DAMNATIO AD BESTIAS

"In all my years, all my suffering, I've come to learn that to be a Man is to conquer his innermost instincts and impulses. Thus, he conquers the greatest beast he will ever face—himself.But what if I cannot do it?"

• DOSSIER
• HISTORY
• GALLERY
• JOURNAL
• EQUIPMENT
• RELATIONS
• HOOKS
• ALTS
• OOC

A monster hunter, and above all, and a man struggling with his own nature. Locked in a wrestle between the animalistic and the human, he finds himself in an endless struggle to balance the two.

ALIASES

(click sword to return)

(feel free to skip this part if you want to avoid anything that might be considered "spoilers," and would rather learn in-character)

(back)

My apprentice has been pestering me to do something like this, as if anyone will care in a thousand years. It couldn’t hurt, I suppose.I was born to a small family, and I lived on a farm for many years of my childhood. Those were good days, and I remember them fondly. If only I had more time. The farm we lived on was only some short miles outside of Windhelm, dusty old city, eastwards and along the White River, a decent enough river you could fish pickerel and cod from… and mudcrabs, if you didn’t lose a finger or two in the process. I was surrounded by good people, some of the best I’d ever known. My father, Torvjorn, was the former captain of the guard of Windhelm, retired early from injuries sustained from a bandit raid in the city’s outskirts. He was damn handy with a sword, taught me a thing or two in the time he wasn’t showing me how to tend the fields of our land. My mother, Ylva, she was a beautiful soul. A tailor and a leatherworker, I learned as much as I could from her. I had two younger twin sisters, Aadny and Aeswyn, most stubborn little rascals you could ever meet, but they were the happiest. I had a brother, Vilgar, older than me, and the most sensible of all of us. If Aady and Wyn were joined at the hip, Vilgar and I seemed to be joined at the soul. It made for fun sibling rivalry, at least, all of us loved getting a leg up on each other.Life on a farm was as fun as we made it. Imaginary battles in the forest, forts made with fallen branches and old blankets, chasing off foxes and birds, scaring the living hell out of each other, and sometimes we’d be treated to the occasional visit to Windhelm, but there wasn’t much to do there either. It was a good life, none of us were destined for anything more than scaring off wolves and toiling fields, but there’s something flawless and unbreakable about the simplicity of such living. That was my life for as long as the gods would have it, but it seemed they were short on patience.I was only ten when the fire broke out. Vilgar was thirteen, my sisters were barely eight. It was a bandit raid, a fire set to our house and land, turned the void of night into day. I wouldn’t have known had Vilgar not woken me up, just in time to slip us out from the house collapsing all around us. I still remember the heat, and the smell, it’s scorching. We tried to rescue the rest of them, but they were already trapped, so much of the beams and the roof had blocked them off. My parents, all they could do was hold the twins and tell us to leave, tell us to run. And we ran, just out the door before the wall fell on Vilgar. I can still remember the smell of his flesh, sometimes I think I can smell it still. He begged me to help him, held out his scorched arm, but I was a child and I was terrified, I think I would’ve just stood there if I didn’t hear the men responsible gaining on us.I ran. Far as a boy could go, I ran. Through the forest, over the streams, onto old and beaten roads, tears in my eyes until I could barely see through them. I don’t remember much of it, only that I ran for what felt like an eternity until I came upon an old inn beside the road. Exhausted and delirious, I needed somewhere secluded