'tis one stole yer sweet roll

No One came into the world in 4E 174 (24th Sun's Dawn), a year before the White-Gold Concordat tore the Empire apart. She would never answer to "Arya"—the name her parents had chosen with quiet affection before she’d even drawn her first breath.

Nagá Fernvale, her mother, was a Bosmer adventurer from Valenwood, born with wanderlust and no intention of settling down. Curious about the world, wanting to see all of Tamriel, she traveled widely, excited to see the lands beyond her homeland's canopy. That curiosity was what later got her into trouble.

Nagá was not built for staying still. After drifting through the sands of Elsweyr and the heart of Cyrodiil, she hit the Skyrim border, where the sudden, biting cold demanded her attention. She lingered in Falkreath just long enough to dry her boots before the old itch returned. It led her to a pack of adventurers with eyes on the Rift—specifically the brass and steam of Bthalft. The Dwemer ruin promised enough salvage to make the risk of the deep dark feel like a fair trade, right?

The crew stocked up in Riften, picking up a young man who’d caught wind of the word "treasure" and decided that was all he needed to hear. Nagá figured he was a bit of a stoic oddball, but he had steady hands and didn't complain when the work got heavy. They spent days crawling through Bthalft’s collapsed guts, prying brass from the walls and filling their packs with anything that looked valuable. They climbed back out into the light with heavy pockets and a half-formed plan to go back for the rest once their backs stopped aching.

The time in the dark had given the young man ideas. Once they were back in Riften and flush with coin, he turned up with a stolen Amulet of Mara and a look on his face that suggested he’d already scripted the ending. He presented it to Nagá with the baffling confidence of someone who didn't think "no" was on the table. 

Nagá was flattered. Truly. But she was also not interested. She said so, as kindly as she could manage, which was kind enough but still a no. The atmosphere among the group didn't recover and the young man didn't take it lightly. What had been easy camaraderie curdled into something stiff and uncomfortable, and Nagá, who had no patience for that particular kind of tension, decided she had seen enough of Bthalft and enough of the Rift for the time being. Eventually, after a light-hearted good bye, she moved on. There was more of Skyrim to see, and she had never been good at staying where she was no longer wanted.

Somewhere on the road near Markath, Nagá crossed paths with a group of Thalmor agents transporting a political prisoner — a young child, taken hostage as leverage against a family of Talos worshippers. Nagá intervened. She helped the child escape. It was the kind of decision that felt right in the moment and cost everything afterward.

With the Thalmor now on her trail and nowhere safe in Skyrim, Nagá fled west into High Rock, the child in tow. It was meant to be a temporary refuge and would turn out to be one of her worst, desperate decisions.

In High Rock, she crossed into the territory of Lord Alderween — a Breton nobleman of considerable reputation and considerably worse character. To the outside world, he was charming, well-mannered, and generously hospitable; the kind of man other nobles spoke well of and commoners trusted on sight. He was known for taking in travelers in need. He was known for his open doors and warm hearths. All of it was a carefully maintained lie.

Nagá did not know that when she accepted his hospitality. She had no reason to suspect it. She was exhausted, hunted, and grateful for a hand extended to her without obvious malice. By the time she understood what kind of man she had walked into, the door was already closed behind her. Secretly, Alderween was something else entirely. A devoted worshipper of Molag Bal. He took pleasure in dominance, suffering, and the breaking of people he considered his property. He had developed a particular, obsessive fixation on Nagá the moment he laid eyes on her; her unusual appearance, her rosé-coloured hair, her foreignness — she was, to him, a prize. Something rare to be owned.

The details of what followed are not ones that need to be written down. Some horrors are better left in the silence between words, where they belong. What can be said is this: Nagá did not leave that place the same woman who entered it. No one ever did.

Eventually, Nagá escaped Alderween's hold. She did not leave easily, and she did not leave whole. Her first instinct was to find the child — she followed what little trail she had back into Skyrim, all the way to the Rift, where the last lead died with the confirmation she had been dreading: the child was gone. Killed. And there was nothing left to save.

Near Shor's Stone, still in the Rift, she ran out of road. Exhausted, cold, underfed, and in no condition to go much further, she was barely standing when a hunter found her. His name was Toivo Russ, the son of a simple farmer. A Nord who earned his living by selling game. Not a remarkable man by any grand measure — no titles, no wealth, no particular destiny. Just someone who saw a woman sitting at the edge of collapse on his doorstep and offered her a meal and a roof without asking for anything in return.

