Kassarock

Kass's Kharacters

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V E L Y N V I R I T H

Original Art by Minttu ____________________________________________________ Character Information Name - Velyn Virith of House Redoran Gender - Male Race - Dunmer Faction - House Redoran (former), Buoyant Armigers (former) Class - Spellsword Birthsign - The Lady ____________________________________________________ Character Skills Martial Velyn is a skilled martial combatant with both the use of the spear and the short blade. His fighting style is fast and agile, using lighter armour to prioritise speed over protection. Though age saps his strength and agility, Velyn more than makes up for that in hundreds of years of martial experience. Magical Though some Buoyant Armigers were once great users magic, Velyn is not among their ranks. He understands the basics of magical practice but is no expert. He has some small skill in the schools of Restoration and Alteration. The Healing of Sick was a core tenant of the Tribunal Temple, and all those who served it learned something of the restorative arts. He also learned some of the tricks of the Buoyant Armigers, such as water breathing and walking, as well as the art of magically shielding the body in combat. Miscellenous In his youth Velyn was a fine acrobat, but such exertions are much beyond him now, he still however retains a soft tread and an excellent balance. Velyn's other great skill has only increased with age, his eloquent speech. Velyn has increasingly dedicated himself to the study and creation of poetry in his later years. ____________________________________________________ Character Equipment Weapons Chitin Glaive, fashioned in the traditional Dumner style. Twinned Steel Wakizashi and Tanto, worn at the waist. Armour Worn Chitin Armour, much patched and repaired. Enchanted Items Amulet of Fortify Stamina, made from a carved Guar tooth. The Chitin Glaive also bears a minor flame enchantment. Miscellaneous Ragged Red Travelling Cloak. Spare Bundle of Clothing. A Few Days of Rations. Jar of Matze, a rice wine from Morrowind. Ceramic Drinking Cups. Patterned Fabric Bedroll. Paper Lantern. Incense burner with Fragant Incense. Dunmeri Lute, similar to a Shamisen. Books and Scrolls, mostly the teachings and poetry of Vivec. ____________________________________________________

A P P E A R A N C E Velyn Virith is an elderly male Dunmer, well into his third century. Despite his venerable age he is not frail or decrepit, he stands tall and straight still, thin with age and hard living, but possessing wiry strength and cultivated grace to his movements. The way Velyn moves is like a dancer, with light quick steps, but he carried himself with all the confidence and surety of a warrior. When his face is hidden beneath his chitinous helm, he could pass for a mer more than half his age. Velyn's face, however, shows the truth of his age. His sharp angular features are lined and wrinkled, crows feet radiate out from the corners of his narrow blood red eyes. The ceremonial tattoos and scars of his young are pale and faded. The dark hair pulled back into his high topknot is so threaded with grey that they now outnumber the black. In his youth, Velyn would have been considered handsome, and he still retains a element of refined dignity in his appearance to this day. A sign of his former vanity can be seen the golden jewellery than hangs from his pointed ears. When not dressed in the worn and patchwork chitin armour that he wraps in a tattered crimson cloak, Velyn prefers to dress in the many hued and patterned fabrics of his homeland, instead of the local Nord furs. He does however, often wear multiple layers, with long robes over his normal clothing. The cold gets into his bones and aching joints these days. P E R S O N A L I T Y Velyn is a mer who has been through many trials and tribulations in his life, trials that have had him question his faith and own decisions. As Lord Vivec once cautioned the Hortator Saint Nerevar, beware the wrong walking path. Velyn's path has been one of struggle, soaked in blood, beset with Violence. But it is only through Violence that one might reach Heaven. And so Velyn Virith is at peace. But his frequent philosophical ruminations do not mean he is dour or dull, far from it in fact. Velyn is an eloquent conversationalist, a skilled orator, poet and musician. He enjoys performing and entertaining, and like all entertainers he enjoys a stiff drink shared with good company. At times like these his wry sense of humour becomes increasingly apparent, as well as a somewhat rakish and flirtatious side to old Knight Errant. Ultimately, however, he views distractions of the flesh as just that, distractions, despite the allure they sometimes still hold for him. There are only two things Velyn truly cares about, aiding those in need of his assistance, and carving his own path to Heaven. H I S T O R Y Velyn Virith was born on Vvardenfell in the year 3E412. He was a younger son of Theldyn Virith, Kinsman to the Great House Redoran. Growing up, most of his childhood was spent between the Redoran district capital of Auld'ruhn and his family's ancestral estates in the West Gast near the port of Auld Velothi. Like his brothers and cousins, he was expected to join his father's house as another proud Redoran warrior, but fate had other plans for Velyn Virith. Once, while visiting the great city of Vivec as a child, Velyn witnessed a regatta being held on the grand canal. Barges of beaten gold, wreathed with garlands, floated upon the shimmering waters, oars manned by beautiful maidens and comely youths. From the decks, knights clad in iridescent glass laughed and sang as they threw roses to the watching crowd. And hovering above them all, a seated figure, half gold, smiling, and radiating the light of heaven itself. This was the first time Velyn saw a God, and he vowed that day, that it would not be the last. As soon as he was old enough he pledged himself as novice to the Tribunal Temple, and then to be apprenticed by the Armigers once he had proved his worth. In those days the fear of Sharmat hung over Vvardenfell, and the ALMSIVI receded from the outside world, but Velyn did not forget what it meant to see a God in all their glory. He never would.

Velyn kept his faith, his love for his Lord Vivec, even after the deaths of the other Triunes. When the gates Oblivion opened and daedra ravaged Morrowind, he kept his faith still. When his Lord disappeared, he kept his faith. When the moons fell from the sky and fires rose up from earth, he kept his faith. When the Argonians invaded and sacked their cities even as the ash and fire rained down still, he kept his faith. He fought though all these terrors as an Armiger, doing his deeds in Love and War in the name of his Lord, Vivec.

And when the New Temple emerged triumphant from the rubble of their nation and proclaimed Vivec was a false god, Velyn kept his faith. And won himself exile for it.

He fled to Cyrodil, following in the footsteps of countless Dunmer refugees, to find a province also lost to chaos and war as chaos of the the Stormcrown Interregnum unfolded. There he joined a group of rebels fighting against the tyrannical count of Skingrad.

These were darkest days of his existence. Bereft of his Lord, his land, and his love, Velyn turned to a darker path. He indulged in unworthy vices and fought not for Love, but rather to die. He was broken in those days, and it would take many years for him to find his true path again and to fight under the Will of Love once more.

He wandered Tamriel for a long time, never truly settling anyway, never truly putting down roots. Over those long years there were companions, friends, lovers, and enemies. But they were all transient. So do were roles at which he played. Sometimes he was a solider and a mercenary, at others a poet, musician, or acrobat. But always was he one thing, a holy man. For above all else, as he wandered, he searched for answers to the questions that still haunted him, the questions that lingered despite his faith.

