Maggie
09-28-13, 05:32 AM
Name: Maggie
Age: 34
Race: Human
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 5'4”
Weight: 110 lbs.
Occupation: None currently. Various short-term stints in the textile, fishing, and red-light tourism industries formerly.
Literacy: None.
Known Languages: Common, with most of the curses of eight other languages.
Personality:
With a fuse the length of a Grognak's brain – and that's being generous – Maggie tends to bite off more than she can chew and is always the first to the fight. Still, she tends to remain silent in most situations and prefers to surprise her enemies (a list which consists of nearly of everybody). Cunning, manipulative, and hardly above cheating, Maggie aims to win at the game of life through any means necessary.
Appearance:
Maggie's thin – at first glance, to the sort of famous people that walk down the street with a circle around them clear of peasants and rabble, a buffer zone of awestruck silence, she's totally forgettable. Once upon a time, her eyes would have been deep and soulful. Now, they are haunted. Her cheekbones would have been noble and even haughty. Now, they mark only the hunger of the woman leaning on the corner of a building in the wrong district of the city. Her dress hangs loosely in all of the wrong places, splashed with mud about the hem – still, her shoulders are squared with all of the discipline of any infantryman and her gaze never wavers. This woman, wherever she came from and whatever she's up to, isn't going to give in easily.
Skills:
Maggie is more experienced in general than the average human, with a lifetime of criminal history and a knack for survival. She can often read people's intentions and always keeps one hand on the hilt of her dagger.
Abilities:
When drinking, Maggie's been known to throw knives and not always poorly. She's quicker than average on the draw and release (~10%) and slightly more accurate (~5%) than the average human.
Weaknesses:
Extremely frail, Maggie is more than 50% more likely to suffer from broken bones than the average human.
Equipment:
Blue linen dress, slightly ragged on the bottom. Plain leather sandals. Plain leather strap with an iron brooch, currently serving as belt and sheath. Pitted and rusted iron dagger, double-edged with an ivory handle.
History:
With a sigh, she raised a pewter tankard to her lips and took a long pull at the bitter drink. Alone at a corner table with her back to the boisterous sailors, dockworkers, and hookers that cajoled and danced to a three-piece band, Maggie frowned into the flickering shadows that played across the table. She was hardly a seer, but maybe some solution would reveal itself there - she'd come to a new tavern on the other side of Radasanth to escape the sort of half-life that'd landed her in that cell in the first place. She didn't know of anything else a newly released prisoner would do, and she needed a drink anyway.
Three years, she thought. More like thirty.
Another sip of ale burned her tongue, and the heady aroma brought back a rush of memories. And so she sat at that table for two hours, nursing the one tankard of ale she'd bought with a bent copper coin. She had found the coin first, buried in muck a block from a textile mill. She'd found the dagger in similar muck across the street - and it was that smooth ivory handle she ran a finger along every so often. Perhaps this was the solution. When she left the place, it was quickly enough that nobody noticed - three or four deliberate movements, and she was gone as suddenly as she'd come. Anyone that had known her had forgotten by now.
She looked around at the rotting tenements and brick-faced factories that loomed over the narrow streets as she walked, mesmerized by how much she remembered. This one, she'd rented a room in for months before running afoul of the landlord's wife. That one over there, it was where her brother had hung himself all those years ago. It was late, and fewer and fewer people trickled down the streets as she walked. The gnarled little lady with a sharp frown slashed across her face hardly noticed - in a way, it felt good to be free. Even if it meant sleeping in an alley a few nights.
She stopped and ducked into one of these now, swinging a rusted gate aside. Maybe I'll find work in one of these factories soon. As she mused and plotted and felt appropriately low, she hunted for a slightly dry spot to lay her head. That was when something struck her from behind, smashing her nose against dirty bricks and twisting her neck. With a gasp, she struggled in vain against the hands that had wrapped around her upper arms like the manacles she had known too well.
"Well, then, lass, let's have a go," a boozy voice growled in her ear, "and no dickering later, eh? We'll settle true, we will."
