Gregor Sibassius
"He carries a great weight on his shoulders, and has carried it alone for too long."
- Raelynn Hawkford
Race: Imperial.
Sex: Male.
Age: 38.
Family Origins: Bravil, Cyrodiil.
Birth Sign: The Ritual.
: At first glance, Gregor appears to be quite a typical, well-bred Imperial. He is of slightly above average height and stature, measuring 5’10” from toe to tip and weighing a little under 170 pounds, and his lean physique is common among Imperial soldiers and adventurers alike. His skin is tanned and his hair & eyes are dark, but not dark enough to be a Redguard. Those intimately familiar with the slight racial and cultural differences among the Imperials would see at second glance that he is Nibenese, due to the way he wears his hair and his style of clothing and armor, but this is a nuance lost on most of Tamriel’s inhabitants.
He has been blessed with aesthetically pleasing genetics and Gregor’s face is one that catches lingering gazes often enough to be worth mentioning. His strong nose, high cheekbones and prominent brow create a masculine, noble visage, complimented by his keen and slightly slanted, almond-shaped eyes; their gaze, dark as ebony, can be as stern as it can be kindly. He grows quite a long beard by Imperial standards and maintains it well, which adds to his authority and helps him look a little like his actual age. Gregor’s hair is also much longer than the austere crop favored by the Ruby Ranks and many others. It’s a little touch of Nibenese fashion. For practical reasons he wears it swept back and tied in a ronin’s knot behind his head.
The rest of his body is nothing to sneeze at either. Gregor’s parents were well-off and his childhood was one of relative luxury, which shows itself in the strength of his limbs and the healthy lustre of his skin -- it is obvious that he never went hungry. More recent years haven’t always been kind and he has gathered a few cuts and bruises along the way. Still, he looks really good for his age, and if it weren’t for the crow’s feet by his eyes and the first grey hairs in his beard even an observant individual would be inclined to place him in his late twenties instead of his late thirties.
You would say that a man like that would be wise to count his blessings and readily capable of going through life with unbridled enthusiasm, but Gregor disappoints in that regard. He moves, talks, looks and even sleeps like a man with a shadow cast over his soul; a certain kind of melancholy, intensity and gravitas normally reserved for the kings and warlords of ages of strife, whose conscience weighs on them as thousands of lives hang in the balance. And while he can absolutely smile, crack a joke or offer a few comforting words of wisdom with the best of them, that raw and driven part of him never leaves his eyes -- not completely.
As for his outfit and gear, Gregor’s constant journey throughout Tamriel has left him with a limited wardrobe selection and one can almost always expect to find him dressed in a mixture of black fabrics, fortified leathers and steel plate. The end result is something that can best be described as medium armor, its appearance inspired by the knights of the Third Era but its practicality informed by the lighter apparel of the modern Imperial Legion. He wears a black, long-sleeved tunic beneath a layer of chainmail, over which goes a sleeveless, knee-length coat of studded leather. Gregor’s shoulders and legs are protected by dark steel plate pauldrons and greaves, respectively. A long, high-collared, hooded traveling cloak, woven from black textiles trimmed with gold thread, completes the ensemble and gives him an air of class that sets Gregor further apart from the common mercenaries of this world. He allows himself a few trinkets, like a gold wristband and a silver ring upon which a small ruby glitters, but the overall impression remains serious and capable.
Last but not least is the collection of tattoos that Gregor has on his arms and chest, hidden beneath the many layers of his outfit. It's an old Nibenese tradition and one that he uses to express emotions he has no other outlet for -- like a series of private confessions, etched into his skin. Most prominent are the figure of a raven-haired woman on his left forearm; a series of tally marks on his right forearm; the Daedric symbol for 'Oblivion’ on his upper right arm; a shattered soul gem on his upper left arm; and a depiction of Arkay on his chest, the head of which is crisscrossed by two diagonal scars. The tattoos are made with black ink and are of fairly high (artistic) quality, since the tally marks are the only ones that Gregor applied himself.
Full body render | All credit to the artistHistory: It is often said that the circumstances of one’s birth are irrelevant, and that it is what one does with the gift of life that defines who you are. This is true for most people. Some, however, are irrevocably cursed from the moment they are born due to forces beyond their control. Gregor Sibassius is one of these people… and he dearly wishes it wasn’t so. He was born as the first child to Hector and Gaia Sibassius in Bravil in 4E170, just a year before the Great War broke out and the armies of the Aldmeri Dominion invaded the Empire from the south. As such, Gregor’s first memories aren’t of the ancestral home of his father’s lineage but of Bruma, in northern Cyrodiil, during the height of the war in 4E174, that his mother had fled to. Hector was a Legionnaire and had gone to war, so the family lived in fear every day that he might not return, for Gaia was a magistrate’s daughter with no appreciable skills to speak of and she relied entirely on Hector for her livelihood.
Hector survived the war and the family returned home to a Bravil that was mostly in ruins. The city had been besieged and conquered by the Dominion early in the war and the elves hadn’t exactly been kind to the place. Hector was a smart man though, and instead of being dismayed he decided to focus on the opportunities presented by the situation. He accepted honorable discharge when it was offered to him and decided to begin a new life as a merchant with a little capital investment from his father-in-law. This was swiftly turned into a modest fortune by capitalizing on the rebuilding efforts in various ways that were, truthfully, too boring for young Gregor to remember. All he knew that his father was successful, that they lived in a nice house close to the castle grounds, that he ate well and that his education was much better than that of the street urchins he played with. His time in Bruma had been marked by uncertainty and the fear that was palpable in his mother so the rest of Gregor’s childhood in Bravil was a welcome reprieve, and he was described by all that knew him as a sweet boy, eager to please and to make people laugh.
When Gregor was five years old his younger brother Marcus was born, and he doted over the newborn endlessly, wildly excited to have a sibling to play with -- “and teach,” he would say, doing his best to copy the gravitas in his father’s voice, to the amusement of all. A sister would follow two years later, a girl named Julia, and that final addition made the Sibassius household complete. These long years, that lasted into Gregor’s adolescence and even well into his adulthood, were joyous and prosperous. His father’s small mercantile empire continued to line their pockets with gold and Hector came home with a smile on his face everyday, happy to see his family and satisfied with another day of honest work. Gregor was particularly fond of his memories of long, sunlit afternoons spent training with Marcus and his father, sparring with wooden swords, in the yard behind their house. Hector had been in in the Imperial Legions, of course, and thought it was important to prepare his sons for the worst, so every two hours of academic learning were balanced against one hour of martial training.
As Gregor’s childhood came to an end he remained unsure of what to do with his life. He had considered signing up for the Legion, following in his father’s footsteps, but Hector’s grim-faced silence when prompted with questions about the Great War scared young Gregor away from that prospect. Taking over his father’s business didn’t appeal to him either, and he would have to wait a long time for that to happen anyway since Hector derived so much raison d’etre and joie de vivre from his work that he wasn’t considering retirement for many years to come. Gregor would help his father out with the occasional errand, of course, but it wasn’t anywhere close to a full-time occupation, and certainly not a profession. At a loss for what to do and with no shortage of free time, Gregor took whatever other odd job he could get: cleaning the pews in the local chapel, picking fruit in the fields outside Bravil with his (poorer) friends and even a little construction work in the summer months. He grew out his hair and carefully cultivated a beard to be proud of, and the scrawny teenager turned into a strapping young man that turned out to be quite a hit with girls his age.
