Appearance Would you get a load of this guy? Look at him. He's such a cheeky young man, with his perpetual boyish smirk and gleaming white teeth. What's this boy doing in a place like this? This blonde-haired, big foreheaded, milk-drinker lookin' ass. Freckled rosy cheeks like a schoolboy-lookin' ass - sure, okay, he's got a little bit of height to him at 5'10", not much, but it's there. Sure, he's got some shoulders on him from a life of farm work, that's fair, I'll give you that; but even all that taken into consideration, and despite whatever his physical capability may be, he doesn't look like the type of person who belongs here. In the center of a war, I mean, or out on the open road like some two-bit adventurer. You see the child-like glee on his face, and you expect a man like him to be in the comfort of a city or partying his days away in a tavern. He has the weight on him, 165 lbs, but not the muscle tone, and he doesn't come across as the hero type. Simply put, he just looks too pretty. He's a conventionally handsome fellow, but he doesn't look like a tough or battle hardened Nord like a true Nord ought to be.
He has short blonde hair which he keeps brushed back and fair skin like many a nord, and he has gleaming coffee-colored brown eyes, which gets brought out by thick eyelashes. His lips, a dark rosy color, and when he smiles, stretch wide from giant ear to giant ear and forming dimples on either sides of his cheeks, and that smile appears perfectly symmetrical with his jawline. There is nary a scar on his face, tattoo, or sign of hardship that can be seen on his person, save for maybe the callouses on his hands - the hands of a working man, who knows what it's like to pitch hay bales over his head and work some rope, but the callouses are thickest around his finger with which he uses to play his lute and drum and fiddle. His hands are in fact the exception and not the norm, as even the modulation and inflection of his sing-songy voice is smooth.
He wears simple clothes, though they are quite obviously nordic in style and design. He most often wears a white, short-sleeved undershirt with light blue trimming, which is covered in some variation of the usual work shirt that he wears. A tough, warm linen shirt with long sleeves that are usually rolled up to Calen's elbows, with strings around its v-neck in order to open or close the neckline as needed. Nordic runes trim the shoulders and collar with little bone beads decorating the shoulders. He also wears cotton jodhpurs - riding pants - that are darker brown in collar. Though Calen prefers the comfort of moccasins on his feet, he finds that it's better to be wearing his riding boots since Tamriel has a habit of falling into the privy on a regular basis. He also wears a fur-lined leather broad belt, which is probably the best he has for means of protection, and even then, it's probably better used as a belly warmer.
Her also wears an amulet of Dibella with him at all times. It's his good luck charm, and he is never seen without it.
Equipment A wooden cudgel that is carved with traditional Nordic decorations, and is only slightly stained with a little bit of blood. It hangs at his side by a loop from his belt.
An enchanted Amulet of Dibella that fortifies his Speechcraft, making him even more likable than before!
A simple set of durable and warm clothes that actually don't look too shabby on him. A fur-lined leather broad belt is the best he has for means of protection, and even then, it's probably better used as a belly warmer.
A gut hooked skinning knife is sheathed right where his tail-bone is at, where his back meets his ass, but he's more likely to use it as his primary eating utensil than anything else that's practical beyond that.
Misc. Possessions A pouch of 75 septims.
A key to the trunk in his wagon.
While not on his person, per se, he
is in possession of a reasonable carriage wagon and a driving pony to pull it along the road. It contains most of his belongings that he can't afford to hold onto his person, and while neither the wagon nor pony is large enough to carry an entire party, it fulfills its purpose in carrying just himself and a few other people. What it can do is at least lift some of the burden off of a traveling company. Within the wagon lies a trunk where most his belongings reside:
A weathered-looking lute that has seen its fair share of use, but still has plenty of songs left in its lifespan.
A small drum that one could easily carry under their arm without getting tired.
A violin that's nearly as aged as the lute, adorned with decorations similar to what's on his cudgel, and a bow to play it with.
A personal, leather-bound scrapbook recounting of almost all the people he has come across in his travels. Just pages and pages devoted to their sketched faces, their names, and what kind of impact they've left of him. Of course he couldn't get all of them - but he certainly got all of his customers. Most importantly though, what this journal does manage to get all of are each and every single one of his lovers and love interests throughout his life. Their faces are drawn with meticulous detail and are accompanied by passages which recounts their finest qualities and the experiences he's shared with them.
Two tall bottles of spiced wine, home-brewed back in Solitude. One of them is already halfway finished.
A sack of preserved or readily available foods, such as stag jerky, cheese, snowberries, and edible roots.
A small brown medicine bottle that is filled with delightfully pungent herbal oils with a hint of sweetness to its aroma. It is labeled as "Khenarthi's Breath".
A small tent that is simple in it's construction. Calen typically just pitches it to all four corners of his wagon and sleeps where he works. It comes with a thick, woolen blanket that keeps him warm at night.
Soap made from flowers and horker fat.
Spare clothes that are similar to one another in their style and design.
A pouch of 225 Septims.
A collection of books, many of which are related to history in one way or another, about art and poetry, foreign culture, and what looks to be a religious tome that tells you everything you'd like to know about Dibella's doctrines.
Gungir Smallwood, Father; Alive
Mira Smallwood, Mother; Alive
Murtagh Smallwood, Elder Brother; Alive
Bard's College, Organization; Member in good standing.
