@gcold, @Leidenschaft Finally, I think my character is ready. I have expanded his biography to include a reason for his name and updated his skills list and equipment. I have slightly altered the wording in the Skills section to make it more sensible.
Basic Information Name: Felix aep Caileach (real surname Trentius) Race: Imperial Age: 23 Gender: Male Birthsign: The Steed Place of origin: Leyawiin, Cyrodiil
Appearance: Felix aep Caileach is about six feet two, or about 185 centimeters tall. He is a handsome young man with slightly slender features, and after few weeks of martial life he has gained some athleticism. He's not very muscled or big-figured, but he's fast and agile. He has brown short hair and green eyes. His face has a long scar running from right temple to the jaw.
Background: Felix was born to the Trentius family, who are prominent merchants and cultivators of arts and sciences. Felix was given the best education the family could afford from a very young age. In his teens Felix became an avid student of history and a novice bard, who had a reputation of visiting young and beautiful women at night time for "extracurricular activity". Due to this he has some skill with stealth. During his late teens during the Skyrim's Civil War, Felix took a part in the protests against a hated tax for utensils. An imperial patrol tried to control the crowd, but soon the protest flared up and casualties were suffered on both sides. Felix fled from Leyawiin to Skyrim, assuming a new surname, aep Caileach to draw away suspicions. Felix escaped for the fear of imperial authorities and started to earn a living as a bard, even enrolling to the Bards' College for a term. After finishing his term, Felix traveled across Skyrim singing songs and telling tales of Dragonborn's deeds, but as the Dragonborn's tyranny continued and he became more disliked, Felix dropped those from his repertoire. In many taverns he is considered a talented lute player and a singer, but a horrible at poetry. One night, Felix became so drunk that he enlisted to a mercenary company by an accident. For the last two weeks, Felix has been trying to grasp the basics of soldiering and fighting with a weapon at hand.
Personality: Born into wealth, Felix has hardly done any physical labour besides travelling in his life. He often wants to have some luxuries in his life or hopes of getting some in his immediate future, although mercenary life has humbled him as a person. Felix' experiences as a travelling bard have given him a taste for extravagance and good company. One of the reasons why he hasn't deserted the mercenary company is because he wants to keep his word and to detail his adventures as a mercenary.
Capabilities
Skills: Expert in Speech Adept in Mercantile and Acrobatics Apprentice in Sneak, One-handed bladed weapons and Medium armour Novice in Hand-to-hand, One-handed blunt weapons and Light armour.
Weaknesses: Nervous: Many soldiers have nerves of steel in the heat of battle, but Felix gets nervous easily. Inexperienced: Felix lacks many of the basic skills a soldier needs, but is learning quickly by trial and error. Even the Lady Luck has mood swings: Felix has the uncanny ability of jumping from the frying pan into the fire without a burn or scratch, and ending up either ambushed or falling to the arms of a beautiful woman.
Relations to other characters: Felix has lots of fair weather friends all around Skyrim, but not really anyone he call a true friend.
Affiliations: Neutral
Spells: None
Combat style: None at the moment, but Felix is trying to learn how to fight a sword and shield.
Other capabilities: He is a charismatic person and a capable negotiator.
Inventory
Cash: 100 Septims Keys and lockpicks: None Clothing and armor: Boiled leather brigandine-like jerkin and a wool shirt beneath it, a thick wool cloak, cotton trousers, wool socks and leather boots. Weapons and ammunition: A steel bastard sword called Fury and a round shield that has a silvery griffin painted on it. Potion and arcane supplies: None at the moment. Jewelry and novelty items: A lute, a set of dice and an amulet of Talos Books and documents: A manuscript My Life as a Mercenary and a copy of contract. Food, drinks and provisions: Ingredients for porridge, some dark ale and bread with him. Bags, pouches and packs: A large backpack made from cloth and strips of leather. Other: Nothing comes to mind. I think I have finished my character building.
I dropped the first apostrophe in Varg, but I prefer the last one in t'uk, supposed to be a heavier drawl on the <u>, but I believe I did know that it meant wolf, I'm familiar with a lot of words like that, either way, it's still good to know what it means (: so maybe her name means Wolf-tooth?
