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    Holl0WxOrigin

    New Member
    Character name: Skjar



    Race: Nord



    Class: Shock Troop
    Gender: Male



    Looks: Skjar stands around 6'2,his head shaved and skin tanned with light scars along his body. His favor for heavy equipment has given him broad shoulders and lean muscles. He is 26 years old

    Personality: He enjoys simple pleasures. Mead and hearty feasts satisfy him the most. He enjoys mercenary work and spends his money as he pleases and travels,the road is his home.

    Combat Prefs: He uses a large battleaxe as his weapon,keeping a dagger for back up in tight quarters. He wears a suit of steel plate-mail and thanks to hauling it around all the time,has developed stronger agility inside the stuff.

    Misc: He left his home at age 17 and has adventured across much of tamriel,including Cyrodiil,Black marsh,Morrowind and of course Skyrim. He once killed three falmer with his bare hands when they had the nerve to ambush him.
     

    Rajhin

    The Silent Thief
    Name: J'korr
    Race: Khajiit
    Gender: Male
    Age: 28
    Class: Thief and Archer (Werewolf, but is trying to cure himself)


    Appearance: (see profile pic) J'korr has grey and white fur and stands at 5'8 in height. His face is usually behind his hand-carved wooden mask, which resembles a Dragon-Priest Mask. He has small ears and short whiskers.

    Combat Specs: (see profile pic) J'korr has a personal set of clothes he wears when on thieving or on adventures. He wears Dark Brotherhood gloves and boots, while sporting a Jester's outfit. J'korr's mask hides his face while thieving, and if his tail wasn't sticking out, no one would even know what race he is. When in combat, J'korr using a Ancient Nord Bow (with Steel Arrows) he acquired during his adventures. He also has a Steel Dagger if the fight gets up close. J'korr can also handle himself very well in Hand-to-Hand combat.

    Personality: J'korr is a very "chill" cat and the sort of guy that makes friends easily. He is also known to backstab his allies for septims. Unknown to anyone, he is actually a werewolf, and is trying frantically to find a way to cure himself. The very thought of turning into a dog horrifies him.

    Bio: J'korr has a very interesting careers through his years. Born in Skyrim to parents who traveled with a caravan, J'korr has traveled to many places, dreaming of one day leaving Skyrim to go to his race's home of Elsweyr. At the age of 15, he left the the caravan he grew up with and moved to Falkreath and worked at the Dead Man's Drink as a cook. His job there came to an end at the age of 18, when he killed a customer there after he refused to pay for a meal. J'korr fled into the forest and spied a Dark Brotherhood Assassin enter the DB Sanctuary. J'korr managed to sneak in, but was caught. The Assassins admired his stealth, and trained him. He worked as an Assassin for 4 years, until killing became dull and he left the Brotherhood. After this, J'korr became a comedian to make a living, dressing as a Jester and performing at taverns and inns across Skyrim. He did this for a year until he decided to use his skills to become a thief. J'korr realized that thieving was the perfect job for him and also raided Nordic Tombs to steal precious treasures. J'korr made great amounts of septims and all was well until one morning he woke up in the middle of the forest surrounded by dead animals and had no clothes on. J'korr had no memory of the night and went to Riften, the nearest city, where he heard rumors of a werewolf spotted in the previous night. J'korr realized he was the werewolf and tried his best to move on with his life, although he jumped at chances to cure his lycanthropy. With his normal set of armor lost in his wild night, J'korr dug up old clothes (thus his current weird outfit) and went to Whiterun after hearing rumors that the Companions were secretly werewolves....

    Misc: Is a pretty good cook. ADDICTED TO SALMON!!
     

    ChiefScalyNipples

    Dictator of my bedroom
    Name: Adario (nothing else, just Adario)
    Race: Orc/Dremora hybrid
    Age: 34 (can't die of natural causes of death such as old age due to being half daedra, but can be killed like a mortal through murder and other unnatural causes of death)
    Gender: Male
    Appearance: Very unholy and fearsome. Illuminated purple daedric markings on his whole body (most notably the oblivion symbol on his forehead). dark orange skin. VERY muscular and big. Spiky black hair and has small pointy horns above the purple oblivion sign on his forehead, has eyes like this (click on this), normal orcish bottom fangs from his lower jaw, normal orcish spiked eyebrows, tons of scars and bruises on his body from his childhood abuse, thin, oval head shape unlike most orcs' round head shapes(a dremora trait, because dremora's have thin head shapes)
    Main Skills: Two-handed, Illusion, Heavy Armor, Conjuration (only for banishing daedra), Alteration, Destruction (when needed), Heavy Armor, Enchanting, Smithing.
    Apparel: Daedric Armor torso, Orcish boots and Orcish gauntlets, Nothing covering his head.
    Combat/Weaponry: Daedric Battleaxe enchanted with Banish and Fire damage. Uses destruction when necessary.
    Personality: Very angry, almost never smiles, hardly ever talks but has a creepy voice. But will defend those he calls friends to the death.
    Bio: Adario's mother was an Orc named Yadbaam Mughar who left her tribe, Dushnikh Yal to study conjuration at the College of Winterhold. She got so adept in conjuration that she obtained a Sigil Stone through a portal to Oblivion. After she stole the Sigil Stone from Oblivion, she ventured down to the Atronach Forge in the college, placed her new Sigil Stone on the pedestal, then placed three items into the Offering Box, a Goat's Leg, a Human Skull, and one Daedra Heart, and pulled the lever. It summoned a male Dremora Valkynaz, who wasn't happy about being permanently bound to Nirn. The Dremora didn't confront Yadbaam directly however, but tricked her. Whether the Dremora cast a spell on her or simply seduced her is unknown. The male dremora formed a relationship with Yadbaam in the Midden and the two stayed down there, in love. One day they mated and the Dremora impregnated Yadbaam. Yadbaam eventually gave birth to Adario. But the second Yadbaam named Adario, the Dremora tore Yadbaam apart, ripping apart her every body part, killing her and leaving her in a pile of flesh, bones and blood. After the Dremora did that, he held his new crying half orc son in his hands with a smirk on his evil face. As Adario matured, his dremora "father" beat him mercilessly and tortured him, the Dremora even tortured the poor offspring of his as an infant sometimes. Eventually Adario had some luck, during adolescence, one of the college's Conjurers, who actually was Phinis Gestor, went down to the midden and saw the Dremora tearing apart his poor son. So Phinis banished the Dremora back to Oblivion along with the Sigil Stone. After the Dremora was banished, Phinis grabbed the bloody, bruised, shaking Orc/Dremora child by the hand and could tell that it was a Dremora/Orc hybrid. Phinis lead Adario outside The Midden, and had some of the College's healers nurse Adario back to health. But now Adario has a burning hatred for all Daedra and supernatural entities (excluding Malacath) due to his abuse and torture and will hunt down and extinguish any of them.
     

