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Vrage Saetring


Started by Vrage
Post #3853
Banned

119
Faction & Race:
Ebonheart Pact (Nord)
Thanks to Triskele for letting me use her sheet style.

[Image: FyshW.jpg]

Life is short in this land, short and brutal and very rarely fair. Skyrim is a land that forces action upon its inhabitants, fighting merely reach the age to hold a sword, and upon the edge of that sword would rest the key to life and death when the cold winds rise, the keen steel of a good blade is a mans only solace when the beasts, four legged or two, emerge. Just as it would be his bane the very moment his resolve shatters, and then... crimson succour would fall and mar the pale snow that would become his cairn.

Name: Vrage Saetring

Race: Nord

Age: 32

Birthsign: The Tower

Origin: Born in the midst of winter in the general area of what would eventually become Ivarstead.

Occupation: Ranger, blade-for-hire.

Relatives: Parents, two younger sisters, moved to Cyrodill before the province collapsed into chaos. He avoids thinking too hard and prefers to believe that they moved clear of the fighting.

Brief description of appearance: Vrage stands tall, more lithe than bulky, with the lean toned build and the rough hands of one who has spent many hours of his life working the blade. His shoulder-length hair is ashen and swept clear of his eyes, yet otherwise uncared for with the strands matted and dirty. His face is often flush from cold weather and is a host of only the merest beginnings of ageing wrinkles, yet still plainly still well in the grasp of youth regardless of if the man is in his prime or not.

With high cheekbones and a strong jawline, he would be considered handsome were it not marred by his somewhat overlarge nose, his sunken cheeks which betray a hard lifestyle, and the three scars that strike downwards from as high as his nose to his chin. An ugly reminder of his first and hopefully last encounter with a werewolf, once upon a dark night in Falkreath hold.

As for raiment, he clads himself in rawhides, furs, and treated leather. It wouldn't be uncommon to see an iron plate upon the more sensitive areas, but never enough to hinder movement. Sometimes, he also wears a woad marking over his left eye.

Religious Point of View: Saetring acknowledges the Eight, but knows better than to offer prayers in place of raising his blade.

Political Point of View: Skyrim is for Skyrim, and no man unfit to rule Skyrim should ever sit upon the throne of emperors. The Pact has resulted in a shaky alliance with the Dunmer and Argonians, both of which he's more than willing to atleast attempt co-operation with.

Loves: Old leaves beneath his feet and new ones above his head. Nord mead, brown ale, and... Alto wine.

Hates: Oppression.

Background: He was born in 2E 550, beneath the constellation of The Tower. For the initial sum of years it takes for a boy to become a man (Admittedly less numerous in Skyrim), he lived in relative comfort and was only occasionally assailed by murderous mudcrabs (And other things). When he came of age, he decided that the measure of a man was the number of his deeds, so he implored his father to teach him the way of the bow and blade, bid farewell to his mother and kissed his little sisters before flying the roost. His first stop would be Windhelm, where he worked for a number of years as an apprentice blacksmith before ending his stay there by making his very own sword and leaving, taking with him a weighted coinpurse and some new experiences.

Thus began a life of errant wandering, selling his services for the purpose of making his purse heavier. Sometimes it was a lost valuable, sometimes an unsettled debt, maybe a rich man with a fancy for some rare treasure rumoured to sit at the end of a nearby Barrow. The details mattered little, the coin was his only concern. Aye, aye at times he was paid to consider deeds far less proud and adventurous. Perhaps that unsettled debt would remain so, or that lost valuable was infact stolen... None could know, twas not for show, and someone had to die.

All the while a cut of his earnings was paid towards his family, in gratitude for keeping him alive long enough to live his own way. Eventually his earnings were enough to buy them their Cyrodillic home, and whatever end came of that... He dares not to think of it, twenty years since the day he last kissed the brow of his younger sisters, and he had inadvertently been responsible for them moving into what would soon become a warzone.

Now, in the dawn of war, and in the times where the future of Tamriel was as uncertain as the oceans floor, Vrage is not about to put down his blade any time soon.
This post was last modified: October 25th 2012 10:45 AM by Vrage
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The following 5 users Like Vrage's post:
Beor of Skyrim, Maleus, Riage, Tecca, Triskele
Post #3856
Contributor

1,211
Faction & Race:
Daggerfall Covenant
Redguard
Amagad how dare u.

Jokes aside, great work ^^ Keep writing you!




