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POOHEAD189 Warrior
Moderator
Seen
7 hrs ago
Name: Hakon Ingmarsson
Race: Nord
Age: 28
Birthsign: The Tower
Family Origins: A family farm in Rorikstead
Appearance:
Personality: An old soul, Hakon is unlike most of his more fiery-hearted brethren, at least on the surface. Having seen his father killed for his words on the steps of Markarth, and what happens when you don't think before you act, his youthful impetuousness has been tempered like fine steel. A man of strong morals, he has an empathetic heart and does his best to be understanding, even to his enemies. He likes working with his hands and it gives him a down-to-earth wisdom reserved for older Nords. Still, Hakon possesses an ardent passion within him that needs only to be stoked, and he prefers not to speak or even think about politics because he knows he might say something that just brings trouble. He has a love for stories and talking, which surprises people he opens up to because generally he's fairly aloof. Just make sure you don't anger him. At heart, he still has the wrath of Atmora locked deep within him.
History: Born 10 years after the Great War, his father was a veteran of the conflict. His mother, a maid in Riverwood, bore three sons, Hakon being the middle child. Hrothgar was four years older than him, the eldest and the most like their father. His younger brother by a year was Barnjulf, who grew up athletic but found his niche in farming.
Initially they grew up in Riverwood, playing by the river and helping their father with his forge-work. One night when Hakon was twelve, his brothers and he heard a pack of wolves attacking the livestock and sneaked out to track them through the wilderness by the White River, his older brother spurring them on all night, though Hakon was excited to run across the landscape like his ancestors. They continued on, until they lost the trail and only had a few chicken feathers for their trouble. They saw Valthiem Towers in the distance, and Hrothgar's caution was thrown out by his curiosity. Large and strong, he continued forward and would not answer Hakon's questioning when confronted, telling him to be silent.
At the edge of the road, Hakon and Barnjulf waited in the brush while Hrothgar stepped out to speak to a solitary figure standing beside the abandoned ruins. To this day, Hakon believed he was trying to find some food to purchase for the journey back. They saw the stranger place their arm around Hrothgar and lead him toward the door, speaking to him as a friend, and without warning stabbed Hrothgar in the stomach time and again. Their oldest brother fell bleeding in a memory that would live with Hakon forever. They ran back to Riverwood and told their parents what had happened. Their father was furious and their mother burst into tears, and over the next day, the muster of Riverwood was summoned and moved north to purge the towers over the river. Hakon still remembers his father coming home, blood crusted on his wolfskin cloak. Only then did he cry for Hrothgar.
The next year, they traveled to Rorikstead. Their father was a native of Markarth and they wanted to become farmers. Hakon thinks they could not bear to live in their old home anymore.
Growing up, his father would teach Hakon the art of the forge in his spare time when they were not working the fields. Barnjulf grew to be a lover of things that grow, but Hakon preferred the heat of the forge and the working of steel. They lived much the same and grew happy for a time, until the Thalmor began lurking the roads and oppressing the people, and it was only a scant few years later when the Skyrim civil war erupted. His father, Ingmar, was a staunch Talos worshiper and a believer in civil liberties. He had paid the Empire with his own blood as many Nords had, and now the Thalmor were walking freely amongst a nation they had 'made peace with,' harassing the population and enforcing their laws. Meanwhile, the Forsworn had attacked Markarth and disrupted caravans, making the already Thalmor infested roads downright disastrous for trade.
When Ulfric Stormcloak and his volunteers passed through Rorikstead, Ingmar joined. Hakon was left home to tend the farm and forge, but his father returned just as he had in Riverwood, with blood and scars.
Hakon heard firsthand of Ulfric's ultimatum to the Forsworn, and was told his father witnessed the power of his Thu'um blow open the gates of the great dwarven city. The militia charged in, but I won't bore you with the details. We all know the Markarth incident, however Ingmar claimed to Hakon the slaughter in the aftermath was greatly exaggerated by the Imperial scholar Arrianus Arius, who also penned 'The Madmen of The Reach' which was a staple for Forsworn apologetics. Ulfric and his men would not have been welcome back had they slaughtered the populace within as the Imperial claimed, and Hakon did not believe his father was that cruel.
There was peace for a time, and even the Thalmor showed their faces less as the year passed. But his father told him it wasn't the end of it, and he trained Hakon in the way of the sword for months, before Markarth was pressed by the Imperials and went back on its word and denounced the terms of the treaty for Markarth. It wasn't what his father had exactly expected, but it was the next step in the conflict. They gathered themselves quickly.
His father and a few of the more ardent Skyrim loyalists took up arms for the third time in Hakon's life, and for the first time, Hakon could accompany them. He was proud to stand by his father and go to question Igmund on this betrayal. But when they saw Markarth on the horizon, the Thalmor were waiting for them, and they surrounded the small contingent of men who had come but to talk. The elves gave the men the chance to disperse, but Ingmar and a number of the men spoke up, asking what right the Altmer had in ruling Skyrim?
The elves only answer was the drawing of their arms. Hakon watched his father die by the sword, and his cloak was now covered in his own blood, and not those of his enemies. The rest of them ran, and Hakon was pulled away as he watched in shock. It was a minor skirmish, not even noteworthy for the history books, but to Hakon it defined his life.
He fled home and wept when he told his mother and brother, and he swore he would join Ulfric in his war to rid the nation of the elves and the imperial traitors. But his mother convinced him not to, told him she needed him alive. He listened to her, and the only time he raised his sword was to fight Forsworn raiders that threatened the farm of Ingmarsson. For three years he stayed home, helping his brother and mother. He saw his brother get married and was there for the birth of his nephew, but he couldn't share in his brother's happiness.
At the age of twenty one, he decided he had to leave his own. Skyrim was not what it had once been, and as much as it pained him, the most business one could find was in Cyrodiil. He also understood who to blame and who to save his ire for. The average imperial was not his enemy. They were men as he was, and he knew he would rather see a thriving land ruled by a faithless man than a land he called home losing its will to live. He couldn't stay there, and so he left and made his home in Anvil, by the sea. He had never seen the sea before and it had the ethereal quality of watching a snow-capped tundra without being reminded of his home. He became a blacksmith there, started a trade on his own and finding contentedness in his work and the people he would see everyday.
For seven years, he grew in skill and knowledge and he felt his heart growing softer. Until the current year, in the Endless Night...
Biggest Regret: Not having the strength of character to stop his brother, or stop his father, or in the silence of his heart... in not having the courage to join them.
Hakon's Goals: What Hakon wants is peace and success, and to leave his scars behind. A good woman and a fine meal would be great. Deep inside, however, he wants much what I want. What do I want for him? I want him to help people while simultaneously getting less peace and more ardent. I want his nordic side to come screaming out of him and for him to fight like his ancestors. Fight for a cause and for Talos!
Skills:
Expert: Smithing
Adept: One handed sword, Speech
Novice: Blocking, Sneak, Heavy Armor
Equipment:
Misc. Possessions:
Race: Nord
Age: 28
Birthsign: The Tower
Family Origins: A family farm in Rorikstead
Appearance:
Personality: An old soul, Hakon is unlike most of his more fiery-hearted brethren, at least on the surface. Having seen his father killed for his words on the steps of Markarth, and what happens when you don't think before you act, his youthful impetuousness has been tempered like fine steel. A man of strong morals, he has an empathetic heart and does his best to be understanding, even to his enemies. He likes working with his hands and it gives him a down-to-earth wisdom reserved for older Nords. Still, Hakon possesses an ardent passion within him that needs only to be stoked, and he prefers not to speak or even think about politics because he knows he might say something that just brings trouble. He has a love for stories and talking, which surprises people he opens up to because generally he's fairly aloof. Just make sure you don't anger him. At heart, he still has the wrath of Atmora locked deep within him.
History: Born 10 years after the Great War, his father was a veteran of the conflict. His mother, a maid in Riverwood, bore three sons, Hakon being the middle child. Hrothgar was four years older than him, the eldest and the most like their father. His younger brother by a year was Barnjulf, who grew up athletic but found his niche in farming.
Initially they grew up in Riverwood, playing by the river and helping their father with his forge-work. One night when Hakon was twelve, his brothers and he heard a pack of wolves attacking the livestock and sneaked out to track them through the wilderness by the White River, his older brother spurring them on all night, though Hakon was excited to run across the landscape like his ancestors. They continued on, until they lost the trail and only had a few chicken feathers for their trouble. They saw Valthiem Towers in the distance, and Hrothgar's caution was thrown out by his curiosity. Large and strong, he continued forward and would not answer Hakon's questioning when confronted, telling him to be silent.
At the edge of the road, Hakon and Barnjulf waited in the brush while Hrothgar stepped out to speak to a solitary figure standing beside the abandoned ruins. To this day, Hakon believed he was trying to find some food to purchase for the journey back. They saw the stranger place their arm around Hrothgar and lead him toward the door, speaking to him as a friend, and without warning stabbed Hrothgar in the stomach time and again. Their oldest brother fell bleeding in a memory that would live with Hakon forever. They ran back to Riverwood and told their parents what had happened. Their father was furious and their mother burst into tears, and over the next day, the muster of Riverwood was summoned and moved north to purge the towers over the river. Hakon still remembers his father coming home, blood crusted on his wolfskin cloak. Only then did he cry for Hrothgar.
