Blood for gold. 

It had seemed the natural thing to do for someone of her abilities. The art of letting an arrow fly had always come easily - never mind that she hadn't been born amongst the trees of Valenwood - and as old Gosten had always said as he dragged their mercenary band around Cyrodiil - 'If you're good at something, never do it for free'. 

Still, opportunity waxed and waned as it ever did - and Nesta had grown itchy feet. She had never found that mysterious something that turned a house into a home; had yet to look upon a horizon and know the land was part of her soul. The soil of the Empire didn't call her name. 

Then came an opportunity that she couldn't refuse: war.

The Empire and Skyrim's stalwart Stormcloaks, locked in the jaws of a rebellion that could flourish or die by the edge of a single extra sword. The need for extra hands was great on both sides, and any war-torn country had its homesteads that would need protection. The chance to travel again, to see new faces and attempt to ease the loneliness that gnawed at her was one that she would never turn down.

Nesta had never been afraid of the cold.