So describe your character, but as a bystander in Riverwood, as your character walks through town, for example,

As the tall Imperial walked in you could feel the air tighten around him. Bound in Leather Armour, The man had 2 silver shortswords at his side and a bow across hIs back it seemed like he didn't enjoy killing, but wouldn't hesitate to strike anyone down that did hI'm wrong.

Now your turn.

His short, white beard dramatically contrasted with his dark, black skin. His rugged hands were clenched as he trodded along the road, his rough hide boots, probably scavenged, dragging across the dusty floor. To his left side was strapped a scummy leather scabbard with a simple iron longsword encased inside. this was but all he semed to own excluding the scraps of armour on his back. His eyes were hardened but it seemed that, behind the fire were stars shining their honour. For he was the dragonborn.

sounds like the start of some kinky cybersecks haha

as a slim argonian walked into riverwood, an aura of sadness seem to radiate outward. clad in a strange trible armour from blackmarsh, with a bow slung aross his back, he march up to everyone and gave a cheerful greeting, yet an underlying tone of sadness tinged his voice as he intorduced himself to everyone.

The old woman limps in slow, leaning on her worn staff. She looks tough and wary, though, and I can see our local pickpocket deciding that if he tries her he will only get his knuckles rapped.

Striding imperiously into town, the tall, fair Altmer brushed his hair from his eyes. His robes were simple, but seemed to hang regally from his shoulders, even as the mud, clinging to the robe dried. His eyes flared, and to the average passerby, they might not have noticed the slight crackling of a shield spell, cast earlier, in the midst of a heated battle, dissipating, or that his hands furling, and unfurling, sweaty, with anticipation. A quick darting of his eyes, a crack in his nigh impenetrable shell. Something nagged at his mind, a curious, almost guilty, yet fearful tremor in his powerful demeanor... He quickened his step, and disappeared into a nearby inn.

As a Beautiful Altmer walks through Riverwood, an Aura of warmth and Kindess Radiates. She glows in the sun, Her hair blonde and long dragging on the ground. She looks as if she was born from the sun. Her skin looked soft and pale, as if she hadn't stepped out into the world ever. You can see in her eyes that she was scared and helpless, you get a feeling that makes you want to help her show her around. She wore a red dress a little dirty but could tell if was made from a fine material. A Tiara was seated on her head strange but beautiful. and yet something was odd. She had a mystical presence about her, that warned people not to cause her harm. People around ask themselves, Where is she from? Whats an Altmer like that doing here?

srry if it's kinda silly, Im sure i cldve done bttr though once I create and customize her in the game.

As the dark haired Breton walked through the gates of town, all eyes turned to him. Most townspeople were used to travellers passing through on some errand or another, but this stranger seemed different. He wore a simple tunic of some green fabric, with worn and dusty leather shoes, yet the very air around him seemed to crackle with energy, as if he held an ancient and deep power within his very soul. His dark green eyes held visions of a haunted and violent past, and the slim steel sword worn with use at his waist showed he was not a man to be trifled with. The way he rested his hand on the hilt... this man knew how to use a blade, and wasn't afraid to use it against people who got in the way of his goals.

-Jack
just then a disgusting and hideously Imperial mad man comes strolling into town....The man is mumbling to himself and yells at a Beautiful Altmer...
Everybody looks at him with a scourge look and some want to jump in and aid the Altmer if not for the Dark demonizing Aura around him.... he shoves the Altmer and a Argonian walks toward him as if wanting to fight, Then the crazyed imperial points at the Argonian and runs screaming into a coner, This man is insane and runs into a coner of the town. He puts his hands on his head and pulls out his hair laughting in the Dirt

-Post fixed-

The breton mage walked, arms crossed, past the corpses that lay strewn around him. Magical fire consumed the buildings, and it seemed he couldn't help but cackle at the sounds of screaming still present around him. 'What weaklings!' I heard him exclaim, as a Nord, bursting from a house with axe in hand, was consumed by fire before his blow could meet the target. 'How terribly weak! I suppose I should seek a greater challenge, perhaps a dragon or two?', the dastardly man considered, as he approached the exit to the town, leaving the wreckage that was once called Riverwood behind him.

My guy beats your guys.

