Be very interesting to see how he and Flavia avoid killing each other in the long run if accepted, haha. Accidentally made her opposite. I got way too carried away with the character history. If you don't have all day the last three paragraphs pretty much sum up where he's at now and why he's there.
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: 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.
1x Like
