Post by rosallora on Jun 7, 2020 20:45:29 GMT -8
FULL NAME Saoirse O’Kelan
Resolve level: 0
-Appearance-
Age: 22
Gender: Cis female
Physical Description: 5’10, of average build. A couple of old injuries plague her body, and it’s been roughed up from years on the road or in otherwise hostile living conditions. A stiff shoulder, a thrice-dislocated knee, things of the like. She has brown hair that she puts in a low ponytail or simple low bun, grey eyes, and a near perpetual frown. She walks with sureness where she steps, and is pretty quiet in the way that she moves. She is not particularly brawny nor particularly scrawny. Just a woman. She figures that's how everyone is, and she isn't going to try and pretty herself up over it.
Attire: Hunting leathers in simple shades of brown. Simple brown leather boots, a hooded hunting shawl. She has a few feathers from fowl she’s hunted dangling from her belt, weighed down by musketballs with holes carved all the way through them. She has a cloth half-mask that she pulls up to obscure her face, leaving only her eyes exposed when she wishes.
-Biography-
Quirks:
Last Gasp: +1 SPD if HP below 50% “If you’re really going to try it, I’m going to make you work for it! Come on, another one!”
Robust +15% Disease Resist “You ever eat something you shouldn’t? Okay, so let’s just say I’ve done that a lot. Sometimes because the louts couldn’t cook. Sometimes because shoving moss into your mouth is better than nothing.”
Fear of Eldritch +15% Stress and -10 ACC vs Eldritch “You don’t understand what lurks in those woods at night. The things I’ve seen… they aren’t things I know how to describe.”
Torn Rotator: -5% DMG Melee Skills “Yeah I fell off a horse a while ago and busted up my shoulder. It’s just stiff. It’s fine. Don’t need to do that wide-swinging thing anyway.”
Backstory Synopsis:
Born for the road, this ex-bandit’s known nothing but winding thoroughfares and woodland hideouts. In a twist of fate, she’s pressed into the Heir’s services. Might as well make things work.
Full Backstory:
Saoirse was born to nobodies, and will always be a nobody. Her parents only wanted her as much as they could, with her being unplanned and the result of too many lusty, alcohol-filled nights. Her younger years were spent on the road - her parents doing enough to justify keeping her, but not ever really giving her the impression that it was enough to be loved. She learned from them. How to read the signs and symbols that people carved into signposts that meant things different than the towns listed on the posts themselves. The calls of owls and bats and other animals that lurked in the forest. They were highwaymen of their own kind. Dirtier than most, and foul tempered.
Eventually, Saoirse broke away from them. She didn't know how old she was, only that she was old enough to act on what she knew she had to do. Her feelings overtook her; she ran in the middle of the night, taking her things and heading out to the city. It was rough going - she couldn't read or write, she had no understanding of the true value of money. She was a fishmonger, a blacksmith's assistant, a lamplighter's candle-holder, a horse wrangler at one point - a bad fall almost put her shoulder out of commission permanently. Along the way she met people, people who sometimes even tried for her. But the behaviors she learned from her parents - aggressiveness, selfishness, aloofness - made her ultimately unapproachable. She was a razor to anyone who came close. And she left, at some point, angry and penniless and again, on the road to nowhere. She walked, and the signs meant nothing but the symbols at the bottom (food easy here, work hard here, guards posted - come no closer).
She wandered across the countryside. She slept in empty barns and in thick wheat-stalked fields. She went hungry in the months without crop, she nearly froze to death on the side of the road. Or, she would've. If it hadn't been for a certain group with a large amount of warm, dark, wolf pelts, that groaned over the fact that she was still breathing when her lips were blue and damn it, why wasn't she dead already.
They were rough, like her. Punched and kicked each other, were selfish with the beans. They were good at fighting - and she wanted to be. She showed them some ways to lure the worms from the ground for fishing and the larger animals from their posts, and they showed her how to shoot. Her shoulder was rough, and things were adapted. The arm-mounted crossbow made her deadly. Her new cadre made her safe. They were idiots, and she was an idiot. They were dirty and terrible and spit in each other's food, sometimes they wrestled like wolves and sometimes they bayed like them. She learned to laugh. She learned how to bare her teeth, and mean it. They hit each other hard and let the weak ones lay unconscious for hours - she only had that honor once. Sometimes they huddled together in the thick of the night, and sometimes she heard them making gentle, tender threats to slit each other's throats while they slept under the stars. She learned their names. One of them carved her name into the wood of her crossbow "It's not a name you see every day", they said, "it's special," they said, "remember it," they said.
