[hider= Faerion Charmerius]

[center][h3][color=00746b]Faerion Charmerius[/color][/h3][/center]
[center][sup][sup][h3]Male Altmer | 41 | The Lover[/h3][/sup][/sup][/center]
[center][img]https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c3/4c/bb/c34cbbbdfe9b581f86736b01d6a27b70.jpg[/img][/center]



[indent]Faerion does not possess the elegance of most of his race, standing at a ridiculous 7’1”, he is taller than all Altmer he knows, and almost certainly taller than anyone of any other race. Where the majority of Altmer are lithe and built of muscle, Faerion appears gawky with protuberant and sharp bones. Try as he might, he has not ever been able to grow into his farcical frame in a way that makes him look anything less than awkward. He is so thin and delicately skeletal, his family would often quip that a sudden flurry of air might carry him off to Oblivion.

His skin has the typical golden hue of Summerset people, and he has delightfully rich amber eyes that show his warmth and brim with glee when he smiles - there is rarely a day that his expression is grim and sad, his light-hearted and breezy nature is shown on his face and his smile carries from ear to ear. Faerion frequently flaunts his mane of long, silver hair - wearing it as Altmer do, hanging straight from root to tip. Occasionally he will wear it parted and separated in simple styles while out in the field. Faerion is also fond of tying it all up into a tightly woven bun at the top of his head. When left in its full and unabashed glory, his hair hangs down to his torso and he has rarely cut its impressive length - his hair being his pride and joy and he believes that his glossy luscious locks will be what attracts a fair maiden's attention.

In casual clothing, he favours soft fabrics in shades of green - sage, viridian, and teal robes that are loose enough to almost cover his angular body. From a distance, while dressed in his garments, he maintains a convincing illusion of grace and poise. While in the field, he cannot quite disguise his unfortunate physique and opts for light leather armour, which if anything, only accentuates his jagged limbs.[/indent]

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[indent]Born to affluent parents in Cloudrest, Summerset, Faerion’s upbringing was very typical of Altmer children. His parents were sure to raise he and his three siblings accordingly - as patriots of the Aldmeri Dominion. From a young age, he was made to read and study the history of Aldmeris, the Merethic Era, and the powerful Aldmeri Clans of Tamriel and the Summerset Isles. None of this information ever stuck with Faerion, much to his parents great dismay. Unlike his siblings, Faerion showed no real aptitude for scholarly life. Still, they tried to find him a pursuit in which he could excel in - and so when he was old enough to hold one, he was given a bow and a quiver of arrows. Now this, [i]this[/i] excited Faerion! The feel of the bow in his hands, the sound of the string pulling taught - ready to fire… It gave him a thrill he had not yet known.

As much as it pained them, his parents sent him off to a Military Academy - pooling their savings together to fund it, putting his siblings to work to make more money. They were determined to make a proud Altmer of their son, Faerion. And so he wound up in Valenwood, training with young Bosmer. It was during this time that he seemed to undergo an unfortunate growth-spurt which he continues to attribute to the strange diet of the Bosmer that he adhered to during his time with them. He struggled to improve his skills as an archer past an apprentice level - even when his friends were succeeding at their craft and improving daily, he had stagnated at a level that was not deemed competent enough for him to be allowed to continue. He was sent packing back to Cloudrest after only three short years, with his tail between his legs and his pride in tatters.

Even though his skills had seemed to plateau, Faerion still found joy with his bow and when back in Cloudrest he would go on hunts around the outskirts. Even if it took him all day to finally take down game, he would return home with it - proud as punch of his deeds. Once again, his parents were frustrated at his overtly whimsical nature - and his inability to take himself and his heritage as seriously as his siblings. That he looked like a disaster was a further insult. His spindly limbs were ungainly and he was too gauche in personality, with all the charisma of a chopped log. Over time, they began to grow resentful over their son, with their neighbours and friends questioning how such a pitiful and hapless Altmer could exist.

Their constant snickers did not fall on deaf ears, and even with a heart as big as he had it eventually wore him down - eroding his confidence. After a discussion with his parents and siblings, it was decided that it was high time for him to set off on his own - free from the shackles of their judgement. They explained to him he should take a pilgrimage of his own to discover his talent - and return only when he could be seen make them proud, and be an example of a fine Altmer.

