[hider=Balroth gro-Umanak][center][img]https://78.media.tumblr.com/af94919b33fa3bc3169130f438f457e1/tumblr_o2uukbpKdL1r426wco1_500.jpg[/img]

“[i]These aren’t just scars, they’re lessons in humility. I received many of them. You will too if you don’t slow down, Sarah.”[/i]

[B]Name:[/B] Balroth gro-Umanak.
[B]Race:[/B] Orsimer.
[B]Sex:[/B] Male.
[B]Age:[/B] 64.
[B]Family Origins:[/B] Dushnihk Yal, Skyrim.
[b]Birthsign:[/b] The Lord.[/center]
[B]Appearance:[/B] Huge even for an orc, Balroth measures 6’5” (196 centimeters) when he stands up straight and clocks in at a whopping 305 lbs (140 kg) of hulking muscle and a healthy layer of fat. His skin is a drab, slate-gray color with only a hint of green, as most of the hue of his pigment has faded with age and wear-and-tear; Balroth has lived a violent and adventurous life and it shows. He has many scars, the most prominent of which are a cut that runs over his forehead from his hairline to his temple and, should one see him bare-chested, a nasty burn on his abdomen. Balroth wears his hair, once jet black and shiny but now steel with hints of silver, swept back in a faux hawk-style with the sides of his head shaved with two strips of hair remaining, and the rest of it cascades down his neck in a wavy mullet. He keeps a beard but trims it short to make sure it doesn’t bother him. 

Everything about Balroth is big, rough and untamed. His limbs are as thick as trunks and his chest is as wide as a barrel of Nordic mead. Even his hands are large, almost trollish in their appearance and just as heavily calloused, and his boots could serve as a vase for a luxurious Breton flower arrangement. His shoulders are so heavily-muscled they look like a pair of rolling hills emerging from his equally massive neck. In short, it is clear that Balroth is an intensely physical person who has relied on and worked with his natural strength his entire life - a real warrior-barbarian at first glance.

This impression isn’t lessened in any way by Balroth’s face, which sport the exaggerated and almost bestial features that characterize the orcish race. Two tusks protrude from his lower jaw in a fierce underbite, bushy eyebrows hover menacingly above his deep-seated, dark eyes and his nose is turned down into a permanent scowl; quite the frightening appearance. He applies dark red war-paint to his face in diagonal stripes before battle to emphasize the effect. In the throes of combat, roaring and swinging, Balroth intimidates all but the toughest foes. 

And yet he is not a mindless berserker. Out of combat Balroth transforms into a gentle giant, plodding along in slow, deliberate motions, slightly hunched over, soft-spoken and polite. He can sit still for hours, merely watching and waiting, taking deep drags from his pipe and small sips from his flagon. Once the first impression of a tough-as-nails mountain monster wears off, Balroth appears to be a thoughtful and collected old mer that has seen so much of the world that nothing disturbs his inner peace any longer. 

Balroth wears practical clothing and armor that have served him for many years on the road. The base of his armor is padded and boiled leather which is reinforced in key locations with steel plate, namely on the cuirass, the vambraces, the greaves and the tips of his boots. A large, all-weather, fur-trimmed traveling cloak is slung over his shoulders, further adding to his perceived size, and hangs down to his heels. If it rains or snows he can pull the folds in close and almost cover himself entirely with it. The only dash of color in his ensemble is provided by a red sash that’s wrapped around his waist beneath his heavy, multi-purpose leather belt. 

[B]Equipment:[/B] 
- First and foremost among Balroth’s possessions is his orcish battleaxe. It is monstrously large, almost six feet long from the tip of the blade to the pommel, and far too heavy for any but the strongest to wield effectively. The shaft is fashioned from wood with leather strips wrapped around it to improve the grip and the axe’s thick, jagged blade is forged from orichalcum, the preferred orcish metal. Unlike traditional battleaxes, which feature a shorter, rounder blade, the orcish battleaxe sports a long and straight blade capable of sundering a man in half with a single strike, rather than merely inflicting grave injury. It is not a very sophisticated weapon. Balroth made it himself three decades ago and it has been his instrument of violence ever since, so it has great sentimental as well as practical value. 

