[hider=Garil Mavos, Updated][INDENT][INDENT][CENTER][h1][b][i]G A R I L M A V O S[/i][/b][/h1][sub][i]"I be just a simple farmhand, sera, though I may sell you my services if that is what you wish."[/i][/sub][/CENTER] [table][row][/row][row][cell][center][sub][b]══════ C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T ══════[/b][/sub] [sup]_______________________________________________[/sup][img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/a7/31/b4/a731b40a97b147a20c0bf0591db3e5f0.jpg[/img] [sup]_______________________________________________[/sup] [suP][b]═══════ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y ══════[/b][/suP] [sub]Garil Mavos [sup]_______________________________________________[/sup] 53 [b]|[/b] ♂ [b]|[/b] Dunmer [sup]_______________________________________________[/sup] Farmhand, Amateur Adventurer, and Mercenary[/sub][/center] [indent][sub][b]▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S[/b][/SUB] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► [b]Build[/b] - Lean and athletic; built for dexterity. ► [b]Skin Color[/b] - Sun-spotted ebony, with mild hues of dark blue and ashen grey ► [b]Hair Color[/b] - Black with grey strands. ► [b]Eye Color[/b] - Deep red. ► [b]Other[/b] - Body is littered with scars from small cuts and labor.[/SUP] [SUB][b]▼ D O S S I E R[/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► [b]Birthplace[/b] - Presumably Cheydinhal in Cyrodiil. ► [b]Birthsign[/b] - The Ritual ► [b]Biggest Regret[/b] - Garil would have you believe that it was his inability to seize ripe opportunities and rise above his humble origins, as well as cutting ties with his family. Also the fire, he feels pretty bad about that. ► [b]Garil's Goal[/b] - To perform great, honorable deeds that would make his ancestors proud. Maybe make him a little famous. Fame and fortune, really. Maybe not fame. Probably fortune. Power and wisdom? Seeing the world, definitely that. Garil's goals are as protean as the Dunmer himself.[/SUP][/indent] [indent][sub][b]▼ F A V O R E D A T T R I B U T E S[/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► [abbr=Though it was a close call between Personality and Intelligence, Garil gets by better on his ability to talk to and learn from others than sheer book smarts.][b]Personality[/b][/abbr] ► [abbr=Two steps ahead is Garil Mavos, with alacrity and nimbleness being his most stalwart defense.][b]Agility[/b][/abbr][/sup] [SUB][b]▼ S K I L L S[/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► [b]Speechcraft[/b] - [abbr=There's something to be said about a man who behaves so bizarre and secretive without attracting the wrong kind of attention.]Adept[/abbr] ► [b]Acrobatics[/b] - [abbr=No one said he'd never fall, only that he'd land on his feet. It's a philosophy he'd like to apply to his own life as well.] Adept[/abbr] ► [b]One-Handed[/b] - [abbr=Long is your arm, swift is your blade. Deep is the cut, and subtle is the poison. Become dust in the eyes of Boethiah... or whatever.]Adept[/abbr] ► [b]Conjuration[/b] - [abbr=Magic is in his bloodline, if not the talent to use it. Ancestry may have taught him the theory, but the road taught him the essentials.] Apprentice[/abbr] ► [b]Stealth[/b] - [abbr=One would do well to not be seen if they wish to not be noticed -- also, when lacking in pure combat strength, it's simply best to get the drop on the other guy.]Apprentice[/abbr] ► [b]Athletics[/b] - [abbr=By Azura, by Azura, by Azura! It's the Grand Champi-- oh, no, it's just Garil. Farm work builds great bodies!]Apprentice[/abbr] ► [b]Smithing[/b] - [abbr=Okay, so Garil can't really work a forge, but he's great if you need someone to patch a sail, a leaky roof, or fix a wagon-wheel. He's a great handyman if nothing else.]Apprentice[/abbr] ► [b]Alchemy[/b] - [abbr=Mostly for brewing up mundane medicine for pain relief or lessening the symptoms of minor ailments, though it was taught to him by a Bosmer, so ingest at your own discretion.]Novice[/abbr] ► [b]Pickpocket[/b] - [abbr=Minor sleight of hand to grab loose items without people noticing, but he's no Gray Fox.]Novice[/abbr] ► [b]Hand to Hand[/b] - [abbr=*insert meme pic of Scrappy-Doo*]Novice[/abbr][/SUP] [SUB][b]▼ S P E L L S[/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► [b]Conjuration[/b] - Conjure Dagger, Conjure Sword, Summon Ghost[/sup] [SUB][b]▼ E Q U I P M E N T[/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► [b]Weapons[/b] - Three knives, though they look to be more for utility than anything else. There's a skinning knife with a gut hook, a filet knife, and a silver cheese knife. He also has the staff from his bindle. ► [b]Armor[/b] - Nothing but the clothes on his back. ► [b]Containers[/b] - A backpack, bindle, a 32 oz. waterskin. His backpack carries his miscellaneous belongings while the bindle sack carries his food. ► [b]Food, Drink, Potions[/b] - A cheesecloth pouch filled with two pounds of assorted nuts and seeds, dried fruit, and dense preserved bread. Two large and round bottles with cork stoppers, and are filled with sujamma. ► [b]Miscellaneous[/b] - Two small wooden bowls and two small clay bowls. Tightly packed in the satchel are small, folded mats and rugs, and soap. Assorted trinkets and mementos, cheap handmade jewelry, and old relics and antiquities. He also has a bundle of scrolled documents and a strange, tightly sealed and extremely hard malachite bottle. [/sup][/indent][hr] [/cell][cell][center][b][sub]══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════[/sub][/b][/center] Garil is as unassuming as a dunmer can get: he dresses modestly with threadbare clothing, he's clean shaven, and he carries himself with such a humble and passive disposition, so obviously trustworthy, that the only thing keeping him from being [i]conspicuously[/i] unassuming would be his impressive height -- 6'0". Though his build is somewhat lanky, and not at all like one would would