The Bravil Riots of 4E188 brutally disrupted the lazy serenity that had settled over the lives of the Sibassius family and Gregor was finally confronted with the dark side of his beloved city. Their wealth insulated the family from the worst of the fighting, which took place on the streets, but Gregor was out of the city (working at a farm) when all hell broke loose and his journey home was fraught with peril. Hector’s lessons came in handy that day and Gregor managed to defend himself with a reaper’s scythe and a lot of hollering about his total disinvolvement with whatever prompted the rioting. He encountered some of his friends among the rioteers and while they helped escort him to his home, Gregor was deeply disappointed to find that they weren’t the upstanding folks he’d always believed them to be. In turn, his friends were surprised that he
didn’t join in -- a chance to ‘stick it to the man’, as it were, who’d pass that up? The difference between his own privileged upbringing and the strong sense of justice and appreciation for the law that came with it, and the more difficult lives of his friends and their more flexible morals, became apparent to him then. It was a sobering lesson about his place in life. Afterwards, Hector suggested that Gregor apply to become an apprentice to a family friend, Roderic Mero, who was a jewelry crafter that owned his own shop in Bravil. Gregor had always been reasonably good with his hands and, more importantly, inherently patient and even-tempered, so the idea had some merit. He agreed to it after a few days of thinking it over. Fortunately, Roderic was quite willing to give the young man a chance. He’d always been fond of Gregor while the boy had been growing up and would be delighted to help him find his calling in life now that Gregor was an adult. Marcus, eager to step out of his older brother’s shadow, signed up to receive their father’s lessons in the merchant’s trade instead and be groomed to run the business one day. And Julia, sweet Julia, she just wanted to become a mother.
Gregor enjoyed being an apprentice to Roderic and he realized it was something he could actually see himself doing; creating beautiful things for others, especially women, to enjoy, sounded like a noble (and useful,
wink) profession to him. And while he managed to focus on his work well enough for Roderic not to take issue with him, Gregor did what all young men do and spent more time than he should have with the ladies of Bravil. He continued to prove himself a hard man to dislike though, and his reputation around the city remained that of a polite, thoughtful and personable fellow over the years that followed. He made new friends of better standing and it was among them that he encountered the love of his life.
Briar, a gorgeous woman with eyes as blue as the sea, hair as dark as the night and a pearly smile that made his heart skip a beat every time. She was the daughter of one the count’s advisors, a man of similar station to Hector (if one equated wealth to political clout, which they did), and both fathers approved of the pairing. Gregor courted her with the first piece of jewelry he was actually proud of after years of hard work, a silver necklace with a pendant in the shape of a swan. For her part, she was simply irresistible and a pleasure to be around, full of life and compassion, and Hector frequently favorably compared her to Gregor’s mother, Gaia. She was a good counterpart to Gregor’s more pensive, quieter personality, and his womanizing years were definitively behind him when he pledged himself to her at age 25. The Sibassius family welcomed her with open arms and the two lovers married the next year in a beautiful ceremony at the chapel, before gods and kin.
Alongside his work at Roderic’s jewelry shop Gregor continued to assist his father here and there, acquiring rare alchemy ingredients or visiting bookshops throughout the province. Briar accompanied him on these trips, as they had had no luck with conceiving yet and her wifely duties were limited. They enjoyed visiting all the different cities in Cyrodiil so much that Gregor never really questioned why his father sent him on these outings, having readily accepted “Because I’ve taken on alchemy and antique literature as a hobby” for an answer. Nor did he all-too-closely inspect the titles or the contents of the books he was meant to acquire, preferring to devote his attention to his lovely wife and the diverse people they saw and the places they found themselves in. One particular moment was so breathtakingly beautiful -- when he saw Briar walk ahead of him across the bridge to the Imperial City, the golden afternoon sunlight dancing in her hair, her blue dress tussled by a fresh breeze -- that he had her immortalized on his arm in the form of a tattoo.
Two years later his father suddenly fell very ill. Hector had become withdrawn and irritable over the preceding month, but Gaia had attributed that to poor fortune with the business. It didn’t stop there, though, and Hector’s memory began to fail him -- in small ways, at first, that rapidly progressed into bigger lapses. Within two weeks Hector began to forget who his wife and children were before suddenly remembering, and then forgetting again a few hours later. Enormously concerned and scared, Gregor and Gaia brought him to the chapel to see a healer, and were shocked when a bemused priest told them that Hector had already been visiting regularly for
years. He had known what was coming. Gregor was stunned, Marcus was incredulous and Gaia and Julia were inconsolable as the priest explained that Hector’s rare condition was incurable and that he would most likely die soon (“soon” ranged from another fortnight to a few years; the uneven progression of the deterioration made it impossible to tell) as his brain would forget how to operate his body.
The priest’s words, as if prophecy, came to pass. Briar’s unwavering (but often teary-eyed) support and the knowledge that his mother needed him were what allowed Gregor to keep functioning, but part of him died every day he continued to watch his father disappear. He knew now that his father hadn’t sent him to find books on medicine and magic, nor alchemical ingredients, just for the sake of it -- Hector had been diligently looking for a cure for many years. Three months after the onset of the illness was the last time Hector recognized his oldest son, and Gregor would never forget his father’s final words to him: “You must do it.” What
it was remained a secret as Hector slipped away forever before Gregor could ask him to explain himself. The husk that remained clung to life for another month before he finally passed, spasming and soiling himself in his final moments, gasping for breath with lungs that refused to work. He was 53 years old.
Gregor would never forget that sight either.
The days that followed blurred together. Gregor was crushed by the death of his father -- his hero, always -- and the way it had happened, in particular. That went for all three of the children, truth be told, but their sorrow paled in comparison to the absolute soul-rending grief that their mother experienced, so they had to continue to be strong for her. Gregor had already moved out and settled into a beautiful cottage by the city walls with Briar, so Marcus became the head of the household and officially took over the family business after having been the
de facto owner ever since their father’s illness began. That said, it still fell to the oldest son to sort out Hector’s personal belongings and make his affairs in order. In doing so, Gregor discovered a chest in the basement that he’d never seen before, stowed away in a corner beneath the wine cupboard. It was full of documents; books and scrolls, but what caught Gregor’s eye were four leather-bound journals. He sat down at his father’s old desk with a mug of ale and began reading.
A horror story unfolded before him. Hector had committed to paper everything he knew about the illness that felled him. Whereas Gregor had always believed his paternal grandparents had died in a bandit attack before Hector had met Gaia, it turned out that his grandfather had died of the same illness, and
his father before him. It was a hereditary disorder that inevitably began to decay the brains of its carriers around middle age, give or take a decade. Gregor’s fingers trembled and his breath stuck in his throat as he read that it would undoubtedly affect him too -- and not just him, but Marcus and Julia as well. Hector had only discovered the hereditary nature of the illness after his children were born, much to his regret, and he wouldn’t have become a father if he had known. All the trips to acquire alchemy ingredients and books had indeed been an attempt to find a cure, but all Hector had discovered was that there were no potions or spells that helped. Hector had been doomed from the start. The writing, neat and orderly at first, became increasingly erratic as time went on (for Gregor worked his way through the journals in chronological order), and the final entry was barely legible. It was an apology, directed at him, the firstborn child. Hector wrote that he hated more than anything in the world that he was saddling Gregor up with this task, one that he would have to risk his very soul to complete. There was one last thing that Hector hadn’t been able to try, for he had only learned of the possibility a few weeks before his mind began to slip: necromancy.