Temple of Dibella, Organization; Patron
Favored Skills Highly Proficient: Speechcraft – (He's a picker. He's a grinner. He's a lover and he's a sinner. You thought you had it going on back in school? Well, Calen went to the Bard's College in Solitude and that place taught him everything he knows from history and languages to singing and performing. Ladies, don't let his age fool you - what he makes up for experience? Raw talent and endless energy. Bastard could charm the loincloth off of a giant with his silver tongue... because... well, you know... he's good at Speechcraft.)
Moderately Proficient: Mercantile – (There's not much difference between making love and the art of the deal besides the fact you're trying to make money while you're at it, so there's only a little bit more lying than normal. But you know what? Calen got pretty good at it. He has a pretty good gig going on with his carriage business, so he had to get good at it.)
Moderately Proficient: Acrobatics – (Working with horses for most of his life has made him a rather able-bodied equestrian. See, it's all about keeping your balance, and if you fall then you try to fall as painlessly as possible. Pain (or the threat of pain) is a great motivator, just take it from Calen.)
Moderately Proficient: Athletics – (For bolting in the opposite direction when everything has gotten abso-fucking-lutely haywire. Years of hard farm labor, being on the road, and running from dangerous fathers (and a variety of other folk) has made Calen one hell of a speedy son-of-a-bitch. His cardio was worked out enough that he can run quickly across distances without being winded, which has done wonders for helping him to keep his asthma under control despite the issues it has caused for him to get to that point.)
Somewhat Proficient: One-Handed (Blunt) - (Calen carries a cudgel with him everywhere just in case his next customer is the kind that gets a little too handsy (like an orc trying to wrap their hands around his throat), or if his wagon comes across some vagabonds along the way to his destination. With a girly yelp and a shriek for help, he takes it and smacks it right across his assailant's kisser. And I'll tell you what: he's become quite accustomed to that entire routine. He's gotten pretty good at it.)
Somewhat Proficient: Restoration – (A priestess of Dibella showed Calen additional generosity on top of her usual services by teaching him a bit of restoration magic that can help him deal with his asthma. His hands start glowing with a radiant light, he cups them around his face, and he takes a huge breath in. One can even see the light running through his neck. Coincidentally, that was only one of the two lessons he received that night.)
Somewhat Proficient: Illusion – (He learned a bit of magic from some other bards at the college, as every bard needs to know how to escape a particularly tough crowd. For those occasions when he quickly needs to be somewhere, like, yesterday.)
Spells Somewhat Proficient: RestoratonHealing: He can heal himself at a steady rate as long as he concentrates - good for asthma too. Fond memories come to mind every time.
Healing Hands: As it happens, the healing that Calen uses for his asthma can be used to help others too, as long as he concentrates. Whether or not people want his healing hands after they learn where he got 'em from is up to them.
Fortify Luck: After a fool's prayer and a kiss on his necklace, Calen jumps into action with the highest of hopes that he doesn't freaking die. His prayer as it goes: "Under her skirt and into the bum, watch out Nirn, here I come."
Somewhat Proficient: IllusionClairvoyance: For as long as Calen concentrates on his destination, he has intuitive sense of direction and cannot lose his way. What? You think he ran his carriage business on his survival skills? Oh honey, bless your heart.
Muffle: For as long as Calen concentrates, he doesn't make any noise. Which is something a lot of people probably wished he did more often, but he'd rather use it to get his ass out of danger.
Calm: Calen can touch somebody and reduce their aggression for a short period of 30 seconds. Of course he knows this spell. Why wouldn't he? With the number of angry fathers he's had running after him, this spell has probably saved his life more times than he can count.
Courage: Calen can touch somebody and make them braver and steel their resolve for a short period of 30 seconds. Read again: somebody else. Not him, heavens no. He's going the other way.
History Are you looking for a sob story, my friend? A grand ole tale o' tragedy, a misty-eyed epic of redemption and a hero hurling themselves at impossible obstacles? An Iliad recounting the moral quandary of man?
You poor son of a bitch.
Year 4E185 - a beautiful baby boy was born in Skyrim. The boy didn't know of the great things in store for him as he was still at his mother's breast, but his humble beginnings would serve him well in the future. Born and raised to two ranchers who worked and lived at a stable house just south of Solitude, raising and selling horses. His mother was indisputably much better at it, since Mira was a tried and tested rancher like her father before her. His dad, Gungir, was a farmer. He was better at making potatoes and onions grow than he was breaking in and taking care of a horse (but guess what makes more money). He also had a brother five years older than he by the name of Murtagh, and was already hard at work on the ranch pitching piles of hay over his head.
Now, Smallwood is one hell of a name to be stuck with, so it's natural that after some teasing, they're gonna wonder why they were stuck with it. Gungir was well familiar with this story, and it basically traces their family origin down to a group of fletchers who'd grow trees and chop them down when they're young for wood that was flexible enough for bows and whatnot. So they became known for what was basically a wide-spanning grove of baby trees. In time, Calen would learn that this knowledge that Gungir has passed onto him was ultimately useless. "It means fletcher!" isn't a very useful comeback when one of the people picking on you was a dunmer. Calen still doesn't know what "fetcher" means, and he still hates being called one. In time, however, Calen would learn to laugh at himself and use that sense of humor to his advantage.