    Madrar

    The Shadow in the Dark.
    Name: Salthar
    Race:Altmer (High Elf),Vampire
    Gender:Male
    Class: SpellSword/Sorceror

    Appearance: Tall, muscular and thin, gold-yellow eyes, typical elven features, (pointed ears, narrow face)
    pitch black hair, with two scars under his left eye.

    Weapons: An Ebony sword with a life absorbing enchantment. An Elven dagger that causes frost damage and drains stamina.

    Armour: Generally wears black and gold Thalmor robes with red designs interwoven, but in combat wears ebony armour without the helmet, which is enchanted to resist both fire and magical attacks.

    Personality: Generally quiet and withdrawn, but can be friendly with those he deems trustworthy or another vampire. Cold and sarcastic to those that have offended him, and often making caustic remarks at their cost.For some reason, he has an overwhelming hatred of Nords, especially Stormcloaks.

    BackStory: Fought in the Imperial-Dominion war, died shortly after, came back as a vampire, and turned his brother. Moved to Skyrim, and started his own coven at the Bloodlet Throne.

    for complete information-Salthar Vivarian - After Skyrim Fanfiction Wiki
     

    Marrelda

    a.k.a Yazgar
    Name: Yazgar gra-Uukra
    Race: Orc
    Class: Warrior (Berserker)
    Gender: Female
    Appearance: Light green skin with almond shaped blue eyes. Her skull is bald save for the patch of black hair woven into a simple ponytail. The warrior wears no warpaint but the right side of her cheek has three slices of scars crawling across. Like all Orcs, she has tusks jutting upward.
    Personality: She's friendly enough even as a stubborn Orc, thanks to traveling around Skyrim and meeting all sorts of characters. Depending on who is asked, Yazgar is either honest or condescendingly impatient.
    Combat Preference: Your standard two handed Orcish axe with armor.

    Bio: Hailing from Orsinium, Yazgar was raised to fight, tend the forge and chip away in the mines. Her father was a chieftain she rarely saw much of. When the warrior finally became of age, she was sent off to Skyrim to marry a nameless chieftain from who-knows-what stronghold. Instead of accepting this fate, Yazgar decided to swear loyalty to the Imperial Legion and has forged a life for herself as a wandering blade for hire. The talk of dragons, a civil war and vampires was all too good for the Orc to pass up and she has since remained in Skyrim for several years.
     

    Snoball

    23rd President of the United States of America
    Name: Chilli Sun-Fire
    Race: Nord
    Class: Anarchist
    Gender: Male
    Age: 17
    Appearance: Chilli is 5'5" and fair-skinned. He has emerald green eyes and red hair tied up in a ponytail, which he chooses to let down in combat. Along with the light, plated armor and goggles he wears, he has a steel arm in place of his original one. He has minimal scars, but wears two pairs of black paint lines under his eyes.

    Chilli.jpg

    Personality: Bashful and occasionally arrogant, Chilli being a front-runner in a Skyrim Anarchist movement comes as quite a shock to most people. He is willingly open to anyone, just as long as they don't hold any form of power in Skyrim's government. To him, the Empire is unfit to rule due to religious suppression, while the Stormcloaks are just as bad, and would probably suppress anyone who isn't a true Nord. Though his meager appearance is usually overlooked, he is a decent warrior, and is an excellent escape artist whenever in trouble. He enjoys fire for some strange reason, and will burn random objects to calm himself when he gets agitated. Nothing bothers him more than people who bug him about his height compared to other Nords.