Why did Vivec leave his people at the time of their greatest need? Why did Vivec allow such terrors to befall the faithful whom he had loved and cherished? And why, why, did his Lord abandon him, his most loyal and adoring of servants?

It took many years for Velyn to come to a conclusion. He consulted great sages and philosophers from across the lands, read the holy books and poets of his Lord countless times. He found an answer, his answer at least, though sometimes he still doubts it himself. But did Vivec not say: Beware the wrong walking path?

Did he not also say: Beware the crime of benevolence?

Chimer were taught to struggle by the Anticipations and Saint Veloth, and they became greater for it, they were changed by it. The Dunmer had prospered under the benevolent rule of the Tribunal, the benevolent rule of his Lord... but now, it seemed they must struggle again. Greater things awaited them still, and only through struggle would they be changed once more.

So Velyn would struggle on his own path, and he would help to teach his kin how to struggle too. Anywhere Dunmer struggled on the path, he would be there to try to teach them how to struggle, how to grow stronger, how to change, how to Reach Heaven by Violence.

This was why Velyn Virith came to Skyrim in the third century of Fourth Era, for it was here, he believed, that the struggle of his people was greatest. If he could teach the Dunmer to walk the path in Skyrim, and struggle their way to greatness, then he might change his whole people, he might change the whole world.

For the ending of the words is ALMSIVI.

And the worlding of the words is AMARANTH.

S̴T̴O̴R̴M̴C̴L̴O̴A̴K̴ : Rise of Tyranny (SHELVED, PM or DM me for inquiry.)

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T H E G R A Y Q U A R T E R

Art by TheMinttu ____________________________________________________

1 0 T H O F S U N ' S D U S K , 4 E 2 0 5 A cold winter wind whipped through the deserted streets of the Windhelm that night. The snow came down in flurries, twirling through the freezing air, to land on icy cobbles below. It was foul weather to be out, and most of the city's residents were fast asleep. But not all of them, for there, picked out in the warm glow of the torch light, was a figure hurrying along through the drifts of piled snow. His name was Snorri Gunnarson, and he was on a mission. Snorri Gunnarson was a Nord, though he did not necessarily look it. He shared little similarity with this his people other than the flaxen colour of his hair. For where most people thought of Nords as being greatly tall and strong men, he was slight and short. Where the stereotypical Nord had broad rough features and great flowing beard, Snorri was weak chinned and snub nosed, and his pale beard grew in patch only in patches. There were other differences between him and many other Nords in Skyrim, but those were not so apparent on the surface. One difference, however, that was most apparent right now between Snorri are a regular Nord, and that was how he moved. Nords are generally not known for their subtlety or the deftness of their feet, but Snorri was an expert skulker, a born sneak, and tonight he displayed his talents in full earnestness. For he did not walk, or stride, or march through the Snow. Snorri crept. He made sure to avoid the patrols of the heavily armed guards that patrolled the streets at night, dressed in Stormcloak blues, the roaring bear emblazoned upon their shields. He ducked around corners, tiptoed down flights of steep stone stairs, and slowly but surely, worked his way towards his destination for that night: The Gray Quarter. His employer had received a tip off from one of his informers, the one they had been looking for would be there tonight.

Snorri ducked into an alleyway as another patrol rounded a corner. It would not do for him to be caught out here, even as a Nord. The Gray Quarter was almost empty these days, and any who moved around its streets after dark would quickly fall under suspicion. As the light of the guards torches faded, he slipped out once more, and stole into the doorway of the place he was to find his quarry.

The New Gnisis Corner Club had seen better days. It had never been the finest of establishments, but with most of its patrons rounded up and taken to Shor knows where, there was not much merriment to found here. The remaining clientele were all Dunmer, and they all stopped their low murmured conversation to stare at the newcomer in their midst. He put his head down and quickly made his way towards the bar.

"Come slumming to the Gray Quarter, have you?" It was Ambarys, the Dunmer bar keeper who spoke first, regarding him with clear disdain. He was thin hard looking man, his grey hair pulled back behind his head. With a cloth in hand he polished a stoneware jar his kind used to warm their Matze or Shien before they drank it. "Well, we don't serve any mead here, Nord. Best find somewhere else to drink."

"I-I am looking for someone, I was told they could be found here. An Armiger." Snorri stuttered out, trying to keep his voice low so as not to be overheard. The barkeep appraised him again with his crimson eyes, before grunting at him.

"You'll find him in the back. Just follow the music." He indicated the direction with and outstretched thumb, pointing to a doorway leading deeper into the corner club, partially covered with a ragged curtain. Snorri dipped his head in thanks and made his way to the back room.

Pushing the curtain aside, he could see it was even emptier than the bar out front. The room was darker too, only the light of the fire and a few battered paper lanterns casting a soft flickering light into the windowless room. At first he was confused because he could not see anyone who seemed to fit the description of the person he was looking for, and Ambarys's cryptic comments were of little help.

It was then that he heard it, the strange drifting sound of a low husky voice holding a trembling note into the quiet room, a sparse accompaniment of queerly tuned strings plucked along side the wavering vocal. He recognised the language, but not the words said, for this was Dunmeris, the ancestral language of the Dark Elves. As the voice quieted the strings picked up, faster, more driving, urgent. Snorri craned his neck, trying to see where the music was coming from.

There was a figure, seated down by the fireside on a laid out floor cushion, their legs crossed, a long necked instrument cradled in their hands. He had not seem them behind the other, unoccupied furniture in the dimly lit room. With the light of the fire behind them, it was difficult to make out much more than their silhouette. But it had to be them, this person had to be who Snorri had been sent to meet. Softly, he approached them from behind.

"Pardon me for inter-" Before Snorri could finish his words, there was flurry of movement and the point of a curved steel blade aimed directly at his throat, glinting menacingly in the firelight. He gasped and took a step back. He hadn't even seen them draw it, it must have been sitting in their lap, hidden by the strange instrument.

"It is considered rude where I come from, sera, to interrupt a musician before they have finished their performance." The voice low and had a slight rasp to it, it was the voice of an older Dunmer.

The musician had turned their face to speak to him, so Snorri could see properly now. He was indeed a Dark Elf with grey skin and pierced pointed ears. He was an older one too, at least a couple of centuries, weathered and lean. Crows feet radiated from the narrow crimson eyes, his iron grey hair was pulled up into a top knot. There was a riot of faded markings, tattoos or maybe scars, that ran down one side of his face. He was not dressed in armour, but instead some kind of earthen coloured robe, held in place by a bright red sash around the waist.

"Begging your forgiveness, sir. I was told I could meet someone here, someone who's been causing trouble for the Stormcloaks." The crimson eyes of the Dunmer flicked to the doorway and then back to Snorri, ascertaining whether or not he had come alone. After a few second he seemed to decide that the Nord was not a threat, for he returned the blade to his lap.

