Member
Inertia
Neziul
Chrys
DucksworthHere's a toast to who might be the most hated character on the expedition, should he be fortunate enough to join.
Race: Altmer
Sex: Male
Age: 225
Family Origins: Firsthold, Alinor
Birth Sign: The Tower
Appearance:
Mortalmo had been a person of great beauty, by definition of others, and his own. Tall, arching cheekbones with a sharp jawline, both ended off on a neatly pointed chin, formed the basis for a face of similarly sharp features. His eyes, two carved amber stones customarily almond in their shape, were set upon his face with precision and care. A sloped and narrowly tapered nose rested above his lips, two thin crescents that never seemed to be more than a few twitches away from a bemused smirk. A platinum mane of carefully braided hair rested atop his elegant features, extending several inches past the shoulders. Contrasting and yet deeply complementing his hair was a canvas of light golden skin fitted to his form, pale honey. For an altmer, his physique was not one to be taken lightly. Though by no means able to outclass warrior men in feats of strength alone, he easily outmuscled many of his elvish comrades. Making his mark on the sky at exactly seven foot, Mortalmo only scraped a few inches past the common denomination of his kin, yet to Tamriel as a whole, he towered. At least, of all he lost after his fall from grace, his stature remained constant.
Mortalmo had been a person of great beauty, though the charm he once held has long since faded. His skin, rather than graceful shades of flax, now more closely resembles a muted, pale topaz. His hair, too, though not cut haphazardly, strays scarcely far from his scalp. Additionally, his jaw is dusted with the hints of a dull, silver stubble. Dark circles ring around his eyes, hollow brass things long before drained of their last vestiges of light. His mouth does little to juxtapose this demeanor, as while smiles are not a stranger to his face, frowns come deeper and far more naturally. While not an unattractive altmer by any stretch, his allure is a solemn and haunted one.
Equipment:
Mortalmo sports a basic set of leather armor whenever he expects combat, or expects the possibility of combat. When leisure can afford itself, he sticks to the basics of simple furs and cloth, with sturdy leather boots and a pair of fur lined mittens when the cold becomes too bitter. Both outfits have a hooded cloak donned over them; a ragged patchwork thing that might have been crimson at one point. In the rare cases that his magicka fails him, Mortalmo sports a set of very basic and yet very sharp steel daggers, one strapped to his wrist, a second hooked to his belt, and a third concealed in his left boot. To carry loose materials he wears a basic travel pack, with a bedroll tied to it.
Misc. Possessions:
A finely carved wooden flute, simple in appearance but capable of producing a beautiful sound. The most expensive item Mortalmo has purchased in recent years. It lays snugly in his pack, wrapped up in soft cloth.
A coin purse, with about 25 septims clinking within.
A small glass mirror.
Two or three days worth of rations in the form of dried berries and salted pork.
Family and Associates:
Favoured Skills:
Highly Proficient,
Moderately Proficient,
Somewhat Proficient,
Spell List
History:
The fires burned bright in Mortalmo’s mind. Unholy things slinking forth from the Deadlands, come to tear apart the world generations of altmer had worked to build. Bright skinned demons marching forward upon the homeland of his people, accompanied by their foul beasts of war. Scaly, monstrous things with a vicious intelligence that only made them all the more frightening. And his father, out there. Engaging those creatures in combat. Fighting the fight that those too weak, or too young (Mortalmo scowled at the thought), could not. So the child, voluntarily confined to his quarters, began to play the flute. An attempt to calm his own shaken nerves. The sweet melody the instrument produced did little to silence the screams of his mother, echoing in his own head. He glanced over at his infant brother, swathed in blankets next to him on the bed, sleeping softly despite the horror surrounding them from all sides. Mortalmo’s eyes narrowed, and he ceased his playing to raise a clenched fist, idly hung over the baby’s slumbering form. His arm shuddered with the tension, but at last a sigh was released, and his arm fell limply onto his lap. He brought his flute back to his lips once again, closed his eyes, and began to play. And to remember.
The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun a bright golden orb basking the earth below it in a radiant warmth. A soft breeze rolled throughout the countryside, carrying with it the smell of the sea, pleasantly salty. Mortalmo and his family rested in their carriage, a plush thing, but not overly gratuitous in its finery. His father, Durantel, held the reigns, while Kinyoreth held baby Calcinor in her arms. A comfortable silence rested between the four of them, Kinyoreth cooing sweet things to her youngest child, who gurgled happily in response. Durantel was the first to properly break the silence. “I think, this fine day should not end so soon. Perhaps we will dine with Carmona and her kin after all.”
This suggestion was met with grateful compliance from Kinyoreth. “I’m sure we’re going to have a lovely time of it. Mortalmo?” The boy in question was silent, his face pressed into deep concentration as he stared up at the sky. “Oh come now,” His mother began to jest. “You know Faewynn is going to be there.” Faewynn being the young lady all knew sought out Mortalmo for secretive trysts during the hours of darkness, even if the evidence mounted against the two of them was spotty at the best.
Mortalmo only shook his head in annoyance, with an agitated vigor. “The sky, what in Oblivion is happening to the sky?” Durantel’s reprimand for his son’s impudent behavior found itself caught in his throat, as he too began to inspect the sky with more scrutiny. Storm clouds had begun to roll in, and the sky found itself darkening, slowly fading from blue into a dark burgundy. Durantel seized his whip and cracked it at the horses. The effort seemed to be almost pointless, the horses had already begun to quicken their pace.
