Nox Grimoire

The Elder Scrolls: Year of the Wolf

Durlag gro-Shag

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Name: Durlag gro-Shag

Age: 38

Race: Orsimer

Appearance: Broad shouldered and powerfully built, Durlag gro-Shag is everything one might expected to see in a mountain orc. Long years of service to the Empire, along with nearly two decades working the forge, have transformed a once long, lanky youth into a veritable mountain of meat and muscle; while life constantly lived on the Imperial frontier, has turned his dull, gray-green flesh into rough, well worn leather. Small, amber eyes gleam with a ferocious love for life, and his thick jaw and wide chin seems all the wider whenever he grins a toothy grin.

At a height of nearly seven feet, he is tall, even by orcish standards. Rumors abound that there might be, perhaps, a small touch of ogreish blood in his ancestry, a claim he vehemently denies. Typically, he is seen in heavy armor. On those rare occasions when he is not, he tends to favor simple garb, not at all unlike that worn by a village smith or miner.

Personality: Durlag gro-Shag is one jovial and boisterous when drunk, yet silent and contemplative when sober. Perhaps a touch more cerebral than others of his kind, he is prone to long bouts of melancholy. His thoughts are often turned inwards, and it is wise to leave him be whenever he is taken by one of his so-called “black moods”. However, when gathered amongst fine company, with a horn of mead in hand, he is quick to raise his voice in valorous song of deeds past, and of deeds yet to come.

Affiliations:

Imperial Legion (Formerly)

Cheydinhal Fighters Guild

History: Durlag gro-Shag was born the son of an orcish warchief in a minor stronghold in the Wrothgarian Mountains during the bloody years leading up to the Miracle of Peace, which some name the Warp in the West. He was seventeen years old when Orisinium was at long last granted provincial status by the Empire. At eighteen years of age, he was among the first orcs to enlist with the Imperial Legion.

Having been schooled in the ways of the forge from the time he was eight, Durlag found himself pressed into service as a quartermaster. His days and nights were filled with long hours mending the broken armor and weapons of his fellow legionnaires, and even forging new ones when demand was great enough. He saw is fair share of combat as well, as all were expected to take up arms whenever camp or fort came under attack.

Durlag met his destiny some years later during the Oblivion Crisis, when all of Tamriel was nearly brought to its knees. No longer left to slave away at the forge, he was dispatched face the Daedric invasion along with just about every other legionnaire in the Empire. Battle after battle, he slaked his axe's thirst for Daedric. Battle after battle, he narrowly avoided death by the skin of his tusks.

The end of the Oblivion Crisis, also marked the end of his service to the Empire. Martin Septim's sacrifice had brought peace to a war weary Tamriel, and Durlag found that he was no longer interested in facing death on a daily basis. He sought quieter work, as a porter of the Cheydinhal Fighter's Guild. The Guild's many mercenaries always need their weapons sharpened and repaired, or needed their armorer mended, and here he didn't have to worry about ever being asked to fight.

The last five years have been among the best of his admittedly short life, though the thrill of battle has once more begun to creep its way into his heart. A letter delivered to him by a harried looking courier, has set him once more upon the road. Obeying its cryptic message, he now makes his way to Skyrim, and to Helgen...

Class: Warrior

Major Skills:

• Armorer – Expert
• Blade – Apprentice
• Blunt – Adept
• Block – Apprentice
• Heavy Armor – Apprentice
• Light Armor – Novice
• Marksman – Novice

Minor Skills:

• Athletics – Apprentice
• Leather Working – Novice
• Enchantment – Novice

Spells: None

Equipment:

• Steel Battle Axe
• Steel War Axe
• Steel Armor
• Leather Traveler's Pack
• Armorer's Tools
• Armorer's Hammer X10
• Inkwell and Quill
• Leather-bound Journal
• Map of Tamriel
• Trail Rations x14
• Filled Waterskin

The Elder Scrolls: Year of the Wolf

Durlag gro-Shag

Name: Durlag gro-Shag

Age: 38

Race: Orsimer

Appearance: Broad shouldered and powerfully built, Durlag gro-Shag is everything one might expected to see in a mountain orc. Long years of service to the Empire, along with nearly two decades working the forge, have transformed a once long, lanky youth into a veritable mountain of meat and muscle; while life constantly lived on the Imperial frontier, has turned his dull, gray-green flesh into rough, well worn leather. Small, amber eyes gleam with a ferocious love for life, and his thick jaw and wide chin seems all the wider whenever he grins a toothy grin.

At a height of nearly seven feet, he is tall, even by orcish standards. Rumors abound that there might be, perhaps, a small touch of ogreish blood in his ancestry, a claim he vehemently denies. Typically, he is seen in heavy armor. On those rare occasions when he is not, he tends to favor simple garb, not at all unlike that worn by a village smith or miner.

Personality: Durlag gro-Shag is one jovial and boisterous when drunk, yet silent and contemplative when sober. Perhaps a touch more cerebral than others of his kind, he is prone to long bouts of melancholy. His thoughts are often turned inwards, and it is wise to leave him be whenever he is taken by one of his so-called “black moods”. However, when gathered amongst fine company, with a horn of mead in hand, he is quick to raise his voice in valorous song of deeds past, and of deeds yet to come.