Calen would also learn how to help his family complete their chores and fulfill their responsibilities, whether it was shoveling shit or breaking in the horses for the next buyer that was too much of a pansy ass to do the work themselves. Then he also had to deal with all manner of nasty critters going bump in the night that liked to prey on the foals, likes wolves and coyotes. Though usually that fell under the purview of his older brother Murtagh, he showed him the ropes and reveal that waving a torch around was usually enough to scare 'em off, but if that didn't work, a good old club to the snout always got the message across (the language of violence was ideal for inter-species communication). Digression aside, the two brothers got along swimmingly! They didn't share any sibling rivalries like you hear and read in tales, rather they complemented each other instead. Murtagh was more than happy to watch over his little rascal of a brother and always seemed to find himself inspired by his sense of curiosity and appreciation of the little things in life. Likewise, Calen naturally adored his older brother and saw him as a strong, adventurous type who he could always rely on. It was nothing less than pure.
Moments like scaring off wildlife, however, also seemed to present a huge problem with Calen's health. Aside from not being the bravest fellow you've ever layed your eyes on (read: he's pretty cowardly), and a lot of that was due to throwing Murtagh at all of life's scary problems, it presented an issue with his asthma. Now his parents were good-natured folk, if a bit rustic in their ways, especially Gungir. They believed that what didn't kill you made you stronger, so when the first asthma attack came around and didn't knock him out of the ball park right from the get-go, that looked to them like a sure sign that Calen was gonna survive the ones that came after, too. Despite their philosophy, the boy was awfully fond of being able to breathe. They only found a solution to the problem after a khajiit caravan passed through and one of the merchants was able to recognize the symptoms. He presented Calen with a traditional medicine to alleviate his symptoms, made of a moon sugar solution that was heavily diluted with lavender and blue mountain flower oils. Dabbing the solution just inside his nostrils and taking a deep breath allowed the fumes to work inside his windpipe and lungs and relaxed the muscles, clearing his airways.
His parents always tried to steer those two boys right. You work and live honest, and things would typically treat you in kind. As long as you weren't ashamed of hard and dirty labor, there was very little keeping you from getting what you wanted. It usually held true for other people as well. Their father would tell them, "As long as you do no wrong by your neighbor, your neighbor will have no reason to do wrong by you," while their mama always told them, "Don't you go around treating women like trash. Treat 'em with respect. Treat a lady like a queen and you ain't ever gonna lose her."
Though Gungir was the quieter of the two and mama Mira typically called all the shots, he was ultimately seen as the final authority. This was actually because of his quiet and laid back nature. If you goofed up enough to earn yourself a stern talking-to from Gungir, you know you goofed up hard. Otherwise, he was easy to get along with and was always eager to learn or teach someone else about a thing or how to do something. If you wanted to find him, look no further than the garden.
It's easy to see how both of the boys were able to become capable equestrians, as they not only had to learn how to ride, but how to teach horses how to be ridden. They were basically giant dumb dogs who had to learn what the cues were, except dogs didn't weigh nearly a ton or have deadly clubs attached to the ends of their feet. Calen's favorite of them all must have been their working horse, a massive draught named Edna, if for no other reason than her sweet temperament and the fact that she didn't get spooked by a thrice-damned LEAF rolling across the cobblestone (we're looking at you, Danish). Danish was a prime example of why ponies are the worst of animals: spooked by everything, dumb as bricks, and was only good as a towing beast of burden or carrying children on his back - and that was if you didn't care if the kid got bucked off.
By the time Murtagh came of age at sixteen years old, he marched his way up to Solitude to enlist in the Imperial Legion where he'd become a soldier of the Empire with the hope of protecting his home. There were lots of suffering after the Great War and he wanted to be sure he could protect his family should another one arise. Though his parents disapproved of the Empire for their lack of backbone in handling the White-Gold Concordant, they did approve of Murtagh's sense of honor. The Legion would see a strapping young man already fit by years of farm labor and take him in with open arms. This also happened to leave many of his responsibilities at home upon Calen's shoulders. Of his new responsibilities to his family's stable, he'd much preferred having to walk up the hill to Solitude and carry back heavy sacks of grain. As much of a pain in the ass the labor was, it meant that Calen got to see the city and its sights, listen to the hustle and bustle of the market, smell and try the delicious fruits, visit his brother at the barracks, and listen to a bard make sweet, sweet music. Music was a wonderful thing it was heaven against his ears! He'd toss a coin into the bard's hat laying on the ground before him, thank him for the tunes, and get on with carrying heavy sacks of grain to the wagon just outside the gate. If he was lucky, Danish wouldn't spook at the sound of the gates opening and closing and run all the way back to the stable and make him carry the grain back.
To be fair, it was only a matter of time that Calen decided that he was getting tired of shoveling shit and hard labor, and training horses was like herding cats. After a couple of years working the ranch, he made a heartfelt plea to his family to help him go to Solitude and learn at the Bard's College. At first they laughed. A child running off to become a bard was almost stereotypical, as if strumming a lute, beating a drum, or singing songs was ever going to get him anywhere in life - why not join his brother in the Legion? Why, just a year ago, Murt finished his two years of training in the barracks and was now out patrolling Skyrim's countryside. Then they realized that Calen was dead serious and they fixed their tone right up. So they scrounged up what they could, setting some money aside when they could, and on Calen's sweet sixteen, they surprised him by sending him on his way to learn the bard's craft.
