Aelgvir

Name

Aelgvir

Race

Bosmer (Wood Elf)

Home Town

Arenthia, Northern Valenwood

Occupation

Bartender

Favorite Weapon/Fighting Style

Och, get tae fuck with that shite, will ye? Wait… what’s that smudge there? That’s… odd? Oh, well. Anyhow, I grew up in a particularly martial home. My da belonged to this… hunting party or something. He and his mates would get together and go out, and they’d come back with dead creatures bristling with arrows. I was the lucky wee bastard that got to pull out the bloody bloody arrows. Hooray for me. Anyhow, that vivid childhood happened to turn me off of weapons and killin’, somehow. I don’t know, it’s strange, don’t you agree? 🙄

Magical Aptitude (If Any)

It’s not precisely alchemy of the purest sort, ye understand, but I fancy myself quite the wee mixologist. And one could say my wit and hopsitality are somewhat magical too, I suppose. Though Master Uvula would have quite a bit to say about that bold claim! But if he starts greetin’ about it, I’ll just withhold his flin, and he’ll unbend pretty bloody promptly, believe you me!

Affiliation:

Alas, the closest thing I’ll ever have to an affiliation is the company of the rest of the eejits in this show. They’re all dear to me in their own ways, but to call this ragtag band an affiliation is… well, it’s a stretch.

Turn-Ons

Cheeky! If I get your meanin’, I dinnae think that’s appropriate conversation, now is it? Oh, it’s just stuff I like? Well why didn’t ye just bloody SAY that? Goin’ on about turn-ons and turn-offs like I’m some sort of tart in a gentleman’s magazine. How dare you? That said… hmm. What do I like? Havenae given that much thought in a good long while. I guess I’d have tae say what I like most is giving folk what they like most. Which, in my orbit is usually alcohol-related and numbness-adjacent.

Turn-Offs

I find myself particularly turnt off by your insistence on using these bloody suggestive terms! I’m just a fucking bartender for Stendarr’s sake! Why do ye have tae… now that’s peculiar, isn’t it? There it is… again. Is there somethin’ wrong with your monitor, or is it something tae do with this keyboard? I dinnae understand why that keeps happenin’… strangest thing… Did this happen tae anyone else when they did this? I suppose these typing errors could make it into my “turn-off” list! HA!

What is your ideal recreational activity?

Peace and quiet. That’s it. I’d like to find somewhere, anywhere in this gods-forsaken spat of snowy dirt and stone where somethin’ isnae tryin’ tae kill me, or vivisect me, or swoop down from on high tae burn me to a fuckin’ sizzle, and OK, WHAT THE CONFOUNDING  FUCK IS GOING ON. I’m sittin’ here, answering these bloody questions, and the moment I show the slightest bit of emotion or character, this fucking thing is… like… visually bleeping me? Sebastian? ARE YOU DOING THIS, YE BASTARD?? Where’s the Breton?!!?

What is your best feature?

Well, up until a few moments ago, I’d have said my calm, friendly, completely non-Bosmer-like demeanour. Because I don’t know if you’ve spent a lot of time around my people, but it’s a fair bet you wouldnae have a very good time if you had done! I’m friendly, and I’m welcoming, and I’m a good host to all, fair and foul. Not so with most Bosmer! What a bloody rude awakenin’ THAT’S apt tae be! Imagine a people whose primary religion worships The Green. Not, like, the Packers, you moron. Plants. Plant life in all its verdant forms. Sounds like a pretty sweet setup, right? Flowers and flute music and naked girls dancing around the trunks of trees, probably some fireflies or whatever? Oh, that sounds just fabulous for your next vacation getaway, doesn’t it, you fucking bampot. Now picture yourself being spitroasted for three days between a fattened pig and a crocodile tail. Because that’s what’s happenin’! We love plants so much that we don’t eat thefucking things! I don’t even care about the joke anymore because you people don’t get it. You don’t even close to GET IT. Imagine a people with a strict diet of meat and cheese with NO roughage at all. None. Imagine how that smells, day in, day out, in mostly leather pants! Now, imagine you get the urge to eat a raisin or something, and the bastards CATCH you. Guess what? That’s a jihad you’ve earned, right there. Your life is bloody forfeit, and you are spit-bound, m’lord. Spit-bloody-bound.

And that’s where I grew up. So what’s my best bloody feature? Thank your lucky bloody stars that harsh language is the only family tradition that took hold, you fucking idiot. OK, now it’s startin’ tae bother me again.

Let’s be honest. What’s your claim to fame?

And after all of THAT, you want more? About claims to fame, no less? Well let me tell you, pal. That is the easiest answer on this whole bloody thing. I’ve got no such claim. NOTHING is my answer. Nobody’s heard of me, nobody’s gonnae hear of me, and nobody’s gonnae remember me when I pass away peacefully from overindulging in fresh fruit salad, and even if they did, they’d be hard-pressed to even pronounce my fucking name. I plan to leave this world the same way I came into it, as a glimmer in my da’s eye. ‘Cept this time, it will be a single bloody tear in gratitude that no great shame befell our House due to his erstwhile spawn bein’ a people pleaser who peddled fermented god blood and consorted with omnivores.

And that’s me done with this wretched affair. Do you lot validate parking, or no?