Hidden 3 yrs ago Post by Kassarock
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Kassarock W O R L D E A T E R

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Name: Karliege

Race: Human, perhaps it should be considered formerly human

Nationality: Aldebarani

Occupation: Sorcerer

Religion: None. Karliege holds that there are no Gods, or that if there are then they are insane. He has seen the other side and all it holds is darkness and terror.

Appearance:


A battered and skeletal waif, with his stooped shoulders and his crooked leg Karliege stands a little under five feet and nine inches and probably weighs half of what a man his size should. He is pitifully thin, every last one of the ribs which make up his hollow chest is bared on display beneath his luminous pale skin. All over he covered in markings, scars, tattoos, some ritual in nature, others demarking his former life as slave to the God-Emperor Dagon, and all the cruelties that it entailed. The left knee is a snarl of scar tissue and fused solid, the result of one too many vigorous beating and years spent in chains. The right arm is hidden beneath a web of bandages, but hangs withered and trembling at his side.

His face is half covered by his lank dark blonde hair, thin and greasy it hangs down to the left to obscure dark red branding scars, ones that permanently etched his station under Dagon’s Empire into this face. It crosses over his left eye and the trauma inflicted by the burning iron has left it milky white and unseeing. The other eye is a soft grey, and usually stares vacantly, whatever intelligence flickering within is distant, sometimes there is great sorrow in that one remaining eye, at other times there is an even greater madness. The rest of the face would have once been considered well-made, slightly effeminate and elfin perhaps, but handsome none the less. A slender nose, now slightly crooked from an old break, leads down to thin and cracked lips the colour of ash. Hunger and privation has made the angles of Karliege’s face even more pronounced, but not for the better, gauntness is the lasting impression rather than beauty. He is only a young man, but he seems old before his time.

Normally the worse of these abuses are well hidden beneath a great woollen cloak of dark gray, its deep hood used to further hide Karliege’s appearance. Underneath he wears whatever clothes he can find, caring for warmth over any form of aesthetic. His boots are mismatched, a necessity brought about by his now uneven legs and limping gait.

Personality:


Karliege is cold and reserved, not in a cruel or uncaring way, but as if separated from all others around him by an immense unseen chasm. Distant is probably the lasting impression that he leaves on others. Even when he is direct conversation with his peers he has a habit of gazing off into the middle distance, almost as if he’s looking right though someone to something beyond. He’s quiet, in particular about himself and his history, and when pressed upon a subject he does want to discuss, instead of becoming irritated or hostile, he is more like to introvert and become despairing and defeatist. If he were to smile it would be a sad one, and only when he thinks he is alone. He sleeps little, haunted by nightmares that make him wake in fits of terrible screams

And yet at the same time there is another side of Karliege, one that shows itself rarely. It seems a kind of madness that manifests itself sometimes, when he is threatened or finds himself in danger. It starts with fear, despair, and terror. His eyes struggle wide in their sockets and he displays a rare outburst of emotion and becomes much more vocal. After this he might may briefly fit or seize up, at other times he faints. When he recovers from this, he is changed. He is silent and moves and acts with a boldness and arrogance completely unlike his normal cautious self, there is also a sense of hardness and cruelty in this other Karliege. He seems to take pleasure in the pain of others and his unscarred eye has an intense burning focus very dissimilar to its normal gaze.

Biography:


Karliege is a native of Kuranes, one of few residents of that accursed place that have improbably survived its terror and escaped. He was raised without the love of a mother or a father, only a master, and a cruel one at that. In Aldebaran, children who are born with the gift of power are often taken at a young age to be inducted as acolytes in the Cult of Dagon. The same was much true of the days before the Red Night. The crown had always taken interest in the powers of sorcery and had attempted to monopolise upon, so sorcerers sworn to the crown were given royal assent in the abduction of children from their mothers’ breast. Karliege was one such child.

He remembers little of his birth parents, although he does recall hazy memories of living as a child somewhere in the countryside. It used to bother him that he couldn’t recall his parents’ faces, but as the nightmare that is consuming Geryon continues, he is strangely relieved by it. Something which is forgotten cannot cause more pain or aguish. He does not have to worry about what could have happened to his parents in this new hell, because they were nought but phantoms to him already. There are many things however, that Karliege cannot forgot, events and faces that are burned into his mind like the slave brand burned into his face. One of those things is Colndil.

Colndil was his master, and the first face that he truly recalls. His terror of the man has barely even receded in adulthood. Tall and broad, with a pointed beard and a great black mane, the mere thought of that piercing gaze from his ice like eyes was enough to send shivers down Karliege’s spine. He had been powerful in the ways of dark magic, and one of the closest associates of Dagon before his ascendance to godhood. He had kept a veritable stable of young apprentices to use to further his own power. He abused them all, both physically and mentally, and some, those he took particular dislike to, he abused in ways to sordid to describe here. And where did Karliege stand in all of this? Karliege was his most despised pupil.

Colndil saw him as weak and effeminate, and hated him for it. Karliege was skilled in the ways of sorcery in a way that many of the other boys would never obtain, but he did not have great reserves of power in himself, like most of Colndil’s other pupils, instead he had to rely on more devious and secretive ways to manipulate this veil we call reality. Karliege has always wondered why that irked Colndil so, perhaps it was because in many ways it was the same as how Colndil himself worked his magic. Colndil was a master of the art, the most skilled and knowledgeable of his generation, but still he relied on the reserves of small boys to accomplish his greatest feats. But no matter, whatever the root of Colndil’s abuse it created a mutual hatred between master and apprentice, one that would eventually prove nearly fatal to the pupil.

It was not so for all of Colndil’s students however, some rose to this cruelty and sought to overcome it through the proving of their own might and drive. One such pupil was Frior. He was child of even lower birth than Karliege, taken from gutter in Colndil’s own words, but he had strength above all them and rose to be Colndil’s right hand and acolyte. At first it just Colndil that would go to the Palace to visit the Emperor, then after a particularly long and late meeting with his liege, he began to take Frior with him. These meetings became more and more frequent as the weeks went by and eventually the two would be gone for days at a time. The other apprentices, Karliege included, welcome to the respite from their master and his dog. But this peace was shattered, when they were summoned, every last one of them, to Dagon’s Palace.

They gathered them in the throne room, sorcerers and apprentices from across the land, a larger gathering than Karliege ever heard of in his lifetime. Then it began.

He remembers nothing of the Red Night and what unspeakable horror was done in Dagon’s throne room. He remembers that they lied to him, told him they were doing the greatest of works and were to bring about an era of peace and prosperity for the world. He remembers that he poured his skill and his power in doing whatever was done. But he remembers no more.

After the Red Night, everything was changed. The wars began, and the enslavement of peoples of Geryon was underway. Karliege and the rest of the apprentices were confined to the lower regions of the palace and worked as slaves in the blood magic of Dagon. They saw little of Colndil and Frior now, both had been raised to the status of Perfecti and had been changed in the process. When the sacrifices began, they were the ones to administer them. They were ones required to the work the rights take the blood. The things… the things that they did. Unspeakable. Terrible.

One day it all proved too much. Karliege and another one of the former apprentices, Raul, decided to try and flee the capital or die trying. They escaped from their quarters and roamed the palace searching for a way out, but they failed, and were both captured. Karliege tried to use his magic to kill the legionaries, but there was too many, and by the time he thought to try and turn it on himself, it was too late and he was too weak to even end his own life.

From then on the days were a blur of beatings, and the nights full of lonely freezing solitude. It was then that they branded his face, and smashed his knee. Sometimes the Perfecti would call upon him to use his magic, other times he was left to starve and rot in the darkness. But somehow he survived. He survived long enough, that is, for a shadow from his past to return to torment him.

Colndil. Colndil returned to Karliege and his hell, brought him up out of it and delivered him to another. He… did something to Karliege, something that changed him in ways like no other abuse or torture had. He did not take something away… he added something to Karliege, something dark, something dangerous. They carved it into his arm, this magick, with knives of obsidian and powered grave dust. The plucked something forth from the darkness beyond the veil, and implanted it within his soul.

What it is exactly, Karliege does not know, but is powerful and is alive in its own fashion. He does not fully control it, but neither does it hold mastery over him. Sometimes it feels like it is within him, crawling in the back of his mind, at other times it seems to exist outside of him. He knows that he has seen it on the edge of his vision, a dark shadow roughly hinting the shape of a man. Why it was put there? Karliege has long suspected that he was only a trial run of a ritual that Colndil may have intended for himself, to amplify his own powers even more. Karliege had only been subjected to it because of how he and Colndil had once worked in a similar way. Whatever the matter, it was his salvation, and it allowed him to escape.

It used his body and its power to break down the cell doors and run faster than Karliege’s own crippled body could have imagined possible. It combined his skill of reading and manipulating the veil of reality with its own strength to hide them from the legions, from Colndil, from Dagon. The price was dear though, after their flight, Karliege had lain in a forest, under a great oak tree, vomiting blood , half blind and mad for a week. Never again did either of them push the boundaries of their endurance than in that desperate escape.

After months in the wilds, living on acorns and berries, they finally found their way to the relative safety of the mountainous forests of Varyon, and the rebels under the Scarred King.

Equipment:


- Silver basin, used for scrying in moonlight
- Bag of knucklebone runes, used as a method of divination
- Ritual knife, a simple single edged blade used for drawing blood or reading entrails
- A stout yew staff, iron shod, gently thickening towards the upper end
- Gray woollen travelling cloak
- Undyed tunic, woollen leggings, and a set of mismatched boots in soft leather

Skills:


Divination
Karliege is a somewhat skilled in the use of arcane mysteries, in particular the abilities of scrying and divination. He can learn of events transpiring far away and consult with both the fates and the spirits as to the events of the future – however, they are not forthcoming in their prophecies and will often speak in riddles or intentionally mislead the asker if they fail to ask the right question.

Colndil’s Curse
A shadow follows Karliege. It is bound to him in blood and sorcery. It shares its strength with him, but it also makes us of his body and invades his mind. When the shadow is in control Karliege becomes incredibly powerful and is able to kill his enemies with a wave of his hand, however, this comes at a great cost, both mental and physical. The dark powers that exist beyond this world do not co-exist well with mortals, and the longer Karliege prolongs his contact with this shadow the more power it will exercise over him, until he is little more than a husk.

Motivation:


Karliege wants to see Dagon and his former master, Colndil, dead and all the evil they have wrought undone. It is both personal revenge and a sense of moral duty, for Karliege assisted in the creation of this nightmare and feels the burden to atone. But more than this, they have robbed him of his mind and crippled his body – they had destroyed Karliege’s life even as it barely begun. His existence is pain, and the only thing that drives him onward is thought of revenge and to make sure that Dagon can never do to another that which was done to him. After that, Karliege intends to end his own suffering, as it is the only thing that he believes can set him free of Colndil’s curse.

As for the shadow that follows Karliege, its desires remain a secret to itself, but for now it seems to aid Karliege in his quest. Although considering the circumstances of its creation, it is unlikely to be benevolent.
Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Kassarock
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Kassarock W O R L D E A T E R

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Z/35712 – Chopper - Z



Name

Z/35712 is technically their official name, it’s a batch number tattooed on the back of their neck from whoever originally birthed them.


Nicknames

Prior to conviction inmate was known by the alias Chopper, an epithet given to them by their non Zeluuri comrades – supposedly derived from their propensity for machetes?

Since conviction they have adopted a new name that was given to them by fellow inmates, Z, short hand on many world’s for Z/35712's race – the Zeluuri.


Position

Convict


Age

Unknown – Zeluuri memories aren’t particularly sharp and pretty much end up completely resetting after about fifteen years. Z/35712 has served nine of a twelve year sentence, and we have records stretching back for another ten years before that.


Gender

Zeluuri are sexless – most professional or medical reports will refer to them as a ‘they’. On world’s with less stringent laws regarding sentient life Zeluuri are often downgraded to an ‘it’ however, and most people refer to them in the male pronoun as they conform to galactic culture’s general gender expectations for males more readily than females – they don’t seem to mind.


Charged Crime(s)

Currently serving a twenty galactic standard year sentence (reduced to twelve via Picking) with additional five years monitored probation for murdering a settler on the colony of Prander’s World. Has previous convictions for minor drug charges and violent assault on other worlds.


Reputation

Z/35712 lives up to the stereotypes surrounding Zeluuri well – they’re violent, dangerous, exceptionally strong, but ultimately simple minded and easy to please. General population is mostly scared of Z/35712, given they can damn near tear most other people in half with their bare hands if they wanted to. The guards however are somewhat complacent, as knowledge of how to bribe Z/35712 into following orders is commonplace.


Appearance

Imagine a Conger eel with six dull glowing orange eyes stuck in the sides of its face. Now put that Conger eel on two legs, give a set of arms ending in clawed hands have two sets of opposable thumbs on each side. Congutulations you have just met your first Zeluuri. They have no lips or eyelids and just slits for a nose, their mouth is a jumbled mess of fangs that sometimes keep members of their race from closing them all dripping with toxic saliva. They start off full height but skinny and lean when first birthed but rapidly bulk up on muscle in the first few years of their lives. They lack sexual organs – instead they produce asexually with a parasitic slime that is used to wrap dead bodies in to create a cocoon. The flesh of the host becomes altered to the genetic code and a 'clone' is made. Because each host is difference, every Zeluuri doesn't look the same and takes on a minor change in format to the traces of DNA left from the cadaver.

Z/35712 is a particularly large and strong example of a Zeluuri, indicating both a large original host, and a long life. They are distinguished from others of their kind through the many scars and markings on their body. They are missing their right middle eye, their left inner thumb and half their ring finger on the same hand. Mercenary and prison tattoos around their pale fleshy body faded like newspapers left out in the rain.


Height

6ft 10inches or 208cm


Weight

400lb or 181.5kg


Personality

Violent and slothful are two most identifiable traits of Z/35712. Like most Zeluuri they have a natural propensity to violent and war like behaviour, and the fact that their loyalty imprint was activated years ago when they were first birthed means that getting them to do anything is a real pain. However, they do respond well to promises of extra food rations or luxury goods, as long as you remember to keep them. Z/35712 is obedient, trusting when coerced as such and their idleness is made up for by their sheer strength and endurance, making them a relatively effective worker. However, be sure to treat them with respect, don’t try to trick them, break a promise or deceive them because when they get angry… they sure do get real angry, and a 400lb bipedal eel with claws can do a hell of a lot of damage.

When it comes to their interaction with the other inmates, most of them are scared of Z/35712, (hell did you see what he nearly did to Kravat in his first week here? I hear his doing well these days by the way, eating solid food again) but they don’t really seem to realise it – there’s not really that much going on up there. And they insist on sharing double cell for whatever reason which makes more of the gen pop uncomfortable, they keep thinking Z/35712 wants to cocoon them and make a friend for themself. Like the rest of their kind they have the odd habit of referring to themselves in the third person.


Likes

  • Meat
  • Sedatives/Opiates/Anything chemical that produces euphoria
  • Sleeping
  • Music of any sort – lone Zeluuri are much more docile when there is constant background noise whether it be classical music or static.


Dislikes

  • Work – unless sufficiently bribed
  • Being tricked, deceived, or lied to in anyway
  • Jokes or witty people - they don’t often understand them and assume they are being laughed at
  • Strong electric shocks – due to their low level psionic hive mindedness
  • Being left alone


Skills

  • Really, really, strong
  • Faster than average
  • Skilled at hand to hand combat – both armed and unarmed
  • Has exceptional night vision


Weaknesses

  • Dumb as a doornail
  • Uncooperative with others except to other Zeluuri or original owner
  • Easily distracted by sleep, food, drugs and alcohol


Fears

  • Strong electric shocks – it’s like being punched directly in the brain for them
  • Being alone – the general pack mentality of Zeluuri means they get agitated and upset when left completely alone.
  • Certain types of ancient alien artefacts makes them completely freak out – anything related to the High Vos culture.


History

Z/35712 first shows up on any official record about 20 years ago as a fully grown Zeluuri arrested for drug trafficking on Azatone. They served two years there before being released and emigrating to the desert world of Hakkon – trail goes completely cold for four years until they show up an enlisted mercenary with the USSC (United Security Solutions Corporation). For the next six years they fought in a variety of conflicts, the invasion of Fyndii by the Damoosh collective, the Derelict War during the Colchis Offensive on Magu Minor, and the civil war in the Ethelholm System.

Around ten years ago they ended up on a posting protecting one of the frontier colonies on Prander’s World, rooting out pirates and illegal homesteads in preparation for another wave of expansion. One night he was in a bar playing cards with a bunch of other Zeluuri mercs and a stranger joins in and ends up winning a lot of money. A fight breaks out, the Zeluuri accuse the stranger of cheating, someone pulls out a gun and Z/35712 machetes the guy in the face. Supposedly it was self-defence but anyway the card player dies and Z/35712 gets arrested.

Justice on frontier worlds isn’t much so the normal procedure would be for USSC to post a bail and make Z/35712 pay it back. But as it turns out the stranger was the son of some wealthy capitalist from Urras who got wind of what happened and demanded justice – so Z/35712 gets shipped back to a core world and given a proper trial. They get 20 galactic standard years for murder and after brief stints elsewhere, ends up in a penal colony in the Siren System. This was how they managed to get into picking – Zeluuri aren’t bright enough to be good pickers, but Z/35712 is freakishly strong and can do the grunt work of 3 or 4 other inmates.




