Restoration: She is an impressive healer, and chooses to use only curative magic - save for the few conjurative spells she keeps up her sleeve for sticky situations.

Alchemy: Healing Knowledge. Raelynn has an advanced knowledge of the various plants and other items that are found throughout Tamriel that can provide healing qualities. She is also skilled with treating wounds that cannot be directly healed with magic. She enjoys brewing herbal teas which have been known to revitalise and 'perk up' some of her fellow adventurers. An 'experimenter', Raelynn has been pioneering her own methods of healing - studying into the mind and mental ailments and ways in which to ease the symptoms through 'alternative' treatments like massage, stretching, and supplements.

Conjuration: She very rarely uses these spells, and will only do so if she herself is in immediate danger, saving her Magicka for restorative purposes.

Lockpicking: She taught herself to pick through locks to get to the more interesting books in the library of the College. Now, she practices lock picking to find and pocket the best treasures in the dungeons and crypts she has found herself in.

Dual-Weapons: Raelynn uses twin daggers together to defend herself if need be. She is not an intimidating size, and so will generally only rely on her daggers if she is in absolute immediate danger and can get the upper hand. (Being small and thin sometimes has a speed advantage.)

Spell List:
Fast Healing
Healing Hands
Greater Ward
Heal Other
Close Wounds

Conjure Familiar

Raelynn is a terrible, terrible, terrible drunk. Being so small means that even the smallest of amounts of wine, or Nord Ale are enough to tip her over the edge.

She doesn’t care much for animals - and doesn’t understand why people keep them as pets.

She loves all precious jewels almost equally - but the rare and valuable diamond is her favourite. An old companion of Raelynn’s once lamented that “diamonds are Raelynn’s best friend”. She didn’t disagree.

Enjoys Lavender Dumplings, Elsweyr Fondue, and Pheasant Roast.

Standing proud at 6’5”, Fjolte is tall even by Nord standards. He is well built too, years of keeping himself physically fit has given him a well muscled body. He is absolutely solid, and stays this way by practicing his martial arts, and with acrobatic acts as part of a regular morning routine. He has a typically strong jawline for his race, gifted to him by his father. His eyes are ocean blue and of a thin almond shape. Were it not for his constant smile, they might appear to be intense and overly piercing. He has several thin scars across his face, most noticeably over his forehead, and a diagonal scar across his cheek.

He has bronze brown hair that he keeps trimmed shorter at the sides than on top, and styled with a quick comb each day. Little else is needed. He does not let it grow much longer than this. He keeps his beard trimmed more as subtle stubble under his lower lip to his chin, and over his jawline.

For such a sturdy man, Fjolte has a soft air around him, and a warm smile that could light up a room and is infectious. His fun and easy-going personality takes over his appearance at times and he is not in the least bit intimidating. That said, when it comes to matters of the heart - and when it comes to protecting his friends or standing up for his beliefs, then it can all melt away in a second, and glimpses of Fjolte ‘The Slayer’ can slip through quite easily. These times are extremely rare, and it pains him to ever have to get serious enough to have to rely on pure intimidation.

Fjolte chooses to dress casually in light armour at all times. Opting for a simple cotton waistcoat jacket lined with crows feathers around the neck - were it not for the two polished silver brooch buttons studded with blue quartz, it wouldn’t be remarkable at all. It is absolutely not typical of Nord fashion, and he actually had the jacket made in Elsewyr from a an old cotton shirt of his, and the feathers were collected by Fjolte from the top of a mountain in a nest which he climbed as part of his training with the Whispering Fang monks. The jacket is a reminder of his journey, and thus, is one of his most prized possessions and he feels honoured to wear it.

He has a tattoo over his left shoulder, travelling down his entire chest to his waist. A tribal/abstract depiction of a bird in flight.

Personality:
A braggadocious shit talker. This is how you would describe Fjolte upon first impression. Over the years he has managed to adopt a personality of pure arrogance and overconfidence. He has spent much of his recent years as the de facto leader of his ever changing band of misfits, and this has given him cause to act in such a way - he is an entertaining, charismatic young man who doesn’t take life too seriously, but can’t resist embellishing his achievements to those who will listen. Those who take him at the face value are very often proved completely wrong, given enough time.

He is very extroverted, and finds it natural and easy to communicate with others from all walks of life. The interest that he has in others is genuine and well-meaning, almost to a fault – he can often become too involved problems and his trait of empathy means that sometimes he will mistakenly carry other people's problems and make them his own. More often than not, putting his trust in others has helped them become better people in the end. To help people is something he sees as his duty in life. With that said, he will never push at people when they are not ready, and he knows that some people are beyond his help, by his nature he is not overbearing.

Fjolte can at times be too sensitive, it’s easy for him to take things to heart and feel others problems when that aren’t his own, getting lost in trying to fix them, worrying if he is doing enough. His self esteem has a tendency to eb and flow too, with constant worrying of whether he can live up to his ideals. It hits him especially hard if he fails in a task, more so if it was something meaningful and sentimental in nature. As someone who values relationships and friendship over most things in life, Fjolte finds it near impossible to make tough decisions, especially if he is against the clock, he gets too caught up in weighing up potential consequences that he misses the chance to take action.

Of course, he is incredibly flirtatious, using his charisma to win him over with members of the opposite sex. He takes great pleasure in getting to know new people, and his charisma makes it easy for him to work his way into the lives of those he meets, whether that is in a large or small capacity. He leaves an impression. That’s not to say that he can’t act the dashing rogue to impress however - often reading his would-be suitor and changing his approach on the fly. He loves love, and will do just about anything for it, and hey, if it can’t be love - he’ll take the pleasure too.

Overall, Fjolte is incredibly charismatic- even if that is quite easily read as cockiness, getting to know him reveals his deeper layers. He has endless energy and a vivid imagination which he puts to good use in his storytelling, and of course he cares very deeply about those he travels with, placing time spent with people forming connections and developing relationships as being more important than the task and mission at hand.

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Equipment:
*Specialist leather fingerless gauntlets.
*Red hand wraps that he wears wrapped around his waist, as a belt when not in use
*Light armour in the form of a crow-feather lined jacket, loose cropped pants with fur trims, and leather boots.
*A leg guard on his left leg to power his kicks.
*Steel Nordic Warhammer - Faithkeeper
*Several necklaces

Misc. Possessions:
* A copper prayer bell
* Incense cones
* A pouch of 'herbs'
* A smoking pipe
* Sleeping Tree Sap
* Coin purse with 84 septims

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Family and Associations:
*Berek Dhjarikson - Father - Alive
*Yvka Dhjarikson - Mother - Alive
*Helga Dhjarikson - Sister - Alive
*Honon the Fat - Brother-in-Law - Alive
*Astrid and Risica - Nieces - Alive
*Merna Antanius - Sister - Deceased
*Raelynn Hawkford - Friend/ex-Lover - Alive
*Daro’Vasora - ex-companion - Alive

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Favoured Skills:
Highly Proficient -
Hand-to-Hand



Speech

Moderately Proficient
Acrobatics
2H (Warhammer)

Somewhat Proficient
Athletics

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History:



I was once a warrior.

A man on a mission for blood like most Nords. I was raised with that warriors spirit. The Spitfire of Skyrim they called me, and even as a tiny tot I was swinging an axe. Of course, back then it was made of some flimsy wood. My father made it for me to play with and keep me occupied in an attempt to stop me from terrorising my sisters and mother while he was away. It wasn’t until I was 5 that I was given my first real axe! I know what you’re thinking, that’s a little old - you’d be correct. Anyway I looked after that weapon as if it were part of me, I chopped all of the firewood for my mother, took care of any rogue creatures that found their way onto our farm... You know, just regular Nord behaviour. I was a large and stocky child and so I was a trusted and vital part of our family unit - I was getting into work as soon as I could possibly do it. I’m a provider you see.

But here is where my story gets interesting… You might want to dim the lights and get real close for this… So I have two sisters - older. Absolute Hagravens the two of them. Helga and Merna, twins! They have 10 years on me, so as you can imagine when I was young they’d already become hormonal and tempestuous as women do. Like I said, Hagravens. Banshees. Demons. But, I did love them and they loved me too. Once I was around 11 years of age I had to protect them from unwanted attention and the like, they were at the marriage age and they had their fair amount of suitors. Us Dhjarikson’s are known for our looks you see. Helga and Merna didn’t really possess any kind of talent or propensity for anything of substance, if you ask me they were both a little bit spoilt and had never lifted one of their delicate little fingers to help in any meaningful way.

Hold up, I may have gotten ahead of myself. You can back up a little - get the lights back up. I need to tell you something else first.

So I was around 11 when I genuinely took up the art of the Two-Handed combat seriously. I trained under my father Berek who was known as a fearsome warrior throughout Rorikstead and the surrounding areas. I loved the weight and feel of a real Nordic Warhammer, and so that was what I trained with. He was a true blue Nord man of honour, and a damn good father too, cared about us all. I couldn’t have asked for better parents if I had tried. Sure, my mother would take her belt off and give me a hiding if I was being a young scamp, which was often… But she loved us. What I’m trying to sell here is a good family upbringing. You’re getting that aren’t you? Good.

So, by 16 I was off trekking with my father - we adventured together and I’ll be honest, it was some of the best times of my life. Cave crawling with ol’ Berek. Brings a tear to my eye to think about it now. I think we take for granted moments like those when we’re in them, it’s not until after the fact that we see them for what they were and find the real beauty. Anyway, I’m getting carried away. I have a tendency to do that… So I like to call this period of my life “The Good Times”. Father and I were making decent coin on hunts and the like, bonding as father and son only can. Must have lasted for about 4 years. 4 years of utter, violent bliss.

By that point, Helga and Merna had both married, Helga bore 2 daughters - my nieces! Astrid and Risica! Two beautiful little girls too, and boy did I spoil them rotten. Bought them all kinds of gifts, would visit and tell them my stories. They love their Uncle Fjolte, let me tell you. It helps that Helga is an amazing cook and she’d put on these huge feasts for our family which allowed us all to get together and reminisce about the old days and make new memories. I still remember Astrid trying her first ale at 8! Helga’s husband was a hell of a man too, he’d join us on hunts sometimes. If you think I’m big… Well, you should have seen Honon the Fat. I said that Helga was a good cook right? Well, yes she was and I suspect that’s why Honon just kept growing and growing and growing. He couldn’t get enough, and you know what? I think Helga loved him more for it. Anyway his appetite was for food and not violence and so he stopped travelling with us after a time. Stayed at home to raise his children. Now there was that unfortunate incident where he did spring a trap in a cave and lost an arm - but no, I don’t think that’s why he stopped.

But Merna… Well her husband was a rake of a man. Lean, with sharp features and dark, gaunt eyes. I don’t know what she saw in him. Oh and get this, he was an Imperial. I know. I know... But we let her do what she wanted. His name was Venato. You’re right, what kind of a name is that? I asked that question myself a few times. What I will say about Imperial’s though - on the whole they’re brave and honourable, right? Well this bastard wasn’t. He was a coward. I think he had been sickly as a child and just grew up without a spine. None of it made sense to me, anyway he wanted to take his wife back to Cyrodiil to meet his family. This is when it gets dark…

So, Merna was 30, had been married to Venato for about 5 years and yet only then did he think it was time to take her to Cyrodiil… I don’t know it made little sense to me at the time. So, he took her and we just… Never heard from her again, no letters, no updates - nothing. Something wasn’t right. My father travelled to Bruma to find her. We were all so worried - it had been months without a word, and I already explained how close of a unit we were, didn’t I? As it turned out, Merna and Venato were raided by bandits on the way to Bruma and she was kidnapped. That damned coward never told us, never fought for her, nothing - he just fled. It still makes me blood boil to think about it….