Black magic. Like Mannimarco, the King of Worms. If Gregor were able to discover the knowledge and acquire the necessary skills to make himself immortal, to preserve his body from the ravages of time (Hector had considered vampirism but discarded the option as it would remove any hope of a normal life), he would be able to give himself and the rest of his family a chance at a normal lifespan and a dignified end, of their own choosing, when the time was right. Otherwise they, and any of their possible future children, would all suffer Hector’s fate.
A veritable tempest of emotions thundered through Gregor’s mind: disbelief, horror, disgust and sorrow all made itself master of him, and he threw up then and there. After he regained his composure he realized that he absolutely, definitely could
not tell the rest of his family about this while he figured out what he was going to do. He hid the chest and its contents in his own home the following morning, when Briar wasn’t there, and focused on more immediate concerns, like the execution of Hector’s last will and testament.
A week later, when the dust had settled, the body was buried and the Sibassius family was forced to return to their normal lives as best they could, Gregor locked himself away in his house as Briar left town for a few days to attend a wedding on her side of the family. She’d pleaded with him to come along but Gregor had insisted that he needed some time alone; that much was true. He pulled out the chest and its infernal journals and read them again, hoping against hope that he had somehow misunderstood their contents the first time around. Alas, it was not to be, as the message had not changed and the same facts were presented to him again. Shook to his core, Gregor became intimately familiar with the bottom of his glass a few times too many and he woke up the next day on the floor, still wearing his clothes. He read the journals again. No change.
Again. He stopped himself as he reached for the remnants of the bottle of liquor from the evening before and began to pace around the house.
He realized that he had no choice. This is what Hector had meant with his last words:
this is what Gregor had to do. Marcus and Julia didn’t have the mental fortitude, he knew. Gregor did and his father had seen that. There was nothing for it: his family depended on him. Hell, his own life depended on it. His father’s final moments flashed before his eyes and he felt fear. Real, mortal terror. Doubt and uncertainty wracked him. Was it even possible for him, an ordinary man, to learn that kind of power? He had no idea where to begin. He lunged for the chest and began rifling through the books inside -- perhaps his father had something, anything, in his collection that would help. All the way at the bottom, after he’d already given up hope, his fingers clutched around the spine of a book whose cover was entirely black. Gregor swallowed hard. Necromancy had been banned in the Empire since the end of the Third Era. If this was what he thought it was, he was now in possession of extremely dangerous material. He steeled himself -- there was no way to go but forward.
The black tome taught him what he needed to know about the basics of necromancy and gave him an idea of where to look for more information. It mentioned the Hagravens and the Draugr of Skyrim, who both had their own methods of attaining immortality. Briar returned from the wedding to find a husband that only superficially resembled the one she’d left, and was merely a shadow of the man she’d fallen in love with. Gregor was distant, withdrawn and absent-minded. Briar blamed Gregor’s grief for his cold and callous behavior and tried to be understanding and accepting, but it was hard. Meanwhile Gregor was coming to terms with the fact that he was going down a path where she couldn’t -- and shouldn’t -- follow him. While he dismissed her and stared at the wall, he was already mourning the loss.
On a cold Frostfall morning, 4E198, Gregor left. Briar was still asleep when he slipped out of bed and he looked upon her form beneath the blankets one last time. After wiping away the tears he whispered that he loved her and promised that he would return one day. A handwritten note would have to suffice, though Gregor knew it wasn’t nearly enough. He couldn’t tell her the real reasons for his departure, for he was afraid she would decide that his family deserved to know. But this way… he knew she’d be furious, heartbroken, uncomprehending.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed, the pain in his chest too much to bear, and he fled.
He stopped at every wayshrine he encountered and prayed as hard as he could -- for himself, for his family, but mostly for his wife. Their blessings were readily forthcoming. He had taken his share of the inheritance with him and spent every single septim at the blacksmith in Bruma on a custom-made suit of medium armor that combined the benefits of steel plate, chainmail and studded leather while minimizing the weaknesses of each material, and a weapon. The armor was built from a design he had found in his father’s journals -- just something the old man had cooked up when he was bored, but he’d known what he was about. If Gregor was going into the untamed unknown of Skyrim’s wilderness, he wanted to be as well-protected as he could manage while still being mobile. As for the weapon, Gregor picked out a steel claymore the blacksmith had mounted on his wall. It was a peculiar design, featuring a large and intricate crossguard (“to disarm your opponent with,” Gregor was informed) and a blade with rippled edges (“for extra flexibility, so it doesn’t shatter”). He also invested in a dagger as a backup weapon. Satisfied that he was properly prepared, and slowly managing to stuff away his grief and sorrow in a small box in his mind that he didn’t look at, Gregor crossed the border into Skyrim.
He would not return to Cyrodiil for many years, and he would be a completely different man when he did.
Putting his father’s combat lessons to good use, Gregor made a living as a hedge knight while he traveled through Skyrim in search of the creatures that his black tome of forbidden knowledge spoke of. Despite the legally and morally questionable nature of his quest he still maintained his strong sense of justice, and he was smart, methodical and resourceful. People had need of a man like that in practically every village he visited. He helped them deal with external threats like wolves and bandits (usually by convincing the men of the village to arm themselves and then leading them against their tormentors) but also with settling internal disputes, the most notable being an incident in which he organized and moderated a fistfight between two men to settle a family feud. Nords were a peculiar people, he decided. He avoided the bigger cities and settlements in Skyrim as he wasn’t going to find what he was looking for there and stuck to the rural areas instead. And that meant wilderness. And
that meant he quickly learned to live without the comforts of urban life, despite his privileged life until that point, as he saw it as just another hardship he had to endure…. one that paled in comparison to the heartache that continued to keep him awake at night. Even the first time he took a life didn’t shake him all that much. It was one of the bandits that preyed on the village of Rorikstead; their actions meant that they forfeited their right to life in the light of Skyrim’s harsh laws, and who was Gregor to question that? Besides, the villagers had wanted them dead and were willing to pay Gregor to make it so. He needed the money. The bandits he’d killed had, essentially, just been another obstacle on his quest. They could make their peace with their gods in whatever afterlife awaited them, he thought to himself, and that was that.
Gregor befriended a Dunmer treasure hunter named Aren and offered to help him explore a Nord barrow that Aren had found during his travels, but not yet dared to enter. Aren agreed and the unlikely pair found themselves battling Draugr as they descended into the crypt. Gregor was amazed to learn those hulking, corpse-like warriors were thousands of years old, but his amazement turned into disappointment when he saw no way to discern the mechanics behind their apparent immortality. Besides, it wasn’t the
right type of immortality -- becoming a nigh-mindless husk wasn’t a solution to his family’s problem at all. They escaped the dungeon with a decent haul of loot but with a few more cuts and bruises than they would have liked, and Aren showed Gregor how to perform a little Restoration magic. Gregor, who had never taken much of an interest in the arcane arts before… well, before everything, was surprised at how easily he took to it. After Aren had wished him farewell and expressed an interest in working together again in the future, Gregor returned to the barrow, black book in hand, and decided to actually the resurrection spell outlined in the tome on the corpse of one of the Draugr they’d slain.
