Peik

Fruits of Contention - Wayrest

Oren Bandeli

	Oren Bandeli 7'2'' | 400 lbs. | 27 Male | Redguard | The Lover STRENGTH | Agility Rihad, Hammerfell

Profile

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§ Appearance

The first thing that one would notice about Oren is his immense frame. Simply put, Oren is huge – standing a head or two taller than even the average Altmer, with broad shoulders not unlike a troll’s, he is a hulk of a man, and an inevitably conspicuous sight wherever he finds himself. Endowed with beastlike physique as befits his size, Oren’s limbs are unbelievably muscular as well; although despite his immense physique, this is a fact that’s hard to ascertain, thanks to the sheer amount of fat that covers his torso and limbs. Let no description or compliment lie to you – a testament to physical might may lie beneath the adipose tissue that covers Oren’s entirety, yet nonetheless, rippling shoulders and arms aside, to an outsider’s glance, Oren is simply pudgy.

While one would expect a rough, barbarian-like visage to fill this monstrous silhouette, with his plump lips, unblemished, caramel-colored skin, prominent eyelashes and sky-blue eyes, Oren looks disconcertingly refined, and quite feminine, feminine enough to the point that he has been misgendered in the past, in spite of his gargantuan stature – as a precaution to this, and an odd gesture of masculine pride, he’s taken to shaving the top of his head to ascertain his sex to onlookers. Still, even with this show of machismo, his face stands utterly devoid of facial hair, being unable to grow any thanks to hormonal deficiencies, and with his defined nose, rosy cheeks and well-shaped chin, one could say that perhaps he could’ve been a looker, beautiful, even, if he weren’t so tubby.

Despite his frame and occupation, Oren does his best at being fashionable, wearing clothes of the finest colors and fabrics of floral pattern, although with time and experience he’s figured some go-to pieces of attire for himself, opting for voluminous breeches and loosely cut, false-sleeved robes to let his body breathe, a large sash wrapped around his waist to contain his bulging belly and narrow his frame, and a cloak of a faded yellow color, to hide his physique further, and keep him from the rays of the sun, and stronger winds. His lower arms and legs are often left bare regardless of climate, with simple leather slippers being his sole choice of footwear. Still, he carries gaiters with him for occasions where bared legs would be improper.

Oren’s hands and feet are quite delicate looking, despite their huge size, and even though a glance to the back of his hand shows well-maintained knuckles, fingers and nails, the insides of his hands have hardened enough to grow into some sort of organic armor tissue that no amount of scraping seems to get rid of, much to his chagrin.

§ Motivations and Outlook

Oren considers himself to be a simple man, with simple desires and simple views of life. Romance has never appealed to him, and with his nonexistent sexual drive and capacity thanks to his childhood castration, he has no physical pleasure to gain from a lover either. Nor does he have any particular yearning for authority, having had the chance to closely observe, from his employers, how the pursuit of power drains all joy out of one’s life – with no loved ones to speak of, this too seems to him a futile venture. While he’s crossed out certain motivations, Oren does have certain drives that let him suffer through his line of work with his mind unclouded, namely, a love of food and comfort that a different type of earning would not be able to sufficiently provide for, and secondly, the hope of earning enough riches to have a chance of passing on his legacy in different ways. Although he has no genes to pass on for posterity, the idea of being forgotten, of having suffered through life for no particular reason brings fear to him nonetheless, and thus, he hopes to find a way to cement his memory via non-biological means; whether those means be achieving deeds worthy of remembered in the future, or simply paying to create an institution or structure that will outlast the lives of regular mer and men, does not particularly matter.

While he is not an unintelligent man by any margin, Oren is somewhat uneducated about the wider world, and so is somewhat superstitious about people of other cultures. Nonetheless, he is actively aware of the fact that he is an uneducated man, and is not above getting more information about things, whether it be through asking directly or using more underhanded means. As a bodyguard, he’s well educated in the art of poker face – he often uses this to his advantage, to pretend he knows things he does not, or vice versa, to attain information he would not normally get, or to check for inconsistencies in others’ narratives. Similarly, he’s found that sometimes it is necessary to leave a dumber or smarter impression for one’s convenience, and so he’s quite keen on allowing others to underestimate or overestimate him via his nonplussed demeanor. Despite this tendency, Oren is not a particularly treacherous or manipulative man, and tries his best to be a pleasant person, so long as it does not hurt his work reputation, or make him come across as weak or dependent. As slowly as he makes friends, Oren still appreciates wittier colleagues, and will often get them gifts when appropriate, usually in the form of drinks – despite not being a drinker himself.

Thanks to his lack of formal education, Oren’s not very well versed in topics that go beyond the scope of a layman, though he does have a dilettante’s affinity for art, and his decent memory helps him remember certain remarks about things fairly easily. Having been converted to the Imperial Cult fairly recently, Oren is a keen, although not very devout follower of Julianos, though he also casually reveres certain figures from the Yokudan Pantheon such as Satakal, and finds blasphemous talk about any sort of spiritual figure to attract misfortune, avoiding them if necessary. Despite being a practitioner of Alteration himself, Oren outwardly has a distrust of magic and magic users, fearful of the possibilities that dabbling in the unknown can cause. Ironically enough, despite his tough physique and external demeanor, Oren does have a sensitive side in his budding hobbies, being an avid, if not somewhat unskilled woodcarver and aspirant poet, and can become quite intense if his hobbies are made the topic of a conversation. Thanks to his rather dogmatic training in martial arts, Oren has a rather dismissive outlook on arms and armor, believing that a true warrior has no need of such tools, and claiming that the prominence of swords in Redguard culture stem from a misunderstood metaphor for ‘decisiveness’.

Oren, in spite of the fact that his castration and following health issues stem from his past as a slave, has no particularly negative outlook on slavery, thinking that the beast races make too much of a fuss over it. He also has an inherent dislike of Altmer, thanks to everyone blaming the Thalmor for the devastated Hammerfell that he grew up in.

§ Background

Truth be told, Oren’s origins are of no consequence. Having been born into a poor Forebear family whose man was a cripple of the Great War and the following Continuation War, the amount of older siblings he had meant that either he was going to be another mouth to feed on the table, or somehow be sacrificed for the good of the rest of the family. He does not remember these times well, perhaps out of repression, or perhaps because of how brief they were – he remembers his father’s mangled hand, with only a thumb left on it, he remembers his mother’s braids, but not much else. He must’ve been ‘acquired’ as a ‘servant’ fairly early on in life, because unlike his family, he remembers his owner, Mu’ad, quite well. A somewhat short, plump and dark-skinned man, rich enough to buy his slaves at infancy, maintain them, and groom them for whatever role he desired. Because of his young age, and because he needed to be taken care of, he was put amongst the females of the household, the chambermaids substituting for a mother, sometimes even acting as wet nurses and ‘doctors’ in secret, while the younger concubines pretended to be his sisters. Perhaps it was this fondness that the females of the household had for Oren, that led Mu’ad to pay for his castration – this way, Oren could continue to spend time with them well beyond childhood, while also keeping Mu’ad’s honor intact.

Oren remembers the day of his castration – taken from amongst the women by a tall, gangly eunuch, given a nice meal of spiced rice and mutton, alongside a thick, white and sweet drink that numbed the throat as he drank, then laid to sleep for a while. When Oren woke up, he was on a coarse carpet, too numb to move, with Mu’ad supervising as an elderly woman lifted his manhood and, after some handling of his privates, took off his scrotum with a single dagger stroke. It was a clean and relatively painless procedure; Oren would learn later in life that such care would not normally be taken and that the surgeries were often horrifyingly painful and fatal. What came afterwards was a long period of celebration and recuperation, for while some of the touchier chambermaids were saddened about the loss of Oren’s sexual functions, most were happy about the fact that their ‘son’ and ‘brother’ would continue staying with them. And stay he did – for the next few years, most he did was eat, and grow larger and larger, to the point that he was about the size of a well-fed Redguard warrior at the mere age of fourteen. This unprecedented growth led Mu’ad to reconsider the role he had in mind for Oren, and he was sent to Sentinel for training. What sort of training it would be Oren did not know until he was led to the adobe-walled courtyard of the school and beheld, for the first time in his life, the Iron Palms of Sentinel smashing cut rocks with their bare hands.

The following five years of Oren’s life were spent in the Iron Palm School, where he was taught the Art of Hand and Foot. Their master, Khogan, was an extremely elderly man, to the point where he could not walk from one edge of the school courtyard to the other without some sort of aid. Despite this, his utterly dense flesh and mastery over the school allowed him to poke his fingers through flesh, bone and rock in the blink of an eye. For the first time in his life since he’d eaten spiced rice, Oren was amazed, and despite his steadily growing weight made it harder and harder for him to practice, he quickly became one of the most diligent pupils of the school, earning the title of Journeyman Trainer under three years. Although some of the other members of the school looked down on Oren for his unconventional methods of combat, such as simply grabbing his opponents mid-attack and throwing them around instead of dodging and landing his own strikes, these opinions would eventually be silenced by Khogan himself, who said that Oren ‘fought like an infirm master, not a healthy pupil’. While this praise was not without its own reprimand, the teachings of the Iron Palms were quite dogmatic, and gerontocratic – that Oren was likened to a master, even if for his lack of stamina, meant for them that he could no longer be a figure of contention.

By the time Oren returned to Mu’ad’s household, he had become like a small mountain, both in size, density, and strength. Trained to use nothing but his hardened flesh in combat, he thoroughly impressed Mu’ad by showing the capability to grasp onto tempered sabers with his bare hands, and throw his owner’s master bodyguard aside like he was a piece of reed. Much to the chagrin of his ‘mothers’ and ‘sisters’, and the previous bodyguard, Oren was assigned Mu’ad’s personal bodyguard, who had fallen into debt, and worse, sick with a growing lump in his stomach that not even magic could cure. To make up for his exorbitant health costs, Mu’ad had begun delving in the art of politics, ‘selling’ certain loyal slaves, so they could work their way to important positions in other figures’ households and provide information for his own maneuvering. Of course, Oren himself was far too vitally important to be thrown into such games, but in the following four years, Oren watched from behind his master’s back how stress and scheming drained the man further and further, leading him to eventually pale to a sickly yellow, and after a few weeks of bedridden life, die. What followed afterwards was total chaos – Mu’ad’s wives, free concubines, children, bastards, acquaintances and debt collectors all trying to get themselves a piece of the man’s wealth, suing, coercing, seducing and murdering one another to get more for themselves.

Oren himself, being a slave still, was inherited by one of Mu’ad’s sons, a young and ambitious man named Fajr. While he moved to Fajr’s household along with some of his ‘mothers’ and ‘sisters’ without making any fuss, Oren found life there to be a far less enjoyable experience, with their new owner too stressed, too greedy, and simply too cruel to internally justify being owned by. This opinion, it seemed, was not his alone; for one night, while patrolling Fajr’s bedchambers, Oren stumbled onto his owner fatally wounded, a fruit knife plunged into his throat by one of his ‘sisters’. While he comforted the bruised, traumatized woman at first, he soon found himself at a quandary – as things stood, the young woman would be executed, Oren himself sold in the public market for the lowest bidder for his incompetence, and the rest of the household scattered, bought or kidnapped. Oren decided to take another option and woke up his fellow slaves, explaining the situation, and then prompting them to take whatever they valuables they could find, buy their freedom from the flesh markets and leave for parts unknown, before someone from outside took notice. Surprisingly, it went without a fuss - the household scattered overnight, and Oren fled to Sentinel, where he used the valuables he’d taken from Fajr’s house to purchase his name off the Slave Register.

Despite being the place where he earned his freedom, Sentinel bore a tragedy of its own as well. The elderly Master Khogan had long passed away by the time Oren came back, murdered by one of his spurned students, and the events that’d followed had led to the Iron Palm School to be shut down. It was here that Oren felt despair for the first time in his life, having been so used to being led or ordered by someone else that finding out he had no masters left nearly broke him. He wandered in Sentinel for a while, trying to contact his fellow students at the Iron Palm, but the attempts turned out to be fruitless, most having either moved on, or not in the mood to make peace with whatever that had transpired. His funds were draining (Sentinel was an expensive city, and Oren had immense appetite), yet he’d made no progress; Oren realized fairly quickly that if he didn’t take action, he would be left on the streets as a gigantic bum. Figuring that he needed a roof over his head before anything else, he joined up with the Imperial Cult, taking residence in the homeless shelter that they’d converted their chapel’s basement into. It was for their mutual benefit – the mission was small and vulnerable, and Oren’s mere presence alongside them made possible harassers stay away. Oren used the chapel’s influx to start a simple self-defense course, teaching a watered-down version of the Iron Palm for those interested, receiving a meager sum in return.