The next year, they traveled to Rorikstead. Their father was a native of Markarth and they wanted to become farmers. Hakon thinks they could not bear to live in their old home anymore.
Growing up, his father would teach Hakon the art of the forge in his spare time when they were not working the fields. Barnjulf grew to be a lover of things that grow, but Hakon preferred the heat of the forge and the working of steel. They lived much the same and grew happy for a time, until the Thalmor began lurking the roads and oppressing the people, and it was only a scant few years later when the Skyrim civil war erupted. His father, Ingmar, was a staunch Talos worshiper and a believer in civil liberties. He had paid the Empire with his own blood as many Nords had, and now the Thalmor were walking freely amongst a nation they had 'made peace with,' harassing the population and enforcing their laws. Meanwhile, the Forsworn had attacked Markarth and disrupted caravans, making the already Thalmor infested roads downright disastrous for trade.
When Ulfric Stormcloak and his volunteers passed through Rorikstead, Ingmar joined. Hakon was left home to tend the farm and forge, but his father returned just as he had in Riverwood, with blood and scars.
Hakon heard firsthand of Ulfric's ultimatum to the Forsworn, and was told his father witnessed the power of his Thu'um blow open the gates of the great dwarven city. The militia charged in, but I won't bore you with the details. We all know the Markarth incident, however Ingmar claimed to Hakon the slaughter in the aftermath was greatly exaggerated by the Imperial scholar Arrianus Arius, who also penned 'The Madmen of The Reach' which was a staple for Forsworn apologetics. Ulfric and his men would not have been welcome back had they slaughtered the populace within as the Imperial claimed, and Hakon did not believe his father was that cruel.
There was peace for a time, and even the Thalmor showed their faces less as the year passed. But his father told him it wasn't the end of it, and he trained Hakon in the way of the sword for months, before Markarth was pressed by the Imperials and went back on its word and denounced the terms of the treaty for Markarth. It wasn't what his father had exactly expected, but it was the next step in the conflict. They gathered themselves quickly.
His father and a few of the more ardent Skyrim loyalists took up arms for the third time in Hakon's life, and for the first time, Hakon could accompany them. He was proud to stand by his father and go to question Igmund on this betrayal. But when they saw Markarth on the horizon, the Thalmor were waiting for them, and they surrounded the small contingent of men who had come but to talk. The elves gave the men the chance to disperse, but Ingmar and a number of the men spoke up, asking what right the Altmer had in ruling Skyrim?
The elves only answer was the drawing of their arms. Hakon watched his father die by the sword, and his cloak was now covered in his own blood, and not those of his enemies. The rest of them ran, and Hakon was pulled away as he watched in shock. It was a minor skirmish, not even noteworthy for the history books, but to Hakon it defined his life.
He fled home and wept when he told his mother and brother, and he swore he would join Ulfric in his war to rid the nation of the elves and the imperial traitors. But his mother convinced him not to, told him she needed him alive. He listened to her, and the only time he raised his sword was to fight Forsworn raiders that threatened the farm of Ingmarsson. For three years he stayed home, helping his brother and mother. He saw his brother get married and was there for the birth of his nephew, but he couldn't share in his brother's happiness.
At the age of twenty one, he decided he had to leave his own. Skyrim was not what it had once been, and as much as it pained him, the most business one could find was in Cyrodiil. He also understood who to blame and who to save his ire for. The average imperial was not his enemy. They were men as he was, and he knew he would rather see a thriving land ruled by a faithless man than a land he called home losing its will to live. He couldn't stay there, and so he left and made his home in Anvil, by the sea. He had never seen the sea before and it had the ethereal quality of watching a snow-capped tundra without being reminded of his home. He became a blacksmith there, started a trade on his own and finding contentedness in his work and the people he would see everyday.
For seven years, he grew in skill and knowledge and he felt his heart growing softer. Until the current year, in the Endless Night...
Biggest Regret: Not having the strength of character to stop his brother, or stop his father, or in the silence of his heart... in not having the courage to join them.
Hakon's Goals: What Hakon wants is peace and success, and to leave his scars behind. A good woman and a fine meal would be great. Deep inside, however, he wants much what I want. What do I want for him? I want him to help people while simultaneously getting less peace and more ardent. I want his nordic side to come screaming out of him and for him to fight like his ancestors. Fight for a cause and for Talos!
Skills:
Expert: Smithing
Adept: One handed sword, Speech
Novice: Blocking, Sneak, Heavy Armor
Equipment:
- Steel Armor
- Steel Sword
- Iron Shield
- 2 Mead
- Jerky
Misc. Possessions:
- Blacksmith Hammer
- Tongs
- Necklace of Ingmar (plain silver necklace)
BornOnBoard Computer, Maschine, Panzermench
Member
Seen
1 mo ago
Name: Mastdar Dereno
Race: Dunmer (Telvanni)
Age: 300
Birthsign: The Lord
Family Origins: Dereno was sold into slavery as a child to a Telvanni wizard, whose name had been lost to the predations of the Red Year. He was uplifted from slavery to hireling status at the request of his master, who had witnessed young Dereno’s sorcerous potential when, without training, he was seen levitating shells from the sea instead of diving down into the dangerous water in the never-ending Telvanni search for red seashells. He spent most of his early life in Tel Branora.
Appearance:
Personality: Dereno has been ground down from the harshness of life after the fall of the false Tribunal. Formerly a Telvanni wizard as proud and arrogant as any other, the tribulations of Morrowind and Vvardenfell in the Fourth Era have eroded that arrogance to quiet, contemplative sobriety, less interested in the power struggles and scheming of Telvanni intrigue, and more with the world around him. He is generous for a Dunmer, ready with a coin for a beggar or food for the dispossessed, and interested in the plight and stories of other, intelligent life.
He believes, sincerely, in the implication that the Tribunal was a trio of false prophets, and that their casting down was the providence of Azura, carried out by her chosen servant, the Nerevarine. Every subsequent trial then, surely, was punishment for the arrogance of the Dunmer race, and in order to reverse the poor fortunes of the Dunmer people, sincere change must be made.
Despite this, Dereno is, deep down, a Dunmer, and still finds parts of his old culture hard to let go. Bribery, for instance, being something frowned upon in Men's provinces never fails to illicit a superior sneer, and he’s never gotten over other wizards building their homes with stairs when surely their servants could turn away any dunce who couldn’t levitate up a sheer face instead.
Despite this, Mastdar does his best to be affable, approachable, and to do more good than bad in the world.
History: Dereno was, it seems, cursed to live in interesting times. Born just after his home, Vvardenfell, had been opened for settlement, and sold into slavery as a young scrapling when his family had been crippled by Blight, Dereno had become accustomed to hardship early. He had spent most of the subsequent years after the departure of the Nerevarine slowly climbing the ranks of House Telvanni, finally achieving Hireline status at the sprightly young age of 53. From there, his progress was more rapid, climbing to Wizard in a few short decades.
However, this seemed to coincide with the Red Year. Tel Branora, where his mushroom tower had been located, withered and died as the dust kicked up from the Ministry of Truth’s fall choked the alchemically grown buildings from sunlight. Even the mightiest Tel tower withered to nothingness. From there, Dereno’s life had been one humbling after another as the Dunmer people seemed to pay again and again for the hubris they had lived under during the Tribunal’s long reign. Stripped of most everything a Telvanni of his station was entitled to, Dereno began a journey of meditation and travel, going wherever his legs would take him, never staying in any one place long enough to put down roots.
As of the beginning of this tale, he has been doing this for hundreds of years, his mushroom stronghold in Tel Branora a distant memory.
Biggest Regret: Dereno always thinks back to his Argonian slave, and trusted lab assistant.He regrets having cut him loose in a fit of anger when his tower was wilting and dying, instead of setting up him up with supplies or even taking him with him on his journey, so he could take him back to his home. Dereno has never found out what happened to Whispers-Loudly, and that fact pains him even to this day.
Character Name ‘s Goal: Dereno is ultimately an atoner. Taking the decline of the Post-Tribunal Dunmer to heart, he travels the Nirn looking for a way to redeem his own magickal talent and Telvanni arrogance with some good deed or grand cause, perhaps one that would even allow him to regrow a new tower and practice sorcery with a newfound nobility, divorced from the self-serving and cruel Telvanni ways.
Skills:
Expert: Conjuration
Dereno early on saw the value in binding Daedric steel from the aether, and has long since given up openly wearing a weapon or armor, instead preferring to pull them from the thin air.
Adept: Long Blade, Heavy Armor
Many dunmer live by the blade, and Dereno is no different. Bladesmanship was often required in the various honor duels that were rife in Telvanni society - when magic failed, it always came down to the blade.
Heavy Armor came as a skill of necessity - Daedric armor often took the form of heavy plate. Although the weight was removed from the equation, bound armor still encumbered movement the same way as real steel would have, so thus Dereno became adept in its wearing.
Novice: Destruction, Restoration, Alchemy
The basic magickal skills, Dereno had lost interest in their study almost immediately after learning about them. Repairing the flesh, commanding the elements, and distilling the magic in the mundane were all terribly boring to him, but Dereno admits that without the principles imparted by these basic magicks, he would have never understood the craft well enough to make it to Wizard.
Spells:
Bound Sword and constituent Bound Armor pieces. Sometimes will summon bits and pieces, other times a full set. Often only summons the blade to save valuable Magicka.
