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56,302 | 1,539 | 11 | 1,963 | 1,053 | Yeva Darbinian
Yeva, noticing that barkeep probably didn't like vague gestures, flicked out a small bit of parchment, no larger than a business card. Swiftly, she produced her quill which was already dripping with some ink. She wrote with the speed of a kingdom scribe, showing the finished writing to the Dober-Man. "I'll have what she's having." it said simply as she pointed at the voluptuous woman. The drink looked quite nice, especially with that little umbrella. She hadn't seen a drink like that for a long time, so it was looking like a pretty good choice right about now. She wasn't sure how a beast man took to written orders, but hopefully he knew how to read. By now, another tasty looking woman walked onto the stage and started to sing, how nice.
The gunsmith's gaze quickly flicked toward the Otter descendant whom she recognized as Hayden. Her lips formed a small smile as she raised her hand up in a half wave in greeting. Quickly writing onto her another small piece of parchment, she wrote "How have you been?" Yeva saw Hayden as quite a nice person, perhaps a little too nice. Very smiley from what she had deduced from the few times meeting him. She wouldn't call him a friend, rather just an acquaintance. A good one though.
It would seem that a small band of misfits had gathered at the bar. A soggy looking man and another with a large blade on his back. They must be the two stowaways everyone was raving about earlier. She noticed the wet-man's reaction to her crest, which gave her a slight feeling of superiority. The beast man's stuttering was cute, he's probably not used to the presence of a beautiful woman. Elvish ones usually did that to people. | Name: Yeva Darbinian
Age: 26
Species: Human
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Yeva stands at a height of 5'7" and can be described as rather lean in build. She's rather average in terms of looks, according to most, so she doesn't really stand out in a crowd. She possesses tattoos that wrap around both arms and connect at her shoulder blades. These tattoos are reminiscent of circuits, but what they really represent is a mystery to everyone other than her family. (Refer to image) she doesn't wear anything that makes her stand out other than the choker she wears around her neck which has a small 'brooch-like' attachment that is a bullet shaped signet, her family symbol.
Personality:
Many say that Yeva is a very quiet individual. They're not wrong, but it's for a different reason. Yeva is mute. She can't speak. Aside from this 'minor' disability, she's a very reliable person and can be loyal enough to not abandon people without a second thought. She's awfully pragmatic, but it doesn't stop her from being sentimental at times. Her internal monologue, however, is quite cynical. Sometimes she can come off as quite cocky or blunt in her gestures. She gets easily frustrated when people don’t understand what she’s trying to tell them, but it’s not really their fault that she can’t talk.
History:
Born into a family of Gunsmiths, Yeva spent the majority of her life in the workshop, helping her parents put together and test their latest creations. Yeva grew, first as a gunsmith, second as a marksman. The Darbinian family, although more famously known for their firearms, were also exceptional mercenary marksmen. Throughout history, their family had been at the forefront of weapons technology, creating the first of many clockwork and steam-powered firearms, the most amazing of which being a combination of steam power and clockwork, the Pressure rifle; the first sniper rifle.
Yeva now lives as a traveler, a mercenary, a gun for hire. Carrying the family name with pride.
Equipment:
A modified Pressure rifle, a steam-powered pistol, ink and quill, varying amounts of parchment, extra ammunition, and some smoke bombs.
Powers:
Yeva has the power to summon, however this power has only just been discovered by herself. She’s an agile person and an incredible marksman, but her abilities in CQC are very limited.
Activity:
Online every night between 8pm-12am (GMT+8). I’m currently studying, so I might get really busy at times. I should be able to post regularly though.
Extras:
- The Darbininan crest is that of a single bullet
- As stated before, the Darbinian family is famous throughout the continent. However they are also feared for the same reason. Double crossing a Darbinian is usually a terrible idea.
- The Darbinian family isn't actually aligned to anyone, remaining as a type of neutral mercenary faction in their own right to avoid politics and pursue research.
- Yeva uses written words to communicate most of the time.
- The Pressure rifle has a scope, but it’s just a line of magnifying lens |
56,303 | 1,539 | 12 | 2,552 | 638 | With a body like Mira had, she was quite accustomed to the sort of attention she was drawing. In her opinion, her lineage was essentially perfect for creating an attractive specimen; as a quarter-elf, she wasn't as foreign-looking as a halfsie, but was also finer of features than any pure-human could ever hope to be. Such thoughts weren't uncommon for her; she was well-aware that she was impressively attractive, and she dressed to flaunt it. Even so, if felt as though she was getting more attention than usual, especially as she wasn't dressed as scantily as usual, at least not as lightly as on a work day.
The barkeep's drink preparations captured her attention for the duration of the process. She'd seen Gifts at work before, but the ease and artistry displayed still fixated her. Even if it wasn't a particularly powerfully-displayed talent, it was executed with an artistic flourish that almost made her wish she had something like that- some bloodline trait, or something in that vein.
When the lithe dancer strode up onto the stage, Mira frowned with animosity both ironic and unsurprising. She found the young woman lovely, of course, if a bit tackily-dressed in her mind, but also a bit jealous at the attention she drew, even if she herself was trying to avoid attention at the moment. Not that it was doing any good... She forced a smile back onto her face as others began to flow towards her place at the bar. A lukewarm smile was all the attention she wasted on the rather plain-looking girl who sat near her. She was relieved that the young woman didn't seem interested in speaking, and the reason for that revealed itself quickly enough.
The men were a different case. The soggy gentleman, whose name she hadn't managed to catch, was a bit more familiar than she'd hoped, but then, she had bought him a drink.
"Hmm? Oh. No, I don't think we know each other. Though, I'm afraid that I have trouble remembering every man I've... met. I just figured that you looked cold, and thought that something strong enough might make you feel a bit better. I don't know... I suppose I was trying to pay it forward or something." Her voice lacked the husky, sultry tone it sometimes carried; she wasn't looking for a customer, and was simply speaking with a stranger. There was no need for the extra effort, and it probably made her easier to understand, rather than forcing the poor man to hang on her every word.
At the arrival of the shirtless young man, she was slightly taken aback. He was dressed like a tribal warrior of some sort, and armed with a blade that bordered on absurd. Despite his slightly-imposing appearance, he spoke with the unsure tone of someone who was not only a foreigner, but also quite unused to speaking with those of her trade. It was a combination which she hadn't often seen before, and it tickled her greatly to think of the chance to tease the poor boy. His wandering eyes didn't escape her, and she was sure to make eye contact, fleeting though it was, once he looked back up at her face.
"The Ferry? Yes, I was traveling for business." She spoke with her work-accent now, wishing to see how flustered she could make the half-dressed young man. "It's no interruption. I've just gotten my drink, and I have all the time in the world..." She smirked coyly, tucking one shoulder slightly forward in a practiced move which simultaneously enhanced her bust and allowed one strap of her dress to slip slightly down her arm. She scanned the youth's face for a reaction. Oh, this was going to be fun... | Name - Mira Streetwalker
Age - 22, though looks no older than 18.
Species - 1/4 elf, 3/4 human.
Gender - Female
Appearance - Average height, lean hourglass figure, long red hair, light skin.
Personality - Confident, take-charge, assertive. In any situation, likes to make it clear that even if she is not the leader, she isn't to be ignored or commanded. Constantly vigilant and on-guard.
History - Born to a whore and an actor, she pursued her mother's profession with a passion, and eventually realized that a man with his pants down was quite vulnerable, especially to someone with the skills to take advantage of it. Since then, she has worked as a contract killer as well as a harlot, and derives pleasure from perfecting both arts. Despite her talent, she is quite unknown to most, which makes her jobs all the more simple.
Equipment - Two long knives, makeup and hair/skin dye, anti-conception charms and drugs, steam-powered pistol, hidden in brassiere pocket.
Powers - Expert seductress, skilled in assassination-style combat, but not in actual fighting.
Activity - I can usually be on from about 10-12 Pacific time, as well as other times throughout the day, depending on how busy I am. I'm much more available during the week than on weekends. |
56,304 | 1,539 | 13 | 1,766 | 865 | Gharn looked away shyly. He had never encountered an escort before, he didn't even know what they were, but he knew this woman was not the one who had stowed away. A woman of her beauty and charms could simply ask to be taken aboard he reasoned, no need for what humans used as payment.
Thinking of that, he remembered that humans liked shiny things in exchange for items. He rummaged in his pocket and brought out a small lump of silver that he placed on the counter. He looks at the Dogman, slightly suspiciously, and asks "May I have some water? Will this..." he searches for the right word in English, which judging by his slightly broken speech and his unusual accent, is his second language.
"Will this pay?" he asks the barman, nodding to the nugget of solid silver.
As he waited, he looks back at the man and woman, still pink in the face. "Again, I am not mean to interrupt. I ask wet-man why he stow. Ship-man refuse me, so I stow, but wet-man human, he not need be refused yes?"
His scarred face goes redder once more as Mira speaks to him in her sultry tones. The woman in front of him was beautiful, but far too flirty for his comfort. His face turns a light shade of pink as Mira moves, enhancing her bust, seemingly for his benefit. His eyes met hers briefly and he looked away once more, his face reddening further
"I-I-I" he stammers, completely put off guard by Mira's actions "I-I am Gharn..." he finishes, lamely introducing himself. | Name – Gharn Werefang
Age – 20 (Average age of species, about 140. Aging around half as fast as humans once they reach maturity)
Species – Werelion
Gender - Male
Appearance – About 5’10”. Lean and muscular. Fairly handsome, though his looks are marred by 4 long scars down the left side of his face. He’s got tribal tattoos running down one arm and across the left side of his chest.
His wereform is massive, a 9ft tall heavily muscled Werelion, his head shifts to that of a anthropomorphic lion and his legs change to cat-like ones. In this form he is capable of lifting nearly 1000s pounds and can tear a man’s head off with his bare paws
He wears tribal breeches that somehow stretch when he shifts, along with several necklaces. He dislikes wearing shoes and doesn’t see the point in shirts.
Personality - Proud, noble, firm, just, angry, violent, savage, shy, oblivious, brave, strong, kind.
Gharn is a proud young man. He’s brave, loyal to a fault but often comes off as arrogant. He doesn’t think much of humans, as his culture views strength above all, and he thinks himself far stronger than any human
After the events of his past, he’s become rather withdrawn, quiet and sometimes just downright unfriendly
History – Gharn comes from a tribal culture of Werelions, unbeknownst to the rest of the world. There he learned his tribe’s ways and hunting. He learned the ways of a warrior, a hunter and a leader. When he was 15 he lost it all, his tribe was slain. Brutally slaughtered while he was helpless to stop it. He was made to watch as mercenaries, hunting after the pelts of his fellow tribsmen, slew his mother, father and took is baby sister away. They left him for dead, but he did not die. He survived in the jungle for another 5 years on his own, and is only just now making his way out of it, towards civilization and to go after the men who took his sister and killed his tribe
Equipment – He wields a massive broadsword. Far to heavy to lift in human form he can only use it in his wereform. For combat while human he uses a shortsword and hide shield
Powers – Shapeshifting. Gharn is a Werelion. He is able to shift between his Wereform and human form whenever he pleases. In Wereform he has enormous strength and great physical prowess
Activity – I can post multiple times a day. I’m on all the time.
Extras – Gharn has never ‘mated’ and is very shy and easily embarrassed around women he finds attractive.
A few notes on the rules of Gharn's culture.
His was a tribal kind, based on two elements that the tribals held above all: Honor and Strength.
Due to this along with the beliefs that if someone loses their honor, then they don't get into the afterlife, Gharn is forced to do the following
He will not lie, at all, even about the smallest thing. He can choose to remain silent, but if he answers then he must tell the truth to any questions he's asked.
If someone loses his honor, then they are usually put to death in a ceremony. Seeing as Gharn has no tribe however, he is considered a Narmweir, meaning 'last-kin'. If he loses his honor he is expected to commit suicide. A Narmweir is generally considered bad luck, and aren't usually allowed into a new tribe.
Challenges are sacred, not to be ignored. There are two kinds, fights to the death and fights for domination.
In a fight to the death, then the goal and end result are obvious. The loser dies and goes to the afterlife, honor fulfilled. The winner lives (probably), his honor increased through victory, earning him trinkets and higher stances in the tribe. If somehow both live, then both lose all honor, the loser for not dying when he was supposed to, the winner for not killing his foe. They will not get into the afterlife and instead wander as spirits forever when they are put to death.
In a fight for domination the goal is to beat your opponent into submission, no weapons are allowed in this fight. Win the winner is declared, the loser is forced to either give the winner every object he/she owns, or become the winners slave for 7 years but keep their belongings.
There are restrictions on the slavery however, the winner cannot make the slave hurt themselves or their family, they may not command the slave to do a task that would lead to the slave's death and males may not ask female slaves to mate with them. The last one was created several generations before Gharn's birth as one Werelion challenged, beat and took nearly all the women in his tribe as slave-wives.
Finally Gharn is only 20, meaning he is not quite a full adult in the eyes of his culture, therefor he is not allowed to eat human flesh (a delicacy among his people) or mate with another of his kin with the intent of creating a child. |
56,305 | 1,539 | 14 | 948 | 360 | Hayden
Hayden chuckles. "I've been... Busy." He took a look around, seeing a few of the others who had come in before him. His nose twitched slightly as he smelled the werelion and rather soggy man. "All I'm allowed to say is that we've been working on some new ships. They're absolutely massive. I did learn a few new runes, though. That advice about energy transfer was spot on." He grinned at that. He had always seen Yeva as a really smart and capable woman. Her disability only hid what he thought to be an amazing mind. Though he wasn't yet sure if he could call her a friend. He wanted to, she seemed pretty nice to him.
Hayden's beast senses easily picked yup the sounds of footsteps outside the tavern. His mother, a full Otterkin, had always said he was the best tracker of his siblings. He paid the noise no mind, however, since he was more interesting in the smells of the food and drink in the tavern, noticing that his stomach rumbled and he went a little red at the sound. Speaking quickly to a waitress he asked for the house special as he waited for Yeva to finish writing her reply. He set his sword and shield on the ground next to him. | Name - Imperial Vice Captain Hayden Ventus of the Army, Engineering Division
Age - 23
Species - Half Otterkin
Gender - Male
Appearance - Tall and tanky: 6'4. Hayden has a tail and some fur on his chest and arms. His ears have stud piercings.
Personality - Hayden was brought up as a noble, but often left to his own devices. He is caring and thoughtful, usually seen smiling and laughing. It takes him a while to open up, but when he does, he's extremely loyal and won't hesitate to take a bullet for a friend.
History - Hayden is a part of the Ventus line. A family that is synonymous with the World military. He however is lesser known as being the youngest, and because he hasn't achieved much, since he prefers to tinker with his few friends in Engineering. He is also viewed as a failure to his parents by he family for the fact that he has not gained any of his parent's Bloodline Traits.
Both the Ventus nd the Xerces(his mother's family) are known for their Traits. They.. Arranged the marriage of Hayden's parents to strengthen their lines. Hayden's two older siblings have one of their parent's Trait, but even after failing his Trails twice, Hayden hasn't shown any indication he'll activate his power. Hayden was left to pretty much do as he wanted afterwards.
An utsider would say thet he lived in a chaotic home. His parents have no love for each other, and there was never a time when they did. They are almost polar opposites with his father being a loud and brash man who won't be denied something he wants, and his mother is a rather gentle soul, who has grown cold from his father's treatment.
In his family, only his grandfather, Admiral Kensington of the Imperial Army, has ever shown him real kindness. He's the reason he was able to join the Engineering Corps. His grandfather is also the reason he was able to run away from the forced marriage he faces. He figures if he can help get the Goddess Shard back, he will be able to get out of the forced marriage with his Grandfather's support.
Equipment -He carries a sword, a high powered crossbow and a shield. He also has enough bandages and medical supplies to deal with moth wounds, a practice gained because the Engineering Corps can be dangerous. His weapons all have etchings for his runes. He also has a Writ of Absence from his Grandfather, which enabled his escape.
Powers - Runic Enchanting: Hayden is a decent enchanter. He is able to give his weapons increased force or fire damage.
His bloodline Trait is currently inactive.
Activity - I'm on pretty much every night after work and sometime on in the morning if I wake up early.
Extras - Hayden prefers men. When women come on to him he is rather unsure of wha to do. He also can't really talk well to guys he finds attractive becoming quite shy. Because of this he's never had sex and doesn't even know how it works. His fiancé was Lady Duvenia Quentin, the daughter of General Poitr Quentin. He also likes to eat. A lot. |
56,306 | 1,539 | 15 | 2,498 | 675 | Briefly glancing over the piece of paper Yeva held out, the barkeep let out a sharp huff before grabbing her payment. The objects in the bar began to perform again, whirling through the air in a flurry of fruit, blades, and bottles as they did before. Brandy leaked into the air like a small suspended river defying gravity before pouring into chilled glass that emerged from beneath the counter, landing with a subtle ting in front of the tight lipped woman. A subtle red glimmer twinkled out from above as a small paper umbrella, same as the first, floated down gracefully and landed in the center of the glass. Through a fog of smoke, the barkeep reached out and pushed the glass forward into Yeva's reach before swiftly moving on.
Next down the line was the half naked tattooed man brandishing the massive blade. Not batting an eyelash, the doberman stopped in front of Gharn, a dim red hue emanating from the tip of the cigar pinched in the corner of his maw between a set of sharp canines."Alright pretty boy...what'll it be." Asked the bartender through a veil of smoke before hearing the request for water. One of the doberman's ears twitched in annoyance as he scoffed and leaned back. A waist of time in his eyes since water sold for nothing. It was pretty clear the man wasn't aware of this fact, meaning he wasn't familiar with some basic customs. On top of that, he smelled a little too much like cat for the bartenders comfort. If it weren't for the fact he was an honorable business-dog-man, he would have taken the silver, but it was against his ethics.
Since he was here, the bartender decided to oblige the cat scented man. "Hmph..." With all the grace and flair of a stone, a small glass flipped out from behind the bar onto the counter, teetering a few times before settling into place in front of Gharn. Globs of water lifted from a drinking barrel a few feet from the bartender, unceremoniously plopping into the glass. "Here's your water bub...and you can take back your silver." Declared the hound a bit crudely, pushing the lump of silver back with the glass of water. "Don't bother me again until you're ready to buy a real drink." With that he carried on, briefly licking his jowls before promptly addressing another customer. | Character Compendium
Sheet format
Name - (last and middle being optional. Feel free to include any nicknames or titles.)
Age - (If your species lives for an inhuman amount of time such as smaller or larger lifespans than 100 years, please give us an idea of the general lifespan of your species along with their individual age.)
Species - (Fantasy Characters welcome. Human, Elf, Dwarf, Beastman preferred. Beastman encompasses anything that's part animal part human. No gods or aliens.)
Gender - (Assuming your species has gender, List here.)
Appearance - (Drawings, Anime pictures, Pixel art, and photos are all fine. Everyone has their own version of what their character looks like in whatever art form. Whatever it is, please include a brief or detailed worded description below the image for posterity sake.)
Personality - (The psychological and mental habits of your character and adversely their species if they have any particular personality quirks that they inherit from their kind.)
History - (Some may opt to remain mysterious. Some may opt to share this during the story. Either is fine. But if you wish to share, you can tell us about where your character came from and how they grew up. Feel free to make up your own home island if you want just be sure to describe it.)
Equipment - (The weapons or armaments your character my possess at any given time. Also list what equipment your character is proficient with.)
Powers - (See OOC. Powers are optional. Leave your character some room to grow. We'll be going places on this journey so leave some powers for your character to unlock or discover along the way. Or don't. It isn't necessary. Just makes the story more interesting if there's some yet to be unlocked potential in the cast.)
Activity - (How often can you log in, what days/times are you available to post, and if you have any commitments that might take away from your time, how long will you be gone.)
Extras - (Have I missed anything? Any tidbits you wanna include? I couldn't think of anything else to ask for in the moment so by all means put whatever you want here.)
Character List
Mira Streetwalker - Tybalt Capulet
Zarpaden Volk - Polybius
Yeva Darbinian - Rekaigan
Gharn Werefang - Overlord Thraka
Hayden Ventus - GrizzTheMauler
Aedre Starling - Saquira
-------- |
56,307 | 1,539 | 16 | 2,078 | 20 | AEDRE STARLING
The sounds of the port were significantly more muted underwater, though they carried further, and Starling was still far enough out to sea when she peeked up from the waves that no one without significantly better-than-average sight would be likely to see her from shore. She made no effort to lift more than her head into the air, keeping both weapon and fins underwater as she scouted for a good spot to emerge unseen onto land. Given that her natural eyes were far better at judging depth and seeing things over a larger distance than seeing shades of color, that wasn't much of a challenge for her even so far out.
Once she'd found a good place Starling allowed the currents to pull her back underwater, and then started swimming in the direction of the shore. She quickly gained speed, and soon she was near enough to shore that she had to slow down. She'd picked out a small inlet that ran in underneath the docks and shouldn't be visible from above, and she made sure to keep herself completely under water until she'd swam far enough in that she could pull the majority of her body up onto dry land. From there she could see no one else and could only hear the general hubbub of a busy city, so she placed her pack and staff down where they wouldn't get in the way and then focused on making her body change.
She closed her eyes to better adapt to the changed sight even as her tail became legs and her scales turned to skin, as claws became smaller and gave way to human fingers and nails. Since her scales did not absorb water the same way skin did, she wound up significantly less damp than she'd have been had she made the change in water, and she only wrung her hair out before getting her clothes out of her bag and dressing. They wound up slightly damp, but not unbearably so, and she made sure the change hadn't overlooked anything important before making her way up onto the docks, bag and staff both carried on her back. A few people cast looks her way, but Starlings' clothing was nondescript enough that few of them looked twice, and only her staff drew eyes as she made her way further into town.
Lacking any significant plans, she kept her eyes out for a tavern or something of the like to rest her feet for a while and listen for any local news. As she walked she kept pulling her hands through her hair in an effort to make it dry faster in the sun, and so it was not quite evident that she'd just came out of the water when she finally laid eyes on the Leaky Grove Tavern. To make it even less obvious she pulled her hood up and made sure her hair was sufficiently hidden before ducking inside. The interior was dimly lit, and though the music sounded pleasant she scrunched her nose up slightly at all the strange smells. The place was fairly crowded, the bar no less so, but there were still a number of seats free and she wound up sitting next to a young human man who looked like he'd taken a swim through the harbor with clothes and all.
"A sea breeze, thank you." Starling spoke up as soon as the bartender looked in her direction and placed a couple of coins down on the counter before her to pay for the drink. | Name: Aedre Starling
Age: 41, appears 25 as a human (average lifespan is 300 years, but they can live longer)
Species: Mermaid
Gender: Female
Human form: Fairly athletic body of average human height with light skin. Brown hair that reaches just past her shoulders and green eyes. She wears thin brown trousers, wraps her chest and wears a dark grey hooded jacket over it. Brown boots, and a belt around her waist that carries a couple of daggers. All clothing that she can take off and put on fairly quickly.
Natural (mermaid) form: Aedre is slim with a wiry strength and a softly rounded face. Her whole tail is roughly 2,5 times the length of her legs in her human form, sea-green and mud-brown scales cover her whole body, and brown hair only reaches just past her shoulders. The tail ends in a single fin that flares out and then narrows, and long side-fins trail down from just above her waist down roughly half a metre. Her narrow eyes are a sea-green colour and her thin lips hide sharp teeth that have no problems cutting through fish-scales. There are claws on her fingers and webbing between them. Varying sizes of brown webbing-like membrane follow the line of her body, and there are long gills on each side of her neck.
Personality:
She cares far more for travelling and learning new things than money, and has a fairly aggressive fightingstyle though it takes a lot to make her angry. There are few things she won't do for her friends when they earn her loyalty. As a mermaid she has no actual need for clothes in her natural form and doesn’t understand some species fixation with clothes and going without them.
History:
Her parents were nomadic hunters and raised her to be the same. She’s always enjoyed travelling and discovering new places, and so when she discovered she had embodiment it was a natural first step to train it well enough that she could turn human and fit in on land. She left her family as soon as she was old enough to do so, though it took some time after that before she was good enough at embodiment to be able to fit in amongst humans.
Equipment:
Battlestaff (metal bo staff with a barbed spear head enchanted not to collect rust or otherwise degrade), water-proof bag, 2 daggers for when she doesn't have claws and/or loses her staff.
Powers:
Embodiment, but so far is only able to use it to change between mermaid and human form. They’re specific forms and she can’t yet change partially.
Telekinesis, which she mainly uses to lift small objects and get her staff back if she's disarmed. It generally takes a lot of concentration, and she's less adept at using telekinesis on land.
Activity: Currently I don’t have a fixed schedule and so could post at any time during the day. When I get a regular job I’m more likely to post at some point between 18 and 24 in the evening. My timezone is UTC +1.
Extras:
- She finds it difficult to read human bodylanguage since the mermaids she's familiar with look so little like humans.
- Because mermaids live such long lives they don't have the same view of time as most species do. Aedre hasn't seen her parents in over ten years, since she was old enough to set out on her own, and she still hasn't started missing them. |
56,308 | 1,539 | 17 | 1,963 | 1,053 | Yeva Darbinian
As always, Yeva enjoyed the theatrical side of bartenders. This one seemed to have some finesse about him that was nice to see once in awhile. She knew very little about how the techniques affected the drink itself, but she recalled someone telling her that is changed the flavor depending on how it was mixed and so on. She lifted the glass to her lips, taking a sip from it as Hayden spoke to her. The drink tasted amazing, the pear liquor really mixing well with the other fruits present. It was dangerously easy to drink in her opinion. While she wasn't particularly interested in ships, she was glad that her advice from some time ago had helped a fellow engineer with his exploits.
Placing her drink back onto the counter, she started writing a response on a new piece of parchment, quickly dipping her quill into her ink pot once or twice. She shifted her shoulder, bringing the Pressure rifle onto her lap as she finished writing,"I'm glad that my advice helped, the key to energy transfer is to make sure you keep the energy concentration constant throughout so that nothing goes awry. I might let you enchant my rifle sometime." the note said. The message would to continue on after that after a brief gap on the paper, "I hear you were to be wed? Congratulations. I'm sure your lady is very pleased." If Hayden was to look at Yeva after reading that part, he would see a playful smirk on her face, telling him that she knew what was going on, not that he would know how. Not many things escape the information brokers of the Underground; the Darbinians tend to be favored clients among the brokers as one of the more powerful families within that part of society.
Noticing that he had put his weapons on the floor, Yeva quickly gestured toward them before patting the steam pistol that was holstered to her belt, as if to tell him to keep his weapons on hand instead of resting idly. Her other hand picking up her drink once more. As any Mercenary would be, Yeva was always on her guard, especially in a place like this. | Name: Yeva Darbinian
Age: 26
Species: Human
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Yeva stands at a height of 5'7" and can be described as rather lean in build. She's rather average in terms of looks, according to most, so she doesn't really stand out in a crowd. She possesses tattoos that wrap around both arms and connect at her shoulder blades. These tattoos are reminiscent of circuits, but what they really represent is a mystery to everyone other than her family. (Refer to image) she doesn't wear anything that makes her stand out other than the choker she wears around her neck which has a small 'brooch-like' attachment that is a bullet shaped signet, her family symbol.
Personality:
Many say that Yeva is a very quiet individual. They're not wrong, but it's for a different reason. Yeva is mute. She can't speak. Aside from this 'minor' disability, she's a very reliable person and can be loyal enough to not abandon people without a second thought. She's awfully pragmatic, but it doesn't stop her from being sentimental at times. Her internal monologue, however, is quite cynical. Sometimes she can come off as quite cocky or blunt in her gestures. She gets easily frustrated when people don’t understand what she’s trying to tell them, but it’s not really their fault that she can’t talk.
History:
Born into a family of Gunsmiths, Yeva spent the majority of her life in the workshop, helping her parents put together and test their latest creations. Yeva grew, first as a gunsmith, second as a marksman. The Darbinian family, although more famously known for their firearms, were also exceptional mercenary marksmen. Throughout history, their family had been at the forefront of weapons technology, creating the first of many clockwork and steam-powered firearms, the most amazing of which being a combination of steam power and clockwork, the Pressure rifle; the first sniper rifle.
Yeva now lives as a traveler, a mercenary, a gun for hire. Carrying the family name with pride.
Equipment:
A modified Pressure rifle, a steam-powered pistol, ink and quill, varying amounts of parchment, extra ammunition, and some smoke bombs.
Powers:
Yeva has the power to summon, however this power has only just been discovered by herself. She’s an agile person and an incredible marksman, but her abilities in CQC are very limited.
Activity:
Online every night between 8pm-12am (GMT+8). I’m currently studying, so I might get really busy at times. I should be able to post regularly though.
Extras:
- The Darbininan crest is that of a single bullet
- As stated before, the Darbinian family is famous throughout the continent. However they are also feared for the same reason. Double crossing a Darbinian is usually a terrible idea.
- The Darbinian family isn't actually aligned to anyone, remaining as a type of neutral mercenary faction in their own right to avoid politics and pursue research.
- Yeva uses written words to communicate most of the time.
- The Pressure rifle has a scope, but it’s just a line of magnifying lens |
56,309 | 1,539 | 18 | 948 | 360 | Hayden nodded at Yeva's first response. "I'd be happy to do that. It'll probably be a bit rough since it has a curved surface. But I'm up for a challenge." He smelled food and started salivating when it was placed before him. He dug in, eating quickly, but made sure he didn't seem like a slob as per his mother's intensive mannerisms training. Savory mutton chops paired with some buttery baked potato, Hayden thought he was in heaven.
Until he saw Yeva's second response. Haden groaned, tail flicking rather angrily. "I refuse to be wed to her. She's a monster, her father is a tyrant, and I don't even like women that way..." Hayden snorted. He hadn't even understood how sleeping with another man worked since, his parents refused to let him get out much. "I hate that my parents think they can marry me off too just because I haven't shown any signs of the Traits. It's horrible. Not even sure how you found out since well, Father just announced it a few months back..."
As Yeva gestured to his weapons he snorted and slid out his crossbow, tail flicking his sword and shield closer to him as best as it could. "Don't worry. I'm always armed. My brother thinks it's funny to "play chase" with his swords when he thinks I'm defenseless." He still had a scar from that time. | Name - Imperial Vice Captain Hayden Ventus of the Army, Engineering Division
Age - 23
Species - Half Otterkin
Gender - Male
Appearance - Tall and tanky: 6'4. Hayden has a tail and some fur on his chest and arms. His ears have stud piercings.
Personality - Hayden was brought up as a noble, but often left to his own devices. He is caring and thoughtful, usually seen smiling and laughing. It takes him a while to open up, but when he does, he's extremely loyal and won't hesitate to take a bullet for a friend.
History - Hayden is a part of the Ventus line. A family that is synonymous with the World military. He however is lesser known as being the youngest, and because he hasn't achieved much, since he prefers to tinker with his few friends in Engineering. He is also viewed as a failure to his parents by he family for the fact that he has not gained any of his parent's Bloodline Traits.
Both the Ventus nd the Xerces(his mother's family) are known for their Traits. They.. Arranged the marriage of Hayden's parents to strengthen their lines. Hayden's two older siblings have one of their parent's Trait, but even after failing his Trails twice, Hayden hasn't shown any indication he'll activate his power. Hayden was left to pretty much do as he wanted afterwards.
An utsider would say thet he lived in a chaotic home. His parents have no love for each other, and there was never a time when they did. They are almost polar opposites with his father being a loud and brash man who won't be denied something he wants, and his mother is a rather gentle soul, who has grown cold from his father's treatment.
In his family, only his grandfather, Admiral Kensington of the Imperial Army, has ever shown him real kindness. He's the reason he was able to join the Engineering Corps. His grandfather is also the reason he was able to run away from the forced marriage he faces. He figures if he can help get the Goddess Shard back, he will be able to get out of the forced marriage with his Grandfather's support.
Equipment -He carries a sword, a high powered crossbow and a shield. He also has enough bandages and medical supplies to deal with moth wounds, a practice gained because the Engineering Corps can be dangerous. His weapons all have etchings for his runes. He also has a Writ of Absence from his Grandfather, which enabled his escape.
Powers - Runic Enchanting: Hayden is a decent enchanter. He is able to give his weapons increased force or fire damage.
His bloodline Trait is currently inactive.
Activity - I'm on pretty much every night after work and sometime on in the morning if I wake up early.
Extras - Hayden prefers men. When women come on to him he is rather unsure of wha to do. He also can't really talk well to guys he finds attractive becoming quite shy. Because of this he's never had sex and doesn't even know how it works. His fiancé was Lady Duvenia Quentin, the daughter of General Poitr Quentin. He also likes to eat. A lot. |
56,310 | 1,539 | 19 | 1,766 | 865 | Gharn watches in awe as the bartender works. He's stunned by the display of magic, never having seen much of it before. Being distracted by the magic he doesn't immediately notice the rude tone of the Doberman until the mention of "a real drink".
Gharn frowns slightly, realizing and recognizing the tone.
"Real drink!?" he questions the Bartender. "What is a real drink Dogbeast?"
He takes the glass in one hand and uses the other to tuck his silver away before looking at the Bartender in mild anger. He allows some of the Lion into him, changing slightly. His shoulders broaden and he grows several inches taller as his muscles expand.
He's then momentarily distracted by the mouthwatering smell of fresh fish. He sniffs the air, trying to locate the scent, only to have it seemingly fade away into nothing. He frowns in annoyance and looks around, distracted from his conversation with the Bartender | Name – Gharn Werefang
Age – 20 (Average age of species, about 140. Aging around half as fast as humans once they reach maturity)
Species – Werelion
Gender - Male
Appearance – About 5’10”. Lean and muscular. Fairly handsome, though his looks are marred by 4 long scars down the left side of his face. He’s got tribal tattoos running down one arm and across the left side of his chest.
His wereform is massive, a 9ft tall heavily muscled Werelion, his head shifts to that of a anthropomorphic lion and his legs change to cat-like ones. In this form he is capable of lifting nearly 1000s pounds and can tear a man’s head off with his bare paws
He wears tribal breeches that somehow stretch when he shifts, along with several necklaces. He dislikes wearing shoes and doesn’t see the point in shirts.
Personality - Proud, noble, firm, just, angry, violent, savage, shy, oblivious, brave, strong, kind.
Gharn is a proud young man. He’s brave, loyal to a fault but often comes off as arrogant. He doesn’t think much of humans, as his culture views strength above all, and he thinks himself far stronger than any human
After the events of his past, he’s become rather withdrawn, quiet and sometimes just downright unfriendly
History – Gharn comes from a tribal culture of Werelions, unbeknownst to the rest of the world. There he learned his tribe’s ways and hunting. He learned the ways of a warrior, a hunter and a leader. When he was 15 he lost it all, his tribe was slain. Brutally slaughtered while he was helpless to stop it. He was made to watch as mercenaries, hunting after the pelts of his fellow tribsmen, slew his mother, father and took is baby sister away. They left him for dead, but he did not die. He survived in the jungle for another 5 years on his own, and is only just now making his way out of it, towards civilization and to go after the men who took his sister and killed his tribe
Equipment – He wields a massive broadsword. Far to heavy to lift in human form he can only use it in his wereform. For combat while human he uses a shortsword and hide shield
Powers – Shapeshifting. Gharn is a Werelion. He is able to shift between his Wereform and human form whenever he pleases. In Wereform he has enormous strength and great physical prowess
Activity – I can post multiple times a day. I’m on all the time.
Extras – Gharn has never ‘mated’ and is very shy and easily embarrassed around women he finds attractive.
A few notes on the rules of Gharn's culture.
His was a tribal kind, based on two elements that the tribals held above all: Honor and Strength.
Due to this along with the beliefs that if someone loses their honor, then they don't get into the afterlife, Gharn is forced to do the following
He will not lie, at all, even about the smallest thing. He can choose to remain silent, but if he answers then he must tell the truth to any questions he's asked.
If someone loses his honor, then they are usually put to death in a ceremony. Seeing as Gharn has no tribe however, he is considered a Narmweir, meaning 'last-kin'. If he loses his honor he is expected to commit suicide. A Narmweir is generally considered bad luck, and aren't usually allowed into a new tribe.
Challenges are sacred, not to be ignored. There are two kinds, fights to the death and fights for domination.
In a fight to the death, then the goal and end result are obvious. The loser dies and goes to the afterlife, honor fulfilled. The winner lives (probably), his honor increased through victory, earning him trinkets and higher stances in the tribe. If somehow both live, then both lose all honor, the loser for not dying when he was supposed to, the winner for not killing his foe. They will not get into the afterlife and instead wander as spirits forever when they are put to death.
In a fight for domination the goal is to beat your opponent into submission, no weapons are allowed in this fight. Win the winner is declared, the loser is forced to either give the winner every object he/she owns, or become the winners slave for 7 years but keep their belongings.
There are restrictions on the slavery however, the winner cannot make the slave hurt themselves or their family, they may not command the slave to do a task that would lead to the slave's death and males may not ask female slaves to mate with them. The last one was created several generations before Gharn's birth as one Werelion challenged, beat and took nearly all the women in his tribe as slave-wives.
Finally Gharn is only 20, meaning he is not quite a full adult in the eyes of his culture, therefor he is not allowed to eat human flesh (a delicacy among his people) or mate with another of his kin with the intent of creating a child. |
56,311 | 1,539 | 20 | 2,498 | 675 | The doberman turned up a nose at Gharn as he sneered and flexed. The display of power was dismissed just like the many other threats and impetuous requests that came to the doberman. What did surprise him was the sight of lion like features as they subtly flashed across the scantily clad man's figure. The momentary glance of awe was just as quickly replaced with disinterest as the small showcase which only lasted as long as Gharn's attention span served only to explain the feline scent the bartender had distastefully picked up on. He dragged a minimal scowl over to Aedre, somewhat aloof as she made her request. It took a moment, but the doberman finally digested what she requested, and managed a slight chuckle.
"I dig your taste doll." With a sly wink and a haughty grin, the bartender snapped his gloved fingers, triggering ripples of motion to surge through the shelves of liquor and spirits. Fluid danced in the rainbow of various bottles, all different sizes and shapes, as they rattled and spun. Subtle chiming rang out in a gentle harmony of clinking glass. Several pieces of shiny metal glimmered dimly in the muggy light, scattering out from the drying rack into the air above the bar. A swift right hand smoothly swept across the mahogany counter top and the young hooded woman's coins disappeared between nimble fingers. She felt a brief breeze of crisp and frigid air kiss her skin, brushing across her cheeks and over her shoulders. An ice chest slammed behind the doberman. In that moment the coins became three ice cubes, misting faintly in the tepid air as they were juggled across gloved knuckles. With his other hand, the doberman procured a tall icy highball glass clouded by a thin layer of frost from behind his back.
A trio of knives shuffled up from a suddenly open drawer, flashing through the air. Dry scratching hissed from the bottom of the straw basket of produce as a grapefruit and a lime chased each other around its edges until they were a blur of green and yellow gravitating into the air like a halo. Metallic clangs and clatters chimed out from the flurry of levitating blades as they seized into motion, carving through the fruit spinning in the air in a whirl of chrome and citrus until several disc shaped slices as thin as a coin spun out like a tornado of greens, pinks, and yellows. The rattling of the dancing bottles clattering against each other on the shelves gave way to the sound of a resounding clang as a bottle of liquid clear and pure fell forward. The cap spun off and the aroma of vodka wafted through the air, tickling at Aedre's nostrils as the pristine liquor defied gravity, snaking through the air. Iron taps protruding from the gnarled wood of juice baring barrels behind the bar clicked open, giving way to streams of juices from cranberries and grapefruit.
All the liquids swirled into the air, sealed away as the pieces of shiny metal came back together, closing around the rainbow of juices and vodka in the form of a shaker. A sound similar to maracas hissed out, accompanied by the acute tings of the bartender flicking each of the ice into the frosted glass before setting it down on the counter in front of Aedre. Knives bobbed away, filing into the sink and then onto the drying rack while the shaker tumbled down into gloved hands ready to catch it. After a quick twirl, the shaker's end popped off, and a sweet smelling amber cocktail poured out through a chrome grate and into the glass, spinning the cubes of ice around its insides as they floated up. Four paper thin fruit slices, two of each grapefruit and lime, slide onto glass's crystalline edges. "One Sea Breeze. Enjoy." The drink was presented and with a quick lick of his snout, the bartender moved on. However, before he reached the next customer, there was a sudden halt in the dobermans motions as his ears perked up, pointing into the air and tuning through the sounds of the bar like antenna. His eyes narrowed, shifting toward the entrance as he passed a muddled, smoke filled growl under his breath.
Shadows crowded the sunlight peaking in through the front doors as a gathering of silhouettes loomed in front of them. Sounds of merry died into curious awes and confusion as several men uniformed in white, blue and gold marched in, boorishly pushing passed the crowds of patrons. Soldiers that bore the mark of the World Navy across their coats and shoulders. Sheathed sabers and flint lock rifles rattled amongst the men, accompanied by the clatter booted footsteps. Seeking eyes studied the tavern, gazing over the clientele until one of the soldiers eyes locked on something toward the back of the bar. "There!" Not wanting to be shoved out of the way or to the ground, the crowd cleared a path for the navy troopers as a hasty advance was made toward the darker recesses until they were all gathered around a single table at the back of the room. The same table everyone else steered clear of.
The soldiers were twelve in all, as was common to most World Military squads, lined up and rowed next to each other in a disciplined formation as if they'd done it a thousand times. "Just as we suspected! Looks like our intel was right." Stepping forward from the ranks of soldiers was an imposing man decorated with badges and medals across the front of his coat and a gold pin at the center of his cap. The symbol of a World Navy Imperial Vice Captain. "So you finally decided to show your treasonous faces after all this time Red Fang Pirates? Quite a severe mistake." Wooden rattling and clicks hissed out from amongst the soldiers as they readied their rifles, training them on the darkened figures sitting at the table. "Now you'll be coming with us peacefully if you know what's good for you, and you'll be telling us where the Goddess Shard is too. Or it'll be the last mistake you've ever made!" With a deft motion, the vice captain rose a hand, ready to signal an execution.
A wicked smirk, filled with stained and crooked teeth, stretched across the mulish grimace of the pirate with the tattoo. Wiping some foam from the corner of his bristled maw with an ample forearm, the pirate turned over his fist slowly, revealing with a slight of hand trick a massive brilliantly gleaming pure blue sapphire almost as large as a skull. The precious stone rested in the scared palm of the grinning man, striking awe into the soldiers as they let out a concurrent gasp. "Dis be what ye lookin' fer mates?" he asked in a deep ragged voice that riled forth like an engine. "Well? Come an get it ye dogs!" An irritated scowl replaced the vice captain shocked expression. "You fools! To carry it on you...now we need not take you alive! Execute them! Don't hit the shard!" Flashes of igniting gunpowder and a rattle of rifles going off filled the tavern as the soldiers fired upon the table of pirates.
As the smoke cleared, the vice captains scowl quickly reverted back to shock as his jaw dropped in disbelief. "Wha...what is this?" In spite of the assault from the firing squad, there was no damage. Not to the pirates, or any of the furniture. Instead, something drifted in the air above the table. Glimmering faintly in the dim light of the tavern as they hung motionless in the air were several small led balls. It wasn't that the bullets missed, but rather that they had stopped midair. "Gyaaahahahahaha! Whassa matter mates!? Ye look upset that I took yer balls! Don't worry ye heads, I'll give 'em back to ya. 'Ere ya go!" By the will of the laughing pirate, the bullets shot back out, returning to their original owners and striking each of the soldiers, piercing through the front of their skulls with sickening thunks before sending the formation quickly toppling to the ground. "See? Aren't I a nice bloke?" The vice captain, the last remaining, took a step back as his gazed darted over his fallen troops desperately. "Y-you...b-bastard! You'll pa-" Blood spurted from his throat and nose abruptly cutting of the vice captain mid sentence as something pierced his chest, stabbing through from his back after ripping through the symbol of the World Navy across his coat, quickly staining it with a stream of blood. Looking down with pain stricken eyes, the soldier looked down at the black blade that had cut through his innards. His gaze followed the edge of the weapon down until he was gazing over his shoulder to the floor behind him, as the slender black painted man with violet eyes and a malicious smile that was impaling him snaked out of the shadow at his feet.
Death took the vice captain as the blade was ripped out of him, sending him falling into a bloody heap against the floorboards. The slender figure disappeared from the shadow of the decorated soldier and reemerged next to the tattooed pirate. "Thass the way Logia. Now go find the rest of those navy rats...an show 'em to the locker." Tucking the shard back into the recesses of his worn lambskin coat, the tattooed pirate kicked over the corpse of a soldier in his was before taking up his mug of ale and resuming his drinking, as if nothing ever happened. Papers scattered from the jackets of one of the soldiers, spreading across the floor. Painted across the front of each were marks identical to the tattoos across the burly pirates chest and rewards in gold marked at the millions. A kings ransom. Nodding and finishing off his own drink, the black painted man sank into his own shadow below the table. Silence plagued the tavern as the crowds of patrons and waitresses gazed in awe at the scene. | Character Compendium
Sheet format
Name - (last and middle being optional. Feel free to include any nicknames or titles.)
Age - (If your species lives for an inhuman amount of time such as smaller or larger lifespans than 100 years, please give us an idea of the general lifespan of your species along with their individual age.)
Species - (Fantasy Characters welcome. Human, Elf, Dwarf, Beastman preferred. Beastman encompasses anything that's part animal part human. No gods or aliens.)
Gender - (Assuming your species has gender, List here.)
Appearance - (Drawings, Anime pictures, Pixel art, and photos are all fine. Everyone has their own version of what their character looks like in whatever art form. Whatever it is, please include a brief or detailed worded description below the image for posterity sake.)
Personality - (The psychological and mental habits of your character and adversely their species if they have any particular personality quirks that they inherit from their kind.)
History - (Some may opt to remain mysterious. Some may opt to share this during the story. Either is fine. But if you wish to share, you can tell us about where your character came from and how they grew up. Feel free to make up your own home island if you want just be sure to describe it.)
Equipment - (The weapons or armaments your character my possess at any given time. Also list what equipment your character is proficient with.)
Powers - (See OOC. Powers are optional. Leave your character some room to grow. We'll be going places on this journey so leave some powers for your character to unlock or discover along the way. Or don't. It isn't necessary. Just makes the story more interesting if there's some yet to be unlocked potential in the cast.)
Activity - (How often can you log in, what days/times are you available to post, and if you have any commitments that might take away from your time, how long will you be gone.)
Extras - (Have I missed anything? Any tidbits you wanna include? I couldn't think of anything else to ask for in the moment so by all means put whatever you want here.)
Character List
Mira Streetwalker - Tybalt Capulet
Zarpaden Volk - Polybius
Yeva Darbinian - Rekaigan
Gharn Werefang - Overlord Thraka
Hayden Ventus - GrizzTheMauler
Aedre Starling - Saquira
-------- |
56,312 | 1,539 | 21 | 599 | 451 | ...The sea was angry, and I dismaying it. I wouldn't give for the town on shore was ahead. The sea was angry, for someone had angered her and stole from her...
Enigma came ashore, water moving out of his path as he walked on land for the first time in twenty years. He walked into town, people hurrying out of his imposing path. He went into the tavern, damaging the door in the progress. Everyone looked at him, for he was strange, an enigma of life with a angry presence. He walked towards the bar, water soaking the boards underneath his 7ft bulk. The boards protested with his thudding foot steps. THUD-RRRRR.....THUD-RRRR.....THUD-RRRR
He removed his helmet and sat it on the floor, revealing the scarred and gray husk underneath. ...beer....cost?" he said holding up some gold coins. | I completely forgot to put this here earlier. :P
Name - Enigma 3 A.K.A Ends
Age - 52(average life-span is near immortality, as long as body is kept up with, but is still mortal)
Species - Guardian (former human, augmented corpse)
Gender - Male like most guardians
Appearance - (Image provided on later date)He is fully integrated with his deep sea suit. His helmet is detachable but He normally keeps it on. His right arm is bulkier than the other and he is hunched a little. He is armored heavily. has a apparatice on back that has a tube connected to his head and left arm.
Personality - Lifeless, calm but easily aggravated, Smart yet senseless. Little care for the world.
History - He doesn't remember before his transformation. "Too fuzzy" he says, but he can remember after the transformation. He was a special type of guardian that was used to both repair a city and protect it. How ever, when the city was destroyed, he no longer had ties to it, so he roamed for years on end. Till he found his purpose. Now, he protects and serves any child of great power, but will assist anyone good.
Equipment - Rivet gun and oil sprayer as ranged weapons. His right hand can form a large crude drill for melee. He carries matches and medical supplies, in particular adrenaline and tissue repair chemicals. His body is essentially the suit at this point.
Powers - Electrical control and blasts
Activity - Once or twice Daily, not in the middle of the day mostly
Extras - Yes this is loosely based off big daddies from bioshock if your wondering |
56,313 | 1,539 | 22 | 599 | 451 | As Enigma finished his pint, he put his helmet back on, re-attaching the tubes. He left coins on the bar and surveyed the room. He saw no one of consequence to him, till he saw the dead soldiers that he had ignored. He saw the artifact, and it was causing chaos. He looked at the pirate, allowing his hateful energy to hit the pirate as well as the thought of being watched. He saw one of his friends had a electrical machine on him. "Heh hehe heeh..." he cackled with a reverberating tone.He flicked his hand and the pirate underling was shocked, non-lethal amount sadly. The underling hit the floor stunned, making patrons and staff snicker or laugh. He walked towards the door, remarking "I..take pleasure..in the sim..ple things", for he had an idea. | I completely forgot to put this here earlier. :P
Name - Enigma 3 A.K.A Ends
Age - 52(average life-span is near immortality, as long as body is kept up with, but is still mortal)
Species - Guardian (former human, augmented corpse)
Gender - Male like most guardians
Appearance - (Image provided on later date)He is fully integrated with his deep sea suit. His helmet is detachable but He normally keeps it on. His right arm is bulkier than the other and he is hunched a little. He is armored heavily. has a apparatice on back that has a tube connected to his head and left arm.
Personality - Lifeless, calm but easily aggravated, Smart yet senseless. Little care for the world.
History - He doesn't remember before his transformation. "Too fuzzy" he says, but he can remember after the transformation. He was a special type of guardian that was used to both repair a city and protect it. How ever, when the city was destroyed, he no longer had ties to it, so he roamed for years on end. Till he found his purpose. Now, he protects and serves any child of great power, but will assist anyone good.
Equipment - Rivet gun and oil sprayer as ranged weapons. His right hand can form a large crude drill for melee. He carries matches and medical supplies, in particular adrenaline and tissue repair chemicals. His body is essentially the suit at this point.
Powers - Electrical control and blasts
Activity - Once or twice Daily, not in the middle of the day mostly
Extras - Yes this is loosely based off big daddies from bioshock if your wondering |
56,314 | 1,539 | 23 | 1,963 | 1,053 | Yeva Darbinian
Yeva could understand such a bitter feeling that the Otterkin must have. She was someone who lived life as a mercenary and a gunsmith, so such emotions were commonly seen within her trade. Whether it be from others who hold contempt for her family or just a failed experiment. The silent woman nodded slightly as he bought out his crossbow. She personally didn't see the crossbow as an efficient weapon, but this was coming from a gunsmith with some of the rarest weapons in the continent, of course she'd see it as primitive already. It had it's merits, but it was completely out-classed by any form of steam-powered firearm.
The mute's gaze turned to the door as the World Military marched through the door. Their movements and formation seemed more mechanical than her own machines, which made her chuckle inwardly. As any mercenary would be, she disliked the World Military. Too dogmatic for her tastes. Interestingly, her family usually has weapon deals with them because they make good patrons with their endless money pouches. Yeva raised an eyebrow as one of the men at a table was identified as a Red Fang. As she caught a glimpse of the Goddess Shard, her hand instantly fell onto her pistol, ready to draw. However she didn't. The gunsmith wasn't going to start a fire fight with the Red Fang and the World Military around. If word got to them that a Darbinian was around, they'd most likely pounce. While Darbinians wore their crest with pride, they also steered clear of direct contact with the World Military.
Yeva watched in disbelief as ever shot that the soldiers fired was stopped by an invisible force that the pirate controlled. Could it be the power of the shard or his own? She had heard rumors of such powers in the grapevine, but to witness it was something else. It wasn't long before all the soldiers in the squad were peppered by their own bullets. Although she kept a hand on her pistol, she knew that there was nothing she could do to that man unless she could assassinate him from a fair distance. A position not available to her at this moment, so the waiting game had begun. The killer of the Vice captain seemed familiar to Yeva, but she couldn't quite place a name to it.. 'Logia' she heard. Ah yes, now she remembered. Unfortunately she had very little information beyond the name and their association with the Red Fang.
When she thought that the excitement had died down, a hulk of a thing walked into the tavern. All 7ft of it. She blankly stared at the... Deep sea diver.. thing.. as it ordered a pint and gulped it down in a single swig. Even though it may be a hulking mass, it was a foolish beast. 'How idiotic..' She thought as it started trying to antagonize the Red Fang. It's actions confused Yeva to no end as it's arrival was seemingly as random as it's actions. | Name: Yeva Darbinian
Age: 26
Species: Human
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Yeva stands at a height of 5'7" and can be described as rather lean in build. She's rather average in terms of looks, according to most, so she doesn't really stand out in a crowd. She possesses tattoos that wrap around both arms and connect at her shoulder blades. These tattoos are reminiscent of circuits, but what they really represent is a mystery to everyone other than her family. (Refer to image) she doesn't wear anything that makes her stand out other than the choker she wears around her neck which has a small 'brooch-like' attachment that is a bullet shaped signet, her family symbol.
Personality:
Many say that Yeva is a very quiet individual. They're not wrong, but it's for a different reason. Yeva is mute. She can't speak. Aside from this 'minor' disability, she's a very reliable person and can be loyal enough to not abandon people without a second thought. She's awfully pragmatic, but it doesn't stop her from being sentimental at times. Her internal monologue, however, is quite cynical. Sometimes she can come off as quite cocky or blunt in her gestures. She gets easily frustrated when people don’t understand what she’s trying to tell them, but it’s not really their fault that she can’t talk.
History:
Born into a family of Gunsmiths, Yeva spent the majority of her life in the workshop, helping her parents put together and test their latest creations. Yeva grew, first as a gunsmith, second as a marksman. The Darbinian family, although more famously known for their firearms, were also exceptional mercenary marksmen. Throughout history, their family had been at the forefront of weapons technology, creating the first of many clockwork and steam-powered firearms, the most amazing of which being a combination of steam power and clockwork, the Pressure rifle; the first sniper rifle.
Yeva now lives as a traveler, a mercenary, a gun for hire. Carrying the family name with pride.
Equipment:
A modified Pressure rifle, a steam-powered pistol, ink and quill, varying amounts of parchment, extra ammunition, and some smoke bombs.
Powers:
Yeva has the power to summon, however this power has only just been discovered by herself. She’s an agile person and an incredible marksman, but her abilities in CQC are very limited.
Activity:
Online every night between 8pm-12am (GMT+8). I’m currently studying, so I might get really busy at times. I should be able to post regularly though.
Extras:
- The Darbininan crest is that of a single bullet
- As stated before, the Darbinian family is famous throughout the continent. However they are also feared for the same reason. Double crossing a Darbinian is usually a terrible idea.
- The Darbinian family isn't actually aligned to anyone, remaining as a type of neutral mercenary faction in their own right to avoid politics and pursue research.
- Yeva uses written words to communicate most of the time.
- The Pressure rifle has a scope, but it’s just a line of magnifying lens |
56,315 | 1,539 | 24 | 948 | 360 | Hayden stiffened as the soldiers entered. Could his father have already known where he was going? Their actions proved two things. These were you're everyday soldiers, and that man held the key to his freedom. Hayden's tail flicked softly behind him as he watched in horror as the men were slaughtered, clenching his fists. He knew better than to get involved, they were no doubt more of these men... Then that... Creature entered the scene. Hayden was convinced at that point that the only thing he had yet left to see today was an actual god because this was borderline insanity or the inexperienced otter. His eyes flicked rapidly across the room as he leaned over to Yeva and whispered to her softly.
"What is even going on right now... I know that's the Shard... but what exactly just happened here... As much as I hate to leave the crystal behind could we just.. get out and trail him, or do we go on the attack?" He slowly reached for his shield, feeling his enchantments flicker which filled him with some comfort. Keeping his eyes on the Pirate and the creature he was ready for pretty much anything that came his way. | Name - Imperial Vice Captain Hayden Ventus of the Army, Engineering Division
Age - 23
Species - Half Otterkin
Gender - Male
Appearance - Tall and tanky: 6'4. Hayden has a tail and some fur on his chest and arms. His ears have stud piercings.
Personality - Hayden was brought up as a noble, but often left to his own devices. He is caring and thoughtful, usually seen smiling and laughing. It takes him a while to open up, but when he does, he's extremely loyal and won't hesitate to take a bullet for a friend.
History - Hayden is a part of the Ventus line. A family that is synonymous with the World military. He however is lesser known as being the youngest, and because he hasn't achieved much, since he prefers to tinker with his few friends in Engineering. He is also viewed as a failure to his parents by he family for the fact that he has not gained any of his parent's Bloodline Traits.
Both the Ventus nd the Xerces(his mother's family) are known for their Traits. They.. Arranged the marriage of Hayden's parents to strengthen their lines. Hayden's two older siblings have one of their parent's Trait, but even after failing his Trails twice, Hayden hasn't shown any indication he'll activate his power. Hayden was left to pretty much do as he wanted afterwards.
An utsider would say thet he lived in a chaotic home. His parents have no love for each other, and there was never a time when they did. They are almost polar opposites with his father being a loud and brash man who won't be denied something he wants, and his mother is a rather gentle soul, who has grown cold from his father's treatment.
In his family, only his grandfather, Admiral Kensington of the Imperial Army, has ever shown him real kindness. He's the reason he was able to join the Engineering Corps. His grandfather is also the reason he was able to run away from the forced marriage he faces. He figures if he can help get the Goddess Shard back, he will be able to get out of the forced marriage with his Grandfather's support.
Equipment -He carries a sword, a high powered crossbow and a shield. He also has enough bandages and medical supplies to deal with moth wounds, a practice gained because the Engineering Corps can be dangerous. His weapons all have etchings for his runes. He also has a Writ of Absence from his Grandfather, which enabled his escape.
Powers - Runic Enchanting: Hayden is a decent enchanter. He is able to give his weapons increased force or fire damage.
His bloodline Trait is currently inactive.
Activity - I'm on pretty much every night after work and sometime on in the morning if I wake up early.
Extras - Hayden prefers men. When women come on to him he is rather unsure of wha to do. He also can't really talk well to guys he finds attractive becoming quite shy. Because of this he's never had sex and doesn't even know how it works. His fiancé was Lady Duvenia Quentin, the daughter of General Poitr Quentin. He also likes to eat. A lot. |
56,316 | 1,539 | 25 | 2,498 | 675 | Slight irritation lingered across the tattooed pirate's bearded grimace as the large deep sea diver struck down one of his more common looking lackeys among the table with what appeared to be electricity before haplessly walking off toward the exit. An aggravated voice roiled from the pirate. "An' jist where d'ya think ya be goin ya massive tin can?" Faint screeches and creaks eked out of Enigma's suit as the inner workings began to lock up. "Ya think ye can jist barge in 'ere an rough up me men." Overwhelming weight dragged on the metal aspects of the massive armored suit, locking in place as a powerful magnetic force took a hold of the diver. Pushing the wooden bar table into the corner with a loud clatter, the pirate stood up and began stepping toward Enigma. He clumsily tucked the large sapphire behind his back as he moved passed the other patrons. "Tha'd be my job...bein the cap'n an all."
Yeva and Hayden both got an eyeful of the massive blue rock, as well as the pirate's hairy lower backside which peeked over his slightly sagging trousers as he sauntered passed. The shard was barely able to fit beneath the mans belt, but appeared as though it could be taken without notice if done very carefully and quickly while he was distracted. "So, I see ye be wearin quite a bit o' metal huh? Thas' convenient. D'ya wanna guess what they call me on the seas?" Enigma felt himself turn, the metal in his suit taken control of and rotated until he was facing the mulish visage of the tattooed pirate. A wicked chuckle escaped him as he drew his saber from a leather scabbard hanging at his side as he neared the diver. With a swift stab, the sword connected, impacting with a piece of paper on the ground at the divers feet. He lifted the paper on the edge of the blade and brought up into his grasp. With a vile smirk, he turned the page, showing the wanted posters sketch of his own face and a fifteen million gold bounty below it. He read off his name with a brimming arrogance about his bellowing raspy voice. "I'm Captain o' the red fang pirates, Tychus G. Cutlass, the magnet marauder. I've been gifted by the great gods with the ability to control metal."
The other pirates sitting at the table all stood, gathering around Enigma. Each face came to light, sharing the visage with the many wanted posters that were scattered across the ground. Fendel Black, the dancing dagger; A man in strange patchy mismatched clothing with wickedly curved blades and a fluidity in his step. Y'val Ishir, the mad mind reader; A man with fair ebony skin and billowy eccentric garnets of blue and purple, carrying a staff tipped with a small red jewel. Haze, the venomancer; An old pale hunchback with a long white beard and wiry hair that leaked a thin green mist from the corner of his mouth. Logia, the living shadow; Just left the tavern. There were a couple other lesser pirates among the group, not counting the one laying on the ground still seizing from the electric shock he received. Tychus let a devious chortle rumble out of his belly, before pointing his blade at Enigma. "Yer gonta make a good figurehead fer me ship." | Character Compendium
Sheet format
Name - (last and middle being optional. Feel free to include any nicknames or titles.)
Age - (If your species lives for an inhuman amount of time such as smaller or larger lifespans than 100 years, please give us an idea of the general lifespan of your species along with their individual age.)
Species - (Fantasy Characters welcome. Human, Elf, Dwarf, Beastman preferred. Beastman encompasses anything that's part animal part human. No gods or aliens.)
Gender - (Assuming your species has gender, List here.)
Appearance - (Drawings, Anime pictures, Pixel art, and photos are all fine. Everyone has their own version of what their character looks like in whatever art form. Whatever it is, please include a brief or detailed worded description below the image for posterity sake.)
Personality - (The psychological and mental habits of your character and adversely their species if they have any particular personality quirks that they inherit from their kind.)
History - (Some may opt to remain mysterious. Some may opt to share this during the story. Either is fine. But if you wish to share, you can tell us about where your character came from and how they grew up. Feel free to make up your own home island if you want just be sure to describe it.)
Equipment - (The weapons or armaments your character my possess at any given time. Also list what equipment your character is proficient with.)
Powers - (See OOC. Powers are optional. Leave your character some room to grow. We'll be going places on this journey so leave some powers for your character to unlock or discover along the way. Or don't. It isn't necessary. Just makes the story more interesting if there's some yet to be unlocked potential in the cast.)
Activity - (How often can you log in, what days/times are you available to post, and if you have any commitments that might take away from your time, how long will you be gone.)
Extras - (Have I missed anything? Any tidbits you wanna include? I couldn't think of anything else to ask for in the moment so by all means put whatever you want here.)
Character List
Mira Streetwalker - Tybalt Capulet
Zarpaden Volk - Polybius
Yeva Darbinian - Rekaigan
Gharn Werefang - Overlord Thraka
Hayden Ventus - GrizzTheMauler
Aedre Starling - Saquira
-------- |
56,317 | 1,539 | 26 | 2,552 | 638 | Mira was nothing if not quick-witted. At the arrival of the soldiers, she shifted immediately from her tired, somewhat closed-off facade to an image that fit what would be expected of her: the classic whore. She let the straps of her dress fall nearly free from her shoulders, and practically draped herself against the bar, drink held lazily in one hand. Her mouth shifted from a firm half-frown to a soft pout, and she carefully pulled a strand of her fiery-red hair free to dangle in front of her face. The transformation complete, she hoped to blend into the background of the bar, appearing at once appealing and beneath the notice of the guards and pirates alike. It was a dangerous balance; if she took the facade too far, she'd draw attention rather than avoiding it, but it was her best shot at the moment. Better to be dismissed as just another harlot than to be seen as a lovely bystander, worthy of the attention of the pirates or guards.
Half of her worries disappeared as quickly as the bullets flying into the heads of the guards. It was down to the pirates and the tavern's inhabitants, and Mira didn't fancy her chances if it came down to an altercation. She slowly began trailing one hand towards her plunging collar, resting her fingers lightly on the handle of the tiny steam-powered pistol tucked inside her garments. She hoped it wouldn't come to that, as the Pirate captain had apparent invulnerability when it came to anything metallic, which all of her weapons were. With a frustrated, though quiet, sigh, she let her arm fall back to her side. She had little to no chance if it came to a fight; it was better to stay in the background.
Her careful consideration was cut off by the arrival of the metal-clad... whatever it was. Apparently ignorant of the threat before him, the man (creature?) was suddenly the center of everyone's attention... and Mira was afforded a glimpse of the gem which had until now been hidden from her view. It was a lovely thing... well worth risking a chance at theft... But no. There were simply too many pirates. She sighed petulantly and whispered, soft as a breath, to the mute girl seated near her. "Is there any chance that you know a secret exit... maybe a trapdoor in the cellar or something? This has to be the best time to get out of here..." | Name - Mira Streetwalker
Age - 22, though looks no older than 18.
Species - 1/4 elf, 3/4 human.
Gender - Female
Appearance - Average height, lean hourglass figure, long red hair, light skin.
Personality - Confident, take-charge, assertive. In any situation, likes to make it clear that even if she is not the leader, she isn't to be ignored or commanded. Constantly vigilant and on-guard.
History - Born to a whore and an actor, she pursued her mother's profession with a passion, and eventually realized that a man with his pants down was quite vulnerable, especially to someone with the skills to take advantage of it. Since then, she has worked as a contract killer as well as a harlot, and derives pleasure from perfecting both arts. Despite her talent, she is quite unknown to most, which makes her jobs all the more simple.
Equipment - Two long knives, makeup and hair/skin dye, anti-conception charms and drugs, steam-powered pistol, hidden in brassiere pocket.
Powers - Expert seductress, skilled in assassination-style combat, but not in actual fighting.
Activity - I can usually be on from about 10-12 Pacific time, as well as other times throughout the day, depending on how busy I am. I'm much more available during the week than on weekends. |
56,318 | 1,539 | 27 | 1,766 | 865 | Gharn stammers come to a halt as he notices the soldiers burst into the room and surround the pirates. He watches curiously, then nearly jumps out of his skin at the crackle of rifle fire. He's never so much as heard of a gun before, so seeing so many fired at once in such an enclosed space spooks him badly. His body cracks and begins to expand. His ribcage bursts outwards, his legs crack and reform and a tail sprouts from just above the waistband of his pants. Golden fur grows quickly over him as his mane of dirty blonde hair turns into a literal mane as the lion takes control.
He roars in anger, ears still ringing. He ignores the pretty woman at the bar, despite her exposing even more of herself on account of the action surrounding her, and bellows at the closest perceived threat, that being the Pirate Captain before him. Gharn strides forwards, his massive form knocking aside anyone in his way, grabs a table and hurls it like a frisbee at the Pirate. "You stop! Leave metalman alone! You make much trouble, and I want to fight now!". His massive muscled form roars in a terrifying manner before grabbing another table to throw. | Name – Gharn Werefang
Age – 20 (Average age of species, about 140. Aging around half as fast as humans once they reach maturity)
Species – Werelion
Gender - Male
Appearance – About 5’10”. Lean and muscular. Fairly handsome, though his looks are marred by 4 long scars down the left side of his face. He’s got tribal tattoos running down one arm and across the left side of his chest.
His wereform is massive, a 9ft tall heavily muscled Werelion, his head shifts to that of a anthropomorphic lion and his legs change to cat-like ones. In this form he is capable of lifting nearly 1000s pounds and can tear a man’s head off with his bare paws
He wears tribal breeches that somehow stretch when he shifts, along with several necklaces. He dislikes wearing shoes and doesn’t see the point in shirts.
Personality - Proud, noble, firm, just, angry, violent, savage, shy, oblivious, brave, strong, kind.
Gharn is a proud young man. He’s brave, loyal to a fault but often comes off as arrogant. He doesn’t think much of humans, as his culture views strength above all, and he thinks himself far stronger than any human
After the events of his past, he’s become rather withdrawn, quiet and sometimes just downright unfriendly
History – Gharn comes from a tribal culture of Werelions, unbeknownst to the rest of the world. There he learned his tribe’s ways and hunting. He learned the ways of a warrior, a hunter and a leader. When he was 15 he lost it all, his tribe was slain. Brutally slaughtered while he was helpless to stop it. He was made to watch as mercenaries, hunting after the pelts of his fellow tribsmen, slew his mother, father and took is baby sister away. They left him for dead, but he did not die. He survived in the jungle for another 5 years on his own, and is only just now making his way out of it, towards civilization and to go after the men who took his sister and killed his tribe
Equipment – He wields a massive broadsword. Far to heavy to lift in human form he can only use it in his wereform. For combat while human he uses a shortsword and hide shield
Powers – Shapeshifting. Gharn is a Werelion. He is able to shift between his Wereform and human form whenever he pleases. In Wereform he has enormous strength and great physical prowess
Activity – I can post multiple times a day. I’m on all the time.
Extras – Gharn has never ‘mated’ and is very shy and easily embarrassed around women he finds attractive.
A few notes on the rules of Gharn's culture.
His was a tribal kind, based on two elements that the tribals held above all: Honor and Strength.
Due to this along with the beliefs that if someone loses their honor, then they don't get into the afterlife, Gharn is forced to do the following
He will not lie, at all, even about the smallest thing. He can choose to remain silent, but if he answers then he must tell the truth to any questions he's asked.
If someone loses his honor, then they are usually put to death in a ceremony. Seeing as Gharn has no tribe however, he is considered a Narmweir, meaning 'last-kin'. If he loses his honor he is expected to commit suicide. A Narmweir is generally considered bad luck, and aren't usually allowed into a new tribe.
Challenges are sacred, not to be ignored. There are two kinds, fights to the death and fights for domination.
In a fight to the death, then the goal and end result are obvious. The loser dies and goes to the afterlife, honor fulfilled. The winner lives (probably), his honor increased through victory, earning him trinkets and higher stances in the tribe. If somehow both live, then both lose all honor, the loser for not dying when he was supposed to, the winner for not killing his foe. They will not get into the afterlife and instead wander as spirits forever when they are put to death.
In a fight for domination the goal is to beat your opponent into submission, no weapons are allowed in this fight. Win the winner is declared, the loser is forced to either give the winner every object he/she owns, or become the winners slave for 7 years but keep their belongings.
There are restrictions on the slavery however, the winner cannot make the slave hurt themselves or their family, they may not command the slave to do a task that would lead to the slave's death and males may not ask female slaves to mate with them. The last one was created several generations before Gharn's birth as one Werelion challenged, beat and took nearly all the women in his tribe as slave-wives.
Finally Gharn is only 20, meaning he is not quite a full adult in the eyes of his culture, therefor he is not allowed to eat human flesh (a delicacy among his people) or mate with another of his kin with the intent of creating a child. |
56,319 | 1,539 | 28 | 1,963 | 1,053 | Yeva Darbinian
It would seem that Yeva was suddenly the 'go-to' gal for information on what to do in a situation like this. Naturally people trusted a Darbinian to know what to do at all times. Unfortunately for them, Yeva was still a greenhorn among such a family, but not so inexperienced that she had no idea how to proceed.
Gunsmiths were known for their skills with handicrafts... This also included sleight of hand. With a quick movement Yeva leaned forward, acting like a drunkard, and snatched the blue stone as the pirate sauntered passed them, pocketing it hopefully before anyone could notice. With the stone in pocket, it was high time to leave. The lion-man had begun his rampage and such a distraction boded well for them. She glanced at Hayden and the.. woman, tapping the side of her nose and giving them a smirk. There was no 'secret' door in this tavern. None that she knew of. There was a closed skylight above them, but getting to that was a chore in itself and it would attract too much attention.
Cellars tend to lead nowhere, especially in taverns. The only time a cellar would lead somewhere is if the place was run by someone Underground.. Which wouldn't be the more farfetched thing in this neck of the woods, but prying eyes and enemies lurked everywhere. Trust no-one.
The gunsmith got up from her stool and slowly started toward the tavern's main entrance, simply weaving passed the scatter chairs, bodies, and tables. Her hand still on her pistol, ready to draw. | Name: Yeva Darbinian
Age: 26
Species: Human
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Yeva stands at a height of 5'7" and can be described as rather lean in build. She's rather average in terms of looks, according to most, so she doesn't really stand out in a crowd. She possesses tattoos that wrap around both arms and connect at her shoulder blades. These tattoos are reminiscent of circuits, but what they really represent is a mystery to everyone other than her family. (Refer to image) she doesn't wear anything that makes her stand out other than the choker she wears around her neck which has a small 'brooch-like' attachment that is a bullet shaped signet, her family symbol.
Personality:
Many say that Yeva is a very quiet individual. They're not wrong, but it's for a different reason. Yeva is mute. She can't speak. Aside from this 'minor' disability, she's a very reliable person and can be loyal enough to not abandon people without a second thought. She's awfully pragmatic, but it doesn't stop her from being sentimental at times. Her internal monologue, however, is quite cynical. Sometimes she can come off as quite cocky or blunt in her gestures. She gets easily frustrated when people don’t understand what she’s trying to tell them, but it’s not really their fault that she can’t talk.
History:
Born into a family of Gunsmiths, Yeva spent the majority of her life in the workshop, helping her parents put together and test their latest creations. Yeva grew, first as a gunsmith, second as a marksman. The Darbinian family, although more famously known for their firearms, were also exceptional mercenary marksmen. Throughout history, their family had been at the forefront of weapons technology, creating the first of many clockwork and steam-powered firearms, the most amazing of which being a combination of steam power and clockwork, the Pressure rifle; the first sniper rifle.
Yeva now lives as a traveler, a mercenary, a gun for hire. Carrying the family name with pride.
Equipment:
A modified Pressure rifle, a steam-powered pistol, ink and quill, varying amounts of parchment, extra ammunition, and some smoke bombs.
Powers:
Yeva has the power to summon, however this power has only just been discovered by herself. She’s an agile person and an incredible marksman, but her abilities in CQC are very limited.
Activity:
Online every night between 8pm-12am (GMT+8). I’m currently studying, so I might get really busy at times. I should be able to post regularly though.
Extras:
- The Darbininan crest is that of a single bullet
- As stated before, the Darbinian family is famous throughout the continent. However they are also feared for the same reason. Double crossing a Darbinian is usually a terrible idea.
- The Darbinian family isn't actually aligned to anyone, remaining as a type of neutral mercenary faction in their own right to avoid politics and pursue research.
- Yeva uses written words to communicate most of the time.
- The Pressure rifle has a scope, but it’s just a line of magnifying lens |
56,320 | 1,539 | 29 | 2,078 | 20 | Answering the bartenders comment with a smile, Aedre watched with interest as he prepared her drink with a proficiency that she’d never even imagined seeing. She was so entranced by the show that the freezing breeze over her cheek came as a shock, and she tried to mask her slight jump by shifting slightly backwards. Her amused smile was quite a bit wider when he placed the glass before her and she thanked him for the drink.
She raised the glass to her lips for a drink and didn’t notice how the doberman stilled until she lowered the glass again. Then she turned slightly from the bar to watch the entrance as a World Military squad marched in. She watched them carefully as she nursed her drink and leaned back on the bar, then stiffened when every bullet they fired was stopped in the air. What followed was a slaughter, and Aedre placed her glass back on the counter before reaching onto her back to release her staff and hold it. She didn’t recognise the Red Fang pirates, but with the bounty on their heads and the large gem their leader carried Aedre figured other people were likely to attack them at any moment.
As another person stepped through the entrance Aedre stayed carefully reclined at the bar, and the sight of the hulking man in the deep sea suit surprised her far more than the military. As he drank his beer and then attacked the pirates she could only shake her head in disbelief and stayed seated even as the pirates went on the offensive. Talk of a secret exit attracted her attention to some other people at the bar in time to see a young brunette lean forward when the pirate captain walked past. As well as the gem was on display it wasn’t hard to guess what she was going for.
When one of the men suddenly transformed into a lion and the woman who’d grabbed the gem started to make her way out of there, Aedre used the commotion the pirates and the werelion both contributed to and stepped away from the bar, in amongst some of the tables where people were only getting more and more agitated. She used the noise of the tables being thrown to knock over a couple of chairs with her staff and making their occupants come up swinging for a culprit. She kept out of their sight lines just enough that they didn’t notice her and instead went after the patrons closest to them. | Name: Aedre Starling
Age: 41, appears 25 as a human (average lifespan is 300 years, but they can live longer)
Species: Mermaid
Gender: Female
Human form: Fairly athletic body of average human height with light skin. Brown hair that reaches just past her shoulders and green eyes. She wears thin brown trousers, wraps her chest and wears a dark grey hooded jacket over it. Brown boots, and a belt around her waist that carries a couple of daggers. All clothing that she can take off and put on fairly quickly.
Natural (mermaid) form: Aedre is slim with a wiry strength and a softly rounded face. Her whole tail is roughly 2,5 times the length of her legs in her human form, sea-green and mud-brown scales cover her whole body, and brown hair only reaches just past her shoulders. The tail ends in a single fin that flares out and then narrows, and long side-fins trail down from just above her waist down roughly half a metre. Her narrow eyes are a sea-green colour and her thin lips hide sharp teeth that have no problems cutting through fish-scales. There are claws on her fingers and webbing between them. Varying sizes of brown webbing-like membrane follow the line of her body, and there are long gills on each side of her neck.
Personality:
She cares far more for travelling and learning new things than money, and has a fairly aggressive fightingstyle though it takes a lot to make her angry. There are few things she won't do for her friends when they earn her loyalty. As a mermaid she has no actual need for clothes in her natural form and doesn’t understand some species fixation with clothes and going without them.
History:
Her parents were nomadic hunters and raised her to be the same. She’s always enjoyed travelling and discovering new places, and so when she discovered she had embodiment it was a natural first step to train it well enough that she could turn human and fit in on land. She left her family as soon as she was old enough to do so, though it took some time after that before she was good enough at embodiment to be able to fit in amongst humans.
Equipment:
Battlestaff (metal bo staff with a barbed spear head enchanted not to collect rust or otherwise degrade), water-proof bag, 2 daggers for when she doesn't have claws and/or loses her staff.
Powers:
Embodiment, but so far is only able to use it to change between mermaid and human form. They’re specific forms and she can’t yet change partially.
Telekinesis, which she mainly uses to lift small objects and get her staff back if she's disarmed. It generally takes a lot of concentration, and she's less adept at using telekinesis on land.
Activity: Currently I don’t have a fixed schedule and so could post at any time during the day. When I get a regular job I’m more likely to post at some point between 18 and 24 in the evening. My timezone is UTC +1.
Extras:
- She finds it difficult to read human bodylanguage since the mermaids she's familiar with look so little like humans.
- Because mermaids live such long lives they don't have the same view of time as most species do. Aedre hasn't seen her parents in over ten years, since she was old enough to set out on her own, and she still hasn't started missing them. |
56,321 | 1,539 | 30 | 948 | 360 | Hayden watched as Yeah nicked the Shard, holding his breath. He watched the pirate not notice the theft and start dealing with the metal man. Oh gods...
This isn't good... If he finds that we nabbed it... What did you get yourself into Hayden... Seeing that another had joined into the fray, a lion man, he shook his head. Hopefully nothing would get thrown his way....
He was too busy in his thoughts to notice Yeva decide to get going but once he looked at the empty chair and noticed she was on the move, Hayden collected his things, clicking the inset in his sword to blunt it since he didn't want the Pirate Captain to use it against him. He followed after Yeva, trying not to attract attention, using the chaos of the pub to get outside unnoticed. "Gods help us..." He looked toward Yeva. "So... That was exciting...." His tail was flicking nervously behind him, betraying his calmish demeanor. | Name - Imperial Vice Captain Hayden Ventus of the Army, Engineering Division
Age - 23
Species - Half Otterkin
Gender - Male
Appearance - Tall and tanky: 6'4. Hayden has a tail and some fur on his chest and arms. His ears have stud piercings.
Personality - Hayden was brought up as a noble, but often left to his own devices. He is caring and thoughtful, usually seen smiling and laughing. It takes him a while to open up, but when he does, he's extremely loyal and won't hesitate to take a bullet for a friend.
History - Hayden is a part of the Ventus line. A family that is synonymous with the World military. He however is lesser known as being the youngest, and because he hasn't achieved much, since he prefers to tinker with his few friends in Engineering. He is also viewed as a failure to his parents by he family for the fact that he has not gained any of his parent's Bloodline Traits.
Both the Ventus nd the Xerces(his mother's family) are known for their Traits. They.. Arranged the marriage of Hayden's parents to strengthen their lines. Hayden's two older siblings have one of their parent's Trait, but even after failing his Trails twice, Hayden hasn't shown any indication he'll activate his power. Hayden was left to pretty much do as he wanted afterwards.
An utsider would say thet he lived in a chaotic home. His parents have no love for each other, and there was never a time when they did. They are almost polar opposites with his father being a loud and brash man who won't be denied something he wants, and his mother is a rather gentle soul, who has grown cold from his father's treatment.
In his family, only his grandfather, Admiral Kensington of the Imperial Army, has ever shown him real kindness. He's the reason he was able to join the Engineering Corps. His grandfather is also the reason he was able to run away from the forced marriage he faces. He figures if he can help get the Goddess Shard back, he will be able to get out of the forced marriage with his Grandfather's support.
Equipment -He carries a sword, a high powered crossbow and a shield. He also has enough bandages and medical supplies to deal with moth wounds, a practice gained because the Engineering Corps can be dangerous. His weapons all have etchings for his runes. He also has a Writ of Absence from his Grandfather, which enabled his escape.
Powers - Runic Enchanting: Hayden is a decent enchanter. He is able to give his weapons increased force or fire damage.
His bloodline Trait is currently inactive.
Activity - I'm on pretty much every night after work and sometime on in the morning if I wake up early.
Extras - Hayden prefers men. When women come on to him he is rather unsure of wha to do. He also can't really talk well to guys he finds attractive becoming quite shy. Because of this he's never had sex and doesn't even know how it works. His fiancé was Lady Duvenia Quentin, the daughter of General Poitr Quentin. He also likes to eat. A lot. |
56,322 | 1,539 | 31 | 599 | 451 | "It's not a suit, it is me, and that is no gift" Enigma says starting to stand up with strain. "And only the lady of the sea and a child of power controls me human" he remarked. He pulled his left hand and gave them a mean gesture, and turned and got out of the artifacts range and left the tavern.
"no good mortal scum, if he didn't have the artifact, I would rip his puny face off and make him eat the skin. Then who would be having the last laugh? Me Damnit! he said headed towards the docks. "Let's see how his boat looks with a few drill holes in the port side hull. HEHHEHEH-metallic cough-. With that he jumped into the water and went to work. | I completely forgot to put this here earlier. :P
Name - Enigma 3 A.K.A Ends
Age - 52(average life-span is near immortality, as long as body is kept up with, but is still mortal)
Species - Guardian (former human, augmented corpse)
Gender - Male like most guardians
Appearance - (Image provided on later date)He is fully integrated with his deep sea suit. His helmet is detachable but He normally keeps it on. His right arm is bulkier than the other and he is hunched a little. He is armored heavily. has a apparatice on back that has a tube connected to his head and left arm.
Personality - Lifeless, calm but easily aggravated, Smart yet senseless. Little care for the world.
History - He doesn't remember before his transformation. "Too fuzzy" he says, but he can remember after the transformation. He was a special type of guardian that was used to both repair a city and protect it. How ever, when the city was destroyed, he no longer had ties to it, so he roamed for years on end. Till he found his purpose. Now, he protects and serves any child of great power, but will assist anyone good.
Equipment - Rivet gun and oil sprayer as ranged weapons. His right hand can form a large crude drill for melee. He carries matches and medical supplies, in particular adrenaline and tissue repair chemicals. His body is essentially the suit at this point.
Powers - Electrical control and blasts
Activity - Once or twice Daily, not in the middle of the day mostly
Extras - Yes this is loosely based off big daddies from bioshock if your wondering |
56,323 | 1,539 | 32 | 2,498 | 675 | A cool sensation grazed Yeva's fingers as she took the large blue gem into her hands. It glimmered faintly, the glistening light seeming to call out to her. A gentle tingle spidered up her arms and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. The feeling passed as the stone disappeared, stashed away while the nimble young woman made her escape toward the exit. She might have been spotted if it wasn't for the sudden imposing form of a large table being chucked through the air.
"Wha-wait a min-!" Tychus yelped, raising a hand in the air toward the incoming piece of furniture trying to evoke his powers, but to no effect as he was smacked by the wooden table and sent hurtling back. The grip of his ability loosened, allowing Enigma to escape. A clatter of noise knocked about as the pirate crashed against the wall an landed in a heap of chairs and tables. A unanimous shocked gasp rose from the tavern, followed by a brief silence. Some rustling escaped the pile, jostling a chair aside as the pirate's hand emerged. "Don' just bloody stand there ye scurvy ridden idiots...Kill that overgrown cat!!"
A jolt shocked through the pirates as the command of their infuriated captain bellowed out, but before they could scramble to engage the lion man, a commotion began to ring out through the crowd near the bar. "Hey what's wrong with you?!" "What are you talking about?!" "You got a problem?!" A harsh exchange of words quickly became an exchange of punches as drunken fists went flying in every direction. In a matter of moments, the aggression spread like a wave as fighting spurred out through the tavern's patrons, sending them seizing into an inebriated brawl.
Pushing chairs and broken bits of table out of his path, Tychus managed to stumble to his feet, bitterly grumbling in an incoherent dialect as he wiped away a track of blood leaking from his nose. Brushing himself off, his eyes grew wide and his jaw nearly dropped to the ground. "Th-th-th..." A bead of sweat trailed down the side of his awe stricken grimace as he struggled to believe what he felt, or rather, what he didn't feel as his hands brushed over his rump.
"THE SHARD!!! SOMEONE'S MADE OFF WITH ME SHARD!!"
Looking around over the uproar of tussling patrons, Tychus' shocked expression contorted with rage as he noticed of everyone fighting or playing bystander, the trio making for the exit. "The door! Get after 'em!" Lost in the tangle of brawling patrons, the rest of the pirates struggled to follow Yeva, Aedre, and Hayden. The toil of drunkards managed to hold them back, but it wouldn't be for long. The attention was off Gharn, at least for the moment, as nobody was eager to involve the angry looking lion man in the fist fight...or get near him for that matter. | Character Compendium
Sheet format
Name - (last and middle being optional. Feel free to include any nicknames or titles.)
Age - (If your species lives for an inhuman amount of time such as smaller or larger lifespans than 100 years, please give us an idea of the general lifespan of your species along with their individual age.)
Species - (Fantasy Characters welcome. Human, Elf, Dwarf, Beastman preferred. Beastman encompasses anything that's part animal part human. No gods or aliens.)
Gender - (Assuming your species has gender, List here.)
Appearance - (Drawings, Anime pictures, Pixel art, and photos are all fine. Everyone has their own version of what their character looks like in whatever art form. Whatever it is, please include a brief or detailed worded description below the image for posterity sake.)
Personality - (The psychological and mental habits of your character and adversely their species if they have any particular personality quirks that they inherit from their kind.)
History - (Some may opt to remain mysterious. Some may opt to share this during the story. Either is fine. But if you wish to share, you can tell us about where your character came from and how they grew up. Feel free to make up your own home island if you want just be sure to describe it.)
Equipment - (The weapons or armaments your character my possess at any given time. Also list what equipment your character is proficient with.)
Powers - (See OOC. Powers are optional. Leave your character some room to grow. We'll be going places on this journey so leave some powers for your character to unlock or discover along the way. Or don't. It isn't necessary. Just makes the story more interesting if there's some yet to be unlocked potential in the cast.)
Activity - (How often can you log in, what days/times are you available to post, and if you have any commitments that might take away from your time, how long will you be gone.)
Extras - (Have I missed anything? Any tidbits you wanna include? I couldn't think of anything else to ask for in the moment so by all means put whatever you want here.)
Character List
Mira Streetwalker - Tybalt Capulet
Zarpaden Volk - Polybius
Yeva Darbinian - Rekaigan
Gharn Werefang - Overlord Thraka
Hayden Ventus - GrizzTheMauler
Aedre Starling - Saquira
-------- |
56,324 | 1,539 | 33 | 2,552 | 638 | The chaos supplied a beautiful opening, one not to be ignored or taken for granted. Mira peeled herself free from the bar and slunk sinuously through the crowd, each footstep landing softly yet surely on the boarded floor. If she was to make it out of this place, she needed to find someone who looked intimidating enough to keep away potential threats, yet not so mighty that she couldn't take her leave should she decide that she was tired of company. It was a half-moment decision, and she was in the melee almost instantly. A few careful ducks and sidesteps put her directly behind the now-fully-bestial lion-man. With a breath to steady herself, Mira firmly tapped the man's shoulder, sidling up to him with all the fluid grace of a serpent.
"Oh, dear. It's getting quite messy in here, isn't it? I don't suppose you'd like to get out of here, hmm, darling? I can think of ever so many things I'd rather do than watch a fight, and I wouldn't want you to get hurt in this mess." She trailed one slim-fingered hand down his muscular chest. "We wouldn't want to mar this..." With that, she took his mighty hand in her dainty one, and made a beeline for the door, taking the same path that the mute girl had just moments before. | Name - Mira Streetwalker
Age - 22, though looks no older than 18.
Species - 1/4 elf, 3/4 human.
Gender - Female
Appearance - Average height, lean hourglass figure, long red hair, light skin.
Personality - Confident, take-charge, assertive. In any situation, likes to make it clear that even if she is not the leader, she isn't to be ignored or commanded. Constantly vigilant and on-guard.
History - Born to a whore and an actor, she pursued her mother's profession with a passion, and eventually realized that a man with his pants down was quite vulnerable, especially to someone with the skills to take advantage of it. Since then, she has worked as a contract killer as well as a harlot, and derives pleasure from perfecting both arts. Despite her talent, she is quite unknown to most, which makes her jobs all the more simple.
Equipment - Two long knives, makeup and hair/skin dye, anti-conception charms and drugs, steam-powered pistol, hidden in brassiere pocket.
Powers - Expert seductress, skilled in assassination-style combat, but not in actual fighting.
Activity - I can usually be on from about 10-12 Pacific time, as well as other times throughout the day, depending on how busy I am. I'm much more available during the week than on weekends. |
56,325 | 1,539 | 34 | 599 | 451 | Enigma walked for awhile in the moonlight noticing a trail of a lone person's footprints. He wondered why somebody would be walking alone, and decided to make sure if the child was okay, thanks to his nature. If he found the person okay, he would be find, but he wasn't sure what was going on. But, now days, tracking for him has gone bad. He could hardly tell the difference between a rabbits trail and a coconut crab trail. How embarrassing... he thought.
He followed the prints for a while, not knowing what made them. He also saw a trial of energy now accompanying the footprints.
Then, after a while of following, he saw a young Darbinian and noticed the shard. If she has the shard, then she is in danger. I'm going to have to help now. DAMNIT!
I walked up to her and said"You..have lady of the seas relic. And since you seem to have a good self being, I will assist you. Whether you like it or not, Darbinian"
"That's right I know your name, particularly me meeting your grandfather. Very similar behavior. HAH..HAH..HAH." | I completely forgot to put this here earlier. :P
Name - Enigma 3 A.K.A Ends
Age - 52(average life-span is near immortality, as long as body is kept up with, but is still mortal)
Species - Guardian (former human, augmented corpse)
Gender - Male like most guardians
Appearance - (Image provided on later date)He is fully integrated with his deep sea suit. His helmet is detachable but He normally keeps it on. His right arm is bulkier than the other and he is hunched a little. He is armored heavily. has a apparatice on back that has a tube connected to his head and left arm.
Personality - Lifeless, calm but easily aggravated, Smart yet senseless. Little care for the world.
History - He doesn't remember before his transformation. "Too fuzzy" he says, but he can remember after the transformation. He was a special type of guardian that was used to both repair a city and protect it. How ever, when the city was destroyed, he no longer had ties to it, so he roamed for years on end. Till he found his purpose. Now, he protects and serves any child of great power, but will assist anyone good.
Equipment - Rivet gun and oil sprayer as ranged weapons. His right hand can form a large crude drill for melee. He carries matches and medical supplies, in particular adrenaline and tissue repair chemicals. His body is essentially the suit at this point.
Powers - Electrical control and blasts
Activity - Once or twice Daily, not in the middle of the day mostly
Extras - Yes this is loosely based off big daddies from bioshock if your wondering |
56,326 | 1,539 | 35 | 1,766 | 865 | Gharn is enjoying himself immensely. Not a single one of these humans are a match for him and he's laughing gleefully at the displays of brutal violence he's unleashing. He picks up one pirate, hurls him through a window, then grabs another one by both arms and pulls until he loses one. He's currently stamping a man's head into a pulpy stain on the floor when he feels someone tap his shoulder. He turns quickly, roaring and ready to annihilate his target only to find it's the beautiful woman from before. He stops mid-swing, his huge paw inches from tearing her face off, and looks down at her in surprise. "What are you-" he starts, his jaw agape at the woman's... everything, her daring to get into the fight, her assets, her boldness to sneak up behind him, her assets and her flirting with him in the middle of a brawl.
"I-I-I-" Gharn stammers, and if he could blush in this form, his face would be beet red. "I c-can help-" he begins, only to be interrupted by having to block a pirate from slashing Mira by using his forearm as a shield. He roars in pain as a deep cut is opened on his arm by the man's cutlass, then swings a mighty backhand, sending the man into a table, splintering it.
He looks back down at the beautiful creature running her hand over his stomach seductively and is about to make a decision, when the decision is made for him. "I protect y-!!!" The woman grabs his hand and drags him towards the exit, he goes along willingly, knowing that if he didn't the woman would have upended herself trying to yank him like she is. Any ruffian who comes near them receives the business end of a set of claws, and more than a couple are slain before Gharn finally exits with Mira. Once out of immediate danger Gharn turns back into his human form, allowing him to be less awkward having to bend over so much to keep a hold on Mira's hand. "What now? Where go?" | Name – Gharn Werefang
Age – 20 (Average age of species, about 140. Aging around half as fast as humans once they reach maturity)
Species – Werelion
Gender - Male
Appearance – About 5’10”. Lean and muscular. Fairly handsome, though his looks are marred by 4 long scars down the left side of his face. He’s got tribal tattoos running down one arm and across the left side of his chest.
His wereform is massive, a 9ft tall heavily muscled Werelion, his head shifts to that of a anthropomorphic lion and his legs change to cat-like ones. In this form he is capable of lifting nearly 1000s pounds and can tear a man’s head off with his bare paws
He wears tribal breeches that somehow stretch when he shifts, along with several necklaces. He dislikes wearing shoes and doesn’t see the point in shirts.
Personality - Proud, noble, firm, just, angry, violent, savage, shy, oblivious, brave, strong, kind.
Gharn is a proud young man. He’s brave, loyal to a fault but often comes off as arrogant. He doesn’t think much of humans, as his culture views strength above all, and he thinks himself far stronger than any human
After the events of his past, he’s become rather withdrawn, quiet and sometimes just downright unfriendly
History – Gharn comes from a tribal culture of Werelions, unbeknownst to the rest of the world. There he learned his tribe’s ways and hunting. He learned the ways of a warrior, a hunter and a leader. When he was 15 he lost it all, his tribe was slain. Brutally slaughtered while he was helpless to stop it. He was made to watch as mercenaries, hunting after the pelts of his fellow tribsmen, slew his mother, father and took is baby sister away. They left him for dead, but he did not die. He survived in the jungle for another 5 years on his own, and is only just now making his way out of it, towards civilization and to go after the men who took his sister and killed his tribe
Equipment – He wields a massive broadsword. Far to heavy to lift in human form he can only use it in his wereform. For combat while human he uses a shortsword and hide shield
Powers – Shapeshifting. Gharn is a Werelion. He is able to shift between his Wereform and human form whenever he pleases. In Wereform he has enormous strength and great physical prowess
Activity – I can post multiple times a day. I’m on all the time.
Extras – Gharn has never ‘mated’ and is very shy and easily embarrassed around women he finds attractive.
A few notes on the rules of Gharn's culture.
His was a tribal kind, based on two elements that the tribals held above all: Honor and Strength.
Due to this along with the beliefs that if someone loses their honor, then they don't get into the afterlife, Gharn is forced to do the following
He will not lie, at all, even about the smallest thing. He can choose to remain silent, but if he answers then he must tell the truth to any questions he's asked.
If someone loses his honor, then they are usually put to death in a ceremony. Seeing as Gharn has no tribe however, he is considered a Narmweir, meaning 'last-kin'. If he loses his honor he is expected to commit suicide. A Narmweir is generally considered bad luck, and aren't usually allowed into a new tribe.
Challenges are sacred, not to be ignored. There are two kinds, fights to the death and fights for domination.
In a fight to the death, then the goal and end result are obvious. The loser dies and goes to the afterlife, honor fulfilled. The winner lives (probably), his honor increased through victory, earning him trinkets and higher stances in the tribe. If somehow both live, then both lose all honor, the loser for not dying when he was supposed to, the winner for not killing his foe. They will not get into the afterlife and instead wander as spirits forever when they are put to death.
In a fight for domination the goal is to beat your opponent into submission, no weapons are allowed in this fight. Win the winner is declared, the loser is forced to either give the winner every object he/she owns, or become the winners slave for 7 years but keep their belongings.
There are restrictions on the slavery however, the winner cannot make the slave hurt themselves or their family, they may not command the slave to do a task that would lead to the slave's death and males may not ask female slaves to mate with them. The last one was created several generations before Gharn's birth as one Werelion challenged, beat and took nearly all the women in his tribe as slave-wives.
Finally Gharn is only 20, meaning he is not quite a full adult in the eyes of his culture, therefor he is not allowed to eat human flesh (a delicacy among his people) or mate with another of his kin with the intent of creating a child. |
56,327 | 1,539 | 36 | 1,963 | 1,053 | Yeva Darbinian
Yeva didn't bother to look back at the bar brawl, swiftly leaving the building and walking slightly to the side of the door in case any random patron or debris flew out the entrance. She glanced at Hayden, giving him a playful smirk and a pat on the shoulder as if to tell him that he needs to relax. The Darbinian observed her hand for a moment, rolling up her sleeve to inspect her arm. The shard had sent a weird feeling up her arm when she had grabbed it, but it seemed that it didn't do anything tangible.
For now, they needed to get out of this town. The pirate is going to be searching high and low for his shard and there's no doubt that he had spotted the two of them leaving.. Unless the carnage in the tavern had distracted him that much. Suddenly, she heard a thumping noise close behind her; she took a step forward before pivoting her body, swiftly drawing her pistol, aiming it at the incoming giant. It was the walking tin can. She glared at him for a moment before he started speaking, her aim trained on the weirdo's wobbling head.
"You..have lady of the seas relic. And since you seem to have a good self being, I will assist you. Whether you like it or not, Darbinian" He said. She didn't really believe him in the slightest. This relic is something that everyone wanted and she wasn't about to trust a random walking, talking diving suit.
"That's right I know your name, particularly me meeting your grandfather. Very similar behavior. HAH..HAH..HAH."
Despite the giant's supposedly familiarity with her family, he still hadn't said her name, let alone her grandfather's, despite 'knowing' them. She didn't actually know much about her grandfather, but he was a legend nonetheless. What the diver said was partly true, however. Many a time has she been told that she was similar to him, not that it changed anything.
Yeva took another few steps back, away from the walking tin can, her trigger finger ready to blow his head off his shoulders. | Name: Yeva Darbinian
Age: 26
Species: Human
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Yeva stands at a height of 5'7" and can be described as rather lean in build. She's rather average in terms of looks, according to most, so she doesn't really stand out in a crowd. She possesses tattoos that wrap around both arms and connect at her shoulder blades. These tattoos are reminiscent of circuits, but what they really represent is a mystery to everyone other than her family. (Refer to image) she doesn't wear anything that makes her stand out other than the choker she wears around her neck which has a small 'brooch-like' attachment that is a bullet shaped signet, her family symbol.
Personality:
Many say that Yeva is a very quiet individual. They're not wrong, but it's for a different reason. Yeva is mute. She can't speak. Aside from this 'minor' disability, she's a very reliable person and can be loyal enough to not abandon people without a second thought. She's awfully pragmatic, but it doesn't stop her from being sentimental at times. Her internal monologue, however, is quite cynical. Sometimes she can come off as quite cocky or blunt in her gestures. She gets easily frustrated when people don’t understand what she’s trying to tell them, but it’s not really their fault that she can’t talk.
History:
Born into a family of Gunsmiths, Yeva spent the majority of her life in the workshop, helping her parents put together and test their latest creations. Yeva grew, first as a gunsmith, second as a marksman. The Darbinian family, although more famously known for their firearms, were also exceptional mercenary marksmen. Throughout history, their family had been at the forefront of weapons technology, creating the first of many clockwork and steam-powered firearms, the most amazing of which being a combination of steam power and clockwork, the Pressure rifle; the first sniper rifle.
Yeva now lives as a traveler, a mercenary, a gun for hire. Carrying the family name with pride.
Equipment:
A modified Pressure rifle, a steam-powered pistol, ink and quill, varying amounts of parchment, extra ammunition, and some smoke bombs.
Powers:
Yeva has the power to summon, however this power has only just been discovered by herself. She’s an agile person and an incredible marksman, but her abilities in CQC are very limited.
Activity:
Online every night between 8pm-12am (GMT+8). I’m currently studying, so I might get really busy at times. I should be able to post regularly though.
Extras:
- The Darbininan crest is that of a single bullet
- As stated before, the Darbinian family is famous throughout the continent. However they are also feared for the same reason. Double crossing a Darbinian is usually a terrible idea.
- The Darbinian family isn't actually aligned to anyone, remaining as a type of neutral mercenary faction in their own right to avoid politics and pursue research.
- Yeva uses written words to communicate most of the time.
- The Pressure rifle has a scope, but it’s just a line of magnifying lens |
56,328 | 1,539 | 37 | 599 | 451 | Fine, be that way Yeva. I know you're mute, but that's just rude."
He followed anyway.
"You do know you're bullet is basically useless with my helmet on right? The last person who tried that now has a whole in his chest. A very big whole." He said with his helmet light turned red. He still followed, but kept his distance, cause he knew that even though he was basically bullet proof, Darbinians were smart, she'd figure out quickly that the relic she has can way him down as long as he is near her. | I completely forgot to put this here earlier. :P
Name - Enigma 3 A.K.A Ends
Age - 52(average life-span is near immortality, as long as body is kept up with, but is still mortal)
Species - Guardian (former human, augmented corpse)
Gender - Male like most guardians
Appearance - (Image provided on later date)He is fully integrated with his deep sea suit. His helmet is detachable but He normally keeps it on. His right arm is bulkier than the other and he is hunched a little. He is armored heavily. has a apparatice on back that has a tube connected to his head and left arm.
Personality - Lifeless, calm but easily aggravated, Smart yet senseless. Little care for the world.
History - He doesn't remember before his transformation. "Too fuzzy" he says, but he can remember after the transformation. He was a special type of guardian that was used to both repair a city and protect it. How ever, when the city was destroyed, he no longer had ties to it, so he roamed for years on end. Till he found his purpose. Now, he protects and serves any child of great power, but will assist anyone good.
Equipment - Rivet gun and oil sprayer as ranged weapons. His right hand can form a large crude drill for melee. He carries matches and medical supplies, in particular adrenaline and tissue repair chemicals. His body is essentially the suit at this point.
Powers - Electrical control and blasts
Activity - Once or twice Daily, not in the middle of the day mostly
Extras - Yes this is loosely based off big daddies from bioshock if your wondering |
56,329 | 1,539 | 38 | 2,078 | 20 | Once she was certain that most of the bar had gotten involved in the brawl Aedre made her way to the door, carefully avoiding anyone who looked likely to throw a punch her way. She looked back briefly before she stepped outside to see what was going on with the pirates and her eyes widened slightly as she found that they were heading in the same direction.
Aedre stepped into the shadows of the buildings as soon as she’d gotten outside and kept an eye out for the woman who’d stolen the shard and the man she’d left the bar with even as she made her way down the road away from the bar. Aware of how close behind her the pirates were, she kept her staff in hand as she moved, and it didn’t take long before she encountered the thief facing off with the man in the deep sea suit. That was a surprise, but not as much of one once she heard what he had to say.