What began as an arrangement of mutual benefit between Oren and the Imperial Mission eventually turned into something further; the priests of the Imperial Cult began to appreciate Oren for his helpful demeanor and the amount of young, enthusiastic people his self-defense course kept bringing in, while Oren himself began seeing actual goodwill in the toils of the Priests of the Eight Divines – led by a thin, bald man named Ionnaninus Bandelis, their Sisyphean attempts to teach Oren’s students how to read made a somewhat heartwarming impression on the gigantic man. In reality, Oren did not know how to read and write either, Mu’ad never having deemed it necessary for him to learn how – it took some time for Oren to grow the confidence inform the priests of this, but when he did it was not received with any surprise. He too became a pupil, like some of his own pupils, and soon enough (it did not take long for him to learn the basics), he could read and write with ease. As an act of gratitude, Oren swore that he would worship and honor the Divines for the rest of his days, and following that, to symbolize him being ‘a new person’, took a surname after the man who taught him how to read, being, from that moment on, Oren Bandeli.

Of course, things would not go happily ever after, and Oren would not really become a new person in the way that he hoped – instead of becoming a content monk, he became a killer, when he accidentally caved a man’s face in while trying to stop him from pissing on the Chapel walls. Word spread, and it evolved, and by the time the mob came knocking on the Chapel, they were demanding justice for the old man whose skull had been crushed by ‘that no-ball monster’ for not paying his respects while passing by the Chapel. While Oren knew that the Imperial Cult had lost its glamorous status in the province since the Great War, he did not expect that folks would come and ask for his head; he had to handle an angry, armed mob by himself for a few hours, preventing from coming in through the Chapel’s gate to hurt the others, an act that only resulted in more deaths. Eventually, the town guard came to the priests’ rescue and disperse the mob, although to placate them, Oren was sentenced to exile from Sentinel. Oren thought of this appropriate and let himself get cuffed and escorted out of the city limits, where he was left, to his surprise, without being unshackled from his iron bindings – Oren had to bash his cuffs against rocks and trees for an entire day to free himself. He followed the Iliac coastline to Lainlyn, where his reputation seemed to have reached before him; honest people would not deal with him, for what business did they have with an indiscriminate murderer?

It turned out that some people did, and soon enough Oren began getting approached by shady men who said they wanted to ‘talk’. He brushed them off the first few times, afraid that they were just muggers or troublemakers, but eventually one spoke to him plainly enough for Oren to realize that practically, he’d been brushing off job offers. There were people for whom having unscrupulous muscle on employ was a benefit, and Oren, the notorious, gargantuan outsider, was a perfect candidate. Thus, Oren found himself the personal bodyguard of a mob leader, a dandy with no teeth on one side of his mouth, aptly named Half-Mouth. Guarding a criminal was much different than guarding Mu’ad, for whom Oren was more a figure of deterrence and prestige, not actual combat; in contrast, Oren often found himself dirtying his hands with blood while keeping Half-Mouth safe, growing more and more used to it. His effectiveness grew on Half-Mouth, who began molding Oren in his shape, giving him dressing and etiquette tips; over time Oren’s reputation overshadowed even Half-Mouth’s, and perhaps this could’ve led to Half-Mouth contemplating on how to get rid of Oren, but the latter’s untimely death from a drug overdose prevented that from happening. With Half-Mouth gone, Oren could’ve inherited his organization, but he chose not to, and left for High Rock, where he made a living as a wandering debt collector until he ended up in the employ of a particular mercenary company.

Capabilities

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§ Skills

• Expert – Hand to Hand
• Adept – Alteration
• Adept – Unarmored
• Apprentice – Acrobatics
• Apprentice – Healing
• Apprentice – Speech
• Apprentice – Throwing Weapons
• Novice – Athletics

§ Flaws

Warning, Confined Space: Oren’s immense size prohibits him from making a subtle entrance, if he can make one at all. He takes up a large portion of physical space and can have trouble going in through doors, let alone maneuvering through small, cramped areas such as tunnels.

Short, Controlled Bursts: Even with his training and the aid of meditative magic, Oren simply carries too much weight for prolonged activities of exertion – he prefers to make the most with the least amount of physical effort, and extended movement will make him need to rest for a long time.

Extra Topping, Please: While he pays for it wherever he can, Oren consumes an immense amount of food and water even in short amounts of time. His appetite is insatiable, and without it placated, his performance can drop visibly, having to deal with cramps and the psychological urges of hunger.

§ Spells

Alteration: Burden, Equilibrium, Feather, Ironflesh, Jump, Slowfall, Transmute

Healing: Fast Healing, Fast Recovery, Healing Hands

§ Tactics

Oren considers the first line of defense to be deterrence. It’s easier to win fights by convincing your opponent that fighting you will not be to their benefit, Oren thinks, and indeed when confronted with a hostile situation his first attempt will be to convince his opponents to stand down, usually through subtle intimidation. Still, Oren knows that a man needs more than one line of defense, and thankfully, has been taught how to walk the walk as much as he likes to talk the talk.

While Oren’s likely to make an impression of no more than dumb muscle, his way of combat is surprisingly technical and dependent on the subtleties of gravity – while the Iron Palm School taught him to amplify his mass and stand his ground like a rock against his opponents, Oren realized fairly quickly that it’s much more convenient and much less tiresome to simply make his opponent lose his footing, whether that be through the Art of Hand and Foot, or using Alteration to bend the laws of gravity for his convenience. He likes to be unconventional; if attacked in melee, his first response is not to avoid the strike but to actually catch it with his hands and guide it elsewhere, while amplifying the momentum of his opponent’s strike with his grasp to disrupt their balance and fling them away.

When he attacks, he likes to attack quickly and precisely, often using his feet to hook and kick at his foe’s ankles, amplifying the strength of his hits by hardening his flesh right before the moment of impact. He prefers to take the center stage of battle so that he does not exhaust himself trying to circle around opponents, although obviously that does not work against enemies who keep their distance. For them, Oren has a less subtle, more proactive and far more tiresome technique – using Alteration to propel himself towards the opponent as if he were a gigantic frog and smash into them with the strength of a catapulted rock.

Still, sometimes enemies require much less complicated methods to deal with, and Oren is not above simply caving his foes in with his fists and kicks, which would normally be applied as stomping finishers to his grounded opponents. Flattening windpipes and shattering bones may be far simpler when you can put your entire weight into the strike, but when life doesn’t give Oren the opportunity to do that, he can just smash his enemies apart, armored or not, although it’s not an approach he can keep up for long without needing rest for his and exerted muscles and mind.

§ Relations & Affiliations

Ionnaninus Bandelis, once head of the Imperial Mission in Sentinel, now assigned to a post in Cyrodiil
Rest of his relations either lost, dead or unworthy of note

§ Opinions

After introductions.

§ Crimes and Accomplishments

Crimes:

• One count of theft in Rihad, unreported
• One count of homicide in Sentinel, ruled as involuntary manslaughter, sentenced to exile as punishment
• Two counts of homicide in Sentinel, ruled as self-defense
• Two counts of homicide in Lainlyn while employed by Half-Mouth, unreported
• Three counts of homicide in Lainlyn while employed by Half-Mouth, ruled as self-defense

Accomplishments:

• Certified Journeyman Trainer of the now defunct Sentinel Iron Palm Martial Arts School
• Certified Layman of the Imperial Cult
• Once prominent criminal figure of the Lainlyn underworld

§ Other

Oren is an amateur poet.

Inventory

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§ Cash & Valuables 74 Septims	§ Keys & Lockpicks None
§ Tools & Crafting Materials None	§ Clothing, Armor & Jewelry A wide-brimmed conical hat, made of straw A faded dark yellow cloak with black trim A brocade robe of a dark green color with yellow trim A yellow sash A pair of dark brown breeches A pair of beige gaiters A pair of yellow leather slippers
§ Weapon & Ammo None	§ Potion & Arcane Supplies Three Potions of Restore Magicka
§ Books & Documents Journeyman Trainer Certificate from the now-defunct Iron Palm Martial Arts School	§ Consumables & Ingredients Two flasks full of water A whole two-pound block of spiced, cured meat A satchel of rice
§ Bags & Containers A sack A satchel of potions A satchel of food Two large flasks made of dried gourd	§ Other A folded piece of paper, containing previously written verses

Fruits of Contention - Wayrest

Oren Bandeli

	Oren Bandeli 7'2'' | 400 lbs. | 27 Male | Redguard | The Lover STRENGTH | Agility Rihad, Hammerfell

Profile

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§ Appearance

The first thing that one would notice about Oren is his immense frame. Simply put, Oren is huge – standing a head or two taller than even the average Altmer, with broad shoulders not unlike a troll’s, he is a hulk of a man, and an inevitably conspicuous sight wherever he finds himself. Endowed with beastlike physique as befits his size, Oren’s limbs are unbelievably muscular as well; although despite his immense physique, this is a fact that’s hard to ascertain, thanks to the sheer amount of fat that covers his torso and limbs. Let no description or compliment lie to you – a testament to physical might may lie beneath the adipose tissue that covers Oren’s entirety, yet nonetheless, rippling shoulders and arms aside, to an outsider’s glance, Oren is simply pudgy.

While one would expect a rough, barbarian-like visage to fill this monstrous silhouette, with his plump lips, unblemished, caramel-colored skin, prominent eyelashes and sky-blue eyes, Oren looks disconcertingly refined, and quite feminine, feminine enough to the point that he has been misgendered in the past, in spite of his gargantuan stature – as a precaution to this, and an odd gesture of masculine pride, he’s taken to shaving the top of his head to ascertain his sex to onlookers. Still, even with this show of machismo, his face stands utterly devoid of facial hair, being unable to grow any thanks to hormonal deficiencies, and with his defined nose, rosy cheeks and well-shaped chin, one could say that perhaps he could’ve been a looker, beautiful, even, if he weren’t so tubby.

Despite his frame and occupation, Oren does his best at being fashionable, wearing clothes of the finest colors and fabrics of floral pattern, although with time and experience he’s figured some go-to pieces of attire for himself, opting for voluminous breeches and loosely cut, false-sleeved robes to let his body breathe, a large sash wrapped around his waist to contain his bulging belly and narrow his frame, and a cloak of a faded yellow color, to hide his physique further, and keep him from the rays of the sun, and stronger winds. His lower arms and legs are often left bare regardless of climate, with simple leather slippers being his sole choice of footwear. Still, he carries gaiters with him for occasions where bared legs would be improper.

Oren’s hands and feet are quite delicate looking, despite their huge size, and even though a glance to the back of his hand shows well-maintained knuckles, fingers and nails, the insides of his hands have hardened enough to grow into some sort of organic armor tissue that no amount of scraping seems to get rid of, much to his chagrin.

§ Motivations and Outlook

Oren considers himself to be a simple man, with simple desires and simple views of life. Romance has never appealed to him, and with his nonexistent sexual drive and capacity thanks to his childhood castration, he has no physical pleasure to gain from a lover either. Nor does he have any particular yearning for authority, having had the chance to closely observe, from his employers, how the pursuit of power drains all joy out of one’s life – with no loved ones to speak of, this too seems to him a futile venture. While he’s crossed out certain motivations, Oren does have certain drives that let him suffer through his line of work with his mind unclouded, namely, a love of food and comfort that a different type of earning would not be able to sufficiently provide for, and secondly, the hope of earning enough riches to have a chance of passing on his legacy in different ways. Although he has no genes to pass on for posterity, the idea of being forgotten, of having suffered through life for no particular reason brings fear to him nonetheless, and thus, he hopes to find a way to cement his memory via non-biological means; whether those means be achieving deeds worthy of remembered in the future, or simply paying to create an institution or structure that will outlast the lives of regular mer and men, does not particularly matter.

While he is not an unintelligent man by any margin, Oren is somewhat uneducated about the wider world, and so is somewhat superstitious about people of other cultures. Nonetheless, he is actively aware of the fact that he is an uneducated man, and is not above getting more information about things, whether it be through asking directly or using more underhanded means. As a bodyguard, he’s well educated in the art of poker face – he often uses this to his advantage, to pretend he knows things he does not, or vice versa, to attain information he would not normally get, or to check for inconsistencies in others’ narratives. Similarly, he’s found that sometimes it is necessary to leave a dumber or smarter impression for one’s convenience, and so he’s quite keen on allowing others to underestimate or overestimate him via his nonplussed demeanor. Despite this tendency, Oren is not a particularly treacherous or manipulative man, and tries his best to be a pleasant person, so long as it does not hurt his work reputation, or make him come across as weak or dependent. As slowly as he makes friends, Oren still appreciates wittier colleagues, and will often get them gifts when appropriate, usually in the form of drinks – despite not being a drinker himself.