    Bio/Background: Born to his Nordic parents in Windhelm, he was quickly abandoned by the unwilling couple and was taken in by a Dunmer woman living in the Grey Quarter of town. He was dressed in robes each day so that the Nords passing around would not see him and think he had been kidnapped him from his Nordic family (giving them another reason to hate the dark elves). Since he was young, he didn't know the true condition the elves around him had been living in, and admired the Stormcloaks for fighting for their right of worship, and hated the Empire for denying them that. But many nights, drunken Nords would come and mock the elves, and one night, one even provoked Chilli's adoptive mother, thus resulting in a massive fight between the two parties. Chilli held his mother's hand throughout the ordeal, until he suddenly lost feeling in his whole arm, followed up by an incredible pain. A disoriented Nord swung his blade at Chilli's mother, but missed and severed Chilli's arm off completely. He barely escaped the city with the aid of Argonian sailors heading off to Riften, whom also helped nurse him back to health. Years later, with a resentment to both the Empire and the Stormcloaks, he constructed himself a metal, prosthetic arm, and fought for the ones he truly feels deserve to rule over all of Skyrim, its people.
     
    Name: Lyn Ru’arch (Lin Rue-ark)


    Race: Nord



    Class: Assassin, thief and rouge



    Gender: Male



    Looks: Lyn has deep, dark brown eyes and short, jet black hair he usually keeps covered under a hood. His face is always hidden so when it’s not, he won’t have to worry about the law recognizing him. Those who have seen his face haven’t lived long enough afterward to tell about it. Under his impressive assassins clothing is a strong, masculine body well attuned to combat and stealth.



    Personality: He mostly keeps quiet knowing what he hears can be more important than what he says. Even when looking into the face of death, he can keep calm and collected. His talents lie mostly in stealth and thievery but also in close quarters combat. The bow and arrow is one thing he is not talented in, which he hates to admit, mostly because he prefers swords, axes and daggers. Lyn hates the empire with a passion and he would gladly do any job against the empire for a lower price.




    Biography: When Lyn was just a boy, about eight winters old, the small farm he was living on was caught in crossfire between Imperial soldiers and the rebel Stormcloaks. His mother and the only man who was close enough to a father were both slaughtered. He only managed to escape with his life while his only home was burned to the ground. In the morning, he was found by a lawless group of bandits who took him in. For the next eleven winters, they took care of him and trained him in the ways of combat and the skills needed to survive. The spring after the eleventh winter, he decided it was time for him to leave. He received various gifts and goodbyes from his new family, including a newborn husky, and set off towards Whiterun.


    Misc: Lyn carries his favored Dawnguard ax on the right side of his waist where his dominant hand can quickly reach it, while a short curved sword hangs loosely on the other side. He also has a unique leather vest fitted to his back that holds eight throwing daggers along his form. It was given to him by a close friend in his bandit family. To cover this up, he is always seen wearing a crimson and beige hooded cloak and attire, as well as a mask that covers everything on his face but his keen eyes. His feet are covered with high, brown boots given to him by a past client. They feature an ingenious system of spring loaded knives that come out of the toe used for combat and climbing. With the boots, Lyn also has hidden plates of steel under his sleeves to block minor blows from small weapons.
     

    Elodus

    New Member
    Name: Jared Highwind
    Class:Mage/Archer
    Race:Breton
    Gender:Male
    Age:25

    Appearance: Adept robes with gloves and boots, read-headed with a Mohawk, has warpaint over his left eye.

    Biography: Orphaned in Skyrim, He was adopted and raised by a loving Nord couple in Riverwood. Growing up, he never used his magic abilities much, until a mage from the College of Winterhold came through the town. Jared learned of the College and decided that maybe he could hone his talents of magic. Though his adoptive parents were hesitant, they too realized that it would be good for Jared to learn to hone his skills. At the age of 18, they sent Jared off to the College, and ever since he has lived at the College.

    Personality: Calm cool and collected, Jared has learned it is best to leave some things alone. Though he usually keeps to himself, he is kind and helpful. He usually can be seen helping some of his lower class men with their projects.

    Misc: Not being good with conjuration like other Breton's, he is Adept with destruction magic. he can also use healing spells and , if the situation calls for it, alteration spells. He uses a bow which he has enchanted to absorb souls into his many soul gems so he can better practice his enchanting.
     

    Ebonyflesh

    Three Dog
    Name: Carolen the Unseen
    Class: Adventuer
    Race: Nord / Breton (Halfling
    Gender: Female
    Age: 19

    Appearance: Small and skinny, she has dark black hair pulled back into a pony tail. Her skin is darker than most Bretons, and her eyes are a light grey, and she has three small scars below her left eye. Her face is soft, but her chin shows Nordic roots. Her armor is very plain; she wears a belted tunic with black trousers, accented by hide boots and bracers.

    Backstory: Carolen was born to farmers along the Skyrim / High Rock border. Her family was usually poor, but they were able to get by. Her father, a Nord, taught her how to use a bow and swing a sword, and her mother, a Breton, taught her how to conjure up a wolf familiar and use a basic healing spell. Around her eighth birthday, she got too explorative and stumbled into a frostbite spider den. Her father, hearing the yells, rescued her. This scarred her for life. Around her sixteenth Birthday, Forsworn raided and murdered her father and mother, while she escaped with three medium sized cuts on her cheek beneath her left eye. She has her fathers’ bow and sword always on her, in memory of her parents.

    Outspoken/Shy?: Carolen is very shy and quiet, always letting things play out without her opinion. Whenever she talks, though, you will know it; her voice is assertive, which is the Nord blood in her.