"Might be you could, sera, might be you could." The old Dunmer set the lute to one side and shifted over slightly, opening up space on the floor cushions next to him, patting it with one hand. "Come sit with an old mer, do you drink Matze?"

The Dunmer didn't wait for an answer, but immediately began to pour a small drinking bowl full of steaming alcohol from a stoneware jar set upon the hearth. He passed it to Snorri and stared at him expectantly, with some trepidation he took a sip. The warmed alcohol was pungent, stronger than he had expected too, and though it initially tasted sweet there was an an underlying... saltiness? to it. It must have shown on his face for the next thing the old mer said was:

"Fermented saltrice is an... acquired.... taste I suppose, more for me then." The Dunmer refilled his own drinking bowl and knocked it back in one fluid motion. "So, just who do you think you are looking for, sera? Perhaps I might know them."

Snorri paused for a moment, should he tell the story to this stranger? What if he had made some mistake and this was not the right elf? But how many armed musician dark elves could there be in one corner club? He decided to speak.

"The man I work for, he has friends in the Gray Quarter, recently some of them told him an interesting story."

"Well, I am a fan of stories, please continue." The Dunmer interrupted, filling both of their cups again.

"The story goes that there was a ship between loaded at the Windhelm docks last week, a ship that was loaded under the cover of darkness, and with a great many guards surrounding it. This was because it had an somewhat, unsavoury, cargo. Dunmer, in irons, being taken from the Windhelm gaol to put be put to work in a mine up North."

"A sad story, I have heard other tales like it before."

"Indeed it has happened before, but this time things went differently."

"Oh really?" The old Dunmer's eyes lit up, there was something of a playful look in them. He sipped at the drink in his hand, looking supremely at ease.

"Yes, the ship departed before dawn with its living cargo, but it never reached the mines. They found it wrecked near the mouth of the White River, broken on a reef. The guards were dead, but the shackles were empty."

"How mysterious."

"So thought my employer, until a mutual friend found one of the Dunmer who had been chained up on the deck, she had an interesting story to tell too. She saw a someone walking on the water, not the ice floes, the water itself and come climb aboard. They killed the guards by stealth with their spear and short sword, and then freed the prisoners, healing their wounds as they went."

"Sounds like a generous fellow, dangerous though perhaps too."

"Indeed... she had one last thing to say. He wore a masked helmet, but she caught a glimpse of his neck. There was a tattoo there, one she recognised, an Armiger's tattoo she called it. They look somewhat similar to yours, apparently."

There was no reaction from him, the Dunmer just stared back Snorri, hands folded neatly in his lap. Snorri became acutely aware of the curved short sword that still sat there, blade bare, easily within reach, and he himself easily within its striking distance. He swallowed nervously. Finally the old mer said something:

"Well... it seems you've found who you seek. Now, what do you want?"

It was now or never, this is what he had came here to do. This is what this whole expedition to the Gray Quarter was about, finding the man who had attacked one of Ulfric's prison barges and set all the Dunmer aboard free. Now he knew that he was sitting opposite the one who had done just that. He had to answer him.

"Your help, against the Tyrant Ulfric Stormcloak."

For the first time since he had sat down, the old Dunmer cracked a wide smile, before throwing his head back and laughing loudly.

"Gladly, Muthsera. The name is Velyn Virith."

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

How do you forget?

29th of Last Seed, 4E14.

He had been on his way to pray when the youth had accosted him.

It had become Velyn's habit to pray every evening at the makeshift temple that some of his people had erected on the edge of the refugee camps at Cheydinhal. The shrine was at the top of the sloping road that left the eastern gate and led to the ruins of Fort Farragut, before then winding its way onwards through the Velothi Mountains, to the star wounded East, to Morrowind, to home.

To reach the shrine from the city proper you had to walk through the entirety of the camp, something the good law abiding imperial folk who lived inside of the walls were increasingly fearful to do. When the Dunmer had first arrived to squat outside their city, many thought it would not be for long, the ashes of the Red Year would pass and the camps would empty when stability returned to their own lands. They had not counted on the war, of course, no one had. As the years dragged on more and more had arrived, and those that stayed built more permanent shelters, until a great slum sprawled east of the city, like some kind of cancerous tumour, clinging to its host.

That's how they see us now. Parasites. Tumours. Filth. When once we walked in the company of Gods.

But even Velyn realised that was a long time ago now.

He was not dressed in his armour. He had the coin still for a room in the city, one with a stout door and lock, so Velyn had left the majority of his equipment there. Only the curved short sword, his Wakizashi, did he wear in the colourful waist sash that held his robes in place against the breeze. That same breeze played through his dark hair, spiky and uneven, so recently shorn. The evening sun caught one side of his fine featured face, warming the dun coloured skin, light glinting off of the golden studs and rings pierced in his pointed ears. The other side of his face however, was cast in deep shadow, obscured in darkness. That must of be why he called to Velyn, he had not seen the Armiger Tattoos.

"Muthsera! Do you need company for tonight? The nights grow colder, and I could keep you warm. A septim for just a touch, five if you want my mouth or below. You have a place in the camp? There's a clean bedroll in my tent if not, we can go there if you have the coin."

He was a vulgar thing, younger than Velyn himself. Shirtless and half starved, with mess of rust coloured hair pushed over to one side. A gauzy piece of cheap fabric was wrapped around him, as if to make him more enticing. There were bruises on his face, and a cut to the lip. The orphans of the camps looked to earn money in many ways, prostitution often chief amongst them.

He was vulgar and young, and dirty, but in that moment he looked at Velyn like he wanted him. And Velyn wanted to be wanted. He knew that it was just another lie, but Velyn was more than used to those by now. Strange, how he had adored and delighted in them once. Lies to him had once been entangled with Love, but now they only seemed to herald pain and betrayal.

"I... I thank you, but I think not." Velyn turned his head to the speak to the boy, the red sunset spilling over both sides of his face as he did so, illuminating the markings that he wore. "May your Ancestors guide you, sera."

Besides, how could he compare? How could anyone ever compare? There will never be another, I will never bathe in that Love again.

He turned to continue his journey to the top of the hill, and the business that awaited him there, thinking that was the last of it. But the boy was not finished. He called out again, this time his tone was less inviting.

"I know you, your face. I know those... you were an Armiger. One of Vivec's."

Velyn stopped in his tracks. Few had commented on the marks he bore since he had left Morrowind, the Imperials knew nothing of them, and most of the Dunmer here the camps... they what things to leave unsaid. An servant of the temple in exile from Morrowind, hair shorn, striped of their regalia, could only mean one thing: disgrace. He swallowed, and answered:

"I... I still am."

At first the youth said nothing. Since Velyn had walked further up the hill their places were reversed now, Velyn squinted into the sun, and the boy was silhouetted in the shadows it cast. He could read nothing from that silent that black oval.

