Kuhblam
03-28-2012, 09:13 PM
This is the official thread for the Skyrim RP. Below is general information and a template for making your character. Please understand this does not follow a neutral decisions story-line from the game and you will need to take things into account that will affect what your character will say. The purpose of this is to allow for more dynamic dialogue. Make sure you read everything!
Rules
No god-modding.
You may not kill or man-handle another character without express permission.
Your character is not aware of everything; you may know something but that doesn't mean he/she does.
You are not the leader of any of the primary factions. You are allowed to be a high-ranking individual but no leading the whole shebang.
You are not the Dovahkiin. The Dovahkiin's exact description is blurry and vague at best; some say he was a Nord, others say Khajiit. All Tamriel knows is that he was last sighted heading out of the province towards Morrowind.
You may not be a Jarl. However, noble birth is acceptable if it originates outside of Skyrim from another province.
Keep your inventories realistic; this isn't the game where you can carry everything under the sea. Also, remember that normal people don't walk around in Daedric armor with their weapons drawn randomly swinging through the air.
There's no concept of leveling here, and a sword's a sword. Only difference now is how flashy they look.
The Dark Brotherhood has the organization and structure that it did during the Oblivion Crisis.
Detail your character. Don't get crazy, but we want to understand who your character is and what he or she is like.
Setting, Plot, and Basic Facts
Two terrible conflicts have finally ended. Alduin, destroyer of worlds, has finally been defeated by the Dovahkiin although dragons remain rampant across the province. The Empire remains the reigning government in Skyrim; with the help of the Dovahkiin, every hold was brought back under Imperial control and Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm was defeated, replaced by Brunwulf Free-Winter. Elisif the Fair is now High Queen of Skyrim after being elected in a second meeting of the Jarls. The Imperial Legion, now the reigning military force in Skyrim once again, has been reinvigorated by not having to suppress a rebellion and is now more powerful than ever; on the opposing spectrum, former Stormcloak soldiers have gone into hiding while dissenters drink their lives away in taverns cursing a deceased Emperor Titus Mede II, who has been assassinated by an extremely resurgent Dark Brotherhood. The Blades increase in number every day, and whispers of their return are beginning to spread. The Thieves Guild is now the economic powerhouse it was once was, having footholds in every major city in Skyrim. All the while, Thalmor agents still roam free across Skyrim as they search for worshippers of Talos, who are beginning to become more and more bold with every passing day in response to Thalmor oppression at the hands of a tolerant Imperial government. Bandits are banding together in the southern reaches of Whiterun Hold, and the Forsworn are starting to organize for another rebellion against the Nordic rulers of Markarth. As our journey begins, our respective heroes and/or vagabonds find themselves having a drink this fine summer-ish evening at the Bannered Mare in Whiterun. However, trouble is already brewing as a result of so many powerful individuals coincidentally gathering in one place...
Character Template
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Race: (If being a vampire or werewolf, mark it here.)
Appearance:
Personality:
Religious Affiliation: (Atheist? Believer in the Nine Divines? Daedric kind of guy?)
Brief History: (This should be very brief. We don't need a book, just a short paragraph stating origins.)
Faction/Faction Sympathies: (Ex. Legion-Sympathetic, Stormcloak-Hostile, Endorses the Thieves Guild, etc.)
Faction Rank: (If Applicable)
Tag Skills: (Choose Five)
Inventory: (Keep it realistic, you can't carry everything. One primary weapon, one secondary, supplies, etc. If you're a mage, all the better.)
----
----
----
----
----
My character now. Opening post is below; I kept it short.
~Kuhblam
Name: Arctur
Age: 35
Gender: Male
Race: Dunmer (Dark Elf)
Appearance: Arctur is a healthy dark-skinned Dunmer male of about 5'11 and 190 lbs. His eyes are a deep amber-orange, and his entire head from nape to scalp is clean shaven except for a neatly trimmed beard which never seems to change appearance for those unlucky enough to known him personally as an acquaintance. Normal attire is a greyish-tan suit of leather armor with a cowl sewed onto the neck of the torso piece for when he is moving "while at work," as he likes to call it. Quite often, he can be seen with bow and arrow in hand although he is also quite the accomplished duelist with a shortsword. Arctur usually keeps his supplies in a backpack slung over his back diagonally. A jagged black tattoo covers up a small portion of the left side of his face, and his teeth are as white as a moon in the Tamrielic night sky; by all means, he is a shady figure to the normal everyday Skyrim citizen and a uncomfortable thought for any other warriors and adventurers who might happen across him in their travels.
