Just a chance for all those Role Players to show us a great detailed look at your main characters roots before the execution day. There supposed to be long Here's Mine:

Arthus welcomed getting damp from the light rain beat against his face. Along with the sense of being free, as the Imperial crossed the border into Skyrim from Cyrodiil he couldnt help himself from feeling a sense of overwhelming joy for the new life he was about to begin. He didn't deserve what he had, he was a mercenary back across the border who escaped execution with the luck of a well timed riot among the city of Bruma. Yet eager to put the past well behind him Arthus stepped with purpose, only to be met by karma. Once across the border he was robbed by a group of four highway men. Beaten and left for dead he forced himself to carry on to the nearest village. After a days walk lights from a small inn and few surrounding homes came into view. With what seemed like his last inch of life he stumbled through the door of the inn and shortly after found himself being questioned by guards whose patrol break had just been interrupted. The Nordic Suits intimidated the new weary foreigner but as all men do Arthus swallowed his pain and rose a weary head to meet his interrogator's faces. This is when he realized the guards in which were volleying an incredible amount of questions were the same men who had robbed him along the border. all of a sudden Arthus felt rejuvenation building through an almost unwanted rememberance of past anger. The surprise of recognition from one of the guards caused him to reach for his longsword. Quickly Arthus reacted by grabbing the knife along the inn table and sticking it with an intense thrust up into the active guards abdomen. The shriek of pain created a frenzy among the bar and the innocent civilians all jumped out of their seats and backed near to one corner of the inn to watch the chaos unfold. Arthus sprang up from his seat but quickly fell to the ground as his legs were still numb from the previous beating. Another guard knelt down to grab the temporary paralyzed Imperial off the ground but was met with vicious teeth that sank deep into the top of his hand. The guard jerked back which gave Arthus enough time to support himself against a wall before the two unscathed and other bitten guard started in at him. In order to gain more support Arthus lunged for the guard attempting to release the small knife from his side. One guard thrusted his sword towards Arthus but only met the belly of his fellow wounded man, who dropped to the ground instantly with no more screams remaining. Arthus quickly wrenched the sword from the mans gut and arose swinging viciously catching the stomachs of two guards dropping them in pain as their insides forced out of the open wounds. The last guard fumbled over their bodies into the relentless Imperial forcing both too drop their swords. The two jostled with each other constantly slipping on the blood spilled along the floor and tripping over the bodies that lay lifeless on the ground. Finally the guard lost his footing and tumbled over the table to the ground. Before anyone could make another move Arthus quickly sprang to a sword and in one final swing beheaded the last guard with almost laughable ease. Weary and broken Arthus once again found himself standing over bodies of men whose hearts beat no longer due to his hands driven by blind rage. Arthus tried to calm down he began hyperventilating from the uncontrollable amount of adrenaline rushing through his body and fell unconscious among the men he had slain. The moment he came to he found himself in a stone quarter locked in with four other ragged men. He didn't have to ask where he was. He remembered this situation all to well from his past life in Cyrodiil. Now he could only wait to see if luck would once again save him from his execution, or perhaps something stronger than luck... Perhaps Fate.

Yes it's long but when building your characters background a long story should berth least or worries. Eager to read the rest of your stories!

Well... I'll just assume your enter key is broken. Anyway, I'll probably start thinking about what my character/his back story will be once it gets a bit closer to the release date. Also waiting for news on vampires/werewolves to be released, as that's likely going to play a big part in my decision.

Name: Cyrus

race: Nord (a more tanned skin than the average nord due to dilluted redguard heritage)


personality:

A calm and intelligent mind contrast with his big stature and imposing demeanor. he learned from his adoptive dunmer father everything from combat to blacksmithing, although his father wanted to teach him more in the ways of fencing he found that Cyrus was attuned to use 2 handed blades and so he often sent him on specific hunts in order for his son to improve himself.


Parentage:

Cyrus's adoptive father was in his youth a wandering fencer and scholar, he often visited cities in order to visit their libraries and challenge passing warriors. approaching his 100 years of life he was sent to morrowind in chains as a slave and worked his way up until he was allowed by the argonians limited freedom to keep researching for them.


Brief Biography:

found as a baby on the shores of Morrowind in the arms of a dead nord captain. A dunmer passing by noticed this morbid scene and came near to take a better look, as he investigates the captain's body he finds an ancient medallion that seems to have been crafted in skyrim, in the back he finds an inscription with the name Cyrus. "Curious" -the dunmer thought to himself- though the medallion is from skyrim the inscription is written in the old redguard's language, he then takes a look at the infant and sees that he is on the brink of death. Unphased by its cries the dunmer turns back and starts to walk away... as he distances himself from the shores he is struck by a powerful force in the back, making him lose his footing and look back, he looks to the baby surprised to see a torn trail and ground rock with the unconscious infant at the end, "I can use him to leave this wretched place" - the dunmer mumbled - and brought the infant with him to the small town of Gnaar Mok.
Years have passed, and young Cyrus grew amongst the dunmer slaves and argonians learning everything he could from his adoptive father who often sent him on hunts and odd mercenary jobs and while Cyrus was a formidable fighter, he never saw him recreate that shockwave from all those years ago. the rest of the village shunned Cyrus due to his heritage and often warned the father to abandon or even kill him in fear of a possible betrayal, the father knew that in time the villagers would lose their patience and drive Cyrus, if not them both, out from the village in slavery or worse...
one night, the father called the young nord to their home saying he had something important to show him, he showed Cyrus all the books and scrolls he had collected over the years, all of them describing Nord and redguard history as well as culture, he told Cyrus that the time to leave the village was coming near and that they would have to prepare for the inevitable outcome.


