In case I have not yet managed to convince any of you that I'm bad and an evil spirit in general I'd like to throw my hat into this ring in order to try and menddeteriorate... mend in my wicked coordinate system it is!... reputation.
Name: Aurora Brightwind. Race: Nord. Age: 36. Birthsign: The Steed. Family Origins: Whiterun, Skyrim.
Appearance: Like most Nords, Aurora is naturally tall and strong-framed when compared to the other women of Tamriel. She stands 6’1” (182cm) tall, weighs 155lbs (70kg) and her broad shoulders, wide hips and washboard stomach are typical of her race. Aurora moves like a woman fully in control of her body and has a fit physique to go with it, sporting lean musculature that speaks of a life mostly spent on the road or on the fields. Her feminine attributes are prominent but not ridiculously so, which suits her just fine; the more physical and adventurous parts of her lifestyle would be much harder if they were. The tan of her skin betrays her long absence from Skyrim and its seemingly never-ending winters and her many days in the sun have brought out freckles on her face that go well with the natural blush on her cheeks.
Her long-lashed, almond-shaped eyes are a bright shade of amber and that compliments her white-golden hair nicely, which is definitely her most striking feature. She prefers to wear it long, braided to one side to keep it out of her face while leaving most of her wavy curls to cascade down her shoulders. Said face is marked by the strength of her jawline and the stark cut of her cheekbones, but made soft by the warmth of her gaze and the mirth that almost perpetually curls her lips, which are full and inviting and topped with a cupid’s bow. She has a scar over her right eye but it doesn’t detract much from her appearance, having faded a little with age.
She speaks clearly and eloquently, though a distinctly Nordic lilt remains in the cadence of her rich, husky voice, and she is vulnerable to fits of haste when enthusiasm grips her -- something she tries, and mostly fails, to masque beneath a veneer of imperturbable professionalism. Aurora means business and feels like she deserves to be taken seriously, something that is unfortunately in short supply for women in her line of work. To aid in that endeavour she has adapted Imperial mannerisms and speech as best she can; her posture is more reminiscent of a lady at the court than the Nord cowgirl she used to be, and her vocabulary has increased in size immensely since her arrival in the Imperial City. Her focus is sharp and almost obsessive; the flipside of her curious gaze and quick mind is that she can often be found sitting perfectly still, entirely engrossed in some creative or intellectual effort, for hours on end.
Being a traveler and adventurer, most of Aurora’s wardrobe is forced to be practical, all-weather and all-terrain equipment. Her most common outfit is a sturdy, form-fitting leather ensemble beneath a cloak or a long coat, usually white, tan or black, with a colorful sash wrapped around her waist for a dash of style. Where casual and formal wear is concerned, Aurora has abandoned the clothes she wore as a young adult at her family’s farm (simple tunics and dresses woven from sturdy fabrics) and has instead copied the Imperial style that is so prevalent in Cyrodiil’s capital, up to and including a few proper evening gowns. Sometimes she feels like the only Nord in the world that has done so, but she’s made an effort to give it a personal touch. Many of her clothes are as white as the snow banks of her homeland and that sets her apart.
Personality: Aurora is, above all else, curious about the world and driven to carve out her own place in it. She is defined by her work and her hobbies, which are diverse and manifold, and has little time for anything resembling a steady social life. She travels all over Tamriel to discover and procure intriguing antiques, artifacts and pieces of art for the wealthy collectors of the Imperial City, many of whom she can count among her clientele. She is an accomplished equestrian and a duelist of some renown, never one to back down from a challenge in either sport, and her paintings -- both portraits and still lifes -- are a nice secondary source of income. And if that wasn’t enough, Aurora plays the lute and sings well enough to have it pay for her meal at the wayside inn while traveling. The only constant is that all of these skills are prominent and valued in Imperial society and therein lies the truth of the matter: Aurora is perpetually running away from her previous life as a farmer’s daughter on the wide tundra of Skyrim.
She fights not to become like her brothers and sister, who died as Stormcloaks in the Civil War and never rose above their stations before their untimely death for a pointless cause. Aurora has thrown herself headfirst into an entirely different kind of life. A cosmopolitan, worldly existence, that sees her visiting all cultures and far corners of Tamriel in her quest to develop and elevate herself, and to prove herself as someone worthy of a place in the high society of the continent’s most dominant culture. She hides her background and her lowborn status behind her modest fortune and goes to great lengths to not only appear cultured and refined, but to become cultured and refined.
While she has many, many associates and maintains a good reputation from Alinor to Necrom, Aurora has very few people she can truly count as friends and has left a string of failed relationships in her wake. She tries to compensate for that by bearing gifts, cheer and stories whenever she visits the people she cares about, but those brief moments of camaraderie are no substitute for the ironclad bonds others forge with their friends and families. Work inevitably calls before long, or Aurora retreats into the tranquility of her solitary hobbies for days on end to recharge and digest what has happened in her exhaustingly dynamic and, frankly, interesting life. This is both a source of regret and a point of pride. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Her faith in the Divines -- Eight when asked, Nine in private -- is an anchor and a source of comfort to her. Aurora often prays to ask for guidance or reassurance and visits the Temple of the One every time she returns home to speak to the priest about her deepest fears and regrets. She desires to believe that she is on a path that the gods would be pleased with and maintains a strong moral compass. Being in her good graces, one can expect small acts of kindness with regularity and rely on her for support, both spiritual and practical… assuming she isn’t on the other side of the world on another expedition. While assertive and dauntless in the face of danger (you can take the Nord out of Skyrim, but not Skyrim out of the Nord), Aurora has a gentle soul and would rather die than ever be considered cruel. She is closely in touch with her own emotions, relying on them for her creative pursuits, and is also often strongly affected by the emotions of those around her. One of the most important skills she has learned has therefore not been her ability with the blade, nor her aptitude for sorcery; it is the inner strength and balance to stay true to herself and her ideals that she values most. Even in the face of anger, sorrow and grief, Aurora believes in the ultimate benevolence of people and the machinations of the divine; she remains an admirer and pursuer of truth and beauty in all things.
History: Born in Skyrim on the tundra near Whiterun to a farmer, Halfdar, and his wife, Freyja, Aurora was named for the celestial phenomenon that brilliantly dominated the skies on the night of her birth. Aurora was the fourth child in what appeared to be an ever-growing family, having three older brothers and later gaining two younger sisters during her childhood. The days were long and carefree and frequently spent roaming around with her siblings -- though with admittedly strict instructions not to wander too far, “or the wolves will get you”. Once old enough, they were all expected to help out on the farm, which grew from a small field with a single farmhouse into a respectable estate. Trade with Whiterun was profitable and a series of generous summers and soft winters saw the family’s fortunes soar. At least, that’s what it looked like to Aurora, but the truth was that the farm simply became a bigger farm and they moved from poverty into nothing more than simple comfort.
Even at this age, Aurora wanted to be just as tough and strong as her older brothers, and Halfdar humored her. She spent at least two hours on horseback every day from the moment she was old enough to ride, helping her father herd the cattle, and fought just as hard as her brothers did with their wooden swords in their sparring sessions. Freyja, on the other hand, was a bard trained at the College in Solitude in -- what seemed like -- another life and many long, star-studded evenings were spent singing and learning to play the lute around the campfire. Captivated by the stories and legends contained within that the songs conveyed, Aurora always felt the tug of something greater, some existence beyond their farm, but was unable to formulate that into future prospects. One of Whiterun’s elders Named her Brightwind for her great enthusiasm for life and her habit of rushing this way and that, eternally restless. It made no difference in the end and she had already resigned herself to following in her parents’ footsteps as a young adult when their lives were turned upside down. The Civil War broke out, and dragons returned to Skyrim.
Aurora, who always had a mind for bigger things, was more preoccupied with the horrifying tales and sightings of the giant winged lizards than the petty conflict between the Empire and some upstart named Ulfric Stormcloak. Her siblings, however, weren’t. The family was split down the middle. Rolf, Maren, Helga, Aurora herself and her parents were either on the side of the Empire or ambivalent about the whole thing, whereas, Aenar, Gromm and Runa sided with the Stormcloaks -- and how. The family dispute turned into a bitter feud in a matter of days following High King Torygg’s death and the two brothers departed with their sister for Windhelm, fiercely determined to see Skyrim free from the Empire and its laws. The family was devastated. Aurora took it especially hard and when Rolf began spewing talk of taking up arms for the Empire himself, she burst into tears. She had longed for ‘something greater’ her whole life and now it had arrived and threatened to pit her beloved siblings against each other in a war that she didn’t even see the need for. Unwilling to see this grave tragedy play out any further, Aurora gathered her belongings, saddled her horse, wrote a tearful note and departed in the dead of night with little more than a direction: south.
She managed to cross the border to Cyrodiil while evading the fighting armies and swooping dragons. Freyja, who had been around the Empire once or twice before settling down with Halfdar, had told Aurora of the wonders of the Imperial City and the young woman headed there, for lack of a better idea. Her singing voice and lute were sufficient to provide her with enough septims to survive all the way down to the capital. What with the war and all, the roads were fraught with peril and Aurora had her first brush with danger when the caravan she tagged along with was beset upon by bandits. The way she fearlessly threw her lute at the nearest bandit earned her the amused approval of the victorious caravan guards and Aurora discovered, to her own surprise, that she had found the whole encounter rather invigorating.
Once in the capital, Aurora took up residence in the impoverished Waterfront, lacking the funds for anything within the grandiose and awe-inspiring city walls, and spent her mornings traipsing about the massive city with the coin in her purse that she earned from playing in the inns and taverns the night before. Her feet brought her to a remarkable store, Exotic Wares and Antiques, which contained a collection of items that did far more to spark Aurora’s imagination than the establishment’s name did. Its proprietor, an older Redguard man by name of Azar, silently observed as the wide-eyed Nord girl perused the Khajiiti sandstone sculptures, Dunmeri bone-masks and Akaviri weaponry that were among his wares, for more than an hour. Once it was obvious to him that the blonde woman had an insatiable thirst for it he approached her and struck up a conversation, which Aurora eagerly engaged in. It was one of the first times an Imperial citizen had deigned to speak with her and she latched onto the opportunity immediately. Azar asked about this and that and the smalltalk slowly made its way to Aurora; who she was, where she came from, what she could do. Once she revealed that she owned a horse and was a good rider, Azar’s interest was validated and he smiled a brilliant row of white teeth against the darkness of his skin. He offered her a job. Initially surprised but quickly ecstatic, Aurora accepted.
Men like Azar were always looking for hopeless transients without prospects to act as their couriers and Aurora quickly found herself on horseback with a packet of important documents, headed for Anvil to pick up a package from a ship that was soon to arrive. Having already traveled from Skyrim to the Imperial City by herself, Aurora knew how to stay out of trouble and safely made her way to Anvil and back again. The bag of gold that awaited her return, handed over once Azar had extracted a promise of discretion from Aurora, astonished her. Months continued like this, with the Nord girl traveling increasingly longer distances to collect packages meant for Azar. Eventually he even saw fit to send her out with an even bigger bag of gold to procure items that weren’t already his. She never figured out how Azar was so well-informed and he was frustratingly tight-lipped whenever she asked him about the details of his operation.
Her frustration grew as Aurora realized that Azar appeared to have no interest in teaching her anything about the trade or making more out of her than a courier. Every farmhand could become a farmer, if they showed the aptitude and the interest, but Aurora wasn’t getting anywhere. She also found it difficult to complain, because he had taken a chance on her and given her a job while he was under no obligation to do either of those things, but the young woman knew she was capable of bigger and better things. She wanted a profession, not just a job. Aurora never failed to return to him with the packages in her possession in a timely manner, not even when she showed up with a bandage over her right eye after another encounter with bandits. She had armed herself with a simple iron sword by then and all of the sparring sessions with her brothers had not turned out to be for naught. Additionally, dealing with customs officers and city guards all over the province -- and beyond -- had seen Aurora develop her talent for speech and she’d talked her way out of a hefty fine or, even worse, a prison sentence several times while carrying illegal goods like Dwemer artifacts across borders.
A year had passed by the time Aurora finally managed to gather the courage to speak to Azar about this, fueled by her growing dissatisfaction. He listened impassively to her (well-rehearsed) pitch about why she deserved to be more than just a courier and what her qualifications were, and said no. Aurora began to protest but he silenced her with a glare before explaining that he did not see the qualities of a protegé in her, and that she was just a wayward country girl taking her first steps into the wide world. Upset and humiliated, Aurora almost quit on the spot, but she needed the money and retreated back home before her emotions got the better of her. She cried, and after she was done crying she did what she’d always done when times were tough: she prayed. A kindly priest by the name of Julius at the Temple of the One talked to her and she opened up to him about feeling like her life was inadequate and her fears that Azar was just taking advantage of her desperation. Julius was wise and kind and he advised her to be patient and keep up hope. Good things come to those who wait, after all. But if things did not improve in time, he warned, Aurora would do well to keep her options open.
She returned to work the next morning and didn’t speak a word of yesterday’s confrontation and neither did Azar. Aurora kept Julius’ thoughts in mind, however, and a month and two trips to western Morrowind later she got impatient and announced that she had been offered another job and was strongly considering accepting the offer. It was a bluff. There was no other job, but the ambition and excitement that the Imperial City had instilled in her was now in the driver’s seat. Azar frowned, sighed and, begrudgingly, relented. He knew what Aurora was after and had come to realize he didn’t want to lose an intelligent and reliable employee after all.
The taciturn Redguard took her under his wing and began to properly train her as his protege, which Aurora took to enthusiastically. Meanwhile, she sent letters back home sporadically to briefly detail her adventures and reassure her parents that she was still alive -- but she never sent them an address. She was not ready to hear what had happened to her siblings, especially once it became clear that the Imperial Legion and the Dragonborn had violently put an end to the Stormcloak Rebellion.
One day, Azar revealed that he had been a treasure hunter when he wore a younger man’s clothes and regaled her with stories from his exploits. Aurora found this hard to believe, coming from what seemed to be a quiet and bookish man, and was astonished when Azar laid her out within seconds after he challenged her to a duel -- and even more so when his left arm crackled with static. He was a mage, a spellsword, and he explained that his connections were based on a network of loyal associates that were either friends or people who simply owed him favours from his days as a capable warrior-sorcerer. Aurora remained in his employ as a courier, of course, but whenever she was in the Imperial City he would teach her everything he knew about swordplay, magic and the best places in Tamriel to find rare artifacts -- and the dangers within. Now that he had opened up, Aurora forgot all about the bitterness and frustration she’d felt at his earlier behavior, drawn as she was to the stories he had to tell and the way his eyes lit up when he did so.
In the end, he truly taught her everything he knew, for they became lovers.
Years passed like this until Azar declared her training complete and resolutely ordained that Aurora was now ready to step into the world as a treasure hunter in her own right. He gave her the names of his associates and sent word to all of them that Aurora was authorized to act in his stead, and with a stern glare essentially told her to get out there and prove her mettle. Their affair was over in an instant. It was a shocking experience for the Nord, who had come to believe that the older Redguard loved her in more ways than just the physical. The only other example she had of a relationship were her parents and their marriage. The fact that Azar turned out to be nothing like that was an unsettling surprise at first, and she was hurt, caught in the unfortunate trap of wondering what she did wrong and why he didn’t love her. Once again, Julius the priest was able to provide insight and reassurance -- though he certainly did not approve of Azar’s behavior -- that helped put her mind at ease. “It’s not you,” Julius had said with a warm smile, “it’s him.”
Aurora came to accept that Azar was an infallible pragmatist who had simply decided that the usefulness of that part of their arrangement had come to an end. Anything to keep her chained to the Imperial City would have simply held her back, especially an old man like him. Her pain and confusion morphed into silent gratitude, for she knew he would have never accepted any expression of it, and she made her first forays into Tamriel as a full partner of the ‘Exotic Wares and Antiques treasure acquisition branch’, as she liked to call it, with an unburdened soul.
