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Old 06-21-2006, 08:01 AM   #21
Messenger of Hope
Folwren's Avatar
Join Date: Jun 2005
Location: In a tiny, insignificant little town in one of the many States.
Posts: 5,228
Folwren is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.Folwren is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.
Here is my character's character bio. I will get the post written soon.

-- Folwren


Folwren's Major Character:

NAME: Athwen

AGE: 39

RACE: Man, of the Rohirrim

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: None, generally. On this trip, however, she’ll carry a long knife, but nothing more, for she never learned the arts of war or how to use any weapon.

APPEARANCE: Short of stature - 5 feet and no inches. Slender and small. She has not lost her shape from child bearing, for she hasn’t had any children. Clear, dark and brilliantly blue eyes, waist length, wavy, golden blond hair, and a lightly tanned face.

PERSONALITIES/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Athwen is a gentle, calm woman, acquainted with danger, hardships, and intense sorrow, but having lived through all of them, has come out stronger and better able to meet the world. She is very observant of other people’s feelings and is able to relate to many different people. This is a good thing, as her husband, Dorran, doesn’t always like to speak much about his feelings, and sometimes Athwen has to really look for them.

She is optimistic most of the time and does her best to stay cheerful and keep everyone around here cheerful, too. Her personality is naturally bright and bubbly, and though that has been tamed by her past and her years, she is still pleasant.

Of course, there are times when she gets sad and withdrawn, at when that happens, she isn’t very talkative, nor very out going. These lapses come from dreams and feelings from her past, which was stormy and very difficult. They pass and after a few days, no one can tell they ever came.

HISTORY: Athwen was born twenty years before the War of the Ring, the middle child of five kids. She lived in a small hamlet somewhere in the realm of Rohan. There she lived her entire life, never leaving the area, until she was sixteen. Only a couple months after her sixteenth birth-date, ravaging orcs of Saruman came through and burned her village, killing everybody. Only she and an elderly healer survived. The healer hid beneath his home - Athwen was gone riding at the time of the attack. When she returned, she found the village in flames, and all the people dead.

Athwen would have died there, too, if a group of young riders had not passed that way. They took compassion on her and took her and Leod (the healer) into their company of riders. Dorran was a young man part of that group of riders. He was only a few months older than she. (This is also told about in Outracing the Flames RPG.)

She rode with them all the way to Edoras. She lived near that city in the stronghold of an Eorl of the Mark for the next several years. While she was there, before, during and a little bit after the War of the Ring, she studied under Leod and learned the arts of healing. In the year 6 of the 4th age, she and Dorran were married.

Since then, thirteen years have passed. Athwen has had no children, and the couple has accepted that she probably never will. Dorran works under the King Eomer and Athwen spends her time doctoring the poorer people of Edoras (she doesn’t worry about pay too much since Dorran can easily support her and her practice without any children to feed and clothe). She loves working with children especially, and with doing so, has gotten very good at setting bones and tending nasty, infected cuts and sores.


Folwren's post - Athwen

“Mistress Athwen, will it be alright?” the little boy asked.

Athwen smiled sweetly without looking up from her work. “Yes, it will be fine, so long as you do as you’re told and don’t touch it.” She gently swabbed at the cut with a clean, wet cloth. “That’s a nasty scratch you got yourself, lad,” she said. “How did you manage it?”

“My brother got me with a stick,” the boy replied. With his unwounded arm, he drew his sleeve across his nose. “Mum can’t stand the sight of blood and it hurt something awful. Are you sure it’ll be alright?”

Athwen nodded again to his urgent question. “Yes. Especially after I wrap it up. What was your brother doing with a sharp pointed stick?” She knew better than to add ‘he could have killed you with something like that!’, though it was obviously clear from the cut the child’s stick had inflicted. She asked herself mentally if all Gondorian boys were so violent.

“We were playing battle. Our father fought years ago in a great war and he tells about killing trolls and all kind of things. Berl was supposed to be the troll and I was Father because I’m smaller, but he didn’t like being the troll and he got mad.” Athwen nodded understandingly. She held the arm gently in her hand while she put down the wet cloth and picked up a roll of bandaging cloth. “Will that hurt?” her young patient demanded, stiffening. “When you wrap it around it, won’t it hurt?”

“Actually, it will feel good. I promise you it won’t hurt. Now, hold your arm out for me. I need both my hands to do this.” The boy obeyed and Athwen wrapped the arm from the wrist to nearly the elbow. She tied it on, securely but gently. “There you go, my man,” she said, stepping back. “You’re all patched up.” She smiled at him before turning away to talk to the boy’s mother, sitting nearby. “I’ve bandaged it up. The wrap will stay, so long as he doesn’t touch it. It will not stay on tonight when he sleeps, though, unless it is re-wrapped and re-tied carefully and he doesn’t toss and turn much in his sleep.”