    Special quirks about your character?: Carolen hates the Forsworn. Everytime she finds a party of Forsworn members, she makes sure to kill them, whether by spell, sword, or bow. She also has a unnatural fear of spiders, stemming from a band experience as a child.
     

    chaosrabbit

    Member
    The_Prophet___Wallpaper_by_Uribaani.jpg

    Name: Brion the Bard (Penance the Mad)
    Gender: Male
    Race: Breton
    Age: Unknown, believed to be mid-twenties
    Class: Summoner-Prophet(Speech)-Alchemist

    Physical Traits: Shorter height for a Breton at 5’ 8” or 9”, with sinewy yet stocky build. However, he lacks hair and his face is branded, down to his neck, with a dark purple mark in the style of an Oblivion gate. His eyes were once blue, but are now steel gray, though they change color sometimes between blue, gray, and green, often unevenly. He has no scars, but instead a paler pallor and a wretched, exhausted gaze when at rest. Brion appears calm much of the time, but fidgety and restless on occasion. He has a habit of pacing incessantly and often talks to himself in voices of various tones and qualities. Despite this, he commands a strong voice in the presence of others and carries himself well, if a bit hurriedly.

    This daedric phrase appears etched in a spiral into the skin of his arms, though he makes every effort to cover them. On his left arm:

    Tayem/oht/roht/tayem/yoodt/roht/ekem/doht—Seht/oht/yoodt/lyr…Seht/cess/roht/iya/bedt/ekem ayem/neht/doht—Seht/lyr/ayem/vehk/ekem
    (“Tortured Soul…Scribe and Slave…”)

    On his right arm:

    Bedt/oht/yoodt/neht/doht—iya/neht—Bedt/lyr/oht/oht/doht…Bedt/ekem/yoodt/oht/neht/doht—tayem/hekem/ekem—Geth/roht/ayem/vehk/ekem
    (“…Bound in Blood…Beyond the Grave”)


    Personality Traits: Usually ambitious, persuasive and shrewd…perhaps more than just a little tightly-wound…with an overwhelming desire for knowledge and artifacts that may increase his magical prowess in and out of battle, as well as simply a lust for any and all books and past knowledge. He appreciates the natural world, yet only insofar as he desires to command it. To Brion, allies and friends are tools that should be used; trust is nearly a foreign concept to this mage. The very few relationships he does maintain and develop are objects of his undying idolization; with so few true friends, he often mistakes friendship for love and passion for truth.

    But, he is also quite mad (insane, that is) at times. Brion struggles to contain two different mental personas; one is his base personality, which retains control most often, but in moments of heightened stress, loss, vigor, or some other emotion, he assumes a gleefully dark, jovial persona known to him only as Penance. This alternate personality, usually indicated by a change into more casual, classy or goofy clothes at a moment’s notice, is essentially homicidal with sadistic tendencies. Quick to play the part of the fool, though quicker still to cause harm to others and himself, Penance’s main pleasures are sowing discord and causing as much mayhem as possible. Brion battles to keep Penance at bay…but the sad truth is, both personalities revel, more or less, in the despair and regret of others in such moments of chaos, whether subconsciously (in the case of Brion) or openly (as with Penance).

    Combat preferences: These depend on which personality happens to be in control at the time of combat. Brion himself prefers shock or frost destruction, along with the company of two storm atronachs, Pain and Torment, who stoically appreciate their master’s partiality for thunder, lightning, and menacing majesty of maelstroms. Brion also uses magic armor, invisibility, and paralysis spells, delighting in incapacitating his unwary opponents before sending their souls to Oblivion. Notably, he is terrified of fire, which can be a problem when fighting certain dragons.

    Penance, on the other hand, doesn’t have much in the way of a strategy when it comes to combat, though he does look for rabbits to reanimate as a battle pet…a great source of confusion on part of Brion, who is left with an undead bunny often following him for hours after battles he doesn’t remember. If anything, this persona relies on the surprise of a well-placed frenzy spell followed by much revelry amidst the carnage, turning enemies into delicious sweet rolls with his beloved Wabbajack. He prefers areas that offer a comfortable chair or bench to recline on, so he may eat sweet rolls (of the recently human variety), carrots, apples, raw fish, butterfly wings, honey treats, human flesh or other such random delicacies that may be at hand. In fact, Brion may not realize it, but Penance’s pallet for such things fuels his alchemical pursuits. A match made in hell, you might say.

    Bio/Story: Brion was born to a set of tediously unremarkable parents. His jolly, yet largely absent father, as the head of mead distillery on the outskirts of Winterhold, managed to drink at least as much spirits as he sold. Still, as a second generation emigrant to Skyrim, his father did well for himself overall; he provided a comfortable life for his son and quiet Nord wife, whom he married and settled down with rather late in life.

    Winterholdcity-1.png

    Harsh cold is not unknown to Bretons, to be sure, but as immigrants coming in the aftermath of the Great Collapse, Brion’s early years were often confined to his mother’s meager study wherein he doted over traditional Nord bard texts. He very much enjoyed old tales and poems, sparking his interest in speech and prose. With practice and passion, the fledgling bard impressed many times at The Frozen Hearth inn as he entered his years as a young man, and even performed for the Jarl on occasion.
    Through correspondence with the bard college in Solitude, he also managed to win the heart of a quirky, hot-headed Redguard lass, Mayri. Luckily for him, she shared his passions as well as his fidelity, despite the distance. Brion’s cool demeanor matched well to soothe Mayri’s quick temper, and though they could not often meet, they each promised their heart to one another. Not well do souls of fire and ice often mix, but on this occasion, Mara found true hope in the hearts of two mortals.
    This promise and peace, however, would not last.

