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 Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 12:43 am
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 8:05 pm
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Name: Maeve Phèdre LaChance
Nicknames/Aliases: Lucky
Date of Birth: November 30, 1381
Age: 31
Alliance: Panymium
Origin: Mildell, Mishkan
Residence: Nowhere-- travels from inn to inn
Occupation: Mercenary
Personality:
Maeve is not the most welcoming or warm-hearted woman-- she is, in fact, quite the opposite. Her life as a mercenary has left her closed off to other people. She will give someone her name, and that is absolutely it. If someone asks about her arm, she quickly writes it off as a childhood accident and gives no details. Maeve is not even open with her emotions or opinions on just about anything. It's best to stay neutral in any situation in her eyes. Her feelings would only get in the way of whatever she was doing. If someone were to engage her in conversation, they would find her to be very terse and to the point, albeit trying to manage some level of politeness. Actions speak louder than words, and Maeve is a woman of action.
After all that Maeve has taken part of or witnessed, her once positive outlook on the world has diminished almost completely. Jaded, she struggles to maintain the ideals she once held-- an often losing battle. An incredibly harsh realist, Maeve has no room for hopes or dreams in her life. They only cause disappointment and grief, and Maeve has no desire to experience any more of that. Her jaded view on life makes Maeve appear to be very aloof and uncaring. Her face almost always covered in a dull, blank expression. She lets people draw their own conclusions about her-- wrong or right, negative or positive, Maeve does not bother to correct.
While she tries to keep cool and calm, it can be rather hard. Maeve tells herself to not let her emotions cloud her judgments, but anger can get the better of her (especially in regards to the well-being of women and children). Years of suppressing her emotions leads to outbursts of violence that may or may not be necessary. Maeve likes to think better of herself, but is aware of the building rage inside her. The one thing that lets Maeve drop her guard is children. A child's innocence is something to cherish and protect and that is when Maeve's matronly nature emerges. It is the only time that she'll allow herself to smile.
Self-sufficient to the core, Maeve learned that she could not rely on anyone but herself. Never leaning on anyone for emotional or physical support, she feels that people only get in the way of her plans and ideas. They are a factor she cannot take into account and thus, only get in the way of what she is doing. Any problem that comes her way can be solved by her alone. These feelings have led Maeve to become a complete loner. Even if something is extremely tasking and would be easier with other people helping, Maeve will refuse. When Maeve is unable to do something, she feels weak, which only makes her mad and upset with herself.
Her own weakness cannot be tolerated, so this has forced Maeve to be a very determined and undaunted sort. If the situation is dire, she will carry onward and face it. Things that may deter other people have long since worried Maeve thanks to her career. Though she is driven to do her job, Maeve is not foolhardy. Her life comes before completing a job, and she knows when it's time to turn tail and run. Maeve does not think of this as cowardly; it is simply the more intelligent option.
Appearance:
Maeve is not all that imposing of a woman, only standing at 5'4", but where she lacks in height, she makes up for with strength. Thanks to her years of combat training and her profession as a mercenary, Maeve became quite fit and muscular. She is most definitely able to defend herself if the need arises. The fact that she's missing her right arm from just above the elbow down does not daunt her. She does not, however, let anyone look at her arm unwrapped-- viewing it as too mangled and scarred. Dark brown hair falls down her back, but is kept tightly in a neat low braid so as not to get in her face. Speaking of her face, Maeve's expression is most typically an extremely blank one. Her deep set, half-lidded pale green eyes do not show much emotion. They seemed to have dulled in brightness over the years of her life as a mercenary. Between her eyes sits a well-defined, sharp nose, complimenting her angular face shape. The woman rarely smiles, her thin lips often stay in a vague frown.
Her typical attire consists of brown, brown, and more brown. She does not have the money to afford flashy dyes, nor does she have the desire to wear them. A long-sleeved brown dress (with the right sleeve pinned up) coming to her ankles is covered by a light brown tunic. In colder areas, such as Shyregoed, Maeve dons a large coat akin to a duster, which matches her dress in length. A leather belt cuts across it, holding various small pouches along with her espada ropera at her side. Maeve wears a simple leather glove on her left hand to protect herself from the cold and to have a better grip on her sword. Finishing off her ensemble are a pair of plain brown boots.