expect a soldier or mercenary from, he is still lean from what he claims to be years of hard farm work. Knicked and scratched by numerous petty scars across his hairless body, too few of them appear to be from life-threatening injuries by blade or creature, either lending credibility to his skills or undermining his integrity. He walks, stands, and sits with a slight hunch, and often rocks his jaw from side to side when in contemplation. He also tends to gesture his hands quite often when talking, and has a distinct tell whenever he's lying, where he cranes his head in as if to invade your personal space and his tone becomes suggestive. Curiously, he's quite acrobatic and has an impeccable sense of balance. He doesn't seem to have much reason to be as adept as he is, and any questioning is answered with a shrug and a blasé, "I like to climb things. I guess I just have good balance." He walks with a peculiar grace and sense of purpose, as if he has a clear destination in his mind's eye, a gait which other dunmer familiar to him have insultingly referred to as monkey-like. You can occasionally catch him looking over his shoulder or staring at other dunmer. Watching Garil swing a blade, on the other hand, he doesn't seem so great at it. There's almost a hesitance or uncertainty as he cuts the air -- no confidence -- but a trained eye can find his perfect grip and footing, and figure out pretty quickly that he probably picked up a couple of lessons. His angular features are somewhat striking. His cheekbones are high and pronounced, almost jutting from his face and combined with the gauntness of his cheeks, this quality being particularly highlighted. His chin is long and comes down to a point. However, he also has a wide jaw, which adds to the strength of his facial features. Almost out of place upon his face are a pair of a thick lips, their shade a darker hue than the rest of his face. He's almost always munching on nuts or seeds, swelling his jowls as they fill with food, rocking his jaw side to side as he chews. His mouth sits beneath a long, hawkish nose that may have once been broken in the past if the vertical crookedness is not just another sharp facial feature on a long list of sharp facial features. His ears, low on the sides of his head, flare out quite a bit like two dishes waiting for signals. His peripheral extremities, his arms and legs, are quite spindly though not without lean muscle; you'd be forgiven for underestimating the strength in his figure due to his light toning, but even so, the dunmer is more agile than he is brutish. His black hair is long and well kept, also undercut, and behind his neck you'll often find residing loose, frizzy hair. He prefers to keep his hair tied back and usually does so in the shape of the bun to keep the hair off his neck and back while he's working. Overall, Garil is a dunmer that seems very conscious of his personal hygiene despite his humility and humble occupation. Of course he has no qualms with getting himself dirty, but with as often as he seems to mock pride and vanity, he seems quite content to preen himself with the beginning and end of every day. That said, he is not so self-conscious either that he'd remove the gray hairs growing on his head. In fact, he seems quite fond of them. He is at least self-aware enough to acknowledge his contradictions and hypocrisies, though it's almost as if he occasionally forgets he holds such values. There aren't many accessories on his person. Little holes sit on his ears where there were once piercings, and as mentioned before, what little clothes he has appears old, weathered, and quite obviously favoring warmer colors such as reds and oranges -- they compliment his eyes, he says. What passes for a shirt is actually more like a red blanket or a shawl, which he wraps around his torso to cover himself during the day in a Nibenese-esque fashion. It's not uncommon to see him using the toga wrap to use as an arm sling after a long and tiring day of work. The pants he wears goes down to his knees and are held up by a leather cord, and his calloused, leather-like feet have not the luxury of proper footwear beyond a pair of sandals, which he occasionally forgoes in favor of the cool sensation of morning dew upon the grass. [center][b][sub]═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════[/sub][/b][/center] He's a mer with many quirks and habits. He hates covering his feet -- they need to breathe, he says -- he has a habit of talking to himself aloud -- helps him think, he says -- and he clicks his tongue absentmindedly instead of whistling or singing. Despite generally being a peculiar person, Garil enjoys his privacy and does his best to appear unassuming and inconspicuous. This is best done when minding his own business, which he does successfully for the most part, but he's also irrepressibly curious. While he might do what he can to keep his hands and mind busy, such as sweeping or mopping the deck, overhearing a conversation will pique his interest enough so that he might pay undue attention to whomever he may be eavesdropping on. To others, he could very well just be some random, nosy s'wit, which in turn can -- counter-intuitively -- direct even less attentions towards himself if he can push others away. No one wants to be around somebody who can't mind his own business, and that's the genius of it. If he can convince others he's not worth paying attention to, then it makes his goal of staying inconspicuous even easier. He watches and listens, preferring to have the edge over others, just in case it's better to be safe than sorry. Then there are those who hears what he has to say and become intrigued. This is where his proclivity for gossip gets him in the trouble of being noticed, because despite his desire for solitude and obscurity, he has a conflicting desire for engaging in conversation. After spending much of his time on the road alone, with nothing to do but think, he likes to share his insights with others. He has a hungry mind that enjoys being fed, so sharing his thoughts with like-minded individuals is one of his favorite pastimes. It is one of his more selfish habits as he tends to share very little personal information, electing to dismiss such questions with claims of being a boring dunmer leading an uneventful life. In this regard, he limits his stories to the people he has met and the places he has been; stories about the "others" in his life instead of himself.