Nation Building Tamriel's Titans [CS]

[OppositeInverse]

READ THE RULES. ALSO, READ THE RULES!!!!

Spoiler: Hi, My name is Rules, READ ME!!!

RULES:

1. The main one. Respect RPN and its rules.

2. Any questions or intrigue about the plot or story come to me! I love hearing ideas even if we don't incorporate them.

3. OOC will be friendly and respectful. IC be extra and add flair all you'd like BUT...

4. BE REASONABLE. Realistically adapt and grow into abilities and make logical choices. You can control weather? Know that you will not begin with master powers or creating storms at will. Go into a very secure fort base tossing fireballs alone against masses of enemies? Your IC has ended lol.

5. I do not mind if you guys subplot romance. Just keep it PG-13.

6. Try to have UNIQUE characters. For some reason people love military defeating or unstoppable based characters. If you want to make a combat character go ahead just flesh them out. I will not begin approval process until I see and feel good about your CS sheet. Only those that are approved will get a chance to move on to plot integration. If you do not make the cut, or if you don't even want to have a powered character speak to me about a support role and I'll see what I can do.

7. I do not and will not have overly OP characters through Mary/Gary sues, godmodding, metagaming, etc. If you get a dragonborn and you want to have all 83202 shouts he's known for having, forget about it. I'm all for powerful characters, just make sure they have nuance and reason to be so. Your character will have THREE skills to be prominent at. No more than three will be allowed (Ex. Archery, Destruction, and Block). Refer to the skills here to determine what's best for your character.

8. If you cannot post due to IRL or other reasons please post in consideration of everyone else. I'm interpreting this RP to go relatively fast pace wise not too speedy, so if you need assistance ask and you shall receive! And...

9. If you do fall too far behind or get in a hole you cant climb out of that doesn't mean you're done for. Unless you're intentionally a jerk or going against the tide of the plot, you can get back up to pace.

10. If you band together, or fight amongst each other IC, coordinate with each other as I will be overseeing those situations with a final outcome, but stay true to character and abilities. Don't force it just because you wanna "be great"

11. HAVE FUNNNNNNNN!!!!!

Appearance: (Real pic, concept, or digital art face claim only, Anything that's not realistic won't be taken)

Name:
Nicknames / Myth Name:
Place of Birth:
Age:
Gender:
Race:
Height:
Weight:
Skills [YOU MAY ONLY CHOOSE THREE] - (here):
Factions (here):
Moral Alignment: (refer here)

Personality Goods: [up to 5]
Personality Bads: [up to 5]

Background: (Character bio & History. Remember this is your lore and history building for your character so however much or little you create will make a difference!)

​

Writing Sample: [Here is where you prove your writing mettle to the Nine/Eight Divines. Do your best! worst!]

 

[OppositeInverse]

MaJhuna The Outcast

Nicknames / Myth Name: The Nordic Witch
Place of Birth: Winterhold, Skyrim
Age: 18
Gender: Female
Race: Nord
Height: 5'10" (Nords are usually tall and hardy)
Weight: 125 lbs


Skills
- Alteration
- One Handed
- Two Handed


Faction: College of Winterhold | Her mother did not let her stay on campus, only study there.
Moral Alignment: Neutral Good

Personality Goods:
+ Brillant / Bright
+ Resourceful
+ Precise
+ Stoic
+ Bold

Personality Bads:
- Aloof
- Stubborn
- Devious
- Inhibited


Background:

MaJhuna was born on the clearest of Skyrim nights. The Auroras filled the skies with a decadence of crystal clear starry night, as the Two Moons stood shiny and bold on each side of the sky. Her mother whom had a very dark and tumultuous past history had just redeemed herself in the light of man and mer, as well as in the favor of Mundus. She sought to get away from her former plight, seeking the blessing and attention of the Divines. What she got was something she would never expect in her wildest dreams, a light more radiant than life itself in her eyes, her little MaJhuna. The father she copulated with was an earnest figure, wise and almost ethereal to the likes of herself. To this day she keeps his identity a secret, as well as her means for meeting him. Instead she humbled herself in having her baby girl, a clean, pure soul and life unlike herself who had worried MaJhuna would suffer the same curses. She did not. In fact, she was healthier and more radiant than anything ever seen. She'd won the blessing of the Divines, at least the ones that mattered. In the name of Mara, she would raise MaJhuna in the best of Nord ways and traditions she could, knowing that she herself was a Nord that was never raised in the old ways herself.

MaJhuna grew up under the immense love of her mother, nurturing and care for the girl as she also enforced discipline and old wisdom when need be. MaJhuna was like any child, full of life and love, innocence. Her and her mother would live in the northernmost reaches of Skyrim, beyond the icy plains and into the sea north of Winterhold. But, her mother knew that MaJhuna deserved a normal life despite her own dark past, so she would travel her daughter to New Winterhold, where the girl could make friends and live a life in commerce and festivity. But, Jhu would quickly see that she was seen as weird and different from the other kids, as they sought to become warriors and gain Talos' favor, MaJhuna didn't know what she wanted. This lack of identity often had her made fun of, until the people seen the presence and eyes of her mother, which would even stifle the adults. Her mother would then reveal the truth: She was indeed a vampire in her dark past, but MaJhuna did not carry the trait since she was blessed by the Nine. She confided in her daughter the truth, and why they lived in seclusion. Whether or not Jhu was ready to hear it, she had to maintain her wisdom and become mature past the age of most kids. Then her identity began.

Her mother trained her in the ways of Nord combat, one handed and two handed weapons. She taught her the hardy toughness and what it means to be a Nord, but MaJhuna wanted more, she liked to push her limits, and that made her mother proud. Her mother then taught her how to use the environment around her to gain advantage, even ushering hand to hand to make sure Jhu was just as deadly without vampirism as she was with it when she had it. Jhu accepted and loved her mother even more for being honest and devoted. She taught Jhu history of Tamriel and all the great stories and lore of the Eras before, and schooled her at home in an education most could never get... because her mother had actually been alive during these times. Something stories and ballads cannot teach. She had experience, and Jhu's exceptional mind and smarts excelled in her studies, becoming smarter than any kid in a provincial school. But one day, Jhu asked about her father, her mixed emotions at him abandoning them stirring. Her mother explained he was lost to a greater calling, making Jhu rather upset. This resulted in an unexpected outburst of energy that ruptured the house and area around them, it could even be heard from the mountains. Her mother looked in awe and shock as she realized her daughter had the gift that most Nords could never realize. From that day on, Jhu was seen as a potent mind that could literally alter Tamriel for the good of man and mer.

Jhu grew into a reclusive, but very capable and adept young woman. Her outbursts would learn to be controlled at the College of New Winterhold, where the Headmaster Mirabelle Ervine saw her potency right away, herself in awe of the girl's innate power. She would teach Jhu to channel her energy into Alteration, since her mother had already given her experience with using the world around her to mold into her advantage. The provincial school students would often play with each other and swing swords and mighty conquest, while a teen Jhu would be studying away to hone her magic. This is when they named her The Outcast seeing as how Nords aren't supposed to heed the ways of mysticism. She only grew more isolated from her peers as she gained wisdom and understanding most adult minds couldn't fathom. Most at the college were older than her, thus she had no peers to relate to except down in the city. Then, one day when she finally had time and chance to be a kid, she traveled with some friends in New Winterhold to explore and be rebel teens, leading them to a place called Saarthal. It was there they played around... until they saw a Draugr, their very first sight of any form of terror in their life. Their hearts froze with fear. They all tried to escape as the undead chased them down relentlessly, and at a pinnacle moment, Jhu's energy started to build again in her outbursts, but to this day the peers say... it was no magicka that was released. Jhu screams in burst as the energy caused the Draugr to fall through a sinkhole in the snow, piercing itself on its own blade. The peers then looked at Jhu in fear, as she tried her best to explain it was her practice in Alteration, they would not believe it. They ran back to town to tell the guards what they saw, their parents scolding them on such reckless behavior. The group pinned blame on Jhu, and thus was the day the title The Nordic Witch was born. Her mother took her and retreated to their isolated home, where she now only studies at the college.

Deep in Jhu's heart, she retains sadness and bitterness that she wasn't nor won't be accepted, but such is a Nord way to remain bold and tough through obstacles. Now she only has one best friend, her mother, and some older friends and colleagues at the college. But she cannot help but wonder... when the day will come where her deep inhibitions will outburst again, and why does such energy form with her the way it does?

The answer was coming for her sooner than she realized. Fate was at her door.

Extras:

~ MaJhuna sometimes has sporadic bursts of magical energy that produces random occurrences around her. She believes it to be side effects for her Alteration magicka training.

~ Her mother is very....VERY protective of Majhuna. Proceed with caution if you manage to interact with her. DO NOT stare into her mother's eyes for long periods of time. Rumors say her mother will kill your soul on instinct... but how true can rumors be, right? ​

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

Name:
Rorik Stormcloak (Surname Changed to Dacius when he joined the Legion)

Nicknames / Myth Name:
"Ror"

Place of Birth:
Windhelm

Age:
25

Gender:
Male

Race:
Pure-Blooded Nord

Height:
6'3

Weight:
200 lbs.

Skills:
One-Handed
Block
Heavy Armor

Factions:
Imperial Legion, Stormcloaks (Formerly)

Moral Alignment:
Lawful Good

Personality Goods: [up to 5]
Stoic
Honorable
Determined
Humble
Brave

Personality Bads: [up to 5]
Stubborn
Inflexible
Opinionated
Extremely Patriotic towards the Empire

Background:
Rorik was born the youngest son of Ulfric Stormcloak, the True High King of Skyrim. His brothers were infatuated with their father, obsessed with becoming just like him. Rorik was instead ashamed of his father's legacy. His father had cast out the Empire, subjigated anyone who wasn't a Nord, and brought the ire of the Thalmor upon Skyrim. He was fascinated with the Legion, and wanted to join it. The only problem was...well, his father. Ulfric was a very strict parent, and took away anything that showed the Empire in a good light away from his children. So Rorik found himself in the Grey Quarter, talking with it's people and learning of the Empire and the Legion. It was there he met his future wife Riria. She was about the same age as him, and they shared a desire to escape their lives and see the world.

