): None
Gender: Male
Race: Argonian
Age: 37
Birthdate: Unknown, Big Tree doesn't even know the day of the year.
Birthplace: Hla Oad, Vvardenfell, Morrowind
Class: Pirate
Class Focus: Combat
Major Skills: Blade, Light Armor, Alchemy, Destruction, Acrobatics
Minor Skills: Marksman, Hand-to-Hand, Blunt
Birthsign: The Tower
Eyes: Dark Green
Hair: Large Dorsal Fin with several piercings and a few rows of spikes.
Skin/Fur Color: Dark green scales with a deep red stomach and face. He also has strange markings carved into arms and chest.
Height: 6'3"
Weight: 172 lbs
Build: Stocky, slightly athletic/toned but rather more of a bulky-muscular/hearty build.
Physical Description: Big-Tree has the looks to match his name. He is very tall and also quite muscular, both rather unusual for an Argonian.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: The dorsal fin on the top of his head has three gold hoops pierced into it. He also sports several septims sewn into his flesh to replace missing scales. As for tattoos, patches of scales on his arms and chest were dyed in order to form different designs, such as native Argonian symbols as well as Daedric runes.
Clothing and Armor: Big-Tree wears iron boots, an iron pauldron on his left shoulder, sackcloth pants, and a very think cow-hide vest. He also wears an eye-patch over his left eye, despite still having both eyes.
Inventory: Bread, three pieces of cheese, a flask of brandy, 100 septims, a lute, and a bedroll. He also carries the small metallic shard left to him by the Dunmer Lord.
Weapons: A finely-made Horn-bow, made from the horns of a Minotaur. Enchanted by a Bosmer to give the use unparalleled aim. Big-Tree also carries a fine steel cutlass with silver and ebony filigree, a steel guard, the grip being wrapped in fine red leather.
Magic: Big-Tree happens to be a gifted Pyromancer, knowing how to cast many spells that could set just about anything ablaze. And he can do it in style!
History: Big-Tree was born into a largely Argonian community in the small coastal village of Hla Oad. He got his name because when he was born, he was incredibly large in size, his father was also named Big-Water and his mother was Small-Flower. Size sort of ran in the family names. For a long time, the whole village served under a Dunmer Lord who treated the villagers like animals. He believed that the beast races were simple animals, and the Mer were of the highest race, Men being in between.
At the age of 20, after his mother and father were both very ill and near death, Big-Tree was gifted with a dream sent by none other than the Daedric Lord Azura. The dark prince told him to swim deep beneath the marshes, there he would find the first step to the salvation of his village. However, it turned out only to be a hoax.
His brandy had been spiked with moon-sugar, a joke played by the cruel Dunmer land-owner. Interestingly enough, the Dunmer lord had often showed great interest in the young Argonian. So one day, or night rather, he showed up and kidnapped Big-Tree, taking him back to his estate. There, it was when Big-Tree learned of Sheograth, the Mad God of the Daedric realms. The Dunmer showed him how to find a strange peace and even strength within chaos. The Dunmer himself even possessed "artifacts" said to be from Sheogorath's own realm. As it happens, there was a piece of cheese, a chessboard, a small metallic crystal, and a vial of strange putrid liquid.
As mundane as these all were, they did end up possessing actual power. Sadly though, a few years later the Dunmer Lord went completely insane after eating the cheese and drinking the liquid, then playing a game of chess and losing to himself, and had to be locked up in prison. Big-Tree was named benefactor, and with his new-found power he freed his village. He also taught them about the wonder and power of chaos through Sheogorath. They even carved a magnificent statue of the Madgod out of a Hist Tree brought all the way from Black Marsh, and planted in the center of the village.
It was at this time that Big-Tree began his life of piracy, along with many of Argonian men in the village. The women kept the village running, and the children were used as messengers, patrols, and spies, making sure the men were safe when on "business". There was one point in which Big-Tree and his crew were hired out as privateers to House Redoran to help safeguard many villages from the overwhelming numbers of Daedra pouring from the hellish gates of Oblivion. This was the point in which Big-Tree's combat abilities were truly tested. Big-Tree was eventually awarded his cutlass from the Thieves Guild for donations he made to them, and his bow was given to him by the Pilgrims of New Sheoth.
The Pilgrims of New Sheoth were a rather small but quite powerful cult, made up of all races. The Pilgrims themselves were all quite delightfully mad, but they possessed immense knowledge of both Mundus and the Daedric realms, able to answer questions at the drop of a coin that even philosophers would have to ponder.
This would continue for years, until one day. Big-Tree would get the chance of a lifetime. He found a flier in the Imperial City while he was getting supplies for a "business venture". He went back to Vvardenfell, told his friends and family, and set off immediately.
Personality: Big-Tree, although being a worshiper of Sheogorath, is actually quite sane. Sometimes he will say or do things that to many people, would not make sense. But there is always a point to it, even if Big-Tree himself doesn't know it yet. Despite being a firm believer in chaos, Big-Tree has always been a kind Argonian, never turning away from someone who needs help. He also respects the many faiths around him, able to see some amounts of chaos in each one. He even admires another Daedra Lord, Mephala, after hearing a story where a person managed to turn a peaceful town of Dunmer and Nords, against one another.
Other Traits and Oddities: When going into a fight, Big-Tree will sometimes go into a kind of trance and begin singing in what seems to be a kind of gibberish. He also speaks a language only known to the worshipers of Sheogorath, called "Glosslalia". Supposedly it contains words and syllables from each language spoken in Tamriel, and has no written form.
-
Misc Skills [non-combat]: Cooking, rock-skipping, sailing, rope-tying, and lute-playing. Big-Tree also has a fascination with certain types of cheese, especially Highrock Sharp!
Nickname(s): None
Gender: Male
Race: Argonian
Age: 37
Birthdate: Unknown, Big Tree doesn't even know the day of the year.
Birthplace: Hla Oad, Vvardenfell, Morrowind
Class: Pirate
Class Focus: Combat
Major Skills: Blade, Light Armor, Alchemy, Destruction, Acrobatics
Minor Skills: Marksman, Hand-to-Hand, Blunt
Birthsign: The Tower
Eyes: Dark Green
Hair: Large Dorsal Fin with several piercings and a few rows of spikes.
Skin/Fur Color: Dark green scales with a deep red stomach and face. He also has strange markings carved into arms and chest.
Height: 6'3"
Weight: 172 lbs
Build: Stocky, slightly athletic/toned but rather more of a bulky-muscular/hearty build.
Physical Description: Big-Tree has the looks to match his name. He is very tall and also quite muscular, both rather unusual for an Argonian.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: The dorsal fin on the top of his head has three gold hoops pierced into it. He also sports several septims sewn into his flesh to replace missing scales. As for tattoos, patches of scales on his arms and chest were dyed in order to form different designs, such as native Argonian symbols as well as Daedric runes.
Clothing and Armor: Big-Tree wears iron boots, an iron pauldron on his left shoulder, sackcloth pants, and a very think cow-hide vest. He also wears an eye-patch over his left eye, despite still having both eyes.
Inventory: Bread, three pieces of cheese, a flask of brandy, 100 septims, a lute, and a bedroll. He also carries the small metallic shard left to him by the Dunmer Lord.
Weapons: A finely-made Horn-bow, made from the horns of a Minotaur. Enchanted by a Bosmer to give the use unparalleled aim. Big-Tree also carries a fine steel cutlass with silver and ebony filigree, a steel guard, the grip being wrapped in fine red leather.
Magic: Big-Tree happens to be a gifted Pyromancer, knowing how to cast many spells that could set just about anything ablaze. And he can do it in style!
History: Big-Tree was born into a largely Argonian community in the small coastal village of Hla Oad. He got his name because when he was born, he was incredibly large in size, his father was also named Big-Water and his mother was Small-Flower. Size sort of ran in the family names. For a long time, the whole village served under a Dunmer Lord who treated the villagers like animals. He believed that the beast races were simple animals, and the Mer were of the highest race, Men being in between.
At the age of 20, after his mother and father were both very ill and near death, Big-Tree was gifted with a dream sent by none other than the Daedric Lord Azura. The dark prince told him to swim deep beneath the marshes, there he would find the first step to the salvation of his village. However, it turned out only to be a hoax.
His brandy had been spiked with moon-sugar, a joke played by the cruel Dunmer land-owner. Interestingly enough, the Dunmer lord had often showed great interest in the young Argonian. So one day, or night rather, he showed up and kidnapped Big-Tree, taking him back to his estate. There, it was when Big-Tree learned of Sheograth, the Mad God of the Daedric realms. The Dunmer showed him how to find a strange peace and even strength within chaos. The Dunmer himself even possessed "artifacts" said to be from Sheogorath's own realm. As it happens, there was a piece of cheese, a chessboard, a small metallic crystal, and a vial of strange putrid liquid.
As mundane as these all were, they did end up possessing actual power. Sadly though, a few years later the Dunmer Lord went completely insane after eating the cheese and drinking the liquid, then playing a game of chess and losing to himself, and had to be locked up in prison. Big-Tree was named benefactor, and with his new-found power he freed his village. He also taught them about the wonder and power of chaos through Sheogorath. They even carved a magnificent statue of the Madgod out of a Hist Tree brought all the way from Black Marsh, and planted in the center of the village.
It was at this time that Big-Tree began his life of piracy, along with many of Argonian men in the village. The women kept the village running, and the children were used as messengers, patrols, and spies, making sure the men were safe when on "business". There was one point in which Big-Tree and his crew were hired out as privateers to House Redoran to help safeguard many villages from the overwhelming numbers of Daedra pouring from the hellish gates of Oblivion. This was the point in which Big-Tree's combat abilities were truly tested. Big-Tree was eventually awarded his cutlass from the Thieves Guild for donations he made to them, and his bow was given to him by the Pilgrims of New Sheoth.
The Pilgrims of New Sheoth were a rather small but quite powerful cult, made up of all races. The Pilgrims themselves were all quite delightfully mad, but they possessed immense knowledge of both Mundus and the Daedric realms, able to answer questions at the drop of a coin that even philosophers would have to ponder.
This would continue for years, until one day. Big-Tree would get the chance of a lifetime. He found a flier in the Imperial City while he was getting supplies for a "business venture". He went back to Vvardenfell, told his friends and family, and set off immediately.
Personality: Big-Tree, although being a worshiper of Sheogorath, is actually quite sane. Sometimes he will say or do things that to many people, would not make sense. But there is always a point to it, even if Big-Tree himself doesn't know it yet. Despite being a firm believer in chaos, Big-Tree has always been a kind Argonian, never turning away from someone who needs help. He also respects the many faiths around him, able to see some amounts of chaos in each one. He even admires another Daedra Lord, Mephala, after hearing a story where a person managed to turn a peaceful town of Dunmer and Nords, against one another.
Other Traits and Oddities: When going into a fight, Big-Tree will sometimes go into a kind of trance and begin singing in what seems to be a kind of gibberish. He also speaks a language only known to the worshipers of Sheogorath, called "Glosslalia". Supposedly it contains words and syllables from each language spoken in Tamriel, and has no written form.
-
Misc Skills [non-combat]: Cooking, rock-skipping, sailing, rope-tying, and lute-playing. Big-Tree also has a fascination with certain types of cheese, especially Highrock Sharp!
Broken-Scale
Spoiler
Name: Cordus Leon
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial
Age: 18
Birthdate: Sun’s Dawn 14
Birthplace: Skingrad
Class: Bard
Class Focus: An entertainer at heart, Cordus is showy in everything he does, from fighting, to playing his lute, to even his movements. As such, he isn’t exactly stealthy, but he isn’t a straight up fighter. Instead, he relies on speed, agility, luck and personality to get by
Skills: Cordus is a master acrobat from his years in the circus, capable of performing complex flips and other acrobatic feats with seemingly little effort. Despite his relatively young age, he was able to become the best performer in Cyrodiil at maneuvers on the high wires. He transfers this ability into a fighting style that’s heavily based around dodging, showmanship, speed and agility. He was also trained in the use of bladed weaponry and hand-to-hand combat by both his father and various master swordsmen in the circus. Finally, he has been trained enough in the use of light armor to be fairly comfortable when wearing it for long stretches of time, and is very much a people-person.
