ɪɢɴᴀᴛɪᴜs’s Comments (group member since Nov 02, 2014)

Construction ahead, please wear your assigned hard hats and watch your step. Somebody stop me.

 •●• ʟᴜ-ᴀʜ ᴏғ sᴛʀᴏs ᴍ'ᴋᴀɪ •●•

 sᴡᴇᴇᴛ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, sᴡᴇᴇᴛ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, 
 sᴇɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴜɴᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ, 
 ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ sɪɴs ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴡᴏʀᴛʜʏ 
 ᴍᴜsᴛ ʙᴇ ʙᴀᴘᴛɪᴢᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ғᴇᴀʀ.
 — ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ sᴀᴄʀᴀᴍᴇɴᴛ

 ● ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ●

● ғᴜʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ● Lu-Ah of Stros M'Kai
● ʙʏɴᴀᴍᴇs ● --

● ᴀɢᴇ ● 34
● ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴏғ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ● 4E 167
● ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ● Stros M'Kai, Hammerfell

● ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ● Female
● sᴇxᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ ● Homosexual
● ᴍᴀʀɪᴛᴀʟ sᴛᴀᴛᴜs ● Single

● ᴀғғɪʟɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ● Dark Brotherhood (currently)
● ʀᴀɴᴋ ● Assassin (Dark Brotherhood)

● sᴘᴇᴄɪᴇs ● Men
● sᴜʙsᴘᴇᴄɪᴇs ● Redguard

● sᴋɪʟʟs + ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇs ●

Resist Poison,

Adrenaline Rush,

Alteration (100),

Destruction (75),

Alchemy (50),

Illusion (25),

 ● ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ●

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ●

● ғᴀᴄᴇ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ● Naomie Harris
○ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇxɪᴏɴ ○ Dark
○ ʜᴀɪʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀ ○ Brown
○ ᴇʏᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀ ○ Brown
○ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ ○ Athletic

 ● ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ●

●ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ● ᴄʟᴇᴠᴇʀ ● ғɪᴄᴋʟᴇ ● ʜᴇᴅᴏɴɪsᴛɪᴄ ● ᴘᴏssᴇssɪᴠᴇ ● ᴛʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇʀᴏᴜs●

● ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ●

● ᴄʟᴇᴠᴇʀ ●

● ғɪᴄᴋʟᴇ ●

● ʜᴇᴅᴏɴɪsᴛɪᴄ ●

● ᴘᴏssᴇssɪᴠᴇ ●

● ᴛʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇʀᴏᴜs ●

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ●

 ● ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ ●

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ●

Name: Skoll Cruel-Spear
Age: 33
Gender: Male
Occupation: Companion (formerly), Stormcloak (currently)
Seeking?: --

Name: Romlyn Ralas
Age: 243 (44)
Gender: Male
Occupation: Thieves Guild (formerly), Imperial Legion (currently)
Seeking?: --

(cont.)

It was hardly the premises of a traditional wooing, but with each healed wound, the love between them grew. It was not long after her 26th year that they wed, much to the happiness of both their families. It was a good match, and it was easy to see the love and respect they held for one another.

Jorunn built them a home near the fringes of the village of Rorikstead. She was often alone in the small home, her husband touring the various parts of Skyrim in the name of the Imperial Legion. She did not enjoy being alone, so used to being surrounded by people, but she contented herself with healing the various ails of the villagers and drinking a good pint come evening.

Six years into their marriage, Jorunn would die by an infected wound inflicted by a passing band of disgruntled Nords. It was one of the first of many raids that would be carried out against Imperial patrols in the coming months. Unrest was beginning to stir in the belly of Skyrim.

Skadi grieved long and hard. It felt like half of her soul had been torn from her, and for nearly years she drifted in a sea of despair, cut from her safe harbour. It was during this time that Jorunn's old captain approached her, asking if she would honour his duties and do the Empire's work.

She agreed. It gave her purpose, and with it her head breached the surface, seeing the world around her for the first time in months. Skadi did not like what she saw. Tension ran thick, families tearing apart at the seams as one side took another. It was heart-wrenching. She was as proud of a Nord as any, keeping her Talos talisman close to her heart, but this was not the way they should go.

Travelling to Solitude at the old Captain's behest, Skadi was told in no uncertain terms what she could do for the Empire. Gather any information you can, they told her, and you could very well save the lives of many men and women.

Four months later, and she had sworn herself into the services of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. She was not a fighter, but it was easy to see the worth of a skilled healer in his gathering forces. When she wasn't being dispatched to various camps, she ran a small apothecary shop in the city of Windhelm, providing potions and ingredients at a discount for returning soldiers.

By her 36th year, the wounds of Jorunn's passing had largely healed. Though she still felt grief for her lost husband, she could now think fondly on the years she had with him.

Around this time, she had the pleasure of meeting Skoll Cruel-Spear. A great brute of a man, she had little respect for the lumbering oaf who so easily carried out Stormcloak justice. She'd heard many a rumour about his cruelty, and took great delight in slowly removing the arrows that prickled his hide.

As fate would have it, they would see much of each other in the coming years. Oftentimes it would end with terse disagreement, with each side stomping off, unwilling to admit that the either had been slightly right.

They would become unwilling friends, though friends they were. They rarely agreed on any subject, but they could often be found together in the evening, usually enjoying a good pint of ale.