Her work took her even further now, from the bone-white walls of the mausoleum of Necrom in eastern Morrowind in search of an ebony heirloom of an extinct dynasty to the seaswept cliffs of Daggerfall in order to retrieve a set of silverware that had belonged to a Septim emperor. She delved into a Dwemer citadel with a hired team of mercenaries to bring back a dynamo core, a special request from a scholar at the Arcane University, and accidentally started a forest fire in northern Valenwood while defending herself from the spriggans guarding a shipwreck, mysteriously emerged from beneath the roots of the Bosmeri homeland’s ever-shifting trees. Aurora challenged all the best swordsmen she found to a duel or two and fought the ones that accepted (and the ones that scoffed at her twice as hard), made time to participate in the equestrian races that Cyrodiil’s elite obsessed over and kept up her skills as a musician and a bard while on the road. Back home, in her modest, but increasingly well-furnished, apartment in the City, Aurora discovered the meditative properties of painting and reading, and collected a string of disappointed lovers and failed relationships. The woman appeared to be married to her work and her hobbies and invariably made too little time for her partners. Every angry breakup hurt her and the ones that simply disappeared hurt her even more, but as much as she tried to make more time and devote herself to her partners, Aurora couldn’t resist the call of the road, the canvas and the lute. The frequency of her relationships dwindled and she reached the point where she would preemptively break things off with the men she was dating, knowing full well that she was merely sparing them the disappointment later -- becoming the very thing that upset her about Azar before. The gifts she came bearing and the stories she had to tell made her quite popular with the neighbourhood children, however, and her regular visits to the Temple gave her a steadfast friend through faith and confession. Azar remained where he always was, running the store and connecting Aurora to clients with special requests, in spite of the silver that now dominated his hair.
Upon Julius’ suggestion, Aurora finally informed her family of her whereabouts in one of her letters. It had been years by then and he thought it was time that she learned what had happened to her family. Aurora received a thick reply, almost the size of a short novel, that started -- inevitably -- with how much her parents had missed her and had worried about her. Then came the story. Aenar, Gromm and Runa were all dead. Rolf had stayed home in the end and now ran the farm while Halfdar and Freyja enjoyed retirement. Her oldest brother had found a wife, in fact, and Aurora discovered to her surprise that she was an aunt. The letter was deeply bittersweet and when she was finished, she found herself weeping silently for the loss of her brothers and sister… and for herself, for the life she had lost-- nay, walked away from. Time hadn’t stood still for her family while she had been living her adventures and she had missed everything. The funerals, the wedding, the births of her nieces and nephews. Suddenly and acutely homesick, Aurora dropped everything she was doing and returned north the way she came: on horseback.
She came bearing gifts, of course, and after the initial and tearful reunion, amazed her family with the finest wines, fabrics and jewelry that Cyrodiil had to offer. Once the initial excitement had died down and Aurora found herself sitting around the campfire with her family like the days of yore, she felt like a stranger in her own home -- and, for the first time, in her own skin. Who was she, a promiscuous hireling, compared to these godly people? She laughed and smiled at her brother's wife and children with pain in her heart. Aurora no longer knew what to feel about the woman she'd become. But, that said… the dirt upon the floorboards, the smell of the pigs and the cattle outside… she also found it hard to imagine that she once lived like this. The farm had hardly grown from what she remembered; hell, it seemed much smaller and filthier. Rolf confided in her that business hadn't been great and a few harsh winters in a row had been bad for the land. Unsure whether to feel pity or sympathy, Aurora offered to help them out with septims but Rolf refused, grateful for the offer but steadfast in his conviction that they weren't a charity case.
Aurora was supposed to stay for a month but cut her visit short after a week. She made up an excuse about urgent business, apologised profusely and traveled back south as fast as her horse could carry her. Entering her apartment in the Imperial City, she breathed a sigh of relief -- and found it wanting. The thought that she had been running from caught up to her and she realized that she had abandoned her family in their greatest time of need. She hadn't even bothered to visit the graves of her Stormcloak siblings in Falkreath. Here she was, surrounded by opulence and unimaginable wealth in the City, while her family still lived in the same rural squalor as before, surrounded by nothing but reminders of the tragedy that had befallen them. What gave Aurora the right to simply walk away? How was that the right thing to do?
Her visits to the Temple became more frequent and Julius did his best to provide wisdom and support, but the question remained a troubling thought in the back of Aurora's mind, rearing its head at night to plague her with nightmares in which her dead siblings came back to haunt her in the darkness of her home. With even more feverish dedication than before, Aurora threw herself into her work and her hobbies and even refrained from relationships entirely, despite the loneliness she was occasionally forced to squash alone in bed at night.
She learned how to keep a straight face when ridiculed or treated in a demeaning manner, something she experienced all too often as she found her way in a world and an industry dominated mostly by men, and her growing confidence prevented her from taking things personally and feeling wounded when they inevitably happened. They were learning moments, she decided. Not for her, mind you, but for the men that looked down on her and underestimated her because of it, and she grew to delight quietly in their stunned or disgruntled faces whenever she outplayed them. Aurora’s skills as a warrior also continued to increase, learning as she did from both her victories and defeats. A poignant reminder of her mortality lies in the not-so-distant past; armed mercenaries that accompanied her into an Ayleid ruin had to save her from death at the hands of the bandits that had made the place their home. “Never send a woman to do a man’s job,” one of them had grumbled, and that served as inspiration for Aurora to redouble her efforts. She’d prove them wrong, she resolved, until nobody could doubt her ever again.
A successful venture in the west now sees her return to Cyrodiil by boat, with only her loyal steed and belongings for company, though that is about to change...
Biggest Regret: Fleeing her home to avoid the tragedy that the Civil War thrust upon her family, leaving them to deal with it without her help while she became an accomplished cosmopolitan without a care in the world.
Aurora‘s Goal: Vindicate her life choices by obtaining a divine artifact, be it Daedric or otherwise, and cement her place in history as someone important and capable, in spite of her gender or background.
One-Handed: One of Aurora’s most favorite hobbies and prized skills is the art of swordplay, fueled by her Nordic love of competition being awakened by the sophisticated fencing duels she observed in the Imperial City. Years of practice and an incessant drive to enthusiastically challenge every blade-wielder she meets to a sparring match have honed her skills considerably and she is proud to count herself among one of the best swordswomen she knows. Her style is quite conservative, preferring to let her opponent show their hand and reveal the inevitable weaknesses in their style for her to exploit, but the finishing touch of her moonstone saber always has something cheeky about it.
Speech: Her line of work has seen Aurora learn all the skills necessary for a merchant and a procurer of rare goods, like haggling, smooth-talking and market manipulation. She is good at estimating the price of a unique artifact or piece of art correctly in one area and selling it for a markup elsewhere, acquiring services at a discount and coaxing a client into compensating her more generously than they might otherwise have done. She’ll never be as deceptive as an actor or as commanding as a general, but she doesn’t have to be. Another one of her hobbies is singing; she does so quite beautifully, accompanied by her own gentle strumming on the lute. An evening performance at the inn makes for a nice source of pocket money when she’s out on the road.
Destruction: Aurora was surprisingly perceptive in her grasp of spellcraft for a Nord and took to it enthusiastically once she arrived in the Imperial City. The raw power of Destruction magic appealed to her and she developed her abilities in that School almost more for the sake of showing off than for any practical reasons. That said, a handful of encounters with bandits, Draugr and Dwemer animunculi have taught her that quick gouts of flame or bolts of lightning are quite effective at dispatching minor enemies, or at creating enough of a distraction for her sword to finish the job in a frantic melee. That is a lesson she hasn’t forgotten.
Alteration: The ability to manipulate one’s environment is quite useful in Aurora’s line of work and she uses Alteration in concert with her other abilities to restore the artifacts that are her primary source of income. It also comes in handy when delving into the darkest places of the world in search of treasure, or in a pinch to bolster her defenses and to fight dirty, like literally throwing sand in someone’s eyes with telekinesis.
Alchemy: Her knowledge of alchemy is lacking when it comes to traditional potions or poisons. Aurora mostly uses this to create useful substances like blade oil, lock grease and silver polish and she uses alchemy together with Alteration to restore art and artifacts before selling them to the highest bidder.
Athletics: While you won’t find Aurora marching in full kit for days on end, she is an experienced traveler and doesn’t tire easily. More importantly, however, Aurora can ride on horseback for lengthy periods of time, which is her preferred method of getting around.
Restoration: Healing spells are a useful addition to any traveler’s arsenal. Far from a professional healer, Aurora can at least be counted on to mend minor injuries, restore some fatigue to a weary soul or simply cure the soreness of a bum after a full day in the saddle.
Aurora's weapon is an elegant moonstone saber forged by the hands of the Altmer in the days when Alinor was still called Summerset. The grip is long enough for it to be wielded in two hands to enhance the strength of an attack, but Aurora specialises in wielding it in one hand, leaving the other free to cast spells. The crossguard is decorated with gold filigree and precious gemstones, but more important and practical is the enchantment on the blade: it burns red-hot and sets fire to anything it strikes.
She also carries a steel dagger as a backup weapon in case of an emergency.
Horse tack, a saddle and saddlebags.
While not technically equipment, its absence is also worth mentioning. Aurora wears no armor and relies on her skill and Ironflesh spell to protect her from harm.
Chief amongst her possessions is her companion, Charlemagne, a magnificent stallion of Skyrim stock. Hardy, loyal and even-tempered, Aurora's horse is as much a friend to her as anyone else is and she rides him wherever she goes. His coat is mottled gray with white spots.
Maps of Tamriel and documents detailing the names and stations of her associates. She has copies at home, of course.
Multiple sets of clothing, all well-made and fashionable.
A bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy.
Food supplies to last her a week. Charlemagne can eat grass.
A pouch with 155 septims.
A mortar and pestle, an alembic and alchemy supplies for her work. Nothing immediately useful for a healing potion or anything of that sort, however.
Two soul gems filled with common souls.
Keys to her home, safe and the Exotic Wares and Antiques store in the Imperial City.
From a distance, Lywend is nothing impressive to look at and is easily lost in a crowd. He's of normal height for a Breton, he's neither remarkably thin nor obviously overweight, his build would best be described as average, and his dark hair and beard are nothing special. His usual choice of clothing and gear somewhat mitigates his plain appearance: trousers and a long tunic of usually dark or earthy colors, well-worn boots, a blue cloak, a longsword at his left hip, a bow and quiver hanging from his back, and a staff topped by a pink crystal that is never far from his hand. However, there is one feature that clearly stands out to most who get close to Lywend: his eyes. Some would charitably describe them as the eyes of someone wise beyond their years, but the truth is that they are the eyes of a man haunted by his past.
Many people assume Lywend to be much older than he truly is, both because of his eyes and due to some of his odd mannerisms. His actions and responses tend to be just enough on the slow side to make folks think he's being overly cautious or deliberate, like an old man who is nursing so many lingering ailments of age that every movement comes only after bracing for the aches to come. Whenever he's sitting still for any length of time, Lywend more often than not closes his eyes and seems to take the opportunity for a nap, even among strangers and questionable company. He has a rather grandfatherly air about him, despite having no children at all and far too few wrinkles for the title, and more than one traveling companion has taken to calling him 'grandfather' or 'old man' even after learning his true age.
Personality: If one were to describe Lywend's general personality in a single word, 'remorseful' would be the best fit. He was once a friendly and almost gregarious man, and in his youth he was considered odd for being very open with strangers and willing to speak about damn near anything, but those who knew him a decade ago would struggle to recognize him now. Even those who have known him for mere minutes can tell that something weighs heavily on him. He isn't especially talkative nowadays, and he often falls into brooding silences, but the careful way he avoids speaking of his past in any detail is the most telling hint of all. Sometimes there's a tinge of anger amongst the sadness, but that usually only comes out when people press him on his past or he's had a bit too much to drink. That anger most often takes the form of severity and imperiousness, hard and sharp words rather than loud words or physical violence, but luckily for him the majority of people write it off as a reasonable response to nosy bastards or Lywend simply being an angry drunk.
Fortunately for those around him, Lywend is not entirely a sad and sullen fellow. When focusing on the problems of others, he comes out of that regretful shell and shows a keen interest in helping others. He's empathetic, gentle, and offers assistance and wisdom wherever he can. While his talents in Restoration magic could fetch a high price, Lywend is content to take merely whatever is offered for his services, and he heals the poor just as readily as the wealthy. Even when he's not specifically helping others, he makes an effort to have a smile and a friendly word or two for anyone who crosses his path, be they beggar or bandit. He has seemingly infinite patience for strange and terrible people, so long as they are not actively seeking to harm him and don't push certain buttons that might rouse him to anger. Lywend also tends to be willing to listen to anyone about anything, generally with his comments coming in the form of nuggets of sage wisdom or advice, and that tends to be the behavior that most often gets people calling him things like 'old man' despite his age.
Those who are highly skilled in reading people can see through the facade, to some degree at least. In both his moods of sorrow and sympathy, almost everything is tightly controlled in some way; only the general politeness and friendly greetings seem to come with the natural smoothness born of long habit. Lywend's behavior always seems to be highly calculated, and practiced enough to fool most people into thinking them to be genuine emotions. People with uncanny levels of insight might see that spite and anger burn hot at the core of these layered falsehoods, but they almost never come close enough to the surface to be glimpsed by most people who cross his path. When those emotions do surface, the imperious and commanding nature of his anger make him seem more an iron-fisted tyrant than a traveling healer until he calms down, which usually happens with the disconcerting speed of a candle being snuffed out rather than the long cooling down time most people require.
History: Lywend Jeseve learned magic in his younger years from some of the brilliant mages of High Rock, but he was not content to stay put. At twenty years old, he set out with a group of eager young men and women from his city of birth to find glory and wealth as adventurers, with his job mainly being to keep the others alive with his Restoration magic. They called themselves the Shornhelm Soldiers, and they earned a mildly favorable reputation in the western region of Cyrodiil for their successfully fulfilled contracts to take care of beasts and bandits plaguing the area. That was enough to get them a job from a wealthy Nord merchant in Bruma: rescue his daughter from Daedric cultists who had spirited her away in the night.
That job went very poorly, but in the end it was a pyrrhic victory. Lywend and the single other survivor of the original nine Shornhelm Soldiers carried the merchant's daughter, Birie, safely back to Bruma. While Lywend stayed and nursed her back to health, his remaining companion called it quits on the adventurer's life and went home. Over time, the healer and merchant's daughter developed a relationship, and after the better part of a year spent together while Birie recovered from both physical and mental wounds the pair ran off together in the night to avoid the displeasure of her father.
They only had two years together after leaving Bruma. Birie had some skill with a bow, and so Lywend continued his adventuring life with her at his side, sometimes just the two of them and sometimes joining up with other adventurers when it suited them. That happy life of excitement came to a screeching halt in an unremarkable cave in eastern Hammerfell. The pair had dealt with some ornery beasts, but in the end Birie was left lifeless and bloody in Lywends arms with wounds far beyond his ability to mend.
In the seven years since her death, Lywend has journeyed across Tamriel seeking any magic or miracle that might bring Birie back to life, doing whatever it takes to survive and gain knowledge that might aid him in his quest.
Biggest Regret: Lywend blames himself for Birie's death. If only he'd been better prepared, if only he'd been a better student of the magical arts, she would still be with him. That failure haunts his every moment, both waking and asleep.
Lywend's Goal: Lywend's sole purpose in life now is to find some way to bring Birie back. Not as some mindless corpse, which would be fairly easy, but as a living and breathing woman.
Skills: Expert: Conjuration - Lywend learned much of Conjuration magic from the mages of High Rock, but practical applications and further study have hone his skills considerably. Adept: Restoration - As with Conjuration, a mix of education, practical use, and independent study. One-Handed - Taught by his former companions of the Shornhelm Soldiers and used regularly in his adventuring life. Speech - A natural talent improved by frequent use. Novice: Alchemy - Learned mainly from books and a little practice, used to supplement his Restoration skills. Sneak - A simple necessity for an adventurer, learned by trial and error more than anything else. Archery - Taught to him by Birie, kept in practice more for sentimental reasons than practical reasons.
Dread Zombie (Expert) - Reanimate a corpse into a powerful undead servant.
