NAME: |
Altmer: 3 |
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NAME: Helseth Arvel
GENDER: Male
AGE: 22
RACE: Dunmer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Hunter of Hircine
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Lord
RELIGION: Hircine, Hermaeus Mora, Nocturnal, Vaermina
KIN: n/a
From a young age, Helseth was addicted to the hunt. Mostly because he was a part of it. His family was part of a large group of ex-forsworn and necromancers who hunted each other for sport every full moon. But when Helseth was chosen to be their new prey, he turned the tides to his favor and hunted them all down in turn. The prey became predator. This intrigued Hircine, for since then, Helseth became enamored with the ways of the hunt. He would have dreams every night of running like the wolves, seeing red in the dark, feeling blood on his hands and in his mouth. He became a highly skilled tracker and hunter, raking in plenty of profit for the pelts and meat he brought to traders. He finally heard of a werewolf named Sinding, in Falkreath. While trying to figure a way to return Hircine's ring, he came across the White Stag. Helseth knew the legends. If one catches the stag, they are granted any wish. So he chased it over mountains and through forests, before finally attacking the beast. He killed it. He did not mean to. He had never wanted to hurt such a beautiful beast. But then Hircine's spirit appeared to him and told him well done. Hircine told Helseth how he had been watching over the Dunmer since he was a boy, and how intrigued he was by the path Helseth had chosen. Hircine then told him to slay Sinding. Helseth did so and received the armor of Hircine. The Deadra then told him of a way to become a werewolf himself.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 22
RACE: Dunmer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Hunter of Hircine
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Lord
RELIGION: Hircine, Hermaeus Mora, Nocturnal, Vaermina
KIN: n/a
From a young age, Helseth was addicted to the hunt. Mostly because he was a part of it. His family was part of a large group of ex-forsworn and necromancers who hunted each other for sport every full moon. But when Helseth was chosen to be their new prey, he turned the tides to his favor and hunted them all down in turn. The prey became predator. This intrigued Hircine, for since then, Helseth became enamored with the ways of the hunt. He would have dreams every night of running like the wolves, seeing red in the dark, feeling blood on his hands and in his mouth. He became a highly skilled tracker and hunter, raking in plenty of profit for the pelts and meat he brought to traders. He finally heard of a werewolf named Sinding, in Falkreath. While trying to figure a way to return Hircine's ring, he came across the White Stag. Helseth knew the legends. If one catches the stag, they are granted any wish. So he chased it over mountains and through forests, before finally attacking the beast. He killed it. He did not mean to. He had never wanted to hurt such a beautiful beast. But then Hircine's spirit appeared to him and told him well done. Hircine told Helseth how he had been watching over the Dunmer since he was a boy, and how intrigued he was by the path Helseth had chosen. Hircine then told him to slay Sinding. Helseth did so and received the armor of Hircine. The Deadra then told him of a way to become a werewolf himself.
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NAME: Fenris Lockjaw
GENDER: Male
AGE: 26
RACE: Nord
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Dawngaurd Hunter
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Shadow
RELIGION: Imperial Pantheon (minus Tiber Septim)
KIN: 2 brothers
In a state of crisis, Fenris' family sold their son to an Imperial family in the hopes he would find a better life for himself. Raised in Cyrodiil for most of his young life, Fenris rejected his Nordic heritage and embraced the Imperial lifestyle in full force.
When his adopted family was torn to shreds before his eyes, he thought he had entered a new kind of hell. But dark figures came to their rescue. Fenris, his adopted father, and adopted older brother were spared. The remaining members of the family did not fare so well. The assailants? Vampires. The rescuers were part of the Dawngaurd. They had been tracking this vampire's coven for a time until they lost track during a skirmish. They had killed off a few while the rest fled from sight and vanished without a trace. They only managed to catch up with them in the little town of Bravil, but it had been hard convincing the guards that vampires had come to them. Not until the screaming started.
After his adopted father succumbed to his injuries, Fenris felt very lost. He had no real direction in life and no authority to guide him. Still young and impressionable, he turned to the only thing that proven anything to him: the Dawngaurd. They were reluctant at first, but after thinking it over, they decided to accept Fenris into their group. He does not fight for revenge or anything. He just wants to stop the vampires from killing any more people.
He is not entirely heartless. Many times, he will try to reason with them and find them cures. Some have heeded his words and have been restored through his efforts. But many have rejected his kindness, and those he had to put down.
Fenris is now twenty-six. He has very smooth features, fair skin, black hair, and narrowed, blue eyes.
Fenris is rather easy-going, soft spoken, and generally lost in thought. When not training or out on missions, he has his nose in a book or his head on a pillow. He has no real passions or interests. He has a very powerful affinity for magic though, something rarely seen in Nords. He is well schooled in restoration and illusion. He knows the most basic of fire spells, as it is rather useful against vampires in a pinch.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 26
RACE: Nord
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Dawngaurd Hunter
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Shadow
RELIGION: Imperial Pantheon (minus Tiber Septim)
KIN: 2 brothers
In a state of crisis, Fenris' family sold their son to an Imperial family in the hopes he would find a better life for himself. Raised in Cyrodiil for most of his young life, Fenris rejected his Nordic heritage and embraced the Imperial lifestyle in full force.
When his adopted family was torn to shreds before his eyes, he thought he had entered a new kind of hell. But dark figures came to their rescue. Fenris, his adopted father, and adopted older brother were spared. The remaining members of the family did not fare so well. The assailants? Vampires. The rescuers were part of the Dawngaurd. They had been tracking this vampire's coven for a time until they lost track during a skirmish. They had killed off a few while the rest fled from sight and vanished without a trace. They only managed to catch up with them in the little town of Bravil, but it had been hard convincing the guards that vampires had come to them. Not until the screaming started.
After his adopted father succumbed to his injuries, Fenris felt very lost. He had no real direction in life and no authority to guide him. Still young and impressionable, he turned to the only thing that proven anything to him: the Dawngaurd. They were reluctant at first, but after thinking it over, they decided to accept Fenris into their group. He does not fight for revenge or anything. He just wants to stop the vampires from killing any more people.
He is not entirely heartless. Many times, he will try to reason with them and find them cures. Some have heeded his words and have been restored through his efforts. But many have rejected his kindness, and those he had to put down.
Fenris is now twenty-six. He has very smooth features, fair skin, black hair, and narrowed, blue eyes.
Fenris is rather easy-going, soft spoken, and generally lost in thought. When not training or out on missions, he has his nose in a book or his head on a pillow. He has no real passions or interests. He has a very powerful affinity for magic though, something rarely seen in Nords. He is well schooled in restoration and illusion. He knows the most basic of fire spells, as it is rather useful against vampires in a pinch.