That’s when my life changed, anyway. I… would not stop searching for her. I spent a long time in a bloodthirsty rage looking for her, it took me two years if you can believe it. Following every lead I could. I believe my mother and father had mourned her but I never did. I was her brother - sworn to protect her from a young age like I was… I couldn’t give up. Gods, I even blamed the Imperials in general - and that’s what lead me to join the Stormcloaks during the rebellion you know. I wanted to get back at those pricks. Every Imperial I brought my Warhammer down on was Venato. Sorry, I’m getting off track...

My search for Merna was fruitless, there are countless bandit groups in Skyrim and Cyrodiil. It seemed each one was worse than the last. Eventually though - I found her, my Merna. She was in the wilds around Dawnstar. I don’t know exactly where, all I know is that she was in trouble and I went through that bandit camp in a berserker’s rage until I met their leader… He was dressed in bear furs - the head of a bear stretched over his helmet. A fearsome fellow…

Logvsim Scar-Fire

He was gnarled with burns, a gruesome individual - and he just… I’m ashamed to say it but he tore through me as if I was nothing but a piece of flimsy parchment. I was so angry and reckless. I didn’t know it then, but that’s why I lost. As I lay in the snow, sprawled and ready for death, my Merna - she gave him a killing blow. Stabbed him in the neck with a dagger. It wasn’t enough though and he instead used his last bit of strength to drop his… He just dropped his axe right through her. The sight still haunts me and I doubt it will ever truly be something I come to terms with.

I killed her, in the end. It was my fault she died - if only I’d mourned her like my parents, she might have still been alive. I wonder sometimes if she was there by choice and if she enjoyed the way of life of a bandit. These are answers that I robbed myself of because of my behaviour, it’s the closure that I’m forbidden from ever having. About 9 years ago now, seems like only yesterday.

So there I was, stumbling towards Dawnstar - bleeding out, life fading… That’s when I met her. Let me tell you, when you’re close to death everything seems so beautiful, and that’s the only word I can use to describe her. Beautiful. A young healer from the College I expect, sat astride a shining black horse. Her hair flowing to her hips, wrapped in fur, and cheeks pink from the cold. She was absolutely glowing. I still remember her first words to me, “what in Nirn did you do? You complete halfwit.” Off she got from the horse, used her magicka to patch me up and gave me a potion for the road. She of course, rode off and left me there. She may have taken my coin purse too - but I didn’t care. Let me tell you, I was completely enamoured.

With my second chance given to me, I continued on with the Stormcloaks - I was still one big angry bastard and I got a reputation for myself. They started calling me Fjolte the Slayer, and I loved it. People feared me. I was in peak physical shape, swinging my Warhammer into all of my adversaries, spraying blood against snow on a daily basis.

I fought at Windhelm… It was an absolute massacre, as soon as Ohdaviing came through - well we knew we were fucked. We still fought on though, I was lucky. I wasn’t touched by his flame, and I made it out with my life. I’m ashamed to say it but I stripped my colours from my body after the Imperial Empire’s victory. I was not without injury, and I stayed to help move some of the bodies - which is when I saw her again, for the second time. I’d recognise her anywhere. Dressed in white like some Priestess, only, she was covered in blood too - and older now, only by a couple of years but I could see it in her face. She was terrified and out of her depth and yet she was trying her best. I helped her out. I think staying by her side as she healed men from both sides was the only reason I didn’t get a sword put through me… She didn’t recognise me as the ‘halfwit’ from Dawnstar, probably for the best. I still remember what she said to me that day too, “get out of my way, you useless oaf.” Poetry, honestly.

It was a while more until I saw her again, I think the next time I saw her she was working in Taverns around Skyrim as a healer. Well, as I do - I got injured again and found my way to her. She didn’t recognise me as the ‘useless oaf’ from Windhelm, probably for the best. But this time we got to talking, she chastised me for carrying so much anger in me. Said it would put me in the grave, and that I had to calm myself down if I wanted to live a long life. She also said that I had terrible posture from carrying my axe the wrong way. I laughed in her face, but she was right. My whole life - I thought I was great with that weapon, turns out I was nothing but mediocre and incredibly lucky. She was feisty and brash that day, but she told the truth and I appreciated her all the more for it. She had looked me up and down and read me like a book. It was the kick up the arse I needed to start over.

That’s pretty much all of the darkness now, you don’t have to worry about any more. Quite a tale though, right?

I took the advice of that mage and I went… Oh, I don’t want to spout a cliche - but I went soul searching. It was in Elsewyr when I stumbled upon a group of travelling Khajiiti Monks, they were masters of the Whispering Fang technique and I was fascinated. I never did figure out why they let me travel with them for so long, let alone why they taught me in the way of Whispering Fang, but they did. I like to think that they just saw a man all alone in this world, carrying a great burden on his lofty shoulders. I don’t have the claws or the tail of a Khajiit, but they taught me all they knew, and for a Nord… Well, to my utmost surprise they said I was a natural at Hand-to-Hand.

They were gentle people, but deadly in combat. They taught me to step softly and gracefully, as well as to fight defensively and swiftly. They had me doing all kinds of things… From front flips, to back flips, to cartwheels, to diving off of cliff faces into cold waters. Sometimes I think I was just a source of entertainment to them, but they taught me a lot. My Khajiit brothers! I toast to them quite often. Why did I leave them, you ask? Well, I felt at that time in my life I had softened and changed. My anger was almost gone - but Skyrim called me back. There is something about Skyrim, isn’t there?

I bid them goodbye, and closed that chapter on my life. I was now 27 years old, with a new life ahead of me. There was one thing on my mind - the woman. Now, I’m not going to over-embellish. I was not the powerful Monk you see today back then, sure - I had some tricks up my sleeve and a powerful punch, but I wasn’t fully formed. I returned to my family! Helga, and her children were excited to see me and hear my stories of the world, my mother was too. But Berek… My father, well I could see in the way that he deflated that he was ashamed of me for burying my hammer, leaving the Stormcloaks and… well, fleeing. That’s what he saw. He saw a deserter. He could no longer see that I was a proud Nord. He just saw a travelled man who had shed his own heritage. I don’t blame him, I too used to take things at face value.

I doubt our relationship will ever be repaired. He tolerates me at best for the sake of keeping our family together, especially in the face of the tragedy of Merna. We barely share a word with each other at the feasts, but I pay it no mind. I still love him, and always will. I do not let his presence deter me from making my nieces, sister, and mother happy either. Of course, Honon the Fat is always overjoyed to hear my latest stories. In fact, it was the Fat Man himself who gave me my latest nickname - Fjolte the Fabler! I’m known throughout the lands for my tales of bravery.

Some people call me Fjolte, some call me Fabler - there are a few that still call me Slayer but they are few and far between. It’s not how I choose to live my life, I’m a lover not a fighter. Which of course brings me almost to the joyous climax of my story.

So I had known this woman for a few years now. Or well, I had encountered her a number of times already. This time, I would encounter her as a changed man! I chased the tales of the Witch Bitch of Riverwood, and I knew that was her. I knew it. I found her there, even more radiant and tempestuous than I had remembered. She didn’t recognise me, probably for the best. I exchanged some coin for her to check me over, let me tell you - she gave every rippled muscle an in-depth examination. I finally learned her name this time too, Raelynn. A name truly as beautiful as she was. Yet, she still admonished me - still she saw that I was arrogant and was holding tension through my whole body. She said I hadn’t let go of something yet, well I didn’t know what in Oblivion she was talking about, and that meeting did not end as I thought it would, but yet again she was right.

It made me angry, actually. Do you want to know what I did? I starting running up the 7000 steps to High Hrothgar. It felt good. That cold wind in my lungs the higher I got? Exhilarating. Dodging the Frost Troll towards the apex? Terrifyingly fun. So I met the Greybeards, anyway. Not surprising that they were still kicking around even after the Dovahkiin had nicked off elsewhere you know? But I started spending time up there. Practicing my arts in the courtyard, meditating with them.

They even taught me to shout, but honestly I was that good at it in the end they had to request that I never do it again or else it may rip a hole through all of Tamriel. Fair enough right? No, don’t ask me to demonstrate it, please, I made a promise.

I took the principles of the Whispering Fang and I moulded it to what I knew about being a Nord, aligned it to my body - made it mine. I don’t have a name for it, but if I did it would be the Singing Fist, with my secondary stance being the Steel Fist. Not that I’ve thought about it at all or anything.

I started paying attention to everything around me, found faith especially in Kyne. Sky, Air, Wind… You know what it is right? It’s breath, it’s life. It was learning to breathe again that allowed me to exhale all anger and hatred from my body. The cold air of High Hrothgar? It was her grace. But oh of course, I do worship the Divines now. I pray and meditate on them - they keep me on my path, they help me in my duty to get others on their path too. I was given so many chances and it brought me to this road. The least I can do is share my story - inspire, and… help others to find the light and to find fulfillment and happiness as I have.

Yes, it’s true - I took up treasure hunting in order to keep food in my stomach and a roof on my head most nights. It’s not a noble profession, but… I need to keep food in my stomach and a roof on my head. So I trawled Skyrim with my group, what a bunch of lads we were, looting through the day and knocking back ale through the night. We had such a camaraderie. You know, there was Ravar the Altmer mage, Ri’isa the shy and unassuming Khajiit - but if you got a drink down her she was as rowdy as us boys and told the dirtiest jokes! I travelled with an Argonian too, his name was Weeleel and he liked to tell riddles to occupy our minds on the long hikes. I met so many people from every walk of life imaginable.

There were those who would come and go too. I met a sassy young Khajiit woman called Daro’Vasora and she helped me out of a spell at one point, and the two of us celebrated that one after a few ales. Headstrong that one, I like that in a woman. Then Raelynn would sometimes come with us - shit, wait! Put a pause here.

So after I’d become a new man, again, I went back to Riverwood to see Raelynn, only she wasn’t there anymore, she’d moved on to greener pastures - literally! She was working in Riften. Well, I had to go and see her. I actually really did too because I’d finally found myself square on with that damn Frost Troll. I had an ice burn on my shoulder that I’d left unattended. Still have a slight scar you know, I’ll show you later. So the Frost Troll and I duked it out, I ended up landing a deadly punch on his nose that sent him flying off the edge of the mountain and tumbling down. It was a difficult fight, but he wasn’t really a match in the end once I hit my stride.

She scolded me for my stupidity and patched me up which at that point I’d recognised was par for the course with her, but when she was tending to me this time there was something warm about her - she even smiled at me a few times, she also laughed at my jokes and listened to my stories. I think she only rolled her eyes once. We may have gotten closer that night if you know what I mean...

So, back to camaraderie and treasure hunting! So Raelynn would join us every so often. She demanded a pretty price though, we all learned why she was known as the Witch Bitch… Difficult, spoilt, always ready to shove someone else in front of the trouble. But she was my friend, she’d helped me on my path so I let her get on with it.

I think that was my favourite part of it all. It wasn’t scoring the loot, it wasn’t the thrill of the hunt. It was the late nights around a campfire throwing back ales and eating our provisioned food - just talking. The brotherhood of it all. There were a lot of other women who came along with us too, each one found me charming and that was the other thing that I enjoyed so much - chasing the women. Each one a challenge in her own way. What can I say? I’m a lover, not a fighter.

I didn’t just booze up over a campfire either, I must have hit every tavern in Skyrim at least once. I’m no bard but I’m very partial to belting out my own songs, shuffling my way over the floorboards in a series of whirling dances. The ladies love it. So, my dancing may have been a bit suggestive for some of them, but for plenty it did the trick.

I was living the dream - had a good group of friends and comrades by my side and then it seemed like the world was plunged into chaos overnight when the Dwemer arrived. It seems like a complete blur to me how I wound up in this prison, in Hammerfell of all places - but I know that we fought like true Nords when we were apprehended in the western mountains. I really suppose that’s how I found myself here… Thrown in chains on a cart and dragged from place to place until they finally threw me in this cell. And for what? I’ll never know.

Some people would say I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but me? Well my brother, I think I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Kynareth herself blew me this way for a reason, and I guess we’re about to learn why...