- Balroth’s armor is also important to him. Its nature and appearance is already described in the previous section, so I won’t go over the details again, but he forged and stitched it together himself and knows how to repair it if it gets damaged. It classifies as medium armor. 

- Also previously mentioned is Balroth’s belt. It is fitted with many pouches, vials and even a satchel that carry various useful things like food, money, potions, his hip flagon, tobacco, an iron dagger and small tools like flint and a grindstone. 

- No self-respecting adventurer leaves the door without a sturdy backpack and Balroth is no different. In this glorified leather bag he carries his smithing tools of the trade, a map of Tamriel, a bone totem made by his mother half a century ago, a waterskin, the keys to his house in Cyrodiil and the skull of a Hagraven. A bedroll is attached to the bottom.

[B]Family and Associations:[/b]
- Distant family back in Dushnihk Yal. Balroth has not been back there for many years and most of his immediate family have since died or moved away. Balroth’s nephew, an orc he’s never met, is chief now.
- Juliard Chevalier, deceased, a Breton merchant who introduced Balroth to the world of the Empire.
- Talera, deceased, an Imperial smith who took Balroth under her wing in Markarth.
- Sarah Lilliande, a Breton woman and previously Balroth’s ward and protege.  

[B]Favoured Skills:[/B] 

[i]Highly Proficient:[/i]

- [u]Two-handed Axe:[/u] Five decades of practice with any given type of weapon will make one an expert at using it. Balroth has been wielding big axes ever since he learned how to fight as a wee lad. In his hands, the battleaxe turns into a versatile tool, capable of deathly surprising backswings that use the chopping blade on the back of the axe’s head, crushing blows that strike at the very peak of the weapon’s momentum that can splinter shields and cave in chestplates, cheeky pommel bashes that can disarm an opponent in an instant and even deft parries that use the thick wooden shaft or the flat of the blade as a shield. He is not as strong or tireless as he once was but all of his experience makes up for that. It’s not about being able to swing a lot - it’s about knowing when to swing. 

- [u]Smithing:[/u] Nothing Balroth makes is pretty, you can count on that, but it’s strong, reliable and expertly made. Aside from crafting and maintaining weapons and armor, Balroth knows how to create pickaxes, horsehoes, nails, saws and a myriad other useful bits and bobs that make Balroth an attractive associate in more than just martial endeavors. He carries his own tools with him and can set up a makeshift forge anywhere, as long as he’s got a bunch of stones and some fuel - though, of course, a proper smithy beats anything else. 

[i]Moderately Proficient:[/i] 

- [u]Medium Armor:[/u] Not content to wander around Tamriel in a heavy, constricting suit of plate armor, but not satisfied with the meager protection provided by lighter materials either, Balroth settled on the middle of the road a long time ago. He forged and tailored his own suit of leather-and-steel armor in this style, taking inspiration from the pragmatic dunmer of Morrowind and their clever suits of chitin and bonemold armor. Balroth is reasonably agile (only hindered by old age) and still well-protected in his vital areas. 

[i]Somewhat Proficient:[/i]

- [u]Destruction:[/u] Where Balroth would once have decried the use of magic in combat as cowardly and dishonorable, he has changed his tune over the years and adopted the use of Destruction magic in his fighting style. He’s not a sorcerer by any means, though. Balroth’s use of this school of magic is restricted to simple spells like brief gouts of flame and painful sparks that serve to distract and wrong-foot his opponents in melee combat. Nobody ever expects to be jolted by lightning when facing an orc with an axe, and Balroth makes use of the opportunity to smash their faces in when they wince with astonishment.  

- [u]Athletics:[/u] While not a marathon runner by any stretch of the imagination, Balroth has spent so many years on the road that he has inevitably become quite good at walking endlessly. He’s older now, of course, and that is (despite all of his best efforts) slowly beginning to catch up with him, but aside from the Imperial Legion on the march there are few parties or caravans that would find Balroth struggling to keep up.

