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The walls of the house rumbled from the passing dragon's wings. Lieth's heart pounded anxiously against her breast, nearly bursting through the thin flesh. Horror spun through her head like a virulent whirlwind; the search for her missing children close to driving her mad.

"Where are they?" She stressed in her tone, searching her husband's dazed eyes with a maternal fury. "By Mara, where are the children?" She stood in front of him in a panic, doing her best to ignore the broken cups and dishes laying on the floor as a reminder of the dragon's current presence flying over their town.

Vilkas slowly extended his hands to her, himself frozen in fear of a brutal reality. "They--they were outside." His thick Nordic accent was laden with guilt. Just moments before Lieth has burst through the back door of Honeyside he had let the children run out to play. Now their lives were in danger.

It took all of Lieth's strength to hold herself from tears. She could not do so, not now. Riften was under attack by a dragon and she must find her children with haste. Strong fear nauseated her, a mother's instinct flooding through her like an ocean wave. Of all the times for the children to be playing outside...of all the days. "We must find them! We must hurry!" The tiny Bosmer shook from anxiety, tears now cascading down her horrified face. The thought of her two children, Lucia and Francois, innocently caught in the midst of a heavy battle with a dragon brutalized her to no end. With a sudden grasp of her husband's hand she raced through the front door, weakened legs underneath her.

It took only a moment to notice the God's forsaken scene in front of them. Lieth braced herself against Vilkas's strong body behind her. Yards away from the front door to Honeyside stood their two children; mesmerized by the mighty dragon that weighed his immense body on a nearby roof. Petrified, the children trembled in each other's arms, their faces paralyzed and pale from the deeply driven fear. In the background, guards and citizens alike cursed their profanities and threats at the dragon attacking their town. Arrows flew in mid-air aimed at the giant lizard, the sounds of steel swords being unsheathed clanked in the smoke filled air.

"CHILDREN!" Lieth yelled at the top of her lungs, taking in a deep taste of fire and dust into her mouth. Heartbeats filled the top of her throat, terror welled into her cries. As if in slow motion, Lieth felt Vilkas pull her back, thrusting his large body in front of her fragile one. She watched helplessly as he reached his arms open, their children running for the protection of his embrace. Gasping for air, gasping for Mara's strength, she held gripped a hand against the wooden frame of Honeyside's front door. In that instant, the dragon's mouth gaped open, a flush of red hot flames thrusting from its slimy mouth.

The children were not fast enough. The dragon's fiery breath pooled together on the wooden planks of the walkway, rolling forth at lightning speed towards the panicked boy and girl. In a flooding swoop, Vilkas and the children were consumed by the flames. Their cries pierced the already noised air, ringing in high pitches inside Lieth's condensed head. The sight of her husband and children bracing themselves from the flames was too much. She dropped to her knees in exasperation, tears of disbelief consuming her very soul.

She could not lose her family, she could not watch them die.

Combat
Jenger the Merciful:

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A true and proud Nord, Jenger the Merciful is a champion of valor, compassion, and the weak. He is a strong crusader and is a pious man; the Divines are his priority, and he seeks to venerate them in any way he can. His personal devotion favors Stendarr and Mara, and he upholds these two above the other seven. Jenger values honor, kindness, universal morality and personal integrity above all else. He is a member of the Dawnguard and views their cause as one of the few just ones in Tamriel, or at least in Skyrim.

In Falkreath Hold, Jenger was born the [&@%!] of an unholy union; his late mother, a teenager, was raped and his grandparents killed by worshipers of Molag Bal. To this day Jenger doesn't know what provoked them. By Mara's mercy two Vigilants of Stendarr traveling on the road nearby the little farm heard the commotion and killed the two worshipers. The leader of the cult, flinging Jora aside, attempted to fight back but the Vigilants crushed him. They nursed Jora back to health and took her to the Hall of the Vigilant in the Pale, where they discovered she had been impregnated. Jora died when Jenger was born and he was raised a Vigilant of Stendarr; though he didn't much like robes. Jenger left one day to look into rumors of Daedric activity in Dawnstar, and that changed his life. He actually defeated the scheme of a Daedric Prince, the Lady Vaermina herself, and earned a best friend in Erandur, a priest of Mara. He now dreams of hunting the evil and protecting the downtrodden, and retiring with his family when the time came and devoting himself to full priesthood.

He is currently a crusader under the employ of the Dawnguard, bent on spreading Mara's love at the same time as Stendarr's justice throughout Skyrim. He has not yet discovered he is something far greater than a battle-priest: Dragonborn. He travels with Serana out of necessity, though he has growing feelings for the woman; Camilla and Erandur joined the Dawnguard with him and reside in the Fort while he is away.

He is a proud Stormcloak and worshiper of Talos.

