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| 𝐕𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐲𝐬 𝐒𝐮𝐥 |

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“The world does not end when the gods grow quiet, nor does it begin when empires rise. It endures in the way a child is fed, a story is told, and a wound is dressed. I write not to preserve power, but to gentleness.”

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| GENERAL |

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《Pronunciation》

VAH-then-dees Sool

《Race》

Dunmer

《Gender》

Male

《Sexuality》

Panromantic and Demisexual

《Age》

121 as of 4E 201

《Birthdate》

17th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 80

《Birthsign》

The Atronach

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| PERSONALITY |

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《Traits》

Wise and Humble: Vathendys carries an encyclopedic knowledge of Tamriel’s history, culture, medicine, and philosophy, but never wields it to dominate conversation. He listens before he speaks and only speaks when it adds meaning.

Gentle and Empathic: His demeanor is soft-spoken, patient, and profoundly kind. He has a calming presence, the kind that soothes children and earns the trust of strangers. He’s the kind of scholar who asks how you’re feeling before debating your ideas.

Culturally Curious: Raised among the austere scholars of Necrom but educated across Morrowind and beyond, he is endlessly fascinated by cultures outside his own. He treats all foreign traditions with reverence, and is known to find beauty even in the smallest customs.

Lover of Language and Memory: Vathendys has a reverence for names, lineage, and memory. He re every student’s name, every village he’s ed through, and every story someone once told him over tea.

Master Historian: Like Herodotus or Livy, Vathendys sees history not as a list of battles and dates but as the living marrow of people’s lives. He records events with nuance, understanding the hearts of those involved as well as their deeds.

Physician of Old: He studied medicine in the style of Galen and Hippocrates, not only diagnosing afflictions but understanding how belief, family, and environment affect healing. To Vathendys, a healthy people begins with a healthy memory.

Philosopher-Scholar: Like a Dunmeri Socrates, he believes that questions are more important than answers. His lectures are as much dialogues as they are lessons. He never debates to win—he debates to understand.

《Elaboration》

There are those in Tamriel whose lives are marked by banners and bloodshed, whose stories are written in flame, iron, and the scars of empire. And then there are those who shape the world through quiet knowing—whose voices are soft but unforgettable. Vathendys Sul is among the latter, and perhaps one of the greatest to ever walk unguarded among history’s shadows.

Born in Dres Sul, a modest but deeply devout township nestled along the salt-flat fringes of southern Morrowind, Vathendys came into the world not under omens or portents, but between the verses of a prayer-song. His mother, Tyra Sul, was a quiet herbalist, said to hum to her tinctures so they would kindness. His father, Meren Sul, was a local archivist and part-time healer who taught boys to read the bones of the land before they learned to wield tools or blades.

The Suls were not high nobles, but they were revered in their own way—for their gentleness, their dignity, their refusal to rush wisdom. Their home smelled always of tea leaves, cracked vellum, dried marsh-mint, and soft ash. They taught their children not just to speak, but to listen. Not just to study history, but to feel it.

From his earliest years, Vathendys displayed an extraordinary memory, not for numbers or spells, but for people—the cadence of their voices, the hesitations between words, the small truths they did not know how to say aloud. Elders called him Shei-Venim, “the boy who re for us.” He memorized the songs of fading dialects. He recorded the stories of ash-farmers and salt-harvesters. He sat beside caravan guards, scribes, and dying grandmothers, writing it all down—not for profit, not for prestige, but for posterity.

When he was of age, he was invited to study at the Necrom Institute—not as a pupil, but as a guest speaker, after copies of his early essays on ancestor veneration reached a scholar named Irnaren Velothi. By thirty, he was being cited in theological texts and cultural dispatches across Morrowind and beyond. But it was never fame he sought. It was understanding.

Over the decades, Vathendys wandered the length and breadth of Morrowind, always as a guest, never as a conqueror. He was welcomed in the high libraries of the Telvanni, the quiet tomb-cities of Indoril, the merchant-houses of Sadras, and even the salt-worn shrines of the Ashlander tribes. He learned the botanical rites of the Dres morticians, the calendar chants of the old Velothi tea clans, and the unspoken customs of forgotten border towns where histories flicker like flameflies.

He has written hundreds of volumes, but never once raised his voice. His prose is known not only for its erudition but for its warmth, its humanity. He does not mock those who believe differently, nor does he romanticize the Dunmer past. He writes the truth as it lives in the people—messy, sacred, contradictory, proud. His books have taught even outlanders to love Morrowind, not for its power, but for its depth.

Though he has been offered noble titles, council seats, and Temple honors, he has accepted none. Instead, he lives in a modest stone home near a quiet riverbank in the Deshaan, surrounded by drying herbs and unfinished manuscripts. He tends a garden of native plants—each one representing a different region of Morrowind—and welcomes any traveler with tea, a listening ear, and a place to rest.

He still walks with a cane carved from old argon tree rootwood, gifted by an Argonian herbalist who once nursed him through a fever in Black Marsh. He still writes every morning, by oil-lamp, often with his fingers stained from scribing ink or marsh-berry paste. And when asked why he continues to write, he replies only:

“Because the memory of a people is a fragile thing. And someone must love it enough to carry it across the water.”

