Name: Illya Faraday
Race: Breton
Gender: Female
Age: 23
Appearance: orig04.deviantart.net/64b1/f/2013/104…
Personality: Illya is a serious and no-nonsense fighter. There's a constant look of concentration on her face, as though nothing is getting past her. She has displayed a keen insight in battle, one which has let her see through the toughest tricks and illusions like child's play.

Outside of battle, Illya is socially awkward- never really knowing what to say to people, and being embarrassed when people call her out, or talk to her specifically. When this happens, she usually twirls her hair and avoids eye contact. Illya never lies, and will never sugarcoat a single thing she says- she will give it to you as it is. She has patience and wisdom beyond her years.

Illya is a gentle soul; unless somebody really needs to be harmed, she wouldn’t hurt a thing on purpose unless she knows its someone who wants to do her team harm, she won’t hesitate to wreck you.

Skills:

Major:

Restoration: She has shown some skill in healing her team, you could say she the healer of the team. But she doesn't always heal her team. She is able to fight also.

Archery: Before becoming a member of the Skingrad Company, she was almost as skilled as Wood Elves in archery and that's why she was picked to be a part of the team.

Lockpicking: Although not useful at first glance, she is exceptionally great at lockpicking basic to medium locks quickly. However she may need a lot of time to unlock extremely hard locks.

Minor:

Block

Destruction

Light Armor:

Athleticism

Equipment: An iron bow and several iron arrows(25). She also has a skinning knife for any pelts or furs she needs to get off of animals. She also has plenty of string just in case her bowstring breaks. She wears an ordinary outfit consisting of a white shirt, with a red and green pattern and she also wears a green and red skirt as well with her arrow pack on her back.

History: She was a hunter before she joined the Skingrad Company, she normally sold pelts and furs to the many vendors around Cyrodiil. But now serves the Skingrad Company with her skills as a hunter and healer.

Hunts-In-Darkness

or Jeekius to his friends.

Race: Argonian
Gender: Male
Age: 26
Appearance:

https://goo.gl/images/zEQ469

Personality: Generally cheerful, got some serious wanderlust, but loyal and more trustworthy than most. Jeekius has something of a wild streak that might make him appear irresponsible, but he always follows through on his promises and never betrays a contract, nor does he leave a friend behind. If you befriend Jeekius, you have a friend for life.

Class:

Equipment: a fine longbow, 3 handaxes (gotta have a spare in case you feel like throwing one), a set of dark leather armour and a set of alchemical supplies for brewing potions on the go.

History: Born outside of Black Marsh, Jeekius had never set eyes on his homeland until he came of age to wander on his own. His parents own a potions shop in High Rock and though he was trained by then he had more interest in hunting. When the time came for him to walk his own path, he walked far, eventually settling into a mercenary’s life. He had already spent much of his time as a wanderer doing odd jobs for whomever would pay him, it was a natural transition for a skilled shot such as himself.

Race: Imperial
Gender: Female
Age: 34

---

Appearance: Flavia is an intimidating maiden with a height of 6'5, a rather hefty build and a partially healed scar that goes from the left side of her upper lip all the way to her left ear. She has blonde hair as golden as the early morning sunrise. Her emerald green eyes are said to pierce into one's very soul. Her pale white skin is marked with many scars on her arm, particularly her sword arm. Even without her armor or a glimpse of her menacing demeanor, her looks alone would frighten most people.
Personality: If there is one word to describe Flavia, it would be domineering. At best she is arrogant and disdainful. At worst she is a beast who relishes nothing more than to utterly humiliate her opponents before destroying them. Learning from her father, the legion and from the bandits that she fought that only the strongest deserve the best in life and she constantly strives to be on top. If she meets anybody weak of mind and body, she sneers about them. Always quick to assert herself after she's bested an opponent. For her nothing more matters than being ideal specimen and she would always try her best to become it.
Class: Knight

Major Skills:

Heavy Armor
Blade
Block

Minor Skills:

Blunt
Hand to Hand
Athletics
Speechcraft

Equipment: When on duty, Flavia would wear her iconic legion armor. The classic, overlapping steel strips that could take hits from arrows and blades.She would wield her recognizable legionary shield and have her "gladius" imperial blade sheathed on her belt at all times. She has a pouch to carry any essentials she might need with her. Her head is protected by her Legionary officer's helm. He back warm by the bear pelt cape with a red inner lining. She would look no different than any other legionary.

---

History: Flavia's father was a legionary like herself. He had been at the Imperial city himself during Dagon's invasion and fought his cultist as the daedric prince himself manifested on Nirn. After the Oblivion crisis had resided, Porcius Obellius investigated all his belongings into a trade ship which he named "Kynareth's Fortune" and began his trade as a merchant. Not long after he would meet a Nord weaver, Rayna of Markarth, who he would fall in love with. Their union brought about their first and only child, Flavia Obellius.