Moments later the gate was upon them. The sky was an angry red by now, thundering with rejection of the wrongness forced upon it, enraged lightning lashing out in a futile attempt to quell whatever dark forces had manifested. Pandemonium ensued, the four scrabbling away from the carriage as heated orbs of flame set it ablaze. Mortalmo barely registered the chaos surrounding him. First, Durantel heaving a battle cry from his lungs as he engaged with the red skinned demons, then his mother shoving a sobbing Calcinor into his arms, then someone heaving him atop a horse, turning to look back, screams ripping from Kinyoreth’s throat as scampering hellspawn tore her apart. The horse fled then, taking motherless sons with it. Echoes of a woman’s pained shrieks chased them as they fled.
Mortalmo stopped playing then, but squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. Curling up into a tight ball, tears leaked from his eyes as his body was wracked with silent sobbing.
Durantel never spoke of how he managed to escape that first encounter with the daedra, and was never given the opportunity to. Days after the Oblivion Crisis had begun, he joined a volunteer force being sent to close a gate. The gate was not closed, and not a single survivor managed to crawl his way out of that hellscape. Mortalmo, who had descended into a deep, numb melancholy, found his sorrow and his anger resurge anew. More than once he had struck Faewynn when his rage boiled over to such severity that it seemed nothing else could provide him relief. More than once he had kissed her scrapes and bruises softly, tears staining both of their faces. Her delicate features always remained unmarred, striking his darling Faewynn across the cheek where her mother Carmona could see would result in a certain expulsion from her household. It occurred one night while kissing away Faewynn’s latest bruise that Mortalmo decided there was a better alternative to unleashing his violent feelings. The next night, Faewynn sobbed with more grief and pain than she ever had in her entire life.
Weeks turned to months, and the Thalmor had risen to power and prominence and became the saviors of their land. Mortalmo swore he would one day stand proud among their ranks. Months turned to years, and Faewynn remained with Mortalmo. The anger that had led him to abuse her so in their youth found itself being channeled into several more positive outlets, and while Faeywnn never forgot the ill things done to her by her lover, she found it within herself to forgive him. This second and last chance had found Mortalmo to be sweeter to her than he had been in so very long, and at last they found themselves once again caught in the blind whimsy that first drew them together. Mortalmo worked tirelessly to make himself fit for the Thalmor, charging headlong into his magical studies with renewed vigor when he wasn't practicing his swordplay, sparring against any and all willing partners.
The time came, as the years drew on, that the public became aware of the Thalmor’s intention to create the Aldmeri Dominion anew, and they delivered on their promise. Mortalmo enlisted immediately. A few short years later and he was shipped off to the Valenwood. He said few words to Faewynn before his departure, and she said many to him. A grand pouring of her heart to his, all emotions and thoughts laid bare, should he not return. She hated him almost as much as she loved him. She would wait for him for as long as was required, before she could be certain that he was not returning. She would pray to Y’ffre to return him safely from that great forest, but would perhaps feel satisfaction should he never return.
Mortalmo kissed away her bruises that last night, before departing.
The fires burned bright before Mortalmo’s eyes. Licks of cruel flame were flung from the fingers of spellcasters, burning flesh as the bosmer were engulfed by inferno. Screams and battle cries tore from the throats of the defenders. Mostly screams. Mortalmo had been in a similar situation before. It felt different from the other side of things. He stood to the right of Valentha, his captain, and Calcinor remained to her left, watching on at the skirmish (a slaughter, really) with intense focus, eyes on high alert for any bosmer lucky or foolish enough to slip past their ranks and attack the captain. Mortalmo looked on too, idly twirling his blade, features entirely bored. “This is a massacre, Captain. Why do the savages persist so? The Valenwood is firmly in our grasp, and the imperials that sent these insurgents forth have all but abandoned them.”
Valentha spared an inquisitive glance for Mortalmo. “These ilk are the most backwards of the backwards. Creatures barely fit to be called mer, too obstinate in their savage ways to acknowledge or even understand the superiority we hold. It is in their nature to rebel against things they are incapable of properly grasping.” Her conviction was so final and absolute that there was no need to further the conversation. Mortalmo didn't bother with even a nod, the gesture would have been lost on her; Valentha’s focus was back on the battle, barking orders and casting her magic. Mortalmo found it hard not to stare at her, so sure of herself and so sure of her race. The pride and confidence she exuded filtered in through each and every pore of each and every soldier, and for Mortalmo she was perfection, surely she was blessed by Phynaster’s touch.
Weeks later, the last traces of resistance in the Valenwood were finally quelled, and the Aldmeri Dominion was truly risen again. Mortalmo found himself assigned with the peace keepers, justiciars operating in the shadows, going wherever they were needed to protect the interests of the Dominion. Valentha and Calcinor remained with the army, climbing the ranks as fast as one could, when positions were held for a matter of decades and centuries, rather than years.
Mortalmo rarely returned to the Isles, now Alinor, even when the opportunity presented itself. He and Faewynn communicated sparsely with each other, and only ever through letters.
Years turned to decades, and decades turned to a century. The Aldmeri Dominion now had the khajiit of Elsweyr serving their greater purpose. War with the Empire had been raging for several years, and Mortalmo found himself trailing in Valentha and Calcinor’s wake, seeking out and neutralizing heretics of Talos before they could continue to perpetuate their blasphemy. The idea that a mere man, a borderline degenerate, could ascend to godhood was entirely preposterous. Those unlucky enough to be taken prisoner were often tended to by Mortalmo himself, whenever he could find the time to spare. The screams that he managed to draw from them were little more than hollow ghosts of the terror he had once heard, so very long ago now. Still, he found a kind of catharsis in the act of torture, and worked tirelessly to round up the heretics.
The White-Gold Concordat had been signed. On the record, it was a truce between the two nations, but all knew that truly, it was a resounding victory for the Dominion. Thalmor presence would remain constant throughout the Empire, and Talos worship was officially outlawed across the provinces. Mortalmo felt a swell of satisfaction and pride that he had not experienced since the subjugation of the bosmeri. He had arranged plans with Valentha and Calcinor to celebrate the end of the war, perhaps their last chance to meet in one place together, before Mortalmo was transferred to the province of Skyrim.
