Name: Cooks-The-Fish
Race: Argonian/Were-Crocodile
six: Male
Age: 38
Position: Cook

Appearance: Cooks The Fish is your typical green scaled Argonian. Standing at nearly six feet tall, and boasting an impressive physique, he surely isn’t the most unfit crewmember aboard the Saint Alessia, despite being the cook. A small ridge of horns runs down the center of his skull and upper neck, and thick studs of bone line his brow. His face, which can be twisted into a fearsome snarl just as easily as it can be molded into a compassionate smile, often holds a look of wonderment and content living as he goes about his duties.

However, when Cooks The Fish surrenders his will to the blood that flows through his veins, an ancient and hungry power, he can tend to look a bit different. As a Were-Crocodile, Cooks stands at nearly seven feet tall, with a huge head reminiscent of a Deadroth’s, and a muscular form that is lithe as it is strong.

Skills: Cooks The Fish, as his name suggests, likes to cook. While he may be the Cook aboard a sea faring vessel, this does not mean that he is an amateur when it comes to preparing food. Indeed, Cooks-The-Fish has been practicing his culinary skills since he was but a hatching, cooking for first his village, then for his Dunmer masters, and now for Count Spiro.

The Argonian isn’t limited to just cooking fish, however. Cooks-The-Fish, while not the greatest or most talented warrior in all of Tamriel, knows how to fight with spear and claw, and has done so effectively on many occasions.

Possessions: Cooks carries little with him, save a small satchel on his waist that is filled with various herbs, spices, and of course, salt. In his cabin, the Argonian has a short spear, about four to five feet in length, and tipped with sharpened steel. He also owns a chestpiece of boiled leather, though it rarely makes its way onto the Argonian’s body.

Personality: Cooks-The-Fish can be described as a bit eccentric and kooky, though he is not blessed by the Mad God in any way. Often speaking cryptically and in riddles, Cooks is quick to provide a shoulder to lean on and nearly unparalleled wisdom to his crewmates. The Argonian will go out of his way, and even into harm’s way, to help others, even those that he brands as “bad men” such as slavers, bandits, or your common cartoon villains. He isn’t the best socialite, but he always tries his best to assist others in whatever way he can.

History: Cooks-The-Fish was born in the northern reaches of Black Marsh, in a small, nameless village where the lizard folk had to ban together as a community in order to survive. Cooks was in charge of preparing the meals caught by the fishermen of the village, as he was too young to hunt and fish on his own. The young lizard took a liking to the culinary arts, and quickly became the go-to guy for fileting or cooking anything.

Before Cooks could reach proper advlthood, his village was attacked and plundered by Dres slavers, and he was taken captive. His family was split up, his mother being sold to some posh Hlaalu Plantation, and Cooks into the service of a Dres Warlord.

It was there that Cooks received the name that he uses and knows. He claims that his work in the Dres Warlord’s kitchen’s changed him, molded him into who is today, and refuses to reveal or use his real name. Laboring for long hours every day, Cooks honed his skill with working with finer, more exotic foods. If a meal was not to the Dres’s liking, Cooks was beaten, sometimes severely. Eventually, he learned to make almost perfect dishes.

One night, however, after a beating that resulted from the mistake of not cooking Nix Hound Meat thoroughly enough, Cooks-The-Fish snuck out of the plantation, bruised and battered. But he had no intention on running away. He sought power, revenge. He was tired of being beaten, tired of his people being oppressed, and he had decided to make an example of them.

After following a string of rumors that his fellow slaves had dredged up from passing traders and Dres hunting parties, Cooks-The-Fish located a small coven of witches who were hiding out in the hills nearby. After bartering with them, the witches agreed to grant Cooks-The-Fish power enough to slaughter the entire plantation and get the revenge he sought.

Cooks-The-Fish quickly agreed, and the witches had him drink a small vial of what looked like blood.

Well, as it turns out, drinking the blood of a Were-Crocodile does indeed grant the ingester power, and that blood has stayed with him ever since, flowing through his veins as though it was his own. Cooks returned to the plantations, morphing into a Were-Crocodile, and entering into a blind rage.

When the sun returned, the young Argonian had waked, naked and covered in blood. His hunt had been successful, he saw, as the Dres Warlord and his minions had been shredded into bloody ribbons. As he searched for his fellow slaves, his mind ablaze with ambitions of freedom and revolt, he found them in the same condition as their Dunmer masters: slaughtered.

Horribly distressed and wrought with heartache, Cooks-The-Fish tried to return to the witches and ask for the curse to removed, but he could never locate them. He traveled for many weeks, surviving on what scraps of food he could find before running into a certain dashing captain who was in desperate need for a cook onboard his ship…

Recent Occupation: Cook onboard the Saint Alessia.

