Username:Sithorn
Fynn Morreu, protege' of Kris' Airo' Croa
¤ Race: BretontabAttributes Bonuses: Intelligence & Willpower
tabAttribute Penalties: Strength, Speed & Endurance
tabMajor Skill Bonuses: Conjuration, Mysticism, and Restoration
tabMinor Skill Bonuses: Alchemy, Alteration, and Illusion
tabDragon Skin: Shield 50% for 60 seconds on self, 1/day.
tabBreton Enhanced Magicka ability: Fortify Magicka 50 points on Self, constant
tabBreton Magic Resistance ability: Resist Magic 50% on self, constant
ɫ Birth Sign: The Ritual
tabPowers:
tabBlessed Word lesser power: Turn Undead up to level 25 (100 points) for 30 seconds on target, cost: 40 magicka
tabMara's Gift greater power : Restore Health 200 points on Self, 1/day.
ɫ Class - Skills & Spellcraft: Dark Purifier
tabSpecialization: Magic
tabAttributes: Agility & Luck
tabSkills:
tabtabɫ Apprentice Blade
tabtabɫ Apprentice Acrobatics
tabtabɫ Apprentice Sneak
tabSpellcraft:
tabtabɫ Apprentice Mysticism
tabtabɫ Apprentice Illusion
tabtabɫ Apprentice Alchemy
tabtabɫ Journeyman Restoration
ɫ Age: 22
ɫ Gender: Male
ɫ Sexuality: Heterosexual
ɫ Guild Affiliations:
tabDark Brotherhood. Recent arrival in Cheydinhal sanctuary. Medic, Surgeon, Purifier.
ɫ Character Gear:
tabCombat: Shrouded armor, ragged, Jawbone brooch, Segmented mask and bandages.
tabFormal: Black robe, Jawbone brooch, mask and bandages, Cape adorned with hand of Sithis applique'.
ɫ Character Weapons:
tabClose Combat: Small ebony dagger, black and blasted in color, a blade of woe.
tabRanged Combat: None. Relies upon illusions.
ɫ Historical Account
tabOrigin:Provenance unknown.
A feather quill scratches lamb skin in the dark. The tallow candle which gutters before you is not enough to read an average book by, and yet the quill scratches rivulets of red ink in rapid succession. You feel a dryness upon your lips, tightness within your groin, and a paw around your heart, feelings not befitting a fearless killer such as yourself. You cannot bring yourself to look into the face of this man, so you watch as his long spider-like fingers dance with the black feather in the dark. Your peripheral vision glimpses arrays of blades in the dark, lined with thoroughness upon the table before a line of dusky bottle-shaped shadows, from left to right organized in descending height. Your exceptional peripheral perception, a trait you have always held dear, serves only to force your constricted pulse into your throat and dull your mind as the moments pass, and the quill dances on. You fiddle absentmindedly with the loose fibers of the bandage massed in tight coils where your forearm used to be. This place, though you knew it was the sanctuary- the only home you had left in this world, felt alien, cold, and transitory- as if this desk rested within the antechamber which opened directly upon the void.
The void. Now as you think about the void, the Mother and Sithis, you feel acutely aware that you never believed in them until this very moment, and now that you did, you resented them. Who were they to judge you were unfit to kill? What cause did they think they served in the manipulation of life? You murdered at the very first to get by in the hard world, at second because you had to hide the deed at any cost. The third time the thrill had taken you at last, and you were lost. Joy in the slaughter was your lot, and the brotherhood became your life. But the Nine followed you wherever you muffled your steps, watched your hand as it drew your knife, and piled sorrow upon sorrow in the depths of your mind, where locked away deep was the face of your mother pensive in the house of Kynareth, praying to give you a keen hand, and a keen pair of eyes. These prayers had been answered, you believed that somehow, and felt a hatred for yourself reel within, project outwards, become fury at the others all around you who were guilty of bringing untimely death-
It is at this point that you realize that the room was silent, and he was staring at you. You could feel those eyes blazing into your furrowed brow, and your tumultuous mind came to a halt as if a ram had bucked its crown against the temple of your very soul. Off guard, forced by suggestion to stare, you looked up and locked gazes with his sallow and unmoving face. Those eyes did not blink, those cheekbones and their tight sheaf of anemic skin framed them with a look of inhuman indifference- but you could feel it in your gut that he bent upon you the wicked concentration of a Mountain lion over a quivering rat. Suddenly his lips moved- in a subtle and shapeless way which hardly moved any of the rest of his mask-like face.
