To each their own, a face. In each face, watchful eyes, heedful ears, and voluble mouths. In watchful eyes, all the prose and poetry of one's life, come sadness or come joy. In heedful ears, the story of another's life, come all its twists and chapters. In voluble mouths, the desire to retell all the colors of a life worth living, brief flesh made eternal memory.

Hi! If you're interested in roleplaying, feel free to reach me through Discord (.goov) or ESO (@Vargoy).I typically answer fastest on Discord, and I also roleplay on it as well, so I'm more than glad to brainstorm a few ideas and get a story going on either platform!Background Art - Old Books, Catherine M. Wood

Jaded by the loss of ancestral wealth and status, this Imperial flirts and dances with the dark, from the criminal to the Daedric, for the sake of a power he never knew. Through tragedy and risk, can he reclaim agency over his fated life?

Born to a defunct house, a scattered family, disenfranchised of all wealth, promise, and status. Seption did not grow into privilege and power, but fought for any modicum of respect and survival, often at great cost to himself and his loved ones. Once a prosperous maritime trading family operating out of the docks of Anvil, the House Sigilis came to high prominence amongst the elites of the Gold Coast over a short span of centuries. Though, before the young Seption could ever know the true grasp of what he was to inherit, the House Sigilis was struck from the annals of power, torn apart by more ambitious, starving houses amidst growing rivalries and the tumultuous changes of power within the Gold Coast. Their ancestral home burned, their records reduced to ashes, their wealth lost to others, the limbs of power upon which they dominated severed from themselves.The members of House Sigilis were sicced upon by swords and staves in bouts of confusion and controversy, either struck down in fiendish chase or scattered to the winds. Seption was but a young man when he barely escaped with his life alongside his mother, Domidia Sigilis, youngest daughter of the then-patriarch of House Sigilis, Gallo Sigilis, and his younger sister, Sissinia Sigilis. They became refugees in Skingrad, days of restless journey, and with great trouble, tried to settle into a life of normalcy in the coming years.There was peace for the three children of Sigilis, though it was a far cry from their days of wealth and comfort. Each of them having taken on labor as the years passed, much of which was not so kind to them. The life of the working soul is a hard one, and Seption learned that thoroughly, aiding his mother and sister in running a tavern, one they inherited from the passing of the previous owner, who took a great liking to his mother. As much as it was an improvement to being impoverished on the streets, their tavern was one that took in much of the unsavory, rude kind.Some short years later, in the hopes of finding better positions for her children, Domidia had found arrangements to send Sissinia to be a handmaid for a local noble, and Seption a scribe for a Battlemage, Florius Venedicci, who had taken station in Skingrad and required an assistant. Seption settled well into his role, running errands, scribing letters and records, and keeping the generally-lonely Battlemage company.In a year’s time, curiosity had gotten the best of Seption, who had went into Florius’ study when he was away in search of his personal tome, which he had normally carried on his person. What he discovered would be his first exposure to the deeper studies of magic: years worth of a battlemage’s study, the frenzied notes of the multitudes of magickal schools. It wasn’t long until he was caught by Florius, found out at only his second attempt of reading the tome. Though, what came was not scolding or disappointment, but rather a gentle chance at learning. The boy had been so loyal, so hardworking, and in a way, much like a son through all the time they bonded, and so took it upon himself to teach Seption the basics of magicka and magickal study.As the years passed, Seption showed a proficiency for the magickal arts, a growing competence fueled by deep curiosity. He also took up other skills, readying himself in the combat of small arms and fisticuffs, as well as painting in the times he had to himself. Though, when it came to magic, there was one school he couldn’t help but be drawn to above all other practices: Conjuration.The art of summoning creatures, both of the mundane and beyond, particularly the many-realms of Oblivion. It was everything from the thrill of the apparent dangers of Conjuration, to the complexity and layers required to pull off conjuring entities from the beyond, that lulled Seption into its call. Above all, though, it spoke most highly to one of Seption’s greatest insecurities: a guarantee of power.Through the stories of his mother, he knew of the lost wealth and privileges he could never have, and instead led to live a life of low-blood and hardship. It set a deep insecurity, a desire for power he never had the chance to wield. Instead, he set about attaining status through skill and connections, even if that meant going through more shadowy and unsavory means. For him, Conjuration was a risk worth taking, and combined with his growing magickal prowess, believed a name gained through the arcane and mercenarial scenes was one way for notoriety.Though Florius knew of Seption’s interest in Conjuration, he was oblivious as to the true extent of his intent with it. He continued to maintain a mentorial and fatherlike role in Seption’s life until he passed of old age, at which point the boy was eighteen. In the aftermath of his grief, he inherited the Battlemage’s housing, modest as it was, it was a compendium of magickal knowledge, which he constantly spends years whittling down understanding the complex, obscure arcane lore he was left with.Seption, the same year of Florius’ passing, had made the decision to depart from Skingrad, and ultimately Colovia, in the pursuit of his own glories and strengths, occasionally returning to find refuge in his former mentor’s home and help maintain the finances and wellbeing of both his mother and sister. Where his travels take him, he discriminates not, whether it be the shadowy corners of underground organizations or the more surface endeavors of mercenarial and arcane factions, his ambitions of wealth, whether it be in name, reputation, or coin, strengthen with each trek.