Race: Nibenese

six: Male

Age: 32

Race: Breton
six: Male
Age: 34
Position: Healer
Appearance: Varnand appears a drunk in every way. His shaggy, dark brown hair that is coated in a thick layer of dirt, grime and everything in between hangs down over his forehead. It contrasts greatly with his pale skin, that suggests he is just one more ale away from spilling his guts into the street. Within the white landscape of his face sit two dull blue eyes, which seem almost lifeless. They shone with the hopefulness of youth once, but these once shining jewels have been reduced to a husk of their former selves. Descending down the face, a crooked nose rests between the eyes. The once proud and majestic nose has been so twisted and bent from a hundred fights gone wrong that it now bears resemblance to a parsnip. Beneath the mangled nose a pair of thin pale lips sit, twisted into an almost permanent grin. When the lips part to let loose a foul belch or a smile rotten and decaying yellow teeth can be seen, along with several dark voids where teeth once nestled. At the base of the face one finds themselves staring at a simple round chin, that has a small scar atop it. This is not the only wound on Varnand's face however. There are always several bruises and scraqes dotted around his face, marring the white landscape of his skin. All this features are stretched tightly across a gaunt and thin face, which highlights his bone structure easily.

Varnand adorns himself with a set of worn and beaten trousers that are covered with all manner of stains from blood to vomit and even faeces and urine. If it stinks and rots it can be found on Varnand. He wears no other clothes as he lost them in a bet, and his chest is exposed to the harsh elements of the world. His torso is also marked with bruises and scraqes that never seem to heal. While not an overweight man, Varnand is not very physically fit and prefers not to over-exert himself. His limbs are thin and spindly, and posses little to no muscle. At the end of these spindly limbs are two skeleton-like hands that clearly show signs of having being broken in several places in the past. They to are bloodied and scraqed.

Skills: Varnand can drink until the sun comes up, or he runs out of money, whichever comes first. He proudly displays his skill with alcohol whenever he can, usually at the expense of others as he has little of his own money to waste. He places this down to bad luck, but really it is down to his gambling addiction. Apart from being a drunkard, Varnand is an outstanding healer. He can use both magic and physical action to heal wounds, but rarely does so. Often he is so drunk he would do more bad than good if he tried to help, and when he is sober he will only really heal if he can gain something from it. Varnand can also lie well enough to save his own skin if it comes to it.

Possessions: His trousers and a small pouch tied around them that contains five septims.

Personality: Varnand is loud cheerful and carefree, owing to his almost constant state of drunkenness. He waves away all his problems with another swig from the bottle, and tries to play off any threats with a joke or two. Once there is a real presence of danger he will often recklessly face it head on, which has created more problems than it solves. On the rare occasions when he isn't drunk, he is often irritable and impatient, and constantly demands more drink.

Strengths:
Can drink more than any man.
Can heal to an outstanding level when sober or when he feels he can gain from it.
Can lie well.

Major flaw(s):
If there is a flaw, it is almost certain that it can be found within Varnand. Greedy, lazy, deceitful, arrogant and he suffers from addiction problems. The only reason he still has breath in his body is due to his excellent skills with healing.

History: Varnand was born to help others. At least that's what he was always told by the priests that raised him. Having being abandoned by an infant by parents that were too drunk to care for him, he was taken in by a group of priests in the Imperial City. They were the only family he he ever knew, and really the only people to ever show him kindness. They adopted him as one of their own and began to teach him their ways.

Varnand was taught about the gods and their mysterious ways. He was raised surrounded by peace and harmony, with little trouble in his life. The priests taught him how to heal and care for others, hoping that it would inspire him to lead a better life than his parents. Varnand soon showed a talent with the skill of Restoration, and the priests could barely disguise their surprise for his skill. However, Varnand cared little for the priests despite the kindness they showed towards him, and he began to resent them. He felt as though he was trapped in their little world inside the chapel, forced to practice their holy and devout ways. He didn't care that he could heal. All he wanted to do was escape. His desire was to become a reality sooner than he expected. At the age of fifteen he was more restless than ever and had begun to show outward signs of aggression to the priests. He longed to leave, yet somehow he couldn't. He felt connected to the priests, and as much as he wanted to leave, he knew it meant giving up the only friends he had. It came as a surprise to him then that he left their care in a matter of minutes.