Standing proud at 6’5”, Fjolte is tall even by Nord standards. He is well built too, years of keeping himself physically fit has given him a well muscled body. He is absolutely solid, and stays this way by practicing his martial arts, and with acrobatic acts as part of a regular morning routine. He has a typically strong jawline for his race, gifted to him by his father. His eyes are ocean blue and of a thin almond shape. Were it not for his constant smile, they might appear to be intense and overly piercing. He has several thin scars across his face, most noticeably over his forehead, and a diagonal scar across his cheek.

He has bronze brown hair that falls to his shoulder blades and is worn tousled and thrown back, the sides either shaved down and clipped short, or braided and adorned with copper rings and beads of various shades and styles. He has been frequently likened to a lion, his size and overt energy doing very little to discourage the comparison. He keeps his beard trimmed more as subtle stubble under his lower lip to his chin, and over his jawline.

For such a sturdy man, Fjolte has a soft air around him, and a warm, infectious smile that could light up a room. His fun and easy-going personality takes over his appearance at times and he is not in the least bit intimidating. That said, when it comes to matters of the heart - and when it comes to protecting his friends or standing up for his beliefs, then it can all melt away in a second. These times are extremely rare, and it pains him to ever have to get serious enough to have to rely on pure intimidation.

Fjolte chooses to dress casually in light armour at all times. Opting for a simple cotton waistcoat jacket lined with crows feathers around the neck - were it not for the two polished silver brooch buttons studded with blue quartz, it wouldn’t be remarkable at all. It is absolutely not typical of Nord fashion, and he actually had the jacket made in Elsewyr from a an old cotton shirt of his, and the feathers were collected by Fjolte from the top of a mountain in a nest which he climbed as part of his training with the Whispering Fang monks. The jacket is a reminder of his journey, and thus, is one of his most prized possessions and he feels honoured to wear it.

He has a tattoo over his left shoulder, traveling down his entire chest to his waist. An abstract depiction of a bird in flight.

A braggadocious shit talker. This is how you would describe Fjolte upon first impression. Over the years he has managed to adopt a personality of pure arrogance and overconfidence. He has spent much of his recent years as the de facto leader of his ever changing band of misfits, and this has given him cause to act in such a way - he is an entertaining, charismatic young man who doesn’t take life too seriously, but can’t resist embellishing his achievements to those who will listen. Those who take him at the face value are very often proved completely wrong, given enough time.

He is very extroverted, and finds it natural and easy to communicate with others from all walks of life. The interest that he has in others is genuine and well-meaning, almost to a fault – he can often become too involved problems and his trait of empathy means that sometimes he will mistakenly carry other people's problems and make them his own. More often than not, putting his trust in others has helped them become better people in the end. To help people is something he sees as his duty in life. With that said, he will never push at people when they are not ready, and he knows that some people are beyond his help, by his nature he is not overbearing.

Fjolte can at times be too sensitive, it’s easy for him to take things to heart and feel others problems when that aren’t his own, getting lost in trying to fix them, worrying if he is doing enough. His self esteem has a tendency to eb and flow too, with constant worrying of whether he can live up to his ideals. It hits him especially hard if he fails in a task, more so if it was something meaningful and sentimental in nature. As someone who values relationships and friendship over most things in life, Fjolte finds it near impossible to make tough decisions, especially if he is against the clock, he gets too caught up in weighing up potential consequences that he misses the chance to take action.

Of course, he is incredibly flirtatious, using his charisma to win him over with members of the opposite sex. He takes great pleasure in getting to know new people, and his charisma makes it easy for him to work his way into the lives of those he meets, whether that is in a large or small capacity. He leaves an impression. That’s not to say that he can’t act the dashing rogue to impress however - often reading his would-be suitor and changing his approach on the fly. He loves love, and will do just about anything for it, and hey, if it can’t be love - he’ll take the pleasure too.

Overall, Fjolte is incredibly charismatic- even if that is quite easily read as cockiness, getting to know him reveals his deeper layers. He has endless energy and a vivid imagination which he puts to good use in his storytelling, and of course he cares very deeply about those he travels with, placing time spent with people forming connections and developing relationships as being more important than the task and mission at hand.

Whispering Fang - Quick and deadly jabs, swift on his feet, uses his environment to turn the tide of a fight. Fjolte was taught as much of this method as he could learn by Khajiit monks in Elsewyr. His Nord physique made it impossible to fully adopt, since the style relies heavily on the use of the Khajiit’s claws and tail. It was his first foray into Hand-to-Hand style, and became the skeleton to develop his own…

Singing Fist - Using breathing techniques, Fjolte moves defensively to wear out his opponent, powering up his punch to land on specific parts of the body to inflict the most damage and take the least stamina from himself. He doesn’t believe that you should hurt anyone more than is necessary, and his deadly Singing Fist can knock down an opponent in a single hit if he lands it at a particular spot. This technique was developed in High Hrothgar after meditating with the Greybeards, it is perfectly aligned to his body and unique to him.

Steel Fist - Another of his own creations, similar to Singing Fist, but far more offensive and aggressive. He makes use of heavy punches and low kicks, wearing his opponents down by delivering punches to the body and heavy low kicks as well as elbow and knee strikes. This stance places him closer to his opponent, relying more on strikes unlike with his Singing Fist which is very acrobatic and places him away.

When stood upright, Dro’Sintaba reaches an unnerving 6’7”. Paired with his strong physique and incredible musculature, he is a sight to behold in his complete glory, and yet the Cathay-raht carries himself in a slouched posture and stoops ever so slightly —as if he is weighed down by something heavy. Despite this, he still manages to move with an impressive and intimidating gait - his stride powerful and confident. His habit of walking in this way has caused him to have been mistaken after dark for a werewolf more times than he would be keen to admit, and his jet-black fur does little to disarm this notion. Upon closer inspection, (if he lets you close enough), one can make out the faint traces of rich charcoal markings amongst the black fur, most prominently across his forehead over the bridge of his nose, under his eyes.

Dro’Sintaba’s eyes are an unusually bright and piercing green, that on a kinder face would be considered breathtakingly beautiful. On him, however, they just burn and simmer slowly with an indomitable intensity. It has been said that he can look right through a person in a single glance, and those who have met his eyes on a dark day can attest to this. In contrast, when engaging in his quieter pursuits - Dro’Sintaba wears a pair of bespoke spectacles that were made for him by a jewel smith and old flame. They fit him perfectly and frame his eyes in such a way that they shrink the menacing aura he carries. Occasionally there is a softness to his eyes - usually when he is relaxed, and especially when he is tired and in need of sleep. Carefree and calm is a mood that comes to him so seldom that when reaching it, his entire physique, (especially his expression) does seem to change.

He is made of solid corded muscle that defies his age and he dresses his body well. The Khajiit is particularly fond of his smart woolen overcoat, in a striking umber shade that is lined across the shoulders with the fur of a black bear. His colour of choice is green, and when not in his coat, he can be found to be wearing loose and light tunics and scarves that cover a spectrum of green hues. There is an air of stylish sophistication to him, a regal quality of masculine confidence. He wears the clothes, they do not wear him.

His voice is a low grumble, a growling and forceful whisper most of the time. In his moments of quietude, he can speak with the inflections that allude to his deep intelligence and wisdom, choosing his words wisely as a philosopher of old might. He can be a soft and purring gentleman when relaxed - but the gravel still remains, constraining the power of an explosive roar that reverberates in his chest when unleashed.

In vulnerable moments, he likes to think he is simply Sintaba. The once ambitious and scholarly Cathay-raht, who was always smiling and proud, gentle and optimistic of his future. An astute eye would observe in the lines of his brow, and the softness of his relaxed gaze that a humble gentility still sits there, and that all has not yet been drained and squeezed from him.

Quiet, contemplative, kindly. Three simple words that he wished would be the first that would be used to describe him. Instead, he is usually described as menacing and severe. Such descriptors are not entirely false either, as Dro’Sintaba has an enigmatic intensity to his personality that makes him notoriously difficult to get to know, worsened only by his size and appearance. He is the book that is judged by its cover, and he tends to hold most people that he meets at an arm's length. To save them from discovering the weary man that he really is.

The cover is not the book, only the shield.

Dro’Sintaba is not without a degree of charisma, however, and he is not always beholden to his personal demons. Beneath his initial harsh exterior, there is a genuine empathic and natural leader who works tirelessly for others to keep them safe. To those he does let in beyond the walls - they will never know a more loyal friend. Often times he has shelved his dream of returning to his own family in order to save yet another helpless soul. As such, he has lived a very humble life away from his home in Elsweyr, and he possesses very little - despite having the means to afford much of whatever he’d like.

The Cathay-raht tends to hide behind his sharp intelligence and wit, deflecting those that dare to question him by finding their weaknesses and pointing them right back. Friends, colleagues, and foes have thus far all been held in much of the same regard by him. Just temporary acquaintances that will soon become ghosts to his memory when he moves on again.

As much as he clutches to the memories of his wife and their happy marriage, to the idea that he is the perfect husband and family man, he has not been able to resist the temptation of adultery throughout the years. It is something that brings him a deep shame, and he won’t discuss it openly but he has had flings and minor relationships during his marriage and separation from Ko’Ahanna. He is drawn like a moth to a flame to the opposite sex, knowing that they are just as drawn to him. After all, he is an enigma. An exotic adventure to later become a story to tell - dangerous and fearsome but with a mellow side far beyond that of most thugs.

Above all else, he is pragmatic and incredibly intelligent with an exceptional cunning streak that has given him something of a reputation as both a dirty fighter and strategist rolled into one. He is certainly not above using corrupt tactics to win, for he is a man who must win. There are few that know of him that will challenge him to an intellectual debate or even an argument. His intelligence shines when discussing his quieter passions, and his guard drops significantly. He finds a great amount of comfort and joy in music and literature. Dro’Sintaba can hold honest and meaningful conversations for hours about novels he has read, of music he has heard, and of paintings he has seen. It is not entirely unusual for him to be moved to tears by good music, or by characters written on the pages of a book.

Biggest Regret: His biggest regret of course was ever leaving Riverhold. If he could do it all again, he wouldn’t answer the knock that brought him to his life of violence, life away from his family. He regrets never meeting his third daughter, and he regrets leaving Kesdar and Ranja behind.

Dro’Sintaba‘s Goal: To return at last after seventeen long years to his family. To finally meet his daughter. To try to make amends with his wife and have something of a normal, quiet life - even if he knows that dream died long ago… Part of him knows this, and yet there is a part of him that simply won’t let go and move on.

Relyssa is short of height (approx 5’2”) with a waifish figure. She has no scars, something that surprises her - that she has made it to 30 and never received a scar. Her skin is mostly still smooth and soft, a result of having lived a good life with access to oils and herbs that keep one looking beautiful. In recent years she has found that she has begun to weather, but her face shows the subtle and very early signs of aging, lines appear when she makes certain expressions, something that she absolutely abhors.

Unlike the rest of her body, her lips stand out for being full. She has a round, soft face, with high cheekbones. Her ears have that slight signature pointed tip and her eyebrows are arched - both signal to her Elvish ancestry. She has large steel blue eyes, which stand out against her light skin. Her eyes are expressive and to find out how she is feeling, one would only need to look at her eyes to see them bright with happiness, wide with fear, or an eyebrow pointed and raised in disgust.

She keeps her waist length hair tied tightly into braids, with only a few strands framing her face. Relyssa treasures her hair, and keeps it groomed with oils and floral essences at all times. The colour is that of her family - a cool ash blonde, that is almost silver in tone.

She wears embroidered mage robes (she never did like the plain clothing worn by most mages). She will wear clothes that are either black, violet, or lavender in hue. She does not always dress in mages robes, and will sometimes dress down into more casual attire. Even her 'casual attire' is more colourful and ornate than others. To Relyssa, looking the part of a Lady is important. She is rarely seen without a jeweled headpiece.

As a first impression to most, Relyssa would seem soft spoken and friendly. This is all part of a more questionable mirage to lure in those who would need her help. As a healer she swore an oath to heal those who were suffering with disease and injuries - and she treats those who come to her with empathy, understanding, and great respect... If they can afford it.

