SoulofChrysamere

Hey, everyone. This is just a short little tale I wrote to give one of my current Morrowind characters, a young Redguard woman, some more personality and to stay in tune with the Elder Scrolls universe. ================================================================================================================================================================ For the first time that week, there was a clear sky above the gray, ashen hills of Molag Amur. Nevertheless, the winds still whipped through the foyadas, kicking up clouds of dust and ash as they went. The scant wildlife wandered the wastes in search of what meager rations they could scrounge up for the day, and the infamous cliff racers continued patrolling the skies to the detriment of everyone unlucky enough to have his travels cross through their territory. The calls of animals and hisses of volcanic steam vents echoed throughout those lava-carved corridors, daring those within to press on. Although, for the time being in one small pocket of this scarred region, the skies remained unblemished by darting forms of cliff racers, for Elista the Redguard, armed with a hardy steel crossbow and the keen eye to match, had sent them to the earth from afar. Now a few bolts poorer but compensated by her prey's prized plumes, this woman found herself in a most curious situation. The path before her lay halved by a trench dug by a thin river of lava that bottlenecked a little before the path itself. It was a good fifteen-foot drop into a molten grave below, and the lava's gurgling gave it the character of a hungry being pleased to see what could be its latest lunch knelt atop its blackened bank. She was young and ambitious, convinced her youth could conquer any obstacle that had the nerve to block her way. Her strong shoulders hardly minded her bolt quiver and pack, heavy with healing potions, repair equipment, and other sundries, and her left leg barely noticed the heavy crossbow strapped to it. Her silver-plated spear, whose purplish-white glow warned of its electric thrust, made a fantastic walking stick. A netch leather helmet guarded her pretty head, and matching pauldrons led into a pair of strong, brown bearskin gauntlets. A heavier dragonscale cuirass shielded her torso, its gray, stylized spikes wrapping around her buxom chest above a set of molded abdominals. Chitin leg guards and boots guarded her lower body, although she'd have preferred some more resilient footwear had she only the coin. Yet, despite this optimistic mood toward her gear, even this epitome of youthful exuberance balked at the sight of her one shot at crossing such a deadly gap. As such a youngster still unused to the values of magic like levitation and enhanced jumping, Elista found herself asking the same question all like her must ask themselves at such a time. The disconcerted scowl on her face said it all. Do I really trust this bridge to not drop me to my death? The simple yet heavy question resounded in Elista's mind as she sat on her haunches just before the bridge in question, inspecting the wood and rope with her energetic, walnut-brown eyes. Indeed, it was mere rope bridge complete with supports only at its ends to ensure maximum wobbling during the walk across. The rope looked about as sturdy as any she'd seen on any fixer-upper, and the planks looked worn and rickety enough to be leftovers from some other project years ago. She tested the first plank a few times with her hand, but its creaking hardly helped her pessimism. Muttered curses slipped from her lips every now and then. She spent an hour debating whether to attempt a crossing or backtrack to Molag Mar. As much as she enjoyed the miniature Vivec's comfort in the midst of such an inhospitable land, she thirsted for adventure somewhere greener and wetter. She'd already tackled the swamps of the Bitter Coast and the wetlands of the Ascadian Isles, so now her sights set on northern Azura's Coast and the Grazelands, both of which awaited beyond the bridge. Her lack of knowledge of the area doomed any thoughts of intricate detours. As far as she knew, this was the only route that didn't run through a gauntlet of lakes and bays infested with smuggler gangs and other nefarious rabble that'd leave her supplies overtaxed long before she reached her destination. All of these thoughts wrestled with each other and Elista's apprehension. Eventually, the lass stood and, with a deep, prayerful sigh, elected to brave the bridge. Elista lined herself up with the dead center of the bridge to avoid brushing the ropes, and she tested the first few planks several times over before finally committing. As she eased into the tense crossing, petitions for protection flew from her silently working lips to whatever god held her racing mind's attention at that moment. She hoped that if there was only ever one point in her life that warranted patronage from on high, this was it. True to her fears, the bridge began to sway and creak under her weight as she advanced. By the time she reached the middle, it had taken on a slight waving motion, and Elista kept having to increasingly delicately balance soft and sure steps with abrupt shifts