The priests sent Varnand into the market once a month to fetch food and other essential supplies. It was on one such trip that Varnand found himself wandering down a back alley, looking for a shortcut to the next stall. As he trod through the murky black of the darkness, a figure loomed out in front of him. Varnand could just make out that the man was a Nord; and a burly one at that. Varnand stepped back afraid, but the man offered him a grin and some intriguing words. "Come and have a drink boy! I don't mean no harm!" Varnand almost screamed with excitement. This was what he had been waiting for. A chance to experience the outside world. The man led him through a small wooden door and into a tavern filled with the smell of ale and blood. A mug brimming with ale was placed in front of him, and he gulped it down eagerly. That was the last time Varnand was truly young. From that moment on he was pulled deeper and deeper into the dregs of society, finding himself struggling to stay afloat. Indeed it was the thing that he sought to get away from the most that kept him alive; his ability to heal. Varnand has lived in a vicious cycle of violence and addiction for most of his life with little to break the bleakness. In fact only one other notable event has occurred since he began his descent into ill repute.

Varnand was thirty-two years old, and was in considerable debt. He had gambled away all his money and more, leaving him owing a great deal to a great many. For weeks he had avoided his debt with empty promises and honeyed words. But he could avoid it no longer. His debt would be payed, with gold or with blood.

Varnand charged wildly through the streets, sending people sprawling to the ground for safety. Behind him two armoured thugs stampeded, leaving more chaos in their wake than Varnand ever could. They had been sent to collect the debt from Varnand, and knowing his fate he had fled. However, he couldn't run forever. He needed to get away from the city for a while, let everyone calm down and forget about him. The quickest way to do that was to escape to sea. As Varnand careened through a fruit stall, the docks at last came into sight. His eyes darted about furiously, searching for refuge aboard one of the vessels docked by the front. As a loud growl erupted from behind him, he fought back vomit and leapt onto the first ship in sight. He watched as the men drew nearer, brandishing swords to cleave him in two. Just as he thought the men would clamber aboard the ship set sail and the thugs were left cursing at the dockside.

Varnand smiled and promptly vomited onto the deck, before collapsing in the sticky pool of half-digested food. He closed his eyes and chuckled, barely believing his luck when a loud cough interrupted his thoughts. He opened his eyes to see an angry Imperial, Nibenese by the look of him, demanding to know who he was and what he was doing. Varnand hastily explained he was on the run, and that he could offer his services as a healer for passage aboard the ship. Reluctantly the man, who it turned out was named Spiros, allowed him to stay. For the next few weeks Varnand healed all the injured aboard the ship, and slowly grew accustomed to standing aboard the swaying deck beneath him. When the ship next landed in the Waterfront, Varnand departed and melted back in with the sum of the city.

It was the last he ever thought he would see of Spiros. Until now.

Recent Occupation: Lying unconscious in a back alley covered in his own filth, hiding from those he owes money to. He knows that soon enough the thugs hired to extract his debt from him will arrive, and then he must flee again.

Race: Dunmer, by way of the Niben
six: Male
Age: 26
Position: Battlemage

Appearance: About 5’5, slim for a Dunmer, has an unremarkable face with a hawkish nose and a sharp jawline. He has a bright red tattoo of the Imperial Dragon symbol, covering his back.
His robes are an intricately woven mass of mothsilk strands, coalescing together in a dozen different shades of red, from pale vermillion to deeper, darker shades of crimson. The robes are badly tattered, with new rips and tears forming faster than he can mend them. He usually wears sandals, though he has a pair of boots for when the rainforest get's especially thick.

Skills: He is skilled in Destruction, Illusion and Restoration magic. His knowledge of the other colleges is passing at best, limited to one or two parlor tricks or paltry incantations.
Destruction, his first love, was taught to him in the middle of the Oblivion Crisis; as such, he had no time to learn its nuances or subtleties, forcing him to adopt a fast, brutal style. He specializes in fire magic, something which rarely goes well.
Illusion, on the other hand, he had the time to study and understand. To him, Illusion was almost like an answer to the savagery of Destruction; it relied on cunning and grace, rather than sheer willpower, as Destruction did. He has mastered the art of crafting intricate, careful illusions, warping others' perceptions of reality.
Restoration came to Vivul last, and as such, he has yet to gain a firm grasp of it. Despite his inexperience, Vivul has become attached to Restoration. For him, it has an almost theraqeutic feeling; he’s come to believe that as he cures the physical wounds of another, his cures himself of whatever spiritual woes ail him.

