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Bio

Maybe the real plot was the friends we made along the way. [Last Updated: July 26th 2018]


I'm 22 years old, a blue-collar worker, and ready to start my first year of college to pursue my major in Psychology!

Obviously I enjoy reading and writing if I made an account on this website, and I like to think I'm not half bad at it. I first started writing and roleplaying at the start of 2010 and I've stuck with it ever since. I've had a couple of dry spells along the way, but I always seem to come back to it. I enjoy most genres, but if I had to pick a couple of favorites, they would be sci-fi and high fantasy, with the latter being the king. Some of my favorite and best characters have come from Elder Scrolls roleplays! What can I say? It appeals to the D&D nerd in me.

I've thought about this for a long while, and even now I still think about it. If I had to say I had a specialty, I would say it's the human experience (which might sound a little pretentious, but I'll explain). Ask any of my friends and they'll tell you that the history sections of nearly all my characters are obnoxiously long. I probably definitely have a problem, and it's because I get so carried away with telling their story. I want my readers to know how their story influences them as a person. I love creating tragedy and watching a character overcome those tragedies and finding themselves, watching their identities shatter and coming back together. I've always been a fan of characters overcoming their weaknesses and obstacles, showing their heart and soul, and I try to make that show in many of my characters. You could say that I even try to write my characters in such a way so that they can inspire me, as pretentious as that also might sound.

I also try to research whatever it is I'm writing about so that I'm not just pulling shit out of my ass - unless that's what my character is doing, in which case I try to make sure that's made clear in my writing. Just because I'm a melodramatic piece of shit doesn't mean I don't try to write a compelling story. I enjoy writing characters with a grey morality because evil is cringey and benevolence is exhausting, so anything in between I think is the sweet spot. Even in the characters with a "good" morality, I try my best to incorporate flaws so that they still feel human. Calen is a bard who loves being alive, is a compulsive flirt, and tries to see the beauty in all things. He is also a coward, a fool, and sometimes he's accidentally a thoughtless heart-breaker. Andrea is a humble and intelligent young woman who wants to do right by the world and help others as they've helped her. She also has depression after she dropped out of Yale due to a bad drug problem. She's been clean for a while now, but her past haunts her. Wylendriel is an elven priestess who has suffered through an immense trauma and while she is typically a soft-spoken and compassionate individual, her trauma manifests itself through her buried frustration and bitterness, which stems from her crisis of faith.

So there you have it. Hope we can write together some time!


Prime Rib Boneheads

@Dragonbud
@He Who Walks Behind
@Maxx
@Surtr Inc
@JunkMail


These Tickle My Funny Bone

You can find me in:
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention (Chapter 2) by @Gcold
The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep by @Dervish

Most Recent Posts

You know he had to do it to em.


F
Wy would probably know about redguard burial ceremonies. She'd suggest to bury her someplace underground. She would have some credibility in this kinda situation I think.
Where We Fear to Tread


A collab by: @Spoopy Scary & @MacabreFox

Gilane, Hammerfell - 30th of Second Seed


The black veil slowly, groggily lifted from Calen’s vision. He still felt sick, but he also felt an ache. An aching in his head - he thought he did, at least. He couldn’t tell. Everything seemed so surreal, not quite there. He knew he was being dragged, but he couldn’t quite feel it. He couldn’t feel the texture of the coarse and rocky ground of Anvil’s paved streets, but he could feel the pressure against his body. He could feel and taste something warm, wet, and metallic in his mouth. It was sticky. He swung his field of vision around to look at the two men dragging him through the street… he saw Quintus and Pavo. Oh, yes… of course… he lost. He couldn’t get away. He couldn’t find Rhona. The Dominion agents slew the guards in the streets. There were channels of blood between each and every brick in the ground, like veins coursing through the city… and the led to a single house. A manor. A castle. Castle Anvil.

He wasn’t sure if they dragged him along a long red carpet or through a river of blood, but the answer was clear when they threw in front of the throne and the ground splashed beneath him. His mouth filled with blood, but was it the river of blood? Or was it being thrown on his face, breaking all of his teeth? The river felt solid despite the splash. He felt so dazed and groggy that reason and logic flew out the window, but even in this state, he tried looking up. He saw Cezare, adorned in fearsome armor that might have once been regal and a billowing red cloak. Strange. There was no wind in here. Looking closer, the red cloak was dripping with a familiar sanguine hue. He wore an eyepatch for some reason.