Though his early writings established him as a scholar of rare insight, it was not until the Fall of Tear that Vathendys’ voice became vital to the soul of Morrowind. As House Dres reeled from the Laga-Hui incursion, with ancestral lands swallowed by blackwater and guerrilla ash, the Eastern Canonry turned to Vathendys—not for strategy, but for memory. It was said that he crossed the salt-scorched paths of the Deshaan barefoot, gathering testimony from those who had survived the loss of a thousand years’ worth of customs, farms, and bones. These interviews became “Ashes of the Plow: The Dissolution of the Old South,” a landmark of a civilization in grief. It remains the most cited Dres history of the Fourth Era.

But loss marked Vathendys’ life in more personal ways, too. He never married. The name Sarvura appears once in his journals—a Dunmer widow from Shipal-Shin who shared his table for a time, and whose songs he preserved in “The Last Garden of Salt.” Some say her death during the Arnesian raids turned his voice quieter still. He rarely speaks of her, but every year on the 15th of Sun’s Height, he leaves a bundle of dried bluebells at the borders of the Palevine wilds.

He became a mentor to many—Khajiiti students from Senchal, Cyrodiilic archivists from Kvatch, even a few Redoran warriors who sought philosophy in the shadows of war. He was the first Dres-d scholar to be invited to speak in the Rootspire chambers of Blacklight, where he famously concluded his lecture with the words:

“When the sword forgets what it is protecting, it is no better than the fire it claims to extinguish.”

Despite political undercurrents, he has always kept a firm neutrality, especially as Sadras and Redoran tensions rose. He has walked the streets of Kragenmoor, dined with Sadras councilors, and been offered a seat as the official court chronicler of House Sadras—an offer he declined, stating:

“I am not a mouth to be hired, nor a voice to be wielded. I am a vessel for the unspoken, the forgotten, the overlooked. My only house is memory.”

He is known for traveling with a canvas satchel worn soft at the edges, filled with pressed leaves, annotated maps, dried inkbrushes, and a small silver statue of Boethiah carved by a wandering craftsmer who once asked him to “ this shape when I am gone.”

He has never built a grand estate. Instead, he has planted a grove.

Near the Necrom Institute, by the eastern banks, is a glade where flowers grow in deliberate chaos. Tea trees bend gently over cairns of unmarked stones. There is no plaque, no monument—just a wooden bench inscribed with a single phrase:

“To those whose stories were never told.”

Students leave letters there. Widows weep. Children chase dragonflies between the roots.

And every few months, Vathendys Sul walks through this grove, not as its master, but as its witness. He stops at each stone, kneels, and listens—as if the dead might speak again, just once, in the wind through the reeds.

He remains, in the later Fourth Era, one of the most respected and beloved writers of Morrowind—not for his authority, but for his humility. His books are taught in Vvardenfell, Velothis, Narsis, and beyond. His treatises are quoted even in Synod chambers and Imperial universities. But his favorite title remains the one a child in Alavelis gave him once, tugging on his robes:

“Are you the man who writes down the things that matter?”

He only smiled and replied, “If I am not, I must try harder.”

To know Vathendys Sul is not merely to read his books. It is to sit, one day, beneath a tea tree in the Deshaan, and wonder why you never noticed how beautiful silence could be.

《Political and Religious Beliefs》

Vathendys is neither a revolutionary nor a loyalist. Instead, he is a moderate traditionalist—a firm believer in the importance of heritage, council law, and the dignity of House-based governance, but only so long as it serves the people. He honors the ancient structures of the Great Houses, particularly House Dres, but he is quietly critical of excesses, nepotism, and cruelty wherever they arise.

Pro-Grand Council: He s the Shad-Ebon as a system of governance and sees the Alt-Gah-Thil rotation as a chance for balance.

House Autonomy: Believes each House must be free to govern its territory according to its customs—but not at the expense of justice, decency, or the future of Morrowind.

Anti-Imperial Colonisation: While not xenophobic, he believes foreign governance should never again dictate Dunmeri life. He speaks against Cyrodiilic expansionism, but warmly welcomes respectful foreigners into the cultural fabric of Morrowind.

Quietly Anti-Slavery: While never a firebrand, he believes the days of widespread slavery were morally wrong and diminished the soul of Dunmer society. He praises the Sadras approach to moving beyond it and urges House Dres to embrace a new dignity in labour and cultivation.

Religious Beliefs:

“The gods do not speak with one voice, nor should we pray with one tongue.”

Vathendys is a deeply spiritual man who honors the Reclamations with reverence, especially Boethiah and Mephala, whom he sees as patrons of wisdom and subtlety. However, he is also respectful of the Syncretic Faith practiced in Sadras lands, and has written fairly about Aedra-Daedra worship in his cultural works.

Temple Devotion: He still considers himself a Temple adherent, though his role is more akin to a lay philosopher than a priest. He s the Threefold Reformation and views the fall of the Tribunal as a necessary humbling of mortal pride.