Conjure Storm Atronach (Expert) - Summon a Storm Atronach.
Soul Trap (Apprentice) - Capture a soul to be stored in a soul gem.
Bound Sword (Novice) - Conjure a magic sword.
Heal Other (Adept) - Heal other people.
Close Wounds (Adept) - Heal oneself.
Greater Ward (Adept) - Surround oneself with a protective shield.
Staff of Firebolts, looted from a bandit in his early adventuring days.
Hunting bow and quiver with 16 arrows
Enchanted amulet (magicka regen), received as a reward from Birie's father for rescuing her.
2 potions of Cure Disease (made by Lywend)
1 potion of Invisibility (~10 seconds) that also damages magicka (made by Lywend)
Standard traveler's gear: a large pack, some clothes, bedroll, waterskin, rations, fire starting kit, and some rope.
Four soul gems, one filled with a common soul and three empty.
Mortar and pestle.
Three books, two filled with writing and one about halfway full.
A few quills and two bottles of ink.
Birie's skull and a black soul gem containing Birie's soul, both kept in a cloth bundle tied off with string and securely kept at the bottom of his bag.
Name: Frygga Fears-None Race: Nord Age: 30 Birthsign: The Warrior Family Origins: Ivarstead, Whiterun Hold
Appearance: Frygga is of average height for a Nord around 6 feet even, give or take, with unkempt dark auburn hair that she keeps shaved on the sides and tied behind her head to prevent it from interfering with her grim work. Though tall, she is not lanky, with a well-built chest and iron thews on her arms and legs from a lifetime spent doing physical work, bloody or otherwise. Her skin is pale and scarred where a thousand beasts or men have tried to spill her guts. She looks less than half a woman, fit to be a wife, and looks over half as much a wolf, half-feral and insatiable. Her icy-blue eyes are sullen and her looks predatory. She probably would not be considered attractive by anyone except Hircine himself or maybe a wolf or bear, semi-feral as she is. This matters little to Frygga as she eschews the typical trappings of beauty such as makeup and jewelry (aside from, perhaps, the occasional bone taken as a trophy and worn in the ear or around the neck). She does not totally shun affection or kindness however, but merely shows it with the same openness and lack of shame that suits one unaccustomed to polite society or its norms. She doles it out when and to whom she sees fit and not a moment earlier or later.
Despite her openness with affection she has not experienced a meaningful emotional relationship before, her previous encounters have all been purely physical- ways for two beings to work out the feelings of mortality and being before they face death the next day.
She moves with an easy lupine gait that speaks volumes about the type of person she is and the work she engages in. It's the tread of someone who is hunted and hunting. Confident but careful and wary, with a coiled strength that comes before a leap onto the neck of prey.
Of some note is that due to her upbringing and lifestyle she never learned to read or write, but can count. Mercenaries have to count their gold somehow.
Her voice matches her physical appearance. It is harsh and grating, easy to be heard over the din of battle, the thick Nordic accent of someone who does not spend much time in civilisation, interacting with finer folk of better breeding. This is not to say her words are always harsh or hostile, just that the voice who speaks them is. Whether the words themselves are coloured by the voice that speaks them is up to the listener to decide.
Personality: Wild and fearless, with a seemingly insatiable thirst for combat, Frygga appears on the surface to be the prototypical Nord warrior. But, much like the Nords themselves, Frygga is a study in contrasts. Her usually chaotic and strident nature in combat or in public is tied with a stoic and rather phlegmatic demeanour in other situations, even in battle on occasions (though this is rare). Her untamed nature that seemingly marries two opposite temperaments reflects a surprising depth to her that not many see (or live to see).
In truth, her dual nature unsettles some, even among her fellow Nords. Most see warriors as grim and stoic, or unpredictable and savage, not both. Beneath her shroud of iron-hard will and raucous barbarism does lie the typical Nord. She revels in drinking and the swapping of stories, she is proud of her scars, each one showing a battle she walked away from, something that cannot be said of those she has faced down. She respects strength and straightforwardness and is suspicious of those who lack it. Despite her foibles, she works surprisingly well in a group and has learned how to keep her personal problems with others from interfering. Lone bandits or highwaymen never make it too far.
The Civil War left its scars on Frygga, much like it left scars on Skyrim. While she was never a devout Stormcloak and in truth only with them for a few months she is still fairly suspicious of the Empire and Imperial intent, especially regarding Skyrim. Though she isn't particularly proud of the fact she was a Stormcloak, she doesn't really hide it either and will openly admit to it if questioned. Out of necessity she has no problems with any other races due to her work as a bandit first and then a sellsword. She has fought side by side proudly with almost every race in Tamriel at this point.
She shows little interest in the gods, claiming, "The gods have never been with me before, why should I be with them?" and is deeply suspicious of anything she considers 'supernatural' (having to do with the undead) after a barrow near Ivarstead thought haunted by a ghost was exposed as a fraud. Additionally, she doesn't consider draugr to be 'supernatural', instead considering them to be perfectly natural. Her rejection of the gods, however unsettling for her companions, does not extend to the natural spirits that most Nords consider one and the same with the Divines. Though many notice this strange contradiction, few have the courage to argue the point with her. The return of the Dragons in her youth also contributed significantly to her distrust of the Divines, though she couldn't have told you that at the time. To her they served as a sign that the gods had given up on Nirn and had sent Alduin to clean up the mess.
She has encountered few daedra in her time but find them unsettling and would rather avoid them and their worshippers. Daedric powers in general she is suspicious and fearful of, viewing them along the same lines as the Divines.
History: Born to a poor family that worked the mill in Ivarstead, Frygga picked up the axe from a young age and did what most do until they are of age to seek their own destiny. She worked under the firm but loving yoke of her parents, helping to earn a meager living working the mill. Her father had served the Hold as a guard for many years and told his young daughter of bandit raids, troll hunts, monster attacks and all sorts of adventures he had and had witnessed. These stories inspired his daughter, the young Frygga, and drove her to seek her fortunes on her 18th nameday, shortly after the dragons had returned and destroyed Helgen.
To a young Frygga, the Empire seemed weak and, swept up by promises of glory and a free Skyrim, she made the trek to Windhelm to join the Stormcloaks. If you asked her now, she would tell you she doesn't know if she ever really believed in their cause, their ideals, if they could even win. She was young and hungry for battle and glory. It didn't matter who she was fighting and why. No more than it matters now with the Stormcloaks all dead or scattered to the four winds.
What did matter was her first battle...
They had been camped out for weeks on a snowy drift that overlooked a road the Imperials used to move supplies between various outposts. But for weeks they had not seen another soul come down this particular road, only snow and rain. The men were getting antsy and the weather turning bad. Their officer decided they would ambush the next caravan that came by and call the expedition a failure. Perhaps their scouting reports had been bad. None of that mattered to Frygga. She just wanted to taste battle for the first time. Finally, a few days later, at dusk, they heard them. The telltale clank of wagons and clacking of horseshoes on a cobblestone road. The Stormcloaks roused from their camp and geared for battle, axes were sharpened and warpaint applied. The wait was agonizing. It seemingly took hours for the slow caravan to reach their prepared site. When they did, horns were sounded and men began wailing warcries and setting upon the supposedly hapless Imperial caravansary. But when the covered wagons were stopped armed men poured out of them, not supplies. The Imperials formed ranks to hold off the ambush and the Stormcloaks crashed into the wall of steel like a wave hitting breakers. The first wave of rebels were neatly put down, but the second devolved into a brutal melee, one that the less-disciplined and less battle-tested Stormcloaks were losing. This is where the iron anvil of war smote Frygga's heart with a blow that turned her youthful courage into lifelong shame. Men were dying all around her, and for what? This clearly was no supply caravan, maybe it was a counter-ambush. The Imperials having starved out the Stormcloak would-be ambushers only to lure them into their own trap. Maybe supplies never were moved down this road, maybe only troops had ever crossed this pass. But what would dying here achieve? Would the gods welcome her into Sovngarde for dying in a pointless battle such as this? No one would ever know they even died here save for the Imperials, and why would they put in a good word with Shor when it was the Stormcloaks who had attempted the underhanded ambush in the first place? Perhaps her rationalisations had a point, or perhaps they were just excuses to allow her brain to accept fleeing as an option. Who could know? Frygga abandoned her comrades to their death, taking only her shame and her life with her as he took off into the woods.
For a time she joined a group of bandits, after all, how could she tarnish honor that did not exist? The life of a bandit was hard, especially in wartime. Both factions' tolerances for banditry having dropped to almost zero, getting caught meant certain death. So they survived off of picking on adventurers or smaller patrols of Imperials or Stormcloaks, depending on who controlled the area, but it was a meagre existence and one that only really ended one way. So after a few years Frygga set out on her own, not to Cyrodiil but to High Rock to seek her fortune and honor as a sellsword among the constantly squabbling duchies and minor nobles. Her luck was better among the Bretons; Nobles loved to have a tall and fearsome Nord to guard them and intimidate their enemies. Most of her pay was squandered on drinking and travelling from one place to another, contracts changing as frequently as the seasons. She was hired to root out bandits, many of whom were just fellow mercenaries driven to desperation by septim-pinching nobles. Sometimes she was hired to slay bears or wolves or harpies or any other variety of monsters and it is for this reason she became known (ironically) as Fears-None. Very rarely was she hired to slay nobles themselves though little could stop her if she was set upon the task. A few times she has returned to Skyrim and stayed for a while taking contracts in her home province before returning to the more profitable petty wars of High Rock.
The long years of banditry and mercenary work has made her a hard woman and recently she has grown tired of slaying would-be wizards or blueblooded nobles for an identical blueblood to replace them and decided she would seek work in the south, in Cyrodiil. Honest work perhaps, more monster slaying or caravan guarding. She can feel in her breast that some of her old sense of pride has returned and that redemption might be closer than she knows.
Biggest Regret: Nords are often said to 'not to be judged on how they lived, but how they died' and in Frygga's case, the opposite is true. Frygga harshly judges herself on the way she lived when she should have died. Her first battle as a full grown woman was an ambush on a supposedly ill-prepared enemy. The enemy rallied and Frygga's group was soon overpowered and the battle turned into a slaughter. What good would her death be here? What purpose would it serve? The icy talons of logic, of self-preservation, of practicality, of cowardice crept into her chest and dug deep into her heart. She abandoned her fellows and abandoned her fate, and fled. Since that day, her shame, her self-loathing, her desire to prove her courage has fueled her reckless rage. Her inner demons of practicality and circumspection causing her tight-lipped stoicism to clash with her desire to see the brand of cowardice scorched from her soul.
Frygga‘s Goal: Frygga predictably wishes to prove to all, but most of all to herself, that she is no coward. Despite ostensibly proving it a thousand times over as a bandit and a sellsword, she feels as though her mettle has not been truly tested since her first battle and is searching for a task that will truly prove once and for all that she is worthy. She wishes her death to have meaning and not be in some frozen field or in the middle of a forest for no purpose. She wishes to show that she is selfless and willing to die for the right cause.
Expert: Blunt/Axe/whatever you want to call it- Frygga is an expert with hafted weapons, specifically axes, from a lifetime of practice. Her skill with an axe isn't limited to mere melee combat either, over the years she has also learned to throw them with precision.
Adept: Marksman- Though she has hunted both men, mer and beasts with a bow and arrow, her true talents come out when paired with a hand axe. Hand to Hand- Wrestling and brawling is a favoured pastime among people of her ilk Athletics- Time spent in battle and travelling has given her high stamina. Spear- A basic weapon found almost everywhere and with plenty of uses, from hunting to combat. Though Frygga typically uses a axe-like glaive instead of a regular spear, she is adept with most long-handled weapons.
Novice: Armourer- Any warrior worth their fire salts has learned to patch basic rips and tears in clothing and armour.
Fur and Leather armour
2x Iron War Axes
Emergency survival rations of dried and salted meats cut into small squares (enough for a few days only)
Misc. Possessions: Frygga typically carries a few Blue Mountain Flowers that she crushes with the handle of a war axe for use as warpaint. She also hangs on to, but doesn't wear a broken bear pendant. Clearly a reminder of her weakness, her failure, and her shame. -Whetstone -Swatches of leather for use in patching holes in her armour. -Sewing Kit
I use the abbreviation code a bunch so make sure to hover over dots for e x p a n d e d l o r e.
"My potions are fit for a beast, let alone a man."
══════ C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T ══════ _______________________________________________ _______________________________________________ ═══════ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y ══════ "Xaexriuukk, Dances-In-Milk" _______________________________________________ 73 | ♂ | Argonian _______________________________________________ Tribal Alchemist, Former Wandering Healer, Scholar
▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Build - Old and Hunched, Years of Brewing ► Skin Color - Pale Teal ► Jewelry Material - Gold ► Eye Color - Amber ► Other - Legs are burned and bestial.
▼ D O S S I E R ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Birthplace - Hatched in Murkmire, to the Kota-Vimleel tribe. ► Birthsign - The Atronach ► Biggest Regret - Lending aid to a predator in disguise. ► Xaexriuukk's Goal - Compile an accurate bestiary on all vampiric strains, drawn from firsthand account and rooted firmly in fact.
▼ F A V O R E D A T T R I B U T E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Intelligence ► Willpower
▼ S K I L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Alchemy - Expert ► Enchanting - Adept ► Security - Adept ► Smithing - Adept ► Stealth - Adept ► Archery - Novice
▼ S P E L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► None
▼ E Q U I P M E N T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Weapons - One shortbow, five arrows ► Armor - Faded blue clothes. ► Containers - Two satchel bags, one for ingredients and one for alchemy equipment. ► Food, Drink, Potions - A variety of meats (diced for easy snacking), a jug of milk, two potions of healing, one potion of invisibility, simple poison. ► Ingredients - Columbine Root Pulp, Gingko Leaf, Ginseng, Nightshade. ► Miscellaneous - Alembic, Calcinator, Mortar and Pestle, Retort
══════ A P P E A R A N C E ══════
Were Xaexriuukk a younger Argonian, with straight legs, he would stand at an impressive seven feet. But he is not a young Argonian, and his legs are not straight. His legs are bestial, and he is not meant to wear boots. Most pants are uncomfortable for him, unless tailored properly. Currently, he wears a loincloth, though it looks a bit more impressive than one would expect. The scales are ruined and charred, and his back hunches over as if he is always leaning over an alchemist's table. His claws are unkempt and look half-dead, and the way he quickly steps is reminiscent of hot coals walking over hot coals.
When he is on the move, his steps are almost zig-zag, as if he is trying to keep himself balanced with his two satchel bags acting as a strange counter-weight. His satchel bags are old, having been patched multiple times, and constructed from dreugh hide leather, and his clothes are an oddly regal blue fabric with red sleeves, which after countless years of alchemical wear-and-tear, are still a stunningly beautiful (albeit faded) shade. They are riddled with potion stains, and smell faintly of salts.
While his face generally holds a distasteful look, his pale teal skin is complemented by golden jewelry, undoubtedly made deep in Black Marsh. His crest is worn and thin, and his lower jaw is oddly aggressive. The jewelry which adorns his crest is, upon close inspection, dutifully engraved with delicate depictions of flowers of all sorts. His face is short, and his snout ridges look durable. His lower jaw is streaked with a once-bright-now-dull midnight blue, and if one looks close, past the aged dullifying of colors, it is plain that his neck was once speckled with the same color, now closer to a grey.
═══════ P E R S O N A L I T Y ══════
Xaexriuukk is an old Saxhleel, but to say that he’s learned from experience is almost a mistake. The Saxhleel is stubborn, jaded, and very self-centered, and just about his only positive qualities are that he is grumpily helpful, and that he is not arrogant. In an odd contrast, he prefers most people call him by his Cyrodillic name, Dances-In-Milk.
Xaexriuukk has learned many things in life, but what he learns does not extend to social graces. His mind is more honed for learning and creation than it is for small talk and ethics. He has burned many bridges in the past thanks to his bluntness and unwillingness to entertain what he perceives as wasteful stupidity, and he plans to keep burning bridges out of spite. Conversation wise, Xaexriuukk is prone to using as few words as possible, focused on brevity and efficient communication of important ideas.