to steady herself. The planks continued their discontented creaks, and the ropes even joined in with stressed grunts. She didn't dare look down, staying focused on the bridge's end. Sweat ran down her face and stung her eyes. Foot by foot, she inched closer to freedom until at last, after what felt like an eternity of walking through those few yards of purgatory, she alighted on the far side. Only the bitter, persistent taste of ash kept her from kissing the solid ground. Suddenly, Elista felt infinitely lighter as the crushing, life-or-death weight the crossing lifted from her. Her excited breathing began to calm, and she eagerly began distancing herself from the wooden deathtrap. Then, there came a blood-chilling roar that announced her purgatory was not yet over. She'd been so focused on the end of the bridge during the crossing, that she'd neglected all other surroundings. Now, she found herself the target of an onrushing kagouti come to punish her tunnel vision. Little more than an armored, tusked red head atop a pair of big legs, the creature was all business, and Elista, still quite near the lava river, felt her heart sink at the sight of it. With no time for her crossbow, she readied her spear and tried to run aside so her back wouldn't be to the lava. To her dismay, the kagouti was too quick and corralled her against the drop-off. It wildly lunged at her with its tusks, trying to gore her or send her sprawling over the edge to her death. She tried to counterattack, but the predator was older and more cautious that most, taking care to dodge the thrusts at its legs and block with its faceplate. Then, she started losing ground. With the kagouti slowly but surely forcing the desperate woman back toward the edge, it appeared that the gods had just teased her with a safe crossing only to drag her into the lava anyway. However, as a Redguard, she still had one more chance at surviving the ordeal, and it kicked in then. Time slowed down. The kagouti's fast strikes became lethargic haymakers that she easily avoided. Her spear danced through the air as nimbly as a quick little bird, suddenly finding purchase in the kagouti's softer lower body, drawing trickles of blood and shocking the beast's anger to new heights with each hit. Her adrenaline had returned, rushing through her body with the sheer volume and potency that only the Redguards could boast. In her frantic race to escape the lava, Elista had circled around the kagouti and managed to reverse their positions. It was now her foe's turn to retreat before her onslaught, and for all its rage and toughness, it couldn't withstand her attacks. The kagouti maintained its futile resistance up until got backed up against one of the bridge's supports, where it's head snapped back against the post, causing it to momentarily open its mouth in surprise. Seeing her opportunity, Elista thrust her spear upward into the roof of the beast's mouth, driving its pulsing head through the bone and into the kagouti's brain. The mass of tusks and muscle went limp, now simply a corpse held up by the victorious girl's supercharged arms. Elista was about to draw back her spear when gravity acted first. The bridge support, unsteadied by the kagouti's impact, had gotten leaned over the trench and had been preparing to fall. At that moment, it abandoned its fastenings and plummeted into the lava below, bringing down a good portion of the bridge with it. The kagouti's body and all the debris landed in the lava with large splashes, lost to Vvardenfell's harsh nature. The young woman watched the bridge collapse in front of her, and her mind, now tapering off of the adrenaline rush, could muster up just one half-thought that kept repeating itself. If that kagouti had come for me just a minute earlier... She couldn't finish the sentence. She scrambled away from the now bridgeless trench and plopped against a boulder, sucking in huge gulps of air. She cupped her face in her hands and began laughing that joyous, grateful, borderline maniacal laugh of someone who'd narrowly escaped a gruesome, untimely demise. Right then, there was no more wonderful experience in the world than the feeling of her lungs swelling and relaxing as she drew breath, of her heart beating madly as it labored to rush nutrients to her drained limbs, of her mind swimming in an ocean of praises to whatever divine intervention had spared her this day, of still being alive. An hour or two ticked by as the sun journeyed overhead with Elista still seated there against her boulder. She'd celebrated her survival with an extra ration of nix-hound jerky and water, and she could feel some energy returning to her muscles. She tarried a bit longer, but she ultimately rose and started along the path to northeastern Vvardenfell. Just before she left its sight, she stole one last farewell look at the trench, the remnants of its former bridge no doubt fated to taunt future uninformed travelers with its damaged state. She smirked and shook her head, resolving to be more careful and forethoughtful from there on out. With her jaunty gait, she resumed hauling her fortunate hide along the road, a little less invincible, and a little wiser for it.