The breton walked slowly, with his arms folded up in his black robes. He walked with purpose, ignoring most of the people around him, not important enough for him to talk to, nor important enough to waste his talents killing them. His only goal was to reach the college, and use it to further his own goals and his lust for power. He imagined himself sitting in the archmages chair, the others bowing to him in awe of his great power. Something that could almost pass as a smile came across the dark mages lips.

The weirdest thing happened. This Elf walked into town, tall women, with those strange eyes, and bright red hair, like a strawberry or something. I don't like them, but by the blood on her sword, and the huge bundle of wolf pelts she was carrying, I could she wasn't to be messed with. Anyway, the weird bit was, instead of being all aloof and looking down on everyone, like you would expect, she sells the pelts to Anwyn at the store, cheap as well, then takes her cash to the Stallion, asks who wants to try and out drink her, and by Kyne if she didn't leave that loudmouth Jherek unconscious. She sleeps at the Inn, then the next day young Ulfrik cut his hand open, real bad. She healed him with a spell, didn't ask for aught in payment, then walks off into the mountains, wearing a dress any sensible women would have for best, for the chapel and that. I don't like them Elves, but if more were like that, I might 'n' all change me mind.

It was mid-morning when the mountain man walked into Riverwood, leading behind him a stout horse laden down with pelts and skins. A tall, thick-set Nord whose rugged face, framed by a thick tangle of brown hair and beard, was a familiar sight to the townsfolk of Riverwood. He appeared in the village at least once every few months, coming down out of the mountains and forests in which he made his living as a trapper and huntsman. His lifestyle and trade were immediately apparent in his dirty, unkempt appearance, his keen, blue hunter's eyes, and the gear he carried. He was clothed in a ragged patchwork of leather, skin and cloth, At his waist hung a sturdy iron axe, likely used as much for combat and defense as it was for chopping wood, and in a case slung across his back alongside a quiver was an unstrung yew bow.

By late noon he had sold and traded off his furs and meat, his horse now bearing gear and supplies that would be put to good use during his time in the wilderness. Before he left town, however, it was this man's custom to enjoy a drink or two at the tavern. As would suit his lonely profession, he was not the most sociable of men, often quiet and dour of temperament, but still the patrons of the tavern knew him and welcomed him with respect, greeting him by the name "Vercig."

Once Vercig had taken a seat and been served his mead and meat, the patrons crowded around him and, rather than the exchange of nature's plunder for supplies that Vercig had taken part in throughout the day, a different sort of transaction began. In exchange for Vercig's wild, mysterious tales of his adventures in the wilderness, filled with giants, trolls, barrows and caves, the townsfolk would give him news of the outside world, brought to the remote village by travelers. The news this time was certainly something more than Vercig had been given in his previous visits to civilization; the High King was dead, and revolution against the Empire was in the air. And there were other, more absurd rumors as well; drunken men's stories of dragons in the wilderness and claims of hearing the faint rumble of the Greybeards' voices throughout the land.

Nodding his head, Vercig quietly digested the information, his bright eyes giving a thousand-yard stare. Eventually, he seemed to come to some form of resolution, though he would tell no one curious enough to ask what is was he planned to do with the news. Changing the subject by sharing an embellished tall tale about how he once won a contest of strength against a giant, Vercig eventually finished his meal and drink and stood up from his table. He strode for the door, but stopped before leaving. Turning back to the roomfull of tavern-goers and townsfolk, Vercig said simply "do not expect to see me here again for some time" before stepping into the street, claiming his pack horse, and departing into the gathering evening darkness of the wild.

There was no disturbance in the town as the tall Nord walked amidst the buildings. He had long blonde hair, but no facial hair to e spoken of. He carried a rusted iron shield on his back and a bloody steel axe strapped onto his hip. He had on steel mail gauntlets and a pair of leather boots, which stood out drastically against what appeared to be prison rags. His eyes were cold, like those who have seen things worse than death, but underneith the chill there was a hint of sadness. Sadness brought upon a feeling of loss and lonelyness. As a young child ran up to greet him his eyes turned warm and friendly, and I started to doubt if I ever even saw the cold chill that was there before. He said that his name was Malsto.

"I were leaned up aginst yonder rail there, when this little wispy rat lookin' feller came strollin' into town, but get this;

'e was hitched to a Legion horse and bein' drug along.