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Post #3859
Banned

119
Faction & Race:
Ebonheart Pact (Nord)
I will, as soon as I think of something else worth writing about!
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Post #3952
Banned

119
Faction & Race:
Ebonheart Pact (Nord)
Added the tiniest of details: Birthsign and date of birth.
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The following 1 user likes Vrage's post:
Triskele
Post #15062
Member

1
Faction & Race:
Ebonheart Pact (Argonian)
(October 24th 2012 03:03 PM)Vrage Wrote:  Thanks to Triskele for letting me use her sheet style.

[Image: FyshW.jpg]

Life is short in this land, short and brutal and very rarely fair. Skyrim is a land that forces action upon its inhabitants, fighting merely reach the age to hold a sword, and upon the edge of that sword would rest the key to life and death when the cold winds rise, the keen steel of a good blade is a mans only solace when the beasts, four legged or two, emerge. Just as it would be his bane the very moment his resolve shatters, and then... crimson succour would fall and mar the pale snow that would become his cairn.

Name: Vrage Saetring

Race: Nord

Age: 32

Birthsign: The Tower

Origin: Born in the midst of winter in the general area of what would eventually become Ivarstead.

Occupation: Ranger, blade-for-hire.

Relatives: Parents, two younger sisters, moved to Cyrodill before the province collapsed into chaos. He avoids thinking too hard and prefers to believe that they moved clear of the fighting.

Brief description of appearance: Vrage stands tall, more lithe than bulky, with the lean toned build and the rough hands of one who has spent many hours of his life working the blade. His shoulder-length hair is ashen and swept clear of his eyes, yet otherwise uncared for with the strands matted and dirty. His face is often flush from cold weather and is a host of only the merest beginnings of ageing wrinkles, yet still plainly still well in the grasp of youth regardless of if the man is in his prime or not.

With high cheekbones and a strong jawline, he would be considered handsome were it not marred by his somewhat overlarge nose, his sunken cheeks which betray a hard lifestyle, and the three scars that strike downwards from as high as his nose to his chin. An ugly reminder of his first and hopefully last encounter with a werewolf, once upon a dark night in Falkreath hold.

As for raiment, he clads himself in rawhides, furs, and treated leather. It wouldn't be uncommon to see an iron plate upon the more sensitive areas, but never enough to hinder movement. Sometimes, he also wears a woad marking over his left eye.

Religious Point of View: Saetring acknowledges the Eight, but knows better than to offer prayers in place of raising his blade.

Political Point of View: Skyrim is for Skyrim, and no man unfit to rule Skyrim should ever sit upon the throne of emperors. The Pact has resulted in a shaky alliance with the Dunmer and Argonians, both of which he's more than willing to atleast attempt co-operation with.

Loves: Old leaves beneath his feet and new ones above his head. Nord mead, brown ale, and... Alto wine.

Hates: Oppression.

Background: He was born in 2E 550, beneath the constellation of The Tower. For the initial sum of years it takes for a boy to become a man (Admittedly less numerous in Skyrim), he lived in relative comfort and was only occasionally assailed by murderous mudcrabs (And other things). When he came of age, he decided that the measure of a man was the number of his deeds, so he implored his father to teach him the way of the bow and blade, bid farewell to his mother and kissed his little sisters before flying the roost. His first stop would be Windhelm, where he worked for a number of years as an apprentice blacksmith before ending his stay there by making his very own sword and leaving, taking with him a weighted coinpurse and some new experiences.

Thus began a life of errant wandering, selling his services for the purpose of making his purse heavier. Sometimes it was a lost valuable, sometimes an unsettled debt, maybe a rich man with a fancy for some rare treasure rumoured to sit at the end of a nearby Barrow. The details mattered little, the coin was his only concern. Aye, aye at times he was paid to consider deeds far less proud and adventurous. Perhaps that unsettled debt would remain so, or that lost valuable was infact stolen... None could know, twas not for show, and someone had to die.

All the while a cut of his earnings was paid towards his family, in gratitude for keeping him alive long enough to live his own way. Eventually his earnings were enough to buy them their Cyrodillic home, and whatever end came of that... He dares not to think of it, twenty years since the day he last kissed the brow of his younger sisters, and he had inadvertently been responsible for them moving into what would soon become a warzone.

Now, in the dawn of war, and in the times where the future of Tamriel was as uncertain as the oceans floor, Vrage is not about to put down his blade any time soon.

good shit man, really nice work. question tho. do you understand how the calender works in TES? i dont and would like to
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