[hider=Leaves-No-Wake]
 [center][h1]Leaves-No-Wake[/h1] [i]“I prefer to stand on the edge of sight.”[/i][/center]
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 [center][b][img]https://i.postimg.cc/hPzzSVBJ/Leaves-In-Wake.jpg[/img][/b][/center]
 [center] ___________________________________[/center]
[b]P R O F I L E[/b]
 [indent]
 [sub][b]Height[/b][/sub]
 [indent][sub]6’1”[/sub][/indent]
[sub][b]Weight[/b][/sub]
 [indent][sub]81kg[/sub][/indent]
[sub][b]Sex/Gender[/b][/sub]
 [indent][sub]Male[/sub][/indent]
[sub][b]Race[/b][/sub]
 [indent][sub]Argonian[/sub][/indent]
[sub][b]Age[/b][/sub]
 [indent][sub]29[/sub][/indent]
[sub][b]Birthsign[/b][/sub]
 [indent][sub]The Shadow[/sub][/indent]
[sub][b]Class[/b][/sub]
 [indent][sub]Shadowscale[/sub][/indent]
 [/indent]
[center] ___________________________________[/center]
[b]C A P A B I L I T I E S[/b]
 [indent]
[sub][b]Attributes[/b][/sub]
 [indent][sub]Strength – 40
Intelligence – 40
Willpower – 30 (-10 Argonian Male)
Agility – 50 (+10 Argonian Male)
Speed – 50 (+10 Argonian Male)
Endurance – 30 (-10 Argonian)
Personality – 30 (-10 Argonian)
Luck – 50[/sub][/indent]
[sub][b]Skills[/b][/sub]
 [indent][sub]Major:

Sneak – 25
Illusion – 30 (+5 Argonian)
Mysticism – 30 (+5 Argonian)
Security – 35 (+10 Argonian)
Marksman – 25
Acrobatics – 25
Athletics – 35 (+10 Argonian)

Minor:

Light Armor – 5
Blade – 10 (+5 Argonian)
Alchemy – 10 (+5 Argonian)
Restoration – 5
Conjuration – 5
Speechcraft – 5
Mercantile – 5
Block – 5
Alteration – 5
Destruction – 5
Heavy Armor – 5
Armorer – 5
Hand to Hand – 10 (+5 Argonian)
Enchant – 5[/sub][/indent]
[sub][b]Spells[/b][/sub]
 [indent][sub]Birthsign Ability (Shadow):
Moonshadow – Invisibility (1/day)

Starting Spells:
Void Gazer - Night-Eye (Apprentice, Illusion)
Detect Pulse - Detect Life (Apprentice, Mysticism)
Remote Manipulation - Telekinesis (Apprentice, Mysticism)
Chameleon - Chameleon (Novice, Illusion)
Touch of Fear - Demoralize (Apprentice, Illusion)
Commanding Touch - Command Creature (Apprentice, Illusion)[/sub][/indent]
[/indent]
[center] ___________________________________[/center]
[b]I N V E N T O R Y[/b]
 [indent]
[sub]Weapons & Tools[/sub]
 [indent][sub]Steel Dagger
Steel Bow
Steel Arrows/Quiver
Lockpicks x 7[/sub][/indent]
[sub]Outfit/Armor[/sub]
 [indent][sub]Dark leathers (light armor)
Hooded cloak[/sub][/indent]
[sub]Consumables[/sub]
 [indent][sub]Weak Poison of Damage Health (x2)
Weak Potion of Healing
Marsh reed stimulant (minor fatigue restore)[/sub][/indent]
[sub]Valuables[/sub]
 [indent][sub]287 Septims [/sub][/indent]
[sub]Misc[/sub]
 [indent][sub]Small carved Hist-wood bead [/sub][/indent]
[/indent]
[center] ___________________________________[/center]
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[cell]

APPEARANCE
 [indent][sub]
Leaves-No-Wake bears dark, marsh-green scales mottled with near-black along the shoulders and spine. Faint scarring traces the inside of his forearms, thin, ritual lines half-faded with age. His eyes are amber with a narrow vertical pupil that rarely settles.