[Indent][B]Spell List:[/B][/Indent] 
- Flames
- Sparks
- Frostbite

[B]History:[/B] Balroth has lived a long and storied life, full of adventure, hardship, companionship, tragedy and violence, but it all started in the orc stronghold of Dushnihk Yal in the Imperial province of Skyrim in the year 4E144. He was born as third son to the current chief at the time, Kharzn gro-Umanak, and his forgewife Yarish. The two sons that preceded Balroth were already being groomed to replace their father one day by defeating him in mortal combat, so nothing much was expected of Balroth in his childhood. His mother doted on him and Balroth spent a lot of time hanging around her forge, watching his mother work and already creating an appreciation for her craftsmanship at a young age. He also learned how to fight, of course, as is expected of any stronghold orc, but he did not show great promise initially. Kharzn derided him for it, often wondering aloud how he could have borne a son that could not fight well, and Balroth’s initially even-tempered and curious nature was soured by the bullying. He wanted to impress his father and gain his approval, like all young boys, so Balroth reluctantly dedicated himself to the combat training provided by his uncle. Smithing was traditionally seen as women’s work in the stronghold, which was another thing Kharzn used to make fun of him, so Balroth distanced himself from it and - by extension - his mother. Their relationship stifled after that. 

As time passed and Balroth entered adolescence he entered a tremendous growth spurt and soon found himself towering over his brothers and even his father. Combat training became easier after that as Balroth could make up for his technical deficiency by sheer size and strength and he relished this. After years of being picked on for being small and weak, Balroth was finally able to properly stand up for himself. He took the inch that he was given and ran a mile with it, however, and turned into the stronghold’s bully himself, frequently knocking his brothers down and beating them until they surrendered during training, and spitting back all the venomous remarks that had been directed at him during his childhood. Yarish worried the once-sweet boy would be lost forever in the hot-headed, cruel man that Balroth was becoming and tried to rekindle their close bond, but Balroth would have none of it. The idea of killing his father and becoming chieftain had entered his head and it wouldn’t leave. 

One day, when Balroth was 21 years old, he tried his luck after returning from the hunt, having killed a young male bear with a single strike from his battleaxe in an ambush. Balroth felt powerful and bloodlusted and ready to take on the world and roared his challenge to his father. He expected Kharzn to laugh and taunt him or do [i]something[/i] infuriating, but Kharzn merely nodded solemnly and took up his weapons. He did not seem worried or intimidated in the slightest. Balroth should have known then that something was up but he was way too deep in his own delusions of grandeur to notice - nor did he listen to Yarish’s advice to stand down. 

The fight did not last long. Balroth had severely underestimated Kharzn, who might have been smaller than him but certainly far more skilled. Balroth was outplayed and disarmed after only two minutes. Having had enough of his failure of a son, Kharzn was ready to execute Balroth and be done with him, but Yarish intervened and pleaded for her son’s life. Occasionally given to bouts of sentiment when it came to his wives, Kharzn hesitantly relented and spared Balroth, who lay fuming and seething on the ground with anger and self-loathing. Kharzn roared for Balroth to leave and never return. Yarish quickly gathered up a backpack with supplies, slipping a bone totem in there she once made for him when he was but a whelp, and urged him in hushed tones to leave, tears shining in her eyes. Finally realizing the gravity of the situation, Balroth apologized to his mother for everything and stumbled out of the stronghold with a heavy heart.

It was 4E165. Skyrim was still a prosperous province during those years. Balroth marched straight to Markarth, the city closest to Dushnihk Yal, and easily found employment there with the Nords that ruled the city. The Reach was relatively peaceful then, before the time of the Forsworn, so Balroth laid down his battleaxe and apprenticed with the local smith, an Imperial from Cyrodiil by name of Talera. She was strict and tough and impatient, but she had a good heart and took Balroth under her wing all the same. The young orc’s impetuousness had been tempered by his defeat at his father’s hands, but Balroth remained a temperamental handful that had a hard time meshing with civilized society. Some of the Nords made fun of him for his big size and his strange accent and his funny clothes, but every time Balroth became angry and tried to stand up for himself they called for the guards who, predictably, sided with their Nord brethren every time. Balroth found some sympathy from the Breton Reachmen that lived in and around Markarth, who knew what it was like to be bullied by the Nord rulers, but he still felt hopelessly out of place and purposeless in life. 

