Basics:
Name: Asturia Sarkath
Race: Redguard
Gender: Female
Age: 32 winters
Birthplace: Riften; Merryfair farm
Class: Assassin
Religion: Daedric prince Bhoethiah
Sexuality: Bisexual
Health: Slower magicka regen
Afflictions: Witbane
Character:
Looks: She's of average build and average height; she's basically average everything. The only distinguishing feature is the eyepatch she always wears. Not because she's lost an eye, mind you, but rather because she finds it tedious having to shut her eye when shooting a bow; and considering she does that a lot, it comes in handy. Underneath the flowing robes that leave most to the imagination is hidden a well muscled body born of years of hardship and vigorous training. She usually wears her black hair tied up with a leather band, so it doesn't disturb her when she performs tasks typical of her profession. She has piercing silver eyes that stare right through your soul if you aren't careful enough.
Personality: Asturia is a very distant woman whose eye(s) it's hard to capture, let alone keep her attention. The only thing she seems to pay any mind to is her line of work. As all good assassins, she pays the price; she treads through life without a single emotion passing over her face, without a single event scraping at the barriers that surround her heart. Most of the time she avoids human contact – or any other, to be clear – but when she is forced to mix with social creatures, she does so without enthusiasm and no small amount of repulsion. Any conversation she conducts is carried with blatant bluntness and without any tact whatsoever. To sum it up; she's a misanthrope. Rare is the occasion when someone manages to coax a response out of her and by the time they are able to do so, she is usually so riled up that things quickly turned into a heated argument that more often than not leads to an enthusiastic pub brawl.
Bio: She was raised by a pair of farmers west of Riften, but since business was bad because of the bandit raids along the road, the small girl was sent away at an early age, supposedly to live a better life. Although living with her uncle in Whiterun didn't seem as bad at the time, things soon went downhill. It's amazing how a single sunny day can change the fate of one unsuspecting child who found itself at the wrong place at the wrong time. Seeing your loved ones slaughtered before your eyes is not an easy thing to witness, much less forget; it seemed only natural to shut it all out at the time. Certainly better than having to endure your heart being shred to pieces, right? After all, nobody can tear it apart if it's gone.
Starting location: Ivarstead; Vilemyr Inn
Affiliation:
The Thieves Guild: Well acquainted; they work together often, especially with Vex
The Companions: No relation
Mage’s College: Acquainted with Enthir
The Dark Brotherhood: Friends with Babette
The Order: Doesn't know they exist
The Thalmor: Has done some work for them
The Imperial Legion: Has done some work for them
The Stormcloaks: Has done some work for them
The Falmer: No relation
The Reachmen: No relation
Combat & Equipment
Equipment: An enchanted longbow, a poisoned sword, a set of light armor
Skills: Archery, One-Handed, Hand-to-Hand, Alchemy, Illusion, Sneaking
Spells: Invisibility, Muffle, Frenzy, Soul trap, Flames, Fast healing
Perk tree
Post sample:
"It is with great satisfaction that I present you today," rang the bellowing voice across the hushed host of people, "the bastard, the thief who dared take the legacy of our forefathers!" At this, the throng was roused as one, soft whispers quickly escalating into full-out insults and angry expletives spat at the kneeling figure on the wooden platform beside the gallows. It was only a matter of minutes before the words were replaced with rotten vegetable and foul fruit that smattered the man's bland linen clothing. The stench of putrefaction that filled the town square soon grew unbearable and those with no guts for that sort of thing quickly emptied their stomachs of their last meals to the side of the pavement. The figure, whose face was hidden with an old potato sack, was still kneeling stock-still, as if it were someone else who was pelted just seconds ago.
When the guards finally managed to silence the unsettled crowd again, the herald picked up: "We will have justice today!" he nearly screamed, the veins on his ruddy face bristling with anger. "We will have what is rightfully ours!" the riffraff joined in, their mass tiding at the edge of the gallows like the stormy sea.
Another figure had been watching all this take place, safely obscured from prying gazes by the thin fabric that served as curtains in a window high above the square. It was at this moment that its sleek hands took hold of the bow that had been left alone up until then, while with one leg firmly planted on the edge of the window, it ensured its stability. A single arrow was whisked from the quiver resting on a small overturned stool beside it. With the thinnest of sounds the arrow was placed on the string of the black bow in its strong, sure grip. Everything was ready, now all it had to do, was to wait.
The man outside had finished his heated speech, successfully riling up the masses; as if they weren't uncontrollable enough. The figure in the window snorted derisively and watched as the convict was pulled to his feet and led to the noose swinging in the afternoon breeze. The nameless archer turned its gaze to the sun, finding it was almost at its peak. "Just a few seconds more," the figure whispered to itself and wrapped its fingers around the string, breathing heavily with excitement. "The executioner closed in on the now shaking thief and tightened the rope around his fragile neck with practiced, automated emotions. When he was done, another man, thin and bony, grabbed the lever that was the only barrier between the world of the living and the dead for the sobbing man. "Come on!" the figure hissed with irritation, its gaze meandering cross the sea of faces in the square. Then finally, the creaking of the trap-door mechanism could be heard in the sudden stillness and her eye centered in on its target.
"Gotcha, you sorry son of a bitch," she spat as she released the arrow into the neck of the only smirking man in the audience.
[I do hope everything is in order. Should something be amiss, do let me know.
]