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 Posted: Tue Jun 12, 2012 8:41 pm
Will you choose alliance or animosity?S K Y R I MTHE CIVIL WAR[ this is the profile thread! ]
MAIN THREAD // OOC THREADPost your character's profile here, get approved and get to writing!
For the template, guidelines on creating your character and related information,
check out the Templates section of the main thread.
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Posted: Thu Jun 14, 2012 4:35 am
☼☽ Full Name: Ayran 
Nicknames: Known by outlaws as 'The Mute', Athis often addressed him as 'Little Nix'.
Race: Dunmer
Age: 38
Gender: Male
Orientation: Rumored Asexual. Athis claims otherwise, but Ayran has never so much as approached anyone.
Religion: No evidence of faith. He does, it seems, look at clouds in the same way that he looks at people.
Sibling: Athis
Civil War Allegiance: Neither. Tentative. More reason to hate both than like either.
Other Allegiances: Companions o ☼☽ Personal Appearance:
Both slender and burly, with a rather distinctive fluidity of physique, this surly ashen youth is somewhat physically imposing despite his ordinary height and rather withdrawn personality. Wide of shoulder with a tall neck, he is often seen to hang his head in thought. As he does so, dark copper dreadlocks pour down to his shoulders- several threaded with metal beads. His jaw is long and distinctive, but is surpassing wide at the sides for a dark elf, and cuts a fine outline that frames his slender lips, sharp upturned nose, and slanted burgundy eyes. Oft after hunting with Aela, he was known to leave the white markings which it have been her custom to put on the face of the tracking party. Why he replicates these patterns even now is not clear. Several scars cut a groove down his right cheek and accentuate the premature crow's feet, which glancing from the corners of his eyes make him look weary and sullen on the best of days. These crows feet are not the benign crinkles forged by years of laughter, but the folds which the eyelid relent under stress from the exercising of an intense and restless will.
Height/Weight: 5'10"/172lbs
Personality:
Very quiet, very thoughtful. Hardly speaks out, almost never smiles, never heard to laugh. He spends a lot of time in thought.
He remains very quiet and reserved, even after much mead.
His likes and dislikes are hard to feel out.
O-He drinks enough mead to seem as if he likes it.
O-He tends to sit within earshot when bards ply their trade, this and his ownership of a lute connotes an interest in music.
O-He seems to read a lot, but it somehow seems like he reads and re-reads the same books. Mostly of the dry Historical sort, but some poetry besides
For the most part, it is difficult to shake the sensation that he is constantly Angry. His lack of any apparent appreciation for humor often dampens any instance of endearment, at least in the classical sense. Despite this mien, he wears his innate courage and selflessness upon his sleeve.
Goal: Cure, Control, or Accept.
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Biography:
Birthplace: The City of Windhelm, Grey Quarter 4E 163
Common place of residence- Whiterun, Jorrvaskr mead hall
Residence- Transient. Presently in Helgen.
Credited with-
☼-With Athis Ѻ-Guild Effort ☪-Solo
4E 181 - Mysterious arrival and combat with Bandit Leader Ernag Baleor, Whitewatch tower, Whiterun hold. Saving of Kodlak. Ambushed at this point on return from Halted stream incident. Honorable Initiation. ☼
18 years of age
4E 184 - 'Night of four horses', The raid and defeat of four allied bandit encampments installed at the four corners of Whiterun hold in this year in the course of one night. Story now told in Whiterun. NW camp. ☼ Ѻ
21 years of age
4E 187 - Glass hammer mounted in mead hall, supposed trophy from the defeat of mad orc in Whiterun market. Rescued one 'Ysolda', who was at the time 13 years of age. ☪
24 years of age
4E 189 - Campaign against Forsworn at Fort Greymoor. Earned attention of Jarl Balgruuf, who paid Weregild for the death of Olfar Din-Fist, lost in attack. Olfar had been partial mentor to Ayran. Ѻ
26 years of age
4E 191 - Quelling of Upheaval, Dustman's Cairn. Seemingly unsolicited swarm of Draugr found wandering at the surface during the day and murdering traders on the adjacent roads. Here received favored sword. ☪
28 years of age
4E 195 - Defeat of Troll clan blocking/Endangering east road to Kynesgrove. Rumor of Uderfrykte which stalked countryside in this year, not substantiated by account. Scarred in encounter. ☪
32 years of age
Circumstance-
Ayran was 38 years old, just a month passed, and the day which marked twenty years as a diligent companion marked a strange anomaly. This Dunmer, who had been a companion from a very young age, was always silent and reticent, and in his time had come to embrace pattern predictable and dependable. It was strange that one with such a considerable reputation as a sword and shield of the great ancient order of the Companions would live with such reserve as he did- but such was his schedule in seasons between missions:
He went to sleep late. Woke very early. Seemingly clockwork. Before dawn each day he would engage in intensive sword drills behind and around Jorrvaskr, usually in full armor. He would then shed his plate and hauberk, fetch a crust of bread, and climb the stairs of the Skyforge and watch the rising sun in contemplative mood as he broke his fast.