Well. They're dead.
And soon the rest of them will be too.
Misc. Notes: (Special items, notable scars, scents, how they walk, or talk, etc.)
-She has plenty of scars on her knees from various trips and falls.
-She's had her knife for about as long as she's been alive - it was a gift. The only real gift that she ever felt was hers.
-She's used to being curt with others, only opening up with her small cadre in Vvulf's gang.
-Despite being very rough and tumble, she'd like to. Maybe not be, someday.
-She smells in general. She needs a bath.
-A few burn scars from campfire mishaps, one large one being on her left arm.
-Skills & Equipment-
Weapons:
2 bolt wrist mounted crossbow: a small, portable crossbow that sits right where it says it does, strapped firmly to her wrist and lower arm. It has a two-bolt feature where she can fire one, then the other with a quick pick-up reload. After that, she has to reload the slots for a turn.
Hunting knife: what it says on the tin. Simple, serrated, effective. A simple, burnished oak handle holds a four inch blade.
Armor:
Simple, light hunting leathers. She’s very much a no-frills woman and nothing better was ever given or afforded to her.
Other gear:
Since Saoirse was Very Gently Invited to the Hamlet following a raid on it… she has nothing else to her name.
Strengths:
A knowledge of the surrounding woods to some extent. She has a good sense of internal positioning, and is pretty adept at finding her way in unforgiving terrain. She is of middling combat experience. Her social ability improved greatly while in Vvulf's company, and she's definitely better off for that than she had been before.
Weaknesses:
Disloyal. She’s here to try and free herself from the supposed debt she’s gotten herself into. The minute everything seems fine or she gets the chance, she's getting the fuck out of here. She's afraid of the horrors of the Hamlet and doesn't want to have to stay here any longer than she has to. Greatly damaged morale from the death of her comrades.
Resolve level: 0
-Appearance-
Age: 22
Gender: Cis female
Physical Description: 5’10, of average build. A couple of old injuries plague her body, and it’s been roughed up from years on the road or in otherwise hostile living conditions. A stiff shoulder, a thrice-dislocated knee, things of the like. She has brown hair that she puts in a low ponytail or simple low bun, grey eyes, and a near perpetual frown. She walks with sureness where she steps, and is pretty quiet in the way that she moves. She is not particularly brawny nor particularly scrawny. Just a woman. She figures that's how everyone is, and she isn't going to try and pretty herself up over it.
Attire: Hunting leathers in simple shades of brown. Simple brown leather boots, a hooded hunting shawl. She has a few feathers from fowl she’s hunted dangling from her belt, weighed down by musketballs with holes carved all the way through them. She has a cloth half-mask that she pulls up to obscure her face, leaving only her eyes exposed when she wishes.
-Biography-
Quirks:
Last Gasp: +1 SPD if HP below 50% “If you’re really going to try it, I’m going to make you work for it! Come on, another one!”
Robust +15% Disease Resist “You ever eat something you shouldn’t? Okay, so let’s just say I’ve done that a lot. Sometimes because the louts couldn’t cook. Sometimes because shoving moss into your mouth is better than nothing.”
Fear of Eldritch +15% Stress and -10 ACC vs Eldritch “You don’t understand what lurks in those woods at night. The things I’ve seen… they aren’t things I know how to describe.”
Torn Rotator: -5% DMG Melee Skills “Yeah I fell off a horse a while ago and busted up my shoulder. It’s just stiff. It’s fine. Don’t need to do that wide-swinging thing anyway.”
Backstory Synopsis:
Born for the road, this ex-bandit’s known nothing but winding thoroughfares and woodland hideouts. In a twist of fate, she’s pressed into the Heir’s services. Might as well make things work.