While not exactly a traditionalist, Xaexriuukk is fiercely stuck in his ways, and despite decades of living away from Argonia, he still behaves in an oddly tribal manner. He does not tolerate intrusions on his territory, he leaves empty alchemical flasks in places as warning, and he is an ardent Sithis worshipper. This is to say nothing of his reflexive violence, and his general attitude of “they got what was coming for them”.
Having spent most of his life in Black Marsh, Xaexriuukk has witnessed his fair share of egg-brethren die at the hands of one another, and when he left the Marshes he witnessed Men and Mer alike purchase poisons to kill one another. If they are egg-brethren, they will be reborn amidst the roots. If they are not, then they got what was coming for them. He has a particular disdain for Dunmer, for reasons obvious to anyone who knows even an inkling of his people's history.
Xaexriuukk is very self-centered, but that doesn’t mean he’s selfish. Rather, he’s preoccupied with his own goals and thoughts. When he is part of a team, he values his teammates almost like tools, though tools which are less likable than his own. But he knows he couldn’t fight most battles by himself, and so he happily tolerates supplying the side he’s on with means to survive.
The Saxhleel alchemist is also rather modest. Humble would be a stretch, but Xaexriuukk tends to think that most people know the basics. This means that he's not arrogant about his work, but explains it as he would to equals - which often leads to him growing irritated when he does have to explain basic concepts, though less for identifying it as stupidity, and more for it costing a chunk of time (but, it's not a waste).
While his disposition tends to be dour and sour, Xaexriuukk is oddly helpful. He can give you the recipe, the location of the ingredients, and the current moon phase, but he won't brew you a potion that he doesn't already have prepared. Of course, his disposition when helping tends to be hurried, irritable, and carried with the assumption that you know what you're doing. In short: Xaexriuukk will help you help yourself, just don't expect him to be happy about it.
In addition to his generally cold disposition, Xaexriuukk prefers to keep people at a length, and he hates when people mispronounce his name. As a result of both things, he prefers people to call him by his Cyrodillic name, Dances-In-Milk. It is not a name he likes, which helps him to keep people at spear’s length, and it is easier to pronounce for Men and Mer than Xaexriuukk. On the rare occasion he grows to like someone, he tries to teach them how to manage a Saxhleel name.
Of note about his demeanor that one would not expect at first, Xaexriuukk is rather fearless. He is bold, but cautious. He doesn't charge headlong into dangerous situations, he takes time to consult his research and plan. He is quick to adapt and change his plans when they no longer suit his needs, and he is able to remain levelheaded in most situations. Paradoxically, he is plagued by a lingering paranoia, driving him to be suspicious of strangers and new areas.
At the root of it all is a sense of world-weariness that has sat with Xaexriuukk his entire life. When he decided to leave Argonia, this world-weariness became an intense irritability that bleeds out to nearly every aspect of who Xaexriuukk is.
═══════ B A C K G R O U N D ══════
It licked the sap and became Xaexriuukk, and the others celebrated with names of their own.
Xaexriuukk's egg-brothers reeked of blood, and he brewed to the best of his abilities. He had heard their mouths drip with accounts of an engagement with Tum-Taleel, but he was taught to mistrust the words of the dying and dead. He poured a potion of healing down one of their throats, one too weak to drink on his own, and watched as the potion sent him into a quiet slumber lasting three days. And then six. And then forever. When his hands were washed, his teacher told him that sometimes these things happen. Xaexriuukk swore that these things would never happen again. Xaexriuukk was young, but older still, when these things happened again. More Tum-Taleel, and less villages. They would never stop happening, but each time he swore that it never would again. When it happened for the sixth time, he considered learning healing magic. When even a basic incantation left him feeling drained, he knew this was not the path. He turned again to alchemy, and with his resolve firmly stead he never strayed again.
There is a single act of help that changed the way Xaexriuukk viewed the world, remembered vividly all these years later. It was years after Xaexriuukk had began wandering when he went to aid, and hopefully cure of her disease, a sickly Miredancer. Apparently her sickness was contagious, but he was certain he could develop a cure if only he saw the symptoms up close. He examined her and began his brew, and when he was hunched over his arrangement - still aligning the calcinator to the proper positioning, with a basic brew bubbling in the retort already - she assaulted him. In the ensuing struggle she nearly bit him, but with some quick thinking on his part he managed to turn the boiling retort into a primitive fireball, and it exploded twice. It was only by the grace of The Atronach did he survive, and even then, grace only went halfway. The first blast left him unharmed, the second burned quite a bit of his body.
The locals helped him into a bath, one which he demanded have any milk available added to it. He flailed as the milk helped to ease some of the more potent alchemical burns, some of the natural magical qualities helping to neutralize some of the worse effects of the imported Imp Gall he had used. While he still retained usage of his legs, they were marred with lingering burns that he never sought help for, and Dances-In-Milk became suspicious, unwilling to help others near as much as he used to. Had he never gone to help in the first place, he might still be the joyous healer he was well on the way to becoming.
By the time Xaexriuukk departed from Argonia, all traces of who he was had faded into his current demeanor, and he mourned as Dances-In-Milk.
Bitterness overtook him and it became his most potent ingredient in his poisons. Brews meant for sickness and death earned him more coin than the ones meant for healing, and each coin was put toward paper he would need to begin his work proper. Aiming to rewrite the Tamrielic understanding of vampirism from the ground up, condeming books such as Immortal Blood as too vague to have been helpful, Dances-In-Milk knew that solid, undeniable truth must be dragged into the light, kicking and screaming as it did.
Dances-In-Milk worked as a researcher for a time, isolating himself in a tower as he studied alchemy once again. This time he focused less on traditional poisons of the Black-Tongues, and more on mastery of his skill. He learned what every ingredient he could get his claws on did, and how to best turn it into a weapon or a shield. He learned how to properly coat blades, how to coat arrows. He learned how to best grind his ingredients, and he learned the best places to get water which wouldn't muck anything up. He became an expert, and was later commissioned by sellswords in Daggerfall to brew them all manner of things.
When a trusted source tipped him off to vampiric lore to be learned in Skingrad, Dances-In-Milk booked the first boat to Anvil he found, finally ready to put pen to paper and drag vampires out into the daylight kicking and screaming.
Name: Drujha Nagmesh. Race: Argonian Age: 33 Birthsign: The Steed Family Origins: Soulrest, the Black Marsh
Standing at approximately 5’5”, Drujha is not the tallest Argonian around and her more frail appearance makes her even less intimidating than most of her kin, even if she tries to carry herself at the tallest she can manage. To many, she still seems youthful as her dark scales hide the marks of stress and age. Her thinner build, does not help very much fitting the build that would be expected of someone who relies on more upon magic than any physical trait, however, it does help with first impressions. It is no doubt that she also takes great pride in maintaining her youthful appearance.
To hide her frailer nature, Drujha sports a heavy cloak, almost as dark as her scales and lined with white fur and adorned with traditional argonian patterns that ends just below her stomach though traveling the full length of her arms. Under the cloak she wears a tattered, dark purple tunic that extends to her knees but is missing the sides, which show the soft scales of the argonian. She wears blackened pants, adorned in symbols of various draemora symbols alongside other script in the argonian language, tucked into brown boots. Overall, she seems to be a neat and always clean, with the exception of the tattered tunic she wears beneath her cloak which seems to hardly see the light of day. Her hands are wrapped in linens, bloodied and dirty, almost ruining the appeal of her otherwise clean wardrobe.
Moving onto her physical attributes, this argonian has a head full of dark blue plumage that runs down to the base of her skull and goes outwards. While this may make wearing hoods a bit more difficult, they do not take away from her seemingly glowing yellow, reptilian eyes. Drujha’s skin is riddled with various deadric symbols that have either been burned into her skin or carved into her, not a sign of daedric worship but of her commitment to attempt controlling them, however, this does make people assume she worships them.
Over time, Drujha has grown to become what many would note as controlling and highly self-absorbed in a world that only she lives in. These claims have rooted in the fact that Drujha seeks control in order to keep others safe, in order to mold a world that she views as perfect in every regard, whether or not that means she has to alienate a few people does not bother her. In that light, it is clear that she has become a tad bit cynical and cold as she believes that nobody will understand, or even support, her vision of a world where the daedra were totally controlled. To many, it seems that her obsession with control borders that edge of sanity and insanity as she attempted to garner further power in her magic. Once, she was very eager and happy to share her ideals, but rejection and argument have tempered her to believe other things and while she does maintain a happy and outgoing appearance, it has been lessened.
She is one who will not expect others to understand her vision, though she does not a actively force her ideals down another throat. If one does not agree with her ideals, then she tends to drop the subject altogether and move into other topics of converts. If it was not overtly apparent, it would seem that the only thing she cares about would be her great dream to an almost fanatical degree, but to say it is the only thing she cares about would be wrong. Drujha cares deeply for her argonian roots, caring deeply for the hist that made her who she is and her family that has raised her.
That being said, Drujha is very much a pragmatist. She is cunningly brutal and brutally cunning, offering no remorse for those who have wronged her or actively stepped in the way of her vision. In this way, strangers have been known to call her heartless for not considering the impacts of her choices and what it would do. For her, there is nothing an individual could offer if they get in her way, no information, no bartering for lives, no mercy, it is how she earned a reputation amongst some cults that she has had to deal with.
On a lighter note, due to her studies of daedra, she is very much a fan of literature, finding great pleasure from reading various works of fiction. While, to a minor extent, this liking spreads to other arts, she views literature as more grasping than the others as she finds herself lost in words from time to time. Additionally, Durjha enjoys conversation, whether they be philosophical in nature or just to pass the time, and while her cynical nature may sometimes make others shy away from in depth conversation, she does her best to not let that cynicism actively drive one away. In that aspect, and others, she is a well mannered individual.
With her well mannered self, Drujha is a great guest, and a great host, never interrupting someone when they speak as well as giving them her undivided attention. She will smile, apologize, thank, etc as she has learned that it is with good manners that others are more likely to see you in a better light.
Even when Drujha was but a mere hatchling, heard tale of the Oblivion Crisis and how it seemed to have devastated the world over, only to be driven back by the likes of the ‘Hero of Kvatch’ and usher in a newer era of peace. However, Drujha was more enamored with the aspect of the Oblivion Crisis that is often forgotten to the outside world, that the Argonians had managed to invade the daedra and defeat them in their own plane of Oblivion. She remembered that she would always ask her elders to speak of those tales that had been passed down, and when they did not wish to speak, they would give her a book of the event and she would read it. Being born with a strong connection to magic, she felt that perhaps she could live up to and do even more than what her ancestors had done.
By consequence, it was these tales that started the, arguably, unhealthy obsession with the Daedra and how to control them since it had been shown that the Argonians are more than able to invade there likes. Drujha would study and study, leading her to the likes of magic and conjuration as she had read that powerful mages could summon Daedra from their planes and use them against their foes. This prompted her to seek a teacher from a young age, only barely reaching her adolescence before a begrudging mage would finally take her under his wing, teaching her the basics of magic. This teacher was known to some in Cyrodil as Walks-In-Water, and was commonly referred to as such by his peers. It was under Walks-In-Water that this young mind became focused on her goal as he demonstrated that mages could, in fact, summon Dremora from other planes of existence.
Her favorite memory would be the time when she first managed to summon something, while it was not Daedra or Dremora, it had been something. After years of studying, years of practicing spells and other forms of magic, she had summoned a dagger from nothing and Drujha knew that she had to learn more, and so she did. Conjuration was a difficult aspect to learn, but Drujha was determined and eager to learn and practice anything that she needed in order to move forwards. The lass would stay with her teacher for many years as she learned and absorbed his knowledge, until he had learned of her intentions and refused to teach her any further, but by that point, her obsession had grown too great and her desire too strong. In a bout of rage, Drujha slew her master with the magic that he had taught her and she fled before any could find what had happened, travelling to Cyrodil so that she may learn more.
It was at this point in her life of traveling a refining her magic through books and scrolls, that Drujha had gotten involved with a Daedric cult dedicated to Molag Bal, the Harvester of Souls. At first, it had started as an investigation into daedric activity, not knowing that they had been dedicated to the Prince of Domination, near a small town on the way from Cyrodiil to Morrowind. However, she was quickly found and captured by the cultists when she began to actively investigate the area they were known to frequent. After many weeks being chained to a pole and being interrogated, her mind had slipped in and out of sanity until inevitably, she fell to the cultists. It was within her time with this cult that she had perhaps learned more about the Daedra and their creations than she could have ever desired, but the thirst persisted within her and eventually she got in too deep. The markings that are scattered on her body were caused by this cult, they took they daggers and hot irons and put the markings of Molag Bal upon her flesh. They took her and molded her for a time, allowing her to become drunk on a power that she did not fully understand, but eventually, Drujha had done it, she had been able to summon a Dremora Lord from some plane of existence. It had taken nearly ten years of perfection, ten years of trial and error, ten years of her life dedicated to the study of daedra, but she had done it. It was a power that grew mad with power with, unable to come out of her stupor until one day as she ate with her comrades, something within her told her to run for her life.
So she did, slaughtering the cultists with her newfound magic and proceeding to run, proceeding to run just as she had when she had killed her master all those years ago. She had little to time to rest until she realized that she had ran all the way to a local hist tree that had taken root, a rare sight outside of the Black Marsh. Drujha knew that the Hist was saving her from a fate that would have cost her the soul that they had given her, something that she should not throw away so willingly and it was a warning to what the power could do to the minds of those unprepared for it. She ingested the sap of the hist and allowed her vision to clear her mind.
Drujha says that she saw her plan coming to fruition, controlling the daedra and their creations to bring in an age of her own design. She saw the people of Tamriel in a crowd around her, clearly impressed by her power. It was then that she knew that she had to dedicate more to her studies, but she knew that she had to be cautious lest she return that mindset the cult had instilled within her.
Biggest Regret: Drujha is haunted by the slaying of her master, he had gotten in her way of her dream, but Walks-In-Water had encouraged her to use her powers. She may not be able to forgive him, or herself, but she knew that it was wrong to kill him just for denying to teach her any further when she could have left and sought out another teacher.
Character Name ‘s Goal: Drujha’s goal is one of grand designs, to control all of the Daedra and use their power to mold Tamriel to a land of her design. She desires to bring in an age of peace unknown to the races of man and beast, willing to use the power of a force that can barely be comprehended by the likes of anyone but her. She will bring peace, freedom, justice, and security to her new empire.
Conjuration - Years of study within a Daedric Cult and under her former master, Walks-in-Water, had proven that she possess a talent for the art of conjuration. Adept:
Destruction - One of the first areas of magic that she had studied, first learning how to use the forces of flame, frost, and lighting in self-defence. This was refined throughout her life, but not so much the extend of Conjuration.
One Handed - Travelling Cyrodil can be dangerous to the untrained, luckily the Cult have taught her how to properly wield a blade and how to fight with the foracity only seen in a follower of Molag Bal, or an Argonian defending the hist.
Enchanting - Another area taught by Walk-in-Water, imbuing objects with magic was refined as she made magical objects for her fellow cult members before she feld. Novice:
Illusion - The last area of magic that Walks-in-Water had taught her, however, she never got far after killing Walks-in-Water.
Sneak - Members of Cult must learn to be stealthy lest the officials catch them and punish them.
Conjure Dremora Lord
Conjure Storm Atronach
Equipment: An Iron War-Axe, A satchel filled a waterskin and some bread, three notebooks with her findings on daedra and how best to control them, an ink and quill, and exactly thirty septims. Misc. Possessions: She owns both volumes of the Lusty Argonian Maid
Race: Argonian Age: 34 Birthsign: The Thief Family Origins: Lilmoth, Argonia.
"What shall I wear today? 3,000 thread silkworm robes, or ratty old rags that reeks of something unimaginable?"