But Ulfric soon caught wind of this. He sent guards to retrieve his son, and to do by by any means necessary. He fled Windhelm with Riria and her family, catching a boat to Solstheim and leaving Skyrim behind. He helped Riria and her parents find work on the island, along with finding g work for himself.. He soon joined the Legion, his previous training with his father helping him become a formidable warrior. He took to liking the sword and shield, more than using the axe his father gave him. He married Riria upon becoming a Captain, when he was 23 winters old. He hasn't seen his father or his brothers since he fled, and he even changed his last name to help hide himself on Solstheim. He sometimes wishes he could go back, to apologise and help change Windhelm. But he knows he can't. He would just stoke the fires again, coming back a Legionare with a Dunmer wife. That life is behind him.

Writing Sample:

They were gone. Over a dozen good men and women were gone. Whoever had done it was either extremely well trained and armed, or very brave. People were terrified. People rarely stepped outside of town out of fear that whatever killed those Legionaries would get them. Rumors spread like wildfire in a forest, and fear had gripped Raven Rock. Rorik was taking it especially hard. He knew those men. He trained with them, fought with them, drank with them. They were his brothers and sisters. And now they were gone. Slaughtered in their own territory by some unspeakable evil. He sat in his study, the fire softly crackling beside him as he read the report over and over again. He wanted to cry, to mourn his comrades with all his heart. But he was a Legionare. He was an immovable beacon of hope and tenacity for the people of the Empire. Only one, solitary tear streamed down his face, Riria wandering in wearing her nightgown. "Love," she said softly in her thick Dunmer accent, "Come to bed. It's getting late..." She saw the letter, sighing empathetically as she said, "Oh, Azura. I'm so sorry, Ror. I know you were close to them." She hugged him tightly, the man putting one hand on her back as the other still clenched the paper tightly. He swallowed, saying, "They're gone...all of them...what in the name of the Nine could have done this..." She held him tightly, saying, "I don't know, love. But it will be okay. Just...just promise me that you'll be careful, Ror. I can't stand to lose you." Rorik steeled himself, saying, "I can't promise you anything. It's my duty to protect the Empire and her people." Riria sighed, saying,n"Damn the Empire. Swear to Talos." He finally gave in, saying, "I swear to Talos of Atnora that I will be careful. There. Happy?" She smiled, saying, "Yes. I am. Now come to bed." He nodded, the woman pulling him by the hand to their bedroom. The letter laid there on the table, it's words burned into Rorik's mind forever. Now he wished he was back in Windhelm.​

 

[LoneSniper87]

Name: Ko'shima Ravimhan
Nicknames / Myth Name: Ko
Place of Birth: Riverhold, Elsweyr would be the closest city, but moreso on the border of Cyrodil and Elsweyr
Age: 23
Gender: Female
Race: Khajiit has wares
Height: 5'8
Weight: 141 lbs
Skills:
Restoration
One-Handed
Stealth
Factions: College of Winterhold
Moral Alignment: Chaotic Good

Personality Goods:
Clever
Protective
Kind
Laid-back
Mature

Personality Bads:
'By any means necessary'
Prone to lying
Slow to trust
Reserved

Background:
Ko'shima was born on one of the many trade caravans that paraded Tamriel, with no special fanfare besides the simple congratulations of others to her family. They had just crossed the border of Elsweyr into Cyrodil, heading northward, away from the warm sands of the south into the cold north. As she grew older, she wasn't exposed much to other children, leading her on a path of maturing much beyond her age. Passing through Cyrodil did have it's toll as well, a love for the arcane arts as well as with her kind's ways. Though they didn't have mages traveling with them, she did learn to fight, and particularly favored the hand axe.

Her caravan had reached Skyrim when she was around 16, now a capable fighter, and a novice thief, she felt more comfortable walking the streets of wherever they may reside, whether it was Falkreath in the beginning, to the hilltop city of Whiterun a few months later, to their final stop at Winterhold, she always found wonder and something to do in each location. Her kind-hearted nature earned her some scars, fighting off bandits on the road or thieves in town, but it also earned her a good name. What caught most people's attention was how the victims(not the bandits) were always healed and fine, and when they were asked, they simply talked about the Khajiit woman who saved them. Her name was never said, but most knew her by face.

Upon her arrival in Winterhold, she was 20, and had convinced the caravan leader to travel there as well. Her personal interest was the College of Winterhold, rather than helping the caravan with sales. Her acceptance was not the easiest task: a self-trained magus ought to have a hard time getting in, but her pure specialization in restoration managed to get her in. She didn't pay much mind to what she was called, a Khajiit studying magic all the way up in Skyrim was an odd case, as well as the young woman not wanting to go out and fight or adventure, as she was focused on her work, despite what past years may have others believe. Over her years she made few friends, fewer enemies, and had nearly mastered her craft in restoration.

Writing Sample:

"Come on, Ko'shima! It's one day of the entire week we have off! Why not come with us?" A young Nordic woman would ask the Khajiit, who was sitting at a desk with an array of books in front of her.
"I don't do that stuff, ok? I'm not the adventuring type." She would respond, closing the book, blue eyes meeting the Nord's brown ones.
"After what I heard in Whiterun? I doubt it!"
"No!" Ko'shima affirmed, rising from her chair and looking at the woman. "I don't care what you say, when you go out there and die or come close to it, all I'm going to say is I told you so! But you wanted to do it anyway. By the Divines, go ahead, but I'm not going with you!" She crossed her arms, ears twitching in agitation. She rarely got like this, but this woman was truly starting to get under her skin. "Now, if you don't mind, I have studying to do, goodbye." The Khajiit shows her the door, pushing her out before she can form a rebuttle and closing the door. She sighed, running a hand over the top of her head, the grey and black fur a reassuring feeling to her. She sits back in her chair, trying to calm down, her heavy, tense breaths the only noise in the room.

 

[Bang Bang]

NALIMIR

Nicknames: Nali (by the Grey Wardens, of all people), Mimi (by certain younger members of the thieves guild)
Myth Name: The Bloody Bowman (Assassin moniker), The Butcher of The Reach (unknown in relation to his identity, tied to a single incident of an unsolved string of murders in the Reach)
Place of Birth: Valenwood, Arenthia
Age: 60
Gender: Cis Male
Race: Wood Elf
Height: Five foot, six inches
Build: Muscular though thin and quick. Tends to look vaguely malnourished, though no one knows if that's just because he looks so sour all the time.
Skills:
►Archery
► Sneak
► Illusion
Factions: Dark Brotherhood; Silencer for the late Listener. Also affiliated with the thieves guild and has run jobs for the fighters guild, though is more a 'outer rim' member than closely tied to them.
Moral Alignment: Lawful Neutral [questioning, unstable]

Personality Goods:
► Rational: Nal is not the kind to be ruled by his emotions, even in the worst of circumstances. It's near impossible to rile him up or cause him to lash out, though if you do, you are likely to deeply, deeply regret it. He has some emotional issues he might want to deal with some day, but he buries it way down deep; divines help the fool who manages to unearth them. Otherwise though, he's on the whole sensible, logical, and practical in his drive.
► Hard-Working: Few folk are as enduring as Nalimir. Thanks to the harsh conditions he faced as a child, and when growing up with the Greybeards, he has the patience and endurance levels of a mine slave. Few deprivations will dissuade Nalimir, and his work-ethic is unparalleled.
► Quiet: Perhaps not so much 'good' as a neutral trait, Nal is reserved by default, and thus makes a pleasant reprieve from the company of louder types. He acts as a good foil to those who are more brash as well, quiet, but not afraid to be blunt or sarky.
► Perceptive: Life training in meditation with the Greybeards, and later with the Brotherhood, conditioned Nal to be extremely perceptive. Combined with his quiet disposition, he is not only a good listener, but the kind to possess a well-honed intuition for danger and the presence of others. Sadly for him, this does not extend to the sphere of social interactions.
Personality Bads:
► Uncanny: Nalimir's uptight nature, intense stare, and general inability to relax puts everyone at ill-ease at first. Some get used to it, some find him creepy for life. He is rarely trusted by strangers, and thus keeps to himself, which only makes the problem worse.
► Socially dense: Growing up a lone child among temple of silent old men, Nal never developed the social skills most children ought to. As such, he's both incredibly dense and poor at reading the atmosphere at times, and also can say things that are too blunt or just ill-timed. Thankfully, his silence minimizes this problem, but his disposition when talking can take a while to adjust to.
► Adrift: Though Nalimir fled the Sky Haven Temple in search of something other than silence, he never really knew what he wanted. He ended up an assassin due his his skills and affinity for it. Now that the Listener is dead, however, and jobs have become less frequent with the DB, he is once again feeling an itch of uncertainty about his role in life. He is unsure if he's even okay with killing, though he's done it a hundred times, or is equally unsure of if he actually enjoys it.
► Guarded: Perhaps just due to being an assassin, or thanks to a tumultuous childhood, Nal does not trust others easily. He tends to be a lone ranger, working with the DB being his most sociable position yet. This can be advantageous at times, but also prevents him from both getting the emotional support that might help him out, and also makes him vulnerable as a lone ranger.
Background:

The child of an immigrant family, Nalimir is disconnected from his Wood Elf/Valenwood heritage, having left the woods at the age of two, and losing his parents at six years old. Tensions between natives and outsiders at the time caught up the naive travelers, who learned too slow to be cautious during the turmoil, and as such, Nalimir got to be a real Batman figure and watch his parents be murdered. He escaped by being a slippery devil, quick on his feet even then.

Lucky for him, he didn't spend long on the streets; the Greybeards took him in, believing he possessed an aptitude for use of the voice. As such, his parental figures becoming a coven of old quiet men. It was a strange upbringing to say the least, the Greybeards hardly the most paternal of individuals, but they did do him the kindness of giving him rigorous training. Not only did he have to practice scrupulous self-control daily, but he was also given tutoring in blades, the bow, magic. However, their belief in him as 'the chosen one' archetype dwindled as he left puberty, as it became more and more apparent that even with training, he could not use Shouts at all, even with the most rigorous and early training.

His leaving was initiated by numerous factors, but the one he would always deny was his own shame over failing what they had kept him for. He left, accepting banishment for his desertion, and after years of drifting and running odd jobs with mercenaries and thieves, he was taken in by the brotherhood. They proved to be the most nurturing figure for him yet, providing him with the combination of structure and freedom that he'd lacked a a child, as well as providing company to draw him out of his then near-mutism.

He not only ended up the Silencer of the previous Listener, but their lover too. The pair were incredibly close, more so as Nal's status with the brotherhood became more secretive due to his new position. When, two years ago, the Listener was killed, Nalimir was understandably devastated. He defaulted back to the position of Speaker when a new Listener was not yet found, but felt disconnected from his fellow brethren. Though still a member of the brotherhood, he has been distant as of late, spending most of his time with the thieves guild or distracting himself with taking on as many contracts as possible. With the one constant in his life gone, he is now being forced to question who he is, what he believes in, and why he does what he does, no longer able to pass it off as merely being for his other half.