It was growing difficult for Skadi to betray the trust of the Stormcloaks. While she knew them wrong on many points, they were also right on more than a few. She grew to care for the soldiers she cared for, and she knew with the information that she passed to the Imperials, more than a few were liable to die. But she would not bow in her duty, no matter how it broke her heart. She would count the graves after the war was done, and pay the required penance.

Skadi knows the moment that her feelings for Skoll breached easy friendship and turned into something more. Though she knew the tales of his cruelty were greatly exaggerated, she'd always thought him a rather amoral individual.

It had been a cold morn that she found him cuffed to the pillory, dressed in nothing but tunic and trousers. He'd been gone for nearly three weeks, scouting the borders and raiding Imperial patrols, and hadn't been due back for another two. He refused to tell her himself what happened, and so she tracked down his captain.

In no uncertain terms, the man told her Skoll was being punished for refusing his orders to attack an Imperial caravan that had come through from Morrowind. There had been refugees alongside the weary soldiers, women and children with no part in the war, and Skoll had proclaimed the order dishonourable.

Even with her insistent wheedling, it took four days to get Skoll released from the pillory. Since then, they've been a great deal closer than friends, though not quite lovers. Despite her attachments to the Stormcloaks, Skadi still sends detailed reports to the Imperial Legion monthly, under the guise of mailing letters to her sister in Markarth.

 •●• sᴋᴀᴅɪ ᴀʟʟ-ᴋɪɴᴅ •●•

 ʜᴏʟᴅ ғᴀsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs
 ғᴏʀ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs ɢᴏ
 ʟɪғᴇ ɪs ᴀ ʙᴀʀʀᴇɴ ғɪᴇʟᴅ
 ғʀᴏᴢᴇɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ sɴᴏᴡ. 
 — ʟᴀɴɢsᴛᴏɴ ʜᴜɢʜᴇs

 ● ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ●

● ғᴜʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ● Skadi All-Kind
● ʙʏɴᴀᴍᴇs ● "All-Kind," "Tender-Heart," "Witch of Windhelm," "Kind-Touch"

● ᴀɢᴇ ● 38
● ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴏғ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ● 4E 163
● ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ● Windhelm, Skyrim

● ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ● Female
● sᴇxᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ ● Heterosexual
● ᴍᴀʀɪᴛᴀʟ sᴛᴀᴛᴜs ● Widowed (Jorunn Twice-Honoured)

● ᴀғғɪʟɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ● Imperial Legion (currently), Stormcloaks (currently)
● ʀᴀɴᴋ ● Spy (Imperial Legion), Healer (Stormcloaks)

● sᴘᴇᴄɪᴇs ● Men
● sᴜʙsᴘᴇᴄɪᴇs ● Nord

● sᴋɪʟʟs + ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇs ● Skadi has dedicated years of training to have her skills where they are today. Having studied beneath the tutors of the College of Winterhold, she has only ever wanted to be a service of the people around her. This meant mastering the art of Restoration, and never was she prouder then when her Master told her he had nothing more to teach her. She is a non-combative at heart, and her skills largely reflect that.

Resist Frost, those of Nordic blood have a constant, 50% resistance to ice.

Battle Cry, once a day, a Nord can release a fearsome cry that staggers his opponent. It has a limited range of twelve feet.

Restoration (100), Skadi has spent much of her life learning how to ease the ailments of those around her. For her, there is no greater honour than healing the aches and pains of others, and takes great pride in her work. She does not discriminate, and if you need her healing touch, she will give it without complaint, no matter your race, age, gender, or affiliations.

Alchemy (75), while for the most part her alchemy skills are used for healing, Skadi does dabble in poisons. Taught to her by her mother, she never quite made the master alchemist her mother wished her to be, but her skills are far from novice. If you want a quality potion without the hefty price, chances are you'll buy from Skadi.

Speech (50), while she's not gifted with the slyest of tongues, Skadi has won over more than a few with her honeyed words. She may stumble upon them at times, but she's learned to smooth these moments over with easy grace.

Destruction (25), Skadi has never quite been suited to offensive combat, and prefers to avoid it to the best of her abilities. However, it would be foolish for her to swan through life without a few tricks up her sleeve. She's never been particularly gifted with destruction magic, but she knows the uses it can posses. More often than not, the few spells she knows are unstable when cast, as likely to hurt her as any opponent she may have.

 ● ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ●

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ● Though she is as tall as any Nord woman, Skadi carries herself with a grace and elegance that belies her larger size. Simply put, she largely appears smaller than she should be, exuding a frail and thin-boned air when she's naught but the opposite. For though she may appear delicate and fragile, she's velvet-wrapped steel, with a backbone that will let her bow to no man.

Skade has large, wide-set eyes set below a large, expressive brow. Her eyebrows are thin and carefully groomed, while the clear blue of her eyes are usually rimmed with a thick layer of kohl. When she was a young woman, she often felt self-conscious about her nose, which is rather large and dominates her face.

Skadi is always clean and well groomed. It is one of the few luxuries she grants herself, and is something she jealously guards. Woe be upon the individual who dares interrupt her morning ritual of pampering herself.