Full Backstory:
Saoirse was born to nobodies, and will always be a nobody. Her parents only wanted her as much as they could, with her being unplanned and the result of too many lusty, alcohol-filled nights. Her younger years were spent on the road - her parents doing enough to justify keeping her, but not ever really giving her the impression that it was enough to be loved. She learned from them. How to read the signs and symbols that people carved into signposts that meant things different than the towns listed on the posts themselves. The calls of owls and bats and other animals that lurked in the forest. They were highwaymen of their own kind. Dirtier than most, and foul tempered.
Eventually, Saoirse broke away from them. She didn't know how old she was, only that she was old enough to act on what she knew she had to do. Her feelings overtook her; she ran in the middle of the night, taking her things and heading out to the city. It was rough going - she couldn't read or write, she had no understanding of the true value of money. She was a fishmonger, a blacksmith's assistant, a lamplighter's candle-holder, a horse wrangler at one point - a bad fall almost put her shoulder out of commission permanently. Along the way she met people, people who sometimes even tried for her. But the behaviors she learned from her parents - aggressiveness, selfishness, aloofness - made her ultimately unapproachable. She was a razor to anyone who came close. And she left, at some point, angry and penniless and again, on the road to nowhere. She walked, and the signs meant nothing but the symbols at the bottom (food easy here, work hard here, guards posted - come no closer).
She wandered across the countryside. She slept in empty barns and in thick wheat-stalked fields. She went hungry in the months without crop, she nearly froze to death on the side of the road. Or, she would've. If it hadn't been for a certain group with a large amount of warm, dark, wolf pelts, that groaned over the fact that she was still breathing when her lips were blue and damn it, why wasn't she dead already.
They were rough, like her. Punched and kicked each other, were selfish with the beans. They were good at fighting - and she wanted to be. She showed them some ways to lure the worms from the ground for fishing and the larger animals from their posts, and they showed her how to shoot. Her shoulder was rough, and things were adapted. The arm-mounted crossbow made her deadly. Her new cadre made her safe. They were idiots, and she was an idiot. They were dirty and terrible and spit in each other's food, sometimes they wrestled like wolves and sometimes they bayed like them. She learned to laugh. She learned how to bare her teeth, and mean it. They hit each other hard and let the weak ones lay unconscious for hours - she only had that honor once. Sometimes they huddled together in the thick of the night, and sometimes she heard them making gentle, tender threats to slit each other's throats while they slept under the stars. She learned their names. One of them carved her name into the wood of her crossbow "It's not a name you see every day", they said, "it's special," they said, "remember it," they said.
Well. They're dead.
And soon the rest of them will be too.
Misc. Notes: (Special items, notable scars, scents, how they walk, or talk, etc.)
-She has plenty of scars on her knees from various trips and falls.
-She's had her knife for about as long as she's been alive - it was a gift. The only real gift that she ever felt was hers.
-She's used to being curt with others, only opening up with her small cadre in Vvulf's gang.
-Despite being very rough and tumble, she'd like to. Maybe not be, someday.
-She smells in general. She needs a bath.
-A few burn scars from campfire mishaps, one large one being on her left arm.
-Skills & Equipment-
Weapons:
2 bolt wrist mounted crossbow: a small, portable crossbow that sits right where it says it does, strapped firmly to her wrist and lower arm. It has a two-bolt feature where she can fire one, then the other with a quick pick-up reload. After that, she has to reload the slots for a turn.
Hunting knife: what it says on the tin. Simple, serrated, effective. A simple, burnished oak handle holds a four inch blade.
Armor:
Simple, light hunting leathers. She’s very much a no-frills woman and nothing better was ever given or afforded to her.
Other gear:
Since Saoirse was Very Gently Invited to the Hamlet following a raid on it… she has nothing else to her name.
Strengths:
A knowledge of the surrounding woods to some extent. She has a good sense of internal positioning, and is pretty adept at finding her way in unforgiving terrain. She is of middling combat experience. Her social ability improved greatly while in Vvulf's company, and she's definitely better off for that than she had been before.
Weaknesses:
Disloyal. She’s here to try and free herself from the supposed debt she’s gotten herself into. The minute everything seems fine or she gets the chance, she's getting the fuck out of here. She's afraid of the horrors of the Hamlet and doesn't want to have to stay here any longer than she has to. Greatly damaged morale from the death of her comrades.