A fire flickered softly in the hearth, casting the sitting room in a warm glow. Surrounding a finely carved oaken table were three plush chairs, soft velvet to the touch. A spread covered the table, sweet rolls and wines and breads and cheeses, and surrounding the table were three altmer, resting in those plush chairs, partaking of the fine spread, and making conversation.
“How, Mortalmo, did you come to acquire this manor? It is a splendid property, to be sure, but perhaps… somewhat more costly than your current funds would allow. One must wonder…” A teasing lilt to her voice, a glint to her eyes, challenging and playful. It was good to see Valentha again. To Mortalmo’s eyes, the years only seemed to accentuate her stoic beauty. Proud eyes and a mouth that could turn from a harsh grimace to a playful smile with ease. Of all of her traits, her expressiveness was the one Mortalmo most admired. Whether touched by anger, mirth, or melancholy, there was a life to her that few could match.
“Yes, brother, tell us, how did you manage to acquire this estate?” Calcinor smirked, and reached for a sweet roll.
“Well, my dear companions, it is well known, at least in my line of work, that the nobles that once took up residency here were heretics,” Mortalmo winked. “And these heretics I dealt with appropriately.” He smiled wickedly, before continuing. “Nobody had any objections to my borrowing the property for a time.”
A dark smile crept onto Valentha’s face as Calcinor barked out a laugh. “My my, Mortalmo. How is poor Faeywnn ever going to get over you?” She leaned closer to him, just slightly. “You are a fine specimen.”
Calcinor’s eyes darted between the two rapidly, and he swallowed a bite of sweetroll. “This has been a pleasant digression from the norm we’re all now accustomed to. I wish you the best of luck in Skyrim, brother. Those barbarians up there are said to be even filthier than the imperial dogs.” He snatched another roll from the table, and clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder as he made for the door. “Keep in contact!” He called back to Mortalmo. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Valentha!” And then he was gone.
Dawn poked its fingers into the bedroom through a solitary window, basking two forms in soft light. Valentha and Mortalmo were coiled around each other, resting upon the bed of a recently deceased man, who lost his life for the sake of one night of wine and sex. Mortalmo stared into Valentha’s eyes and smirked. “About a century later than I would have liked, but here we are.”
She nodded, the barest tilt of the chin. “Here we are.” Spoken softly, but with a commanding edge.
“This bed is terribly comfortable.”
“Then let’s not leave it just yet.”
Mortalmo left for Skyrim a few weeks after his meeting with Valentha and his brother, and found himself to hate the place upon arrival. The nords there were even more heretical than the dogs back at the Empire, filthy, baser creatures ferociously clinging to the worship of their false deity. Ulfric Stormcloak was the most degenerative. Mortalmo had hoped the upstart would learn his lesson after being imprisoned for that ridiculous stunt pulled at Markarth. Quite the opposite. The coward fled back to Windhelm with his tail between his legs, and soon after, echoes of rebellion began to reverberate across the province.
“What,” Toriseth began. “Is the point of all this… conflict? The Stormcloaks fight and die and they continue to lose ground with each passing day. They have to know by now, their days are numbered.”
Mortalmo eyed his charge carefully as they walked. “It is in the nature of these barbarians to reject ideas they cannot understand. The truth that a man simply cannot ascend to godhood is too alien a concept for them. So they fight, and they die, and eventually they will all die. It is the way of things.” He thought of Valentha, and of the Valenwood. “It has always been the way of things.”
Vertemnis scowled. “I will live to see every last Talos worshipping dog put down. It is blasphemy, an insult to Auri-El and a stain on Stendarr’s good will.”
“They pelt us with pebbles,” Mortalmo said. “And when they get lucky, they fling a rock. They will eventually run out of stones, but long before then their blood will stain the earth.” He stared pointedly at the prisoner between the three of them, wrists bound and heavy manacles gripping him at the ankles. “This one will help us find the stone throwers.”
The prisoner said nothing, but eyed his surroundings warily. The party traveled through a densely packed forest, snow falling heavily enough to chill the air, but not so heavily as to weigh down the boughs of the great pines that populated the wood. The trees rustled as a gust of wind passed by, sending the falling snowflakes into a momentary agitation. The rustling did not cease. A stormcloak stepped out from the treeline, then three more joined him, then there were five, seven, more? He lost count. Mortalmo stabbed the prisoner through the heart as Vertemnis and Toriseth drew their blades. The snow falling, lilting closer to earth ever so slowly, and then Mortalmo rushing towards the weakest flank, his charges in his wake, as the Stormcloaks heaved their battle cries and charged. “Vertmenis, go with Toriseth, run! Go!” He thought he heard their footfalls growing fainter as the rebels converged around him. He hoped.
Mortalmo did not know where he was. He didn’t know where he was yesterday, and he didn’t know where he was two years ago. His entire reality had been shrunken down to a single cell. Icy, rough cut stone and a single cot had been his life. Was his life. They tried questioning him at first, using persuasion and then torture in an attempt to get him to reveal Thalmor intelligence. They gave up after a few months. News came to him in bits and pieces during his imprisonment. High King Torygg had been defeated in a duel, and the rebellion was finally ready to break out in earnest. The Dawnguard was being reformed. Whiterun had chosen to fall in with the Empire. Some nonsense about dragons returning to the world. Snippets of intrigue that did much to pique his interest but little enough to quench it.