Flavia grew up on Kynareth's Fortune. Helping her father and mother hauling items, keeping track of goods and cleaning from time to time. Her favorite part of the day was just before she went to bed. Her mother would recount his stories to her. Her particular favorites were those of his times in the legion. She had never seen the Imperial city before, only its harbors. So the tales of her father fighting off daedra in the once magnificent streets of the heart of the empire filled her imagination. She too wanted to visit the city one day.

When she came of age, she decided that she would continue on her own away from her family. She had wanted to see the Imperial city for herself and now was her chance. Her other reason for leaving was her father. The once caring and kind soul had become cold and unsympathetic. Only caring about their trade business and nothing else. Where once he would show kindness to others, even his rivals, now he wanted nothing more than further advance himself at all cost. Flavia noticed that it all began when some beggar sold him a small figure of "Talos the ambitious". The small statuette one arm stretched out towards the sky while the other held a mace that was planted on the ground. The statuette was burnt. The beggar telling his father that it came from one of the rich nobles of the Imperial city after the Oblivion crisis. Their house had burned down and the beggar found the thing among the ashes. While it certainly looked nothing like the first Emperor Porcious bought it from the man out of kindness. After he did though his attitude slowly began to change.

Flavia found few prospects of work in the Imperial city. Much of the scars of the Oblivion crisis remained and few opportunities were offered. So Flavia found herself with the Legion. One of the few organizations hiring in this troubled times. Through her hard work she eventually achieved the minor officer's role of Decantus after three years. Life seemed well enough for her. She got to explore her home province of Cyrodiil and fulfilled a life of adventure that she could only dream about in her youth. However her blissful existence was about to take a turn for the worst.

Six years after joining the legion she was given grave news about her parents. The great success of her father Porcious had attracted pirates to his ship. Off the coast of Hammerfell, Kynareth's Fortune was attacked by a host of six ships. Porcious put up a good fight but was slain. So too was her mother. Very few of the ship's crew escaped. One of them gave Flavia a few of their captain's possessions that they were able to save. A small pouch full of septims, her father's old legionary sword, some of her mother's clothings and the little figure of "Talos the ambitious".

The news of her parent's demise led her to a dark pit of melancholy and self doubt. Unsure of her actions. However as she began to question herself the statuette began to talk to her. Whispering in her thoughts. Telling her not bow down to fate but instead make her own. Often it would be harsh in its criticisms and mocked Flavia for her mistakes. This only led the girl to question herself more. However as time went on, she began to listen to the statuette. Following its advice. Making herself stronger, faster and more vicious. As she began to improve herself, the figure would praise her. Flavia found herself constantly looking for the statuette's favor. Relishing each moment that she was praised.

Of course this meant that as time went on she became more inhumane and savage. Slowly the disciplined warrior became a savage brute. The bandits her cohort would face ended in grim fashion. Some even tortured before being given a slow death on the battlefield. Enemies asking for mercy found none. Even her allies found her more and more unnerving as time went on. The once level-headed and calm officer became a bloodthirsty berserker. She would berate the weakest of her troops and push them to their limits. Often belittling them if they couldn't stand up to their standards.

The abuse that her soldiers endured became so severe that she was eventually forcefully retired from the legion at the relatively young age of 30. The Legion's Demon was gone but she kept her armor and gear. Nobody dared stop her. After her expulsion, she became a sword for hire in Bravil. A vicious warrior who would fight any cause for the right amount of money. Every enemy she bested would suffer for days before they would get the sweet relief of death. This earned her gruesome titles such as "the Cruel Mistress of Bravil" and the "Iron Maiden of Niben bay".

Eventually she found herself under the employ of Quintus and the Skingard company. Her reputation made her unwanted in the fighters guild and it scared away most potential clients. However under Quintus, she found a regular source of employment. To her working for somebody else wasn't an ideal position to be in. However one day she could find herself the leader of this little outfit.

Neras Vesuius

Race:
Dark Elf

Gender: Male

Age: 68

Appearance:


Personality:

Neras is a cavalcade of different emotions, and he often comes across as something of a furtive, fractured person. He feels deep regret for the actions of his youth and has quite a calm (almost wearisome) temperament about him. But his experiences have left deep scars upon Neras, witnessing the firery desolate vistas of oblivion takes it's toll on the mind, even all those years later.

Neras is far from completely shed of his old ways though, in spite of his hopes for redemption. He still possesses a manipulative cunning about him and will aim to bend and break rules to get ahead at every opportunity.

Class:
Major:
- Conjuration
- Blade
- Sneak

Minor
- Illusion
- Block
- Heavy Armour
- Acrobatics

Equipment:
Neras usually travels quite light, wearing a shabby set of robes. When in combat though he invariably conjures weapons and armour for himself. On his person though he does usually carry some general odds and ends, a handful of septims, some wine and Quill of Gemination.

History:

Neras was only 19 when he joined the Mythic Dawn. Full of all the misplaced anger and ideals so typical of the young. The Dunmer eagerly soaked in the words of Mankar Camoran and pledged his life to the cause seeing himself and the cult as above the rest of Tamriel, awaiting the glorious ascension...Reality was to hit him hard.