She is incredibly manipulative and calculating in order to get what she wants. She wasn't always this way - at least not so much so. She can weigh people up on the fly, sensing just enough about them to decipher how she should act. Living and traveling in Skyrim of all places has shown her that everyone is out to obtain something, no matter how they present themselves on the outside… Every interaction that she has is pre-calculated, motivated, and for her own gain - to take her one step closer to her goals. The Breton has a remarkable talent at being whoever you want her to be...

Relyssa knows that her value as a healer and her level of skill in the art is worth a lot of gold, jewels, and other rare treasures. After all, what is more valuable to the average man than being able to live another day? Definitely not what he looted on his last adventure, the very trinket that he got injured for.

When she becomes more comfortable around people, she will begin to drop her initial honey-sweet and fake facade, allowing her temper, harsh personality, and snobbishness to appear. She will often become passionate in her speech. In her life, Relyssa has only met a small handful of individuals who have been able to really get past the walls she has so cunningly built around herself. These are usually the people who call her out on her schemes, and are the very few who see through her. Relyssa also has a snarky and sarcastic way of talking, and remains unbothered about crossing lines and offending people with her lack of tact and sharp tongue.

She can be impatient and hot-headed, and will scold those she travels with for errors of judgement, even though she is not the kind of person who would step in to prevent them in the first place. She relies on those 'less fortunate' than herself to do the dirty work on excursions. After all, why should she dirty up a robe when the Nord in front is more than willing to do it to win her favour?

Ultimately, Relyssa is on her own journey to fulfill her desire for adventure and to gain power and riches beyond that of normal men, she wants her name to be in books - she wants to be remembered as Royalty. To live as a mere peasant? She would rather die.

Relyssa was born in 4E175, Daggerfall, to wealthy parents. Two respected Breton merchants and traders of exquisite antiquities. Her mother, Elayne, was an excellent craftswoman too - she made the most beautiful clothing for the ladies of High Rock - embellishing gowns with jewels and coloured threads. She had tried to teach her daughter the ways of her craft, but Relyssa had other ideas - she just wanted to dress in the gowns and would rather read books and listen to her father's stories about all of the hidden artifacts around Tamriel - about the magical items and hidden caches of gold littered throughout the provinces.

Relyssa had a comfortable upbringing. She never went without luxuries like great food, fashionable attire, and beautiful jewelry. This is the lifestyle that she grew accustomed too. One day, her Father was holding a golden crown that he had procured for a Lord to present to his Lady somewhere in High Rock. She wasn't really listening, she was too transfixed by the shimmering diamonds set into the crown. Everything fell silent when she gazed upon the treasure. At one point, she even licked her lips. Nothing compared to when she actually held it in her hands. She felt... Power. Her eyes were big as she stared at it, seeing her reflection in those flawless diamonds. She wanted nothing more than to have dozens of these crowns for herself. Her poor Father had to prize it from her hands - when she wasn't holding it anymore she felt an emptiness inside. Suddenly she didn't care what she had to do, how many people she had to climb over and stomp on to get it, she was going to have treasures like this of her own one day.

At night, Relyssa would read books on Tamriel, reading about great mages throughout history who had done amazing things, and of adventurers who fought down beasts and enemies to attain magical prizes, and of the hidden secrets scattered through the world. She wanted to be an adventurer, but she didn't really want to get her hands dirty - or put herself front and centre in battle. Such an introverted lifestyle caused her to grow up without very many friends - this was her choice. She didn’t have time for it, there was so much to learn and do instead.

Eventually her parents grew tired of her spoilt ways; and perhaps they both sensed that Relyssa also desired for more. Elayne and Alastaire were frustrated. They had an intelligent daughter with aspirations - that they had spent too long coddling and looking after to the point where she would quite happily stay in the family home forever. It was not an ideal situation - the couple had their own plans for the future too and it was very clear that Relyssa was not going to be taking over either of their businesses any time soon. Not to mention that Alastaire was finding it increasingly more difficult to keep his daughter's mitts off his artifacts. She knew how to press her father, and push his buttons into giving her what she wanted. They were left with no choice, no choice but to shift her out and into the real world.

They wanted to give her a gentle push in the right direction. The two concocted a plan; they spoke with their friends and found that among their circle of acquaintances, there was a couple in a similar financial situation to them with a son named Lazenne. He wasn't the most attractive or interesting young Breton in Daggerfall. So for that reason, he was perfect. There would be no way that their daughter would wed him, and so it might be the trick to getting her out - to get off her backside and to finally be independent and follow her own path - and more importantly it would seem to her like she was choosing her new life and that she had gotten one over on her parents.

When Relyssa met Lazenne, she laughed hysterically in his face. The poor boy had actually thought he was getting himself a prize wife too. There was no way she would be married to such a... weakling. So, following the natural inclination of her race to wield magic, she was finally prompted to request to join a local Synod Chapter in Daggerfall, where she began learning the art of curative and restorative magic.

She had been feeling that this Synod was not for her, and instead chose to leave her home of High Rock to attend the College of Winterhold in Skyrim to study her chosen discipline even further (her parents were overjoyed! They would at last have their home to themselves again!) During her time as an apprentice of the College, she faced teasing from her peers for sticking solely to Restorative magic. This made her choose a secondary discipline of magic to study and she chose Conjuration - even if she never particularly paid attention.

She made a friend of sorts in Collete Marence at the College, although Collete did find her quite offputting and brash - and could sense that Relyssa's ulterior motives were not so squeaky clean. She was clearly very talented at her craft, and intelligent too, and it's not as if young mages were flocking to the College in droves to learn how to be healers, so Collete continued to mentor her, trying her best to teach the Breton to be softer, more honest, more sincere.

As with her growing boredom of the Synod, Relyssa got bored of the libraries and four walls of the College after some years. She grew tired of the bitter cold, the terribly plain food, and the putrid smells which wafted through the corridors and congregated in her chamber of all places. She began to dream of practicing her magic out in the field, going on adventures and making gold. With the blessing of Colette Marence, she left the College to travel the rest of Skyrim.

She found herself frustrated on her travels. Adventurers didn't pay her all that much for her magic, nor did they ever seem to want to share the spoils. She had to think of something else. She had to take matters into her own hands when those she traveled with didn't get any injuries for her to heal or even want to split anything with her. After all, if she didn't have to patch someone up then she definitely wouldn't be getting paid...

So began her stint as a Tavern Healer. She would treat adventurers who would stumble into taverns with wounds and ailments. First she would ply them with alcohol and sweeten them up with her charm. She found she was especially successful and buttering up loud and clumsy Nord men. How they loved her petite frame and mane of silver hair. Once they had gotten sufficiently wrapped around her finger, she found it much easier to get them to empty their pockets to her...

During these years, she picked up a few new skills from those she travelled with. Until this point in her life she had not really had a need to learn any offensive combat skills. A traveling companion quickly told her that while a spell may keep disease at bay, a dagger or two hidden inside a cloak is likely to save her life.

In dungeons and crypts, she would always place herself between the two largest members of the party - the ones that would best be able to defend her. She got used to sizing up new comrades. Finding the weakest link in the chain. Spotting the clumsier ones - they were to be avoided. She could also pick out the ones who were most likely to suss her out. It was usually other women.

There was a few times when she found herself in dire situations in the middle of an adventure. One such time stood out to her. Her party became surrounded by Draugr, and something enchanted the room, preventing them from using their Magicks. Surrounded by eight Draugr, she backed up to the wall and let the party fight. The best she could do was throw a rock at the smallest Draugr. She had no use of magic, so could not call upon her familiar to do her bidding. She had been buttering up the Axe-Wielding Nord the night before they entered the crypt - and so the absolute fool got himself in a lick of trouble to stop a bigger Draugr from making a kebab of Relyssa.

The Nord stopped the attack, his armour absorbing the hit but Relyssa heard bones crunching and they didn't belong to the Draugr - she could see that the Nord's shoulder had popped out of place. His adrenaline stopped him from noticing right away and he made a mess of the Draugr, before turning to Relyssa with a smile. She was surprised he didn't come out with a "M'lady" for good measure. After that the magicka came back, and she summoned the familiar - but it was quite a bit too late. The Draugr had been bested, and now she had to put her skills to the test to get the Nord back up and running.

She firmly held his upper arm with her tiny hands, placing her heel into his side. She wasn't a strong woman by any means, but she could work with muscle and bone with ease. It was just like slotting something back into place. She told the Nord to count to ten - and on five she pushed and clicked his shoulder back into its socket with ease. He absolutely felt it. Then came the "M'lady".

During the time of the Dragonborn, Relyssa found herself amongst the aftermath of dragon attacks rather frequently. She would come across the bodies of the burnt. The sight of their armour that had melded to their skin gave them the appearance of steel men, of crumbled statues. There was nothing she could do help them. Some of the scenes she witnessed absolutely traumatised her, giving her an intense fear of fire and flames. She tries to keep this a secret from those she meets, for fear of showing any weakness and vulnerability.

It was these events that tainted Skyrim for her, witnessing the carnage and aftermath of Dragon attacks in 4E201 that left an incredibly sour taste in her mouth for the wilds of the province. She’d witnessed so much pain and bloodshed that she knew she needed a break from it. And so, she returned to High Rock and spent four years working as a Merchant with her father, Alastaire . Here, she was able to spend quality time with her parents and learn skills that she hadn’t used before - in particular her speechcraft. At the same time, she continued to practice as a healer in the back room of her father’s shop - trading the taverns for something more comfortable and permanent, and battle bloodied-nords for posh Breton’s with naught but grazed knees and minor illnesses. It wasn’t long until her greediness and power-hungry nature got the better of her, and she started working behind Alastaire ’s back to procure more dangerous items. Hiring mercenary groups to do the dirty work for her and deliver her artifacts, forbidden tomes, and enchanted weapons.

Presently, Relyssa is on the brink of her next big adventure - A little bird had informed her that a guest at a banquet in the Kingdom had in his possession a piece of very valuable jewellery that had once belonged to her family. Using her silver tongue, she found herself a way to get to the banquet to procure it once more, and has hired the help of a new mercenary group to obtain it.

Major: Intelligence
Minor: Personality

Expert - Restoration (Healing)
Adept - Medicine, Alchemy, Speech, Conjuration
Novice - Lockpicking, Dual-Wield (Blade - dagger)

Physically Weak
Relyssa is by no means a fit and strong woman. She has never needed to be, with the ability to manipulate others into taking on responsibilities for her. She cannot fight against enemies in a way that a trained fighter can. She has daggers for desperate situations, but she prefers to never have to be in a desperate situation. Such low strength also means that Relyssa’s stamina leaves little to be desired. She is barely athletic and so can be outrun by pretty much anyone.

Pyrophobia
She has a phobia of wild fire, and will shrink in the face of destruction mages and be unable to act - reminders of Dragon attacks hold many traumatic memories for her. She can sit around a campfire, and feels safe by a hearthfire - but fire Magicka scares her terribly.

Abusive Bigmouth
She’s a gossip, basically. Her words will often come back to bite her, and yet she continues to play people - it’s in her nature. But she will often have to face the consequences of her mind games. Such a personality trait means she can have difficulty forming genuine relationships and being trusted by others.

Pride Before a Fall
Relyssa is the very definition of Pride. She is entirely preoccupied with herself and would cut off her nose to spite her face. She is incredibly vain, and will opt to forgo armour and practical clothing if she can get away with it.

Fast Healing
Healing Hands
Greater Ward
Heal Other
Close Wounds
Grand Healing

Conjure Familiar

Relyssa is an incredibly skilled healer who has developed her own methods using lesser known techniques like meditation and deliberate breathing to be precise in her control of her Magicka. Despite her greed surrounding much of her motivations as a healer - she takes incredible pride in her work and will never let anyone leave with a scar or without being in the finest health. She is arrogant in her abilities too, she knows that she is the best at what she does and has the skills to back it up - and she will let you know that too.