“You’re a liar.” Cezare growled, taking a step forward. Calen somehow found the strength to roll over onto his back and tried crawling away from him; backwards, still facing him. Though his feet found purchase on solid stonework, he felt his arms suddenly drop and sink elbow deep into the river. As Cezare walked ever closer to him, he seemed to walk atop the river that Calen couldn’t escape. Too thick to escape, as it felt like cold molasses on his skin; but too thin to escape. Every time he tried to get out he fell back through like it was water, sinking deeper and deeper.

“No.” Calen denied, shaking his head.

“You’re a liar!” Cezare repeated. “You lied to me, you lied to them!

“No!” Calen cried out again.

“All you do is lie!” Cezare shouted. “You love no one!

“No!”

Three blasts of thunder shook the castle. Too loud, deafeningly loud. Like one of the Dwemer’s cannons knocking down the castle doors. Three sharp shots was all it took for him feel completely deafened. Blood dripped from his ears, and a low, dead, droning din drowned out Cezare. Though his mouth moved, no sound came from him. Calen’s throat felt swollen shut. Cezare was getting angrier and angrier that Calen could not hear him, he knew this somehow, but he was helpless to do anything about it. When he tried to speak, he felt like he was choking.

“Calen.”

Cezare drew his sword.

“Calen.”

He raised it above his head...

“Calen.”

And swung down.

Everything was instantly black. Sithis.

The sound of a rolling marble echoed through the Dread Father, and contrasting against the infinite void trailed a ribbon of red.

Rhona’s head rolled into view. Her lips moved,

“Calen? I need to speak with you.”




Her mind swirled and raged like a catastrophic wintry gale about to make landfall. Mortalmo’s words rang inside her head, just like the bells had tolled in Anvil. She couldn’t make up her mind, what would she do? She couldn’t approach Calen and blindside him, could she? What if she did? Rhona’s hands curled, clenching into fists as she ground her teeth. Hot tears burned her eyes as she fought to maintain her appearance. There was no use, she buried her face into the palms of her hands. Perhaps you should go find Calen.

Rhona decided that if she were going to confront Calen, she needed to wash her face, and do her best to erase any emotional distress. She made her way inside the Three Crowns and headed down the hallway that led her to their shared quarters. She recalled the way that the guards led the men, and headed further down the corridor. She had located the two rooms acquisitioned to the men, and took her chances on knocking on the first door. Not a sound came. Rhona moved to the second door, knocking harder, and called out for Calen.

“Calen? I need to speak with you.”

After a few moments, the dull sound of the floorboards creaked, followed by a few more low thuds and shuffling. Thud, shhh… thud, shhh… The brass knob of the door handle clicked, and the door creaked open. Calen leaned his face against the door frame as he mumbled his incomprehensible greeting, his blonde hair unkempt and out of place. His breathing sounded ragged, as if he was just running a race. There was a smear of drool near the corner of his mouth that he tried to wipe away. It was mixed with the faintest trace of blood. He was completely disheveled and could barely keep his eyes open and the skin around them was slightly off-color, but when his blurry vision finally focused on Rhona, they widened open with surprise and he stumbled to recompose himself.

“O-oh, uh, he… hey… Rhona! Wh… what brings you…” Calen stammered, but then he shook his head and sighed. He finally blurted out, “Are you okay?”

His disheveled appearance caught her off guard, she faltered in her words, but immediately squared her shoulders and huffed, “Calen, you have no idea what I’ve been through. And I just-” her face twisted into a grimace, hot tears stung her eyes again as she clenched her teeth, “Tell me that it’s not true. Tell me, please.” She begged, desperately trying to keep her composure.

“I…” Calen began, but the more he woke up, the more confused he became. Usually it was supposed to work the other way around. He didn’t know what she was asking of him. The truth? The truth of what? He stepped out into the hallway.