Writing Sample:

The drunks of The Ragged Flagon were especially noisy that evening. Everyone was in a good mood; some high-profile job or another had been completed, presumably well given how everyone kept raising their tankards and cheering. Nalimir half regretted coming here, having drifted to the Ratways out of habit more than a desire to be around the thieves at the present moment. They were usually good company, suspicious enough of outsiders to ignore him, and the kind to use low whispers when communing with one another. However, tonight alcohol was decadently inverting that tradition, and even the surlier members were smiling and talking in such a fashion that Nalimir could overhear them. More shocking still, none were giving him the usual wary glance his appearances once earned.

Nines, he'd been coming here too often if they were getting used to him.

There were worse weaknesses than wines, he supposed, examining his goblet. He could be hooked on Skooma after all, and besides, it wasn't so much that drink commanded his every step. If anything, it was boredom that had driven him here, boredom and a lack of anything to do. With the Listener gone, things had been so quiet lately... and even the thieves guild seemed to be playing nice, no longer pressurized by a streak of bad luck to loosen their policies on killing. His past jobs, he'd been explicitly requested not to kill anyone.

The bow and quiver slung across his back had barely been touched in a week, used on nothing save a starved wolf and a pack of foolhardy bandits. For the realm, it was good that things were beginning to feel quiet, peaceful even, but for Nalimir... It seemed sickening to admit that he missed the adrenaline of disaster, the constant thrill of rushing between jobs as more and more people burned hearts and killed foes only to wish for the death of others. Sickening as it was, it didn't make it any less true.

​

​

 

[Mook-LandStrider]

Spoiler: Halbred

Name: Harnon Kruber
Nicknames / Myth Name: Iron Angel
Place of Birth: Windhelm, Skyrim
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Race: Nord
Height: 6'9"
Weight: 296
Skills [YOU MAY ONLY CHOOSE THREE] - (here): Magic- Enchanting, Fighting- Two Handed, Protection- Heavy Armor
Factions (here): Independent, Previously Imperial Legion. Mages Guild Member.
Moral Alignment: True Neutral

Personality Goods:
Jovial
Gregarious
Honest
Steadfast
Mindful


Personality Bads:
Uncanny Temper
Slightly Implusive
Vindictive
Unforgiving


Background and Writing Sample:

Skingrad, Cyrodiil. Three Weeks Ago.

Voices chatted all around, the steady flow of ale wetted the appetites of all the patrons with the exception of a man sitting the the very center of the room. Being the odd one out within Inn the man seemed to draw little to no attention. However, a tall figure soon opened the door and stepped inside. The room continued on, the noise of voices never dimming. Looking around the figure walked towards the man sitting alone and took a seat.

"Mr. Harkon, for a man trying to hide you do stand out." The tall figure spoke to Mr. Harkon. Leaning back in his chair Harkon seemed to dismiss it. "I do not care for drink." He spoke, the accent of a Morrowinder hard on his lips. "Who are you, you must to Kruber? So, what is it you do. Impress me." The now obvious noble spoke.

Kruber stared for a moment before putting his hands on the table and pushing back. Leaning back in his chair the Nord got comfortable. "Right, this is how it will be. You will buy me a drink if you wish for me to continue." Kruber spoke dictating how the conversation will progress. Not normalized to having the situation turned on him the Noble seemed to protest but stopped realizing the man wasn't going to budge. With hesitancy he forked out several septums and handed them to a waiter. After a few moments a large pint of ale was set down infront of Kruber.

Grabbing the glass he rose it to his lips and began to drink, within a moment it was gone. Setting the glass back on the table Kruber looked up "Keep it coming.". Rolling his eyes the man gave several more septums over and soon another pint was infront of Kruber. Taking it he drank only some of it before setting it down. "Right, now thats settled. I will not impress you but, I am Kruber. Or as I was once called, the Iron Angel." Kruber began before taking a drink. "Im from Windhelm, hard to tell im a son of skyrim isn't it." Kruber laughed "As for what I do, that is obvious Mr. Harkon. Why are you here. But that is also obvious. Irregardless, another." Kruber spoke motioning for another Pint.

Fresh glass arriving he continued "Im an Imperial Soldier. Well, I was and am happily retired. I served with distinction. I have a few medals but it taught me alot I couldn't have learned else where. I know how to fight. How well, you don't need to know. I also know enchanting magic. Learned that as well in the legion. Well, I always had a knack for it but, they taught me things I couldn't have learned elsewhere in regards to that." Kruber spoke before Harkon interrupted. "All fine and dandy, but you are a soldier Kruber. How many have you killed I need a man I know can protect." Harkon asked bluntly.

"Loads and loads of people Mr. Harkon." Kruber said nonchalantly before downing the whole pint. Now a few deep he adjusted himself accordingly to compensate. Pointing towards Mr Harkon he continued "That isn't the question you should be wonder. The real question is how many people haven't I killed." Kruber finished. Harkon seemed confused but Kruber proceeded anyway. "Listen, what do you want." Kruber asked. Harkon thought about it for a second "I need a body guard." Harkon finally asked directly. Kruber nodded and grunted. "Another pint. Actually, make it two. I think I am going to need it." Kruber spoke. Taking the two pints into his hands Kruber looked around once more. "Right, well lets go talk about this outside." Kruber spoke up as he took his pints with him.

 

[Abendrot]

[class=Notes] //So this is an older code that i tried to fix up to look nicer// //Forward slashes are comments // //and do no show up in the final design,// //these are to help you find everything easily// //and explain some code as well // //These comments must be with in a class or script tags// // in order to be hidden, from what I know. // //Long URls are images// //# followed by letter and numbers are Hex codes// //or color codes// //the only color named by its name is White// //DO NOT EDIT THE CODE IN RICH TEXT MODE// //This causes the Accordion title's to be moved down and you will have to move them back up yourself// [/class]

[class=notes] //so above is the background image// [/class]

[class=notes] //above is the white transparent background the "0.8" controls the opacity// [/class]

[class=notes] //The character image as well as the border for it// [/class]

VIVIENNE MARION ÉLODIE VALMONT​

[class=notes] //The Name and the background for it// [/class] Nickname:

• Her Ladyship
• Madame
• Vivi

Race: Breton

Age: 24 (born 14th of Hearthfire, 4E 266)

Gender: Female

Place of Birth: Valmont, Kingdom of Daggerfall, High Rock

[class=notes] //the transparent t box on the left and its border// [/class] Hair color: Auburn

Eye color: Blue

Height: 5'3" (160 cm)

Weight: 116 lbs (52.6 kg)

Body Type: Slender, svelte

[class=notes] //the transparent box on the right and its border// [/class] Strengths:

• Confident
• Tactful
• Cunning
• Insightful
• Determined

Flaws:

• Stubborn
• Manipulative
• Secretive
• Invasive
• Cynical

Major Skills:

• Speechcraft
• Illusion
• Destruction

Factions: Royal Diplomatic Corps of Daggerfall

Moral Alignment: True Neutral

[class=notes] //the box around the accordions// //and in the slide title's I put a div around them to add the purple background// [/class]

Personality (in depth)​

It's rather hard to pin down someone like Vivienne, and equally hard to tell where the facade ends and the woman begins. A life of playing at Daggerfall's court politics and many smaller games beside has made her a master of pretense. She can be a smiling minstrel, a shrewd negotiator, a spoony coquette, a dimwitted twit, a haughty lady, a kind benefactor, whichever will bring her advantage. Which of these personas is real? What is left when all the disguises are stripped? Vivienne herself is not quite sure anymore. She is a cutthroat political player, willing to go to great lengths to get what she wants, to a point. If quiet bribes, murmured threats or careful flattery don't move pieces the way she wills, Vivienne will loose spell and dagger to reach the same ends. It's second nature for her, and Vivienne may not notice that she's begun to manipulate people around her on a more personal level. She'd like to think she has some remaining scruples, though she's not entirely sure whether or not she'd venture to break them as well. She has a talent for observation with a keen ear for gossip that might prove valuable for the right person.

Vivienne is secretive by nature, and recognizes the importance of keeping her true emotions well-guarded. She learned from a young age to keep the depths of her feelings hidden so they could not be used against her or the ones she loves. Unfortunately this can make her keen on withholding things from her fellows that should be shown the light. Stubborn and unwavering, Vivienne is loathe to back down once she's taken a stance, and hard to argue with once she's set her mind.

Biography​

The House of Valmont has an interesting history as far as Breton noble familes go. Considered by some to be a cadet branch of the much older (and arguably more prestigious) House of Rousselle , the Valmonts were established at the turn of the Fourth Era by Sebastian Rousselle, the seventh son of the Duke Rousselle's fifth son. Instead of following the tradition of joining a knightly order or a mage's guild like other younger sons, Sebastian set out as an intrepid adventurer, plundering ruins and breaking hearts from Sentinel to Lilmoth to Solstheim. After seven years, the man was resplendent in treasure, with carts filled with all manners of artifacts, jewels and riches, and he returned to Daggerfall with the intent of purchasing over 2,000 acres of land some eighty miles north of the city. A town was set up, then a castle built, and soon enough the settlement with its sprawling plantations became known as Valmont. With newfound wealth and elevation in status, Sebastian petitioned the King of Daggerfall to grant him the title of Baron, officially establishing them as a new noble family. Sebastian would live to a venerable age, and died filthy rich.

Vivienne was born into her family's eighth generation, the youngest of Baron Gauvain Valmont's three children. Her brother Severin and sister Julienne were fraternal twins, over six years her senior. Their mother Roxanne was a workaholic in nearly every respect, busying herself with managing her husband's estate while letting legions of nannies and tutors to raise her children in her stead. Gauvain wasn't much better; he was a lecherous fop who gambled away a fair amount of his plantation's profits, and had little concern for doing anything other than keeping his head up his arsehole. Needless to say, there was little parental warmth to go around in the Chateau Valmont.

The Baron was never very fond of his younger daughter. For the twins, he had it all quite figured out: Julienne was to marry a noble lord and bring prestige to the family -- which she managed to do at the age of eighteen by wedding the younger son of a comte -- and Severin was to be his heir. He wasn't sure where Vivienne fit into all of this, other than that she'd have to be another dowry that would have to be paid. At sixteen, she was eventually sent off to Daggerfall to study magic. Her education lasted four years, though her mentors were neither the greatest nor the most famous of mages. Vivienne's career was not so glamorous either, though her father judged it would be better to keep her Illusion skills a secret until the family was in need of them. Still, she received a very solid set of skills, though her training was cut short when a double tragedy forced her back home.