Birthsign: The Lover
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Soft, smooth blonde hair
Skin Color: Light
Height: 6’0”
Weight: 176 lbs
Build: Defined muscles, very little fat on his body,
Physical Description: Cordus’s main feature (or as he calls “his money maker”) is that he is incredibly good looking. He has a defined, chiseled, clean shaven jaw and medium length hair. His hair has bangs that are just above his eyebrows. He really isn’t that imposing to look at because of his looks, however, as most would assume he’s just some ‘pretty boy’ trying to play at being an adventurer … at least until he leaves them bleeding out on the ground watching him walk away.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: Cordus has no distinctive marking on his body (no tattoos, piercings, or scars).
Clothing and Armor: Cordus wears a set of ostentatious clothing, complete with a hood. The ensemble consists of a very white long sleeved shirt, a light red belt, black pants that are tucked into knee high leather boots, over which he wears leather gauntlets, leather shoulder pieces, and a leather chest plate.
Inventory: Cordus carries small back on his back that contains a small bedroll, a flask of water and some food, a bag of gold, and his prized lute.
Weapons: Cordus wields a steel rapier and matching dagger. He wears the rapier on the left side of his belt and the dagger on his right hip. He also carries a spare dagger on his left boot.
Magic: Cordus's only magical ability is the power to paralyze someone, which comes from his Birthsign.
History: Cordus grew up in Skingrad, the son of a noble there. He was the youngest of seven children, all of whom looked almost identical. Getting almost no attention outside of minor training in swordplay, Cordus decided to run away when he was 10, using his natural acrobatic abilities to join a traveling circus. He quickly became one of the main attractions there, excelling both in various acrobatic demonstrations and with playing his lute. At the same time, he began receiving training with bladed weaponry from the circus’s swordmaster, quickly mastering whatever he was taught. He stayed there for six years, finally receiving the individuality, attention and respect he never received as a child. However, when he was 16, he felt called to leave, instead making his own mark on the world as a traveling bard and adventurer.
Personality: Cordus is generally cheerful and outgoing, but has a tendency to be very air-headed. He delights in his own acrobatic abilities, and never misses an opportunity to show them off, as a result of his lack of childhood attention. Because of his upbringing, Cordus craves attention and recognition. This is what leads him to develop his acrobatics in the first place, as well as his running away to join the circus. These attention issues also cause him to be a compulsive flirt, which is why he has developed quite the reputation as a heartbreaker. Cordus is very loyal to those he considers friends, and doesn’t usually hold grudges against people, even those who have severely wronged him. He loves animals and holds a particular desire to acquire a pet bear and teach it how to do gymnastics. Finally, he is rather vain when it comes to his appearance.
Other Traits and Oddities:
- Cordus is, as a master acrobat, is very flexible, and often absent-mindedly does acrobatics when idle. In the same manner, he is equally as likely to randomly begin playing his lute when he feels bored.
- Cordus has a very distinct fighting style that heavily emphasizes constant movement and dodging. For instance, he usually tries to maneuver himself behind an opponent when fighting and will sometimes imitate their movements while staying behind them in a way of mocking them.
- As a part of his acrobatic abilities, Cordus is skilled at parkour, and will sometimes incorporate backflips and cartwheels into his normal movements.
- Cordus peppers his speaking with odd slang words (which some believe he made up himself) such as "dude".
Misc Skills [non-combat]:
- Cordus is extremely skilled at playing the lute.
- Cordus prides himself at being rather good with women.
Name: Cordus Leon
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial
Age: 18
Birthdate: Sun’s Dawn 14
Birthplace: Skingrad
Class: Bard
Class Focus: An entertainer at heart, Cordus is showy in everything he does, from fighting, to playing his lute, to even his movements. As such, he isn’t exactly stealthy, but he isn’t a straight up fighter. Instead, he relies on speed, agility, luck and personality to get by
Skills: Cordus is a master acrobat from his years in the circus, capable of performing complex flips and other acrobatic feats with seemingly little effort. Despite his relatively young age, he was able to become the best performer in Cyrodiil at maneuvers on the high wires. He transfers this ability into a fighting style that’s heavily based around dodging, showmanship, speed and agility. He was also trained in the use of bladed weaponry and hand-to-hand combat by both his father and various master swordsmen in the circus. Finally, he has been trained enough in the use of light armor to be fairly comfortable when wearing it for long stretches of time, and is very much a people-person.
Birthsign: The Lover
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Soft, smooth blonde hair
Skin Color: Light
Height: 6’0”
Weight: 176 lbs
Build: Defined muscles, very little fat on his body,
Physical Description: Cordus’s main feature (or as he calls “his money maker”) is that he is incredibly good looking. He has a defined, chiseled, clean shaven jaw and medium length hair. His hair has bangs that are just above his eyebrows. He really isn’t that imposing to look at because of his looks, however, as most would assume he’s just some ‘pretty boy’ trying to play at being an adventurer … at least until he leaves them bleeding out on the ground watching him walk away.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: Cordus has no distinctive marking on his body (no tattoos, piercings, or scars).
Clothing and Armor: Cordus wears a set of ostentatious clothing, complete with a hood. The ensemble consists of a very white long sleeved shirt, a light red belt, black pants that are tucked into knee high leather boots, over which he wears leather gauntlets, leather shoulder pieces, and a leather chest plate.
Inventory: Cordus carries small back on his back that contains a small bedroll, a flask of water and some food, a bag of gold, and his prized lute.
Weapons: Cordus wields a steel rapier and matching dagger. He wears the rapier on the left side of his belt and the dagger on his right hip. He also carries a spare dagger on his left boot.
Magic: Cordus's only magical ability is the power to paralyze someone, which comes from his Birthsign.
History: Cordus grew up in Skingrad, the son of a noble there. He was the youngest of seven children, all of whom looked almost identical. Getting almost no attention outside of minor training in swordplay, Cordus decided to run away when he was 10, using his natural acrobatic abilities to join a traveling circus. He quickly became one of the main attractions there, excelling both in various acrobatic demonstrations and with playing his lute. At the same time, he began receiving training with bladed weaponry from the circus’s swordmaster, quickly mastering whatever he was taught. He stayed there for six years, finally receiving the individuality, attention and respect he never received as a child. However, when he was 16, he felt called to leave, instead making his own mark on the world as a traveling bard and adventurer.
Personality: Cordus is generally cheerful and outgoing, but has a tendency to be very air-headed. He delights in his own acrobatic abilities, and never misses an opportunity to show them off, as a result of his lack of childhood attention. Because of his upbringing, Cordus craves attention and recognition. This is what leads him to develop his acrobatics in the first place, as well as his running away to join the circus. These attention issues also cause him to be a compulsive flirt, which is why he has developed quite the reputation as a heartbreaker. Cordus is very loyal to those he considers friends, and doesn’t usually hold grudges against people, even those who have severely wronged him. He loves animals and holds a particular desire to acquire a pet bear and teach it how to do gymnastics. Finally, he is rather vain when it comes to his appearance.
Other Traits and Oddities:
- Cordus is, as a master acrobat, is very flexible, and often absent-mindedly does acrobatics when idle. In the same manner, he is equally as likely to randomly begin playing his lute when he feels bored.
- Cordus has a very distinct fighting style that heavily emphasizes constant movement and dodging. For instance, he usually tries to maneuver himself behind an opponent when fighting and will sometimes imitate their movements while staying behind them in a way of mocking them.
- As a part of his acrobatic abilities, Cordus is skilled at parkour, and will sometimes incorporate backflips and cartwheels into his normal movements.
- Cordus peppers his speaking with odd slang words (which some believe he made up himself) such as "dude".
Misc Skills [non-combat]:
- Cordus is extremely skilled at playing the lute.
- Cordus prides himself at being rather good with women.
Yttrium
Spoiler
Name: Azrael Wolff
Nickname: Wolf
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial
Age: 23
Birthdate:?-?
Birthplace: Korial, Elsweyr
Skills: At a glance, a skilled mage in the arts of Illusion and Mysticism. A man that can not only manipulate his surroundings and the minds of those around him, a powerful combination if used rightly. However, this does leave him vulnerable as those types of magic often leave one unable to defend him/herself or attack. Because of these disadvantages he has learned to walk in the shadows, to make his presence unknown as he shifts the thoughts of others. He has very minor practice in blunt weapons if all else fails. An overview: A thief who destroys his enemies indirectly.
Birthsign: The Shadow
Eyes: Ice blue, a light and chilling color.
Hair: A light shade of brown with a reddish tint, oily
Skin: A shade of pale brown, making him look like he's covered in dust
Height: 6'1
Weight: 150Ilbs
Build: Lithe, compact, like a runner
Physical Description: Though tall he often slouches appearing smaller than he is. His hair cascades down his head in oily lines, clearly a lack of grooming, it's knotted and unkempt. It goes down past his shoulders and covers his face like a veil. His teeth are as white as ivory and seem unnaturally sharp, his hands are smooth and soft, there are no palm lines, his fingers are long. He has a rough beard coming in and has high cheekbones, his cheeks are concave. His brow is heavy, giving him a furious appearance even when happy. His eyes seem sunken and there are dark circles underneath them. His nose seems slightly bigger than normal in proportion to his face.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: An elegant tattoo spirals up his left arm, it contains ancient text in Ayleid about a strange and perhaps demonic ritual. His right arm is afflicted with horrible burn marks that twist up and across his torso.
Clothing and Armor: Wheres a dark brown cloak over a light brown shirt and linens. Loves his cloak like nothing else.
Inventory: A quill pen, an inkwell, several loose parchments of paper, a journal, a paintbrush , charcoal, various plants of a generally harmless nature, a jug of water, a pedestal and mortar, a miniature clay statue of Mephala
Weapons: Club
Magic: Illusion and Mysticism
History: Look on any map and you'll never see Korial. A village on the northern most side of Elsweyr; it is blocked off from the outside world by nothing more than natural barriers, an arid desert in the middle of a canyon, you would be hard pressed to find it.
And that is good, for it is a village of Daedric worshipers of the worst kind. The pledge their alliance to Mephala and perform strange rituals and terrible rituals, the sacrificing of mortals the kindest of them. They bathe in blood, rip out hearts, devour livers, have wild orgies, wear human skins, and more.
Av tye oiobala na racuvar ye nou anyammis ae anda as agea, mor Mephala
The chant that has been sung since their founding can be heard on the whispers of the wind if one manages to get close to it. It was in this vile village that Wolff was born, in there here of The Shadow no less, their most coveted constellation. Not only that, but he was born to the high priest, a duty he would surely fall into one day.
As childhoods goes, Wolff had a very interesting and twisted one. Since he was to be high priest he performed in the rituals; including one where he ripped out the heart of his best friend in order to make sure their was no drought. He still remembers her smiling face as he plunged the bladed gauntlet deep into her chest, the blood pooling quickly. Her tiny heart was still beating in his hands when he removed it and the smell of death filled the air. He smiled.
This would certainly have an impact on his beliefs and morals, but his twisted nature was there before he was born. If one man can be born not seeing the color red, than can not another man be born without kindness? Whatever the cause he eagerly participated in the rituals, to his family's joy.
The people in the village where never really adept at magic of fighting so when Wolff showed his uncanny talent in the art of Magic, his parents were thrilled. They encouraged his use and practice of the art and turned a blind eye to any crimes he committed.
When Leander killed his childhood friend by beating his head in with a rock, he screamed that he was not in his right mind, that Wolff tricked him somehow. He was written off as deranged and stoned to death. When a boulder fell twenty five feet and crushed priest Bandon, a mere accident. When old lady Helan seemed to have the very life svcked out her, natural causes.
In order to become a high priest, the old one must die, it is a life long commitment. Wolff wanted the power sooner than that, he devised a plan quickly and ruthlessly. Over the next year he slowly drained the life out of his father, little by little. Everyday his father grew paler, thinner, and found waking up harder and harder. Eventually he was bedridden and soon after, dead.
Wolff expressed no sorrow in his deed, in fact he was happier than he had ever been, the slow destruction of a man was a feeling unlike any other. To have their life in your palms as you slowly squeezed it dry. Nothing else could compare!
With the power of high priest he ordered more rituals and more often, people were against it, but they had too much fear to contradict him and whenever a riot was started, he calmed them down with a soothing voice and charming words...and Magic. He was a prophet for Mephala he talked and people listened, was he telling truth? Not at all, but that did not hurt them.