Thanks to his lack of formal education, Oren’s not very well versed in topics that go beyond the scope of a layman, though he does have a dilettante’s affinity for art, and his decent memory helps him remember certain remarks about things fairly easily. Having been converted to the Imperial Cult fairly recently, Oren is a keen, although not very devout follower of Julianos, though he also casually reveres certain figures from the Yokudan Pantheon such as Satakal, and finds blasphemous talk about any sort of spiritual figure to attract misfortune, avoiding them if necessary. Despite being a practitioner of Alteration himself, Oren outwardly has a distrust of magic and magic users, fearful of the possibilities that dabbling in the unknown can cause. Ironically enough, despite his tough physique and external demeanor, Oren does have a sensitive side in his budding hobbies, being an avid, if not somewhat unskilled woodcarver and aspirant poet, and can become quite intense if his hobbies are made the topic of a conversation. Thanks to his rather dogmatic training in martial arts, Oren has a rather dismissive outlook on arms and armor, believing that a true warrior has no need of such tools, and claiming that the prominence of swords in Redguard culture stem from a misunderstood metaphor for ‘decisiveness’.

Oren, in spite of the fact that his castration and following health issues stem from his past as a slave, has no particularly negative outlook on slavery, thinking that the beast races make too much of a fuss over it. He also has an inherent dislike of Altmer, thanks to everyone blaming the Thalmor for the devastated Hammerfell that he grew up in.

§ Background

Truth be told, Oren’s origins are of no consequence. Having been born into a poor Forebear family whose man was a cripple of the Great War and the following Continuation War, the amount of older siblings he had meant that either he was going to be another mouth to feed on the table, or somehow be sacrificed for the good of the rest of the family. He does not remember these times well, perhaps out of repression, or perhaps because of how brief they were – he remembers his father’s mangled hand, with only a thumb left on it, he remembers his mother’s braids, but not much else. He must’ve been ‘acquired’ as a ‘servant’ fairly early on in life, because unlike his family, he remembers his owner, Mu’ad, quite well. A somewhat short, plump and dark-skinned man, rich enough to buy his slaves at infancy, maintain them, and groom them for whatever role he desired. Because of his young age, and because he needed to be taken care of, he was put amongst the females of the household, the chambermaids substituting for a mother, sometimes even acting as wet nurses and ‘doctors’ in secret, while the younger concubines pretended to be his sisters. Perhaps it was this fondness that the females of the household had for Oren, that led Mu’ad to pay for his castration – this way, Oren could continue to spend time with them well beyond childhood, while also keeping Mu’ad’s honor intact.

Oren remembers the day of his castration – taken from amongst the women by a tall, gangly eunuch, given a nice meal of spiced rice and mutton, alongside a thick, white and sweet drink that numbed the throat as he drank, then laid to sleep for a while. When Oren woke up, he was on a coarse carpet, too numb to move, with Mu’ad supervising as an elderly woman lifted his manhood and, after some handling of his privates, took off his scrotum with a single dagger stroke. It was a clean and relatively painless procedure; Oren would learn later in life that such care would not normally be taken and that the surgeries were often horrifyingly painful and fatal. What came afterwards was a long period of celebration and recuperation, for while some of the touchier chambermaids were saddened about the loss of Oren’s sexual functions, most were happy about the fact that their ‘son’ and ‘brother’ would continue staying with them. And stay he did – for the next few years, most he did was eat, and grow larger and larger, to the point that he was about the size of a well-fed Redguard warrior at the mere age of fourteen. This unprecedented growth led Mu’ad to reconsider the role he had in mind for Oren, and he was sent to Sentinel for training. What sort of training it would be Oren did not know until he was led to the adobe-walled courtyard of the school and beheld, for the first time in his life, the Iron Palms of Sentinel smashing cut rocks with their bare hands.

The following five years of Oren’s life were spent in the Iron Palm School, where he was taught the Art of Hand and Foot. Their master, Khogan, was an extremely elderly man, to the point where he could not walk from one edge of the school courtyard to the other without some sort of aid. Despite this, his utterly dense flesh and mastery over the school allowed him to poke his fingers through flesh, bone and rock in the blink of an eye. For the first time in his life since he’d eaten spiced rice, Oren was amazed, and despite his steadily growing weight made it harder and harder for him to practice, he quickly became one of the most diligent pupils of the school, earning the title of Journeyman Trainer under three years. Although some of the other members of the school looked down on Oren for his unconventional methods of combat, such as simply grabbing his opponents mid-attack and throwing them around instead of dodging and landing his own strikes, these opinions would eventually be silenced by Khogan himself, who said that Oren ‘fought like an infirm master, not a healthy pupil’. While this praise was not without its own reprimand, the teachings of the Iron Palms were quite dogmatic, and gerontocratic – that Oren was likened to a master, even if for his lack of stamina, meant for them that he could no longer be a figure of contention.

By the time Oren returned to Mu’ad’s household, he had become like a small mountain, both in size, density, and strength. Trained to use nothing but his hardened flesh in combat, he thoroughly impressed Mu’ad by showing the capability to grasp onto tempered sabers with his bare hands, and throw his owner’s master bodyguard aside like he was a piece of reed. Much to the chagrin of his ‘mothers’ and ‘sisters’, and the previous bodyguard, Oren was assigned Mu’ad’s personal bodyguard, who had fallen into debt, and worse, sick with a growing lump in his stomach that not even magic could cure. To make up for his exorbitant health costs, Mu’ad had begun delving in the art of politics, ‘selling’ certain loyal slaves, so they could work their way to important positions in other figures’ households and provide information for his own maneuvering. Of course, Oren himself was far too vitally important to be thrown into such games, but in the following four years, Oren watched from behind his master’s back how stress and scheming drained the man further and further, leading him to eventually pale to a sickly yellow, and after a few weeks of bedridden life, die. What followed afterwards was total chaos – Mu’ad’s wives, free concubines, children, bastards, acquaintances and debt collectors all trying to get themselves a piece of the man’s wealth, suing, coercing, seducing and murdering one another to get more for themselves.

Oren himself, being a slave still, was inherited by one of Mu’ad’s sons, a young and ambitious man named Fajr. While he moved to Fajr’s household along with some of his ‘mothers’ and ‘sisters’ without making any fuss, Oren found life there to be a far less enjoyable experience, with their new owner too stressed, too greedy, and simply too cruel to internally justify being owned by. This opinion, it seemed, was not his alone; for one night, while patrolling Fajr’s bedchambers, Oren stumbled onto his owner fatally wounded, a fruit knife plunged into his throat by one of his ‘sisters’. While he comforted the bruised, traumatized woman at first, he soon found himself at a quandary – as things stood, the young woman would be executed, Oren himself sold in the public market for the lowest bidder for his incompetence, and the rest of the household scattered, bought or kidnapped. Oren decided to take another option and woke up his fellow slaves, explaining the situation, and then prompting them to take whatever they valuables they could find, buy their freedom from the flesh markets and leave for parts unknown, before someone from outside took notice. Surprisingly, it went without a fuss - the household scattered overnight, and Oren fled to Sentinel, where he used the valuables he’d taken from Fajr’s house to purchase his name off the Slave Register.

Despite being the place where he earned his freedom, Sentinel bore a tragedy of its own as well. The elderly Master Khogan had long passed away by the time Oren came back, murdered by one of his spurned students, and the events that’d followed had led to the Iron Palm School to be shut down. It was here that Oren felt despair for the first time in his life, having been so used to being led or ordered by someone else that finding out he had no masters left nearly broke him. He wandered in Sentinel for a while, trying to contact his fellow students at the Iron Palm, but the attempts turned out to be fruitless, most having either moved on, or not in the mood to make peace with whatever that had transpired. His funds were draining (Sentinel was an expensive city, and Oren had immense appetite), yet he’d made no progress; Oren realized fairly quickly that if he didn’t take action, he would be left on the streets as a gigantic bum. Figuring that he needed a roof over his head before anything else, he joined up with the Imperial Cult, taking residence in the homeless shelter that they’d converted their chapel’s basement into. It was for their mutual benefit – the mission was small and vulnerable, and Oren’s mere presence alongside them made possible harassers stay away. Oren used the chapel’s influx to start a simple self-defense course, teaching a watered-down version of the Iron Palm for those interested, receiving a meager sum in return.

What began as an arrangement of mutual benefit between Oren and the Imperial Mission eventually turned into something further; the priests of the Imperial Cult began to appreciate Oren for his helpful demeanor and the amount of young, enthusiastic people his self-defense course kept bringing in, while Oren himself began seeing actual goodwill in the toils of the Priests of the Eight Divines – led by a thin, bald man named Ionnaninus Bandelis, their Sisyphean attempts to teach Oren’s students how to read made a somewhat heartwarming impression on the gigantic man. In reality, Oren did not know how to read and write either, Mu’ad never having deemed it necessary for him to learn how – it took some time for Oren to grow the confidence inform the priests of this, but when he did it was not received with any surprise. He too became a pupil, like some of his own pupils, and soon enough (it did not take long for him to learn the basics), he could read and write with ease. As an act of gratitude, Oren swore that he would worship and honor the Divines for the rest of his days, and following that, to symbolize him being ‘a new person’, took a surname after the man who taught him how to read, being, from that moment on, Oren Bandeli.

Of course, things would not go happily ever after, and Oren would not really become a new person in the way that he hoped – instead of becoming a content monk, he became a killer, when he accidentally caved a man’s face in while trying to stop him from pissing on the Chapel walls. Word spread, and it evolved, and by the time the mob came knocking on the Chapel, they were demanding justice for the old man whose skull had been crushed by ‘that no-ball monster’ for not paying his respects while passing by the Chapel. While Oren knew that the Imperial Cult had lost its glamorous status in the province since the Great War, he did not expect that folks would come and ask for his head; he had to handle an angry, armed mob by himself for a few hours, preventing from coming in through the Chapel’s gate to hurt the others, an act that only resulted in more deaths. Eventually, the town guard came to the priests’ rescue and disperse the mob, although to placate them, Oren was sentenced to exile from Sentinel. Oren thought of this appropriate and let himself get cuffed and escorted out of the city limits, where he was left, to his surprise, without being unshackled from his iron bindings – Oren had to bash his cuffs against rocks and trees for an entire day to free himself. He followed the Iliac coastline to Lainlyn, where his reputation seemed to have reached before him; honest people would not deal with him, for what business did they have with an indiscriminate murderer?

It turned out that some people did, and soon enough Oren began getting approached by shady men who said they wanted to ‘talk’. He brushed them off the first few times, afraid that they were just muggers or troublemakers, but eventually one spoke to him plainly enough for Oren to realize that practically, he’d been brushing off job offers. There were people for whom having unscrupulous muscle on employ was a benefit, and Oren, the notorious, gargantuan outsider, was a perfect candidate. Thus, Oren found himself the personal bodyguard of a mob leader, a dandy with no teeth on one side of his mouth, aptly named Half-Mouth. Guarding a criminal was much different than guarding Mu’ad, for whom Oren was more a figure of deterrence and prestige, not actual combat; in contrast, Oren often found himself dirtying his hands with blood while keeping Half-Mouth safe, growing more and more used to it. His effectiveness grew on Half-Mouth, who began molding Oren in his shape, giving him dressing and etiquette tips; over time Oren’s reputation overshadowed even Half-Mouth’s, and perhaps this could’ve led to Half-Mouth contemplating on how to get rid of Oren, but the latter’s untimely death from a drug overdose prevented that from happening. With Half-Mouth gone, Oren could’ve inherited his organization, but he chose not to, and left for High Rock, where he made a living as a wandering debt collector until he ended up in the employ of a particular mercenary company.

Capabilities

---

§ Skills

• Expert – Hand to Hand
• Adept – Alteration
• Adept – Unarmored
• Apprentice – Acrobatics
• Apprentice – Healing
• Apprentice – Speech
• Apprentice – Throwing Weapons
• Novice – Athletics

§ Flaws

Warning, Confined Space: Oren’s immense size prohibits him from making a subtle entrance, if he can make one at all. He takes up a large portion of physical space and can have trouble going in through doors, let alone maneuvering through small, cramped areas such as tunnels.

