Serinal Bio (WIP)

	Serinal is a Dremora of the Caitiff ranking, who dwells within the within one of the Myriad Realms of Revelry, although he can remember little of it. Most of his existence in this realm comprised of endless parties, feasts, and even art galleries if Sanguine was struck by desire for a more refined type of pleasure. As one could imagine, this constant assault on the senses left little room for contemplation or self-development, so Serinal's personality remained more or less stagnant as the years blurred into one another and old memories of pleasure were overwritten by more of the same. So it was, and so it would ever be. Or, that's what would have happened normally anyway.

	One day, during a typical (for his kind anyway) festival of merriment, the same as any other, Serinal felt the most curious pulling on his essence. It was a sensation he had never felt before, and clarity flooded his mind for a brief moment as he attempted to process what was happening. But all too suddenly that pull became a yank, and with a yelp of surprise the Daedra vanished in a flash. The other partygoers took no notice, too wrapped up in their own delights to care.

	As the strange feeling subsided, Serinal finds himself in an unfamiliar place. It appeared to be a great construct made out of stone, with towering green trees outside it. The air is alive with the sounds of shouting and explosions as curious mud-colored humanoids in a variety of dull outfits flung elemental energy at one another. Serinal dug deep into the recesses of his memory to try and figure out just what was going on. After a period of contemplation, the answer slowly drifted to the surface of his addled mind. Mortals, these were. Men and Elves. Right. He remembered their kind from the few instances he saw them in his home. Although, their faces typically looked rather different, contorted with pleasure or occasionally fear rather than these stern, grim expressions he could see on the white and blue robed men who threw fire at fleeing black robed figures a few dozen meters away. He attempted to step towards them to demand just what was going on and where he was, but found himself unable to move past a certain point. He looked down, and saw lines of magical energy where his foot stopped. A bit further on, a cowering black robed figure lay bleeding on the ground, his hand raised up and faintly glowing with magical energy, but clearly too depleted to do much else of note. About ten feet away, a white and blue robed figure advanced, slowly and carefully, his hand holding a blood drenched mace.

Ten seconds have passed.

	The black-robed figure turned to Serinal, revealing the face of a pale skinned youth with red hair, who could not have been more than just barely a man. His face was bleeding heavily, and his lips moved as he stared at the Daedra, but no sound came out. Serinal, still rather disoriented, managed to interpret the gesture as a cry for help. While a denizen of Sanguine's realm, Serinal remains a Dremora, and understands what conflict is. With such threatening stimuli in front of him, the daedra's mind is jolted into action, and the fog begins to clear from his mind as he starts to gain his bearings. Summoned. Some mortal had the gall to summon him! And during the middle of such a rousing party too. The nerve! Serinal's typically epicurean mood was beginning to change to one of anger. He fumbled about his person for something with which to discipline the novice sorceror, forgetting that he was trapped within the summoning circle. His hand grasped a handle, and with a jerk he drew out a knife of daedric make, which he kept on his person during the rare occasion he found himself facing a more tempestuous and pugnacious member of his kind, who often took offense to his lifestyle and seeming rejection of the Kyn's typical way of life. He turns to the wannabe warlock, the fires of indignation burning in his eyes, but feels a strange, forceful sensation come over him as the bleeding youth finally vocalizes what his silent mouth was trying to cry out: "H-help me!"

Twenty seconds have passed.

	The forceful sensation grew stronger and stronger, but Serinal simply didn't know what to do. Violence was something he knew, but had far less experience in than other arts. But something must be done! This desire to obey was growing ever so maddening. The overpowering urge did nothing to assist in his attempts to think of a way to carry out this command. Overwhelmed by the magical geas placed upon him, Serinal quickly flipped the knife over, holding it by the flat of the blade, and offers it to the aspiring acolyte, who quickly grasps the weapon and turns an instant later to see the white and blue robed man bearing down on him. Seconds before the exchange occurred, you see, the man's eyes went wide as he saw the maladjusted magician reach for the knife Serinal offered, and he quickly charged at his prey mere moments after. With the man looming above, mace raised, the cornered conjurer gave a loud cry and lunged upward, gleaming knife aimed at the other human's chest. It made contact just as the mace came down on his collarbone with a sickening crunch, and the two go down to the floor inches away from the Dremora. Serinal reflexively jumps back and, to his surprise, felt his back hit the wall with a thud. With a sudden shock, he realizes he is outside the summoning circle. He then remembers something another Dremora taught him, a very long time ago. "Should the mortal who calls you accept any gift you offer, you will be freed from your bindings." Realizing he is now free, and realizing he appears to be surrounded by mortals who are not his friends, the Dremora hatches a plan.

Thirty seconds have passed, and Serinal has now more or less gotten his wits about him.