As time passed, Nagá fell in love with Toivo, and with love came trust — so she told him the truth about her past and what she had been through: Alderween, the Thalmor, the child, what she had survived and what it had cost her. Understandably so, she was paranoid, still dreading that the Thalmor were after her as well, or that Alderween had not forgotten her and would eventually come to collect what he considered his. She told him she was likely still being hunted, that staying near her carried real risk. Toivo stayed anyway. Love, as it turned out, did not require ideal circumstances. It simply required two people who chose each other anyway. 

24th Sun's Dawn - 4E 174

The day Arya was born, the Thalmor found them and Nagá would never know whether it was on orders of Lord Alderween, or if it was revenge for helping their hostage child in the first place.

Toivo fought. There was no negotiation, no hesitation — just a Nord man putting himself between his family and the people who wanted them dead, with everything he had, until he had nothing left. While drawing his last breath, he still swung his axe at the attackers. As his heart stopped, he still grabbed one of them by the throat and took him along into death. Toivo bought his wife and child time to run and it cost him his life. A sacrifice he would've chosen over and over and over again… 

Terrified and heartbroken, Nagá fled, dashing through the aspen and birch forest of the Rift. Wounded, bleeding, newborn pressed against her chest, she didn't stop once, pushing herself over her physical limits. Like any loving mother, she kept moving long after her body had given her every reason to stop, driven by the single, wordless certainty that the child had to live even if she did not.

Unfortunately, Nagá did not make it far. The wounds she carried were too deep and the road too long — she bled out slowly, until her body simply had nothing left to give. She was found hours later by a farmer's wife travelling the road near Riften. Nagá was long gone by then, her body cold and still. And yet, tucked against her chest — held there by arms that had apparently refused to let go even as everything else gave out — was the baby. Alive. Impossibly so. And stubbornly crying, though cold to the touch and screaming with the kind of desperate, furious hunger that only the very young can manage. The farmer's wife stood there for a long moment, unable to quite believe what she was seeing. It was nothing short of a miracle.

She had no idea what had happened. A dead woman on the road, no signs of a struggle nearby, no one else in sight — she assumed bandits were responsible. She wrapped the baby in her own cloak, held her close for warmth, and stood there with a heavy heart and no good options. Temporarily, she took the child home. But winter was coming, resources were already stretched thin, and there was simply no room for another mouth to feed — not if her own family was to survive the cold months ahead. It broke her heart, but there was only one place she knew to bring a child who had no one left in the world — The Riften Orphanage. 

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The True Scale of Riften: Skyrim in UNREAL ENGINE 5! [4K] Skyrim:Honorhall Orphanage 

N only discovered that she’s Bosmer by accident when she ran into Niruin. She has no connection to Valenwood at all. She never knew her mother and has zero interest in finding out who she was. She's highly loyal and emotionally attached, considering the Guild as her family. Everything she knows about Bosmer culture comes from Niruin, who shared with her whatever he knew. She doesn’t follow the Green Pact, nor does she care much for gods or religion. In her eyes, only coin truly matters.

That said, she unironically loves meat more than anything else. She’s also picked up the odd habit of randomly chewing on plants to test their flavour, either to see if they’d make a decent healing draught or a good rub for grilled meat.

When Brynjolf first arrived at Honorhall Orphanage, some of the children already knew who he was. After all, he was the son of a murderer who had recently been executed for his crimes. Naturally, he was either feared because of it, or bullied.

Unsurprinsingly, Brynjolf was a very angry little boy at that time, and often got into fights. Anyone would struggle after losing both parents, especially when constantly reminded that it was his father’s hand that ended his mother’s life. Understandably so, Brynjolf struggled a lot emotionally and was forced to suck it up. Some children were afraid of him, others weren’t, and only very few thought fighting was pointless when they all had to survive Grelod and the streets together…

Vex and Tonilia were two of the children who weren’t scared of him and didn’t hold him responsible for something he hadn’t done. And then there was N, who'd later become the baby of the bunch. She arrived at Honorhall as a newborn when Brynjolf had just turned five, and Vex and Toni were about six and seven. Growing up being constantly told to “shut up” by a bitter old woman hadn’t given N the best start in life. It was especially grim, because Grelod did not exclude a baby in her punishments. A bitter note I don't want to dive into right now.

To the other children N was simply annoying: she cried too much, wailed too loudly, sobbed too often, and did all the normal things babies and toddlers do. Because she couldn’t defend herself and stuttered badly, she became an easy target…

It was easier to pick on the smallest. It was so much simpler to hit someone who wouldn't hit back. So Brynjolf gladly hit back for her. And it wouldn't take too long, until Vex and Tonilia gladly joined his efforts defending the little one.

