I'm looking for a complete playthrough on youtube of this game including most of its story content, preferably in sensible order but anything is okay! I tried playing this before and I enjoyed it but didn't really have the time to play it. Does anyone have any recommendations?
So I am looking for the origin of this family heirloom, it is a sapphire and diamond cluster ring. It was passed down from my grandmother, to my mother, to my wife. My grandmother lived in the UK and I haven't my whole life. I have found somewhat similar rings online but never quite the same. I am assuming its from the late 20th century since this style was popular in the UK.
There are few legible markings. First I noticed was a 6 on the left side of the ring. A capital A in the centre of it. There is some writing I cannot read and then some more writing that looks like DACe kor D9Ce but it doesnt make sense so iM scratching my head.
Can anybody help me?
Hello, this is my first post. I create backstories for all my main Elder Scrolls and Fallout characters (one for each), as I like to write fanfiction (I mostly actually just try to novelise the games including all dialogue). This is my Skyrim character Rhen Talnarith. Please let me know what you think of this, I am open to critique/criticism. I don't have any photos as I've done this at work but please enjoy. (Not edited, so may be typos and errors)
*TRIGGER WARNING*
Violence/SA (brief)
________________________
Bloodline is a curious thing. On one hand it can be worn as gilded armour of pride and on the other a suffocating cage of expectation.
Rhen Talnarith grew up in the shadows of his ancestors. Some of his earliest memories are those of sitting by an open, crackling hearth as his oldest living elder told magnificent tales of legend. They told stories of their homeland, of Morrowind. Old stories of the land itself, Vvardenfell’s alien beauty. Its diverse biomes of towering mushrooms, lush green lowlands and windswept ashlands. Old stories of ancestors who brought fame and honour to House Redoran and the Talnarith name.
Most of all, they spoke of Bal Isra. It was there, on those gray harsh lands of the Ashlands, the elder was born in the confines of Indarys Manor. A stunning, walled fortress sitting northeast of Ald’ruhn. They always told stories of that fortress as if it were holy. Their favourite story of all being the one where Indarys Manor’s foundations had been laid down by the Nerevarine himself during his ascent to power. They always had suspicions that the Nerevarine’s blood ran in their veins for they had only known their mother and well, the Nerevarine disappeared.
But the cataclysm of the Red Year cared not for their legacy nor any other. In 4E 5, barely eleven years after the completion of the stronghold, the disaster brought destruction to all Vvardenfell and its people. Rivers of molten stone and suffocating ash swept across the isle, swallowing the plains of Bal Isra whole and with it Indarys Manor.
The proud Talnarith family were forced to flee their homeland. The elder vividly spoke of the terror of their flight. Despite only being recently rebuilt from the Oblivion Crisis, Ald’ruhn choked in toxic ash, Balmora was buried beneath rivers of lava, and Vivec, he only heard the horrors of what would become the Scathing Bay later in his life.
There was no sanctuary for them on the mainland so with what little they had they were forced to cross the Velothi mountain range as refugees into Skyrim. Though Rhen had never set foot on Morrowind’s soil, his father would often remind him of who he is and what his name stands for; “Remember who you are, Rhen. You are the blood of Bal Isra. Act with the dignity of a Talnarith. Honour our Great House Redoran.”
Dignity offered Rhen no warmth in this frozen land. The ancient traditions of his family felt stifling to him. He held no desire to sit and do nothing but reminisce about a ruined past; he craved life. He was ever drawn to freedom. He wanted adventure.
Rhen would finally find that freedom in the midst of his teenage years. He fell in with a band of misfits and outcasts who ran odd jobs in the valleys near the base of the Velothi Mountains, away from the Jarl’s guards in Riften. They were young grifters who wore lawlessness with pride. They didn’t measure him on the actions of his forefathers, they accepted him for who he was. In their shared laughter around campfires beneath the golden canopies of birch trees, he had found family.
They localised their operations to a secluded corner of the hold, far from Treva River. Their targets small, isolated and intimate. A secluded trapper’s hut near Shor’s Stone, an unguarded merchant cart traveling from Ivarstead or an isolated camp nestled in a mountain crevice.
Initially, their raids were nothing more than reckless vandalism, stealing a cask of mead from a travelling pilgrim or pickpocketing a wealthy Nord miner. Rhen found this exhilarating. This was the kind of dangerous situation that brought him joy where his survival rested in his own skill alone. He felt truly alive.
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As winter fell over Skyrim, it proved far more perilous than any of them had anticipated. They grew cruel, hungry, and nasty. Rhen watched as his newfound family threatened even helpless, poor peasants. He noticed some even started to enjoy hurting them. He watched as their operations turned from a thrill of rebellion to genuine sadism.
Rhen’s final job occurred under a moonless sky within the eastern edges of the Rift. A defenseless farming hamlet south of Shor’s Stone hidden in the shadow of the Velothi. Rhen entered the village with his brothers with a heavy heart but he also had an undying stubborn determination to prove his loyalty to them. He expected a swift, bloodless theft of winter grain and livestock to keep them going through to the first blossoms of spring. He was mistaken.
