Finally, I got around to doing my own character backstory

• Posted by Paul November 14, 2011 - 803 views

  Prompted by Piper Jo, and with a pressing need to get a Skyrim character that I will love, cherish and - beyond anything - actually stick with.... here is my character backstory 

  Nasreen, a headstrong and determined female Breton

  I

  ‘Gar... a wasted journey’ muttered Nasreen under her breath. She took a bite of her beef jerky, and washed it down with a swig of mead. 

  Mariana Ancharia overheard her words, and took a break from polishing the row of tankards that arrayed the bar at the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn. ‘Got a problem, young lady?’ enquired the kindly innkeeper, doubtless hoping their conversation would lead to a bulging bar tab - and perhaps even the hire of an upstairs room for the night.

  Nasreen put down her tankard, surveyed the Imperial hostess and, quickly deciding the question was genuine, decided to vent. ‘All that way, and then the scroll wasn’t even where it was meant to be’ she raged ‘some fetcher bought the damned thing only yesterday. Not that the old hag at the bookstore was even bothered’. And then putting on her best Argonian accent proceeded to recount the entire conversation.

  The object of desire had been a rare and valuable scroll called ‘The Chronicle of Sacrifice’, rare enough to justify a long trip from High Rock. Now the scroll had been sold to some passing Altmer sorceress, and - to add insult to injury - she’d had to endure mocking and sneering from Mach-Na at the bookstore.

  A wasted journey. All that way for nothing. There was nothing for it, Nasreen thought. I’ll spend the night at the Mages Guild before setting off home. ‘It will be good to catch up with  my old friend Uurwen again’ she mused. 

  Grabbing her satchel and staff, she left the half-finished beef jerky on the bar top, and bade good night to the innkeeper. 

  ‘If you need a room for the night....’  called Mariana, her words trailing off into the night. Too late. She was gone.

  II

  Nasreen shivered and pulled her hood tightly over her head. Trudging through the dark and crowded streets of Bruma, she ducked into the welcoming warmth of the Jerall View. Pausing only to order a warming bowl of chicken stew, she squeezed in the nearest available spare seat, just off to the side of the roaring wood fire. 

  The choice was a snow-laden trudge through the Pale Pass into Skyrim, and then a cold and lonely trek across into High Rock. Alternatively, it was a route march across the Colovian mountains to the port of Anvil, hoping to find a friendly sea salt who would let her take a trip into Iliac Bay. 

  Not much of a choice. Either option was lengthy, lonely and fraught with danger from wolves, bears or worse. Not that Nasreen couldn’t take care of herself. Schooled in the arts of magicka, and with her innate pure Breton breeding, she was more than a match for the denizens of the road. If the stuck to the roads, she should be fine. 

  It was just the frustration of returning home empty handed. What would Azelice say? The kindly and weather worn Guild leader would understand wouldn’t she? She wasn’t to know that her protege had stopped off in the Imperial City for two days on the journey to Cheydinhal. And Nasreen certainly wasn’t going to admit that her failure to land the elusive rare scroll was entirely down to her unbridled curiosity, and her long held desperation to experience the delights of Tamriel’s most famous city.

  Suddenly, Nasreen felt weary and conflicted. For a brief moment, she contemplated a life away from High Rock. A fresh start in Cyrodiil, or even Hammerfell. Azelice would find out. He always did. ‘How could he ever know?’ thought the young Breton, polishing off the last off the warming stew. 

  With a sigh she stood, tucked in her cloak and headed out. ‘Pale Pass it is then, better call at Nord Winds for an extra tunic....’

  III

  For three days, Nasreen was content that she’d made the right decision. The walk through Pale Pass had been uneventful, save for a handful of wolves and a few small scamps - nothing a well placed fireball or lightning spell couldn’t deal with in a few seconds.

  It was almost too quiet. Nasreen looked down into Skyrim, rolling tundra stretching out into the distance, with the snowy peak of the Throat of the World on the horizon. She could see smoke rising from the nearby cluster of houses that was apparently the town of Helgen. ‘Maybe there’ll be a bed for the night’ she thought ‘I’d rather not have to go all the way to Falkreath for a comfy bed’.

  She was even starting to feel more confident about going home. ‘I’ll tell that Azelice’ she found herself saying out loud ‘if he’d been so desperate to get that blasted scroll, well, he should have gone to Cheydinhal himself. Yes, that’s it, its time to stand up for myself, forge my own path, grow up a bit....’

  ‘Stop there Breton’ 

  Nasreen was suddenly brought up sharp by a rough Nordic voice ahead. 

  ‘Stormcloak or Imperial?’  barked the voice. Squinting in the gathering dusk, she could make out the outline of muscle-bound Nord with lined, battle-worn face, and insignia on his armour that she did not immediately recognise. 

  ‘Stormcloak?’ Nasreen thought herself. The word was unfamiliar. But to declare for Imperial might provoke a hostile reaction. Reaching for her staff, she narrowed her eyes and began the invocation....

  Too late. The second Nord had circled behind, using trees for cover, and sprung out from behind a rock pile. Knocking the young Breton to the ground, the spell interrupted mid-cast, the two guards had the advantage, as well as the element of surprise. In a flurry of kicks, punches and scratches, Nasreen felt her tired body, wearied from the long walk, being dominated by the Nords

  Muffled voices. A prisoners hood slipped over her head. And then only darkness....