Who Are You?

Korah_Eaglecry

Caius Berilius was born in the Colovian Highlands of Cyrodiil. His family weren't nobles but they weren't peasants either. They owned land. Enough land to make them influential enough that they could follow the social and cultural norms of their betters. Their first born was the heir to the family lands and riches and the second son, Caius, would do as all Imperial second sons did. Join the Imperial Legion. Being that he wasn't of a commoner or peasant family he was offered the rank of Praefect in the Imperial Speculatores as a Battlemage. While most of his duties revolved around normal duties expected of a scout. Being a Speculatore demanded he would be able to covertly infiltrate enemy armies, cities and infrastructure. In the weeks and months leading up to an invasion of a target he would be dispatched to the city or fort as a laborer or merchant. Once inside he would hide in plain sight until the Legion came knocking on the front gates. He'd then be expected to find ways to sabotage the cities defenses or get the gates open for the Legion.

Unfortunately for Caius, he would never be called on to serve the Empire in this way. Idareth, the son of a influential noble on the Elder Council would begin a rivalry with Caius before setting him up. Praefect Idareth and Caius were up for the same promotion to Tribune. Fearing he wouldnt be able to show up Caius, in doing so failing to make something of himself and bring honor to his family. Idareth would steal Caius' seal and use it to purchase necromantic and daedric artifacts. Idareth would leave the bill of sale and the artifacts in Caius officers tent to be found by the Legate. Charges would be brought against Caius and the evidence was enough for his immediate dismissal.

Being stranded on the other side of Cyrodiil, Caius was left to travel home either on foot or by boat. Facing a long trip home over land he would choose to spend his last coin on safe passage on a ship headed for Wayrest with a stop along the Gold Coast. This would prove to be a disastrous choice. A week into his voyage the ship would be attacked by Khajiiti Pirates looking to intercept skooma shipments they believed the ship was carrying. Caius would be taken as a prisoner and later pressed to take up piracy. He would spend the next decade amongst the pirates who kidnapped him.

His time as a pirate would eventually come to an end when a small fleet of Maormer launched an attack on his ship and crew. During the heated battle he was blown off the ship by a magical explosion. When he awoke he was in the care of a Priest of Mara. He had washed up on the beach the morning after the battle and was suffering from extensive burns along his left side and lost sight in his left eye.

As he laid in the bed healing he reflected on his life and choices. Finding very little meaning in his choices and lack there of. He decided to commit himself to becoming a Healer and Priest of Mara.

Almost a decade later the Three Banners War would break out and he would go on to wander Cyrodiil healing any soldiers he could find. Eventually he would meet Gallisten, a member of a mercenary company recently deployed to Cyrodiil under the banner of the Pact. After some convincing Gallisten was able to sign Caius on as a healer.

Arshiya

In everyone's life there are things or events that are better off forgotten.
Amy isn't an exception, yet the worst thing that happened to her in her childhood did lead to the best one.
Perhaps, being tied to a bed since her childhood not being able to walk isn't anywhere near a delightful summer afternoon.
Sure a large rock hidden in shallow water is more stubborn to surrender than one's spine right?
Least gives them treacherous Highrock schemers something to think about, well could be a satisfaction for a backstabbed noble, but this time the victim of such poor fate throwing dice bet was a child.
Amy grew up confined within her chambers, watching the world changing from her window, writing down things she would like to do if her legs ever decide to move again. Drawing pictures of the same scenery each season, can be fun, for the first year, not ten. As her family begun losing hope especially after her sister's dissapearance, the last heir to the established household seems to be fading away slowly as even Amy begun losing her interest in life behind bars.
Her family could end up as a fair warning to all whom think they have enough power to overthrow other houses on their own, yet unthinkable happened. Amy could walk again after ten years she could simply leave the manor on her own feet. All perhaps thanks to a miracle, or rather a highly skilled mender? A curse most likely.
On the verge of accepting anything but this life she had, Amy bargained with her very soul so she could see some more of the world than just a maze in her garden. And so it happened one night, she woke to a ghost casting it's shadow against small flickering candle light, wait ghosts don't cast shadows, neither do vampires, was she dreaming?
She woke up after several days not recognizing her surroundings, yes this wasn't her bedroom nor her study.