Personality: Arctur is a sadistic, yet satiric kind of person. He revels in the hunt of the contracts he receives as a member of the Dark Brotherhood; for him, it's not about the pay. Arctur simply loves to kill; it's in his blood and the adrenaline he gets from taking a life never stops flowing. Pay is irrelevant; he does what he does out of the pleasure it gives him. However, at the same time he finds humor in other aspects of life not related to simple murder. Life revolves around his family in the Dark Brotherhood, yet at the same time he finds pleasure in a fine glass of Cyrodiilic Brandy or Firebrand Wine and archery. Arctur also loves to read good literature, particularly non-fiction works about the provinces; he does indeed have a scholarly side. As far as religion goes, Arctur finds the Eight Divines to be quite silly and almost embarrassing to humanity. Rather, he worships alongside Sithis the Daedric Princes: Boethiah, for her natural patronage of his job description and Hermaeus Mora for his lordship over the realms of knowledge and the future. Other than that, religion is just another thing in this world that Arctur finds to be time-consuming.
Religious Affiliation: Follower of Boethiah/Hermaeus Mora, Follower of Sithis
Brief History:
Birth records concerning Arctur are rather fuzzy. What is known is that he is of noble birth, having descended from House Indoril in Morrowind. When House Indoril began a major decline after losing the war to Tiber Septim's Empire, Arctur's high-ranking family left Morrowind and settled down in Skyrim where it has been ever since. Arctur is the last remaining living member of his particular line, coinciding with the death of his father and mother at the hands of drunken Nordic rabble-rousers when he was but a young boy. In revenge, Arctur slew the four men who had killed his parents in their sleep and was promptly discovered by the Brotherhood as a potential prospect. Arctur immediately accepted the offer, and not a day in his life did he regret the decision to choose as he did. Life in the sanctuary was different from city life; here, he discovered the ways of combat but also the way of the scholar and the way of the Daedra Archery and swordplay had always been natural talents for him, and his training came along rather nicely under the tutelage of dark-minded mentors. As the years went by, Arctur gained more and more prestige and rose to become a senior assassin at his sanctuary. His kills started to become something of a myth; a prominent Legion General, a Jarl, etc. With the assassination of Emperor Titus Mede II and the restoration of Brotherhood power in Skyrim, Arctur is now more important than ever in the Brotherhood's hierarchy and is one of a few senior assassins that handles both doing contracts and assigning them at the same time.
Faction/Faction Sympathies:
Dark Brotherhood-Sympathetic
TG-Sympathetic (Thieves Guild)
CoW-Neutral (College of Winterhold)
Stormcloak-Hostile
Faction Rank: Assassin for the Dark Brotherhood
Tag Skills:
Archery
One-Handed
Speech
Light Armor
Sneak
Inventory:
Ebony Bow
Ebony Arrows and Quiver
Dwarven Shortsword
Greyish Leather Armor Set
Assorted food, health potions, etc. in a backpack sling.
----
----
----
----
----
This entire town reeks of vermin and cheap mead.
He'd never been one for Whiterun. It was an idyllic town, yes; the thatched roofs, the curling smoke of the Sky Forge, the towering profile of Dragonsreach Palace above the crumbling moss-covered stone walls that had protected the city from those brutish Stormcloak ingrates. But on the other hand, it was detestable how putrid the city had become over time since his first visit. There was riffraff everywhere, those stupid patriarchal clans were still going at it, and worst of all that muttering buffoon Heimskr was still out this late at night preaching non-sense about Talos. As he headed from the square down towards the Bannered Mare to get a drink, he took a look back at the yellow-clad idiot spewing theocratic chaurus dung. Was he worth the arrow? Maybe. Perhaps. Arctur debated doing an about-face and drilling one between the eyes, but thought better of it. That Penitus Oculatus snoop was in town searching for him, and any such activity would automatically alert him that he was on the right track. This entire hunt was beginning to get comical, but it only continued because Arctur didn't have the energy to go finish the Imperial bastard. How long had this game lasted? The Imperial was failing with every chance Arctur gave him; Markarth, Solitude, Morthal, and now here. It had probably been two months since he had realized he was being tailed by the Penitus Oculatus; the time was really just a blur to him. Instinctively, he reached back to touch the smooth glassy surface of his bow and felt its reassuring texture through the coarse fabric of his gauntlet fingers. He loved his bow; it was an extension of his arm and the tool of his trade. There was no better archer in Tamriel.... or so he liked to think. Arctur was good; rather, very good. But there was always someone better. There'd been talk in Solitude of a fellow amongst Hircine's lot who could nail the apple off an Argonian's head at some ungodly range. Arctur resolved then and there to kill him; there'd be no more talk of archers as long as he was breathing unless it was about him under some fake name.