“You’re right,” he said, “I have no idea what you’ve been through. Quintus and Pavo told me Cezare found you. I’ve been worried sick, but… I thought you wanted nothing to do with me. We haven’t spoken since… since Skingrad. Brynja wouldn’t let anyone…”

Calen’s voice gradually became weaker until he finally slumped his shoulders and gave up on finishing his sentence. He was rambling. He had to get to the point.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know what he did, but I should’ve been there for you. I wasn’t. I’m so sorry…”

“Shut up!” She yelled, her tears spilling forth unimpeded, her mind wouldn’t be betrayed, not after what Durantel had told her, “You’re lying! It had to have been you, or else Cezare wouldn’t have found me, and fucking kidnapped me, Calen!” Rhona felt dizzy, and so she leaned against the door frame to steady herself, her hands covering her face as she cried.

“Wh-what?” Calen stammered, his face contorted into a look of confusion, “Why would you think I had anything to do with that? I helped you get away from him. He sent two guys after me because apparently he wanted to kill me. Did Cezare tell you all that?”

She groaned, struggling to catch her breath, “Durantel… he…” Rhona brought her hands away from her face, hands curling into clenched fists, “He told me that you told Cezare where I was…”

“Durantel?” Calen repeated, “You mean the Altmer? The one that hates my guts and calls me a dog?” Calen signed, running his fingers through his already messy hair. By Talos, he was gonna need to have a word with that Mer. He seemed like the sort that would get a kick from pitting two humans against one another. It would explain why Rhona is so scared.

“Look,” he began calmly, “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me since Skingrad - and if you were, that’s fine, we can have that conversation later - but I haven’t even seen you in Anvil until we were all boarding the Intrepid. Last time before that was on the Gold Road. What could I have told Cezare? And how would Durantel know that?”

“I did what I had to do, to protect you Calen. Cezare sent his goons after you to bring you back to him, he wanted to kill you right in front of me. I had to… I had to stop him. I…” Her demeanor began to change as she realized what Calen was saying, perhaps Durantel had lied to her after all, at least suggesting the impossible. Why would he do that to her?

“So why did you believe him?”

“I… don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.” She managed a choked out sob as she explained, “Calen… I killed Cezare. I had to because he would’ve killed you. I beat him to death, and I… I couldn’t stop myself.”

The bard’s throat clenched.

“Gods I’m so sorry, Calen. I don’t even know what to say.” Her face drained of color, the look of hopelessness consuming her features. Calen pulled her into his arms and rested his weary head on top of her’s. She stiffened in his arms, but found herself leaning into him, she shouldn’t have run from him like she did. He took a deep breath - the salty smell of the ocean still clung to her hair - and his body shuddered as he released it.

“I'm just… so relieved you're safe.” He whimpered. “You’re safe now.”

“I’m sorry, Calen. I was a fool.” Rhona wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into the crook of his neck. The warmth of his body against her own provided a much needed comfort then. She didn’t want him to let go, no, she could stay like this forever, right there in his arms. Let everything melt away, all of her worries and fears, the horrible events of Skingrad and Anvil dissipate into nothingness. “Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive what?” He muttered. “You've done nothing wrong.”

“For everything,” she whispered softly, “for the way I’ve treated you, acting like a spoilt child… even accusing you. I was afraid, and I ran from my fears, like I always do. I’m a coward, Calen. And I ran from you. You deserved none of this.”

“Don't… don't…” He choked up, but then he took another deep breath, shaking again before spitting out, “don't take responsibility for them. C-Cezare… and Durantel, they both made their choices. You couldn't help that. You have a good heart. I should've looked for you sooner.”

Rhona shifted her arms, she drew away from him, just enough so she could look at him clearly, “Calen…” she didn’t have to say another word. One hand drifted to his cheek, she stroked it affectionately with the pad of her thumb, her eyes searching his. There was a warmth in those dark brown eyes of his, even while pink and swollen with tears, something that had comforted her originally and she found it again. Rhona leaned in and pecked his cheek.

“I won’t run anymore.”

Calen stifled a smile, knowing it would only get the waterworks going again. He held Rhona’s arms in his hands. “Sorry about crying in your hair,” he said with a half-hearted laugh.

She laughed, “Kynareth would not be upset.”