"I came from the Canton of St. Olms, my mother was there when the Ministry fell. I hate the Tribunal, I hate that bastard, Vivec, and I hate you too."

The boy spat at the ground, phlegm congealing into the dust beside his bare blacked feet. They stared at each other for a moment. But Velyn realised he had nothing to say in return, nothing that would help either of them. So he said nothing, and turned away again, to walk up to the top of the hill.

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The shrine was as simple as could be. An open clearing of flat hard packed dirt that was swept clean by those who still held faith. There was a rainwater trough to wash in, a sunken pit for the burning of the dead and three wooden posts, rough carvings of the Holy Tribunal on each side.

Velyn washed his hands and feet with the cold water in the trough first, towelling them off with a rag thoughtfully left under an upturned bucket. Then he wet his forehead and went to the ash pit, dipping one finger tip in the remains of the Holy Ancestors it contained. He made the triangle signs of the ALMSIVI, touching himself lightly on each shoulder before anointing himself with blessed ash, smearing a line of it down between his brows. He was ready.

He unfurled the woven prayer mat he had slung over one shoulder and set it before the altar of his Lord, who's sphere is Mastery and who rules the Middle Airs, Vekh and Vekh, the Warrior-Poet. Vivec. Knelt upon the floor, face pressed into ground, he began to pray, quietly chanting the words of the Seven Graces.

<sub>"Thank you for your valour, Lord Vivec. I shall not quail, nor turn away, but face my enemies and my fear."

Thank you for your daring, Lord Vivec. I shall not shun risk, nor hide behind the mask of cautious counsel, for fortune favours the bold."

"Thank you for your justice, Lord Vivec. I shall be neither cruel nor arbitrary, for fair dealing earns the love, trust, and respect of our people."

Thank you for your courtesy, Lord Vivec. I shall speak neither hurtful nor harsh word, but shall speak respectfully, even of my enemies, for temperate words may turn aside anger."

"Thank you for your pride, Lord Vivec. I shall not doubt myself, or my people, or my gods, and shall insist upon them, and my ancient rights.

"Thank you for your generosity, Lord Vivec. I shall neither hoard nor steal, nor encumber myself with profitless treasures, but shall share freely among house and hearth."

"Thank you for your humility, Lord Vivec. I shall neither strut nor preen in vanity, but shall know and give thanks for my place in the greater world."</sub>

When the prayer had finished Velyn sat there, waiting. Waiting to feel it, something, anything.

Nothing.

He turned his face upwards to the altar and saw what had been done to it. The simple carving of the face of his Lord had been cut out, someone had taken a hatchet to the wood and left it a splintered mess. The doubled sigil of Vekh was crossed out, a new name had been carved below it in its stead. Mephala, the Webspinner, the Reclamation.

Silently, tears began to fall from his eyes.

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It was dark by the time Velyn made his way back down the hill. The camp was quiet in the night, there were few lights on, and only the faintest sounds of murmured conversation coming from the shelters and tents. But as he reached the same spot as before, a figured called out to him in the darkness. His hand went to blade at his side, before the heard the words and realised who it was.

"Muthsera! Do you need company for tonight?"

It was him again, the same young catamite from before, still out plying is trade on the pitch black hillside path, still looking for someone to share the night with. Just as Velyn was still looking for... well, something. They were both lost orphans now, desperately in need, of comfort, or sustenance. Velyn hated that thought. He cut him off before he could finish the rehearsed speech of how much it would cost to fuck him any which way.

"You don't want me. I'm the one from before, the Armiger. You hate me, remember?" The words were unkind, bitter.

The was a pause, before boy burst out into laughter in response. It was a high pitched giggle, slightly unhinged and delirious.

"Did I say that, sera? I do not hate you, not anymore, I have forgotten it all. Come, spend the night with me, a septim to touch, five if you want to do more."

Velyn was dumbstruck. There was no venom in that voice anymore. The hatred was gone. The bitter pain he had heard there when this orphan had laid the tragedy of his life at the feet of Vivec was gone. How could that be? How could he just forget? Because Velyn couldn't forget, as much as he wanted to. He wanted to forget the ache he felt in his soul, the gaping hole in felt in his chest. He didn't want to feel it anymore, the betrayal, the abandonment, the loss. He would trade it all, even the memory of Love, if he didn't have to feel that way anymore.

"How? How can you forget? How do you forget it? Please..." His voice shook as he spoke, he could feel the tears welling his eyes again.

"You want to forget? I can show you sera, come with me and I'll show you... as long as you have the coin?" Velyn nodded in response, and the boy held out in hand to him, gingerly he took it. It felt warm.

He led him through the maze of the slums that butted up against the city walls, leaping over makeshift gutters and squeezing between lean-tos and shanties, practically skipping as they went. Twisting and turning, ever deeper and deeper, where no self-respecting Imperial would go, where no guards ever dared to venture. And then suddenly they were out of the maze and standing in front of an tent, larger than its neighbours, from which inside of which a dim light emitted. There was also a smell... strangely sweet.

"We are here, sera." The boy said, letting go of his hand. "Bring out you coin, you have to pay the sugar-cat." He reached over to the tent flap and held it open for him, inviting him into the dim space beyond. Velyn stepped inside.

Inside, the tent was divided up into smaller alcoves by hanging blankets. There were more blankets and old pillows strewn across the floor. The light came from a few paltry lanterns, the smell from the clouds of smoke that seemed to emerge from alcoves that were occupied. Next to the entranced there was a hulking figure sat on a stool. They looked up as Velyn and the boy entered. It was a Khajiit, their eyes glowed unnaturally in the half darkness as they caught the light of the lanterns. One of their ears had been torn off, and they wore a spiked cudgel at his side.

"Back so soon young Salas? And who is this one you have brought with you?" The large muscled Khajiit purred at them, revealing a smile of sharp yellowed teeth.

"He wants to forget, and he has coin enough for two." The smile on the Khajiit's face grew wider, they named a price, and Velyn handed the Septims over. He had come too far now to turn back.

The cat led them into the back of the tent, past alcoves full of men and women, some in groups, most alone. A few of them were laughing like Salas had earlier. Some of them looked like they were sleeping. One of them was weeping uncontrollably. In each of the alcoves there was one constant, a small contraption, like two bottles with a candle suspended between them, connected by a series of pipes and tubes. These were water-pipes, used for smoking.

This was a Skooma den.

The Khajiit sat them down in an empty alcove upon some dirty floor cushions. There was a unlit pipe on the floor between him and Salas. The Khajiit got to work, deftly kindled a candle and slotted it into the pipe, explaining as they did so.

"It heats the sweet sugar syrup in the upper chamber, this one pulls the fumes down into the water bowl, to cool them, and then the breathe the smoke through this pipe. This one understand yes?" He shook his head mutely. "Young Salas can show you how it is done."

