THE DOOM-DRUM: An Elder Scrolls GSRPG

[Rethall]

A second, more inspired submission. I know the moo market is already full with the submissions not chosen, but I wanted to share my two cents

Name: Morihaus "Maneyes" (Given name, real name unknown)
Age: Unknown
Pronouns: He/Him
Character Concept: Sorrowful Godsent Murdermachine Hellbent in Exterminating All Akaviri Invaders
Heritage: Imperial (Minotaur)
Faith: The Hero Cults
Traits: Brave, Prophesized, Blademaster x2, Mage, Battlemage, Templar
Drawbacks: Lackey (To whoever is the strongest Imperial Legion in the east of Cyrodill), Brigand, Minotaur, Unconvincing (This last one gives no points, it's for flavour)
Spare Points: 5
Faction Name: Maneyes Warband (Given name, real name unknown)
Faction Trait: Warband (I know it's incompatible with imperial heritage, but I think it fits since minotaur)
Faction Size: 2
BIO: Maneyes is more a myth than they are a person - or bull, as it were.

At the onset of the Akaviri invasion, the bullman and his warband showed during an ambush of the snakemen against the imperial legion. Just as the cyrodillics were about to be overwhelmed, the minotaurs showed up and slew the akaviri to the last man, allowing the legionnaries to flee. At that time nothing appeared unusual about them - bar the fact that the minotaurs began following the legion's movements.

For months, the small warband stalked the legion's forces. Initially it was thought that they did so only to gorge on the corpse of the fallen, and while they did do that, it seems their primary objective was likewise to fight the invaders. Time and time again the minotaurs would charge the enemy's rear and disrupt their formation, or devour their explorers before they could report back to the main force. It was at this time when one minotaur rose among the rest, allegedly defeating entire akaviri patrols on their own and being able to cast restoration spells, which he used to keep his herd in peak fighting condition.

In time, the minotaur warband began to be tacitly acknowledged by the legionnnaries, allowing them to stay near camp, and even leaving offerings for them outside of camp. Many thought them as a divine sign by Saint Alessia, or Kyne, or both. When the imperial general finally decided to meet with the minotaurs in hopes of engaging in conversation, the apparent leader of the warband knelt, staring at them with beady, incredibly human-like eyes. The general gave him the nickname of "Maneyes" and told them that they were free to stay and even invited him to the camp. The bullman huffed, and nodded, and said nothing.

Since then, a legend began in east Cyrodill. A blessing for his allies and a curse upon his enemies, the so-called godsent minotaur is an enigma. A savage blur in combat, yet weeps and howls in sorrow as he gorges on manflesh. A mighty mage, yet only uses his magic abilities to protect and heal. Seemingly understand the human tongue, yet doesn't speak it - or any for that matter, as the other minotaurs simply follow him out of instinct, as he never gives them orders or speaks to them in any way, the chieftain being seemingly mute - except the times he screams "VERSIDUEEEEEEEE!" in combat. Regardless, the minnotaur auxiliaries are effective all the same.

A barbarian or a guardian, a beast or a man, Maneyes' true purpose and motives remain a mystery. Perhaps it will be ascertained in the coming age, amidst the bloodshed and chaos of the warlord era.

Math: 135 (base) + 0 (Imperial) - 25 (Warband) - 25 (Size Two) - 10 (Brave) -15 (Prophesized) - 30 (Blademaster x2) - 25 (Mage) - 25 (Battlemage) - 25 (Templar) + 15 (Lackey) + 10 (Brigand) + 25 (Minotaur) + 0 (Unconvincing) + 0 (Hero Cults) = 5

 

[Telamon]

And here are the second round picks. Deciding these took a lot longer than I'd have liked, and I have had to leave some truly incredible applications off the board. If you didn't get accepted, I want to take the time and thank you for applying in the first place. There was a lot of creativity and experimentation on display, and I urge you guys to stick around and watch the game. Spots may open up as players leave or are...'removed'.

If you were picked, congratulations. The IC will be incoming soon. As a note, presence on the Discord server is not optional -- it's where I'll be discussing critical information about the game and communicating with you one-on-one to discuss necessary details about your character and faction.

1. Gerudh the Great, the Suzerain-Most-Simian -- @bookwyrm

2. Codio Hirocius, Legate of the Fourth Legion -- @mcclay

3. Leonara Pelagia, Shield of Alt-Cyrod -- @Carol

4. Quintus Valerian, The Golden -- @Rethall

5. Alwaba Al-Tahir, The White Rider -- @Silver Gambit

6. Lyreia Octavianus, the Blackbird -- @Azel

7. Arnza Belharzanius, The Man-Bull Reborn -- @Fission Battery

8. Knight-Marshal Molivrian Viducia of the Wheel-Knights -- @pitl

9. Cynric 'the Stormsinger' -- @Ultimatum

10. Aria Alleius, Marshal of the Six Families -- @MaironHWH

11. Lokar Cinder-Scowl, Lokar-With-The-Voice -- @God and the Snake

 

[Telamon]

Rules and Mechanics


Orders
Every turn, each player may send in a number of orders. There are two kinds of orders: Personal Orders, limited to things you can say, do, or reach yourself in a reasonable amount of time. The second kind, Faction Orders, are more expansive, and have a looser geographic limit. They are generally concerned with things you can tell people to do. Leading your army into battle might count as a personal order, while commanding your trusted general to do so would be a faction order.

This is where Scale comes in.


Scale
What may be done, where it can be done, and how it can be done, all depend heavily on your faction Scale, a general estimate of your faction's feasible area of operations. A large invasion force might be able to act on a wider scale than a small adventuring party, but certainly not with as much subtlety or speed. Scale is decided based on the relationship between your faction size and your faction type, as well as in-game realities.

A size two legion is generally capable of acting on a bigger scale (Regional) than a size two cult, but if the legion has just lost a devastating battle it may find itself disorganized and confused, and now only capable of acting on a Local scale. Conversely, if that cult has spent time building friendly ties with the local lord (or even inducted him into the cult) it may find itself able to operate at a Regional scale. Scale is important, as it ties directly into your action economy, and players should always try to be aware of anything that could affect it.

The exact relationships between Scale and orders are as follows:

Immediate: As a small group or individual, your orders relate to yourself and things in your immediate vicinity -- the city you are in, or an equivalent space of several miles, as far as someone could get in a day's hard ride. If you want to tell someone something, unless they're right there inside this immediate space, you'll have to find, procure, or pay for some means of transmitting the message to them. Players operating on the immediate scale get are generally limited to things they can say, do, or reach themselves -- that is, one personal order a turn.

Local: Slightly larger than immediate. While your group of fifty to a hundred is still stuck operating at the city scale, you can do more. At this scale, people are able to do things outside of your direct supervision, and you can reasonably accomplish larger-scale goals. It is now feasible to do things like "seize the city docks" or "hunt down all the mages". This new flexibility is represented by one personal order and one faction order.

Regional: What it says on the tin. A regional-scale faction is concerned with the entire geographic region which you are in, be it Colovia or Nibenay, and can act freely inside of it. You may realistically send troops to capture a city in this region, or order your cultists to go out and raze statues of false gods along all the roads. Certainly, you are more than capable of sending a well-protected messenger across long distances, and communication becomes less of an issue. At this scale, it is presumed you have enough reach and organization for your followers to act without your direct supervision, giving one personal order and two faction orders.

Imperial: At this scale, you may act across the entire province of Cyrodiil. A player at Imperial scale may direct their attention anywhere they wish, without geographic limitations. Armies at this scale might fight wars on multiple fronts, while a cult might command thousands of true believers across Cyrodiil. This scale is represented by one personal order and three faction orders.

At the beginning of the game, most players will be operating at local or regional scale, with no one secure enough to operate on an imperial scale. Most importantly, Scale is not tied to faction size, though it can be influenced by it. Alliances, diplomacy, and hostile actions from players and npcs alike can all drastically impact your Scale on a turn-to-turn basis. A size one noble who builds an alliance of noble cities might find themselves catapulted to Regional scale in a single turn, while a huge army that's tied down in a siege is forced to operate at a purely Local scale. Even a mighty commander of a legion acting at Imperial scale might find herself betrayed by local allies and cut off from her army, only able to act at an Immediate scale for the next turn.

Some Guidelines for writing orders:

Keep them short and simple, under 500 words an order.

Do not go into excessive detail. Say what you want to do, how, and what your intent is.

Keep your Scale and Faction Type in mind when writing orders. Sending your massive army of knights rampaging through a city for an artifact you want might not play well with your knights or the citizens, but would be perfectly suited for an adventuring party or cult.

Ask me, ask me, ask me. Ask me if the governor likes wine, ask me how far to the next city, ask me if your troops are fed up with you. I will inform you of everything that is reasonably within your character's knowledge -- and, just as critically, of any blank spaces in that knowledge.

 

[Azel]

Felt rather cumbersome to search for the accepted applications, so I ordered everything.

Alwaba Al-Tahir Aria Alleius Arnza Belharzanius Ashwan al-Hotaki Berich Stirk Ciel Codio Hirocius Cynric Edward XVI General Gratian Gerudh Horatius Longii Horoxia Larich King-Chieftain Agrywyr Leonara Pelagia Lokar Cinder-Scowl Lyreia Octavianus Maraya Molvirian Viducia Nobis-Naiga Quintus Valerian Surin-Daiek

• Alwaba Al-Tahir
  Name	Alwaba Al-Tahir, The White Rider
  Age	???
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	Fallen Hero
  Heritage	Ra Gada (25)
  Faith	The Daedra (25) (Peryite)
  Traits	Blademaster (15) Sword-Singer (25) Sword Saint (0) Icon of Faith (25) Mage * 2 (25) Planeswalker (60) Apostate (-50) Rival (-25)
  Faction Name	The White Rider's Pestilent Congregation
  Faction Trait	Cult (10)
  Faction Size	1 (0)
  Alwaba Al-Tahir held many titles before The Pit, Hero, Savior, Ansai of the Second Rank, and The Chosen of Diagna but now she is simply called The White Rider. Alwaba Al-Tahir had once been the greatest Sword-Singer in her generation and in those days she was the model with which many up and coming swordsmen would compare themselves to. For a time there were few of the Ra Gada who did not have a story about the time The Chosen of Diagna had saved their village from one threat or another. But then she had found the first foe she could not defeat, by all appearances he was merely an old man and were it not for the blood red eyes and pronounced canines Alwaba Al-Tahir would have never found him out as a vampire. History has lost the name of her foe, for in the chronicles he is listed only as The Old One but what the chronicles do tell us is that though Alwaba Al-Tahir lost the fight, she did not lose her life. It would perhaps have been better if she had. She would challenge The Old One three times, she would lose three times. After the last loss Alwaba Al-Tahir turned her back on the gods of old Yorkuda and through magic best left unspoken would search the realms of Oblivion for the power to defeat The Old One. She would find more than she had bargained for. Though her swordsmanship and her power is now greatly decayed from what they once were after an unknown eternity in The Pits of Pestilence, Alwaba Al-Tahir has returned. She has already wreaked havoc upon the borderlands of Hammerfell and she has heard word of The Old One's appearance in Cyrodiil, in the shattered remains of the Empress Alessia's domain. She comes upon a white horse with Toxicruciform around her neck and the blighted remains of her soul formed into a sputtering barely possible Shehai in hand. If need be she will burn every town, poison every well, infect every army, and reignite the fires of contagion across all of Tamriel in the name of her new God to find and challenge her destined foe one final time.

• Aria Alleius
  Name	Aria Alleius
  Age	26
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	Embittered Daughter of a Dead House
  Heritage	Imperial (0)
  Faith	The Eight Divines (0)
  Traits	Noble (50) Charismatic (10) Strategist (25) -> Great Captain (25) Brave (10) Blademaster (15), Civil War (+50) Indebted (+25)
  Faction Name	The White-Gold Assembly (Split into the Six Families and the Pact of Seven at game start)
  Faction Trait	Noble Retinue (Free)
  Faction Size	4 (-75)
  Two Imperial Nobles is a murder plot. Three is a conspiracy. A hundred is a bloodbath. Cheydinhal is a slaughter-house. A year ago House Alleius was a major player in Cheydinhal. A month ago they were the perspective host of the greatest gathering of Cheydinhal-forces in a generation. A week ago they were a hundred strong. Today they are one. At the moment of their great triumph, a dagger was plunged into their patriarchs back. The House was butchered down to a single woman, the third-daughter of a branch family most notable for once being favoured to host a feast for the Emperor themselves, allegedly. Aria Alleius now ostensibly commands the forces of 13 Houses in Cheydinhal. Practically, she commands six, five of whom are loyal only be the certainty of death upon defeat. The remaining seven have aligned themselves into a new pact, one intent on wiping out the loyal six to consolidate power on the Cheydinhal. The Six Families are divided and shellshocked, led by a girl of 26 with no experience commanding a war-front. The Pact Of Seven is organised and bloodthirsty, led by hardened veterans of Cheydinhal politics and mainland campaigns. The outcome is certainty manifest, as absolute as the crashing of Lake Rumare against the shores of the Imperial Isle. Above it all looms the trigger of the assembly itself, the potential of an outside force to march on Cheydinhal itself in its moment of division. Aria Alleius does not believe in certainties.

• Arnza Belharzanius
  Name	Pontifex Arnza Belharzanius
  Age	38
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Rightful King Returns
  Heritage	Imperial (0)
  Faith	The Hero Cults (0)
  Traits	Charismatic (10), Brave (10), Prophesied (15), Blademaster (15), Mage (25), Battlemage (25), Great Captain (25), Brigand (+10), Minotaur (+25), Remaining Resources (10)
  Faction Name	Cult of the Man-Bull Emperor
  Faction Trait	Cult (10)
  Faction Size	2 (25)
  AND SO DID MORIHAUS GIFT THEM A CHILD, A BABE SWADDLED IN REEDS AND PALM LEAVES, RESTED ATOP A WINGED WATER BUFFALO, AND ALL BOWED BEFORE IT, KNOWING THAT THE TRUE EMPEROR HAD RETURNED. The true story of Arnza's early life was clouded in mystery. The minotaur's parents had found refuge deep in the jungles of Cyrodiil to hide from monster hunters, living close to a Nibenese tribal village that tolerated the presence of minotaurs. It provided them a respite, but only for some time before his parents were caught and slaughtered by traveling knights. How the village found the child is unknown, only that they did. They saw that day they were graced by the presence of Morihaus-Breath-of-Kyne himself, who delivered Arnza to them himself. Taking pity upon the orphan, they raised it as their own, for they too had suffered at the hands of the Alessian Order. Their ancestors had fled the Heartland because of religious persecution, seeking refuge among distant kinfolk in the dense jungles and foothills of the province. They remembered the time before the theocracy, when the Man-Bull Emperor ruled Cyrodiil fair handedly and justly. His line had been usurped by treacherous priests of the Order, who sought power for themselves. The suffering and indignity forced upon the whole of Cyrodiil had left a permanent scar upon the tribe's collective psyche. Its collapse had not been the end of their problems. The unrest and violence had spilled over into the countryside as legions, knightly orders, and brigands swept the jungles for villages to loot and press gang survivors in a never ending war for resources. They themselves had taken up raiding against their lowland neighbours to survive. They had prophecy that the wrongs of Cyrodiil would be righted when the rightful king returned, blessed by divine providence. And so, many claimed that Arnza had indeed been blessed. The orphan tragically abandoned by fleeing parents had been saved and raised by them. The minotaur was given something so few of his kind had been offered: an education. He was wise beyond his years, proving to be a gifted mage, and studied the art of the blade in true Nibenese tradition. He learned the hymns of their prayers and spoke them better than the priests to invoke the spirit of Morihaus-Breath-of-Kyne and Emperor Belharza. Now it is he who hunts knights through the jungle, avenging the deaths of his parents and kinfolk! They flee in terror at the sight of the charging Pontifex! The inhuman bellows echo through the land, heralding the arrival of his foe's death! Brigand? Bandit? Scoundrel? Monster? Arnza has heard these petty insults before, and time and time again these petty minded fools fell before him all the same. Did the mountain mind the manners of the mice? Did the eagle bow to the swallow? No! He was Pontifex Arnza Belharzanius! The true Emperor of Cyrodiil and Tamriel!