Born out of suffering, steeled by survival. Is this manbeast a devout of the Lord of the Hunt? Or a madman finding justification for his savage nature? Is there a man beneath the animal?

What can I say? What does it fucking matter what I write? The past is useless, a tool that becomes meaningless once it’s given you the things you need to make yourself whole, or rather, once you’ve taken from it. But if I have to waste my time with this burning pile of garbage, I might as well make it interesting.See, I was born on a nice, cozy farm. Not too far from Windhelm, really, shitty little city of old stones. Am I supposed to feel proud of this Nord “civilization?” We were warriors, weren’t we? Conquerors? Now we sit on our asses getting fat off of meat we didn’t catch ourselves. Whatever. Farm wasn’t bad as farms go, land to live off of, decent house not to freeze to death in, all the space to run around and build your body.I was the first child of four. After me came my dearest little brother, Yngnar. He’s an interesting one, we’ll get back to him later. Then my sister, Aadny, and then another sister, the youngest of all of us, Aeswyn. My folks were a decent bunch, my old man used to be the captain of the guard in Windhelm, wasting his time protecting weak and lazy city cunts and getting paid decently for it. My mother? She was probably the only good thing to come out of the city’s worthless streets, a clothier and leatherworker, but she wasn’t afraid to show you her hands could extract the blood from your ugly little face, whoever you are, reading this, snooping in my fucking business.We lived a good life. At least, I thought it was good, thought it was all I’d need. Little Yng, he was the closest to me of all my little siblings, one of the few friends I’ve ever had- like that matters. We played a lot, pretended we were warriors, killers without remorse, sworn to some higher calling. The forests near the old farm were our little kingdom, and in the moments we played, we were like gods. Aadny and Aeswyn, tough ones they were, only times we needed to protect them was when wolves got too close to the farm. Other than that? They would’ve grown to be fine warriors.But they wouldn’t. Raiders, bandits, whatever the fuck you want to call them, a big enough group with balls of fucking stalhrim raided our farm and every neighboring farm, burning and looting what they could. Ours wasn’t any different, we fell all the same, and they brought fire, scorching everything they couldn’t pick up. I remember watching my father get cut down by a dozen swords trying to protect us. But didn’t matter in the end, once they cut Aadny and Aeswyn’s necks open ear to ear, my parents just gave up. Yngnar and I escaped the house because we were closest to the door, but I watched them as we left, getting trapped in the fire, burning. Was it the first time I saw weakness? What weakness costs? Maybe.