Firstly, Julienne had died in childbirth along with her baby, which severed ties between the Valmonts and their most valuable political allies. Second, there was a catastrophic blight at the plantations, killing the crops and rendering the land barren. When attempts to salvage the harvest proved unsuccessful and the gambling debts started mounting, it became clear to the Baron that he'd have to marry off his remaining daughter and marry her rich. And so at the age of twenty, Vivienne Valmont became the wife of Lord Pascal Desjardins, a man with a sizable estate and enough money to cover the Valmonts' expenses,

However, the marriage was not an easy one. Pascal was proud yet temperamental, stern with his subordinates and occasionally violent, prone to drink, among other vices. He treated his wife like a conquest rather than a partner, and he heaped as much abuse on her as he dared to without incurring the wrath of her father. Nonetheless, she endured this state for a year before Pascal had a "riding accident", which resulted in severe injury, which resulted in infection, which resulted in death. Unsurprisingly, Vivienne did not mourn her husband much, and there were quite a few rumors regarding the circumstances of his death.

Vivienne now had full control of her late husband's business and estate, much to her father's displeasure, who immediately attempted to seize the assets. The ensuing legal battle ended miserably for him, and the Baron could do nothing but brood in the Chateau Valmont while Vivienne developed her new estates in Glenumbra. Her success earned her independence and recognition in Breton high society. She expanded her wealth, her friendships and connections, and soon became the talk of the royal court. When the idea surfaced to establish a proper diplomatic presence in Skyrim, her cleverness and resourcefulness led her to be offered appointment as the official ambassador of the Kingdom of Daggerfall. She accepted immediately, eager to pursue new avenues and opportunities, and now travels to Skyrim to begin her new career.

Writing Sample​

Three months ago
It was a well known fact that it was unbecoming of a Breton noble lady to brood. Instead, when faced with adversity, a noble lady planned. So when Vivienne Marion Élodie Valmont, the ambassador of Daggerfall to Skyrim's royal court, arrived six days later than expected, she spent little time dwelling on that mishap. It irked, of course, but it could not be helped. The High King would be away on a trip to Solitude by now, so she'd have to adjust her plans to fit the new circumstances. She was able to meet with the royal steward at least, who greeted her in the king's absence, and showed her to her suite at the palace, as the villa intended for the Daggerfall Embassy was still undergoing renovation. The man was charming enough, if reserved, and the room proved to be a pleasant surprise. She half-expected to be placed in some dark corner of the palace, out of sight, and out of mind, but no. Her quarters comprised of a sizable bedroom, a well-furnished office and a sitting room that overlooked the city. There was also a smaller bedroom for her steward, bodyguard, and spymaster, Marcel, though the latter two positions were not common knowledge. Marcel also argued that at least an extra guard be included, but she dismissed it as undiplomatic.

The first thing Vivienne did in her new office was to hang up a detailed map of Skyrim, showing all the holds and cities, which she was now marking with the names of the ruling nobility. Marcel would glance every now and then, consulting his notes. "I would take note of the Jarl of Whiterun. Then the Black-Briars of Riften." he said, after a long silence."

"Yes. I need to write to the Jarl as soon as I can. And... Kallmann Black-Briar is still in town, no? I will see to him as well, with gifts and good wishes." she said in a business-like tone, but her face fell as she studied the map, and she heaved a heavy sigh. "This is going to be very difficult. Did you see how they looked at us when we rode in? Like monsters. Enemies."

Marcel quirked a brow as she looked over his lady, noting her tenseness as she looked over a map of a country hostile to her and all she stood for. "We knew it would be this way, madame."
"Indeed." she replied. "So we'll have to work very hard. Pen a letter home informing them of my arrival. Then I want you to head out into town. I want to know what people are saying about the Breton ambassador."

Marcel nodded as Vivienne left the room, calling for servants to help with unpacking. He sat down beside the heavy, black desk and arranged his writing supplies.

code by AgWordSmith

 

[SynKast]

Character Completion - 95%

[class=Notes] //So this is an older code that i tried to fix up to look nicer// //Forward slashes are comments // //and do no show up in the final design,// //these are to help you find everything easily// //and explain some code as well // //These comments must be with in a class or script tags// // in order to be hidden, from what I know. // //Long URls are images// //# followed by letter and numbers are Hex codes// //or color codes// //the only color named by its name is White// //DO NOT EDIT THE CODE IN RICH TEXT MODE// //This causes the Accordion title's to be moved down and you will have to move them back up yourself// [/class]

[class=notes] //so above is the background image// [/class]

[class=notes] //above is the white transparent background the "0.8" controls the opacity// [/class]

[class=notes] //The character image as well as the border for it// [/class]

R'irr the Keeper of Secrets​

[class=notes] //The Name and the background for it// [/class] Nickname:

• Thief
• Khajiit Merchant
• R'irr

Race: Khajiit

Age: 19 (born on the 20th of the Second Seed, 4E 271)

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Place of Birth: Windhelm, Skyrim

[class=notes] //the transparent t box on the left and its border// [/class] Hair color: Golden Blonde

Eye color: Green

Height: 5'6'' (167.5 cm)

Weight: 130 (58.9 kg)

Body Type: Fit and Lithe

Star Sign: The Shadow

Pet Peeve: People assuming he was wares for sale.

Mood: Calmly Observant

[class=notes] //the transparent box on the right and its border// [/class] Moral Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Factions:

• Riften, Thieve's Guild
  • R'irr has been with the Thieve's Guild since he was just a Kitten. Having to survive on the streets with only his wits and what little gold in his pockets that he had, it was only a matter of time he was initiated. Although, now, R'irr, while still loyal to the Thieve's Guild he has, as of recent, been using it as a sort of mask that allows him to keep his much darker secret exactly where it belongs, in the dark.
• Dawnstar, Dark Brotherhood
  • R'irr was first contacted by the Dark Brotherhood when a heist had gone wrong and he had to use other means to get away safely, what were the means you ask? A dagger to the liver. Although, little did R'irr know that the male he'd just killed was a confirmed contract for the Dark Brotherhood. Ever since he was initiated into the family and was secretly trained under a legendary Shadowscale to perfect the art of killing, he's been a Silencer for one of the four Speakers of the Black Hand.

Major Skills:

• Sneak
• Speechcraft
• One-Handed

Strengths:

• Perceptive
• Discreet
• Devious
• Insightful
• Slight of Hand

Flaws:

• Deceitful
• Manipulative
• Secretive
• Evasive
• Untrusting

Relationships:

• Mother:
  • Female Khajiit, S'si - Deceased, S'si died immediately after giving birth to R'irr and his twin sister Ko'Tahni.
• Father:
  • Male Khajiit, Ri'zah - Deceased, Ri'zah was found guilty of smuggling Double-Distilled Skooma into the city of Windhelm and was sentenced to death.
• Siblings:
  • Female Khajiit, Ko'Tahni - Unknown, Ko'Tahni was separated from her twin brother in the orphanage of Riften when a Khajiit family adopted her, but not her brother too. Seeing they were only capable of taking care of one child. And they were the only Khajiits in the orphanage of Riften
• Friends:
  • Male Nord, Alvid the Unrestful - Unknown, Given the title 'Unrestful' due to being able to remain functional even after being sleep-deprived thanks to his insomnia, Alvid was one of two close childhood friends of R'irr
  • Female Nord, Freyette Erarikdottir - Unknown, R'irr's second childhood best friend and first crush.
• Mentor:
  • Male Argonian, Salei Meclesh - Deceased, The Shadowscale Argonian was captured during his attempt to slay a politically powerful figure and instead of letting himself be tortured for information, he chose to take his own life.

[class=notes] //the box around the accordions// //and in the slide title's I put a div around them to add the purple background// [/class]

Personality​

At a young age, R'irr learned the power of secrets and the use of deception to acquire them. He's sly, and forever changing his role to fit the current demanded personality. Underneath his mask, his facade. R'irr is a kind person, often, from a distance looking out for the select few, he's considered his friends. Now that doesn't mean that he is incapable of feeling dislike or disdain towards a person, that's simply a mistake many have made and only very few that are around, for the moment, that can tell chilling tales of R'irr's wrath.

Biography​

R'irr and his twin sister, Ko'Tahni were born on the 20th of the Second seed within the harsh, snowy walls of Windhelm. It was also that very day of his birth that he had lost his mother due to an unknown illness that had ravaged her body until fighting was no longer an option for her as she'd succumbed to the warm embrace of death. Although, since R'irr was only but a few hours old with his mother passed, as he grew up the thought of her never really seemed to haunt his thoughts. However, the lack of a mother's love drove him to sometimes do reckless and sometimes even stupid things and since they'd taken to calling the Gray Quarters of the Nordic city of Windhelm as home, It was often more than not that he was accused of crimes that involved theft whether he'd done it or not. And to this day, R'irr would blame that Nordic racism towards races that were not of their own as the reason for his father's death.

R'irr was twelve when it had happened, the Nords while standing on the high-horses, had sentenced his father to death without even reconsidering the emotional damage that would be placed upon the two kittens as the guards dug their father, Ra'zhar, to the gallows here he'd meet his inevitable death. It was a horrible scene, People gathered around like vultures waiting to have the pickings of the next kill, and a kill they would have as Ko'Tahni and R'irr's father's head was lined on the block and the blocked raised into the air in a way that made the few seconds it took seem like an eternity and as the large axe blade finally fell, so did Rah'zhar's head.

The twins had stayed in the City of Windhelm for a short period after, though, they knew they couldn't go home. The guards would be waiting for their return to either send them to their death's as well or ship them off to Gods know where. Thankfully, as outsides of Windhelm and having lived in the Gray Quarters, they'd been allowed to live in the New Gnisis Cornerclub and in return, they'd have to serve drinks and keep the place clean. However, a place on the floor next to the hearth only solved the issue of them freezing to death. Starvation was an issue of its own, an issue that was only to be solved by coin, coin they didn't have. As a week went by, R'irr had become desperate as his sister had grown ill due to the severe lack of food and the idea of losing what family he had left drove him to the extreme measures of stealing 100 septums from the Cornerclubs lockbox and over a period of time, he brought little bits of bread and cheese to his sister
(WIP)

Writing Sample:
It was a cold night, colder than the previous times that R'irr had visited the City of Windhelm. Yet, even now as an adult, he felt just as unwelcomed as he did when he'd grown up in the streets of the Gray Quarter with his sister so many years ago. Looking down at his feet, R'irr stood there silently as he watched the snow gather around his the soals of his feet as he grew more and more lost in thought, something he'd strictly been trained against doing. However, he couldn't help it. He cared for his sister, had done anything in his power to ensure her safety and well-being. And yet, through all that trial and tribulation he was given the final result of her being taken in by a family of Khajiit merchants. He'd known he was never to see his sister again, so all he had was the few good memories of her that kept the memory of her alive within his heart. But as of recent, even that had grown faulty.

