Name
Race
Age
Sign
Class
Birthplace / Hometown / Common Location
Rank/Occupation/Guild
Kin
Race
Age
Sign
Class
Birthplace / Hometown / Common Location
Rank/Occupation/Guild
Kin
NPCS
Since I'm all alone, these are the characters I may not end up rping that much. They serve a sole purpose of giving me a chance to rp.
PLEASE DO NOT ADD THESE!!!!!
Aeris Strife - High Elf - Male - 22 - Sign of the _ - Thalmor Ambassador
Cato Deprisus - Imperial - Male - 57 - Sign of the _ - Draconis Family Butler
Juliette Hesperadus - Imperial - Female - 31 - Sign of the Lady - Draconis Family Housekeeper
Thalurea Moabathul - Dunmer - Female - 32 - Sign of the _ - Draconis Family Bodyguard
Casseth Avolarthil - Dunmer - Male - 12 - Sign of the _ - Orphan Boy in Windhelm
Amaris Maesir
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/__4816427.jpg)
Amaris Maesir
Altmer
19
Sign of the Serpent
Agent Class
Born in Markarth. Considers Markarth his hometown. Currently wandering.
The Listener, Undiscovered
Kin: Solinar Maesir (father), Shasara Maesir (mother)
Amaris Maesir. They say that Altmer cannot ever be trusted and Amaris is a wonderful example of that warning. He's dangerous. He is connected to the Night Mother. The Listener. He hears her voice and he obeys. You might be next on the list, the next victim whose name is written in blood and called out from the shadows by a voice broken in agony. The Night mother hears their voices, feels their hate and lust for revenge, and she answers their call. But first, she must tell the listener. She must tell Amaris.
Amaris is an Altmer, born in the glorious Dwarven city of Markarth. There was always so much expected of him. He was born noble, wealthy, to a family of good connections, and at the peak time when Thalmor were respected and feared by all. Not that any of his family were in the Thalmor themselves. Both his mother and father had high hopes for him, and entering into into such a proud and honorable guard of the High Elves was definitely high on their list. But from a young age, Amaris was troubled. He complained often of headaches, migraines, and hearing a voice in his head. For a long time, the family chalked it up to his strange imagination, but when the nightmares began, they feared the worst: that their son was crazy or cursed. They took him to see herbalists and alchemists. Desperate for a cure, his father even tracked down a witch and several necromancers. None could help him. It wasn't even definite that something magical or physical was affecting him. It was something in his head, and there weren't any spells or potions that could cure it. His family tried to help him, they really did, but Amaris knew it was all wasted efforts. When he was nine, he ran away from home. It was the hardest decision to make. He stole a horse and ran. Where he went, no one knows. Two years later, he left a pouch of money to pay off the fines for stealing the horse, but besides that and a note of apology, there was no other sign or trace of him. Not until he was eighteen, and by that time, the war and the world had changed. Wherever he went, he had to tread carefully. The Thalmor were hated. Despised. Being Altmer, obviously he was associated with them. It didn't matter where he came from or the family he once had. He was High Elf. And High Elves were the enemy. They were wrong though. It wasn't the fact he was High Elf that they should've feared him, it was the person he had turned into. The person he was inside. Under that golden skinned exterior, behind those serpentine eyes, he is a twisted, wicked thing. The voice in his head drove him to insanity. It's whisper: so distant, the words almost incomprehensible, urging him onward to kill and kill and kill. To fulfill bloody sacraments and murder men, women, children, the old: all were equal under his blade. He took the lives of Dunmer, Orismer, Kahjiit, Manmer, Yokudans; everyone. Everyone. Anyone. He could never satisfy the voice. No matter how much blood he shed, the voice would always come back. So he wanders the world, doing as it bids, never resting and always praying that someday it will finally leave him in peace.