“He’s a guardian, most of their purpose in life is to protect and help whoever they find worthy of it,” she stated as she approached the trio. “The pirates aren’t going to be stuck inside much longer, and you’re not all that hard to find at the moment,” Aedre said with a slight smile as she turned to Yeva and Hayden, looking them over and quietly taking note of their weapons. | Name: Aedre Starling
Age: 41, appears 25 as a human (average lifespan is 300 years, but they can live longer)
Species: Mermaid
Gender: Female
Human form: Fairly athletic body of average human height with light skin. Brown hair that reaches just past her shoulders and green eyes. She wears thin brown trousers, wraps her chest and wears a dark grey hooded jacket over it. Brown boots, and a belt around her waist that carries a couple of daggers. All clothing that she can take off and put on fairly quickly.
Natural (mermaid) form: Aedre is slim with a wiry strength and a softly rounded face. Her whole tail is roughly 2,5 times the length of her legs in her human form, sea-green and mud-brown scales cover her whole body, and brown hair only reaches just past her shoulders. The tail ends in a single fin that flares out and then narrows, and long side-fins trail down from just above her waist down roughly half a metre. Her narrow eyes are a sea-green colour and her thin lips hide sharp teeth that have no problems cutting through fish-scales. There are claws on her fingers and webbing between them. Varying sizes of brown webbing-like membrane follow the line of her body, and there are long gills on each side of her neck.
Personality:
She cares far more for travelling and learning new things than money, and has a fairly aggressive fightingstyle though it takes a lot to make her angry. There are few things she won't do for her friends when they earn her loyalty. As a mermaid she has no actual need for clothes in her natural form and doesn’t understand some species fixation with clothes and going without them.
History:
Her parents were nomadic hunters and raised her to be the same. She’s always enjoyed travelling and discovering new places, and so when she discovered she had embodiment it was a natural first step to train it well enough that she could turn human and fit in on land. She left her family as soon as she was old enough to do so, though it took some time after that before she was good enough at embodiment to be able to fit in amongst humans.
Equipment:
Battlestaff (metal bo staff with a barbed spear head enchanted not to collect rust or otherwise degrade), water-proof bag, 2 daggers for when she doesn't have claws and/or loses her staff.
Powers:
Embodiment, but so far is only able to use it to change between mermaid and human form. They’re specific forms and she can’t yet change partially.
Telekinesis, which she mainly uses to lift small objects and get her staff back if she's disarmed. It generally takes a lot of concentration, and she's less adept at using telekinesis on land.
Activity: Currently I don’t have a fixed schedule and so could post at any time during the day. When I get a regular job I’m more likely to post at some point between 18 and 24 in the evening. My timezone is UTC +1.
Extras:
- She finds it difficult to read human bodylanguage since the mermaids she's familiar with look so little like humans.
- Because mermaids live such long lives they don't have the same view of time as most species do. Aedre hasn't seen her parents in over ten years, since she was old enough to set out on her own, and she still hasn't started missing them. |
56,330 | 1,539 | 39 | 948 | 360 | Hayden stayed close to Yeva. He wasn't looking at her, but at the door with his shield up when he touched his shoulder so he flinched and swallowed. "This is why I didn't join the fighters..." Putting his stuff away he pulled out a piece of charcoal and started writing runes on the ground. A shimmering veil appeared next to where they were, acting as a form of cover. It wouldn't stop the pirate, but it would definitely give him pause. As he finished, he noted the two new people and blinked.
"Gods... This day is just a hell of a ride..." Hayden looked at the guardian with interest. He'd never seen anything like it this close before, and he didn't trust it. But he knew Yeva could handle herself so he went back to keeping watch. Putting the charcoal stick back in his bag he picked up his sword and kept watch. | Name - Imperial Vice Captain Hayden Ventus of the Army, Engineering Division
Age - 23
Species - Half Otterkin
Gender - Male
Appearance - Tall and tanky: 6'4. Hayden has a tail and some fur on his chest and arms. His ears have stud piercings.
Personality - Hayden was brought up as a noble, but often left to his own devices. He is caring and thoughtful, usually seen smiling and laughing. It takes him a while to open up, but when he does, he's extremely loyal and won't hesitate to take a bullet for a friend.
History - Hayden is a part of the Ventus line. A family that is synonymous with the World military. He however is lesser known as being the youngest, and because he hasn't achieved much, since he prefers to tinker with his few friends in Engineering. He is also viewed as a failure to his parents by he family for the fact that he has not gained any of his parent's Bloodline Traits.
Both the Ventus nd the Xerces(his mother's family) are known for their Traits. They.. Arranged the marriage of Hayden's parents to strengthen their lines. Hayden's two older siblings have one of their parent's Trait, but even after failing his Trails twice, Hayden hasn't shown any indication he'll activate his power. Hayden was left to pretty much do as he wanted afterwards.
An utsider would say thet he lived in a chaotic home. His parents have no love for each other, and there was never a time when they did. They are almost polar opposites with his father being a loud and brash man who won't be denied something he wants, and his mother is a rather gentle soul, who has grown cold from his father's treatment.
In his family, only his grandfather, Admiral Kensington of the Imperial Army, has ever shown him real kindness. He's the reason he was able to join the Engineering Corps. His grandfather is also the reason he was able to run away from the forced marriage he faces. He figures if he can help get the Goddess Shard back, he will be able to get out of the forced marriage with his Grandfather's support.
Equipment -He carries a sword, a high powered crossbow and a shield. He also has enough bandages and medical supplies to deal with moth wounds, a practice gained because the Engineering Corps can be dangerous. His weapons all have etchings for his runes. He also has a Writ of Absence from his Grandfather, which enabled his escape.
Powers - Runic Enchanting: Hayden is a decent enchanter. He is able to give his weapons increased force or fire damage.
His bloodline Trait is currently inactive.
Activity - I'm on pretty much every night after work and sometime on in the morning if I wake up early.
Extras - Hayden prefers men. When women come on to him he is rather unsure of wha to do. He also can't really talk well to guys he finds attractive becoming quite shy. Because of this he's never had sex and doesn't even know how it works. His fiancé was Lady Duvenia Quentin, the daughter of General Poitr Quentin. He also likes to eat. A lot. |
56,331 | 1,539 | 40 | 599 | 451 | "I meet your grandfather after the collapse of the city I was made for. He helped me understand the ways of the world above the sea, and in turn I helped in some of his jobs, but only if he asked me to." His helmet lights changed to a dark purple. "It pained me to hear of his passing, so I returned to the see and assisted the lady of the sea."
His helmet light went to normal and his posture stiffened. "But now I have to protect one of good heart that has the shard, which happens to be you." | I completely forgot to put this here earlier. :P
Name - Enigma 3 A.K.A Ends
Age - 52(average life-span is near immortality, as long as body is kept up with, but is still mortal)
Species - Guardian (former human, augmented corpse)
Gender - Male like most guardians
Appearance - (Image provided on later date)He is fully integrated with his deep sea suit. His helmet is detachable but He normally keeps it on. His right arm is bulkier than the other and he is hunched a little. He is armored heavily. has a apparatice on back that has a tube connected to his head and left arm.
Personality - Lifeless, calm but easily aggravated, Smart yet senseless. Little care for the world.
History - He doesn't remember before his transformation. "Too fuzzy" he says, but he can remember after the transformation. He was a special type of guardian that was used to both repair a city and protect it. How ever, when the city was destroyed, he no longer had ties to it, so he roamed for years on end. Till he found his purpose. Now, he protects and serves any child of great power, but will assist anyone good.
Equipment - Rivet gun and oil sprayer as ranged weapons. His right hand can form a large crude drill for melee. He carries matches and medical supplies, in particular adrenaline and tissue repair chemicals. His body is essentially the suit at this point.
Powers - Electrical control and blasts
Activity - Once or twice Daily, not in the middle of the day mostly
Extras - Yes this is loosely based off big daddies from bioshock if your wondering |
56,332 | 1,539 | 41 | 1,963 | 1,053 | Yeva Darbinian
Yeva's gaze moved between the giant 'guardian' and the women that vouched for him. If they were observant, they'd see a large amount of distrust in her eyes. The mercenary sighed, as she lowered her pistol. It would seem that this... thing truly did know her grandfather. Whether or not she had a 'good heart' remained to be seen by anyone that has ever known her. She nodded slightly toward the two, tapping Hayden on the shoulder as she turned her back to the newcomers. It was time to move. The strange woman was right, they weren't out of the clear yet, especially not with this hulking tin can.
They needed to leave this town immediately, but they couldn't use the docks. It was too close to the tavern and trying to out sail pirates was a terrible idea. Perhaps the road was a better notion. Yeva started down the path, heading toward a road that exited the town, however she was careful with her movements. She didn't want to run into the military or anymore pirates, so the back alleys were the way to go. Whether or not these three could keep up wasn't any of her concern. | Name: Yeva Darbinian
Age: 26
Species: Human
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Yeva stands at a height of 5'7" and can be described as rather lean in build. She's rather average in terms of looks, according to most, so she doesn't really stand out in a crowd. She possesses tattoos that wrap around both arms and connect at her shoulder blades. These tattoos are reminiscent of circuits, but what they really represent is a mystery to everyone other than her family. (Refer to image) she doesn't wear anything that makes her stand out other than the choker she wears around her neck which has a small 'brooch-like' attachment that is a bullet shaped signet, her family symbol.
Personality:
Many say that Yeva is a very quiet individual. They're not wrong, but it's for a different reason. Yeva is mute. She can't speak. Aside from this 'minor' disability, she's a very reliable person and can be loyal enough to not abandon people without a second thought. She's awfully pragmatic, but it doesn't stop her from being sentimental at times. Her internal monologue, however, is quite cynical. Sometimes she can come off as quite cocky or blunt in her gestures. She gets easily frustrated when people don’t understand what she’s trying to tell them, but it’s not really their fault that she can’t talk.
History:
Born into a family of Gunsmiths, Yeva spent the majority of her life in the workshop, helping her parents put together and test their latest creations. Yeva grew, first as a gunsmith, second as a marksman. The Darbinian family, although more famously known for their firearms, were also exceptional mercenary marksmen. Throughout history, their family had been at the forefront of weapons technology, creating the first of many clockwork and steam-powered firearms, the most amazing of which being a combination of steam power and clockwork, the Pressure rifle; the first sniper rifle.
Yeva now lives as a traveler, a mercenary, a gun for hire. Carrying the family name with pride.
Equipment:
A modified Pressure rifle, a steam-powered pistol, ink and quill, varying amounts of parchment, extra ammunition, and some smoke bombs.
Powers:
Yeva has the power to summon, however this power has only just been discovered by herself. She’s an agile person and an incredible marksman, but her abilities in CQC are very limited.
Activity:
Online every night between 8pm-12am (GMT+8). I’m currently studying, so I might get really busy at times. I should be able to post regularly though.
Extras:
- The Darbininan crest is that of a single bullet
- As stated before, the Darbinian family is famous throughout the continent. However they are also feared for the same reason. Double crossing a Darbinian is usually a terrible idea.
- The Darbinian family isn't actually aligned to anyone, remaining as a type of neutral mercenary faction in their own right to avoid politics and pursue research.
- Yeva uses written words to communicate most of the time.
- The Pressure rifle has a scope, but it’s just a line of magnifying lens |
56,333 | 1,539 | 42 | 599 | 451 | Enigma knew what she was thinking. He kept up with her, and was as quiet as his body would allow. He now believed that the new keeper of the shard in his eyes trusted him. Now, his augmented almost instincts kicked in, for he now has something to protect.
As he followed Yeva, he was curious as to what town she planned on going to. He knew that they couldn't escape another way, well Yeva couldn't. He and the Mermaid could go under the water and get out with now issues. But he now had his Guardian motives back in play, he couldn't do that unless Yeva told him to. This is a predicament
He knew the otterkin was there as well, sensing great dis trust from him. So, before they continued, he went up to him and offered a handshake. "You may not trust me, but now my instinct prevents me from harming any of you three, so might as well shake on it. By the way, Enigma the name. | I completely forgot to put this here earlier. :P
Name - Enigma 3 A.K.A Ends
Age - 52(average life-span is near immortality, as long as body is kept up with, but is still mortal)
Species - Guardian (former human, augmented corpse)
Gender - Male like most guardians
Appearance - (Image provided on later date)He is fully integrated with his deep sea suit. His helmet is detachable but He normally keeps it on. His right arm is bulkier than the other and he is hunched a little. He is armored heavily. has a apparatice on back that has a tube connected to his head and left arm.
Personality - Lifeless, calm but easily aggravated, Smart yet senseless. Little care for the world.
History - He doesn't remember before his transformation. "Too fuzzy" he says, but he can remember after the transformation. He was a special type of guardian that was used to both repair a city and protect it. How ever, when the city was destroyed, he no longer had ties to it, so he roamed for years on end. Till he found his purpose. Now, he protects and serves any child of great power, but will assist anyone good.
Equipment - Rivet gun and oil sprayer as ranged weapons. His right hand can form a large crude drill for melee. He carries matches and medical supplies, in particular adrenaline and tissue repair chemicals. His body is essentially the suit at this point.
Powers - Electrical control and blasts
Activity - Once or twice Daily, not in the middle of the day mostly
Extras - Yes this is loosely based off big daddies from bioshock if your wondering |
56,334 | 1,539 | 43 | 2,552 | 638 | I can't thank you enough, sir. I can't imagine what could have become of me had you not come to my rescue. But... I can't just be calling you Handsome." You do have a name, don't you? Mine is Mira, and I expect you to use it well." She winked, a practiced gesture that, when accompanied by a somewhat-innocent-seeming smile, put forth a facade of a damsel who was just grateful to have been saved. It almost made up for the suggestive way she was dressed, though there was nothing that could be done about that until she got the chance to grab her traveling clothes from her hidden cache in the red light district of the city, a place which she could hardly visit while maintaining her more-innocent persona.
"Where now? Well, I was thinking I'd see what that girl was up to with that lovely little stone. I would be ever so pleased if you were to join me in seeing what she's up to..." Mira treated the lion-man to an earnest-looking smile, put forth with only the barest hint of amusement at how easily the young man had been ensnared. Well. It was hardly anything to complain about. The poor thing looked capable enough, and essentially guileless, so far as Mira could tell. He would do just fine. Who knew, he might even grow on her, so long as he didn't get himself killed first. | Name - Mira Streetwalker
Age - 22, though looks no older than 18.
Species - 1/4 elf, 3/4 human.
Gender - Female
Appearance - Average height, lean hourglass figure, long red hair, light skin.
Personality - Confident, take-charge, assertive. In any situation, likes to make it clear that even if she is not the leader, she isn't to be ignored or commanded. Constantly vigilant and on-guard.
History - Born to a whore and an actor, she pursued her mother's profession with a passion, and eventually realized that a man with his pants down was quite vulnerable, especially to someone with the skills to take advantage of it. Since then, she has worked as a contract killer as well as a harlot, and derives pleasure from perfecting both arts. Despite her talent, she is quite unknown to most, which makes her jobs all the more simple.
Equipment - Two long knives, makeup and hair/skin dye, anti-conception charms and drugs, steam-powered pistol, hidden in brassiere pocket.
Powers - Expert seductress, skilled in assassination-style combat, but not in actual fighting.
Activity - I can usually be on from about 10-12 Pacific time, as well as other times throughout the day, depending on how busy I am. I'm much more available during the week than on weekends. |
56,335 | 1,539 | 44 | 1,766 | 865 | Gharn nods simply, trying to keep up with the flow of events. First the fight on the ship, then the fight at the bar, now being dragged along by a beautiful woman. He shakes his head to clear it and looks at Mira, his expression still a little befuddled. "Err, my name be Gharn." he says simply. "You be welcome," he continues "but you not be weak. You could flee without me." he says. "But I be glad to be helping." he smiles at her slightly, but only the right side of his mouth moves, leaving his grin decidedly lopsided. The old wounds on the left side of his face must have damaged the muscle to the point where it no longer fully works.
Gharn is now thoroughly confused by the woman, who he now knew as Mira, at first seemed flirty, then seemed downright slutty when trying to get him to flee with her, but now seems different yet again. He makes a mental note to try and figure out what she's really like.
Gharn nods simply, more than happy to follow after Mira. "Stone? The blue one the pirate had? Okay." he chuckles slightly, remembering the pirate's face as the table hit him. "We go to find her then. You be leading, I know not where I am going in this city." He allows her to lead the way, glad to have someone who seems to know what they're doing alongside him, it's just a bonus she happens to be and attractive female. Gharn walks after her, gazing around at the wonders of modern living that up until now he has known nothing about. | Name – Gharn Werefang
Age – 20 (Average age of species, about 140. Aging around half as fast as humans once they reach maturity)
Species – Werelion
Gender - Male
Appearance – About 5’10”. Lean and muscular. Fairly handsome, though his looks are marred by 4 long scars down the left side of his face. He’s got tribal tattoos running down one arm and across the left side of his chest.
His wereform is massive, a 9ft tall heavily muscled Werelion, his head shifts to that of a anthropomorphic lion and his legs change to cat-like ones. In this form he is capable of lifting nearly 1000s pounds and can tear a man’s head off with his bare paws
He wears tribal breeches that somehow stretch when he shifts, along with several necklaces. He dislikes wearing shoes and doesn’t see the point in shirts.
Personality - Proud, noble, firm, just, angry, violent, savage, shy, oblivious, brave, strong, kind.
Gharn is a proud young man. He’s brave, loyal to a fault but often comes off as arrogant. He doesn’t think much of humans, as his culture views strength above all, and he thinks himself far stronger than any human
After the events of his past, he’s become rather withdrawn, quiet and sometimes just downright unfriendly
History – Gharn comes from a tribal culture of Werelions, unbeknownst to the rest of the world. There he learned his tribe’s ways and hunting. He learned the ways of a warrior, a hunter and a leader. When he was 15 he lost it all, his tribe was slain. Brutally slaughtered while he was helpless to stop it. He was made to watch as mercenaries, hunting after the pelts of his fellow tribsmen, slew his mother, father and took is baby sister away. They left him for dead, but he did not die. He survived in the jungle for another 5 years on his own, and is only just now making his way out of it, towards civilization and to go after the men who took his sister and killed his tribe
Equipment – He wields a massive broadsword. Far to heavy to lift in human form he can only use it in his wereform. For combat while human he uses a shortsword and hide shield
Powers – Shapeshifting. Gharn is a Werelion. He is able to shift between his Wereform and human form whenever he pleases. In Wereform he has enormous strength and great physical prowess
Activity – I can post multiple times a day. I’m on all the time.
Extras – Gharn has never ‘mated’ and is very shy and easily embarrassed around women he finds attractive.
A few notes on the rules of Gharn's culture.
His was a tribal kind, based on two elements that the tribals held above all: Honor and Strength.
Due to this along with the beliefs that if someone loses their honor, then they don't get into the afterlife, Gharn is forced to do the following
He will not lie, at all, even about the smallest thing. He can choose to remain silent, but if he answers then he must tell the truth to any questions he's asked.
If someone loses his honor, then they are usually put to death in a ceremony. Seeing as Gharn has no tribe however, he is considered a Narmweir, meaning 'last-kin'. If he loses his honor he is expected to commit suicide. A Narmweir is generally considered bad luck, and aren't usually allowed into a new tribe.
Challenges are sacred, not to be ignored. There are two kinds, fights to the death and fights for domination.
In a fight to the death, then the goal and end result are obvious. The loser dies and goes to the afterlife, honor fulfilled. The winner lives (probably), his honor increased through victory, earning him trinkets and higher stances in the tribe. If somehow both live, then both lose all honor, the loser for not dying when he was supposed to, the winner for not killing his foe. They will not get into the afterlife and instead wander as spirits forever when they are put to death.
In a fight for domination the goal is to beat your opponent into submission, no weapons are allowed in this fight. Win the winner is declared, the loser is forced to either give the winner every object he/she owns, or become the winners slave for 7 years but keep their belongings.
There are restrictions on the slavery however, the winner cannot make the slave hurt themselves or their family, they may not command the slave to do a task that would lead to the slave's death and males may not ask female slaves to mate with them. The last one was created several generations before Gharn's birth as one Werelion challenged, beat and took nearly all the women in his tribe as slave-wives.
Finally Gharn is only 20, meaning he is not quite a full adult in the eyes of his culture, therefor he is not allowed to eat human flesh (a delicacy among his people) or mate with another of his kin with the intent of creating a child. |
56,336 | 1,539 | 45 | 948 | 360 | Hayden was overwhelmed. He was half sure that this was all a dream and he'd wake up on the Aurora, safe from all of this. but he knew that this was his reality now. He followed Yeva closely, doing his best to keep up. When the metal man ntroduced himself Hayden shook his hand out of habit, unsure of what to make of him, as in his mind he was exactly what his name was. An Enigma.
Hayden's ears twitched as he listened for the sounds of pursuit. It wasn't too hard with all of the noise the city gave off being muffled by the alleyways. "We need to move faster." | Name - Imperial Vice Captain Hayden Ventus of the Army, Engineering Division
Age - 23
Species - Half Otterkin
Gender - Male
Appearance - Tall and tanky: 6'4. Hayden has a tail and some fur on his chest and arms. His ears have stud piercings.
Personality - Hayden was brought up as a noble, but often left to his own devices. He is caring and thoughtful, usually seen smiling and laughing. It takes him a while to open up, but when he does, he's extremely loyal and won't hesitate to take a bullet for a friend.
History - Hayden is a part of the Ventus line. A family that is synonymous with the World military. He however is lesser known as being the youngest, and because he hasn't achieved much, since he prefers to tinker with his few friends in Engineering. He is also viewed as a failure to his parents by he family for the fact that he has not gained any of his parent's Bloodline Traits.
Both the Ventus nd the Xerces(his mother's family) are known for their Traits. They.. Arranged the marriage of Hayden's parents to strengthen their lines. Hayden's two older siblings have one of their parent's Trait, but even after failing his Trails twice, Hayden hasn't shown any indication he'll activate his power. Hayden was left to pretty much do as he wanted afterwards.
An utsider would say thet he lived in a chaotic home. His parents have no love for each other, and there was never a time when they did. They are almost polar opposites with his father being a loud and brash man who won't be denied something he wants, and his mother is a rather gentle soul, who has grown cold from his father's treatment.
In his family, only his grandfather, Admiral Kensington of the Imperial Army, has ever shown him real kindness. He's the reason he was able to join the Engineering Corps. His grandfather is also the reason he was able to run away from the forced marriage he faces. He figures if he can help get the Goddess Shard back, he will be able to get out of the forced marriage with his Grandfather's support.
Equipment -He carries a sword, a high powered crossbow and a shield. He also has enough bandages and medical supplies to deal with moth wounds, a practice gained because the Engineering Corps can be dangerous. His weapons all have etchings for his runes. He also has a Writ of Absence from his Grandfather, which enabled his escape.
Powers - Runic Enchanting: Hayden is a decent enchanter. He is able to give his weapons increased force or fire damage.
His bloodline Trait is currently inactive.
Activity - I'm on pretty much every night after work and sometime on in the morning if I wake up early.
Extras - Hayden prefers men. When women come on to him he is rather unsure of wha to do. He also can't really talk well to guys he finds attractive becoming quite shy. Because of this he's never had sex and doesn't even know how it works. His fiancé was Lady Duvenia Quentin, the daughter of General Poitr Quentin. He also likes to eat. A lot. |
56,337 | 1,539 | 46 | 2,552 | 638 | "I suppose you're right, Gharn. I probably could have escaped on my own. But, and this is just my take, I don't think I'd have nearly as much fun, now would I? Besides, I needed some excuse to get you to join me! Now, then... If I'm not mistaken, the girl with the stone took off down this way..." She started off with a light step, her elven heritage lending her feet the swiftness that was the hallmark of her grandfather's race.
She was impressed by the lion-man's speed. She wasn't an athlete, exactly, but she was by no means out of shape, and as a part-elf, she was usually able to outpace most anyone without breaking a sweat or running out of breath. This was shaping up to be a well-balanced partnership. So long as Gharn was willing to follow her lead, Mira would be perfectly satisfied with having such an imposing figure to back her up, and his naïveté made him all the more appealing, as it would save some effort on manipulation. Tough and willing, that was exactly the type of backup that would serve her well.
As she considered her new situation, Mira nearly tripped on the trailing hem of her gown, as she stopped suddenly at the sight of a small group ahead of her, which included, in part, the nondescript girl who she'd seen stealing the blue stone. slowing her pace, and gesturing for Gharn to do the same, she strode purposefully over to the three who had congregated together, smiling openly at the otter-man and the thief, but largely ignoring the... whatever he was.
With one hand held lightly against her chest in a feigned motion of being out of breath, she said conspiratorially "My! I didn't expect to run into you all! That was quite something, that nonsense in the bar, wasn't it! I can't imagine how the barkeep must be feeling after all that. I imagine he's used to such things in this town, being so near to the ports and all." She looked pointedly at Yeva. "And you, miss! You got out of that encounter better than any of the rest of us, didn't you!" | Name - Mira Streetwalker
Age - 22, though looks no older than 18.
Species - 1/4 elf, 3/4 human.
Gender - Female
Appearance - Average height, lean hourglass figure, long red hair, light skin.
Personality - Confident, take-charge, assertive. In any situation, likes to make it clear that even if she is not the leader, she isn't to be ignored or commanded. Constantly vigilant and on-guard.
History - Born to a whore and an actor, she pursued her mother's profession with a passion, and eventually realized that a man with his pants down was quite vulnerable, especially to someone with the skills to take advantage of it. Since then, she has worked as a contract killer as well as a harlot, and derives pleasure from perfecting both arts. Despite her talent, she is quite unknown to most, which makes her jobs all the more simple.
Equipment - Two long knives, makeup and hair/skin dye, anti-conception charms and drugs, steam-powered pistol, hidden in brassiere pocket.
Powers - Expert seductress, skilled in assassination-style combat, but not in actual fighting.
Activity - I can usually be on from about 10-12 Pacific time, as well as other times throughout the day, depending on how busy I am. I'm much more available during the week than on weekends. |
56,338 | 1,539 | 47 | 599 | 451 | He saw the Werelion and elf and was defensive. He never liked elves that lived out outside Elven communities, for most than not, they were cut throats or thieves. And this one was the whore in the bar. "What do you want...other than the stone, who now has a new owner, I saw you were interested in? he said with the light from within his helmet turning red. He stayed on guard, but did nothing more rash than that. | I completely forgot to put this here earlier. :P
Name - Enigma 3 A.K.A Ends
Age - 52(average life-span is near immortality, as long as body is kept up with, but is still mortal)
Species - Guardian (former human, augmented corpse)
Gender - Male like most guardians
Appearance - (Image provided on later date)He is fully integrated with his deep sea suit. His helmet is detachable but He normally keeps it on. His right arm is bulkier than the other and he is hunched a little. He is armored heavily. has a apparatice on back that has a tube connected to his head and left arm.
Personality - Lifeless, calm but easily aggravated, Smart yet senseless. Little care for the world.
History - He doesn't remember before his transformation. "Too fuzzy" he says, but he can remember after the transformation. He was a special type of guardian that was used to both repair a city and protect it. How ever, when the city was destroyed, he no longer had ties to it, so he roamed for years on end. Till he found his purpose. Now, he protects and serves any child of great power, but will assist anyone good.
Equipment - Rivet gun and oil sprayer as ranged weapons. His right hand can form a large crude drill for melee. He carries matches and medical supplies, in particular adrenaline and tissue repair chemicals. His body is essentially the suit at this point.
Powers - Electrical control and blasts
Activity - Once or twice Daily, not in the middle of the day mostly
Extras - Yes this is loosely based off big daddies from bioshock if your wondering |
56,339 | 1,539 | 48 | 1,963 | 1,053 | Yeva Darbinian
The constant, rhythmic 'Thud. Thud.' of the Enigma was really getting on the young woman's nerves. Not only was this thing massive, it also made a lot of noise. If this place was populated, they'd all be noticed in an instant. Not only that. They were also amassing way too many people. Four was a sizeable number, not enough to get noticed, however this Diver thing counted for at least three.
Suddenly more voices called out behind her. She felt a vein burst in her temple. She stopped in her tracks as she turned around, her gun instantly aimed at the whore's head. She clicked her tongue as she noticed the were-lion she had in tow. Too many people. Way too many people. 'Fuck this. I'm out.', she thought in frustration. 'Clack...Clackclack.' Three small cylinders fell from Yeva's pocket, rolling along the cobblestone for a moment before bursting; releasing a thick smoke around everyone. As silently as a whisper, the Darbininan split from the group running through the alleyway, making seemingly random turns to throw off any would-be pursuer.
She wasn't about to share this shard with any of them. | Name: Yeva Darbinian
Age: 26
Species: Human
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Yeva stands at a height of 5'7" and can be described as rather lean in build. She's rather average in terms of looks, according to most, so she doesn't really stand out in a crowd. She possesses tattoos that wrap around both arms and connect at her shoulder blades. These tattoos are reminiscent of circuits, but what they really represent is a mystery to everyone other than her family. (Refer to image) she doesn't wear anything that makes her stand out other than the choker she wears around her neck which has a small 'brooch-like' attachment that is a bullet shaped signet, her family symbol.
Personality:
Many say that Yeva is a very quiet individual. They're not wrong, but it's for a different reason. Yeva is mute. She can't speak. Aside from this 'minor' disability, she's a very reliable person and can be loyal enough to not abandon people without a second thought. She's awfully pragmatic, but it doesn't stop her from being sentimental at times. Her internal monologue, however, is quite cynical. Sometimes she can come off as quite cocky or blunt in her gestures. She gets easily frustrated when people don’t understand what she’s trying to tell them, but it’s not really their fault that she can’t talk.
History:
Born into a family of Gunsmiths, Yeva spent the majority of her life in the workshop, helping her parents put together and test their latest creations. Yeva grew, first as a gunsmith, second as a marksman. The Darbinian family, although more famously known for their firearms, were also exceptional mercenary marksmen. Throughout history, their family had been at the forefront of weapons technology, creating the first of many clockwork and steam-powered firearms, the most amazing of which being a combination of steam power and clockwork, the Pressure rifle; the first sniper rifle.
Yeva now lives as a traveler, a mercenary, a gun for hire. Carrying the family name with pride.
Equipment:
A modified Pressure rifle, a steam-powered pistol, ink and quill, varying amounts of parchment, extra ammunition, and some smoke bombs.
Powers:
Yeva has the power to summon, however this power has only just been discovered by herself. She’s an agile person and an incredible marksman, but her abilities in CQC are very limited.
Activity:
Online every night between 8pm-12am (GMT+8). I’m currently studying, so I might get really busy at times. I should be able to post regularly though.
Extras:
- The Darbininan crest is that of a single bullet
- As stated before, the Darbinian family is famous throughout the continent. However they are also feared for the same reason. Double crossing a Darbinian is usually a terrible idea.
- The Darbinian family isn't actually aligned to anyone, remaining as a type of neutral mercenary faction in their own right to avoid politics and pursue research.
- Yeva uses written words to communicate most of the time.
- The Pressure rifle has a scope, but it’s just a line of magnifying lens |
56,340 | 1,539 | 49 | 1,766 | 865 | Gharn nods. "You be quick-quick. You could have escaped" he said confidently. He frowns, slightly confused for a moment. "As much fun?" Then his ears turn slightly pink. "Join you?" he says, his expression is one of utter confusion and befuddlement as he runs after Mira. He allows a little of the lion's strength into him, easily keeping pace with her. He runs easily, his own athletic form keeping pace with the Elf seemingly effortlessly. "Why do you want the stone?" he asks her, his breathing steady and controlled, a long distance runners breathing.
He's still confused, but privately a little happy that Mira seemed to want him with her. Companionship is something he's lacked for the past several years, and Mira seems like a good person to have as a friend.
He skids to a stop as Mira falters, automatically reaching out to steady her by grabbing her shoulder. He makes sure she's steady then follows after her, bare feet paddling along on the cobbles. His expression turns from one of mild curiosity to severe confusion as he looks at Mira, she's acting completely different now. What's going on? He frowns and looks between Mira and the other group. He sees the mysterious being's glow turn red and growls. "Who be you metalman?" he growls at what looks like a robot of sorts.
Suddenly smoke billows from three small shiny objects dropped on the ground my the silent woman. He reels back sharply, his body changing, the lion taking over. He sniffs, trying to catch the silent woman's scent through the smoke, then coughs and rubs his eyes as they burn and he inhales the smoke. | Name – Gharn Werefang
Age – 20 (Average age of species, about 140. Aging around half as fast as humans once they reach maturity)
Species – Werelion
Gender - Male
Appearance – About 5’10”. Lean and muscular. Fairly handsome, though his looks are marred by 4 long scars down the left side of his face. He’s got tribal tattoos running down one arm and across the left side of his chest.
His wereform is massive, a 9ft tall heavily muscled Werelion, his head shifts to that of a anthropomorphic lion and his legs change to cat-like ones. In this form he is capable of lifting nearly 1000s pounds and can tear a man’s head off with his bare paws
He wears tribal breeches that somehow stretch when he shifts, along with several necklaces. He dislikes wearing shoes and doesn’t see the point in shirts.
Personality - Proud, noble, firm, just, angry, violent, savage, shy, oblivious, brave, strong, kind.
Gharn is a proud young man. He’s brave, loyal to a fault but often comes off as arrogant. He doesn’t think much of humans, as his culture views strength above all, and he thinks himself far stronger than any human
After the events of his past, he’s become rather withdrawn, quiet and sometimes just downright unfriendly
History – Gharn comes from a tribal culture of Werelions, unbeknownst to the rest of the world. There he learned his tribe’s ways and hunting. He learned the ways of a warrior, a hunter and a leader. When he was 15 he lost it all, his tribe was slain. Brutally slaughtered while he was helpless to stop it. He was made to watch as mercenaries, hunting after the pelts of his fellow tribsmen, slew his mother, father and took is baby sister away. They left him for dead, but he did not die. He survived in the jungle for another 5 years on his own, and is only just now making his way out of it, towards civilization and to go after the men who took his sister and killed his tribe
Equipment – He wields a massive broadsword. Far to heavy to lift in human form he can only use it in his wereform. For combat while human he uses a shortsword and hide shield
Powers – Shapeshifting. Gharn is a Werelion. He is able to shift between his Wereform and human form whenever he pleases. In Wereform he has enormous strength and great physical prowess
Activity – I can post multiple times a day. I’m on all the time.
Extras – Gharn has never ‘mated’ and is very shy and easily embarrassed around women he finds attractive.
A few notes on the rules of Gharn's culture.
His was a tribal kind, based on two elements that the tribals held above all: Honor and Strength.
Due to this along with the beliefs that if someone loses their honor, then they don't get into the afterlife, Gharn is forced to do the following
He will not lie, at all, even about the smallest thing. He can choose to remain silent, but if he answers then he must tell the truth to any questions he's asked.
If someone loses his honor, then they are usually put to death in a ceremony. Seeing as Gharn has no tribe however, he is considered a Narmweir, meaning 'last-kin'. If he loses his honor he is expected to commit suicide. A Narmweir is generally considered bad luck, and aren't usually allowed into a new tribe.
Challenges are sacred, not to be ignored. There are two kinds, fights to the death and fights for domination.
In a fight to the death, then the goal and end result are obvious. The loser dies and goes to the afterlife, honor fulfilled. The winner lives (probably), his honor increased through victory, earning him trinkets and higher stances in the tribe. If somehow both live, then both lose all honor, the loser for not dying when he was supposed to, the winner for not killing his foe. They will not get into the afterlife and instead wander as spirits forever when they are put to death.
In a fight for domination the goal is to beat your opponent into submission, no weapons are allowed in this fight. Win the winner is declared, the loser is forced to either give the winner every object he/she owns, or become the winners slave for 7 years but keep their belongings.
There are restrictions on the slavery however, the winner cannot make the slave hurt themselves or their family, they may not command the slave to do a task that would lead to the slave's death and males may not ask female slaves to mate with them. The last one was created several generations before Gharn's birth as one Werelion challenged, beat and took nearly all the women in his tribe as slave-wives.
Finally Gharn is only 20, meaning he is not quite a full adult in the eyes of his culture, therefor he is not allowed to eat human flesh (a delicacy among his people) or mate with another of his kin with the intent of creating a child. |
56,341 | 1,539 | 50 | 2,078 | 20 | Aedre kept quiet as the guardian continued to speak, figuring she didn’t have much to add to the conversation, and instead watched the woman who had taken the shard – Yeva apparently – and her companion. She held the pistol she aimed at them with a steady grip, and given the way she hadn’t yet attacked or fled from the guardian despite his demeanour she likely had the skills to back up her confident stance. And the man certainly seemed to possess some sort of gift.
She was relieved when Yeva nodded and turned away, not wanting to linger any longer, and Aedre quickly followed as the other woman began to walk away. She looked over at Enigma when he spoke up again but didn’t offer any comment of her own for the time being, and then all of a sudden there were another couple of people walking up to them. Another two people from the bar, one of them the werelion who’d aided quite nicely in creating chaos amongst the patrons. But if the pirates were to turn up they’d be noticed in a moment with this many people, and the only place Enigma was likely to blend in was the city he’d been created in.
Smoke suddenly billowed up around them as she was watching the newcomers and hoping the guardian wasn’t going to pick another fight, and she only barely had time to see Yeva take off before she threw herself away from the smoke so as to inhale as little as possible. She pulled the staff close to her body as she rolled and got out of reach of the smoke, but hadn’t been able to avoid inhaling some of it and coughed violently for a few moments before getting back to her feet and looking at the group.
“Well, that’s certainly one way to get out of the situation,” she stated as she reached up to fix her hood that’d gotten slightly displaced in the tumble. With no idea of what exact direction Yeva had taken off in Aedre kept one eye on the strange group that had assembled and another on their surroundings as she considered how to proceed. | Name: Aedre Starling
Age: 41, appears 25 as a human (average lifespan is 300 years, but they can live longer)
Species: Mermaid
Gender: Female
Human form: Fairly athletic body of average human height with light skin. Brown hair that reaches just past her shoulders and green eyes. She wears thin brown trousers, wraps her chest and wears a dark grey hooded jacket over it. Brown boots, and a belt around her waist that carries a couple of daggers. All clothing that she can take off and put on fairly quickly.
Natural (mermaid) form: Aedre is slim with a wiry strength and a softly rounded face. Her whole tail is roughly 2,5 times the length of her legs in her human form, sea-green and mud-brown scales cover her whole body, and brown hair only reaches just past her shoulders. The tail ends in a single fin that flares out and then narrows, and long side-fins trail down from just above her waist down roughly half a metre. Her narrow eyes are a sea-green colour and her thin lips hide sharp teeth that have no problems cutting through fish-scales. There are claws on her fingers and webbing between them. Varying sizes of brown webbing-like membrane follow the line of her body, and there are long gills on each side of her neck.
Personality:
She cares far more for travelling and learning new things than money, and has a fairly aggressive fightingstyle though it takes a lot to make her angry. There are few things she won't do for her friends when they earn her loyalty. As a mermaid she has no actual need for clothes in her natural form and doesn’t understand some species fixation with clothes and going without them.
History:
Her parents were nomadic hunters and raised her to be the same. She’s always enjoyed travelling and discovering new places, and so when she discovered she had embodiment it was a natural first step to train it well enough that she could turn human and fit in on land. She left her family as soon as she was old enough to do so, though it took some time after that before she was good enough at embodiment to be able to fit in amongst humans.
Equipment:
Battlestaff (metal bo staff with a barbed spear head enchanted not to collect rust or otherwise degrade), water-proof bag, 2 daggers for when she doesn't have claws and/or loses her staff.
Powers:
Embodiment, but so far is only able to use it to change between mermaid and human form. They’re specific forms and she can’t yet change partially.
Telekinesis, which she mainly uses to lift small objects and get her staff back if she's disarmed. It generally takes a lot of concentration, and she's less adept at using telekinesis on land.
Activity: Currently I don’t have a fixed schedule and so could post at any time during the day. When I get a regular job I’m more likely to post at some point between 18 and 24 in the evening. My timezone is UTC +1.
Extras:
- She finds it difficult to read human bodylanguage since the mermaids she's familiar with look so little like humans.
- Because mermaids live such long lives they don't have the same view of time as most species do. Aedre hasn't seen her parents in over ten years, since she was old enough to set out on her own, and she still hasn't started missing them. |
56,342 | 1,539 | 51 | 599 | 451 | "DAMNIT!!!"
Enigma 3, omega series guardian, and he fail his mission. He never failed, never. With the shard gone, nothing remained for him to do, once again. He thought for a moment, then looked towards the mermaid. "Don't be angry with me for this." and with that he produced a shock wave with enough volts running through it to knock them out cold. He planned to be rid of the pursuers, grab the mermaid and otter man, and attempt to find the shard once they waked. But first he needed them all to be unconscious. | I completely forgot to put this here earlier. :P
Name - Enigma 3 A.K.A Ends
Age - 52(average life-span is near immortality, as long as body is kept up with, but is still mortal)
Species - Guardian (former human, augmented corpse)
Gender - Male like most guardians
Appearance - (Image provided on later date)He is fully integrated with his deep sea suit. His helmet is detachable but He normally keeps it on. His right arm is bulkier than the other and he is hunched a little. He is armored heavily. has a apparatice on back that has a tube connected to his head and left arm.
Personality - Lifeless, calm but easily aggravated, Smart yet senseless. Little care for the world.
History - He doesn't remember before his transformation. "Too fuzzy" he says, but he can remember after the transformation. He was a special type of guardian that was used to both repair a city and protect it. How ever, when the city was destroyed, he no longer had ties to it, so he roamed for years on end. Till he found his purpose. Now, he protects and serves any child of great power, but will assist anyone good.
Equipment - Rivet gun and oil sprayer as ranged weapons. His right hand can form a large crude drill for melee. He carries matches and medical supplies, in particular adrenaline and tissue repair chemicals. His body is essentially the suit at this point.
Powers - Electrical control and blasts
Activity - Once or twice Daily, not in the middle of the day mostly
Extras - Yes this is loosely based off big daddies from bioshock if your wondering |
56,343 | 1,540 | 0 | 1,839 | 62 | ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE
The town of Stratford-upon-Avon could not have asked for more beautiful weather for the annual Midsummer Festival. The sun was just drawing up on the horizon, painting the cloudless sky with brilliant pinks and oranges, when families began the yearly march to the town square for the night’s entertainment. Stratford didn’t have many terribly outstanding qualities (besides the river walk, which was second-to-none amongst the little villages on the Avon), so the town went all out for the one festival of the year. That weekend, shops stayed closed on their own little holiday as parades promenaded down the river and children participated in any of several activities, all run by the town hall. At night, fire-breathers, acrobats, magicians, and musicians set up along the banks of the Avon and in the town center, wowing those out for a stroll.
The first night of the festival, that Friday, was traditionally kicked off with a fireworks display, followed by a masquerade in the town center. It wasn’t really a masquerade, more of a dance recital for the ever-popular Stratford Steppers, who took over the square with glitter, costumes, and mask making tables for the young and young-at-heart. The real masquerades began later that night, at parties thrown by the rich and powerful of the town. The noise, booze, and (more often than not) conflict kept the police on their toes, but it provided an outlet for those who needed it, and it wasn’t that difficult to not get caught—if you were clever.
This is our scene, and here we begin. Seven o’clock. Midsummer. The air is heavy with anticipation of the festival, and perhaps things further off. Love, betrayal, murder… who’s to say, until we step out on that stage?
Lights up.
-----------------------------------------------
Enter Lavinia Andronicus.
Lavinia stepped out of her house with a backpack on her shoulders and her stump hidden in the sleeve of her jacket. It was almost too warm for a jacket, but Lavinia had gotten good at making excuses for wearing them — surely, it would get colder as the sun set, and she would regret not wearing a jacket then, wouldn’t she?
Slowly, she started making her way to the town square, where a few other people seemed to be migrating. Honestly, she wouldn’t be going to this thing if her brother and her nephew weren’t in town. Her dad had made her promise to go meet Lucas and Lukie before the fireworks display, though, and she wanted to be there for Lukie’s first real Midsummer Festival. She’d pull through this, and hell, she might even enjoy it, because she was on her way to recovery.
The square was bustling, full of people, chairs, food, and some early-arriving performers, around which people flocked. Music blared and people chattered, and the place just looked so alive. Lavinia searched, but she couldn’t find Lucas, at least not in the spots where people weren’t swarming. He was probably just running late — classic Lucas. She decided to wait for him around the fringes of the crowd, where she could be alert but still enjoy some people watching. A three-piece band was set up not too far from her, playing a song she recognized. Liv was happy; she hummed along. | She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash;
And so let's leave her to her silent walks.
-Demetrius, Act II Sc. 3 of Titus Andronicus
Origin
Titus Andronicus
Name
Lavinia Andronicus
Age
20
Gender
Female
Personality
Lavinia is a quiet presence. She’s self-conscious but not socially anxious, and has a calm inner strength that can be surprising. She’s very sympathetic, very emotionally intelligent, knows herself and her limits, and has a very acute sense of right and wrong. Her mental health, though, is occasionally shaky; she suffers from depression and PTSD, and is easily frustrated with herself. She inherited the Andronicus temper — though colder than Titus’, she can be vindictive when angry. Before her “affair” she was a romantic, and vestiges of that romanticism still remain; however, she does not trust easily, though she wants people to trust her. She’s got steel in her; she’s tough and stubborn when she wants to be. It’s just all about reclaiming her independence right now.
Biography
Lavinia is the youngest of the notoriously large Andronicus family (15 kids, all boys except her). Six came from her dad’s first marriage, six from her mom’s, and the final three (Quin, Marty, and her) from their union. Her childhood was full of roughhousing, keeping up with boys, and, of course, being papa’s favorite. Titus ran the butcher’s shop in town, assisted by his small army of children, and business was good.
When she was about five, her brothers began to leave, one by one, to start businesses and families of their own. Her oldest brother, Titus’ son Lucas, entered the military, but promised he’d be back to inherit the shop. He got married, too, soon after he left, but Lavinia barely remembers the wedding.
When she was twelve, her mom died, ripping a giant hole in the fabric of the family. Titus was torn apart, not only from the loss of his wife, but also from the estrangement of six of his sons — the boys on Mom’s side suddenly ceased communication, which for Lavinia meant they stopped coming to Christmas. With the help of Titus’ brother Marcus and the birth of Lucas’ first son, Lucas Jr., they managed to pull through without too much damage. Nine kids remained for Christmas, after all, and the best holiday meat pies were still at the Andronicus household.
When Liv was eighteen, another tragedy rocked the family. When visiting some friends in London with Quin and Marty, Lavinia suddenly disappeared. After twelve hours of frantic searching, the police finally located her in an alley, raped and mutilated, with her right hand missing and half of her tongue clenched in her left fist. Her tongue was successfully reattached, fortunately, and as soon as she could write she revealed who had done this to her — shakily with her left hand, she spelled out for the police “Chiron and Demetrius.”
Titus railed against this news, threatening to kill the thugs who had harmed his daughter. It got so bad that the police were forced to detain him, but Marcus, a lawyer, saved him from any terrible legal ramifications. The whole affair caused something to snap in Titus, though, and he hasn’t quite been the same since.
It’s been three months since Chiron and Demetrius received their sentences — life in prison without parole — and things are finally getting back to normal for Titus and Lavinia in Stratford. They re-opened shop after being closed for a year or so, with Lavinia now as the full time clerk and Lucas helping out whenever needed. Liv takes online classes, goes to therapy twice a week (speech therapy for the tongue issue and counseling for her PTSD), and occasionally helps out at the hospital, but besides that lives a pretty slow (blessedly slow, sometimes) life.
Other
If anyone else wants to be a character from Titus, I can adjust stuff! |
56,344 | 1,540 | 1 | 1,804 | 386 | Enter Macbeth
Fin Macbeth walked about the festival tents, greeting some people, nodding at others. He stopped in front of a magician for a few seconds and looked at him. The chief of police Duncan had assigned him and Henry Banquo to watch over the festival and make sure nothing went wrong.
Duncan was an excellent policeman and a worthy superior, though he was getting on a bit. His once black hair and moustache had gone to complete grey, and his stride had been tainted by an old age limp. There was actually talk of who would become the next chief of police. Fin hadn't heard the odds, and didn't want to. It wouldn't be him anyway.
He saw, across the square, that Banquo was joining in the festivities. He shouldn't let his guard down. A good policeman is always vigilant. Some rowdy villagers or other accidents had happened in previous festivals and gatherings. That's why he was glad to be there to protect the townspeople. His eyes wandered, and he turned his attention to the band playing near him, and saw Lavinia. She was alone, and seemed a bit lost. It wasn't easy with her being handicapped either. Being a good samaritan, he walked over to where she was standing.
"Hello Miss Lavinia, do you need a hand?" He blinked twice and he sighed, realising his mistake. "Damn it. Sorry, didn't mean..." | “Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit,
For I am sick when I do look on thee.”
Origin
A Midsummer Night's Dream
Name
Demetrius Chiklis
Age
24
Gender
Male
Personality
– Whether Demetrius realizes it or not, he picked up a lot of traits and skills from his father, one of which is his confidence in himself. Being born into a family of such high esteem, he’s used to keeping up the strong and positive image of the Chiklis name, but that confidence has seeped into his personal life as well. He has no issues justifying his own reasons for saying or doing what he wants, though he can be quick to tear down others for being “dumb”.
– The only thing Demetrius holds himself responsible for is… nothing. Was it his fault he’d gotten held up in the traffic and arrived five minutes late? Was it his fault that he’d accidentally left a borrowed book lying around, and that it had gotten stolen? Was it his fault that he’s just too damned attractive to belong on God’s green earth? The answer to those questions, of course, is a clear, resounding: no. In fact, the speed at which Demetrius runs away from responsibilities can only be rivaled by the speed at which he can pick up a girl.
– As is his nature, Demetrius is a violent being. His aggression, whilst it can manifest itself in words, prefers to manifest itself in punches thrown. Angering Demetrius usually means risking a black eye, but there are a few people with whom he will go out of his way to punch a wall instead of their face. He’s constantly teetering on the edge, and it doesn’t take much to set him off.
– Demetrius doesn’t believe in the saying “less is more.” He believes that “more is better” - and the prettier or more expensive something is, the more worthwhile it’s bound to be. Objects, ownership, and wealth are his three most important priorities; the bigger things in life - like his future - aren’t priorities to him. After all, with his seemingly bottomless supply of cash, what doesn’t he deserve?
- Used to getting his own way for most of his younger years, Demetrius finds it hard to let go of anything once he has a grasp on it. He doesn’t hold back when it’s sucking up to a acquaintance to get on their good side, or wheedling yet another loan from his father. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to get someone to help him, and will try a million tactics before he’ll decide to give up --that is, if the other party still has the patience to deal with him then. He’s got his eyes set on Hermia, and a billion ways to pursue her. For someone like Demetrius, backing down just isn’t an option.
– What Demetrius wants, Demetrius gets. Often though, what he wants is what somebody else has. The very thought of not being able to obtain it for himself drives him insane, and it’s well known around town that if you have something you really want to keep, not to let him hear about it. Because nine times out of ten, his jealousy will get the better of him and he will do all he can to get the object or person of his desire.
Biography
Demetrius grew up in Coventry, Warwickshire, the youngest son to a wealthy businessman and his beautiful wife. The Chiklis name, as one of the primary shipping magnates in the United Kingdom, were, and continue to be, one of the richest and most influential names on the continent. From the day he was born, Demetrius had everything he wanted handed to him on a silver platter. To outsiders, his life was enviable. But behind closed doors, things were quite different.
Demetrius’s parents were far too busy with work to deal with a child, and so, tended to leave him and his siblings in the care of a nanny. This detachment between parent and child, perhaps, was why Demetrius’s troubling behaviour went undetected. People never seemed to like staying around him for long, with the exception of Helena, a childhood friend. His carers had a curious habit of never lasting more than a month at a time - the frequency and intensity of his sometimes self-destructive tantrums driving them away from the Chiklis estate. Simply shrugging it off as the unreliability of the working class, Demetrius’s parents turned a blind eye to these so-called “episodes”. As far as they were concerned, there was nothing wrong with him -- well, apart from being spoilt rotten, that is.
Demetrius was the kind of kid who cut people's hair while they weren't looking, or caught bugs just to burn them under a magnifying glass. He even set fire to one of his classmates’s lockers -- by accident, of course, and no one was injured. Just by flashing those doe eyes of his, Demetrius got out of a lot of trouble as a child. But the final straw came during the first week of third form when Demetrius stabbed an upperclassman three times in the neck with a drawing compass for calling him names. Sitting in the headmaster’s office with his still-bloody hands folded in his lap, he had done his best to look contrite while his mother did all the talking.
Like all children that didn’t quite fit in, Demetrius had a lonely childhood. He blazed through the school curriculum all too quickly, driven to boredom and frustration by the lack of challenge that school presented. But it was only a matter of time until he graduated, and the then nineteen year-old Demetrius enrolled in Oxford that very same year. There, he threw himself into his coursework, desperate for something that would actually engage him. Of course, it didn’t help that whenever he returned home in the summer, Helena would be there, clinging onto him with all her might like a lovesick puppy. All that excess energy pumping through his veins needed somewhere to go, and Demetrius soon discovered where that ‘somewhere’ was.
Tired of Helena’s constant mithering, Demetrius was pleased to find out about an arrangement that his father had made while he’d been away. An engagement between him and Hermia, a girl from an equally affluent family, to keep both their wealth and reputation intact. Finally, he’d be rid of infuriating, pesky Helena. Or at least that’s what he thinks is going to happen. Little does Demetrius know, however, his fiancée has a fella on the side, though it’s not going to take him much longer to find out.
Other
Sixteen Saltines - Jack White |
56,345 | 1,540 | 2 | 1,838 | 1,623 | One of the benefits of Iago Armin's new home was unexpected and unplanned, but still attractive. Namely, unlike his native Australia, here in Britain he was perfectly free to drink in public. Indeed, as the festival was beginning, plenty of others were indulging themselves as well. Most of the others he saw with alcohol were sipping tins of domestic lager. Iago, however, had gone a different route, instead opting to carry a delicate goblet carved from Swiss crystal, filled with a generous portion of his family label. The man took a moment to appreciate the fragrance of the shiraz, then took a slow and measured sip. He was no lush, nothing as vulgar as that. He simply appreciated the fact that what he was doing was illegal in many parts of the world.
The festival looked to be exactly the sort of hayseed crap he expected from a town like this, the kind of thing where people wandered around drinking tins of domestic lager. Not exactly high society. But perhaps it offered an opportunity.
One gentleman in particular caught Iago's eye. By his dress, the bulky man had that rare combination of money and taste. By his posture, the wealthy man also had a terrible temper, an innate capacity for violence.
Iago took a sip of wine to hide his grin. He had just struck gold.
He decided to go introduce himself. Flicking imaginary dust from his cream-colored lapel, Iago strolled up to the smoking man. "Lovely evening," he said, his Australian accent noticeable even over the sounds of the growing crowd. | Thus do I ever make my fool my purse.
Appearance
Origin
Othello
Name
Iago Armin
Age
29
Gender
Male
Personality
Handsome, wealthy, and virtually soulless, Iago is bored with life. His riches have left no hedonistic pursuits closed, and as such he has become jaded. His sole amusement left is schadenfreude. He enjoys manipulating others into doing things they would not do normally, and finds great pleasure in bad things happening to good people. However, he is also a coward- he finds violence unseemly and takes great pains to avoid having his actions discovered.
Outwardly, however, he is friendly and personable, always after a good jape or a party, just a man looking for a good time.
Biography
Born in Sydney, Australia, Iago Armin has known nothing but wealth and privilege. His family made their fortune in wine, owning fully two-thirds of the vineyards in the rich Australian countryside. Having since diversified into mining, logging, and commercial farming, their financial future is assured.
As such, Iago has always enjoyed the benefits of nearly unlimited wealth. Nothing has ever been denied him, no one has dared to tell him no. He has spent his life in pursuit of pleasures, leaving a string of heartbroken men and women all over the world. Lately, however, the commonplace pursuits of drinking, gambling, partying, and the like have begun to bore him. He has found a new plaything: human lives.
In Macau, he talked a maid at his hotel into jumping to her death off the balcony. In San Francisco, he convinced a man to murder his only son. In Copenhagen, he talked a powerful businesswoman into dissolving her company and becoming a nun. Messing with the lives of others has become his pastime, his way of convincing himself of his superiority.
A scheme played in Birmingham has led him to discover Stratford, and something about the place has appealed to him. Perhaps it is the Byzantine nature of the inhabitants, the two feuding families at the center, the other schemers and plotters. There is enough fun to be had here for some time. And so Iago has decided to make this his new home.
Let the games begin. |
56,346 | 1,540 | 3 | 1,839 | 62 | Lavinia didn’t see Constable Macbeth approaching; she was focused on the music. She’d remembered where she’d heard it before. Before the accident, she used to dance. Ballet and jazz, mostly, but she had some friends in the Stratford Steppers and probably would have joined eventually. She danced to this song, way back in high school, and had gotten in a huge argument with her instructor about the choreography. She was surprised she could actually still remember what she wanted to change. She’d almost forgotten about it entirely.
She only jumped a little when he spoke. She wasn’t jumpy as a rule, but the adrenaline still poured into her veins and made her blurt “It’s okay!” before she even really registered what he’d said. It wasn’t a big deal, what he’d said—her dad always needed a hand, and said so—but something about the entire situation made her gut twist and her mood took a hit.
It really was okay, though. The constable hadn’t meant any harm. Macbeth was a good man—he’d been kind upon her and her dad’s return to Stratford, and Lavinia had even met Mrs. Macbeth once. Her dad probably considered him a friend; though she wasn’t sure to what extent the feeling was reciprocated. “Hi, Constable Macbeth. I’m fine, just waiting for my brother to show up. He’s bringing Lukie for the fireworks…” A little bit too much information. She took a breath. “How are you? Enjoying the festival?”
She was worried she might have made him worry. She really was fine. She just needed to stay sharp was all. She should thank him for that, at least—though Stratford was no London, she could still get overwhelmed and distracted, and then where would she be? | She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash;
And so let's leave her to her silent walks.
-Demetrius, Act II Sc. 3 of Titus Andronicus
Origin
Titus Andronicus
Name
Lavinia Andronicus
Age
20
Gender
Female
Personality
Lavinia is a quiet presence. She’s self-conscious but not socially anxious, and has a calm inner strength that can be surprising. She’s very sympathetic, very emotionally intelligent, knows herself and her limits, and has a very acute sense of right and wrong. Her mental health, though, is occasionally shaky; she suffers from depression and PTSD, and is easily frustrated with herself. She inherited the Andronicus temper — though colder than Titus’, she can be vindictive when angry. Before her “affair” she was a romantic, and vestiges of that romanticism still remain; however, she does not trust easily, though she wants people to trust her. She’s got steel in her; she’s tough and stubborn when she wants to be. It’s just all about reclaiming her independence right now.
Biography
Lavinia is the youngest of the notoriously large Andronicus family (15 kids, all boys except her). Six came from her dad’s first marriage, six from her mom’s, and the final three (Quin, Marty, and her) from their union. Her childhood was full of roughhousing, keeping up with boys, and, of course, being papa’s favorite. Titus ran the butcher’s shop in town, assisted by his small army of children, and business was good.
When she was about five, her brothers began to leave, one by one, to start businesses and families of their own. Her oldest brother, Titus’ son Lucas, entered the military, but promised he’d be back to inherit the shop. He got married, too, soon after he left, but Lavinia barely remembers the wedding.
When she was twelve, her mom died, ripping a giant hole in the fabric of the family. Titus was torn apart, not only from the loss of his wife, but also from the estrangement of six of his sons — the boys on Mom’s side suddenly ceased communication, which for Lavinia meant they stopped coming to Christmas. With the help of Titus’ brother Marcus and the birth of Lucas’ first son, Lucas Jr., they managed to pull through without too much damage. Nine kids remained for Christmas, after all, and the best holiday meat pies were still at the Andronicus household.
When Liv was eighteen, another tragedy rocked the family. When visiting some friends in London with Quin and Marty, Lavinia suddenly disappeared. After twelve hours of frantic searching, the police finally located her in an alley, raped and mutilated, with her right hand missing and half of her tongue clenched in her left fist. Her tongue was successfully reattached, fortunately, and as soon as she could write she revealed who had done this to her — shakily with her left hand, she spelled out for the police “Chiron and Demetrius.”
Titus railed against this news, threatening to kill the thugs who had harmed his daughter. It got so bad that the police were forced to detain him, but Marcus, a lawyer, saved him from any terrible legal ramifications. The whole affair caused something to snap in Titus, though, and he hasn’t quite been the same since.
It’s been three months since Chiron and Demetrius received their sentences — life in prison without parole — and things are finally getting back to normal for Titus and Lavinia in Stratford. They re-opened shop after being closed for a year or so, with Lavinia now as the full time clerk and Lucas helping out whenever needed. Liv takes online classes, goes to therapy twice a week (speech therapy for the tongue issue and counseling for her PTSD), and occasionally helps out at the hospital, but besides that lives a pretty slow (blessedly slow, sometimes) life.
Other
If anyone else wants to be a character from Titus, I can adjust stuff! |
56,347 | 1,540 | 4 | 154 | 37 | The chateau Gertrude called home nestled at the end of a winding road on the outskirts of Stratford-upon-Avon was delightfully silent in the summer air. She had given her only maid, a jittery freckle faced girl in her late teens, the night off to enjoy the festival with friends. After a glass of Chardonnay Gertrude had sat down at the grand piano that encompassed the entrance hall and played a few tunes, manicured fingers deftly plucking at polished keys, but her mind was elsewhere. Windows were often left open during the summer, and as thus not only did the smell of blooming gardens enter her home but of fried confectionery and burnt rubber courtesy of fireworks as well.
In the few years Gertrude called Stratford-upon-Avon home, she had not once ventured to attend the festival held every summer at the square, but something called to her this time. It might have been the loneliness pricking underneath her skin or perhaps the stuffiness of having been cooped up too long, but for whatever it was, Gertrude left a fine wine glass, half filled with a mauve lip stick stain tainting the glass on the lid of her piano to dart upstairs and get dressed in more appropriate attire.
Some twenty minutes an airy, pale canary sundress adorned her willowy limbs and a pair of simple, eggshell Jimmy Choo kitten heels adorned manicured feet. Hair, always coiffed to perfection, was touched up in a gilded mirror and necessities (as well as a small flask, for she would never drink the swill that they served in town) neatly put in a pearl enclosed clutch dangling from fingertips as she began the walk to the square. Driving would've been a much more sensible choice, but she didn't live that far from town, and how she hated to get behind the wheel. The flaxen haired woman breathed deeply, enjoying the assault of summer's aroma on her senses.
It wasn't long until kitten heels stepped gracefully onto cobblestone and crowds of gay merrygoers covered the streets around her. Other than nodding respectfully, no one approached her - that was to be expected, though. Gertrude hadn't made much of a name for herself as a gossiper or small talker. It was all the same to her that she be left alone to enjoy the festival, though there was something ironic in her leaving the solitude of her home only to feel it more sharply surrounded by people.
An almost sickly sweetness assaulted Gertrude's senses, then, and she sniffed surreptitiously, her nose guiding her to a stand selling toffee apples. She smiled warmly at the elderly man commandeering it.
"May I purchase one of your apples, Alfred?" Gertrude questioned, lilting British voice that had so often gotten her admirers when a young girl now tinted with undertones of thick vowel usage, having spent so long speaking Danish in Copenhagen. It still felt odd to her to go back to her mother tongue sometimes.
"Of course, Madame von der Maase." The old man replied cheerily, wrapping one up for the elegant woman that stood before him. Gertrude, waiting patiently for the man's arthritic hands, glanced to her peripheral vision to her left, noticing something odd. Two young men, finely dressed and lavishly accesorized, appeared to be speaking quite near the toffee apple stand she currently stood at, one with a cigarette dangling between fingers. Gertrude smiled faintly. The way he held himself - so self-assured, but with an aggravated stance. He reminded her of her Hamlet.
She thanked the old man for the apple and held the stick between two manicured fingers, taking a seat on a bench near the two men and appeared to be enjoying the festivities around her, though her sharp ears were instead listening to the conversation a stone's throw away from her. | "O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.. "
Origin
Queen Gertrude from Hamlet
Name
Gertrude von der Maase, Duchess of Glucksbierg
Age
43
Gender
Female
Personality
lascivious
Consumed with love for absent family and only temporarily charmed by mindless extravagances, Gertrude extends her affection and charisma in the only other way she knows how - sexually. Inclined to low cut silk blouses and wanton, sultry eyeshadows to attract the attention of which she had so much of in her youth that she now lacks in truant husband and cruel son, she exhibits a sensual need for physical pleasure, yet a reluctance to follow through with any flirtations due to devotion to her family.
motherly
Some people are born to be leaders, speakers or warriors; Gertrude was born to raise one. Stifled by a lonely childhood and unintentionally inattentive parents, she threw herself into mothering a son that would grow up to be vicious and bitter. Without a child to smother, Gertrude is forced to find other outlets to unleash her maternal instincts such as giving piano lessons to the children of Stratford. It is only an added bonus to these lessons that her manor and her afternoons are again filled with the bewitching sounds of a child's laugh.
materialistic
Those born of immeasurable wealth know not the pangs of hunger but of emptiness instead - a void inside of her that Gertrude fills with fancy trinkets and exquisitely designed jewelry. Not once is the lady of the manor seen without impeccably manicured nails, perfectly coiffed hair and silk and satin ironed to perfection, clinging to her willowy body. The need for such opulence is perhaps influenced by her otherwise barren life, devoid of familial love or true, deep emotional connections.
liar
White lies escape matte lips, bittersweet in their intentions, for Gertrude does not lie just to be lying. She lies for what she believes to be the good of those around her. And though she may be shallow and indifferent to most physical ailments, those of the heart she attempts to be mindful of, careful in the words she chooses so that they may not cause another sorrow whether they be true or not.
self-sacrificing
Gertrude may be blind to certain things - some intentionally, some not - but one thing she will never close her eyes to is the security of her family, especially her son. Though perhaps she wouldn't have been opposed to the idea had more time passed, it was against every fibre of her being to marry so soon after her dear husband's death, and to his brother at that - but at the cost of her son's inheritance, she had no choice, and she would sacrifice her very love for the child she bore.
Biography
An only child of an unimportant but fairly wealthy politician and his homely, beak-nosed wife, Gertrude was unexpectedly stunning in appearance. The combination of her father's pert nose and naturally flaxen hair with her mother's angular bone structure and willowy frame was to the little girl's advantage. Though her family's influence and power was mostly weightless in the grand scheme of British nobility, her golden curls and beautific steely grey eyes led to countless suitors of varying importance.
The most charming of these men was a Sir Hamlet von der Maase, a relatively important Duke of Glucksbierg ironically enough not even of British origin. Gertrude met him while studying in London as a preparatory school girl - he, a suave man with a charming Danish accent studying in England abroad at the behest of his father. She was smitten with the foreigner and not only for his handsome features and charismatic personality. He showered her with fine gifts and luxurious holiday trips. Gertrude was utterly spoiled.
When the British beauty graduated and began university, everyone knew it was only a matter of time before her older beau proposed - and propose he did, with only one request of her.
"Come back with me to Copenhagen, darling. I'll make you a Duchess, just as you deserve." And how could she refuse such a simple request when he offered her the world in return? So she went with him.
But even Gertrude, so accustomed to luxury and splendor, did not expect the opulence that awaited her in Denmark - nor did she expect the seething jealousy of her soon-to-be husband's brother, Claudius. His elder brother had laid claim to the family's fortune, but did he too have to bring home such a lovely, rosy cheeked bride as his own? But the younger brother hid his stormy thoughts underneath an appealing smile and Gertrude, ever so accustomed to men attempting to attract her attention and wanting desperately to impress her new family, thought nothing of Claudius.
"He's always felt in my shadow." Hamlet would later inform her softly, as if it were a secret. "He has everything he needs but wants for what he hasn't earned. He will grow into a man soon enough."
The wedding was set, and soon Claudius left Gertrude's thoughts. She was to become a wife and have a family, something her lonely childhood lacked. She thrived on the thought.
When her sweet baby boy was put in her arms, though, that was when Gertrude knew her life was complete. His father's eyes stared up at her, blinking drowsily, and though strands of hair stuck to her forehead and her dressing gown was falling off of her shoulders, she was complete. Her baby Hamlet was home, and oh how he would be spoiled - he would know the love of a parent that she herself had never known. Through all her faults, there was one thing Gertrude truly knew she was meant to excel at - motherhood.
The sounds of Gertrude's tinkling laugh and sweet baby Hamlet's innocent giggles filled the manor for years. She doted on her son unabashedly, and to her surprise, so did his Uncle Claudius. The man often made rounds to his sister-in-law when his brother was out, sneaking his young nephew candies as he more often than not snuck Gertrude little trinkets as well. The woman was delighted - she knew no better than a man attempting to find his way back into a family after spending so much time away, but young Hamlet was more perceptive. He threw tantrums whenever Claudius came round, refused the sweets offered to him despite his love of candies - somewhere in his little heart he knew something was wrong. Uncle Claudius was trying to take his mommy away.
As Hamlet got older, Gertrude's doting did not cease but his warm reception to it did - he became cold, refusing his mother's affection. This hurt Gertrude greatly, the woman that had done nothing but live for her son and family. She hadn't the faintest idea of why he acted so distant, but the answer lay in the pearl broach she wore on her blazer, gifted by Claudius with a glint in his eye.
One final blow left Gertrude staggering. When Hamlet was away at boarding school, his father and Gertrude's dear husband was shot and left for dead. It was thought to be a mugging at first, but they soon realised his wallet was still on him. It appeared he had just been shot to die. Gertrude was devastated, but one person was her pillar throughout it all - Claudius. He sorted through the funeral arrangements with her, held her when she cried and brought her tea and sat by her when she had no tears left.
Of course, when the family threatened to take the fortune from her - the fortune she thought was rightfully hers, the lifestyle of which she had become so accustomed to - and give it to the new heir of the estate, Claudius, Gertrude knew, even through her grief, what she must do. For the good of herself, for the good of her son and the hope that he would earn his birthright when he came of age, she married Claudius. It was only shortly after that that Claudius proclaimed to her that they must move.
"Copenhagen has not been very kind to me." The man explained. "Nor has it you. I believe that, after being so many years gone, home in England will do you much good. A small market town, Stratford. I've purchased an extravagent manor, designed to your tastes." The move was hasty and unexpected - if Gertrude had not had blinders on, she might have realised it to be something to do with the police closing in on Claudius related to the death of his brother, but the woman was blissfully ignorant of what she did not want to see, so again she uprooted her life in the name of her family.
Her son was furious, of course. The cold exterior he had once extended to her was now icy, biting in its chill. He held back none in accusing his mother of incestruous relations, a whorish personality - but Gertrude took the pain and loved her son even more because of it. She begged him to come with them to Stratford but he refused - he was going to continue his studies at university in Wittenberg.
Now, it's been three years since she's moved to Stratford and became the lonely lady in the large manor, alone so often that some believe she to be widowed, visited by her son not once and, although doted upon Claudius whenever he is home, left alone more often than not when he is off to attend to unsavory things she has an inkling upon, but no wish for it to be true. Gertrude asks for not much but the love of her son again - a love that has not been extended to her in years.
Other
If anyone wants to grab another character from Hamlet just tell me and I'll adjust Gertrude's biography accordingly. |
56,348 | 1,540 | 5 | 1,804 | 386 | “Lovely evening.”
A quiet sigh of annoyance rushed past Demetrius’s lips at the interruption. All he wanted to do was finish his cigarette in peace, but in a place like this, it was apparently too much to ask for. That was one of things he hated most about the bourgeois -- their dogged need to make small talk with whoever happened to be present. With each passing second, whatever motivation he had for attending this little festival quickly evaporated, and the idea of hopping into his Rolls Royce and getting the hell out of dodge grew increasingly appealing. The Chiklis summer home was only a five minute drive away, after all, he could make it back before anyone noticed his absence. But when Demetrius turned to look at the source of the voice, who he saw was far from the sweaty, dirt-caked farmer he’d been expecting.
In fact, the man who stood before him was dressed to the nines, a very expensive looking crystal chalice cradled in his fingers. Demetrius’s eyes narrowed, just a little, though the subtle change in demeanour would never escape an expert’s scrutiny. Stratford saw its fair share of filthy rich merrymakers, especially during the summer months, so it wasn’t surprising that he happened to bump shoulders with someone who appeared equally affluent. Except… he’d never seen the stranger around, and that was what made his current situation all the more perplexing. As heir to the Chiklis dynasty, Demetrius was expected to know every last detail about their competition and allies, but for now, he was drawing a blank.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Demetrius murmured, taking a long drag of his cigarette. For a moment, his gaze lingered on the stranger, searching, before it finally flickered away, back towards the festivities. “Though I can’t say the same about the company. And you are...?” | “Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit,
For I am sick when I do look on thee.”
Origin
A Midsummer Night's Dream
Name
Demetrius Chiklis
Age
24
Gender
Male
Personality
– Whether Demetrius realizes it or not, he picked up a lot of traits and skills from his father, one of which is his confidence in himself. Being born into a family of such high esteem, he’s used to keeping up the strong and positive image of the Chiklis name, but that confidence has seeped into his personal life as well. He has no issues justifying his own reasons for saying or doing what he wants, though he can be quick to tear down others for being “dumb”.
– The only thing Demetrius holds himself responsible for is… nothing. Was it his fault he’d gotten held up in the traffic and arrived five minutes late? Was it his fault that he’d accidentally left a borrowed book lying around, and that it had gotten stolen? Was it his fault that he’s just too damned attractive to belong on God’s green earth? The answer to those questions, of course, is a clear, resounding: no. In fact, the speed at which Demetrius runs away from responsibilities can only be rivaled by the speed at which he can pick up a girl.
– As is his nature, Demetrius is a violent being. His aggression, whilst it can manifest itself in words, prefers to manifest itself in punches thrown. Angering Demetrius usually means risking a black eye, but there are a few people with whom he will go out of his way to punch a wall instead of their face. He’s constantly teetering on the edge, and it doesn’t take much to set him off.
– Demetrius doesn’t believe in the saying “less is more.” He believes that “more is better” - and the prettier or more expensive something is, the more worthwhile it’s bound to be. Objects, ownership, and wealth are his three most important priorities; the bigger things in life - like his future - aren’t priorities to him. After all, with his seemingly bottomless supply of cash, what doesn’t he deserve?
- Used to getting his own way for most of his younger years, Demetrius finds it hard to let go of anything once he has a grasp on it. He doesn’t hold back when it’s sucking up to a acquaintance to get on their good side, or wheedling yet another loan from his father. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to get someone to help him, and will try a million tactics before he’ll decide to give up --that is, if the other party still has the patience to deal with him then. He’s got his eyes set on Hermia, and a billion ways to pursue her. For someone like Demetrius, backing down just isn’t an option.
– What Demetrius wants, Demetrius gets. Often though, what he wants is what somebody else has. The very thought of not being able to obtain it for himself drives him insane, and it’s well known around town that if you have something you really want to keep, not to let him hear about it. Because nine times out of ten, his jealousy will get the better of him and he will do all he can to get the object or person of his desire.
Biography
Demetrius grew up in Coventry, Warwickshire, the youngest son to a wealthy businessman and his beautiful wife. The Chiklis name, as one of the primary shipping magnates in the United Kingdom, were, and continue to be, one of the richest and most influential names on the continent. From the day he was born, Demetrius had everything he wanted handed to him on a silver platter. To outsiders, his life was enviable. But behind closed doors, things were quite different.
Demetrius’s parents were far too busy with work to deal with a child, and so, tended to leave him and his siblings in the care of a nanny. This detachment between parent and child, perhaps, was why Demetrius’s troubling behaviour went undetected. People never seemed to like staying around him for long, with the exception of Helena, a childhood friend. His carers had a curious habit of never lasting more than a month at a time - the frequency and intensity of his sometimes self-destructive tantrums driving them away from the Chiklis estate. Simply shrugging it off as the unreliability of the working class, Demetrius’s parents turned a blind eye to these so-called “episodes”. As far as they were concerned, there was nothing wrong with him -- well, apart from being spoilt rotten, that is.
Demetrius was the kind of kid who cut people's hair while they weren't looking, or caught bugs just to burn them under a magnifying glass. He even set fire to one of his classmates’s lockers -- by accident, of course, and no one was injured. Just by flashing those doe eyes of his, Demetrius got out of a lot of trouble as a child. But the final straw came during the first week of third form when Demetrius stabbed an upperclassman three times in the neck with a drawing compass for calling him names. Sitting in the headmaster’s office with his still-bloody hands folded in his lap, he had done his best to look contrite while his mother did all the talking.
Like all children that didn’t quite fit in, Demetrius had a lonely childhood. He blazed through the school curriculum all too quickly, driven to boredom and frustration by the lack of challenge that school presented. But it was only a matter of time until he graduated, and the then nineteen year-old Demetrius enrolled in Oxford that very same year. There, he threw himself into his coursework, desperate for something that would actually engage him. Of course, it didn’t help that whenever he returned home in the summer, Helena would be there, clinging onto him with all her might like a lovesick puppy. All that excess energy pumping through his veins needed somewhere to go, and Demetrius soon discovered where that ‘somewhere’ was.
Tired of Helena’s constant mithering, Demetrius was pleased to find out about an arrangement that his father had made while he’d been away. An engagement between him and Hermia, a girl from an equally affluent family, to keep both their wealth and reputation intact. Finally, he’d be rid of infuriating, pesky Helena. Or at least that’s what he thinks is going to happen. Little does Demetrius know, however, his fiancée has a fella on the side, though it’s not going to take him much longer to find out.
Other
Sixteen Saltines - Jack White |
56,349 | 1,540 | 6 | 1,838 | 1,623 | Fin nodded, "Good, I'm sure he'll enjoy it. Is it his first time at one of the festivals?" he asked, before adding. "If you need anything, do tell."
He surveilled the area behind her and noticed Demetrius and a strange fellow talking. "I'm sorry, looks like trouble," he said, lightly tilting his head towards the stranger. "I'll be off."
The man was in a black dinner jacket and holding an expensive looking chalice. Demetrius, cigarette in hand, was talking to the stranger. His passive face reassured Fin slightly, but he still walked towards them, as if to approach something else behind them, then pretended to notice the two. The chalice shone in the light. Macbeth oggled the thing for a second, taking in it's beauty. If I were that rich, I'd have a bigger house, a porsche, a- He closed his eyes and focused.
"Hello, gentlemen. How are you finding the festival so far?" | Thus do I ever make my fool my purse.
Appearance
Origin
Othello
Name
Iago Armin
Age
29
Gender
Male
Personality
Handsome, wealthy, and virtually soulless, Iago is bored with life. His riches have left no hedonistic pursuits closed, and as such he has become jaded. His sole amusement left is schadenfreude. He enjoys manipulating others into doing things they would not do normally, and finds great pleasure in bad things happening to good people. However, he is also a coward- he finds violence unseemly and takes great pains to avoid having his actions discovered.
Outwardly, however, he is friendly and personable, always after a good jape or a party, just a man looking for a good time.
Biography
Born in Sydney, Australia, Iago Armin has known nothing but wealth and privilege. His family made their fortune in wine, owning fully two-thirds of the vineyards in the rich Australian countryside. Having since diversified into mining, logging, and commercial farming, their financial future is assured.
As such, Iago has always enjoyed the benefits of nearly unlimited wealth. Nothing has ever been denied him, no one has dared to tell him no. He has spent his life in pursuit of pleasures, leaving a string of heartbroken men and women all over the world. Lately, however, the commonplace pursuits of drinking, gambling, partying, and the like have begun to bore him. He has found a new plaything: human lives.
In Macau, he talked a maid at his hotel into jumping to her death off the balcony. In San Francisco, he convinced a man to murder his only son. In Copenhagen, he talked a powerful businesswoman into dissolving her company and becoming a nun. Messing with the lives of others has become his pastime, his way of convincing himself of his superiority.
A scheme played in Birmingham has led him to discover Stratford, and something about the place has appealed to him. Perhaps it is the Byzantine nature of the inhabitants, the two feuding families at the center, the other schemers and plotters. There is enough fun to be had here for some time. And so Iago has decided to make this his new home.
Let the games begin. |
56,350 | 1,540 | 7 | 1,839 | 62 | Trouble? Lavinia thought, the word clenching in her stomach as she watched Constable Macbeth head off toward the two men talking. They were both well dressed, haughty looking types—not a terribly uncommon sight in Stratford. One smoked a cigarette with a disdainful look on his face, the other smiled easily and held a chalice of wine. Both were older than her but younger than Lucas; she pegged the smoking one to be around Quin’s age, but the smiling one was older.
She didn’t know why she followed Macbeth. She didn’t want to be anywhere near those two men, yet, when the constable was about halfway across the square, she started off behind him, taking a seat on a bench not too far from the drama. A woman in yellow was sitting there too, daintily gripping a caramel apple on a stick. She was alone, and Lavinia only wondered why briefly when she heard the smiling man’s response to Macbeth’s inquiry. His accent was foreign, and though he’d responded sincerely enough she heard a tint of irony in his voice. A delightful evening?
Perhaps he was one of those Montague boys, always trying to infiltrate the Capulet masquerade. Though the feud had gotten bad before, it had never involved neutral citizens, so she and her brother and nephew were safe. He could go have his delightful evening and she and Lukie would make masks. Right?
She was reading far too much into this. She sighed, noticing her hand was wrapped around the bench armrest in a death grip. She should have never followed the constable, she thought, as she relaxed her arm and leaned back. Now she’d spend the whole evening looking over her shoulder and lord only knew she didn’t need that. None of her family did. | She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash;
And so let's leave her to her silent walks.
-Demetrius, Act II Sc. 3 of Titus Andronicus
Origin
Titus Andronicus
Name
Lavinia Andronicus
Age
20
Gender
Female
Personality
Lavinia is a quiet presence. She’s self-conscious but not socially anxious, and has a calm inner strength that can be surprising. She’s very sympathetic, very emotionally intelligent, knows herself and her limits, and has a very acute sense of right and wrong. Her mental health, though, is occasionally shaky; she suffers from depression and PTSD, and is easily frustrated with herself. She inherited the Andronicus temper — though colder than Titus’, she can be vindictive when angry. Before her “affair” she was a romantic, and vestiges of that romanticism still remain; however, she does not trust easily, though she wants people to trust her. She’s got steel in her; she’s tough and stubborn when she wants to be. It’s just all about reclaiming her independence right now.
Biography
Lavinia is the youngest of the notoriously large Andronicus family (15 kids, all boys except her). Six came from her dad’s first marriage, six from her mom’s, and the final three (Quin, Marty, and her) from their union. Her childhood was full of roughhousing, keeping up with boys, and, of course, being papa’s favorite. Titus ran the butcher’s shop in town, assisted by his small army of children, and business was good.
When she was about five, her brothers began to leave, one by one, to start businesses and families of their own. Her oldest brother, Titus’ son Lucas, entered the military, but promised he’d be back to inherit the shop. He got married, too, soon after he left, but Lavinia barely remembers the wedding.
When she was twelve, her mom died, ripping a giant hole in the fabric of the family. Titus was torn apart, not only from the loss of his wife, but also from the estrangement of six of his sons — the boys on Mom’s side suddenly ceased communication, which for Lavinia meant they stopped coming to Christmas. With the help of Titus’ brother Marcus and the birth of Lucas’ first son, Lucas Jr., they managed to pull through without too much damage. Nine kids remained for Christmas, after all, and the best holiday meat pies were still at the Andronicus household.
When Liv was eighteen, another tragedy rocked the family. When visiting some friends in London with Quin and Marty, Lavinia suddenly disappeared. After twelve hours of frantic searching, the police finally located her in an alley, raped and mutilated, with her right hand missing and half of her tongue clenched in her left fist. Her tongue was successfully reattached, fortunately, and as soon as she could write she revealed who had done this to her — shakily with her left hand, she spelled out for the police “Chiron and Demetrius.”
Titus railed against this news, threatening to kill the thugs who had harmed his daughter. It got so bad that the police were forced to detain him, but Marcus, a lawyer, saved him from any terrible legal ramifications. The whole affair caused something to snap in Titus, though, and he hasn’t quite been the same since.
It’s been three months since Chiron and Demetrius received their sentences — life in prison without parole — and things are finally getting back to normal for Titus and Lavinia in Stratford. They re-opened shop after being closed for a year or so, with Lavinia now as the full time clerk and Lucas helping out whenever needed. Liv takes online classes, goes to therapy twice a week (speech therapy for the tongue issue and counseling for her PTSD), and occasionally helps out at the hospital, but besides that lives a pretty slow (blessedly slow, sometimes) life.
Other
If anyone else wants to be a character from Titus, I can adjust stuff! |
56,351 | 1,540 | 8 | 1,804 | 386 | Quite reluctantly, Demetrius took Iago’s hand, giving it two firm shakes before letting go. From what he’d seen so far, this new acquaintance of his seemed… interesting, to say the least. That sparkling crystal chalice? Bringing your own wine to a festival? Things like that took a special kind of old-money affectation, though he couldn’t say he blamed the fellow. All they seemed to serve in Stratford were ciders and ales -- the absolute, worst swill, as far as he was concerned.
“Demetrius Chiklis. It’s nice to meet you,” he returned in as sincere a tone he could muster, his lips arranging themselves into a smile that lifted lifelessly, as if by hooks. A bland, conventional reply, because he couldn’t be bothered to come up with anything better. Was he supposed to care about At Iago’s little comment, Demetrius’s bespectacled, blue eyes were drawn over the seething crowd before them. There were far too many people here, for his tastes, and it seemed as if his companion felt the same. Still, a shared distaste for crowds wasn’t nearly enough for him to warm to Iago. Unlike some people, he doesn’t fall over himself trying to befriend everyone he meets.
Before he could follow that train of thought any further, however, Demetrius spotted a familiar face in the crowd. And, much to his chagrin, he seemed to be headed their way. Constable Macbeth was one of the last people he wanted to see, right now. Granted, he hasn’t exactly been having the best time at the festival, anyway, but things could always get worse. Especially when it came to the constable, who had a talent for fucking things up. Both literally, and figuratively.
In the scarce amount of time it took for Macbeth to make his way over, Demetrius was unable to plot out an escape route. Worst of all, it now appeared as if were to be engaged in a most dreadful activity -- small talk. But until he could properly excuse himself from this little gathering, Demetrius had no other choice other than play along.
“It’s… great,” Demetrius replied, perhaps a little less genuinely than he’d intended. “But the real show’s yet to begin.” | “Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit,
For I am sick when I do look on thee.”
Origin
A Midsummer Night's Dream
Name
Demetrius Chiklis
Age
24
Gender
Male
Personality
– Whether Demetrius realizes it or not, he picked up a lot of traits and skills from his father, one of which is his confidence in himself. Being born into a family of such high esteem, he’s used to keeping up the strong and positive image of the Chiklis name, but that confidence has seeped into his personal life as well. He has no issues justifying his own reasons for saying or doing what he wants, though he can be quick to tear down others for being “dumb”.
– The only thing Demetrius holds himself responsible for is… nothing. Was it his fault he’d gotten held up in the traffic and arrived five minutes late? Was it his fault that he’d accidentally left a borrowed book lying around, and that it had gotten stolen? Was it his fault that he’s just too damned attractive to belong on God’s green earth? The answer to those questions, of course, is a clear, resounding: no. In fact, the speed at which Demetrius runs away from responsibilities can only be rivaled by the speed at which he can pick up a girl.
– As is his nature, Demetrius is a violent being. His aggression, whilst it can manifest itself in words, prefers to manifest itself in punches thrown. Angering Demetrius usually means risking a black eye, but there are a few people with whom he will go out of his way to punch a wall instead of their face. He’s constantly teetering on the edge, and it doesn’t take much to set him off.
– Demetrius doesn’t believe in the saying “less is more.” He believes that “more is better” - and the prettier or more expensive something is, the more worthwhile it’s bound to be. Objects, ownership, and wealth are his three most important priorities; the bigger things in life - like his future - aren’t priorities to him. After all, with his seemingly bottomless supply of cash, what doesn’t he deserve?
- Used to getting his own way for most of his younger years, Demetrius finds it hard to let go of anything once he has a grasp on it. He doesn’t hold back when it’s sucking up to a acquaintance to get on their good side, or wheedling yet another loan from his father. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to get someone to help him, and will try a million tactics before he’ll decide to give up --that is, if the other party still has the patience to deal with him then. He’s got his eyes set on Hermia, and a billion ways to pursue her. For someone like Demetrius, backing down just isn’t an option.
– What Demetrius wants, Demetrius gets. Often though, what he wants is what somebody else has. The very thought of not being able to obtain it for himself drives him insane, and it’s well known around town that if you have something you really want to keep, not to let him hear about it. Because nine times out of ten, his jealousy will get the better of him and he will do all he can to get the object or person of his desire.
Biography
Demetrius grew up in Coventry, Warwickshire, the youngest son to a wealthy businessman and his beautiful wife. The Chiklis name, as one of the primary shipping magnates in the United Kingdom, were, and continue to be, one of the richest and most influential names on the continent. From the day he was born, Demetrius had everything he wanted handed to him on a silver platter. To outsiders, his life was enviable. But behind closed doors, things were quite different.
Demetrius’s parents were far too busy with work to deal with a child, and so, tended to leave him and his siblings in the care of a nanny. This detachment between parent and child, perhaps, was why Demetrius’s troubling behaviour went undetected. People never seemed to like staying around him for long, with the exception of Helena, a childhood friend. His carers had a curious habit of never lasting more than a month at a time - the frequency and intensity of his sometimes self-destructive tantrums driving them away from the Chiklis estate. Simply shrugging it off as the unreliability of the working class, Demetrius’s parents turned a blind eye to these so-called “episodes”. As far as they were concerned, there was nothing wrong with him -- well, apart from being spoilt rotten, that is.
Demetrius was the kind of kid who cut people's hair while they weren't looking, or caught bugs just to burn them under a magnifying glass. He even set fire to one of his classmates’s lockers -- by accident, of course, and no one was injured. Just by flashing those doe eyes of his, Demetrius got out of a lot of trouble as a child. But the final straw came during the first week of third form when Demetrius stabbed an upperclassman three times in the neck with a drawing compass for calling him names. Sitting in the headmaster’s office with his still-bloody hands folded in his lap, he had done his best to look contrite while his mother did all the talking.
Like all children that didn’t quite fit in, Demetrius had a lonely childhood. He blazed through the school curriculum all too quickly, driven to boredom and frustration by the lack of challenge that school presented. But it was only a matter of time until he graduated, and the then nineteen year-old Demetrius enrolled in Oxford that very same year. There, he threw himself into his coursework, desperate for something that would actually engage him. Of course, it didn’t help that whenever he returned home in the summer, Helena would be there, clinging onto him with all her might like a lovesick puppy. All that excess energy pumping through his veins needed somewhere to go, and Demetrius soon discovered where that ‘somewhere’ was.
Tired of Helena’s constant mithering, Demetrius was pleased to find out about an arrangement that his father had made while he’d been away. An engagement between him and Hermia, a girl from an equally affluent family, to keep both their wealth and reputation intact. Finally, he’d be rid of infuriating, pesky Helena. Or at least that’s what he thinks is going to happen. Little does Demetrius know, however, his fiancée has a fella on the side, though it’s not going to take him much longer to find out.
Other
Sixteen Saltines - Jack White |
56,352 | 1,540 | 9 | 154 | 37 | (I will rarely use Danish with Gertrude, but I figured she lived in Denmark so long a few words would still slip into her vocabulary sometimes. I'll always provide the translation.
min kære - my dear
ingen - no)
~x~
Matte lips, a dark shade of posy lifted up at the corners lightly, eyeing the Constable Macbeth saunter towards the two men under lidded eyes.Gertrude herself hadn't had much contact with the fumbling constable - she wasn't much for small talking with blue collars - but she surmised from the few encounters she did have with him that he was a kind man, if not bit incompetent at his job. Still, the population of Stratford liked him well enough, something that it seemed the two gentlemen did not, judging by their hesitant, mechanic replies. They either weren't a fan of the police, or a fan of anyone at all.
Gertrude brushed a strand of silky hair behind her ear. It was probably a bit of both. Their actions were familiar of the men Hamlet, and of late, her husband as well had been in company of. Not entirely honest, filthy rich and with a crooked grin to hide their crooked ways. Gertrude wrapped her fingers around the stick of the toffee apple, musing. It was generally best to look the other way when in company of such man. The constable should learn that.
Her musings were interrupted by the sound of someone taking the seat next to her on the bench, and Gertrude darted her eyes to the offender. The girl was unmistakably one Lavinia Andronicus - skittish demeanor, big hazel eyes and most notably, missing hand. Gertrude couldn't see it, but she knew it was there - everyone knew about Lavinia. Gertrude herself had been horrified by the act, but what could she have done? She knew more of the girl's father, Titus, than of the girl however. She had in fact enjoyed speaking to the man whenever she went to the butcher's shop, which by all accounts should have been done by her maid. Gertrude liked the fresh air, however, and the witty banter that the old man had provided. It was a shame he had cracked underneath the pressure of his daughter's attack.
"You're Titus's daughter, aren't you, min kære?" Gertrude murmured, delicately eyeing the young woman's grip on the bench they sat upon. "I used to buy my meats from your father. He was a good man. He still is, though perhaps a bit cracked. You can always glue together the broken, however." The elder woman was going to say more, but was distracted by the conversation going on behind her. Lips pursed, she rolled the toffee apple to the young woman sitting beside her and stood gracefully.
"Take it, darling. Something sweet to cheer you up." And then she walked over to the crowd of three whom had been behind Lavinia and her, tapping the constable on the shoulder lightly and flicking her eyes towards the other two men, steely grey hardening for a moment, as if a mother scolding her children, before focusing her attention on Macbeth.
"Constable! It's not very festive of you to be bothering these two lovely men on what is supposed to be such a cheerful night." Gertrude smiled softly. "Ingen, you should let them be. The commotion might upset dear Lavinia." And she tilted her heads towards the girl, as if to bring notice to her. | "O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.. "
Origin
Queen Gertrude from Hamlet
Name
Gertrude von der Maase, Duchess of Glucksbierg
Age
43
Gender
Female
Personality
lascivious
Consumed with love for absent family and only temporarily charmed by mindless extravagances, Gertrude extends her affection and charisma in the only other way she knows how - sexually. Inclined to low cut silk blouses and wanton, sultry eyeshadows to attract the attention of which she had so much of in her youth that she now lacks in truant husband and cruel son, she exhibits a sensual need for physical pleasure, yet a reluctance to follow through with any flirtations due to devotion to her family.
motherly
Some people are born to be leaders, speakers or warriors; Gertrude was born to raise one. Stifled by a lonely childhood and unintentionally inattentive parents, she threw herself into mothering a son that would grow up to be vicious and bitter. Without a child to smother, Gertrude is forced to find other outlets to unleash her maternal instincts such as giving piano lessons to the children of Stratford. It is only an added bonus to these lessons that her manor and her afternoons are again filled with the bewitching sounds of a child's laugh.
materialistic
Those born of immeasurable wealth know not the pangs of hunger but of emptiness instead - a void inside of her that Gertrude fills with fancy trinkets and exquisitely designed jewelry. Not once is the lady of the manor seen without impeccably manicured nails, perfectly coiffed hair and silk and satin ironed to perfection, clinging to her willowy body. The need for such opulence is perhaps influenced by her otherwise barren life, devoid of familial love or true, deep emotional connections.
liar
White lies escape matte lips, bittersweet in their intentions, for Gertrude does not lie just to be lying. She lies for what she believes to be the good of those around her. And though she may be shallow and indifferent to most physical ailments, those of the heart she attempts to be mindful of, careful in the words she chooses so that they may not cause another sorrow whether they be true or not.
self-sacrificing
Gertrude may be blind to certain things - some intentionally, some not - but one thing she will never close her eyes to is the security of her family, especially her son. Though perhaps she wouldn't have been opposed to the idea had more time passed, it was against every fibre of her being to marry so soon after her dear husband's death, and to his brother at that - but at the cost of her son's inheritance, she had no choice, and she would sacrifice her very love for the child she bore.
Biography
An only child of an unimportant but fairly wealthy politician and his homely, beak-nosed wife, Gertrude was unexpectedly stunning in appearance. The combination of her father's pert nose and naturally flaxen hair with her mother's angular bone structure and willowy frame was to the little girl's advantage. Though her family's influence and power was mostly weightless in the grand scheme of British nobility, her golden curls and beautific steely grey eyes led to countless suitors of varying importance.
The most charming of these men was a Sir Hamlet von der Maase, a relatively important Duke of Glucksbierg ironically enough not even of British origin. Gertrude met him while studying in London as a preparatory school girl - he, a suave man with a charming Danish accent studying in England abroad at the behest of his father. She was smitten with the foreigner and not only for his handsome features and charismatic personality. He showered her with fine gifts and luxurious holiday trips. Gertrude was utterly spoiled.
When the British beauty graduated and began university, everyone knew it was only a matter of time before her older beau proposed - and propose he did, with only one request of her.
"Come back with me to Copenhagen, darling. I'll make you a Duchess, just as you deserve." And how could she refuse such a simple request when he offered her the world in return? So she went with him.
But even Gertrude, so accustomed to luxury and splendor, did not expect the opulence that awaited her in Denmark - nor did she expect the seething jealousy of her soon-to-be husband's brother, Claudius. His elder brother had laid claim to the family's fortune, but did he too have to bring home such a lovely, rosy cheeked bride as his own? But the younger brother hid his stormy thoughts underneath an appealing smile and Gertrude, ever so accustomed to men attempting to attract her attention and wanting desperately to impress her new family, thought nothing of Claudius.
"He's always felt in my shadow." Hamlet would later inform her softly, as if it were a secret. "He has everything he needs but wants for what he hasn't earned. He will grow into a man soon enough."
The wedding was set, and soon Claudius left Gertrude's thoughts. She was to become a wife and have a family, something her lonely childhood lacked. She thrived on the thought.
When her sweet baby boy was put in her arms, though, that was when Gertrude knew her life was complete. His father's eyes stared up at her, blinking drowsily, and though strands of hair stuck to her forehead and her dressing gown was falling off of her shoulders, she was complete. Her baby Hamlet was home, and oh how he would be spoiled - he would know the love of a parent that she herself had never known. Through all her faults, there was one thing Gertrude truly knew she was meant to excel at - motherhood.
The sounds of Gertrude's tinkling laugh and sweet baby Hamlet's innocent giggles filled the manor for years. She doted on her son unabashedly, and to her surprise, so did his Uncle Claudius. The man often made rounds to his sister-in-law when his brother was out, sneaking his young nephew candies as he more often than not snuck Gertrude little trinkets as well. The woman was delighted - she knew no better than a man attempting to find his way back into a family after spending so much time away, but young Hamlet was more perceptive. He threw tantrums whenever Claudius came round, refused the sweets offered to him despite his love of candies - somewhere in his little heart he knew something was wrong. Uncle Claudius was trying to take his mommy away.
As Hamlet got older, Gertrude's doting did not cease but his warm reception to it did - he became cold, refusing his mother's affection. This hurt Gertrude greatly, the woman that had done nothing but live for her son and family. She hadn't the faintest idea of why he acted so distant, but the answer lay in the pearl broach she wore on her blazer, gifted by Claudius with a glint in his eye.
One final blow left Gertrude staggering. When Hamlet was away at boarding school, his father and Gertrude's dear husband was shot and left for dead. It was thought to be a mugging at first, but they soon realised his wallet was still on him. It appeared he had just been shot to die. Gertrude was devastated, but one person was her pillar throughout it all - Claudius. He sorted through the funeral arrangements with her, held her when she cried and brought her tea and sat by her when she had no tears left.
Of course, when the family threatened to take the fortune from her - the fortune she thought was rightfully hers, the lifestyle of which she had become so accustomed to - and give it to the new heir of the estate, Claudius, Gertrude knew, even through her grief, what she must do. For the good of herself, for the good of her son and the hope that he would earn his birthright when he came of age, she married Claudius. It was only shortly after that that Claudius proclaimed to her that they must move.
"Copenhagen has not been very kind to me." The man explained. "Nor has it you. I believe that, after being so many years gone, home in England will do you much good. A small market town, Stratford. I've purchased an extravagent manor, designed to your tastes." The move was hasty and unexpected - if Gertrude had not had blinders on, she might have realised it to be something to do with the police closing in on Claudius related to the death of his brother, but the woman was blissfully ignorant of what she did not want to see, so again she uprooted her life in the name of her family.
Her son was furious, of course. The cold exterior he had once extended to her was now icy, biting in its chill. He held back none in accusing his mother of incestruous relations, a whorish personality - but Gertrude took the pain and loved her son even more because of it. She begged him to come with them to Stratford but he refused - he was going to continue his studies at university in Wittenberg.
Now, it's been three years since she's moved to Stratford and became the lonely lady in the large manor, alone so often that some believe she to be widowed, visited by her son not once and, although doted upon Claudius whenever he is home, left alone more often than not when he is off to attend to unsavory things she has an inkling upon, but no wish for it to be true. Gertrude asks for not much but the love of her son again - a love that has not been extended to her in years.
Other
If anyone wants to grab another character from Hamlet just tell me and I'll adjust Gertrude's biography accordingly. |
56,353 | 1,540 | 10 | 1,838 | 1,623 | Of course, the last thing we would want is commotion.
He looked at the girl and tried to put a name to her face. He couldn't. He noticed Lavinia had followed him, and decided it was probably best if she was away from these two strange men. He gestured towards the other end of the fair. "Why don't we look for your brother? He'll probably have arrived by now, looking for you."
He glanced at Gertrude again. She was beautiful, much more attractive than his rather plain wife. He'd married her since she was rich, after all. Another furtive glance at the two men convinced him: something was probably going to go wrong, and he'd have to mend it, as Banquo was somewhere else. "Why don't you come with us, Madam? I hear there's quite a good fortune teller we could try on the way to Lavinia's brother. Perhaps they can tell us what the fireworks will be like!" | Thus do I ever make my fool my purse.
Appearance
Origin
Othello
Name
Iago Armin
Age
29
Gender
Male
Personality
Handsome, wealthy, and virtually soulless, Iago is bored with life. His riches have left no hedonistic pursuits closed, and as such he has become jaded. His sole amusement left is schadenfreude. He enjoys manipulating others into doing things they would not do normally, and finds great pleasure in bad things happening to good people. However, he is also a coward- he finds violence unseemly and takes great pains to avoid having his actions discovered.
Outwardly, however, he is friendly and personable, always after a good jape or a party, just a man looking for a good time.
Biography
Born in Sydney, Australia, Iago Armin has known nothing but wealth and privilege. His family made their fortune in wine, owning fully two-thirds of the vineyards in the rich Australian countryside. Having since diversified into mining, logging, and commercial farming, their financial future is assured.
As such, Iago has always enjoyed the benefits of nearly unlimited wealth. Nothing has ever been denied him, no one has dared to tell him no. He has spent his life in pursuit of pleasures, leaving a string of heartbroken men and women all over the world. Lately, however, the commonplace pursuits of drinking, gambling, partying, and the like have begun to bore him. He has found a new plaything: human lives.
In Macau, he talked a maid at his hotel into jumping to her death off the balcony. In San Francisco, he convinced a man to murder his only son. In Copenhagen, he talked a powerful businesswoman into dissolving her company and becoming a nun. Messing with the lives of others has become his pastime, his way of convincing himself of his superiority.
A scheme played in Birmingham has led him to discover Stratford, and something about the place has appealed to him. Perhaps it is the Byzantine nature of the inhabitants, the two feuding families at the center, the other schemers and plotters. There is enough fun to be had here for some time. And so Iago has decided to make this his new home.
Let the games begin. |
56,354 | 1,540 | 11 | 1,839 | 62 | Lavinia was feeling a bit overwhelmed. She would have liked very much to politely decline this gentleman’s offer to help her and head straight back home and tell her father that she would try again next year. Maybe Lukie would be disappointed, but Lucas and her father—they would understand, surely.
“I think I’ll look for them on my own,” she said, a little weakly. “Thank you all for your offers, though… I’ll be fine.”
She stood up, knocking the taffy apple to the ground in her haste, and started to walk away, back toward her house. By the time she was about halfway across the square, however, she was beating herself up. This certainly wasn’t helping. Those people posed absolutely no danger to her or anyone. She didn’t like the way they looked at her, like she was something to be pitied, but, honestly, they didn’t know her and she was sure acting like she deserved pity. She needed to prove to herself, and everyone else, that she was Lavinia and she was okay.