Possessions: A walking stick, with various runes and phrases scrawled on it (none of which have any magical power; they were just put there to kill the time). A bindle, enchanted to carry hundreds of pounds worth of objects. The bindle contains his journal, a piece of charcoal for writing, a pipe, a silver case full of ground Spriggan taproot (which, when smoked, increases magical ability, thought it is somewhat addictive, as Vivul will attest), and a small collection of books, mostly ‘borrowed’ from the Arcane University. He also has a mandolin somewhere in the depths of his bindle, which is abominably bad at playing.

Personality: Vivul is cheerful and, for the most part, good-natured. He tends to treat new situations with a mix of bemusemant and curiosity, and can’t help himself from studying anything he finds remotely interesting.
His ideals lie with law and order, but his actions rarely reflect this; he’s gotten into trouble more times than he can count; sometimes of his own volition, sometimes not. He tries to justify this by saying that he always has the greater good at heart, even if this greater good is his next meal.
He speaks in a bizarre mixture of Nibenese dialects, Dunmeri terminology and more refined, intellectual language, which he picked up while enrolled at the Arcane University.

Strengths: A vast, if slightly patchy, knowledge of arcane lore and history.
Major flaw(s): His curiosity has an outstanding habit of getting him into trouble; he’s the type of person who, upon finding a portal to Coldharbor, would stick his head in just to see what it was like, at which point he’d decide to stay for a little while, just to take a few notes. Also very, very bad at playing the mandolin.

History: Vivul’s early life was uneventful; his parents were some kind of fugitives from Morrowind; his father a Redoran, his mother an Ashlander. He never learned exactly how they came together, or what their lives were like before his birth. He was raised in a small shack by the riverside, as Nibenese as the young Imperial children he grew up alongside. His father was a quiet, firm man, content to read his old Temple sermons in peace, rarely stepping into his son’s life. The only memory of his father that stands out is from when he was roughly seven; he’d gotten into a fight with one of his closest friends, a Nordic child (the son of a legionnaire) a few years his senior, and lost badly. His mother was tending to his wounds, when his father walked up and kneeled down next to him.
“Remember, my child. This is what the Empire is. A black eye and a broken heart for all who defy its will.” Was all his father said to him before returning to his studies.
His mother was a strong, stoic woman, hardened by her youth in the Ashlands. Every afternoon, she told young Vivul stories from her tribe, trying to instill a sense of spirituality in him. Vuvil never quite understand how she and his father managed to get along; him with his dusty, weather-worn Temple books, and her with ancient, ill-remembered tales passed from wise-woman to wise-woman for generations. Still, the two were a happy couple, and they raised Vuvil well.
Despite all of this, there was one thing that all of his mother’s teachings, and all of his father’s bitter lessons, could not keep him from: The Empire.
Obviously, his obsession with the Empire could not be traced back to a single point; perhaps Vivul would claim it was seeing White-Gold for the first time, or watching as Legion regiments marched past his home as a child; but ultimately, his love for the Empire is the result of innumerable small moments from throughout his life, all leading him down the same path.
To understand this devotion he has for the Empire of man, though, one has to understand that it is not born out of red-blooded patriotism, or political dogma, and it certainly isn't out of respect for the law, considering his willingness to work on the St. Alessia. For Vivul, the Empire is a symbol; of unity, of strength, and of Cyrodiil itself, the heart of Tamriel.
Vivul’s life reached its darkest hour at the onset of the Oblivion Crisis, eight years ago. The Arcane University had sent a squad of battlemages to close a gate not far from Vivul’s house, and the battlemages immediately began to recruit local conscripts. Most of the conscripts were sent into the gate with improvised weapons and no armor, never to return. In Vivul’s case, however, fate intervened; one of the battlemages became convinced that the young elf had some untapped arcane potential, and attempted to instruct him in basic Destruction. Though barely able to cast a single spell, the boy joined the battlemages in the defense against the Daedric incursion. The conflict turned the rainforest of Nibenay into an inferno of magical energy, and Vivul was forced to learn his craft quickly, or be butchered by the Daedra, like so many others.
By the end, his parents were dead, his home was a burnt out husk, and Mehrunes Dagon was gone, never to return to Nirn. The surviving battlemages took Vivul back with them, enrolling him in the Arcane University. He stayed for a year, studying Illusion and history.
At first, the University was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen; he spent hours in the farthest reaches of the library, learning everything he could about magic and the inner workings of the Aurbis.
However, he soon found himself restless; the city wasn’t for him, and there were plenty of ways he could study magic outside of the University. One night, packing only the essentials, Vivul said his goodbyes to his friends and teachers, and never returned to the University. His years have mostly been spent walking up and down the Niben, apprenticing under older wizards and finding work wherever he can. However, the gradual collapse of the Empire has left its mark on Vivul, and he’s chosen to leave Cyrodiil, unable to bear watching his homeland fall apart. He has gotten work as a battlemage aboard the St. Alessia, setting sail to explore the Summerset Isles (not his first choice).