Amaris could almost be described as beautiful, but none would make any compliments of the sort to his face. He would never think of himself as looking anywhere near attractive or handsome by any stretch of the imagination, and will often decline and deny such words or advances of that nature. Amaris is fairly tall, which is only common for his race. He stands at about six feet and three inches, but is still growing, so it is expected he will surpass that height in the future. His skin is creamy, soft; a pale, light gold color with a smooth sort of sheen to it. It’s almost tantalizing in its color and feel, as though you couldn’t resist reaching out and running your fingers down it to see if it really is as smooth as refined pearls. Paralyzed. When one looks at his eyes, they feel almost paralyzed. So bright and radiant his eyes are. The color of a true chartreuse fire, like the lights of the sky in the north. They glow and gleam and are oh so beautiful, but the malice. The poison. The hate that brims in those eyes melts the hardest of hearts and solidifies them into petrified form. They are the eyes of a snake: watching the prey, hungering for the prey, waiting to strike. Yet, in the midst of that gaze, there is fear. There is fear, sorrow, and an unimaginable pain. A longing for death. Yes. Those eyes long for death. Not to see death or to cause death, but the longing to dim and fade as the owner of those eyes ceases to be. His hair is long and wispy. It is neither straight nor wavy, but an odd combination of both. It is as light as feathers and soft as the fluff of a kitten. It is the color of pale sunlight and spun gold; it shimmers and flickers as sparks in a fire or light off of water. He keeps it long and wild, never truly caring for where it chooses to go. It always possesses a windblown quality. Occasionally, he will keep it back with small braids entwined in the golden waterfall, but for the most part, it is let loose and free.
Altmer
19
Sign of the Serpent
Agent Class
Born in Markarth. Considers Markarth his hometown. Currently wandering.
The Listener, Undiscovered
Kin: Solinar Maesir (father), Shasara Maesir (mother)
Amaris Maesir. They say that Altmer cannot ever be trusted and Amaris is a wonderful example of that warning. He's dangerous. He is connected to the Night Mother. The Listener. He hears her voice and he obeys. You might be next on the list, the next victim whose name is written in blood and called out from the shadows by a voice broken in agony. The Night mother hears their voices, feels their hate and lust for revenge, and she answers their call. But first, she must tell the listener. She must tell Amaris.
Amaris is an Altmer, born in the glorious Dwarven city of Markarth. There was always so much expected of him. He was born noble, wealthy, to a family of good connections, and at the peak time when Thalmor were respected and feared by all. Not that any of his family were in the Thalmor themselves. Both his mother and father had high hopes for him, and entering into into such a proud and honorable guard of the High Elves was definitely high on their list. But from a young age, Amaris was troubled. He complained often of headaches, migraines, and hearing a voice in his head. For a long time, the family chalked it up to his strange imagination, but when the nightmares began, they feared the worst: that their son was crazy or cursed. They took him to see herbalists and alchemists. Desperate for a cure, his father even tracked down a witch and several necromancers. None could help him. It wasn't even definite that something magical or physical was affecting him. It was something in his head, and there weren't any spells or potions that could cure it. His family tried to help him, they really did, but Amaris knew it was all wasted efforts. When he was nine, he ran away from home. It was the hardest decision to make. He stole a horse and ran. Where he went, no one knows. Two years later, he left a pouch of money to pay off the fines for stealing the horse, but besides that and a note of apology, there was no other sign or trace of him. Not until he was eighteen, and by that time, the war and the world had changed. Wherever he went, he had to tread carefully. The Thalmor were hated. Despised. Being Altmer, obviously he was associated with them. It didn't matter where he came from or the family he once had. He was High Elf. And High Elves were the enemy. They were wrong though. It wasn't the fact he was High Elf that they should've feared him, it was the person he had turned into. The person he was inside. Under that golden skinned exterior, behind those serpentine eyes, he is a twisted, wicked thing. The voice in his head drove him to insanity. It's whisper: so distant, the words almost incomprehensible, urging him onward to kill and kill and kill. To fulfill bloody sacraments and murder men, women, children, the old: all were equal under his blade. He took the lives of Dunmer, Orismer, Kahjiit, Manmer, Yokudans; everyone. Everyone. Anyone. He could never satisfy the voice. No matter how much blood he shed, the voice would always come back. So he wanders the world, doing as it bids, never resting and always praying that someday it will finally leave him in peace.