"Brother..."
Against your will, you confirm with a nod that you attend his words.
" ... What are you doing here?"
Nonplussed, you shook your head minutely, and began to respond only to be cut off-
"I said go. Leave. Report to your superiors the completion of your mission."
You suddenly notice that the parchment upon which he had been scrawling was now a neat scroll extended before you in his impossibly still hand. Taking it you stand, enormous relief pouring over your entire body, even as you weave with graceless imbalance to your feet and backwards from the desk. You salute him without looking into his face, and turn to pace for the door. A tapping on the desk behind you whips you back around, and he speaks again, this time in a voice that you could swear sounded much more human than it had not a minute ago.
"Don't forget your medication."
He indicated a small vial which sat upon the very edge of the desk upon the side where you had been sitting. You could not remember him putting it there, nor imagine when he had time to slip it by the breadth of your perception. He must have put it down when you turned around. It did not matter much. You took the vial and slipped it into the center of the scroll as you turned to tail it out of the room. A cough resonated from the darkest corner. He did not speak, you did not look back as you fled. When the heavy door swung shut again, you were already half way up the second corridor down.
Hours passed like minutes, minutes like seconds, this day had been the sweetest in years, a succession of evens too sweet to be true came and went and left their mark. First you had learned that your mission had been performed to the highest standard, your stipend was significant, and the septims were enough to rain down and blanket the homestead of your youth with a fine twinkling dust. Your labor and dedication had finally earned you the name of slayer. Not atypical of the family was the following celebration, and the feasting in the quarters of resting went on for hours. Red apples you ate, without relent, and seasoned red meats from the spits of the mother's red kitchen. Sweet, as a meal of bread to a starving man, you felt accomplished, boastful, and waving the useless stump of your blade arm, telling the story of your latest kill to jubilant brothers and sisters. You poured wine into your gullet, snapped your fingers at the Nine, smiled and reclined in your chair.
Now it was late, and all else had gone to their rest, or to their duties in the night. Duties there were, always. There was always death to deal. you stood, dazed, and stumbled to your bed to rest off the brutal stupor of wine. You hiccuped the sweet spice of the meal into your throat, and rolled over languidly to see, standing upright, the vial of pale liquid waiting on your bed-side shelf. You guessed that you put it there yourself, hours before, and had forgotten entirely about it. Whatever the matter, your skull was swimming like a tilting basin, and you could only watch as your hand reached out, uncorked the vial, and emptied the ampoule into your throat. Falling at once into a vacuous sleep, you have the strangest dream you have ever had... and will never have again.
You fancied that you looked down upon yourself in that very room, picturing for a good moment just how ridiculous you look with a stump where your strong arm had been. You meditate with sinking spirits the loud cry you regurgitated to your target, which alerted the body guards a split second too soon, and cost you your arm. You had claimed your superior, by name, sent their regards. The second tenet had been broken. Suddenly you were aware that a very thin shadow was standing there, staring at your sleeping body. The figure was not tall, but it was so thin and strange that it loomed in the darkness, and the arms in their ragged sleeves were disturbingly long, the knuckles very nearly on a line with where the knees should be within that lank black cassock. You watched, frozen in impotent panic as the left arm reached out, and planted the long thin fingers of that familiar hand upon the throat of your sleeping form. Shadow of a man seemed to hesitate, looking into a corner where a darker blackness was gathered. That terrible noise, like a rattling cough came again, and the shadow nodded his head. A twitch of those fingers, and it is over. You tumble forth in the chasm of air which separates your spirit from your dying body.