He kept his mind sharp, active, however he could. Counting things, all of them inconsequential, but all of it very consequential to Mortalmo at the same time. He prayed too, when what he assumed was the dark of night crept over his prison. “Auri-El, Trinimac,” He would go. “Magnus, Syrabane, Y’ffre, Xarxes, Mara, Stendarr, Phynaster, I call upon you Nine in my time of greatest need. Lorkhan’s spawn have imprisoned me, where I cannot say. I pray to all of you, and plead with each of you for an opening so that I can deliver myself from this accursed tomb.” Every day, the same words spoken unfailingly in a first and last effort to be freed from imprisonment. Every day, the same plea spoken ever so slightly more tremulously.
Sounds of battle spread across the compound like wildfire. Distant, at first, but drawing closer with every passing second. The metallic cry of swords being ripped from their scabbards, armored feet pounding quickly across cobblestone, running up and down hallways, orders and shouts and cries bellowing out across open spaces and travelling rapidly through enclosed ones. The chaos was dull and distant to Mortalmo’s ears. He sensed opportunity.
Hands outstretched before him, lines of concentration creasing his face, Mortalmo began his summoning. He had to be supremely careful, after so many years out of practice, the slightest of missteps could result in catastrophic failure. So he concentrated and he focused and the spell was done. Mortalmo was eye level with the dremora. A hulking mass of red muscle garbed in a twisted, cruel armor. No time was wasted as the first command was issued, “Get this door open! Rip the damn thing off the hinges if you have to I don’t care! I intend to leave this cold hell behind and you’re going to kill anything that gets in my way!” A command shouted with all the desperation of a caged animal that has finally seen an escape. Exactly what Mortalmo was.
The demon wasted no time, slamming its mass into the cell door with reckless abandon. Once. Twice. Thrice! And the cage was open, door crashing to the ground with a harsh screech, stone on iron. The pair made their way up and out of the cell block, the wails of other prisoners following them as they made their flight. One, wild eyed and fearful, hunched low behind the other as it led; snarling and confident as they found daylight. Mortalmo hissed in pain as the sun battered his unaccustomed eyes. The dremora barked a laugh, but it was quickly swallowed by the chaos that lay before them. Imperial soldiers clashing against Stormcloak traitors, some winning, some losing, and most bleeding. Many too, were dead.
Master and slave approached the sundered gatehouse of what Mortalmo realized must have been a Stormcloak fortress. Few made an effort to stop them as they approached freedom. Those that did were quickly cut down by the dremora, Mortalmo looting bits and pieces off of the demon’s victims as they went. Mortalmo broke out into a sprint as the gate loomed closer, and shouted one last command at his unwilling rescuer before leaving the fortress behind him. “Kill as many of them as you can! I care not for what side they fight for!”
And then, the prisoner was free.
Mortalmo never returned to the Thalmor. He knew what happened to those who failed. The shame of his imprisonment weighed heavily upon him, and to have the Dominion discover that he yet lived would result in mockery and demotion at best. He refused to consider the worst case scenario.
So, he wandered Skyrim, took up work as a mercenary under the assumed name Durantel. His hair he cut short and his face he ceased to shave to better hide his true identity. The name was a safe one to take. His father had died centuries ago undertaking an unmemorable and vain sacrifice. Nobody today was likely to recall him, or to connect the dots should the near impossible occur.
Most recently his travels had found him in the employment of Rhea Valerius, something of an expert when it came to the dwemer. The expedition they were to undertake filled Mortalmo with no small amount of trepidation. He had never gone terribly deep into the few dwemer ruins he had explored, staying as near to the surface as possible to collect the valuable scrap that sometimes found itself blissfully close to the exit. The dwemer automatons scared Mortalmo. Not enough to shake his courage, but enough for him to recognize them as unnecessary and deadly risks.
Yet, there he was, preparing to go deep into the bowels of Nirn.
Personality:
Exuding an aura of confidence that is not flaunted, but by no means understated, Mortalmo walks with an air of pride clinging to him. Generally speaking, he looks down on the lesser races, literally and figuratively, with pity and condescension at best, and outright animosity when they became too grand of an inconvenience to him. That is not to say he is so conceited as to ignore wisdom and ability when it becomes apparent. The humble and subservient earn his clemency while those capable enough to justify whatever bravado they might hold garner some form of grudging respect from him.
Believing his centuries of varied experiences to have made him far more shrewd than the common ilk of Lorkhan’s spawn, Mortalmo is quite outspoken when he feels certain that he has formulated a wise course of action, and will openly mock the ideas of those he thinks inferior to his own, if the needling doesn’t extend to belittling the individual themselves. To his credit, he knows to bite his tongue, or at least soften his verbal blows when speaking to someone it would be disadvantageous to burn bridges with.
Mortalmo had always been a pious individual, but during and after his imprisonment, his devotion to the Aldmeri Pantheon became absolute. He has a strict prayer policy; pay homage to each of the Nine upon waking and before slumbering, every day. He makes no effort to conceal his disgust of Talos worshippers, whom he views as vile degenerates that deserve no pittance or mercy. At the very least, the supposed “Eight Divines” were actually as the men say. Divine. Talos is little more than a glorified butcher posing as a deity, a heretic and blasphemer that poisoned the minds of all who held credence to him for eras to come.
The weight of knowing that his brother and last true friend likely suspect him dead presses down on Mortalmo constantly, and not a day goes by that he doesn’t think of Toriseth and Vertemnis, and wonder what fate had befallen the two of them. He thinks of Faewynn too, and all the ways he had failed her. What things could have been if he was better to her. When not caught up in some ordeal of merriment or strife, it is not unusual for a deep melancholy to befall him, and he will usually seek to isolate himself, so that he may dismantle the grim thoughts and feelings for a time, before they erupt. To appear weak before any member of the lesser races would be unacceptable.