The worst of it was that she knew immediately, even through the blood trickling over her lips, that she could do it. Lay still for a little while and get some cash together, the thought ran through her head, get a little place somewhere. It's nothing new. Her elbows disagreed. On its own accord, her left one jabbed backwards into the man's ribs. There was a loud crack, and the sudden numbing heat in her arm told Maggie that part of the noise was at least hers. No matter - surprise registered in the john's hands, and she was free enough for her right elbow to catch him in the face as she spun around. She looked into his shocked eyes with her cold, murky own, and sneered at the broken nose she saw between them.
"Serves you right, you know." She spat the words out as her right hand drew the dagger that someone had discarded as garbage far away, some time ago. "Serves you the fuck right."
With that, her arm found itself pressed against his belly, her chest struggling against his heaving one. The rough little blade tore a ragged hole from his groin to his sternum, and hot blood gushed out as she took a step backwards. With her back to the wall and her eyes locked on his, she was astounded to find herself with a stupid grin. I should've done that awhile ago. Still grinning from ear to ear, she leaned forward and cut a pouch from the man's belt. He held his hands against his stomach, trying to hold in the slippery intestines that steamed against the cool night air. She saw something sparkle in the fading torchlight from the street. With her left arm disobeying now, her knee came up and crushed what had, only a few moments ago, been so vibrant and alive in the young man's life.
He grunted and slumped to the ground and, as Maggie noticed with delight, remained otherwise silent. She saw that his arm was splayed out, and the ring on his finger stole her focus. With a giggle, she knelt and jabbed at with that rusty little knife, working the blade back and forth until a whimper escaped his lips. She smiled, a sweet little something that looked a little out of place on her prematurely wrinkled face. "Pleasure doing business with you."
She stuck the bloodied dagger back in her belt, grabbed the finger, ring and all, and pushed in into the jingling little pouch. It all stank of death, but she scooped it up and headed for the shore, a few blocks away. It would take some scrubbing to get the blood out of her only dress. She was humming some song from her all-too-distant childhood, and it felt good to be free.
Age: 34
Race: Human
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 5'4”
Weight: 110 lbs.
Occupation: None currently. Various short-term stints in the textile, fishing, and red-light tourism industries formerly.
Literacy: None.
Known Languages: Common, with most of the curses of eight other languages.
Personality:
With a fuse the length of a Grognak's brain – and that's being generous – Maggie tends to bite off more than she can chew and is always the first to the fight. Still, she tends to remain silent in most situations and prefers to surprise her enemies (a list which consists of nearly of everybody). Cunning, manipulative, and hardly above cheating, Maggie aims to win at the game of life through any means necessary.
Appearance:
Maggie's thin – at first glance, to the sort of famous people that walk down the street with a circle around them clear of peasants and rabble, a buffer zone of awestruck silence, she's totally forgettable. Once upon a time, her eyes would have been deep and soulful. Now, they are haunted. Her cheekbones would have been noble and even haughty. Now, they mark only the hunger of the woman leaning on the corner of a building in the wrong district of the city. Her dress hangs loosely in all of the wrong places, splashed with mud about the hem – still, her shoulders are squared with all of the discipline of any infantryman and her gaze never wavers. This woman, wherever she came from and whatever she's up to, isn't going to give in easily.
Skills:
Maggie is more experienced in general than the average human, with a lifetime of criminal history and a knack for survival. She can often read people's intentions and always keeps one hand on the hilt of her dagger.
Abilities:
When drinking, Maggie's been known to throw knives and not always poorly. She's quicker than average on the draw and release (~10%) and slightly more accurate (~5%) than the average human.
Weaknesses:
Extremely frail, Maggie is more than 50% more likely to suffer from broken bones than the average human.
Equipment:
Blue linen dress, slightly ragged on the bottom. Plain leather sandals. Plain leather strap with an iron brooch, currently serving as belt and sheath. Pitted and rusted iron dagger, double-edged with an ivory handle.