Weapons: (current) Shield of Dawnguard; Steel crossbow; Dwarven mace
Armor/Equipment: (current) Heavy Dawnguard Armor; Red cloak; White backpack w/Stendarr token; Amulet of Stendarr; Woodcutter's Axe; Large Hide Tent, sleeping bags x2; Torch; cooking pot
Skills: Heavy Armor, Block, Restoration, One-handed, Smithing, Archery
Followers: (current) Serana; Camilla Valerius; Erandur
Race: Nord
Religion: The Nine Divines
Alignment: Lawful Good
Birthday: 6 Hearthfire/ The Lady
Age: 29
Class: Crusader
Hometown: Falkreath Hold
Current Residence: Fort Dawnguard
Family: Wife: Camilla Valerius ----- Mother: Jora (deceased), Father: Mercator Furotis (deceased), Grandmother: Emfrid the Gentle (deceased), Grandfather: Raflod (deceased)

Magic
Yvara Velain:

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Yvara used to be quite confused as to what she wanted to do. She was born to a relatively middle-class family, with three sisters and a brother. Her father was a blacksmith and her mother a blacksmith's wife. Her sister Sabine became a blacksmith, too; her aloof brother an alchemist, her devout, hard-working sister Fianna a priestess of Dibella, and her sister Matilde, whose skill may have been her beauty (though she loved to read, the only thing she was recognized for was her looks), the wife of some noble's kinsman. They all knew who they were, but Yvara struggled. She tried smithing like her father. She failed miserably. She tried the Divines, but Fianna scolded her when she asked what Mara's purpose was when they had Dibella. (Love and beauty were separate, to paraphrase Fianna's tirade.) She tried alchemy and she succeeded, but becoming an alchemist seemed boring and unsatisfying. While working in the shop one evening, a strange woman entered; she was a Dunmer, cloaked in black, with an odd staff and an even odder amulet around her neck. The two spoke to one another casually, when Yvara asked who she was. . . the woman laughed and said she was a witch of the ancient Skeffington Coven, witches of Nocturnal. Yvara told no one, but that night, she knew what she would do -- she would be a witch, a taboo, a priestess of the Daedra and a sister of a coven. She didn't know why it seemed so alluring. The Skeffington witch carried herself as if she were a lady of great stature, confident, graceful . . . she knew she had power and she knew she was feared.

So Yvara left High Rock. Probably a stupid move; High Rock had more witches than any province, but the neighboring Skyrim was the unexplored and the unknown. She traveled through the Reach and went through the mountains with a traveling merchant caravan. Traveling Skyrim for a few weeks led her to Riften, a run-down city that she could be anonymous in. Of the two cities she had been to, she preferred it; Markarth was controlled by the Silver-Bloods who would undoubtedly watch her, as with any outsiders, and Whiterun was huge and mostly wealthy, a trading hub. . . She wouldn't fit in there. After staying in Riften awhile, she traveled south in the Rift. It was warm, pretty, and quiet in the wilds of the forest. She happened upon a tower named Darklight soon after and helped a witch named Illia kill her mother (she didn't kill the other witches). The witches told the two to leave the tower, that they weren't welcome any longer. Within a week of traveling together, they found a cave during a thunderstorm and took refuge, meeting the witches of Snapleg Cave. There was only five of them and one Hagraven, but they allowed the two to stay for a few days. There, Illia and the witches explained to Yvara that Darklight Tower had grown corrupt, even for a coven, in its search for power. Initially worshipers of Mephala, the witches devolved into a squabbling clan of deceit, cruelty, and assassinations -- Mephala's worship was ignored and the goddess in turn ignored them. Some of the witches left the tower and found Snapleg Cave where they could worship in peace. When they were to leave, three of the witches came with Yvara and Illia -- Erith Thierry, Nanette, and Phebe Liric, three Bretons. Together they traveled the east for weeks, a small, somewhat nomadic group of witches without a god.

Vaermina spoke to Yvara soon, though, and the witches were directed to travel to Dawnstar and speak to a priest. They played along with his mission to cleanse Dawnstar of Vaermina's grasp and traveled to Nightcaller Temple, where Vaermina's cultists and warriors that attacked them lay asleep under the Miasma. After killing the foolish cultists and the even more foolish Orcs, Vaermina spoke a second time to Yvara, killing the priest and recovering the Daedric Lady's artifact.

Currently, the witches travel Skyrim together, worshiping Vaermina as they go. Right now they are camped with the witches at Orphan Rock, who worship Boethiah.