On most mornings he waited there until Eorlund Grey-Mane climbed up the way, and helped the old man stoke the crucible and crank the bellows. When this task was done, provided that there is no metalwork the old man would put into his hands, he would return to the hall and see to the rest of his day- whether it be the preparations for a coming mission, simple local tasks, or even matters of guild hall maintenance that nobody was seeing to.
In the afternoon, if his work was done, he was often seen around the hall in various places reading or writing- or very rarely, strumming on his lute. He ate a hearty meal in the late afternoon, and left the hall well before sunset to begin a routine inverse of his morning. When passing out of the hall, he would lean his bow and quiver against the nearest table. Ascending again to the Skyforge, he would help the old smith lay out molds, or whatever else he could assist with. When this task was done, he would stand to catch the sun drop to the west behind the mountain ranges which rise upon the southern slopes of Whiterun hold. When the sun was gone behind the mountain and had cast the great valley into twilight, he would descend the steps and take up his bow. In this half-light, he would fire at medium range until he has spent all eleven arrows three times. On some evenings, after this activity or in exchange with this activity, he would meet Athis on this spot, and they would take up sticks to duel each other. This contest, when it chanced, often went on for hours and drew several spectators, who would bet for blows and steps. It was their tradition that they duel left handed, though neither of them are.
However these duels went, they would always end up mug in hand at the table in the hall or around the smaller pit in the Bannered Mare or Drunken Huntsmen if they are feeling overcrowded.
If the evening went without a duel, he would often linger outdoors when the moons were bright, watching the stars with much the same expression that he wore at dusk and daybreak. Three nights out of the week he would take the winding walk from the hall to outside of the city walls and jog the main circuit in the moonlight, his short sword tucked into his sash, sticking out straight behind him as he ran.
He would return a short while before midnight and retire to his room.
He ate, drank, breathed, and slept a life of discipline- asking little, and going from task to task with silent precision. An elf seemingly without opinions or even desires, who carried with him an aura that labor is his sanctuary. Sanctuary from what? Nobody seemed to know, or at least never decided to say.
It was a surprise to all, however, when the return party from an excursion to beat back a bandit threat moving just north of Kynesgrove, reported he vanished in the night on the returning leg, no sign of a struggle, leaving his armor and lute propped by the fire. They found no tracks, he had covered them well "That loon must have skipped from stone to stone'. Farkas, who had lead this party, shook his head and looked to Athis, who was staring with blank confusion. His brother had never done such a thing before. This was routine, four days, ambush bandits, come back. What could possibly have compelled him to just wander off? Athis, feeling obligated, took up gear and horse and swallowed up the miles over night, navigating with haste and mounting distress the convoluted roads and byways of the rocky eastern river lands. Two days in the wilderness found him gamboling north and across the long bridge to the city of Windhelm, a city he had never wanted to enter again, but he desperately needed something a bit harder than water. He realized at this point that he had come all this way without an ounce of gold jingling at his belt. He looked down the lane to his right. After fifteen years, he still knew exactly were in bent. He made up his mind, choosing the hard place over the rock, and made for the miserable dive of the New Gnisis Cornerclub. Thus it was, as he thrust through the open door which dangled upon two hinges that he found his brother.