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NAME: Amaris Maesir
GENDER: Male
AGE: 19
RACE: Altmer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Dark Brotherhood Listener (undiscovered)
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Serpent
RELIGION: Kynareth, Meridia, Sithis
KIN: Solinar Maesir (father), Shasara Maesir (mother)
Amaris Maesir. They say that Altmer cannot ever be trusted and Amaris is a wonderful example of that warning. He's dangerous. He is connected to the Night Mother. The Listener. He hears her voice and he obeys. You might be next on the list, the next victim whose name is written in blood and called out from the shadows by a voice broken in agony. The Night mother hears their voices, feels their hate and lust for revenge, and she answers their call. But first, she must tell the listener. She must tell Amaris. Amaris is an Altmer, born in the glorious Dwarven city of Markarth. There was always so much expected of him. He was born noble, wealthy, to a family of good connections, and at the peak time when Thalmor were respected and feared by all. Not that any of his family were in the Thalmor themselves. Both his mother and father had high hopes for him, and entering into into such a proud and honorable guard of the High Elves was definitely high on their list. But from a young age, Amaris was troubled. He complained often of headaches, migraines, and hearing a voice in his head. For a long time, the family chalked it up to his strange imagination, but when the nightmares began, they feared the worst: that their son was crazy or cursed. They took him to see herbalists and alchemists. Desperate for a cure, his father even tracked down a witch and several necromancers. None could help him. It wasn't even definite that something magical or physical was affecting him. It was something in his head, and there weren't any spells or potions that could cure it. His family tried to help him, they really did, but Amaris knew it was all wasted efforts. When he was nine, he ran away from home. It was the hardest decision to make. He stole a horse and ran. Where he went, no one knows. Two years later, he left a pouch of money to pay off the fines for stealing the horse, but besides that and a note of apology, there were no other signs or traces of him. Not until he was eighteen, and by that time, the war and the world had changed. Wherever he went, he had to tread carefully. The Thalmor were hated. Despised. Being Altmer, obviously he was associated with them. It didn't matter where he came from or the family he once had. He was High Elf. And High Elves were the enemy. They were wrong though. It wasn't the fact he was High Elf that they should've feared him, it was the person he had turned into. The person he was inside. Under that golden skinned exterior, behind those serpentine eyes, he is a twisted, wicked thing. He learned of his destiny and his curse, being the Listener. The Dark Brotherhood took him down a foul path that he hated to follow. Always he was with the Night Mother, but amidst her voice was that other one in his head, the one that soon melded into hers till he couldn't quite tell which was which. He was ever so honored to serve the Night Mother, but there were many times he was wrong, and the targets he ordered to be executed were innocents who never made the list, just names that came to mind that the other one demanded. He knows not what this voice is from, wether its Sheogorath or another demented god or just some sort of schizophrenic breakdown. The voice in his head drove him to insanity. It's whisper: so distant, the words almost incomprehensible, urging him onward to kill and kill and kill. To fulfill bloody sacraments and murder men, women, children, the old: all were equal under his blade. He took the lives of Dunmer, Orismer, Kahjiit, Manmer, Yokudans; everyone. Everyone. Anyone. He could never satisfy the voice. No matter how much blood he shed, the voice would always come back. So he wanders the world, doing as it bids, never resting and always praying that someday it will finally leave him in peace. The Dark Brotherhood want him back, but he has left them. Not for good. Just until that other voice is gone. Till her voice is gone. Then maybe the Night Mother's soothing whispers from that ancient corpse won't be so unwelcome because he will finally know they are the real commands. Amaris could almost be described as beautiful, but none would make any compliments of the sort to his face. He would never think of himself as looking anywhere near attractive or handsome by any stretch of the imagination, and will often decline and deny such words or advances of that nature. Amaris is fairly tall, which is only common for his race. He stands at about six feet and three inches, but is still growing, so it is expected he will surpass that height in the future. His skin is creamy, soft; a pale, light gold color with a smooth sort of sheen to it. It’s almost tantalizing in its color and feel, as though you couldn’t resist reaching out and running your fingers down it to see if it really is as smooth as refined pearls. Paralyzed. When one looks at his eyes, they feel almost paralyzed. So bright and radiant his eyes are. The color of a true chartreuse fire, like the lights of the sky in the north. They glow and gleam and are oh so beautiful, but the malice. The poison. The hate that brims in those eyes melts the hardest of hearts and solidifies them into petrified form. They are the eyes of a snake: watching the prey, hungering for the prey, waiting to strike. Yet, in the midst of that gaze, there is fear. There is fear, sorrow, and an unimaginable pain. A longing for death. Yes. Those eyes long for death. Not to see death or to cause death, but the longing to dim and fade as the owner of those eyes ceases to be. His hair is long and wispy. It is neither straight nor wavy, but an odd combination of both. It is as light as feathers and soft as the fluff of a kitten. It is the color of pale sunlight and spun gold; it shimmers and flickers as sparks in a fire or light off of water. He keeps it long and wild, never truly caring for where it chooses to go. It always possesses a windblown quality. Occasionally, he will keep it back with small braids entwined in the golden waterfall, but for the most part, it is let loose and free.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 19
RACE: Altmer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Dark Brotherhood Listener (undiscovered)
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Serpent
RELIGION: Kynareth, Meridia, Sithis
KIN: Solinar Maesir (father), Shasara Maesir (mother)
Amaris Maesir. They say that Altmer cannot ever be trusted and Amaris is a wonderful example of that warning. He's dangerous. He is connected to the Night Mother. The Listener. He hears her voice and he obeys. You might be next on the list, the next victim whose name is written in blood and called out from the shadows by a voice broken in agony. The Night mother hears their voices, feels their hate and lust for revenge, and she answers their call. But first, she must tell the listener. She must tell Amaris. Amaris is an Altmer, born in the glorious Dwarven city of Markarth. There was always so much expected of him. He was born noble, wealthy, to a family of good connections, and at the peak time when Thalmor were respected and feared by all. Not that any of his family were in the Thalmor themselves. Both his mother and father had high hopes for him, and entering into into such a proud and honorable guard of the High Elves was definitely high on their list. But from a young age, Amaris was troubled. He complained often of headaches, migraines, and hearing a voice in his head. For a long time, the family chalked it up to his strange imagination, but when the nightmares began, they feared the worst: that their son was crazy or cursed. They took him to see herbalists and alchemists. Desperate for a cure, his father even tracked down a witch and several necromancers. None could help him. It wasn't even definite that something magical or physical was affecting him. It was something in his head, and there weren't any spells or potions that could cure it. His family tried to help him, they really did, but Amaris knew it was all wasted efforts. When he was nine, he ran away from home. It was the hardest decision to make. He stole a horse and ran. Where he went, no one knows. Two years later, he left a pouch of money to pay off the fines for stealing the horse, but besides that and a note of apology, there were no other signs or traces of him. Not until he was eighteen, and by that time, the war and the world had changed. Wherever he went, he had to tread carefully. The Thalmor were hated. Despised. Being Altmer, obviously he was associated with them. It didn't matter where he came from or the family he once had. He was High Elf. And High Elves were the enemy. They were wrong though. It wasn't the fact he was High Elf that they should've feared him, it was the person he had turned into. The person he was inside. Under that golden skinned exterior, behind those serpentine eyes, he is a twisted, wicked thing. He learned of his destiny and his curse, being the Listener. The Dark Brotherhood took him down a foul path that he hated to follow. Always he was with the Night Mother, but amidst her voice was that other one in his head, the one that soon melded into hers till he couldn't quite tell which was which. He was ever so honored to serve the Night Mother, but there were many times he was wrong, and the targets he ordered to be executed were innocents who never made the list, just names that came to mind that the other one demanded. He knows not what this voice is from, wether its Sheogorath or another demented god or just some sort of schizophrenic breakdown. The voice in his head drove him to insanity. It's whisper: so distant, the words almost incomprehensible, urging him onward to kill and kill and kill. To fulfill bloody sacraments and murder men, women, children, the old: all were equal under his blade. He took the lives of Dunmer, Orismer, Kahjiit, Manmer, Yokudans; everyone. Everyone. Anyone. He could never satisfy the voice. No matter how much blood he shed, the voice would always come back. So he wanders the world, doing as it bids, never resting and always praying that someday it will finally leave him in peace. The Dark Brotherhood want him back, but he has left them. Not for good. Just until that other voice is gone. Till her voice is gone. Then maybe the Night Mother's soothing whispers from that ancient corpse won't be so unwelcome because he will finally know they are the real commands. Amaris could almost be described as beautiful, but none would make any compliments of the sort to his face. He would never think of himself as looking anywhere near attractive or handsome by any stretch of the imagination, and will often decline and deny such words or advances of that nature. Amaris is fairly tall, which is only common for his race. He stands at about six feet and three inches, but is still growing, so it is expected he will surpass that height in the future. His skin is creamy, soft; a pale, light gold color with a smooth sort of sheen to it. It’s almost tantalizing in its color and feel, as though you couldn’t resist reaching out and running your fingers down it to see if it really is as smooth as refined pearls. Paralyzed. When one looks at his eyes, they feel almost paralyzed. So bright and radiant his eyes are. The color of a true chartreuse fire, like the lights of the sky in the north. They glow and gleam and are oh so beautiful, but the malice. The poison. The hate that brims in those eyes melts the hardest of hearts and solidifies them into petrified form. They are the eyes of a snake: watching the prey, hungering for the prey, waiting to strike. Yet, in the midst of that gaze, there is fear. There is fear, sorrow, and an unimaginable pain. A longing for death. Yes. Those eyes long for death. Not to see death or to cause death, but the longing to dim and fade as the owner of those eyes ceases to be. His hair is long and wispy. It is neither straight nor wavy, but an odd combination of both. It is as light as feathers and soft as the fluff of a kitten. It is the color of pale sunlight and spun gold; it shimmers and flickers as sparks in a fire or light off of water. He keeps it long and wild, never truly caring for where it chooses to go. It always possesses a windblown quality. Occasionally, he will keep it back with small braids entwined in the golden waterfall, but for the most part, it is let loose and free.