[/cell][/row][/table][/INDENT][/INDENT] Getting to know Garil is not necessarily a bad thing though. He's quite an amiable fellow, if a tad odd in his habits and mannerisms. He has the ability to read people and read them well, a skill he's developed over years of people-watching and questioning. Kindly and well-spoken, he doesn't come across as the judgmental type, as if there was nothing you could say that could startle him and he'd accept you for who you are -- even argonians, who he is acutely aware might have a lesser opinion of him for being dunmer but cares little all the same. If anything, you might pique his curiosity and he'd harry you with more questions without fear of looking dumb or naive. His lack of judgement also shows itself through his liberal approach towards sexuality, thinking very little of the different races and genders of Tamriel intermingling with one another and uses flirtation as a brand of humor regardless of who he is talking to, only reinforcing the stereotype of sexual deviance often foisted upon dunmer. This is an unfair characterization, he feels, since his attitude as a lover is actually rather conservative in the sense that he reserves the action of touch for truly intimate matters. Otherwise, he is content to sit calmly and converse with his loved ones, and it is because of his liberal approach to sex that he doesn't hold it in such a high esteem, as he'd rather sit in candlelit silence and enjoy the calming peace. Much of his personality, in fact, is reflective of the endlessly infuriating duality of the Dunmer mentality, and yet he remains as one of the staunchest critics of his own kind. Despite his predilection for philosophy, he has a complicated relationship with spirituality. He speaks very little of his ancestors and holds little regard for either the Reclamations or the Tribunal saints, all while completely disregarding the Divines as powerless lesser deities. This does not exactly translate into being a logical individual, as he does have his fair share of superstitions. He regards such matters of superstition and spirituality as private affairs, though that hardly seems like a profound statement considering he regards all of his affairs as private. Privacy is his primary value, and the invasion of which is one of the only ways to stoke the even-tempered dark elf's ire. Even then, you'll typically only be met with indignant irritation. He is not the type to explode in rage and anger, and even if the worst of his secrets should come to light, he would merely react to it as one would to any threat of danger -- run. He doesn't consider himself a murderer or dangerous mer, and he only resorts to such matters if there is no other choice. If bandits are intent on killing him, then he'll defend himself, but even in a fight he is more inclined to rely on his mind than his emotions. Overall, his company is very calm and welcoming even if it is a bit foreign and bizarre, and his very presence promotes learning and curiosity. He frequently refers to himself as a parched, informational sponge, reflecting the fact that although he has no traditional education, he has a very keen mind that is quick to pick up on pragmatic information. He's a clever, patient, and resourceful mer if nothing else, and takes insult and injury with a saint's grace. One of his most notable talents is his ability to perform impressions, which might sound quite tame in a world where magic exists -- and it is -- but his keen eye and ear can have his constant people-watching pay off with impressive vocal reconfiguration, enabling him to mimic the sound of someone's voice. Aside from vocal impressions, he also has a knack for physical impersonations as well, such as body language, stride, and he can even copy other people's handwriting once he gets a good look at it. Eventually, this skill of his becomes creepily uncanny. Garil is notoriously meticulous and methodical, almost to the degree of neuroticism. Part of his nightly rituals, even at the end of particularly long days, is to lay his possessions out before him and to keep track of everything he owns. If there's a list of chores that needs doing, he'll go down the list one by one, even if he is capable of striking multiple things off at once, and sees every task through to the end. Things must go precisely as he feels they should be; double check, nay, [i]triple check[/i] your locks and belongings. You might blow out a candle, but you should light it again and blow it out once more just in case the first one didn't [i]feel right[/i]. When you're drawing water from a river or a well, be sure to dump the bucket two or three times -- a fourth time if you must -- just in case, because you want the bucket to be clean and clean water is important. If you should see a crow or raven or a black cat during whatever thing you're doing, start all over again for it must be an omen. On one hand, this reassures his employers that he is not one to shirk responsibility and that he'll complete his duties with no mistakes left behind, but on the other hand, this can annoy everyone else to no end. At his best, Garil can be wise and dutiful, but at his worst, Garil can be secretive and selfish. [center][b][sub]═══════ B A C K G R O U N D ══════[/sub][/b][/center] Garil's story is a simple one, as he says: a first generation Cyrodilian born in Cheydinhal after