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⇷ Mahg'pie ⇸General
⇸ He is mute; he communicates through writing and clicking patterns made by his tongue and teeth.Image
⇸ His Cyrodiilic (English) is off, though still somewhat understandable.
⇸ Sexuality is undefined, he hasn't met anyone that could be an interest.
⇸ His class can be identified as a combat-alchemist.
⇸ He travels, but due to his lack of a voice, he resides in abandoned shelters and ruins, rather than staying in the social interior of an inn.
⇸ His family is in ruins (see "History").
⇸ More spiritual than religious. He is interested in Tamriel's paranormality (ghosts, draugr, skeletons, dragon priests, etc), though he doesn't necessarily study it.
⇸ His name is said like the bird: "Mag-pie".
⇸ He is rather small in stature, though not necessarily petty. He is lean, though appears lesser because of his short, fine hairs.
⇸ He stands around 5"8.
⇸ His fur is vaguely curled (more visible around his neck, ears, the corners of his jaw). He is colored a sleek black, except for a white marking- that of an upside down teardrop- dotting the tip of his chin and ending at the valley of his collarbone.
⇸ He has a prominent, sunken face. His cheekbones very clearly indicate his feline skull, and no cheek tufts to hide it.
⇸ In summary, he is like a Cornish Rex- his tail is short, whip-like, and his ears are bare.
⇸ His eyes are molten- the pure definition of embers with their upper highlights of red and a coal pupil settled in lower gold.
⇸ Since he is clearly no match for Skyrim's constant winter, he wears cozy attire, though still fit to his agile form. A red wool-like poncho crosses his torso, bordered in gold design. He wears a deep brown hood, also laced in gold, of which drapes over his shoulders and blankets a majority of his left side with tassels to weigh it down. Underneath is a sleeveless baggy top, tied around the middle, accompanied by black karem pants that are tight about the calf, ankles, and heel. Red linen wraps about his foot, holding the ends of the pants secure to his heel.
⇸ He has a baggy beige satchel that crosses his torso, slightly worn and made of suede leather.
⇸ Dark linen is tight about his arms, and attached to it is a light plate covered in home-made scales, that cover the tops of his forearms, metallic and patterned in silvers and black; they were made to make chain-clinking sounds to sway attention (something like this).
⇸ He wears the mask of an unknown dragon priest (adjusted to fit to his feline skull), giving him an intriguing, obscure demeanor and to hint at his voiceless condition.
⇸ His weapons are the claws on his left hand and an emeici on his right hand
⇸ His most advanced skill is alchemy; he specializes in poisons and health- poisons are used for his emeici.
⇸ His speed and wit are the result of him being inferior in strength (standing next to the average swordsman).
† Morthaine "Morgan" Ever †
" My loyalty lies not with who, but why they would need my loyalty."
"A bird sitting on a branch is never afraid of the branch breaking; its trust is not on the branch, but in its wings."-Unknown
× Age is estimated to late 20's; she couldn't care less about time and the limit it has one one's schedule.Image
× Reserved in terms of romance/sexuality. She has never been able to define love, nor has had any real interest in it (this could change over the course of role-play). The concept of romance is a confusing one to her.
× Discreet assassin. She is purely solo, and - in fact - despises the known guilds.
× Travel is routine. She is a wanderer rarely seen-easily dismissed- one may note her lack of a traveler's bag. She visits inns, and occasionally soldier camps. The most sleep she ever gets or cares for is around 4 hours at most.
× Family is her mother alone. Her mother was the one that taught her defence (though Morgan took some of that skill to fighting). Her father, however, was never a part of her life, except the cause of her existence. Doubtless if he were one of the two that tried dragging her mother into submission, him being the only one that actually succeeded.
× The view on the war is not entirely specified when asked. She finds all parties to be an annoyance.
× Gods are merely an existence; she will never worship any, nor speak of them in good manner. She claims to create her own luck, her own fate, her own time. It is not uncommon for her to face the wrath of the deities for being supposedly ungrateful. She has minor history on dealing with priests.
× Though her immune system is very secure, she is still mortal. She has a habit of picking at open wounds, said for the various scars she bears. Rest is scarce. She has no real concern for her physical condition.
× She is purely nord (and resistant to cold temperatures- or she simply refuses to acknowledge when she is within the first stage of frostbite).
× Her voice is rather low to be feminine, but high for a male- part of the reason she can be mis-gendered. Her tone is clear, though her accent is bland enough to not be an accent at all- it is a hard guessing game to place her location of origins.
× She goes by Morgan to those she labels a stranger/acquaintance.
"A fine coat is not always an indication of an attractive mind."-Aesop's Fables
× Her eyes are probably the most notable attribute. The iris is unnaturally pale, and almost makes her sclera appear rather dim. It does not help with the addition of darkness about from unhealthy sleep.Skills
× The most distinguishable scars are on her face and ring fingers. The duo of fingers was sloppily amputated by a man that she refused to "go home with", which resulted in a violent act- she was "not going to be married any time soon". The scar on her face is the average battle scar, running from the center of her lips to the outermost left brow.
× Her body is honed by years of battle and experience in agility. Lean, broad- her skin, however, almost a deathly pale.
× Her hair is messy, rarely tended to, and fit to her hood that 'most never comes off. It is not entirely lustrous, almost a rather dull brown.
× Prone to causing discomfort, she shamelessly observes people with a bold but blank stare- when she's not eyeing her hands.
× She wears ragged attire, dotted by a variety of tears and a few ends scorched. There is metal protection in the suspected shape of a feather on her left arm (possibly silver), constructed to block while still maintaining some flexibility with the curve of her arm. Tassels hang from a pristine bird skull (this too is made of silver) on her waist's belt, the skull being the holster for her sword. Lastly, her hood and mouth-mask are hardly ever removed in the eyes of others. Her attire allows for "blending", often taking up silent reputation of a Vigilant of Stendarr or travelling mages on the roads.