I didn’t make it very far, part of the house collapsed on me, scorched fucking hot and I was a marshmallow on a stick. I remember the burning, the pain. It fools cold at first, the fire, but give it a moment to settle and everything feels agonizing at once. Took my fucking eye, it did. Oh, I remember that moment too well, that was probably the second time I learned what weakness looked like. I begged my brother to pull me out, the pain just wouldn’t stop. Just a little help and we’d be free from these degenerates. But he saw them in the distance, saw them too with what little attention I could give, and all I saw was his sniveling little face give me one last look before he ran off. Left me for the fucking wolves.I think it was his weakness that taught me the first lesson in strength- only rely on yourself.Didn’t matter then, those pond-scum cunts caught up to me, caught me pulling myself out of the burning wreckage. I don’t know what compelled their rotting brains to do what they did, but they didn’t kill me outright. At least, not directly. You know what they did, you little fucking snoop? Still reading my things? They took me in. Saw the “fire” in my eyes, the big one said. Fucking ironic, I wanted to tear his own eyes out right then and there.They said I was a fighter, that I had potential, that they’d pay good money to see me struggle. Oh, and paid good money they did. I was thirteen when they took me to the “Underbleed,” some dumb fucking network of arenas ran by all types of underworld cunts. They’d put just about anything in the pits, dogs fighting cats, trolls fighting a dremora some idiot conjurationist figured out how to spawn, your ugly fucking mum fighting starving wolves, and just about anything in between, boring bandit fights included.I hated the fucking place, despised it, wanted it gone, wanted to see it burn. But by the gods, I can’t deny I truly became the man I needed to be in there. I remember my first fights, getting all scratched and bloodied up having to fight starving dogs for shitty, old food. They barely kept us alive, just enough so we could live to the next fight, only fed and sheltered us good if we won. Or, if they liked how we won at least. Won the fight, but didn’t wow the crowd? Back to the catacombs with you. Those were the holes they dug up as poor excuses for barracks.It didn’t take me long to realize I needed to be more than the sad cunt that I was to do more than just survive. I didn’t just want to do enough to keep breathing until the next day, I wanted to be the gods damned king of the place. I was going to crush every single sorry fuck that bothered my eyes with their ugly grins and their terrified eyes.Seven long years in the Underbleed, but it was seven good damn years. Good, not because I had a fun little time like a princess, but I learned to fight, I learned dominate, I learned to have a will, I learned to be a killer. Because of that, I proper learned the only thing that matters in this world: strength. You want to eat? Be strong enough ot hunt. You want to keep yourself safe? Be strong enough to defend yourself, to kill. You want anything you damn please? Be strong enough to take it. Otherwise you don’t deserve a goddamn thing, not even the breath in your lungs, so do us all a favor and cut your neck open to save the rest of us the trouble.

I remember that year, the last one in the Underbleed, lost count of how many times i jumped between all their arenas. I was twenty then, but I didn’t have a clue of what to do next. Guess that was until there was a new contestant, some Nord woman that got herself thrown to the wolves in the arena, no older than nineteen. Thought I’d watch a good mauling, then I watched the lass tear any fucker apart that got the shit luck of being in the same match as her.It was her match against some bandit cunt that had been talking garbage to my face for weeks, just waiting to climb the ranks to get to me. Wanted to tear his face off myself, but just watching him get in that pit with her, watching all the blood and squealing coming out of him, I was barely able to sit straight I was going to explode. Gods, what a woman. It was the end of that match, and there she was, covered in that poor bastard’s blood head to toe, and then she looked right out of that arena and right at me. The eye contact alone could’ve set me on fire. Again. I’ll tell you one thing, you fucking snoop, I challenged her to a match later that night, and it was a long, hard, bloody match.Svanska. I learned her name the same night I plowed her brains out. It was only a few months until we were proper into each other, and I mean from everything to the bloody raw fucking to what we wanted out of life. She was strong, a killer, fought for what she wanted, knew what she wanted.We both knew what we wanted: out of this shithole. I had my years worth of fill, the place had nothing else to offer, and she wanted to go back to her life of bounty hunting. I thought, hell, why not just skip the rank climbing and directly challenge the Champion? If I became the Underbleed Champion, dumb fucking name I know, I got to make the choice to leave. Could’ve broken the bastard years ago, but I didn’t have my piece of the pie out of the place. Now, though? Me and the lady had plans.Challenged the Champion, killed the Champion, became the Champion, fucked out of there with Svanska. We settled well, she returned to bounty hunting, and I thought why not give it a try? So I became one, and it’s a damn fine job. Get paid for catching some stupid cunt who got another stupid cunt mad enough he put a price on his head? I could do it all day.And, you know what? Svanska and I got really comfortable. So comfortable, had myself a son a year after we left the Underbleed. Good lad, I named him Hrundlau. Strong, just like me. And a fucking stubborn oaf, like his mother.

