Legend Of Pandora - EP42 - Black Star & The Forsworn Conspiracy

Описание: Disclaimer: English is not my native language. Please keep that in mind. Thank you.
Profanities - I use them. Not often, but I do. Consider that to be a warning.
Original build inspiration:    • The Bone Shepherd [Skyrim Anniversary Edit...  

Character Story - Roleplay Background

Pandora was born under a false sky, not in the marble halls of Summerset but on a modest farm whose fields existed for one purpose only. The land was a cover. The family that raised her were Thalmor agents assigned to the borderlands, presenting themselves as farmers while gathering intelligence and quietly enforcing Dominion interests beyond public scrutiny. To the outside world they were provincial Altmer, withdrawn and unremarkable. To Pandora they were mentors, handlers, and the only family she ever knew.

She never cared for farming. The repetitive labor, the dirt under her nails, and the pretense of a simple rural life felt like a cage. Even as a child, Pandora was drawn elsewhere. She wanted the arcane. She sought out old texts, half forbidden scrolls, and any scrap of magical theory her caretakers possessed. While the farm demanded routine, her mind demanded study.

Her guardians indulged this interest only within limits. They trained her in traditional discipline and insisted she learn to defend herself without excess reliance on magic. Shield work became mandatory. Hours were spent drilling footwork, posture, and endurance, not because she loved it, but because they believed survival required balance. Pandora accepted the training, if not the philosophy. The shield became familiar, if never beloved, a practical tool she would later master through repetition rather than passion.

It was conjuration that ultimately claimed her devotion. Not the flamboyant summoning of Daedra favored by many Altmer mages, but the quiet certainty of bones answering a call. Skeletons were obedient, predictable, and honest in their purpose. They did not lie. They did not betray. Pandora found comfort in that. Where others saw defilement, she saw order. Death reduced to structure.

Her fascination soon extended to the tools of magic itself. Staves, in particular, captivated her. Each was a conduit of intent, a crystallized philosophy. She began collecting them obsessively, cataloging their origins, effects, and craftsmanship. To Pandora, a staff was not merely a weapon. It was a statement of identity, and she intended to understand them all.

The illusion of safety ended abruptly.

One night, the Dark Brotherhood came for the farm. Whether the contract was political, personal, or simply profitable was never made clear. What mattered was the outcome. The agents who raised her were butchered in their sleep. The farm was burned. The lie that had sustained her life collapsed in a single night of blood and ash.

Pandora survived through preparation and an early mastery of magic that allowed her to fight at a distance and without dependence on others. In the aftermath, she severed herself from formal allegiances. She no longer trusted institutions, ideologies, or associates who claimed loyalty. Followers irritated her. Their presence was a liability.
Mercenaries, however, were acceptable. Gold was honest, and contracts ended cleanly.

Skyrim drew her north. Rumors of Dark Brotherhood activity. Old names resurfacing. Sanctuaries whispered about in taverns. She came not as a hero or an agent of justice, but as a survivor with unfinished business. Revenge was not a passion. It was a task.

Now Pandora walks Skyrim alone, shield on her arm, staff in hand, skeletons at her side. A collector of arcane artifacts. A student of death. A woman shaped by lies, loss, and bone. Whether she will dismantle the Brotherhood piece by piece or be consumed by the very obsessions that sustain her remains to be seen.