Hope you like some fanfic with your backstory. So much for brevity. Obviously this is subject to change if I find any incompatibility with Elder Scrolls lore (and if you spot anything that doesn't work, by all means let me know):
Khasrin
An alchemist by trade, Khasrin considers herself a healer above all else. Her primary focus is on the
crafting of restorative potions, but she will also use simple spells to achieve the same ends. She is a proficient archer. While she rarely finds a need to shoot anything but wild animals, her arrows seldom miss their mark...when tipped with one of her own poisons, they are invariably debilitating and often deadly on the first hit.
Khasrin is quiet and calculating, a keen observer of the natural world and those around her. She possesses a wry wit and a fiery spirit. She is slow to trust, but fiercely loyal. Khasrin is considered an exceptional beauty, but her aloof demeanor toward strangers discourages most would-be suitors.
*****
Khasrin was born in the city of Corinthe, one of the few tidbits of knowledge she will proffer up when pressed about her origins. She was still a child when she left the city and ventured out into Elsweyr alone. What caused the schism between a young Khasrin and her family is unknown...she never speaks of them, even in hatred, and refuses to break her silence on the subject even among her trusted companions.
While she has no qualms about indulging freely in moon sugar, she has a peculiar and steadfast aversion to skooma. Some have surmised from this that Khasrin's own parents were skooma addicts, and that when she fled, she left behind only a negligent family and a harsh, uncertain life in the streets and skooma dens of Corinthe.
Khasrin's skill as an alchemist was born of necessity. She wandered alone in the wilds near the Tenmar Forest for months, with only Jone and Jode to keep her company and help her reckon the passage of time. Khasrin fed herself on whatever could be picked, scavenged, or stolen. Over time she began to learn the properties of native plants and fungus, insects, birds' eggs...which ones would heal or cause harm, which ones were capable of both. She became expert at spotting the ingredients needed for simple concoctions.
It was this skill that bought her way into a trade caravan en route to Valenwood. When they made camp one evening, they spotted Khasrin in a cluster of foliage, peering at them with shiny, petrified eyes. They eventually coaxed her out of her hiding place and laid a proper meal before her.
Where was her family? they asked.
"Dead", she replied, for to Khasrin it was as good as the truth. A heated argument soon erupted among them over what to do with her. While some contended that she was a mere child and would surely die if left alone, the prevailing opinion - while not unsympathetic to her plight - was that she was more liability than asset, and caring for her would simply be too great a strain on the caravan's already slim resources.
The only one who ventured no opinion was Mokir, an old alchemist who travelled with the caravan. While his potions and poisons were unrivalled in their potency, Mokir was nearly blind and could no longer collect ingredients with any degree of safety or accuracy. Khasrin sat beside him at the campfire, devouring her first real supper in months and listening to the others debate her potential worth. She noticed Mokir frowning as he ground up something with his mortar and pestle.
She stood up and peeked into the mortar, immediately recognizing the tiny red flowers. He had very little to work with. Mokir looked ancient and intimidating to her childish eyes, but in the end her generous heart prevailed. "This one has more such flowers in her bag," she whispered in Mokir's ear. "Would you like them? You do not have many...Khasrin knows where to find more."
The old cat chuckled. "Does she? Yes, if you have any to spare, that would be most helpful...many thanks, young friend."
She retrieved a dirty, tattered burlap sack from her place at the fire. Khasrin searched inside and produced the necessary flowers, which she placed shyly into Mokir's outstretched palm. He held the blossoms to his nose and breathed deeply. " Ah yes, these are the ones. You have a good eye. These flowers are uncommon, you know...are you this good at finding other ingredients, little one?"
Khasrin observed the milky appearance of his eyes and realized his sight had forsaken him. She unrolled the sack over Mokir's lap and with great care laid out the various ingredients she had collected. Mokir sniffed at them; he stretched out his wizened fingers and touched each of them gently. He deliberated for a moment, then nodded his gray head. "It is settled," he informed the others, in a tone of voice that would brook no argument. "The child stays with us. This one has need of her."
Khasrin's time with the caravan was all too brief, however. Mokir was far older than any of them realized. He died in his sleep one night during a subsequent excursion to Valenwood, long before Khasrin was capable of practicing alchemy in his stead. She'd been reluctantly accepted into the caravan as Mokir's apprentice and she knew they wouldn't cast her out, but the pain of losing her old friend and the strain of struggling to earn her keep with the others was too much for young Khasrin to bear. She slipped away one night while the caravan was bound for the northern city of Arenthia, where they'd planned to negotiate a trade for some of the region's famous red wine. She took nothing but her clothes, her alchemy satchel, and the dagger Mokir had given her. "For when you go your own way again, Khasrin," he had said. Mokir had known all along that her destiny lay elsewhere.
She journeyed southeast from Arenthia, every day discovering some new specimen of flora and fauna as she wandered aimlessly through the heart of the forested land. The solitude she found among the towering trees was pleasing to her at first, after the crowded and dirty quarters she had called home in Corinthe. Stiill...though she was too proud to admit it, even to herself, Khasrin's heart longed for company.
*****
It was near a wild, ethereal grove to the north of the city of Elden Root that she first encountered Maralil, the Bosmer hunter who would become her teacher and her constant companion for the next twelve years.
This one's true father, she once said of him. It was Maralil who brought the half-starved young Khajiit into his home, taught her to read and write, and shared with her the lore of the faerie folk and other strange creatures who inhabited Valenwood before men or mer set foot upon it...Maralil who first put a bow in Khasrin's hands and honed her skills, making her into a formidable huntress. When Maralil never returned from the hunt one day, Khasrin knew without being told that the worst had happened. She was alone in the world once more.
Her heart aching but her courage unbroken, Khasrin left her adopted home in search of a new life. It was soon after that she encountered a small but determined band of caravaneers. The hushed tales they imparted to Khasrin as she sat beside their fire made her blood run cold...horrifying accounts of Elsweyr, ravaged by disease and enslavement, confirming the rumors she'd heard in the city for so long now. Yet they were receptive to her presence among them, and presumably in need of an alchemist's skills. It might have been a sense of fate that guided her, or simply a wild moment of loneliness and longing to be among her own people again. Either way, Khasrin decided to join them...