I don't have a problem with that. You just have to say how she earned it, as she doesn't hail from one of the distinguished Clans like Grey-Mane or Cruel-Sea. Maybe she earned it somehow, but remember Nordic names are meaningful but simple, they don't insist upon themselves...mostly...it's common to see names like Thrice-Pierced, Once-Honored, Stonefist, names like that. They tell of the deeds and reputation, or any great wounds, even or just something about the person without being lel edgy like Beorn the Destroyer.
Even the most badass Vikings and Norsemen through history had underwhelmingly literal names like Snake-in-the-Eye(because of a curious abnormality in his eye), Boneless(because he was unable to walk) and perhaps the most famous, Lothbrok. Sounds cool in Norse, but it just means hairy-breeches because he wore pants made from fur.
@Oak7reeIt's not specified whether 1h-blade and medium armor are adept or apprentice. I'm assuming, due to wording, that they're Apprentice level. This means you have only one adept skill and no novice skills. Feel free to add in a few more skills in those areas.
Name: Jorwen, those who know him from his Stormcloak days call him Red-Bear. Race: Nord Age: 48 Gender: Male Birthsign: Warrior Place of Origin: Used to live in a tailor's shop in Whiterun. Now lives with the mercenaries. Appearance:
Jorwen stands at a slightly above average 6 feet and 8 inches for a Nord, with limbs thick but not too thick with muscle. He moves very deliberately, with no wasted energy until trouble comes knocking. He lets his beard and hair grow long but not unruly, cultivating an image of a mad barbarian and his gravelly bass of a voice helps a little as well. The ability to do violence is one his fellows have not seen of him yet if they have not served with him along his long career as a fighter, but his quiet demeanor betray his status as a man known to be ready and willing when trouble turns its head. Tall, thick with it, and armed with a great red rug of frowning beard as well as a deliberate and patient demeanor, you'll know just how he came to be known as Red-Bear, though you'd never know he's somewhat more coward than hero, and wishes he was more the tailor than the soldier.
Background: Jorwen was born in Whiterun to a father who’d taken up tailoring like his father before him. His mother had died giving birth to him, but his father, Hurren, did not blame him for that. If anything, it made him love him more, being his only son and heir. It was an unremarkable life he led for most of it, trundling along through the years learning how to sew and helping to run the family shop with his father. It was around his tenth birthday that his father had first become sick with a flux, becoming bed-ridden and twig-thin from the sickness, he was quite ignobly being carried to death on a river of his own shit. Many of the townspeople of Whiterun turned up their noses at the sight of Jorwen and the tailor shop because of his father's illness, superstition running rampant in Nordic culture spreading the whispers that if anyone went to Hurren's shop would in turn be passed the illness as if it was a curse. Jorwen did not go unteased whenever he'd show his face on the streets to try to buy something to help ease his father's pain, if only for a few short hours in a painful haze of several more besides.
His skills as a tailor would not, however, come in handy when the legion pressganged him into service and sent him south to the fray, spear and shield in hand with barely a few hairs on his chin yet. Thankfully, being only thirteen meant that he was relegated to the duties of bugler and would mend shirts and armor on the side using what was taught to him by his father in Whiterun. It turned out that being on campaign with the legion may not be so bad after all, leastways, he wouldn't have to use the spear and shield they gave him, being a bugler and a tailor. He honed his skills whenever they'd stop for a rest, but it wasn't until they'd crossed through Pale Pass and into Cyrodiil proper that he'd get a taste of what it is really to be in the legion. On one night, laying down to sleep, he was awoken by a scuffling all around. Next came the shouting and then the screaming, and the sound of metal clashing with metal in a grand melee. He couldn't see a thing as the Dominion's Khajiiti auxiliaries swept through the camp in their raid. Picking up a dropped sword from a man whose shirt he'd thought he once mended on the road, he earned the ire of four Khajiit for simply being on the wrong side. Not to be deterred by such trivial things as the morality of killing thirteen year olds, the Khajiit came at him.