It worked. With baited breath and trembling fingers, Gregor watched as the corpse rose to its feet, the eerie blue glow returning to its eyes. He could
feel that it would respond to his commands. It felt disgusting, like his mind had to press against something indescribably slimy and repulsive, but it worked, and Gregor was able to order the Draugr around the (now silent and empty) barrow until the spell faded away and the corpse collapsed into dust. It was almost unbelievable -- Gregor Sibassius, journeyman jewelsmith of Bravil, had become a necromancer, and he found himself barking out an incredulous laugh at the thought. The spell wasn’t directly applicable to the ultimate goal of making himself and his family impervious to the physical decay of their brain, of course, but being able to briefly resurrect a corpse was definitely a step in the right direction.
The long, harsh years in the frigid land of Skyrim that followed turned Gregor from a soft, green city-boy into a tough, dangerous man. He still wasn’t a natural warrior and never would be, but his skill with the claymore was sufficient to see him through most of it. He spent some time at the College of Winterhold to learn techniques to make his life easier and dedicated his time to the schools of Enchanting and Restoration (Aren was a good teacher but skills were limited, and Gregor was able to learn much more from a professional). Part of his enchanting lessons was learning the Soul Trap spell and how to use it. It initially seemed a little dark to Gregor to use the souls of animals to power his own now-magical instruments of death, but he figured that if hunters and farmers were allowed to kill beasts for their pelts and meats, it seemed equally senseless to let their life-force go to waste. Restoration turned out to be about much more than just the healing of wounds and Gregor also learned how to create a ward against hostile magic and how to put the fear of the gods into the rotting hearts of the undead -- a useful ability, since Skyrim turned out to be positively
littered with ancient barrows, tombs and crypts. He also tried his hand at Destruction but quickly discovered that, for whatever reason, he simply didn’t have the aptitude for it. He enchanted his claymore with shock magic instead after multiple days of deliberation: the steel blade was lethal enough against people in general, he reasoned, but shock magic was useful against hostile sorcerers their Daedric summons, and neither Nords nor Dunmer had a natural resistance to it, making it the most potent element out of the three for general use. That said, Gregor had learned that preparation was worth its weight in gold and also purchased a silver longsword (he couldn’t feasibly carry two claymores around on his back, but he
could strap a one-handed sword to his belt) for use against the undead, which he enchanted with fire magic for good measure. But the most important question he had for the College was one he couldn’t actually ask, of course, for fear of drawing the wrong kind of attention to himself. He poked around in the Arcanaeum and even delved into the Midden, but to no avail. Gregor was forced to conclude that the College of Winterhold didn’t have the knowledge he sought and probably wouldn’t even want it if it was available to them. They seemed to be pretty big on responsible distribution of power. It was a principle that Gregor normally fully agreed with but while he smiled wryly at his own hypocrisy, he remained convinced that his cause was just and true -- he wasn’t like any other necromancer, who only sought power for malevolent reasons. Gregor was trying to save himself and his family. He was justified to do so. He was
right.He also traveled to the Reach and enlisted with the jarl, Igmund, as a Forsworn-hunter for a time, after he learned that they were Reachmen with close ties to the Hagravens. An old Nord had told him a fireside tale about the Briarhearts, half-undead warriors whose hearts were replaced with a briar seed. Ironic -- the tattoo of his wife on his arm itched every time the word was spoken. The Nord was unable to explain how or why the briar seed kept the Briarhearts alive, but he was sure a Hagraven’s magic was involved. Gregor’s own fleshy heart skipped a beat at the news. It sounded exactly like the kind of magic he needed for himself. The Nord saw Gregor’s face, laughed, and told him that was forbidden knowledge the Hagravens shared only with their own coven. True words, as it turned out, as Gregor only ever managed to hunt down two Hagravens with the aid of other mercenaries (mostly Silverbloods) and he could hardly force the unsightly monsters to part with their unholy abilities in the presence of other people, and Gregor quickly decided that Hagravens were far too dangerous to tackle alone. He lingered in their towers after the others had left in the hopes of finding books or tomes that would teach him their ways, but none were found, and he left the Reach empty-handed. Meanwhile, the return of the dragons and the outbreak of the Civil War were relegated to background noise in Gregor’s life. He avoided the front and kept a watchful eye on the skies, eager not to get involved with the worldly events that were taking place. In some ways he was even grateful for the war and the dragons as they allowed him to more readily stay out of people’s minds. They wouldn’t remember another traveler when the next town over was burned down by a dragon the following week, or if their family members returned home dead from the war. He moved around a lot in that time and achieved little. Gregor was a stranger in strange lands, looking for people that didn’t want to be found, and he had to admit that he wasn’t equipped with the skills to hunt them down by himself. Frustrated, Gregor resorted to biding his (very precious) time and continued to make a living by providing assistance where it was needed. What with the war and all, there was work aplenty.
After the war was over and the Dragonborn dealt with the return of the dragons, the Vigil of Stendarr (of which Skyrim’s chapter had earlier been destroyed by vampires) began to slowly re-establish its influence in the homeland of the Nords as members migrated over from the other provinces of the Empire. The Dawnguard would continue to deal with vampires but that left all manner of insidious and undesirable people free to practice their malevolence in the dark places of Skyrim’s wildlands. Gregor ran into a group of four Vigilants, led by a Breton named Hannibal, and after they explained their purpose to him, he asked to tag along, explaining that he found their cause to be noble and just. Hannibal gladly accepted -- they could use all the help they could get. What Gregor
didn’t tell them was that he was only looking to abuse the Vigilants’ skills in hunting down the Daedra-worshipping, corpse-raising scum of the earth, because if anyone was going to lead him to them it would be the Vigilants. Gregor’s reputation was impeccable due to his work across the province, however, and the Vigilants had no reason to suspect his true motives.
Their time together was fruitful. At least, it was so for the Vigilants, because the five of them hunted down and killed three witch-covens, a vampire lair (in uneasy cooperation with the paranoid Dawnguard) and no less than five different necromancers over the next few years. The corpses were burnt along with their forbidden knowledge but Gregor managed to sneak a few tomes into his bag when the Vigilants weren’t looking. He made sure to book a separate room whenever they stayed at an inn (“for privacy,” he’d say with a sheepish smile) and he used that time to read, committing the black texts to memory before throwing them into the fireplace himself… not that the texts had the information he needed. One of them spoke
of lichdom (it was the first time Gregor had seen the word ‘lich’ written down anywhere, in fact), and while the description of what a lich was capable of confirmed to Gregor that it was what he had to become, the book failed to provide instructions on how to actually do so. It wasn’t a total waste of time (the texts relevant to raising the dead would come in handy later) but not the breakthrough he was looking for.