• Ashwan al-Hotaki
  "My Shehai is my will. And my will says that in this world, there is nothing I cannot cut." "In the past, I boasted of those words. But now, as I slay masters unnumbered... I feel nothing."
  Name	Ashwan al-Hotaki
  Age	45
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	"Heaven and earth, ocean and forest, I have searched it all and found none that could match my blade. And as the specter of old age begins to creep into my mind and body, I fear I may never find someone I can call a true equal. Until I find this person, everything that stands before me shall be cut into pieces. Thus says Ansei Ashwan al-Hotaki and thus it shall be so."
  Heritage	Ra Gada
  Faith	Yokudan Pantheon
  Traits	Blademaster x6, Sword Hero, Swordsinger, Sword Saint, Magically Neutered, Exile, Indebted
  Faction Name	The Evercutting Saintly Blades
  Faction Trait	Adventuring Band
  Faction Size	1
  Ashwan is a sword given form in human flesh. When he was but a shadow swimming in his mother's womb he could hear the song, the symphony of harmony of the blade as the blacksmiths of his native Hammerfell made weapons on their forges. To Ashwan, swordsmanship stands on a higher ground than mere practice. To hone his craft is the very founding rock of his existence. Recently, Ashwan finds himself... disappointed. Anxious. He began to wonder if he had truly reached it--the true peak of the Way of the Sword. His unrelenting determination wavers, not out of hesitation but due to self-confidence. There must be more to this glorious path than he can see. Another mountain to climb. And he has ruined himself to come to the vicious battleground of Cyrodill to prove it.

• Berich 'Stirk'
  Name	Berich 'Stirk'
  Age	32
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Pirate King
  Heritage	Imperial (0)
  Faith	Eight Divines (hah!)
  Traits	Great Captain (25), Charismatic (10), Blademaster x2 (30), Brigand (-10), Civil War (-50), Traitor (-10)
  Faction Name	Brethren of the Gold Coast
  Faction Trait	City State (75)
  Faction Size	3
  Berich was simply Berich for the greater part of his life, born the pauper son of a dockworker's daughter in Anvil by the sea. He never knew his father, and this was all the better, for when his mother took to more dishonourable means to make ends meet he contented himself with the story of an Olo princeling. This deception won him a place as the unwitting, press ganged mascot of a pirate vessel sailing out of the bay, and, soon, he forgot all about that woman and that miserable city - climbing the literal pole from cabin boy and dog's body to martial credibility and seizing a Captaincy of his own. Then he remembered all about Anvil. The Prince of Stirk established himself on that island in the city's bay and became a terror for the ailing Olo King, Clovus. However, for all his boasting and his swordsmanship, he lacked the means to actually press anything like a claim. Until Clovus' death opened a rift between his bickering sons, Bendu and Dorald, over how best to set the disintegrating kingdom of the Armada's heirs in order. And two insane Bretons with a stack of coins and the means to get him inside the city offered Berich an offer he was all too happy to take. In an audacious gambit, he smuggled himself into the city, slew Bendu whilst he slept, and dropped the harbour chain to let his men into Anvil. He now contests the flaming corpse with Dorald, who rallies the nobility to expel him and has suddenly remembered his love for his brother. It's no matter - after all these years, he's ready to kill for it. Berich will get his due.

• Ciel
  Name	Ciel the Wanderer
  Age	30
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Lost Imperial Mananaut
  Heritage	Breton
  Faith	Daedric
  Traits	Mage (x7), Archmage, Planeswalker (Molag Bal), Shadow Broker, Vampire, Exile
  Faction Name	Society for the Restoration of Rightful Imperial Rule
  Faction Trait	Cult
  Faction Size	1
  Ciel thrived in the Remanite Empire and pursued his passion of magical research to the fullest. After quickly overtaking the many dignified mages he studied under he naturally gravitated towards the Imperial Mananauts who were pushing the edges of magical research trying to unveil even the deepest secrets. His first voyages went great and he quickly proved himself to be one of the most skilled mananauts. The void however is nothing but unpredictable and on a routine voyage the currents carried him to a place where time and reason dwindled. At this point it seemed all but certain that he would perish in the boundless void but Molag Bal reached out to the dwindling soul. A righteous man wouldn't have taken the deal but Ciel did. He awoke in the sewers of the ancient Imperial City displaced in time and even worse he had changed. The sunlight burned him and he quickly realized his unnatural hunger. Molag Bal had left him with a single command "SEEK DOMINION AND BREAK THE SPIRITS OF MEN". Living in the sewers Ciel fed on the undesirables and lured in disciples with his historical knowledge and the secrets that Molag Bal whispered to him in exchange for new slaves. For now he has been careful not to unleash his magical powers to cause destruction or utilize the forbidden arts of Necromany that The Prince of Domination had revealed to him but the poor and downtrodden already whisper in hushed tones about the Dark One that takes them away at night.

• Codio Hirocius
  -- No Image --
  Name	Codio Hirocius
  Age	34
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Doom-Driven Legate
  Heritage	Imperial
  Faith	8 Divines
  Traits	Dragonborn, Hlaalu Connections, Strategist, Civil War, Traitor, Rival
  Faction Name	Fourth Legion
  Faction Trait	Imperial Legion
  Faction Size	2
  The Dragonfires gutter low, and all the world suffers. In the east, guarding the border with ash-hazed Morrowind, lay the 12th Legion. Tasked with overseeing trade and the border forts during the Empire's time, after its fall the Legion became little more than bandits and feudal lords in old armor. What had once been the natural distrust of Man towards Mer became violent hatred, with any Dunmer who attempted to cross the border likely finding themselves impaled on the Legion's spears. For days uncounted the great Legion languished like this, a feral and cruel thing, Man in miniature. Codio was born to a Centurion and, upon his 13th birthday, was inducted into the Legion like his forefathers before him had been. No more were young men and women recruited into the crimson, the old laws had stagnated so much that rank and title was passed down family lines. Even as a child Codio complained of hearing a constant beating drum in quiet moments. A steady pounding that made his heart race and his pulse quicken. He was unable to sit still, seemingly always animated by this beat that only he could hear. The constant drum beat drove him to seek out more than what he was born to do. He made friends with Legionnaire and the Nibenese they ruled over alike, tongue quick as he always found the words to say. He studied long and hard tactics of old; from Alessia's Revolt to smuggled texts describing the ancient wars of the Nords and Chimer. While a perfect officer in public, inwardly he disdained the parochial traditions of his superiors. The beat propelled him to look beyond the hidebound ways of Man hating Mer. Hlaalu agents, well embedded into the towns the Legion controlled, took note of Codio's ambition. They approached the slight young man one evening, slowly tempting him with promises of power and gold. With the backing of the Great House Codio could overthrow his superiors and establish himself as a force to be reckoned with. He was a good enough tactician and well liked enough among his men to make a proper play for control of the 12th. He did not take the offers the first time they were presented, nor the second or third. But each time he refused the pounding got louder and louder, until he could not sleep. His destiny could not be denied, and finally on the fourth offer he accepted it. Dunmer blade would strike with Imperial spear into the backs of those who led this last bastion against the star-wounded East. Codio's deception was well crafted, but no coup is perfect. The Tribune Orettia Sibar did not go to the banquet Codio threw for his superiors, both wishing to inspect her troops and not trusting the man's new found wealth, and thus avoided the massacre that followed. A third of the Legion has flocked to her banner, leaving the 12th sundered and split. Now the Valus Mountains boil with blood as twin parts of the Legion battle against each other. Men spit upon Codio's name, calling him 'Elf-Friend' and 'Arch-Traitor'. The Hlaalu feed him money and troops in exchange for Codio leaving the border open for their trade and influence once more. The wealthy Mer are sure that, once Orettia is crushed, Codio will be satisfied with his new 'kingdom' and the riches of House Hlaalu. Little do they know that the drum beat has only gotten louder. Codio's Doom lays within the red heart of the jungles. Only then will it be silenced.

• Cynric
  Name	Cynric 'the Stormsinger'
  Age	44
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Doom Driven Conqueror / Mercenary Tongue
  Heritage	Nord (-15)
  Faith	The Eight Divines (0)
  Traits	Tongue (-60), Blademaster x3 (-45), Adventurer (-10), Charismatic (-10), Strategist (-25), Exiled (+25), Civil War (+50)
  Faction Name	Band of the Stormsinger (or simply the Stormsingers)
  Faction Trait	Mercenary Company (-15)
  Faction Size	2 (-25)
  Cynric is of Atmora, its last blood. His line denied all opportunity to leave their home in past times, preferring their simple life and worship of the Dragons. They were a reclusive clan, possessing knowledge and power that had in the past brought their kinsmen conflict in Skyrim, but in Atmora, they remained in peace. Of course, those times are long past, as the chill winds drove even the remaining Atmorans to the brink, and killed those who did not possess either extraordinary will, skill or powers in the case of Cynric's line- yet even so, life was hard and only seemed to grow harder, even with the gifts of the Thu'um being used liberally, and regular sacrifices being offered to the Dragons. Ultimately, it was Cynric's grandfather, Dagnir who made the decision to abandon Atmora, in the belief that even if the ancient magics of the Atmorans could keep them alive and relatively safe from the worst of cold... 'life', if it could be called that, for it was in truth, naught but scant survival within the brutal tundra and icefields was not a life worth living. So, Dagnir and his clan moved away, perhaps on the last ship that would be constructed by the Atmorans, and left for Skyrim, as their distant kin had in the past. Cynric was born on the voyage, during a freak storm that ultimately killed his father and mother. Perhaps it was fate that decreed that he survive, and not his own parents- as the battered ship made landfall on the coast of eastern Haafingar, young Cynric, a babe, was left in his grandfather's care. Dagnir 'Whitebeard' they called him, for he had been Shaman and Tongue for the clan in Atmora. He had seen many winters, and only few summers, for Atmora had grown all-but inhospitable even during the earliest years of the Whitebeard. With Dagnir lied a legacy of power that had but one heir, as now, when they found themselves a home, they would require a new Tongue and Shaman to lead when he passed. It was under those auspices that Cynric grew up- stiffled by the reclusive family he was part of. They lived in anonymity, hidden away by the Magics of his grandfather, under whose reactionary rule, the extended family made no contact with their fellow men. Cynric, however, desired adventure. So, on the day after he became a recognized adult in his clan, he stole away in the night, leaving behind everything. However, his dreams proved difficult, as he knew not even the tongue of the Nords, but the Atmoran language did give many men pause... ultimately bringing him to the Jarl of Haafingar, who would ensure the boy could be questioned. Cynric had always been a voracious youth, both in matters of blade and learning. He came to learn the language quickly, and after lying about his origins, claiming that he hailed from Skaal, he became a soldier in service to the Jarl. In that position he only further refined his skills, before finally making enough money to once again depart for greater adventures. He killed brigands and bandits, hunted game and defended the walls of cities. He saved maidens, on occasion, and ventured to long-abandoned ruins. Ultimately, however, his years of adventuring came to an end, when a Thane of Whiterun, Erik 'Redmane', witnessed him practicing his Thu'um- an ability considered sacred by the Nords. Cynric was left with little choice then, but to accept the suggestion of the man, and go learn under the Greybeards of High Hrothgar. So he did. He learned under their guidance, drawing on his innate ability and refining his capability- though not for peaceful means, as the Greybeards wanted. No, instead Cynric saw a future for himself, one where he would break armies with his Voice, and make a legacy befitting a son of Atmora. Yet even those dreams had a darker side, and when Cynric stole away, once again, after over a decade under the tutelage of the Greybeards, with knowledge considered sacred, he was named an Exile. Soon after, all across Skyrim men and women learned of the Rogue Tongue. His name became both reviled and admired, and without little choice, Cynric left his homeland of three decades. For a decade after, he made little and less use of his capabilities in the Thu'um, instead opting to make a name for himself, first in High Rock and later in Cyrodiil, as a capable mercenary. In time he gathered around himself fellow Nords, disaffected and ambitious as he had been in his early days, as well as Bretons of a similar ilk. He defeated Trolls, Goblins and even Undead monsters, with shields and spears at his beck and call. He killed bandits, just as he had before, only now the numbers were far larger. His blade claimed lives in the hundreds, and his renown grew. Ultimately, it was in Bruma that another chapter of his life came, though. The petty King of Bruma hired him and his band for a campaign planned against the southern city-states not yet under Bruma's rule- and the King made liberal use of the well-trained and bloodied men of Cynric's band... only he never paid them, delaying for months even as campaigning season ended. Eventually, he promised to explain himself and pay Cynric in person, and with little options due to the growing ire of his men, Cynric accepted. He arrived to meet the King- only to be accosted in the throne room, and thrown in jail of false charges. Unfortunately for them, and the city guard of Bruma, Cynric could not be contained so easily. He Shouted for the first in a decade, and under that power, the walls containing him gave away. Men ran, scared for their lives, and others tried stopping him. They turned to ashes, and Cynric promised revenge to the King of Bruma. He returned to his mercenary band, and said that their payment would have to be taken by force. In the same Breath, he showed them his power and promised that under his command and capabilities, they would have their money, and so much more. Civil war, or at least a mercenary rebellion, has come to Bruma and the Stormsinger will not abide betrayal.

• Edward XVI
  -- No Image --
  Name	Edward XVI "The Resplendent"
  Age	16
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Self Styled Demiprince
  Heritage	Breton (15)
  Faith	Daedra (25)
  Traits	Charismatic (10), Prophesied (15) Mage x5 (75) Planeswalker (60) Icon of Faith (Free), Exile (-25), Young (-50)
  Faction Name	Heralds of Twilight
  Faction Trait	Cult (10)
  Faction Size	1
  Edward was born one of many princes in the City-Kingdom of Daggerfall. Though nowhere near to the throne indeed born posthumously to a father whose firstborn son was already a man grown, the young Edward grew handsome and charismatic, wrapping peers around his finger and even by the standards of Bretons proved incredibly talented in magic. Raised on tales of heroic ancestors like his namesake who freed High Rock from the Nords, as Edward and his magic skills grew he became more and more obsessed with the tales of Edward. Contrary to the orthdox version of the story, Edward XVIII became convinced that Edward the first had in fact been the son of Moraelyn the Witch King of Ebonheart, and that that powerful heritage had manifested itself in him. The fact that this made his entire lineage technically illegitimate did not bother him, though obviously it bothered his family. In time his obsession with Moraelyn turned stranger and stranger. When one day Edward told his older brother the king that he had traveled the marble jaws of Oblivion and in Moonshadow Azura had claimed him as his mother-his eyes now piercing azure- enough was enough and the Prince was ordered exiled. Though exile seriously hampered his expected luxurious lifestyle Edward found it remarkably easy to gather followers utterly devoted to Azura and her son. Eventually his budding cult met that of Horatius Longii, a follower of Boethia. Edward saw in Longii a useful mentor in the daedric path, and an compatible Daedra, while Longii saw if not a daedric prince an obviously powerful mage whose growing cult would be a useful addition to his own resources. Joined in time by a ambitious pirate the three set forth to the Sundered Seat of Kings, and destiny.