× Her weapons include a quicksilver bastard sword and up to 5 ebony kunais hidden under her sash. The sword has a subtle engraving written in Dovahzul-"Risk Taker"- of which can describe both her and her sword. With the weapons, she also has a secure satchel worn on a thigh, containing poisons and linen bandages, along with a few scripts.
× She favors her left hand, but her right hand proves just as useful.
× She stands around 5"10, relatively lissome limbs being the main reason.
"I did not fail, I found a way to do it wrong." -Benjamin Franklin
× A nord, yet considered to be her own breed. Her "battle cry" is not a roar, but rather a shrill scream. It can temporarily stun an opponent, if not deafen them. The skill is rather hard on her throat, sometimes even leaking blood out of her mouth from its use.Personality
× She is focused mainly on one-handed swords and smaller, axes and maces are an exception when the first-mentioned are unavailable. As for two-handed, she is only able with halberds. She has no skill in the bow. However, arrows are her friend when she misplaces her throwing blades.
× Maintaining her own poisons, it is figured that she has experience in alchemy. However, she only has experience with making poisons. She has no knowledge on healing or "boost" potions, claiming that bandages come by cheaper.
× She cares not for magic. In fact, she becomes oddly hawkish when she is being preached at about the "wonders of Winterhold".
× She stays in no single place. She is not repetitive in her movements, though she does stick to the swift, clean route. She can be generally identified from the clean, precise marks on her opponents.
× Her weak area is magic. Relatively, she is unable to use scrolls or tomes; not even a staff. She has a lot more potential in dodging fired spells than learning them. Blessed she might as well be when her opponent has no form of life-detection in their abilities.
× No doubt that thieving would be a stat. Uses her superior sneak to her advantage, though she sees coin as a joke. At most, she steals uncooked meats and sometimes a temporary horse. "Coin is merely an illusion and lazy way to obtain", she'd say.
× Her coordination is found everywhere on her body. It would be expected from someone that scales cliffs and bounds from surface to surface with ease.
"Her actions are predicted to not be predictable."
Morthaine is not very giving- same can be said for taking. Dismissive, she has no intentions of polite mannerism, holding the door for none. With stubbornness, she often keeps her matters in her own hands, taking little to no heed of offers to heal her recent battle wounds or to sustain her hunger. Overall, she is insensitive and stoic, but curiosity lies underneath the facade. Her snarky side would show more often if it weren't for her quiet watchful nature. It wouldn't be too much of a surprise if she lusted for blood... A vampire without suckers.
Arrogance is a negative. She can be flashy in combat, and she has to be reminded that she is not invincible, said for the patterns of sores about her hide. Reckless to the extreme, she will leap off maddening heights; she can be considered "really brave or very foolish." Often probable, her actions can be shocking (and without a single regret), affirming that everything is allowed, as long as she is willing to take the consequences. She is seen unnaturally calm in all scenarios, but the true emotion lies within her eyes, and perhaps the occasional twitch in her nimble fingers.
The closest to "genuine" would be brutally honest answers, laced with a sincere voice (that she can muster).
She assassinates for she believes is beneficial, whether it be to her or for the common. Due to her wish to stay discreet, she rarely takes "inferior contracts worth a single grain of a brick".History
Nestling, oh tyke
How Mother wishes your presence so. She knows you are officially beyond tears, beyond any sorrowful emotion, beyond any feel for misery.
Mother is full of apologies yet spoken for how you stand, but she only knows air will be in your wings' favor.
Mother made quite the mess today. She did not bother cleaning it. It stained the floor. But Mother did it for the best. Mother was attacked by a thirsty man. He pinned her to the floor. Don't fret, darling, she ended his thirst and more. All liquids he could have ever needed are merely red stains on the floor. He was served well by ebony. Messy was the engraved tattoo on his throat that led down his chest.
Your name is engraved as well, fledgling. She hopes this new light will serve your path. She hopes that light will give you good friends. She hopes that light will serve and be served with your admirable mind of the shadows.
My darling, you always were skilled in playing hide and seek. More than ever
The journal was almost obliterated by the flames, but with second thoughts, Morthaine hurriedly scrambled for it with the fire poker, the same fire poker that left the home messier than the story within the journal scrap. Furniture was skewed out of the burst of a pulsing mental vein, a burst of fury alone. Her hands at this very moment and the eventful moments before were so spastic.
Father was none known to her world. A father figure was probably a man of her mother's forgotten inn that was one of two that tried dragging the woman to submission, and the only one that succeeded. After that, her mother was overwhelmed with a desire to owe justice. She passed her personal training to her daughter, with the exception that Morthaine was able to be much more developed as the skill began at an early age of nearly nine.
Her mother's inn is abandoned, and will forever remain. Her mother was still breathing when it was left, and she became a smithy, and a rather good one as well, designing weapons with a hilt that enabled throwing them. Her mother's death caused by an intruder unknown, but could be assumed to be in relation to those her mother slayed in self-defense.
Her mother's written thoughts are within her tactics. Many of the ink that is scribbled in the secure journal is relived by Morthaine to finish tasks that her mother couldn't/wouldn't do, whether it be thieving for her own survival or completing the abandoned designs of armor.
× She can be figuratively depicted as one of Skyrim's eagles. She can go unnoticed, but when trouble arrives- she is a very hard target to hit, and sticks to where most find difficult to reach, whether it be the narrowest platform on a mountain or a hold's towering walls.×
× Chaotic Neutral/Good ×
× Inspired from Assassin's Creed ×