Recent Occupation: Magical Hobo, wandering Cyrodiil (except Colovia because screw Colovia).

Race: Dunmer
six: Male
Age: Who knows? He looks like he's in his mid-30s.

Position: Starboard Battlemage/Archer
Appearance: He is heavily cloaked in red-and-black, especially around the face, but if you look closely you notice that his skin is a dark grey. He is unusually tall for a Dunmer, standing at seven foot four.

Skills: Good accuracy, he knows some Destruction magic, but where he really shines is with his crossbow; you'd be lucky to be hit in the shoulder, for that would not be where he was aiming. Seems to communicate well with Daedra for some odd reason, presumably because his skill in conjuration is unparalleled. He is fairly good at climbing the various ropes of the ship.

Possessions: Carries a crossbow; looks Daedric in origin. Also has an embroidered dagger hidden deep with the fold of his cloak. Along with the clothes on his back, he also has a Welkynd Stone, whom he seems to believe to be sentient. He carries no gold.

Personality: To put it mildly, he is very strange. Often he talks to various inaminate objects near him, thinking that they are talking back, and that they have feelings and ambitions (which has happened almost all his life). He also is reclusive, staying away and ignoring most of the crew at the best of times. He only listens to the captain, whom he has some kind of respect for, though the reason is unknown.

Strengths: He notices what other fail to see. He is also an excellent shot and can commune with Daedra better than most, and his skills in magic are fairly good as well.

Major flaws: If you could call it a flaw, his habit of conversing with inaminate objects is his second-greatest. He mostly cannot trust much of anyone, except for the captain, and he reacts in a hostile manner to most of the crew, especially that pompous navigator. He seems to be illiterate, reading and speaking very little Tamrielic, though he seems to be able to read Daedric runes more fluently than anyone else on board.

History: Nobody really knows where he comes frok. Some speculate that he was raised by a lot of necromancers and summoners. Some even say that he lived inside Red Mountain, and that's why he is so tolerable to exceptional heat. He actually came to Cyrodiil after the adventures of the Saint Alessia ended. How he became a member of the crew, few people know for certain, though it's speculated that he was the last pirate remaining on a ship that dared rival the power of Spiros's ship.

Ever since, Xarith has lived in the ruins of Mascarend, an Ayleid city long abandoned and far from society, which he depises. There he made a close kinship to a Welkynd Stone which he refers to as Zak. Then he got a message from one of the more respected members of the old crew, saying that they plan to sail for Summerset Isle, and that his services are required. Bound by his obligation to serve Spiros after he spared his life, Xarith treks to the Imperial City, wearing thick robes to mask his identity...

Recent Occupation: Living as a hermit, scavenging for various rats to feast upon, though he must go above ground to actually sustain himself and keep his dark skin.

Name: Cotan

Race: Altmer

six: Male

Age: 50

Position: Stowaway

Appearance: Kaladalf is relatively young for a High Elf and his smooth, young-looking face reflects that. He has high cheekbones, as is typical of Altmer, and golden skin that seems to define those that call the Summerset Isles home. Kaladalf stands roughly around 6'1 and 6'2 and is lean but defined body. Spending years on a farm has shaped his muscles but the ultimate reliance on magick did not train him to the point of having a top-shape phyiscal body. His face is rather gaunt as if his skin was pulled tightly about his cheekbones. He has a rather broad nose that tips upward in a fashion with narrow, short lips. He has dark-blonde hair that he keeps up in a ponytail when he can. He is clean shaven nearly all of the time.

Skills: Kaladalf is particularly gifted with magic ability, particularly alteration and conjuration (being on the cusp of the level of an 'Expert'), and more attuned to destruction, illusion, and restoration ('Adept' level), and finally is only barely learning the properties of alchemy and mysticism ('Novice' level). Kaladalf is also gifted with the ability to weild a glaive, sword, bow, and spear.

Possessions: The Altmer has a set of loose cotton clothes that have these inexplicable red stains on them but wears a brown cloak over his clothes to hide the stains. He has a sword, bow, 5 arrows, and a glaive all of Elven make. They were passed down when his father died.

Personality: Kaladalf used to be a very happy, very good person. But he's afraid of himself. His caring personality still exists somewhere deep within but his fear of himself has caused him to become a recluse. His fear of hurting other people has become almost irrational in nature. However, deep within, Kaladalf is a good person. He believes in the spirit of charity and thankfulness as well as having a unique perspective of cultural relativism and passivism. A friendly guy, Kaladalf is actually easy to talk to, quite curious of the world, and has lofty dreams to one day become a healer.