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Kassarock W O R L D E A T E R

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Appearance:



Name:

Lem Arronson

Age:

47 or 48

Personality:

Lem Arronson is hard man, he’s lived a hard life and a long one at that considering his profession. He’s tough and reliable, diligent, someone that you can depend upon but will equally require you to work hard and do your fair share – he gives no free rides. He speaks little and sleeps less, he’s patient and quiet, this leads him to be a cautious (yet highly skilled) fighter on the battlefield. After all, there is some truth in the saying that there are old mercenaries, and there bold mercenaries, but there are no old bold mercenaries.

Despite his gruffness and unyielding nature, Lem ultimately has a good heart. If one has the patience to listen to him then he imparts advice freely, and pretty much always speaks honestly. He has even served a sort of mentor in the past to younger men following similar paths to the one he has travelled. He has dry sense of humour, although it tends towards the more grim and macabre end of the spectrum – another side effect of spending a life killing people for money.

Backstory:

Lem’s story is a common one. He is not an orphan, his young life was not filled with hardship or tragedy or formative suffering. He was the son of peasants, and he lived in a small village in the north of Edessa where his father herded flocks of sheep for the local feudal lord and his mother worked all day in their vegetable garden. The eldest of four children that made it past infancy, he worked in the fields and pastures from a young age. Lem did not live a miserable or particularly hard life, sometimes the winters and springs were lean, and sometimes they were not. Ultimately they scraped a decent living for folks such as themselves and his family were content. Lem however, was not.

He was adventurous boy, always dreaming beyond the valleys of his childhood to the world that was outside. He wanted to see it, he wanted to be more than just another peasant, more than his father; he wanted to live. His father was not a bad man, but they clashed a lot, and sometimes he beat Lem, and sometimes Lem deserved it. One day after feeling particular discontent, his arm particularly sore from a slap of his father’s crook, Lem decided to leave his family and the life he faced ahead of him as another peasant farmer- for good.

He ran away south before is fourteenth name day, taking little with him except the clothes on his back. He had little idea of where he was going, stealing and working as a day labourer to get by. For a couple of months he lived like vagabond until one night, while sleeping in a haystack he was seized by a group of recruiters for the King’s Army, had the shilling forced upon him and was pressed ganged into the service of the crown.

Now while this might seem as a set back from most people, it was really the best thing that could have happened to Lem. He was fed and clothed, given tasks to set his mind and energy to, and most of all he was given a life beyond working a plough or crook or scythe. He saw Edessa, fought in a fair number of skirmishes, he became a fair fighter and then a good one. After his ten years were up and he was given the choice between going back to the life of a civilian or continuing as a solider, Lem chose the latter. Although this time, he was not in service to the King, instead he joined one of the free companies of Edessa – mercenaries who do not fight for crown or glory, but for gold.

Mercenary life suited Lem even better than an enlisted man, he earned more and saw even more of the world. For six years he warred his way through the eastern lands, fighting alongside the nomads and barbarians in their never ending conflicts. He made a fortune and returned to Edessa, there was a woman for a while, talk of settling down and having a good, respectable life, but something went wrong and within a year Lem had drank his fortune away and returned to a life on the road. He fought wherever there was fighting needed to be done and in the process made a fair reputation and name for himself amongst the circles in which soldiers of fortune tend to move.

All of this continued uninterrupted until three years ago, when Lem’s horse was killed beneath him during a skirmish on the Welds border. A novice spearman, their very first battle in fact, stepped out from behind a tree as Lem thundered past and skewered the horse in its chest. The beast fell, and Lem wasn’t quick enough to leap clear of the saddle. It landed on his right leg, crushing his knee into a bloody, broken mess. Lem survived the battle, but he would never be the graceful and truly formidable fighter he had once been.

He served on as a mercenary though, he was experienced, he could lead and train men and was still a good enough sword – especially when in the saddle. But when his band was called south again to fight the orcs, he left them and returned to capital. He said that fighting orcs was different to men, and that he was getting too old and would be of no use to them. But everyone knew that was a lie, no one was sure why he went back, but he stayed in the city until the last moment, leaving with the very last caravan on the road north to Ardel.

Skills and Abilities:


  • Accomplished Swordsman - Lem has been fighting on and off the battlefield for over 30 years now. If you can do something with a sword that he doesn’t know about, it’s probably not worth knowing. His main areas of expertise are when it comes to sword and shield or sword and dagger, less accomplished with two handed swords or other combinations.
  • Professional Rider – Lem is very comfortable on a horse, having ridden in both combat and non-combat situations.
  • Professional Spearman – Lem is also skilled in the use of the spear or lance, especially when on horseback.
  • Journeyman Healing – A practical knowledge of how to stich and dress flesh wounds, set and splint broken bones, and relocate joints develops over the years when you main source of income involves getting hurt a lot.
  • Novice Huntcraft – Foraging and scavenging food in the field is important, however Lem lacks any real skill with the bow, so they are limited to snaring rabbits and trying (often unsuccessfully) to spear large game.
  • Novice Armourer – A basic knowledge of how to reshape dented plates and repair rivets on chain mail while on the move. Only quick fixes really until a professional blacksmith can be found.


Equipment:


  • Armour - Lem's armour consists of three layers, a basic thin padded and quilted arming jacket and trousers, over which goes a full length mail hauberk with mail leggings and coif. The topmost layer is a coat of plates sewn into leather, steel vambrices, greeves, a mis matched set of pauldrons (one iron, one steel) and a iron open faced helmet with a nose guard. One his feet he wears hobnailed leather boots and his hands are covered with leather gaunlets with a few small plates sewn into them. Much of the armour is used and has beaten and rough look to it, but is servicable.
  • Arming Sword - A one handed steel Arming sword, a little nicked, but very sharp still. Plain guard and sharkskin grip.
  • Dirk - A steel dagger for small tasks or to be used in his off hand
  • Shield - A round oaken shield with an iron rim that can be strapped to the arm.
  • Boar spear - A short iron spear hafted with ash that can be used as weapon or for hunting
  • Coin purse - A small purse fat with silver and copper coins, additionally Lem has a few gold coins sewn into the lining of one of his jerkins and a garnet hidden in his left boot.
  • Horse - A relatively old grey mare called Dutchess, Lem's horse for the last three years. She carries a set of saddlebags that contain:

    • Two sets of small clothes, two leather studded jerkins (one fur lined), two sets of breaches, one ragged woollen cloak
    • Animal gut thread, a neede and some linen strips
    • A small hammer and set of tongs, a small bottle of oil, some rags, a whetstone
    • A bed roll and a tarred sheet of canvas
    • A water skin, a wine skin, a small leather flask of 'fire water' (a strong alcohol from Varyan)
    • A few days worth of dried provisions (bread, cured meat, hard cheese, dried apples etc)
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Kassarock W O R L D E A T E R

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Name: Sarcen - the Destroyer, the White Fire, Taker of Life and Wielder of the First Blade

Character: Unrestrained Hedonism is Sarcen’s most key and core essence – they pursue their own enjoyment and amusement to the detriment or even destruction of others and of the self. They are violent, sadistic, self-centred, hedonist and utterly depraved. They live their life as swirling vortex of fighting, drinking, whoring, stealing, killing, and abusing others that sucks in all those around them and spits them back out broken and bruised - and often even worse. However, at the same time as this Sarcen has an intense fascination and interest in humans, their little plans and schemes and intrigues and emotions. So insignificant and weak but crying out for recognition, love, praise and power. Sarcen is sincre in his respect for mankind and their pleasure seeking and often brutal ways (sometimes even he is impressed by their capacity to inflict horrors) but he feels no love for them - or for his own kind of that matter. It's like watching an ant farm... occasionally crushing a few between your fingers to see how they react. And while he can exert his will over many of them for his enjoyment now... its gotten stale... perhaps a larger ant farm to play with is needed?

Flaws:
  • Untrustworthy and completely self-centred makes them a poor and unwilling ally
  • Hedonistic and self-destructive tendencies hamper effectiveness (permanently hung-over or drunk/high)
  • No focus or pre-planning, they act, they don't plan, and if they get bored of something, they will give up and do something else


Appearance: Sarcen is tall man, broad shouldered but slim at the waist. They are muscular but at the same time have a lean and hungry look to them, like they haven’t eaten properly for days or weeks. Angular is their face with high and sharp cheekbones, with a strong chin that always bears a few days’ worth of rough stubble upon it. Unlike his cheeks, his nose is flat and wide, it looks as though it has been broken in the past. Their skin is marred with many scars and pale, like their hair, which is a silvery blonde kept short, tight buzz cut on the sides with low messy spikes on top. Their lips are thin, and pull back to reveal yellowed teeth with long, sharp, canines. Yellower still are Sarcen’s eyes, a bright inhuman and incandescent yellow, with slits for pupils – predator eyes, although normally these are hidden by a set of ever present black sunglasses which themselves rest upon his pointed and multiply pierced ears. A metal bar runs through their right eyebrow.

They dress in an old stained and torn white ribbed vest transitioning down over a black leather belt with a large tarnished belt into ripped washed out jeans and heavy black army boots. Over the exposed part of the his body you can see Sarcen's 'art work', hundreds of different tattoos all in different styles and of different ages, some overlapping each over, some familiar symbols and motifs, others alien and incomprehensible.

Essence: Fire. White Fire, that’s burns hotter than any fire you can imagine, as Sarcen taps into more and more of the flow an essence this heat becomes more focused and more intense – allowing them to create explosions and blasts of superheated air. However, for all the power and strength of their use of essence, Sarcen lacks all forms of subtlety and technique with its use. All he can understand is brute force when it comes to the use of his powers.

Emblem: A silver and black switchblade.

Relationships:

God: Sarcen is ambivalent to God on a personal level, as long as they stay of out his way and doesn't interfer with his enjoyment of the world and its inhabitants. However, ever the seeker of new experiences, he often wonder's what it would be like to be God and what pleasures he could enjoy and sufferings he could inflict.


Stats:
Ambition: 7
Combat: 8
Essence: 7
Cunning: 3
Reputation: 1
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Karlus Marsh





Character Summary

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Azra Flametongue




Tiefling | Sorcerer | Entertainer

Lvl 1 | 8 HP | AC 15 | 30 Mov | +2 Prof















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Name: Eadrom Fianna

Nick name: Ead

Gender: Male

Species: Deer Daeva

Age: 22

Appearance: Averaged height, with an angular frame that has the potential to carry an awful lot of muscle on it, but hasn’t been properly filled out, leaving Eadrom looking generally quite thin and bony. The same can be said of his face, thin and angular, although not effeminate. He has generally boyish good looks, with deep hazel eyes and a slightly lopsided, though charming, smile. His hair is chestnut brown and is a curly, unruly mess. He also sports a small soul patch on his chin.

Clothing wise Eadrom almost invariably dresses in the dark, black armour of the Daeva military, although slightly modified to weigh less and be less restrictive for his light footed combat approach. Get him out of armour and he dresses plainly and simply, no frills or lace despite his noble background.

Weapons: Eadrom uses a pair of rather thin, mid-length swords, which he dual wields. His fighting style involves a lot of movement and circling, trying to get deep, pinpointed strikes on his opponent’s weak spots.

Background: The Fianna family are members of the minor Daeva nobility, though they are not linked by blood or marriage to the royal line itself. They own lands on the eastern side of Nixie Lake and are relatively affluent. Eadrom is the heir to the family estates, although currently he is viewed as a slight black sheep for going into military service instead of the traditional political or economic positions the family has held. However, he believed that the good he could do for the Daeva people was much more limited by following these routes rather than joining the army.

His aspiration to join the army manifested at an early age, and his families connections allowed him to be singled out by the elite training division of the military academy. Eadrom is trained in more than just the standard scope of combat and leadership; he has also been tutored in the often diplomatic and ambassadorial role that the Daeva military often play. He proved an able and willing student, and so was fast tracked for high status positions in the internal structure of the military. However, he has been reluctant in accepting these more desk bound duties, as they detract from his ability to do good for the people.

He was approached by General Sergio (who effectively mentored Eadrom during his first years as on active duty) who saw that joining the expedition would be a way to prove his worthiness and do ‘good’ at the same time. However, this was before the recent developments involving the death of King Raha, and since then there has been a great deal of speculation about whether it is wise to send such a young and untested soldier where serious military and diplomatic clout might be needed instead.

Extra: He currently holds the rank of Captain, although he is not officially in charge of any body of men.
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Name: Baron Stephen de Monfort (Stephen the bloody)

Gender: Male

Age: 31

Appearance:

Stephen stands at around 5'9" and is of a fairly lithe build, though he has surprisingly large shoulder muscles and biceps which allow him to swing short hacking weapons with deadly speed. His hands are similarly strong and callused, showing a life of either hard work of handing weapons. His physical position is peak, unlike many other knights who ride on horseback Stephen is accustomed to fighting on foot for battles.

The most noticeable feature is a line white scar that runs from the base of the temple to the bottom of the chin, unlike the rest of his face, no hair grows on it. Making the scar stand out against the dark blonde stubble, his hair is a similar colour, dark blonde streaked with brown yet stained darker either by sweat or blood. His eyes are typically northern European blue as is his fair complexion. There is nothing particularly unpleasant about his face, yet it is not instantly attractive, nondescript would be the best way to think of it. His garb in the desert is always the same, the armour and the white mantle with a red cross that all Templars wore.

Equipment/inventory:
-Steel Chainmail Hauberk with Coif (leather cuirass underneath)
-Leather Gauntlets
-Steel toe capped armoured boots
-Steel Greaves and Vambraces on legs and arms
-Small crucifix
-Gold Reliquary containing a finger bone of Saint Jude.

Weapons:
-A knight's long sword, a family heirloom forged in the 10th century.
-A shorter brutal sword, a Falchion with one cutting side and a machete like blade.
-A light single handed axe, with a cutting blade, an end spike, and an armour piercing pick.

Background: Stephen was born into nobility in the southern France province of Aquitaine. Here he was raised under the eye of a stern father and a mother who bowed to the will of her husband. Despite whatever vice's Stephen's father had, Robert was devout to the word of God. His hand may have been heavy and his temper quick, but when he heard an utterance of heresy from his own eldest son, he made sure the boy would never again doubt God. He beat Stephen within an inch of his life before sending him off to a monastery in Normandy for two years to learn respect for God. It was here that he met Raymond of Cyprus, a Knight Templar.

While at the monastery the knight had been visiting before he went out to the holy land. He had fascinated the boy with tales of the crusades and how God rewarded all who went upon it, this more simulation for Christianity than any monk could provide. When Raymond left and Stephen was returned to his father he set about becoming a knight worthy of the holy land. But in his abscense it was apparent is mother had died of the flu, grieved but not changed, he also decided to pray for her soul when in Jerusalem.

He trained hard and achieved this, his father died when he was 17 and he inherited what was his. Nothing could now stop him on his voyage to Jerusalem. It took two years to sail to Tyre and then across the desert to Jerusalem, when there he prayed and met a familiar face. Raymond was still in the holy land, older but still a Knight Templar of high standing. He joined the Templars shortly afterwards and served with them in the two years of peace between then and the start of Saladin's war on Palestine. When the truce broke again in 1186, he was in fact part of those who caused this, he raided a caravan with Raynald de Chatillion, which had Saladin's sister in it.

He had continued to fight with Raynald until the battle of Hattin, where he was moved back to Tyre in case the Muslim army headed north. After Hattin Saladin took Jerusalem and Arce, but Tyre still stood. This is what prompted the Third Crusade, to take back Jerusalem, and the holy war was back on again. He battled down with other Templars to Acre, they took the Muslim garrison but were themselves besieged. When the demands of King Richard I were not met, he was one of the executors of the 2,700 hostages. After this he still pushed south, hands stained with the blood of thousands of Muslims from over thirteen years of bloodshed. At Arsuf he killed hundreds more, and onto the city of Jaffa, even more dead. By this point peace talks had begun and a treaty was signed to prevent more killing on both sides. Jerusalem was lost and the Knights were ending the violent campaign for now.

He decided to return home for the first time, sick of death for once. On Cyprus he met with the son of Raymond who took him in for a short while. Here in their family chapel, did he see what his life had led him to.
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V E L Y N V I R I T H




Original Art by Minttu

____________________________________________________

Character Information

Name - Velyn Virith of House Redoran
Gender - Male
Race - Dunmer
Faction - House Redoran (former), Buoyant Armigers (former)
Class - Spellsword
Birthsign - The Lady

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Character Skills

Martial
Velyn is a skilled martial combatant with both the use of the spear and the short blade. His fighting style is fast and agile, using lighter armour to prioritise speed over protection. Though age saps his strength and agility, Velyn more than makes up for that in hundreds of years of martial experience.

Magical
Though some Buoyant Armigers were once great users magic, Velyn is not among their ranks. He understands the basics of magical practice but is no expert. He has some small skill in the schools of Restoration and Alteration. The Healing of Sick was a core tenant of the Tribunal Temple, and all those who served it learned something of the restorative arts. He also learned some of the tricks of the Buoyant Armigers, such as water breathing and walking, as well as the art of magically shielding the body in combat.