Ayran, a look of rage on his face, stood there pinning the frail Ambarys Rendar against the wall by the collar of his sack shirt, one fist cocked back ready to aim a blow, his face in a violent snarl more vicious than he had seen on that face for decades. The snarl evoked a sleeping memory drowned in the subsequent years by a life filled with duty and the drunken stupor of glorious deeds. All of that pent up rage, all of that anguish over what had happened to their mother. How much was it worth? All of the glory? Their livelihood? The freedom from the slum which bent under the beam of Jarl Ulfric's chagrin towards their broken people?
"What are you doing!?" He intervened, leaping forward and pinning the fist in a swinging motion behind his brother's back, taking him off guard, but thoroughly cornering a beast which felt no fear to bite and kick for freedom. He could not anticipate the reaction, and was thrust off of his feet as Ayran flung all of his weight through his arm and shoulder, bounding like a madman with no concept of direction. Athis toppled to his knees, catching himself with his gangling hands. Ayran had no such fortune, a hideous sound resounded as he fell on his crown and tumbled straight onto his back, a crack sounding where his rib glanced upon an iron nail which protruded carelessly from the floor. He turned over, doubled over in his ragged tunic, quivering with rage. Athis stood and cautiously drew near him, turning and glowering at Rendar with a face which said very plainly 'stay where you are'. And so he neared his brother, watching the convulsions become worse and worse. He began to reach out.
He woke on a bedroll, body racked with pain, face covered in sweat, a folded cloth dabbing his forehead... In Whiterun. He had been out for four days, and old Tilma, who was dabbing his brow, informed him that Ayran was back. He had told everyone that Athis had sustained his wounds- several brutal gashes and what seemed like the punctures of fangs all about his shoulders and chest- rescuing him from wolves upon the road, where he had fallen from a slope and fallen prone with a broken rib as he tracked a large black wolf straight up the face of the river land. Athis took the story in, and then nodded. He knew the score. This was a secret that he had to keep.
The next few days went by, and there was an awkward feeling of change coming on the air, as if something really important was waiting for just the right moment to happen.
On Fredas evening, a week since the incident, Athis came upon Ayran and Aela standing together in the empty grand hall, just standing there next to the dim embers of the dying fire pit.
Ayran was in full armor, his sword at his belt, his black pelted- travel bag slung over his shoulder. Aela stood, as ever she did, graceful and tall in her tooled leather armor and regalia, but the look on her face was tender, unlike herself. They seemed not even to notice that he was there, so rapt were they in attention with each others' eyes. Ayran made a sudden motion, like a backwards shrug which would have begun a turn to the door, and she reached out instinctively to try to stop him. He backed away from her hand, shaking his head, a pained look of denial on his face which soon relapsed into the quiet and unperturbed mask which he wore where ever he went. He stopped at the door and turned. looking at Athis with that face that was so irreconcilably like unto their mother's pallid death mask. An inkling of something shone in those eyes, but it was lost in the twilight beyond the door before a moment had passed. The protest in the heart of a man for the suffering of his baby brother was snuffed in the wind of the great door as it swung in and slammed, shaking the arches which bent to the ceiling- just as did the nave of the barks which came from Atmora and crashed against the shore of this hither land, a vessel which contained the scourge of so many lives, and the threads of so many to come.
That overturned bark, seeded now with the curse of the covenant of Hircine with the Glenmoril mabrigash, was once and is still named Jorrvaskr.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- ☼☽ Skill Record Class: Fighter
Racial Ability: Fire Resistance 50% & Ancestor's Wrath
Health: 150 +80= 230
Stamina: 150 +110= 260
Magicka: 150 +10 = 160
Skills: One-Handed [Expert], Heavy Armor [Adept], Smithing [Adept], Archery [Adept], Two-Handed [Adept], Sneak [Apprentice]
Spells: -BEAST FORM- [Curse - Affinity] -Flames- -Sparks- -Healing- [Starters][Novice] ☼☽ Possessions Weapons: - Nord Hero Sword- [Enchantment: REAPING (Absorb 15 stamina on strike, 100 charges)], Elven bow, Steel Arrows x11
Worn: Wolf Armor (Gauntlets, Boots, Armor)
Carried: Backpack, bedroll, basic cookwear, spent mead bottle, waterflask, tinderbox, quill and ink-pad, clothes and cowl. Lute.