What a quiet, boring night.
He wasn't exactly conspicuous in such attire; it was obvious he was an outsider. But sometimes an outsider amongst outsiders was how you avoided your quarry; to townsfolk and guards alike, he was simply another adventurer passing through. Sure, his leather armor was not exactly a normal color but Dark Elves in Whiterun weren't exactly normal either. Similarly, neither were the inordinate amounts of gung-ho Nords, Orcs, Khajiits and other manners of degenerates skulking about town. It was somewhat odd to see so many of them in one place. Who were they? Mercenaries? Or perhaps there was just an odd concentration of adventurers lacking arrows in their knees moving about Whiterun? He removed the question from his mind and thought about it no further; such things were irrelevant if not related to murder or the mythic.
What is that smell? By Boethiah it's horrendous.
As he exited the archway and descended a flight of stairs toward the empty vendor stalls, a guard to his forward left lit a lamp hanging from the corner of one of the stall roofs, finishing the last of the illuminating objects that would allow vision at the sun had now finally dipped below the horizon of the town. A breeze was picking up, and as it put out a few of the candles the guardsman cursed under his breath and moved to repeat the task. Arctur debated the practical applications of Destruction magic; such skills might be quite useful for keeping dying lamps lit. Of course, he didn't perform menial jobs such as this; he was an assassin, and a classy knowledgeable one at that. There was no arrogance here: he knew what he was doing. Tonight would be a copy of The Warp in the West and a fine glass of Cyrodiilic Brandy; tomorrow would be the death of a prominent East Empire Trading Company associate and more of the former that same evening around this time. Silently he shifted the weight of the backpack slung over his back to stop the irritation of a potion rubbing into his spine, and tossed a septim to a deathly-ill beggar lying in the grass. Almost immediately he pried it away from the man's hands with a smirk, spat at the cobblestone underneath his feet and took one last look around the market area around the tavern before heading up the stairs and inside.
Rules
No god-modding.
You may not kill or man-handle another character without express permission.
Your character is not aware of everything; you may know something but that doesn't mean he/she does.
You are not the leader of any of the primary factions. You are allowed to be a high-ranking individual but no leading the whole shebang.
You are not the Dovahkiin. The Dovahkiin's exact description is blurry and vague at best; some say he was a Nord, others say Khajiit. All Tamriel knows is that he was last sighted heading out of the province towards Morrowind.
You may not be a Jarl. However, noble birth is acceptable if it originates outside of Skyrim from another province.
Keep your inventories realistic; this isn't the game where you can carry everything under the sea. Also, remember that normal people don't walk around in Daedric armor with their weapons drawn randomly swinging through the air.
There's no concept of leveling here, and a sword's a sword. Only difference now is how flashy they look.
The Dark Brotherhood has the organization and structure that it did during the Oblivion Crisis.
Detail your character. Don't get crazy, but we want to understand who your character is and what he or she is like.
Setting, Plot, and Basic Facts
Two terrible conflicts have finally ended. Alduin, destroyer of worlds, has finally been defeated by the Dovahkiin although dragons remain rampant across the province. The Empire remains the reigning government in Skyrim; with the help of the Dovahkiin, every hold was brought back under Imperial control and Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm was defeated, replaced by Brunwulf Free-Winter. Elisif the Fair is now High Queen of Skyrim after being elected in a second meeting of the Jarls. The Imperial Legion, now the reigning military force in Skyrim once again, has been reinvigorated by not having to suppress a rebellion and is now more powerful than ever; on the opposing spectrum, former Stormcloak soldiers have gone into hiding while dissenters drink their lives away in taverns cursing a deceased Emperor Titus Mede II, who has been assassinated by an extremely resurgent Dark Brotherhood. The Blades increase in number every day, and whispers of their return are beginning to spread. The Thieves Guild is now the economic powerhouse it was once was, having footholds in every major city in Skyrim. All the while, Thalmor agents still roam free across Skyrim as they search for worshippers of Talos, who are beginning to become more and more bold with every passing day in response to Thalmor oppression at the hands of a tolerant Imperial government. Bandits are banding together in the southern reaches of Whiterun Hold, and the Forsworn are starting to organize for another rebellion against the Nordic rulers of Markarth. As our journey begins, our respective heroes and/or vagabonds find themselves having a drink this fine summer-ish evening at the Bannered Mare in Whiterun. However, trouble is already brewing as a result of so many powerful individuals coincidentally gathering in one place...