his family fled Morrowind following the eruption of Red Mountain. He grew up under kind, yet strict parents that had high expectations of him for living in a land ripe with opportunity and less hostile than the rugged ashlands of Morrowind. Garil calls himself a suitable family disappointment for repeatedly failing to rise above his parent's own humble occupations, whether it was failing to become a warrior or accomplished mage, he instead found himself working other people's land for pay. Sure, he picked up a few tricks, a couple of spells... nothing impressive though. He has no claim to power, status, or to land of his own, and though he has received no formal education of his own -- working hard only to help his family put food on the table and putting down payments on a nice, future Dunmer fusion house for future generations to live in -- he's always had been the wise sort, more keen to listen than to speak, and absurdly well-spoken despite his humble origins. Stories from his parents and stories passed down from [i]their[/i] parents always helped to put things into perspective. Then when all else failed, a jaunt over the eastern mountains and into Deshaan, a journey that could last a week or more, he could find the cairns of his ancestors there. Communing with them, albeit a dreaded affair given his lineage of very accomplished and [i]very[/i] disappointed mages, invited a wisdom that his parents never would've been able to provide. That is, as soon as they were done admonishing him for never rising above a meager farmhand. For reasons he chooses not to disclose, he has not visited his ancestors in some time; not since the farm he was working on had burned down. In fact, he seems to address them with some measure of resentment that is almost childish in nature, like refusing to speak to one's parents after a petty injury. Interrogating him on the story seems to turn up no correlation between his resentment of his ancestors and the fire, which in itself was a mysterious circumstance. Anyone who has ever met Garil can attest that he is one of the most orderly and organized people they have ever met, hopelessly methodical and infuriatingly meticulous in how he arranges and categorizes his (few) personal possessions and running down the checklist of his responsibilities. The very idea that the fire was the result of an accident -- an oil lantern left burning or a candle left lit -- is inconceivable as long as Garil was around to tend to the farm's affairs. Everything from harvesting the wheat, repairing the barn or wagon, to defending the grounds from hungry and predatory animals and men alike, he was always a dutiful sort that never would've let anything adverse happen to anyone or anything that was under his care. Perhaps, then, it was done in the dead of night as a form of reprisal against the farm's owners for one reason or another. Perhaps. [hider=Perhaps] [hider=This may or may not be kept]He fails to mention that he was partly to blame for the barn's destruction, though perhaps for the reason that he does not feel at fault for it. The anti-undead culture in Cheydinhal is quite strong, especially after the attack from the floating Infernal City, and Garil is not immune to its influences nor the dominant Imperial influence despite dunmer presence within the city. Alienation from his people and constantly spited by his own family drove him to travel many days into Morrowind and into his family's crypt in Deshaan under the pretense that he was setting out to pay his respects, so that he could set the entire cairn ablaze and be free of ancestors' haunting. Without no one at the scene, he returned thinking it was a fool-proof plan; that the fire was a tragedy that must've occurred after he left. He did not think that at least one of his ancestors would remain tethered to Mundus and seek retribution. Indaryn Sadras was a particularly fickle great-great-uncle of his even before the arson, and in the ghost's attempt to incinerate Garil in his sleep for his descendant's transgression, he ended up burning down the entire barn instead. After escaping, Garil payed a pretty sum to a discreet member of the local Synod chapter to keep his affairs under wraps while asking for a brief lesson in binding spirits. With the help of a Breton mage and a few overnight cram sessions in Conjuration magic, they were able to summon the unbound spirit of his ancestor to the confinement of a ritual circle where they were able to bind Indaryn to a phylactery for Garil to carry on his person. Inscribed upon the phylactery were daedric runes that compelled the spirit to obey his descendant's will and forbade him from uttering any information pertaining to his great-nephew. Though the affair was costly in more ways than one, Garil supposed that this technically made him some kind of mage like his family originally wanted, and that sort of left a bitter taste in his mouth.[/hider][/hider] Regardless, the fire left him without a job. So, in his attempt to move on and forget the fire ever happened, he began going around working odd jobs for people around Cheydinhal and relying on various short-lived paramours. His charm was only such that he could only couch surf for weeks at a time, and his air of intrigue and novelty shortly wore off the more his bummish behavior grated on them. He also had taken to a buy-sell formula of making money, buying cheap stocks from the local stores and selling them at markup, and even going so far as to sell fish oil as miracle elixirs. He was also something of an eavesdropper and gossip-monger, and for a cheap price, was willing to share with anyone the local rumors or the gossip he's overheard. This made him a few friends with some of local burghers, but also a few enemies. Complaints to the local guard had brought him bruises and threats of being thrown out of town later, Garil eventually learned that it was best to keep such businesses