But I haf'ta go. The missus is needin' some more stuff from the general store, as if we don't owe enough on our ticket as is."

"Evenin' then, Bill."

As he entered the town, all eyes turned to the burly, gargantuan orc and the people stared at him in fearful awe. There was no doubt that he had killed many with his teeth and bare hands, but he carried a rather large, sinster looking axe, along with a bow and quiver, on his back. He discreetly toyed with a small ball of fire in his left hand. His plate-looking armor and fear-inspiring weapons were made of the bones of dragons, which most would wager he killed and used himself to smith his armor. A tooth necklace hung on his neck and his mangy hair was tied up in a topknot. The look on his face was so hostile, it was startlingly bone-chilling. All fearfully attempted to avoid his gaze, yet were so afraid for their lives to look away from him, lest they be slaughtered without warning in cold blood. He smelled of blood, of fire, of war, and of death. None dared approach this beast of an orc. He was Kraal gro-Durznot the Dragonslayer, and he was Dovahkiin.

A stranger walks through town. All eyes upon him. His clubfeet are bare. The back of his white trousers are stained brown. His green shirt is unbuttoned enough to reveal a third nipble. An aura of mystery surrounds him as his lazy eye wanders. The villagers see the stick shoved in his belt and they can tell he does not find fufillment in shaking it at people, yet will not hesitate to do so. As he makes his way through the village he is tripped and falls. Then everyone laughs.

A young Kahjiit walked into town today. She looked quite strange I must admit, her tall lean figure in this heavy suit of armor which made her take half a step where a strong Nord would take a whole wearing the same armor, and then there was this look of awe and wonder beaming from her face as she first entered town as if she had just seen something amazing. Her eyes wide and a great gaping smile upon her face she wobbled through town panting from the weight of her armor and shield not to mention going with a mace of all weapons, quite peculiar.

Two local Kahjiit passed her by and she waved them smiling but got nothing but sneers from them and one even scratched her cheek and called her a freak. She stumbled backwards and fell onto her butt into the mud and surprisingly I saw her hands glow as she healed the scratch with a pout on her face as she sat there looking around to see the rest of town. Our eyes met and I granted her a warm smile, but oh great... now she's beaming again and she's headed for me...

Sibyl -

About her is the scent of rosewater, a willowy limbed lass, with waves of curly, honeywine colored hair that cascades softly over her bare shoulders, lips that tease with the color and taste of rasberry in the summer, and blue eyes that flash sapphire and sparkle with the promise of fulfilled desire at twilight.

In her left hand is a rune covered staff, and a glowing, enchanted dagger is sheathed over her left hip.

And speaking of hips, when she walks, her hips move very interestingly. All eyes were upon her.

With a glance, she could melt one's heart, or chill ones very soul.

Edit: Ha, ha. This is fun guys...

It was hard to miss the woodsman as he strode into town. Simply by his walk you could tell he was a strong and proud man. He stood tall above any other Imperial. A green hood shrouded most of his facial features, but a rough beard was visiable. A thick cloak hung over most of his body, no doubt hiding his muscles underneath. On his left hip was a steel longsword, sheathed in leather. On his right, a dull axe hung from his belt, weakened from all the man's fallen trees. A bow was strung to his back, bobbing back and forth with each step.

I continued sweeping my porch, watching the man come and pass. He headed in the direction of the forge. As he reached the door, he pulled the hood from his head, revealing short black hair. As I could only see the back of his head, I was still pondering what the man might actually look like. The door shut behind the woodsman, and there were several uneventful minutes.

Slowly the door opened, the man with his back to me again. He was talking to the smith, thanking him, than waved goodbye as he exited. He turned in my direction, finally giving me a view of his face unshrouded by a hood. It was gaunt, but very defined. Small, sharp green eyes, with a narrow nose. Overall he was handsome. He gave me a long stare as he walked by, suddenly I realized he knew the entire time I was watching him. A weak smile crossed my face, but I looked away from him, staring down at the now spotless porch. I dare not look his way again, although that was the last time I saw him for many months, and the next time he came, it was just unexpected as the last.

I'll do one for my Crusader, maybe I'll do my Spellsword a bit later.

