The Dark Companions : The Elder Scrolls Series Discussion

» Wed Jul 24, 2013 10:25 pm

Spoiler

Name: Telvanni Valdryn Ondalen Omaren Fadyl Remoran Telvanni

Race: Chimer

Age: 4469

Gender: Male

Birthsign: The Mage

Class: Archwizard

Appearance: Valdryn is Chimer, unlike his curse stricken kinsman, he had the power to stop Azura’s will and retain his appearance. Other than Almalexia, of whom he had quite carnal relations with at several points in time, he is the only Chimer left on Nirn. His skin is golden like that of an Altmer, yet of a different hue, and his eyes are a striking whitish-silver. Blue runes, that glow brightly when he uses magicka, are etched over his face and across his body. He is tall, standing 6’2” and his body is composed of nothing but lean, chiseled muscle. His hair is long and white, and is kept in a pony tail behind his head.

Skills: Valdryn is the best mage that ever lived. He has studied and taught Psiijic monks, mastered every school of magic, moved mountains, and destroyed cities by just looking at them and winking. His power is unparalleled. He holds such a grasp on magic that he has gained power greater than that of the Tribunal during the peak of their reign, without the use of Lorkhan’s remnants (though he found another use for those). He is also skilled at bedding women. A few notable companions have been Almalexia, several Empresses, St. Alessia, Potema, and even Azura herself.

Weapons: Valdryn wields the Staff of Magnus as his primary weapon, but he also has Hopesfire, Almalexia’s former blade, for when he feels like hacking things to bits.

Armor: Valdryn wears soul silk robes enchanted with the blood of the Daedra, having coerced each in some way to part with something of their being.

Misc: Valdryn owns many artifacts, including Balrizar’s Mazed Band, a few elder scrolls, and several other magical artifacts.

Background: Valdryn was born to unknown parents and left as an orphan right after birth. The prophet Veloth found him on his trek to the promised land and took him for his own, training him first as an apprentice. After Veloth’s death Valdryn travelled Tamriel improving his magical abilities. It is said that he was the one who gave the Dwemer the idea for the Numidium, and also the formula on how to create it.

As time passed his power grew and grew until he became the most powerful mage in all of Nirn, though, for a long time he disappeared (After founding house Telvanni that is), which is why not that many people know of him, and travelled through the planes of Oblivion seducing and coercing the Daedra to make him even more powerful. When he returned to Nirn he became the personal consort of Almalexia, whom he guided to power after slaying Sotha Sil and Vivec, after the Nerevarine’s visit. Though, when he left Almalexia for greener and less travelled pastures, she became enraged and soon turned quite insane.

Since then he’s been travelling Nirn collecting artifacts, elder scrolls, and many other things to augment his power. He even stole the heart of Lorkhan from Red Mountain and transplanted it with his own so that he could mantle to the state of a god.

Valdryn Ondalen Omaren Fadyl Remoran Telvanni -- 4E 201, Secunda

Valdryn sipped his tea ever so gracefully, letting it simmer on his tongue before cascading down his throat. It was made of magicka, pure magicka. That was all he could stomach nowadays. He opened the Oghma Infinium to where he left off and began reading at a lightning pace, occasionally glancing up at the small blue orb in the distance that was Nirn. Valdryn could read a normal book in a few minutes, but the Oghma Infinium is quite endless and dreadfully long. A lunar wind kicked up, spraying the back of his floating, ornate chair with fine white particles. He sipped his tea again, watching the runes and symbols fly past his eyes, anolyzing each one to its core values and taking it into the unending vaults of his mind. Suddenly, as page 309,590,457 flipped past his eyes, he stopped, vigorously flipping backwards to that blatantly screaming page.

"My my! Would you look at that!" He chuckled, taking another sip of his mana tea. "It seems as though today is the day. Might as well get a move on, hmm?"

He closed the book quickly, a large smile plastered upon his face. This reminds me of the time I was almost late for Tiber's Inauguration into that dreadfully boring and quite lazy pantheon! As the Oghma Infinium floated back into his satchel, which was enchanted to hold thousands upon thousands of things that normally wouldn't fit, he procured the Staff of Magnus and, with an elegant sweep of his finely manicured hands - cleanliness is next to godliness don't you know - a rift opened before him and he stepped through the fabric of space and time.