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 8:06 pm
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Born to lower class immigrants in Mishkan, Maeve lived a rather simple life. Her father, Beauregard LaChance, was a hard-working man, spending most of his days loading and unloading cargo from the ships at port. Her mother, Jenette LaChance, was a midwife serving the upper class in the area. She was well-known as an excellent caregiver with great knowledge about women and children. Maeve had accompanied her mother on these 'jobs' for as long as she could remember. It was assumed that she would follow her mother's footsteps and become a midwife herself, so she learned as much as she could. This did not bother her, for as she got older she loved helping her mother with babies and small children. Maeve had even hoped to have her own children one day.
Along with learning the responsibilities of her profession to come, Maeve was exposed to the luxurious lifestyle of the well to do. She was enamored with it all-- the fancy dress, the excellent food, the parties and friends... It was just so wonderful. Maeve knew she could not have any of that, but being a midwife would allow her to maybe pretend a little longer. She wouldn't be trapped in her tiny house and feel poor, she would be living the life!
At fifteen, Maeve's luck would change. Another wealthy family called for Jenette's aid and Maeve was to accompany her and help her. At their home, Maeve sat and waited until she was needed by her mother. Coming down the stairs was a man she had not seen before, Delroy Rembert, a friend of the upper class family and the son of a wealthy merchant. He had taken to her quite quickly; he used his charm and charisma to seduce the young girl. Maeve was easily won over by him. She had never had a man take interest in her before! And this man had money, too. Her mother protested their relationship; she did not feel comfortable with a twenty seven year old man being with her daughter. Maeve eventually convinced her otherwise, saying that this was her true love. She could finally have her fairytale life, and the two were wed only a year later.
Things were nice in the beginning. Maeve had servants, she went to parties, she lived the life she dreamed of. But Delroy began to worry about her. "You shouldn't go out. It's dangerous." "I don't want you talking to other men; they only have mischief on their minds." Maeve obliged his wishes. He was just trying to protect her, she thought. She did not leave the house much, but that was okay. Delroy loved her and that was all that mattered.
Wishes and requests turned into yelling and demands. She felt like she couldn't do anything right. Maeve was miserable. Yet despite these flaws and everything that was wrong with her, Delroy still loved her. She guessed she was lucky to win such an amazing man when she felt like a screw up. Things only escalated over the three years that she was with him. The yelling became beatings, but Maeve stayed. What else could she do?
A party thrown by Delroy would be a pivotal event in her life. A friend of his managed to get Maeve alone and began to chat with her-- began to flirt with her. She laughed. She had not genuinely laughed in such a long time. Delroy caught wind of this and demanded that Maeve return to his side immediately. She complied, following him into the kitchen.
He seethed with absolute anger. Yelling and yelling, he interrogated her. Maeve could only apologize profusely; she didn't know what to do. Apologizing wasn't enough. He shoved her down onto the floor. She begged him no. He grabbed the butcher knife from the counter. Words would not reach him. He hacked at her right arm wildly. Maeve screamed and screamed, finally alerting their servants. Several servants and party-goers entered the scene, pulling Delroy off the girl. Delroy kept shouting, and Maeve passed out.
Amputation was the only answer. Her arm was too mangled to salvage. They removed it as swiftly as they could. Cauterizing the wound would be the second most painful thing Maeve had endured. Hot boiling oil sealed the wound shut, and the only thing she could do was wait for the wound to heal.
Maeve returned to living with her parents and Delroy was sent to jail. She never went outside (she usually stayed in her bed). The girl cried often. She was completely lost now. A year would have to pass before anything happened.
She got angry. Maeve was tired of crying and feeling lost. She wasn't going to be weak anymore. She was going to become strong and help people who were like her. A mercenary band was the answer to her desires. She went to a small outpost in Mishkan, asking to be trained. They laughed and refused. A woman with one arm was not exactly combat material. So, she began to show up every day asking every time. She was met with the same answer day after day.
No longer bothering to ask, Maeve started showing up for their training sessions. This piqued the interest of Herbert Ashcroft (a high-ranking mercenary). He liked her determination and will and decided that he would take the responsibility of training her. Training was arduous for Maeve; nothing was ever easy. She took up fencing and was slowly transformed to a woman of combat.