Going home would just be another ten steps backwards. She’d been prepared for this. She’d spent all day looking forward to it—something like this shouldn’t ruin it. Lavinia slowed her steps. She really regretted leaving that little group, but she certainly couldn't turn back now. That was okay, though! She’d find Lucas and if she ran into one of them again she’d apologize. Not a big deal. | She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash;
And so let's leave her to her silent walks.
-Demetrius, Act II Sc. 3 of Titus Andronicus
Origin
Titus Andronicus
Name
Lavinia Andronicus
Age
20
Gender
Female
Personality
Lavinia is a quiet presence. She’s self-conscious but not socially anxious, and has a calm inner strength that can be surprising. She’s very sympathetic, very emotionally intelligent, knows herself and her limits, and has a very acute sense of right and wrong. Her mental health, though, is occasionally shaky; she suffers from depression and PTSD, and is easily frustrated with herself. She inherited the Andronicus temper — though colder than Titus’, she can be vindictive when angry. Before her “affair” she was a romantic, and vestiges of that romanticism still remain; however, she does not trust easily, though she wants people to trust her. She’s got steel in her; she’s tough and stubborn when she wants to be. It’s just all about reclaiming her independence right now.
Biography
Lavinia is the youngest of the notoriously large Andronicus family (15 kids, all boys except her). Six came from her dad’s first marriage, six from her mom’s, and the final three (Quin, Marty, and her) from their union. Her childhood was full of roughhousing, keeping up with boys, and, of course, being papa’s favorite. Titus ran the butcher’s shop in town, assisted by his small army of children, and business was good.
When she was about five, her brothers began to leave, one by one, to start businesses and families of their own. Her oldest brother, Titus’ son Lucas, entered the military, but promised he’d be back to inherit the shop. He got married, too, soon after he left, but Lavinia barely remembers the wedding.
When she was twelve, her mom died, ripping a giant hole in the fabric of the family. Titus was torn apart, not only from the loss of his wife, but also from the estrangement of six of his sons — the boys on Mom’s side suddenly ceased communication, which for Lavinia meant they stopped coming to Christmas. With the help of Titus’ brother Marcus and the birth of Lucas’ first son, Lucas Jr., they managed to pull through without too much damage. Nine kids remained for Christmas, after all, and the best holiday meat pies were still at the Andronicus household.
When Liv was eighteen, another tragedy rocked the family. When visiting some friends in London with Quin and Marty, Lavinia suddenly disappeared. After twelve hours of frantic searching, the police finally located her in an alley, raped and mutilated, with her right hand missing and half of her tongue clenched in her left fist. Her tongue was successfully reattached, fortunately, and as soon as she could write she revealed who had done this to her — shakily with her left hand, she spelled out for the police “Chiron and Demetrius.”
Titus railed against this news, threatening to kill the thugs who had harmed his daughter. It got so bad that the police were forced to detain him, but Marcus, a lawyer, saved him from any terrible legal ramifications. The whole affair caused something to snap in Titus, though, and he hasn’t quite been the same since.
It’s been three months since Chiron and Demetrius received their sentences — life in prison without parole — and things are finally getting back to normal for Titus and Lavinia in Stratford. They re-opened shop after being closed for a year or so, with Lavinia now as the full time clerk and Lucas helping out whenever needed. Liv takes online classes, goes to therapy twice a week (speech therapy for the tongue issue and counseling for her PTSD), and occasionally helps out at the hospital, but besides that lives a pretty slow (blessedly slow, sometimes) life.
Other
If anyone else wants to be a character from Titus, I can adjust stuff! |
56,355 | 1,541 | 0 | 1,552 | 2,229 | 29th Last Seed, Sundas
It was a strange day today. Nothing extremely odd happened, but there were enough instances that, put together, makes you start to think something is going on.
First, we had animals going insane in the city walls. I’m usually greeted in the morning by the crow of the rooster, but there was nothing but silence. All the birds had fled the city – or, were just being so quiet and still that nobody could see them. Of course, I didn’t notice their absence until much later when other strange things began to occur. Pets of the townsfolk were acting crazy, dogs straining on leashes and cats clawing at doors to get outside. I even saw a swarm of rats, swimming through the muck and leaving the city through the cistern.
Things only got stranger when we heard complaints from the local hunters – wildlife is rarely sparse here in Kvatch, even during the cold months of winter… but the hunters said there were no animals for at least 10 miles around the city; no rabbits and empty warrens, no birds and abandoned nests, no deer. One exasperated fellow even noted the lack of butterflies that usually frequented the forests. Wolves and bears were seemingly missing too – we didn’t have one report of an attack all day.
Most of the others are calling me crazy too; just for noticing these strange things happening. ‘Why try to understand beasts?’ They laughed. A mage told me to not worry about them; we can’t understand animals, so why try now because they’re acting out of the ordinary? Another mage said something about the location of the moons affecting them, and then another person joined in talking about the late winter we’d had was doing it all. I left the tavern at this point, not wanting to break up what was turning into an argument between the three while off-duty. As I left, I noticed a strange feeling in the air. Not quite cold, but it still caused me to shudder. There must be a storm on it’s way.
30th Last Seed, Morndas
I’m a fool, a bloody fool… I should have listened to my gut instincts, should have fled the city with all of those damned animals. My family… my family still stuck inside with these monsters! They came in the night, there was nothing anybody could do. And the sky… by the Gods, the sky was the colour of blood. Thunder crashed in the crimson sky, but there was no lightning – no sign of anything worldly amongst that sea of red. Will I ever see the stars again? The sun? I do not know… I don’t know why any of this is happening. How could the gods let the very gates of hell be opened on this earth? How could they let those demons slay our children and raze our homes to the ground?
I do not know… but I know I will not give up easily. I may not see the sunrise on the morn, but I will fight to make damn sure my wife and children will. As I write this, I ready for battle… if there is anything left of Kvatch… of my home… after all of this, and some lucky soul finds this diary, please bring it to my family. I know not when I will see their faces again.
With all the fires raging in the city, and the sky the colour of crimson, one would have considered the temperature to be warm - hot, even. But no - there was a distinct chill in the air, and Naenya couldn't help but wonder if it was the actual weather causing the drop in temperature, or the layer of fear that covered everyone in the Chapel like a thick, smothering blanket. Shivering lightly, Naenya tucked her arms more tightly around her body, surveying the room. There was a hush among the people; as if hoping if they remained quiet the monsters outside would forget about them and go away. A mother shushed her whimpering child; a man in the corner was muttering prayers in an almost feverish manner; the local priest was staring at the stained glass window of Akatosh with a stony expression set in his eyes, as if questioning why this was all happening.
"Well, of course he is. I suppose everyone is..." She mused silently on the situation. While many were no doubt pleading with the Gods for an answer of 'Why', she was thinking more of 'How'. All of her studies into the Daedric realms had told her quite plainly that those gates outside were completely impossible. Well, ones that stable were, anyway. Already she was formulating different theories in her mind as to how it had happened, but even with her chattermouth ways, Naenya knew better than to discuss them with anyone in the Chapel. Too much had been lost... even when she'd run out in the middle of the night she'd felt nought but fear. People being slaughtered all around her, fires raging, that awesomely terrible gate glittering like a giant red eye...
Naenya shivered again, but it had nothing to do with the temperature this time.
Perhaps sensing her discomfort, Bobo pecked lightly at her ear from where he sat upon her shoulder. Or, maybe he was just hungry. Who knew?
“Oh, we’re in quite the mess this time, aren’t we?” She sighed quietly to the magpie, digging through her pocket until she found the little bag of birdseed. He twittered in her ear, hopping about slightly. She had been tempted to let him fly away, perhaps with a message to her father back in Cheydinhal; but she couldn’t risk his life. There has been too many spells and arrows being shot up into the air. Tipping some of the seed into the palm of her hand, Bobo hopped onto her arm and began pecking away quite happily. He seemed to be unaware of their current impending doom – or simply didn’t care about it. Naenya sometimes wished she had the single-mindedness of animals before she remembered she would be unable to read books. What an awful existence that would be. | Character Name:
Nikolaus “Niko” Valerious
Age:
37
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lover
Specialisation:
Combat/Magic
Class:
Paragon
Skills:
Expert: One-Handed Blade (Dual-Wielding)
Journeyman: Speechcraft, Destruction
Apprentice: Athletics, Restoration, Heavy Armour
Novice: Two-Handed Blade, Acrobatics, Illusion, Medicine (Non-Alchemical/Magical (Craft)), Hunting (Craft), Foraging (Craft)
Appearance:
Looking every part the Nord, Niko stands at a towering height of 6’7; matched with broad shoulders and the muscled build of someone who works his swords every day, he can seem somewhat daunting at times. However, when one focuses on his face, softness shines through. Gentle blonde brows above stormy grey-blue eyes; a sharp jawline softened by a smattering of badly trimmed blond stubble; high cheekbones crinkled with laughter lines, and dimples that brighten cheeks once round with wellness, but now have a somewhat haggard and hungry look about them.
On a usual day out in the field, Niko can usually be seen wearing his armour; shaggy, dark-blonde hair pulled back haphazardly by messy braids, and shoulder’s stiff with the weight he is carrying. However, when more relaxed and among friends, his hair hangs loose, brushing against his eyes and shoulders in a messy but appealing manner – armour is replaced with comforting and loose clothing, shirt sleeves usually pushed up to the elbow and revealing a plethora of scars up and down his forearms. The scars carry on under his clothing; some fresher and deeper than others, but you’ll need to either get him drunk or be close to him to get the stories behind the scarring dotted over his skin – some hurt more than others, and not in a physical way.
Personality:
While he doesn’t smile as much as he used to, Niko remains still an amicable sort – but if one looks close enough, you can see the tension in his smile; the stretched out laughs that sound just a touch too hollow to be considered genuine or warm. His eyes have retained that caring spark of friendliness, but it dulls whenever nobody is looking his way. His kindness isn’t faked or forced… it’s just harder to be the way he was before. It’s rare for his grief or anger to come through, but when faced with something particularly cruel, or anything involved in raising the dead, anything remotely nice about him falls away, and his eyes become as hard as ice. Killing for him then isn’t just a job to be done; it becomes frenzied, and very personal.
However, regardless of his own internal turmoils, he’ll remain good to those around him. While respect is earned, Niko makes a point of being polite to most, no matter how brash they appear to be. Being more than aware of how death and killing can get to a man, he’ll listen to people’s worries and concerns in the hopes he can do something to help them… when sometimes, a listening friend is all many need.
When it comes to matter away from friends and family, Niko still remains polite; even in battle, while others may make puns, threats or quips while slicing down their enemy, Niko will do it as quickly and as painlessly as possible – no intimidation, no dark humour. It’s not his style. Neither is bragging of past battles fought, though one would be able to hear a good tale from him if coaxed enough – it comes from having a daughter, for him. Niko quite firmly believes that Mia should be kept safe from violence, bad language, and all of the other things that his race and Skyrim are famous for; a foolish endeavour, considering his girl is getting street-smart enough to find out about all of these things herself; but he remains very protective over her, not wanting to lose her as he lost his wife. This protectiveness passes on to his friends and family, particularly those he gets close to.
Backstory:
While our story begins in Kvatch, as does the life of Nikolaus. Born to an Imperial father and Nord mother, the pair had met, fell in love, and married in a short span of time – moving from the mother’s native Skyrim to Kvatch for a both safer and warmer climate to raise their son in. And it was a good childhood for Niko; there was never danger within the city walls, and with his mother and father’s decent wages from the Fighters and Mages Guild respectively, never had an empty stomach or cold night. Niko’s father – Percius – had his own parents, now retired, living in Kvatch too – so whenever he and his wife – Ulva – needed to do a job for money, they could quite simply live Niko with his grandparents and do what needed to be done. As a baby, Niko barely noticed his parent’s absence unless they were gone for a unusually long time; but as a child, he started growing curious as to what reason for and where his parents were going. Curiosity soon grew into indignation, and the usually mild-mannered child began to constantly question exactly why he had to stay at home, and why his parents had to leave all the time. Well… he was still mild-mannered in his questioning; politeness always came first, especially when talking to his elders. But it was clear to his parents that their little boy was growing up rather quickly, and would need to start learning something to keep him happy – and away from their own adventures. To counter this, Percius’ father – a retired guard of Kvatch - started teaching Niko how to use swords – of course starting with a wooden sword and a straw dummy at the young age of 8, but still, it worked well enough. With his grandmother teaching him his letters and numbers, Niko constantly itched for his training sessions every evening.
Over time, Ulva began to spend more and more days at home, having growing tired from all of the contracts taken from the Fighter’s Guild. When Percius’ father grew too old to continue training Niko (now 13) Ulva took over, helping him branch out into proper training; wearing armour that weighed his light teenage frame down; real swords instead of wooden ones – she even persuaded Percius to begin training Niko in certain schools of magic, just so it would come in handy in the future. Niko picked up the magic just as well as his blades, barring a few incidents with rogue fireballs. He was fine once his eyebrows grew back, honestly.
When Niko reached the age of 16, he had a firm grasp in the basics of restoration, destruction, and the wielding of blades. His mother wanted him to join the fighter’s guild, and his father wanted him to join the mage’s guild. Thinking he wanted the best of both worlds, he started working as a battlemage for the arcane university; training under a more experienced guard who worked there to get him up to the right standard for such a prestigious college. It was a solid job, and kept both of his parents happy – Niko continued to have a steady income, a warm bed, and full stomach. He was just going to be living with longer hours and bruised skin from his rigorous training regime – the safety of the mages and the University was no small matter, what with the countless troves of knowledge and precious items hidden within those walls. Niko had only been inside a few times, but he had caught glimpses of endless libraries, impossibly large, echoing chambers (He and a few colleagues enjoyed a few shouting matches in there before being kicked out by their Guard-Captain; after several hours of sprinting the battlements in full armour in the pouring rain, they decided not to do it again), and of course, the mages themselves. Only 2 really stood out to him; one was a slimy looking fellow. Niko was never one to judge people before meeting them, but as it happened, he had had the misfortune of meeting and talking to Conjurer Astian Onius – but Niko also had the fortune of meeting Astian’s cousin, Elisabeth. And to him, she was the greatest treasure in the University.
At the age of 25 – now an established guard of his own right, having graduated his training top of the class (despite the hollering matches in the halls) – Niko finally plucked up the courage to talk to Elisabeth in a more than friendly manner, asking her to join him for drinks that night – no friends of his, and no weasel-like cousins of hers to accompany them. One night of drinks turned into another night, and then another; then it was candlelit meals, walks along the shores of lake Rumare, picnics in the forest. For anyone watching the pair, it would be quite obvious that the two were in love – and indeed, Astian was watching them. He was not happy.
After 3 years of courting, Niko and Elisabeth were wed, and a year after that, she fell pregnant with what would be their first and only child. Named Amelia for Elisabeth’s mother who had passed that spring, their life seemed idyllic. But as time passed, things began to grow dark. Not in their relationship, exactly; they were still a happy couple, raising their daughter in Imperial City and continuing with their jobs – and it was their jobs that began causing issues. What with Niko just being a guard, he and his fellows didn’t really involve themselves in the fight for power brewing between the Mages – not just in the University, but across Cyrodiil. Favours were split, and Elisabeth herself was not wanting Hannibal Traven as Arch-Mage; She considered him too close-minded, especially when it came to matters such as necromancy; although having never done any spells in that area, she was doing research into possible life after death – a cure that could bring someone back if they were saved seconds after dying. An innocent enough area of study, and certainly with a noble enough gesture behind it. But once Arch-Mage Traven won the fight for power, she became cowed; fearful of what could happen to her and her work after the banning of necromancy by the Arch-Mage, she begged Niko for them both to leave Imperial City and the Mages Guild – they had more than enough experience between them both to get jobs elsewhere. Although slightly concerned at her reasons behind it – her cousin Astian had been visiting their home more than usual the weeks previous, having hushed and irritated conversations with Elisabeth before the harassed woman asked him to leave – Niko conceded, and along with their 6 year old daughter, left for his parent’s home in Kvatch; having died in the winter, they’d left the home to Niko and his family.
The next two years that passed were easily the worst in Niko’s life. While Kvatch was a nice change at first; his daughter enjoying the smaller and more open city as opposed to Imperial City’s near stifling buildings and towering walls – he too was welcomed back with open arms, as many who still lived there knew his family. Getting a job as a guard was no trouble, what with his long service record at the Arcane University. He knew he’d probably get more money in the Fighter’s Guild or even a sellsword, but being a guard was safer, more secure, and more honest; that was just the kind of man he was.
His wife, however, was growing more and more secretive. Elisabeth had become more withdrawn, even after moving away from the Mages Guild; “hunting trips” were going on far too long for her to come home with nothing, and she would constantly change the subject whenever her studies came up in conversation. As Astian’s trips became more frequent, and news of strange lights coming from caves not far from Kvatch began circulating through the city, Niko’s worries grew into suspicions. It was time to find out what his wife and her troublesome cousin were up to.
As he followed Elisabeth from a distance – her leaving Kvatch a few hours previous for more “hunting” – Niko told himself that he was worrying over nothing. She was probably just continuing her research, and was worried about the Guild swooping in to stop her; but it wasn’t necromancy. Just research.
Whether his wife was dabbling in the magic of raising the dead, Niko never knew – but whatever she had attempted to do in those dimly lit caves was too dangerous – as he watched on from the shadows, he saw something go wrong. He was no expert in the type of magic Elisabeth and Astian were attempting, so Niko couldn’t understand why after a sudden flash of light, Elisabeth hit the ground and no longer moved; he couldn’t understand why Astian looked perfectly unconcerned by this, and simply began performing another spell. But when the magic hit her body, and she slowly rose to her feet, he did understand. And no matter what had happened, no matter what she may had done; he was not going to let his wife’s body become nothing more than a puppet. Wiping his eyes that had become blurred with tears, Niko slowly unsheathed his swords and stormed towards Astian.
When finally returning to Kvatch, it had been difficult to coax the full story from the grieving Niko; heavily injured and clutching Elisabeth’s – now still – body in his arms, he had collapsed at the gate, being brought into the chapel for healing. Although Astian had put up quite the fight, Niko had barely felt any pain at each landed blow from the disgraced mage; it was killing his wife’s resurrected body that had been the most difficult part for him. While the healer Oleta was able to mend his several cuts and burns, aided by Brother Martin, it was harder to ease the near-broken man’s mind. After the story was finally pulled from Niko, and the caves investigated, the city guards discovered that Astian had indeed been practicing Necromancy. Out of sheer respect to Niko, their comrade, they made sure to state there was nothing to incriminate Elisabeth in the forbidden act. There was no evidence in fact, but many people -particularly at the guild – would have been happy to connect the dots of her being at the caves so often.
Not so long after the tragedy, Niko had fully recovered; he had taken to spending much of his time at the Chapel, hoping to find solace in the Gods. But nothing seemed to bring him peace; the daily chats with the Priests brought him some comfort, but Kvatch no longer seemed like home anymore. Mia seemed to have taken the news of her mother better than he, but then, she hadn’t seen or done what he had been forced to do – all the same, she complied when Niko suggested leaving Kvatch. He left his job with the guard, sold their home, and the lonely father and daughter left the gates of their hometown. And for nearly 2 years, they wandered throughout Cyrodiil. Never staying in one place for too long, Niko took whatever jobs that came to him as long as they paid enough, and weren’t too time-wasting or life-threatening. He was more desperate than before, but he wouldn’t risk his life while Mia was so young; she had no-one left to look after her.
Of course, things became far more dangerous when he finally came back to Kvatch. A chance encounter; retrieving some rare book from the local bookstore for an old bedbound fellow in Bravil; at first, Niko was going to pass it up, not quite ready to return to Kvatch even after 2 years. But the man was offering quite a bit of money, and Mia’s birthday was approaching – it couldn’t hurt, could it?
That was what he thought until the Oblivion Gate opened. It had been easy enough to gather a terrified Mia into his arms and pelt towards the chapel, but it was getting out that would be the hardest part.
Spells:
Destruction: Blazing Spear, Corrode Weapon, Dire Wound, Drain Skill: Destruction, Fire Ball, Frost Bolt, Great Magicka Drain, Hail Storm, Lightning Bolt, Lightning Grasp, Searing Grasp, Shocking Burst, Weakness to Magicka, Winter’s Grasp, Withering Touch
Restoration: Convalescence, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Fortify Health, Fortify Speed, Fortify Strength, Great Fortity Fatigue, Heal Major Wounds
Illusion: Serenity, Soothing Touch, Starlight
Inventory:
1x Off-white tunic, to wear under armour
2x Black Leather pants, one for casual wear, one to wear under greaves
1x Set of steel greaves
1x Set of steel pauldrons
1x Steel chestplate
1x Set of steel bracers over 1x Pair of leather gloves
2x Steel longswords
1x Steel Greatsword
1x Iron dagger
1x Dark shirt
1x Black overcoat
1x Pair of leather boots
1x Black hood
1x Spare child’s dress, red
1x Spare pair of child’s shoes
Mia’s teddy bear
1x Plain gold wedding ring
1x Waterskin
1x Bottle of rum
1x Loaf of bread
2x Wedges of cheese
Several slices of smoked salmon, wrapped in cheesecloth
Several slices of cooked beef, wrapped in cheesecloth
3x Sweetened biscuits, slightly stale
1x Skin of milk
2x Bedrolls
1x Pillow
1x Large fur blanket
1x Tent
1x Cooking pot & Spit
1x Horse, carrying majority of the camping equipment
1x Knapsack, to carry the remainder of his things
374 Septims
Mia has a balanced look of her parents; she has her mother’s dark, chocolate-brown eyes, and face and body, but the rest of her belongs to her father. Being quite tall and mature for her age, Mia also has his dark-blonde hair, hers with more of a wave to it than Niko’s; she keeps it at shoulder-length, tied up most of the time when out on the road with her dad. She also shares his sweet, dimpled smile, though hers seems far more genuine most of the time.
While certainly taking after her Imperial mother in her looks, Mia has the heart of a Nord. With an inquisitive sense of adventure constantly on her mind, the curious 8-year-old (She’s nearly 9, actually – don’t forget it!) has a penchant for wandering away from her father when visiting cities; but only in cities. She did it once in a tiny little village without walls and she’d never seen him look so upset when he found her 3 hours later. She understands his protectiveness, but taking a rather wise standpoint for such a young age, thinks her Father needs to move on from what happened. She knows this isn’t the way her Mama wanted them both to live, after all.
Perhaps due to her father treating her like some fragile thing, Mia often takes on a brusque and boisterous way of life. Local kid calling her names? He’s getting a broken nose. A pair of dubious looking fellows in the inn staring at her father’s coinpurse? Glare at them until they notice and hurriedly leave. Portal to hell opening up in the city? Her Papa will sort them out, he’s the bravest, strongest man in the whole wide world. She’s going to help of course – if only Papa would give her a sword. Ooh, or maybe an axe. |
56,356 | 1,541 | 1 | 860 | 1,273 | Almighty Akatosh, Dragon of Time, One-Above-All, safeguard this great empire through these troubling times, and may it stand tall against this looming threat...Mother Mara, Life Giver, One-Of-Love-Eternal, let not the people of Tamriel forget to afford their hearts to one another, and guide them through this dark night to peace...Mighty Stendarr, Ever Merciful, One-Most-Just, give your humble servant the strength to strike down the beasts that seek to bring harm to your people, and render unto them your blessings, so that they all may see the next sun...
Hands clasped and hammer laid flat in front of him, Orintur prayed to the Divines near the front doors of the chapel, ever ready to stand tall and bring heavy steel to the heads of any daedra foolish enough to enter. None would so much as brush against the people hiding further within, not as long as he lived, and the stout elf did not intend on dying any time soon. Finishing his prayers, Orintur rose and grasped he long oak handle of his hammer confidently, his face obscured by the large front plate of his helmet.
All Orintur had wanted to do that day was pray in the chapel, in mourning of the late Emperor. It was supposed to be a simple event, invoking the basic rites of Akatosh and praying in hopes of guidance and prosperity for the Empire, just as Orintur was taught. But then that gate opened, flooding Kvatch with daedra that slaughtered and set aflame everything in their path. The only thing keeping them out of the chapel was a large piece of rubble obstructing the main doors, forcing them through the one side-door. The chokepoint made them easy pickings, and so the cowardly demons simply sat outside after five of their brethren were destroyed.
In the dreadful silence that permeated the chapel, Orintur wondered to himself just how this all happened. How did these demons find their way into Tamriel, on their own no less? That flaming hellgate was certainly not the work of any conjurer, and no mage, no matter how strong, could bring forth so many daedra of their own volition. Then there was the fact that they seemed to be strangely...organized. Was this planned? Was the Empire being invaded by the Princes themselves!? Nothing about the situated boded well, and Orintur could only hope Kvatch received reinforcements, and that they could close the hellgate and gain access to the city. Until then, Orintur had only his hammer, and his faith in the divines. | Character Name: Orintur Graywatch
Age: 57, approximate
Race: Altmer
Sex: Male
Birthsign: The Tower
Specialisation: Combat
Class: Paladin
Skills:
Expert: Two-Handed Blunt
Journeyman: Heavy Armor, Restoration
Apprentice: Destruction, Athletics, Hand to Hand
Novice: Speechcraft, One-Handed Blade, One-Handed Blunt, Foraging
Crafting: Novice Smithing and Alchemy
Appearance: For the most part, Orintur is your typical yellow-skinned Altmer, standing at about a head higher than the average height of most other races, with pointed ears and narrow eyes, irises matching his skin. What makes him a bit different, though, is that Orintur is noticeably far more muscular than the slim and dainty everyday High Elf, thanks to his extensive training with large two-handed weapons and heavy armors. Orintur keeps his platinum hair short; he hates how bothersome long hair can be and would rather be able to wake up and not need to rearrange anything.
Of course it goes without saying that, as a Paladin, Orintur sees his fair share of combat. As such, he has a good number of scars to document his adventures. The most noticeable scar is a large burn mark on his lower abdomen, given to Orintur by a flame atronach summoned by an accursed warlock that had been terrorizing nearby villages. The Altmer's armor intercepted the fireball, but that didn't stop all the damage, for his armor had reached searing levels of heat where it was hit. Unable to take off his cuirass in the middle of battle, Orintur fought for several more minutes with it on, and with every movement he was scorched further. By the time the mage was dead, not even the most powerful of Restoration magics could have healed his wound completely. Far less epic scars line Orintur's body, mainly across his arms, some acquired during his training, others given to him by bandits and other foul creatures that lucked out and bypassed his armor.
Personality: Being a High Elf, one of another race would be inclined to groan at Orintur's approach, thanks to his race's less than tolerant view of anyone not their own. One would most certainly not expect, though, for the young(for a High Elf, anyway) Paladin to greet them with ecstatic glee; indeed, Orintur is as nice as nice gets...well, as long as you aren't a heretic. Following the dictations of his patron god, Stendarr, Orintur has unending love for the citizens of Tamriel, and is always happy to meet new people and offer his services to those in need. This love stops, though, for those that would bring harm to anyone under his protection, that being every person in Tamriel not openly against the Nine Divines. These villains are deemed heretics, and Orintur believes it is his mission as bestowed upon him by Mighty Stendarr to bring them to justice, be it at the end of a gavel...or his hammer. Bandits, conjurers of foul daedra, rogue wizards and necromancers, and thieves to a lesser extent all fall under Orintur's definition of "heretic", and such people would do well to keep their hobbies a secret from the ever-wary Paladin if they want to get in his good graces.
The good citizens of Tamriel and all other adherents of the Nine Divines, however, can feel free to approach Orintur with all manner of problems; whatever they be, most can probably be solved with his hammer. If a hammer is not enough, then the Altmer can turn to his magics of Restoration and Destruction, or even his limited knowledge of alchemy and smithing, for he is nothing if not versatile. Orintur takes great pride in assisting those around him, and would give his life if it ever came to such a thing, so strong is his faith in the teachings of the Divines. Unfortunately however, Orintur's zealotry has made some of even the most pious of church-goers fearful of him, worried that they may unknowingly engage in some innocuous activity that nevertheless draws the paladin's ire and would put them at the end of a warhammer. Many city guards are also not quite fans of Orintur, viewing his methods as too extreme and uncompromising, and disruptive to the general peace. If he is not barred from entering a city outright, the Altmer is under the strict watch of a detachment of guards who stand at a distance, waiting for him to step out of line.
Backstory: Orintur has no knowledge of his homeland, where exactly he was born, when he was born, or even who birthed him. From what he could gather from his adoptive family at the Chapel of Stendarr in Chorrol, a young woman brought him to the chapel as a baby. The woman, who was in a heavy concealing cloak and scarf, said his name was Orintur Graywatch, and to the Primate's great confusion and frustration, she would not reveal any more details, no matter how much she was pressed. The only other words the woman spoke was a request to "please raise him to be kind". In the second the Primate turned his head to look at Orintur, the woman had vanished. Letters of inquiry to other chapels and contacts turned up fruitless; the woman could not be found nor was there anyone under the name of Graywatch in Cyrodiil. With no one else able or willing to take the infant elf in, the Primate decided to make the chapel his new home, and raise him under the guidance of the Commands of the Divines with the help of the other priests.
Orintur, under the wise tutelage of the Primate and priests of Stendarr, came to learn and hold dearly the teachings of the Nine Divines. Memorizing the Ten Commands and taking to heart the wisdom of revered saints, the Divines became the center of his life, and Orintur would spend many hours of the day praying and performing rites, taking short breaks to eat simple foods, help around the city, and sleep until the next morning where he would renew his routine. No doubt Orintur looked peculiar praying at the altars, being a High Elf and what all that entailed to those that didn't know anything of him, but everything just seemed to fit for the Altmer. He felt Zenithar fill his bones with the strength to live day after day, Mara fill his heart with love, and Julianos fill his mind with wisdom. The Divine that Orintur felt closest to, of little surprise, being raised in his chapel, was Stendarr. He felt compelled to help and protect the weak, and was overjoyed whenever he was able to do volunteer work to assist the needy. At twenty-five, fifteen years after beginning his general training as a devotee of the Divines, Orintur spoke to the Primate and requested he begin training to serve Stendarr. The Primate, naturally, was overjoyed, and asked what he would like to specialize in. Orintur thought long and hard on this, and eventually came to a conclusion: he would be a paladin of Stendarr. It just sounded right to him, marching across Cyrodiil, striking down evildoers and offering aid to those whose paths he crossed; it felt like something was calling him to take on the mantle of Paladin. To this day, Orintur attributes his choice to the guiding hand of Stendarr, who believed the Altmer would be best suited for that path above all others.
Orintur's training officially began with the arrival of a full-fledged paladin, whom the Primate called to the Chapel to teach the High Elf every other month; Orintur's lessons would alternate between martial and spiritual training, with the Primate instructing him in all the rites of Stendarr. Romana Marius was a behemoth of a woman, almost as tall as Orintur himself and with plenty of muscle to match. Her red hair was short and messy, with a face as plain as a foundation stone and a stare that could shatter one; Romana certainly had no time set aside for looking nice. With how mean she could look on the outside, however, Romana was surprisingly amicable. You had to listen for her smile, not look for it, as one of the priests familiar with her once said. She was glad that Orintur chose the path of the paladin, as according to her their numbers were running quite low, and made Orintur aware of their kind's high mortality rate. She was greatly pleased to hear her student's confidence and determination, and began his first lessons. They spent several weeks trying to find the aspiring warrior a weapon of choice, and went through many with little success. Sword and shield, spears, axes, none quite clicked with Orintur...until he came to the mighty warhammer. He was practically in love with the raw power of such a weapon, and asked to be trained in its use.
The first two years with Romana was specifically spent learning how to wear heavy armor and properly use a warhammer, along with a bit of hand-to-hand training. Proper footing, getting down the right amount of momentum, using distance to one's advantage, all the basics. When she believed Orintur could use the weapon confidently, Romana began engaging in full-on spars with her student. While obviously not on equal footing with his mentor, Orintur could still land his fair share of strikes. One day, Romana hit Orintur with an extremely heavy strike, bruising him terribly. What he initially believed was an accident was actually Romana transitioning into her next lessons: the art of Restoration, and how to heal oneself and others. She began by teaching Orintur a basic healing spell to ease his bruising, which he took it upon himself to learn quickly, as the wound panged quite unpleasantly...and then she made him do it again after the next spar when she fractured his index finger. Romana made it clear that she did not injure him for her own amusement, but rather to encourage him to learn how to heal himself faster and give him more experience with Restoration magics. Still, Orintur didn't quite appreciate the beatings even with that assurance, but the more potent spells she taught him after a few months softened the literal blows a bit. The next four years were a repeat of that routine of sparring and then healing, and going out to help those brought into the safety of the city after being attacked by bandits, wolves, and whatever else lurked the roads and forests. Romana had Orintur simply watch at first of course, no telling what an inexperienced student would get wrong, but eventually he was allowed to operate on his first patient. Using the most simple spell available, the Altmer successfully closed the gashes of an unfortunate victim of a mugging. He liked those lessons much more. Two more years were spent learning the art of Destruction; Romana admitted that while, yes, Destruction was quite an unsavory school, a paladin needs several methods of attacking, as one may not be able to get close enough to bash away with steel.
Another two years passed, all the time with Romana spent perfecting his technique after having learned all of the basics of combat and magic. When the time had come for Orintur's trial of initiation, he could manuever himself smoothly even in heavy iron, could close and mend the wounds of himself and others in under twenty seconds, and his prowess with warhammers was something to be feared. Romana, the Primate, and all others who had witnessed his training were confident in his ability...but were the Divines? Such was the purpose of his trial, to determine his worthiness in the eyes of Stendarr. Orintur's mission: Head to a nearby cave, once the lair of some goblins, and destroy the warlock hiding away inside. The warlock had been attacking travellers on the road to Chorrol frequently, and was the cause of all the recent burn victims carried into the city. He was to bring back their staff as proof of his success.
The moment Orintur stepped into the vile lair of the mage, the scent of death hit him in the face with nauseating force. In the second chamber was the cause: Six glassy-eyed corpses, reanimated by the darkest of magicks. They were the unfortunate travellers that did not make it the rest of the way to Chorrol, their flesh singed with intense magical flames. To profane the dead in such a way was heresy in the eyes of Arkay, and so Orintur dispatched them swiftly. The slow, shambling zombies were no match for Orintur and his warhammer, and the Altmer had little issue releasing them from their servitude. Deeper in the cave, however, was a sight truly horrible: piled up in a corner was a mountain of corpses, most much, much older than the poor souls in the previous chamber. Next to them were bloody carts; the blasphemer had been practicing necromancy far before moving near Chorrol. Filled with righteous fury, Orintur was going to make sure the bastard would not be able to relocate this time. At the very end of the cave was a large open room with torches, and sconces filled with bones. In the middle was a stone altar with a multitude of body parts arranged in a vaguely humanoid shape...with the sickening mage ogling at their handiwork with childish wonderment. The clanking of armor alerted the aging warlock, but she was none too impressed with her adversary, wondering aloud if the following of Stendarr was so weak that they had to send a boy after her.
Summoning forth a fire atronach, the warlock looked on amusedly as her minion went to work on Orintur. The atronach was swifter than he anticipated, and he missed his first swing. Now at a safe distance, the daedroth flung a ball of fire at Orintur, hitting the middle of his cuirass. Though not hit directly, the heated part of his armor would occasionally brush against his body, searing him painfully whenever he turned. Deciding his foe was too good at gaining distance, the Altmer switched to blasting the atronach with orbs of ice. Only when the summon was in a weakened state did Orintur charge forth and let his hammer crash down on his foe's skull. Turning away from the fizzling remains of the flaming abomination, the warlock and the paladin-to-be locked eyes, both glaring at the other. Lifting up her staff, the warlock let loose a fireball, crashing behind Orintur as he jumped to the side to avoid another unfortunate burn wound; the one he had already was getting on his nerves as it was. Retaliating with a lightning bolt, the furious High Elf advanced quickly, his attack sending the warlock's next fireball askew, far away from her charging foe. Before they were able to send out another spell, Orintur knocked the mage to the ground with a hard shoulder-bash, who followed up with a quick stomp to their arm, breaking it and forcing them to let go of their staff. The blasphemer's predictable last-ditch promises of unlimited power went unheard, and were ultimately silenced by Orintur's warhammer cracking them across the skull, snapping her neck at a disgusting angle.
After treating his burn as best as he could, Orintur grabbed the accursed staff and prayed to Arkay and Stendarr, praying that the souls of the dead so disrespectfully mutilated in the cave would be tended to, and that the warlock would hopefully be granted pardon by Stendarr the Merciful. It was dark by the time Orintur returned to the chapel, and he was greeted by the relieved cheering of its inhabitants. Handing the staff to the Primate, it was announced that Orintur would be made a paladin of Stendarr on the morn. Never before had rest felt so deserved to the anxious Altmer.
After waking and praying at the altars, Orintur met the Primate at the center of the chapel. He was surpised at how many were in attendance: there was Romana and the other priests of the chapel, which wasn't too shocking, but behind them in the pews were several citizens of Chorrol and even a few guards. Kneeling low, the Primate proudly began the induction speech, placing upon Orintur the blessings of Stendarr and the other Divines, charging him with the faithful service of the good people of Tamriel, to defend and protect the weak and innocent, and to forever hold the ideals of generosity and kindness to others in his heart. Accepting these gifts and responsibilities, Orintur rose and took in his hands the steel warhammer and donned the steel armor forged by Chorrol's blacksmith, ordered by Romana and the priests specially for the Altmer's coronation. After the ceremony, Romana told Orintur that the reason for the large amount of attendees was that a paladin of Stendarr hadn't been inducted in many years, and it was an exciting event for the townsfolk. He vowed to not disappoint the people of Chorrol, or of anywhere else in Tamriel. To that end, he geared up, said his great thanks to the kind priests that raised him, to and the Primate Romana for their teachings, and set out across Cyrodiil.
The following years weren't exactly full of epic adventures and quests to destroy evil artifacts. In fact, Orintur's new life as a paladin was fairly mundane, and that suited him just fine. Helping people with problems, big or small, filled Orintur with purpose, and his spirits were raised with every word of thanks and gratitude. He took very little in terms of rewards, accepting little more than pieces of fruit or refills for his waterskin. As a result of this, and his eventual reputation as a reliable but incredibly extreme man of the faith barring him entry from most cities by the guards, Orintur has had to learn how to find his own food in the form of berries and edible plants along with the uncommon pieces of meat from the game he is able to reliably hunt, and has also taken it upon himself to learn the basics of using small swords and handaxes, just in case he ever finds himself without his hammer or enough magicka for spells. The intricacies of smithing and alchemy are far beyond the Altmer, but he knows enough to keep his armor and weapons in decent shape, and can brew basic potions for healing, fatigue, and magicka recovery.
The news of the Emperor's death saddened Orintur greatly, and upon hearing of the event he gave himself to the Kvatch arena games, hoping to honor the late Uriel Septim with victory in combat. He planned to later pray and mourn in the Chapel of Akatosh, and unbeknownst to him them, pray and mourn he would, but not just for the dead Emperor, but for all people of Tamriel.
Then the time for prayer would end, and thus would begin the purging of heretics, blashphemers, and daedric abominations. The Princes themselves shall fear the name Orintur Graywatch!
Spells:
Restoration
Greater Convalescence(J), Heal Major Wounds(A), Convalescence(A), Heal Minor Wounds(N)
Destruction
Shock(A), Corrode Armor(A), Snowball(N)
Inventory:
Storage
1 x Large Leather Backpack
1 x Leather harness w/ three pouches
Alchemy Gear
1 x Mortar/Pestle
3 x Empty vials
Sufficient ingredients to make two potions of light healing, and one potion of light magicka recovery
1 x Healing/Stamina/Magicka potions
Tools/Arms and Armor/Clothing
1 x Green cotton shirt/black trousers/leather boots
1 x Set of fluted steel plate armor with gauntlets, greaves, and a bucket helmet w/ raisable face plate
1 x Steel warhammer
1 x Iron dagger, fastened to harness across cuirass
1 x Armourer's hammer and whetstone
1 x Small handaxe for chopping up bits of wood for fires, fastened to his backpack
Food and Provisions
1 x Medium sized waterskin
2 x Cuts of cooked venison
1 x Red Apple
3 x Half-loafs of bread
1 x Small leather tent and bedroll |
56,357 | 1,541 | 2 | 365 | 1,196 | Adamiir Thiich - Kvatch Chapel - Pondering
As a rule, Adamiir liked to avoid any location that seemed particularly shifty. He and Morinus once passed through a town called Hackdirt, and since then Adamiir had given the place a wide berth on all future travels. This was a rule, one that he followed religiously. The problem then, with Kvatch, was that on no occasion did Adamiir even entertain the idea that the city might be anything more than just that; a city. What the Breton did not then understand, was why Mehrunes Dagon himself decided that parking the front door to his personal realm of hell in front of the city gates was a good idea. Not that the event didn’t intrigue Adamiir, quite the opposite in fact. The opening of a stable gate to any realm of Oblivion of that size was thought to be an impossibility. Being on the receiving end of an invasion of merciless daedra was proving to be a most exciting venture.
The experience was not without its drawbacks, however.
The end result of this misadventure was very clear to him. He, and everyone else in this godsforsaken chapel were going to wind up with their heads on pikes, or as scraps for the scampy’s perhaps. One thing was certain, however. They were all… “...going to die.” Adamiir’s voice rang out across the room, piercing the uncomfortable silence that until this point consisted mostly of murmured prayers and muted sobs. He paused for a moment, smiling warmly at anyone attempting to make eye contact with him, before taking long strides over to the other side of the chapel. The people over here were further away, and he would have appeared quieter to them, ergo, anyone here would be less likely to dislike him should he make an attempt at conversation. The most likely looking individual was a Bosmer talking to a small bird perched on her shoulder, a magpie if Adamiir was not mistaken. How delightful! He once had a vivid dream that he himself was a vulture, and had since then held a great respect for most if not all avian creatures.
The Bosmer girl began to feed her little friend, and Adamiir shuddered once with excitement, gripping at his pendant momentarily. He approached her carefully, being certain that he didn’t accidentally mimic any motions typically associated with any of the magpie’s known predators. “Greetings, Bosmer, friend of birds-” He paused, and his eyes found purchase looking into her’s, molten yellow globes in stark comparison to his muted grey. “I…” Adamiir’s voice trailed off again as he studied the multitude of scars marring her otherwise pretty face. Finding his voice once more, Adamiir began to speak. “You have seen battle. That is a good thing. It seems unlikely that the… uninitiated will see tomorrow without the help of those with experience. Or… you have not seen battle. And you were the victim of a horrendous attack in years past. In that case, you have my condolences, as your chances of survival just dropped significantly.”
Adamiir peered at her, waiting to see if she felt as optimistic about this encounter as he did. “However,” He began, taking in a breath. “If the latter is the case, I will do my utmost to see to it that both you and your feathered ally escape this city unharmed.” He smiled at her, as though she were an old friend coming to visit for the first time in months, showing off near immaculate teeth. “You will be pleased to know that this raises your chances of survival by a small margin!” | Character Name:
Adamiir Thiich
Age:
28
Race:
Breton
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Tower
Specialisation:
Magic/Stealth
Class:
Treasure Seeker
Skills:
Expert- Illusion
Journeyman- Destruction, Acrobatics, Trap-setting (Craft), Translation (Ayleid, Craft)
Apprentice- Athletics, Restoration, Sneak
Novice- Mercantile, Security, Alteration, Foraging
Appearance:
Tall and gangly, an inch or two below the height of the average Altmer when standing straight, with sharp bony features and his shoulders bent forward in a slight stoop, Adamiir’s form carries with it an aura of wrongness, as though he was put together by an amateur craftsman with pieces that never quite matched. His face is pale and clean shaven, his nose long and thin, pointed downwards, vaguely resembling the beak of a hawk. His mouth is a crooked slash of a thing, resting uncomfortably on his face. Set above high cheekbones and hollow cheeks are Adamiir’s eyes, dark and nervous, always jittering around, changing their focus every few seconds. Atop his head lies a thick mop of shoulder length blonde hair, dark gold, like that of a lion’s mane.
Unusually spry, despite his unwieldy appearance, Adamiir has built a small amount of muscle from a lifetime climbing trees in the Great Forest and pushing through its brush. Without concern for armor, he dons nothing more than a pair of leather shoes, sturdy but simple, brown cloth pants, for ease of movement without sacrificing durability, and a navy blue tunic, a belt of dark leather around the waist. The only other item of noticeable interest would be a plan silver amulet, given to Adamiir by his master.
Personality:
To call Adamiir eccentric would be both accurate and simultaneously a vast oversimplification. When it comes to the fine art of conversation, he is woefully awkward and unskilled, usually coming off of as somewhat touched in the head to the more judgemental folk populating Nirn. Despite these limitations, Adamiir prides himself as a teacher, always ready to educate present company with any information he has relevant to the conversation… whether his input was requested or not. As stilted as it may be, Adamiir does try his best to extend goodwill to those deserving of it; he is often caught between the desire to do good unto others and do what is best for himself. It would be correct in stating that Adamiir has a selfish streak running parallel to his generous one.
A particular fascination of his is the Ayleids, and while his enthusiasm for history is great, the passion he feels for the Ayleids’ mysterious nature is unmatched. Sometimes when he thinks no one can see him, he pulls out a welkynd stone, as full of magicka as the day he first claimed it, and stares deep into the crystalline blue surface, mesmerized by its glow.
Not a stranger to peril, Adamiir is confident in his abilities to escape most dangers with ease. More specifically, he puts stock in his prowess with the school of illusion, being able to manipulate the minds of others to cause chaos (or nullify it) while he makes a speedy exit from the scene. In cases where trickery wouldn’t be enough to solve the problem Adamiir faces, he is skilled in the fine art of melting faces.
He has a habit of gripping at his pendant when nervous, and often mumbles the end of a thought out loud when not actively refraining from doing so.
Backstory:
Adamiir’s Biography - Prologue - An Attempted Theft
For Jeriyn and Talasa Broell, the graveyard of Falkreath was like a candy shop. And they, of course, were the kids. As Jeriyn told Talasa often, there were enough dead soldiers buried there to take over the entire hold, and all it would take was two skilled necromancers, such as themselves. And as Talasa told Jeriyn often, the whole mess had better be worth their while, or she’d take Adamiir and turn tail right back to Cyrodiil, where it wasn’t so stupid cold. This exchange was repeated often between the two, all the way from Kvatch to the very graveyard in question. Talasa watched Jeriyn work incredulously, her babe pressed into her bosom to keep him warm during the chill of night.
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Again and again Jeriyn labored, digging himself deeper into the earth, closer to the dead.
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Shhckk
“I’ve got it!” Jeriyn exclaimed, the sound of metal striking wood one that he knew well. He dropped to his knees and began to scoop the dirt out of the way by hand, and sure enough the telltale planks of a coffin were revealed to him. “This is just the beginning,” he whispered to himself. “Soon, we’ll have an army.” Jeriyn hoisted himself out of the grave, and stood on its precipice. “Talasa, fetch the axe, I need it.” Wordlessly, she turned to leave. Talasa hated it when Jeriyn ordered her around in that manner, but refusing would just make him angry.
Nighteye guided her safely to the edge of the graveyard and beyond, into the brush where their horse, Whisper, was hidden, the animal’s reins tied to a sturdy, low hanging branch. Talasa retrieved the demanded axe from the saddlebags, its heavy weight feeling awkward and alien in her grasp. She started back towards Jeriyn, but froze mid step only a few paces later. There were angry shouts originating from where she came, followed by the unmistakable sight of Jeriyn’s spellfire. Talasa sucked in her breath, clutching at Adamiir, hoping against hope that her husband would come out of this unscathed.
It wasn’t to be. There were no more signs of magicka expenditure, yet the angry voices remained, and they were drawing closer. Talasa looked down in horror at the tracks in the snow that would lead her pursuers straight to her location. She took action in an instant, struggling to free Whisper’s reigns from the tree yet still managing. Pulling herself into the saddle, she seized the reins with one hand while her other arm held Adamiir close to her chest. The spurs digging into Whisper’s flanks were enough to get her moving, going at a full gallop out of the wood and onto the main road, Kvatch bound.
A storm of arrows whizzed past Talasa and Whisper, the former releasing the reins and trusting the latter to guide them in order to curl themselves around their child. Fire erupted in Talasa’s thigh, then again under her right shoulder blade. Both times she lurched forward in the saddle, crying with pain. The second time she spat blood flecked spit onto Adamiir’s face.
It did not take long before Whisper began to tire, and the horse slowed itself to a trot. Talasa held her head up slightly, surveying her surroundings as best she could as her vision began to darken. The Nords had not pursued. She lowered her head again, fixing her eyes on Adamiir. Alive. Unharmed. Tucking her chin against her chest and closing her eyes, Talasa allowed herself one small smile.
The infant Adamiir stared up at his mother’s serene face with curiosity, her heart beats echoing in his right ear slowly weakening, barely kept aflutter by desperate healing magics.
Whisper trotted on.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part One - The Master
Morinus Thiich needed an apprentice. It was only a short decade ago that he himself was the student, learning from the travelling mages and scholars delving deep into the Ayleid ruins for wealth and knowledge. However, his old teachers were now retired or dead, and in Morinus’ line of work, someone that had your back made the difference between life and death. An Ayleid temple tucked into the mountains separating Skyrim and Cyrodiil would mark the last time Morinus ever ventured into one of those dungeons alone. Now he would travel back south and scout the province’s various counties for an eligible apprentice.
Life, however, had different plans in store.
A blood stained babe clutched in the grip of what appeared to be said babe’s dying mother was not what Morinus Thiich expected to discover on his return trek home from the Jerall Mountains. But sure enough, there they both were, one atop the other, motionless on the side of the road, whoever or whatever brought them here already long gone. Morinus rushed over to the two, discovering the woman’s wounds to be much worse than he anticipated. Her left leg was mangled beyond repair, and a smouldering carcass of… something lay a few feet away. She tilted her head towards Morinus, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She lifted her arms once, feebly, raising her child towards the mage, before lowering them again, and growing still. This was not the ideal process that Morinus hoped to use, but he had been looking for someone malleable to pass his knowledge down to. The aging Breton sighed, and seized the infant up into his arms.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Two - Rocks and Spells, Spells and Rocks
A few years passed since Morinus first found his pupil by the roadside, and the child that was known as Adamiir quickly became Morinus’ most promising student. Any free time seemed to have the child entirely absorbed in his studies. Learning of the lore and history of the world was one of Adamiir’s great passions. What took precedence above all other activities, however, was Morinus’ rigorous training regime, climbing trees and scaling large boulders would teach Adamiir to always remain agile and light on his feet, skills that would be tested when trees and boulders became the dilapidated ruins of ancient ayleid temples. Being able to bend the minds of friend and foe alike would always be an invaluable aid to Adamiir, as would spells of light that would guide Adamiir safely through even the darkest of crypts. Paralysis spells would come in handy whenever a quick escape was needed, while invisibility spells would ensure that he could not be tracked easily. Indeed, the many fine intricacies of the illusion school of magic were a great passion of Morinus’, one that he would ensure was passed down to Adamiir.
However, there are always times in life when smoke and mirrors cannot deflect the truth, or for every tricky ace one has up their sleeve, their adversary has two more. The destruction school of magic was ideal for dealing with these incidents, and this too, Morinus taught to his young breton pupil. Aside from rocks and spells, he also saw it fit to give Adamiir some amount of proficiency in the art of trapping. When on the road away from extended periods of time, one must learn to be self sufficient. Though a few other bits and bobs were thrown in to occasionally mix up the schedule, the curriculum Adamiir would follow for years to come was set in stone.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Three - First Flight
It was at fifteen years of age when Adamiir first accompanied Morinus on his excursions to the Ayleid ruins. The sheer scope of how vast the empire of the Heartland Elves once was awed him, whilst simultaneously instilling a strange sense of forlorn melancholy in his heart. Crumbling ruins crawling with the dead were all that remained. The underground locale shown to Adamiir was small, and of relatively simple design. Threats were few and far between, only a few shambling skeletons waiting to be sent to the next world. They were no match for Adamiir’s magic - Morinus was simply observing, waiting to see if his protégé was prepared for future excursions - and he suspected that Morinus chose this specific location for those exact reasons.
Adamiir had been correct in assuming that a safer, more straightforward ruin was selected for the purpose of acting as a final test, as revealed by Morinus during their departure. From that point on, Morinus and Adamiir traveled across Cyrodiil as equals, the lessons taught by the former serving the latter well, and only magnifying in their usefulness.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Four - Homeward Bound
For many more years, Adamiir and Morinus lined their pockets pilfering the riches of a long dead civilization. Mages across the province paid handsomely for the ethereal blue welkynd stones, while a contact in the Imperial City rewarded the pair handsomely for the more uncommon treasures they discovered. Lord Umbacano proved to be a most gracious associate, treating the two to fine meals whenever a particularly intriguing artifact was delivered.
It seemed that whenever Adamiir and Morinus weren’t on the road, they were resting in an inn, the concept of home becoming a foreign term, just another pit stop whenever it was convenient for the route the two had undertaken. There came a time, however, when they were forced to return to their humble cabin in the Great Forest, a few miles down the road from the city of Chorrol. Morinus was growing weaker and more frail in his old age, turning a homecoming into an inevitable necessity. Adamiir’s trapping talents became more invaluable than ever, the furs and excess meats being traded with the local farmers for food, while anything he kept was consumed. During this time Adamiir made many stews, as it was easier for Morinus to consume. He became quite good at making them too.
Despite Morinus’ weakened state, there was still one thing he could offer his apprentice. That was the secrets of the Ayleid language, and for the next few years leading up to his passing, the two spent much of their time together going over all of the knowledge at Morinus’ disposal.
Morinus had urged Adamiir a few times, before he became sickly, to let him be and go make a fortune, but Adamiir always refused, insisting that his place was at Morinus’ side. He vowed to watch over his master for as long as necessary.
And he did.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Five - Bad News, Good News, More Bad News
After Morinus’ death, Adamiir was on the road once again. He couldn’t deny it, the call, the call that both he and his old master had felt. The secrets and treasures of the Ayleids called to him, their siren song luring him ever closer to his destiny, and further into the depths of the earth. For three more years Adamiir traveled Cyrodiil and fell deeper under the spell of his beguiling mistress, the lost Ayleid culture. It was on a routine stop to Kvatch to drop off some welkynd stones at the local mages guild that he first heard of the Emperor’s assassination, as well as the festivities to be held in celebration of the Count’s birthday. On a whim, Adamiir decided to stick around and participate in the festivities.
That choice was very quickly turning out to be a grave mistake.
Spells:
Illusion- Immobilize (Touch), Dominate Creature/Human (Ranged), Eyes of Midnight (Self), Calming Touch (Touch), Rage (Ranged), Voice of Rapture (Ranged), Fearful Gaze (Ranged), Heroic Touch (Touch), Torchlight (Self), Ghostwalk (Self), Mute (Ranged), Shadow (Self)
Destruction- Lightning Grasp (Touch), Dire Wound (Ranged), Frost Bolt (Ranged), Searing Grasp (Touch), Lightning Bolt (Ranged), Flare (Ranged)
Restoration- Convalescence (Ranged), Heal Major Wounds (Self), Heal Minor Wounds (Self)
Alteration- Protect (Self), Open Very Easy Lock (Touch)
Inventory:
The clothes on Adamiir’s back
A travel pack that the following items are either stored in or strapped to
Sturdy twine for snares
Two reusable bear traps
Bedroll
243 septims
3 weak potions of sorcery
Steel knife, utilitarian
Flint & steel
A welkynd stone
Character Name:
Veeza
Age:
32
Race:
Argonian
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lord
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Brawler
Skills:
Expert- Hand to Hand
Journeyman- Heavy Armor, Athletics, Suturing (Craft)
Apprentice- Acrobatics, Restoration, Speechcraft, Alchemy (Craft)
Novice-One Handed Blades, Two Handed Blades, One Handed Blunt, Block
Appearance:
When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it’s own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, tapering into sharp points at the tip. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with pupils as lizard-like as the rest of him.
While his scales act as a natural defense, fifteen years spent fighting for his life in the arena has left Veeza with a plethora of scars marring his body, leaving none of him untouched. The worst of them have been caused by a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach; the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. Rarely will one find the Argonian outside of his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.
Personality:
As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He never fails to speak his mind regardless of what he desires to say, and puts little stock in the opinions of others, especially those seeking to denounce him. Typically, those capable of intelligent, polite conversation as well as feats of valor upon the field of battle can earn his respect, while those that lack the former will also be subject to his ire.
In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet been in a situation forcing him to lose his cool.
Backstory:
Veeza’s Biography - Prologue - Drunken Lizard
Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.” Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I’ll never have to see your stupid face again.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor. Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 1 - Nothing But A Pair Of Fists
Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man, either things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become.
Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 2 - Graduation Day
The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid from compliant members at the local mages guild to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday he entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of the red team mourned for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them.
Besides, now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 3 - The Pit Dragon
The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the floor of the arena. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand.
The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new blood; a pit dog.
It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his most grievous scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long pony tail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 4 - The New Arena
If the dead had the gift of hindsight, many of the arena combatants might have considered themselves lucky to have been torn apart by daedra hordes, as opposed to being torn apart by Veeza’s bare hands. Kvatch’s grand champion in specific was particularly lucky. As while many matches were planned in celebration of Count Goldwine’s birthday, the red team’s champion, Veeza, against the city’s grand champion, Langurius Nerich, was to be the main event. The two had a cordial, even friendly relationship, and Veeza’s challenge to Langurius’ title came as a surprise to all in the city. Tensions were running high, and this match was played up to be the biggest in decades. Fate seemed to have different plans for the two, however. Langurius would find himself a charred corpse on the floor of the bloodworks, indistinguishable from the others surrounding him. Meanwhile, Veeza would be fighting for his life to eventually reach safety within the walls of Kvatch’s chapel, waiting for what seemed to be an inevitable demise.
Spells:
Restoration- Heal Minor Wounds (Self), Convalescence (Target)
Inventory:
His iron armor, the gauntlets are reinforced with steel and have studs made of dwarven metal inlaid along the knuckles
A hastily thrown together travel pack that includes
A pair of trousers
A mortar and pestle
Needles and thread for sewing wounds
Provisions of hard tack and dried jerky that could last around a week at full ration, double that at half
500 septims, the earnings from his last victory |
56,358 | 1,541 | 3 | 1,841 | 5,697 | Bardeck the Warrior leaned against the chapel wall, taking a swig of his water jug and wetting his parched throat. His weapons were leaning against the wall in a similar fashion to he. Gideon the War Dog paced back and forth, his wolfish and muscled form was covered in dense fur, making him seem both approachable, but very powerful. Not unlike Bardeck himself, the young man handsome with warm eyes, contrasting his muscled and rugged form.
He took the lull in the fight to calm himself, taking a drink and enjoying the moment. He'd been through some rough shit before, but by the Nine Divines he had never seen something like this. At the mere thought of what they faced, he quickly put his water jug back to his belt, and hefted his Axe. With his free hand, he ran his fingers over the marks upon his iron armor. The breastplate was still strong, but that Daedra might have even broken through the Iron if Bardeck had not seen the blow from that hellish mace coming.
It didn't matter. What happened, happened. He shook his head to gather back his sense, his shaggy, unkempt hair swaying back and forth. He would face whatever came through that door, once they broke in. And break in they would...
With that, he stepped forward toward the front of the chapel. A silent prayer left his lips in a whisper as he passed the altar, Gideon padding beside him and gazing to and fro warily. He shook his head at the male Breton deciding that now was the time to flirt. At least the hammer wielding Altmer was ready for the fight.
Somehow, despite the mounting fear and unease, he felt right at home here. He'd always figured he would die in battle. The very gates of Oblivion had opened before them, and he had been there to fight the first wave of demon spawn. As it should be. Even as he hacked them down, he felt the corruption and decay of their warped souls twist before his eyes. His one regret was that Gideon had to be here too, though he knew the War Dog would not be anywhere else. He smiled to his animal companion, and the Dog gave a panting smile in return. | Name:
Bardek Gildenhart
Age:
25
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Warrior
Skills:
Expert: Blunt (Two Handed)
Journeyman: Block
Journeyman: Smithing
Apprentice: Hunting
Apprentice: Heavy Armor
Apprentice: Blunt (One Handed)
Novice: Heavy Armor
Novice: Athletics
Novice: Acrobatics
Novice: Two Handed (Staves, Polearms)
Appearance:
If Bardeck could be described in one word, it would be 'rugged.' His black hair is wavy and barely falls short of reaching his broad shoulders. This coupled with his 5'oclock shadow give him an unkempt visage. The young man's body is muscled yet lean, his skin having bronzed from the constant work outdoors (and thanks to his father's blood). He prefers wearing sturdy leather trousers, loose fitting but snug at the waist, tied by a plain brown sash belt. When in combat or preparing, he wears iron armor over a linen tunic. Outside of combat, he simply wears the tunic, usually opened in the center. If he's alone he'll go shirtless, simply enjoying the breeze and the heat of the day. His height is fairly average for an Imperial, not short by any means but not particularly tall. His callused and scarred hands are rough but firm to the touch (much like the rest of him). His caramel eyes are the softest part of him, full of life and passion, fiery wonder, and sometimes innocent curiosity.
Personality:
Bradeck can be described as a rough and ready warrior. His fierce independence and rough nature can only be matched by his loyalty to those he deems worthy. He's not particularly book smart, and can miss a few finer details of a more subtle plan when he's ready to fight in combat. Despite that, he's intuitive and introspective, with a quick mind and a dry wit. He has a quiet, a down to earth wisdom that often views the world in a pragmatic, useful manner. He's quite a passionate and creative individual when opened up to someone.
Due to his childhood being spent with male friends, and the only females he spent much time with were family members or female Orcs that would sooner hit him than hit on him, he's quite confused when it comes to romance. It's a coin toss on whether he gets very defensive and stand offish, or very stuttering and shy. It's just not his element. He respects warriors and those who pull their own weight or who show great skill. He's annoyed at laziness and dishonesty. He doesn't pick fights easily however, and only do it when he truly thinks its called for, and that's after one too many times of blundering. Not after strike one. Though he might be outspoken and blunt at his disapproval.
Backstory:
Bardeck was born in Anvil, to an Imperial ex-soldier father and a Nordic mother. They resided there for 7 years. Bardeck enjoyed swimming and exploring the surrounding woods, fascinated by the untold wilderness. At age 8, his mother's father passed away, and they moved to Skyrim in Markarth where his grandmother still resided to help her live and keep her company. His parents began a moderately successful trading business.
Bradeck wasn't quite used to the new surroundings, and was bullied by the Nordic children other than a select few whom he'd later name as his best friends. On one occasion, the other children began to rough him up near the back end of Markarth, when the Orcish smith knocked them back and bared his great fangs, causing them to flee. He gave some gruff advice to Bradeck, telling him not to let other kids push him around. He went back to his smithy.
Bradeck began to visit the smith every now and then, watching him at his work. Eventually they exchanged names. Rogath was the Orc's name, and he took a liking to Bradeck's inquisitive nature, allowing him to learn a few tricks of the trade while they spent time together through offhand advice. During this time, Bradeck would learn a few pointers of combat from his father after helping unload the carts coming to the city.
Bradeck was there when his grandmother passed away, holding his mother and crying with her when he was 14 years old. The death of his grandmother sparked questions on who he was in his mind. He felt a sense of pride to both his stoic northern blood and southern mercantile roots, but felt a kinship to Rogath and his rough nature. One day, Rogath announced he was traveling back to his homeland, and Bradeck begged him to let him go with him.
At first the Orsimer refused, but then lamented if Bradeck had the strength to go and fetch a bear pelt out in the wild. The boy felt elated, for he knew how to hunt and had the knowledge of a few bear caves, though he knew it would not be an easy quarry. He set off one morning, and found one of the bear frequented caverns. He entered, but instead found the bear dead already. He exploded further, but was discovered by a hungry vampire that had decided to hide here in order to terrorize the travelers of Markarth with relative ease.
Bradeck, armed with a battlaxe, fought for his life. He had wounded the Vampire's hip when the beast had underestimated him, but was quickly overwhelmed and thrown down the cavern. The Vampire leaped at him, intending to kill him. He used the spike on the end of his Battleaxe to impale the flying creature, bowling him over and then decapitating the bloodsucker. Rogath was then presented with both a Bear pelt and Vampire Ash. He had become Blood-Kin.
They traveled to Orsinium and lived in one of the outer lying clans. He grew in both body and spirit, learning advanced combat and Smithing techniques. His fit frame turned muscular, and his mind grew sharper with his exposure to various cultures. The Nordic city of Markarth had helped him deal somewhat with the rough living of Orisinium, truth be told. He was given a warhound Puppy named Gideon on his 21st birthday.
Age 21, he left and decided to become a mercenary and journeyman smith, heading through Hammerfell and working there in various jobs for a year before making it to Cyrodiil, living there ever since. He was recently hired to Kvatch as a caravan guard. A relatively simple job he had thought...
Spells:
Inventory:
Cutie Patoot WarDog
Steel Hand Axe
Iron Armor
Iron Shield
2 x Healing Potion
3 x Bear Pelts
3 x Wolf Pelts
2 pounds of Venison
1 Water Jug
Clothing |
56,359 | 1,541 | 4 | 1,358 | 1,312 | Valentis was one of the few that were scattered within the Chapel, and he was quite easily the oldest here - to them, what they saw was an old man clutching to his walking stick, stroking the fur of his fluffy friend.
It was probably a sad sight, the desperate hopelessness of age clinging to his heels, and despite that he had managed to survive his way to the chapel with those far younger, with much more of their lives ahead of them, Valnetis' life was essentially over, he was enjoying the most his final years had to offer, his healthy lifestyle probably heralded another decade of life in him, if he was lucky.
And despite that, despite the chaos that was ensuing outside, the death and destruction that has laid waste to so many lives, he himself had never felt quite so alive, this tense situation reminded him of his days in Akivir, where he was once full of life and wonder, poking the lands that no man has ever dared to go to off their own back.
And here he was, old and wizened with age, feeling as if he could take hell itself on.
A small whine and light nudge on his legs brought him back to reality for a moment, peering down to his friend, Valen gave Albert's head a little ruffle.
"Don't worry Albert; not even the spawn of Oblivion itself will do you any harm, I may be old, but my hands twitch with an excitement and energy I've not felt for a long time, we'll get out of this, and when we do I'll catch us some venison, a small treat I think for the chaos today."
Albert gave a satisfying and happy bark, and resumed trying to get comfortable of the cold hard floor. Sometimes, Valen envied Albert, it'd be nice to live through a dogs eyes, not having to care about the world and happily going about whatever business they had.
After giving his companion another little ruffle he looked around the room.
Poor souls, the lot of them.
Not entirely unlikely given the scenario there was a man fervently praying; it was evident by his attire that his was a paladin; men of the cloth that took up the righteous hammer of divine justice; typically associated with witch hunters, any manner of activity that broke the tenets usually resulted being on the opposite end of that hammer.
Seeing a sea of the very thing he sought to destroy, must really have took a toll on him.
Other than that there was a very capable warrior standing against one of the walls, with him too was a dog that bordered wolf, comparing Albert - who rolled over to receive a belly scratch, and the wolfish hound across the room was quite the contrast.
But he was evidently a warrior, anyone could see that, nobody however would know anything of the capabilities of Valen; the thoguht that he was actually one of the most skilled fighters here was almost as unlikely as the gates of oblivion themselves opening up outside the city.
Today, would be a day of many surprises.
Then there was a Bosmer girl, and a male Imperial by the looks of it, or maybe a Nord... no he was not brutish enough in appearance for that - well whatever his race he appeared to be trying to console the girl with words of comfort.
Everyone here seemed to be capable warriors, or at least seen some sort of combat.
There may be a chance that escape seemed possible; with as few casualties as possible, if only the divines looked upon them with favour; and in his heart Valen hoped that they did. | Name:
Albert, Alexander, Alistair… His memory slips sometimes, and calls Albert by his older companions names.
Breed:
Border Collie - Typically bred in the Colovian Highlands.
:Appearance:
:Bio
Arf! *Wags tail* |
56,360 | 1,541 | 5 | 428 | 85 | Glenndus had been outside when the skies turned red. He, like many of the people, had fled to the chapel when the daedra started pouring into the city. What had started as a day of festivities and merriment was currently one of death and smoke; both of which he could smell from his position near one of the supporting pillars.
Thank The Nine that something had fallen in front of the doors; he’d been able to set up with a few others and shoot the beasts as they tried to make their way in through the only available entrance. He didn’t know how much help he was, but there were enough bodies out there to convince him he was doing some good. If they’d had to defend numerous entrances, that would have been the end of them, most certainly.
Now, Glenndus sat in his position, resting his weary body. From here, he had a good line of sight on the only entrance, and a pretty good view of the rest of the chapel. If Dagon himself were to smash through the building, he’d at least be able to see it coming. His hand tensed around his bow, where it rested next to him.
He wasn’t sure how comforting that was.
At one end of the chapel, a man prayed to his gods. A noble cause, and if the gods were willing to offer any assistance in stopping the legion of devils that were surrounding them, he certainly wasn't going to turn it down.
“...going to die.” came a voice from inside the chapel. Glenndus shot the Breton man a dirty look, but said nothing. He noted that a few others were currently milling about; others who seemed like they might actually be worth a damn when hell itself spilled into the chapel. They all seemed to be making their introductions, or talking to themselves, and he listened carefully, continuing to maintain his watch on the door.
He wouldn’t be joining in the conversation, there would be time enough to make introductions and give thanks if they all made it out of here alive. | Character Name: Glenndus "Glenn" Vanimus
Age: 26
Race: Imperial
Sex: Male
Birthsign: The Ritual
Specialization: Stealth
Class: Cat-burglar
Skills:
Expert: Sneak
Journeyman: Security, Marksman
Apprentice: Light Armor, Acrobatics, Speechcraft
Novice: Blade, Hand-to-Hand, Athletics, Hunting
Apprentice (Craft): Alchemy, Foraging
Appearance:
Starting from the top, Glenn’s hair is pure black, short enough that it stays out of his eyes. However, it seems poorly cut, like someone decided to cut it with a knife; which is exactly what Glenn did. The rest of his face is none too spectacular, with the exception of his stunning green eyes, the same shade of green you would expect from an emerald. He has no scars on his face but sports a light stubble.
The rest of him isn’t very spectacular either. He’s of a decent height, standing at 5’10”, and doesn’t really have a tan to speak of, instead being pale; but not to the point of being white. He is lean, having long preferred speed over brawn, but he is still muscular enough to notice. He only has one scar on his body, a small knife wound above his right hip.
He wears a complete set of leather armor, save for a helmet (Because, as Glenn figures, if you get hit in the head, no amount of leather will save you). It's pretty basic stuff, from a day when he delivered a couple animal hides to a tanner.
Personality:
Despite being a thief, Glenn tries to maintain a fairly personable attitude. While out and about in daily life, he tries to play the funny guy, while still maintaining careful pessimism. Most of the time, when he’s not part of the conversation, he’s taking in the background, looking for trouble, or guards.
In combat, Glenn naturally tries to stay in the back of the pack, and fire his bow into the crowd from where nobody can see him. If confronted, Glenn prefers to try and put distance between him and his opponent, rather than engaging with what little melee skills he has.
However, on the job, Glenn is a completely different person. The cold and calculating part of him that sits in the background takes over. Every little detail; noises, movement, it all catches his attention. The silhouette of a leaf fluttering by a window, or the creaking of a settling house catches his attention, and inevitably puts him on edge.
Backstory:
Glenn grew up in Bravil to a fairly average family. His life really wasn’t that interesting; his mother was in charge of the house and his limited education, while his father took up a post as a city guard. When he was old enough to learn how to wield a sword, Glenn’s father immediately started training him in melee combat.
Glenn, not being a huge fan of being punched in the face, found that he much preferred a stealthier option, able to take down opponents before they could even find him. Of course, combat wasn’t all stealth was good for, and Glenn found that petty burglary came quite naturally to him. That, along with a self-taught ability to pick locks and climb through windows meant that he made quite the cat-burglar, and his pockets were never light on septims.
While the art of remaining unseen came naturally to him, the art of marksmanship came almost as naturally. It aligned well with his dislike for combat when he could put three arrows in somebody before they reached him, and not even break a sweat.
At one point in his life, he found himself in possession of someone else’s potion collection. Being the adventurous type he was, he held on to them, not realizing they were Potions of Night Vision. These, he found were incredibly useful. Not as useful as he would’ve liked given that he’d resorted to them after stumbling out a window, but useful for his later ventures, after he’d taken some time to recover. With some of his ill-gotten gains, he found an Altmer woman at the Mage’s Guild willing to train him in alchemy, without asking too many questions about his apparent wealth.
Of course, alchemical goods were expensive, and not long after he’d become proficient in potion-making, he found that many of the potions he favored (Night-Eye and Restore Fatigue) had ingredients that could easily be found in the wild. With his knowledge in alchemy, finding the ingredients was simple, and his ability to harvest what he needed was relatively easy.
Since then, he’s grown quite a bit and he eventually took his little show on the road, hoping to find some long forgotten crypt or wealthy cabin that he could ‘borrow’ a few things from. He’s come to Kvatch to get a large sum of gold for riddling a couple knights full of holes; a task that he may be slightly overconfident about.
Spells:
Inventory:
Iron Shortbow, A quiver of iron arrows, Leather Armor, Backpack, Waterskin, Trail Rations, Bedroll, Flint & Steel, Iron Dagger, Mortar & Pestle, 120 Septims. |
56,361 | 1,541 | 6 | 1,320 | 116 | The chapel held an uncomfortable silence. Not many people were speaking, and those who did spoke in hushed whispers. Aveca had arrived to help when the spawn started pouring out of that gate. She went straight to business as the world around her turned to chaos and she tried to help people congregate at the chapel. She put aside her absolute terror at the unknown. It didn’t help much. Not many people were inside.
The idea behind the gate was beyond her. Her education in the field of the other worlds was lesser, as she hadn’t focused on those areas of magic during her schooling. She could see the faces around the room wondering; many were praying. She had no answers for them. She doubted anyone did.
It didn’t matter to her anymore. Whatever was happening was happening, and she tried not to focus on it as she healed the rather serious burns on the child in front of her. He was a young Imperial of maybe ten years, and his father was beside him with a weapon at his hip. He was in common clothing, but he appeared ready to defend his home because push had indeed come to shove.
As the spell faded, the boy rubbed his hands over where the burns had been in awe. He seemed stunned for words, but his father thanked her quietly, so as not to break the lull, and they moved to the back of the chapel. At least here, she was needed and her skills could be of use. Aveca moved to sit on a bench and surveyed the room.
Farthest from the doors, common people huddled. Pieces of families and untrained fighters, they were terrified. As she looked closer to the barricaded parts of the doors, the fighters appeared more and more competent. Two or three guardsmen had managed to make their way to the chapel, though she wasn’t sure how much good it would do. The fighters she could see still didn’t seem to be enough. Disorganized travellers, skilled people, adventurers, really. They didn’t have the numbers.
She looked up at the window and could see the red sky outside. How will we ever get out? | Character Name:
Aveca Ice-Bear
Age:
26
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Female
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Magic/Stealth
Class:
Healer
Skills:
Expert: Restoration
Journeyman: Marksman (Bow), Alteration, Alchemy (Craft)
Apprentice: Destruction, Speechcraft, Hunting (Craft)
Novice: Mercantile, Illusion, Acrobatics
Appearance:
Aveca stands at about 5’6” tall. She has the characteristic pale white skin of the Nords, as well as fair coloured features. Her hair is a light white-blonde colour with some yellowish tones. She has choppily cut bangs (done herself with a sharpened knife, quite carefully) that swoop in around her face, down to about nose length. The rest of her hair is usually kept either in a braid or in a messy bun, but when left long it goes down just past her armpits. Her eyes are a blue-gray tone, and her face is lightly freckled.
She is also able-bodied. She wouldn't get called a muscular person in general – you wouldn’t catch her in chainmail – but her body is accustomed to exercise and comfortable with the weight of drawing a bowstring. She never let herself get lax just because she practices magic.
As far as scarring and blemishes, Aveca has few. As a healer, she has usually been able to heal any more recent scars, but she has some very light markings (faded by time) up her legs and arms from the usual childhood rough activity and learning to hunt in her younger years. Between her youth and her training, she got one significant scar, which is a simple gash mark on her leg from a run in with a bear.
Aveca has little need for armor. She tries to avoid direct combat, so armor would in the end only inhibit the way she tries to weave around a battle and aid the injured. She prefers simple clothes, leggings and a tunic, or sometimes a dress or skirt. These she always wears over leggings and with boots, as she likes to be prepared for any situation.
Personality:
Aveca is a healer, and that is her passion, but it could in no way define all she is. She believes in aiding the wounded and sick, and wants to go out across the world and help good people, but she also has a fairly strong sense of justice and can be harsh with it at times. She won’t aid you regardless of who you are on the basis of you being a living being. After all, hunter and healer don’t tend to correlate. She isn’t afraid to throw fire around if it comes down to a fight, but she much prefers to avoid one. The bow she carries, she prefers to use for hunting than on people. Her passion is much more around the idea of widespread misery and sickness; her interests lie in sickness and disease, in the curing of plagues and foreign illnesses. She has an apt and interest for academic learning, but can become bored easily if it isn’t related to her interests (being healing, alchemy, living things, cultures, languages).
Despite this, she tends to help first and ask questions later. She will heal someone without a second thought in an instant, because she would rather help someone and expect them to be a good person than not take the risk in case they may be less savory. However, if ever she was betrayed she would retaliate in full force.
Overall, Aveca is a happy and optimistic person. She wants to travel and experience the world, to meet, to help, and to socialize with people from everywhere there is. She is generally willing to engage in a conversation at any time and with anyone, as long as she isn’t trying to heal. She takes her work seriously and doesn’t like distractions while she is actively doing a spell.
One thing is that you don’t want to get into an argument with her. She’ll get heated over anything she has an opinion on, and she won’t let go, either.
Backstory:
Katla and Eirn were rather typical Nords. They met in Markarth, where Katla lived with her family (merchants), and Eirn travelled through as a hunter selling meats. He trekked back and forth across Skyrim all his life, with his parents and then later on his own. He met Katla at the market there, and found himself coming to Markarth more and more often. Her family disapproved, but they married and she too to travelling with him. She enjoyed the adventure. When Aveca and her sister,
Laisa, were born, their parents stopped for a time at a camp they built outside of Whiterun. It provided some stabililty for the young girls.
As they grew older, their parents started travelling with them more. They had a cart and tents, so it wasn’t as though they lived in total discomfort. Aveca was quite fond of the dirt and the travel, whereas Laisa was jealous of the nicely dressed children they met in cities. Over the years, Aveca learned hunting from their father from a very young age, and their mother taught Laisa the ways of business so she could go out on her own someday, without having to depend on someone else.
When she was 13, Aveca asked her family to take her north to the College of Winterhold to learn, and they did. Her mother was a firm believer in doing what you want to do. At first try, the nice man at the gate told her and her mother that they simply couldn't let in a totally untrained mind, and at such an age, though he would have liked to. He asked her to gain some preliminary knowledge and to return in a few years. Her mother was frustrated, and, determined for her daughter to have what she wanted, they traveled to Markarth and left Aveca with a mage she knew from her life there. He was an Alteration mage named Aenar who worked in the temple. She spent a year and a half with him and helped him with his work, while developing a base knowledge of how magic works and how to preform it. She learned a solid base of novice spells and returned to the College with her family just as she was almost 15. This time, they let her in to learn more after she demonstrated that she had the skill for learning it.
For the first few years she studied generally and with vigor, but when she was 17, her family travelled north to tell her that her mother had died of an illness. She never got the chance to say goodbye because of the distance. Her sister was still ill with the same sickness, however it was less advanced and the mages in Winderhold healed her. This ignited Aveca’s passion more specifically for healing and she undertook learning all she possibly could about it. She had a knack for magic and dedicated her whole life to it from the age of 17 until she was 24. She still kept hunting on as a hobby, something she did for an afternoon every week, maybe.
As for Laisa, when she was 18 she made some business connections and set up a shop in Riften.
When Aveca was 24, she herself deemed her training temporarily complete. She had a very advanced training in healing, as well as alchemy and alteration, but she didn’t have the same knack for the rest of the schools and she didn’t focus on them nearly as much. She left the college of her own accord and again travelled Skyrim with her father for a good number of months until she passed south to Cyrodill from Riften, after a visit with her sister.
Once there, she used a mixture of hunting, healing, and alchemy to make an income. She started in the north in Burma, and travelled south through Chorrol, Skingrad, and finally Kvatch. During this time she travelled very light, with a sac on her back for various alchemical pursuits, and very little else. She stayed in inns in the cities as long as she could afford to do so.
Spells:
Restoration: Heal Minor Wounds, Major Respite, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Heal Superior Wounds, Devour Health, Cure Disease, Superior Convalescence
Alteration: Lightning Shield, Water Breathing, Water Walking, Protect Other,
Destruction: Electric Touch, Flash Bolt, Frost Touch
Illusion: Illuminate, Soothing Touch
Inventory:
Steel Bow
Quiver of Iron Arrows (x20)
Iron Dagger (more for daily use than fighting)
Pair of black leggings
Sturdy leather boots
Light blue tunic
Brown cotton dress, white corset, decent quality
Travelling cloak
Leather belt with pouches
Waterskin
Knapsack, leather
Bedroll with bedding
Mortar and Pestle
Alchemical ingredient pouch (mostly herbs for healing potions, but with some other ingredients)
Vials and corks for those potions
Minor Magika Potions (x2)
75 Septims
Dried meats, bread, cheese |
56,362 | 1,541 | 7 | 1,552 | 2,229 | Naenya looked on at the stranger curiously as he talked in a rather upfront matter – not that she was at all concerned about his lack of tact, what with embracing such blunt conversations quite often herself. She did, however, find his wording most curious.
“Well… why not both?” She queried after he had finished. “Perhaps I’ve seen battle, but was also victim to a horrendous attack. Maybe they happened at different times – or simultaneously. Would I still be classified as a victim then? When does a horrendous attack turn into a battle? If one fights back? Would one then be seen as a victim, for taking up arms? Interesting to think about, yes?” She paused then, content smile set on her face – talking about such random matters easily took her mind off the situation at hand. “Of course, I have seen battle. Not quite horrendous or victimising though – although I suppose the goblins would think differently to that.” She paused once more, now frowning lightly in thought. “At least, they would think that if they were alive. Killed them, of course. Maybe they are still thinking in some strange, goblin after-life. Do you think the monsters have their own versions of life after death? That’s another interesting thing to think about.”
Trailing off, Naenya gazed at one of the stained-glass windows ahead of her musingly. It was really quite pretty, with all the colours dancing from the flickering flames outside. Eyes darting back to the man in front of her, now smiling in a familiar sort of manner, she took stock at the lack of blade at his side. There weren’t any hilts or bows peeking out from his back, nor tucked away in his boot. A magic user then? There was no way an unarmed fellow wouldn’t get very far without magic – unless they were very good at sneaking. In which case, they were likely a thief, and wouldn’t be very much help in the current situation.
Before Naenya was able to comment on the man’s rather abnormally towering height, a commotion from outside drew her attention. Indeed, everyone’s head seemed to whip towards the only working doors; the guards stood by the stairs readied their weapons, nervously awaiting what was on the other side to break through. Naenya sprang to her feet as well, Bobo fluttering away from her hand as it reached for her staff – her smile had disappeared for now. For all her interest in Daedra, she couldn’t deny their monstrous natures… and she had no interest in dying today, regardless of potential research.
Especially not in a broken chapel surrounded by strangers.
Much to everyone’s surprise, the door didn’t burst open in an explosion of flames; rather, some hurried knocking and panicked words. Sharing an incredulous glance among each other, the guard in charge somewhat reluctantly stepped forward, one hand outstretched for the handle. The knocking became more insistent; knuckles turned white around the Chapel as people clutched onto various things – mothers onto children, mages to their staves and warriors to their blades. In a sudden flurry of movement, the female guard swung open the door and brandished her sword, only for two people to stumble inside. A fireball followed them, luckily missing everyone and just brushing past the smaller of the pair’s hair, singeing it slightly. Slamming the door shut, the guard looked on at the two, clearly surprised at the sight of two very normal, and very alive people.
“Well… that was a close one!” Said the small one in a strangely bright voice, slapping at her blond hair to put out the embers there. The larger one – a man – didn’t say anything, and was peering around the room almost feverishly, as if looking for someone. He was a ridiculous contrast to the woman – where everything about her was small and slim, he was huge. Bulging with muscles, and easily scraping the 6’10’’ mark; your stereotypical Nord. The woman – an Imperial, by the looks of her - gave him a light dig in the ribs with a grin. “Thanks for getting me through that crowd, big guy. I didn’t think you’d get over that wall at one point though.”
“Did… did you both come from outside the walls?” The guard interjected, the beginnings of hope springing in her eyes. “The gate’s closed?!”
“The gate?” The Nord frowned, pausing in his search of the room to look back at the guard. “No – we found an unguarded bit of wall, scaled over it.”
“The guard Captain outside did recommend it –” The Imperial began, then chuckled incredulously. The noise seemed out of place in the sombre chapel. “But that’d be suicide, going into that thing! I – well, both of us – just needed to get into the city to look for some people.” She said, her own eyes now scanning the meagre amount of bodies stood in the shadows. The Nord appeared to find what he was looking for – striding to the back of the dark chapel and gathering a woman and child into his arms, clearly sobbing in relief.
“There isn’t a fellow called Martin around here, is there?” The Imperial asked cheerfully, clearly unperturbed by the number of dark eyes locked onto her bright smile. It did seem to be somewhat strained, and her eyes kept darting towards the door. Clearly, she didn’t want to stay for very long.
As the only priest stepped forward – clearly Martin – and the Imperial motioned him towards a dark corner of the Chapel, the lull seemed to return to the room. Naenya looked at the pair curiously, before turning back towards the rather tall Breton.
“Well… that was unexpected. I was wondering how a massive Nord and his female sidekick managed to close that portal outside; Nords aren’t known for their brains, and it’d take more than muscle to close one of those things, that’s for sure. No wonder they avoided the gate.” Her gaze went upwards, wondering where Bobo had flown off to. “Although, that does leave us all in the same predicament. We’re not all going to be able to climb over those walls.”
The conversation between Martin and the Imperial didn’t last very long; nor did it remain very quiet. He walked away looking fairly shaken, but a firm look to his eye.
“I’m not going to run away like some coward and leave these people to their fate; if the gate is still open, I’m staying right here.” He snapped at the clearly irritated woman as she pulled on his arm, hoping the action would somehow change his mind.
“How on Mundas am I supposed to close that thing by myself? If I had a bit more help than Wimpy the Barbarian over there, then I’d be happy to give it a go. However, I don’t see anyone volunteering!” The words had come out in a slightly loud whisper, more hissed than hushed. “These people aren’t more important than you.” Martin’s gaze hardened even more, and he pulled his arm from her grasp.
“You’re wrong. If… I am who you say I am, then I will not start this new chapter in my life by abandoning innocents to the slaughter.” His eyes cast across the room as he said this, no doubt noticing the many stares directed towards them both. Naenya watched on, tapping her fingers very lightly on her wooden staff. The Imperial seemed to give up now, stepping away with a somewhat lost expression on her face. Martin looked equally as lost – and Naenya’s curiosity was extremely piqued now. What had they discussed? Something to do with the gate, probably? Deciding there was only one way to find out, she stepped over to the Imperial woman, tapping her lightly on the arm.
“Good afternoon! Or… evening? I’ve lost track of the time, I’m afraid. Anyway, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation – if you’re looking for help in closing the gate, I’d be happy to offer my services.” She offered with what she hoped looked like a helpful smile. The Imperial looked as though this was the last thing she wanted – no doubt leaving stealthily would be far easier than closing the gate and freeing everybody. Martin, however, looked far more approving of the offer, although not saying anything. “I’ve done some research into Daedra, and might be able to traverse the realm with a bit more ease than others. Or perhaps not – there’s only so much books and interviews with some dubious looking characters will tell you, after all. Still, it’s better than nothing.” At that, Bobo fluttered down onto her shoulder, nipping her pointed ear lightly. “There you are! Don’t worry, I won’t take you in there with me.” She said fondly to the bird, stroking his blue-black feathers lightly. | Character Name:
Nikolaus “Niko” Valerious
Age:
37
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lover
Specialisation:
Combat/Magic
Class:
Paragon
Skills:
Expert: One-Handed Blade (Dual-Wielding)
Journeyman: Speechcraft, Destruction
Apprentice: Athletics, Restoration, Heavy Armour
Novice: Two-Handed Blade, Acrobatics, Illusion, Medicine (Non-Alchemical/Magical (Craft)), Hunting (Craft), Foraging (Craft)
Appearance:
Looking every part the Nord, Niko stands at a towering height of 6’7; matched with broad shoulders and the muscled build of someone who works his swords every day, he can seem somewhat daunting at times. However, when one focuses on his face, softness shines through. Gentle blonde brows above stormy grey-blue eyes; a sharp jawline softened by a smattering of badly trimmed blond stubble; high cheekbones crinkled with laughter lines, and dimples that brighten cheeks once round with wellness, but now have a somewhat haggard and hungry look about them.
On a usual day out in the field, Niko can usually be seen wearing his armour; shaggy, dark-blonde hair pulled back haphazardly by messy braids, and shoulder’s stiff with the weight he is carrying. However, when more relaxed and among friends, his hair hangs loose, brushing against his eyes and shoulders in a messy but appealing manner – armour is replaced with comforting and loose clothing, shirt sleeves usually pushed up to the elbow and revealing a plethora of scars up and down his forearms. The scars carry on under his clothing; some fresher and deeper than others, but you’ll need to either get him drunk or be close to him to get the stories behind the scarring dotted over his skin – some hurt more than others, and not in a physical way.
Personality:
While he doesn’t smile as much as he used to, Niko remains still an amicable sort – but if one looks close enough, you can see the tension in his smile; the stretched out laughs that sound just a touch too hollow to be considered genuine or warm. His eyes have retained that caring spark of friendliness, but it dulls whenever nobody is looking his way. His kindness isn’t faked or forced… it’s just harder to be the way he was before. It’s rare for his grief or anger to come through, but when faced with something particularly cruel, or anything involved in raising the dead, anything remotely nice about him falls away, and his eyes become as hard as ice. Killing for him then isn’t just a job to be done; it becomes frenzied, and very personal.
However, regardless of his own internal turmoils, he’ll remain good to those around him. While respect is earned, Niko makes a point of being polite to most, no matter how brash they appear to be. Being more than aware of how death and killing can get to a man, he’ll listen to people’s worries and concerns in the hopes he can do something to help them… when sometimes, a listening friend is all many need.
When it comes to matter away from friends and family, Niko still remains polite; even in battle, while others may make puns, threats or quips while slicing down their enemy, Niko will do it as quickly and as painlessly as possible – no intimidation, no dark humour. It’s not his style. Neither is bragging of past battles fought, though one would be able to hear a good tale from him if coaxed enough – it comes from having a daughter, for him. Niko quite firmly believes that Mia should be kept safe from violence, bad language, and all of the other things that his race and Skyrim are famous for; a foolish endeavour, considering his girl is getting street-smart enough to find out about all of these things herself; but he remains very protective over her, not wanting to lose her as he lost his wife. This protectiveness passes on to his friends and family, particularly those he gets close to.
Backstory:
While our story begins in Kvatch, as does the life of Nikolaus. Born to an Imperial father and Nord mother, the pair had met, fell in love, and married in a short span of time – moving from the mother’s native Skyrim to Kvatch for a both safer and warmer climate to raise their son in. And it was a good childhood for Niko; there was never danger within the city walls, and with his mother and father’s decent wages from the Fighters and Mages Guild respectively, never had an empty stomach or cold night. Niko’s father – Percius – had his own parents, now retired, living in Kvatch too – so whenever he and his wife – Ulva – needed to do a job for money, they could quite simply live Niko with his grandparents and do what needed to be done. As a baby, Niko barely noticed his parent’s absence unless they were gone for a unusually long time; but as a child, he started growing curious as to what reason for and where his parents were going. Curiosity soon grew into indignation, and the usually mild-mannered child began to constantly question exactly why he had to stay at home, and why his parents had to leave all the time. Well… he was still mild-mannered in his questioning; politeness always came first, especially when talking to his elders. But it was clear to his parents that their little boy was growing up rather quickly, and would need to start learning something to keep him happy – and away from their own adventures. To counter this, Percius’ father – a retired guard of Kvatch - started teaching Niko how to use swords – of course starting with a wooden sword and a straw dummy at the young age of 8, but still, it worked well enough. With his grandmother teaching him his letters and numbers, Niko constantly itched for his training sessions every evening.
Over time, Ulva began to spend more and more days at home, having growing tired from all of the contracts taken from the Fighter’s Guild. When Percius’ father grew too old to continue training Niko (now 13) Ulva took over, helping him branch out into proper training; wearing armour that weighed his light teenage frame down; real swords instead of wooden ones – she even persuaded Percius to begin training Niko in certain schools of magic, just so it would come in handy in the future. Niko picked up the magic just as well as his blades, barring a few incidents with rogue fireballs. He was fine once his eyebrows grew back, honestly.
When Niko reached the age of 16, he had a firm grasp in the basics of restoration, destruction, and the wielding of blades. His mother wanted him to join the fighter’s guild, and his father wanted him to join the mage’s guild. Thinking he wanted the best of both worlds, he started working as a battlemage for the arcane university; training under a more experienced guard who worked there to get him up to the right standard for such a prestigious college. It was a solid job, and kept both of his parents happy – Niko continued to have a steady income, a warm bed, and full stomach. He was just going to be living with longer hours and bruised skin from his rigorous training regime – the safety of the mages and the University was no small matter, what with the countless troves of knowledge and precious items hidden within those walls. Niko had only been inside a few times, but he had caught glimpses of endless libraries, impossibly large, echoing chambers (He and a few colleagues enjoyed a few shouting matches in there before being kicked out by their Guard-Captain; after several hours of sprinting the battlements in full armour in the pouring rain, they decided not to do it again), and of course, the mages themselves. Only 2 really stood out to him; one was a slimy looking fellow. Niko was never one to judge people before meeting them, but as it happened, he had had the misfortune of meeting and talking to Conjurer Astian Onius – but Niko also had the fortune of meeting Astian’s cousin, Elisabeth. And to him, she was the greatest treasure in the University.
At the age of 25 – now an established guard of his own right, having graduated his training top of the class (despite the hollering matches in the halls) – Niko finally plucked up the courage to talk to Elisabeth in a more than friendly manner, asking her to join him for drinks that night – no friends of his, and no weasel-like cousins of hers to accompany them. One night of drinks turned into another night, and then another; then it was candlelit meals, walks along the shores of lake Rumare, picnics in the forest. For anyone watching the pair, it would be quite obvious that the two were in love – and indeed, Astian was watching them. He was not happy.
After 3 years of courting, Niko and Elisabeth were wed, and a year after that, she fell pregnant with what would be their first and only child. Named Amelia for Elisabeth’s mother who had passed that spring, their life seemed idyllic. But as time passed, things began to grow dark. Not in their relationship, exactly; they were still a happy couple, raising their daughter in Imperial City and continuing with their jobs – and it was their jobs that began causing issues. What with Niko just being a guard, he and his fellows didn’t really involve themselves in the fight for power brewing between the Mages – not just in the University, but across Cyrodiil. Favours were split, and Elisabeth herself was not wanting Hannibal Traven as Arch-Mage; She considered him too close-minded, especially when it came to matters such as necromancy; although having never done any spells in that area, she was doing research into possible life after death – a cure that could bring someone back if they were saved seconds after dying. An innocent enough area of study, and certainly with a noble enough gesture behind it. But once Arch-Mage Traven won the fight for power, she became cowed; fearful of what could happen to her and her work after the banning of necromancy by the Arch-Mage, she begged Niko for them both to leave Imperial City and the Mages Guild – they had more than enough experience between them both to get jobs elsewhere. Although slightly concerned at her reasons behind it – her cousin Astian had been visiting their home more than usual the weeks previous, having hushed and irritated conversations with Elisabeth before the harassed woman asked him to leave – Niko conceded, and along with their 6 year old daughter, left for his parent’s home in Kvatch; having died in the winter, they’d left the home to Niko and his family.
The next two years that passed were easily the worst in Niko’s life. While Kvatch was a nice change at first; his daughter enjoying the smaller and more open city as opposed to Imperial City’s near stifling buildings and towering walls – he too was welcomed back with open arms, as many who still lived there knew his family. Getting a job as a guard was no trouble, what with his long service record at the Arcane University. He knew he’d probably get more money in the Fighter’s Guild or even a sellsword, but being a guard was safer, more secure, and more honest; that was just the kind of man he was.
His wife, however, was growing more and more secretive. Elisabeth had become more withdrawn, even after moving away from the Mages Guild; “hunting trips” were going on far too long for her to come home with nothing, and she would constantly change the subject whenever her studies came up in conversation. As Astian’s trips became more frequent, and news of strange lights coming from caves not far from Kvatch began circulating through the city, Niko’s worries grew into suspicions. It was time to find out what his wife and her troublesome cousin were up to.
As he followed Elisabeth from a distance – her leaving Kvatch a few hours previous for more “hunting” – Niko told himself that he was worrying over nothing. She was probably just continuing her research, and was worried about the Guild swooping in to stop her; but it wasn’t necromancy. Just research.
Whether his wife was dabbling in the magic of raising the dead, Niko never knew – but whatever she had attempted to do in those dimly lit caves was too dangerous – as he watched on from the shadows, he saw something go wrong. He was no expert in the type of magic Elisabeth and Astian were attempting, so Niko couldn’t understand why after a sudden flash of light, Elisabeth hit the ground and no longer moved; he couldn’t understand why Astian looked perfectly unconcerned by this, and simply began performing another spell. But when the magic hit her body, and she slowly rose to her feet, he did understand. And no matter what had happened, no matter what she may had done; he was not going to let his wife’s body become nothing more than a puppet. Wiping his eyes that had become blurred with tears, Niko slowly unsheathed his swords and stormed towards Astian.
When finally returning to Kvatch, it had been difficult to coax the full story from the grieving Niko; heavily injured and clutching Elisabeth’s – now still – body in his arms, he had collapsed at the gate, being brought into the chapel for healing. Although Astian had put up quite the fight, Niko had barely felt any pain at each landed blow from the disgraced mage; it was killing his wife’s resurrected body that had been the most difficult part for him. While the healer Oleta was able to mend his several cuts and burns, aided by Brother Martin, it was harder to ease the near-broken man’s mind. After the story was finally pulled from Niko, and the caves investigated, the city guards discovered that Astian had indeed been practicing Necromancy. Out of sheer respect to Niko, their comrade, they made sure to state there was nothing to incriminate Elisabeth in the forbidden act. There was no evidence in fact, but many people -particularly at the guild – would have been happy to connect the dots of her being at the caves so often.
Not so long after the tragedy, Niko had fully recovered; he had taken to spending much of his time at the Chapel, hoping to find solace in the Gods. But nothing seemed to bring him peace; the daily chats with the Priests brought him some comfort, but Kvatch no longer seemed like home anymore. Mia seemed to have taken the news of her mother better than he, but then, she hadn’t seen or done what he had been forced to do – all the same, she complied when Niko suggested leaving Kvatch. He left his job with the guard, sold their home, and the lonely father and daughter left the gates of their hometown. And for nearly 2 years, they wandered throughout Cyrodiil. Never staying in one place for too long, Niko took whatever jobs that came to him as long as they paid enough, and weren’t too time-wasting or life-threatening. He was more desperate than before, but he wouldn’t risk his life while Mia was so young; she had no-one left to look after her.
Of course, things became far more dangerous when he finally came back to Kvatch. A chance encounter; retrieving some rare book from the local bookstore for an old bedbound fellow in Bravil; at first, Niko was going to pass it up, not quite ready to return to Kvatch even after 2 years. But the man was offering quite a bit of money, and Mia’s birthday was approaching – it couldn’t hurt, could it?
That was what he thought until the Oblivion Gate opened. It had been easy enough to gather a terrified Mia into his arms and pelt towards the chapel, but it was getting out that would be the hardest part.
Spells:
Destruction: Blazing Spear, Corrode Weapon, Dire Wound, Drain Skill: Destruction, Fire Ball, Frost Bolt, Great Magicka Drain, Hail Storm, Lightning Bolt, Lightning Grasp, Searing Grasp, Shocking Burst, Weakness to Magicka, Winter’s Grasp, Withering Touch
Restoration: Convalescence, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Fortify Health, Fortify Speed, Fortify Strength, Great Fortity Fatigue, Heal Major Wounds
Illusion: Serenity, Soothing Touch, Starlight
Inventory:
1x Off-white tunic, to wear under armour
2x Black Leather pants, one for casual wear, one to wear under greaves
1x Set of steel greaves
1x Set of steel pauldrons
1x Steel chestplate
1x Set of steel bracers over 1x Pair of leather gloves
2x Steel longswords
1x Steel Greatsword
1x Iron dagger
1x Dark shirt
1x Black overcoat
1x Pair of leather boots
1x Black hood
1x Spare child’s dress, red
1x Spare pair of child’s shoes
Mia’s teddy bear
1x Plain gold wedding ring
1x Waterskin
1x Bottle of rum
1x Loaf of bread
2x Wedges of cheese
Several slices of smoked salmon, wrapped in cheesecloth
Several slices of cooked beef, wrapped in cheesecloth
3x Sweetened biscuits, slightly stale
1x Skin of milk
2x Bedrolls
1x Pillow
1x Large fur blanket
1x Tent
1x Cooking pot & Spit
1x Horse, carrying majority of the camping equipment
1x Knapsack, to carry the remainder of his things
374 Septims
Mia has a balanced look of her parents; she has her mother’s dark, chocolate-brown eyes, and face and body, but the rest of her belongs to her father. Being quite tall and mature for her age, Mia also has his dark-blonde hair, hers with more of a wave to it than Niko’s; she keeps it at shoulder-length, tied up most of the time when out on the road with her dad. She also shares his sweet, dimpled smile, though hers seems far more genuine most of the time.
While certainly taking after her Imperial mother in her looks, Mia has the heart of a Nord. With an inquisitive sense of adventure constantly on her mind, the curious 8-year-old (She’s nearly 9, actually – don’t forget it!) has a penchant for wandering away from her father when visiting cities; but only in cities. She did it once in a tiny little village without walls and she’d never seen him look so upset when he found her 3 hours later. She understands his protectiveness, but taking a rather wise standpoint for such a young age, thinks her Father needs to move on from what happened. She knows this isn’t the way her Mama wanted them both to live, after all.
Perhaps due to her father treating her like some fragile thing, Mia often takes on a brusque and boisterous way of life. Local kid calling her names? He’s getting a broken nose. A pair of dubious looking fellows in the inn staring at her father’s coinpurse? Glare at them until they notice and hurriedly leave. Portal to hell opening up in the city? Her Papa will sort them out, he’s the bravest, strongest man in the whole wide world. She’s going to help of course – if only Papa would give her a sword. Ooh, or maybe an axe. |
56,363 | 1,541 | 8 | 1,841 | 5,697 | Hello, the warrior began, his strong albeit youthful voice coupled with his light tone made him seem much less of a rugged warrior that he appeared to be. He gave a polite but awkward smile to the two women as he greeted them, speaking to them first, and then the Imperial priest. "If you need someone to fight and distract the Daedra at the gate-" turning to Martin and giving a gruff nod. "then we're your fighters."
Earlier he'd nearly roared a few choice curses in front of the women and children on the way over to the door, having nearly been singed by the flying fireball. He'd been expecting to enter into a melee and not finding two average (except in size) looking folk sprinting in. He wasn't too concerned with politics, even his father's native Imperial. But whatever was having been discussed, he agreed with this man Martin's approach. He'd be damned if he'd run away from these beasts.
He was quite glad they had a priest, this Martin and the woman in the back healing some of the wounded. All in all, it wasn't a bad group, though in times like this he knew Morale was most important, so he spoke loud enough for all to hear that he and his companion were volunteering. They needed to hear that someone was willing to risk this.
Gideon the Hound barked in agreement at Bardeck's proclamation that they would help, and his master looked down and smiled. "Atta boy," he breathed, scratching the Wolf-like beast's furry head in endearment. Gideon seemed in higher spirits ever since they had moved from the wall. He'd even given a sniff or two of the elder's smaller canine in his own 'hello'. Bardeck didn't mind getting to know these people more later on, if they survived. He'd go to make sure they did.