● ғᴀᴄᴇ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ● Jessalyn Gilsig
○ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇxɪᴏɴ ○ Pale
○ ʜᴀɪʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀ ○ Blue
○ ᴇʏᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀ ○ Brown
○ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ ○ Slim

 ● ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ●

● ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀssɪᴏɴᴀᴛᴇ ● ᴅᴇᴄᴇɪᴛғᴜʟ ● ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ● ᴘᴀᴛɪᴇɴᴛ ● sʟʏ ● ᴡɪʟʟғᴜʟ ●

● ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀssɪᴏɴᴀᴛᴇ ● If ever there was truly a sympathetic soul, Skadi would be it. She has dedicated her life to helping those who need it, treating everyone with the same, warm manner. There is nary a mean bone in the woman's body, though her big heart often blinds her to the true-character of others. In that way, she is naive. When she sees someone in distress, her kind nature often overpowers her sense of caution.

● ᴅᴇᴄᴇɪᴛғᴜʟ ● Skadi could hardly be a successful spy if she could not lie. Though she will rarely lie to harm others, she will skillfully manipulate others to get what she needs from them. Whether it be information or their assistance, few can resist her sweetly spun lies.

● ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ● Mild in both temperament and speech, it would be difficult to imagine Skadi ever raising a hand in violence. She is gentle and sweet, soothing even the harshest of individuals with her tender words and touch.

● ᴘᴀᴛɪᴇɴᴛ ● As a healer, Skadi has learned the patience is a virtue. Calmly composed even when wrists deep in a man's guts, she never rushes out of fear or blind faith. For her, slow and steady is the only way.

● sʟʏ ● Crafty as they come, Skadi possesses a wicked sharp cunning that has saved her life on more than a few occasions. Without honed skills to protect her life, Skadi has often relied on her shrewd wit to preserve her. Few have perceived the venom infusing her honeyed words.

● ᴡɪʟʟғᴜʟ ● On many, many occasions, Skadi has been likened to a mule. She will bow to no man, and has made this abundantly clear to any who may think otherwise. Skadi is willing to do whatever it takes to get things done, even if it means bludgeoning a few heads.

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ● There are few with hearts as large as Skadi's. With a kindness that knows no bounds, Skadi angers rarely and forgives quickly. It's just not within her nature to hold a grudge, though she certainly possesses the patience and sly wit needed to doing something about it. She is gentle, though should in no way be mistaken for timid. She has a will fit to match any man's, and isn't afraid to reveal it.

When idle or at work, Skadi can often be found humming or whistling. Having never been fond of long periods of silence, she usually takes it upon herself to fill them, usually with a bawdy tavern song. When deep in thought, she'll often tap her teeth or pull on her lip, sometimes curling the ends of her hair with a finger.

When Skadi isn't rushing about with her duties as a healer, she enjoys sewing and knitting. They're practical skills, and most of her clothing is made by her own hand. When she was younger, Skadi enjoyed nothing more than a good bit of dancing, though it's a fondness she's allowed to die down in her older years.

Skadi has a crippling fear of drowning, and will not even think of stepping on the ice in winter, no matter how you may assure her. She will idle on the shores of lakes and rivers, but will go no farther than her knees.

When she was a young woman, she fell from a horse and broke the fingers of her left hand. Though they've long since healed, much of the fingers of that hand are either stiff or difficult to move.

 ● ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ ●

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ● Skadi was the third-born daughter of a guard captain and his wife, and was the fifth child of their brood of nine. With six sisters and three brothers, there was hardly a moment of peace to be found in the crowded farmhouse they called home.

Not that she would have had it any other way. She loved nothing more than chasing her siblings about, the lot of them screaming like heathens and forging a path of chaos through the home. They nearly drove their mother mad, who could hardly find the time to brew potions and tend the farm, never mind chase a gaggle of children about.

Their father hardly helped. More often than not, he was the one who'd instigated the riot of children, before quietly slipping out the door to tend to his duties. More often than not, their mother wanted to murder the mischievous man, but thankfully, he'd completely captured her heart. Though it may have seemed otherwise, they loved each other deeply.

Skadi's mother taught all of her girls the secrecy of alchemy. In her mind, it was a sure way they could always provide for themselves, no matter what life may throw their way. Skadi and her eldest sister, Sigyn, were the only ones to truly take to the art, though. Sigyn would eventually leave for Markarth, where she would establish a mildly successful business as an alchemist.

Skadi was the only child in her family to show an affinity for the arcane. Her mother didn't approve, but her father had a rather colourful family, and was quick to introduce her to an uncle that had studied at the College of Winterhold. With his blessing, she would leave for the school at the tender age of seventeen, determined to learn all she could.

She studied for nearly seven years in the ancient halls, mastering the art of Restoration with a fierce determination. Long after most of her fellow students had moved on, Skadi stayed, pouring over musty tomes and pestering her teachers. When she finally moved on from the College, many were sad to see her go, though more than a few were silently relieved. Perhaps now they could get some peace and quiet.

For six months, Skadi was cast afloat. She wandered the Holds of Skyrim, flitting here and there like a bird looking for a place to roost. It was during a stay in Solitude that she met Jorunn, a quick-witted man serving in the Imperial Legion. It was hardly love at first sight, but they quickly became fast friends.

For years afterwards, even after they had wed, Jorunn had joked he had only befriended her so he could get free healing for all his scrapes and scratches. It would seem she was always fixing something of his, whether it be a broke nose or a scraped knee.