It was a stalwart legionnaire who came to his aid who dispatched of three of his attackers, while the fourth lay wounded. While Jorwen hid, and beyond a doubt had pissed his pants and not been stabbed as he'd found, he sprang out from behind the bushes and stabbed his opponent. Instead of a Khajiit impaled on his blade as he hoped, it was the same legionnaire who'd come to his aid. All the man offered in return was a whimpering 'Oh.' He fell dead and Jorwen was given the credit for killing his four Khajiiti attackers, found with their bodies strewn about him when the commanding Praefect had rallied a defense and pushed back the raid and sent them scurrying back into the night. Deemed too useful in a scrap, they put him in the front rank and threw a sword in his hands. It was in the combat arm of the legions proper that he fought alongside a man named Ulfric Stormcloak, who distinguished himself in service to the Empire alongside his fellow nords from the Northern legions of the Empire.
Through battle after battle, they fought, and many of his friends died along the path. Through blood, he was hardened into the man he is today. The fighter's path took him through countless skirmishes and raids both in the dead of night and in broad daylight, where he learned how to sneak and to fight an enemy that was stronger but more fixed than he was. On one such raid, things went awry. In the panic, the raid was broken and scattered, resulting in their capture. Thankfully, on the second night of their captivity, they managed to cook up a plan between them and he and five others managed to slip their bonds and escape. Things weren't so smooth though, as a sentry was alerted and managed to kill one of his five fellow escapees and wound him by stabbing him in the chest. He counts himself lucky, though, because he escaped with his life with nothing to show for it but a now faded scar and a cough that acts up when he's forced to get too lively in his old age.
Rejoining his unit as a more hardened man, he participated in a two-day battle outside of Anvil. It was back-and-forth, with a night raid almost taking the commannding Legate's life before they captured and killed the intruders. The day after, they managed to catch the Dominion's charge on the center flank before withdrawing and encircling the tired attackers and their inexperienced commander, crushing what they thought was all of the defenders. They marched on, sure in their victory and foolishly sure they were going to liberate Anvil. On the third day of the march, they were caught unaware in a bloody ambush that broke his unit almost completely. Reeling from the defeat, they retreated to the Great Forest to lick their wounds. Not content with sitting and waiting, the dregs that were left of his unit that hadn't deserted went back to mounting night-time raids on Dominion forces, being largely successful in their endeavors and giving Jorwen great experience in guerrilla warfare. This is also around the time that he took up the use of a larger blade as he grew taller and thicker.
Six times, they'd managed to beat back Dominion counter-raids and crush supply caravans before they'd worked up the courage to try bigger targets. They'd studied the guards' patterns, their changes of shift, everything about their schedule. Finally, after three nights and two days of planning, they were ready. They crept through the fortified encampment of Fort Ash, killing the sentries and then slitting the commander's throat and all his staff in their sleep. They left their bodies naked and piled for the crows before setting fire to their supplies and vanishing, leaving the defenders with the memory and all who heard the stories with the fear of them. Alas, war would not last, and the signing of the White-Gold Concordat would come after the battle of the Red Ring. Jorwen would put up his sword and his band would scatter to the four winds, some going to banditry and selling their swords, others doing the same as him and going home.
No longer a soft-bellied, twig-thin boy, he returned home to Whiterun after the war in time to learn of his father’s death. He found a wife in a local farmer's daughter named Halla and settled down with her, fathering a daughter. He took over the family business but it wasn't the booming return to tailoring he wanted. Not only had his father died, but he'd died leaving him with empty coffers and racked up debts as his inheritance. He became angrier by the day as he struggled to recall how to run a business, trying desperately to salvage the situation for the sake of his family, but still not knowing how to go back to being the man he was during peacetime or before any idea of picking up the sword in war was a thing to him. It wasn't easy, but he'd barely kept the store afloat for another few months before Ulfric and his host came to Whiterun. He picked up his sword, wanting to get some kind of pay for some kind of work he could do and they welcomed a man with experience like his. With a kiss from his wife and the memory of the shape of his little daughter in his arms they marched west into the Reach and turned away Reachman war parties like great waves breaking on the rocks. Once they came to Markarth and broke open the gates, they surged forth in a great red wave of rape and slaughter. Jorwen watched on with disgust but knew he was here for another kind of thievery. He may have been above taking the innocence of their wives and daughters, but he wasn't so above taking their gold and silver.