As the Oblivion crisis progressed Neras gradually started to become disillusioned with the cult, it was one thing to preach the destruction of the world, quite another to actually see it happen. Whispers reached him of how their promised paradise was anything but, speaking with Daedra and reading the Mysterium Xarses had a profound effect on him and by the time of the battle for the Imperial City Neras was nowhere to be seen.

Though Mehrunes Dagon failed and Mankar was slain, life did not improve for Neras who was forced into hiding and ever on the move. Constantly he had to look over his shoulder for not only Imperials or the blades but resurgent members the Mythic Dawn looking to punish his desertion. To say nothing of the fact that it isn't ever wise to betray a Daedric Prince...

Although life did go on for Neras there was a thought that ever troubled him and which no amount of wine could make it go away. Haunted by dreams and visions of a paradise that was not, and no longer was. In a fit of rage and madness Neras hatched a plan concocted of half-remembered, forbidden knowledge. And now he finds himself with a magical quill in his possession enrolled in a certain mercenary company.

Name: Cowl Agryn
Race: Breton
Gender: Male
Age: 24
Appearance:

With nothing more than some leather boots and magi robes, Cowl is simply dressed. He has short brown hair and green eyes. He is of fair skin and stands at 6 feet exactly. He's comely in appearance, although he has some fading scars on the right side of his face from a burn. Finally, he has a full, short and well-kept beard.
Personality: While never someone to be angry, Cowl does lack compassion. That doesn't make him a mean or unkind person, he just doesn't always realize that he may be a jerk. Usually, he is seen as a kind man, though, until people see his lack of care.

Cowl has been headstrong since he was a child. He was raised in High Rock, a place of factions and feuds. He moved away when he could, joining the Mage's Guild for a short time before being removed for a lack of care when it came to who was on the other side of the fireball. His parents are still alive and, to Cowl's surprise, he wouldn't mind seeing them again. After all, they did nothing wrong in the first place.
Class:
Major - Destruction, Conjuration, Alteration
Minor - Enchanting (if this is ok!), restoration, athletics, illusion
Equipment: "Adept" Robes enchanted with magicka regeneration, a hood enchanted with a magicka increase, and boots enchanted with an additional magicka increase. A handful of potions (2 minor magicka and minor 2 health potions).
History: From High Rock to Cyrodiil, from Mage Guild to outcast, Cowl has traveled a fair bit. His plan for life was to rise through the Mage's Guild, but because that did not work he was forced to consider other options. He wanted adventure and he wanted excitement. He needed money and he needed a way, or an excuse rather, to use magic excessively. Cowl thought of no better way to fulfill his needs than to become a mercenary. A bonus to this was that he didn't even care what the cause was. With that, Cowl found himself joining the Skingrag Company.

---

---

Race: Nord
Gender: Male
Age: 49

Appearance: Thorgrim embodies the wilderness and the savage look one would expect from a Northman in his very appearance. His face is rarely clean shaven, though he generally keeps his beard from growing too long, usually maintaining a healthy stubble. His skin is scarred in countless places from battles fought, both against man, monsters, and beasts alike. His deep set, dark brown eyes and thick brow often give him a hard, cold, grizzled appearance. He lets his black hair -- already turning grey in most parts -- grow out and either keeps it shoulder-length or tied behind him in a simple knot, and his body is decorated with blue runic tattoos which he once believed would protect him from harm. His left hand lacks both its little and ring fingers, earning Thorgrim one of his moniker.

He towers over most everyone he meets, and he's built like a warrior. In addition, his time spent surviving alone in the wild and his countless years as a mercenary hardened him into a supreme hunter, physically. He can move at remarkable speeds for a man of his size and age, smoothly navigate just about any kind of natural terrain, and operate with the kind of grace and precision of a skilled predator. Though age has blunted him somewhat, he is still quite a force to be reckoned with and not a person one should underestimate.

Personality: These days, Thorgrim’s primary personality traits seem to be thoughtfulness and a peculiar kind of quiet intensity. His height is enough to cast a shadow on most, but he shows conscious regard for this fact and seems to go out of his way to avoid making other people uncomfortable. Displaying a strange amount of restraint, he takes extraordinary measures to refrain from touching anyone, sliding around even moving persons in crowds with the ease of years of practice. His walk is the sort of smooth, silent thing that indicates he was a hunter first, a warrior second, and indeed he seems somewhat ill-at-ease in large cities.

This was not always so, but nowadays he tends to stay away from large populations of people, though he does not express his discomfort if he has to mingle, instead just making certain that he remains aware of his surroundings. He can come off as a bit tense (not so much nervous as wary), and a common thought among those that know him is that he needs to “loosen up” a little more, or let himself have some fun.