She will stay out of the line of fire, retreating to the back and giving out Wards to those in front. In dire circumstances she will conjure her familiar, the Wolf, who acts in tune with her emotions. If she is scared, the Wolf will be far more aggressive and direct in its attack, if she is hurt or injured it will move to a position of strong defense. As well as her conjuration, she carries on her person spell scrolls of Destruction for situations in a pinch. She would have people believe otherwise, however. That they are to sell and make a profit from.

- Alastaire Deserine - Father (Alive)
- Elayne Deserine - Mother (Alive)
- Colette Marence - Teacher/Mentor (Alive)
- College of Winterhold - Ex-Student

178 Septims

3 x lockpicks

Small Knife and Bowl

Casual
A deep violet boned sleeveless jacket of embroidered jacquard streaked with golden thread. Worn with a pair of gold and cream cropped trousers. A ruby amulet around her neck, and a headpiece with a ruby set into the centre. A pair of two-pronged heeled metal sandals that would be entirely impractical for anything other than indoor work.

Armour *Light Armour
A black tunic dress held in place by a thick leather belted corset, with a fringing over the short skirt to cover her thighs. The dress is worn off the shoulder, but has long sleeves tucked into gloves. Leather thigh high boots complete the simple look.

2 x Steel Dagger

2 x Potion of Minor Restoration
1 x Potion of Minor Magicka

Destruction spell scrolls
Scroll of Chain Lightning
Scroll of Lightning Bolt
Exploding Shock Spider

Amulet of speech
Silver Ruby Ring
Ruby Crown/Headpiece

Letter from parents
A basic alchemy journal

Small cloth pouch full of dried blue mountain flowers, lavender sprigs, and other flowers

A leather satchel, medium sized

A journal in which she writes her thoughts
Quill and ink

Avery stands tall and proud at 5’7 and weighs approximately 140 lbs, she has an enviable curvaceous physique which sets her apart from many of the more dainty and demure women of the Lord’s courts. She has pale skin bearing peach undertones that she highlights with light sweeps of bronze makeup around her sharp cheekbones. She has fuller lips, but unevenly so - with the upper lip being thinner with a well defined cupid's bow. Despite her overall fondness for make-up, she prefers not to wear lipsticks unless it’s a special occasion. When she smiles, it is clearly a mischievous one that reflects her mind at work - brimming with ideas.

Her thick and angular brows provide the perfect frames for her unusual eyes. The Sorceress is well known for her heterochromia. Her right eye is the colour of amethyst, and the left an emerald green, under normal circumstances the colours individually are not particularly special - but she has a habit of using her magic to enhance their brightness and make them appear far more enchanting. This is usually as an aid to hypnotise or lure people to her. Said eyes are darkened significantly with further makeup and a soft black kohl lines her them and she applies a soft, glittering copper powder to her lids. One further detail of note around her eyes is a large freckle just beneath the right - it is unknown whether or not she was born with this complimenting imperfection.

She has rich brown hair, the colour of chocolate, that falls in soft layers to her collarbones. Very few know this, as she opts to keep it well-groomed in a mid-set bun or a chignon - only well styled strands are left to frame the angles of her face. It is very rare that the Sorceress will let her hair down, and there is often some kind of bejewelled hairpin holding everything in place. One such piece that she owns, is a very ornate, coiled golden snake with rubies beset into it as eyes, which she will occasionally wear wrapped around her bun with the face staring out behind her almost menacingly. Some have whispered that this is so that Avery can have eyes in the back of her head if need be, and on days where she is said to be wearing it her peers will avoid walking behind her.

Sorceresses are known to take pride in their wardrobes, and Avery is no exception to that. She opts for colourful garments in warm hues and shades of purple that show off her svelte figure. She has a preference for monochromed cigarette trousers, and loose fitting, low cut tunics in silks and chiffon, and will always choose clothes that are practical but somewhat strange and out of place. Clothing can be a way to stand out in a crowd and she is not afraid to do that, and in fact almost relishes in it. She appreciates detailing, and while some of her clothes appear simple, one would notice upon close inspection that her buttons are etched into miniature copper roses, or that the hand-stitching was done in golden thread - there is always an extravagant detail, even if it happens to be small.

Upon a first impression, Avery seems to perpetuate the Sorceress stereotype - aloof, cunning, and concerned entirely with her beauty and youth. She carries herself with an almost quiet charisma and charm, she is not particularly extroverted, but instead has a certain je ne sais quoi, a cool effervescence that is hard to define. However, there are more layers underneath her deliberately constructed surface - often contradicting with one another.

She acts in an advisory position to political figures despite having a natural disliking for authority, choosing to remain neutral and only ever really living by the laws of her own whims. In her profession, she has an honest, direct style of communication that isn’t held back by perceived social roles or expectations. This is something that most of those that she advises do not appreciate, but when Avery is right, she’s right - just try and convince her otherwise. She can be pragmatic and despite her own personal feelings around politics she will genuinely give the best advice that she can. In some ways, she takes her role as an advisor as if it’s her own way of keeping those in charge in line.

She has built a good reputation for herself in her work, in that despite her sharper edges she is of sound mind and has a level of wisdom and political nous about her that is not commonplace, and usually only found in Mages. For this, she is very valued where she is. Avery does not settle into submission easily, and can be very intransigent - keeping most people at a decent arms length from her. She does not blindly follow precedents and so called rules, and she dislikes authority figures who uphold them without room for critical thinking. That said, she knows her audience, and as a natural empath with proficiency into magic of the mind, she is incredibly shrewd and can read people quickly and knows how to act and treat them depending on what she may want from them. She can agree to disagree if it benefits her later down the line to do so...

Being respected by those in high places has allowed Avery a certain advantageous freedom to pry into the lives of others, and conduct her own business almost completely under the radar. While she remains somewhat formal on the surface - it is mostly to keep people at quite a distance from her and protect her own emotional energy. Behind closed doors she has her own ways of enjoying herself, and she is perfectly capable of switching from a passionate, driven idealist to an imaginative and enthusiastic free spirit. She delights in causing playful and (mostly) harmless chaos - behaving in a mischievous manner to toy with people that she believes should be brought down a notch. She can easily use misdirection and cunning manipulative tactics to protect herself from being discovered as the source of such devilry.

While people in general annoy and drain her, (save for a few select individuals), she has a great amount of compassion for animals - with cats being a particular favourite. She enjoys their nature, finding them in a way familiar to herself. She gravitates toward more introverted, intelligent people when seeking friendships and relationships. She has very little patience for shallow individuals, even less so for lewd ones.

She has a strong belief that her position as a Sorceress coupled with her appearance attract the sort of men whom she does not find interesting on anything other than a superficial level. She has no desire to be a notch on a bedpost or the simple, exaggerated subject of a story between drunken men as they brag about conquests with each other. It may well be rooted in arrogance, but Avery is waiting for someone different than the usual crowd - someone worthy of her time and affection. Paradoxically, growing up, she was never shown much love or affection by her family and so has always felt somewhat unworthy of it in the first place. It is a concept she is wholly unfamiliar with, and she will avoid discussion of it for the most part. What Avery does know about love, romance, and affection has been learned through reading very unrealistic depictions in romance novels. She has never been fully intimate with another person, and it is perhaps her deepest secret. The very fact that she does not shy away from acting seductive, and her habitually immodest appearance has so far kept people from discovering her abstinence.

Specialty - Telempathy
A natural empath since childhood, now amplified by magic, Avery is able to feel into the emotions of those around her. At one time, this process was entirely involuntary, which caused her a great deal of emotional distress as a child. As she developed, so did her ability to drown it out and even begin to use it for her own advantage by manipulating individuals based on the way they are feeling. Using this information, she can create illusions of the mind. Sometimes this presents as showing someone their greatest fear, or pacifying them with beautiful imagery or a memory.

Magic

Offensive
For what is a Sorceress without the power to decimate her enemies? In Avery’s case, her element of choice is Air, and she favours the use of storm magic and aerokinesis when in battle, whether that be by bringing in cloud cover, creating a thick fog, or literally wielding lightning in her palm. As well as air, she uses Geokinesis quite often, and in creative ways to excellent effect. The illusions and conjurations that Avery specialises in have also been known to attack an enemy more than any flesh wound, but these require time that isn’t always afforded in the heat of battle.

Defensive
Because Chaos doesn’t always have to be chaotic, and can in fact be incredibly useful in dangerous battles. Avery can create shields and barriers that can hold off vicious attacks for a limited time. It has saved her from great injury many times.

Alchemy
Avery’s knowledge of alchemy is far more basic than she’d like, she chooses to spend her studying time in spellbooks to make her spells more potent, precise, and effective. That said, she is smart enough to realise that potions and alchemical creations are incredibly useful in a pinch... And she can make her own beauty products.

- A small messenger style bag;
- Foragers knife, rolled parchment, a quill and ink, and select alchemical goods;
- Pouch of sugared almonds to snack on, a handful of sugar cubes;
- Pouch of small animal bait (cats)
- A small compact mirror
- A vial of perfume

-Jewel embellished dagger; An ornate steel dagger with a bronzed hilt, beset with emeralds to the pommel which is engraved like a rose. Hardly threatening and rarely used, but nice to carry around all the same.

-Megascope; She keeps a Megascope in her quarters, packing it away to use only when needed, as Winifred in particular is fond of climbing on it and swatting at the crystals on each stand.

Race: Asari
Gender: Mono-Gendered
Age: 286 - 1898CE
Class: Adept
Homeworld: The Citadel

Naryxa is a typical Asari in appearance, her skin tone is a light and muted lilac, her scalp crests taking a much deeper shade of blue towards the end with the colour applying in a pattern. She has white freckles that frame her forehead, temples, and her cheeks. The strips of freckles help to highlight each individual crest. The same bright freckles travel down the back of her neck and spine. She stands tall and proud at 5'9" and weighs approximately 142lbs.

During her time as a mercenary, Naryxa, like many other young Asari mercenaries, took facial tattoos. The bright red, drastic patterning above her eyebrows is always eye-catching to others, especially so when set against her amber coloured eyes. She chooses to further draw attention to the bold colour by painting her lips in a similar shade. The tribal-like curved style and bold colour choice gives her an overall sensual appearance on her face, and can appear dominating to some. She has no other tattoos or unusual markings, however she does have a scar from a battle in which she took a clipping shot from a Batarian sniper on the outside of her upper right arm.

Naryxa usually radiates a warm glow when she smiles that puts people at ease rather quickly and disarms feelings of hesitation. She carries a sincerity in her smile that so many Asari do. That said, her demeanour can quickly shift from that to something more stern when something has displeased her.

She has a full and voluptuous feminine figure that years of dancing has given her. When not in armour, Naryxa wears light and loose fitting clothing - opting for a blend of comfort, fashion, and functionality. She likes clothing that allows her to stretch during yoga. She is not particularly vain and is relaxed about her appearance. She doesn't feel the need to be overly vain, and pays no attention to whether or not a garment is expensive. The only exception to this is when she goes out at night, she will wear heavy eye make-up, bright lipsticks, and revealing dresses.

One could say that there are two sides to Naryxa - a human friend once lamented that the Asari must be a Gemini. Truthfully, she just keeps a very balanced approach to life. While working on a task, in the field and on missions, she is calm under pressure, methodical and organised. She absolutely requires her strong work ethic to be reciprocated by those she works with, and acts with dedication using a direct and honest manner of communication. Growing up with a Salarian father meant that she, from early childhood, has been used to working at an extremely fast pace. This has served her well, as she is able to think on the fly and make logical decisions at the drop of a hat. She has a strong dislike of any kind of incompetence, dishonesty, and laziness from subordinates or people that she works with, and she will make her displeasure known.

She believes that order must be followed in order for the best outcomes in any situation, and she does her best to adhere to that, putting business first. While very professional in her work - and unafraid to say what must be said, Naryxa is rarely vindictive or mean, and is especially pragmatic and constructive.