practices less in the open. The odd jobs he had picked up here and there went from fixing leaks and scrubbing floors to dredging the sewers and exterminating rats, managing to salvage his reputation as an untrustworthy miscreant to a somewhat reliable if quirky and gossipy handyman. Yet, from the fruits of his labor arose another problem: his labor was cheap and people took advantage of that. Before long, some of the jobs he began to take were beginning to steal low-level contracts from the local Fighter's Guild. After a thug or two from the guild confronted him in an act of intimidation, he backed down and decided it was best for him to start traveling the road. For a few reasons, really: among them was his new taste for mercantilism, the farm was no longer tying him down, he finally had an opportunity to see the world and perhaps rise above his meager station, and he thought has gotten pretty good with a blade. Good enough to encroach on Fighter's Guild territory at least, so he thought to himself "How hard can adventuring be?" Besides, it would've done him no good to keep living where his next door neighbors were a band of blooded mercenaries whom he had slighted and armed guards who were less than enthused with his eccentricities. He would've bade farewell to his family had they cared to see him again, but his place as the family disappointment was alive and well. Eventually, after about ten years of adventuring and surviving off of odd jobs or mercenary work, he managed to build up a resume. He's proven himself a fairly capable bodyguard, exterminator, private investigator, ruin explorer, tomb-raiding, or an all-purpose handyman. He learned how to effectively summon his ancestors ghost to do his bidding, much to his great-uncle's chagrin, relying on his destruction magic to clear out many a dungeon for him. Of course, he was a bitter old ghost each and every time he was summoned. The two hated each other, and at least that much was clear. Still, his discreet use of conjuration magic gave him something of a reputation to his employers as a one-man army when in reality he often relied on his ancestor to do much of the heavy lifting. All the while, he was peddling his treasures to merchants or selling them by auction, putting his mercantilism to decent use. Adventuring was [i]easy[/i], and sometimes even lucrative. Much of the loot Garil collected was basically junk, save for the rarer finds such as valuable jewels. Oftentimes they were pieces of antique furniture or ceremonial displays, things that would be more interesting to historians and eccentric nobles than any general merchant. What he can say, at least, is that his travels took him to many different places, like High Rock and Hammerfell, boats from which brought him briefly to port in Auridon before making way to Elsweyr, and he even traveled into Black Marsh -- only to high-tail it out of there after a few weeks when he got chased by some of the more rabid tribes of argonians. He managed to pick up a lot of skills along the way as well, being a sponge for information and fascinated by other cultures. High Rock helped him hone his speechcraft and magic, Hammerfell taught him how to better swing his sword and sneak past their tomb sentinels, Auridon taught him some minor jewelry-crafting and that high elves were pricks, some Baandari in Senchal taught him some of their dances and to always watch his pockets, and Black Marsh taught him that not all cultures are created equal. By now he has found himself in Woodhearth, ready to explore the region of Valenwood. His many years of travel has accustomed him to violence, be it blood, dramatic action, or change (though unfortunately so and albeit not yet desensitized to such violence), but in doing so has built his proficiency in both swordplay and mental resilience. He has come to the realization that his claim of being a mere farmhand might now be a lie, though he has no intent on changing that. Though an old bosmer alchemist he met once told him a thing or two about Valenwood, he still isn't quite sure what to expect. Still, as long as it was nothing like the customs agents in Black Marsh, he felt pretty secure in being here for the sole purpose of selling his wares at a local festival. At least, that's what you're all made to believe. [hr][center][sub][i]"Truth is a fickle creature. I may be no farmhand, but does my harvest not reap life in service of life? Were my services not for sale?"[/i][/sub][/center][hr] [/hider] [hider=Venwen][INDENT][INDENT][CENTER][h2][b][i]V E N W E N[/i][/b][/h2][hr][sub][i]"Like how neither men nor mer can seem to stomach the Old Ways, I can't seem to stomach the sight of them clutching their pearls."[/i][/sub][/CENTER] [table][row][/row][row][cell][center][sub][b]══════ C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T ══════[/b][/sub] [sup]_______________________________________________[/sup] [img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/d9/6d/5e/d96d5e7cd55d36b79dbcc1626f900006.png[/img] [sup]_______________________________________________[/sup] [suP][b]═══════ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y ══════[/b][/suP] [sub]Venwen [sup]_______________________________________________[/sup] 68 [b]|[/b] ♀️ [b]|[/b] Bosmer [sup]_______________________________________________[/sup] Jaqspur, Green Pact Fanatic, Adventurer[/sub][/center] [indent][sub][b]▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S[/b][/SUB] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► [b]Build[/b] - Lithe and lean. ► [b]Skin Color[/b] - Pale bronze and freckled. ► [b]Hair Color[/b] - A muddy red, like auburn. ► [b]Eye Color[/b] - Green. ► [b]Other[/b] - Small horn nubs are protruding from the top of her forehead, muddy warpaint swirling around her arms.