At first it was just another outlet for his own anger, but it quickly became his way of protecting her. He was too young. He didn't have words for it yet, but eventually seeing someone so small and defenseless being beaten over and over didn't sit right with his rather grey morale. And later on, it also turned into his way of saying thank you for something that never needed words nor gratification.

N grew up seeing Brynjolf as her best friend and one of the only three people in the orphanage who never bullied her, but always watched her back. Instead of snapping at her to speak better or faster, he was patient with her, helped her, and gently encouraged her to try again.

To N, Brynjolf was never “the murderer’s son.” In fact, when she first heard the word she didn’t even know what a murderer was. And even when she understood, she couldn’t understand why the others were so cruel to him about it. To N, Bryn was simply Bryn! Her best friend ever! And to Brynjolf, N was never an annoying nuisance, a weakling or a stupid crybaby. She was his sweet little mouse — and for many years to follow, neither of the two had any idea that they'd be so much more… ❤️

(Trigger Warning: Abuse)

Grelod was far crueller to N than she was to any of the other children. At first, she was just a noisy little baby like any other newborn. But it didn’t take long for the old hag to decide that “That No One” was disobedient.

N barely spoke, and when she did, she stuttered badly and couldn’t get the words out quickly enough. She was clumsy too. Always spilling water from the bucket across the floor, making a mess when she ate, and flinching at the slightest thing. Even apologising seemed beyond her. Useless. So endlessly useless... No matter how hard Grelod beat her, the child remained an inconvenience.

As a result, N spent far more time chained up in the little cupboard than any of the others. That only made her stutter worse and marks the origin of her severe cleithrophia. (This phobia made it harder to learn lockpicking for an instance; there's more on that ofc)

So it came as no surprise that on the 6th of Evening Star, 4E 191, N killed her. The moment the other children were let outside to play, she put an arrow straight through the old woman’s face.

Before leaving, she placed a large pouch of coins (her own cut from Avanchnzel) on the table for Constance, along with a note warning her that if she ever heard of the children being mistreated again, she’d come back and kill her too.

(Note: As this is an important part of my OC’s backstory, some vanilla events — such as the Dragonborn killing Grelod — won’t apply in my timeline.)

Timeline & Canon Divergence: Born in 4E 174, N spent her early years surviving Honorhall Orphanage alongside Brynjolf, Vex, and Tonilia. My OC's story intentionally steps away from vanilla game; she's no Dragonborn, but just a thief. I wanted to make my own story and have some creative freedom. Call it an AU, or alternative Story. Enjoy ~

"Anythin' not nailed down 's mine. Anythin' I can pry loose 's not nailed down." 

Name: No One - "N"

Name Info: In English she's "No One," in German she's "Niemand," in Spanish she's "Nadie" and so on! The name always translates no matter the language. It was slapped on her by oh-so kind Grelod at the Riften Orphanage, where she spent her childhood. Her nickname, used by pretty much everyone in the Guild to keep it short, is just "N" — pronounced like "Ann." 

Petname: Another nickname (or more of a petname?) that gets thrown around within the Guild is "Mouse". Especially when the others are messing with her, this name is used. It describes her former mousiness, refers to the time where she had been a crybaby and also is used to make fun of her height. Brynjolf in particular has a habit of calling her by her petname, aside from "lass" ofc! Coming from him, it's almost a term of endearment — not that he'd admit it easily.

Age: 27 (4E 201)

Born: 4E 174 - 24th of Sun's Dawn (The Lover)

Height: 157.5 cm

Species/Race: Bosmer (Mother), Nord (Father)

(Mother: Bosmer, born in Valenwood. Refugee who fled enslavement by the noble house "Alderween" in High Rock. Name — Nagá Fernvale. Father: Nord, hunter from Shor's Stone in the Rift, son of a farmer. Name — Toivo Russ.)  

NOTE: Following TES lore, No One takes after her mother's race — though her Wood Elf traits are rather watered down. She’s got that warm, sun-kissed Valenwood tan — but quite a few shades lighter than a full Bosmer. Her ears are pointy, though slightly shorter than average. Sharp senses, natural stealth, and solid poison resistance all came with the package. She’s a deadly shot with a bow, as any self-respecting Wood Elf should be. What she didn’t inherit is the usual elf-to-animal bond — unless you count Skeevers, the one weird exception she actually likes. And she got zero of that classic Nord strength or frost resistance; which is why she hates the cold with a burning passion and complains about it like a proper chill-baby every single winter. See: notes on racial phylogeny

Fun Fact: No One's true name, given to her by her parents, would have been "Arya" 

Artwork (Do NOT use, copy, edit, NO AI!): 

Appearance:

No One is small, dainty and lean — not much muscle to speak of, but she’s agile and flexible enough to squeeze through gaps most people wouldn’t even notice. Her skin has that soft, warm Bosmer tone, though it’s quite pale thanks to her Nord side. She keeps her pale rosé hair just past her chest, always swept to one side with the other tucked behind her ear. One eyebrow has a little shaved slash through it, and her ocean-blue eyes shift into faint reddish tones near the edges. Both earlobes are stretched with dark wood tunnel-plugs.