Standing at a tall but uncommanding 5’10” (177.8 cm) and weighing in at a fairly lean 182 pounds (82.5 kilos)*, Lurks-at-Dusk possesses a fairly average and unremarkable figure, partially due to the circumstances of his hatching, partially due to his active attempts of being a social chameleon. He purposefully avoids looking too ostentatious to avoid unwanted scrutiny and providing much that would be a memorable feature. He goes out of his way to avoid any expensive looking jewelry, often purposefully buffing out the sheen, avoiding bright tones, and purposefully picking fashions that he observes as being fairly common in the social strata he wishes to emulate. Lurks-at-Dusk has had an extensive wardrobe over the years, and much of it has been left behind as he moves from haunt to haunt. He sees shedding an outfit no different than molting skin; the new layers are stronger and better suited for the next stage.
Likewise, if Lurks chooses to look poor and destitute, he ensures his appearance and scent are not offensive; the only thing people hate more than a beggar is one who reeks and looks like they are contaminated with some sort of pestilence, even though that is something that eludes Argonian physiology. He knows that men and mer and cats alike have instinctual biases, and he purposefully tries to cater to them. As such, he simply plays himself off as a veteran or a worker who is simply down on his luck and could rise up to prosperity with a bit of good windfall. Life is a delicate balance, and going to one extreme or the next would be counter-productive to his aims.
Perhaps Lurks’ most fetching feature are his eyes, a golden pair of orbs nestled into dark-grey sockets of thick, broad scales surrounded by a valley of two thick ridges of his brow and across his cheek, the ends meeting both towards his snout and the pairs of grey-black twin horns protruding out of the back of his scalp. On either side of the back of his powerful reptilian jaw are an additional pair of shortened spikes and another pair of small bony points protruding down from his chin. Perhaps most striking is the blue-black plumage protruding from the top of his head down to the base of his skull, giving Lurks-at-Dusk a corvid-like display of feathers that have the added benefit of breaking up his silhouette in the dark.
His scales, although well-tended to and buffed, are rarely ever polished, and he has a pleasant slate grey tone across most of his body, with lines of sand and clay coloured bands crossing his body like stripes, giving the Argonian the appearance of a twilight shoreline with waves dancing over the shallow sands. It pairs well with his mostly pleasant countenance, unblemished by scars or markings, and a nicely symmetrical face that almost seems unnatural for how balanced both sides of his face are. Although the Argonian might look something fearsome and predatory to those unacquainted with the race, those who are would find his broad chin and long lips that are perpetually upturned naturally to almost give the impression of a very broad and reassuring smile, and his lack of overly long and intimidating spikes much more approachable than others of his kind. After all, large horns and bright colours in nature mean danger, and Lurks-at-Dusk is neither of those things. He’s a comforting, if somewhat forgettable presence. It’s just the way he likes it.
*Accounting for the extra mass an Argonian tail adds to a bipedal frame
"I will be whatever you want me to be. You just won't know it."
Lurks-at-Dusk is an individual who has long learned that Argonians are alien to other people across Tamriel. After all, it is hard to read a reptilian face if one is not acquainted to it and smiling is something his physiology simply cannot portray in a conventional sense. As such, Lurks has made himself appear affable as possible, employing exaggerated mannerisms and afflictions of tone to convey himself as he believes others would wish to see him; it makes them easier to swindle that way. Likewise, what is widely a perpetually aloof and neutral expression can convey great disinterest to other parties, making him somewhat of a threat when it comes to gambling and haggling for bargains; he can outwardly express himself contrary to what he actually is feeling at any given time given years of practice. One would think his name would arouse more suspicions, but his often disarming and approachable disposition often erodes mistrust within short order.
Ultimately, Lurks-at-Dusk is driven by greed and a personality tick where he doesn’t steal, burgle, and pickpocket necessarily out of need or infamy, but rather because of the thrill he gets when he takes what he wants and what others cherish. In his own mind, he justifies his actions by generations of slavery and genocide committed by elves against the Argonian people, or unwanted rule by the Empires of Men, but deep down he knows that it brings him a more primitive and instinctual pleasure as opposed to any lofty ideals.
He loves getting away with something that’s outside the rule of law, and he takes great pleasure at the explosive reactions of people whom he had wronged. Someone croaking about a missing family heirloom or spilled ancestral ashes to their neighbours in the market the following morning, or a child crying about a precious stuffed guar that was found torn apart by dogs. It brings Lurks a sense of satisfaction he simply could not have living a life in the straight and narrow. Sometimes he likes to toss treasures or coins into the street to watch the feeding frenzy, either for the sake of entertainment or to empty some more pockets of unsuspecting innocents who made the mistake of trying to compete with the greed of the Argonian thief.
Lurks-at-Dusk feels well-connected to the Hist and he makes sure that he doesn’t target Argonians, unless they’ve particularly crossed him or seem excessively foolish. He does not feel guilt or shame at his actions because he believes that this life is one of many he’s had and will have, so if he perishes due to overreaching ambition, he does not worry; the rivers will take him into another form before too long and he’ll try something different the next life. It’s been quite some time since he’s been back to his swampy homeland, and one of the few things he purchases legitimately are keepsakes and items that remind him of home and his people.
Given the oftentimes temporary nature of building materials in Murkmire, Lurks became very proficient at working with his hands, able to throw together rudimentary, if sturdy, furnishings and structures together with any materials at hand with relative ease and patience. This has enabled him to turn otherwise decrepit structures into relatively comfortable temporary dwellings and bases of operation, and while camping in the wilds, he fares better than most in terms of comfort. One of his few honest ways of earning coin is by carving amulets and bangles in his down time, something that reminds him of happier times at home with his mother.
It has occurred to Lurks-at-Dusk that he could potentially become quite a proficient spy given his antics; indeed, he has overheard a lot of sensitive information that was spoken in confidentiality over the years that he never was quite sure of what to do with, and he has certainly made off with some rather incriminating and interesting documents. However, being shackled to a government is precisely what this Argonian does not want out of life given the oppression his people had suffered at the hands of others over the years, and he knows a spy would never be affluent as he and might be forced to do a job that ran contrary to his own morals, namely that he avoids killing or hurting people if at all possible. He is a crook, not a villain, after all.
Despite his self-centered nature and apparent greed, Lurks also possesses a surprisingly philanthropic side. He often gives coins to beggars, leaves gifts for those he takes a liking to, and when people are in need, he sometimes takes it upon himself to find the object that is needed and deliver it to their doorstep unannounced. After all, he knows what it was like growing up not knowing if his mother and him would be able to make ends meet, and he sees no purpose in denying someone who needs medicine who cannot afford it something simple that could either cure or alleviate their suffering.
Socially, and in particular when Lurks-at-Dusk isn't putting on an act, he is a somewhat awkward individual with a matter-of-fact disposition, often stating his thoughts out loud without too much consideration of how it might be received. He can be surprisingly well natured, behaving without the hidden mischief and malice he brings upon many others. Despite the fact he is always appraising and casing people for potential profit, he tends to be pleasant and polite and willing to lend a hand. He did spend much of his formative years engaging with customers and visitors to his city, after all, so he certainly knows how to engage with strangers in a cordial manner.
Lurks is not particularly well-educated, and there are certainly gaps in his knowledge and experience that he has to work around, and his facades tend to crumble a bit under questioning and overly invasive scrutiny, but that simply is not his field of expertise. The Argonian thief studies from afar and offers just enough to pass casual interaction, making a game out of whatever persona and history he is adhering to that particular day. His work is a game to him, and he certainly is winning.
"My story is whatever gets me in the door quickest. How about it?"
A child of Lilmoth in the Southern coastal region of Murkmire, Lurks-at-Dusk was largely removed from the tribal heritage of the non-city Argonians and spent as much time in their company as foreigners who came to the city as either a stop to destinations unknown or trade, giving the young Argonian a fairly cosmopolitan outlook from a young age. His mother, Collects-Seashells, was a kindly woman with a knack for sales and a skilled jewelry crafter and Lurks learned much of her craft as a hatchling.
Ever since his youth, Lurks had associated money with his mother’s happiness and prosperity, and he cannot recall a time he wasn’t tinkering with things with his hands, whether it was helping patch the stilted hut they called home or helping Collects-Seashells produce items to sell. Times were often rough, with barely enough food and coin to cover expenses, but Lurks always remember his mother being warm and pleasant-spirited, even when dealing with debt collectors and overly forceful customers who sometimes made off with his mother’s wares without paying; it made Lurks’ blood boil. However, he was a patient and observant boy, having been raised to be considerate and polite even if someone deserved to have their face clawed off.
It didn’t mean he didn’t soon find a way to get even with such people.
Even from his youngest years, Lurks-at-Dusk noticed how carelessly some people tied their coin purse on their belts, how easy it would be to cut it loose, how an important piece of parchment stuck just outside of pockets. One evening, living up to his name, he decided to see just how easy it would be. Taking a fishing knife left carelessly at the docks as the sun was beginning to descend beneath the treeline, the young Argonian waited for a drunken foreigner to wander out of one of the many taverns in Lilmoth. As the Imperial man was preoccupied with emptying the contents of his stomach he spent some of his coin on, Lurks cut the purse from the man’s belt and bolted, diving gracefully into the harbour, disappearing beneath the waves before the Imperial or any of the guards could identify him, appearing quietly back through his bedroom window hours later.
It would be the first of many times Lurks-at-Dusk would act in such a manner, and he began to hone his craft in increasingly daring ways, always watching people and observing their behaviours like a crocodile watching prey drinking from the river. Port cities rarely were quiet, and even after dark there were always people out in the streets; these were the ones Lurks made as his marks, succeeding and failing in equal measure at first, but always with an escape plan. Before long, he only knew success and word of a pickpocket began to circulate Lilmoth, and the locals became more vigilant, but they were seldom ever Lurks’ target. It was the ignorant foreigners who carried the coin that glittered, and it made them entirely alluring.
The weeks pressed on, and Lurks’ stayed to different schedules and took irregular times off of his rounds, and never casing the same area twice in a row. He’d had a knack for making himself look like he belonged, sorting fishing line or cages, sweeping walkways, staring wistfully off of bridges, not paying much attention to the world around him. Most nights he picked pockets, but others he had tried his hand at lockpicking, having secured a kit and a manual from one of the merchants who came to Lilmoth who he knew didn’t ask too many questions or pay too close attention. The financial situation of Lurks-at-Dusk and his mother improved considerably, and to her credit, she didn’t ask enough questions.
Perhaps she should have.
It was only a few months before the wrong sort of people started going door to door, and Collects-Seashells was becoming increasingly harassed by enforcers and collectors who grew suspicious of her sudden windfall and change of fortunes. It was only a matter of time before suspicion grew into something decidedly darker, Lurks knew. So one night, after his mother had went to bed, Lurks left a heartfelt letter saying goodbye to his mother and saying he had to leave town to protect her. That night he had stowed away on a vessel leaving port, and it wasn’t long until Lurks-at-Dusk was unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. He was born under the sign of the Thief, after all. It would be beneath him not to honour that.
Lurks-at-Dusk descended upon city after city across Tamriel, honing his craft and finding himself amazed at the opulence of the citizens in their great stone cities, and just how careless they were with their belongings. It became something of a game to him; find a decrepit abandoned building or cozy spot in the nearby wilderness, steal a new outfit, and come up with a new name and identity to play while among the unsuspecting populace. Sometimes he was a beggar, other times he acted like a rich merchant or landowner, escaping or entering notice of various social rungs, studying the local guards and mercenaries, and generally blending into the fabric of society he elected to clear of belongings.
He learned how to read shadow marks left by other thieves, and he paid tutors in different techniques he could use to improve his craft; he learned how to throw a bolas and use a sling from a few martial instructors, took some rudimentary alchemy lessons from others, and he learned how to use his body to scale buildings and walls to access certain areas or slip around unnoticed. All of this has culminated in an extremely proficient thief that never stays in one place for long and has reached a point where he rarely wants for anything; he simply takes what he wants and enjoys the thrill of the hunt. Taking someone’s prized silverware set is a lot less gruesome than hunting down some wild game, after all.
Most recently, Lurks-at-Dusk has made himself at home on the Gold Coast, finding the climate agreeable and the easy access to ships and cross-Tamriel trade a lucrative place to ply his skills and the constant influx of unfamiliar faces easy to disappear in.
Biggest Regret: Lurks-at-Dusk has constantly had doubts and regrets about the manner he left his mother; he wish he could have said goodbye, and he knows now she has no way of knowing if he’s safe and he has no way of knowing if his sudden departure protected her in the end. It was his own personal greed and ambition that brought misfortune to their small family, and it eats at him that he brought that upon Collects-Seashells knowing that he cannot stop himself.
Lurks-at-Dusk‘s Goal: Lurks-at-Dusk has two long-term aspirations; first, to steal something invaluable belonging to none other than the Emperor himself… although he still needs to try his hand at infiltrating the castles and palaces of the lords and counts of the lands as a bit of a warm-up for the greatest score of his life.
Second, Lurks wishes to return home wealthy, powerful, and infamous… and out of reach of the rest of Tamriel. Aside from becoming a key figure in Argonia and something of a folk hero, or so he imagines, he sees his personal mission as something of reparations for thousands of years of oppression by foreign empires. ________________________________________
"Most people sound and move like a wamasu in heat. No one notices the dovahfly when the former is making a scene. What do you suppose I am, wamasu?"
Sneak: The combination of his naturally dark colouring and foliage-like plumage and years of lurking in the shadows, Lurks-in-Darkness basically is a shadow after dark, and his commitment to blending in society during the day has made him more of a part of the scenery than a person most can recall.
Pickpocket: One he started, Lurks never stopped plucking pockets, cutting his teeth on drunks in the dead of night to working up to brushing past people on the street without them noticing his hand slip into their pockets in broad daylight. He knows when to pick his targets, and as such, he rarely ever gets caught.
Marksman, Throwing: Although not as proficient at this as he would like, Lurks has nevertheless practices extensively and received training with his bolas and sling to be a fairly accurate shot with both, being able to trip or ensnare an alerted guard or to knock out a lamp with a well-placed stone from afar.
Lock Picking: A hobby picked up near the end of his years in Lilmoth, Lurks-at-Dusk has had quite a bit of practical experience at this, although more complicated locks still give him trouble. However, most people have inexpensive or common locks that give him plenty of practice and access to their belongings.
Crafting, Woodworking: Growing up in a swampy, humid climate with largely wood and vines that wear down over time, plus helping his mother craft jewelry as a youth has given Lurks-at-Dusk quite a bit of knowledge and talent with carpentry and making trinkets.
Acrobatics: Although hardly one to be able to walk on his hands or tightropes, Lurks-at-Dusk is a very good climber and chances are if he can grab onto something, he can get on top of it. This is one of those skills that came through practice and experience, as well as a few friendly lessons from a tutor.
"Never bring what you can afford to lose. But if you do, thank you for your generous donation, beeko."
6x rope and stone bolas
A leather rock sling
An assortment of lockpicks, tucked away in folds on his leather armour
Leather armour, blue and brown in colour to blend into urban environments. The hard bracers and gloves are a stony shade similar to the waves in his scales, partially out of personal vanity and preference, partially so it is easier to see his hands work in the dark of night.
A lightweight backpack with dividers and filled with cloth to add cushioning and muffle the sound of pilfered goods moving around. It has quick-detach buckles.
A utility belt with multiple pouches and pockets, often carrying muffle and stamina potions, as well as a healing potion or two in worst case scenarios.
Smoke bombs: A simple collection of fertilizer, sugar, and firesalt starters, Lurks prepares these in cheap pots to aid in the event he needs to make a getaway.
Boot dagger: A back-up weapon he keeps strapped to his boot when in leathers that can be used as an absolute line of defense, or for work that may require a cutting edge.
An assortment of utility knives: Everything from cutting up a fish for dinner to cutting rope to carving wood.
A traveling rucksack: Lurks’ entire life goes in here, including camping and cooking supplies and a change of clothing. Fire starting kit A leather-bound notebook: Other than the piles of ill-gotten goods Lurks is in possession of at any given time, this is the most incriminating thing in his possession. It’s where his observations and plans are jotted down before he springs into action. A haj mota wood pendant An assortment of stolen valuables and coin
I'll be writing feedback for each submitted sheet tomorrow, so tweaks can be made in time for the deadline next Wednesday.