“Will he be alright?” the woman asked anxiously, standing up.

“Yes, he’ll be fine. I cleaned it out and you came to me directly, so no infection had already settled in. I suggest you take away the sharp play things from your boys, though. You might have worse things to handle next time. Tomorrow morning, wash it again with soap and clean water. If you have any oil from the olive or any lavender, put that on it, and then wrap it with new cloth. Keep it wrapped gently until it scabs, and then be sure that he doesn’t pick at it.”

“We will. Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome,” Athwen replied with a smile. She nodded goodbye and waved to the boy as the two of them left.

Athwen turned to wash her hands and then clean up her work place. She was fastening the lid of the box with bandages and ointments when a knock came at the door. Her hands paused in their work, and then with a sigh, she stood up.

“I didn’t want another patient just now. I want Dorran.” But she still prepared a smile as she opened the door.

Instead of a young mother holding the hand of a crying child as Athwen half expected, there stood on the doorstep a young man wearing the black and white livery of the Citadel. She blinked in surprise.

“Lady Athwen?” the man asked. She nodded, expectant. “I was to deliver this to you.” He extended a letter and she reached out to get it.

“Thank you!” she said. He bowed and turned to walk away. She watched him go until he went out the gate into the road, then her eyes turned towards the letter. On the front of it her name had been written in black, swirling ink. Turning it over, she saw and recognized the impression of the king’s ring in the sealing wax. Again she had cause to blink her dark lashes at it.

Without looking up away from the letter, she closed the door and walked to the same chair that the boy’s mother had sat in. She lowered herself into it and then gently broke the wax. The fine, cream colored parchment made a soft crinkling sound as she opened it. The king’s seal was at the top and the letter that ran below it. She read the entire thing over once. . .twice, and then she put it down on her knees. Her blue eyes scanned the room in front of her. They passed over the table and chairs where she and her husband ate, the cupboards where dishes and food was kept, the pitcher of water standing on the counter, and the door leading back to another room. Then she picked up the letter again and read it a third time.

‘. . .to go with the fellowship to cure and to heal as your skills are required along the way. . .’

“To free the slaves and help them live on their own?” Athwen whispered. “He wants me to go? Clearly that’s what he’s asking. . .” She sat upright and refolded the letter. It would wait until Dorran returned and they could talk it over. His name was written on the list beneath the letter, but she didn’t know if he had accepted. They would discuss it when he returned home. Would he accept the mission himself? She knew what he had gone through in his past and she also knew how horrible it was for old memories to be stirred up. If he did not go, he would not want her to go, either, and she would not wish to go alone anyway.

She stood up and put the letter on the table. There it would wait until Dorran returned. Athwen put her hands to work, cleaning the house that was practically entirely clean already. Her mind turned the contents of the letter over and over again. Alone, though, she could not make up her mind of whether she wanted to go or not. But was it even a request? Or was it an order?

Whatever it was, it would wait until Dorran was home.


Folwren's Minor Character:

NAME: Kwell Dunfire

AGE: 13

RACE: Unknown, by both of us.


WEAPONS: A heavy, weighty stick about as tall as he is.

APPEARANCE: Kwell, having not yet had his real growth spurt yet, is still only 4’10”. He is built squarely with short legs and a short, powerful looking (even though he’s still a boy) torso. His arms, of course, have not yet developed the muscles of a man. His skin is dark, almost the olive looking color of skin, dark brown eyes that sometimes look black, sharp nose, small mouth, often pulled down on one side into a scowl. He has brown, very straight hair cut short.

PERSONALITIES: Kwell is drawn back within himself – quiet and slow to communicate with anyone he hasn’t known long. He is swift to anger and very quickly becomes impatient and harsh, and while he does trap it and keep it back, it is very clearly visible on his face and the way he moves and reacts to people around him. He rarely smiles, and never laughs. Whether or not he has a weak spot and may somehow become gentle in some way towards something or someone, I don’t know.

HISTORY: Born into slavery in Mordor, Kwell has worked all his life in the fields under the supervision and whip of orc slave drivers. There he learned to become angry, and to store it, and to pack it in and to let it out stealthily and in ways that would not get him into more trouble. He remembers none of his family, being taken away (sold) when he was just a toddler.

Kwell has lived on the same plantation all his life. He is unfriendly to most people there, but a few of the slaves he did attach himself with. One was an older man, intelligent, sharp, and quiet. But not long ago, he was killed at the whim of the one of the orcs. He was getting old and couldn’t do as much work. It didn’t matter if he died. Kwell was badly affected and became even more angry and hateful towards the orcs and even the other slaves. It was partially because of this man slave’s death that he joined the desperate group of slaves who tried to escape.

Last edited by Folwren; 09-26-2006 at 02:35 PM.
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