Talera told Balroth all about Cyrodiil and its cosmopolitan nature, where members of all the races lived together in harmony. She told him about the orcs she served with in the Imperial Legions back in the day who were widely respected as shock troops and smiths. Inspired by these stories Balroth found himself drawn to the idea so much he began to resent the Nords even more for [i]not[/i] being like the Empire in Talerla’s stories. This resentment came to a head in 4E169 when he killed two Nords in a bar fight late at night. He was chased out of the city by the guards, on the verge of being caught and thrown into Cidna Mine, but found himself unexpectedly flanked by Reachmen who came to his aid. They helped him flee into the hills of the Reach and told him there was an uprising brewing and that if he stayed with them, he could have his revenge on the Nords. Balroth, once again furious and hateful with himself for what he had done and his inability to control himself, turned down the offer. He did not want to give in to this hatred, nor did he feel any particular affinity with the desires of the Reachmen or their culture. 

And so Balroth left again, alone in the world with nothing but his meager belongings and his iron battleaxe, and wandered south towards Cyrodiil - towards his dreams. He skirted along the border with Hammerfell and stopped for a few weeks in Falkreath, where he worked at the lumber mill to earn some coin for the rest of the journey. News of the bloodthirsty orc that had savagely cut down two innocent Nords in Markarth made its way towards Falkreath eventually and Balroth slipped out of the town and continued his journey before the rumors could cause him any trouble. He crossed the border just north of Bruma and made his way to the city, eager and excited to see what Cyrodiil was like.

He quickly discovered that Talera must have meant the [i]rest[/i] of Cyrodiil, because Bruma reminded him so strongly of Skyrim (Nords everywhere) that he found a trade caravan, offered his services as a guard and continued further south. Balroth paid for his own presence twice over when he repelled a duo of highway robbers by looking too tough and scary to take on, and the merchant who the caravan belonged to asked Balroth to stay on all the way down to Bravil. Balroth agreed, considering the venture a convenient way to cross all of Cyrodiil and see what it had to offer - and their route would take them through the Imperial City. The two of them shook hands on it and the Breton merchant properly introduced himself as Juliard Chevalier. 

The Breton took an interest in Balroth’s story and the orc, reluctantly at first, shared his life’s tale so far with Juliard. He took pity on Balroth and decided to extend their stay in the Imperial City from one day to a full week when they arrived, and took the orc to see the sights. Balroth was initially overwhelmed by the sounds and smells of the bustling city and stared around him with wide eyes at the people from all walks of life and all manner of races (some of which he had never seen before) that passed him on the streets. Juliard brought him to see the contests in the Arena, which Balroth enjoyed immensely, but also to gaze upon the Arcane University and even to the Council Chambers of the White-Gold Tower. Balroth met a few of the orcs living in the city and was amazed to see them walk, talk, dress and impress with all the finesse and sophistication of the Imperials themselves. During that week, Balroth knew that he would be forever smitten with the Empire and its acceptance of all comers and vowed to properly integrate himself into its society. 

Balroth and Juliard both settled down in Bravil, the former to apprentice with another smith and the latter to open his general goods store there, and they remained friends. Bravil was considered one of the poorest cities of Cyrodiil but Juliard merely saw that as an opportunity, and it was just as easy for Balroth to find employment - the city was starved for skilled tradespeople and in a city full of thieves and smugglers it helped to have a big orc in the shop to scare away ne’er-do-wells. Balroth did not particularly care for the smith he worked for (a disgruntled old man named Craxus) but he allowed the orc free reign in the smithy and Balroth’s enthusiasm to take on all the orders was met with relief. Balroth further honed his craft and his people skills these next two years and if it wasn’t for what happened next, he might have never picked up a weapon again in his life.