Regardless of how she sees her own miraculous recovery, she paid a price. Let it be whomever it was, blood legacy of Molag Bal corrupts everyone sooner or later no matter whos bloodline you inherited. Amy perceives the world differently now, even after hundreds of years she still paints the world as she did and writes down things she wants to experience, but this time she even writes off those she already did experience. Nobody sees her coming nor leaving but the feeling she leaves within your heart will linger for several days or maybe even weeks. Was it a dream? Most likely, but if so you should be thankful to Vaermina, that not every nightmare is cruelly terrifying, it could be, but it chooses not to. Amy knows exactly what happened that night and who did bring her the greatest gift of gifts, yet she does not speak of it. As for the allegiance Amy does not consider a need to identify herself with an alliance of choice as viable option to support her carefree lifestyle.
She missed so much during those ten years to chain her life with "some" war. Even if it is a threat to entire world Amy knows she will be fine. After all her legs move once again. Amy follows her saviour, saviour's word is law. That is the only chain Amy is willing to accept because: "If you spent at least part of your lifetime on the verge of invalid existence you are grateful for anything and any chance to reach out from the box you live in."

SnuggleMePlease

My Bosmer.

My Breton.

Jaemeson_Foster

Jaemeson Foster is a Nord in his early 40s, who lived alone in the foothills of Hjaalmarch with his wife and children. Being a hardy and resourceful man, he learned as many crafts as he could to keep his family supported: alchemy, enchanting, smithing, woodworking, trapping. He grew up learning Akaviri martial arts, but gave war and combat up when he met the love of his life.

Through one particularly harsh winter, he lost both his wife and his children to rock joint (an unusually vicious case of it in all three of them), and spent the next decade of his life in depressing solitude with nothing more than his crafts and his loyal hound to keep the suicidal thoughts at bay.

That is, he did live in solitude until storm and chains descended upon his house one night, and daedra killed him and his dog in their sleep, and he spent an uncertain amount of time in Coldharbour. With his release at the hands of Titanborn and the Prophet, he saw his death as a rebirth, and a sign from the Divines to take a hold of his life back. He spent days in the new unfamiliar city crafting new armor and weapons, and decided to pick his akaviri martial skills back up, and take the fight to Molag Bal and free Tamriel from his assault.

He would no longer be the sullen and sunken old man he had been since his family's death. He would be a strong Nord, and he would do what he could to regain his honor as a warrior. He was no longer a simple craftsmen who hid in the mountains, he was the Vestige.

Azzuria

It was unusually cold in the Ashlands, but she didn't mind. She preferred the cold, having grown up in the snow and wind of Skyrim. The wind, so often sweeping down from the fire-topped mountains, had shifted, bringing in a blessedly fresh zephyr from her home in the North.

Her armor rattled melodically with every step, the shield on her back and sword at her hip a comforting presence, all the more needed considering the alien surroundings.

She recalled her mother's words. ' Be as good a guest as you'd want to have in your home, love '. Her mother, not by blood but by choice, was a strong Northerner. The kind of Nord that everyone thought was a stereotype. Hard working, hard drinking, loudly-swearing, no non-sense but with a course and cutting sense of humor. And that laugh... a laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes, lit up her leathery face and soften her otherwise stern countenance. A laugh more infectious than Hircine's own bite.

Helga Snow-Borne had found the youngling in the snow not far from her home near Whiterun, crying, shivering and nearly dead. Being barren, Helga had never been blessed with husband or child and took to the mewling infant like an Argonian to muck. She brought the babe into her home, a simple, rustic farmhouse in the Nordic style, all rough-hewn timber and dark comfort, dominated by a riverstone fireplace that turned the house into an oasis of warmth in the dead of a Skyrim winter.

In the house and on that farm, the youngling had grown up quickly. Too quickly for Helga. Knowing her daughter would be some be affected by the wanderlust that often took hold of her race, the Nord woman cherished every moment the two had together.

The girl's first drink of mead, to which she quickly developed a taste that might later cause her no end of grief. Bringing in the harvest of cabbages, hunting for herbs in the nearby foothills, trapping game, learning to shoot a bow and handle a weapon. The young girl took to weapon-play quickly and hunting even faster. Before long the two of them had more meat than they needed and enough pelts and leather to sell for extra gold. The extra gold didn't change how they lived, and that didn't bother the nearly grown girl.

As Helga feared, her little love seen seemed to grow more restless. Hunting trips were longer, nights in the tavern more often ended in fights. Not unusual for a Skyrim tavern, but Noemi was not like any Nord. The locals never fully embraced Helga's daughter and it had never really bothered the two of them. They had each other and that was enough.