Being a bounty hunter has its perks, you know? Like good pay for dangerous jobs, or finding out the brother you loved, that abandoned you to the wolves, has a bounty on his cunt-ugly head? Aye, little Yng, that one. Years of tracking bounties, and this is how I find my brother is still around. How he pulled it off? Don’t fucking care. He was accused of a little wretched murder, and not even his first offense, I could barely fucking contain myself, I had to find the bastard and finally stick it to him, show him just how much his cowardice all those years ago turned me into a stronger man.I remember that first reunion, in an open field somewhere in Whiterun Hold. For a second, I almost didn’t know what to say. I planned to make him believe I was beyond emotions to finally find him after all these years, then finally gut him like the pig bitch he was, and I almost broke the act for a split second. Took a few days, whittling myself close to him, even worked a job. Turns out? He was a monster hunter, which made it that much better, I even contemplated sending him unaware right into a pack of werewolves.But I guess that wasn’t his first time, because right when I had him in my grasp, faked a bounty to lead him into a trap, he couldn’t handle the “betrayal” so badly he turned into a fucking werewolf himself.I lost. And instead of killing me on the spot, like any sensible dumbass would’ve, he thought a single bite could do the job and bleed me out. But when I got back up, he gave me another lesson in strength, this time it was a lot more physical.The first time Hircine’s blessing ran through me, I could barely fucking handle it. Days of traveling back home, to my wife and child, thinking I could get Svanska’s help, like I had some fucking twisted, coward notion I could be comforted from losing my mind. But I lost it anyways, soon as I fucking got there, right at the door I just exploded and tore her fucking throat out. I remember the blood, boiling hot in my mouth, I left nothing but bloody fucking bones, from the door to Hrundlau’s room, and I still remember the taste of iron to this day.I lost them, I lost them because my dearest little brother couldn’t do the one sensible thing and end the fight he won the right way, and then I had to suffer for his stupidity. He’ll never understand just how much his weak ways make me stronger. I lost my wife, I lost my child, but I gained something much more. I gained power, I gained a killer instinct that overpowered the one I already had, I was a fucking predator and my first kill was the one weak link in my life that would’ve turned me into a second-thinking pussy unfit for my status.It took me a year to track him down again, and in that year, I indulged in every impulse of bloodlust my blessing called for. Whatever his strain was, it’s like fucking magic, the more flesh I tasted, the more I embraced my transformations, I got better at controlling it, unlocking its secrets. The strength I gained as a beast, I gained as a man, my body adapted in ways that almost made me look like the ugly fucking man-beast I had become, taller and bigger.