Whatever doubts they had before slowly vanished and people began wondering why they ever feared him, the rituals were great and they basked in the glory of Mephala, she adored them, she cared for them. They couldn't be farther from the truth, through lies, deceit, and magic, Wolff had effectively captured their minds.
He spoke to Mephala, or at least he thought he did. But her words were for him and no one else, they did not have a privilege to hear her. She whispered in his ear at night, showed him dreams and visions of a world torn in half by war, blood ran flowed in rivers and they very earth screamed in agony. They were marvelous.
She demanded more rituals and sacrifices and he delivered. He would be happy to serve as high priest for the rest of his life and follow her instructions for eternity. Then her voice disappeared. For a day he was lost, but it was like waking up from a long dream, he saw clearly.
He had been completely under her control and he shuddered at that thought, he was the one who was suppose to do the controlling. He decided he needed to get away from the village, the only thing he was completely scared of was to be controlled. He gathered his stuff and headed to the top of the canyon, from their he could look at the village below.
It was dawn and the sun was just beginning to rise and shine it's ray down up the canyon. It was beautiful. He took out his brush and grounded up flowers and fruit to make paint and captured that second in eternity. Painting was another skill he was always innately good at and besides torture, it was the only thing that gave him joy.
After he was done, he sifted the rocks and caused a landslide that buried the tiny village; men, women, and children all dead. He felt no remorse, but joy at the thought of our the lives he had extinguished and the temple of that [censored] Mephala.
From there he moved past the border of Elsweyr and into Cyrodiil, it was his first experience in interacting with others. Indeed the first people he came across happened to be bandits. One of them manage to shoot a fireball at him before his palm glowed red and they hacked each other to bits.
The fireball was weak and only managed to burn his torso and right arm. He remembers picking up one of their clubs and walking over to a bandit who was writhing on the ground with an arrow in the leg and chest. He remembers calming him down with a flash of green, saying soothing words to give a false sense of security.
The he brought the club down hard onto his kneecap, shattering it. The calmness disappeared and was replaced by agony, his tortured scream echoed off the woods. Wolff was flushed with excitement this kind of torture was as gratifying as six was to most people. He brought down the club hard upon the man's face and shuddered with joy when the crunch of bone and squish of meat reached his ears.
It was also around this time that he found the statue of Mephala in his bag, he threw it out disgustedly. Not giving it a second thought, but it did remind him of what was tattooed on his left arm.
Av tye oiobala na racuvar ye nou anyammis ae anda as agea, mor Mephala
He didn't know if anyone else read Alyeid but it would bad if anyone did. They would mark him as an outcast and though he had no love for people, he understood that being branded as an outcast would make it harder to move around.
He wandered around Cyrodiil for a couple years inflicting pain where he could, not all of it physical. But he felt like he was missing something, inflicting pain was good, but he missed being in control. Once you had a taste of that kind of power you couldn't let it go. He needed more.
So when he saw the poster telling about an adventure into the great unknown, he said why not. He heard of tales of a similar instance where a man explored rumors and ended up becoming a god, and it wasn't some old legend. If they prove true he will take the throne for himself and kill all those who oppose him.
Personality: In one word: Sadist. A man who gets a perverse pleasure from hurting others both mentally and physically. He doesn't outwardly act like a jerk but he charms people with his words and magic, mostly magic, to get them close to him. The happier and safer they feel, the bigger pleasure when it comes to destroying them. He feels no remorse and can be quite ruthless.
Other Traits and Oddities: He likes to keep his hands clean, he will constantly wash and scrub them, making them very soft. He also likes butterflies.
Misc Skills [non-combat]: Can paint, write, and read Alyeid. A hardened survivalist he knows how to make something from nothing and as a cult leader he can be quite charming.
Nickname: Wolf
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial
Age: 23
Birthdate:?-?
Birthplace: Korial, Elsweyr
Skills: At a glance, a skilled mage in the arts of Illusion and Mysticism. A man that can not only manipulate his surroundings and the minds of those around him, a powerful combination if used rightly. However, this does leave him vulnerable as those types of magic often leave one unable to defend him/herself or attack. Because of these disadvantages he has learned to walk in the shadows, to make his presence unknown as he shifts the thoughts of others. He has very minor practice in blunt weapons if all else fails. An overview: A thief who destroys his enemies indirectly.
Birthsign: The Shadow
Eyes: Ice blue, a light and chilling color.
Hair: A light shade of brown with a reddish tint, oily
Skin: A shade of pale brown, making him look like he's covered in dust
Height: 6'1
Weight: 150Ilbs
Build: Lithe, compact, like a runner
Physical Description: Though tall he often slouches appearing smaller than he is. His hair cascades down his head in oily lines, clearly a lack of grooming, it's knotted and unkempt. It goes down past his shoulders and covers his face like a veil. His teeth are as white as ivory and seem unnaturally sharp, his hands are smooth and soft, there are no palm lines, his fingers are long. He has a rough beard coming in and has high cheekbones, his cheeks are concave. His brow is heavy, giving him a furious appearance even when happy. His eyes seem sunken and there are dark circles underneath them. His nose seems slightly bigger than normal in proportion to his face.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: An elegant tattoo spirals up his left arm, it contains ancient text in Ayleid about a strange and perhaps demonic ritual. His right arm is afflicted with horrible burn marks that twist up and across his torso.
Clothing and Armor: Wheres a dark brown cloak over a light brown shirt and linens. Loves his cloak like nothing else.
Inventory: A quill pen, an inkwell, several loose parchments of paper, a journal, a paintbrush , charcoal, various plants of a generally harmless nature, a jug of water, a pedestal and mortar, a miniature clay statue of Mephala
Weapons: Club
Magic: Illusion and Mysticism
History: Look on any map and you'll never see Korial. A village on the northern most side of Elsweyr; it is blocked off from the outside world by nothing more than natural barriers, an arid desert in the middle of a canyon, you would be hard pressed to find it.
And that is good, for it is a village of Daedric worshipers of the worst kind. The pledge their alliance to Mephala and perform strange rituals and terrible rituals, the sacrificing of mortals the kindest of them. They bathe in blood, rip out hearts, devour livers, have wild orgies, wear human skins, and more.
Av tye oiobala na racuvar ye nou anyammis ae anda as agea, mor Mephala
The chant that has been sung since their founding can be heard on the whispers of the wind if one manages to get close to it. It was in this vile village that Wolff was born, in there here of The Shadow no less, their most coveted constellation. Not only that, but he was born to the high priest, a duty he would surely fall into one day.
As childhoods goes, Wolff had a very interesting and twisted one. Since he was to be high priest he performed in the rituals; including one where he ripped out the heart of his best friend in order to make sure their was no drought. He still remembers her smiling face as he plunged the bladed gauntlet deep into her chest, the blood pooling quickly. Her tiny heart was still beating in his hands when he removed it and the smell of death filled the air. He smiled.
This would certainly have an impact on his beliefs and morals, but his twisted nature was there before he was born. If one man can be born not seeing the color red, than can not another man be born without kindness? Whatever the cause he eagerly participated in the rituals, to his family's joy.
The people in the village where never really adept at magic of fighting so when Wolff showed his uncanny talent in the art of Magic, his parents were thrilled. They encouraged his use and practice of the art and turned a blind eye to any crimes he committed.
When Leander killed his childhood friend by beating his head in with a rock, he screamed that he was not in his right mind, that Wolff tricked him somehow. He was written off as deranged and stoned to death. When a boulder fell twenty five feet and crushed priest Bandon, a mere accident. When old lady Helan seemed to have the very life svcked out her, natural causes.
In order to become a high priest, the old one must die, it is a life long commitment. Wolff wanted the power sooner than that, he devised a plan quickly and ruthlessly. Over the next year he slowly drained the life out of his father, little by little. Everyday his father grew paler, thinner, and found waking up harder and harder. Eventually he was bedridden and soon after, dead.
Wolff expressed no sorrow in his deed, in fact he was happier than he had ever been, the slow destruction of a man was a feeling unlike any other. To have their life in your palms as you slowly squeezed it dry. Nothing else could compare!
With the power of high priest he ordered more rituals and more often, people were against it, but they had too much fear to contradict him and whenever a riot was started, he calmed them down with a soothing voice and charming words...and Magic. He was a prophet for Mephala he talked and people listened, was he telling truth? Not at all, but that did not hurt them.
Whatever doubts they had before slowly vanished and people began wondering why they ever feared him, the rituals were great and they basked in the glory of Mephala, she adored them, she cared for them. They couldn't be farther from the truth, through lies, deceit, and magic, Wolff had effectively captured their minds.
He spoke to Mephala, or at least he thought he did. But her words were for him and no one else, they did not have a privilege to hear her. She whispered in his ear at night, showed him dreams and visions of a world torn in half by war, blood ran flowed in rivers and they very earth screamed in agony. They were marvelous.
She demanded more rituals and sacrifices and he delivered. He would be happy to serve as high priest for the rest of his life and follow her instructions for eternity. Then her voice disappeared. For a day he was lost, but it was like waking up from a long dream, he saw clearly.
He had been completely under her control and he shuddered at that thought, he was the one who was suppose to do the controlling. He decided he needed to get away from the village, the only thing he was completely scared of was to be controlled. He gathered his stuff and headed to the top of the canyon, from their he could look at the village below.
It was dawn and the sun was just beginning to rise and shine it's ray down up the canyon. It was beautiful. He took out his brush and grounded up flowers and fruit to make paint and captured that second in eternity. Painting was another skill he was always innately good at and besides torture, it was the only thing that gave him joy.
After he was done, he sifted the rocks and caused a landslide that buried the tiny village; men, women, and children all dead. He felt no remorse, but joy at the thought of our the lives he had extinguished and the temple of that [censored] Mephala.
From there he moved past the border of Elsweyr and into Cyrodiil, it was his first experience in interacting with others. Indeed the first people he came across happened to be bandits. One of them manage to shoot a fireball at him before his palm glowed red and they hacked each other to bits.
The fireball was weak and only managed to burn his torso and right arm. He remembers picking up one of their clubs and walking over to a bandit who was writhing on the ground with an arrow in the leg and chest. He remembers calming him down with a flash of green, saying soothing words to give a false sense of security.
The he brought the club down hard onto his kneecap, shattering it. The calmness disappeared and was replaced by agony, his tortured scream echoed off the woods. Wolff was flushed with excitement this kind of torture was as gratifying as six was to most people. He brought down the club hard upon the man's face and shuddered with joy when the crunch of bone and squish of meat reached his ears.
It was also around this time that he found the statue of Mephala in his bag, he threw it out disgustedly. Not giving it a second thought, but it did remind him of what was tattooed on his left arm.
Av tye oiobala na racuvar ye nou anyammis ae anda as agea, mor Mephala
He didn't know if anyone else read Alyeid but it would bad if anyone did. They would mark him as an outcast and though he had no love for people, he understood that being branded as an outcast would make it harder to move around.
He wandered around Cyrodiil for a couple years inflicting pain where he could, not all of it physical. But he felt like he was missing something, inflicting pain was good, but he missed being in control. Once you had a taste of that kind of power you couldn't let it go. He needed more.
So when he saw the poster telling about an adventure into the great unknown, he said why not. He heard of tales of a similar instance where a man explored rumors and ended up becoming a god, and it wasn't some old legend. If they prove true he will take the throne for himself and kill all those who oppose him.
Personality: In one word: Sadist. A man who gets a perverse pleasure from hurting others both mentally and physically. He doesn't outwardly act like a jerk but he charms people with his words and magic, mostly magic, to get them close to him. The happier and safer they feel, the bigger pleasure when it comes to destroying them. He feels no remorse and can be quite ruthless.
Other Traits and Oddities: He likes to keep his hands clean, he will constantly wash and scrub them, making them very soft. He also likes butterflies.
Misc Skills [non-combat]: Can paint, write, and read Alyeid. A hardened survivalist he knows how to make something from nothing and as a cult leader he can be quite charming.
Mony
Spoiler
Name: Iver Letholdus the Defender
Nickname: Iver
Gender: Male
Race: Nord
Age: 22
Birthdate: The 15th of Frostfall in the 3E417
Birthplace: Falkreath, Skyrim
Skills: A warrior tried by Oblivion and baptized by fire, he can work wonders with any blade you give him, though he excels with the longsword. He cant use magicka and he wont sneak up on an enemy, he prefers an honorable approach.
