Kassarock

Is there clearly something wrong with my RP ideas?

Chill your beans, you've only been on the site three days.

ᖴOᖇGOTTEᑎ ᖇEᗩᒪᗰᔕ 🌙 Tales of Deadsnows

Anyone want to interact with Ash at all? I was planning on having him show up the inn now, looking for a room, so he has the potential to bump into Okubo, Vendras and Sanhala (and Marcus, depending on if you wanna get screwy with chronology lol).

ᖴOᖇGOTTEᑎ ᖇEᗩᒪᗰᔕ 🌙 Tales of Deadsnows

@Shu Merciful GM, I leave whether Ash even gets let into Deadsnows in your hands.

I swear I was planning on putting Ash with the rest of the group, but every time I went to write something, I just kept getting drawn back to the idea of him just going full rabbit in the headlights trying to get into the town. So I went with that.

ᖴOᖇGOTTEᑎ ᖇEᗩᒪᗰᔕ 🌙 Tales of Deadsnows

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A S H | D E A D S N O W S | U K T A R 5 T H

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Night had fallen by the time Ash made it to the imposing walls of Deadsnows. He might have gotten there sooner had he not taken the time to admire how the the sun had set across the snow capped peaks of the mountains to the west. Despite the harshness of the land, there was something romantic about it. He had not been in the North for several years, and autumn weather had held off the snows on his journey thus far.

Until now...

The road had been difficult since he had left the comfortable tranquillity of Silverymoon the month before. The twisting route through the Nether Mountains would have been hard enough on its own, without Ash almost being turned away when he had arrived at the gates of Sundabar. The experience had been... disheartening... but it had not dampened his spirits entirely. He had made it to his destination, and he almost felt the hardships had been vindicated by the breath taking views laid out before him.

Of course, there was perhaps, another tiny reason that Ash delayed his first entry into the ancestral home of his mother's family. One that would not go away no matter how studiously he tried to ignore it.

There's a good chance they're not even going to let you in.

He took his eyes off of the dying light and hung his head in his hands, letting out a low drawn out moan.

Ash had talked to enough people on the road to understand that things weren't the best in Deadsnows right now. Food shortages, curfews, trouble with monsters and Gods only know what else, the works. The fact that even more of the travellers he had met on the road had wanted absolutely nothing to do with him and had threatened violence the moment he had gotten to close to them led him guess that unfamiliar armed half-orcs weren't exactly the most popular people in this region of the world.

And now he, an unfamiliar armed half-orc, was trying to enter a not particularly friendly town, full of not particularly friendly people.

At night.

He buried his face deeper into his hands and moaned again slightly louder.

This is a bad idea.

Dejectedly, he raised his gaze up from the trampled snow beneath him, and fixed it towards the thinning stream of people issuing through the gate. He would have to try is luck sooner rather than later, either that or spend the night in Snowtown, dwindling shanty town that existed at the foot of the walls. Perhaps that might even be preferable?

As if in answer to his question, a furry of snowflakes drifted down from the rapidly darkening sky, and the cold wind picked up once more. Ash shivered even beneath the heavy furs of his travelling cloak. It was going to be very, very, cold tonight.

Okay maybe its a better idea than freezing to death.

He sighed one last time and hefted his pack back onto his shoulder, and made his way towards the gates.

As he walked, Ash debated the various different strategies to could employ in order to try and gain entry to Deadsnows. He could try to slip in unnoticed with locals heading in. It was already pretty dark. If he put his hood up and wrapped his scarf around the bottom half of his face, almost no one would be able to tell he was a half-orc unless they looked closely. But if he got discovered it might lead to more questions, than if he just walked up and explained everything and told the guards his story. Perhaps he could come up with an even better story as to why they should let him into the town? But then he'd have to come up with something really quick, and he wasn't much of liar to begin with, and if he got discovered it could be even worse than if he had just tried to go in disguised. Having a hood up and wearing scarf in winter wasn't exactly suspicious, but being caught in the middle of lying to a town guard was definitely suspicious. Perhaps if there was some way that he coul-

Ash had arrived at the gate.