In 4E171 the Great War began. Southern Cyrodiil was invaded by the armies of the Thalmor general Lord Naarifin from hidden positions in Elseweyr that struck swiftly and decisively. Leyawiin fell to the invaders before the news of the invasion had even reached Bravil and when it did, the city had barely enough time left to prepare for a siege. Juliard, not a fan of swordfighting and death, prepared to flee the city and Balroth assisted him, but the Breton had been a little [i]too[/i] successful in building a life in Bravil and dallied too long in leaving while he sorted out which belongings he would take and which he would leave behind. Before long, Bravil was surrounded. 

Juliard had one last idea, however. He had learned of underground sewers that ran beneath the city that the thieves frequently used to get around. Driven by desperation, Juliard begged Balroth to escort him out of the city, promising the orc all of his life’s savings. Balroth waved away the money and quickly agreed to aid his friend and benefactor. Their daring escape through the filthy tunnels was initially successful and the pair dared to smile as they neared the exit, but it was not to last. Thalmor magics had divined the existence of the tunnels beneath the city and Balroth and Juliard came suddenly face to face with a scouting party of Thalmor scouts accompanied by a wizard. After a second of silent, mutual astonishment, all hell broke loose in the cramped tunnels as Balroth’s berserker fury roared to life and the wizard began flinging Destruction spells left and right. In the confusion Balroth cut down the flimsy and physically inferior pair of Thalmor scouts, his battleaxe spilling guts and splitting limbs with every swing -- they had nowhere to run, and even though they stabbed him with their puny little swords and drew blood, Balroth was too far gone in his fury to take notice. The wizard was another story, however, and when the blood-mist cleared the wizard was gone, Juliard was gone and Balroth’s head was spinning from the shock magic that hit him.

Furious and grief-stricken at the loss of his friend and his inability to protect him, Balroth stormed out of the sewers, dead-set on taking on the whole Thalmor army by himself in his confusion, but upon exiting the sewers, looking back at the city and seeing the spectacular and terrifying magical display the Thalmor sorcerers had conjured to break down the gates, Balroth came to his senses and changed his mind. He dove into the Niben River, swam to safety and swore that he would have his revenge.

Balroth and the Imperial Legions found each other as soon as he returned to civilization in the Imperial City, where sympathetic priests of the Imperial Cult nursed him back to health. Like many other staunch patriots (which is what Balroth had become) he voluntarily signed up to become a Legionnaire. His particular skills made him a perfect fit for the role of battlefield warsmith, positioned at the frontline to repair broken weapons, armor and siege engines, but also capable of fighting in the fray should things get hairy. After a hasty training regime that barely lasted two weeks he was shipped out to the front, where he learned an entirely new kind of brotherhood. Their camp, nestled between the Green Road and the Niben River south of the Imperial City, came under attack by rapidly advancing Thalmor forces just two days after Balroth’s arrival. The fighting was fierce but Balroth relished the opportunity and found himself in the thick of it, shoulder to shoulder with other men and women of the Empire, and they successfully repelled the Thalmor assault. The Imperial battlemages were essential in protecting the Legionnaires from the magical powers of the Thalmor, but it was Balroth and his companions who broke through the line and cut down the sorcerers with honest steel. His hatred for the Thalmor was strong, but his hatred for their wizards and witches even stronger. Balroth secretly hoped he would run into the wizard who killed Juliard on the field, but it was not to be. 

After the battle was won and camp reparations were finished, Balroth sat in silence with his newfound comrades and listened to the Imperial songs they sang until he knew the lyrics and then bellowed along, much to the amusement of the other soldiers. They shook hands and exchanged names and Balroth felt right at home. 

Little did he knew how grueling the slog of the next three years would be. The battle for Cyrodiil was a bitter, hard-fought war and Balroth was right at the front of it for most of that time. Rotations to the backlines were officially required but the fierce and desperate nature of the fight was such that soldiers were asked (or ordered) to stay at the front as much as possible. Losses were high. Entire weeks went by without rest, slaving tirelessly at the forges until his hands were so numb all they could do was tremble, or in the depths of combat, hacking away at Thalmor soldiers, taking blows and gathering scars, making the enemy pay dearly for every inch of ground the Empire surrendered. The pleasant years in Bravil felt like a lifetime ago, just a brief memory that faded away against the horrible reality of the war - that was all there was, then and there, until Balroth barely even knew himself anymore. 