Gavinyarel: The Red Ring Road -- Midyear, 4E 201 Gavinyarel brought Quicksilver to a stop beside the woman even though he had half a mind to just keep on going. For all the difficulty she'd given him and everyone else back at the Roxey Village, he admired her guts. He'd seen more than a few aspiring witchhunters follow their dreams right to their early demises, but he figured this particular woman had a chance at surviving the first stage with the right guidance. "I don't suppose you've finally remembered what happened last night?" Gavinyarel asked calmly, tightly gripping the reins in case he had to pull a quick escape.

Gavinyarel: The Red Ring Road -- Midyear, 4E 201 Gavinyarel pocketed the coins and followed the other two men at a distance back to the inn. He quietly went and recovered his things from his room and then left to get his horse, grateful he didn't have to dodge any flying cookware along the way. His trusty painted stallion Quicksilver stood ready there at the stables. Gavinyarel untied Quicksilver and strapped his belongings on him. After making sure everything was secure, he hopped into the saddle and galloped away toward Bruma. It wasn't long before he overtook the Breton woman, who he supposed was still redder in the face than a polished apple.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the old Roxey Cemetery -- Midyear, 4E 201 Gavinyarel gritted his teeth slightly. He was beginning to lose his patience with the woman. "Considering you can't exactly prove you're the one who did dispose of this creature, seeing as how you didn't appear to have brought any sort of proof back to the inn, you have even less of a right to the bounty as I do right now. In case you haven't realized it yet, I'm vouching for you. You didn't even have a torch, so there's no way you could've burned this thing. Unless you've got a better explanation as to how this zombie ended up like this, I'm insisting that I get half the bounty." he said plainly to the woman. Not that a fifty-septim reward was the grandest payout he'd ever pursued during his time, but as a man on the road, his purse could be only so big.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201 "Uh...well, uh...alright, but let's be quick about it." the innkeeper said, the uneasiness apparent in his voice. Gavinyarel, the Breton woman, and the innkeeper and his son all made the short, tense trip back to the cemetery, where the stench of rotten, burnt flesh still slightly lingered in the air. The woman's crossbow lay there on the ground, thankfully undamaged. "All right," Gavinyarel began as he walked over to the destroyed zombie. "Let's do a little thinking. I'm claiming I that I was here during the fight with this zombie, and as you can see, it's all black and charred from being lit on fire. Your witchhunter here had no tools that could have set it on fire. Her swords are unenchanted, as are her crossbow and bolts. I haven't seen her use any fire magic, and I reckon she doesn't know any." he said, hoping to build a case for himself around the fact that the zombie met a rather heated end. Gavinyarel then proved his own spellcasting ability by conjuring a small flame in his hands. "I, on the other hand, would have no problems setting something ablaze." The innkeeper and his son both scratched their heads, thinking a bit harder than they were used to. "Okay then, what say you, lady?" the innkeeper asked the woman. Gavinyarel folded his arms and waited, praying he was being correctly understood.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201 Sensing the tension rising between the two people at his counter, the innkeeper grabbed his cutting knife and called his son in from the back room where they did the cooking. The son was relatively tall for an Imperial, standing at around six-foot-one. He was lanky and armed with only a ladle for the potential confrontation of which he wasn't yet aware. A few of the patrons, either rowdier than they first appeared or used to dealing with troublemakers proactively, readied whatever was in their hands at that moment for battle, be it a tankard or a fork. Gavinyarel scarcely had time to process the woman's latest words before the atmosphere became considerably less charming. His mood switched from exasperated to wary as he eyed everyone, and he apprehensively bit his lip as he tried to think of something to say. Eighty years of staring down motley assortments of tavern-goers hadn't made it any easier when he found himself in this sort of predicament. He kept his arms folded, hoping his unaggressive stance would stave off the onslaught of kitchenware. "Innkeeper sir, I don't want any trouble. I'm merely here to collect my half of the reward for helping to take care of that zombie that's been haunting your cemetery. It was supposed to be a one-time-only deal with my, eh, partner here. If you'd like some proof, I suggest we go take a look at the zombie's remains." Gavinyarel said, fighting the natural urge to stutter every syllable of the way. He dearly hoped the woman would catch on and play along instead of trying to shoot it out with a missing-in-action crossbow.