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/7978799_orig.jpg)
NAME: Irdrin Malalos [Azarkan Redoran]
GENDER: Male
AGE: 24 (and dead for 400 years)
RACE: Dunmer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Dead Thrall to Vaynrileth Faelan
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Tower
RELIGION: Dunmer Pantheon
KIN: Raner Redoran (father)
Eyes of the dead stare with a glassy, opaque gaze at surroundings that the barely functioning mind can comprehend due to limited sight recall. Not only is it hard and rather boring being dead as all the world's pleasures are denied him, it gets lonely. At least Irdrin has his summoner and master Vaynrileth, but sometimes he wonders if it would just be better to die. No, not just wonders, sometimes he knows it would be so much better to die.
For an outsider looking in, it would be hard to place when and where Irdrin first met the necromancer known as Vaynrileth Falas. Some say it was after her banishment. Some say it was before. A few even claim he was one of the corpses that rose from the grave the day she first revealed her dark arts to Meridia's obscure cult. The latter is untrue, for if anyone bothered asking Vaynrileth why she chose him as her thrall, they'd realize it couldn't have been while she was small. Before delving into that whole scheme, one must first take into account Irdrin Malalos' history.
Irdrin Malalos once went by a different name: Azarkan Redoran of House Redoran. Sound familiar? It ought to. Redoran is one of the five great houses ruling over Morrowind. The first name, his name, Azarkan, will not sound familiar at all and it shouldn't, for it was stripped from the history books four centuries ago, not long after his brutal execution.
Azarkan Redoran was the second born son of the councilor Raner Redoran. In his youth, he was the most promising of his four siblings, showing great aptitude to learn the ways of House Redoran, and he held all their tenants to heart. But his older brother, the firstborn, was the stronger of the two, and therefore showed the most prominence as ascending councilor. Azarkan was held in high regard but still pushed aside to make way for his elder sibling. Despite it all, he went on to achieve great things for his House, eventually entering into their city guard of Mournhold. When he turned twenty-three, he set his sights on the House Dres, whose ambitions and inability to honor all life had led them to the sacrilegious practice of owning slaves. But they went so far as to mistreat, abuse, and eventually kill them when they lacked production or used up their purpose. Azarkan spoke out to his family against these horrible things, and found support among his friends. They led raids on the plantations, freeing hundreds if not thousands of slaves in a few short months, catching the House Dres off guard, as they had not expected anyone to oppose them.
Azarkan's attacks against the Dres plantations caused a drastic fall in their profits. They only brought in more and more slaves, made the working conditions even harsher through their quota demands. Azarkan, in turn, made his attacks all the more grander. Even went so far as to conjure an army of atronachs within their very holds to destroy their properties. He burned fields till they were of no use. He never killed though, save the filthiest scum of the taskmasters who beat the slaves without mercy. In this way, he believed he retained his honor. But House Dres only looked at the destruction and felt nothing but hate for the rampaging Dunmer. They went before House Redoran and declared war. If anyone came to notice, there never was a war between House Dres and House Redoran. House Redoran withheld all their support from Azarkan. They held it back too soon however, as he had already gone to House Dres for another raid, only to find that none of his allies came to meet him there. Only a large band of members of the House.
Azarkan was drawn and quartered and parts of his body were dumped on House Redoran's doorstep. But House Redoran, in all their desire for peace and fear of war, as they themselves were facing desperate times, wiped clean the slate of history, eradicated all traces of Azarkan, and pretended nothing had ever happened. A war never came then. The threat was eliminated and apparently had never existed. The Houses continued on as usual.
Irdrin vaguely remembers his life and passions and feats from his days as Azarkan Redoran. If he bears any inkling to that life, it is only from what he read in Azarkan's journal, dug up and read over by Vaynrileth. He doesn't want to look at his past, only his present. Perhaps that is why he doesn't seem to care for anything except serving Vaynrileth as her companion. Or maybe that's why he wants it to end. It seems ironic in a fashion, that he fought to end slavery and wound up a slave himself. He doesn't see it as irony, but as an unjust punishment. A curse.
He was brought back through a spell similar to the conjuring spell of Dead Thrall, but it was more ritualistic and required the help of the Daedra. But despite the spell being successful, he is not fully there, and he feels himself slowly wasting away. He was a corpse for so long, and a corpse he will one day return to being. When? Who really knows. Could be tomorrow or fifty years from now.
Irdrin himself still looks the same as he did four hundred years ago. He still has his dark skin, his light blonde hair (though it looks white now, probably because of his real four hundred years of age). His eyes though are very pale with only hints of red. He looks cold and stern, serious and a little severe, but he's always looked that way apparently. He is a spirit, not a soul. Disconnected from his soul, he has vague memories and can mimic life, but he is lost from being ripped apart like this. Hence why he was so easily forced into Vaynrileth's services. He also lacks most free will and cannot make decisions for himself usually. He also has a slower time remembering or recalling things unless a severe and strong emotion was attached to the memory. Though he still possesses and repeats the ideals held by his house, his heart isn't in it anymore. He has lost his passion. He is literally a shell of his former self.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 24 (and dead for 400 years)
RACE: Dunmer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Dead Thrall to Vaynrileth Faelan
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Tower
RELIGION: Dunmer Pantheon
KIN: Raner Redoran (father)
Eyes of the dead stare with a glassy, opaque gaze at surroundings that the barely functioning mind can comprehend due to limited sight recall. Not only is it hard and rather boring being dead as all the world's pleasures are denied him, it gets lonely. At least Irdrin has his summoner and master Vaynrileth, but sometimes he wonders if it would just be better to die. No, not just wonders, sometimes he knows it would be so much better to die.