• General Gratian
  -- No Image --
  Name	General Gratian, Duke of the Colovian Hills, Defender of the Western Marches, the Red Serpent
  Age	43
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Ambitious opportunistic rat with a grand vision
  Heritage	Imperial
  Faith	Eight Divines
  Traits	Craven, Traitor, Charismatic, Prophesied, Strategist, Great Captain, Rival (Loyalist Legion)
  Faction Name	The Ninth Legion
  Faction Trait	Imperial Legion
  Faction Size	3
  Gratian is one of the most celebrated, and most cursed, of all of the Imperial City's generals. Originally a young son of shopkeepers more interested in carousing and drinking than learning any trade, Gratian would end up seeking employment in one of the remnant Legions to escape a prison sentence after his gang grew a little too rambunctious for the city watch to allow. He took quickly to the life of a soldier, blessed with a keen insight for all matters of war which, along with his gift for gaining the confidence of others, saw him rapidly climb the ranks. When he was a young officer leading a patrol, after they struck camp for the night, Gratian dozed off while sitting at the base of an old statue of St Alessia. There, he was blessed with a powerful, unmistakable vision-the Red Amulet of Kings, wrapped in the coils of countless writhing serpents, each seeking to claim it from one another. Then, with shocking swiftness, a crimson serpent the color of blood overtook its rivals, devouring them all in turn, until it alone remained. The Amulet came to rest upon its brow, and it transformed into a mighty dragon. When Gratian awoke, a crimson serpent rested upon his breast, its golden eyes staring directly into his, his companions watching in horror. Yet the beast did not bite, but instead kissed his forehead and departed. When Gratian told his subordinates of what he had seen, all agreed that he had been chosen by a grand purpose-to unify Cyrodiil and take up the Amulet of Kings. Gratian never forgot his destiny, and even as he served ably and loyally, always sought his opportunity. It would come during one of the usual interminable disputes that the Imperial Legions were often called to deal with, an upstart warlord pushing their luck and reaching for more territory. Two legions would be sent to resolve the issue, and Gratian judged that the loyalty of his officers and soldiers was absolute. So Gratian abandoned his part of the plan, allowing ally and enemy alike to bleed one another-then fell upon both with great slaughter, moving westward after his betrayal, looting and pillaging along the way, until he finally stopped to carve out a fiefdom in the hills of Colovia. Styling himself, "Duke" and a bevy of other titles, Gratian and his traitorous army now seek to become the nucleus of a grand kingdom of their own. Though, perhaps he should have made sure to actually wipe out that legion entirely rather than spend so much time looting their camp...

• Gerudh
  Name	The Monarch of All Monkeys, the Suzerain Most Simian, KING GERUDH THE GREAT
  Age	fragmentary records suggest life in the Middle Dawn by roughly 1E ~2175 before eventually disappearing, with a handful of further potential sightings until confirmed return since 1E 2687 Subjective Age: 51 years old
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	stillborn legend robbed of their heroic destiny
  Heritage	Imga [ -75 pts]
  Faith	Hermaeus Mora, Hryma-Mora, the Woodland Man [Daedra Worship -25 pts]
  Traits	Traitor [ +15 pts], Civil War [ +50 pts], Shadow Broker [ -50 pts], Great Captain [ -25 pts]. Charismatic [free], Prophesied [free]
  Faction Name	the Zero Battalion, the Army of None, the Last Legion The very last remnants of Gerudh's golden warriors, carried with him to found a new kingdom for the Ape-Men and to save the humans from themselves, though along with them come wizened Dulsa XIII, the last surviving ape-matriarch of Gerudh's Selective foolishly attempting to join and give warning to her modern day inheritors in the Temple of Zero, and that craven dog Salias the Postulator fleeing to go cower with the rest of the broken echoes of the Imga in this history. And worse than that- some of the weaker-willed of the Last Legion are daring to join them in their stupidity!
  Faction Trait	Warband [ -25 pts]
  Faction Size	1 (free)
  Once, Gerudh was a Primate Prelate of the Holy Brothers of Marukh, and though of the juniormost Imga sages in the Alessian Order, he led his brother humans and Ape-Men to countless victories of fire and steel over the continued corruption and mischief of Elvish taint. He did this as part of the great crusade across time and the Imperial Heartlands to reshape the facets of the cosmos to forever establish the complete unity of the One and to detach and uplift their faithful empire beyond the illusionary Elvish cycles of death and despair and worldly turmoil. In the timeless eye-blink of the Middle Dawn Gerudh slayed a thousand enemies of the faith and saved a thousand towns, each a thousand times over, and was on track to carry the legacy forward as a a new Pelinal Whitestake, a new Morihaus even, into the golden new era that awaited. But then everything went wrong when a last alliance of Men and Elves and Beastfolk stepped forth to oppose their sacred mission, and succeeded. The eschtalological supreme unity of Ak-To-Osh would never be separable from the Altmer sky-father Auriel. And worst still all that was Gerudh, his savage crusade, his towering persona that echoed up and down causality, even his quiet passion for appropriately sober and virtuous poetry, all were lost with the end of the Dragon Break. In the great rebounding backlash to the attempts to erase any need for Ayleid defectors and surrendered auxiliaries in the Alessian Rebellions, Gerudh found that the Holy Brothers of Marukh had now never been more than an obscure monastic order in a church ruled by the Selective, and that there were no such things as Primate Prelates. The Imga were now nothing but strange and wary fugitives withdrawn into Valenwood, a people whose rarity as sages and mystics and grand viziers turned into almost complete nonexistence as a people that history passed by, their own great sagas of the overturning of the Elf-loving Shaved Ones and their heathen princelings, the great and terrible age of the Judges and their shattering against the Green Pact, the restoration of order and faith under the Holy Brothers of Marukh- all gone but for scattered apocryphal references. In this moment, half-way real even to himself and on the edge of the black despair of that question that can never be asked, if his memories had ever been anything more than mad dreams, Gerudh's heart inverted to pure obsidian hatred. He did not quail and wither like those weaklings around him, but Instead unleashed his rage ripping apart all the Holy Select and neverborn Primates beside him, and with blood-soaked hands and a bloody foaming mouth carved out his own tale and his own prophesied fate. To Oblivion with the Selective and demons take the One, blind failures that they are, Gerudh will take the legacy of the Ayleids and the Daedra and all that this broken world has to offer and bend them to the mastery of Imga and their little human cousins! And so with a dark and harrowing passage around linear time once again, Gerudh defied his fate. Though he will never speak on it, rumors fly as to the origin of his return, perhaps through the legends that speak of an Ape-Folk ability to hide from strife and visit otherworldly lands, or possibly through the sacred temples and ever-burning divine altars rejecting his murderous presence in the still-solidifying return of time, or just maybe his subsequent fateful pact to Hermaeus Mora, to be delivered from his enemies, time most of all, in exchange for being theirs forever afterwards. Regardless, now Gerudh the Great is reborn, and will continue his great work and call down and uncross the stars themselves- so that he and his people shall be mighty once more, and so that all shall know the works of Gerudh, and tremble!

• Horatius Longii
  -- No Image --
  Name	Horatius Longii
  Age	79
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Megalomaniacal Mage
  Heritage	Reachman (-15)
  Faith	Daedric (Alliance of Boethiah, Azura, personally concentrated on Boethiah)
  Traits	Apostate (+50), Exile (+25), Magex5 (Archmage (-75)), Planeswalker (-60), Shadow Broker
  Faction Name	Arcane Hand
  Faction Trait	Cult (-10)
  Faction Size	3
  Fifty years hence, your destiny shall be visible. So spoke the Scholar-King of Wayrest, mere days before a young Horatius slew him in his sleep and took over his realm. Accomplished as he was at intrigue and magic, however, his dark interests could not be hidden forever. Exile came a decade later. In truth the order was execution, but a desperate Longii took a path into Oblivion first. He would only emerge after five years, appearing atop Cyrodiil's Shrine of Boethiah and levitating down. In those five- or fifty- years, he travelled three realms, but finally fell into the Prince of Lies' domain. Ten thousand betrayals and victories had been his, surviving almost as a shade on magical sustenance alone. He lost a hand to Umbra XV, and reformed it by conjuration, purple and ghostly. When he emerged, he lied low for a time, supping of material delights and taking over the local cult. He bent it to his will and slew those who would disobey or betray him. Then he appeared in the underdark of the Imperial City, and cut his way to infamy and knowledge. He is loved by few, and loves even less. His only true love is power, and his thirst for that cannot be sated. Were he to take the Imperial City, he would desire Cyrodiil. Were he to subjugate Tamriel, he would seek out Oblivion itself. But even in his lust to be the highest of the high, he sees the need for allies and subordinates. He travelled the province, creating a true cult, one that believed in him as much as in the Daedra. Now skulking in the hills and abandoned temples of Colovia, his cultivation has borne fruit. A mage as powerful in potential as he, perhaps possessed of daedric blood, has accepted the bond of apprentice and master, while a rash ally in Anvil has set it aflame. Now, as chaos sets Cyrodiil afire again, immortal Horatius remembers the king's words and wonders. Coalition, accept only with Childe of Azura and Pirate King

• Horoxia Larich
  Name	Horoxia Larich
  Age	32
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	Cannibal Queen of Skingrad
  Heritage	Imperial
  Faith	Daedric (Namira Pact, -25 points)
  Traits	Mage 2 (-50 points), Traitor (+15 pts), Indebted (+25 pts), Rival (+25 pts)
  Faction Name	Kingdom of Skingrad
  Faction Trait	City-State (-75 points, Skingrad)
  Faction Size	3 (-50 points)
  Horoxia comes from the proud line of the kings and queens of Skingrad. Born into luxury, opulence, and even decadence, she became acquainted with the finer things in life, and feasted on exotic dishes, from a certain kind of Summerset quail to roast Argonian. But despite all her wealth, all her influence, she hungered. Hungered for more power, more gold, more mystical strength, and above all, she had a hunger she could not identify. And so it was the fourth child and second daughter of the line of Larich began seeking darker patrons and deeper knowledge, all in a bid to quell her gluttony. Gone were her childhood devotion to the Eight Divines, and her faith turned to the unholy deities that every good Imperial should fear: the Daedric Princes. Namira came to her in a dream, and taught her that her hunger was not shameful, that her desire to devour was natural and good. Horoxia ate a kitchen servant the next day. The next month, she ate a castle guard. The next year, a retainer of the Larich dynasty, bastard-born to her own royal blood. He tasted particularly good. Finally, five years before the Empire truly fell apart, she began kidnapping and eating her own family, implicating her devoted followers in the cannibalism to ensure their loyalties. They could not go back to common society and tell of her exploits while avoiding the subject of their own misdeeds. By the time the Empire fell, Horoxia was the last of the mainline Larichs, the rest eaten by the ever-gluttonous princess, leaving only her distant cousin Rislav, who crowned himself Rislav II in the Skingard hinterlands. Skingrad itself was hers, a dark and terrifying city devoted to the Lady of Decay. But even now, Queen Horoxia, first and only of her name, seeks to turn the entire Empire into her own personal feast, coveting the divine energies of the Amulet of Kings and the rarified splendor of the Elder Council. All will fall prey to her endless, limitless hunger.

• King-Chieftain Agrywyr
  Name	King-Chieftain Agrywyr of the Handhewn Table
  Age	38
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Hero of a Shattered Dream
  Heritage	Breton (15)
  Faith	Eight Divines (0)
  Traits	Mage (0), Adventurer (10), Charismatic (10), Strategist (15), Blademaster (15), Great Captain (25), Civil War (half of his host, escaped into Cyrodil) (-50), Rival (His son, Mordra) (-25), Remaining Budget 20
  Faction Name	Banner of the Broken Dragon
  Faction Trait	Warband (25)
  Faction Size	4 (75)
  It was, by any account, a perfect life. A warrior-king, strong of bone and sure of heart, who'd united the tribes and villages of Camlorn to drive out the Direnni. With a happy family, a loyal court, and a budding legend in the Handhewn Table (formerly a circle), it was a perfect life. Blissful days unending. Until his son found an Elder Scrolls. Whatever he saw, whatever his 'friend' Whorm whispered into his ears, it was enough to shatter the young man. The... being that walked with his son's limbs, crawled in his skin, and spoke through his mouth was nothing like the brilliant young warlord that he was. Violent, crueler by the day, arrogant beyond measure, Mordane had become a complete shadow of his former self. He'd even come to hate his own father, muttering about dragons and old wizards under his breath. But Agrywyr ignored it, attempting to pull his son closer but driving him away with every attempt, deeper into the arms of the loathsome Whorm. He ignored his friends' words, the worries of his wife, the advice of his counsellors, insisting everything was fine! And he could pretend, for a while. It was fine. His son would recover, all he needed was time and space. Until the sky shattered across Agrywyr's shoulders. While he was away on a hunt, Mordane had killed his mother, Agrywyr's wife, burnt Camlorn, and escaped to the east with Trististyr, Uthard, Bedyval, and much of the army. Killing innocents on their way out, setting forest and farmland aflame, Agrywyr swore to stop his son, put his former friends to the blade, and bring justice to the traitors for all the people they'd killed. And perhaps, bring peace to his son's soul.

• Leonara Pelagia
  'If all the Divines abandoned my countrymen, yet would I defend them.'
  Name	Leonara Pelagia
  Age	29
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	Shield of Cyrodiil
  Heritage	Imperial (0)
  Faith	The Eight Divines (0)
  Traits	Noble (-50), Brave (-10), Strategist (-25), Rival (25)
  Faction Name	The Pelagia Affinity
  Faction Trait	Noble Retinue (-0)
  Faction Size	4 (-75)
  Leonara was born to the sound of broken spears and splintered shields. She knew nothing but the litany of war as the heiress to a fortress on the border. Ayleid's Bane was a cold redoubt, bare in luxury but rich in conflict. A lord had vouchsafed it to her grandfather with the order never to yield the walls to 'pellani.' All that tried to wrestle the fortress away were subsequently repulsed. It soon became a symbol of resistance to a coalition of Imperial borderland nobles that rallied around the Pelagia. Among the dead it took to do so, however, were a generation of her family. Never in living memory did one succumb to the comforts of old age. Sickness on campaign claimed many and battle wounds the rest. Her father's last red gaze equal in shade to her mane remained an indelible memory of her childhood. But such tragedies failed to break Leonara. It was the will of the gods. Nothing more, nothing less. Her own will was to defend the scraps of the old Empire to the end. With that principle in mind and a spear by her hand, she is ever watchful of the foreigners that think to plunder Cryodiil. Foremost being Fafnld the Flayer—he who desecrated her father.