after a few weeks, it was time to leave morrowind and head towards skyrim, in search of knowledge and a better life away from the slavery of the argonians.
weeks, maybe months later at sea, the father and his son reached the shores of skyrim disguised as a nord slaver and his dunmer slave. the ploy worked well enough for them and they managed to travel the roads fairly safely, until cyrus was ambushed by dunmer rebels who took his father and slashed Cyrus's face cutting out his right eye, the attack left Cyrus unconscious and the rebels disappeared as fast as they came leaving him with nothing but rags on his back. Cyrus then wakes up in a prison, apparently the guards recognized him when he came into shore and after a bit of investigation they learned that Cyrus was not a slaver but rather a mer sympathizer and was awaiting execution for it, this accusation left Cyrus laughing at the irony of it all.
what happens next is yet to be told...

Currently doing the last read-up on my upcoming exam in a few hours but i just had to say. Nice back story. Think i'll try and do mine later today

Jo'Rakha was born in the city-state of Dune, in 4E 174. He is a Suthay-Raht with dark brown and yellow markings.
He was born to a trader and his wife, both of which live in a small apartment above their shop, which opens onto the
bustling desert market outside the walls of Dune.
Magic has been outlawed throughout Elsweyr since the reign of the new Mane, so when the young kit began to show
signs of natural magical ability, something almost completely unheard of among Khajiits, his parents forbade him from practicing
it, and told no one of his skill. However, Jo'Rakha continued to use his magic, often traveling into the surrounding desert, away
from prying eyes, and sending off raw magical energy, attempting to refine his skill. It was during one of these trips that he was
discovered by a member of the Dunesian Elder Council. This Khajiit, Jo'Ri, was a member of a secretive splinter of the dissolved
mages guild, the Collage of Whispers, based far beneath the shifting sands of Elsweyr, in the long-forgotten halls of an ancient buried
castle. Jo'Ri recognized the power of this young kit, and offered him a place among the guild.
Jo'Rakha accepted, and left home soon thereafter, traveling with Jo'Ri until they came to the site of the Collage of Whispers. The
rolling expanse of sand stretched away in all directions, but Jo'Ri could sense the magical energies coming from beneath him. He lifted a
hand, and the sand began to drain away, as if they were in a gargantuan hourglass. he stepped forwards, motioning for Jo'Rakha to follow,
and together, they were svcked into the earth. The sand stopped falling through the massive vertical cave about halfway down, and looped
back upwards to join it's brethren on the surface. The Khajiiti's decent slowed, and they touched down gently. Jo'Ri then raised his paw once
more. The sand rose to the surface and solidified into rock, forming a seal that kept the desert at bay.
For the next ten years of his life, Jo'Rakha advanced in magical prowess very quickly, soon passing his teachers, and devoted
himself to the study of new fields of magic. He found that anything he read, he would then have in his memory forever. All he needed
to call it back was a simple thought.
One night, he accidentally discovered what he thought was a new field of magic. He meant to say a simple word, but instead shouted,
sending out a wave of magic like none he had felt before. From that point on, he experimented more and more with this unrefined field, trying
to perfect it, but he could never seem to do anything more than send out a wave of pure energy.

He didn't know how it happened, but the Collage of Whispers was discovered by the Mane when Jo'Rakha was 18 years of age. The
army stormed the ancient halls, breaking the seal and riding down on ropes. By the time he knew what was happening, it was already too late.
His brethren were being slaughtered, cut down by waves of Khajiiti soldiers. Jo'Rakha held his own, and did his best to defend his friends, casting
spell after spell, sending the enemies flying, but his efforts did nothing. Every other mage was dead, and he was being pushed back by the army.
Seeing no other option, he gathered his energy, as he had trained himself to do, and let out the majority of his power in one shout. As the halls began
to collapse around him, Jo'Rakha cast protective spells on himself, designed by him to keep his body alive, but just barely. The last thing he saw as he
slipped into unconsciousness was a room filled with the dead and dying, getting crushed by tons of rubble, falling in pieces from the ceiling. A pillar broke
apart and collapsed directly on top of Jo'Rakha. His heart beat a few more times, then stilled.