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201 "Pointy ears?" Well, I've been called worse. "Maybe I can jog your memory a bit. It has something to do with this village's cemetery, 'round about last night. A certain zombie minus a head, taking your bolts and glowing blade right in stride, punching you into a headstone...going up in flames just before it was about to finish you off? Maybe a tall, shadowy figure standing over both of you...wondering where his fifty septims are at?" Gavinyarel said, glancing at the innkeeper at the end of the last sentence.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201 Gavinyarel took the movements of the woman's hands as preparation for a bar fight. Not that he hadn't been in one or two during his time, but Gavinyarel usually found folks unwilling to confront even an inebriated Altmer for fear of falling victim to some sort of magic. He figured he had to admire her resolve if nothing else. Also, bonus points for knowing the word "Altmer." Then, he realized it. In her weakened state last night, lying there against the tombstone with her head bleeding and the alcohol fighting her adrenaline for control of her body, she must've not seen things as they truly transpired at the end; perhaps her memory was somewhat scrambled. Gavinyarel sighed, saying, "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201 Gavinyarel slowly opened his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He sat up lazily and cupped his head, massaging beside his eyes in an attempt to force the drowsiness from them. Then, he remembered the woman. Gavinyarel hopped out of bed and slipped on his boots. He locked his room's door behind him as he headed downstairs to see if the innkeeper knew how the woman was doing. He'd seen novices trying to get a grip on the witchhunter's trade before, and most of them became nothing more than grim warnings and reminders of how dangerous the witchhunter's trade could be. He supposed she'd have become just another statistic if not for his timely intervention, but considering the state she was in, he hardly expected a warm reception if they met face-to-face. Still, he had to give her some credit. A bound sword and a crossbow were a step above some of the beginner kits he saw. Then, it hit him when he was halfway down the stairs. Her crossbow! Damn it... In his haste to tend her wounds, he'd forgotten it at the cemetery. Gavinyarel headed straight for the bar upon entering the tavern area, and was caught off guard when he saw himself before the woman in question. In all her youthful spite of her state, she appeared to be requesting her payment for dealing with the zombie. "Eh, wait a second. You seem to be forgetting something there, Miss." Gavinyarel said as he leaned against the wall.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Old Roxey Cemetery -- Midyear, 4E 201 Gavinyarel scowled in disgust at the burning remnants of the zombie. Undead were a unique sort to him, the physical types mostly rotten and reeking badly enough to turn a sturdy stomach. He then looked to the woman, who'd blacked out from her injuries. Damn it, don't die now...especially not from head-butting a tombstone. he thought as he rushed over to inspect her wounds. Gavinyarel squatted down and examined her head wound, which was still gushing blood. He quickly pulled a large cloth and bandage out of his backpack and pressed against the wound in an effort try and stop the bleeding. It took a few minutes, but the blood at last began to clot, and Gavinyarel bound it up as best he could. He could clean it back at the inn. With a grunt, he managed to hoist her over his shoulder and began the walk back to the inn. Luckily, his adrenaline didn't mind the extra weight, and he had her back at the inn quickly. Gavinyarel shoved the door open with his free hand and went straight to the counter, ignoring the gawking patrons who stared in wonder at his injured cargo. "I need you to free up a room. Now." he said impatiently. "Uh, yes, all right. Come with me." the old innkeeper said, leading the way up the stairs. He unlocked his only other available room, and Gavinyarel entered and set her on the bed. "Get me a rag." Gavinyarel told the innkeeper before sending him off. He removed the bandage from the woman's head and took a small flask of ale from his belt. He dabbed his only other clean cloth with the ale and then pressed it against the wound to disinfect it as much as possible. After wiping the excess away, he wove a healing aura in his hand and pressed it against the wound. The parted skin slowly drew back together. The innkeeper returned with the rag, and after he finished with his healing spell, Gavinyarel bound it to where the wound was just to be safe. He'd had wounds reopen on him before, not something he considered fun at all. Content he'd done all he could for the woman, Gavinyarel packed up his supplies and returned to his own room. After running his rags down to the innkeeper for cleaning and paying a night's stay for the woman, he crawled into his bed and tried to fall asleep. An hour ticked by without so much as a doze, but he was at last able to drift into an uneasy sleep.