[hider=Shakti][center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/180905/1686f3c3d27caaa693967e1de94e8395.png[/img]

[color=F19CBB][B]Name:[/B][/color] Tariyeh Shakti Nasaaj

[color=F19CBB][B]Race:[/B][/color] Redguard

[color=F19CBB][B]Sex:[/B][/color] Female

[color=F19CBB][B]Age:[/B][/color] 18

[color=F19CBB][B]Birthsign:[/B][/color] The Warrior

[color=F19CBB][B]Family Origins:[/B][/color] Alik'r Desert, Iliac Bay, Hammerfell [hr] [hr][/center]

[color=F19CBB][B]Appearance:[/B][/color] [hider=Shakti][img]https://i.imgur.com/GDKOk17.png[/img][/hider] [hider=Full Face][img]https://i.imgur.com/QTXYZfU.png[/img][/hider]

Shakti is a Redguard, and looks the part. She stands fairly tall at 5'9" (about 175 cm), with a fairly thin, boyish frame. Her skin is a shade of brown, 'like the color of the dunes at sunset' as her father would say. Her hands are roughened and covered in scars and small cuts from a lifetime of harsh desert living and manual labour. Shakti's eyes are also a brown hue, although one that sparkles in the light, like a polished stone catching the corner of your eye. The light behind them is one of youthful enthusiasm tempered by the experiences of one forced to grow up fast. Her hair is short, unkempt, messy, tousled. The only thing keeping it semi-controlled is her occasional hood that she wears to keep the sand and sun off of her face. Unleashed it goes in whichever way the wind blows and that is how she likes it. Shakti has a somewhat tomboyish face, with a small-to-medium sized nose that is fairly flat and points down like an arrow. Her eyes resemble somewhat rounder-than-average almonds with rather thick and expressive eyebrows. Her mouth is smallish and oval shaped, with full lips darker than her skin that give her an expression of youthful innocence.  

Her clothes are somewhat piecemeal, and with good reason. Being a wanderer means she has had to make on-the-go modifications to her outfit, deciding what to keep and what to leave behind or repurpose into something different. The robes and pants she wears on the under layer are white and slightly tattered, with the better condition blue robe worn over the top. Both of these are exceptionally suited to the heat of the desert and allow the wearer's skin to breathe to prevent sweating and unnecessary loss of water. These are secured over her torso with an improvised sash/scarf of orange cloth. It was torn from a cloak and she occasionally wears it as a sort of single-shouldered cloak. The armour she wears is relatively light, with a mismatched pair of leather bracers over her forearms to aid in the parrying of blows. Her shins are protected from the elements as well as enemies by a pair of matching leather greaves. Her abdomen is protected by the lower half of a leather cuirass, evidently part of a set. However the upper chest piece is missing, possibly discarded. Her belt is plain but well made, featuring a baldric to aid in the wearing of her sword. 'Every girl needs a good pair of boots' is what her mother used to say and Shakti has followed that piece of advice well. They are not as heavy-duty as Cyrodiilic or Nordic boots but are instead lighter and easier to move around in to prevent the user from sinking down into and becoming fatigued while moving around in sand. Finally she adorns herself in her father's cloak. It is sky blue and all the other markings and embroideries have long since faded or been torn off save for a barely visible crescent moon around the centre. Its edges are tattered and frayed so badly that if it were any other piece of clothing it would have been discarded by any sane person. On a fair weather day she wears it draped over her right shoulder and up over her mouth and nose to keep the sand out of her mouth, but leaves her hair open to the breeze. If the weather is rough she garbs it over her head like a hood to protect herself as much as possible.     

[color=F19CBB][B]Equipment:[/B][/color] 
 -Her Father's unnamed Steel Redguard Blade, possessing a slight curve to the overall shape. Long enough to be wielded in one or two hands without too much trouble. In decent condition. Worn cutting-edge up on her hip in the style of the old Sword-Singer masters.
 -Worn Iron Dagger, used mostly for menial cutting work and as a last resort.
 -Leather armour, including bracers, a chestpiece, and greaves. 
 -Alik'r Robes, semi-loose, clamped down by the leather that's worn over it. Highly suited for the desert environs of her homeland.
 -Cloak/Hood/Mask made out of the cloth of her Father's cloak. It is blue and has a faded gold trim with a moon motif on the center. She now wraps herself in her father's memory, almost literally. Can be worn in a variety of ways, most frequently a half mask/cloak to keep the sand out of her face. 