"Hey, you! Khajiit!"

R'irr snapped back to reality before looking up to two guards standing on each side of him with their hands reaching for their swords, "What is your business in the City of Windhelm!" yelled out the guard on the left before they grew momentarily silent as though waiting for an answer.

"Khajiit's name is Ra'Zikar, a humble caravan merchant who has come to share his wares with the lovely people of Windhelm. Come, Ri'Zikar has items of interest for such strong, capable soldiers!" and with that, he turned away towards them before making his way back to the city gate as though pretending to head back to this imaginary Khajiit Caravan outside the city walls. Once R'irr had been ensured that the Guards had their interests peaked, he began leading them out of the City's walls, where they'd ultimately meet their end as R'irr's shortsword lashed open one of the guards guts before quickly turning and successfully sinking the blade of his dagger into the throat of the other guard before he'd even had the chance to defend himself.

Looking down at the two guards, R'irr gave out a scoff as he cleaned his two blades with the cloth bits of their armor, "So much for the best guards in Skyrim." he spat on their corpses before making his way back into the City. Where his mission for the DBH would resume.

code by AgWordSmith

 

[ThatGuyWithSouvlaki]

Appearance:

Name: Adawen Sadri
Nicknames / Myth Name: Ada, Hercines Huntress
Place of Birth: Solstheim
Age: 36
Gender: Female
Race: Dunmer/werewolf
Height: 5ft 9in
Weight: 45kg
Skills - Archery, Sneak, Alchemy
Factions: Hercine
Moral Alignment: Chaotic Good

Personality Goods:

• Caring
• Perceptive
• Humorous
• Calculating
• Detecated

Personality Bads:

• Taciturn
• Irascible
• Secretive
• Mournful
• Vengefuls

Background:
Adawen's life began quite simple and uneventful the daughter of a owner of The Retching Netch in Raven Rock and a local alchemist and healer. As the only child she was expected to take over the tavern after her father but she was more interested in alchemy and hunting, especially as the latter interest involved being apprenticed under a huntress she had crush on. Though the crush never turned out anything to her chagrin but she found she enjoyed hunting and the focus, investigation and calm that it required and so eventually took over after her master as the villages hunter. She also trained in alchemy by her mother occassionaly assisting her in gathering ingredients and making potions and in healing the townpeople.

Over the years, she met and setled down with a recent Redguard immigrant female to the island who opened farm in the area. Life was by no means peaceful as there were many dangers in Solstheim aside from the cold but it was happy and fulfiling enough. Ada had even considered adopting childrens once her partner's farm was hitting its stride and the harvest was proven to good.

However it wasnt meant to be, returning in the evening after a hunt of a few rabbits she was horrified to see a distruction and death she never thought possible. Horrified and disgusted but the amount of blood spilled and the horried state of the corpses of those closest to her in the ruins of her home. Only a strange symble and warning she did not understand as any explaination. She tried to look for survivors, to help any that she could but there was nothing only death. When the relisation hit her fully, she went into shock as if her mind shut of preventing the images to be imprented in her mind. She wondered aimlessly for an unknown time until she came across a statue of hercine she had never seen before. Before she knew she heard howls and around her came several werewolves sorrounding her. She raised her bow as if to fight but they did not attack. As she watched confused a voice that made he blood go cold told her he had the answers she seeked, if she would join his hunt.

Writing Sample
wip

 

[Keidivh]

Rolard Seton

"Destiny has a place for us all, I must resign myself to mine. For if the Dragonborn will not stand to defend Man, then who will?"

Nicknames / Myth Name: Dragonborn, Dovahkin, Rol
Place of Birth: Sky Haven Temple
Age: 28
Birth date: 29th of the First Seed
Birth sign: The Lord
Gender: Male
Race: Pure blood Breton
Height: 6'2
Weight: 205
Religion: Bretonic Pantheon, Talos
Patron Deities: Talos, Akatosh

Build: Rolard has a very odd build for a Breton, as they typically have smaller frames than their cousins in Hammerfell, Skyrim and even Cyrodil. Such is not the case for Rolard however, standing as tall as a Nord, with a broad musculature that had been honed after decades of harsh training.​

Skills:
Two-handed - Having been trained for years by his father and mother Delphine, both masters in close combat in their own right, Rolard has become an incredibly proficient swordsman, and has since honed his skills in the hostile realms of Tamriel. When his glaive sings through the air, there are few indeed who can withstand it.
Speechcraft - While his parents kept him on a strict training regimen, Rolard would often sneak out of Sky Haven Temple, traveling to Markarth to intermingle with the populace, playing with children, chatting up the merchants, and even badgering the local nobility. This gregarious nature eventually caught the attention of the Seneschal of Markarth, Tiberius Augustus, who decided to help refine that trait into a true skill. A silver tongue can often accomplish what a blade cannot, and Rolard wields both deftly.
Destruction - Like many other Bretons, Rolard was gifted in the arts of magic, much the same as his sister. While Ellia dedicated herself to the study of Restoration, Rolard threw himself into the dangerous school of Destruction. Over time Rolard's skill in Destruction became powerful indeed, and soon gouts of flames, arcs of lightning and shards of ice were flying through the grounds of the temple. A new weapon to lay low the enemies of Man.

Spoiler: Last Rite - Two-handed glaive

Spoiler: Armor

Factions: Independent, Grey Beards, Blades

Moral Alignment: Chaotic Good/Lawful Neutral

Personality Goods:
Unyielding - Ever since he was a child Rolard has been told of his purpose, to serve and defend mankind. To this end, Rolard will let nothing stand in his way, be it Thalmor, Daedra, or his own desires. Such is his purpose.
Gregarious - Rolard has always been happiest when in the company of others, and has a way of endearing himself to most he meets. Be it sparring and rough housing with the Blades he grew up with, singing tavern songs among mates or discussing politics with nobles, Rolard flourishes when with others.
Sharp - Years of travelling across Tamriel and encountering a myriad of dangers and challenges has forced Rolard to think on his feet, and think fast. When in a bind the Breton is often able to find solutions that would not be apparent to others.
Protective - Coming from a small, tight knit family and having no truly close friends to speak of, Rolard is incredibly protective of those he considers close to his heart. This trait was only deepened when he lost his little sister to a Thalmor ambush while they were travelling to Markarth. This failure has only deepened his resolve to protect those around him by whatever means necessary.
Valiant - Rolard has never been one to be cowed by any threat, standing tall in the face of any danger that dares present itself to him. No matter how lethal the situation, Rolard will meet it head on, glaive in hand and Thu'um thundering through the air.

Personality Flaws:
Burdened by destiny - While there are many who would give anything to be in the position he is, Rolard can't help but feel trapped. One with the blood of Akatosh can't simply sit by and lead a normal life, to do so would be to spit in the face of the greatest of the Divine's. While he has accepted this, there are times when Rolard falls into a melancholy, and at times can become resentful of the 'blessing' he was born with.
Reckless - While not only being a skilled warrior but the Dragonborn as well, Rolard still throws himself into situations that most would hesitate, going beyond bravery and straight into foolishness. While he has survived so far, his parents are concerned that eventually his luck will run out. Even a Dragonborn can die.
Distant - Despite being a friendly man, there are few who can honestly say they are close to Rolard. Ever since the death of his sister, Rolard has found it difficult to let anyone else close to him, leading to a rather lonely existence. Even when in the presence of others, he can't help but feel isolated. So while he will gladly chat and mingle with those around him, there are few who are able to get any closer than that.
Vengeful - Not one to forget slights and harm done to himself and his own, Rolard will often hunt down those who have done him wrong in some way, most notably the Thalmor. For years he has hunted the knife-ears across Tamriel, claiming many lives along the way. At times he can become obsessive, focused on his vengeance than rather than the task at hand, endangering his life and the life of others to sate his bloodlust.
Stubborn - When Rolard makes a decision, there are few able to steer him from it. His confidence in his choices are often unshakable, and while this can at times be a good thing, it can also mean he is unwilling to hear others ideas, even if they are better.

Background:

The Seton family line is an ancient one, family historians claiming them to have roots all the way back to the late 1st Era when their ancestors settled the land that would on day become Alcaire, one of the most powerful holdings in the Kingdom of Wayrest. There are even tales of their family partaking in the First Siege of Orsinium, the first named lord of Alcaire, Ellias Seton leading his people to war alongside the various Breton kingdoms and Redguard warrior tribes. It is from this siege that one of the Seton family's most precious artifacts hail from, a beautiful white ebony glaive, said to have been hewn from the hands of an Orsimer war chief at the climax of the battle. How much of this is legend is difficult to say, but the Seton's took pride in their heritage.

Over the millenia their strength grew, and where other kingdoms rose and fell, Alcaire endured, eventually incorporating itself into the Kingdom of Wayrest itself. But nothing lasts forever, and that which is thought to be eternal can shatter in the blink of an eye. Such was the case when the Seton family fell prey to a bloody coup at the hands of a rival vassal. Perhaps complacency had overtaken the noble family, or perhaps the Great Game that all nobles in High Rock had to endure had finally caught up to them with a vengeance. Regardless of what brought it about, the result was the Seton line was all but wiped off the face of Thedas, countless centuries of history and heritage lost in a single bloody night. All except for one battered and broken soul, Matthias Seton. Having been on campaign with the Knights of the Flame, he was spared the downfall of his kin. Knowing that to stay in High Rock meant to face certain death, Matthias fled, hunted across Hammerfell and Cyrodil before finally reaching Skyrim.

And there, at the headman's block of Helgen a new legend was born. Dovahkin. Dragonborn. Bane of the World Eater. These were but a few of the titles that were heaped upon the exiled prince over the course of his journey. Nearly all in Tamriel now know the tale, how the Dovahkin slew Alduin in Sovngarde itself before dissaepearing off the face of Tamriel. Or so everyone was led to believe.