In 4E174, the third year of the Great War, Balroth finally came face to face once more with the Thalmor wizard who had killed his friend Juliard. It was a chance encounter on the field of battle near the shore of the Niben Bay, not long before the Imperial City was overrun and sacked by the Dominion forces. Balroth recognized him immediately, the elf’s sharp and cruel face jumping out at him in the throng and chaos of combat. The orc wasted no time and worked his way roughly through the fighting masses, pushing aside friend and foe alike in his tunnel-visioned bloodlust. Unfortunately for Balroth, the altmer sorcerer saw him coming and before Balroth had a chance to heedlessly throw himself and his battleaxe at him the wizard struck him down with a single fire spell that hit him square in the abdomen. Gravely wounded, Balroth was pulled into the city by his comrades and the elf escaped once more. He was still on the brink of death when the Emperor ordered the retreat from the city and broke through the surrounding Dominion forces to flee north with his army. Balroth was not left behind.

After two weeks of attentive and dutiful care by the Legions’ healers and the priests of Bruma’s chapel, Balroth recovered enough to resume his duties at the forge - there simply weren’t enough swords to arm the new recruits, and he was needed there more than in combat. That, and he wasn’t his old self quite yet. Adjusting to life outside of the frontlines was hard for Balroth. He barely spoke, engrossed himself entirely in his work and flinched at every loud noise, fearing another volley of Thalmor magic artillery, but it never came. He was surrounded mostly by civilians, other smiths of the Empire who had been commanded to work the forges of the Imperial Legions, and felt no camaraderie with them. They asked him what the war had been like, but he felt he could give no answer. That was the point of brothers-in-arms. They didn’t have to ask. They [i]knew.[/i] He began drinking when he was off-duty to help him sleep and forget the nightmares of the altmer’s face, sneering down at him, starting a habit he wouldn’t kick for many years to come. Over the months he was there it got the better of him entirely. He found himself antsy, restless, almost hoping for the orders to come through for him to be sent back to the front, to give him another chance, but that didn’t happen. Balroth’s superiors were satisfied with the volume of his output… until he started drinking during the day, too. 

And that was how he missed the Battle of the Red Ring, the final battle of the Great War and the Empire’s most significant victory in it. He was simply too drunk to march south, cursing and swearing up a storm at anyone who approached him in his smithy in Bruma. In his delirium he thought himself back in Skyrim, with all the unpleasant memories that came with it, and saw the phantom of the Thalmor wizard around every corner. He was dishonorably discharged and (this time) left behind. 

When he came to his senses after sleeping off his intoxication and found himself amidst the excrement of the horses in the Bruma city stables he realised what he had done. For the third time in his life Balroth was consumed by self-hatred. He lingered in Bruma for the next few weeks, surviving on the coin he already had and he swore to himself he would never drink again. It was a promise he only kept for a few days, and then he was back to the bottle after sleepless nights filled with intolerable guilt and terrible waking dreams. When news finally came of the Empire’s victory, followed not long after by the bewildering news of the White-Gold Concordat and its contents, Balroth once again felt entirely without purpose. The war was over, the Legions didn’t want him anymore and all his friends were dead or missing. The ban on Talos worship didn’t really affect Balroth then, for he did not yet worship the Nine Divines in any real capacity during those years, but the shame of his beloved Empire having surrendered to the Thalmor’s traitorous heretics burned like a pit in his stomach. He had failed his country and now it had failed its people. It was failure all the way down. 

Having slaved away at the forge for so long Balroth was entirely done with the craft for the time being. When he picked himself back up in 4E176 and decided it was time to get back to a working life properly, he settled on the [i]other[/i] thing he thought he knew how to do: fighting. He was 32 years old, still in the prime of his life, fully recovered from his injury, and figured he could become a serious mercenary if he applied himself. As one last project before he left the forge behind, Balroth made for himself a huge battleaxe from a large solid block of orichalcum he had shipped in from Skyrim and a practical suit of leather-and-steel armor, fit for the road as well as combat, and set off on the next chapter of his life.