Finally they pulled a vial out from a pocket of his waist coat and measured out several drops of thick viscous liquid into the smaller upper chamber. The cat smiled one last time, and pulled away, closing the curtain behind them. They were all alone now. Sitting in darkness but for the light of candle that heated the Skooma pipe. Velyn waited for Salas to make a move, but the boy just gestured to the pipe, a hazy smile on his face.

"You first, sera. It's your coin."

"I don't know... How... how do I?" He laughed at that.

"Let me show you."

He reached out and took the long mouthpiece of the pipe and sucked on it, making the water in the lower half bubble away, drawing the fumes through the water and into his mouth. All the time his eyes, half glazed half sultry, never left Velyn. Did he want him? Did he want only this? Did it matter? The prostitute leaned over, so that their faces were close, almost touching.

"Open wide." He whispered.

His lips planted against Velyn's, and he breathed the smoke into his mouth.

As he took it down into his lungs, the bitterness began to fade away, replaced by something... sweet.

Velyn laughed.

And began to forget.

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

So Many Dunmer

TDAC#4 - Voting and Feedback

My vote also goes to 'purple', the lovely purple jellyfish.

What Are You Listening To?

This isn't working out: Part 2

@Kassarock Do you have the same opinion on movies and media that use ancient aliens as a trope like Prometheus, or is it just the 'work' that tries to be taken seriously?

@POOHEAD189

I don't particularly enjoy it in fiction either, but I hate it less. Prometheus bothers me less because so much of it takes place in the future in space, though the ideas behind it aren't great. On the other hand I fucking hate films like 10,000 BC when its just a free for all of ridiculous non-sensical ahistorical crap blended together for the entire run time. Although technically it wasn't aliens in that one, it was just white Atlanteans building the Pyramids of Giza several thousand years too early.

This isn't working out: Part 2

Right so I said I had something for this and I'll give a specific example, but really this goes for all types of this book.

My auto 'nope' book would be Chariots of the Gods? Unsolved Mysteries of the Past by Erich von Däniken. The wider genre of 'nope' books is basically all pseudo archaeological crap about ancient highly advanced civilisations, and especially anything with ancient aliens. The reason I chose Chariots of the Gods specifically is because this 1968 work by convicted fraudster Erich von Däniken is really the one that launched the whole 'Ancient Aliens' phenomenon as we know it.

Why do I hate ancient alien stuff so much? Well partly because its pseudo archaeological crap perpetrated by fraudsters to wring money out of gullible idiots. But there's a much dark under current to a lot of this work. Grahame Hancock repackages Anti-Semitic conspiracy theories and the archaeological theories popularised by the Third Reich for a modern audience. A lot of Ancient Alien hypothesises attempt to undermine the idea that complex society could not evolve on its own in places like Pre-Columbian America or Ancient Africa, feeding into really quite racist ideologies about the people who inhabited these places.

Basically its wrong, a lot the ideas behind it are kinda fucking gross, and if I catch you reading that shit the only relationship I will be having with you is an extremely long argument.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

I present to you my sad, drug addict, gay samurai.

Velyn Virith

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Velyn Virith

Original Art by Minttu ____________________________________________________ Character Information Name - Velyn Virith of House Redoran Gender - Male Race - Dunmer Age - 36, born 3rd of Sun's Dawn, 3E412 Faction - House Redoran (former), Buoyant Armigers (former) Class - Spellsword Birthsign - The Lady ____________________________________________________ Skills and Attributes Major: Agility Minor: Personality Expert: Spear Adept: Light Armour, Speech, Acrobatics Apprentice: Sneak, Short Blade, Alteration ____________________________________________________ Spells Alteration Shield, an arcane shield that protects the user from harm. Water Breathing, the ability to breath underwater. Water Walking, the ability to walk upon the surface of water. Slowfall, the ability to float instead of falling. ____________________________________________________ Character Equipment Weapons Chitin Glaive, fashioned in the traditional Dumner style. Twinned Steel Wakizashi and Tanto, worn at the waist. Armour Full set of Light Dunmeri Chitin Armour. Enchanted Items The Chitin Glaive bears a minor flame enchantment on its blade. Miscellaneous Red Travelling Cloak. Kagouti Hide Travelling Pack. Spare Clothing. Paper Lantern. Few Days Rations. Jar of Sujamma, a potent liquor of Morrowind. Dunmeri Lute, similar to a Shamisen. Skooma Pipe. Three Vials of Skooma. Books and Scrolls, mostly the teachings and poetry of Vivec. Carved Guar Tooth Amulet, containing Ancestral Ashes. ____________________________________________________

A P P E A R A N C E Velyn Virith is a young male Dunmer. The Dunmer age slower than their human counterparts after they reach physical maturity, and hence he has a touch of boyish youth about him still, despite having seen three decades. He is of an average height, but slender and long limbed, with the lithe musculature of a dancer or acrobat. The comparison is even more apt when you see him in move, his steps are light and quick, his motions fluid and graceful, at least they are when he is sober. His face is handsome, the features sharp and angular like many of his kind, but not to the point of harshness, the bloom of youth softens them still. The skin is ashen grey, the narrow eyes blood red, between them sits a high aquiline nose that leads to a lightly arched brow. There's something sad about those eyes, when caught unguarded, the look in them verges between desperate hunger and utter despondency. But there's another look they take on too, with increasing regularity these days, the glazed half aware stare of the skooma addict. Ceremonial Dunmer tattoos mark his face and body. A scarab sits on his throat and neck, it curves up to cup his jaw, its forelegs peaking out onto the point of his chin. A pattern of waves adorns his left cheek, it marks him as one of the Buoyant Armigers and curves up from the side of his neck to caress the side of his high wide cheekbone. He wears the Hand of the ALMSIVI Tribunal over his heart, and a depiction of a seated figure, flames about their head, on his back. When they cast him out from the Temple, he cut his hair free of the topknot its warriors wore. The shorn locks have grown since then and they now hang around his face once more in loose black strands. Through the dark hairs you can make out his pointed ears, from which dangle a few golden rings, several empty holes indicate they were once adorned with many more than are currently on display. Other than the chitinous armour and the red cloak that wraps around it to keep out the ash of his homeland, Velyn has few clothes with him. That which he does own are of fine quality, rich in colour, but poorly maintained and cared for, near threadbare in places. Around his slender neck hangs a carved pendant or amulet, a hollowed out Guar tooth sealed with resin, containing a fragment of the ashes from the funerary pits of his family's ancestral tomb. P E R S O N A L I T Y What is remains when a person has nothing left to believe in? One of the many answers to that question, is Velyn Virith. Like a ship thrown against the rocks, or a tower built on unstable foundations, he finds himself tumbling down and shattered into a thousand pieces. All that he thought he knew and loved is gone, and in its absence nothing makes sense to him anymore. From the swirling chaos of his doubt and despair, pieces of who Velyn Virith once was sometimes emerge. He is still exceptionally courteous in his speech, stringing words together like poet, in either Imperial Common or his native Dumeris. He writes little, but some nights he still plays the lute he brought with him when he left Morrowind. In the darkness, he sings to the slow sad music, keening ballads that echo with wails of lost lovers and sundered hearts. When he fights he is reckless, fighting with no shield, and with his head bare. He often allows his opponents to strike the first blow, a long standing tradition of the honour duels of the Dunmer people, especially of the Redorans. While perhaps a noble sentiment in the honour bound house Velyn hails from, on the battlefield it is a foolhardy tactic, one that will likely end up getting him killed one day. He does not seem to care. He still says that he wishes to fight for what is good and noble, that he cares about protecting the common people, and living up to the ideals of his faith. But there is no passion to those words, they are learned by rote. To Velyn, gallantry is a routine, he does it because he does not know what else to do. Velyn is not unfriendly, but neither does he pursue any form of closeness to the other rebels he finds himself associated with, content to wait out his time alone in between their battles. If approached he is companionable enough, if not for the somewhat bitter edge to what passes as his humour. He still laughs at lot, frequently at himself, but not in a pleasant way. There's something harsh about it, as if he considers himself the butt of some great and terrible joke. The only time his spirits truly seem to lift is when the sweet smelling smoke of Skooma hangs in the air around his tent and on his threadbare clothes. Those nights he does not play or sing, he prefers to lie insensate, and dream of times long gone. In truth the emotion he most commonly seems to elicit in others is a mixture of pity and disgust. Pity because who does not know the feelings of loss and heartbreak. Disgust because Velyn seems to have given himself over to wallowing in such feelings. All of his pain, all of his loss, his doubt, his yearning, his love, and his grief can be found in one word, one name, one letter written in uncertainty. Vivec.