Birthsign: The Warrior
Eyes: Hazel
Hair: Medium Scruffy
Skin/Fur Color: Slightly Pale
Height: Around 6 feet 1
Weight: Between 200 to 220
Build: Muscular
Physical Description: Pale but certainly frightful to see in the midst of battle. He stands proud with his chest placed out front. He has rough looking hands with short, stubby fingers to match his stumpy toes. His arms nearly explode of veins popping out as his legs show many similar features. His brown hair just covers his hazily blue eyes, stretching down to the back of his neck. His jawbone is flat and strong looking while his brows give away a faint realism of humanness, very thin like and hard to see.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: A scar extending from his right shoulder to his lower left abdomen.
Clothing and Armor: What appears to be an iron suit of armor, roughly made and badly damaged. It’s a wonder the cuirass remains intact, led alone wearable.
Inventory: A few Septims and a note from a long forgotten friend.
Weapons: A fine steel sword, engraved with illegible lettering along with a kite shield belonging to the Knights of the Nine.
History: Born to a no name family in a no name village not far from Falkreath, Iver had quickly accustomed himself to practice with the sword daily. Though at first he was belittled by many and told he could never be a warrior, his persistence prevailed and soon became a fairly good warrior, one which many of the tribesmen came to love and adore.
One faithful morning however, his true colors were tested when a traveling band of Mer decided to pillage their peaceful town. By every passing minute, the fighting grew more and more intense while women and children ran for the city walls. The young Iver, only 16 years of age, ran to his sword master to plea for his sword and shield, but upon arriving at the small wooden building, all he saw was bloodshed and the mangled bodies of what was left of his friends.
Quickly, Iver set out to find his master, who would surely have repelled the enemy invaders, but alas, the gods had chosen to take away his mortal body and let his soul wander the afterlife in peace.
The gods? How could any “god” be so cruel to allow such a man to meet his end in such a manner? A man of honor should not be torn apart like a rag doll period, led alone by Mer!
He picked up his master’s sword and shield and charged out into the enemy lines, demanding to meet their leader in honorable combat. Mer, of course, knew such thing as honor and simply charged after him. Without the help of his brothers’ bows’, he would have been massacred then and there, just as his master was.
After many gruesome minutes, their leader appeared in the morning sun, laughing that such a challenge would be made. His brothers’ knew then that Iver had sealed his fate, and never reached for their quivers once more.
The Mer just stood opposite of Iver, unflinching as they stared into each other’s eyes.
What have I done!? I cant compete against a warlord! I cant compete against even a regular Mer! Shor save me, I beg of you. .
The warlord stood still as night, as usual, when Iver charged at him, screaming words of which had never been heard. Simply, screaming. His left hand swept at the warlord who easily managed the parry. The Mer started chanting, where as the villagers simply stayed silent. .
Iver lunged many a time and never once hit his mark. His opponent, mocking him by not even lifting his sword. Soon though, the Mer grew tired of the petty game and began battle himself.
Now on the defensive, Iver used all his strength to withstand the mighty blows coming from the Elven longsword. And just as he was about to give up hope and accept defeat, his master spoke to him, but not from outside, rather the inside.
Remember child, you cannot win unless you open your eyes.
Open my eyes? My eyes are open! What kind of joke is this!?
Then he remembered, his master didn’t mean open his eyes, he meant look for the open spots. Managing to wield his shield once more, he blocked the attacks of the Mer warlord, but remembered to spot his opening.
And then, he found it. The Mer left his right side unattended when he swung his sword, and so the next time he swung, Iver rolled under him and quickly lunged his blade deep within the Mer’s right side.
He turned to face the Mer, who staggered to stand once more and smiled, he had won. He pulled the blade out and turned to his brothers, beginning to walk away. Right as he did so, the Mer mustered one last swing, and let out a loud battle cry. Iver turned to defend himself but he was too slow, the blade pieced his right shoulder and quickly ran down his body.
Both fell to the earth, and laid in pools of their blood. Three weeks later, the Defender awoken.
Upon awakening, Iver had barely the strength to look around the cool, damp room he was brought to. After many days bedridden, he mustered enough courage to take to his feet once more, only to fall painfully to the ground.
Soon, days turned into weeks, weeks into months and after a year of recovery and grueling physical therapy, Iver managed to return to his old self. His brothers always stayed with him as long as they could and never let him forget that faithful fight, but Iver didn’t want to remember it.
It was a failure in his eyes. A true warrior wouldn’t turn his back on the enemy until the very life from his blood fled from his body and his soul wandered Nirn for all eternity. Though he didn’t like it, the scar made him remember ever so often and he grew to accept his misstep that day. He grew stronger from it.
After turning 19 years old, shortly after the 4th Era had begun, Iver grew impatience with his current life. He wanted more. Whether or not he knew what he wanted was unknown to him, but he knew this wasn’t his life. He left his brothers and parents and tribesmen to head South, to Cyrodiil.
He met up with many different types of people, never staying in a place for more then a few weeks however. Shortly after reaching the city of Skingrad, he heard of an ancient order of Knights, the Knights of the Nine he recalled. He went to their headquarters and met the Knights, though he had no intention to join as he was proud of his own religion, he did seek their aid in training.
He spent nearly a year with the order and by the time his time had come to an end, he had grown very familiar with all types of blades and felt proud about himself. He entered the Fighters Guild shortly there after spending time training and doing odd jobs here and there for them. Eventually though, while walking the streets of the Imperial City, he saw a poster pinned to the wall by an arrow.
Personality: A strong sense of pride and always standing tall and proud. He’ll joke to anyone and everyone, just don’t mention the past. Speaks his mind and wont follow an order, or person unless he believes in it. It should also be noted that he does have trust issues.
Other Traits and Oddities: Loves to stare out in the night sky and just imagine anything and everything. Sings a song very loud and proud before each and every battle.
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Misc Skills [non-combat]: Can kill and cook anything your heart desires, just so long as you can point him in the right direction.
Nickname: Iver
Gender: Male
Race: Nord
Age: 22
Birthdate: The 15th of Frostfall in the 3E417
Birthplace: Falkreath, Skyrim
Skills: A warrior tried by Oblivion and baptized by fire, he can work wonders with any blade you give him, though he excels with the longsword. He cant use magicka and he wont sneak up on an enemy, he prefers an honorable approach.
Birthsign: The Warrior
Eyes: Hazel
Hair: Medium Scruffy
Skin/Fur Color: Slightly Pale
Height: Around 6 feet 1
Weight: Between 200 to 220
Build: Muscular
Physical Description: Pale but certainly frightful to see in the midst of battle. He stands proud with his chest placed out front. He has rough looking hands with short, stubby fingers to match his stumpy toes. His arms nearly explode of veins popping out as his legs show many similar features. His brown hair just covers his hazily blue eyes, stretching down to the back of his neck. His jawbone is flat and strong looking while his brows give away a faint realism of humanness, very thin like and hard to see.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: A scar extending from his right shoulder to his lower left abdomen.
Clothing and Armor: What appears to be an iron suit of armor, roughly made and badly damaged. It’s a wonder the cuirass remains intact, led alone wearable.
Inventory: A few Septims and a note from a long forgotten friend.
Weapons: A fine steel sword, engraved with illegible lettering along with a kite shield belonging to the Knights of the Nine.
History: Born to a no name family in a no name village not far from Falkreath, Iver had quickly accustomed himself to practice with the sword daily. Though at first he was belittled by many and told he could never be a warrior, his persistence prevailed and soon became a fairly good warrior, one which many of the tribesmen came to love and adore.
One faithful morning however, his true colors were tested when a traveling band of Mer decided to pillage their peaceful town. By every passing minute, the fighting grew more and more intense while women and children ran for the city walls. The young Iver, only 16 years of age, ran to his sword master to plea for his sword and shield, but upon arriving at the small wooden building, all he saw was bloodshed and the mangled bodies of what was left of his friends.
Quickly, Iver set out to find his master, who would surely have repelled the enemy invaders, but alas, the gods had chosen to take away his mortal body and let his soul wander the afterlife in peace.
The gods? How could any “god” be so cruel to allow such a man to meet his end in such a manner? A man of honor should not be torn apart like a rag doll period, led alone by Mer!
He picked up his master’s sword and shield and charged out into the enemy lines, demanding to meet their leader in honorable combat. Mer, of course, knew such thing as honor and simply charged after him. Without the help of his brothers’ bows’, he would have been massacred then and there, just as his master was.
After many gruesome minutes, their leader appeared in the morning sun, laughing that such a challenge would be made. His brothers’ knew then that Iver had sealed his fate, and never reached for their quivers once more.
The Mer just stood opposite of Iver, unflinching as they stared into each other’s eyes.
What have I done!? I cant compete against a warlord! I cant compete against even a regular Mer! Shor save me, I beg of you. .
The warlord stood still as night, as usual, when Iver charged at him, screaming words of which had never been heard. Simply, screaming. His left hand swept at the warlord who easily managed the parry. The Mer started chanting, where as the villagers simply stayed silent. .
Iver lunged many a time and never once hit his mark. His opponent, mocking him by not even lifting his sword. Soon though, the Mer grew tired of the petty game and began battle himself.
Now on the defensive, Iver used all his strength to withstand the mighty blows coming from the Elven longsword. And just as he was about to give up hope and accept defeat, his master spoke to him, but not from outside, rather the inside.
Remember child, you cannot win unless you open your eyes.
Open my eyes? My eyes are open! What kind of joke is this!?
Then he remembered, his master didn’t mean open his eyes, he meant look for the open spots. Managing to wield his shield once more, he blocked the attacks of the Mer warlord, but remembered to spot his opening.
And then, he found it. The Mer left his right side unattended when he swung his sword, and so the next time he swung, Iver rolled under him and quickly lunged his blade deep within the Mer’s right side.
He turned to face the Mer, who staggered to stand once more and smiled, he had won. He pulled the blade out and turned to his brothers, beginning to walk away. Right as he did so, the Mer mustered one last swing, and let out a loud battle cry. Iver turned to defend himself but he was too slow, the blade pieced his right shoulder and quickly ran down his body.
Both fell to the earth, and laid in pools of their blood. Three weeks later, the Defender awoken.
Upon awakening, Iver had barely the strength to look around the cool, damp room he was brought to. After many days bedridden, he mustered enough courage to take to his feet once more, only to fall painfully to the ground.
Soon, days turned into weeks, weeks into months and after a year of recovery and grueling physical therapy, Iver managed to return to his old self. His brothers always stayed with him as long as they could and never let him forget that faithful fight, but Iver didn’t want to remember it.
It was a failure in his eyes. A true warrior wouldn’t turn his back on the enemy until the very life from his blood fled from his body and his soul wandered Nirn for all eternity. Though he didn’t like it, the scar made him remember ever so often and he grew to accept his misstep that day. He grew stronger from it.
After turning 19 years old, shortly after the 4th Era had begun, Iver grew impatience with his current life. He wanted more. Whether or not he knew what he wanted was unknown to him, but he knew this wasn’t his life. He left his brothers and parents and tribesmen to head South, to Cyrodiil.
He met up with many different types of people, never staying in a place for more then a few weeks however. Shortly after reaching the city of Skingrad, he heard of an ancient order of Knights, the Knights of the Nine he recalled. He went to their headquarters and met the Knights, though he had no intention to join as he was proud of his own religion, he did seek their aid in training.
He spent nearly a year with the order and by the time his time had come to an end, he had grown very familiar with all types of blades and felt proud about himself. He entered the Fighters Guild shortly there after spending time training and doing odd jobs here and there for them. Eventually though, while walking the streets of the Imperial City, he saw a poster pinned to the wall by an arrow.
Personality: A strong sense of pride and always standing tall and proud. He’ll joke to anyone and everyone, just don’t mention the past. Speaks his mind and wont follow an order, or person unless he believes in it. It should also be noted that he does have trust issues.
Other Traits and Oddities: Loves to stare out in the night sky and just imagine anything and everything. Sings a song very loud and proud before each and every battle.
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Misc Skills [non-combat]: Can kill and cook anything your heart desires, just so long as you can point him in the right direction.