He told himself that this was it and he'd return home after, but it was a weak promise. He turned away from his path and instead took to raiding the Reachmen for everything they had after he and a few of the men splintered away from the main force. They killed, robbed and burned both hostile and neutral Reachmen communities for nothing but sport and plunder. It was Jorwen's darkest days, indeed. Ones he does not like to remember, but his conscience forces him to dream of on cold nights and punishes with coughing fits now in his old age. Old wounds leeching his strength, the only reward for men like him. The only thing deserved. It was on one week where one of Ulfric's lieutenants caught up with them and managed to turn them back on the path. They marched back to their homes and he stayed over in Whiterun with his family, thankful for returning with his life. He rounded out the twenty some years between then and the Civil War splitting his time between his family and falling in with a man named Aelfgar, taking odd jobs from caravans and archaeologists as bodyguards. Soon enough, he left for Windhelm with his orders and a few other fighters, all set on wearing Stormcloak blue for a time. He earned his pay spilling Imperial blood as one of Aelfgar’s housecarls, the same uniform he used to wear now one he hunted and killed. In the Civil War, there was no lack of blood for him, as he led the Imperial contingent that set upon him on a merry chase through the frozen countryside and six times beat them back before breaking them wholly in a night-raid, of which he'd had plenty behind him but no longer held the same thrills now that his enemies were what he used to be.
Once Ulfric died of suspicious circumstances and the rebellion had ended he left service with the Stormcloaks and returned to Whiterun to settle down to with Halla and his daughter, no longer liking the bitterness of being a missing husband and absent father. He stayed in the quiet life for a time. Still, nothing was the same for him despite it all. It was as if he saw strangers wearing the clothes of the people he once knew. Something haunted him through restless nights and stormy days. His conscience doesn’t float as well as some others, but he knows that old horses can’t jump new fences, so when the tax collector came around for the last time and took away the tailor shop from him and left him and his family destitute, he knew only one other thing he was good at. He signed on to the mercenary company with no shortage of pain and regret and was placed under Ashav with his family going to Markarth. He's far away from the front, and he counts himself lucky for that at least. He doesn’t know if he can still stand to lose any more friends or end any more lives. He’d much rather mend some holes in the men’s clothes than use his blade.
Personality: Jorwen is a Nord’s Nord, some say. A straight-edge, loyal to his crew and never looking for trouble. He is a patient man who, despite all appearances and past exploits, would rather everyone be able to go home to their families rather than wade knee-deep in each other’s blood. That said, if trouble starts up, he won’t hesitate to stand shoulder to shoulder with his people. Killer, soldier, comrade, he is a man, and can laugh and talk and smile. He never blames the coward for being one- the Gods know he is in some respects- he blames them for showing it. So far, the only people who’ve seen him at his lightest took the memory of Jorwen’s smile to the grave, many of them lie in Falkreath’s cemetery and it’s a place he never gets to visit anymore being so far away from Falkreath. Beneath all of this, or perhaps laid over it like a shield, he’s steadfastly loyal to those he fights with, and will make sure the outfit he’s in sticks together when trouble comes around.
Physical Weaknesses: A bad sounding cough wreaks havoc on his lungs and often wakes him up from sleep. He’ll say he’s fine, which he is for the most part, but the cough is from a spear wound in his chest that never really healed right. Because of this, he isn’t going to be running any long distances. Non-physical Weaknesses: A family curse prevents the male members from harnessing magicka due to low levels in comparison to others. It skips a generation and guess where Jorwen falls. Relations to Other Characters: Most of the characters might not know his reputation if they haven't served with the Stormcloaks, but most everyone in the camp will know his name, as everyone needs a tailor at some point or another. Affiliation(s): Former Stormcloak and before that, a loyal legionnaire with service in the Great War. He never bought into the hate for the Dunmer some have taken on, and holds no illusions that men or elves are better than either, seeing atrocities done by both. Most in the camp who are from Windhelm or fought in the Civil War will know the name Red-Bear as the name of a fierce Housecarl with a mastery for night-raids and ambushes, and a lot of blood on his hands. Most in the camp know Jorwen Red-Bear as the old tailor that mended a bedroll or tent flap, or some article of clothing, so he's shared a few words with almost everyone in the camp. Many don't believe the stories because of his slow and patient demeanor, but Jorwen isn't quite rushing to prove anything to anyone.
