Post by Caoilainn mac Rousse (D) on Apr 17, 2006 15:05:29 GMT -5
Caoilainn mac Rousse
21
Five foot nine and three quarters
Éiran
Female
Appearance:
Grief is drawn in every crease of Caoilainn’s features, as though the sun has set and will never rise again. Her sorrow, though, does not take away from her pale Éiran splendor. Her diluted D’Angeline blood is not cast in any of her features, but that is not to say that she is without beauty. Far from it, in fact. Regal, even in her constant state of sorrow, Caoilainn is always found with her head held high, no matter what conflict it is that she faces. She carries herself like a lone swan gliding across a shallow pond, with quiet grace. Her skin, which can be compared to rare porcelain, is accented by fair blonde locks that are like soft wheat moved by a gentle breeze. Her intense blue-green eyes have been described as the color of the sea washing up to the shore on a summer day. They are deceiving, that even in her sorrow they are still brightly colored. Rosy lips stand out against her fair skin, in lush petals. The loveliness of her face sits atop a tall and slender figure, toned from marksmen practice. If anything, her D’Angeline blood controls her height, for she had always towered over her friends. The rest of her features are pure proof of her Éiran descent; mysterious and beguiling.
History:
Raised in the beautiful green hills of Alba, Caoilainn was always surrounded by her large family and the caring people of Dalriada. Her father was the first son of Granine, the Lady of Dalriada. She had named him Merric mac Rousse, after his father, whom he had never met. Granine returned from Terre d’Ange, pregnant, after losing her twin brother Eammon in a heroic battle for Phedre no Delaunay de Montreve, and giving into her secret passions with the sea captain, Quintilus Rousse. After giving birth to a son, she decided never to marry, and to only raise her child and rule over her clan, nourishing both with love and care. Merric grew into a strong warrior, growing up with Aoife mac Tavish as a good friend. Aoife's parents made a living off of making and selling the traditional Éiran instruments. Although Aoife enjoyed taunting him in her fiery Éiran manner, they gradually fell in love. Like her household, she wanted to have a large family. And so they did. Fiontan was first from the womb, followed quickly by his twin, Caoilainn. Her grandmother, still suffering from the loss of her twin brother, couldn’t help but favor them even after the rest of her grandchildren were born; eight more boys.
As children, to laugh, and to learn the wonders of life were the only requirements Caoilainn’s parents ever gave her and her brothers. It was the way of all Éiran people; to laugh and to enjoy life. They made sure she and her brothers knew of this when they were but babes learning to walk. From this, of course, her parents hoped that their children would learn from their mistakes. There were always the lessons of trying to ride a pony backwards, or trying to swing over the pond from the delicate willow branches. Caoilainn’s parents would not bind them into their roles as the descended of the Dalriadic royal lineage until they were young teenagers, and only until then. In the time of peace, Merric did not want his children worrying about anything other than those two simple things. Caoilainn was always aware of what her role would be once it was her time. As twins, she and Fiotan would be placed as Lord and Lady of the Dalriada.
After long days of playing in the hilly fields of Éire with her brothers, Caoilainn sat by the hearth to listen to her grandmother’s wonderful tales, surrounded by the warm bodies of her brothers. Little Ronan, the youngest of the lot, always managed to sit in Caoilainn’s lap, while Hagan, second youngest, leaned his head against her arm for support. Fiotan was always at her other side. Her grandmother, retired from her years as a warrior, was skilled at storytelling. She would tell different stories each night, from tales of Éiran myth, to tales of her heroic battles. When she spoke of Eammon always being at her side, Caoilainn and Fiotan would look at each other, sharing a secret moment, thinking about the battles that they would fight side by side.
Although retired from battle, Caoilainn’s grandmother was the first to put a sword in her delicate hands. Her grandmother laughed when she dropped it, unable to hold its heaviness. While Fiotan mastered the sword, able to bring down even the best warrior in their clan by the age of seventeen, Caoilainn’s power lay in her marksmen ability. Where Fiotan succeeded in strength and vigor, Caoilainn succeeded in aim and precision. That isn’t to say Caoilainn couldn’t wield a sword, for that wasn’t true. She would let no one tell her otherwise. Her mother’s fiery mannerisms were apparent in her as well, and everyone knew it.
Even growing up with brothers, Aoife made sure that Caoilainn would not forget that she was a girl. As a child, she hated when her mother made her wear a dress, but as she grew, she also grew into her gender. While she learned of womanly things, she also learned D’Angeline, which her grandmother insisted upon teaching her. The language was beautiful, and it took her no time at all to pick up on it. She spoke it with her brother, who also was learning, and they called it their secret language. Herb lore was another important subject she was taught. What could cure illness? And even... what could poison? Music and traditional dances were also a large part of her culture. Her mother taught her everything she knew. Therefore, she learned plenty of tunes on her mother's fiddle, as well as many of the sung Éiran ballads. Caoilainn had always been prized for her warm, spirited voice.