Would love to keep sheets rolling in, so if you've been lurking on this thread and are on the fence for whatever reason, message me or hop into the discord. Would love to have you! We could use some characters of a perky nature, with optimistic outlooks! Why? Because I want to shatter them.
▼ B A S I C S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Height - 5'6" ► Weight - 125 lbs ► Build - Athletic ► Hair Colour - Red ► Eye Colour - Hazel ► Origin - Anvil, Cyrodiil ► Sign - The Lord -
▼ A T T R I B U T E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Alchemy - Adept ► Alteration Magic - Adept ► Athletics - Novice ► Enchanting - Novice ► Lockpicking - Adept ► One-Handed - Adept ► Sneak - Novice ► Speech - Adept -
▼ I N V E N T O R Y ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Armor - Simple clothes with hard leather adjustments, weighs her down a little but if her magic isn't working, she's glad she has armor of any kind. ► Weapons - Nothing too fancy. A well-kept steel arming sword of imperial design and two daggers, one silver and one steel. ► Coinpurse - A simple cloth coinpurse holding enough coins to amount to sixty-five septims. ► Misc. Items - A waterskin and light backpack appear most present. Items within include a herb pouch, trail rations, a mortar & pestle, one handful of lockpicks, and a journal that contains unorganized stories, phrases, recipes, drawings, and things that catch the author's eye.
▼ S P E L L B O O K ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Detect Life ► Ironflesh ► Magelight ► Telekinesis ► Transmute ► Waterbreathing -
D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E
Where does one begin with Yseline Lelles? A young woman of her late twenties. Born under the sign known as The Lord. Cyrodiilic Breton. Anvil native, though she hasn’t seen Anvil in many years. This would be her first voyage back since she begrudgingly started representing the family business in the frozen north.
Physically describing Yseline is quite simple. She is a young Breton woman with long, frayed red hair and a warmer complexion due to her years of constant travel and brokerage. She stands a little taller over other Breton women, standing at a height that is a few inches past the general approximation of racial standards. Long past her childhood where she was afford fine gifts and finer prospects, Yseline has taken to her lifestyle as a traveler quite well. Her hair is tied into a loose, rough tail-knot, and her eyes of auburn have not faded into gray-browns quite yet. Her figure is athletic from a lean diet and the constant wear-and-tear of traveling beaten roads and weathered galleys.
When it comes to attire, Yseline isn’t one to paint a target on the back on her head. Excess jewelry, expensive finery, and other such things gather too much attention. Her equipment is paired with simple clothes, leather, and northern furs to stave off the cold, northern winds. This is not to say she isn’t flexible. She knows which cities afford certain fashions and what fashions get you places. Meeting with a Thalmor merchant in rags will not get you a good deal, for example. The only thing signifying some particular value is an amulet she has grown fond of and a family signet ring she keeps tucked away for business transactions.
---P E R S O N A L I T Y
Yseline Lelles has always been a wayfarer, a survivalist with a heart full of adventure and wants. Whilst growing up on the shores of Anvil, she has looked to sky for answers since she was old enough to walk.
After all, Anvil was not a very interesting place. Oftentimes she would find herself traveling to Daggerfall, Taneth, Leyawiin, and the Imperial City. Her father had kept her close to his chest, like a treasure hunter holding onto a flawless diamond. Perhaps it was these ventures that inspired Yseline to explore beyond her reach, seeking to never settle for life in dreary Anvil; or maybe it was her father’s incessant need to keep eyes on her like a hawk, fearful that he’d lose her like he lost her mother. Whichever the case may be, Yseline became a woman forged by interest of opportunity and interest of the unknown. She garnered a few physical and psychological scars on the way, but as far as the normal person can tell, Yseline appears as undamaged as an adolescent child.
This is, however, far from the truth.
Yseline in all of her goodness, curiosity, and adventurousness has done and seen things that have shaped her soul. This is not to say her moral centre or optimistic worldview is a façade, but rather that in the last five-or-so years she has had doubts about herself and of what she’s capable of withstanding. The red-haired Breton’s greatest flaw is not her unending belief in goodness, but rather her harshness on herself and her choices in life. In the past, there had been times where she never believed she was capable of anything but understanding, forgiveness, and kindness. But after she did some… questionable decisions she has found herself coaxing nightmares, extreme anxiety, and a lacking of spiritual focus. She has looked to questionable sources for answers, sought out faith-healing of her soul, and generally found herself tipping on the edge of denial and repression. The end result of this repression, anxiety, and self-criticism is a woman who believes everyone is inherently good except for maybe herself. Her philosophy is clearly inconsistent due to her guilt, but she’s still here and she has a purpose to keep moving forward.
Even if going forward in her current state has her flirting with alcoholism, fantasy, and deflective sarcasm, in the end, it appears that a proper coping mechanism is a hard thing to sell to Lelles’ Quality Merchandise.
---H I S T O R Y
For as long as Yseline Lelles can remember, she has known the city of Anvil like the back of her hand. For the majority of her childhood, it was her home and the place where she learned the majority of her life lessons for better or worse.
Yseline’s father, Ambnean Lelles, is the owner of the mercantile establishment known as Lelles’ Quality Merchandise. The business enterprise itself is an old and proven one dating back since the Oblivion Crisis struck Cyrodiil over two-hundred years ago. By the time Yseline’s generation came to Anvil, the business had expanded and turned it into one of the most, if not the most, prominent mercantile businesses in Western Cyrodiil. This afforded Ambnean and his wife, Safila, the boon of a large family that would come to include six children with Yseline as the youngest. Though, when Yseline was only four years old, Safila was killed while visiting her family in Bravil.
The aftermath of her mother’s untimely death was not kind to the traders of Bravil. Yseline’s father immediately withdrew all trade from Bravil out of spite and looked upon as skooma as a item that had no economical or moral value on the free market. His stance on skooma and the city of Bravil would have long-lasting consequences that have been unspoken of for the entirety of Yseline’s childhood. Though, that’s not to say there weren’t other more challenging issues throughout Yseline’s childhood. Yseline, as the only daughter of her parent’s union, lacked any sort of conventional female role model in her life and her father had grown to be quite paranoid and obsessive to the point where he had become increasingly more protective and authoritative, often lauding over Yseline like she was his property to be hoarded and kept from the sight of thieves and charlatans. This would wane with time, though her father would always treat her like she was made of glass.
Growing up without guidance from her mother was a challenge for Yseline, especially considering the fact that her father trusted few enough people to help guide and educate her. Her interest in sorcery and hero-adventurers troubled him, but confining her to his estate in Anvil only afforded so much and he was not surprised stories captivated her imagination. It would be these stories that influenced Yseline’s ideals of faith, dignity, honor, and kindness. They were only heightened when one of her brothers, Mebein, returned from a journey in Bruma with sword in hand. Mebein, the middle child of the family, had decided he wanted nothing to do with the family business and decided to help the people of Cyrodiil solve their problems. This would be the first of many visits where Mebein would excite Yseline’s imagination with stories of protecting caravans, dueling bandits, and hunting for treasure. His exploits as well as the guidance of her other brothers would come to be hallmarks of how Yseline saw the world and the people in it. Lacking a world with her mother seemed far less significant when she had five brothers to guide her in times of confusion.
Though, not all of her brothers had good habits to teach Yseline.
Whilst Mebein was the adventurer, Noran was the charlatan and instigator. For Yaric and Yseline, the two youngest, Noran was the one person to show the limits of their father’s patience. When Yseline complained about her father locking her in her room, it was Noran who gave her a lockpick and taught her how to use it. When Yseline lamented about her lack of freedom, he was the one who encouraged her to create her own. This encouragement of behavior created a constant battle between Yseline and her father and eventually she realized how far her father would go to make a point. After she was caught breaking out of her room the response was as extreme as her father could create. Before Yseline knew it she was on the first voyage from Anvil to Rivenspire, a place where Ambnean’s cousin, Agrane Lelles, could keep an eye on her.
Surprisingly enough, the life she was sentenced to in Rivenspire was not as terrible as she thought it would be. Agrane, as stern and condescending as he was, actually seemed more concerned about Yseline to stay out of trouble rather than loom over her like a dragon and its hoard. Seeing she had interest in magic, Agrane offered investment in her studies as long as she remained obedient. One thing led to another and she found herself a student in one of Rivenspire’s many magical institutions—a place where she could learn alchemy, magic, and finally understand who she wanted to be, or at the very least give her the chance to try to. While she bemoaned being separated from Yaric, the youngest of her brothers and one she was closest with due to their close proximity of age, there was a silver lining in that she could finally stop being treated like a caged bird for the first time in her life.
Yseline’s magical tutelage bore success, though not overnight. As luck would have it, the young Breton had the interest for magic but lacked the same intellect of her peers. Testing at the bottom of the class for several years in a row didn’t make Yseline happy and the mockery that came with it was exhausting to deal with, though Yseline never saw it more as playful teasing of her peers. She kept trying and exerted the necessary effort, studying twice as hard as anyone else to try to put recipes to memory—writing them down in a way only she really understood. As a result, her notes often were messy, disjointed, and unruly; but they were also successful. While lacking prodigal talent or innate memory, somehow by the time Yseline was nearing her nineteenth year she grasped potioncrafting and alteration magic to a respectable level. She was no expert, but she had achieved something she had longed for: identity and respect of her friends at the school.
Several weeks later, after contemplating another year of study in Rivenspire, she received a letter; a letter that immediately caused her to suspend her place in Rivenspire and rush to the nearest harbor to return to Anvil as soon as she possibly could.
The reason for this, of course, was a familial urgency.
A gathering was requested of the immediate Lelles family, a gathering of celebration and mourning. A funeral. The letter was vague, so Yseline could not know the context of who had died. She feared the worst for her father who at this point in his life was brittle and battling a lifetime of stress and grief. This fear would not be realized however, as when the nineteen-year-old arrived in Anvil some time later she discovered it was not her father Ambnean who had died, but her brother Mebein. The brother who had inspired her imagination as a girl with stories of sorcery and adventure. Mebein, the bandit-hunter. Cut short in the prime of his life. A tragedy Yseline was not certain she knew how to comprehend at first, but as she would eventually learn, life in Tamriel tends to rarely make sense.
It was at the celebration of Mebein’s life that Yseline learned that the family was in a strange place in her absence. Noran was serving time in the Imperial Prison for trying to steal something that belonged to someone important, Yaric had convinced their father to start a branch of the family business in Skyrim, Georan had devoted his life to the divines, and Belenric was practically ready to take over the family’s responsibilities. With Mebein dead, it seemed there was a lot to take in. Yseline was saddened by the revelation of Mebein’s death, but at the same time she knew that Mebein would want her to be happy—to remember that he died as he wanted to live and that the most important thing in life was to stay positive. It was such remembrance that Yseline felt inspired to follow in his shadow yet follow it mindfully.
It has been ten years since that day. Yseline has changed, though ultimately she is still the same optimistic, morally upright girl she was. Life as an adventurer and part-time merchant has treated her well, though some say the divines have blessed her with more luck than she has ever deserved. In the last few months she has taken to visiting her brother, Yaric, who resides in Solitude operating the business he started a few months after Mebein’s death. However, on one afternoon, it appears the ill fortune of the men in the Lelles family has struck again. Yaric has disappeared without mention—an uncharacteristic trait of his. Upon asking around Yaric’s group of friends in Solitude and investigating as she had done in the past with other cases, she discovered that a man matching his description left for “Cyrodiil”. It’s strange, things don’t exactly add up, but Yseline doesn’t want to lose another brother if she can help it.
It’s time to return to Anvil.
---R E G R E T
Yseline is not an evil person. She believes that everyone on Tamriel is inherently good and that circumstances have twisted them into being not-good. Everyone can be redeemed.
This belief got herself and a few associates of hers captured by a group of cannibals in The Reach. She’s not completely sure, how she got from point-a to point-b, but it happened. Her bad reading of the situation led to people who had families, friends, and hopes to effectively die. The worst part of it all was when Yseline picked the lock of the cell entrapping herself and others, she found herself in a situation where she had to choose: her life or theirs. She didn’t just abandon them, she used them as a distraction. This action has been weighing on her since it happened, creating a dark spot on her soul. She now constantly doubts her goodness and wonders how she could be redeemed when there is something inside her that is selfish and cruel.
The young breton woman sometimes stirs awake from her nightmares and wonders if she should’ve sacrificed herself to let everyone go free. She wonders what it would be like if she just jumped off the edge of Haafingar—how long it’d take for her to stop remembering. That is Yseline Lelles's greatest regret.
---G O A L
Ultimately, Yseline’s goal is to find her brother, Yaric.
Most tell the red-haired woman that her beloved sibling is probably dead. However, Yseline doesn’t deal in cynicism or pessimism. As an optimist, she believes that Yaric is alive-and-well, just that he doesn’t want to be found. Why he doesn’t want to be found is a large question that Yseline has yet to find the answer for, but its out there, or so she hopes. Her most recent clues, or assortment of clues, suggests she follow the trail from Solitude to Anvil.
But why would Yaric return to their childhood home without mention or note? Something's fishy...
He's not all purtied up, but I wanted to post the sheet so it could at least be approved before I go full aesthetic.
Name: Beren "Dragonfist" Charathon Race: Imperial Age: 22 Birthsign: Family Origins: Small Community near Leyawiin in the Blackwood
Appearance: Beren's most noticable features are his dark, chocolate eyes and tan skin. He has long legs and powerful arms, standing an inch shy of six feet in height, with a lean but muscled physique. Broad shouldered and trim, he cuts a statuesque figure. His face is youthful, giving him a look of someone a few years his junior. With kind eyes that hold an inner energy to them, he seems both gentle and dangerous at the same time. His scars, most noticeably the scar on his left cheek and the large one along his abdomen, give him a bit of a rugged look. He wears a crimson vest with brown, loose fitting trousers, his vest over a dark brown undershirt with a navy sash belt tucked around his waist. His boots are travel fit, and he wears a silver necklace of Akatosh underneath his clothes that his father gave him.
Beren moves in an easy manner when in the presence of friends or in public, though he leaps like a hunting cat and can sprint powerfully when he needs to. However, generally, he has a very nonchalant way about him. Beren has a self confidence that few could match and it shows in his stride. Though the self confidence quickly dissolves when it comes to any sort of flirtation. Not only is he unused to it, but he also has painful memories as well. Both work in concert to make him a complete dork when he has the wits about him to realize someone is interested in him. Despite this, he has a heroic disposition and a near sadistic enjoyment about of combat. Ever since he was young, he knew, or at least believed, that he had the heart of an adventurer. But now that he has the physique, he enjoys using it. However, he also has a gentleness to his heart, and he sometimes moves almost too slowly if he's holding something he even perceives as delicate, so he doesn't hurt it. He never forgets what he left home for, to fight for people who could not fight for themselves. Personality: Beren has a kind heart and an infectious smile. Many adventurers have learned through their journeys that he is a fast friend and a fearsome enemy. One does not need to be vulnerable to be nice, he learned long ago. He has a quick wit and sharp mind, but sometimes he is too stubborn to use it. Beren loves animals, and tends to help the under dog or people who are ridiculed (he used to be one). He thinks deeply and feels deeply, but has a dry wit and a fine sense of humor. He gained it young, getting much of it from his parents, particularly his father. However he also learned a lesson by himself, that if you don't laugh at the world's grim nature, you'll cry, and it takes much for him to cry. Though when he does, he does in earnest.
Despite his youth, he has an old soul, and he enjoys reading and learning of new cultures when not busy with other, more physical activities. Many find him easy going, but underneath his casual demeanor is a man who will do what it takes to keep to his personal code of honor. Perhaps he is too young, or he hasn't seen enough of the world to be as open minded as some. But he grew up being different from much of his peers, and he sees his strangeness as his strength. He doesn't drink alcohol for instance, though as fun loving as he often is, no one generally sees it coming.