His wife and daughter live in Markarth, where his daughter is apprenticed to a potter and is saying she's set on marrying some boy who fancies himself a bard and wants to become an adventurer. The last letter he received from his wife said that everything was alright and they were making a decent enough living selling what her daughter makes on the potter's wheel and her wages as a tavern maid.
Keegan Vasque - A good enough lad. Lad, of course, being an odd word for mer. The lad has more years on him than Jorwen. He seems guarded, and for an Altmer in Skyrim, there's plenty reasons to be. He can forgive him that.
Solveig - Jorwen sees too much of himself in his daughter. But the problem is that it isn't the man he is now, but the beast he was before. Raving and snarling just for the red joy of it with no regard for the sanctity of life in the face of fickle and feeble pride and the thirst for a Name. It's too late to correct her with the belt, he must use wisdom. Something he fears he has none of.
Though he fears he has no wisdom, he knows he has much love. He's showed his daughter as much as he can that he loves her. Soon, he'll give her what she wants and retire, but there's money to be made until then.
Sadri Beleth - A quiet man in battle and a smiling man in peacetime, Jorwen has known a lot of them and liked all of them. Sadri strikes him as a man similar to himself, but there's only one of two ways a man can be after seeing as much blood as Jorwen has. He's only glad that Sadri is still able to smile, if it be for true mirth, fine. If it be to spite grief, even better, for to smile through grief is good.
Sevine the Huntress - Sevine is a good woman, a good Nord. She never shared many words in the war, but a Shield-Sister is forgiven that. It remains to be said that she holds too much praise for his martial prowess and not enough for the rest of him, for the father he could be and the man he is in peacetime. Now that Sevine has declared her feelings for Do'Karth, he knows what he should do- nothing. Like he said to Leif, people are free to make choices of their own, rage all you want, it remains true. Because of her, there is a schism coming, but he does not blame her. He blames the narrow sight of men and their quests for what they want. Perhaps it's a shame for Leif, but he is happy for Sevine and Do'Karth to have found each other.
Leif - He has respect for the man, for what is there not to respect in a man who has done the things that he has done, but is not boastful of them. But the boy is too infatuated with women. He has much experience in life, but not enough wisdom. After their conversation, he knows the boy has much pain. Jorwen knows what it is to watch someone take away your lover, even if it was much more permanent in Jorwen's case. He will remain at Leif's back, waiting for the moment he comes to him for counsel or being there to force it on him in case the violence in him deafens his ears.
Sagax - The boy has a good head on his shoulders. At least, as good of a head on his shoulders as can be had by a boy who hurdles himself into battle as he does. The lad is of a good sort, though, and Jorwen will draw a blade for him.
Utu-Ja - The Argonian is quiet and odd looking, though, like Keegan he is a foreigner in a place full of men that scorn a man for being born on a different spit of dirt than they. He always senses a buried anger in his presence, and he knows he too had much of that.
Tsleeixth - He hasn't shared many words with the Argonian, but he guesses he's alright.
Roze - The girl is well enough, but there's something in the corners of her eyes, a certain something in her smile. Reminds of him of Faithful Festen, and Faithful Festen had much he kept hidden, even from Aelfgar and the rest of his Shield-Brothers.
Vurwe - She has a sharp tongue, but he knows a blade never gets sharp without rasping abuse of a whetstone to make it so. Base a person on their looks and you will fall short on the person they really are.
Do'Karth - He is a good sort, not like those Khajiit he's seen in the caravans or the ones he's fought in the Great War. For the few words they've shared, they are a precious few to see what kind of man he is and the small piece of the riddle he knows, he knows he can trust. Now that Jorwen knows the truth of the man, there is still no brotherhood lost between him. They know each other's greatest mistakes and Do'Karth does not look at Jorwen any different.
Leif came to Jorwen looking for a bloody death reeking of drink. Death, maybe, or just any which way to end a deep hurt. It is a shame that Sevine and Do'Karth, two people Jorwen calls friends are the source of the young man's torment. He knows a Nord's only way of solving a feud is a duel, and when that day comes, Jorwen will offer to watch over it and say the precedings. He will have nothing else to say after, only until the dust settles.