His dark eyes fell upon Naenya. "Close that gate like you said, we'll keep the Daedra off you. On my honor." He pressed his fist to his chest, his eyes steeled for all to see. | Name:
Bardek Gildenhart
Age:
25
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Warrior
Skills:
Expert: Blunt (Two Handed)
Journeyman: Block
Journeyman: Smithing
Apprentice: Hunting
Apprentice: Heavy Armor
Apprentice: Blunt (One Handed)
Novice: Heavy Armor
Novice: Athletics
Novice: Acrobatics
Novice: Two Handed (Staves, Polearms)
Appearance:
If Bardeck could be described in one word, it would be 'rugged.' His black hair is wavy and barely falls short of reaching his broad shoulders. This coupled with his 5'oclock shadow give him an unkempt visage. The young man's body is muscled yet lean, his skin having bronzed from the constant work outdoors (and thanks to his father's blood). He prefers wearing sturdy leather trousers, loose fitting but snug at the waist, tied by a plain brown sash belt. When in combat or preparing, he wears iron armor over a linen tunic. Outside of combat, he simply wears the tunic, usually opened in the center. If he's alone he'll go shirtless, simply enjoying the breeze and the heat of the day. His height is fairly average for an Imperial, not short by any means but not particularly tall. His callused and scarred hands are rough but firm to the touch (much like the rest of him). His caramel eyes are the softest part of him, full of life and passion, fiery wonder, and sometimes innocent curiosity.
Personality:
Bradeck can be described as a rough and ready warrior. His fierce independence and rough nature can only be matched by his loyalty to those he deems worthy. He's not particularly book smart, and can miss a few finer details of a more subtle plan when he's ready to fight in combat. Despite that, he's intuitive and introspective, with a quick mind and a dry wit. He has a quiet, a down to earth wisdom that often views the world in a pragmatic, useful manner. He's quite a passionate and creative individual when opened up to someone.
Due to his childhood being spent with male friends, and the only females he spent much time with were family members or female Orcs that would sooner hit him than hit on him, he's quite confused when it comes to romance. It's a coin toss on whether he gets very defensive and stand offish, or very stuttering and shy. It's just not his element. He respects warriors and those who pull their own weight or who show great skill. He's annoyed at laziness and dishonesty. He doesn't pick fights easily however, and only do it when he truly thinks its called for, and that's after one too many times of blundering. Not after strike one. Though he might be outspoken and blunt at his disapproval.
Backstory:
Bardeck was born in Anvil, to an Imperial ex-soldier father and a Nordic mother. They resided there for 7 years. Bardeck enjoyed swimming and exploring the surrounding woods, fascinated by the untold wilderness. At age 8, his mother's father passed away, and they moved to Skyrim in Markarth where his grandmother still resided to help her live and keep her company. His parents began a moderately successful trading business.
Bradeck wasn't quite used to the new surroundings, and was bullied by the Nordic children other than a select few whom he'd later name as his best friends. On one occasion, the other children began to rough him up near the back end of Markarth, when the Orcish smith knocked them back and bared his great fangs, causing them to flee. He gave some gruff advice to Bradeck, telling him not to let other kids push him around. He went back to his smithy.
Bradeck began to visit the smith every now and then, watching him at his work. Eventually they exchanged names. Rogath was the Orc's name, and he took a liking to Bradeck's inquisitive nature, allowing him to learn a few tricks of the trade while they spent time together through offhand advice. During this time, Bradeck would learn a few pointers of combat from his father after helping unload the carts coming to the city.
Bradeck was there when his grandmother passed away, holding his mother and crying with her when he was 14 years old. The death of his grandmother sparked questions on who he was in his mind. He felt a sense of pride to both his stoic northern blood and southern mercantile roots, but felt a kinship to Rogath and his rough nature. One day, Rogath announced he was traveling back to his homeland, and Bradeck begged him to let him go with him.
At first the Orsimer refused, but then lamented if Bradeck had the strength to go and fetch a bear pelt out in the wild. The boy felt elated, for he knew how to hunt and had the knowledge of a few bear caves, though he knew it would not be an easy quarry. He set off one morning, and found one of the bear frequented caverns. He entered, but instead found the bear dead already. He exploded further, but was discovered by a hungry vampire that had decided to hide here in order to terrorize the travelers of Markarth with relative ease.
Bradeck, armed with a battlaxe, fought for his life. He had wounded the Vampire's hip when the beast had underestimated him, but was quickly overwhelmed and thrown down the cavern. The Vampire leaped at him, intending to kill him. He used the spike on the end of his Battleaxe to impale the flying creature, bowling him over and then decapitating the bloodsucker. Rogath was then presented with both a Bear pelt and Vampire Ash. He had become Blood-Kin.
They traveled to Orsinium and lived in one of the outer lying clans. He grew in both body and spirit, learning advanced combat and Smithing techniques. His fit frame turned muscular, and his mind grew sharper with his exposure to various cultures. The Nordic city of Markarth had helped him deal somewhat with the rough living of Orisinium, truth be told. He was given a warhound Puppy named Gideon on his 21st birthday.
Age 21, he left and decided to become a mercenary and journeyman smith, heading through Hammerfell and working there in various jobs for a year before making it to Cyrodiil, living there ever since. He was recently hired to Kvatch as a caravan guard. A relatively simple job he had thought...
Spells:
Inventory:
Cutie Patoot WarDog
Steel Hand Axe
Iron Armor
Iron Shield
2 x Healing Potion
3 x Bear Pelts
3 x Wolf Pelts
2 pounds of Venison
1 Water Jug
Clothing |
56,364 | 1,541 | 9 | 860 | 1,273 | Though Orintur continued to stare daggers at the door with his hammer raised in a readied position, the High Elf's attention found itself divided between his duties and the myriad of hushed whispering around him. A man and a woman not too far behind him were speaking lightly, quite unfitting for the situation they were in. Some others spoke of loved ones that had not made it to the chapel, hoping that perhaps they had made it out of Kvatch. Orintur could not help but pity them, as he knew that Daedra were ferocious beings, and they were very thorough in their deeds, but he still silently prayed with them for the unfortunate souls that could not find their way to the sanctuary of Akatosh.
Suddenly hearing a commotion from outside, Orintur gripped his hammer tightly and advanced a single step, ready to throw himself at the foolhardy beasts that dared violate such a holy place. What he did not expect, however, was for a very large Nord and a tiny Imperial to run through the door. The fireball missed them all by mere inches, charring a bit of wall in the back of the chapel; Orintur was grateful for his luck, as he was certainly not keen on having another burn scar...
To Orintur's relief but ever-so-slight disappointment, nothing followed the new visitors through the door. The Nord went to the back to find his wife and child, and the Imperial woman asked for the priest. It was rather curious; what did she want with Brother Martin? Whatever her aim was, she was rebutted harshly, as Brother Martin staunchly refused to abandon the chapel and those within until the blasted hell gate was closed. Orintur could hear her irritated grumblings from the front door, and caught word of her indirect request for aid in closing the Oblivion gate. The first to volunteer was the small girl with a bird hovering over her shoulder, and a warrior, whose heels were guarded by a fierce-looking hound. Was Orintur about to let them all dive head-first into Oblivion alone? ...that was a rhetorical question, of course he wouldn't! The sooner the gate got closed, the sooner Kvatch could be purged of Daedra and other heretics.
"Excuse me, madam!" Verbally announcing his presence was probably unnecessary, what with the loud clanking and thunking of his heavy armor, but Orintur deemed it more polite than simply immediately interjecting. "If you are thinking of going through that hellish portal, I would gladly offer my assistance! This humble servant of Stendarr asks for nothing in return; I wish simply to rid the people of Kvatch of these foul creatures. All Daedra in your path shall fall to my hammer, and taste of the wrathful fury of the Divines!" Orintur wasn't certain that the guards within the chapel could hold out for long on their own, but if the gate did not shut soon, those uncertainties would be washed away by an endless stream of Dremora. He had to at least try... | Character Name: Orintur Graywatch
Age: 57, approximate
Race: Altmer
Sex: Male
Birthsign: The Tower
Specialisation: Combat
Class: Paladin
Skills:
Expert: Two-Handed Blunt
Journeyman: Heavy Armor, Restoration
Apprentice: Destruction, Athletics, Hand to Hand
Novice: Speechcraft, One-Handed Blade, One-Handed Blunt, Foraging
Crafting: Novice Smithing and Alchemy
Appearance: For the most part, Orintur is your typical yellow-skinned Altmer, standing at about a head higher than the average height of most other races, with pointed ears and narrow eyes, irises matching his skin. What makes him a bit different, though, is that Orintur is noticeably far more muscular than the slim and dainty everyday High Elf, thanks to his extensive training with large two-handed weapons and heavy armors. Orintur keeps his platinum hair short; he hates how bothersome long hair can be and would rather be able to wake up and not need to rearrange anything.
Of course it goes without saying that, as a Paladin, Orintur sees his fair share of combat. As such, he has a good number of scars to document his adventures. The most noticeable scar is a large burn mark on his lower abdomen, given to Orintur by a flame atronach summoned by an accursed warlock that had been terrorizing nearby villages. The Altmer's armor intercepted the fireball, but that didn't stop all the damage, for his armor had reached searing levels of heat where it was hit. Unable to take off his cuirass in the middle of battle, Orintur fought for several more minutes with it on, and with every movement he was scorched further. By the time the mage was dead, not even the most powerful of Restoration magics could have healed his wound completely. Far less epic scars line Orintur's body, mainly across his arms, some acquired during his training, others given to him by bandits and other foul creatures that lucked out and bypassed his armor.
Personality: Being a High Elf, one of another race would be inclined to groan at Orintur's approach, thanks to his race's less than tolerant view of anyone not their own. One would most certainly not expect, though, for the young(for a High Elf, anyway) Paladin to greet them with ecstatic glee; indeed, Orintur is as nice as nice gets...well, as long as you aren't a heretic. Following the dictations of his patron god, Stendarr, Orintur has unending love for the citizens of Tamriel, and is always happy to meet new people and offer his services to those in need. This love stops, though, for those that would bring harm to anyone under his protection, that being every person in Tamriel not openly against the Nine Divines. These villains are deemed heretics, and Orintur believes it is his mission as bestowed upon him by Mighty Stendarr to bring them to justice, be it at the end of a gavel...or his hammer. Bandits, conjurers of foul daedra, rogue wizards and necromancers, and thieves to a lesser extent all fall under Orintur's definition of "heretic", and such people would do well to keep their hobbies a secret from the ever-wary Paladin if they want to get in his good graces.
The good citizens of Tamriel and all other adherents of the Nine Divines, however, can feel free to approach Orintur with all manner of problems; whatever they be, most can probably be solved with his hammer. If a hammer is not enough, then the Altmer can turn to his magics of Restoration and Destruction, or even his limited knowledge of alchemy and smithing, for he is nothing if not versatile. Orintur takes great pride in assisting those around him, and would give his life if it ever came to such a thing, so strong is his faith in the teachings of the Divines. Unfortunately however, Orintur's zealotry has made some of even the most pious of church-goers fearful of him, worried that they may unknowingly engage in some innocuous activity that nevertheless draws the paladin's ire and would put them at the end of a warhammer. Many city guards are also not quite fans of Orintur, viewing his methods as too extreme and uncompromising, and disruptive to the general peace. If he is not barred from entering a city outright, the Altmer is under the strict watch of a detachment of guards who stand at a distance, waiting for him to step out of line.
Backstory: Orintur has no knowledge of his homeland, where exactly he was born, when he was born, or even who birthed him. From what he could gather from his adoptive family at the Chapel of Stendarr in Chorrol, a young woman brought him to the chapel as a baby. The woman, who was in a heavy concealing cloak and scarf, said his name was Orintur Graywatch, and to the Primate's great confusion and frustration, she would not reveal any more details, no matter how much she was pressed. The only other words the woman spoke was a request to "please raise him to be kind". In the second the Primate turned his head to look at Orintur, the woman had vanished. Letters of inquiry to other chapels and contacts turned up fruitless; the woman could not be found nor was there anyone under the name of Graywatch in Cyrodiil. With no one else able or willing to take the infant elf in, the Primate decided to make the chapel his new home, and raise him under the guidance of the Commands of the Divines with the help of the other priests.
Orintur, under the wise tutelage of the Primate and priests of Stendarr, came to learn and hold dearly the teachings of the Nine Divines. Memorizing the Ten Commands and taking to heart the wisdom of revered saints, the Divines became the center of his life, and Orintur would spend many hours of the day praying and performing rites, taking short breaks to eat simple foods, help around the city, and sleep until the next morning where he would renew his routine. No doubt Orintur looked peculiar praying at the altars, being a High Elf and what all that entailed to those that didn't know anything of him, but everything just seemed to fit for the Altmer. He felt Zenithar fill his bones with the strength to live day after day, Mara fill his heart with love, and Julianos fill his mind with wisdom. The Divine that Orintur felt closest to, of little surprise, being raised in his chapel, was Stendarr. He felt compelled to help and protect the weak, and was overjoyed whenever he was able to do volunteer work to assist the needy. At twenty-five, fifteen years after beginning his general training as a devotee of the Divines, Orintur spoke to the Primate and requested he begin training to serve Stendarr. The Primate, naturally, was overjoyed, and asked what he would like to specialize in. Orintur thought long and hard on this, and eventually came to a conclusion: he would be a paladin of Stendarr. It just sounded right to him, marching across Cyrodiil, striking down evildoers and offering aid to those whose paths he crossed; it felt like something was calling him to take on the mantle of Paladin. To this day, Orintur attributes his choice to the guiding hand of Stendarr, who believed the Altmer would be best suited for that path above all others.
Orintur's training officially began with the arrival of a full-fledged paladin, whom the Primate called to the Chapel to teach the High Elf every other month; Orintur's lessons would alternate between martial and spiritual training, with the Primate instructing him in all the rites of Stendarr. Romana Marius was a behemoth of a woman, almost as tall as Orintur himself and with plenty of muscle to match. Her red hair was short and messy, with a face as plain as a foundation stone and a stare that could shatter one; Romana certainly had no time set aside for looking nice. With how mean she could look on the outside, however, Romana was surprisingly amicable. You had to listen for her smile, not look for it, as one of the priests familiar with her once said. She was glad that Orintur chose the path of the paladin, as according to her their numbers were running quite low, and made Orintur aware of their kind's high mortality rate. She was greatly pleased to hear her student's confidence and determination, and began his first lessons. They spent several weeks trying to find the aspiring warrior a weapon of choice, and went through many with little success. Sword and shield, spears, axes, none quite clicked with Orintur...until he came to the mighty warhammer. He was practically in love with the raw power of such a weapon, and asked to be trained in its use.
The first two years with Romana was specifically spent learning how to wear heavy armor and properly use a warhammer, along with a bit of hand-to-hand training. Proper footing, getting down the right amount of momentum, using distance to one's advantage, all the basics. When she believed Orintur could use the weapon confidently, Romana began engaging in full-on spars with her student. While obviously not on equal footing with his mentor, Orintur could still land his fair share of strikes. One day, Romana hit Orintur with an extremely heavy strike, bruising him terribly. What he initially believed was an accident was actually Romana transitioning into her next lessons: the art of Restoration, and how to heal oneself and others. She began by teaching Orintur a basic healing spell to ease his bruising, which he took it upon himself to learn quickly, as the wound panged quite unpleasantly...and then she made him do it again after the next spar when she fractured his index finger. Romana made it clear that she did not injure him for her own amusement, but rather to encourage him to learn how to heal himself faster and give him more experience with Restoration magics. Still, Orintur didn't quite appreciate the beatings even with that assurance, but the more potent spells she taught him after a few months softened the literal blows a bit. The next four years were a repeat of that routine of sparring and then healing, and going out to help those brought into the safety of the city after being attacked by bandits, wolves, and whatever else lurked the roads and forests. Romana had Orintur simply watch at first of course, no telling what an inexperienced student would get wrong, but eventually he was allowed to operate on his first patient. Using the most simple spell available, the Altmer successfully closed the gashes of an unfortunate victim of a mugging. He liked those lessons much more. Two more years were spent learning the art of Destruction; Romana admitted that while, yes, Destruction was quite an unsavory school, a paladin needs several methods of attacking, as one may not be able to get close enough to bash away with steel.
Another two years passed, all the time with Romana spent perfecting his technique after having learned all of the basics of combat and magic. When the time had come for Orintur's trial of initiation, he could manuever himself smoothly even in heavy iron, could close and mend the wounds of himself and others in under twenty seconds, and his prowess with warhammers was something to be feared. Romana, the Primate, and all others who had witnessed his training were confident in his ability...but were the Divines? Such was the purpose of his trial, to determine his worthiness in the eyes of Stendarr. Orintur's mission: Head to a nearby cave, once the lair of some goblins, and destroy the warlock hiding away inside. The warlock had been attacking travellers on the road to Chorrol frequently, and was the cause of all the recent burn victims carried into the city. He was to bring back their staff as proof of his success.
The moment Orintur stepped into the vile lair of the mage, the scent of death hit him in the face with nauseating force. In the second chamber was the cause: Six glassy-eyed corpses, reanimated by the darkest of magicks. They were the unfortunate travellers that did not make it the rest of the way to Chorrol, their flesh singed with intense magical flames. To profane the dead in such a way was heresy in the eyes of Arkay, and so Orintur dispatched them swiftly. The slow, shambling zombies were no match for Orintur and his warhammer, and the Altmer had little issue releasing them from their servitude. Deeper in the cave, however, was a sight truly horrible: piled up in a corner was a mountain of corpses, most much, much older than the poor souls in the previous chamber. Next to them were bloody carts; the blasphemer had been practicing necromancy far before moving near Chorrol. Filled with righteous fury, Orintur was going to make sure the bastard would not be able to relocate this time. At the very end of the cave was a large open room with torches, and sconces filled with bones. In the middle was a stone altar with a multitude of body parts arranged in a vaguely humanoid shape...with the sickening mage ogling at their handiwork with childish wonderment. The clanking of armor alerted the aging warlock, but she was none too impressed with her adversary, wondering aloud if the following of Stendarr was so weak that they had to send a boy after her.
Summoning forth a fire atronach, the warlock looked on amusedly as her minion went to work on Orintur. The atronach was swifter than he anticipated, and he missed his first swing. Now at a safe distance, the daedroth flung a ball of fire at Orintur, hitting the middle of his cuirass. Though not hit directly, the heated part of his armor would occasionally brush against his body, searing him painfully whenever he turned. Deciding his foe was too good at gaining distance, the Altmer switched to blasting the atronach with orbs of ice. Only when the summon was in a weakened state did Orintur charge forth and let his hammer crash down on his foe's skull. Turning away from the fizzling remains of the flaming abomination, the warlock and the paladin-to-be locked eyes, both glaring at the other. Lifting up her staff, the warlock let loose a fireball, crashing behind Orintur as he jumped to the side to avoid another unfortunate burn wound; the one he had already was getting on his nerves as it was. Retaliating with a lightning bolt, the furious High Elf advanced quickly, his attack sending the warlock's next fireball askew, far away from her charging foe. Before they were able to send out another spell, Orintur knocked the mage to the ground with a hard shoulder-bash, who followed up with a quick stomp to their arm, breaking it and forcing them to let go of their staff. The blasphemer's predictable last-ditch promises of unlimited power went unheard, and were ultimately silenced by Orintur's warhammer cracking them across the skull, snapping her neck at a disgusting angle.
After treating his burn as best as he could, Orintur grabbed the accursed staff and prayed to Arkay and Stendarr, praying that the souls of the dead so disrespectfully mutilated in the cave would be tended to, and that the warlock would hopefully be granted pardon by Stendarr the Merciful. It was dark by the time Orintur returned to the chapel, and he was greeted by the relieved cheering of its inhabitants. Handing the staff to the Primate, it was announced that Orintur would be made a paladin of Stendarr on the morn. Never before had rest felt so deserved to the anxious Altmer.
After waking and praying at the altars, Orintur met the Primate at the center of the chapel. He was surpised at how many were in attendance: there was Romana and the other priests of the chapel, which wasn't too shocking, but behind them in the pews were several citizens of Chorrol and even a few guards. Kneeling low, the Primate proudly began the induction speech, placing upon Orintur the blessings of Stendarr and the other Divines, charging him with the faithful service of the good people of Tamriel, to defend and protect the weak and innocent, and to forever hold the ideals of generosity and kindness to others in his heart. Accepting these gifts and responsibilities, Orintur rose and took in his hands the steel warhammer and donned the steel armor forged by Chorrol's blacksmith, ordered by Romana and the priests specially for the Altmer's coronation. After the ceremony, Romana told Orintur that the reason for the large amount of attendees was that a paladin of Stendarr hadn't been inducted in many years, and it was an exciting event for the townsfolk. He vowed to not disappoint the people of Chorrol, or of anywhere else in Tamriel. To that end, he geared up, said his great thanks to the kind priests that raised him, to and the Primate Romana for their teachings, and set out across Cyrodiil.
The following years weren't exactly full of epic adventures and quests to destroy evil artifacts. In fact, Orintur's new life as a paladin was fairly mundane, and that suited him just fine. Helping people with problems, big or small, filled Orintur with purpose, and his spirits were raised with every word of thanks and gratitude. He took very little in terms of rewards, accepting little more than pieces of fruit or refills for his waterskin. As a result of this, and his eventual reputation as a reliable but incredibly extreme man of the faith barring him entry from most cities by the guards, Orintur has had to learn how to find his own food in the form of berries and edible plants along with the uncommon pieces of meat from the game he is able to reliably hunt, and has also taken it upon himself to learn the basics of using small swords and handaxes, just in case he ever finds himself without his hammer or enough magicka for spells. The intricacies of smithing and alchemy are far beyond the Altmer, but he knows enough to keep his armor and weapons in decent shape, and can brew basic potions for healing, fatigue, and magicka recovery.
The news of the Emperor's death saddened Orintur greatly, and upon hearing of the event he gave himself to the Kvatch arena games, hoping to honor the late Uriel Septim with victory in combat. He planned to later pray and mourn in the Chapel of Akatosh, and unbeknownst to him them, pray and mourn he would, but not just for the dead Emperor, but for all people of Tamriel.
Then the time for prayer would end, and thus would begin the purging of heretics, blashphemers, and daedric abominations. The Princes themselves shall fear the name Orintur Graywatch!
Spells:
Restoration
Greater Convalescence(J), Heal Major Wounds(A), Convalescence(A), Heal Minor Wounds(N)
Destruction
Shock(A), Corrode Armor(A), Snowball(N)
Inventory:
Storage
1 x Large Leather Backpack
1 x Leather harness w/ three pouches
Alchemy Gear
1 x Mortar/Pestle
3 x Empty vials
Sufficient ingredients to make two potions of light healing, and one potion of light magicka recovery
1 x Healing/Stamina/Magicka potions
Tools/Arms and Armor/Clothing
1 x Green cotton shirt/black trousers/leather boots
1 x Set of fluted steel plate armor with gauntlets, greaves, and a bucket helmet w/ raisable face plate
1 x Steel warhammer
1 x Iron dagger, fastened to harness across cuirass
1 x Armourer's hammer and whetstone
1 x Small handaxe for chopping up bits of wood for fires, fastened to his backpack
Food and Provisions
1 x Medium sized waterskin
2 x Cuts of cooked venison
1 x Red Apple
3 x Half-loafs of bread
1 x Small leather tent and bedroll |
56,365 | 1,541 | 10 | 1,358 | 1,312 | Valentis looked in wonder at the number of people picking up their arms to stop the hordes of oblivion, moments ago this small Imperial woman stated that she would attempt to close the gate, albeit in a rather demeaning manner, and upon hearing this claim from someone as young and small as herself, others took up the call.
The other man in the room who had a dog, the paladin, even the girl that looked unfit for any form of combat...
And yet, here he sat.
Valentis has lived a long life; he has no legacy barring perhaps being one of the most prominent Akaiviri scholars in the era, to die quietly, seemed unfitting.
Why, would he let these young people lay down their lives for the greater good without at least trying to do so himself, he may be old but with his age came considerable experience, knowledge and skill.
He was no stranger to combat and could fight better than most, Valentis would offer what little life he could to this cause, it may be a fools errand by the lot of them to walk into the depths of hell itself, but they could at least try.
With a bit of difficulty in his joints from being stationary for so long Valentis stood up, leaning slightly on his staff.
After straightening himself he walked over to the group by the doors; with Albert at his heel, - which inevitably lead to the chaos outside
Valen spoke out to them, his voice was soft and calm, but it held a stern undertone, one filled with conviction and confidence.
"Excuse me, I am Valentis Fenotorai; I have been listening and watching to what you have all done and said - I must say, even in my old age, I cannot sit by and allow you all to march into the gates of hell alone - with what will my old bones have in them, consider them dedicated to the task at hand."
After noticing a few incredulous glances and looks towards him he continued.
"Don't let the looks of an old man fool you; I have braved the ancient and hostile lands of Akaivir and returned, what I have learned from those people has proven invaluable, I am a skilled warrior mage who can still give his all in a fight to the death.
Regardless of what you say, I am coming, on principle alone of nothing else."
Giving a slight nod to his companion followed by giving his head a ruffle he stated "Even my friend here can offer some assistance, he's quite the scout, his nose and ears are something that have warned me of a danger long before it comes into sight - in the unknown that is on the other side of that gate out there, surely all the help we can get will be needed."
Albert gave a happy bark to back Valen up on his points, it's been a long time since he had explored the unknown, and in his mind it was something that he originally started leaving that fortress for in the first place - turns out he got what he wanted.
If not the most extreme level of the unexpected. | Name:
Albert, Alexander, Alistair… His memory slips sometimes, and calls Albert by his older companions names.
Breed:
Border Collie - Typically bred in the Colovian Highlands.
:Appearance:
:Bio
Arf! *Wags tail* |
56,366 | 1,541 | 11 | 1,348 | 1,669 | He kept the bead on his crossbow trained on the doors, the thing resting on the back of an overturned pew while he sat on a chair. He thought maybe that he should take a break soon, but the thought of those things outside always persuaded him otherwise. The pillars of smoke he'd seen outside put him in mind of that little village the Lord's men caught them at. For the first time in months, his heart beat a steady tempo, his whole world was the crossbow and the door in front of it. His breaths were slow and- something plopped down on his shoulder and he stifled a yelp, looking up at Engel, who was unperturbed by his reaction. “You.”
“You should sleep, your eyes are red with it. I will take up watch.” Engel said, his voice holding no signs of being shaken by the things happening outside. How a man could be so calm about today, he didn't know. Though, from the moment he saw him kill those two men and the dozen more after that, he'd surmised that Engel was anything but normal.
He shook his head, “It's only from the smoke, I'll be fine.”
“We haven't been around the smoke in two hours, Renart.” Engel sat beside him. “What will we do?”
“Why ask me? I did my part,” his pointed finger went to the door, “I killed two of them perched here while they ran at the door. I suppose you want us to go into the gate itself and close it?”
“The Paladin would do it.” Engel said. He'd shown great interest in watching the man, he hadn't seen Engel express any sort of interest in anything until now.
“If the Paladin charged into the portal, would you follow him?” Renart asked, rolling his eyes.
The slamming open of the door was thankfully soon and jarring enough to keep Engel from saying yes to his question. Instead, Engel had his knife and axe in his hands as fast as lightning, lips screwed shut. He almost loosed his bolt into the big man's chest before he realized it was a Nord and an Imperial woman, polar opposites in size. He let go a breath but kept his crossbow trained at the doorway, yawning open like a grave. The conversation seemed to be getting heated between the Imperial woman and the man, Martin, apparently. Talk of closing the gate. He frowned, tuning it out. “How in all the hells do they think they're going to close that thing?” He muttered. “We're staying ri- oh, you bastard!”
Engel was already walking towards the forming group around the Imperial woman and the Priest. Renart rolled his eyes, wiping his soot-stained, sweaty face.
* * *
Engel was tired of waiting. He couldn't stand sitting and waiting, not because people were most definitely in need, but because it frayed his own nerves and he remembered what happened the last time he sat and waited for trouble to come at its leisure. Renart may have been more than happy to sit and wait here, but their only hope of getting out and living to see a tomorrow that wasn't like today was taking their chances outside. Renart wasn't too privy on going outside, or risking his life in general. Neither was he, but he knew that sometimes, you had to. He'd learned that when he saw his brother up against that fence, and when he forgot, the Gods punished him by taking his loves away. He wouldn't let his hand grow soft and weak with decadence and inaction, wouldn't risk losing Renart. That, and the prospect of going out there and killing was drawing him forward, he walked almost not of his own volition.
His soft footfall brought him to the group, and though his hands trembled the same way a young man's would hovering over the soft thigh of a girl, he made fists of them to hide it. He swallowed, speaking softly, “I will go too.”
Though he did not look like much, he was ready. | Character Name:
Renart
Age:
33
Race:
Breton
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lover
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Pilgrim - “Hearty folk, (not really) well-versed in the tomes of old. They profit in life by bartering in the market, or by persuading the weak-minded.”
Skills:
Expert Skill (Marksman)
Journeyman Skills (Mercantile, Speech, One-Handed Blunt)
Apprentice Skills (Light Armor, Block, One-Handed Blade)
Crafting Skills (Fletching)
Appearance:
Renart has a good face for getting out of trouble and a good face for ending it before it starts. It is somewhat commanding, framed by a blond beard whose mustache does not connect with it. An easygoing smile almost always graces his lips and he chews on something, whether it is a toothpick or a shoot of grain. His body holds the telltale signs of manual labor, but not too much of it if he can help it, broad in the shoulders and thick in the limbs. He holds a quiet sense of confidence about him though he is a lackadaisical man. Even so, he tries to appear less than he is to avoid being noticed- either by undesirable individuals or those looking for him to volunteer for something.
Personality:
Renart is good with words and was always good at keeping a poker-face. He was content with his lot in life, consisting of whiling away the days playing cards and going out on the town. He did his fair share of lying and cheating and it has gotten him into his fair share of trouble. He has a knack for gambling, but when one gambles, they may win but it is a rule that you lose sometimes. With better men, they lined their troubles up and knocked them down one at a time with a vigorous rubbing of palms to get ready for the honest work.
His method was to stay as under the waves as he could so as not to accrue any kind of troubles. Speaking of hard, honest work, he tries not to mess with the stuff. Better to have a boring day and get paid for it than end up bleeding for a handful of coin. After all, what good is gold if you aren't alive to spend it? Renart is a man who is a steadfast friend of the weak if they can pay, a righteous defender if he thinks he can live to see the end of the ordeal, and a loyal companion if it isn't too hard to be. A man with ideals higher than he's willing to reach for, the only time he'll leap to action is if he's badgered about it enough, drunk enough or if it lies in the way of him seeing a lax tomorrow filled with drink, merriment and women.
Backstory:
Renart grew up in Anvil to a merchant family with holdings as far away as Pelletine and Hammerfell. Appropriately for a merchant's son, he was given lessons in being a gentleman and a trader. His lessons were in navigation, logistics, mercantile, economics and the gentlemanly arts of marksmanship and fencing. He surrounded himself with people of his like, as if his parents would let him be in the presence of scoundrels. His life was a leisurely one, whiling away the days playing cards and other such things and spending his nights on the town.
It was a life of hum-drum leisure and decadence. He thought nothing of it, knowing that his father did tend to meet with some less-than-reputable looking characters at times, but he brushed it off as the intricacies of mercantilism and went on his merry way. All was well, until the town guard barged into their home one night and hauled his father off to jail. This, of course, struck a mighty blow to the de Perceval merchant family. Not as hard a blow as would be struck by the revelation of his father's crimes.
It turned out that Guy de Perceval was engaged in smuggling not only stolen objects and poached skins and meats, but also illicit substances. Moon Sugar and Skooma was what lined the de Perceval manor's vaults with money and it would be enough to topple the de Perceval name knowing that the money was tracked back to the Renrijra Krin. Renart's mother took her own life and Renart, being an only child, was left destitute. None of his friends would take him in knowing the stock he was bred from and the manner in which his family made their money.
He hung his head low and enlisted in the Imperial Legion, desperate for a new start somewhere far away from Anvil. He endured the two months of training it took to become a Legionnaire of the Empire and was sent off to Fort Satternus, named after some hero of the Legion that did... something. His lessons of the Legion's history had gone in one ear and out the other. Legion life went by much the same, if not a little more boring and regimented than that of his former civilian life.
It was one day that he had the idea of playing others for something more than fun. Soon, he was playing cards for a fellow Legionnaire's extra boots, or his leftover rations. People would come to him because while he may have charged more than the Fort's Quartermaster, his product was premium, some of his stock won from the outside world from traders come to Bruma with foreign and well-made wares whenever his unit got their leave.
His days of easy sailing as a Munifex in the good Legion's Cavalry Scouts of the Fifth Legion would come to an end when the annual wargames reared their head in his unit's direction. He managed to capture a camp and seize the supplies of the opposing team and ambush a sizeable contingent marching along the roads. A decisive victory, owed to Munifex Renart and his detachment. He was promoted to Decanus and was second-in-command of his Contubernium under his best friend Quaestor Maricus. Ten men, all having to listen to his say-so. At least while Maricus was away.
Another year went by and it was time for yearly raises. Camp Praefect Miribella, a pretty thing from Skingrad and a woman who appreciated a good pair of Colovian leather boots and Honningbrew Import won from a trader from Falkreath had a few good words to put in for Decanus Renart. He was promoted to Quaestor and put in charge of a different Contubernium, ill-fatedly stationed in Fort Leonhart, a small forward post in High Rock. It was a curse, as war started in High Rock after a bout of political hijinks. The 5th Legion did what they apparently always did; sat tight and didn't meddle in the war unless it was absolutely needed. Things like this happen all the time in High Rock, he was told, and he didn't know if he felt reassured at the calmness of his fellow soldiers or disturbed at the fact these Bretons had such a habit for warring and scheming.
It was on a routine patrol that he and the soldiers under him were caught in a raid on a village, where he would meet his peculiar traveling companion, a man named Engel. They were branded enemies, their Imperial uniforms nothing of a deterrent to aggression. He helped the villagers as well as he could, even earning a victory after half his contubernium and many of the villagers were killed in the battle. Though bloodied and beaten, he was thanked by the villagers and sent off with gifts and goodwill. He did not feel like a hero, as some called him. He felt like a commander who'd done the worst he could've done for the men under his command. And for all his doubts, regrets, and anger he was commended. Given a medal for his bravery in the face of overwhelming odds, he looked at it as something to be disgusted at.
Life in the Legion went on and soon it was time for promotions. Quaestor Renart was bumped up to Praefect Renart, something they said was long due for a man of his actions and mettle. He'd since been doing his best to get past those events in the village, but when he heard that it was burned down some time after he and his contubernium had left, he petitioned the Legate to bring the Empire's justice on whichever nobleman had ordered the sacking of the village. Nothing came of it, the lives lost- the legion lives lost too- were out of their control. It was 'the hazards of working in a Province as turbulent as High Rock.'
He retired shortly after his pending appointment to Praefect had been pushed through. He bid his men farewell after those years of service and wandered looking for any work, selling the odd thing he picks up while playing cards and trading when he can. He met his old acquaintance, Engel, not that long after his retirement and the two began to travel together. After some time of wandering, he came to Kvatch when he heard that he could earn a large sum of money for betting on the fights there. Then, well, things happened.
Spells:
None
Inventory:
Cash: 27 septims
Keys and Lockpicks: None
Tools and Crafting Materials: Extra heads for his bolts, extra shafts, feathers for cutting flights and a knife for trimming flights. A small iron mold for making melting down scavenged metal from the battlefield and making new heads for his bolts.
Clothing and Armor: Clad in a thick green gambeson, and thick black hose descending into a pair of brown Colovian leather boots that look to be of fine make, leather gloves tucked into his swordbelt if not on his hands. He is kept warm by a red cloak and his fine leather gloves are lined with fur on the inside. Atop his head is a simple traveler's hood. He keeps a steel cuirass and a steel skullcap helm with a hinged noseguard packed away in his bags with the arming cap that goes under it.
Weapon and Ammunition: His crossbow was one he won off of a mercenary from Morrowind, a thing of custom make with a stock for extra stability when aiming and a crank that makes the rearming of the string and the reloading process roughly six seconds.
20 bolts for his crossbow
A steel hammer with a pick on the opposite side and a steel buckler
A broad-in-breadth, thick-bladed cleaving knife at the small of his back, blade a foot in length
Potion and Arcane Supplies:
Jewelry, Valuables and Personal Belongings: He stole the standard of the 5th Legion Mounted Scouts Cohort he was gifted during the short time he was a Praefect. He also has his medals tucked away in his baggage.
Books and Documents: His papers listing his commendations, notes of promotion and his discharge papers.
Food, Drinks and Ingredients: On cart: Three bottles of Colovian Whiskey, three bottles of ale,
On horse: A bundle of cured sausages as well as a heel of bread, two fresh apples, and a bottle of mead.
Load Bearing Equipment: A horse and a cart, the horse is for riding, the cart is for carrying his meager supply of wares.
Other: On Cart: Two pairs of Colovian leather boots, seven silk shirts claimed to be from Elsweyr but are really from High Rock, two swords in the Hammerfell style made from steel, a steel sword claimed to be skyforge steel but is really a cheaply made replica.
Character Name:
Engel the Carver
Age:
30
Race:
Breton
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
Warrior
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Warrior - “Unafraid of light weaponry, they plow into the fray with little regard for injury. Masters of all melee tools, they put little faith in the magical arts.”
Skills:
Expert Skill (One-Handed Blunt)
Journeyman Skills (Marksman, Sneak, One-Handed Blade)
Apprentice Skills (Light Armor, Two-Handed, Hand-to-Hand)
Appearance:
Engel was not a small child, nor was he blessed with height. The same can be said of Engel the man. He is not tall but tall enough, he boasts no astounding bulk, but his body is hardened by toil of the land. Callused hands, thick fingers, nails bitten and dirty. He is not beautiful nor is he ugly. A pair of sad blue eyes are often affixed on some point that is nowhere near, as if remembering something long past and fretful.
Personality:
Engel is a gentle man, a meek and quiet one, who shares his kindness freely with others. He is a good friend, a loyal man and a steady companion. Underneath, he is a spring coiled back in wait for trouble. He yearns to meet each challenge with the violence born into him. He has the mind of a wolf and the soul of a lamb, the clashing of the two making his days on Nirn a storm. He feels right among blood, the struggle between two opposing forces where only one may prevail rages in him. When the fight is done and he sees the truth of what he's wrought, he seeks guidance and forgiveness on his knees with clasped hands before the Gods.
Backstory:
At the age of ten, Engel took a rock and smashed it against Albren's head. Two boys had tried to pin Engel's runt of a brother- Robben- against the Old Tree while Albren took a sharp stick and jabbed it at his stomach. They both ran away, one getting up clutching his nose, the other spitting blood. Albren lay on his back, staring up at the blue sky. He begged his brother not to tell of what he'd done but it was no use. Children are bad liars, as they've yet to learn that too much honesty is like too much poppy-milk.
The children stayed away from him- all of them except his brother- whispering 'killer' at his back. Even after he was washed of his sins and the anger of the act in the river, the names followed him for the rest of his days on. He'd felt different after that, because even as he'd looked the priest in the eye and repented his anger, it tasted of lies. There was no anger, just the thrill of it. Even so, Engel would fight no more and did not trouble himself with the petty things life in the village offered him, even if it was not in his nature to do so.
The smoke of the nobles' quarrels blackened the sky often during the summers and each night he would look out at the stars and wonder what it must be to take up sword and shield and fight. Not for a cause, not to place this lord or that on a chair. But just to test himself against the challenge of life balanced on a sharp edge. There was something in him, something sharp, that pushed him to meet each challenge with the violence written through him. Not the anger of a drunk or the scorn of a lover, but just a thing as natural as breathing.
He'd told this to his brother on the night he'd packed his things and set off to join any army marching for any cause on his fourteenth name-day. Robben just assured him that it'd pass and he believed him, though it tore at him all that night that he hadn't left. The summers went past and like the seasons, Engel changed. He grew with the wheat, tall enough and hard enough from working the land with his father. His brother was still thin and short, though he'd grown too. Engel had almost settled into the life a farmer, the urge to run off and join in the wars diminished little by little each year. It was soon enough that he found a girl, Sybille.
Engel and Sybille married in the village church. Engel built his own farmstead, planted his own fields and even had his own two sons and a daughter delivered into his own hands, rough and wrong as it felt, it too felt good. He'd found a sort of peace in the arms of his wife and his children wrapped up in his own. Soon, there came days when old pains were stirred again by war. His father's crops were burned on the first week of summer. They found him hanged and Engel did not want to think about what they would've done to his mother had she still been alive after the Rockjoint. His wife and children were the only things that kept him firmly in his stead, and also his brother who had arrived on his doorstep, still alive.
He did not know if the bandits that came to his home dressed as the Lord's men were the same that came to his father's, but they'd tried to do the same to his home. He met them at the fringes of his land with some legionnaires under the command of a man named Renart- whose friendship would become invaluable to him, more than the man knows- offered the bandits a share of his crops, offered some of his sheep, and even when that did not work- remembering the words of the priests- he offered them the whole of his livestock if they would leave in peace. But some men only want to burn because they can. He gave them every chance, but when they would not take them, he killed their two messengers swiftly. He was too late though, his house had been burned with his family inside.
The battle raged on for an hour that felt like ten. When he was coated in the blood of a dozen men, he lay down. His vengeance was had. His purpose as a father was unfulfilled and could never be done now. His purpose as a defender of his village was done. He had nothing now, until the bandits came again. His village was burned, his fellows slaughtered and he left in shame while they were busy killing everyone else. He found Renart on the roads shortly after the other man's retirement from the legion. He followed Renart, appointing himself as his bodyguard, and the two roamed. He would kill the highwaymen who tried to rob them of their goods once in a while, a simple life. When they came to Kvatch, his simple life became anything but.
Spells:
None
Inventory:
Cash: 17 septims
Keys and Lockpicks: None
Tools and Crafting Materials: A whittling knife
Clothing and Armor: He wears a padded-cloth vest over a cloth shirt, baggy trousers bloused into leg-wraps and ankle boots. A brown cloak and a red phrygian cap.
Weapon and Ammunition: A hand-axe, kept looped on his belt opposite of a large knife with a six inch blade. A small collection of six knives hidden about his person.
Potion and Arcane Supplies: None
Jewelry, Valuables and Personal Belongings: His wedding ring, a pressed flower he received those years ago from his daughter. A half-finished carving of a wolf's head.
Books and Documents: None
Food, Drinks and Ingredients:
On horse: A bundle of cured sausages as well as a heel of bread.
Load Bearing Equipment: His horse |
56,367 | 1,541 | 12 | 1,470 | 1,427 | The most peculiar of things happened the day she set foot inside of Kvatch, at first, Brona thought the eerie silence in the air came from the fact that the Imperial guard had finally caught up to her through the countless reports of angered nobles, and wealthy merchants having been robbed blindly by some Imperial woman performing sleights of hand, or the reports of their gold being taken from them in the dead of night. However, as she strolled through the familiar streets of the town, she noted the lack of birdsong that she listened for, or any presence of the local livestock. Come to think of it, she had a rather peaceful night’s sleep under the boughs of an oak tree the night before, which was a bit on the odd side, considering that many of the wild life kept her awake until the early morning hours, when she could afford to fall asleep for a few hours before dawn broke.
However, that was the 28th of Last Seed. When she made it inside Kvatch, Brona went through her normal routine of gifting the poor folk with coin, and selling the rest of her pilfered wares to the vendors. Normally, when people questioned where she found such items, she mumbled something along the lines that she enjoyed cave-diving, and exploring old ruins. Of course, for the finer things, she always had a backstory of some sort, any little lie that helped them take their mind off where she found it, and focus on paying her the share she was owed. After disposing of her lifted items, Brona pitched her tent outside the town, and settled down for the evening. To keep herself busy, and out of trouble, she took to mending her armor, sewing over the worn patches where holes had begun to form, fitting pieces of canvas underneath the holes, and sewing in smaller pieces of leather over top. While she wasn’t the best at leatherworking, at least it kept her from wasting the people’s money, as she thought of it in her mind’s eye, on new armor.
The 29th of Last Seed continued much the same, the lack of birdsong prevailed through the air, as it normally served as a wake up call for Brona, now, she had overslept by a two full hours. A bit grouchy, she stuck to her camp, and decided that in the morning, she would start her way back to the Imperial City to see her family, as it had been seven months since she spoke to her mother and father last, let alone learn how Garius, Marcellus and Oriela were holding up. Last she heard, Garius had acquired a position as a guard on the docks, she was happy that he had found a stable job. Marcellus, now 31 like his twin, had married four years ago, and was expecting his first child. There were complications with his wife conceiving, so this was considered a blessing. He had a job working in the same fields as their father. Arcantina had slowed down in the working life, and Oriela had left her apprenticeship as a seamstress to look after their mother.
However, by the time nightfall came, Brona’s world was turned upside down. She had packed her belongings up, even her tent and bedroll, and was about to head out in the night to get a head start towards the city, when a great thunderous noise turned her gaze towards the sky above. There, the sky turned crimson, a deep shade of red, the color of blood, and while she expected to see brilliant white bolts of lightning to illuminate the sky, none ever came, only the booms of thunder. Immediately, she went to investigate, the guards didn’t say a word, for their attention too, was turned to the skies. What happened next, Brona can only recall in terrifying glimpses. Once inside Kvatch, throngs of frightened villagers made their way into the streets where utter chaos ensued. For some it was too late, homes and shoppes were ablaze, and as screams began to fill the air, Brona soon understood the source of it. Daedra. By the Gods, daedra were pouring out of swirling portals, funneling through the streets like droves of ants. Those that could, made their way to the Chapel of Akatosh, and so did Brona. She herself felt afraid at the sight of the daedra, to her, they had only been legend, but now they were here.
So that was how Brona, and those inside the chapel came to be. Sleep never came that night for her. Her nerves were stretched thin with worry. Would the daedra outside overwhelm the chapel, and slaughter those within? Would she ever see the light of day again? What of her family? In a quiet corner, Brona had sat huddled in a ball, her knees pulled tight to her chest.
It wasn’t until the sound of rapid knocking upon the chapel doors did she realize that she had dozed off. Struggling to her feet, her hands flew to the dual short swords at her hips. A female guard that seemed to be in charge of the others inside, opened the door, the air inside the chapel had become thick with fear. Would this be it? The moment of truth? As the door swung open, in spilled a towering Nord man, and a rather short Imperial woman. While the woman expressed her enthusiasm for making it inside safe, the man with her began scanning the room. Immediately, Brona sank back down, trying to make herself smaller in case they were looking for her, but she listened to the woman guard, gleaning what information she could from the situation. So the gates that the daedra were coming from hadn’t been closed, but they were looking for someone as she had suspected. The blonde Imperial inquired if there was a person by the name of Martin present in the chapel. To which there was.
The situation in the chapel turned completely when it became apparent that volunteers were needed in help shutting the gates of Oblivion, and one by one, those brave enough began to voice that they would help. To Brona, it was suicide, but it also seemed suicidal to remain behind in the chapel when there was a chance at putting an end to the chaos outside. She was hesitant, and thought of her family, what would become of them if she did this? Or more importantly, what would happen to them if she didn’t? From her crouched position in the corner, Brona slung her rucksack onto her shoulder and moved out of her hiding place.
“I will help too.” She didn’t need to explain herself, or what her skills were, so she thought. The fact that she was volunteering should be enough. | Character Name
Brona Valerivicus
Age
33
Race
Imperial
Sex
Female
Birthsign
The Thief
Specialisation
Stealth
Class
Agent
Skills
Expert - Illusion
Journeyman - Sneak
Journeyman - Speechcraft
Apprentice - Marksman
Apprentice - Security
Apprentice - Acrobatics
Novice - Mercantile
Novice - One-Handed Blades
Novice - Leatherworking {Craft}
Novice - First Aid
Novice - Hunting {Craft}
Appearance
If you happen to catch a glimpse of Brona Valerivicus, which is rare, as she is often using some form of Illusion magick to conceal her identity, you might consider yourself lucky, or maybe not.. However, during one of those quiet moments in her life when she is relaxing in some run down inn, sipping on a mugful of hot apple cider, one can see through the array of magick, and when that happens, one must take precaution in approaching her.
Brona is a bit on the shorter side for an Imperial, standing in at 5’4, she attributes this to her stunted growth during childhood. In regards to her figure, she is rather slim, which helps her move around without making much noise. Her shoulders are broad from time spent wielding her bow, as well as the continued use of athletics and acrobatics.
When it comes to a matter of clothing, Brona wears simple clothes, as she’s busy redistributing the wealth to the poorer folk, and doesn’t have the time or care to divulge in fanciful tastes. For that matter, a simple linen tunic, a pair of leather trousers, and a hooded cloak is more than enough to satisfy her.
She won’t deny it, the fact that men find her attractive, or that she has an approachable face, as her mentor once put it. Her hair is a soft, dark brown color, while her eyes are cool storm-grey. She has a soft jawline, though her chin is round with a slight cleft. As in her choice of clothes, Brona prefers a simple appearance, meaning, she keeps her hair worn in a single plait, and opts to forgo makeup, leaving her to rely on her good looks.
As for the most noticeable facial features, Brona possesses a faded scar on the right side of her chin, where she fell out of a tree as a child. Other than that, her brows are thick in width, but fair. Her nose has a slight hook to it, as she also suffered from a broken nose as a result of a fist fight in her childhood days. If anything, she possesses the common characteristics of an Imperial.
Personality
If one happened to ask Brona where she stood in the world when concerning her views, she would tell you that she stands in the shadows, meaning, that there is no white or black areas, but varying shades of grey. To her, there is no right or wrong, only what is moral, or immoral. But even then, she commits acts that contradict her beliefs. Some may call her a hypocrite, or even a heretic, but that does not faze her. She does what she must to stay alive.
Asides from her Robin Hood-esque persona, Brona is a soft spoken woman, who prefers to keep to herself. She has no need to interact with anyone else, unless they are in need, or if they are her mark. She is concerned with the well-being of her family, and has, and will continue to do anything for them. To her, family is everything, and while she is not religious, so to speak, when it concerns the worship of the Nine Divines, she does maintain a small belief of fate and destiny.
As a vigilante, as she calls herself, she prefers to target the rich who are selfish with their wealth, and are openly disgusted with the poor. In this case, she has no problem in robbing them blind. When it comes to stealing from the rich, although she prefers to call it “properly redistributing wealth amongst the people”, Brona has several ways of taking their money or other items of value. However, she always uses some form of Illusion magick in her tactics. As such, she can intimidate, seduce, or even rely on her physical skills of stealth to take from them, for this, she is dangerous with her way of words. Some would say that she has a silver tongue in speechcraft.
Because of her choice in craft, Brona doesn’t have any friends, only “acquaintences” or “contacts”. She finds it particularly difficult to open up to people about her inner emotions, and prefers to switch topics when discussions become too serious. For this, some might say that she is a bit immature in her ways for refusing to address serious matters. Yet, this is simply a defense mechanism, for she would rather deal with it internally, than express her concerns or worries externally.
When it comes to her flaws as a person, Brona suffers from a saviour-complex, where she believes that her crimes as a thief, make her a hero, or saviour to those in need. For the most part, this is true, however, those that she helps, are rather afraid of the repercussions of the law if they were to discover how they came into sudden abundance. Brona is also a bit of an idealist, and views herself in a heroic light, and believes those that she helps, should be grateful for what she does. Not to mention that she is also paranoid in the sense that she is constantly worrying if the Imperial guard is going to come around any corner and slap her in irons. Another glaring issue with her, is the fact that she is illiterate. Asides from this, Brona’s deepest fear as an individual, is not leaving a legacy behind, and being forgotten in time.
Backstory
Born in a run-down shack, as is common in the Waterfront District of the Imperial City, Brona lived a hard life, her early years filled with an ever present gnawing hunger. Her parents, Arcantina (mother), and Palentius (father), did their best to feed and care for their four children. As the oldest child, a heavy burden fell upon Brona’s young shoulders. She was left to ensure that her younger siblings were taken care of in their parents absence. As farmhands, Arcantina and Palentius travelled every morning to a cabbage farm on the outskirts of the Imperial City, they were lucky to make it home before dusk. The pay as a farm hand was meager, and having a full stomach every night was a pipe-dream for the struggling family. Asides from Brona, she has two twin brothers, Garius and Marcellus, and a little sister, Oriela. While Brona shares a two year difference in age with her brothers, the age difference is greater with Oriela, that being five years difference.
Garius and Marcellus did their best to mind Brona, but it was hard to do so when their parents weren’t around. She often chided them for playing tricks on the guards, or picking on the other children living in the Waterfront. By the time they reached eight years in age, and Brona ten, the boys’ interests turned to fighting with broken tree limbs. It was then, that Brona had to turn her attention from the twins to focus more on Oriela. She seemed to be a sickly child, for every change of the weather, she developed a cough that they could never seem to be rid of. As time passed, Brona carried on with the charge of taking care of her siblings, until the day her mother fell ill with Droops. With her mother unable to provide income, the greater lack of funds put much stress on Palentius, as well as Brona.
One day, as an entire month and a half had gone by, with still no medicine for her mother, Brona decided to take it upon herself to acquire the funds, and ventured inside the city walls. At first, she spent the entire day in the Market District, sitting on a bench, begging for alms. Of course it was hard for a young girl of fifteen to earn money, for the sympathy at that age was little to nil. As the hours ticked by, she began to grow impatient and irritated at the fact that she had not been given one septim. While her pleas for help were ignored, the dwindling sunlight drew people inside to the warmth and safety of their homes. Crestfallen that she would have to admit defeat, she rose begrudgingly to her feet, when she caught sight of an older Dunmeri man strolling away from the market square. His robes alone suggested that he had some coin about him, for there were intricate knotwork around the hems of his robes. Desperate to obtain even one septim, Brona darted to her feet and followed after the man. She tailed him through the streets, not realizing that the man was intentionally leading her in circles until she ended up in a dead end alleyway. With the man at the end of the alley, he turned suddenly to confront her. She had nowhere to hide, and decide that the best course of action would be to confront him head on.
With trembling hands, and tears in her eyes, Brona reached to the pouch at her hip, and retrieved a rock. She took a hesitant step towards the man, and was surprised to see a smile cross his lips. She had it in her mind, that she would threaten him with his life by knocking him out, but as soon as that smirk appeared, she lost every ounce of confidence in her body. Brona sank to her knees, saddened with the fact that her mother’s health would continue to deteriorate at this rate, possibly face the inevitable approach of death. As a wave of stinging tears blurred her vision, she could only see a grey blob of the man step towards her. Hastily, she wiped away the tears, and struggled to get away from the man, in case he meant her harm, but a cold, iron-like grip kept her in place.
“Dear child...why do you cry?” His voice came, soft and gentle like an early morning breeze across Lake Runmare.
“My mother is sick, and she might die. We have no money for her medicine. I have begged all day for alms, but none have given me a second glance.” She mustered through a lump in her throat. Surprisingly, the hand on her shoulder softened.
“It would do you well to come with me. Perhaps I can help you after all. What is your name, sweet girl?”
“Brona, my mother calls me Brona.”
“I am Runil Devani.” In a twist of fate, Brona’s life turned around, some may say for the better, and others may say for the worse.
Later that evening, as Runil brought Brona back to his home, a small house just outside of the Arcane University, where he proceeded to pour her cup after cup of tea. Therein, he asked her about her parents, her siblings, where she lived, what she desired in life, and numerous other questions. When her eyes began to grow heavy with sleep, Runil set up a place for her to sleep in front of the hearth fire. By the time morning came, Runil woke a sleepy Brona from her slumber, and escorted her back to her parents home in the Waterfront District. There, an ashamed Brona, who thought her parents would surely punish her, listened in silence to the conversation her mother and father held with Runil. As the conversation drew to a close, she felt deep inside that her parents would exact some kind of punishment for behaviour, instead, Runil proposed a question to them. How would they feel if he took their daughter under his wing as an apprentice? At first, Palentius exchanged weary looks with Arcantina, who with her pale skin, and drooping eyes, looked as if they would both say no. That is, until Arcantina gave her husband a heartfelt squeeze of the hand and nodded. To this day, Brona won’t ever forget the words her mother uttered to Palentius.
“Let her go. She has the best chance of all us to have a life.”
Over the next several years to come, Brona resided with Runil in his home near the University. While she was an unofficial member of the university, as long as she remained in Runil’s company, she was allowed on the premises. In the beginning of her lessons, Runil taught her simple things that did not pertain to magick, such as how to cook a simple meal, how to properly maintain a house, and even how to boil water for clothes, and how to wash them proper with lye. One would think Brona would already possess these skills, but as her early childhood would prove, she was ignorant in most areas. The next step in her lessons were discovering her strong points in magick, if she had any that is. Through each school of magick, Runil tested her, and in each school, she failed hopelessly, until they came to Illusion. There was one glaring aspect that held up her learning process, and for the life of him, Runil could not think of a way to work around it, and that was, her illiteracy. As a mage of any kind, it was dire to know how to read, especially when learning new spells.
However, one path around this most successful. He discovered that if he read aloud each word in the spell tome to Brona, she could recite them back to him as he pointed to each letter on the page. This would take time, surely, and time it did take, for it slowed her learning process greatly. While she could recognize and read letters in the spell tomes after Runil pronounced them aloud, she never caught the hang of reading other books outside of tomes. So, together, they stuck with her reciting spell tomes from memory to teach her new spells. To his delight, Brona had a hunger in her belly to learn all that she could from him. Years passed again, and practicing of the spells on a daily basis became commonplace for her. Yet, she never forgot about her family, and when she could, she found time to visit them.
After five years in Runil’s home, Brona happened upon an uncanny situation in the Market District one evening. As she was heading through the square, on her way to the Waterfront, she noticed a box of crates outside of Divine Elegance, a high-end tailor shoppe. Curious to see what the crates held, Brona checked the square to make certain that no patrons or patrolling guards were present in the area, and cast an invisibility spell about herself. Working quickly as the seconds ticked by, Brona lifted the lid on the crate, and discovered several bolts of fine velvet that came from Anvil. A sudden wave of disgust overcame her, and as the spell wore off, she smuggled one of the smaller bolts onto her person, and made off on her merry way. In her mind, Palonirya wouldn’t miss a bolt of cloth amongst all the other finer items of value in her store. That evening she stayed the night over in her parents home, eager to see how Garius and Marcellus had grown, and how Oriela had turned into a beautiful woman. They relished in her visits home, and they were excited to hear and see of the new spells she learned.
The next morning as dawn broke across the eastern horizon, Brona slipped away from the house, and made her way down to the docks. There, she looked about for wary guards, and also one particular in person, her own father’s childhood friend Caresi. He was a dockhand that helped in unloading shipments with arriving ships, but he also dabbled in selling stolen wares. Those who had stolen goods to sell brought them to him, and he in return, brought them to the Bloated Float Inn. There, Ormil sold them to newcomers for a higher price. Together, Ormil and Caresi split the shares, Ormil takes 70% and Caresi gets the remaining 30%. It’s not a lucrative business by any means, and the wares that are brought to the Bloated Float are limited in supply. When Brona finally located Caresi on the docks during a break in between unloading shipments, she cornered him, and revealed to him the stolen bolt of fine velvet she had stashed in her parents home. At first, Caresi wanted nothing to do with it, he didn’t want to take the blame for Brona if he were found out, so she set off to find Ormil. She had a hard time convincing Graman to let her inside, and to let her speak with Ormil. Eventually the orc relented and shooed her inside, saying something along the lines that she was worse than a fly on dung. Once inside, Brona pulled Ormil to the side, and relayed what she had told Caresi. Hesitant at first, Ormil too, relented, simply because he understood the value of such fine velvet, and if he couldn’t sell it, well it would make a nice early-birthday present to him. However, Brona knew that she needed a cut of the share, and with that, Ormil arranged a new setup with Brona. If she brought him her lifted items directly, the split would be 60-40. To this she agreed.
For the next three years, Brona made it a habit to take a stroll around the city in the evening, looking for wares that were easy to access. With the wares that she brought Ormil, she took the extra money and gave it away to her family, a form of repayment for letting her stay with Runil for the past eight years. In the following year, when Brona turned twenty-four, Runil approached her, and told her that he had nothing else to teach her, she could remain in his home if she wished, so that she could have access to the University, but she decided to take a different path. Brona was filled with piss, venom, and vigor as they say, so, she set out across Cyrodil, eager to put her knowledge of illusion to work. In Bruma, she spent a month playing the part of a traveling bard, her famous act consisted of making herself disappear, only to reappear in a tree, or atop a roof. However, during that space of time, Brona was collecting items, or rather heavy coin purses from the gathered patrons in the crowd. When she reappeared, they erupted into applause, marvelling at how quickly she had appeared in a different place.
In Anvil, she waited outside in the nearby woods, watching merchants travel to and from, their carts heavy with wares. Here, she would tail them from a distance, and when they made camp for the evening, she would rummage through their crates, sifted through their pockets, and make off with their goods, all before they awakened. Now, Brona was no ordinary thief, for through her travels across Cyrodil, she met many poor folk like her own family, and to balance the scales, she would pay them a visit, giving them the money she had pocketed. They were grateful, and a bit hesitant at first, for they had only exchanged a few words with Brona.
And so, her travels took her from Anvil to Bravil, to Cheydinhal, Leyawiin to Chorrol, and Skingrad to Kvatch. She targeted the wealthy that felt they were above the poor, and over time, she learned other tricks of her trade. She became bolder through the years as she picked up a recurve bow, along with a set of two short swords. For a year and a half, Brona focused on bettering her skills in this area, that way, if she were to encounter sticky situations, like she had when she was travelling through the Great Forest. A group of brigands discovered her camp when she was out hunting one morning, and had rifled through her belongings. When she broke upon the clearing where she had camp, they chased her down, only for her to slip away into the many towering trees of the forest.
Through time, she learned many useful skills, such as how to barter for goods, how to pick locks on chests tinkling full of coins, how to bandage her own wounds (to the best that she could), how to wield her short swords, and she became pretty good at firing her bow, not the best, but she was decent. Now 33, in recent days, Brona was on her way back from Anvil to the Imperial City to visit her family when she stopped in Kvatch for a rest.
Spells
Illusion
Shadow
Mute
Torchlight
Fearful Gaze
Enthralling Presence
Dominating Touch
Chameleon
Calming Touch
Seductive Charm
Touch of Fear
Touch of Rage
Void Gazer
Inspiring Touch
Captivate
Alluring Gaze
Beguiling Touch
Inventory
119 Septims
Two Iron Short Swords
Recurve Bow
Quiver of 14 Iron Arrows
Two Iron Daggers
Set of 12 Lockpicks
Leather Gorget
Leather Bracers
Leather Gloves
Leather Breastplate
Leather Boots
Red Tunic
Leather Trousers
Woolen Socks
Black Wool Cloak
Leather Rucksack (In which she carries items not readily on her person)
Roll of Linen Bandages
Needle and Spool of Thread
Candied Pears
Hard Bread
Water Skin
Tankard
Canvas Tent
Bed Roll |
56,368 | 1,541 | 13 | 1,320 | 116 | Aveca looked up in surprise as two people burst into the chapel. She was as surprised as the rest of those around her that they had managed to find their way into the city, and past all of those monsters, just the two of them. She stood back and watched as the Imperial woman, who seemed rather cheerful despite the situation she happened to be in, inquired about a man named Martin. The conversation that the two of them had wasn't hard to overhear from where she was. She hadn't heard the first part, but as they got a bit louder, she learned that this woman was going to attempt to close the portal.
She saw a few people start to volunteer their help. It was mostly the assorted adventurer types, or so they appeared. The Imperial woman herself didn't appear as set on the idea as those who were approaching her, but it didn't look to Aveca that she had much choice in the matter at this point. She heard a few people who had approached mentions their qualifications, that was, until just then when an Imperial woman approached with only four simple words: "I will help too."
Moving on from her eavesdropping, Aveca looked around at those in the chapel who were defenseless, and those she had helped to heal. There weren't any serious injuries left on the people she saw, and she looked up at the group, considering for a moment. Ultimately, she wasn't sure why she even hesitated at all. If helping people was what she set out to do on her travels, there had been few perfect opportunities such as this one. Luckily. She didn't wish for devastation and preferred not to be needed; however, in this situation, she was glad to be there. She moved from where she was sitting to approach the group.
"Hello," she introduced herself to the small group, "I'm Aveca. I will come along, if you go. My healing may be of use." | Character Name:
Aveca Ice-Bear
Age:
26
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Female
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Magic/Stealth
Class:
Healer
Skills:
Expert: Restoration
Journeyman: Marksman (Bow), Alteration, Alchemy (Craft)
Apprentice: Destruction, Speechcraft, Hunting (Craft)
Novice: Mercantile, Illusion, Acrobatics
Appearance:
Aveca stands at about 5’6” tall. She has the characteristic pale white skin of the Nords, as well as fair coloured features. Her hair is a light white-blonde colour with some yellowish tones. She has choppily cut bangs (done herself with a sharpened knife, quite carefully) that swoop in around her face, down to about nose length. The rest of her hair is usually kept either in a braid or in a messy bun, but when left long it goes down just past her armpits. Her eyes are a blue-gray tone, and her face is lightly freckled.
She is also able-bodied. She wouldn't get called a muscular person in general – you wouldn’t catch her in chainmail – but her body is accustomed to exercise and comfortable with the weight of drawing a bowstring. She never let herself get lax just because she practices magic.
As far as scarring and blemishes, Aveca has few. As a healer, she has usually been able to heal any more recent scars, but she has some very light markings (faded by time) up her legs and arms from the usual childhood rough activity and learning to hunt in her younger years. Between her youth and her training, she got one significant scar, which is a simple gash mark on her leg from a run in with a bear.
Aveca has little need for armor. She tries to avoid direct combat, so armor would in the end only inhibit the way she tries to weave around a battle and aid the injured. She prefers simple clothes, leggings and a tunic, or sometimes a dress or skirt. These she always wears over leggings and with boots, as she likes to be prepared for any situation.
Personality:
Aveca is a healer, and that is her passion, but it could in no way define all she is. She believes in aiding the wounded and sick, and wants to go out across the world and help good people, but she also has a fairly strong sense of justice and can be harsh with it at times. She won’t aid you regardless of who you are on the basis of you being a living being. After all, hunter and healer don’t tend to correlate. She isn’t afraid to throw fire around if it comes down to a fight, but she much prefers to avoid one. The bow she carries, she prefers to use for hunting than on people. Her passion is much more around the idea of widespread misery and sickness; her interests lie in sickness and disease, in the curing of plagues and foreign illnesses. She has an apt and interest for academic learning, but can become bored easily if it isn’t related to her interests (being healing, alchemy, living things, cultures, languages).
Despite this, she tends to help first and ask questions later. She will heal someone without a second thought in an instant, because she would rather help someone and expect them to be a good person than not take the risk in case they may be less savory. However, if ever she was betrayed she would retaliate in full force.
Overall, Aveca is a happy and optimistic person. She wants to travel and experience the world, to meet, to help, and to socialize with people from everywhere there is. She is generally willing to engage in a conversation at any time and with anyone, as long as she isn’t trying to heal. She takes her work seriously and doesn’t like distractions while she is actively doing a spell.
One thing is that you don’t want to get into an argument with her. She’ll get heated over anything she has an opinion on, and she won’t let go, either.
Backstory:
Katla and Eirn were rather typical Nords. They met in Markarth, where Katla lived with her family (merchants), and Eirn travelled through as a hunter selling meats. He trekked back and forth across Skyrim all his life, with his parents and then later on his own. He met Katla at the market there, and found himself coming to Markarth more and more often. Her family disapproved, but they married and she too to travelling with him. She enjoyed the adventure. When Aveca and her sister,
Laisa, were born, their parents stopped for a time at a camp they built outside of Whiterun. It provided some stabililty for the young girls.
As they grew older, their parents started travelling with them more. They had a cart and tents, so it wasn’t as though they lived in total discomfort. Aveca was quite fond of the dirt and the travel, whereas Laisa was jealous of the nicely dressed children they met in cities. Over the years, Aveca learned hunting from their father from a very young age, and their mother taught Laisa the ways of business so she could go out on her own someday, without having to depend on someone else.
When she was 13, Aveca asked her family to take her north to the College of Winterhold to learn, and they did. Her mother was a firm believer in doing what you want to do. At first try, the nice man at the gate told her and her mother that they simply couldn't let in a totally untrained mind, and at such an age, though he would have liked to. He asked her to gain some preliminary knowledge and to return in a few years. Her mother was frustrated, and, determined for her daughter to have what she wanted, they traveled to Markarth and left Aveca with a mage she knew from her life there. He was an Alteration mage named Aenar who worked in the temple. She spent a year and a half with him and helped him with his work, while developing a base knowledge of how magic works and how to preform it. She learned a solid base of novice spells and returned to the College with her family just as she was almost 15. This time, they let her in to learn more after she demonstrated that she had the skill for learning it.
For the first few years she studied generally and with vigor, but when she was 17, her family travelled north to tell her that her mother had died of an illness. She never got the chance to say goodbye because of the distance. Her sister was still ill with the same sickness, however it was less advanced and the mages in Winderhold healed her. This ignited Aveca’s passion more specifically for healing and she undertook learning all she possibly could about it. She had a knack for magic and dedicated her whole life to it from the age of 17 until she was 24. She still kept hunting on as a hobby, something she did for an afternoon every week, maybe.
As for Laisa, when she was 18 she made some business connections and set up a shop in Riften.
When Aveca was 24, she herself deemed her training temporarily complete. She had a very advanced training in healing, as well as alchemy and alteration, but she didn’t have the same knack for the rest of the schools and she didn’t focus on them nearly as much. She left the college of her own accord and again travelled Skyrim with her father for a good number of months until she passed south to Cyrodill from Riften, after a visit with her sister.
Once there, she used a mixture of hunting, healing, and alchemy to make an income. She started in the north in Burma, and travelled south through Chorrol, Skingrad, and finally Kvatch. During this time she travelled very light, with a sac on her back for various alchemical pursuits, and very little else. She stayed in inns in the cities as long as she could afford to do so.
Spells:
Restoration: Heal Minor Wounds, Major Respite, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Heal Superior Wounds, Devour Health, Cure Disease, Superior Convalescence
Alteration: Lightning Shield, Water Breathing, Water Walking, Protect Other,
Destruction: Electric Touch, Flash Bolt, Frost Touch
Illusion: Illuminate, Soothing Touch
Inventory:
Steel Bow
Quiver of Iron Arrows (x20)
Iron Dagger (more for daily use than fighting)
Pair of black leggings
Sturdy leather boots
Light blue tunic
Brown cotton dress, white corset, decent quality
Travelling cloak
Leather belt with pouches
Waterskin
Knapsack, leather
Bedroll with bedding
Mortar and Pestle
Alchemical ingredient pouch (mostly herbs for healing potions, but with some other ingredients)
Vials and corks for those potions
Minor Magika Potions (x2)
75 Septims
Dried meats, bread, cheese |
56,369 | 1,541 | 14 | 365 | 1,196 | Adamiir Thiich - Kvatch Chapel - Listening
Adamiir watched the Bosmer before him carefully as she spoke, his lips pressed together tightly; the urge to interject and respond to the barrage of questions she was throwing at him was nearly overwhelming. Did he understand that it was all rhetorical just to emphasize a point? Well, of course. Adamiir, however, still very much so had to quell his desire to interrupt. That was a fascinating inquiry, however. Where did goblins go when they died? He suspected the naughty ones were sent to a very large box hidden somewhere in the Deadlands. He shuddered slightly at the blithe thought, for if that truly was reality, it was a grim one indeed. Countless goblins were slain everywhere, perhaps even daily. Overcrowding would be a serious problem by this point.
Before, however, Adamiir could complete that line of thinking, and properly respond to his new friend, his peace of mind was interrupted by the arrival of two surprise visitors and a fireball. The latter, thankfully, missing him by a wide margin. Adamiir turned his attention away from the new arrivals and back to the Bosmer before him as she began to speak. “Well… that was unexpected. I was wondering how a massive Nord and his female sidekick managed to close that portal outside; Nords aren’t known for their brains, and it’d take more than muscle to close one of those things, that’s for sure. No wonder they avoided the gate. Although, that does leave us all in the same predicament. We’re not all going to be able to climb over those walls.” The elf did make a fair point, however, Adamiir was quite certain in his own personable ability…
“...to scale the walls.” He quickly closed his mouth, his lips quirking into a guilty smile that his companion had no reason to understand. “It would be a risk. Scaling the walls, I mean. It would be too risky.” Not that his words seemed to have any effect on his as of yet unnamed companion, as she was already marching away in the direction of the short Imperial woman who had arrived only moments ago, who had quickly enveloped themselves in an argument with the local priest. Adamiir watched with growing excitement as the brave Bosmer pledged themselves to closing the gate. Her words seemed to inspire others among the chapel to do the same. A rush of anticipation surged through him as his hand shot to the silver pendant around his neck. This was going to be terribly interesting. Before he knew it, Adamiir was stalking over to the congregation of bleeding hearts gathered around the priest. He cleared his throat, rather loudly. “Hello, I am Adamiir. Well, my name is Adamiir, my chosen vocation is that of a mage. That is to say, I cast spells. I would very much like to join this expedition. With each seemingly senseless individual that lends their chosen medium of combat to this cause, the chances of success rise to levels higher than astronomic failure. Ergo, I am being helpful.” He beamed at the group, his generosity plain on the table for all to see. The logical part of his mind could only assume it was about to be marched off to certain death.
Veeza - Kvatch Chapel - Observing
Veeza saw them every time he closed his eyes. The unnatural, hellish demons that swarmed Kvatch, laying waste to all he knew and held dear. At this stage, there would be no point in trying to rescue the city; there was nothing left to save. Merely a handful of frightened civilians were all that remained of Kvatch’s populace. As he surveyed the assortment of individuals taking refuge within the chapel from his perch atop a piece of rubble where he sat, they seemed equal parts native and foreigner. Gods, had anyone made it out? Would anyone in this chapel make it out?
Veeza could not forgive the daedra for what happened there that day. His home lay in ruins, and his friends and mentors lay dead, their bodies littering the bloodworks. Ironic that the last fight he and Langurius would ever experience together was one spent battling side by side. Veeza was now Kvatch’s grand champion. How hollow the title now seemed. It was only the sudden arrival of two survivors seeking entry into the chapel that shook Veeza out of his brooding. He watched the two carefully, noting the errant fireball that entered in behind them with distaste. As the Nord ran to what Veeza could only assume was his family, the Imperial quickly entered a heated discussion with Martin, whom Veeza had exchanged a few words with on occasion. It was custom that the Argonian would pray to Talos before and after combat in the arena. Even though Veeza would not consider himself pious in the smallest sense of the word, the Nine Divines had proven themselves to be as real as the flesh and blood denizens of the world they watched over time and time again.
It seemed that for whatever reason, the newcomer wanted to escort Martin out of the city, at the soonest possible opportunity. The priest however, to his credit, refused to leave the chapel and all of the people inside, insisting that the gate be closed before he do so.
And just like that, a band of seemingly noble souls began to form itself, numerous travellers from across Cyrodiil pledging their aid to Kvatch in its time of crisis. Veeza had always intended to fight til his last breath in order to keep the survivors safe, but now it seemed that maybe he wouldn’t have to. Leaping down from his vantage point, he strode over to the ensemble. “Kvatch was my home, and justice must be delivered. I will be going too.” | Character Name:
Adamiir Thiich
Age:
28
Race:
Breton
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Tower
Specialisation:
Magic/Stealth
Class:
Treasure Seeker
Skills:
Expert- Illusion
Journeyman- Destruction, Acrobatics, Trap-setting (Craft), Translation (Ayleid, Craft)
Apprentice- Athletics, Restoration, Sneak
Novice- Mercantile, Security, Alteration, Foraging
Appearance:
Tall and gangly, an inch or two below the height of the average Altmer when standing straight, with sharp bony features and his shoulders bent forward in a slight stoop, Adamiir’s form carries with it an aura of wrongness, as though he was put together by an amateur craftsman with pieces that never quite matched. His face is pale and clean shaven, his nose long and thin, pointed downwards, vaguely resembling the beak of a hawk. His mouth is a crooked slash of a thing, resting uncomfortably on his face. Set above high cheekbones and hollow cheeks are Adamiir’s eyes, dark and nervous, always jittering around, changing their focus every few seconds. Atop his head lies a thick mop of shoulder length blonde hair, dark gold, like that of a lion’s mane.
Unusually spry, despite his unwieldy appearance, Adamiir has built a small amount of muscle from a lifetime climbing trees in the Great Forest and pushing through its brush. Without concern for armor, he dons nothing more than a pair of leather shoes, sturdy but simple, brown cloth pants, for ease of movement without sacrificing durability, and a navy blue tunic, a belt of dark leather around the waist. The only other item of noticeable interest would be a plan silver amulet, given to Adamiir by his master.
Personality:
To call Adamiir eccentric would be both accurate and simultaneously a vast oversimplification. When it comes to the fine art of conversation, he is woefully awkward and unskilled, usually coming off of as somewhat touched in the head to the more judgemental folk populating Nirn. Despite these limitations, Adamiir prides himself as a teacher, always ready to educate present company with any information he has relevant to the conversation… whether his input was requested or not. As stilted as it may be, Adamiir does try his best to extend goodwill to those deserving of it; he is often caught between the desire to do good unto others and do what is best for himself. It would be correct in stating that Adamiir has a selfish streak running parallel to his generous one.
A particular fascination of his is the Ayleids, and while his enthusiasm for history is great, the passion he feels for the Ayleids’ mysterious nature is unmatched. Sometimes when he thinks no one can see him, he pulls out a welkynd stone, as full of magicka as the day he first claimed it, and stares deep into the crystalline blue surface, mesmerized by its glow.
Not a stranger to peril, Adamiir is confident in his abilities to escape most dangers with ease. More specifically, he puts stock in his prowess with the school of illusion, being able to manipulate the minds of others to cause chaos (or nullify it) while he makes a speedy exit from the scene. In cases where trickery wouldn’t be enough to solve the problem Adamiir faces, he is skilled in the fine art of melting faces.
He has a habit of gripping at his pendant when nervous, and often mumbles the end of a thought out loud when not actively refraining from doing so.
Backstory:
Adamiir’s Biography - Prologue - An Attempted Theft
For Jeriyn and Talasa Broell, the graveyard of Falkreath was like a candy shop. And they, of course, were the kids. As Jeriyn told Talasa often, there were enough dead soldiers buried there to take over the entire hold, and all it would take was two skilled necromancers, such as themselves. And as Talasa told Jeriyn often, the whole mess had better be worth their while, or she’d take Adamiir and turn tail right back to Cyrodiil, where it wasn’t so stupid cold. This exchange was repeated often between the two, all the way from Kvatch to the very graveyard in question. Talasa watched Jeriyn work incredulously, her babe pressed into her bosom to keep him warm during the chill of night.
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Again and again Jeriyn labored, digging himself deeper into the earth, closer to the dead.
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Shhckk
“I’ve got it!” Jeriyn exclaimed, the sound of metal striking wood one that he knew well. He dropped to his knees and began to scoop the dirt out of the way by hand, and sure enough the telltale planks of a coffin were revealed to him. “This is just the beginning,” he whispered to himself. “Soon, we’ll have an army.” Jeriyn hoisted himself out of the grave, and stood on its precipice. “Talasa, fetch the axe, I need it.” Wordlessly, she turned to leave. Talasa hated it when Jeriyn ordered her around in that manner, but refusing would just make him angry.
Nighteye guided her safely to the edge of the graveyard and beyond, into the brush where their horse, Whisper, was hidden, the animal’s reins tied to a sturdy, low hanging branch. Talasa retrieved the demanded axe from the saddlebags, its heavy weight feeling awkward and alien in her grasp. She started back towards Jeriyn, but froze mid step only a few paces later. There were angry shouts originating from where she came, followed by the unmistakable sight of Jeriyn’s spellfire. Talasa sucked in her breath, clutching at Adamiir, hoping against hope that her husband would come out of this unscathed.
It wasn’t to be. There were no more signs of magicka expenditure, yet the angry voices remained, and they were drawing closer. Talasa looked down in horror at the tracks in the snow that would lead her pursuers straight to her location. She took action in an instant, struggling to free Whisper’s reigns from the tree yet still managing. Pulling herself into the saddle, she seized the reins with one hand while her other arm held Adamiir close to her chest. The spurs digging into Whisper’s flanks were enough to get her moving, going at a full gallop out of the wood and onto the main road, Kvatch bound.
A storm of arrows whizzed past Talasa and Whisper, the former releasing the reins and trusting the latter to guide them in order to curl themselves around their child. Fire erupted in Talasa’s thigh, then again under her right shoulder blade. Both times she lurched forward in the saddle, crying with pain. The second time she spat blood flecked spit onto Adamiir’s face.
It did not take long before Whisper began to tire, and the horse slowed itself to a trot. Talasa held her head up slightly, surveying her surroundings as best she could as her vision began to darken. The Nords had not pursued. She lowered her head again, fixing her eyes on Adamiir. Alive. Unharmed. Tucking her chin against her chest and closing her eyes, Talasa allowed herself one small smile.
The infant Adamiir stared up at his mother’s serene face with curiosity, her heart beats echoing in his right ear slowly weakening, barely kept aflutter by desperate healing magics.
Whisper trotted on.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part One - The Master
Morinus Thiich needed an apprentice. It was only a short decade ago that he himself was the student, learning from the travelling mages and scholars delving deep into the Ayleid ruins for wealth and knowledge. However, his old teachers were now retired or dead, and in Morinus’ line of work, someone that had your back made the difference between life and death. An Ayleid temple tucked into the mountains separating Skyrim and Cyrodiil would mark the last time Morinus ever ventured into one of those dungeons alone. Now he would travel back south and scout the province’s various counties for an eligible apprentice.
Life, however, had different plans in store.
A blood stained babe clutched in the grip of what appeared to be said babe’s dying mother was not what Morinus Thiich expected to discover on his return trek home from the Jerall Mountains. But sure enough, there they both were, one atop the other, motionless on the side of the road, whoever or whatever brought them here already long gone. Morinus rushed over to the two, discovering the woman’s wounds to be much worse than he anticipated. Her left leg was mangled beyond repair, and a smouldering carcass of… something lay a few feet away. She tilted her head towards Morinus, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She lifted her arms once, feebly, raising her child towards the mage, before lowering them again, and growing still. This was not the ideal process that Morinus hoped to use, but he had been looking for someone malleable to pass his knowledge down to. The aging Breton sighed, and seized the infant up into his arms.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Two - Rocks and Spells, Spells and Rocks
A few years passed since Morinus first found his pupil by the roadside, and the child that was known as Adamiir quickly became Morinus’ most promising student. Any free time seemed to have the child entirely absorbed in his studies. Learning of the lore and history of the world was one of Adamiir’s great passions. What took precedence above all other activities, however, was Morinus’ rigorous training regime, climbing trees and scaling large boulders would teach Adamiir to always remain agile and light on his feet, skills that would be tested when trees and boulders became the dilapidated ruins of ancient ayleid temples. Being able to bend the minds of friend and foe alike would always be an invaluable aid to Adamiir, as would spells of light that would guide Adamiir safely through even the darkest of crypts. Paralysis spells would come in handy whenever a quick escape was needed, while invisibility spells would ensure that he could not be tracked easily. Indeed, the many fine intricacies of the illusion school of magic were a great passion of Morinus’, one that he would ensure was passed down to Adamiir.
However, there are always times in life when smoke and mirrors cannot deflect the truth, or for every tricky ace one has up their sleeve, their adversary has two more. The destruction school of magic was ideal for dealing with these incidents, and this too, Morinus taught to his young breton pupil. Aside from rocks and spells, he also saw it fit to give Adamiir some amount of proficiency in the art of trapping. When on the road away from extended periods of time, one must learn to be self sufficient. Though a few other bits and bobs were thrown in to occasionally mix up the schedule, the curriculum Adamiir would follow for years to come was set in stone.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Three - First Flight
It was at fifteen years of age when Adamiir first accompanied Morinus on his excursions to the Ayleid ruins. The sheer scope of how vast the empire of the Heartland Elves once was awed him, whilst simultaneously instilling a strange sense of forlorn melancholy in his heart. Crumbling ruins crawling with the dead were all that remained. The underground locale shown to Adamiir was small, and of relatively simple design. Threats were few and far between, only a few shambling skeletons waiting to be sent to the next world. They were no match for Adamiir’s magic - Morinus was simply observing, waiting to see if his protégé was prepared for future excursions - and he suspected that Morinus chose this specific location for those exact reasons.
Adamiir had been correct in assuming that a safer, more straightforward ruin was selected for the purpose of acting as a final test, as revealed by Morinus during their departure. From that point on, Morinus and Adamiir traveled across Cyrodiil as equals, the lessons taught by the former serving the latter well, and only magnifying in their usefulness.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Four - Homeward Bound
For many more years, Adamiir and Morinus lined their pockets pilfering the riches of a long dead civilization. Mages across the province paid handsomely for the ethereal blue welkynd stones, while a contact in the Imperial City rewarded the pair handsomely for the more uncommon treasures they discovered. Lord Umbacano proved to be a most gracious associate, treating the two to fine meals whenever a particularly intriguing artifact was delivered.
It seemed that whenever Adamiir and Morinus weren’t on the road, they were resting in an inn, the concept of home becoming a foreign term, just another pit stop whenever it was convenient for the route the two had undertaken. There came a time, however, when they were forced to return to their humble cabin in the Great Forest, a few miles down the road from the city of Chorrol. Morinus was growing weaker and more frail in his old age, turning a homecoming into an inevitable necessity. Adamiir’s trapping talents became more invaluable than ever, the furs and excess meats being traded with the local farmers for food, while anything he kept was consumed. During this time Adamiir made many stews, as it was easier for Morinus to consume. He became quite good at making them too.
Despite Morinus’ weakened state, there was still one thing he could offer his apprentice. That was the secrets of the Ayleid language, and for the next few years leading up to his passing, the two spent much of their time together going over all of the knowledge at Morinus’ disposal.
Morinus had urged Adamiir a few times, before he became sickly, to let him be and go make a fortune, but Adamiir always refused, insisting that his place was at Morinus’ side. He vowed to watch over his master for as long as necessary.
And he did.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Five - Bad News, Good News, More Bad News
After Morinus’ death, Adamiir was on the road once again. He couldn’t deny it, the call, the call that both he and his old master had felt. The secrets and treasures of the Ayleids called to him, their siren song luring him ever closer to his destiny, and further into the depths of the earth. For three more years Adamiir traveled Cyrodiil and fell deeper under the spell of his beguiling mistress, the lost Ayleid culture. It was on a routine stop to Kvatch to drop off some welkynd stones at the local mages guild that he first heard of the Emperor’s assassination, as well as the festivities to be held in celebration of the Count’s birthday. On a whim, Adamiir decided to stick around and participate in the festivities.
That choice was very quickly turning out to be a grave mistake.
Spells:
Illusion- Immobilize (Touch), Dominate Creature/Human (Ranged), Eyes of Midnight (Self), Calming Touch (Touch), Rage (Ranged), Voice of Rapture (Ranged), Fearful Gaze (Ranged), Heroic Touch (Touch), Torchlight (Self), Ghostwalk (Self), Mute (Ranged), Shadow (Self)
Destruction- Lightning Grasp (Touch), Dire Wound (Ranged), Frost Bolt (Ranged), Searing Grasp (Touch), Lightning Bolt (Ranged), Flare (Ranged)
Restoration- Convalescence (Ranged), Heal Major Wounds (Self), Heal Minor Wounds (Self)
Alteration- Protect (Self), Open Very Easy Lock (Touch)
Inventory:
The clothes on Adamiir’s back
A travel pack that the following items are either stored in or strapped to
Sturdy twine for snares
Two reusable bear traps
Bedroll
243 septims
3 weak potions of sorcery
Steel knife, utilitarian
Flint & steel
A welkynd stone
Character Name:
Veeza
Age:
32
Race:
Argonian
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lord
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Brawler
Skills:
Expert- Hand to Hand
Journeyman- Heavy Armor, Athletics, Suturing (Craft)
Apprentice- Acrobatics, Restoration, Speechcraft, Alchemy (Craft)
Novice-One Handed Blades, Two Handed Blades, One Handed Blunt, Block
Appearance:
When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it’s own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, tapering into sharp points at the tip. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with pupils as lizard-like as the rest of him.
While his scales act as a natural defense, fifteen years spent fighting for his life in the arena has left Veeza with a plethora of scars marring his body, leaving none of him untouched. The worst of them have been caused by a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach; the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. Rarely will one find the Argonian outside of his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.
Personality:
As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He never fails to speak his mind regardless of what he desires to say, and puts little stock in the opinions of others, especially those seeking to denounce him. Typically, those capable of intelligent, polite conversation as well as feats of valor upon the field of battle can earn his respect, while those that lack the former will also be subject to his ire.
In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet been in a situation forcing him to lose his cool.
Backstory:
Veeza’s Biography - Prologue - Drunken Lizard
Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.” Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I’ll never have to see your stupid face again.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor. Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 1 - Nothing But A Pair Of Fists
Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man, either things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become.
Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 2 - Graduation Day
The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid from compliant members at the local mages guild to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday he entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of the red team mourned for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them.
Besides, now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 3 - The Pit Dragon
The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the floor of the arena. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand.
The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new blood; a pit dog.
It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his most grievous scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long pony tail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 4 - The New Arena
If the dead had the gift of hindsight, many of the arena combatants might have considered themselves lucky to have been torn apart by daedra hordes, as opposed to being torn apart by Veeza’s bare hands. Kvatch’s grand champion in specific was particularly lucky. As while many matches were planned in celebration of Count Goldwine’s birthday, the red team’s champion, Veeza, against the city’s grand champion, Langurius Nerich, was to be the main event. The two had a cordial, even friendly relationship, and Veeza’s challenge to Langurius’ title came as a surprise to all in the city. Tensions were running high, and this match was played up to be the biggest in decades. Fate seemed to have different plans for the two, however. Langurius would find himself a charred corpse on the floor of the bloodworks, indistinguishable from the others surrounding him. Meanwhile, Veeza would be fighting for his life to eventually reach safety within the walls of Kvatch’s chapel, waiting for what seemed to be an inevitable demise.
Spells:
Restoration- Heal Minor Wounds (Self), Convalescence (Target)
Inventory:
His iron armor, the gauntlets are reinforced with steel and have studs made of dwarven metal inlaid along the knuckles
A hastily thrown together travel pack that includes
A pair of trousers
A mortar and pestle
Needles and thread for sewing wounds
Provisions of hard tack and dried jerky that could last around a week at full ration, double that at half
500 septims, the earnings from his last victory |
56,370 | 1,541 | 15 | 1,552 | 2,229 | The woman gave a half-hearted glance around the room, as if hoping someone would jump up and condemn the plan for sheer silliness. When no such cry came, and she was met with either lost or determined looks, her face sagged in acceptance.
"Well then... looks like we're house-crashing some Daedra." She muttered in a somewhat sulky tone, shaking her head slightly. Naenya paid no heed to the woman's clear reluctance, instead looking around at the group of volunteers, very pleased that so many had offered their aid. It was no small thing they were pledging to do, after all. And now that a plan had been formulated - although the plan wasn't much more intricate than "go inside and turn the darned thing off" - she was beginning to feel less dreadful about the whole situation. With a group as large as this, she could maybe even scribble some notes down in her book as they traversed the realm of Mehrunes Dagon. She doubted very much they'd run into the Prince of Destruction himself, but at the same time, prayed it wouldn't happen anyway. However, she couldn't help but let out a somewhat nervous titter at what the first young man said to her about closing the gate for good.
"Oh, I can't promise anything. But an attempt is better than staying in here and burning to death!" She said pleasantly, only just remembering the over-hearing townspeople hidden in the corners. "Not that that will happen! There's not a safer place in the town than here." She added hastily, noticing some children in the arms of their parents relax at her tacked-on sentence; the parents however, didn't look much more relieved. Still, she wasn't exactly wrong - barring perhaps the castle, the chapel was the closest thing to a fortress in the city filled with small homes and delicate buildings.
Naenya's silent pondering of just how well the chapel could withstand a prolonged attack - half the roof was missing, after all, but even that had worked in their favour by blocking off several doors - were brought to a halt as the woman pulled an iron shortsword from her scabbard; giving Martin a somewhat dirty look before heading towards the doors. The guards stationed there looked reluctant to open the doors again, but made no move to attempt to stop the group; they looked just as ashen-faced and frightened as the rest of the survivors. As the group began to ready their weapons and approach the exit, they were joined silently by a few more volunteers from the shadows; one girl clung to her father, asking for him to let her come along and help - he shook his head gently and left her beside the Priest Martin, who looked on at the group with a melancholy gaze, almost as if wishing he could go with them and help. Naenya didn't particularly understand why he couldn't - she'd seen him cut down a few of the demons while making way for the chapel. He could certainly handle himself... but then, this was no small thing to volunteer for.
"Go on, Bobo. The Deadlands is no place for a magpie." Shooing away her avian friend from her shoulder, Naenya fell into step beside the second volunteer of the group, the young man with the fine four-legged canine at his side. "I wouldn't say it's a place for pups either, but I'd say this fine fellow can handle himself. And the other one dog too. Really, now I'm wishing I had a pet hound instead of a magpie. All he does is bring back shiny things - probably steals them from people in the street. Excellent, if I was a thief - but I'm not. Too clumsy, you see. Only thing I can do properly is magic." She chattered away quite happily to Bardeck, but in a more hushed tone than she usually would. It was a very tense situation - people would be jumping at the sound of any loud conversations. Probably. Laughter likely wouldn't help either. Or news of clumsiness - especially in what would definitely be a very dangerous mission. "Well... I suppose I can do other things as well. Research, being one of them. Hence why I hope I'm somewhat useful on this trip." She finished with a half-smile at Bardeck, tapping her mage staff in her hands in an impatient manner; the waiting around was not at all pleasant.
Not that she and the others were waiting for much longer; the Imperial woman had given them only five or so minutes to ready their various weapons and say goodbyes, and the door was pushed open very slowly and carefully; after peeking out and noticing no fireballs, their reluctant leader led the group outside. Whatever had distracted the Daedra, Naenya could not tell; all that was left was a blackened mass of charred flesh, on which one of the stunted scamps was gnawing at. Dotted around the courtyard between the chapel and the main gates were 3 more scamps; 3 clannfears; and 2 dremora mages. The top of the Oblivion Gate could be seen flickering and pulsing behind the walls, but as the sudden appearance of their group drew the sight of their enemy, the churls let forth a guttural roar before summoning 2 more scamps.
"You lot deal with these! I'll get the damned city gates open." The woman barked the orders at them, and Naenya couldn't help but wonder if she was simply ducking out of all the hard work because she was too afraid to face the daedra. Before the bemused Bosmer could even question this, she had already slipped into the shadows as their foes drew near.
"Oh well. Try not to let the clannfears bite you - apparently they have a dreadful grip that's near impossible to throw off." Managing to rattle off this one last bit of advice before launching herself into battle, Naenya tried to steady her nerves by remembering all of the academic knowledge she could gain from this experience. Only after casting a frost bolt at one of the mages did she recall the other reason for doing this.
"Saving the city. Right. Got it." | Character Name:
Nikolaus “Niko” Valerious
Age:
37
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lover
Specialisation:
Combat/Magic
Class:
Paragon
Skills:
Expert: One-Handed Blade (Dual-Wielding)
Journeyman: Speechcraft, Destruction
Apprentice: Athletics, Restoration, Heavy Armour
Novice: Two-Handed Blade, Acrobatics, Illusion, Medicine (Non-Alchemical/Magical (Craft)), Hunting (Craft), Foraging (Craft)
Appearance:
Looking every part the Nord, Niko stands at a towering height of 6’7; matched with broad shoulders and the muscled build of someone who works his swords every day, he can seem somewhat daunting at times. However, when one focuses on his face, softness shines through. Gentle blonde brows above stormy grey-blue eyes; a sharp jawline softened by a smattering of badly trimmed blond stubble; high cheekbones crinkled with laughter lines, and dimples that brighten cheeks once round with wellness, but now have a somewhat haggard and hungry look about them.
On a usual day out in the field, Niko can usually be seen wearing his armour; shaggy, dark-blonde hair pulled back haphazardly by messy braids, and shoulder’s stiff with the weight he is carrying. However, when more relaxed and among friends, his hair hangs loose, brushing against his eyes and shoulders in a messy but appealing manner – armour is replaced with comforting and loose clothing, shirt sleeves usually pushed up to the elbow and revealing a plethora of scars up and down his forearms. The scars carry on under his clothing; some fresher and deeper than others, but you’ll need to either get him drunk or be close to him to get the stories behind the scarring dotted over his skin – some hurt more than others, and not in a physical way.
Personality:
While he doesn’t smile as much as he used to, Niko remains still an amicable sort – but if one looks close enough, you can see the tension in his smile; the stretched out laughs that sound just a touch too hollow to be considered genuine or warm. His eyes have retained that caring spark of friendliness, but it dulls whenever nobody is looking his way. His kindness isn’t faked or forced… it’s just harder to be the way he was before. It’s rare for his grief or anger to come through, but when faced with something particularly cruel, or anything involved in raising the dead, anything remotely nice about him falls away, and his eyes become as hard as ice. Killing for him then isn’t just a job to be done; it becomes frenzied, and very personal.
However, regardless of his own internal turmoils, he’ll remain good to those around him. While respect is earned, Niko makes a point of being polite to most, no matter how brash they appear to be. Being more than aware of how death and killing can get to a man, he’ll listen to people’s worries and concerns in the hopes he can do something to help them… when sometimes, a listening friend is all many need.
When it comes to matter away from friends and family, Niko still remains polite; even in battle, while others may make puns, threats or quips while slicing down their enemy, Niko will do it as quickly and as painlessly as possible – no intimidation, no dark humour. It’s not his style. Neither is bragging of past battles fought, though one would be able to hear a good tale from him if coaxed enough – it comes from having a daughter, for him. Niko quite firmly believes that Mia should be kept safe from violence, bad language, and all of the other things that his race and Skyrim are famous for; a foolish endeavour, considering his girl is getting street-smart enough to find out about all of these things herself; but he remains very protective over her, not wanting to lose her as he lost his wife. This protectiveness passes on to his friends and family, particularly those he gets close to.
Backstory:
While our story begins in Kvatch, as does the life of Nikolaus. Born to an Imperial father and Nord mother, the pair had met, fell in love, and married in a short span of time – moving from the mother’s native Skyrim to Kvatch for a both safer and warmer climate to raise their son in. And it was a good childhood for Niko; there was never danger within the city walls, and with his mother and father’s decent wages from the Fighters and Mages Guild respectively, never had an empty stomach or cold night. Niko’s father – Percius – had his own parents, now retired, living in Kvatch too – so whenever he and his wife – Ulva – needed to do a job for money, they could quite simply live Niko with his grandparents and do what needed to be done. As a baby, Niko barely noticed his parent’s absence unless they were gone for a unusually long time; but as a child, he started growing curious as to what reason for and where his parents were going. Curiosity soon grew into indignation, and the usually mild-mannered child began to constantly question exactly why he had to stay at home, and why his parents had to leave all the time. Well… he was still mild-mannered in his questioning; politeness always came first, especially when talking to his elders. But it was clear to his parents that their little boy was growing up rather quickly, and would need to start learning something to keep him happy – and away from their own adventures. To counter this, Percius’ father – a retired guard of Kvatch - started teaching Niko how to use swords – of course starting with a wooden sword and a straw dummy at the young age of 8, but still, it worked well enough. With his grandmother teaching him his letters and numbers, Niko constantly itched for his training sessions every evening.
Over time, Ulva began to spend more and more days at home, having growing tired from all of the contracts taken from the Fighter’s Guild. When Percius’ father grew too old to continue training Niko (now 13) Ulva took over, helping him branch out into proper training; wearing armour that weighed his light teenage frame down; real swords instead of wooden ones – she even persuaded Percius to begin training Niko in certain schools of magic, just so it would come in handy in the future. Niko picked up the magic just as well as his blades, barring a few incidents with rogue fireballs. He was fine once his eyebrows grew back, honestly.
When Niko reached the age of 16, he had a firm grasp in the basics of restoration, destruction, and the wielding of blades. His mother wanted him to join the fighter’s guild, and his father wanted him to join the mage’s guild. Thinking he wanted the best of both worlds, he started working as a battlemage for the arcane university; training under a more experienced guard who worked there to get him up to the right standard for such a prestigious college. It was a solid job, and kept both of his parents happy – Niko continued to have a steady income, a warm bed, and full stomach. He was just going to be living with longer hours and bruised skin from his rigorous training regime – the safety of the mages and the University was no small matter, what with the countless troves of knowledge and precious items hidden within those walls. Niko had only been inside a few times, but he had caught glimpses of endless libraries, impossibly large, echoing chambers (He and a few colleagues enjoyed a few shouting matches in there before being kicked out by their Guard-Captain; after several hours of sprinting the battlements in full armour in the pouring rain, they decided not to do it again), and of course, the mages themselves. Only 2 really stood out to him; one was a slimy looking fellow. Niko was never one to judge people before meeting them, but as it happened, he had had the misfortune of meeting and talking to Conjurer Astian Onius – but Niko also had the fortune of meeting Astian’s cousin, Elisabeth. And to him, she was the greatest treasure in the University.
At the age of 25 – now an established guard of his own right, having graduated his training top of the class (despite the hollering matches in the halls) – Niko finally plucked up the courage to talk to Elisabeth in a more than friendly manner, asking her to join him for drinks that night – no friends of his, and no weasel-like cousins of hers to accompany them. One night of drinks turned into another night, and then another; then it was candlelit meals, walks along the shores of lake Rumare, picnics in the forest. For anyone watching the pair, it would be quite obvious that the two were in love – and indeed, Astian was watching them. He was not happy.
After 3 years of courting, Niko and Elisabeth were wed, and a year after that, she fell pregnant with what would be their first and only child. Named Amelia for Elisabeth’s mother who had passed that spring, their life seemed idyllic. But as time passed, things began to grow dark. Not in their relationship, exactly; they were still a happy couple, raising their daughter in Imperial City and continuing with their jobs – and it was their jobs that began causing issues. What with Niko just being a guard, he and his fellows didn’t really involve themselves in the fight for power brewing between the Mages – not just in the University, but across Cyrodiil. Favours were split, and Elisabeth herself was not wanting Hannibal Traven as Arch-Mage; She considered him too close-minded, especially when it came to matters such as necromancy; although having never done any spells in that area, she was doing research into possible life after death – a cure that could bring someone back if they were saved seconds after dying. An innocent enough area of study, and certainly with a noble enough gesture behind it. But once Arch-Mage Traven won the fight for power, she became cowed; fearful of what could happen to her and her work after the banning of necromancy by the Arch-Mage, she begged Niko for them both to leave Imperial City and the Mages Guild – they had more than enough experience between them both to get jobs elsewhere. Although slightly concerned at her reasons behind it – her cousin Astian had been visiting their home more than usual the weeks previous, having hushed and irritated conversations with Elisabeth before the harassed woman asked him to leave – Niko conceded, and along with their 6 year old daughter, left for his parent’s home in Kvatch; having died in the winter, they’d left the home to Niko and his family.
The next two years that passed were easily the worst in Niko’s life. While Kvatch was a nice change at first; his daughter enjoying the smaller and more open city as opposed to Imperial City’s near stifling buildings and towering walls – he too was welcomed back with open arms, as many who still lived there knew his family. Getting a job as a guard was no trouble, what with his long service record at the Arcane University. He knew he’d probably get more money in the Fighter’s Guild or even a sellsword, but being a guard was safer, more secure, and more honest; that was just the kind of man he was.
His wife, however, was growing more and more secretive. Elisabeth had become more withdrawn, even after moving away from the Mages Guild; “hunting trips” were going on far too long for her to come home with nothing, and she would constantly change the subject whenever her studies came up in conversation. As Astian’s trips became more frequent, and news of strange lights coming from caves not far from Kvatch began circulating through the city, Niko’s worries grew into suspicions. It was time to find out what his wife and her troublesome cousin were up to.
As he followed Elisabeth from a distance – her leaving Kvatch a few hours previous for more “hunting” – Niko told himself that he was worrying over nothing. She was probably just continuing her research, and was worried about the Guild swooping in to stop her; but it wasn’t necromancy. Just research.