Whatever the fuck litle Yng was doing in his spare time, it wasn’t enough. He wanted to fight me as a man? Too bad, I cut him up and bruised him bloody until he could barely lift his head up, and he felt every fucking day of the year it took to find him in the hour it took to get him down. Let him bleed out, made sure he’d die, took his weapon too as a souvenir. A silver two-hander, real nice design, keep it as a tool to keep other beasties in check. Little did I know, the cunt survived his wounds. How he did it? Still don’t fucking care. But that wouldn’t be my problem for a few years after embarrassing him.I left Skyrim in search of rumors of an old werewolf lord who used to be a conqueror in his days, a devout of Hircine who could give me the knowledge and secrets to better understand what it is I became, and just what I can do with it. Because, with power like this? You’ve got to use it, or you’ll just be a waste of flesh. Last I heard, he was holed up somewhere in Abah’s Landing, and off I went.The thing about strength? Ability? Will? It comes in all shapes in sizes. In Abah’s Landing, I found it in the shape of a young Redguard woman, Izazh, a thief trying to make her way in a city that hates just about any fucking cunt that steps into its streets. It’s not a forgiving city, it demanded your blood if you couldn’t keep up, and this shit-out-of-luck girl had the balls to try and steal from me. It didn’t work, but instead of squealing for mercy, she was ready to claw my fucking face off. Could you believe that? In the face of death, she still had enough left in her to fight.How could I let that go to waste? I was so fucking moved I brought her along with me, figure I should start spreading my wisdom, the only wisdom anyone will ever need. The same wisdom I learned back at the farm, back in the arena, and back with my brother. I offered Izazh a way out, a path to carve her own glories, and like anyone sensible, she took it.We found the old werewolf lord, or at least his grave, and all his little goodies of knowledge. Knowledge I’m still finding uses for till this day, some of them don’t even have anything to do with werewolves, some dark and twisted shit I won’t write here, in case a dumbass idiot, like the dumbass idiot currently reading my writings, gets an idea. I don’t share what’s mine.Long story short: I get stronger. Of course I do, I’m me, I’m a fucking force of nature. Seems like little Yng got stronger too, and maybe my own pride got the best of me, because he came ready with years more of new dumbass hunter tricks he learned. I lost, because I couldn’t see through my own ass that he wasn’t the same idiot who underestimated me. So, good job little brother, you got me to take you seriously. But, seems you can’t learn from your mistakes, can you? Because here I am, writing about it, still breathing when you should’ve been a man and finished the job. But you won’t, won’t you? Weak.

I trained and I killed again and again and again, until even I was getting tired. I trained Izazh, and though it took her some adjusting to my way of teaching, which the bitch will thank me for when she’s a killer amongst killers, I even came around to spreading my gift to her- the same gift little brother gave to me all those years ago. I became stronger, faster, smarter, all around better because that’s what I do. But what little Yng refused to do as a beast, he made up for as a man, much as I hate to admit it. He can be a real fucking pain in the arse when he wants to. Even had Izazh masquerade as a love interest for this ugly little scaled fuck, Kota-Vos, Yng took on as an apprentice, took fucking weeks to get through that Argonian’s shell before I could track him down to get to my brother again.When I finally did see him again, tracked him down to the Jerall mountains, real pretty fucking view, he was ready to fight, just like last time. I didn’t have my head up my arse, I had an apprentice I knew could fight like a predator, and still, they outdid us. Spared us again, but now the mercy is starting to feel real fucking bitter.You think you’re better than me, little brother? When I find you again, there’ll be no mercy, no second thoughts, no sparing your little student either, I’ll break everything you have, everything you are, down to the last fucking crumb, until there’s nothing left of you but a pathetic husk of what you were.And then? I’ll keep being what I always have been: a force of nature, something you can’t stop, something your small mind can’t understand, and everything you fear because you’ll never be anything like me.Until then, this stupid entry is over.

From the burdens of bondage to the discipleship of hunting, the young Argonian commits himself endlessly to finding meaning, strength, and identity, beyond what is already within him. Though, sometimes, he is simply a magnet for trouble.

