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Aileas Rose Snowthaw

fhamersley

fhamersley

Lord of Altera
Aileas Rose Snowthaw​

Name: Aileas Rose Snowthaw
Full Titles: --
Nickname/Alias: Liss (a nickname from her childhood)

KEY INFORMATION:
Age: Too old to remember (In human years, she’d be about 60).
Gender: Female
Race: Caparii
Social Status: The elderly have a rank of their own. (She’s nothin’ special).
Sexuality: Although she doesn’t think much on the subject, she heterosexual.
Height: 5’4”
Weight: About sixty-one kilos (134 lbs).
Date of Birth: Many years ago in the Season of Birth.
Date of Death: “D’ye want tah scare an auld wummin?”
Homeland: The Far North. The snow has always called her.
Current Home: She sleeps in the PS tavern even though it scares her a little.

PHYSIOLOGY:
Build: Aileas is old, but she’s Greathorn born and bred (mostly..). She’s slightly stooped with age and her muscles are not what they once were, but by no means does she look weak. Maybe a little…
Hair, of the head variety: Her hair was once thick and red and curly, however it is now graying and faded and thick and curly.
Hair, of the special Caparii leg variety: Shaggy and thick and graying and faded.

Eyes: A faded green, piercing and shrewd and kind and smiling ALL AT ONCE.
Skin: Pale, yet unfreckled.
Identifying Marks: The unhealed cleft in her left hoof which runs up her leg as a maroon scar.
Appearance: Aileas looks hardy, despite the near constant smile she shares with those she likes. She’s like a chestnut. You have to smash her with a hammer and then you’ll see the nice Aileas- y’know.. a hammer of kindness. Maybe someone smashed her too much because boy, does she look tired.
Clothing: She traded her father’s thick bear fur lined snow jacket in for a light summer blouse with tassels when she came to the warm regions of Altera. She still has the jacket though..
Weaponry: …Her accent?
Prized Possessions: Her father’s jacket, the various beads and string attached to her crafted hawthorn bracelets, and the drawings she drew when she was young.
Hygiene: She’s an old lady. She is, by the laws of physics, clean.
Voice: She has such a strong accent sometimes I can’t understand her. It sounds like a Scottish accent.

QUALITIES AND FLAWS:
Strengths: She’s tough, it takes a lot for her to give up. She doesn’t like any kind of combat or friction and only partakes if she must protect someone weaker than herself.
Fears: She could never fear death. When she dies, she’ll be back with those she belongs with.
Weaknesses: “Whit are ye writin’, me whole profile?”
Intelligence: Brighter than a bonfire. She’s seen a lot, and her brain and mind have only been sharpened through the years. It helps that she doesn’t have Alzheimer’s.
Languages: Common, Fae, a teeny bit of Elven
Profession: She works at McDonalds. None..

ETHICS AND MOTIVATIONS:
Personality: “Ye kin blether tah me fer tha’.”
Religion or Cults: Shalherana, foo’.
Alignment: Grandma Good. (Neutral Good).
Short Term Goals: Find somewhere cold enough to live.
Long Term Goals: Do something right.


TRIVIA:
Favourite...
Place: The Far North
Pastime: Dabbling in science and knitting
Food: White apple oat pastries
Drink: Fragranced tea made with snow
Colour: White
Animal: Reindeer/deer and wolves (Wolves?! Plot twist!)

Least Favourite...
Place: Port Silver ( ;-; )
Pastime: Fighting or killing
Food: Meat
Drink: Alcohol
Colour: Black
Animal: Snakes

RELATIONS:
Loved: Her father, Conall
Trusted:
Befriended: Dayter
Liked: Ruby
Neutral:
Unsure of:
Wary of:
Afraid of:
Disliked:
Hated: Nathair

Music:


BACKSTORY:

Aileas' backstory can be found here.

My in-game name is: fishcat_

If you're having trouble figuring out what the dickens she's saying, use these websites:
http://scotlandwelcomesyou.com/scottish-sayings/
http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/Appendix:Glossary_of_Scottish_slang_and_jargon
If I take a little while to reply it's because I'm using these websites.
 
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fhamersley

fhamersley

Lord of Altera
Backstory Teaser:

Aodh
​
I glance down at the young Caparii trailing behind me. Her gangly little legs can barely move fast enough to keep up with her curious hands. As I watch, she stumbles and lands face first in a clump of spring bells, a white flower with a perfume stronger than bear sweat. I pause, concerned, until my daughter lifts her head from the clump of flowers with a silly grin on her face. She doesn’t stop sneezing for the rest of the trip, and I swear she still smells like flowers.

I take her hand and pull her to her feet and we trek onwards through the Season of Birth fields. We pass more clumps of spring bells as we go, as well as gooseberry and hawthorn bushes, tall wheatringer stems, buttercups, all manner of daisies, and dampstem lilies, which constantly drip sweet nectar over their leaves. We stop at a mature dampstem and run our hands over the wet petals and leaves, licking our sticky fingers clean. Huge flowering rhododendrons show off their bright pink flowers, fighting for attention with camellias and laia roses. Every now and then we pass an oak, limbs stretching and twisting as though they are tired of their burden of holding the sky. I’m forced to remember Oakley.

Aileas flutters around each flowering bush like a butterfly, collecting all different manners of blooms. She trots back to me happily, burdened by so many beautiful flowers that she staggers under the weight. She refuses to put them down though, and a flash of pride burns through me at that sure sign of her Greathorn blood. Some call it stubbornness; I call it strength.

When she reaches me I kneel down to her height and smile. I can barely see her eyes over the bunch of flowers. “Are these fer me?” I ask.

“Naw, da,” Aileas says, shaking her head. “They’re fer maw. This’n is fer ye.” She gently lays the flowers on the ground and drops an oak’s acorn into my hand.

My smile hesitates and I clench my fist around the acorn. “Lissy, maw isnae cummin’ back.”

Aileas looks up at me with those bright green eyes and shakes her head again. She goes to collect her pile of flowers but I grip her wrists and pull her away. She struggles and kicks but she doesn’t say a word. Finally, I hoist her up and carry her.

“Aileas,” I say gruffly, “ye have tae leave maw behind.”

She speaks quietly. “Why? Have ye?”

“Aye.” The rough edge of the oak acorn digs into the palm of my hand. I’m a liar.


The full backstory can be found here.
 
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