Ancestor Worship: As a Dres-born Dunmer, ancestor reverence remains sacred to him. He believes that to forget one’s dead is to sever the spirit’s roots.

Pluralist Curiosity: He is a religious pluralist—open-minded toward Khajiiti lunar theology, Argonian root-wisdom, and the quiet gods of the Nords. He believes the divine appears in many masks, and that faith should be studied, respected, and lived, not used as a cudgel.

《Around Strangers》

Vathendys meets strangers with a quiet, gentle dignity—neither aloof nor overly familiar, but marked by the unmistakable warmth of someone who sees worth before rank, and story before station. He greets others with calm respect, regardless of race, origin, or status. He uses full names when possible, and offers the traditional Velothi hand-touch greeting (palms pressed together briefly) when dealing with travelers or fellow Dunmer. He listens more than he speaks. He watches how people carry themselves—their silences, the weight behind their eyes. When he does speak, it’s with precise care, often quoting old proverbs, historical anecdotes, or personal memories relevant to the moment. He is not prone to boasting or subtle cruelty. If someone is lost, confused, or afraid, he will help them find clarity without shame. He may gently offer a cup of tea, a quiet place to sit, or an unexpected bit of wisdom phrased as if it came from someone else. Though he carries the air of an esteemed scholar, he does not hide behind it. He often asks soft, thoughtful questions He treats the unlettered with the same interest as the learned. A farmer’s memory of an eclipse matters as much to him as a magistrate’s decree. Around those who are mistreated, ignored, or exploited, Vathendys becomes quietly fierce. Without ever raising his voice, he will intercede. He is beloved by outlanders who have faced prejudice, and by young scholars too shy to speak at the council tables.

《Around Allies》

Around allies, Vathendys becomes quietly radiant—a soul at ease, whose warmth, humor, and profound attentiveness bloom in full. Where with strangers he is courteous and measured, with friends and confidants he reveals the fuller texture of his nature: thoughtful, affectionate, sometimes playfully sharp, but always rooted in care. He speaks with a subtle, dry wit—never mocking, but often gently teasing, like an older sibling or an old friend. He listens like it’s a form of worship. He re the things others forget—names of their parents, the last time they were ill, the story they told five years ago. To be heard by him is to feel seen, not studied. Among allies, Vathendys has no need to perform. He will take off his scholar’s robe, roll up the sleeves, and in simple things—cleaning dishes, mending an old book’s spine, pouring the tea. He treats no task as beneath him. He offers wisdom not as instruction, but as comfort. Though not a warrior, he will stand for those he loves. If one insults an ally in his presence, his rebuke is like frost: elegant, cutting, impossible to recover from. He rarely hugs or speaks of love aloud—but his devotion is in the details: a gift of rare ink, a book he copied by hand, a letter delivered on the anniversary of a sorrow. Vathendys loves in the way stars do—quiet, distant, constant. To be an ally of Vathendys Sul is to be held in quiet esteem by one of Morrowind’s most treasured minds—and to feel, in every thoughtful word and silent gesture, the grace of being truly known.

《While Alone》

When Vathendys is alone, he is not idle. Solitude, to him, is not an absence—but a return. In public, he is a scholar, an orator, a steward of memory and meaning. In private, he is quieter, but no less alive. There is warmth still, but it dims to a low-burning lantern—steady, introspective, and deep. Always without shoes. He prefers to feel the stone beneath his feet—cool floor tiles in the morning, warm loam in the garden, the ancient flagstones of Kragenmoor’s old library. He says a man must touch the world now and then, or risk floating above it. Scrolls are strewn across his desk, but not in chaos—each is a thought paused, a thread of meaning he is still chasing. He often murmurs aloud as he writes, as if trying to explain his ideas to someone who isn’t there. He writes letters he never sends. He copies forgotten poems into little hand-bound books. Some he burns when finished—not to destroy them, but to complete them. Usually quietly, barely above a whisper. Many are Ashlander tunes or sailor’s laments. One or two are Imperial nursery rhymes from his youth, which he sings only when certain no one can hear. He carries tune well, but never boasts it. To him, melody is memory that survived. He listens—to nothing. Or so it seems. He will sit with a cup of herbal tea for nearly an hour, staring at a dust mote or the shadows of reeds moving on the wall. When asked what he was doing, he says, “I was eavesdropping on silence. It always has more to say than we think.” Not in a ceremonial way—more like conversation. He’ll speak to a painting, a relic, or a name carved in the stone of his garden wall. “You were wrong about that,” he’ll say, smiling softly. “But I understand why you thought it.” He believes in the slow dialogue between generations. Painfully, beautifully, honestly. Faces of lost friends. Mistakes he’s made. Joys he once feared to write down, in case they disappeared. He does not flinch from any of it.

《Traits your Character Likes》

Humility

Vathendys has spent a life among proud nobles, belligerent councilors, and zealous priests. What captivates him is not pomp, but modesty. He believes those who truly know themselves rarely need to be loud about it. A quiet craftsperson, a lowborn student who asks good questions, or a merchant who listens more than they sell—these are people who impress him far more than any self-proclaimed sage.