Well well, allow me to introduce myself! I am Kota-Vos. Yes, that’s right, THE Kota-Vos! The devilishly handsome, the handsomely devilish, the Rogue of Maiden Hearts, the Baron of Beauties, the Black-Scaled Nightmare, the Prince of Punching Bad Guys, the Judge of Jackasses, otherwise known, by all my good friends and the ladies, as Koko. If you’re a pretty lady reading this, you can call me Koko too, I’ll forgive snooping around in my journal.So, where do I start? I guess there’s my old life and then there’s my new life, they’re pretty different so I guess it doesn’t matter which one I start with. Well, i should start with the old one, right? No, the new one, since that’s also my current life and the only one that matters? No, I should start with the old one, because the new one might not make sense if I don’t provide any context. Sorry, Yngy says I ramble, but I think I’m pretty smart for getting all of my thoughts out at once. Anyways, old life it is!You probably might’ve heard this one. I grew up in a farm most of my young life, working for that one specific house of dark elves no one really seems to be comfortable around. There’s a good reason why, I learned that firsthand. Anyways, yeah it pretty much sucked, but I always had my mom around, and she was the best. She loved hugs, she always told me I meant all the constellations in the sky to her, she really made sure I knew just how much she loved me, hard to argue it. I miss her.My dad? He was a warrior. Well, a warrior before he and mom and half our tribe were overran by slavers and dragged away to Morrowind. He left when I was twelve, promised to come back a warrior again to free us all. He was amazing, even when he kept getting pushed around by those idiot Dres, I’ve never seen someone so strong before. Well, everyone on that farm was really strong, you had to be if you wanted to keep going.

And, what do you know, he came back! Two years later but hey, that’s alright, he came back. He and a bunch of those tribesmen I mentioned came back and started a big fire, a big confusion to get us all out. I guess they’re my tribesmen too? I never met them. I remember smelling the smoke, choked up my nostrils as we were running through the fields, over to a carriage. My dad fought quick like the wind, he was so fast, it scared me a little, honestly still scares me when I think about it now. A good type of scared, you know? I was just happy to finally get out of there, see the world, do new things, meet new people, all that good stuff.I wish the happiness remained, I really wish it did. My parents and I, along with some freed slaves and tribesmen, were on the carriage, getting chased down by slavers on horseback. We rode for so long, close to an hour trying to outrun them. Seems they caught up, one blast of magic to destroy the wheels, and we were stranded on the road. My dad and his warriors fought well, killed a lot of slavers, but there were too many. They killed everyone, mom and dad too. She was holding my hand, it was all the strength she had to do left after bleeding out, and then she lost that strength. Crazy how life deals you a good card and a shit one at once, right? I miss her hugs.So. you ever get that feeling? The one that goes “yep, this is it, this is where I die and it’s the most disappointing, underwhelming, annoying moment of my life?” I got that feeling as those slaver assholes were just about to skewer me a new one. Then, boom, one of their heads comes clean off. I’m thinking, am I that good? No, at least not yet anyways, but a lot of heads started rolling. I look up, who do I see? Some obnoxiously big Nord, acting like he has any business here. Not that I’m complaining, that guy saved my life. Murdered and distracted enough of them to grab me and run. Thought I was heavy too, big fourteen year old me (I’m a big strong man now, by the way, ladies), and this guy carried me like an empty sack.It was tough, just leaving my parents there, I knew I was gonna come back one way or another. When I saw the big white-headed Nord, he fought just like my old man. Well, not exactly like him, but he had that same ferocity, the same fighting spirit. He tried to leave me in the nearest safe town, but me being the charismatic charmer that I am, only took me a few hours worth of beginning and stalking to finally agree to let me follow him. Well, now that I think about it, I’m not sure if it was really my own convincing, I think he saw something in me that day. More I learned about him, at least as much as I could get out of that brooder of a man, I think he might’ve seen himself in me. Was it the nights worth of plotting how to slaughter those enslaving parasites? What I’d do to them? They deserved pain, look what they did to me!