**Please note: Some of the things said here are not confirmed in lore, just my headcanon. (ie Skeffington Coven's patron -- or patrons of any covens in Skyrim, Snapleg's Cave dissent. I personally assigned each coven a patron in Skyrim, because we know that each coven actually should have one lore-wise. The witches of Darklight Tower have Mephala, the witches of Orphan Rock have Boethiah, the witches of Hag's End have Molag Bal, and the witches of the Glenmoril Coven obviously have Hircine. No evidence to support any besides the Glenmorils, just a little roleplaying thing for me. )



Weapons: (current) Skull of Corruption; iron dagger
Armor/Equipment: (current) Black mage robes; necromancer's boots; black cloak (when cold); black backpack; Woodcutter's Axe; Large Hide Tent, sleeping bags x3 (Illia carries a Large Hide Tent with x2 sleeping bags for her and Erith); Torch; cooking pot
Skills: Conjuration, Destruction, Restoration, Alteration, Alchemy, Enchanting
Followers: (current) Illia, Erith Thierry, Nanette, Phebe Liric
Race: Breton
Religion: Vaermina
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Birthday: 13 Frostfall/The Tower
Age: 26
Class: Witch
Hometown: Daggerfall
Current Residence: Traveling coven; they live with the coven of Orphan Rock currently - they have yet to find a home
Family: Mother: Lirielle Velain, Father: Gaspar Velain, Sister: Matilde Adrard (nee Velain), Sister: Fianna Nermarc (nee Velain), Sister: Sabine Velain, Brother: Daric Velain

Combat
Aranalda:

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She may be a highborn High Elf on her high horse, a lady from a noble family in Alinor. She may be mocking, condescending and positively irritating. She may remind you that your family is not intricately involved in the politics of the Aldmeri Dominion, that her father is a high-ranking official and her mother just as noble, and she may be a filthy elf, but Aranalda is one of the truest citizens of Skyrim there is. Her love is the law of the land, her master its traditions and her destiny is nothing but glory on the winter-bitten mountains of this godsforsaken land. She is a member of the Companions, much to the dismay of some of the others, and will do anything for glory. She hopes to become part of the Circle, but won't hold her breath; being admitted was a stretch, but her prowess in battle and ability as an archer and swordswoman proved her worthy. Wealth and glory await her, she hopes.

In Alinor, her father and brother are Thalmor officials -- one a high-ranking, powerful Illusionist, and the other a prudish swordsman that was born to be a Lord (quite literally; he was born under the sign!). Her mother was from a less-known, less-powerful, but still rich family in Lillandril, and she is a battlemage (and poised, pompous lady, of course) of high regard. So, obviously Aranalda was set for a life of wealth and glory. Maybe she'd be a mage, like so many of her friends, or a Thalmor like her family or a swordswoman or just a puffed-up high elf living in the lap of luxury. The only thing is . . . Aranalda doesn't believe her family, at least not the living members, earned their status. They didn't become wealthy of their own accord . . they were born to it -- her father was an official because of his family, and her mother was in Alinor purely because many years ago her father and her father-in-law decided to marry their kids and combine their families. Aranalda wanted to earn her glory. She wanted honor, valor, kinsmanship . . . where better to get that than the harsh land of Skyrim, with their lovely Nords and strange customs? And better still . . . the legendary Companions resided there. She had so loved to read of them in Alinor . . and one day she just left to fulfill her dream, sailing to Cyrodiil and traveling north on foot.

She is currently a member of the Companions, doing odd jobs for them and training her swordsmanship, her archery, and her smithing skills. Aranalda can maintain the air of dignity and manage to seem regal even when she's covered in dirt, hunting down a troll with but a sword. She can still be a lady while sticking a bandit full of arrows. However, she has not yet discovered her true purpose and reason behind her odd love for Skyrim.

Aranalda does not hate the Aldmeri Dominion. She supports it and is on good terms with her family. She will aid the Thalmor in Skyrim anyway she can. Besides. It is the law of the Empire to not worship Talos; she is only doing what is right. She supports the Empire's claims on Skyrim. This, of course, causing more adversity between many of the Companions and her. If she is ever to become Harbinger, there may be Dark Brotherhood assassins poisoning her food soon after.



Weapons: (current) Hunting bow; iron arrows; steel sword
Armor/Equipment: (current) Studded armor; hide boots; fur gloves; Woodcutter's Axe; Small Hide Tent; Torch; cooking pot
Skills: Sneak, Archery, One-handed, Light armor, Smithing, Speech
Followers: (current) None
Race: Altmer
Religion: Not particularly pious, but she believes in the Eight Divines
Alignment: Lawful Neutral
Birthday: 1 Last Seed
Age: 67
Class: Archer
Hometown: Alinor
Current Residence: The barracks of Jorrvaskr
Family: Mother: Irinwe (of Lillandril), Father: Athellor (of Alinor), Brother: Merildor (of Alinor)