Touch-range Destruction spells of the elements (fire, frost, and lightning). He never bothered to learn how to Drain attributes, or damage armor, or to cast such abilities from range, preferring up close.
Touch-range Healing spells. Again, very simple, never bothered to learn how to heal anything more threatening than physical injury. If you’ve been struck blind, or made too physically weak to move, he does not know how to help.
Equipment: Medium quality robes, shoes, gloves, and a mage’s staff with an Enchanted Restore Magicka effect.
Misc. Possessions: Water, food, and a small brace of healing, fatigue, and magicka potions. He tends to travel light, making or bartering for what he needs as he travels.
Race: Dunmer (Telvanni)
Age: 300
Birthsign: The Lord
Family Origins: Dereno was sold into slavery as a child to a Telvanni wizard, whose name had been lost to the predations of the Red Year. He was uplifted from slavery to hireling status at the request of his master, who had witnessed young Dereno’s sorcerous potential when, without training, he was seen levitating shells from the sea instead of diving down into the dangerous water in the never-ending Telvanni search for red seashells. He spent most of his early life in Tel Branora.
Appearance:
Personality: Dereno has been ground down from the harshness of life after the fall of the false Tribunal. Formerly a Telvanni wizard as proud and arrogant as any other, the tribulations of Morrowind and Vvardenfell in the Fourth Era have eroded that arrogance to quiet, contemplative sobriety, less interested in the power struggles and scheming of Telvanni intrigue, and more with the world around him. He is generous for a Dunmer, ready with a coin for a beggar or food for the dispossessed, and interested in the plight and stories of other, intelligent life.
He believes, sincerely, in the implication that the Tribunal was a trio of false prophets, and that their casting down was the providence of Azura, carried out by her chosen servant, the Nerevarine. Every subsequent trial then, surely, was punishment for the arrogance of the Dunmer race, and in order to reverse the poor fortunes of the Dunmer people, sincere change must be made.
Despite this, Dereno is, deep down, a Dunmer, and still finds parts of his old culture hard to let go. Bribery, for instance, being something frowned upon in Men's provinces never fails to illicit a superior sneer, and he’s never gotten over other wizards building their homes with stairs when surely their servants could turn away any dunce who couldn’t levitate up a sheer face instead.
Despite this, Mastdar does his best to be affable, approachable, and to do more good than bad in the world.
History: Dereno was, it seems, cursed to live in interesting times. Born just after his home, Vvardenfell, had been opened for settlement, and sold into slavery as a young scrapling when his family had been crippled by Blight, Dereno had become accustomed to hardship early. He had spent most of the subsequent years after the departure of the Nerevarine slowly climbing the ranks of House Telvanni, finally achieving Hireline status at the sprightly young age of 53. From there, his progress was more rapid, climbing to Wizard in a few short decades.
However, this seemed to coincide with the Red Year. Tel Branora, where his mushroom tower had been located, withered and died as the dust kicked up from the Ministry of Truth’s fall choked the alchemically grown buildings from sunlight. Even the mightiest Tel tower withered to nothingness. From there, Dereno’s life had been one humbling after another as the Dunmer people seemed to pay again and again for the hubris they had lived under during the Tribunal’s long reign. Stripped of most everything a Telvanni of his station was entitled to, Dereno began a journey of meditation and travel, going wherever his legs would take him, never staying in any one place long enough to put down roots.
As of the beginning of this tale, he has been doing this for hundreds of years, his mushroom stronghold in Tel Branora a distant memory.
Biggest Regret: Dereno always thinks back to his Argonian slave, and trusted lab assistant.He regrets having cut him loose in a fit of anger when his tower was wilting and dying, instead of setting up him up with supplies or even taking him with him on his journey, so he could take him back to his home. Dereno has never found out what happened to Whispers-Loudly, and that fact pains him even to this day.
Character Name ‘s Goal: Dereno is ultimately an atoner. Taking the decline of the Post-Tribunal Dunmer to heart, he travels the Nirn looking for a way to redeem his own magickal talent and Telvanni arrogance with some good deed or grand cause, perhaps one that would even allow him to regrow a new tower and practice sorcery with a newfound nobility, divorced from the self-serving and cruel Telvanni ways.
Skills:
Expert: Conjuration
Dereno early on saw the value in binding Daedric steel from the aether, and has long since given up openly wearing a weapon or armor, instead preferring to pull them from the thin air.
Adept: Long Blade, Heavy Armor
Many dunmer live by the blade, and Dereno is no different. Bladesmanship was often required in the various honor duels that were rife in Telvanni society - when magic failed, it always came down to the blade.
Heavy Armor came as a skill of necessity - Daedric armor often took the form of heavy plate. Although the weight was removed from the equation, bound armor still encumbered movement the same way as real steel would have, so thus Dereno became adept in its wearing.
Novice: Destruction, Restoration, Alchemy
The basic magickal skills, Dereno had lost interest in their study almost immediately after learning about them. Repairing the flesh, commanding the elements, and distilling the magic in the mundane were all terribly boring to him, but Dereno admits that without the principles imparted by these basic magicks, he would have never understood the craft well enough to make it to Wizard.
Spells:
Bound Sword and constituent Bound Armor pieces. Sometimes will summon bits and pieces, other times a full set. Often only summons the blade to save valuable Magicka.
Touch-range Destruction spells of the elements (fire, frost, and lightning). He never bothered to learn how to Drain attributes, or damage armor, or to cast such abilities from range, preferring up close.
Touch-range Healing spells. Again, very simple, never bothered to learn how to heal anything more threatening than physical injury. If you’ve been struck blind, or made too physically weak to move, he does not know how to help.
Equipment: Medium quality robes, shoes, gloves, and a mage’s staff with an Enchanted Restore Magicka effect.
Misc. Possessions: Water, food, and a small brace of healing, fatigue, and magicka potions. He tends to travel light, making or bartering for what he needs as he travels.
Name: Andel Indarys II, Thorn Bearer
Race: Dunmer
Age: 32
Birthsign: The Lady
Family Origins: Cheydinhal
Appearance:
A portrait of Andel around his twentieth birthday
Andel betrays the fact that he’s of blue blood at first glance with his unblemished and fair skin, closer to a faded purple than the usual ashen hues of his fellow Dunmer. His facial features are more gaunt than meaty, but still carry a youthful grace even at his adult age, with almond-shaped eyes bearing bright red irises and crimson sclerae, a ridged brow, an aquiline nose that tapers narrower as it reaches down from between the eyebrows, and prominent lips adorning a well-proportioned mouth. His hair is a vibrant, healthy grey gathered back and tied up in a braided rattail, its oily tendencies only exaggerating its reflectiveness, and just like his hair, the rest of his hairs are grey, his thin and faded eyebrows standing like two strokes from a desaturated paintbrush atop his eyes, reaching out to meet in the middle. His face is kept clean shaven for he is unable to grow a proper beard, save two well-groomed brushlike patches by the edges of his mouth providing a whisker-like mustache, and thick and fuzzy sideburns ending right below his ears.
Of average height and physique, he leaves a wiry impression like many other Dunmer, not very well-reinforced by musculature. Although beneath his clothes he bears a broad, barrel-chested torso, thanks to his lack of muscle and thin and unexercised upper limbs, this genetic advantage is left impotent from an aesthetic standpoint. Beneath the joints, however, his limbs suddenly grow larger, with his forearms almost thicker than his upper arms and his calves bulging with musculature. He bears hands and feet large but not disproportionate, with thick fingers, and his bodily hair is spread not unlike his muscles, with his torso and upper limbs covered with a thin, patchy excuse of grey hairs which suddenly grow in intensity once the limbs reach below their joints.
Despite his aristocratic upbringing, Andel’s clothes are more worldly than courtly. Atop a cotton shirt, he wears a prominently buttoned brownish red dolman that reaches halfway down his thighs, with a fur-collared woolen overcoat of fallow color acting as outer garment. A sword belt is worn around his waist atop his dolman, from which hang scabbards for two swords, both on the left side, and to the right sits a satchel. For legwear he prefers knee length breeches, and thick, crude boots of rawhide take over the duty of covering his legs from the knees down. He has a cap made of rabbit fur for colder weathers, but is seldom seen wearing it, preferring a simple bonnet instead. A gorget worn over the jerkin and two vambraces that reach up to his elbows betray his martial position, but aside from that, he is unarmored.
Personality: Andel was born into nobility, and it shows, but not necessarily in an irritating way. He seems to have an innate understanding of the fact that nobility is all about grace, and grace is all about appearances, and as such, there’s a conscious aesthetic quality to all of his words, deeds, and states of being. His posture is just the right amount of self-confident without seeping into brazenness; his voice can slide across the tone spectrum in the middle of a single-syllable word, and his facial expressions have been honed to dig out the exact responses from the exact people. All this is not to say that Andel manipulates people for his own ends, however; he simply knows the importance of communication, and takes care to express himself with unerring precision. And even all this is kept under a sober and refined layer of humility as to not intimidate his onlookers.
The first impression that Andel makes on people is usually one of agreeableness. While a good conversationist, he is not brazen (or impolite) enough to start a conversation with a stranger for no reason; however, he’s also not impolite enough to leave a stranger without a response. Once Andel is part of a conversation, his demeanor changes somewhat; like a hungry predator tasting blood, he grows bolder and more provocative as the conversation lasts longer, eventually settling at a point of just the right amounts of sweet and sour to leave a lasting and sizzling, but not hurtful impression. This sudden change from pure sincerity to a performative is an interesting one, and behind it lies the key reason for his lot in life; all the boarded-up insecurities that eat away at him from the inside.