Potions: Potion of Healing x2, Potion of Stamina x2
Books: [Ayran's Travel Journal] [Brief History of the Empire - S. k'Th.] [On the Great Collapse - Archmage Deneth] [Songs of Skyrim - Giraud Gemaine]
Encumberance:70.2/355⇟ ----------- Septims: 13 ☀-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --Dispositions: [Name] - Status - Notes.
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Posted: Fri Jun 15, 2012 1:58 am
   xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx"When will you be back?"xxxx"As soon as I can, and then I'll stay for a long, long time.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI promise."
『General Information』
Full Name: Llandria Tyravel
Nicknames: Llana, Llaa
Race: Dunmer
Age: 46
Gender: Female
Orientation: Demisexual
Religion: Julianos of the Eight Divines appeals the most, but she isn't very religious.
Civil War Allegiance: Doesn't like either side, but prefers Imperials to Stormcloaks.
Other Allegiances: College of Winterhold, and her current employer.
『Personal』
Appearance: Llandria is an exceptionally healthy-looking Dunmer in the prime of her life, and she takes care of herself and her appearance [less because of vanity, moreso because of a fastidious nature]. Her skin is a light blue- grey with no signs of scars or tattoos. Her hair is shoulder-length, pitch-black and changes style day-to-day, betimes loose or braided back. She is slightly taller than the average dark elf. Llandria has a broad frame but her build tends to be leaner than fuller, with little bust to speak of, but enough bredth in the hips to make up for that. Her face is heart-shaped, with wide-set eyes, a thin, proud nose, and a narrow, sharp chin. Llandria's eyes are a deep shade of red-tinged brown.
Height/Weight: 5'8", 160lbs.
Personality: Llandria is a clever, practical and generally responsible person, and these traits have kept her in business as a mercenary and made her a pretty decent provider and nurturer. She can be quite sardonic, and she has a dry sense of humour. She isn't the most wonderfully socialized person, since her patience can be very hit or miss, she's frequently grumpy, and she can be a bit patronizing. She thinks highly of herself and has the wit to back up her claims, and in regards to certain people she may speak to them as if they are a child, should they irritate her with behaviour she deems inane or immature. Still, when the arrow gets through the armour and the wound is overflowing, she'll be the first one there to patch up things up and clean away the mess. For Llandria, tending to the suffering of another being and making it whole again is instinct. She is a talented healer, and her tidiness and organizational prowess are innate.
Where combat is concerned she is brusque, since Llandria lacks most of the bloodlust that drives true warriors and her concern is to keep a clear head and an eye out for comrades who take injury mid-fight. Despite her cantankerousness, Llandria is difficult to truly enrage and she's quick to forgive and move on. Those few things that do infuriate her include torturers and child-killers. She's rather gruff in her affections most of the time. While she doesn't particularily care for alcohol, she does smoke a pipe to wind down or calm her nerves. She is especially fond of, and protective of, children of all races.
Goal: To serve [Employer] as called on, to survive, to return to Riften [and Rumarin] as soon as possible, and to maybe resume her studies at Winterhold someday.
Biography: She was born and raised in Riften, and was an only child growing up. Her parents were distant figures in her life when she was young. Her father had various jobs in the town, and her mother was a trader and would sometimes go away on long trips, accompanying khajit caravans. When Llandria was old enough, she joined her mother in these ventures and she learned much of khajit customs and ways as she befriended another youngster, a lad named J'Kara. She also discovered she had an interest in the world beyond creaky, damp Riften, and a definite aptitude for magery. It was expensive for her parents to afford the basic necessities sometimes, much less a tutor for their daughter or spell tomes for her to study. Ultimately, Llandria left home without either of her parents as she began to approach adulthood. She struck a deal with J'Kara: she would help him begin his own caravan, and he would provide her a bit of gold and get her to the College of Winterhold so she could begin to study magick properly.