Race: Altmer
Sex: Male
Age: 225
Family Origins: Firsthold, Alinor
Birth Sign: The Tower
Appearance:
Mortalmo had been a person of great beauty, by definition of others, and his own. Tall, arching cheekbones with a sharp jawline, both ended off on a neatly pointed chin, formed the basis for a face of similarly sharp features. His eyes, two carved amber stones customarily almond in their shape, were set upon his face with precision and care. A sloped and narrowly tapered nose rested above his lips, two thin crescents that never seemed to be more than a few twitches away from a bemused smirk. A platinum mane of carefully braided hair rested atop his elegant features, extending several inches past the shoulders. Contrasting and yet deeply complementing his hair was a canvas of light golden skin fitted to his form, pale honey. For an altmer, his physique was not one to be taken lightly. Though by no means able to outclass warrior men in feats of strength alone, he easily outmuscled many of his elvish comrades. Making his mark on the sky at exactly seven foot, Mortalmo only scraped a few inches past the common denomination of his kin, yet to Tamriel as a whole, he towered. At least, of all he lost after his fall from grace, his stature remained constant.
Mortalmo had been a person of great beauty, though the charm he once held has long since faded. His skin, rather than graceful shades of flax, now more closely resembles a muted, pale topaz. His hair, too, though not cut haphazardly, strays scarcely far from his scalp. Additionally, his jaw is dusted with the hints of a dull, silver stubble. Dark circles ring around his eyes, hollow brass things long before drained of their last vestiges of light. His mouth does little to juxtapose this demeanor, as while smiles are not a stranger to his face, frowns come deeper and far more naturally. While not an unattractive altmer by any stretch, his allure is a solemn and haunted one.
Equipment:
Mortalmo sports a basic set of leather armor whenever he expects combat, or expects the possibility of combat. When leisure can afford itself, he sticks to the basics of simple furs and cloth, with sturdy leather boots and a pair of fur lined mittens when the cold becomes too bitter. Both outfits have a hooded cloak donned over them; a ragged patchwork thing that might have been crimson at one point. In the rare cases that his magicka fails him, Mortalmo sports a set of very basic and yet very sharp steel daggers, one strapped to his wrist, a second hooked to his belt, and a third concealed in his left boot. To carry loose materials he wears a basic travel pack, with a bedroll tied to it.
Misc. Possessions:
A finely carved wooden flute, simple in appearance but capable of producing a beautiful sound. The most expensive item Mortalmo has purchased in recent years. It lays snugly in his pack, wrapped up in soft cloth.
A coin purse, with about 25 septims clinking within.
A small glass mirror.
Two or three days worth of rations in the form of dried berries and salted pork.
Family and Associates:
- Calcinor, Brother, Alive
- Durantel, Father, Deceased
- Kinyoreth, Mother, Deceased
- Faewynn, Estranged Lover, Alive
- Valentha, Former Captain, Alive
- Toriseth, Fellow Justiciar, Fate Unknown
- Vertemnis, Fellow Justiciar, Fate Unknown
Favoured Skills:
Highly Proficient,
- Conjuration
Moderately Proficient,
- One-Handed Blades
- Restoration
- Alteration
Somewhat Proficient,
- Sneak
- Light Armor
Spell List
- Magelight
- Greater Ward
- Waterbreathing
- Bound Sword
- Conjure Dremora Lord
- Healing Hands
- Close Wounds
History:
The fires burned bright in Mortalmo’s mind. Unholy things slinking forth from the Deadlands, come to tear apart the world generations of altmer had worked to build. Bright skinned demons marching forward upon the homeland of his people, accompanied by their foul beasts of war. Scaly, monstrous things with a vicious intelligence that only made them all the more frightening. And his father, out there. Engaging those creatures in combat. Fighting the fight that those too weak, or too young (Mortalmo scowled at the thought), could not. So the child, voluntarily confined to his quarters, began to play the flute. An attempt to calm his own shaken nerves. The sweet melody the instrument produced did little to silence the screams of his mother, echoing in his own head. He glanced over at his infant brother, swathed in blankets next to him on the bed, sleeping softly despite the horror surrounding them from all sides. Mortalmo’s eyes narrowed, and he ceased his playing to raise a clenched fist, idly hung over the baby’s slumbering form. His arm shuddered with the tension, but at last a sigh was released, and his arm fell limply onto his lap. He brought his flute back to his lips once again, closed his eyes, and began to play. And to remember.
The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun a bright golden orb basking the earth below it in a radiant warmth. A soft breeze rolled throughout the countryside, carrying with it the smell of the sea, pleasantly salty. Mortalmo and his family rested in their carriage, a plush thing, but not overly gratuitous in its finery. His father, Durantel, held the reigns, while Kinyoreth held baby Calcinor in her arms. A comfortable silence rested between the four of them, Kinyoreth cooing sweet things to her youngest child, who gurgled happily in response. Durantel was the first to properly break the silence. “I think, this fine day should not end so soon. Perhaps we will dine with Carmona and her kin after all.”
This suggestion was met with grateful compliance from Kinyoreth. “I’m sure we’re going to have a lovely time of it. Mortalmo?” The boy in question was silent, his face pressed into deep concentration as he stared up at the sky. “Oh come now,” His mother began to jest. “You know Faewynn is going to be there.” Faewynn being the young lady all knew sought out Mortalmo for secretive trysts during the hours of darkness, even if the evidence mounted against the two of them was spotty at the best.
Mortalmo only shook his head in annoyance, with an agitated vigor. “The sky, what in Oblivion is happening to the sky?” Durantel’s reprimand for his son’s impudent behavior found itself caught in his throat, as he too began to inspect the sky with more scrutiny. Storm clouds had begun to roll in, and the sky found itself darkening, slowly fading from blue into a dark burgundy. Durantel seized his whip and cracked it at the horses. The effort seemed to be almost pointless, the horses had already begun to quicken their pace.