That would come in 4E205. The fateful night in question, the 5th of Evening Star, came about as a result of a rumor that Hannibal had heard about people disappearing in the forests of Falkreath. The Vigilants and Gregor (who had been extended an official invitation to join their order, but declined politely) investigated the area and over the course of a few weeks, by following trails, questioning eyewitnesses and finally setting a trap, discovered the location of the hideouts of the kidnappers; an old watchtower buried deep in the woods, beyond the paths the hunters tread. They waited until nightfall and then assaulted the tower in a blitz attack. Hannibal’s magelight spell flew high enough to bathe the area in stark white light, denying their foes any chance to hide, and the five of them charged in, spells blazing and blades sharp. They fought their way up the tower, battling necromancers and zombies (which they recognized as the missing citizens) alike, and found the biggest dark altar any of them had ever seen at the very top. Four stone pylons were centered around a slab that was slick with blood and dozens of books, scrolls and black soul gems were scattered around the plateau. After they had dispatched of the final necromancer, an Altmer that required the concentrated efforts of the five of them to bring down, Gregor found himself staring around the place in hesitant awe. It was a veritable treasure trove of necromantic knowledge and materials… he realized immediately he could not let it go to waste.
“Burn it all,” Hannibal said, like always.
Something within Gregor irrevocably changed that moment. The four Vigilants he had traveled and fought alongside on-and-off for several years looked like strangers to him now. Faceless enemies in fact, just shapes in the unnatural white magelight. His body moved before his mind had even caught up to what was happening and two of the Vigilants dropped dead to the floor, shock magic arcing across their corpses, cleaved in twain by Gregor’s enchanted claymore. Their backs had been turned to him; they never saw it coming. Hannibal screamed at the sudden betrayal, lost for words as he unsheathed his axes once more, but his fury and bewilderment made way for a very dark realization when black magic whirled around the bodies of the Vigilants as they rose to their feet, followed by the rest of the corpses in the tower. Hannibal’s eyes flitted to Gregor, seeing the Imperial’s hands filled with the same ghastly glow that reanimated his erstwhile friends, and he understood in that moment who had really been among them all those years. Gregor, in turn, looked up to meet Hannibal’s gaze, and the Breton saw naught but iron.
Hannibal and his last remaining ally fought fiercely and their skill at Restoration and Destruction magic kept most of the newly risen undead at bay, but the onslaught of bodies tired them out. Hannibal, apoplectic with rage, tried to cut his way through them to get to Gregor, but he had already expended most of his stamina and magicka on the initial assault and failed to reach him -- whereas Gregor, cunning as he was, had hung back a bit and let the Vigilants do most of the killing. The third Vigilant was killed by the resurrected Altmer necromancer, whose look of unbridled sadism in life had been replaced by a slack, unseeing complacency in death that infuriated Hannibal even more, but not as much as the inscrutable expression on Gregor’s face. He wanted something,
anything, some emotion to justify this utmost heresy, be it anger or perverse joy, but all he could see was concentration, and Hannibal knew that he was just an
obstacle to Gregor now. Nothing more. He roared, his body surrounded by a halo of solar magic, and struck down the Altmer for the second time.
“Curse you, Gregor! Curse your whole family!” Hannibal heaved, his face contorted with rage.
That got the reaction he wanted, even if it was the last thing Hannibal would ever see. Gregor’s frown deepened and he bared his teeth, eyes wide and nostrils flared, before grabbing the hilt of his bloodied claymore tightly with both hands. Sparks danced along the blade’s edge.
“We are already cursed,” Gregor spat bitterly.
Hannibal would have won in a fair fight. They both knew that. Unfortunately for him, Gregor had tilted the odds in his favour by exhausting the Breton crusader with his undead minions, and the duel that followed was swift and merciless. After Hannibal was disarmed and the steel claymore driven into his gut, Gregor bent over to pick up one of the black soul gems. “No,” Hannibal whimpered in the final moments before the light left his eyes, overwhelmed by fear when he knew what Gregor was about to do. He then felt the most awful sensation deep inside his chest, as if his heart had tripped over something, and the deathly chill of a soul trap pressed against all of his senses. “Don’t. Please.”
But he did. A demonic, vengeful wrath had made itself master of Gregor when Hannibal had unknowingly taunted him with the hereditary illness that the Sibassius family was haunted by, and the desire to punish Hannibal for it had overwhelmed every other impulse. Gregor looked down at the opaque rock in his hand and felt it warm up as it was filled by Hannibal’s soul. He remained like that for minutes, frozen to the spot, surrounded by the settling ashes of the zombies that had collapsed into dust when they had been cut down by the Vigilants, the night sky dark and foreboding overhead. He grimaced and almost threw the soul gem away a few times. A furious and troubling battle was being raged in his mind and his heart as the various parts of Gregor’s personality tried to reconcile his morals with the events that had just transpired -- he was a murderer now, a backstabbing traitor of the worst kind, but even worse, he had become the very type of monster he had hunted down ever since he came to Skyrim. There had been no good reason to steal Hannibal’s soul and deny him the afterlife that awaited the devoted servants of the Divines. On the other hand, Gregor thought as he turned on the spot slowly and his gaze went over the altar once more, an insidious voice in the back of his skull, the Vigilants would have burned everything. What if these books and scrolls contained the knowledge necessary to save his family? The Vigilants would have essentially denied
them their lives and dignity. Either way, people would have died. Gregor put the soul gem into one of his pouches and began rifling through the amassed documents with feverish haste, his mind latching onto that one final, possible justification-- the only way for him to retain his sanity. If he found what he was looking for in here it would have been worth it. He would have been right. He spent the entire night up there, alone in the woods, not resting for a single moment, his eyes darting from line to line, page to page, pouring over the texts he held with trembling fingers.
His dedication was rewarded. The sun rose while Gregor stumbled upon a passage inside a particularly thick and well-read tome about something called the Ideal Masters and the Soul Cairn. His vision swam before him with exhaustion and Gregor blinked a few times before going back to the start of the page, now reading every word carefully. His mouth fell open as he read, almost unable to believe his eyes. Ethereal death-gods of a distant realm of Oblivion that could be bargained with for incredible powers? The book even contained perfectly simple instructions on how to contact the Ideal Masters, and Gregor realized he had all the materials right there inside that tower that were needed, including the most important one: the sacrifice. It was right there, in one of his pouches. Gregor’s fingers reached in to grab the soul gem and he had to swallow hard when he felt the sickly warmth again. It was almost as if he could feel Hannibal’s soul inside, and the utter terror that he had felt when he died. Gregor steeled himself. Now was no time for weakness.
Gregor smashed the gem against the stone slab of the altar in the midst of a pentagram he had drawn with blood and bone meal, as per the instructions of the book, and almost immediately found himself having to resist recoiling in fear as an incredibly foreign and alien presence made itself known to his mind -- it was like he was trying to communicate with the sky, or the sea. It waited expectantly. Gregor gathered his thoughts and spoke his wishes out loud: that he sought the knowledge and the skills necessary to become a lich in order to save his family and himself from their fate. The reply came in the form of thoughts and impressions too strange to describe in mortal words but their meaning was clear to Gregor.
We have what you seek. Gregor almost collapsed as immense relief and excitement washed over him and he broke out into unstoppable, hysterical laughter. The presence of the Ideal Master threatened to withdraw and Gregor recomposed himself, physically reaching out with his hand in a futile attempt to stop it from doing so. “What do you want from me in return?” he asked breathlessly. Gregor already thought he knew the answer but he wanted to be sure. The Ideal Master confirmed his suspicions with another non-verbal response, though it was almost as if he could hear the throaty, guttural growl of a predator in the back of his mind now.