and sheltered, only it didn’t occur to me to enter the inn itself, instead I slipped inside a covered wagon. It was a merchant’s wagon, filled with crates that smelled foreign to a Nord’s nose. I didn’t care, I was exhausted beyond my mind, I slipped into a long slumber.And long it was, by the time I woke up I had lost the familiarity of Skyrim. The winds still bit cold, but there was something different about the land itself. I had not yet realized I slept long enough that merchant left the comfort of that inn and resumed his journey on the road, right into Morrowind. From my father’s farm to the land of Dunmer, it was not a long journey. I could’ve gotten out and told the merchant of my presence, but the instinct of wanting to return home wasn’t there anymore. Everything I had known, all I had loved, was destroyed. Why go back? I survived off of the preserved meats in one loose crate until we arrived to the Redoran city of Blacklight, where the merchant finally discovered me. Needless to say, I was kicked to the street of a new and alien city.I remember that exact moment, looking out onto those new streets, filled with a people different than me in every way. Where fear should’ve been, anger replaced it. I was helpless to save my family, I abandoned my brother, everything was burned to the ground, and all I could do was run. Blacklight was my first attempt to turn that round, I wanted to survive and I’d make sure I took that into my own hands, or die trying.I lived the life of a beggar and a rascal in Blacklight’s streets for some months, making few friends amongst the other street children. Few trusted me, I was a foreigner after all, and scavenging for scraps was challenging enough. At least I learned resilience, it was that or starve in a dark corner.In my months of stalking alleyways and streets, I came across a band of Dunmer mercenaries visiting the city. I hadn’t seen warriors of their like since my time in Eastmarch: swordsmen, marksmen, and mages all fighting for cause of gold and glory. I came to discover by means of gossip that they’d been recruiting, and I was bold enough to think they’d be so quick as to let a child come along. I first accosted them in the streets and put on a display of what sword techniques I could remember from my father with a stick, and unsurprisingly I was laughed at, entertainment for their afternoon at best. They cheered me for my “confidence and bravery,” at least, and that was enough to give me the courage to bother them again. It was about a week of tracking them down and pleading their attention, needless to say they were annoyed a few days in. In that time, I learned they went by the “Blacklight Journeymen Company,” and a few of their names. Though, it was too late it seemed, and my week-long campaign was threatened by their departure from the city.I was defeated, again, but not discouraged… again. I followed them outside of the city, a few hours worth of tracking through stretches of both roads and wilds. They came to a grotto, filled with the usual gangs of bandit lowlives, and thinking this would be my chance to prove I was a worthy addition, I followed them right inside. They moved fast, so I had lost track, but I found an old, rusty dagger and searched for a brigand to stop anyways. Just one or two pinches, I remember thinking, enough to draw blood. It nearly became my blood drawn, I was caught and held under the hostage of one of the more unsightly men in that grotto. I saw the reflection of my own terrified face in his blade as he prepared to gut me, just before his own neck opened and spilled red like a stressed wineskin. The Journeymen had reached me just before I suffered an early fate, though they were none too pleased to see I followed them into a dangerous hole of criminals. To what I considered another failure, though, I had finally broken through to one of them.

