Kass's Kharacters — Roleplayer Guild

Sir Brandon the Broken Blade

Art by A.B. Feemster
Name

Sir Brandon of Bainbridge, formerly Knight Captain of the Order of Saint Helios, Sworn Sword to Royal House of Vortigern, Champion of the Crown, Third Blade of the Kingdom, Knight Paragon of the Virtues of Duty and Vigilance. Now known as Sir Brandon the Broken Blade, Traitor and Apostate to the Crown and the Church.
Race

Human
Gender

Male
Age

Forty Four
Appearance

Sir Brandon is a tall man, standing easily over six feet in height. His build is muscular but lean, Brandon's physical prowess always relying more upon his speed than his brawn. His skin is tanned from long hours riding under the sun and time spent pursuing outdoor activities. A lifetime of combat training and actual warfare has left him with a number of faded silvery scars that mostly cross his upper limbs and face.

Brandon's face would generally be considered handsome, if a little bit stern and brooding. It's are long, with an aquiline nose and high cheekbones. A pair of grey eyes stare out from under a dark furrowed brow. Similarly dark hair frames it, shot through with a scattering of grey, and a short beard hides his chiselled jaw. 

Captivity has changed him somewhat however, he is thinner than he was before, paler, more dishevelled. Fresh scars and old bruises mark his face and body, the skin at his wrists are raw and bloody from long periods spent wearing irons. Where before his dark hair was merely lightly flecked with grey, it is now well and truly streaked with it, and almost completely silver at the temples. But more than just those external changes, something more fundamental has changed inside of Brandon. There's a look in his eyes what wasn't there before, an emptiness, a void of despair and self loathing even deeper than the prison they have cast him into.
Personality

Duty and diligence are the two ideals to which Brandon has organised his life. First to his father and family, later to his lord and liege, and finally unto the Crown itself. Always, he has put the desires and ambitions of others before his own. Always he has done what others have asked of him to the best of his abilities. Brandon was a man made to serve, much more comfortable following orders than being the person giving them out.

He is a man of few words. When he does talk, he speaks slowly in a careful and deliberate manner. His speech is far from coarse, but there is a degree of plainness to it. In fact there's a degree of plainness about Brandon in general. He dislikes ostentatious dress or drawing undue attention to himself. Despite his considerable martial prowess he was never considered much of tourney knight, only ever entering the lists at the command of his superiors. 

A stern knight of few words could easily come over as a cold or unfeeling individual. But where he could Sir Brandon would always try to temper what he had to do with other ideals a knight was supposed to uphold. He tried to offer mercy where he could, he tried to be chivalric, defend the poor and the weak from the strong and the wicked. From behind his stony mask he tried to uphold both, his duty and his conscience.

Then it all went up in flames.

Brandon is a lost man. A broken blade. A mess of despair and self-loathing. He has committed crimes against his King and Country and even worse crimes against his own conscience. Sometimes he wishes he did not feel empathy, so he could have done what they asked of him without it destroying him. Other times he wishes he had plunged his sword into Tyronde's heart the first time he had laid eyes on him. Mostly he wishes that he was dead.
Background

The tavern stank with the odour of stale ale and unwashed bodies. Three weeks the regiment had been on the march. Three weeks of rain, mud, and sore feet before they were finally back on a good Imperial road, one with actual inns that served proper beer, instead of the horsepiss the locals round here somehow drank. 

Gav pushed his way through the crowd of soldiers at the bar to slam his coin down. He returned minutes later with several mugs of foaming ale to put before his drinking companions. There was Alf, the gangly archer, Old Drummond, the pikeman who'd spent more years on campaign than some men had in their god-given span, and Little Oller, a greenhorn on his first outing as a soldier of the Crown.

And, like most nights when they got the chance to sit down and get drinking, they were swapping war stories. Drummond was talking, banging on about how he almost shat himself when they had held the line against the Black Baron's cavalry charge back in '76. Oller was lapping it up like he did most of Drummond's bullshit.

"O'course we won the day in the end. Tyronde had the Baron's head on a pike by the end of the month, and I pulled a set of the nicest boots I ever did own off of a corpse on that field. Did I ever tell you about those boots Gav? Those boots wer-"

"Yeah but what was the time you was most afraid of anything?" Oller interjected before Drummond could finish his tangent about the dead man's boots.