When he arrived, he was greeted by a motley crew of bards and students from all walks of life, a variety of pungent smells where not all were good, and a cascade of music - where some of the chords being played were shrill and agonizing to the ears. It was at that point he realized: oh yeah. People come here to learn. Still, he'd suffer through these few and minor grievances if it meant following his heart and getting to live in the lovely city of Solitude every day, which was only a short jog away from visiting home! That was the same year when Ulfric Stormcloak came to Solitude, killed the High King of Skyrim, and dragons returned to the world. Honestly, shit started looking pretty bleak straight from the beginning.
As the Civil War progressed, he anxiously waited for word from his brother. When the injured would be carried into the city, he had waking nightmares about seeing Murtagh among them. The paranoia within the city was suffocating, and between seeing the damage done by the Stormcloaks on the soldiers and the Imperial bias within the city of Solitude, the fear of the people, Jarl Elisif's incompetence, Calen nearly found himself swept up in the confusion and anger had it not been for the Headmaster of the Bard's College, Viarmo. He reminded everyone to keep a level head. He said, "It is times like these where we are most needed. When the world appears to be on a sinking ship, we're there to remind them that we are close to shore. Though the waters are cold, the sand is warm and the timber is strong. We build a new ship and we keep on sailing with the wind at our backs... because that is what we do. That is what we have always done, and that won't end tomorrow."
Viarmo has proven his ability to lead, and he made sure to remind others to not involve themselves in politics too much. He often says, almost as if it was scripted, that "good tales deal with the issues of the day, but a wise bard remains a neutral observer." It was a lesson that Calen took to heart, and he had begun to learn that being a bard meant much more than just singing and playing instruments. By joining the College, he learned that it meant he was also a chronicler and a scholar. It turned people into leaders and historians without them even realizing it by presenting these subjects within a whimsical framework, which was really quite ingenious, and Calen found himself loving the College even more.
Activities within the College has done much and brought him to more places than he could ever imagine. Whether it was traveling between holds or raising morale among the wounded and amputated Imperial troops being held in the barracks. He helped to lift their spirits when they were in the deepest and darkest throes of their depression. He kept corresponding with his family, sharing what new things he learned every week, and whenever he had some available time, he'd run down the hill outside the gates and visit them in person. Apparently they had fallen on hard times ever since the war, since the Imperial war machine demanded horses and with the Smallwoods being the only horse breeders in the area, they were legally allowed to take what they needed, effectively robbing them of what they had to rely on for income. Suddenly, the Imperials didn't look like they were such good guys after all.
One thing that Calen was able to share with them is how some of the other bards knew a little bit of magic, mostly in the school of Illusion as it brought a bit of flare to their performances; but it was also because everyone knew that there's always that one heckler that proved to be too much. Calen learned about that part of a bard's life after a rough night in the local tavern. So on top of the vocal lessons, learning the lute, drum, violin, art, and history, he decided that learning a little bit of Illusion magic wasn't such a bad idea if he wanted to avoid his next black eye.
During his time in the College has also made him rather cheeky and self-assured, and after he got a taste of popularity, he developed the habit of falling in love at first sight with most of the women he met. This acquired panache curried favor with many of local girls his age, and some women even older, but less so with the favor of these ladies' fathers who just as frequently chased him down the streets with every intention of wringing the boy's neck. Despite his newfound reputation as a shameless womanizer, he always stuck by his mother's advice. Every lady that has come his way, he has treated with the utmost respect, dignity, and (for the most part) honesty. Well, emotional honesty shall we say - he wasn't above spinning a few tall tales to try impressing a girl that he had his eye on, but every lover and paramour on his life he has treated as though he had found a pile of treasure and nothing less. As long as he remained emotionally honest and upfront with his interests, he didn't take any shame in his polyamory. If a love interest didn't reciprocate or wasn't comfortable with it (it being sex, romance, or the idea of an open relationship), he backed off and didn't press the matter - valuing their friendship just as much as he would have their love. He made sure to never forget their names.
It wasn't long after the war had ended when Calen received a visit at the college from Murtagh, much to his joy and relief. Calen's peers had heard stories of his brother, but never realized how alike the two were. Spitting images their personalities virtually reflected one another, even if Murtagh came across a bit more boisterous and weathered. Murtagh didn't seem disappointed at all by Calen's choice in profession, and even seemed to admire it - almost to the point of envy. Calen, on the other hand, was interested to hear about where Murtagh has been all this time! It was then that his brother revealed that he had actually left the Legion just a week after Ulfric killed High King Torygg and figured that it would be safer that he didn't return in case his former superiors saw that as a sign of mutiny - leaving to join the Stormcloaks.
Murtagh never did, in fact, despite his similar belief that Skyrim should be independent. What set him apart was that he didn't want to be associated with the Stormcloaks by waving their flag; he saw them as representing more than just independence. So instead of being just another of Skyrim's sons shedding his brothers' blood, he took a step back from the conflict and looked for what he could do. He helped towns and villages organize small militias to defend themselves from brigands and bandits while their soldiers were stretched thin during the war. He also helped them set up defenses and safety measures in case of dragon attacks. While Murtagh never killed a dragon, he did help to lead an evacuation in Riverwood into the Embershard Mine after a dragon sighting - and occasionally, he'd do a bit of mercenary work for the jarls of a few different holds who couldn't divide manpower from the civil war.