Miscellenous
In his youth Velyn was a fine acrobat, but such exertions are much beyond him now, he still however retains a soft tread and an excellent balance. Velyn's other great skill has only increased with age, his eloquent speech. Velyn has increasingly dedicated himself to the study and creation of poetry in his later years.

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Character Equipment

Weapons
Chitin Glaive, fashioned in the traditional Dumner style.
Twinned Steel Wakizashi and Tanto, worn at the waist.


Armour
Worn Chitin Armour, much patched and repaired.

Enchanted Items
Amulet of Fortify Stamina, made from a carved Guar tooth.
The Chitin Glaive also bears a minor flame enchantment.


Miscellaneous
Ragged Red Travelling Cloak.
Spare Bundle of Clothing.
A Few Days of Rations.
Jar of Matze, a rice wine from Morrowind.
Ceramic Drinking Cups.
Patterned Fabric Bedroll.
Paper Lantern.
Incense burner with Fragant Incense.
Dunmeri Lute, similar to a Shamisen.
Books and Scrolls, mostly the teachings and poetry of Vivec.
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A P P E A R A N C E

Velyn Virith is an elderly male Dunmer, well into his third century. Despite his venerable age he is not frail or decrepit, he stands tall and straight still, thin with age and hard living, but possessing wiry strength and cultivated grace to his movements. The way Velyn moves is like a dancer, with light quick steps, but he carried himself with all the confidence and surety of a warrior. When his face is hidden beneath his chitinous helm, he could pass for a mer more than half his age.

Velyn's face, however, shows the truth of his age. His sharp angular features are lined and wrinkled, crows feet radiate out from the corners of his narrow blood red eyes. The ceremonial tattoos and scars of his young are pale and faded. The dark hair pulled back into his high topknot is so threaded with grey that they now outnumber the black. In his youth, Velyn would have been considered handsome, and he still retains a element of refined dignity in his appearance to this day. A sign of his former vanity can be seen the golden jewellery than hangs from his pointed ears.

When not dressed in the worn and patchwork chitin armour that he wraps in a tattered crimson cloak, Velyn prefers to dress in the many hued and patterned fabrics of his homeland, instead of the local Nord furs. He does however, often wear multiple layers, with long robes over his normal clothing. The cold gets into his bones and aching joints these days.


P E R S O N A L I T Y

Velyn is a mer who has been through many trials and tribulations in his life, trials that have had him question his faith and own decisions. As Lord Vivec once cautioned the Hortator Saint Nerevar, beware the wrong walking path. Velyn's path has been one of struggle, soaked in blood, beset with Violence. But it is only through Violence that one might reach Heaven. And so Velyn Virith is at peace.

But his frequent philosophical ruminations do not mean he is dour or dull, far from it in fact. Velyn is an eloquent conversationalist, a skilled orator, poet and musician. He enjoys performing and entertaining, and like all entertainers he enjoys a stiff drink shared with good company. At times like these his wry sense of humour becomes increasingly apparent, as well as a somewhat rakish and flirtatious side to old Knight Errant.

Ultimately, however, he views distractions of the flesh as just that, distractions, despite the allure they sometimes still hold for him. There are only two things Velyn truly cares about, aiding those in need of his assistance, and carving his own path to Heaven.


H I S T O R Y

Velyn Virith was born on Vvardenfell in the year 3E412. He was a younger son of Theldyn Virith, Kinsman to the Great House Redoran. Growing up, most of his childhood was spent between the Redoran district capital of Auld'ruhn and his family's ancestral estates in the West Gast near the port of Auld Velothi. Like his brothers and cousins, he was expected to join his father's house as another proud Redoran warrior, but fate had other plans for Velyn Virith.

Once, while visiting the great city of Vivec as a child, Velyn witnessed a regatta being held on the grand canal. Barges of beaten gold, wreathed with garlands, floated upon the shimmering waters, oars manned by beautiful maidens and comely youths. From the decks, knights clad in iridescent glass laughed and sang as they threw roses to the watching crowd. And hovering above them all, a seated figure, half gold, smiling, and radiating the light of heaven itself.

This was the first time Velyn saw a God, and he vowed that day, that it would not be the last.

As soon as he was old enough he pledged himself as novice to the Tribunal Temple, and then to be apprenticed by the Armigers once he had proved his worth. In those days the fear of Sharmat hung over Vvardenfell, and the ALMSIVI receded from the outside world, but Velyn did not forget what it meant to see a God in all their glory.

He never would.
Velyn kept his faith, his love for his Lord Vivec, even after the deaths of the other Triunes. When the gates Oblivion opened and daedra ravaged Morrowind, he kept his faith still. When his Lord disappeared, he kept his faith. When the moons fell from the sky and fires rose up from earth, he kept his faith. When the Argonians invaded and sacked their cities even as the ash and fire rained down still, he kept his faith. He fought though all these terrors as an Armiger, doing his deeds in Love and War in the name of his Lord, Vivec.

And when the New Temple emerged triumphant from the rubble of their nation and proclaimed Vivec was a false god, Velyn kept his faith. And won himself exile for it.

He fled to Cyrodil, following in the footsteps of countless Dunmer refugees, to find a province also lost to chaos and war as chaos of the the Stormcrown Interregnum unfolded. There he joined a group of rebels fighting against the tyrannical count of Skingrad.

These were darkest days of his existence. Bereft of his Lord, his land, and his love, Velyn turned to a darker path. He indulged in unworthy vices and fought not for Love, but rather to die. He was broken in those days, and it would take many years for him to find his true path again and to fight under the Will of Love once more.

He wandered Tamriel for a long time, never truly settling anyway, never truly putting down roots. Over those long years there were companions, friends, lovers, and enemies. But they were all transient. So do were roles at which he played. Sometimes he was a solider and a mercenary, at others a poet, musician, or acrobat. But always was he one thing, a holy man. For above all else, as he wandered, he searched for answers to the questions that still haunted him, the questions that lingered despite his faith.

Why did Vivec leave his people at the time of their greatest need? Why did Vivec allow such terrors to befall the faithful whom he had loved and cherished? And why, why, did his Lord abandon him, his most loyal and adoring of servants?

It took many years for Velyn to come to a conclusion. He consulted great sages and philosophers from across the lands, read the holy books and poets of his Lord countless times. He found an answer, his answer at least, though sometimes he still doubts it himself. But did Vivec not say: Beware the wrong walking path?

Did he not also say: Beware the crime of benevolence?

Chimer were taught to struggle by the Anticipations and Saint Veloth, and they became greater for it, they were changed by it. The Dunmer had prospered under the benevolent rule of the Tribunal, the benevolent rule of his Lord... but now, it seemed they must struggle again. Greater things awaited them still, and only through struggle would they be changed once more.

So Velyn would struggle on his own path, and he would help to teach his kin how to struggle too. Anywhere Dunmer struggled on the path, he would be there to try to teach them how to struggle, how to grow stronger, how to change, how to Reach Heaven by Violence.

This was why Velyn Virith came to Skyrim in the third century of Fourth Era, for it was here, he believed, that the struggle of his people was greatest. If he could teach the Dunmer to walk the path in Skyrim, and struggle their way to greatness, then he might change his whole people, he might change the whole world.

For the ending of the words is ALMSIVI.

And the worlding of the words is AMARANTH.
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V E L Y N V I R I T H




Original Art by Minttu

____________________________________________________

Character Information


Name - Velyn Virith of House Redoran
Gender - Male
Race - Dunmer
Age - 36, born 3rd of Sun's Dawn, 3E412
Faction - House Redoran (former), Buoyant Armigers (former)
Class - Spellsword
Birthsign - The Lady

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Skills and Attributes

Major: Agility
Minor: Personality

Expert:
Spear

Adept:
Light Armour, Speech, Acrobatics

Apprentice:
Sneak, Short Blade, Alteration

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Spells

Alteration
Shield, an arcane shield that protects the user from harm.
Water Breathing, the ability to breath underwater.
Water Walking, the ability to walk upon the surface of water.
Slowfall, the ability to float instead of falling.

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Character Equipment

Weapons
Chitin Glaive, fashioned in the traditional Dumner style.
Twinned Steel Wakizashi and Tanto, worn at the waist.


Armour
Full set of Light Dunmeri Chitin Armour.

Enchanted Items
The Chitin Glaive bears a minor flame enchantment on its blade.

Miscellaneous
Red Travelling Cloak.
Kagouti Hide Travelling Pack.
Spare Clothing.
Paper Lantern.
Few Days Rations.
Jar of Sujamma, a potent liquor of Morrowind.
Dunmeri Lute, similar to a Shamisen.
Skooma Pipe.
Three Vials of Skooma.
Books and Scrolls, mostly the teachings and poetry of Vivec.
Carved Guar Tooth Amulet, containing Ancestral Ashes.
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A P P E A R A N C E

Velyn Virith is a young male Dunmer. The Dunmer age slower than their human counterparts after they reach physical maturity, and hence he has a touch of boyish youth about him still, despite having seen three decades. He is of an average height, but slender and long limbed, with the lithe musculature of a dancer or acrobat. The comparison is even more apt when you see him in move, his steps are light and quick, his motions fluid and graceful, at least they are when he is sober.

His face is handsome, the features sharp and angular like many of his kind, but not to the point of harshness, the bloom of youth softens them still. The skin is ashen grey, the narrow eyes blood red, between them sits a high aquiline nose that leads to a lightly arched brow. There's something sad about those eyes, when caught unguarded, the look in them verges between desperate hunger and utter despondency. But there's another look they take on too, with increasing regularity these days, the glazed half aware stare of the skooma addict.

Ceremonial Dunmer tattoos mark his face and body. A scarab sits on his throat and neck, it curves up to cup his jaw, its forelegs peaking out onto the point of his chin. A pattern of waves adorns his left cheek, it marks him as one of the Buoyant Armigers and curves up from the side of his neck to caress the side of his high wide cheekbone. He wears the Hand of the ALMSIVI Tribunal over his heart, and a depiction of a seated figure, flames about their head, on his back.

When they cast him out from the Temple, he cut his hair free of the topknot its warriors wore. The shorn locks have grown since then and they now hang around his face once more in loose black strands. Through the dark hairs you can make out his pointed ears, from which dangle a few golden rings, several empty holes indicate they were once adorned with many more than are currently on display.

Other than the chitinous armour and the red cloak that wraps around it to keep out the ash of his homeland, Velyn has few clothes with him. That which he does own are of fine quality, rich in colour, but poorly maintained and cared for, near threadbare in places. Around his slender neck hangs a carved pendant or amulet, a hollowed out Guar tooth sealed with resin, containing a fragment of the ashes from the funerary pits of his family's ancestral tomb.


P E R S O N A L I T Y

What is remains when a person has nothing left to believe in? One of the many answers to that question, is Velyn Virith. Like a ship thrown against the rocks, or a tower built on unstable foundations, he finds himself tumbling down and shattered into a thousand pieces. All that he thought he knew and loved is gone, and in its absence nothing makes sense to him anymore.

From the swirling chaos of his doubt and despair, pieces of who Velyn Virith once was sometimes emerge. He is still exceptionally courteous in his speech, stringing words together like poet, in either Imperial Common or his native Dumeris. He writes little, but some nights he still plays the lute he brought with him when he left Morrowind. In the darkness, he sings to the slow sad music, keening ballads that echo with wails of lost lovers and sundered hearts.

When he fights he is reckless, fighting with no shield, and with his head bare. He often allows his opponents to strike the first blow, a long standing tradition of the honour duels of the Dunmer people, especially of the Redorans. While perhaps a noble sentiment in the honour bound house Velyn hails from, on the battlefield it is a foolhardy tactic, one that will likely end up getting him killed one day. He does not seem to care.

He still says that he wishes to fight for what is good and noble, that he cares about protecting the common people, and living up to the ideals of his faith. But there is no passion to those words, they are learned by rote. To Velyn, gallantry is a routine, he does it because he does not know what else to do.

Velyn is not unfriendly, but neither does he pursue any form of closeness to the other rebels he finds himself associated with, content to wait out his time alone in between their battles. If approached he is companionable enough, if not for the somewhat bitter edge to what passes as his humour. He still laughs at lot, frequently at himself, but not in a pleasant way. There's something harsh about it, as if he considers himself the butt of some great and terrible joke. The only time his spirits truly seem to lift is when the sweet smelling smoke of Skooma hangs in the air around his tent and on his threadbare clothes. Those nights he does not play or sing, he prefers to lie insensate, and dream of times long gone.

In truth the emotion he most commonly seems to elicit in others is a mixture of pity and disgust. Pity because who does not know the feelings of loss and heartbreak. Disgust because Velyn seems to have given himself over to wallowing in such feelings.

All of his pain, all of his loss, his doubt, his yearning, his love, and his grief can be found in one word, one name, one letter written in uncertainty.

Vivec.
H I S T O R Y

Velyn Virith was born on Vvardenfell on the third day of Sun's Dawn in the four hundred and twelfth year of the Third Era. He was the son of Theldyn Virith, Kinsman to the Great House Redoran, Hetman of the fishing port of Ald Velothi. Most of Velyn's childhood was spent between the Redoran district capital of Auld'ruhn and his family's ancestral estates in the West Gast. Like his brothers and cousins, he was bonded to his house from birth, and was expected to follow in his father's footsteps as another proud Redoran warrior, but fate had other plans for Velyn Virith.

He couldn't have been more than five, perhaps six, when the course of his life was irrevocably changed. His father had business with a clan of fellow Redoran nobles, the Saren clan of the city of Vivec, and he brought young Velyn with him on the long journey down to the greatest city on Vvardenfell. While his father conducted his business, he left young Velyn with a retainer to show the young boy the sights of the city.

It happened the second morning they were there, as he passed over one of the high bridges that linked the upper plazas of the cantons. A crowd had come out to line the waterways, and being a curious young child, Velyn pushed his way through to the railings to witness the cause of the excitement.

A regatta was being held on the grand canal. Barges of beaten gold, wreathed with floral garlands, floated upon the shimmering waters. The oars of each barge were manned by a host beautiful maidens and comely youths. Groups of troubadours and musicians filled the air with the sound of lutes, and pipes, and drums. From the gilded decks, knights clad in iridescent glass laughed and sang as they threw roses to the adorning crowds. And there, hovering above them all, a seated figure, half gold, smiling, and radiating the light of Heaven itself.

This was the first time Velyn saw a God. He vowed that day that it would not be the last.

He would not forget what he saw that day. On the long journey by strider back to their home it was all he could think about. He wanted to live in that light, and bathe himself in its warmth. The Redorans were one of the more pious of the Dunmer Great Houses, but even amongst them, Velyn's single minded dedication to the faith and in particular to Lord Vivec, struck many of his kinsmen as being unusual.

As soon as he was old enough he pledged himself as novice to the Temple, the first step in what he thought would be a lifetime spent in that glorious light. Once he had proved himself in feats of arms, exhibitions of arts, and generosity of alms, Velyn was apprenticed into the Buoyant Armigers. That order of iridescent knights he had glimpsed upon those gilded barges many years ago.

But the he order in found himself in was somewhat different from how he had imagined it. In those days the fear of the Sharmat hung over Vvardenfell, and recently the ALMSIVI had receded from the outside world. Rather than spending his time at the side of the Lord he had adored from far, Velyn was dispatched to the fortress of Molag Mar in the magma strewn wastes of Molag Amur. There he began his work as an Armiger, hunting down the blight of the Sharmat, slaying Sixth House Cultist and Corpus Monsters.

That was the year that the Nerevarine returned, and by his hand, the fall of the Dagoth Ur. There was upheaval in the wake on St. Nerevar's return, the amnesty on the Dissident priests, the events in Mournhold where it was rumoured that the Tribunes Sotha Sil and Almalexia were both slain. To many it was a time of uncertainty and fear. But to Velyn those few years were glorious.

Vvardenfell was freed from the threat of the Sharmat and his monsters, and Velyn's Lord was freed from his ancient duty of maintaining the Ghost Fence. For those precious few years Velyn bathed in the light of his Lord. There was time for music and poetry in those years. There was time for dancing, and nights where they would join their Lord in rituals that had been long neglected. It was in those years that Velyn learned the secrets of carnal exultation, it was everything Velyn had ever dreamed of.

And then it was over.

It was when the Gates of Oblivion opened that everything began to go wrong. Portals opened up across Morrowind, and Tamriel beyond. The Imperials sat behind the walls of their fortresses, on the mainland some even marched back through the passes of the Velothi Mountains to defend Cyrodil while Morrowind burned. The Armigers were dispatched to keep the city of Vivec safe from Daedric incursions. The city held, but elsewhere the situation was dire.

In Ald'ruhn, where Velyn had spent much of his childhood, where he had first served as a temple novice, the fighting was the worst. The city was practically destroyed, its defenders going so far as to resurrect the great Emperor Crab Skar, demolishing the council halls and manors of their most powerful citizens in the process. Once the city of Vivec was secure Velyn had fought his way north to meet up with a Redoran army from the mainland. But they too late. By the time they arrived there was little left by corpses and rubble.