    The jarl indeed invited the young bard when he desired passionate verses to thaw the Winterhold chill in his bones, and on this Brion delivered exceptionally one night. So well did he warm the old man’s soul, in fact, that he stayed as an honored guest; to study and relax as he pleased amongst the Jarl’s own personal library and lounge. And so he did, falling asleep as one might expect of a studious, cloud-headed bard; quill-pen in one hand, parchment in the other, and books worth many times their weight in gold flanking the young hopeful.

    In the morning, woken by the common moan of Winterhold’s wind, Brion casually decided to browse the Jarl’s collection one last time before thanking the Jarl for his generous hospitality. He did not wish to overstay his welcome; the Jarl was moody in his old age.

    As he passed his hand over the binding of a rough, uneven tome, he thought he heard a whisper. Unsure, Brion looked back at the book which had caught his attention. He peeled the book from the shelf, but dropped it immediately. It was not only rough to the touch…the entire book, apart from the binding, was composed entirely of flesh! As the tome struck the floor, it burst open, and the whisper of power that had so temptingly caressed the mind of the bard became a roar of unrelenting voices. It was loud…too loud, and in a language guttural and grim. Brion covered his ears in anguish, but it did nothing to quiet them. And then, when the voices seemed loudest, they stopped. For moment, the bard’s reality stood still…and then a voice, as chill as the grave, filled his mind with all the grace of an avalanche.

    tumblr_m8ix9rpiP01qhzd1uo1_1280.png

    “Oh mortal, you know it not, but you join…a greater work. My work. On Nirn, a bard ye may be…but your voice will wear the chains of my dominion, in all its glory…and its horror. …Rejoice.”

    And with that, an unnatural black flame enveloped the book, the runic text fading as it closed. The flesh smoothed to leather and the scabbed pages to white parchment and finally, the tome laid to rest at the center of a circle of violet smoke and ash.
    Brion, as stunned and horrified as he was curious, stood stock still as he waited for the ringing of his mind to cease. With the mage’s college not far from town, he thought, strange occurrences were commonplace…but even then, books did not simply speak to their readers, much less command them. Eager to put distance between himself and the weight of the event, he swiftly turned to exit the Jarl’s study.

    Opening the door, he nearly fell.

    The jarl’s longhouse was gone, replaced in its stead with staircases leading in every direction. Black books with daedric runes along their bindings lined the walls of the strange, deep place, which seemed to sway and contract as though alive. Apparitions, ghosts, and the undead, as well as a few daedra and their fewer human servants walked through the frigid, writhing halls of the place. Their footsteps sounded as if as one, but they moved…trudged… slinked…all to a separate rhythm. Above the metronome of their movement, however, a familiar voice sounded heavily in the mind of the young man:

    Hermaeus_Mora.jpg

    “I am Hermaes Mora, the Keeper of Forbidden Knowledge. In time, mortal, you may come to understand that name…and that name only. Your place is now here, as my scribe-slave. Your small mind no doubt wonders at the price of such an esteemed service. Your penance will be the brand of my domain…Apocrypha in Oblivion…and your cherished memories, bard.”

    In that moment, the cold voice washed over Brion. A wintry burning scourged his eyes and neck…he roared in pain...

    GibberingDescent.jpg

    His past, his home, everything he had ever known seared away, replaced with the sinister trudge of servitude that every being in Apocrypha—living, dead, or daedric—seemed to possess. Everything, that is, except his name, his status as a bard…and the name of his Mayri, which tugged at his heartstrings still.

    And so it was that Brion the aspiring bard became void-cursed, forced to gather knowledge both divine and profane among the unending halls of Mora’s Library. For years, it seemed, he walked those dread-march steps, reciting and scribbling burning daedric verses so that he may glorify his daedric prince and captor. Hope, much less escape, was not a familiar thought in his mind, surrounded as he was by dangerous daedra and the restless dead. It may have taken a mere step to enter this place, but the breathing, whispering walls of Apocrypha offered no respite.

    But as he trudged on with no real sense of passing time, there came a moment when Sheogorath, the daedric god of madness, visited Apocrypha. Sheogorath pitied the Breton, who still held the light of his Mayri, though now dimming, somewhere in his heart, despite his slavery to the slithering, serpentine shelves. He saw in this man something reminiscent…something not unlike himself. Whilst Hermaes Mora’s gaze focused elsewhere, he offered Brion his freedom. In exchange, he would be bard and prophet for Sheogorath, bringing the penance of the Bitter Mercy to all of Skyrim. In his despair, Brion agreed to the demon’s edict.

    Kothophed_The_Demon_by_Darthnic.jpg

    All at once, the swaying shelves of daedric books melted away, and Brion found himself in the Pelagius wing of the Blue Palace at night, cobwebs and ruined texts scattering as if blown by a silent wind. And for a blissful moment, peace entered the heart of the bard once more. However, the faint whispers upon the edges of his psyche remained, even as he left the Blue Palace and Solitude.

    Though free from the prison of Hermaes Mora’s Apocrypha, Brion is yet bound still through Sheogorath’s Bitter Mercy. He does not know it, but he himself bears the madness he must preach through Penance.