For an outsider looking in, it would be hard to place when and where Irdrin first met the necromancer known as Vaynrileth Falas. Some say it was after her banishment. Some say it was before. A few even claim he was one of the corpses that rose from the grave the day she first revealed her dark arts to Meridia's obscure cult. The latter is untrue, for if anyone bothered asking Vaynrileth why she chose him as her thrall, they'd realize it couldn't have been while she was small. Before delving into that whole scheme, one must first take into account Irdrin Malalos' history.
Irdrin Malalos once went by a different name: Azarkan Redoran of House Redoran. Sound familiar? It ought to. Redoran is one of the five great houses ruling over Morrowind. The first name, his name, Azarkan, will not sound familiar at all and it shouldn't, for it was stripped from the history books four centuries ago, not long after his brutal execution.
Azarkan Redoran was the second born son of the councilor Raner Redoran. In his youth, he was the most promising of his four siblings, showing great aptitude to learn the ways of House Redoran, and he held all their tenants to heart. But his older brother, the firstborn, was the stronger of the two, and therefore showed the most prominence as ascending councilor. Azarkan was held in high regard but still pushed aside to make way for his elder sibling. Despite it all, he went on to achieve great things for his House, eventually entering into their city guard of Mournhold. When he turned twenty-three, he set his sights on the House Dres, whose ambitions and inability to honor all life had led them to the sacrilegious practice of owning slaves. But they went so far as to mistreat, abuse, and eventually kill them when they lacked production or used up their purpose. Azarkan spoke out to his family against these horrible things, and found support among his friends. They led raids on the plantations, freeing hundreds if not thousands of slaves in a few short months, catching the House Dres off guard, as they had not expected anyone to oppose them.
Azarkan's attacks against the Dres plantations caused a drastic fall in their profits. They only brought in more and more slaves, made the working conditions even harsher through their quota demands. Azarkan, in turn, made his attacks all the more grander. Even went so far as to conjure an army of atronachs within their very holds to destroy their properties. He burned fields till they were of no use. He never killed though, save the filthiest scum of the taskmasters who beat the slaves without mercy. In this way, he believed he retained his honor. But House Dres only looked at the destruction and felt nothing but hate for the rampaging Dunmer. They went before House Redoran and declared war. If anyone came to notice, there never was a war between House Dres and House Redoran. House Redoran withheld all their support from Azarkan. They held it back too soon however, as he had already gone to House Dres for another raid, only to find that none of his allies came to meet him there. Only a large band of members of the House.
Azarkan was drawn and quartered and parts of his body were dumped on House Redoran's doorstep. But House Redoran, in all their desire for peace and fear of war, as they themselves were facing desperate times, wiped clean the slate of history, eradicated all traces of Azarkan, and pretended nothing had ever happened. A war never came then. The threat was eliminated and apparently had never existed. The Houses continued on as usual.
Irdrin vaguely remembers his life and passions and feats from his days as Azarkan Redoran. If he bears any inkling to that life, it is only from what he read in Azarkan's journal, dug up and read over by Vaynrileth. He doesn't want to look at his past, only his present. Perhaps that is why he doesn't seem to care for anything except serving Vaynrileth as her companion. Or maybe that's why he wants it to end. It seems ironic in a fashion, that he fought to end slavery and wound up a slave himself. He doesn't see it as irony, but as an unjust punishment. A curse.
He was brought back through a spell similar to the conjuring spell of Dead Thrall, but it was more ritualistic and required the help of the Daedra. But despite the spell being successful, he is not fully there, and he feels himself slowly wasting away. He was a corpse for so long, and a corpse he will one day return to being. When? Who really knows. Could be tomorrow or fifty years from now.
Irdrin himself still looks the same as he did four hundred years ago. He still has his dark skin, his light blonde hair (though it looks white now, probably because of his real four hundred years of age). His eyes though are very pale with only hints of red. He looks cold and stern, serious and a little severe, but he's always looked that way apparently. He is a spirit, not a soul. Disconnected from his soul, he has vague memories and can mimic life, but he is lost from being ripped apart like this. Hence why he was so easily forced into Vaynrileth's services. He also lacks most free will and cannot make decisions for himself usually. He also has a slower time remembering or recalling things unless a severe and strong emotion was attached to the memory. Though he still possesses and repeats the ideals held by his house, his heart isn't in it anymore. He has lost his passion. He is literally a shell of his former self.
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/3052111.jpg?560)
NAME: Hjortr War-Fist
GENDER: Male
AGE: 30
RACE: Nord
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Adventurer for Hire
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Warrior
RELIGION: Talos
KIN: Njada War-Fist (daughter)
COMPANION: Ansel (horse)
Always with the serious faces, it's no small wonder that Hjortr is not expected to be the highlight of a party. But though he has a grumpy look on his face most of the time, it is typically because he is just thinking or scrutinizing things too hard for his face to handle. He is actually quite a pleasant person. He's big and burly and could kill anything that crosses his path, but he is a total teddybear on the inside. A lot of his friends call him such in a teasing way. They are probably the only people who can get away with that after all. He has a hard time not coming across as scary, but he is gentle when he is not fighting. Though he is very gentle and kind hearted, he was not hired out to be a mercenary on a whim. He can do a lot of damage, being rather excellent in the use of many types of weapons, most notably his steel greatsword, and his physical strength and bulked muscle aids rather well in those downward cleaves. If he knows any magic, he refuses to say. Hjortr looks rather older than his real age, seeming to be maybe early forties rather than thirty. He has a well-worn face with slight wrinkles, probably from all that frowning, and slight scars on his face aid to the more weathered look. He has dark hair that he keeps above his shoulders, and he has brown eyes. It is no secret that Hjortr is best friends with his companion and fellow for-hire Rijja. When they met, he felt a pair of eyes on him while out wandering the great wide world looking for work. And the feeling didn't go away despite the towns and jobs he entered and took on. Then he learned that it was this slight Redguard girl that was always trailing along. She eventually confronted him, and she asked to join him in his work and his travels. But Hjortr did not want to get her involved in such a life, determined that her skills would be better used elsewhere. But her persistence won out, and she joined up with him on his journeys and jobs henceforth. He is rather happy that it turned out that way. They have become great friends and work well together.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 30
RACE: Nord
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Adventurer for Hire
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Warrior
RELIGION: Talos
KIN: Njada War-Fist (daughter)
COMPANION: Ansel (horse)
Always with the serious faces, it's no small wonder that Hjortr is not expected to be the highlight of a party. But though he has a grumpy look on his face most of the time, it is typically because he is just thinking or scrutinizing things too hard for his face to handle. He is actually quite a pleasant person. He's big and burly and could kill anything that crosses his path, but he is a total teddybear on the inside. A lot of his friends call him such in a teasing way. They are probably the only people who can get away with that after all. He has a hard time not coming across as scary, but he is gentle when he is not fighting. Though he is very gentle and kind hearted, he was not hired out to be a mercenary on a whim. He can do a lot of damage, being rather excellent in the use of many types of weapons, most notably his steel greatsword, and his physical strength and bulked muscle aids rather well in those downward cleaves. If he knows any magic, he refuses to say. Hjortr looks rather older than his real age, seeming to be maybe early forties rather than thirty. He has a well-worn face with slight wrinkles, probably from all that frowning, and slight scars on his face aid to the more weathered look. He has dark hair that he keeps above his shoulders, and he has brown eyes. It is no secret that Hjortr is best friends with his companion and fellow for-hire Rijja. When they met, he felt a pair of eyes on him while out wandering the great wide world looking for work. And the feeling didn't go away despite the towns and jobs he entered and took on. Then he learned that it was this slight Redguard girl that was always trailing along. She eventually confronted him, and she asked to join him in his work and his travels. But Hjortr did not want to get her involved in such a life, determined that her skills would be better used elsewhere. But her persistence won out, and she joined up with him on his journeys and jobs henceforth. He is rather happy that it turned out that way. They have become great friends and work well together.