Darkom95
Spoiler
Name: Jason Durant
Nickname(s): The Drunken Priest
Gender: Male
Race: Breton-Nord
Age: 56
Birthsign: The Lady
Factions: Ex-Order of Arkay
Class: Priest of Arkay
Class Description: Some of the most pious men of Tamriel, the priests of Arkay are devoted to one of the most familiar yet enigmatic of the Divines. As their god is the overseer of the great cycle of life and death, so too are the priests dedicated to the rituals and mysteries of mortality. The priests are called upon primarily to perform the sacred death rites, yet their realm is also that of life, and as such the priests are skilled in the healing arts.
Skills: Jason learned much from his time with various monks and priests, receiving a holy man’s education in the basics of scripture, healing, and preaching. However, most of the ex-priest’s skills have their roots in his time before taking up the cloth, when he lived first as a successful financier, and then as a drunken vagabond. Through his years in the slums of society, Jason learned several very un-priestly talents, often turning to thievery and pick-pocketing in his poverty. He also retains much of the expertise he gained in his years as a banker, and has an incredible mind for numbers.
Appearance: Though handsome in his youth, Jason has not aged well. A combination of malnourishment, copious amounts of alcohol, and years of foot-travel have wrinkled the Breton beyond his years. He sports a strong chin- a legacy of his Nordic heritage- and wide shoulders, with a round, creased face and frowning lips. His bushy gray eyebrows are turned downwards in a permanent scowl, and his fierce look is completed by a sharp, crooked nose.
Eyes: Often cited as, other than his shrewd business sense, the only thing he received from his father, Jason’s eyes are a dark forest green, and prone to squinting.
Hair: Jason was always proud of his thick blonde hair, inherited from his mother, and when he was still working as a banker would cover it in expensive oils and perfumes. When he became a preacher, however, he shaved his head, the golden locks now a symbol of his vanity. Since being expelled from the priesthood, Jason has let his hair start to grow back, but instead of the golden mane of his youth, his head is now covered in thin, gray tufts of hair, which he usually hides underneath his hood.
Skin/Fur Color: Always naturally pale, not even the hot sun of Sentinel could tan Jason’s skin. He has, however, grown weathered over his years as a travelling priest, wrinkles just beginning to crease his face, spots of age appearing on his thin hands.
Height: Jason inherited his mother’s height, standing over six feet tall in his youth, but has since begun shrinking. He now measures roughly 5’ 10’’, including his slight hunch.
Weight: Always a thin, lanky man, Jason has lost even more weight since losing his priestly status. Though not as gaunt as he was as a beggar, the old preacher remains rather bony, despite a slightly bulging beer belly. If asked, he would say he was roughly one hundred and forty pounds, though the number may be slightly higher.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: Jason, like many priests, has the knotted rope of Arkay tattooed on the backs of both his hands, a white knot on his right and a black one on his left. Though it has faded over time, and is wrinkled nearly beyond recognition, he still maintains the tradition of using his right hand for healing and his left for funeral-rites. Other than that, Jason has several scars from his time as a beggar- the guards were often less than forgiving when they caught him stealing- including a crooked nose, never set correctly after it was broken on a guard’s boot.
Personality: Bitter from years of hard living, Jason is hardly personable for a preacher. Though kind at heart, he addresses the world with sarcastic quips and sharp stares. He will heal anyone, for a price, but he will mutter under his breath the whole way through, complaining of “whatever idiocy led them to this situation”. He only laughs when drunk, and rarely preaches sober, though when he does he quickly has the attention of the whole room. Vastly intelligent, Jason puts his wits mostly to selfish uses, tricking people out of gold or liquor, though usually not without a priestly bit of advice.
Goals: Since being expelled from the priesthood, Jason has travelled far and wide preaching his own brand of sermons, trying to open the eyes of the common folk to the follies of the church. When not engaging in propaganda, his mind is usually focused on his next meal and bed, though his next drink is usually up there as well.
Fears: Open water, especially rivers, have always frightened Jason, since his near-death experience as a boy. Other than that, Jason has grown accustomed to life’s hardships, and is perfectly comfortable camping alone in the wilderness. He is always on the lookout for orthodox priests, who seem to have a warrant for his arrest, but goes to no great lengths to avoid cities. He also harbors fears of what will happen to him when he grows too old to travel, when he must finally give up his nomadic lifestyle and become, more likely than not, the crazed hermit parents warn their children about. Not to say parents don’t warn their children of him already.
Virtues: Despite his alcoholism and lustful nature, Jason does have several redeeming features. He has not stolen since his time in Sentinel, a fact he is most proud of, and he has healed hundreds of the sick and wounded over the years. His sermons, while usually drunken ravings against the priesthood, sometimes bring true insight into people’s lives, especially when he speaks to criminals and beggars, whom he has never ceased to empathize with.
Vices: Though he gave up drinking when he became a priest, he has since then taken up the habit again, though not as nearly as strongly as in his youth. Other than that he has grown fond of gambling, and has a sharp eye for pretty young women.
Hobbies: Drinking, primarily, though he enjoys the occasional preaching as well. More often than not Jason combines the two. When unable to find open bottles or open minds on the road, the preacher sings hymns to himself, or speaks to nearby animals. Once he makes camp, Jason enjoys whittling, or gathering alchemical ingredients from the brush.
Religion: Though he is thoroughly devoted to the Nine Divines, Jason has grown skeptical of the men who claim inspiration from them. Jason has never forgiven the priests for casting him out of the Order of Arkay, and has since then developed several radical ideas about the way a man should devote himself to the gods, most of which encompass the priestly vow of celibacy and sobriety.
Clothing and Armor: Though no longer a priest, Jason still wears his threadbare brown robes, mostly because it has earned him many free meals. Though his ring was taken by the priests upon his expulsion from the Order, he has fashioned himself a necklace bearing the knotted circle of Arkay.
Weapons: Jason, as a holy man, carries no weapons, save for his wit and a quick preacher’s tongue.
Inventory: The ex-preacher carries nothing with him in his journeys save what he can haul on his back. Beyond his robes and his knotted necklace, he carries with him a sturdy walking stick, what few Septims he can manage to collect for his sermons, and a poorly crafted flask that he keeps at his belt. When he can, he carries a few basic medicinal herbs and salves; he is often valued more for his healing than his homilies. When on the road, he also carries his trust pocketknife and tinderbox, two things no self respecting vagabond would be caught without.
Magic: A proficient healer, Jason is skilled in the art of Restoration, and can treat most everything from festering wounds to wracking coughs. He has also learned several spells of Alteration and Illusion as well, the former to help him to better protect and heal, the latter to better persuade his congregation.
History: Jason Durant’s earliest memory is not of his Nordic mother or his childhood home in Gauvadon. The first thing Jason can recall of his childhood is water: freezing cold, rushing over his head, dashing him against unforgiving rocks. The water sent him tumbling further down the river, sputtering for breath, certain his young life would soon be over. He remembers his father, a small, rat faced banker, shouting on the bank for someone to save his son. And then blackness.
The blurry figure kneeling over Jason when he awakens is too large to be his father, too square of jaw to be his mother. The man turned him over, coughing, reassuring him in a deep, comforting voice. The man’s name Jason has lost to the years, but the amulet he wore burned itself deep into his memory: the black and white knot of Arkay.
The priest saved Jason’s life, refused his father’s offers of payment, and left his home as soon as he recovered from the fit of sickness that followed. The young Breton never even managed to thank the man; he left in Jason’s sleep. However, after that day, Jason visited every temple in every city he visited, searching for the priest, but never found him. Some nights, when the river would revisit him in his dreams, the priest was Arkay himself.
After Jason’s near death experience, his father insisted that he stay at home as much as possible. His mother tried to convince the Breton to let Jason go out and play with his few friends, but to no avail. The blonde woman would tower over the banker during their arguments, but it was always Jason’s father who got his way. As such, Jason stayed at home and studied, taught numbers by his father and letters by his mother, until he was well into his teenage years. His father got him a job as a secretary at the largest bank in Wayrest, and the pale, teenage Jason spent years there handling the gold of the wealthiest men in High Rock.
By day Jason would dutifully copy transactions in the ledgers of his bank, but by night he and several fellow employees, all just out of their teenage years, would prowl the underside of the city, drinking and whoring their purses empty, then wake up the next morning and return to the bank. Jason lived like this for years, his intelligence and sly tongue letting him slowly climb the ranks of finance, and his budding habits of carousing growing into depravity and alcoholism. Eventually he stopped writing home to his parents, stopped visiting the chapels of Zenithar and Arkay, and increasingly lived his life beneath the red lanterns of Wayrest.
Until, that is, he stumbled into work drunk one morning and miscopied thousands of Septims worth of withdrawals. Once his employer discovered Jason’s erroneous error, he quickly confronted the Breton, whom he had once thought one of the most promising financiers in Wayrest. The old banker tried to turn Jason away from his self-destructive habits, but all he got from the Breton were slurred curses. Jason was dismissed from the bank that day.
Out of work and in serious debt from his late night escapades, Jason was quickly evicted from his home within the city. His former friends turned Jason away at their doors, calling him a foolish drunk, and in short order the ex-banker joined the beggars he had scoffed at a mere week before. Unwilling to let his former friends and clients see him turned out on the street, Jason left the city, stowing away on a ship bound for Sentinel.
In the capital of the Redguards, Jason found little respite from his poverty. Sentinel held as many beggars as Wayrest had, with a far more callous populace, and many nights Jason slept with his stomach crying out for food. What money he did beg went more often towards drink than food, the Breton’s alcoholism undiminished even as a pauper. Jason, like many other beggars, quickly turned to thievery, and spent many nights in and out of Sentinel’s jail. The Breton, now approaching his middle years, lived in a haze of hunger and drunkenness, and always under the crushing weight of depression and regret.
What finally saved the banker-turned-beggar was what Jason has considered his worst sin yet: stealing from the great Order of Arkay. Though he knew stealing from the church was punishable by death, Jason’s hunger had grown mind numbing, and he had been without cheap booze for days. After banishing the crying face of his mother from his mind, Jason snuck into Sentinel’s church, hoping to find food and wine within, unguarded. When an elderly priest caught him rummaging through the church’s pantry, Jason nearly attacked the holy man, fearing the priest would sound an alarm. When the wrinkled preacher merely bowed his head and bid Jason take what he needed, the Breton broke down in tears, begging forgiveness from the priest.
The priest told Jason he could stay inside the chapel that night, and brought him plate after plate of food, all the while asking Jason about his life. Through tears and mouthfuls of food, Jason confessed his story to the priest, who listened silently. At the end of Jason’s tale, the priest took the Breton’s hand, and with a twinkling eye told him that the Divines forgave him of his sins.
In the weeks that followed, Jason devoted his life to the gods, having decided to become a priest of Arkay. The old priest, whom Jason suspected some days to be the same man who saved him from the river, taught him everything from scripture to healing.
(Lived as priest for a while, eventually set off for Cyrodiil, converting beggars and thieves in his travels, until he reached Cheydinhal, where he became a priest there. However, he soon began to question some of the prohibitions the Cyrodiilic church put on their preachers, such as celibacy, and became disliked for his outspoken opinions. His arguments came to a head when he slept with a widower after healing her daughter’s sickness; the woman came to the church looking for Jason after he left her. Forced to leave the church and stripped of title and ring, he then became a wandering hermit, taking his habits of drinking back up as he made makeshift sermons to villages and taverns, oftentimes drunk. He was making one such sermon in Bravil when he noticed several odd customers. After asking what they were doing, he decided to accompany them, as much because he had nothing better to do than anything, though he does like the look of some of the young women)
Motive for Joining: Jason happened to be in the tavern at the time, he had no idea a group of adventurers would be congregating there. Once he learns of their quest, however, he decides it’s as good a place to go as any; he never has seen the realm of a Daedric prince, after all, and what else does he have to live for? Besides, a few of the young ladies seem rather… Preachable.
Fun Fact: Jason once drunkenly talked his way out of a month long jail sentence, getting the entire guardhouse down on their knees and praying while he slipped out the nearest window.
Nickname(s): The Drunken Priest
Gender: Male
Race: Breton-Nord
Age: 56
Birthsign: The Lady
Factions: Ex-Order of Arkay
Class: Priest of Arkay
Class Description: Some of the most pious men of Tamriel, the priests of Arkay are devoted to one of the most familiar yet enigmatic of the Divines. As their god is the overseer of the great cycle of life and death, so too are the priests dedicated to the rituals and mysteries of mortality. The priests are called upon primarily to perform the sacred death rites, yet their realm is also that of life, and as such the priests are skilled in the healing arts.