 •●• sᴋᴏʟʟ ᴄʀᴜᴇʟ-sᴘᴇᴀʀ •●•

 ᴡᴇ ᴅʀɪɴᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴜʀ ʏᴏᴜᴛʜ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴀʏs ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴏɴᴇ.
 ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɢᴇ ᴏғ ᴏᴘᴘʀᴇssɪᴏɴ ɪs ɴᴏᴡ ɴᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴅᴏɴᴇ.
 ᴡᴇ'ʟʟ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜɪs ʟᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇ ᴏᴡɴ. 
 ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴏᴜʀ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴜʀ sᴛᴇᴇʟ ᴡᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴏᴜʀ ʜᴏᴍᴇ.
 — ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɢᴇ ᴏғ ᴏᴘᴘʀᴇssɪᴏɴ

 ● ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ●

● ғᴜʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ● Skoll Cruel-Spear
● ʙʏɴᴀᴍᴇs ● "Cruel-Spear," "Oath-Breaker," "Feeds-Ravens," "Battle-Wolf"

● ᴀɢᴇ ● 33
● ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴏғ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ● 4E 168
● ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ● Ivarstead, Skyrim

● ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ● Male
● sᴇxᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ ● Heterosexual
● ᴍᴀʀɪᴛᴀʟ sᴛᴀᴛᴜs ● Single

● ᴀғғɪʟɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ● Companions (formerly), Stormcloaks (currently)
● ʀᴀɴᴋ ● Newblood (Companions), Bone-Breaker (Stormcloaks)

● sᴘᴇᴄɪᴇs ● Men
● sᴜʙsᴘᴇᴄɪᴇs ● Nord

● sᴋɪʟʟs + ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇs ● While perhaps not so skilled as his older colleagues, Skoll has striven his hardest to be the best he can be. Not an easy goal, and certainly a frustrating one, he has readily accepted guidance from those he consider's masters in order to better himself.

Resist Frost, those of Nordic blood have a constant, 50% resistance to ice.

Battle Cry, once a day, a Nord can release a fearsome cry that staggers his opponent. It has a limited range of twelve feet.

One-Handed (100), from the moment he could wield the hefty practice swords in his father's smithy, Skoll has been determined to be one of the best single-handed warriors in all of Skyrim. While he never quite accomplished this, most would admit that Skoll is a menace with an axe and a spear, capable of hacking his way through most skirmishes. Not many want to be on the other side of his axe.

Block (75), there are few places Skoll is willing to go without his trusty shield strapped to his back. Though he often feels clumsy with it strapped to his arm, he has doggedly practiced with it to smooth out this disability. For him, this is an invaluable, life-saving skill, and he's determined to master it.

Light Armour (50), while most of his companions prefer a heavier form of protection, Skoll has always preferred going into battle as light as possible. He's not particularly skilled at wearing armour, and feels ill at ease even when in the lightest of armours.

Smithing (25), as the son of a smith, it would have been impossible for Skoll to have grown without picking up some knowledge. While most wouldn't trust his skills for armour or weapons, he's a fair hand at making jewellry. He's never been fond of it, though, and is sorely out of practice.

 ● ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ●

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ● A great bear of a man, there is very little about Skoll that is small or delicate. A towering individual, he is built sturdy and strong, with the defined features that are the Nordic norm.

With deep-set eyes, thick eyebrows, and a long nose that's a trifle too wide, Skoll hardly meets any classic ideals of beauty. Not that he ever wanted to, of course. He is a hairy, burly man, and damn well proud of it.

Skoll's hide is riddled with scars old and new, some thick and ugly, some barely perceptible by the eye. The most obvious of these are on his face. Skoll has a deep scar there, stretching from his left temple to just above his lip. A reminder of what happens when you let an opponent get too close.

Skoll prefers to keep his hair long, wearing it well past his shoulders. When on the field, he usually keeps it tightly bound in a tail, but when idle usually wears it loose with a few braids. While he does maintain a beard, it is neatly trimmed and washed.

As you can see here and in the picture above, Skoll has a few tattoos. They depict scenes from classic mythology, and have various reasons of importance to him.

● ғᴀᴄᴇ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ● Clive Standen
○ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇxɪᴏɴ ○ Pale
○ ʜᴀɪʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀ ○ Brown
○ ᴇʏᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀ ○ Brown
○ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ ○ Athletic

 ● ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ●

● ᴅɪsᴄɪᴘʟɪɴᴇᴅ ● ʜᴏɴᴇsᴛ ● ᴘᴇssɪᴍɪsᴛɪᴄ ● ᴘʀᴇᴊᴜᴅɪᴄᴇᴅ ● sᴛᴏɪᴄ ● sᴛᴜʙʙᴏʀɴ ●

● ᴅɪsᴄɪᴘʟɪɴᴇᴅ ● Everything about Skoll is controlled. Whether at ease or at war, he has taught himself to be disciplined in every action. As such, he's not one to forget his duties, nor is he one to flounder about out of his depth. He accepts what he's capable of, and takes no risks, walking through life with a tight grip of control.

● ʜᴏɴᴇsᴛ ● Brutally honest and unsparingly blunt, Skoll has never been the type of person to hide things. He will tell you what he thinks straight out, and has little care if it hurts your delicate feelings. While this could easily be a flaw in his behaviour, it's also a virtue. What you get with Skoll is real, even if it may not be what you want to hear.