Whether his wife was dabbling in the magic of raising the dead, Niko never knew – but whatever she had attempted to do in those dimly lit caves was too dangerous – as he watched on from the shadows, he saw something go wrong. He was no expert in the type of magic Elisabeth and Astian were attempting, so Niko couldn’t understand why after a sudden flash of light, Elisabeth hit the ground and no longer moved; he couldn’t understand why Astian looked perfectly unconcerned by this, and simply began performing another spell. But when the magic hit her body, and she slowly rose to her feet, he did understand. And no matter what had happened, no matter what she may had done; he was not going to let his wife’s body become nothing more than a puppet. Wiping his eyes that had become blurred with tears, Niko slowly unsheathed his swords and stormed towards Astian.
When finally returning to Kvatch, it had been difficult to coax the full story from the grieving Niko; heavily injured and clutching Elisabeth’s – now still – body in his arms, he had collapsed at the gate, being brought into the chapel for healing. Although Astian had put up quite the fight, Niko had barely felt any pain at each landed blow from the disgraced mage; it was killing his wife’s resurrected body that had been the most difficult part for him. While the healer Oleta was able to mend his several cuts and burns, aided by Brother Martin, it was harder to ease the near-broken man’s mind. After the story was finally pulled from Niko, and the caves investigated, the city guards discovered that Astian had indeed been practicing Necromancy. Out of sheer respect to Niko, their comrade, they made sure to state there was nothing to incriminate Elisabeth in the forbidden act. There was no evidence in fact, but many people -particularly at the guild – would have been happy to connect the dots of her being at the caves so often.
Not so long after the tragedy, Niko had fully recovered; he had taken to spending much of his time at the Chapel, hoping to find solace in the Gods. But nothing seemed to bring him peace; the daily chats with the Priests brought him some comfort, but Kvatch no longer seemed like home anymore. Mia seemed to have taken the news of her mother better than he, but then, she hadn’t seen or done what he had been forced to do – all the same, she complied when Niko suggested leaving Kvatch. He left his job with the guard, sold their home, and the lonely father and daughter left the gates of their hometown. And for nearly 2 years, they wandered throughout Cyrodiil. Never staying in one place for too long, Niko took whatever jobs that came to him as long as they paid enough, and weren’t too time-wasting or life-threatening. He was more desperate than before, but he wouldn’t risk his life while Mia was so young; she had no-one left to look after her.
Of course, things became far more dangerous when he finally came back to Kvatch. A chance encounter; retrieving some rare book from the local bookstore for an old bedbound fellow in Bravil; at first, Niko was going to pass it up, not quite ready to return to Kvatch even after 2 years. But the man was offering quite a bit of money, and Mia’s birthday was approaching – it couldn’t hurt, could it?
That was what he thought until the Oblivion Gate opened. It had been easy enough to gather a terrified Mia into his arms and pelt towards the chapel, but it was getting out that would be the hardest part.
Spells:
Destruction: Blazing Spear, Corrode Weapon, Dire Wound, Drain Skill: Destruction, Fire Ball, Frost Bolt, Great Magicka Drain, Hail Storm, Lightning Bolt, Lightning Grasp, Searing Grasp, Shocking Burst, Weakness to Magicka, Winter’s Grasp, Withering Touch
Restoration: Convalescence, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Fortify Health, Fortify Speed, Fortify Strength, Great Fortity Fatigue, Heal Major Wounds
Illusion: Serenity, Soothing Touch, Starlight
Inventory:
1x Off-white tunic, to wear under armour
2x Black Leather pants, one for casual wear, one to wear under greaves
1x Set of steel greaves
1x Set of steel pauldrons
1x Steel chestplate
1x Set of steel bracers over 1x Pair of leather gloves
2x Steel longswords
1x Steel Greatsword
1x Iron dagger
1x Dark shirt
1x Black overcoat
1x Pair of leather boots
1x Black hood
1x Spare child’s dress, red
1x Spare pair of child’s shoes
Mia’s teddy bear
1x Plain gold wedding ring
1x Waterskin
1x Bottle of rum
1x Loaf of bread
2x Wedges of cheese
Several slices of smoked salmon, wrapped in cheesecloth
Several slices of cooked beef, wrapped in cheesecloth
3x Sweetened biscuits, slightly stale
1x Skin of milk
2x Bedrolls
1x Pillow
1x Large fur blanket
1x Tent
1x Cooking pot & Spit
1x Horse, carrying majority of the camping equipment
1x Knapsack, to carry the remainder of his things
374 Septims
Mia has a balanced look of her parents; she has her mother’s dark, chocolate-brown eyes, and face and body, but the rest of her belongs to her father. Being quite tall and mature for her age, Mia also has his dark-blonde hair, hers with more of a wave to it than Niko’s; she keeps it at shoulder-length, tied up most of the time when out on the road with her dad. She also shares his sweet, dimpled smile, though hers seems far more genuine most of the time.
While certainly taking after her Imperial mother in her looks, Mia has the heart of a Nord. With an inquisitive sense of adventure constantly on her mind, the curious 8-year-old (She’s nearly 9, actually – don’t forget it!) has a penchant for wandering away from her father when visiting cities; but only in cities. She did it once in a tiny little village without walls and she’d never seen him look so upset when he found her 3 hours later. She understands his protectiveness, but taking a rather wise standpoint for such a young age, thinks her Father needs to move on from what happened. She knows this isn’t the way her Mama wanted them both to live, after all.
Perhaps due to her father treating her like some fragile thing, Mia often takes on a brusque and boisterous way of life. Local kid calling her names? He’s getting a broken nose. A pair of dubious looking fellows in the inn staring at her father’s coinpurse? Glare at them until they notice and hurriedly leave. Portal to hell opening up in the city? Her Papa will sort them out, he’s the bravest, strongest man in the whole wide world. She’s going to help of course – if only Papa would give her a sword. Ooh, or maybe an axe. |
56,371 | 1,541 | 16 | 1,470 | 1,427 | Once the coast was clear, Brona weaseled her way out of the chapel, rucksack slung over her shoulders, while her hands instinctively gripped the hilts of the swords in their sheaths. She didn’t have much time to overanalyze the situation in front of her, she moved immediately to engage a rather short creature hunched over what she believed to be human remains. Her footfalls fell without sound as she moved across the clearing, while she simultaneously hefted her swords free of their leather bindings. As luck would have it, she failed to notice a twig underfoot, as her boot crushed it, a crisp snap caused the creature to whip its head around in her direction. A chunk of flesh caught between its fangs left her with a wave of disgust.
“Despicable creature.” She thought bitterly, pausing mid-stride to anticipate its next move.
In truth, the creature before her reminded her of a pig, with its twitching nose as it sniffed the air, uttering tiny grunts all the while. Standing her ground, Brona and the small daedric creature examined one another. She debated her next move, but this proved futile, as the it sprang towards her, growling in apparent delight.
“Ah! No you don’t, foul creature!” Brona cried, stepping backwards to escape the elongated claws on its human-like hands. Hitting the ground with a thud, the diminutive creature rolled in the dirt.
This was her chance! Brona seized the opportunity, and with one thrust, ran the creature through its midsection. There she hefted it up off the ground, its yellowish body sliding down the blade. With a satisfied smirk, she made quick work of her foe by decapitating it with her other sword. In all of her time spent with Runil, not once had he ever mentioned the creatures from the realm of Oblivion, after all, she specialized in illusion, not the lore of magick.
“What a strange being…” She murmured to herself before shaking its body off the blade, flinging it to the ground. Lifting her eyes, her gaze swept across the courtyard searching for another enemy. | Character Name
Brona Valerivicus
Age
33
Race
Imperial
Sex
Female
Birthsign
The Thief
Specialisation
Stealth
Class
Agent
Skills
Expert - Illusion
Journeyman - Sneak
Journeyman - Speechcraft
Apprentice - Marksman
Apprentice - Security
Apprentice - Acrobatics
Novice - Mercantile
Novice - One-Handed Blades
Novice - Leatherworking {Craft}
Novice - First Aid
Novice - Hunting {Craft}
Appearance
If you happen to catch a glimpse of Brona Valerivicus, which is rare, as she is often using some form of Illusion magick to conceal her identity, you might consider yourself lucky, or maybe not.. However, during one of those quiet moments in her life when she is relaxing in some run down inn, sipping on a mugful of hot apple cider, one can see through the array of magick, and when that happens, one must take precaution in approaching her.
Brona is a bit on the shorter side for an Imperial, standing in at 5’4, she attributes this to her stunted growth during childhood. In regards to her figure, she is rather slim, which helps her move around without making much noise. Her shoulders are broad from time spent wielding her bow, as well as the continued use of athletics and acrobatics.
When it comes to a matter of clothing, Brona wears simple clothes, as she’s busy redistributing the wealth to the poorer folk, and doesn’t have the time or care to divulge in fanciful tastes. For that matter, a simple linen tunic, a pair of leather trousers, and a hooded cloak is more than enough to satisfy her.
She won’t deny it, the fact that men find her attractive, or that she has an approachable face, as her mentor once put it. Her hair is a soft, dark brown color, while her eyes are cool storm-grey. She has a soft jawline, though her chin is round with a slight cleft. As in her choice of clothes, Brona prefers a simple appearance, meaning, she keeps her hair worn in a single plait, and opts to forgo makeup, leaving her to rely on her good looks.
As for the most noticeable facial features, Brona possesses a faded scar on the right side of her chin, where she fell out of a tree as a child. Other than that, her brows are thick in width, but fair. Her nose has a slight hook to it, as she also suffered from a broken nose as a result of a fist fight in her childhood days. If anything, she possesses the common characteristics of an Imperial.
Personality
If one happened to ask Brona where she stood in the world when concerning her views, she would tell you that she stands in the shadows, meaning, that there is no white or black areas, but varying shades of grey. To her, there is no right or wrong, only what is moral, or immoral. But even then, she commits acts that contradict her beliefs. Some may call her a hypocrite, or even a heretic, but that does not faze her. She does what she must to stay alive.
Asides from her Robin Hood-esque persona, Brona is a soft spoken woman, who prefers to keep to herself. She has no need to interact with anyone else, unless they are in need, or if they are her mark. She is concerned with the well-being of her family, and has, and will continue to do anything for them. To her, family is everything, and while she is not religious, so to speak, when it concerns the worship of the Nine Divines, she does maintain a small belief of fate and destiny.
As a vigilante, as she calls herself, she prefers to target the rich who are selfish with their wealth, and are openly disgusted with the poor. In this case, she has no problem in robbing them blind. When it comes to stealing from the rich, although she prefers to call it “properly redistributing wealth amongst the people”, Brona has several ways of taking their money or other items of value. However, she always uses some form of Illusion magick in her tactics. As such, she can intimidate, seduce, or even rely on her physical skills of stealth to take from them, for this, she is dangerous with her way of words. Some would say that she has a silver tongue in speechcraft.
Because of her choice in craft, Brona doesn’t have any friends, only “acquaintences” or “contacts”. She finds it particularly difficult to open up to people about her inner emotions, and prefers to switch topics when discussions become too serious. For this, some might say that she is a bit immature in her ways for refusing to address serious matters. Yet, this is simply a defense mechanism, for she would rather deal with it internally, than express her concerns or worries externally.
When it comes to her flaws as a person, Brona suffers from a saviour-complex, where she believes that her crimes as a thief, make her a hero, or saviour to those in need. For the most part, this is true, however, those that she helps, are rather afraid of the repercussions of the law if they were to discover how they came into sudden abundance. Brona is also a bit of an idealist, and views herself in a heroic light, and believes those that she helps, should be grateful for what she does. Not to mention that she is also paranoid in the sense that she is constantly worrying if the Imperial guard is going to come around any corner and slap her in irons. Another glaring issue with her, is the fact that she is illiterate. Asides from this, Brona’s deepest fear as an individual, is not leaving a legacy behind, and being forgotten in time.
Backstory
Born in a run-down shack, as is common in the Waterfront District of the Imperial City, Brona lived a hard life, her early years filled with an ever present gnawing hunger. Her parents, Arcantina (mother), and Palentius (father), did their best to feed and care for their four children. As the oldest child, a heavy burden fell upon Brona’s young shoulders. She was left to ensure that her younger siblings were taken care of in their parents absence. As farmhands, Arcantina and Palentius travelled every morning to a cabbage farm on the outskirts of the Imperial City, they were lucky to make it home before dusk. The pay as a farm hand was meager, and having a full stomach every night was a pipe-dream for the struggling family. Asides from Brona, she has two twin brothers, Garius and Marcellus, and a little sister, Oriela. While Brona shares a two year difference in age with her brothers, the age difference is greater with Oriela, that being five years difference.
Garius and Marcellus did their best to mind Brona, but it was hard to do so when their parents weren’t around. She often chided them for playing tricks on the guards, or picking on the other children living in the Waterfront. By the time they reached eight years in age, and Brona ten, the boys’ interests turned to fighting with broken tree limbs. It was then, that Brona had to turn her attention from the twins to focus more on Oriela. She seemed to be a sickly child, for every change of the weather, she developed a cough that they could never seem to be rid of. As time passed, Brona carried on with the charge of taking care of her siblings, until the day her mother fell ill with Droops. With her mother unable to provide income, the greater lack of funds put much stress on Palentius, as well as Brona.
One day, as an entire month and a half had gone by, with still no medicine for her mother, Brona decided to take it upon herself to acquire the funds, and ventured inside the city walls. At first, she spent the entire day in the Market District, sitting on a bench, begging for alms. Of course it was hard for a young girl of fifteen to earn money, for the sympathy at that age was little to nil. As the hours ticked by, she began to grow impatient and irritated at the fact that she had not been given one septim. While her pleas for help were ignored, the dwindling sunlight drew people inside to the warmth and safety of their homes. Crestfallen that she would have to admit defeat, she rose begrudgingly to her feet, when she caught sight of an older Dunmeri man strolling away from the market square. His robes alone suggested that he had some coin about him, for there were intricate knotwork around the hems of his robes. Desperate to obtain even one septim, Brona darted to her feet and followed after the man. She tailed him through the streets, not realizing that the man was intentionally leading her in circles until she ended up in a dead end alleyway. With the man at the end of the alley, he turned suddenly to confront her. She had nowhere to hide, and decide that the best course of action would be to confront him head on.
With trembling hands, and tears in her eyes, Brona reached to the pouch at her hip, and retrieved a rock. She took a hesitant step towards the man, and was surprised to see a smile cross his lips. She had it in her mind, that she would threaten him with his life by knocking him out, but as soon as that smirk appeared, she lost every ounce of confidence in her body. Brona sank to her knees, saddened with the fact that her mother’s health would continue to deteriorate at this rate, possibly face the inevitable approach of death. As a wave of stinging tears blurred her vision, she could only see a grey blob of the man step towards her. Hastily, she wiped away the tears, and struggled to get away from the man, in case he meant her harm, but a cold, iron-like grip kept her in place.
“Dear child...why do you cry?” His voice came, soft and gentle like an early morning breeze across Lake Runmare.
“My mother is sick, and she might die. We have no money for her medicine. I have begged all day for alms, but none have given me a second glance.” She mustered through a lump in her throat. Surprisingly, the hand on her shoulder softened.
“It would do you well to come with me. Perhaps I can help you after all. What is your name, sweet girl?”
“Brona, my mother calls me Brona.”
“I am Runil Devani.” In a twist of fate, Brona’s life turned around, some may say for the better, and others may say for the worse.
Later that evening, as Runil brought Brona back to his home, a small house just outside of the Arcane University, where he proceeded to pour her cup after cup of tea. Therein, he asked her about her parents, her siblings, where she lived, what she desired in life, and numerous other questions. When her eyes began to grow heavy with sleep, Runil set up a place for her to sleep in front of the hearth fire. By the time morning came, Runil woke a sleepy Brona from her slumber, and escorted her back to her parents home in the Waterfront District. There, an ashamed Brona, who thought her parents would surely punish her, listened in silence to the conversation her mother and father held with Runil. As the conversation drew to a close, she felt deep inside that her parents would exact some kind of punishment for behaviour, instead, Runil proposed a question to them. How would they feel if he took their daughter under his wing as an apprentice? At first, Palentius exchanged weary looks with Arcantina, who with her pale skin, and drooping eyes, looked as if they would both say no. That is, until Arcantina gave her husband a heartfelt squeeze of the hand and nodded. To this day, Brona won’t ever forget the words her mother uttered to Palentius.
“Let her go. She has the best chance of all us to have a life.”
Over the next several years to come, Brona resided with Runil in his home near the University. While she was an unofficial member of the university, as long as she remained in Runil’s company, she was allowed on the premises. In the beginning of her lessons, Runil taught her simple things that did not pertain to magick, such as how to cook a simple meal, how to properly maintain a house, and even how to boil water for clothes, and how to wash them proper with lye. One would think Brona would already possess these skills, but as her early childhood would prove, she was ignorant in most areas. The next step in her lessons were discovering her strong points in magick, if she had any that is. Through each school of magick, Runil tested her, and in each school, she failed hopelessly, until they came to Illusion. There was one glaring aspect that held up her learning process, and for the life of him, Runil could not think of a way to work around it, and that was, her illiteracy. As a mage of any kind, it was dire to know how to read, especially when learning new spells.
However, one path around this most successful. He discovered that if he read aloud each word in the spell tome to Brona, she could recite them back to him as he pointed to each letter on the page. This would take time, surely, and time it did take, for it slowed her learning process greatly. While she could recognize and read letters in the spell tomes after Runil pronounced them aloud, she never caught the hang of reading other books outside of tomes. So, together, they stuck with her reciting spell tomes from memory to teach her new spells. To his delight, Brona had a hunger in her belly to learn all that she could from him. Years passed again, and practicing of the spells on a daily basis became commonplace for her. Yet, she never forgot about her family, and when she could, she found time to visit them.
After five years in Runil’s home, Brona happened upon an uncanny situation in the Market District one evening. As she was heading through the square, on her way to the Waterfront, she noticed a box of crates outside of Divine Elegance, a high-end tailor shoppe. Curious to see what the crates held, Brona checked the square to make certain that no patrons or patrolling guards were present in the area, and cast an invisibility spell about herself. Working quickly as the seconds ticked by, Brona lifted the lid on the crate, and discovered several bolts of fine velvet that came from Anvil. A sudden wave of disgust overcame her, and as the spell wore off, she smuggled one of the smaller bolts onto her person, and made off on her merry way. In her mind, Palonirya wouldn’t miss a bolt of cloth amongst all the other finer items of value in her store. That evening she stayed the night over in her parents home, eager to see how Garius and Marcellus had grown, and how Oriela had turned into a beautiful woman. They relished in her visits home, and they were excited to hear and see of the new spells she learned.
The next morning as dawn broke across the eastern horizon, Brona slipped away from the house, and made her way down to the docks. There, she looked about for wary guards, and also one particular in person, her own father’s childhood friend Caresi. He was a dockhand that helped in unloading shipments with arriving ships, but he also dabbled in selling stolen wares. Those who had stolen goods to sell brought them to him, and he in return, brought them to the Bloated Float Inn. There, Ormil sold them to newcomers for a higher price. Together, Ormil and Caresi split the shares, Ormil takes 70% and Caresi gets the remaining 30%. It’s not a lucrative business by any means, and the wares that are brought to the Bloated Float are limited in supply. When Brona finally located Caresi on the docks during a break in between unloading shipments, she cornered him, and revealed to him the stolen bolt of fine velvet she had stashed in her parents home. At first, Caresi wanted nothing to do with it, he didn’t want to take the blame for Brona if he were found out, so she set off to find Ormil. She had a hard time convincing Graman to let her inside, and to let her speak with Ormil. Eventually the orc relented and shooed her inside, saying something along the lines that she was worse than a fly on dung. Once inside, Brona pulled Ormil to the side, and relayed what she had told Caresi. Hesitant at first, Ormil too, relented, simply because he understood the value of such fine velvet, and if he couldn’t sell it, well it would make a nice early-birthday present to him. However, Brona knew that she needed a cut of the share, and with that, Ormil arranged a new setup with Brona. If she brought him her lifted items directly, the split would be 60-40. To this she agreed.
For the next three years, Brona made it a habit to take a stroll around the city in the evening, looking for wares that were easy to access. With the wares that she brought Ormil, she took the extra money and gave it away to her family, a form of repayment for letting her stay with Runil for the past eight years. In the following year, when Brona turned twenty-four, Runil approached her, and told her that he had nothing else to teach her, she could remain in his home if she wished, so that she could have access to the University, but she decided to take a different path. Brona was filled with piss, venom, and vigor as they say, so, she set out across Cyrodil, eager to put her knowledge of illusion to work. In Bruma, she spent a month playing the part of a traveling bard, her famous act consisted of making herself disappear, only to reappear in a tree, or atop a roof. However, during that space of time, Brona was collecting items, or rather heavy coin purses from the gathered patrons in the crowd. When she reappeared, they erupted into applause, marvelling at how quickly she had appeared in a different place.
In Anvil, she waited outside in the nearby woods, watching merchants travel to and from, their carts heavy with wares. Here, she would tail them from a distance, and when they made camp for the evening, she would rummage through their crates, sifted through their pockets, and make off with their goods, all before they awakened. Now, Brona was no ordinary thief, for through her travels across Cyrodil, she met many poor folk like her own family, and to balance the scales, she would pay them a visit, giving them the money she had pocketed. They were grateful, and a bit hesitant at first, for they had only exchanged a few words with Brona.
And so, her travels took her from Anvil to Bravil, to Cheydinhal, Leyawiin to Chorrol, and Skingrad to Kvatch. She targeted the wealthy that felt they were above the poor, and over time, she learned other tricks of her trade. She became bolder through the years as she picked up a recurve bow, along with a set of two short swords. For a year and a half, Brona focused on bettering her skills in this area, that way, if she were to encounter sticky situations, like she had when she was travelling through the Great Forest. A group of brigands discovered her camp when she was out hunting one morning, and had rifled through her belongings. When she broke upon the clearing where she had camp, they chased her down, only for her to slip away into the many towering trees of the forest.
Through time, she learned many useful skills, such as how to barter for goods, how to pick locks on chests tinkling full of coins, how to bandage her own wounds (to the best that she could), how to wield her short swords, and she became pretty good at firing her bow, not the best, but she was decent. Now 33, in recent days, Brona was on her way back from Anvil to the Imperial City to visit her family when she stopped in Kvatch for a rest.
Spells
Illusion
Shadow
Mute
Torchlight
Fearful Gaze
Enthralling Presence
Dominating Touch
Chameleon
Calming Touch
Seductive Charm
Touch of Fear
Touch of Rage
Void Gazer
Inspiring Touch
Captivate
Alluring Gaze
Beguiling Touch
Inventory
119 Septims
Two Iron Short Swords
Recurve Bow
Quiver of 14 Iron Arrows
Two Iron Daggers
Set of 12 Lockpicks
Leather Gorget
Leather Bracers
Leather Gloves
Leather Breastplate
Leather Boots
Red Tunic
Leather Trousers
Woolen Socks
Black Wool Cloak
Leather Rucksack (In which she carries items not readily on her person)
Roll of Linen Bandages
Needle and Spool of Thread
Candied Pears
Hard Bread
Water Skin
Tankard
Canvas Tent
Bed Roll |
56,372 | 1,541 | 17 | 1,841 | 5,697 | Oh, I can't promise anything. But an attempt is better than staying in here and burning to death! the Imperial said, bubbly as could be. Was she not afraid at all? "Uh, true." he replied amused, albeit a little perplexed. He was still a bit confused when it came to women who had no tusks, They always seemed to surprise him, though not in a bad way usually. He supposed opposites attracted, though he usually didn't go after any of the pretty ones he had seen. He was a bit too introverted and battle-hardened for that. He preferred to fight than flirt.
Bardeck only had to stretch to prepare. Other than his shield on the ground, he had very little unclad or unstrapped onto his fit frame. He simply closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, remembering his training and convictions. He was more than ready to face these Daedra. Death in battle was not considered bravery to the likes of him, though he admired the trait in others. It was those who wished to live and face all of the troubles of the world that would be brave in his eyes, though it would perhaps be cowardice if an elder did not go and seek a worthy death. To die without showing his strength of arms lived a life less than fulfilled.
In truth, Bardeck wasn't entirely converted to the Orismer way of life, but he did agree with many of their ways, and that was one of them. Battle was where one was truly alive. Gideon beside him wagged his bushy tail and sat up like a soldier awaiting inspection, furry chest puffed out and big head held high and alert. Bardeck was too preoccupied with noticing Gideon that he didn't see the Bosmer stroll up beside him until she was already speaking.
He raised his brow as she spoke and nodded, smiling. He opened his mouth to speak a few times, but she seemed to go from one topic to the next like a fluttering bird. Speaking of which, he admitted he found it endearing she had a little bird friend that she wanted to keep safe. Still, all this attention made his flush a bit. "You going out there with us shows you're useful. If you could hold of whatever mages we have out there, I'll keep the big guys off you." he said, winking.
As soon as the breach was opened, he and Gideon strode forward into the thickest of the fighting. He pointed his weapon at the Scamps, telling his hound to take care of a few of them before his own eyes fell on a Clannfear. The ravenous and Sauren Daedra roared at him, and lunged. Bardeck hefted his shield and held the strike at bay, though it skidded his boots across the pavement of the street. He shoved his Axe head at the thing's snout to stun it, and then struck it in the skull while it was dazed. Another Clannfear sought to take a chance and snap at him from behind, but he spun and knocked it away with his shield. The first Clannfear with a cloven skull whipped out in its death throes and knocked Bardeck to the ground. The Warrior hit the street, skidding his skin across the cobblestones to draw a small bit of blood from his arm. He gritted his teeth and got to his knees to block the next Clannfear claw.
Meanwhile, Gideon held onto a scamp's neck stubbornly while another attempted to scorch the War dog with a fireball spell. The fire erupted between them as Gideon hit the caster like a cannon ball. It caused a reactionary yelp from Gideon, but he seemed to be under control with only a bit of damage. The very alive (but dazed) Scamp along with the singed Gideon fell beside the woman Brona. | Name:
Bardek Gildenhart
Age:
25
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Warrior
Skills:
Expert: Blunt (Two Handed)
Journeyman: Block
Journeyman: Smithing
Apprentice: Hunting
Apprentice: Heavy Armor
Apprentice: Blunt (One Handed)
Novice: Heavy Armor
Novice: Athletics
Novice: Acrobatics
Novice: Two Handed (Staves, Polearms)
Appearance:
If Bardeck could be described in one word, it would be 'rugged.' His black hair is wavy and barely falls short of reaching his broad shoulders. This coupled with his 5'oclock shadow give him an unkempt visage. The young man's body is muscled yet lean, his skin having bronzed from the constant work outdoors (and thanks to his father's blood). He prefers wearing sturdy leather trousers, loose fitting but snug at the waist, tied by a plain brown sash belt. When in combat or preparing, he wears iron armor over a linen tunic. Outside of combat, he simply wears the tunic, usually opened in the center. If he's alone he'll go shirtless, simply enjoying the breeze and the heat of the day. His height is fairly average for an Imperial, not short by any means but not particularly tall. His callused and scarred hands are rough but firm to the touch (much like the rest of him). His caramel eyes are the softest part of him, full of life and passion, fiery wonder, and sometimes innocent curiosity.
Personality:
Bradeck can be described as a rough and ready warrior. His fierce independence and rough nature can only be matched by his loyalty to those he deems worthy. He's not particularly book smart, and can miss a few finer details of a more subtle plan when he's ready to fight in combat. Despite that, he's intuitive and introspective, with a quick mind and a dry wit. He has a quiet, a down to earth wisdom that often views the world in a pragmatic, useful manner. He's quite a passionate and creative individual when opened up to someone.
Due to his childhood being spent with male friends, and the only females he spent much time with were family members or female Orcs that would sooner hit him than hit on him, he's quite confused when it comes to romance. It's a coin toss on whether he gets very defensive and stand offish, or very stuttering and shy. It's just not his element. He respects warriors and those who pull their own weight or who show great skill. He's annoyed at laziness and dishonesty. He doesn't pick fights easily however, and only do it when he truly thinks its called for, and that's after one too many times of blundering. Not after strike one. Though he might be outspoken and blunt at his disapproval.
Backstory:
Bardeck was born in Anvil, to an Imperial ex-soldier father and a Nordic mother. They resided there for 7 years. Bardeck enjoyed swimming and exploring the surrounding woods, fascinated by the untold wilderness. At age 8, his mother's father passed away, and they moved to Skyrim in Markarth where his grandmother still resided to help her live and keep her company. His parents began a moderately successful trading business.
Bradeck wasn't quite used to the new surroundings, and was bullied by the Nordic children other than a select few whom he'd later name as his best friends. On one occasion, the other children began to rough him up near the back end of Markarth, when the Orcish smith knocked them back and bared his great fangs, causing them to flee. He gave some gruff advice to Bradeck, telling him not to let other kids push him around. He went back to his smithy.
Bradeck began to visit the smith every now and then, watching him at his work. Eventually they exchanged names. Rogath was the Orc's name, and he took a liking to Bradeck's inquisitive nature, allowing him to learn a few tricks of the trade while they spent time together through offhand advice. During this time, Bradeck would learn a few pointers of combat from his father after helping unload the carts coming to the city.
Bradeck was there when his grandmother passed away, holding his mother and crying with her when he was 14 years old. The death of his grandmother sparked questions on who he was in his mind. He felt a sense of pride to both his stoic northern blood and southern mercantile roots, but felt a kinship to Rogath and his rough nature. One day, Rogath announced he was traveling back to his homeland, and Bradeck begged him to let him go with him.
At first the Orsimer refused, but then lamented if Bradeck had the strength to go and fetch a bear pelt out in the wild. The boy felt elated, for he knew how to hunt and had the knowledge of a few bear caves, though he knew it would not be an easy quarry. He set off one morning, and found one of the bear frequented caverns. He entered, but instead found the bear dead already. He exploded further, but was discovered by a hungry vampire that had decided to hide here in order to terrorize the travelers of Markarth with relative ease.
Bradeck, armed with a battlaxe, fought for his life. He had wounded the Vampire's hip when the beast had underestimated him, but was quickly overwhelmed and thrown down the cavern. The Vampire leaped at him, intending to kill him. He used the spike on the end of his Battleaxe to impale the flying creature, bowling him over and then decapitating the bloodsucker. Rogath was then presented with both a Bear pelt and Vampire Ash. He had become Blood-Kin.
They traveled to Orsinium and lived in one of the outer lying clans. He grew in both body and spirit, learning advanced combat and Smithing techniques. His fit frame turned muscular, and his mind grew sharper with his exposure to various cultures. The Nordic city of Markarth had helped him deal somewhat with the rough living of Orisinium, truth be told. He was given a warhound Puppy named Gideon on his 21st birthday.
Age 21, he left and decided to become a mercenary and journeyman smith, heading through Hammerfell and working there in various jobs for a year before making it to Cyrodiil, living there ever since. He was recently hired to Kvatch as a caravan guard. A relatively simple job he had thought...
Spells:
Inventory:
Cutie Patoot WarDog
Steel Hand Axe
Iron Armor
Iron Shield
2 x Healing Potion
3 x Bear Pelts
3 x Wolf Pelts
2 pounds of Venison
1 Water Jug
Clothing |
56,373 | 1,541 | 18 | 860 | 1,273 | Such virtue, such bravery! Orintur was not the last to offer aid, and he nodded respectfully to each new volunteer. With such a force, the hellspawn on the streets outside stood no chance, and their garrisoned brethren within the Oblivion gate would not see any greater success. As soon as the door opened, Orintur stepped out of the chapel and on to the scorched roads of Kvatch. Though his helmet's face plate obscured his vision somewhat, the Elf could make out several immediate foes. When the mages summoned more of the lower hell-beasts known as Scamps, Orintur knew exactly who he would dispatch first.
"For Empire and Emperor, and for the glory of the Divines, you will die here, you accursed devils!" Bellowing with zealous rage, Orintur charged the nearest mage with the force of a stampede, stomping on the toes of a Scamp in the process. When the Churl slung a fireball in his direction, Orintur braced his left shoulder, letting it take the brunt of the attack. While it still burned, it was not of the intensity that he experienced years ago when facing the warlock that haunted the roads of Chorrol, and for that he was grateful. With his hammer in prime position to strike, Orintur let forth another bellow as he sent the heavy head of steel crashing down on the shoulder of his foe. The paladin was not satisfied with merely disabling the mage, however. Standing over the Churl, Orintur held his warhammer aloft and sent it down once more with great force, straight into its chest. Blood spewed forth from the Daedra's mouth and the bones within its bosom cracked and shattered, ending its miserable and heretical existence. Its death was quick and not entirely without mercy, and so Orintur viewed his actions as justified. Pacifism was a fruitless, even if noble, endeavor, and there would always need to be someone willing to take up arms and drive away the villains and heretics that sought to harm and destroy the innocent. At that moment, he was that someone.
Turning around to find another enemy, Orintur caught the Scamp he ran over trying to sneakily hop away. The Elf and beast made eye contact for a few moments, and after shifting its eyes about trying to find an escape route, the Scamp began hopping away again...just at a slightly faster pace than before. Striding across the stone street, Orintur was easily able to reach the Scamp, even with its...speedy getaway. Once in range, Orintur sent the hell-beast sprawling across the ground with a sideways blow to its head. He took the heavy bleeding and motionlessness as confirmation that the Scamp was, indeed, dead. Speaking of blood, it was all over his armor...the paladin made a mental note to polish his gear later, especially his chest plate. Sweeping his eyes back towards where his new compatriots were, he was pleased to see that they were all handling themselves quite nicely. The young man and his faithful hound made short and impressive work of a few Scamps and a Clannfear; Orintur would be sure to commend them on their fighting prowess after their party had closed the gate. Which they would, obviously! It was just, well...they had to get in, first. | Character Name: Orintur Graywatch
Age: 57, approximate
Race: Altmer
Sex: Male
Birthsign: The Tower
Specialisation: Combat
Class: Paladin
Skills:
Expert: Two-Handed Blunt
Journeyman: Heavy Armor, Restoration
Apprentice: Destruction, Athletics, Hand to Hand
Novice: Speechcraft, One-Handed Blade, One-Handed Blunt, Foraging
Crafting: Novice Smithing and Alchemy
Appearance: For the most part, Orintur is your typical yellow-skinned Altmer, standing at about a head higher than the average height of most other races, with pointed ears and narrow eyes, irises matching his skin. What makes him a bit different, though, is that Orintur is noticeably far more muscular than the slim and dainty everyday High Elf, thanks to his extensive training with large two-handed weapons and heavy armors. Orintur keeps his platinum hair short; he hates how bothersome long hair can be and would rather be able to wake up and not need to rearrange anything.
Of course it goes without saying that, as a Paladin, Orintur sees his fair share of combat. As such, he has a good number of scars to document his adventures. The most noticeable scar is a large burn mark on his lower abdomen, given to Orintur by a flame atronach summoned by an accursed warlock that had been terrorizing nearby villages. The Altmer's armor intercepted the fireball, but that didn't stop all the damage, for his armor had reached searing levels of heat where it was hit. Unable to take off his cuirass in the middle of battle, Orintur fought for several more minutes with it on, and with every movement he was scorched further. By the time the mage was dead, not even the most powerful of Restoration magics could have healed his wound completely. Far less epic scars line Orintur's body, mainly across his arms, some acquired during his training, others given to him by bandits and other foul creatures that lucked out and bypassed his armor.
Personality: Being a High Elf, one of another race would be inclined to groan at Orintur's approach, thanks to his race's less than tolerant view of anyone not their own. One would most certainly not expect, though, for the young(for a High Elf, anyway) Paladin to greet them with ecstatic glee; indeed, Orintur is as nice as nice gets...well, as long as you aren't a heretic. Following the dictations of his patron god, Stendarr, Orintur has unending love for the citizens of Tamriel, and is always happy to meet new people and offer his services to those in need. This love stops, though, for those that would bring harm to anyone under his protection, that being every person in Tamriel not openly against the Nine Divines. These villains are deemed heretics, and Orintur believes it is his mission as bestowed upon him by Mighty Stendarr to bring them to justice, be it at the end of a gavel...or his hammer. Bandits, conjurers of foul daedra, rogue wizards and necromancers, and thieves to a lesser extent all fall under Orintur's definition of "heretic", and such people would do well to keep their hobbies a secret from the ever-wary Paladin if they want to get in his good graces.
The good citizens of Tamriel and all other adherents of the Nine Divines, however, can feel free to approach Orintur with all manner of problems; whatever they be, most can probably be solved with his hammer. If a hammer is not enough, then the Altmer can turn to his magics of Restoration and Destruction, or even his limited knowledge of alchemy and smithing, for he is nothing if not versatile. Orintur takes great pride in assisting those around him, and would give his life if it ever came to such a thing, so strong is his faith in the teachings of the Divines. Unfortunately however, Orintur's zealotry has made some of even the most pious of church-goers fearful of him, worried that they may unknowingly engage in some innocuous activity that nevertheless draws the paladin's ire and would put them at the end of a warhammer. Many city guards are also not quite fans of Orintur, viewing his methods as too extreme and uncompromising, and disruptive to the general peace. If he is not barred from entering a city outright, the Altmer is under the strict watch of a detachment of guards who stand at a distance, waiting for him to step out of line.
Backstory: Orintur has no knowledge of his homeland, where exactly he was born, when he was born, or even who birthed him. From what he could gather from his adoptive family at the Chapel of Stendarr in Chorrol, a young woman brought him to the chapel as a baby. The woman, who was in a heavy concealing cloak and scarf, said his name was Orintur Graywatch, and to the Primate's great confusion and frustration, she would not reveal any more details, no matter how much she was pressed. The only other words the woman spoke was a request to "please raise him to be kind". In the second the Primate turned his head to look at Orintur, the woman had vanished. Letters of inquiry to other chapels and contacts turned up fruitless; the woman could not be found nor was there anyone under the name of Graywatch in Cyrodiil. With no one else able or willing to take the infant elf in, the Primate decided to make the chapel his new home, and raise him under the guidance of the Commands of the Divines with the help of the other priests.
Orintur, under the wise tutelage of the Primate and priests of Stendarr, came to learn and hold dearly the teachings of the Nine Divines. Memorizing the Ten Commands and taking to heart the wisdom of revered saints, the Divines became the center of his life, and Orintur would spend many hours of the day praying and performing rites, taking short breaks to eat simple foods, help around the city, and sleep until the next morning where he would renew his routine. No doubt Orintur looked peculiar praying at the altars, being a High Elf and what all that entailed to those that didn't know anything of him, but everything just seemed to fit for the Altmer. He felt Zenithar fill his bones with the strength to live day after day, Mara fill his heart with love, and Julianos fill his mind with wisdom. The Divine that Orintur felt closest to, of little surprise, being raised in his chapel, was Stendarr. He felt compelled to help and protect the weak, and was overjoyed whenever he was able to do volunteer work to assist the needy. At twenty-five, fifteen years after beginning his general training as a devotee of the Divines, Orintur spoke to the Primate and requested he begin training to serve Stendarr. The Primate, naturally, was overjoyed, and asked what he would like to specialize in. Orintur thought long and hard on this, and eventually came to a conclusion: he would be a paladin of Stendarr. It just sounded right to him, marching across Cyrodiil, striking down evildoers and offering aid to those whose paths he crossed; it felt like something was calling him to take on the mantle of Paladin. To this day, Orintur attributes his choice to the guiding hand of Stendarr, who believed the Altmer would be best suited for that path above all others.
Orintur's training officially began with the arrival of a full-fledged paladin, whom the Primate called to the Chapel to teach the High Elf every other month; Orintur's lessons would alternate between martial and spiritual training, with the Primate instructing him in all the rites of Stendarr. Romana Marius was a behemoth of a woman, almost as tall as Orintur himself and with plenty of muscle to match. Her red hair was short and messy, with a face as plain as a foundation stone and a stare that could shatter one; Romana certainly had no time set aside for looking nice. With how mean she could look on the outside, however, Romana was surprisingly amicable. You had to listen for her smile, not look for it, as one of the priests familiar with her once said. She was glad that Orintur chose the path of the paladin, as according to her their numbers were running quite low, and made Orintur aware of their kind's high mortality rate. She was greatly pleased to hear her student's confidence and determination, and began his first lessons. They spent several weeks trying to find the aspiring warrior a weapon of choice, and went through many with little success. Sword and shield, spears, axes, none quite clicked with Orintur...until he came to the mighty warhammer. He was practically in love with the raw power of such a weapon, and asked to be trained in its use.
The first two years with Romana was specifically spent learning how to wear heavy armor and properly use a warhammer, along with a bit of hand-to-hand training. Proper footing, getting down the right amount of momentum, using distance to one's advantage, all the basics. When she believed Orintur could use the weapon confidently, Romana began engaging in full-on spars with her student. While obviously not on equal footing with his mentor, Orintur could still land his fair share of strikes. One day, Romana hit Orintur with an extremely heavy strike, bruising him terribly. What he initially believed was an accident was actually Romana transitioning into her next lessons: the art of Restoration, and how to heal oneself and others. She began by teaching Orintur a basic healing spell to ease his bruising, which he took it upon himself to learn quickly, as the wound panged quite unpleasantly...and then she made him do it again after the next spar when she fractured his index finger. Romana made it clear that she did not injure him for her own amusement, but rather to encourage him to learn how to heal himself faster and give him more experience with Restoration magics. Still, Orintur didn't quite appreciate the beatings even with that assurance, but the more potent spells she taught him after a few months softened the literal blows a bit. The next four years were a repeat of that routine of sparring and then healing, and going out to help those brought into the safety of the city after being attacked by bandits, wolves, and whatever else lurked the roads and forests. Romana had Orintur simply watch at first of course, no telling what an inexperienced student would get wrong, but eventually he was allowed to operate on his first patient. Using the most simple spell available, the Altmer successfully closed the gashes of an unfortunate victim of a mugging. He liked those lessons much more. Two more years were spent learning the art of Destruction; Romana admitted that while, yes, Destruction was quite an unsavory school, a paladin needs several methods of attacking, as one may not be able to get close enough to bash away with steel.
Another two years passed, all the time with Romana spent perfecting his technique after having learned all of the basics of combat and magic. When the time had come for Orintur's trial of initiation, he could manuever himself smoothly even in heavy iron, could close and mend the wounds of himself and others in under twenty seconds, and his prowess with warhammers was something to be feared. Romana, the Primate, and all others who had witnessed his training were confident in his ability...but were the Divines? Such was the purpose of his trial, to determine his worthiness in the eyes of Stendarr. Orintur's mission: Head to a nearby cave, once the lair of some goblins, and destroy the warlock hiding away inside. The warlock had been attacking travellers on the road to Chorrol frequently, and was the cause of all the recent burn victims carried into the city. He was to bring back their staff as proof of his success.
The moment Orintur stepped into the vile lair of the mage, the scent of death hit him in the face with nauseating force. In the second chamber was the cause: Six glassy-eyed corpses, reanimated by the darkest of magicks. They were the unfortunate travellers that did not make it the rest of the way to Chorrol, their flesh singed with intense magical flames. To profane the dead in such a way was heresy in the eyes of Arkay, and so Orintur dispatched them swiftly. The slow, shambling zombies were no match for Orintur and his warhammer, and the Altmer had little issue releasing them from their servitude. Deeper in the cave, however, was a sight truly horrible: piled up in a corner was a mountain of corpses, most much, much older than the poor souls in the previous chamber. Next to them were bloody carts; the blasphemer had been practicing necromancy far before moving near Chorrol. Filled with righteous fury, Orintur was going to make sure the bastard would not be able to relocate this time. At the very end of the cave was a large open room with torches, and sconces filled with bones. In the middle was a stone altar with a multitude of body parts arranged in a vaguely humanoid shape...with the sickening mage ogling at their handiwork with childish wonderment. The clanking of armor alerted the aging warlock, but she was none too impressed with her adversary, wondering aloud if the following of Stendarr was so weak that they had to send a boy after her.
Summoning forth a fire atronach, the warlock looked on amusedly as her minion went to work on Orintur. The atronach was swifter than he anticipated, and he missed his first swing. Now at a safe distance, the daedroth flung a ball of fire at Orintur, hitting the middle of his cuirass. Though not hit directly, the heated part of his armor would occasionally brush against his body, searing him painfully whenever he turned. Deciding his foe was too good at gaining distance, the Altmer switched to blasting the atronach with orbs of ice. Only when the summon was in a weakened state did Orintur charge forth and let his hammer crash down on his foe's skull. Turning away from the fizzling remains of the flaming abomination, the warlock and the paladin-to-be locked eyes, both glaring at the other. Lifting up her staff, the warlock let loose a fireball, crashing behind Orintur as he jumped to the side to avoid another unfortunate burn wound; the one he had already was getting on his nerves as it was. Retaliating with a lightning bolt, the furious High Elf advanced quickly, his attack sending the warlock's next fireball askew, far away from her charging foe. Before they were able to send out another spell, Orintur knocked the mage to the ground with a hard shoulder-bash, who followed up with a quick stomp to their arm, breaking it and forcing them to let go of their staff. The blasphemer's predictable last-ditch promises of unlimited power went unheard, and were ultimately silenced by Orintur's warhammer cracking them across the skull, snapping her neck at a disgusting angle.
After treating his burn as best as he could, Orintur grabbed the accursed staff and prayed to Arkay and Stendarr, praying that the souls of the dead so disrespectfully mutilated in the cave would be tended to, and that the warlock would hopefully be granted pardon by Stendarr the Merciful. It was dark by the time Orintur returned to the chapel, and he was greeted by the relieved cheering of its inhabitants. Handing the staff to the Primate, it was announced that Orintur would be made a paladin of Stendarr on the morn. Never before had rest felt so deserved to the anxious Altmer.
After waking and praying at the altars, Orintur met the Primate at the center of the chapel. He was surpised at how many were in attendance: there was Romana and the other priests of the chapel, which wasn't too shocking, but behind them in the pews were several citizens of Chorrol and even a few guards. Kneeling low, the Primate proudly began the induction speech, placing upon Orintur the blessings of Stendarr and the other Divines, charging him with the faithful service of the good people of Tamriel, to defend and protect the weak and innocent, and to forever hold the ideals of generosity and kindness to others in his heart. Accepting these gifts and responsibilities, Orintur rose and took in his hands the steel warhammer and donned the steel armor forged by Chorrol's blacksmith, ordered by Romana and the priests specially for the Altmer's coronation. After the ceremony, Romana told Orintur that the reason for the large amount of attendees was that a paladin of Stendarr hadn't been inducted in many years, and it was an exciting event for the townsfolk. He vowed to not disappoint the people of Chorrol, or of anywhere else in Tamriel. To that end, he geared up, said his great thanks to the kind priests that raised him, to and the Primate Romana for their teachings, and set out across Cyrodiil.
The following years weren't exactly full of epic adventures and quests to destroy evil artifacts. In fact, Orintur's new life as a paladin was fairly mundane, and that suited him just fine. Helping people with problems, big or small, filled Orintur with purpose, and his spirits were raised with every word of thanks and gratitude. He took very little in terms of rewards, accepting little more than pieces of fruit or refills for his waterskin. As a result of this, and his eventual reputation as a reliable but incredibly extreme man of the faith barring him entry from most cities by the guards, Orintur has had to learn how to find his own food in the form of berries and edible plants along with the uncommon pieces of meat from the game he is able to reliably hunt, and has also taken it upon himself to learn the basics of using small swords and handaxes, just in case he ever finds himself without his hammer or enough magicka for spells. The intricacies of smithing and alchemy are far beyond the Altmer, but he knows enough to keep his armor and weapons in decent shape, and can brew basic potions for healing, fatigue, and magicka recovery.
The news of the Emperor's death saddened Orintur greatly, and upon hearing of the event he gave himself to the Kvatch arena games, hoping to honor the late Uriel Septim with victory in combat. He planned to later pray and mourn in the Chapel of Akatosh, and unbeknownst to him them, pray and mourn he would, but not just for the dead Emperor, but for all people of Tamriel.
Then the time for prayer would end, and thus would begin the purging of heretics, blashphemers, and daedric abominations. The Princes themselves shall fear the name Orintur Graywatch!
Spells:
Restoration
Greater Convalescence(J), Heal Major Wounds(A), Convalescence(A), Heal Minor Wounds(N)
Destruction
Shock(A), Corrode Armor(A), Snowball(N)
Inventory:
Storage
1 x Large Leather Backpack
1 x Leather harness w/ three pouches
Alchemy Gear
1 x Mortar/Pestle
3 x Empty vials
Sufficient ingredients to make two potions of light healing, and one potion of light magicka recovery
1 x Healing/Stamina/Magicka potions
Tools/Arms and Armor/Clothing
1 x Green cotton shirt/black trousers/leather boots
1 x Set of fluted steel plate armor with gauntlets, greaves, and a bucket helmet w/ raisable face plate
1 x Steel warhammer
1 x Iron dagger, fastened to harness across cuirass
1 x Armourer's hammer and whetstone
1 x Small handaxe for chopping up bits of wood for fires, fastened to his backpack
Food and Provisions
1 x Medium sized waterskin
2 x Cuts of cooked venison
1 x Red Apple
3 x Half-loafs of bread
1 x Small leather tent and bedroll |
56,374 | 1,541 | 19 | 1,320 | 116 | As the chapel doors were opened and the immediate area was deemed clear for the moment, Aveca pulled her bow off her back and strung and arrow to it. She hung back slightly, as that was the place of the archer, as some of the stronger members of their group headed out of the doors, swords raised high. The fighting thickened outside of the doors as she approached.
Almost as soon as they were out in the city, Aveca heard the Imperial woman should, "You lot deal with these! I'll get the damned city gates open." Aveca only gave it a passing thought as she set about fighting the demons. Someone, she supposed, would have to get the gate open. She couldn't imagine some of these heavily armoured warriors scaling the walls the way the small woman had done to get in. She turned her attention to the swarms of spawn.
From her distance from the battle, she lined up a few very careful shots. She drew her arrow back to her chin and let it fly, catching a scamp in the side of its neck. She felt the muscles in her arms as she lined up a shot at a clannfear and hit it in the side of the head. It slumped to the ground where it was, just as it was about to join the fight. She aimed deeper in the fighting for another scamp, but her arrow flew just past it. Luckily, it didn't hit anything else.
As she was so focused on her shooting, Aveca barely noticed that a scamp was approaching her until a fireball flew by her head. She spun to face it in a hurry, just in time to dodge out of the way of a more accurately placed fireball. She saw it's proximity to her and dropped her bow to the ground in order to shoot a frost bolt into its chest. The scamp slumped over and she noticed the frost bolt start to melt. After picking her bow up from the ground, she turned her attention back to the main fight. She glanced up at the city gates, wondering if and when they would open. | Character Name:
Aveca Ice-Bear
Age:
26
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Female
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Magic/Stealth
Class:
Healer
Skills:
Expert: Restoration
Journeyman: Marksman (Bow), Alteration, Alchemy (Craft)
Apprentice: Destruction, Speechcraft, Hunting (Craft)
Novice: Mercantile, Illusion, Acrobatics
Appearance:
Aveca stands at about 5’6” tall. She has the characteristic pale white skin of the Nords, as well as fair coloured features. Her hair is a light white-blonde colour with some yellowish tones. She has choppily cut bangs (done herself with a sharpened knife, quite carefully) that swoop in around her face, down to about nose length. The rest of her hair is usually kept either in a braid or in a messy bun, but when left long it goes down just past her armpits. Her eyes are a blue-gray tone, and her face is lightly freckled.
She is also able-bodied. She wouldn't get called a muscular person in general – you wouldn’t catch her in chainmail – but her body is accustomed to exercise and comfortable with the weight of drawing a bowstring. She never let herself get lax just because she practices magic.
As far as scarring and blemishes, Aveca has few. As a healer, she has usually been able to heal any more recent scars, but she has some very light markings (faded by time) up her legs and arms from the usual childhood rough activity and learning to hunt in her younger years. Between her youth and her training, she got one significant scar, which is a simple gash mark on her leg from a run in with a bear.
Aveca has little need for armor. She tries to avoid direct combat, so armor would in the end only inhibit the way she tries to weave around a battle and aid the injured. She prefers simple clothes, leggings and a tunic, or sometimes a dress or skirt. These she always wears over leggings and with boots, as she likes to be prepared for any situation.
Personality:
Aveca is a healer, and that is her passion, but it could in no way define all she is. She believes in aiding the wounded and sick, and wants to go out across the world and help good people, but she also has a fairly strong sense of justice and can be harsh with it at times. She won’t aid you regardless of who you are on the basis of you being a living being. After all, hunter and healer don’t tend to correlate. She isn’t afraid to throw fire around if it comes down to a fight, but she much prefers to avoid one. The bow she carries, she prefers to use for hunting than on people. Her passion is much more around the idea of widespread misery and sickness; her interests lie in sickness and disease, in the curing of plagues and foreign illnesses. She has an apt and interest for academic learning, but can become bored easily if it isn’t related to her interests (being healing, alchemy, living things, cultures, languages).
Despite this, she tends to help first and ask questions later. She will heal someone without a second thought in an instant, because she would rather help someone and expect them to be a good person than not take the risk in case they may be less savory. However, if ever she was betrayed she would retaliate in full force.
Overall, Aveca is a happy and optimistic person. She wants to travel and experience the world, to meet, to help, and to socialize with people from everywhere there is. She is generally willing to engage in a conversation at any time and with anyone, as long as she isn’t trying to heal. She takes her work seriously and doesn’t like distractions while she is actively doing a spell.
One thing is that you don’t want to get into an argument with her. She’ll get heated over anything she has an opinion on, and she won’t let go, either.
Backstory:
Katla and Eirn were rather typical Nords. They met in Markarth, where Katla lived with her family (merchants), and Eirn travelled through as a hunter selling meats. He trekked back and forth across Skyrim all his life, with his parents and then later on his own. He met Katla at the market there, and found himself coming to Markarth more and more often. Her family disapproved, but they married and she too to travelling with him. She enjoyed the adventure. When Aveca and her sister,
Laisa, were born, their parents stopped for a time at a camp they built outside of Whiterun. It provided some stabililty for the young girls.
As they grew older, their parents started travelling with them more. They had a cart and tents, so it wasn’t as though they lived in total discomfort. Aveca was quite fond of the dirt and the travel, whereas Laisa was jealous of the nicely dressed children they met in cities. Over the years, Aveca learned hunting from their father from a very young age, and their mother taught Laisa the ways of business so she could go out on her own someday, without having to depend on someone else.
When she was 13, Aveca asked her family to take her north to the College of Winterhold to learn, and they did. Her mother was a firm believer in doing what you want to do. At first try, the nice man at the gate told her and her mother that they simply couldn't let in a totally untrained mind, and at such an age, though he would have liked to. He asked her to gain some preliminary knowledge and to return in a few years. Her mother was frustrated, and, determined for her daughter to have what she wanted, they traveled to Markarth and left Aveca with a mage she knew from her life there. He was an Alteration mage named Aenar who worked in the temple. She spent a year and a half with him and helped him with his work, while developing a base knowledge of how magic works and how to preform it. She learned a solid base of novice spells and returned to the College with her family just as she was almost 15. This time, they let her in to learn more after she demonstrated that she had the skill for learning it.
For the first few years she studied generally and with vigor, but when she was 17, her family travelled north to tell her that her mother had died of an illness. She never got the chance to say goodbye because of the distance. Her sister was still ill with the same sickness, however it was less advanced and the mages in Winderhold healed her. This ignited Aveca’s passion more specifically for healing and she undertook learning all she possibly could about it. She had a knack for magic and dedicated her whole life to it from the age of 17 until she was 24. She still kept hunting on as a hobby, something she did for an afternoon every week, maybe.
As for Laisa, when she was 18 she made some business connections and set up a shop in Riften.
When Aveca was 24, she herself deemed her training temporarily complete. She had a very advanced training in healing, as well as alchemy and alteration, but she didn’t have the same knack for the rest of the schools and she didn’t focus on them nearly as much. She left the college of her own accord and again travelled Skyrim with her father for a good number of months until she passed south to Cyrodill from Riften, after a visit with her sister.
Once there, she used a mixture of hunting, healing, and alchemy to make an income. She started in the north in Burma, and travelled south through Chorrol, Skingrad, and finally Kvatch. During this time she travelled very light, with a sac on her back for various alchemical pursuits, and very little else. She stayed in inns in the cities as long as she could afford to do so.
Spells:
Restoration: Heal Minor Wounds, Major Respite, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Heal Superior Wounds, Devour Health, Cure Disease, Superior Convalescence
Alteration: Lightning Shield, Water Breathing, Water Walking, Protect Other,
Destruction: Electric Touch, Flash Bolt, Frost Touch
Illusion: Illuminate, Soothing Touch
Inventory:
Steel Bow
Quiver of Iron Arrows (x20)
Iron Dagger (more for daily use than fighting)
Pair of black leggings
Sturdy leather boots
Light blue tunic
Brown cotton dress, white corset, decent quality
Travelling cloak
Leather belt with pouches
Waterskin
Knapsack, leather
Bedroll with bedding
Mortar and Pestle
Alchemical ingredient pouch (mostly herbs for healing potions, but with some other ingredients)
Vials and corks for those potions
Minor Magika Potions (x2)
75 Septims
Dried meats, bread, cheese |
56,375 | 1,541 | 20 | 1,348 | 1,669 | “Blessed be Talos, Soul of the Empire, who teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight.” Engel murmured as Renart lined up his next shot. He squeezed the trigger and felt the familiar jolt in his shoulder, a moment later watching the clannfear catch his bolt in the chest and skid to a stop on its belly. “Be never far from me, for trouble is always near.”
“Always.” Renart said with an air of annoyance. He spotted two scamps headed his way while he reloaded. The mechanical clicks and clanks of the reloading lever gave him some semblance of comfort before he lined up another shot. A breath in and he squeezed the trigger just as his lungs filled, exhaling as he watched the scamp stumble and then slump over. The other one was getting closer. Just before it reached the line Engel had drawn in his mind, he managed to let fly another bolt and the scamp collapsed, the thing of wood and iron sticking out of its cheek.
Renart saw Engel settle back onto his stomach, letting out a breath. “Don't worry, friend, I won't let them get you.” Renart chuckled. Engel simply looked at him and shook his head, keeping watch. Renart turned his head in time to see Engel spring up faster than he'd ever. He rolled onto his back and saw Engel throw himself under the swing of a hellish looking blade in the hands of a hellish looking man-thing. Its armor was ridden with spikes and black as void, while its red and black face was contorted in impersonal malice. He found himself frozen, never liking any enemy this close. Engel brought his axe down on the face of the one he'd tackled to the ground, rolling away from head of the monstrous flail wielded by the other. It embedded itself deep in the chest of the demon Engel was just on.
Engel danced around the demon, in hopes of tiring it out, no doubt. Before the fight could go on any longer, Renart lined up another shot, struggling to get a clear opportunity. “Damn, you!”
Finally, Engel hazarded getting close, striking the face of the demon with the blunt top of his axe's head. The demon was phased, stepping back in pain. Engel planted his knife's blade through its neck twice and kicked it over. He stood over it, letting go a shuddering breath. He always did that after killing someone or something. What went on inside that man's head, he would never know. Years of knowing Engel had granted him almost no insight into the man, but so long as he stayed his friend, he reckoned that question could come at a later time. For now, Renart was perfectly content to sit and wait for that gate to open. And maybe, just maybe, run as fast as he could through it while these idiots stepped into a portal to Oblivion. | Character Name:
Renart
Age:
33
Race:
Breton
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lover
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Pilgrim - “Hearty folk, (not really) well-versed in the tomes of old. They profit in life by bartering in the market, or by persuading the weak-minded.”
Skills:
Expert Skill (Marksman)
Journeyman Skills (Mercantile, Speech, One-Handed Blunt)
Apprentice Skills (Light Armor, Block, One-Handed Blade)
Crafting Skills (Fletching)
Appearance:
Renart has a good face for getting out of trouble and a good face for ending it before it starts. It is somewhat commanding, framed by a blond beard whose mustache does not connect with it. An easygoing smile almost always graces his lips and he chews on something, whether it is a toothpick or a shoot of grain. His body holds the telltale signs of manual labor, but not too much of it if he can help it, broad in the shoulders and thick in the limbs. He holds a quiet sense of confidence about him though he is a lackadaisical man. Even so, he tries to appear less than he is to avoid being noticed- either by undesirable individuals or those looking for him to volunteer for something.
Personality:
Renart is good with words and was always good at keeping a poker-face. He was content with his lot in life, consisting of whiling away the days playing cards and going out on the town. He did his fair share of lying and cheating and it has gotten him into his fair share of trouble. He has a knack for gambling, but when one gambles, they may win but it is a rule that you lose sometimes. With better men, they lined their troubles up and knocked them down one at a time with a vigorous rubbing of palms to get ready for the honest work.
His method was to stay as under the waves as he could so as not to accrue any kind of troubles. Speaking of hard, honest work, he tries not to mess with the stuff. Better to have a boring day and get paid for it than end up bleeding for a handful of coin. After all, what good is gold if you aren't alive to spend it? Renart is a man who is a steadfast friend of the weak if they can pay, a righteous defender if he thinks he can live to see the end of the ordeal, and a loyal companion if it isn't too hard to be. A man with ideals higher than he's willing to reach for, the only time he'll leap to action is if he's badgered about it enough, drunk enough or if it lies in the way of him seeing a lax tomorrow filled with drink, merriment and women.
Backstory:
Renart grew up in Anvil to a merchant family with holdings as far away as Pelletine and Hammerfell. Appropriately for a merchant's son, he was given lessons in being a gentleman and a trader. His lessons were in navigation, logistics, mercantile, economics and the gentlemanly arts of marksmanship and fencing. He surrounded himself with people of his like, as if his parents would let him be in the presence of scoundrels. His life was a leisurely one, whiling away the days playing cards and other such things and spending his nights on the town.
It was a life of hum-drum leisure and decadence. He thought nothing of it, knowing that his father did tend to meet with some less-than-reputable looking characters at times, but he brushed it off as the intricacies of mercantilism and went on his merry way. All was well, until the town guard barged into their home one night and hauled his father off to jail. This, of course, struck a mighty blow to the de Perceval merchant family. Not as hard a blow as would be struck by the revelation of his father's crimes.
It turned out that Guy de Perceval was engaged in smuggling not only stolen objects and poached skins and meats, but also illicit substances. Moon Sugar and Skooma was what lined the de Perceval manor's vaults with money and it would be enough to topple the de Perceval name knowing that the money was tracked back to the Renrijra Krin. Renart's mother took her own life and Renart, being an only child, was left destitute. None of his friends would take him in knowing the stock he was bred from and the manner in which his family made their money.
He hung his head low and enlisted in the Imperial Legion, desperate for a new start somewhere far away from Anvil. He endured the two months of training it took to become a Legionnaire of the Empire and was sent off to Fort Satternus, named after some hero of the Legion that did... something. His lessons of the Legion's history had gone in one ear and out the other. Legion life went by much the same, if not a little more boring and regimented than that of his former civilian life.
It was one day that he had the idea of playing others for something more than fun. Soon, he was playing cards for a fellow Legionnaire's extra boots, or his leftover rations. People would come to him because while he may have charged more than the Fort's Quartermaster, his product was premium, some of his stock won from the outside world from traders come to Bruma with foreign and well-made wares whenever his unit got their leave.
His days of easy sailing as a Munifex in the good Legion's Cavalry Scouts of the Fifth Legion would come to an end when the annual wargames reared their head in his unit's direction. He managed to capture a camp and seize the supplies of the opposing team and ambush a sizeable contingent marching along the roads. A decisive victory, owed to Munifex Renart and his detachment. He was promoted to Decanus and was second-in-command of his Contubernium under his best friend Quaestor Maricus. Ten men, all having to listen to his say-so. At least while Maricus was away.
Another year went by and it was time for yearly raises. Camp Praefect Miribella, a pretty thing from Skingrad and a woman who appreciated a good pair of Colovian leather boots and Honningbrew Import won from a trader from Falkreath had a few good words to put in for Decanus Renart. He was promoted to Quaestor and put in charge of a different Contubernium, ill-fatedly stationed in Fort Leonhart, a small forward post in High Rock. It was a curse, as war started in High Rock after a bout of political hijinks. The 5th Legion did what they apparently always did; sat tight and didn't meddle in the war unless it was absolutely needed. Things like this happen all the time in High Rock, he was told, and he didn't know if he felt reassured at the calmness of his fellow soldiers or disturbed at the fact these Bretons had such a habit for warring and scheming.
It was on a routine patrol that he and the soldiers under him were caught in a raid on a village, where he would meet his peculiar traveling companion, a man named Engel. They were branded enemies, their Imperial uniforms nothing of a deterrent to aggression. He helped the villagers as well as he could, even earning a victory after half his contubernium and many of the villagers were killed in the battle. Though bloodied and beaten, he was thanked by the villagers and sent off with gifts and goodwill. He did not feel like a hero, as some called him. He felt like a commander who'd done the worst he could've done for the men under his command. And for all his doubts, regrets, and anger he was commended. Given a medal for his bravery in the face of overwhelming odds, he looked at it as something to be disgusted at.
Life in the Legion went on and soon it was time for promotions. Quaestor Renart was bumped up to Praefect Renart, something they said was long due for a man of his actions and mettle. He'd since been doing his best to get past those events in the village, but when he heard that it was burned down some time after he and his contubernium had left, he petitioned the Legate to bring the Empire's justice on whichever nobleman had ordered the sacking of the village. Nothing came of it, the lives lost- the legion lives lost too- were out of their control. It was 'the hazards of working in a Province as turbulent as High Rock.'
He retired shortly after his pending appointment to Praefect had been pushed through. He bid his men farewell after those years of service and wandered looking for any work, selling the odd thing he picks up while playing cards and trading when he can. He met his old acquaintance, Engel, not that long after his retirement and the two began to travel together. After some time of wandering, he came to Kvatch when he heard that he could earn a large sum of money for betting on the fights there. Then, well, things happened.
Spells:
None
Inventory:
Cash: 27 septims
Keys and Lockpicks: None
Tools and Crafting Materials: Extra heads for his bolts, extra shafts, feathers for cutting flights and a knife for trimming flights. A small iron mold for making melting down scavenged metal from the battlefield and making new heads for his bolts.
Clothing and Armor: Clad in a thick green gambeson, and thick black hose descending into a pair of brown Colovian leather boots that look to be of fine make, leather gloves tucked into his swordbelt if not on his hands. He is kept warm by a red cloak and his fine leather gloves are lined with fur on the inside. Atop his head is a simple traveler's hood. He keeps a steel cuirass and a steel skullcap helm with a hinged noseguard packed away in his bags with the arming cap that goes under it.
Weapon and Ammunition: His crossbow was one he won off of a mercenary from Morrowind, a thing of custom make with a stock for extra stability when aiming and a crank that makes the rearming of the string and the reloading process roughly six seconds.
20 bolts for his crossbow
A steel hammer with a pick on the opposite side and a steel buckler
A broad-in-breadth, thick-bladed cleaving knife at the small of his back, blade a foot in length
Potion and Arcane Supplies:
Jewelry, Valuables and Personal Belongings: He stole the standard of the 5th Legion Mounted Scouts Cohort he was gifted during the short time he was a Praefect. He also has his medals tucked away in his baggage.
Books and Documents: His papers listing his commendations, notes of promotion and his discharge papers.
Food, Drinks and Ingredients: On cart: Three bottles of Colovian Whiskey, three bottles of ale,
On horse: A bundle of cured sausages as well as a heel of bread, two fresh apples, and a bottle of mead.
Load Bearing Equipment: A horse and a cart, the horse is for riding, the cart is for carrying his meager supply of wares.
Other: On Cart: Two pairs of Colovian leather boots, seven silk shirts claimed to be from Elsweyr but are really from High Rock, two swords in the Hammerfell style made from steel, a steel sword claimed to be skyforge steel but is really a cheaply made replica.
Character Name:
Engel the Carver
Age:
30
Race:
Breton
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
Warrior
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Warrior - “Unafraid of light weaponry, they plow into the fray with little regard for injury. Masters of all melee tools, they put little faith in the magical arts.”
Skills:
Expert Skill (One-Handed Blunt)
Journeyman Skills (Marksman, Sneak, One-Handed Blade)
Apprentice Skills (Light Armor, Two-Handed, Hand-to-Hand)
Appearance:
Engel was not a small child, nor was he blessed with height. The same can be said of Engel the man. He is not tall but tall enough, he boasts no astounding bulk, but his body is hardened by toil of the land. Callused hands, thick fingers, nails bitten and dirty. He is not beautiful nor is he ugly. A pair of sad blue eyes are often affixed on some point that is nowhere near, as if remembering something long past and fretful.
Personality:
Engel is a gentle man, a meek and quiet one, who shares his kindness freely with others. He is a good friend, a loyal man and a steady companion. Underneath, he is a spring coiled back in wait for trouble. He yearns to meet each challenge with the violence born into him. He has the mind of a wolf and the soul of a lamb, the clashing of the two making his days on Nirn a storm. He feels right among blood, the struggle between two opposing forces where only one may prevail rages in him. When the fight is done and he sees the truth of what he's wrought, he seeks guidance and forgiveness on his knees with clasped hands before the Gods.
Backstory:
At the age of ten, Engel took a rock and smashed it against Albren's head. Two boys had tried to pin Engel's runt of a brother- Robben- against the Old Tree while Albren took a sharp stick and jabbed it at his stomach. They both ran away, one getting up clutching his nose, the other spitting blood. Albren lay on his back, staring up at the blue sky. He begged his brother not to tell of what he'd done but it was no use. Children are bad liars, as they've yet to learn that too much honesty is like too much poppy-milk.
The children stayed away from him- all of them except his brother- whispering 'killer' at his back. Even after he was washed of his sins and the anger of the act in the river, the names followed him for the rest of his days on. He'd felt different after that, because even as he'd looked the priest in the eye and repented his anger, it tasted of lies. There was no anger, just the thrill of it. Even so, Engel would fight no more and did not trouble himself with the petty things life in the village offered him, even if it was not in his nature to do so.
The smoke of the nobles' quarrels blackened the sky often during the summers and each night he would look out at the stars and wonder what it must be to take up sword and shield and fight. Not for a cause, not to place this lord or that on a chair. But just to test himself against the challenge of life balanced on a sharp edge. There was something in him, something sharp, that pushed him to meet each challenge with the violence written through him. Not the anger of a drunk or the scorn of a lover, but just a thing as natural as breathing.
He'd told this to his brother on the night he'd packed his things and set off to join any army marching for any cause on his fourteenth name-day. Robben just assured him that it'd pass and he believed him, though it tore at him all that night that he hadn't left. The summers went past and like the seasons, Engel changed. He grew with the wheat, tall enough and hard enough from working the land with his father. His brother was still thin and short, though he'd grown too. Engel had almost settled into the life a farmer, the urge to run off and join in the wars diminished little by little each year. It was soon enough that he found a girl, Sybille.
Engel and Sybille married in the village church. Engel built his own farmstead, planted his own fields and even had his own two sons and a daughter delivered into his own hands, rough and wrong as it felt, it too felt good. He'd found a sort of peace in the arms of his wife and his children wrapped up in his own. Soon, there came days when old pains were stirred again by war. His father's crops were burned on the first week of summer. They found him hanged and Engel did not want to think about what they would've done to his mother had she still been alive after the Rockjoint. His wife and children were the only things that kept him firmly in his stead, and also his brother who had arrived on his doorstep, still alive.
He did not know if the bandits that came to his home dressed as the Lord's men were the same that came to his father's, but they'd tried to do the same to his home. He met them at the fringes of his land with some legionnaires under the command of a man named Renart- whose friendship would become invaluable to him, more than the man knows- offered the bandits a share of his crops, offered some of his sheep, and even when that did not work- remembering the words of the priests- he offered them the whole of his livestock if they would leave in peace. But some men only want to burn because they can. He gave them every chance, but when they would not take them, he killed their two messengers swiftly. He was too late though, his house had been burned with his family inside.
The battle raged on for an hour that felt like ten. When he was coated in the blood of a dozen men, he lay down. His vengeance was had. His purpose as a father was unfulfilled and could never be done now. His purpose as a defender of his village was done. He had nothing now, until the bandits came again. His village was burned, his fellows slaughtered and he left in shame while they were busy killing everyone else. He found Renart on the roads shortly after the other man's retirement from the legion. He followed Renart, appointing himself as his bodyguard, and the two roamed. He would kill the highwaymen who tried to rob them of their goods once in a while, a simple life. When they came to Kvatch, his simple life became anything but.
Spells:
None
Inventory:
Cash: 17 septims
Keys and Lockpicks: None
Tools and Crafting Materials: A whittling knife
Clothing and Armor: He wears a padded-cloth vest over a cloth shirt, baggy trousers bloused into leg-wraps and ankle boots. A brown cloak and a red phrygian cap.
Weapon and Ammunition: A hand-axe, kept looped on his belt opposite of a large knife with a six inch blade. A small collection of six knives hidden about his person.
Potion and Arcane Supplies: None
Jewelry, Valuables and Personal Belongings: His wedding ring, a pressed flower he received those years ago from his daughter. A half-finished carving of a wolf's head.
Books and Documents: None
Food, Drinks and Ingredients:
On horse: A bundle of cured sausages as well as a heel of bread.
Load Bearing Equipment: His horse |
56,376 | 1,541 | 21 | 1,841 | 5,697 | The next heavy blow from the Clannfear sent Bardeck skidding. He'd barely gotten his shield up in time, and his arm throbbed from having to block so many hard hits. The Daedra was not unscathed though, having taken three minor hits from Bardeck's axe. The young man gritted his teeth, holding his shield before him and his axe out ready to strike whenever he deemed he needed to.
Similarly, the Clannfear regarded him with hate filled eyes, but stayed back intelligently as if studying the young human. Moments later, it suddenly began to pace to and fro, letting out a clicking growl as it stalked its potential prey, trying to goad Bardeck into a sense of worry and anxiety.
It had no idea what it was getting itself into.
Bardeck began to approach it cautiously, his Axe head now pointed at the beast as if in challenge, feet stepping carefully and steadily, always in stance. The Clannfear waited with its head swaying like a striking snake, using its striking claw as a feint before it attempted to whirl and trip Bardeck with its powerful tail. The warrior saw the trick for what it was, ducking and waving out his shield to block the club-like tail strike. The Clannfear saw his shield out wide, and snapped downwards at Bardeck's exposed face, only for it to forget its own face was also exposed.
An Axe head swung from the ground up, burying itself into the Clannfear's chin and neck. Hot blood seeped out of its wound as the life fled from the Daedra's eyes, and the beast fell over dead. The Daedra's body pushed forward, and with a great warcry, Bardeck heaved the dead weight of the Daedra, pitching it over him and onto the ground. The warrior stood up, yanking his Axe from the beast's head and casually spitting on its corpse for good measure.
He went off in search of more foes, keeping an eye out for Gideon. | Name:
Bardek Gildenhart
Age:
25
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Warrior
Skills:
Expert: Blunt (Two Handed)
Journeyman: Block
Journeyman: Smithing
Apprentice: Hunting
Apprentice: Heavy Armor
Apprentice: Blunt (One Handed)
Novice: Heavy Armor
Novice: Athletics
Novice: Acrobatics
Novice: Two Handed (Staves, Polearms)
Appearance:
If Bardeck could be described in one word, it would be 'rugged.' His black hair is wavy and barely falls short of reaching his broad shoulders. This coupled with his 5'oclock shadow give him an unkempt visage. The young man's body is muscled yet lean, his skin having bronzed from the constant work outdoors (and thanks to his father's blood). He prefers wearing sturdy leather trousers, loose fitting but snug at the waist, tied by a plain brown sash belt. When in combat or preparing, he wears iron armor over a linen tunic. Outside of combat, he simply wears the tunic, usually opened in the center. If he's alone he'll go shirtless, simply enjoying the breeze and the heat of the day. His height is fairly average for an Imperial, not short by any means but not particularly tall. His callused and scarred hands are rough but firm to the touch (much like the rest of him). His caramel eyes are the softest part of him, full of life and passion, fiery wonder, and sometimes innocent curiosity.
Personality:
Bradeck can be described as a rough and ready warrior. His fierce independence and rough nature can only be matched by his loyalty to those he deems worthy. He's not particularly book smart, and can miss a few finer details of a more subtle plan when he's ready to fight in combat. Despite that, he's intuitive and introspective, with a quick mind and a dry wit. He has a quiet, a down to earth wisdom that often views the world in a pragmatic, useful manner. He's quite a passionate and creative individual when opened up to someone.
Due to his childhood being spent with male friends, and the only females he spent much time with were family members or female Orcs that would sooner hit him than hit on him, he's quite confused when it comes to romance. It's a coin toss on whether he gets very defensive and stand offish, or very stuttering and shy. It's just not his element. He respects warriors and those who pull their own weight or who show great skill. He's annoyed at laziness and dishonesty. He doesn't pick fights easily however, and only do it when he truly thinks its called for, and that's after one too many times of blundering. Not after strike one. Though he might be outspoken and blunt at his disapproval.
Backstory:
Bardeck was born in Anvil, to an Imperial ex-soldier father and a Nordic mother. They resided there for 7 years. Bardeck enjoyed swimming and exploring the surrounding woods, fascinated by the untold wilderness. At age 8, his mother's father passed away, and they moved to Skyrim in Markarth where his grandmother still resided to help her live and keep her company. His parents began a moderately successful trading business.
Bradeck wasn't quite used to the new surroundings, and was bullied by the Nordic children other than a select few whom he'd later name as his best friends. On one occasion, the other children began to rough him up near the back end of Markarth, when the Orcish smith knocked them back and bared his great fangs, causing them to flee. He gave some gruff advice to Bradeck, telling him not to let other kids push him around. He went back to his smithy.
Bradeck began to visit the smith every now and then, watching him at his work. Eventually they exchanged names. Rogath was the Orc's name, and he took a liking to Bradeck's inquisitive nature, allowing him to learn a few tricks of the trade while they spent time together through offhand advice. During this time, Bradeck would learn a few pointers of combat from his father after helping unload the carts coming to the city.
Bradeck was there when his grandmother passed away, holding his mother and crying with her when he was 14 years old. The death of his grandmother sparked questions on who he was in his mind. He felt a sense of pride to both his stoic northern blood and southern mercantile roots, but felt a kinship to Rogath and his rough nature. One day, Rogath announced he was traveling back to his homeland, and Bradeck begged him to let him go with him.
At first the Orsimer refused, but then lamented if Bradeck had the strength to go and fetch a bear pelt out in the wild. The boy felt elated, for he knew how to hunt and had the knowledge of a few bear caves, though he knew it would not be an easy quarry. He set off one morning, and found one of the bear frequented caverns. He entered, but instead found the bear dead already. He exploded further, but was discovered by a hungry vampire that had decided to hide here in order to terrorize the travelers of Markarth with relative ease.
Bradeck, armed with a battlaxe, fought for his life. He had wounded the Vampire's hip when the beast had underestimated him, but was quickly overwhelmed and thrown down the cavern. The Vampire leaped at him, intending to kill him. He used the spike on the end of his Battleaxe to impale the flying creature, bowling him over and then decapitating the bloodsucker. Rogath was then presented with both a Bear pelt and Vampire Ash. He had become Blood-Kin.
They traveled to Orsinium and lived in one of the outer lying clans. He grew in both body and spirit, learning advanced combat and Smithing techniques. His fit frame turned muscular, and his mind grew sharper with his exposure to various cultures. The Nordic city of Markarth had helped him deal somewhat with the rough living of Orisinium, truth be told. He was given a warhound Puppy named Gideon on his 21st birthday.
Age 21, he left and decided to become a mercenary and journeyman smith, heading through Hammerfell and working there in various jobs for a year before making it to Cyrodiil, living there ever since. He was recently hired to Kvatch as a caravan guard. A relatively simple job he had thought...
Spells:
Inventory:
Cutie Patoot WarDog
Steel Hand Axe
Iron Armor
Iron Shield
2 x Healing Potion
3 x Bear Pelts
3 x Wolf Pelts
2 pounds of Venison
1 Water Jug
Clothing |
56,377 | 1,541 | 22 | 1,552 | 2,229 | Collab between & MiddleEarthRoze
“We’re not going to die, Da.”
That whispered sentence cut through the silence in the back of the chapel, and Niko’s eyes - closed in silent prayer - flew open to look upon his daughter. There was that look again; an obstinate steeliness set among the fear in the eight-year-old’s eyes. His face gave way to a tired smile, moving from his knelt position back onto the bench beside Mia. Niko was unsure what to say in response to that - Mia wasn’t so young to misunderstand the danger of their current situation, but could he really point out the unlikely matter of their survival to her?
Pursing her lips slightly at his lack of response, Mia kicked her father lightly in the shin.
“I’m not just saying that to make you feel better you know. There’s lots of people in here with weapons. That elf has a hammer bigger than me. We’ll be okay.” At that, Niko gave her a more genuine smile; she always had something amusing to say, no matter the situation.
“I’ll believe you if you don’t kick me again. That hurt.” He replied after a moment, a teasing tone in his voice; however, both smiles slid from their faces as the commotion from outside reached their ears. In one swift movement Niko was stood up; between Mia and the doors, sword in hand. Thankfully, it wasn’t death knocking at the door, but two more survivors. A melancholy smile tugged at Niko’s lips as the Nord found his family, not far from where he and Mia sat - even after all of the death and destruction in Kvatch, there was happiness to be found. As for Niko, there was not much sorrow for him as of yet; he hadn’t considered Kvatch to be his home for a few years now, but it was still hard to see it in ruins - the people slaughtered by monsters straight from hell itself. But he was alive, and Mia was unhurt - that was all that mattered to him as of now.
Well, that and the problem of being stuck inside, surrounded by Daedra. But even then, a solution seemed to have appeared - one of the newcomers was (reluctantly, so it seemed) rallying volunteers to close the gate. All to get Martin out, for some reason. Still standing there holding his sword too tightly, Niko hesitated as the group got ready to leave. Could he really, in good conscience, let them leave without helping? He was a fine fighter, and knew a handful of spells that would no doubt come in helpful. And on the other hand, there was Mia. If he died out there, she’d be an orphan, unprotected in this chapel while more of Dagon’s minions may well attack it.
Walking over to Martin as the others readied themselves by the door, he wondered just what this Imperial woman had said to the Priest to bother him so much. Mia followed closely behind him, already realising what her father was planning on doing.
“Martin… why is it you have to leave?” He asked quietly, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. It was unlikely someone would scale the walls of a burning and overrun city for a priest; not that priests weren’t important, but he’d never seen somebody risk their life so much for the sake of a funeral or impromptu wedding. Whatever the reason was, it made Martin uncomfortable.
“It is… complicated. I doubt you’d believe me.” He paused, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “I barely believe it.”
“Is it important?” A pause from Martin - then a grim nod. Whether believable or not, it was worth it. If Martin had to leave, Niko would attempt to help him do so. He owed the man, and this chapel - they had saved his life, so he was more than happy to return the favour.
“Watch over Amelia for me - hopefully it won’t take too long.” He finally said with a sigh, ignoring Mia’s immediate pleas to come with him. Cutting off her sentence (”Just give me a sword, I can help!”), Niko knelt to her height and gave her a quick hug. She looked more upset that he was leaving her behind rather than the fact he could die - which surprisingly made Niko feel better about leaving to help.
“Behave yourself.” Murmured somewhat sternly at his daughter, he left her beside Martin as he joined the others. Falling into step with an elderly fellow and his dog, Niko unsheathed his other sword, ready to save the place he had once called home.
As the man and his daughter conversed, near the doors that left out to the burning city stood Valen with his faithful friend. He was debating in his own mind as what to do with Albert; the planes of Oblivion were no place for a creature so delicate as he, he may burn his paws walking on the ground; something that he wouldn’t allow Albert to suffer through.
Giving a look over his shoulder the man from earlier had stood behind him; his daughter left with Martin, the priest who looked as if the world had just been placed on his shoulders. Valentis bent down with a bit of difficulty and patted Albert lightly on the head.
“Come on Albert, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here for a while - I have some business to attend to.”
After giving a mournful whine he fell in place; ears drooped, behind Valentis as he headed towards Martin.
“Martin, I too will be heading out with these young heroes to deal with the scourge that has befallen this city - but I must ask you take care of someone for me in the meantime, the gates of Oblivion are no place for the likes of my friend here…” giving a small gesture to the panting dog at his heels.
“Don’t worry though, he’s quite capable in defending himself and even the people in this chapel to a degree; he once took on an Orc and left without so much as a scratch, he’ll just sit at your heels waiting for my return - give him a pat every now and then and he should be fine.”
Martin looked at Valen with slight confusion but inevitably nodded.
“Don’t worry, I’ll look after him… I mean, I’ll keep an eye on him, as you said it seems he can protect himself.” He gave a wry smile as Albert sat at his heels, a small pat on the head from the priest was his welcome.
Valentis walked back to the group, and prepared himself mentally for what was to come, he had experience, far more than most here even the few Mer that littered this group's ranks. Looking towards the man whom had just left his daughter behind to do what was right, Valentis spoke.
“I’ll stand by you,sir, you have a daughter to back too. I would see that you do indeed go back to her, and not leave her stranded in this place.”
Glancing to the elderly man by his side, Niko managed a somewhat strained smile. Despite the situation, the old fellow’s words were encouraging.
“My thanks - but I know she’s in good hands. Regardless of what happens out there.” Any and all conversation was left in the chapel, for once Niko stepped outside, there was but one thing on his mind - survive, and make sure the others did too. This trip into the Oblivion gates would be hard, and the last thing the group needed was for some to fall before even stepping into the blasted realm. Joining the other’s in the fray, Niko descended upon one of the Dremora mages, ready to kill it before it even managed to hide behind a summoned scamp.
In the meantime, the Imperial woman was doing her bit; the gates were difficult for just the one person to open, but she had managed it - the heat radiating from the flickering portal on the other side was nearly overwhelming, and the courtyard was lit with a radiant crimson glow. Not wanting to be the first person inside, the woman doubled back, beheading a scamp from behind as she motioned towards the gate. The creatures in the clearing were nearly taken care of; anymore would have to come from inside the gate.
Naenya became nearly mesmerised by the sight of the gate; in the first attack, she’d been far too busy fighting and running to admire the constructs. But there it was, in all it’s glory. Not thinking twice, she finished off the scamp whimpering at her feet with a swift frost bolt to the skull, ignoring the awful crunching sound that came from the ice caving in the bone.
“Gods, I can’t wait to see the mechanism that’s keeping this thing open! It must be something unheard of to scholars…” Still twittering away quite happily to nobody in particular, Naenya made a beeline for the gate. Frowning in disbelief at the Bosmeri mage, the Imperial woman followed her in begrudgingly, looking at the rest of the group pointedly. | Character Name:
Nikolaus “Niko” Valerious
Age:
37
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lover
Specialisation:
Combat/Magic
Class:
Paragon
Skills:
Expert: One-Handed Blade (Dual-Wielding)
Journeyman: Speechcraft, Destruction
Apprentice: Athletics, Restoration, Heavy Armour
Novice: Two-Handed Blade, Acrobatics, Illusion, Medicine (Non-Alchemical/Magical (Craft)), Hunting (Craft), Foraging (Craft)
Appearance:
Looking every part the Nord, Niko stands at a towering height of 6’7; matched with broad shoulders and the muscled build of someone who works his swords every day, he can seem somewhat daunting at times. However, when one focuses on his face, softness shines through. Gentle blonde brows above stormy grey-blue eyes; a sharp jawline softened by a smattering of badly trimmed blond stubble; high cheekbones crinkled with laughter lines, and dimples that brighten cheeks once round with wellness, but now have a somewhat haggard and hungry look about them.
On a usual day out in the field, Niko can usually be seen wearing his armour; shaggy, dark-blonde hair pulled back haphazardly by messy braids, and shoulder’s stiff with the weight he is carrying. However, when more relaxed and among friends, his hair hangs loose, brushing against his eyes and shoulders in a messy but appealing manner – armour is replaced with comforting and loose clothing, shirt sleeves usually pushed up to the elbow and revealing a plethora of scars up and down his forearms. The scars carry on under his clothing; some fresher and deeper than others, but you’ll need to either get him drunk or be close to him to get the stories behind the scarring dotted over his skin – some hurt more than others, and not in a physical way.
Personality:
While he doesn’t smile as much as he used to, Niko remains still an amicable sort – but if one looks close enough, you can see the tension in his smile; the stretched out laughs that sound just a touch too hollow to be considered genuine or warm. His eyes have retained that caring spark of friendliness, but it dulls whenever nobody is looking his way. His kindness isn’t faked or forced… it’s just harder to be the way he was before. It’s rare for his grief or anger to come through, but when faced with something particularly cruel, or anything involved in raising the dead, anything remotely nice about him falls away, and his eyes become as hard as ice. Killing for him then isn’t just a job to be done; it becomes frenzied, and very personal.
However, regardless of his own internal turmoils, he’ll remain good to those around him. While respect is earned, Niko makes a point of being polite to most, no matter how brash they appear to be. Being more than aware of how death and killing can get to a man, he’ll listen to people’s worries and concerns in the hopes he can do something to help them… when sometimes, a listening friend is all many need.
When it comes to matter away from friends and family, Niko still remains polite; even in battle, while others may make puns, threats or quips while slicing down their enemy, Niko will do it as quickly and as painlessly as possible – no intimidation, no dark humour. It’s not his style. Neither is bragging of past battles fought, though one would be able to hear a good tale from him if coaxed enough – it comes from having a daughter, for him. Niko quite firmly believes that Mia should be kept safe from violence, bad language, and all of the other things that his race and Skyrim are famous for; a foolish endeavour, considering his girl is getting street-smart enough to find out about all of these things herself; but he remains very protective over her, not wanting to lose her as he lost his wife. This protectiveness passes on to his friends and family, particularly those he gets close to.
Backstory:
While our story begins in Kvatch, as does the life of Nikolaus. Born to an Imperial father and Nord mother, the pair had met, fell in love, and married in a short span of time – moving from the mother’s native Skyrim to Kvatch for a both safer and warmer climate to raise their son in. And it was a good childhood for Niko; there was never danger within the city walls, and with his mother and father’s decent wages from the Fighters and Mages Guild respectively, never had an empty stomach or cold night. Niko’s father – Percius – had his own parents, now retired, living in Kvatch too – so whenever he and his wife – Ulva – needed to do a job for money, they could quite simply live Niko with his grandparents and do what needed to be done. As a baby, Niko barely noticed his parent’s absence unless they were gone for a unusually long time; but as a child, he started growing curious as to what reason for and where his parents were going. Curiosity soon grew into indignation, and the usually mild-mannered child began to constantly question exactly why he had to stay at home, and why his parents had to leave all the time. Well… he was still mild-mannered in his questioning; politeness always came first, especially when talking to his elders. But it was clear to his parents that their little boy was growing up rather quickly, and would need to start learning something to keep him happy – and away from their own adventures. To counter this, Percius’ father – a retired guard of Kvatch - started teaching Niko how to use swords – of course starting with a wooden sword and a straw dummy at the young age of 8, but still, it worked well enough. With his grandmother teaching him his letters and numbers, Niko constantly itched for his training sessions every evening.
Over time, Ulva began to spend more and more days at home, having growing tired from all of the contracts taken from the Fighter’s Guild. When Percius’ father grew too old to continue training Niko (now 13) Ulva took over, helping him branch out into proper training; wearing armour that weighed his light teenage frame down; real swords instead of wooden ones – she even persuaded Percius to begin training Niko in certain schools of magic, just so it would come in handy in the future. Niko picked up the magic just as well as his blades, barring a few incidents with rogue fireballs. He was fine once his eyebrows grew back, honestly.
When Niko reached the age of 16, he had a firm grasp in the basics of restoration, destruction, and the wielding of blades. His mother wanted him to join the fighter’s guild, and his father wanted him to join the mage’s guild. Thinking he wanted the best of both worlds, he started working as a battlemage for the arcane university; training under a more experienced guard who worked there to get him up to the right standard for such a prestigious college. It was a solid job, and kept both of his parents happy – Niko continued to have a steady income, a warm bed, and full stomach. He was just going to be living with longer hours and bruised skin from his rigorous training regime – the safety of the mages and the University was no small matter, what with the countless troves of knowledge and precious items hidden within those walls. Niko had only been inside a few times, but he had caught glimpses of endless libraries, impossibly large, echoing chambers (He and a few colleagues enjoyed a few shouting matches in there before being kicked out by their Guard-Captain; after several hours of sprinting the battlements in full armour in the pouring rain, they decided not to do it again), and of course, the mages themselves. Only 2 really stood out to him; one was a slimy looking fellow. Niko was never one to judge people before meeting them, but as it happened, he had had the misfortune of meeting and talking to Conjurer Astian Onius – but Niko also had the fortune of meeting Astian’s cousin, Elisabeth. And to him, she was the greatest treasure in the University.
At the age of 25 – now an established guard of his own right, having graduated his training top of the class (despite the hollering matches in the halls) – Niko finally plucked up the courage to talk to Elisabeth in a more than friendly manner, asking her to join him for drinks that night – no friends of his, and no weasel-like cousins of hers to accompany them. One night of drinks turned into another night, and then another; then it was candlelit meals, walks along the shores of lake Rumare, picnics in the forest. For anyone watching the pair, it would be quite obvious that the two were in love – and indeed, Astian was watching them. He was not happy.
After 3 years of courting, Niko and Elisabeth were wed, and a year after that, she fell pregnant with what would be their first and only child. Named Amelia for Elisabeth’s mother who had passed that spring, their life seemed idyllic. But as time passed, things began to grow dark. Not in their relationship, exactly; they were still a happy couple, raising their daughter in Imperial City and continuing with their jobs – and it was their jobs that began causing issues. What with Niko just being a guard, he and his fellows didn’t really involve themselves in the fight for power brewing between the Mages – not just in the University, but across Cyrodiil. Favours were split, and Elisabeth herself was not wanting Hannibal Traven as Arch-Mage; She considered him too close-minded, especially when it came to matters such as necromancy; although having never done any spells in that area, she was doing research into possible life after death – a cure that could bring someone back if they were saved seconds after dying. An innocent enough area of study, and certainly with a noble enough gesture behind it. But once Arch-Mage Traven won the fight for power, she became cowed; fearful of what could happen to her and her work after the banning of necromancy by the Arch-Mage, she begged Niko for them both to leave Imperial City and the Mages Guild – they had more than enough experience between them both to get jobs elsewhere. Although slightly concerned at her reasons behind it – her cousin Astian had been visiting their home more than usual the weeks previous, having hushed and irritated conversations with Elisabeth before the harassed woman asked him to leave – Niko conceded, and along with their 6 year old daughter, left for his parent’s home in Kvatch; having died in the winter, they’d left the home to Niko and his family.
The next two years that passed were easily the worst in Niko’s life. While Kvatch was a nice change at first; his daughter enjoying the smaller and more open city as opposed to Imperial City’s near stifling buildings and towering walls – he too was welcomed back with open arms, as many who still lived there knew his family. Getting a job as a guard was no trouble, what with his long service record at the Arcane University. He knew he’d probably get more money in the Fighter’s Guild or even a sellsword, but being a guard was safer, more secure, and more honest; that was just the kind of man he was.
His wife, however, was growing more and more secretive. Elisabeth had become more withdrawn, even after moving away from the Mages Guild; “hunting trips” were going on far too long for her to come home with nothing, and she would constantly change the subject whenever her studies came up in conversation. As Astian’s trips became more frequent, and news of strange lights coming from caves not far from Kvatch began circulating through the city, Niko’s worries grew into suspicions. It was time to find out what his wife and her troublesome cousin were up to.
As he followed Elisabeth from a distance – her leaving Kvatch a few hours previous for more “hunting” – Niko told himself that he was worrying over nothing. She was probably just continuing her research, and was worried about the Guild swooping in to stop her; but it wasn’t necromancy. Just research.
Whether his wife was dabbling in the magic of raising the dead, Niko never knew – but whatever she had attempted to do in those dimly lit caves was too dangerous – as he watched on from the shadows, he saw something go wrong. He was no expert in the type of magic Elisabeth and Astian were attempting, so Niko couldn’t understand why after a sudden flash of light, Elisabeth hit the ground and no longer moved; he couldn’t understand why Astian looked perfectly unconcerned by this, and simply began performing another spell. But when the magic hit her body, and she slowly rose to her feet, he did understand. And no matter what had happened, no matter what she may had done; he was not going to let his wife’s body become nothing more than a puppet. Wiping his eyes that had become blurred with tears, Niko slowly unsheathed his swords and stormed towards Astian.
When finally returning to Kvatch, it had been difficult to coax the full story from the grieving Niko; heavily injured and clutching Elisabeth’s – now still – body in his arms, he had collapsed at the gate, being brought into the chapel for healing. Although Astian had put up quite the fight, Niko had barely felt any pain at each landed blow from the disgraced mage; it was killing his wife’s resurrected body that had been the most difficult part for him. While the healer Oleta was able to mend his several cuts and burns, aided by Brother Martin, it was harder to ease the near-broken man’s mind. After the story was finally pulled from Niko, and the caves investigated, the city guards discovered that Astian had indeed been practicing Necromancy. Out of sheer respect to Niko, their comrade, they made sure to state there was nothing to incriminate Elisabeth in the forbidden act. There was no evidence in fact, but many people -particularly at the guild – would have been happy to connect the dots of her being at the caves so often.
Not so long after the tragedy, Niko had fully recovered; he had taken to spending much of his time at the Chapel, hoping to find solace in the Gods. But nothing seemed to bring him peace; the daily chats with the Priests brought him some comfort, but Kvatch no longer seemed like home anymore. Mia seemed to have taken the news of her mother better than he, but then, she hadn’t seen or done what he had been forced to do – all the same, she complied when Niko suggested leaving Kvatch. He left his job with the guard, sold their home, and the lonely father and daughter left the gates of their hometown. And for nearly 2 years, they wandered throughout Cyrodiil. Never staying in one place for too long, Niko took whatever jobs that came to him as long as they paid enough, and weren’t too time-wasting or life-threatening. He was more desperate than before, but he wouldn’t risk his life while Mia was so young; she had no-one left to look after her.
Of course, things became far more dangerous when he finally came back to Kvatch. A chance encounter; retrieving some rare book from the local bookstore for an old bedbound fellow in Bravil; at first, Niko was going to pass it up, not quite ready to return to Kvatch even after 2 years. But the man was offering quite a bit of money, and Mia’s birthday was approaching – it couldn’t hurt, could it?
That was what he thought until the Oblivion Gate opened. It had been easy enough to gather a terrified Mia into his arms and pelt towards the chapel, but it was getting out that would be the hardest part.
Spells:
Destruction: Blazing Spear, Corrode Weapon, Dire Wound, Drain Skill: Destruction, Fire Ball, Frost Bolt, Great Magicka Drain, Hail Storm, Lightning Bolt, Lightning Grasp, Searing Grasp, Shocking Burst, Weakness to Magicka, Winter’s Grasp, Withering Touch
Restoration: Convalescence, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Fortify Health, Fortify Speed, Fortify Strength, Great Fortity Fatigue, Heal Major Wounds
Illusion: Serenity, Soothing Touch, Starlight
Inventory:
1x Off-white tunic, to wear under armour
2x Black Leather pants, one for casual wear, one to wear under greaves
1x Set of steel greaves
1x Set of steel pauldrons
1x Steel chestplate
1x Set of steel bracers over 1x Pair of leather gloves
2x Steel longswords
1x Steel Greatsword
1x Iron dagger
1x Dark shirt
1x Black overcoat
1x Pair of leather boots
1x Black hood
1x Spare child’s dress, red
1x Spare pair of child’s shoes
Mia’s teddy bear
1x Plain gold wedding ring
1x Waterskin
1x Bottle of rum
1x Loaf of bread
2x Wedges of cheese
Several slices of smoked salmon, wrapped in cheesecloth
Several slices of cooked beef, wrapped in cheesecloth
3x Sweetened biscuits, slightly stale
1x Skin of milk
2x Bedrolls
1x Pillow
1x Large fur blanket
1x Tent
1x Cooking pot & Spit
1x Horse, carrying majority of the camping equipment
1x Knapsack, to carry the remainder of his things
374 Septims
Mia has a balanced look of her parents; she has her mother’s dark, chocolate-brown eyes, and face and body, but the rest of her belongs to her father. Being quite tall and mature for her age, Mia also has his dark-blonde hair, hers with more of a wave to it than Niko’s; she keeps it at shoulder-length, tied up most of the time when out on the road with her dad. She also shares his sweet, dimpled smile, though hers seems far more genuine most of the time.
While certainly taking after her Imperial mother in her looks, Mia has the heart of a Nord. With an inquisitive sense of adventure constantly on her mind, the curious 8-year-old (She’s nearly 9, actually – don’t forget it!) has a penchant for wandering away from her father when visiting cities; but only in cities. She did it once in a tiny little village without walls and she’d never seen him look so upset when he found her 3 hours later. She understands his protectiveness, but taking a rather wise standpoint for such a young age, thinks her Father needs to move on from what happened. She knows this isn’t the way her Mama wanted them both to live, after all.
Perhaps due to her father treating her like some fragile thing, Mia often takes on a brusque and boisterous way of life. Local kid calling her names? He’s getting a broken nose. A pair of dubious looking fellows in the inn staring at her father’s coinpurse? Glare at them until they notice and hurriedly leave. Portal to hell opening up in the city? Her Papa will sort them out, he’s the bravest, strongest man in the whole wide world. She’s going to help of course – if only Papa would give her a sword. Ooh, or maybe an axe. |
56,378 | 1,541 | 23 | 1,841 | 5,697 | Bardeck's warhound recovered quicker than the Scamp, getting to his paws and ravaging the diminutive Daedra within his jowls by shaking savagely. Blood began to spurt, and the Scamp fell to pieces beneath the dog. With a quickness that only a predator could produced, he then pounced on the next Scamp and tore into it before the lady Brona's eyes.
Unfortunately, a third Scamp began to cast a spell with a delighted chitter, fire slowly forming before its hands. It looked between a possibly distracted Brona and Gideon, but it's choice before it was soon laid to rest. A powerful kick to its back sent the small creature flying comically, Bardeck skidding to a stop just to where the Scamp had been moments before.
The Scamp hit the Kvatch's road hard and rolled, but could not stand up before it found the end of its life on Bardeck's axe. He let out a held breath, a small bit of sweat beaded down the warrior's face. Bardeck wiped his brow, and gave Brona a nod. He wasn't entirely sure how to communicate to Imperials in these situations, but at best he would show them respect.
Next, and he was fairly sure that Brona would follow, he saw Naenya making her way toward the gate. "C'mon," he told Gideon. The Dog let out an audible yawn, and then tramped behind Bardeck. He had to admit, he wondered too what made such things enter their realm... | Name:
Bardek Gildenhart
Age:
25
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Warrior
Skills:
Expert: Blunt (Two Handed)
Journeyman: Block
Journeyman: Smithing
Apprentice: Hunting
Apprentice: Heavy Armor
Apprentice: Blunt (One Handed)
Novice: Heavy Armor
Novice: Athletics
Novice: Acrobatics
Novice: Two Handed (Staves, Polearms)
Appearance:
If Bardeck could be described in one word, it would be 'rugged.' His black hair is wavy and barely falls short of reaching his broad shoulders. This coupled with his 5'oclock shadow give him an unkempt visage. The young man's body is muscled yet lean, his skin having bronzed from the constant work outdoors (and thanks to his father's blood). He prefers wearing sturdy leather trousers, loose fitting but snug at the waist, tied by a plain brown sash belt. When in combat or preparing, he wears iron armor over a linen tunic. Outside of combat, he simply wears the tunic, usually opened in the center. If he's alone he'll go shirtless, simply enjoying the breeze and the heat of the day. His height is fairly average for an Imperial, not short by any means but not particularly tall. His callused and scarred hands are rough but firm to the touch (much like the rest of him). His caramel eyes are the softest part of him, full of life and passion, fiery wonder, and sometimes innocent curiosity.
Personality:
Bradeck can be described as a rough and ready warrior. His fierce independence and rough nature can only be matched by his loyalty to those he deems worthy. He's not particularly book smart, and can miss a few finer details of a more subtle plan when he's ready to fight in combat. Despite that, he's intuitive and introspective, with a quick mind and a dry wit. He has a quiet, a down to earth wisdom that often views the world in a pragmatic, useful manner. He's quite a passionate and creative individual when opened up to someone.