She usually walks around with a cocky grin, or a smug smile and has a loud, spiteful laugh — the kind of dirtyass howl that can either charm a room or start a bar fight. Underneath all that swagger though, she’s still a soft little mouse who just plays the loudmouth to keep people from getting too close, or under her skin.

Her usual gear is a modified set of grey Thieves Guild leathers — one arm and the opposite leg left bare for mobility, balanced out with elbow and knee guards. She almost always has her backpack on, with a small, worn mouse plushie dangling from the strap (a gift from Vex back when they were kids). When she’s not wearing her Thieves Guild leathers, she usually goes for a dress with a flowing skirt, a fitted bodice, and a rather low-cut top — similar to the "skimpier" tavern clothes. She uses the whole look as a disguise, playing the sweet flower girl on Riften’s market. It’s the perfect cover for picking pockets and quietly slipping her loot between the flower stems in her basket.

The one thing you’ll never see her without is her old red, oversized shawl — a beat-up, "keffiyeh-style" piece from Hammerfell. She wears it draped over her shoulders so the long end hangs down her back like a cape, nearly dragging along the floor behind her. Brynjolf gave it to her when they were kids, and she’s been carrying it around like a comfort blanket ever since. She’ll deny it’s anything special, of course… but good luck getting her to sleep without it.

Backpack Contents: Lockpicks, some coin, a selection of heavy-hitting poisons for her bow but very few healing supplies — bandages, needle and thread, medical alcohol. Enough food to survive: cream pastries or sweetrolls, some jerky, and a bottle of Stros M'Kai Rum as well as a waterskin. A small torch, a fishing rod and hook, a cooking pot, a small tent, a bedroll, a fire starter, a Burdak cloak, a handful of herbs... and one suspiciously mysterious bag that somehow fits way more than it has any right to. It's one of those "female secrets" I guess… 

"I didn't steal it. I relocated it. 'Tis a difference." 

Weapons: Her main weapon is a custom Ebony-Dwemer compound bow she calls Kindness — because she likes killing her enemies with kindness. It’s unenchanted, but has a noticeably faster draw and hits like a truck. She often uses poisoned arrows. For emergencies she carries two plain steel daggers. Since she’s not built for close combat, she only uses them when someone gets too close for comfort.

Skills:

Primary: Sneak, Pickpocket and Archery — not a master, but with more training it'll be maxed out. Girl rarely misses a shot, most people don’t even realise she was ever there. If someone actually spots her sneaking… Y' didn't see No One ;) 

Secondary: Scouting, Lockpicking, and Alchemy. She’s good at the first two, but alchemy is definitely her weakest point. Still, she knows her herbs and poisons well enough, even if her favourite method of identification is… just popping random plants into her mouth. 

Everyday Skills: She’s no proper chef, but she can season and grill meat and fish! (It's also what she uses alchemy for ;)) So, let's call her a bbq enthusiast. Give her a campfire and some fresh catch and she’ll have a solid meal ready in no time. Setting up a decent camp is second nature to her. Thanks to Niruin's mentorship she's become a skilled scout.  As a slightly unhinged hobby, she trains Skeevers to do little tasks for her. She was very drunk when she started that project and has no intention of stopping, calling it her "greatest idea." (tbf, sometimes it actually is genius. Sent the Skeever, use'em as distraction, make'em bite) Hardly a soul knows she can strum a guitar and carry a tune, mostly thanks to a crippling case of stage fright. To be fair, belting out songs behind closed doors is half the reason she managed to shake the stutter in the first place. She’ll only ever play when she’s dead certain she’s alone—and if anyone from the Guild ever catches her red-handed, she’ll deny it fiercely and throw a temper tantrum. 