● ᴘᴇssɪᴍɪsᴛɪᴄ ● You know the type. The ones that see the world in the worst kind of light, the ones who always believe something bad will happen. Skoll is and always will be a pessimist. He is gloomy even when he should be joyful, and is sure to liberally share his negative views on any given situation.

● ᴘʀᴇᴊᴜᴅɪᴄᴇᴅ ● Having grown in a secluded village far from any form of large populace, Skoll hardly had a thorough education in the peoples of Tamriel. For him, prejudice has been ingrained in his life and manners for as long as he can remember. His narrow-minded view hardly changed when he joined the Stormcloaks, their bigoted ways only worsening his prejudices against Mer and Beast.

● sᴛᴏɪᴄ ● If you're looking to get something from Skoll is way of fear or anger, you're barking up the wrong tree. Seemingly permanently composed, you will get little from his blank stare. He will endure much with few remarks or complaint, and will hardly flinch in the wake of pain.

● sᴛᴜʙʙᴏʀɴ ● While not many realize it, Skoll is as stubborn as an ox. When he sets his mind to something, few things can turn him from it. He is headstrong in the worst of ways, doggedly following any given task to completion.

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ● A decidedly grim individual mired in his ways, there is little that can turn Skoll from his chosen paths. Honest to the point of fault, he spares few his opinions and all too readily squashes the delusions of others. Skoll is a harsh, disciplined individual, and is all too ready to do what must be done.

When idle, Skoll has few nervous habits, but he often rubs his neck, rolls his shoulders, or shifts his weight from foot to foot. If and when he talks, he often gestures alongside his words, or pulls at his beard. When he's particularly angry or disturbed, his eyebrow usually finds a home somewhere near his hairline.

Skoll enjoys swimming, even when ice decorates the rivers and lakes. Though he's got the build of a bear, he's more a fish once he's in the water. It could be considered a hobby of his, something he does when he feels particularly stressed or worn out.

Alongside swimming, Skoll enjoys practicing his one-handed and shield skills. If he can't find a willing victim for this, he'll usually track down someone willing to wrestle. Without a doubt, Skoll is an active individual, and does not enjoy being kept idle.

When he was a boy, Skoll fell from a tree and did serious damage to his knees. While he was healed by a proficient mage, his knees remain rather weak compared to another man his age. If he's made to stand for long periods, they often grow painful. Skoll takes potions for the pain, but during the coldest points of the season, his knees grow so tender he often just stays in bed.

Skoll is a superstitious sort, with all the fears and paranoias that comes with it. He is deathly afraid of Draugr, and won't even consider going into any of the ancient temples as a result. You can find a different man for your tomb raiding, thank you very much.

 ● ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ ●

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ● When Skoll was born, there was much celebration to be had by both friends and family alike. Having suffered through two miscarriages, his parents had long given up hope of ever bringing a healthy babe into the world. When he arrived, squalling and kicking, his parents could hardly contain their joy.

As a babe, he enjoyed a loving environment, protected and cherished by both his parents. But by his third year, the Great War had reared its ugly head, and his mother figured it her duty to help stem the tide. She never returned, and things were never quite the same afterwards.

His father never quite overcame the grief of losing his wife, and was rather harsher than he should have been when raising the boy that looked so much like her. Skoll never hated his father for the treatment he received, but he often chaffed beneath the responsibilities he piled upon his shoulders.

From a young age, he was expected to help in the forge. Whether it be carting water from the river or working the bellows, he was to do his part in helping put food on the table. He never enjoyed the forge, and would find any excuse to sneak out back and practice with his wooden swords.

Skoll passed through childhood quickly, and eventually left his father to find his own way in the world. He eventually found himself in the city of Whiterun, and signed on with the Companions. While he hardly agreed with all of their beliefs, hhe flourished beneath the teachings of the warriors there.

When word reached him of a Jarl who would see Skyrim free of the tyranny of the Imperial Empire, Skoll made the long journey north to the city of Windhelm. The Harbinger hardly approved, and told him if he chose this path, he would find no welcome with them.

He went anyways. He wouldn't regret it either. He hadn't a purpose under the Companions, but with the Stormcloaks, he had a reason to raise his axe.

 

 •●• ʀᴀᴠᴀɴɪ "ᴛʜᴇ sᴇᴀ ᴡɪᴛᴄʜ" ʀᴀʟᴀs •●•

 ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪsɪɴʜᴇʀɪᴛᴇᴅ, 
 ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏᴍᴇᴅ, ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏsᴛ. 
 ғᴏʀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴅᴜsᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀsʜᴇs ғᴇᴅ, 
 ᴡᴇ ᴘᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏsᴛ. 
 — ʀᴏʙᴇʀᴛ ᴡɪʟʟɪᴀᴍ sᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ

 ● ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ●

● ғᴜʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ● Ravani Ralas (assumed), Ryujin of the Eastern Isles (birth name)
● ʙʏɴᴀᴍᴇs ● "The Sea Witch," "Stone-Heart," "Hagfish," "She-Wolf of the Shivering Isles"

● ᴀɢᴇ ● 228 (est.)
● ᴀᴘᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛ ᴀɢᴇ ● 41
● ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴏғ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ● 3E 406 (est.)
● ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ● Ryugus Isles, Morrowind

● ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ● Female
● sᴇxᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ ● Bisexual
● ᴍᴀʀɪᴛᴀʟ sᴛᴀᴛᴜs ● Married (Romlyn Ralas)

● ᴀғғɪʟɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ● Imperial Legion (currently), Thieves Guild (currently)
● ʀᴀɴᴋ ● Auxiliary (Imperial Legion), Operative (Thieves Guild)

● sᴘᴇᴄɪᴇs ● Mer
● sᴜʙsᴘᴇᴄɪᴇs ● Dunmer

● sᴋɪʟʟs + ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇs ●

Resist Fire, those of Dunmer blood have a constant, 50% resistance to fire.