Skills: Jason learned much from his time with various monks and priests, receiving a holy man’s education in the basics of scripture, healing, and preaching. However, most of the ex-priest’s skills have their roots in his time before taking up the cloth, when he lived first as a successful financier, and then as a drunken vagabond. Through his years in the slums of society, Jason learned several very un-priestly talents, often turning to thievery and pick-pocketing in his poverty. He also retains much of the expertise he gained in his years as a banker, and has an incredible mind for numbers.
Appearance: Though handsome in his youth, Jason has not aged well. A combination of malnourishment, copious amounts of alcohol, and years of foot-travel have wrinkled the Breton beyond his years. He sports a strong chin- a legacy of his Nordic heritage- and wide shoulders, with a round, creased face and frowning lips. His bushy gray eyebrows are turned downwards in a permanent scowl, and his fierce look is completed by a sharp, crooked nose.
Eyes: Often cited as, other than his shrewd business sense, the only thing he received from his father, Jason’s eyes are a dark forest green, and prone to squinting.
Hair: Jason was always proud of his thick blonde hair, inherited from his mother, and when he was still working as a banker would cover it in expensive oils and perfumes. When he became a preacher, however, he shaved his head, the golden locks now a symbol of his vanity. Since being expelled from the priesthood, Jason has let his hair start to grow back, but instead of the golden mane of his youth, his head is now covered in thin, gray tufts of hair, which he usually hides underneath his hood.
Skin/Fur Color: Always naturally pale, not even the hot sun of Sentinel could tan Jason’s skin. He has, however, grown weathered over his years as a travelling priest, wrinkles just beginning to crease his face, spots of age appearing on his thin hands.
Height: Jason inherited his mother’s height, standing over six feet tall in his youth, but has since begun shrinking. He now measures roughly 5’ 10’’, including his slight hunch.
Weight: Always a thin, lanky man, Jason has lost even more weight since losing his priestly status. Though not as gaunt as he was as a beggar, the old preacher remains rather bony, despite a slightly bulging beer belly. If asked, he would say he was roughly one hundred and forty pounds, though the number may be slightly higher.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: Jason, like many priests, has the knotted rope of Arkay tattooed on the backs of both his hands, a white knot on his right and a black one on his left. Though it has faded over time, and is wrinkled nearly beyond recognition, he still maintains the tradition of using his right hand for healing and his left for funeral-rites. Other than that, Jason has several scars from his time as a beggar- the guards were often less than forgiving when they caught him stealing- including a crooked nose, never set correctly after it was broken on a guard’s boot.
Personality: Bitter from years of hard living, Jason is hardly personable for a preacher. Though kind at heart, he addresses the world with sarcastic quips and sharp stares. He will heal anyone, for a price, but he will mutter under his breath the whole way through, complaining of “whatever idiocy led them to this situation”. He only laughs when drunk, and rarely preaches sober, though when he does he quickly has the attention of the whole room. Vastly intelligent, Jason puts his wits mostly to selfish uses, tricking people out of gold or liquor, though usually not without a priestly bit of advice.
Goals: Since being expelled from the priesthood, Jason has travelled far and wide preaching his own brand of sermons, trying to open the eyes of the common folk to the follies of the church. When not engaging in propaganda, his mind is usually focused on his next meal and bed, though his next drink is usually up there as well.
Fears: Open water, especially rivers, have always frightened Jason, since his near-death experience as a boy. Other than that, Jason has grown accustomed to life’s hardships, and is perfectly comfortable camping alone in the wilderness. He is always on the lookout for orthodox priests, who seem to have a warrant for his arrest, but goes to no great lengths to avoid cities. He also harbors fears of what will happen to him when he grows too old to travel, when he must finally give up his nomadic lifestyle and become, more likely than not, the crazed hermit parents warn their children about. Not to say parents don’t warn their children of him already.
Virtues: Despite his alcoholism and lustful nature, Jason does have several redeeming features. He has not stolen since his time in Sentinel, a fact he is most proud of, and he has healed hundreds of the sick and wounded over the years. His sermons, while usually drunken ravings against the priesthood, sometimes bring true insight into people’s lives, especially when he speaks to criminals and beggars, whom he has never ceased to empathize with.
Vices: Though he gave up drinking when he became a priest, he has since then taken up the habit again, though not as nearly as strongly as in his youth. Other than that he has grown fond of gambling, and has a sharp eye for pretty young women.
Hobbies: Drinking, primarily, though he enjoys the occasional preaching as well. More often than not Jason combines the two. When unable to find open bottles or open minds on the road, the preacher sings hymns to himself, or speaks to nearby animals. Once he makes camp, Jason enjoys whittling, or gathering alchemical ingredients from the brush.
Religion: Though he is thoroughly devoted to the Nine Divines, Jason has grown skeptical of the men who claim inspiration from them. Jason has never forgiven the priests for casting him out of the Order of Arkay, and has since then developed several radical ideas about the way a man should devote himself to the gods, most of which encompass the priestly vow of celibacy and sobriety.
Clothing and Armor: Though no longer a priest, Jason still wears his threadbare brown robes, mostly because it has earned him many free meals. Though his ring was taken by the priests upon his expulsion from the Order, he has fashioned himself a necklace bearing the knotted circle of Arkay.
Weapons: Jason, as a holy man, carries no weapons, save for his wit and a quick preacher’s tongue.
Inventory: The ex-preacher carries nothing with him in his journeys save what he can haul on his back. Beyond his robes and his knotted necklace, he carries with him a sturdy walking stick, what few Septims he can manage to collect for his sermons, and a poorly crafted flask that he keeps at his belt. When he can, he carries a few basic medicinal herbs and salves; he is often valued more for his healing than his homilies. When on the road, he also carries his trust pocketknife and tinderbox, two things no self respecting vagabond would be caught without.
Magic: A proficient healer, Jason is skilled in the art of Restoration, and can treat most everything from festering wounds to wracking coughs. He has also learned several spells of Alteration and Illusion as well, the former to help him to better protect and heal, the latter to better persuade his congregation.
History: Jason Durant’s earliest memory is not of his Nordic mother or his childhood home in Gauvadon. The first thing Jason can recall of his childhood is water: freezing cold, rushing over his head, dashing him against unforgiving rocks. The water sent him tumbling further down the river, sputtering for breath, certain his young life would soon be over. He remembers his father, a small, rat faced banker, shouting on the bank for someone to save his son. And then blackness.
The blurry figure kneeling over Jason when he awakens is too large to be his father, too square of jaw to be his mother. The man turned him over, coughing, reassuring him in a deep, comforting voice. The man’s name Jason has lost to the years, but the amulet he wore burned itself deep into his memory: the black and white knot of Arkay.
The priest saved Jason’s life, refused his father’s offers of payment, and left his home as soon as he recovered from the fit of sickness that followed. The young Breton never even managed to thank the man; he left in Jason’s sleep. However, after that day, Jason visited every temple in every city he visited, searching for the priest, but never found him. Some nights, when the river would revisit him in his dreams, the priest was Arkay himself.
After Jason’s near death experience, his father insisted that he stay at home as much as possible. His mother tried to convince the Breton to let Jason go out and play with his few friends, but to no avail. The blonde woman would tower over the banker during their arguments, but it was always Jason’s father who got his way. As such, Jason stayed at home and studied, taught numbers by his father and letters by his mother, until he was well into his teenage years. His father got him a job as a secretary at the largest bank in Wayrest, and the pale, teenage Jason spent years there handling the gold of the wealthiest men in High Rock.
By day Jason would dutifully copy transactions in the ledgers of his bank, but by night he and several fellow employees, all just out of their teenage years, would prowl the underside of the city, drinking and whoring their purses empty, then wake up the next morning and return to the bank. Jason lived like this for years, his intelligence and sly tongue letting him slowly climb the ranks of finance, and his budding habits of carousing growing into depravity and alcoholism. Eventually he stopped writing home to his parents, stopped visiting the chapels of Zenithar and Arkay, and increasingly lived his life beneath the red lanterns of Wayrest.
Until, that is, he stumbled into work drunk one morning and miscopied thousands of Septims worth of withdrawals. Once his employer discovered Jason’s erroneous error, he quickly confronted the Breton, whom he had once thought one of the most promising financiers in Wayrest. The old banker tried to turn Jason away from his self-destructive habits, but all he got from the Breton were slurred curses. Jason was dismissed from the bank that day.
Out of work and in serious debt from his late night escapades, Jason was quickly evicted from his home within the city. His former friends turned Jason away at their doors, calling him a foolish drunk, and in short order the ex-banker joined the beggars he had scoffed at a mere week before. Unwilling to let his former friends and clients see him turned out on the street, Jason left the city, stowing away on a ship bound for Sentinel.
In the capital of the Redguards, Jason found little respite from his poverty. Sentinel held as many beggars as Wayrest had, with a far more callous populace, and many nights Jason slept with his stomach crying out for food. What money he did beg went more often towards drink than food, the Breton’s alcoholism undiminished even as a pauper. Jason, like many other beggars, quickly turned to thievery, and spent many nights in and out of Sentinel’s jail. The Breton, now approaching his middle years, lived in a haze of hunger and drunkenness, and always under the crushing weight of depression and regret.
What finally saved the banker-turned-beggar was what Jason has considered his worst sin yet: stealing from the great Order of Arkay. Though he knew stealing from the church was punishable by death, Jason’s hunger had grown mind numbing, and he had been without cheap booze for days. After banishing the crying face of his mother from his mind, Jason snuck into Sentinel’s church, hoping to find food and wine within, unguarded. When an elderly priest caught him rummaging through the church’s pantry, Jason nearly attacked the holy man, fearing the priest would sound an alarm. When the wrinkled preacher merely bowed his head and bid Jason take what he needed, the Breton broke down in tears, begging forgiveness from the priest.
The priest told Jason he could stay inside the chapel that night, and brought him plate after plate of food, all the while asking Jason about his life. Through tears and mouthfuls of food, Jason confessed his story to the priest, who listened silently. At the end of Jason’s tale, the priest took the Breton’s hand, and with a twinkling eye told him that the Divines forgave him of his sins.
In the weeks that followed, Jason devoted his life to the gods, having decided to become a priest of Arkay. The old priest, whom Jason suspected some days to be the same man who saved him from the river, taught him everything from scripture to healing.
(Lived as priest for a while, eventually set off for Cyrodiil, converting beggars and thieves in his travels, until he reached Cheydinhal, where he became a priest there. However, he soon began to question some of the prohibitions the Cyrodiilic church put on their preachers, such as celibacy, and became disliked for his outspoken opinions. His arguments came to a head when he slept with a widower after healing her daughter’s sickness; the woman came to the church looking for Jason after he left her. Forced to leave the church and stripped of title and ring, he then became a wandering hermit, taking his habits of drinking back up as he made makeshift sermons to villages and taverns, oftentimes drunk. He was making one such sermon in Bravil when he noticed several odd customers. After asking what they were doing, he decided to accompany them, as much because he had nothing better to do than anything, though he does like the look of some of the young women)
Motive for Joining: Jason happened to be in the tavern at the time, he had no idea a group of adventurers would be congregating there. Once he learns of their quest, however, he decides it’s as good a place to go as any; he never has seen the realm of a Daedric prince, after all, and what else does he have to live for? Besides, a few of the young ladies seem rather… Preachable.
Fun Fact: Jason once drunkenly talked his way out of a month long jail sentence, getting the entire guardhouse down on their knees and praying while he slipped out the nearest window.
Sibera
Spoiler
Name: Jo'Dhanar
Nickname: Jodhan
Race: Cathar-Raht Khajiit
Gender: Male
Age: 29
Birthsign: Antronach
Class: Spellsword
Class Focus: Magic/Combat
Skills: Blade, Medium Armour, Restoration, Alchemy, Destruction, Alteration, Mysticism, Enchantment, acrobatics
Appearance:
Eyes: Bright Fiery orange
Fur: Pale tan with near white stripe features running through it.
Hair: Short mane that runs from the top of his head, to the base of his neck. Looks rough and recently grown.
Height: 210cms
Weight: 110 kgs (Muscle!)
Tattoos/Scars: One moderate size tattoo on his right arm depicting an image of a Khajiit thief.
