[hider=Still Not Sheogorath] [indent] [color=8B8970][b][u]Character Name:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]Adamiir Thiich[/indent] [color=8B8970][b][u]Age:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]28[/indent] [color=8B8970][b][u]Race:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]Breton[/indent] [color=8B8970][b][u]Sex:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]Male[/indent] [color=8B8970][b][u]Birthsign:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]The Tower[/indent] [hr][hr] [color=8B8970][b][u]Specialisation:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]Magic/Stealth[/indent] [color=8B8970][b][u]Class:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]Treasure Seeker[/indent] [color=8B8970][b][u]Skills:[/u][/b][/color] [indent] [list] [*] Expert- Illusion [*] Journeyman- Destruction, Acrobatics, Trap-setting (Craft), Translation (Ayleid, Craft) [*] Apprentice- Athletics, Restoration, Sneak [*] Novice- Mercantile, Security, Alteration, Foraging [/list][/indent] [hr][hr] [color=8B8970][b][u]Appearance:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]Tall and gangly, an inch or two below the height of the average Altmer when standing straight, with sharp bony features and his shoulders bent forward in a slight stoop, Adamiir’s form carries with it an aura of wrongness, as though he was put together by an amateur craftsman with pieces that never quite matched. His face is pale and clean shaven, his nose long and thin, pointed downwards, vaguely resembling the beak of a hawk. His mouth is a crooked slash of a thing, resting uncomfortably on his face. Set above high cheekbones and hollow cheeks are Adamiir’s eyes, dark and nervous, always jittering around, changing their focus every few seconds. Atop his head lies a thick mop of shoulder length blonde hair, dark gold, like that of a lion’s mane. Unusually spry, despite his unwieldy appearance, Adamiir has built a small amount of muscle from a lifetime climbing trees in the Great Forest and pushing through its brush. Without concern for armor, he dons nothing more than a pair of leather shoes, sturdy but simple, brown cloth pants, for ease of movement without sacrificing durability, and a navy blue tunic, a belt of dark leather around the waist. The only other item of noticeable interest would be a plan silver amulet, given to Adamiir by his master. [/indent] [color=8B8970][b][u]Personality:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]To call Adamiir eccentric would be both accurate and simultaneously a vast oversimplification. When it comes to the fine art of conversation, he is woefully awkward and unskilled, usually coming off of as somewhat touched in the head to the more judgemental folk populating Nirn. Despite these limitations, Adamiir prides himself as a teacher, always ready to educate present company with any information he has relevant to the conversation… whether his input was requested or not. As stilted as it may be, Adamiir does try his best to extend goodwill to those deserving of it; he is often caught between the desire to do good unto others and do what is best for himself. It would be correct in stating that Adamiir has a selfish streak running parallel to his generous one. A particular fascination of his is the Ayleids, and while his enthusiasm for history is great, the passion he feels for the Ayleids’ mysterious nature is unmatched. Sometimes when he thinks no one can see him, he pulls out a welkynd stone, as full of magicka as the day he first claimed it, and stares deep into the crystalline blue surface, mesmerized by its glow. Not a stranger to peril, Adamiir is confident in his abilities to escape most dangers with ease. More specifically, he puts stock in his prowess with the school of illusion, being able to manipulate the minds of others to cause chaos (or nullify it) while he makes a speedy exit from the scene. In cases where trickery wouldn’t be enough to solve the problem Adamiir faces, he is skilled in the fine art of melting faces. He has a habit of gripping at his pendant when nervous, and often mumbles the end of a thought out loud when not actively refraining from doing so. [/indent] [color=8B8970][b][u]Backstory:[/u][/b][/color] [indent] [u][b]Adamiir’s Biography - Prologue - An Attempted Theft[/b][/u] For Jeriyn and Talasa Broell, the graveyard of Falkreath was like a candy shop. And they, of course, were the kids. As Jeriyn told Talasa often, there were enough dead soldiers buried there to take over the entire hold, and all it would take was two skilled necromancers, such as themselves. And as Talasa told Jeriyn often, the whole mess had better be worth their while, or she’d take Adamiir and turn tail right back to Cyrodiil, where it wasn’t so stupid cold. This exchange was repeated often between the two, all the way from Kvatch to the very graveyard in question. Talasa watched Jeriyn work incredulously, her babe pressed into her bosom to keep him warm during the chill of night. [i]Shiiick, shuck, ksh Shiiick, shuck, ksh Shiiick, shuck, ksh[/i] Again and again Jeriyn labored, digging himself deeper into the earth, closer to the dead. [i]Shiiick, shuck, ksh Shhckk[/i] “I’ve got it!” Jeriyn exclaimed, the sound of metal striking wood one that he knew well. He dropped to his knees and began to scoop the dirt out of the way by hand, and sure enough the telltale planks of a coffin were revealed to him. “This is just the beginning,” he whispered to himself. “Soon, we’ll