Name: Tristan the Bastard
Gender: Male
Race: Breton
Age: 23
Class: Spellsword
Faction: The Silver Hand
Combat Prefs:
One-handed (he wields a blade in his left hand), supplemented by magical defensive wards and other close ranged spells (he casts magic in his right hand). While fairly competent with several close quarter combat styles, he isn't very proficient with long ranged weapons or stealth based fighting, and he couldn't use a shield to save his life.
Appearance:
I will work on this later. See above picture for reference until then.
Personality:
Brash, dysfunctional, enduring, humorous, and sarcastic are just a few words to describe Tristan as a person. He has often taken life one day at a time and if opportunity presents itself, he often jumps at it without thinking too much about about it before hand. While he is generally carefree and an overall slacker, he will jump to someone's defense if he feels they are being treated badly without cause. Of course, after he helps said person, he will be the first one to make some offhanded remark about a saving fee. Heroism isn't cheap, after all.
History:
The illegitimate child of a local minor baron, Tristan was never afforded any of the luxuries that nobility provided, instead being treated no better than an Camonna Tong slave would be in Morrowind. His childhood was often spent performing degrading chores for his father, or engaged in fistfights with other children who referred to his mother as The Baron's Whore. He knew his mother didn't care, she liked the attention, but she was the only mother he had and he would defend her no matter how rotten she may be. He considered her a fool, always holding onto the notion that his father would leave his wife and then bring her into the manor. His father, well, was a cold and heartless man who just loved to screw.
As soon as he was old enough, Tristan escaped his ho-hum life by running away and joining the Imperial Legion stationed in Cyrodiil. Though young, it was his hope that he could find a place among the rank and file soldiers. Little did he know that his father, as minor of a noble as one could get, still had some influence even outside of High Rock. He barely made it out of basic training before he was brought before his commanding officer and discharged for misconduct. How his father managed to track him down, much less bother getting him thrown out of the Legion, was a mystery he didn't care to stick around to learn.
For the next several years he took to wandering across the province, taking on small contracts like killing skeevers, or escorting petty traveling merchants. However, it was never enough to keep his purse filled with Septims, but it did allow him a decent amount to purchase backwater training with both sword and spell. Before long, his growing skills were noticed by a small group of roaming mercenaries who called themselves the Kinsmen, and he was recruited into their ranks. Unfortunately for Tristan he discovered too late that this group was, in reality, an organization that smuggled skooma throughout the provinces. The Imperial guards that drug him off to the dungeons cared little for his pleas of innocence.
Prison was not as bad as he would have thought it would have been. Maybe it was due to all the unpleasant chores his father made him do as a child, but he found life in the dungeons reminiscent of his childhood. There were even other prisoners who slung insults at him, much like during his youth, and the verbal abuse directed at his mother simmered with irony. Although he was limited in what he could do daily, the rigorous prison lifestyle helped to harden his body and sharpen his mind. But even this was not meant to last, for he received word a couple years later that he would be transported back to High Rock, yet another attempt by his father to control him.
As fate would have it, Tristan's luck had not yet run out, for the Imperial prison wagon was attacked shortly after crossing the border into Skyrim. Not by bandits, no, but by a group of soldiers who referred to themselves as Stormcloaks. Apparently a civil war had just broken out in the province, only hours before they had crossed the border, and was beginning to escalate quickly by all accounts. Still, he had no plans to watch the skirmish to see who won, and so began to run as fast as he could away from the soldiers as well as Cyrodiil. His thoughts were, what better place to hide than a province engulfed in civil strife.
Of course running blindly through an unknown province covered in snow, with hands bound and while wearing rags, probably wasn't such a good idea. And he, like anyone would have, regretted it as soon as he came across a clearing that had a rather large wolf-man like creature in it. Most men would have said that they stood fearless and defiant against such an imposing creature. They would have been lying. If it was not for a group who called themselves The Silver Hand, who burst into the clearing and fought the beast away, he would have been slain by what he later found out was called a werewolf. He was taken in and made a member, and while he doesn't quite share their zealotry, it's a good enough place as any to call home while figuring out his next move.