_{H I S T O R Y}

Velyn Virith was born on Vvardenfell on the third day of Sun's Dawn in the four hundred and twelfth year of the Third Era. He was the son of Theldyn Virith, Kinsman to the Great House Redoran, Hetman of the fishing port of Ald Velothi. Most of Velyn's childhood was spent between the Redoran district capital of Auld'ruhn and his family's ancestral estates in the West Gast. Like his brothers and cousins, he was bonded to his house from birth, and was expected to follow in his father's footsteps as another proud Redoran warrior, but fate had other plans for Velyn Virith.

He couldn't have been more than five, perhaps six, when the course of his life was irrevocably changed. His father had business with a clan of fellow Redoran nobles, the Saren clan of the city of Vivec, and he brought young Velyn with him on the long journey down to the greatest city on Vvardenfell. While his father conducted his business, he left young Velyn with a retainer to show the young boy the sights of the city.

It happened the second morning they were there, as he passed over one of the high bridges that linked the upper plazas of the cantons. A crowd had come out to line the waterways, and being a curious young child, Velyn pushed his way through to the railings to witness the cause of the excitement.

A regatta was being held on the grand canal. Barges of beaten gold, wreathed with floral garlands, floated upon the shimmering waters. The oars of each barge were manned by a host beautiful maidens and comely youths. Groups of troubadours and musicians filled the air with the sound of lutes, and pipes, and drums. From the gilded decks, knights clad in iridescent glass laughed and sang as they threw roses to the adorning crowds. And there, hovering above them all, a seated figure, half gold, smiling, and radiating the light of Heaven itself.

This was the first time Velyn saw a God. He vowed that day that it would not be the last.

He would not forget what he saw that day. On the long journey by strider back to their home it was all he could think about. He wanted to live in that light, and bathe himself in its warmth. The Redorans were one of the more pious of the Dunmer Great Houses, but even amongst them, Velyn's single minded dedication to the faith and in particular to Lord Vivec, struck many of his kinsmen as being unusual.

As soon as he was old enough he pledged himself as novice to the Temple, the first step in what he thought would be a lifetime spent in that glorious light. Once he had proved himself in feats of arms, exhibitions of arts, and generosity of alms, Velyn was apprenticed into the Buoyant Armigers. That order of iridescent knights he had glimpsed upon those gilded barges many years ago.

But the he order in found himself in was somewhat different from how he had imagined it. In those days the fear of the Sharmat hung over Vvardenfell, and recently the ALMSIVI had receded from the outside world. Rather than spending his time at the side of the Lord he had adored from far, Velyn was dispatched to the fortress of Molag Mar in the magma strewn wastes of Molag Amur. There he began his work as an Armiger, hunting down the blight of the Sharmat, slaying Sixth House Cultist and Corpus Monsters.

That was the year that the Nerevarine returned, and by his hand, the fall of the Dagoth Ur. There was upheaval in the wake on St. Nerevar's return, the amnesty on the Dissident priests, the events in Mournhold where it was rumoured that the Tribunes Sotha Sil and Almalexia were both slain. To many it was a time of uncertainty and fear. But to Velyn those few years were glorious.

Vvardenfell was freed from the threat of the Sharmat and his monsters, and Velyn's Lord was freed from his ancient duty of maintaining the Ghost Fence. For those precious few years Velyn bathed in the light of his Lord. There was time for music and poetry in those years. There was time for dancing, and nights where they would join their Lord in rituals that had been long neglected. It was in those years that Velyn learned the secrets of carnal exultation, it was everything Velyn had ever dreamed of.

And then it was over.

It was when the Gates of Oblivion opened that everything began to go wrong. Portals opened up across Morrowind, and Tamriel beyond. The Imperials sat behind the walls of their fortresses, on the mainland some even marched back through the passes of the Velothi Mountains to defend Cyrodil while Morrowind burned. The Armigers were dispatched to keep the city of Vivec safe from Daedric incursions. The city held, but elsewhere the situation was dire.

In Ald'ruhn, where Velyn had spent much of his childhood, where he had first served as a temple novice, the fighting was the worst. The city was practically destroyed, its defenders going so far as to resurrect the great Emperor Crab Skar, demolishing the council halls and manors of their most powerful citizens in the process. Once the city of Vivec was secure Velyn had fought his way north to meet up with a Redoran army from the mainland. But they too late. By the time they arrived there was little left by corpses and rubble.

Theldyn Virith, his father, was among the dead. Velyn was left to burn his body and make sure his ashes were interned with his ancestors.

In all this madness there was no sign of Lord Vivec, the Living God had disappeared around the time the Crisis. There was no sign of the Nerevarine either, who it was rumoured had travelled to the continent of Akavir. The people of Morrowind did their best to pick up the pieces, and rebuild their shattered lives and cities, Velyn was amongst them. For though their Lord had disappeared, though his father was dead, Velyn had the support of the Temple and of his sworn brothers. That was enough.

Besides, Velyn could not forget what it meant to see a God in all their glory. He never would. So he kept his faith, as best he could.