Most of the remaining years of Balroth’s life were spent all across Tamriel fighting for many different employers. Balroth worked for an argonian outfit that dedicated itself to hunting down known dunmer slavers one year, and two years later found himself on Solstheim aiding the local House Redoran forces in culling the local population of rieklings and reavers. He spent a long year in High Rock as an enforcer for a local lord and then participated in the guerilla war against the Aldmeri Dominion as part of a band of Alik’r warriors, and so on and so forth. He visited almost every corner of the continent, save those lands held by the Dominion, and picked up many new scars along the way. He tried several times to stop drinking but never succeeded, and every time the nightmares and the binging became too much for him to do his work, Balroth packed up his things and left. As long as he was going somewhere, distracting himself with new lands to explore and people to meet, he could cope… but the face of the Thalmor wizard haunted him wherever he went. 

It wasn’t until 4E196 that Balroth finally slowed down. During his third tenure in High Rock, this time as a monster hunter, Balroth and his Breton allies fought and killed a group of cultists practicing dark magic hiding out in an abandoned watchtower, led by one of the reviled and accursed Hagravens. The monster was slain, the necromancers scattered and all seemed well, and Balroth and the Bretons congratulated themselves on their victory when the orc heard movement coming from inside a rotten old closet. He flung open the door and was ready to cut down whatever creature was hiding inside with his axe when said creature revealed itself to be a teenage girl cowering in fear. Alarmed, the hunting party escorted the girl outside and sat down with her on the rolling grassy hillside and asked how who she was and how she ended up there.

As it turned out, her name was Sarah Lilliande and she had been captured by the necromancers when they raided her family’s farmhouse and killed her parents. She had been intended as a sacrifice to the Hagraven’s old and cruel gods, but Balroth and his allies had intervened just in time. They all took pity on her, including Balroth, and the Bretons wanted to bring Sarah to an orphanage where she could be properly cared for. She protested, however, revealing an inner fire that caught Balroth’s eye, and said she’d seen how the Hagraven had been killed by a blow from Galroth’s battleaxe. That’s what she wanted to be like, so that her family could never be taken from her again. Balroth smiled wistfully at the naivete - merely knowing how to fight was not enough to prevent the people you cared about from dying. That said, as they returned to Daggerfall, Balroth found himself unable to surrender the girl to the impersonal and mercurial care of an orphanage, and finally relented after she pestered him enough. He took her on as his protege. 

Sarah was too young to immediately accompany him on his travels and his work, being on the cusp of adolescence (let alone womanhood) but not quite there yet, so Balroth’s hand was forced out of sheer necessity and he finally settled down somewhere. He decided to return to Cyrodiil, the land he was most familiar with, and bought a small cottage in a quaint little village near Cheydinhal with the gold he had earned from his work over the years. Balroth made a living doing some smithing work for the townsfolk here and there, but mostly lived on his reserves while he taught Sarah the finer points of combat and survival. She took a liking to the sword; not Balroth’s speciality, but the core tenets of melee combat are the same with all weapons, so he was able to educate her well enough. He also shared with her his extensive knowledge on the geography, wildlife and cultures of Tamriel. Sarah did not find those lessons as interesting, predictably, but Balroth was able to impress the importance of preparation, knowledge and experience enough for her to listen. 

And miraculously, Balroth discovered that he was slowly finding inner peace. Raising and teaching the girl gave him a real, tangible purpose in life that had been missing for so long, and now that he did have it he felt like all the pieces were finally falling in place. The Thalmor wizard disappeared from his dreams after decades of nightmares and Balroth was finally able to leave liquor alone after Sarah asked him one day if it was normal to drink so often. He was able to tell her about the Great War, a story he hadn’t been able to share with anyone before, and his restlessness disappeared after he finally properly converted to the Imperial faith and placed the fate of his soul into the hands of the Eight Divines. Even when the Civil War broke out in Skyrim in 4E201 and the Emperor called upon all able-bodied men and women of the Empire, including those previously dishonorably discharged, Balthor no longer felt the need to go to war. His life was good. 