[color=F19CBB][B]Misc. Possessions:[/B][/color] 
 -Several incomplete and ancient texts about Sword-Singers.
 -Traveling pack, small and specially designed to survive the harshness of the Alik'r Desert, it carries her what little she owns.
 -Bedroll, mostly self-explanatory, although this one is handmade by Shakti's tribe and is exceptionally comfortable in the desert.
 -10 gold pieces, held within her pack is all the wealth she has, preferring to live off the land itself and get paid in training or knowledge.
 -Rations, bread, dates, water and goat's milk (of which she is particularly fond.)
 -Basic sewing kit

[color=F19CBB][B]Family and Associations:[/B][/color]
 Taren Nasaaj - Father; deceased
 Karayyah Nasaaj - Mother; alive
 Tarinah Nasaaj - Younger sister; alive
 Tarish Nasaaj - Younger brother; alive

 Israhal - Bandit, Partisan, Freedom fighter, and Shakti's mentor; unknown

[color=F19CBB][B]Favoured Skills:[/B][/color] 

  [b]One-handed and Two-handed Blade[/b] - Moderately Proficient - Shakti is naturally gifted with a blade and self-taught. One might even say she was a prodigy, for it is rare indeed to find someone with such barebones formal training as skilled as she. All Redguard children receive martial training in a variety of weapons, but none are as favoured as the sword. From this beginning, Shakti has sought out ancient Ra Gada Sword-Singer texts to help further her self-training, to some modest success. She has learned to wield her sword in one hand or both hands equally as well, and is able to switch mid fight to throw off her opponents. Her fighting style is a mix of modern Redguard conventions of swordplay and old Ra Gada Sword-Singer techniques. She is an adherent of the philosophy of 'Strike with Intent', meaning she only strikes if she thinks she can kill what she swings at. Ra Gadan swordplay has no use for defeat or wounding or submission. There is only death. No half measures. This also means she does not block her opponent's strikes. Ra Gadan swordplay again assumes the opponent also seeks your immediate death, so to let them hit you is to die. Thus, Shakti either avoids the blow by dodging, dashing or otherwise moving herself out of the way, or by redirecting the blow so it misses her with the brunt of the strike. Indeed, this is where her natural speed helps out quite a bit as in Sword-Singing being able to draw your weapon and attack in a single motion is seen as the most efficient and thus one of the most useful skills to practice.  
 
 [b] Athletics[/b] - Moderately Proficient - All Redguards are physically fit for the most part. For the nomadic denizens of the Alik'r Desert this is doubly true, for to stop moving there is to die. 
 
 [b] Acrobatics[/b] - Moderately Proficient - Ra Gadan Sword-Singing (at least the texts she has read) places high value on avoidance in combat and Shakti has both practiced and been trained to dodge both defensively and offensively in a duel. That being said she is not going to be doing any flips or twirls.

 [b] Hand-to-Hand[/b] - Somewhat Proficient - She has had some formal training in the basics of unarmed combat. All Redguard children are taught how to defend themselves, and her natural Redguard strength and speed help out quite a bit.

 [b] Weaving/Sewing[/b] - Somewhat Proficient - Isolated nomadic tribes don't get to go to the clothes market very often, so every member of the tribe is taught to sew and weave cloth using a hand loom. Though Shakti somewhat neglected her weaving skills in favour of more martial pursuits, she still knows how to mend rips and tears fairly handily. It just might take her a bit longer than say, her sister or mother. It has come in handy quite a few times since she has begun her wandering.