Moments later the gate was upon them. The sky was an angry red by now, thundering with rejection of the wrongness forced upon it, enraged lightning lashing out in a futile attempt to quell whatever dark forces had manifested. Pandemonium ensued, the four scrabbling away from the carriage as heated orbs of flame set it ablaze. Mortalmo barely registered the chaos surrounding him. First, Durantel heaving a battle cry from his lungs as he engaged with the red skinned demons, then his mother shoving a sobbing Calcinor into his arms, then someone heaving him atop a horse, turning to look back, screams ripping from Kinyoreth’s throat as scampering hellspawn tore her apart. The horse fled then, taking motherless sons with it. Echoes of a woman’s pained shrieks chased them as they fled.
Mortalmo stopped playing then, but squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. Curling up into a tight ball, tears leaked from his eyes as his body was wracked with silent sobbing.
Durantel never spoke of how he managed to escape that first encounter with the daedra, and was never given the opportunity to. Days after the Oblivion Crisis had begun, he joined a volunteer force being sent to close a gate. The gate was not closed, and not a single survivor managed to crawl his way out of that hellscape. Mortalmo, who had descended into a deep, numb melancholy, found his sorrow and his anger resurge anew. More than once he had struck Faewynn when his rage boiled over to such severity that it seemed nothing else could provide him relief. More than once he had kissed her scrapes and bruises softly, tears staining both of their faces. Her delicate features always remained unmarred, striking his darling Faewynn across the cheek where her mother Carmona could see would result in a certain expulsion from her household. It occurred one night while kissing away Faewynn’s latest bruise that Mortalmo decided there was a better alternative to unleashing his violent feelings. The next night, Faewynn sobbed with more grief and pain than she ever had in her entire life.
Weeks turned to months, and the Thalmor had risen to power and prominence and became the saviors of their land. Mortalmo swore he would one day stand proud among their ranks. Months turned to years, and Faewynn remained with Mortalmo. The anger that had led him to abuse her so in their youth found itself being channeled into several more positive outlets, and while Faeywnn never forgot the ill things done to her by her lover, she found it within herself to forgive him. This second and last chance had found Mortalmo to be sweeter to her than he had been in so very long, and at last they found themselves once again caught in the blind whimsy that first drew them together. Mortalmo worked tirelessly to make himself fit for the Thalmor, charging headlong into his magical studies with renewed vigor when he wasn't practicing his swordplay, sparring against any and all willing partners.
The time came, as the years drew on, that the public became aware of the Thalmor’s intention to create the Aldmeri Dominion anew, and they delivered on their promise. Mortalmo enlisted immediately. A few short years later and he was shipped off to the Valenwood. He said few words to Faewynn before his departure, and she said many to him. A grand pouring of her heart to his, all emotions and thoughts laid bare, should he not return. She hated him almost as much as she loved him. She would wait for him for as long as was required, before she could be certain that he was not returning. She would pray to Y’ffre to return him safely from that great forest, but would perhaps feel satisfaction should he never return.
Mortalmo kissed away her bruises that last night, before departing.
The fires burned bright before Mortalmo’s eyes. Licks of cruel flame were flung from the fingers of spellcasters, burning flesh as the bosmer were engulfed by inferno. Screams and battle cries tore from the throats of the defenders. Mostly screams. Mortalmo had been in a similar situation before. It felt different from the other side of things. He stood to the right of Valentha, his captain, and Calcinor remained to her left, watching on at the skirmish (a slaughter, really) with intense focus, eyes on high alert for any bosmer lucky or foolish enough to slip past their ranks and attack the captain. Mortalmo looked on too, idly twirling his blade, features entirely bored. “This is a massacre, Captain. Why do the savages persist so? The Valenwood is firmly in our grasp, and the imperials that sent these insurgents forth have all but abandoned them.”
Valentha spared an inquisitive glance for Mortalmo. “These ilk are the most backwards of the backwards. Creatures barely fit to be called mer, too obstinate in their savage ways to acknowledge or even understand the superiority we hold. It is in their nature to rebel against things they are incapable of properly grasping.” Her conviction was so final and absolute that there was no need to further the conversation. Mortalmo didn't bother with even a nod, the gesture would have been lost on her; Valentha’s focus was back on the battle, barking orders and casting her magic. Mortalmo found it hard not to stare at her, so sure of herself and so sure of her race. The pride and confidence she exuded filtered in through each and every pore of each and every soldier, and for Mortalmo she was perfection, surely she was blessed by Phynaster’s touch.
Weeks later, the last traces of resistance in the Valenwood were finally quelled, and the Aldmeri Dominion was truly risen again. Mortalmo found himself assigned with the peace keepers, justiciars operating in the shadows, going wherever they were needed to protect the interests of the Dominion. Valentha and Calcinor remained with the army, climbing the ranks as fast as one could, when positions were held for a matter of decades and centuries, rather than years.
Mortalmo rarely returned to the Isles, now Alinor, even when the opportunity presented itself. He and Faewynn communicated sparsely with each other, and only ever through letters.
Years turned to decades, and decades turned to a century. The Aldmeri Dominion now had the khajiit of Elsweyr serving their greater purpose. War with the Empire had been raging for several years, and Mortalmo found himself trailing in Valentha and Calcinor’s wake, seeking out and neutralizing heretics of Talos before they could continue to perpetuate their blasphemy. The idea that a mere man, a borderline degenerate, could ascend to godhood was entirely preposterous. Those unlucky enough to be taken prisoner were often tended to by Mortalmo himself, whenever he could find the time to spare. The screams that he managed to draw from them were little more than hollow ghosts of the terror he had once heard, so very long ago now. Still, he found a kind of catharsis in the act of torture, and worked tirelessly to round up the heretics.