Then there is the true side to the Asari - the yin to the yang! Many (usually non-Asari) find Naryxa to be aloof upon first impression, this is merely a byproduct of her age and maturity - past the initial serious surface is a warm and caring individual, who is nurturing and gentle towards those around her. She will often have sage words of wisdom and advice for those she grows close to, speaking in poetic metaphors. When in conversation, Naryxa listens with an intensity and enjoys making people feel special and heard. She tries to view all experiences with a gratefulness - even if it takes her some introspective thinking to reach that point.

Despite teaching in meditation and mindfulness - she is not without her own faults and weaknesses, and sometimes finds trouble in managing her own emotions. She can be prone to suffering temporary moments of depression and deep sadness but can usually overcome this by spending time alone and re-energising herself. Failure affects her, and she has a tendency to carry the burden of failure on her shoulders alone, such a strong need for perfection and order is just part of what makes her take it harder when things aren’t perfect, often blaming herself. Naryxa is a great networker who enjoys meeting others, but has strong opinions against nepotism, and is likely to clash with anyone who takes shortcuts through life.

Having such an ambitious personality, and a constant need for improvement makes her restless from time to time. Because of this she is prone to acting on impulse as a way to feed her desires and need for change. She can get bored easily, and has little patience for a lot of activities that are enjoyed by others - such as board games and movies. She will occasionally try to enjoy such activities as a means of bonding with others, but it's really just not her style, and she's at peace with that.

She can be passionate and geeky when it comes to certain subjects, like her scientific studies and she will definitely lecture her peers about plants if given any opportunity to. Whether this is annoying or endearing remains to be seen, but she always does so with a smile on her face and with an infectious spirit that is rare to pull from within her in any other way. She has a slight ditzy-ness about her that has given her an unintentional sense of humour.

She is incredibly open when it comes to matters of companionship - and has been accused of being overly flirtatious and promiscuous (impulsive tendencies) more than once. She is simply like many Asari, a free spirit who enjoys the pleasures of the flesh, the chase, and connecting with others in as many ways as she can. She is not ashamed of this side of her personality, and while she is not openly lewd and deliberately raunchy with her colleagues, she doesn't feel the need to lie about or hide her enjoyment of nocturnal activities. Naryxa will very rarely engage in these spontaneous activities with colleagues, unless there is a deeper connection there - stating that she would rather not complicate her work environment with no-strings sex; explaining in a far less poetic manner, "don't shit where you eat."

Naryxa was born in 1898 to an Asari councilwoman, Vaessa Kesir, and a Salarian plant biologist male, Gurok Teran. Naryxa was closest to her father, living with him for her first 22 years, until he passed away at the age of 41. This was not to say that Naryxa did not also love and spend time with her mother. Quite the opposite, she loved her mother deeply but understood that her mother’s position on the council was important, particularly with the ongoing difficulties with the Geth and Quarians that was beginning during the early years of her childhood. Vaessa worked hard during her Matriarch years at the Citadel, and Gurok’s scientific work happened to have brought him to the Citadel - where for the sake of his daughter, he chose to live out his elder years. Teaching Naryxa about plant biology, the planets in the Milky Way, and of planet geography and weather patterns. All of the knowledge that her father gave her, has served her well throughout her entire life.

Saddened by her father’s death, at 22, Naryxa finally left the Citadel on an adventure of her own. Her father had created a dossier for her, listing some of the most beautiful and remarkable plants in the galaxy that could be found on different planets. Armed with the dossier and her mother’s approval, Naryxa jumped from ship-to-ship, hitchhiking her way through the galaxy to see each plant on the list.

Every so often, a plant that she would tick off would unlock a video from her father with a message about the plant, and some words of affirmation for his daughter. Many of his metaphors and words of wisdom are ones that she repeats to herself and others in difficult times. Suddenly, this journey with the dossier became a pilgrimage of sorts - and at each stop, Naryxa found herself engaging with the communities and people, developing, learning, and educating. Spreading her father’s research to the furthest reaches. After 9 and a half years, and 885 plants had been ticked off, Naryxa’s journey was done. Her father had planned out this journey for his daughter, so that she may have more years with him - and more memories that he could never have given her during his short life.

Naryxa then returned to the Citadel, and began working on scientific papers about her journey. For a while, this sustained her, but soon she found herself growing bored and wishing for a new adventure to embark on. Strangely, she found herself drawn, as many Maiden Asari do, to become an exotic dancer - to break free from the shackles of society and live out a life of social interaction on the fringes. So she did this, much to Vaessa’s chagrin. She danced her way around the Milky Way for over 80 years. She saw people come and go, friendships grow and flourish and then wither away almost just as quickly. It was during these years that she indulged in her first romantic relationship with another Asari, Valeen.

Their relationship lasted over 30 years, before Valeen’s lack of ambition seemed to put a wedge between the two. Naryxa was growing bored again, looking for something new - but Valeen enjoyed dancing too much to give it up. Surprisingly, the pair split in an amicable fashion - neither party sad and melancholic over the end of the relationship, but instead grateful and appreciative of the time they had spent together. After all, for many in the Galaxy, a relationship spanning 30 years was practically a lifetime. Naryxa once again found herself back at the Citadel. It was almost like the Citadel was the starting point for each chapter in her life.

She reached out to her mother for advice - who, finally ready to instill her own wisdom to her daughter, suggested that now would be a good time for her to start putting more effort into studying and honing her biotic prowess, commenting that Naryxa came from a good line of strong biotics, while also lamenting her strong disappointment that it was something Naryxa had not really dedicated any time to so far in her life.

So, off Naryxa went to Thessia, to finally dedicate herself full time to train under Matriarchs in Biotics. She found it off-putting and embarrassing that so many of her fellow students were younger than her - practically babies. What made her more uncomfortable was how little they seemed to care, how they were so disorganised and unwilling to follow rules. To make her mother proud, she did it. She studied, and studied, and practiced for many years. Naryxa’s natural talent and determination meant that she mastered the arts relatively quickly - excelling with her Singularity and Pull. The Matriarchs were happy to give her a small role in mentoring younger Asari in the basics. During this time, she taught the young Asari to meditate and tried to teach them to be graceful and elegant, and in methods to calm their emotions. When they had had their fill of that, she took to teaching them about plants, geography, and weather patterns, using her father’s dossier of course. She made sure that the new ‘students’ of biotics were whipped into shape. She developed a little bit of a reputation for being bossy... And she actually quite liked it.

Once more, as had happened before, Naryxa grew bored and tired and longed for something else. Now armed with her powerful biotics, she jumped at the chance to work as a mercenary. She spent years traveling with her unit of Asari commandos, working her way up the ranks. The thrill of battle was exciting, and leading others filled her with satisfaction - but still her ambition was sitting in her chest - bringing her discomfort. There had to be something more than this in the galaxy.

The year was now 2125CE, she had reached the age of 227 in what felt like a heartbeat, her life already so colourful and full of experiences. She received a communication from her mother, that she would be traveling as a council ambassador to Parnack to open diplomatic contact with the yahg. This contact did not go as was planned by the council, and Vaessa was just one of the Ambassadors who perished in the conflict. As Asari do, Naryxa was able to look at her mother's passing without being too overcome with pain, to think too long on what had happened only brought her distress - to imagine her mother being brutally slaughtered was not how she wanted her to be remembered. Her mother had led a long and beautiful life, had achieved her goals and ambitions in life, and had been an important fixture of the Asari council throughout her Matriarch years. Vaessa had successfully passed on that zest for success to her only daughter.

Now completely parent-less, Naryxa continued her work with her unit until around 2174CE, where she retreated back to the Citadel following an injury she had sustained in the field. It had been a mission like any other, they were out in the far reaches taking down a rogue Batarian slave gang that had attacked a human colony, and all was going well. She and her team of fellow Asari had gotten into the field, and were scoping out the surroundings when one of her comrades was taken out by a sniper. The Asari in question was a young Maiden - who had been foolish enough to step out into an open area, but the shot was still a surprise to the team. A group of Batarians, including a Rocket Soldier, the Sniper, and several Shock Troopers came down upon the unit - releasing varren in the field to draw out the Asari. The group were able to push back with biotic barriers and eventually took the group out. Naryxa took a shot from the sniper which was thankfully, non-fatal, but the bullet did clip through her right arm quite viciously.

Her unit made it out, fractured and frightened, but they cleared it and completed the mission. The slaves were freed and brought to the Citadel for medical treatment. The mission deeply shook Naryxa's confidence in battle, and she began to display symptoms of PTSD. Suffering with recurring nightmares of the event frequently, and she was experiencing pains in her arm. Even in everyday life she was not without stress, loud clashes and sounds would frighten her, and she would suffer from panic attacks. During this time of recovery, she chose to stay away from mercenary missions, and the familiar comfort of researching and studying in labs - as well as more frequent meditation and the study of Yoga was enough to help her manage the condition. Slowly over time she began to heal.

It was at this time in her life that she was hoping for a quiet period of reflection, and so she chose to delve back into her scientific pursuits. Naryxa began researching the effects of biotic boosting narcotics (red sand - and others) alongside the Citadel’s medical scientists. While working here, she met a human Doctor, Aaron Swan - with whom she began a purely sexual relationship. She hadn't encountered or formed many deep connections with humans and he was truly enthralled by her, something which brought her a lot of joy. Their 'friends with benefits' arrangement lasted a number of months until it seemed that Aaron was growing more fond of her than she was of him, and she had to break off the tryst to save making their workplace awkward and uncomfortable for themselves and their colleagues.

In 2183CE, of course, Sovereign attacked the Citadel - and Naryxa’s home was all but destroyed in the process, she later found out that Aaron and many of her friends had been killed in the conflict. This time, unlike the other deaths she had witnessed in her life, there was certainly something different. Before, death was either a natural end of life (like her father) or a tragedy (her mother), but this - this was a needless violence that went beyond tragedy. It was as if the people were just fodder to a power greater than she could imagine. For the first time, Naryxa truly feared for her own life - that such chaos could be brought to The Citadel - her safe haven was a terrifying concept to her. She had never before felt unsafe in her own home.

Fueled by fear, and her laboratories all but destroyed, Naryxa retreated elsewhere on the Citadel, and began writing again and publishing articles on her studies. But for the first time in what has seemed like her whole life, she feels a new kind of unrest within herself which is much less like a natural curiosity, but fear. A fear that plucks away at the PTSD she had thought had healed over time even despite being mostly out of combat. Having lost her people in such a difficult and terrifying time has left her with trust issues, both in others and in herself.

The Asari fled to Omega after learning she was accused of a crime, a crime so terrible it has caused her to be wrongfully exiled from her home - the one place that she loved and has been her constant throughout life. The place where she was raised by her father... The workplace of her respected mother... The whole thing is wrong and casts a shadow over her spirit.

For now, Omega is her home. But she needs answers, she needs to put this right...

Biotic force; - a skilled and confident biotic user, there’s very little she can achieve on the battlefield with her array of abilities, and she is strategic in using them too.

Flexible/acrobatic; - years of dancing and more recently, Yoga, has given Naryxa a strong body that can get her out of all kinds of situations, and into some others.

Problem solver/analytical mind; - the fast and ever running mind of a Salarian is written in her, and her sharp eye for detail gives her the ability to solve problems on the fly.

Calm under pressure; - she does not easily crack under pressure. Whether through age and experience, Naryxa’s view on everything gives her a unique perspective in which during stressful situations she remains calm and does not act impulsively. Her PTSD can sometimes waiver this, however.

Good reputation; - Naryxa is known as a dedicated hard-worker, and both of her parents were known figures of their respective fields.

Trigger shy; - she’s an Adept, which means while she is comfortable carrying a gun and firing it, it’s not her strong suit, and she is much better utilised for her biotics than for her gun-toting ability.

Lingering PTSD; - more recently, there’s an unrest in her that makes her a touch more unstable than usual, and if she gets scared or fearful that things may not go well she may have emotional outbursts amongst other symptoms.