    To a different end, Brion seeks all knowledge and artifice he can gather so that he may restore his lost memory and give meaning and hope to that singular, hauntingly beautiful name…Mayri.

    mayri.jpg

    ~With a bitter hope in his heart and soft sense of loss and longing, Brion sets off from Solitude. Only time will tell if the bard will regain his lost memories and love…or if Sheogorath’s cursed mercy will bring his world crashing down, destroying his mind and all he once held dear~
     

    Svarnor

    Shadowcloak of Nocturnal
    Character name: Svarnor Far-Traveled
    Race: Nord
    Class: Hunter/Bard
    Gender: Male
    Looks: Tall, as most Nords are, Svarnor has bright red hair hanging to his shoulders, matched by his thick beard. He is muscular, broad shoulders hiding his dexterity, and wears a worn outfit of leather.
    Personality: Talking, Laughing, and Drinking more than most, Svarnor strikes many as an average Warrior-Nord. He follows in the cultural stereotype with a love of storytelling and song, but has spent enough time traveling to have learned quite a bit, and has studied with some of the greatest scholars on the history of Skyrim.
    Combat Preference: Staying light on his feet, and using his one-handed axe with some skill has kept Svarnor alive.
    Bio: Born just under three decades ago, shortly after the end of the Great War, Svarnor grew up in a time when things were changing rapidly. His father, a priest of Talos in Markarth, had been killed when the Reachmen took the hold, and Svarnor spent the first few months of his life with a group of refugees who'd fled the city. He was raised in Rorikstead, but started traveling practically as soon as he could walk, first across the village as a child, then across the plains and hills in the night as a teen, before finally setting off one day for Solitude, a man grown.
    Training with the Bards College, Svarnor learnt quickly to play the lute, as well as to sing with some level of skill. His teachers recommended he travel, to find something to sing about, and before he knew it, he was off, traveling with a merchant caravan first across Skyrim, then through Cyrodiil, before coming back up and completing the loop in Solitude once more.
    Merchant Caravans are prime targets for bandits, and Svarnor, learning quickly about how harsh the world was, began practicing with a woodcutting ax as they traveled. Twice he killed on his travels, and twice he had to remind himself that they would have killed him.

    When he returned to Skyrim and to the mundane day-to-day of the Bard's College, Svarnor found that he missed the road. He missed traveling, and wandering, and learning new things and seeing new people. And, surprisingly enough, he missed fighting, and killing. Never one to stay somewhere he wasn't happy, the next day Svarnor bid his teachers goodbye, and set out, determined to find his fortune in whatever way he could. He could hunt- his pack included both traps and bait- so he'd live. And maybe he'd become a mercenary, he decided. A sellsword, and earn riches, fame, and plenty to sing about.
     

    Drapor

    "Drasok Ghett, the Dragon Knight, at your service"
    Name: Dapor
    Race:Wood elf
    weapons:Elven Bow with iron arrows
    class:archer
    looks: Drapor is a wood elf thats about 5'7 he has leather armour without the helmet has a black mohawk in his teens
    persanality:allways smiling and in good cheer ready to have a good time
    battle prefs: Uses trees as shields
     

    Linamina

    Well-Known Member
    Character name: Eilene

    Race: Dumner

    Birthsign: Shadow

    Class: Assassin

    Gender: Female

    Looks: 5'10, slim, short white hair, Jet black skin, crimson eyes. Typically wears a hood, especially on jobs.

    images


    Personality: She's often quiet though not completely shy. Often appears sad when left at peace, venomously enraged when provoked.

    Combat prefs: Dual wielding elven daggers, Ebony bow, an assortment of poisons, Rune traps. Typically she uses her mundane weapons for stealth depending on the time. e.g.: Daggers during night, bow during day. She usually uses rune traps for escape attempts, though she can only cast one every so often as she is not adeptly full of Magicka, and poisons used depend on her targets. With the exception for the Dumner's resistance to fire, she has no immunities or resistances; her only defense is her leather armor.
     

    Goldguard

    The Rapier
    Name: Galten Rale
    Race: Imperial
    Gender: Male
    Age: 26
    Class: Vampire Hunter/Former Vampire

    Appearance:
    1133843-1344249708.jpg

    Galten stand at 5'9" and has a average build. He has medium length hair and a small goatee and stubble. Across his nose and right cheek, he has multiple scars from his many fights. His eyes are a unique golden color.

    Combat Prefs: Galten is almost always in his Dawnguard armor, and is equipped with a standard crossbow and many bolts. He is also very skilled in hand to hand combat, if a fight comes to it. Usually when the fight gets up close, Galten will pull out his signature rapier, which he calls "Goldguard". Its name refers to the rapiers golden guard. Galten is also stronger and faster than most people, a vampiric trait he kept even after being cured.

    Personality: Galten has a extreme hatred for vampires (see bio) and seeks to wipe them out. He likes almost everything else other than vampires. Galten is very likeable and makes friends easily. His friends also refer to him as a "ladies man", as he is always flirting when not killing vampires.

