Here you go - here's Murzuth, covert priest of Jyggalag and, most likely, interested observer (freelancer?) to the conflict looking to pick her side. Sorry that the bio is a complete wall of tl;dr - most of the relevant details can be found in the rest of her character card, that's just there in case anyone wants a clearer flavour of what she's like.
Name: Murzuth gra-Den-Sul.
Gender: Female.
Race: Orsimer.
Age: 28.
Equipment: Murzuth wears bulky cold-weather gear to mark the icy, crystalline stigmata of Order that are spreading over her body, and carries basic survival gear - a bedroll, a fire-starting kit, and a bone knife. Hidden in the bottom of her pack are a crystalline Staff of Order, and a set of Robes of Order, although she tends to keep them hidden, as openly displaying the vestments and tools of a being devoted to the overthrow and subjugation of everyone in Oblivion and Nirn isn't looked on kindly. She also carries an extensive array of books, tomes, and ancient manuscripts relating to her creed - esoteric titles such as 'The Prophet Arden-Sul v.2', 'Where were You When the Dragon Broke?', 'The Words of Dyus', 'et'Ada, Eight Aedra, Eat the Dreamer', and 'The Thirty Six Lessons of Vivec', vols. 21, 27, and 35.
Appearance: Murzuth is a small, slight Orc, her musculature lean and emaciated due to years of malnourishment and of being on the run. Her hair is ragged and unkempt, cut short by crudely hacking at it with a knife, and already beginning to thin and fall out. Even her skin has the same faded, washed-out appearance as the rest of her - it's pale, greyish, drawn tightly over the prominent bones of her face, exposing her long, sharp teeth. She's not without energy, though; her dark eyes are intense, and burn with an unhealthy feverish passion, and when roused to a state of religious fervour her hands dance and gesticulate like drunk spiders.
She does have a set of black and silver Order Robes kept hidden at the bottom of her pack, but they seldom get aired out - there are precious few congregations following Jyggalag for her to minister to, and wearing the vestments of a being that wants to destroy and subjugate all of Oblivion, Nirn, and Aetherius is probably a bad idea. Instead, she opts for nondescript tan cotton robes, that are wearing through a little at the knees and elbows, and a few talismans and scrolls worn about her person that ambiguously proclaim her allegiance.
Faction: worships Jyggalag, the Prince of Order. Depending on your view of the Elder Scrolls cosmology, he's not around to direct his followers at present, so at present I think Murzuth is waiting to see how things play out, unless Conquers-Many-Foes has a different idea ...
Class: Healer / covert Priest of Order.
Personality: Murzuth gra-Den-Sul is a nervous, anxious person, her sense of self-possession (not to mention her sanity) beginning to fray around the edges just a little - a fact that she strenuously denies. Bit by bit, hardship and loss have chipped away everything from her, slowly hollowing her out and making her empty - save for her adamant, hidden faith in Jyggalag, the Once And Future Lord, the Prince of Order, the Mantling of Anui-el. This has kept her going through the years, burning with a pure white flame, consuming her and driving her every action. She waits for the return of a Daedric Prince who might not even exist any more; lacking much in the way of guidance, she walks the land, seeking to emulate Him, uncover lost knowledge, explore this strange world of Nirn, become one with it, and, bit by bit, prepare the way for Him.
Backstory: During the defence of the Shivering Isles from the Greymarch at the end of the Third Era, some rather bad things happened to those seen as being insufficiently supportive of Sheogorath and the Champion of Cyrodil. These events were not recorded, since history belongs to the victors, but within them holds the origin of our heroine, so let us look at them.
While many unused to the Shivering Isles might find the inhabitants quaint and fun to look and point at - like freaks in an asylum - they really do run a tight ship as far as brutal persecution of dissidents goes. Manic zealots, torches and torture implements in had, surged through the streets of New Sheoth, while self-appointed Demented inquisitors stalked the backwaters, spitting accusations of heresy and apostasy at old enemies, business rivals, and, indeed, anyone who looked at them funny. The Den-Sul clan - a small group of rather intense and perfectionistic Orsimer craftspeople living on the Mania-Dementia border - had privately followed the rise of Jyggalag with approval, seeing in the new Prince a form of order that well-suited their own branch of madness. They had not fought against the Madgod's forces; they had not sabotaged the Champion's war effort; they had even given succour and rescue to wounded Aureals. But their quiet devotion to Order was enough to condemn them. Most were killed in their beds by the rampant forces of madness, but a few - a group f little more than children - survived, escaped, and - though it pained them, dedicated servants of the Greymarch all - fled.