[color=F19CBB][B]History:[/B][/color] 
 Born into a small nomadic tribe that wanders the Alik'r Desert, it first seemed as though Shakti's destiny would be one of dunes and goat herding. Her mother was Karayyah, Matriarch of the tribe, and her father was Taren, a great warrior, the greatest of the tribe. Her sister Tarinah was born two years after Tariyeh, and a younger brother, Tarish, two years after that. The eldest child, young Tariyeh and her siblings spent their early life learning how to defend themselves, their tribe, and their family from all enemies, particularly the Aldmeri, as the War between Hammerfell and the Dominion was still a recent memory in those days. Even though the eldest girl was raised to be next in line to take over matriarchal duties once her mother was too old, her younger sister showed much better aptitude and eagerness for leadership. Tarinah was dutiful and sharp of mind, cognizant of the burden of leadership and determined to prove herself as a competent leader. While Tariyeh was mercurial of mood and motivation, more interested in her father's lessons on swordplay and tales of great Yokudan heroes. Though she lacked her younger sister's interest in leadership and more domestic activities, she more than made up for it with a determination to follow in her father's footsteps as the greatest warrior in the tribe. Her younger brother, Tarish, took to weaving like a duneripper to the sands. Even as a child his garments were prized possessions and cherished gifts. His skill with a loom was only matched by Tariyeh's lack of interest in one. Regardless of her eldest's misgivings, Karayyah was determined to tutor all of her children in the ways of the Alik'r. So, Tariyeh, Tarinah, and Tarish all spent their childhoods learning the ancient traditions and customs of their tribe. From this knowledge came a deep respect for the family's honor and the ancestors that had helped shape the history of the Alik'r Desert and Hammerfell as a whole. Though none of them had become great kings or rulers, there had been plenty of warriors among the lineage of Tariyeh's tribe, including a Sword-Singer (the legendary Ra Gadan warriors who were said to be able to fell mountains with their blades.) So when the King of Sentinel put out the call for household guard, troops who would be inducted into a knightly order (the Knights of the Moon,) guard him and carry out his will amongst his domain, he specifically requested Taren join. Tariyeh knew in her heart that Taren would join, it was an honour to be called upon to serve in a knightly order after all, but deeper still in her heart, she did not want him to go. It was irrational of course, but what ten-year-old girl is rational? She loved her father and she loved emulating him in her sword-drills and mock battles with the other children. Tariyeh's father, of course, was honoured and readily accepted.

Tariyeh had been young then, a girl of only ten. Old enough to remember her father leaving. 

The sun was 3/4ths of the way through the sky, just beginning to descend towards the horizon when her father stood up from the midday meal. His scaled armour glittered in the late afternoon sun. Tariyeh knew this meant he was to be leaving soon. They all knew. The youngest, Tarish, was not old enough to hold back his tears and wept openly. Tariyeh and her sister were old enough to know better and merely sat with watery eyes as their father strapped his sword to his hip once again. The whole family followed him out of the tent. His comrades-to-be were assembled in similar equipment to his and waiting in the common area of the site, near the communal firepit. They laughed about something. Tariyeh couldn't find anything funny. She sniffled. The wind tasted like she had lost something. When they too had reached the common area, her father turned and knelt down to her. 

"Stay strong my little sand-sparrow. You'll be in my heart for every moment I'm gone, and maybe if you are diligent in your sword-drills, in a few years you will join me in Sentinel."

She looked up from his shining breastplate and into his eyes, but did not say a word. He patted her head. 

"Listen to your mother. Everything she does, she does for the honor of the tribe. For the honor of the family. For the honor of you. As do I. As will you. Without our honor, we are nothing. Remember that, my little sand-sparrow." He patted her head again as he stood up. Before she knew what was happening, he was gone. The sun was falling across the sky and she could barely make out the banners of the caravan arc over the dunes towards Sentinel. One of them was her father's. Before long, it was nighttime and she could no longer see the blue shapes fluttering in the hot desert wind. Her mother called to her to set up the johads before she went to bed. Tariyeh was still sitting on the dune outside of the camp when her younger sister came up behind her holding the bundle of sticks and cloth that made up the johads. 

"Yehyeh, the johads." Her sister said, tapping her on the shoulder. Tariyeh blinked herself out of her haze and stood up. Her sister was eight and just as dutiful as their mother. So dutiful in fact, that Tariyeh thought she would make a better leader than Tariyeh herself. "Sorry Nahnah. I was watching Papa leave. Let's set up the johads and get to bed before it gets too cold." 

But her father never did return, at least not alive, and even as diligent as Tariyeh was at her drills, she never did join her father in Sentinel. 

 Tariyeh's adolescence was one of hoping and praying that her father would return, or at least visit. The tribe continued its endless journey around the great Alik'r, snaking its way through the sand, occasionally stopping at a city along the way. All the while, her mother kept trying to urge Tariyeh into taking a more active role in the leadership of the Tribe. At fifteen she still refused to do anything more than herd goats, practice her swordplay, and watch the horizon for her father's return. Tarinah, however, was happy to take the eldest girl's place in learning to lead the tribe.  

 It was just beginning to turn to dusk. The red-blood sun hung dangerously low in the sky as Tariyeh twirled her blade with her right hand, practicing a feint, then a slash, then a block, then a parry. She was only keeping a nominal eye on the small herd of goats under her charge as they browsed a small patch of desert shrubs, focusing instead on the muscle memory of her own short curved sword as it swung through the air in arcs and cuts. She moved her feet in deliberate but not slow movements as she traced a mock duel against an invisible opponent through the small gully in which she and her herd were situated. She guessed it was a stream bed of some sort during the rainy season, the water in the soil allowing some small plants to sprout and grow during the dry season. Tariyeh closed her eyes and focused solely on the feel of the motions as she practiced the forms of the attack. She could hear the soft bleating of the goats and bells around their neck grow slightly louder and faster in tempo, but she paid it no mind. 