• Lokar Cinder-Scowl
  -- No Image --
  Name	Lokar Cinder-Scowl
  Age	23
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	The Silver-Tongued Tongue
  Heritage	Nord (-15)
  Faith	The Eight Divines - Shor or Kyne or Ysgramor's Ghost or One Of The Other Ones, Lokar Forgets Sometimes And Keeps Every Talisman He's Ever Found Just In Case, They Take Up Half His Rucksack, He'd Throw Some Out But That Might Make The One He Really Worships Mad
  Traits	Tongue (-60), Blademaster (5x) (-60), Sword Hero, Adventurer (-10), Civil War (+50), Remaining Resources (5)
  Faction Name	The Fire-Starters
  Faction Trait	Mercenary Company (-10)
  Faction Size	2 (25)
  " 'Make like your grandmother and hurry south,' is what Ma said when she kicked us out the door. She was always braggin on and on with the whalers and the drifters about hwo we had the blood of one of the Companions, one of the ones that started with an 'S' - Senki or Surei or Surf-Like-Ice or something like that, I never really listened to her. Most everyone called her a liar anyway. But when they did she just had to haul out the axe and the armor and the little totem on a chain. 'Gran's' old affects, she insisted. But they looked like they were maybe a hundred or a thousand years old and still pretty shiny so most everyone just got real quiet and asked to touch them a bit. Then she'd slap their hands and say they were sacred. Never really thought Gran or Ysgramor was all that great anyway, everyone says he killed all the elves but some still come by Winterhold and trade for scrimshaw and ambergris and they're sort of asses but definitely not dead so Yrgramor definitely missed a few so how good could he have been anyway? But yeah, Ma had the axe and the armor and the totem. But Ma also had seven children and enough gold to feed about four of them through the winter after she got kicked out of the College. Dorgu was the firstborn and everything would be her's anyway so she couldn't leave, and the last four were still barely hip-high at that so they couldn't go, so it me and Thuja and Karstad who had to go south. But Ma had three kids going, so she gave Thuja the armor (she was the only one who fit in it) and Karstad the totem (he was Clever like Ma was) and me the axe, and we couldn't stand how Thuja rattled around when she walked in it so we all went south seperate ways. Thuja went south past the the plains to the place where they chuck swords at each others heads because it was a apparently a desert and that means it doesn't snow and she figured her helmet would keep her head safe. Karstad went south past the mountains and ended up finding a bunch more elves. I heard he lives in a mushroom now. Or maybe they ate him with mushroom? I can't remember. Me? I went south for about a week and ended up in Windhelm. Thuja said that was lazy and barely south at all but she's probably baked in that armor so what does she know? Life was good in Windhelm. The axe was good to which was why life was so easy. Crack a skull here and there and people will keep you in new boots and furs and stewbowels basically forever. But then some Shatter-Sea tried to steal my axe and I cracked her skull and suddenly I've got to hop over the bridge and make way to the Rift, can you believe that? Met a few folks in the Rift though. Fekki and Herold and Kygara No-Chief's-Wife who is the Cleverest Folk I know even if she's green. And I met the Old Man there to I guess. See Kygara had gotten me this potion that let me breath fire, it s where I get the name right? Set my beard on fire the first time I used it and brother I scowled until my cheeks weren't pink no more. But it was a neat trick once I figured it out. Anyway I'm on the shore of the lake and maybe a bit drunk but Fekki dead drunk and Herold had gone to bed and Kygara had gone off to file her tusks when the Old Man showed up. He looked like... his hair wasssss... he was dressed like aaaaaa... He was an old man. Yeah. Can't remember the rest. Anyway the Old Man shows up high moon and says 'can I get a drink' and I say 'ya' because law of the road says you have to share your meed if its past dusk and you have a fire and the other guy doesn't. So we get to talking and drinking and - get this - he says he's heard of me and asks if he can see me breath fire? And I say 'sure sure' and palm the vial that Kygara made for me. But then its like a giant's grabbed me around the chest and something pushes my head into the firepit. And I'm breathing fire, yeah man, I'm breathing smoke, and I must be in there for hours before whatever grabbed me drags me back out. And the Old Man is just sitting there laughing like he's shit himself and he's so damn fun and he just claps and says 'well done, well done' before he gets up and wanders off. Had to get a priest to fix those burns. And that's all one things, I'd let it go if it that was it, but the Old Man keeps showing up! He'd go 'silver for you thoughts' and then I'd say 'yeah? and he'd pass me a coin and I couldn't remember what I'd been doing that morning for the whole rest of the day. Or when he said 'hey can I have a word' and I said 'okay' and now I can't remember the the word you call the big things that people ride around on, the ones with the hooves. And I can't just say 'no' because then I have rotten luck all day. But then, one day, I think I can get one over on him. So he says 'ready to trade wits' and I say 'nah, but I want to trade tongues, mine is getting to heavy' and he actually looks surprised for once before he grins his big fat grin and says 'Oh I'd be happy to' and holds out his hand for me to pay up. So I cut off the tongue of my boot and pass it to him and hope that I can just get this guy to shut up for a while, right? But the Old Man thinks that's hilarious and starts hacking and laughing then clapping and he starts rummaging around a little leather pouch on his belt. Just before I tell him to pay up or leave he pulls a man out of that little bag. The man's real old, older looking then the Old Man, and he sees the Old Man then wham he shouts so louds he blows down half the forest behind the Old Man but only ruffles the Old Man's hair. Then the Old Man reaches out to the old man and rips the old man's tongue out of his throat. Then he looks up at me and says 'a deal's a deal.' Now after seeing that I couldn't tell him no. But then I grabbed it and it rotted away to nothing and the Old Man vanished into the wind. Thought it was all a nightmare before I remember the body at my feet. After that thought things got... weird. I could say things and they'd happen. I could breath fire for real now, move as fast as the wind, call lightning from the sky. I even once shoutted at a castle wall during a siege and sent it tumbling down, and I didn't eve mean to do that! And Herold's got the brains, you know, the wit, that silver tongue, and he says we can make a lot of gold if we travel around knocking over castle walls and cracking a bunch of heads at once rather then a few. And I say 'yeah I like having gold' and so the four of us are off. And it works, so we hire more folks so we can fight even more and make more money and so on until Herold's spending all his time keeping things organized and I'm Shoutting myself hoarse every day. Then comes the big offer. Some noble from out in the Colovian Estates, way more south then I've ever gone sends and agent to hire us for a big war. And it's a lot of gold so we agree and march our butts across the mountains. But that until the end of winter and halfway through spring and by the time we get there the geezer is dead and his kids are arguing with spearpoints over who gets to be the next count or baron or whatever, and both them are saying that because their father made a down payment we owe 'his rightful heir' our asses and wont even pay us a copper more. So now we're stranded in Colovia and no one's paying a damn thing.

• Lyreia Octavianus
  Name	Lyreia Octavianus, The Blackbird
  Age	28
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	Unlucky, Fast-Talking Schemer
  Heritage	Imperial
  Faith	The Eight Divines
  Traits	Dragonborn, Shadow Broker, Charismatic x2, Politician, Resources 5, Indebted (Imperial Trading Company), Rival (Thieves Guild), Rival (Moraq Tong Splinter)
  Faction Name	The Blackbirds
  Faction Trait	Cult
  Faction Size	1
  Ah, a new face? Curious. I know everyone who is supposed to work in this prison and you ain't one of them. And your armor sure looks as if it doesn't fit you. Say, you don't happen to have been promised some money for a bit of quick work with the dagger? You don't look like one of the nutty cultists at least. But hey! This might be your lucky day! I happen to have a little counter-offer for. Come one. Hear me out at least. It's not as if I can run away from you while in this cell. I know, you wonder what this girl could possible have to offer you, but I assure you that you are being ripped off. I'm not just some little thief or rowdy drunk they threw down here for a few days. Not all that long ago, my name meant something here in this city. The Blackbirds ringing any bells? That was my people and believe me, we were the best. Anything you want to know for a few coins and for a few coins more we would even get our hands dirty for you. That's how I know you are getting short-charged for killing me. You wouldn't hesitate and listen to me prattle if they paid you proper. Really disrespectful of them to treat you like that. The Thieves Guild really is just one big pile of misers. No, no. Don't deny it. I know quite well who wants me dead. See, we had some issues with the Thieves Guild and those lunatics from the Moraq Tong. They felt they should have a monopoly here in the city, so they started going after our people. Wasn't so bad at first, but then a few contracts fell through, the Imperial Trading Company started getting problematic over a botched job and... well... long story short, that brings us to this damp little cell. But hey. My little spot of misfortune might be your big pay day. If you were to just open up my cell and get me out of here, I can pay you twice what they offered for my head. I still have some cash left. Ah, come one! I'll make it thrice your pay even. I know how bad the Thieves are with paying their contractors. And if you are worried about not getting hired by them again, you can always hire on with the Blackbirds. We got a few openings right now and we always value quality work. So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?

• Maraya of Sentinel
  Royalty is a continuous cutting motion.
  Name	Maraya of Sentinel
  Age	25
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	Exiled Princess
  Heritage	Ra Gada
  Faith	The Yokudan Pantheon [Leki, the ephemeral swordswoman]
  Traits	Charismatic, Brave, Blademaster [x2], Sword-Singer, Sword-Saint, Great Captain. Rival, Exile, Lackey
  Faction Name	Children of Lost Sentinel
  Faction Trait	Noble Retinue / Mercenary Company
  Faction Size	1
  Maraya was born the daughter of King A'tor of Sentinel. With two elder sisters and three younger brothers, there was no thought given to Maraya attaining the throne. Instead, she was permitted to fight. She mastered the blade early in her teens, and the song by twenty. She was near enough a Sword-Saint when the Bretons crossed Iliac Bay. Anger had hardened their hearts, and they sought to snuff out their rivals for control of the great bay. So they had done before, and so they would do again - and so the Ra Gada of Sentinel had done before, and would do again. Had she been in the city, perhaps she might have stood against the invasion and carved her name into the hearts of every foul interloper upon her father's Kingdom, but she was not - Maraya was at that time riding in the hinterlands with a retinue of a dozen of her friends, and the city fell. Her sisters were carried away across the bay, her brothers executed, her father hanged from his own palace walls. A tractable King was placed upon the throne, and Maraya, her heart aching, fled. Pursuit was, ultimately, inevitable. It would be a foolish king who left the heir of the man he usurped to plot without reply, and a band of mercenaries have been set on her tail. They have proven difficult to shake, but she will cut them down when the opportunity arises. Crossing into Cyrodiil, she has nothing but her few remaining loyal retainers, and her sword-song. She has no choice but to sell her sword, to fight in other men's wars, in the hope that someday soon, she shall have the gold and the might to strike out on her own, restore her honour, and cut her way to the throne her father lost.

• Molvirian Viducia
  -- No Image --
  Name	Knight Marshal Molvirian Viducia
  Age	36
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Frustrated Zealot
  Heritage	Imperial (0)
  Faith	The Eight Divines (0)
  Traits	Brave (10), Strategist (25), Great Captain (25), Unconvincing (+10), Indebted (+25), Remaining Resources (10)
  Faction Name	The General Body and Order of the Servants of the Wheel
  Faction Trait	Knightly Order (25, sworn to Arkay)
  Faction Size	4 (75)
  A dedicated, religious man; often an honest one. Prone to fury. The latest in a long line of knights marshal of the Order - an Order once maintained with the backing of the Empire, but now, in these reduced times, reliant on scraps from the devout and substantial loans from the Imperial Trading Company. Still great in numbers, but not in force. Under a previous marshal, the Order has pivoted to participating in commissions work to service its debt in a desperate attempt to stem its decline - though it still participates in more traditional chivalric activities. Bowing and scraping to every petty noble or would-be merchant prince willing to toss a coin, however, suits Molvirian particularly poorly, and he considers the decision to have been a mistake. As affairs stand, he thinks, service and vows rank second in importance, if that. (And, well. May as well forget focusing on protecting relics.) So Molvirian dreams of a Colovia and Nibenay where that is not the case - a Cyrodiil, a united jungle, an Empire come again. A land where the servants of the Eight will be able to pursue their duties and rites without interruption. A land where the Order will never again be forced to recall its membership and take to the field in order to scrape together enough for this year's expenses. As a devotee of Arkay, he understands that death is not to be undone - but surely a world so good compared to what now is was not meant to stay dead? And if no one else has the will to do it, then, well. He must.

• Nobis-Naiga
  Name	Nobis-Naiga the Conqueror
  Age	29
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	The lands behind us are too full and cold, the lands in front of us are weak and filled with wealth. These lands are ours.
  Heritage	Tsaesci
  Faith	Tsaesci Ancestor Worship
  Traits	Strategist , Brave , Civil War, Rival , Lackey
  Faction Name	The Hebi Zen'ei
  Faction Trait	Invasion Force
  Faction Size	4
  The Tsaesci have arrived in full force upon these war torn lands. A massive invasion of tens if not close to a hundred thousand Tsaesci equipped in unique armour and fight with new tactics. This would be a threat that would end the world as we know it, sadly for the Tsaesci not only are they split into 2 major army groups both rivals to each other, within those army groups warlords have broken up and is causing chaos within this grand invasion. Bringing great honour to their families and winning the direct attention of the Emperor is the goal of most Tsaesci elite, and what better place to win the attention of the Emperor than these new lands. Conquer, steal and claim as much land, valuables and magic as possible and present it back to the crown is the goal of this Invasion and the commanders would rather die than let their rivals be the one to win the attention Nobis-Naiga the Conqueror has a history of winning minor campaigns and claiming islands or small kingdoms but this new conquer is the largest goal she has ever tried to achieve. Sitting beside her is her life long rival, a foe she met in military schooling and has always attempted to beat. Sadly no matter how well she does he is always climbing the ranks as quickly as she is, and now it comes to this. Almost a lifetime as rivals now they battle to see who will win the attention of the Emperor by claiming this land and she won't accept defeat.

• Quintus Valerian
  Name	Quintus Valerian 'The Guilded'
  Age	41
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Filthy Rich Magnate turned Warlord
  Heritage	Imperial
  Faith	Eight Divine (Devout of Zenithar)
  Traits	Adventurer, Charismatic, Strategist, Hlaalu Connection, Company Benefactors, Merchant Prince, Rival (Thieves Guild & Imperial City Magnate), Civil War (Bravil)
  Faction Name	The Guilded Eagles
  Faction Trait	Mercenary Company
  Faction Size	3
  Quintus Valerian is a man who is, to put it shortly, filthy rich. Incomprehensibly so, for most people. The man is one of the main partners of the Imperial Trade Company, owns an ebony mine in Morrowind as part of his personal estate, posesses one of the largest merchant fleets operating in the Nibeneay and beyond, and is propietor of many businesses in the Imperial City, from stores to whorehouses, all of them decorated by Quintus' personal insignia: A golden coin with an stylised QV on top. Everyone knows about this man's legendary wealth. What they might not know however, is how it came to be. Contrary to what most would expect he wasn't born into wealth or nobility, but instead was the fifth son to a family of impoverished farmers, hence the name. While most of his early life remain a mystery, by his early teens he had already abandoned the family home to become a sword for hire. This time as an adventurer would eventually lead him into the exotic land of the Dark Elves, where by pure luck he'd happen accross an abandoned and lost ebony mine. He resolved to inform the local Hlaalu councillor about this and, after some legendary negotiations, managed to obtain a deed for a quarter of the mine's benefits. By the time he returned to the Imperial City he was not only acquiantanced with dunmer customs, but also wealthy beyond measure by most adventurer's standards. But while any other man would've been content with an estate to settle down on, Quintus wanted more. More money. Instead of dillapidating his newfound fortune, he invested it: First he acquired plantations applying the methods used in dunmer plantation, quickly outcompeting his rivals, whose plantations were comparatively and suspiciously extremely flammable. Then, once war once more engulfed the province, he invested in trading ships and armed caravans to send foodstuffs to areas of conflict: Not as charity, but rather to sell them at extortionate prices. Once his network had grown enough, he began acquiring small businesses and real estate in several of the city states, brokering deals with the local warlords to allow his own traders to make business undisturbed. Overtime he became one of the Imperial Trade Company's primary associates, achieving a meteoric rise in his wealth. But even then he continued working, regularly sponsoring new ventures that caught his eye, always having a soft spot for adventurers. The vast majority of these were wildly successful, be it by his business-savy nature or, as some especulate, Quintus being blessed by Zenithar, god of commerce and industry. At some point he also went back to Cyrodill and fully bought to the deed to the ebony mine he partially owned, the benefits from that making him even richer. In the crucible of chaos that is Cyrodill, Quintus prospered. But while other men would've been content with being one of the wealthiest men in Cyrodill, Quintus wanted more. More power. And so he began investing in the only reliable asset in this warlord era: Violence. Using his vast fortune he has overtime amassed a grand mercenary company called the Guilded Eagles, renting his services to the highest bidder. One warlord after another hired his men, and he used this money to invest in even more soldiers and equipment. Soon, the Guilded Eagles were one of the biggest armies in Cyrodill. But while other men would've been content with having one of the biggest personal armies in Cyrodill, Quintus wanted more. More land. And soon, the opportunity would arise: The city state of Bravil, after having hired the Guilded Eagles to repel an invasion from the nearby Leyawiin, they refused to pay the mercenaries what was due. And so the magnate now marches against the city itself at the helm of his mercenary army, proclaiming that he would get his investment back one way or the other. With this move, Quintus has signaled himself as another great player in Cyrodill, bringing all of his wealth to bear. For Quintus wanted more. More Empire. He may not have unparalleled skill with the sword nor was he knowledgeable of the secrets of the magicka or particularly blessed by one or another deity, but even so, Quintus commanded a power far greater than any of those. Money...