Obsessed with living up to his own impossible standards, yet also fearful of acting on his dreams and seeing whether he’ll make the cut or not is a source of constant pain and self-doubt for Andel. On top of that is his legacy, for he is many things before he is allowed to be himself – heir of House Indarys, Thornbearer of the Thorn Knights, his father’s son – and his latent narcissism and perfectionism use this fact to keep him in a constant state of self-paralysis. He wishes to be his own thing in history, a name unto his own, yet the fact that he only came this far (not that far, mind) in the first place thanks to the life that he was born into and not because of his own deeds, and that he will likely never reach the heights that those he respect did, leave him in a state of orbiting the responsibilities that his dreams require, equally unable to reach in or give up.
History: Andel’s history, much to his chagrin, begins well before his birth. It begins with House Indarys, a cadet branch of House Hlaalu, known for its collaboration with the Septim Empire and influence outside of Morrowind’s borders, rather than inside it. Having ruled the County of Cheydinhal since the House of Tharn was deprived of its titles and privileges for its involvement in the Imperial Simulacrum, House Indarys had grown from an unwanted thorn in the Great House’s side, first to an useful tool to help them gain further influence in the Imperial Heartland, then, begrudgingly, to a partner on almost equal footing, with stakes even in the policies of the empire at large thanks to their proximity to the capital. Of course, these were, as far as Andel knows, the glory days, and the days of House Indarys that Andel were to witness were anything but.
Andel was born to a time of great turmoil for House Indarys, even by the standards of the Fourth Era, in which the family had seen itself go from a potential candidate for the Ruby Throne to an impoverished and not very well-liked house of merely local renown. Andel Indarys, the Count of Cheydinhal during the latter part of the Uriel Septim VII’s reign and one short-time claimant for the Imperial Throne, had died an untimely death during the Stormcrown Interregnum; his son Farwil the Daedra Slayer, the gallant Champion of Cheydinhal, had even preceded him, having fallen on the field of battle against the Medes. Farwil’s brother Ilver had thus become head of House Indarys and would have been next in line as Count of Cheydinhal, but the privilege of overseeing the County of Cheydinhal was taken from them for having dared to oppose the Medes, even if briefly.
It was to this mer that Andel would be youngest son, with an elder brother, Ondar, and a phantom brother, Nerevar, that Andel would always hear of, but never have the privilege of seeing, for he, like his late uncle Farwil, had fallen on the field of battle during the Great War.
The responsibility of leading a once-great House through days of turmoil and losing his eldest son in the process had taken a toll on Ilver’s approachability. He was a busy man, and his frayed relationship with his wife Serila, Andel’s mother, meant that the young Andel would rarely manage to spend time with him, having to contend with a mother who had fallen to drink since losing his eldest son. Through Andel’s early years, the task of actually raising and providing a parental figure to him was left to Norasa Dals, sister to Feranos Dals, who was Ilver’s second-in-command in the Knights of the Thorn and heir to the True Weights, a cult of Zenithar. It was in the Dals family that Andel could find some familial refuge from the void of his own family, and this meant a fairly devout upbringing, although the family was never shy of letting Andel delve into the tomes of their library, letting him indulge himself in both academic works and ancient epics and making his own sense of what he read.
This went on for a few years, until one day when Serila decided to kick her addiction and be a good mother to her sons. Thus Andel found himself back in the household, although minus his father, under the excuse of him having to lead the new members of the Knights of the Thorn; he would later learn that the actual reason for it was Serila no longer being able to tolerate the elderly Ilver’s constant infidelity. Being back with his family wasn’t exactly any better for Andel; his mother, while well-meaning, was a smothering and worrisome individual who required a constant supply of soothing salves to stay stable, and this led Serila to be in a constant state of sleep, leaving Andel at the mercy of his carefree and childishly cruel brother. Ondar took great pleasure in tormenting the young Andel in simple ways that were nonetheless hurtful for a child; the young Andel’s bookish nature only made him more susceptible to his brother’s stream of abuse.
Eventually, Andel reached an age at which he could receive proper schooling, and finally considered a member of the household rather than a mer-shaped curiosity that could speak, began his journey through an expensive and extensive cadre of tutors and classes financed by his father Ilver, who’d noticed that Ondar’s cavalier attitude made him a rather weak student and a bumbling courtier, and wished for someone in the family to know court etiquette and requirements of the martial life. His investment would pay off; as years passed and Andel showed signs of maturity beyond his years with each new visit to the Thorn Lodge, so did Ondar show signs of the opposite, unable to control his emotions and put an end to his steadily increasing consumption of alcohol. Ilver wouldn’t understand the gravity of the situation until it was too late; by the time Andel had come of age, Ondar’s alcoholism had reached a point where Ilver was feeling ashamed of presenting Ondar as heir.
Finally an adult, Andel began seeing the family situation for what it was. His father, in his old age, was showing signs of questionable leadership and alienating his compatriots amongst the Knights of the Thorn. First left Feranos, and without his guidance, Ilver quickly went down a route of meaningless endeavors that left the Knights with less than what they had started with. Andel himself had taken to improving his relations with other prominent martial figures of Cheydinhal, believing that the life he was born into and the life he had led so far made knighthood the most suitable role for him in life. Although he’d planned to become a squire in some other figure’s entourage, fate had something different in store for him; Ilver invited him to the Thorn Lodge one day, and told him that a friend of his, a high-ranking member of House Redoran, had noticed Andel’s keen mind during a visit to the Thorn Lodge and asked Ilver to have Andel join his entourage in an upcoming expedition against the Argonians.
Andel accepted, eager to prove himself, and soon after found himself in actual campaign, where, even in his privileged position as junior officer, he was subject to grueling conditions. Having been raised with tales of his ancestors’ glorious deeds, and indeed, with a personal interest in earning fame and glory in battle, Andel felt the need to prove himself; yet the conditions and the responsibilities that weighed upon him made him reconsider what he had built his life towards. He made a positive, but not exceptional impression on his superiors, competent through a combination of factors rather than expertise in one particular skill, and Andel noticed this and did not consider it enough, but nonetheless, his inexperience and personal doubt made him far too fearful to reach out for more. He was unsure as to whether he could carry on with this life. War was a fascinating thing when read and witnessed, but to participate in it was another matter entirely, and, he feared, a matter beyond his caliber.
Eventually, the campaign ended, by which time Andel had learned that his father’s friend had not asked for Andel, but the other way around. Resentful of his father for his deception and for putting his life out on the line, he returned to the family, when his father, once again, asked him to formally join the Knights of the Thorn. Although Andel wished not to, he also wished not to get on his increasingly unstable father’s bad side and put another dent in the already strained family relations. As a plus, he considered that his father’s grooming of him could be a positive thing, and were he to prove himself, he would likely be Ilver’s preferred candidate for leader of the Knights of the Thorn, a position which he hoped would be powerful enough for him to turn his luck around. Unfortunately for the House of Indarys, and unfortunately for Andel, the following years came and went exactly as they had so far.
By his father’s two hundredth and Andel’s thirtieth birthday, the Knights of the Thorn had been reduced, thanks to most of the higher-ups breaking off and forming their own knightly orders, to half a dozen men, Andel, Ilver, Ondar and the lodge servant included. What was worse was that they were up to their neck in debt, Ilver having taken on a contract from the Imperial government to oversee the security of the Blue Road pavement project and failed to fulfill the requirements. Even worse was the fact that Ilver showed no signs of learning from his mistakes and seemed to plan to take on another contract to join a campaign in Morrowind, an expedition which the Knights could not feasibly finance, to pay off his debt to the Empire. Andel felt that something had to be done, and he asked his once-substitute mother, Norasa, to appeal to Ilver and use his devotion to her late father to convince him to stop.
Somewhat surprisingly, it worked, and unsurprisingly, Ilver anointed Andel as new head of the knightly order as opposed to Ondar, who seemed relieved to not have to deal with the responsibilities that the precarious position brought with it. Andel now had the Lodge, its contents, and the loyalty of his knights at his disposal. With leadership of the order came a new responsibility; the Thornblade, the family heirloom with which Farwil Indarys had walked into Oblivion and routed the forces of Dagon, the heirloom with which Farwil Indarys had felled twenty of Mede’s champions even as he bled from twenty fatal wounds, the heirloom with which Nerevar Indarys had cut a swath through the Thalmor at Red Ring Road, was now his to keep and protect. As the ceremony took place, even if pitifully, Andel felt the weight of the responsibilities that he had undertaken for the first time.
Now bearing the sword and title that his father once did, Andel sought out ways to change the path that they were headed down. Downsizing was the first action; the debt to the Imperial government had to be paid somehow, and thus, the Lodge, and almost its entire arsenal, was to go. However, with the Lodge gone, the Knights no longer had a base of operations from which they could carry on their operations, continue the order’s traditions, gather and train new recruits and use as a front. A new Lodge was necessary, and for that, they needed coin. What they could offer for coin were their blades, and thus, the remaining Knights of the Thorn ended up as sellswords in Andel’s leadership, seeking their fortune in Anequina, formerly the lands of Elsweyr, where trouble was afoot ever since the death of the Mane.