Several of the tavern's patrons turned their heads towards the door as the warrior stepped through the door. His heavy plate armor clanged as he strode in. His silvery armor gleamed brightly and was etched with both the Goblet of Stendarr and the Imperial Legion insignia. He wore an Imperial-issue round shield on his back and a silver longsword was scabbarded at his hip He held his helmet in one hand as he stepped through the doorway. His short, dark brown hair bespoke Imperial ancestry and he looked relatively young for a knight, perhaps 30 years old at most. His eyes were a hard, steely grey and they scanned the room cautiously for any signs of danger. His other hand grasped a tan-colored, worn wanted poster with the face of a sinister-looking, sneering criminal scribed on it. The newcomer spoke, "My name is Markkas Corinthal, a Knight Errant of the Imperial Legion and devotee of Stendarr.". He lifted the piece of parchment for all to view, "I am searching for this man, a notorious outlaw who has slain three innocents in a nearby village and stole their belongings.". He looked to the barkeep, who had shrunk back near the kitchens with fear plain in his face. A large Imperial sitting at the bar, one of the few patrons that hadn't turned to watch the stranger walk in, slammed his mead onto the table with a thud and now turned to face him. He was a grizzled and tough looking man, and was sneering at the young knight as he drew his blade. His appearance matched the face on the poster remarkably. He laughed cruelly and said, "You forgot to mention how I killed the last two of your ilk trying to bring me in. Run along boy, before I add you to that list.". The knight stared at the man and stated, "This is your last chance to surrender peacefully. Accept Stendarr's mercy and you will be given a fair trial." The man spoke again, "Ha! Save it. I think I'll take my chances." He charged angrily and the knight braced himself, drawing his sword and shield swiftly as the two clashed and began their duel to the death...

I saw a man with two arms walk right passed me.

Twilight. Something didn't feel right. Or maybe it felt more right than it ever had, but the mood that had settled over the shops and the streets kinda' made you forget about who you were and what you were doing as a man. Made you feel like an animal--a deer--some kind a prey, that's what I mean by right. There were weird sounds, too, and fiery black shadows looping about the dirt and the wood, hardly noticeable. I heard an Owl. Felt like someone was behind me, feeling nervous and paranoid. I supposes that felt right still. Turned out no one was behind me, but I saw the one who caused the feeling, I'm sure it was him. Was an elf, Altmer, easily distinguishable. You don't see looks like his everyday. Real contorted, sour, like he was smelling something just bad and it had effected his skin as it was sure sallow--old as well if that's possible in an elf. The eyes, too. Little crescent moons of fatigue under them. I could see the yellow stained eyes under his iris. He had some odd hair, whiteish and done up in braids here and there and woven in with beads and just the most strange trinkets (there was a minute jade fish, for example). I gathered all this vision before I realized I was staring at the mer as plain as it was no longer clear day, my mouth hung open and my gazed fixed in a trance. I noticed my foolishness and collected myself, went back to pretending I was helping Hob close the shop, but he never looked at me anyway. I snuck a few more glances. He was wearing some decent dark clothes, nothing out of the ordinary, but he didnt look natural in them, more like he was some wild demon had killed a man and took his clothes. Didnt have no weapon, dangerous and unseemly in these times, ask me. I didnt see him ever again, but I still get that strange feeling now and again, like someone is behind me. I sometimes think I'm not whole anymore.

In the dark corner of the local tavern there sat a lone Dunmer male. You could spot the black, long hair under his dark hood and his light armour was black as the night itself. The bow he had brought with him had a daedric origin and was equiped on his back. His face was quite friendly and the scar on his cheek told a story of war and death. He seemed to be watching and listening to what everyone said and was undoubtably one of the silent type of people. Some folks I talked to said he was an assassin, others said he was just a spy from Solstheim, but that he wouldn't hurt a soul. Well, the bow and arrows on his back said elsewise in my opinion! He caught me looking and smiled at me, a pleasant smile tha showed no evil. I quickly looked away from the Dunmer and drank some mead before I got up, and went out of the tavern. As I locked the door behind me the Dunmer was suddenly in front of me! I was scared out of my boots and he laughed before asking me if I could give him a clue about why I was looking at him so much. He quickly said it didn't matter, and carried on with a question. A question about dragons and if I've had seen any. Well, I had and pointed at the big mountain cliff to the north. He gave me some money as a "thank-you gift" and left the town, and I haven't seen him since. The dragon probably got him!