Close combat is a no-go; - she may be flexible and athletic but will suffer in hand-to-hand, close combat if she isn’t careful. She is not as physically imposing as she would like to believe.

Easily bored; - also known as, the 70-year itch. Ambition was contagious, and Naryxa wants to achieve everything she possibly can which makes it difficult for her to stay in one place for too long.

Overly focused perfectionist; - sometimes she will get far too caught up in the detail and take longer than is necessary with a task to make it ‘perfect’. It is both a hindrance and help.

Where did I leave my thing-a-ma-bob?; - frequently misplaces her belongings and occasionally will lose something of great importance.

Bad reputation;- being openly promiscuous is not looked on highly by everyone and her reputation has a habit of following her around which can put her in bad stead with people from the get-go.

She really likes cats. As in she really likes cats and dreams of owning several one day. Until that day, she keeps a folder of over 300 cat images on her own terminal, with a sub-folder 'catsinclothes';
Practices yoga frequently;
Still dances whenever she gets the opportunity;
Prefers to be barefoot whenever possible;
Likes to give nicknames, and uses terms of endearment regularly;
Naryxa has little to no talent with technological/computer sciences. She knows enough to get by, and because of this, she is impressed by those around her who can seemingly bend it to their will and create/improve systems using technology.

For all intents and purposes, and quirks aside, Dr. Kinsley is in fact an incredible doctor. Having been taught in human biology from a young age. She was something of a prodigy even as a trainee in a New California clinic where she spent her twenties practicing, before travelling out with her husband and the Followers of the Apocalypse. She took her clinical mind to the outside world, to real and instant trauma. She learned quick and fast during that time, before returning to her neurological research. It’s safe to say that in Dr. Kinsley’s hands, you’ve little to worry about.

She has an incredibly logical mind, and is a fantastic problem solver. She enjoys intellectual puzzles, particularly linguistic or mathematical ones. Solving puzzles is one of the few things she presently takes joy in, and her skills translate beyond being able to figure out the answer to a riddle - but in the real world too. She can make logical decisions with ease, without being too tangled up in emotional aspects. She excels in analysing connections, linking together seemingly unrelated factors in a way that might confuse someone else.

Dr. Kinsley has a vast knowledge of the world around her - perhaps a combination of her age and experience, and her naturally quick mind for absorbing information. She is well versed in history and politics, in geography and how the land physically works, of animal species, and of course, human biology. She’s smart as a tack, and she isn’t afraid to let people know this.

Harper says what she thinks with ease. She doesn't sugar coat her words, and she's not the kind of person you'd go crying to, unless you wanted brutal honesty. None of it comes from malice, just from her own pit of hopelessness. The lack of filter slips over into what appears to be a lack of interest in others personal lives.

Got too close to a gun firing off once, and it’s left her a little hard of hearing on her left side - not to mention the near constant ringing of tinnitus plaguing her. Both of these things tend to tick away at her patience. This is a more recent ailment she’s been afflicted with since travelling with the Brotherhood of Steel. People have learned to speak up when talking to her, and to understand that she’s not the best courier of messages… They often tend to change on their way.

Dr. Kinsley’s mind is too active, too turned over with pain to ever really allow her to sleep fully. She gets a few hours here and there, but for the most part, she tosses and turns, or simply gives up and goes for light night adventures. Usually pacing back and forth, relaxing in a chair, or completing even more puzzles. She doesn’t really seem to care that she sleeps in short bursts. Her pacing and chuntering late at night might well bother others, however.

Joy is of average height - standing at 5'6. Her figure is womanly, soft, and unthreatening and it is clear she has a fondness for food. Somehow, she keeps herself in an enviably svelte shape that has caught the eyes of more than a few men and women. During winter, she has the pale appearance typical of a Nord, her hair falls like fire to her collarbones, in soft curls -- one section happens to be far more unruly and so she often tucks it behind a hairband. Joy does not care too much for over grooming herself, she is not a vain individual, and yet she still radiates an undone kind of beauty, her smile is especially disarming in its sincerity.

If she is fair in winter, her Imperial heritage shows in the summer, the sun drawing out a more olive tone to her skin. Her hair, too, takes on a far more golden lustre in the sunlight.

Perhaps the most standout of her features are her eyes. They carry the colour of a brittle blue sky, and are warm with happiness. She communicates well with expression, not averse to raising a brow to be coquettish, or pulling her full lips downwards into a faux frown to coax a laugh from someone else. When Joy smiles, it is clearly a mischievous one that reflects her mind at work.

Under her clothing, she bares the scars of her trade. An accident with a pan of boiling sugar has left a particularly nasty burn across her ribs, trickling to her hips. It makes her nervous and insecure, to have such a wound; at the same time, it is her secret. She sees it as a stream, and looks at it as her reminder of the current of life. As well as the sugar stream, her hands are peppered with knife cuts - scars from years ago, and always some more recent marks. She is not quite as bothered by these as she is by her disfiguring burn.

Joy is at her very essence, a hopeless romantic. She has searched endlessly for requited love, whether that is familial, found in platonic friendship, or romantic love. It is the only thing she has ever felt that her life was truly lacking. A home. She found that, or so she believed, in The Blushing Hawk -- seeing the women she tended to with sisterly affection. During her time there, she saw many of them arrive, work, and then leave eventually, in a manner that was not too dissimilar to her upbringing in Honorhall.

The friendliness they shared ended when they would leave. Despite this, Joy has fond memories of them too - and so is drawn to women as friends quite quickly. The women saw her through her own heartbreaks, and soothed her when she was sad too.

She is naturally charismatic, with a curiosity about everyone and everything. She is the kind of woman who carries you away with her, and makes you feel as if you are the only one who matters to her. It is a byproduct of her living a life where people come and go as freely as they need to. She is poetic in her speech, and even more so in her thought. Observant of the world around her, she sees beauty in everything, even if her life has shown her nothing but ugliness. She has come to expect only short relationships from those she encounters. Her empathic nature lends itself well to finding trust in others quite quickly. They move on, and she stays behind - in the moments she shares with others, she wants to see the world through their eyes.

Having never been adopted by a family, and having been sold to a brothel, her unorthodox upbringing has left her riddled with her own insecurities. She opts to hide this behind her trademark smile - never letting her vulnerability show for fear of judgement. She fears that she will never find stability in her life, with someone, with a family. Like anyone else, Joy is not without the ability to feel deep sadness from time to time too. She grieves for the life she never had, and the mystery of her parentage will always haunt her on some level. Her own insecure questions that she carries in her heart for her mother and father sting her from time to time. It would take someone who knew similar feelings of pain and loss to find them within Joy.

The hardships she has faced have never truly broken her spirit, however, and instead they have only ever made her more adamant to find happiness in dark spaces. She brushes off negativity rather easily, and has an easy way of approaching almost anyone, finding it easy to make a good impression.

A practicing bard and performer of sorts, she adores music and brings a flair of musicality to most of the things that she does - writing songs about her experiences in love, life, and even penning songs about the tales of deeds of those she has met.

Joy is a caretaker to those around her, giving herself almost selflessly to the needs of others, she fills her cup by being a listening ear with a wise and uplifting word to others when they need it, even if they don’t know it.

One would be foolish to pass her off as a simple barmaid spouting loving words. Many have, and many came to regret that. Joy was never formally educated, so she has no real intelligence of the world and it's history - only the stories she hears from others. Her emotional intelligence is much more astute and she is patient. This level of emotional intelligence has afforded her an almost fearless level of grit. She is more bold and daring than her lack of skills should allow her to be, and more outspoken than most too. She speaks for those in need, and is not afraid to speak her mind loud and proud when it comes to matters of morality and justice. She has no fear towards other people, no concept of authority and respecting a view because it has passed through a hierarchy. It is her ability to see the good in people that gives her the confidence to talk openly with anyone, about anything.

My name is Joy, just Joy.

Nobody knows where or when I was born, only where I was found. I was discovered abandoned in Riften, under the shawls of the first snow of Frostfall. It was the blurred vision of a blushing drunk, and his curiosity that followed that led to my being rescued from a sure death, and soon after that encounter, I was sent to Honorhall Orphanage.

It was a bleak childhood. The Matron of the Orphanage was crueler behind closed doors and I spent most of my time dreaming about my future. I always felt so deeply unsettled, and I was never satisfied with the nonchalance and disregard of who I really was, of who left me, of who my parents were.

My fellow orphans and I would play together with the few toys we had, often we’d fashion dolls and the like from the sticks and stones in the yard and we would play out our lives in those hours of free time. I have never been able to cast a spell, but I like to believe that the other orphans and I created magic by the fireplace from pure imagination.

I watched over the years as one by one they were each adopted and I never saw them again. We had always promised to be friends forever, but once their ‘forever’ was with a family that loved and chose them… My forever with them was extinguished.

At 14, with no hopes of adoption at my age, I was simply sold to a Dunmer Madam named Minasi. I rode with her in the back of a cart from Riften to Windhelm, I was frightened, my life, as miserable as it had been, was changing. I always believed that it was better the misfortune that you know, than the one that you did not. She barely spoke a word, only prodded and poked at me on the ride.

I was soon put to work in her brothel, The Blushing Hawk. I was bought as her maid, since she was frailer in her age now and ailed with a rattling cough. The other women she employed were too busy with duties of a different kind to be of any other use to her. Minasi worked me hard, and over time I learned that this was simply her pride, and her need to run a safe place for the people who stepped in.

She was certainly refined, and the unmistakable matriarch of her establishment, but I could see in the smouldering embers of her eyes that she was wounded in many ways more than her ill health. I theorised that perhaps once upon a time, she had been just a girl here too, how she may have loved and lost, as many of us did. Her temper was coarse, in a way that I could only liken to a saber-cat with a thorn wedged in her paw. She was eager to react to any touch. Her flame had gone out.

After a year or two of that, the last of her kitchen staff left and I was then put to work in there. I’d never even picked up a knife or peeled a potato, but I learned quickly. Before long, I’d moved on from simple stews, to pies, to some rather exquisite desserts. When I wasn’t cooking, I was plucking the strings of a lute that had been left behind by a patron. The very same one I have now. I taught myself to play music, putting myself through the rigorous torture of freezing the tips of my fingers in the snow just so that I could play as cleanly as possible. What else could I do, but give something my all? It was how I showed the dedication to my craft. I still do it to this day. After this, Minasi saw something valuable in me and at the late age of 19 she started teaching me how to read and write.

I struggled with it at first and she would slap the backs of my hands if my penmanship was anything less than perfect. I think for close to a year the skin was red raw -- but I learned. That’s my gift you see, persistence, and the voracious hunger to learn crafts. As she continued to lose her vitality, I became the one holding the establishment together. She was approaching the winter of her life, and I, my spring. I kept the girls and the patrons fed, I sang and played music while they waited, I kept the place clean, mended the sheets, curtains, and clothing.

It had been a slow evening when I came to her in her bed, I could see that the colour from her eyes had drained completely, and there was no longer any light behind them. She was the cruel mother I had never wanted, a far cry from the kind woman in my dreams who nurtured and took care of me, held me, and fed me with warmth. But, however I looked at it, Minasi had raised me, and everything I had, I had her to thank for. There was no love between us, my coming into her life was a transaction, how could there be love?

Minasi had told me once that we lived our lives like a stream, travelling in more or less one direction until we were broken off into something that led us to a new current, a new path...

That change came soon enough after Minasi had passed. Disruption and bloodshed in the city brought tension, strangers, and whispers until finally the sky opened -- blooming like a flower raining fire. The shadows of wings darkened the streets, and the Blushing Hawk was just an obstacle in the path of someone else's terrible conflict. In that instant our lives changed forever, and we were forced to take what we could and flee, or perish. We had that choice, so many of the ones we knew were not given it. They were bones and dust on the ground.

That day, the flow of my life was altered and I was torn from those I had chosen as my family, from the world that I had known for most of my adult life. It wasn’t until the sun came back, that I learned that throughout those definitive years, I had been blind.