Raelyn – She is a peculiar sort, asking after Jorwen. It isn't hard to find a man in Eastern Skyrim, the Reach and Hjaalmarch that doesn't know the name Red-Bear, for both good and bad reasons. But she is a bard. They love twisting history to their own ends for a good song. For now, she's only just another bard in a sea of skalds, poets and drunken grayheads talking about the Red-Bear's deeds in the wars.
Elmera - They didn't meet under good circumstances, no matter how anyone could try to frame it. He hated her, and if he was a younger man, he would've dug his thumbs into her eyes and killed that old fuck with no sense of honor. But then he'd be the monster, wouldn't he? Anyhow, he tried to make amends and they had a good talk, but she still remains too professional. She treats this like the Legion and not a fighting band. Maybe she just has to loosen up, maybe she's just somewhat of a cold person. Jorwen's been around both.
Daixanos - Farid did something fucking stupid, aye. He was going to die in the end, whether it was by his own hand or someone else's. Follow the fighter's path long enough and that's the only fork in the road there is. But Farid was a friend and Dax was his killer. Jorwen had never met eyes with a man who'd killed a friend of his and let the man live. But Ashav only needs a reason to hang him or cast him aside, and there was no way he'd be casted a murderer.
Dax did what he was asked, same as what Jorwen would do if he was asked by his Chief to do something. Best to keep that professional distance between his feelings and his work. But how long can the Red-Bear?
Spells (if any): None Combat Style (or the Lack of): In his prime, Jorwen was a force to be reckoned with and a man who men reckoned was half bear, and who even was rumored to have strangled the bear for the fur he wore as a cape on his old Stormcloak armor. His skills with the two-handed sword were unmatched in his youth, but while he can’t quite keep up with the youngbloods anymore, he still knows the dirty tricks of fighting and has twenty-some years of experience walking the fighter’s path. Being a wielder of a large two-handed blade like his, he is a master of fighting off multiple opponents and used to being a frontline combatant. It doesn’t mean he likes being there, but he’ll do it for the men at his shoulder. He can also hold his own with a shield and sword, as its the first weapons he's learned to fight with. It doesn’t hurt also being a seasoned guerrilla fighter with no lack of night-raids and ambushes under his belt, he’s used to stalking through forest and swamp, blending in with the trees around him.
Other Capabilities: A good-enough tailor. Really does like tailoring more than fighting, as he grew up heir to the family tailors but had to leave that life behind when the call to arms was heard one fateful day, and for good now that the tax collectors have taken his shop. Although he won't be making alterations to the fine dresses and tunics of noblemen and ladies, he can still handle a needle and thread and is able to mend most of the wear and tear of a man's clothes, bags and pouches, tents or any other article.
Inventory:
Cash: 30 gold(-20g for various expenses) Keys and Lockpicks: The key to his family shop, the key to his chest of tailoring supplies Clothing and Armor: Clad in deer-skin trousers with wolf skin chausses for a hardier pant, wears a basic dirty blue long-sleeve cloth shirt with yellow trim as well as a fur-lined wool cloak with a hood and fur around the shoulders. While in combat, he dons a padded cloth arming coat with a chainmail shirt and a simple steel helmet with a noseguard and is never seen without his red Phrygian cap. Also has his old center-grip wood-and-rawhide shield reinforced with iron around the rim with a steel boss and a profile of a roaring bear painted in red on the front, scuffed, pitted and scarred from use. Weapon and Ammunition: The same two-handed sword, a long single-edged chopping blade, that he carried for years through service both to the Empire and to Ulfric, nicked, pitted and notched with years of hard use. Keeps a useful collection of six knives about his person. One is a big bone-handled chopper of a seax in the Nordic broken-back style big enough to be a shortsword which he uses in tandem with his shield, the rest steadily shrink smaller from that to a little knife with a blade no longer than a man's finger. Potion and Arcane Supplies: None Jewelry and Novelty Items: A leather roll of different sewing tools. Wears his old ring given to him as a wedding gift from a late friend on a leather cord. Books and Documents: A copy of his contract Food, Drinks, Provisions: A glass flask of Solitude whiskey, a waterskin, ten large strips of cured meat Bags, Pouches, Packs: A rucksack filled with the above items Other: Bedroll and blanket
Okay! Here is my CS! Let me know if anything is not to your liking, or if I need to explain anything else in further detail.
