Fetzen — Roleplayer Guild

Acceleration! What a benign, enjoyable thing! That sensation to be pushed back into the seat without having to make any effort, thereby freeing up precious space for one's knees! If this jet could only accelerate forever... A dream that would never come true. It ended upon takeoff, replaced by the prospect of the individual sitting in front of him leaning back in an unforeseeable future. 

Maybe Val is mixing some of her fancy drugs into the shit Eleanor's drinking. That way we'd have an in-flight medical emergency that would force an unscheduled landing, liberating me from my misery!

A voice called out deep inside Maël's mind, dripping with anger and hatred. He knew that voice since it was his own, his second voice. He had no intentions of granting it the body it desired or the consciousness it needed, but he could not completely suppress its presence in certain situations.

Once this is over grab a knife and carve a crosshair on Eleanor's face. Clive is weak, he won't resist!

This was bound to turn into a memorable flight. He, sitting there somewhat compresed while listening to a monologue of his own nobody else could hear and nobody else can be allowed to hear. Maybe he should pretend some very mundane human needs and head to the toilet ? Couldn't be any less spacious than here. Unfortunatenly he couldn't do this for several hours...

Edgar's an old man on cloud nine. In a century or so he'll have forgotten about me having strangled Eleanor with bare hands today. There's no need to make any of my actions excusable towards him!

"Edgar!" now the actual Maël called out audibly. He had just realized the man was sitting in the adjacent row. There was need for distraction, maybe even some productivity instead of sulking. "You there ?" he added almost as a whisper, unsure if the wizard might be sleeping or not. "Wanna talk or maybe play some game ?" Agreed, directly asking the old man for his opinion about the class split their boss had introduced was tempting, too...

People will fear the rapid-onset, horns-growing disease I can enjoy at any time! Scientists will never know what mystery hit 'em! I can turn this into the most memorable flight in history, painted in red and with the smell of iron! Release yourself, Maël!

Maël verbally pokes Edgar in an attempt to distract himself from the miserable constraints of space and a... mild case of some kind of personality disorder.

V R A U R D O I N


                                                                    

Race: Altmer
Age: 32
Birthsign: The Shadow

Appearance

Vraurdoin might be an Altmer, but his complexion lacks the golden hue that is the most prominent marker for distinguishing his kind from the other mer. This is not only due to prolonged exposure to Valenwood, but also due to his steady efforts in terms of durable body paint. The green lines on top of it are part of it as well, but they don't represent any real symbol. They're just there to help obfuscating the real shape of his face.

He has a broad and rounded, but strong jawline which is covered in a small jungle of a beard with a prominent, inverted spire at the center of it. Sharing its reddish color is his hair which probably also is the part of his facial appearance that has stayed the most original, meaning that it is separated into several woven strands that all reach well past his shoulders. Their thickness might survive more than one obese Nord being hung from them or they probably could to be used as a makeshift flail if one considers the small steel applications wrapped around them in order to keep them in shape.

His ears are greedy noise absorbers of respectable size, but his eyes are an average, albeit curious pair of optical instruments with a dirty green color to them.

His military training is a matter of the past, but that doesn't mean that he isn't fit. Having been used to physically very demanding activities from early years on and with him never having forgotten about exercising, Vraurdoin's physique has that extremely muscular, very indisputable brick aspect to it. At well-formed 6 feet and 5 inches of Altmeri prowess he silently delivers a message about not messing around with him before thinking twice.

His clothes are simplistic and casual pieces of linen with an added leather cloak if it should start raining and sturdy boots for long periods of walking, but for special tasks he also uses special equipment of course.

Vraurdoin limps slightly on his left leg. The latter also bears the only, though long scar of his body so far.

Attributes / Skills / Spells

Attribute (major): Agility
Attribute (minor): Strength

Skill (expert): Lock picking
Skill (adept): Sneaking
Skill (adept): Acrobatics
Skill (adept): Pick pocketing
Skill (novice): Medium armor
Skill (novice): One-handed weapons
Skill (novice): Illusion

Spell (illusion): Muffle
Spell (illusion): Fury

History

..................................Vraurdoin is the offspring of his mother Mystara and his father Alannor. They both were veterans of the Great War, she a healer patching together the misery behind the front lines and he a messenger swiftly carrying the orders that would create more of it. It was a couple as much in love of their only child as they were in love of each other, so they cared greatly for him.