However, there is more to Kaladalf than meets the eye. Kaladalf is bipolar. However, he does have a good handle on it. He rarely has episodes of depression any more (and when he does they are few and far between) but has always suffered from psychotic episodes. These generally happen suddenly and violently and cause terrible hallucinations. Kaladalf thus splits (his mind ventures within itself) and his body thus becomes a machine of guessing. Whether he will simply sit still and wait for the episode to pass or violently murder his family and neighbors is just simply unknown.

Strengths: A good combat skillset as well as knowledge of agriculture and Altmer lore.

Major flaw(s): Psychotic episodes, perhaps too trusting, knows absolutely nothing about sailing or boats.

History: Kaladalf was, most recently, a farmer in eastern Cyrodiil. He was isolated from the Niben culture, however, because of the way his parents raised him. He was taught the ways of the Summerset as well as its history and religion. His parents were kind and in turn Kaladalf became kind as well. Growing up, magic was a daily part of life. His father was a agromancer, meaning he plowed the fields with magic and his mother, too was an agromancer. Thus magic was instilled within him at a young age and, since then, has expanded his horizons, besting both his mother and his father in nearly all feats of magic.

Living on the farm, however, was a boring life and he soon yearned for far-away lands. His parents thus allowed him to travel to Vvardenfall to visit the Dunmer homeland and learn of its culture. There he learned to fight with the blade and bow and an assortment of other weapons while also studying Dunmer culture. But he soon found that life outside the farm was extremely complex and, at some times, heart-breaking. Thinking it too much, he returned and to his surprise, it was just as his parents had expected.

Kaladalf had grown accustomed to the lack of excitement and preferred to peruse great lands only within the confines of a good book. His bipolar episodes began shortly after his return from Morrowind. At first they were calm but they became more intense in nature, he could no longer hide it from his parents. His parents thus wrote a letter to a relative in the Summerset Isles who was a practiced healer who thus shipped back an enchanted amulet that would, hopefully, stop the episodes. They did for a while, but then they came back harder then ever. Kaladalf attempted to throw the amulet away but became sick whenever he was not wearing it. Thus, the amulet seemed to burn into his very skin and become a part of them. The episodes were fewer but they were more violent.

Recently, in Kaladalf's last episode, he went berserk. In what he thought was a dream, he thought his parents to be agents of Mehrues Dagon (as the Oblvion Crisis had just happened and it was fresh in his mind). He thus believed himself to be in Oblivion and slain his captors and other Dremora nearby before escaping into a dark cave. He woke from his episode with blood on his shirt and all over his blade. He returned to his home (after a couple of questions to the locales as to where he was and where he was headed) to find his parents, and a couple of neighbors, to be murdered. Fleeing in terror and horrific realization, he made his escape just before the Guard had arrived to investigate the sounds of odd happenings in the night.

Thus the name Kaladalf appeared on nearly every wanted poster from Leyawinn to the Imperial City. A brutal murderer and considered extremely dangerous. Attempting to hide, he means to travel south back to his home and see if he can find a cure for the ailment that so troubles him.

Recent Occupation: Farmer

Name: Dres Darys Androthi[/size]
Race: Dunmer of the Great House Dres
six: Male
Age: 92 (Appears in his late 30s)
Position: Quartermaster's Mate

Appearance: Darys is of an average size. He stands about 5’10” and has a slender, but strong, frame. His body is well toned and his muscles are lean. His ash colored skin is rough and riddled with scars in all places - tokens from his years in the business of slaving. His charcoal black hair is of medium length, falling a few inches shy of his shoulders, and is either tied back with a leather cord or a cloth bandana. His ears are pierced with rings of varying sizes and metals. His face is somewhat gaunt, with slightly concave cheeks and pronounced cheek bones. His face is also slightly less scared than his body, ignoring the nasty jagged line that cuts across the right corner of his mouth and down through his chin, which has a small chunk missing where the scar crosses, and is covered in a dark rough stubble that never gets shaved. His eyes, like those of all of his kinsmen, are a deep red. His body is covered in a myriad of cultural and tribal tattoos, a typical practice among those of House Dres. Upon his face is one of a deep teal hue that twists and crosses across his skin in an intricate pattern and continues on across his body. This twisting bluish design mingles with other tattoos of various origins and colors, from parables in Daedric script and portrayals of the Almsivi to ones depicting the symbols of various criminal syndicates and organizations. As a whole none of them make sense, yet when you focus on a particular set you begin to notice the pattern. Every tattoo tells a tale from the story of his life, the snaking tribal design serving to link them together almost like a timeline.