Trouble they sought and trouble they found as swords in a Rimmenese warlord’s service, but Andel quickly discovered that leading brothers in arms through such hardship took a toll on one that was without equal. With every decision made being challenged by fear of it being the wrong one, soon, Andel found himself drinking himself to sleep. To bolster their ranks and protect his companions, he recruited more men with the coin that was being made, but in a war-torn land, blades for hire had little understanding of decency and chivalry; the company showed signs of devolving into foul mercenaries, and this led Andel to seek a way to drill some order into his recruits before it was too late. One night, as he sat in his tent, he sought to contact his ancestors for guidance as his people did back in the old country, and unsheathed the Thornblade, grasping its studded grip hard enough to draw blood, hoping to attract the spirits of the sword’s previous wielders.
The sword answered, but not in a way that he expected. As his blood dripped down the length of the sword’s blade, its steel warped into a twisted, vaguely blade-shaped mass of blood red flesh, covered in veins and outlines of facial features, screaming, gritting, but worse was the eyes, oh, the eyes, eyes of men and of mer, eyes of brown, eyes of blue and green and eyes of blood red, eyes of stone cold killers and eyes childish in their innocence. As if the sight was not enough, one of the mouths tried to open itself and to say something, but the utterly perturbed Andel, having had enough of this madness in the last half minute, somehow found in himself strength enough to put the damnedest thing back in its sheath and go back to his bed a shivering, panting and sweating mess of fear and confusion, reaching for his bedside drink and downing the entire bottle of wine in a single drink. Part of him hoped that he would not wake up again, not wishing to try to make sense of it all anymore.
But wake up he did, and with his awakening came more hard decisions. The company was disbanded at first opportunity, with the profits being shared as previously agreed upon, and the Knights themselves were dismissed, although Andel saw to it that the duo were rewarded handsomely for their unwavering royalty through trying times. He traveled back north, alone this time, seeking a qualified enchanter who could explain exactly what was going on with the family heirloom, and more importantly, seeking some repose from the weight placed upon his shoulders. The wandering was financed with what was on hand; first his suit of steel plate was gone, then his spare clothes, then his horse, then his fancy jackboots. By the time he’d found someone willing and able to decipher the Thornblade’s condition, he had naught but what he carried on his person.
The enchanter that he’d found, an eccentric Altmer by the name of Gwendoreth, utilized arcane techniques of scrying to peer into the sword’s past, and came back with the answers that Andel sought. The sword had indeed been a potent artifact in its past, argued Gwendoreth, but it was at the hands of Farwil, or perhaps someone of great power in Farwil’s place, she wasn’t sure, that it took its current form. A great Daedra was slayed by it, said Gwendoreth, so great and capable in its ways that even in death, it could find a new vessel to continue its existence in; the very blade that took its life. Now, the blade was not unlike a black soul gem, feeding on the essence of those that found death by it, growing stronger and more capable with every new life. Following this, she made two offers to Andel; she could, and would happily, buy it from Andel to study it, or, if he’d like, she could exorcise the Daedra from it, but doing so would certainly destroy the sword in the process.
Andel considered exorcism to be the most logical option, but pride and shame kept him from it. He’d taken the Thorn Knights from his father, for the greater good perhaps, but the greater good he was unable to achieve either. On top of it, he had debased the knights, dirtying the order’s name in a meaningless conflict to keep the family afloat; with the sword also gone, Andel would have achieved nothing but failure. Nothing would remain of the Knights of the Thorn, nothing would remain of the House of Indarys, and he alone would be the one responsible for it. Even the idea of it felt like it was worming through his very soul, and thus Andel decided to throw himself on a new path, that is, to make a name for his own. Even if he absolutely had to destroy the Indarys legacy, he owed it to himself to build something else in return.
But how? He does not know. He did not return to Cheydinhal – he could not, rather, not without a victory – and took to wandering, seeking opportunities to prove himself. What few opportunities he found, he hesitated to take, and as chance is a fleeting thing, they disappeared before he could finally act. Andel now wanders the countryside from place to place, relying mostly on his good manners and the goodwill that he can cultivate amongst people to sustain his journey. So far, he has achieved little; but in Anvil, he hopes, that his luck will turn around.
Biggest Regret: Where to even start? He regrets having had to return to his family rather than staying with the Dals family, his fascination with a martial career, his attempts to train and prove himself in it rather than seeking something more fruitful. The fact that he actually stepped on the field of battle, and failed to find the transcendent experience in it that others could. The fact that he is not exceptional, the fact that he proved all too weak and all too mortal and not a hero. The fact that he dared to take over the Knights in their final days and failed to achieve anything with it. The fact that he could not save the Knights from being driven into the ground. The fact that he accepted the family heirloom, the fact that he found out it being cursed. The fact that he didn’t have it exorcised, the fact that he can’t find a way to fix it. The fact that he’s too ashamed to return home. Honestly, Andel’s entire past is a history of regret after another, and it all comes together as one great regret of living, living as a total and abject failure, and at times, living at all.
Andel’s Goal: Andel has come to this age with the stories of those who came and went before him, those who were worthy of being spoken about well after their passing. Living in the shadow of mer greater than him, whether through fame or mettle, has sparked in him an ambition to reach above and beyond them, for he believes that for some reason he must – yet in all his attempts so far, he has failed. Citing his young age and inexperience seems not to influence him, leading him to remind his would-be excusers how his uncle Farwil had taken on the forces of Oblivion at an age younger than he and successfully purged the County of them, even daring to venture into the realm itself to shut down the gate that oozed out the forces of evil that he’d driven off. He wishes to have his name written down into the annals of history like his ancestors did, and not as a footnote of failure, but as a figure greater than any of them. He wishes to earn the mettle necessary for it, as well, for merely being named as such will not do; he must, he absolutely must live up to the standards of being an ideal knight and prove to himself that he is more than a byproduct of his ancestors’ legacy.
Skills:
Adept:
Novice:
Spells:
None
Equipment:
- A well-made and well-worn traveler’s outfit of Nibenese fashion
- A thick, sheepskin-lined overcoat
- A steel skullcap, sewn into his bonnet
- A steel gorget
- A pair of steel vambraces
- A pair of rawhide boots
- A medal of the Knights of the Thorn, said to be enchanted
- A sword belt with two scabbards, one bearing a lock
- A satchel of supplies, containing some potions and consumables
- A waterskin
- A hanger sword
- The Thornblade, locked away in its scabbard
Misc. Possessions:
- A key worn around his neck for the Thornblade’s scabbard
- A pen holder made of brass with an integrated inkwell
- A reed pen
- A journal
- Spare accoutrements for traveling
Race: Dunmer
Age: 32
Birthsign: The Lady
Family Origins: Cheydinhal
Appearance:
A portrait of Andel around his twentieth birthday
Andel betrays the fact that he’s of blue blood at first glance with his unblemished and fair skin, closer to a faded purple than the usual ashen hues of his fellow Dunmer. His facial features are more gaunt than meaty, but still carry a youthful grace even at his adult age, with almond-shaped eyes bearing bright red irises and crimson sclerae, a ridged brow, an aquiline nose that tapers narrower as it reaches down from between the eyebrows, and prominent lips adorning a well-proportioned mouth. His hair is a vibrant, healthy grey gathered back and tied up in a braided rattail, its oily tendencies only exaggerating its reflectiveness, and just like his hair, the rest of his hairs are grey, his thin and faded eyebrows standing like two strokes from a desaturated paintbrush atop his eyes, reaching out to meet in the middle. His face is kept clean shaven for he is unable to grow a proper beard, save two well-groomed brushlike patches by the edges of his mouth providing a whisker-like mustache, and thick and fuzzy sideburns ending right below his ears.
Of average height and physique, he leaves a wiry impression like many other Dunmer, not very well-reinforced by musculature. Although beneath his clothes he bears a broad, barrel-chested torso, thanks to his lack of muscle and thin and unexercised upper limbs, this genetic advantage is left impotent from an aesthetic standpoint. Beneath the joints, however, his limbs suddenly grow larger, with his forearms almost thicker than his upper arms and his calves bulging with musculature. He bears hands and feet large but not disproportionate, with thick fingers, and his bodily hair is spread not unlike his muscles, with his torso and upper limbs covered with a thin, patchy excuse of grey hairs which suddenly grow in intensity once the limbs reach below their joints.
Despite his aristocratic upbringing, Andel’s clothes are more worldly than courtly. Atop a cotton shirt, he wears a prominently buttoned brownish red dolman that reaches halfway down his thighs, with a fur-collared woolen overcoat of fallow color acting as outer garment. A sword belt is worn around his waist atop his dolman, from which hang scabbards for two swords, both on the left side, and to the right sits a satchel. For legwear he prefers knee length breeches, and thick, crude boots of rawhide take over the duty of covering his legs from the knees down. He has a cap made of rabbit fur for colder weathers, but is seldom seen wearing it, preferring a simple bonnet instead. A gorget worn over the jerkin and two vambraces that reach up to his elbows betray his martial position, but aside from that, he is unarmored.
Personality: Andel was born into nobility, and it shows, but not necessarily in an irritating way. He seems to have an innate understanding of the fact that nobility is all about grace, and grace is all about appearances, and as such, there’s a conscious aesthetic quality to all of his words, deeds, and states of being. His posture is just the right amount of self-confident without seeping into brazenness; his voice can slide across the tone spectrum in the middle of a single-syllable word, and his facial expressions have been honed to dig out the exact responses from the exact people. All this is not to say that Andel manipulates people for his own ends, however; he simply knows the importance of communication, and takes care to express himself with unerring precision. And even all this is kept under a sober and refined layer of humility as to not intimidate his onlookers.