Among friends, he’s a little more relaxed, and though not terribly talkative, he makes for intelligent conversation if you can convince him to speak with you for more than a few words at a time. He displays polite courtesy to most, and his rare smiles are somewhat disarming, given how different they are from his ordinary demeanor. Overall, he’s distant, but not to the point of rudeness, and makes for an excellent listener, albeit one who only contributes to conversations on occasion.

Class: Pathfinder/Swordsman
Major Skills

• Blade
• Block
• Athletics

Minor Skills

• Archery
• Sneak
• Acrobatics
• Light Armor

Equipment: Thorgrim carries little in the way of personal belongings. Aside from the clothes on his back and the light scale armor he wears beneath an old weathered cloak, the Bloody Eight carries with him a set of blades and daggers, as well as a leather satchel which he uses to carry food, healing items and other assorted belongings.

Of the two set of larger blades he carries with him, one is a simple steel longsword, sharp enough to kill a man but otherwise unremarkable in any other aspects. A battered, cumbersome looking weapon that has no doubt seen better days. The other blade he carries is a short blade, not quite long enough to be considered a sword yet not quite short enough to be considered a dagger either. During combat, Thorgrim uses both weapons at once, using the shorter blade to parry strikes while dealing his own with the longsword.

Aside from the two blades, Thorgrim also stashes a number of short daggers and throwing knives all over himself-- hidden in his boots, etched into his armor and tucked into his belt. Serving as last-ditch weapons and backup plans, they have helped Thorgrim greatly throughout his years as an adventurer and mercenary.

---

Some men can fall from grace. Other men have nowhere to fall to, having been born already on the ground. Thorgrim was the second child and first son of a Nord couple living in Skyrim. His parents lived in the Eastmarch, northeast of Windhelm, eking out a living as fishers along the coast.

He was a rambunctious child, and generally got himself into a great deal of little troubles, but nothing too major. Eventually, he channeled his energy into hunting, teaching himself to shoot and sneak about after prey-beasts for his parents’ table. Seeing no harm in this, they allowed and encouraged it. For the first eight or so years of his life, he also had a sister, though they were not all that close, as she always behaved coldly to him and he avoided her out of habit. Gradually, she began to seek him out a little more often, and they were beginning to come to an understanding when tragedy struck.

Just before his fifteenth birthday, his home became the target of a Dunmeri slave raid. Led by an ambitious young member of House Dres, the slavers took advantage of the Empire's instability following the Oblivion Crisis to raid the surrounding coastlines in search of slaves while operating under the guise of pirates. Thorgrim was spared being killed or captured simply because he was not yet home during the attack, having left to hunt food for his family. He returned to find his home burned down, his father butchered and both his mother and sister being carried off to be sold as slaves in a distant land. He could only watch as the black sails disappeared further into the Sea of Ghosts, carrying with them the only life he ever had.

Following the event, the young Thorgrim spent most of his time out in the wilderness, practically a wild thing himself. In his grief and recklessness, he ventured further and further into the wild, relying on his skill to keep him alive against bears, wolves, and even the occasional spriggan. This would continue for several more years, and the young Nord practically raised himself and lived alone until he was nineteen years old. By then, the grief over his family had frozen over and turned into a fiery anger, and he forced himself to return to civilization, if only to gain the opportunity to avenge his family.

And thus, he traveled south, into Cyrodiil. There, he found work as a member of the Fighter's Guild. He spent several years as an adventurer, learning valuable skills and making friends with fellow Guild members. He took on any and all contracts that would allow him to slaughter Dunmer, no matter the pay. Eventually, after many years of fighting and killing for the sake of killing, he found that it did not bring him joy. Try as he might to kill each and every Dunmer standing, his efforts would not bring his family back from the dead. So, he abandoned this life and the Guild, and attempted to live a humble life back in his homeland as a simple hunter. When tragedy struck him yet again, he returned to the life of a sword-for-hire. His experience as a member of the Fighter's Guild made him valuable and he eventually found work under a particularly ambitious noble in High Rock. There he served for several more years, fighting in numerous skirmishes between the noble houses and taking part in their political intrigue whenever violence was needed more than words. Once more, he eventually decided to leave behind this life and begin anew. Once more, Fate threw a wrench in his plans and forced him to return to a life of killing and fighting. From then on, he served in Skyrim and Cyrodiil, fought in Hammerfell and Elsweyr, bled in the Black Marshes and even once spent time in the Summerset Isles when he worked for a Merchant Guild. Fighting gave him purpose and offered him a chance to forget all his past sufferings, and for a time it was all he knew.

That was, of course, until he met Elysa Farelle. The owner of a small tavern in the port city of Southpoint, Thorgrim met her during his time working under a Bosmer Merchant. As a regular customer, he found himself talking to her daily, and overtime he fell for her. It took time for him to convince her to think the same way and by the he did, she had changed him for the better. She gave him a new purpose in life and even managed to convince him to leave behind his life of fighting if only to make amends to himself for all the things he'd done and regretted in life. So, he did just that. For a time, he lived happily with Elysa, marrying her and working alongside her in taking care of the tavern. Thorgrim had completely turned over a new leaf, and he pictured a future with Elysa, growing old together and living humbly as the owner of a tavern. Unfortunately, like most things in his life, it would not last.