Short, Controlled Bursts: Even with his training and the aid of meditative magic, Oren simply carries too much weight for prolonged activities of exertion – he prefers to make the most with the least amount of physical effort, and extended movement will make him need to rest for a long time.

Extra Topping, Please: While he pays for it wherever he can, Oren consumes an immense amount of food and water even in short amounts of time. His appetite is insatiable, and without it placated, his performance can drop visibly, having to deal with cramps and the psychological urges of hunger.

§ Spells

Alteration: Burden, Equilibrium, Feather, Ironflesh, Jump, Slowfall, Transmute

Healing: Fast Healing, Fast Recovery, Healing Hands

§ Tactics

Oren considers the first line of defense to be deterrence. It’s easier to win fights by convincing your opponent that fighting you will not be to their benefit, Oren thinks, and indeed when confronted with a hostile situation his first attempt will be to convince his opponents to stand down, usually through subtle intimidation. Still, Oren knows that a man needs more than one line of defense, and thankfully, has been taught how to walk the walk as much as he likes to talk the talk.

While Oren’s likely to make an impression of no more than dumb muscle, his way of combat is surprisingly technical and dependent on the subtleties of gravity – while the Iron Palm School taught him to amplify his mass and stand his ground like a rock against his opponents, Oren realized fairly quickly that it’s much more convenient and much less tiresome to simply make his opponent lose his footing, whether that be through the Art of Hand and Foot, or using Alteration to bend the laws of gravity for his convenience. He likes to be unconventional; if attacked in melee, his first response is not to avoid the strike but to actually catch it with his hands and guide it elsewhere, while amplifying the momentum of his opponent’s strike with his grasp to disrupt their balance and fling them away.

When he attacks, he likes to attack quickly and precisely, often using his feet to hook and kick at his foe’s ankles, amplifying the strength of his hits by hardening his flesh right before the moment of impact. He prefers to take the center stage of battle so that he does not exhaust himself trying to circle around opponents, although obviously that does not work against enemies who keep their distance. For them, Oren has a less subtle, more proactive and far more tiresome technique – using Alteration to propel himself towards the opponent as if he were a gigantic frog and smash into them with the strength of a catapulted rock.

Still, sometimes enemies require much less complicated methods to deal with, and Oren is not above simply caving his foes in with his fists and kicks, which would normally be applied as stomping finishers to his grounded opponents. Flattening windpipes and shattering bones may be far simpler when you can put your entire weight into the strike, but when life doesn’t give Oren the opportunity to do that, he can just smash his enemies apart, armored or not, although it’s not an approach he can keep up for long without needing rest for his and exerted muscles and mind.

§ Relations & Affiliations

Ionnaninus Bandelis, once head of the Imperial Mission in Sentinel, now assigned to a post in Cyrodiil
Rest of his relations either lost, dead or unworthy of note

§ Opinions

After introductions.

§ Crimes and Accomplishments

Crimes:

• One count of theft in Rihad, unreported
• One count of homicide in Sentinel, ruled as involuntary manslaughter, sentenced to exile as punishment
• Two counts of homicide in Sentinel, ruled as self-defense
• Two counts of homicide in Lainlyn while employed by Half-Mouth, unreported
• Three counts of homicide in Lainlyn while employed by Half-Mouth, ruled as self-defense

Accomplishments:

• Certified Journeyman Trainer of the now defunct Sentinel Iron Palm Martial Arts School
• Certified Layman of the Imperial Cult
• Once prominent criminal figure of the Lainlyn underworld

§ Other

Oren is an amateur poet.

Inventory

---

§ Cash & Valuables 74 Septims	§ Keys & Lockpicks None
§ Tools & Crafting Materials None	§ Clothing, Armor & Jewelry A wide-brimmed conical hat, made of straw A faded dark yellow cloak with black trim A brocade robe of a dark green color with yellow trim A yellow sash A pair of dark brown breeches A pair of beige gaiters A pair of yellow leather slippers
§ Weapon & Ammo None	§ Potion & Arcane Supplies Three Potions of Restore Magicka
§ Books & Documents Journeyman Trainer Certificate from the now-defunct Iron Palm Martial Arts School	§ Consumables & Ingredients Two flasks full of water A whole two-pound block of spiced, cured meat A satchel of rice
§ Bags & Containers A sack A satchel of potions A satchel of food Two large flasks made of dried gourd	§ Other A folded piece of paper, containing previously written verses

Fallout: Cascadia

Wow, what a fucking nerd

_{◄No no, you see, you have to place the battery the other way in...►}

Sidney Ackerman

^{26 | Arroyo, New California Republic | 5'9/160lb | Human, Caucasian Male}

_{A P P E A R A N C E}

Were one to get a proper glimpse underneath the tinted plexiglass visor of the all-covering radiation suit that he seems to wear 24/7, the first impression would likely not be a horrible one, as would be expected from the man’s attire, but a neutral, or even a rather positive one – in fact, one could say that Sidney is actually a rather handsome young lad, although perhaps not the most stylish. Beneath auburn medium length hair swept aside for convenience, his face stands quite conventional, if not somewhat unblemished compared to the average wastelander; he’s pale skinned, clean shaven, aquiline nosed and slightly droopy eyed. Save for a jaw of ‘Habsburg’ size (in his own terms), his looks are plain, maybe somewhat attractive thanks to his fair complexity, although nonetheless, nothing stunning.

Sidney’s physique is, similarly, nothing stunning – he’s lean, and while he’s not exactly what one would call muscular, he’s just fit enough to endure the physical exertion required by his line of work. He’s accustomed to walking long distances while carrying heavy objects on his back, and is known for his competence at running towards safety in dangerous situations (although that hasn’t exactly done wonders for his reputation). His lack of scarring and deformities alone could count as testament to his danger avoidance skills. Nonetheless, Sidney does not rely solely on pure luck and competence for his safety – his mysophobic tendencies have led him to don a faded, rubber covered radiation suit at all times (bearing the emblem of the Followers of the Apocalypse on the right shoulder), over which he’s recently begun wearing a breastplate, after an incident with raiders in which he was shot at.

_{E Q U I P M E N T}

• A radiation suit with a closed-circuit air system
• A metal breastplate, with a gap cut into its right side to allow proper aiming of a rifle
• A Wattz Pattern laser rifle, old and used, with a wooden replacement stock
• A homemade coil pistol, built out of spare parts from a broken Gauss Rifle
• A doctor’s bag, full of implements, syringes, gauze and rubbing alcohol
• A bottle of iodine tincture
• A bottle of MedX
• A bottle of water purification tablets
• A satchel of five Stimpaks
• A packet of RadAway

_{M I S C E L L A N E O U S G E A R}

• A large rucksack
• A toolbox
• A roll of gaffer tape
• A wrapping of spare cables
• A box of spare electronics
• A handheld vacuum sealer
• A vacuum pack, full of dried meat
• A vacuum pack, full of dried vegetables
• A homemade six-pack of canned food
• A large canteen of water
• A bottle of isotonic drink
• A bag of wet wipes
• A tube of toothpaste
• A toothbrush

_{S K I L L S}

Repair (Core Skill): Having grown up amongst the Followers of the Apocalypse has allowed the mechanic inside Sidney to flourish – the man knows how to make things work.

Medicine (Good Skill): Sidney knows that reassembling people is just as important a skill as reassembling machines – aren’t people just machines of a different make, anyway?

Energy Weapons (Good Skill): If a man in the Wasteland wants to live long, he needs knowledge on how to disassemble things as much as reassembling them; in his case, vaporizing is the easier option.

Science (Average Skill): While he’s not well educated on chemistry or abstract physics, his knowledge of machinery and anatomy lets Sidney take some fine educated guesses about related topics.

Sneak (Average Skill): Discretion is the better part of valor, isn’t it? Sidney doesn’t like high-risk encounters, and would rather take his chances in life without being perceived by possible threats.

Speech (Average Skill): “Good day mate, how’re ya doin’?”

_{H I S T O R Y}

Frankly speaking, compared to most other citizens of the Wasteland, Sidney’s had it pretty good. Born in Arroyo, the resting place of many Wasteland legends such as the Vault Dweller and the Chosen One, by the time of Sidney’s birth it had long become a settled, civilized city, with most of the population having descended from the inhabitants of Vault 13. Sidney suspects possible Vault dweller ancestry thanks to his relatively unblemished body and fair complexion, although he’s never asked his parents about it – for all he knows, he was born to doctors Lauren and Gavin Ackerman in Arroyo, members of the Followers of the Apocalypse, an organization in which he would be raised as well; despite some ideological differences, it’s an identity that he’s accepted without issue.

With his parents constantly overworked and exhausted from tending to unending droves of patients, Sidney was often left alongside a family friend, a budget supervisor named Lilian Modi, whose collection of books and broken tools became companions for the young Sidney in his lonely nights, and sparked an interest in learning and engineering within the boy. Having been born into a scientific organization within a booming town meant that Sidney was able to grow up relatively sheltered from the horrors of the Wasteland – while not obscenely rich or anything of the kind, Sidney nonetheless had access to luxuries such as a proper education, healthy food, and running heated water, to an extent that he was able to take them for granted. Thankfully, the environment in which he raised was not one to tolerate privileged behavior; the Followers were, despite their dreamlike goals, composed mostly of worldly individuals.

Perhaps because of his days spent fixing broken toys and tools, or perhaps because he had not received enough social experience in his youth, he decided to pursue a career primarily in mechanics as he grew older, rather than medicine or education. From what he had observed in his youth, machines were more reliable and predictable than humans, and that was something that appealed his goal-oriented character. By the time he turned 18, Sidney had gotten quite adept at fixing most of the faulty machinery that caused problems in the Followers’ Outpost, even if temporarily. Nonetheless, not satisfied with being a wrench monkey, he eventually took permission from his parents to leave Arroyo, and pursue higher education at the Followers’ University in the Boneyard.

Setting out on the road to the University as part of a trade caravan was the first time Sidney got a taste of what the Wasteland was really like. Preyed on by mutants and raiders, the journey marked the first time in Sidney’s life in which he witnessed combat and death. Sidney suspects that the first time he took another man’s life was at some part of this journey as well – a rather anticlimactic experience, compared to the cathartic and soul-crushing tales he’d often heard. While the journey was not very remarkable, save these skirmishes early on, and an infected foot on one of the caravan guards that he, as the second most medically knowledgeable member in the caravan (the surgeon being amongst the few casualties), had to partially amputate.

By the time the caravan reached the Boneyard, Sidney was more weathered to the realities of the Post-War life, yet interestingly enough, this fueled a drive in him to better himself for the people around him, rather than lead him further down his asocial side. He came to terms with the fact that, while the work the Followers did was perhaps ultimately pointless, it was still the best and noblest goal that people like he and his parents could strive towards. This drive led to him taking extra classes in medicine, although the detailed studies of infected patients gave him a somewhat unhealthy obsession about keeping himself as clean as possible.

Eventually, Sidney returned to Arroyo, having found that not much had changed since his leave. The Followers greeted him warmly when he return, and as he looked around to reorient himself with the place, had responded to his leave with finding another wrench monkey, and pinning a photo of him on the cork pinboard on the wall of their outpost headquarters, alongside a bunch of encouragement notes. He found himself surprisingly content with this legacy, and, after some time, decided to leave once more. While his parents objected at first, they could not argue with his reasoning – the more folks like him were around, the better it was for the inhabitants of the Wasteland.

After preparing himself for the life of wandering, Sidney set out once more, earning his living as a traveling mechanic and doctor. However, the endeavor was nearly stopped dead in its tracks right off the bat, when Sidney found himself ambushed by a bunch of raiders, who’d thought of him to be part of the security detail of the caravan they were planning to hit. Somehow managing to hold his own against the raiders until the target they’d been aiming for ended up coming in as the cavalry, Sidney thought perhaps that this was a sign for him to return to Arroyo, yet, realizing that he’d saved plenty of lives even if by accident, he decided to accompany the caravan to the end of their journey, making money off his professions in the trading posts, and even getting payment by the company once the caravan reached its destination.

Finding caravan work to be a safer and more profitable way of going about his goal of wandering the Wastes and providing aid for those who could not afford to travel, he decided to join the caravan that’d saved his life near Sac-Town – and thus began Sidney’s employment with the Happy Trails Company.