In truth, Matthias Seton survived and to this day lives, but suffered grievous wounds that have still not healed. So he retired to Sky Haven Temple, marrying Delphine and raising his two children, Rolard and Ellia Seton. Rolard's childhood was unconventional to put it mildly. Where other children would be playing Guards and Bandits, Rolard and Ellia were trained in the way of the blade by their mother and the most veteran blades. Where other children busied themselves with chores, the twins were trained by their father and the Greybeards in the way of the Thu'um at High Hrothgar. Unlike other children, they were Dragonborn.

It was a rather solitary existence as there were still those who hunted the Dragonborn, seeing him as to great a threat to simply believe he was gone, and Matthias refused to endanger his children until they were ready to face the world and all the threats it presented. Moreover, that they would be prepared to carry on his legacy. Tamriel was no closer to peace now than before the Crisis, and Man needed the guidance of the Dovahkin desperately. Of course neither of the twins were content with this, wanting to experience the world around them for themselves, to escape their destinies if only for a little bit. So it was that the inseparable pair regularly sneaked off to Markarth, marveling at the bustling markets and raucous taverns, playing with the children through the labyrinthine stone paths of the city.

It was during one of these routine clandestine trips that an old enemy of the Dragonborn finally found caught up to them. The Thalmor had been searching for some time for Matthias, eventually tracking down his location to Sky Haven Temple. Unable to send a large force into the region due to Ulfric's victory, a small troop of Justicar's was sent to ambush the Dragonborn. Ellia had begun to notice they were being tracked, and begged Rolard to cease his trips, but the bull-headed boy refused. So it was that Rolard departed, and was set upon by a contigent of Thalmor Justicars. The battle was a desperate one, the young Dovahkin fighting desperately to survive. Thu'um thundered through the air, blades clashed and magic lit up the sky. His fate seemed sealed, and death was but a breath away. Then his sister showed up. With all the fury of a dragon she descended upon the Mer, eviscerating any that got near while she tried desperately to heal her dying brother. It wasn't until Delphine and a troop of Blades tracked them down that the Thalmor were defeated. Rolard slipped into unconsciousness. When he awoke in Sky Haven Temple he felt a strange emptiness in his heart, something had changed. Ellia was gone, and he had led her to her demise.

Despair gripped him for months, the knowledge of his responsibility for the death of his sister to much to bear. Eventually he was confronted by his father, and curtly told that his inaction dishonored Ellia's memory. There was only one Dragonborn now, and it was Rolard's sole responsibility to carry on the legacy. With grim resolve, Rolard threw himself into his training regimen once more, dedicating all of his time to it. Upon his 18th birthday Rolard was sent away from his home and into Tamriel to hone his skills like his father had before him. By travelling across the land, delving into dungeons and slaying all manner of beasts. Rolard traveled across many of the nations of Tamriel, from Hammerfell to Morrowind, hunting Goblins, bandits and even stray dragons that hadn't followed Paarthurnax after Alduin's defeat.

After a full decade of adventuring Rolard has made his way back to Skyrim, rumors of a great threat drawing him back home. Destiny called, and Rolard was going to answer.

Extras:

Rolard tends to favor flame spells when using Destruction magic. Unlike most others, Rolard's flames are a deep sapphire color. There doesn't seem to be any difference to the effects of his flames, rather it is simply a unique trait amongst the Seton family line

Writing Sample:

"It's been some time since I've visited you sister, I'm sorry for keeping you waiting for so long." Rolard's voice was gentle as he spoke, barely able to be heard over the cacophony of the waterfall cascading over the cliff of Bard's Leap. Azure eyes stared forlornly into the night sky, a beautiful aurora coloring the horizon, a rare treat in the Reach. Of course there was no answer, simply the roar of the waterfall. Taking out his glaive and a small cloth, he began to clean off the crimson that stained his blade as a sad smile came across his face. "Come to think of it, I haven't come to visit you at all since... Since that day. I suppose I couldn't bring myself to face you. I hope you can understand." A small waver in his voice entered as he gazed at his blade that lay in his lap.

"I suppose I needed to prove that I wasn't going to let your death be in vain. That I'd be worthy to carry on the legacy that you should have shared in... That I stole from you."

Rolard's glaive cleaved through the Thalmor Justicars armor, biting deep into his stomach as crimson whipped through the air. Before he could recover he felt a sharp pain dig into his side, another Thalmor arrow puncturing his tattered and bloodied clothes. Blue flames licked at his finger tips before bursting forward, enveloping the marksman in searing agony, their scream echoing through the otherwise dead forest. Even as the archer fell, the smell of their charred skin hanging heavily in the air, more Thalmor appeared. There weren't a large amount, but there were enough, that much was clear. 'This is how I die then, butchered in some nameless forest by a bunch of knife-ears... Father will be disappointed.' Coughs wracked his body for a moment, making every wound excruciatingly more noticeable as blood was hacked up from is mouth. Wiping it away, he forced himself back to his feet, glaive clenched in his fists. 'At the very least I can bring them all down with me.' "Wuld." Before he had even finished speaking the word Rolard was already among the Thalmor, white ebony tearing through the night air as it rended the Altmer apart. The High Elves fell around him, but even as he struck them down they laid terrible blows upon the young Breton. An axe digging deep into his bicep. A dagger through his abdomen. It wasn't long before his movements became sluggish, and his body finally tumbled to the ground. His eyes began to fail him next as the world became blurry, warmth left his body. This was the end. A hazy figure appeared before him. A flash of steel. The final blow to send his spirit to Aetherius.

Yet the strike never came, instead one word rung through the air. No... It tore through it. "Fus." A great force of air flew over him, screams rang out before a warm sensation began to envelop him, wounds began to close. Now a new figure stood over him, sword and shield in hand. "Come Altmer, I swear to Talos you will all die before you lay another hand on my brother!" No... It couldn't be. She wasn't supposed to have come... "Ellia."

Apparently she heard him, a soothing laugh filling his ears. "Be at ease brother, I am here for you."

"Ellia... To many. Run."

Laughter rung out once more. "And leave you? Never."

Spoiler: Ignore

Before he could recover from the strike another knife ear was upon him, twin daggers about to pierce his neck before a single word tore through the air. "Fus." With that the Altmer was thrown into a nearby cliff face,a sickening snap heard as her body impacted. A bloody smile was offered by the warrior to his sister, offering a beleaguered grin in return before twisting around with her katana, barely parrying the strike of another Justicar, a vicious war cry emanating from him as he sought retribution for his fallen comrade. "The bloodline of the Dovahkin ends here!" He shrieked as he rained blows upon Ellia before Rolard's glaive landed with a thud into his chest, sending him tumbling back. Rushing over, the young Breton tore out the weapon, grimacing as the many cuts and burns across his body began to take their toll. "Come now brother, don't tell me your tuckered out already?" Looking over to his heavily wounded sister, he couldn't help but laugh even as more Thalmor set upon them. "Please dear sister, I'm just getting started. See if you can keep up." Ellia laughed in return as she wiped some blood from her mouth.

The sound of the thundering waterfall faded into the background as he heard his sisters laugh clear as day even after all these years. "I miss that laugh." He said hollowly as he holstered his glaive before standing up, looking over the edge of Bard's Leap, recalling when the two of them leapt off of it as children. If he listened closely, he swore he could still hear the sound of their screaming and laughter echoing through the area.

"It seems that something has occurred on Solstheim, hundreds of Legionnaires slain. No one knows what it was that did this, but from the reports I've heard... Well, let's just say it seems destiny is finally knocking at the door. I just wish I didn't have to answer it alone. In fact, sometimes I wish I didn't have to answer it at all." It brought him much shame to admit it, but it was the truth. If he had been born without this 'blessing', then Ellia may still be alive. They could have had real childhoods. Despite the enormous power laid out before him, he simply desired a peaceful existence.

"But I will, because I owe you that much. I swear to you sister I will never shirk from my duties." He stated with an iron resolve. The sound of his sisters laugh left and the aurora before him diminished as the roar of the waterfall returned to prominence. "May Talos grant me the strength to be worthy of your memory." Was the last thing he said before he turned from the Bard's Leap, making his way past the slain Forsworn and Hagravens as he made his way back down the mountain to continue his journey. Destiny wouldn't wait after all. And Rolard would meet it head on.​

 

[Elysium]

OppositeInverse
If I need to expand or edit anything, let me know. I'm just so burnt out with him atm. I've lost and retyped him several times now.

Spoiler: Aesoroth Doucard

(Image credit to LoranDeSore on deviantart)

Name: Aesoroth Doucard
Myth Name: Predator, Wander
Place of Birth: Anvil, Cyrodiil
Age: 108
Gender: Male
Race: Dunmer/Vampire
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 158 lbs
Skills: Hand-to-Hand, Heavy Armor, Lockpicking
Factions: None
Moral Alignment: Lawful Evil

Spoiler: Armor, minus blade

Armor is Ebony, with steel inlays instead of gold. All of the armor has been dulled. The cloth is deep gray. His mask is only worn during the day, since it blocks most of the light.

Personality Goods:
- Unshakable - After decades of revenge on the undead, the daedra, those who consort with them, Ahren has seen so much and become completely jaded to violence and death. You cannot scare him. You cannot threaten him.
- Strong Moral Compass - Aesoroth has a twisted code of ethics. He follows these without fail.
- Patient - Aesoroth has stalked foes for months in his quest to destroy the unnatural. Waiting is of no concern to the dead.
- Observant - Tracking intelligent evil requires a skill set based in perception and strategy. Aesoroth is remarkably well versed in the use of all of his senses, even without the powers of his curse.

Personality Bads:
- Predatory - Vampiric bloodlust. He's reasonably good at controlling it in the earlier stages. But when his hunger gets to deep...
- Insane - ... He loses his mind. He becomes a monster. Raw. Instinctual. Malevolent. His code be damned, he will kill and feed upon anyone. As a wild animal, obviously he does not care about witnesses to his frenzy.
- Merciless - "If sweet old grandma is the vampire I'm hunting, and you get in my way, I will cut you down too."
- "Suicidal" - Not really, but he doesn't care if he dies. He was supposed to die sixty two years ago. He just refuses to die without a fight. Aesoroth's still here.

Background

Aesoroth himself has lost most of the memories of his life, and while he was a somewhat famous dungeon-crawler in Cyrodiil, he went missing a bit over six decades ago. His "legend" died there.

But Predator came to life, when he died and lost his innocence in that lonely ruined tower. Known as a monster who hunted the unnatural, Aesoroth spent years in the wilds, honing his skill and hunting Daedra, undead, intelligent evil, and any who get in his way. It was a thirst for revenge, and an ever widening emptiness that has yet to leave him.