When he arrived on the other side he found himself caught in the middle of a storm at night. Lightning cracked across the sky and the rain fell so hard that its drumming drowned out everything else in the world (the physical world that is, Valdryn could still hear and see everything in the aetherial world perfectly fine). He knew though, despite not being able to see a thing, that he was in the right place. He had been here a time before, back in the days when he was still giving ole' Ayem the pounding. The rain skirted off his enchanted soul-silk robes without settling. One of the many enchantments they bore was a spell of water resistance. It came in hand when he visited the massive Dreugh cities in the late summers.

He floated under the arch of the town's main road ( walking is much to cumbersome for one such as himself). The words "Riverwood" could barely be made out hanging from a sign. He continued his trek down to the inn where the group was scheduled to meet, but of course nothing was certain. Epis dorak mor tunme 4 yigis morety 2 caorl ZERO formet UNO could have meant something entirely different from what Valdryn had supposed it meant. Though, he was quite certain the Infinium had at least led him to the right date, perhaps the wrong plane or dimension. He would soon find out though.

Valdryn opened the door and with a wave of his staff, assembled all the tables and chairs into one long conglomeration floating just above the floor in the center of the main hall. With another wave of his staff all time within the inn stopped, and it become removed to a dimension of its own - better for discussion the business at hand. He took at seat at the head of the table and pulled his tea cup from his pocket, filling it with a flick of his finger. The liquid was quite soothing.

With a pop a grizzled old wizard filled the chair to his right, a mechanical Dwemeri spider clung the the back of the chair, shaking frantically.

"BAGHHAHFAGH!! S'WITS!!!!" Valdryn smiled lightly at his guest's fit of rage. " I'll ..... Ah, Valdryn! How pleasant to see you! I was just talking to....where's Frederick?"

The Chimeri mage-god took another sip of his tea "Why he appears to be clinging to your chair, quite frightened might I add."

The old Dunmer wizard looked up at the ceiling, blinking his eyes for a moment "Get off of that you netch licking kwama fart!" Nothing was there."Stupid slaves...always trying to fly on the eggs. Never a good sign you know. I once turned one to a jelly for it. Was quite nice on toast with some scrib...no...scribe....yes it was a scribe that signed that paper. Ah...yes, behind my chair. Here Frederick, daddy is here."

The spider clicked happily before crawling around into the Dunmer's lap, still quite frightened from the trip through the aetherial planes. The old wizard spoke up again, "Where is everyone else? I thought you called?"

Valdryn sipped his tea again, "I did, though, no one is quite as quick on the ball as you Lord Varyn."

The old wizard smiled and then stared at the table, poking a peculiar knot of wood with his pinky finger, obviously lost in thought.

» Thu Jul 25, 2013 1:43 am

Spoiler

Name: Maximus Fortitus Awsumius

Race: Imperial

Gender: Male (usually, he can shapeshift)

Age: 21

Birthsign: the Lover

Skills: Maximus is adept at almost anything he tries, but he is most skilled at fighting in all its forms, as well at being a skilled and engaging lover.

Physical Appearance: 6’6” and 210lbs. Muscular frame, with all the right bulges in all the right places.

Though Maximus shaves his otherwise beautiful and soft black hair, his head is still scented with lavender and honey. His golden skin, tanned to the perfect shade of golden-brown from countless hours out in the sun, is soft. Though his body is scarless, his soul is not as perfect. His ample manhood is larger than the average man’s and has been compared to a horse’s. Maximus’s body is physically fit and very disciplined, which makes him extremely strong and surprisingly agile. His voice is soft and yet very masculine, and when he talks people are willing to do anything for him. His eyes are blue with very long eyelashes.

Clothing: Maximus wears no clothing, for it only hinders his graceful and yet powerful movements in battle. He never has a problem with public nudity laws because of his attractiveness.

Weapons: Besides his own fists, which are his most dangerous weapons, Maximus is adept in all forms of weaponry, and carries a Gladius and a whip with him. However, because he doesn’t wear clothes, he has to carry them in his hands.