Or it had been.

The day finally came when Helga knew her daughter, the little bundle of love she had found and that had made her lonely life so full, could no longer stay. It broke the old Nordic woman's heart, but also filled the cracks with pride. Her Noemi was strong, proud and fierce. She would make a fine addition to the Pact. The recruiter was hesitant at first, given who and what Noemi was. But a dozen fights later the young woman was the only recruit who wasn't looking like 25 miles of bad road on a rainy Morndas.

On the day they all left for Dunmer lands to join the Pact, Helga was there to see her off. The Nord woman held a bundle in her arms and she beamed with pride, even as a tear of grief seeped out from creases around her eyes, made all the deeper for the broad grin. Hold it out toward her daughter in upturned hands, the young woman deftly parted the homespun cloth to see the fine hilt of a sword resting in a delicately tooled leather sheath. Picking it up, she drew the weapon, judging the heft, swinging it to test the weight and balance. Perfect. It was simply perfect. It fit her hand, it rested there as if it were made to do so.

Noemi sheathed the sword and took her mother up in powerful arms. The women wept and held one another like it would be the last time. As they parted, the young woman gently wiped away a tear from her mother's face. ' Thank you, mother ', she whispered, barely able to get even that much out from behind the lump in her throat. The Nord woman cleared her throat, straightened her shoulder and to all the world once again became the stern, taciturn Northerner that everyone know. But to Noemi's eyes she was still crying, the young woman could read both the pride and the grief in her mother's countenance.

Strapping the sword to her side, settling the shield to her back, she waved goodbye to the woman who had loved her in spite of everything, and joined her fellow soldier on the wagon for the long ride to the Dunmer city that was the capital of the newly formed Pact.

......

The young Khajiit woman walked into the inn, took a seat far from the fire. Peeling off her helm and letting it fall to the table, she leaned her shield against the wall and her sword, a gift from the woman who had found her and raised her as her own, rested on her lap.

The Dunmer waiter came by and eyed the armor-clad cat with a touch of suspicion.

'Mead', she stated flatly with a thick Nordic accent. The waiter nearly tripped. People who had been eyeballing her slyly did double-takes and jaws all over hung open in confusion, disbelief and, in some cases, amusement.

The mug of honeybrew found its way to the table and the cat paid and added a healthy tip. ' No innkeeper will turn away a well tipping customer, little love ', her mother had told her. A wise woman, Helga Snow-Borne.

A few more Nords, fresh recruits like Noemi, came clattering in and saw their compatriot sitting in the corner. 'SNOW-PAW!" they shouted, knowing damned well her name was Snow-Borne, like her mother. It didn't bother her. Much. These were some of the ones she'd whipped to earn her place in the Pact. It only raised her hackles a touch and her fellows knew to back off when her tail started to bristle and twitch.

Noemi Snow-Paw. It had a nice ring to it. Her mother would laugh and that was good enough.

Richard_scottub17_ESO

Brakus Firewalker, a dual wielding dark elf. His family was secluded from most of the dunmer society living in a small town were his father was a political leader. Brakus was named after a Nord that not only spared his life but in fact saved him. For this reason their clan has always had a problem with the way mer place themselves above the rest of society. Brakus was raised by their argonian house maid until he was 8. Then one night a terrible evil stormed through their village decimating their clan and slaughtering all. Brakus survived soley because his argonian house maid, walks-with-fire, sacrificed herself. Hurt, lost and confused Brakus wondered the Ashland's for a few years before finding himself in skyrim. He was hell bent on finding out who slaughtered his clan. He joined a group of bandits and learned from them. After a while he found out that his clan was not the only one struck that night, in fact almost all the clans that were allied with his father's were also slaughtered. Brakus planned on staying with the clan longer and finding out more but one day they went out to rob a waggon and ended up killing the entire family. This was an evil he could not align himself with. Being only 10 years of age he could not take them on so that night Brakus cut all of their throats while they slept and left. He was hoping to collect the bounty on their heads. he went to the closest city to tell the guards and collect the coin but ended up being robbed himself by another group of bandits. He was saved by a Nord woman named Eliza grey-mane. She feed him, clothed him and nursed him back to health. Brakus stayed with her as her adoptive son along with her natural son Edmirk grey-mane from the ages of 12-16. Deciding it was time he took the name Firewalker in honor of his childhood house maid walks-with-fire and finally embarked on the quest to find his birth families killers, Edmirk joining him. Their first stop being the mages guild which was followed by multiple other leads one with the thieves guild a few bandits and what not. After 2 years they finally get the names they were looking for when they corner an apprentice sorcerer and not so kindly extract some information from her. A clan of necromancer's and vampires were the ones tht killed his clan. Brakus and Edmirk tried to attack their camp and made it deep into the caves they were hiding in before being stopped. They gave Edmirk the option to become a vampire and join them or die. Edmirk being a proud bprs told them to go do things to themselves that I would rather not repeat. With that Brakus watched in horror has they cut his head off. Brakus did not get the same offer, instead they sacrificed him to the dark Lord molag bal. However this was only the beginning of his story...