Murtagh's stories had utterly captivated Calen. As far as the young bard was concerned, his brother was more of a bard than he was! Sure, Calen had the talent, the education, the singing voice - the looks - but Murtagh was out there living those stories. He experienced them first hand while Calen was sitting in this chapter-house reciting the same old stories that everyone has already heard a hundred times. Here he was, seeing his brother in the same skin as he did so many years ago: strong, courageous, adventurous - the stuff stories were made of. Just like him, Murtagh was also captivated by Calen's own skill in oration, musical talent, and intelligence. The two brothers found themselves inspired by one another to pursue something more than just the lives they've been living.
Over the course of five years studying the bard's art with the College, Calen finally left their company at the age of 21. Like a revolving door, Murtagh had just made his decision to maybe spend a year or two at the college to see what it was like, arriving just as Calen was leaving. Countless songs had been sung, tales have been spun, and epic poems were told about the Dragonborn who had stopped the coming of dragons and ended the Civil War. Despite the legendary tales of yesterday and their extraordinary accomplishments, they were already recorded and Calen had already learned them all. Though his years of study and practice had taught him not just the history of Skyrim, but the history of most of Tamriel, Murtagh taught him that history was being made out there right now. He knew he belonged out there, witnessing history and enjoying life along the way. He also knew that if he wanted to survive out there, he wasn't going to just walk on the roads by foot and rely on the charity of strangers. He was no warrior, no, but he had a different idea in mind.
Calen returned home to proud and happy parents, pleased at how grown up and handsome their son has become, who loved to listen to him play and sing. He wanted to ask them for one more favor: he wanted to borrow Edna. Explaining why, he said that he wanted to start a carriage business so that he could see more of Skyrim and Tamriel, more of its people, and still make enough money in the process to support himself. While they normally would've been more than happy to oblige, the only problem was that Edna was their only work horse left, and they couldn't afford to spare her.
"Well then, any of the riding horses would do." Calen said.
"We have our own business to run." His mom said. "You're an adult now conducting adult business, right? if I just give you a horse for free, that would put your father and I thousands of septims in the hole between the time and resources it takes to raise and train them."
Calen knew that he couldn't afford any of the horses his parents worked with, even at discount. He sighed in frustration and said, "Fine, fine, I get it. What can you spare, then?"
Both his mother and his father, wordlessly, turned and stared toward one small corner in the stable. Calen followed their stare right into the stupid little eyes of the daedra spawn himself - Danish.
"No." Calen immediately refused. "No, you can't be serious. That stupid pony?"
"You asked." His mother replied.
"Danish has gotten older too, but he's still plenty strong enough to pull a wagon full of wheat and hay bales." His father pitched in. "Fourteen hands, decent weight - you could still sit on his back if you wanted. Still a little spooky, though not nearly as much a handful as he once was."
Calen looked into Danish's eyes and Danish stared right back. There was no skeever's chance in Oblivion that this was gonna end in anything other than a total disaster.
But because Danish is a pony determined to make an embarrassment of everything that Calen believed in, the young bard ended up eating his words as this line of work seemed to be quite compatible with him. They ended up building a short four-person wagon that was low to the ground and had great, large wheels so that the wagon wasn't too heavy and it had a lot of traction on the ground. The front of the wagon had a tall, flat-topped chest that Calen could keep his belongings and use as his seat where he can drive Danish, while along sides had benches that were basically rectangular logs bolted to the bottom and connected to the framework of the wagon.
For the next two years following that moment, the young bard hit the open road and familiarized himself with the sights and sounds of Skyrim's landscape, picking up travelers along the way for a bit of coin. There was an additional, minute fee upon request if anyone wanted him to sing or perform during their travels. The number of interesting people he has come across in this time were countless, and almost every one of them he had found time to chit-chat and converse with as they traveled across the far-reaching landscapes. He learned their stories, what these people did, who they were related to; and the longer he ran this business, the more he seemed to understand how connected everyone was. Granted, not everyone he came across were the polite sort. The number of times he was forced to whip Danish into high gear or to resort to a good old fashioned surprise bludgeoning was enough to make him rather cautious, but on the other hand, now he knows which routes to avoid. Some valleys are practically begging you to get yourself killed.
Some people were rarities: those who came through once and were never heard from again, and those people usually had the most interesting stories. On the rarest of occasions, he would meet people or witness events that he'd make sure to write down and immortalize their deeds in song. One such example was a dunmer who Calen was taking from Riften to Windhelm after Morrowind was taken by the Argonians. The dunmer only said that he was going there so that he can protect what was left of his friends and family. The passenger turned out to be a former Ordinator, a fact that was only revealed after they were ambushed by group of bandits who all must've thought the wagon would be an easy target, and the passenger expertly dispatched the entire raiding party with minimal effort - and then tipped Calen some extra septims for the inconvenience.
To the bard's credit, he did manage to get a lick in with his cudgel. Right on the old dome piece, which got to dazing the bandit long enough for the Ordinator to finish the job.
But one of his most memorable patrons was one of his earliest. He took a ravishing Priestess of Dibella - Illia was her name - from Dragon Bridge and returned her home to Markarth. With this being his first time to Markarth, he decided to shift his pony into park and walk in through the front gates with his customer and had her show him her temple. If any of you know of what Dibella is the goddess of and what her priestesses do, then you know he was in for a very important lesson. And... well... it was quite easy to tell that he enjoyed the lesson, because then his asthma started acting up. Badly. Really badly. Right in the middle of their session, and he was in a bit of a pickle because his dumb ass left his medicine in the trunk of his carriage back by the stables outside the gates. In that brief moment of panic, Illia cupped her hands around his face as they began to glow and calmly told him to take a deep breath. Calen followed her directions to the letter, and within moments, he felt his airways opening up again. The light from her hands began to dim, and Calen, wanting to show the fullest extent of his gratitude, eagerly jumped back into his lesson.