The raid turned into a senseless orgy of malice. The boys Rhen had called brothers began torching the thatched roofs of the small huts, laughing as the blaze of the fire lit up against the trees. The fleeing villagers screamed for their lives as the mud turned red with their blood.
“Stop this!” Rhen screamed, his voice cracking against the smoke. “This wasn’t the plan!”
But no one listened. Rhen watched as he saw a young mother’s clothes be torn off as she was pushed into the cold snow. She cradled a sobbing infant to her chest, her eyes in a desperate plea for mercy. Towering over her were two of Rhen’s closest companions, their faces unrecognizable to him. They tore the child from her grasp and threw it against the stone wall before turning toward the defenseless woman once more. One man started to unbuckle his pants as the other held the point of his dagger to the woman’s throat.
In that instant Rhen was consumed by a righteous fury. He looked at the two men before him, drew his carving knife and lunged forward, throwing his entire weight into his thrust. The man was too preoccupied to raise his dagger before Rhen brutally smashed it away, he heard a crack as his wrist bone broke. . But before he could make a sound, he stabbed the blade upwards into his jaw, pinning his tongue to the roof of his mouth while kicking him hard in the chest. His blood splashed on the snow as the blade came free.The other man watched dumbfounded, his eyes widening as he realized his closest companion had turned against him. Rhen slit his throat before he could reach for his rusty iron mace.
“Traitor!” another voice roared over the crackle of burning wood and flesh as Rhen helped the woman to her feet.
The gang stopped their pillaging and turned on Rhen. A heavy iron war axe swung blindly at Rhen’s head from a charging bandit. Rhen dipped his shoulder and fell back into the mud, the blade missing by inches. He spun on the ground, managing to cut the calf of the axeman. The man collapsed to his knees with a yell. Rhen shot up to his feet and opened the man’s throat from ear to ear.
Rhen picked up the axe and hacked through flesh and bone, executing his former companions one by one to buy time for the surviving villagers fleeing toward the safety of the tree line.
As Rhen stepped back to dislodge his axe from a fallen man’s ribs, a stray arrow, loosed blindly from the shadows tore through his leather jerkin, ripping through muscle and burying itself deep into his shoulder just below the collarbone.
His vision turned white. His axe slipped from his hands, clattering into the snow that was soaked in blood. His knees faltered as he struggled to catch his breath. Around him, the remaining raiders watched as he stood over the mangled corpses of the friends he had just slaughtered. He threw his head back and unleashed a blood curdling yell as blood bubbled from his mouth. Realizing they were fighting a madman who could no longer feel pain, the raiders turned and fled, scattering like cowards into the dark.
Clutching his bleeding shoulder. Rhen dragged himself through the snow. He left a thick trail of blood behind him as he left the ruin of the village behind.
____
Rhen did not remember the entire trek through the Velothi Mountains that night, nor did he remember the kindness of the hermit, an old, monk of Stendarr, who dragged his body from a cave near the border to Morrowind. The monk didn’t ask questions about the iron arrowhead buried in Rhen’s shoulder, nor the nightmares that caused the youth to scream in the night. He simply patched the flesh, bound his shoulder and fed him broth until the winter ice began to thaw.
By the time the snow melted and the first flowers of Rain’s Hand bloomed, Rhen was a changed man. The youth who had sought reckless thrills in the valleys was dead, buried in the mud of that ruined farming hamlet. Nor could he return to his father; he could not bear to look at the elders of the Talnarith line and be judged for tarnishing the dignity of Great House Redoran. He needed a clean slate. He needed to disappear completely. He felt his only option was Cyrodiil to the south.
However, as spring gave way to summer, war broke out in Skyrim when Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak killed the High King. The rivalry between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks made the highways dangerous, and legions of both sides kept watch at the main roadways and passes. Rhen was forced to travel by foot through the wilderness, sticking to the southern Jeralls to avoid both Imperial patrols and any remnants of his old crew who might recognize his face. For months, he lived off the land. He used his carving knife only to skin rabbits and whittle wood. His body grew lean but his mind grew paranoid.
By the 17th of Last Seed, the summer sun was blazing hot. Rhen had finally neared the jagged passes near Pale Pass. His best bet to reach the northern counties of Cyrodiil. Rhen felt safe, he was completely isolated in the mountain crags, nowhere near any civilized town. But, he never saw the trap.
A detachment of the Imperial General Tullius’s elite swarmed him from the brush with weapons drawn. They were prepared for a silent ambush on a band of Stormcloak soldiers who had chosen the exact same hidden pass to escape. They weren’t expecting to find a solitary Dunmer but before Rhen could do anything, an Imperial shield slammed into the side of his head, sending him crashing into the dirt.
He opened his eyes, head still ringing from the headblow. The heat of summer causes sweat to drip into his eyes, iron manacles bit into his wrists and the rhythmic tilt of a wooden cart jolted his bones. Sitting with him was a skinny, trembling thief type in filthy rags, a blonde man wearing fine stormcloak armour, his mouth bound with a gag. Across from him was a rugged blonde Nord warrior who looked at him with sympathetic eyes.
“Hey, you,” the Nord warrior muttered, his voice low and steady over the creak of the wheels. “You’re finally awake.”