Physical appearance: Jodhan is very much like any normal fighter in terms of appearance and physique. He is well built for running, jumping and swinging a sword and taking a few hits. His fur and general appearance is always clean and well kept, at least most of the time depending where he travels and who he is meeting. He keeps his mane trimmed to some degree as he has recently started growing it out to give a slight more rogueish look. His claws on the other hand are kept to a very fine razor sharpness rather than letting them go dull and blunt. His eyes convey a bright and healthy look, from the center near the round iris they seem to have a soft brighter glow before darkening as the colour goes out. His expression usually is something light and friendly, not a nasty deep scowl or anything like that which helps making him more approachable.
Equipment:
Armour: Reinforced Leather armour, Steel plates inserted at various points that do not require flexibility, leather boots and fingertipless gloves.
Clothing: White shirt, Black Duster coat over the armour and a belt with various pouches around his waist and a bandoleer with a few pouches. Small obsidian neckchain with an obsidian dragon on it.
Weapons: Silver longsword strapped to his back, enchanted with moderate shock. Plain Silver Dagger
Inventory: Jodhan's Grimoire (A book containing allot of his spells, enchantment runes, Alchemical recipes and plant information, notes), Pouch of gold, Two soulgems, five bottles of potent restore magic potions, Travel size alchemy kit.
Personality: Jodhan is usually a very easy going, open book kind of khajiit. Someone who you can easily approach and start a conversation with on almost any topic that you can think of. He is a staunch opposer to slavery and other things that inhibit someones choice to make their own choices. Having grown up in the Telvanni Jodhan has had to be very independent and often when it comes to aiding someone if they are unwilling to go through the door he shows them or won't do any of the work involved and learn from it, he sees them as a waste of time. It has also produced a slightly more solitary nature from him, studying alone and working on his crafts alone or in small groups. He tries to show respect to people when he first meets them, but generally if they show nothing in return or when they first greet him and show no respect he will treat them the same.
Background:
Jodhan is the result of a week long fling between a Mages guild wizard and the female bodyguard of a Telvanni mage whom had been paying a visit to the Balmorran mages guild at the time. His mother birthed him and raised him naturally, in a middle-upper class setting at Tel Vos, When he was young, around age of seven, aside from the normal trouble children get into had found his way into his natural gifts. His first incident was setting fire to an apprentices robe when the Dark elf scared him. The Lord of the tower, Master Aryon whom at this point had risen to nearly being the Arch-Magister of the house saw this potential and rather than see it go to waste or punish the boy for setting someone on fire, put him on as an Apprentice. His mother in turn pushed for it, even helping to fund her son's new schooling where he learned allot more and helped push them up the social ladder gently. To top it all off he has a rough and dark sense of humor.
Over time Jo'Dhanar's abilities grew and soon he became a fully fledged spellsword, with the help from his mother in training with a blade rather than keeping to full magic study. Over the years he studied more, getting more independent as he went and finally gaining the rank of spellwright before taking his leave of the Great house confines to travel abroad and study at the Arcane university and the Crystal tower, unfortunately the Oblivion crisis stunted that idea when he was half way through the mainland to Cyrodiil. He participated in the fight at Mournhold where several oblivion gates opened up and even managed to acquire a Sigil stone temporarily before selling it off to the local telvanni for more coin to travel with.
Nickname: Jodhan
Race: Cathar-Raht Khajiit
Gender: Male
Age: 29
Birthsign: Antronach
Class: Spellsword
Class Focus: Magic/Combat
Skills: Blade, Medium Armour, Restoration, Alchemy, Destruction, Alteration, Mysticism, Enchantment, acrobatics
Appearance:
Eyes: Bright Fiery orange
Fur: Pale tan with near white stripe features running through it.
Hair: Short mane that runs from the top of his head, to the base of his neck. Looks rough and recently grown.
Height: 210cms
Weight: 110 kgs (Muscle!)
Tattoos/Scars: One moderate size tattoo on his right arm depicting an image of a Khajiit thief.
Physical appearance: Jodhan is very much like any normal fighter in terms of appearance and physique. He is well built for running, jumping and swinging a sword and taking a few hits. His fur and general appearance is always clean and well kept, at least most of the time depending where he travels and who he is meeting. He keeps his mane trimmed to some degree as he has recently started growing it out to give a slight more rogueish look. His claws on the other hand are kept to a very fine razor sharpness rather than letting them go dull and blunt. His eyes convey a bright and healthy look, from the center near the round iris they seem to have a soft brighter glow before darkening as the colour goes out. His expression usually is something light and friendly, not a nasty deep scowl or anything like that which helps making him more approachable.
Equipment:
Armour: Reinforced Leather armour, Steel plates inserted at various points that do not require flexibility, leather boots and fingertipless gloves.
Clothing: White shirt, Black Duster coat over the armour and a belt with various pouches around his waist and a bandoleer with a few pouches. Small obsidian neckchain with an obsidian dragon on it.
Weapons: Silver longsword strapped to his back, enchanted with moderate shock. Plain Silver Dagger
Inventory: Jodhan's Grimoire (A book containing allot of his spells, enchantment runes, Alchemical recipes and plant information, notes), Pouch of gold, Two soulgems, five bottles of potent restore magic potions, Travel size alchemy kit.
Personality: Jodhan is usually a very easy going, open book kind of khajiit. Someone who you can easily approach and start a conversation with on almost any topic that you can think of. He is a staunch opposer to slavery and other things that inhibit someones choice to make their own choices. Having grown up in the Telvanni Jodhan has had to be very independent and often when it comes to aiding someone if they are unwilling to go through the door he shows them or won't do any of the work involved and learn from it, he sees them as a waste of time. It has also produced a slightly more solitary nature from him, studying alone and working on his crafts alone or in small groups. He tries to show respect to people when he first meets them, but generally if they show nothing in return or when they first greet him and show no respect he will treat them the same.
Background:
Jodhan is the result of a week long fling between a Mages guild wizard and the female bodyguard of a Telvanni mage whom had been paying a visit to the Balmorran mages guild at the time. His mother birthed him and raised him naturally, in a middle-upper class setting at Tel Vos, When he was young, around age of seven, aside from the normal trouble children get into had found his way into his natural gifts. His first incident was setting fire to an apprentices robe when the Dark elf scared him. The Lord of the tower, Master Aryon whom at this point had risen to nearly being the Arch-Magister of the house saw this potential and rather than see it go to waste or punish the boy for setting someone on fire, put him on as an Apprentice. His mother in turn pushed for it, even helping to fund her son's new schooling where he learned allot more and helped push them up the social ladder gently. To top it all off he has a rough and dark sense of humor.
Over time Jo'Dhanar's abilities grew and soon he became a fully fledged spellsword, with the help from his mother in training with a blade rather than keeping to full magic study. Over the years he studied more, getting more independent as he went and finally gaining the rank of spellwright before taking his leave of the Great house confines to travel abroad and study at the Arcane university and the Crystal tower, unfortunately the Oblivion crisis stunted that idea when he was half way through the mainland to Cyrodiil. He participated in the fight at Mournhold where several oblivion gates opened up and even managed to acquire a Sigil stone temporarily before selling it off to the local telvanni for more coin to travel with.
Chaos303030
Spoiler
Name: Alyssa Stormfield
Nickname: Stormfield the Mad
Age: 27
Gender: Female
Birthsign: The Apprentice
Race: Breton
Physical Description: Average build, slightly smaller due to focusing on the magical. Green eyes, flowing black hair that reaches her sholders.
Mental description: Rather unstable, but not usually in a dangerous way, she enjoys making things explode and making things live again.Loves Clyde and kittens. She can be talkative when she wants to be, and is a rather pleasant person despite her profession. Often oblivious to all but the most blatant insults and taunts, except those aimed towards her invention and profession. Despite appearing aloof, she is formidable in combat, with the aid of Clyde.
Class: Necromancer. Aside from normal necromantic practices, Alyssa studies alchemy to a far extent, creating an explosive-like concoction. She also Learned to wear light armor and wield a short blade for protection.
Major Skills: Destruction, Mysticism, Conjuration, Alteration, Alchemy
Minor Skills: Short Blade, Marksman, Light Armor
Misc Skills: Rites and rituals, sacrifices, explosives,
Melee Weapon: Silver shortsword with a moderate Ice Enchantment.
Ranged Weapon: Rusty Iron Crossbow in the coffin. 30 bolts.
Misc Weapon: 6 explosive potions, attached to belt.
Armor and Clothing: Dark black robes adorned with blood red gems. Light leather-and-mithril cuirass underneath, with two black, bloodstained leather gauntlets.
Misc Items: Scalpel, Alchemical Apparatus, 5 large brown bags filled with powder used in explosive potions hanging from belt. Nord-Sized Coffin strapped to back, enchanted with feather to make the thing manageable.
Contents of Coffin:
-One (1) preserved Nord corpse, wrapped somewhat like a mummy; soul gem infused into skull, giving it somewhat of a personality.
-One (1) set of alchemical apparatus.
-One (1) enchanted Mace
-One (1) love story with a tragic ending
-One (1) alchemical formula for creating explosive potions
Bio:
Alyssa was born to a family of mages and, from a young age, was encouraged to study the magical and arcane. Her family was not the most wealthy, but they were members of a small group of necromancers operating out of one of the many caves in Cyrodiil and could afford many texts and apparatus required for a proper magical and general education. Introduced at a young age to necromancy, she learned not to fear death but to see it as a beginning to a new purpose for the bodies used. She never questioned how the bodies came into their possession. She had a peaceful childhood, and sometime just after her twenty-first birthday, after receiving a license which granted her one permanent corpse servant and a slew of dead convicts to experiment on, she encountered a ghost in the tomb of a wealthy nord she had just visited for a reliable, preserved servant. Before she could get rid of it, the spirit drained part of her mind while inadvertently boosting another, giving her a wonderous insight into the world, at the cost of becoming rather naive. This inspired her to go into seclusion and study the alchemical. While in the cave, she infused the corpse of the Nord she stole with a black Soul gem containing a bosmer she had slain. Her servant now had a semblance of life, at least enough to be useful- and helped her with her tasks over the years as she studied formulae to improve the alchemical. Eventually, while trying to create something completely unrelated to explosions or fire, which was unusual as she enjoyed both, the compound exploded, taking a chunk out of her servant and destroying several apparatus. Quickly, she jotted down the ingredients used and spent time refining it into a more controllable nature, until eventually they could be activated at will by someone moderately skilled with magic. Eventually, soon after completing her new creation, she packed up Clyde, which is what she had named her minion, and her equipment and headed into the countryside, leaving a few skeletons and zombies to keep the place warm. Or, cold, as the case may be.
Notes: Alchemical Explosives activated by sending a current of magicka through the potion, then throwing the potion at a target. As it shatters, the magicka triggers a reaction combined with the kinetic force of the impact, making it violently and brightly explode. Having not quite figured out the specifics yet, she has been quoted saying "It is sort of like a centipede. If it doesn't worry about each little leg and only looks at the whole thing, it can move all its little legs just fine. If it focuses too much on one of those individual legs, it might hit a building and kill everyone inside in a violent and fiery death." The powder Is completely safe while not combined with the rest of the mixture. Do not let children get near the mixture. For that matter, do not let anyone get near the mixture.
Name: Clyde
Race: Nord (Mummy, Bosmer soul)
Class:Warrior
Weapon: Extremely weak fire enchanted steel mace, to the point where it would only be a bit hot to get hit with. Enchanted mainly so it could defend Alyssa from spirits.
Description: Wrapped in yellowish white cloth, he is decaying and sewn up from various explosions. The organs necessary for him to function properly as an undead servant have had a few replacements courtesy of Alyssa. He has a black soul gem jammed and infused into his head, giving him the soul of a bosmer who Alyssa had slain.
Personality: Loyal to a fault and enjoys philosophical debates and chicken.
Home: Coffin on Alyssa's back.
Bio: Theorin the Wood elf didn't know what hit him. One moment he was walking to Chorrol, the next he felt like he was being pulled, the next he felt trapped and alone in a pitch black room, and the next he was looking through the eyes of a slightly stinky Nord and seeing someone who he had an irresistible desire to serve and care for. Brisskar Frost-Bringer's corpse didn't see it coming either.
Nickname: Stormfield the Mad
Age: 27
Gender: Female
Birthsign: The Apprentice
Race: Breton
Physical Description: Average build, slightly smaller due to focusing on the magical. Green eyes, flowing black hair that reaches her sholders.