Sarah, of course, had different plans once she became of age. She wanted to put all of Balroth’s teachings to the test, and he couldn’t bear to let her go and brave the world all by herself. So, in 4E203, the unlikely pair of adventurers set out on the road - the young and vital Breton girl with a spring in her step and the plodding, gruff old orc; still dangerous, but in a different way. Sarah provided the energy and the speed that Balroth lacked, and he was able to temper her temperament and enthusiasm (which reminded him [i]so[/i] much of his old self) with wisdom and experience. And a few solid whacks of the ol’ trust battleaxe, of course. Sarah wasn’t going to have all the fun by herself. 

In 4E207, after a solid four years of traveling and working together, Sarah met a dashing young man from Hammerfell who owned a shop in Riften. He reminded Balroth of his old friend Juliard in all the good ways, and couldn’t blame Sarah when she fell in love with him. Balroth had never taken wives or engaged in romance himself, so it stung a little in places he didn’t know he had when he saw the two lovebirds together while they were resting in Riften after their latest mission, but he wasn’t one to stand in Sarah’s way. She stayed behind, overcome by the common human desire to settle down and start a family, but promised to write to Balroth as often as she could with tear-filled eyes. Balroth waved her tears away and assured her that it was alright for her to live her own life. He’d be fine on his own now. She had done enough for him. After many years, Balroth was finally whole. 

But he wasn’t quite ready to return to his cottage in Cyrodiil to live out his twilight years. He was still, even after all these long years, an orc at heart, and orcs die a good death. Not that Balroth was ready to die just yet - he felt he had a few strong years left in him - but it wouldn’t hurt to get started straight away. And that’s how he’s found himself employed in an archeological dig site in a Dwemer ruin as a smith and a bodyguard. 

[i]”Time for one last adventure.”[/i]

[B]Personality:[/B] Due to his long and complicated life Balroth has developed into a wise, gentle and well-intentioned old orc, but his mind and soul are not entirely free of the blemishes and deep scars left behind by the horrors of war and loss. Somewhere buried deep down inside of him there is still the impetuous, hot-headed fool of an orc whose father threw him out of the stronghold, and closer to the surface is the alcohol-addicted and blood-soaked mercenary who accepted pay from just about anyone to do just about anything, and fled to another land when his demons got too much for him to handle. 

Not that one would be able to guess all of that by interacting with him. He is, though still a bit gruff, short on words and in possession of a healthy dose of sarcasm, perfectly polite and helpful to all comers. Balroth’s long years on the road and extensive interaction with other cultures has eroded most of the prejudices that are common to the other citizens of the Empire - excepting the Thalmor, of course. Even altmer and bosmer that have lived in the Empire their entire lives make him uneasy, but he tries to ignore that. As an orc he knows what it’s like to be oppressed and bullied and treats other minorities like the beast races just the same as anyone else. He still drinks, but only moderately, and takes great care not to let it control his life anymore. 

In combat, however, the beast is awakened if he is pushed far enough. Balthor still retains the capacity to fly into the fierce berserker’s rage that is so common in his race, which is both a hinder and a help. His strength and resilience are unmatched by the other races during such a state, but it clouds his mind and judgement and has often caused him to act recklessly and foolishly in his life before, and it could very well do so again. 

He worships the Eight Divines rather devoutly and finds great comfort in doing so. Balroth respects those who practice other religions but he does not look kindly on dark magic and other heresies that go against the doctrine of the Imperial faith, especially after saving Sarah from the Hagraven and her cronies. Other dislikes of his are rudeness, know-it-alls and stubborn people. He appreciates kindness, patience (including the ability to simply sit still for a while, something he is a master at) and a general joy and love of life, and is beginning to develop a liking for scholars and other people who devote themselves to their passion. In short, he likes to see people enjoying and living life to the fullest, who are still open to new ideas and outside input. Balroth likes singing (even if his voice does not lend itself for it very well) and the general feeling of camaraderie. That said, he has a self-sabotaging habit of closing himself off when people get too personal or ask too many questions, which is something he is still working on. 

One might hope that his newfound tranquility and inner balance will last when confronted with hardship and sorrow once more, for it is not certain that Balroth won’t relapse into the unstable and unreliable lout he once was. Only time will tell. 
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