Among these was Murzuth gra-Den-Sul, the daughter of the chief. She was a poor orc, to be frank, a fact that was clear from around the time she could walk, and would only become clearer as the years of hiding and scavenging in the Shivering Isles would pass. She was an indifferent fighter, capable of summoning only a weak shadow of the traditional orcish bloodlust even when her life depended on it. Her skinny arms, little more than flesh-clad bones, could not hammer out a sword, and she had no interest in being the wife of some rich clan-chieftan. She was a poor orc - but a fine servant of Order. For it was she who led the party of adolescent Orsimer through the oppressively imperfect lands of Mania and Dementia, whose keen mind kept alive the half-remembered embers of the worship of Jyggalag, and whose burgeoning talent in the esoteric arts of mysticism and thaumaturgy eventually led the fleeing Den-Sul clan out of the shadow of Oblivion into the light of Nirn. Drawing upon the last flickering blessings of the presence of the Prince of Order, she opened a way out of the Shivering Isles, and led the tattered remnants of the Den-Sul clan out of it for good, completing their exodus and turning their backs on Oblivion. Nirn was all before them, from where to choose their place of rest.
Through the intercession of the Principle of Stasis, they had escaped death in the Madgod's realm but they had escaped into a fate just as perilous - the Great War. Through some trickery of Aetherius, or Akatosh, or Anuiel, or perhaps random chance, they had escaped, but two hundred years into the future, into a Hammerfell riven by a war between Man and Mer. For many of the Den-Sul - now gripped by a desire to prove their martial prowess after what had seemed like a complete and utter defeat by the forces of Sheogorath - it was a good time to be a young, battle-hardened orc. Nearly all took up arms, either against the Redguards who had sacked Orsinium, or against the Altmer who in their arrogance had taken up arms against the Dragon-Emperor of All Mankind. But Murzuth knew better. She knew she had been gifted with a new life by the Prince of Order, and that now she owed him the entirety of her being - as if she had not done so before. He was absent - he did not answer her invocations or prayers, he did not send out his Knights to defend her from attackers, or bestow blessed weapons upon her. But she knew that he was out there, and that some day - perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a year's time, perhaps in ten million years' time - he would return to Oblivion in glory, and cast down the heathenish Divines, usurper Tribunals, perfidious Daedroth, and the cowardly spawn of Sithis, and rule over all with glorious perfection and order.
And so Murzuth became a covert preacher, a travelling healer, a servant of an absent master, who roamed Tamriel seeking to learn more about this world and its nature, its politics, its people. She would walk the land, immersing herself in it, and, where she could, spread word of the Prince of Order. The ascent of the Dragons to power would be a mystery to her, but a mystery to be solved - were they, children of Akatosh and of stasis, heralds of her Master's return, or obstacles to it?
Three weeks ago, while sheltering in a cavern on the windswept crossing from Dragonstar to Markarth, Murzuth noticed something which made her blood run cold. All around her neck, just beneath her jawline, her grey-green skin was dying, sloughing off, to reveal hard, pale, opalescent crystal - the base matter that symbolised the return of her Lord, and the coming of the Greymarch. While she does not believe - cannot believe - that Jyggalag's advent is at hand yet - none of the signs are here! - she worries about what it means, why she bears the stigmata of the Prince of Order. It worries her that she's worried about it - shouldn't she welcome it? Is she being ungrateful about this gift, is this anxiety a sign of her lack of faith? Hard to tell. And so, she carried on, flaking dead skin and gleaming Ordered crystal hidden under heavy swathes of cloth, the marks of the Prince of Order slowly growing on her.
Weaknesses (also, in her opinion, strengths): zealot, absolute and smug self-conviction, suffering from a spreading divine contagion that she's sure is definitely a sign of her blessed status. Occasionally speaks in tongues - just a little!