Richard_scottub17_ESO

BenjamintheMad wrote: »

Lorcan the Blooded, born to an enslaved Breton family in service to a Dunmer plantation just before the formation of the Ebonheart Pact. Separated from his birth parents and raised as a house servant of the wealthy family, Lorcan never knew his own mother and father. Instead, the young boy was reared as a companion for the youngest daughter of the Ildros family, an outgoing and charming girl named Vyrani. When young Lorcan was old enough to return to work the fields, Vyrani begged her parents to allow him to continue serving as her companion. They agreed, on the stipulation that he learned how to defend their daughter from any and all threats to her safety. After years of grueling training which manifested as an extreme proficiency with magic, Lorcan proved himself to be a sorcerous prodigy.

Fully grown but not yet finished with his training, Vyrani's parents secretly staged a slave uprising to root out their greatest threats within their workers. Lorcan's own mother and father participated in the rebellion, and the Ildros family had taken their precautions and hid themselves within their manor while trusting that Lorcan, so infatuated with Vyrani, would not hesitate to crush the dissenting slaves. They were correct. His birth parents died in the failed uprising, and Lorcan was elevated to the status of a trusted bodyguard to the lovely Vyrani, remaining ignorant of his true origins. When the Ebonheart Pact was forged, Lorcan wound up becoming a full citizen under the new laws, and now seeks to solidify his alliance's strength to ensure that no outside force can ever threaten the life of the only person he has ever held dear. Gods hope that he does not uncover the lie he has lived for nearly thirty years, or there will be deaths beyond the counting.

I like this character concept great stpry

Jaemeson_Foster

"In the northern reaches of Tamriel, the provinces are full of young warriors, mages, priests, and scholars all looking to hone their skills and make a legend of their own. These young hopeful have many places to swear their loyalties to: the mage's guild, fighter's guild, the companions.. but some of the more religious swear their fealty to the Hand of Kyne.

The Hand of Kyne is a caste of warriors, mages, priests, and scholars who swear their life to the will and worship of Storm Goddess Kyne. These students are chosen from only the most elite of their classes during adolescents, and ascend the peaks of Skyrim to the various monasteries among the summits. These young hopefuls train for years in discipline, worship, martial skills, craft, academics, and most notably, how to harness the powers of storm.

Once these hopefuls graduate, they are blessed by the Goddess herself, and are sent to all corners of Tamriel to fulfill their own destinies. Some choose to lend their unique skills to the Fighters' Guild to hunt Daedra, others lend themselves to the Mage's Guild to learn and defend the knowledge of our realm, and others may choose to join the ranks of the militaries of their people. No matter what they do, they do it in the name of Kyne written in their hearts."

Revised from my first character: Larsardion Vaergrim is a Storm Warrior of Kyne. Think of a knight of the silver hand from Warcraft, but instead of light, it's storm

He strongly disagrees with the Nord race's decision to ally with the Dunmer in this war that he believes is a farce, so he decided to dedicate his strength to the Fighter's Guild– a faction that he knows he can trust. He is a part of the caste of the guild in the Daggerfall Covenant, as he does not want to associate himself with the Ebonheart Pact.

Krist

He watched the blond knight, who's armor was now bruised and broken in some places, walking among the recent battlefield. The knight's helmet was gone, probably lost during the fighting. All around were cries, screams, and even one person yelling profanities to the gods. Blood stained much of the courtyard leading up to the porch of the keep, and this was where he himself had fallen.