One of the Dunmer approached from the group, old and crowned with scruffy black hair, with a deep scar running from his left brow down to his top lip. He revealed himself to be Sevaryn Suralu, the leader of the company. Much to the disagreement and frustration of the other mercenaries, he finally took me in anyways, saw something in me the others wouldn’t. Realized if I was willing to follow them into certain death, I deserved a chance. I saw a chance to redeem my greatest sin through him, become a fighter and bite back at evil men like the ones who burned my life away. What I didn’t realize was that I wasn’t fueling my desire for redemption, I barely knew what that was, I wanted something to empower my rage, and I got just that.For years I trained and I suffered and I learned, well under the tutelage of Sevaryn and his Journeymen. They all came to grow accustomed to my presence, even liked me at some point, I was decent at mending their clothes and leathers when I wasn’t training. Caught fish too, suppose they found the idea of a small Nord boy as a “servant” funny. Regardless, the years turned me from a starved boy with a rusty knife to a skilled swordsman, able to fight honorably, or dirty, whenever I needed. I was not the best by any means, but I worked hard and learned to defend myself and best others.It wasn’t until I was fifteen that I was formally made a member of the Blacklight Journeymen, a crowning achievement at that point in my life, to be part of a group I had come to know as a new family. But being surrounded by familiar, fond faces was not enough to quell that anger inside, the shadowed part of you that demands more of you the more you give into it, which I gladly did. Sevaryn did his best to keep me wise, keep me rational, like a father would, and I always respected him for what he tried to show, but I could never understand why he seemed so against my set vengeance at that time. A man longs to correct the mistakes he made in his youth, but he has to live with them anyways. He can only prevent a second time.More and more, as the years passed, I sunk into my selfish need for vengeance, only deepening the better I became at fighting. I skewered bandits, maimed thieves, castrated violators and left them to bleed out, all in a vain attempt to inflict the pain I felt. Sevaryn tried to correct my anger more times than I could count, told me I was losing myself, that’d it come back around to harm me, and though I wasn’t averse to reason, I didn’t want to listen anyways. Even when I tried, I couldn’t get the image of that burning house out of my mind, it set my spirit ablaze and I was back to my ways.At least, for some time, there was another to comfort me. A Dunmer lad of my age, Valys, around the time I was sixteen, I’d met him during the company’s supply runs to Blacklight. Small, a soft face, eyes like ruby, and long, combed white hair past his shoulders, I remember him well. I was a soul troubled by my own regrets and scars, and he split between duties to his family, rather affluent, and his personal freedoms. We found comfort in each other, at least until I was eighteen, when he could no longer abide by my way of life. I suppose, in my arrogance, I learned nothing from the softness he tried to teach me.By my eighteenth year, I was well integrated into that band of warriors: my Journeymen, my brothers and sisters. Only a few years short of a decade’s worth of fighting experience, I brought more than enough victories to our group, and I was only just reaching my prime. Still, for all my victories and newfound family, I carried that same brutality since childhood. No death could ever satiate it, no amount of blood spilled ever quenched that thirst, it only worsened it. At some points, it brought my membership to questioning among the more reserved mercenaries.Over the years, I managed to convince Sevaryn to take on riskier contracts, I was no longer satisfied with the usual rounds of bandits and petty highwaymen. Necromancers, Daedra, cultists, and bloodier killers, all targets I wanted the heads of. They were monsters, all of them, they deserved to die and I wanted to be the one to collect their heads. House Redoran was usually on top of any threats within their land, we only managed those that managed to slip through the cracks. Many in our company worried we would attract the attention of greater forces, but for each victory we delivered, it eased their fears just an ounce more. I was stupid to lead them down such a path, but we were effective killers, and the pay was too damn good.We got ourselves into all sorts of trouble, in particular with foul Daedra and their cultists. We were flung into a pocket of the Deadlands at one point, fought our way out, and killed the cultists that sent us there. There’s a few more stories just like that, and I won’t lie, it was fun to brave the risks. Still, I should’ve remembered Sevaryn’s words: it would all come back to harm me.We were led into a cult’s trap under the guise of a poor farmer reporting a bandit raid on his land, a familiar fate that had me jumping at the opportunity. It seemed, in the short time we fulfilled those darker contracts, we caught the attention of those dreadful, greater forces. They outnumbered us as soon as we were there, their Daedric familiars and their foul magicks proved too much, and they beat us down to nothing. One smack of a clannfear’s tail and all I remember was the world going black, only to reawaken caged in some dark, damp cave.