History: Maximus was born an orphan before he became the hero that he is. When he was 15, however, he signed up to fight in the Imperial City Arena and within a week had become the Grand Champion of the Arena after he beat the previous champion in 15 seconds. Around the same time Maximus got to meet the Emperor, and though dozens of years seperated them, he quickly became his closest friend. They began an illict love affair not long after, which is when Maximus gained the ability to shapeshift himself and the people he touched. He would often transform the Emperor or himself into a woman as they loved one another. However, when he lost the Emperor during the Oblivion Crisis, he became distraught and began to travel the world, killing any Daedra he came across. He personally closed 21 Oblivion gates during his travels before he wound up in Skyrim. Despite killing for a living, maximus is a nice guy. All he is really looking for is love in the lonely world of Tamriel.

MAXIMUS FORTUITUS AWSUMIUS, 4E 201

As Lightning Flashed And Lit Up the Area Surrounding Where Maximus Fortitus Awsumius Stood, He Looked Around And Saw That A Pack of Wolves Had Surrounded Him While He Had Been Traveling. Maximus Smirked Confidently. “You Puppies Are No Match For One Such As Me!” He Exclaimed, Dropping His Sword And Whip to the Ground And Cracking His Fists. “So Bring It On!”

The First Wolf, The Leader of the Pack Lept Forward. Maximus Easily Sidestepped The Beast And Stomped Down On Its Neck, Killing It Easily. Two More Wolves Jumped At Maximus, But Maximus Caught the First One and Threw It Into The Second. Both Wolves Died On Impact Because Of How Hard Maximus Had Thrown The First.

The Rest of the wolves scattered after three had died, running scared from the glorious figure of Maximus Fortutus Awsumius, standing bared before the world drenched in rain. “That’s right, you puppies!” He yelled after them, picking up his dropped weapons. “You are No Match for Maximus!” When Maximus looked down at the dead wolves next to him he was suddenly overtaken with sorrow and a single tear welled up in his eye. It was such a senseless waste of life, and yet neccessary at the same time. He resolved to put his melancholy mood out of his mind, and smiled and continued on to Riverwood. He walked into the town with his head held high and made a beeline for the tavern, ignoring the lustful looks he was getting from the people he passed by.

As he entered the tavern, the light of the hearth glowing on him and accentuating his gloriously masculine and completely naked physique, he looked around for an interesting character to sit by. He saw a Chimer - any normal being would be confused as to the sudden appearance of a dead race, but Maximus had seen far stranger sights - and chose to approach him. He took a seat in the empty seat next to the Chimer and, after adjusting his large manhood to better sit comfortably, he leaned back in the chair. “Maximus wishes to know how you are doing, stranger.”

» Wed Jul 24, 2013 4:49 pm

Spoiler

Name: Redoran Arwen "Stormborn" Septim

Race: Dunmer/Bosmer/Imperial

six: Female

Starsign: The Lover

Age: 201 (Looks 18-19)

Class: Nightblade Assasin

Appearance: Arwen has the appearance of a beautiful young mer that is 18 or 19 years old despite her years. She has long crimson hair that she wears in a pony tail when she is on a mission but she lets run down her shoulders when she is at home. Her left her is amethyst and her right eye is red, she has cheek cheekbones and big, pouting lips, with the tiniest hit of two white vampyre fangs. She has a taut, well excersied body with curves in every single one of the right places. She is known to be extremely nimble and can disapear itno the night like a cat, when she walks she swings her sensual hips. Everything about her screams: DANGEROUS.

Skills:Arwen is a Master in Lockpicking, Sneak, Bow and One-Handed. She is also known to a master of Thu'um having studied with the Grey Beards on High Hrothgar and knows 20 complete Dragon Shouts.

Armour:Arwen wears as specialled made Nightingngale Uniform called The Twilight Raiment that allows her to disapear completley into shadows and gives her protection against any magic. It is made out of black leather and is extremely form-fitting and comfortable. It has a crimson cowl she wears when on a mission.

Weapons: The daedric artifact Mehrune's Razor and a special enchanted daedric bow and arrow that is called Deathly Sundering that kills it's victim with ice magic and steals their souls to capture in soulgems.