Thrice Thorgrim was married in his life, and thrice he was widowed. His first marriage came about when he left the Fighter’s Guild to return to his ancestral homeland and try his luck in the Reach as a hunter. His wife died to a Forsworn arrow, and with her died Thorgrim’s hopes of living a life of peace. The second he married during his time as a mercenary in the Reach; the daughter of a noble whom he served under in battle. They eloped and made to flee towards Hammerfell to begin a new life together. A fever that lasted for weeks took her away from him, and Thorgrim once more learned the hard truth that Fate had no quarter to give him. The third was the last and undoubtedly the one that did him in: Elysa. Though the two lived and loved each other for years, she was sadly taken away from him during childbirth. As death took both his last love and his only child away from him, Thorgrim found himself without purpose.

His experiences had left him into a broken husk of a man who felt that he had achieved nothing in his life. There was no more purpose for him on Nirn, and for a time he debated whether or not he should follow his loved ones and embrace death as death had embraced them. Yet, while Fate has taken away everything he held dear, he still found that he was unable to end his own life. Instead, he fled into the wild as he once did during his youth, living along bear, wolf, and raven for some years. It was in this long period of solitude that he developed his beliefs. A death now would be meaningless. Sure, he could join his loved ones in whatever afterlife awaited him, but what had he really done? Who had he really known? What purpose had he really fulfilled? Had he even lived at all? He didn't know the answers to any of these questions, but he meant to find out. He developed the idea that there was a Path for him, one that had started with the death of his loved ones, and one that ended with his death. He would experience life in its fullest capacity along this Path, even if it led him to his death. No more, no less. It didn't matter when his life ended, so long as he was satisfied with the life he had led.

With this mindset, he returned to a life of adventuring. Instead of fighting for the sake of fighting, he did all he could in order to help those around him. A weathered and hardened mercenary with a heart of gold, some people liked to call him. Many more would attest to otherwise, yet Thorgrim worked hard nonetheless to shake off his past and live his life to the fullest. His travels would eventually bring him back to Cyrodiil, where he joined with the Skingrad Company in an effort to acquire a means to gain pay without needing to pick up a new trade. Though the Company was already well-established by the time he joined it, it did not take much for him to convince them to accept him. Ever since, he's been a valuable member and has established himself within the Company as a reliable, albeit old warrior with years of experience behind him.

Name: Zazar Palus V (Or The Fifth)

Race: Argonian

Gender: Male

Age: 22

Appearance: Zazar is 5'6 with a slender body that is toned, The skin color of his body is dark green with small patches of brown all over his body. The claws of his hands and feet being sharp with his feet being elevated so it looks like he walks on his hind legs like a cat. Having two sharp horns on the sides of his head and has bright blue eyes.

Zazar wears a long dark blue robe with a hood that covers most of his body, Wearing bracelets, ankles and a few neckles around his neck that seem to be made out of metal.

Personality: Zazar mostly likes to keep to himself, Only really speaking when he feels their is a need for it. Being quite eccentric or just strange to others. Having a strong sense of right and wrong mostly letting his emotions guide his actions, Having a fear and hatred of Dunmer rafter a tragic event that in his life. He also does not like Nords and Khajiit, But has a strange obsession with Orcs.

For the most part he is quite friendly to others mostly to people he deems "Nice" to him, A sign of Zazar liking you would be him teasing you or following you.

Class: Witchhunter

Three Major Skills- Conjuration, Security, Mysticism

Three Minor Skills- Alchemy, Marksman, Destruction, Athletics

Equipment: Silver sword, Iron Dagger, Staff.

History: Zazar was born in Cyrodiil living with his uncle and his wife along with his grandmother, Living in a small farm beside Anvil working as a farm hand. During his downtime he was taught magic by his grandmother who was apart of a small group of Argonians called "Wicked World". However his uncle disapproved of this group thinking them more of a cult that had no place in modern society, However the young Zazar was mystified by that sort of magic the group could preform and wanting to be taught magic. So the young boy was taught and up until his adulthood he was quite skilled in Conjuring.

While he was studying in Leyawiin he learned of some problems with his Uncle and "Wicked World", Quickly returning to his farm to see the farm burnt down witnessing the hanging corpse of his uncle and his wife. Speaking with his grandmother who lead him to the one's responsible for his uncle's death.

Finding out it was Dunmer bandits that had intimidated and making his father pay "protection money" for them, Finding them hold up in a cave in a fit of rage he slaughtered all of them with the help of his summons. Later on he joined the Skingrad Company wanting to protect the farmers and innocent of Cyrodill.