He and his companions battered down the main gate, and made it to the inner wall, before other enemy soldiers entered behind them. Though they fought well and hard, they were out flanked, with oils and arrows dropping from above, and the enemy coming from behind.
The warrior sat, his back against a porch pillar that was the only thing to hold him up. The arrows in his shoulder hurt, but it was the two in his gut that was killing him. It hurt more to lay back and stretch the stomach muscles than to sit, so he sat.
He glanced down a moment, taking his eyes from the knight. Nothing could be done for him now, even if their enemy decided to be merciful.

"That wound will not heal," the knight said, drawing the warriors eyes from his belly to him.
The warrior just shook his head. This man was not really his enemy. The warrior was a sell sword, and only fought for the riches and glory one finds in war, not for the faction that he was now representing.
"Are you thirsty," the knight asked, offering a flask of water or wine.
The warrior nodded, and took the flask. Thankfully it was wine.
"Who are you," the warrior asked, staring in the knight's blue eyes.

"Krist Lindor sir," Krist said, and took a knee across from the warrior. He looked to the man, apparently awaiting his own name in return. It was not forthcoming. Krist could tell the man knew he was dead, and his name at this time mattered very little.
"You are Nord, but you wear Imperial armor," the sell sword pointed out, then took another drag of the wine.
Krist smiled a bit and nodded. He only intended to give the man a sip, but did not ask for the wine back. The man was his enemy in battle, but the battle was over. He would let him have as much wine as he wanted.

"I am Nord, from the Whiterun province, though you can hardly tell now. I fought with the High King Jorunn against the Ada'soom army, actually. No, do not look so impressed. The man would have no idea who I am from that. I was just another boy foot soldier that thought war was glorious, and never really swung anything sharper than a wooden sword before that. My cousin and I were there though. How we survived it I can hardly say, but we did push the Akaviri out of our lands, and literally into the ocean. The screams were horrific, much like the screams of today," Krist said, looking the warrior in the eyes.

"Are you ready yet," Krist asked, and the sell sword knew what he meant.
"No, tell me a bit more while I drink a bit more of your wine," the sell sword replied.

"With the taste of war in my mouth, and the shouts of gratitude and love I received when I returned home, I wanted something a little more. I came to Cyrodiil, where I joined the Imperial Army. Varen Aquilarios was recently crowned emperor after dethroning Leovic, the daedric worshiper. Emperor Aquilarios came out of Bruma, so naturally all of us Nords heard of his bravery. I was not there for the battle that gave him the throne, but I arrived not long after and gave my sword to the Imperial Legion. You see, my mother was actually from Cyrodiil, though she is Nord as well, and I had family in the northern parts of the province," Krist said.

"That is why you do not have a strong Nord accent," the sell sword asked.
"That is why," Krist nodded.
"You are no longer fighting for the empire then," the sell sword said more than asked.
"No. In fact, I joined the Fighter's Guild to fight the Daedra, as my allegiance to the empire ended with the soul burst. I was here simply to refresh my horse when your people attacked. This is not really my war, but as you can understand it was fight or die."
The sell sword nodded his understanding, then began to cough up blood. His body shook for a bit as he seemed to almost convulse, then he laid his head back against the pillar.
The flask had fallen, and was empty.
"I am ready," he was barely able to get out, as he closed his eyes. The sell sword felt the knife enter, but the pain in his gut was too bad for him to actually feel the pain in his chest as the blade struck the heart. He saw a white flash, through his closed eyes, and was gone.

Krist

The Dashing Rogue Tailor or The Black Wolf

Luke smiled at the pretty noble, who was about 21 years old with dark hair and a full figure. She filled out her blue sun dress well, which only brought a bigger smile to the tailor. The spring dance was going on, a time of relaxation. Unlike the Winter Balls, the spring dances were not formal. The sun was warm and the breeze was cool, just the right time and just the right day.

Luke however had a way of being the best dressed even when he was dressed down casual. Of course it had to do with him being a tailor, in fact he was a master at it, though he took no apprentices. Some of the other merchants called him a rogue tailor, but in a friendly tone and admirable way. Luke was well liked among his peers, as with most people of Daggerfall that knew him. He always had a handsome, friendly smile for them. His business did very well, and he always seemed to obtain the fabric and material for any kind of wear one would wish, no matter how common or how exotic.
"Momma warned me about you," Joldhi said, a sly smile on her face as she approached him.
Luke knew that her mother was the wife of a baker that did very well for himself. They were considered upper middle class, if one wished to put people into classes. Luke never really did.
Luke was 32, and came to the city when Cyrodiil was being over run by Daedric and undead. He was happy to see a city still hustling and bustling, despite the problems going on. He brought his trade with him as well, and in less than 5 years, established himself as a good tailor.
"I am sure whatever she told you is the product of gossip, nothing more," Luke said.
"I am sure what she said was true, but I do not care," Joldhi replied, grabbing the rogue by the hand, and dragging him to join the dance.