He was still entirely determined to be a ranger - to be a Hero of Tamriel! There must be a way that he could improve his skills with a bow - and still he continued in pursuit of his dream, working with mercenary groups throughout Cyrodiil as they made their way on their adventures. It always seemed that he wound up being more of a hindrance than a help. His clumsiness would activate booby-traps, or he would miss a stealthy shot and alert an enemy. His determination never faltered, even if all of his colleagues elected to kick him out of the group unanimously. Every time it happened, he would simply find the next rag-tag bunch of wannabe adventurers and try again, and again, and again.

His borderline delusional obsession with being a hero, eventually led him to an Inn in Anvil - where during a rather embarrassing moment of discovering he had no coin to pay for his meal, he was yanked from his seat and made to chop vegetables in the kitchens as payment. [i]Something happened.[/i] When he touched the chef’s knife, his posture became perfect, not a limb jolting out of place anywhere. When he ran the blade across the carrots, he did it with such a speed and accuracy he surprised even himself. Each piece the same size, uniform, [i]flawless[/i]. The Innkeeper was so surprised by it, that as an experiment, he requested that Faerion continue cooking and make his way to the pot to tend to the meats. [i]Something else happened.[/i] Faerion blitzed through the kitchen with a dancer’s elegance. Seasoning the ingredients instinctively, basting the meat delicately, and plating up gourmet extravagance for the diners. The Innkeeper was flabbergasted, and offered Faerion a job on the spot - practically begging the Altmer culinary mastermind to stay.

"But.... but this isn't heroic!" he mused while he diced up the vegetables, sauteeing them on a low heat in the pan - the scent of caramelisation tinged the air as he scowled down at his creation. "How in Nirn will this help anyone?" His wrist flicked and released the food onto the plate - the glistening juices following which he drizzled over the finished dish. “Oh lad, ye do it for the septims!” retorted the Innkeeper. “People will come from far away to experience but a whiff of it!”

Faerion drowned out the sound of the Innkeeper. Frustrated that [i]this[/i] was his talent. To be a common cook in the back kitchen of some tawdry inn. For one of the first times in his life, his face curled into an aggressive scowl and he growled under his breath.[/indent]


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[indent]He eventually found his way to Chorrol, and to a note stuck to a board in an inn - a [i]Guild![/i]. The opportunity was too good to pass up, and so he signed on as… as their cook in the Logistics Division, but in the back of his mind knowing it was only a matter of time until they called upon him and his bow to help out in the field.[/indent]

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[indent]Faerion, unlike most Altmer has a far more approachable nature to him, and is always happy to meet new people. He has a warm and affable personality, and is at times charismatic - despite his family being entirely turned off by his personality, people of other races find him very agreeable and entertaining. His clumsiness is both a source of amusement and annoyance for those he travels with. He is not the smartest individual, and will often speak without thinking over his words first - resulting in amusingly dumb outbursts from time to time. 

Being young by Altmer standards, he has a spry energy about him, and this means that he can succumb to his own naivete quite easily, and can be quite hot-headed when it comes to proving himself. He will inadvertently challenge authority by speaking his mind and letting the arrogance of youth take over.

Faerion is a self-proclaimed ‘[i]Ladies Man[/i]’, and loves nothing more than chasing after beautiful women, as hard as he may try - his act of wooing is less romantic, and more lecherous and cringe-inducing which is of course, just another source of amusement for his comrades. He has received a slap to the cheek on many an occasion. He is driven by the desire to make his family proud of him, finally, but also to become a hero. He is determined and unswerving in his choices in life. He possesses a tenacity and spark that so many don’t.
 [/indent]

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[indent][b]Equipment:[/b]
Hunting Bow and a Quiver of Iron Arrows;
Steel dagger;
Chef’s Knife;
Recipe book (his own recipes)[/indent]

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[indent][b]Attributes:[/b]
Major: Willpower
Minor: Personality


[b]Skills:[/b]

[b]Expert:[/b]
Cooking

[b]Adept:[/b]
Speech
Light Armour

[b]Apprentice:[/b]
Archery
Stealth
Restoration - [i]Spell: Healing[/i][/indent]

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[indent][b]Combat Style:[/b] Like most archers, Faerion will stay out of direct range of enemies, and pick them off from a distance with his bow. Despite the Altmers natural propensity for the Arcane arts, Faerion has not dabbled in this particular field, but can use a simple healing spell in a pinch. He also keeps a simple steel dagger in case of an emergency when he is in close range or has been ambushed. His skills in stealth leave little to be desired when he is lumbering around like a newborn deer, but when focussed, his footsteps are near silent and his thin frame makes for the ability to squeeze into small cracks out of sight.[/indent]

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