#mort.

So here are some of my kins, in order from top to bottom:

Kokichi

Byakuya 

Kakyoin

Yato

Yuri (without the horny)

Fugo

Narancia

Mort.

Anti

Google

Schlatt

JD

Death the kid

Techno

Rohan

Dusk painted the skies lavender-pink, blending swathes were driven above much like a master unto canvas—confident, natural, beautiful. Mort could only ever see in wisps of greyscale, nowadays, and the sky was never-ending sea of dim silver. He missed the radiance of colour, cursed how he took it for granted all those years before.

When the last sun-rays of the day would kissed nirn, when the greens and purples and oranges would melt into grey under the moonlight, that was when the nightlife of Riften would rupture in a roar. All matters of ill-ilk would stalk the plane, smiles as sharp as the daggers veiled beneath their vests.

Mort would rather have all his deeds tended to by that time. Maybe have a bed, too.

So, here he was. At the Temple of Mara. A hand fumbled for the door, a large, calloused palm smoothing fleetingly until skin married handle. The door yawned open, and he dipped his head, so to enter without upsetting his noggin against wood or worse.

Mort was immediately overwhelmed by the explosion of clutter he sensed. His spell rippled out in front of him, forming bumps and hoops and crevices up until it kissed the furthermost wall. Bits and bobs, here and there, lone flowers smattered over the wooden floorboards. The smell, indeed—the aftermath of perfume assaulted his nares, threatened a scowl. A blend of rich aromas, ranging from more earthy tones to scents which were emboldened and floral.

There must have been a wedding here today, he surmised. Or perhaps, someone thought to wreak havoc for one reason or another.

Mort stepped further in. His boot met a weak plank, and it groaned—loud and grating—beneath his weight. He hesitated.

Calcelmo proved to be quite prickly of a historian. Quick to lash his tongue like a serrated whip, quicker still to give you a look at though you were naught but the dirt that clung to his boots. Mort was half-tempted to upturn his chin and storm elsewhere, but his intrigue with the dwemer (specifically, their enchantments), earned him enough thickened skin to withstand whatever that elf cast his way.

Something about a giant spider—Nimhe—that blocked entry to his excavation site. Having killed, pinned up the flaking, rotting corpses of guards and workers alike. If the stench of death wasn’t enough to raise your hairs and have you turn tail, her and her army would see that done and dusted.

Looked like Mort had company, on his bug squashing trip. She’d tagged along the latter part of the conversation, and she seemed capable enough. Four hands were better than two, in any case. Calcelmo promised them both a key to his museum and the excavation site should they succeed—and if they didn’t, he’d keep it for the next sellsword who happened to wander by, the elf quipped quietly, a sardonic smile flirting with his thin lips. Mort didn’t voice his annoyance, but the sour look on his face made it all the apparent to his newfound companion as soon as they turned heel.

The sound of their boots ricocheted around them. The corridor was narrow, meaning he didn’t have to upkeep his sight spell as much. The further they descended, the more the fangs of cold sunk into their bones.

one benefit of mort's sight spell, is it allows him to perceive in a 360 degree circle. while others would have to lean on their other senses—such as hearing or even gut instinct—in order to perceive something behind them, mort can do this on the fly. since he usually keeps his spell persistent, albeit on a lower grade, all around him, it's hard to catch him off guard in that sense.