• Surin-Daiek
  Name	Surin-Daiek
  Age	???
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	???
  Heritage	Tsaeci
  Faith	Tsaeci Pantheon - Sanguinine Worship
  Traits	Sword Hero, Blademaster x2, Mage x2, Charismatic, Brave, Adventurer, Icon of Faith, Planeswalker, Blind, Indebted, Apostate
  Faction Name	Cult of the I-Don't-Want-One
  Faction Trait	Cult
  Faction Size	1
  Surin-Daiek's first husband died. When Sidri-Hen came to pay him condolences, he found Surin-Daiek banging on a drum, singing and drinking merrily. "You lived with him, fought with him, and would have grown old with him," Sidri-Hen told him. "It should be enough to weep at his death, but singing and drinking-- isn't this going too far?" "You don't understand," Surin-Daiek said, "'You're wrong. When he first died, do you think I didn't grieve like anyone else? But I looked back to his beginning and the time before he was born. Not only the time before he was born, but the time before he had a body. Not only the time before he had a body, but the time before he had a spirit. In the midst of the jumble of wonder and mystery a change took place and he had a spirit. Another change and he had a body. Another change and she was born. Now there's been another change and she's dead. It's just like the progression of the four seasons, spring, summer, fall, winter. "Now he's going to lie peacefully in a vast room. If I were to follow after him bawling and sobbing, it would show that I don't understand anything about fate. So I stopped." "Having roamed Akavir for more than fifty years, I have defeated all my foes and overcome all champions. In this realm there are none that are my equal. Alas, for all my life I have wasted in this vanity, but I have much more life to waste. That is why I must set out with the ships, despite Nobis-Naga being an utter bore." "My first sword is a katana five hand lengths long. With this blade I paid homage to the courts of Tsaeci, where I learned rhetoric, poetry, and music. I found gainful employ as a master of music in the home of a great lord, who I would later have an affair with. With this blade, I slew him and his wife when our affair was discovered. This blade brought me laughter and tears, and I sold it to buy dried meat for the road." "My second sword is a straight bladed Ka Po Tun dagger, which looked to be a full blade in my hands. With this blade I careened recklessly through the wilderness, seeking out the strong to devour. With this blade I made a name of myself as a gallant, hero, and unreasonable murderer. I surrounded myself with young thugs and admirers, and made a name of myself as a great bandit chief before being subdued by a magistrate. This blade was confiscated by the law, and I would later throttle the magistrate with the lute strings, that instrument being smuggled in by the magistrate who was an admirer of my playing." "My third sword was another katana of disreputable make. I obtained it in a winesoak through the expedient of a rear sleeper hold. Despite holding this blade for ten years, I rarely drew it out of it's scabbard, preferring instead the reliability of a quarterstaff. Having floated through life, I became cynical and biting, and not a particularly pleasant companion to anyone!" "My fourth sword is my current blade, a simple, nameless army sword. Having renounced the cynicism of my previous decade, I turned to poetry and found a widespread following, despite most of them written while extremely drunk. Here I grew many heads, one here, one there, and one elsewhere, and was soon recognized as a sage. Despite my best efforts, bad teachings, and frequent applications of a stick, I was once again swarmed with eager adherents. Now I have felt that Akavir was old and tired, so I repeat the beginning: that is why I must set out with the ships."

 

[ORE]

Felt rather cumbersome to search for the accepted applications, so I ordered everything.

Alwaba Al-Tahir Aria Alleius Arnza Belharzanius Ashwan al-Hotaki Berich Stirk Ciel Codio Hirocius Cynric Edward XVI General Gratian Gerudh Horatius Longii Horoxia Larich King-Chieftain Agrywyr Leonara Pelagia Lokar Cinder-Scowl Lyreia Octavianus Maraya Molvirian Viducia Nobis-Naiga Quintus Valerian Surin-Daiek

• Alwaba Al-Tahir
  Name	Alwaba Al-Tahir, The White Rider
  Age	???
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	Fallen Hero
  Heritage	Ra Gada (25)
  Faith	The Daedra (25) (Peryite)
  Traits	Blademaster (15) Sword-Singer (25) Sword Saint (0) Icon of Faith (25) Mage * 2 (25) Planeswalker (60) Apostate (-50) Rival (-25)
  Faction Name	The White Rider's Pestilent Congregation
  Faction Trait	Cult (10)
  Faction Size	1 (0)
  Alwaba Al-Tahir held many titles before The Pit, Hero, Savior, Ansai of the Second Rank, and The Chosen of Diagna but now she is simply called The White Rider. Alwaba Al-Tahir had once been the greatest Sword-Singer in her generation and in those days she was the model with which many up and coming swordsmen would compare themselves to. For a time there were few of the Ra Gada who did not have a story about the time The Chosen of Diagna had saved their village from one threat or another. But then she had found the first foe she could not defeat, by all appearances he was merely an old man and were it not for the blood red eyes and pronounced canines Alwaba Al-Tahir would have never found him out as a vampire. History has lost the name of her foe, for in the chronicles he is listed only as The Old One but what the chronicles do tell us is that though Alwaba Al-Tahir lost the fight, she did not lose her life. It would perhaps have been better if she had. She would challenge The Old One three times, she would lose three times. After the last loss Alwaba Al-Tahir turned her back on the gods of old Yorkuda and through magic best left unspoken would search the realms of Oblivion for the power to defeat The Old One. She would find more than she had bargained for. Though her swordsmanship and her power is now greatly decayed from what they once were after an unknown eternity in The Pits of Pestilence, Alwaba Al-Tahir has returned. She has already wreaked havoc upon the borderlands of Hammerfell and she has heard word of The Old One's appearance in Cyrodiil, in the shattered remains of the Empress Alessia's domain. She comes upon a white horse with Toxicruciform around her neck and the blighted remains of her soul formed into a sputtering barely possible Shehai in hand. If need be she will burn every town, poison every well, infect every army, and reignite the fires of contagion across all of Tamriel in the name of her new God to find and challenge her destined foe one final time.

• Aria Alleius
  Name	Aria Alleius
  Age	26
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	Embittered Daughter of a Dead House
  Heritage	Imperial (0)
  Faith	The Eight Divines (0)
  Traits	Noble (50) Charismatic (10) Strategist (25) -> Great Captain (25) Brave (10) Blademaster (15), Civil War (+50) Indebted (+25)
  Faction Name	The White-Gold Assembly (Split into the Six Families and the Pact of Seven at game start)
  Faction Trait	Noble Retinue (Free)
  Faction Size	4 (-75)
  Two Imperial Nobles is a murder plot. Three is a conspiracy. A hundred is a bloodbath. Cheydinhal is a slaughter-house. A year ago House Alleius was a major player in Cheydinhal. A month ago they were the perspective host of the greatest gathering of Cheydinhal-forces in a generation. A week ago they were a hundred strong. Today they are one. At the moment of their great triumph, a dagger was plunged into their patriarchs back. The House was butchered down to a single woman, the third-daughter of a branch family most notable for once being favoured to host a feast for the Emperor themselves, allegedly. Aria Alleius now ostensibly commands the forces of 13 Houses in Cheydinhal. Practically, she commands six, five of whom are loyal only be the certainty of death upon defeat. The remaining seven have aligned themselves into a new pact, one intent on wiping out the loyal six to consolidate power on the Cheydinhal. The Six Families are divided and shellshocked, led by a girl of 26 with no experience commanding a war-front. The Pact Of Seven is organised and bloodthirsty, led by hardened veterans of Cheydinhal politics and mainland campaigns. The outcome is certainty manifest, as absolute as the crashing of Lake Rumare against the shores of the Imperial Isle. Above it all looms the trigger of the assembly itself, the potential of an outside force to march on Cheydinhal itself in its moment of division. Aria Alleius does not believe in certainties.

• Arnza Belharzanius
  Name	Pontifex Arnza Belharzanius
  Age	38
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Rightful King Returns
  Heritage	Imperial (0)
  Faith	The Hero Cults (0)
  Traits	Charismatic (10), Brave (10), Prophesied (15), Blademaster (15), Mage (25), Battlemage (25), Great Captain (25), Brigand (+10), Minotaur (+25), Remaining Resources (10)
  Faction Name	Cult of the Man-Bull Emperor
  Faction Trait	Cult (10)
  Faction Size	2 (25)
  AND SO DID MORIHAUS GIFT THEM A CHILD, A BABE SWADDLED IN REEDS AND PALM LEAVES, RESTED ATOP A WINGED WATER BUFFALO, AND ALL BOWED BEFORE IT, KNOWING THAT THE TRUE EMPEROR HAD RETURNED. The true story of Arnza's early life was clouded in mystery. The minotaur's parents had found refuge deep in the jungles of Cyrodiil to hide from monster hunters, living close to a Nibenese tribal village that tolerated the presence of minotaurs. It provided them a respite, but only for some time before his parents were caught and slaughtered by traveling knights. How the village found the child is unknown, only that they did. They saw that day they were graced by the presence of Morihaus-Breath-of-Kyne himself, who delivered Arnza to them himself. Taking pity upon the orphan, they raised it as their own, for they too had suffered at the hands of the Alessian Order. Their ancestors had fled the Heartland because of religious persecution, seeking refuge among distant kinfolk in the dense jungles and foothills of the province. They remembered the time before the theocracy, when the Man-Bull Emperor ruled Cyrodiil fair handedly and justly. His line had been usurped by treacherous priests of the Order, who sought power for themselves. The suffering and indignity forced upon the whole of Cyrodiil had left a permanent scar upon the tribe's collective psyche. Its collapse had not been the end of their problems. The unrest and violence had spilled over into the countryside as legions, knightly orders, and brigands swept the jungles for villages to loot and press gang survivors in a never ending war for resources. They themselves had taken up raiding against their lowland neighbours to survive. They had prophecy that the wrongs of Cyrodiil would be righted when the rightful king returned, blessed by divine providence. And so, many claimed that Arnza had indeed been blessed. The orphan tragically abandoned by fleeing parents had been saved and raised by them. The minotaur was given something so few of his kind had been offered: an education. He was wise beyond his years, proving to be a gifted mage, and studied the art of the blade in true Nibenese tradition. He learned the hymns of their prayers and spoke them better than the priests to invoke the spirit of Morihaus-Breath-of-Kyne and Emperor Belharza. Now it is he who hunts knights through the jungle, avenging the deaths of his parents and kinfolk! They flee in terror at the sight of the charging Pontifex! The inhuman bellows echo through the land, heralding the arrival of his foe's death! Brigand? Bandit? Scoundrel? Monster? Arnza has heard these petty insults before, and time and time again these petty minded fools fell before him all the same. Did the mountain mind the manners of the mice? Did the eagle bow to the swallow? No! He was Pontifex Arnza Belharzanius! The true Emperor of Cyrodiil and Tamriel!

• Ashwan al-Hotaki
  "My Shehai is my will. And my will says that in this world, there is nothing I cannot cut." "In the past, I boasted of those words. But now, as I slay masters unnumbered... I feel nothing."
  Name	Ashwan al-Hotaki
  Age	45
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	"Heaven and earth, ocean and forest, I have searched it all and found none that could match my blade. And as the specter of old age begins to creep into my mind and body, I fear I may never find someone I can call a true equal. Until I find this person, everything that stands before me shall be cut into pieces. Thus says Ansei Ashwan al-Hotaki and thus it shall be so."
  Heritage	Ra Gada
  Faith	Yokudan Pantheon
  Traits	Blademaster x6, Sword Hero, Swordsinger, Sword Saint, Magically Neutered, Exile, Indebted
  Faction Name	The Evercutting Saintly Blades
  Faction Trait	Adventuring Band
  Faction Size	1
  Ashwan is a sword given form in human flesh. When he was but a shadow swimming in his mother's womb he could hear the song, the symphony of harmony of the blade as the blacksmiths of his native Hammerfell made weapons on their forges. To Ashwan, swordsmanship stands on a higher ground than mere practice. To hone his craft is the very founding rock of his existence. Recently, Ashwan finds himself... disappointed. Anxious. He began to wonder if he had truly reached it--the true peak of the Way of the Sword. His unrelenting determination wavers, not out of hesitation but due to self-confidence. There must be more to this glorious path than he can see. Another mountain to climb. And he has ruined himself to come to the vicious battleground of Cyrodill to prove it.

• Berich 'Stirk'
  Name	Berich 'Stirk'
  Age	32
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Pirate King
  Heritage	Imperial (0)
  Faith	Eight Divines (hah!)
  Traits	Great Captain (25), Charismatic (10), Blademaster x2 (30), Brigand (-10), Civil War (-50), Traitor (-10)
  Faction Name	Brethren of the Gold Coast
  Faction Trait	City State (75)
  Faction Size	3
  Berich was simply Berich for the greater part of his life, born the pauper son of a dockworker's daughter in Anvil by the sea. He never knew his father, and this was all the better, for when his mother took to more dishonourable means to make ends meet he contented himself with the story of an Olo princeling. This deception won him a place as the unwitting, press ganged mascot of a pirate vessel sailing out of the bay, and, soon, he forgot all about that woman and that miserable city - climbing the literal pole from cabin boy and dog's body to martial credibility and seizing a Captaincy of his own. Then he remembered all about Anvil. The Prince of Stirk established himself on that island in the city's bay and became a terror for the ailing Olo King, Clovus. However, for all his boasting and his swordsmanship, he lacked the means to actually press anything like a claim. Until Clovus' death opened a rift between his bickering sons, Bendu and Dorald, over how best to set the disintegrating kingdom of the Armada's heirs in order. And two insane Bretons with a stack of coins and the means to get him inside the city offered Berich an offer he was all too happy to take. In an audacious gambit, he smuggled himself into the city, slew Bendu whilst he slept, and dropped the harbour chain to let his men into Anvil. He now contests the flaming corpse with Dorald, who rallies the nobility to expel him and has suddenly remembered his love for his brother. It's no matter - after all these years, he's ready to kill for it. Berich will get his due.