-Lieth is a member of the Thieve's Guild. She is a rather young elf, around age 40ish...so just a wee babe. She and her older brother were orphaned from a young age and taken in by an aunt. Lieth grew up hunting for food, but stealing out of unsuspecting homes and pockets for a living. She left Valenwood after a devastating fire burned down her village, killing her aunt and brother. Days after escaping Helgen, she ran into Aela who challenged her to a hunt. Since Lieth is not one to turn down a hunt, she ended up joining the Companions to show them that she was just as strong as they...and that the bow could take down more enemies than their swinging warhammers. Being accepted into the inner circle of the Companions, Lieth became a werewolf. She also fell in love with Vilkas, who sought her assistance on curing his lycanthrophy. She helped him, but then ended up having to cure herself when he refused to marry her unless she did so. But Lieth missed the wonders of the hunt...and months after her marriage to Vilkas, she spoke to Aela and regained her powers once more. This is still a point of tension in Lieth's marriage to Vilkas.

While living in Whiterun with the Companions, Lieth befriended a little orphan girl named Lucia. The moment Vilkas and Lieth purchased a home and had room for the child, Lieth had Lucia move in with them. She then also adopted Francois from the orphanage in Riften. Lieth loves working with the Thieve's Guild and she thinks rather fondly of them. Its rather peculiar that she is also a Companion...but she did not know that she would end up being Harbinger. She and Vilkas live in Riften with Iona, Meeko and their two children. They are unsure if they will decide to have children of their own. Lieth has recently discovered that she is Dragonborn although she has not yet made the trip to see the Greybeards, for she is terrified of dragons and is not ready to face the reality of her powers just yet.

Lieth the Bosmer is a kind individual, even though she's a thief. She avoids fights at all costs unless her life and that of someone she loves is in danger. She enjoys playing with her dog and children and making up poisons. She keeps a tidy home, is a strict meat eater, and although she has a haughty elfie voice she speaks kind most of the time. She loves her bow (Auriel's Bow) and takes it everywhere with her. She does have a mini bow collection going on and someday she hopes to be able to craft herself something fancy. Her best friend, besides Vilkas, is Aela whom she takes on werewolf hunting rampages when the family spends time at Lakeview Manor. Aela is the steward there. She has recently made a wizard friend from Solstheim, Talvas. Although Lieth only uses restoration magic (and flames on trolls), she is rather fascinated by Talvas and his spells. She has a teeny crush on him...yeah...its weird.

Antoine LaRouche
A strange, little man, Antoine LaRouche grew up the [&@%!] son of a wealthy Lord in High Rock, though his lack of status meant he would never experience the opulent and undemanding lifestyle his legitimate siblings enjoyed. Seen as an embarrassment to the family name he was rarely included in any of their activities, and spent most of his time foraging in the forest's surrounding his father's residence, constantly discovering new plants (and other alchemy reagents) for him to taste and use in his potions (of which he is self-thought in making).

Of course his constant tasting of ingredients and potions of which he know's nothing about have led to him developing a number of 'conditions', most notably his habit of creating random and elaborate lies about the smallest and most unimportant of things and blurting out things that happen to be weighing on his mind.

At twenty-three, Antoine's father would die and his stepmother - an an ambitious, hubiristic young woman, thirty years his father's junior - took over as head of the family, a family that he was no longer part of after his father's passing, all connections to his other sibling's severed after the man's death. Antoine was sent packing within a day of his father's death, gathering up his alchemy notes and the tiny amount of gold he had saved up.

As of the moment he is a travelling alchemist, selling his wares to anybody that will buy them and trying to avoid conflict as much as possible.

Race: Breton
Class: The Alchemist
Skills: Alchemy, Speech, One Handed (only daggers)
Weapon: Steel Dagger
Apparel: Boots, Belted Tunic, Hat.

The dragon magestically flew around the tower, sweeping down to land, knocking pieces of rubble aside, while belching forth a volley of fire towards these joorre meyye, who dared to return to challenge him. The guards let loose a flurry of arrows and charged with their swords, while the elven women Jennifere and Irileth cast spells before closing in. The beast roared, leaping into the air, forcing everyone back with the windblast of it's wings, before it landed some distance away.

Jennifere was first to recover, and she charged, casting a few spells before closing in to fight sword to tooth and claw, jumping onto it's body, where it's attacks could not reach her.

After steadying herself, she plunged her sword into the dragon's brown scaled head, killing it almost immediately. As it's body fell to the ground, she leapt off it, rolling into the grass. Upon standing back up and approaching the fallen reptile, something strange began to happen - it's scales began to burn up, and grew into a wind flowing into her.

Suddenly, she felt a sundering of herself as this new power forced it's way into her, merging
the dragon's essence into hers. She felt it's presence nestle within her, and it's knowledge and very being became hers.

Her voice exhausted itself in a new almost unbelieveable way, and spoke as a force pushing aside what lay before it.

The guards ran up to her, and where the dragon fell.