Due to his childhood being spent with male friends, and the only females he spent much time with were family members or female Orcs that would sooner hit him than hit on him, he's quite confused when it comes to romance. It's a coin toss on whether he gets very defensive and stand offish, or very stuttering and shy. It's just not his element. He respects warriors and those who pull their own weight or who show great skill. He's annoyed at laziness and dishonesty. He doesn't pick fights easily however, and only do it when he truly thinks its called for, and that's after one too many times of blundering. Not after strike one. Though he might be outspoken and blunt at his disapproval.
Backstory:
Bardeck was born in Anvil, to an Imperial ex-soldier father and a Nordic mother. They resided there for 7 years. Bardeck enjoyed swimming and exploring the surrounding woods, fascinated by the untold wilderness. At age 8, his mother's father passed away, and they moved to Skyrim in Markarth where his grandmother still resided to help her live and keep her company. His parents began a moderately successful trading business.
Bradeck wasn't quite used to the new surroundings, and was bullied by the Nordic children other than a select few whom he'd later name as his best friends. On one occasion, the other children began to rough him up near the back end of Markarth, when the Orcish smith knocked them back and bared his great fangs, causing them to flee. He gave some gruff advice to Bradeck, telling him not to let other kids push him around. He went back to his smithy.
Bradeck began to visit the smith every now and then, watching him at his work. Eventually they exchanged names. Rogath was the Orc's name, and he took a liking to Bradeck's inquisitive nature, allowing him to learn a few tricks of the trade while they spent time together through offhand advice. During this time, Bradeck would learn a few pointers of combat from his father after helping unload the carts coming to the city.
Bradeck was there when his grandmother passed away, holding his mother and crying with her when he was 14 years old. The death of his grandmother sparked questions on who he was in his mind. He felt a sense of pride to both his stoic northern blood and southern mercantile roots, but felt a kinship to Rogath and his rough nature. One day, Rogath announced he was traveling back to his homeland, and Bradeck begged him to let him go with him.
At first the Orsimer refused, but then lamented if Bradeck had the strength to go and fetch a bear pelt out in the wild. The boy felt elated, for he knew how to hunt and had the knowledge of a few bear caves, though he knew it would not be an easy quarry. He set off one morning, and found one of the bear frequented caverns. He entered, but instead found the bear dead already. He exploded further, but was discovered by a hungry vampire that had decided to hide here in order to terrorize the travelers of Markarth with relative ease.
Bradeck, armed with a battlaxe, fought for his life. He had wounded the Vampire's hip when the beast had underestimated him, but was quickly overwhelmed and thrown down the cavern. The Vampire leaped at him, intending to kill him. He used the spike on the end of his Battleaxe to impale the flying creature, bowling him over and then decapitating the bloodsucker. Rogath was then presented with both a Bear pelt and Vampire Ash. He had become Blood-Kin.
They traveled to Orsinium and lived in one of the outer lying clans. He grew in both body and spirit, learning advanced combat and Smithing techniques. His fit frame turned muscular, and his mind grew sharper with his exposure to various cultures. The Nordic city of Markarth had helped him deal somewhat with the rough living of Orisinium, truth be told. He was given a warhound Puppy named Gideon on his 21st birthday.
Age 21, he left and decided to become a mercenary and journeyman smith, heading through Hammerfell and working there in various jobs for a year before making it to Cyrodiil, living there ever since. He was recently hired to Kvatch as a caravan guard. A relatively simple job he had thought...
Spells:
Inventory:
Cutie Patoot WarDog
Steel Hand Axe
Iron Armor
Iron Shield
2 x Healing Potion
3 x Bear Pelts
3 x Wolf Pelts
2 pounds of Venison
1 Water Jug
Clothing |
56,379 | 1,541 | 24 | 1,470 | 1,427 | Soon after disposing of the first scamp, Brona had little time to butcher the next scamp that propelled itself towards with a terrible, guttural screech. She drew up the blades of the iron short swords to fend off the attack. To her surprise, a hound of impressive stature tackled the devilish beast to the ground, a set of yellowish fangs turned orange, then red as the blood from the creature mixed with its saliva. Panting, Brona took a step back. She had seen the hound inside the chapel, and the owner, a rugged Nord man with wavy black hair, finished off another scamp.
“Thank you!” She called to him with a weary smile. It was then that her eyes flickered to the gates, they had opened!
As the hound finished its bloody work, the Nord called to him. “Wait! Wait for me.” Brona called, running after him. She didn’t want to be alone after that last scamp. “Look,” she said catching up to him, “the gates have been opened. That woman made quick work of getting them open.” She commented, all the while keeping her eyes peeled for anymore creatures that she felt were lurking in the shadows. | Character Name
Brona Valerivicus
Age
33
Race
Imperial
Sex
Female
Birthsign
The Thief
Specialisation
Stealth
Class
Agent
Skills
Expert - Illusion
Journeyman - Sneak
Journeyman - Speechcraft
Apprentice - Marksman
Apprentice - Security
Apprentice - Acrobatics
Novice - Mercantile
Novice - One-Handed Blades
Novice - Leatherworking {Craft}
Novice - First Aid
Novice - Hunting {Craft}
Appearance
If you happen to catch a glimpse of Brona Valerivicus, which is rare, as she is often using some form of Illusion magick to conceal her identity, you might consider yourself lucky, or maybe not.. However, during one of those quiet moments in her life when she is relaxing in some run down inn, sipping on a mugful of hot apple cider, one can see through the array of magick, and when that happens, one must take precaution in approaching her.
Brona is a bit on the shorter side for an Imperial, standing in at 5’4, she attributes this to her stunted growth during childhood. In regards to her figure, she is rather slim, which helps her move around without making much noise. Her shoulders are broad from time spent wielding her bow, as well as the continued use of athletics and acrobatics.
When it comes to a matter of clothing, Brona wears simple clothes, as she’s busy redistributing the wealth to the poorer folk, and doesn’t have the time or care to divulge in fanciful tastes. For that matter, a simple linen tunic, a pair of leather trousers, and a hooded cloak is more than enough to satisfy her.
She won’t deny it, the fact that men find her attractive, or that she has an approachable face, as her mentor once put it. Her hair is a soft, dark brown color, while her eyes are cool storm-grey. She has a soft jawline, though her chin is round with a slight cleft. As in her choice of clothes, Brona prefers a simple appearance, meaning, she keeps her hair worn in a single plait, and opts to forgo makeup, leaving her to rely on her good looks.
As for the most noticeable facial features, Brona possesses a faded scar on the right side of her chin, where she fell out of a tree as a child. Other than that, her brows are thick in width, but fair. Her nose has a slight hook to it, as she also suffered from a broken nose as a result of a fist fight in her childhood days. If anything, she possesses the common characteristics of an Imperial.
Personality
If one happened to ask Brona where she stood in the world when concerning her views, she would tell you that she stands in the shadows, meaning, that there is no white or black areas, but varying shades of grey. To her, there is no right or wrong, only what is moral, or immoral. But even then, she commits acts that contradict her beliefs. Some may call her a hypocrite, or even a heretic, but that does not faze her. She does what she must to stay alive.
Asides from her Robin Hood-esque persona, Brona is a soft spoken woman, who prefers to keep to herself. She has no need to interact with anyone else, unless they are in need, or if they are her mark. She is concerned with the well-being of her family, and has, and will continue to do anything for them. To her, family is everything, and while she is not religious, so to speak, when it concerns the worship of the Nine Divines, she does maintain a small belief of fate and destiny.
As a vigilante, as she calls herself, she prefers to target the rich who are selfish with their wealth, and are openly disgusted with the poor. In this case, she has no problem in robbing them blind. When it comes to stealing from the rich, although she prefers to call it “properly redistributing wealth amongst the people”, Brona has several ways of taking their money or other items of value. However, she always uses some form of Illusion magick in her tactics. As such, she can intimidate, seduce, or even rely on her physical skills of stealth to take from them, for this, she is dangerous with her way of words. Some would say that she has a silver tongue in speechcraft.
Because of her choice in craft, Brona doesn’t have any friends, only “acquaintences” or “contacts”. She finds it particularly difficult to open up to people about her inner emotions, and prefers to switch topics when discussions become too serious. For this, some might say that she is a bit immature in her ways for refusing to address serious matters. Yet, this is simply a defense mechanism, for she would rather deal with it internally, than express her concerns or worries externally.
When it comes to her flaws as a person, Brona suffers from a saviour-complex, where she believes that her crimes as a thief, make her a hero, or saviour to those in need. For the most part, this is true, however, those that she helps, are rather afraid of the repercussions of the law if they were to discover how they came into sudden abundance. Brona is also a bit of an idealist, and views herself in a heroic light, and believes those that she helps, should be grateful for what she does. Not to mention that she is also paranoid in the sense that she is constantly worrying if the Imperial guard is going to come around any corner and slap her in irons. Another glaring issue with her, is the fact that she is illiterate. Asides from this, Brona’s deepest fear as an individual, is not leaving a legacy behind, and being forgotten in time.
Backstory
Born in a run-down shack, as is common in the Waterfront District of the Imperial City, Brona lived a hard life, her early years filled with an ever present gnawing hunger. Her parents, Arcantina (mother), and Palentius (father), did their best to feed and care for their four children. As the oldest child, a heavy burden fell upon Brona’s young shoulders. She was left to ensure that her younger siblings were taken care of in their parents absence. As farmhands, Arcantina and Palentius travelled every morning to a cabbage farm on the outskirts of the Imperial City, they were lucky to make it home before dusk. The pay as a farm hand was meager, and having a full stomach every night was a pipe-dream for the struggling family. Asides from Brona, she has two twin brothers, Garius and Marcellus, and a little sister, Oriela. While Brona shares a two year difference in age with her brothers, the age difference is greater with Oriela, that being five years difference.
Garius and Marcellus did their best to mind Brona, but it was hard to do so when their parents weren’t around. She often chided them for playing tricks on the guards, or picking on the other children living in the Waterfront. By the time they reached eight years in age, and Brona ten, the boys’ interests turned to fighting with broken tree limbs. It was then, that Brona had to turn her attention from the twins to focus more on Oriela. She seemed to be a sickly child, for every change of the weather, she developed a cough that they could never seem to be rid of. As time passed, Brona carried on with the charge of taking care of her siblings, until the day her mother fell ill with Droops. With her mother unable to provide income, the greater lack of funds put much stress on Palentius, as well as Brona.
One day, as an entire month and a half had gone by, with still no medicine for her mother, Brona decided to take it upon herself to acquire the funds, and ventured inside the city walls. At first, she spent the entire day in the Market District, sitting on a bench, begging for alms. Of course it was hard for a young girl of fifteen to earn money, for the sympathy at that age was little to nil. As the hours ticked by, she began to grow impatient and irritated at the fact that she had not been given one septim. While her pleas for help were ignored, the dwindling sunlight drew people inside to the warmth and safety of their homes. Crestfallen that she would have to admit defeat, she rose begrudgingly to her feet, when she caught sight of an older Dunmeri man strolling away from the market square. His robes alone suggested that he had some coin about him, for there were intricate knotwork around the hems of his robes. Desperate to obtain even one septim, Brona darted to her feet and followed after the man. She tailed him through the streets, not realizing that the man was intentionally leading her in circles until she ended up in a dead end alleyway. With the man at the end of the alley, he turned suddenly to confront her. She had nowhere to hide, and decide that the best course of action would be to confront him head on.
With trembling hands, and tears in her eyes, Brona reached to the pouch at her hip, and retrieved a rock. She took a hesitant step towards the man, and was surprised to see a smile cross his lips. She had it in her mind, that she would threaten him with his life by knocking him out, but as soon as that smirk appeared, she lost every ounce of confidence in her body. Brona sank to her knees, saddened with the fact that her mother’s health would continue to deteriorate at this rate, possibly face the inevitable approach of death. As a wave of stinging tears blurred her vision, she could only see a grey blob of the man step towards her. Hastily, she wiped away the tears, and struggled to get away from the man, in case he meant her harm, but a cold, iron-like grip kept her in place.
“Dear child...why do you cry?” His voice came, soft and gentle like an early morning breeze across Lake Runmare.
“My mother is sick, and she might die. We have no money for her medicine. I have begged all day for alms, but none have given me a second glance.” She mustered through a lump in her throat. Surprisingly, the hand on her shoulder softened.
“It would do you well to come with me. Perhaps I can help you after all. What is your name, sweet girl?”
“Brona, my mother calls me Brona.”
“I am Runil Devani.” In a twist of fate, Brona’s life turned around, some may say for the better, and others may say for the worse.
Later that evening, as Runil brought Brona back to his home, a small house just outside of the Arcane University, where he proceeded to pour her cup after cup of tea. Therein, he asked her about her parents, her siblings, where she lived, what she desired in life, and numerous other questions. When her eyes began to grow heavy with sleep, Runil set up a place for her to sleep in front of the hearth fire. By the time morning came, Runil woke a sleepy Brona from her slumber, and escorted her back to her parents home in the Waterfront District. There, an ashamed Brona, who thought her parents would surely punish her, listened in silence to the conversation her mother and father held with Runil. As the conversation drew to a close, she felt deep inside that her parents would exact some kind of punishment for behaviour, instead, Runil proposed a question to them. How would they feel if he took their daughter under his wing as an apprentice? At first, Palentius exchanged weary looks with Arcantina, who with her pale skin, and drooping eyes, looked as if they would both say no. That is, until Arcantina gave her husband a heartfelt squeeze of the hand and nodded. To this day, Brona won’t ever forget the words her mother uttered to Palentius.
“Let her go. She has the best chance of all us to have a life.”
Over the next several years to come, Brona resided with Runil in his home near the University. While she was an unofficial member of the university, as long as she remained in Runil’s company, she was allowed on the premises. In the beginning of her lessons, Runil taught her simple things that did not pertain to magick, such as how to cook a simple meal, how to properly maintain a house, and even how to boil water for clothes, and how to wash them proper with lye. One would think Brona would already possess these skills, but as her early childhood would prove, she was ignorant in most areas. The next step in her lessons were discovering her strong points in magick, if she had any that is. Through each school of magick, Runil tested her, and in each school, she failed hopelessly, until they came to Illusion. There was one glaring aspect that held up her learning process, and for the life of him, Runil could not think of a way to work around it, and that was, her illiteracy. As a mage of any kind, it was dire to know how to read, especially when learning new spells.
However, one path around this most successful. He discovered that if he read aloud each word in the spell tome to Brona, she could recite them back to him as he pointed to each letter on the page. This would take time, surely, and time it did take, for it slowed her learning process greatly. While she could recognize and read letters in the spell tomes after Runil pronounced them aloud, she never caught the hang of reading other books outside of tomes. So, together, they stuck with her reciting spell tomes from memory to teach her new spells. To his delight, Brona had a hunger in her belly to learn all that she could from him. Years passed again, and practicing of the spells on a daily basis became commonplace for her. Yet, she never forgot about her family, and when she could, she found time to visit them.
After five years in Runil’s home, Brona happened upon an uncanny situation in the Market District one evening. As she was heading through the square, on her way to the Waterfront, she noticed a box of crates outside of Divine Elegance, a high-end tailor shoppe. Curious to see what the crates held, Brona checked the square to make certain that no patrons or patrolling guards were present in the area, and cast an invisibility spell about herself. Working quickly as the seconds ticked by, Brona lifted the lid on the crate, and discovered several bolts of fine velvet that came from Anvil. A sudden wave of disgust overcame her, and as the spell wore off, she smuggled one of the smaller bolts onto her person, and made off on her merry way. In her mind, Palonirya wouldn’t miss a bolt of cloth amongst all the other finer items of value in her store. That evening she stayed the night over in her parents home, eager to see how Garius and Marcellus had grown, and how Oriela had turned into a beautiful woman. They relished in her visits home, and they were excited to hear and see of the new spells she learned.
The next morning as dawn broke across the eastern horizon, Brona slipped away from the house, and made her way down to the docks. There, she looked about for wary guards, and also one particular in person, her own father’s childhood friend Caresi. He was a dockhand that helped in unloading shipments with arriving ships, but he also dabbled in selling stolen wares. Those who had stolen goods to sell brought them to him, and he in return, brought them to the Bloated Float Inn. There, Ormil sold them to newcomers for a higher price. Together, Ormil and Caresi split the shares, Ormil takes 70% and Caresi gets the remaining 30%. It’s not a lucrative business by any means, and the wares that are brought to the Bloated Float are limited in supply. When Brona finally located Caresi on the docks during a break in between unloading shipments, she cornered him, and revealed to him the stolen bolt of fine velvet she had stashed in her parents home. At first, Caresi wanted nothing to do with it, he didn’t want to take the blame for Brona if he were found out, so she set off to find Ormil. She had a hard time convincing Graman to let her inside, and to let her speak with Ormil. Eventually the orc relented and shooed her inside, saying something along the lines that she was worse than a fly on dung. Once inside, Brona pulled Ormil to the side, and relayed what she had told Caresi. Hesitant at first, Ormil too, relented, simply because he understood the value of such fine velvet, and if he couldn’t sell it, well it would make a nice early-birthday present to him. However, Brona knew that she needed a cut of the share, and with that, Ormil arranged a new setup with Brona. If she brought him her lifted items directly, the split would be 60-40. To this she agreed.
For the next three years, Brona made it a habit to take a stroll around the city in the evening, looking for wares that were easy to access. With the wares that she brought Ormil, she took the extra money and gave it away to her family, a form of repayment for letting her stay with Runil for the past eight years. In the following year, when Brona turned twenty-four, Runil approached her, and told her that he had nothing else to teach her, she could remain in his home if she wished, so that she could have access to the University, but she decided to take a different path. Brona was filled with piss, venom, and vigor as they say, so, she set out across Cyrodil, eager to put her knowledge of illusion to work. In Bruma, she spent a month playing the part of a traveling bard, her famous act consisted of making herself disappear, only to reappear in a tree, or atop a roof. However, during that space of time, Brona was collecting items, or rather heavy coin purses from the gathered patrons in the crowd. When she reappeared, they erupted into applause, marvelling at how quickly she had appeared in a different place.
In Anvil, she waited outside in the nearby woods, watching merchants travel to and from, their carts heavy with wares. Here, she would tail them from a distance, and when they made camp for the evening, she would rummage through their crates, sifted through their pockets, and make off with their goods, all before they awakened. Now, Brona was no ordinary thief, for through her travels across Cyrodil, she met many poor folk like her own family, and to balance the scales, she would pay them a visit, giving them the money she had pocketed. They were grateful, and a bit hesitant at first, for they had only exchanged a few words with Brona.
And so, her travels took her from Anvil to Bravil, to Cheydinhal, Leyawiin to Chorrol, and Skingrad to Kvatch. She targeted the wealthy that felt they were above the poor, and over time, she learned other tricks of her trade. She became bolder through the years as she picked up a recurve bow, along with a set of two short swords. For a year and a half, Brona focused on bettering her skills in this area, that way, if she were to encounter sticky situations, like she had when she was travelling through the Great Forest. A group of brigands discovered her camp when she was out hunting one morning, and had rifled through her belongings. When she broke upon the clearing where she had camp, they chased her down, only for her to slip away into the many towering trees of the forest.
Through time, she learned many useful skills, such as how to barter for goods, how to pick locks on chests tinkling full of coins, how to bandage her own wounds (to the best that she could), how to wield her short swords, and she became pretty good at firing her bow, not the best, but she was decent. Now 33, in recent days, Brona was on her way back from Anvil to the Imperial City to visit her family when she stopped in Kvatch for a rest.
Spells
Illusion
Shadow
Mute
Torchlight
Fearful Gaze
Enthralling Presence
Dominating Touch
Chameleon
Calming Touch
Seductive Charm
Touch of Fear
Touch of Rage
Void Gazer
Inspiring Touch
Captivate
Alluring Gaze
Beguiling Touch
Inventory
119 Septims
Two Iron Short Swords
Recurve Bow
Quiver of 14 Iron Arrows
Two Iron Daggers
Set of 12 Lockpicks
Leather Gorget
Leather Bracers
Leather Gloves
Leather Breastplate
Leather Boots
Red Tunic
Leather Trousers
Woolen Socks
Black Wool Cloak
Leather Rucksack (In which she carries items not readily on her person)
Roll of Linen Bandages
Needle and Spool of Thread
Candied Pears
Hard Bread
Water Skin
Tankard
Canvas Tent
Bed Roll |
56,380 | 1,541 | 25 | 1,841 | 5,697 | Hmmm? Was all the escaped Bardeck's mouth. He turned to Brona who was hustling to catch him, his brow raised as his stride slowed. For a man so fearsome and strong looking, he looked very much the youth he was when surprised or confused. "Uh sure, I'll wait." he chuckled. He'd not been thanked for doing what came natural to him in a long time, and he slowed down just enough for her to walk astride Gideon and he. The dog trotted forward, giving Brona a glance, his tongue lolling out.
He felt awkward enough when in social situations, having grown up with both the Nords and Orcs. He mostly spoke with craftsmanship and combat. Bardeck was far more used to blunt statements and people who never asked for anything from him, nor did he hardly ever get thanked. It was a nice surprise. At least he did know how to be was nice and respectful. Somehow, it was easier to be himself in high staked situations. He never figured out why, and he gave the woman a smile.
As they approached the Oblivion Gates, he had to agree with Brona. He was unfamiliar with how magick worked, but whatever the hell these portals were, they seemed powerful and complicated. Things only to be tampered with by Gods and Demons. Even Gideon seemed a bit wary, ears tucked back and tail stiffened. Bardeck held his shield out protectively in front of him, and lengthened his strides to get a bit further ahead of the other two just in case. His eyes never escaped the gates, however. He swore he could see another world within. "Yeah..." His voice trailed off. He had no words to give at the sight. | Name:
Bardek Gildenhart
Age:
25
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Warrior
Skills:
Expert: Blunt (Two Handed)
Journeyman: Block
Journeyman: Smithing
Apprentice: Hunting
Apprentice: Heavy Armor
Apprentice: Blunt (One Handed)
Novice: Heavy Armor
Novice: Athletics
Novice: Acrobatics
Novice: Two Handed (Staves, Polearms)
Appearance:
If Bardeck could be described in one word, it would be 'rugged.' His black hair is wavy and barely falls short of reaching his broad shoulders. This coupled with his 5'oclock shadow give him an unkempt visage. The young man's body is muscled yet lean, his skin having bronzed from the constant work outdoors (and thanks to his father's blood). He prefers wearing sturdy leather trousers, loose fitting but snug at the waist, tied by a plain brown sash belt. When in combat or preparing, he wears iron armor over a linen tunic. Outside of combat, he simply wears the tunic, usually opened in the center. If he's alone he'll go shirtless, simply enjoying the breeze and the heat of the day. His height is fairly average for an Imperial, not short by any means but not particularly tall. His callused and scarred hands are rough but firm to the touch (much like the rest of him). His caramel eyes are the softest part of him, full of life and passion, fiery wonder, and sometimes innocent curiosity.
Personality:
Bradeck can be described as a rough and ready warrior. His fierce independence and rough nature can only be matched by his loyalty to those he deems worthy. He's not particularly book smart, and can miss a few finer details of a more subtle plan when he's ready to fight in combat. Despite that, he's intuitive and introspective, with a quick mind and a dry wit. He has a quiet, a down to earth wisdom that often views the world in a pragmatic, useful manner. He's quite a passionate and creative individual when opened up to someone.
Due to his childhood being spent with male friends, and the only females he spent much time with were family members or female Orcs that would sooner hit him than hit on him, he's quite confused when it comes to romance. It's a coin toss on whether he gets very defensive and stand offish, or very stuttering and shy. It's just not his element. He respects warriors and those who pull their own weight or who show great skill. He's annoyed at laziness and dishonesty. He doesn't pick fights easily however, and only do it when he truly thinks its called for, and that's after one too many times of blundering. Not after strike one. Though he might be outspoken and blunt at his disapproval.
Backstory:
Bardeck was born in Anvil, to an Imperial ex-soldier father and a Nordic mother. They resided there for 7 years. Bardeck enjoyed swimming and exploring the surrounding woods, fascinated by the untold wilderness. At age 8, his mother's father passed away, and they moved to Skyrim in Markarth where his grandmother still resided to help her live and keep her company. His parents began a moderately successful trading business.
Bradeck wasn't quite used to the new surroundings, and was bullied by the Nordic children other than a select few whom he'd later name as his best friends. On one occasion, the other children began to rough him up near the back end of Markarth, when the Orcish smith knocked them back and bared his great fangs, causing them to flee. He gave some gruff advice to Bradeck, telling him not to let other kids push him around. He went back to his smithy.
Bradeck began to visit the smith every now and then, watching him at his work. Eventually they exchanged names. Rogath was the Orc's name, and he took a liking to Bradeck's inquisitive nature, allowing him to learn a few tricks of the trade while they spent time together through offhand advice. During this time, Bradeck would learn a few pointers of combat from his father after helping unload the carts coming to the city.
Bradeck was there when his grandmother passed away, holding his mother and crying with her when he was 14 years old. The death of his grandmother sparked questions on who he was in his mind. He felt a sense of pride to both his stoic northern blood and southern mercantile roots, but felt a kinship to Rogath and his rough nature. One day, Rogath announced he was traveling back to his homeland, and Bradeck begged him to let him go with him.
At first the Orsimer refused, but then lamented if Bradeck had the strength to go and fetch a bear pelt out in the wild. The boy felt elated, for he knew how to hunt and had the knowledge of a few bear caves, though he knew it would not be an easy quarry. He set off one morning, and found one of the bear frequented caverns. He entered, but instead found the bear dead already. He exploded further, but was discovered by a hungry vampire that had decided to hide here in order to terrorize the travelers of Markarth with relative ease.
Bradeck, armed with a battlaxe, fought for his life. He had wounded the Vampire's hip when the beast had underestimated him, but was quickly overwhelmed and thrown down the cavern. The Vampire leaped at him, intending to kill him. He used the spike on the end of his Battleaxe to impale the flying creature, bowling him over and then decapitating the bloodsucker. Rogath was then presented with both a Bear pelt and Vampire Ash. He had become Blood-Kin.
They traveled to Orsinium and lived in one of the outer lying clans. He grew in both body and spirit, learning advanced combat and Smithing techniques. His fit frame turned muscular, and his mind grew sharper with his exposure to various cultures. The Nordic city of Markarth had helped him deal somewhat with the rough living of Orisinium, truth be told. He was given a warhound Puppy named Gideon on his 21st birthday.
Age 21, he left and decided to become a mercenary and journeyman smith, heading through Hammerfell and working there in various jobs for a year before making it to Cyrodiil, living there ever since. He was recently hired to Kvatch as a caravan guard. A relatively simple job he had thought...
Spells:
Inventory:
Cutie Patoot WarDog
Steel Hand Axe
Iron Armor
Iron Shield
2 x Healing Potion
3 x Bear Pelts
3 x Wolf Pelts
2 pounds of Venison
1 Water Jug
Clothing |
56,381 | 1,541 | 26 | 860 | 1,273 | The hulking Altmer approached the flaming archway, several different feelings coming to him. He felt curiosity, which was replaced my awe, and that replaced by anger. Then he came to...fear. This brought great shame to the mighty paladin, but he could not help feeling anxious about what was beyond the gate. Such horrors had rarely been recorded, and as such Orintur had little idea of what he was about to face. Towering monstrosities made of rotting flesh and bone? The tortured screams of those taken to that wretched place by sadistic Dremora? Or would there just be an endless, unholy landscape of flame and perdition? Whatever it was that filled the world beyond, Orintur knew it was his duty to face it and, ultimately, destroy it. Or at the very least get rid of the dimensional tear leading to it.
Orintur's slow, cautious steps turned into determined strides and he approached the Oblivion gate. Before entering, he turned to those that had not yet gone through and spoke what he thought were encouraging words. "Come, friends, though beyond this gate may lie unending horrors, we have the strength to end them all! Forward to combat and glory!" Charging through the gate with confidence, or in the eyes of some others, reckless abandon, hammer raised, the paladin steeled himself in preparation for whatever may lie in wait in the wretched, unholy realm of Oblivion. | Character Name: Orintur Graywatch
Age: 57, approximate
Race: Altmer
Sex: Male
Birthsign: The Tower
Specialisation: Combat
Class: Paladin
Skills:
Expert: Two-Handed Blunt
Journeyman: Heavy Armor, Restoration
Apprentice: Destruction, Athletics, Hand to Hand
Novice: Speechcraft, One-Handed Blade, One-Handed Blunt, Foraging
Crafting: Novice Smithing and Alchemy
Appearance: For the most part, Orintur is your typical yellow-skinned Altmer, standing at about a head higher than the average height of most other races, with pointed ears and narrow eyes, irises matching his skin. What makes him a bit different, though, is that Orintur is noticeably far more muscular than the slim and dainty everyday High Elf, thanks to his extensive training with large two-handed weapons and heavy armors. Orintur keeps his platinum hair short; he hates how bothersome long hair can be and would rather be able to wake up and not need to rearrange anything.
Of course it goes without saying that, as a Paladin, Orintur sees his fair share of combat. As such, he has a good number of scars to document his adventures. The most noticeable scar is a large burn mark on his lower abdomen, given to Orintur by a flame atronach summoned by an accursed warlock that had been terrorizing nearby villages. The Altmer's armor intercepted the fireball, but that didn't stop all the damage, for his armor had reached searing levels of heat where it was hit. Unable to take off his cuirass in the middle of battle, Orintur fought for several more minutes with it on, and with every movement he was scorched further. By the time the mage was dead, not even the most powerful of Restoration magics could have healed his wound completely. Far less epic scars line Orintur's body, mainly across his arms, some acquired during his training, others given to him by bandits and other foul creatures that lucked out and bypassed his armor.
Personality: Being a High Elf, one of another race would be inclined to groan at Orintur's approach, thanks to his race's less than tolerant view of anyone not their own. One would most certainly not expect, though, for the young(for a High Elf, anyway) Paladin to greet them with ecstatic glee; indeed, Orintur is as nice as nice gets...well, as long as you aren't a heretic. Following the dictations of his patron god, Stendarr, Orintur has unending love for the citizens of Tamriel, and is always happy to meet new people and offer his services to those in need. This love stops, though, for those that would bring harm to anyone under his protection, that being every person in Tamriel not openly against the Nine Divines. These villains are deemed heretics, and Orintur believes it is his mission as bestowed upon him by Mighty Stendarr to bring them to justice, be it at the end of a gavel...or his hammer. Bandits, conjurers of foul daedra, rogue wizards and necromancers, and thieves to a lesser extent all fall under Orintur's definition of "heretic", and such people would do well to keep their hobbies a secret from the ever-wary Paladin if they want to get in his good graces.
The good citizens of Tamriel and all other adherents of the Nine Divines, however, can feel free to approach Orintur with all manner of problems; whatever they be, most can probably be solved with his hammer. If a hammer is not enough, then the Altmer can turn to his magics of Restoration and Destruction, or even his limited knowledge of alchemy and smithing, for he is nothing if not versatile. Orintur takes great pride in assisting those around him, and would give his life if it ever came to such a thing, so strong is his faith in the teachings of the Divines. Unfortunately however, Orintur's zealotry has made some of even the most pious of church-goers fearful of him, worried that they may unknowingly engage in some innocuous activity that nevertheless draws the paladin's ire and would put them at the end of a warhammer. Many city guards are also not quite fans of Orintur, viewing his methods as too extreme and uncompromising, and disruptive to the general peace. If he is not barred from entering a city outright, the Altmer is under the strict watch of a detachment of guards who stand at a distance, waiting for him to step out of line.
Backstory: Orintur has no knowledge of his homeland, where exactly he was born, when he was born, or even who birthed him. From what he could gather from his adoptive family at the Chapel of Stendarr in Chorrol, a young woman brought him to the chapel as a baby. The woman, who was in a heavy concealing cloak and scarf, said his name was Orintur Graywatch, and to the Primate's great confusion and frustration, she would not reveal any more details, no matter how much she was pressed. The only other words the woman spoke was a request to "please raise him to be kind". In the second the Primate turned his head to look at Orintur, the woman had vanished. Letters of inquiry to other chapels and contacts turned up fruitless; the woman could not be found nor was there anyone under the name of Graywatch in Cyrodiil. With no one else able or willing to take the infant elf in, the Primate decided to make the chapel his new home, and raise him under the guidance of the Commands of the Divines with the help of the other priests.
Orintur, under the wise tutelage of the Primate and priests of Stendarr, came to learn and hold dearly the teachings of the Nine Divines. Memorizing the Ten Commands and taking to heart the wisdom of revered saints, the Divines became the center of his life, and Orintur would spend many hours of the day praying and performing rites, taking short breaks to eat simple foods, help around the city, and sleep until the next morning where he would renew his routine. No doubt Orintur looked peculiar praying at the altars, being a High Elf and what all that entailed to those that didn't know anything of him, but everything just seemed to fit for the Altmer. He felt Zenithar fill his bones with the strength to live day after day, Mara fill his heart with love, and Julianos fill his mind with wisdom. The Divine that Orintur felt closest to, of little surprise, being raised in his chapel, was Stendarr. He felt compelled to help and protect the weak, and was overjoyed whenever he was able to do volunteer work to assist the needy. At twenty-five, fifteen years after beginning his general training as a devotee of the Divines, Orintur spoke to the Primate and requested he begin training to serve Stendarr. The Primate, naturally, was overjoyed, and asked what he would like to specialize in. Orintur thought long and hard on this, and eventually came to a conclusion: he would be a paladin of Stendarr. It just sounded right to him, marching across Cyrodiil, striking down evildoers and offering aid to those whose paths he crossed; it felt like something was calling him to take on the mantle of Paladin. To this day, Orintur attributes his choice to the guiding hand of Stendarr, who believed the Altmer would be best suited for that path above all others.
Orintur's training officially began with the arrival of a full-fledged paladin, whom the Primate called to the Chapel to teach the High Elf every other month; Orintur's lessons would alternate between martial and spiritual training, with the Primate instructing him in all the rites of Stendarr. Romana Marius was a behemoth of a woman, almost as tall as Orintur himself and with plenty of muscle to match. Her red hair was short and messy, with a face as plain as a foundation stone and a stare that could shatter one; Romana certainly had no time set aside for looking nice. With how mean she could look on the outside, however, Romana was surprisingly amicable. You had to listen for her smile, not look for it, as one of the priests familiar with her once said. She was glad that Orintur chose the path of the paladin, as according to her their numbers were running quite low, and made Orintur aware of their kind's high mortality rate. She was greatly pleased to hear her student's confidence and determination, and began his first lessons. They spent several weeks trying to find the aspiring warrior a weapon of choice, and went through many with little success. Sword and shield, spears, axes, none quite clicked with Orintur...until he came to the mighty warhammer. He was practically in love with the raw power of such a weapon, and asked to be trained in its use.
The first two years with Romana was specifically spent learning how to wear heavy armor and properly use a warhammer, along with a bit of hand-to-hand training. Proper footing, getting down the right amount of momentum, using distance to one's advantage, all the basics. When she believed Orintur could use the weapon confidently, Romana began engaging in full-on spars with her student. While obviously not on equal footing with his mentor, Orintur could still land his fair share of strikes. One day, Romana hit Orintur with an extremely heavy strike, bruising him terribly. What he initially believed was an accident was actually Romana transitioning into her next lessons: the art of Restoration, and how to heal oneself and others. She began by teaching Orintur a basic healing spell to ease his bruising, which he took it upon himself to learn quickly, as the wound panged quite unpleasantly...and then she made him do it again after the next spar when she fractured his index finger. Romana made it clear that she did not injure him for her own amusement, but rather to encourage him to learn how to heal himself faster and give him more experience with Restoration magics. Still, Orintur didn't quite appreciate the beatings even with that assurance, but the more potent spells she taught him after a few months softened the literal blows a bit. The next four years were a repeat of that routine of sparring and then healing, and going out to help those brought into the safety of the city after being attacked by bandits, wolves, and whatever else lurked the roads and forests. Romana had Orintur simply watch at first of course, no telling what an inexperienced student would get wrong, but eventually he was allowed to operate on his first patient. Using the most simple spell available, the Altmer successfully closed the gashes of an unfortunate victim of a mugging. He liked those lessons much more. Two more years were spent learning the art of Destruction; Romana admitted that while, yes, Destruction was quite an unsavory school, a paladin needs several methods of attacking, as one may not be able to get close enough to bash away with steel.
Another two years passed, all the time with Romana spent perfecting his technique after having learned all of the basics of combat and magic. When the time had come for Orintur's trial of initiation, he could manuever himself smoothly even in heavy iron, could close and mend the wounds of himself and others in under twenty seconds, and his prowess with warhammers was something to be feared. Romana, the Primate, and all others who had witnessed his training were confident in his ability...but were the Divines? Such was the purpose of his trial, to determine his worthiness in the eyes of Stendarr. Orintur's mission: Head to a nearby cave, once the lair of some goblins, and destroy the warlock hiding away inside. The warlock had been attacking travellers on the road to Chorrol frequently, and was the cause of all the recent burn victims carried into the city. He was to bring back their staff as proof of his success.
The moment Orintur stepped into the vile lair of the mage, the scent of death hit him in the face with nauseating force. In the second chamber was the cause: Six glassy-eyed corpses, reanimated by the darkest of magicks. They were the unfortunate travellers that did not make it the rest of the way to Chorrol, their flesh singed with intense magical flames. To profane the dead in such a way was heresy in the eyes of Arkay, and so Orintur dispatched them swiftly. The slow, shambling zombies were no match for Orintur and his warhammer, and the Altmer had little issue releasing them from their servitude. Deeper in the cave, however, was a sight truly horrible: piled up in a corner was a mountain of corpses, most much, much older than the poor souls in the previous chamber. Next to them were bloody carts; the blasphemer had been practicing necromancy far before moving near Chorrol. Filled with righteous fury, Orintur was going to make sure the bastard would not be able to relocate this time. At the very end of the cave was a large open room with torches, and sconces filled with bones. In the middle was a stone altar with a multitude of body parts arranged in a vaguely humanoid shape...with the sickening mage ogling at their handiwork with childish wonderment. The clanking of armor alerted the aging warlock, but she was none too impressed with her adversary, wondering aloud if the following of Stendarr was so weak that they had to send a boy after her.
Summoning forth a fire atronach, the warlock looked on amusedly as her minion went to work on Orintur. The atronach was swifter than he anticipated, and he missed his first swing. Now at a safe distance, the daedroth flung a ball of fire at Orintur, hitting the middle of his cuirass. Though not hit directly, the heated part of his armor would occasionally brush against his body, searing him painfully whenever he turned. Deciding his foe was too good at gaining distance, the Altmer switched to blasting the atronach with orbs of ice. Only when the summon was in a weakened state did Orintur charge forth and let his hammer crash down on his foe's skull. Turning away from the fizzling remains of the flaming abomination, the warlock and the paladin-to-be locked eyes, both glaring at the other. Lifting up her staff, the warlock let loose a fireball, crashing behind Orintur as he jumped to the side to avoid another unfortunate burn wound; the one he had already was getting on his nerves as it was. Retaliating with a lightning bolt, the furious High Elf advanced quickly, his attack sending the warlock's next fireball askew, far away from her charging foe. Before they were able to send out another spell, Orintur knocked the mage to the ground with a hard shoulder-bash, who followed up with a quick stomp to their arm, breaking it and forcing them to let go of their staff. The blasphemer's predictable last-ditch promises of unlimited power went unheard, and were ultimately silenced by Orintur's warhammer cracking them across the skull, snapping her neck at a disgusting angle.
After treating his burn as best as he could, Orintur grabbed the accursed staff and prayed to Arkay and Stendarr, praying that the souls of the dead so disrespectfully mutilated in the cave would be tended to, and that the warlock would hopefully be granted pardon by Stendarr the Merciful. It was dark by the time Orintur returned to the chapel, and he was greeted by the relieved cheering of its inhabitants. Handing the staff to the Primate, it was announced that Orintur would be made a paladin of Stendarr on the morn. Never before had rest felt so deserved to the anxious Altmer.
After waking and praying at the altars, Orintur met the Primate at the center of the chapel. He was surpised at how many were in attendance: there was Romana and the other priests of the chapel, which wasn't too shocking, but behind them in the pews were several citizens of Chorrol and even a few guards. Kneeling low, the Primate proudly began the induction speech, placing upon Orintur the blessings of Stendarr and the other Divines, charging him with the faithful service of the good people of Tamriel, to defend and protect the weak and innocent, and to forever hold the ideals of generosity and kindness to others in his heart. Accepting these gifts and responsibilities, Orintur rose and took in his hands the steel warhammer and donned the steel armor forged by Chorrol's blacksmith, ordered by Romana and the priests specially for the Altmer's coronation. After the ceremony, Romana told Orintur that the reason for the large amount of attendees was that a paladin of Stendarr hadn't been inducted in many years, and it was an exciting event for the townsfolk. He vowed to not disappoint the people of Chorrol, or of anywhere else in Tamriel. To that end, he geared up, said his great thanks to the kind priests that raised him, to and the Primate Romana for their teachings, and set out across Cyrodiil.
The following years weren't exactly full of epic adventures and quests to destroy evil artifacts. In fact, Orintur's new life as a paladin was fairly mundane, and that suited him just fine. Helping people with problems, big or small, filled Orintur with purpose, and his spirits were raised with every word of thanks and gratitude. He took very little in terms of rewards, accepting little more than pieces of fruit or refills for his waterskin. As a result of this, and his eventual reputation as a reliable but incredibly extreme man of the faith barring him entry from most cities by the guards, Orintur has had to learn how to find his own food in the form of berries and edible plants along with the uncommon pieces of meat from the game he is able to reliably hunt, and has also taken it upon himself to learn the basics of using small swords and handaxes, just in case he ever finds himself without his hammer or enough magicka for spells. The intricacies of smithing and alchemy are far beyond the Altmer, but he knows enough to keep his armor and weapons in decent shape, and can brew basic potions for healing, fatigue, and magicka recovery.
The news of the Emperor's death saddened Orintur greatly, and upon hearing of the event he gave himself to the Kvatch arena games, hoping to honor the late Uriel Septim with victory in combat. He planned to later pray and mourn in the Chapel of Akatosh, and unbeknownst to him them, pray and mourn he would, but not just for the dead Emperor, but for all people of Tamriel.
Then the time for prayer would end, and thus would begin the purging of heretics, blashphemers, and daedric abominations. The Princes themselves shall fear the name Orintur Graywatch!
Spells:
Restoration
Greater Convalescence(J), Heal Major Wounds(A), Convalescence(A), Heal Minor Wounds(N)
Destruction
Shock(A), Corrode Armor(A), Snowball(N)
Inventory:
Storage
1 x Large Leather Backpack
1 x Leather harness w/ three pouches
Alchemy Gear
1 x Mortar/Pestle
3 x Empty vials
Sufficient ingredients to make two potions of light healing, and one potion of light magicka recovery
1 x Healing/Stamina/Magicka potions
Tools/Arms and Armor/Clothing
1 x Green cotton shirt/black trousers/leather boots
1 x Set of fluted steel plate armor with gauntlets, greaves, and a bucket helmet w/ raisable face plate
1 x Steel warhammer
1 x Iron dagger, fastened to harness across cuirass
1 x Armourer's hammer and whetstone
1 x Small handaxe for chopping up bits of wood for fires, fastened to his backpack
Food and Provisions
1 x Medium sized waterskin
2 x Cuts of cooked venison
1 x Red Apple
3 x Half-loafs of bread
1 x Small leather tent and bedroll |
56,382 | 1,541 | 27 | 365 | 1,196 | Adamiir Thiich - Kvatch Courtyard - Competing in a Staring Contest
The scamp seemed to be staring up at Adamiir, it’s lifeless eyes angry black voids that seemed no different in life than in death. Thinking back to the possibility of a goblin afterlife, he then had to consider where it was that beasties such as this went after death. Before Adamiir could delve deeper into that line of thought, a sudden gust of movement to his left tore him away from his focus. With a wide jump backward and a twirl of his fingers, Adamiir cast a weak invisibility spell to avoid the slashing claws of a second beast, perhaps coming to avenge its fallen comrade. He snorted at the thought as he worked his way behind the scamp, which was twitching its head around in confusion, ineffectually searching for the vanished Breton. Adamiir suddenly lunged into the scamp from just behind its right flank, hands searching for and finding purchase on the demon’s neck and shoulder as they tumbled to the ground. With the element of surprise on his side, and electricity coursing from Adamiir’s fingers and into the scamp’s body, the skirmish ended quickly and with a clear victor. He clambered back to his feet, releasing a few shaky breaths and checking himself over. Aside from a few cuts and scrapes here and there, the mage appeared to be in relatively good shape.
“Now there’s just more of me to be chopped into pieces later!” He said cheerily to no one, a tangled laugh escaping his throat. Not too far away, Adamiir spotted the rest of the group converging towards the portal, through the now opened gates. He began to follow, and thought, not for the first time, that they were all very out of their depths. How exciting though, to be one of the first people to enter the Deadlands in who knows how long? Hell, maybe they were the first, period.
At the very least, it was shaping up to be a smashingly intriguing experience.
Veeza - Kvatch Courtyard - Dancing with a Demon
Veeza and his opponent circled each other, eyeing one another warily. For Veeza, such caution was necessary given his particular talents, anything that either possessed a weapon or happened to be bigger than him was something to be reckoned with; this dremora was both. For the dremora, anything attempting to fight it that was also smaller than it and lacking any noticeable weapon was either a spellcaster or insane. Regardless of which this lizard was, he was potentially dangerous either way.
Veeza was the first to act, a lunge towards the demon that was cut short by a brandish of its blade, forcing him back. A guttural sounding chortle erupted from the dremora’s throat. So it was insane, then. It began to produce a quick series of jabs and thrusts as it advanced towards Veeza, forcing him off balance and away. Upon rearing the blade back for another stroke, the lizard suddenly rushed forward, catching the dremora’s wrist within his hand before the edge of the blade could reach flesh. The two locked eyes for a split second before Veeza wrenched his arm sharply, twisting the dremora’s wrist until a sickening crack emanated from it, causing the blade to clatter to the ground. Its cry of pain quickly vanished into another laugh as it cuffed Veeza across the face with a gauntleted fist, separating the two once again.
Once again the two warriors circled each other, both bearing the badges of their previous exchange. A few beads of blood leaked through the scales on Veeza’s face, just below his right eye. Across from him, he could see the dremora’s right hand dangling uselessly from its socket. He paused momentarily as his foot brushed against something - a stone. Veeza paused and carefully knelt down, hands curling around the object as the dremora looked at him in moderate confusion. Understanding would only dawn on its face a moment too late as the stone was flying out of Veeza’s hand and into the dremora’s skull, knocking it to the ground. The last thing the dremora would ever see was the mad lizard’s armored heel hurtling towards its face, intent on finishing what the stone started.
The Grand Champion of Kvatch studied the corpse before him for only a moment, before turning away without ceremony. Veeza sent a silent prayer to Talos as he approached the Oblivion Gate, ignoring those that had not yet entered, stepping through without missing a beat. | Character Name:
Adamiir Thiich
Age:
28
Race:
Breton
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Tower
Specialisation:
Magic/Stealth
Class:
Treasure Seeker
Skills:
Expert- Illusion
Journeyman- Destruction, Acrobatics, Trap-setting (Craft), Translation (Ayleid, Craft)
Apprentice- Athletics, Restoration, Sneak
Novice- Mercantile, Security, Alteration, Foraging
Appearance:
Tall and gangly, an inch or two below the height of the average Altmer when standing straight, with sharp bony features and his shoulders bent forward in a slight stoop, Adamiir’s form carries with it an aura of wrongness, as though he was put together by an amateur craftsman with pieces that never quite matched. His face is pale and clean shaven, his nose long and thin, pointed downwards, vaguely resembling the beak of a hawk. His mouth is a crooked slash of a thing, resting uncomfortably on his face. Set above high cheekbones and hollow cheeks are Adamiir’s eyes, dark and nervous, always jittering around, changing their focus every few seconds. Atop his head lies a thick mop of shoulder length blonde hair, dark gold, like that of a lion’s mane.
Unusually spry, despite his unwieldy appearance, Adamiir has built a small amount of muscle from a lifetime climbing trees in the Great Forest and pushing through its brush. Without concern for armor, he dons nothing more than a pair of leather shoes, sturdy but simple, brown cloth pants, for ease of movement without sacrificing durability, and a navy blue tunic, a belt of dark leather around the waist. The only other item of noticeable interest would be a plan silver amulet, given to Adamiir by his master.
Personality:
To call Adamiir eccentric would be both accurate and simultaneously a vast oversimplification. When it comes to the fine art of conversation, he is woefully awkward and unskilled, usually coming off of as somewhat touched in the head to the more judgemental folk populating Nirn. Despite these limitations, Adamiir prides himself as a teacher, always ready to educate present company with any information he has relevant to the conversation… whether his input was requested or not. As stilted as it may be, Adamiir does try his best to extend goodwill to those deserving of it; he is often caught between the desire to do good unto others and do what is best for himself. It would be correct in stating that Adamiir has a selfish streak running parallel to his generous one.
A particular fascination of his is the Ayleids, and while his enthusiasm for history is great, the passion he feels for the Ayleids’ mysterious nature is unmatched. Sometimes when he thinks no one can see him, he pulls out a welkynd stone, as full of magicka as the day he first claimed it, and stares deep into the crystalline blue surface, mesmerized by its glow.
Not a stranger to peril, Adamiir is confident in his abilities to escape most dangers with ease. More specifically, he puts stock in his prowess with the school of illusion, being able to manipulate the minds of others to cause chaos (or nullify it) while he makes a speedy exit from the scene. In cases where trickery wouldn’t be enough to solve the problem Adamiir faces, he is skilled in the fine art of melting faces.
He has a habit of gripping at his pendant when nervous, and often mumbles the end of a thought out loud when not actively refraining from doing so.
Backstory:
Adamiir’s Biography - Prologue - An Attempted Theft
For Jeriyn and Talasa Broell, the graveyard of Falkreath was like a candy shop. And they, of course, were the kids. As Jeriyn told Talasa often, there were enough dead soldiers buried there to take over the entire hold, and all it would take was two skilled necromancers, such as themselves. And as Talasa told Jeriyn often, the whole mess had better be worth their while, or she’d take Adamiir and turn tail right back to Cyrodiil, where it wasn’t so stupid cold. This exchange was repeated often between the two, all the way from Kvatch to the very graveyard in question. Talasa watched Jeriyn work incredulously, her babe pressed into her bosom to keep him warm during the chill of night.
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Again and again Jeriyn labored, digging himself deeper into the earth, closer to the dead.
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Shhckk
“I’ve got it!” Jeriyn exclaimed, the sound of metal striking wood one that he knew well. He dropped to his knees and began to scoop the dirt out of the way by hand, and sure enough the telltale planks of a coffin were revealed to him. “This is just the beginning,” he whispered to himself. “Soon, we’ll have an army.” Jeriyn hoisted himself out of the grave, and stood on its precipice. “Talasa, fetch the axe, I need it.” Wordlessly, she turned to leave. Talasa hated it when Jeriyn ordered her around in that manner, but refusing would just make him angry.
Nighteye guided her safely to the edge of the graveyard and beyond, into the brush where their horse, Whisper, was hidden, the animal’s reins tied to a sturdy, low hanging branch. Talasa retrieved the demanded axe from the saddlebags, its heavy weight feeling awkward and alien in her grasp. She started back towards Jeriyn, but froze mid step only a few paces later. There were angry shouts originating from where she came, followed by the unmistakable sight of Jeriyn’s spellfire. Talasa sucked in her breath, clutching at Adamiir, hoping against hope that her husband would come out of this unscathed.
It wasn’t to be. There were no more signs of magicka expenditure, yet the angry voices remained, and they were drawing closer. Talasa looked down in horror at the tracks in the snow that would lead her pursuers straight to her location. She took action in an instant, struggling to free Whisper’s reigns from the tree yet still managing. Pulling herself into the saddle, she seized the reins with one hand while her other arm held Adamiir close to her chest. The spurs digging into Whisper’s flanks were enough to get her moving, going at a full gallop out of the wood and onto the main road, Kvatch bound.
A storm of arrows whizzed past Talasa and Whisper, the former releasing the reins and trusting the latter to guide them in order to curl themselves around their child. Fire erupted in Talasa’s thigh, then again under her right shoulder blade. Both times she lurched forward in the saddle, crying with pain. The second time she spat blood flecked spit onto Adamiir’s face.
It did not take long before Whisper began to tire, and the horse slowed itself to a trot. Talasa held her head up slightly, surveying her surroundings as best she could as her vision began to darken. The Nords had not pursued. She lowered her head again, fixing her eyes on Adamiir. Alive. Unharmed. Tucking her chin against her chest and closing her eyes, Talasa allowed herself one small smile.
The infant Adamiir stared up at his mother’s serene face with curiosity, her heart beats echoing in his right ear slowly weakening, barely kept aflutter by desperate healing magics.
Whisper trotted on.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part One - The Master
Morinus Thiich needed an apprentice. It was only a short decade ago that he himself was the student, learning from the travelling mages and scholars delving deep into the Ayleid ruins for wealth and knowledge. However, his old teachers were now retired or dead, and in Morinus’ line of work, someone that had your back made the difference between life and death. An Ayleid temple tucked into the mountains separating Skyrim and Cyrodiil would mark the last time Morinus ever ventured into one of those dungeons alone. Now he would travel back south and scout the province’s various counties for an eligible apprentice.
Life, however, had different plans in store.
A blood stained babe clutched in the grip of what appeared to be said babe’s dying mother was not what Morinus Thiich expected to discover on his return trek home from the Jerall Mountains. But sure enough, there they both were, one atop the other, motionless on the side of the road, whoever or whatever brought them here already long gone. Morinus rushed over to the two, discovering the woman’s wounds to be much worse than he anticipated. Her left leg was mangled beyond repair, and a smouldering carcass of… something lay a few feet away. She tilted her head towards Morinus, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She lifted her arms once, feebly, raising her child towards the mage, before lowering them again, and growing still. This was not the ideal process that Morinus hoped to use, but he had been looking for someone malleable to pass his knowledge down to. The aging Breton sighed, and seized the infant up into his arms.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Two - Rocks and Spells, Spells and Rocks
A few years passed since Morinus first found his pupil by the roadside, and the child that was known as Adamiir quickly became Morinus’ most promising student. Any free time seemed to have the child entirely absorbed in his studies. Learning of the lore and history of the world was one of Adamiir’s great passions. What took precedence above all other activities, however, was Morinus’ rigorous training regime, climbing trees and scaling large boulders would teach Adamiir to always remain agile and light on his feet, skills that would be tested when trees and boulders became the dilapidated ruins of ancient ayleid temples. Being able to bend the minds of friend and foe alike would always be an invaluable aid to Adamiir, as would spells of light that would guide Adamiir safely through even the darkest of crypts. Paralysis spells would come in handy whenever a quick escape was needed, while invisibility spells would ensure that he could not be tracked easily. Indeed, the many fine intricacies of the illusion school of magic were a great passion of Morinus’, one that he would ensure was passed down to Adamiir.
However, there are always times in life when smoke and mirrors cannot deflect the truth, or for every tricky ace one has up their sleeve, their adversary has two more. The destruction school of magic was ideal for dealing with these incidents, and this too, Morinus taught to his young breton pupil. Aside from rocks and spells, he also saw it fit to give Adamiir some amount of proficiency in the art of trapping. When on the road away from extended periods of time, one must learn to be self sufficient. Though a few other bits and bobs were thrown in to occasionally mix up the schedule, the curriculum Adamiir would follow for years to come was set in stone.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Three - First Flight
It was at fifteen years of age when Adamiir first accompanied Morinus on his excursions to the Ayleid ruins. The sheer scope of how vast the empire of the Heartland Elves once was awed him, whilst simultaneously instilling a strange sense of forlorn melancholy in his heart. Crumbling ruins crawling with the dead were all that remained. The underground locale shown to Adamiir was small, and of relatively simple design. Threats were few and far between, only a few shambling skeletons waiting to be sent to the next world. They were no match for Adamiir’s magic - Morinus was simply observing, waiting to see if his protégé was prepared for future excursions - and he suspected that Morinus chose this specific location for those exact reasons.
Adamiir had been correct in assuming that a safer, more straightforward ruin was selected for the purpose of acting as a final test, as revealed by Morinus during their departure. From that point on, Morinus and Adamiir traveled across Cyrodiil as equals, the lessons taught by the former serving the latter well, and only magnifying in their usefulness.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Four - Homeward Bound
For many more years, Adamiir and Morinus lined their pockets pilfering the riches of a long dead civilization. Mages across the province paid handsomely for the ethereal blue welkynd stones, while a contact in the Imperial City rewarded the pair handsomely for the more uncommon treasures they discovered. Lord Umbacano proved to be a most gracious associate, treating the two to fine meals whenever a particularly intriguing artifact was delivered.
It seemed that whenever Adamiir and Morinus weren’t on the road, they were resting in an inn, the concept of home becoming a foreign term, just another pit stop whenever it was convenient for the route the two had undertaken. There came a time, however, when they were forced to return to their humble cabin in the Great Forest, a few miles down the road from the city of Chorrol. Morinus was growing weaker and more frail in his old age, turning a homecoming into an inevitable necessity. Adamiir’s trapping talents became more invaluable than ever, the furs and excess meats being traded with the local farmers for food, while anything he kept was consumed. During this time Adamiir made many stews, as it was easier for Morinus to consume. He became quite good at making them too.
Despite Morinus’ weakened state, there was still one thing he could offer his apprentice. That was the secrets of the Ayleid language, and for the next few years leading up to his passing, the two spent much of their time together going over all of the knowledge at Morinus’ disposal.
Morinus had urged Adamiir a few times, before he became sickly, to let him be and go make a fortune, but Adamiir always refused, insisting that his place was at Morinus’ side. He vowed to watch over his master for as long as necessary.
And he did.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Five - Bad News, Good News, More Bad News
After Morinus’ death, Adamiir was on the road once again. He couldn’t deny it, the call, the call that both he and his old master had felt. The secrets and treasures of the Ayleids called to him, their siren song luring him ever closer to his destiny, and further into the depths of the earth. For three more years Adamiir traveled Cyrodiil and fell deeper under the spell of his beguiling mistress, the lost Ayleid culture. It was on a routine stop to Kvatch to drop off some welkynd stones at the local mages guild that he first heard of the Emperor’s assassination, as well as the festivities to be held in celebration of the Count’s birthday. On a whim, Adamiir decided to stick around and participate in the festivities.
That choice was very quickly turning out to be a grave mistake.
Spells:
Illusion- Immobilize (Touch), Dominate Creature/Human (Ranged), Eyes of Midnight (Self), Calming Touch (Touch), Rage (Ranged), Voice of Rapture (Ranged), Fearful Gaze (Ranged), Heroic Touch (Touch), Torchlight (Self), Ghostwalk (Self), Mute (Ranged), Shadow (Self)
Destruction- Lightning Grasp (Touch), Dire Wound (Ranged), Frost Bolt (Ranged), Searing Grasp (Touch), Lightning Bolt (Ranged), Flare (Ranged)
Restoration- Convalescence (Ranged), Heal Major Wounds (Self), Heal Minor Wounds (Self)
Alteration- Protect (Self), Open Very Easy Lock (Touch)
Inventory:
The clothes on Adamiir’s back
A travel pack that the following items are either stored in or strapped to
Sturdy twine for snares
Two reusable bear traps
Bedroll
243 septims
3 weak potions of sorcery
Steel knife, utilitarian
Flint & steel
A welkynd stone
Character Name:
Veeza
Age:
32
Race:
Argonian
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lord
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Brawler
Skills:
Expert- Hand to Hand
Journeyman- Heavy Armor, Athletics, Suturing (Craft)
Apprentice- Acrobatics, Restoration, Speechcraft, Alchemy (Craft)
Novice-One Handed Blades, Two Handed Blades, One Handed Blunt, Block
Appearance:
When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it’s own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, tapering into sharp points at the tip. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with pupils as lizard-like as the rest of him.
While his scales act as a natural defense, fifteen years spent fighting for his life in the arena has left Veeza with a plethora of scars marring his body, leaving none of him untouched. The worst of them have been caused by a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach; the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. Rarely will one find the Argonian outside of his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.
Personality:
As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He never fails to speak his mind regardless of what he desires to say, and puts little stock in the opinions of others, especially those seeking to denounce him. Typically, those capable of intelligent, polite conversation as well as feats of valor upon the field of battle can earn his respect, while those that lack the former will also be subject to his ire.
In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet been in a situation forcing him to lose his cool.
Backstory:
Veeza’s Biography - Prologue - Drunken Lizard
Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.” Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I’ll never have to see your stupid face again.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor. Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 1 - Nothing But A Pair Of Fists
Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man, either things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become.
Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 2 - Graduation Day
The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid from compliant members at the local mages guild to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday he entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of the red team mourned for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them.
Besides, now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 3 - The Pit Dragon
The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the floor of the arena. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand.
The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new blood; a pit dog.
It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his most grievous scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long pony tail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 4 - The New Arena
If the dead had the gift of hindsight, many of the arena combatants might have considered themselves lucky to have been torn apart by daedra hordes, as opposed to being torn apart by Veeza’s bare hands. Kvatch’s grand champion in specific was particularly lucky. As while many matches were planned in celebration of Count Goldwine’s birthday, the red team’s champion, Veeza, against the city’s grand champion, Langurius Nerich, was to be the main event. The two had a cordial, even friendly relationship, and Veeza’s challenge to Langurius’ title came as a surprise to all in the city. Tensions were running high, and this match was played up to be the biggest in decades. Fate seemed to have different plans for the two, however. Langurius would find himself a charred corpse on the floor of the bloodworks, indistinguishable from the others surrounding him. Meanwhile, Veeza would be fighting for his life to eventually reach safety within the walls of Kvatch’s chapel, waiting for what seemed to be an inevitable demise.
Spells:
Restoration- Heal Minor Wounds (Self), Convalescence (Target)
Inventory:
His iron armor, the gauntlets are reinforced with steel and have studs made of dwarven metal inlaid along the knuckles
A hastily thrown together travel pack that includes
A pair of trousers
A mortar and pestle
Needles and thread for sewing wounds
Provisions of hard tack and dried jerky that could last around a week at full ration, double that at half
500 septims, the earnings from his last victory |
56,383 | 1,541 | 28 | 1,320 | 116 | As Aveca studied the fray, searching for a target to place the arrow she had knocked on her bow, she watched the gates swing open. She was impressed at the speed with which the imperial woman had achieved her task. Since she was farther from the gates than her companions, as she was ranged, the others made their way over a few dozen feet ahead of her. Most of the daedra had already been dispatched, but a scamp appeared in a burst of flame off to her side. Aveca drew back her arrow and released it into the meat of the demon's chest. She knocked another arrow as she moved, for safety, but did not encounter another demon before catching up to her companions.
She arrived next to the mostly quiet group in time to see the Argonian enter the gate without a word. For a moment, gazing into the fiery gate, she wondered if they'd even be able to pass through it the way the demons had. It was possible, she thought, that it may burn them. She half expected the man to fall to the ground, burnt, midway through, but he simply disappeared through the gate with no incident. Aveca's area of expertise really had nothing to do with otherworldly realms, and she felt nerves tense in her stomach as she stood slightly behind the others. She knew she had the courage to go through, but she still didn't want to be the next to rush in. She wasn't sure what to expect on the other side. | Character Name:
Aveca Ice-Bear
Age:
26
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Female
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Magic/Stealth
Class:
Healer
Skills:
Expert: Restoration
Journeyman: Marksman (Bow), Alteration, Alchemy (Craft)
Apprentice: Destruction, Speechcraft, Hunting (Craft)
Novice: Mercantile, Illusion, Acrobatics
Appearance:
Aveca stands at about 5’6” tall. She has the characteristic pale white skin of the Nords, as well as fair coloured features. Her hair is a light white-blonde colour with some yellowish tones. She has choppily cut bangs (done herself with a sharpened knife, quite carefully) that swoop in around her face, down to about nose length. The rest of her hair is usually kept either in a braid or in a messy bun, but when left long it goes down just past her armpits. Her eyes are a blue-gray tone, and her face is lightly freckled.
She is also able-bodied. She wouldn't get called a muscular person in general – you wouldn’t catch her in chainmail – but her body is accustomed to exercise and comfortable with the weight of drawing a bowstring. She never let herself get lax just because she practices magic.
As far as scarring and blemishes, Aveca has few. As a healer, she has usually been able to heal any more recent scars, but she has some very light markings (faded by time) up her legs and arms from the usual childhood rough activity and learning to hunt in her younger years. Between her youth and her training, she got one significant scar, which is a simple gash mark on her leg from a run in with a bear.
Aveca has little need for armor. She tries to avoid direct combat, so armor would in the end only inhibit the way she tries to weave around a battle and aid the injured. She prefers simple clothes, leggings and a tunic, or sometimes a dress or skirt. These she always wears over leggings and with boots, as she likes to be prepared for any situation.
Personality:
Aveca is a healer, and that is her passion, but it could in no way define all she is. She believes in aiding the wounded and sick, and wants to go out across the world and help good people, but she also has a fairly strong sense of justice and can be harsh with it at times. She won’t aid you regardless of who you are on the basis of you being a living being. After all, hunter and healer don’t tend to correlate. She isn’t afraid to throw fire around if it comes down to a fight, but she much prefers to avoid one. The bow she carries, she prefers to use for hunting than on people. Her passion is much more around the idea of widespread misery and sickness; her interests lie in sickness and disease, in the curing of plagues and foreign illnesses. She has an apt and interest for academic learning, but can become bored easily if it isn’t related to her interests (being healing, alchemy, living things, cultures, languages).
Despite this, she tends to help first and ask questions later. She will heal someone without a second thought in an instant, because she would rather help someone and expect them to be a good person than not take the risk in case they may be less savory. However, if ever she was betrayed she would retaliate in full force.
Overall, Aveca is a happy and optimistic person. She wants to travel and experience the world, to meet, to help, and to socialize with people from everywhere there is. She is generally willing to engage in a conversation at any time and with anyone, as long as she isn’t trying to heal. She takes her work seriously and doesn’t like distractions while she is actively doing a spell.
One thing is that you don’t want to get into an argument with her. She’ll get heated over anything she has an opinion on, and she won’t let go, either.
Backstory:
Katla and Eirn were rather typical Nords. They met in Markarth, where Katla lived with her family (merchants), and Eirn travelled through as a hunter selling meats. He trekked back and forth across Skyrim all his life, with his parents and then later on his own. He met Katla at the market there, and found himself coming to Markarth more and more often. Her family disapproved, but they married and she too to travelling with him. She enjoyed the adventure. When Aveca and her sister,
Laisa, were born, their parents stopped for a time at a camp they built outside of Whiterun. It provided some stabililty for the young girls.
As they grew older, their parents started travelling with them more. They had a cart and tents, so it wasn’t as though they lived in total discomfort. Aveca was quite fond of the dirt and the travel, whereas Laisa was jealous of the nicely dressed children they met in cities. Over the years, Aveca learned hunting from their father from a very young age, and their mother taught Laisa the ways of business so she could go out on her own someday, without having to depend on someone else.
When she was 13, Aveca asked her family to take her north to the College of Winterhold to learn, and they did. Her mother was a firm believer in doing what you want to do. At first try, the nice man at the gate told her and her mother that they simply couldn't let in a totally untrained mind, and at such an age, though he would have liked to. He asked her to gain some preliminary knowledge and to return in a few years. Her mother was frustrated, and, determined for her daughter to have what she wanted, they traveled to Markarth and left Aveca with a mage she knew from her life there. He was an Alteration mage named Aenar who worked in the temple. She spent a year and a half with him and helped him with his work, while developing a base knowledge of how magic works and how to preform it. She learned a solid base of novice spells and returned to the College with her family just as she was almost 15. This time, they let her in to learn more after she demonstrated that she had the skill for learning it.
For the first few years she studied generally and with vigor, but when she was 17, her family travelled north to tell her that her mother had died of an illness. She never got the chance to say goodbye because of the distance. Her sister was still ill with the same sickness, however it was less advanced and the mages in Winderhold healed her. This ignited Aveca’s passion more specifically for healing and she undertook learning all she possibly could about it. She had a knack for magic and dedicated her whole life to it from the age of 17 until she was 24. She still kept hunting on as a hobby, something she did for an afternoon every week, maybe.
As for Laisa, when she was 18 she made some business connections and set up a shop in Riften.
When Aveca was 24, she herself deemed her training temporarily complete. She had a very advanced training in healing, as well as alchemy and alteration, but she didn’t have the same knack for the rest of the schools and she didn’t focus on them nearly as much. She left the college of her own accord and again travelled Skyrim with her father for a good number of months until she passed south to Cyrodill from Riften, after a visit with her sister.
Once there, she used a mixture of hunting, healing, and alchemy to make an income. She started in the north in Burma, and travelled south through Chorrol, Skingrad, and finally Kvatch. During this time she travelled very light, with a sac on her back for various alchemical pursuits, and very little else. She stayed in inns in the cities as long as she could afford to do so.
Spells:
Restoration: Heal Minor Wounds, Major Respite, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Heal Superior Wounds, Devour Health, Cure Disease, Superior Convalescence
Alteration: Lightning Shield, Water Breathing, Water Walking, Protect Other,
Destruction: Electric Touch, Flash Bolt, Frost Touch
Illusion: Illuminate, Soothing Touch
Inventory:
Steel Bow
Quiver of Iron Arrows (x20)
Iron Dagger (more for daily use than fighting)
Pair of black leggings
Sturdy leather boots
Light blue tunic
Brown cotton dress, white corset, decent quality
Travelling cloak
Leather belt with pouches
Waterskin
Knapsack, leather
Bedroll with bedding
Mortar and Pestle
Alchemical ingredient pouch (mostly herbs for healing potions, but with some other ingredients)
Vials and corks for those potions
Minor Magika Potions (x2)
75 Septims
Dried meats, bread, cheese |
56,384 | 1,541 | 29 | 1,358 | 1,312 | Valentis had barely a moment to gather his thoughts before he and the rest of the volunteers stepped outside into the ruins of the city, they were suicidal heroes in their attempt; whether or not they succeeded or failed, the gods would judge them all kindly for this act, that was for certain.
His old muscles were still spry enough to skillfully wield his Bo staff, which quickly became evident as he came across a scamp, he had seen these monstrosities before in his travels - low level conjurers would summon these from the plains of Oblivion to act as cannon fodder or a long range harassment, these Scamps however seemed different, almost feral, its almost as if the ones that get summoned are inherently different from the true thing.
It gave a guttural hiss that sounded like a wet rusted blade scraping against metal before it began to summon its magicka, just before it hurled a bolt of fire at Valentis he stood firm, in a defensive stance, staff crossed diagonally across his chest and imbued his staff with two magics, Protect, and weak fireball.
The wood changed, it looked as if the wood had become infused with iron, and at the same time cracks started sprouting around it looking like veins of fire tracing along its hard surface, it took mere seconds to occur
And not but a second later than he had prepared himself the scamp threw its fireball square at Valentis' chest, it would be a direct his on the old mans cloak had the staff not been there.
The scamp had barely time to think of attacking again when its initial attack exploded on the mans staff; seemingly doing nothing at all, but in a swift movement Valentis had covered an impressive distance between himself and the scamp in a very short time, shifting his stance to an offensive one, he thrust the base of his staff into the Scamps left ankle causing it to explode violently; flesh and bone scattered around the area.
Having imbued his staff with Weak fireball, it's affect on the beast was truly exceptional, in a scream it fell to the floor barely touching the floor before Valen quickly snapped his staff around his head in a arc and bringing it sharply upwards into its jaw, breaking its neck and finishing the disabled foe in a single stroke.
Scamps weren't much of a threat to this old man, he had faced far worse than these, but he knew that the gates of Oblivion heralded somethings far worse than these blights.
By the time he had recovered himself, the gates to the city had opened, the last few combatants had been finished off and he stood there with the rest of the group, all of them seemingly unharmed.
Now there lied the true task at hand, which was on the other side of this gate.
It stood tall, not quite the same height as the city walls, but not far off.
It was constructed out of a volcanic rock arced with ancient runes and veins of magma coursing through it like the blood in their veins, the gate almost seemed alive, the energy it exerted beat and pulsed like the beating of a heart, you could hear an ever increasing thrumming the closer you stood it it, it was truly enchanting in a odd sort of way.
They stared into the heart of a demon, knowing that they must kill it, yet it almost seemed as if they were being invited into its blazing core, it wanted them to enter its forbidden halls, to walk on its salted earth, to breath it sulphuric air...
It did not have them same allure as Akivir, but it was close.
After the first man enterted the gate, the anticipation could have Valentis waiting no longer, and like the man before him he uttered no words as he stepped once more into the unknown.
The transition of the atmosphere was stark, it was like entering a completely different world after gliding through a warm jelly, the gates energy offered no resistance when you pushed into it, it almost drew you in gleefully accepting you into its abode.
The first thing that hit Valentis was the air, its feel and smell.
It was oppressive, the air hung with a heavy feeling in it, weighing down all those who walked and breathed in it, and it smelled of thick smoke and charred flesh, acrid and bitter was the taste it left in your mouth if you breathed too deep from your nose.
The sight was a brilliant crimson glow that emanated on everything, which just made its obsidian black constructs and charred black earth all the more darker and its shadows more ominous.
This place overloaded your senses, the alien sights, the strange noises against an eerie silence, the eye watering smells and strangely cold feeling to this place.
It was alien, there was no doubt about it- so alien that it blew Akivir out of the water in terms of how foreign this place was.
But Valentis loved it, this sense of adventure, this breach into a new alien world, its everything his old bones needed, a small smile curled on his wrinkled and weathered face.
He would take great joy in exploring this god forsaken land, and he would take equal enjoyment in making its master suffer for bringing it to mundas. | Name:
Albert, Alexander, Alistair… His memory slips sometimes, and calls Albert by his older companions names.
Breed:
Border Collie - Typically bred in the Colovian Highlands.
:Appearance:
:Bio
Arf! *Wags tail* |
56,385 | 1,541 | 30 | 1,552 | 2,229 | Stepping through the membrane of the portal, there was a kind of brutal, yet majestic beauty in the land that lay before them. The ash swirled at each step on the cracked, steaming ground, catching in the noses and throats of any mortal being foolish to wander there. Eyes watered in the dry heat of the air, pupils wanting to dilate through sheer terror of the landscape, but the harsh lights from the flickering fires and bleeding sky forcing them to narrow pinpricks. It was truly an awesome, ungodly horror to behold - and that was not where it ended. Massive towers; constructs made of an unwelcoming stone and jagged red spikes stood ominously in the distance; the bridges that allowed safe passage across the rivers of lava still remained foreboding, flanked by charred corpses curled in on themselves, and bloodied pikes adorned with heads, faces pulled into grotesque expressions of agony. While no carrion birds could have possibly existed in this world before being consumed by heat or something worse, some heads were missing eyes, ears, noses - all weeping blood after something pecked away at them. Even Naenya - while enraptured at actually standing in a realm of Daedra, couldn't help but shudder at the concept of bird-like Daedra. Silently thanking herself for leaving Bobo back in the chapel, she followed on with the group, taking in everything with eager eyes, but trying to avoid looking at the heads for too long. She could only hope such torture occurred after death, but judging by the haunted expression on those dead, pale faces, it was very unlikely the poor souls had passed away peacefully.
In contrast, their Imperial Leader looked ten times as unhappy as she stared around her; her eyes were actually twitching in fear. She looked about five seconds from sprinting back towards the gate; in fact, those twitching eyes kept darting back to the curtain of fire that had brought them there, as if worried it would close behind them. However, her attention - and the attention of everyone else - was caught by inhuman screeches, and the clash of steel. In the near distance, there was a guard in familiar Kvatch armour, frantically battling against a few scamps. The group surged forward, glad to have something to do other than simply gawp at the wonder of this strange new realm; the scamps did not last long among them, and the panting guard gave them his heartfelt thanks.
"We were sent in to close the gate... we were ambushed... trapped... they killed my friends!" His eyes were wild with fear and grief - across the lava, the sight of slain guards could be seen on the bridge. Niko made his way to the front of the group, taking the guard by the shoulder and offering up what he hoped was a calming smile; he had known this man from when he had lived in Kvatch.
"Ilend - we're here to try and close the gate too. There's more of us here, and I'd say more than a few have experience with Daedra. We'll be able to do-" Niko's voice was cut off by the Imperial woman, who had grabbed Ilend far more roughly to get his attention.
"Never mind that - do you know how to close this thing? There must be a switch, or spell or something?!" Her voice seemed as desperate as Ilend's, but Niko's old comrade didn't have the answer she looked for. As she stormed away, muttering "Useless guards" under her breath, Niko stopped himself from scowling at her before turning back to Ilend.
"They... they took Menien to the tower. You must rescue him Nikolaus!" Ilend's eyes turned to the Gate, and Niko knew it was pointless to have him here. He was too distraught and already injured to aid in the fight.
"Go and find the Captain - there must be a barricade or something outside of the City. Tell him what we're trying to do, and that there are still survivors in the Chapel. If we fail... he may be able to do something." The thought of failing was a chilling one, but Niko knew it mustn't be ignored. The shaken guard left with more thanks, and Niko's eyes turned back towards their not-so-fearless leader. She was pacing the rocky ground, looking even more skittish than before. Sighing quietly, he turned to the remainder of the group with a shrug.
"To the tower, I suppose. If there's anything worth finding, it'll be in those things."
For a while, traversing the Deadlands was surprisingly... quiet. Yes, the lack of noise was disconcerting in that there was no rush of wind through leaves, no singing of birds or buzzing of crickets. Just the quiet yet endless bubbling of the lava below their feet, and the occasional hiss of hot air escaping the earth in the distance. The lack of foes was more concerning; all they ran into was a scamp here and there, dispatched too easily by just a small amount of the group. It was almost like the landscape was lulling them into a false sense of security; either that, or they just got lucky. Luck, however, swiftly shrivelled up as they approached the towers.
The sneak-thief Glenndus was leading the group; he was the best to scout the area, what with being quick, quiet, and able to hear and see a lot of things others wouldn't. Already he'd aided them in avoiding rockfalls, unknown and potentially deadly fauna, and even landmines. Niko could hardly believe all of the things that were able to kill or maim in this land; you didn't even have to stand on the mines, simply going near them would cause them to rise from the air and spin ominously before blowing into a cloud of fire. Glenn was doing well in keeping them alive; but even he didn't see the spikes coming.
They were about half-way to the towers, walking along a trail that could barely pass as a road; the group had just killed off another scamp that had snuck up behind them before their attention was drawn by a strange noise. Turning back towards the front of the group, they were met with a very dead Glenndus. Even his quick eyes didn't see the spike trap buried in the dusty ground; they had impaled him so forcefully he was dangling from the ground, spikes going through his stomach, chest, and right through his head. Any expression that could be gauged from around the bloodied piece of metal protruding from his face was a slack jaw and open mouth of surprise; his arms were still twitching from the spike embedded in his central nervous system, and an eye dangled down his torn-apart cheek. Most looked away in disgust or horror, but something seemed to snap inside the Imperial Woman. She drew her sword, pushing away from the group and spitting on the ground.
"Curse this damned place! I did not wish for this; all I had to do was rescue that stupid priest!" She snapped at nobody in particular, still backing away from the stunned group and back towards the gate. "You lot can stay here and die for all I care; And the Gods can get fucked. None of this is my fate, and I'm doing as I please from here on out. Going into Oblivion... who's bright idea was that?!" Her stream of complaints and profanities grew quieter as she went further from the group, but nobody went to stop her. She'd been disgruntled and unwanted from the start, and for Niko, all he could think was that he couldn't exactly blame her... but what was all that talk about the Gods and fate? Was there something that bound her to this mission, this quest.. and to Martin as well? Perhaps she was meant to lead this group, no matter what.
This train of thought came to a distinct end at what occurred next; not ten meters away from the group, her ranting came to a sudden stop as something hidden behind the rock slammed into her. The crunching of bones echoed all the way up to the rest of them, and they watched on as she was suddenly lifted from the ground. A Dremora stepped out; having hit the woman so hard in the abdomen with his huge mace, she remained stuck to it as it lifted the weapon above his head, blood trickling down onto it's grotesque, smiling face. Seeing the others watching on in shock, the Dremora's pointed tongue flicked out and caught a few crimson droplets, before hefting the mace towards the lava. The woman's body remained in the air a few moments before landing with a light splash atop the molten rock. She didn't sink as though it were water. Instead, her body ignited in flames atop it, limbs flailing in a silent agony before falling limp, everything swiftly reduced to flaky ash.
Looking back towards the Dremora, more foes spilled out around him. Several other daedra carrying wicked looking maces, flanked by scamps, clannfear and mages who then summoned more beasts to join them in battle. After walking through half of the Deadlands without coming across anything, it seemed Oblivion was finally fighting back against it's invaders; starting with their supposed leader.
"I suppose even in the land of the Daedra, blaspheming is taken seriously." Thought Naenya, shuddering lightly as she recalled the Imperial woman's last moments. Only then did she realise the dead woman hadn't introduced herself or told anyone of her name. If history books in the future were to write about what happened here, they would have no name for her... except perhaps "The Coward of Kvatch." However, deciding that this could wait until later, Naenya readied her staff, already thinking of which spells would be the most effective against the beasts before them. | Character Name:
Nikolaus “Niko” Valerious
Age:
37
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lover
Specialisation:
Combat/Magic
Class:
Paragon
Skills:
Expert: One-Handed Blade (Dual-Wielding)
Journeyman: Speechcraft, Destruction
Apprentice: Athletics, Restoration, Heavy Armour
Novice: Two-Handed Blade, Acrobatics, Illusion, Medicine (Non-Alchemical/Magical (Craft)), Hunting (Craft), Foraging (Craft)
Appearance:
Looking every part the Nord, Niko stands at a towering height of 6’7; matched with broad shoulders and the muscled build of someone who works his swords every day, he can seem somewhat daunting at times. However, when one focuses on his face, softness shines through. Gentle blonde brows above stormy grey-blue eyes; a sharp jawline softened by a smattering of badly trimmed blond stubble; high cheekbones crinkled with laughter lines, and dimples that brighten cheeks once round with wellness, but now have a somewhat haggard and hungry look about them.
On a usual day out in the field, Niko can usually be seen wearing his armour; shaggy, dark-blonde hair pulled back haphazardly by messy braids, and shoulder’s stiff with the weight he is carrying. However, when more relaxed and among friends, his hair hangs loose, brushing against his eyes and shoulders in a messy but appealing manner – armour is replaced with comforting and loose clothing, shirt sleeves usually pushed up to the elbow and revealing a plethora of scars up and down his forearms. The scars carry on under his clothing; some fresher and deeper than others, but you’ll need to either get him drunk or be close to him to get the stories behind the scarring dotted over his skin – some hurt more than others, and not in a physical way.
Personality:
While he doesn’t smile as much as he used to, Niko remains still an amicable sort – but if one looks close enough, you can see the tension in his smile; the stretched out laughs that sound just a touch too hollow to be considered genuine or warm. His eyes have retained that caring spark of friendliness, but it dulls whenever nobody is looking his way. His kindness isn’t faked or forced… it’s just harder to be the way he was before. It’s rare for his grief or anger to come through, but when faced with something particularly cruel, or anything involved in raising the dead, anything remotely nice about him falls away, and his eyes become as hard as ice. Killing for him then isn’t just a job to be done; it becomes frenzied, and very personal.
However, regardless of his own internal turmoils, he’ll remain good to those around him. While respect is earned, Niko makes a point of being polite to most, no matter how brash they appear to be. Being more than aware of how death and killing can get to a man, he’ll listen to people’s worries and concerns in the hopes he can do something to help them… when sometimes, a listening friend is all many need.
When it comes to matter away from friends and family, Niko still remains polite; even in battle, while others may make puns, threats or quips while slicing down their enemy, Niko will do it as quickly and as painlessly as possible – no intimidation, no dark humour. It’s not his style. Neither is bragging of past battles fought, though one would be able to hear a good tale from him if coaxed enough – it comes from having a daughter, for him. Niko quite firmly believes that Mia should be kept safe from violence, bad language, and all of the other things that his race and Skyrim are famous for; a foolish endeavour, considering his girl is getting street-smart enough to find out about all of these things herself; but he remains very protective over her, not wanting to lose her as he lost his wife. This protectiveness passes on to his friends and family, particularly those he gets close to.
Backstory:
While our story begins in Kvatch, as does the life of Nikolaus. Born to an Imperial father and Nord mother, the pair had met, fell in love, and married in a short span of time – moving from the mother’s native Skyrim to Kvatch for a both safer and warmer climate to raise their son in. And it was a good childhood for Niko; there was never danger within the city walls, and with his mother and father’s decent wages from the Fighters and Mages Guild respectively, never had an empty stomach or cold night. Niko’s father – Percius – had his own parents, now retired, living in Kvatch too – so whenever he and his wife – Ulva – needed to do a job for money, they could quite simply live Niko with his grandparents and do what needed to be done. As a baby, Niko barely noticed his parent’s absence unless they were gone for a unusually long time; but as a child, he started growing curious as to what reason for and where his parents were going. Curiosity soon grew into indignation, and the usually mild-mannered child began to constantly question exactly why he had to stay at home, and why his parents had to leave all the time. Well… he was still mild-mannered in his questioning; politeness always came first, especially when talking to his elders. But it was clear to his parents that their little boy was growing up rather quickly, and would need to start learning something to keep him happy – and away from their own adventures. To counter this, Percius’ father – a retired guard of Kvatch - started teaching Niko how to use swords – of course starting with a wooden sword and a straw dummy at the young age of 8, but still, it worked well enough. With his grandmother teaching him his letters and numbers, Niko constantly itched for his training sessions every evening.
Over time, Ulva began to spend more and more days at home, having growing tired from all of the contracts taken from the Fighter’s Guild. When Percius’ father grew too old to continue training Niko (now 13) Ulva took over, helping him branch out into proper training; wearing armour that weighed his light teenage frame down; real swords instead of wooden ones – she even persuaded Percius to begin training Niko in certain schools of magic, just so it would come in handy in the future. Niko picked up the magic just as well as his blades, barring a few incidents with rogue fireballs. He was fine once his eyebrows grew back, honestly.
When Niko reached the age of 16, he had a firm grasp in the basics of restoration, destruction, and the wielding of blades. His mother wanted him to join the fighter’s guild, and his father wanted him to join the mage’s guild. Thinking he wanted the best of both worlds, he started working as a battlemage for the arcane university; training under a more experienced guard who worked there to get him up to the right standard for such a prestigious college. It was a solid job, and kept both of his parents happy – Niko continued to have a steady income, a warm bed, and full stomach. He was just going to be living with longer hours and bruised skin from his rigorous training regime – the safety of the mages and the University was no small matter, what with the countless troves of knowledge and precious items hidden within those walls. Niko had only been inside a few times, but he had caught glimpses of endless libraries, impossibly large, echoing chambers (He and a few colleagues enjoyed a few shouting matches in there before being kicked out by their Guard-Captain; after several hours of sprinting the battlements in full armour in the pouring rain, they decided not to do it again), and of course, the mages themselves. Only 2 really stood out to him; one was a slimy looking fellow. Niko was never one to judge people before meeting them, but as it happened, he had had the misfortune of meeting and talking to Conjurer Astian Onius – but Niko also had the fortune of meeting Astian’s cousin, Elisabeth. And to him, she was the greatest treasure in the University.
At the age of 25 – now an established guard of his own right, having graduated his training top of the class (despite the hollering matches in the halls) – Niko finally plucked up the courage to talk to Elisabeth in a more than friendly manner, asking her to join him for drinks that night – no friends of his, and no weasel-like cousins of hers to accompany them. One night of drinks turned into another night, and then another; then it was candlelit meals, walks along the shores of lake Rumare, picnics in the forest. For anyone watching the pair, it would be quite obvious that the two were in love – and indeed, Astian was watching them. He was not happy.
After 3 years of courting, Niko and Elisabeth were wed, and a year after that, she fell pregnant with what would be their first and only child. Named Amelia for Elisabeth’s mother who had passed that spring, their life seemed idyllic. But as time passed, things began to grow dark. Not in their relationship, exactly; they were still a happy couple, raising their daughter in Imperial City and continuing with their jobs – and it was their jobs that began causing issues. What with Niko just being a guard, he and his fellows didn’t really involve themselves in the fight for power brewing between the Mages – not just in the University, but across Cyrodiil. Favours were split, and Elisabeth herself was not wanting Hannibal Traven as Arch-Mage; She considered him too close-minded, especially when it came to matters such as necromancy; although having never done any spells in that area, she was doing research into possible life after death – a cure that could bring someone back if they were saved seconds after dying. An innocent enough area of study, and certainly with a noble enough gesture behind it. But once Arch-Mage Traven won the fight for power, she became cowed; fearful of what could happen to her and her work after the banning of necromancy by the Arch-Mage, she begged Niko for them both to leave Imperial City and the Mages Guild – they had more than enough experience between them both to get jobs elsewhere. Although slightly concerned at her reasons behind it – her cousin Astian had been visiting their home more than usual the weeks previous, having hushed and irritated conversations with Elisabeth before the harassed woman asked him to leave – Niko conceded, and along with their 6 year old daughter, left for his parent’s home in Kvatch; having died in the winter, they’d left the home to Niko and his family.
The next two years that passed were easily the worst in Niko’s life. While Kvatch was a nice change at first; his daughter enjoying the smaller and more open city as opposed to Imperial City’s near stifling buildings and towering walls – he too was welcomed back with open arms, as many who still lived there knew his family. Getting a job as a guard was no trouble, what with his long service record at the Arcane University. He knew he’d probably get more money in the Fighter’s Guild or even a sellsword, but being a guard was safer, more secure, and more honest; that was just the kind of man he was.
His wife, however, was growing more and more secretive. Elisabeth had become more withdrawn, even after moving away from the Mages Guild; “hunting trips” were going on far too long for her to come home with nothing, and she would constantly change the subject whenever her studies came up in conversation. As Astian’s trips became more frequent, and news of strange lights coming from caves not far from Kvatch began circulating through the city, Niko’s worries grew into suspicions. It was time to find out what his wife and her troublesome cousin were up to.
As he followed Elisabeth from a distance – her leaving Kvatch a few hours previous for more “hunting” – Niko told himself that he was worrying over nothing. She was probably just continuing her research, and was worried about the Guild swooping in to stop her; but it wasn’t necromancy. Just research.
Whether his wife was dabbling in the magic of raising the dead, Niko never knew – but whatever she had attempted to do in those dimly lit caves was too dangerous – as he watched on from the shadows, he saw something go wrong. He was no expert in the type of magic Elisabeth and Astian were attempting, so Niko couldn’t understand why after a sudden flash of light, Elisabeth hit the ground and no longer moved; he couldn’t understand why Astian looked perfectly unconcerned by this, and simply began performing another spell. But when the magic hit her body, and she slowly rose to her feet, he did understand. And no matter what had happened, no matter what she may had done; he was not going to let his wife’s body become nothing more than a puppet. Wiping his eyes that had become blurred with tears, Niko slowly unsheathed his swords and stormed towards Astian.
When finally returning to Kvatch, it had been difficult to coax the full story from the grieving Niko; heavily injured and clutching Elisabeth’s – now still – body in his arms, he had collapsed at the gate, being brought into the chapel for healing. Although Astian had put up quite the fight, Niko had barely felt any pain at each landed blow from the disgraced mage; it was killing his wife’s resurrected body that had been the most difficult part for him. While the healer Oleta was able to mend his several cuts and burns, aided by Brother Martin, it was harder to ease the near-broken man’s mind. After the story was finally pulled from Niko, and the caves investigated, the city guards discovered that Astian had indeed been practicing Necromancy. Out of sheer respect to Niko, their comrade, they made sure to state there was nothing to incriminate Elisabeth in the forbidden act. There was no evidence in fact, but many people -particularly at the guild – would have been happy to connect the dots of her being at the caves so often.
Not so long after the tragedy, Niko had fully recovered; he had taken to spending much of his time at the Chapel, hoping to find solace in the Gods. But nothing seemed to bring him peace; the daily chats with the Priests brought him some comfort, but Kvatch no longer seemed like home anymore. Mia seemed to have taken the news of her mother better than he, but then, she hadn’t seen or done what he had been forced to do – all the same, she complied when Niko suggested leaving Kvatch. He left his job with the guard, sold their home, and the lonely father and daughter left the gates of their hometown. And for nearly 2 years, they wandered throughout Cyrodiil. Never staying in one place for too long, Niko took whatever jobs that came to him as long as they paid enough, and weren’t too time-wasting or life-threatening. He was more desperate than before, but he wouldn’t risk his life while Mia was so young; she had no-one left to look after her.
Of course, things became far more dangerous when he finally came back to Kvatch. A chance encounter; retrieving some rare book from the local bookstore for an old bedbound fellow in Bravil; at first, Niko was going to pass it up, not quite ready to return to Kvatch even after 2 years. But the man was offering quite a bit of money, and Mia’s birthday was approaching – it couldn’t hurt, could it?
That was what he thought until the Oblivion Gate opened. It had been easy enough to gather a terrified Mia into his arms and pelt towards the chapel, but it was getting out that would be the hardest part.
Spells:
Destruction: Blazing Spear, Corrode Weapon, Dire Wound, Drain Skill: Destruction, Fire Ball, Frost Bolt, Great Magicka Drain, Hail Storm, Lightning Bolt, Lightning Grasp, Searing Grasp, Shocking Burst, Weakness to Magicka, Winter’s Grasp, Withering Touch
Restoration: Convalescence, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Fortify Health, Fortify Speed, Fortify Strength, Great Fortity Fatigue, Heal Major Wounds
Illusion: Serenity, Soothing Touch, Starlight
Inventory:
1x Off-white tunic, to wear under armour
2x Black Leather pants, one for casual wear, one to wear under greaves
1x Set of steel greaves
1x Set of steel pauldrons
1x Steel chestplate
1x Set of steel bracers over 1x Pair of leather gloves
2x Steel longswords
1x Steel Greatsword
1x Iron dagger
1x Dark shirt
1x Black overcoat
1x Pair of leather boots
1x Black hood
1x Spare child’s dress, red
1x Spare pair of child’s shoes
Mia’s teddy bear
1x Plain gold wedding ring
1x Waterskin
1x Bottle of rum
1x Loaf of bread
2x Wedges of cheese
Several slices of smoked salmon, wrapped in cheesecloth
Several slices of cooked beef, wrapped in cheesecloth
3x Sweetened biscuits, slightly stale
1x Skin of milk
2x Bedrolls
1x Pillow
1x Large fur blanket
1x Tent
1x Cooking pot & Spit
1x Horse, carrying majority of the camping equipment
1x Knapsack, to carry the remainder of his things
374 Septims
Mia has a balanced look of her parents; she has her mother’s dark, chocolate-brown eyes, and face and body, but the rest of her belongs to her father. Being quite tall and mature for her age, Mia also has his dark-blonde hair, hers with more of a wave to it than Niko’s; she keeps it at shoulder-length, tied up most of the time when out on the road with her dad. She also shares his sweet, dimpled smile, though hers seems far more genuine most of the time.
While certainly taking after her Imperial mother in her looks, Mia has the heart of a Nord. With an inquisitive sense of adventure constantly on her mind, the curious 8-year-old (She’s nearly 9, actually – don’t forget it!) has a penchant for wandering away from her father when visiting cities; but only in cities. She did it once in a tiny little village without walls and she’d never seen him look so upset when he found her 3 hours later. She understands his protectiveness, but taking a rather wise standpoint for such a young age, thinks her Father needs to move on from what happened. She knows this isn’t the way her Mama wanted them both to live, after all.
Perhaps due to her father treating her like some fragile thing, Mia often takes on a brusque and boisterous way of life. Local kid calling her names? He’s getting a broken nose. A pair of dubious looking fellows in the inn staring at her father’s coinpurse? Glare at them until they notice and hurriedly leave. Portal to hell opening up in the city? Her Papa will sort them out, he’s the bravest, strongest man in the whole wide world. She’s going to help of course – if only Papa would give her a sword. Ooh, or maybe an axe. |
56,386 | 1,541 | 31 | 860 | 1,273 | The sights before him assaulted Orintur's eyes like spears, each sending a shock through him and making his stomach turn. Even as a man of the Divines specifically trained to defend against heretics such as the denizens within these Dead Lands, the Elf was as shocked and disgusted as any sane and rational person would be at the displays of chaos and wanton gore before them. The pikes, the mounds of charred bodies...if Orintur were a man of any weaker will and conviction, he would have taken one look at the blood and flame strewn across the realm and ran back, never to return. He was determined, though, to put a stop to this grossly heretical disregard for life and peace, one swing of his trusty hammer at a time. No wretched Daedra, be they prince or churl, would stop him from performing his duties and bringing glory to the Almighty Divines! So Orintur marched on, offering silent prayers to the poor souls in his path that were taken through the gate, and did not live to tell of their sorrows. Something felt...wrong, though. Even as he prayed, he felt as though his words did not reach, that his gods could not hear him. He felt...alone. It was clear then to Orintur that the hellish landscape he was in, the planes of Oblivion, did not respect his gods. Nay, worse than that: His gods were absent entirely.
He would have kept praying, more just to spite whatever daedra may have been listening, but Orintur's train of thought was broken by the sudden rantings of the woman that lead them all through the gate. He did not appreciate her words about the Divines, though the Paladin understood that she was under a great amount of stress, and forgave her blasphemy. Not that it would matter, as the woman died just soon after in a very gruesome manner. Orintur watched, his mind in shock and his heart filling with great fury, as the Dremora flung the woman's body into the flaming ground below, where she slowly faded away to ashes. The demon stared on with obvious glee as Orintur, heaving with rage, gripped his hammer with enough force to break a man's arm. All it took was one taunting beckon from the Churl to send the seething Paladin over the edge.
"I am Orintur Graywatch, AND YOU SHALL FEEL MY WRATH, DEMON!"
Orintur, charging past all other threats, met the Dremora with a heavy swing of his hammer, which the demon blocked with the shaft of his mace. The two whirled around each other, swinging with vigour, engaging in the dance of combat. The clang of steel and daedric metals carried through the hot, eye-stinging air, accented by war cries and pained grunts. Hammer and mace mixed into a blur of white and black, becoming clear only when one combatant stopped the other's weapon with their own, thought it was never for any longer than a split second. The battle seemed to stop for good when the Churl sent Orintur's hammer to the ground, and sent the Elf with it with a bash to the chest. Orintur's head rang fiercely; moments before, the Daedra had been able to get a clean strike at his head. He could feel himself bleeding somewhere on his forehead, but that could only be dealt with once the demon leering at him from above was dispatched.
The Churl, armor bent in several places and lower jaw being bereft of several fangs, cackled at the fallen Paladin. Instead of speaking in his own heretical tongue, they spoke in clear Tamriellic. "Your gods have no power here, worm! Your pathetic earthly metals are nothing compared to the strength my Lord Dagon bestows upon me! Now BEGONE, weakling, your soft flesh will insult my Lord's eyes no longer!"
Orintur, lying on the ground and letting the Dremora fling his taunts, was taking the time to catch his breath and regain his strength. As his foe sent their mace down one last time, Orintur suddenly sat up and gripped their wrist firmly, other hand charging with magical energy. "I will not be the one that falls today, DEMON!"
Shoving his hand into the Churl's chest, Orintur took the chance afforded to him by his Shock spell to grab his hammer as the Dremora shook and spasmed violently. It took a great deal of energy to lift it, but the mighty Paladin sent the head of his hammer into the abdomen of his enemy, crushing their armor and their insides along with it. Spewing blood like a projectile out of their mouth, the Dremora flew backwards, landing on the same molten rock they threw the Imperial woman onto just moments before. He did not fare any better.
Falling to one knee, Orintur breathed heavily, the fight taking almost all of his energy out of him. His head also panged painfully and the Elf was certain he was bruised in nearly a dozen places. He hoped his compatriots could handle themselves, because Orintur wasn't sure if he could fight many more foes in such a state. | Character Name: Orintur Graywatch
Age: 57, approximate
Race: Altmer
Sex: Male
Birthsign: The Tower
Specialisation: Combat
Class: Paladin
Skills:
Expert: Two-Handed Blunt
Journeyman: Heavy Armor, Restoration
Apprentice: Destruction, Athletics, Hand to Hand
Novice: Speechcraft, One-Handed Blade, One-Handed Blunt, Foraging
Crafting: Novice Smithing and Alchemy
Appearance: For the most part, Orintur is your typical yellow-skinned Altmer, standing at about a head higher than the average height of most other races, with pointed ears and narrow eyes, irises matching his skin. What makes him a bit different, though, is that Orintur is noticeably far more muscular than the slim and dainty everyday High Elf, thanks to his extensive training with large two-handed weapons and heavy armors. Orintur keeps his platinum hair short; he hates how bothersome long hair can be and would rather be able to wake up and not need to rearrange anything.
Of course it goes without saying that, as a Paladin, Orintur sees his fair share of combat. As such, he has a good number of scars to document his adventures. The most noticeable scar is a large burn mark on his lower abdomen, given to Orintur by a flame atronach summoned by an accursed warlock that had been terrorizing nearby villages. The Altmer's armor intercepted the fireball, but that didn't stop all the damage, for his armor had reached searing levels of heat where it was hit. Unable to take off his cuirass in the middle of battle, Orintur fought for several more minutes with it on, and with every movement he was scorched further. By the time the mage was dead, not even the most powerful of Restoration magics could have healed his wound completely. Far less epic scars line Orintur's body, mainly across his arms, some acquired during his training, others given to him by bandits and other foul creatures that lucked out and bypassed his armor.
Personality: Being a High Elf, one of another race would be inclined to groan at Orintur's approach, thanks to his race's less than tolerant view of anyone not their own. One would most certainly not expect, though, for the young(for a High Elf, anyway) Paladin to greet them with ecstatic glee; indeed, Orintur is as nice as nice gets...well, as long as you aren't a heretic. Following the dictations of his patron god, Stendarr, Orintur has unending love for the citizens of Tamriel, and is always happy to meet new people and offer his services to those in need. This love stops, though, for those that would bring harm to anyone under his protection, that being every person in Tamriel not openly against the Nine Divines. These villains are deemed heretics, and Orintur believes it is his mission as bestowed upon him by Mighty Stendarr to bring them to justice, be it at the end of a gavel...or his hammer. Bandits, conjurers of foul daedra, rogue wizards and necromancers, and thieves to a lesser extent all fall under Orintur's definition of "heretic", and such people would do well to keep their hobbies a secret from the ever-wary Paladin if they want to get in his good graces.
The good citizens of Tamriel and all other adherents of the Nine Divines, however, can feel free to approach Orintur with all manner of problems; whatever they be, most can probably be solved with his hammer. If a hammer is not enough, then the Altmer can turn to his magics of Restoration and Destruction, or even his limited knowledge of alchemy and smithing, for he is nothing if not versatile. Orintur takes great pride in assisting those around him, and would give his life if it ever came to such a thing, so strong is his faith in the teachings of the Divines. Unfortunately however, Orintur's zealotry has made some of even the most pious of church-goers fearful of him, worried that they may unknowingly engage in some innocuous activity that nevertheless draws the paladin's ire and would put them at the end of a warhammer. Many city guards are also not quite fans of Orintur, viewing his methods as too extreme and uncompromising, and disruptive to the general peace. If he is not barred from entering a city outright, the Altmer is under the strict watch of a detachment of guards who stand at a distance, waiting for him to step out of line.
Backstory: Orintur has no knowledge of his homeland, where exactly he was born, when he was born, or even who birthed him. From what he could gather from his adoptive family at the Chapel of Stendarr in Chorrol, a young woman brought him to the chapel as a baby. The woman, who was in a heavy concealing cloak and scarf, said his name was Orintur Graywatch, and to the Primate's great confusion and frustration, she would not reveal any more details, no matter how much she was pressed. The only other words the woman spoke was a request to "please raise him to be kind". In the second the Primate turned his head to look at Orintur, the woman had vanished. Letters of inquiry to other chapels and contacts turned up fruitless; the woman could not be found nor was there anyone under the name of Graywatch in Cyrodiil. With no one else able or willing to take the infant elf in, the Primate decided to make the chapel his new home, and raise him under the guidance of the Commands of the Divines with the help of the other priests.