Theldyn Virith, his father, was among the dead. Velyn was left to burn his body and make sure his ashes were interned with his ancestors.

In all this madness there was no sign of Lord Vivec, the Living God had disappeared around the time the Crisis. There was no sign of the Nerevarine either, who it was rumoured had travelled to the continent of Akavir. The people of Morrowind did their best to pick up the pieces, and rebuild their shattered lives and cities, Velyn was amongst them. For though their Lord had disappeared, though his father was dead, Velyn had the support of the Temple and of his sworn brothers. That was enough.

Besides, Velyn could not forget what it meant to see a God in all their glory. He never would. So he kept his faith, as best he could.

Those were trying years for Morrowind, there was fighting amongst the houses as the Hlaalu lost their place of preeminent and were expelled from the Grand Council. Imperial authority collapsed with the lack of an Emperor on the throne. While the Dunmer simultaneously tried to rebuild and fought amongst themselves, an even greater threat loomed. One that had been hanging over them for a long time.

Baar Dau, the Ministry of Truth, Lie Rock. It had floated above the City of Vivec for millennia, suspended there by the Living God himself and held in place by his power and the faith of people who lived beneath. But it appeared the Crisis, the deaths of the Tribunes, and the disappearance of the God had weakened that faith. In truth, those years were first where Velyn felt his own waver. Sometimes at night he wonders if he too is partly to blame for what happened when Baar Dau fell.

He had not been in the city. If he had, he would not be here today. The Palace and High Fane were directly beneath the impact, none who were there survived. Instead Velyn was at the Armiger's fortress at Molag Mar. All they saw was a burning light on the horizon, a terrible shaking in the ground, and the roaring hot winds of the blast wave when it finally reached them. It was only when that the mountain had answered with ash and fire, filling the Foyadas with lava and trapping them in their stronghold.

When boats from the mainland finally reached them he had tried to go to the city to search for survivors. They had told him there was no point, the city was gone and waters where it had once stood boiled. They call it Scathing Bay now. He had thought then to try to reach Ghostgate, to find the other chapter of their order, but that fortress had sat upon the Foyada Mamaea, and had been incinerated in the eruption. So, with no other option, he had gone to the mainland.

It was a good thing that he had, for soon the mainland would have need of every warrior Morrowind could provide. In the moment of their greatest ever weakness the Argonians invaded. The lizard men sacked every city they came upon, even as the ash and fire rained down still. No where was spared, not even Mournhold, a holy city of the Tribunal and the capital of all Morrowind. The jewel of their province which had somehow miraculously escaped the ravages of the Red Year was reduced to another smoking ruin.

That's what Morrowind was those days, a land of smoking ruins, refugees, warfare, and death.

And somehow, Velyn kept his faith.

He fought with his sworn brothers, with his fellow Redorans, with anyone who would defend Morrowind. Perhaps that's what allowed him to keep his faith, he had no time to think about what was happening around him, he was too busy trying to survive. So went on as he always had done, being an Armiger, doing his deeds of Love and War in the name of his Lord, Vivec.

The war was terrible and it was long. The Argonians made it as far East and North as Port Telvannis, they even made it onto Vvardenfell itself. Their armies fell most heavily on the Dres and the Telvannis, but no where was truly safe from their wrath. Over the years more and more of his brothers fell, but the Redoran led armies slowly routed the Argonian warbands from much of their lands. Mournhold was recovered, even if it was a ruin, and new fortified borders and lines of defence were drawn up between these two new independent powers.

Suddenly there wasn't anymore fighting to be done. So Velyn went back to the Temple. Only to find there was no Temple for him to go back to.

While he had been away at the front, the balance of power in the Temple had changed dramatically. With the loss of the traditional centres of orthodox Temple power, Vivec and Mournhold, there were new Archcanons at the head of the faith, and they had very different ideas about the status of the Old Tribunal. The Dissident Priests and the New Temple, as it later came to be called, had emerged triumphant from the rubble of their nation and they decried Vivec as a false god.

He should have just accepted it. The evidence was plain enough, Vivec had not protected them, and he was gone. But Velyn couldn't forget. He couldn't forget what it was to see a God in the flesh. To see the light of Heaven itself. To touch it.

Velyn kept his faith. And won himself exile for it.

Bereft of his Lord, his Land, and his Love, it was only then that Velyn finally broke.

Spurned from the homeland he had fought for, he fled to Cyrodil, following in the footsteps of countless Dunmer refugees across the Velothi Mountains. There he found a province also lost to chaos and war as the Stormcrown Interregnum unfolded. In the camps outside of Cheydinhal he fell into low company and discovered something which could take away the pain that felt in every waking moment. Skooma.

He frittered away what money he had left, when it was gone he began to sell his possessions. When he started to run out of things to sell he began to offer his services in exchange for a fix. That was first time he had killed in cold blood, without a higher purpose, in those days he was little more than drug addled thug. He acted without the Will of Love.

He left Cheydinhal when he argued with a dealer over a payment he had been owed, it became physical, and when the dust had settled the other man was dead. Velyn took every vial the man had on him and ran. It was no longer safe for him in camps there, so he decided to go overland to Bravil, where he had heard Skooma was cheap and plentiful. That had been the main concern on Velyn's mind at the time.

Going overland to Bravil however, meant travelling by Skingrad.

There were always refugees on the road, looking for somewhere safe, so he had travelled on the edge of convoy. He had not truly been a part of them, but when a patrol of the Count's men fell upon the refugees he found himself unable to turn away. These were cruel men, who subjected the weak and desperate to harassment and depravity to satisfied their own base needs. In that moment Velyn had felt some old instinct reawaken in him, and before he had fully known what he was doing, the bloody tip of his spear was protruding through the chest of one of the soldiers.

Singlehanded he had slaughtered the patrol, taking a few grievous wounds in the process. Many of the refugees fled the scene, only a few remained to tell the band of rebels who emerged from the woods what had happened. They took the wounded Dunmer in and nursed him back to some degree of health.

That was how Velyn Virith met Isobel Aurelia.




Bonus Short Story:

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Name: Willet

Age: 29

Sex: Male

Race: Human

Appearance: Willet is a small man. Not standing much over 5 foot 7 inches, but what he lacks in height in makes up for in brawn, he is of strong sturdy stock, with a broad chest and thick arms. He is tanned and has fairly weather beaten skin for his age, indicating a life spent mostly outdoors. His hands are especially worn, covered in hard skin and calluses.

His face is relatively attractive, though not exactly handsome. He keeps his hair reddish-brown short and sports a similar coloured beard that he crops closely too. His face is board and lends itself to a smile of good strong white teeth, with a broken, bent looking nose above them. His eyes are a green-y hazel.

His clothing consists of leather and hide mainly, hardy and pragmatic, in mostly hues of green or brown. Over this he wears a long green wool cloak with a hood, very useful for blending into a wooded area. The piece of clothing most important to Willet is his boots, good boots are essential if you live an outdoor life. He normally carries a leather pack on his back, along with his composite bow and a quiver of arrows. On either side of his belt hang a wood axe, and a dirk.

Personality: Willet is quiet but friendly, a tough looking man with a relatively soft heart, especially for the poor and children. He doesn’t like cheating, lying, stealing or killing and has a particular dislike to those who make money off of other’s misfortune. But neither is he idealistic, he most definitely understands that you do what you have to do to survive. He likes company, but believes that towns are corrosive to people and bring out the worst. He would much rather have company with honest working men and women than with a high lord or a king.

Magic/Abilities: He has a natural affinity to the forest, years of spending time there have taught him its ways, and years of listening to it have taught him its tongue. Whilst this might not constitute as true conversation with the forest, it grants significant advantages when it comes to encountering dangerous animals or demons, or navigating a dense and unfamiliar wood.

Weakness(es): Willet is a simple man. He cannot read or write his own name and is poor at anything academic. In combat, he is not the most skilful either, his melee tactics are poor and he is unsuited to fighting in open areas.

Background/History: Willet was born outside of a town, and he will die outside of a town. His parents were some of the few people to forsake the relative safety of a community to live their lives in the wilds. They led simple lives, partly maintaining a small hold, partly hunting and cutting lumber to sell to the local villages. They had only one child, Willet, and for twelve peaceful years life was good. Occasionally there would be a threat from the wilds, but Willet’s father knew the forest even better than Willet does now, so they were safe enough. But of course, in this world peace like that cannot last for long.

But it was not beasts or demons that shattered this peace, it was sickness. Willet’s father got seriously ill and quickly, had they been in a town they might have got a doctor, but it over half a day’s walk to the nearest village, almost a full day to the nearest doctor. He died shivering and vomiting in his own bed. After that, living in the wilds couldn’t go on, without Willet’s father they had no protection. And so they forced to move into a town, they couldn’t sell a property out there in the wilds, so they were poor, poorer than dirt. For another two years they tried to get by in a little back water town, hunting, fishing, begging, anything. Willet’s mother deprived herself of food for his sake, she grew weaker and weaker, until she caught a fever and died too. After that, Willet decided there was nothing left for him in towns, so he returned to the peaceful place he liked best, the wilds.

It was tough, but he had learned enough from his father, and what was left he managed to pick up from himself. He has a meagre existence hunting and trapping, living a nomadic lifestyle on his own. He is currently visiting Bitewind to sell his current haul of furs and to pick up some supplies, before he intends to return to the wilds.

Additional/Miscellaneous: Willet has killed very few people in his life, and only when he has been attacked first and forced to. He will always, always err on the side of mercy.
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S A M I R A




Original Art by Shibashake

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C H A R A C T E R I N F O R M A T I O N

Name - Massatyra-Armalatu Samira yr Sadhara el Hakkam yi Athkatla, also known as Jhasina, the Sadidrifa, the Khamarnari, the Desert Rose, the Golden Widow, the Witch Whore.
Gender - Female.
Race - Human.
Age - Late Twenties to Early Thirties.
Height - Average, a little over five feet.
Class - Sorceress.

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S K I L L S & A B I L I T I E S

Magical
Samira is spell caster of great power and cunning application. She is a Sorceress, gifted with innate magical talent without the need to study the arcane arts. The raw power of Sorcerer's magic often surpass that of their more scholarly counterparts, but often at the expense of their versality, and this is indeed the case with Samira. Her gifts lie in three specific applications, Illusion Magic, Enchantment Magic, and Elemental Magic, in particular, Fire Magic.

However, her understanding of the arcane as a theoretical subject is generally poor. She never had to learn the basic fundamentals of magic, her powers were given to her by fate instead, therefore her grasp of magical theory is much less developed than for a wizard of similar capabilities.

Martial
While Samira has attained a mastery of a great many things, martial combat is most certainly not one of them. She prefers to shun physical fighting, opting to use her magical talents to target her enemies from afar. She knows a little of the use of short bladed weapons such as knives and daggers, but not much else. Do not think however that she is helpless in a melee confrontation, Samira has a few tricks up her sleeve.

Miscellaneous
Samira is a charismatic individual and possesses great skills in persuasion, flattery, seduction and deception. Her abilities to beguile and enchant others borders on the supernatural. She speaks several different languages, including Common, Alzhedo, and Chondathan.

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E Q U I P M E N T

Weapons
Curved steel dagger, encrusted with gems, fashioned in the Calishite style.

Armour
Samira relies on her magic for her protection, she wears no physical armour.

Enchanted Items
Periapt of Health - Grants the bearer immunity to diseases.
Amulet of Health - Increases the bearer's constitution.
Ring of Regeneration - Heals the bearer's wounds.

Miscellaneous Items
An expensive red and gold silk dress with matching veil.
Numerous pieces of non-magical jewellery.
A small pouch of magical reagents and components.
A gilded water canteen.
A bottle of felsul flower perfume.
A sun parasol.
A pocket mirror.
Coin purse with several hundred gold pieces.

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A P P E A R A N C E

Samira is the very image of beauty itself, or at least, that's what many of her admirers have told her over the years. Her appearance is a strange combination of North and South Faerun, that makes her seem exotic and desirable to inhabitants on both sides of the continent. For while her skin is sun kissed dark, like the Calishite people she claims kinship with, her long flowing hair is the colour of fairest gold, most often found in the northern climes of the Sword Coast.

In Calimshan particularly her hair is an asset, and she dresses to enhance its golden nature. Her clothing is often of deep and warm colours, maroons, dark reds, purples. The coloured silks and satins are juxtaposed with cloth of gold embroidery in order to better show off her own honey coloured tresses. Samira's appreciation for gold goes well past her clothing and is also present in her taste in jewellery. Around her neck are many expensive necklaces and amulets, bracelets and bangles hang from her wrists. Her adornment is often complimented by an almost see through silken veil, some have said this layer of obscurification only makes her seem more alluring.

Most alluring of all though is the face behind the veil, with its high wide cheekbones and its full and luscious lips, artfully painted with pigments and makeup. Under the delicate arches of her brow, Samira's kohl painted eyes gaze out wickedly, full of temptation and mischief. They are eyes that men can lose themselves in, and many have become snared there, like insects trapped in amber. For that is their colour, glorious, shining, amber. When she is angry their depths burn with a hidden fire, dangerous and intense, so much like the devastating elemental magic that she wields.

Sometimes, however, when Samira thinks no one else is watching, there's another look in those eyes, beyond the temptress, beyond the sorceress. There is fear. Absolute and abject terror. And loathing, so much loathing, a hatred that could swallow oceans, leaving nothing but a blasted salty plane, and still not be quenched.

But that particular mask rarely slips. That part of herself is well hidden under the faces she wears, the perfectly applied makeup and paint, the exquisite and expensive clothing, the rich and heady perfumes, all her power and her wealth and her status. But she never forgets that it is there, no matter how hard she tries.

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P E R S O N A L I T Y

Samira is a cut gemstone, a thing of many facets. All of them are brilliant in their own way, but not all them as pleasant as the face she wears would have you believe. The reflections they cast can be distorted and ugly, their edges hard and sharp. Who she is and how she acts often depends entirely on who you are, how you relate to each other, and what your position in society is.

To the wealthy and powerful, Samira is a gracious host, a delightful and witty conversationalist with a sharp sense of humour, and a fixture at many high society gatherings in Calimport. Her parties are the stuff of legends, her circle of acquaintances studded with some of the city's most celebrated inhabitants. She would be held in high esteem, if were not for her somewhat infamous reputation for seducing husbands and taking them as her lovers. She is a beguiling woman, and since the death of her own husband has had a rota of either influential or handsome bedfellows. The powerful men of Calimport adore Samira, and she adores them back, flourishing like a flower under their gaze and attention. But the wives of these men all despise her, and name her 'The Witch Whore' behind her back.

In return Samira is often more comfortable in the company of men than of women. In particular she does not like women who are younger or more beautiful than she is. Even more so, she absolutely despises old women as being hideous and weak, though she rarely says as much to their faces. Duplicitous would be one word to describe how she behaves around her social peers, rarely speaking a honest word, always dealing in half truths, praising one to their face, disparaging them behind their back. It is fortunate that she is an exceptional liar, otherwise everything would have come unravelled a long time ago.

Most slaves and common folk are largely beneath her attention. Though she has been known to lavish coin and favour on those who manage to please her, equally does she heap scorn and recriminations on those who fail her. Samira is undoubted a generous mistress, though she can easily be a cruel one. She is fickle in such inclinations as well, punishing those she rewarded only days before. When those she considers beneath her do not respond to her manipulations and coercions, she does not think twice of using force to compel them to her bidding.

Vulnerability is abhorrent to her. She tries her best to never reveal her true feelings about anything to anyone. The only time she ever speaks with genuine emotion is about her first husband, the one that she says died back in Amn. Even then the true story of what happened is one she has only ever divulged once, and that did not end well for either Samira or the man she was foolish enough to tell it to.

She still wants to be loved, even after all these years, and all the men she has been with... she needs to be loved.

But keeping her true feelings hidden has been growing more difficult as of late. She has become more reclusive over the last few years, keeping unorthodox company, adventurers and treasure hunters, cultists and witches. She feels crushed beneath the vast webs of lies that she has spun, and as the terror that lies underneath it all grows larger and larger, so to has her desperation and her desire to destroy it all and start again. But Samira knows she is quickly running out of fresh starts...

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H I S T O R Y

Calishite names are an exercise in history. While many foreigners find the extensive names of the region burdensome, for the inhabitants who understand its code, a name you can teach you a person's titles, what clan they belong to, who their parents were, where they were born, and many other things. Consider then the name that Samira bears, and learn from it, as a native Calishite would.

Massatyra-Armalatu Samira yr Sadhara el Hakkam yi Athkatla.

In Calishite names the titles always go first, and are listed from least important to most important. In Calimshan rank and power are of the highest importance, it is a grave offence to skip over the titles of a person when addressing them without appropriate the use of the Annuv, the hand gesture to signify that a title has been left out for the sake of brevity. Thankfully Samira only bears one title, 'Massatyra', the female equivalent to a Massatyr, a low ranked member of the old Calishite nobility. Compounded with the term 'Armalatu' (meaning widow) it designates that her title is derived from her husband, who is now deceased. The closest translation to Common would perhaps be Baroness-Dowager.