"Most afraid yer say?" Drummond paused for a sip of his ale, stroked at the scraggly white beard that hung beneath his jaw. "That's easy..." He continued after his momentary hesitation. "Sir Brandon of Bainbridge, the Third Blade. The night he lost it and killed Inquisitor Thomond." 

The veterans of the group glanced at which other and all shifted uncomfortable in their seats. Some of the noise and laughter in the groups around them also began to die down.

"Just one knight? I thought you fought monsters and mages and heretics and all that?" Oller joked, seemingly obvious to the change in atmosphere that his question had created.

"Aye we have and more. But still... Bainbridge. You hope you never see anything like it. I seen him fight before that night, knew how quick he was, how that plain ole' sword of his could slice and man up three ways before he had a chance to sneeze. But... it was... the fucking savagery of it. He gutted anyone who got within a stones throw of him. Only reason I'm alive is told the sergeant to go fuck himself when he told us to form up against him."

"He killed near a hundred men that night. Fifty more on the road to Port Imalys the way I hear it told." Alf spoke quietly from the other side of the table.

"And not a drop of monster blood or magic about him. Just steel, and anger, and fucking madness." Drummond shook his head. "Always was a buttoned up prick, barely ever raised his voice. Not good for a man like, bottling all that in."

"But... why'd he do it?" Oller asked the question they'd all been dreading.

It was bad enough remembering that night. Remembering the fucking demon that Bainbridge had turned into once he had hacked off the Inquisitor's head. But it was worse remembering what had come before. What had made Sir Brandon snap. What he had done, what they had all done. 

His mind filled with the flames. The screams.

They didn't talk about it, but there was one thing Gav was sure about. All the men at the table who had been there, none of them blamed Bainbridge for what he did. None of the regretted the hole he made through that fucking bastard Thomond's chest.

"Shut the fuck up kid." Gav finally said. "You weren't there."

Talents

Third Blade of the Kingdom: At one point in time Sir Brandon was considered one of the greatest knights of the Westerlands. Particularly skilled with a blade, there few other than the most elite of swordsmen could stand up to him in single combat. 

Knight Paragon: Sir Brandon was once a member of the nobility, and served in the Royal Court for many years. He understands court politics, heraldry, the history of the great houses of the Westerlands, and how to conduct oneself amongst the aristocracy. 

Knight Captain: Sir Brandon was once a military commander as well as a champion. He knows how to command and discipline men, how to plan a campaign, how to employ military strategy. Some of his former subordinates might even still have a degree of loyalty to their old commander...
Flaws

Broken Blade: Sir Brandon is not the disciplined and dutiful knight he once was. He is broken man, his convictions shaken, his faith  shattered. He despises himself for what he has done both for and against the Crown. Sometimes he thinks it would have been better if he had let himself fall in battle than endure the despair he lives with every day. 

Traitor and Apostate: When he killed an Inquisitor of the Sun Temple and forsook his vows to the King, Sir Brandon became more loathsome in the eyes of many than those monsters and heretics the Inquisition dealt with. After all, many were born evil or did not know any better than to believe in evil demons and spirits, but Brandon was raised good true in the Faith and yet still chose heresy and treachery.

The Pyre of Children: He still sees it his dreams. Still hears the screams. He cannot face it again, not in the waking world. Brandon loathes fire, and there is nothing in this world than could compel him to raise his blade against an innocent child again. He would rather die.
Equipment

Though he mostly discarded his knightly regalia during his attempted flight to exile. Sir Brandon retains a serviceable set of steel chainmail, along with a breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, greaves, and an open faced helmet. His shield is oak banded with iron, and his sword, although exceptional fine, is unenchanted and largely unadorned. A dark hooded cloak helped to hide his identity before he was finally apprehended.

V E L Y N   V I R I T H

"The Dunmer believe the path to Heaven is made by Violence, but the older I get the more I question, do I walk the path or am I just stone in it?"