Name: Hammer-Maiden Clanette Bontrelle

Race: Breton

Gender: Female

Age: 26

Appearance: Clanette is fair skinned, sharp featured and dark haired like most of her race. More unique is the fact her neck-length hair is braided in nordic fashion with flint-like eyes darting beneath, betraying some Nord influence in her bloodline. She is lightly muscled and befreckled

Clanette wears simple, full length blue and brown priest robes as befitting her station. While she does have a hood she doesn't often choose to wear it. She is bereft of piercings or tattoos but she makes sure her amulet of Stendarr is always visible on top of whatever outfit she chooses.

Personality: Clanette is an outgoing and friendly individual, which is part of the reason she was selected to serve amongst mercenaries. It is hoped that her charming manner can sway other members of her party away from darker deeds.

Perhaps more unfitting for a mercenary is her hesitance to commit violence in combat, so she hopes to keep her role to as much to healing and warding as she can

Class: Healer

Three Major Skills- Restoration, Alteration, Speech-craft

Three Minor Skills- Blunt Weapon, Mysticism, Alchemy

Equipment: Iron mace, Amulet of Stendarr, Minor Alchemy Equipment, an assortment of minor potions

History: Clanette has been influenced by her home, Northpoint, greatly. She carries her memories of the place with her every step and a part of her yearns to be back. Clanette was born to the Bontrelle family, and was raised as a diplomat to help maintain good relations between High-Rock and it's trade partner Skyrim.

Clanette's life would take a turn, however, when a sudden attack on the city nobility was held by a vampire coven. At the age of 14 Clanette's family was slain almost to a man, and she herself only escaped persecution out of sheer luck.

A band of witchunters and Vigilants happened to be in port at the time, and moved to the cities aid. Although they took severe casualties they were pivotal in the defence and managed to slay and later hunt down the hostile coven. Clanette, feeling the need to honour these heroes' efforts offered her family's holdings as a base of operations for the Vigilants of Stendarr. An offer graciously accepted

Since that day Clanette has striven to become a force to be reckoned with in the order, and succeeded for the most part by accomplishing the rank of Hammer-Maiden. Of late she has been shipped abroad with a few of her comrades to aid various mercenary groups in the Colovian region, in hopes of maintaining stability and to report back progressing threats.

Name: Calder Blood-Mouth
Race: Nord
Gender: Male
Age: 27

Appearance: Calder is a little shorter than most Nords standing at about 5’10 inches tall. He also isn’t quite as heavy set looking as most of his Nordic brethren being better described as wiry and lean rather than barrel chested and log armed. He isn’t scrawny by any means having honed his body through years of combat and training, it’s just a little harder than usual to see on him. You could likely even mistake him for an Imperial if it weren’t for his paler skin and distinct blue eyes. Well, that and his wild Nordic look. His unkempt brown hair and beard don’t exactly scream refinement.

His body itself is littered with scars and tattoos. A long scar across his chest from a sword slash he’d moved too slow to completely avoid, a scar on his stomach from a stab wound he’d thought too foolishly and too slowly to avoid and even some burn scars on his left arm and shoulder than weren’t really his fault at all. Just being in the right place at the wrong time. The tattoos are mostly mementos for significant events. Particularly difficult battles he managed to live through or people he killed or didn’t that deserve to be remembered.

Personality: Calder is rather unusual personality wise, especially for a relatively young mercenary. He is reserved, thoughtful and often even outright humble in a way that most warriors with his aptitude for fighting don’t tend to be. He is rarely impulsive and very slow to anger, much preferring to take as much time as he can get to listen and think before taking a course of action. That isn’t to say he is immune to poor decisions, there are certain things that can and will shake or irritate him. He has a kind of code he holds himself to and is deeply bothered by the breaking of it.

Strangely compassionate for such a talented killer he abhors torture for any reason and prefers granting quick deaths even to those who don’t deserve them. He also doesn’t really lie, vastly preferring to deal with the sometimes dangerous consequences of truth rather than the complexities of weaving and keeping up with lies. An odd and somewhat complicated man Calder doesn’t truly really know himself yet and very few people know him all that well either. Most who do tend to either over or underestimate him. Though not very connected to his Nord roots and definitely having no strong feelings about Sovngarde or any other afterlife Calder is still a firm believer in there being worse things than death. He is by no means an “the ends justify the means” kind of man.

Major Skills: One Handed, Hand-to-Hand, Block.
Minor Skills: Sneak, Light Armor, Athletics, and Acrobatics.

Equipment: The most distinct of Calders gear is the armor he wears. A strangely fashionable and very well made set of gear comprised of black, red and brown fabric underneath with hardened and layered leather jackets and chainmail over the top, reinforced with steel studs. Black leather gloves and boots finish the set.

For weapons Calders preference is his custom made steel sabre, dubbed Sentinel. He also keeps two small war axes on his hips that he can employ in situations where the sabre isn’t ideal such as foes that need to be dispatched at some range. He isn’t as accurate with the axes as a well trained archer might be, he also can’t throw them nearly as far as an arrow can shoot and he only gets two chances but typically when he does hit the target it’s down for good.