• Ciel
  Name	Ciel the Wanderer
  Age	30
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Lost Imperial Mananaut
  Heritage	Breton
  Faith	Daedric
  Traits	Mage (x7), Archmage, Planeswalker (Molag Bal), Shadow Broker, Vampire, Exile
  Faction Name	Society for the Restoration of Rightful Imperial Rule
  Faction Trait	Cult
  Faction Size	1
  Ciel thrived in the Remanite Empire and pursued his passion of magical research to the fullest. After quickly overtaking the many dignified mages he studied under he naturally gravitated towards the Imperial Mananauts who were pushing the edges of magical research trying to unveil even the deepest secrets. His first voyages went great and he quickly proved himself to be one of the most skilled mananauts. The void however is nothing but unpredictable and on a routine voyage the currents carried him to a place where time and reason dwindled. At this point it seemed all but certain that he would perish in the boundless void but Molag Bal reached out to the dwindling soul. A righteous man wouldn't have taken the deal but Ciel did. He awoke in the sewers of the ancient Imperial City displaced in time and even worse he had changed. The sunlight burned him and he quickly realized his unnatural hunger. Molag Bal had left him with a single command "SEEK DOMINION AND BREAK THE SPIRITS OF MEN". Living in the sewers Ciel fed on the undesirables and lured in disciples with his historical knowledge and the secrets that Molag Bal whispered to him in exchange for new slaves. For now he has been careful not to unleash his magical powers to cause destruction or utilize the forbidden arts of Necromany that The Prince of Domination had revealed to him but the poor and downtrodden already whisper in hushed tones about the Dark One that takes them away at night.

• Codio Hirocius
  -- No Image --
  Name	Codio Hirocius
  Age	34
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Doom-Driven Legate
  Heritage	Imperial
  Faith	8 Divines
  Traits	Dragonborn, Hlaalu Connections, Strategist, Civil War, Traitor, Rival
  Faction Name	Fourth Legion
  Faction Trait	Imperial Legion
  Faction Size	2
  The Dragonfires gutter low, and all the world suffers. In the east, guarding the border with ash-hazed Morrowind, lay the 12th Legion. Tasked with overseeing trade and the border forts during the Empire's time, after its fall the Legion became little more than bandits and feudal lords in old armor. What had once been the natural distrust of Man towards Mer became violent hatred, with any Dunmer who attempted to cross the border likely finding themselves impaled on the Legion's spears. For days uncounted the great Legion languished like this, a feral and cruel thing, Man in miniature. Codio was born to a Centurion and, upon his 13th birthday, was inducted into the Legion like his forefathers before him had been. No more were young men and women recruited into the crimson, the old laws had stagnated so much that rank and title was passed down family lines. Even as a child Codio complained of hearing a constant beating drum in quiet moments. A steady pounding that made his heart race and his pulse quicken. He was unable to sit still, seemingly always animated by this beat that only he could hear. The constant drum beat drove him to seek out more than what he was born to do. He made friends with Legionnaire and the Nibenese they ruled over alike, tongue quick as he always found the words to say. He studied long and hard tactics of old; from Alessia's Revolt to smuggled texts describing the ancient wars of the Nords and Chimer. While a perfect officer in public, inwardly he disdained the parochial traditions of his superiors. The beat propelled him to look beyond the hidebound ways of Man hating Mer. Hlaalu agents, well embedded into the towns the Legion controlled, took note of Codio's ambition. They approached the slight young man one evening, slowly tempting him with promises of power and gold. With the backing of the Great House Codio could overthrow his superiors and establish himself as a force to be reckoned with. He was a good enough tactician and well liked enough among his men to make a proper play for control of the 12th. He did not take the offers the first time they were presented, nor the second or third. But each time he refused the pounding got louder and louder, until he could not sleep. His destiny could not be denied, and finally on the fourth offer he accepted it. Dunmer blade would strike with Imperial spear into the backs of those who led this last bastion against the star-wounded East. Codio's deception was well crafted, but no coup is perfect. The Tribune Orettia Sibar did not go to the banquet Codio threw for his superiors, both wishing to inspect her troops and not trusting the man's new found wealth, and thus avoided the massacre that followed. A third of the Legion has flocked to her banner, leaving the 12th sundered and split. Now the Valus Mountains boil with blood as twin parts of the Legion battle against each other. Men spit upon Codio's name, calling him 'Elf-Friend' and 'Arch-Traitor'. The Hlaalu feed him money and troops in exchange for Codio leaving the border open for their trade and influence once more. The wealthy Mer are sure that, once Orettia is crushed, Codio will be satisfied with his new 'kingdom' and the riches of House Hlaalu. Little do they know that the drum beat has only gotten louder. Codio's Doom lays within the red heart of the jungles. Only then will it be silenced.

• Cynric
  Name	Cynric 'the Stormsinger'
  Age	44
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Doom Driven Conqueror / Mercenary Tongue
  Heritage	Nord (-15)
  Faith	The Eight Divines (0)
  Traits	Tongue (-60), Blademaster x3 (-45), Adventurer (-10), Charismatic (-10), Strategist (-25), Exiled (+25), Civil War (+50)
  Faction Name	Band of the Stormsinger (or simply the Stormsingers)
  Faction Trait	Mercenary Company (-15)
  Faction Size	2 (-25)
  Cynric is of Atmora, its last blood. His line denied all opportunity to leave their home in past times, preferring their simple life and worship of the Dragons. They were a reclusive clan, possessing knowledge and power that had in the past brought their kinsmen conflict in Skyrim, but in Atmora, they remained in peace. Of course, those times are long past, as the chill winds drove even the remaining Atmorans to the brink, and killed those who did not possess either extraordinary will, skill or powers in the case of Cynric's line- yet even so, life was hard and only seemed to grow harder, even with the gifts of the Thu'um being used liberally, and regular sacrifices being offered to the Dragons. Ultimately, it was Cynric's grandfather, Dagnir who made the decision to abandon Atmora, in the belief that even if the ancient magics of the Atmorans could keep them alive and relatively safe from the worst of cold... 'life', if it could be called that, for it was in truth, naught but scant survival within the brutal tundra and icefields was not a life worth living. So, Dagnir and his clan moved away, perhaps on the last ship that would be constructed by the Atmorans, and left for Skyrim, as their distant kin had in the past. Cynric was born on the voyage, during a freak storm that ultimately killed his father and mother. Perhaps it was fate that decreed that he survive, and not his own parents- as the battered ship made landfall on the coast of eastern Haafingar, young Cynric, a babe, was left in his grandfather's care. Dagnir 'Whitebeard' they called him, for he had been Shaman and Tongue for the clan in Atmora. He had seen many winters, and only few summers, for Atmora had grown all-but inhospitable even during the earliest years of the Whitebeard. With Dagnir lied a legacy of power that had but one heir, as now, when they found themselves a home, they would require a new Tongue and Shaman to lead when he passed. It was under those auspices that Cynric grew up- stiffled by the reclusive family he was part of. They lived in anonymity, hidden away by the Magics of his grandfather, under whose reactionary rule, the extended family made no contact with their fellow men. Cynric, however, desired adventure. So, on the day after he became a recognized adult in his clan, he stole away in the night, leaving behind everything. However, his dreams proved difficult, as he knew not even the tongue of the Nords, but the Atmoran language did give many men pause... ultimately bringing him to the Jarl of Haafingar, who would ensure the boy could be questioned. Cynric had always been a voracious youth, both in matters of blade and learning. He came to learn the language quickly, and after lying about his origins, claiming that he hailed from Skaal, he became a soldier in service to the Jarl. In that position he only further refined his skills, before finally making enough money to once again depart for greater adventures. He killed brigands and bandits, hunted game and defended the walls of cities. He saved maidens, on occasion, and ventured to long-abandoned ruins. Ultimately, however, his years of adventuring came to an end, when a Thane of Whiterun, Erik 'Redmane', witnessed him practicing his Thu'um- an ability considered sacred by the Nords. Cynric was left with little choice then, but to accept the suggestion of the man, and go learn under the Greybeards of High Hrothgar. So he did. He learned under their guidance, drawing on his innate ability and refining his capability- though not for peaceful means, as the Greybeards wanted. No, instead Cynric saw a future for himself, one where he would break armies with his Voice, and make a legacy befitting a son of Atmora. Yet even those dreams had a darker side, and when Cynric stole away, once again, after over a decade under the tutelage of the Greybeards, with knowledge considered sacred, he was named an Exile. Soon after, all across Skyrim men and women learned of the Rogue Tongue. His name became both reviled and admired, and without little choice, Cynric left his homeland of three decades. For a decade after, he made little and less use of his capabilities in the Thu'um, instead opting to make a name for himself, first in High Rock and later in Cyrodiil, as a capable mercenary. In time he gathered around himself fellow Nords, disaffected and ambitious as he had been in his early days, as well as Bretons of a similar ilk. He defeated Trolls, Goblins and even Undead monsters, with shields and spears at his beck and call. He killed bandits, just as he had before, only now the numbers were far larger. His blade claimed lives in the hundreds, and his renown grew. Ultimately, it was in Bruma that another chapter of his life came, though. The petty King of Bruma hired him and his band for a campaign planned against the southern city-states not yet under Bruma's rule- and the King made liberal use of the well-trained and bloodied men of Cynric's band... only he never paid them, delaying for months even as campaigning season ended. Eventually, he promised to explain himself and pay Cynric in person, and with little options due to the growing ire of his men, Cynric accepted. He arrived to meet the King- only to be accosted in the throne room, and thrown in jail of false charges. Unfortunately for them, and the city guard of Bruma, Cynric could not be contained so easily. He Shouted for the first in a decade, and under that power, the walls containing him gave away. Men ran, scared for their lives, and others tried stopping him. They turned to ashes, and Cynric promised revenge to the King of Bruma. He returned to his mercenary band, and said that their payment would have to be taken by force. In the same Breath, he showed them his power and promised that under his command and capabilities, they would have their money, and so much more. Civil war, or at least a mercenary rebellion, has come to Bruma and the Stormsinger will not abide betrayal.

• Edward XVI
  -- No Image --
  Name	Edward XVI "The Resplendent"
  Age	16
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Self Styled Demiprince
  Heritage	Breton (15)
  Faith	Daedra (25)
  Traits	Charismatic (10), Prophesied (15) Mage x5 (75) Planeswalker (60) Icon of Faith (Free), Exile (-25), Young (-50)
  Faction Name	Heralds of Twilight
  Faction Trait	Cult (10)
  Faction Size	1
  Edward was born one of many princes in the City-Kingdom of Daggerfall. Though nowhere near to the throne indeed born posthumously to a father whose firstborn son was already a man grown, the young Edward grew handsome and charismatic, wrapping peers around his finger and even by the standards of Bretons proved incredibly talented in magic. Raised on tales of heroic ancestors like his namesake who freed High Rock from the Nords, as Edward and his magic skills grew he became more and more obsessed with the tales of Edward. Contrary to the orthdox version of the story, Edward XVIII became convinced that Edward the first had in fact been the son of Moraelyn the Witch King of Ebonheart, and that that powerful heritage had manifested itself in him. The fact that this made his entire lineage technically illegitimate did not bother him, though obviously it bothered his family. In time his obsession with Moraelyn turned stranger and stranger. When one day Edward told his older brother the king that he had traveled the marble jaws of Oblivion and in Moonshadow Azura had claimed him as his mother-his eyes now piercing azure- enough was enough and the Prince was ordered exiled. Though exile seriously hampered his expected luxurious lifestyle Edward found it remarkably easy to gather followers utterly devoted to Azura and her son. Eventually his budding cult met that of Horatius Longii, a follower of Boethia. Edward saw in Longii a useful mentor in the daedric path, and an compatible Daedra, while Longii saw if not a daedric prince an obviously powerful mage whose growing cult would be a useful addition to his own resources. Joined in time by a ambitious pirate the three set forth to the Sundered Seat of Kings, and destiny.

• General Gratian
  -- No Image --
  Name	General Gratian, Duke of the Colovian Hills, Defender of the Western Marches, the Red Serpent
  Age	43
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Ambitious opportunistic rat with a grand vision
  Heritage	Imperial
  Faith	Eight Divines
  Traits	Craven, Traitor, Charismatic, Prophesied, Strategist, Great Captain, Rival (Loyalist Legion)
  Faction Name	The Ninth Legion
  Faction Trait	Imperial Legion
  Faction Size	3
  Gratian is one of the most celebrated, and most cursed, of all of the Imperial City's generals. Originally a young son of shopkeepers more interested in carousing and drinking than learning any trade, Gratian would end up seeking employment in one of the remnant Legions to escape a prison sentence after his gang grew a little too rambunctious for the city watch to allow. He took quickly to the life of a soldier, blessed with a keen insight for all matters of war which, along with his gift for gaining the confidence of others, saw him rapidly climb the ranks. When he was a young officer leading a patrol, after they struck camp for the night, Gratian dozed off while sitting at the base of an old statue of St Alessia. There, he was blessed with a powerful, unmistakable vision-the Red Amulet of Kings, wrapped in the coils of countless writhing serpents, each seeking to claim it from one another. Then, with shocking swiftness, a crimson serpent the color of blood overtook its rivals, devouring them all in turn, until it alone remained. The Amulet came to rest upon its brow, and it transformed into a mighty dragon. When Gratian awoke, a crimson serpent rested upon his breast, its golden eyes staring directly into his, his companions watching in horror. Yet the beast did not bite, but instead kissed his forehead and departed. When Gratian told his subordinates of what he had seen, all agreed that he had been chosen by a grand purpose-to unify Cyrodiil and take up the Amulet of Kings. Gratian never forgot his destiny, and even as he served ably and loyally, always sought his opportunity. It would come during one of the usual interminable disputes that the Imperial Legions were often called to deal with, an upstart warlord pushing their luck and reaching for more territory. Two legions would be sent to resolve the issue, and Gratian judged that the loyalty of his officers and soldiers was absolute. So Gratian abandoned his part of the plan, allowing ally and enemy alike to bleed one another-then fell upon both with great slaughter, moving westward after his betrayal, looting and pillaging along the way, until he finally stopped to carve out a fiefdom in the hills of Colovia. Styling himself, "Duke" and a bevy of other titles, Gratian and his traitorous army now seek to become the nucleus of a grand kingdom of their own. Though, perhaps he should have made sure to actually wipe out that legion entirely rather than spend so much time looting their camp...