Curiosity

He is most at ease around people who ask questions—not to challenge, but to understand. Children, foreigners, dissidents, even skeptics who question the gods—all are welcome, so long as their inquiry is sincere. He believes that curiosity, more than certainty, keeps a soul alive and nourished.

Kindness Without Transaction

He loathes transactional charity. Vathendys treasures those who are gentle in the small things—offering a seat to the weary, ing names, helping without witness. These acts, he says, are “the bricks of the world we deserve.”

Restraint

Vathendys respects those who do not always act, who know how to wait, to hold the sword at their side, to withhold a clever remark, to allow silence to do the work. To him, restraint signals someone who has tamed themselves, which he finds rarer and more impressive than raw talent or intelligence.

Grace in Loss

He has lost friends, lovers, even entire cities to war and time. He ires those who have suffered, and yet carry no venom in their voice. Those who still make room for beauty. For him, this kind of endurance is sacred.

Unorthodox Thought

He has an abiding respect for outcasts, reformers, even men—those who see the world askew and have the courage to speak it aloud. He doesn’t always agree, but he always listens. Vathendys believes that dissent is not disloyalty—it is sometimes the highest form of care.

《Traits your Character Dislikes》

Arrogance

Vathendys has little patience for the haughty, particularly among nobles, priests, and scholars who mistake status for wisdom. He believes that arrogance is a form of blindness—the more one indulges in it, the less they see of others. He’s not confrontational, but around the arrogant, he becomes cold, even disappointingly distant.

Dogmatism

Though a man of deep reverence, Vathendys despises those who claim to hold exclusive truth—be they Temple purists, absolutist philosophers, or zealots. He believes unyielding certainty is the death of insight. Dogmatism, to him, is the enemy of reflection—and often a mask for fear or control.

Cruelty in Word or Deed

Vathendys has witnessed what cruelty does to people—how it echoes, deforms, lingers. He believes that cruelty, even when cloaked in humor or tradition, must never be excused. He particularly despises those who belittle the weak, shame the wounded, or mock earnestness. His pen grows sharpest in defense of the gentle.

Dishonesty (when self-serving)

He tolerates a certain poetry in half-truths—he is a historian, after all—but cannot abide deliberate deceit for personal gain. Especially in politics or scholarship, where truth must be stewarded, not sold. He views manipulative dishonesty as a rot that corrodes trust, community, and even memory itself.

Apathy

Indifference wounds him more than disagreement. He is deeply pained by those who treat suffering as abstract, or who watch injustice and shrug. To him, apathy is not neutrality—it is abandonment. He believes all people should feel something when others cry out.

Greed Disguised as Ambition

He ires builders and dreamers. But when ambition becomes hoarding—of power, wealth, knowledge—he grows wary. He has seen too many noble houses, scholars, and merchants destroy what they claim to build, all in the name of more. He finds that greed often wears a convincing mask, which only makes it more dangerous.

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“The past is not a chain, nor a cradle—it is a mirror. And like all mirrors, it does not show us the world, but only how we stand within it. The wise do not stare into it for answers, but for ability.”

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| APPEARANCE |

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《Head》

Vathendys bears the face of a mer who has lived many lives, each one etched subtly into the contours of his features. His skin is the soft, ash-kissed gray of most Dunmer, but lighter around the temples and forehead, touched faintly with the ghost-pale hue of age. Thin lines gather at the corners of his eyes and lips—not the harsh cuts of hardship, but the creases of decades spent in thought, in listening, in smiling gently even through sorrow.

His eyes are arresting: deep carmine, but not the burning red of a warrior. They are dimmed slightly, like coals banked under snow—gentle, introspective, eternally watchful. They seem to hold memories more than fire, and one who meets them may feel as though they are being seen through, not merely at.

Vathendys wears his hair long but tied back with quiet care, gathered into a loose cord of ebony and silver strands. Though thinning at the crown, the age has dignified him rather than diminished him. A few unruly wisps fall across his brow, never quite tamed, as if even his grooming permits some measure of nature’s chaos.

His ears are long, elegant, and unpierced—a sign of his quiet humility. A faint notch graces the edge of his left ear, the only true visible mark of injury, the result of a hunting accident in his youth. It is a blemish he never sought to hide.

His mouth is soft-lipped and often half-curved in a knowing smile, as if on the verge of speaking something kind or offering a parable. When he speaks, his voice is low and even, with a slight rasp like parchment turned beneath an old scholar’s fingers. His teeth, slightly uneven and stained with tea and age, remain whole.

There are no grand scars, no warrior’s brand across his brow. But on his forehead lies a faint birthmark, crescent-shaped, just beneath the hairline. Some say it resembles Masser in its waning phase. He does not comment on it. But those who know him well have taken to calling it “the moon on his brow,” a mark of a mind forever drawn to greater orbits.

-Picture-

《Body》

Vathendys carries the body of a mer who was never built for war, but who has walked many roads nonetheless.

He stands just shy of six feet, with a slender frame softened by age but not weakened by it. His posture is upright, with the slight stoop of a scholar who has spent too many decades bent over scrolls, tablets, and field notes. His gait is measured and unhurried, a kind of gentle drifting—his presence never imposes, yet it always lingers.