One by one, the cultists slaughtered my Journeymen, my family, like pigs. There was no end to the creativity by which they executed them, and just to make them suffer, every death was drawn out. I screamed for their lives until my throat wore itself out and bled, but they only laughed. By the time they had reduced the two dozen of them to gored corpses, it was Sevaryn and I left. I couldn’t even yell anymore, no point begging for mercy, but I thrashed and I tried to break out of that cage, save Sevaryn. But I couldn’t, and all that was left to do was to beg for my master’s forgiveness. You never forget a moment like that, the final look in their eyes. He told me it was okay, reassured me as they sapped the life from him, and then it was just me. I lost another family, and again I was lost, trapped in another hell.I don’t know why they kept me alive, some sick act of entertainment perhaps. It was a year’s worth of torture: chaining, scarring, beating, subjecting my mind to torturous magicks. All in an act to break me, make an example of me. I don’t remember most of it, the mind has a habit of protecting you from your worst memories, and I doubt I want to remember more than what I do.It was only by gathering the sympathy of the cult’s weakest link was I set free. That rage remained, festered and worsened, I even wanted to tear out the throat of the one who freed me. I couldn’t, I didn’t have the strength anymore, so I ran. I ran for hours, and it stretched into days, only stopping to rest. I got by with berries, just enough to ensure I could get further away from that hellish cave. But, out of the clutches of one Daedra, I ran right into another. In the dark of a forest, likely close to the borderlands between Skyrim and Morrowind, a dark shadow overcame me. The last thing I felt was a sharp burning on my neck, and the world was black again.I awoke to snow on my face and the cold air biting at my skin, and just like that, I knew where I was. Skyrim. Manbeasts, werewolves, surrounded me as I awoke and I thought I would be a damned beast’s meal, but they didn’t touch me. No, instead it seemed they made the decision of incorporating me into their band of beasts. I looked down to my own hands, and they were grotesque and beastly. I collapsed a man, and awoke a beast, a son of the hunt lord. I should’ve been afraid, shocked, but something in me felt relief. I could stop running, and for what it’s worth, these manbeasts gave me a third chance at living. Why shouldn’t I accept it? And that’s what I did. They called themselves the Eldwoods, stalkers of the wild, ancient reaches of Eastmarch and the Pale, and the bloodlust they carried only served to deepen a now refuelled hate.I spent the next two years of my life entangling myself deeper into the pack, embracing their wild ways of life and living like an animal. For my brutality, I gained the respect of their chieftain, Hrokkir, and for my passion, the hand of his daughter, Kjora. Harsh, beautiful and red-haired, she had a fire in her that burned fiercer than mine, but I was drawn helplessly to it. For what little time we knew each other, we made the most of it. We were bound at the soul, and I was none the wiser to the monster I was becoming. She helped me to accept it, even, blinded me to what I should’ve been seeing.I only snapped out of my trance when my claws fell a traveling family in the midst of a snowstorm that fogged the road. I was so encapsulated by my bloodlust it was no longer restrained to the cruel. I didn’t even think about it, just one charge at them and they all collapsed. A mother, a father, three children. All trying to return to the safety of home, and they would never see it again. Volkurek, my hunting companion and Kjora’s brother, congratulated me on a successful hunt, and I suppose that was the moment I realized what I had done.I was sickened with myself, I looked at my own reflection and I couldn’t recognize myself. The face of a beast, painted with innocent blood, no longer the man I was, all because I was so desperate for love, for change, something that wasn’t this constant, dull pain following me since the fire. I eventually revealed to Kjora my plans to leave, begging her to come with me. I could see the conflict in her eyes, I didn’t make things easy for her. She asked a day’s worth of time to decide, and to meet her in the glade we’d often escape to get away from the pack’s duties.