Yngnar, that was his name. But, honestly? It’s a boring name, so I made some improvements. If you ever see him, make sure to call him Yngy, Yngo-Bingo, Yngsy, or Yngus, he absolutely definitely probably won’t get annoyed because he loves me so much and I’m the best person he ever knew. Here’s the funny thing I learned about him when he agreed to take me on as his apprentice after we had a deep, serious, teacher-student bond type of a conversation about it: he’s actually a monster hunter. Monster hunters are impressive, epic, brave, and when I took the “silver oath,” I became impressive and epic and brave too, or rather just became even more impressive and epic and brave than I already was (ladies, want to see what I can do with silver?). That was when my new life began, and the first task of my new life? Picking up the pieces of the old one.I couldn’t move on, not completely, without doing three things: killing the master of the farm I grew up in, burying my parents, and reclaiming my dad’s weapons and armor. He was a warrior, and I want to honor him by at least carrying on what he ended his life with: bravery. Yngy helped with everything, helped me see a lot of things clearly, stopped me from going on senseless slaughter and shaped my revenge into determination. I mean, honestly, I still wanted to kill them all, but I saw the value in just leaving the slavemaster hanging from a tree instead, leaves a strong message for the rest of them.A year passed, a year of training, focusing, meditating, learning, all those hunter things that made me a better person. We returned to the land, and with a few clues, found the mass grave my old folks and the rest of the escapees were buried in. It was difficult to do, giving them proper burial rites, but we dedicated the day to doing it, and I felt easier once their graves looked a little more dignified. Only issue was the armor wasn’t there, or maybe that’s a good thing, it wouldn’t have decayed away in the dirt. That means only one thing: that stupid ugly idiot slavemaster had it. Alorvys Dres, the slimy bastard, we went back to the farm and found my dad’s equipment hung up like a trophy. Thank the gods Yng was up for a little bloodshed, really helped me hone in on the killing too. Did I mention he called in a few fellow hunters to help free the slaves while we raided the manor? I really gotta pay him back for that one day.I slit his throad wide open, ignored all the pathetic begging and crying and pissing-himself, I just waited for him to feel real pathetic doing all that until I turned him into a blood sack, make him realize he did all that for nothing. But, that’s the weird thing, I thought I pulled a good card out of life, slaughtering him, and I just felt nothing. Another shitty, worthless card. Why didn’t it make me feel better? Because it didn’t bring my parents back? It didn’t save all the dead slaves? It didn’t reverse any of the injustices they committed? All of that, mostly. At least he wouldn’t commit anymore atrocities, but killing one slavemaster was a drop in the bucket- but, start small, right? There were slaves to free now. Lots of happy now-former slaves, lots of formerly-alive slavers, and I did what my dad set out to do so long ago. Old life? Put to rest. New life? Just beginning.I grew into my old man’s armor. With a little refitting, but I meant growing into it more metaphorically than I did literally. Had to refit it again after I gained all these muscles, ladies. Revenge wasn’t fulfilling, but I treated it as the first contract completed as a hunter. Rooting out monsters, that’s what we do, right? One job down, and a lifetime to go. I got pretty good, agonizing injuries aside, and I just can’t stop, just won’t stop. Give it enough time, and even old Yngy’s gonna be wondering just how I’m doing it.

A knighted vampire, sworn to both the living and unliving, always keeping both fronts at bay from swallowing him whole. Though charged with duty, it is not enough to keep this immortalized Breton from looking beyond sword and blood, seeking more meaning than what he must be content with.

I am Yves Sontevieve, Red Stag of House Sontevieve, Lord Protector of the King’s Guard Mount, and Lord of the Order of the Black Knight. As far as the realms of mortal man are concerned, I lord over a knightly order charged with the protection of the King’s Guard mountain ranges between the realms of Glenumbra, Rivenspire, and Shornhelm, our wealth and funding sourced from several supporting houses and factions. As the Red Stag, or the lord, of the House Sontevieve, our progeny are forever promised to the protection of the realms of the Bretons.Under moonlight, I am the Chevalier Sanguine of the Circle of the Byway, we are in service to the Vampiric orders of High Rock, performing services under the shield of shadows, strengthening the bonds between the ostracized. We are also afflicted, and the ruling council of the Order of the Black Knight, serving the men of both sun and moon.Most of those who know of my true nature, laud my decades of service to the shadowed cause, and those who do not know, laud my decades of service to the realms. Though, if they were to know, most, if not all, would wish me a swift death. I exist in the paradox of feeling a great deal of care for both side, stricken by emotion that would otherwise tell me I must choose one or the other. So far, I have succeeded in balancing both faces but, much like running an empire, I am constantly beset on both fronts, waging war against that which would seek to undermine the gentle stability I have created.I was born the seventh of Midyear, in the four hundred forty seventh year of the Second Era, first named Belchimond Sontevieve. I was born to my father, Lord Aineric Sontevieve, and my mother, Lady Isaline Sontevieve. I was the youngest of three brothers, the oldest being Arstophe, the second being Castien. I was born fifteen years following the collapse of our house and order’s greatest threat, the Silver Road, a once-militant organization of hunters, felled by a decades-long effort executed by my father. He undermined their legitimacy, turned them against each other, turned kings and lords against them, and set upon them the very creatures of the night they were formed against. When the last of their sanctuaries collapsed, we entered an age of prosperity, of which I was born into.