The first impression that Andel makes on people is usually one of agreeableness. While a good conversationist, he is not brazen (or impolite) enough to start a conversation with a stranger for no reason; however, he’s also not impolite enough to leave a stranger without a response. Once Andel is part of a conversation, his demeanor changes somewhat; like a hungry predator tasting blood, he grows bolder and more provocative as the conversation lasts longer, eventually settling at a point of just the right amounts of sweet and sour to leave a lasting and sizzling, but not hurtful impression. This sudden change from pure sincerity to a performative is an interesting one, and behind it lies the key reason for his lot in life; all the boarded-up insecurities that eat away at him from the inside.
Obsessed with living up to his own impossible standards, yet also fearful of acting on his dreams and seeing whether he’ll make the cut or not is a source of constant pain and self-doubt for Andel. On top of that is his legacy, for he is many things before he is allowed to be himself – heir of House Indarys, Thornbearer of the Thorn Knights, his father’s son – and his latent narcissism and perfectionism use this fact to keep him in a constant state of self-paralysis. He wishes to be his own thing in history, a name unto his own, yet the fact that he only came this far (not that far, mind) in the first place thanks to the life that he was born into and not because of his own deeds, and that he will likely never reach the heights that those he respect did, leave him in a state of orbiting the responsibilities that his dreams require, equally unable to reach in or give up.
History: Andel’s history, much to his chagrin, begins well before his birth. It begins with House Indarys, a cadet branch of House Hlaalu, known for its collaboration with the Septim Empire and influence outside of Morrowind’s borders, rather than inside it. Having ruled the County of Cheydinhal since the House of Tharn was deprived of its titles and privileges for its involvement in the Imperial Simulacrum, House Indarys had grown from an unwanted thorn in the Great House’s side, first to an useful tool to help them gain further influence in the Imperial Heartland, then, begrudgingly, to a partner on almost equal footing, with stakes even in the policies of the empire at large thanks to their proximity to the capital. Of course, these were, as far as Andel knows, the glory days, and the days of House Indarys that Andel were to witness were anything but.
Andel was born to a time of great turmoil for House Indarys, even by the standards of the Fourth Era, in which the family had seen itself go from a potential candidate for the Ruby Throne to an impoverished and not very well-liked house of merely local renown. Andel Indarys, the Count of Cheydinhal during the latter part of the Uriel Septim VII’s reign and one short-time claimant for the Imperial Throne, had died an untimely death during the Stormcrown Interregnum; his son Farwil the Daedra Slayer, the gallant Champion of Cheydinhal, had even preceded him, having fallen on the field of battle against the Medes. Farwil’s brother Ilver had thus become head of House Indarys and would have been next in line as Count of Cheydinhal, but the privilege of overseeing the County of Cheydinhal was taken from them for having dared to oppose the Medes, even if briefly.
It was to this mer that Andel would be youngest son, with an elder brother, Ondar, and a phantom brother, Nerevar, that Andel would always hear of, but never have the privilege of seeing, for he, like his late uncle Farwil, had fallen on the field of battle during the Great War.
The responsibility of leading a once-great House through days of turmoil and losing his eldest son in the process had taken a toll on Ilver’s approachability. He was a busy man, and his frayed relationship with his wife Serila, Andel’s mother, meant that the young Andel would rarely manage to spend time with him, having to contend with a mother who had fallen to drink since losing his eldest son. Through Andel’s early years, the task of actually raising and providing a parental figure to him was left to Norasa Dals, sister to Feranos Dals, who was Ilver’s second-in-command in the Knights of the Thorn and heir to the True Weights, a cult of Zenithar. It was in the Dals family that Andel could find some familial refuge from the void of his own family, and this meant a fairly devout upbringing, although the family was never shy of letting Andel delve into the tomes of their library, letting him indulge himself in both academic works and ancient epics and making his own sense of what he read.
This went on for a few years, until one day when Serila decided to kick her addiction and be a good mother to her sons. Thus Andel found himself back in the household, although minus his father, under the excuse of him having to lead the new members of the Knights of the Thorn; he would later learn that the actual reason for it was Serila no longer being able to tolerate the elderly Ilver’s constant infidelity. Being back with his family wasn’t exactly any better for Andel; his mother, while well-meaning, was a smothering and worrisome individual who required a constant supply of soothing salves to stay stable, and this led Serila to be in a constant state of sleep, leaving Andel at the mercy of his carefree and childishly cruel brother. Ondar took great pleasure in tormenting the young Andel in simple ways that were nonetheless hurtful for a child; the young Andel’s bookish nature only made him more susceptible to his brother’s stream of abuse.
Eventually, Andel reached an age at which he could receive proper schooling, and finally considered a member of the household rather than a mer-shaped curiosity that could speak, began his journey through an expensive and extensive cadre of tutors and classes financed by his father Ilver, who’d noticed that Ondar’s cavalier attitude made him a rather weak student and a bumbling courtier, and wished for someone in the family to know court etiquette and requirements of the martial life. His investment would pay off; as years passed and Andel showed signs of maturity beyond his years with each new visit to the Thorn Lodge, so did Ondar show signs of the opposite, unable to control his emotions and put an end to his steadily increasing consumption of alcohol. Ilver wouldn’t understand the gravity of the situation until it was too late; by the time Andel had come of age, Ondar’s alcoholism had reached a point where Ilver was feeling ashamed of presenting Ondar as heir.
Finally an adult, Andel began seeing the family situation for what it was. His father, in his old age, was showing signs of questionable leadership and alienating his compatriots amongst the Knights of the Thorn. First left Feranos, and without his guidance, Ilver quickly went down a route of meaningless endeavors that left the Knights with less than what they had started with. Andel himself had taken to improving his relations with other prominent martial figures of Cheydinhal, believing that the life he was born into and the life he had led so far made knighthood the most suitable role for him in life. Although he’d planned to become a squire in some other figure’s entourage, fate had something different in store for him; Ilver invited him to the Thorn Lodge one day, and told him that a friend of his, a high-ranking member of House Redoran, had noticed Andel’s keen mind during a visit to the Thorn Lodge and asked Ilver to have Andel join his entourage in an upcoming expedition against the Argonians.
Andel accepted, eager to prove himself, and soon after found himself in actual campaign, where, even in his privileged position as junior officer, he was subject to grueling conditions. Having been raised with tales of his ancestors’ glorious deeds, and indeed, with a personal interest in earning fame and glory in battle, Andel felt the need to prove himself; yet the conditions and the responsibilities that weighed upon him made him reconsider what he had built his life towards. He made a positive, but not exceptional impression on his superiors, competent through a combination of factors rather than expertise in one particular skill, and Andel noticed this and did not consider it enough, but nonetheless, his inexperience and personal doubt made him far too fearful to reach out for more. He was unsure as to whether he could carry on with this life. War was a fascinating thing when read and witnessed, but to participate in it was another matter entirely, and, he feared, a matter beyond his caliber.
Eventually, the campaign ended, by which time Andel had learned that his father’s friend had not asked for Andel, but the other way around. Resentful of his father for his deception and for putting his life out on the line, he returned to the family, when his father, once again, asked him to formally join the Knights of the Thorn. Although Andel wished not to, he also wished not to get on his increasingly unstable father’s bad side and put another dent in the already strained family relations. As a plus, he considered that his father’s grooming of him could be a positive thing, and were he to prove himself, he would likely be Ilver’s preferred candidate for leader of the Knights of the Thorn, a position which he hoped would be powerful enough for him to turn his luck around. Unfortunately for the House of Indarys, and unfortunately for Andel, the following years came and went exactly as they had so far.
By his father’s two hundredth and Andel’s thirtieth birthday, the Knights of the Thorn had been reduced, thanks to most of the higher-ups breaking off and forming their own knightly orders, to half a dozen men, Andel, Ilver, Ondar and the lodge servant included. What was worse was that they were up to their neck in debt, Ilver having taken on a contract from the Imperial government to oversee the security of the Blue Road pavement project and failed to fulfill the requirements. Even worse was the fact that Ilver showed no signs of learning from his mistakes and seemed to plan to take on another contract to join a campaign in Morrowind, an expedition which the Knights could not feasibly finance, to pay off his debt to the Empire. Andel felt that something had to be done, and he asked his once-substitute mother, Norasa, to appeal to Ilver and use his devotion to her late father to convince him to stop.
Somewhat surprisingly, it worked, and unsurprisingly, Ilver anointed Andel as new head of the knightly order as opposed to Ondar, who seemed relieved to not have to deal with the responsibilities that the precarious position brought with it. Andel now had the Lodge, its contents, and the loyalty of his knights at his disposal. With leadership of the order came a new responsibility; the Thornblade, the family heirloom with which Farwil Indarys had walked into Oblivion and routed the forces of Dagon, the heirloom with which Farwil Indarys had felled twenty of Mede’s champions even as he bled from twenty fatal wounds, the heirloom with which Nerevar Indarys had cut a swath through the Thalmor at Red Ring Road, was now his to keep and protect. As the ceremony took place, even if pitifully, Andel felt the weight of the responsibilities that he had undertaken for the first time.