The White-Gold Concordat had been signed. On the record, it was a truce between the two nations, but all knew that truly, it was a resounding victory for the Dominion. Thalmor presence would remain constant throughout the Empire, and Talos worship was officially outlawed across the provinces. Mortalmo felt a swell of satisfaction and pride that he had not experienced since the subjugation of the bosmeri. He had arranged plans with Valentha and Calcinor to celebrate the end of the war, perhaps their last chance to meet in one place together, before Mortalmo was transferred to the province of Skyrim.
A fire flickered softly in the hearth, casting the sitting room in a warm glow. Surrounding a finely carved oaken table were three plush chairs, soft velvet to the touch. A spread covered the table, sweet rolls and wines and breads and cheeses, and surrounding the table were three altmer, resting in those plush chairs, partaking of the fine spread, and making conversation.
“How, Mortalmo, did you come to acquire this manor? It is a splendid property, to be sure, but perhaps… somewhat more costly than your current funds would allow. One must wonder…” A teasing lilt to her voice, a glint to her eyes, challenging and playful. It was good to see Valentha again. To Mortalmo’s eyes, the years only seemed to accentuate her stoic beauty. Proud eyes and a mouth that could turn from a harsh grimace to a playful smile with ease. Of all of her traits, her expressiveness was the one Mortalmo most admired. Whether touched by anger, mirth, or melancholy, there was a life to her that few could match.
“Yes, brother, tell us, how did you manage to acquire this estate?” Calcinor smirked, and reached for a sweet roll.
“Well, my dear companions, it is well known, at least in my line of work, that the nobles that once took up residency here were heretics,” Mortalmo winked. “And these heretics I dealt with appropriately.” He smiled wickedly, before continuing. “Nobody had any objections to my borrowing the property for a time.”
A dark smile crept onto Valentha’s face as Calcinor barked out a laugh. “My my, Mortalmo. How is poor Faeywnn ever going to get over you?” She leaned closer to him, just slightly. “You are a fine specimen.”
Calcinor’s eyes darted between the two rapidly, and he swallowed a bite of sweetroll. “This has been a pleasant digression from the norm we’re all now accustomed to. I wish you the best of luck in Skyrim, brother. Those barbarians up there are said to be even filthier than the imperial dogs.” He snatched another roll from the table, and clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder as he made for the door. “Keep in contact!” He called back to Mortalmo. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Valentha!” And then he was gone.
Dawn poked its fingers into the bedroom through a solitary window, basking two forms in soft light. Valentha and Mortalmo were coiled around each other, resting upon the bed of a recently deceased man, who lost his life for the sake of one night of wine and sex. Mortalmo stared into Valentha’s eyes and smirked. “About a century later than I would have liked, but here we are.”
She nodded, the barest tilt of the chin. “Here we are.” Spoken softly, but with a commanding edge.
“This bed is terribly comfortable.”
“Then let’s not leave it just yet.”
Mortalmo left for Skyrim a few weeks after his meeting with Valentha and his brother, and found himself to hate the place upon arrival. The nords there were even more heretical than the dogs back at the Empire, filthy, baser creatures ferociously clinging to the worship of their false deity. Ulfric Stormcloak was the most degenerative. Mortalmo had hoped the upstart would learn his lesson after being imprisoned for that ridiculous stunt pulled at Markarth. Quite the opposite. The coward fled back to Windhelm with his tail between his legs, and soon after, echoes of rebellion began to reverberate across the province.
“What,” Toriseth began. “Is the point of all this… conflict? The Stormcloaks fight and die and they continue to lose ground with each passing day. They have to know by now, their days are numbered.”
Mortalmo eyed his charge carefully as they walked. “It is in the nature of these barbarians to reject ideas they cannot understand. The truth that a man simply cannot ascend to godhood is too alien a concept for them. So they fight, and they die, and eventually they will all die. It is the way of things.” He thought of Valentha, and of the Valenwood. “It has always been the way of things.”
Vertemnis scowled. “I will live to see every last Talos worshipping dog put down. It is blasphemy, an insult to Auri-El and a stain on Stendarr’s good will.”
“They pelt us with pebbles,” Mortalmo said. “And when they get lucky, they fling a rock. They will eventually run out of stones, but long before then their blood will stain the earth.” He stared pointedly at the prisoner between the three of them, wrists bound and heavy manacles gripping him at the ankles. “This one will help us find the stone throwers.”
The prisoner said nothing, but eyed his surroundings warily. The party traveled through a densely packed forest, snow falling heavily enough to chill the air, but not so heavily as to weigh down the boughs of the great pines that populated the wood. The trees rustled as a gust of wind passed by, sending the falling snowflakes into a momentary agitation. The rustling did not cease. A stormcloak stepped out from the treeline, then three more joined him, then there were five, seven, more? He lost count. Mortalmo stabbed the prisoner through the heart as Vertemnis and Toriseth drew their blades. The snow falling, lilting closer to earth ever so slowly, and then Mortalmo rushing towards the weakest flank, his charges in his wake, as the Stormcloaks heaved their battle cries and charged. “Vertmenis, go with Toriseth, run! Go!” He thought he heard their footfalls growing fainter as the rebels converged around him. He hoped.
Mortalmo did not know where he was. He didn’t know where he was yesterday, and he didn’t know where he was two years ago. His entire reality had been shrunken down to a single cell. Icy, rough cut stone and a single cot had been his life. Was his life. They tried questioning him at first, using persuasion and then torture in an attempt to get him to reveal Thalmor intelligence. They gave up after a few months. News came to him in bits and pieces during his imprisonment. High King Torygg had been defeated in a duel, and the rebellion was finally ready to break out in earnest. The Dawnguard was being reformed. Whiterun had chosen to fall in with the Empire. Some nonsense about dragons returning to the world. Snippets of intrigue that did much to pique his interest but little enough to quench it.