Beat your brow against the skull of your corpse forever, if you will. The door is closed.
** ** **
Fynn Elwein Moreu. It is hard to describe what this brother is all about. About three weeks ago now, he and his feeble companion came in through the well-entrance of the sanctuary, and passing Ocheeva by without an ounce of recognition, he strode to Valtieri's study and saluted the vampire with some queer supplication. It was unsettling how his companion, who was old, wizened and hardly to be seen in voluminous black robes leaned towards those who passed nearby, and how he was obliged to reach out and pull this queer figure with a tassel of his cloak. For several minutes, the tension of a threat was in the air, until Valtieri extended his hand and nodded, proclaiming to an impatient Ocheeva that their long requested medic had arrived. Within hours he had personal accommodations in the small ward deepest underground, and had carted in without any kind of public suspicion an entire alchemical array, surgical outfit, and apparatus of anatomical study, as well as two stone plaques which announced with brutal clarity: the Five Tenets of the Dark Brotherhood.
After he was set up, he and his dark shadow vanished, and no scout, guard, contact, or spell of detection tracked their disappearance, or detected them upon the road. Messages relayed in between the guild halls noted his presence over the period of the next three days, but could say nothing of his actions there. He was spotted alone in Bravil on the last evening, but the connection was not made by guild associates passing there. Needless to say, the network was deeply upset by his behavior. After that time, he returned alone to the Cheydinhal sanctuary, and Telaendril, who was hunting in the hilly woods opposite the city walls, saw him strolling down the path from fort Farragut as if he were on a walk in the arboretum.
For two weeks he settled down, showed no outward signs of eccentricity. Vincente vouched for him, and brought Ocheeva to his study to meet him. She came away troubled, sensing hegemony. He was entirely unassuming, and besides his strange inclination to cover his shapely face (something Antoinetta Marie deeply begrudged), he became indispensable as an adviser, and was constantly referred to for injuries both new and old.
ɫ Appearance:
tabHeight:
Five feet, eight inches
tabWeight:
146 lbs
tabHanded:
Left Handed
Pale and thin are the two things one might have to say, if they had only two words to single him out in a crowd. These are certainly true. His complexion his very strange, sort of cold and cadaverous, but smooth. Gaunt skin, round full features, thick short crop of hair. If one could look past his inordinate armspan, the most unusual feature of his physiognomy, both physically and emotionally, are his eyes. His irises are massive, brass colored, and split with pupils which aren't quite round- much more like the spreading of an ovular black star. It is not entirely unknown for Bretons to have eyes nearer to those of the Mer than those of men, but to poses this trait to such a significant degree is incongruous. He has a deep scar gouged into the flesh of his left cheek, which somehow do little to challenge the symmetry of his gaze. This gaze never matches his expression, which is variable, and it is hard to trust that he means what he says.
tabHeight:
Five feet, eight inches
tabWeight:
146 lbs
tabHanded:
Left Handed
Pale and thin are the two things one might have to say, if they had only two words to single him out in a crowd. These are certainly true. His complexion his very strange, sort of cold and cadaverous, but smooth. Gaunt skin, round full features, thick short crop of hair. If one could look past his inordinate armspan, the most unusual feature of his physiognomy, both physically and emotionally, are his eyes. His irises are massive, brass colored, and split with pupils which aren't quite round- much more like the spreading of an ovular black star. It is not entirely unknown for Bretons to have eyes nearer to those of the Mer than those of men, but to poses this trait to such a significant degree is incongruous. He has a deep scar gouged into the flesh of his left cheek, which somehow do little to challenge the symmetry of his gaze. This gaze never matches his expression, which is variable, and it is hard to trust that he means what he says.