Probably one of his greatest strengths, which is also likely his greatest weakness, is his restlessness. He still has youth and he knows it, and he wants to travel the world and do what he can while he can. History: Beren was born in a cottage within a small community in the Blackwood. His father was the priest of the temple of Akatosh in Leyawiin, and his mother, while a stay at home woman, was looked to for making decisions in their small community. Patrols of Argonian scouts protecting their traders kept the small community safe as well, by proxy. From an early age, Beren was fascinated with the world around him, and as soon as he was able he began to explore the Blackwood. Close to home, of course, but gradually his range widened.
He would often meet and make friends with the Argonian scouts, and he always enjoyed hearing word of Blackmarsh from the traders, picking up Jel over years of hearing it, acclimating to the tongue. The Lizardfolk taught him a bit how to shoot, though he only gained some measure of skill. Being an introvert when he was young, he never quite got along with the children in Leywiin when he visited. He was a scrawny, quiet boy more used to the forest than big town dinners and get-togethers. Instead, other than a few close friends at home, he spent most of his time with his dogs, as well as much of the night having his nose in different books he bartered from the traders.
When he hit puberty, he mother decided he ply a trade. He wished to be an explorer, going on adventures as mercenaries and heroes did. He had a firm sense of right and wrong and wanted to be the one to help people out of plights. But of course his mother liked him risking his neck not at all, and instead he chose blacksmith. His outdoor activities did not halt, however. He still ranged far, learning axemanship and how to use a staff from his father, to defend himself. Though these skills were overshadowed eventually. It was a day he would never forget when he met the hermit "Sees-All," an elderly, blind Argonian who had a small hut not eight miles north of the small community Beren lived in.
Beren's knowledge of Jel impressed the hermit, and after some convincing, and a free bedpost Beren had made for the hermit, the Argonian agreed to teach Beren the bare-fisted style of fighting the hermit practiced. It was 3 years of training, Beren returning every few days to receive another lesson. His dogs accompanied him often, enjoying their home away from home whenever he went. However, the lessons halted, when Beren awoke one morning and worked a shift at the smithy to meet a beautiful Breton girl named Sarah, who needed his expertise making a pot she was looking to give to her mother when she returned home to Highrock.
To make a long story short, the two grew quite fond of one another over the next two fortnights. Sarah and her uncle stayed in Leywiin while they awaited her father to come back from the Imperial city. When it was time for them to go, Beren desperately wanted to go with her back to Highrock, but it wasn't simply his responsibility to his craft that kept him at his home. It was wishing not to disappoint his mother, who wished him to grow into his trade and become a journeyman.
It was 2 months later when he learned the ship that had borne Sarah had been attacked by Corsairs off hammerfell, and she had been killed along with her uncle and father. Her death devastated Beren, and a very short time later, his oldest dog passed away as well. He felt as if his world was crumbling around him, and one night he told his parents he didn't wish to remain here. He wanted to go out and see the world. To explore and aid people like in the stories.
He left his home nearly 2 years ago, visiting Hammerfell first and managing (by the skin of his teeth) to defeat a Necromancer that had been harrying trade routes on the road from Skaven to Highrock. The dark magician had been killing merchants and travelers with his 'pets' and used thier corpses to create more. Beren was commissioned by one of the smaller princes to find the reasoning for the disappearances, and why each carriage was abandoned of even corpses. He used his skills at tracking he learned from the Argonian scouts to follow the footsteps into the hills, catching the necromancer by surprise and destroying a few zombies before engaging the sorcerer himself. Their battle was vicious but short lived, Beren gaining a few new scorch marks from the spells of fire, and another scar when the lightning bolt from the necromancer struck the rock where Beren had been moments before, stone falling atop his arm to cut it. But before long, his axe found the sorcerer's chest and ended his life. Despite his fear, he felt more accomplished than he ever had in his life. He had been utterly disgusted by the mad man. He knew the longing of bringing back those who had died, but this man not only killed the travelers, he had done it to pursue the vilest of ends. He hated to admit it, but he was glad he ended the wretches life.
He found he was quite good at adventuring, joining up with a small group of other like-minded individuals and keeping the roads clean of other bandits for a few months until he had accumulated a small fortune in bounties and claimed treasures. After that, he made his way to Daggerfall to help Sarah's widowed mother, making sure she was alright where she was with her family, and himself making peace with Sarah's death.
After 16 months away from his home, he decided he wished to go back to Cyrodiil. Perhaps not to go home immediately, but he wished to be closer, and he had only been to the Imperial City once before on a mission with his father. He boarded the Kismet, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Biggest Regret: He should have been on that ship to protect Sarah and her family. He should have noticed his elderly dog growing weaker. Perhaps if he had done one, either, both...he could have saved one of them.
Adventure. Beren longs for the thrill of battle and the wonder of exploration, and most importantly, aiding those who cannot help themselves.
Redemption. He wishes to rid himself of the guilt of lost loved ones.
Heart. Secretly, Beren wishes to find true love and get married, though he will never admit it. His chosen life is a bit too dangerous for him to be the dating type.
Lore Tomes on Talos, Akatosh, and Ysgramor
Rucksack with a water skin and some jerky, and most importantly, a fair sum of gold.
You saw in the Discord that I took a lot of notes, you had nothing to worry about. My pencil is for placing a footnote on the things I love, and there's so much to love about Garil. I've said it once, I'll say it a million times more - your ability to use light whimsy so naturally is your greatest gift as a writer. People spend years perfecting something like that, it's as easy as breathing to you and it's what makes anything you do so enjoyable to read.
In the appearance section, you effortlessly describe mannerisms that all have meaning that later match and pair to aspects of his personality. Instead of jumping into what I call the a, b, c formula of writing an appearance (start with this and then with that etc). You take the concept of it and turn it into something so unique to your style. That effortless whimsy again. You lucky duck. Spoops, you don't paint by numbers, you paint from memory and from soul and you use colours that the average Joe just wouldn't even consider looking at.
There are parts when personality slips into appearance, and vice versa but that's part of the beauty of your writing - you're creating and fleshing out such a character and you like to start with the little ticks. The way he hunches, how he chews, that he's agile, it all builds the character so easily without simply saying; "he is neurotic." I made a note, STAR; Situation, Task, Action, Result. You don't simply say "my character is x" - you don't say it all, you write the story in single sentences - you show instead of telling.
What I like about Garil is that he's very 'usual'. So many writers veer away from writing a character like that, when actually, often they have simply the best inner monologues - because they're clean of baggage and secrets and darkness. They're pure and unfiltered, and this roleplay needs introspection like that. Him being a simply farmer contrasts quite well to Dro'Sintaba who always strived for more and achieved that - in a way I can see the two of them acting almost as two sides of the same coin. Very similar in a lot of ways - but different enough to have incredibly differing working minds. I'm excited to explore that, I love writing with you so I'm sure we can work out some wonderful collabs between the two of them.
What I'm left wondering about - I'd really like to know what it is that makes Garil tick. What would actually make him angry? What kind of anger does he have? Has he ever been in love - he's liberal about sex and relationships, where did that come from? How does he show affection? I'm feeling like that's the seasoning missing from it being a complete dish, for me. With that said, I would accept this sheet now, but I'd like you to think about my feedback before posting it to the tab on Wednesday.
@Hank As always, fantastically descriptive writing and a good length of a sheet. You have a really nice way of describing, it's very easy to read and enjoyably so and it always feels very 'Hank', and maybe that's because I write so much with you and we're quite creatively intertwined in a way, I always know your work in the signatory things you do - a statement and then a lovely description to follow, they why to the what. Aurora feels very Hopepunk to me and that's in everything she does down to her name. "Silly Rabbit, cynicism is for losers!" is a trope she seems to slip into, imo.
The thing that really stuck out to me, and what I couldn't actually push to the side when I read the sheet was the following line, actually;
Aurora means business and feels like she deserves to be taken seriously, something that is unfortunately in short supply for women in her line of work.
I couldn't push it away because that's such a huge aspect of womanhood, many of our stories are about our desire to 'claim a seat at the table' so to speak, and it's only really briefly touched upon here to add flavour to her appearance and I can't help but wonder if this is not, in a way, her story - her motivation. You write that Aurora is driven to carve out a place for herself in the world, but her history reads rather easily, and she hasn't really faced much adversity that suggests she has to carve out anything.
About that, it's not always about being cut throat and savage about it either, it's quite an overdone trope imo. Her natural benevolence would make her far less likely to do that anyway - but she's very clever and adept at speaking and she seems like the type who probably wouldn't take no lying down. That's what I'm feeling in the sheet, from the character.
Something else that struck me, as food for thought, is that some especially creative and artistic women can be very emotional and sensitive to others. It's where a lot of their art comes from, strong emotions that they possess. I wonder if this could be something to explore with Aurora? How does she manage her emotions? She reads as being quite calm and steady and warm, but she has this desire to have a place - how does she handle rejection and failure? I also think being an emotional being matches in a way with her history with her family, the arguments. A difference that wasn't simply opinion, but something deeper with Aurora. There's definitely a glimpse of that in the history there.
With her having had a lot of flings and relationships, I'd be interested to know why that is and how it affects her, actually. It reads in the sheet a little like she was in a way taken advantage of and spun a bit of a yarn by Azar. He kind of used her because she was a 'transient girl' and he moulded her in a way that is not too unlike being groomed. This kind of brings me back to the point of 'a seat at the table' - this experience could have really moulded within her an experience or at least lasting impression of men, especially considering how it ended quite abruptly.
Her skills match up, although I'm wondering if her athletics would be higher if she's been riding for that long, and since she does travel with the horse too it's a very huge part of her life. Upping athletics would also go, in my opinion, a way to making her a hardier fighter too, with good stamina.
As it stands, the sheet is perfectly fine and the things I've discussed are more the stones that I didn't want to leave unturned and as you know I have a bit of a thing for finding narrative in places, and I can't not share those ideas. As with Spoops, I'd like you to have a think about it - but don't feel obliged to, and this sheet can be posted on Wednesday.
First things first, I'm British through and through. I drink tea in abundance and I know good tea and my taste. Your sheet and character concept is what I would call "My Cup of Tea". I love a dark, brooding gentleman and you've created that really well in a sheet that is so succinct.
I can tell a lot about you as a writer from the few interactions we've so far had, and I've no doubt you'll do this character great justice - I am guessing you're very into your classic mythology, because this is a 'Tragedy' kind of story, and I'm looking forward to reading it. There's going to be much we can do together in the roleplay.
I like that his personality is gentle and unassuming, he slips in unnoticed and may well become something of a wallflower if he's as quiet a dude as you describe. I'd like to see how the appearance links to the personality, however. I'd like to know some of his mannerisms, how he carries himself - you say he has the eyes of a man who is wise beyond his years - I'd love to see that expanded on. The history leaves just enough mystery to make me salivate but gives enough to let me know how he got to where he is now, how he learned and where etc. It's the perfect kind of bio that lets me know that I want this character, and concept in the roleplay for sure - especially after what we've briefly discussed in private.
I would like to see some more padding on the sheet though, particularly in the appearance and personality section - I would like to know those mannerisms. How could one see that he's becoming angry for example? I live for that shit so show me how his posture changes if someone is pressing his buttons - if they do does he lash out, or make an excuse to up and leave? I'd like to maybe even know how the tragedy he has suffered has changed him, who did he used to be? What does he do now that he didn't before?
Archery feels like a tacked on skill, and it is but I really like that you've done it anyway because it relates to his history and that really tells a lot about the kind of man he is. I'm really, really excited by this character and I look forward to how he gets along with the rest of them, as you've done a good job of making him affable and easy to get along with (on a surface level, darkness aside)... It's always good to have a healer on the journey too.
The goal is incredibly tangible too, and could well happen in *this* roleplay for sure....
@Amaranth Honestly? First thought when I saw this was "NYAAAAAS!" because, thusfar I've only really known you to play younger characters - positive ones and it's like I knew a character like this was in you. Whenever I'm scrolling Pinterest and I see a picture like that, I always think of you, every time. To me, you're such a powerful spirit and you've managed to really leak this onto the page for Frygga, and like, I'm honestly moved by this sheet no lie.
I'm so proud of you, and this sheet is some great writing and it shows how much you've improved in the relatively short time I've known you. I tell you what, I can tell this character has come from a place of power.
I adore this description of a lupine gait. You're not afraid to make a real ballsy woman and it's something I wish I could do. I always fall on pretty and petite characters - but you don't shy away from making a character less than attractive and going so far as to write that in the sheet. You really care about your characterisation and you have such integrity to your writing, and you hold onto that integrity too. Never lose that.
She's not womanly at all, and because of that she absolutely is - because what defines femininity anyway? I love your representation of diverse and powerful women, and it's something I've always enjoyed from you - even just talking OOC you're so assured of your own. It's one of the many things I admire about you <3
She's such a Viking god damn. "The firm but loving yoke of her parents." - simple as fuck, effective as fuck. Paints the picture clear as day and says so much about her. (Thank you for adding supernatural horror too!). Her suspicion and weariness of it is going to be very interesting to have in the roleplay, sorry but I'm going to have to mess with her! Your description of her battle is lovely and could be fresh off the page of a book. Can't wait for her to have a wrestle with Dro boy.
Something I'm missing from the sheet is how she'll be with the new companions that she will, in mysterious circumstances, be lumped with. How is she, socially? I know that you describe her as enjoying drinking etc but that's not always going to be possible. How might she act with people of other races and lifestyles? Does she make friends easily? Does she ever show affection? Has she ever had a crush or is she purely a "no time for that shit!" woman.
Saying that, I would love to see her find a softer side (during the RP) beyond the hrrrg and grrrgh cover. It doesn't mean sacrificing the essence of what she is, simply expanding and developing with the influence of others around her. Her mind and eyes opening to other aspects of femininity, and equally too - that she can teach those around her what it means to be FUCKIN' NORD.
*I'm willing to let you drop the light armour skill - it feels rather moot in my opinion for an rp atmosphere, so feel free to pick up another skill in place of. (By the looks of it, marksman to fit with her throwing axes)
- ooh that gives me a hecking idea. What if she learned a skill slot in magic in the roleplay? I'm picturing a Badass Moment™ - she's maybe about to be beaten - or she's cornered and then WHAM BAM ALAM, she lights up her weapon with some MAGIIIIIICAL FIIIRE and goes all ham. Anyway, that came to my brain and gave me a goosebump. Ticks the box of her goal of being worthy, but let's be honest - she's worthy.
I'd be happy for you to post her in the character tab on Wednesday after working through the feedback a bit :)
@Scrub Mage I dislike using comparison between writers. I strongly believe that everyone has their own style and voice and should be praised for that, but much of what I really loved about Spoopy's sheet are what I like about yours as well. You have such a phenomenal descriptive voice. To the point where not only can I see Xae, I can smell him, hear him... It's really well done, and I feel like this was easy for you, like you were just sitting and had a thought that cracked a smile and then the rest came from that. God I'm so jealous. On that basis alone you should be banned from this roleplay! (Kidding)
It's always the little details that I hone in on as a reader, in his appearance section it was that Xae's clothes smell like salts, and that the way he walks is like hot coals over hot coals. It's just genius. I'm a very sensory kind of person, especially when reading and Xae's sheet to me is like written ASMR, as weird as that sounds. I just feel at ease reading your writing.
You don't overwrite anywhere on this sheet and it's succinct enough and well paced, but just littered with those small details that make it come alive and make it satisfying. It's clear that he's an older soul and that his experiences and thoughts will be very valuable to the group, he carries himself as an older person would and you don't shrink from making that known.
The story of his name is classical, and poetic. I felt emotional that he couldn't help the Miredancer. I'm left unsure of whether it was true altruism and desire to help - do hi job, or a bit of arrogance that made him take on the case. "Nobody else can do it, I can", I like to believe it was arrogance and it backfired (literally) on him, I think that's so poignant. His goal is realistic, and another one that could be achieved within the roleplay - it's on the surface very simple and scholarly almost but it has a much deeper emotional resonance with him which I really dig.
This is a really solid sheet, and I can't think of anything I would massively change about it, but I'd like to let it sit before anything is posted in the tab on Wednesday.