[/SUP] [SUB][b]▼ D O S S I E R[/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► [b]Birthplace[/b] - Malabal Tor ► [b]Birthsign[/b] - The Steed ► [b]Biggest Regret[/b] - Being forced to destroy her own tribe. Perhaps if she had seen the signs beforehand, she could've prevented her tribe's betrayal. ► [b]Venwen's Goal[/b] - Venwen is still relatively young for a Bosmer and still has a life that she wants to live. That said, she greatly admires the Green Lady and Wilderqueen, and would perhaps like to be a personal bodyguard for either one one of them. She's also collecting trophies to create a full set of bone scale armor that she could use either for herself or give as a gift to the Green Lady.[/SUP][/indent] [indent][sub][b]▼ F A V O R E D A T T R I B U T E S[/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► [abbr=yeet][b]Agility[/b][/abbr] ► [abbr=yeet][b]Speed[/b][/abbr][/sup] [SUB][b]▼ S K I L L S[/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► [b]Archery[/b] - [abbr=yeet]Expert[/abbr] ► [b]Acrobatics[/b] - [abbr=yeet]Expert[/abbr] ► [b]Athletics[/b] - [abbr=yeet]Adept[/abbr] ► [b]Stealth[/b] - [abbr=yeet]Adept[/abbr] ► [b]Light Armor[/b] - [abbr=yeet]Adept[/abbr] ► [b]Pickpocket[/b] - [abbr=yeet]Apprentice[/abbr] ► [b]One-Handed[/b] - [abbr=yeet]Novice[/abbr][/SUP] [SUB][b]▼ S P E L L S[/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► [b]Racial:[/b] Forest Coupling [/sup] [SUB][b]▼ E Q U I P M E N T[/b][/sub] [sup]▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► [b]Weapons[/b] - A highly decorated Bosmeri bow made of bone and horn, and the bowstring is sinew made of Khajiiti gut. Also a bone-carved shortsword. ► [b]Armor[/b] - Stiffened leather strips pleated over one another and stitched over soft hide provides comfortable and lightweight protection for her torso. ► [b]Containers[/b] - A quiver made from leather and carapace that carries a variety of arrows, and two small pouches made from hoarvor sacks. ► [b]Food, Drink, Potions[/b] - ► [b]Miscellaneous[/b] - [/sup][/indent][hr] [/cell][cell][center][b][sub]══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════[/sub][/b][/center] A delightful savagery envelops the bosmer that is obvious at first glance, reeking of danger (among other things) from the intense focus of her predatory eyes to the wild tousling of her muddy red hair. From point A to point B, her gaze follows you with a familiar smile as if you were prey. While most people have had the pleasure of knowing at least one bosmer, it becomes clear upon meeting Venwen that, from her disposition and striking features to the paler and subdued bronze of her speckled and dirty skin, she's from the deeper and darker thickets of Valenwood's heart and is one of wild elves you might've read about in books. Those who've read of the cheerful ferocity of the Green Pact bosmer can pick out those traits rather quickly in Venwen, who carries herself proudly and casually, while simultaneously stalking -- not walking -- in a perpetual fox-trot and reminding you with her smile that she is religiously carnivorous, as indicated by a showing of half of her teeth that have been filed down to points as sharp as her ears. However, it can be easy to underestimate Venwen due to her comparatively diminutive stature to other Bosmer when you're standing on the ground next to her. She stands at a meager 5'2" and weighs as little as eight stones. Her level of fitness is as to be expected of one who lives and dies by their ability to hunt and escape from being hunted. She is tough and sinewy, capable of bounding through the boughs with grace and athleticism with almost unnatural ease for her size, and doing so for days on end with tireless stamina. Even with a lack of toning, watch as she climbs a tree or draws her bowstring to witness the wiry muscles flexing beneath the skin of her arms and back, or as she maneuvers and tumbles through the air with her acrobatics. Short horn nubs have grown out the sides of her forehead, not like a whole rack of antlers as some bosmer are known to possess, but regardless does little to comfort strangers to the Bosmeri and their culture. Even her nails seem to grow with a black keratin. Her big elven eyes are as green as the Green she resided in. Her attire is notably comprised solely of animal-based material, from leather to bone and fur and wool. Stiffened leather is pleated over soft hide as armor, strictly over her forearms as bracer and on her torso (which goes over her normal wraparound top), leaving her arms bare for freedom of movement and comfort. She is far more comfortable this way, worrying only about protecting vital spots when she worries at all as her first line of defense is the distance she puts between herself and her enemies and her second being her acrobatic ability to deftly dodge and weave. Wearing only else but simple pants and leathers boots to protect her shins and knees, she owns too few possessions to properly accessorize beyond the green shawl gifted to her by family, lovingly stitched with the complex embroidery of floral iconography, which she wears wrapped around her neck like a scarf. The most she'll wear in addition to this could be one of countless patterns of war-paint she'll apply, though whether it is made of mud, blood, or some kind of insect's innards might vary. [center][b][sub]═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════[/sub][/b][/center] An Imperial scholar by the name of Flaccus Terentius once described the Bosmer with "cheerful ferocity," and there is perhaps no more appropriate description of Venwen's carpe diem attitude. Ask our favorite bosmer what her greatest strengths are and she'd reply not with any of her skills, but her self-proclaimed optimism and confidence. Her personality bleeds into her appearance quite a bit considering how she carries herself, so her complex dichotomy of intensity and chipper can-do spirit can catch most people unfamiliar with her off guard. She asserts herself as a hunter and a predator with a huge grin on her face and relishes in the