When dawn broke the next day, Calen lingered a little longer than he normally would've. He didn't want to cheapen the priestess' favor with only a night of pleasantries and wished to show his gratitude by asking one more favor: to teach him just a little bit of Restoration magic. It wasn't only so that he can take better care of himself in the future, but also so that there was something from Illia that he could carry with him and remember her by. The priestess just smiled sweetly and kissed him on the cheek. She said to him, "Restoration magic is something that I believe everyone should know anyway. If you want a memento, I can think of something much better."
He didn't know what she meant, but anyways, she obliged to his request and spent the remainder of that day showing him the fundamentals of basic Restoration magic. She proved to be an exceptional teacher in more ways than one, as her knowledge of this particular school of magic was such that she could explain it in the simplest of terms that made it easily digestible for Calen. It was nearly midnight, a full day of what felt like non-stop practice, but by the end of it he was able to summon the same warm glow around his hands as Illia. Well, maybe not the same - hers was much brighter, but that was to be expected.
Before Calen left, the priestess presented to him a parting gift: a beaded amulet of Dibella with leaf-like accessories along the necklace until they met at the flowery centerpiece of Dibella's symbol.
"This is something that you can remember me by." She said before sharing a farewell kiss with the bard, then pushing him out the door. The cold Skyrim air did little to disturb his awed trance as he kept staring at the amulet. Never before has any of his previous flings had affected him with such magnitude - just like that, Illia was able to turn Calen into a holy man overnight. After a few moments of mere silence, his expression broke into a boyish smile. He kissed the amulet in his hand and said with glee, "Under her skirt and into the bum, watch out Nirn, here I come."
From that point onward, he was never seen without his amulet. He wore it for the largest majority of his time running his carriage. He read the books, learned the texts, her verses and commandments, and what it meant to follow the Blessed Lady to find that her teachings on beauty and love fell in line with his own beliefs. Perhaps Illia was able to see that. He also got a lot of mileage out of the Restoration magic that she taught him, because after all, on top of all the bandits and highwaymen just looking for easy pickings on the open road, Skyrim's dangerous wilderness can just be downright frightening sometimes.
Things recently hasn't changed much from how they were before. Calen is more experienced than he was, and now he's been running this gig for about two years now, so he's gotten pretty familiar with his country. He has something of a cult following when compared to other carriages, even if his cart is a little small, not covered, and was only pulled by a pony 14 hands high... but he's got a very recognizable face and has a unique business gimmick in also being a bard that makes otherwise long, boring trips a lot more pleasurable. He also makes a point in getting to know each of his passengers on a personal level, so he's a lot more likable than most - but even so, his wanderlust was starting to get the better of him as he looked beyond the Jerall Mountains.
There was still an entire continent left for him to explore.
So Calen headed to Falkreath, got in contact with a courier to send a letter back home to Solitude, and began heading south through the Pale Pass. Though the Lost Valley and Serpent's Trail was treacherous and challenged his nerves and his ability to handle the spooky Danish, he managed to break through into Cyrodiil, finding himself overlooking the distant Colovian city of Bruma. He eagerly followed the road down to its gates for some much needed rest and resupplying of his provisions - and he had become somewhat popular that evening as someone who was home-grown in Skyrim. Whether it was sharing news with people who had once lived there about certain events or people, or telling stories with the Colovian nords who had not yet been to the motherland, his presence there had become something of a sensation. It wasn't every day that an immigrant from across the rocks was a bard with a penchant for storytelling.
His latest passenger was a lady looking for a ride from Bruma to visit family in the Imperial City, and Calen was smitten by her. Long, wavy brown hair, piercing green eyes, a soft and sweet expression - and she was making it difficult for him! Toying and teasing with him, even! Sure, he didn't know the way to the Imperial City just yet, but the Empire took good care of the roads in Cyrodiil and if you threw a rock, there was a likely-hood that you would hit a road-sign - he didn't even need his clairvoyance spell. What's more, she wouldn't even tell him her name. As the White Gold Tower began creeping ever closer, Calen decided that he had to kick it up a notch.
"There I was, between the biggest all-Nordic, Talos-loving bastard you've never seen and this Thalmor inquisitor, trying my best to calm the situation. Big guy is losing it, but I'm holding it steady as she goes. I face the Thalmor and I speak to him in perfect Altmeri about how the other guy is my brother Murtagh, and how he survived a cannonball to the head and was never the same since. Thalmor guy is so impressed by my Altmeri that he just left without any further trouble, and everyone in carriage gave me a standing ovation."
"Wow..." Bemused the girl, trying to process what Calen just told her. She decided to roll with it, "I didn't know you could speak perfect Altmeri."
"Yeah, well, you know..." Calen started, trying to play it off like nothing. "Like any other elven language, it's practically derivative of Ayleidoon."
Was it Ayleid? Or was it Aldmeri?
"Oh? Ayleid?"
"Oh yeah. It especially came in handy when I went delving into this deep dwemer ruin and had to decipher the ancient texts to procure a centurion... dynamic core."
"You don't say?" She replied. "You wouldn't happen to have it with you, would you?"