The first years in Vraurdoin's life were uneventful in the most positive sense. Lillandril, located close to  the northwest border of the Sumerset Isles, was a big city that seemed to absord all the daily routine and real-life struggles of a newly established Third Dominion, not leaving much of that to bother about for the small village right at the coastline the three individuals lived in. He was taught what had become his father's passion after the war and together they went fishing in the Abecean Sea. Later on, as Vraurdoin had started to grow into a young boy of more respectable size, they also turned westwards and deeper into the Eltheric Ocean towards the island scattered across it there.

They were careful enough not to sail right into the most violent storms or to try catching fish that were better suited for a vice versa operation, but still the young Vraurdoin gathered enough experience there to learn that Tamriel was not the infinite sandbox it had seemed to be just a few years earlier into his childhood.
It certainly proved to be anything but a sandbox when the Thalmor's long fingers finally noticed the village and took it and all able-bodied men and women into their firm grasp. The war was over, but natural fluctuation, less fruitful encounters and upcoming plans still maintained a rather high demand for a steady stream of fresh soldiers. From one day to another Vraurdoin found himself extracted from his former environment and put into a more or less anonymous training camp.
Years at sea from early on had formed Vraurdoin into someone who stood a bit out of crowd in terms of his physique. He was an easy catch for those hammering down on innocent recruits. Whether he liked it or not they engulfed him with that certain bit of an 'elite' aura and clad him into that fine moonstone and quicksilver armor a little earlier than the others. He was to go down the warrior route and so his training focused more on hard exercising than on magic, again with what felt like that certain extra touch to it compared to the others.

In spite of the harshness he was surrounded with Vraurdoin did well. That was... until he didn't. Roughly a year into things he proved to have been pushed too hard as yet another exercising unit turned out to be bone-breaking quite literally. Despite the healers' efforts it was uncertain whether Vraurdoin would be able to make a full recovery or not, but it any case it was not possible for him to soldier on in the way he used to for a rather unforeseeable amount of time. His masters didn't want to let go of one of their potential elite soldiers, but where to put a man with a badly broken leg to good use while also maintaining one's firm graps around him ?..................................
The answer appeared to be as unappealing and boring as it could be: administration. While pratically 'ordered' to maintain his training the best he could, Vraurdoin was relocated to Valenwood in order to serve the Dominion there by doing its paperwork. At least it seemed as if his superiors trusted his intellect almost as much as his body as he wasn't put into the very lowest ranking office available, but somewhere close above it.
..................................There, over the course of several months, Vraurdoin learned that one can write much more on a piece of paper in a matter of minutes than a soldier can do in his entire life. It was an insight into how small of a gear he'd be in the Dominion's machinery even if his soldier's career would continue and succeed later on. Not that he had much of a chance in escaping it anyway depending on the progress of his recovery, but still a sobering and disillusional experience that planted a minor seed of doubt.

That was not the primary problem however. Being able to peek into plans for resource distribution, troop allocation, jurisdiction and other topics on a local scale by shoving them around, he garnered some insight into the Dominion's general approach and started to ask himself a question: Is conquest the most effective way to improve one's wealth and quality of life ? Or is it prone to produce long-term problems one would never have to face otherwise ?
He reviewed the quantity of precious resources spent on the effort, estimated just how many of his own people were spending their lives on the steady maintenance of additional provinces instead of doing something else, added the numbers and came to a conclusion. A very private one though as nobody in his environment seemed to experience the same thing he did: Pity. Not only for his future self given the continuation of the present path, not only for his ex-comrades back in the camp who would be fed into the smouldering fire that was Tamriel torn apart between Dominion and Empire, but also for those who were on the receiving end on all that.

In order to see how well they were doing and how likely it was for them to embrace the Aldmeri doings at least someday he hardly had to do more than to sniff out the candles and take a look out the window. It might have been a phenomenon of misery and openly held grudges restricted to the very local area, but a brief inspection of the papers on his desk forced him to extrapolate every time he hoped to relieve himself by thinking that.

It was time for as much change as he could induce.
Pouring sand into the Dominion's gears was no trivial task though. Vraurdoin had do some ugly things to his leg in order to artificially slow down the healing process, thereby gaining time before anyone would think about pulling him out of the offices he was in. He used it to train himself in things like mimicking someone's handwriting or replicating a wax seal.