A snowflake broke into pieces over a pine bought; the cold northern wind blew silently over a hill making a flurry of freezing snow. From that flurry a dark skinned figure zipped through and vanished as a bandit thug charged after looking around bewilderedly. An arrow materialized the redguard’s neck and he fell noiselessly as another bandit’s steel sword fell from his now dead grasp. Vilkas then came over the hill and watched Alana impale the last bandit with a swift turn of the wrist. Then with a speed normal mortal’s didn’t possess they met at the top of the hill, Alana seemingly jumpy. Vilkas sheathed his greatsword and looked out over Lake Yorgrim “And what has so anxious shield sister?” Alana’s blood red eyes probed the horizon and her sharp incisors seemed to grind against each other tensely “Dragon, coming from the north, speed unknown.” Vilkas smiled and looked towards the northern horizon expectantly, his ears caught the slight sound of a roar and a thudding sound “The beast blood guides us well, that is indeed a dragon, and he sounds hungry…. I say we show how him how to say please and thank you like a proper lizard.” Nocked bow in hand she needed no words, she drew the bow back and fired the elven arrow far into the distance, the roar sound much closer this time with a pained undertone “I agree shield brother, dragons always have worse manners than vampires, and that is quite the insult if you ask me.”

Vilkas’ greatsword was in his hands in a matter of seconds as a blood dragon with an elven arrow in his snout streaked by trailing a fiery streak of breath. Alana vanished and her outline appeared some distance arrow aimed as Vilkas charged towards the dragon overhead. Then timing her attack an arrow punctured the dragon’s left wing and he came down crashing down into the snowy ground leaving a wrecked trail behind him. Vilkas, seizing the opportunity leaped towards the dragon’s head and began doing as much damage as possible. Meanwhile Alana shoved her light elven bow onto her back and drew her swords, charging towards a lame a wing Alana leaped on and stabbed her swords into the dragons back as quickly possible. Vilkas was blown back by a gust of air as the dragon shook the elven arrow holding his wing loose and lifted off hurriedly. Alana then began to move towards the dragon’s head as freezing winds nearly snapped her bare arms off “Damn scaled armor….. Some sleeves wouldn’t kill at all right now…” Sensing the swords in his hide the dragon then began a series of evasive maneuvers forcing Alana to use her augmented muscles to shove her swords deeper and hold on. Vilkas meanwhile watched astounded as Alana slowly began working her way towards the dragon’s head. A snow sudden snowstorm blew in and Vilkas couldn’t see the dragon anymore, however, something told him Alana was still holding on. Withstanding another blast of wind Alana then found the weak point in the dragon’s neck and flipped her scimitar around her hand calculating the right strike as the dragon repeated a barrel roll to throw off his attacker. Undeterred however Alana slashed open the hide and found a layer a skin and muscle. Seeing no other easier option she again slashed at the flesh as the dragon’s maneuvers got more and more desperate with each painful slash. Then, at last the critical strike was attemptable. She stabbed the scimitar down into the dragon’s hide and braced as the dragon dived and began a new set of maneuvers. Finally gaining her balance again Alana yanked out the blades sword and flipped the blade around her hand with urgent precision.

As she was about to stab down another dragon, this time with white scales descended from the sky above and shot an ice storm towards the blood dragon and his attacker. The ice storm barely missed and the blood dragon called to Alana “Hold dragonborn! I propose an alliance to bring down this new attacker! Together we can prevail and resume our current battle, what say you thuri?”

Alana seeing smiled wolfishly and brought the blades sword down for the killing blow “The only dragon I work with is Odahving you scaly sack of [&@%!]!” As the dragon plummeted Alana drew both her swords from the dragon’s flesh and slid forward to grab its horns keeping a careful eye on the disengaging frost dragon. Then she carefully steered it back Vilkas’ position, however she was losing altitude fast and the ground seemed awfully eager to meet her and her now dead scaly friend. Seeing no alternative other than a crash landing she pulled the dragon’s limp head up as much as she could, then the ground met them with a jarring thud, the dragon slid 15 feet and hurtled Alana into Vilkas’. The two then rolled and fell into a ditch with the proper snow and dust cloud to accompany the fall “Harbinger, are you all right, let me feel your bones and check for any breaks!” Alana’s sore body was in no condition to push Vilkas’ firm hand away “I’m fine Vilkas, let me just….. Catch my breath-“She stopped and saw Vilkas’ face turn a bright red “Oh this?” Alana pulled the rim of her scaled armor up and fixed her hair before stopping and staring herself. A moment of silence passed between them and Vilkas silently helped her sit up, Alana felt her beast blood rush and she ran her tongue over her incisors before feeling an unnatural urge to let Vilkas do what he was about to do. Vilkas likewise felt the same and they sat up in the ditch awkwardly before Alana tried to get up, Vilkas however felt something explode inside his chest and grabbed Alana, then pulled her body towards him and kissed her his beast blood boiling.