Ancestor's Wrath, for an estimated 60 seconds once per day, a Dunmer can set themselves ablaze to deal damage to opponents who get too close.

Archery (100)

Sneak (75)

Light Armour (50)

Lockpicking (25)

Alchemy (25)

 ● ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ●

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ● A full size image of the one above can be found here.
○ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇxɪᴏɴ ○ Dark
○ ʜᴀɪʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀ ○ Black
○ ᴇʏᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀ ○ Red
○ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ ○ Athletic

 ● ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ●

● ᴄᴏᴀʀsᴇ ● ᴅᴇᴍᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ ● ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴛ ● ᴘʀᴏᴜᴅ ● sᴇʟғɪsʜ ● sᴏʟɪᴛᴀʀʏ ●

● ᴄᴏᴀʀsᴇ ● Boorish and uncouth, Ravani has never bothered with the sophistication and refinement those around her so love to play at. Se is what she is and hasn't the patience to play at anything else. Even at her most delicate, she is vulgar and crass, brushing aside the emotions of others as easy as one does dirt. Ravani is as friendly as a cactus, and as cold as the northern sea.

● ᴅᴇᴍᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ ● Keep up or get out. Ravani has little patience for those who can't keep to her own level, and demands nothing short of perfection from those she works with. Weakness has no place at her side or ever will.

● ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴛ ● Darkly intelligent, Ravani couldn't have survived all her years without her cruel cunning. She may not have the sly tongue of a trickster, but she is more than capable of seeing through petty tricks.

● ᴘʀᴏᴜᴅ ● Arrogant and disdainful, Ravani's ego has only grown with her years. Often patronizing and scornful of those younger than her, she has developed a distinct impression of her own self-worth. Woe be upon those who dare prick her pride, for her wrath burns quick and hot.

● sᴇʟғɪsʜ ●

● sᴏʟɪᴛᴀʀʏ ● Despite all the years she has spent at sea with crew, and those at her husband's side, Ravani is inherently a solitary person. For her, there is no greater joy than the quiet peace that comes with being completely and utterly alone.

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ●

 ● ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ ●

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ●

(cont.)

While on assignment in Windhelm, Romlyn had the luck of crossing a band of pirates docked nearby. It was a stupid thing to do, and he found himself regretting stealing their substantial chest of gold when he woke to find himself naked and trussed like a turkey in a cabin he had no recollection of entering. This was how he met Ravani.

A maddened Sea Witch if he'd ever seen one, her compensation came in the form of his left hand, which she broke. She then left him in that cabin for three days before releasing him buck-naked in the middle of nowhere. He hated the damned woman with a passion.

As fate deemed it, they would meet each other with increasing frequency, usually with one party coming to some form of bodily harm. They hated each other like they had no other, and both would have gladly killed the other.

Some time after she'd left him for dead in a small row boat in the middle of the sea after hijacking the ship he'd been seeking passage on, and not long after he'd given her location to a group of Thalmor agents seeking her out for crimes against the Dominion, they woke up in bed with one another. It was after a night of heavy drinking, and while most people would have simply left the room and tried to forget about it, they immediately beat the piss out of each other. Then slept with each other again.

Thus they're fighting evolved into fighting and fucking. Before they even knew it, the sharp blade of hate had been softened into something the both of them refused to acknowledge. Their close friends and associates were more than ready to throw the both of them into the ocean and be done with it, but before anything could be done about it, Red Year happened.

They'd both been in Morrowind at the time, and in the chaos that followed, each believed the other dead. It would take over two years before they found one another again, both greatly changed by the devastation wreaked upon their people. Ravani said she would be leaving for Hammerfell by the end of the week, and that he was welcome to drag his sorry arse along. He went with her. Though it pained him to leave his people behind, he went with her, if only to rid himself of the memories that made him wake shaking in the night.

They wed in Hammerfell, though it would take more than a decade for him to drum up the nerve to even consider it. Though they're relationship began in hate, they loved each other as deeply as any two people are capable of doing. They still fought like people possessed, but they weren't quite so intent on drawing blood as before, plus, making up was bloody well fantastic.

Within a few years, they brought a bouncing baby boy into the world. Given the name Temujin for her people, and Rilos for his, he was the single joy they prized above all others. Unfortunately, Ravani was not the doting type, and more often than not he was left caring for the child, while she gallivanted off doing whatever she pleased.

They returned to Morrowind when the boy was fifteen to greet Romlyn's newly born sister. Softened by age, the lord offered to foster Temujin and teach him the finer arts of the warrior he'd always wanted to be. It was a difficult choice for them, but they relented in time.

With nothing to do, and with war stirring to the west, Romlyn decided it was time to do his time with the Imperial Legion. Ravani hardly approved, but she agreed, so long as he could stand having her fighting at his side. Currently, they're both serving in Skyrim, though their assignments often leave miles between them.