I thought she would only get her affairs in order and escape with me, but she only summoned me to end my life herself. A lover’s burden. Between me and the clan, I was only a newcomer who managed to get her attention. I matched her claw to claw, trying desperately to stop her, make her see reason. I could tell she hated every moment of it, but she kept going, she would never allow herself to forgive me. The fight came to an end when I slipped one hand just too far, and it opened her throat. She died in my arms, regret in her eyes, and I filled her ears with a thousand apologies. But apologies couldn’t save a life, and she died in a pool of her own blood, staining the snow red.I buried her in that glade and ran, I was smart enough to know the clan would figure out what happened and come after me. It took only a week before her father tracked me down, chased me halfway up a mountain as I tried to run. The man was a better killer than me, it was suicide to face him. But he cornered me to a cliff-edge anyways, and I stood my ground. Perhaps tearing my heart out would have been a kinder fate, but it was an act of cruelty to reveal to me, just as he had his hand around my throat, that Kjora was pregnant with child. My child. Now I was not just a murderer of innocents and lovers, but my own blood. Only my confused and enraged thrashing saved me, transforming to beast in his grasp was enough to throw his balance. One wrong step on the edge of an old, crumbling cliff and I took the opportunity to shove him, disappearing in the dense fog below. I saved my life, but at the unnecessary cost of others.This time, there was no band of mercenaries to find comfort in, no daedric powers to snatch me away, it was just me. I was all I had left, all my rage and my skills. Everything I’ve ever had was taken from me, and I’ve done nothing but run and fumble what opportunities I had. Monsters, in the form of men or in their true visages, even the monstrous qualities within me, had made me a victim, and I hated it.Some days later, I dedicated myself to the hunt, the endless pursuit of monsters, cultists, witches, whatever foul force acted in the dark to harm the innocent. I thought it the one way I could redeem myself, control that lycanthrope’s spirit within me that craved flesh, but for a long time it only served as a way to feed my bloodlust without the needless deaths. Still, I tried my best, fought that horrid beast inside of me at each step, fought to make the right choices with each waking day. Most days, I still do that. It doesn’t get easier, but you learn to adjust.The Planemeld rolled through Nirn barely a year later, and though I was still a fledgeling hunter, I took up with the Fighter’s Guild and ran contracts, headfirst into Daedric threats. Already a war-tested hunter by the time the Prince of Domination’s invasion was quelled, I had gotten a taste for the “right cause,” and no amount of bloodlust and hate could ever amount to it.I did not stay with the Guild for long, I moved on to carve my own path. Contract to contract, one saved soul from another, I built myself back up. It’s easy to give into hate, sometimes it’s all I want, sometimes the brutality is the point of it all, but there’s no honor in reducing yourself to a monster for the sake of impulse. As long as I’m alive, if I have to be cursed with bloodlust, I’ll make it bend to my will, not the other way.I have a thousand titles: Unbowed, Fangbreaker, Wolf-Butcher, Witchbane. None of them matter, they only serve to inflict fear in those I hunt. At the end of the day, if I’ve done nothing better for the world, then I fought for nothing. But I wake up every day and I choose to bring the sword to the profane, and if there’s no humanity to be found, I will break every beast and scorch every dark corner. Because one dead werewolf, or vampire, or witch, whatever it may be, may mean a thousand or more safe innocents, and for all the pain and scars it takes to reach that, it will always be worth it.Sevaryn, my Journeymen, Valys, Kjora, all of you. In my heart, I carry you all with me, I remember what your kindnesses were like, what being alive meant to each of you, and I will never forget it.