I grew up in our ancestral home, Castle Highmount, where I learned several skills. Combat of varying variety, wartime tactics, debate, equestrianism, and varying avenues into leadership. When I was fifteen, I began working under supervision of my father, working within the Order of the Black Knight to fulfill its duties, of which it was given after my father succeeded in eliminating the final Silver Road stronghold. I showed exceptional skill, though I often denied my praises in an effort never to rest on my accomplishments, fearful of become complacent.At the age of twenty, I was subject to the tragedy of my brothers’ passing, whom perished in an ambushed by a sizable force of raiders along the King’s Guard passage between Glenumbra and Rivenspire. Though we won, our victory ushered in by my uncle, Lord Delgaine Sontevieve, I felt no pride of success. I have lost the men I grew up alongside with, whose laughter I remember most fondly, whose nicknames, inside jests, secret handshakes, playing grounds, and favorite colors I remember better than the dossiers of every ruling lord of Camlorn from the earliest of ages till now.Through my pain, I continued my duties as faithfully as I could, until at the age of thirty-five, I lost my father to a lone assassin, whom we identified as a remnant of the long-defunct Silver Road, as an act of final revenge. We slew the assassin before they could escape, though their death served only justice, not a satisfaction of my shattered heart. By right of decree, I was named both Red Stag of House Sontevieve and the Lord of the Order of the Black Knight.The same night of my ascendance to leadership, a moment which I had trained and studied for all my life, I was once again confronted with another burden, though considerably darker. My uncle, Lord Delgaine, a close advisor to my father, revealed himself to be a vampire, turned around the same time as my father some decades prior to my birth. Though I was Lord of the Order of the Black Knight, I was not let lord of their inner circle, comprised of the very lord knights I ruled over. They called themselves the Circle of the Byway, an order performing services to the underworld of vampiric orders operating in High Rock.

I thought I would be disgusted, repulsed, turning a face away to the ugly nature that existed beneath the pristine layer of our dedication to principle and chivalry. Yet, I felt none of those things, and instead, I understood I was the one who must be the right piece to fall into the puzzle in my father’s absence, and so I accepted the baptism of eternal night. I died Belchimond Sontevieve of the living, in the four hundredth and eighty second year of the Second Era, and was reborn as Belchimond the Chevalier Sanguine the same year. As the years passed, I expertly altered my identity, with the help of my advisor, my uncle Delgaine, to give the illusion of succession amongst my descendants. Though, as it stands, I bore no children of my own, neither have I ever sired another vampire of my particular blood. Sometimes, the life I have willingly accepted assignment of, can be an incredibly isolating one.Today, I am Yves Sontevieve, whom took the title of Red Stag and Lord in the five hundredth and eighty fourth year of the Second Era from his predecessor, his father Octien Sontevieve. I have over a century of experience ruling the affairs of men both mortal and immortal, and if it should be possible, I will continue to do so, until I finally experience the fatigue of rule, or my hand is no longer quick enough to shield me from a fateful blow.Though, ambitious as I am, I wonder if the life I lead is still a fulfilling one. I have made gains for others, yet, I grow hesitant to ever look within, and wonder if I have made gains for myself, just for once.