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/6591869_orig.jpg)
NAME: Aeris Strife
GENDER: Male
AGE: 28
RACE: Altmer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Thalmor Ambassador
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Lover
RELIGION: Altmer Pantheon
KIN: n/a
Aeris grew up alone. His family was always away for business and politics, and being the only child, he was left behind pampered and well taken care of by the housekeeper. A family friend and retired military general taught him everything about war, history, and strategies, as well as military politics. The housekeeper taught him about magic and alchemy. And then there was the local Thalmor Agent who stopped by every now and then when his parents were away to check and see that the Ambassador's son was well cared for and properly and continuously indoctrinated, the latter being a task which he took on whole heartedly.
But no matter how long and persuasive the speeches were, Aeris could never help but love his best friend Seres, a little Nord girl.
They were separated because of the war, and though Aeris is considered an epitome of a true Thalmor, he has never forgotten her, nor will he ever, despite her being a Nord and her worship of Talos.
Aeris always grew in a rather strict home. His parents highly disapproved of his relationship with the neighboring Nord child, but for a while, they kept their mouths shut. As they were often away, there was nothing they could do much about it. The war began when Aeris was entering his preteen years. While he heard rumors and then the news, he still felt happiest when with Seres. The real change when his parents returned home. His mother died of a raging virus, and his father swept him off to Solitude before the body even went cold in the ground. His father put him under the Thalmor Embassy to receive strict indoctination and training. For two years, he was brought up in the ways of the proudest of the Altmer. At sixteen, he became a fully fledged Thalmor Mage, discovering that he held a very high aptitude for magics and a great affinity for potion crafting. However, things were not always their brightest in the Thalmor ranks. He and his charge, an Advisor, were captured by Stormcloak forces. They were all interrogated separately; the Mages, Warriors, and the Advisor. The Stormcloaks wanted information, and they were determined to have it. So they tortured them all as they pleased. The Advisor finally gave in under excruciating tortures, and promptly committed suicide from the shame. Aeris and the others were sent off for slave labor in the Stormcloak's mines and smithy. As if they had not been humiliated enough in their capture, now they were reduced to something less than filth, being forced to build the forts and forge the weapons of their enemy. Aeris and the surviving prisoners were rescued nearly four years later. But for reasons of pride rather than anything else, the Thalmor officially swept all of it under the rug as if it never happened. Aeris continued on his path to becoming an Ambassador, with even a stronger determination than before. He takes his job seriously, having desecrated over a hundred shrines and killed several hundred Talos worshippers. By twenty-four, he was appointed as Skyrim's Thalmor Ambassador, having replaced the former when he died in a Stormcloak ambush.
Aeris has a very 'pretty boy' face. He has soft facial features, a gently sloped nose, soft lips, brilliant blue eyes, and the softest, golden skin. His hair is also very soft and is a brilliant gold color that hangs down past his shoulders. He has a slight, willowy figure, being nimble and agile because of it. Plenty of people, Nord, Altmer -especially Orismer- and every other race besides, all underestimate him because of his looks. But he has incredible fighting and magical skills. He is most adept in Destruction, Conjuring, Restoration, and Alteration magics. He is rather good at alchemy, mostly dabbling in that on his own. And though he is meant to destroy Blades artifacts, he prefers to study them. He even knows one dragon word: Krii, and can mark his foe for death with his voice.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 28
RACE: Altmer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Thalmor Ambassador
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Lover
RELIGION: Altmer Pantheon
KIN: n/a
Aeris grew up alone. His family was always away for business and politics, and being the only child, he was left behind pampered and well taken care of by the housekeeper. A family friend and retired military general taught him everything about war, history, and strategies, as well as military politics. The housekeeper taught him about magic and alchemy. And then there was the local Thalmor Agent who stopped by every now and then when his parents were away to check and see that the Ambassador's son was well cared for and properly and continuously indoctrinated, the latter being a task which he took on whole heartedly.
But no matter how long and persuasive the speeches were, Aeris could never help but love his best friend Seres, a little Nord girl.
They were separated because of the war, and though Aeris is considered an epitome of a true Thalmor, he has never forgotten her, nor will he ever, despite her being a Nord and her worship of Talos.
Aeris always grew in a rather strict home. His parents highly disapproved of his relationship with the neighboring Nord child, but for a while, they kept their mouths shut. As they were often away, there was nothing they could do much about it. The war began when Aeris was entering his preteen years. While he heard rumors and then the news, he still felt happiest when with Seres. The real change when his parents returned home. His mother died of a raging virus, and his father swept him off to Solitude before the body even went cold in the ground. His father put him under the Thalmor Embassy to receive strict indoctination and training. For two years, he was brought up in the ways of the proudest of the Altmer. At sixteen, he became a fully fledged Thalmor Mage, discovering that he held a very high aptitude for magics and a great affinity for potion crafting. However, things were not always their brightest in the Thalmor ranks. He and his charge, an Advisor, were captured by Stormcloak forces. They were all interrogated separately; the Mages, Warriors, and the Advisor. The Stormcloaks wanted information, and they were determined to have it. So they tortured them all as they pleased. The Advisor finally gave in under excruciating tortures, and promptly committed suicide from the shame. Aeris and the others were sent off for slave labor in the Stormcloak's mines and smithy. As if they had not been humiliated enough in their capture, now they were reduced to something less than filth, being forced to build the forts and forge the weapons of their enemy. Aeris and the surviving prisoners were rescued nearly four years later. But for reasons of pride rather than anything else, the Thalmor officially swept all of it under the rug as if it never happened. Aeris continued on his path to becoming an Ambassador, with even a stronger determination than before. He takes his job seriously, having desecrated over a hundred shrines and killed several hundred Talos worshippers. By twenty-four, he was appointed as Skyrim's Thalmor Ambassador, having replaced the former when he died in a Stormcloak ambush.
Aeris has a very 'pretty boy' face. He has soft facial features, a gently sloped nose, soft lips, brilliant blue eyes, and the softest, golden skin. His hair is also very soft and is a brilliant gold color that hangs down past his shoulders. He has a slight, willowy figure, being nimble and agile because of it. Plenty of people, Nord, Altmer -especially Orismer- and every other race besides, all underestimate him because of his looks. But he has incredible fighting and magical skills. He is most adept in Destruction, Conjuring, Restoration, and Alteration magics. He is rather good at alchemy, mostly dabbling in that on his own. And though he is meant to destroy Blades artifacts, he prefers to study them. He even knows one dragon word: Krii, and can mark his foe for death with his voice.
