Basic Info
Name: Nein; formerly known as Qa'naro the Striped Piper.
Race: Khajiit; Pahmar-raht
Age: Twenty-two
Gender: Male
Physical Description
It's a shame, really. Nein's a large beast of monstrous proportions, easily located on the larger end of the size-chart. He has no awkwardly placed limbs, gangly musculature, knobby knees, elbows, or knocking bones. He's got a stocky fighter's build that tapers towards his waist, accentuating his barrel chest and strong shoulders. He's a big fella', extremely block-shaped, muscular, and sturdy; strength without sacrificing agility. Impressively tall, which isn't unusual given his familial lineage, Nein could be considered intimidating if it weren't for his gregarious attitude – that's why it's a shame. He's got a well-defined muzzle, a twitchy pink nose and rose-budded ears. His rugged features characterize him. Though truncated, Nein's torso supports heavy-duty, high-rise shoulders, corded with pure muscle. His scruffy coat is reminiscent of a Bengal Tiger; orange-ochre with various striations of black and dark brown covering the expanse of his body, traversing backwards. The fur on his belly is slightly softer, less coarse, and creamy white in colour. Perhaps his most unusual physical quirk is the length of his swishing tail, comically fluffed whenever he's frustrated, anxious, or lying.
He's a brick; a brick house letting it all hang out. Seriously, though. Now, if you press him enough, he'll swear he's got the softer paws, the softest fur, and the biggest heart of all Khajiit in the Northern region of Skyrim. He's no iceberg. It's in the nonchalant way he moves, with his shoulders pulled back, his chin held high, and his thoughtless gait carrying him, always forward – as if he doesn't know where he's going, but it doesn't really matter anyway. He's all loaded springs and flitting glances, continuously checking out his surroundings to find a suitable exit if things get too heated. His eyes are the most inadvertently, intrusive blue. It's almost as if they don't sit properly in his face, like they belong to a much smaller, perhaps even human, man. One who's hands aren't rough paw-pads, equipped with sharp black claws. One's who's teeth aren't so sharp, so plenteous, because if you counted them you'd find that he wasn't missing any; Nein smiles enough to remind everyone that he's got them safely tucked away behind his dark lips, ready to tear out any throat if he so wished. Lastly, there's soft white whiskers streaming up from his eyebrows, his dotted snout, and striped cheeks. Even if he had any scars, it isn't likely you'd be able to tell with his double-coat of fluff protecting him from the elements – but, he's got a small patch of fur missing on his right buttock from a nasty incident involving a candle.
Personality
If there was anyone, or anything, as conflict-avoidant as Nein, then it'd probably have to be a twitchy-nosed rabbit scurrying for it's hovel. He's very tolerant of others, probably because he's so insufferable himself. He's an unscrupulous eel; as flighty as any small rodent. He's the kind of individual who adapts near-instantly to all situations or instances because he values his own life so much – his survival instincts are as strong as any Nord's pride, as any Khajiit's addiction to the shadier indulgences Skyrim has to offer in their own caravans. For someone who's so cautious around Skyrim's inhabitants, Nein's as curious as a kitten, and it's likely to get him killed someday. Despite others' perception of him as a hyper-violent barbarian, or at least before he actually opens his yapper, Nein is incredibly intelligent and might regularly surprise people with his insight. He's naturally gifted when it comes to picking up signals, or perceiving where the conversation is going. He can also be very well-spoken, which isn't usually a Khajiit-born trait, and can communicate complicated ideas with an ease quite unlike what people would expect from him. This isn't to say that Nein doesn't occasionally slip into his silken Elsweyr accent, lilting this way and that; purely for the giggles. He knows you don't find it endearing. If you're surprisingly fond of it, then he'll still try to use it as a form of enticement.
Think he's stubborn? Think again. If Nein's wrong, then he'll openly admit it and move on. He has no qualms with being corrected and he'll learn from his mistakes – unless said mistakes were amusing. He's an amoeba, an anomaly, an unknown entity that thrives on social endeavours. If Nein could be any animal, then he'd most likely be a mane-tossing horse. He's a flashy entertainer that enjoys having a good time. He thrives in a group, even if they don't particularly want him around. Said group members may be his close friends or family or complete strangers; honestly, Nein would treat them all the same. As soon as you don't ignore him and you're not trying to slit his throat, then you've entered his circle of fastidious forever-companions. It isn't likely you'll shake him off unless you tie him to your horse and abandon him in Skyrim's frosty wastelands. These individuals are important in his life; their presence is his lifeforce. He likes to stick with them and does not stray far. He feels secure and comfortable within his group; therefore, he doesn't have a need or a want to leave it. There's plenty of adjectives to describe him in a group setting and most of them aren't very flattering: needy, clingy, want want want. Warm tent? Hot food? Cold drinks? You've found yourself your new best friend. But under all that fur and fluff, Nein's thick-skinned and isn't easily deterred or threatened. Not much fazes him, but that doesn't mean he's uncaring or nonchalant. He's calm, collected, and understanding; as warm and approachable as a sweet bun.