Skills: Darys is a mer of many talents. The Dunmer is well versed in the art of swordsmanship and the use of a spear, yet he lacks skill with heavier, unbalanced weapons. He relies on his uncanny speed and agility in combat, rather than brute strength He also has a way of getting what he wants, be it through intimidation or smooth talking – the tattoos and scars, as well as his reputation in some parts of Morrowind, tend to make the former much easier. Darys is also well acquainted with the tasks of navigation, and survival. Long raids deep into Argonia have tempered him into a very enduring mer, allowing him to go longer without food and water and survive off the land with ease. Darys also holds a strong grasp on the arts of illusion and destruction. While not as adept at the arcane arts as one who has studied them intently, he knows enough to get the job done and is a rather good illusionist. He learned his magic out of necessity rather than an scholarly endeavor.

Possessions:
(Clothing): To cope with the dreaded humidity of the south, Darys is garbed in a style that is light and unrestricting: his tan linen sleeveless-shirt is light and breathable, as are his darker pants. Around his waist is a maroon sash, on top of it a leather belt with various pouches. On his feet are worn netch leather boot. If the occasion arises where Darys requires more protection than simple clothes, which happens quite often, he wears a rough, boiled netch leather cuirass and greaves. The armor is just as scarred as its owner and if it were appraised it would not bring much coin.
(Weaponry): Darys carries a sleek Dunmeri short sword made of tempered black steel (in truth it’s more of a metallic grey than true black) with a wrapped netch leather grip. The smaller size of the weapon makes it easier to use in the dense jungles of southern Morrowind and northern Argonia, where a lengthy blade is likely to get caught in vines or branches. Darys also carries a dagger made in the same Dunmeri style. Depending on the occasion he will also carry with him a hardened chitin spear or a few slender javelins which he wields with stunning accuracy.
(Misc): Darys carries a few worn pieces of parchment depicting charts and other things of importance such maps and ledgers, a pouch full of dried tobacco and rolling papers, a few bags of varying coins, a small hunting knife, and a flask of flin that never seems to go dry (it seems as though he's brought a barrel of it with him to the St. Alessia).

Personality: Darys is a rather cold person. He's was born and raised in Tear and began working in the slave pens at an early age. He's seen mothers torn from their children, set in chains, and sold off to the highest bidder, seen their fathers gutted when they object, seen entire villages slaughtered mercilessly, watched as men, men he knew, were cut down right next to him, and, worst of all, he's done every single one of those things and more. He's an pitiless cutthroat, cold-blooded killer, a smuggler, and anything else that is synonymous with "Dressian Slaver." Darys is calm in person, rarely erupting into full blown rage, but always saying what he wills, which most of the time isn't too pleasant. He's ambitious, persuasive, blunt, and knows how to get things done. That being said, he's also quite laid back when he's not occupied with a task, preferring to lounge around and do absolutely nothing whatsoever.

Strengths: . In the south of Morrowind you learn to come out on top, or you end up down below, under six feet of dirt. Darys is good at surviving, and whatever it takes to do so.

Major flaw(s): Darys isn't too good with people. He'd rather tell them off or not deal with them at all. He also has a way of not making friends that has constantly had him running from one place to another, always just a few feet ahead of someone who wants him rather quite dead.

History: Darys was born into a poor family in the Jewel of the East, the city of Tear. His dysfunctional family consisted of his mother, father, and 3 siblings. They lived a poor life in one of the cities many slums. His father made a living as a caravan guard, so Darys and his 3 siblings were often left at home with only their mother to care for them. His father made some good money guarding the slave caravans in and out of the city, but what he did make he wasted away on women and alcohol. Darys and his mother were often the regular victims of his father’s drunken rages. At the age of 17 he got a job in the slave pens of Tear to help keep the family afloat. During this time he grew accustomed to the horrors of slavery and oppression. One day his father left on another caravan and didn’t return.[/size]

Darys continued on working in the slave pens. After a few years he began to work his way up the ladder. When he was in his early 30’s the slave-master he was serving began to send him along on the raids. He secured himself a spot as a raider after displaying a great aptitude to the task. Over the years he worked up a reputation as one of the best slave-raiders in the business. This opened up other opportunities to Darys. Not only did he continue to run a raiding team, but he also got into the business of smuggling skooma and moonsugar up the coast and through the jungles of southern Morrowind for the Camonna Tong. During the insurrection of Morrowind, Darys worked as an agent for the Camonna Tong. How he got from there to the Imperial City, well, you’ll have to figure that one out on your own. It suffices to say that a certain lady of the Camonna Tong is quite unhappy with our slaver.

