Post by Maegineth on Sept 16, 2018 10:28:50 GMT -5
.The Facade.
Character Name: Maegineth
Name Meaning: Sharp Heart. Also known as Black Mag, Maggot, Silverfish, and Clo.
Age: 36
Date of Birth: July 18, 2974
Race: Man, Dunlending
Residence: The Wilds
Profession: Hired Sword
Appearance: Small and slight, she stands at a mere five-and-three with medium length, dark hair and shining blue eyes. Black is often her chosen color and she has a slick, unseemly look about her -- as if at the first sign of trouble she might take her leave with bloody force and sever herself entirely from grasp.
Personality: Without fear. Without hope. Each morning falls on Mag with only its own limited opportunities, all thought of the future cast to the wayside. She has no interest in the broader intentions of Elves and Men, nor any desire for a hand in their deeds, whether for love or compensation. She works when she wants to work, sleeps when she wants to sleep, and if the dawn rises red on her horizon at the ending of the world, she will only lay her head down and dream. Middle Earth has done little for her, and she feels it is only fair to return the favor.
Parents: Del Hopeweaver, Deceased. Angun Blackwolf, Deceased.
Sibling(s): Dhaerdin
Spouse: N/A
Children: N/A
History: It is a cold morning before the dawn makes break above the hills, shattering golden at their edges and trickling through each blade of grass that shivers under the breath of the wind. She is curled in her mother's lap beside the fire, watching her crack the speckled brown eggs of a wild hen onto the flat, polished surface of a cooking stone greased with fat. The whites sizzle, bubbling, and her stomach growls while her mother's fingers begin to twist a small plait into the raven curls of her hair, tying it with a soft leather thong.
In the distance, her brother chases the morning light as it pours down the hillside with a banner of golden thunder galloping at his back and drowning out his screams.
-
Maegineth is the name they gave her beneath the white arches of Minas Tirith, and if she had another name before, it is long since forgotten. Little Maggot, they called her, then, and though she much prefers the company of elves now, above all else, she cannot say the Gondorians were especially cruel among their kind.
Born under the open skies of Dunland, young Mag and her brother wandered out alone and hungry into the wilds of the Westfold after their father's final raid brought the Rohirrim upon them like a swift and staggering blow, a pair of lone survivors smoked out of their familiar tunnels and thrust into uncertain existence among the very monsters who dislodged them. It was chance and nothing but that crossed their path in the form of a ranger, a haggard man, old and gray with one silvery eye ever peering from beneath a ragged scar. There was no comfort from him, no invitation to follow, but follow they did. Through darkness. Through mist.
He called her Maggot with a smile couched at the cracked corner of his mouth, and she called him Golfur with a wrinkle in her brow. He put a knife in her hands and in the dark she cut her mother's plait from her hair.
Though Gondor would feed them, clothe them, name them, and teach them, it never quite became home for Mag. A small creature fraught with unrest, she took the first opportunity with what coin she had scavenged and slipped through the gates of Minas Tirith. Her brother would find her just outside the gates of Edoras, unable to step foot inside. Unable to cut herself from its dire hold on her soul.
Since then, they have wandered to the very edges of Middle Earth, neither rangers nor soldiers, but men free of undue loyalties except to each other. Black Mag the Silverfish, always ready with her coin purse whenever you are in need. The Maggot of Dunland.
Maegineth Sharpheart.
Character Name: Maegineth
Name Meaning: Sharp Heart. Also known as Black Mag, Maggot, Silverfish, and Clo.
Age: 36
Date of Birth: July 18, 2974
Race: Man, Dunlending
Residence: The Wilds
Profession: Hired Sword
Appearance: Small and slight, she stands at a mere five-and-three with medium length, dark hair and shining blue eyes. Black is often her chosen color and she has a slick, unseemly look about her -- as if at the first sign of trouble she might take her leave with bloody force and sever herself entirely from grasp.
Personality: Without fear. Without hope. Each morning falls on Mag with only its own limited opportunities, all thought of the future cast to the wayside. She has no interest in the broader intentions of Elves and Men, nor any desire for a hand in their deeds, whether for love or compensation. She works when she wants to work, sleeps when she wants to sleep, and if the dawn rises red on her horizon at the ending of the world, she will only lay her head down and dream. Middle Earth has done little for her, and she feels it is only fair to return the favor.
.The Blood.
Parents: Del Hopeweaver, Deceased. Angun Blackwolf, Deceased.
Sibling(s): Dhaerdin
Spouse: N/A
Children: N/A
History: It is a cold morning before the dawn makes break above the hills, shattering golden at their edges and trickling through each blade of grass that shivers under the breath of the wind. She is curled in her mother's lap beside the fire, watching her crack the speckled brown eggs of a wild hen onto the flat, polished surface of a cooking stone greased with fat. The whites sizzle, bubbling, and her stomach growls while her mother's fingers begin to twist a small plait into the raven curls of her hair, tying it with a soft leather thong.
In the distance, her brother chases the morning light as it pours down the hillside with a banner of golden thunder galloping at his back and drowning out his screams.
-
Maegineth is the name they gave her beneath the white arches of Minas Tirith, and if she had another name before, it is long since forgotten. Little Maggot, they called her, then, and though she much prefers the company of elves now, above all else, she cannot say the Gondorians were especially cruel among their kind.
Born under the open skies of Dunland, young Mag and her brother wandered out alone and hungry into the wilds of the Westfold after their father's final raid brought the Rohirrim upon them like a swift and staggering blow, a pair of lone survivors smoked out of their familiar tunnels and thrust into uncertain existence among the very monsters who dislodged them. It was chance and nothing but that crossed their path in the form of a ranger, a haggard man, old and gray with one silvery eye ever peering from beneath a ragged scar. There was no comfort from him, no invitation to follow, but follow they did. Through darkness. Through mist.
He called her Maggot with a smile couched at the cracked corner of his mouth, and she called him Golfur with a wrinkle in her brow. He put a knife in her hands and in the dark she cut her mother's plait from her hair.
Though Gondor would feed them, clothe them, name them, and teach them, it never quite became home for Mag. A small creature fraught with unrest, she took the first opportunity with what coin she had scavenged and slipped through the gates of Minas Tirith. Her brother would find her just outside the gates of Edoras, unable to step foot inside. Unable to cut herself from its dire hold on her soul.
Since then, they have wandered to the very edges of Middle Earth, neither rangers nor soldiers, but men free of undue loyalties except to each other. Black Mag the Silverfish, always ready with her coin purse whenever you are in need. The Maggot of Dunland.
Maegineth Sharpheart.