possibility of conflict like any good adrenaline junkie would, and witnessing such an event has been compared to a manic dancing amidst chaos. If you can't help but wonder if the madness of Sheogorath has taken hold, either rest assured or with great anxiety (according to your preference) that Venwen is entirely lucid in these cases. The differences in culture has resulted in many misunderstandings and miscommunications between Venwen and others. Most certainly Venwen, in fact [i]almost specifically Venwen,[/i] for the culture inherited from her tribe differs even from greater Valenwood. She is a Green Pact hardliner who holds fast to antiquated traditions that go as far back as the Second Era, such as the consumption of fallen enemies and family members, Mourning Wars, and taking it upon herself the burden of punishing apostates. So while she was raised to live in harmony with nature, violence is as much a part of the natural order as harmony if not more. Naturally, the young tribal bosmer would be raised to become accustomed to violence and death, and suddenly what came across as sociopathic before begins to look more like a survival instinct. The belief of being returned to the Green to join their kin closes the distance in Venwen's relationship with death, which plays as much a part in nature as life. This cycle, as she sees it, brings her comfort and has made her close friends with death. Naturally, her lifestyle hasn't exactly left her as an educated individual. Though she's sharp witted and a fast learner, most of her knowledge comprises of most natural forces within the Valenwood. She knows how to survive, hunt, track, she knows every branch and rock and blade of grass in her home forest -- but as far as the sciences go, she's rather hopeless. Her understanding of the world hinges almost entirely around superstition and her religion, convinced of the animus in all things, and she's mostly ignorant of many complex advances outside of her home province. She isn't particularly worldly as she's only stepped foot outside a couple years ago and hasn't exactly made any extensive efforts to appreciate foreign cultures and tends to just compare them to her own. Her skills of critical analysis are lacking as she'd rather just go with flow of whatever she feels like doing at the time, as that is far simpler.[/cell][/row][/table][/indent][/indent] Despite the threatening state of her disposition, she is very much capable of love and friendship, and her blase' expectation of danger and death around every corner does little to discourage her from engaging with others and looking for companionship. She's already familiar with death and understands that it to be unavoidable, so it would do her little good as a romantic to fear death or allow it to impede her desire to live life. She'd rather seize the day, which likely has a negative impact on her impulse control as far as her sexuality or penchant for partying goes and has seen her accused of wanton promiscuity and hedonism by the mild-mannered people of the world. This is all to say that she'd rather make a new friend than a new enemy, even if her abrasive approach to interacting with other people tends to make enemies all the same. As far as she's concerned, it's not her fault if some people don't have a sense of humor and humor is an important part of her interactions with others. However, her interactions with other also tends to indicate a certain level of disrespect for their boundaries with the unfair expectation of respect for her own. One prime example of this could be her fondness for a Bosmeri tradition known as the Rite of Theft, which claims that anything she can steal from others and get away with rightfully belongs to her and that she can demand something of equal value in return. This usually doesn't work very well outside of her home province however. A surefire way to get her fuse running, however, would be to call into question her loyalty to the Green, her integrity as a bosmer, and her devotion to her religion. Pride is certainly her greatest vice and would be the most likely culprit of her undoing. As far as she's concerned, she has bled and given up as much as anybody else for the Green Pact to which she's devoted, and she's faithfully adhered to every one of its tenets and mandates. She has come to know and love every inch of the Green as far as she's concerned, and would probably rather die than to live as anything other than a sap-blooded bosmer. She wouldn't go so far as to be violent in the face of insult or disagreement, but it should be known that she is fiercely protective of her homeland and any transgression against it ought to be responded to in kind. There's only been one philosophy that's never failed her in dissuading those who would bring harm to her territory: a bone broken for each twig snapped underfoot. [center][b][sub]═══════ B A C K G R O U N D ══════[/sub][/b][/center] Y'ffre, the Storyteller, is the Spirit of the Now, and from his Earth Bones came the bosmer. To know origin of the Green Pact is to know the tragedy of the Houndsmen. Y'ffre, Z'en, and Baan Dar were the three of the Bosmeri pantheon the tribe worshiped most. Y'ffre was their patron deity, Z'en was the God of Toil, and Baan Dar was the trickster spirit of thieves, and as one of the remote tribes of Valenwood, their traditions remained insulated from the influences of the outside world and every bloody facet of the Green Pact was upheld. What made the Houndsmen unique among the tribes however was the addition of their worship of Hircine, Daedric Prince of the Hunt -- and Venwen was one of these wild elves. Their worship of Hircine went as far back as the Second Era, and even through the ups and downs of their tribe with their precarious involvement with Daedra worship, they managed to survive. Most other bosmer acknowledge Hircine if nothing else, for his spirit and influence could be felt