Orintur, under the wise tutelage of the Primate and priests of Stendarr, came to learn and hold dearly the teachings of the Nine Divines. Memorizing the Ten Commands and taking to heart the wisdom of revered saints, the Divines became the center of his life, and Orintur would spend many hours of the day praying and performing rites, taking short breaks to eat simple foods, help around the city, and sleep until the next morning where he would renew his routine. No doubt Orintur looked peculiar praying at the altars, being a High Elf and what all that entailed to those that didn't know anything of him, but everything just seemed to fit for the Altmer. He felt Zenithar fill his bones with the strength to live day after day, Mara fill his heart with love, and Julianos fill his mind with wisdom. The Divine that Orintur felt closest to, of little surprise, being raised in his chapel, was Stendarr. He felt compelled to help and protect the weak, and was overjoyed whenever he was able to do volunteer work to assist the needy. At twenty-five, fifteen years after beginning his general training as a devotee of the Divines, Orintur spoke to the Primate and requested he begin training to serve Stendarr. The Primate, naturally, was overjoyed, and asked what he would like to specialize in. Orintur thought long and hard on this, and eventually came to a conclusion: he would be a paladin of Stendarr. It just sounded right to him, marching across Cyrodiil, striking down evildoers and offering aid to those whose paths he crossed; it felt like something was calling him to take on the mantle of Paladin. To this day, Orintur attributes his choice to the guiding hand of Stendarr, who believed the Altmer would be best suited for that path above all others.
Orintur's training officially began with the arrival of a full-fledged paladin, whom the Primate called to the Chapel to teach the High Elf every other month; Orintur's lessons would alternate between martial and spiritual training, with the Primate instructing him in all the rites of Stendarr. Romana Marius was a behemoth of a woman, almost as tall as Orintur himself and with plenty of muscle to match. Her red hair was short and messy, with a face as plain as a foundation stone and a stare that could shatter one; Romana certainly had no time set aside for looking nice. With how mean she could look on the outside, however, Romana was surprisingly amicable. You had to listen for her smile, not look for it, as one of the priests familiar with her once said. She was glad that Orintur chose the path of the paladin, as according to her their numbers were running quite low, and made Orintur aware of their kind's high mortality rate. She was greatly pleased to hear her student's confidence and determination, and began his first lessons. They spent several weeks trying to find the aspiring warrior a weapon of choice, and went through many with little success. Sword and shield, spears, axes, none quite clicked with Orintur...until he came to the mighty warhammer. He was practically in love with the raw power of such a weapon, and asked to be trained in its use.
The first two years with Romana was specifically spent learning how to wear heavy armor and properly use a warhammer, along with a bit of hand-to-hand training. Proper footing, getting down the right amount of momentum, using distance to one's advantage, all the basics. When she believed Orintur could use the weapon confidently, Romana began engaging in full-on spars with her student. While obviously not on equal footing with his mentor, Orintur could still land his fair share of strikes. One day, Romana hit Orintur with an extremely heavy strike, bruising him terribly. What he initially believed was an accident was actually Romana transitioning into her next lessons: the art of Restoration, and how to heal oneself and others. She began by teaching Orintur a basic healing spell to ease his bruising, which he took it upon himself to learn quickly, as the wound panged quite unpleasantly...and then she made him do it again after the next spar when she fractured his index finger. Romana made it clear that she did not injure him for her own amusement, but rather to encourage him to learn how to heal himself faster and give him more experience with Restoration magics. Still, Orintur didn't quite appreciate the beatings even with that assurance, but the more potent spells she taught him after a few months softened the literal blows a bit. The next four years were a repeat of that routine of sparring and then healing, and going out to help those brought into the safety of the city after being attacked by bandits, wolves, and whatever else lurked the roads and forests. Romana had Orintur simply watch at first of course, no telling what an inexperienced student would get wrong, but eventually he was allowed to operate on his first patient. Using the most simple spell available, the Altmer successfully closed the gashes of an unfortunate victim of a mugging. He liked those lessons much more. Two more years were spent learning the art of Destruction; Romana admitted that while, yes, Destruction was quite an unsavory school, a paladin needs several methods of attacking, as one may not be able to get close enough to bash away with steel.
Another two years passed, all the time with Romana spent perfecting his technique after having learned all of the basics of combat and magic. When the time had come for Orintur's trial of initiation, he could manuever himself smoothly even in heavy iron, could close and mend the wounds of himself and others in under twenty seconds, and his prowess with warhammers was something to be feared. Romana, the Primate, and all others who had witnessed his training were confident in his ability...but were the Divines? Such was the purpose of his trial, to determine his worthiness in the eyes of Stendarr. Orintur's mission: Head to a nearby cave, once the lair of some goblins, and destroy the warlock hiding away inside. The warlock had been attacking travellers on the road to Chorrol frequently, and was the cause of all the recent burn victims carried into the city. He was to bring back their staff as proof of his success.
The moment Orintur stepped into the vile lair of the mage, the scent of death hit him in the face with nauseating force. In the second chamber was the cause: Six glassy-eyed corpses, reanimated by the darkest of magicks. They were the unfortunate travellers that did not make it the rest of the way to Chorrol, their flesh singed with intense magical flames. To profane the dead in such a way was heresy in the eyes of Arkay, and so Orintur dispatched them swiftly. The slow, shambling zombies were no match for Orintur and his warhammer, and the Altmer had little issue releasing them from their servitude. Deeper in the cave, however, was a sight truly horrible: piled up in a corner was a mountain of corpses, most much, much older than the poor souls in the previous chamber. Next to them were bloody carts; the blasphemer had been practicing necromancy far before moving near Chorrol. Filled with righteous fury, Orintur was going to make sure the bastard would not be able to relocate this time. At the very end of the cave was a large open room with torches, and sconces filled with bones. In the middle was a stone altar with a multitude of body parts arranged in a vaguely humanoid shape...with the sickening mage ogling at their handiwork with childish wonderment. The clanking of armor alerted the aging warlock, but she was none too impressed with her adversary, wondering aloud if the following of Stendarr was so weak that they had to send a boy after her.
Summoning forth a fire atronach, the warlock looked on amusedly as her minion went to work on Orintur. The atronach was swifter than he anticipated, and he missed his first swing. Now at a safe distance, the daedroth flung a ball of fire at Orintur, hitting the middle of his cuirass. Though not hit directly, the heated part of his armor would occasionally brush against his body, searing him painfully whenever he turned. Deciding his foe was too good at gaining distance, the Altmer switched to blasting the atronach with orbs of ice. Only when the summon was in a weakened state did Orintur charge forth and let his hammer crash down on his foe's skull. Turning away from the fizzling remains of the flaming abomination, the warlock and the paladin-to-be locked eyes, both glaring at the other. Lifting up her staff, the warlock let loose a fireball, crashing behind Orintur as he jumped to the side to avoid another unfortunate burn wound; the one he had already was getting on his nerves as it was. Retaliating with a lightning bolt, the furious High Elf advanced quickly, his attack sending the warlock's next fireball askew, far away from her charging foe. Before they were able to send out another spell, Orintur knocked the mage to the ground with a hard shoulder-bash, who followed up with a quick stomp to their arm, breaking it and forcing them to let go of their staff. The blasphemer's predictable last-ditch promises of unlimited power went unheard, and were ultimately silenced by Orintur's warhammer cracking them across the skull, snapping her neck at a disgusting angle.
After treating his burn as best as he could, Orintur grabbed the accursed staff and prayed to Arkay and Stendarr, praying that the souls of the dead so disrespectfully mutilated in the cave would be tended to, and that the warlock would hopefully be granted pardon by Stendarr the Merciful. It was dark by the time Orintur returned to the chapel, and he was greeted by the relieved cheering of its inhabitants. Handing the staff to the Primate, it was announced that Orintur would be made a paladin of Stendarr on the morn. Never before had rest felt so deserved to the anxious Altmer.
After waking and praying at the altars, Orintur met the Primate at the center of the chapel. He was surpised at how many were in attendance: there was Romana and the other priests of the chapel, which wasn't too shocking, but behind them in the pews were several citizens of Chorrol and even a few guards. Kneeling low, the Primate proudly began the induction speech, placing upon Orintur the blessings of Stendarr and the other Divines, charging him with the faithful service of the good people of Tamriel, to defend and protect the weak and innocent, and to forever hold the ideals of generosity and kindness to others in his heart. Accepting these gifts and responsibilities, Orintur rose and took in his hands the steel warhammer and donned the steel armor forged by Chorrol's blacksmith, ordered by Romana and the priests specially for the Altmer's coronation. After the ceremony, Romana told Orintur that the reason for the large amount of attendees was that a paladin of Stendarr hadn't been inducted in many years, and it was an exciting event for the townsfolk. He vowed to not disappoint the people of Chorrol, or of anywhere else in Tamriel. To that end, he geared up, said his great thanks to the kind priests that raised him, to and the Primate Romana for their teachings, and set out across Cyrodiil.
The following years weren't exactly full of epic adventures and quests to destroy evil artifacts. In fact, Orintur's new life as a paladin was fairly mundane, and that suited him just fine. Helping people with problems, big or small, filled Orintur with purpose, and his spirits were raised with every word of thanks and gratitude. He took very little in terms of rewards, accepting little more than pieces of fruit or refills for his waterskin. As a result of this, and his eventual reputation as a reliable but incredibly extreme man of the faith barring him entry from most cities by the guards, Orintur has had to learn how to find his own food in the form of berries and edible plants along with the uncommon pieces of meat from the game he is able to reliably hunt, and has also taken it upon himself to learn the basics of using small swords and handaxes, just in case he ever finds himself without his hammer or enough magicka for spells. The intricacies of smithing and alchemy are far beyond the Altmer, but he knows enough to keep his armor and weapons in decent shape, and can brew basic potions for healing, fatigue, and magicka recovery.
The news of the Emperor's death saddened Orintur greatly, and upon hearing of the event he gave himself to the Kvatch arena games, hoping to honor the late Uriel Septim with victory in combat. He planned to later pray and mourn in the Chapel of Akatosh, and unbeknownst to him them, pray and mourn he would, but not just for the dead Emperor, but for all people of Tamriel.
Then the time for prayer would end, and thus would begin the purging of heretics, blashphemers, and daedric abominations. The Princes themselves shall fear the name Orintur Graywatch!
Spells:
Restoration
Greater Convalescence(J), Heal Major Wounds(A), Convalescence(A), Heal Minor Wounds(N)
Destruction
Shock(A), Corrode Armor(A), Snowball(N)
Inventory:
Storage
1 x Large Leather Backpack
1 x Leather harness w/ three pouches
Alchemy Gear
1 x Mortar/Pestle
3 x Empty vials
Sufficient ingredients to make two potions of light healing, and one potion of light magicka recovery
1 x Healing/Stamina/Magicka potions
Tools/Arms and Armor/Clothing
1 x Green cotton shirt/black trousers/leather boots
1 x Set of fluted steel plate armor with gauntlets, greaves, and a bucket helmet w/ raisable face plate
1 x Steel warhammer
1 x Iron dagger, fastened to harness across cuirass
1 x Armourer's hammer and whetstone
1 x Small handaxe for chopping up bits of wood for fires, fastened to his backpack
Food and Provisions
1 x Medium sized waterskin
2 x Cuts of cooked venison
1 x Red Apple
3 x Half-loafs of bread
1 x Small leather tent and bedroll |
56,387 | 1,541 | 32 | 1,841 | 5,697 | FireForged Friends
(MacabreFox & POOHEAD189 collab, with special guest and illustrious GM, MiddleEarthRoze)
Oblivion was just as terrible as it looked within as it did without. Moreso even, and Bardeck would be lying if he did not feel a sense of trepidation and dread at having entered such a place. Even the skies appeared to be wreathed in flame, and the dread towers that rose above the cracked rubble of the plane had a striking similarity to the Malacath maces his Orcish mentors would forge. He whispered a prayer to Talos, and made sure to keep Gideon close as they walked. Even stepping in for a moment, Bardeck now wished his truest friend had not followed him into the dark of this plane, but he knew that Gideon would refuse to be separated from him. Especially when it held such danger as this. His hound held the same loyalty to Bardeck as the warrior did to Gideon.
Crossing through the flaming portal with the group of volunteers led Brona to question her sanity. Naturally speaking of course, Brona would have turned right around after making it out of the chapel alive, and headed straight home to the Imperial City. Initially, her gut instinct when stepping through the portal, was that this realm... was not meant for any Man, Mer, or Beast. No, this was something otherworldly. She had heard of the planes of Oblivion, but never did she ever believe that she would step foot inside one. The most profound aspect of this realm, was the lack of sound. Raising her hand, an orb of light appeared, which she quickly released. The light surrounded her briefly before it faded away. Those who were trained in magick, or who had keen ears, would notice the lack of sound from her footfalls. She marvelled in silence at the vast world stretching before her, in particularly the river of fire flowing to their right. The heat from the river made her sweat as she pushed to the front of the group.
While the Imperial woman seemingly had her shit together, for the lack of a better word, Brona scanned the surrounding area. Already wary of traps, or other diabolical devices set to obliterate them, she kept her eyes peeled. No sense in having her head blown off, or being flung into slow moving fire around them. She much prefered to keep her head at that. On occasion, her eyes flickered to the jagged spires, their presence drawing closer with each footfall. Blinking became difficult, for the natural moisture in her eyes seemingly evaporated. Even her tongue felt sandy. By the time they reached the guard that had survived, Brona could only listen in disbelief at what had befallen them.
The group bumping into the guard was fortunate. He'd never thought he would see an Imperial's presence give off a familiar feeling, save that of his father. He looked frightened beyond belief, as did their Imperial guide. Bardeck was sort of confused at that. Yes, this was Oblivion, and it was more terrible than he had expected. But they had control of their own two feet didn't they? They could have turned and fled, but they were here. Why fret if their choices lead them here? The caveat about the situation was when the Guard exclaimed he had lost his friends, and to that Bardeck felt disheartened. Even though to die honorably was a worthy goal, he understood the anguish of someone close to you dying being such a fresh wound.
The decision came, by way of a towering Nord, that they would head for the towers after all. For Brona, this didn't sound safe at all. Although, in her mind, she rationalized that if they were going to close this portal, that would be the place to do it. So, Glenndus, as she came to know him, an Imperial with a similar skillset to her own, led the group. They dodged rockfalls, poisonous plants, and hidden bombs. With the lack of enemies present, she grew suspicious that something was wrong, and it turned out, she was right. She witnessed in horror as a set of spikes butchered him. Her stomach threatened to upheave the last meal she ate, but with luck, she managed to keep it down. The Imperial woman, the one that had come to the chapel, lost her cool. Cursing at the situation she found herself in, the woman backed away, heading for the portal through which they entered. Her slew of profanities and rants ended abruptly through the means of a mace. Bones crunched, air escaped from her lungs as a demon stepped out from behind the rock they had passed only seconds ago. Swinging her into the air as if she were a mere ragdoll, he, if they even had a gender, let the blood from her body drip onto his face. He tasted her blood, a forked tongue like that of a snake lapped at the crimson droplets. As if casting aside a carcass, he flung her into the river of molten fire. The smell of burning flesh filled the air around them, and to be fair, it smelt worse than roasting a boar over a spit. Sizzling in the flames from the fatty oils of her body, the Imperial woman came to a grizzly end.
Gideon bared his fangs, his haunches and back raised in warning as the Oblivion hordes appeared before them. Bardeck was both taken aback, but admittedly relieved in a sense. That thing would pay for this, but at least there was no a solid foe to fight. This plane was terrible enough, but for awhile he thought its greatest threat was that it taught one the meaning of tedium. Bardeck the warrior hefted his shield and pointed his Axe at the Dremora that had killed the Imperial woman in such a brutal fashion. He said no words, for the challenge in his eyes spoke volumes of what he intended toward the denizen of this hell. It was at that moment that Orintur charged! Bardeck felt like they could become fast friends if they lived through this. Fortunately (or unfortunately) there was more than one of the Demons to fight. Another Dremora churl cackled gutturally, and waded towards Bardeck with hate filled eyes.
Moving towards the rear of the group where the Dremora that had dispatched the Imperial woman, Brona found herself standing a few feet behind Bardeck, the same man that had come to her aid in the town square, while she watched in astonishment at the Altmer paladin's courage. She slipped the recurve bow from its tethers on her back, with her other free hand, she retrieved an iron arrow, and notched it. 'This is just like hunting deer.' she told herself. Her breathing slowed, aiming at the same demon Bardeck moved towards, she calculated his next move, both eyes open.
As the hordes of enemies appeared, Bardeck approached the Dremora warily, having to hack down a Scamp as he did so. The smaller beast was quick however, and cut a deep gash in the strong man's arm before it was dispatched with an Axe to the skull. It was at that distracting instant that the Dremora struck, striking lightning swift and slamming his mace into Bardeck's exposed side with the black iron weapon. The man cried out, his armor absorbing part of the blow. Blood dribbled down his side, however. The Dremora swiped again, but this was blocked by Bardeck's shield with a resounding 'crack' as the two objects met. Bardeck gritted his teeth, undeterred in spirit as he attempted to regain control of the fight.
As Bardeck's shield deflected the blow, she loosed the arrow, the shaft sailed through the air with a whistle. The barb missed its true mark of aiming for the demon's eye, and instead embedded itself in its shoulder. He hissed, eyes flickering to Brona for a brief moment before turning back to Bardeck. She lowered her bow, and with one free hand, conjured up another orb, this time Touch of Fear. Spinning in the palm of her hand, she aimed it straight at the demon, and released it. The orb blasted it, though it appeared unaffected, it merely cackled, saying, "Ignorant human, your spell cannot affect me." Its voice sounded thick, as if it had rocks in its throat that grated against one another. The sound of this demon's voice filled her with a sense of dread, raising the hair on the back of her neck and arms.
She swore under her breath, her luck was running out. Just when she reached for another arrow to notch, she cried out loud in dismay. The teeth of a stunted reptilian lizard dug straight into her calf, while another one bit into her left forearm, rendering her bow arm immobile. Cringing in pain, she dropped to one knee. The recurve bow clattered to the floor, and with her right hand, she tried to fish out the iron dagger at her hip.
The arrow was a welcome distraction, and Bardeck shoved the Dremora back with his shoulder, jerking his axe to the side in a slash that made a light wound on the Demon. It hissed in annoyance and pain, and raised its mace in a counter attack. Even as Bardeck moved to raise his shield, his hamstring was cut by one of the diminutive scamps. He cried out, and fell to a knee. Luckily, his shield was still raised in time to block the Dremora's powerful blow. He didn't know how much more punishment his iron shield could take. These Dremora were likely to have magic weapons. Salvation came in the form of the Warhound Gideon, who hit the Dremora in a leaping tackle. If the Demon had been wearing a helmet, he might have been able to weather the canine's onslaught. However, as damaged as he was already, with Gideon's jaws at his throat, he could do little but score a light hit on the hound's flank as he was summarily mauled.
Bardeck nodded to his companion that had taken the opportunity to finish their opponent, and he spun to hit the Scamp that had cut him with his forearm. It wouldn't do much damage to the Scamp, but it mattered little. The screeching creature slipped into the lava with a scream. When he had spun, Bardeck saw Brona surrounded! With a grunt, he staggered to his feet and made his way over to her as quickly as he could. He could see the Imperial woman scrambling for her dagger, but time was not on her side. He thanked Talos and Malcalth at once when he reached her, using his body weight more than his strength to slam his shield downward and nearly crush the Clannfear runt that had attacked her under it with jarring force. It squeaked and clawed at the ground, but it was dying. He shoved it away.
Again, the Nord man came to her aid, giving her enough time to finish off the other reptile that still clung to her arm. She could feel its teeth working back and forth, gnawing on her arm. Needles of pain raced up her arm and to her shoulder, leaving her to make one decision. With fingers curling around the hilt of the iron dagger, she drove the blade through its skull with the last reserves of her energy. Panting with exhaustion, she mustered enough strength to offer a weak smile and to say, "Thanks, friend."
Bardeck was often too earnest or too awkward in social conversations, but he found that combat brought speaking easy to him. Perhaps it was because he was distracted by other things so he spoke without overthinking, or perhaps he enjoyed the fighting enough that it brought out his true self. But it wasn't hard to talk to Brona here, especially when she called him a friend. He held up his shield to guard against any other incoming attacks before either of them, and gave her the grin of a comrade. "No problem. If we're to make it out of hell, friends should stick together." It was at that moment Gideon the hound bounded over to them, a few cuts on his hide and jowls but nothing more damaging. His tongue lolled out and he looked between Brona and Bardeck, sniffing the air.
This world was unlike any Niko had seen before. The heat alone was like stepping into a world-sized oven; but the sights that met the brave group was enough to still his heart. Heads on pikes; charred bodies; and a quiet sense of foreboding bringing with it a chill that should be impossible in a heat so intense. While he had kept his cool around his old comrade Ilend, walking through this quiet, hellish realm was beginning to tip him over the edge. He was reminded of that icy, spike of fear that only affected him in the worst times of his life... he kept waiting for a necromancer to jump out from behind a rock... to see one of the strung up corpses slowly turn and show a too-familiar face.
He was brought to his senses when something finally did happen; unfortunately for Glenndus, that was. It was clearly a quick death for the fellow, but gruesome for the group to look on. Swallowing bile that had suddenly rose up in the Nord's throat, Niko turned from the penetrated body of their scout to the raging Imperial woman. Things seemed to fast-forward from there, but the way she was killed seemed to be in slow motion. It was terrifying, disgusting, and it lit a rage in Niko's normally pleasant eyes that could not be extinguished. Unsheathing both of his swords, his face twisted into an uncharactertic snarl, ready for any foe that dared to cross his blades.
It didn't take long for him to pick a target; one of the Dremora Mages closing in one two of his comrades; a woman and man, both of which looked injured. Launching himself at it, it had barely any time to even glance his way before Niko landed a blow; completely severing an arm from the beast, it bellowed in rage and agony, flailing at him with it's mace blindly. Dodging the blow, he felt a scrape on his cheek and his hair flip through the motion of the weapon; he reacted in kind, yelling as he brought his sword clean across the Dremora's unprotected neck. His head fell from the stump which began gushing blood, body twitching as it fell to the floor. The summoned scamp had already been dispatched by the young warrior, and the expense of his hamstring, that was. Panting slightly from exertion, Niko turned to the two - no, three, if one counted the particularly happy looking dog - with a sigh, brushing a droplet of blood from his scraped cheek.
"Stay close - I'll make sure nothing else harms you until the battle is won." He nodded to the pair, voice husky with adrenaline and his eyes now dying down to a cold stoniness. He disliked torture, pain, needless harm. This very realm represented all of those things, and Niko hated everything about it. At the very least he could help bring an end to the pain it brought - and even heal some of his companion's wounds to end their pain too.
The two nodded their thanks. Bardeck gave a salute with his shield, and Gideon sat down, panting. | Name:
Bardek Gildenhart
Age:
25
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Warrior
Skills:
Expert: Blunt (Two Handed)
Journeyman: Block
Journeyman: Smithing
Apprentice: Hunting
Apprentice: Heavy Armor
Apprentice: Blunt (One Handed)
Novice: Heavy Armor
Novice: Athletics
Novice: Acrobatics
Novice: Two Handed (Staves, Polearms)
Appearance:
If Bardeck could be described in one word, it would be 'rugged.' His black hair is wavy and barely falls short of reaching his broad shoulders. This coupled with his 5'oclock shadow give him an unkempt visage. The young man's body is muscled yet lean, his skin having bronzed from the constant work outdoors (and thanks to his father's blood). He prefers wearing sturdy leather trousers, loose fitting but snug at the waist, tied by a plain brown sash belt. When in combat or preparing, he wears iron armor over a linen tunic. Outside of combat, he simply wears the tunic, usually opened in the center. If he's alone he'll go shirtless, simply enjoying the breeze and the heat of the day. His height is fairly average for an Imperial, not short by any means but not particularly tall. His callused and scarred hands are rough but firm to the touch (much like the rest of him). His caramel eyes are the softest part of him, full of life and passion, fiery wonder, and sometimes innocent curiosity.
Personality:
Bradeck can be described as a rough and ready warrior. His fierce independence and rough nature can only be matched by his loyalty to those he deems worthy. He's not particularly book smart, and can miss a few finer details of a more subtle plan when he's ready to fight in combat. Despite that, he's intuitive and introspective, with a quick mind and a dry wit. He has a quiet, a down to earth wisdom that often views the world in a pragmatic, useful manner. He's quite a passionate and creative individual when opened up to someone.
Due to his childhood being spent with male friends, and the only females he spent much time with were family members or female Orcs that would sooner hit him than hit on him, he's quite confused when it comes to romance. It's a coin toss on whether he gets very defensive and stand offish, or very stuttering and shy. It's just not his element. He respects warriors and those who pull their own weight or who show great skill. He's annoyed at laziness and dishonesty. He doesn't pick fights easily however, and only do it when he truly thinks its called for, and that's after one too many times of blundering. Not after strike one. Though he might be outspoken and blunt at his disapproval.
Backstory:
Bardeck was born in Anvil, to an Imperial ex-soldier father and a Nordic mother. They resided there for 7 years. Bardeck enjoyed swimming and exploring the surrounding woods, fascinated by the untold wilderness. At age 8, his mother's father passed away, and they moved to Skyrim in Markarth where his grandmother still resided to help her live and keep her company. His parents began a moderately successful trading business.
Bradeck wasn't quite used to the new surroundings, and was bullied by the Nordic children other than a select few whom he'd later name as his best friends. On one occasion, the other children began to rough him up near the back end of Markarth, when the Orcish smith knocked them back and bared his great fangs, causing them to flee. He gave some gruff advice to Bradeck, telling him not to let other kids push him around. He went back to his smithy.
Bradeck began to visit the smith every now and then, watching him at his work. Eventually they exchanged names. Rogath was the Orc's name, and he took a liking to Bradeck's inquisitive nature, allowing him to learn a few tricks of the trade while they spent time together through offhand advice. During this time, Bradeck would learn a few pointers of combat from his father after helping unload the carts coming to the city.
Bradeck was there when his grandmother passed away, holding his mother and crying with her when he was 14 years old. The death of his grandmother sparked questions on who he was in his mind. He felt a sense of pride to both his stoic northern blood and southern mercantile roots, but felt a kinship to Rogath and his rough nature. One day, Rogath announced he was traveling back to his homeland, and Bradeck begged him to let him go with him.
At first the Orsimer refused, but then lamented if Bradeck had the strength to go and fetch a bear pelt out in the wild. The boy felt elated, for he knew how to hunt and had the knowledge of a few bear caves, though he knew it would not be an easy quarry. He set off one morning, and found one of the bear frequented caverns. He entered, but instead found the bear dead already. He exploded further, but was discovered by a hungry vampire that had decided to hide here in order to terrorize the travelers of Markarth with relative ease.
Bradeck, armed with a battlaxe, fought for his life. He had wounded the Vampire's hip when the beast had underestimated him, but was quickly overwhelmed and thrown down the cavern. The Vampire leaped at him, intending to kill him. He used the spike on the end of his Battleaxe to impale the flying creature, bowling him over and then decapitating the bloodsucker. Rogath was then presented with both a Bear pelt and Vampire Ash. He had become Blood-Kin.
They traveled to Orsinium and lived in one of the outer lying clans. He grew in both body and spirit, learning advanced combat and Smithing techniques. His fit frame turned muscular, and his mind grew sharper with his exposure to various cultures. The Nordic city of Markarth had helped him deal somewhat with the rough living of Orisinium, truth be told. He was given a warhound Puppy named Gideon on his 21st birthday.
Age 21, he left and decided to become a mercenary and journeyman smith, heading through Hammerfell and working there in various jobs for a year before making it to Cyrodiil, living there ever since. He was recently hired to Kvatch as a caravan guard. A relatively simple job he had thought...
Spells:
Inventory:
Cutie Patoot WarDog
Steel Hand Axe
Iron Armor
Iron Shield
2 x Healing Potion
3 x Bear Pelts
3 x Wolf Pelts
2 pounds of Venison
1 Water Jug
Clothing |
56,388 | 1,541 | 33 | 1,689 | 287 | Rinori watched the city of Krvatch burn. She couldn't say she felt any strong emotions about it. On one hand, it was horrible and frightening to see what sort of power these daedra had, that they could lay siege and destroy a city in less then a day. But Rinori has never been to Krvatch, knew no one there, and was far from the fighting itself. She simply kept watch, waiting for the right moment to strike. Granted, that time could have been whena bunch of heroes went into the city and saved it from the daedra.... But they were doing such a good job Rinori didn't think they needed her help. BY the time they got to the oblivion gate itself, Rinori knew they didn't need her help.
That being said, she also wasn't sure what might happen once they're inside. Even if they close the oblivion gate, there was still more daedra in the city itself. What they were even doing here in the first place, Rinori didn't know. But if they tried to leave the city for whatever reason, she'll be here to shoot them down. She just hoped that these heroes could close the gate before it's too late. The last thing Rinori wanted on her conscious was seeing this city and it's people die because she chose not to act. | Character Name:
Rinori Imaryn
Age:
32
Race:
Dunmer
Sex:
Female
Birthsign:
The Serpent
Specialisation:
Stealth
Class:
Hunter
Skills:
Expert: Sneak, Archery
Apprentice: One-Handed Blade, Atheltics, Acrobatics, Trap Setting (Craft), Foraging (Craft)
Novice: Alchemy, Illusions, Light Armor, Restoration
Appearance:
Rinori is a tall, proud dunmer. Even when she isn't paying attention to you she carries a casual arrogant look, with an air of aloofness that makes it seems like she is above the common rabble. Otherwise known as a resting bitch-face. While some might call her pretty, Rinori cares very little about appearances. She keeps her hair short but well kept. Like many Dunmer she has deep red eyes that unnervingly look almost completely black in the absence of light. Her skin is a a pale purplish like many ashfolk, though underneath her clothing she's notably even paler.
As a hunter she prefers to dress practically, which usually means she's nearly always wearing her hunting armor. It's light, comfortable, and protective against light blades, bramble, and most types of weather. She does have a casual dress if she needs to be out of her armor, but dislikes wearing fancier clothing. Too much trouble to take care of and less useful than a simple woolen dress. She does wear a few accessory, mostly out of memory of her parents. She often wears her mother's earrings and her father's scarf.
Personality:
At first Rinori seems haughty and bashful, rarely interacting with others and she seems quite easy to offend. But she's actually just shy and sensitive, as she isn't used to interacting with others on her own. She doesn't feel comfortable in normal, social situations as she doesn't really know what to say or how to interact with people. She's far more personal when she's outside during a hunt however; once she has a bow in her hand she's much more confident and even pleasant. Rinori is careful and cautious, never wanting to get into more trouble than she has too. But that doesn't mean she's a coward, as she'll hunt down anyone who poses a threat to her or others. Whether it's a lone bear or a bandit gang, she'll stalk her prey for as long as she needs too until they're no longer a threat.
Generally speaking Rinori is a nice person. She doesn't go out of her way to cause trouble and if people have problems with her she usually just leaves instead of letting it escalate. However this also means that if someone else is in trouble, she might not always come to their aid. If she sees a hungry child on the street she would be willing to give some money or food, but if she sees two people fighting she might just ignore it. If she sees someone like a bandit preying on travelers of course she'd help the travelers too, but again when it's two people who seem evenly matched she prefers not to get involved.
When it comes to killing, Rinori has a complicated feeling about it. She is both detached yet proud of hunting, whether she's killing wild animals, dangerous monsters, or other people. Like an artist she has no feeling about what she does until it's done, and depending on what sort of effort it took she may be proud or disgusted. Rinori prefers fairly clean and quick kills, such as an arrow from the shadows. However she also isn't afraid of using traps or poisons to help her ensure her target's death sooner or later. Trapping her quarry and rendering them unable to move for hours on end is just as clean to her as it would be to slice their throat in their sleep.
Backstory:
Rinori's parents were mercenaries, a pair of dunmer sellswords who once worked in the same unit, before eventually leaving with each other. Their life was a simple one, yet wrought with danger. Her folks took jobs such as protecting caravans, hunting down creatures for alchemists, and other sort of work one may hire someone from the Fighter's Guild to do instead. However they made a comfortable living because unlike those from the Guild, they'd take any job someone would pay them for. Sometimes instead of protecting caravans, they'd raid them. Maybe even kidnap a noble. Whatever they felt would be an easy job.
As Rinori grew up, they taught her their skills, skills they used to stay alive for as long as they did. The most important thing was how to use a bow: It was practically their signature weapon. Death at a hundred paces. It was from her parents that Rinori learned most of her skills now, from combat skills like how to handle a blade or use light armor, to alchemy and foraging wild ingredients. Her mother was fairly skilled in magic and taught her some illusion and Restoration spells, while her father fancied himself a hunter and taught her how to lay traps, sneak up on prey, and how to catch or run away from them.
When Rinori was twenty years old her father was killed during a job. Her parents were out hunting minotaurs when they where attacked by a swamp of imps. As they tried to fight them off, the minotaurs arrived and her father stayed behind so her mother could escape. The only thing left after Rinori and her mother went back was her father's scarf. Not long after her mother, after losing her husband, fell into depression and took her own life. She was on a job to deal with a troll's den, but chose to collapse the cave she and the trolls were in instead of escaping. Suddenly Rinori was left without her parents, in a land unknown to her. These lands was Cyrodiil.
It wasn't easy for Rinori. She had always been training or watching her parent's belongings, and never really knew how to interact with other people. Sure she watched her parents meet clients and arrange deals, but she was never part of that. At best she just looked tough and did her best not to let others scare her. And while she never showed it, she was always scared of what others would do to her. So even in Cyrodiil, she never really tried to live in the big cities. Instead she simply roamed the countryside, hunting for food on her own, occasionally going to a small village inn if she can't find a cave or abandoned fort to rest for the night.
After a while Rinori became good at it too. She was quite adapt at sneaking past her foes, avoiding them if she can and quietly eliminating them when she can't. Her bow became the only thing that gave her comfort. With it she could snipe a bird flying through the skies, or hit a deer who's running full speed into the forest. Bandits who tried to stop her rarely were able to catch up to her, and when they'd least expect it her arrows would shoot them down so they'd never hurt anyone again. She started to grow a taste for her abilities, honing her skills whenever she can and proud whenever she did well. When she didn't she simply made sure not to make the same mistakes as before.
That being said, Rinori never really left the Golden Coast, and only traveled to the southern parts of the Colovian Highlands. Growing older now Rinori felt that she should try to travel more, perhaps even interact with people. She was still young (For a dunmer) and wanted to see what more she had to life than merely surviving. She spent some time in Anvil, growing slowly accustomed to people though still distant. When she felt she had her fill of the city she tried going to the next one: Kvatch.
Spells:
Illusion: Serenity, Inspiration, Illuminate
Restoration: Salve, Absorb Fatigue
Inventory:
Leather Armor (Includes boots, bracer, and body armor)
Woolen Dress
Red Scarf
Earrings
Steel Bow
Steel Arrows x50
Steel Shortsword
Steel Dagger x2
Silk Rope 50 feet (Used to make traps)
Travel Backpack
Bedroll
Extra-Comfy Pillow
Weather-Resistant Cloak w/Hood
Mortar and Pedestal
Alchemy Satchel
Nightshade x3
Stinkhorn x3
Mandrake Root x5
Venison x3
Boar Meat x4
Waterskin
Flint and Steel
Poison (Minor) x4
Potion of Healing x2
Potion of Magic x2
Potion of Cure Poison x1 |
56,389 | 1,541 | 34 | 1,320 | 116 | The uneventful walk through the hellish realm had Aveca on edge. She was shocked to be there, and despite her amazement, she strongly wished for nothing but to get in and get right back out. In the back of her mind, she wondered if it would even be possible to get out, or if closing the gate would close them inside. The thought of being stuck in this realm made her insides turn. She found herself glancing at the mutilated corpses in the area every now and then, and despite being accustomed to seeing gore as a healer, the expressions on those poor souls made her uncomfortable.
The silence was so disconcerting that Aveca probably would’ve loosed an arrow at a falling pebble. She kept one knocked but didn’t draw. When the group turned around to find one of their party members in a spike trap, Aveca’s first instinct at seeing someone immobile was to rush forwards and help. She didn’t even take a step before she saw that he was very, very dead. A few seconds later, an imperial woman surged towards the corpse and shouted a few profanities.
“Curse this damned place! I did not wish for this; all I had to do was rescue that stupid priest! You lot can stay here and die for all I care; And the Gods can get fucked. None of this is my fate, and I'm doing as I please from here on out. Going into Oblivion... who's bright idea was that?!" Aveca thought briefly that no one had even asked her. She had seemed a little reluctant, but the nord had thought that she was just a bit of a reluctant hero. Still, her brimming irritation fizzled out quickly as a Dremora stepped out from behind a rock and slammed into her. He lifted her with his mace and threw her into the molten lava. As her body neared the lava, her body ignited from the head and rested atop the molten rock until she was reduced to ashes. Left with little to think about, Aveca barely noticed the altmer man launch himself at the Daedra who had killed the imperial woman.
She quickly turned her attention to another enemy; the arrow she already had knocked on her arrow was quickly drawn back and loosed into the meat of a Dremora churl. It stuck home deep in his side, but the thing barely seemed to notice. It noticed her and charged directly at her. Fear struck her, as she wasn’t accustomed to one on one combat. Her first instinct was to drop her bow and raise her arms to cast a spell. She released a flash bolt directly into the Daedra’s bare face. The offshoot of flames stunned it, but fire probably hadn’t been the best choice for her, she realized. The thing lived in these realms, maybe it could even trudge through lava on its own. She thought that was an exaggeration, though.
Quickly, she attempted a new approach. While the Dremora shook the flames from its face, Aveca grabbed the front of the beast’s armor and released Cold Touch into its being. The spell shot into its center and she watched the creature seize up. It went rigid and, as a finishing blow, the Nord grabbed an arrow from her quiver and jabbed it into the churl’s exposed neck. Dark coloured blood gushed out of the wound and onto her pale hand. She wrenched the arrow out and an extra spurt of blood hit her clothing. She was small and was almost pulled to the ground with the body, but she shoved it off herself and stumbled back a step.
She examined the arrow in her hand, but found that it was unusable. The arrowhead had torn off inside of the neck. She tossed it aside and it tumbled down into the molten lava, combusting into flame before it even touched the liquid. The rush of adrenaline was still coursing through her as the looked over her blood-soaked right hand. | Character Name:
Aveca Ice-Bear
Age:
26
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Female
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Magic/Stealth
Class:
Healer
Skills:
Expert: Restoration
Journeyman: Marksman (Bow), Alteration, Alchemy (Craft)
Apprentice: Destruction, Speechcraft, Hunting (Craft)
Novice: Mercantile, Illusion, Acrobatics
Appearance:
Aveca stands at about 5’6” tall. She has the characteristic pale white skin of the Nords, as well as fair coloured features. Her hair is a light white-blonde colour with some yellowish tones. She has choppily cut bangs (done herself with a sharpened knife, quite carefully) that swoop in around her face, down to about nose length. The rest of her hair is usually kept either in a braid or in a messy bun, but when left long it goes down just past her armpits. Her eyes are a blue-gray tone, and her face is lightly freckled.
She is also able-bodied. She wouldn't get called a muscular person in general – you wouldn’t catch her in chainmail – but her body is accustomed to exercise and comfortable with the weight of drawing a bowstring. She never let herself get lax just because she practices magic.
As far as scarring and blemishes, Aveca has few. As a healer, she has usually been able to heal any more recent scars, but she has some very light markings (faded by time) up her legs and arms from the usual childhood rough activity and learning to hunt in her younger years. Between her youth and her training, she got one significant scar, which is a simple gash mark on her leg from a run in with a bear.
Aveca has little need for armor. She tries to avoid direct combat, so armor would in the end only inhibit the way she tries to weave around a battle and aid the injured. She prefers simple clothes, leggings and a tunic, or sometimes a dress or skirt. These she always wears over leggings and with boots, as she likes to be prepared for any situation.
Personality:
Aveca is a healer, and that is her passion, but it could in no way define all she is. She believes in aiding the wounded and sick, and wants to go out across the world and help good people, but she also has a fairly strong sense of justice and can be harsh with it at times. She won’t aid you regardless of who you are on the basis of you being a living being. After all, hunter and healer don’t tend to correlate. She isn’t afraid to throw fire around if it comes down to a fight, but she much prefers to avoid one. The bow she carries, she prefers to use for hunting than on people. Her passion is much more around the idea of widespread misery and sickness; her interests lie in sickness and disease, in the curing of plagues and foreign illnesses. She has an apt and interest for academic learning, but can become bored easily if it isn’t related to her interests (being healing, alchemy, living things, cultures, languages).
Despite this, she tends to help first and ask questions later. She will heal someone without a second thought in an instant, because she would rather help someone and expect them to be a good person than not take the risk in case they may be less savory. However, if ever she was betrayed she would retaliate in full force.
Overall, Aveca is a happy and optimistic person. She wants to travel and experience the world, to meet, to help, and to socialize with people from everywhere there is. She is generally willing to engage in a conversation at any time and with anyone, as long as she isn’t trying to heal. She takes her work seriously and doesn’t like distractions while she is actively doing a spell.
One thing is that you don’t want to get into an argument with her. She’ll get heated over anything she has an opinion on, and she won’t let go, either.
Backstory:
Katla and Eirn were rather typical Nords. They met in Markarth, where Katla lived with her family (merchants), and Eirn travelled through as a hunter selling meats. He trekked back and forth across Skyrim all his life, with his parents and then later on his own. He met Katla at the market there, and found himself coming to Markarth more and more often. Her family disapproved, but they married and she too to travelling with him. She enjoyed the adventure. When Aveca and her sister,
Laisa, were born, their parents stopped for a time at a camp they built outside of Whiterun. It provided some stabililty for the young girls.
As they grew older, their parents started travelling with them more. They had a cart and tents, so it wasn’t as though they lived in total discomfort. Aveca was quite fond of the dirt and the travel, whereas Laisa was jealous of the nicely dressed children they met in cities. Over the years, Aveca learned hunting from their father from a very young age, and their mother taught Laisa the ways of business so she could go out on her own someday, without having to depend on someone else.
When she was 13, Aveca asked her family to take her north to the College of Winterhold to learn, and they did. Her mother was a firm believer in doing what you want to do. At first try, the nice man at the gate told her and her mother that they simply couldn't let in a totally untrained mind, and at such an age, though he would have liked to. He asked her to gain some preliminary knowledge and to return in a few years. Her mother was frustrated, and, determined for her daughter to have what she wanted, they traveled to Markarth and left Aveca with a mage she knew from her life there. He was an Alteration mage named Aenar who worked in the temple. She spent a year and a half with him and helped him with his work, while developing a base knowledge of how magic works and how to preform it. She learned a solid base of novice spells and returned to the College with her family just as she was almost 15. This time, they let her in to learn more after she demonstrated that she had the skill for learning it.
For the first few years she studied generally and with vigor, but when she was 17, her family travelled north to tell her that her mother had died of an illness. She never got the chance to say goodbye because of the distance. Her sister was still ill with the same sickness, however it was less advanced and the mages in Winderhold healed her. This ignited Aveca’s passion more specifically for healing and she undertook learning all she possibly could about it. She had a knack for magic and dedicated her whole life to it from the age of 17 until she was 24. She still kept hunting on as a hobby, something she did for an afternoon every week, maybe.
As for Laisa, when she was 18 she made some business connections and set up a shop in Riften.
When Aveca was 24, she herself deemed her training temporarily complete. She had a very advanced training in healing, as well as alchemy and alteration, but she didn’t have the same knack for the rest of the schools and she didn’t focus on them nearly as much. She left the college of her own accord and again travelled Skyrim with her father for a good number of months until she passed south to Cyrodill from Riften, after a visit with her sister.
Once there, she used a mixture of hunting, healing, and alchemy to make an income. She started in the north in Burma, and travelled south through Chorrol, Skingrad, and finally Kvatch. During this time she travelled very light, with a sac on her back for various alchemical pursuits, and very little else. She stayed in inns in the cities as long as she could afford to do so.
Spells:
Restoration: Heal Minor Wounds, Major Respite, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Heal Superior Wounds, Devour Health, Cure Disease, Superior Convalescence
Alteration: Lightning Shield, Water Breathing, Water Walking, Protect Other,
Destruction: Electric Touch, Flash Bolt, Frost Touch
Illusion: Illuminate, Soothing Touch
Inventory:
Steel Bow
Quiver of Iron Arrows (x20)
Iron Dagger (more for daily use than fighting)
Pair of black leggings
Sturdy leather boots
Light blue tunic
Brown cotton dress, white corset, decent quality
Travelling cloak
Leather belt with pouches
Waterskin
Knapsack, leather
Bedroll with bedding
Mortar and Pestle
Alchemical ingredient pouch (mostly herbs for healing potions, but with some other ingredients)
Vials and corks for those potions
Minor Magika Potions (x2)
75 Septims
Dried meats, bread, cheese |
56,390 | 1,541 | 35 | 1,445 | 9,364 | It's been about a month since Malakaus had left the Imperial City for his journey. His quest was simple enough: Go to the guilds and learn more about Levitation Lore. Malakaus wondered why the spell had been banned in the first place, it’s not as if Levitation has any ethical issues like necromancy. And even so Malakaus didn’t really care about it, seeing it no worse than the usual conjuration controversy regarding dealing with daedra. The roads have been clear of bandits so far, and aside from some wolves giving him the eye he hasn’t run into any trouble yet.
Malakaus was about half-way along when a band of travelers crossed his path. Yet despite the size of the group, they looked ill-prepared for a long journey: most didn’t even have backpacks and were carrying boxes or sacks. When Malakaus met them he asked what news they had. Apparently they were fleeing Kvatch after some sort of massive disturbance. No one knew what exactly had happened, only that it seemed like a gate to Oblivion opened up and daedra started pouring in. Hearing this didn’t frighten Malakaus however: Quite the opposite.
The realms of Oblivion were dangerous but also bountiful. Even for it’s hellish landscape there were many powerful and potent alchemical ingredients inside, and Daedra hearts were legendary in all crafting circles. They had potent magic for alchemy, the blood necessary to daedric smithing, and often used as a catalyst in enchanting. Not to mention that for the fortunate few, one may even go into Oblivion to meet Daedric Lords themselves. Malakaus had heard of Malakath’s own realm, the Ashpit, where land floats through the skies and the air is filled with poison. Levitation and the ability to breath one’s own fresh air was necessary, and Malakaus hoped to meet him one day. Ideally while Malakaus was still alive.
Thus this news about an oblivion gate opening up piqued Malakaus’s interest. What sort of power lay beyond that gate? And why was it here in the first place? Surely such a cataclysmic event couldn’t be done by a mere cult or even a powerful wizard. There had to be a daedric lord behind this. Only question was, who? So for a moment Malakaus decided to put his quest on hold. No, not quite: a new objective in his quest was discovered. In his pursuit of knowledge he shall investigate Kvatch and get to the bottom of this Oblivion Gate. Figuratively of course. He imagine that the pits in oblivion are bottomless or at least very, very long.
Sometime later Malakaus arrived to the base of Kvatch. He knew he was close because the skies were red and darken, despite arriving sometime during the day. Or was it night? Frankly, being this close to an Oblivion Gate was bound to skew time and space. Didn’t matter, time to investigate. The orc approached the makeshift fortifications made to protect the former citizens, looking for anyone who knew what happened. Ideally, there may be a guard or soldier of some sort who may be willing to accept Malakaus’s help. If needed he could even say that he’s an Imperial Soldier, albeit one who’s on leave. | Character Name:
Malakaus
Age:
27
Race:
Orsimer
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
Atronach
Specialization:
Combat
Class:
Juggernaut
Skills:
Expert - Heavy Armor
Journeyman - Smithing (Craft), Blocking, Enchanting (Craft)
Apprentice - Hand-to-Hand, Marksmen, Alteration
Novice - One-Handed Blunt, One-Handed Blades, Foraging, Athletics
Appearance:
When most think of orcs, one would think burly, green-skinned men or even women with predominant tusked teeth, animistic eyes, and many scars adorning their bodies. Well, Malakaus has some of those things. Malakaus had the great misfortune of being born smaller than most orcs; some say it’s because his father was a human, others think that Malacath had cursed him. Whatever the case may be, Malakaus is still only a 5’6” with a brownish green skin tone and no tusks at all. Cruel children called him a goblin instead of an orc. He tries to look intimidating as much as he can, such as growing his hair out in barbaric braids, showing off his scars, and wearing frightening clothing. Sometimes it works. The only thing about him that he believes is appropriately orcish is his piercing red eyes. His mother says he has the eyes of Malacath, burning bright red with the fire of passion and hate.
And try as he might, while Malakaus can certainly build muscles he will always be scrawny compared to other orcs. He could train just as hard, eat just as much, and fight just as often, yet he will never grow the muscle mass and height to compare to them, and even some humans (Typically nords) can out do him in size. He has the scars and wounds to prove just how often he tries to grow stronger in body, but all they really serve is as a reminder of his shortcomings. Aside from his wounds, Malakaus is oddly hygienic. He tends to wash whenever possible and even brushes his teeth, figuring that while he may not have tusks like other orcs, he could at least try to keep his teeth clean. Even his hair is notable soft and often fragrant. His mother insist that he keeps himself clean due to his activities, and Malakaus himself doesn't mind the jeers. It just gives Malakaus a reason to get into fights with people.
Malakaus generally prefers to go shirtless whenever possible, mostly just to show off his chest and scars. Thus his casual attire tends to just be a pair of comfortable trousers and boots. That being said, he does wear proper attire for the weather or situation: he has proper clothing for smithing work and cold weather. And more often than not, he is wearing his armor and other equipment anyways, which is not only made to be comfortable, but also protective. He accessorizes a bit with golden earrings he made himself, as well as an amulet that belonged to his father. He often wears a mask to cover his mouth, mostly to hide his non-orcish teeth, and has a ragged mantle that was once his baby-blanket.
Personality:
Some would call Malakaus boisterous. Others human. Most say he's angry. Honestly, the best way to describe Malakaus is not a word, but a phrase: His personality is who he is. His attitude depends on who you are. It is for this reason that if you get different people talking about him, they each could give a different version of him. One moment he could be heroic, and another he could have gotten into a fight with you for a perceived insult. There is a method to his madness, but very rarely would people get his true personality. They'd most just get whatever attitude he adopts to deal with whatever people is around him.
Generally speaking Malakaus prefers to do good when he can. The only issue is that what good he can do tends to be of the violent sorts. He certainly has skills to live a normal, peaceful life of a common smith or even an enchanter, but Malakaus always felt like he needs to "Prove" himself due to his insecurities, feeling as though he isn't orcish enough to settle down peacefully. A lot of Malakaus's actions could be reasoned out as "He's trying to show off" or "He's compensating for something". Whether it's helping a village against a gang of bandits or picking a fight with a demon who's minding his own business, anything to prove that he is a true orcish warrior, even if the only one he's proving himself to is himself.
So while Malakaus can be selfish, he does get pleasure from doing good things just as he does bad things. He feels good giving a beggar a septim, thinking that he's helped. He also has no problem shooting down a pickpocket who was begging and had the misfortune of being caught. To him they're just the different side of the same coin. He does have something of a meek streak when dealing with particularly attractive girls as well as those of actual authority. Growing up as "The Goblin" has made Malakaus uneasy around girls, believing that any attempts to get close to him is just a ploy to steal his money, heart, or dignity. And thanks to his time in the Imperial Legion, he can be oddly obedient at times, but it also makes him weak-willed too. Quick to anger yet at the same time easily cowed, it all simply builds up into a frustration Malakaus often fails to contain and deal with in a safe and proper manner, thus creating his nearly suicidal desire to do extreme acts.
Malakaus doesn't particularly care for the Divines. He feels that they're too disconnected to the world and that "coincidences" aren't things he's going to put faith in. Thus he has more stock in the Daedra Lords, despite knowing fully well that while the Divines may not be able to act directly in his interest, more often then not the Daedra Lords are working in ways that will result in his death. But at least they're active. As an orc he of course gives proper respect due to Malacath for whom Malakaus was blessed with his name. He's also courted Hircine from time-to-time, hoping to be blessed with lycanthropy. So far none of Malakaus's prayers have been answered. And while most of the other gods get their due respect/fear, Malakaus is violently against Boethiah. Not because of his potential hand in the creation of Malacath (And the disgusting implications behind it), but mostly due to the Dark Elves whom often call Boethiah their patron god. Malakaus does not like Dark Elves. At all.
Backstory:
Malakaus's story begins with the death of his father. His father, unlike some orcs, was an Imperial Soldier who had been stationed in Bruma. He was out on patrol one day when he found a wounded orcish huntress. She was laying on the ground bleeding to death alongside two bears she had just killed. His father took the huntress back to the city and nursed her back to health, and it was there that the two began their romance. Over the course of a few years the two would meet one another out in the cold fields of Burma, sharing stories with one another and keeping each other company. Eventually after a few years of companionship, they eloped.
However not long after the chief of the stronghold learned of the huntress’s interaction with the Imperial Soldier, and knowing that one of his daughters dare had the gall to give herself away to a human of all things angered him greatly. So one day he and his warriors went to find his daughter when she was out hunting, and when they found her with the Imperial Soldier they attacked him. Malakaus’s father stayed back to defend himself and his lover from the orcs, telling her to run back to the city. He gave her his amulet, which many of his fellow soldiers would recognize as his. It would be what she needed in order for them to safeguard her. So Malakaus’s mother ran to the city and sought help with the Imperial Soldiers there, showing them the amulet and telling them what happened. But it would be too late, and by the time the guards went to investigate Malakaus’s father had already been slain. He took out four warriors on his own, including the chief himself. But in the end he had died before anyone could have saved him.
The others knew about Malakaus’s father and his meetings with the huntress. Not everyone approved, some even threaten to report him for it, but their commanding officer was sympathetic. Having served alongside many fine orcish soldiers in his long career with the Legion, the officer chose to help Malakaus and his mother, by allowing her to enlist with the Imperial Legion. She signed on as a smith, working the forge to create and repair equipment for Imperial Soldiers. It wasn’t long before Malakaus himself was born, and shortly after his mother had saved up enough money to buy supplies and travel to the Imperial City, where the two would live in a home that belonged to Malakaus’s Imperial Father.
Raising a young boy alone while working for the Imperial Army wasn’t easy for a single orcish mother, but she was more than willing to rise to the challenge. She was strict with Malakaus, but at the same time made sure that he could quickly take care of himself. By the time he could walk on his own two feet she made him learn how to use a bow and hunt for his own meals. He wasn’t very good at first, but by the time he was ten years old he could at least kill a rats with his bow and arrows.
However Malakaus found living in the Imperial City to be an absolute nightmare as a child. At first he was excited at seeing other children, and they excited to see him. They were too innocent to realize the implication of his birth, and most didn't care that he was an orc. But it wasn't long before they grew smarter and crueler. Other orcs looked down on him when he didn't grow to their size. Other mer and men considered him ugly and barbaric. Even the beast races thought that he was too bizarre, even for them. All just because he didn't quite fit in with his own kind. They threw racists names at him, degraded him in public, and at times even attacked him. He was known throughout the city as "The Goblin" for his off-green skin tone and scrawny appearance. He's even had mercenaries attack him, believing he truly was a goblin who had managed to get inside the city. The worse were the dunmer; they combined all these hateful things and multiplied it by their numbers. The gang of bullies who picked on him the most were proud dunmer sons of noblemen, whose idea of “training” was ganging up on Malakaus.
But like a true orc he these insults not with stoic silence, but burning fury. When those mercenaries attacked him he fought back. He didn't win, and he got stabbed for his troubles, but he fought and he didn't die. When those bullies made fun of him for being small, he attacked them until they were looking up at him, on the ground. It didn't happen the first time, but after the seventh brawl or so he had gotten so used to taking the hits that he was the last one standing. Even the gossip spread about him came to a quick end when he assaulted a couple of dunmer girls by throwing a giant rat corpse at them, which actually got Malakaus arrested. He was only fourteen years old.
All of this of course came right back to his mother, who was both sad and disappointment. She understood why he acted like this, but did not approve of it at all. Malakaus was going to get at least a year in prison due to assaulting the daughters of some rich family, but his mother had one get-out-of-jail card for him: the commanding officer of Malakaus’s father. When he heard that Malakaus had gotten into trouble, he was willing to do a favor for him. But there was a catch: If Malakaus was going to be pardoned, he would join the Imperial Legion. It wasn't exactly an easy choice for Malakaus to make, but he figured if he was going to be fighting people, he may as well make a career of it. So he joined the Legion.
His first two years consisted of basic training. He was given a set of heavy iron armor that he was to wear nearly all the time, even while resting, bathing, and sleeping. By the end of the week he had to be taken to a healer due to the exhaustion he was feeling. However seeing the jeering faces of his fellow soldiers, who seemed to take to the armor so easily, enraged Malakaus to continue onward. To survive just to spite them. Of course he didn't wear the iron armor just to loose weight: he was also given plenty of combat drills. From individual combat to mass combat, he was expected to perform well in all categories. Once he became used to the weight of the armor, Malakaus did fairly well for himself. The military also was an oddly nice change of scenery compared to his life on the streets. Those who jeered and insulted him were quickly weeded or straighten out: In the Legion there was no Mer, Men, or Beasts. Only soldiers. Malakaus's commanding officer was harsh but fair. He never spoke badly of Malakaus unless he screwed up during a drill or was lagging behind during practice. His commanding officer never made Malakaus do anything he couldn't himself, and did plenty of things Malakaus simply couldn't. He could swim in full imperial regalia, create a localized blizzard, and create enough swords to arm the entire unit in a week. Sufficient to say, there was a high bar. Malakaus was determined to meet it.
After two years of basic training, Malakaus was considered an Auxiliary. Despite his training, he wasn't necessarily going to have to see battle. During his time in basic, Malakaus showed extreme promise in smithing, making quick and decent repairs and even manufacturing his own equipment. Mostly basic but useful things, such as shovels, axe heads, silverware, and even jewelry. Thus he was given an opportunity to train with Imperial Smiths. Much to his surprise and pleasure, most of them were orcs. And unlike the orcs he grew up with, these orcs were disciplined and mature. While they certainly piled on most of the menial tasks to "the fresh meat", they never degraded him for his size or stature. He was often challenged in smithing to see if he could keep up in their level of craft, and it was certainly difficult for him at first. But it wasn't long before he was keeping up with the others, and practically a veteran in the forge by the time he served the Imperial Legion for another three years.
After five years, Malakaus was already an adult. He had served loyally in the Legion and grown into a respectable man. Yet at the same time, he felt that he wasn't complete. He was still young, yet he has never left the city. Many others his age had gone to war, or at least left the city for adventure. He too wanted to see the world outside these walls, but didn't know where to start. But thankfully his mother came to his aid once more. During her time in the Imperial City she had made a few friends, and one friend was a member of the Mage’s Guild. This man was a breton who traveled the world to discover and study ancient dwemer ruins, and had recently returned from Morrowind after an extensive archaeological survey, was currently doing research in the city. He and Malakaus’s mother bonded over dwarven metallurgy and when she heard that Malakaus was seeking more to his life, she offered him as an apprentice to the mage. The breton was hesitant at first, but figured that he could use someone like Malakaus at his side. He would teach the young orc what he knew, while at the same time Malakaus would help the man in his endeavours.
Of course Malakaus jumped onto this opportunity, but unfortunately he didn’t leave on a life of adventure immediately. As was mentioned, he was doing research in the city, and Malakaus was mostly used as muscles to move heavy objects or bring things to the breton. True he also tried to teach Malakaus magic, but either Malakaus had no talent for it or the teacher was horrible, as the orc failed to really grasp most magic. When he tried destruction magic he'd be lucky if he sets himself on fire. Restoration often caused sores and even blisters to appear instead of healing wounds, and nothing came from his conjuration. His illusions were so poor and shoddy a rock could see through them, and he had absolutely no talent in Mysticism. Only two forms of magic did he do well in: Alteration and Enchanting.
The latter was because it felt so similar to Smithing, it was simply using magic instead of metal. The former mostly because Malakaus was being mischievous. One day while Malakaus was fetching books for the mage, he stumbled upon a tome from Morrowwind. Inside contained various information about spells and incantations, one in particular which was information about the Levitation spells. An alteration spell that essentially allowed one to fly through the air using magic. Malakaus he felt that this spell would be exactly what he needs to make a name for himself as a mage. There was, of course, some issues such as the fact that even the mage had no further information about levitation magic, or the fact that levitation itself was banned by the Empire. But Malakaus was determined to look nonetheless, and thus set out on an adventure to learn more.
So packing up his things and informing the mage the general intent of his journey (To journey to the mage guilds to further his career in magic, but not anything about Levitation), Malakaus set out to the Mage Guild in Leyawiin. He wasn’t sure if Leyawiin had the answers she sought and they could very well lead to a dead end, but he was determined to look anyways. He’d take any lead he could find, even some that would seem unrelated to what he was looking for. Anything could be the key to discovering the secrets of Levitation. But as he traveled along the road he reached the crossroads, one heading south and another west. And from the west, many travelers told him of some sort of strange disaster occurring in the city of Kvatch. What strange phenomenon could be happening that so many spoke about it? Malakaus didn’t know. But he was about to find out.
Spells:
Alteration - Sea Stride, Buoyancy, Minor Latch Crack, Ease Burden, Defend
Inventory:
Imperial Heavy Duty Backpack
Iron Armor Set (Helmet, Iron Armor, Gauntlets, Boots)
Blacksmith's Outfit (Thick Cotton Shirt, Apron, Pants)
Bandoliers (Two bandoliers with straps and pouches, each can hold up to 4 small things like potions, daggers, scrolls, etc)
Gold Earrings (Four total, two for each ear)
Amulet (Belonged to his father, enchanted with Minor Stamina Regeneration)
Ragged red Mantle (Former baby blanket)
Comfortable Underwear
Tough Leather Boots
Thick Leather Gloves
Furred Traveling Cloak
Bedroll
5x5 Leather Canopy
Wineskin (Currently full of water)
Sealed Iron Flagon (Currently full of tomato soup)
Wolf Jerky (x2 1/2)
Potato Bread (Not eaten yet)
Chewsticks (Eight of them in a bag, used to brush teeth)
Soap on a rope
Fairly Clean Towel/Blanket
Potion of Moderate Healing x2
Potion of Cure Disease
Steel Waraxe (Gift from his mother)
Steel Shortsword of Soul Trapping (His first weapon and enchantment he’s ever made)
Iron Dagger
Iron Bow
Iron Arrows x50
Spiked Targe (Iron shield with a spike at the center, can be strapped to the arm instead of held in hand)
Petty Soul Gems x3 (Empty)
Coin Purse (Has 300 Gold)
Magic Journal (Contains magical notes, theorems, incomplete scrolls, flowers, Enchantments, and formulas. Written in Orcish.)
Charcoal
Smithing Hammer (Also doubles as a repair hammer)
Tongs
Twelve-Inch Iron Bar with runes carved into it (Experimental magic device Malakaus is trying to make) |
56,391 | 1,541 | 36 | 365 | 1,196 | Adamiir Thiich - The Deadlands - Reflecting on his Mortality
Two of their own dead, just like that. While Adamiir couldn’t claim to feel particular remorse for either Glenndus or the whiny bitch that soon followed him to the grave, it was a stark reminder of the survivors’ mortality. Specifically, of course, his mortality. He glanced nervously at those around him, then at the cluster of hellspawn ahead. “I suppose it wouldn’t do to run away now, then?” Apparantly not, as the words barely left his lips before the elven paladin, Orintur Graywatch, as he so loudly proclaimed, charged headfirst into the throng of demons, sparking the melee.
It wasn’t long before Adamiir found himself surrounded. Three hissing scamps, circling around him, barely kept at bay by the threat of magicka coursing within his veins. The smallest one charged first, a flurry of claws and teeth that Adamiir noticed, even as he prepared to evade the assault, were remarkably clean for a scamp. He dropped to the ground, thrusting his hands into the air as he did so, pouring as much electricity into the creature’s softer underbelly as he could manage. The scamp dropped to the ground just behind Adamiir with a thud, even as the last two scamps charged at his now prone form. The one from behind arrived first, sinking its teeth deep into Adamiir’s shoulder, eliciting a cry of pain from the breton, even as he released a lightning bolt into the chest of the final scamp; a last ditch effort to prolong his life. The monster behind him bit down harder, and he thought he could feel something about to tear. Pain and panic flooded Adamiir’s mind then, and there was no more room for spells or survival.
Veeza - The Deadlands - Saving a Life
Veeza saw the scamp’s jaws open wide as it lunged forward before the breton felt them, and already he was charging ahead. The scamp released its morsel as the clanking of Veeza’s armor drew nearer and nearer, turning to face this new threat as quickly as time would allow. Not fast enough, it seemed, as Veeza grabbed the scamp by a leg and an arm with a roar, lifting the creature high into the air, before forcing it down onto his fearsome scalp. The thing wailed and shrieked, twisting and struggling desperately, only succeeding in burrowing Veeza’s spikes deeper into its stomach. The scamp scratched at him furiously, a few blows scraping his face, leaving shallow cuts, while most scrabbled harmlessly off of his armor. With a heave, Veeza lifted the scamp once more, throwing it down to the ground. It twitched once, then twice, then it was dead.
Veeza approached Adamiir then, looking down at the mage clutching his shoulder, working some sort of healing magic. Veeza prodded him with a foot, extending his hand. Adamiir ended the spell, reaching for Veeza’s hand with his good arm. Even as the argonian lifted him to his feet, Adamiir still winced in pain. It would take more than a cursory healing spell before his right arm could be used without great effort “I thank you, large and fearsome lizard! If the need arises for me to repay the favor, it is probable that I will!” He turned then, to survey the state of the battlefield, gripping his pendant tightly. Behind him, Veeza nodded.
“We must remain united. I fear this gate, and what it implies.” | Character Name:
Adamiir Thiich
Age:
28
Race:
Breton
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Tower
Specialisation:
Magic/Stealth
Class:
Treasure Seeker
Skills:
Expert- Illusion
Journeyman- Destruction, Acrobatics, Trap-setting (Craft), Translation (Ayleid, Craft)
Apprentice- Athletics, Restoration, Sneak
Novice- Mercantile, Security, Alteration, Foraging
Appearance:
Tall and gangly, an inch or two below the height of the average Altmer when standing straight, with sharp bony features and his shoulders bent forward in a slight stoop, Adamiir’s form carries with it an aura of wrongness, as though he was put together by an amateur craftsman with pieces that never quite matched. His face is pale and clean shaven, his nose long and thin, pointed downwards, vaguely resembling the beak of a hawk. His mouth is a crooked slash of a thing, resting uncomfortably on his face. Set above high cheekbones and hollow cheeks are Adamiir’s eyes, dark and nervous, always jittering around, changing their focus every few seconds. Atop his head lies a thick mop of shoulder length blonde hair, dark gold, like that of a lion’s mane.
Unusually spry, despite his unwieldy appearance, Adamiir has built a small amount of muscle from a lifetime climbing trees in the Great Forest and pushing through its brush. Without concern for armor, he dons nothing more than a pair of leather shoes, sturdy but simple, brown cloth pants, for ease of movement without sacrificing durability, and a navy blue tunic, a belt of dark leather around the waist. The only other item of noticeable interest would be a plan silver amulet, given to Adamiir by his master.
Personality:
To call Adamiir eccentric would be both accurate and simultaneously a vast oversimplification. When it comes to the fine art of conversation, he is woefully awkward and unskilled, usually coming off of as somewhat touched in the head to the more judgemental folk populating Nirn. Despite these limitations, Adamiir prides himself as a teacher, always ready to educate present company with any information he has relevant to the conversation… whether his input was requested or not. As stilted as it may be, Adamiir does try his best to extend goodwill to those deserving of it; he is often caught between the desire to do good unto others and do what is best for himself. It would be correct in stating that Adamiir has a selfish streak running parallel to his generous one.
A particular fascination of his is the Ayleids, and while his enthusiasm for history is great, the passion he feels for the Ayleids’ mysterious nature is unmatched. Sometimes when he thinks no one can see him, he pulls out a welkynd stone, as full of magicka as the day he first claimed it, and stares deep into the crystalline blue surface, mesmerized by its glow.
Not a stranger to peril, Adamiir is confident in his abilities to escape most dangers with ease. More specifically, he puts stock in his prowess with the school of illusion, being able to manipulate the minds of others to cause chaos (or nullify it) while he makes a speedy exit from the scene. In cases where trickery wouldn’t be enough to solve the problem Adamiir faces, he is skilled in the fine art of melting faces.
He has a habit of gripping at his pendant when nervous, and often mumbles the end of a thought out loud when not actively refraining from doing so.
Backstory:
Adamiir’s Biography - Prologue - An Attempted Theft
For Jeriyn and Talasa Broell, the graveyard of Falkreath was like a candy shop. And they, of course, were the kids. As Jeriyn told Talasa often, there were enough dead soldiers buried there to take over the entire hold, and all it would take was two skilled necromancers, such as themselves. And as Talasa told Jeriyn often, the whole mess had better be worth their while, or she’d take Adamiir and turn tail right back to Cyrodiil, where it wasn’t so stupid cold. This exchange was repeated often between the two, all the way from Kvatch to the very graveyard in question. Talasa watched Jeriyn work incredulously, her babe pressed into her bosom to keep him warm during the chill of night.
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Again and again Jeriyn labored, digging himself deeper into the earth, closer to the dead.
Shiiick, shuck, ksh
Shhckk
“I’ve got it!” Jeriyn exclaimed, the sound of metal striking wood one that he knew well. He dropped to his knees and began to scoop the dirt out of the way by hand, and sure enough the telltale planks of a coffin were revealed to him. “This is just the beginning,” he whispered to himself. “Soon, we’ll have an army.” Jeriyn hoisted himself out of the grave, and stood on its precipice. “Talasa, fetch the axe, I need it.” Wordlessly, she turned to leave. Talasa hated it when Jeriyn ordered her around in that manner, but refusing would just make him angry.
Nighteye guided her safely to the edge of the graveyard and beyond, into the brush where their horse, Whisper, was hidden, the animal’s reins tied to a sturdy, low hanging branch. Talasa retrieved the demanded axe from the saddlebags, its heavy weight feeling awkward and alien in her grasp. She started back towards Jeriyn, but froze mid step only a few paces later. There were angry shouts originating from where she came, followed by the unmistakable sight of Jeriyn’s spellfire. Talasa sucked in her breath, clutching at Adamiir, hoping against hope that her husband would come out of this unscathed.
It wasn’t to be. There were no more signs of magicka expenditure, yet the angry voices remained, and they were drawing closer. Talasa looked down in horror at the tracks in the snow that would lead her pursuers straight to her location. She took action in an instant, struggling to free Whisper’s reigns from the tree yet still managing. Pulling herself into the saddle, she seized the reins with one hand while her other arm held Adamiir close to her chest. The spurs digging into Whisper’s flanks were enough to get her moving, going at a full gallop out of the wood and onto the main road, Kvatch bound.
A storm of arrows whizzed past Talasa and Whisper, the former releasing the reins and trusting the latter to guide them in order to curl themselves around their child. Fire erupted in Talasa’s thigh, then again under her right shoulder blade. Both times she lurched forward in the saddle, crying with pain. The second time she spat blood flecked spit onto Adamiir’s face.
It did not take long before Whisper began to tire, and the horse slowed itself to a trot. Talasa held her head up slightly, surveying her surroundings as best she could as her vision began to darken. The Nords had not pursued. She lowered her head again, fixing her eyes on Adamiir. Alive. Unharmed. Tucking her chin against her chest and closing her eyes, Talasa allowed herself one small smile.
The infant Adamiir stared up at his mother’s serene face with curiosity, her heart beats echoing in his right ear slowly weakening, barely kept aflutter by desperate healing magics.
Whisper trotted on.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part One - The Master
Morinus Thiich needed an apprentice. It was only a short decade ago that he himself was the student, learning from the travelling mages and scholars delving deep into the Ayleid ruins for wealth and knowledge. However, his old teachers were now retired or dead, and in Morinus’ line of work, someone that had your back made the difference between life and death. An Ayleid temple tucked into the mountains separating Skyrim and Cyrodiil would mark the last time Morinus ever ventured into one of those dungeons alone. Now he would travel back south and scout the province’s various counties for an eligible apprentice.
Life, however, had different plans in store.
A blood stained babe clutched in the grip of what appeared to be said babe’s dying mother was not what Morinus Thiich expected to discover on his return trek home from the Jerall Mountains. But sure enough, there they both were, one atop the other, motionless on the side of the road, whoever or whatever brought them here already long gone. Morinus rushed over to the two, discovering the woman’s wounds to be much worse than he anticipated. Her left leg was mangled beyond repair, and a smouldering carcass of… something lay a few feet away. She tilted her head towards Morinus, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She lifted her arms once, feebly, raising her child towards the mage, before lowering them again, and growing still. This was not the ideal process that Morinus hoped to use, but he had been looking for someone malleable to pass his knowledge down to. The aging Breton sighed, and seized the infant up into his arms.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Two - Rocks and Spells, Spells and Rocks
A few years passed since Morinus first found his pupil by the roadside, and the child that was known as Adamiir quickly became Morinus’ most promising student. Any free time seemed to have the child entirely absorbed in his studies. Learning of the lore and history of the world was one of Adamiir’s great passions. What took precedence above all other activities, however, was Morinus’ rigorous training regime, climbing trees and scaling large boulders would teach Adamiir to always remain agile and light on his feet, skills that would be tested when trees and boulders became the dilapidated ruins of ancient ayleid temples. Being able to bend the minds of friend and foe alike would always be an invaluable aid to Adamiir, as would spells of light that would guide Adamiir safely through even the darkest of crypts. Paralysis spells would come in handy whenever a quick escape was needed, while invisibility spells would ensure that he could not be tracked easily. Indeed, the many fine intricacies of the illusion school of magic were a great passion of Morinus’, one that he would ensure was passed down to Adamiir.
However, there are always times in life when smoke and mirrors cannot deflect the truth, or for every tricky ace one has up their sleeve, their adversary has two more. The destruction school of magic was ideal for dealing with these incidents, and this too, Morinus taught to his young breton pupil. Aside from rocks and spells, he also saw it fit to give Adamiir some amount of proficiency in the art of trapping. When on the road away from extended periods of time, one must learn to be self sufficient. Though a few other bits and bobs were thrown in to occasionally mix up the schedule, the curriculum Adamiir would follow for years to come was set in stone.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Three - First Flight
It was at fifteen years of age when Adamiir first accompanied Morinus on his excursions to the Ayleid ruins. The sheer scope of how vast the empire of the Heartland Elves once was awed him, whilst simultaneously instilling a strange sense of forlorn melancholy in his heart. Crumbling ruins crawling with the dead were all that remained. The underground locale shown to Adamiir was small, and of relatively simple design. Threats were few and far between, only a few shambling skeletons waiting to be sent to the next world. They were no match for Adamiir’s magic - Morinus was simply observing, waiting to see if his protégé was prepared for future excursions - and he suspected that Morinus chose this specific location for those exact reasons.
Adamiir had been correct in assuming that a safer, more straightforward ruin was selected for the purpose of acting as a final test, as revealed by Morinus during their departure. From that point on, Morinus and Adamiir traveled across Cyrodiil as equals, the lessons taught by the former serving the latter well, and only magnifying in their usefulness.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Four - Homeward Bound
For many more years, Adamiir and Morinus lined their pockets pilfering the riches of a long dead civilization. Mages across the province paid handsomely for the ethereal blue welkynd stones, while a contact in the Imperial City rewarded the pair handsomely for the more uncommon treasures they discovered. Lord Umbacano proved to be a most gracious associate, treating the two to fine meals whenever a particularly intriguing artifact was delivered.
It seemed that whenever Adamiir and Morinus weren’t on the road, they were resting in an inn, the concept of home becoming a foreign term, just another pit stop whenever it was convenient for the route the two had undertaken. There came a time, however, when they were forced to return to their humble cabin in the Great Forest, a few miles down the road from the city of Chorrol. Morinus was growing weaker and more frail in his old age, turning a homecoming into an inevitable necessity. Adamiir’s trapping talents became more invaluable than ever, the furs and excess meats being traded with the local farmers for food, while anything he kept was consumed. During this time Adamiir made many stews, as it was easier for Morinus to consume. He became quite good at making them too.
Despite Morinus’ weakened state, there was still one thing he could offer his apprentice. That was the secrets of the Ayleid language, and for the next few years leading up to his passing, the two spent much of their time together going over all of the knowledge at Morinus’ disposal.
Morinus had urged Adamiir a few times, before he became sickly, to let him be and go make a fortune, but Adamiir always refused, insisting that his place was at Morinus’ side. He vowed to watch over his master for as long as necessary.
And he did.
Adamiir’s Biography - Part Five - Bad News, Good News, More Bad News
After Morinus’ death, Adamiir was on the road once again. He couldn’t deny it, the call, the call that both he and his old master had felt. The secrets and treasures of the Ayleids called to him, their siren song luring him ever closer to his destiny, and further into the depths of the earth. For three more years Adamiir traveled Cyrodiil and fell deeper under the spell of his beguiling mistress, the lost Ayleid culture. It was on a routine stop to Kvatch to drop off some welkynd stones at the local mages guild that he first heard of the Emperor’s assassination, as well as the festivities to be held in celebration of the Count’s birthday. On a whim, Adamiir decided to stick around and participate in the festivities.
That choice was very quickly turning out to be a grave mistake.
Spells:
Illusion- Immobilize (Touch), Dominate Creature/Human (Ranged), Eyes of Midnight (Self), Calming Touch (Touch), Rage (Ranged), Voice of Rapture (Ranged), Fearful Gaze (Ranged), Heroic Touch (Touch), Torchlight (Self), Ghostwalk (Self), Mute (Ranged), Shadow (Self)
Destruction- Lightning Grasp (Touch), Dire Wound (Ranged), Frost Bolt (Ranged), Searing Grasp (Touch), Lightning Bolt (Ranged), Flare (Ranged)
Restoration- Convalescence (Ranged), Heal Major Wounds (Self), Heal Minor Wounds (Self)
Alteration- Protect (Self), Open Very Easy Lock (Touch)
Inventory:
The clothes on Adamiir’s back
A travel pack that the following items are either stored in or strapped to
Sturdy twine for snares
Two reusable bear traps
Bedroll
243 septims
3 weak potions of sorcery
Steel knife, utilitarian
Flint & steel
A welkynd stone
Character Name:
Veeza
Age:
32
Race:
Argonian
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lord
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Brawler
Skills:
Expert- Hand to Hand
Journeyman- Heavy Armor, Athletics, Suturing (Craft)
Apprentice- Acrobatics, Restoration, Speechcraft, Alchemy (Craft)
Novice-One Handed Blades, Two Handed Blades, One Handed Blunt, Block
Appearance:
When in the thick of combat, Veeza’s opponents and onlookers alike find it easy to mistake the massive Argonian for a dragon. Standing at six foot five, with dull red scales the color of blood pulled taught over tightly coiled muscles, Veeza is a giant. His tail, thick and muscular like the rest of him, is a dangerous weapon in it’s own right. Atop his head lies a mismatched crown of spikes, varying from half a palm to a full palm in length, about as wide as a sword hilt at the base, tapering into sharp points at the tip. Many of them are chipped, while a few are broken off entirely, leaving bony, jagged stumps in their place. Veeza’s eyes are a pale, sickly yellow, with pupils as lizard-like as the rest of him.
While his scales act as a natural defense, fifteen years spent fighting for his life in the arena has left Veeza with a plethora of scars marring his body, leaving none of him untouched. The worst of them have been caused by a wayward spear that found itself buried in Veeza’s stomach; the scales did not regrow, and a knot of angry pink scar tissue remains just up and to the left of his belly’s navel. Veeza dons a simple set of iron armor sans helmet in the hopes of preventing future scarring of any kind. Rarely will one find the Argonian outside of his armor, though he owns a pair of cloth trousers just in case he desires to swim.
Personality:
As opposed to his intimidating appearance, Veeza is actually quite the personable fellow. Conversation comes easily enough when he’s able to relax in the moment, though he often comes across as detached and somewhat irritable when stressed. He never fails to speak his mind regardless of what he desires to say, and puts little stock in the opinions of others, especially those seeking to denounce him. Typically, those capable of intelligent, polite conversation as well as feats of valor upon the field of battle can earn his respect, while those that lack the former will also be subject to his ire.
In battle, Veeza stands stoic against the enemy, ready to endure blows meant for others and dish out the pain he’s receiving tenfold upon his opponents. It is in the middle of a good fight that the Argonian feels most at home, and his mind seems clearest. The thrill of fighting for his life against worthy adversaries is simultaneously both thrilling and terrifying, feelings that are magnified as he crushes bones aided by nothing but his own immense strength and a gauntleted fist. He excels at fighting both aggressively and defensively, and has not yet been in a situation forcing him to lose his cool.
Backstory:
Veeza’s Biography - Prologue - Drunken Lizard
Gulum-Ra sighed, looking down at the small Argonian child swathed in blankets, resting on the floor of the small hovel the two shared together in the Waterfront. “Your mother was the fighter, boy. Not me. She was the one that fought for everything we have. Had. Every day she went back into that arena, that damn arena, so she could pull the weight of her useless son and his addict father. That’s us, you piece of sewer filth. Taseel always said that you had the makings of a fighter, like her. Strong bones, she said. Lots of energy. She wanted you to go train with your uncle in Kvatch, so you could be a big strong fighter just like her.” Gulum-Ra paused abruptly, his bitter tone ceasing, as he took a swig of ale. He shook the bottle discontentedly; it was nearly empty. “Well she went into that arena again today, and guess where that got her? Nowhere. She’s dead. So tomorrow morning I’m going to pay the first capable stranger I see as much as it takes to get you to that uncle of yours. He’ll train you to be a fighter-” Swig. “-like your mom. Who knows, maybe you’ll join her. I, however, will take the rest of my funds and purchase enough skooma to fatally overdose-” Swig. Empty. “-ten times over. I’ll never have to see your stupid face again.” Gulum-Ra continued his tirade for a while longer before sinking to the floor a few feet away from his son, drifting into a drunken stupor. Veeza continued to pretend he was asleep.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 1 - Nothing But A Pair Of Fists
Veeza’s uncle was a stern and uncompromising man, either things were done his way or not at all. From the moment Gulum-Ra thrust Veeza into Mush-La’s care, there was no time to do anything but train. Even at age three, the young Argonian was worked to near exhaustion every day with a series of intensive workouts meant to build up his muscular endurance and strength, his uncle shouting encouragement or criticism as necessary every step of the way. From an early age he learned to remain cool in the midst of stressful situations; Mush-La was almost as physically imposing as Veeza would one day become.
Through his younger years and into adolescence, he was trained with a variety of weapons in a variety of different styles of combat, either by his uncle or fighters from the arena aiding Mush-La for the sake of coin or camaraderie. It was at twelve years old, when Veeza nearly caved in the face of another child that was harassing him, that he knew he wanted to focus on hand to hand combat. Mush-La, having spent most of his life fighting in Kvatch’s arena, was one of the few that had mastered the art of warfare without weaponry. From then on, Veeza’s lessons would focus on the fine art of rupturing organs and shattering skulls with nothing but a pair of fists.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 2 - Graduation Day
The years seemed to fly by after that, and things fell into their own steady rhythm. Not yet allowed to fight in the arena, Veeza spent much of his time in the bloodworks, picking up some basic first aid from compliant members at the local mages guild to provide help to wounded combatants whenever he had free time. Mush-La always refused his help, however. It almost seemed fitting that a few weeks after Veeza’s seventeenth birthday he entered the arena alive for the last time, leaving it as a corpse. Though a few members of the red team mourned for the unexpected loss, Veeza was not among them. His uncle was a mean man, and though he respected Mush-La as a teacher, there was no love between them.
Besides, now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of mortality. Veeza had already scheduled his first match.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 3 - The Pit Dragon
The Orc before Veeza was big. Veeza was bigger. The fight did not last as long as one might think, in all honesty. The green brute charged the Argonian in a blind fury. Sloppy. The two grappled together throughout the arena, each holding on to the Orc’s axe with grips like vices. Eventually, Veeza managed to drive his opponent against a pillar, stunning him for a brief moment. In an instant the weapon was out of their hands and skittering across the floor of the arena. He took the opportunity to seize the defenseless Orc by his tusks, ramming the back of the warrior’s head into the stone pillar again, and again, and again. The opposing pit dog ended up dropping to the floor like a bag of stones, the back of his head a bloody paste. Veeza still held onto his tusks, one in each hand.
The trend of brutal, uncontested victories continued throughout most of Veeza’s career. Years later he would still be known as the Pit Dragon in recognition of both his race and his ferocity on the battlefield, even as a new blood; a pit dog.
It was during the fight that would promote him to the rank of gladiator did Veeza receive his most grievous scar. His opponent was well bred and well trained, a Nord known as Nilki Silver-Head. He never figured out whether that was in recognition of her prowess with her silver tipped spear, or for her striking platinum hair, tied back into a long pony tail. The match was nearly a disgraceful defeat for Veeza, within ten minutes of dodging her attacks and failing to disarm the woman, she had him close to death leaning against a pillar, her spear burrowed deep into his flesh. Hubris, however, can be a powerful tool. Nilki had turned her back to Veeza, shouting to the roaring crowd in triumph, a dagger as silver as both her spear and hair clutched within her left hand. She wanted to finish things up close and personal. Veeza fulfilled her wishes. He snapped the spear off at the head, using the shaft of wood to sweep Nilki’s legs out from under her. One more moment and he was straddling her back, his hands grasping at her hair, pulling upwards as hard as he could with the tip of her spear burrowing deeper into him. She screamed in terror for only a short while, then the sound of a sickening snap emanated from her neck, and she grew silent. Veeza rose to his feet, both hands clutching at the deadly wound Nilki dealt him, blood pouring between his fingers. He was victorious.
Veeza’s Biography - Part 4 - The New Arena
If the dead had the gift of hindsight, many of the arena combatants might have considered themselves lucky to have been torn apart by daedra hordes, as opposed to being torn apart by Veeza’s bare hands. Kvatch’s grand champion in specific was particularly lucky. As while many matches were planned in celebration of Count Goldwine’s birthday, the red team’s champion, Veeza, against the city’s grand champion, Langurius Nerich, was to be the main event. The two had a cordial, even friendly relationship, and Veeza’s challenge to Langurius’ title came as a surprise to all in the city. Tensions were running high, and this match was played up to be the biggest in decades. Fate seemed to have different plans for the two, however. Langurius would find himself a charred corpse on the floor of the bloodworks, indistinguishable from the others surrounding him. Meanwhile, Veeza would be fighting for his life to eventually reach safety within the walls of Kvatch’s chapel, waiting for what seemed to be an inevitable demise.
Spells:
Restoration- Heal Minor Wounds (Self), Convalescence (Target)
Inventory:
His iron armor, the gauntlets are reinforced with steel and have studs made of dwarven metal inlaid along the knuckles
A hastily thrown together travel pack that includes
A pair of trousers
A mortar and pestle
Needles and thread for sewing wounds
Provisions of hard tack and dried jerky that could last around a week at full ration, double that at half
500 septims, the earnings from his last victory |
56,392 | 1,541 | 37 | 1,333 | 2,746 | It seemed all of nature that could move away from the city of Kvatch had, an oddity since she could not sense the life of the animals around her. In fact, it seemed as if the animals that had inhabited the area had abandoned it, leaving the area uncomfortably silent all around her. The only sound was her feet stepping and her staff tapping the paved road to the city. It was simply disturbing, used to hearing the pleasant chirp of a bird or the scampering of an animal running in the background. Jid-Jahara began to wonder, her mind calculating the reasons why the wildlife would abandoned the area. No proper reasons had come to her mind, so she was left in silence with herself and only herself.
“Strange,” the argonian shaman told herself, her eyes darting to the area around her as she almost expected some evil entity to attack her at any moment. Paranoia was setting in as her grip tightened around her staff, her breath picking up, and her eyes moving around more and more. It was disturbing her to not be in the presence of any form of wild animal, even a basic chirp of some thrush would bring release to her, but nothing dared to show itself. Alas, there was nothing there to even show, no savage animals or their prey.
Then the sight came to those glowing yellow eyes of hers, the crimson light that seemed to flood the skies above her destination. Her eyes widened, the fear of the unknown that had started that fire seemed to flood her. Jid-Jahara had stopped in her tracks, taking a moment to stare at the flames that had enveloped the city for whatever reason. For a moment, she could hear the roaring flames could be heard, but her thoughts seemed to drown out those cackling sounds of the fire.
Once more, she began moving towards Kvatch, this time with a more cautious step and her staff gripped in both of her hands now. The argonian kept her wits about her as she gradually made her way to the city, her eyes darting around more and more as she approached the city. It was until it was over a hundred more paces ahead of her that she froze, unable to continue further into the foreign land. “Not a good idea,” she told herself, her eyes narrowing as she pushed the hood of her cloak down. Jid-Jahara could feel it, how cold it truly was in spite of the fire that crackled and roared within the city. Perhaps it was nervousness that stopped her there. Perhaps fear.
“Not good.” | Character Name:
Jid-Jahara Varik
Age:
29
Race:
Argonian
Sex:
Female
Birthsign:
The Apprentice
Specialisation:
Magic
Class:
Shaman (custom)
Skills:
Expert: Mysticism
Journeyman: Alchemy (Craft), Conjuration
Apprentice: Destruction, Two-Handed (Blunt)
Novice: Alteration, Restoration, Foraging (Craft), Translating - Orcish, Dunmeris (Craft)
Appearance:
The Hist had decided that Jid-Jahara would been a thin argonian female who seems to lack in muscle and intimidation. The young female is small, standing only at about 5’4” tall, earning her the nickname of “the Bosmer Child.” She bares dark green scales and yellow eyes, much like a lot of her people do. Atop her head sits a mixture of bright red feathers along with darker, black feathers. Her body is adorned in ceremonial markings, all in which and in the tongue of the argonian people. Her snout definitely shows teeth that slightly protrude from the top of her mouth.
As for clothing, her choice is that of a black-feathered cloak which wraps around brown and tanned robes in the traditional argonian fashion. That argonian fashion fashion being a long skirt going around her hips, her sides exposed as well as a bra-like piece around her breasts. As for more professional clothing, she would done a more complete outfit which is similar to her regular wears. Long sleeved, no part of her body exposed but her head.
Personality:
All work and no play makes Jid-Jahara a dull gal; that is precisely what she is as well, taking no time to horse around and always carrying a stern and serious mood around with her. That said, she is a gentle creature who does not wish to use violence as a first solution to any problem, this does not mean she will not act out violence in any capacity. In fact, almost contradicting the last statement, any insult to the Hist will almost be a sure way to earn the ire of this beast-woman as she is a devote worshipper of her Hist. It is a quickly known fact that she does not like word play either, preferring talking be straight to the point.
Often times, she can be found meditating within nature, or simply enjoying the serenity of it al. It is at those moments when Jid-Jahara s truly happy with her place with the world, despite her distance away from her homeland and the Hist. In quiet times, she can be seen gazing off and smiling as if she were to enjoying said silence. In fact, she is not much of a talker herself, only speaking when she is required to. It can come to be known that she enjoys the little things in life, as well; kindness, the gentle movement of the wind, food, so on and so forth. However, it is not often known what she likes as in the company of others, she will revert back to her dull, stern self.
Backstory:
Twenty-nine years ago, Jid-Jahara Varik was born to a lowly tribe within the Black Marsh, deep within the Black Marsh with dense jungle and hostile wildlife all around. It was discovered that she may not be a hatchling that would live to see the next year due to how frail she was, her parents sought a way to have their only daughter survive. They brought the hatchling to their shaman, a wise old man who at first was very skeptical on even his own abilities to help this child survive. Though, whatever he did, it worked and Jid-Jahara was allowed to live another year and several more. However, she still did not remain healthy and required additional visits to this shaman, Al-Nerriz, who continued to help her. In these childhood years, Jin-Jahara would go on to learn more and more about the shaman’s extraordinary power.
Eventually, the two came to a point where Al-Nerriz took Jid-Jahara under his wing and began to properly teach her the ways of being a shaman for the tribe. Through him, she learned the mystical ways of the Argonian people and their reliance to the Hist, learning even more on the importance of the trees to both her and her people. Magic was introduced to her and all of its terrifyingly awesome powers were shown to her and once she understood the dangers of all magic, her training would begin proper.
Firstly came magical art of Mysticism so that she may protect herself and Hist from those who sought to use magic against them all, learning patience and how all life is connected. It was in this time when Jid-Jahara had grown her love for nature and the serene qualities of all of it, including lands she had not seen yet. In these times, she was often sent into the wilderness as well, forcing her to meditate and discover just how everything was bound together; from the frog who ate the bug, to the tree which was connected to the earth, and most importantly just how the Argonian people were connected with each other and the Hist. These were all important realizations as it gave her insight into just how the world worked, allowing her patience with both what she would continue doing and what would come in the future.
Next was the great powers of Alchemy; while not magic, it was important to realize how useful a potion could be as it could save a life of anyone she came across. She did not spend enough time within the subject to become a true expert in it, but she learned and learned many potions and even some that the common man would not know. However, it was also time for her to be shown the destructive side of magic and just how it was able to harm someone. This she studied as well, however, this was the time in which she discovered that violence was not the first solution for anyone. Within her time going through the market of her tribe and buying alchemy ingredients, a neighborhood bully had come across her and decided to try and steal her bartering items. Out of instinct, she struck back with ball of fire, accidentally killing the boy who had not deserved death for his acts. Jid-Jahara grieved for weeks, vowing never to use violence if she could avoid it.
After grieving and learning how to destroy, she learned how to create by conjuration and learned how the dead could come back to protect the Hist. However, this was not a skill she liked, having to deal with the dead; though it was a natural part of nature for death to occur and she understood that. Jid-Jahara would agree that she knew the dead would most certainly fight to protect the Hist once more if they could. In fact, it was through conversing with ghosts of the dead that she learned much in the ways of strange people outside of the Black Marsh and learned of many different languages, granted she was not very good at speaking in different tongues. Al-Nerriz found it was time to show her how to use a physical weapon so that she might fight without the use magic should she exhaust herself, this she excelled with for the staff was a weapon of pure skill and not one of raw strength, in fact she even sparred with ghosts that she summoned as well just to improve herself.
Then it came time, as a final writ of passage, Jid-Jahara was sent off on a spiritual quest upon reaching the age of twenty. Her goal was to simply find herself and then return to the tribe with new experiences and to discover more of herself. For nine years did she travel, picking up small trades and techniques that may better herself.
Once she met an interesting orsimer when she had reached Cyrodil, one by the name of Uzuan Gasel, a warrior who was on a similar quest except to find powerful foes and bring himself honor. The great one challenged Jid-Jahara to a duel and it was found that the argonian lass had given him a run for his money, yet proved victorious through his raw strength and resolve. The two had become friends who began to travel through Cyrodil together, fighting bandits and helping townspeople as much as they could. Everything was well for a change, no training or lessons or stress of teachers.
However, the two had to part ways one night after it was discovered that Uzuan’s clan needed him to return to his home and defend it. Jid-Jahara understood why he had to go, but it still saddened her to see such a friend leave and be forced to go to a completely different part of the world. Though, it was time for the two to go separate paths for if they continued onwards, Jid-Jahara feared that she may never want to return home to her tribe. So she continued to press onwards until one day she came across Kvatch, wanting more experiences, she investigated the town, which would lead her history up to the present.
Spells:
Mysticism - Surperior Life Detection, Greater Dispel, Greater Dispel Other, Telekinesis
Conjuration - Summon Ghost, Summon Flame Atronach, Summon Skeleton, Turn Undead
Destruction - Sever Magicka, Shock, Flash Bolt
Alteration - Protect, Protect Other
Restoration - Heal Minor Wounds
Inventory:
Wooden Staff
Robe
Black-feathered cloak
Alchemy Satchel
3x Healing Potion
2x Magicka Potion
Waterskin
2x Aloe Vera Leaves
10x Blackberries
3x Ham |
56,393 | 1,541 | 38 | 1,358 | 1,312 | Valentis was not certain he had made the correct decision by coming into this Godforsaken land, whilst his heart still beat fervently in excitement, an odd confliction of the mind and heart, he knew that this place could very well be the death of him, but equally he knew that this place was easily a place of adventure, excitement, foreign and alien.
The very things that had driven him for so many years.
The group cautiously made their way through the deadlands, the place was as deadly as it was inhospitable thankfully the way for them was expertly scouted by a tracker there little band had acquired.
Along the way the had met a guard member, the man was distraught and had somehow managed to survive against the denizines of this place; unfortunately the same could not be said of his comrades; most of them were dead and one was missing, most likely dead as well.
The guard left the the gate with haste after he met the group, and they continued onwards, the mood amongst them not exactly perked up by the fact that others had been in here and were basically all cut down.
Things only got worse from there, they lost their scout and lost their Imperial "leader" who had begrudgingly entered the gate on the first place.
Two losses to their group already... and their first major fight inside here began, it was a brawl, chaotic and bloody.
Before valen could even think of what to do a Dremora Churl stood in front of him, a sick bloody smile upon his face.
The brute was easily about 7 and half foot tall, covered in thick plate metal armour, it wielded a mace of which the end looked bugger than Valentis' head.
Valen had only just managed to infuse his staff with electricity, using spark upon it before the churl gave a guttural scream and pelted at him.
It spoke in some demonic speech that Valen could not understand but it felt as if he was mocking the old man armed with seemingly nothing but a stick.
True, this weapon of his would do nothing to heavily armoured opponent, the magic he infused into it however. Would. The churl swung first, placing a huge amount of force behind his swing, of which Valen dodged and it narrowly missed his head, in return Valen retaliated with his own attack, a thrust of his staff into the chest caused the Electricity to react with the metal, causing the churl to hiss and curse more at Valen, it had stunned and hurt him slightly, but wasn't enough.
The churl swung once more, this time the mace clipped Valens right arm, of which he felt something break - lightining flashed across his eyes and he stumbled as the pain spread like fire through his arm.
But, within that time Valen managed to recharge his staff, infusing it with a very powerful charge and thrusitng it into the armour once again, toughly over where the heart would be.
After a powerful jolt, the Churl gave spasms before falling to the ground dead; electricity seemed to be quite effective against these things.
He would heal his arm in time, but for the time being he knelt away from the battle a bit, hoping he didn't have to reengage with another enemy. | Name:
Albert, Alexander, Alistair… His memory slips sometimes, and calls Albert by his older companions names.
Breed:
Border Collie - Typically bred in the Colovian Highlands.
:Appearance:
:Bio
Arf! *Wags tail* |
56,394 | 1,541 | 39 | 1,552 | 2,229 | With the remainder of the beasts dispatched by the group, the exhausted - and injured, in some cases - volunteers were able to reflect in relative safety about what had just happened. They had lost their de facto leader, and their best Scout. The tower ahead most likely lead to both salvation and more horrors like what they had just witnessed, but there was no point in turning back now. They had come much farther than the Kvatch guards had, and pulling out would be nothing but cowardly... and likely bring certain doom to those still trapped in the Kvatch Chapel. Naenya cast her eyes about the group, breathing the smallest sigh of relief upon seeing nobody was dead. All limbs were still attached, nobody was on fire, and guts were still nestled in bellies.
"I think we should have only a small rest." The haggard, halting tone came from the blonde Nord, stood by two injured fellows and a surprisingly chipper looking dog. The Nord seemed unsure on what to do; it had been easier on just following the imperial woman without asking questions, under the assumption that she just happened to be the leader. Wiping his swords on his pants, he placed one back in it's scabbard, the other hanging loosely from his palm as he looked about the others. "We don't want to run into a group like that again while we have injured; the sooner we're done, the sooner we can leave this damned place in one piece." While Naenya understood his haste, part of her still wanted to linger in this realm just a bit longer. Yes, two of their number had just been quite brutally and gruesomely murdered, but there was still so much to learn! Even now in the distance, she could see strange, flesh coloured pods dangling from rocks; large rust coloured roots that twitched in a suspiciously alive manner - even the bloodgrass that scattered the dusty land had amazing alchemical qualities that she would have just loved to tamper with. However, with so many hurt, even with small injuries, she knew it would have to wait.
Being quite lucky in avoiding harm herself (One of the scamps didn't last long against her magic - she'd been tempted to summon her own Scamp and watch on for entertainment, but it was a blood-thirsty little fellow, and she didn't want to accidentally give it a friend), Naenya turned to those who were injured, offering a smile up as she offered to heal their ailments. For reasons that she couldn't even comprehend, there were people out there who not only didn't learn magic, but outright refused to! When a simple restoration spell could mean the difference between life or death, the Bosmer found herself baffled at such half-witted actions... not that such opinions needed to be aired now.
Niko too turned to his fallen comrades; the Imperial man and woman, still behind him. As with Naenya, Niko was glad to see that none of their number had met the same fate as Glenndus, and with such a small victory, managed a tired smile at the both of them.
"Forgive me - I didn't catch your names in the Chapel." He began, glancing to the young warrior's wounds first; a hamstring injury was not something to be taken lightly, especially when fully-functioning legs could carry you away from danger far better than fighting could. Readying a healing spell in the palm of his hand, Niko's eyes met Bardeck's. "May I?" He asked, motioning towards the fellow's wounds. | Character Name:
Nikolaus “Niko” Valerious
Age:
37
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lover
Specialisation:
Combat/Magic
Class:
Paragon
Skills:
Expert: One-Handed Blade (Dual-Wielding)
Journeyman: Speechcraft, Destruction
Apprentice: Athletics, Restoration, Heavy Armour
Novice: Two-Handed Blade, Acrobatics, Illusion, Medicine (Non-Alchemical/Magical (Craft)), Hunting (Craft), Foraging (Craft)
Appearance:
Looking every part the Nord, Niko stands at a towering height of 6’7; matched with broad shoulders and the muscled build of someone who works his swords every day, he can seem somewhat daunting at times. However, when one focuses on his face, softness shines through. Gentle blonde brows above stormy grey-blue eyes; a sharp jawline softened by a smattering of badly trimmed blond stubble; high cheekbones crinkled with laughter lines, and dimples that brighten cheeks once round with wellness, but now have a somewhat haggard and hungry look about them.
On a usual day out in the field, Niko can usually be seen wearing his armour; shaggy, dark-blonde hair pulled back haphazardly by messy braids, and shoulder’s stiff with the weight he is carrying. However, when more relaxed and among friends, his hair hangs loose, brushing against his eyes and shoulders in a messy but appealing manner – armour is replaced with comforting and loose clothing, shirt sleeves usually pushed up to the elbow and revealing a plethora of scars up and down his forearms. The scars carry on under his clothing; some fresher and deeper than others, but you’ll need to either get him drunk or be close to him to get the stories behind the scarring dotted over his skin – some hurt more than others, and not in a physical way.
Personality:
While he doesn’t smile as much as he used to, Niko remains still an amicable sort – but if one looks close enough, you can see the tension in his smile; the stretched out laughs that sound just a touch too hollow to be considered genuine or warm. His eyes have retained that caring spark of friendliness, but it dulls whenever nobody is looking his way. His kindness isn’t faked or forced… it’s just harder to be the way he was before. It’s rare for his grief or anger to come through, but when faced with something particularly cruel, or anything involved in raising the dead, anything remotely nice about him falls away, and his eyes become as hard as ice. Killing for him then isn’t just a job to be done; it becomes frenzied, and very personal.
However, regardless of his own internal turmoils, he’ll remain good to those around him. While respect is earned, Niko makes a point of being polite to most, no matter how brash they appear to be. Being more than aware of how death and killing can get to a man, he’ll listen to people’s worries and concerns in the hopes he can do something to help them… when sometimes, a listening friend is all many need.
When it comes to matter away from friends and family, Niko still remains polite; even in battle, while others may make puns, threats or quips while slicing down their enemy, Niko will do it as quickly and as painlessly as possible – no intimidation, no dark humour. It’s not his style. Neither is bragging of past battles fought, though one would be able to hear a good tale from him if coaxed enough – it comes from having a daughter, for him. Niko quite firmly believes that Mia should be kept safe from violence, bad language, and all of the other things that his race and Skyrim are famous for; a foolish endeavour, considering his girl is getting street-smart enough to find out about all of these things herself; but he remains very protective over her, not wanting to lose her as he lost his wife. This protectiveness passes on to his friends and family, particularly those he gets close to.