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/9656466_orig.jpg)
NAME: Falco Vitellius
GENDER: Male
AGE: 8
RACE: Imperial
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Orphan up for Adoption
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Lord
RELIGION: Stendarr and Talos
KIN: all dead
Falco Vitellius is rather a rare sight on the streets of Windhelm: an Imperial boy in a sea of Nords and the occasional, oppressed Dunmer. Both of his parents served in the Imperial Army. His father was a Forester and his mother was a Legate. They fell in love and planned to get married when the two of them would be on leave. But their party was captured by Stormcloaks. The couple was thrown into the dungeons. Facing torture, Falco's mother admitted she was pregnant and pleaded with them to spare her if only for the baby. They knew she was telling the truth since she had never, ever been known to buckle under weakness. She had faced plenty of horrible injuries, horrors, and a few temporary captures with tortures before. Six months later, Falco was born. By that time, his father had died under torture. A few years later, his mother died from sickness, and Falco was kicked out into the streets to fend for himself. He has done rather well despite the harsh conditions, but he is not expected to outlast this. He has a long standing wish to leave Windhelm and maybe go to Markarth or something, but such a dream is nearly implausible for a child like him.
Falco has an Imperial look, give or take. He has fair skin, made pale by lack of sunlight, with a few scars and blemishes. His eyes are wide gray pools, always searching, always full of uncertainty and fear. His black hair is scruffy and falls into his face. He cuts it with knives or broken glass he finds so his vision won't be obscured.
Falco tries to be strong even though it is hard. He seldom complains, as most of his tears and spite have been beaten out of him by prison guards and prisoners from his days in the dungeons. Unlike most orphans, he does not beg, not unless the weather is wicked and he needs to find a warmer place to sleep the night. He finds things and sells them to whomever passes through that has the heart to give him a septim. He is often found running around the streets or hanging around the Gray Quarter.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 8
RACE: Imperial
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Orphan up for Adoption
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Lord
RELIGION: Stendarr and Talos
KIN: all dead
Falco Vitellius is rather a rare sight on the streets of Windhelm: an Imperial boy in a sea of Nords and the occasional, oppressed Dunmer. Both of his parents served in the Imperial Army. His father was a Forester and his mother was a Legate. They fell in love and planned to get married when the two of them would be on leave. But their party was captured by Stormcloaks. The couple was thrown into the dungeons. Facing torture, Falco's mother admitted she was pregnant and pleaded with them to spare her if only for the baby. They knew she was telling the truth since she had never, ever been known to buckle under weakness. She had faced plenty of horrible injuries, horrors, and a few temporary captures with tortures before. Six months later, Falco was born. By that time, his father had died under torture. A few years later, his mother died from sickness, and Falco was kicked out into the streets to fend for himself. He has done rather well despite the harsh conditions, but he is not expected to outlast this. He has a long standing wish to leave Windhelm and maybe go to Markarth or something, but such a dream is nearly implausible for a child like him.
Falco has an Imperial look, give or take. He has fair skin, made pale by lack of sunlight, with a few scars and blemishes. His eyes are wide gray pools, always searching, always full of uncertainty and fear. His black hair is scruffy and falls into his face. He cuts it with knives or broken glass he finds so his vision won't be obscured.
Falco tries to be strong even though it is hard. He seldom complains, as most of his tears and spite have been beaten out of him by prison guards and prisoners from his days in the dungeons. Unlike most orphans, he does not beg, not unless the weather is wicked and he needs to find a warmer place to sleep the night. He finds things and sells them to whomever passes through that has the heart to give him a septim. He is often found running around the streets or hanging around the Gray Quarter.
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/757769.jpg?513)
NAME: Lesorlain Frostlock
GENDER: Male
AGE: 49
RACE: Bosmer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: The Blades
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Shadow
RELIGION: Yffre
KIN: unknown
This Bosmer is none other than Lesorlain Frostlock. He has a very recognizable face, for no other reason than being disgustingly deformed. He had never fully understood the Blades and their goals until their mortal enemy picked him up in his jaws and set him on fire. Hard to deny the urgency of their quest in saving Skyrim from dragonkind when it literally stares and burns you in the face.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 49
RACE: Bosmer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: The Blades
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Shadow
RELIGION: Yffre
KIN: unknown
This Bosmer is none other than Lesorlain Frostlock. He has a very recognizable face, for no other reason than being disgustingly deformed. He had never fully understood the Blades and their goals until their mortal enemy picked him up in his jaws and set him on fire. Hard to deny the urgency of their quest in saving Skyrim from dragonkind when it literally stares and burns you in the face.
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/4053010.jpg?416)
NAME: Eilien Lareth
GENDER: Male
AGE: 9 (truly 409)
RACE: Altmer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Dark Brotherhood Executioner
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Lover
RELIGION: Mephala, Night Mother, Sithis
KIN: unknown
Eilien Lareth seems small and sweet, with a cuteness that must be embraced, he is everything you should fear. Everything you should detest. For he is a vampire, and vampires are carnal creatures of bloodshed and blood thirst.
Eilien Lareth was turned into a vampire when he was nine years old, freezing him to immortality before he matured in body. After four centuries, he has grown much in mind and spirit, trapped forever as this small, vulnerable thing.
He served the Dark Brotherhood many years, working as a Silencer and at one point, as a Speaker. But now he is starting over in _ as a mere member, just going out and fulfilling contracts.
He has to have someone with him on his journeys as he tends to get out of control. He starves himself of blood that he often gets sick and weak, so tasting or smelling blood of his victims throws him into a craze. This makes him a great ally and a vicious weapon, but it does not serve the brotherhood's purposes. He still seeks a way to contain himself and become more human, but the allure of his own powers is to strong for him to shed willingly. Oh no. He will never give this up.
he's also an every changing, constantly conflicted person because he has so many facades and personas that he goes through everyday. also, he's much quicker to forgive and forget than other people since he sees everyone's lives as being too short for him to hold grudges against
GENDER: Male
AGE: 9 (truly 409)
RACE: Altmer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Dark Brotherhood Executioner
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Lover
RELIGION: Mephala, Night Mother, Sithis
KIN: unknown
Eilien Lareth seems small and sweet, with a cuteness that must be embraced, he is everything you should fear. Everything you should detest. For he is a vampire, and vampires are carnal creatures of bloodshed and blood thirst.
Eilien Lareth was turned into a vampire when he was nine years old, freezing him to immortality before he matured in body. After four centuries, he has grown much in mind and spirit, trapped forever as this small, vulnerable thing.
He served the Dark Brotherhood many years, working as a Silencer and at one point, as a Speaker. But now he is starting over in _ as a mere member, just going out and fulfilling contracts.
He has to have someone with him on his journeys as he tends to get out of control. He starves himself of blood that he often gets sick and weak, so tasting or smelling blood of his victims throws him into a craze. This makes him a great ally and a vicious weapon, but it does not serve the brotherhood's purposes. He still seeks a way to contain himself and become more human, but the allure of his own powers is to strong for him to shed willingly. Oh no. He will never give this up.
he's also an every changing, constantly conflicted person because he has so many facades and personas that he goes through everyday. also, he's much quicker to forgive and forget than other people since he sees everyone's lives as being too short for him to hold grudges against
VAMPIRE BROTHERS
The Sepitnox brothers are all vampires. All five of them. They did not all become vampires right away. It took some time, and so, some stopped aging at an older age than their older siblings.