"Oh Gods, no. Something that valuable is safe and sound back home!" Calen proclaimed.
"Well, if you happen to go back and decide to bring it with you, you know where to find me in case you'd like to prove it. The name's Freya."
Calen dipped his head toward her and gave her his most charming smile. A sound like steady thunder echoed in the distance. A curious noise, one that Calen asked was common here in Cyrodiil, but Freya seemed just as confounded as he was. The noise grew louder and louder, echoing from all around, until suddenly, a shadow like thick cloud cover quickly loomed over the carriage, prompting an alarmed glance from the driver and his passenger. Massive ships of gold and brass blocked out the sun as they rose above the Jerall Mountains, sailing through the air and dropping Calen's jaw in awe and bewilderment. The speed of them were astonishing, covering more ground in mere minutes than what Calen could cover all day with his little wagon at a slow pace. The ships ignored the wagon on the road, and instead barreled through the air towards the Imperial City. Freya was able to break out of her stunned state and was able to mutter a single word, "Mother..."
That was all it took to break Calen from his own trance, and although he had no idea of what was happening or what any of it meant, the sense of urgency overcame him. "Hya!" He yelled, whipping Danish into full gear with the reins. It wasn't exceptionally fast, Calen suspected that not even an Imperial warhorse could've carried them fast enough before smoke and fire began rising from inside the city. It was an excruciatingly long twenty minutes before they were even in front of the Imperial City bridge, at which point they had met with a small group of evacuating citizens herded by only one soldier.
"Mom!" Freya blindly cried out into the crowd of dirty, bloodied people.
"Freya?! Honey?!" Called out one voice from the crowd, hands waving. Calen's passenger jumped from the back of the carriage and cut through the crowd to reunite with her mother. Someone from the crowd abruptly grabbed Calen by the arm, and the bard turned to face a man clad in the steel of the Imperial City's guard. His face was half covered in blood, and he was gritting his teeth digging his eyes into Calen's with anger and urgency. "You! Help me evacuate these citizens to Skingrad! The city is under attack by dwemer!"
While Calen had no intention of abandoning anyone, the intensity of the man's face and the volume of his demands would've intimidated the bard into complying anyways. Though he nodded, the bewilderment in his eyes were only exaggerated as he repeated what the guard said to him: "Dwemer?"
"Come on, come on! Get on! GO!" The imperial guardsman shouted, gesturing to the evacuees as the climbed aboard the wagon. Though the wagon could only fit four comfortably, six or seven people could likely fit if they squeezed in - even then, Danish wouldn't be able to move at full speed. But when the wounded were taken into account, only five could be on board at a time while they gave the most critically injured man the space he needed on the floorboards. Calendar still didn't entirely feel he knew what was happening - the situation had shaken him to his core and now he truly knew what it meant to have fear gripping his heart. He climbed off from his seat and faced the guardsman, saying to him, "You drive the pony for now, I can walk! We need you rested!"
"We'll take shifts." The guard agreed. "I appreciate your help, sir. HEY! All able-bodied men and women will walk alongside the cart! Trade spots only when necessary!"
Most of the people were in agreement. The worst off of the bunch were already in the cart, which meant there were only two people who could rest at a time. Freya helped her mother onto the cart and helped to apply a bandage to her head before hopping off the cart and finding Calen in the chaos as the cart started to move. Danish whinnied in irritation, not liking the fact that he was being driven to haul so much weight.
"You're a dwemer expert, right?" Freya asked. Apparently she felt so scared by the current circumstances that she made herself believe in the stories Calen was telling her.
"Nope, I lied!" Calen cried out matter-of-factly to her, obviously panic-stricken. "That was just a story! And I am neither qualified nor brave enough to try talking sense to thousand year old flying groundhogs!"
The next day was filled with non-stop travel, and Calen was fortunate that he was athletic enough to go for a while before tiring, but some of the other civilians were having trouble organizing themselves to get proper rest. He and the guardsman swapped posts, giving Calen a rest and allowing him to drive Danish the rest of the way while the guard stripped some of his armor down to its chainmail and helped by using his strength to carry one civilian at a time. When they finally reached Skingrad, they found the gates closed and a camp of refugees was already littering the outside of the city in a large campsite. By the order of the Count, no refugees were allowed inside the gate, and apparently they seemed to think that included Calen. He was so far from home and had no idea of where to go or what to do, so he just did what could with what he knew: he entertained the refugees. He helped hand out food made by people who actually knew how to cook and he tried his best to raise everyone's spirits. He couldn't just run away from them.
Was this what it meant to live through history?
Personality Had it not been apparent by this point, Calen is a creature of impulse, whimsy, and ardor, and is the bitterest pessimist's worst and most vexacious enemy. His casual, optimistic, cheerful disposition and lust for life is typically the first thing people notice about him if it isn't his lust for other people. He embodies the bardic spirit, wishing to experience what life has to offer him and to explore the world, to witness history first-hand, and somehow find a silver lining in every nook and cranny that he can. He truly believes that the world is a good place, or at least it can be, just as long as everyone puts an effort into making it so... and the first step in fulfilling that pipe dream is to stop and observe the beauty that already exists. How the pearl-like clouds migrate across the ocean-blue skies, the trees and flowers bathing in the sunlight and their elaborate network of roots sinking into the soil, or even the awesome stampede of storm clouds and how their rumbling and roaring thunder cracks as lightning whips Nirn in a divine flash of primal energy. How beauty is present even in the mundane, such as a wagon wheel, where mathematics and art can come together to create a tool which is as wondrous as it is taken for granted.
