Davron Avloch

Intro

• "Though Reachman he once was, his magic now sings of flora and beast and life; no longer of the corruption of those barbaric people"

• Basic Info

  • Name: Davron Avloch
  • Gender: Male
  • Played by: Floppycat
  • Race: Human/Breton
  • Class: Warden
  • Alignment: Neutral Good
  • Age: 40's
  • Size: Tall
  • Body Type: Slender, toned
  • Complexion: Tan
  • Hair: Black
  • Eyes: Blue
  • Personality: Gruffly gentle
  • Mannerisms: Stoic
  • Likes: Outdoors

• Description

  Davron Avloch bears the features and bearing typical of his ancestry, yet he doesn't speak with the Breton accent characteristic of that people. Rather, it's gruff cadence sings of the north among those malevolent people whose tribes haunt the Reach. And though Reachman he once was, his magic now sings of earth and flora, of beast and life...not of the stale dark magics stinking of death and rot and corruption of their foul witches and vile Gravesingers. He wears furred leathers made from the wilds and mixed with the more civilized garb of his Breton countrymen. When about in the outskirts, one would find his skin painted in black markings reminiscent of his former life and he would say it was because he cannot pretend to be something he is not. His ebon hair is cut ruffly at his jaw and braided at the sides, and his eyes are blue like the oceans and seas that touch every coast of his homeland.

• Journal

  • A turning (background) May 15th 2018, 3:48 pm

    Avloch

    A story written from the lore of the Reach within the Elder Scrolls

    This is a little history of how Davron Avloch came to be a Warden of Nirn.

    
    
    Part 1
    
    
    This day he had finally met his match...
    
    Avloch looked into the innocent eyes of his doom, holding her close within his strong arms as he carried her up the stone stair to the large, stained slab, darkened and slick with blood. The witch’s eyes flashed vividly against the fire to either side of her against which the table gleamed darkly in the otherwise moonless, lightless night. Hags murmured their toxic whispers to the Princes they worshiped and served behind the witch, as the rest of the clan swayed, kneeling to the beat of primitive drums below them. He could feel their eyes on his back as he forced his feet up each ever-burdening step to a death he wished with each footfall were his own instead. This ritual, an annual occurrence among his people, was an honor for the brave, but a terror for the weak. He had himself participated in his youth as the witch used his magics to increase her own power. He saw first hand why they were the bedrock of their clan. But as he matured and neared the age where he’d take a wife, his views shifted, though he told none but one of his misgivings. He knew it was a weakness and he knew where it came from; more the reason to lock it away.
    
    The witch spoke, “She weeps no tears...a strength that honors her sacrifice. You should feel pride, yet your eyes reveal weakness.” Her blade still dripping with blood moved swiftly to his neck, gliding up his sweat glistened skin to nudge his chin upward so his eyes were level with her own. Whispering softly, for his ears alone, “Lie her down now, Sweet....before they see your cowardice blooming.”
    
    His dared not let his eyes stray downward for one last glance at his treasure, but instead, filled with the hatred fed from years of abuse he both suffered and afflicted, he glared back at the witch. Not recognizing it for what it was she smiled and whispered, “There he is, now. Good. I feared the weakness of your blood was rearing to take you.”
    
    He rested the small frame wrapped in her sacrificial robes gently upon the table and felt his fingers slip slowly from her warmth as he pulled away, searing this moment forever to memory.
    
    Others whose children had already perished when their lots were called still knelt at the alter, faces stoic yet pale. Cowardice couldn’t be maligned if one never revealed it’s presence. Avloch’s face remained hard as he stepped slowly off the dais and moved silently through the throng towards the opening. His place, as always, was at the Briarheart Trees during these rituals among the other Gravesingers. Momentarily he thanked their foul gods for whatever mercy they spared this day unto him. They had certainly never spared a care before. But soon, he knew there would be a new hell to pay as he fed these small corpses to the saplings and seeds lying in wait, an act only now he feared he might finally quail at doing.
    
    Avloch whispered to his tortured heart as his feet carried him sightlessly from the cavern, deafening his ears to the sound of his daughter’s death. “Stop with your weakness. Our way knows not this failing,” he pleaded with bitter words to his soul now writhing in turmoil. Indeed, his daughter proudly accepted her fate as her lot was called. A willing sacrifice gave more power to the ritual, and she had often spoken of her mother becoming the next Matron when her form was changed. At the thought of the woman he believed he loved, he went strangely cold. Her honeyed promises to him as foul poison dripping from tender, willing lips.
    
    Unexpectedly his head began to swim. Clutching his chest, he struggled to breathe. Visions swirled, clouding his eyes and forcing his heart to pound. Sweat glistened at his paling brow and he labored to remain upright.
    
    Green light...cool autumn breezes...flutters of feathered wing and song of birds...rain, pure and clean dancing in glowing meadow rivers...
    
    Dazed, he fell to one knee and heard the soft strong voice of another god calling for him...“Davron” she whispered.
    
    His eyes darted aware, looking wildly about him as his senses returned. A certainty filled him as he felt himself break, becoming himself something new. He rose, turning to rush back into the cavern, his eyes fixed to the alter over the heads of his clan still swaying, their chants reaching crescendo just as the knife plunged to yank out the life of his everything.
    
    __________________________________________________________________________
    
    The sounds of dark whispers and cold laughter hovered beyond his closed eyes as he returned, stirring awake. Confusion took him as he was unable to piece together why he lied here on the cold, hard floor, solid beneath him...until it did. Realization came amid the voices murmuring words he had dreaded most. Weakness...the word most foul ever issued to any living among the Reach. Weakness earned only one of two things, slavery or death. His eyes peeled open to see all he feared. Seconds ago he was one most feared among them. A Gravesinger with powers unequaled. He had butchered and raised, bullied and belied, tortured and maimed countless victims even those among their kind to secure his status among them, a status he was continually on the brink of losing because of his Breton birth. Now...gone in the breadth of a moment.
    
    Grimly he set his muscled jaw and slowly rose to stand and face the inevitable. They said not another word more, but what their eyes spoke could fill countless scrolls of parchment the civilized races favored. He could no longer look to the altar where that small bundle of cloth now lie, unmoving. Turning toward the cavern opening, he stepped past the throng of black eyes glittering with malice. His hand resting over the blade secured at his side, knowing he’ll need nothing else for what must come next. Stepping into utter darkness, he headed for their mountain to lose himself among the rocky, snow-covered crags where all unworthy go to die... when they know they haven’t even the strength to endure the misery of slavery.
    
    Weakness...