	Acting quickly, the Daedra looks to the two embattled mortals thrashing about on the floor of the keep. As they seem to have forgotten about them in their struggle, he opts to hide behind a nearby wooden pillar and observe the situation. For a good minute they tore at each other with mace and dagger. In the end, the white and blue cloaked mortal breaths his last and falls on his back, a great many stab wounds dotting his chest, blood gushing out of them all. The black-cloaked youth staggers to his feet, looking about before finally finding the Dremora, now standing well outside the summoning circle. His eyes widen with fear, but before he can say anything, he falls to the ground, unmoving. Serinal waits another minute to ensure the two are dead or unconscious, and upon confirming that they are, quickly disrobes them and places their ragged clothing on his own body. They did not properly fit his slim frame, but would serve their purpose well enough. He also goes through their belongings, finding a few potions, rations, and a decent amount of gold coins. Taking one last look around him and seeing no potential pursuers, anyone in sight being engaged in their own battles, Serinal slips through a side-entrance of the keep and out into the forest. Disoriented, lost, and wondering just what to do next.

	Hours pass and night falls, and soon Serinal begins to feel the biting cold and hears the howls of nocturnal predators. He briefly considers letting himself be torn apart or starving to death to return to his home plane, but decides against it. After all, both options are rather painful, and pain is something to be avoided (usually). And besides, this was a very rare opportunity. Dremora do not often get an opportunity to run free on Tamriel, so squandering it on the first day would be quite the waste. And there is the little issue of, several days ago, having angered a rather high ranking servant of Dagon via a rather irreverent remark on his military capability after he boasted of fighting in the Oblivion Crisis. Without drink and drugs to cloud his mind, he is keenly aware that to return to Oblivion any time soon will more or less guarantee an incredibly painful demise. He follows the river downhill, hoping to find a place to rest. Another hour passes when he finally sees a building with light coming through the windows, a bit farther off from the stream. As he moves closer, he sees a road and a sign demarcating this place as a resting house. An inn. Perfect for his needs. Taking a quick stop to ensure his horns are concealed, and casting a weak glamour to be doubly-certain, he opens the door and walks in.

	He is greeted by a dimly lit interior with a half dozen grizzled patrons in it, along with a world-weary old matron and a younger lad who followed her around as she attended to the customers. Her eyes alighted upon his figure, and she barked something to the younger male, who walked over, hailing a greeting as he came. Serinal hesitantly raises a hand in return, hoping this was the correct gesture. He breathes a sigh of relief when the mortal cracks a welcoming smile. "Come closer to the fire, traveler. Its not often we see dark elves in this part of Skyrim."

	Dark elves? Oh, yes, the long-lived mortals that can resemble the Kyn, but lack horns. Serinal looks at the skin on his bare hand, covered in skin that is a fair degree paler than the typical shade of his kind, and for once thanks fate for granting him such a complexion. While something of a target for mockery during his encounters with Dagon-serving Dremora (That said, those types will taunt someone they think lesser over anything), in this case, it can serve as a means to conceal himself as one of these dark elves. He nods and says something to the effect of "I have traveled far from my home, and would like to rest here." He hopes he said that, at least. His grasp of the mortal languages is somewhat rusty. It seems to work, however. The young man looks sympathetic. "I know how many of my brothers treat your kind, but you have my sympathy. I cannot imagine what it is like to have lost your homeland" After some subtle coaxing, Serinal gleans knowledge of Tamriel's recent history. He had known of the Oblivion crisis, but the eruption of Red Mountain a few years afterward had escaped his notice. So too did the rise of the Thalmor and the sundering of Skyrim. But now that he is more or less informed as to the state of the world, Serinal hopes to be able to pass himself off as a mortal elf, albeit an uneducated one. So long as he can keep away from actual Dunmer, anyway. This event repeats itself on and off as he stays in the inn for a week or so, doing odd jobs and stealthily coaxing other patrons into revealing more details about the current state of the world so as to better solidify his fake persona. Once he is satisfied with his level of knowledge, he bids the tavern owners farewell and heads back out into the wilds, following the road towards adventure.

	And so Serinal spent his first couple of years in Skyrim adventuring across the land, posing as a simple wandering Dunmer with a taste for adventure. As time went by was spent gaining experience and knowledge rather than simply indulging his Id in whatever caught his fancy, his once tepid and stagnant personality (or lack thereof) began to change. For the first time in Serinal's existence, he was actually alive. And hopes to remain that way for a long time into the future.
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	As it stands now, Serinal's personality isn't actively malicious, but retains the self-serving and prideful nature of his particular breed of Dremora. He will often consider his own well-being before that of anyone else, and has difficulty accepting criticism or admitting he made a mistake. In addition, he can easily be side-tracked by dalliances and temptations, so any adventuring party he finds himself working with often has to bodily drag him away from whatever distraction he's gotten himself into. That's not to say he is entirely dismissive of his peers, however. On the rare occasion someone gains his respect, he may find himself sometimes going out of his way to assist that person in their troubles. Not that he would ever admit such a thing. When he is actually focused on what he ought to be doing, he will typically rely on disorienting illusion magic and a blitzkrieg of strikes from his sword. He has the martial ability of a weathered brigand, and will press forward relentlessly unless someone manages to hit him, in which case his courage will evaporate and he will beat a hasty retreat to heal. Unlike his multitudinous kin under Mehrunes Dagon, Serinal and his ilk never experienced the brutal training process that beats a Dremora into the relentless killer that so many mortals know them as.