TurtlePrada
Lord of Altera
Full Name: Maeve Eldsvønder.
Age: Early to mid-20s.
Gender: Of the female persuasion.
Race: Human, one of the Norvägen.
Social Status: Refugee.
Sexuality: Heterosexual- on the hunt.
Height: 5 feet 7 inches.
Weight: Gawky and coltish.
Date of Birth: 4th of Snowdown, 2236 - The Year of Eminence.
Date of Death: - - -
Homeland: The city of Stormhold, the capital of Avanor and the seat of House Lonmar.
Current Home: Barns and taverns along the road from the Port to the West.
PHYSIOLOGY:
Build: Tall and lean, with wide shoulders, thick arms, and small breasts and hips. Her body is well suited to the hardships of life in Avanor.
Appearance: She shares the sharp, angular features of her people. A high, flat forehead and a long face, her pale visage mottled by the occasional freckle. Two brown, almond shaped eyes bordered by dark circles. A hooked nose. Thin, pale lips.
Hair: Black, usually cowled beneath a roughspun hood or held back in a single, thick braid. Unwashed more often than not, though she does her best to brush it. Occasionally brought back into ornate, intricate braids, depending on the amount of free time she has. Idle hands, cool braids.
Eyes: Dark brown, her mother's eyes. Not uncommon among those of Eldvägen descent.
Skin: As is typical of the Northern women, her skin is pale spotted by freckles and moles.
Identifying Marks: Her hands, delicate and quick, are scarred by her constant needlepoint. She's missing several fingers.
Clothing: Keeps in thick wool, linens, and roughspuns, usually cinched to her waist with a decorative belt. She usually sticks to dark blues and cool greys. Her attire is typical of Norvägen women- a kirtle and underdress, or a coat. She often tries to emulate embroidery of the few noblewomen- a floral print at the hem, a snowbird at the breast- though her work is of lesser quality. Usually cloaked in grey or brown furs which drape down to the dip in her back, clipped in the front with a decorative pin.
Hygiene: She bathes when the opportunity presents itself, though it is not as often as she'd like. Her unwashed hair is usually tucked beneath a roughspun hood or a kept in a thick braid.
QUALITIES AND FLAWS:
Strengths:
- Stamina; Her body is accustomed to the labors that come with a northern lifestyle.
- Quick hands; Years of constant needlepoint have kept her hands dexterous.
- Optimist; Possesses an almost child-like outlook. She still clings to the childhood stories her mother once told her- if you do good, good will be done unto you. Though she does stress over minor details, she does acknowledge that if things are done right, then things will be good.
- Sure-footed.
- The Ocean; The girl's never been further South than Ulrych's Motte. Many a ship has disappeared on the sea; she has no interest in sailing for a long length of time.
- Child Birth; Winter's taken many things from her father, including two wives and more than a few babes. She wants children, but the thought will always be there.
- Indecisive.
- Greed; She's trying to take life by the horns at this point and is grabbing at whatever opportunities she can get.
Profession: The oldest.
ETHICS AND MOTIVATIONS:
Personality: REVAMPING
Religion or Cults: Holds belief in the Path of Fire and Ice. Has a basic respect for the worship of the Pantheon but has chalked up its existence to Southron zealotry, though she publicly claims to follow the Lightbringer to avoid confrontation with any Inquisition which might exist.
Alignment: Neutral.
Short Term Goals:
- Get out of the Northern Kingdoms; After her experience with the undead in Riseport, Maeve has no interest in remaining in the South, or even in returning to Avanor. x
- Find a home.
- Find mother.
- Find Griselda.
Favourite...
Place: The streets of Stormhold during Eldreval.
Pastime: Once, it would have been embroidering. Now, she enjoys eyeing the men at the docks, pretending to focus on her needlepoint.
Food: Crusty breads, though she does look forward to Summer and the sweet, Southern fruits that become available during it.
Drink: The red sweet-wines of the South. A rarity in Stormhold.
Colour: Orange.
Animal: She enjoys watching the seabirds that sometimes make their way in from the North.
Backstory: To be expanded upon. Pretty boring.
“Summer's a sweet kiss, girl, but Winter? Winter'll fuck you hard.”