History:
With a sigh, she raised a pewter tankard to her lips and took a long pull at the bitter drink. Alone at a corner table with her back to the boisterous sailors, dockworkers, and hookers that cajoled and danced to a three-piece band, Maggie frowned into the flickering shadows that played across the table. She was hardly a seer, but maybe some solution would reveal itself there - she'd come to a new tavern on the other side of Radasanth to escape the sort of half-life that'd landed her in that cell in the first place. She didn't know of anything else a newly released prisoner would do, and she needed a drink anyway.
Three years, she thought. More like thirty.
Another sip of ale burned her tongue, and the heady aroma brought back a rush of memories. And so she sat at that table for two hours, nursing the one tankard of ale she'd bought with a bent copper coin. She had found the coin first, buried in muck a block from a textile mill. She'd found the dagger in similar muck across the street - and it was that smooth ivory handle she ran a finger along every so often. Perhaps this was the solution. When she left the place, it was quickly enough that nobody noticed - three or four deliberate movements, and she was gone as suddenly as she'd come. Anyone that had known her had forgotten by now.
She looked around at the rotting tenements and brick-faced factories that loomed over the narrow streets as she walked, mesmerized by how much she remembered. This one, she'd rented a room in for months before running afoul of the landlord's wife. That one over there, it was where her brother had hung himself all those years ago. It was late, and fewer and fewer people trickled down the streets as she walked. The gnarled little lady with a sharp frown slashed across her face hardly noticed - in a way, it felt good to be free. Even if it meant sleeping in an alley a few nights.
She stopped and ducked into one of these now, swinging a rusted gate aside. Maybe I'll find work in one of these factories soon. As she mused and plotted and felt appropriately low, she hunted for a slightly dry spot to lay her head. That was when something struck her from behind, smashing her nose against dirty bricks and twisting her neck. With a gasp, she struggled in vain against the hands that had wrapped around her upper arms like the manacles she had known too well.
"Well, then, lass, let's have a go," a boozy voice growled in her ear, "and no dickering later, eh? We'll settle true, we will."
The worst of it was that she knew immediately, even through the blood trickling over her lips, that she could do it. Lay still for a little while and get some cash together, the thought ran through her head, get a little place somewhere. It's nothing new. Her elbows disagreed. On its own accord, her left one jabbed backwards into the man's ribs. There was a loud crack, and the sudden numbing heat in her arm told Maggie that part of the noise was at least hers. No matter - surprise registered in the john's hands, and she was free enough for her right elbow to catch him in the face as she spun around. She looked into his shocked eyes with her cold, murky own, and sneered at the broken nose she saw between them.
"Serves you right, you know." She spat the words out as her right hand drew the dagger that someone had discarded as garbage far away, some time ago. "Serves you the fuck right."
With that, her arm found itself pressed against his belly, her chest struggling against his heaving one. The rough little blade tore a ragged hole from his groin to his sternum, and hot blood gushed out as she took a step backwards. With her back to the wall and her eyes locked on his, she was astounded to find herself with a stupid grin. I should've done that awhile ago. Still grinning from ear to ear, she leaned forward and cut a pouch from the man's belt. He held his hands against his stomach, trying to hold in the slippery intestines that steamed against the cool night air. She saw something sparkle in the fading torchlight from the street. With her left arm disobeying now, her knee came up and crushed what had, only a few moments ago, been so vibrant and alive in the young man's life.
He grunted and slumped to the ground and, as Maggie noticed with delight, remained otherwise silent. She saw that his arm was splayed out, and the ring on his finger stole her focus. With a giggle, she knelt and jabbed at with that rusty little knife, working the blade back and forth until a whimper escaped his lips. She smiled, a sweet little something that looked a little out of place on her prematurely wrinkled face. "Pleasure doing business with you."
She stuck the bloodied dagger back in her belt, grabbed the finger, ring and all, and pushed in into the jingling little pouch. It all stank of death, but she scooped it up and headed for the shore, a few blocks away. It would take some scrubbing to get the blood out of her only dress. She was humming some song from her all-too-distant childhood, and it felt good to be free.