In his youth, he was wiry—lean but limber, with the strength of someone accustomed to long walks across Morrowind’s ridge-spines and salt plains, carrying journals and satchels rather than swords. That strength has not left him entirely, but it has thinned, like wind-swept ash over stone. He is not frail, but there is a fragility about him that invites gentleness rather than pity.

His hands are a cartographer’s hands: long-fingered, weathered, permanently stained with ink and callus. The ts have swollen slightly with time, and tremble now and then—though never when he writes. A long scar runs from the inside of his left forearm to the elbow, a remnant of a cliff-fall during an expedition into the Armun hills. He never speaks of it unless asked, and even then, he laughs it off as “the price of trusting a Dres map.”

His torso is lean and a touch sunken, ribs faintly visible when he removes his scholar’s robes. His back bears the thin lashes of an illness that left him bedridden in his middle years, leaving behind a strange, raised lattice across his lower spine that no healer could explain. Some whisper it is the mark of a dream he once survived. He neither confirms nor denies it.

《Clothing》

He dresses with the dignified modesty of a mer who has walked among nobles, paupers, scholars, and gods—and wishes to offend none of them.

His robes are tailored, but never ostentatious—cut in the layered tradition of the older Velothi style, yet refined by the subtle sensibilities of Dres clothiers. He favors deep charcoal grays and copper-burnished browns, occasionally accented by indigo hems or embroidered threads in the pale gold of dried saltrice stalks. His clothing evokes the hues of Morrowind’s soil, sky, and ash, anchoring him always to the land he so carefully chronicles.

The outer robe is of fine merrow-wool, a gift from a Redoran ally, stitched to resist the dust storms of the Armun Ashlands. The inner tunic is softer—undyed saltrice-fiber cloth that breathes easily in the heat and can be washed clean in a stream. His sash is woven with the glyph of House Sul—three stylized wings set above a single open eye—but the design is subtle, worn down at the edges by decades of wear.

His clothing is always well-kept, but never new. Small, hand-stitched repairs are visible in the cuffs and inner sleeves where ink has bled through or threadbare friction has taken its toll. His boots are sturdy—made from guarhide softened by decades of use—and often dusted with ash and pollen from wherever he last wandered.

He wears a traveling cloak when on the road: a long, hooded wrap of faded indigo and soot-black lining, with interior pockets stuffed with journals, alchemical pouches, and quills wrapped in oilcloth. A loop on the shoulder clasps a thin silver brooch in the shape of the Morag Tong’s stylized moon—not a symbol of allegiance, but a tribute to a friend he once lost.

Nothing he wears is too tight or too loose. His garments seem to move with him rather than around him, like the pages of a book that always fall open to where he last left off. In council chambers, on pilgrim roads, or seated on a crate in some border market square, Vathendys Sul wears the same quiet armor: the robes of a mer who believes that words—when worn with dignity—are mightier than steel.

-Pictures-

《Miscellaneous》

It is said that one can know a mer by the weight he chooses to bear, and if that is true, then Vathendys Sul carries not the burden of wealth or power, but the quiet weight of memory, utility, and meaning. Wherever he walks—through the salt-winds of Deshaan, the bluebell heights of the Valus Ridge, or the stone corridors of Necrom—he carries with him a kaimilk satchel slung over his shoulder. The bag, fashioned from age-darkened guar-hide and lined in faded Othreleth redweave, bears three outer pockets, two inner sleeves, and a concealed pouch sealed with worn bone toggles.

The clasp that fastens it is a small metal casting of a mountain bluebell—the wildflower of Sadras high country, and a quiet symbol of his home. The satchel smells faintly of dry paper, herbal ash, and ink.

Inside, its contents are always the same:

First, a weathered journal, bound in soft netch-leather and etched with his family’s seal. It is the nineteenth in a long line of personal volumes, each one filled with Vathendys’ hand—not just writing, but sketches, musings, scraps of overheard conversations, pressed petals, and field notes. The pages bleed with the scent of night ink. It is his soul in parchment.

Next, a bone comb, carved from ivory and worn smooth with time. It was given to him in his youth by a Telvanni caravaner who told him, with a smile missing two teeth, “A mind must be groomed, but a mane first.” He rarely uses it, but it remains wrapped in a cloth pouch, always at the bottom of the satchel.

A pouch of herbal essences accompanies him as well—stoneflower petals, bittergreen flakes, dried heather, and a pressed curl of scathecraw. He uses them in tea or to scent his belongings, and occasionally offers them to ancestral cairns when crossing old Velothi paths. The scent—sharp, clean, floral with an edge of salt—is unmistakably his.

A tin of handmade ink and a bone quill, always close at hand. The ink is his own blend, made from crushed shadeleaf, velvet ash, and finely ground glass, giving it a shimmer of permanence. The quill, carved from the ulna of a cliff racer, is a relic from a Redoran friend he once traveled beside in his youth. “This winged thing fought to live,” the friend had said. “You may as well make it write.”