Samira is her given name, the one likely chosen by her parents. It speaks of a degree of arrogance and vanity on their parts too, for Samira is term in Alzhedo for a Princess. Clearly whoever named Samira thought highly of her, and believed that she was destined for great things.

The name of one these parents can also be known through Samira's own name, for next there comes the Matronym, the name of Samira's mother, which in this case is 'Sadhara', meaning Desert Rose. Generally speaking, Calishite women take their mother's name as a Matronym, while men take their father's name as a Patronym. This is not always the case, a man might refer to himself as the son of his mother, or a woman as the daughter of her father, if the parent was particularly famous or if the other parent was particularly infamous. Clearly Samira thinks well enough of her mother, or poorly of her father.

The family name comes next, 'Hakkam'. The Hakkam clan are a powerful family of Calishite nobility from Calimport, one that Samira married into almost a decade ago when she first arrived in the city. Prior to that she bore a different family name, Duwabir, a prominent family of human Calishite nobility were exiled during the rule of the Genasi Paschas. Women take the family names of their husbands when they marry. Considering that Samira freely says that the sadly now deceased Pascha Massatyr el Hakkam was not her first husband, she must have married an exiled Duwabir before she ever came to Calimport. Meaning she is a widow twice over before the age of thirty.

Lastly comes 'Athkatla' which tells what city Samira was born in. Athkatla is the capital city of Amn, a country to the north of Calimshan, past Tethyr, but south Baldur's Gate and the Sword Coast proper. It is another large wealthy city, the sort of place where one could see a woman like Samira growing up. Indeed it was also where a branch of the Duwabir family was exiled during the reign of the Djinn and their genasi subordinates in Calimshan.

But if you were to chase this thread further, some questions begin to raise themselves. The last of the Duwabir's died decades go in Amn, his line ending with him. Those that remember him recall he did marry a Calishite woman with dark skin and stunning golden hair, but she did not go by the name Samira, she was called Sadhara. Was this Samira's mother? Who then is this other man that Samira claims to have married? And why did she not bear his name when she came to Calimport ten years ago?

Calishite names are an exercise in history. But not all histories are straight forward... or fully revealed.
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V E L Y N V I R I T H




Original Art by Minttu

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C H A R A C T E R I N F O R M A T I O N

Name - Serjo Redoran Velyn Virith.
Gender - Male.
Race - Dunmer.
Age - 39, born 3rd of Sun's Dawn, 3E412.
Height - Average, a few inches under six feet.
Class - Spellsword.
Faction - House Redoran & Buoyant Armigers (former).
Birth Sign - The Lady.
Birth Place - Ald Veloth, Vvardenfell, Morrowind.

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A T T R I B U T E S & S K I L L S

Major - Agility.
Minor - Personality.

Expert - Short Blade.
Adept - Speech, Acrobatics, Light Armour.
Apprentice - Stealth, Destruction, Alteration.

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S P E L L S

Alteration
The Armiger's Path - Water Walking.
Vivec's Kiss - Water Breathing.
St. Seryn's Blessing - Feather.
Shield of the Faithful - Increases Armour Rating.

Destruction
Purifying Flame - Produces a gout of Flame.
Spirit Knife - Damages Health on Touch.
Black Hand - Lingering Poison Damage on Touch.

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E Q U I P M E N T

Weapons
Twinned Steel Wakizashi and Tanto, worn through a sash at the waist.

Armour
Full set of Light Chitin Armour, made in the Dumeri style, much patched and repaired.

Miscellaneous Items
Red Travelling Cloak.
Ragged Dumeri Robes.
Resin Goggles, for Ash storms.
Coin purse, with only a few septims.
Paper Lantern.
Jar of Sujamma, a potent liquor of Morrowind.
Dunmeri Lute, similar to a Shamisen.
Skooma Pipe.
Three Vials of Skooma.
Books and Scrolls, the teachings and poetry of Vivec.
Carved Guar Tooth Amulet, containing Ancestral Ashes.

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A P P E A R A N C E

Velyn Virith is a male Dunmer. The Dunmer age slower than their human counterparts after they reach physical maturity, and hence many still bear a touch of boyish youth, despite having seen three decades or more. With velyn however, several hard years of lean living have taken their toll. The flower of his youth is in its final and failing bloom. He is of an average height, but slender and long limbed, with the lithe musculature of a dancer or acrobat. The comparison is even more apt when you see him in move, his steps are light and quick, his motions fluid and graceful... at least they are when he is sober.

His face is handsome, the features sharp and angular like many of his kind, but not to the point of harshness. The skin is ashen grey, the narrow eyes blood red, between them sits a high aquiline nose that leads to a lightly arched brow. There's something sad about those eyes, when caught unguarded, the look in them verges between desperate hunger and utter despondency. But there's another look they take on too, with increasing regularity these days, the glazed half aware stare of an addict.

Ceremonial Dunmer tattoos mark his face and body. A scarab sigil of the House Redoran sits on his throat and neck, cupping the edge of his stubbled jaw, its inky forelegs peaking out onto the point of his chin. A pattern of waves adorns his left cheek, marking him as one of the Buoyant Armigers, before it curves up from the side of his neck to caress the side of his high wide cheekbone. He wears the Hand of the ALMSIVI Tribunal over his heart, and a depiction of a seated figure, flames about their head, on his back.

When they cast him out from the Temple, he cut his hair free of the topknot its warriors wear. The shorn locks have grown since then and they now hang around his face once more in loose black strands. Through the dark hairs you can make out his pointed ears, from which dangle a few golden rings, several empty holes indicate they were once adorned with many more than are currently on display.

Velyn has few clothes, that which he does own are of fine quality, rich in colour, but poorly maintained and cared for, near threadbare in places, amateurly patched and repaired in others. Around his slender neck hangs a carved pendant or amulet, a hollowed out Guar tooth sealed with resin, containing a fragment of the ashes from the funerary pits of his family's ancestral tomb.

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P E R S O N A L I T Y

What is remains when a person has nothing left to believe in? One of the many answers to that question, is Velyn Virith. Like a ship thrown against the rocks, or a tower built on unstable foundations, he finds himself tumbling down and shattered into a thousand pieces. All that he thought he knew and loved is gone, and in its absence nothing makes sense to him anymore.

From the swirling chaos of his doubt and despair, pieces of who Velyn Virith once was sometimes emerge. He is still exceptionally courteous in his speech, stringing words together like poet, in either Imperial Common or his native Dumeris. He writes little, but some nights he still plays the lute he brought with him when he left Morrowind. In the darkness, he sings to the slow sad music, keening ballads that echo with wails of lost lovers and sundered hearts.

When he fights he is reckless, fighting with no shield, and with his head bare. He often allows his opponents to strike the first blow, a long standing tradition of the honour duels of the Dunmer people, especially of the Redorans. While perhaps a noble sentiment in the honour bound house Velyn hails from, on the battlefield it is a foolhardy tactic, one that will likely end up getting him killed one day. He does not seem to care.

He still says that he wishes to fight for what is good and noble, that he cares about protecting the common people, and living up to the ideals of his faith. But there is no passion to those words, they are learned by rote. To Velyn, gallantry is a routine, he does it because he does not know what else to do.

Velyn is not unfriendly, but neither does he pursue any form of closeness to the other misfits and outcasts he finds himself associated with in Anvil. If approached at one of the squalid dives he most often frequents, he is companionable enough, if not for the somewhat bitter edge to what passes as his humour. He still laughs at lot, frequently at himself, but not in a pleasant way. There's something harsh about it, as if he considers himself the butt of some great and terrible joke. He drinks too much, but no avail. The only time his spirits truly seem to lift is when the sweet smelling smoke of Skooma lingers on his threadbare clothes. Those nights he does not play or sing, he prefers to lie insensate, and dream of times long gone.

In truth the emotion he most commonly seems to elicit in others is a mixture of pity and disgust. Pity because who does not know the feelings of loss and heartbreak. Disgust because Velyn seems to have given himself over to wallowing in such feelings.

All of his pain, all of his loss, his doubt, his yearning, his love, and his grief can be found in one word, one name, one letter written in uncertainty.

Vivec.

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H I S T O R Y

Velyn Virith was born on Vvardenfell on the third day of Sun's Dawn in the four hundred and twelfth year of the Third Era. He was the son of Theldyn Virith, Kinsman to the Great House Redoran, Hetman of the fishing port of Ald Velothi. Most of Velyn's childhood was spent between the Redoran district capital of Auld'ruhn and his family's ancestral estates in the West Gast. Like his brothers and cousins, he was bonded to his house from birth, and was expected to follow in his father's footsteps as another proud Redoran warrior, but fate had other plans for Velyn Virith.

He couldn't have been more than five, perhaps six, when the course of his life was irrevocably changed. His father had business with a clan of fellow Redoran nobles, the Saren clan of the city of Vivec, and he brought young Velyn with him on the long journey down to the greatest city on Vvardenfell. While his father conducted his business, he left young Velyn with a retainer to show the young boy the sights of the city.

It happened the second morning they were there, as he passed over one of the high bridges that linked the upper plazas of the cantons. A crowd had come out to line the waterways, and being a curious young child, Velyn pushed his way through to the railings to witness the cause of the excitement.

A regatta was being held on the grand canal. Barges of beaten gold, wreathed with floral garlands, floated upon the shimmering waters. The oars of each barge were manned by a host beautiful maidens and comely youths. Groups of troubadours and musicians filled the air with the sound of lutes, and pipes, and drums. From the gilded decks, knights clad in iridescent glass laughed and sang as they threw roses to the adorning crowds. And there, hovering above them all, a seated figure, half gold, smiling, and radiating the light of Heaven itself.

This was the first time Velyn saw a God. He vowed that day that it would not be the last.

He would not forget what he saw that day. On the long journey by strider back to their home it was all he could think about. He wanted to live in that light, and bathe himself in its warmth. The Redorans were one of the more pious of the Dunmer Great Houses, but even amongst them, Velyn's single minded dedication to the faith and in particular to Lord Vivec, struck many of his kinsmen as being unusual.

As soon as he was old enough he pledged himself as novice to the Temple, the first step in what he thought would be a lifetime spent in that glorious light. Once he had proved himself in feats of arms, exhibitions of arts, and generosity of alms, Velyn was apprenticed into the Buoyant Armigers. That order of iridescent knights he had glimpsed upon those gilded barges many years ago.

But the he order in found himself in was somewhat different from how he had imagined it. In those days the fear of the Sharmat hung over Vvardenfell, and recently the ALMSIVI had receded from the outside world. Rather than spending his time at the side of the Lord he had adored from far, Velyn was dispatched to the fortress of Molag Mar in the magma strewn wastes of Molag Amur. There he began his work as an Armiger, hunting down the blight of the Sharmat, slaying Sixth House Cultist and Corpus Monsters.

That was the year that the Nerevarine returned, and by his hand, the fall of the Dagoth Ur. There was upheaval in the wake on St. Nerevar's return, the amnesty on the Dissident priests, the events in Mournhold where it was rumoured that the Tribunes Sotha Sil and Almalexia were both slain. To many it was a time of uncertainty and fear. But to Velyn those few years were glorious.

Vvardenfell was freed from the threat of the Sharmat and his monsters, and Velyn's Lord was freed from his ancient duty of maintaining the Ghost Fence. For those precious few years Velyn bathed in the light of his Lord. There was time for music and poetry in those years. There was time for dancing, and nights where they would join their Lord in rituals that had been long neglected. It was in those years that Velyn learned the secrets of carnal exultation, it was everything Velyn had ever dreamed of.

And then it was over.

It was when the Gates of Oblivion opened that everything began to go wrong. Portals opened up across Morrowind, and Tamriel beyond. The Imperials sat behind the walls of their fortresses, on the mainland some even marched back through the passes of the Velothi Mountains to defend Cyrodil while Morrowind burned. The Armigers were dispatched to keep the city of Vivec safe from Daedric incursions. The city held, but elsewhere the situation was dire.

In Ald'ruhn, where Velyn had spent much of his childhood, where he had first served as a temple novice, the fighting was the worst. The city was practically destroyed, its defenders going so far as to resurrect the great Emperor Crab Skar, demolishing the council halls and manors of their most powerful citizens in the process. Once the city of Vivec was secure Velyn had fought his way north to meet up with a Redoran army from the mainland. But they too late. By the time they arrived there was little left by corpses and rubble.

Theldyn Virith, his father, was among the dead. Velyn was left to burn his body and make sure his ashes were interred with his ancestors.

In all this madness there was no sign of Lord Vivec, the Living God had disappeared around the time the Crisis. There was no sign of the Nerevarine either, who it was rumoured had travelled to the continent of Akavir. The people of Morrowind did their best to pick up the pieces, and rebuild their shattered lives and cities, Velyn was amongst them. For though their Lord had disappeared, though his father was dead, Velyn had the support of the Temple and of his sworn brothers. That was enough.

Besides, Velyn could not forget what it meant to see a God in all their glory. He never would. So he kept his faith, as best he could.

Those were trying years for Morrowind, there was fighting amongst the houses as the Hlaalu lost their place of preeminent and were expelled from the Grand Council. Imperial authority collapsed with the lack of an Emperor on the throne. While the Dunmer simultaneously tried to rebuild and fought amongst themselves, an even greater threat loomed. One that had been hanging over them for a long time.

Baar Dau, the Ministry of Truth, Lie Rock. It had floated above the City of Vivec for millennia, suspended there by the Living God himself and held in place by his power and the faith of people who lived beneath. But it appeared the Crisis, the deaths of the Tribunes, and the disappearance of the God had weakened that faith. In truth, those years were first where Velyn felt his own waver. Sometimes at night he wonders if he too is partly to blame for what happened when Baar Dau fell.

He had not been in the city. If he had, he would not be here today. The Palace and High Fane were directly beneath the impact, none who were there survived. Instead Velyn was at the Armiger's fortress at Molag Mar. All they saw was a burning light on the horizon, a terrible shaking in the ground, and the roaring hot winds of the blast wave when it finally reached them. The mountain had answered that terrible roar with its own, raining down ash and fire, filling the Foyadas with lava and trapping them in their stronghold.

When boats from the mainland finally reached them he had tried to go to the city to search for survivors. They had told him there was no point, the city was gone and waters where it had once stood boiled. They call it Scathing Bay now. He had thought then to try to reach Ghostgate, to find the other chapter of their order, but that fortress had sat upon the Foyada Mamaea, and had been incinerated in the eruption. So, with no other option, he had gone to the mainland.

It was a good thing that he had, for soon the mainland would have need of every warrior Morrowind could provide. In the moment of their greatest ever weakness the Argonians invaded. The lizard men sacked every city they came upon, even as the ash and fire rained down still. No where was spared, not even Mournhold, a holy city of the Tribunal and the capital of all Morrowind. The jewel of their province which had somehow miraculously escaped the ravages of the Red Year was reduced to another smoking ruin.

That's what Morrowind was those days, a land of smoking ruins, refugees, warfare, and death.

And somehow, Velyn kept his faith.

He fought with his sworn brothers, with his fellow Redorans, with anyone who would defend Morrowind. Perhaps that's what allowed him to keep his faith, he had no time to think about what was happening around him, he was too busy trying to survive. So went on as he always had done, being an Armiger, doing his deeds of Love and War in the name of his Lord, Vivec.

The war was terrible and it was long. The Argonians made it as far East and North as Port Telvannis, they even made it onto Vvardenfell itself. Their armies fell most heavily on the Dres and the Telvannis, but no where was truly safe from their wrath. Over the years more and more of his brothers fell, but the Redoran led armies slowly routed the Argonian warbands from much of their lands. Mournhold was recovered, even if it was a ruin, and new fortified borders and lines of defence were drawn up between these two new independent powers.

Suddenly there wasn't anymore fighting to be done. So Velyn went back to the Temple. Only to find there was no Temple for him to go back to.

While he had been away at the front, the balance of power in the Temple had changed dramatically. With the loss of the traditional centres of orthodox Temple power, Vivec and Mournhold, there were new Archcanons at the head of the faith, and they had very different ideas about the status of the Old Tribunal. The Dissident Priests and the New Temple, as it later came to be called, had emerged triumphant from the rubble of their nation and they decried Vivec as a false god.

He should have just accepted it. The evidence was plain enough, Vivec had not protected them, and he was gone. But Velyn couldn't forget. He couldn't forget what it was to see a God in the flesh. To see the light of Heaven itself. To touch it.

Velyn kept his faith. And won himself exile for it.

Spurned from the homeland he had fought for, he fled to Cyrodil, following in the footsteps of countless Dunmer refugees across the Velothi Mountains. He found a province in chaos, another war unfolding just as he felt the last one behind. The Stormcrown Interregnum. He sold his sword to the highest bidders, fell in with low company, common mercenaries and murderous thugs, or worse. But above all else Velyn tried to keep moving, always heading west, away from the past that was lost to him.

Until one day there was no further west to go, and the other war he had searched for some meaning in was also done. A new emperor sat upon the throne, and an uneasy peace returned to the Imperial Province. Velyn found himself in Anvil, with nowhere left to go, and nothing to distract him the gaping hole in his soul.

Bereft of his Lord, his Land, and his Love, it was only then that Velyn finally broke.

He spent what coin he had earned on idle pleasures of the flesh, trying to drown in his sorrows in drink and in the warm embrace of lovers. In the end he found one thing that took away the pain he left with every waking moment of his existence. Skooma.