History: Nobody knows the history of Redoran Arwen Septim, it is shrouded in Mystery. What is known by some is that she know is the head of the Thieves Guild in Skyrim and also the Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood. Some people whisper that despite her beautiful looks she is in fact 200 years old and the daughter of Martin Septim and The Champion of Cyrodiil. These are just whispers however....

Redoran Arwen "Stormborn" Septim

Arwen slipped her luxurious body through the tiny window and fell noiselessly into the building. "Everything is going according to plan" she said to herself smugly and smiled, on all fours like a cat by the opened window, and skulked through the stone corridor silently towards her prey. Outside there was a giant snowstorm blasting against the stonework and it made the whole palace shake. She heard the clattering, clunking walk of two guards and gasps noiselessly "Crap! I thought I poisoned their ale!" she thought in panic: they were about to turn around the corner and find her there. The two Nordic Guards turned around the corner, joking and laughing about how their friend had passed out drinking all of the ale but when they turned around the corridor it was completely empty. They kept walking through making their patrol, and slapped eachother's backs, sharing another joke. Arwen held her breath: she was hiding above them, arms and legs oustretched, against the ceiling of the stone corridor. Once they passed away she dropped down noiselessly onto the floor and breathed out on relief. "That was way too close." thought Awren.

She moved through the rest of the giant stone building silently, making extra sure to check before turning every corner now that there were no guards coming: there was so much light from the lanterns in this place that she could not use The Twilight Raiment to hide in any shadows: there were no shadows. She finally came upon a big oak door and noiselessly removed The Skeleton Key from a pouch and opened the lock, carefully pushing the door open silently. She sneaked inside, closing it carefully behind her and approached the big velvet double bed where her prey was sleeping.

Arwen creeped up on top of the bed and straddled her mark who was laying there asleep on the bed. She carefully removed Mehrune's Razor from its sheath and put her finger on the Nord's mouth, removing her cowl so he could see the face of his killer before he died.

"Redoran Arwen Septim!" gasped Ulfric Stormcloak. Arwen smiled and winked

"The Emperor Sends His Reguards" she whispered sultrily and slit his throat, leaning down to lick it up off the pillow and svck what spilled out so none of the precious, glorious fluid was wasted.

TWO WEEKS LATER

The Bosmer/Dunmer/Imperial Assassin smiled in the darkness in the corner of the room. She watched the crazy old Chimer with some pleasure "What an old fool" she thought "Though powerful. I should be careful of this one" just as she was thinking this a tall, beautiful Imperial swaggered into the tavern. Arwen could not keep her eyes off of him: she found that her heart was pumping beneath her not inconsiderable briast. "What do we have here?" thought Arwen, and stepped out of the darkness (she had been hiding there all night, no-one not even Valdryn had noticed her due to her espionage skills).

"Well hello there boys" she purred softly and with a sultry smile. "It looks like things just got interesting in this boring little town" she leant against a wood column and watched the two like a cat, silently.

» Thu Jul 25, 2013 3:26 am

[my b]

» Wed Jul 24, 2013 11:28 pm

Spoiler

Name:Varyn Uvirith
Age: Born 2E 386 (1148 as of 4E 204)
Race: Dunmer
Gender: Male
Height:5’7”
Birthsign: The Mage

Appearance: Varyn is getting quite old, and it shows rather badly. Even though he stands at 5’7”, he hunches over making himself seem quite a few inches shorter. His face is somewhat gaunt, making his already pronounced cheekbones even more noticeable, and is covered in a long, rough grey beard. Upon his head, surprisingly, is a wild mess of grey-white hair, showing a rather bad receding hairline. Varyn’s brow is also somewhat pronounced and home to thick flared white eyebrows. Wrinkles are etched across his face like trenches, and his crimson eyes give a sense of sharp aloofness, if there was ever such a sense – Varyn himself seems as a walking contradiction.

Class: Mage

Skills:Once upon a time, Varyn was an extremely powerful Telvanni Mage-Lord. However, that was a very, very long time ago. Old age has stripped Varyn of most of his power. While he still maintains the potential to wield the same power he had when he was younger, it is now much harder for him to do so. Most of the time, any attempt from the old mage-lord to cast a spell ends with disastrous or nonexistent results.