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Old Roxey Cemetery -- Midyear, 4E 201 Gavinyarel watched as the woman struck first with a bolt to the zombie's breast, but he was unsurprised at the creature's unconcern. He was about to step in when she abandoned her crossbow, but was genuinely surprised when she conjured a sword in her hand. He paused and decided to see how she fared with her new weapon, which managed to rend the zombie's arm from its body and sever one of its legs partway up. Still, in her drunken state, the woman wasn't a match for the lumbering corpse. When the zombie had her cornered against a headstone with her head bleeding, Gavinyarel moved in. He dashed toward the zombie, which was readying another slash with its remaining arm. As it swung, Gavinyarel countered just in time. His honed ebony blade, glowing orange with fire enchantment, sent the newly dismembered arm flying over the woman's head. The stump that remained was set ablaze. He punched the creature away with his free hand and then shot a jet of fire at it, turning it into a bright flare that lit up the surrounding area. Enraged, the zombie charged him in all its limping, disarmed frenzy. Gavinyarel dodged left and slashed at his midsection, shearing it in two. As the newly halved zombie collapsed to the ground, it's animation began to stop, whatever force had inspired its motion finally broken. Gavinyarel took a large cloth from his pouch and wiped away the dust and rotten flesh from his sword before sheathing it. He looked back at the woman and smiled. "All right, I guess you're not quite as green as you seem." he said plainly, impressed by her knowledge of bound weapons.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Old Roxey Chapel Cemetery -- Midyear, 4E 201 Gavinyarel followed as close as he dared behind the Breton woman, not so close as to alert her to his presence, but still close enough to hear her slurred, somewhat inaccurate rendition of "Ragnar the Red," a common favorite in the taverns of Skyrim. The sun had set by this time, and Gavinyarel's night vision was still adjusting, a predicament that made navigating the loose dirt and rocks a little more exciting than he'd bargained for. Before long, Gavinyarel came before the cemetery in question: a bleak relic of a community apparently none too infatuated with the idea of attending church. Mist was beginning to veil the area, and he had to try hard to keep the Breton girl in his sight while still scanning for the zombie. Gavinyarel nonchalantly tucked himself behind one of the trees just outside the cemetery grounds when he saw the woman brandish her crossbow, peering out from behind only just enough to continue viewing. After a little high-impact defacement of an unlucky tombstone, Gavinyarel heard the bloodcurdling moan that sounded from within the mausoleum that now stood before the woman. He put a hand to his ebony shortsword's hilt and, content that she was sufficiently focused on the impending confrontation, moved up behind one of the pillars. Do or die time...

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, The Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201 Gavinyarel had planned on going to bed early tonight, but the raucous entrance of a dark-clothed Breton girl stole his attention away from sleep. There was a slightly smallish crossbow at one leg, and a knife at the other; a quiver of bolts was on her back. Yet, for all her gear, Gavinyarel noticed the auburn hairs on the back of her neck were bristled. He thought perhaps she'd met with a highwayman and either parted with her purse the hard way or repaid his aggression with a bolt. The lack of blood swayed him toward the former. Once the girl reached the counter, the zeal with which she knocked back her drinks only retold the story her entrance told. He paid her no more attention then, content to let her mind process whatever had happened on its own. He twiddled a fork in fingers as he went back to browsing the patrons. Dusk hadn't quite yet tinged the windows gold, but he prayed for the moment it did so he could retire for the night. The road to Skyrim hadn't been an easy one at the start, and with the formidable Jerall Mountains looming in the distance, deceptively beautiful to mortal eyes in all their snow-shod grandeur, he hardly expected things to smooth out anytime soon. Not long after, the Breton girl defied his ignorance by boisterously proclaiming that she was a "professional witchhunter" as she put it, a woman able to face those heart-stopping horrors that dwell within the deepest, darkest, most miserable and isolated nooks and crannies Tamriel had to offer. Gavinyarel casually glanced around the room and wondered who she was fooling. He observed her crossbow and her other gear more closely, humoring himself as to why a master of her trade would wield tools of apprentice-level quality at best. I bet her backpack's got little more than provisions and grooming supplies in it. Now intrigued, Gavinyarel followed with his eyes as she marched over to the bulletin board littered with the sketches of outlaws and the brokenhearted pleas of people that were foolish enough to haul their inexperienced hides into some dark, dank cave and drop their lucky rusted butter knife deep inside in their haste to escape the gargantuan shadow inching ever closer around a corner lit by the sunlight coming in through a