Alana’s eyes jolted and her hands froze, then as the dragon’s soul began to bind itself to Alana she felt a rush of pleasure both from Vilkas and the dragon soul. As Alana absorbed it she became more and more loose. Letting Vilkas’ hands undo her armor she felt her beast blood boiling madly, the two then broke the kiss and locked eyes for a moment, then indulged in each other again.

The stones of the towers had not changed since he had last seen them, and the crisp wind of an ever-lasting Rift autumn made Dayspring Canyon feel like home. He removed his helmet from his head and held it in his free arm, letting his damp silver hair fall back down his neck. The breeze buffeted his face in the best of ways, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The journey to Morthal and back had not been particularly eventful, but it had been exhausting and the comfort of this Fort and its looming towers -- his home -- was more appealing than anything else he could imagine. He decided that he wouldn't be on a mission for at least a few nights. He wanted to rest, and to see his wife.

Thinking of Camilla made the grin on his face broaden into a fully realized smile. He sped up in his walk to the Fort, passing Ollrod. The imposing, axe-wielding Nord smiled at his kinsman, more out of the infectiousness of Jenger's mood than a yearning to see him.

"Jenger! Welcome back," Ollrod said, accent thick. He raised his brow and nodded. "I trust that business in Morthal went well?"

"It did," Jenger boasted. "The vampire is dead." His words marked the first time he noticed his companion since he returned to the Canyon. Serana shifted uncomfortably beside him. Apparently Jenger's joy wasn't as infectious as he hoped.

Ollrod smirked. "Good news!"

Jenger concurred. "Well, Ollrod, Serana and I are tired from our trip. If you'll excuse us." Ollrod did, and went back to patrolling the entrance. His harsh, judgmental glare that Serana was accustomed to when at the Fort wasn't lost on either Jenger or the vampire. Neither said anything, though. Serana was victim of the distrustful looks that Jenger gave her when her back was turned while they were traveling. Here was no different, but something about the look his comrade gave her struck the Nord as unfair. A bit hypocritical, yes, but Jenger didn't see it that way.

Reaching the Fort within minutes, the couple entered. Jenger relaxed the moment he happened upon the grand entryway of the fortress. This place had been home for only a few weeks, but he loved it with all of his being. He looked behind him, but Serana wasn't there. She must have stepped off into the shadows somewhere when he wasn't looking. Oh, well. Vampires needed their rest too.

He looked up and saw Erandur and Florentius speaking to one another and waved. His Dunmer friend saw him and looked overjoyed. "Jenger!" He said as he approached briskly, Florentius lagging behind. "Glad to see you back. You . . . hem . . . finish your job?" He asked. Jenger nodded. "Ah, well done! I'm sure the others will be happy to see you. Camilla's not here, I'm afraid; she, Celann and Durak are off in Whiterun Hold to cleanse some vampire lair, Mara bless them."

Jenger's heart sank when he learned that Camilla was away. He had so looked forward to seeing her. Erandur seemed to understand, giving him a sympathetic smile. "Pity," he said gruffly, handing his friend his shield. He took off his backpack and accepted the shield back. "I think I'm going to go rest, Erandur. Good to see you, my friend." Erandur nodded and the two walked away from one another. Erandur and Florentius towards their little mage's nook near the smithy, no doubt, and Jenger towards the bunks. Once there, he put away his cloak and backpack, took off his armor and stacked it neatly next to his weapons. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, slowly drifting into sleep . . .

"Ah, good, you're back," Isran's grating voice noted. Jenger's eyes shot open. "Don't get too comfy. There's a vampire in Riften, parading around as some visiting adviser from Cyrodiil to Jarl Laila. Go kill him." The Redguard sniffed. "And take that pet vampire of yours' with you. I loathe every second she spends here."

Which meant he loathed every second Jenger spent at the Fort as well. Isran nodded to him and walked away. Jenger groaned.

This was her second bullseye in a row; another one, and she just might earn some respect from the other Companions training in the yard. She could feel them watching her, even though they pretended to be occupied. Vilkas and Njada sparring behind her. Aela and Skjor chatting idly. Besides Athis and Ria, they all viewed her as a stupid, filthy foreigner elf that had no business wielding steel or wearing armor from Skyrim. Pah! They'd have her wearing the black leather robes of the Thalmor, and casting silly little spells like her father.

She raised her bow again. Not an auburn lock of hair had fallen out of place and she stood taller than anyone in the yard. There was no denying she was the most poised, regal woman in the Companions; perhaps in all of Skyrim! The fact that she could look so much better than, say, Aela, while proving herself as a capable warrior at the same time obviously made her superior. Arkay willing, she'd make this next shot. Three bullseyes in a row is surely an indicator of her skill with the bow, right? She pulled back an arrow and . . .