 

 •●• ʀᴏᴍʟʏɴ "ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴅ ʀᴜғғɪᴀɴ" ʀᴀʟᴀs •●•

 ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴏғ sʟᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ-ɴɪɢʜᴛ;
 ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴡᴀɪʟɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ-ɴɪɢʜᴛ;
 ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ's ʀᴇᴅ sɪᴄᴋʟᴇ ɪs ʀᴇᴀᴘɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ-ɴɪɢʜᴛ:
 ᴡᴀʀ! ᴡᴀʀ! ᴡᴀʀ! 
 — ʀᴏʙᴇʀᴛ ᴡɪʟʟɪᴀᴍ sᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ

 ● ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪғɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ●

● ғᴜʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ● Romlyn Ralas
● ʙʏɴᴀᴍᴇs ● "The Red Ruffian," "Ralas the Rogue," "Bastard of Blacklight," "Beguiler of Womenfolk"

● ᴀɢᴇ ● 243 (est.)
● ᴀᴘᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛ ᴀɢᴇ ● 44
● ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴏғ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ● 3E 391 (est.)
● ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ● Blacklight, Morrowind

● ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ● Male
● sᴇxᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ ● Heterosexual
● ᴍᴀʀɪᴛᴀʟ sᴛᴀᴛᴜs ● Married (Ravani Ralas)

● ᴀғғɪʟɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ● Thieves Guild (formerly), Imperial Legion (currently)
● ʀᴀɴᴋ ● Captain (Thieves Guild), Auxiliary (Imperial Legion)

● sᴘᴇᴄɪᴇs ● Mer
● sᴜʙsᴘᴇᴄɪᴇs ● Dunmer

● sᴋɪʟʟs + ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇs ● With more than two centuries under his belt, Romlyn has had more than enough time to hone his abilities to a gleaming edge. While he's hardly a master in all of his abilities, he's doggedly set to improving himself, learning only as the long-lived Mer can.

Resist Fire, those of Dunmer blood have a constant, 50% resistance to fire.

Ancestor's Wrath, for an estimated 60 seconds once per day, a Dunmer can set themselves ablaze to deal damage to opponents who get too close.

Light Armour (100) Having spent decades learning how to defend himself on and off the battlefield, it is of little surprise that Romlyn has mastered light armour. For him, slipping on stiff leathers is like slipping into a second skin. It is comfortable and natural.

One-Handed (75) While he has never quite mastered the art of the sword, Romlyn is a fair expert. More than a few have fallen to his artfully wielded blades, and he's considered a demon of a duel-wielder. Still, he's a fair few flaws in his form, and he gladly accept any advice given to improve himself.

Sneak (50) Having worked for the Morrowind Thieves Guild for several decades, Romlyn was bound to pick up a few of their sneaky tricks. While he's hardly an expert, he's not halfway bad when he puts his mind to it. Alas, stealth is a tricky mistress, and he's not the patience for long-term stealth-driven assignments.

Destruction (25) Of all the schools of magicks, Destruction has always been his favourite. While his spells are often unpredictable and his knowledge of its capabilities novice at best, he's set himself to improve this oft neglected skill.

Conjuration (25) All of what Romlyn knowns of Conjuration could fit in a nicely rounded bowl. Having only delved into the school to learn how to summon swords, he is shoddy at best in this art.

 ● ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ●

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ● A full size image of the one above can be found here. With the traditionally long, thin features long held ideal in Dunmer society, Romlyn has ever been popular with the ladies.

With large, slanted eyes set deep above wide cheekbones, his nose is a trifle long and crooked from previous breaks. He has thin eyebrows, of which the right one is bisected by a thin scar. His mouth, while thin, is expressive, often set in cheeky grins that reveal his missing lower left eyetooth.

He stands tall for a Dunmer, though maintains the leaner build. Built like a whip, he's carefully maintained his body with years of vigorous training. He has his fair share of scars, including a rather nasty one stretching from his right ear to the base of his spine. He's managed not to lose any limbs, but he is missing the tips of his left middle and ring finger.

Dark-haired, Romlyn keeps it neatly shaved but for the shock of hair on top of his skull. When he was a younger man, he'd let it grow long, but in recent years he's favoured a shorter fashion.

○ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇxɪᴏɴ ○ Dark
○ ʜᴀɪʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀ ○ Black
○ ᴇʏᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀ ○ Red
○ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ ○ Athletic

 ● ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ●

●ᴄᴀᴜᴛɪᴏᴜs ● ᴄʜᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ ● ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀssɪᴏɴᴀᴛᴇ ● ᴅᴇᴅɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ● ᴅᴇᴄᴇɪᴛғᴜʟ ● sʜʀᴇᴡᴅ●

● ᴄᴀᴜᴛɪᴏᴜs ● Many have claimed Romlyn to be an over-cautious individual, prone to both suspicion and paranoia. It is an oft infuriating aspect of his personality, and many simply gave up trying to gain his hard-earned trust. Vigilant to the point of madness, he is mistrustful of most. There is not a reckless bone in the man's body, and if you were being particularly mean-spirited, you could call him a coward.

● ᴄʜᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ ● While he's not in the throes of suspicion or crippling paranoia, Romlyn can be quite the pleasing individual. With a smile to melt honey, and a voice of velvet-wrapped steel, many people have fallen for his suave demeanor.

● ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀssɪᴏɴᴀᴛᴇ ● A thief though he may have been, Romlyn has always been a compassionate individual. After the events of Red Year, this aspect of his personality only strengthened. Sensitive to the plights of others, he'll always spare a coin or two or offer help where it may be needed. He has a big-heart, and it's been taken advantage of more than a few times. Come to think of it, it's probably why he's so paranoid.

● ᴅᴇᴅɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ● When he has pledged himself to a person or a cause, Romlyn is unwavering in his loyalty. Steadfast as only a soldier can be, he is earnest in his dedication and will always work his hardest to see a job done. He took much the same attitude into his marriage, and often drove his wife mad with his commitment to fill her every need.

● ᴅᴇᴄᴇɪᴛғᴜʟ ● With a smooth tongue comes the natural ability to lie. Dishonesty has ever played a large part in Romlyn's life, and he wouldn't be alive today if it weren't for his crafty words. Lies and half-truths come to him as easily as flies to a honey, though he's never favoured lying simply to harm. While he is a liar, he's a practical one, seeking only to further his own needs.

● sʜʀᴇᴡᴅ ● Romlyn has ever been a good judge of character, if not a harsh one. Perceptive as well as sharp-witted, there are few things that slip his notice. He's an intelligent individual, and isn't easily fooled.

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ● A person plagued by paranoia and suspicion, Romlyn is a gifted liar with a heart of gold. While many Mer his age would have settled down by now, he has stubbornly remained on the move, helping those he see's fit and slaughtering those he deems cruel. Romlyn takes great pride in the things he's accomplished in life, whether it be the thieving of his youth, or the rag-tag adventures of his later years.

When idle, Romlyn is rather fidgety, often snapping, tapping, and rubbing his fingers. It's a tell of his, one he's tried to squash out before, but it would seem his fingers have a mind of their own. When irritated, he often clenches his jaw or crosses his arms.

While not the type to carry on a hobby such as knitting or writing, Romlyn has a professed love for block puzzles. His wife would often surprise him with the puzzles, keeping a steady supply on her when they were travelling. Even know, he usually keeps several on him at time. They're a good way to keep his idle hands busy, and he enjoys the mental challenge they offer.

While he's never been the sort to sit down and puzzle his way through some old, musty tome, Romlyn has ever enjoyed the tales of bards. When he can, he will spend his evenings in taverns, listening to the lilting tongues of the gifted storytellers.

In his younger years, Romlyn took a serious blow to the back of his head that left him blind for a month. As a result, he often experiences horrible headaches that can lay him up for weeks at a time. If strained or gone long without rest, he'll experience a dimming of his vision.

Romlyn has a horrible fear of hounds and wolves due to a childhood trauma. He will not go within ten feet of any form of a mutt, and will even refuse to enter a house if it has dogs inside.

 ● ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ ●

● ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ● The son of an erstwhile courtesan, his mother had worked the many wealthy circles of the land before his birth. However, she swiftly fell out of favour after a scandal involving her and several other girls became public. Romlyn was born not long after, and with little way else to feed herself or a mewling babe, she turned to street prostitution.

As he grew from babe to youth, and his mother grew ever more bitter with life, he grew curious about his father. For him, there would have been no greater joy at discovering the mysterious identity of his father. Perhaps he'd been a pirate, with gold teeth and a swashbuckling air! Or a brave warrior, wielding shield and sword!

His mother was quick to dispel such illusions. With a clout to the back of the head, she told him he was too old for such delusions, and that his father had either been a hobbled old Nord owning substantial property in the north of Skyrim, or a Redoran ponce who'd been so drunk he'd barely known where to put it.

The cold truth crushed the boy at the time, but as the young tend to do, he quickly bounced back. Street walker though she may have been, his mother did not neglect his education like so many of his filthy friends. She taught him his numbers and letters, his mathematics and the fancy talk of the rich. She even taught him Tamrielic, which she'd learned as a girl.

These lessons were often taught early in the morning, before the sun even rose. He still remembers the rustle of parchment and the sharp-scent of his mother, the cold that numbed his toes no matter how they stoked the fire. These are fond memories for him, and he holds them close to his heart.

As child faded away to young man, Romlyn started picking up his own work. While he wasn't quite gifted enough to officially work for the Thieves Guild yet, they set him to cleaning and working the bars in one of their seedy establishments. It prickled the then young man, but he did the work with a grudging form of patience. Members of the Guild would often stay late into the night, and it was often well past dawn before he could crawl into his bed.

After "working" for the Guild for nearly three years, he was finally permitted to run errands for him. It wasn't long before they found out he was absolute crap at pickpocketing and lockpicking, but had a knack for climbing and sneaking his way around obstacles.

It was around this time that his mother started seeing one of her wealthier customers. It wasn't long before one thing led to another, and before Romlyn could even blink she'd wedded the man. Suffice it to say, Romlyn and he did not get along. The man cringed at even the idea of bringing in the street urchin as a servant, much less as an adopted son, and outright refused to do it.

Sparing his mother the choice, Romlyn up and left. He wouldn't see her for nearly a century afterwards, but they remained in contact via sparse letters and occasional gifts. Though it stung to do so, he had his mind set on his own future, one that didn't involved a pompous arse ruling over him.

Working hard and keeping his head down, Romlyn managed the rank of Captain within a span of twenty years. Praised for his tactical approach to operations, and his knack for efficiently removing hostile targets, he was a favoured operative, though only one of many.