I love starting writing with a question, it's punchy and draws me right in everytime. A soft nitpick is that you could remove the height clarification that is written, as you listed it elsewhere, perhaps a description of how she carries herself taller than the other women would be more effective with that in mind. She definitely has a nice, calm presence about her when I picture her in my mind. I see eyes packed with curiosity and awe at the world, an eyebrow that is always cocked because she's deep in thought. She gives me that kind of vibe, for sure.
I like the description of her father holding her like a diamond, it really speaks volumes about their relationship and is so simplistic, easy to confuse as being genuine love and affection - when he's actually clutching to her to protect her from the world, and keep her away from it. Literally like a treasure in a safe. It's a nice flip of what I initially thought when I read it!
I think the history is a great start, but there are just a few things that you've written about that I think we need more of - at least I'd like to see more of. Her relationship with her father is obviously a huge part of her life. I'm curious, after the death of her mother - how did he take care of her? Women are very different to men and something I've heard of before is Dad's often being at a loss with raising daughters alone because well, they want to protect their little girls but we have an completely different anatomy for a start - and there are expectations of women that I think would be rampant in TES times. Did he want to marry her off? Did he hide her from men and possible suitors - and how did that impact her personality and her feelings towards men etc? Does she seek out older man to kind of make up for the strained relationship? There are just... *a lot* of things there. There's so much to unpack about a man raising his only daughter alone, and I'm really curious about it.
Did they ever talk about the mother? Or was it swept under the rug and ignored? Is she still a ghost haunting them both? I think there is potential for a conversation between these characters in the roleplay about this, it's such powerful stuff, honestly - and in my opinion is more defining to Yseline's story than probably her career. And then he sent a cousin to watch her, AHHHHH there's so much here that makes me uncomfortable and emotional. How was her brother too, when they were growing up? Did the father treat the brother differently?
You write that Yseline was allowed agency - that is also quite powerful, and would have been a transformative moment.
For a moment when reading the sheet, I thought that Yse was the only child, but then in the last two paragraphs we hear about Yaric her brother - I think he should be bumped up to the top so it's not as jarring. (Unless I'm just blind and missed it!) As well as this, the disappearance of the brother is really brief - maybe just a little bit extra to pad that out - how it made her feel, how she went about finding the clues that brought her the conclusion he went to Anvil.
Kudos on a good goal as well, finding a brother is going to be a great way to link up this storyline I'm picturing. Having a hard conversation with Dad. That's what sticks out so much to me, that little volcano of emotions ready to explode. I want to poke it with a stick.
I really like the concept, but Yseline needs more work. My suggestion to you would be to really think about that Father-Daughter-Brother dynamic, and the Mother also. There's the potential for some *spectacular* emotional writing and horror to come from it. Definitely add in the description of how she became adept at Alteration and then I think the character will start jumping from the page. Every element is there, it just needs fine tuning :)
For a moment when reading the sheet, I thought that Yse was the only child, but then in the last two paragraphs we hear about Yaric her brother - I think he should be bumped up to the top so it's not as jarring. (Unless I'm just blind and missed it!)
This afforded Ambnean and his wife, Safila, the boon of a large family.
I will take some of these notes into consideration with my next revision, for sure. I can definitely elaborate and explain things a bit better!
@Lauder I like Druhja as she is, I just don't think this roleplay will like Druhja as she is. Her personality is going to be quite tough with the party. Some of her personality traits are a bit contradictory too; she kind of sees people as objects and they can't offer her anything, and yet she also doesn't want to drive people away. I think sometimes this kind of duality works, so I'd like you to explain that a bit more. Argonian's can be real kooky characters, so maybe look into some race traits for ways to explain her severely fickle nature.
What really made her kill Walks-in-Master and how did she? He seems like he would be powerful. What was their relationship like beforehand, it's not touched on much for being such a big part of her life. I think this is worth exploring more, how did he teach her? What made him decide to? Was she perhaps just naturally talented and he sensed it?
The history is very full on, and is event after event. For this roleplay, really scaling that down will be more effective. Her ordeal with the cult of Molag Bal is not too explained. She watched them and then was captured in the space of a sentence. It's very spitfire and boom boom boom, and doesn't touch so much on the emotional impacts.
An idea to consider; Lean on Drujha's age, possibly make her younger. Make her innocent, sweet, naive - because just because that's the surface, doesn't mean it's the truth. I enjoy writing the most when I'm playing a character that's corrupt as all hell, but you just don't know it to look at them. They're sweet as pie - "what? young Drujha is trying to control Daedra?! I don't believe it!" I think that's more impactful than "Oh yeah, now I come to think of it, that was obvious." You say that she is cunning? What's more cunning than adopting a completely fake persona to hide in plain sight?
Something else that has been tapping at my brain is her having the ability to conjure a Dremora Lord. Yeah yeah, it's in my criteria because it's an expert skill - but sometimes I think that the games don't always translate over and this is one of those times. My idea would be that we change her goal. Currently her goal is very abstract and not something I see happening for her in the course of the roleplay - what if her goal was to learn to summon Dremora Lord? That way she's not completely an expert conjurer of creepy dank stuff, but she's on her way. What if in this RP you can write that story, alongside the other player characters? That's where it feels right for me. Perhaps we start Druhja's story in this roleplay shortly after she has killed Walks-in-Water?
There are some grammatical and syntax issues in the sheet also, I can send you a sheet copy with highlights if required - but give it a once over. My rule of thumb when using Daedra or daedra is to pick one and be consistent throughout.
Mostly, I don't want you to be discouraged by my feedback. I believe that there is something in this sheet that will become a character that is suitable for this roleplay. A quote that springs to mind is this;
You just chip away the stone that doesn’t look like David.
Chip away at the sheet and find the core parts of Drujha and then build from there. Ask for help :)
Revisions to my sheet are happening, but I still have a bit to go with them. Revising the entire backstory of my character has taken a lot of my morning today and I haven't gotten to addressing personality stuff. I hope it'll be better second-go-around, though. I'm liking my changes.
Race: Khajiit Age: 28 Birthsign: The Lover Family Origins: Rimmen, Elsweyr
Appearance: Standing at 5'9 and weighing near 180 lbs, S'Kandar has a muscular figure, his body strong due to the lifestyle he has chosen to pursue. A Cathay Khajiit, he stands tall on both feet with a mer/man like body. The colour of his fur could be compared to the snowy skies of Skyrim, white and light grey mixing in with darker grey stripes that blend seamlessly with his light fur. Countless scars litter his body from various battles he has found himself in, as well as quite a few tavern brawls, the most obvious of which is a scar that travels from the middle of his forehead and down his right cheek.
Aside from this slight disfiguring, his face is quite charming. Sporting a strong jaw and broad muzzle, he portrays a cool confidence even if he may be feeling otherwise. For the most part his face is free from stripes or markings save for a couple of spots below his black lined grey eyes, and a few black stripes above said eyes. The latter melds into his smaller grey ears, both of which are pierced with two silver earrings in each. His light grey hair is shorn on the sides but kept longer on top, which he then braids and ties off at the end.
As for his clothes, S’Kandar enjoys dressing for mobility. On a casual day where he is simply relaxing, he will wear loose shirts or tunics along with comfortable trousers and a pair of sturdy yet well worn boots. When he is out and about hunting, however, he is much more cautious of his attire, donning a mixture of furs and leather armour. Refusing to wear a cloak unless it’s extremely cold and snowy, he does keep a scarf wrapped around his neck and shoulders beneath the armour, though whether it's actually there for warmth or sentimental feelings is something S’Kandar does not care to discuss.
Personality: From the outset, S'Kandar is a man who seems to imbue warmth and charm. As a traveler his entire life, he had learned that people are more given to persuasion when treated with friendliness and respect, and so he inculcated that in his being until it became second nature to him. Almost always sporting a smile and keeping his tone casual, knowing when to add in a little charm and flattery to get the results he wishes- some would call this cunning and crafty, but S'Kandar truly enjoyed being able to make people smile when they were around him, and to have them leave completely satisfied once they left with whatever they purchased. Even if he hasn't been in the trading business for years, the same formula works for him.
That being said, he carries an invisible weight upon his shoulders and a burden in his heart. The tragedies he had faced in his life left their marks, and his feelings at leaving his siblings by themselves as well as causing his teacher's demise has caused him to constantly shoulder guilt, and this comes into play many times throughout his life. For the most part, he finds it hard to turn away from somebody in need and will try to help them out. He has a very strict code of not leaving anyone behind when working with others, and he can be quite passionate about these sentiments if someone were to argue otherwise. While he normally tries to keep his cool, abandoning people in need or ridiculing them is something that will upset him and cause his temper to rise.
Like most people are familiar with, S'Kandar has the usual khajiiti habit of referring to himself in third person. For a brief period in his life when he left his siblings, he had attempted to try and change this habit and tried to speak more like those around him, afraid of being seen as the odd one out. However, seeing it was much too ingrained in him as well as Afshan telling him it was silly to change something that needn't be an issue, the Khajiit decided to let it go. In fact, he now sees his way of speech as honouring his parents and his heritage in general. He is proud to be a Khajiit and sees his traveling and keeping the world safe as a way to show more close minded folk that Khajiit are not all the sneaky thieves they assume them to be.
In general, S’Kandar is people’s person and enjoys spending time socializing, conversing and sharing experiences, listening to their stories and tales from their past. Though he likes to talk, a lot of this time is also spent watching and listening to people, studying their tells and what makes them tick. That is, until he is distracted by a pretty face. Once upon a time S’Kandar’s weakness had been drinking, but as he tries to control the amount of alcohol he consumes, he found the fairer sex can be quite a pleasant distraction that does not amount to waking up with a hangover. Yet despite these many interactions, the Khajiit has not been able to make any long term friends or any sort of romantic relationship. Any time he finds himself growing close to a person, he reminds himself of his past failures and forces himself to step back. At these times, S’Kandar ends up secluding himself, and this occasionally causes slip ups where he may drink a little too much, leading to bouts of self loathing and need for temporary seclusion.
As such, the only witness to his different moods is his faithful companion, Jashi. S’Kandar treats her more like a friend than a pet and is quite protective of her, to the point that he will personally stay outside in the rain with his canine friend rather than inside without her. He knows people may find this odd or even obsessive, but he is unable to tolerate seeing her in any distress that could have been averted.
In the end, S’Kandar is a troubled man who would love nothing more than to hide the pain inside him and instead make sure the rest of the world needs not suffer as he did.
History: Though S’Kandar was born in Rimmen, Elsweyr, he does not actually recall much about his place of birth. Having been born into the Baandari clan, his parents were vagabond traders who spent their lives on the roads with their caravan, buying and trading goods as they travelled through Tamriel. S’Kandar was the first of three siblings, a younger brother and sister, both of who were born in Cyrodiil. His childhood was as normal as any wayfarer’s could be- he was exposed to many different people, creatures, climates and weathers from a young age, and the thought of settling down in one place seemed odd to him even as a child. How could he, when there was just so much to see?
It was at age sixteen when tragedy struck. S’Kandar and his family had been through High Rock once before and after a long and fruitful voyage through Hammerfell, with many many wares to sell, they had decided to try their luck once more with the Breton folk. For the most part the journey passed quite smoothly and most lucrative. Being attacked by a group of vampires had been the least of their expectations. His parents fell quickly after attempting to defend the rest of the caravan, and it was only sheer that a group of hunters came upon their location and killed their attackers. S’Kandar and his siblings suffered only some scratches and bruises, but those little grievances were nothing compared to the grief of losing their parents.
The group of hunters were ready to leave but one kind hearted huntress, a young Redguard woman named Afshan, felt rather empathetic towards the young Khajiit siblings and balked at the idea of leaving them by themselves. Despite the protests from her companions, she refused to go anywhere unless the three came along so that she could at least leave them somewhere safe and sound. After a couple of days travel, they reached the Wayrest, where S'Kandar and his siblings were to stay at an orphanage. However, the young Khajiit did not wish to stay stagnant- he had seen Afshan fight against the vampires and he wanted to learn as well. Part of the reason was some sense of revenge he wished to deliver on rotten beings who ruined innocent people's lives, but the other reason was because he truly wanted to become stronger. Afshan was hesitant at first, but remembering that she too had begun her life in adventurous much the same way, she decided to give the Khajiit boy a chance.
He was a quick learner, taking to both the sword and the bow, though he preferred archery to swordsmanship. S’Kandar found himself enjoying the hunting life- he was already used to travelling, gathering provisions and staying up to watch out for intruders late at night, but this was something new and thrilling, and it was enough to quell his grief over his parents as well as the guilt of leaving his siblings, though he knew they were taken care of. Charming ladies he met across Tamriel and experimenting with skooma as well as alcohol further alleviated any remaining feelings that may have hindered. Afshan was not too pleased with this development in her student and was rather strict about making sure he did not consume any intoxicants when they were on a mission.
S’Kandar in turn respected her, though that respect developed into romantic feelings that he tried to keep contained to himself. One night, however, after drinking a little too much, the Khajiit approached his teacher and confessed his love for her. Unwilling to give him any reply when he was in such a state, Afshan left the building, leaving S’Kandar to take her silence as rejection, thereafter drinking himself into a stupor. It was only after he woke up in the morning that he realized Afshan had left for the mission on her own. Suffering from a hangover, he managed to follow after her, hoping to catch her before she could reach the location on their agenda: a coven of witches and hagravens. Alas, he was too late- by the time he reached, she had already passed away from her wounds after killing off their marks.
This was probably the darkest period in S’Kandar’s life, worse than even when his caravan had been ambushed, as in his opinion he had been responsible for this folly. With no aim or purpose in mind, the Khajiit spent many months wandering through the mountains of Skyrim, killing what he needed to survive and nothing more. There were many times he wished to simply end his life, but he found himself too much of a coward- he wanted to live, but he didn’t know for what.
The balm of his soul came in an unusual fashion. As he was searching for his next meal, S’Kandar came across a dying wolf and her pup. It seemed she had gotten caught in a trap and had been unable to free herself. After mercifully ending her life, he found himself unable to simply walk away while knowing the pup would not be able to survive on its own. In a way, it reminded him of himself and Afshan, and how she had refused to leave him and his siblings behind. He named the young wolf Jashi and from then onward treated her like family.
Biggest Regret: S'Kandar cannot forgive himself for not keeping his feelings in check and confessing to his teacher, thereafter getting drunk, and subsequently not being there to help Afshan in her time of need against the coven of witches that eventually lead to her death.
S'Kandar's Goal: To redeem himself is probably the number one priority and reason to strive on S'Kandar's mind and in his heart. He wishes to become a hero, a saviour, somebody who can be relied on- no longer the man who failed his teacher.
Archery - By dedicated practice and honing his archery, along with his naturally good eyesight to pinpoint targets, S’Kandar has grown incredibly proficient with his bow, rarely missing a target.
Sneak - Naturally a light stepping fellow, S’Kandar has furthered this skill out of necessity so that the targets he is after won't immediately hear him approaching.
One hand (Sword) - Though melee combat isn't his preferred way of hunting his enemies and targets, S'Kandar knew full well that there would be times when he wouldn't be able to rely on his bow. Not one who liked to learn something in an ad hoc fashion, he took great pains in learning how to wield a sword and is quite proficient in using it on someone.
Provisioning - From a young age, S'Kandar had learned to hunt and gather food for himself and his family as well as a keen sense of where to find fresh water. For the most part, he is confident he can help keep his companions happy and fed.
Athletics - S'Kandar's active lifestyle has made him quite strong physically. He can walk long distances for hours as is the norm for any Baandari, and his arms and back are used to lifting and carrying heavy objects. The various climates he has lived in has made him rather adaptable to trying weather patterns.
A short bow and quiver with 10 arrows
A sheathed short sword to the left of waist
A sheathed dagger to the right
A couple of health potions in a pouch tied at his belt
A mix of leather and fur armour
A backpack stuffed with an extra pair of clothing, a small thin blanket, spices to cook with, some dried meats, and a small pouch of moon sugar.
A water skin filled with water
A water skin filled with ale
A money pouch tied discreetly under his belt, containing 20 septims
A red scarf he keeps loosely wrapped around his neck
A bracelet made of blue painted beads, a keepsake from his sister when he had left with Afshan.