_{P S Y C H E}

Sidney isn’t exactly what one would call gritty. While he doesn’t have the most cheerful disposition, he seems to treat the grim realities of the Wasteland as granted, even if not welcomed. His view of life seems to have a rather cynical undertone to it; it’s not great, it’s not terrible, it’s just what it is, and everyone does what they have to do. Yet despite this rather grounded assessment of life and circumstances, he’s a fairly kind and amicable person, even if that part of him is somewhat muffled by the ever-present plexiglass visor that covers his face when out in the wilderness, and as long as it’s not borderline suicidal, will go to lengths to help people. Still, his selfless side aside, Sidney is not a brave man, let alone one all that used to situations that necessitate bravery, and prefers to avoid dangerous situations to the best of his abilities. He has an inherent fear of mutants and is often on edge around them, and is also heavily anxious in environments that are irradiated, filthy, or just contaminated in any other way. Nonetheless, perhaps his most valuable skill is that, so long as there’s other lives at stake, he does not let his fears take over his actions – how else could one explain such a squeamish man successfully performing field surgery?

_{D R I V E}

As cliché as it sounds, as much as he does not want to admit it, Sidney believes in the sanctity of human life and dignity – maybe not in an individual capacity, for he is of the belief that some people are just not worth the effort to try and save, but as a rule, he tries to see in every hypothetical human being a person worthy of certain basic rights; even ghouls and mutants, as much as they trigger his anxiety via mere presence. He does not like the Wasteland very much, seeing it to be a brutish place, and considers himself, in perhaps a vain way, to be unfortunate for knowing too much about what ‘could have been’, and suffering from the difference between the possibilities and the realities. However, he is also of the opinion that one has to be the change that one wishes to see in the world, and knows that, were he to ignore the call that’s led him to wandering, he would live the rest of his days as an unsatisfied, bitter man. Thus, he goes on, hoping to make some visible difference to the Wasteland, one broken machine at a time.

Fallout: Cascadia

Safe to say I'm interested.

The Elder Scrolls: Days of Night

17th of Sun's Dawn
Daggerfall

---

“First impressions: Disappointing.”

To some, perhaps the sight of a horse suspended above the wide carrack would have been an interesting sight – to others, likely not. While the hooves dangling down from above his eyesight added a quality to the scene almost dreamlike in its bizarreness, the faint smell of foamy horse odor, combined with the foul stench that the heaving sailors emanated, was far too overwhelmingly pungent for Eno’s fragile nostrils to let him find anything worthy of wonder in the mise-en-scene – men, mer, and animals, nothing more, nothing greater… perhaps except the quality of the woodwork all around. The gangplank underneath his sandaled feet did not even let out the slightest creak as he and Llaran walked up towards deck. That was commendable. But the horse being lowered down with ropes, looking him in the eye as it slowly disappeared from sight, was not. That was just absurd.

Just as he did not like men and mer, Eno also did not like animals; not only were they erratic and loud, but also, they were creatures without a sense of proper hygiene. Perhaps except cats, who had a mind to clean up their filth; no wonder some folks treated their more sophisticated subspecies as fellow sapient beings, he mused to himself. Perhaps there was merit in the idea – after all, they were often more hygienic than Nords, although the tall woman who’d just passed by him seemed to prove an exception to the norm. The soft smell she exuded was either perfume or enchantment, but either way, it was not bad taste, just overtly feminine; likely daisy with a small hint of ginger. He thanked the forces of fate for providing someone to shroud his nostrils from the stench of foul sailor.

“Faster, boy,” he urged Llaran as they walked down the main deck towards their room, which, they were told, was to be stationed underneath the quarter deck, thankfully away from the rabble. Finding himself dissatisfied with his spear bearer’s pace, he sped up his steps, moved in front of him, and feeling courteous, opened the door and held it open so that the fatigued boy could move in. “Thank you, master,” the young Dunmer huffed out as he moved in and finally found a chance to put down the two chests on his back. Eno wasn’t very elated about having two chests instead of one or three, but he did not want to strain Llaran further by adding another chest on top of the other two, and, well, they hadn’t been able to find one large enough for both their possessions.

“Well, we’re here, master, aren’t we?” Llaran asked once they entered the room, his eyes glinting with excitement. Dragging the two chests inside, he shut the door afterwards, and set out to reorienting the things in the room in accordance to his master’s wishes while Eno lied on the bed.

“Yes indeed,” Eno replied blandly from his resting spot. He watched Llaran’s movements, trying to see if there were any improvements in his motor skills.

“And, uh, the spear?”

“Put the shaft on the table, leave the tip as it is.”

“If that’s all, can I, uh, walk around the ship a little bit? There’s some interesting folks around, don’t you think?”

“Yes. So no.”

Llaran faced Eno with a quizzed expression.

“Stay put for now.”

The young Dunmer pouted. The fact that his master did not let him sate his curiosity was perhaps the worst thing about him.

“Do as I say, and I will give you another lesson in wrestling when I return.”

“Really?”

“You know it.”

With that, Eno left the room and headed once more towards the deck.

---

Outside, with nothing surrounding him but sails, rigging and clear sky, Eno felt safer than he did below deck, where he was surrounded by thick planks of wood not only below, but also beside and above as well. Normally, he would have chastised himself for feeling ‘safer’, for that would mean that factors aside from himself played a hand in his safety – for Eno, heresy. But perhaps because of the mental toll of their journey, or perhaps because of reasons as of yet unknown to him, he chose not to. He switched expressions to the default ‘disgusted Dunmer’ in case of someone interrupting his solitude, and walked over to the railings on the starboard side, his fingers trying to get a feel for the softness of the wooden railing. There were sailors around still, but on this side of the ship, the salty, almost citric smell of the seawater was dominant enough for him to be able to ignore them, and focus on his eyesight, as irritating as it was underneath the sunlight.

The first subject that was to walk up the gangplank was, given the clothing and the staff, an awfully conventional mage. The woodwork on his staff disappointed Eno to a degree that he did not deem the man worthy of further observation; it wasn’t even lacquered, for Vehk’s sake. Most of these so-called mages were in reality craftsmen’s apprentices, he believed, not actual magicians. They simply replicated whatever was taught to them and sought no more than the technical values of whatever it is that they wished to replicate – it was a true disgrace, sullying the meaning of the word, yet not even adding anything more to it in the process.

Then came up an Argonian so disgustingly weak that Eno could not help but admire its tenacity. With its thin, crooked limbs and skittering gait, it seemed almost insectoid to Eno, not unlike the scribs that populated his once-homeland. He watched it silently disappear down the deck, like a cockroach hiding within gaps between flooring and furniture. This did not bode well to Eno, who was convinced that the ship was carrying its fill of beasts already, be they human, horse, cat, or lizard. Being a Dunmer certainly had its charms – there was no judgement on why you disliked everything and everyone. Eno silently wondered if he was vitriolic by nature of his character, or by nature of his race. Or was his character a product of his race?

“Too much think, load of junk,” he reminded himself, as his childhood tutors used to remind the more questioning students amongst his group. He procured a half-carved Idol of Vigor from his pocket and began whittling on it with his pocketknife, trying to deepen the gap between the idol's head and its shaft.

The Elder Scrolls: Days of Night

Eno Indarys

Name: Eno Indarys, the Rogue Finger
Race: Dunmer
Age: 40
Birthsign: The Serpent
Family Origins: Necrom, Morrowind

Appearance:

---

Standing at an average 5’8’’, at first glance Eno does not make a striking impression. With most of his body hidden underneath baggy robes, and his head clean shaven, he would likely be assumed to be a monk, which, while true, would be a gross understatement. On a closer look, one can realize that despite a strong jaw, an aquiline nose with wide nostrils, and an awfully prominent brow ridge, Eno’s face has been purposefully shaped to be inconspicuous; even the haughty, arrogant look on his face acts as not much more than a distraction for his ritually clipped ears, unnaturally colored eyes, and discolored skin. He is pale for a Dunmer, so off-color that he could pass as a (sickly) man in a passing glance, and his eyes are a cloudy blue, rather than the natural red of his race. There are merely two holes where his ears should be, with barely visible tattoos covering the scar lines. Yet the oddities only start here.

When unclothed, with his disproportionately broad shoulders, long, thick arms, and large, yet graceful, almost feminine hands, Eno sports a build that would not be out of place amongst the most skilled swimmers of Tamriel, or an anatomist’s wettest dreams. His back is well defined, corded with multiple, visible ridges of muscles, and the triangular, flat shape of his torso only lends to size it up further. While he looks less muscular from the front, thanks to a thin layer of fat covering his abs, the shape of his muscles and firmness of his skin still make it obvious that he is in peak physical shape. Were someone to spot him in the nude, they would quickly notice that Eno’s body is entirely absent of physical hair; his arms, legs, eyebrows, and even his crotch are free of even the loneliest tuft. However, thanks to him covering most of his lower torso, arms and lower legs in enchanted bandages, just how unblemished his body is stays unseen to even those who get intimate with him.

Although Eno likes not attracting undue attention, he still considers himself part of the New Temple, and thus has to make himself known, even if only to ‘those in the know’, and dresses so. The hem and sleeves of his robes have a thread of gold embroidered through them, signifying purity and affluence, while a large ritual dagger is stuffed through the sash wrapped around his waist, standing right above his groin with the sheath pointing down, signifying virility, power and prudence. While he claims he wears the white cowl wrapped around his head to signify clearness of mind, this is a lie; it is actually a multipurpose garment, enchanted as to keep magick intrusions into his mind, while also acting as a hood for colder climates, a towel for warmer ones, and, when necessary, a form of concealment for his lack of ears.

Just as he keeps his ‘true personality’ hidden underneath falsifying layers, Eno keeps his vital assets disguised the same way. He wears a chainmail vest underneath his robes, but this piece of protection doubles as a ruse, given that his robes are enchanted as to not yield to blades. He visibly wears many paper charms wrapped around his clothes, yet these are in fact simple disguises compared to the enchanted bandages that cover many portions of his body. The lines around his ears seem like scar tissue, yet they are in fact Daedric charms tattooed to amplify his hearing. He claims his eyes are discolored because of cataracts, yet in fact, they have been injected with an alchemical substance to make him able to see in the dark, like the Khajiit, albeit the permanence of the effect has led to him avoiding bright lights whenever possible, and a trademark squint.

---

Personality: Outwardly, Eno is stereotypical – in typical Dunmer fashion, he’s callous, constantly unimpressed with, and equally dismissive of, others, their concerns, and their customs. While not proud of being Dunmer (for there is nothing to be proud of being superior by birth), he still knows that his race is also a reason for him being above others, and often views other races with pity, a pity which can pave way to slight and (still dismissive) admiration if he ever comes across someone who is capable, but isn’t Dunmer. In fashion typical to Eno, all of this is true, yet also a façade. Eno is not merely dismissive of other races; he is equally dismissive of Dunmer and their accomplishments, and simply shows it in a different fashion. He knows that one of the best ways to know someone is to frustrate them, and hides behind the classic Dunmer stereotypes to get to that point as quickly as possible, after which he rates his subjects.

In truth, Eno is a Mer of contradictions. He views the world as a ladder to climb, and himself as a representation of a force, the Ego, that is making its way to the top. Thanks to this outlook, he is able to harbor two seemingly contradictory feelings towards a subject at the same time, via viewing them through Ego-as-is, and Ego-as-him. Eno can hate and love equally, be most wary of the ones he trusts the most, and lie and believe in his own lies very convincingly. Yet, being aware of the pattern, he often creates false principles for himself as to confuse the idiots who may be close to understanding him. This seemingly impenetrable whirlpool of opinions is not without its flaws, however. Despite one of his core tenets being ‘to be an Agent of Discord’, Eno is a creature of order, and finds it hard to find in himself a lively, individual personality, that can exist outside of his definition of rituals and obligations. Because of this, he constantly categorizes even the most trivial actions and hobbies to self-legitimize them, and seeks to keep himself busy whenever possible because of his dislike of stray thought.

Ironically, his most ‘unique’ quirks seem to be a product of the very same obligations that limits his approach of sociality. He has a fixation with odd numbers, because he thinks they are pure, and prefers to make sure that his belongings stay pure through getting rid of amounts that make them even, often through charity, which is a convenient way of gaining good graces, while also being for him a declaration of superiority. He is an awfully competitive person, but surprisingly, despite the lengths he is willing to go just to ‘win’, he does not bear personal grudges towards those who defeat him, and often stays cordial with those that have bested him – although given his obligation to never concede defeat, he often reignites the conflict when the moment seems opportune (i.e. when he is most likely to win). While he is aware of social norms, they are not an integral part of his character. When busy, he can forget them completely, and be unable to comprehend the reasons laying behind any adverse reaction to his actions.