 During her next cut, there was a noise like a shriek. Tariyeh's focus was ruined and she opened her eyes. She blinked as they adjusted to the ever-increasing dark. The noise was coming from a baby goat, being carted off by a shape. Tariyeh shouted for the shape to stop and broke into a run towards it. The shape was halfway up the gully wall with the goat under its arm, but it was clearly harder to get up the sloped and sandy side than get down. Tariyeh dove for and grabbed at the legs of the shape. She found purchase and the thing released the goat and tumbled down the side of the gully and onto Tariyeh. Judging from the noise it made, it was a man. A bandit of some kind no doubt. Goats were always popular at markets. The man rolled off of the girl and pulled at something near his chest. She could see the glinting of the large knife in the waning sunlight. She practically dove for her own short sword and retrieved it from where it had fallen. Her heart was beating as fast as a duneripper that smelled blood on the sand. She took a deep breath to calm her shaking and brandished her blade at the man, showing she was not afraid of him. Another shape appeared on the side of the gully. The man's partner? He made no attempt to climb down, the narrow gulch barely wide enough for two people to stand abreast, let alone three people fighting. 

 The bandit made the first move, thrusting out with an attack that Tariyeh clumsily slapped away with the flat of her blade. It was hard to see and therefore hard to react, but perhaps she could use that to her advantage. She used her free hand to make a motion towards the man, who instinctively flinched, unable to see what Tariyeh was doing. Seizing the moment, she made a wide hack with the hand that was [i]actually[/i] holding the blade. It bit into the man's upper arm and he shouted in pain. It was mostly superficial, the man's clothing blunting the novice blow. The brigand's partner yelled a curse at Tariyeh that almost made her laugh if she wasn't in a life or death struggle. Thoroughly distracted, the girl did not see the counter-thrust coming until it was too late. She tried to leap back but the tip still scratched at her ribs. She winced in pain, but the adrenaline was coursing through her and the pain did not stay her focus. 

[i]I do not think I can make that mistake again.[/i]

 She steeled her focus again and correctly predicted a third thrust, twisting her left shoulder to avoid the knife while extending her own blade with her right side in a counter-thrust of her own. The longer blade of her own proved adequate and she felt the tip press into meat. A yelp of pain erupted from the man and a chorus of bleats from the goats followed. Desperate and humiliated that he was being beaten by a teenage girl, the man angrily lashed out in a series of swipes with his hunting knife. Tariyeh turned the first aside before hopping backwards to avoid the rest. Undeterred, the man let loose a vicious downward stab at the girl's head. But she was prepared. Her knees bent and legs coiled like a sand-snake, she sprung under the man's attack and slashed at his abdomen as she passed him. If she had been bigger and perhaps a bit stronger, the stroke would have spilled the bandit's guts. However, a fifteen year old girl, even a Redguard, was not that strong and so instead it left an angry red cut across his stomach that oozed blood.  

 Perhaps realising that it was not worth a single baby goat, the man retreated a few steps and leapt up the sandy wall, aided by his friend. Not one to let her first real opponent go, Tariyeh ignored her aching ribs and jumped after the man, latching onto his boot. He wriggled his foot, attempting to scrape her off like a bug, but the girl was hooked on tight. She even dropped her blade to get a better grip with her right hand. Frustrated, the other man knelt down and kicked out with his foot, striking her in the forehead and propelling her neck backwards. The force of the kick was enough to dislodge one of her hands but her other remained firmly grasped onto the boot even as she fell. There was a sound of tearing and the wind was suddenly knocked out of Tariyeh. She found herself still in possession of a boot, laying on her back on the sandy floor of the gulch. Bruised, bleeding, and with an aching neck but victorious, Tariyeh gathered her small herd and her newly acquired boot and trekked back to the camp. 

 Karayyah was proud of her daughter. Sure it was foolish of her to attack a full grown man, but she had drove the two men away and sustained only a minor wound in the process. All in all, there wasn't much she could be mad about. Tariyeh was happy. Her siblings had oooh'd and aaaaaah'd as she regaled them with her duel in the gulch and her mother had told her how proud she was. Still, lurking in her heart, she wished she could tell her father. She knew he would be proud of her. Extra proud. The leaf did not fall far from the tree. Imagining the look on his face as she told him her adventure only half-satisfied her. She could picture the way his short beard would distort as he smiled at his eldest daughter. But again, it only partially made her feel better. She was proud of herself, but she missed him. 