Now bearing the sword and title that his father once did, Andel sought out ways to change the path that they were headed down. Downsizing was the first action; the debt to the Imperial government had to be paid somehow, and thus, the Lodge, and almost its entire arsenal, was to go. However, with the Lodge gone, the Knights no longer had a base of operations from which they could carry on their operations, continue the order’s traditions, gather and train new recruits and use as a front. A new Lodge was necessary, and for that, they needed coin. What they could offer for coin were their blades, and thus, the remaining Knights of the Thorn ended up as sellswords in Andel’s leadership, seeking their fortune in Anequina, formerly the lands of Elsweyr, where trouble was afoot ever since the death of the Mane.
Trouble they sought and trouble they found as swords in a Rimmenese warlord’s service, but Andel quickly discovered that leading brothers in arms through such hardship took a toll on one that was without equal. With every decision made being challenged by fear of it being the wrong one, soon, Andel found himself drinking himself to sleep. To bolster their ranks and protect his companions, he recruited more men with the coin that was being made, but in a war-torn land, blades for hire had little understanding of decency and chivalry; the company showed signs of devolving into foul mercenaries, and this led Andel to seek a way to drill some order into his recruits before it was too late. One night, as he sat in his tent, he sought to contact his ancestors for guidance as his people did back in the old country, and unsheathed the Thornblade, grasping its studded grip hard enough to draw blood, hoping to attract the spirits of the sword’s previous wielders.
The sword answered, but not in a way that he expected. As his blood dripped down the length of the sword’s blade, its steel warped into a twisted, vaguely blade-shaped mass of blood red flesh, covered in veins and outlines of facial features, screaming, gritting, but worse was the eyes, oh, the eyes, eyes of men and of mer, eyes of brown, eyes of blue and green and eyes of blood red, eyes of stone cold killers and eyes childish in their innocence. As if the sight was not enough, one of the mouths tried to open itself and to say something, but the utterly perturbed Andel, having had enough of this madness in the last half minute, somehow found in himself strength enough to put the damnedest thing back in its sheath and go back to his bed a shivering, panting and sweating mess of fear and confusion, reaching for his bedside drink and downing the entire bottle of wine in a single drink. Part of him hoped that he would not wake up again, not wishing to try to make sense of it all anymore.
But wake up he did, and with his awakening came more hard decisions. The company was disbanded at first opportunity, with the profits being shared as previously agreed upon, and the Knights themselves were dismissed, although Andel saw to it that the duo were rewarded handsomely for their unwavering royalty through trying times. He traveled back north, alone this time, seeking a qualified enchanter who could explain exactly what was going on with the family heirloom, and more importantly, seeking some repose from the weight placed upon his shoulders. The wandering was financed with what was on hand; first his suit of steel plate was gone, then his spare clothes, then his horse, then his fancy jackboots. By the time he’d found someone willing and able to decipher the Thornblade’s condition, he had naught but what he carried on his person.
The enchanter that he’d found, an eccentric Altmer by the name of Gwendoreth, utilized arcane techniques of scrying to peer into the sword’s past, and came back with the answers that Andel sought. The sword had indeed been a potent artifact in its past, argued Gwendoreth, but it was at the hands of Farwil, or perhaps someone of great power in Farwil’s place, she wasn’t sure, that it took its current form. A great Daedra was slayed by it, said Gwendoreth, so great and capable in its ways that even in death, it could find a new vessel to continue its existence in; the very blade that took its life. Now, the blade was not unlike a black soul gem, feeding on the essence of those that found death by it, growing stronger and more capable with every new life. Following this, she made two offers to Andel; she could, and would happily, buy it from Andel to study it, or, if he’d like, she could exorcise the Daedra from it, but doing so would certainly destroy the sword in the process.
Andel considered exorcism to be the most logical option, but pride and shame kept him from it. He’d taken the Thorn Knights from his father, for the greater good perhaps, but the greater good he was unable to achieve either. On top of it, he had debased the knights, dirtying the order’s name in a meaningless conflict to keep the family afloat; with the sword also gone, Andel would have achieved nothing but failure. Nothing would remain of the Knights of the Thorn, nothing would remain of the House of Indarys, and he alone would be the one responsible for it. Even the idea of it felt like it was worming through his very soul, and thus Andel decided to throw himself on a new path, that is, to make a name for his own. Even if he absolutely had to destroy the Indarys legacy, he owed it to himself to build something else in return.
But how? He does not know. He did not return to Cheydinhal – he could not, rather, not without a victory – and took to wandering, seeking opportunities to prove himself. What few opportunities he found, he hesitated to take, and as chance is a fleeting thing, they disappeared before he could finally act. Andel now wanders the countryside from place to place, relying mostly on his good manners and the goodwill that he can cultivate amongst people to sustain his journey. So far, he has achieved little; but in Anvil, he hopes, that his luck will turn around.
Biggest Regret: Where to even start? He regrets having had to return to his family rather than staying with the Dals family, his fascination with a martial career, his attempts to train and prove himself in it rather than seeking something more fruitful. The fact that he actually stepped on the field of battle, and failed to find the transcendent experience in it that others could. The fact that he is not exceptional, the fact that he proved all too weak and all too mortal and not a hero. The fact that he dared to take over the Knights in their final days and failed to achieve anything with it. The fact that he could not save the Knights from being driven into the ground. The fact that he accepted the family heirloom, the fact that he found out it being cursed. The fact that he didn’t have it exorcised, the fact that he can’t find a way to fix it. The fact that he’s too ashamed to return home. Honestly, Andel’s entire past is a history of regret after another, and it all comes together as one great regret of living, living as a total and abject failure, and at times, living at all.
Andel’s Goal: Andel has come to this age with the stories of those who came and went before him, those who were worthy of being spoken about well after their passing. Living in the shadow of mer greater than him, whether through fame or mettle, has sparked in him an ambition to reach above and beyond them, for he believes that for some reason he must – yet in all his attempts so far, he has failed. Citing his young age and inexperience seems not to influence him, leading him to remind his would-be excusers how his uncle Farwil had taken on the forces of Oblivion at an age younger than he and successfully purged the County of them, even daring to venture into the realm itself to shut down the gate that oozed out the forces of evil that he’d driven off. He wishes to have his name written down into the annals of history like his ancestors did, and not as a footnote of failure, but as a figure greater than any of them. He wishes to earn the mettle necessary for it, as well, for merely being named as such will not do; he must, he absolutely must live up to the standards of being an ideal knight and prove to himself that he is more than a byproduct of his ancestors’ legacy.
Skills:
Adept:
Having had to lead a mercenary company, Andel learned the hard way that an army walks on its stomach, and that an officer’s foremost duty is to keep the army walking. What good are soldiers when they aren’t on the field of battle, and what good is an officer if he cannot procure what’s necessary for them to walk?
As an heir to a knightly order, experience with the sword was a necessity for Andel in Ilver’s eyes. While not necessarily a bad swordsman, and graceful in his movement, Andel never showed the decisiveness necessary to be an exceptional one.
Andel does not actively seek an audience, nor does he try to manipulate it, but he’s well-versed in the oratory arts, and the wide repertoire of books that he can draw references from make him a pleasant companion in almost every environment.
Novice:
A knight is nothing without his horse, and to be a horseman requires at least some nimbleness to stay on the saddle as one gets to have the horse used to his presence atop it.
A knight is a warrior, and during war, if ten percent of your time is spent battling, then ninety percent of it is spent getting to the battle. Tiresome it may be, but it is not alien to Andel.
A Knight of the Thorn is nothing without his floral-patterned plate, and for all its cumbersomeness, Andel had to have some experience wearing it, even if solely for appearances.
A knight cannot be in full armor all the time, although he must at the very least bear the signs of his office, be it a breastplate, or a gorget.
A knight needs to be a man of valor, and as every wise man knows, discretion is the better part of it.