Despite his detached nature, Eno understands how social creatures work, and has found ways to appeal to them and gain their good graces. Being a proficient dream reader, he offers them to those he finds vulnerable to personal interaction and suggestion. However, he never gives his subjects the true interpretations, instead giving them ones more convenient for himself. A constant judge of character, and most constantly a judge of his own character, Eno is a keen observer of people, and so, knows how to present himself as needed, how to walk and act with certain demeanors when necessary and can impersonate various stereotypes with mathematical precision. When amongst a group of people, he decides on, and hides, a stereotype underneath the outer ‘classic Dunmer’ personality for them to discover over prolonged contact. When necessary he changes the stereotype as befits his needs.

While almost completely a creature of logic, Eno has certain traits that he has earned by circumstance, and some that he has not been able to find any logical explanation for. No matter what, Eno is obsessed with hygiene, most importantly smells, and will seek to clean himself whenever necessary. He despises having a smell, even good ones, and often categorizes people on their odor, and can recognize people by smell alone. He also finds himself prone to episodes of solemn sadness whenever he is not keeping himself ‘busy’, and thus, despises idleness. Thanks to the ritual clipping of his ears, and the charms tattooed on to give him ‘Secret Hearing’, Eno is better at hearing things that are not directed to him, but worse at hearing things directed at him. Thus, he can sometimes unwittingly leave an absent-minded impression. One thing that Eno is prodigal at is physical action, and he finds a strange serenity in his mind whenever he has to rely on muscle memory rather than his smarts. With very strong muscle memory, he’s good at repeating his own exact movements, at the cost of looking uncannily robotic.

---

History: As with most living creatures, Eno’s story begins with his parents. His mother Felara, and his father Daryn, were both artists; Daryn a poet, making a living off writing dirges for the constant funerary processions that gave Necrom its name, whereas Felara was a musician, who composed the poetry written by her husband into songs. However, well into their middle ages, they had been dealing with certain problems of an artistic nature – namely, a crippling lack of inspiration. For the two, who weren’t very financially minded, and were also incredibly passionate about their life’s work, the situation was worse than a death sentence, and that led them to seeking a cure; faith, in their case. Eno would never learn of his parents’ former life as wealthy burghers – for him, just like his parents, family was found somewhere else, and that family was in the Temple.

Felara and Daryn’s relative fame and strong donations to the Temple had already attracted all sorts of positive attention to them in the hierarchy; that their child was born under the sign of the Serpent was lauded as further proof of their righteousness of faith, and there was no objection by anyone when the Temple offered to take their child in amongst their cadre of Fingers. The Fingers were a group of monks of special position within the Temple, raised from birth to replace the old Ordinators of House Indoril. Thus, reborn as a Littlefinger, Eno was baptized in Waxwater to cleanse him of all impurities, a procedure which left him bereft of all body hair and gave his skin its faded color, and marked him as one of the Fingers permanently. As a child, Eno was noted for his very result-oriented demeanor and excellence in sports and handicraft, although, according to his overseer, he was horrible at meditation, and not well liked by his peers.

Eventually, towards the end of his strict education, it was decided that, given his piety, strong adherence to the obligations of the Reclamations, and physical prowess, he would best perform his duties to the Temple as a Longfinger – an inquisitor of the Temple. Eno found this most appropriate, and in fact earned a name for himself as one of the more prominent and capable Longfingers. So seriously he took his occupation, that he would go on to have his ears removed, and his eyes injected with an alchemical Nighteye solution; the first not only allowed him to use prosthetic ears and disguise himself as a man when necessary, but also the ritual cauterizing was done in such a way that enhanced his eavesdropping capabilities via enchanted lettering. While some of his higher ups found his self-modifications unsightly, Eno’s devotion to being a force of the Temple was generally met with praise. It was no surprise when he was ordered to be amongst the Longfingers sent to silence a curious rumor of heresy in Blacklight, the local Fingers having failed.

Disguised as a Breton antique collector, Eno quickly came into contact with the source; a bunch of elderly Dunmer priests, offering him an original copy of the 36 Lessons of Vivec, untouched by the Thumbs of the Temple. He arrested them for the crimes of Possession of Prohibited Artifacts and Intent to Sell Prohibited Artifacts, although curiously, never turned the book in for archival. Having always had sympathy for Saint Vivec, thanks to his proficiency with the spear (Eno’s weapon of choice) and his association with Mephala, he decided to sate his curiosity; while its contents were not a shocking revelation, thanks to how regarding the impulsiveness and fickleness of the Daedra constituted an important part of their worship, it did lead him to rethink his place in the hierarchy. Throughout his life, he’d been a servant to greater powers, with no regard to himself, his Ego. He’d been wasting his life to serve the powers that be; yet the forces that he thought he’d been worshipping were forces of change, forces of Ego, not order. His faith in the Padomaic triumphed over his faith in the Temple, and so, Eno decided to serve his faith better. He would reach Heaven by Violence.

Eno started by disappearing. He falsely reported that he had found an unauthorized cult of Namira but was at risk of compromising himself, and then promptly fell off the grid, expecting his superiors to put two and two together and write him off as deceased. Leaving for Skyrim, at first Eno found himself unsure on what to do; having lived according to ritual throughout his life, he realized he did not know how to lead a life for himself. He found an answer to that quickly, by setting down his own obligations and rituals. This line of thinking would eventually evolve and make him view others’ behavior in the same vein (although obviously of a lesser sort, since theirs was one without higher purpose), and, combined with the education on Daedra he’d received in the Temple, lead to a new occupation; an interpreter of dreams. While the oddly dressed Dunmer was not well received amongst the Nords, he found the minds of the Dunmer refugees in the land very malleable; his disguise as a monk only helped create an even better disposition. He began by interpreting for workers, maids, people who were bereft of their ancestors’ loftier, prouder lives. Their rumors snuck into the minds of their employers, however, and soon enough, Eno was interpreting dreams for Nords of the wealthier classes.

His gig did not go on for very long, however, and he was discovered to be having an affair with the wife and the children of a rather influential court figure in Whiterun. Skipping town with his profits, and a young lad he’d convinced to become his manservant, he fled to Jehanna. There, he led a simpler life, preying on the constantly bickering middle class by pretending to be a writer of charms. Having learned his lesson in Whiterun, he quickly changed occupations before anyone could find out that he was a fraud, and moved to Wayrest, serving as a martial arts instructor, teaching young nobles the way of the Spear. Introducing young men and women to the art of piercing, he earned some renown fairly quick under the name of Indar Serano; although the renown came with a fair amount of infamy, which led to all his property being confiscated and him wanted when he accidentally crushed the windpipe of the Court Wizard’s son during a training session. He fled south, to Hammerfell, taking up the even simpler trade of wood carving. Carving idols, spear shafts, and love spears for those in need, he found the work satisfying, but dulling in the long term for his goal. He had to seek Violence for Heaven, and so, he began searching for great tumult. A search that led him to a ship named Kismet.

---

Biggest Regret: Consciously, leaving the Temple. Eno believes that it has set him back where it could lead to him gaining even more power and influence, and respects this fault for teaching him the lessons of starting over. Subconsciously, however, he's not as above it all as he seems; it's hidden away even from him, but Eno bears resentment for the lack of vision he had as a youth, his past contentment with the positions he was given, and the enthusiasm with which he followed orders. Nothing but a glorified tool for somebody else's purpose.

Eno's Goal: A self-declared pursuer of 'Royalty', Eno claims to have great, world-shaping goals (as vague as they are) – but for that, he has to become strong enough to get to survive that stage. Eno views his body as no more than a vessel that needs to be prepared for the stormy paths he has set in mind, and as such, his current goal is to perfect his being against any sort of harm that he may come across on his journey, be it physical, mental or magical. Having received some amount of permanent body modifications in his earlier days, he may end up looking for similar options to further his prowess and progress.

---

Skills:

Expert:
Spear

Adept:
Speech
Sneak
Hand-to-Hand

Novice:
Athletics
Acrobatics
Illusion

Spells:

Calm, Courage, Fear, Fury

Equipment:

-Often hailing Eno’s arrival from afar is an umbrella carried on a long, dark pole by his spear bearer, Llaran. In truth, this bell is a cover for the thin ebony tip of his spear, the blade meticulously forged from a piece of evidence from an old smuggling case, a piece that Eno kept for himself.

-Pointing down Eno’s waist is a large scabbard, in which is holstered a steel dagger meant for ritual use, with a wavy blade and a conical hilt that ends in two round halves. While useful in a pinch, Eno prefers to keep it solely as a piece of attire, and in truth, has little idea on how to use it, except as a shorter spear.

-Eno likes to show himself as vulnerable, but in truth keeps himself ready for action. He pretends to try to cover the chainmail vest that he wears under his robes, yet these robes, a memento from his days in Whiterun, have been cut from an enchanted cloth that makes it as tough as buff leather when struck.

-A white cowl is usually wrapped around Eno’s head, seemingly to further signify his disguise as a monk. It is actually back from his days in the Temple, a shirt that has been cut to act as a headwrap. It was for wandering priests, enchanted as to resist illusion and temptation; still works the same as a cowl.

-As part of his initiation into the Longfingers, Eno’s limbs were covered with a set of bandages that bear prearranged Daedric lettering, a form of enchanting meant to ease and strengthen his muscles. Oddly, they seem to be so porous that nothing sticks to them; allowing Eno to wear them without care like skin.

Misc. Possessions:

Eno is almost always followed by his manservant, healer and spear bearer, Llaran. A young, lithe lad quite fascinated and enamored with Eno, he’s been with him through thick and thin and carries most of the provisions and comforts required to make long journeys for the both of them.

Information on Llaran

Llaran Maryon, aged 19, is formally Eno Indarys’ spear bearer and apprentice. In practice, however, his duties go little further than being his pack mule, masseuse and bed companion. Having entered Eno’s service in Windhelm, almost at the start of his journey, Llaran admits that Eno is not a gentle master; yet, given his past as a lowly servant in an East Empire Company supplier’s household, he believes that his time spent with the former Longfinger is a more fulfilling and enjoyable one.

An attractive, athletic lad with soft, gentle features despite his laborious past, he is quick to make friends with people, although that may just be his naivety. While he wishes to learn more of the spear arts and magic, as of now he practically has zero experience. Eno believes that he doesn’t have the ‘warrior nature’ to be worth actual teaching, and if someone were to get to know Llaran, they’d probably agree with Eno.

On journeys, aside from Eno’s ‘umbrella’, Llaran carries a large canvas cloth and two sturdy boxes made of lacquered wood, one holding nine potions of health restoration and cure poison, some muscle relaxant lotions, an ample amount of candlewax and three different colors of skin dyes – pale, weathered and tanned, respectively.

In the other box are three packs, one holding a dependable amount of cured meats and rice balls, the other holding clothes, perfume and soap for himself, while Eno’s pack holds spare clothes of both genders, soap, some makeup supplies, a small amount of wigs, and three pairs of ears made of hardened wax; one pair is shaped like a human’s ears, while the other two pairs are shaped like an elf’s ears.

Llaran carries a small knife, a pair of scissors, a piece of flint and a mortar and pestle on his person. While the mortar and pestle may be of use to someone who knows alchemy, Llaran does not know alchemy, and uses it solely for culinary purposes.

On his person, Eno carries a very small carving knife, that he uses to carve idols in his spare time, as well as carrying a satchel of coffee beans that he likes to chew on before going to sleep.

The Elder Scrolls: Days of Night

The Anal Spearman

Name: Eno Indarys, the Rogue Finger
Race: Dunmer
Age: 40
Birthsign: The Serpent
Family Origins: Necrom, Morrowind

Appearance:

---

Standing at an average 5’8’’, at first glance Eno does not make a striking impression. With most of his body hidden underneath baggy robes, and his head clean shaven, he would likely be assumed to be a monk, which, while true, would be a gross understatement. On a closer look, one can realize that despite a strong jaw, an aquiline nose with wide nostrils, and an awfully prominent brow ridge, Eno’s face has been purposefully shaped to be inconspicuous; even the haughty, arrogant look on his face acts as not much more than a distraction for his ritually clipped ears, unnaturally colored eyes, and discolored skin. He is pale for a Dunmer, so off-color that he could pass as a (sickly) man in a passing glance, and his eyes are a cloudy blue, rather than the natural red of his race. There are merely two holes where his ears should be, with barely visible tattoos covering the scar lines. Yet the oddities only start here.