have an army.” Jeriyn hoisted himself out of the grave, and stood on its precipice. “Talasa, fetch the axe, I need it.” Wordlessly, she turned to leave. Talasa hated it when Jeriyn ordered her around in that manner, but refusing would just make him angry. Nighteye guided her safely to the edge of the graveyard and beyond, into the brush where their horse, Whisper, was hidden, the animal’s reins tied to a sturdy, low hanging branch. Talasa retrieved the demanded axe from the saddlebags, its heavy weight feeling awkward and alien in her grasp. She started back towards Jeriyn, but froze mid step only a few paces later. There were angry shouts originating from where she came, followed by the unmistakable sight of Jeriyn’s spellfire. Talasa sucked in her breath, clutching at Adamiir, hoping against hope that her husband would come out of this unscathed. It wasn’t to be. There were no more signs of magicka expenditure, yet the angry voices remained, and they were drawing closer. Talasa looked down in horror at the tracks in the snow that would lead her pursuers straight to her location. She took action in an instant, struggling to free Whisper’s reigns from the tree yet still managing. Pulling herself into the saddle, she seized the reins with one hand while her other arm held Adamiir close to her chest. The spurs digging into Whisper’s flanks were enough to get her moving, going at a full gallop out of the wood and onto the main road, Kvatch bound. A storm of arrows whizzed past Talasa and Whisper, the former releasing the reins and trusting the latter to guide them in order to curl themselves around their child. Fire erupted in Talasa’s thigh, then again under her right shoulder blade. Both times she lurched forward in the saddle, crying with pain. The second time she spat blood flecked spit onto Adamiir’s face. It did not take long before Whisper began to tire, and the horse slowed itself to a trot. Talasa held her head up slightly, surveying her surroundings as best she could as her vision began to darken. The Nords had not pursued. She lowered her head again, fixing her eyes on Adamiir. Alive. Unharmed. Tucking her chin against her chest and closing her eyes, Talasa allowed herself one small smile. The infant Adamiir stared up at his mother’s serene face with curiosity, her heart beats echoing in his right ear slowly weakening, barely kept aflutter by desperate healing magics. Whisper trotted on. [u][b]Adamiir’s Biography - Part One - The Master[/b][/u] Morinus Thiich needed an apprentice. It was only a short decade ago that he himself was the student, learning from the travelling mages and scholars delving deep into the Ayleid ruins for wealth and knowledge. However, his old teachers were now retired or dead, and in Morinus’ line of work, someone that had your back made the difference between life and death. An Ayleid temple tucked into the mountains separating Skyrim and Cyrodiil would mark the last time Morinus ever ventured into one of those dungeons alone. Now he would travel back south and scout the province’s various counties for an eligible apprentice. Life, however, had different plans in store. A blood stained babe clutched in the grip of what appeared to be said babe’s dying mother was not what Morinus Thiich expected to discover on his return trek home from the Jerall Mountains. But sure enough, there they both were, one atop the other, motionless on the side of the road, whoever or whatever brought them here already long gone. Morinus rushed over to the two, discovering the woman’s wounds to be much worse than he anticipated. Her left leg was mangled beyond repair, and a smouldering carcass of… something lay a few feet away. She tilted her head towards Morinus, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She lifted her arms once, feebly, raising her child towards the mage, before lowering them again, and growing still. This was not the ideal process that Morinus hoped to use, but he had been looking for someone malleable to pass his knowledge down to. The aging Breton sighed, and seized the infant up into his arms. [u][b]Adamiir’s Biography - Part Two - Rocks and Spells, Spells and Rocks[/b][/u] A few years passed since Morinus first found his pupil by the roadside, and the child that was known as Adamiir quickly became Morinus’ most promising student. Any free time seemed to have the child entirely absorbed in his studies. Learning of the lore and history of the world was one of Adamiir’s great passions. What took precedence above all other activities, however, was Morinus’ rigorous training regime, climbing trees and scaling large boulders would teach Adamiir to always remain agile and light on his feet, skills that would be tested when trees and boulders became the dilapidated ruins of ancient ayleid temples. Being able to bend the minds of friend and foe alike would always be an invaluable aid to Adamiir, as would spells of light that would guide Adamiir safely through even the darkest of crypts. Paralysis spells would come in handy whenever a quick escape was needed, while invisibility spells would ensure that he could not be tracked easily. Indeed, the many fine intricacies of the illusion school of magic were a great passion of Morinus’, one that he would ensure was passed down to Adamiir. However, there are always times in life when smoke and mirrors cannot deflect the truth, or for every tricky ace one has up their sleeve, their adversary has two more. The destruction school of magic was ideal for