He hadn't come up with a plan yet.

Shit.

There was practically no one at gate anymore, the guards looked like they were ready to close up for the night, and they were staring at Ash.

Ash blinked and stared back. A panicked half smile taking up the bottom half of his face as he nervously tried to find something, anything, to say.

"Umm... Hi, could I... errrr- come in? Maybe?"

ᖴOᖇGOTTEᑎ ᖇEᗩᒪᗰᔕ 🌙 Tales of Deadsnows

Useful tip, you can use the raw link at the top of every post to find out what bbcode devilry has been used to make a post look a certain way.

Also I am working on a post, should be coming today or tomorrow.

ᖴOᖇGOTTEᑎ ᖇEᗩᒪᗰᔕ 🌙 Tales of Deadsnows

Kassarock's character makes me feel like such a noob at writing, I realize 'comparison is the theft of joy' but *wipes brow* let's hope I can measure up

Regardless, thank you Kassarock for your CS, it's given me a few ideas as to how to improve my own

@Rising Dusk

Aw thank you, very kind of you. Although I wouldn't feel any pressure, I honestly think I'm significantly better at writing character sheets than I am at, y'know, actually writing as a character. I'm sure you'll measure up.

Kass's Kharacters

U R K H A S H ' A S H ' S K U L L S P L I T T E R

Original Art by mellifera38 ____________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R I N F O R M A T I O N Name - Urkhash Skullsplitter, goes by Ash. Gender - Male. Race - Half-Orc. Age - 19, born 1476 DR. Height - Short for a Half-Orc, an inch under six feet. Class - Valor Bard. Alignment - Neutral Good. Birth Place - Triboar, Savage Frontier, Northwest Faerun. Languages - Common, Orc, Dwarvish. ____________________________________________________ S K I L L S & A B I L I T I E S Martial While not quite a frontline fighter, Ash can more than hold his own in melee combat. He is relatively proficient in the use of most types weaponry and armour, although he favours the longsword and medium armour. The increased strength and hardiness his orcish blood grants him makes him a tougher opponent than his young age and skill level might suggest. Magical Ash is a magic user, specialising in healing magic and abilities which enhance and inspire others. However, most of these abilities are innate rather than learned, and hence he has a poor theoretical understanding of the arcane arts. In addition, sometimes his control over his magic isn't the best, and it can lash out in surprisingly destructive forms when he is angry, afraid or upset. Miscellaneous Being a bard, Ash is a skilled musician, his preferred instrument being the lute. Despite having some residual shyness and nerves, he is an adequate performer, and his earnest and slightly naive personality makes him hard to say no to. He knows something of surviving the wilds from his time on the roads and in the mountains, but is by no means an expert. ____________________________________________________ S P E L L S Cantrips Blade Ward, True Strike, Thunderclap. First Level Cure Wounds, Healing Word, Heroism, Thunderwave. Second Level Aid, Calm Emotions, Shatter. Third Level Mass Healing Word. ____________________________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T Weapons An ugly looking utilitarian longsword of orcish design with a nicked blade. A plain but finely made elvish dagger. A leather sling, and a pocket full of stones Armour A strange mixture of a Dwarven chain shirt of black iron with hide bracers, furred mittens, and boots with fur wrapping. Miscellaneous Items A hooded fur lined travelling cloak. A battered troubadour's lute. A grey woollen scarf. A hide pack containing several days rations. A waterskin. A flint and steel. A bedroll. A spare set of clothing. A coin purse, containing mostly silver and copper pieces. A golden locket, worn around the neck, and under his clothes. ____________________________________________________