He's extremely affectionate with his companions, and he likes soft touches and gestures to show how he feels – which is another problem, because apparently people in Skyrim aren't the touchy-feely sort. He's openly affectionate as well, and not afraid of showing how he feels about people; such as delving into conversations that border on embarrassing. But, Nein's only trying to flatter you. He's protective of his companions, and slightly possessive, especially the ones closest to him, and he will not hesitate to stand up for them, even if it frightens him. He is excessively conflict avoidant for the most part; however, if something or someone he cares about is threatened, as mentioned before, he will not flee, and he will defend them with everything he has. Generally, people aren't very sure whether or not his affection equals his complete trust – and it isn't likely that he does trust anyone, because his facade tends to change with the slightest breeze. He's never solid, and he's an incessant moocher. Nein's a brash peacock; a show bird, a beast who's gifted with his words, and an unusual companion who's resources are plenteous.
Equipment
If it wasn't weird to wear layers of fur, then Nein would've done it long ago. Fortunately, his erstwhile fashion sense has stopped him from making that faux pas. Instead, the Khajiit prefers to wear modified pieces of leather, which consists of: a thin leather vest that looks as if it were made by Elven hands, a pair of dark cotton trousers, leather ankle wraps, a sky blue Elsweyr cape wound around his waist and iron plates of armor strapped to his thighs and knees. His weapon of choice is strikingly odd given his passive temperament. He carries an iron great sword. His clanking iron bracelets are purely accessories. He carries a brown satchel to carry the rest of his goodies in: dried food-stuffs, vials packed with medicinal herbs, lock picks, and his flute. The last of his possessions is rather useless; Nein has a lute strapped to his back, proportioned awkwardly with his body type. It's an average bardic lute; two stringed, long necked, pear-shaped body with a fretted finger board.
Abilities
Outwardly he's a gifted Two-handed Warrior; looking deeper, he's merely a sing-song Bard with sticky fingers and the uncanny ability to squeeze into places much too small for him. He is a cat, after all. His bones are as flexible and malleable as putty, so he's able to twist in most directions without causing him excruciating pain and irreversible damage. He's an acrobat, an entertainer, and a willy escape artist who'd rather love than fight; which is a piss-poor combination in the rough heartland of Skyrim. Somehow, Nein still manages to wriggle himself out of the worst situations and, for the most part, comes out completely unscathed. He's a wordy individual who'd rather talk himself out of those situations rather than swing around his sword like a savage, because refraining to lop off an individual's head, which should stay safely connected to those shoulders, could possibly earn him an ally, or at least a temporary alliance that would further his own goals. He's always on his toes, so it isn't likely you'll pull anything from under his nose, whether it's intentional or not – his innate sense of perception keeps him alive and kicking. However, it's just as unlikely for Nein to mention anything if he feels like things aren't going as planned.
History
It's often claimed that one’s surroundings during childhood help develop the personality of said individual; branches out accordingly in whichever direction. The highest of nobles can be seen becoming indifferent and overly pompous to their commoners, while the lowliest of peasants may turn bitter to the world around them. Surprisingly, Qa'naro's tale was not filled with endless sorrows, or losses beyond repair, or irreversible damage that shook his very core – no, it hadn't been anything remotely close. So, in Qa'naro's case, he'd been exposed to great losses at an early age without actually being affected. He was abandoned before he'd even been able to open his eyes to the world and fully comprehend what was happening. From what he knew of them, Qa'naro's parents were lowly fish-mongers who'd immediately given him up when he was born, dropping him like an anchor they'd rather forget. He felt nothing. How could he? He couldn't remember their faces. He couldn't remember their voices. It was almost as if they hadn't existed at all. They'd never cultivated any happy memories, so if he managed to reflect on them, it was as if we were looking back on an empty slate.