When Varyn was in his prime he was a master in the arts of Destruction, Alteration, and Mysticism. His power was quite awe inspiring, and to this day, if anyone can remember that far back, he is considered one of the greatest Telvanni to have ever walked Mundus, joining the same league as Divyath Fyr and Mistress Therana. Even though he has aged and his power has waned, Varyn still retains the knowledge he acquired while achieving such power. He may not be able to blow things to pieces anymore, well not often that is, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how. Well, sometimes he doesn’t know how to. Depends on if he’s had his tea or not.

Clothing / armor: Varyn wears an ensemble of robes and sashes in the Telvanni fashion. Most follow an earthen palette, but a few are quite a bit flashier.

Weapons: Varyn has no need for weapons. However, he does carry a a remarkable collection of Dunmeri weaponry made of razor sharp glass. Though, where it is he could not tell you, and if he were to find it, he would most likely not know how to use it.

Miscellaneous items: Varyn is in possession of a large collection of scrolls and tomes with focus on the arcane arts and other less common things. He almost has enough to populate the shelves of a rather sizeable library. Other than his books and magical apparatuses, Varyn has brought quite a few things with him to Valton. Mostly small insignificant items like his pipe, ink and quills, random chunks of dilapidated and seemingly inoperable Dwemer machinery, a set of alchemists tools (even though he knows almost nothing about alchemy), a few magical trinkets that seem to do nothing of importance, a bronze and glass dish engraved with runes that also seems to do nothing at all, and an assortment of other odds and ends packed into suitcases and trunks.

Personality: Varyn is a very opinionated and blunt person. He tends to speak his mind no matter what the consequences and is in no way scared of the outcome. Varyn can also come off as quite mad at times. Having almost 1200 years of memories tends to jumble things up pretty bad. He often mumbles random nonsense to himself or forgets even the most obvious things. Varyn also strongly believes that he’s still capable of the feats he was able to do while in his prime. This causes him to be quite feisty and strong willed. He often attempts to do things he used to do back in the day, and just as often he ends up failing miserably in some way or another.

Major flaw: Varyn is very old, even for a Dunmer. Even though he’s not disabled, he finds it hard to walk for longer than ten minutes without the help of a cane, which he sometimes is reluctant to use as a walking instrument and instead uses it as a club to whack unsuspecting “fetchers” and “imbeciles”. Varyn also is no longer able to use the arcane arts as he used to. However he still has the potential to do some damage, that is if he remembers how to cast the spell without blowing himself or someone else up (something that happens on a regular basis.)

Background: (This is the condensed version of Varyn’s extremely long history. It would be a nightmare to include 1200 years of back-story into a suitable post.)

Varyn was born into House Telvanni, and, like all born in House Telvanni, he strove to achieve greatness. He studied the arcane arts for centuries and eventually worked his way up in the Hous - through the normal means of backstabbing, murder, and trickery no doubt. After establishing himself as a Mage-Lord and Councilor of the Telvanni, through the rather brutal murder of his older brother, Varyn began construction of his tower, Tel Uvirith.

However, late in the 3^rd Era Varyn’s younger brother, ironically, drove him from his tower and off of Vvardenfell. Since then Varyn has been plotting his revenge as he continues to age and wane in power. His obsession with killing his brother is almost comical at times due to his age and his extreme conviction. Little does he know his brother has been dead for centuries along with the rest of the Telvanni. He still believes that the invasion of the Argonians was a myth and could never have happened. He claims “Those muck eating slaves don’t even know how to wipe their own arses!” and that they could never have triumphed over the mighty Dunmer.

Lord Varyn Uvirith, Master of Scribs, Elected Head of the Council of Fortified Constitutional Jellies and other More Potent Substances of Lesser Political and Social Renown and Acknowledgment, King of Uvirthlandalia, Tea Partner of Sheogorath, and Master Wizard of the Wizarding Council of Erikbor -- Sleeping Giant Inn, Riverwood, Skyrim, Tamriel, Nirn, Mundus

The grizzled old wizard picked up his head to acknowledge the newcomer, though, he was quite struck immediately by the sight of the man's man, and then subsequently struck in the leg by its swaying. He turned back to his table, petting Frederick on his air sack gingerly and with much affection. Varyn's eye's brightened for a moment and then turned back to the new arrival.