Other than that he has a medium sized leather pouch he keeps all the adventuring necessities in. Food, drink, septims and sometimes purchased potions or poisons.

History: Calder spent his childhood on the impoverished waterfront of the Imperial City. His mother being a strong Nord woman helped load and deload the various ships that docked for an okay wage. It was decent enough work for the waterfront anyway. Made sure they stayed warm in one of the small shacks there which is more than could be said for a lot of the poor who inhabited that area. She loved her son dearly and spent most of her wage keeping him fed and entertained whilst she worked. Trying her best to keep his focus away from the various Thieves Guild members who used children as distractions or couriers and whatever else. To that end she taught him to read and bought him countless books that they would both read and discuss together. Slowly teaching him everything from history to morality and philosophy through them. It worked for the most part. Calder rarely got into trouble and when he was approached and asked to do certain nefarious things he had the confidence and smarts to judge the situation well enough. For the most part he spent those early years reading and pretty soon he grew strong enough to help his mother load ships. He wasn’t the biggest lad but he was strong.

His father was an Imperial who worked on one of the ships his mother loaded. A smuggler and privateer who always seemed to have a smirk on his face. He was a battle-scarred ex-soldier who looked like he’d seen enough war for ten men but didn’t seem to really let it faze him. At least outwardly. Despite his love for him he rarely saw his dad for the first ten or so years of his life. Once a month would be an overstatement. He was either always at sea or at some other port somewhere taking care of whatever would come up there. When he did see him it was a source of joy however, something to break the monotony of the waterfront. He’d tell him stories of life at sea and tales of other lands from Blackmarsh to Hammerfell. As he grew and heard those stories combined with the ones he’d read by himself he became more and more sure that doing what his father did was what he wanted to do with his life. He wanted to see the wonders of the seas, experience the brotherhood of shipmates and experience the lands various port cities. For a boy who had barely ever left the docks it sounded truly wonderful.

To that end his father started training him both in combat and in the ways of seafaring. Showing him what he could of the ship and how it worked whilst not actually being at sea. To his surprise his dad completely changed when it came time to train in combat. He no longer smiled or joked and was almost brutal in his lessons. It was no joke or light matter he explained near the start of training. What he was learning would at some point be the difference between living and dying out at sea. The difference between his mother and him grinning from ear to ear seeing their son step off of his docked ship after months at sea or spending the rest of their lives filled with grief and regret at letting him pursue the life of a privateer. Over time his dad started returning more and more often, taking shorter trips and stating that Calder needed more frequent lessons. By the time he turned 15 he was training with real steel and almost as nimble with a blade as his dad. Having now been training with increasing frequency for 5 years he was hungry for the seas. Ready for them. Though sad at the prospect of leaving his mother alone for the first time. His father for his part said that there were certain things you could never truly prepare for until you experienced them. It was almost time, he’d take him to sea after he’d turned 16.

One more year. That wasn’t soon enough for Calder and for the first time in his life he did something he knew his mother wouldn’t approve of. He entered some bare knuckle boxing matches on the waterfront. He was already almost fully grown and the years of loading ships and combat training with his father had left him in fantastic shape and well trained. Most of the combatants likely wouldn’t be much of a challenge. Secretly it was also at the suggestion of his father. He said Calder needed to experience real, true violence before it was thrust upon him without him having any choice in the matter. A boxing match with at least a couple of rules and around locals who knew and liked him well enough was one of the safest places he could think of for him to experience that.

Sadly he’d been wrong about the people fighting there being no match for him. His fathers brutal training hadn’t actually been all that brutal it seemed. Real fighting was something else. Nothing but the reality of it can prepare you for a man rushing at you and trying to bash your face into mush. The first few fights he got some hits in but barely seemed to faze his opponent, soon after taking a couple of hits himself that felt like crates falling on him and being down for the count. His father watched him fight as soon as he could and quickly summed it up. “You’re holding back”, he said. “You pull your punches like that in your first life or death fight and you won't live to see a second... Believe it or not you have to actually hurt the other person to beat them. If you can’t do that then find something to do with your life that doesn’t involve fighting. I won't be responsible for your death because you got in a fight where the other person wanted to chop your head clean off and stick it on a pike and you were worried about cutting them.”

Calders initial response to that was that in a real fight it would be self defense and he wouldn’t feel any guilt for ending them. That in boxing it was just for coin, that a lot of the people that fought were just trying to make enough to get by on the docks and that he had other ways to make money whereas they didn’t. He didn’t say any of that though. He knew how he felt was right, or at least he thought it was but he also knew his father was right in his way too. So he stopped holding back and soon started winning fights. Though he quietly gave half the winnings to the loser if he knew they were in need.