SKYRIM

VOICE

• ON THE AEDRA AND DAEDRA
• FIREPOTS

It's been an odd day. I woke up from a night at the inn accosted by a priest of Mara, preaching love until he found a leeway to advertise buying an amulet. Then I tracked down a lair of Mephala cultists as per a contract, only to listen to their leader babble on about the "secreted works of the Webspinner." Both irritated me. Though, I will admit, it brought me to think about the rest of these gods, what I think of them.I am conflicted about the Aedra, I think they provide more spirit and justification for living than anything else. Perhaps that is just enough for most folk, but when I see the direct, cruel involvement of the Daedra, I wonder what purpose do these Divines ever truly serve, but only make us hope and pray the inevitable storm does not reach us.Daedra, on the other hand? Damnable, disgusting filth, and their slave-horde of cultists. They benefit from and entertain themselves on the suffering of man, mer, and beastfolk they inflict. It would take a great deal to stop me from caving a daedroth’s skull in, and I feel I’m already dealing a great deal of patience with Azuran and Meridian followers.

7 Rain’s Hand, 2E 590I’m still strong, but I’m not getting any younger. I need to be more creative, efficient, with my hunts. The big ones at least. I’ve been working on a project, for the last few months.They’re called firepots, explosive shells you can do just about anything destructive with. Not an original name, I know, I’m working on it. It’s not wrong to call them bombs, either.The more I do with them, the complex they get, so I’m writing it all down here for my own sake. This will be updated over time as I become less of an incompetent bastard.If you’re reading this and you’re not me- piss off.Basics:Kindlepots.The essentials to any explosive are kindlepitch and firesalts. The most basic bomb is, what I call, a kindlepot. It’s also just a firepot.Kindlepitch is a sticky, sap-like thing, terrible to smell and get on your hands. It’s flammable, has lots of destructive uses, mostly for setting fires. Fire salts are a powder you harvest from flame atronachs, they burn and also set fire to things. Do you get where this is going?Combine kindlepitch and fire salts and you create a volatile concoction, folks call it concentrated kindlepitch. It’s explosive, I’ve seen it used to blast whole sections of mines.Inside, the kindlepitch and the fire salts are separated so they don’t mix and explode before you can even throw the damn thing. Ideally, the core is kindlepitch and the rest is fire salts. I tried parchment, but the fire salts slowly burned through that one. Upon advice, I was told about using dried, shaped wax to form the inner shell, but I resorted to another layer of clay. The inner shell is attached to the lid of the outer shell, so it remains firmly in place when I seal the whole thing.What matters most is how much kindlepitch and fire salts you use, specifically how much of each. The more kindlepitch, the more intense the blast is. The more firesalts, the wider the blast radius is. So, if you want a firepot that doesn’t spread too far but can scorch your prey down to its soul? Heavier kindlepitch concentration, but go light on the fire salts. Want to burn everything around you? Easy on the kindlepitch, heavy on the fire salts. Personally, I prefer a heavy kindlepitch and light fire salt concoction, means I’ll hurt what I need hurt and won’t get myself cooked in the process.Dustpots.On my travels, I picked this up from a fellow hunter. Smart bastard. He called these chokebombs, but I think I prefer my naming better.His was a combination of fine silver dust and sawdust in a leather pouch. The silver’s meant to irritate monsters, the sawdust is to make it hard to breathe. That’s more curated for monsters, and silver’s not easy to come by, so I worked on something else.I kept the sawdust, but replaced it with a clay pot. The core of the Dustpot is a small casing of kindlepitch, small enough not to cause an explosion. The rest of the pot is filled with sawdust and fire salts. The kindlepitch mixes with the fire salts, causing a reaction big enough to render the sawdust into a thick plume of smoke, but not enough to cause an explosion. I’ve found that not all the fire salts burn on the initial explosio. A good amount remains in the smoke, inhaling it burns your throat and nostrils plenty, a good opportunity if you need a distraction to escape or open up a strike.Alternatively, you can replace the sawdust with sand. But that’s an entire beast on its own. The explosion will burn the sand hot enough to turn it into tiny specks of molten slag. You really don’t want to be anywhere near this when it breaks. I can also thank Jayid for the invention.Silverpots.Just like the Dustpots, but add fine silver dust as per Jayid’s concoction. The fire salts and kindlepitch will burn the sawdust and create the smoke, and the silver dust mixed in will pollute the smoke, choking any monstrous son of a bitch caught in the plume.Shardpots.Sometimes I break the clay pots. Frustrating as it is, it gave me an idea. Take a Kindlepot, mix clay or metal shards, could be both, in the outer layer with the fire salts, and the resulting explosion will launch the shards and shred through anyone near it. You /really/ don’t want to be near this. Don’t put too much kindlepitch, or you’ll melt the shards made out of softer material. Unless you want molten pieces flying everywhere, then do as you damn well please.Markpots.Fill a clay pot with paint, nothing else. You have to aim at exactly what you want to mark. Alternatively, a small mixture of kindlepitch and fire salts, too small to do any damage, can still launch the paint everywhere.Toxpots.This one’s a little more complicated. Gather the ingredients for a poison and dry distill it in a retort. Use a clay pot as a receiving flask so the retort feeds the gas directly into it. When the retort is drained, take the pot out and seal it immediately for your own damn sake. You can also use glass pots, btut clay’s not as costly. No frail glass either, it should be thick enough it only breaks when you throw it.The amount of gas needs to be a little higher than what it can comfortably sit at inside the pot, so there’s enough pressure that when it breaks the poison cloud bursts. You can probably add a small kindlepitch-fire salts mixture for added effect, but I won’t be the one to figure that out.The ingredients are Fleshfly Larvae and Nightshade in combination with Corn Flower. You can replace corn flower with Blessed Thistle, Violet Coprinus, or Nirnroot if you have any. It’s a strong poison, and will sap away anyone’s vitality. Mixing Fleshfly Larvae and Nightshade with Emetic Russula or Stinkhorn will have the same effect, but it makes targets more sluggish as well.

WEAPONS & MISC.