A cloth map, folded so many times the creases have begun to wear thin. It depicts the Velothi and western Morrowind in charcoal relief, marked with small ink dots and annotations—trade posts, ancestral tombs, mountain trails. He updates it obsessively. It is both a guide and a journal of memory.

A crystal vial, no larger than a thumb, filled with a silvery-dusky oil known as Memory Oil. A Telvanni distillate, it is dabbed on his temples when he writes long into the night. Some believe it strengthens the clarity of memory, others that it conjures dreams from forgotten days. He never says which he believes.

A cracked brass bell, worn around his wrist like a bangle. Forged in the Temple of Andrethis, it no longer rings—but he touches it in moments of prayer or thought, and closes his eyes. It once belonged to someone. The story is not told.

An obsidian-silver ritual knife, used not for violence, but for scholarly purpose—cutting fruit, shaping parchment, inscribing votive symbols in wax. The handle is wrapped in saltrice-fiber twine. Its edge is perfect. It has never tasted blood.

A folded letter, unsent, yellowed with age and sealed in wax. No one knows the contents. The script on the outside is small and elegant—an address in Cheydinhal, long since faded. It is stored in the satchel’s hidden pouch, where no hand but his would find it.

The satchel itself, despite its weight, never seems to slow him. He walks with the slow grace of a historian, the observant stillness of a physician, and the warmth of a mer who values presence over pretense. It is said that Vathendys Sul could wear fine robes if he wished—and perhaps he once did—but these days he wears a soft kaftan of dusk-dyed linen, and sandals laced with saltrice twine. The satchel completes him, as much as a crown completes a king, or a torch completes a pilgrim.

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| ARMS |

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《Primary Weapons》

Vathendys is not a warrior by trade, yet like many Dunmer of his generation, he has known the necessities of self-defense on more than one occasion—pilgrimages gone awry, border roads haunted by bandits, or tombs where the dead do not always rest. And for such occasions, he carries one weapon only:

Weapon Name: Ashwhisper

Type: Chitin-blade short saber, ceremonial length

Age: Estimated to be over 80 years old

Origin: Forged in Kragenmoor by House Sadras artificers, gifted as a parting honor when he departed their court to continue his travels through the Deshaan

Description & Craftsmanship:

Ashwhisper is not a blade meant to cleave armor or split skulls—it is a slender, curved saber of chitin and meteor-forged glasssteel, reinforced with salt-hardened saltrice twine along the grip and haft. The blade curves slightly, with a shape more akin to a scaled-down officer’s scimitar or ancestral dueling weapon. Though humble in size, it is honed to an almost surgical sharpness, requiring routine sharpening with volcanic whetstones—Vathendys does so monthly, treating it as both a ritual and meditation.

The edge gleams faintly in moonlight, not through enchantment but from the unique mineral treatment it received in Sadras workshops. When drawn, it makes little sound—its name, Ashwhisper, comes from this silence, as well as the belief that the blade carries the memory of old winds across the Velothi.

Why It Is His Main Weapon:

Vathendys has no interest in brute force. Ashwhisper suits his style: precise, elegant, rarely drawn but always meaningful when it is. He once told a student at the Necrom Institute, “The blade that spills no blood may still protect a hundred lives.” For him, Ashwhisper is not only defense—it is a scholar’s companion, a scalpel for ritual offerings, a ceremonial blade for ancestral rites, and sometimes, a deterrent when diplomacy fails.

He carries no shield. He carries no backup weapon. If a situation demands more than Ashwhisper, he says, “I have already erred.”

Origin & Sentimental Value:

The saber was gifted to him in 4E 120 by the Sadras Council after he successfully negotiated the relocation of a foreign trade delegation from Cyrodiil that had offended local Temple customs. It was a moment that could have led to border violence, and Vathendys deescalated it with words, offering both sides a face-saving solution.

The blade was handed to him in a bluebell-wrapped case with the inscription: “For the hand that writes peace, but will not be caught unready.”

Though he has only drawn it twice in known record, he carries it always, hidden in the folds of his traveling coat or strapped discreetly behind his satchel. It has not taken a life, and if he has his way, it never will.

But when the wind howls across the moors and the ghosts grow bold near the old tombs, Ashwhisper is never far from his reach.

《Armour》

He does not wear armor in the traditional sense, nor would he ever be caught encased in plate or chitin unless the sky itself was falling. But he is not foolish. His chosen form of protection is a scholar’s compromise: elegant, ceremonial, and quietly practical—armor hidden in robes, protection veiled in dignity.

Type of Armor:

Layered Velothi scholar-guard ensemble, composed of lightweight, padded silkweave, with woven boneplate accents and reinforced leather beneath the outer mantle. Not true battle armor, but travel-ready ceremonial attire reinforced for unexpected dangers. Known colloquially among Temple scribes as “ghost-skin.”

Appearance:

At first glance, his attire appears that of a formal historian or itinerant philosopher—flowing, charcoal-dyed robes with understated crimson stitching and deep moor-moss green s, bearing the faint sigils of House Dres and the Necrom Institute. But the outer mantle is lined with alchemically-treated saltrice fiber that resists cuts and glancing blows. Beneath the robe’s folds, hidden s of netch-leather and cured ashbone tiles lie sewn against vital areas—heart, kidneys, spine.