second opening. Gavinyarel almost felt more sorry for the little mouse or squirrel that owned the shadow, who'd then round the corner only to find his new visitor frantically fleeing for his life, shouting stammered prayers to any holy-sounding person or being their frantic minds could pull from beneath the cobwebs. Perhaps she dabbles in bandit hunting or trinket retrieval too... he thought as he watched her peruse the board. He smirked at her from his corner for a moment or two, but his smirk soon flipped into a frown when he remembered one particular notice, an urgent demand for some brave soul to take up the sword against a foul zombie defiling the cemetery. No...surely not... Gavinyarel said inwardly. His fascination with her mood's capacity to change with her alcohol content soured as she announced her latest crusade. He saw her stumble back out of the inn and even watched her blunder against the fence posts for a bit. He rolled his eyes and cupped his head in his hand. I'm probably going to regret this, but I suppose I should at least get fifty septims out of this...assuming she survives this. he thought as he got up and began following her at a distance; he'd interrupted women on missions before, and he'd always been sorry for it in the past.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201 It was the middle of summer that late afternoon in northern Cyrodiil. The lofty Jerall Mountains stood silhouetted against the deep blue sky awaiting the twilight sun to color it its gentle orange-red. The forest stretching north from the village was full green with tall, strong trees, and children and their pets could be seen romping around in their efforts to squeeze a few more precious moments of playtime out of the day. The villagers were finishing up the day's chores, trying to set one more fence post or bind up one more hay bale before heading to the Roxey Steakhouse for their supper. The steakhouse was a grand, two-story edifice among the village's simple homes, its size surpassed only by the great barn behind it. A tall stone chimney poked up from the roof. The first floor catered to the hungry and thirsty, while the second held the rooms where weary travelers could rest their heads on a pillow. Gavinyarel was seated in the back corner of the tavern, halfway through his dinner of roasted venison and fried potatoes, and on his third mug of ale. He was leaned against the back of his chair, silently observing everyone else and appreciating how they dug into their meals with all the gusto of hard workers finally able to lay down their tools for a little while. He wished he could share in their rapture, but he knew all too well that his mission would drag him out of bed at the crack of dawn and spur him ever closer to Skyrim. In a way, he envied them. The northbound Altmer quietly ate the rest of his meal and downed another mug of ale before the sleepiness began to come. He scooted his chair against the wall and rested his head in the corner as he contemplated how wonderful a real bed would feel compared to the bedroll he had resting beside him, which was only ever as soft as the ground upon which it lay, which of course meant rarely soft at all. Little did Gavinyarel know that things would soon get much more interesting.

This will be the character sheet page for my and my friend Candymyne's characters in the "Not Your Typical, Run-of-the-Mill Adventure" roleplay. This roleplay is currently reserved for only me and my friend, we plan on eventually opening it up once we come to a certain point. Other character sheets can be posted here, but I humbly ask anyone interested to wait until Candymyne and I are ready for the roleplay to open before posting there. Link to the roleplay thread (currently for reading only): http://forums.nexusmods.com/index.php?/topic/3580710-not-your-typical-run-of-the-mill-type-of-adventure/ Meet Gavinyarel Name: Gavinyarel Race: Altmer Gender: Male Age: 110 Birthsign: The Atronach (extremely slow magicka recovery, requires regular use of potions and tonics to maintain spellcasting ability) Height: 6'9 Appearance: Parchment-yellow skin tone; thick, dark gray hair bound in a ponytail; full beard, trimmed close to the skin; olive green eyes; slightly hooked nose; high, gaunt cheeks; thin, pursed, dark pink lips; lean, slim build; two vampire's claw marks laterally across his left cheek; puncture scars from werewolf claw on right calf; sword slash scar diagonally across chest from left shoulder down to right part of waist; two scrape scars on left side of waist from spear trap Equipment: Tight-fitting, plain, dark gray robe with a large silver stud and headband ring on the hood, breast and shoulders padded with chainmail, fortifies magicka and its recovery; black, rawhide gauntlets with silver knuckles; plain black trousers with silver knee pads; rawhide, silver-toed boots; all silver on clothing kept coated with a material to hide its appearance and luster; small backpack for food and auxiliary items; healing and replenishing draughts kept in vials in a cushioned pouch at the side; ebony shortsword with fire enchantment kept in sheath at waist; steel, drain fatigue-enchanted throwing knife kept in right boot; silver amulet that resists magicka; Personality: Even-tempered most of the time, but can be easily annoyed or riled by excessive stupidity, especially during serious situations; loves mind-oriented games and puzzles; harbors a stern abhorrence for those who thieve or cheat merely for personal gain or for causes he judges as unjust; wary of strangers; not racist or proud, gives everyone a chance at first; is not completely against the utilization of dark arts-related items, believing that in the right hands, they can be used for good purposes other than those their original creators or owners might've had; Weaknesses: Atronach birthsign renders his magicka almost non-regenerative, recovers very slowly over time and requires the use of his enchanted gear and potions to be consistently kept battle-ready; natural Altmeri weakness to magic, experiences around 1.5 times the normal effect of a spell; extremely overprotective of children and those being racially discriminated against, can sometimes go out of his way to involve himself in such business that doesn't concern him at all; can sometimes lose his patience if subjected to prolonged annoyances or ungratefulness; shows a particular distrust and hatred of the Thalmor, of whom he was previously a member Skill Repertoire: Skilled with moderate-to-short-length blades (Expert Level), but clumsy with heavier or longer weapons (longswords, claymores, etc.); extremely skilled in destruction and alteration magic (Master Destruction, Expert Alteration), cherry picked skills from other schools (quiest casting from Illusion, recharging enchanted items, etc. -- all Novice Level); can care for his steel knife and clothing well enough, but must have his ebony blade repaired by an appropriately skilled smith; not terribly well versed in speechcraft, but has come to understand how valuable some of the items his job rewards him with can be, and knows where to seek proper payment (in game terms, Novice Speechcraft, Journeyman Mercantile); has been taught constant vigilance by encounters with traps and crafty enemies Political Affiliations: No official ties, but favors the Empire in Skyrim's civil war Guild Affiliations: Has connections at the College of Winterhold, but is not a proper member, frequently uses it as a client for the loot he finds in addition to the various cities' court wizards and other magically inclined people; ---------------- Backstory (Work in Progress, will be expanded/revised/improved as time allows.) Gavinyarel was born to Altmeri parents on Summerset Isle in 4E 91. His father, Braletar, was a high-ranking Thalmor officer that had long served as a Thalmor agent in various locations around Tamriel before returning home and wedding his wife. Gavinyarel's mother, Kandeline, was an extremely famous author all across Cyrodiil, a status that handsomely supplemented Braletar's earnings with the Thalmor. Resultantly, Gavinyarel was raised in an environment of self-absorbed racism and bigotry that saw him enlist with the Thalmor armies at fifteen. During his pre-military schooling, Gavinyarel displayed a prodigious talent for Destruction magic and also showed a firm grasp of Alteration. These, coupled with the swordsmanship drilled into him by his trainers, prepared him for a life of service in the Thalmor army. After finishing his training, he was shipped to Solitude in Skyrim, where he was thrust into a decade long period of clandestine operations against the Empire in its northernmost province. He slowly became disillusioned with the Thalmor over those ten years as serving under his sadistic commander Shalcin let him see how all of the other races grieve during hardships just as Altmer do. He was finally convinced of the Thalmor's evilness when, in Evening Star of 4E 109, Shalcin punctuated the latest of his terrorist missions by torching an orphanage in Dragon's Bridge, which resulted in the deaths of eight children. In his rage, Gavinyarel conjured a bitterly cold blizzard and froze Shalcin and his other partners solid. Afterward drained of his magicka, he fled the town before efforts could be made to apprehend him. After considerably distancing himself from Dragon's Bridge, Gavinyarel removed his armor and other equipment and tossed it all into a random pond in the middle of nowhere. He then walked away, leaving it behind to rot. Knowing he couldn't return to his parents or show his face among the Thalmor again, and incredibly angry with himself to contributing to their progress for so long, Gavinyarel spent the next four years in an angst-ridden rut, trying to drown his problems with vices. Then, in 4E 114, he met with fate. Well drunk and in a particularly dismal mood, Gavinyarel made the illogical and unwise decision to depart the city of Riften in the dead of night. As he stumbled along the road, his vision blurry and hampered by the scant moonlight, he was being stalked by a creature that thrived in the night: a vampire. As luck would have it, fortune smiled on Gavinyarel despite his stupidity, for the vampire was young and so mad for blood, that he completely abandoned stealth once he made for his soused prey. Gavinyarel turned to face the bounding footsteps behind him and was confronted by the wildly slashing claws and glowing golden eyes of a vampire.