Another arrow whizzed past her face, hitting the bullseye of the third target. She turned to see who it was -- who dared insult her like that. Aela stood before her, and lowered her hunting bow. Everyone in the yard was looking now.

"You couldn't have waited until I was finished?" asked Aranalda, arching her brow and looking at Aela through narrowed eyes. This was embarrassing. Skjor laughed openly. She shot him a look of pure contempt.

Aela snorted. "You're not quick enough," Aranalda was about to protest, but the Huntress continued. "You were focusing too much on stance and poise and not enough on the target. You need to be able to hit the target quickly." Her tone was tired, but it wasn't mocking like Aranalda expected. She tried to look for a hint of condescension in Aela's voice, but it eluded her. . . maybe she was actually trying to help her new Shield-Sister? Preposterous.

"I was trained by some of the finest marksmen in Alinor," gloated the High Elf, standing a little straighter.

"That's sweet, really," Aela scoffed. "But when you're out there with a sabre cat running towards you, you don't worry about the proper stance. You shoot and you have to know that you won't miss. Or you're dead." The yard was silent; Vilkas watched Aranalda with cold eyes, Njada with reverence for Aela, and Skjor with amusement.

"Don't you think I . . . " Aranalda was interrupted again.

"No, elf, I don't think you do," Aela said.

Skjor nodded in agreement. "You want to be a Companion? Learn to take the advice of your betters. I saw you; you have talent -- you made those shots well. But you took too long. You wouldn't make it in a real fight. The battleaxe of some bandit will crush you before you've released your arrow." He shook his head.

"Archers should be able to kill a man before he even draws his sword," Vilkas noted, crossing his arms.

Aranalda swallowed, sticking her nose up. She hated being under fire like this. She knew she was better than all of them! "If you'll excuse me," she said primly, putting her bow around her quiver and walking away. She didn't have to stand for this criticism. Least of all from fools like Aela and Skjor and Vilkas. Deep down, she knew they were right. But she never did take being wrong well.

Name-Hawk
Race-Redguard
Skills- All stealth, Archery, One-handed, Smithing, and maybe Illusion and Enchanting.

Hawk was born into a family of theives and skooma addicts, so naturally it wasn't long before he became dependant on the drug as well. One day, during family time(aka skooma time) everyone except Hawk overdosed, which left him completely alone in life. Because of the tradgedy that had occurred he vowed to never fall into the clutches of skooma again. But as Hawk arrives in Skyrim, will he be able to keep to that promise?

The young, pale-skinned boy munched voraciously on the Wisp Stalk Cap, his long, curly hair dirty and unkempt, hands and feet covered in dried mud and old wounds from foraging in the nearby forest. To most he would have seemed a begger, a mummer's son perhaps. None would have guessed that he was in fact the second son of Lord Berwyn LaRoach, the most powerful man for 50 leagues in every direction.

It was this same boy that jumped when the Altmer called his name, her sharp features contorted into a look of contempt and complete disgust, a small sardonic smile graced her countenance.

"Antoine, what are you doing?" She repeated, anger creeping into her tone after her first inquiry failed to gain a response.

"Eatin'." The boy responded. Not looking up from his meal, hunched over the foetid 'shroom, guarding it jealously from the woman's view as he continued to chew. "You don't wan' some, do ye?"

The Altmer shook her head, the smile quickly turning to frown as she caught a glimpse of the the boy's meal, her brows furrowing further until they seemed to form but one. "No I would not you disgusting little boy." She replied , making no attempt to hide her disgust at the boy's reprehensible behavior. Behavior such as that would never be seen in Alinor. Never!

"No need t' be so rude." The boy retorted dismissively, swallowing the last of his meager supper and picking himself up before beginning to walk away from the censorious [&@%!], who had never even tried one of his mushrooms.

"You come back here, you can't just walk off on me like this." She called after him though making no effort to follow. Her hands on her hips as she stared the boy down. "I'll tell your mother about this, I'll tell Lady Alva."

'She's not my mother' The youth thought to himself as he continued to walk, picking up pace as he went, only making it twenty yards before grumbling querulously to himself and changing direction. Heading for Adrienne Montrose Alchemy shop, the one place in the world other than the forests that he actually felt safe.

It was the same boy that entered the Riverwood Trader fifteen years later, covered in mud and blood and perspiration, still shaken from the whole incident with the dragon. His hair now cut short hung loosely over his thick, bushy eyebrows. His hands now covered in tiny scars after hours spent digging for worms and grubs and other tiny creature's that may have been hiding deep underground, waiting to be sampled or put into his latest concoction.

He watched the couple for a moment, [&@%!] the female with great alacrity before suddenly blurting. "Mountion flowers!"