 She sat in the tent with her mother. She was sixteen. Old enough to start leading the tribe, her mother insisted. Tariyeh protested. "I cannot. Tarinah-" Her mother raised a hand. "-is [i]not[/i] the eldest." Karayyah finished for her. "YOU must lead the tribe. It is your duty to our people. To your people." Tariyeh sighed. She knew her mother was right, but she still felt stuck. Her sister was twice the leader Tariyeh was, but her mother did not care. "I have taught you both the same thing." She would insist. "Anything she can do, you can do alongside her." She was technically correct. Both girls had learned how to navigate the desert via the constellations in the sky. Both girls had learned how to follow the changing seasons so that the goats always had food to eat. Both girls had learned the ceremonies and holidays of their people. Still, to Tariyeh she felt every bit the novice she had felt at ten. She hadn't told her mother that when they tested her by leaving her in an oasis to find them again on her own by the light of the night sky, she had merely remembered the next destination from the previous years' journey. How could she? She wouldn't dare disappoint her mother. Her children were the desert pearl of her sands. The proudest thing she had ever done. She could barely keep all the holy days in her head straight. She remembered the Day of Shame, though it was hardly relevant to the non-seafaring Alik'r nomads. There was also the Fiery Night, but what self-respecting Alik'r child would [i]not[/i] remember it? It was the liveliest party of the year. Meanwhile, her sister could seemingly name all of them off the top of her head without batting an eyelash. There was also weaving. Oh Satakal, the weaving! Everyone knew of her brother's prodigious weaving. He was practically the master of cloth already at eleven. It was almost scary. The only effect it had on Tariyeh was to discourage her. Try as her mother might, she could barely get Tariyeh to attempt to make socks. Her hands were deft and strong with a sword, but turned into sandstone bricks with a loom. She stuck to mending her torn clothes rather than put herself up for comparison with her brother.

 "You will have to lead someday, my little sand-sparrow." Tariyeh said nothing, but sullenly cast her gaze at the rug on the floor of the tent. "There is no need to mope around, child. I am very proud of the woman you are becoming. You will make a great leader one day." It seemed an empty platitude. "Now, let's get back to studying these constellations. I know you didn't use them to find us when we left you at the oasis." Tariyeh, who had been slumped over on a pillow, suddenly shot straight up. "How did you know?" Her mother laughed lightly, "You think you are the first child to remember the route? You weren't supposed to meet us there, you were supposed to follow the stars and meet us a few days later, past the town, like your sister did." Her mother winked at her. Tariyeh knew she didn't do it maliciously, but the comparison to her sister hurt her nonetheless. She winced slightly.  

 The next time she saw him was when the caravan brought back her father's body. She had just turned eighteen. The caravan returned with a man who was somewhat unknown to the tribe at its head. He introduced himself as Sir Adhemar, a Breton from Wayrest who had come to join the knightly order of Sentinel and a comrade of her father's. Tariyeh recognised the name from letters her father had sent home. He had spoken highly of the young knight from High Rock and Tariyeh's tribe treated him accordingly. The caravan rested with the tribe while burial preparations were made for Taren, and a feast was thrown to honour the sacrifice of the man and the joyous journey he was surely onto the Far Dunes. Of the circumstances surrounding the death of Taren, Adhemar grew nervous. Sitting in the tent with Tariyeh and her mother, Adhemar looked around anxiously. "I know not who killed him, my lady..." He trailed off as if he had more to say, and then spoke again, "...But I suspect he was one of our order. Not a Dwemer. We were betrayed from within." He looked nervously towards the entrance flap of the tent, before settling his gaze back onto Tariyeh's mother. Tariyeh felt her stomach knot itself three times over. It felt like Diagna himself had delivered a blow that had knocked the soul from her body. "Our caravan was attacked on the way out of the city as well, by an unknown party who wore no heraldry. I am taking these few men back to Wayrest, where we might seek refuge. The new Governor has a taste for blood as well. I'd steer clear of that accursed place." The Breton shuddered, as if the mere mention of Sentinel would curse him. So the Dwemer had returned, and invaded at that! Of course, the tribe had heard rumours about an occupation, and seen strange shapes in the sky, but for the most part nothing had changed from the past years of traveling the Alik'r. 