Performance and theatrics and entertainment became his bread and butter. It was the gypsy-merchants and loose-tongued thieves that took him in, when he was but a babe swaddled in pock-holed blankets. The troupe was led by a sharp-eyed, dark-skinned Redguard; full of bluster, life and an exotic charm that couldn't be ignored. It felt like they travelled all throughout Tamriel; straight through Hammerfell, Cyrodiil and Morrowind. They played characters from old fables, of fairies and creatures and mischievous imps that led traveller's astray; spinning torches, twirling on the balls of their feet, utilizing illusion and acrobatics, and always earning extra coin by subtly dipping their fingers into purses while they watched them perform, awestruck. The usual seasonal routine of the troupe was to stop in the main city every winter, when the people were less able to leave far from their homes. If it got cold enough, then the troupe would travel until they met with more favourable temperatures. They weren't beyond scavenging the lands or traipsing on owned properties.
If anything, they'd been the closest thing to a family that Qa'naro ever had. As the years passed, his abilities developed further, and soon enough, he'd acquired his own separate act that involved playing his lute and singing – an act reserved for bards. He was well-liked wherever they performed. Soon after, Qa'naro earned himself the title: Qa'naro the Striped Piper. The troupe gained two more performers, totalling eight in all and named themselves: Dancers of the Red Road.
It was only when he was a little bit older, perhaps a couple years into his adolescence, that Qa'naro first experienced betrayal. It came hot and heavy and completely unexpected. In those moments, it's easy to see how he lost his ability to completely trust in anyone. Now that he looks back on it... the details have become hazy and inconsequential, hardly worth the effort of remembering. The Dancers of the Red Road were settling on the outskirts of a village, recovering from their last performance, when the small group of Thalmor passed, seemingly uninterested in such a ragtag group. Curious by their strange appearances, the Khajiit-boy eavesdropped on them while they conversed with their troupe-leader, Arteria. The sly glances in his direction were mistaken for flattery – because, honestly, there wasn't a time when Qa'naro could sneak around that woman without being found. What had confused him, at the time, was when the Thalmor snatched him up by the armpits and began dragging him bodily away, while he kicked and screamed and shouted for his troupe-mates to save him. They hadn't. A few turned in his direction, gawking at Arteria, but it was the look on Arteria's face that confounded him most of all. She'd felt nothing. He was dispensable.
As soon as Qa'naro arrived at Summerset Isles, Qa'naro realized what had happened, what was to be expected, and why they'd taken him in the first place. He was being given to a young girl, who belonged to the Second Aldmeri's Dominion, as a gift, as a slave, as whatever she wished him to be. She was an Altmer girl by the name of Celria; though, he was forced to refer to her as Your Grace. Her behaviour was erratic, but was mostly confined within the realms of vanity and pride. These were the day's that Qa'naro, hastily renamed as a Nein, valued most. His days in the Dancers of the Red Road had been muddied by betrayal and hardly worth his thoughts. She was surprisingly gentle, and it didn't hurt that she was born in nobility and that she was surrounded, or drowning rather, in wealth. Nein became less of a person, and occasionally a companion, and more like a prized object that needed to be pampered and ordered about in a timely fashion. The majority of his adolescence was spent lazing about on padded cushions and silken sheets, showering his lady-master with lullabies and melodies and poetry dedicated to her beauty. She ate it up. In a strange way, they might've been friends. His shackles were only as tight as he wanted the to be – so he never fought against them.
The darkest day had happened when a Hammerfell assassin made it's way through Celria's window, unhampered by the guards patrolling in the hallways, and managed to plunge his dagger through the woman's heart. Without her, Nein's life was less than an insects – nothing, worthless, expendable. He hadn't had time to save her, but in his fury, he'd ripped out the assassin's throat with his teeth. His instincts, so tempered by fealty and submission, had told him to stay with Celria's corpse and await his punishment. His heart soared for freedom and so he fled from the estate, carrying himself out the very window the assassin had come from. By the time they'd found her body, the Khajiit was long gone. It'd taken him months to arrive in Skyrim – the only place that wasn't completely crawling with Thalmor, who'd already put a heavy price on his head for the assumed murder of Celria. Those that did find him were met with surprising brutality, discarded in the woods as if raked and torn by a wild animal; a sabre tooth of sorts.
Currently, Nein's found a caravan with like-minded Khajiit's to follow, though they don't share the same wide-eyed kinship that he feels.