Twin Swords - One of his main weapons is two identical swords, made of a sturdy steel forge and simple in design. The handle is wrapped in leather, and the blades themselves feature multiple curved edges for added sharp ends, ensuring added lethality when inflicting lacerations.Twin Daggers - Yngnar’s secondary line of weaponry is two daggers, one steel and the other silver-plated. The blades themselves are twelve inches/thirty centimeters in length, the handles being six inches/fifteen centimeters.Throwing Knives - A set of six throwing knives comprised of steel, all of which are six inches/fifteen centimeters in length total. They are attached to a leather strap around the thigh, just beneath the kilt or behind the gambeson coat.Firepots - A series of fire salts-kindlepitch explosives contained within clay pots, Yngnar carries a set of six. They are used only in dire situations, usually during much larger, dangerous hunts.

Skene - A short knife with a blade length of three and a half inches/nine centimeters, a skene is used not for combat, but rather for cutting and preparing food. A useful tool, though it can be used as a weapon if need be. The skene is stored in a sheath integrated on the inside of his boot.Skinning Knife - A finely crafted blade used to skin prey, whether game or those killed on a monster hunt.Trophy Hook - A trophy hook attached to the rear of his belt used to carry severed monster heads when delivering a contract. It can additionally be used as a weapon if need be, useful for hooking into the opponent and dragging them closer.Healing Effects - Yngnar carries vials of basic, but efficient, potions of vitality, made up of a Bugloss-Mountain Flower concoction, used for more serious injuries in dire need of healing. Primarily, he uses poultices, moist masses of herbs applied over injuries such as cuts and minor lacerations, also used to treat aches and sorenesses.Poisons - A set of basic poisons, half of which are made up of a Fleshfly Larva-Nightshade-Corn Flower concoction for efficient draining of vitality, the other half being a Fleshfly Larva-Nightshade-Blessed Thistle concoction to inflict sluggishness on top of degrading health.Waterskin - A standard, sturdy leather waterskin, filled with fresh water. It is part of the essentials of any wayfarer’s equipment, lest they die of thirst.

ARMORS

TBA

SKYRIM, MORROWIND, AND HIGH ROCK - Yngnar's travels are vast, from the land of the Dunmer to the reaches of the Iliac. Wherever the hunt is, he will go, even if he comes across something far different than the usual.HUNTER - Yngnar has made himself infamous amongst bandits, cultists, witches, vampires, and all who might pledge themselves to Daedric lords, crime, and so forth. Some may want to join him in his endeavors, and others may seek him out to destroy him. Or, perhaps, one would like to acquire his services.DISGRACED WEREWOLF - He has abandoned his pack and rebuked Hircine's blessing, and such has made him a target of the Daedric Prince's wrath. It is not uncommon for fellow kin to be sent to deal with him, or others might find solace in the fact they find themselves in the same situation as him.TRAVELER - While typically an isolationist, he is not a stranger to accompanying a fellow traveler or two. Whether it be traversing dungeons or trekking across the land, he can prove a useful ally and perhaps a decent conversation.CURIOUS - Yngnar is a curious soul, and will try to access many avenues to satisfy his desire to know more. He will often be drawn by opportunities to investigate the obscure, the arcane, and even the dark. While he may not be the average academic, he would certainly be of help in one's endeavors to discover and understand.ENEMIES - Over the years, Yngnar has become a proficient hunter, and his exploits as the Wolf-Butcher have no doubt earned the scorn of those he targets. Amongst his possible enemies/adversaries would be Daedra cultists, vampires, and more.ALLIES - A somewhat foreign concept for Yngnar nowadays, but it still wouldn't hurt to know he can trust a select few to have his back.

An Archive of Faces

Hi! If you're interested in roleplaying, feel free to reach me through Discord (.goov) or ESO (@Vargoy).I typically answer fastest on Discord, and I also roleplay on it as well, so I'm more than glad to brainstorm a few ideas and get a story going on either platform!Background Art - The Wild Hunt of Odin, Peter Nicolai Arbo, 1872

PREFERENCES

- While I am open to mature themes (gore, combat, romance, etc.), I prefer communication over any significant details before it's roleplayed out.
- I do both Discord and in-game scenes!
- I mostly prefer one-on-one's and small groups, but it's not a hard limit.
- More rule than preference. No bigotry (in any form) out-of-character.
- IC =/= OOC