More. More souls, of course. It was what the book said that the Ideal Masters desired, for reasons unknown to mere mortals. Gregor didn’t want or need to know what they did with those souls, nor did he care. As a parting gift the Ideal Master bequeathed a spell upon him, and Gregor experienced the unpleasant sensation of having knowledge directly deposited into his mind for the first time. Bemused, he tried and failed to figure out what the spell did, and quickly gave up for the time being. He had more important things to think about. For the first time since leaving home he had a real, tangible, promising lead, as awful as it may be. That said… the idea of condemning more black souls to the abyss of the Soul Cairn
was practically the most reprehensible thing Gregor could think of and the initial excitement wore off as the sun rose higher in the sky. Gregor felt the warmth of its light against his face and it was only then that he realized he was bathed in cold sweat. Was he really going to do this? Become a grim reaper to his own kind? He fidgeted and began to pace around the tower, muttering to himself, his mind racing and continuing its earlier battle. He had to admit that somewhere, deep down, he’d always known that the path to unnatural immortality would be paved with atrocities, but Gregor had done his utmost best the last
seven years to ignore that inconvenient truth. Now he could no longer do so. The facts were undeniable. Could he still remain Gregor Sibassius, upstanding and beloved citizen of Bravil, now that he had murdered his allies and sacrificed one of their souls, all in the name of a cure? Where was he going to get the other souls needed for this task? How many would it take? The Ideal Master hadn’t specified. Once again wracked by doubt, just like when he had first discovered his father’s journals, Gregor decided to focus on the here and now, and his eyes fell on Hannibal’s pale corpse. The man deserved a proper burial, at least.
After stuffing everything he could inconspicuously take with him into his rucksack and his pouches, Gregor lifted the Breton’s corpse on his shoulder and carried him all the way to Falkreath, where the guilt-ridden tears on his cheeks were mistaken for honest sorrow. Gregor was the lone attendee of the burial and he listened in solemn silence to the priest’s words. When the man began talking about the blessings of Arkay and how Hannibal was now in the hands of the god of death, Gregor averted his gaze and bit his lip. His balled fists were trembling behind his back. He looked up when the priest asked for his help in shoveling dirt onto the casket and immediately acquiesced, eager to have something to occupy his hands with. The wooden sarcophagus disappeared beneath the growing mound of earth as Gregor worked and the turmoil in his mind slowed down. When he was done and he planted the shovel back into the earth, he stood up straight and exhaled deeply. Hannibal’s death was tragic, there was no denying that, but he had died for the greater good. His death would serve to give life back to three other condemned souls -- Gregor, Marcus and Julia. In a way, wasn’t that what Hannibal would have wanted? And so Gregor talked straight that which was crooked. He forgave himself and made peace with what he had to do.
There were plenty of outlaws in Skyrim that were beyond redemption, Gregor realized as he left Falkreath for greener pastures. All he had to do was find them, the ones unworthy of any kind of afterlife, and take their souls to be sacrificed. That was… excusable. Justifiable, even. He would be the boogeyman of the malevolent and the cruel. That was a type of monster he could live with being. However, when Gregor ran into Aren, the Dunmer treasure hunter he had worked with when he first came to Skyrim, in the markets of Whiterun, the two greeted each other as old friends, and Gregor immediately agreed to go on another adventure with the elf. Harvesting souls could wait. A sense of normalcy would do wonders for his sanity. Aren had done reasonably well for himself in the years in between and was nearing retirement. Gregor, for his part, told an edited version of the events that had befallen him, and conveniently left out the parts where
he was responsible for the deaths of the Vigilants. Aren put a comforting hand on Gregor’s shoulder and the Imperial caught himself actually believing his own lies for a second. The shame made him look away, but Aren just thought he needed a moment.
Their adventure in a Falmer-infested cave system is a story worth telling, but it pales in comparison to what happened afterwards. After resurfacing, both men laughing and whooping after a tense -- but highly lucrative -- brush with death, Gregor and Aren set up camp in the foothills of the mountains south of Dawnstar. There was a stream relatively nearby, Aren knew, and the younger Imperial offered to go fetch the both of them some water. The trek there and back again took a couple of hours but it was a trip that Gregor enjoyed. He was able to forget everything then, and for a few days he had just been another treasure hunter with two swords and a dagger. His spirits lifted by the experience, Gregor returned with two heavy waterskins only to find their camp ruined and Aren nowhere to be seen. He saw arrows and blood stains in the snow and immediately the same dark rage that had driven him to take Hannibal’s soul rushed to the surface. Gregor found a trail in the snow and followed it, claymore in hand, eager to do violence upon those who had harmed his friend. It took him another day to finally catch up to the assailants, who turned out to be a group of common bandits, and watched from a distance as they arrived at their own campsite. Their voices drifted on the air towards him and while Gregor could not make out the words, there was no mistaking the self-congratulatory tone and his blood boiled. Like he and the Vigilants had always done Gregor waited until nightfall, munching on the dried meats he carried with him and slowly sipping from the waterskin. His scowl never left his face.
Gregor had figured out what the Ideal Master’s spell did by now. A Wrathman of the Soul Cairn, a towering undead warrior from another plane, materialized in front of him, and Gregor directed it towards the bandit encampment while he circled around from another side. After a minute or two he knew, by the sounds of the bandits yelling and screaming in fear, that the distraction was working, and he stalked into their midst while they were busy trying to bring down the amazingly resilient Wrathman (who absorbed arrow after arrow without faltering). He soultrapped and cut down two bandits before they’d even noticed he was there, and then raised their corpses to his side. The Wrathman had scored a kill of his own before finally expiring, but the bandits’ relief was short lived as Gregor bore down upon them, fury writ upon his face. He was outnumbered eight-to-three now. Terrible odds in a fair fight, but once again Gregor did not engage in a fair fight. The bandits were Nords, a terribly superstitious people, and the sight of the walking corpses of their friends approaching further fueled the fear that had already weakened them after the Wrathman’s attack. Half of them ran, and the other half that remained behind was no match for Gregor’s enchanted weapon and his zombified allies, stronger in undeath than they ever were in life. When the dust settled, Gregor looked at his black soul gems and counted six filled. He truly was the reaper of the wicked now. It almost scared him how much he enjoyed it. Suddenly remembering why he was there, Gregor searched the bandit encampment for Aren but did not find the Dunmer. Nor did he find the treasure that was stolen from them. In fact, Gregor thought when he further looked around, he couldn’t find
any stolen goods. Only meats and hides…
An awful, gut-wrenching realization dawned on him. These weren’t bandits. They weren’t the cruel, malevolent people he had set out to kill -- these people were
hunters. That’s why their spirit broke so easily. His hands shot up to his head and he cursed, eyes wide in disbelief, and he whirled around on the spot, desperately searching for evidence to the contrary. How had a trail from his camp led him to this place, if they hadn’t been the ones to take Aren and their looted treasure? It wasn’t possible. Fear and disgust filled him and he ran -- all the way back to their camp, and he practically collapsed when he finally reached it. Aren hadn’t returned, and it looked like a bear had destroyed what little had remained of their tents. Gregor was delirious from sleep deprivation and on the edge of insanity now, and he simply sank down onto the ripped canvas of one of the tents, his breathing heavy and ragged, his eyes staring blindly into the middle distance. It was a mistake. He’d made a mistake.