Character Template
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Race: (If being a vampire or werewolf, mark it here.)
Appearance:
Personality:
Religious Affiliation: (Atheist? Believer in the Nine Divines? Daedric kind of guy?)
Brief History: (This should be very brief. We don't need a book, just a short paragraph stating origins.)
Faction/Faction Sympathies: (Ex. Legion-Sympathetic, Stormcloak-Hostile, Endorses the Thieves Guild, etc.)
Faction Rank: (If Applicable)
Tag Skills: (Choose Five)
Inventory: (Keep it realistic, you can't carry everything. One primary weapon, one secondary, supplies, etc. If you're a mage, all the better.)
----
----
----
----
----
My character now. Opening post is below; I kept it short.
~Kuhblam
Name: Arctur
Age: 35
Gender: Male
Race: Dunmer (Dark Elf)
Appearance: Arctur is a healthy dark-skinned Dunmer male of about 5'11 and 190 lbs. His eyes are a deep amber-orange, and his entire head from nape to scalp is clean shaven except for a neatly trimmed beard which never seems to change appearance for those unlucky enough to known him personally as an acquaintance. Normal attire is a greyish-tan suit of leather armor with a cowl sewed onto the neck of the torso piece for when he is moving "while at work," as he likes to call it. Quite often, he can be seen with bow and arrow in hand although he is also quite the accomplished duelist with a shortsword. Arctur usually keeps his supplies in a backpack slung over his back diagonally. A jagged black tattoo covers up a small portion of the left side of his face, and his teeth are as white as a moon in the Tamrielic night sky; by all means, he is a shady figure to the normal everyday Skyrim citizen and a uncomfortable thought for any other warriors and adventurers who might happen across him in their travels.
Personality: Arctur is a sadistic, yet satiric kind of person. He revels in the hunt of the contracts he receives as a member of the Dark Brotherhood; for him, it's not about the pay. Arctur simply loves to kill; it's in his blood and the adrenaline he gets from taking a life never stops flowing. Pay is irrelevant; he does what he does out of the pleasure it gives him. However, at the same time he finds humor in other aspects of life not related to simple murder. Life revolves around his family in the Dark Brotherhood, yet at the same time he finds pleasure in a fine glass of Cyrodiilic Brandy or Firebrand Wine and archery. Arctur also loves to read good literature, particularly non-fiction works about the provinces; he does indeed have a scholarly side. As far as religion goes, Arctur finds the Eight Divines to be quite silly and almost embarrassing to humanity. Rather, he worships alongside Sithis the Daedric Princes: Boethiah, for her natural patronage of his job description and Hermaeus Mora for his lordship over the realms of knowledge and the future. Other than that, religion is just another thing in this world that Arctur finds to be time-consuming.
Religious Affiliation: Follower of Boethiah/Hermaeus Mora, Follower of Sithis
Brief History:
Birth records concerning Arctur are rather fuzzy. What is known is that he is of noble birth, having descended from House Indoril in Morrowind. When House Indoril began a major decline after losing the war to Tiber Septim's Empire, Arctur's high-ranking family left Morrowind and settled down in Skyrim where it has been ever since. Arctur is the last remaining living member of his particular line, coinciding with the death of his father and mother at the hands of drunken Nordic rabble-rousers when he was but a young boy. In revenge, Arctur slew the four men who had killed his parents in their sleep and was promptly discovered by the Brotherhood as a potential prospect. Arctur immediately accepted the offer, and not a day in his life did he regret the decision to choose as he did. Life in the sanctuary was different from city life; here, he discovered the ways of combat but also the way of the scholar and the way of the Daedra Archery and swordplay had always been natural talents for him, and his training came along rather nicely under the tutelage of dark-minded mentors. As the years went by, Arctur gained more and more prestige and rose to become a senior assassin at his sanctuary. His kills started to become something of a myth; a prominent Legion General, a Jarl, etc. With the assassination of Emperor Titus Mede II and the restoration of Brotherhood power in Skyrim, Arctur is now more important than ever in the Brotherhood's hierarchy and is one of a few senior assassins that handles both doing contracts and assigning them at the same time.