Father's words had never held so true. The season'd stolen many things from him- fingers, a good few harvests, and more than one dark haired babe. It took him now, too. It'd been a quick thing, a fever, and it fell him like he'd done so many pines. The gloves he wore now were fine, linen things embroidered with a neat little pine sigil, something she'd labored over before he'd passed, a gift for his 52nd . He had not made it to then, and so she gave them to him now, fitting them over two stiff hands. She gave one of the hands a tight squeeze, her lips bent in taut little smile. He'd have liked them, she thought, glancing about the shoreline. The harbor was familiar- it'd been here that he had taken her and dipped her head in the water, and just like that she was woman, not girl. She glanced down at her own gloved hand, slit eyes flitting over ringless fingers, and wondered if he'd ever wanted to be a grandfather. The smile faded quickly and she took a step back from the longboat. They sent him off, a carpenter's axe at his side- mother'd thought it tacky, but he'd have wanted it that way – and that was the end of it. Her uncle lit the arrow and he shot it- once, then a second time when the cloth failed to light. As the ship took to flame, everyone bowed their heads, as was custom- all but Maeve. Her mother spoke little and eyed the cobblestone absently (she seemed to do that a lot lately, her daughter took note), and so the girl watched him burn, to see him off to Vallaryn. The end of the Path. The funeral ended quickly after that and the crowd filed off, the girl and her mother bearing their blessings and ice-shield-your-hearts. The two of them headed home then, the dark haired girl sparing a final glance back at the burning mast on the water, and then it was done.
It had been two summers. The girl hummed a northern tune, glancing down at her work- a sage green overdress with lengths of winter flowers embroidered at the hem. “Always love the florals.” She chirped, holding the garment to her chest for her mother to inspect, to fawn over. Her mother, eyes bordered by the dainty etchings of crows' feet, sat at the other side of the room, all clad in roughspun and a wimple, scarred hands stitching at a gown much finer than her own. She did not bother looking up from her work, only grunting in acknowledgment. Her daughter's smile faltered a bit, brown eyes flitting over her work. “Love the florals.”
Embroidery'd been a hobby once, before her father had passed- woodcarving was a lucrative trade. It was a shame, the girl thought, that he'd never bothered to teach anyone. He'd always wanted a boy, someone to pass it all onto. Two wives and twenty summers later, he had only his girl. Winter had had its way with the others. He resented her a bit for it, she thought, but he was kind enough. It'd been him who'd bought her lengths of fabric and thread to work with, something for her and her mother to bond over. She had always been closer with her mother. Embroidery was their life now, tunics and kirtles for the locals, and gowns for the rare visiting Southron lady. She always enjoyed the Southern dresses- a dragonfly at the shoulder, a snowbird embroidered at the waist. Fine things. Sometimes, when the sun started to dip below the northern crests and she lay in bed, she dreamt of these things. Fur lined slippers for the cold, not hay-stuffed wraps. A broach at the breast, not iron clips. Clasps of pearl. She'd find herself a handsome, sweet thing- not the old men the Ladies of Stormhold wed. A woodcarver, maybe, like her father, or a leatherworker. A ship builder. He'd have strong hands and a thick head of red hair and so would their sons.
Waking up was always the worst part.
yeh this is just like, a peek into her lief. Nothing too fun- she's a peasant in the city of Stormhold. She's her mother's daughter, though her father had a few wives before then. Winter and childbirth is hard, man. She's his only child that reached its nameday, so he kinda has to settle. Her mum is very attentive because it's like, her surviving bb. Mother and daughter have a closer relationship. Still kinda grumpy about it. One winter, he gets sick. ono. he ded. His woodcarving business was the family's main source of income, so while the women once did the domestic work- hauling in water, sewing, chopping wood, etc., they now have to balance that w/ their working life. Mother and daughter start up a tailory after his death because that is what they do best- decorative embroidery and stoof, they mostly do their work for the merchants' wives of Stormhold who have a teeny bit more cash to spend on like, cooler embroidery than usual. Time flies- work and stuff, and soon enough she's 23 and living w/ her mother, unmarried. Average looking, not much money. She doesn't want to end up like her mum- alone and working. She loves her but man is her existence a little depressing- her mum's been kinda distant since her hubbie got all deceased. She's friends w/ Griselda- their fathers worked together, choppin wood and shizzle. She mostly hangs w/ her so that she can feel better about herself. "atleast im not a 24 year old spinster." She wants a little adventure- not like, head South, but maybe leavestormhold. She's a bit naive in that she still holds onto childhood tales- she wants to marry up, live da nice lief. Part of her knows that isn't going to happen, but she has to like, try. She's considering trying to sell her wares in Myrneth, or opening a tailory in Stormhold that appeals to Southerners- she's noticed quite a few of them moving in in the West. Maybe even try to sell to some of the more wealthy Norvägen? She's not really sure- she's got dreams, but she's also kind of a weenie.
