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.

Name: Andrina Lungwort
Race: Bosmer
Gender: Female
Age: Adult

Appearance: Standing at 5’3, Andrina has a sunny complexion and a very flat figure. Her little packs of muscle are usually covered up by her fur, leather and chainmail armour which is durable yet heavily used. She wears a leather helmet with a face-mask decorated with emblazoned marks to resemble war paint. Her face is sharp and angular, her blonde hair usually gathered into little pigtails or twin buns on either side of her face. Her eyes are jet black and liquidy in the sunlight. A singular vertical black stripe has been inked into her bottom lip alone. Sometimes she’ll go barefoot, but often wears slippers.

Personality: It is immediately apparent that Andrina is somewhat addled; despite her age, she is quite simpleminded and endlessly fascinated with new things regardless of how mundane they might be. Underneath this surface layer of stupidity is a complex and sophisticated woman trying to worm her way to the surface. She shows understanding of more abstract concepts, follows her people’s beliefs such as the meat mandate and the green pact with absolute devotion, and adheres to her own moral code with a staunch stubbornness that hinders her efficiency. She clearly has her own opinions on politics and philosophy even if she no longer has the vocabulary to express them, and her intricate knowledge on illusion magic is objective proof of her intellect. She listens well, she takes to learning like a duck to water and strives for some higher purpose known only to her in fleeting impulses, following watery remnants of her oldest desires and memories in a sisyphean effort to break the curse she doesn’t even know she has.

But a lot of these complexities only show themselves under careful observation. The unfortunate truth is that, for the most part, Andrina is a naive and foolish creature. It is as if she has the mind of a child again; she enjoys exploring, her attention span is much shorter than a typical adult, she is highly superstitious, she plays with toys. She is uncomfortable in large cities and busy places, easy to frighten, a slave to her own impetuous moods and - worst of all - plagued with her insomnia which weakens her both physically, psychologically and emotionally. She seems self-aware, to some extent, of her embarrassing behaviour yet struggles to overcome it. She flourishes in the company of close friends; those who are willing to help her with whatever strange quest she embarked upon all those years ago are met with a dogged loyalty and affection that you’d only really find in beloved family pets. When left on her own she devolves into her usual abysmal state - lost, highly confused, frequently distracted and guarded around strangers.

Class: Haunted Huntress
Major Skills: Illusion, Marksman, Sneak
Minor Skills: Acrobatics, Athletics, Blade, Armourer
Equipment: A bone-and-sinew repair kit, complete with a variety of leather scraps, buckles and buttons for armour repair. A set of fur, leather and chainmail armour, complete with a leather helmet with a vizard. A hammock and a shortsword.

History:
Andrina lived quite peacefully in the Valenwood, following Y’ffre’s word and song from as early as her childhood. Like many bosmer she was given the bow as soon as she could use it and her marksmanship skills grew alongside her. Her parents were transient and nomadic in nature and wandered the thickest swathes of woodland with a small travelling party until they had found a place to call home. The Greenspeakers within their little group prayed to the Graht-oaks for shelter and, with their blessing, Andrina’s little tribe were given some simple dwellings to stay in. This moving settlement was known as Tripmarn, and it might have become a thriving trading outpost if the seeds of madness had not been sown in its creation. Hidden amongst the good intentions of the fishermen, trappers and weavers of Andrina’s tribe was a mage; a wisened scholar called Thoras, one who was looked up to in the community but largely left to his own devices. His magic was difficult to comprehend and, aside from getting the impression that he felt a bit lonely amongst his simpler hunting folk, the tribe never heard any complaint from him.

At this point in time he plays an infinitesimal role in Andrina’s story. Rambunctious and boisetrous in her youth, Andrina was more interested in climbing the trees and playing tricks on her many aunts, uncles and cousins instead of starting to consider a career and - gods forbid - a husband. She was irresponsible and frequently attracted to the hunt. She resented their settlement and preferred the gritty vagabond life of her childhood; desperate to recreate that, she often left the sanctuary of Tripmarn on her own expeditions to catch trophy prizes and assert her dominance amongst her competitors. With time and patience, her fiery streak gave way to many injuries that gradually chipped at her immaturity and made those simpler crafts seem much more important.

One day she returned to Tripmarn for the last time; she settled there for a decade or two, not knowing that when she would next leave she would never return. Whilst at home she learnt from her grandparents. They taught her how to work leather and sinew, carve bone with rock and metal, use the hammer and nail to protect herself instead of the bow and shortsword that she had grown so comfortable with. Andrina found that busy hands kept her temper in check and became an armourer for her tribe. She enjoyed decorating her finished pieces the most but respected the importance of durable and sustainable craftsmanship. She made paltry trinkets and charms to adorn weaponry and armour and gave them out as favours, especially to young Irkath - the village’s best huntsman who had a penchant for loitering around Andrina’s hovel in the mornings, eager to boast of his feats to her. Had Thoras made a better effort to give up his books and look around Tripmarn to see the community that had established during his studies, maybe Andrina would have married Irkath and taken off into the Valenwood with him to hunt large game and bear many children.

That didn’t happen. Thoras was lonely, and there were creatures in Oblivion that knew how to toy with lonely men. Vaermina, Lady of nightmares and dreams, became his idol. He worshipped the daedric prince in secret as whispers corrupted his mind and his spellcraft. And when the time was right and his madness had reached a critical point, he unleashed it upon all those who lived in the boughs of Tripmarn. The entire village was plunged into a new reality - sleeplessness or nightmares. It blossomed into irritation, then paranoia, and full out madness. Brother turned against brother; deceit and chaos reigned in the little village as man ate men felled by their own blade. In one final act of devastation, Tripmarn was set ablaze and the survivors were cast out of the Valenwood; those who pledged loyalty to Thoras were executed on the spot.

Andrina was one of those survivors, even if she was no longer aware of it. With only a handful of ‘victors’ from the daedric game, Vaermina rewarded Andrina and a handful of the remaining Bosmer with bliss; she cursed them each into a state of dream-like confusion, lifting the memories of Tripmarn and its people from their minds and letting them wander Tamriel in peace. Andrina joined and left a handful of wandering folk, from caravans to bandits, since her exile from Valenwood. She plunged into the new sights and sounds of Cyrodiil with glee and met many new people in her travels, but the truth gnawed away at some locked-up part of her psyche. Unbeknownst to Andrina, she started trying to rid herself of the spell placed upon her mind. But with such insurmountable odds to face - a tattered mess of memories that often slipped from her grasp, an attention span more suitable for beasts than men, and a thrall to her own emotions once more - it has not been easy for the young wood elf. She is no closer to achieving her goal than she was when she started it aside from reigniting her sleep maintenance insomnia and chronic nightmares, to a far lesser degree than Thoras’ magic had made them. She, like many others who were disturbed in her sleep, had visited Quagmire and became one of Vaermina’s thousands of curiosities. Amused at Andrina’s fruitless pursuit of madness, she started to nudge the wood elf towards illusion magic. It has become Andrina’s newest and most potent weapon in these unfamiliar lands.

Stumbling into and around the plains of Cyrodiil, Andrina has caught the whiff of mercenary work on the breeze. Presuming them to be particularly bloody adventurers who travelled the world in search of coin and fortune, she started to follow them; she witnessed their deeds from the sidelines, became a bit enamoured with the rugged yet mysterious Quintus Jannus but mainly fell in love with the idea of roaming the countryside amongst such diverse ‘heroes’ and saving the townsfolk from monsters and ne’er-do-wells. Now, she has finally mustered up the courage to go and approach some of them...though perhaps not in the most ideal circumstances.