Backstory:
While our story begins in Kvatch, as does the life of Nikolaus. Born to an Imperial father and Nord mother, the pair had met, fell in love, and married in a short span of time – moving from the mother’s native Skyrim to Kvatch for a both safer and warmer climate to raise their son in. And it was a good childhood for Niko; there was never danger within the city walls, and with his mother and father’s decent wages from the Fighters and Mages Guild respectively, never had an empty stomach or cold night. Niko’s father – Percius – had his own parents, now retired, living in Kvatch too – so whenever he and his wife – Ulva – needed to do a job for money, they could quite simply live Niko with his grandparents and do what needed to be done. As a baby, Niko barely noticed his parent’s absence unless they were gone for a unusually long time; but as a child, he started growing curious as to what reason for and where his parents were going. Curiosity soon grew into indignation, and the usually mild-mannered child began to constantly question exactly why he had to stay at home, and why his parents had to leave all the time. Well… he was still mild-mannered in his questioning; politeness always came first, especially when talking to his elders. But it was clear to his parents that their little boy was growing up rather quickly, and would need to start learning something to keep him happy – and away from their own adventures. To counter this, Percius’ father – a retired guard of Kvatch - started teaching Niko how to use swords – of course starting with a wooden sword and a straw dummy at the young age of 8, but still, it worked well enough. With his grandmother teaching him his letters and numbers, Niko constantly itched for his training sessions every evening.
Over time, Ulva began to spend more and more days at home, having growing tired from all of the contracts taken from the Fighter’s Guild. When Percius’ father grew too old to continue training Niko (now 13) Ulva took over, helping him branch out into proper training; wearing armour that weighed his light teenage frame down; real swords instead of wooden ones – she even persuaded Percius to begin training Niko in certain schools of magic, just so it would come in handy in the future. Niko picked up the magic just as well as his blades, barring a few incidents with rogue fireballs. He was fine once his eyebrows grew back, honestly.
When Niko reached the age of 16, he had a firm grasp in the basics of restoration, destruction, and the wielding of blades. His mother wanted him to join the fighter’s guild, and his father wanted him to join the mage’s guild. Thinking he wanted the best of both worlds, he started working as a battlemage for the arcane university; training under a more experienced guard who worked there to get him up to the right standard for such a prestigious college. It was a solid job, and kept both of his parents happy – Niko continued to have a steady income, a warm bed, and full stomach. He was just going to be living with longer hours and bruised skin from his rigorous training regime – the safety of the mages and the University was no small matter, what with the countless troves of knowledge and precious items hidden within those walls. Niko had only been inside a few times, but he had caught glimpses of endless libraries, impossibly large, echoing chambers (He and a few colleagues enjoyed a few shouting matches in there before being kicked out by their Guard-Captain; after several hours of sprinting the battlements in full armour in the pouring rain, they decided not to do it again), and of course, the mages themselves. Only 2 really stood out to him; one was a slimy looking fellow. Niko was never one to judge people before meeting them, but as it happened, he had had the misfortune of meeting and talking to Conjurer Astian Onius – but Niko also had the fortune of meeting Astian’s cousin, Elisabeth. And to him, she was the greatest treasure in the University.
At the age of 25 – now an established guard of his own right, having graduated his training top of the class (despite the hollering matches in the halls) – Niko finally plucked up the courage to talk to Elisabeth in a more than friendly manner, asking her to join him for drinks that night – no friends of his, and no weasel-like cousins of hers to accompany them. One night of drinks turned into another night, and then another; then it was candlelit meals, walks along the shores of lake Rumare, picnics in the forest. For anyone watching the pair, it would be quite obvious that the two were in love – and indeed, Astian was watching them. He was not happy.
After 3 years of courting, Niko and Elisabeth were wed, and a year after that, she fell pregnant with what would be their first and only child. Named Amelia for Elisabeth’s mother who had passed that spring, their life seemed idyllic. But as time passed, things began to grow dark. Not in their relationship, exactly; they were still a happy couple, raising their daughter in Imperial City and continuing with their jobs – and it was their jobs that began causing issues. What with Niko just being a guard, he and his fellows didn’t really involve themselves in the fight for power brewing between the Mages – not just in the University, but across Cyrodiil. Favours were split, and Elisabeth herself was not wanting Hannibal Traven as Arch-Mage; She considered him too close-minded, especially when it came to matters such as necromancy; although having never done any spells in that area, she was doing research into possible life after death – a cure that could bring someone back if they were saved seconds after dying. An innocent enough area of study, and certainly with a noble enough gesture behind it. But once Arch-Mage Traven won the fight for power, she became cowed; fearful of what could happen to her and her work after the banning of necromancy by the Arch-Mage, she begged Niko for them both to leave Imperial City and the Mages Guild – they had more than enough experience between them both to get jobs elsewhere. Although slightly concerned at her reasons behind it – her cousin Astian had been visiting their home more than usual the weeks previous, having hushed and irritated conversations with Elisabeth before the harassed woman asked him to leave – Niko conceded, and along with their 6 year old daughter, left for his parent’s home in Kvatch; having died in the winter, they’d left the home to Niko and his family.
The next two years that passed were easily the worst in Niko’s life. While Kvatch was a nice change at first; his daughter enjoying the smaller and more open city as opposed to Imperial City’s near stifling buildings and towering walls – he too was welcomed back with open arms, as many who still lived there knew his family. Getting a job as a guard was no trouble, what with his long service record at the Arcane University. He knew he’d probably get more money in the Fighter’s Guild or even a sellsword, but being a guard was safer, more secure, and more honest; that was just the kind of man he was.
His wife, however, was growing more and more secretive. Elisabeth had become more withdrawn, even after moving away from the Mages Guild; “hunting trips” were going on far too long for her to come home with nothing, and she would constantly change the subject whenever her studies came up in conversation. As Astian’s trips became more frequent, and news of strange lights coming from caves not far from Kvatch began circulating through the city, Niko’s worries grew into suspicions. It was time to find out what his wife and her troublesome cousin were up to.
As he followed Elisabeth from a distance – her leaving Kvatch a few hours previous for more “hunting” – Niko told himself that he was worrying over nothing. She was probably just continuing her research, and was worried about the Guild swooping in to stop her; but it wasn’t necromancy. Just research.
Whether his wife was dabbling in the magic of raising the dead, Niko never knew – but whatever she had attempted to do in those dimly lit caves was too dangerous – as he watched on from the shadows, he saw something go wrong. He was no expert in the type of magic Elisabeth and Astian were attempting, so Niko couldn’t understand why after a sudden flash of light, Elisabeth hit the ground and no longer moved; he couldn’t understand why Astian looked perfectly unconcerned by this, and simply began performing another spell. But when the magic hit her body, and she slowly rose to her feet, he did understand. And no matter what had happened, no matter what she may had done; he was not going to let his wife’s body become nothing more than a puppet. Wiping his eyes that had become blurred with tears, Niko slowly unsheathed his swords and stormed towards Astian.
When finally returning to Kvatch, it had been difficult to coax the full story from the grieving Niko; heavily injured and clutching Elisabeth’s – now still – body in his arms, he had collapsed at the gate, being brought into the chapel for healing. Although Astian had put up quite the fight, Niko had barely felt any pain at each landed blow from the disgraced mage; it was killing his wife’s resurrected body that had been the most difficult part for him. While the healer Oleta was able to mend his several cuts and burns, aided by Brother Martin, it was harder to ease the near-broken man’s mind. After the story was finally pulled from Niko, and the caves investigated, the city guards discovered that Astian had indeed been practicing Necromancy. Out of sheer respect to Niko, their comrade, they made sure to state there was nothing to incriminate Elisabeth in the forbidden act. There was no evidence in fact, but many people -particularly at the guild – would have been happy to connect the dots of her being at the caves so often.
Not so long after the tragedy, Niko had fully recovered; he had taken to spending much of his time at the Chapel, hoping to find solace in the Gods. But nothing seemed to bring him peace; the daily chats with the Priests brought him some comfort, but Kvatch no longer seemed like home anymore. Mia seemed to have taken the news of her mother better than he, but then, she hadn’t seen or done what he had been forced to do – all the same, she complied when Niko suggested leaving Kvatch. He left his job with the guard, sold their home, and the lonely father and daughter left the gates of their hometown. And for nearly 2 years, they wandered throughout Cyrodiil. Never staying in one place for too long, Niko took whatever jobs that came to him as long as they paid enough, and weren’t too time-wasting or life-threatening. He was more desperate than before, but he wouldn’t risk his life while Mia was so young; she had no-one left to look after her.
Of course, things became far more dangerous when he finally came back to Kvatch. A chance encounter; retrieving some rare book from the local bookstore for an old bedbound fellow in Bravil; at first, Niko was going to pass it up, not quite ready to return to Kvatch even after 2 years. But the man was offering quite a bit of money, and Mia’s birthday was approaching – it couldn’t hurt, could it?
That was what he thought until the Oblivion Gate opened. It had been easy enough to gather a terrified Mia into his arms and pelt towards the chapel, but it was getting out that would be the hardest part.
Spells:
Destruction: Blazing Spear, Corrode Weapon, Dire Wound, Drain Skill: Destruction, Fire Ball, Frost Bolt, Great Magicka Drain, Hail Storm, Lightning Bolt, Lightning Grasp, Searing Grasp, Shocking Burst, Weakness to Magicka, Winter’s Grasp, Withering Touch
Restoration: Convalescence, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Fortify Health, Fortify Speed, Fortify Strength, Great Fortity Fatigue, Heal Major Wounds
Illusion: Serenity, Soothing Touch, Starlight
Inventory:
1x Off-white tunic, to wear under armour
2x Black Leather pants, one for casual wear, one to wear under greaves
1x Set of steel greaves
1x Set of steel pauldrons
1x Steel chestplate
1x Set of steel bracers over 1x Pair of leather gloves
2x Steel longswords
1x Steel Greatsword
1x Iron dagger
1x Dark shirt
1x Black overcoat
1x Pair of leather boots
1x Black hood
1x Spare child’s dress, red
1x Spare pair of child’s shoes
Mia’s teddy bear
1x Plain gold wedding ring
1x Waterskin
1x Bottle of rum
1x Loaf of bread
2x Wedges of cheese
Several slices of smoked salmon, wrapped in cheesecloth
Several slices of cooked beef, wrapped in cheesecloth
3x Sweetened biscuits, slightly stale
1x Skin of milk
2x Bedrolls
1x Pillow
1x Large fur blanket
1x Tent
1x Cooking pot & Spit
1x Horse, carrying majority of the camping equipment
1x Knapsack, to carry the remainder of his things
374 Septims
Mia has a balanced look of her parents; she has her mother’s dark, chocolate-brown eyes, and face and body, but the rest of her belongs to her father. Being quite tall and mature for her age, Mia also has his dark-blonde hair, hers with more of a wave to it than Niko’s; she keeps it at shoulder-length, tied up most of the time when out on the road with her dad. She also shares his sweet, dimpled smile, though hers seems far more genuine most of the time.
While certainly taking after her Imperial mother in her looks, Mia has the heart of a Nord. With an inquisitive sense of adventure constantly on her mind, the curious 8-year-old (She’s nearly 9, actually – don’t forget it!) has a penchant for wandering away from her father when visiting cities; but only in cities. She did it once in a tiny little village without walls and she’d never seen him look so upset when he found her 3 hours later. She understands his protectiveness, but taking a rather wise standpoint for such a young age, thinks her Father needs to move on from what happened. She knows this isn’t the way her Mama wanted them both to live, after all.
Perhaps due to her father treating her like some fragile thing, Mia often takes on a brusque and boisterous way of life. Local kid calling her names? He’s getting a broken nose. A pair of dubious looking fellows in the inn staring at her father’s coinpurse? Glare at them until they notice and hurriedly leave. Portal to hell opening up in the city? Her Papa will sort them out, he’s the bravest, strongest man in the whole wide world. She’s going to help of course – if only Papa would give her a sword. Ooh, or maybe an axe. |
56,395 | 1,541 | 40 | 860 | 1,273 | Unlikely Bedfellows
A Collab with , , , and
"Forgive me - I didn't catch your names in the Chapel."
Brona's attention shifted to the approach of a blond Nord, she had seen him apart of the group when they entered the portal. He dwarfed Brona in size, standing well over a foot taller than her. She almost forgot to speak as he asked for their names, her eyes were focused on the minute details of his face. Braids kept the dark blond hair out of his face which revealed a pair of storm-blue eyes. She noticed the appearance of laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, he had to be far older than her, but that didn't mean the Nord was unappealing to look at. "The name's Brona." She piped up, uncertain if he heard her or not as he directed his attention to Bardeck who suffered a far worse injury than she did. Nevertheless, the blood that dripped down her arm from the wound on her shoulder caused her a great deal of pain. She eyed the carcasses of their foes, most notably the reptile-like creature that had attacked her.
Bardeck nodded both his acceptance and his thanks to Niko, the muscled young man grunting as he pulled his leg up, knee raised high. "Thank you."
"What are these...things?" She asked to no one in particular, waving her hand at the corpses of the demons they slaughtered.
Through his dark matted hair, Bardeck glanced at the Dremora and lesser Daedra they'd slain. He should have guessed they would have been injured during this fight. The churl was a definite challenge for any warrior. He was proud to have lived, and thankful for Brona's continued help. "Demons." He replied. "Dremora. I'm not learned in books as some are, but the Orcs know these creatures. The lesser beasts as well, though their names escape me this moment." With that he glanced at Brona. "There are worse things here. Stay vigiliant."
What could be worse than Daedra? Daedric Princes, of course, but such an entity was unlikely to make an appearance to a random ragtag group such as them. Something not quite as bad as Daedra, but perhaps just as potentionally painful, found its way to Bardeck.
While Brona reveled in the thought that the creatures they battled moments ago were Daedra, she had little time to formulate a response before an Altmer in full steel armor barged into their conversation.
"FRIENDS! We have claimed victory over these foul creatures! But we must rest only for a short while, for a greater prize awaits us just yonder!" Shouted Orintur with jubilation. Clasping Bardeck roughly by the shoulder, the Paladin spoke directly to the man. "Well fought, well fought indeed, my friend! Those fiends had absolutely no idea what hit them, ahaha!" If something in Bardeck's shoulder popped, Orintur clearly did not hear it, as he continued on speaking, now to Brona.
"And to you as well, of course! I mean no offense when I say this, but I did not think someone of your stature would fare very well against Daedra."
Bardeck gave a nod. He wasn't particularly hurt from Orintur's overly enthusiastic greeting, but he knew that would be a diferent case for someone else, and something told Bardeck Orintur would have been just as...enthusiastic with someone less broad of shoulder. "You as well. You fought as feircely as you act."
Glad the young warrior was accepting his aid (Niko had seen far too many egotistical men who thought they could simply walk off injuries, rather than accept help and look "weak.) the Nord knelt so Bardeck was able to rest his injured leg upon his own; magic flashing against the deep wound, the crimson blood began to thicken, clotting taking place and staunching the flow as the magic knitted together the torn flesh.
"Scamps." Niko replied to Brona, eyes still focused on Bardeck's wound. "They only seemed small, however. I've seen bigger ones than that before." He said grimly, pausing a moment to look at her. "Conjured, thankfully. They're not quite as terrifying when they're on the leash of magic... and in a Mage's dining room." The fellows at the Guild - particularly in Chorrol - enjoyed summoning a great deal of Daedra. According to a story he had heard, an Apprentice had 'accidentally' summoned a Daedroth from the realms of Oblivion, causing quite a bit of chaos among his peers simply by the horrifying presence of the beast. An amusing story, but Niko didn't want to tempt fate by retelling it - a Daedroth could show up at any minute, and that was the last thing the group needed.
She bit her lip to suppress a string of biting words that struggled to fight their way free, so she ignored the Altmer for the time being. According to the rugged Nord who tended to Bardeck, the daedra she fought, were scamps. At least she had a name for them now, not that she would have read about them in a book... words weren't her forte.
Glancing up as the Altmer Paladin came over in a rather... victorious mood, Niko quashed an amused smile that began to form on his face. The High Elf's enthusiasm was somewhat infectious, to say the least. And despite two deaths, the remaining members of their troupe were alive and well, beyond a few minor injuries. As for Bardeck's wound, it was healing nicely thanks to Niko's restoration magic; it would be a messy job, what with the lack of time and resoures the group had to work with. However, once Niko had expended his magicka, the flesh was healed and the muscle and tendons within fixed enough for one to walk on.
"You'll be bruised for a few days, and it'll ache like a bugger - but you'll be able to walk on it." Finishing with a supportive - but gentle - clap to Bardeck's injured leg, Niko got to his feet, glancing at Orintur - and the blood trailing from his head.
"My thanks," Bardeck replied. He grunted, but stood up easily enough. The ache of the wound was dull, but the pain no longer reverberated in his skull. He'd seen far worse even without the healing, but he wasn't going to tempt fate. Not here. He might have lived among the Orcs for a time, but he had a bit more self preservation than that.
"If I wait a moment, I'll be able to help there, should you need it." Motioning towards the trickle of blood that could be seen - Niko had spoke swiftly, hoping that Brona hadn't picked up too much on the Altmer's words of... "stature".
"Hm? Help with what? Where?" Asked Orintur. What was Niko talking about? He was perfectly fine! Gah, but the sweat pouring down his neck was getting quite bothersome. Removing his helmet, Orintur wiped away the beads of sweat from the back of his neck with the palm of his gauntlets, only to find that even more was pouring down! He wiped and wiped, but it simply wouldn't stop! Catching a glance at his palm, Orintur discovered why: It wasn't sweat, at least not entirely, but blood.
"What in the world!? How did this-oh, wait a minute, I remember now! Yes, that Churl hit me quite hard in the head. I accept your offer, friend, my thanks to you."
Looking toward Brona and her rather sizeable wound, Orintur spoke again. "Excuse me, madam, but would you like assistance with your injury? I am well trained in the art of Restoration; all Paladins are, of course!"
Nodding in response to the young warrior's thanks, Niko then turned to the Altmer. A tall, striking fellow - and quite unlike any other High Elf he had seen before. There was something very brusque and easy-going about him. Definitely less uptight than others of his kin that Niko had seen before; he would be unsurprised to find some Nordic blood in the Altmer's family. However, regardless of amicability, Orintur was still injured - considering the force of the blow recieved, it was a wonder he wasn't concussed. A short blast of his healing magic stemmed the blood flow from the head wound, and now having expended all of his magicka once more, stepped back to let the Paladin work on Brona.
After his remark about her stature, Brona raised a brow at the Altmer's behaviour, where she questioned his sanity. Nevertheless, the wound on her shoulder would be only a burden on the group further down the road. "If you would be so kind." She offered a sheepish grin. She pulled off her leather gloves and unknotted the leather cords that held her gorget in place. Once she had set that aside, she set to removing her breastplate, a necessary task as the leather covered the piercing bite wounds. Now, without her breastplate, Brona's red tunic held no indication that she had suffered an injury, as the color masked the blood, save for darker splotches of red where it had seeped through. She wiped the rivulets of blood away on the hem of her tunic, before turning her attention to the Altmer again. "If you will." she said with a nod of her head.
Bardeck was a bit too preoccupied with other thoughts at the moment as he gazed at Gideon smelling the Scamp corpses and prodding them with his muzzle, but he honestly agreed with Orintur. Not that he'd have said it in such a fashion, but the well-built young fighter was impressed at Brona's skills. She used her talents well.
"By the way, we told you our names, what are yours?" She asked to both the Altmer and the Nord.
"My name? It would be Orintur Graywatch, at your service, madam!" The towering Elf said with a graceful bow. "I am a humble servant of Stendarr, charged with the protection of the innocent, and the smiting of those that would prey upon them! To that end I am trained in both the arts of war and magic; yes, I even employ the distasteful school of Destruction. If I could make do without it I most certainly would, but in this world, you must use the tools that have been granted to you."
Setting down his hammer and helmet, Orintur continued. "However, my knowledge of Restoration is much more formidable than any other of my proficiencies...well, except for my skill with hammers! Ahaha!" Stretching out his arms and fingers, Orintur prepared a cast of Greater Convalescence; Brona's wound, while not life-threatening, was still too severe for Orintur to treat it with the spell's less potent brother. He did not mind expending the extra magicka, after all, this was the Paladin's calling in life, to help those in need.
With a flash of light and perhaps a slight burning sensation for Brona, the wound was healed up with little trace of it having been there at all...well, except for the rather unsightly scarring, but that would heal on its on with time. Most of it, anyway.
"And...finished! There you are, good as new!"
"I certainly appreciate the kindness, Master Orintur. I never learned any other field of magick, save for Illusion. Just don't have it in me, or that's what my teacher told me." She said with a shrug of her shoulders. Brona ran a hand over the new scar where the wound once existed. She had to admit, she was impressed at his skill. She replaced her armor, pulling the leather cords tight to prevent it from coming loose.
As the three conversed, Bardeck crouched and held his hands out to his canine companion. Gideon trotted over to him and began lapping at his face. The warrior chuckled and ran his hand over Gideon's furred back. The wardog was not truly hurt, merely singed in a few places. Bardeck could tell it would be alright. "Keep careful, yeh?" He asked Gideon, who nuzzled into his hand. If Orintur remained as effective of a fighter as he had been, he and Bardeck would keep the front of the group relatively secured.
Raising his eyebrows at Orintur's rather dramatic introduction, Niko looked between he and Brona, feeling a slight sense of relief at having someone so zealous in their party. It was almost like having extra protection from the Gods.
"My name is Nikolaus." This follow-up sounded particularly lame compared to Orintur's, and realising this, Niko cleared his throat and stood up a bit straighter. "I was once a Battlemage for the Arcane University; as such, I have plenty of experience dealing with the horrors we see here. While not Daedra, there are people and beings in our realm that are capable of just as much terror." Pausing a moment as past memories flickered across his mind, Niko shook the thoughts off. Now wasn't the time.
"My friends call me Niko - feel free to do the same." He added in a lighter tone, smiling slightly at his now healed companions.
"Nice to meet you, Niko. What's a Nord like you doing this far south?" She asked.
Niko paused before answering her, sheathing his other sword. "Work. I take jobs here and there, travel with my daughter. It's not the easiest of lives, but she enjoys seeing new places." While certainly the truth, Niko constantly wondered whether or not it would be better for her if he'd just take a permament job in a city. But then again, after seeing Kvatch... they were unlucky to have been trapped there. If they had been residents, perhaps their fate would have been much worse. "I used to live in Kvatch, actually. A few years ago... a shame to see it like this now."
The realization that he had a daughter, and had traveled this far south for work as he put it, made her question where the mother was. She bit her lip at the thought while her eyes lingered upon his figure. "You're a good man, lookin' after your daughter like that." What else could she say? She just met the man, and even more so, the private affairs of his life. So she presumed the best course of action, in situations like these, was a simple change of topic. Brona switched her attention to the dog that belonged to Bardeck. A smile crossed her lips as she watched it sniff the corpses of the scamps, she liked animals. Never owned one, but liked them nonetheless.
"A fine creature, that one is. Where did you find such a dog?" She asked Bardeck with a nod of her head.
The rugged warrior smoothed his hand on Gideon, turning to look at Brona. "Thank you," he said earnestly. He didn't really care too much on compliments for himself, unless it was for glorious combat. But Gideon? He loved his Warhound. "Gideon was a gift from my mentor, Rogath." He smiled, his handsome face lighting up and looking much younger when he was speaking of his dog. "It was the last thing he gave me before I left Hammerfell."
"Hammerfell?" Her brows lifted at the mention of Hammerfell, what in the world was he doing all the way up there? Now that she thought about it, their entire company was composed of folks from all walks of life.
He halted scratching Gideon for a moment, and he nodded. "I grew up in Skyrim for a time, but most of my life has been spent in Hammerfell, learning to smith and fight with Orcs." He said, reminiscing of his time there in the back of his mind.
"Well I'll be damned." She said as a smile crossed her lips, staggering to her feet she glanced at the others. "Suppose we should get a move on lest those Daedra spring another trap on us, eh?" Her hand swept towards the remaining members of the company, most had seemingly received some type of healing as well.
The story behind Bardeck was an intruiging one to Niko; it was rare for the Orismer to take in non-Orcs to learn and live with them, and for them to give gifts freely meant they considered the young warrior a competent one. Making a mental note to ask Bardeck of his no-doubt interesting past in Hammerfell - if they made it out of here alive, that was - Niko nodded in agreement to Brona. The injuries sustained by the group had been fairly light to begin with, so it was lucky they didn't have to spend much of their time patching up. "Let's join the others; I fear we may have more foes to deal with in that blasted tower." Looking towards the alien constructs, they stuck out of the landscape quite blatantly. It was as if their architects had gone to great lengths to try and made the natural environment even more daunting - they certainly had succeeded, with the dull grey stone and red spikes protruding all throughout the spires. | Character Name: Orintur Graywatch
Age: 57, approximate
Race: Altmer
Sex: Male
Birthsign: The Tower
Specialisation: Combat
Class: Paladin
Skills:
Expert: Two-Handed Blunt
Journeyman: Heavy Armor, Restoration
Apprentice: Destruction, Athletics, Hand to Hand
Novice: Speechcraft, One-Handed Blade, One-Handed Blunt, Foraging
Crafting: Novice Smithing and Alchemy
Appearance: For the most part, Orintur is your typical yellow-skinned Altmer, standing at about a head higher than the average height of most other races, with pointed ears and narrow eyes, irises matching his skin. What makes him a bit different, though, is that Orintur is noticeably far more muscular than the slim and dainty everyday High Elf, thanks to his extensive training with large two-handed weapons and heavy armors. Orintur keeps his platinum hair short; he hates how bothersome long hair can be and would rather be able to wake up and not need to rearrange anything.
Of course it goes without saying that, as a Paladin, Orintur sees his fair share of combat. As such, he has a good number of scars to document his adventures. The most noticeable scar is a large burn mark on his lower abdomen, given to Orintur by a flame atronach summoned by an accursed warlock that had been terrorizing nearby villages. The Altmer's armor intercepted the fireball, but that didn't stop all the damage, for his armor had reached searing levels of heat where it was hit. Unable to take off his cuirass in the middle of battle, Orintur fought for several more minutes with it on, and with every movement he was scorched further. By the time the mage was dead, not even the most powerful of Restoration magics could have healed his wound completely. Far less epic scars line Orintur's body, mainly across his arms, some acquired during his training, others given to him by bandits and other foul creatures that lucked out and bypassed his armor.
Personality: Being a High Elf, one of another race would be inclined to groan at Orintur's approach, thanks to his race's less than tolerant view of anyone not their own. One would most certainly not expect, though, for the young(for a High Elf, anyway) Paladin to greet them with ecstatic glee; indeed, Orintur is as nice as nice gets...well, as long as you aren't a heretic. Following the dictations of his patron god, Stendarr, Orintur has unending love for the citizens of Tamriel, and is always happy to meet new people and offer his services to those in need. This love stops, though, for those that would bring harm to anyone under his protection, that being every person in Tamriel not openly against the Nine Divines. These villains are deemed heretics, and Orintur believes it is his mission as bestowed upon him by Mighty Stendarr to bring them to justice, be it at the end of a gavel...or his hammer. Bandits, conjurers of foul daedra, rogue wizards and necromancers, and thieves to a lesser extent all fall under Orintur's definition of "heretic", and such people would do well to keep their hobbies a secret from the ever-wary Paladin if they want to get in his good graces.
The good citizens of Tamriel and all other adherents of the Nine Divines, however, can feel free to approach Orintur with all manner of problems; whatever they be, most can probably be solved with his hammer. If a hammer is not enough, then the Altmer can turn to his magics of Restoration and Destruction, or even his limited knowledge of alchemy and smithing, for he is nothing if not versatile. Orintur takes great pride in assisting those around him, and would give his life if it ever came to such a thing, so strong is his faith in the teachings of the Divines. Unfortunately however, Orintur's zealotry has made some of even the most pious of church-goers fearful of him, worried that they may unknowingly engage in some innocuous activity that nevertheless draws the paladin's ire and would put them at the end of a warhammer. Many city guards are also not quite fans of Orintur, viewing his methods as too extreme and uncompromising, and disruptive to the general peace. If he is not barred from entering a city outright, the Altmer is under the strict watch of a detachment of guards who stand at a distance, waiting for him to step out of line.
Backstory: Orintur has no knowledge of his homeland, where exactly he was born, when he was born, or even who birthed him. From what he could gather from his adoptive family at the Chapel of Stendarr in Chorrol, a young woman brought him to the chapel as a baby. The woman, who was in a heavy concealing cloak and scarf, said his name was Orintur Graywatch, and to the Primate's great confusion and frustration, she would not reveal any more details, no matter how much she was pressed. The only other words the woman spoke was a request to "please raise him to be kind". In the second the Primate turned his head to look at Orintur, the woman had vanished. Letters of inquiry to other chapels and contacts turned up fruitless; the woman could not be found nor was there anyone under the name of Graywatch in Cyrodiil. With no one else able or willing to take the infant elf in, the Primate decided to make the chapel his new home, and raise him under the guidance of the Commands of the Divines with the help of the other priests.
Orintur, under the wise tutelage of the Primate and priests of Stendarr, came to learn and hold dearly the teachings of the Nine Divines. Memorizing the Ten Commands and taking to heart the wisdom of revered saints, the Divines became the center of his life, and Orintur would spend many hours of the day praying and performing rites, taking short breaks to eat simple foods, help around the city, and sleep until the next morning where he would renew his routine. No doubt Orintur looked peculiar praying at the altars, being a High Elf and what all that entailed to those that didn't know anything of him, but everything just seemed to fit for the Altmer. He felt Zenithar fill his bones with the strength to live day after day, Mara fill his heart with love, and Julianos fill his mind with wisdom. The Divine that Orintur felt closest to, of little surprise, being raised in his chapel, was Stendarr. He felt compelled to help and protect the weak, and was overjoyed whenever he was able to do volunteer work to assist the needy. At twenty-five, fifteen years after beginning his general training as a devotee of the Divines, Orintur spoke to the Primate and requested he begin training to serve Stendarr. The Primate, naturally, was overjoyed, and asked what he would like to specialize in. Orintur thought long and hard on this, and eventually came to a conclusion: he would be a paladin of Stendarr. It just sounded right to him, marching across Cyrodiil, striking down evildoers and offering aid to those whose paths he crossed; it felt like something was calling him to take on the mantle of Paladin. To this day, Orintur attributes his choice to the guiding hand of Stendarr, who believed the Altmer would be best suited for that path above all others.
Orintur's training officially began with the arrival of a full-fledged paladin, whom the Primate called to the Chapel to teach the High Elf every other month; Orintur's lessons would alternate between martial and spiritual training, with the Primate instructing him in all the rites of Stendarr. Romana Marius was a behemoth of a woman, almost as tall as Orintur himself and with plenty of muscle to match. Her red hair was short and messy, with a face as plain as a foundation stone and a stare that could shatter one; Romana certainly had no time set aside for looking nice. With how mean she could look on the outside, however, Romana was surprisingly amicable. You had to listen for her smile, not look for it, as one of the priests familiar with her once said. She was glad that Orintur chose the path of the paladin, as according to her their numbers were running quite low, and made Orintur aware of their kind's high mortality rate. She was greatly pleased to hear her student's confidence and determination, and began his first lessons. They spent several weeks trying to find the aspiring warrior a weapon of choice, and went through many with little success. Sword and shield, spears, axes, none quite clicked with Orintur...until he came to the mighty warhammer. He was practically in love with the raw power of such a weapon, and asked to be trained in its use.
The first two years with Romana was specifically spent learning how to wear heavy armor and properly use a warhammer, along with a bit of hand-to-hand training. Proper footing, getting down the right amount of momentum, using distance to one's advantage, all the basics. When she believed Orintur could use the weapon confidently, Romana began engaging in full-on spars with her student. While obviously not on equal footing with his mentor, Orintur could still land his fair share of strikes. One day, Romana hit Orintur with an extremely heavy strike, bruising him terribly. What he initially believed was an accident was actually Romana transitioning into her next lessons: the art of Restoration, and how to heal oneself and others. She began by teaching Orintur a basic healing spell to ease his bruising, which he took it upon himself to learn quickly, as the wound panged quite unpleasantly...and then she made him do it again after the next spar when she fractured his index finger. Romana made it clear that she did not injure him for her own amusement, but rather to encourage him to learn how to heal himself faster and give him more experience with Restoration magics. Still, Orintur didn't quite appreciate the beatings even with that assurance, but the more potent spells she taught him after a few months softened the literal blows a bit. The next four years were a repeat of that routine of sparring and then healing, and going out to help those brought into the safety of the city after being attacked by bandits, wolves, and whatever else lurked the roads and forests. Romana had Orintur simply watch at first of course, no telling what an inexperienced student would get wrong, but eventually he was allowed to operate on his first patient. Using the most simple spell available, the Altmer successfully closed the gashes of an unfortunate victim of a mugging. He liked those lessons much more. Two more years were spent learning the art of Destruction; Romana admitted that while, yes, Destruction was quite an unsavory school, a paladin needs several methods of attacking, as one may not be able to get close enough to bash away with steel.
Another two years passed, all the time with Romana spent perfecting his technique after having learned all of the basics of combat and magic. When the time had come for Orintur's trial of initiation, he could manuever himself smoothly even in heavy iron, could close and mend the wounds of himself and others in under twenty seconds, and his prowess with warhammers was something to be feared. Romana, the Primate, and all others who had witnessed his training were confident in his ability...but were the Divines? Such was the purpose of his trial, to determine his worthiness in the eyes of Stendarr. Orintur's mission: Head to a nearby cave, once the lair of some goblins, and destroy the warlock hiding away inside. The warlock had been attacking travellers on the road to Chorrol frequently, and was the cause of all the recent burn victims carried into the city. He was to bring back their staff as proof of his success.
The moment Orintur stepped into the vile lair of the mage, the scent of death hit him in the face with nauseating force. In the second chamber was the cause: Six glassy-eyed corpses, reanimated by the darkest of magicks. They were the unfortunate travellers that did not make it the rest of the way to Chorrol, their flesh singed with intense magical flames. To profane the dead in such a way was heresy in the eyes of Arkay, and so Orintur dispatched them swiftly. The slow, shambling zombies were no match for Orintur and his warhammer, and the Altmer had little issue releasing them from their servitude. Deeper in the cave, however, was a sight truly horrible: piled up in a corner was a mountain of corpses, most much, much older than the poor souls in the previous chamber. Next to them were bloody carts; the blasphemer had been practicing necromancy far before moving near Chorrol. Filled with righteous fury, Orintur was going to make sure the bastard would not be able to relocate this time. At the very end of the cave was a large open room with torches, and sconces filled with bones. In the middle was a stone altar with a multitude of body parts arranged in a vaguely humanoid shape...with the sickening mage ogling at their handiwork with childish wonderment. The clanking of armor alerted the aging warlock, but she was none too impressed with her adversary, wondering aloud if the following of Stendarr was so weak that they had to send a boy after her.
Summoning forth a fire atronach, the warlock looked on amusedly as her minion went to work on Orintur. The atronach was swifter than he anticipated, and he missed his first swing. Now at a safe distance, the daedroth flung a ball of fire at Orintur, hitting the middle of his cuirass. Though not hit directly, the heated part of his armor would occasionally brush against his body, searing him painfully whenever he turned. Deciding his foe was too good at gaining distance, the Altmer switched to blasting the atronach with orbs of ice. Only when the summon was in a weakened state did Orintur charge forth and let his hammer crash down on his foe's skull. Turning away from the fizzling remains of the flaming abomination, the warlock and the paladin-to-be locked eyes, both glaring at the other. Lifting up her staff, the warlock let loose a fireball, crashing behind Orintur as he jumped to the side to avoid another unfortunate burn wound; the one he had already was getting on his nerves as it was. Retaliating with a lightning bolt, the furious High Elf advanced quickly, his attack sending the warlock's next fireball askew, far away from her charging foe. Before they were able to send out another spell, Orintur knocked the mage to the ground with a hard shoulder-bash, who followed up with a quick stomp to their arm, breaking it and forcing them to let go of their staff. The blasphemer's predictable last-ditch promises of unlimited power went unheard, and were ultimately silenced by Orintur's warhammer cracking them across the skull, snapping her neck at a disgusting angle.
After treating his burn as best as he could, Orintur grabbed the accursed staff and prayed to Arkay and Stendarr, praying that the souls of the dead so disrespectfully mutilated in the cave would be tended to, and that the warlock would hopefully be granted pardon by Stendarr the Merciful. It was dark by the time Orintur returned to the chapel, and he was greeted by the relieved cheering of its inhabitants. Handing the staff to the Primate, it was announced that Orintur would be made a paladin of Stendarr on the morn. Never before had rest felt so deserved to the anxious Altmer.
After waking and praying at the altars, Orintur met the Primate at the center of the chapel. He was surpised at how many were in attendance: there was Romana and the other priests of the chapel, which wasn't too shocking, but behind them in the pews were several citizens of Chorrol and even a few guards. Kneeling low, the Primate proudly began the induction speech, placing upon Orintur the blessings of Stendarr and the other Divines, charging him with the faithful service of the good people of Tamriel, to defend and protect the weak and innocent, and to forever hold the ideals of generosity and kindness to others in his heart. Accepting these gifts and responsibilities, Orintur rose and took in his hands the steel warhammer and donned the steel armor forged by Chorrol's blacksmith, ordered by Romana and the priests specially for the Altmer's coronation. After the ceremony, Romana told Orintur that the reason for the large amount of attendees was that a paladin of Stendarr hadn't been inducted in many years, and it was an exciting event for the townsfolk. He vowed to not disappoint the people of Chorrol, or of anywhere else in Tamriel. To that end, he geared up, said his great thanks to the kind priests that raised him, to and the Primate Romana for their teachings, and set out across Cyrodiil.
The following years weren't exactly full of epic adventures and quests to destroy evil artifacts. In fact, Orintur's new life as a paladin was fairly mundane, and that suited him just fine. Helping people with problems, big or small, filled Orintur with purpose, and his spirits were raised with every word of thanks and gratitude. He took very little in terms of rewards, accepting little more than pieces of fruit or refills for his waterskin. As a result of this, and his eventual reputation as a reliable but incredibly extreme man of the faith barring him entry from most cities by the guards, Orintur has had to learn how to find his own food in the form of berries and edible plants along with the uncommon pieces of meat from the game he is able to reliably hunt, and has also taken it upon himself to learn the basics of using small swords and handaxes, just in case he ever finds himself without his hammer or enough magicka for spells. The intricacies of smithing and alchemy are far beyond the Altmer, but he knows enough to keep his armor and weapons in decent shape, and can brew basic potions for healing, fatigue, and magicka recovery.
The news of the Emperor's death saddened Orintur greatly, and upon hearing of the event he gave himself to the Kvatch arena games, hoping to honor the late Uriel Septim with victory in combat. He planned to later pray and mourn in the Chapel of Akatosh, and unbeknownst to him them, pray and mourn he would, but not just for the dead Emperor, but for all people of Tamriel.
Then the time for prayer would end, and thus would begin the purging of heretics, blashphemers, and daedric abominations. The Princes themselves shall fear the name Orintur Graywatch!
Spells:
Restoration
Greater Convalescence(J), Heal Major Wounds(A), Convalescence(A), Heal Minor Wounds(N)
Destruction
Shock(A), Corrode Armor(A), Snowball(N)
Inventory:
Storage
1 x Large Leather Backpack
1 x Leather harness w/ three pouches
Alchemy Gear
1 x Mortar/Pestle
3 x Empty vials
Sufficient ingredients to make two potions of light healing, and one potion of light magicka recovery
1 x Healing/Stamina/Magicka potions
Tools/Arms and Armor/Clothing
1 x Green cotton shirt/black trousers/leather boots
1 x Set of fluted steel plate armor with gauntlets, greaves, and a bucket helmet w/ raisable face plate
1 x Steel warhammer
1 x Iron dagger, fastened to harness across cuirass
1 x Armourer's hammer and whetstone
1 x Small handaxe for chopping up bits of wood for fires, fastened to his backpack
Food and Provisions
1 x Medium sized waterskin
2 x Cuts of cooked venison
1 x Red Apple
3 x Half-loafs of bread
1 x Small leather tent and bedroll |
56,396 | 1,541 | 41 | 1,320 | 116 | Aveca was still examining her hand for injuries and barely heard the Nord man call for a rest. She zoned into the conversation just enough to understand what the group was doing, adrenaline fading from her mind. She felt she could use a small rest after her fight. She looked over the group for a second; everyone was standing, though a few had visible injuries. Aveca’s head felt muddied, so she decided to step away for a second and get herself together.
As she approached a rock to sit on not far away from the dremora’s body, she stooped to grab her bow and sling it back over her shoulder. Her items now all accounted for, she sat down on the rock and pulled out her waterskin. She didn’t want to use too much water, as she wasn’t sure now long they would be in this gate, but despite that she poured a small amount on her hands to wash off the blood. Dried blood was bearable, but it annoyed her to have the crusty substance on her hands of all places. She wiped her wet hand on her dress. They were nowhere near perfectly clean, but she could at least see some scratches on her right hand now that it was clean. She took a second to heal them, which was simple, but she did to ensure she avoided infection.
Aveca wasn’t usually shaken by a fight, and she wasn’t very shaken after the dremora, but she was unsettled to say the least. Just being in the gate made her skin crawl. She had to agree with the nord man on both counts – they needed to get moving, and their injured needed help.
After cleaning herself up and getting her bearings, feeling slightly more rested, she approached the main conglomerate of warriors. She noted some had already been healed; it didn’t come as a surprise to her, in such a group. Many who studied magic learned at least a basic healing spell. She decided to check anyway, directing it to the whole group. “Does anyone else need patching up before we keep moving?” | Character Name:
Aveca Ice-Bear
Age:
26
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Female
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Magic/Stealth
Class:
Healer
Skills:
Expert: Restoration
Journeyman: Marksman (Bow), Alteration, Alchemy (Craft)
Apprentice: Destruction, Speechcraft, Hunting (Craft)
Novice: Mercantile, Illusion, Acrobatics
Appearance:
Aveca stands at about 5’6” tall. She has the characteristic pale white skin of the Nords, as well as fair coloured features. Her hair is a light white-blonde colour with some yellowish tones. She has choppily cut bangs (done herself with a sharpened knife, quite carefully) that swoop in around her face, down to about nose length. The rest of her hair is usually kept either in a braid or in a messy bun, but when left long it goes down just past her armpits. Her eyes are a blue-gray tone, and her face is lightly freckled.
She is also able-bodied. She wouldn't get called a muscular person in general – you wouldn’t catch her in chainmail – but her body is accustomed to exercise and comfortable with the weight of drawing a bowstring. She never let herself get lax just because she practices magic.
As far as scarring and blemishes, Aveca has few. As a healer, she has usually been able to heal any more recent scars, but she has some very light markings (faded by time) up her legs and arms from the usual childhood rough activity and learning to hunt in her younger years. Between her youth and her training, she got one significant scar, which is a simple gash mark on her leg from a run in with a bear.
Aveca has little need for armor. She tries to avoid direct combat, so armor would in the end only inhibit the way she tries to weave around a battle and aid the injured. She prefers simple clothes, leggings and a tunic, or sometimes a dress or skirt. These she always wears over leggings and with boots, as she likes to be prepared for any situation.
Personality:
Aveca is a healer, and that is her passion, but it could in no way define all she is. She believes in aiding the wounded and sick, and wants to go out across the world and help good people, but she also has a fairly strong sense of justice and can be harsh with it at times. She won’t aid you regardless of who you are on the basis of you being a living being. After all, hunter and healer don’t tend to correlate. She isn’t afraid to throw fire around if it comes down to a fight, but she much prefers to avoid one. The bow she carries, she prefers to use for hunting than on people. Her passion is much more around the idea of widespread misery and sickness; her interests lie in sickness and disease, in the curing of plagues and foreign illnesses. She has an apt and interest for academic learning, but can become bored easily if it isn’t related to her interests (being healing, alchemy, living things, cultures, languages).
Despite this, she tends to help first and ask questions later. She will heal someone without a second thought in an instant, because she would rather help someone and expect them to be a good person than not take the risk in case they may be less savory. However, if ever she was betrayed she would retaliate in full force.
Overall, Aveca is a happy and optimistic person. She wants to travel and experience the world, to meet, to help, and to socialize with people from everywhere there is. She is generally willing to engage in a conversation at any time and with anyone, as long as she isn’t trying to heal. She takes her work seriously and doesn’t like distractions while she is actively doing a spell.
One thing is that you don’t want to get into an argument with her. She’ll get heated over anything she has an opinion on, and she won’t let go, either.
Backstory:
Katla and Eirn were rather typical Nords. They met in Markarth, where Katla lived with her family (merchants), and Eirn travelled through as a hunter selling meats. He trekked back and forth across Skyrim all his life, with his parents and then later on his own. He met Katla at the market there, and found himself coming to Markarth more and more often. Her family disapproved, but they married and she too to travelling with him. She enjoyed the adventure. When Aveca and her sister,
Laisa, were born, their parents stopped for a time at a camp they built outside of Whiterun. It provided some stabililty for the young girls.
As they grew older, their parents started travelling with them more. They had a cart and tents, so it wasn’t as though they lived in total discomfort. Aveca was quite fond of the dirt and the travel, whereas Laisa was jealous of the nicely dressed children they met in cities. Over the years, Aveca learned hunting from their father from a very young age, and their mother taught Laisa the ways of business so she could go out on her own someday, without having to depend on someone else.
When she was 13, Aveca asked her family to take her north to the College of Winterhold to learn, and they did. Her mother was a firm believer in doing what you want to do. At first try, the nice man at the gate told her and her mother that they simply couldn't let in a totally untrained mind, and at such an age, though he would have liked to. He asked her to gain some preliminary knowledge and to return in a few years. Her mother was frustrated, and, determined for her daughter to have what she wanted, they traveled to Markarth and left Aveca with a mage she knew from her life there. He was an Alteration mage named Aenar who worked in the temple. She spent a year and a half with him and helped him with his work, while developing a base knowledge of how magic works and how to preform it. She learned a solid base of novice spells and returned to the College with her family just as she was almost 15. This time, they let her in to learn more after she demonstrated that she had the skill for learning it.
For the first few years she studied generally and with vigor, but when she was 17, her family travelled north to tell her that her mother had died of an illness. She never got the chance to say goodbye because of the distance. Her sister was still ill with the same sickness, however it was less advanced and the mages in Winderhold healed her. This ignited Aveca’s passion more specifically for healing and she undertook learning all she possibly could about it. She had a knack for magic and dedicated her whole life to it from the age of 17 until she was 24. She still kept hunting on as a hobby, something she did for an afternoon every week, maybe.
As for Laisa, when she was 18 she made some business connections and set up a shop in Riften.
When Aveca was 24, she herself deemed her training temporarily complete. She had a very advanced training in healing, as well as alchemy and alteration, but she didn’t have the same knack for the rest of the schools and she didn’t focus on them nearly as much. She left the college of her own accord and again travelled Skyrim with her father for a good number of months until she passed south to Cyrodill from Riften, after a visit with her sister.
Once there, she used a mixture of hunting, healing, and alchemy to make an income. She started in the north in Burma, and travelled south through Chorrol, Skingrad, and finally Kvatch. During this time she travelled very light, with a sac on her back for various alchemical pursuits, and very little else. She stayed in inns in the cities as long as she could afford to do so.
Spells:
Restoration: Heal Minor Wounds, Major Respite, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Heal Superior Wounds, Devour Health, Cure Disease, Superior Convalescence
Alteration: Lightning Shield, Water Breathing, Water Walking, Protect Other,
Destruction: Electric Touch, Flash Bolt, Frost Touch
Illusion: Illuminate, Soothing Touch
Inventory:
Steel Bow
Quiver of Iron Arrows (x20)
Iron Dagger (more for daily use than fighting)
Pair of black leggings
Sturdy leather boots
Light blue tunic
Brown cotton dress, white corset, decent quality
Travelling cloak
Leather belt with pouches
Waterskin
Knapsack, leather
Bedroll with bedding
Mortar and Pestle
Alchemical ingredient pouch (mostly herbs for healing potions, but with some other ingredients)
Vials and corks for those potions
Minor Magika Potions (x2)
75 Septims
Dried meats, bread, cheese |
56,397 | 1,541 | 42 | 1,552 | 2,229 | With wounds now healed and gruesome deaths of their comrades pushed to the backs of already shaken minds, the group was able to move on to their final destination; the towering spire before them, which would hopefully lead to some answers about the plane they stood in. And of course, how to get rid of it - the lands of the Daedra had no place in Nirn, and that mere fact would possibly lend hope to those stuck within the realm. The Gods couldn't allow this transgression against their will to continue, so surely these few warriors had the favour of the Aedra. Others, however, may look upon this as a fruitless effort. Mehrunes Dagon had broken the one law that kept some people asleep at night. If the Prince of Destruction could unleash his fiery lands and evil minions on the world of men and elves, then they had truly been abandoned by all that is good in the world.
As for Naenya, she was simply enjoying the new learning experience. The quarrels of beings such as the Daedric Princes and the Gods had nothing to do with her; all the Bosmer woman could do was to try and look on the bright side of things. The Dremora that she and the others had wiped out had a very fascinating physiology - that much she could tell by simply watching them die. Many people she had known were immensely interested in the biology of such unknown beasts, but unfortunately when one is summoned to Nirn, it disappears when it dies. Or, it just kills you instead. Either way, nothing useful is learnt. As for these bodies however, they remained where they were cut down, some of them twitching as they died. If it weren't for the steadily-approaching doom of the group within the Deadlands, and of course, the defenceless citizens in and around Kvatch, Naenya would have been quite happy to stay where she was and examine the corpses, not being perturbed in the slightest at the still impaled Glenndus nearby, or the smouldering crisp that was once their impromptu leader, still laying in the lava. But as the group made haste towards the tower, Naenya followed with a disheartened sigh. It would do no good to linger out there; especially if the others found some amazing way to close the gate without getting stuck inside... and possibly leaving her behind. She liked learning, but not quite that much. She doubted there was much in the way of water or edible food in this place.
It was surprising to discover that the great stone doors before them weren't locked, or guarded all that much beyond two scamps roaming about within. They were dispatched easily, being no real threat compared to the group they had encountered outside. Unfortunately, the interior of the tower was no less horrifying than the outside; the same blood-coloured spikes from outside lined the circular room, and a large pool of lava laid in the center. While the dry, cracking heat of the environment was shut out the moment the doors closed behind them, it was only replaced with an even more intense heat. Radiating from the pool of lava was a strange column of fire; betraying all the laws of physics as it shot up like a solid beam of light, wreathed in flames and smoke. It was too bright to look at directly, and Naenya's ears picked up on a very peculiar noise issuing from it; a high-pitched hissing, coupled with a creepy, ethereal chime. One that she could only apply to the noise magic makes - but this was no magic she had ever seen before. Nor did she know what the purpose of it was. It had to have some use beyond aesthetics... so she could only guess it had something to do with the gate staying open.
It would seem everyone else came to that conclusion as heads tilted upwards, squinting against the harsh light of the beam to see where it led. It only seemed to go up, and that was the only direction the group could also go; doors led to a hall, which led to a ramp, and another hall. More petty enemies lined the way, the group dispatching another scamp and a Dremora. It was astonishing, the lack of guards within the tower; Naenya wondered if it was because the tower was very unimportant, and the group had been led astray and were probably going to die soon. Then again, it was a bit more comforting that whoever arranged the guard patrols in this place was arrogant enough to think that nobody could have gotten past the kill brigade outside, so minimal guards were needed within.
"Huh. I wonder who actually does the guard patrols for Dremora. Do you think there's a roster? Night shifts? Lunch breaks? Do Daedra even have lunch?" Naenya pondered aloud to herself as she often did - usually when speaking to Bobo, but as she'd forgotten for the fifth time, she'd left her beloved Magpie back in a land where he wasn't going to burn to death at any possible moment.
After more doors, more ramps, and more petty dremora, the group finally reached a larger hall on what Naenya could only guess was the third level of the tower; after dispatching the two foes within, the group paused as they finally came across a decent obstacle; one of the doors was locked. While the various rogues offered up services of lock-picking, Naenya took the time to examine the room. On one of the four pillars within was a body; impaled to the stone, set alight, and smelling strongly of burnt pork. Further along was a very crude - and very obvious - trap, in which spears shot out from the wall to penetrate the unlucky person who stepped on the pressure plate, which was spattered in blood. However, the thing that had caught Naenya's attention were the two benches in the middle of the room; they looked oddly like pews (Only much spikier and far more uncomfortable), and her mind began drifting to Daedra worship - not mortals worshipping them of course, but the various types of Daedra worshipping. Did they pray to Mehrunes Dagon? Or would they pray to all of the Daedric Princes, as people prayed to different Aedra? Were there different sects or cults with the realms of Oblivion? Would one be shunned or just killed for worshipping the wrong master? Interesting thoughts indeed.
As everyone else tried to sort out their current situation, or have an internal crisis about faith and potential impending death, Naenya perched on one of the benches thoughtfully, smiling at the possibility of a Dremora in priest clothing and giving blessings. | Character Name:
Nikolaus “Niko” Valerious
Age:
37
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lover
Specialisation:
Combat/Magic
Class:
Paragon
Skills:
Expert: One-Handed Blade (Dual-Wielding)
Journeyman: Speechcraft, Destruction
Apprentice: Athletics, Restoration, Heavy Armour
Novice: Two-Handed Blade, Acrobatics, Illusion, Medicine (Non-Alchemical/Magical (Craft)), Hunting (Craft), Foraging (Craft)
Appearance:
Looking every part the Nord, Niko stands at a towering height of 6’7; matched with broad shoulders and the muscled build of someone who works his swords every day, he can seem somewhat daunting at times. However, when one focuses on his face, softness shines through. Gentle blonde brows above stormy grey-blue eyes; a sharp jawline softened by a smattering of badly trimmed blond stubble; high cheekbones crinkled with laughter lines, and dimples that brighten cheeks once round with wellness, but now have a somewhat haggard and hungry look about them.
On a usual day out in the field, Niko can usually be seen wearing his armour; shaggy, dark-blonde hair pulled back haphazardly by messy braids, and shoulder’s stiff with the weight he is carrying. However, when more relaxed and among friends, his hair hangs loose, brushing against his eyes and shoulders in a messy but appealing manner – armour is replaced with comforting and loose clothing, shirt sleeves usually pushed up to the elbow and revealing a plethora of scars up and down his forearms. The scars carry on under his clothing; some fresher and deeper than others, but you’ll need to either get him drunk or be close to him to get the stories behind the scarring dotted over his skin – some hurt more than others, and not in a physical way.
Personality:
While he doesn’t smile as much as he used to, Niko remains still an amicable sort – but if one looks close enough, you can see the tension in his smile; the stretched out laughs that sound just a touch too hollow to be considered genuine or warm. His eyes have retained that caring spark of friendliness, but it dulls whenever nobody is looking his way. His kindness isn’t faked or forced… it’s just harder to be the way he was before. It’s rare for his grief or anger to come through, but when faced with something particularly cruel, or anything involved in raising the dead, anything remotely nice about him falls away, and his eyes become as hard as ice. Killing for him then isn’t just a job to be done; it becomes frenzied, and very personal.
However, regardless of his own internal turmoils, he’ll remain good to those around him. While respect is earned, Niko makes a point of being polite to most, no matter how brash they appear to be. Being more than aware of how death and killing can get to a man, he’ll listen to people’s worries and concerns in the hopes he can do something to help them… when sometimes, a listening friend is all many need.
When it comes to matter away from friends and family, Niko still remains polite; even in battle, while others may make puns, threats or quips while slicing down their enemy, Niko will do it as quickly and as painlessly as possible – no intimidation, no dark humour. It’s not his style. Neither is bragging of past battles fought, though one would be able to hear a good tale from him if coaxed enough – it comes from having a daughter, for him. Niko quite firmly believes that Mia should be kept safe from violence, bad language, and all of the other things that his race and Skyrim are famous for; a foolish endeavour, considering his girl is getting street-smart enough to find out about all of these things herself; but he remains very protective over her, not wanting to lose her as he lost his wife. This protectiveness passes on to his friends and family, particularly those he gets close to.
Backstory:
While our story begins in Kvatch, as does the life of Nikolaus. Born to an Imperial father and Nord mother, the pair had met, fell in love, and married in a short span of time – moving from the mother’s native Skyrim to Kvatch for a both safer and warmer climate to raise their son in. And it was a good childhood for Niko; there was never danger within the city walls, and with his mother and father’s decent wages from the Fighters and Mages Guild respectively, never had an empty stomach or cold night. Niko’s father – Percius – had his own parents, now retired, living in Kvatch too – so whenever he and his wife – Ulva – needed to do a job for money, they could quite simply live Niko with his grandparents and do what needed to be done. As a baby, Niko barely noticed his parent’s absence unless they were gone for a unusually long time; but as a child, he started growing curious as to what reason for and where his parents were going. Curiosity soon grew into indignation, and the usually mild-mannered child began to constantly question exactly why he had to stay at home, and why his parents had to leave all the time. Well… he was still mild-mannered in his questioning; politeness always came first, especially when talking to his elders. But it was clear to his parents that their little boy was growing up rather quickly, and would need to start learning something to keep him happy – and away from their own adventures. To counter this, Percius’ father – a retired guard of Kvatch - started teaching Niko how to use swords – of course starting with a wooden sword and a straw dummy at the young age of 8, but still, it worked well enough. With his grandmother teaching him his letters and numbers, Niko constantly itched for his training sessions every evening.
Over time, Ulva began to spend more and more days at home, having growing tired from all of the contracts taken from the Fighter’s Guild. When Percius’ father grew too old to continue training Niko (now 13) Ulva took over, helping him branch out into proper training; wearing armour that weighed his light teenage frame down; real swords instead of wooden ones – she even persuaded Percius to begin training Niko in certain schools of magic, just so it would come in handy in the future. Niko picked up the magic just as well as his blades, barring a few incidents with rogue fireballs. He was fine once his eyebrows grew back, honestly.
When Niko reached the age of 16, he had a firm grasp in the basics of restoration, destruction, and the wielding of blades. His mother wanted him to join the fighter’s guild, and his father wanted him to join the mage’s guild. Thinking he wanted the best of both worlds, he started working as a battlemage for the arcane university; training under a more experienced guard who worked there to get him up to the right standard for such a prestigious college. It was a solid job, and kept both of his parents happy – Niko continued to have a steady income, a warm bed, and full stomach. He was just going to be living with longer hours and bruised skin from his rigorous training regime – the safety of the mages and the University was no small matter, what with the countless troves of knowledge and precious items hidden within those walls. Niko had only been inside a few times, but he had caught glimpses of endless libraries, impossibly large, echoing chambers (He and a few colleagues enjoyed a few shouting matches in there before being kicked out by their Guard-Captain; after several hours of sprinting the battlements in full armour in the pouring rain, they decided not to do it again), and of course, the mages themselves. Only 2 really stood out to him; one was a slimy looking fellow. Niko was never one to judge people before meeting them, but as it happened, he had had the misfortune of meeting and talking to Conjurer Astian Onius – but Niko also had the fortune of meeting Astian’s cousin, Elisabeth. And to him, she was the greatest treasure in the University.
At the age of 25 – now an established guard of his own right, having graduated his training top of the class (despite the hollering matches in the halls) – Niko finally plucked up the courage to talk to Elisabeth in a more than friendly manner, asking her to join him for drinks that night – no friends of his, and no weasel-like cousins of hers to accompany them. One night of drinks turned into another night, and then another; then it was candlelit meals, walks along the shores of lake Rumare, picnics in the forest. For anyone watching the pair, it would be quite obvious that the two were in love – and indeed, Astian was watching them. He was not happy.
After 3 years of courting, Niko and Elisabeth were wed, and a year after that, she fell pregnant with what would be their first and only child. Named Amelia for Elisabeth’s mother who had passed that spring, their life seemed idyllic. But as time passed, things began to grow dark. Not in their relationship, exactly; they were still a happy couple, raising their daughter in Imperial City and continuing with their jobs – and it was their jobs that began causing issues. What with Niko just being a guard, he and his fellows didn’t really involve themselves in the fight for power brewing between the Mages – not just in the University, but across Cyrodiil. Favours were split, and Elisabeth herself was not wanting Hannibal Traven as Arch-Mage; She considered him too close-minded, especially when it came to matters such as necromancy; although having never done any spells in that area, she was doing research into possible life after death – a cure that could bring someone back if they were saved seconds after dying. An innocent enough area of study, and certainly with a noble enough gesture behind it. But once Arch-Mage Traven won the fight for power, she became cowed; fearful of what could happen to her and her work after the banning of necromancy by the Arch-Mage, she begged Niko for them both to leave Imperial City and the Mages Guild – they had more than enough experience between them both to get jobs elsewhere. Although slightly concerned at her reasons behind it – her cousin Astian had been visiting their home more than usual the weeks previous, having hushed and irritated conversations with Elisabeth before the harassed woman asked him to leave – Niko conceded, and along with their 6 year old daughter, left for his parent’s home in Kvatch; having died in the winter, they’d left the home to Niko and his family.
The next two years that passed were easily the worst in Niko’s life. While Kvatch was a nice change at first; his daughter enjoying the smaller and more open city as opposed to Imperial City’s near stifling buildings and towering walls – he too was welcomed back with open arms, as many who still lived there knew his family. Getting a job as a guard was no trouble, what with his long service record at the Arcane University. He knew he’d probably get more money in the Fighter’s Guild or even a sellsword, but being a guard was safer, more secure, and more honest; that was just the kind of man he was.
His wife, however, was growing more and more secretive. Elisabeth had become more withdrawn, even after moving away from the Mages Guild; “hunting trips” were going on far too long for her to come home with nothing, and she would constantly change the subject whenever her studies came up in conversation. As Astian’s trips became more frequent, and news of strange lights coming from caves not far from Kvatch began circulating through the city, Niko’s worries grew into suspicions. It was time to find out what his wife and her troublesome cousin were up to.
As he followed Elisabeth from a distance – her leaving Kvatch a few hours previous for more “hunting” – Niko told himself that he was worrying over nothing. She was probably just continuing her research, and was worried about the Guild swooping in to stop her; but it wasn’t necromancy. Just research.
Whether his wife was dabbling in the magic of raising the dead, Niko never knew – but whatever she had attempted to do in those dimly lit caves was too dangerous – as he watched on from the shadows, he saw something go wrong. He was no expert in the type of magic Elisabeth and Astian were attempting, so Niko couldn’t understand why after a sudden flash of light, Elisabeth hit the ground and no longer moved; he couldn’t understand why Astian looked perfectly unconcerned by this, and simply began performing another spell. But when the magic hit her body, and she slowly rose to her feet, he did understand. And no matter what had happened, no matter what she may had done; he was not going to let his wife’s body become nothing more than a puppet. Wiping his eyes that had become blurred with tears, Niko slowly unsheathed his swords and stormed towards Astian.
When finally returning to Kvatch, it had been difficult to coax the full story from the grieving Niko; heavily injured and clutching Elisabeth’s – now still – body in his arms, he had collapsed at the gate, being brought into the chapel for healing. Although Astian had put up quite the fight, Niko had barely felt any pain at each landed blow from the disgraced mage; it was killing his wife’s resurrected body that had been the most difficult part for him. While the healer Oleta was able to mend his several cuts and burns, aided by Brother Martin, it was harder to ease the near-broken man’s mind. After the story was finally pulled from Niko, and the caves investigated, the city guards discovered that Astian had indeed been practicing Necromancy. Out of sheer respect to Niko, their comrade, they made sure to state there was nothing to incriminate Elisabeth in the forbidden act. There was no evidence in fact, but many people -particularly at the guild – would have been happy to connect the dots of her being at the caves so often.
Not so long after the tragedy, Niko had fully recovered; he had taken to spending much of his time at the Chapel, hoping to find solace in the Gods. But nothing seemed to bring him peace; the daily chats with the Priests brought him some comfort, but Kvatch no longer seemed like home anymore. Mia seemed to have taken the news of her mother better than he, but then, she hadn’t seen or done what he had been forced to do – all the same, she complied when Niko suggested leaving Kvatch. He left his job with the guard, sold their home, and the lonely father and daughter left the gates of their hometown. And for nearly 2 years, they wandered throughout Cyrodiil. Never staying in one place for too long, Niko took whatever jobs that came to him as long as they paid enough, and weren’t too time-wasting or life-threatening. He was more desperate than before, but he wouldn’t risk his life while Mia was so young; she had no-one left to look after her.
Of course, things became far more dangerous when he finally came back to Kvatch. A chance encounter; retrieving some rare book from the local bookstore for an old bedbound fellow in Bravil; at first, Niko was going to pass it up, not quite ready to return to Kvatch even after 2 years. But the man was offering quite a bit of money, and Mia’s birthday was approaching – it couldn’t hurt, could it?
That was what he thought until the Oblivion Gate opened. It had been easy enough to gather a terrified Mia into his arms and pelt towards the chapel, but it was getting out that would be the hardest part.
Spells:
Destruction: Blazing Spear, Corrode Weapon, Dire Wound, Drain Skill: Destruction, Fire Ball, Frost Bolt, Great Magicka Drain, Hail Storm, Lightning Bolt, Lightning Grasp, Searing Grasp, Shocking Burst, Weakness to Magicka, Winter’s Grasp, Withering Touch
Restoration: Convalescence, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Fortify Health, Fortify Speed, Fortify Strength, Great Fortity Fatigue, Heal Major Wounds
Illusion: Serenity, Soothing Touch, Starlight
Inventory:
1x Off-white tunic, to wear under armour
2x Black Leather pants, one for casual wear, one to wear under greaves
1x Set of steel greaves
1x Set of steel pauldrons
1x Steel chestplate
1x Set of steel bracers over 1x Pair of leather gloves
2x Steel longswords
1x Steel Greatsword
1x Iron dagger
1x Dark shirt
1x Black overcoat
1x Pair of leather boots
1x Black hood
1x Spare child’s dress, red
1x Spare pair of child’s shoes
Mia’s teddy bear
1x Plain gold wedding ring
1x Waterskin
1x Bottle of rum
1x Loaf of bread
2x Wedges of cheese
Several slices of smoked salmon, wrapped in cheesecloth
Several slices of cooked beef, wrapped in cheesecloth
3x Sweetened biscuits, slightly stale
1x Skin of milk
2x Bedrolls
1x Pillow
1x Large fur blanket
1x Tent
1x Cooking pot & Spit
1x Horse, carrying majority of the camping equipment
1x Knapsack, to carry the remainder of his things
374 Septims
Mia has a balanced look of her parents; she has her mother’s dark, chocolate-brown eyes, and face and body, but the rest of her belongs to her father. Being quite tall and mature for her age, Mia also has his dark-blonde hair, hers with more of a wave to it than Niko’s; she keeps it at shoulder-length, tied up most of the time when out on the road with her dad. She also shares his sweet, dimpled smile, though hers seems far more genuine most of the time.
While certainly taking after her Imperial mother in her looks, Mia has the heart of a Nord. With an inquisitive sense of adventure constantly on her mind, the curious 8-year-old (She’s nearly 9, actually – don’t forget it!) has a penchant for wandering away from her father when visiting cities; but only in cities. She did it once in a tiny little village without walls and she’d never seen him look so upset when he found her 3 hours later. She understands his protectiveness, but taking a rather wise standpoint for such a young age, thinks her Father needs to move on from what happened. She knows this isn’t the way her Mama wanted them both to live, after all.
Perhaps due to her father treating her like some fragile thing, Mia often takes on a brusque and boisterous way of life. Local kid calling her names? He’s getting a broken nose. A pair of dubious looking fellows in the inn staring at her father’s coinpurse? Glare at them until they notice and hurriedly leave. Portal to hell opening up in the city? Her Papa will sort them out, he’s the bravest, strongest man in the whole wide world. She’s going to help of course – if only Papa would give her a sword. Ooh, or maybe an axe. |
56,398 | 1,541 | 43 | 1,358 | 1,312 | Valentis watched upon the others as they fought, healing his wounds as he did- they seemed more than capable to handle their own engagements despite their losses so early into the journey.
After his wounds were magically fixed, leaving yet another scar upon his body he stood and was about to go once more into the fray, although by the time he made it closer to the remainder of the group the final foe had been dispatched, for their fight against the denizens of hell itself the group had come out of the fight relatively unharmed, nothing lasting or major that couldn't be fixed with a bit of restoration magic at the very least.
It seemed that the group they had dispatched was a fairly elite force, composing of at least some ranking Dremora, albeit very weak Daedra, in comparison to what the group faced after that fight, nothing was as threatening.
Valentis scholarly mind started to work a bit as he travelled with the group, as well as the somewhat mundane points raised by the young Bosmer, did the Dremora have an actual rank and file system, if so how did they go up in ranks? Was it to do with skill and mastery of the fighting and magical arts they employed?
Or was it perhaps a bit more grounded with reality in favours and standing amongst certain high ranking officers got you the promotions - alternatively ranks could be simply a translation of race of Dremora, and a churl is simply a weaker Dremora in all forms that say a Kryneve...
Thoughts for another day, Valentis stated to himself, he would have to survive this place first, and ensure that his comrades too did survive.
The group finally made their way into one of the buildings, without a doubt the biggest one of the nearest surrounding ones, it's obsidian stone piercing into the dark skies, somewhere within the tower was unleashing a powerful beam of energy into the heavens, if this place could even host a heaven.
The place was lightly guarded, most likely due to the fact that they probably never knew thought that anyone would ever enter here with hostile intentions, which if so would only work to their favour as they proceeded.
After moving through the tower a bit the group stopped within a room that displayed exactly what would await their bodies if they failed, there was a nasty smell in the air, the remains of that person was burnt to a fine crisp now, nothing more than charcoal that would steadily disintegrate as the flames continued to assault its surface.
The position they were in offered a dillemma.
A door was locked, and if there was one thing that Valen learned during his time in places alien to their culture, is that if a door was locked it probably couldn't be picked, their ideas of locks and designs of them would not yield to a lock pick, a key would be needed.
Valentis spoke up towards the group "I would think that the doors in this realm could not picked by conventional means, I know in Akivir that was very true, it's likely we will need a key of some sort to proceed, or maybe a hidden lever or something of a similar sort - we know little to nothing of this place and the despicable beings that inhabit it, barring their obvious love for inflicting pain its very likely they think nothing like us, we should not think conventionally when fighting or advancing through these lands.
Perhaps we should attempt one of the doors that aren't locked, and try and make some progress."
Taking a brief look around the room Valen made his way towards another door before opening it a crack, a burst of stale air hit him in the face, it appeared to a bridge that lead to the outside, towards another tower - hopefully no one was afraid of heights.
Turning back to the group Valen gave a weak smile before stating. "Well, here's one way although I don't think it wise to go as an entire group across this way, would anyone like to volunteer to come with me, preferably someone with a stomach for high places."
Pulling the doors fully open he gripped his staff tightly and awaited for someone, to join him. | Name:
Albert, Alexander, Alistair… His memory slips sometimes, and calls Albert by his older companions names.
Breed:
Border Collie - Typically bred in the Colovian Highlands.
:Appearance:
:Bio
Arf! *Wags tail* |
56,399 | 1,541 | 44 | 1,841 | 5,697 | The statuesque warrior stood, gripping his axe and shield tighter to feel the give and take of his muscles. He rolled and stretched his neck a bit, and breathed in the hellish air of this strange plane of existence. He realized he'd rather be nowhere else. Bardeck imagined it would sound very crazy to his companions, but he had little talents in this life beyond battle. He knew Gideon felt the same, for the dog loped beside him as if they were simply walking upon a well traveled road in Nirn. So close was the bond between them that Bardeck barely glanced Gideon's way, almost feeling his companion's presence as if he too were a war dog.
Within the tower, the room was illuminated in a more focused fashion than the fiery sky outside. The soot and intense heat gave Bardeck an increasingly rugged and severe look. Positively barbaric and animalistic, if not for the willful intelligence in his eyes. He gazed upwards with the rest, seeing the swirling upper levels. Without asking, Bardeck took point, telling Gideon to guard their flank. With his shield out, he moved forward in a steady advance. The few guards they came across were dispatched with the group's combined efforts wasily enough.
"Huh. I wonder who actually does the guard patrols for Dremora. Do you think there's a roster? Night shifts? Lunch breaks? Do Daedra even have lunch?" Naenya pondered aloud behind Bardeck as he pulled his Axe out of the last Dremora at the epicenter of the tower. The question caught him off guard, and he turned to regard her. It was odd to see, but whenever Bardeck was confused or pondering, the savage warrior would look positively young and naive for a split second. Like a War Dog tilting his head and lifting his ears.
"Never thought about it," he said, and then cleaned his Axe blade with a small ripped cloth. He began thinking aloud. "I imagine demons don't need to rest. From what I've heard, they're not fully individuals like we are. They are to an extent, but they're still all apart of the same evil that fills this plane of existence I would guess." Despite himself, he still wondered it a bit as the companions tried to solve the issue of the locked door. He would have volunteered to go with the Elder, but somehow he thought he'd be more useful here when this bigger door was opened. If it was opened. | Name:
Bardek Gildenhart
Age:
25
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Steed
Specialisation:
Combat
Class:
Warrior
Skills:
Expert: Blunt (Two Handed)
Journeyman: Block
Journeyman: Smithing
Apprentice: Hunting
Apprentice: Heavy Armor
Apprentice: Blunt (One Handed)
Novice: Heavy Armor
Novice: Athletics
Novice: Acrobatics
Novice: Two Handed (Staves, Polearms)
Appearance:
If Bardeck could be described in one word, it would be 'rugged.' His black hair is wavy and barely falls short of reaching his broad shoulders. This coupled with his 5'oclock shadow give him an unkempt visage. The young man's body is muscled yet lean, his skin having bronzed from the constant work outdoors (and thanks to his father's blood). He prefers wearing sturdy leather trousers, loose fitting but snug at the waist, tied by a plain brown sash belt. When in combat or preparing, he wears iron armor over a linen tunic. Outside of combat, he simply wears the tunic, usually opened in the center. If he's alone he'll go shirtless, simply enjoying the breeze and the heat of the day. His height is fairly average for an Imperial, not short by any means but not particularly tall. His callused and scarred hands are rough but firm to the touch (much like the rest of him). His caramel eyes are the softest part of him, full of life and passion, fiery wonder, and sometimes innocent curiosity.
Personality:
Bradeck can be described as a rough and ready warrior. His fierce independence and rough nature can only be matched by his loyalty to those he deems worthy. He's not particularly book smart, and can miss a few finer details of a more subtle plan when he's ready to fight in combat. Despite that, he's intuitive and introspective, with a quick mind and a dry wit. He has a quiet, a down to earth wisdom that often views the world in a pragmatic, useful manner. He's quite a passionate and creative individual when opened up to someone.
Due to his childhood being spent with male friends, and the only females he spent much time with were family members or female Orcs that would sooner hit him than hit on him, he's quite confused when it comes to romance. It's a coin toss on whether he gets very defensive and stand offish, or very stuttering and shy. It's just not his element. He respects warriors and those who pull their own weight or who show great skill. He's annoyed at laziness and dishonesty. He doesn't pick fights easily however, and only do it when he truly thinks its called for, and that's after one too many times of blundering. Not after strike one. Though he might be outspoken and blunt at his disapproval.
Backstory:
Bardeck was born in Anvil, to an Imperial ex-soldier father and a Nordic mother. They resided there for 7 years. Bardeck enjoyed swimming and exploring the surrounding woods, fascinated by the untold wilderness. At age 8, his mother's father passed away, and they moved to Skyrim in Markarth where his grandmother still resided to help her live and keep her company. His parents began a moderately successful trading business.
Bradeck wasn't quite used to the new surroundings, and was bullied by the Nordic children other than a select few whom he'd later name as his best friends. On one occasion, the other children began to rough him up near the back end of Markarth, when the Orcish smith knocked them back and bared his great fangs, causing them to flee. He gave some gruff advice to Bradeck, telling him not to let other kids push him around. He went back to his smithy.
Bradeck began to visit the smith every now and then, watching him at his work. Eventually they exchanged names. Rogath was the Orc's name, and he took a liking to Bradeck's inquisitive nature, allowing him to learn a few tricks of the trade while they spent time together through offhand advice. During this time, Bradeck would learn a few pointers of combat from his father after helping unload the carts coming to the city.
Bradeck was there when his grandmother passed away, holding his mother and crying with her when he was 14 years old. The death of his grandmother sparked questions on who he was in his mind. He felt a sense of pride to both his stoic northern blood and southern mercantile roots, but felt a kinship to Rogath and his rough nature. One day, Rogath announced he was traveling back to his homeland, and Bradeck begged him to let him go with him.
At first the Orsimer refused, but then lamented if Bradeck had the strength to go and fetch a bear pelt out in the wild. The boy felt elated, for he knew how to hunt and had the knowledge of a few bear caves, though he knew it would not be an easy quarry. He set off one morning, and found one of the bear frequented caverns. He entered, but instead found the bear dead already. He exploded further, but was discovered by a hungry vampire that had decided to hide here in order to terrorize the travelers of Markarth with relative ease.
Bradeck, armed with a battlaxe, fought for his life. He had wounded the Vampire's hip when the beast had underestimated him, but was quickly overwhelmed and thrown down the cavern. The Vampire leaped at him, intending to kill him. He used the spike on the end of his Battleaxe to impale the flying creature, bowling him over and then decapitating the bloodsucker. Rogath was then presented with both a Bear pelt and Vampire Ash. He had become Blood-Kin.
They traveled to Orsinium and lived in one of the outer lying clans. He grew in both body and spirit, learning advanced combat and Smithing techniques. His fit frame turned muscular, and his mind grew sharper with his exposure to various cultures. The Nordic city of Markarth had helped him deal somewhat with the rough living of Orisinium, truth be told. He was given a warhound Puppy named Gideon on his 21st birthday.
Age 21, he left and decided to become a mercenary and journeyman smith, heading through Hammerfell and working there in various jobs for a year before making it to Cyrodiil, living there ever since. He was recently hired to Kvatch as a caravan guard. A relatively simple job he had thought...
Spells:
Inventory:
Cutie Patoot WarDog
Steel Hand Axe
Iron Armor
Iron Shield
2 x Healing Potion
3 x Bear Pelts
3 x Wolf Pelts
2 pounds of Venison
1 Water Jug
Clothing |
56,400 | 1,541 | 45 | 1,552 | 2,229 | Naenya cocked her head to the side slightly in interest at the young warrior's suggestion. She'd of course heard that theory before - that the Daedra were linked in a somewhat more permanent way to their creators than mortals were to the Divines. If a Daedric Prince died, there was a theory that all of his "children" would die alongside them, and their plane would tear itself apart into nothingness. This theory was utterly refuted by scholars who stated that Daedric Princes couldn't die in the first place, so people were wasting their time thinking about it. This usually ended up in large arguments that Naenya herself tended to stay out of, choosing to focus on far simpler theories; like the potential hierarchy or structure of the Universe. Were the Planes of Oblivion surrounding Nirn? Maybe they were all in the same circular pattern, so jumping from one to another would eventually have you end up where you started. Naenya frowned slightly, as she recalled a particular conversation about the topic being interrupted by a mad shepherd; in his opinion, all of the lands, Daedric or otherwise, were fated to be destroyed every 50,000 years, before beginning anew. As such, she didn't end up answering Bardeck, and instead frowned at her feet, wondering where such a mad concept could have come from.
As for Niko, such concepts weren't really important to him as of now. Having aided Bardeck and the others in dispatching some of their enemies, the Nord was quite happy to just kill the beasts and leave as soon as he possibly could. After Valentis had pointed out another tower, Niko joined him at the door, peering down with surprise. He hadn't realised they were so far up already - the ground below looked just as unwelcoming as it had been when they had stood upon it - but a fall from this height would easily cause more damage than a tumble at ground level would. Glancing across the narrow bridge, another door could be seen leading into a smaller, albeit still terrifying - spire. Hopefully this one wasn't locked too.
"They should put railings up here." He muttered under his breath almost absent-mindedly, mind jumping to what a child hazard this bridge was. Then he came to his senses and remembered that the entire damned realm was a hazard, to a child or otherwise.
"If more daedra reach this room, make sure they don't storm the bridge while we're over there." He instructed as he turned back to look at the group. "A battle on such a narrow passage won't be good for anyone. Especially if we find a key." Niko could only hope that more people volunteered to help beyond himself and Valentis - the old man looked capable enough, but more numbers could never hurt.
"RETREAT! RETREAT! THE ENEMY HAS BROKEN THE LINE!"
The call came from the barricade outside the city gates; the panicked yelling of the guard captain paired with the shrill screeching of Clannfear. The group of the demonic, over-sized lizards was only small at half a dozen, but after hours of constant onslaught from the gate, the guards had fallen to either exhaustion, wounds or death. The captain and his last man could not hold the beasts back, and so they turned tail and ran down the hill, towards the encampment. "Gods be willing that there is someone there to help us fend these beasts off!" The lone guardsman panted to his captain as they ran, terror clear in the young Redguard's eyes. The Captain could not answer, but sent a silent prayer to the Divines. His only job was to protect these citizens, and he would die trying. Hopefully this head start would give them an advantage... or more swords. | Character Name:
Nikolaus “Niko” Valerious
Age:
37
Race:
Nord
Sex:
Male
Birthsign:
The Lover
Specialisation:
Combat/Magic
Class:
Paragon
Skills:
Expert: One-Handed Blade (Dual-Wielding)
Journeyman: Speechcraft, Destruction
Apprentice: Athletics, Restoration, Heavy Armour
Novice: Two-Handed Blade, Acrobatics, Illusion, Medicine (Non-Alchemical/Magical (Craft)), Hunting (Craft), Foraging (Craft)
Appearance:
Looking every part the Nord, Niko stands at a towering height of 6’7; matched with broad shoulders and the muscled build of someone who works his swords every day, he can seem somewhat daunting at times. However, when one focuses on his face, softness shines through. Gentle blonde brows above stormy grey-blue eyes; a sharp jawline softened by a smattering of badly trimmed blond stubble; high cheekbones crinkled with laughter lines, and dimples that brighten cheeks once round with wellness, but now have a somewhat haggard and hungry look about them.
On a usual day out in the field, Niko can usually be seen wearing his armour; shaggy, dark-blonde hair pulled back haphazardly by messy braids, and shoulder’s stiff with the weight he is carrying. However, when more relaxed and among friends, his hair hangs loose, brushing against his eyes and shoulders in a messy but appealing manner – armour is replaced with comforting and loose clothing, shirt sleeves usually pushed up to the elbow and revealing a plethora of scars up and down his forearms. The scars carry on under his clothing; some fresher and deeper than others, but you’ll need to either get him drunk or be close to him to get the stories behind the scarring dotted over his skin – some hurt more than others, and not in a physical way.
Personality:
While he doesn’t smile as much as he used to, Niko remains still an amicable sort – but if one looks close enough, you can see the tension in his smile; the stretched out laughs that sound just a touch too hollow to be considered genuine or warm. His eyes have retained that caring spark of friendliness, but it dulls whenever nobody is looking his way. His kindness isn’t faked or forced… it’s just harder to be the way he was before. It’s rare for his grief or anger to come through, but when faced with something particularly cruel, or anything involved in raising the dead, anything remotely nice about him falls away, and his eyes become as hard as ice. Killing for him then isn’t just a job to be done; it becomes frenzied, and very personal.
However, regardless of his own internal turmoils, he’ll remain good to those around him. While respect is earned, Niko makes a point of being polite to most, no matter how brash they appear to be. Being more than aware of how death and killing can get to a man, he’ll listen to people’s worries and concerns in the hopes he can do something to help them… when sometimes, a listening friend is all many need.
When it comes to matter away from friends and family, Niko still remains polite; even in battle, while others may make puns, threats or quips while slicing down their enemy, Niko will do it as quickly and as painlessly as possible – no intimidation, no dark humour. It’s not his style. Neither is bragging of past battles fought, though one would be able to hear a good tale from him if coaxed enough – it comes from having a daughter, for him. Niko quite firmly believes that Mia should be kept safe from violence, bad language, and all of the other things that his race and Skyrim are famous for; a foolish endeavour, considering his girl is getting street-smart enough to find out about all of these things herself; but he remains very protective over her, not wanting to lose her as he lost his wife. This protectiveness passes on to his friends and family, particularly those he gets close to.
Backstory:
While our story begins in Kvatch, as does the life of Nikolaus. Born to an Imperial father and Nord mother, the pair had met, fell in love, and married in a short span of time – moving from the mother’s native Skyrim to Kvatch for a both safer and warmer climate to raise their son in. And it was a good childhood for Niko; there was never danger within the city walls, and with his mother and father’s decent wages from the Fighters and Mages Guild respectively, never had an empty stomach or cold night. Niko’s father – Percius – had his own parents, now retired, living in Kvatch too – so whenever he and his wife – Ulva – needed to do a job for money, they could quite simply live Niko with his grandparents and do what needed to be done. As a baby, Niko barely noticed his parent’s absence unless they were gone for a unusually long time; but as a child, he started growing curious as to what reason for and where his parents were going. Curiosity soon grew into indignation, and the usually mild-mannered child began to constantly question exactly why he had to stay at home, and why his parents had to leave all the time. Well… he was still mild-mannered in his questioning; politeness always came first, especially when talking to his elders. But it was clear to his parents that their little boy was growing up rather quickly, and would need to start learning something to keep him happy – and away from their own adventures. To counter this, Percius’ father – a retired guard of Kvatch - started teaching Niko how to use swords – of course starting with a wooden sword and a straw dummy at the young age of 8, but still, it worked well enough. With his grandmother teaching him his letters and numbers, Niko constantly itched for his training sessions every evening.
Over time, Ulva began to spend more and more days at home, having growing tired from all of the contracts taken from the Fighter’s Guild. When Percius’ father grew too old to continue training Niko (now 13) Ulva took over, helping him branch out into proper training; wearing armour that weighed his light teenage frame down; real swords instead of wooden ones – she even persuaded Percius to begin training Niko in certain schools of magic, just so it would come in handy in the future. Niko picked up the magic just as well as his blades, barring a few incidents with rogue fireballs. He was fine once his eyebrows grew back, honestly.
When Niko reached the age of 16, he had a firm grasp in the basics of restoration, destruction, and the wielding of blades. His mother wanted him to join the fighter’s guild, and his father wanted him to join the mage’s guild. Thinking he wanted the best of both worlds, he started working as a battlemage for the arcane university; training under a more experienced guard who worked there to get him up to the right standard for such a prestigious college. It was a solid job, and kept both of his parents happy – Niko continued to have a steady income, a warm bed, and full stomach. He was just going to be living with longer hours and bruised skin from his rigorous training regime – the safety of the mages and the University was no small matter, what with the countless troves of knowledge and precious items hidden within those walls. Niko had only been inside a few times, but he had caught glimpses of endless libraries, impossibly large, echoing chambers (He and a few colleagues enjoyed a few shouting matches in there before being kicked out by their Guard-Captain; after several hours of sprinting the battlements in full armour in the pouring rain, they decided not to do it again), and of course, the mages themselves. Only 2 really stood out to him; one was a slimy looking fellow. Niko was never one to judge people before meeting them, but as it happened, he had had the misfortune of meeting and talking to Conjurer Astian Onius – but Niko also had the fortune of meeting Astian’s cousin, Elisabeth. And to him, she was the greatest treasure in the University.
At the age of 25 – now an established guard of his own right, having graduated his training top of the class (despite the hollering matches in the halls) – Niko finally plucked up the courage to talk to Elisabeth in a more than friendly manner, asking her to join him for drinks that night – no friends of his, and no weasel-like cousins of hers to accompany them. One night of drinks turned into another night, and then another; then it was candlelit meals, walks along the shores of lake Rumare, picnics in the forest. For anyone watching the pair, it would be quite obvious that the two were in love – and indeed, Astian was watching them. He was not happy.
After 3 years of courting, Niko and Elisabeth were wed, and a year after that, she fell pregnant with what would be their first and only child. Named Amelia for Elisabeth’s mother who had passed that spring, their life seemed idyllic. But as time passed, things began to grow dark. Not in their relationship, exactly; they were still a happy couple, raising their daughter in Imperial City and continuing with their jobs – and it was their jobs that began causing issues. What with Niko just being a guard, he and his fellows didn’t really involve themselves in the fight for power brewing between the Mages – not just in the University, but across Cyrodiil. Favours were split, and Elisabeth herself was not wanting Hannibal Traven as Arch-Mage; She considered him too close-minded, especially when it came to matters such as necromancy; although having never done any spells in that area, she was doing research into possible life after death – a cure that could bring someone back if they were saved seconds after dying. An innocent enough area of study, and certainly with a noble enough gesture behind it. But once Arch-Mage Traven won the fight for power, she became cowed; fearful of what could happen to her and her work after the banning of necromancy by the Arch-Mage, she begged Niko for them both to leave Imperial City and the Mages Guild – they had more than enough experience between them both to get jobs elsewhere. Although slightly concerned at her reasons behind it – her cousin Astian had been visiting their home more than usual the weeks previous, having hushed and irritated conversations with Elisabeth before the harassed woman asked him to leave – Niko conceded, and along with their 6 year old daughter, left for his parent’s home in Kvatch; having died in the winter, they’d left the home to Niko and his family.
The next two years that passed were easily the worst in Niko’s life. While Kvatch was a nice change at first; his daughter enjoying the smaller and more open city as opposed to Imperial City’s near stifling buildings and towering walls – he too was welcomed back with open arms, as many who still lived there knew his family. Getting a job as a guard was no trouble, what with his long service record at the Arcane University. He knew he’d probably get more money in the Fighter’s Guild or even a sellsword, but being a guard was safer, more secure, and more honest; that was just the kind of man he was.
His wife, however, was growing more and more secretive. Elisabeth had become more withdrawn, even after moving away from the Mages Guild; “hunting trips” were going on far too long for her to come home with nothing, and she would constantly change the subject whenever her studies came up in conversation. As Astian’s trips became more frequent, and news of strange lights coming from caves not far from Kvatch began circulating through the city, Niko’s worries grew into suspicions. It was time to find out what his wife and her troublesome cousin were up to.
As he followed Elisabeth from a distance – her leaving Kvatch a few hours previous for more “hunting” – Niko told himself that he was worrying over nothing. She was probably just continuing her research, and was worried about the Guild swooping in to stop her; but it wasn’t necromancy. Just research.
Whether his wife was dabbling in the magic of raising the dead, Niko never knew – but whatever she had attempted to do in those dimly lit caves was too dangerous – as he watched on from the shadows, he saw something go wrong. He was no expert in the type of magic Elisabeth and Astian were attempting, so Niko couldn’t understand why after a sudden flash of light, Elisabeth hit the ground and no longer moved; he couldn’t understand why Astian looked perfectly unconcerned by this, and simply began performing another spell. But when the magic hit her body, and she slowly rose to her feet, he did understand. And no matter what had happened, no matter what she may had done; he was not going to let his wife’s body become nothing more than a puppet. Wiping his eyes that had become blurred with tears, Niko slowly unsheathed his swords and stormed towards Astian.
When finally returning to Kvatch, it had been difficult to coax the full story from the grieving Niko; heavily injured and clutching Elisabeth’s – now still – body in his arms, he had collapsed at the gate, being brought into the chapel for healing. Although Astian had put up quite the fight, Niko had barely felt any pain at each landed blow from the disgraced mage; it was killing his wife’s resurrected body that had been the most difficult part for him. While the healer Oleta was able to mend his several cuts and burns, aided by Brother Martin, it was harder to ease the near-broken man’s mind. After the story was finally pulled from Niko, and the caves investigated, the city guards discovered that Astian had indeed been practicing Necromancy. Out of sheer respect to Niko, their comrade, they made sure to state there was nothing to incriminate Elisabeth in the forbidden act. There was no evidence in fact, but many people -particularly at the guild – would have been happy to connect the dots of her being at the caves so often.
Not so long after the tragedy, Niko had fully recovered; he had taken to spending much of his time at the Chapel, hoping to find solace in the Gods. But nothing seemed to bring him peace; the daily chats with the Priests brought him some comfort, but Kvatch no longer seemed like home anymore. Mia seemed to have taken the news of her mother better than he, but then, she hadn’t seen or done what he had been forced to do – all the same, she complied when Niko suggested leaving Kvatch. He left his job with the guard, sold their home, and the lonely father and daughter left the gates of their hometown. And for nearly 2 years, they wandered throughout Cyrodiil. Never staying in one place for too long, Niko took whatever jobs that came to him as long as they paid enough, and weren’t too time-wasting or life-threatening. He was more desperate than before, but he wouldn’t risk his life while Mia was so young; she had no-one left to look after her.
Of course, things became far more dangerous when he finally came back to Kvatch. A chance encounter; retrieving some rare book from the local bookstore for an old bedbound fellow in Bravil; at first, Niko was going to pass it up, not quite ready to return to Kvatch even after 2 years. But the man was offering quite a bit of money, and Mia’s birthday was approaching – it couldn’t hurt, could it?
That was what he thought until the Oblivion Gate opened. It had been easy enough to gather a terrified Mia into his arms and pelt towards the chapel, but it was getting out that would be the hardest part.
Spells:
Destruction: Blazing Spear, Corrode Weapon, Dire Wound, Drain Skill: Destruction, Fire Ball, Frost Bolt, Great Magicka Drain, Hail Storm, Lightning Bolt, Lightning Grasp, Searing Grasp, Shocking Burst, Weakness to Magicka, Winter’s Grasp, Withering Touch
Restoration: Convalescence, Cure Paralysis, Cure Poison, Fortify Health, Fortify Speed, Fortify Strength, Great Fortity Fatigue, Heal Major Wounds
Illusion: Serenity, Soothing Touch, Starlight
Inventory:
1x Off-white tunic, to wear under armour
2x Black Leather pants, one for casual wear, one to wear under greaves
1x Set of steel greaves
1x Set of steel pauldrons
1x Steel chestplate
1x Set of steel bracers over 1x Pair of leather gloves
2x Steel longswords
1x Steel Greatsword
1x Iron dagger
1x Dark shirt
1x Black overcoat
1x Pair of leather boots
1x Black hood
1x Spare child’s dress, red
1x Spare pair of child’s shoes
Mia’s teddy bear
1x Plain gold wedding ring
1x Waterskin
1x Bottle of rum
1x Loaf of bread
2x Wedges of cheese
Several slices of smoked salmon, wrapped in cheesecloth
Several slices of cooked beef, wrapped in cheesecloth
3x Sweetened biscuits, slightly stale
1x Skin of milk
2x Bedrolls
1x Pillow
1x Large fur blanket
1x Tent
1x Cooking pot & Spit
1x Horse, carrying majority of the camping equipment
1x Knapsack, to carry the remainder of his things
374 Septims
Mia has a balanced look of her parents; she has her mother’s dark, chocolate-brown eyes, and face and body, but the rest of her belongs to her father. Being quite tall and mature for her age, Mia also has his dark-blonde hair, hers with more of a wave to it than Niko’s; she keeps it at shoulder-length, tied up most of the time when out on the road with her dad. She also shares his sweet, dimpled smile, though hers seems far more genuine most of the time.
While certainly taking after her Imperial mother in her looks, Mia has the heart of a Nord. With an inquisitive sense of adventure constantly on her mind, the curious 8-year-old (She’s nearly 9, actually – don’t forget it!) has a penchant for wandering away from her father when visiting cities; but only in cities. She did it once in a tiny little village without walls and she’d never seen him look so upset when he found her 3 hours later. She understands his protectiveness, but taking a rather wise standpoint for such a young age, thinks her Father needs to move on from what happened. She knows this isn’t the way her Mama wanted them both to live, after all.
Perhaps due to her father treating her like some fragile thing, Mia often takes on a brusque and boisterous way of life. Local kid calling her names? He’s getting a broken nose. A pair of dubious looking fellows in the inn staring at her father’s coinpurse? Glare at them until they notice and hurriedly leave. Portal to hell opening up in the city? Her Papa will sort them out, he’s the bravest, strongest man in the whole wide world. She’s going to help of course – if only Papa would give her a sword. Ooh, or maybe an axe. |
56,401 | 1,541 | 46 | 1,333 | 2,746 | Jid-Jahara was not doing much of anything in the time she spent outside of the city, simply watching and waiting in a very patient fashion. She was about to start meditating when suddenly her peace had been disturbed by shouting and demonic screeching coming from the barricade, earning her curiosity. The argonian ran forwards to the barricade, keeping her staff at the ready in case there would be a fight. The sight came to her within an instant, half a dozen clannfear seemed be overwhelming the city guard. It was strange seeing such demonic creatures on this plane of existence, but she hadn’t the time or the motivation to question the situation. Her eyes flicked between the pack of beasts as they focused their attention on the cloaked shaman, both sides analyzing each other for weaknesses. It would certainly be an interesting skirmish as both sides simply stared at each other for a few moments.
In an instant, a ball of fire erupted from being the clannfear and from the flames came a newly conjured Flame Atronach, hurling small bolts of fire at the nearest clannfear that it could find. All the while Jid-Jahara, hand still raised, sent out arcs of lightning, connecting with another clannfear and inflicting heavy damage on it. After she finished her attack, she readied her staff in case they attempted to rush at her, yet instead they seemed more eager to go after the Atronach. It was fine with the shaman as it meant more time to ready herself for the upcoming battle.
Her eyes flicked around, until she noticed the corpse of a fallen guard in her peripheral, slowly moving herself in that direction. She watched as her atronach got swarmed, but it did its job of being a distraction. Jid-Jahara stood in front of the corpse, continuing to watch as the flame atronach began to hurl fireballs every which way as the poor thing simply got swarmed from all sides. Good thing was, the clannfear that did attack it were essentially biting at fire and hence harming themselves, but it did not take long for the atronach to die. Exploding in the face of the demonic beings, the atronach finally went down as expected.
It was overall a good thing, the clannfear all sustaining damage, while light it was enough to kill that one that had been shocked by Jid-Jahara. She watched as they begun to recover themselves and turn in confusion as the explosion disoriented them, giving the argonian time to reach down and touch the corpse, magic transferring temporary life into the body. The guard stood, silent and ready to attack as Jid-Jahara moved behind him in order to shield herself. | Character Name:
Jid-Jahara Varik
Age:
29
Race:
Argonian
Sex:
Female
Birthsign:
The Apprentice
Specialisation:
Magic
Class:
Shaman (custom)
Skills:
Expert: Mysticism
Journeyman: Alchemy (Craft), Conjuration
Apprentice: Destruction, Two-Handed (Blunt)
Novice: Alteration, Restoration, Foraging (Craft), Translating - Orcish, Dunmeris (Craft)
Appearance:
The Hist had decided that Jid-Jahara would been a thin argonian female who seems to lack in muscle and intimidation. The young female is small, standing only at about 5’4” tall, earning her the nickname of “the Bosmer Child.” She bares dark green scales and yellow eyes, much like a lot of her people do. Atop her head sits a mixture of bright red feathers along with darker, black feathers. Her body is adorned in ceremonial markings, all in which and in the tongue of the argonian people. Her snout definitely shows teeth that slightly protrude from the top of her mouth.
As for clothing, her choice is that of a black-feathered cloak which wraps around brown and tanned robes in the traditional argonian fashion. That argonian fashion fashion being a long skirt going around her hips, her sides exposed as well as a bra-like piece around her breasts. As for more professional clothing, she would done a more complete outfit which is similar to her regular wears. Long sleeved, no part of her body exposed but her head.
Personality:
All work and no play makes Jid-Jahara a dull gal; that is precisely what she is as well, taking no time to horse around and always carrying a stern and serious mood around with her. That said, she is a gentle creature who does not wish to use violence as a first solution to any problem, this does not mean she will not act out violence in any capacity. In fact, almost contradicting the last statement, any insult to the Hist will almost be a sure way to earn the ire of this beast-woman as she is a devote worshipper of her Hist. It is a quickly known fact that she does not like word play either, preferring talking be straight to the point.
Often times, she can be found meditating within nature, or simply enjoying the serenity of it al. It is at those moments when Jid-Jahara s truly happy with her place with the world, despite her distance away from her homeland and the Hist. In quiet times, she can be seen gazing off and smiling as if she were to enjoying said silence. In fact, she is not much of a talker herself, only speaking when she is required to. It can come to be known that she enjoys the little things in life, as well; kindness, the gentle movement of the wind, food, so on and so forth. However, it is not often known what she likes as in the company of others, she will revert back to her dull, stern self.
Backstory:
Twenty-nine years ago, Jid-Jahara Varik was born to a lowly tribe within the Black Marsh, deep within the Black Marsh with dense jungle and hostile wildlife all around. It was discovered that she may not be a hatchling that would live to see the next year due to how frail she was, her parents sought a way to have their only daughter survive. They brought the hatchling to their shaman, a wise old man who at first was very skeptical on even his own abilities to help this child survive. Though, whatever he did, it worked and Jid-Jahara was allowed to live another year and several more. However, she still did not remain healthy and required additional visits to this shaman, Al-Nerriz, who continued to help her. In these childhood years, Jin-Jahara would go on to learn more and more about the shaman’s extraordinary power.
Eventually, the two came to a point where Al-Nerriz took Jid-Jahara under his wing and began to properly teach her the ways of being a shaman for the tribe. Through him, she learned the mystical ways of the Argonian people and their reliance to the Hist, learning even more on the importance of the trees to both her and her people. Magic was introduced to her and all of its terrifyingly awesome powers were shown to her and once she understood the dangers of all magic, her training would begin proper.
Firstly came magical art of Mysticism so that she may protect herself and Hist from those who sought to use magic against them all, learning patience and how all life is connected. It was in this time when Jid-Jahara had grown her love for nature and the serene qualities of all of it, including lands she had not seen yet. In these times, she was often sent into the wilderness as well, forcing her to meditate and discover just how everything was bound together; from the frog who ate the bug, to the tree which was connected to the earth, and most importantly just how the Argonian people were connected with each other and the Hist. These were all important realizations as it gave her insight into just how the world worked, allowing her patience with both what she would continue doing and what would come in the future.
Next was the great powers of Alchemy; while not magic, it was important to realize how useful a potion could be as it could save a life of anyone she came across. She did not spend enough time within the subject to become a true expert in it, but she learned and learned many potions and even some that the common man would not know. However, it was also time for her to be shown the destructive side of magic and just how it was able to harm someone. This she studied as well, however, this was the time in which she discovered that violence was not the first solution for anyone. Within her time going through the market of her tribe and buying alchemy ingredients, a neighborhood bully had come across her and decided to try and steal her bartering items. Out of instinct, she struck back with ball of fire, accidentally killing the boy who had not deserved death for his acts. Jid-Jahara grieved for weeks, vowing never to use violence if she could avoid it.
After grieving and learning how to destroy, she learned how to create by conjuration and learned how the dead could come back to protect the Hist. However, this was not a skill she liked, having to deal with the dead; though it was a natural part of nature for death to occur and she understood that. Jid-Jahara would agree that she knew the dead would most certainly fight to protect the Hist once more if they could. In fact, it was through conversing with ghosts of the dead that she learned much in the ways of strange people outside of the Black Marsh and learned of many different languages, granted she was not very good at speaking in different tongues. Al-Nerriz found it was time to show her how to use a physical weapon so that she might fight without the use magic should she exhaust herself, this she excelled with for the staff was a weapon of pure skill and not one of raw strength, in fact she even sparred with ghosts that she summoned as well just to improve herself.
Then it came time, as a final writ of passage, Jid-Jahara was sent off on a spiritual quest upon reaching the age of twenty. Her goal was to simply find herself and then return to the tribe with new experiences and to discover more of herself. For nine years did she travel, picking up small trades and techniques that may better herself.
Once she met an interesting orsimer when she had reached Cyrodil, one by the name of Uzuan Gasel, a warrior who was on a similar quest except to find powerful foes and bring himself honor. The great one challenged Jid-Jahara to a duel and it was found that the argonian lass had given him a run for his money, yet proved victorious through his raw strength and resolve. The two had become friends who began to travel through Cyrodil together, fighting bandits and helping townspeople as much as they could. Everything was well for a change, no training or lessons or stress of teachers.
However, the two had to part ways one night after it was discovered that Uzuan’s clan needed him to return to his home and defend it. Jid-Jahara understood why he had to go, but it still saddened her to see such a friend leave and be forced to go to a completely different part of the world. Though, it was time for the two to go separate paths for if they continued onwards, Jid-Jahara feared that she may never want to return home to her tribe. So she continued to press onwards until one day she came across Kvatch, wanting more experiences, she investigated the town, which would lead her history up to the present.
Spells:
Mysticism - Surperior Life Detection, Greater Dispel, Greater Dispel Other, Telekinesis
Conjuration - Summon Ghost, Summon Flame Atronach, Summon Skeleton, Turn Undead
Destruction - Sever Magicka, Shock, Flash Bolt
Alteration - Protect, Protect Other
Restoration - Heal Minor Wounds
Inventory:
Wooden Staff
Robe
Black-feathered cloak
Alchemy Satchel
3x Healing Potion
2x Magicka Potion
Waterskin
2x Aloe Vera Leaves
10x Blackberries
3x Ham |
Subsets and Splits
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