• Gerudh
  Name	The Monarch of All Monkeys, the Suzerain Most Simian, KING GERUDH THE GREAT
  Age	fragmentary records suggest life in the Middle Dawn by roughly 1E ~2175 before eventually disappearing, with a handful of further potential sightings until confirmed return since 1E 2687 Subjective Age: 51 years old
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	stillborn legend robbed of their heroic destiny
  Heritage	Imga [ -75 pts]
  Faith	Hermaeus Mora, Hryma-Mora, the Woodland Man [Daedra Worship -25 pts]
  Traits	Traitor [ +15 pts], Civil War [ +50 pts], Shadow Broker [ -50 pts], Great Captain [ -25 pts]. Charismatic [free], Prophesied [free]
  Faction Name	the Zero Battalion, the Army of None, the Last Legion The very last remnants of Gerudh's golden warriors, carried with him to found a new kingdom for the Ape-Men and to save the humans from themselves, though along with them come wizened Dulsa XIII, the last surviving ape-matriarch of Gerudh's Selective foolishly attempting to join and give warning to her modern day inheritors in the Temple of Zero, and that craven dog Salias the Postulator fleeing to go cower with the rest of the broken echoes of the Imga in this history. And worse than that- some of the weaker-willed of the Last Legion are daring to join them in their stupidity!
  Faction Trait	Warband [ -25 pts]
  Faction Size	1 (free)
  Once, Gerudh was a Primate Prelate of the Holy Brothers of Marukh, and though of the juniormost Imga sages in the Alessian Order, he led his brother humans and Ape-Men to countless victories of fire and steel over the continued corruption and mischief of Elvish taint. He did this as part of the great crusade across time and the Imperial Heartlands to reshape the facets of the cosmos to forever establish the complete unity of the One and to detach and uplift their faithful empire beyond the illusionary Elvish cycles of death and despair and worldly turmoil. In the timeless eye-blink of the Middle Dawn Gerudh slayed a thousand enemies of the faith and saved a thousand towns, each a thousand times over, and was on track to carry the legacy forward as a a new Pelinal Whitestake, a new Morihaus even, into the golden new era that awaited. But then everything went wrong when a last alliance of Men and Elves and Beastfolk stepped forth to oppose their sacred mission, and succeeded. The eschtalological supreme unity of Ak-To-Osh would never be separable from the Altmer sky-father Auriel. And worst still all that was Gerudh, his savage crusade, his towering persona that echoed up and down causality, even his quiet passion for appropriately sober and virtuous poetry, all were lost with the end of the Dragon Break. In the great rebounding backlash to the attempts to erase any need for Ayleid defectors and surrendered auxiliaries in the Alessian Rebellions, Gerudh found that the Holy Brothers of Marukh had now never been more than an obscure monastic order in a church ruled by the Selective, and that there were no such things as Primate Prelates. The Imga were now nothing but strange and wary fugitives withdrawn into Valenwood, a people whose rarity as sages and mystics and grand viziers turned into almost complete nonexistence as a people that history passed by, their own great sagas of the overturning of the Elf-loving Shaved Ones and their heathen princelings, the great and terrible age of the Judges and their shattering against the Green Pact, the restoration of order and faith under the Holy Brothers of Marukh- all gone but for scattered apocryphal references. In this moment, half-way real even to himself and on the edge of the black despair of that question that can never be asked, if his memories had ever been anything more than mad dreams, Gerudh's heart inverted to pure obsidian hatred. He did not quail and wither like those weaklings around him, but Instead unleashed his rage ripping apart all the Holy Select and neverborn Primates beside him, and with blood-soaked hands and a bloody foaming mouth carved out his own tale and his own prophesied fate. To Oblivion with the Selective and demons take the One, blind failures that they are, Gerudh will take the legacy of the Ayleids and the Daedra and all that this broken world has to offer and bend them to the mastery of Imga and their little human cousins! And so with a dark and harrowing passage around linear time once again, Gerudh defied his fate. Though he will never speak on it, rumors fly as to the origin of his return, perhaps through the legends that speak of an Ape-Folk ability to hide from strife and visit otherworldly lands, or possibly through the sacred temples and ever-burning divine altars rejecting his murderous presence in the still-solidifying return of time, or just maybe his subsequent fateful pact to Hermaeus Mora, to be delivered from his enemies, time most of all, in exchange for being theirs forever afterwards. Regardless, now Gerudh the Great is reborn, and will continue his great work and call down and uncross the stars themselves- so that he and his people shall be mighty once more, and so that all shall know the works of Gerudh, and tremble!

• Horatius Longii
  -- No Image --
  Name	Horatius Longii
  Age	79
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Megalomaniacal Mage
  Heritage	Reachman (-15)
  Faith	Daedric (Alliance of Boethiah, Azura, personally concentrated on Boethiah)
  Traits	Apostate (+50), Exile (+25), Magex5 (Archmage (-75)), Planeswalker (-60), Shadow Broker
  Faction Name	Arcane Hand
  Faction Trait	Cult (-10)
  Faction Size	3
  Fifty years hence, your destiny shall be visible. So spoke the Scholar-King of Wayrest, mere days before a young Horatius slew him in his sleep and took over his realm. Accomplished as he was at intrigue and magic, however, his dark interests could not be hidden forever. Exile came a decade later. In truth the order was execution, but a desperate Longii took a path into Oblivion first. He would only emerge after five years, appearing atop Cyrodiil's Shrine of Boethiah and levitating down. In those five- or fifty- years, he travelled three realms, but finally fell into the Prince of Lies' domain. Ten thousand betrayals and victories had been his, surviving almost as a shade on magical sustenance alone. He lost a hand to Umbra XV, and reformed it by conjuration, purple and ghostly. When he emerged, he lied low for a time, supping of material delights and taking over the local cult. He bent it to his will and slew those who would disobey or betray him. Then he appeared in the underdark of the Imperial City, and cut his way to infamy and knowledge. He is loved by few, and loves even less. His only true love is power, and his thirst for that cannot be sated. Were he to take the Imperial City, he would desire Cyrodiil. Were he to subjugate Tamriel, he would seek out Oblivion itself. But even in his lust to be the highest of the high, he sees the need for allies and subordinates. He travelled the province, creating a true cult, one that believed in him as much as in the Daedra. Now skulking in the hills and abandoned temples of Colovia, his cultivation has borne fruit. A mage as powerful in potential as he, perhaps possessed of daedric blood, has accepted the bond of apprentice and master, while a rash ally in Anvil has set it aflame. Now, as chaos sets Cyrodiil afire again, immortal Horatius remembers the king's words and wonders. Coalition, accept only with Childe of Azura and Pirate King

• Horoxia Larich
  Name	Horoxia Larich
  Age	32
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	Cannibal Queen of Skingrad
  Heritage	Imperial
  Faith	Daedric (Namira Pact, -25 points)
  Traits	Mage 2 (-50 points), Traitor (+15 pts), Indebted (+25 pts), Rival (+25 pts)
  Faction Name	Kingdom of Skingrad
  Faction Trait	City-State (-75 points, Skingrad)
  Faction Size	3 (-50 points)
  Horoxia comes from the proud line of the kings and queens of Skingrad. Born into luxury, opulence, and even decadence, she became acquainted with the finer things in life, and feasted on exotic dishes, from a certain kind of Summerset quail to roast Argonian. But despite all her wealth, all her influence, she hungered. Hungered for more power, more gold, more mystical strength, and above all, she had a hunger she could not identify. And so it was the fourth child and second daughter of the line of Larich began seeking darker patrons and deeper knowledge, all in a bid to quell her gluttony. Gone were her childhood devotion to the Eight Divines, and her faith turned to the unholy deities that every good Imperial should fear: the Daedric Princes. Namira came to her in a dream, and taught her that her hunger was not shameful, that her desire to devour was natural and good. Horoxia ate a kitchen servant the next day. The next month, she ate a castle guard. The next year, a retainer of the Larich dynasty, bastard-born to her own royal blood. He tasted particularly good. Finally, five years before the Empire truly fell apart, she began kidnapping and eating her own family, implicating her devoted followers in the cannibalism to ensure their loyalties. They could not go back to common society and tell of her exploits while avoiding the subject of their own misdeeds. By the time the Empire fell, Horoxia was the last of the mainline Larichs, the rest eaten by the ever-gluttonous princess, leaving only her distant cousin Rislav, who crowned himself Rislav II in the Skingard hinterlands. Skingrad itself was hers, a dark and terrifying city devoted to the Lady of Decay. But even now, Queen Horoxia, first and only of her name, seeks to turn the entire Empire into her own personal feast, coveting the divine energies of the Amulet of Kings and the rarified splendor of the Elder Council. All will fall prey to her endless, limitless hunger.

• King-Chieftain Agrywyr
  Name	King-Chieftain Agrywyr of the Handhewn Table
  Age	38
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Hero of a Shattered Dream
  Heritage	Breton (15)
  Faith	Eight Divines (0)
  Traits	Mage (0), Adventurer (10), Charismatic (10), Strategist (15), Blademaster (15), Great Captain (25), Civil War (half of his host, escaped into Cyrodil) (-50), Rival (His son, Mordra) (-25), Remaining Budget 20
  Faction Name	Banner of the Broken Dragon
  Faction Trait	Warband (25)
  Faction Size	4 (75)
  It was, by any account, a perfect life. A warrior-king, strong of bone and sure of heart, who'd united the tribes and villages of Camlorn to drive out the Direnni. With a happy family, a loyal court, and a budding legend in the Handhewn Table (formerly a circle), it was a perfect life. Blissful days unending. Until his son found an Elder Scrolls. Whatever he saw, whatever his 'friend' Whorm whispered into his ears, it was enough to shatter the young man. The... being that walked with his son's limbs, crawled in his skin, and spoke through his mouth was nothing like the brilliant young warlord that he was. Violent, crueler by the day, arrogant beyond measure, Mordane had become a complete shadow of his former self. He'd even come to hate his own father, muttering about dragons and old wizards under his breath. But Agrywyr ignored it, attempting to pull his son closer but driving him away with every attempt, deeper into the arms of the loathsome Whorm. He ignored his friends' words, the worries of his wife, the advice of his counsellors, insisting everything was fine! And he could pretend, for a while. It was fine. His son would recover, all he needed was time and space. Until the sky shattered across Agrywyr's shoulders. While he was away on a hunt, Mordane had killed his mother, Agrywyr's wife, burnt Camlorn, and escaped to the east with Trististyr, Uthard, Bedyval, and much of the army. Killing innocents on their way out, setting forest and farmland aflame, Agrywyr swore to stop his son, put his former friends to the blade, and bring justice to the traitors for all the people they'd killed. And perhaps, bring peace to his son's soul.

• Leonara Pelagia
  'If all the Divines abandoned my countrymen, yet would I defend them.'
  Name	Leonara Pelagia
  Age	29
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	Shield of Cyrodiil
  Heritage	Imperial (0)
  Faith	The Eight Divines (0)
  Traits	Noble (-50), Brave (-10), Strategist (-25), Rival (25)
  Faction Name	The Pelagia Affinity
  Faction Trait	Noble Retinue (-0)
  Faction Size	4 (-75)
  Leonara was born to the sound of broken spears and splintered shields. She knew nothing but the litany of war as the heiress to a fortress on the border. Ayleid's Bane was a cold redoubt, bare in luxury but rich in conflict. A lord had vouchsafed it to her grandfather with the order never to yield the walls to 'pellani.' All that tried to wrestle the fortress away were subsequently repulsed. It soon became a symbol of resistance to a coalition of Imperial borderland nobles that rallied around the Pelagia. Among the dead it took to do so, however, were a generation of her family. Never in living memory did one succumb to the comforts of old age. Sickness on campaign claimed many and battle wounds the rest. Her father's last red gaze equal in shade to her mane remained an indelible memory of her childhood. But such tragedies failed to break Leonara. It was the will of the gods. Nothing more, nothing less. Her own will was to defend the scraps of the old Empire to the end. With that principle in mind and a spear by her hand, she is ever watchful of the foreigners that think to plunder Cryodiil. Foremost being Fafnld the Flayer—he who desecrated her father.

• Lokar Cinder-Scowl
  -- No Image --
  Name	Lokar Cinder-Scowl
  Age	23
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	The Silver-Tongued Tongue
  Heritage	Nord (-15)
  Faith	The Eight Divines - Shor or Kyne or Ysgramor's Ghost or One Of The Other Ones, Lokar Forgets Sometimes And Keeps Every Talisman He's Ever Found Just In Case, They Take Up Half His Rucksack, He'd Throw Some Out But That Might Make The One He Really Worships Mad
  Traits	Tongue (-60), Blademaster (5x) (-60), Sword Hero, Adventurer (-10), Civil War (+50), Remaining Resources (5)
  Faction Name	The Fire-Starters
  Faction Trait	Mercenary Company (-10)
  Faction Size	2 (25)
  " 'Make like your grandmother and hurry south,' is what Ma said when she kicked us out the door. She was always braggin on and on with the whalers and the drifters about hwo we had the blood of one of the Companions, one of the ones that started with an 'S' - Senki or Surei or Surf-Like-Ice or something like that, I never really listened to her. Most everyone called her a liar anyway. But when they did she just had to haul out the axe and the armor and the little totem on a chain. 'Gran's' old affects, she insisted. But they looked like they were maybe a hundred or a thousand years old and still pretty shiny so most everyone just got real quiet and asked to touch them a bit. Then she'd slap their hands and say they were sacred. Never really thought Gran or Ysgramor was all that great anyway, everyone says he killed all the elves but some still come by Winterhold and trade for scrimshaw and ambergris and they're sort of asses but definitely not dead so Yrgramor definitely missed a few so how good could he have been anyway? But yeah, Ma had the axe and the armor and the totem. But Ma also had seven children and enough gold to feed about four of them through the winter after she got kicked out of the College. Dorgu was the firstborn and everything would be her's anyway so she couldn't leave, and the last four were still barely hip-high at that so they couldn't go, so it me and Thuja and Karstad who had to go south. But Ma had three kids going, so she gave Thuja the armor (she was the only one who fit in it) and Karstad the totem (he was Clever like Ma was) and me the axe, and we couldn't stand how Thuja rattled around when she walked in it so we all went south seperate ways. Thuja went south past the the plains to the place where they chuck swords at each others heads because it was a apparently a desert and that means it doesn't snow and she figured her helmet would keep her head safe. Karstad went south past the mountains and ended up finding a bunch more elves. I heard he lives in a mushroom now. Or maybe they ate him with mushroom? I can't remember. Me? I went south for about a week and ended up in Windhelm. Thuja said that was lazy and barely south at all but she's probably baked in that armor so what does she know? Life was good in Windhelm. The axe was good to which was why life was so easy. Crack a skull here and there and people will keep you in new boots and furs and stewbowels basically forever. But then some Shatter-Sea tried to steal my axe and I cracked her skull and suddenly I've got to hop over the bridge and make way to the Rift, can you believe that? Met a few folks in the Rift though. Fekki and Herold and Kygara No-Chief's-Wife who is the Cleverest Folk I know even if she's green. And I met the Old Man there to I guess. See Kygara had gotten me this potion that let me breath fire, it s where I get the name right? Set my beard on fire the first time I used it and brother I scowled until my cheeks weren't pink no more. But it was a neat trick once I figured it out. Anyway I'm on the shore of the lake and maybe a bit drunk but Fekki dead drunk and Herold had gone to bed and Kygara had gone off to file her tusks when the Old Man showed up. He looked like... his hair wasssss... he was dressed like aaaaaa... He was an old man. Yeah. Can't remember the rest. Anyway the Old Man shows up high moon and says 'can I get a drink' and I say 'ya' because law of the road says you have to share your meed if its past dusk and you have a fire and the other guy doesn't. So we get to talking and drinking and - get this - he says he's heard of me and asks if he can see me breath fire? And I say 'sure sure' and palm the vial that Kygara made for me. But then its like a giant's grabbed me around the chest and something pushes my head into the firepit. And I'm breathing fire, yeah man, I'm breathing smoke, and I must be in there for hours before whatever grabbed me drags me back out. And the Old Man is just sitting there laughing like he's shit himself and he's so damn fun and he just claps and says 'well done, well done' before he gets up and wanders off. Had to get a priest to fix those burns. And that's all one things, I'd let it go if it that was it, but the Old Man keeps showing up! He'd go 'silver for you thoughts' and then I'd say 'yeah? and he'd pass me a coin and I couldn't remember what I'd been doing that morning for the whole rest of the day. Or when he said 'hey can I have a word' and I said 'okay' and now I can't remember the the word you call the big things that people ride around on, the ones with the hooves. And I can't just say 'no' because then I have rotten luck all day. But then, one day, I think I can get one over on him. So he says 'ready to trade wits' and I say 'nah, but I want to trade tongues, mine is getting to heavy' and he actually looks surprised for once before he grins his big fat grin and says 'Oh I'd be happy to' and holds out his hand for me to pay up. So I cut off the tongue of my boot and pass it to him and hope that I can just get this guy to shut up for a while, right? But the Old Man thinks that's hilarious and starts hacking and laughing then clapping and he starts rummaging around a little leather pouch on his belt. Just before I tell him to pay up or leave he pulls a man out of that little bag. The man's real old, older looking then the Old Man, and he sees the Old Man then wham he shouts so louds he blows down half the forest behind the Old Man but only ruffles the Old Man's hair. Then the Old Man reaches out to the old man and rips the old man's tongue out of his throat. Then he looks up at me and says 'a deal's a deal.' Now after seeing that I couldn't tell him no. But then I grabbed it and it rotted away to nothing and the Old Man vanished into the wind. Thought it was all a nightmare before I remember the body at my feet. After that thought things got... weird. I could say things and they'd happen. I could breath fire for real now, move as fast as the wind, call lightning from the sky. I even once shoutted at a castle wall during a siege and sent it tumbling down, and I didn't eve mean to do that! And Herold's got the brains, you know, the wit, that silver tongue, and he says we can make a lot of gold if we travel around knocking over castle walls and cracking a bunch of heads at once rather then a few. And I say 'yeah I like having gold' and so the four of us are off. And it works, so we hire more folks so we can fight even more and make more money and so on until Herold's spending all his time keeping things organized and I'm Shoutting myself hoarse every day. Then comes the big offer. Some noble from out in the Colovian Estates, way more south then I've ever gone sends and agent to hire us for a big war. And it's a lot of gold so we agree and march our butts across the mountains. But that until the end of winter and halfway through spring and by the time we get there the geezer is dead and his kids are arguing with spearpoints over who gets to be the next count or baron or whatever, and both them are saying that because their father made a down payment we owe 'his rightful heir' our asses and wont even pay us a copper more. So now we're stranded in Colovia and no one's paying a damn thing.