Spells:
None
Equipment:
- A well-made and well-worn traveler’s outfit of Nibenese fashion
- A thick, sheepskin-lined overcoat
- A steel skullcap, sewn into his bonnet
- A steel gorget
- A pair of steel vambraces
- A pair of rawhide boots
- A medal of the Knights of the Thorn, said to be enchanted
- A sword belt with two scabbards, one bearing a lock
- A satchel of supplies, containing some potions and consumables
- A waterskin
- A hanger sword
- The Thornblade, locked away in its scabbard
Misc. Possessions:
- A key worn around his neck for the Thornblade’s scabbard
- A pen holder made of brass with an integrated inkwell
- A reed pen
- A journal
- Spare accoutrements for traveling
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F A Z A H R A A L - H A M I N A
C H A R A C T E R I N F O R M A T I O N Name - Captain Fazahra al-Hamina Gender - Female. Race - Redguard. Age - Late twenties to mid-thirties. Height - Taller than average, around 5'9". Profession - Sailor. Family Origins - Hammerfell, Abah's Landing Birth Sign - The Thief. ____________________________________________________ S K I L L S & A B I L I T I E S E X P E R T Blade Redguards are said to be the most naturally talented warriors in Tamriel, Fazahra is no exception to this. Shipboard life can be violent, put a blade in her hands and she will produce dead men for you. A D E P T Acrobatics A lifetime of climbing rigging and running over heaving decks has left Fazahra more nible than most, with an excellent sense of balance. Mercantile Commerce and trade is the lifeblood of most ships. Goods must be acquired and sold, ships provisioned, crews hired and paid. N O V I C E Athletics Hauling rope and canvas makes one develop certain muscles. Smithing Minor repair work on vessels is often undertaken by the crew, Fazahra has a working knowledge of cold metal working and carpentry. Unarmoured The greatest danger at sea is the sea itself, what sort of fool wears armour on a boat? ____________________________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T Weapons A curved steel sword and dagger, of traditional Yokundan design. Armour Nothing put some light cloth and leather boots. Miscellaneous Items A water skin. Unenchanted gold jewellery and medallions, carriable wealth. Several bottles of good Stros M'Kai Rum. Carpentry and miscellaneous tools. A suspiciously large bag of gold, well hidden. Rope, so much rope. One ship, in a ruinous state of repair. A broken compass, kept close to the heart. ____________________________________________________ | A P P E A R A N C E Captain Fazahra al-Hamina is an imposing Redguard woman of larger than average height and build. Wide hipped and thick waisted, her figure looks stocky and strong. She has spent over half her life hauling rope and canvas or pulling at an oar, activities which have placed a significant amount of muscle on top of her already oversized frame. The dark skin of her muscled arms are lined with the pale scars of old injuries, some from the lash of an overtightened line snapping free, others from slash of a steel blade. Her hands are similarly marked, they bear callus upon callus, forged through hard and heavy work, leaving them as tough and unyielding as the timbers of a ship. The features of her face bear a similarity to that of her build. A broad nose, a wide forehead, dark eyes spaced perhaps a little too far apart to be considered a model for classical standards of feminine beauty. The lower half of her face is dominated by a set of full lips, most often parted in a open smile showing white pearlescent teeth. She wears her hair long, pushed back away from her face, but left to hang freely about her shoulders. The tightly coiled black hair is teased into numerous braids, adorned with beads and golden rings. Her ears are clearly visible when her hair is worn in this fashion, showing off a glimmering array of golden earrings, some simple hoops, others dangling large pedants of semi-precious stones or seashells. The captain dresses simply, loose linen shirts tucked into tight fitting dark breeches. She wears thigh high black leather boots of undeniable quality. From a shoulder slung sword belt a curved Redguard scimitar of plain and mean looking steel hangs along with a matching dagger. The adorned hilts contrasting with the gilded medallions and talismans they jingle alongside with. This are utilitarian weapons, tools for killing. In colder and wetter weather she has a long oil skin coat that she wraps about her person, along with a wide brimmed hat to keep the sun from her eyes and the rain from the face. ____________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y Fazahra is undoubted a woman who has endured much and led a tough life. One might expect evidence of this toughness, this hard and unyielding nature, to give her character a similar quality, that she would be some stern figurehead from some veteran warship, harshly carved from the boughs of a blackened oak. But the demeanour of Captain Fazahra could not be further from this image. Her face most often bears a smile so wide and open, it disarms those around her of the dangerous nature that hardened body forebodes. It is a friendly face. One that welcomes bosom buddies and heart companions to entrust their hopes and desire to her. Her husky voice has a singsong quality to it, and when she laughs they are full and hearty. Fazahra has a temper to her though, one that can whip up as quickly as a summer squall, though it is as apt to disappear just as fast as it emerged. She is not particularly violent by nature, even when wroth she is unlikely to reach for her sword unless threatened. And there is not much she feels threatened by. Overall the captain gives of an air of confidence and easy bravado. She seems self-assured of her abilities, and at ease in any company. This combination of self belief and friendliness makes her a very outgoing and extraverted individual. When at port and in taverns she draws in the people around her, making friends easily, attracting lovers easily. But like the seas she calls her home, many may swim in those warm and shallow waters without ever knowing the abyss that lies beneath them. A chasm of dark fathomless depths, in which one could easily drown. There is an ocean of hurt and pain inside of this woman, no matter how much sun shines on the surface. She rarely shows it when around others. Perhaps only when particularly deep in her cups might those mournful truths take hold and the perpetual smile she wears falters and fades. Her hand might creep to the pouch on the sword belt, the one that lies closest to her heart, close around the broken compass that resides there. Glass shattered, no direction left to give. Her greatest regret is the man that owned that compass once. The one who loved Fazahra more than anything, who would have done anything for her. The one she killed. Her goal? Happiness, Freedom, Escape. Escape from the past, the past of who she was, what she did, and what she had others do for her. Maybe out there, on the open sea, the wind at her back once more, she will be able to leave behind all of the pain and all of the guilt that has brought with her to Anvil. ____________________________________________________ H I S T O R Y Captain Fazahra is a talkative individual, she will freely converse on many different themes and topics. She tells many tall tales of the strange far off lands that she has seen, of the raucous nights spent in ports all over Tamriel, of ghost stories featuring phantom ships and dread sea monsters. If required she will even talk of more mundane things, of her craft as a sailor, of the fluctuating price of trade goods, even of the weather. But there is one thing she very, very rarely talks about directly. Who exactly she is, where she comes from, and what exactly she was doing before she came to Anvil. |
Despite her silence on these matters, a discerning mind and well trained eye would be able to puzzle a good deal of her history out of her just by looking and listening, filling in the gaps with the odd well reasoned guess.
Firstly, Fazahra is a Redguard that much is clear by her dark skin. Her accent places her as a native of Hammerfell, and to a trained ear, south east Hammerfell with a enough Tamrielic creole mixed in to presume that she grew up in one of the large port cities that dot the coast along those bleak shores. Rihad or Taneth, Abah's Landing perhaps.
Secondly, Fazahra up poor, that's in her accent too, as well as the evidence of a lifetime of hard work on those callused hands of hers. The flashy displays of gold that she wears at her ears and belt speak to this as well, it is most often those who come into some deal of wealth later in life that have the greatest desire to flaunt it.
Third, though she claims to be a sailor and merchant, Fazahra is no stranger to violence. The scars on her arms, her self assurance around dangerous company, and the casual way she carries the blade at her hip makes this all to evidently clear.
Then there's what can be learned about Fazahra since she arrived in Anvil a month past as a passenger on merchant vessel. The first thing she did was sour the docks for a ship to purchase herself. She found one that satisfied her, although in need or some serious work, and set about repairing and provisioning the vessel herself. All of this was paid for upfront, in cold hard cash. Golden septims, not letters of credit or bankers drafts.
So, we have a woman who grew up poor, spent her life at sea and around violence, who suddenly finds herself with a significant deal of hard currency, and is purposefully obscure about what exactly she was doing before she arrived in her current port of call.
There is one explanation for these traits that fits much better than any other:
Fazahra is a pirate.
Or rather, Fazahra was a pirate. Anvil is not generally known as a safe harbour for the the buccaneers of the Abecean Sea, its a well maintained Imperial Port, not a haven of criminals like Port Hunding or Abah's Landing. A Pirate Captain, flush with gold in need of a new ship could certainly find somewhere much better to buy a raiding vessel and raise a crew of marauders.
Perhaps that explains the slight edge that the good Captain seems to have developed of late, the one that keeps her checking the shadows, and has her always sat in the taverns where she can keep one eye on the door. A pirate who broke faith with their compatriots, especially one who may have swindled more than their fair share of booty, would certainly have reason to keep looking over their shoulder.
But then again, it seems that everyone in Anvil is watching the shadows these days...
Firstly, Fazahra is a Redguard that much is clear by her dark skin. Her accent places her as a native of Hammerfell, and to a trained ear, south east Hammerfell with a enough Tamrielic creole mixed in to presume that she grew up in one of the large port cities that dot the coast along those bleak shores. Rihad or Taneth, Abah's Landing perhaps.
Secondly, Fazahra up poor, that's in her accent too, as well as the evidence of a lifetime of hard work on those callused hands of hers. The flashy displays of gold that she wears at her ears and belt speak to this as well, it is most often those who come into some deal of wealth later in life that have the greatest desire to flaunt it.
Third, though she claims to be a sailor and merchant, Fazahra is no stranger to violence. The scars on her arms, her self assurance around dangerous company, and the casual way she carries the blade at her hip makes this all to evidently clear.
Then there's what can be learned about Fazahra since she arrived in Anvil a month past as a passenger on merchant vessel. The first thing she did was sour the docks for a ship to purchase herself. She found one that satisfied her, although in need or some serious work, and set about repairing and provisioning the vessel herself. All of this was paid for upfront, in cold hard cash. Golden septims, not letters of credit or bankers drafts.
So, we have a woman who grew up poor, spent her life at sea and around violence, who suddenly finds herself with a significant deal of hard currency, and is purposefully obscure about what exactly she was doing before she arrived in her current port of call.
There is one explanation for these traits that fits much better than any other:
Fazahra is a pirate.
Or rather, Fazahra was a pirate. Anvil is not generally known as a safe harbour for the the buccaneers of the Abecean Sea, its a well maintained Imperial Port, not a haven of criminals like Port Hunding or Abah's Landing. A Pirate Captain, flush with gold in need of a new ship could certainly find somewhere much better to buy a raiding vessel and raise a crew of marauders.
Perhaps that explains the slight edge that the good Captain seems to have developed of late, the one that keeps her checking the shadows, and has her always sat in the taverns where she can keep one eye on the door. A pirate who broke faith with their compatriots, especially one who may have swindled more than their fair share of booty, would certainly have reason to keep looking over their shoulder.
But then again, it seems that everyone in Anvil is watching the shadows these days...
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