dealing with these incidents, and this too, Morinus taught to his young breton pupil. Aside from rocks and spells, he also saw it fit to give Adamiir some amount of proficiency in the art of trapping. When on the road away from extended periods of time, one must learn to be self sufficient. Though a few other bits and bobs were thrown in to occasionally mix up the schedule, the curriculum Adamiir would follow for years to come was set in stone. [u][b]Adamiir’s Biography - Part Three - First Flight[/b][/u] It was at fifteen years of age when Adamiir first accompanied Morinus on his excursions to the Ayleid ruins. The sheer scope of how vast the empire of the Heartland Elves once was awed him, whilst simultaneously instilling a strange sense of forlorn melancholy in his heart. Crumbling ruins crawling with the dead were all that remained. The underground locale shown to Adamiir was small, and of relatively simple design. Threats were few and far between, only a few shambling skeletons waiting to be sent to the next world. They were no match for Adamiir’s magic - Morinus was simply observing, waiting to see if his protégé was prepared for future excursions - and he suspected that Morinus chose this specific location for those exact reasons. Adamiir had been correct in assuming that a safer, more straightforward ruin was selected for the purpose of acting as a final test, as revealed by Morinus during their departure. From that point on, Morinus and Adamiir traveled across Cyrodiil as equals, the lessons taught by the former serving the latter well, and only magnifying in their usefulness. [u][b]Adamiir’s Biography - Part Four - Homeward Bound[/b][/u] For many more years, Adamiir and Morinus lined their pockets pilfering the riches of a long dead civilization. Mages across the province paid handsomely for the ethereal blue welkynd stones, while a contact in the Imperial City rewarded the pair handsomely for the more uncommon treasures they discovered. Lord Umbacano proved to be a most gracious associate, treating the two to fine meals whenever a particularly intriguing artifact was delivered. It seemed that whenever Adamiir and Morinus weren’t on the road, they were resting in an inn, the concept of home becoming a foreign term, just another pit stop whenever it was convenient for the route the two had undertaken. There came a time, however, when they were forced to return to their humble cabin in the Great Forest, a few miles down the road from the city of Chorrol. Morinus was growing weaker and more frail in his old age, turning a homecoming into an inevitable necessity. Adamiir’s trapping talents became more invaluable than ever, the furs and excess meats being traded with the local farmers for food, while anything he kept was consumed. During this time Adamiir made many stews, as it was easier for Morinus to consume. He became quite good at making them too. Despite Morinus’ weakened state, there was still one thing he could offer his apprentice. That was the secrets of the Ayleid language, and for the next few years leading up to his passing, the two spent much of their time together going over all of the knowledge at Morinus’ disposal. Morinus had urged Adamiir a few times, before he became sickly, to let him be and go make a fortune, but Adamiir always refused, insisting that his place was at Morinus’ side. He vowed to watch over his master for as long as necessary. And he did. [u][b]Adamiir’s Biography - Part Five - Bad News, Good News, More Bad News[/b][/u] After Morinus’ death, Adamiir was on the road once again. He couldn’t deny it, the call, the call that both he and his old master had felt. The secrets and treasures of the Ayleids called to him, their siren song luring him ever closer to his destiny, and further into the depths of the earth. For three more years Adamiir traveled Cyrodiil and fell deeper under the spell of his beguiling mistress, the lost Ayleid culture. It was on a routine stop to Kvatch to drop off some welkynd stones at the local mages guild that he first heard of the Emperor’s assassination, as well as the festivities to be held in celebration of the Count’s birthday. On a whim, Adamiir decided to stick around and participate in the festivities. That choice was very quickly turning out to be a grave mistake. [/indent] [color=8B8970][b][u]Spells:[/u][/b][/color] [indent] [list] [*] Illusion- Immobilize (Touch), Dominate Creature/Human (Ranged), Eyes of Midnight (Self), Calming Touch (Touch), Rage (Ranged), Voice of Rapture (Ranged), Fearful Gaze (Ranged), Heroic Touch (Touch), Torchlight (Self), Ghostwalk (Self), Mute (Ranged), Shadow (Self) [*] Destruction- Lightning Grasp (Touch), Dire Wound (Ranged), Frost Bolt (Ranged), Searing Grasp (Touch), Lightning Bolt (Ranged), Flare (Ranged) [*] Restoration- Convalescence (Ranged), Heal Major Wounds (Self), Heal Minor Wounds (Self) [*] Alteration- Protect (Self), Open Very Easy Lock (Touch) [/list] [/indent] [color=8B8970][b][u]Inventory:[/u][/b][/color] [indent] [list] [*] The clothes on Adamiir’s back [*] A travel pack that the following items are either stored in or strapped to [*] Sturdy twine for snares [*] Two reusable bear traps [*] Bedroll [*] 243 septims [*] 3 weak potions of sorcery [*] Steel knife, utilitarian [*] Flint & steel [*] A welkynd stone [/list] [/indent] [/indent] [/hider] [hider=Also Still Not Sheogorath] [indent] [color=CD0000][b][u]Character