For the last year or so Velyn has lived as an addict, selling his sword to buy a fix, playing his lute in the low dockside taverns and dives for spare septims when he can't find other work. He's a familiar enough sight around the rougher parts of the city, and an associate of paupers, beggars, criminals and other outcasts. Though there are very few in Anvil who know much of his true past, of the mer he used to be.

Velyn is just another strange piece of flotsam, washed up on the western shores of Cyrodil.

Shattered from the storm that tossed it there.
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U R K H A S H ' A S H ' S K U L L S P L I T T E R




Original Art by mellifera38

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C H A R A C T E R I N F O R M A T I O N

Name - Urkhash Skullsplitter, goes by Ash.
Gender - Male.
Race - Half-Orc.
Age - 19, born 1476 DR.
Height - Short for a Half-Orc, an inch under six feet.
Class - Valor Bard.
Alignment - Neutral Good.
Birth Place - Triboar, Savage Frontier, Northwest Faerun.
Languages - Common, Orc, Dwarvish.

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S K I L L S & A B I L I T I E S

Martial
While not quite a frontline fighter, Ash can more than hold his own in melee combat. He is relatively proficient in the use of most types weaponry and armour, although he favours the longsword and medium armour. The increased strength and hardiness his orcish blood grants him makes him a tougher opponent than his young age and skill level might suggest.

Magical
Ash is a magic user, specialising in healing magic and abilities which enhance and inspire others. However, most of these abilities are innate rather than learned, and hence he has a poor theoretical understanding of the arcane arts. In addition, sometimes his control over his magic isn't the best, and it can lash out in surprisingly destructive forms when he is angry, afraid or upset.

Miscellaneous
Being a bard, Ash is a skilled musician, his preferred instrument being the lute. Despite having some residual shyness and nerves, he is an adequate performer, and his earnest and slightly naive personality makes him hard to say no to. He knows something of surviving the wilds from his time on the roads and in the mountains, but is by no means an expert.

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S P E L L S


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E Q U I P M E N T

Weapons
An ugly looking utilitarian longsword of orcish design with a nicked blade.
A plain but finely made elvish dagger.
A leather sling, and a pocket full of stones

Armour
A strange mixture of a Dwarven chain shirt of black iron with hide bracers, furred mittens, and boots with fur wrapping.

Miscellaneous Items
A hooded fur lined travelling cloak.
A battered troubadour's lute.
A grey woollen scarf.
A hide pack containing several days rations.
A waterskin.
A flint and steel.
A bedroll.
A spare set of clothing.
A coin purse, containing mostly silver and copper pieces.
A golden locket, worn around the neck, and under his clothes.

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A P P E A R A N C E

Half-Orcs have a reputation in the more civilised lands of Faerun as being giant intimidating barbarians, bigger, stronger, and meaner than the vast majority of their human counterparts. Capable of killing their enemies with a single blow and lifting what it would take four lesser men to carry.

This is not the case with Ash.

Despite his fearsome name of Urktash Skullsplitter, Ash stands at just under six feet tall and is only slightly more bulky than a well developed human. He's still muscular, but, not that strong. Not the whole, lifting trees, throwing boulders, wrestling giants strong that most people think of when they see an Half-Orc adventurer.

There's an undeniable level of extra humanness about his features as well. Sure, he might have the grey-green skin that people associate with the rest of his kind, but Ash lacks the porcine or upturned nose that his kin often bear. His brow os light and raised, not the low furrowed masses one normally sees on a Half-Orc. He has a few scars, though none are particularly impressive or noteworthy. And most glaring of all perhaps, were his tusks. Ash's tusks were tiny, diminutive, little things, barely even sharp. Certainly no good for goring people, crushing bones, or splitting skulls.

In truth, Ash might be one of the least intimidating Half-Orcs most people will have ever laid eyes upon.

He compensates for it perhaps with how he dresses, the blackened armour that he wears across his chest, the crude and heavy longsword that hangs at his side. The traditional orcish nose ring that he wears through his septum and way he shaves the sides of his head. All of these things seem to enhance the 'orcish-ness' of his appearance.

And yet...

If you were to catch Ash while he was playing in a tavern, or relaxing in private, you would find that he prefers the soft and brightly coloured wools of the pleasant green lands found further south down on the Sword Coast, cut in the styles popular in Waterdeep and its environs.

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P E R S O N A L I T Y

People are most often a product of their upbringing and their environment, for better or for worse. Most commonly, people conform to the environment they were raised in, being shaped and moulded by it into the forms that it encourages. Even when someone rebels against how they were raised, or defies their heritage, they are still influenced by these experiences, just in the opposite direction.

What then if someone is the product of two different contradictory heritages, environments, and upbringings? What contradictory feelings for conform and rebelling would take seed in their heart? How would they understand their place in the world? These are the questions that trouble Ash Skullsplitter most of all.

Ash is a Half-Orc, he has one foot in the civilised world, and one foot in the savage world of the wilds. To some this might seem an advantage, a skill that allows them to move fluidly between different worlds. But it does not feel that way to Ash, instead of belonging to two different worlds, Ash feels like he has no real place in either. Too weak and soft for the harsh trials of Orcish culture, too ugly and savage for the gentle civilised folk of the green lands.

He never knows quite how to behave around people, whether they expect him to be a brute or a boy. At heart he's inclined to kindness and gentleness, but time in Orcish society, and the unfriendliness he has received at the hands of humans makes him much of reserved and guarded. There's a shyness about him, a reluctance to expose himself. But when he does open up, there's wellspring of sweetness and child like naivety that flows from deep inside of him.

There's an earnestness about him as well. Beside being a troubadour minstrel, he doesn't have much of the sly guile and glibness associated with the profession. In fact Ash is a terrible liar, having a tell tale stammer and blush when caught trying to conceal something. He's not a complete paragon of virtue however, there is a darker side to Ash, a mix of confused residual emotions about his family, his life, and his place in world. There's anger there too, and a young, confused, angry boy with the power to wield magic can be dangerous thing indeed.

But above all else Ash is looking for the place that he belongs, where he can be loved and accepted, without fear of repercussion.

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H I S T O R Y

Ash was born in the town of Triboar, where the Long Road that runs between Waterdeep and Mirabar meets the Evermoor way that leads to Yartar and onto Silverymoon, in the year of 1476 DR. It was a trading town, busy and bustling with caravans and merchants. It wasn't a great city like Waterdeep or Baldur's Gate, but it wasn't some wild far flung outpost on the edge of the world. It was settled, it was civilised.

His father worked there as a guard for the caravans heading north. That's how Ash's parents had first met, the gentle beauty from Waterdeep being swept off her feet by the ruggedly handsome Half-Orc who had been escorting her carriage. They had eloped years previously, when it had become clear her father would have never consented to such a match, and they had settled in Triboar to raise their son. It was somewhere that his father could easily get work, and was far enough away from Waterdeep for them to live in relative anonymity.

His father had been a fierce and proud Half-Orc who had been raised in the far north, in the Orcish Kingdom of Many Arrows. He had insisted on a traditional name for his son, hence Urtkash Skullsplitter, his mother however made sure that her husband picked a name that could easily be shortened into something less... well... Orcish, and so that's how Ash got his nickname.
Life in Triboar was good, and Ash remembers much of his childhood as a happy one. His father was often on the road, so he was closest to his mother. Not that his father was cold or distant in any way, he always returned to with smiles and gifts from far off cities. But Ash spent most of his time with his mother, so it was only natural perhaps that, of the two of them, he took after her a little more.

It was from his mother that Ash picked up his musical abilities. She was an excellent singer, and would sometimes perform duets with a local bard in the taverns and inns of Triboar for a little extra coin. It was on these outings that Ash first handled an instrument, and learned the scales and chord that made up the songs he loved to listen to. He thinks his magic may have also come down through his mother's side, though he's not certain about that. Certainly she was no great mage, but Ash remembers her touch as being... well... healing.

But wouldn't any child robbed of his mother at an early age think that way?

The illness struck when Ash was only nine. His father had been on the road at the time, perhaps things might have turned out differently had he been there, perhaps not. She had faded quickly, and by the time her loving husband had returned, she was cold in her grave. A golden locket round young Ash's neck all that was left to remember her by. Something died in his father that day too.

With no else to look after him, Ash's father took him on the road with him. Lucky that he did, because that year, in 1485, war erupted in the Silver Marches. They waited out the war further south with the caravan they had been travelling with. When they returned to their home, they found a burnt out ruin. Triboar had been sacked by an army of Orcs, and suddenly their remaining friends and neighbours seemed cold and hostile to the notably Orcish widower and child living in their midst.

They tried to carry on as best they could for a few years, but the caravan work his father relied upon began to dry up in the wake of the war. The caravaneers and merchants seemed more reluctant to employ someone of orcish heritage to guard them on their journeys north. Eventually it became intolerable, so his father did what he thought was best, and took his son to somewhere he thought they would be able to live in greater freedom, without being looked down upon.

The Kingdom of Many Arrows.

That... was a bad time in Ash's life. He was not prepared for what life was like amongst true orcs. He did not fit in, not in the slightest. He was a gentle, music loving boy, who disliked violence and didn't have a cruel bone in his body. His father tried to help in his own way, lessons to help his son 'toughen up' and gain respect amongst his peers. While it may have taught Ash a few combat skills (and given him a few scars), it mostly just soured their already strained relationship.

They had falling out. Ash left, his father stayed.

Alone for the first time in his life, Ash had to survive making his way out of the Spine of the World, and eventually made his way to the city of Mirabar. It was there he became reacquainted with someone from his past, his mother's friend the minstrel that she had sung with so often in Triboar. She remember the young boy that she had taught scales to many years ago and took Ash under her wing, teaching him about music, magic, and the life of a travelling bard.

For a while they travelling together, hoping down the coast from Luskan, to Neverwinter, and Waterdeep. It was there that Ash remember that his mother had been from Waterdeep, and first thought that perhaps he could find his grandparents or other relatives in the city. He tried to track them down, but he discovered that his grandparents had already passed. But there was a trail that they had left behind. Apparently his grandfather's family had originally come from the Silver Marches, the small town of Deadsnows to be specific. While Ash might not have family in Waterdeep, it was possible he still had relatives there...

The possibility of familial warmth proved too strong of a lure to the young Half-Orc. He parted ways with his mentor and set out for Deadsnows. On the road north he stopped at Triboar... but it didn't feel like home any more to him.

After Triboar he struck out east to Yartar and Silverymoon. What a city that had been, he felt like he learned more about music from one week in Silverymoon, than three years in Dark Arrow Keep. Sundabar had given him a particularly hostile reception, it wasn't surprising, the city had suffered worst of all in the war. Nonetheless he had not stayed there long.

And after Sundabar... there was only Deadsnows... and hope.
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Gavas 'Gav' Oren

'Lock up yer' daughters and lock up yer' gold, but it shan't stop the fingers of the thief who is bold!' - Tavern Song of the Imperial City Waterfront







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P R O F I L E
Known as
Gav o' the Gutter

Height
5' 10"

Weight
156lb

Gender
Male

Race
Dunmer

Age
32

Birthsign
The Tower

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C A P A B I L I T I E S
Deity
Talos

Attributes
Agility (Major)
Personality (Minor)

Skills
Sneak (Expert)
Speechcraft (Adept)
Security (Adept)
Acrobatics (Apprentice)
Blade (Apprentice)
Mercantile (Novice)
Light Armour (Novice)
Hand to Hand (Novice)

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I N V E N T O R Y
Weapons and tools
Steel stiletto dagger.
Set of lockpicks.
Rope and Grapple.

Outfit
Leather armour, tanned to near black.
Black hooded woollen cloak.
Black bandana, can be pulled up over the lower face.
Fingerless gloves.

Consumables
Potion of Nightmask.
Bottle of cheap wine.
A vial of unrefined moonsugar.

Valuables
Several hundred septims.
Pair of ornate silver candle sticks.
Several gold finger and ear rings.
Gold tooth.

Misc
Two pairs of dice, one loaded.

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A P P E A R A N C E

The overall impression that Gav' gives, is one of sharpness. From his thin, blade like face, to the pointed tips of his ears, he is a mer made up of hard and dangerous edges.

His dark hair is pulled back to reveal an angular face, the cheekbones high, the nose narrow and long. A perpetual smirk slashes across his ashen complexion, that widens when he laughs to show sharp white teeth and a flash of half hidden gold. His eyes are same, half hooded crimson orbs that flicker between amusement, hunger, and bored cruelty. A jagged scar runs down through the right right brow from forehead to cheek, evidence of a time someone tried to cut one of those arrogant eyes out.

He's handsome in an unkempt and careless sort of way. Gav's hair often untidy and greasy, his jaw most commonly unshaven. His clothes are serviceable, not presentable, and he seems to put little effort into how he dresses. Excepting, that is, the gaudy adornments of golden finger rings and ear piercings, that look chosen more their weight and value as opposed to their artistic or aesthetic merit.

Gav's height is a little below average for a Dunmer, but his build is lithe, yet surprisingly muscular. This is especially true for his upper body and the muscles that are commonly used to climb and scale buildings. Beneath his leather armour, there are markings all over his chiselled body. To most they would be meaningless, but to one of the Right Honourable Folk of the Thieves Guild of Tamriel, they tell a story. A story of scores made and scores lost, of hearts broken and men killed, of triumph and defeat.

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M O T I V A T I O N A N D O U T L O O K

The beginnings of a thief comes from want, the desire to possess things that one does not possess. Its those thoughts that give birth to a thief, the actual stealing is just following through. And if want is the hallmark of a thief, then Gav' is a thief down to the bottom of his soul. He wants. Not just riches, but power, women, fame... happiness... love... He wants everything.

And he'll do just about anything to get it. Lie, cheat, steal... kill. There's a thorough amoral streak in Gav' that runs deep. He's not a sociopath or sadist, he understands the difference between right and wrong, and he takes little enjoyment in the suffering of others. But what Gav' wants comes first, always.

He's not just ruthless and naked ambition, Gav' can be quite charming in his own roguish sort of way. He has a quick mind, a wicked sense of humour, and a fondness for women, wine, and song that often makes him entertaining (if not entirely pleasant) company.

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H I S T O R Y

The Dunmer hail from Morrowind, the exotic star-wounded east, a land of barren ash plains and glowing mushroom forests inhabited by living Gods. Gav' knows nothing of this, to him its all stories and tall-tales. A make-believe paradise passed down in the delirious whispers he heard from his mother's lips.

Gavas Oren was born in the Imperial City, his mother was Nalasa Oren. Gav' never knew how his mother came to the great cesspit of a city that squats in the centre of Empire. He always presumed she came from Morrowind, but now he wonders if that was ever the case at all. Perhaps she also just clung on a grand fictitious past that she had handed down to him. His father on the other hand, could have been just about anyone.

Nalasa Oren had been a whore. The kind that you could find working the docks in any large port city that filled periodically with sailors bored of the sea and flush with fresh wages. The cheap kind. The kind that die from easily treatable diseases that they catch from then men who pay to fuck them.

Those were his earliest memories, squalor and sickness. The delirious ramblings of a dying woman trapped in her sick bed, slowly rotting away from the inside out. They aren't pleasant to revisit. Perhaps that's why Gav' has no interest in his past, who his parents or his family are. There is only the future, there is no going back.

It wasn't a long way from that dark fetid room to the gutter, and that's where Gav' ended up when his mother finally returned to her ancestors. On the street he had run amok with a gang of half starved ragged urchins and orphans. Taking work where they could, running errands in the docks for a septim, and stealing bread from the baker's stalls when there was none to be had.

That was the first thing he had ever stole, bread. It would not be the last.

His career as a criminal started innocently enough. At first he only stole to cover those bare essentials required to live, food, water, clothing. But if stealing a sweetroll is just as easy as stealing bread, why settle for just bread? And for Gav’ it was easy, it had always been easy. From a young age he had been blessed with a small frame, fast legs, and nimble fingers.

He and the other street kids of the Docks started out snatching from market stalls and street vendors. As they got older and smarter they turned to picking pockets, working in teams to spot and distract targets while their fellows pilfered the mark’s gold. It wasn’t a huge leap for the more violently persuaded of them to mugging. But that had never been Gav’s speciality, no, he had always fancied himself a burglar. Before long he was robbing houses most nights.

After one such successful score, Gav’ was celebrating with a couple of other young ruffians when several unexpected visitors came calling on them. For they had come to the attention of a higher power in the Tamerialic criminal underworld, the Thieves Guild.

The Guild have always taken their role as a ‘crime regulator’ rather seriously. Too many thieves stealing too many things put too many noses out of joint and brought the law down on all of them, the Guild included. That and having thieves running around not paying dues might give their own members unhelpful and unproductive ideas about the possibility of free enterprise. Examples had to be made.

Generally speaking, the Guild does not like to kill on the job if it could help it. It had less scruples when it came to dealing with the competition. But allowances could be made for foolish and impetuous youth, after all, the next generation of Guildsmen had come from somewhere. Hence, a choice was given to all those involved. Join the Guild, or never steal again.