“Really though, it’s probably a mess.”

Her smile slipped away, she wasn’t sure what to do now. Her brows furrowed, “I… you should get some rest. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

At the mention of getting some rest, of going back to sleep, his thoughts returned to the nightmare he just had a few minutes ago. Of Cezare. Of the sword. Of Rhona. He shook his head, both to shake out the haunting memory of it and out of refusal. He dipped in his head and touched his forehead against hers. This felt more relieving to him than the prospect of sleep.

“This is fine.” He whispered. She wasn't going to question him, her heart leapt at the welcoming sensation, it’s what she wanted. It’s what she needed.

Rhona wasn’t technically supposed to be in Calen’s room out of consideration for Gregor and Alim, but that was fine. The corner where two of the walls met at their end of the hallway was more than enough. At first they just sat on the floor together, side by side, enjoying each others company. As the hours dragged on, they found a more comfortable place with Calen’s back against the wall and Rhona as his little spoon. With his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, Rhona enjoyed the first sense of security she felt in a long time. Their little talks went on until their words were slurred and their eyes heavy. Rhona found her pillow on his chest, Calen his atop her head. For the first time in days, even while surrounded by Dwemer, the night felt peaceful.
To Be Nord

Thanks to the lovely @MacabreFox for her help!


Anvil, 24th of Second Seed

When the word traveled among the group that there was a new job to be had elsewhere, Daro’Vasora having been the one who had found and brusquely informed him of the plans. Though he found it curious that someone so new to this ensemble of odd ducks would be so casually sought out - he didn’t think himself to be of any significant importance to any one person of the group, but maybe he left some kind of impression. What it may have been, he did not know, but he wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity for work, especially if that opened up the possibility for more travel. He set out initially to see more of Tamriel, so perhaps he was with the right people in order to do that. So he did what he could to help. He’d wake up the next few mornings, bright and early, and help move some crates and stuff onto the ship. It was no chore he wasn’t already familiar with. Despite his inexperience with ships, he always woke up early in the morning to take care of the family’s stables and all the horses first thing in the morning, followed by pitching hay bales over a fence. Those who thought less of him at first might have been pleasantly surprised to learn that he was still a fit young man who kid keep pace with the other dock workers once he got the hang of it.

Being up bright and early every morning also meant that he was there when they first started ringing the bells. He was there when the Dominion ships crawled over the line of the horizon. He was there, running through the streets, when chaos in Anvil broke out.

He was lucky enough to avoid the Dominion agents -- most of them. When it became obvious that he was sprinting towards the city gates, looking as though he was going to escape the city, a bound weapon was conjured in an elf’s hand, but was quickly caught by one of the guards next to the city gate while the other one sunk their blade into the infiltrator.

“Go!” One of them yelled.

...

The memory of the last few minutes were on replay in Calen’s mind even as he collected as many things as he could from the wagon he had left in his stable. He packed as many things as he could into an overstuffed backpack, and then he stuffed what he could into Danish’s saddlebags. The essentials should come - septims, obviously, for if he was going to leave so much behind, he’d need every single one to recover what he lost once they landed at their destination. Soap? Can’t go sailing anywhere while smelling like a beggar. He packed his food too; half of it was left as well was a half-filled bottle of Solitude’s spiced wine. Khenarthi’s Breath, good as a backup, also has sentimental value. His books - his journal… his journal. There was no way he was going to leave without it. No way in Oblivion.

When he felt he had everything he needed, Calen jumped down from the wagon, landing on the straw covered ground with a crunch. He was just strapping Danish’s saddle on which he stopped for a moment, noticing that the sound of the crunching hay continued. The bard looked curiously around the other side of the wagon to see a familiar looking goat munching on the hay that he had set for Danish earlier in the morning. That was Rhona’s goat. Why was it here of all places? Gods, he didn’t have time for this.

“Here, here…” He whispered to the animal. As he beckoned the animal closer, the goat hopped, and ran towards him with its head low - the damn thing was charging at his knee again! The bard jumped over the goat - “Aha!” - but his cocky victory was rudely interrupted as the goat spun back around and headbutted behind Calen’s knee as he landed. He fell over and landed on the soft hay, looking up at the goat with frustration as the thing began sniffing through his pockets. Danish turned around and whinnied, his flank now facing the opening of the barn.