Name:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]Veeza[/indent] [color=CD0000][b][u]Age:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]32[/indent] [color=CD0000][b][u]Race:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]Argonian[/indent] [color=CD0000][b][u]Sex:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]Male[/indent] [color=CD0000][b][u]Birthsign:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]The Lord[/indent] [hr][hr] [color=CD0000][b][u]Specialisation:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]Combat[/indent] [color=CD0000][b][u]Class:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]Brawler[/indent] [color=CD0000][b][u]Skills:[/u][/b][/color] [indent] [list] [*] Expert- Hand to Hand [*] Journeyman- Heavy Armor, Athletics, Suturing (Craft) [*] Apprentice- Acrobatics, Restoration, Speechcraft, Alchemy (Craft) [*] Novice-One Handed Blades, Two Handed Blades, One Handed Blunt, Block [/list][/indent] [hr][hr] [color=CD0000][b][u]Appearance:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it’s own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, tapering into sharp points at the tip. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with pupils as lizard-like as the rest of him. While his scales act as a natural defense, fifteen years spent fighting for his life in the arena has left Veeza with a plethora of scars marring his body, leaving none of him untouched. The worst of them have been caused by a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach; the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. Rarely will one find the Argonian outside of his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim. [/indent] [color=CD0000][b][u]Personality:[/u][/b][/color] [indent]As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He never fails to speak his mind regardless of what he desires to say, and puts little stock in the opinions of others, especially those seeking to denounce him. Typically, those capable of intelligent, polite conversation as well as feats of valor upon the field of battle can earn his respect, while those that lack the former will also be subject to his ire. In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet been in a situation forcing him to lose his cool. [/indent] [color=CD0000][b][u]Backstory:[/u][/b][/color] [indent] [u][b]Veeza’s Biography - Prologue - Drunken Lizard[/b][/u] Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.” Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I’ll never have to see your stupid face again.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor. Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep. [u][b]Veeza’s Biography - Part 1 - Nothing But A Pair Of Fists[/b][/u] Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man, either things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become. Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists. [u][b]Veeza’s Biography - Part 2 - Graduation Day[/b][/u] The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid from compliant members at the local mages guild to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday he entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of the red team mourned for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them. Besides, now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match. [u][b]Veeza’s Biography - Part 3 - The Pit Dragon[/b][/u] The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the floor of the arena. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand. The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new blood; a pit dog. It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his most grievous scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long pony tail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious. [u][b]Veeza’s Biography - Part 4 - The New Arena[/b][/u] If the dead had the gift of hindsight, many of the arena combatants might have considered themselves lucky to have been torn apart by daedra hordes, as opposed to being torn apart by Veeza’s bare hands. Kvatch’s grand champion in specific was particularly lucky. As while many matches were planned in celebration of Count Goldwine’s birthday, the red team’s champion, Veeza, against the city’s grand champion, Langurius Nerich, was to be the main event. The two had a cordial, even friendly relationship, and Veeza’s challenge to Langurius’ title came as a surprise to all in the city. Tensions were running high, and this match was played up to be the biggest in decades. Fate seemed to have different plans for the two, however. Langurius would find himself a charred corpse on the floor of the bloodworks, indistinguishable from the others surrounding him. Meanwhile, Veeza would be fighting for his life to eventually reach safety within the walls of Kvatch’s chapel, waiting for what seemed to be an inevitable demise. [/indent] [color=CD0000][b][u]Spells:[/u][/b][/color] [indent] [list] [*] Restoration- Heal Minor Wounds (Self), Convalescence (Target) [/list] [/indent] [color=CD0000][b][u]Inventory:[/u][/b][/color] [indent] [list] [*] His iron armor, the gauntlets are reinforced with steel and have studs made of dwarven metal inlaid along the knuckles [*] A hastily thrown together travel pack that includes [*] A pair of trousers [*] A mortar and pestle [*] Needles and thread for sewing wounds [*] Provisions of hard tack and dried jerky that could last around a week at full ration, double that at half [*] 500 septims, the earnings from his last victory [/list] [/indent] [/indent] [/hider]