He moves with a controlled economy, no wasted motion or idle gestures. When standing still he appears almost statuesque, yet tension lives in his shoulders and tail, coiled rather than relaxed.

His voice is low and even, rarely raised. He does not rush his words.
[/sub][/indent]

MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK
 [indent][sub]
Shaped for function, Leaves-No-Wake pursues order, containment and the pruning of instability. These are not his convictions, but instructions impressed upon him until they became reflex. He does not argue with direction, nor does he embellish it. He only moves when loosed, akin to an arrow: drawn, aimed, released. The arc is not his to choose.

In conflict he is exact. The world narrows to distance, angle, breath. His pulse slows rather than quickens. Thought becomes clean. There is no room for doubt when survival or execution demands precision. In those moments, he feels neither righteous nor cruel, only aligned. The tension that so often coils within resolves into purpose.

When eyes linger on him too long, his skin prickles as if something crawls beneath the scales. Muscles tighten without command. His gaze shifts to exits, to shadows, to the shape of hands at belts. He does not enjoy being perceived. To be observed feels like exposure, like standing without armour.

In moments of isolated quiet, an unease begins. Stillness presses in. It draws something from him he does not fully recognise. Not regret. Not rebellion. Something softer, unshaped. A flicker of self that was never trained, never named. It feels like light slipping through a crack in a splintering wall.

He does not linger there long.

He moves. He sharpens focus. He counts footsteps. He listens.

Yet the quiet returns. And each time, it lingers a little longer.
[/sub][/indent]

BACKGROUND
 [indent][sub]
Leaves-No-Wake was born beneath the Shadow during the Great War. As tradition demanded, he was taken from his clutch before memory could form and given to the Shadowscales. By the time he understood language, the old prayers had long faded. The Dark Brotherhood’s grip on Black Marsh had faltered and in its place, the An-Xileel had tightened their own.

The ritualistic words changed, Sithis was no longer uttered and the Hist were invoked with fervent certainty. Duty was no longer a sacred offering, it was a necessity. He was not taught to worship but to function.

Silence was drilled into him gently and without cruelty. Observation was rewarded. Hesitation was corrected. Slowly but surely, Leaves-No-Wake learned how to wait without fidgeting, how to measure breath in darkness, how to become part of a room without disturbing its shape. Instability was described to him as rot. [i]Rot must be cut away.[/i]
[hr]
Anvil smelled of salt and tar. For four nights he watched the Argonian delegates from balconies and rooftops slick with rain. He tracked them from the blind corners of taverns where sailors traded and gambled. They spoke carefully. Calmly. They sought ships willing to move supplies east and across borders without An-Xileel oversight. They spoke of protection for their tribe. Of autonomy. Of survival.

Leaves-No-Wake confirmed their contacts, mapping their meetings and reporting back, waiting for permission. Finally, when it came, he entered quietly. The room was small. The light was low. They were unarmed. No one screamed or begged, they only spoke of their people, even as he stepped closer. The kills were clean, quick and as painless as they could be.

The silence afterward was not.

Something stretched inside him. Not doubt, nor mercy, but a hairline fracture in the rhythm he had known all his life. A breath taken too late. A hand placed an inch too far to the left. A body striking wood harder than intended. A sound carrying through a corridor that should have remained undisturbed.

Footsteps followed.

Lantern light cut across the wet streets as he reached the docks. Questions were already forming in the mouths of guards. Doors were being knocked upon. 

Near the wharf, cargo waited to be loaded. Crates of bundled cloth, pallets of goods and sealed barrels stamped with merchant marks. Quickly, Leaves-No-Wake split one open with controlled force, displacing the items within, and folding himself into the hollow space. Closing the lid, he slowed his breath.

Outside, rope creaked as men shouted. The barrel shifted, lifting on to what he presumed was a ship. He did not know its course. Only that it was leaving and leaving was enough.
[/sub][/indent]

RELATIONSHIPS AND OPINIONS
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MISC
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—
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