Amaris could almost be described as beautiful, but none would make any compliments of the sort to his face. He would never think of himself as looking anywhere near attractive or handsome by any stretch of the imagination, and will often decline and deny such words or advances of that nature. Amaris is fairly tall, which is only common for his race. He stands at about six feet and three inches, but is still growing, so it is expected he will surpass that height in the future. His skin is creamy, soft; a pale, light gold color with a smooth sort of sheen to it. It’s almost tantalizing in its color and feel, as though you couldn’t resist reaching out and running your fingers down it to see if it really is as smooth as refined pearls. Paralyzed. When one looks at his eyes, they feel almost paralyzed. So bright and radiant his eyes are. The color of a true chartreuse fire, like the lights of the sky in the north. They glow and gleam and are oh so beautiful, but the malice. The poison. The hate that brims in those eyes melts the hardest of hearts and solidifies them into petrified form. They are the eyes of a snake: watching the prey, hungering for the prey, waiting to strike. Yet, in the midst of that gaze, there is fear. There is fear, sorrow, and an unimaginable pain. A longing for death. Yes. Those eyes long for death. Not to see death or to cause death, but the longing to dim and fade as the owner of those eyes ceases to be. His hair is long and wispy. It is neither straight nor wavy, but an odd combination of both. It is as light as feathers and soft as the fluff of a kitten. It is the color of pale sunlight and spun gold; it shimmers and flickers as sparks in a fire or light off of water. He keeps it long and wild, never truly caring for where it chooses to go. It always possesses a windblown quality. Occasionally, he will keep it back with small braids entwined in the golden waterfall, but for the most part, it is let loose and free.
Falco Vitellius
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/__434922.jpg)
Falco Vitellius
Imperial
8
Sign of the Lord
No Official Class. A Child.
Born in the Imperial City, Cyrodiil. Hometown of Windhelm where he wanders.
Orphan Up For Adoption
Kin: dead (coming soon)
Falco is a little Imperial boy.
Imperial
8
Sign of the Lord
No Official Class. A Child.
Born in the Imperial City, Cyrodiil. Hometown of Windhelm where he wanders.
Orphan Up For Adoption
Kin: dead (coming soon)
Falco is a little Imperial boy.
Kopara T'rizen
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/__3628475.jpg)
Kopara T'rizen
Half-Dunmer, Half-Imperial
28
Sign of the Steed
Acrobat Class
Born in Solsthiem wilderness. Hometown of Raven Rock. Can be found wandering.
An assassin for hire and acrobatic performer.
Kin: Ervyna T'rizen (mother, Dunmer), Tasellis Monrius (father, Imperial), Iratian Draconis (son)
Come one! Come all! Come see the Fiery Voice of Solstheim! Just a glance, only a peek. If you watch too long, he may just sweep you away into the darkness of eternity.
Half-Dunmer, Half-Imperial
28
Sign of the Steed
Acrobat Class
Born in Solsthiem wilderness. Hometown of Raven Rock. Can be found wandering.
An assassin for hire and acrobatic performer.
Kin: Ervyna T'rizen (mother, Dunmer), Tasellis Monrius (father, Imperial), Iratian Draconis (son)
Come one! Come all! Come see the Fiery Voice of Solstheim! Just a glance, only a peek. If you watch too long, he may just sweep you away into the darkness of eternity.
Iratian Draconis
![Picture](/uploads/1/4/5/9/14590338/__249724.jpg)
Iratian Draconis
1/4 Dunmer, 3/4 Imperial
12
Sign of the Lady
No Official Class. A child.
Markarth
A noble bastard.
Kin: Kopara T'rizen (father), Lady Vorethma Draconis (mother)
Iratian Draconis is the noble bastard son of the Lady Vorethma Draconis. He has fiery and brilliant eyes, both complimentary of the father he never met. The only attributes he shares with his lady mother is her same, fair skin and gentle disposition. He's often despised and bullied by other children and some adults because of his bastard status. His mother was confronted privately about it, but word somehow spread and soon all of Solitude knew. She was absolutely humiliated, and her parents doubted she would ever find a husband. They tried to find Iratian's father, but the mysterious enigma had disappeared without a trace.