"Ahhahhhh!!!!! Ahhhaaa!!!!!" He screamed and screamed, pointed at the man's face. "Barendon! How are you friend?! I thought you died so long ago in that terrible alchemy accident! So sorry about that by the way! I thought that if I mixed the blue turmertual with the angnal stone of....where....no..." He turned his gaze back to the ceiling, lost in thought again. "MARDRICK!!!!! MARDRICK WHERE ARE YOU, YOU FOUL SMELLING APE OF A NORD!!!!"

Frederick leaped up upon the table, clicking its metallic mandibles rapidly. Varyn's head snapped down once again, "Freddy! Stop it! I'm trying to find Mardrick! Where is that filthy Argonian....."

((OOC: Just so you guys know, Varyn and Valdryn are different people. Valdryn is the god-mage leading the group. Varyn is just his wizard side kick buddy.))

» Wed Jul 24, 2013 7:08 pm

"Maximus thinks you have Maximus confused with another man," Maximus said, as his manhood hit one of the two people sitting by him. "Maximus is Maximus, not Barendo, you crazy fool." Howevr, before Maximus could continue speaking to the crazy man, a woman with quite large tracks of land appeared.

Maximus lept up from his seat in his surprise, causing his manhood to swing wildly between his legs. "Mara's Saggy briasts, woman!" He exclaimed, settling down his manhood with one hand. "You scared Maximus! Maximus must ask you not to do that to Maximus again."

» Wed Jul 24, 2013 3:46 pm

Redoran Arwen "Stormborn" Septim

"Mara's Saggy briasts, woman!" said the beautiful, naked man,"You scared Maximus! Maximus must ask you not to do that to Maximus again.". Arwen giggled to herself softly and sat her curvy, but compact derrière down on the table and smiled at him with an alluring gaze.

"I wasn't expected you, Mr Maximus, but you don't see me complaining" she quipped wittily and raised her perfectly maintained eyebrows, glancing down at his "manhood" and smirking. Her alluring scent of expensive Telvanni Bug Musk filled the room, but there was something more dangerous, more devious to her. She twirled her finger through a lock of crimson hair and looked about the room with her glowing, purple and red eyes. "What do we have here. A fine collection of eccentrics" she added cleverly with an assured, sly smile on her plump lips.

» Wed Jul 24, 2013 11:04 pm

Spoiler

Name: Rendagulf the Unyielding

Age: Older than dirt, older than Skyrim itself, he is at least as old as the unyielding ice that held Atmora's shores in its grip when Ysmir and his Five Hundred set sail.

Gender: Male

Race: Atmoran

Birthsign: The Warrior

Appearance: Over seven foot in height, Rendagulf is a fine specimen of the Atmorans of old indeed. His muscular arms laden with the scars of a thousand battles, his wide chest - with hair left unshaven since first he stepped foot on Tamriel. Lengthy blonde hair flaps dramatically in the breeze with every swing of his immense fist, and any foe that would try to escape them by grabbing hold of his lush, equally blonde beard will only know the fear of being pierced by his sky-blue eyes in their last moments before being pulverized by the ancient warrior's immense strength. Fierce, grizzled features bearing the scratches of a werebear's claws - which only serve to lend his face a rugged sort of charm - may contort with ageless fury one moment, but have been known to appear soothing and almost fatherlike when faced with any man, woman or child who would need his aid; for that is what he is - a guardian; a protector; a forgotten hero.

Class: Companion of Old

Skills: Unmatched by any mortal men in his unrivaled strength, Rendagulf is a master of arms and combat, an unstoppable force of destruction when unleashed upon any battlefield. Such are his skills that even the old King Ysmir was said to have felt honoured to fight beside him, dubbing him "the Shieldwall of Atmora" for his unyielding fortitude in the face of any danger. Sword, shield, hammer, axe or spear, Rendagulf has mastered them all, and augments his prowess in close combat with a frightful grasp of Thu'um, so potent as to force even Jurgen Windcaller himself to seek him out, lest he had suffered an ignoble defeat should Rendagulf have been the eighteenth Tongue to step up and challenge his new philosophy.