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P R O F I L E
Height
Average, around 5'10"

Weight
Light, wiry, under 140lb

Sex/Gender
Male

Race
Dunmer

Age
Old, at least 400

Birthsign
The Thief (+10 Agility, Speed, Luck)

Class
Custom: Armiger

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C A P A B I L I T I E S
Attributes
 Strength - 40 
Intelligence - 40
Willpower - 38 (Race -10, Item +8)
Agility - 50 (Sign +10)
Speed - 60 (Race + 10, Sign +10)
Endurance - 30 (Race -10)
Personality - 40
Luck - 60 (Sign +10)

Skills
Major:
Blade 35 (Race +10)
Light Armor 30 (Race +5)
Acrobatics 25
Alteration 25
Illusion 25
Sneak 25
Speechcraft 25

Minor: 
Destruction 15 (Race +10)
Athletics 10 (Race +5)
Blunt 10 (Race +5)
Marksman 10 (Race +5)
Mysticism 10 (+5 Race)
Alchemy 5 
Armorer 5 
Block 5
Conjuration 5
Hand-to-Hand 5
Heavy Armor 5
Mercantile 5
Restoration 5
Security 5

Spells
Jump, Alteration, Apprentice.
Sea Stride, Alteration, Apprentice.
Chameleon, Illusion, Novice.
Minor Invisibility, Illusion, Novice.
Burning Touch, Destruction, Novice.
Clairvoyance, Mysticism, Novice.
Summon Ancestor Guardian, Racial.

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I N V E N T O R YWeapons & Tools
The Blade Fiery Light
Three elven throwing knives.

Outfit/Armor
Full set of Light Chitin Armour.
Colourful Dunmeri Robes.

Consumables
Two standard health potions.
A weak paralysis poison.

Valuables
Amulet of Fortify Willpower (+8)
500 septims.

Miscellaneous
Dunmeri Lute.
Sealed scroll case.
Woven prayer mat. 
Incense Burner.
Jar of Greef, Dunmer Comberry Brandy.
Two Ceramic Drinking Cups. 
Paper Lantern.
Poems and Teachings of Vivec.
Pair of golden earrings (50g each).

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A P P E A R A N C E
Velyn Virith is an elderly male Dunmer, well into his fifth century, and approaching the natural end of his people's span of years. 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 carries himself with all the confidence and surety of a warrior. When his face is hidden beneath his chitinous helm, he could easily pass for a mer less 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. His hair has long since turned from black to grey to now pure snow white that tumbles down the side of his face when not bound up in a topknot. His beard is likewise devoid of colour, pulled into a single knot, just peeping out from under the edges of it, one can see the much faded markings of a scarab tattoo, the ancient symbol of the Great House Redoran. 

In his youth, Velyn would have been considered handsome, and he still retains a element of refined dignity in his appearance to this day. There is a touch of vanity about him still, something that can be seen in the golden jewellery than hangs from his pointed ears and the gilded amulet around his neck. 

When not wearing the worn and but well cared for chitin armour that is hidden away in his travelling trunk, Velyn prefers to dress in the many hued and patterned fabrics of his homeland. He dresses like a scholar, wearing  long robes, with high collars and wide sleeves conceal much of his body. If he were to remove these, one might note a few interesting markings present upon Velyn. 

First would be the sheer number of scars the Dunmer possesses, many are old and faded from battles centuries past, but a few are still livid and fresh enough to have been acquired recently. Secondly, his right shoulder is heavily bandaged from some recent injury, though he does his best to hide it, the wound hinders the use of that arm and gives the old mer pain. Blood sometimes stains the bandaging at days end if he exerts himself too much. Finally, the entire left side of his body, from the base of the neck to the wrist and ankle, is covering a tattoo of swirling wave patterns, much faded, probably centuries old, but undeniably there, imprinted into Velyn's skin in dark blue ink.

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M O T I V A T I O N   &   O U T L O O K
Velyn is a mer who has been through many trials and tribulations in his long 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, despite all his struggling, despite all his pain, is at peace.

He presents himself as being something of a philosopher and scholar. Something he is easily qualified to do, having spent centuries ruminating on the more obscure areas of Dunmer religion and philosophy along with questions such as the nature of divinity and the world itself. 

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 the company of others, as well as being something of a performer and entertainer, 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 mer.

He is always kind and courteous, warm to those he meets in his travels. But he is always travelling, there is no home that Velyn returns to, there are no family or love ones waiting for him. Despite the smile he shows to world, there is an incalcuable sadness within Velyn, earned through the loss of everything and everyone he ever cared about. It is a loss that he never really recovered from, although he has somehow rebuilt himself into a functional mer, there is a hole in him, one that can only be filled by the desperate and foolish hope that he still to this day chases.