The first youth they put their question to, a lad named Ulfr, thinking himself a sly and clever fellow, promptly swore (lying through his teeth) that he would never steal again. After all how could the Guild enforce such a policy? Even they could not watch and know every crime that happened in the Imperial City. He figured he would lay low a while and then be back to his old tricks in no time. He was wrong of course.

The Guild did have a way to make sure you never steal again. It involved pinning you down to the floor and taking a hammer to each of your fingers until they bent and snapped like brittle twigs. Only sticks didn’t bleed, and trees couldn’t scream.

Once they were finished, they turned to Gav’ and asked him if he would Join the Guild or never steal again. He remembered standing there, unable to tear his eyes away from the bleeding weeping mess that had once been his friend and brother-in-arms. Everything taken away from him in an instant, now helpless, powerless, broken. Gav’ decided that he would never let that happen to him.

Gav’ joined the Guild, along with everyone else that night.

It wasn't difficult for him to rise quickly in the organisation. He was a talented mer, who had already been running his own crew before joining up with the Guild. His determination to get ahead didn't make him too many friends, but his amoral nature and ambition was put to good use by the Doyens and their lieutenants. It didn't take long for him to be one of the breaking fingers instead of living in fear of it being done to him.

Being with the Guild also meant steady money, and status in rough taverns of the Imperial City Waterfront. Gav' put that status and money to good use as a mer about town, getting a reputation as something of a rake, with a different girl on his arm every week. Things had been going well, until that blasted job in Kvatch.

It had been a spur of the moment thing, during a stopover from a some business he had to take care of in Anvil. Chapel door had been wide open, Gav' had only meant to take a quick look around. But the place had been empty, the collection plate full, and the altar set with silver candlesticks. He had felt the itch, the compulsion, the want. A minute later he walked out with a full satchel and an arrogant smile playing across his lips.

It was only then that the nightmares started.

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R E L A T I O N S H I P S A N D O P I N I O N S

Gav' has many friends, but he would consider few of them to be particularly close. The exception to this are the two remaining Guild members who were inducted that same night as him, Helvius Saccas, an Imperial forger, and Lushak Shug, an orcish enforcer. They are the members of his first real gang, and together they are bonded in the blood and disgrace of their former fellow. A fate that nearly befell them all.

The others are all gone, either hung, in prison, or broken shells of who they once were... like Ulfr.
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Hashinau-I, Mistress of Blades





Name:
Hashinau-I


Titles:
The Mistress of Blades, Sword Sage, Thousand Army Killer, Mountain-Cutter, Swordsman’s Doom.


Age:
120 Great Years of the Old Tri-Lunar Cycle.


World:
Rakunen, a feudalistic world of towering mountain ranges, verdant river valleys, and dense bamboo forests. For as long as anyone can remember Rakunen has been a world divided by many warring Empires and Kingdoms.


Race:
Hanin, a race of slight tanned humanoids with dark hair and almond shaped eyes.


Form:
Hashinau-I is a withered old crone of diminutive stature. Her famous blood stained hair has faded to almost complete white, only streaked by crimson here and there. She wears ragged roughspun robes and goes unadorned save for a pair of copper disks that stretch out her earlobes. Her lips and teeth are stained blue for her near continuous smoking of Oolachi leaves.

There’s a hard edge to the old woman and her mind and tongue are still extremely sharp despite her age. Her scarred arms are still coiled with lean ropey muscle and she stands straight and unbent.


Legend:
No one truly knows where she came from, or who trained her in the deadly Sword Arts that she evidently possessed. But the Legend of Hashinau-I was born on the battlefield, the travelling mercenary who could not be defeated, who slew every man put before her, who could singlehandedly fight off a hundred men.

She held the esteem and terror of every Sovereign, controlled the fate of empires and nations with her whims, became richer than any lord or merchant prince. And she gave it all up to live as a hermit on a mountain.

After she split the mountain, Hashinau-I returned to the world below, but never again did she take up her blade in the service of another. She sought out all the great Sword Masters of the world, to find one that could do but a fraction as she had done. She found only disappointment.

Finally, after many years, she gave up her travels and lived in a barrel in the market of the Great Yellow City. Never taking a single pupil, never raising her sword again. She lived in absolute debasement and squalor, lower even than the stray dogs. Occasionally great men, emperors and sages, would seek her out for her wisdom and try to rouse her to action, to take part in their affairs once more. They all left with the same answer:

“Be gone, worms. I am trying to think like nothing.”


Will:
Hashinau-I comes from a violent world, constantly at war with itself. She has seen thousands upon thousands die by her hand for nothing more than the petty squabbles of children. Hashinau-I is the ultimate practitioner of violence that her universe has ever produced. And she has learnt to abhor it.

She seeks to face the Gods and ask them why the cycle of violence must be so. And if their answer does not satisfy her? Then she will cut them down.


Mastery:
The greatest swordsman to have ever lived on Rakunen cowers before the might of Hashinau-I, there is no equal when it comes to her ability to turn men into corpses. In particular, she is highly skilled in the Art of the Cut, the act of cutting something, anything, everything.

Even without a sword, it is said that Hashinau-I is still more deadly than any other Sword Sage. To quote the Mistress of Blades herself: ‘A Sword is just a tool to cut with, the actual cutting is done by your Will, given sufficient Will, anything can be a sword.”


Ascent:
It is said that on the last day of Hashinau-I’s earthly existence, she had been sat in her barrel, smoking from her nikishi pipe as she did most days. By this time she was an old woman, ancient by the standards of most of the Hanin. Men who were old enough to remember when Hashinau-I had split the mountain were all grandfathers or great-grandfathers themselves by this time. Many only knew her as the crazy old woman who lived in a barrel.

None-the-less, it is said that all gathered stopped what they were doing when the ancient crone’s pipe suddenly dropped from her mouth and she began to laugh hysterically. From beneath her tattered robes she had pulled out a tiny stump of blade, barely extending past the sword hilt, that few in the market had ever even seen.

“Everything is nothing. And nothing is everything.” Hashinau-I had exclaimed as she had climbed atop her barrel. “I do not exist, you do not exist. This sword does not exist… This world does not exist.”

As she spoke, a halo of divine fire spread its way around around her head, until it crowned her in the light of the stars themselves. It dripped down her arm and onto her sword hand, until the blade glowed as bright as her did. Those who witnessed it said that they suddenly realised that the stumpy broken sword blade was not small at all, in fact it stretched longer than any there could see, it stretch wider than the universe itself, it stretched to infinity.

Hashinau-I made her final cut – and disappeared in a flash of light.


Ephemera:
It is said that you will know Hashinau-I by her two Icons. First, the Infinite Blade, the broken stump of a straight bladed Jian that is actually longer than the universe. Second, a bronze and rosewood nikishi pipe, said by Hashinau-I to be far more valuable than any ugly hunk of metal.



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Harwa Ahmestep

"No soul is irredeemable. None are beyond the forgiveness of the Great Father."







Art by Fetsch
___________________________________

P R O F I L E
Age
59

Race
Human

Sex
Male

Height
5'11"

Weight
220lb

Alignment
Lawful Good

Class
Slayer

Level
1

Health Points
32

___________________________________

I N V E N T O R Y

- Water Skin.
- Bed roll.
- Begging Bowl.
- Flask of distilled liquor.
- String of Prayer Beads.
- Loaf of Bread.
- Bronze Face Mask, broken.

____________________________________

E Q U I P M E N T

- A two handed Twaran Battle-Axe.

- The Shafrat Alrahma, a thin curved dagger, used to kill mortally wounded opponents.

- Tarnished Bronze Scale Mail, with brightly coloured ragged arming garments.

____________________________________

A T T R I B U T E S
Athletics: 16 (Class bonus +2, +4)
Dexterity: 10
Intelligence: 10
Wisdom: 10
Charisma: 12 (+2)
Constitution: 16 (+6)

___________________________________

S K I L L S

(A) Strength: 8 (Class bonus +4, +4)
(A) Agility: 0

(D) Stealth: 0
(D) Acrobatics: 0
(D) Trickery: 0

(I) History: 0
(I) Nature: 0
(I) Arcana: 0
(I) Religion: 1 (+1)

(W) Perception: 0
(W) Medicine: 0
(W) Survival: 0

(C) Persuasion: 1 (+1)
(C) Deception: 0
(C) Intimidation: 2 (+2)
(C) Performance: 0

____________________________________________________________________________
A P P E A R A N C E

Harwa Ahmestep is a heavyset Tawran man, who is rapidly leaving his middle years behind him and entering his old age. The effects of the passage of time are evident all over his person. His long mane of coiled braids has lightened from black, to grey, and at last to white. It stands stark against his dark skin, and though time does not whiten that, it does not escape its grasp unscathed. A spiderweb of scars and wrinkles stretches across its surface, testament to a lifetime of experiences.

His physique gives the impression of solidity. Though not overly tall, Harwa more than makes up for it in his girth, with wide shoulders, thick arms, and a heavy belly. In his youth, he was hard and chiselled all over, his body a tool forged for violence. Age has softened and blunted him, but there is steel at his core still, and muscle beneath the fat.

Like his body, his face is well fleshed, with full lips and a broad flat nose. Harwa was not considered a particularly handsome man, even in his younger years. A beard hides most of his chin and jowls, it is normally scruffy and unkempt, much like his hair. The eyes that look out of this worn and craggy face are dark brown, warm, glinting with humour... at least, that's what they look like most of the time.

Sometimes there is another man looking out from that kindly old face, one with eyes colder than a desert night. One who has the eyes of a killer.

Harwa dresses slovenly, in brightly coloured but much patched and repaired garb. It is the motley uniform of the Tariqa Al-Shahadh, the Order of the Mendicants. Holy warriors of Sharaqan, they distain all property and instead live by begging, they are recognisable by their brightly coloured patched robes, sewn from many different coloured rags. His armour, made of overlapping plates of bronze scales, is dull and tarnished, though still servable enough to offer Harwa protection.

____________________________________________________________________________
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Philosophers and scholars of the world are in frequent disagreement as to the fundamental nature of man. According to one camp, humans are savage beings, violent animals whom are only tamed through the application of civilisation and society. To others, hatred and cruelty are traits that we are taught by the harsh realties of the world, and our truer nature is that of the innocent guileless child, fundamentally good. Harwa is inclined to agrees with the latter, and his greatest fear is that the former are correct.

He believes that there is no one that is not worth saving. That there is grace in every person, no matter what they have done. That redemption can always be earned.

In his person, Harwa is kind and gregarious. Always willing to share despite having very little himself, and equally open to receiving hospitality with graciousness and enthusiasm. Despite the somewhat ascetic nature of his order, he has an immense appetite and enjoyment of the physical pleasures of life, in particular food and drink. For a supposed beggar warrior, Harwa eats rather well.

He is pious, without being dogmatic or taking himself and his faith too seriously. His lively sense of humour frequently makes pointed jokes at his own expense, and when Harwa laughs, he laughs loudly and deeply. He is a loud person in general, from his bright multicoloured garments, to his deep and booming voice and outgoing personality.

It is rare that he is raised to anger, but should it occur, it is a terrible sight to behold.

____________________________________________________________________________
B A C K S T O R Y
For all the loudness about Harwa Ahmestep, there is one thing he is more definitely quiet about - his past. There are some things however, that would be evident to anyone who had the opportunity to observe him for a decent length of time.

Firstly, he speaks Tawrish like a native and has a noticeable accent when switches to Equarish or Urkun. It can easily be assumed that he was born there, or at least grew up in the lands of the Maatrho God-Kings. Though his familiarity with the diverse languages of Dahard imply that he has some familiarity with the region, despite only being recently arrived.

Secondly, he clearly does not share the faith of his country men, for he is of the Tariqa Al-Shahadh, the Order of the Mendicants. They are beggar warriors, sworn to protect those in need and live off of the charity of others. And they do not subscribe to the cult of the Maatrho, instead they follow the teachings of Sharaq and worship the Great Father Arhanphast.

If you were ask Harwa how a Tawran native came to live in the service of a foreign God, he would be more than happy to tell you. The faith of Sharaq came to him at the lowest point in his life, when he had lived a bad and selfish existence that had led him to nothing but ruin and misery. He had been saved by a holy man who saw something good in him still, and had given him a new life though he himself had no worldly goods of his own. Ever since he had been inspired to live by such an example.

It is a good story, and Harwa has gotten better at telling it with each recounting. The truth of these events are now distorted to the point it no longer hurts to tell.

If you got to know Harwa a little better still, you might catch glimpses of the painful past behind that well worn story. He lets them slip sometimes, normally late at night when he's had a drink and his thoughts turn sombre and a little melancholic.

He was married once, back in Tawr. They had a farm and a family. They grew fields of cotton and grain, raised goats and girls. All his children were daughters, he still smiles ruefully when he thinks of them. At first they were happy, but it did not last. He drank, too much and too often, and back in those days Harwa was much more... violent... when he drank. It all ended badly.

Before that he was a soldier. It's evident enough by his martial prowess, even at his advanced age. He still carries himself like one, even though its been years since he wore that uniform. Years since he hid his face behind that bronze mask. But for all your prying, you would not get him to talk about it, despite his normally gregarious nature. Speaking of it makes him remember.

And he does not want to remember what he did.

____________________________________________________________________________
M O T I V A T I O N A N D O U T L O O K

Harwa is drawn to Dahard to do as he had been trying to do since he left his old lives behind and joined the Tariqa Al-Shahadh.

He is desperately trying to atone.

And he feels that Dahard is the place where he can best do this.

____________________________________________________________________________
M I S C E L L A N E O U S

Harwa's Holy Order, the Tariqa Al-Shahadh, although a martial organisation focused on fighting and combat, distains the taking of life unnecessarily. Its members are sworn to try and resolve all disputes peacefully before resorting to violence, and only kill in defence of one's own life or the lives of others.

The one exception to this is in the use of the Shafrat Alrahma, the mercy blade, which a warrior may use to end the suffering of a mortally wounded opponent, as a final mark of respect.
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I S H I Y A R Y U T A R O

To uphold the legacy of the Ishiya clan is both a duty and an honour







___________________________________

P R O F I L E
Age
19

Race
Honfokun

Sex
Male

Height
5'8"

Weight
142lb

Level
1

Health Points
22

___________________________________

I N V E N T O R Y

- Traditional Honfukun Lute - the Shamisen.
- Several changes of fine clothes.
- Porcelain tea set.
- Flask of plum wine.
- Large pouch of gold.
- Parchment and Calligraphy tools.
- Lacquered and Gilt Sword Case, sealed.

____________________________________

E Q U I P M E N T

- Two handed Honfukun katana, highly decorated.
- Matching wakizashi.
- Close fitting Lamellar of lacquered iron plates.

____________________________________

A T T R I B U T E S

Might: 10 (+0)
Dexterity: 14 (+1 racial, +3)
Perception: 14 (+2 racial, +2)
Wisdom: 15 (+2 racial, +3)
Charisma: 14 (+4)
Constitution: 11 (+1 racial)

____________________________________________________________________________
A P P E A R A N C E

Ishiya Ryutaro is a young Honfokun of relatively small and slight stature. Like the majority of his kind, his complexion is markedly different from the Folk of the Yongcun Empire, in this case a dark shade of dusky blue. His hair is similarity dark, black with the very faintest hint of an iridescent sheen, like that of a crow's feather. From beneath his short wavy locks a pair of slim curved horns emerge, which while well proportioned, would not be considered particularly impressive headgear by most Honfokun.

His face is more pretty than handsome. There is a delicateness to his features, which though none could doubt to be aesthetically pleasing, could also be seen as slightly too effeminate on a man. The softness of youth is still very much in evidence in Ryutaro's face. His skin is smooth and supple, his cheek and chin still hairless.

The eyes that gaze out from this youthful visage are of a bright and brilliant crimson, a colour that Ryutaro clearly favours in his choices of clothing. Several of the silken robes he has with him of this hue, as well as the lacquer that coats his armour.

____________________________________________________________________________
P E R S O N A L I T Y

In social situations Ryutaro's youth belies his conduct, he is smooth and confident, having an excellent eye for the finer points of etiquette and appropriate behaviour. He is an engaging conversationalist, with knowledge on a great manner subjects and topics, but without a hint of arrogance or self-aggrandisation. In general he is pleasant, likable, friendly and humble.

He has an excellent level of control over his emotions, rarely appearing visibly angry or upset in any situation. This self control can at times make Ryutaro feel as if he is somewhat evasive, or opaque. He is so good at disguising his own emotional state and behaving appropriately at times he struggles to reveal in his inner feelings.

There is also an element of cautiousness, or perhaps even timidity to his person. He is never one to talk over another, and is quick to yield the centre of attention whenever it happens to fall upon him. Ryutaro is someone more focused on pleasing others above himself. An unusual trait in an heir apparent to a great and powerful noble house.

____________________________________________________________________________
H I S T O R Y
The Ishiya clan can trace their lineage back as far as any of the great Honfokun families of Karitu. There were Ishiya who walked the ancient isles of Mosati, who fled the wrath of the yaoguai, and were amongst those two thousand weary souls who landed upon the shores of the Empire half a millennia ago. In the years since then, they have built a legacy that places them as one of the foremost clans of Karitu.