‘Farm animals are the worst!’

“I think he’s over here.”


Calen was immediately alert at the sound of a stranger’s voice. The sound of two pairs of footsteps were just outside the stable, two pairs of boots rustling through the grass and pounding against the dirt were coming ever closer. He immediately jumped to his feet in the crouched position and grabbed the wooden cudgel he had hanging from Danish’s saddlebag. Hiding behind Danish, who was nuzzling his face as some kind of way to extrapolate some treats from the Nord, he watched two shadows stretch across the stable.

“Well there’s his horse.” Said a different voice. It sounded distinct. Not Nordic, but not quite Imperial either. He heard a dialect like it before… in Bruma. These men weren’t elves.

Calen popped his head up from behind Danish and was relieved to see the face of two men, Quintus and Pavo. They were both at Skingrad like many of the other refugees. He sighed with relief as he looped the leather strap of his cudgel around his belt and began walking towards them.

“Thank goodness it’s just you two! I’m glad you’re safe.” He said, but then he looked to them thoughtfully. “What are you guys doing out here? Don’t you know what’s happening?”

The two men were both equal in height and girth, each being quite stout and burly. The one called Quintus took a step forward, his hand traveling to the shortsword buckled at his waist, he lifted the sword just enough out of the sheath, saying, “Well, Cezare wants to have a word with you. And he won’t take no for an answer. So why don’t you come along quietly with us?”

“Bad time for a chit chat, don’t you think?” Calen commented incredulously. “The city’s under siege -- can’t it wait?”

“Afraid not, lad.” Pavo said, mirroring his companion’s behaviour, “He’s paid us gold to bring you to him. And he’s not too happy with you.”

Calen rolled his eyes. That Cezare guy was starting to be a major pain in the ass. Didn’t he shake him off Rhona’s trail back in Skingrad? There shouldn’t be any problems. He rested his hand on his hips, “I can’t imagine why. I only helped him escape the Imperial City when that city was also under siege.”

The bard turned around and continued to fasten the buckles and straps of Danish’s saddle as he continued, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I’m worth enough gold to somebody for you two fellows to even bother, but…”

“You mean, you don’t know--”

“Shut the fuck up, course he don’t know.” Quintus elbowed Pavo in the ribs, “Look lad, Cezare has his wife back. We’re done asking nicely.” He drew his shortsword and brandished it towards him, Pavo drawing his own blade.

Calen remained still, the only sign of a reaction from him was the squeaking of the saddle’s leather as his grip tightened. He took a deep breath, though a little shaky, he calmly and slowly faced the two men with his hands above his head. He eyes darted between the two armed men. He knew them well enough that both of them were individually stronger and better at fighting than Calen ever was, but he was still wracking his brain to try finding a way out of this situation. Then he could try finding her.

“Is Rhona safe?” Calen simply asked. He hoped that they still had enough honor left to be honest with him.

Quintus laughed as he mocked him, “Is Rhona safe? Sounds like you’re a bit soft on her. She’s where she belongs. Cezare wants you alive to kill you himself, in front of her. Teach her a lesson.” He glanced at Pavo and nodded. His companion planted the sole of his boot against the side of a water barrel, and kicked it over.

“Really?” Calen replied, sounding pleasantly surprised. “So that means I’ve got nothing to worry about from you two, right?”

“Oh no, Cezare didn’t say we couldn’t hurt you, just wants you alive for himself.”

“You think you can do that?” Calen bluffed. “Haven’t you ever dealt with a Nord before?”

“My mother’s a Nord. Boy.” Pavo retorted.

But you’re a Colovian. There’s a difference.”

“And what’s that?”

Calen, with both of his hands up, gave him a cheeky smile and slapped Danish’s flank as hard as he could, causing the pony to whinny and immediately buck his hind legs out. Two hooves were firmly planted into Pavo’s chest as he was sent flying back several feet. The sudden catapulting of his friend caught Quintus off guard, giving Calen enough time to draw his cudgel and hammer it against the side of the Imperial’s head with an effeminate yelp as his battle-cry, who instantly dropped to the ground with all of his senses dazed. Though Quintus tried to reach for his weapon, his hand only inched weakly in a random direction until his dizziness got the better of him and finally drifted away into unconsciousness.