• Lyreia Octavianus
  Name	Lyreia Octavianus, The Blackbird
  Age	28
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	Unlucky, Fast-Talking Schemer
  Heritage	Imperial
  Faith	The Eight Divines
  Traits	Dragonborn, Shadow Broker, Charismatic x2, Politician, Resources 5, Indebted (Imperial Trading Company), Rival (Thieves Guild), Rival (Moraq Tong Splinter)
  Faction Name	The Blackbirds
  Faction Trait	Cult
  Faction Size	1
  Ah, a new face? Curious. I know everyone who is supposed to work in this prison and you ain't one of them. And your armor sure looks as if it doesn't fit you. Say, you don't happen to have been promised some money for a bit of quick work with the dagger? You don't look like one of the nutty cultists at least. But hey! This might be your lucky day! I happen to have a little counter-offer for. Come one. Hear me out at least. It's not as if I can run away from you while in this cell. I know, you wonder what this girl could possible have to offer you, but I assure you that you are being ripped off. I'm not just some little thief or rowdy drunk they threw down here for a few days. Not all that long ago, my name meant something here in this city. The Blackbirds ringing any bells? That was my people and believe me, we were the best. Anything you want to know for a few coins and for a few coins more we would even get our hands dirty for you. That's how I know you are getting short-charged for killing me. You wouldn't hesitate and listen to me prattle if they paid you proper. Really disrespectful of them to treat you like that. The Thieves Guild really is just one big pile of misers. No, no. Don't deny it. I know quite well who wants me dead. See, we had some issues with the Thieves Guild and those lunatics from the Moraq Tong. They felt they should have a monopoly here in the city, so they started going after our people. Wasn't so bad at first, but then a few contracts fell through, the Imperial Trading Company started getting problematic over a botched job and... well... long story short, that brings us to this damp little cell. But hey. My little spot of misfortune might be your big pay day. If you were to just open up my cell and get me out of here, I can pay you twice what they offered for my head. I still have some cash left. Ah, come one! I'll make it thrice your pay even. I know how bad the Thieves are with paying their contractors. And if you are worried about not getting hired by them again, you can always hire on with the Blackbirds. We got a few openings right now and we always value quality work. So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?

• Maraya of Sentinel
  Royalty is a continuous cutting motion.
  Name	Maraya of Sentinel
  Age	25
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	Exiled Princess
  Heritage	Ra Gada
  Faith	The Yokudan Pantheon [Leki, the ephemeral swordswoman]
  Traits	Charismatic, Brave, Blademaster [x2], Sword-Singer, Sword-Saint, Great Captain. Rival, Exile, Lackey
  Faction Name	Children of Lost Sentinel
  Faction Trait	Noble Retinue / Mercenary Company
  Faction Size	1
  Maraya was born the daughter of King A'tor of Sentinel. With two elder sisters and three younger brothers, there was no thought given to Maraya attaining the throne. Instead, she was permitted to fight. She mastered the blade early in her teens, and the song by twenty. She was near enough a Sword-Saint when the Bretons crossed Iliac Bay. Anger had hardened their hearts, and they sought to snuff out their rivals for control of the great bay. So they had done before, and so they would do again - and so the Ra Gada of Sentinel had done before, and would do again. Had she been in the city, perhaps she might have stood against the invasion and carved her name into the hearts of every foul interloper upon her father's Kingdom, but she was not - Maraya was at that time riding in the hinterlands with a retinue of a dozen of her friends, and the city fell. Her sisters were carried away across the bay, her brothers executed, her father hanged from his own palace walls. A tractable King was placed upon the throne, and Maraya, her heart aching, fled. Pursuit was, ultimately, inevitable. It would be a foolish king who left the heir of the man he usurped to plot without reply, and a band of mercenaries have been set on her tail. They have proven difficult to shake, but she will cut them down when the opportunity arises. Crossing into Cyrodiil, she has nothing but her few remaining loyal retainers, and her sword-song. She has no choice but to sell her sword, to fight in other men's wars, in the hope that someday soon, she shall have the gold and the might to strike out on her own, restore her honour, and cut her way to the throne her father lost.

• Molvirian Viducia
  -- No Image --
  Name	Knight Marshal Molvirian Viducia
  Age	36
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Frustrated Zealot
  Heritage	Imperial (0)
  Faith	The Eight Divines (0)
  Traits	Brave (10), Strategist (25), Great Captain (25), Unconvincing (+10), Indebted (+25), Remaining Resources (10)
  Faction Name	The General Body and Order of the Servants of the Wheel
  Faction Trait	Knightly Order (25, sworn to Arkay)
  Faction Size	4 (75)
  A dedicated, religious man; often an honest one. Prone to fury. The latest in a long line of knights marshal of the Order - an Order once maintained with the backing of the Empire, but now, in these reduced times, reliant on scraps from the devout and substantial loans from the Imperial Trading Company. Still great in numbers, but not in force. Under a previous marshal, the Order has pivoted to participating in commissions work to service its debt in a desperate attempt to stem its decline - though it still participates in more traditional chivalric activities. Bowing and scraping to every petty noble or would-be merchant prince willing to toss a coin, however, suits Molvirian particularly poorly, and he considers the decision to have been a mistake. As affairs stand, he thinks, service and vows rank second in importance, if that. (And, well. May as well forget focusing on protecting relics.) So Molvirian dreams of a Colovia and Nibenay where that is not the case - a Cyrodiil, a united jungle, an Empire come again. A land where the servants of the Eight will be able to pursue their duties and rites without interruption. A land where the Order will never again be forced to recall its membership and take to the field in order to scrape together enough for this year's expenses. As a devotee of Arkay, he understands that death is not to be undone - but surely a world so good compared to what now is was not meant to stay dead? And if no one else has the will to do it, then, well. He must.

• Nobis-Naiga
  Name	Nobis-Naiga the Conqueror
  Age	29
  Pronouns	She/Her
  Character Concept	The lands behind us are too full and cold, the lands in front of us are weak and filled with wealth. These lands are ours.
  Heritage	Tsaesci
  Faith	Tsaesci Ancestor Worship
  Traits	Strategist , Brave , Civil War, Rival , Lackey
  Faction Name	The Hebi Zen'ei
  Faction Trait	Invasion Force
  Faction Size	4
  The Tsaesci have arrived in full force upon these war torn lands. A massive invasion of tens if not close to a hundred thousand Tsaesci equipped in unique armour and fight with new tactics. This would be a threat that would end the world as we know it, sadly for the Tsaesci not only are they split into 2 major army groups both rivals to each other, within those army groups warlords have broken up and is causing chaos within this grand invasion. Bringing great honour to their families and winning the direct attention of the Emperor is the goal of most Tsaesci elite, and what better place to win the attention of the Emperor than these new lands. Conquer, steal and claim as much land, valuables and magic as possible and present it back to the crown is the goal of this Invasion and the commanders would rather die than let their rivals be the one to win the attention Nobis-Naiga the Conqueror has a history of winning minor campaigns and claiming islands or small kingdoms but this new conquer is the largest goal she has ever tried to achieve. Sitting beside her is her life long rival, a foe she met in military schooling and has always attempted to beat. Sadly no matter how well she does he is always climbing the ranks as quickly as she is, and now it comes to this. Almost a lifetime as rivals now they battle to see who will win the attention of the Emperor by claiming this land and she won't accept defeat.

• Quintus Valerian
  Name	Quintus Valerian 'The Guilded'
  Age	41
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	Filthy Rich Magnate turned Warlord
  Heritage	Imperial
  Faith	Eight Divine (Devout of Zenithar)
  Traits	Adventurer, Charismatic, Strategist, Hlaalu Connection, Company Benefactors, Merchant Prince, Rival (Thieves Guild & Imperial City Magnate), Civil War (Bravil)
  Faction Name	The Guilded Eagles
  Faction Trait	Mercenary Company
  Faction Size	3
  Quintus Valerian is a man who is, to put it shortly, filthy rich. Incomprehensibly so, for most people. The man is one of the main partners of the Imperial Trade Company, owns an ebony mine in Morrowind as part of his personal estate, posesses one of the largest merchant fleets operating in the Nibeneay and beyond, and is propietor of many businesses in the Imperial City, from stores to whorehouses, all of them decorated by Quintus' personal insignia: A golden coin with an stylised QV on top. Everyone knows about this man's legendary wealth. What they might not know however, is how it came to be. Contrary to what most would expect he wasn't born into wealth or nobility, but instead was the fifth son to a family of impoverished farmers, hence the name. While most of his early life remain a mystery, by his early teens he had already abandoned the family home to become a sword for hire. This time as an adventurer would eventually lead him into the exotic land of the Dark Elves, where by pure luck he'd happen accross an abandoned and lost ebony mine. He resolved to inform the local Hlaalu councillor about this and, after some legendary negotiations, managed to obtain a deed for a quarter of the mine's benefits. By the time he returned to the Imperial City he was not only acquiantanced with dunmer customs, but also wealthy beyond measure by most adventurer's standards. But while any other man would've been content with an estate to settle down on, Quintus wanted more. More money. Instead of dillapidating his newfound fortune, he invested it: First he acquired plantations applying the methods used in dunmer plantation, quickly outcompeting his rivals, whose plantations were comparatively and suspiciously extremely flammable. Then, once war once more engulfed the province, he invested in trading ships and armed caravans to send foodstuffs to areas of conflict: Not as charity, but rather to sell them at extortionate prices. Once his network had grown enough, he began acquiring small businesses and real estate in several of the city states, brokering deals with the local warlords to allow his own traders to make business undisturbed. Overtime he became one of the Imperial Trade Company's primary associates, achieving a meteoric rise in his wealth. But even then he continued working, regularly sponsoring new ventures that caught his eye, always having a soft spot for adventurers. The vast majority of these were wildly successful, be it by his business-savy nature or, as some especulate, Quintus being blessed by Zenithar, god of commerce and industry. At some point he also went back to Cyrodill and fully bought to the deed to the ebony mine he partially owned, the benefits from that making him even richer. In the crucible of chaos that is Cyrodill, Quintus prospered. But while other men would've been content with being one of the wealthiest men in Cyrodill, Quintus wanted more. More power. And so he began investing in the only reliable asset in this warlord era: Violence. Using his vast fortune he has overtime amassed a grand mercenary company called the Guilded Eagles, renting his services to the highest bidder. One warlord after another hired his men, and he used this money to invest in even more soldiers and equipment. Soon, the Guilded Eagles were one of the biggest armies in Cyrodill. But while other men would've been content with having one of the biggest personal armies in Cyrodill, Quintus wanted more. More land. And soon, the opportunity would arise: The city state of Bravil, after having hired the Guilded Eagles to repel an invasion from the nearby Leyawiin, they refused to pay the mercenaries what was due. And so the magnate now marches against the city itself at the helm of his mercenary army, proclaiming that he would get his investment back one way or the other. With this move, Quintus has signaled himself as another great player in Cyrodill, bringing all of his wealth to bear. For Quintus wanted more. More Empire. He may not have unparalleled skill with the sword nor was he knowledgeable of the secrets of the magicka or particularly blessed by one or another deity, but even so, Quintus commanded a power far greater than any of those. Money...

• Surin-Daiek
  Name	Surin-Daiek
  Age	???
  Pronouns	He/Him
  Character Concept	???
  Heritage	Tsaeci
  Faith	Tsaeci Pantheon - Sanguinine Worship
  Traits	Sword Hero, Blademaster x2, Mage x2, Charismatic, Brave, Adventurer, Icon of Faith, Planeswalker, Blind, Indebted, Apostate
  Faction Name	Cult of the I-Don't-Want-One
  Faction Trait	Cult
  Faction Size	1
  Surin-Daiek's first husband died. When Sidri-Hen came to pay him condolences, he found Surin-Daiek banging on a drum, singing and drinking merrily. "You lived with him, fought with him, and would have grown old with him," Sidri-Hen told him. "It should be enough to weep at his death, but singing and drinking-- isn't this going too far?" "You don't understand," Surin-Daiek said, "'You're wrong. When he first died, do you think I didn't grieve like anyone else? But I looked back to his beginning and the time before he was born. Not only the time before he was born, but the time before he had a body. Not only the time before he had a body, but the time before he had a spirit. In the midst of the jumble of wonder and mystery a change took place and he had a spirit. Another change and he had a body. Another change and she was born. Now there's been another change and she's dead. It's just like the progression of the four seasons, spring, summer, fall, winter. "Now he's going to lie peacefully in a vast room. If I were to follow after him bawling and sobbing, it would show that I don't understand anything about fate. So I stopped." "Having roamed Akavir for more than fifty years, I have defeated all my foes and overcome all champions. In this realm there are none that are my equal. Alas, for all my life I have wasted in this vanity, but I have much more life to waste. That is why I must set out with the ships, despite Nobis-Naga being an utter bore." "My first sword is a katana five hand lengths long. With this blade I paid homage to the courts of Tsaeci, where I learned rhetoric, poetry, and music. I found gainful employ as a master of music in the home of a great lord, who I would later have an affair with. With this blade, I slew him and his wife when our affair was discovered. This blade brought me laughter and tears, and I sold it to buy dried meat for the road." "My second sword is a straight bladed Ka Po Tun dagger, which looked to be a full blade in my hands. With this blade I careened recklessly through the wilderness, seeking out the strong to devour. With this blade I made a name of myself as a gallant, hero, and unreasonable murderer. I surrounded myself with young thugs and admirers, and made a name of myself as a great bandit chief before being subdued by a magistrate. This blade was confiscated by the law, and I would later throttle the magistrate with the lute strings, that instrument being smuggled in by the magistrate who was an admirer of my playing." "My third sword was another katana of disreputable make. I obtained it in a winesoak through the expedient of a rear sleeper hold. Despite holding this blade for ten years, I rarely drew it out of it's scabbard, preferring instead the reliability of a quarterstaff. Having floated through life, I became cynical and biting, and not a particularly pleasant companion to anyone!" "My fourth sword is my current blade, a simple, nameless army sword. Having renounced the cynicism of my previous decade, I turned to poetry and found a widespread following, despite most of them written while extremely drunk. Here I grew many heads, one here, one there, and one elsewhere, and was soon recognized as a sage. Despite my best efforts, bad teachings, and frequent applications of a stick, I was once again swarmed with eager adherents. Now I have felt that Akavir was old and tired, so I repeat the beginning: that is why I must set out with the ships."

Click to shrink...

this is super convenient thanks!

 

[Prince Kyros]

Surprised no one picked Arenthia, South Weald is in a similarly interesting and precarious situation as Elinhir (although unlike them, they did actually survive to the next era). Same with Riverhold, which I think might currently be a part of Colovia for the moment.