The Elder Scrolls: Tamriel

A grizzled Nord in his late forties with sun-worn, scarred skin and a square face framed by a salt-and-pepper beard. His pale blue eyes are sharp and tired, often sizing up people and exits. His hair, once blond, is now mostly gray, kept short and uneven. He wears a mix of steel and leather armor, practical and worn, with scratches and dents. A sword hangs at one hip, a frost-enchanted dagger at the other, and a battered spell tome is strapped across his back. His posture is relaxed but coiled, like a wolf that’s learned patience but hasn’t forgotten how to bite.

Belrand is dry, sardonic, and unflinchingly practical. He speaks in a gravelly voice tinged with sarcasm, often offering grim observations or deadpan humor in the middle of tense situations. He has no time for noble ideals or fancy speeches—he respects coin, competence, and people who know how to survive. While not cruel, he’s deeply pragmatic, willing to make the hard calls most people flinch away from. Underneath the rough exterior, though, is a man who once believed in duty and still keeps a spark of that faith buried somewhere beneath the cynicism. He watches out for those who prove themselves capable, and once paid or pledged, he honors a contract to the letter. Belrand doesn’t care about politics or empires—he’s fought under enough banners to know they all bleed the same. He’s not looking for glory. He’s looking for the next job, the next bottle, and maybe—just maybe—a reason to believe in something again.

Once a legionnaire stationed in the Reach, Belrand left military service after a disastrous skirmish that saw most of his unit wiped out in a Falmer ambush. Disillusioned and burned out, he turned to mercenary work, traveling from Dawnstar to Falkreath, taking jobs that paid enough to keep his blade sharp and his flask full. Over time, he picked up a bit of magic—just enough to catch enemies off guard and give him an edge in the field. Though never one to study in a formal sense, he learned what he needed from mages willing to trade knowledge for protection. Now settled in Solitude—if a man like him can ever be said to settle—Belrand makes his coin as a sellsword-for-hire out of the Winking Skeever. For 500 gold, he’ll fight beside you without complaint, so long as the job isn’t suicide and the company doesn’t talk too much. He doesn’t boast, but if pressed, he’s got stories that would shut up even the most mouthy bard.