Theme Song:

Flogging Molly - Devil's Dance Floor (Official Audio)

Cup of Mead - Robin Hood drinking song (Official) - [Medieval/Irish/Scottish]

Voice Claim & Singing Voice:

Nirvana - Come As You Are (Violet Orlandi cover)

Nirvana - Lithium (Violet Orlandi Acoustic Cover)

"Is not in that bag. ...Is in me other bag. Forgot where me stashed it, k ~" 

Faction: Thieves Guild, Riften

Reputation & Role: Been around long enough that her name does the heavy lifting; one of those members you can entrust your life to. No fancy title, no desire to run the show, and she doesn't pretend otherwise. Instead, she’s the go-to for many jobs. N is more of an "all-rounder". Good and useful at many things, but no Master in anything. 

To her, the Guild is family. She looks after the lot of them the only way she knows how: stitching up cuts, slapping decent grub on the fire so no one starves, and bringing in enough loot to keep the lights on and the place running.

"Nothing quite like the feelin' of something new... "

Personality:

No One isn’t exactly a kleptomaniac — she prefers the term: "compulsive hoarding syndrome." Unfortunately, she’s also severely cleithrophobic. Tight spaces themselves don’t bother her, but the moment she realises she’s trapped and can’t get out, panic hits hard. A lovely parting gift from Grelod’s abuse back in her Honourhall days.

Being branded a literal “No One” chipped away at her self-worth so thoroughly that, even now, she works twice as hard just to prove she’s not worthless. It’s a constant itch she can’t scratch. That’s why she learned to cook proper meals for her friends and picked up basic alchemy to patch up the people she deeply cares about. Anything to earn her keep and not feel like dead weight.

On the surface, she’s cheeky, shameless, and sometimes unhinged. She runs on sarcasm and insults, using a sassy attitude like armour so no one gets a proper look behind the front. No One plays the tough girl, but underneath it all she’s mush — or as Brynjolf likes to say: "still a sweet mouse."

Life on the streets had taught her that softness doesn't survive. As a kid, N was a quiet, skittish little thing — barely able to meet anyone’s eye without stuttering. It was a dangerous way to be and her friends soon set her straight, drilling into her to never trust too easily, always watch a mark, and assume everyone had ulterior motives. N had been too soft, too kind, too sweet — and that was the problem. It still is. That same softness keeps tugging at her self-image, reminding her she can’t truly be herself. A gentle girl like her would never survive in a city this rotten.

So she had no choice but to toughen up and grow a thicker skin. Now N can be the most cheeky gob in the room. Fake it till you make it, right? The confidence she shows outwardly is an act — a front she puts up to hide her softness. And she’s become good enough at it to keep her vulnerable side hidden. 

Nightmares, the shyness, the insecurities never really left. When anxiety really takes over, the stutter comes straight back and she might lose her nerve. Much to her dismay, N’s the baby of the bunch. Still holding onto that playground naivety, even though she bloody well knows better by now. It’s a massive blind spot. Frankly, one could even call it a proper handicap, and something she has to work on every single day. Sometimes she’s just a daft silly billy having a laugh, and sometimes she’s being a brat. But she’s by no means unreasonable, because she simply can't afford that. When the chips are down, she knows exactly how to talk serious business. Generally speaking, she’s a walking contradiction—one minute she’s a hardened street-thug, the next she’s a total softie 

Underneath the sassy exterior, she’s truly a hopeless romantic who secretly loves cheesy novels and soft music. Secretly she also dreams of a family of her own. And she adores being out, doing the rounds — adventures, exploring, camping or lying flat on her back in a field with some meat on the fire and absolutely nothing in her head. For someone who works herself to the bone trying to prove her worth, all while drowning in a severe sense of worthlessness, it’s a small miracle she never lost that easy, lazy mindset the second she gets a moment to breathe. 

*

Fun Facts & Trivia: Once stole 1,200 wheels of goat cheese and dumped every single one of them in the Ragged Flagon as a prank. Nobody has ever gotten a straight answer as to why; however, there were gems hidden in the cheese, so she was forgiven! 

On a job, she took the liberty of emptying the entire house — furniture included. Nobody knows how – No One knows!!!

Has successfully pickpocketed both Brynjolf and Delvin on multiple occasions. Always framed as a joke, and always gave back what she'd taken. 

Has discovered, explored and mapped out Avanchnzel; used the loot to purchase property and help the Guild, but she couldn't unlock the final room due to a missing item.

Got completely hammered and went skinny dipping in Lake Honrich. Brynjolf witnessed the entire thing and has never once let her forget it — or anything else that happened that night (singing love-songs included!)

Won an eating competition by consuming 128 sweetrolls. Immediately threw up afterward. Still considers it one of her greatest achievements.

"If y' have to ask, yer not allowed to know." 

"Know your shadowmarks ~ "

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TES: V - Skyrim - Thieves Guild OC - Charactersheet & Lore Scrolls