Basic Information
Name: Sevine V’arg-t’uk, “The Huntress”
Race: Nord
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Birthsign: The Warrior
Place of Origin: Falkreath Hold, Skyrim
Appearance: Sevine is tall woman, standing in at 5’9. Every ounce of her body is lean, taunt muscles from the manual labour that comes with homesteading. With an apathetic look ever etched into her face, Sevine would normally come across as cold, and unfriendly, which isn’t the case, quite frankly. Beneath a pair of thickly, arched eyebrows, Sevine’s eyes are a deep shade of pine needle green. She has strong cheekbones, a gently sloped nose, and coral-coloured lips that are rather plump, and give the impression of her pouting. A dark green, streak of war paint runs across the bridge of her nose to her cheekbones, with three dots beneath her eyes, on the underside of the streak. The most distinct feature about Sevine, is her hair colour. In a heavy braid that drapes over her shoulder, or down her back, Sevine’s tresses are the colour of blood itself, so dark that it could be mistaken for black during nighttime, yet when she stands in the sunlight, it glistens like a fire. Her voice is deep, and husky, still feminine, but a voice that commands respect and attention. Typically, when not in combat, Sevine wears linen dresses, with or without an apron, depending on what she’s doing. When in combat, Sevine prefers to wear light, leather armour, so that she may move quicker.
Background: Born on the outskirts of Falkreath, just miles from town, in her parent’s homestead, Sevine enjoyed a childhood that most were not privileged to, or so she believes. Agnar, her father, and Gudrun, her mother, were followers of Mara, and taught their daughter to love all. They taught her that hate is the greatest weapon against man. As man will hate, so destruction will follow. When Sevine was just 8 years of age, her mother passed in childbirth, giving Sevine a new little sister to look after, Leiliana. Distraught, Agnar struggled to keep the family together, as he had to teach little Sevine how to tend to the hearth, how to feed the fire, and how to cook food. While he went out hunting, or into town for provisions, Sevine doted upon Leiliana. She loved her little sister with all her heart, and as they grew together, she loved her ever more. After turning 11, Agnar gave Sevine her first bow and quiver set. He made a makeshift target in their cabbage patch to practice with, and eventually, when she became better, Agnar took Sevine hunting, enlisting the help of a close friend to watch over Leiliana in the meantime. That winter when Agnar became ill, Sevine went out into the misty, snow covered forests of Falkreath, and felled her first deer. She carried it all the way back to their homestead, and when she opened the door to their home, Leiliana, now 3, greeted her ecstatically, as her father wept with joy as he lay sick in bed. Her bow became an extension of her arm, and she could calculate the direction of the wind, and predict where a moving target would end up when she fired her arrows. Life was good in their homestead, until the civil war broke out in 4E 201. Without hesitating, Sevine journeyed all the way to Windhelm to enlist. There, she pledged her oath of service to Ulfric Stormcloak and to the Rebellion. Sevine despised the Thalmor for forcing the people of Skyrim to give up their worship of Talos, and nor did she like the Empire. Sevine learned to use a war axe and shield during her time with the Stormcloaks, though she still relied on her longbow. She earned her nickname amongst her kin on the battlefield as, The Huntress. Any foe that came in sight that fired upon her, met an untimely death; either by her arrow, or the blade of her axe, as she hunted them down till they ceased to move. It was here, on the battlefield, did she paint her face for war, and has done so since, especially when travelling on the roads. Sevine gave a yell louder than any man’s when she fought, she was a fearsome sight to behold on the field of war, and did not shy away from the din of the battle. After the war, Sevine returned home to find that her father had passed away, and Leiliana, now 18, had just married a local boy from Falkreath. She lived with them for a year before moving into Falkreath. There, she rented a room on a monthly basis, working to earn her keep by cutting firewood, or running small errands for the townspeople. It wasn’t until word of Forsworn increasing their attacks on travelers reached her ears. At first, Sevine brushed it off, the group of natives were wild men and women, believing in ancient, bloody magic, that most of Skyrim looked down upon. Now, the 26th of Midyear had come about, Sevine, now 26, had received a letter from a courier, bearing information for her to join others contracted at a camp in the reach, between Markarth and Karthwasten. From the looks of it, the Dragonborn, or “Thur” as he was known, was contracting people to join the fight against the Forsworn. To Sevine, whether the cause was noble or not, she still ached for the excitement of war, to notch her bow with an arrow, to cleave an enemies head off, while their blood covered her. She had journeyed on horseback to the encampment, with her steed, Asper, a beautiful dark bay, stallion.