The couple stopped their bickering, the heated argument coming to an end as they both realized they had guests. The female's head swung to attention, catching the young Breton's gaze on her buxom and sneering most distasteful at him, seemingly hating the attention. The male must have caught him too because when Antoine looked up at him he was glaring straight at him, brows furrowed, his features contorted into a look of anger, that softened ever so slightly as he began to speak, sensing a prospective customer.

"Oh, yes, yes, we've got all sorts of goods at the Riverwood Trader!" The Imperial replied enthusiastically, forcing a thin-lipped smile as he walked behind his desk, gesticulating to the various assortment of goods that could be found displayed on the shelves on the way. "Trinkets, odd and ends. Anything that suits your needs."

Antoine glanced around the store, not seeing any mountain flowers, on any of the shelves. He frowned ever so slightly as he returned his gaze to the male, raising an eyebrow as if to question the genuinity of his claim that his shop stocked anything that suited his needs. "I need these." He said, making no attempt to hide the irritation in his tone as he went into his pouch and piled a half dozen or so mountain flowers on the table, one with the head bitten of it. "Do you have these?

"Um, no we don't sock those." The trader muttered after some hesitation his voice however picking up as he added. "But we do have a variety of other great goods in stock, clothing, weapons, armor, hou-"

"But not the flowers ?" Antoine interjected in a peevish tone, already beginning to gather up his flowers and put them back into the pouch at his waste.

The Imperial slowly shook his head.

"Well you could have just said that." The Breton replied vexatiously, giving the trader a derisive shake of his head completely unaware of the queer stares he was getting from the female who was making no attempt to hide the purgacity in her expression. The Breton didn't wait for a response from the man as he turned to leave the building, deciding that he'd have to go searching for the ingredients himself, unhappy with the idea of it.

"[&@%!] pervert." Came the vehement mutter in the female's direction as he shut the door behind him.

The boy was sprinting through the woods like a madman. His travelstained cloak and flaming red hair billowing behind him. He could distinctly hear the sound of hoofbeats and yelling. They were close, too close.

"Damn it.." he muttered, "When are they gonna give up?"

He sprinted right through a Legion camp. Two of the men, startled at his wild appearence, leapt up and tried to stop him. But he ripped his blade from its sheath and fended them off, still running.

A few minutes after the boy left, the soldiers were still asking, "Did you see his sword?" "A blade fit for a ghost..." At least they were until the robed elves burst through their camp, screaming orders and curses in a language long forgotten by men, but not by mer.

The boy kept running until finally, by some Providence, enirely not Divine, he tripped over a tree root. In the few seconds that he needed to recover, three mer were upon him.

"We told you," the lead one said smugly, pointing his spear at the boy, "None escape the Thalmor's Hand. And neither will you."

"That's what you think," the boy murmured defiantly, trying to draw upon his strength.

At first, nothing happened, and his captors laughed, beginning to dismount.

And then the air exploded in a violent blizzard.

When it was finished, the Thalmor were, quite literally, frozen. The lead one was twitching his unfrozen fingers as the boy ran, clutching his gut.

One hour of running later, the boy collapsed in front of a pond, staring down at the grimy face that was Samuel Draconis, the son of none.

Elenath

High Elf, female, spellsword. My main character.
Major Skills: Destruction, Restoration, Light Armor, One-Handed

Backstory:
She was born in Summerset Isles, into a moderately well-respected family of mages. She grew up studying under her parents, who taught her magic and passed on their quiet dislike of the Thalmor. Elenath was told that they were misguided, wrong on seveal key points, but that they were working for the benefit of the Altmer people and their petty prejudices should be forgiven and corrected whenever possible.

She took the last part a bit too much to heart. Soon after she came of age, she became rather politically active, publically disagreeing with the Thalmor's credo. They took notice, and paid her a visit. Her parent's position spared her severe punishment, but she was unofficially banished. She left the Aldmeri Dominion, and wandered around Tamriel for a time, until she came to Skyrim.


Elwen Kalides

Breton, female, mage.
Major Skills: Conjuration, all other magic skills to a lesser extent.

She was born blind, but her skill in Conjuration allowed her to see through the eyes of spirits around her almost as well as if she could see herself.

Her backstory is much more relevant to her ongoing storyline than Elenath's, so I'm mostly including it in the story itself.

Her quick hands had graced the pockets of Jarl Leila's court. Gold, jewelry and a pretty new staff were now hidden in the folds of Lieth's dress. Inside the Jarl's personal quarters the Bosmer relaxed; smiling proudly to herself for the loot she had scored. Such skill she had perfected, such an ability to smile back at the faces of those she robbed.


They didn't understand the rush that surged through her soul upon finding such goodies in all their pockets. Lieth had silently preyed on her fellow court members and now sat relishing in her feat. Out of all their bedrooms she had taken their most prized possessions; out of all their chests she had become slightly richer.