There are nights when you can feel your mother’s anger.

Burning, raging, and uncontrollable. It takes all you have not to become engulfed. It takes even more for you to not let the teal aura of the calming spell you know start dancing at your fingertips – you want to cast it, you need to cast it, but you can’t. You’re not strong enough to do it without repercussions. Not yet. But you’re still able to cocoon yourself up in your blankets and with all you have left, block out your mother’s rage with all you have left.

You’re not surprised when you wake up to find that you nearly torched your room.

Your mother scolds you and you look as innocent as ever. Her feelings are disguised – the hurt and fury from being left by your father – but what she doesn’t know is that it affects you too. You feel her anger, and it’s caused a fired inside of you that gnaws at your heart like a caged beast.

If you just asked, you know there were people around you who could help, but you decided quite some time ago that you were too scared to let them pry and try to make things better.

You’re better off on your own, you figure.


Back when your father had been around, you were raised to believe in typical Altmeri superiority. You studied magic from a young age, and the other merfolk around you called you talented. Because of this, and no matter if you may have a heart at times, you are arrogant beyond belief.

Your father left within the first two decades of your life. You think he went back to Summerset Isle, back to where he and your mother were from. Why they came to Skyrim in the first place is lost upon you – your mother hates talking about her life before you were born.

On your thirty-eighth birthday, you grow sick. You’re not running a high temperature, but you’ve already lost the contents of your breakfast from earlier that morning.

You hate being in large crowds of people. But those crowds are hard to avoid when living in the inaptly-named Solitude, and for that reason you’ve always been prone to wandering off on your own.

But for right now, you’re clutching a bucket in front of all your invited guests. All the while you’re feeling dizzy. You feel the magicka within you start to prickle at your hands, start to hum the light of the one healing spell you know even though it doesn’t work. You feel the flames start to flicker on the pads of your fingers from the frustration and pain. You feel the ice crawl to your knuckles in an attempt to cool you down.

You can also feel whatever’s left in your stomach coming up and out of your mouth.


The amount of magicka you hold within your body for someone of your age and experience is rare, but not unheard of.

When your mother decides she can’t handle it on her own and takes you to Winterhold, it’s explained to you.

There are those in Nirn who are natural mages. Who are gifted with the power to perform in spite of how little training they receive. An easy concept. But it extends further than that. Magicka is a dangerous thing when left uncontrolled, and if not practiced or matured properly, it could start to harm its possessor.

You don’t really like the sound of that.

You are given a tour of the College of Winterhold, and you are told that here you can slowly learn and develop your skills and talents. Learn what you like best, improve in the areas you want to. Immediately, you think back to all those years ago and wonder if a spell can stop your mother’s anger.

Later, once the tour is over and done with, she leaves you with the College and says you can visit any time. You can tell she thinks she’s making the right decision, from the pained quaver in her voice when she mumbles her goodbye. You give her a kiss on her cheek and tell her you’ll be fine, but you do it to assure yourself more than anything else.


By the hundred and twenty-second year of the Fourth Era, you are a renowned student of the College. In fact, you have learnt all you can in two schools of magic – Illusion and Alteration – and they’re thinking of making you a teacher in the next few years.

The Great Collapse damages most of Winterhold. The College still stands proud, but the common folk in what is left of the village are starting to point fingers.

You sneer at them and let them think what they will. They hold the belief that all of the College’s inhabitants are power-driven mages, but you know that’s far from the truth.

Your almost pompous superiority does infuriate others, as does your tendency for indifference and sarcasm. You use to many biting words, too many scathing insults to cut down those around you, having neither the patience nor willpower to make nice by the rules of society. You are out for just yourself, your mother and a select few of your kind, after all.

You’re a pragmatist and know that emotions get in the way of progress, that feelings can be exposed as a weakness and exploited as such. For this reason, you refrain from expressing any real sentiment and consistently try to lessen your attachment to things in order to make yourself more able to follow through when things get rough. You’ve reached the point in your life where you’ve given up on any pretext of compassion or empathy.

Yet underneath it all is a heart, no matter how small. And that heart knows how to care, how to feel, how to love. Unlike with your skills, however, it never had a chance to grow.


When the era reaches the mark of its second century, you are appointed as an instructor for the College in the field of Illusion. Your mother visits once to tell you she’s proud, but you can still feel the burn of hatred for your father within her. You still hope to cure that eventually, but you don’t know how to do it, or how to even bring it up.

You spend most of your days studying forms of magic and improving in the ones in which you are merely adept at. You rarely travel outside of the Hold, save for visits to your mother in Haafingar.

You know you are young for an Altmer, and many of the other High Elves in the College like to remind you of this every chance they get. But the petty gossip does not bother you in the least – very few people have the ability to get their words to stick in your prejudiced mind, and even those that can rarely try.

Most days, you are detached from the rest of your kind and find it hard to prioritize basic needs over your work. Only during lectures and other necessary business do you truly find the time to interact with others, and even then you are cold and almost malicious to those outside the College.

But above that, you are passionate about magic and discovery, about learning and improving. As far as you’re concerned, all you need is knowledge, and everyone else can just leave you the hell alone.

Character Name.
Erinwe

Age.
197

Race.
Altmer

Sexuality.
Undecided

Faction, Army, or Allegiance.
College of Winterhold

Occupation.
Illusion Instructor

Werewolf or Vampire.
N/A

Major Skills.
Illusion: Illusion is his most-used skill, and the school of magic in which he is most proficient at. His preferred spells to cast are clairvoyance, muffle, invisibility, call to arms, harmony, hysteria and mayhem.

Alteration: Second only to Illusion, Erinwe has spent years mastering the art of alteration. He uses this most for candlelight and magelight, but also practices telekinesis, detect life, detect dead, ebonyflesh, and waterbreathing.

Conjuration: Though it falls far in terms of expertise as compared to the previous two schools, Erinwe is eager to improve. Currently, he can conjure familiars and unbound dremoras, as well as flame atronachs.

Enchanting: A skill he had decided to hone only recently, Erinwe’s ability with this is far from remarkable. However, he has shown to be quick to improve with other skills in the past, and hopes it will be the same with enchanting.

Unarmored: Having had no training with light or heavy armor, Erinwe has instead learned to be lithe and quick during battle and defend himself as best as he can with the ebonyflesh spell and what few wards he knows.

Weapons, Armor, and Belongings.
Master Robes of Illusion: Made and enchanted for him by one of his teachers, these robes are Erinwe’s most preferred attire, whether in battle or for regular wear. If come time he needs to repair or wash them, he can be seen in simple black robes instead.

Fur Gauntlets of Minor Alteration: Erinwe’s gauntlets are the only part of his regular attire that could be considered armor. They were bought from a merchant and enchanted by himself when he first took up the skill, and he tends to take a lot of pride in them.

College Boots of Muffling: He had outgrown several pairs over the years, but his college boots were always made of thick wool and were always attached with a muffling enchantment. Aside from a pair of fur shoes, these are the only footwear he possesses.

Fine Glass Dagger: His glass dagger was a gift from his mother when he had been made an official instructor for the College, and sharpened for him by a friend. He carries it on hand whenever he leaves College grounds, just in case.

Other Things of Note: Some other notable possessions of Erinwe’s are his large collection of soul gems, an even larger assortment of magicka elixirs, and a much smaller reserve of health and other similar potions.