A P P E A R A N C E Half-Orcs have a reputation in the more civilised lands of Faerun as being giant intimidating barbarians, bigger, stronger, and meaner than the vast majority of their human counterparts. Capable of killing their enemies with a single blow and lifting what it would take four lesser men to carry. This is not the case with Ash. Despite his fearsome name of Urktash Skullsplitter, Ash stands at just under six feet tall and is only slightly more bulky than a well developed human. He's still muscular, but, not that strong. Not the whole, lifting trees, throwing boulders, wrestling giants strong that most people think of when they see an Half-Orc adventurer. There's an undeniable level of extra humanness about his features as well. Sure, he might have the grey-green skin that people associate with the rest of his kind, but Ash lacks the porcine or upturned nose that his kin often bear. His brow os light and raised, not the low furrowed masses one normally sees on a Half-Orc. He has a few scars, though none are particularly impressive or noteworthy. And most glaring of all perhaps, were his tusks. Ash's tusks were tiny, diminutive, little things, barely even sharp. Certainly no good for goring people, crushing bones, or splitting skulls. In truth, Ash might be one of the least intimidating Half-Orcs most people will have ever laid eyes upon. He compensates for it perhaps with how he dresses, the blackened armour that he wears across his chest, the crude and heavy longsword that hangs at his side. The traditional orcish nose ring that he wears through his septum and way he shaves the sides of his head. All of these things seem to enhance the 'orcish-ness' of his appearance. And yet... If you were to catch Ash while he was playing in a tavern, or relaxing in private, you would find that he prefers the soft and brightly coloured wools of the pleasant green lands found further south down on the Sword Coast, cut in the styles popular in Waterdeep and its environs. ____________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y People are most often a product of their upbringing and their environment, for better or for worse. Most commonly, people conform to the environment they were raised in, being shaped and moulded by it into the forms that it encourages. Even when someone rebels against how they were raised, or defies their heritage, they are still influenced by these experiences, just in the opposite direction. What then if someone is the product of two different contradictory heritages, environments, and upbringings? What contradictory feelings for conform and rebelling would take seed in their heart? How would they understand their place in the world? These are the questions that trouble Ash Skullsplitter most of all. Ash is a Half-Orc, he has one foot in the civilised world, and one foot in the savage world of the wilds. To some this might seem an advantage, a skill that allows them to move fluidly between different worlds. But it does not feel that way to Ash, instead of belonging to two different worlds, Ash feels like he has no real place in either. Too weak and soft for the harsh trials of Orcish culture, too ugly and savage for the gentle civilised folk of the green lands. He never knows quite how to behave around people, whether they expect him to be a brute or a boy. At heart he's inclined to kindness and gentleness, but time in Orcish society, and the unfriendliness he has received at the hands of humans makes him much of reserved and guarded. There's a shyness about him, a reluctance to expose himself. But when he does open up, there's wellspring of sweetness and child like naivety that flows from deep inside of him. There's an earnestness about him as well. Beside being a troubadour minstrel, he doesn't have much of the sly guile and glibness associated with the profession. In fact Ash is a terrible liar, having a tell tale stammer and blush when caught trying to conceal something. He's not a complete paragon of virtue however, there is a darker side to Ash, a mix of confused residual emotions about his family, his life, and his place in world. There's anger there too, and a young, confused, angry boy with the power to wield magic can be dangerous thing indeed. But above all else Ash is looking for the place that he belongs, where he can be loved and accepted, without fear of repercussion. ____________________________________________________ H I S T O R Y Ash was born in the town of Triboar, where the Long Road that runs between Waterdeep and Mirabar meets the Evermoor way that leads to Yartar and onto Silverymoon, in the year of 1476 DR. It was a trading town, busy and bustling with caravans and merchants. It wasn't a great city like Waterdeep or Baldur's Gate, but it wasn't some wild far flung outpost on the edge of the world. It was settled, it was civilised. His father worked there as a guard for the caravans heading north. That's how Ash's parents had first met, the gentle beauty from Waterdeep being swept off her feet by the ruggedly handsome Half-Orc who had been escorting her carriage. They had eloped years previously, when it had become clear her father would have never consented to such a match, and they had settled in Triboar to raise their son. It was somewhere that his father could easily get work, and was far enough away from Waterdeep for them to live in relative anonymity. His father had been a fierce and proud Half-Orc who had been raised in the far north, in the Orcish Kingdom of Many Arrows. He had insisted on a traditional name for his son, hence Urtkash Skullsplitter, his mother however made sure that her husband picked a name that could easily be shortened into something less... well... Orcish, and so that's how Ash got his nickname.