Father's words had never held so true. The season'd stolen many things from him- fingers, a good few harvests, and more than one dark haired babe. It took him now, too. It'd been a quick thing, a fever, and it fell him like he'd done so many pines. The gloves he wore now were fine, linen things embroidered with a neat little pine sigil, something she'd labored over before he'd passed, a gift for his 52nd . He had not made it to then, and so she gave them to him now, fitting them over two stiff hands. She gave one of the hands a tight squeeze, her lips bent in taut little smile. He'd have liked them, she thought, glancing about the shoreline. The harbor was familiar- it'd been here that he had taken her and dipped her head in the water, and just like that she was woman, not girl. She glanced down at her own gloved hand, slit eyes flitting over ringless fingers, and wondered if he'd ever wanted to be a grandfather. The smile faded quickly and she took a step back from the longboat. They sent him off, a carpenter's axe at his side- mother'd thought it tacky, but he'd have wanted it that way – and that was the end of it. Her uncle lit the arrow and he shot it- once, then a second time when the cloth failed to light. As the ship took to flame, everyone bowed their heads, as was custom- all but Maeve. Her mother spoke little and eyed the cobblestone absently (she seemed to do that a lot lately, her daughter took note), and so the girl watched him burn, to see him off to Vallaryn. The end of the Path. The funeral ended quickly after that and the crowd filed off, the girl and her mother bearing their blessings and ice-shield-your-hearts. The two of them headed home then, the dark haired girl sparing a final glance back at the burning mast on the water, and then it was done.
It had been two summers. The girl hummed a northern tune, glancing down at her work- a sage green overdress with lengths of winter flowers embroidered at the hem. “Always love the florals.” She chirped, holding the garment to her chest for her mother to inspect, to fawn over. Her mother, eyes bordered by the dainty etchings of crows' feet, sat at the other side of the room, all clad in roughspun and a wimple, scarred hands stitching at a gown much finer than her own. She did not bother looking up from her work, only grunting in acknowledgment. Her daughter's smile faltered a bit, brown eyes flitting over her work. “Love the florals.”
Embroidery'd been a hobby once, before her father had passed- woodcarving was a lucrative trade. It was a shame, the girl thought, that he'd never bothered to teach anyone. He'd always wanted a boy, someone to pass it all onto. Two wives and twenty summers later, he had only his girl. Winter had had its way with the others. He resented her a bit for it, she thought, but he was kind enough. It'd been him who'd bought her lengths of fabric and thread to work with, something for her and her mother to bond over. She had always been closer with her mother. Embroidery was their life now, tunics and kirtles for the locals, and gowns for the rare visiting Southron lady. She always enjoyed the Southern dresses- a dragonfly at the shoulder, a snowbird embroidered at the waist. Fine things. Sometimes, when the sun started to dip below the northern crests and she lay in bed, she dreamt of these things. Fur lined slippers for the cold, not hay-stuffed wraps. A broach at the breast, not iron clips. Clasps of pearl. She'd find herself a handsome, sweet thing- not the old men the Ladies of Stormhold wed. A woodcarver, maybe, like her father, or a leatherworker. A ship builder. He'd have strong hands and a thick head of red hair and so would their sons.
Waking up was always the worst part.
yeh this is just like, a peek into her lief. Nothing too fun- she's a peasant in the city of Stormhold. She's her mother's daughter, though her father had a few wives before then. Winter and childbirth is hard, man. She's his only child that reached its nameday, so he kinda has to settle. Her mum is very attentive because it's like, her surviving bb. Mother and daughter have a closer relationship. Still kinda grumpy about it. One winter, he gets sick. ono. he ded. His woodcarving business was the family's main source of income, so while the women once did the domestic work- hauling in water, sewing, chopping wood, etc., they now have to balance that w/ their working life. Mother and daughter start up a tailory after his death because that is what they do best- decorative embroidery and stoof, they mostly do their work for the merchants' wives of Stormhold who have a teeny bit more cash to spend on like, cooler embroidery than usual. Time flies- work and stuff, and soon enough she's 23 and living w/ her mother, unmarried. Average looking, not much money. She doesn't want to end up like her mum- alone and working. She loves her but man is her existence a little depressing- her mum's been kinda distant since her hubbie got all deceased. She's friends w/ Griselda- their fathers worked together, choppin wood and shizzle. She mostly hangs w/ her so that she can feel better about herself. "atleast im not a 24 year old spinster." She wants a little adventure- not like, head South, but maybe leavestormhold. She's a bit naive in that she still holds onto childhood tales- she wants to marry up, live da nice lief. Part of her knows that isn't going to happen, but she has to like, try. She's considering trying to sell her wares in Myrneth, or opening a tailory in Stormhold that appeals to Southerners- she's noticed quite a few of them moving in in the West. Maybe even try to sell to some of the more wealthy Norvägen? She's not really sure- she's got dreams, but she's also kind of a weenie.
INSPIRATIONS: Can an eh looking woman w/ few skills develop herself and make it big? idk i want to try tho
My in-game name is: TurtlePrada
i tried
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