Gender: Male
Race: Breton
Age: 23
Class: Spellsword
Faction: The Silver Hand
Combat Prefs:
One-handed (he wields a blade in his left hand), supplemented by magical defensive wards and other close ranged spells (he casts magic in his right hand). While fairly competent with several close quarter combat styles, he isn't very proficient with long ranged weapons or stealth based fighting, and he couldn't use a shield to save his life.
Appearance:
I will work on this later. See above picture for reference until then.
Personality:
Brash, dysfunctional, enduring, humorous, and sarcastic are just a few words to describe Tristan as a person. He has often taken life one day at a time and if opportunity presents itself, he often jumps at it without thinking too much about about it before hand. While he is generally carefree and an overall slacker, he will jump to someone's defense if he feels they are being treated badly without cause. Of course, after he helps said person, he will be the first one to make some offhanded remark about a saving fee. Heroism isn't cheap, after all.
History:
The illegitimate child of a local minor baron, Tristan was never afforded any of the luxuries that nobility provided, instead being treated no better than an Camonna Tong slave would be in Morrowind. His childhood was often spent performing degrading chores for his father, or engaged in fistfights with other children who referred to his mother as The Baron's Whore. He knew his mother didn't care, she liked the attention, but she was the only mother he had and he would defend her no matter how rotten she may be. He considered her a fool, always holding onto the notion that his father would leave his wife and then bring her into the manor. His father, well, was a cold and heartless man who just loved to screw.
As soon as he was old enough, Tristan escaped his ho-hum life by running away and joining the Imperial Legion stationed in Cyrodiil. Though young, it was his hope that he could find a place among the rank and file soldiers. Little did he know that his father, as minor of a noble as one could get, still had some influence even outside of High Rock. He barely made it out of basic training before he was brought before his commanding officer and discharged for misconduct. How his father managed to track him down, much less bother getting him thrown out of the Legion, was a mystery he didn't care to stick around to learn.
For the next several years he took to wandering across the province, taking on small contracts like killing skeevers, or escorting petty traveling merchants. However, it was never enough to keep his purse filled with Septims, but it did allow him a decent amount to purchase backwater training with both sword and spell. Before long, his growing skills were noticed by a small group of roaming mercenaries who called themselves the Kinsmen, and he was recruited into their ranks. Unfortunately for Tristan he discovered too late that this group was, in reality, an organization that smuggled skooma throughout the provinces. The Imperial guards that drug him off to the dungeons cared little for his pleas of innocence.
Prison was not as bad as he would have thought it would have been. Maybe it was due to all the unpleasant chores his father made him do as a child, but he found life in the dungeons reminiscent of his childhood. There were even other prisoners who slung insults at him, much like during his youth, and the verbal abuse directed at his mother simmered with irony. Although he was limited in what he could do daily, the rigorous prison lifestyle helped to harden his body and sharpen his mind. But even this was not meant to last, for he received word a couple years later that he would be transported back to High Rock, yet another attempt by his father to control him.
As fate would have it, Tristan's luck had not yet run out, for the Imperial prison wagon was attacked shortly after crossing the border into Skyrim. Not by bandits, no, but by a group of soldiers who referred to themselves as Stormcloaks. Apparently a civil war had just broken out in the province, only hours before they had crossed the border, and was beginning to escalate quickly by all accounts. Still, he had no plans to watch the skirmish to see who won, and so began to run as fast as he could away from the soldiers as well as Cyrodiil. His thoughts were, what better place to hide than a province engulfed in civil strife.
Of course running blindly through an unknown province covered in snow, with hands bound and while wearing rags, probably wasn't such a good idea. And he, like anyone would have, regretted it as soon as he came across a clearing that had a rather large wolf-man like creature in it. Most men would have said that they stood fearless and defiant against such an imposing creature. They would have been lying. If it was not for a group who called themselves The Silver Hand, who burst into the clearing and fought the beast away, he would have been slain by what he later found out was called a werewolf. He was taken in and made a member, and while he doesn't quite share their zealotry, it's a good enough place as any to call home while figuring out his next move.
