chaosrabbit
Member
(re-posting character card)
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.
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.
“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;
“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. 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 Apocypha 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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;
“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. 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 Apocypha 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.
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.
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.