Over the last decade, stories of Predator have dwindled, and, instead, Ironfist was born. An unarmed juggernaught, carrying nothing but his plated skin, hunting and destroying all forms of intelligent evil. Some hail him as a hero, he is anything but.

Honestly, he has forgotten the reason for why he fights. He just does.

Writing Sample

Battered eyes fluttered open, as slowly as the dank air of his unseen surroudings moved. His entire body was weak. The deepest hunger he had ever felt rumbled painfully through his guts.

Red eyes opened. Then instantly snapped back shut. The light burned, and his eyes watered instantly. Waves of pain crashed against the inside of his skull.

There were questions.

First, he had to assess his surroundings. His other senses told him some of the story. Damp, old stone under his bare hands and knees. Dank, still air, and deep silence. This was a ruin. Even castle jails had drafts. He was very, very deep underground.

Two, something felt wrong in his mind, and

Three, the still air on his entire body told him that he was naked. Why was he naked? He really needed to open his eyes. Slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes. Letting his eyes adjust before widening his gaze further.

After several minutes, the naked dunmer looked around, albeit still painfully. Everything was too bright.

With painful slowness, He stood up, looking down at himself as he did. This was his, Aesoroth Doucard's, body, but it was not right.

It was too pale. Too... gray. He was pale even among the dark elves but this was not right. This was the pastel gray of a corpse.

And what was this terrible feeling if imminent starvation? It was enough to drive anyone mad.

Aesoroth gazed upon his surroundings once again, and moved towards a puddle. He didn't care if it was clean. He could kill this hunger with some water, albeit temporarily.

Weakness faded as his figure left direct sunlight, and his eyes focused better. But why? What was wrong with him? Aesoroth had a feeling he knew, but he denied it with all of his soul.

But his reflection in the puddle told him that his denial was foolish. A twisted version of his face peered back at him, once crimson eyes burning a hateful orange, glowing with hunger, and hate, and instinct. His once handsome face hollow and gaunt, like some emaciated nightmare version of himself.

Aesoroth staggered back as the memories flooded through him. Vampires in Blackreach, up within Skyrim. They chased him back home.

He stared into the wall, his undead body unable to process the grief properly. His wife and son... His home... His life. They were all gone.

Hate started to fuel him, and the hellish memories receded. The hunger overcame his mind, and he lost it, giving in to the new senses he hadn't quiet come to terms with yet. He followed the scent of blood, until he came to, surrounded by slain and drained merchants and gaurds. Innocents who had taken refuge within an old tower.

If he could feel despair, he would have. This was horrible, but he could not feel a thing. Nothing but hatred and dread.

What was he to do now? He... Aesoroth... was over. There was nothing left.

He was tempted to fall on the guard's sword, but something held him back. Aesoroth would soon find a burn for revenge. A hateful fire that would never let him go.​

 

[Abendrot]

Character Completion - 75%

[class=Notes] //So this is an older code that i tried to fix up to look nicer// //Forward slashes are comments // //and do no show up in the final design,// //these are to help you find everything easily// //and explain some code as well // //These comments must be with in a class or script tags// // in order to be hidden, from what I know. // //Long URls are images// //# followed by letter and numbers are Hex codes// //or color codes// //the only color named by its name is White// //DO NOT EDIT THE CODE IN RICH TEXT MODE// //This causes the Accordion title's to be moved down and you will have to move them back up yourself// [/class]

[class=notes] //so above is the background image// [/class]

[class=notes] //above is the white transparent background the "0.8" controls the opacity// [/class]

[class=notes] //The character image as well as the border for it// [/class]

DO'SHENJI​

[class=notes] //The Name and the background for it// [/class]

Nickname:

• Baze'hirsiniit to his face ("The Headhunter" in Ta'agra)
• Kejai'ariit behind his back ("The Broken Man" in Ta'agra)

Race: Khajiit (Cathay-raht)

Age: 34

Gender: Male

Place of Birth: Orcrest, Elsweyr.

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[class=notes] //the transparent t box on the left and its border// [/class] Hair color: Silver with flecks of black

Eye color: Pale gold

Height: 7'4" (223.5 cm)

Weight: 397 lbs (180 kg)

Body Type: in awe at the size of this lad. absolute unit.

[class=notes] //the transparent box on the right and its border// [/class] Strengths:

• Courageous
• Dutiful
• Pragmatic
• Enduring
• Resolute

Flaws:

• Dour
• Self-critical
• Erratic
• Skooma addicted
• Limited grasp on Common Tongue

Major Skills:

• Long Blade
• Heavy Armor
• Hand-to-Hand

Factions: N/A

Moral Alignment: Chaotic Good

[class=notes] //the box around the accordions// //and in the slide title's I put a div around them to add the purple background// [/class]

Personality​

At first glance, Do'Shenji does not seem to have the disposition of someone raised by monks at all. Once, he fit the image of a heroic adventurer from the storybooks: proud, valiant, and vigorous. But he was all but shattered by the torture he suffered at the hands of Thalmor Justiciars, and it took a long battle against trauma and addiction before he felt stable enough to return to his travels. The scars of his experience remain, however. He is still visited by frequent night terrors of that time and sleeps poorly as a result. He does not handle emotions well and becomes frustrated because of that. His frustration is most often directed at himself, but he tends to take it out on others. He also carries a certain amount of shame and self-loathing from his past experiences, which have festered over the years and left him bitter and resentful.

Yet Do'shenji strives to maintain control and not let his temper get the better of him, especially over small irritations. He may not be able to really read or speak Tamrielic all too well on his own, but make no mistake, he is quite intelligent in his own right and while not necessarily book smart, he knows the ways of the world and more importantly, how to survive. Despite his addiction, he tries to be helpful to those who need aid like he used to be, though he fears what would happen should his skooma dependency dominate his mind again.

Because of physical and emotional discomfort his scars bear, Do'Shenji has an aversion to being touched and will often lash out by reflex, violently at times, if such physical contact is unwanted or unexpected.

Biography​

Do'Shenji was born the youngest of eight kittens to common, Anequinian laborers in Orcrest. Poor and with no way to support another child, his parents gave him up to the local temple, where it was decided -- owing no small part to his remarkable size -- that he would become a warrior. Do'Shenji would spend a good part of his formative years immersed in scripture, taught to follow the graces of the Riddle-T'har, to give reverence to the Ja-Kha'jay, and when he was old enough, he began training in traditional martial arts. Do'Shenji was a hot-blooded youth, as were his surrogate litter-mates. They would spar, compete, raid the kitchens, among other things; life was all a game to them. Their bright eyes looked out to the world with optimism, hope, and ambition.

Yet it was insular, being raised by monks and priests. Despite excelling at his studies, temple life began to grate on Do'Shenji as he grew older, and he often became upset with the elders' restrictions. Of course, any outburst was punished with reasonable discipline, but this did not stop his attempts at escaping. When he became of age to leave, or stay and continue my education at the age of eighteen, Do'Shenji decided to take his leave from the monastery to the surprise of no one. (WIP)

code by AgWordSmith ​

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[Maddock_Reno]

READ THE RULES. ALSO, READ THE RULES!!!!

Spoiler: Hi, My name is Rules, READ ME!!!

RULES:

1. The main one. Respect RPN and its rules.

2. Any questions or intrigue about the plot or story come to me! I love hearing ideas even if we don't incorporate them.

3. OOC will be friendly and respectful. IC be extra and add flair all you'd like BUT...

4. BE REASONABLE. Realistically adapt and grow into abilities and make logical choices. You can control weather? Know that you will not begin with master powers or creating storms at will. Go into a very secure fort base tossing fireballs alone against masses of enemies? Your IC has ended lol.

5. I do not mind if you guys subplot romance. Just keep it PG-13.

6. Try to have UNIQUE characters. For some reason people love military defeating or unstoppable based characters. If you want to make a combat character go ahead just flesh them out. I will not begin approval process until I see and feel good about your CS sheet. Only those that are approved will get a chance to move on to plot integration. If you do not make the cut, or if you don't even want to have a powered character speak to me about a support role and I'll see what I can do.

7. I do not and will not have overly OP characters through Mary/Gary sues, godmodding, metagaming, etc. If you get a dragonborn and you want to have all 83202 shouts he's known for having, forget about it. I'm all for powerful characters, just make sure they have nuance and reason to be so. Your character will have THREE skills to be prominent at. No more than three will be allowed (Ex. Archery, Destruction, and Block). Refer to the skills here to determine what's best for your character.

8. If you cannot post due to IRL or other reasons please post in consideration of everyone else. I'm interpreting this RP to go relatively fast pace wise not too speedy, so if you need assistance ask and you shall receive! And...

9. If you do fall too far behind or get in a hole you cant climb out of that doesn't mean you're done for. Unless you're intentionally a jerk or going against the tide of the plot, you can get back up to pace.

10. If you band together, or fight amongst each other IC, coordinate with each other as I will be overseeing those situations with a final outcome, but stay true to character and abilities. Don't force it just because you wanna "be great"

11. HAVE FUNNNNNNNN!!!!!

Appearance: (Real pic, concept, or digital art face claim only, Anything that's not realistic won't be taken)

Name:
Nicknames / Myth Name:
Place of Birth:
Age:
Gender:
Race:
Height:
Weight:
Skills [YOU MAY ONLY CHOOSE THREE] - (here):
Factions (here):
Moral Alignment: (refer here)

Personality Goods: [up to 5]
Personality Bads: [up to 5]

Background: (Character bio & History. Remember this is your lore and history building for your character so however much or little you create will make a difference!)

​

Writing Sample: [Here is where you prove your writing mettle to the Nine/Eight Divines. Do your best! worst!]

 

[Midrick]

Spoiler: Patricus Faber

Name: Patricus (Pat) Faber
Myth name: The black centurion, Dead man walking, Punisher (yeah yeah laugh it up)
Place of birth: Cyrodil
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial/Nord
Height: 6'4
Weight: 232 lbs.
Skills: Heavy armor, One-handed, Hand to Hand
Factions: none
Moral alignment: Chaotic good
Build:
As a mix between Nord and Imperial, his height and musculature are well developed. Despite his large size he is deceptively fast and capable of extreme feats of agility. A life of combat and hard training has given him great muscle definition, along with high amounts of speed, stamina, and strength.