Within a year, J'Kara's business was stable and her friend saw through on his promise. Llandria successfully passed her test at the entrance to the College and became a student. She remained there several years, sometimes traveling to visit Riften or to spend time with J'Kara's caravan. Her choice of specialization became Restoration, as she recalled the various injuries she had witnessed on the road through mishaps or malice. She also studied Destruction magick, and developed an interest in Conjuration so that she could pursue enchantment when another young student arrived. He was an Altmer by the name of Rumare. Llandria became smitten with him in time, enough so that the pair of them moved out of the College's dormitories and rented a room at the inn to have privacy. Some say Dunmer are ill-fated: Llandria scowls at such remarks. Her romance ended abruptly when Rumare left to explore some experiments safetly outside of Winterhold, and he simply never returned. When Llandira began to investigate, she uncovered the rumours spoken behind her back that Rumare was actually a necromancer, since his focus was Conjuration, and that he had run away because Vigilants of Stendarr had been visiting the town. Or he'd been caught and killed by them. Llandria denied the rumours, and proved she was no necromancer, but she never felt the same afterward.
In part, this was because she was pregnant. She remained at Winterhold long enough to deliver her son, who she named Rumarin Tyravel. Her lover never returned and ultimately, she was responsible for little Ruma. Accompanied by J'Kara, Llandria returned to Riften. Her mother had been unfortunately slain on the road some years past, and her father now lived alone. Llandria charged him with guardianship of Rumarin and promised to provide all that was needed for them both to live comfortably in Riften by putting her skills as a healer and battle-mage to use. She began work as a mercenary, and over the last seven years she has earned herself a positive reputation as a spell-slinging healer-for-hire. Much of the gold she makes has gone back to her father and to Rumarin, who she doesn't see as much as she would like. Her job has taken her all over Skyrim, into High Rock and into Cyrodiil, and she finds that the lifestyle suits her well. While it's true she's been injured, lost friends and had some poor experiences [including one that left her trapped in an avalanche, which developed her claustrophobia], Llandria feels she's on the right path in her life.
She has not severed her connection to the College of Winterhold, and visits from time to time when the opportunity presents itself. Most recently Llandria began to work for a foreign woman, an Imperial, as a bodyguard.
Birthplace: Skyrim - Riften.
Dispositions: [Name] - Status - Notes.
『Skill Record』
Class: Battle-Healer
Racial Ability: Fire Resistance 50% & Ancestor's Wrath
Birthsign: The Lady
Health: 175
Stamina: 175
Magicka: 300 + 50 [Hood & Amulet], regenerates faster from Ring of Recharging
Skills: [Expert] Restoration | [Adept] Destruction, Enchanting, Light Armour, Sneak | [Apprentice] Conjuration
『Possessions』
Weapons: Steel Dagger.
Worn: Elven Armour of Destruction [Minor Fortify], Elven Boots, Elven Gauntlets, Apprentice Mage Hood, Ring of Recharging, Amulet of Julianos, Hand-Knit Scarf.
Carried: Backpack, bedroll, basic cookwear, rations, wineflask, waterflask, change of clothing & cloak.
Potions: Health Potion x2, Stamina Potion x2, Plentiful Magicka Potion x3, Cure Disease Potion x1, Cure Poison Potion x1.
Spells: [Restoration] [Expert] Grand Healing | [Adept] Heal Other | [Apprentice] Healing Hands, Fast Healing, Steadfast Ward | [Novice] Healing, Lesser Ward.
[Destruction] [Adept] Ice Storm | [Apprentice] Ice Spike, Fire Rune | [Novice] Frostbite, Flames.
[Conjuration] [Apprentice] Soul Trap, Conjure Flaming Familiar | [Novice] Conjure Familiar.
"Stop getting injured. I'm not made of Magicka!"
Images by Sithorn, graphics & format by Abraxia.
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