It is matching in aesthetic, but anyone with knowledge of Dunmeri garb would recognise the layers for what they are: a practical, protective scholar’s vestment, not a battlefield panoply.

Weight & Mobility:

It is light and breathable—designed for walking long distances, ascending temple steps, and sitting for hours in council chambers. While it offers moderate protection against arrows or blades, it is not meant for extended combat. Vathendys can travel easily in it, kneel for ritual offerings, or even evade danger if necessary. But if struck directly by a warhammer, no charm would save him.

Why He Uses This Armor:

For Vathendys, armour is not about preparing for war—it is about acknowledging that peace is not always guaranteed. The world is not kind to wandering intellectuals, and many a historian has bled out for the mistake of trusting civility in uncivil lands. His armor is a gesture of realism, not readiness.

He once said in a lecture:

“There are times when the pen is not enough, and the parchment does not stop the arrow.”

Origin & Sentimental Value:

The armour was gifted to him during a farewell ceremony at Necrom in 4E 160, when he departed on a decade-long cultural expedition across Morrowind and into Black Marsh. It was stitched and enchanted by the mourning-weavers of Dres-Dibol, who believed that memory could be sewn into garments and carried with the wearer like a prayer.

The inner collar is embroidered with a quote from the Tribunal-era philosopher Adrys Vem “Go not armored for war, but armored for the world.”

To Vathendys, the armour is not just protection—it is a symbol of his calling: a historian who walks among the living, carrying the memory of the dead, wrapped in a second skin of reverence.

《Magic》

Vathendys is not a battle-mage, nor a hedge wizard. His magic is that of the contemplative—measured, refined, and deeply personal. It is the quiet sort of sorcery born not of ambition, but of utility, reverence, and learned tradition. He is not a practitioner of destruction or conjuration in any significant capacity. Instead, his magic serves to illuminate, to heal, to preserve.

While not formally associated with any class, he would be best described as a Scholar-Healer—part Monk, part Priest, with deep roots in Restoration and Alteration. Were he ever forced into a role, the “Pilgrim Sage” archetype fits him well: a nomadic chronicler with practical spells and a profound respect for the old magics of Morrowind.

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“History does not weep for the gentle, nor does it pause for the wise—it is carved by the cruel, and ed by the kind who must live with it.”

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| PROWESS |

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《Strengths》

| Strong Skills |

Historical Analysis & Cultural Anthropology, Diplomacy and Listening, Healing and Traditional Medicine

Vathendys’ talents are neither loud nor swift. They are the slow-burning sort—furnaces of reflection, carved through time, grief, and a profound reverence for memory. Among his most respected gifts is his masterful grasp of history and cultural anthropology. To the layperson, he is a historian; to those who’ve heard him speak in the wind-scraped halls of Necrom or under the lanterns of Kragenmoor, he is something closer to a priest of remembrance. Trained first by the Reclamatory archivists of Necrom, and later by foreign scholars in Cheydinhal and Wayrest, he made himself a bridge between peoples long divided by ash, empire, and silence. His words do not merely record history—they cradle it.

But Vathendys’ greatest power is not in what he says, but how he listens. He learned diplomacy not in temple courts or council chambers, but in borderland fireside talks and the hushed conversations of innkeepers, caravaners, and fieldwives. He listens with the weight of someone who has known the cost of being unheard. It was an old Sadras broker, Avyra, who taught him how to read more from what a person avoids than what they declare. In time, Vathendys learned to speak not for power, but for peace, asking gentle questions and weaving connections between worldviews thought irreconcilable.

Surprisingly to some, he is also a healer. In his early years, he witnessed the slow devastation of a village near Kragenmoor during a fever season. Helpless, he held the hands of the dying and swore it would never happen again—not while he still drew breath. He apprenticed under Sulana Rethil, a herbalist in the Othreleth Woods, and later studied with a Nibenese apothecary, learning how to treat both sickness of body and spirit. His medicinal texts now circulate among Sadras caravaners and Velothi midwives alike—texts that combine Dres embalming salts, Redguard poultices, and even old Yokudan soul-oil techniques. He treats healing not as a science nor an art, but a devotion.

He does not fight in the traditional sense. He does not bear arms or wear armor. Instead, he fights for nuance in a world addicted to certainty. He battles the erosion of memory, the flattening of cultures, the arrogant belief that old stories are no longer useful. And though his war is fought with ink and parchment, he does not wage it lightly. He is stirred most deeply when ignorance is used to justify cruelty—when the past is either weaponized or forgotten.

He fights hardest when reminded of those who are gone: a dear student taken too young by a storm in Shipal-Shin, an old Dres colleague exiled for defending Argonian reform, a mother whose last lesson to him was never to speak over the soft. Each loss pushes his quill further into the paper, each name makes his lectures softer, but heavier.

What makes him tick? Unanswered questions. Forgotten cities. Lost lullabies. He is animated by the tension between who the Dunmer were, who they claim to be, and who they might yet become. He is fascinated by contradiction, and writes to make sense of it—not to simplify, but to illuminate.