Those were trying years for Morrowind, there was fighting amongst the houses as the Hlaalu lost their place of preeminent and were expelled from the Grand Council. Imperial authority collapsed with the lack of an Emperor on the throne. While the Dunmer simultaneously tried to rebuild and fought amongst themselves, an even greater threat loomed. One that had been hanging over them for a long time.

Baar Dau, the Ministry of Truth, Lie Rock. It had floated above the City of Vivec for millennia, suspended there by the Living God himself and held in place by his power and the faith of people who lived beneath. But it appeared the Crisis, the deaths of the Tribunes, and the disappearance of the God had weakened that faith. In truth, those years were first where Velyn felt his own waver. Sometimes at night he wonders if he too is partly to blame for what happened when Baar Dau fell.

He had not been in the city. If he had, he would not be here today. The Palace and High Fane were directly beneath the impact, none who were there survived. Instead Velyn was at the Armiger's fortress at Molag Mar. All they saw was a burning light on the horizon, a terrible shaking in the ground, and the roaring hot winds of the blast wave when it finally reached them. It was only when that the mountain had answered with ash and fire, filling the Foyadas with lava and trapping them in their stronghold.

When boats from the mainland finally reached them he had tried to go to the city to search for survivors. They had told him there was no point, the city was gone and waters where it had once stood boiled. They call it Scathing Bay now. He had thought then to try to reach Ghostgate, to find the other chapter of their order, but that fortress had sat upon the Foyada Mamaea, and had been incinerated in the eruption. So, with no other option, he had gone to the mainland.

It was a good thing that he had, for soon the mainland would have need of every warrior Morrowind could provide. In the moment of their greatest ever weakness the Argonians invaded. The lizard men sacked every city they came upon, even as the ash and fire rained down still. No where was spared, not even Mournhold, a holy city of the Tribunal and the capital of all Morrowind. The jewel of their province which had somehow miraculously escaped the ravages of the Red Year was reduced to another smoking ruin.

That's what Morrowind was those days, a land of smoking ruins, refugees, warfare, and death.

And somehow, Velyn kept his faith.

He fought with his sworn brothers, with his fellow Redorans, with anyone who would defend Morrowind. Perhaps that's what allowed him to keep his faith, he had no time to think about what was happening around him, he was too busy trying to survive. So went on as he always had done, being an Armiger, doing his deeds of Love and War in the name of his Lord, Vivec.

The war was terrible and it was long. The Argonians made it as far East and North as Port Telvannis, they even made it onto Vvardenfell itself. Their armies fell most heavily on the Dres and the Telvannis, but no where was truly safe from their wrath. Over the years more and more of his brothers fell, but the Redoran led armies slowly routed the Argonian warbands from much of their lands. Mournhold was recovered, even if it was a ruin, and new fortified borders and lines of defence were drawn up between these two new independent powers.

Suddenly there wasn't anymore fighting to be done. So Velyn went back to the Temple. Only to find there was no Temple for him to go back to.

While he had been away at the front, the balance of power in the Temple had changed dramatically. With the loss of the traditional centres of orthodox Temple power, Vivec and Mournhold, there were new Archcanons at the head of the faith, and they had very different ideas about the status of the Old Tribunal. The Dissident Priests and the New Temple, as it later came to be called, had emerged triumphant from the rubble of their nation and they decried Vivec as a false god.

He should have just accepted it. The evidence was plain enough, Vivec had not protected them, and he was gone. But Velyn couldn't forget. He couldn't forget what it was to see a God in the flesh. To see the light of Heaven itself. To touch it.

Velyn kept his faith. And won himself exile for it.

Bereft of his Lord, his Land, and his Love, it was only then that Velyn finally broke.

Spurned from the homeland he had fought for, he fled to Cyrodil, following in the footsteps of countless Dunmer refugees across the Velothi Mountains. There he found a province also lost to chaos and war as the Stormcrown Interregnum unfolded. In the camps outside of Cheydinhal he fell into low company and discovered something which could take away the pain that felt in every waking moment. Skooma.

He frittered away what money he had left, when it was gone he began to sell his possessions. When he started to run out of things to sell he began to offer his services in exchange for a fix. That was first time he had killed in cold blood, without a higher purpose, in those days he was little more than drug addled thug. He acted without the Will of Love.

He left Cheydinhal when he argued with a dealer over a payment he had been owed, it became physical, and when the dust had settled the other man was dead. Velyn took every vial the man had on him and ran. It was no longer safe for him in camps there, so he decided to go overland to Bravil, where he had heard Skooma was cheap and plentiful. That had been the main concern on Velyn's mind at the time.

Going overland to Bravil however, meant travelling by Skingrad.

There were always refugees on the road, looking for somewhere safe, so he had travelled on the edge of convoy. He had not truly been a part of them, but when a patrol of the Count's men fell upon the refugees he found himself unable to turn away. These were cruel men, who subjected the weak and desperate to harassment and depravity to satisfied their own base needs. In that moment Velyn had felt some old instinct reawaken in him, and before he had fully known what he was doing, the bloody tip of his spear was protruding through the chest of one of the soldiers.

Singlehanded he had slaughtered the patrol, taking a few grievous wounds in the process. Many of the refugees fled the scene, only a few remained to tell the band of rebels who emerged from the woods what had happened. They took the wounded Dunmer in and nursed him back to some degree of health.

That was how Velyn Virith met Isobel Aurelia.

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S̴T̴O̴R̴M̴C̴L̴O̴A̴K̴ : Rise of Tyranny (SHELVED, PM or DM me for inquiry.)

Velyn Virith

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V E L Y N V I R I T H

Original Art by Minttu ____________________________________________________ Character Information Name - Velyn Virith of House Redoran Gender - Male Race - Dunmer Faction - House Redoran (former), Buoyant Armigers (former) Class - Spellsword Birthsign - The Lady ____________________________________________________ Character Skills Martial Velyn is a skilled martial combatant with both the use of the spear and the short blade. His fighting style is fast and agile, using lighter armour to prioritise speed over protection. Though age saps his strength and agility, Velyn more than makes up for that in hundreds of years of martial experience. Magical Though some Buoyant Armigers were once great users magic, Velyn is not among their ranks. He understands the basics of magical practice but is no expert. He has some small skill in the schools of Restoration and Alteration. The Healing of Sick was a core tenant of the Tribunal Temple, and all those who served it learned something of the restorative arts. He also learned some of the tricks of the Buoyant Armigers, such as water breathing and walking, as well as the art of magically shielding the body in combat. Miscellenous In his youth Velyn was a fine acrobat, but such exertions are much beyond him now, he still however retains a soft tread and an excellent balance. Velyn's other great skill has only increased with age, his eloquent speech. Velyn has increasingly dedicated himself to the study and creation of poetry in his later years. ____________________________________________________ Character Equipment Weapons Chitin Glaive, fashioned in the traditional Dumner style. Twinned Steel Wakizashi and Tanto, worn at the waist. Armour Worn Chitin Armour, much patched and repaired. Enchanted Items Amulet of Fortify Stamina, made from a carved Guar tooth. The Chitin Glaive also bears a minor flame enchantment. Miscellaneous Ragged Red Travelling Cloak. Spare Bundle of Clothing. A Few Days of Rations. Jar of Matze, a rice wine from Morrowind. Ceramic Drinking Cups. Patterned Fabric Bedroll. Paper Lantern. Incense burner with Fragant Incense. Dunmeri Lute, similar to a Shamisen. Books and Scrolls, mostly the teachings and poetry of Vivec. ____________________________________________________

