Name: Saruriil Corellon
Gender: Male
Age: 127
Race: Altmer
Class: Heavy Warrior/Berserker
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Laterality: Right
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 210 lbs
Affiliations: Vigilants of Stendarr, Fighter's Guild
Afflictions: Touch of psychosis, but nothing compromising
Positive Traits: Confident, cooperative, unbiased towards different races
Negative Traits: Vicious, overzealous, hard to gain his respect
Habits: Rubbing his hands together, cracking his knuckles
Likes: All forms of alcohol, killing bandits/vampires/lycans, hunting for sport (not always an animal)
Dislikes: Morally undecided people (bad is better than neutral), sneak-thieves
Fears: Spiders
Aspirations: Become the leader of the Dawnguard, to lead a massive purge against the vampiric and lycanthropic denizens of Tamriel
Other: While he doesn't really care what he's killing, Saruriil knows he'll be praised more for killing vampires, bandits, and lycanthropes.
Appearance: Tall, even for an Altmer, and thickly built, with well-defined muscles. Saruriil's short, bright silver hair makes for a stark contrast to his much darker golden skin, thanks to spending an exceptional amount time training out in the sun. His lightning blue eyes are a rarity, however, and often give his identity away to those who are knowledgeable of supernatural hunters and bounty hunters.
Attire: A simple dark grey tunic is covered by hard, off-white steel plate armor, covering his torso, legs and feet, and all of his arms. His head is left bare, though, allowing him to feel more of a rush as he kills - their blood splattering his face and feeding his lust for more death. A crimson cloak flutters behind Saruriil, fixed between his shoulders and reaching to the middle of his shins.
Weaponry: A large, spiked silver warhammer, back-up steel war axe, and a small silver dagger in his left boot. Half-way decent with restoration and alteration magic, Saruriil is capable of paralyzing his foes for a few brief seconds - though not nearly as long as anyone with real training could accomplish. In addition, some minor healing spells are available to him in order to stabilize someone until a more practiced healer is available, or to bring a target to a hold's prison.
Skills-
Master: Two-Handed, Hand-to-Hand
Expert: Heavy Armor
Adept: One-Handed
Apprentice: Alteration, Restoration
Novice: Speech
History:
Saruriil was born, like many Altmer, on the Summerset Isles. However, unlike most Altmer, Saruriil had no interest in anything Magickal in nature. Fireballs were pretty, but held no value to him. Summoning magic proved interesting, but because nothing lasted long or gave him information, it was brushed aside. Even enchanting, one of the most versatile schools of magick, was tiresome to even think about. No, all that captured Saruriil's imagination, was swordplay and hand-to-hand combat.
The ring of steel, the crush of bodies on the battlefield, the smell of gore as it slid off the victor's blade, all of it was all that Saruriil ever wanted to be a part of. And, though all Altmer are taught the basics of close-quarters combat, very few ever learned more than was necessary. Saruriil was among those few, and was looked at with thinly veiled pity or contempt, depending on how much an observer understood his fascination. However, as his classmates continued to grow in their magickal prowess, Saruriil always laughed at them - instead referring to their prowess as a dependency, a weakness.
After dozens upon dozens of years of study, and training, Saruriil decided to leave the Summerset Isles in search of higher martial teachings. Soon after arriving in Anvil, Saruriil fell in love with an Imperial-raised Altmer he'd met in the Fighter's Guild. Her affections mirrored his own, and they were married soon after, and had a child years later, while still working for the Guild. During a raid on a vampire lair, however, she was bitten by one of the coven members and ran off without warning, and he soon believed she was dead.
Weeks later, Saruriil was awoken in the night by the screaming of his child. Rushing into the room, he came face-to-face with his wife, holding their child as she drained him of his blood - unceremoniously dropping his lifeless body to the floor. The hunger in her eyes told him is wife was no more, and Saruriil fled to the bedroom to retrieve his hammer, his wife in fast pursuit. His eyes, welling with tears, blurred as he whipped around and smashed his vampiric wife's head. She slumped to the floor, propped against the wall, and Saruriil leapt over to her, swinging again.
Over and over, he hit her body, raining blows on the undead child-killer until all that was left was a pile of torn, ashen skin. With the dawn came sunlight, and her body burned to a pile of ashes before him. Within the hour, Saruriil left his home behind, heading to any and all churches he could for help. Slowly working northward, Saruriil eventually found himself in Skyrim, being contacted by an emissary from the Silver Hand and joining their cause.
There, he lost what little innocence he had left. His craving for battle was changed to a craving for death. Death for vampires, lycans, and all that stood between him and his new goal. There, he lost himself.
After a few years of hunting, and looting the bodies of the slain, Saruriil found himself in a new nightmare. A child-turned-werewolf was found, and his brothers and sisters of the Silver Hand gave him a new weapon, one to solidify his place among their ranks. All he had to do, was kill the child. Kill it and end its existence. But the girl reminded him of his own child, drained of life and future, and Saruriil turned away. He left, the sounds of the cackling laughter from the Silver Hand fell on deaf ears as they set about their work, knowing full well that Saruriil would not return. He did keep the hammer, though.
For another few years, he wandered. Up and down, all over Tamriel, always finding his way back to Skyrim. And there, he found his salvation. The Vigilants of Stendarr welcomed him, gave him new life. They, too, were hunters of the supernatural, but far less vicious and uncompromising. They hunted the dark arts of necromancy and unbarred conjuration. They hunted vampires.
Still, he would not regain his old self, would not lose his vicious pursuit of the death of all that had cost him his family. While he could be trusted to quickly, and efficiently, end the lives of necromancers and dremora, he was quickly excluded from all things vampiric. His joy at the death of undead, at the pain he could cause, was too much. Soon, he caught on, and left their organization in search of rumors. Rumors of true vampire hunters.
The Dawnguard.
Just the name was enough for him; memories of his child's murder flooded his mind, and the assurance of retribution the dawn had brought with it, was enough to Saruriil. He made his way to Riften, where the rumors all lead, and happened upon a returning group of Dawnguard, following them to what became his new home.
Writing Color: How's this?
Sample: If my history isn't enough (just came up with it, pardon any problems), I'll post an older post I've made.