When unclothed, with his disproportionately broad shoulders, long, thick arms, and large, yet graceful, almost feminine hands, Eno sports a build that would not be out of place amongst the most skilled swimmers of Tamriel, or an anatomist’s wettest dreams. His back is well defined, corded with multiple, visible ridges of muscles, and the triangular, flat shape of his torso only lends to size it up further. While he looks less muscular from the front, thanks to a thin layer of fat covering his abs, the shape of his muscles and firmness of his skin still make it obvious that he is in peak physical shape. Were someone to spot him in the nude, they would quickly notice that Eno’s body is entirely absent of physical hair; his arms, legs, eyebrows, and even his crotch are free of even the loneliest tuft. However, thanks to him covering most of his lower torso, arms and lower legs in enchanted bandages, just how unblemished his body is stays unseen to even those who get intimate with him.

Although Eno likes not attracting undue attention, he still considers himself part of the New Temple, and thus has to make himself known, even if only to ‘those in the know’, and dresses so. The hem and sleeves of his robes have a thread of gold embroidered through them, signifying purity and affluence, while a large ritual dagger is stuffed through the sash wrapped around his waist, standing right above his groin with the sheath pointing down, signifying virility, power and prudence. While he claims he wears the white cowl wrapped around his head to signify clearness of mind, this is a lie; it is actually a multipurpose garment, enchanted as to keep magick intrusions into his mind, while also acting as a hood for colder climates, a towel for warmer ones, and, when necessary, a form of concealment for his lack of ears.

Just as he keeps his ‘true personality’ hidden underneath falsifying layers, Eno keeps his vital assets disguised the same way. He wears a chainmail vest underneath his robes, but this piece of protection doubles as a ruse, given that his robes are enchanted as to not yield to blades. He visibly wears many paper charms wrapped around his clothes, yet these are in fact simple disguises compared to the enchanted bandages that cover many portions of his body. The lines around his ears seem like scar tissue, yet they are in fact Daedric charms tattooed to amplify his hearing. He claims his eyes are discolored because of cataracts, yet in fact, they have been injected with an alchemical substance to make him able to see in the dark, like the Khajiit, albeit the permanence of the effect has led to him avoiding bright lights whenever possible, and a trademark squint.

---

Personality: Outwardly, Eno is stereotypical – in typical Dunmer fashion, he’s callous, constantly unimpressed with, and equally dismissive of, others, their concerns, and their customs. While not proud of being Dunmer (for there is nothing to be proud of being superior by birth), he still knows that his race is also a reason for him being above others, and often views other races with pity, a pity which can pave way to slight and (still dismissive) admiration if he ever comes across someone who is capable, but isn’t Dunmer. In fashion typical to Eno, all of this is true, yet also a façade. Eno is not merely dismissive of other races; he is equally dismissive of Dunmer and their accomplishments, and simply shows it in a different fashion. He knows that one of the best ways to know someone is to frustrate them, and hides behind the classic Dunmer stereotypes to get to that point as quickly as possible, after which he rates his subjects.

In truth, Eno is a Mer of contradictions. He views the world as a ladder to climb, and himself as a representation of a force, the Ego, that is making its way to the top. Thanks to this outlook, he is able to harbor two seemingly contradictory feelings towards a subject at the same time, via viewing them through Ego-as-is, and Ego-as-him. Eno can hate and love equally, be most wary of the ones he trusts the most, and lie and believe in his own lies very convincingly. Yet, being aware of the pattern, he often creates false principles for himself as to confuse the idiots who may be close to understanding him. This seemingly impenetrable whirlpool of opinions is not without its flaws, however. Despite one of his core tenets being ‘to be an Agent of Discord’, Eno is a creature of order, and finds it hard to find in himself a lively, individual personality, that can exist outside of his definition of rituals and obligations. Because of this, he constantly categorizes even the most trivial actions and hobbies to self-legitimize them, and seeks to keep himself busy whenever possible because of his dislike of stray thought.

Ironically, his most ‘unique’ quirks seem to be a product of the very same obligations that limits his approach of sociality. He has a fixation with odd numbers, because he thinks they are pure, and prefers to make sure that his belongings stay pure through getting rid of amounts that make them even, often through charity, which is a convenient way of gaining good graces, while also being for him a declaration of superiority. He is an awfully competitive person, but surprisingly, despite the lengths he is willing to go just to ‘win’, he does not bear personal grudges towards those who defeat him, and often stays cordial with those that have bested him – although given his obligation to never concede defeat, he often reignites the conflict when the moment seems opportune (i.e. when he is most likely to win). While he is aware of social norms, they are not an integral part of his character. When busy, he can forget them completely, and be unable to comprehend the reasons laying behind any adverse reaction to his actions.

Despite his detached nature, Eno understands how social creatures work, and has found ways to appeal to them and gain their good graces. Being a proficient dream reader, he offers them to those he finds vulnerable to personal interaction and suggestion. However, he never gives his subjects the true interpretations, instead giving them ones more convenient for himself. A constant judge of character, and most constantly a judge of his own character, Eno is a keen observer of people, and so, knows how to present himself as needed, how to walk and act with certain demeanors when necessary and can impersonate various stereotypes with mathematical precision. When amongst a group of people, he decides on, and hides, a stereotype underneath the outer ‘classic Dunmer’ personality for them to discover over prolonged contact. When necessary he changes the stereotype as befits his needs.

While almost completely a creature of logic, Eno has certain traits that he has earned by circumstance, and some that he has not been able to find any logical explanation for. No matter what, Eno is obsessed with hygiene, most importantly smells, and will seek to clean himself whenever necessary. He despises having a smell, even good ones, and often categorizes people on their odor, and can recognize people by smell alone. He also finds himself prone to episodes of solemn sadness whenever he is not keeping himself ‘busy’, and thus, despises idleness. Thanks to the ritual clipping of his ears, and the charms tattooed on to give him ‘Secret Hearing’, Eno is better at hearing things that are not directed to him, but worse at hearing things directed at him. Thus, he can sometimes unwittingly leave an absent-minded impression. One thing that Eno is prodigal at is physical action, and he finds a strange serenity in his mind whenever he has to rely on muscle memory rather than his smarts. With very strong muscle memory, he’s good at repeating his own exact movements, at the cost of looking uncannily robotic.

---

History: As with most living creatures, Eno’s story begins with his parents. His mother Felara, and his father Daryn, were both artists; Daryn a poet, making a living off writing dirges for the constant funerary processions that gave Necrom its name, whereas Felara was a musician, who composed the poetry written by her husband into songs. However, well into their middle ages, they had been dealing with certain problems of an artistic nature – namely, a crippling lack of inspiration. For the two, who weren’t very financially minded, and were also incredibly passionate about their life’s work, the situation was worse than a death sentence, and that led them to seeking a cure; faith, in their case. Eno would never learn of his parents’ former life as wealthy burghers – for him, just like his parents, family was found somewhere else, and that family was in the Temple.

Felara and Daryn’s relative fame and strong donations to the Temple had already attracted all sorts of positive attention to them in the hierarchy; that their child was born under the sign of the Serpent was lauded as further proof of their righteousness of faith, and there was no objection by anyone when the Temple offered to take their child in amongst their cadre of Fingers. The Fingers were a group of monks of special position within the Temple, raised from birth to replace the old Ordinators of House Indoril. Thus, reborn as a Littlefinger, Eno was baptized in Waxwater to cleanse him of all impurities, a procedure which left him bereft of all body hair and gave his skin its faded color, and marked him as one of the Fingers permanently. As a child, Eno was noted for his very result-oriented demeanor and excellence in sports and handicraft, although, according to his overseer, he was horrible at meditation, and not well liked by his peers.

Eventually, towards the end of his strict education, it was decided that, given his piety, strong adherence to the obligations of the Reclamations, and physical prowess, he would best perform his duties to the Temple as a Longfinger – an inquisitor of the Temple. Eno found this most appropriate, and in fact earned a name for himself as one of the more prominent and capable Longfingers. So seriously he took his occupation, that he would go on to have his ears removed, and his eyes injected with an alchemical Nighteye solution; the first not only allowed him to use prosthetic ears and disguise himself as a man when necessary, but also the ritual cauterizing was done in such a way that enhanced his eavesdropping capabilities via enchanted lettering. While some of his higher ups found his self-modifications unsightly, Eno’s devotion to being a force of the Temple was generally met with praise. It was no surprise when he was ordered to be amongst the Longfingers sent to silence a curious rumor of heresy in Blacklight, the local Fingers having failed.

Disguised as a Breton antique collector, Eno quickly came into contact with the source; a bunch of elderly Dunmer priests, offering him an original copy of the 36 Lessons of Vivec, untouched by the Thumbs of the Temple. He arrested them for the crimes of Possession of Prohibited Artifacts and Intent to Sell Prohibited Artifacts, although curiously, never turned the book in for archival. Having always had sympathy for Saint Vivec, thanks to his proficiency with the spear (Eno’s weapon of choice) and his association with Mephala, he decided to sate his curiosity; while its contents were not a shocking revelation, thanks to how regarding the impulsiveness and fickleness of the Daedra constituted an important part of their worship, it did lead him to rethink his place in the hierarchy. Throughout his life, he’d been a servant to greater powers, with no regard to himself, his Ego. He’d been wasting his life to serve the powers that be; yet the forces that he thought he’d been worshipping were forces of change, forces of Ego, not order. His faith in the Padomaic triumphed over his faith in the Temple, and so, Eno decided to serve his faith better. He would reach Heaven by Violence.

Eno started by disappearing. He falsely reported that he had found an unauthorized cult of Namira but was at risk of compromising himself, and then promptly fell off the grid, expecting his superiors to put two and two together and write him off as deceased. Leaving for Skyrim, at first Eno found himself unsure on what to do; having lived according to ritual throughout his life, he realized he did not know how to lead a life for himself. He found an answer to that quickly, by setting down his own obligations and rituals. This line of thinking would eventually evolve and make him view others’ behavior in the same vein (although obviously of a lesser sort, since theirs was one without higher purpose), and, combined with the education on Daedra he’d received in the Temple, lead to a new occupation; an interpreter of dreams. While the oddly dressed Dunmer was not well received amongst the Nords, he found the minds of the Dunmer refugees in the land very malleable; his disguise as a monk only helped create an even better disposition. He began by interpreting for workers, maids, people who were bereft of their ancestors’ loftier, prouder lives. Their rumors snuck into the minds of their employers, however, and soon enough, Eno was interpreting dreams for Nords of the wealthier classes.

His gig did not go on for very long, however, and he was discovered to be having an affair with the wife and the children of a rather influential court figure in Whiterun. Skipping town with his profits, and a young lad he’d convinced to become his manservant, he fled to Jehanna. There, he led a simpler life, preying on the constantly bickering middle class by pretending to be a writer of charms. Having learned his lesson in Whiterun, he quickly changed occupations before anyone could find out that he was a fraud, and moved to Wayrest, serving as a martial arts instructor, teaching young nobles the way of the Spear. Introducing young men and women to the art of piercing, he earned some renown fairly quick under the name of Indar Serano; although the renown came with a fair amount of infamy, which led to all his property being confiscated and him wanted when he accidentally crushed the windpipe of the Court Wizard’s son during a training session. He fled south, to Hammerfell, taking up the even simpler trade of wood carving. Carving idols, spear shafts, and love spears for those in need, he found the work satisfying, but dulling in the long term for his goal. He had to seek Violence for Heaven, and so, he began searching for great tumult. A search that led him to a ship named Kismet.

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Biggest Regret: Consciously, leaving the Temple. Eno believes that it has set him back where it could lead to him gaining even more power and influence, and respects this fault for teaching him the lessons of starting over. Subconsciously, however, he's not as above it all as he seems; it's hidden away even from him, but Eno bears resentment for the lack of vision he had as a youth, his past contentment with the positions he was given, and the enthusiasm with which he followed orders. Nothing but a glorified tool for somebody else's purpose.

Eno's Goal: A self-declared pursuer of 'Royalty', Eno claims to have great, world-shaping goals (as vague as they are) – but for that, he has to become strong enough to get to survive that stage. Eno views his body as no more than a vessel that needs to be prepared for the stormy paths he has set in mind, and as such, his current goal is to perfect his being against any sort of harm that he may come across on his journey, be it physical, mental or magical. Having received some amount of permanent body modifications in his earlier days, he may end up looking for similar options to further his prowess and progress.