The time of minor modifications had come, even if some of those would deliberately put some of his own people into a lot more danger than otherwise or cause goods to get 'lost'. From his position he could only do so much though and after the early successes he started to grant himself additional authority by more and more extensive use of the lockpick. All while maintaining that gentle smile many of his colleagues put up in the same building while walking around, meeting and greeting him before being their work was corrupted in the night after. He knew that manipulating not only his own message stream but also that of others higher up and further down would make it a lot harder for anyone to backtrack the root of the problem.

At some point he overcooked it. The parchment seemed to be just so important and yet so available for manipulation that he just grabbed it and started to get to work, not realizing that it was a fake only put into existence for the sake of detective work...................................
Once he saw the stern look on the faces of the Thalmor agents entering the floor he was working on, Vaurdoin knew it was over. He bailed out just barely in time for an escape and went into hiding. Over the course of his presence in Valenwood he had build up some connections. Some of them were Altmer friends who, just like him, were not that much convinced by the concept of the Third Dominion and didn't speak about it publicly, but others were Bosmer and members of other races he had come into contact with more by ciphered messages than anything else.
..................................They kept him supplied for the first months, helped him change his appearance so he could no longer be identified by each and every patrol and taught him more about the swamps and forests of the countryside he had been living in for long without ever really getting to know all of it in person.

While he has never agreed upon being a member of any kind of resistance movement it is safe to say that Vraurdoin has been maintaining a preference for Dominion installations when it came to the acquisition of new supplies and spare coins. He refrained from killing soldiers or even workers since he never forgot many of them might come from families and might have been tossed into the torrent just like him, but aside from that his repertoire of crimes has grown fairly extensive. Treason is just the pinnacle of them.

The Empire ? He has considered seeking their help and getting a foot into their door by presenting them with information only an Aldmeri insider can know about, but ultimately those Imperials are the same garbage just with more fancy names.
Personality

Suppression of his own emotions has been a major part in Vraurdoin's life so far as, for quite a while, any accidental smirk, any outbreak of cold sweat or any shivering of his spine might have raised another attentive person's suspicion. While there is no real need for him to do so anymore he has not managed to break out of this self-created prison so far. He can enjoy himself, but he is quite bad at showing it and thus not the kind of guy that would be your preferred party guest.

Adding to that is a natural tendecy to maintain introvert. Small talk ? Okay, but he rarely starts that by himself and knows what not to talk about. And beware those densily packed crowds of people as they can be found in highly frequented taverns and at the core of festivities! He prefers subjecting his sensitive ears to more calm environments...

His strength of will and his sense for justice is developed well enough to openly decline the application of lethal force, but only because he simply is afraid of accidentally hitting those who don't really deserve it and not because he couldn't stand walking over dead bodies. His blood is cold enough to try and jeopardize anything he comes into contact with if he deems it to be the right thing and sees the chance. Other people's riches can be his riches and he can be in control of their further distribution.

From a more superficial point of view he gives away a rather intelligent impression, but moreso a cunning and daring one. He can perform well in environments where mannerisms and rituals are an important thing, but less so when it's all about everyday joyance and outspokenness. One might be a little surprised though about just how short-ranged his education is -- it's not like he has enjoyed a lot of schooling in an ordinary sense.

He has a habit of analyzing people, both from their outside appearance and when talking to them. His mind always wants to know whom he's dealing with as it has been important element of his survival so far. There are less subtle ways of doing it, but those he deems not to be of importance are mostly confronted with an intense stare until he has collected all the bits of information he wants.

Goals & regrets

Over all the training, all the plotting, all the careful observation of his surroundings and all the good will with which he has reached out to those around him, Vraurdoin has started to feel he might have forgotten about something very important: his family. He is in fear that his actions might have backfired onto them one way or another or might still do so in the future.

As for his goals: He's become a little tired of politics. Some more selfish adventuring can't hurt. The world will go on without him for a while just as well.

Equipment

Vraurdoin never left behind the set or elven armor he has been giving when joining the military, but he currently does not wear it anymore.
Thick and studded leather armor covering all parts of the body
An extensive set of lockpicks
Climbing rope with grappling hook attached to it
A large, but still easy to hide elven dagger
Simple bow and arrows
Simple linen clothing, cloak and boots suitable for traveling
Food rations and water for one, maybe two days to come
A small purse full of coin
Linen bag of medium size

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