The feast was soon concluded and Taren given to the Desert, leaving Tariyeh only a precious few items to remember him by; his cloak, his sword, and most importantly his honor. Her mind darkened. The hot dusk wind blew through the air. She gritted her teeth, crunching sand in between them. She knew what she must do. Her whole family did. No one spoke of it for a full day, long after the column of knights had departed. Tariyeh tried to think of it in positive terms. She would be absolved of her leadership duties until she returned, and Tarinah would get her dream of leadership. That was good. It didn't make her feel better, or less apprehensive.

The youngest, her brother spoke about it first. 

"You're leaving, Yehyeh?"

"Yes." 

"Why?"

How could she explain to her poor brother, who only wanted to weave masterpieces, that as the oldest child, she was honor-bound to find and kill the man who had betrayed their father? How could she explain that she would not be allowed to return until she had either killed the man or been killed herself? Perhaps he would understand, after all, Redguard culture was steeped in honor and ceremony and pride and family ties. And blood. Lots of blood. 

"I must find out what happened to Father." She finally said as she strapped her father's sword to her hip. She had worn it edge-down back then. She had not known about the Sword-Singers then. 

"When will you be back?" He insisted.

"I do not know." She replied honestly.

She left the next day, wrapped in her father's cloak, headed for an old friend of the tribe. One who could better prepare her for her task at hand. 

On the third day of travelling she finally saw the camp on the horizon. The hot desert sun was at its zenith in the sky. Sand blew against her boots as she walked, kicked up by her relatively light footfalls and picked up by the wind. That constant companion, that constant foe, the wind. [i]The Sand-Sparrow flies against the wind,[/i] she reminded herself. A common saying amongst her people. When travelling in the desert, very rarely were you walking with the wind and even the birds flew against it more often than not. She crested a dune and slid down its face. Her eyes were fixed on a small outcropping of rocks on the far horizon, towards where the sun heading in its great journey across the Alik'r sky. She knew that within the small outcropping was a cave and within the cave was a camp, and within that, a man. Israhal. He had fought in the Great War, long before Tariyeh's time, and had helped thwart the Dominion's plans to yoke the Redguard. Some had claimed he had turned to banditry in the interbellum years. Tariyeh did not believe that. It had been some years since she had seen him, but her father claimed he was always the just and honorable man she had known him as. Time would tell. She crested another dune. Her legs ached and she could feel sweat dripping down her forehead despite the harsh wind blowing against her. 

It was deep into the night by the time she reached the rocks. Heat had been replaced by teeth-chattering cold. Not the drippy-wet coldness of snow and ice and rain. The wind-blasted nothing-cold of the desert. The cold you get when there is nothing for warmth to latch onto. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her as she cautiously approached the mouth of the cave. There were three huge sandstone boulders arranged in a triangle on the top of a large dune. The rocks had been sandblasted over the ages and barely resembled what they had been three ages ago. Before they had been rocks they had been part of a temple. A first era Sword-Singing temple if Israhal was telling the truth. Supposedly this was the very top of the temple, the desert having reclaimed the entirety of the rest of the temple. She presumed the dune itself was the temple and that the cave must have been some sort of passage to the top. It did not matter now. She slowly, but steadily began her descent into the cave, her right hand on the wall and her left out in front of her. It was dark. Too dark to see and she had foolishly not packed any torches. She thought of her mother as she made her way further into the passage. She was back leading the tribe, after losing her husband and now having to part with her oldest child, the one supposed to take her place. The thought made her resolve harden. She would not let her mother OR her father down. She would avenge her father and then return to lead the tribe. But first she had to find Israhal. 

The passage slowly began to get steeper as she made her way down, down into the heart of the temple. The light of the moon was no longer visible behind her. A wrong step! Slick with sand, her boot failed to find traction on the sandstone and slid from beneath her. She fell backwards onto her back and slid, half riding, half tumbling down the steep incline. She tried to slow her fall, only succeeding in tearing skin from the ungloved parts of her hands. Finally the grade of the slope lessened. She slowed and was spit out on her behind in the middle of a huge hall, a roaring bonfire in the the center. Three men immediately sprang at her, swords pointed at her throat. 

"I-Israhal! I've come for Israhal!" She spit out as fast as her mouth could move, before realising how sinister that sounded. 

"Tell him, Nasaaj, Tariyeh Nasaaj is here!" One of the men broke off and headed back to the group around the fire. She heard bellowing laughter. She grasped her bloody hands and tried to shake the pain from them to no avail. Finally an older man appeared, a long black beard sprung from his face and hung at his chest, his head was bald, or at least shaved close enough to functionally be bald. He wore the robe of an Alik'r and had a sword hanging off of his belt. Upon seeing her sitting down, covered in sand, staring at her bloody hands, he laughed again. The two men sheathed their swords and looked strangely at the man. 