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Skills:

Expert:
Spear

Adept:
Speech
Sneak
Hand-to-Hand

Novice:
Athletics
Acrobatics
Illusion

Spells:

Calm, Courage, Fear, Fury

Equipment:

-Often hailing Eno’s arrival from afar is an umbrella carried on a long, dark pole by his spear bearer, Llaran. In truth, this bell is a cover for the thin ebony tip of his spear, the blade meticulously forged from a piece of evidence from an old smuggling case, a piece that Eno kept for himself.

-Pointing down Eno’s waist is a large scabbard, in which is holstered a steel dagger meant for ritual use, with a wavy blade and a conical hilt that ends in two round halves. While useful in a pinch, Eno prefers to keep it solely as a piece of attire, and in truth, has little idea on how to use it, except as a shorter spear.

-Eno likes to show himself as vulnerable, but in truth keeps himself ready for action. He pretends to try to cover the chainmail vest that he wears under his robes, but in truth, his robes have been cut from an enchanted cloth that makes it tough like buff leather when struck, a memento from his days in Whiterun.

-A white cowl is usually wrapped around Eno’s head, seemingly to further signify his disguise as a monk. It is actually back from his days in the Temple, a shirt that has been cut to act as a headwrap. It was for wandering priests, enchanted as to resist illusion and temptation; still works the same as a cowl.

-As part of his initiation into the Longfingers, Eno’s limbs were covered with a set of bandages that bear prearranged Daedric lettering, a form of enchanting meant to ease and strengthen his muscles. Oddly, they seem to be so porous that nothing sticks to them; allowing Eno to wear them without care like skin.

Misc. Possessions:

Eno is almost always followed by his manservant, healer and spear bearer, Llaran. A young, lithe lad quite fascinated and enamored with Eno, he’s been with him through thick and thin and carries most of the provisions and comforts required to make long journeys for the both of them.

Information on Llaran

Llaran Maryon, aged 19, is formally Eno Indarys’ spear bearer and apprentice. In practice, however, his duties go little further than being his pack mule, masseuse and bed companion. Having entered Eno’s service in Windhelm, almost at the start of his journey, Llaran admits that Eno is not a gentle master; yet, given his past as a lowly servant in an East Empire Company supplier’s household, he believes that his time spent with the former Longfinger is a more fulfilling and enjoyable one.

An attractive, athletic lad with soft, gentle features despite his laborious past, he is quick to make friends with people, although that may just be his naivety. While he wishes to learn more of the spear arts and magic, as of now he practically has zero experience. Eno believes that he doesn’t have the ‘warrior nature’ to be worth actual teaching, and if someone were to get to know Llaran, they’d probably agree with Eno.

On journeys, aside from Eno’s ‘umbrella’, Llaran carries a large canvas cloth and two sturdy boxes made of lacquered wood, one holding nine potions of health restoration and cure poison, some muscle relaxant lotions, an ample amount of candlewax and three different colors of skin dyes – pale, weathered and tanned, respectively.

In the other box are three packs, one holding a dependable amount of cured meats and rice balls, the other holding clothes, perfume and soap for himself, while Eno’s pack holds spare clothes of both genders, soap, some makeup supplies, a small amount of wigs, and three pairs of ears made of hardened wax; one pair is shaped like a human’s ears, while the other two pairs are shaped like an elf’s ears.

Llaran carries a small knife, a pair of scissors, a piece of flint and a mortar and pestle on his person. While the mortar and pestle may be of use to someone who knows alchemy, Llaran does not know alchemy, and uses it solely for culinary purposes.

On his person, Eno carries a very small carving knife, that he uses to carve idols in his spare time, as well as carrying a satchel of coffee beans that he likes to chew on before going to sleep.

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

_{A collab between me and @Sadko}

---

"Fear the man you have woken up from an afternoon nap, fools."

A strange head is carried by the shoulders of Lubbo - ever so stalwart and at the same time stagnant in his designs. The man stretches on his bed, akin to a cat. A messenger comes with troublesome news, and at such an inopportune time. There's a glint of irritation... somewhere in the air. An error of the monarch to expect those second to his command to take the matter into their own hands. Must be important. He guessed, his movements surprisingly brusque and swift as he rose from his sleepy position and began to dress.

He was out from his tent in no time, his demeanor instantly capturing the attention of several of his retinue members on watch duty. The focused, yet groggy man turned to bark a command, but was pleasantly surprised to see them already mounting their horses. Hrorek, the golden son, led Lubbo's favorite stallion toward him, the beast adorned and yet armored by the work of a great southern smith: outlandish, you could say freakish horns, protruding from the iron helm. An obvious reference to the standard of the Carogacts, a white ox on a blue field. The old king was not keen on his offspring's ideas, though he didn't deny that the common folk would eat it up like a pig does its' shitmeal. It was a crude instrument, but a tool nevertheless.

He gripped the reins, shifting in his saddle as the horse cantered toward the commotion. In these brief moments, his mind pestered him with thoughts and doubts. New plans for the day, depending on which way the wind blew. Omens be damned.

He bore this thoughtful face the moment the would-be instigators of this whole affair appeared in his line of sight. His physiognomy swiftly turned into a grimace. His gaze withered the meek glances of his roguish subordinates, but the king once again took on the thoughtful, even puzzled look when he saw a clothed white ape in the scene.

The ape was not as puzzled in appearance as it were pugnacious, however; standing between the two parties like a cornered predator, his monstrous, catlike gaze wandered from one group to another, almost as if it had not made its mind on which to strike first. Blood dripped lightly from one of his hands, and on a closer look, it became obvious that the blood wasn’t his. His nostrils were heaving visibly. He did not look like he would be calming down anytime soon.

With Lubbo's appearance, Anabinpāl raised his arms up in half frustration and half elation, and began thanking about how the Carogacts finally had someone in charge on the premises. Having smashed one of the Carogacts' face in with a punch, and having burst one of his own men's lips open with a ferocious slap, Anabinpāl now walked back and forth like a beastly interloper, madly dancing on the grassy clearing, empty save for two discarded swords and an exasperated goat. The Carogacts did not dare approach, while the Mikanna themselves were too busy wiping the blood off their fellow warrior's mouth and suffering their chief's chastising gaze silently, like children aware of their guilt.

"Is this how you Carogacts hail a fellow tribe?” Anabinpāl asked. “Unsheathing your swords and ganging up at every sign of commotion? Your chief must be proud of you.”

Of course, Anabinpāl had no idea that the man he was addressing was no other than the aforementioned chief.

By now, Lubbo already realized that he was facing the chief of the Mikanna. A man he had certainly heard of before the day they met, and so he took on an oddly fond appearance as he watched Anabinpāl pace about anxiously. The scene that the Carogact king observed, however, was not merry. A dreadful looking goat and several men of the two tribes wounded, one of them terribly so. The poor fellow Anabinpāl punched was feverishly collecting his strewn teeth off the ground. Considering the Mikanna chief’s last remarks, Lubbo cast a sidelong gaze at the man. He pondered on his reply.

“You are right; I am not proud of the spoiled apples in my bunch.” The king spoke softly. “The few.” He added, giving his soldiers a stern glance.

He did not descend from his saddle yet, instead gently reining it forward and in such a fashion that his men were squarely behind him. They were fools, but they were his fools, nevertheless. “Who spoke the first insult, and who drew their weapon first?” His intonation almost as if it was an open-ended question. The soldiers looked onward at the footman with the burst lip and the one left with two teeth.

He slowly climbed down from his saddle, taking a few steps toward Lord Anabinpāl. His frame, though not weak by any measure, was dwarfed by this freak of nature. Lubbo looked cool. “Our men almost died because of one goat.”

“Happens more often than one’d admit. Cattle are scheming beasts. They confuse us on which of us get to butcher them, and make us butcher each other instead,” Anabinpāl replied, half sarcastically.

Lubbo gave a sardonic smile. “You and your tribesmen are welcome in our long hall tonight. We’ll have wine and mutton.”

Anabinpāl’s expression turned cloudy upon the offer. He looked away, seemingly lost in thought. Before speaking, however, he faced the man once more. “Do not let it be thought that we Mikanna are ungrateful for the Carogacts’ hospitality, Chief Lubbo,” he said, before another pause, seemingly trying to pick the best words from his repertoire, “but we know that the other tribes have made… assumptions about us. I would like it if we did not feed these assumptions further, so… It’s my opinion that it’s best if we honor your offer, perhaps after the conferring.”

He paused again and turned to the wounded men before continuing.

“It would have been better if we hadn’t met over such an incident, but… such is fate. We did not come with a baggage train; the goat must have been yours. But one bad turn only leads to another. I had to stop these fools before their cockiness caused further incident. Still, we have the culprit; best make an example of that goat before others can follow in its wake.”

Lubbo’s shrewd eye twinkled as he listened. Clasping his hands together with a hum, the Carogact glanced over at the goat. “Aye, it would be a bad omen unless we give this creature up to the gods. Only they can have it.” He understood the chief of the Mikanna to be an able man, and someone to have an eye out for in the times to come.

“I wish you well, then. See you at the conferring.” He said dryly, turning about and saddling his horse before trotting back to camp. The king was brooding over what transpired. He hoped his words had smoothed the rough initial contact, though he didn’t pride himself on being an apt diplomat. The interaction between the two tribes has left a bittersweet taste on his tongue. He reached for his waterskin, gulping as if to wash down this state of mind. Somehow, this mental trick worked. Lubbo’s mind was preoccupied with the breach of discipline by some of his men. The thoughts of more similar incidents occurring later on also visited him. He kicked the stirrups, speeding up to a full gallop as he made way back to camp, dead set on fixing the errors of his host’s arrival.

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

The Mikanna were late.

They had made a quiet arrival - so quiet, in fact, that few would have even noted their presence as another tribe's procession, had it not been for the helmets they wore and the three men on horseback leading the eight on foot. From afar, two of the three riders looked an awful lot like giants riding men's horses, with their voluminous clothes and tall-domed helmets. To some onlookers, the sight was perhaps terrifying, but to others, perhaps it was simply absurd. Yet, even from the distance, one could say that the one in their midst did indeed come from giants' stock, and it was no other than their Chief, Anabinpāl, who, ironically, looked the humblest of them all. With how his hands held tight onto the reins of his mount, how his shoulders hunched, and how his face seemed lost in thought, he looked more like a runaway beast, captured and brought to parade by the two riders beside him.

Although the expression on his face was a thoughtful one, inside, he was more annoyed than contemplative. The wooden domes attached to their helmets had taken far longer to craft than he'd hoped, and on top of it all, the design had turned out more like the top fin of a sheatfish than the envisioned look of a blade edge. He'd done away with his entirely, seeing no reason to wear a disappointment that delayed their arrival and made him look even stranger. At the very least, he hoped that the folding cuirass he'd worn underneath his cape, partly to tuck his belly in, and partly to show off the craftsmanship skills of the Sidda, would make an interesting proposition to the more martial minded chiefs. He hadn't come here expecting to be made leader of all clans.

In truth, he was not here with any high hopes whatsoever. Even after so many years, Anabinpāl felt unwelcome in his place of power, and even though it would be an affront to his reputation to say it out loud, would much rather stay out of the spotlight. Better an outsider unseen than one in the flesh, he thought to himself, but here he was, and there was nothing he could do to change that now. His foot hurt and his belly ached from the tight fitting armor - he would rather be at home with Elenig, eating boar, while that fool of an eldest son by his side, Iannan, could have made himself useful for once and represented the tribe and family properly.

"We are close, father. The village is in sight."

Anabinpāl responded with a slight nod. He remembered how happy they had been after this one's birth. His wife had been overjoyed - he himself had simply been relieved. And now, almost twenty-five winters after his birth, Iannan felt more like a burden to his father than he had ever been. He was a fair and kind-hearted lad, who'd taken after his mother in terms of demeanor, but Anabinpāl knew well that being a good lad was not enough to spare him, or his siblings, from the horrors of the deluge to come after his passing. And with every passing day, that knowledge weighed more and more on the Chief's shoulders.

Anabinpāl turned to his left, and addressed the other rider. Meseric was his name; he was a childhood friend of Iannan's, one who'd accompanied him as a youth, and now still accompanied him, while Iannan himself now accompanied his father. Their bond was good enough, and for all his grim demeanor, Meseric was a lad wise enough to realize, and put to practice, the ways of authority. He would be a good adviser to Iannan in times to come, even if not the most liked.

"I shall go up alone. Set up camp close to the other tribes, but not too close," Anabinpāl informed him, before nudging the horse's belly with his heels to make it canter forth.

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

Say hello to the newest contender, everyone!