And what does he desire? More than anything, he hopes to leave behind not a legacy, but a lineage—not of blood, but of thought. He dreams of finding a student, not merely bright, but reverent. Someone to inherit not his words, but the silences between them. For in the end, Vathendys Sul seeks not glory, but continuity—a soul to whisper the old names forward, one truth at a time.

《Weaknesses》

| Weak Skills |

For all his wisdom, Vathendys Sul is not without shadows—quiet fractures that line the walls of his otherwise measured life. He is a man of empathy, yes, but that empathy can calcify into paralysis. Confronted with cruelty, he recoils not out of cowardice, but hesitation—he believes every side must be understood, even when action demands decisiveness. In debates, this makes him a moderating force. In emergencies, a hesitant one.

He is too patient for a world that is not. Vathendys tends to believe that time smooths all stones, and that perspective is earned through distance. But not every fire can wait to be studied. His slow deliberations have, at times, cost lives, positions, and allies. He mourns these losses privately, inscribing them in the margins of his books, where ink serves as apology.

Though he walks with confidence among kings and commoners, he holds a secret distrust of intimacy. He has never married, never sired children, and keeps his closest companions at the thoughtful distance of ink and philosophy. It is not that he does not love—it is that love, to him, is a sacred archive, easily damaged by handling. And so, he watches. He advises. He grieves in silence.

There is also pride in his humility. A quiet but firm belief that his way—the slow way, the scholar’s path—is the truest form of understanding. This can make him blind to urgency, or dismissive of those who pursue more direct means. He has, more than once, underestimated the fire in a younger scholar or warrior simply because their methods clashed with his.

Vathendys, too, suffers from his own body. Age and a lifetime of travel have worn him thin. He walks with a cane carved from red cedar, gifted by a Sadras caravan chief whose life he once saved with nothing but boiled leaves and a whispered prayer. On colder days, his ts ache. On stormy ones, he forgets things—briefly, but enough to haunt him. He writes these lapses down, convinced that even memory’s failures are worth documenting.

But perhaps his deepest weakness is a yearning he cannot name: a longing to believe that all his efforts—the lectures, the tomes, the sleepless nights beneath temple spires and desert stars—will matter. That knowledge, kept alive, is enough. It is this uncertainty that sometimes wakes him in the night, staring into the quiet glow of a half-melted candle, wondering whether truth can survive on parchment alone.

And yet, it is these flaws—his aching restraint, his lonely reverence, his brittle body—that make Vathendys Sul not just a great mind, but a great man. For his strength lies not in his perfection, but in his devotion to walking forward, even when the road is steep, and the ink begins to fade.

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| RELATIONS |

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Vathendys is not a man easily changed. Like stone carved by years of wind, his convictions took form slowly, shaped by the shifting dunes of history and his own ceaseless inquiry. Yet even a mountain knows erosion—and in his long life, a few souls have etched themselves into his.

The most enduring change came from a woman named Meralyn Dren, a fellow scholar and rhetorician from Andothren. Sharp of tongue and sharper of mind, she challenged him in everything—debates, translations, even how he tied his sashes. She was of Sadras stock, brash and laughing, often surrounded by friends and irers. Vathendys loved her in silence for years, convinced that to confess it would disrupt the delicate balance between them. One night, under the rose-light of Molag Grunda’s moonrise, she told him she already knew.

She died two years later—of fever, or heartbreak, or some quiet war only she fought alone. Vathendys did not speak for three days. When he returned to the world, his writing was different. Less ornamental, more tender. Less about knowledge, and more about understanding. She taught him that words were not only tools, but offerings. He never married. He never would.

He has no surviving siblings. A younger brother, Othran, died in a skirmish near Tear. Their bond had been shallow then, strained by Othran’s conscription and Vathendys’ rejection of violence. But it hardened into guilt over time, and he often speaks of Othran with a curious reverence, as if trying to recreate the closeness they never had.

Though he often travels alone, he is rarely truly solitary. His mount is a Velathi-strain guar named Dasaal, a calm, ash-gray creature with gentle, half-lidded eyes and a saddle rigged for scroll satchels and brewing pots. Dasaal does not spook easily—only loud, high-pitched noises startle her, and even then, only briefly. She is slow, dependable, and fiercely protective of her rider. Vathendys found her on the outskirts of Tear during the worst of the deshaan droughts. She had been left behind by a fleeing caravan, her leg injured. He mended her with poultices and poetry, and she has followed him since.

There have been others, of course—students who shined briefly before fading into the world; travelers met under canopy and starlight who taught him songs, small magics, or new ways to boil tea. But it is Meralyn, Othran, and Dasaal who shaped the deepest contours of his soul.

And in his quiet hours, he writes for all of them. As if memory were a garden, and words the last things left blooming.

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“History does not mourn you. It re you. But it re everything—the truth, the lies, the silences between them. If you wish to be honored, do not carve your name into stone. Carve it into kindness.”

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| GALLERY |

Post any extra pictures you have down here, if you have none, feel free to erase this part of the template.

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