"Tariyeh Nasaaj. It has been a looooong time, my little sand-sparrow. You have grown! Tell me, how is your family?" He offered his hand to her as he finished speaking. 

She took his hand gingerly and pulled herself up. "It has been some time, Israhal. It is good to see you again." She forced herself to smile before continuing. "Things are not well. My father... he ... " The words caught in her throat like a sand-rabbit caught in a trap. "He died. Recently. And not because of the Dwemer, though I suspect they might be involved somehow. He was betrayed by someone he trusted." Everything flooded out at once. She did not even know if they had known the Dwemer had returned, although it was a safe guess. Israhal was known to be well informed. He stroked his beard knowingly, seeing the pieces fit together. "Ahh, and you have left the tribe, as tradition dictates you must, to avenge him." She nodded hopefully. "And you have come seeking me for aid?" She nodded again, unable to guess at his motives. He clapped her back and began to lead her back towards the fire. "Your father was a good friend to me, child. Because of this I am honorbound to aid you in your task. I do request one thing in return from you though. I am aware of these so-called Dwemer returning and claiming to rule over Hammerfell. I have dedicated my life to a free Hammerfell and I would not see it occupied by one race of knife-ears so soon after I have thrown out another!" Israhal cleared his throat after his impromptu speech and continued, "So... I will train you, but in return you will act as my eyes and ears in Hammerfell throughout your travels. Easy enough I should think." Tariyeh bit her lip. It was not like she had much of a choice. She was a good swordswoman, but so was every other person in Hammerfell. It was often joked that even the goats would pick up a sword if given the chance. 

"I guess I don't have much of a choice do I? I accept your offer." She said after a few moments of mulling the idea and what it entailed in her head. 

"Excellent!" Israhal declared, "First lesson, you shouldn't use your first name anymore. Your father was very proud of you and spoke often about his little Tariyeh. Whoever killed him might be looking for his family to prevent reprisal. Perhaps your second name will work?" 

"Shakti." She declared at once, "It means power." Tariyeh said it again, quieter. It was the name of a maternal ancestor, perhaps her mother's mother, passed down to her. 

"Good. It is a good name. May it serve you well. Now, second lesson. You know of the Sword-Singers of ancient Yokuda?" Israhal began, going into detail about how this had once been a temple of the Sword-Singers and how their art was long since forgotten but how he had began piecing together texts to try and revive the lost art and how Tariyeh, nay Shakti would be his first student. 

Time had passed since she had begun her training with in the temple. She had taken to Sword-Singing like a duneripper to sand. Venturing across the Alik'r in search of more texts to further her study. From the temple, she had made her way to Sentinel where she had no luck acquiring a genuine Ra Gadan text and only ended up thrown out of the city after slaying a bandit who had tried to rob her in an alley with the lure of Ra Gadan artifacts. Frustrated but undeterred, Shakti made her way to Old Hegathe, landing point of the Ra Gada when they first arrived in Tamriel, investigating a tomb along the way and finding pieces of an ancient Sword-Singer text. It was nothing worldshaking but it did give her a few new forms to practice in her drills. From Hegathe she crossed the bay to Gilane, a smaller city that nevertheless was still a popular stop for travelers and tribes making their way into or across the Alik'r. Indeed, Shakti was familiar enough with the city that she knew where all the inns were and thus, information. She had no luck figuring out if there were anymore Ra Gada artifacts but she did learn something else interesting.

Israhal had many different contacts in many different cities. This city, Shakti had learned, was no different. She had only entered the city perhaps, two hours before a man dressed as a merchant told her someone wished to speak with her in the inn [i]Three Crowns[/i]. She gratefully thanked the man and told him she would go there at once. It was eventime and Shakti enjoyed the cool air and the bright stars of the Hammerfell sky. In theory she could follow a certain star to the location of her tribe at any given time of year, but Shakti had to admit she hadn't paid attention when her mother was explaining it. She nevertheless tried in vain to pick out the star as she walked. The Weaver's Star is what they called it, because supposedly the spirits weaved the desert using its light. She was surprised she even remembered that much from her mother's lessons. She was always much more invested in the martial part of her drills than the mental tasks. She would worry about finding her tribe again later, for now she had her own path to walk, and she was determined to see it through. 