    Bio: Galten grew up in Skingrad, Cyrodil to kind parents. They owned a mill and had a good income in money. As a young boy, Galten dreamed to be a great mage using his skills to defeat monsters and become a hero. His brother Bron, who was 2 years older than him, always made fun of Galtens dream due to the fact Galten had NO skill in magic what so ever. The two brothers had a close relationship and is always seen with each other. They were always a bit immature, even when they reached adolescence. When Galten was 16, he saw a Dunmer dressed in black robes leaving the city, and he assumed he was a mage. Following his dreams of becoming a mage himself, Galten asked the Dunmer to teach him a thing or two. The Dark Elf quickly told Galten to leave him alone and left the city soon afterwards. Not giving up, Galten followed the Dunmer into a cave outside the city watched him meet up with three other Dark Elves inside. Galten soon discovered that the four Dunmer were really vampires, entering the city only to feed. Galten tried to escape back to the city to warn anyone he could. Before he could reach the entrance of the cave, the Dunmer he followed captured him and turned Galten into one of them, a creature of the night. Galten woke up in his home after being unconscious for five days. His parents told him of his condition and all of his friends were warned by their parents to stay away from him. With no friends and a dangerous disease, Galten stayed in his room for weeks. Finally, one day his lust for blood was too great and he murdered his parents and sucked them dry. Bron tried to stop Galten, but ended up getting killed too. Galten fled the city afterwards, ashamed and disgusted by what he did. He stayed in hiding for five years, coming out only to feed once in a while. Finally, one day he encountered a alchemist who told Galten he had a potion that would cure his vampirism. Galten eagerly asked for the cure, but the alchemist told him that it might not work and could have devastating side affects. The potion might only work temporarily. Galten drank the potion anyways not heeding the warnings, but miraculously the potion worked, and Galten was unscathed, though he retained a few of his former traits, such as his golden eyes. Galten moved to Skyrim, and signed up to be part of the Dawnguard, seeking revenge on the monsters that ruined most of his life. He is rarely seen at Dawnguard Fort, preferring to be out in the field, hunting vampires.
     

    Swolehouse

    New Member
    Name: Swole The Wise
    Race: Breton
    Gender: Male
    Age: 32

    Class: All around Mage very versatile when it comes to magicka can support his allies or blast enemies down with any type of elemental magic

    Equipment: Almost always in some type of clothing he prefers not to wear armor because he likes to be able to move around freely while letting loose a barrage spells. Usually seen in robes with or without hoods. He wears the archmages robes, the morokei dragon priest mask, Savos Aren's amulet, any gloves with fortify magicka, and any boots with muffle.

    Bio: Born at high rock like other Bretons he had a Innate ability to control magic he was a constant trouble maker though and always doing the craziest of things but what really shined from him was his intellect. He remembered most everything and was almost never worked hard to catch up with the elders. He was tired of the hum drum life at high rock so he left to find new masters or opportunities for knowledge in skyrim. He is somewhat passive about the civil war but if he had to choose he would side with the stormcloaks be ause he believes the they are fighting for a good cause that is their tradition and customs.

    Appearance: He was born with snow white hair that naturally spikes probably from all the shock magic and also has a large beard of the same color. His eyes are also a white that was unusual for most because of these characteristics he was often called the ivory child. He is about 5 foot ten and is moderately musceled. He has an aged look about him with wrinkles.

    Personality: Never shy and always outgoing. He is always friendly to everyone he meets but cross him and don't be surprised to have a fireball chasing after you. He is somewhat nervous when it comes to woman though because he has little to no experience with them and all he knows is magic. But whenever you need a friend that is a jack of all trades when it comes to spells he's your man.
     

    Krimson

    Ròidh the Warbound
    Name: Ròidh (prounounced "Roy") the Warbound

    Race: Nord

    Gender: Male

    Age: 27

    Class: Warrior/Paladin

    Faction(s): Dawnguard, Stormcloak, & Companion

    Focus Skills: One-Handed, Light Armor, Block

    Other Skills: Smithing, Speech, Enchanting

    Weapons:
    * Blade: Skyforge Steel Sword with the Enchantment of Frost Damage.
    * Shield: Dawnguard Rune Shield.

    Armor: (All Legendary)
    * Body: Dawnguard Light Armor (Red, short-sleeved version) with the Enchantment of Fortify Health.
    * Boots: Dawnguard Light Boots with the Enchantment of of Fortify Stamina.
    * Bracers: Stormcloak Officer Bracers with the Enchantment of Fortify One-Handed.

    Jewelry:
    * Necklace: Silver-Jeweled Necklace with the Enchantment of Fortify Light Armor.
    * Ring: Silver-Ruby Ring with the Enchantment of Fortify Block.

    Physical Description:
    Ròidh is about 6'3" and weighs around 210 lbs. He has fairly pale skin and has a big build; broad-shoulded, box-chested, and very muscular. He has medium-styled, red hair with two braids coming down the front. He has a fairly trimmed, clean looking beard with the same color as his hair. He has strange crimson/brown colored eyes, that faintly accents his hair. He has a wide jaw and big cheekbones that accents his big build. He has a scar across his left eye as a result of a Vampire attack.

    Spouse: Sylgja

    House: Sylgja's House in Shor's Stone

    Personality:
    Ròidh is a very cheerful and proud man. He is well-moraled and has a strong love for life. He also has a strong love for Skyrim and his fellow Nords. He has respect for for ALL races, though...even the High Elves. He is madly in love with his life, Sylgja, and they spend much time mining together when he is home from adventuring. He is a very timid, but lively man. He is a lover by spirit, but warrior by heart. He will fight any evil that there is...be it Daedra, Bandits, Dragons, and above all else...Vampire; his one TRUE hatred. He values other people's lives over his own and would gladly sacrifice his own life for another. He'll fight ONLY when necessary and doesn't start anything with anyone. He'll die for what he believes in. He is, what many people believe, a true warrior.