Recent Occupation: Agent of the Camonna Tong

Name: Cassinia Vandres

Race: Cyrodiil (Colovian)

six: Female

Age: 24

Position: Secondary Healer

Appearance: Cassinia suffers from a case of Albinism, giving her features that seem befitting of a Mer, rather than those of a proudly bred Colovian. Her skin lacks tan, appearing as a pale white that one would find upon a fresh corpse. The girl’s hair suffers from a similar fate, holding a fairness and bleached coloration that is next to unheard of within Imperial society. It is debatable as to whether her livid blue eyes make her seem more spectral, or if those pale orbs give a certain life to a body that is otherwise as pallid as snow. Ignoring the more obvious traits, Cassinia is rather small in both height and width: standing only at 5'3, and featuring a slim body with little in the way of fat or muscle. This leaves her as a rather unappealing, almost ghostly figure, practically miniature in her mass and stature. Where as one would expect a young girl to flaunt her hair at a shoulder length, her gently combed white follicles only extend to a chin length. The majority of growth is placed at the rear of her head, with a generous number of strands at the side, and a few way-ward bands on the forehead.

Possessions: Cassinia wears a rather simple set of apparel. Covering her torso is a blouse almost as white as she is, where as the leggings are of a more mundane brown coloration. A few other accessories can be found: thick, belted shoes to guard her petite feet, a coin purse filled with what many would consider “dirty money” from some of her more roguish patients, among other pointless baubles. The item that garners the most attention is most assuredly her cloak: holding a blue as deep as the sea’s she now sails on. Cassinia is often found wearing the garment, using it as a secondary protection from Magnus’s scorn.


Personality: Cassinia holds a rather aloof attitude, and is none too eager to present to those she meets. While certainly not cynical in any sense, she is rather detached and reserved when interacting with others. It is not because of some misplaced haughtiness or stuck up pride: she simply believes that she’s not very interesting or noteworthy, and does not wish to bore others with her awkward ways. And while she is willing to give them a conversation or two if they desire, she will make no attempts to hide her boredom and indifference towards them, and herself.

Strengths: Cassinia is rather skilled with the Restorative arts, and is able to twist it for her use in a number of ways. Some of these displays are simple, such as using a very low intensity ward to protect her from Magnus’s rays, while others are of a more complex nature, with magicka filled lacerations and mends. She is also rather well read and patient with others, acting as a (unwilling, mind you) listener.

Major flaw(s): Due to her condition, Cassinia can be rather frail in situations involving extended exposure to sun. Her wards can only last for so long before she is forced to retreat to some form of shade or dwelling. And despite her fondness for literature, her eyesight can be rather dismal, especially when it comes to long distances. Her blasé outlook and disinterested gazes can also give the impression that she is chilly in nature, and some cases, that is not far from the truth.

History: From a young age, Cassinia was always looked upon as a rather odd individual. Her albinism prevented her staying out in the sun for extended periods of time, leaving her with an assortment of burns if she were to do so. This lead to a rather regulated lifestyle, either being cooped up with the household, or in the rare cases she was allowed outside (usually at night), having some guardian alongside her. In her earlier youth, this lead to a few instances where she would sneak her way out of the house while her Mother aided customers. However, all of this cases held similar results: burns from Magnus’s ire towards her day-long frolicking upon the waterfront. This left her Father to tend to them with his magics. As she grew older, she began to take an interest in her Father’s practice of restoration, and she sought knowledge from his various tomes, along with the man’s own words on the odd day where he was not at the Temple. Cassinia began to wrap herself in the art, using it both to protect her delicate form, and treat the occasional aches and pains of a sod too roguish for the Nine’s embrace. Despite the wishes of her parents, she wishes neither to pursue the life of a Merchant or Priestess, at least not for now. Desiring to take in some of the world she had only seen glimpses of before, she signed onto Captain Spiros’s crew, as a test of sorts. Said trial would determine if she truly held a wanderlust, or if she would be better off accepting the occupations her Parents suggest.

Recent Occupation: While still not quiet ready to live on her own, Cassinia has been making her own income by acting as a freelance Healer, independent of the Guild of Mages, or the various Temples spotted across the Imperial City. Due to her lack of skill when compared to the former groups, she often is found treating lesser cases, and in turn, earning less pay. It is not a glamorous life, but she hopes to rectify her fledging coin purse by earning larger sums from the (hopefully) generous Captain.

Race:Nord