Order Chronologically: Tartarus, Erebus & Nyx, Gaia, Eros
Order by Age: Tartarus (24), Erebus & Nyx (23), Eros (22), Gaia (21)
Age Vampire-wise: Tartarus (206), Erebus & Nyx (203), Gaia (202), Eros (200)
The Sepitnox brothers are all vampires. All five of them. They did not all become vampires right away. It took some time, and so, some stopped aging at an older age than their older siblings.
Order Chronologically: Tartarus, Erebus & Nyx, Gaia, Eros
Order by Age: Tartarus (24), Erebus & Nyx (23), Eros (22), Gaia (21)
Age Vampire-wise: Tartarus (206), Erebus & Nyx (203), Gaia (202), Eros (200)
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/7349024.jpg?687)
NAME: Erebus Septinox
GENDER: Male
AGE: 23 (203)
RACE: Imperial Vampire
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Mercenary
STAR-SIGN:
RELIGION:
KIN: Tartarus, Nyx (twin), Gaia, Eros
When Erebus was twenty-three years old, he thought the last sight he would ever see was the blade descending on his twin brother's body. It had already struck through his heart, and now his beloved sibling was to suffer the same fate as he. But then, like a god, a figure stepped from the shadows and wrenched their would be murderer in two.
A red aura surrounded him, called him back from the brink. A voice begged Erebus for forgiveness, and then everything was gone. When next Erebus awoke, he was very much alive, so was his brother, and he had a hunger for blood unlike anything he had known before.
Erebus led his brother rampaging through much of Skyrim's wilderness, attacking caravans, travelers, beggars, bandits, and lone hunters, draining them dry of everything they had. Feeling more powerful than ever before, they even went on to attack other vampires, going after fledglings
Erebus and his twin brother Nyx go around recruiting people for their Clan. They are pretty darn evil. Like SO EEEEVIL you would have to invent a new word.
Erebus is rather dark and quiet, cynical, a bit arrogant, with a pinch of nasty. He has a way with words and tends to lie about his true thoughts. And ladies, never trust him when he's trying to be all seductive. It's a ruse. He beds a lot of chicks, then runs out and kills people. He is good at sneaking around when he wants.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 23 (203)
RACE: Imperial Vampire
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Mercenary
STAR-SIGN:
RELIGION:
KIN: Tartarus, Nyx (twin), Gaia, Eros
When Erebus was twenty-three years old, he thought the last sight he would ever see was the blade descending on his twin brother's body. It had already struck through his heart, and now his beloved sibling was to suffer the same fate as he. But then, like a god, a figure stepped from the shadows and wrenched their would be murderer in two.
A red aura surrounded him, called him back from the brink. A voice begged Erebus for forgiveness, and then everything was gone. When next Erebus awoke, he was very much alive, so was his brother, and he had a hunger for blood unlike anything he had known before.
Erebus led his brother rampaging through much of Skyrim's wilderness, attacking caravans, travelers, beggars, bandits, and lone hunters, draining them dry of everything they had. Feeling more powerful than ever before, they even went on to attack other vampires, going after fledglings
Erebus and his twin brother Nyx go around recruiting people for their Clan. They are pretty darn evil. Like SO EEEEVIL you would have to invent a new word.
Erebus is rather dark and quiet, cynical, a bit arrogant, with a pinch of nasty. He has a way with words and tends to lie about his true thoughts. And ladies, never trust him when he's trying to be all seductive. It's a ruse. He beds a lot of chicks, then runs out and kills people. He is good at sneaking around when he wants.
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/2677631.jpg?596)
NAME: Nyx Septinox
GENDER: Male
AGE: 23 (203)
RACE: Imperial
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION:
STAR-SIGN:
RELIGION:
KIN: Erebus (twin), Gaia, Tartarus, Eros
Nyx is cruel. Cruel and beautiful. He is quick to act and fight. He is hard headed but loyal. Solid and unbending in his beliefs. He and Erebus are forming their own Clan.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 23 (203)
RACE: Imperial
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION:
STAR-SIGN:
RELIGION:
KIN: Erebus (twin), Gaia, Tartarus, Eros
Nyx is cruel. Cruel and beautiful. He is quick to act and fight. He is hard headed but loyal. Solid and unbending in his beliefs. He and Erebus are forming their own Clan.
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/6742321_orig.jpg)
NAME: Eros Septinox
GENDER: Male
AGE: 22 (200)
RACE: Imperial Vampire
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION:
STAR-SIGN:
RELIGION:
KIN: Erebus, Nyx, Gaia, Tartarus
He was in the College of Winterhold from a young age, showing great aptitude for conjuration. His best friend was a fellow student named Sarvesh of House Telvanni. They were heavily influenced and interested in necromancy, but it was heavily frowned upon, so they worked primarily in secret. During their travels, they came upon a necromancy cult.
Eros was a criminal wanted by the Empire for murdering over a dozen men, women, and children, having used them in his ghastly, magical experiments. He was cast out of the College of Winterhold and was hunted down. After a year of running, he was finally apprehended. His bounty and name were cleared after he saved the life of an Imperial while escaping Helgen. He did not stick around for this, but it was cleared all the same.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 22 (200)
RACE: Imperial Vampire
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION:
STAR-SIGN:
RELIGION:
KIN: Erebus, Nyx, Gaia, Tartarus
He was in the College of Winterhold from a young age, showing great aptitude for conjuration. His best friend was a fellow student named Sarvesh of House Telvanni. They were heavily influenced and interested in necromancy, but it was heavily frowned upon, so they worked primarily in secret. During their travels, they came upon a necromancy cult.
Eros was a criminal wanted by the Empire for murdering over a dozen men, women, and children, having used them in his ghastly, magical experiments. He was cast out of the College of Winterhold and was hunted down. After a year of running, he was finally apprehended. His bounty and name were cleared after he saved the life of an Imperial while escaping Helgen. He did not stick around for this, but it was cleared all the same.
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/4617694.jpg?589)
NAME: Gaia Septinox
GENDER: Male
AGE: 21 (202)
RACE: Imperial Vampire
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION:
STAR-SIGN:
RELIGION:
KIN: Tartarus, Nyx, Erebus, Eros
Gaia is the one trying to redeem his evil nature by doing as much good as possible. He often fails.
He does healing by using potions. He studies lots of alchemy.
His favored weapon is dual wield war axes of elvish make.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 21 (202)
RACE: Imperial Vampire
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION:
STAR-SIGN:
RELIGION:
KIN: Tartarus, Nyx, Erebus, Eros
Gaia is the one trying to redeem his evil nature by doing as much good as possible. He often fails.
He does healing by using potions. He studies lots of alchemy.
His favored weapon is dual wield war axes of elvish make.
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/7448778.jpg?554)
NAME: Tartarus Septinox
GENDER: Male
AGE: 24 (206)
RACE: Imperial Vampire
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION:
STAR-SIGN:
RELIGION:
KIN: Erebus, Nyx, Gaia, Eros
The eldest watcher over all his brothers. He picks up their messes and pieces them together when he has to. He fades between the lines of good and evil.