Life in Triboar was good, and Ash remembers much of his childhood as a happy one. His father was often on the road, so he was closest to his mother. Not that his father was cold or distant in any way, he always returned to with smiles and gifts from far off cities. But Ash spent most of his time with his mother, so it was only natural perhaps that, of the two of them, he took after her a little more.

It was from his mother that Ash picked up his musical abilities. She was an excellent singer, and would sometimes perform duets with a local bard in the taverns and inns of Triboar for a little extra coin. It was on these outings that Ash first handled an instrument, and learned the scales and chord that made up the songs he loved to listen to. He thinks his magic may have also come down through his mother's side, though he's not certain about that. Certainly she was no great mage, but Ash remembers her touch as being... well... healing.

But wouldn't any child robbed of his mother at an early age think that way?

The illness struck when Ash was only nine. His father had been on the road at the time, perhaps things might have turned out differently had he been there, perhaps not. She had faded quickly, and by the time her loving husband had returned, she was cold in her grave. A golden locket round young Ash's neck all that was left to remember her by. Something died in his father that day too.

With no else to look after him, Ash's father took him on the road with him. Lucky that he did, because that year, in 1485, war erupted in the Silver Marches. They waited out the war further south with the caravan they had been travelling with. When they returned to their home, they found a burnt out ruin. Triboar had been sacked by an army of Orcs, and suddenly their remaining friends and neighbours seemed cold and hostile to the notably Orcish widower and child living in their midst.

They tried to carry on as best they could for a few years, but the caravan work his father relied upon began to dry up in the wake of the war. The caravaneers and merchants seemed more reluctant to employ someone of orcish heritage to guard them on their journeys north. Eventually it became intolerable, so his father did what he thought was best, and took his son to somewhere he thought they would be able to live in greater freedom, without being looked down upon.

The Kingdom of Many Arrows.

That... was a bad time in Ash's life. He was not prepared for what life was like amongst true orcs. He did not fit in, not in the slightest. He was a gentle, music loving boy, who disliked violence and didn't have a cruel bone in his body. His father tried to help in his own way, lessons to help his son 'toughen up' and gain respect amongst his peers. While it may have taught Ash a few combat skills (and given him a few scars), it mostly just soured their already strained relationship.

They had falling out. Ash left, his father stayed.

Alone for the first time in his life, Ash had to survive making his way out of the Spine of the World, and eventually made his way to the city of Mirabar. It was there he became reacquainted with someone from his past, his mother's friend the minstrel that she had sung with so often in Triboar. She remember the young boy that she had taught scales to many years ago and took Ash under her wing, teaching him about music, magic, and the life of a travelling bard.

For a while they travelling together, hoping down the coast from Luskan, to Neverwinter, and Waterdeep. It was there that Ash remember that his mother had been from Waterdeep, and first thought that perhaps he could find his grandparents or other relatives in the city. He tried to track them down, but he discovered that his grandparents had already passed. But there was a trail that they had left behind. Apparently his grandfather's family had originally come from the Silver Marches, the small town of Deadsnows to be specific. While Ash might not have family in Waterdeep, it was possible he still had relatives there...

The possibility of familial warmth proved too strong of a lure to the young Half-Orc. He parted ways with his mentor and set out for Deadsnows. On the road north he stopped at Triboar... but it didn't feel like home any more to him.

After Triboar he struck out east to Yartar and Silverymoon. What a city that had been, he felt like he learned more about music from one week in Silverymoon, than three years in Dark Arrow Keep. Sundabar had given him a particularly hostile reception, it wasn't surprising, the city had suffered worst of all in the war. Nonetheless he had not stayed there long.

And after Sundabar... there was only Deadsnows... and hope.