A mistake that killed six people. Gregor’s face scrunched up into a grimace and he curled into a ball.
Murderer. MURDERER. Night fell again and he remained where he was, weeping softly into the fabric of his cloak, while his mind fell over itself in a hundred attempts to justify what had happened. He couldn’t have known; those damned hunters dressed exactly the same as the bandits, just furs and leathers, and there had been a thrice-damned path leading right to their camp! Gregor had been right on their heels! It was such a staggering coincidence;
how could he have known? As the hours passed his emotions subsided. For the second time something about Gregor irrevocably changed, and another part of his humanity died. It had been an honest mistake, one that Gregor wouldn’t make again… but certainly one that he couldn’t do anything about now. If he turned himself in he would never see the light of day again, and that simply wasn’t an option. No matter what he did. Marcus and Julia depended on him. And, another even smaller, more pitiful voice in his head said that he’d promised Briar that he would return. How could he do that if he was in prison, or if he was executed? There was nothing else for it -- he had to carry on.
There was no way to go but forward.
Gregor sacrificed the six black soul gems to the Ideal Masters. He could feel their approval, and how their hunger was ever-so-slightly sated, but the message remained the same.
More. Even after all six stones were shattered and the essence within devoured by the Ideal Master that responded to the summoning ritual. Gregor sank back on his haunches in disbelief, and he had to suppress an even more overwhelming sense of defeat. How many people was he going to have to kill to get what he wanted? What he
needed? It wasn’t about ‘want’ anymore, Gregor chided himself. If he was only doing this for something he wanted then he deserved to die. This quest he was on was far more severe. He would do everything to see it through, he realized now. He’d come this far already. To give up now would mean that all of this, all the suffering and the death, would have been for nothing. All he had to do was find more souls -- actually worthy souls this time, Gregor thought and winced. Until the Ideal Masters were satisfied.
But Gregor couldn’t stay where he was. He’d murdered six hunters -- people would be looking for him now. He learned that the survivors had described him as a “monster from Oblivion, with glowing eyes and a blood-curdling scream”, and thanked the gods for the Nord tendency to embellish everything (or maybe they’d just mixed up his appearance with that of the Wrathman). The local newspaper dubbed him ‘The Pale Reaper’, after the hold where the incident had happened. That would buy him to time to leave. But where to go? A chance encounter with a young carriage driver in 4E207 gave him the answer. The young Nord, a lad named Calen, asked where Gregor was from and where he’d been. The questions would normally have annoyed the secretive Imperial, but the boy’s honest smile and kindly eyes were disarming, and Gregor found himself talking about the home he’d left behind nearly ten years ago. The words shocked him when he spoke them out loud. Had it been so long since he’d seen the verdant hills and the lush forests of Cyrodiil? An awfully powerful sense of longing nestled in his heart (his broken, bruised heart) and that was that. It was time to go to Cyrodiil. Maybe a visit to the Arcane University would be good, to see if they knew anything about the Ideal Masters. Gregor realized that, in all his haste, he hadn’t stopped to think if those beings were even reliable. He couldn’t go home exactly, he knew, not until he had achieved his goal, so he would avoid Bravil.
On his way south, Gregor attempted to pray at the same wayshrines he’d visited when he first traveled to Skyrim and found that the gods withheld their blessings from him now. It was then that he truly realized how deeply he had condemned himself with his actions, and he stared at the final wayshrine with sullen resentment. Even if his quest to save his family failed, Gregor would now need immortality just to keep his soul out of Arkay’s judgemental hands. It was such a ridiculous thought that all he could do was laugh mirthlessly as he felt another part of his humanity slip away, never to return.
Gregor had been on the road to Skingrad in 4E208 to petition with count Hassildor to be allowed a visit to the man’s private library, as the Arcane University hadn’t proven very useful (he’d only received a general warning to stay very far away from anything related to necromancy), when the Dwemer attack on the Imperial City happened. Swept up in the stream of refugees Gregor didn’t hesitate for a second to make himself useful,proving to himself that he wasn’t the monster the gods thought him to be, and linked up with the few capable and armed individuals that protected the mass of innocents. By listening to the stories of the survivors Gregor was able to learn exactly what had happened, as a distant look at the airships that floated above the capital city of Cyrodiil wasn’t nearly informative enough, and an idea came to him. Dwemer had not been seen in Tamriel for thousands of years. What if he was able to take their souls and offer that? Surely that would be a prize worthy of a great reward, Gregor thought. The souls of a race not seen since the First Era.
He knew what he had to do.
Personality: Gregor is the culmination of two enormously conflicting and highly incompatible personalities; one rooted in his youth, with the values and morals instilled in him by his law-abiding, god-fearing parents, with a great love for kin and country, and another born of dreadful circumstance, driven to commit unspeakable crimes by an ultimately benevolent desire to save himself and his family from a terrible death. A true reconciliation between these sides isn’t possible anymore, so Gregor survives on an unhealthy dose of cognitive dissonance and a growing element of fundamental extremism. As long as his goal is noble, the end justifies the means, and he avoids applying the moral standard to himself that he holds everyone else to -- bandits and highwaymen are fair game to be submitted to things much worse than anything they’ve ever done to anyone else, all in the name of Gregor’s goal, and dark magics that are inherently harmful and corruptive in nature are learned and mastered with only the most negligible hesitation.
The kind, patient, loving and thoughtful side of Gregor is the one he presents to the world. It’s who he was for the first twenty-eight years of his life and it’s who he still wants to be. A faithful husband to his beloved wife and a devoted son to his wonderful parents, even beyond the grave, Gregor only seeks to help those in need; family, friends and strangers, in that order. It is not in Gregor’s nature to be a violent man and he never had any inborn talent for martial prowess. It is only through sheer dedication and absolute necessity that Gregor is capable of being anything other than a soft-hearted romantic. When he is Gregor, the jewelsmith from Bravil, he rarely raises his voice in anger, readily abandons what he was doing to assist the elderly, the pregnant or the infirm, and tries to appreciate the beauty in the little things in life. He was never very open about himself, or very talkative, but perfectly affable, and he had practically no enemies.
Ever since he has learned about the hereditary illness that rests on the Sibassius family like a curse, Gregor had developed a radically different side over time. It began with the iron will to leave his wife behind to go and save his family and himself, fueled by his own fear of death and love for his siblings, and gradually developed into a ruthless killer, the Pale Reaper, capable of incandescent rage and enormous cruelty. His strong sense of justice is warped and perverted to allow him to commit acts that would’ve made young Gregor absolutely indignant with repulsion, the apex of which was the murder of six innocent hunters because of a case of mistaken identity. Even that horrific act was able to be bent and misrepresented to himself so that it could be justified. Gregor hides behind the fact that it’s for the sake of his family, but what he denies to himself is that it’s really mostly his own mortal terror that has created this unyielding monster, to the point where bloodshed and soul-stealing makes him feel sadistic joy in his momentary dominion over life and death. This part of Gregor is usually lurking beneath the surface, lying in wait behind a mask of sanity that begins to slip whenever a situation gets too stressful or he is baited into anger. It isn’t actual madness, though, as Gregor remains mostly in control of his faculties, and this is how he has been able to achieve his level of success so far: intelligence. Gregor is much smarter than he is strong or agile.