Three Ishiya clan leaders have reigned in Cimanu as Seshkyo, elected rulers of the Honfokun people. And though they do not currently bear this particular dignity, Ryutaro's grandfather, Ishiya Tamotsu, is still considered a Tochihai, one of the feudal lords who command wealth, respect and power in Karitu.

The Ishiya are noted amongst all Honfokun clans for their martial legacy. They were one of the families who brought the teachings of Senshodo with them when they travelled across the sea, and to this day the influence of these teachings runs strong in them. There is even a style of swordsmanship named after the family, the Ishiya style, which focuses on aggressive attacks and powerful static blocks. Ishiya Tamotsu was a noted warrior in his youth and is a highly respected fencing master and teacher. In addition many Ishiya have served as soldiers and commanders of Imperial armies, including Ryutaro's own father, before his untimely death.

Sometimes Ryutaro wonders what his life would have been like had his father survived. Would the pressures placed upon him by his grandfather been lessened? Or would his father just been another elder who's expectations Ryutaro felt he was continually falling short of.

Ryutaro was raised by grandfather. His father died when he was a small child, and his grandfather separated him from his mother when he decided having too many women around little Ryu was having a bad influence. He had always been small, weaker than his many cousins, and painfully shy as a child. But he was his grandfather's only male heir, and so Ishiya Tamotsu tried to make him into an heir worthy of the Ishiya name.

In part he succeeded. Ryutaro is cultured and intelligent, he overcame his childhood shyness even if he still is a little timid and reserved. He trained diligently at swordsmanship and is a competent fighter, but no more than competent. Where his skills shine are in his poetry, music, and dancing, all desirable skills in the scion of a noble family. But there are still those who see him as unworthy within his own clan, and his grandfather has never formally acknowledged Ryutaro as his heir and successor.

____________________________________________________________________________
M O T I V A T I O N & O U T L O O K

Ryutaro want to live up to the expectations that others have placed upon him. He wants to be the diligent grandson, dutiful heir, and great warrior his grandfather has trained him to be. At the same time he feels stifled by it all. The weight of the Ishiya legacy his heavy, and he worries that it will crush him beneath it.

Deep down part of him wants to live his own life, free of what others think of him, and able to choose his own path.
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F A Z A H R A A L - H A M I N A




Art from TES: Legends

____________________________________________________

C H A R A C T E R I N F O R M A T I O N

Name - Captain Fazahra al-Hamina
Gender - Female.
Race - Redguard.
Age - Late twenties to mid-thirties.
Height - Taller than average, around 5'9".
Profession - Sailor.
Family Origins - Hammerfell, Abah's Landing
Birth Sign - The Thief.

____________________________________________________

S K I L L S & A B I L I T I E S

E X P E R T

Blade
Redguards are said to be the most naturally talented warriors in Tamriel, Fazahra is no exception to this. Shipboard life can be violent, put a blade in her hands and she will produce dead men for you.

A D E P T

Acrobatics
A lifetime of climbing rigging and running over heaving decks has left Fazahra more nible than most, with an excellent sense of balance.

Mercantile
Commerce and trade is the lifeblood of most ships. Goods must be acquired and sold, ships provisioned, crews hired and paid.

N O V I C E

Athletics
Hauling rope and canvas makes one develop certain muscles.

Smithing
Minor repair work on vessels is often undertaken by the crew, Fazahra has a working knowledge of cold metal working and carpentry.

Unarmoured
The greatest danger at sea is the sea itself, what sort of fool wears armour on a boat?

____________________________________________________

E Q U I P M E N T

Weapons
A curved steel sword and dagger, of traditional Yokundan design.

Armour
Nothing put some light cloth and leather boots.

Miscellaneous Items
A water skin.
Unenchanted gold jewellery and medallions, carriable wealth.
Several bottles of good Stros M'Kai Rum.
Carpentry and miscellaneous tools.
A suspiciously large bag of gold, well hidden.
Rope, so much rope.
One ship, in a ruinous state of repair.
A broken compass, kept close to the heart.

____________________________________________________
A P P E A R A N C E

Captain Fazahra al-Hamina is an imposing Redguard woman of larger than average height and build. Wide hipped and thick waisted, her figure looks stocky and strong. She has spent over half her life hauling rope and canvas or pulling at an oar, activities which have placed a significant amount of muscle on top of her already oversized frame.

The dark skin of her muscled arms are lined with the pale scars of old injuries, some from the lash of an overtightened line snapping free, others from slash of a steel blade. Her hands are similarly marked, they bear callus upon callus, forged through hard and heavy work, leaving them as tough and unyielding as the timbers of a ship.

The features of her face bear a similarity to that of her build. A broad nose, a wide forehead, dark eyes spaced perhaps a little too far apart to be considered a model for classical standards of feminine beauty. The lower half of her face is dominated by a set of full lips, most often parted in a open smile showing white pearlescent teeth.

She wears her hair long, pushed back away from her face, but left to hang freely about her shoulders. The tightly coiled black hair is teased into numerous braids, adorned with beads and golden rings. Her ears are clearly visible when her hair is worn in this fashion, showing off a glimmering array of golden earrings, some simple hoops, others dangling large pedants of semi-precious stones or seashells.

The captain dresses simply, loose linen shirts tucked into tight fitting dark breeches. She wears thigh high black leather boots of undeniable quality. From a shoulder slung sword belt a curved Redguard scimitar of plain and mean looking steel hangs along with a matching dagger. The adorned hilts contrasting with the gilded medallions and talismans they jingle alongside with. This are utilitarian weapons, tools for killing.

In colder and wetter weather she has a long oil skin coat that she wraps about her person, along with a wide brimmed hat to keep the sun from her eyes and the rain from the face.

____________________________________________________

P E R S O N A L I T Y

Fazahra is undoubted a woman who has endured much and led a tough life. One might expect evidence of this toughness, this hard and unyielding nature, to give her character a similar quality, that she would be some stern figurehead from some veteran warship, harshly carved from the boughs of a blackened oak.

But the demeanour of Captain Fazahra could not be further from this image.

Her face most often bears a smile so wide and open, it disarms those around her of the dangerous nature that hardened body forebodes. It is a friendly face. One that welcomes bosom buddies and heart companions to entrust their hopes and desire to her. Her husky voice has a singsong quality to it, and when she laughs they are full and hearty.

Fazahra has a temper to her though, one that can whip up as quickly as a summer squall, though it is as apt to disappear just as fast as it emerged. She is not particularly violent by nature, even when wroth she is unlikely to reach for her sword unless threatened. And there is not much she feels threatened by.

Overall the captain gives of an air of confidence and easy bravado. She seems self-assured of her abilities, and at ease in any company. This combination of self belief and friendliness makes her a very outgoing and extraverted individual. When at port and in taverns she draws in the people around her, making friends easily, attracting lovers easily.

But like the seas she calls her home, many may swim in those warm and shallow waters without ever knowing the abyss that lies beneath them. A chasm of dark fathomless depths, in which one could easily drown. There is an ocean of hurt and pain inside of this woman, no matter how much sun shines on the surface.

She rarely shows it when around others. Perhaps only when particularly deep in her cups might those mournful truths take hold and the perpetual smile she wears falters and fades. Her hand might creep to the pouch on the sword belt, the one that lies closest to her heart, close around the broken compass that resides there. Glass shattered, no direction left to give.

Her greatest regret is the man that owned that compass once. The one who loved Fazahra more than anything, who would have done anything for her. The one she killed.

Her goal? Happiness, Freedom, Escape. Escape from the past, the past of who she was, what she did, and what she had others do for her. Maybe out there, on the open sea, the wind at her back once more, she will be able to leave behind all of the pain and all of the guilt that has brought with her to Anvil.

____________________________________________________

H I S T O R Y

Captain Fazahra is a talkative individual, she will freely converse on many different themes and topics. She tells many tall tales of the strange far off lands that she has seen, of the raucous nights spent in ports all over Tamriel, of ghost stories featuring phantom ships and dread sea monsters. If required she will even talk of more mundane things, of her craft as a sailor, of the fluctuating price of trade goods, even of the weather.

But there is one thing she very, very rarely talks about directly. Who exactly she is, where she comes from, and what exactly she was doing before she came to Anvil.
Despite her silence on these matters, a discerning mind and well trained eye would be able to puzzle a good deal of her history out of her just by looking and listening, filling in the gaps with the odd well reasoned guess.

Firstly, Fazahra is a Redguard that much is clear by her dark skin. Her accent places her as a native of Hammerfell, and to a trained ear, south east Hammerfell with a enough Tamrielic creole mixed in to presume that she grew up in one of the large port cities that dot the coast along those bleak shores. Rihad or Taneth, Abah's Landing perhaps.

Secondly, Fazahra up poor, that's in her accent too, as well as the evidence of a lifetime of hard work on those callused hands of hers. The flashy displays of gold that she wears at her ears and belt speak to this as well, it is most often those who come into some deal of wealth later in life that have the greatest desire to flaunt it.

Third, though she claims to be a sailor and merchant, Fazahra is no stranger to violence. The scars on her arms, her self assurance around dangerous company, and the casual way she carries the blade at her hip makes this all to evidently clear.

Then there's what can be learned about Fazahra since she arrived in Anvil a month past as a passenger on merchant vessel. The first thing she did was sour the docks for a ship to purchase herself. She found one that satisfied her, although in need or some serious work, and set about repairing and provisioning the vessel herself. All of this was paid for upfront, in cold hard cash. Golden septims, not letters of credit or bankers drafts.

So, we have a woman who grew up poor, spent her life at sea and around violence, who suddenly finds herself with a significant deal of hard currency, and is purposefully obscure about what exactly she was doing before she arrived in her current port of call.

There is one explanation for these traits that fits much better than any other:

Fazahra is a pirate.

Or rather, Fazahra was a pirate. Anvil is not generally known as a safe harbour for the the buccaneers of the Abecean Sea, its a well maintained Imperial Port, not a haven of criminals like Port Hunding or Abah's Landing. A Pirate Captain, flush with gold in need of a new ship could certainly find somewhere much better to buy a raiding vessel and raise a crew of marauders.

Perhaps that explains the slight edge that the good Captain seems to have developed of late, the one that keeps her checking the shadows, and has her always sat in the taverns where she can keep one eye on the door. A pirate who broke faith with their compatriots, especially one who may have swindled more than their fair share of booty, would certainly have reason to keep looking over their shoulder.

But then again, it seems that everyone in Anvil is watching the shadows these days...

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Excuse me sir, might you be one of the heroes from legend? Good turn to you, I have travelled-"

With a crackle of arcane energy, the dark figure looked up from the mess of scrolls and tomes they had been hunched over. Behind the lank strands of his black hair, his eyes were narrowed in suspicion and hostility, a fell and malicious invocation held ready cast in his right hand.

"Who are you and how the hell did you get into my sanctum?"

WAIT WAIT WAIT! Please great hero might you lend me your ear? I have travelled far and wide to hear your tale, my only wish is to tell your story. True, I suppose if I wanted to know of various deeds I could just visit my local tavern or library, but to get it from the horse's mouth, now that would be a treat, far better than any old watered down story you hear on the streets, wouldn't you agree?

"I don't agree. Get out of here. Leave me alone."

But surely you would appreciate the chance to set the record straight? Clear up any misconceptions and falsehoods that have sprung up in the wake of your glorious deeds?"

"Glorious deeds?" He laughed, it was not a pleasant sound. "I don't remember many of those. Though there are plenty of misconceptions and falsehoods, and a few outright lies."

He paused for a moment, staring at the reporter, thought not really looking at him, rather beyond him, before closing his hand and releasing whatever spell had been held there. With it, a strange sense darkness fled from the chamber, the many candle stubs that lined its cluttered surfaces returning to their usual brightness. He stood up from the work desk, stretching stiffly as he did so.

"Fine, ask your questions. You have until I get bored of this."

Oh you will? Joyous occasion! You shan't regret this my friend, I promise you!

The figure fixed the reporter with a look that suggested that he was already regretting this.

Now then, What is your name?

"You came all this way to ask me my name? Fine, fine, I guess I did just agree to this." He sighed. "Eskel Rindarium, the sage of Ilmare, although I hear some fools have taken to calling the Mad Mage as of late."

Splendid, and your age?

"Wait... what year is it again?" He quickly did some math on his fingers. "Twenty-nine, if I have the date right."

He looked older. There were streaks of premature grey in his hair, lines on his brow and around his mouth, dark circles beneath his eyes. None of those were there a few years ago, and made Eskel easily pass for almost a decade older than he actually was.

Fantastic, and your gender good hero?

"...Really?" He rolled his eyes. "Male."

Excellent and of course I know what you look like, but for the sake of our readers?

"Why, tall, dark and handsome of course." He answered with a snort. "Look, you can describe me yourself, or do you really want to keep wasting your time with these banalities?"

Eskel was certainly dark, and he might have once been considered quite handsome. He was pale, fine featured, with shoulder length black hair shot through with a scattering of grey. An old scar ran through his left brow and into the eye below, blinding it into milky white, the other eye was a brown so dark it almost looked black.

He was of average height and a light build. Previously he could have been described as lithe, but now he gave of the impression of being gaunt. In the past his features were perpetually twisted into some kind of smirk, but these days he rarely smiled. He looked tired, like he hadn't slept properly in weeks, and was so pale it was clear he hadn't left the darkness of his rooms for even longer.

Even those who hadn't know him before would think that he looked unwell. Something only be confirmed the bandages that covered his left arm that were peaking out from the end of his sleeve.

Excellent Excellent, and how do you act on most days, you know, your mannerisms, your quirks and such. What makes you, you?

"Well, I've been told I have something of an abrasive manner, if you hadn't already guessed that. I don't suffer fools or idiots lightly. People and their petty concerns do not interest me, that's why I make my home out here away from the ignorant masses. I can focus on my work here, my research, without any meddling interference or distractions. I guess you could say I'm solitary in my nature."

Mhm, and your abilities magical or otherwise? If you use magic, what is your discipline? do you use it for battle, defense, healing?

"Frankly I probably know more about most types of magic than you could possibly comprehend. But my specialty has always been in summoning, the act of controlling the passage of people and powers from one plane of existence to another. Whether that is to draw something from across the gulf between worlds to our own, or seal and banish it back to its own realm. It's very complicated, I doubt you'd understand."

"My current research is just an extension of the same principles, and a unification of some other arts. What is death other than another plane of existence? The body but a construct for the soul to inhabit? Where does the physician end and the necromancer begin? It's just another reordering of spirit and matter between between worlds, these foolish labels and taboos just get in the way of a holistic understanding of life and death."

"Most of your kind think simple teleportation is the height of what we can do, and that only requires transportation of mind and matter across one plane, let alone... Oh never mind, the theoretical background I would have to spell out for you to even participate in this conversation is not a good use of my time."

Yes Yes, and before everything that transpired, what was your life like? Who were you?

"Oh, I was a product of the mage schools of Bradena. The old kind, that we had after the rebellion. Plenty of corporal punishment and indoctrinated self loathing. Never did me any harm, I turned out just fine." He laughed again at that, it was even less pleasant than before. "My gifts manifested young, I was scarce out of cradle when my parents dumped me on the threshold and abandoned me there. Part of the reason I'm one of the most gifted mages of his generation, the alignment of natural talent and a rigorous education."

"Of course I left as soon as I was able, and supported my continued research through the odd mercenary contract. Monster slayers are always on the lookout for someone who can cast a six hells trigram planar binding. That's how I met her... Octavia..."

I would have never guessed, and what were your relationships with your comrades, are you still friends? Maybe lovers? Bitter rivals? How do you see them in your eyes?

"I don't see much of them these days. It might have something to do with the fact I called them all traitorous cowards who lacked the resolve to do what needed to be done. They failed Octavia, we all did. I'm the only one trying to make things right."

So that's how you worked with each other, and how was your relationship with Madame Ravenwood? Nothing but good I hope.

"She was the best of us. I... I miss her deeply."

He looked like he had something more to say but could not bring himself to form the words. A terrible and desperate longing rose up from the inky depths of his one good eye. An unspoken need for something that had been forever pushed beyond his grasp.

I see, and.....did you know?

The question seemed to pull him out of his absent reverie.

Did you even guess, did you even have the slightest idea?

"Guess, guess what?"

Do you even realize the amount of shit you heroes are in?

A cold and horrible understanding began to dawn upon Eskel's face. There had been wards set around his tower, strong ones, how had a mere journalist managed to navigate his way through them?

What made you think you could defeat him so easily? WHAT MADE YOU THINK YOU COULD DEFEAT US SO EASILY?

"Impossible." He whispered. "I designed that seal myself. It was meant to hold for a thousand years."

We almost did it, almost, but then you heroes and that bitch! well no matter, you and your comrades will get yours soon enough!

Anger flared inside of him. He began to speak an twisted invocation that he would have never even dared to utter a few years previously.

YOU WILL NEVER DEFEAT HIM, DEFEAT US! NEVER!

He released the spell. All the lights in the room went out, the thing before him dropped to floor as a smoking desiccated husk. He could feel blood trickling on his hand, the wounds on his arm had opened up again. As he relit the candles with a wave of his hand he stared once more at the corpse at his feet.

"You will not speak of her in that manner."
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