in every hunt. While many do not actively seek out his favor, they seek not to upset him lest he decide to starve the bosmer. The Houndsmen Tribe were one of the exceptions who, before each hunt, sung the Invocation of Hircine to guide their arrows into the hearts of their quarries. Venwen was, and still remains, no exception. She became proficient enough with the use of a bow as a young teen to join her tribe's hunting parties, and it was from this age that she not only tracked down and killed large game, but defended the forest edge from would-be invaders. It is said that to be acknowledged as an adequate ranger, wood elven children are allegedly expected to be able to travel through Valenwood while blindfolded. Venwen claims this to be true, even if for no other person than herself. She'll tell you many tall tales about Valenwood myths and folklore and oftentimes the stories keep on changing, but one she'll always swear by and keep consistent is her claim of practicing for many years to always know her way through Valenwood with her eyes closed. True or not, it is hard to deny her familiarity with the Green and her aptitude for traversing it. It is a little wonder why then she was acknowledged by her tribe as a jaqspur many years younger than the average archer. She learned to shoot like a jaqspur, firing from far distances with a single flowing motion from her quiver to releasing the bowstring. Eventually the need for a quiver became optional, as any good archer may only need to carry what they can hold in their hand. Venwen's view on Hircine was like that of the Houndsmen Tribe of days old, many generations prior. It was that the Huntsman ought to be treated like any beast: respected from a distance. But over the many years of bounding through the grahtwood boughs, she didn't notice the gradual change in her tribe's culture on the ground, where they were slowly offering themselves into the beast's maw. Harmony with nature was no longer at the forefront of their minds, and all else including the Green Pact was becoming secondary to the hunt. History was repeating itself, and the Houndsmen Tribe were reaching another low point as they re-embraced their origins from the Second Era. It might've been spurred on by the development of the Aldmeri Dominion and the Valenwood purges throughout the Green, some of which Venwen had fought against, always ready and able to protect her culture. Thinking back on it now, she might not be able to bring herself to blame them, but they crossed the line when they threw themselves wholly and willingly to the Huntsman's hunger. When they uttered their words of sacrilege, spoke of their sacred and God-given forms as the shackles of Y'ffre and compared themselves to caged beasts, their final and most blasphemous act of defiance was to desecrate their own bodies with foul and accursed were-touched transformations. Venwen was the sole member of the tribe insulated from the Daedra's influence by the distance she put between herself and home. One could say it was because she was so free-spirited that the trappings of a tribe could never tie her down long enough for their influences to take hold, but now she was presented with an ugly reality and an impossible decision: everyone she's ever been close to had broken the Green Pact, their most sacred oath, and were now apostates. She could turn her back on them and allow them to run rampant and unchecked through Valenwood, or deliver this news to Silvenar and put an end to this madness once and for all. As Venwen now says, mostly as a deflection, that it wouldn't have made for nearly as exciting a story if she had chosen the former. She returned to Malabal Tor backed by a squad of Vinedusks to hunt down and kill the rest of her tribe. That she is still standing today speaks of her success, but it is not a story that she tells fondly or often. It was her first experience with death that had actually shaken her, and it was because with every werewolf that she dropped, she'd see them returning to normal -- a face that she recognized with a name that she knew, and she could watch the light leave their eyes. It was a pain made even worse with the knowledge that they were going in death where she could not and would not follow. As with any bosmer who broke the pact, they would return to the Ouze, separated from the Earth Bones and the rest of the bosmer for eternity. That was the price they chose to pay in exchange for power. She had since received an invitation to join the Vinedusk Rangers for her skill, service, and sacrifice for Valenwood and the Green Pact, but after such a painful ordeal, she decided it might've been better for her to leave for a while and explore Tamriel outside of Valenwood. She did intend to return at some point, but only after her heart had healed from what her hands had committed. As hurt as she was, she also felt intense anger and rage, as well as betrayal. To think that her own tribe would go and do something so ridiculous and so stupid that would force her to take the blood-stained burden of responsibility for them was worse than anything she could think of. The thought that she could've been one of them, a traitor to the Green Pact, was beyond her imagination. When she left Valenwood through the northern treeline and took her first steps into Cyrodiil, they were her first steps into a brand new world. A world that'd send her to High Rock, through Skyrim, into Morrowind, and cutting back through Cyrodiil to reach Elsweyr, and along the way, in Cheydinhal, found a friend in a dark elf alchemist named Inanna. Only now after many years of travel, exploration, adventuring, and a recent prodding by her new friend has Venwen decided that she was ready to return home and show Inanna the beauty of Valenwood. [hr][center][sub][i]"You call that disembowling? You ladies couldn't disembowl even if you -- oh! God! My bowels!"[/i][/sub][/center][hr] [/hider]