Ultimately, it is that mad hope, tempered by great loss and great suffering that lies at the core of Velyn Virith. There is a sharpness and hardness to him, wrapped under the layers of scholar, poet, musician. Like the blade he hides wrapped in his prayer mat, he keeps that part of him well sheathed. But it is always there. Velyn is killer, an ideological murderer, trained in both theory and terror, for according to the Codes of Mephala, there is no difference. 

He does all this, walking the path of struggle and suffering, chasing a faint and distant hope, a letter written in uncertainty, in the hope that his pain, that all pain in fact, might have been worthwhile in the creation of something better.

For the ending of the words is ALMSIVI. 

And the worlding of the words is AMARANTH.

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B A C K G R O U N D
Velyn took passage on the Arslan's fortune in Anvil as a paying passenger. He claims that he has been travelling throughout Cyrodil in order to acquire some rare texts and to study at some of the great libraries of the Province. The bundle of books and scrolls he carries with his luggage seems evidence enough for that claim.

Despite his general loquaciousness, Velyn Virith does not talk about the specifics of his past that much. But there are some things that can be gleaned about old mer's past, various signs and tells of his life that cannot be disguised or obscured. He speaks Dunmeris as his native tongue, his Imperial Common is good, but he still has a distinctive Morrowind accent. As well as that, there is the slight rasp to his voice that many Dunmer of Vvardenfell have, acquired through the scarring of the throat and lungs from a life lived amongst the ashlands that spread outward from Red Mountain. 

The faded tattoo of the scarab under his beard, and the way that he carries himself, upright and dignified, says that he is, or at least was a member of a noble house. The scarab is a symbol of the Great House of Redoran, the great martial house of northwest Morrowind. 

Putting all of this together, it would be safe to assume that Velyn Virith, or to give him his full name, Serjo Redoran Velyn Virith, was born in the middle of the Third Era on the Isle of VVardenfell to a noble clan of the Great House of Redoran.

How exactly a noble scion of a Great House ended up wandering the other edge of the known world as a travelling scholar, poet come minstrel, is difficult to guess. But Morrowind has been a province that has experienced great hardship and trouble over the years between Velyn's birth and the present day. The Oblivion Crisis, the Fall of Baar Dau, the Eruption of Red Mountain, the Argonian Invasion. There are many reasons that might make someone choose to leave their homeland.

But another reason could be gleaned, if one knew about those other tattoos, hidden beneath his robes, those swirling waves of blue ink. It has been many years since Velyn received them, and for many their meaning may be lost to time. But there are still plenty of Dunmer who would remember what those tattoos mark Velyn as.

A Buoyant Armiger. A soldier of the Tribunal Temple, exclusively dedicated to and answering to Lord Vivec, one of the False Triunes. The Armigers patterned themselves on Vivec's heroic spirit of exploration and adventure, and sought to emulate his mastery of the varied arts of personal combat, chivalric courtesy, and subtle verse. 

Poet, Warrior, Priest. Three things Velyn still acts like to this day.

The Armigers largely disappeared from the histories of Tamriel after the events of Red Year and the Argonian Invasion, but some must have survived those terrible and bloody years. But still, when the New Temple emerged triumphant from the rubble of Morrowind, they proclaimed Vivec was a false god. Any who still worshipped at His alter would find themselves branded apostates and exiled.

It would be enough to break someone. Exile, for continuing to believe what you had dedicated your life to, after fighting for decades to help and protect your fellow countrymer in a terrible bloody war? Unless you had some mad and foolish hope, that your Lord was not really gone, that your belief was not mistaken, that your suffering still might mean something.

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R E L A T I O N S H I P S   &   O P I N I O N STBC

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M I S C E L L A N E O U S
Velyn's sword, The Blade of Fiery Light, is an ancestral Dunmer blade, single edged and slightly curved, the quicksilver and moonstone folded into the blade creating a series of bands or waves of dark light through the metal. Designed to be held in one or two hands, its hilt of gilded bonemold is inscribed with Daedric Runes, spelling out some Dunmeris enchantment, that dully glows upon the antique weapon.

The golden amulet about Velyn's neck that fortifies his Willpower is likewise an Ancestral Dunmer artifact, the sealed amulet contains a fragment of ash from the Ancestal tomb of Velyn's clan back in Morrowind. It is a symbol of his faith and the enduring nature of Dunmer beliefs in the face of hardship.

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