Affiliations:

Imperial Legion (Formerly)

Cheydinhal Fighters Guild

History: Durlag gro-Shag was born the son of an orcish warchief in a minor stronghold in the Wrothgarian Mountains during the bloody years leading up to the Miracle of Peace, which some name the Warp in the West. He was seventeen years old when Orisinium was at long last granted provincial status by the Empire. At eighteen years of age, he was among the first orcs to enlist with the Imperial Legion.

Having been schooled in the ways of the forge from the time he was eight, Durlag found himself pressed into service as a quartermaster. His days and nights were filled with long hours mending the broken armor and weapons of his fellow legionnaires, and even forging new ones when demand was great enough. He saw is fair share of combat as well, as all were expected to take up arms whenever camp or fort came under attack.

Durlag met his destiny some years later during the Oblivion Crisis, when all of Tamriel was nearly brought to its knees. No longer left to slave away at the forge, he was dispatched face the Daedric invasion along with just about every other legionnaire in the Empire. Battle after battle, he slaked his axe's thirst for Daedric. Battle after battle, he narrowly avoided death by the skin of his tusks.

The end of the Oblivion Crisis, also marked the end of his service to the Empire. Martin Septim's sacrifice had brought peace to a war weary Tamriel, and Durlag found that he was no longer interested in facing death on a daily basis. He sought quieter work, as a porter of the Cheydinhal Fighter's Guild. The Guild's many mercenaries always need their weapons sharpened and repaired, or needed their armorer mended, and here he didn't have to worry about ever being asked to fight.

The last five years have been among the best of his admittedly short life, though the thrill of battle has once more begun to creep its way into his heart. A letter delivered to him by a harried looking courier, has set him once more upon the road. Obeying its cryptic message, he now makes his way to Skyrim, and to Helgen...

Class: Warrior

Major Skills:

• Armorer – Expert
• Blade – Apprentice
• Blunt – Adept
• Block – Apprentice
• Heavy Armor – Apprentice
• Light Armor – Novice
• Marksman – Novice

Minor Skills:

• Athletics – Apprentice
• Leather Working – Novice
• Enchantment – Novice

Spells: None

Equipment:

• Steel Battle Axe
• Steel War Axe
• Steel Armor
• Leather Traveler's Pack
• Armorer's Tools
• Armorer's Hammer X10
• Inkwell and Quill
• Leather-bound Journal
• Map of Tamriel
• Trail Rations x14
• Filled Waterskin

[D&D 5E] Lost Realms of Arann: Orzamar

Arathys Menenon

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Character Sheet: Arathys Menenon

Background

Arathys Menenon never knew his parents. He was raised as the ward of one Mytharion Amontel, an elven wizard of some small prominence, residing in the tiny sun elf village of E'othyr. Though acting as his father, Mytharion insisted he be referred to as as “Mentor” or “Master”, and often admonished the boy that he was, in fact, no orphan, but rather, he was what Mytharion referred to as a “Promise Child”. His mother, being unable to conceive, had come to him many years prior, seeking a wizard's aid for her condition. Mytharion had agreed, but only on the promise that the woman's first child would belong to him. Arathys was that child.

For much of his youth, Arathys was left in the care of his master's varied summoned servants. His childhood was one spent dancing with devils, playing music with angels, discussing philosophy with demons, and having tea parties with faeries. He also received an education in the basics of arcane magic, though Mytharion was a touch overprotective, and often stressed curiosity be tempered by restraint. That all changed around Arathys' thirteenth birthday, no longer was he left in the care of summoned minions and tutors. Now he would accompany his mentor whenever he went away on business, and assist him in whatever way necessary. His magical education also began in earnest. His days were suddenly filled with hand drills and lessons ranging from spellcraft to arcane theory, world history to languages, his night filled endless practice and candlelit study.

Under the wise tutelage of the sage, Mytharion Amontel, Arathys Menenon grew into a formidable young wizard, specializing in the arts of conjuration, summoning, and teleportation. Ever the loyal student and friend, Arathys stayed on with his master for many years, despite his apprenticeship having been finished. However, lately Arathys has begun feel restless residing in his tiny hamlet home. Not satisfied with the prospect of winding up as some village mystic and not comfortable with idea of becoming a court magician in the hall of some lord, he has instead opted for a life adventure. He knows not what the future might bring, but one thing his certain of is that there is still so much he has left to learn, and he can he can do so best traveling the road as a journeyman mage.

The Elder Scrolls: Year of the Wolf

Intrigued...

The Faraway Land: Arcane Adventures (Looking for new players 11/3/18)

hmmm...I am intrigued. I shall certainly be watching for further developments.

Lost Realms of Arann: Northmarch [D&D 5E]

Arathys looked the paperwork over carefully, filling out each section as he went with the ink and pen he always kept on his person. At the description of his abilities section, he simply stated that he was the pupil of one Mytharion Amontel, and that his training had focused on the arts of summoning and conjuration. As for a statement of why he was here... That was a tricky one, as again. His decision to apply had been more whimsy than anything else. Though he supposed his real reason was to further his beyond what his mentor had been able to teach him, with a desire to seek professional employment once his education was concluded. He didn't have to tell them that "professional employment" meant itinerant wizard-for-hire.