Spoiler: Armor (without shield)

Personality goods
Perseverant- After making a promise he keeps it, he will finish anything he starts. And he won't stop for anything of anyone.
Quick thinking- Using his mind more than his muscles is a very good perk to have for a lone mercenary, especially when in particularly hazardous situations.
Courageous- After the friends and brothers he has lost, he would be willing to take a sword and arrow for friends he had made. He is more willing to die than to lose more people he had gotten to know intimately.
Calculating- No one lasts long without the ability to predict actions and know how to control and incite reactions, something he has become quite adept at.
Adaptable- Alaways has a plan, a backup plan, and a backup plan for the backup plan. He prides himself on being prepared for the worst and working around it .

Personality Bads
Aggressive- His aggression is second to none, often alienating him due to his extreme hostility and drive.
Vindictive- His thirst for vengeance and bitterness drive him. his morals become blurred and he is willing to cross the line to bring pain and suffering to those who have wronged him or others who were innocent.
Sadistic- When given the opportunity, he will not end the fight quickly, rather drawing it out to extend the suffering of the target... and enjoying every second of it.
Brutal- Brutality is a very easy thing for him to accomplish, whether it be in a fight or in verbal confrontations. The capability for shocking acts of violence are not wasted on him.
Haunted- He is haunted by his past shortcomings and failures, especially the ones that led him to become the person he is. He will not stop killing or hunting for those responsible for his fall, his obsession borderlines psychosis, and his haunted mindset drives people far away from him.

Background

Patricus Faber was born to an Imperial father and Nordic mother, both career military soldiers. Although his parents were loving and he grew in a loving household the best was always expected of him, and his shortcomings were multiplied in his mind. At a young age he excelled in most subjects at a local school in most subjects except mathematics, a major chip on his shoulder. He would regularly get into fights over an insult or snicker when he couldn't get the right answer or equation. This led to him eventually having to be removed due to his temper. To make up for his expulsion he began to apprentice for a blacksmith.

After 4 years had passed, his training as a blacksmith had began to pay off, but he was also training in another area. Warfare. His mother and father had been teaching him how to use a sword and armor. He had become extremely proficent with a blade by the time he joined one of the Imperial Legions. He swore to himself that he would do his parents proud and become one of the greatest soldiers that the Empire has ever seen. He began his journey by making a custom blade for his service.

Spoiler: Deaths hand

Non confringetur is inscribed on the blade. It translates to never broken.

He went through a grueling training period meant to sort out the weak and the strong from the recruits in the legion. He easily passed due to his size, strength, speed, and agility. He was singled out though by the instructors, his success ate at them, but the harder they pushed him the more he overcame. This drove the instructors mad, selecting him for almost impossible drills and techniques. He struggled, but adapted and overcame. By the time he was 17 he was in command of a small unit as a centurion, something practically unheard of. During a military review he was handpicked from a group of other centurions to be part a generals body guard contingent. They were selected based off the results of mock duels, the winner going on to face the winner of another fight. Pat won all of them. He joined the generals entourage, gaining popularity and favor within the circles of senators and high military men that the general dealer with. He was given the best armor in the legions and was quite the tease for some of the Noble women that were around the general.

Spoiler: Armor before the fall

His skills in unarmed and armed combat were still unmatched save for a few sword masters and champion gladiators. But despite the fame he had aquired, his humility was still intact, he did not let the moderate fame how to his head like so many others. The day finally came when the general and his men were called to fight a major battle between a rival army of rebels in Skyrim. The battle was underway and both sides were going at each other hard. The Imperials were better trained, but the rebels fought with passion. They fought each other to a standstill. The general, Marius, was not one to sit idlely by and watch a slaughter. He participated in the battle and rode to the frontlines. The rebels began to show signs of breaking and Marius willed his men to pursue them and finish the fight. While they charged the commanders and higher ranking officers quailed at the sight of rebel Spearman reforming and retreated, but Marius kept pushing. His guards, Pat included tried their best to hold out until the infantry could catch up and support them. One by one his comrades fell to the human waves of flesh that the rebels utilized. Only a handful of guards were left when the unthinkable happened a rebel got through and killed Marius. With a spear stabbed through his heart he fell off his horse, and was dead before he hit the ground. The guards, Pat included, became enraged, they're exaustion and wounds forgotten as they tore through the endless tide of rebels. As Pat felt an actual burning sensation, His anger exploding inside of him as he found a new source of energy to fight with, rage.

he infantry finally caught up to the last of the generals guards, the rebel army finally breaking. The Imperials had won, but it was a pyrrich victory, with their general dead the will and morale of the legion was broken. Instead of marching home like heroes, the ragged and bloody men and women staggered morosely to their base and wallowed. After the initial shock of Marius's death had subsided, it fell on who received the blame. The well off legate and commanders had blamed Marius's death on the guards, and naturally, who was going to believe a bunch of common soldiers over nobles. The guard contingent were publicly dishonored by the nobles who had fled and consigned the general and his men to their fate.

After the public display the nobles had secretly planned assassinations for the guardsmen to keep them quite and to protect against diputes of their stories. One by one, the guardsmen were killed in freak accidents or mysteriously disappeared only to be found dead weeks later. Most of the surviving members of the bodyguards went into hiding and fled Cyrodil. Pat was about to do the same when some armed men under the employment of some certain legates were ordered to arrest him for "questioning". They arrived in the dead of night with swords drawn, but they couldn't match Pat's skill with a blade. After all had been dispatched he quickly concealed himself and went to Marius's grave. He vowed to Marius that he would avenge him and all his brothers in arms who were slain for the sake of self preservation. He finished by sealing the oath with blood. A blood oath was not one to be taken lightly, only men who had nothing to lose made one. He fled Cyrodil creating a figure, the black centurion, a figure that would gain notoriety for brutal and savage attacks of those connected with nobles responsible for his dishonor and the death of close friends. He killed his way to Skyrim, and bided his time, waiting for the day that he would return to exact his revenge, and fulfill the contract.

Extra's:
Paints his face with the colors of death before going into a fight. The colors being red and white

Writing Sample

Cyrodil, 3 months earlier

Pat walked through the forrest he heard campfires burning in the distance, most likely hunters enjoying a good days work, but that wasn't what he was here for. He had been tipped off by a little bird, apparently a local gang of bandits had started running skooma for a larger crime syndicate that had connections to Titus, one of the many legates he planned on revisiting when he returned to Cyrodil I won't let them get away with it, before the divine I will end them slowly and painfully. their screams will echo for all eternity. He thought to himself, this only steeled him and added fuel to the rage burning inside of him. He came upon a cave entrance, it alawys seemed that some scumbags who thought they ruled the world choose caves to hang their heads. One was leaning against a wall, sleeping, one of the last mistakes he would ever make. Pat crept up behind him, although he made his best attempts to make the armor he was wearing silent the metal still shifted and made noise. The man awoke suddenly, confused, "Hu-" He barely got the words out of his mouth before Pat was on him. The man's neck was in the vise of Pat's firearms, struggling for breath. Upon deciding that it would make to much noise Pat pushed down with his left forearm and pulled up and to the side with his right, swing his hips to the right side as well. The result being a loud pop and the man ceasing to struggle.

After a few more of the repeated actions of snapping necks, he made it to the main cavern of the cave. A large bridge spanned a pool of water underneath the bridge there was no way he could make it across undetected. Just as he ha the thought an archer in an elavated position saw him."Intuder!" she yelled two more bandits ran on the other side of the bank and stepped onto the bridge "You must be dumber than a troll to come here!" one of them, an orc yelled, as he raised a steel axe. He was wearing simple leather, didn't offer much protection, but he could manuver. The other one, a Kahjit woman just raised an iron sword silently. Pat unsheatheld deaths hand, the black blade reflected the pale moonlight the orc charged. Bad move. Pat thought as he side stepped a wild top blow, he let his right foot step back as he stepped into a stiff, rear front kick, sending the orc up over the railing into the water. The Archer had jumped off her perch and joined the Kahjit, she wielded a steel axe, but wore simple fur armor, not covering her core or head and neck. He lunged at the Kahjit first, his opening strike was barley blocked, he followed up with an upper cut with his left, gauntleted hand. It sent the Kahjit reeling backward, he turned his attention back toward the archer. With a blitz of light strikes, all blocked, he feigned to the left side then quickly spun and stabbed into the right section of her core. He felt the blade sink in, then put more force into it and felt the the sink even deeper into the Nordic bandit. He pulled out the gladius quickly, not watching when the woman pitched back and collapsed in a pool of blood. The Kahjit had recovered and came at him with heavy strikes. He blocked each one half using the sword and half using his fore arm armor to absorb the blows. He kicked her too. After a slash to the leg to unbalance her, he parried an overhead slash, he first hit her in the stomach with the pommel of his gladius, which in turn double the woman over, hit her in the jaw with the pommel, which thoroughly disoriented the bandit, performed and upward slash across the chest, while his motion from the upward slash fully ended with him twisted like a spring he recoiled with the left side of his body and slammed the blade down back into her chest. The move took her off her feet because of the power of the strike to the top of the body. A yelp left her mouth as the final hit connected.

The orc had finally returned from his swim. To his credit he managed to get a few good slashes in on Pat. But he went to the well too many times. As he positioned for an overhead downward slash, Pat sliced through the inside of his right knee like a hot knife through butter, he repeated the process on the other knee. He was howling in pain after being forced into a kneeling postion. Pat sheathed his gladius and for the first time spoke during the fight. "Tell me where your boss is." He said it casually, as if he had not just killed two people. "Fuck you." was the orcs reply as he ended it with spitting into Pat's face. Pat went about wiping his face off, and without warning slammed his fist into the orcs jaw. An audible Crack resounded off the cavern walls. Pat grabbed a piece of metal resting in a makeshift forge. "I'm only going to ask you one more time, tell me where your boss is." He said the last part more forcefully this time, wanting to be done with the fiasco and get back to what was important. The orc just stared at him, with a stupid smile on his face. Pat lunged toward him with blinding quickness and shoved the glowing piece of hot iron into the orc's face. After about five seconds he broke down, "Okay, okay..." He said between sobs "He's in Skyrim, that's all I know, please don't hurt me anymore."He kept sobbing in between sentences. Pat patted his shoulders after putting the hot metal back "I belive you." He said, and then in the next second his hands were a on his face, but this time he stuck his thumbs into the orc's eyes, gouging them to the point where blood started running down his eyelids. The screams were more profound, but they ceased after about half a minute. After killing the ring leader he scoured the cave for valuables and found a good amount of gold, then exited, making his way to Skyrim, where his path to redemption led.

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