All I had seen day after day was The Blushing Hawk. It was so much so, that the only thing that had mattered in my world was that rickety brothel, in the backstreets of grey Windhelm. With only it’s ashes now swept into the air, I was forced to open my eyes and I observed that most people had nothing to do with my world at all. I couldn’t stop thinking about the life I could have led, had fate not carried me on that cart with Minasi from Riften to the doors of the Hawk.

Sometimes the only way to carry ourselves through such tragedy is by believing that our dreams may come true, and our prayers are answered. My only hope now is that one day, in some quiet place, there will be a house on a hill with a candle in the window for me.

Calling me home at last.

---

---

At eighteen, her world was already made of stone.

A daughter of House Redoran and a child of Morrowind. Iviverys held no whispers of lullabies, her tongue knew no songs. Iviverys only knew the taste of blood in her mouth and the sharp blade of discipline like carved runes upon obsidian. Neat, sharp, and permanent as scarification. Prayer after prayer, day after day, night after night, every season anew began again and her parents brutal attempts to claw away the addled curse of her mind, her spirit, and her body. She was a useless thing. Too thin, too frail, too quiet and too loud. There was a tilt to her smile, a softness in her voice, and she sought for colours too much. She would never be a Redoran bride, and no great house would have their son meet her.

So they beat her. Not only to reshape her, but for the inconvenience of her blighted birth. She learned not to cry. She learned that she should volunteer into a bow, or be bent into it.

Seron was her instructor then and older by only a few years. His gaze was heavy and of soot stained glass. He was austere, and his shoulders carried the weight of the entire world. Even with that weight, his posture did not falter. He was quiet. The kind of quiet that came from inside a man where something had been broken early and left that way. He was so still and dutiful that others were afraid of him, but he never shouted at Iviverys, and he never humiliated her. He knew that she bore that enough from behind her family walls.

Whatever friendship was between them, bloomed in silence. It was a mutual understanding, and a rebellious respect. Small gestures in the form of passed contraband. A cup of water if her lip was split. A proud nod on the occasion she landed a blow. A longer break between drills. Stolen moments of each other's time.

When Seron died, there was no fanfare. No scrolls, no public rites, no celebration. Just a shallow grave dug in choked ash-soil and his name scribbled onto a roster with six others. Iviverys stole his sword from the training racks before it was reassigned. Kept it wrapped in her things, the hilt worn smooth by his hand. She did not cry. She did not pray.

House Redoran would eat them all in the end.

---

---

Minna was a raucous laugh that travelled to every corner of a tavern. She lived, nestled out somewhere in a sun-and-rum-soaked corner of Hammerfell. Ale was golden, and the stars at their brightest sprawled in reflection across the glass still surface of the wide Iliac Bay.

Ivy was sixty then, though she appeared no more than half that, and Minna? Minna was etched with her deep-set laugh-lines and youthful wickedness had been stained in. Grey-haired, grinning and beautiful as if she knew all the secrets of the world, and she’d simply decided to keep them to herself. “Sit your pretty arse down,” Minna had said after meeting Ivy’s eyes, and immediately the attention of this Redguard woman felt special. Minna slid over a bottle, a pipe, and gave a nod. “You’ve the look that you’re running from something, and not nearly fast enough.” They were fast friends.

Nights with Minna blurred into stories and smoke whenever Ivy was in town, the old woman would pour her closely guarded secrets into Ivy’s lap like she was spilling moonlight itself. In the dark, away from the blinding sun, she would teach Ivy to chew juniper to clear her head, to always keep frost salt tonic for burns, and “if a man ever dares make you weep,” she’d whispered, “just put nightshade in his tea. Just a little. Just to keep him guessing.

Minna loved to cook and she revered in celebration for just about anything. Everything was cause for a celebration and a party. Small things like a child learning to read, to a daughter in law giving birth. All of these things, and whatever fell in between. She also celebrated the periods of surviving the rainfall in her head. Minna had a family and that family had their own family until they were four generations in and all had come from Minna’s womb, and all were made of the fragments of stardust she held in her eyes.

It rained in Minna’s head a lot. Storms of great turmoil ran her ragged inside, but never did she let it take away the smile at the corner of her lips and never did it dim the sparkle of her eyes. She weathered those storms alone, never wanting them to burden the hearts of any of her seven sons, or weigh down their proud shoulders.

The two of them never spoke at length of where Ivy came from or what haunted her bones. They didn’t need to. Minna only knew that something did haunt her, and so her voice was gentle, and between the jokes and her mirth, there was always a shoulder to cry on, a place for her own moonlight to be safely stored. With Minna, there was laughter sharp as flint and hands stained from herbs and the thick smell of sage that clung to Ivy’s clothes for days.

One day, there was no Minna. She had left no note, bid no farewell, just slipped into silence. One of Minna’s sons met Ivy on the road and told her.

Ivy arrived too late to bury her. Too late for the wake. Too late to hold her hand and whisper a thank you. But she came still, in her own time, and alone. She came to the site that was tucked in the mouth of a cave by the water, surrounded by warm amber sands and Ivy knelt there for a long time and said nothing. Just unpacked a small pouch of dried desert flowers and green leaves, the same kind Minna would have tucked into the lining of her pockets. She scattered them one by one.

“Old woman,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the sand like it might answer to her. “Why didn’t you tell me you wished to leave.” She stayed there until the wind picked up across the Iliac and then she whispered her prayers into it, leaving the scent of her offering behind.

---

---

Grief is a bird that is caged in your ribs. Grief flutters and makes you miss what you never had and only knew existed. Iviverys was thirty when she arrived in Skyrim. Born again under the ribbons of colour in the pitch black maw of its sky. The air tasted of beginnings and was cold, clean, and unburdened by stifling ash. There was no such thing as blight here.

Tristyn was a tall and unassuming figure of wind-tossed hair, fingers smudged with charcoal, and his brow was always furrowed in search of the next burst of inspiration. Painter. Poet. Artist. He called her star-born and storm-kissed and could not say her name and called her Ivy instead. He painted her one hundred times or more in their first month. On canvas, on wood, on the backs of letters he never sent, and on the very walls of his home. Ivy had never before tasted love, and so they married, and her bird flew away.

They called a tiny house north of Whiterun their home, at the edge of the pines where the winds howled stories to those who’d listen, and Ivy did. To the rumblings and rumours from the Reach, to the prophecies and warnings that came to her in sleep. In their house, she laughed and wore paint on her fingers and kissed him with ink still drying on her mouth.

Tristyn’s love began to rot. Not suddenly, and not all at once, but like fruit bruising beneath its skin. He grew hollow and unblinking, said Ivy was his and his alone. He stopped painting anything that wasn’t her. Frantic paintings that shredded the canvas with his force, sketches that tore paper with the knife-sharp edge of a pencil. There had been whispers that an illness ran in his family, but whispers don’t leave bruises and illness wasn’t a person who would chain a girl in a cellar for four entire summers.

When the fourth of those years came, the air was only ever damp and fetid and Tristyn was the only sound. She could always hear him above her. Some days he would be pacing, weeping, or laughing through his madness. Other days he did them all at once. On rare days there was complete silence. Some days, he returned to her, happy and full of love but even her most gentle suggestion of her freedom would return him to his ghoul-self.

There was a night he came to her half-man and half-madness, whispering things in her ear she would never forget, and never repeat. He was there to shape her, not on canvas, but with his own hands. To feed his starved mind. To refill his cup with the inspiration she once brought him. Whether above her skin or beneath it this time, he would find it. His hands burned with magic, and when he touched her he left a searing welt. A wound, deep and furious upon her tender storm-kissed skin, the inside of her thigh. Now he had painted the shape of himself onto her skin in fire.

Even in memory now, it doesn’t matter what was grabbed, only that it was a single blind and desperate swing that did it. One scream that echoed through her. One exhale that separated she, her, and him. He didn’t rise. In the silence that followed, she wept over his body as it lay in the illuminated strip of light from the open stairwell that stretched the length of her cellar. She tried with her own weakened hands to make him better again but it was too late. She climbed the stairs, barefoot, blood-slick, and did not look back. The Ivy who had never killed and had never felt death in her hands stayed buried.

---

---

Joy was an orphan left in a blanket in Riften, passed and then raised behind a perfumery in Windhelm, where the snow tasted of smoke and the streets hummed out a stench of gutter-rats.

Ivy remembered her first and remembers her still, as a voice.



A keening lilt in a dockside tavern, woven through with laughter and with wit sharper than a knife’s kiss. Her hair a tumbling red mess of thick flame against the cold. Her eyes were so full of the mischief of someone who’d never belonged to anyone, but learned to love the world anyway. She always smelled of fig jam.

For thirty-seven years, they shared a friendship. Sometimes they met in spring when the trees blushed pink and the air was sweet with a thaw. Other times they met in winter, only songs and company warmed the blood. Once a year, every year, tethered by their unspoken promise. Finally, in her life Joy found her love and settled in Skingrad with a Colovian man, and the movement of that life continued ever on, her songs happier, her smile brighter, and her heart bigger.

Joy was bedridden at their last meeting. Her voice, once rich with Kyne’s breath, was a croak now, and Ivy brewed fennel tea, warming it with the magic from her hands as if it would be enough to call back all the time that had passed. Joy’s hair had faded over the years to soft silver. “You’ve not aged a day,” Joy whispered, her thin and fragile fingers wrapping around Ivy’s.

“Nor have you, my dearest friend.” Joy’s skin was creased like scrunched parchment, but warm still, and Ivy kissed the back of it and her palms and her forehead. Her fingers trembled with a sadness she didn’t want to confront. “Not where it matters.”

Joy died that night still holding Ivy’s hand. There was no struggle and no pain, no grand final words, only the slow and quiet closing of a chapter. In the days that followed, Ivy saw to the burial herself, and she placed Joy beside her beloved Colovian who had left two winters earlier. She hadn’t been the same since. Ivy dressed Joy in a gown that she had always admired so that she could be laid down to rest beneath the roots of a tree outside of the city, and she could stay there and be as beautiful as she had always been, and she could be there forever as the flowers.

Ivy wept until her chest was hollow. “I will miss you for all of my years, but the love of knowing you is worth each tear.”
Joy’s tiny room above a baker’s shop in Skingrad was emptied by Ivy’s gentle hands, and as she packed away a rich life, she held onto a shawl of Joy’s that had worn soft at the edges, and had the sticky scent of fig jam in every thread. There were other handfuls of items she couldn’t part with. Clothing, a waistcoat with beautiful buttons she remembered watching Joy sew on and then perform in. She folded all of these moments of Joy’s life into a lacquered box and pressed a sprig of lavender there.

Ivy kept her promise the following year, arriving in Skingrad to sit beneath Joy’s tree. Joy had kept her promise too. She was the flowers and she was the warmth in the breeze that sang as it floated by. She was the petals falling like soft snow, and the spring drizzle that settled on Ivy’s lashes. She was the relief and touching sensation from beyond and the voice that told her to please smile today, please smile with me.

Ivy laid out wildflowers there so that it was covered and she spoke a blessing not from any temple, but from ancient memory.

The air drew thick with amber and smoke that night, incense in spirals above her head in her tent. Her palms held together in quiet meditation and she murmured out her prayers of farewell again. The sound of footsteps outside, and a voice, uncertain, but sweet.

“Hello? Miss? I’m sorry to bother you but I heard you’re a fortune teller and maybe you could help me. Please?”

Ivy opened her eyes, the tent felt suddenly warm and she stood and walked to the flap, brushing a tear from the edge of her eye with the back of her hand. When she pulled it aside, light spilled in. A young woman stood there, flame-haired and smiling in a way that made Ivy’s heart ache strangely. Her brightness. Her warmth. Her -

Ivy nodded and smiled with a softness that had not quite become a habit again, but would yet. “Of course, come on in. I’ll make us tea.

The young woman grinned. “Thank you!” she said, “I’m Marguerite, by the way.”