As Luke walked home, the shadows beginning to darken the streets, he could still hear the music playing for the die hard dance goers. Joldhi had danced with him the entire evening, and he was happy for it. He would have been happier if she had followed him home, but he was not disappointed by any means. She was fun, and Luke enjoyed the time they did spend.
It was these thoughts that were crossing his mind when he saw the hooded figure coming towards him. He was not worried, he knew who they were. It was a messenger. Luke kept his walk steady, not missing a step, as they passed. He felt their hand deftly enter his pocket, something that someone less trained would not have felt. He knew there was a message there, and a name would be there as well as a time frame to get the job done.
Luke was not only a good tailor in Cyrodiil, but a master assassin as well. The name on the paper would be the name of someone that would be dead soon. A single coin would be attached to it, but that one coin would be worth more than most see in a month's work. The rogue tailor would get home this evening, thinking about the wonderful time he had at the dance. In the morning the Black Wolf would be readying himself for another kill.

newtinmpls

Korah_Eaglecry wrote: »

Caius Berilius was born in the Colovian Highlands of Cyrodiil. His family weren't nobles but they weren't peasants either. They owned land.

Dude. If they owned land, they were noble.

Sorry just had to say that.

Also people - basically anyone who has taken the time to create a backstory even when nitpicky freaks like me spaz at one point or another - keep up the creative work

And go post your stuff on fanfic dot net so I can read it!!

Cogo

Oghur have been fighting for the Pact cause in Cyrodiil for over a year. Grown into a leader among those who are not welcome among the "pro pvp guilds" (Pugs).

Oghur have his own team of pact warriors who follows this loudmouthed, bragging orc. At times Oghur manages to win over greater numbers and pull off defensive combat where most Pact gives up.

Oghur isn't very liked among the main pact, but earned the respect of our enemies by standing against many, with just a few. When most Pact whines, Oghur does what is considered "not possible", then brags about it. As a true Orc.

Oghur Hatemachine isn't better then anyone, nor very skilled in 1-1 pvp combat. He just don't give up! As an orc, I can't spell "They are to many".

Mwnci

People call him "Old Man Soris" because he's old, he's a man (probably), and his name is Soris; beyond that little to nothing is known about him.
Unlike that liar Varen however, he genuinely can't remember his past; likely because he suffers from selective senility and is nuttier than squirrel poop.

Cat_with_Plates

Cat-With-Plates comes off as quiet and cold despite his literally molten hot arsenal, though that is simply because he little to say yet loves to listen. He carries a mellow yet heroic aura about him, his kindness and willing to help the innocent in need has earned him a place in the Ebonheart Pact. This is something he desperately strives for, finding it difficult to feel accepted by the Ebonheart and it's people as a Khajiit.

Due to his life spent almost entirely in Morrowind With-Plates doesn't speak like most other Khajiit, yet still "acts like one" which is usually off-putting to most people he encounters. During their correspondence, With-Plates's brother will use purposely heavily-accented writing patterns to attempt to help him keep some of his Khajiiti spirit, resulting in a muddled mixed-speech making him even more unusual, conversing fluently in Dunmeri accent while slipping in "this one" and speaking in 3rd person. Yet another clever tactic employed by one of the Queen's agents.

With-Plate's passion for protecting the weak and smiting twisted is only augmented by the powerful Draconic magic he wields in battle. Though he may always seem calm and collected With-Plates is a fearsome warrior, channeling every suppressed ounce of anger, rage or even slight disappointment into his brazen attacks to wreak havoc on his enemies.

Born a slave's son along with his brother Tarro-Dar in a Dunmer slum, Do'Jarr was not destined for a slave's life. Nevertheless life started bleak. His mother died during childbirth, and his father was sent to his death in the mines leaving both Do'Jarr and his brother in the care of an aged Argonian couple not allied with the Pact but instead the Fighter's and Mages guilds.

The Argonians trained the brothers, which Jarr enjoyed. He often spent free time studying, sparring or meditating, choosing to release all of his negative emotions in sudden but controlled bursts. He quickly became a renowned student amongst the Guilds leading to specialized training in mysterious Akiviri dragon magic and proper use of heavy, plated armour. He was honoured by the Argonians by being given the mostly tongue in cheek name "Cat-with-Plates".