Kass's Kharacters

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V E L Y N V I R I T H

Original Art by Minttu ____________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R I N F O R M A T I O N Name - Serjo Redoran Velyn Virith. Gender - Male. Race - Dunmer. Age - 39, born 3rd of Sun's Dawn, 3E412. Height - Average, a few inches under six feet. Class - Spellsword. Faction - House Redoran & Buoyant Armigers (former). Birth Sign - The Lady. Birth Place - Ald Veloth, Vvardenfell, Morrowind. ____________________________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S & S K I L L S Major - Agility. Minor - Personality. Expert - Short Blade. Adept - Speech, Acrobatics, Light Armour. Apprentice - Stealth, Destruction, Alteration. ____________________________________________________ S P E L L S Alteration The Armiger's Path - Water Walking. Vivec's Kiss - Water Breathing. St. Seryn's Blessing - Feather. Shield of the Faithful - Increases Armour Rating. Destruction Purifying Flame - Produces a gout of Flame. Spirit Knife - Damages Health on Touch. Black Hand - Lingering Poison Damage on Touch. ____________________________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T Weapons Twinned Steel Wakizashi and Tanto, worn through a sash at the waist. Armour Full set of Light Chitin Armour, made in the Dumeri style, much patched and repaired. Miscellaneous Items Red Travelling Cloak. Ragged Dumeri Robes. Resin Goggles, for Ash storms. Coin purse, with only a few septims. Paper Lantern. Jar of Sujamma, a potent liquor of Morrowind. Dunmeri Lute, similar to a Shamisen. Skooma Pipe. Three Vials of Skooma. Books and Scrolls, 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 male Dunmer. The Dunmer age slower than their human counterparts after they reach physical maturity, and hence many still bear a touch of boyish youth, despite having seen three decades or more. With velyn however, several hard years of lean living have taken their toll. The flower of his youth is in its final and failing bloom. 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 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 an addict. Ceremonial Dunmer tattoos mark his face and body. A scarab sigil of the House Redoran sits on his throat and neck, cupping the edge of his stubbled jaw, its inky forelegs peaking out onto the point of his chin. A pattern of waves adorns his left cheek, marking him as one of the Buoyant Armigers, before it 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 wear. 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. Velyn has few clothes, that which he does own are of fine quality, rich in colour, but poorly maintained and cared for, near threadbare in places, amateurly patched and repaired in others. 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 misfits and outcasts he finds himself associated with in Anvil. If approached at one of the squalid dives he most often frequents, 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. He drinks too much, but no avail. The only time his spirits truly seem to lift is when the sweet smelling smoke of Skooma lingers 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 interred 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. The mountain had answered that terrible roar with its own, raining down 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.

Spurned from the homeland he had fought for, he fled to Cyrodil, following in the footsteps of countless Dunmer refugees across the Velothi Mountains. He found a province in chaos, another war unfolding just as he felt the last one behind. The Stormcrown Interregnum. He sold his sword to the highest bidders, fell in with low company, common mercenaries and murderous thugs, or worse. But above all else Velyn tried to keep moving, always heading west, away from the past that was lost to him.

Until one day there was no further west to go, and the other war he had searched for some meaning in was also done. A new emperor sat upon the throne, and an uneasy peace returned to the Imperial Province. Velyn found himself in Anvil, with nowhere left to go, and nothing to distract him the gaping hole in his soul.

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

He spent what coin he had earned on idle pleasures of the flesh, trying to drown in his sorrows in drink and in the warm embrace of lovers. In the end he found one thing that took away the pain he left with every waking moment of his existence. Skooma.

For the last year or so Velyn has lived as an addict, selling his sword to buy a fix, playing his lute in the low dockside taverns and dives for spare septims when he can't find other work. He's a familiar enough sight around the rougher parts of the city, and an associate of paupers, beggars, criminals and other outcasts. Though there are very few in Anvil who know much of his true past, of the mer he used to be.

Velyn is just another strange piece of flotsam, washed up on the western shores of Cyrodil.

Shattered from the storm that tossed it there.

The Arrangement [Suki & Kassarock]

I'm alright, just overworked and stressed, but it seems like everyone feels that way these days. You?