He kept his mind sharp, active, however he could. Counting things, all of them inconsequential, but all of it very consequential to Mortalmo at the same time. He prayed too, when what he assumed was the dark of night crept over his prison. “Auri-El, Trinimac,” He would go. “Magnus, Syrabane, Y’ffre, Xarxes, Mara, Stendarr, Phynaster, I call upon you Nine in my time of greatest need. Lorkhan’s spawn have imprisoned me, where I cannot say. I pray to all of you, and plead with each of you for an opening so that I can deliver myself from this accursed tomb.” Every day, the same words spoken unfailingly in a first and last effort to be freed from imprisonment. Every day, the same plea spoken ever so slightly more tremulously.
Sounds of battle spread across the compound like wildfire. Distant, at first, but drawing closer with every passing second. The metallic cry of swords being ripped from their scabbards, armored feet pounding quickly across cobblestone, running up and down hallways, orders and shouts and cries bellowing out across open spaces and travelling rapidly through enclosed ones. The chaos was dull and distant to Mortalmo’s ears. He sensed opportunity.
Hands outstretched before him, lines of concentration creasing his face, Mortalmo began his summoning. He had to be supremely careful, after so many years out of practice, the slightest of missteps could result in catastrophic failure. So he concentrated and he focused and the spell was done. Mortalmo was eye level with the dremora. A hulking mass of red muscle garbed in a twisted, cruel armor. No time was wasted as the first command was issued, “Get this door open! Rip the damn thing off the hinges if you have to I don’t care! I intend to leave this cold hell behind and you’re going to kill anything that gets in my way!” A command shouted with all the desperation of a caged animal that has finally seen an escape. Exactly what Mortalmo was.
The demon wasted no time, slamming its mass into the cell door with reckless abandon. Once. Twice. Thrice! And the cage was open, door crashing to the ground with a harsh screech, stone on iron. The pair made their way up and out of the cell block, the wails of other prisoners following them as they made their flight. One, wild eyed and fearful, hunched low behind the other as it led; snarling and confident as they found daylight. Mortalmo hissed in pain as the sun battered his unaccustomed eyes. The dremora barked a laugh, but it was quickly swallowed by the chaos that lay before them. Imperial soldiers clashing against Stormcloak traitors, some winning, some losing, and most bleeding. Many too, were dead.
Master and slave approached the sundered gatehouse of what Mortalmo realized must have been a Stormcloak fortress. Few made an effort to stop them as they approached freedom. Those that did were quickly cut down by the dremora, Mortalmo looting bits and pieces off of the demon’s victims as they went. Mortalmo broke out into a sprint as the gate loomed closer, and shouted one last command at his unwilling rescuer before leaving the fortress behind him. “Kill as many of them as you can! I care not for what side they fight for!”
And then, the prisoner was free.
Mortalmo never returned to the Thalmor. He knew what happened to those who failed. The shame of his imprisonment weighed heavily upon him, and to have the Dominion discover that he yet lived would result in mockery and demotion at best. He refused to consider the worst case scenario.
So, he wandered Skyrim, took up work as a mercenary under the assumed name Durantel. His hair he cut short and his face he ceased to shave to better hide his true identity. The name was a safe one to take. His father had died centuries ago undertaking an unmemorable and vain sacrifice. Nobody today was likely to recall him, or to connect the dots should the near impossible occur.
Most recently his travels had found him in the employment of Rhea Valerius, something of an expert when it came to the dwemer. The expedition they were to undertake filled Mortalmo with no small amount of trepidation. He had never gone terribly deep into the few dwemer ruins he had explored, staying as near to the surface as possible to collect the valuable scrap that sometimes found itself blissfully close to the exit. The dwemer automatons scared Mortalmo. Not enough to shake his courage, but enough for him to recognize them as unnecessary and deadly risks.
Yet, there he was, preparing to go deep into the bowels of Nirn.
Personality:
Exuding an aura of confidence that is not flaunted, but by no means understated, Mortalmo walks with an air of pride clinging to him. Generally speaking, he looks down on the lesser races, literally and figuratively, with pity and condescension at best, and outright animosity when they became too grand of an inconvenience to him. That is not to say he is so conceited as to ignore wisdom and ability when it becomes apparent. The humble and subservient earn his clemency while those capable enough to justify whatever bravado they might hold garner some form of grudging respect from him.
Believing his centuries of varied experiences to have made him far more shrewd than the common ilk of Lorkhan’s spawn, Mortalmo is quite outspoken when he feels certain that he has formulated a wise course of action, and will openly mock the ideas of those he thinks inferior to his own, if the needling doesn’t extend to belittling the individual themselves. To his credit, he knows to bite his tongue, or at least soften his verbal blows when speaking to someone it would be disadvantageous to burn bridges with.
Mortalmo had always been a pious individual, but during and after his imprisonment, his devotion to the Aldmeri Pantheon became absolute. He has a strict prayer policy; pay homage to each of the Nine upon waking and before slumbering, every day. He makes no effort to conceal his disgust of Talos worshippers, whom he views as vile degenerates that deserve no pittance or mercy. At the very least, the supposed “Eight Divines” were actually as the men say. Divine. Talos is little more than a glorified butcher posing as a deity, a heretic and blasphemer that poisoned the minds of all who held credence to him for eras to come.
The weight of knowing that his brother and last true friend likely suspect him dead presses down on Mortalmo constantly, and not a day goes by that he doesn’t think of Toriseth and Vertemnis, and wonder what fate had befallen the two of them. He thinks of Faewynn too, and all the ways he had failed her. What things could have been if he was better to her. When not caught up in some ordeal of merriment or strife, it is not unusual for a deep melancholy to befall him, and he will usually seek to isolate himself, so that he may dismantle the grim thoughts and feelings for a time, before they erupt. To appear weak before any member of the lesser races would be unacceptable.