The brothers skills made them perfect candidates for scouting missions for the Fighter's Guild, seeking out Molag-Bal's oblivion gates. Jarr saw this as the perfect opportunity to prove to the Pact that the Khajiit were meant for more than just slave labour and hoped to solidify a respect for their race, unlike his brother who's hatred for the Pact was only dwarfed by his hatred for the Daedra that terrorized Tamriel. During what started off as a typical mission the Khajiit were ambushed and kidnapped by Mannimarco's necromancer's and sacrificed to Molag-Bal...

After escaping Coldharbour with the Prophet, With-Plates and his brother were given the opportunity to choose their own paths. Tarro-Dar chose to join the Aldmeri Dominion to fight alongside his fellow cat-folk and destroy the Pact for their crimes against his kind. Do'Jarr however chose to return to the Argonians and continue to fight for the respect of the Pact Dunmer and protect the slaves still in use despite his resentment of being an enemy to his own brother and race.

Krist

Who am I? Well, that is not an easy question. Who is anyone, really? I can tell you my past. I was born to a dead woman, the son of a dead father. I killed the midwife that birthed me and raised me as her own. I have served the whims of daedra, and have subverted daedra to my own whims. I have risen in the ranks of the Mages Guild, trusted and honored at one time. I found the Worm King intriguing to say the least, and respect his desire to step out of the mundane and walk among the most powerful. I also would have killed him had I the chance and the means.
In my desire to learn and study magic, I owe my allegiance to no one and nothing. I pay my debts. I repay kindness. If I call someone friend, then they are just that, and I honor that friendship whenever I can.

That place, between day and night, that purple color just before dark, that is where you will find me. That is who I am.

I am Hughe of the Purple Robes.

Burningbowl

This ones name is Burns-The- Grass i was hatched outside of Morrowind my Egg mother told me as a child that i was lucky to be born free and not enslaved by the House of Runiti a family of Slave Traders Forcibly Breeding And selling Eggs to the highest bidder for i was told to always have a hatred for the dunnmer because of our troubled history but i personaly cannot hold a entire race responsible for the actions of so few...
ive been travling throughout tamriel trading my Medicinal Herbs And stories to those who lend me there ears and doing odd jobs for the people of tamriel to finance my journey along this path i have encountered many brave and noble warriors (along with a couple of ignorant People who i would like to use as guar feed) who taught me to swing a sword and Axe but my true love is that of Archery.

namelessperson

Impenetrable Dark. A landscape beset by oppression and terror; cold, ruthless, gray. Coldharbour. Though, when I became aware of myself again, I did not know the place by that name. My name is Devinon. "El Vacio" I call myself. The Empty. If I had a family name, I no longer remember it. I remember glimpses of a land that seemed ever in mourning; gray skies and rain, bleak hills, and the ruins of keeps and castles; villages and shore-side hamlets. I remember the Darkness. Inside me. A Curse. Every once in a while, in my dreams, there are slight visions, pleasant glimpses that filter through my mind like sunlight through leaves. A child (me?) playing in the streets. A pleasant forest. Sometimes the visions become more intense, more violent. In them, the world seems to quiver. A violent flash, a terrible noise that drowns out screams... then nothing but cold. I would always awaken from these in a cold sweat. But I've lost so much of my past. I had been hollow, empty for so long. The others told me my skin should have rotted, should have shriveled long ago. Those that could still reason and speak, that is. I know not how long I spent in that hopeless realm. They tried to break me. Bal's servants. No amount of toil could wither my body or mind, though. And they noticed it too. My Curse. The Darkness, latent within me. Molag Bal stole my soul. In the baleful dark of his servants' halls, they pried it from me, turned me hollow. The time (years? months?) after is a blank void in my mind. They quieted me; made me sedate, Hollow even. But, for reasons I still am unsure of, it was not permanent. After a time, I became... aware, once again. They thrust me in the Wailing Prison, to be subjected to some manner of unspeakable perversion, no doubt. Then, a commotion. Dremora barking orders at eachother in the halls. A giant of a woman -- strong, proud -- approaches my cell. You all of course, know what happens here, so I will not go into great detail. But I will say that, despite my lack of memories, one part of me certainly remained, and continues to remain. Magicka. Whether it was a previous gift or something instilled in me from my time in that wretched place, I found myself able to manipulate the energies of Darkness with ease. Bal's realm may be oppressive, but Dark... Dark can be comforting. And the magickal energies of Darkness existed in abundance in that realm, allowing me to assault my foes with its' power with ease, thereby sealing my escape, to Nirn....
Nirn. I had only seen brief visions of such a realm, so full of life, of.. Light. As bidden by the Prophet, I ventured onward, honed my latent magical talents. Tried to re-discover a sense of purpose. The Curse had slowly nibbled away at my memories before, and now Bal had turned me into a sort of deathless being. I could not strengthen my soul with the strength of my foes' if it had been ripped from me. But there were advantages to this, I discovered. There was an opportunity for power. I carved out a new existence in this world called Nirn. Decided for myself that, so long as I had the will and ambition, I would acquire the power necessary to carry out my will. I held no delusions of heroics. Only a desire to reclaim my soul, which belonged to me, and to this world, Dawn's Beauty as I later learned it to be called; Tamriel.