Perhaps it's easy to look past Calen's wonder and conviviality once people realize that that he's a shameless hedonist who's not afraid to admit it (he's more likely to correct you that hedonism encompasses all earthly pleasures, not just sex), and he's not the type to try to change other people's minds once they're explicitly set on something anyways. After all, his womanizing could easily be the most defining trait of his reputation and his impulsiveness only cements the image of him in others' minds as a fool who falls in and out of love as easily as a fish drinks water. It's just as easy to forget to give him credit where credit is due, for as far as he's concerned, monogamy and faithfulness are not mutually exclusive. Each and every lover or love-interest he treats and thinks back on with only the fondest and sweetest form of respect, and one relationship with one person doesn't necessarily means it overrides a relationship with another. The mere idea of putting a limit on love of all things seems to him to be one of the most oppressive forces on Nirn, which also happens to be a reflection of his Dibellan faith. In short, it's sacrilegious.
That doesn't mean he parted with every one of his previous partners on the best of terms though, even if Calen refuses to speak ill of them. He has a few cardinal rules, and one of them is to not take advantage of anyone's affection or trust. While he tries to be as upfront with his intentions as possible, occasionally even going as far as relenting the pursuit of a particular partner should they not feel comfortable with polyamory, they either don't always get across in translation or be made clear enough. This miscommunication has caused one or two heartbreaks in his time, much to the breaking of Calen's own heart, who never wished to make anyone feel hurt or as though they've been betrayed. Those individuals are more than just people who are near and dear to his heart, they're also reminders that he is still a foolish young man who is still lacking in wisdom and is too quick to get caught up in the heat of the moment. They're reminders that he needs to slow down.
Though often a forgetful person, there are certain areas of his mind that are like iron-clad traps. Despite the stupidity of yesteryear, all of his past relationships are precious memories of his and that is where the appraisal of his critics fall short. He remembers their names and their faces vividly because each one of them has contributed something special to his life, so he will continue to love them and their memory long into the future. Neither were all of his relationships romantic or sexual in nature; he treats his friendships with the same amount of ginger and intimate care as he does his romantic entanglements. One of Dibella's doctrines is that love knows no boundaries. He sees love in two friends sharing a bottle of mead just as much as he sees it in sex, so the medium to him doesn't matter. The form in which love takes - whether it's platonic or otherwise - has no bearing on that love's value. It follows that Calen might be a little bi-curious.
This left-field perspective might make Calen appear as either a sanctimonious dog attempting to rationalize his lecherous behavior (which could be just as likely) or make him out to be wise beyond his years, and make no mistake, he's not. He's a bona fide fool. He went to school and studied a lot, so sure, he's intelligent and can be a diligent study - but he's a fool. He doesn't think before he acts, and he's not considered cunning because the answers don't always come to him very quickly. He's lucky to be alive, if anything. He hasn't survived the wilderness because of his resourcefulness or because of his martial and magical skill, so the only answer left is that the Divines apparently favor fools. Maybe it's because it's amusing to watch the bewilderment of all the capable adventurers who were the skin of their fingertips away from certain death.
Which goes to say that the bard isn't without his flaws. One that might've been driven home by now is that he's short-sighted and doesn't always think through his decisions, possibly leaving him in embarrassing or life-threatening situations. He also isn't much of a fighter for two reasons: firstly, he isn't necessarily pacifistic, but he would reaaaally rather avoid hurting others if he can help it. Ugly beasties? Sure, easily. A bandit that just tried to slit his throat? He'd bonk him on the head with his cudgel and ask if he was alright afterwards. Secondly, he's as cowardly as they come and is prone to panic whenever things go wrong. He'll do what he can to avoid a conflict in favor of carefully worded diplomacy, or if that doesn't work, delivering a witty jab or snide comeback since he has zero confidence in his ability to hold his own in a scrap (which officially makes him the worst nord in Skyrim).
The only possible exception to this rule is if a loved one of his is in imminent danger, which puts his impulsive nature front and center in the position to have him do something incredibly reckless and stupid to try protecting them. He'll do so even if everyone would be better off if he doesn't butt in, because apparently his brain is hard-wired to his asshole, and he can't seem to stop trying to impress women even if he's digging a deeper hole for himself. His honesty seems to end with his emotions, since he seems to have no problem with spinning tall tales, exaggerating his skills and talents, or fabricating cockamamie farces for the very purpose of impressing love interests; though that could just as likely be derived from his inherent bardic desire to captivate and entertain, less so than to manipulate. Whether or not he realizes that's what it looks like he's doing is anybody's guess!
On the other hand, he can be quite easy to fool or manipulate himself, given his penchant to believe in the best of people.
Despite many of his shortcomings (and there are many), he still remains an incredibly friendly and kindhearted individual whose intentions are in the best of places even if they fall short in execution. He's as sharp as a tack, cultured, silver tongued, has a practiced singing voice, and is learned in history and in the practice of many different musical instruments and art forms, making him a creative force of nature. If you need someone to do the talking for you or to make friends in high places, Calen is the guy for the job. As a man who has lived with a foot in both worlds, he is capable of talking down nobles and peasantry alike and he has an inexplicable way with being a neutral voice in any sort of disagreement whether its in politics or religion.
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