Mental description: Rather unstable, but not usually in a dangerous way, she enjoys making things explode and making things live again.Loves Clyde and kittens. She can be talkative when she wants to be, and is a rather pleasant person despite her profession. Often oblivious to all but the most blatant insults and taunts, except those aimed towards her invention and profession. Despite appearing aloof, she is formidable in combat, with the aid of Clyde.
Class: Necromancer. Aside from normal necromantic practices, Alyssa studies alchemy to a far extent, creating an explosive-like concoction. She also Learned to wear light armor and wield a short blade for protection.
Major Skills: Destruction, Mysticism, Conjuration, Alteration, Alchemy
Minor Skills: Short Blade, Marksman, Light Armor
Misc Skills: Rites and rituals, sacrifices, explosives,
Melee Weapon: Silver shortsword with a moderate Ice Enchantment.
Ranged Weapon: Rusty Iron Crossbow in the coffin. 30 bolts.
Misc Weapon: 6 explosive potions, attached to belt.
Armor and Clothing: Dark black robes adorned with blood red gems. Light leather-and-mithril cuirass underneath, with two black, bloodstained leather gauntlets.
Misc Items: Scalpel, Alchemical Apparatus, 5 large brown bags filled with powder used in explosive potions hanging from belt. Nord-Sized Coffin strapped to back, enchanted with feather to make the thing manageable.
Contents of Coffin:
-One (1) preserved Nord corpse, wrapped somewhat like a mummy; soul gem infused into skull, giving it somewhat of a personality.
-One (1) set of alchemical apparatus.
-One (1) enchanted Mace
-One (1) love story with a tragic ending
-One (1) alchemical formula for creating explosive potions
Bio:
Alyssa was born to a family of mages and, from a young age, was encouraged to study the magical and arcane. Her family was not the most wealthy, but they were members of a small group of necromancers operating out of one of the many caves in Cyrodiil and could afford many texts and apparatus required for a proper magical and general education. Introduced at a young age to necromancy, she learned not to fear death but to see it as a beginning to a new purpose for the bodies used. She never questioned how the bodies came into their possession. She had a peaceful childhood, and sometime just after her twenty-first birthday, after receiving a license which granted her one permanent corpse servant and a slew of dead convicts to experiment on, she encountered a ghost in the tomb of a wealthy nord she had just visited for a reliable, preserved servant. Before she could get rid of it, the spirit drained part of her mind while inadvertently boosting another, giving her a wonderous insight into the world, at the cost of becoming rather naive. This inspired her to go into seclusion and study the alchemical. While in the cave, she infused the corpse of the Nord she stole with a black Soul gem containing a bosmer she had slain. Her servant now had a semblance of life, at least enough to be useful- and helped her with her tasks over the years as she studied formulae to improve the alchemical. Eventually, while trying to create something completely unrelated to explosions or fire, which was unusual as she enjoyed both, the compound exploded, taking a chunk out of her servant and destroying several apparatus. Quickly, she jotted down the ingredients used and spent time refining it into a more controllable nature, until eventually they could be activated at will by someone moderately skilled with magic. Eventually, soon after completing her new creation, she packed up Clyde, which is what she had named her minion, and her equipment and headed into the countryside, leaving a few skeletons and zombies to keep the place warm. Or, cold, as the case may be.
Notes: Alchemical Explosives activated by sending a current of magicka through the potion, then throwing the potion at a target. As it shatters, the magicka triggers a reaction combined with the kinetic force of the impact, making it violently and brightly explode. Having not quite figured out the specifics yet, she has been quoted saying "It is sort of like a centipede. If it doesn't worry about each little leg and only looks at the whole thing, it can move all its little legs just fine. If it focuses too much on one of those individual legs, it might hit a building and kill everyone inside in a violent and fiery death." The powder Is completely safe while not combined with the rest of the mixture. Do not let children get near the mixture. For that matter, do not let anyone get near the mixture.
Name: Clyde
Race: Nord (Mummy, Bosmer soul)
Class:Warrior
Weapon: Extremely weak fire enchanted steel mace, to the point where it would only be a bit hot to get hit with. Enchanted mainly so it could defend Alyssa from spirits.
Description: Wrapped in yellowish white cloth, he is decaying and sewn up from various explosions. The organs necessary for him to function properly as an undead servant have had a few replacements courtesy of Alyssa. He has a black soul gem jammed and infused into his head, giving him the soul of a bosmer who Alyssa had slain.
Personality: Loyal to a fault and enjoys philosophical debates and chicken.
Home: Coffin on Alyssa's back.
Bio: Theorin the Wood elf didn't know what hit him. One moment he was walking to Chorrol, the next he felt like he was being pulled, the next he felt trapped and alone in a pitch black room, and the next he was looking through the eyes of a slightly stinky Nord and seeing someone who he had an irresistible desire to serve and care for. Brisskar Frost-Bringer's corpse didn't see it coming either.
DarkNova50
Spoiler
Name: Felicity
Race: Imperial
Gender: Female
Age: 21
Birthsign: The Lord
Class: Ex-Slave
Skills: Blunt weaponry, hand to hand combat, short blades
Physical Appearance: As a result of a lifetime of forced labour and hardship, Felicity’s naturally slender build has become considerably more muscular, though she still retains a distinctly feminine profile. Having rarely seen the sun, her skin is also remarkably pale and fair. Finally, for the time being, she is incredibly thin, to the point of being malnourished.
Hair: Light brown, worn in a loose ponytail with bangs draping either side of her face
Eyes: Dark green
Height: 5’10”
Tattoos/Other Markings: For the moment, Felicity’s body still bares the signs of her previous ‘occupation,’ and her body is covered with minor cuts, as well as bruises of varying size and severity
Mental Description: While she has been undoubtedly scarred, Felicity would argue to anyone that she has never been ‘broken.’ Indeed, having grown up amongst Argonians and fellow slaves, she knows perhaps better than anyone the importance of friendship and loyalty…and the ugly price of betrayal. She can be wary of those she doesn’t know, and is slow to warm up to others, but once they’ve earned her friendship – not an easy task to accomplish – she’ll fight to the death to protect them.
Note: Felicity feels a naturally strong bond with Khajiits and Argonians, and is willing to judge other Humans and Orcs on an individual basis. She has a deep mistrust of High Elves and Wood Elves, however, and an outright hatred of Dark Elves.
Clothing: Felicity still wears the same grimy, tattered black cotton outfit from when she worked in the mines, unable to either find or purchase a replacement. The short sleeved shirt and pants are clearly several sizes too large for her, and are hopelessly frayed in several places.
Over this, however, she wears a cloak of unknown and luxurious material, so dark purple as to be nearly black. Given to her by the Argonian who helped rescue her, the cloak is obviously decades old, but still in relatively good condition. In the sunlight, the material shimmers with a curious luminescence, and Felicity feels inexplicably protected while wearing it.
She also has a pair of durable leather boots.
Weapons: A chipped glass dagger, with an ornate handle
History: Even in her first memories as a child, Felicity was a slave of the Camonna Tong. She never knew her ‘natural’ parents, instead being raised by the other, older slaves, willing to put in the effort to care for the young girl. Largely, these caregivers were Argonians and Khajiit, solidifying her identification with the ‘beast’ races.
For the majority of her life, Felicity toiled in the ebony mines of Vvardenfell, repeatedly punished by the Dunmer, or ‘Knife Ears’ as she calls them, for her strong will and refusal to give into their more lecherous demands. Having only each other to depend upon, Felicity’s fellow slaves became her family.
Two months ago, an Argonian warrior claiming to work with the Twin Lamps attacked the ebony mine where Felicity was stationed. With his help, the slaves staged a large uprising, and Felicity killed the Dunmer overseer of the camp, a high ranking Camonna Tong lieutenant, using his own glass dagger.
The Tong quickly began hunting down the escaped slaves, and they were forced to disperse. The Argonian who’d helped free them gave Felicity an enchanted cloak, and urged her to travel to Cyrodiil, where she might be safe from the Tong’s slavers. Securing voyage wherever she could, Felicity made the long journey from Vvardenfell to eastern Cyrodiil.
The Tong weren’t so willing to let a slave get away with the murder of one of their high ranking members, however, and continued to pursue her into the Imperial province. Now, having heard rumours of a call for adventurers, Felicity seeks to leave behind the last remnants of her old life, and lose her pursuers in the unknown that awaits her.
Race: Imperial
Gender: Female
Age: 21
Birthsign: The Lord
Class: Ex-Slave
Skills: Blunt weaponry, hand to hand combat, short blades
Physical Appearance: As a result of a lifetime of forced labour and hardship, Felicity’s naturally slender build has become considerably more muscular, though she still retains a distinctly feminine profile. Having rarely seen the sun, her skin is also remarkably pale and fair. Finally, for the time being, she is incredibly thin, to the point of being malnourished.
Hair: Light brown, worn in a loose ponytail with bangs draping either side of her face
Eyes: Dark green
Height: 5’10”
Tattoos/Other Markings: For the moment, Felicity’s body still bares the signs of her previous ‘occupation,’ and her body is covered with minor cuts, as well as bruises of varying size and severity
Mental Description: While she has been undoubtedly scarred, Felicity would argue to anyone that she has never been ‘broken.’ Indeed, having grown up amongst Argonians and fellow slaves, she knows perhaps better than anyone the importance of friendship and loyalty…and the ugly price of betrayal. She can be wary of those she doesn’t know, and is slow to warm up to others, but once they’ve earned her friendship – not an easy task to accomplish – she’ll fight to the death to protect them.
Note: Felicity feels a naturally strong bond with Khajiits and Argonians, and is willing to judge other Humans and Orcs on an individual basis. She has a deep mistrust of High Elves and Wood Elves, however, and an outright hatred of Dark Elves.
Clothing: Felicity still wears the same grimy, tattered black cotton outfit from when she worked in the mines, unable to either find or purchase a replacement. The short sleeved shirt and pants are clearly several sizes too large for her, and are hopelessly frayed in several places.
Over this, however, she wears a cloak of unknown and luxurious material, so dark purple as to be nearly black. Given to her by the Argonian who helped rescue her, the cloak is obviously decades old, but still in relatively good condition. In the sunlight, the material shimmers with a curious luminescence, and Felicity feels inexplicably protected while wearing it.
She also has a pair of durable leather boots.
Weapons: A chipped glass dagger, with an ornate handle
History: Even in her first memories as a child, Felicity was a slave of the Camonna Tong. She never knew her ‘natural’ parents, instead being raised by the other, older slaves, willing to put in the effort to care for the young girl. Largely, these caregivers were Argonians and Khajiit, solidifying her identification with the ‘beast’ races.
For the majority of her life, Felicity toiled in the ebony mines of Vvardenfell, repeatedly punished by the Dunmer, or ‘Knife Ears’ as she calls them, for her strong will and refusal to give into their more lecherous demands. Having only each other to depend upon, Felicity’s fellow slaves became her family.
Two months ago, an Argonian warrior claiming to work with the Twin Lamps attacked the ebony mine where Felicity was stationed. With his help, the slaves staged a large uprising, and Felicity killed the Dunmer overseer of the camp, a high ranking Camonna Tong lieutenant, using his own glass dagger.
The Tong quickly began hunting down the escaped slaves, and they were forced to disperse. The Argonian who’d helped free them gave Felicity an enchanted cloak, and urged her to travel to Cyrodiil, where she might be safe from the Tong’s slavers. Securing voyage wherever she could, Felicity made the long journey from Vvardenfell to eastern Cyrodiil.
The Tong weren’t so willing to let a slave get away with the murder of one of their high ranking members, however, and continued to pursue her into the Imperial province. Now, having heard rumours of a call for adventurers, Felicity seeks to leave behind the last remnants of her old life, and lose her pursuers in the unknown that awaits her.
Feel free to send me updates whenever you like. I'll plug them in when I get them. I will not be accepting any new people until further notice. Seventeen is more than enough. Thanks!
~ Quest Log ~
[Quests will go here, both as reminders of what we're up to and as a synopsis of the RP so far.]
[√] Party-to-be convened (more or less) at the Silverhome on the Water to meet Karst.
[√] Re-grouped at Niben Gate island, met a Daedra, squabbled.
[~] Enter the Realm.