Faction/Faction Sympathies:
Dark Brotherhood-Sympathetic
TG-Sympathetic (Thieves Guild)
CoW-Neutral (College of Winterhold)
Stormcloak-Hostile
Faction Rank: Assassin for the Dark Brotherhood
Tag Skills:
Archery
One-Handed
Speech
Light Armor
Sneak
Inventory:
Ebony Bow
Ebony Arrows and Quiver
Dwarven Shortsword
Greyish Leather Armor Set
Assorted food, health potions, etc. in a backpack sling.
----
----
----
----
----
This entire town reeks of vermin and cheap mead.
He'd never been one for Whiterun. It was an idyllic town, yes; the thatched roofs, the curling smoke of the Sky Forge, the towering profile of Dragonsreach Palace above the crumbling moss-covered stone walls that had protected the city from those brutish Stormcloak ingrates. But on the other hand, it was detestable how putrid the city had become over time since his first visit. There was riffraff everywhere, those stupid patriarchal clans were still going at it, and worst of all that muttering buffoon Heimskr was still out this late at night preaching non-sense about Talos. As he headed from the square down towards the Bannered Mare to get a drink, he took a look back at the yellow-clad idiot spewing theocratic chaurus dung. Was he worth the arrow? Maybe. Perhaps. Arctur debated doing an about-face and drilling one between the eyes, but thought better of it. That Penitus Oculatus snoop was in town searching for him, and any such activity would automatically alert him that he was on the right track. This entire hunt was beginning to get comical, but it only continued because Arctur didn't have the energy to go finish the Imperial bastard. How long had this game lasted? The Imperial was failing with every chance Arctur gave him; Markarth, Solitude, Morthal, and now here. It had probably been two months since he had realized he was being tailed by the Penitus Oculatus; the time was really just a blur to him. Instinctively, he reached back to touch the smooth glassy surface of his bow and felt its reassuring texture through the coarse fabric of his gauntlet fingers. He loved his bow; it was an extension of his arm and the tool of his trade. There was no better archer in Tamriel.... or so he liked to think. Arctur was good; rather, very good. But there was always someone better. There'd been talk in Solitude of a fellow amongst Hircine's lot who could nail the apple off an Argonian's head at some ungodly range. Arctur resolved then and there to kill him; there'd be no more talk of archers as long as he was breathing unless it was about him under some fake name.
What a quiet, boring night.
He wasn't exactly conspicuous in such attire; it was obvious he was an outsider. But sometimes an outsider amongst outsiders was how you avoided your quarry; to townsfolk and guards alike, he was simply another adventurer passing through. Sure, his leather armor was not exactly a normal color but Dark Elves in Whiterun weren't exactly normal either. Similarly, neither were the inordinate amounts of gung-ho Nords, Orcs, Khajiits and other manners of degenerates skulking about town. It was somewhat odd to see so many of them in one place. Who were they? Mercenaries? Or perhaps there was just an odd concentration of adventurers lacking arrows in their knees moving about Whiterun? He removed the question from his mind and thought about it no further; such things were irrelevant if not related to murder or the mythic.
What is that smell? By Boethiah it's horrendous.
As he exited the archway and descended a flight of stairs toward the empty vendor stalls, a guard to his forward left lit a lamp hanging from the corner of one of the stall roofs, finishing the last of the illuminating objects that would allow vision at the sun had now finally dipped below the horizon of the town. A breeze was picking up, and as it put out a few of the candles the guardsman cursed under his breath and moved to repeat the task. Arctur debated the practical applications of Destruction magic; such skills might be quite useful for keeping dying lamps lit. Of course, he didn't perform menial jobs such as this; he was an assassin, and a classy knowledgeable one at that. There was no arrogance here: he knew what he was doing. Tonight would be a copy of The Warp in the West and a fine glass of Cyrodiilic Brandy; tomorrow would be the death of a prominent East Empire Trading Company associate and more of the former that same evening around this time. Silently he shifted the weight of the backpack slung over his back to stop the irritation of a potion rubbing into his spine, and tossed a septim to a deathly-ill beggar lying in the grass. Almost immediately he pried it away from the man's hands with a smirk, spat at the cobblestone underneath his feet and took one last look around the market area around the tavern before heading up the stairs and inside.