Now, as an ambassador for Dalriada, Caoilainn finds herself just arrived in Terre d’Ange. Stepping farther and farther away from her homeland, she occasionally glances back towards the sea with despair written across her features, as though she can never be free of the past that has her in its unforgiving grip. A glance into her sorrowful eyes tells only of a secret bound by a thousand chains of denial.[/center]
21
Five foot nine and three quarters
Éiran
Female
Appearance:
Grief is drawn in every crease of Caoilainn’s features, as though the sun has set and will never rise again. Her sorrow, though, does not take away from her pale Éiran splendor. Her diluted D’Angeline blood is not cast in any of her features, but that is not to say that she is without beauty. Far from it, in fact. Regal, even in her constant state of sorrow, Caoilainn is always found with her head held high, no matter what conflict it is that she faces. She carries herself like a lone swan gliding across a shallow pond, with quiet grace. Her skin, which can be compared to rare porcelain, is accented by fair blonde locks that are like soft wheat moved by a gentle breeze. Her intense blue-green eyes have been described as the color of the sea washing up to the shore on a summer day. They are deceiving, that even in her sorrow they are still brightly colored. Rosy lips stand out against her fair skin, in lush petals. The loveliness of her face sits atop a tall and slender figure, toned from marksmen practice. If anything, her D’Angeline blood controls her height, for she had always towered over her friends. The rest of her features are pure proof of her Éiran descent; mysterious and beguiling.
History:
Raised in the beautiful green hills of Alba, Caoilainn was always surrounded by her large family and the caring people of Dalriada. Her father was the first son of Granine, the Lady of Dalriada. She had named him Merric mac Rousse, after his father, whom he had never met. Granine returned from Terre d’Ange, pregnant, after losing her twin brother Eammon in a heroic battle for Phedre no Delaunay de Montreve, and giving into her secret passions with the sea captain, Quintilus Rousse. After giving birth to a son, she decided never to marry, and to only raise her child and rule over her clan, nourishing both with love and care. Merric grew into a strong warrior, growing up with Aoife mac Tavish as a good friend. Aoife's parents made a living off of making and selling the traditional Éiran instruments. Although Aoife enjoyed taunting him in her fiery Éiran manner, they gradually fell in love. Like her household, she wanted to have a large family. And so they did. Fiontan was first from the womb, followed quickly by his twin, Caoilainn. Her grandmother, still suffering from the loss of her twin brother, couldn’t help but favor them even after the rest of her grandchildren were born; eight more boys.
As children, to laugh, and to learn the wonders of life were the only requirements Caoilainn’s parents ever gave her and her brothers. It was the way of all Éiran people; to laugh and to enjoy life. They made sure she and her brothers knew of this when they were but babes learning to walk. From this, of course, her parents hoped that their children would learn from their mistakes. There were always the lessons of trying to ride a pony backwards, or trying to swing over the pond from the delicate willow branches. Caoilainn’s parents would not bind them into their roles as the descended of the Dalriadic royal lineage until they were young teenagers, and only until then. In the time of peace, Merric did not want his children worrying about anything other than those two simple things. Caoilainn was always aware of what her role would be once it was her time. As twins, she and Fiotan would be placed as Lord and Lady of the Dalriada.
After long days of playing in the hilly fields of Éire with her brothers, Caoilainn sat by the hearth to listen to her grandmother’s wonderful tales, surrounded by the warm bodies of her brothers. Little Ronan, the youngest of the lot, always managed to sit in Caoilainn’s lap, while Hagan, second youngest, leaned his head against her arm for support. Fiotan was always at her other side. Her grandmother, retired from her years as a warrior, was skilled at storytelling. She would tell different stories each night, from tales of Éiran myth, to tales of her heroic battles. When she spoke of Eammon always being at her side, Caoilainn and Fiotan would look at each other, sharing a secret moment, thinking about the battles that they would fight side by side.
Although retired from battle, Caoilainn’s grandmother was the first to put a sword in her delicate hands. Her grandmother laughed when she dropped it, unable to hold its heaviness. While Fiotan mastered the sword, able to bring down even the best warrior in their clan by the age of seventeen, Caoilainn’s power lay in her marksmen ability. Where Fiotan succeeded in strength and vigor, Caoilainn succeeded in aim and precision. That isn’t to say Caoilainn couldn’t wield a sword, for that wasn’t true. She would let no one tell her otherwise. Her mother’s fiery mannerisms were apparent in her as well, and everyone knew it.
Even growing up with brothers, Aoife made sure that Caoilainn would not forget that she was a girl. As a child, she hated when her mother made her wear a dress, but as she grew, she also grew into her gender. While she learned of womanly things, she also learned D’Angeline, which her grandmother insisted upon teaching her. The language was beautiful, and it took her no time at all to pick up on it. She spoke it with her brother, who also was learning, and they called it their secret language. Herb lore was another important subject she was taught. What could cure illness? And even... what could poison? Music and traditional dances were also a large part of her culture. Her mother taught her everything she knew. Therefore, she learned plenty of tunes on her mother's fiddle, as well as many of the sung Éiran ballads. Caoilainn had always been prized for her warm, spirited voice.
Now, as an ambassador for Dalriada, Caoilainn finds herself just arrived in Terre d’Ange. Stepping farther and farther away from her homeland, she occasionally glances back towards the sea with despair written across her features, as though she can never be free of the past that has her in its unforgiving grip. A glance into her sorrowful eyes tells only of a secret bound by a thousand chains of denial.[/center]