(I might write more, I just want to at least get this out for starters)

namelessperson

(continued from previous post)

Light and Dark. These opposite extremes. As I honed my skill; studied with Mages at their Guild, returned Undaunted from so many pledges that took me into the darkness of caverns and Daedric realms, I became fascinated with them. So used to the Dark was I, so used to the suffering of Coldharbour. Mortals flock to sources of light, to campfires in the distance, to cities, like moths to flame. The lush greenery, absent from Coldharbour, thrived on Light, on warmth. And yet, Light in excess disturbs. Agitates. I find the most beauty in the twilight hours, and in the starlit nights brightened by the two Moons. A cycle of day and night, Light and Dark, and here I stand, along with the other mortals of Nirn, in the middle. I take comfort in this "middle ground". I have equal potential each day for either extreme; for good and for evil. It falls to me to decide which to manifest.
I became a vampire. Not out of a desire to do evil, but out of personal desire. I wish for the longevity of the ancient Elves. I wish to study the sun and stars, and interpret their signs as they, and the ancient Nedes did, forever. And to become more at home at night, in the Dark. The blood is mere necessity; an acquired taste, extracted from the bodies of my enemies before their impending deaths at the hands of my sorceries. My newfound gift allowed me to glide through the night like a cool breeze. I found upon the corpse of one of my foes a pair of black metal daggers; a beautiful pair of ebony fangs. Through the tutelage of certain contacts in the Mages Guild, and of my close circle of friends, I honed the craft of weaving sorcery and blade technique, until I had become a whirling tempest of sorcery and steel on the battlefield. I bobbed and weaved, dodged and charged in, my blades and body cloaked in lightning, stealing the vigor of my foes for myself to continue the fight. I became the Spellsword. The Sorcerer.

(Keep going or shut up so others can post? Lol)

namelessperson

Needless to say, for a long time I led a solitary existence. I emerged from Coldharbour in the city of Daggerfall, in the land of Glenumbra. Although I was (as I later had to figure out) a Breton, I felt more of my elven blood than most, preferring the beauty and duality of nature and arcana, and their intricacies to the intricacies of statehood, politics, and coin. During my time at the Mages Guild I was allured to and read as much as I could about the ancient Elves: the Dwemer, Falmer, Chimer, Orsimer, and Ayleid. All fascinated me. All captured a critical element, all tried to ascend to the most perfect version of their vision of Aldmeris. But pride, arrogance and hubris would eventually bring all of them down. As I ventured through the ruins of the Ayleids, I spent long hours pondering the stonework, pondering the history and ingenuity of those people... and scoffing at their self-made undoing. Glories and Laments, indeed. My time spent in High Rock, and among fellow mages taught me the crafts of woodworking, clothing and enchanting, and, through much study and practice, I learned to adopt the crafting methods of the Ancient Elves, fashioning for myself implements and raiments of ancient elven and, at times, Daedric design.
Anuiel, Light, the Elves. Padhome, Dark, the Daedra. Myself, my will, my power and my ambition. Woe to those who would cross me, and more often than not, a great deal of sizzling, frozen flesh from the bite of my staff and the sting of my lightning. I keep what friends I have in this world close, and my enemies closer. Or eliminate them altogether if they irk me enough.

Mcwoods55

Amras was once an adventure like you; until one day he took an arrow to the knee. Now he is a lowly bar keep who reminisces on the glory days.