Name: Jei-Tah/Wets-His-Blade
Family Origins: Blackmarsh
Appearance: Standing at 6'2" with the musculature of a body builder, Blade can give most Nords a run for their money in the "be intimidating" department when he has a mind to, especially when coupled with his reptilian features. Ice blue eyes look out from beneath the heavy brows of his scarred face, contrasting with his onyx scales and the faded, crimson tribal tattoos that cross them. His muzzle has a more blunt, squared shape than a more common narrow, raptor-like one, that complements his heavy build. The dark scales that cover his body have lost their luster in his middle years and are now more of a matte finish. He also typically hunches beneath his cloak, lowering his profile and making him seem a bit more harmless. In addition to his cloak, the rest of his clothing his made of fur or tanned skins as well, giving him a similar look to that of the Forsworn who inhabit the Reach.
Age: 103
Equipment:
-Steel longsword
-Ebony greatsword
-Steel hand axe/tomohawk
-Orcish plate
-Chainmail hauberk
Miscellanea:
-salted venison
-goat cheese
-flask of argonian ale
-tin of flint and tinder
-whetstone
-fur cloak
Skills:
Highly Proficient- Two handed
Moderately Proficient- One handed, Heavy armor, Unarmed, Smithing
Somewhat Proficient- Archery
Background:
Though he was born in the Argonian homeland of Blackmarsh, most of Wets-His-Blade's youth was spent in the unforgiving weather of Windhelm. When he was still very young, his father convinced his mother that they should move the family to Windhelm where he'd been offered a well paying job as a deckhand for one of the local shipping companies. They lived comfortably for a brief time until the boat his father worked set off from the dock once more, but never returned. Sunk either by stormy weather or pirates was never discovered, in any case, Blade's mother now had to care he and his brother on her own. They managed to scrape by a living for several years, but the hard labor eventually took it's toll, and his mother became perpetually ill. It was then that Blade and his brother took on jobs of their own at the docks, receiving little pay for the long hours and heavy lifting. Though they did their best to care for their wilting mother, she eventually passed away, leaving the two brothers to fend for themselves.
Years passed and the brothers toiled on, always planning to leave Windhelm when they could manage, but barely made enough money to keep food on the table let alone buy supplies. Blade did his best to keep his brother in line, but he was an ambitious one and wanted more out of life than to be an underpaid dock hand, eventually resorting to thievery in order to make more money. Having never practiced such skills, Blade's brother was soon caught stealing from the docks he worked, and was executed on the spot by the zealous and racist guards who had captured him. Blade, who arrived at the scene in time to witness his brother's beheading, flew into a blind rage and brutally slew the guards with their own weapons and his bare teeth.
Though he felt his actions were justified, Blade knew the Jarl and his guard wouldn't see it that way. So he fled Windhelm and the Jarl's domain. Still, bounty hunters coveted the hefty price on his head, so Blade was forced to fight his way out of Skyrim entirely, eventually making his way to Cyrodill. Spurred on by his fury of his brother's death, his only interest was vengeance, the death of the guilty guards and the bounty hunters having failed to sate his bloodlust. So he sold his sword wherever he could, his hefty frame making up for his lack of practice.
Eventually he discovered the Capital Arena, and with little regard for his own life, immediately signed on as a gladiator, taking on the moniker "Wets-His-Blade." Though his strength was obvious, many assumed his lack of training would make him easy prey. This notion was soon lost as Blade's wrath, tenacity, and brute strength quickly proved to be a deadly combination. He was a natural born fighter, and he learned quickly in the arena, partially through daily training, and partially through victories and mistakes made in the ring, many of which nearly cost him his life. As months passed he rose through the ranks, his brutal kills proving to be a crowd favorite, until he eventually became the Champion. Then years passed, every week bringing another challenge, the best fighters in the land rising to seek their own glory, only to be cut down by Blade's ferocity. A force that even put bears and lions to shame as he beat them to death with his bare hands. Or so the rumors say anyway.
As time passed Blade came to wonder what the point was. No matter how many men, mer, or beasts he slew, his fury never dimmed, his bloodlust was never sated. But the fighting always continued. And so with no warning, Blade disappeared. He took his winnings, the most valuable being an Ebony greatsword which he'd been awarded after his fifth consecutive year as the standing champion, and left the capital in search of something that have him purpose. He'd decided long ago that fighting was his purpose, but now he realized it had to have meaning. He wanted to fight for something, not just because he hungered for combat. He traveled the continent for several years, looking for that something, but never found it. He discovered there was little to fight for in this world. The only people who needed swords by their side were those who wanted them for selfish reasons. To take land. To take things. To take people. Or just wanted something to defend them from shadows that may come for their lives.
Blade came to realize that he wasn't needed, and that his lust would never be sated. That he should have perished on the docks with his brother all those years ago. Now in his forties, Blade traveled back to Windelm -his face long since forgotten by the Jarl and his men- and paid his last respects to his brother. Though he hadn't expected it, this quelled some of the fire in his breast. He accepted that his family was gone, and that they would never return no matter how much blood he spilled in their name. Having reached some measure of peace, he trekked into Skyrim's frozen wilderness and made a home for himself in its snowy peaks, living a spartan life of solitude.
The argonian gladiator lost himself in those mountains, time drifting by unchecked as he survived on what he could hunt, selling the pelts for other supplies whenever he returned briefly to the city that had made him. Decades passed, and the world moved on. He almost didn't even notice the war between the Imperum and the Dominion. He wasn't aware of the White Gold Concordat until he was told of it one day. And his only experience of the civil war was the Stormcloaks racism that was occasionally directed his way when he went for supplies.
By mere chance, he was there to bear witness to the arrival of the Snow Elf's ambassador. He's not sure what drove him to volunteer his service to aid her in the name of the Empire, but something in his gut tells him that this was a chance for him to have purpose once more.
Fighting Style:
Over the decades, Wets-His-Blade has practiced dozens of styles of martial combat and is an expert with most weapons, but chose to master two handed weapons. In his middle age, he's adopted a swift and efficient technique that leaves as few openings as possible while using his longsword's reach to keep enemies at a distance while exploiting the enemy's mistakes with quick but powerful two handed thrusts and cuts. He typically chooses to wear down his opponents bit by bit, targeting vital areas instead of battering away at them with wild haymakers. But he will still occasionally fall back on his old berserk bloodrages in times of extreme duress.
Personality:
These days Blade does his best to avoid a fight as long as possible, this in combination with his self exile has made him a much quieter, calmer, more subtle person than he was in his youth. That said when he does speak, if it's not to offer advice in a matter of fact manner, it's to growl irately at those who irritate him. Often times with a very descriptive threat of what he'll do to them if they don't stop irritating him. Most would do well to heed threats coming from him since he's likely already done exactly as he says on multiple past victims. He can also be quite callous, and usually places little stock in life. His judgement for transgressions, serious or trivial, is almost always death. He is fiercely loyal to those he does happen to take a liking to however.