Her ideals of helping people slowly faded from her mind the longer she stayed with the band. It was about getting a job, getting paid, and staying alive. However, business began to wane due to the plague. After being with the group for five years, Maeve decided to leave. She had hopes that by doing so, she could rekindle the dream she once had.
Five years of being alone. It did not seem that she could ever follow those lofty dreams. Maeve fell into the same pattern. She went from job to job with no real home or purpose. The only thing that Maeve did was live.
A recent job in Shyregoed affected her. The bandages that were supposed to help her become healthy were now tainted. The gauze bled on its own. She was not sure what this meant.
[I will be expanding her more recent history soon and clarifying a few things. Look out for that!]
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 8:07 pm
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 8:09 pm
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Shyregoed winters were unkind. Harsh winds accompanied by heavy snow pelted the merchant caravan as it slowly chugged along. Snow blanketed the road and Maeve had no idea how they could tell where they were going. The Shyregoedians were resilient people, she thought. But they still needed her help; they needed someone to protect them and their goods. She needed a job and this was her opportunity.
Maeve sat in the last wagon, staring out behind it. These people had been attacked before and she did not want it to happen again. Her hand idly traced the hilt of her rapier as she faced the sheet of white. Maeve looked focused, but she was freezing and all ready injured. Under her clothes, her midsection was tightly wrapped up in gauze. A previous job left her with a rather large gash in her stomach-- something she failed to mention to the merchants who just hired her. The mercenary felt she could handle anything that came her way (injury or not).
Hours passed and nothing had happened. Maybe this would be a nice easy job. Night fell quickly and it was time for the caravan to retire and get some rest. Maeve followed suit, but she slept with her sword.
A rustling noise. Maeve bolted awake, placing her blade's sheath between her knees and drawing her rapier in an instant. She hurriedly leapt out from the wagon and inspected the area. She could barely see light footprints leading toward the head of the wagon. The snowstorm was fierce and dawn was only just beginning to break; it was hard to try and see anything. Gripping her weapon tightly, she made her way to the front of the wagon carefully. The driver was there -- face down on the ground. The mercenary glared down at the corpse.
"Wake up! Everyone, wake up!" Maeve hollered, starting to go between each wagon to hunt down the culprit. More people emerged from their wagons, groggy and confused. Then, without the element of surprise or the cover of night, a figure dashed away from the wagon. Without hesitation, Maeve pursued him.
One could only run so fast through heavy snow. Maeve shoulder-checked the man harshly, sending him to the ground. She held her blade out toward him, but before she could speak the man rolled over onto his back. A quick draw and a searing pain went through Maeve-- a throwing dagger in her gut. She stumbled backward, reeling in pain. This was the thief and murderer's chance to get away. He scrambled to his feet and scurried off. Maeve dropped her blade by her side, staring down at the dagger. With a grunt she yanked it from her, but it managed to reopen her old wound. The worse for wear woman bent over to retrieve her rapier. She could see his outline in the distance. He was not moving quickly.
He became prey that she was stalking. Despite her state, she began to close the gap between them. A sudden stumble and he laid unmoving on the ground. Maeve approached him, this time kicking him over onto his back. She dropped to her knees, bringing her blade right against his throat. She was enraged.
"Please!" He panted. "Don't kill me!" Maeve only gave him a disgusted look. "I-I have the plague! I was doing it for my family! Please," he stuttered and pleaded. Her expression did not change. "I didn't mean to kill that man! He saw me and--!"
Maeve forced all her body weight down onto the rapier. A sharp gasp became a gurgle as blood spewed from his neck. Blood splattered against the mercenary and the thief went limp. "Scum," she muttered, staying on her knees, looking over the man. She was only supposed to kill when it was necessary. She was not sure if it was. Her anger stayed with her, but she felt tired. Her wound was bleeding through the bandages and the man's blood was bleeding through her clothes. They intermingled on the gauze.
When Maeve finally arrived to the caravan's destination, Colwe, she saw to it to wash her dressings. No matter how many times she tried, the bandages would never come clean. It was as if the blood never dried. She wondered if this was some sort of punishment, or a reminder of what she had done. Was it necessary? The gauze did not need a wound in order to bleed.
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 8:10 pm
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 8:15 pm
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 8:16 pm
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Posted: Sun May 01, 2011 8:17 pm
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