LeeRoy — Roleplayer Guild

I will eventually get around to drawing his ugly mug, but it's gonna take a while. So just read the description for now, I gave a pretty detailed one.

NAME
Atillius Morrow (Uh-till-us)

GENDER
Male

RACE
Imperial

AGE
52

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Standing at an impressive 6'8", tall enough to look a High Elf in the eye, with a hearty build of fat and muscle. Atillius is an big old slab of meat. He weighs well over three hundred lbs and about half of that is his wobbling gut that hangs over any pants he wears. Well onset in the years human wise, Atillius is balding and greyed. From his chin to his belly lays a long flowing and surprisingly soft beard, lightly spotted with his old haircolor. Blue-black. From head to heel, he's covered in wounds from battles that he's fought and wars that he's waged. Though his face is haggered and war-torn he's actually quite the sweet guy, enjoys nature and everything about it, and you can see it in his eyes. Those green orbs twinkle just like the glow of a spriggan's magic.

SPECIAL ABILITIES
Contrary to his appearance? Atillius is (kind of) a spellsword. Much prefering to use magic to clear the field than getting his hands bloodied and filthy. Don't let this fool you, he can handle himself up close and personal. But rather than relying on a blade to slay his enemies, he weilds a very large hammer. Well, he did, before it was confuscated by the Imperials. Rather than devoting his time to restoration, he has become a damage soaker. He's old, fat, strong, magic, and can take a punch. Only problem is getting around, he can't do that fast enough, period.

PERSONALITY
By the nine, okay, here we have a character. Back in his younger days, Attilius was a rowdy sort, a scrapper. Obsessing over fighting day in and day out, eventually he signed up for the Imperial Legion and wound up on the battlefield. The legion taught him discipline and precursory magic and skill with various weapons. Magic became somewhat of a passion, when his tour of duty finished he began researching magicka and how it works. Slowly learning the ways of the Mage's guild. The two wars followed, and he took to wandering. With no war, no violence, no hatred in him anymore he became the man he is today. (Until the capture, of course. For the first few posts of the RP, he's going to be in a very bad mood.)

BIOGRAPHY
Born in 4E 155, to a blacksmith family in a small homestead to the south of the Imperial City. He was 13 when Emperor Titus Mede II Ascended to the throne, the new emperor was awe inspiring. A great leader for all the kingdoms of the Empire, four years passed and Attilius was working towards becoming a blacksmith like his father. Then the Aldmeri Dominion attacked Cyrodiil, he was conscripted at the age of 16 and forced to wage war as just a boy.

Years passed, battles waged, ranks gained and finally the war ended. Sort of. The Empire rolled over onto its back and let the Aldmeri Dominion take advantage of them. At 20 he witnessed in person the signing of the White Gold Concordat. Shortly retiring thereafter. After this he moved to Morrowind to get as far away from the Aldmeri as possible, this didn't work out too well and he was in a minor skirmish that earned his last name 'Morrow' from his companions. This skirmish was between a group of refugees and raiders, the raiders would have killed them if left unchecked by Atillius. These Dunmer thanked him and gave him a (technically unofficial) title as their only repayment. He graciously accepted. Atillius was 23 at the time.

Twenty two years of study and training and adventuring passed, he retired from helping refugees leave Morrowind and traveled east, to Skyrim. Two years later and suddenly he was involved in the Civil War of Skyrim and Cyrodiil. Opting to side with the Stormcloaks rather than the Imperials, seeing them as dishonored and weak. During this time he actually met the Dovahkiin in Candlehearth Hall. Now, he 'claims' to have beaten him in an eating and drinking contest. (Simultaneously.) But he has absolutely no proof or witnesses to this event, so nobody would believe him anyway. After the war ended and all this time passed he had begun to contemplate retiring. Until the Imperial Legion came knocking on his door that is, and they accused him of working with the Aldmeri Dominion. He swore to get revenge on the man or woman who framed him, and while on the cart the other passengers could see him seething with fury.

EQUIPMENT
Armor: A pair of coarse tan elk-leather pants and a dark brown bear hide to cover his shoulders and back. A two straps bridge across to hold it in place, one at his shoulders and one at his waist. His gut is exposed and his feet bare. Atillius was caught in his pajamas.

Weapons: None

Ammo: None

Accessories: None

Food & Drink: None

Magic-Related: Amulet of Zenithar

Misc: None

Septims: None

SKILLS & WEAKNESSES
Pros:
- He's massive, fills the battlefield just by walking in. This allows him to protect those behind him easily and decimate foes in front of him.

- Trained in every mystic art he can cast spells ranging from Flames to Undead Thrall. He's most skilled at Conjuration, Enchanting, and Destruction.

- Incredibly strong from decades of training and working, he can lug around heavy armor and carry immense amounts of loot from expeditions. Hand him a club/hammer/mace? And you've got a death machine.

- He's got basic training in alchemy, he can make relatively weak potions of health, stamina, and magicka.

- The years of travel have made him good at making wild game taste yummy (While debateably healthy). He can take a wild skeever and turn it into a delicious stew with only a spritz of fire salt and a couple potatoes. You might have the runs in the morning, but you'll sleep easy on a full stomach.

- His good looks get him discounts. Pfft, haha, no. He's a wonderful wordsmith and he can talk down any haggler, peddler, or salesman if required.

Cons:
- He's massive, fills the battlefield just by walking in. He's a huge target, without proper armor he's a liability when against archers. He'd drop like a fly if an arrow found its way into his heart or brain.

- While trained in every art of magic, he's not very skilled at Alteration, Illusion, or Restoration.

- He's old, and as such his magicka and stamina regeneration is nearly non-existent. He needs potions to use magicka or sprint for extende periods of time.

- The weight he bears is great, and he cannot run quickly. He won't be able to keep up if you need to get away quickly.

- A huge gambler, don't trust him with your coin unless it's locked up tight. He might lose it at the nearest pub or inn.

OTHER INFORMATION

With a never-back down attitude and a propensity for heavy drinking, in group fights are a certainty. While hesitant to genuinely hurt a friend, he'd still beat you senseless if you insult him to his face.

Jackson pushed forward.

The spear slid backwards as he thrust his sword forward.

Abe uncharacteristically flinched, the blade reminding him of bright flames for a moment.

With sword flying, Abe had little time to react. To prevent himself from being gutted on the spot he did the only thing he could think of doing. Abe thrust his hand out and let the blade penetrate it, a violent screech as though the metal were scraping against stone rang out. The ghul's touch couldn't stop the blade from piercing, but it slowed it down considerably. The hilt reached the palm of his hand and Abe grabbed hold of it with his injured hand. His grip did not falter, despite the pain growing from his hand and legs.

Legs?

Abe glanced down and saw his legs were aflame, a large chunk was missing from his right thigh. "You! I knew you were of witch-kin!" The flames started to wrap around his shins and started to grow upwards to his thighs. This was going to be dangerous, so Abe knew what he had to do. With the two of them in this position, one burning and the other breathing down poison. One's blade grappled by the pierced hand, and each with one arm free. Abe was at an advantage here. The partisan in his right hand twisting to face Jackson. In one quick thrust he aimed it at the bottom of Jackson's head, the seven inch blade would be fatal left unchecked. He thrust with all of his force, keeping his left hand clamped down tight on the handle of Liberty Brand. The flames licked at his stomach even now, and would soon grow up to his chest. Abe bellowed out a guttural scream, hoping that this stab would finish it.

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