Iratian appears more Imperial than Dunmer. His fair skin is devoid of blemishes though has a tight quality. He's neither plush or soft, and is rather harder than he ever appears to be. Though he has no scars, he has been injured before and is not ignorant of the pain the world has to offer. When he was younger, he was beaten and bullied by other children till he crept home with bruises and blood dappling his gentle face and body. Advanced healers managed to repair the damage without any traces, but the memories are still there. Always will be. He is tall and thin, almost willowy of stature with the elvish grace that certain Dunmer assassins possess. He has both their quiet step and catlike poise. Despite being only one fourth Dunmer, he bears those fine qualities of theirs despite how odd it is that he possesses them. His brilliant eyes are the writhing depths of flame, imitating the very yes his father bears. Their brilliant golden color almost has a firefly effect in certain lighting, as if his eyes really were glimmering gold or licks of flame and not mere oculars for the purpose of perception and observation. His hair -more like his father's but a combination of both parent's own- is a bright, strawberry blonde, with both red and golden streaks intertwined within. It is very soft like his mother's, but seems to have a mind of its own like his father's.
Iratian is a very serious and severe boy. He was never one to be happy or playful as such expressions were met with immediate chastisement. For most of his life, he was ordered to shut up and stay out of sight. He grew up knowing he was unwanted and unloved though he never fathomed why. His mother was close to him, as well as an old captain of the Solitude guard who helped teach him to sit a horse and wield a blade. But other than those two whom he seldom saw, he was alone. Alone, afraid, and confused. He always possessed a bright, passionate spirit. But after years of being shut down and discouraged, he eventually closed in on himself like a caterpillar wrapping itself away in a cocoon. It was his way of coping with the stress of his home, of shutting out the pain and the hate. He always carried himself proudly and spoke civilly. He became quite a picture perfect noble boy, but on the inside, he was anxious and angry.
1/4 Dunmer, 3/4 Imperial
12
Sign of the Lady
No Official Class. A child.
Markarth
A noble bastard.
Kin: Kopara T'rizen (father), Lady Vorethma Draconis (mother)
Iratian Draconis is the noble bastard son of the Lady Vorethma Draconis. He has fiery and brilliant eyes, both complimentary of the father he never met. The only attributes he shares with his lady mother is her same, fair skin and gentle disposition. He's often despised and bullied by other children and some adults because of his bastard status. His mother was confronted privately about it, but word somehow spread and soon all of Solitude knew. She was absolutely humiliated, and her parents doubted she would ever find a husband. They tried to find Iratian's father, but the mysterious enigma had disappeared without a trace.
Iratian appears more Imperial than Dunmer. His fair skin is devoid of blemishes though has a tight quality. He's neither plush or soft, and is rather harder than he ever appears to be. Though he has no scars, he has been injured before and is not ignorant of the pain the world has to offer. When he was younger, he was beaten and bullied by other children till he crept home with bruises and blood dappling his gentle face and body. Advanced healers managed to repair the damage without any traces, but the memories are still there. Always will be. He is tall and thin, almost willowy of stature with the elvish grace that certain Dunmer assassins possess. He has both their quiet step and catlike poise. Despite being only one fourth Dunmer, he bears those fine qualities of theirs despite how odd it is that he possesses them. His brilliant eyes are the writhing depths of flame, imitating the very yes his father bears. Their brilliant golden color almost has a firefly effect in certain lighting, as if his eyes really were glimmering gold or licks of flame and not mere oculars for the purpose of perception and observation. His hair -more like his father's but a combination of both parent's own- is a bright, strawberry blonde, with both red and golden streaks intertwined within. It is very soft like his mother's, but seems to have a mind of its own like his father's.
Iratian is a very serious and severe boy. He was never one to be happy or playful as such expressions were met with immediate chastisement. For most of his life, he was ordered to shut up and stay out of sight. He grew up knowing he was unwanted and unloved though he never fathomed why. His mother was close to him, as well as an old captain of the Solitude guard who helped teach him to sit a horse and wield a blade. But other than those two whom he seldom saw, he was alone. Alone, afraid, and confused. He always possessed a bright, passionate spirit. But after years of being shut down and discouraged, he eventually closed in on himself like a caterpillar wrapping itself away in a cocoon. It was his way of coping with the stress of his home, of shutting out the pain and the hate. He always carried himself proudly and spoke civilly. He became quite a picture perfect noble boy, but on the inside, he was anxious and angry.