After a decent jaunt through the winding streets (and more than a few Dwemer patrols, as it was nearing curfew) she finally arrived at the guarded gates of the [i]Three Crowns[/i]. "All of the rooms here are in use, and it is getting late, you should find somewhere else to stay." The guard spoke with the accent of a man born and raised in the city. Shakti smiled sheepishly as she desperately tried to remember the passphrase Israhal had drilled into her head. 

"Uhh... Sen sogat kulo.. go." She declared triumphantly after the longest second of her life. The guard looked at his friend, who still looked suspiciously at the young Redguard. 

"Hurry up and go inside, before someone sees you." His friend said, gesturing with haste towards the door. She dashed inside the door and into the common room, opening and shutting the door in one fluid motion, her speed surprising even herself. For a place with no vacancies, it sure looked vacant to her. There was all of one man, passed out in a corner on a floor pillow, still nursing a bottle of Breton wine. Perhaps they were expecting people. Shakti let out a [i]pfft[/i] of annoyance and looked around for her contact. None of the tables were occupied. Maybe there was a backroom? She approached a red curtain semi-cautiously and peered behind it. A man, a Redguard man, sat at the far end of the next room. He spotted her and gestured her to sit with him. She did so, still somewhat expecting to hear a knife slide from its sheath. 

"Shakti?" The man inquired in a raspy voice.

Shakti nodded. 

"Our mutual friend tells me you are interested in former members of the Knights of the Moon in Sentinel."

She nodded again. "I am."

His voice lowered to a whisper, the man spoke again, "There is one here. I do not know his name, only that he is not a Redguard. Perhaps start with the other inns or the bazaar. I hope this helps you. You are welcome to stay here tonight, though no longer than tonight as we are expecting arrivals soon." 

Shakti thanked the man profusely and hurried to an empty room. Her stomach felt like it was full of desert flies. Her first major lead in almost a month! She was so excited she ended up barely being able to sleep, her mind racing with possibilities of where to start, people she should ask, and answers she might find. It was exciting but also nerve-wracking. What if it lead nowhere? What if she was back to the oasis she had set out from? Shakti pushed the thoughts of doubt from her mind. "A bird's trust is not in the branch she sits on, but on her own wings." She whispered to herself as she drifted off to sleep. She would make the lead work. She had to.      
     

[color=F19CBB][B]Personality:[/B][/color] 
 Shakti is a strange mixture of contradictions, as many young adults are. Torn between two worlds, one of childhood wonder and naiveté and another of adulthood duty, honor, responsibility, and death. 

 Her experiences in life have left her somewhat wise and reserved beyond her years, and yet she has not totally shaken off her childish impulses and naiveté that comes with being born in such an insular community. Her resolve is like sand, sometimes totally indomitable and practically a force of nature. But other times she is defeated by a stiff breeze. Beneath her resolve and determination to walk her chosen path, is a compassionate and honourable young woman who always strives to do what she feels is right. Though she can come across as overly serious or quiet at times, Shakti is also still young and has a playful side that she does not mind sharing with those she trusts or feels do not wish to harm her. 

 Shakti is fairly outgoing in her dealings with strangers, making no secret of her quest for knowledge and interest in learning the ways of the sword from anyone who will teach her. She is slightly more tight-lipped about avenging her father, but if she thinks someone can help her get closer to her goal she will talk freely. She holds great reverence for Satakal, the Yokudan God of Everything and Diagna, the Yokudan God of Abberant Swordsmanship (an old favourite of the ancient Sword-Singers.) In addition to those more mainstream Yokudan gods, Shakti also venerates more local spirits, such as the nameless Great Spirit of the Desert, a favourite deity among the nomads of the Alik'r, said to have weaved the stone and sand from the worldskin of Satakal. 

 Furthermore, Shakti is not necessarily one to give in to whimsy. She can be decisive when she needs to be, but she prefers to think things over and follow the winds in that direction rather than just let herself be blown along. She is patient and knows that mastery is a journey and journeys take time. 

 Like many Redguards, Shakti views magic somewhat warily, while being outright hostile to most forms of necromancy due to the borderline ancestor worship and high value placed on the body of the deceased. Other forms of magic are merely regarded with extra caution and its users kept at a respectful distance. 

Like the desert of her homeland, Tariyeh's austere outward appearance gives way to a rich and lively character underneath. She is a fusion of two alike-though-different cultures. The old and the new. The responsibility and duty of adulthood and the carefree wonder of childhood. The harshness of the sands but the beauty of its dunes. Her upbringing in modern Redguard culture and her subsequent immersion in ancient Ra Gadan tradition have given her a unique point of view on life, even amongst her fellow Redguard. [/hider]