He has a habit of disappearing for years at a time.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 24 (206)
RACE: Imperial Vampire
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION:
STAR-SIGN:
RELIGION:
KIN: Erebus, Nyx, Gaia, Eros
The eldest watcher over all his brothers. He picks up their messes and pieces them together when he has to. He fades between the lines of good and evil.
He has a habit of disappearing for years at a time.
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/1385833.jpg?325)
NAME: Mord Hawkmien
GENDER: Male
AGE: 11
RACE: Breton
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Orphan in Windhelm
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Tower
RELIGION: Breton Pantheon
KIN: dead
Mord is a slight, willowy boy of eleven years of age. He has brown hair and cold, teal eyes. He is very strong and holds a lot of bitterness towards most other races, especially Khajiit.
His mother was a good for nothing skooma addict who spent everything they had on the drugs. She eventually sold Mord into slavery to pay for more drugs.
He was eventually rescued by his father who pulled him along to Windhelm where he was supposedly trying to join the Stormcloak Rebellion. He died along the way from hypothermia. Mord made it to Windhelm alone where, at age eight, he turned to thieving to stay alive.
He comes across as very resolute and cold. He is a very logical thinker, even though he manipulates things to fit his personal beliefs, which may change on the turn of a dime. He is very selfish, having to do everything in his power to keep himself alive. But he is not without certain moral scruples. He is also surprisingly cool headed, even tempered, and very polite.
GENDER: Male
AGE: 11
RACE: Breton
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Orphan in Windhelm
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Tower
RELIGION: Breton Pantheon
KIN: dead
Mord is a slight, willowy boy of eleven years of age. He has brown hair and cold, teal eyes. He is very strong and holds a lot of bitterness towards most other races, especially Khajiit.
His mother was a good for nothing skooma addict who spent everything they had on the drugs. She eventually sold Mord into slavery to pay for more drugs.
He was eventually rescued by his father who pulled him along to Windhelm where he was supposedly trying to join the Stormcloak Rebellion. He died along the way from hypothermia. Mord made it to Windhelm alone where, at age eight, he turned to thieving to stay alive.
He comes across as very resolute and cold. He is a very logical thinker, even though he manipulates things to fit his personal beliefs, which may change on the turn of a dime. He is very selfish, having to do everything in his power to keep himself alive. But he is not without certain moral scruples. He is also surprisingly cool headed, even tempered, and very polite.
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NAME: Ragashor gra-Skargot
GENDER: Female
AGE: 14
RACE: Orismer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Orphan Wanderer
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Warrior
RELIGION: Malacath
KIN: Sheogor gro-Skargot (brother), Irkelosh (mother), Skargot (father)
Ragashor is a young orc girl with a very strong desire to prove herself. While her brother vanished inexplicably, she was left at home to fend for herself under the watchful eye of her parents. Her mother was often looked down upon for being weak, as she became obsessed with protecting and micromanaging her remaining child, feeling that Ragashor would vanish too. As her father did not care about his then fifteenth wife and twenty-third daughter, Ragashor was left alone to be shamed and ignored because of her mother's insecurity and weakness. Ragashor eventually left home to fend for herself, deciding once and for all that she was going to prove she was not a weakling, and that she was better than her crazed mother. She even forsook her mother's name and assumed her much stronger, well known father's title.
Ragashor left at age nine and spent two years in Markarth where she studied blacksmithing and combat. She is rather good at many forms of fighting, from archery, hand-to-hand, and dual weilding. She keeps a pair of short iron swords on her at all times. She loves them dearly, as they are her most faithful companions.
She left Markarth after two years to learn more weapons training in Dragon Bridge. One of the Imperial guards named Aures taught her the rest of what she now knows, having put her through rigorous, military training for three years.
On her fourteenth birthday, Aures said he was leaving for a patrol, but that he had something important to tell her. He never got the chance to reveal his little surprise, as he died on patrol when he was separated from his party and then mauled by a sabre cat. Rather struck by such a harsh passing, Ragashor left Dragon Bridge, deciding she had learned all she could there, and that she had to begin her journey to prove herself.
She picks up any odd job anyone gives her. No one takes her very seriously since she's so young, but that won't stop her. She is very determined, strong willed, and level headed. She is more of a doer than a thinker, often taking charge in situations and ordering people around. She never twiddles her thumbs idly.
Being underestimated has its downside. Rude comments and snide remarks often fly her way when grown, world weary men see an orc girl offering to take down dragur and battle with necromancers. She knows full well how dangerous the work is, but she's not very good at backing down from challenges. She puts on a brave face, bites her tongue, and keeps her head high. Even when they call her scum and child and baby. She has been through troubles on the roads between cities and on the few jobs she has taken on. She understands more than some just how harsh life can be. That will never stop her. Never slow her down. It's just another weakness to overcome.
GENDER: Female
AGE: 14
RACE: Orismer
RANK/ROLE/OCCUPATION: Orphan Wanderer
STAR-SIGN: Sign of the Warrior
RELIGION: Malacath
KIN: Sheogor gro-Skargot (brother), Irkelosh (mother), Skargot (father)
Ragashor is a young orc girl with a very strong desire to prove herself. While her brother vanished inexplicably, she was left at home to fend for herself under the watchful eye of her parents. Her mother was often looked down upon for being weak, as she became obsessed with protecting and micromanaging her remaining child, feeling that Ragashor would vanish too. As her father did not care about his then fifteenth wife and twenty-third daughter, Ragashor was left alone to be shamed and ignored because of her mother's insecurity and weakness. Ragashor eventually left home to fend for herself, deciding once and for all that she was going to prove she was not a weakling, and that she was better than her crazed mother. She even forsook her mother's name and assumed her much stronger, well known father's title.
Ragashor left at age nine and spent two years in Markarth where she studied blacksmithing and combat. She is rather good at many forms of fighting, from archery, hand-to-hand, and dual weilding. She keeps a pair of short iron swords on her at all times. She loves them dearly, as they are her most faithful companions.
She left Markarth after two years to learn more weapons training in Dragon Bridge. One of the Imperial guards named Aures taught her the rest of what she now knows, having put her through rigorous, military training for three years.
On her fourteenth birthday, Aures said he was leaving for a patrol, but that he had something important to tell her. He never got the chance to reveal his little surprise, as he died on patrol when he was separated from his party and then mauled by a sabre cat. Rather struck by such a harsh passing, Ragashor left Dragon Bridge, deciding she had learned all she could there, and that she had to begin her journey to prove herself.
She picks up any odd job anyone gives her. No one takes her very seriously since she's so young, but that won't stop her. She is very determined, strong willed, and level headed. She is more of a doer than a thinker, often taking charge in situations and ordering people around. She never twiddles her thumbs idly.
Being underestimated has its downside. Rude comments and snide remarks often fly her way when grown, world weary men see an orc girl offering to take down dragur and battle with necromancers. She knows full well how dangerous the work is, but she's not very good at backing down from challenges. She puts on a brave face, bites her tongue, and keeps her head high. Even when they call her scum and child and baby. She has been through troubles on the roads between cities and on the few jobs she has taken on. She understands more than some just how harsh life can be. That will never stop her. Never slow her down. It's just another weakness to overcome.
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/3104136.jpg?728)
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/9173376.jpg?642)