Because these two people, as it were, cannot exist in the same space, there are no people currently alive that are aware that Gregor and the Pale Reaper are one and the same. It seems like the balance between the two personalities is highly precarious, and while this is true on paper, Gregor has managed to keep the two identities separate so far, and left no witnesses whenever they did overlap. That said, they’re not really separate identities either -- Gregor doesn’t suffer from multiple personality disorder or anything of the sort. As such, there’s a constant struggle going on between his conscience and his dark side, and Gregor is haunted by terrible nightmares practically every time he goes to sleep, in which the duality of his identity is explored and vilified by his own subconscious. He hates what he has become and what he’s had to do, but he also believes that he has no other choice and cannot give up now -- especially since he’s learned that the Divines have no place for him anymore. The clash between selfish and selfless is truly what has defined Gregor’s descent into his current state, and there is no reason to think he will not sink any lower. On the other hand he may yet be redeemed, because Gregor plans to use immortality exclusively for good. Only time will tell.
As previously mentioned, Gregor is easy to interact with. While everything he does is cast in the shadow of his monstrous self, he makes an effort to be pleasant and helpful still. His reputation in Skyrim was impeccable as a champion of the common man and a slayer of the vile and wicked, and even if it weren’t for sheer convenience Gregor would still want to continue to do good in Cyrodiil. He is handsome and there’s always something wildly irresistible about men with tragedy in their eyes, and while Gregor has messed around a little here and there during particularly lonely nights up north, he is ultimately still loyal to his wife, Briar. That he hasn’t seen her in ten years time doesn’t seem to matter. Abandoning her is the biggest regret he carries with him and he's spent countless hours agonizing over what he could have done differently. Most painfully, he wonders if she might have come with him if he'd simply explained the situation and asked. That he didn't his rooted in Gregor's greatest weakness -- he believes he has to complete his quest by himself because he's the only one strong enough to carry its burden. The real question is whether he's as strong as he thinks.
He likes to play games that test his intelligence, like chess or a good puzzlebox. Gregor’s favorite food is cheese and red wine. Symptoms of memory loss in other people are unreasonably unsettling to him and he gets extremely angry when people insult or threaten his family.
Equipment:
Steel claymore: Enchanted with moderate shock damage, this two-handed sword is Gregor’s primary weapon against other people and wild animals. It’s also the weapon type that he’s the most skilled with. I’ve already described the sword in his appearance section so I won’t do so again. Suffice to say that it’s a noticeable, pretty unique blade, and more than one person has tried to steal it from him in the past. Gregor carries it clipped to a metal holster on his back.
Silver longsword: This specialized weapon is what Gregor uses against the undead, which he encountered loads of in his line work. The effect of the silver blade is further compounded by a fire damage enchantment, to which all types of undead are extra vulnerable, so even if his skill with the longsword is nothing to write him about, it’s quite an effective sidearm.
Steel dagger: Purely for emergencies. Gregor has almost never had to use this, but you never know.
Medium Imperial armor: A unique and custom-made suit of armor that’s comprised of steel plate, fortified leather and chainmail. Like the claymore, I’ve already described its appearance and won’t do so again. It’s light enough for Gregor to wear it everywhere but offers just the right amount of protection for his methodical and clever style of combat. Gregor tried enchanting this but he found that the pieces didn’t hold enchantments well, for whatever reason. Perhaps he needs more practice.
Silver ring: But he did manage to enchant this ring of his own making, back when he was still a jewelsmith in Bravil. It fortifies his magic resistance, which makes him quite resilient to hostile spells when combined with a ward spell.
Misc. Possessions:
Rucksack and pouches: No adventuring outfit is complete without storage space and Gregor has plenty of it. The pouches are attached to his belt and the rucksack is… well, it’s a rucksack. You’ll find it on his back.
Map of Tamriel: As specified.
Food: Dried meats, berries and nuts are Gregor’s food of choice. Nutritional and doesn’t spoil. He treats himself to a real meal whenever he’s in town but Gregor spends so much time on the road, anything else would be impractical.
Black soul gems: Gregor still has three unfilled black soul gems buried at the bottom of his rucksack. You know what these are for.
Filled soul gems: To power his weapons. Don’t worry, these just contain white souls. Gregor currently has three empty common soul gems and two filled ones.
Family and Associates: Gaia: His mother. Devastated by Hector's death, Gregor doesn't know if she's even still alive.
Marcus: Younger brother and the proprietor of the Sibassius family business. At least, he was when Gregor left.
Julia: Younger sister. Gregor has no idea what she’s done with her life, but she was looking to get married when he left.
Briar: His beautiful wife. Like Julia, Gregor doesn’t know what she’s done since he’s left, and it’s such a painful thought he doesn’t think about it.
Aren: A Dunmer treasure hunter and Gregor’s only real friend. Currently missing, presumed dead.
Favoured Skills:
Highly Proficient: Conjuration: Specifically necromancy. Gregor can’t conjure an Atronach worth a damn, but he can resurrect multiple corpses, soultrap his enemies or even conjure a Wrathman from the Soul Cairn to his side. It’s his most powerful weapon but one that he only gets to use when he’s working alone… or when he’s betraying his allies. Gregor’s ultimate goal is to become a lich, which he presumes is related to this school of magic.
Moderately Proficient: Two-Handed: Even if you have no talent, childhood training from an ex-Legionnaire and ten years worth of practice at swinging a claymore around will mean you become reasonably good at it anyway. His skills are nothing worth writing home about but it gets the job done, especially if Gregor uses his wits more than his arms. His fighting style is either defensive or decisive, and he prefers to use the element of surprise wherever possible. If outmatched, Gregor will find another way to defeat his enemy instead of persisting with swordplay, though if he’s put in that position it means his preparation was insufficient.
Moderately Proficient: Enchanting: Gregor makes up for his martial prowess by giving his weapons supernatural powers. Once again, he’s no expert, but it gets the job done and gives him the edge he needs more often than not.
Moderately Proficient: Restoration: Turning the undead, healing wounds and even absorbing health from his enemies are all things that Gregor can do… reasonably well. He’s had a lot of practice.
Somewhat Proficient: One-Handed: The silver longsword he carries only sees use against the undead, so Gregor hasn’t become very good at wielding one-handed weapons. He misses the extra strength he gets out of using two hands and the long reach of his claymore whenever he uses this weapon type, but he’s not totally useless with them either.
Somewhat Proficient: Medium Armor: While he’s been wearing medium armor for ten years, Gregor tries to avoid a fair fight whenever he can. It doesn’t slow him down and he knows which parts of the armor are stronger and more resistant than other parts, but that’s about where his knowledge and skills end. It’s kept him alive so far.
Somewhat Proficient: Jewelry Crafting: Gregor actually used to be pretty good at this, but ten years of non-use has meant that his skill has depreciated considerably. He could still bang out a ring or a necklace if absolutely necessary, but… when is this absolutely necessary?
Spell List- Soul Trap
- Dread Zombie*
- Summon Wrathman
- Steadfast Ward
- Fast Healing**
- Turn Undead
- Absorb Health
* Gregor can use this spell either on a single corpse for a long time or on multiple corpses for a shorter time. The more corpses he resurrects, the shorter he can keep the spell active. Mass resurrections only last minutes.
** Can be used on himself or on allies. Notes: Nothing, I think.
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