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  • A Vigilant Assassin Jun 4, 2018

    † Morthaine 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
    × Born Under the Ritual Stone
    × An off-brand Nord (Skaal)
    × Reluctantly introduces herself as Morgan; feels uneasy being called by her real name.
    × Age is estimated to late 20's; she couldn't care less about time and the limit it has one one's schedule.
    × Reserved in terms of romance/sexuality. The concept of romance is a confusing one to her, perhaps because her mother never said "love" out loud. Disinterest aside, she most probable to be with a man.
    × A solo assassin whom has a hatred for 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 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 has a mixed heritage of Skyrim and Solsthiem, but overall a pure 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.
    × Chaotic Neutral/Good


    "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.
    × 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 is equipped akin to a mage, though the steel bastard sword at her side would say vigilant.
    × Light padding crosses about her chest beneath her robes of faded blue and worn brown. A sash with the white of a dove is pinned by a leathery pauldron and a belt that covers her mid-torso. Linen bandages swath her forearms and palms, but not her fingers.
    × Occasionally is she seen without the neatly stitched cover about her jaw and over her nose, and almost never is she seen without her hood.
    × Her sword's hilt is engraved with Dovahzul, saying simply, "Risk". She absorbed the language from a thin book she found on her travels, having felt an unexplainable connection to it. Perhaps it is her connection to the Skaal, though she personally knows the people not.
    × Her sword's sheathe resembles the skull of a bird.
    × She chose the gear specifically for blending; nobody would suspect a vigilant to be a murderer.

    × Equal dominance in both eyes, balanced between far-sighted and near-sighted. She is ambidextrous, but favors her left hand.
    × She stands around 5"10.


    "I did not fail, I found a way to do it wrong." -Benjamin Franklin

    × Her "battle cry" is not a roar, but rather a shrill scream. It can temporarily stun an opponent, if not deafen them. The power is hard on her throat and chest, sometimes even leaking blood out of her mouth from its use.
    × A straight blade the length of her arm and smaller becomes one extra limb in combat. Should she lose that limb, she will improvise, even if it's a rod from a fire spit.
    × 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. 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 bandages
    × 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.
    × She can be figuratively depicted as one of Skyrim's hawks. 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 cliff or a hold's towering walls.
    × Summary: A creative fighter.


    "Her actions are predicted to be unpredictable."
    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 questions are replaced with snarky remarks, her voice suited more for demanding than asking. She has the same bloodlust as any nord, but her ways are not barbaric.
    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. 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.
    There are two different glints in her eyes. At rest, the glint is curious and digging for something that probably isn't even there. In battle, the glint shimmers with something playfully dangerous. The closest to "genuine" would be brutally honest answers, laced with a sincere voice (that she can muster). She "eliminates" for she believes is beneficial, whether it be to her or for the common. Should someone unravel her identity and decide approaching her with a request is a good idea, she will refuse. Persistence will guarantee an injury. She is nobody's trained hawk.

    × Birds
    × Knowledge
    × Books
    × Crafts

    × Being Inside for Extensive Times (dungeons, taverns, etc.)
    × Ignorance
    × Talking
    × People Quick to Assume


    Do you remember the terns, my little tyke?

    You wanted to join them. You wanted to fly. I would often find you where I plead you not go - those cliffs salted with sea and snow. Yet, I could not scold you. I could not do it, darling.

    You have their spirit, their grace - how could I keep you from yourself? Do not lose yourself to the other children, my tyke. Your father was a thirsty, cruel man. His name I will never know, and I pray neither shall you. I met him only once, and since then he will not walk to come take you. Thirsty he was, but he chugged until he drowned in salty, red ale. No matter what the others say, you will not fledge from the nest nor branch nor tree.

    You fledge from your first flight and later the skies you sail. Take that leap if you must, and let nobody stop you. You were always impossible in hide and seek, my darling. More than ever.

    Sparks showered her shoes when the journal hit the pit from a furious hand, and with a conscious suddenly clear and crying second thoughts, she scrambled for the fire poker. She cradled the journal with a spastic grip, shaking with sorrow she was beyond.

    Her mother left the Skaal and the land of ash for Skyrim, hearing it to be more active. She wanted adventure for a change, to start her own life outside of peace and tradition, and to see the other side of the nord race for herself.

    She has never seen a tern, but her mother had recreated them as dolls with real felsaad tern feathers. She was a healer, passive until she snapped under persistent pressure, whereas her daughter is mildly aggressive, mild even in bloodshed. Morthaine's skill was not inherited, but instead earned when her mother began teaching her defense, though Morthaine's tactics are more offensive. She learned by countering, not copying. Where she was mocked, she would bite. Her "playmates", or rather offenders, resided in Windhelm, where she was sent to steal retrieve supplies for her mother's inn, of which soon became a forge during her pregnancy.

    Morthaine grew the feathers of an assassin, not blind to the war that was raging and devouring all in its path. She sprinkled her guardian's ashes into the river and left the nest to rot.

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