Personality: Sevine is a genuine woman, with a kind heart. She is a seasoned warrior after serving in the civil war in Skyrim, siding with the Stormcloaks as a natural choice. Sevine respects all races in Nirn, as she follows the beliefs of Mara, to love another like one does for themselves. However, Sevine despises sexism, especially those who believe that women are good for just bearing children, and have no business on the battlefield. She can come across as cold, and maybe even apathetic, but generally, Sevine is polite in all cases. She would never judge someone based on appearance alone, and believes in second chances. She is reserved, patient, and loyal to those she serves.
Weaknesses: Sympathy towards Women and Children Magical Incompetence Fear of Being Buried Alive, Drowning and Suffocating
Relations to Other Characters: None, for the time being.
Affiliations: Former Stormcloak Soldier
Other Capabilities: Hunting, Fishing, Gardening
Inventory
Cash: 250 Septims
Keys and Lockpicks: 4 Lockpicks
Clothing and Armour: 1 Green Linen Dress Leather Armour Leather Bracers Leather Boots Steel Helm
Weapons and Ammunition: 1 Longbow and x14 Steel Arrows Steel War Axe Wooden Shield with Leather for reinforcement 1 Steel Dagger
Potions and Arcane Supplies: 1 Potion of Cure Poison 1 Potion of Cure Disease 1 Potion of Health
Jewelery and Novelty Items: 1 Amulet of Mara
Books and Documents:
Food, Drinks, Provisions: 1 Green Apple 1 Sweetroll 1 Smoked Salmon wrapped in cheesecloth 1 Bottle of Nord Mead 1 Waterskin
Bags, Pouches, Packs: 1 Large Leather Rucksack/Pack A belt with 4 Pouches attached
Other: N/A
Nothing glaring in this sheet, I actually quite like it. My one nitpicky pedantic thing is that I thought that given name was in the Dragon Language or something. But then I found out it was just Swedish with apostrophes shoved into it. Varg is wolf in Swedish, just so you know, btw. Anywho, it's okay to take those apostrophes away. You have my half of the approval, now we must wait for Gcold to rise again from his deep slumber come the distant morn.
It's not very usual but I've seen some documented cases of child soldiers in WWI at the very least (as an example of child soldiers in legitimate armies, and not some African warlord's drag band). And 'camp people' were a thing, be they traders, washers, cooks or prostitutes.
-In Nordic orthography, the palatal approximant is represented by <j> rather than <y>. Which means your guy should be "Jorwen" instead of "Yorwen". With that said, it seems like the old Atmoran spelling used <y>, so if you want to keep his name, add an explanation for that old-fashioned spelling. -I doubt the Legion would conscript someone at the age of 13. Either he lied to join, pressured by peer, or taken by more unorthodox commanders.
@ClocktowerEchos Did you ninja in a skill? I swear there was one less...
@HHShetland Standing in this corner; hailing from Riften, Skyrim; the undercat champion; Tennant Ibnazh!
It wasn't unusual for young men to be considered adults by medieval standards. He was pressganged into service and was a bugle boy who also mended shirts and trousers. He was 14 when he crossed into Cyrodiil, if that's worth anything. Also, I'll just change it to a J soon. Changed.
I remember this local comic where an Undead officer serving on a floating galley whipping other undead slaves took up knitting because he was undead and eternity was really damn boring. Let the main character go after he taught him a different knitting style or something, can't remember very clearly. But the whole 'badass who loves tailoring' aspect just reminded me of that.
I've loved the whole idea of making a character who defies first impressions. I'm trying to move away from always playing the same ol' character archetype of relentless, brooding badass #23,407,567
I just want to play a guy with some honor who is genuinely friendly and means well for a man in the soldier's profession.
