Name: D'vatla
Age: 163
Race: Sload
Gender: Male
Height: 5'8"
Birthsign: The Tower
Appearance: Like most of his kind, D'vatla's corporeal material consists of mostly bloated mass. However, unlike most of his kin, it's been
burned off over the years by excess travelling. Not a commonly pleasant thing for a sload but it keeps the civilians he meets less hostile,
making the obtaining of information rather a less complicated task. His mouth is otherwise absent of such restriction though; for tusks of
barbed teeth adorn his upper and lower lips to extend slightly into his inner mouth. Giving to the young sload a vicious appearence of sorts.
Tattoos of tropically mereth orgin incorporate his physical mass in refined waves that are needled all around the lump of his body, ending
only at the beginning of the lower backend to the skull. Plumped warts of a scaled manner dot from his neck gills to the lower length of
the shoulders. Magnificent cat-like nails elongate into curves that tip from his hands and round feet, which are close to his short scarred tail.
D'vatla's skin colour that woes around all of these features looks to be of a lightly glowing, in texture, shade of blue-gray. Albeit similar to slate gray.
Class (what would you describe your character as?): Advisor | Steward | Sorcerer
Skills and known spells:
Thaumaturgy - Mastering this forgotten school like most sload do, D'vatla naturally uses the spells for teleportation and for simple manipulation.
Conjuration - An expert on all matters of the transmundane. D'vatla prides his knowledge he attains from this with gluttonous absorption.
Mysticism - One could say it's a maestro in the art. As the vibes of magicka's transmute themselves come to be manipulated in his experiments.
Alteration - A journeyman at best. He has yet to find a competent tool from which he can learn from, D'vatla's only source being tomes of yore.
Speechcraft - Confronting many a threat from foreign ignorance. His only tongue shaping in wisdom to bend mortals whims to his needs.
Enchanting - From time to time, D'vatla would require extension not capable of mind nor body. Magicka becomes his mold to muster byproducts.
Heavy Armor - His blubbery swollen hide can effectively beat off (for a time) offending attacks that have managed to have reached D'vatla.
Clothing / armor: D'vatla's preference is to wear a robe gifted to him from Hermaeus Mora. It owes it's origin from that of a dunmer whom betrayed
the daedric prince for greater promise with Dagoth Ur. The robe itself was taken off the Ascended Sleeper's cold, half-gnawed skull corpse.
Then brought to the lone lord and with dark magics, the daedra enchanted it to field a vision of clarity to the wearer. He rewarded it to promising allies.
The sload casually draws the dyed (dim gray) apparel's sleeves halfway up his arms and keeps the hood back when in mortal greeting.
Otherwise to travel he'll keep the hood on the top of his head. The frontal yet lower skirt of the robe is rolled to be underneath the stomach's flap.
The ends of the robes have been ripped and torn after continued use. Finally, the sload deigns to equip a specially made pants from elsweyr.
Both of these are kept together through the use of various belts, extending around the robe and to the lower gray pants.
Weapons: The tools he relies on to defeat his enemies are primarily magic, claws, his weight and sometimes even his maw.
Miscellaneous items: A coin wallet made out of a wormmouth pup, a greater sigil stone, a varla stone, a whale bone flute.
Personality: Cautious, cunning, conniving, practical and realistic, business minded, wise when asked for advice.
Major flaw: Innately emotionless, cannot relate well to 'mortals', has a snide superiority complex, can be too literal sometimes.
Background: Excerpt from the diary of the Lost:
"..hee.. No. It. It came from the Agonio isle, Thras. D'vatla was it's name. D'vatla! D'vatla! brittle putrid! difficult trap!
That unknown apotheosis, singularity! it travelled to Pyandonea, homeland isle of cruel yet passionate rebel mer.
D'vatla! D'vatla! blighted he came and went. Nuisance followed, bruising was hollowed. Bloated creep corroded.
The fat sload went north, north eastwards. He found the cats domain, Elsweyr. Basked there in roost for power, for souls.
Difficult was his journey now with hunters afoot. D'vatla! D'vatla! why art thou's fury come unto me? terrible thing.
From timing travels it came unto the White-Gold. svcked on his prey, me! Coyle Sendu! why thou. It was all too decisively.
Time folded for the ugly timid thing. It slowed untill only Mora came forth into his embrace. Rotten both, snugly oath.
The magician's walkabout went through many realms, in search to quench his hunger. Hunger not for physical satisfaction,
but metaphysical growth! D'vatla! D'vatla! it spied for the Eye or did the Eye spy on it? no matter! it came looking for it.
It was a servant to many, friend to none. It worked as a parasite, in campsite. You do not see this as a diary! you see only yourself speaking! screaming!"
» Thu May 03, 2012 7:59 pm 
. Look, Jarl Radwulf Spurvhauke is a pretty liberal guy, and he has even dealt with Sload before in his time as a merchant lord in Anvil. But hire a Sload as his steward? He is asking for it enough by having a Reachwoman witch as his Court Mage, and by being a Nord of dubious nobility, not even a Skyrim native, starting up a new hold in his ancestral land. There is no chance in Oblivion the Jarl would accept any Sload's offer. One of the most striking features of Radwulf Spurvhauke is that he is not stupid.