    Bio:(Comin' Soon)...;)
     

    Krimson

    Ròidh the Warbound
    No... it's Aela's armor. When I first started playing Skyrim, Aela was my role model, so I'd know her anywhere

    Aela's Armor is INDEED the Ancent Nord Armor. After Kodlak's funeral near the end of the Companions questline Eorland Gray-Mane will tell you that the Skyforge feels different somehow. Kodlak's spirit allows you to mkae Ancient Nord Armor ONLY at the Skyforge. As well as Nordic Hero Weapons. ;)
     

    Morganatic

    Kinetically-Interlinked Nirnian Multi-User Exoform
    Hmm, it's a bit tough just writing a character without any setup, but hey, let's give this a go. Comment and criticism welcome, all!






    Name: Murzuth gra-Den-Sul
    Race: Orsimer
    Gender: Female
    Age: 20
    Class: Healer, secret Priest of Order.

    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.

    Combat Specs: Murzuth prefers to avoid combat, and instead tends to stress peaceful and diplomatic resolutions to a confrontation (and, unlike many of her fellow Orcs, can talk the ears off an Ayleid if given half a chance). If conflict seems unavoidable, however, she does have a crudely repaired Crystal Staff of Order in her pack, and is skilled in a variety of Mysticism and Thaumaturgy arcana, as well as restoration magic to patch up the wounds she inevitably suffers as a consequence of her lack of armour.

    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.

    Bio: 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.

    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.

    Misc: ANUI-EL AE AURI-EL AE IYGG!
     

    Phenomenal TJ

    The One And Only
    Name: Titus Draconis

    Race: Imperial

    Class: Warrior. Preferring one handed weapons with a shield, though has moderate skill in archery as well, is always seen wearing a hawk feather necklace with the Fortify Restoration enchantment.

    Gender: Male
    Age: 27

    Looks:
    achilles3.jpg


    Personality: Titus is a seasoned warrior, constantly training and perfecting his techniques in the art of killing. While extremely intelligent, especially on matters relating to military and fighting matters, he is also extremely arrogant, to the point that he strikes fear and disdain in those around him. Fiercely loyal once his trust has been earned, he regards the weak as simple tools to be used by the strong. Preferring to work alone, he rarely allows anyone to accompany him, even on the most dangerous of missions, whether it's out of a necessity to prove himself alone, or an attempt to protect is yet to be made known to the people around him.

    Combat Preferences: For ranged attacks, he sticks to a common combination of the bow and arrow, preferably steel as far as the arrows are concerned. Short range, he enjoys the lethality of a single handed sword with the security of a shield. Upon closer inspection one will notice two daggers, one tucked in the small of his back, the other hidden in his boot. His armor and shield are of dragonscale make, and dyed black. Moderate skills in the art of Restoration, on the rare occasion that he is hurt in the course of battle he has the ability to self-heal.

    Bio: Titus Draconis was born in the city of Northpoint in the High Rock province of Tamriel. Never knowing his father, he was not only the light of his mother's life, but also a constant source of sorrow for her. As he grew into his teen years, he found himself being recruited by multiple organizations in need of a strong arm and an eagerness for battle. He fought for many of these causes, never bearing loyalty to any of their causes, Titus fights only for glory, the thrill of the fight, and the chance to immortalize his name in the history books.

    Losing interest in the petty squabbles of his homeland, Titus decided that it was time for a change of scenery, always feeling that he was destined to move from his ancestral birthplace, and make war in other lands. His mother, while grieved to see her son go, ultimately knew that not only was the decision his alone to make, but that for all purposes the right one. Before he set out for the distant land of Skyrim, she presented him with a hawk feather necklace that had a magnificent glow about it. She told her son that no matter where the winds or sea took him, that it would always protect him.

    Upon his arrival in Skyrim, he wasted no time in making his name known in every city that he ventured to. Whether it was emerging victorious in bare knuckle brawls outside of taverns, or accepting and conquering challenges few were brave enough to undertake, the name Titus was one to be both feared and respected in the lands of Skyrim.

    During his conquests, he was bitten by a werewolf in the wilds, with no potions or healer around, he slowly succumbed to the curse. Over time he has learned to, at the very least, control his transformations and keep it a secret.

    Tired of being little more than an attack dog for those with enough gold to pay his fees, Titus set out across Skyrim, looking for a challenge large enough to make him a legend.
     

    jamiem7

    True Nord 4 lyf
    Name: Jamie (couldn't be bothered to make up a name)
    Race: Nord, aged somewhere in his twenties
    Play Style: Operate in the shadows, if I can't do that, whip out a hammer and fluff some plops up
    Factions: The Companions, The Thieves Guild, The Dawnguard
    Best Skills: Archery, One-Handed, Light Armour, all Thief skills, Smithing, Alchemy, Restoration
    Level: 52
    Loves: The Dwemer, exploring and studying things, stealing stuff, killing people, making potions, crossbows, Bran the dog
    Hates: All the fluffing baskets I keep tripping over whenever I go in to a place, Morthal, skeevers, Nazeem, the Thalmor

    My character is a craftsman, skilled thief, strong warrior and a true Nord. When he isn't making babies with Aela he is usually exploring the land, fighting for the Companions and working on all sorts of things at Fort Dawnguard. He is usually accompanied by his dog, Bran.

    He prefers to fight in the shadows and his weapon of choice is an enhanced Dwarven Crossbow he made at Fort Dawnguard. He is no stranger to facing enemies head on though and makes an excellent warrior too. He is also a werewolf and has mastered his gift, and a skilled healer.

    He has a burning hatred towards the Thalmor and kills them on sight regardless of the location
     

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