A P P E A R A N C E Velyn Virith is an elderly male Dunmer, well into his third century. Despite his venerable age he is not frail or decrepit, he stands tall and straight still, thin with age and hard living, but possessing wiry strength and cultivated grace to his movements. The way Velyn moves is like a dancer, with light quick steps, but he carried himself with all the confidence and surety of a warrior. When his face is hidden beneath his chitinous helm, he could pass for a mer more than half his age. Velyn's face, however, shows the truth of his age. His sharp angular features are lined and wrinkled, crows feet radiate out from the corners of his narrow blood red eyes. The ceremonial tattoos and scars of his young are pale and faded. The dark hair pulled back into his high topknot is so threaded with grey that they now outnumber the black. In his youth, Velyn would have been considered handsome, and he still retains a element of refined dignity in his appearance to this day. A sign of his former vanity can be seen the golden jewellery than hangs from his pointed ears. When not dressed in the worn and patchwork chitin armour that he wraps in a tattered crimson cloak, Velyn prefers to dress in the many hued and patterned fabrics of his homeland, instead of the local Nord furs. He does however, often wear multiple layers, with long robes over his normal clothing. The cold gets into his bones and aching joints these days. P E R S O N A L I T Y Velyn is a mer who has been through many trials and tribulations in his life, trials that have had him question his faith and own decisions. As Lord Vivec once cautioned the Hortator Saint Nerevar, beware the wrong walking path. Velyn's path has been one of struggle, soaked in blood, beset with Violence. But it is only through Violence that one might reach Heaven. And so Velyn Virith is at peace. But his frequent philosophical ruminations do not mean he is dour or dull, far from it in fact. Velyn is an eloquent conversationalist, a skilled orator, poet and musician. He enjoys performing and entertaining, and like all entertainers he enjoys a stiff drink shared with good company. At times like these his wry sense of humour becomes increasingly apparent, as well as a somewhat rakish and flirtatious side to old Knight Errant. Ultimately, however, he views distractions of the flesh as just that, distractions, despite the allure they sometimes still hold for him. There are only two things Velyn truly cares about, aiding those in need of his assistance, and carving his own path to Heaven. H I S T O R Y Velyn Virith was born on Vvardenfell in the year 3E412. He was a younger son of Theldyn Virith, Kinsman to the Great House Redoran. Growing up, most of his childhood was spent between the Redoran district capital of Auld'ruhn and his family's ancestral estates in the West Gast near the port of Auld Velothi. Like his brothers and cousins, he was expected to join his father's house as another proud Redoran warrior, but fate had other plans for Velyn Virith. Once, while visiting the great city of Vivec as a child, Velyn witnessed a regatta being held on the grand canal. Barges of beaten gold, wreathed with garlands, floated upon the shimmering waters, oars manned by beautiful maidens and comely youths. From the decks, knights clad in iridescent glass laughed and sang as they threw roses to the watching crowd. And hovering above them all, a seated figure, half gold, smiling, and radiating the light of heaven itself. This was the first time Velyn saw a God, and he vowed that day, that it would not be the last. As soon as he was old enough he pledged himself as novice to the Tribunal Temple, and then to be apprenticed by the Armigers once he had proved his worth. In those days the fear of Sharmat hung over Vvardenfell, and the ALMSIVI receded from the outside world, but Velyn did not forget what it meant to see a God in all their glory. He never would.

Velyn kept his faith, his love for his Lord Vivec, even after the deaths of the other Triunes. When the gates Oblivion opened and daedra ravaged Morrowind, he kept his faith still. When his Lord disappeared, he kept his faith. When the moons fell from the sky and fires rose up from earth, he kept his faith. When the Argonians invaded and sacked their cities even as the ash and fire rained down still, he kept his faith. He fought though all these terrors as an Armiger, doing his deeds in Love and War in the name of his Lord, Vivec.

And when the New Temple emerged triumphant from the rubble of their nation and proclaimed Vivec was a false god, Velyn kept his faith. And won himself exile for it.

He fled to Cyrodil, following in the footsteps of countless Dunmer refugees, to find a province also lost to chaos and war as chaos of the the Stormcrown Interregnum unfolded. There he joined a group of rebels fighting against the tyrannical count of Skingrad.

These were darkest days of his existence. Bereft of his Lord, his land, and his love, Velyn turned to a darker path. He indulged in unworthy vices and fought not for Love, but rather to die. He was broken in those days, and it would take many years for him to find his true path again and to fight under the Will of Love once more.

He wandered Tamriel for a long time, never truly settling anyway, never truly putting down roots. Over those long years there were companions, friends, lovers, and enemies. But they were all transient. So do were roles at which he played. Sometimes he was a solider and a mercenary, at others a poet, musician, or acrobat. But always was he one thing, a holy man. For above all else, as he wandered, he searched for answers to the questions that still haunted him, the questions that lingered despite his faith.

Why did Vivec leave his people at the time of their greatest need? Why did Vivec allow such terrors to befall the faithful whom he had loved and cherished? And why, why, did his Lord abandon him, his most loyal and adoring of servants?

It took many years for Velyn to come to a conclusion. He consulted great sages and philosophers from across the lands, read the holy books and poets of his Lord countless times. He found an answer, his answer at least, though sometimes he still doubts it himself. But did Vivec not say: Beware the wrong walking path?

Did he not also say: Beware the crime of benevolence?

Chimer were taught to struggle by the Anticipations and Saint Veloth, and they became greater for it, they were changed by it. The Dunmer had prospered under the benevolent rule of the Tribunal, the benevolent rule of his Lord... but now, it seemed they must struggle again. Greater things awaited them still, and only through struggle would they be changed once more.

So Velyn would struggle on his own path, and he would help to teach his kin how to struggle too. Anywhere Dunmer struggled on the path, he would be there to try to teach them how to struggle, how to grow stronger, how to change, how to Reach Heaven by Violence.

This was why Velyn Virith came to Skyrim in the third century of Fourth Era, for it was here, he believed, that the struggle of his people was greatest. If he could teach the Dunmer to walk the path in Skyrim, and struggle their way to greatness, then he might change his whole people, he might change the whole world.

For the ending of the words is ALMSIVI.

And the worlding of the words is AMARANTH.