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A shifting of rock, and the scratchy tone of a Dunmer, "By the Nine, this one is hardly decomposed at all!"

A thump in his chest.

A new voice, lower than the previous.

"What are you talking about? All of these fur-lickers have been dead for a decade."

Another thump, stronger this time. He was aware of light on his face.

"What the- Come here, quickly! He's alive!"

"What have you been eating, my friend?"

"Just come here."

Footsteps, then a hand on his chest.

"Oh my- You're right! Get him out of there, you fools!"

A familiar feeling. Paws grabbed him under his arms, and one dug their claws into the back of his neck. Together, they lifted him upwards.
He strained his eyelids, but they would not lift.

The rough sound of a Khajiit trying the Imperial tongue.

"Get this one some water, master?"

"Yes, you foolish beast."

A jug was brought to his face. Hands pried open his mouth, and water was poured down his throat. He coughed, but swallowed most of it.

Blackness took him once more.


When he awoke, he was in a tent, lying on a piece of cloth stretched over the familiar warm sand. His eyes opened easily, and he remembered his
name. That was the beginning of a torrent of memory, leaving him curled in a ball on the ground for over an hour, forgotten knowledge and traumas flooding into his mind.

He looked up, feeling a sadness that he had not had time to feel as he was trying to defend his brothers. Tentatively, he tried his magic.
He pointed a finger at the jug of water on the table, and it shifted to the left. He had meant to blow it apart. Much of his magical skill was gone, but the knowledge remained.

Jo'Rakha used a claw to cut a hole in the tent, and escaped into the cold desert night.

Hours later, he stumbled into Dune. The guard at the gate looked horrified at the sight of his face, and ran away immediately. Jo'Rakha collapsed against a house and slipped into sleep.

He woke to the sound of armored feet charging towards him, sun gleaming off the metal spears. No more than ten feet away stood the Mane himself.
He pointed a crooked finger at Jo'Rakha, and growled "Kill him this time, you incompetent half-wits!"

Jo'Rakha gathered what strength he had, and propelled himself on top of the roof. Seemingly from nowhere, he felt a shout building in his throat. He let it grow
inside of him, the soilders surrounding him now, and once he could contain it no longer, released the power. It blasted the army backwards, away from Jo'Rakha,
and sent him flying into the air, going higher than he ever thought possible.

He fell for a long while, directing himself towards a basin of water at the bottom of a valley. He slowed his fall magically as he neared the water, and dove in.

Jo'Rahka hated water, especially salt water. When he surfaced, he was floating towards a slum of a city, the walls held together by wooden boards, nails, and prayers.
He swam to the docks and climbed onto land. A crowd of pale skinned, furless men surrounded him. He ignored the mutterings from the people.

"Did you see-"
"-From the sky"
"-Should be dead!"

He pushed through the crowd and headed for a horse-drawn carriage, ready to depart.
On the way, he focused his magical energy in his paws, making them glow menacingly, then slid them inside his coat.
He stepped into the carriage, and spoke to the driver, revealing his paws as he did so.

"You undoubtedly just saw me survive an unsurvivable act, so just think, what would happen if I let this wonderful explosive magic go?

Would you die? Most defiantly.

Would I? No.

So how about we avoid that conflict, you tell me where in Tamriel I am, and then you take me wherever I want to go, or you and your horses will be a nice roasted feast for me."

The pale Argonian holding the reins, now trembling so much that the entire carriage shook, spoke warily.

"Y-You're outside Bravil, sir."

Jo'Rakha processed this information. The Cyrodillic people weren't especially tolerant of his kind, and it was worse in most other countries.
The only place where he thought he could continue his work unhindered, was the last place he wanted to go. Home to the Nordic tribes of the north, land of cold, and country of barbarians.

"Take me to Skyrim"

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I assume he gets caught crossing the border, but I'm not sure what you're on the execution line for. So, I don't know.

And, before you say anything, I know the dragon shout propelling him all the way to Bravil was strange. I just thought of it as ten years of built up energy.

Froze-His-Tail's grand grand grand father was my OB character. He was forced to flee from cyrodiil after the events there and as the master of the dark brotherhood he had enough support to flee to blackmarsh. As years past and he had kids the truth about him was beginning to reveal in blackmarsh at the same time as the dark brotherhood he was master of died out. His childs were forced to flee through Vvardenfell, now invaded by Argonians in order to survive. It was quite an adventure but when they finally got to Skyrim they settled down. Froze-His-Tail's mother thought getting nord blood into the bloodline would help her childs survive in the cold, so she used powerful illusion magic on an already drunken nord in order to do so. Her plan failed when she a few months after birth tried to see if she had managed, that's when Froze-His-Tail got His name, the obvious -Off ending to His name is something he refuses to use.

Wall of text in OP... refuse to read.

Guys we could write our own book and become millionaires!

I want to hear some more of these! I have never designed a character backstory properly, but I might do it for Skyrim.

Ha yah I lose all format sense when I type with my iPod. Lol.