Apparel: Forged of unmelting Atmoran ice and an alloy of Nordic and Orcish steel, Rendagulf's armour is an artefact in and of itself. A mighty plate briastplate struggles to contain his even mightier chest, and thick steel gauntlets turn his already formidable fists into veritable hammers. The ground shakes under the footsteps of his vast boots, trailed always by a thick fur coat that brushes after him wherever he walks, draqed over his broad shoulders. As he walks, the mighty Atmoran is accompanied by a sound akin to the gentle crackling of ice.

Weapons: The Ysmirskaldsdring, a great round shield carved with the saga of the Five Hundred Companions of Ysmir, and a mighty Nordic steel sword that might only be considered a greatsword by regular standards - but which Rendagulf wields in one hand.

Background: Too long is the story of Rendagulf's life to recant here, and too many the legends in which he has played a part in. Come to Tamriel as one of the original Five Hundred Companions of Ysmir, nobody is truly certain how has this Atmoran come to live for so long, nor how many names he has taken the eras past in his fight for Skyrim's greatness. A companion to Ysmir and Wulfharth, the bane of dragons, a friend of Jurgen Windcaller, one of the greatest warchiefs of the First Empire and champion to many of Skyrim's holds over the years, Rendagulf is all these things - and more.

Of late, however, the ancient hero has been absent from his land's affairs, slumbering somewhere below Skyrim's ageless mountains... up till now.

Rendagulf the Unyielding

Shieldwall of Atmora

Deep within the halls of Bleak Falls Barrow, there stood a throne.

And upon this throne, there sat a man.

Nay, not a man; a legend. An ageless creature of flesh, blood and bone, like us - yet at the same time, so much more. A child of Atmora, a hero of the North, a bastion of Nordic virtue, all those things and others greater still - this was Rendagulf, the Unyielding, Man-Bull, the Shieldwall of Atmora and the sword of King Wulfharth. He who ate death, he whose breath shook mountains and shattered walls.

And he slumbered.

But not for long.

Draugr beyond counting rose from their graves as the tall arches of the Barrow shook with a mighty groan, and the throne itself - carved into the very foundations of the mountain though it were - cracked and shattered, the armrests' mighty stone yielding under the grip of fingers mightier still. And as the undead host assembled in the cold, dark caverns underneath and at the foot of this great seat of power, their chosen lord awakened at long last; called forth by a faint mutter, a desperate wail as ran through the bones of Nirn itself.

"Where... am I!" His voice would have cleft stone, had this not been the work of the Nords of old, fashioned to withstand even the mightiest of Tongues. Eyes of brilliant blue glanced over the damp ruins below, and saw those deathless many who had assembled to greet their king.

"Deathlord!" Shook the mountain with their croaks.

Rendagulf rubbed his hawkish eyes. "I am no Deathlord?!" Confusion, confusion and darkness clouded his colossal mind, already burdened with a kingdom's fears - the sorry fate any hero.

"Deathlord!" Rang the halls again.

Now, Rendagulf was growing irritable.

"I!"

The Barrow grew quiet, save for the thunderous sound of his Kyne-blessed voice, a gift that had impressed even the Tongues thirteen and one - the last being Jurgen Windcaller himself. And even the stones built to withstand such assaults could not help but give, no less than half of the ancient tomb-fortress creaking precariously before its inevitable surrender before the unyielding might of the Unyielding.

"AM NO DEATHLORD!"

A moan and a boom - and Bleak Falls Barrow was no more, reduced to naught but a pile of rubble as much of its roof caved in on the mountain, ancient halls crumbling under the weight and the Draugr army assembled freed of their eternal bonds - still chanting the hero's name in their last moments (and, really, who could blame them).

All that remained was Rendagulf, perched still upon his throne as rain and thunder fell all round him.

Below, the lights of a settlement beckoned. Riverwood?! His mind whispered gently with the volume of a perturbed giant, and the hero's mane of blonde fluttered as he nodded. "Riverwood!" With that bellow, he rose from his seat.

The inn called to him.