Calen didn’t wait to even calm his pony down. He slid his cudgel back through his belt, hopped onto the saddle, and pulled on Danish’s reins to whip him around where he was able to get a good look at Rhona’s goat. It was pissing in its own mouth and spitting it on top of the still conscious Pavo who was -- now very likely wincing and spitting in disgust -- clutching what was probably a broken sternum. Calen threw up in his mouth a little bit but was able to coax it back down. What did Rhona call that thing? Tobias?

‘Farm animals are the worst.’

The bard growled to himself -- he should probably bring the damn thing along anyways. If it meant anything to Rhona, then “Tobias” was worth the energy. With a quick whip of the reins, kicking Danish’s flanks, and Calen clicking his tongue a few times, the pony spurred to action with surprising alacrity. As Danish dashed out of the barn, Calen slid partly out of his saddle and reached down to grab the goat by its horns. The momentum generated by Danish was enough to allow Calen to rock Tobias on top of Danish’s back and set him down in front of the saddle where he leaned forward and pinned the struggling goat down with his body.

With this unlikely A-Team, they were able to work together to escape the clutches of the dreaded Cezare. Though peril still awaited them behind the gates of Anvil, they were able to navigate through the chaos through luck and pluck until they were able to reach the docks where he saw some of the crew rushing onto the gangplank of The Intrepid. Among them was Rhona, being escorted by Daro’Vasora. Even in the chaos of Anvil, he could feel the tension in his body finally relax.




The Intrepid | Hilane, Hammerfell, 30th of Second Seed

The trip to Hammerfell was tense. Danish would be kept below deck, safe and sound, and Tobias was likely going to go wherever he pleased. Calen himself felt miserable. He didn’t have experience with ocean travel, and the swaying of the boat made him sick to his stomach - and the heat. It was worse than what it was in Anvil! Though they escaped one danger, it became clear that Rhona didn’t escape without harm. Perhaps it wasn’t visible, but she was shaken terribly and Calen wanted to comfort her. He really did want to, but he could read a situation well enough. Things were already complicated and he didn’t want to complicate things even further, and Brynja’s death glares to anyone who even thought about getting close was enough to dissuade him from even attempting. It was a few days of spending as much time as he could away from the harsh sun when it was actually Brynja herself who urged Calen to talk to Rhona, but by then, Dilane was already in sight. With no one knowing what was in store for them, they agreed that the talk should wait. This wouldn’t be the time to get distracted.

When they finally reached Dilane, they discovered that they may have made the right decision. The Dwemer were already here.

But they weren’t at all what Calen suspected. They were cordial and pleasant, and Calen followed the cue of the ship’s captain and the company’s own fearless leader. He cooperated with them, allow them to inspect his belongings, his pony downstairs, to appreciate the artisan craftsmanship of his cudgel, chatting them up quite happily -- he could’ve fooled the sharpest of them. It wasn’t hard to be amiable, but secretly Calen wondered how long this supposed peace would last. He realized that recording history was going to be far more complicated than he thought. The implications of the occupation were unsettling. It was easy enough to write down the worst of the Dwemer’s atrocities, but also the best? Their culture? Their music? How could soldiers effectively fight a war if they couldn’t effectively dehumanize them? Calen realized he had his work cut out for him and that the only way he was going to get out of this was with an open mind.

Fortunately, he apparently made enough of an impression on the Dwemer that one of them helped direct him to the stables where he could give Danish proper shelter. The pony was irritable and spooky after several days of ocean travel and all of the stress and anxiety that came with it, and the heat of Hammerfell is something that would take getting used to. He just had to make sure the pony got plenty of rest and water in the meantime. Calen himself? He felt about as exhausted as Danish did. He followed the group to Three Crowns, found the room he would be sharing with Gregor and Alim (he didn’t have time to consider all the fun he would have with Gregor and his new soon-to-be friend), and threw himself onto a bed where he fell fast asleep.


This one is pleased to see a new face!
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