Jotting all that down, he returned to the help desk, eager to put the bureaucracy behind him him and get on with his schooling.

Lost Realms of Arann: Northmarch [D&D 5E]

"You should go by the college tomorrow morning, they have officials who can point you in the right direction," The gnome, Fillion Flexner, had told him. And now he stood in a queue in the Cildran Hall, along with a veritable host of other prospective students. When he had gotten up this morning, after spending a rather uncomfortable night in a farmer's hayloft, he never imagined he find himself faced with so much competition. Not in a place as remote as a frontier city, like Teres.

The lined moved on and at least it was his turn. He approached the admissions clerk with air of self-doubt and nervousness. "Gre..ahem..Greetings," He managed to stammer. "Arathys Menenon here for admission..."

Black Lily [High Casual]

Willard returned Amara's wave with a roguish grin. "Aye," He replied. "It'd be more like he found me." He stroked the buckskin's neck affectionately. "He's a fine steed. Can't for the life of me imagine why he'd be so quick to git away from ye." He laughed. "Oh wait, o' course I can." He hoped she wouldn't take too much offense at his little joke at her expense. In his mind, she was like a little sister, and a bit of light teasing was how he showed his affection.

Affection. It was such a funny thing, if you thought about it. Black Lily was probably one of Pratus' most notorious organizations of outlaws, killers, and thieves, with everyone of them more than willing to sellout the others at a moments notice. And yet, there was a certain amount of affection to be found between it members, be among good friends, old comrades, or the sort of familial affection to found among the teams. It wasn't something he expected to find when he joined three months ago. This sense of belonging was unlike any thing he'd experienced since...since the night Kaitlyn took her life.

Ah, Kati. It been more than twelve seasons since her death. More than twelves seasons since those bastards did what they did. He'd got them in the end though, and it'd been worth every once of misery he'd spent hiding in the wilds thereafter. However, Black Lily had offered him a escaped from all that, and an opportunity to do a little good, by way of being very, very bad. For that he would always be grateful. He just hoped that they did give him cause to regret his loyalty.

"It's already dusk, damnit," He heard someone curse loudly, shaking him from his introspection. He looked just him time to hear their illustrious leader, Gabriel, instruct them to make for the village of Braven. "Good," Wil mumbled under his breath. "Be glad for a spot o' ale and warm bed." He scowled. This job had already been more trouble than it worth. And he still didn't know what was in those damned boxes.

Lost Realms of Arann: Northmarch [D&D 5E]

"Arathys Menenon," He replied, taking the seat offered. "a...A pleasure to be...to be sure."

Stop stuttering you dolt! He chided himself. Why did he always have to be so awkward around people? He adjusted his own travel-worn robes, and signaled for the tavern wench to bring him a drink. As soon as she did so, he took a good, long pull from his mug to steady his nerves.

"Ahem..." He began, clearing his throat. "I am Arathys Menenon, student of Mytharion Amontel, a wizard of no small reputation amongst the High Elves."

He continued. "And you, Mr. Flexner, judging by your robes would be a student of the Teresian College of Wizardry. Am I right?"

He paused, as if waiting for a response, but then hurriedly continued speaking. "Oh, what I am saying, of course you are. Well, have come a long way to attend your fine institution, and I was wondering you could direct me toward the admission office?"

He took a long breath, chiding himself for his continued awkwardness. To much exposition, and far to wordy for a simple request. But he couldn't help him himself. He talked when he was nervous, and he was nervous almost all the time.

Lost Realms of Arann: Northmarch [D&D 5E]

The trip to Teres had been hard on Arathys Menenon. He'd spent nearly the entirety of the voyage with his head hung over the side ship of the ship, retching his guts up. As soon as they had made landfall and docked, the gang plank dropped and the voyage at its end, he'd rushed of the accused vessel as quickly as he could, and even then he'd not taken more that two steps on dry soil, than he was doubled over, retching upon the ground. Regaining his composure, he'd made his way to the Tavern, the friendliest alehouse he could lay eyes on. Now he sat alone in a dark corner booth, nursing his brandy and pondering over a certain letter.

"You will find what you seek in Teres..." The letter had said. But as to the meaning of it, Arathys could not say. Leave it to Mytharion to speak in riddles. He smiled briefly as he remembered his old mentor, and the happy times he'd had as his apprentice. Those day were long gone, and now his fate was his own. "You will find what you seek in Teres..." The trouble was, he didn't know what it was he was seeking. He knew not what his master was playing at, but whatever it was, he was certain that would be found in the Teresian College of Wizardry. To that end, he was determined to enroll there as a student, no doubt the library would contain the answers he sought, and no doubt a more formal education would do him some good.

As luck would have it, a student of said magical institution was at the bar even now, nursing his ale and pouring over what appeared to be research notes. Finding his courage, Arathys finished his brandy, and made his way over to where the student sat.

"hel...Hello..." He said nervously. "Might I sit down?"