A year later he’d grown calm and confident even in the more challenging fights. He felt ready for that first real fight his father told him he’d eventually come to experience, though he knew he wasn’t. He thought the same thing before he’d boxed and he was wrong. He just hoped he wouldn’t be quite as wrong when the time came. So now 16 years of age Calder said an emotional goodbye to his mother and set off to sea with his father. A relatively quick journey to Archon of Black Marsh. Better yet they were fully stocked so if they spotted a ship flying enemy colors they weren’t obliged to attack it for the possible cargo. He soon grew to love the sea as much as he thought he would. The smell, the constant work, his shipmates and the sights. He loved what many others might have hated. Sadly them being fully stocked narrowed only their chances of attacking, not of being attacked and as Calder later learned it actually increased them somewhat since certain people would tip off others on which ships were carrying more cargo. So a ship soon moved to attack them, a thing Calder assumed would be fast and violent but no, they knew about 20 minutes before that the ship was on an intercept course. That was the longest 20 minutes of Calder's life at that point. As the ship drew closer they fired on it but didn’t manage to do much damage before they were being boarded. Then things grew fast. His father shouted “Don’t hold back!” right before they entered the fray and that’s about all he remembered from his life before at that moment. Suddenly nothing else mattered, nothing else in the world had happened or would ever happen. Or that was happening was this life and death right here. This minute would be the only minute there might ever be.

Some huge Nord tried to hit him with a war hammer and he quickly dodged back, stepping forward again as the momentum and weight of the hammer threw the man off balance and slicing his sword across his neck. Warm blood spat out across his face and he had to consciously stop himself from being overly distracted by it. Before he could move on and pick another target he was tackled, someone hitting him and bringing him to the ground like a boulder. Before he knew it he felt the very familiar feeling of being punched in the face and the old sharp pain in his jaw. Then large hands around his throat. He did his best to stop himself from panicking as his oxygen was cut off and desperately grasped around for his sword. He couldn’t find it so he moved on to the man on top of him, scratching and clawing at his face, trying to gouge his eyes. It wasn’t working. A desperation and rage like he’d never felt took over him just as blackness started to and he cocked his arm back and launched it forward as hard as he could muster, cracking the man in the nose. His grip loosened almost entirely and Calder quickly took the opportunity to knock his arms away with his, then quickly pulled his head forward and down to him leaving his neck exposed. In the minute of battle madness Calder bit deep into his neck, tearing away as much flesh as he could. Then he did it again and then once again until the man was clutching his mutilated throat and gasping his last inaudible words. Probably curses. The fight soon ended after that with them victorious, his father and the other battle-hardened men making quick work of their foes. Calder earned his name that day and the respect of the crew. His father later asked him how he felt and he surprised both of them by saying “Nothing really. It was them or mother never seeing me step back off this ship.”

Over the next decade Calder went on countless journeys. He visited Hammerfell, High Rock, Valenwood, Black Marsh and Morrowind countless times, staying with his fathers captain even after his dad had retired to finally settle down with Calder's mother. He killed at least a hundred men over the years, most of them at sea. Occasionally he would stay in a land such as High Rock or Valenwood for a month or two taking on mercenary work in order to see the land. It was this that eventually got him into trouble. He was looking for a ship sailing back to Anvil from Falinesti where he’d been making his home for a while. He wasn’t one to brag but his name was famous or infamous enough among most sea-fairers that most would happily have him aboard for the journey in return for his help if they were attacked or needed to board a ship. It didn’t take him long to find such a one.

Unfortunately it turned out to be a big mistake, this particular crew had crossed the thin line from privateer and pirate to straight up bandit some time back it seemed. When they raided a civilian ship and cut down the guards that was enough by itself to get Calder angry but once they started executing the actual civilians he flew into a rage. He managed to carve through five of them before they pinned him down, beating him half to death and dragging him to the wretch they called a captain. A dishonor to the title. What hurt Calders pride the most in all this was that the captain didn’t understand why he was upset. He was a pirate just as he was after all. Calder spat blood in his face at that. He’d never killed a civilian. Not once in the hundreds of ships he’d taken. Not even the one that had stabbed him in fear. Sure, technically he was a pirate but he still abided by the code his father taught him as a privateer. He only ever took military targets and those warriors that surrendered lived no matter what. The injured got medical treatment and the people too far gone got quick deaths. It was a dirty business but that didn’t mean you had to become a monster. The so called captain found this explanation amusing. He chuckled as he took out his dagger and stabbed Calder twice in the abdomen, then ordering him thrown overboard.

Luckily for Calder they weren’t too far off the shore of Anvil at this point and the waves brought him closer still. A fishing boat found him and did their best to staunch the bleeding until they got back to the city. There they brought him to the temple where a Priestess used restoration magic to heal him fully over a matter of days. He split what little coin he had left on him between the Priestess and the fishermen as thanks for saving his life and set out seeking well paid mercenary work. He was going to finally explore Cyrodiil, make enough money doing contracts to afford a ship, find a decent and loyal crew and then hunt that wretched captain down if it took him the rest of his days. He owed that bastard and anyone working for him at least two stab wounds each.