[hider=Madame Morvanne] [center][h2][color=purple]Madame Morvanne[/color][/h2] [sub][i](If you've got a picture you're using, right here would be the place to drop it.)[/i][/sub][/center] [color=purple]Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:[/color] A human of 32. [color=purple]Or so she thinks at least[/color]. A pilgrim within the caravan for four years. [color=purple]Appearance:[/color] A tall, slender, willowy woman, who looks as if a stiff breeze would cart her up into the air and carry her away, into [color=purple]places unknown[/color]. The good madame has long locks of flowing, wispy flaxen hair kept neatly tucked inside a full set of modest bonnets, a milky complexion and pale eyes that can never quite decide if they should be blue, grey or green, depending on the condition of light or shadow [color=purple]forces beyond the day[/color] or how wide her pupils are. [hider=History] Trist is an old, forgetful land, somewhere to the west and somewhere to the north, not terribly far from the Old Marshes. It is a land of stone, earth and bones, tilled and toiled upon by peasants, ridden hard upon by nobles, and settled extensively by wave after wave of migrant, invader and coloniser. Out in the oldest of its places, villages that once proudly stood for generations have been covered by the silt of time, and in their place are barrows and tombs... Yet in its beating heart stand proud citadels of heavy stone and sloped roofs, gutters near-overspilling from the rain that frequently drizzles down. The earth of Trist is fertile and rich, fine fodder for the peasantfolk to divide into hedgerow-split fields or to allow sheep and cattle to ramble over, and although few would call it the most blessed place on Alwyne, only a fool would deny that the people of Trist feast more often than they experience famine. This was the land where Madame Morivanne was born to, as wind and rain crashed against sturdy stone walls, where the cries of her mother were drowned out by the crack of lightning and boom of thunder. She had a first name, [color=purple]once[/color], [color=purple]of that she is sure[/color], but she has found that whatever it was has become [color=purple]quite superfluous now[/color]. In fact, many things about Madame Morivanne have turned out to be [color=purple]quite irrelevant[/color] over the years. Even to herself, her life is a patchwork thing, stitched together from threads of recollection around memories [color=purple]who have found new uses[/color]. Yet, just because she does not remember them does not mean they never happened. A child to a family of burghers - those who learn crafts like the peasantry yet live behind high stone walls, she was raised to be a lady-in-waiting, as it is the custom in the city of Trist for wealthy women to have a learned assistant to help with managing their house in ways mere servants cannot. She learned to read, to write, to stitch together flesh so a doctor might not be needed, to count coins and tighten a purse, and to dress and undress another faster than they could do so themselves. She was apprenticed to a family of minor nobility, and at first, all seemed well, but there was little well within the manor which she found herself now living in. Her mistress was a weak-willed woman, and she had a husband who used this against her and the rest of his household, heavy with his hand, harsh with his tongue, and prone to strong wine that made him all the worse for it. Morivanne learnt quickly that the one place her master rarely bothered to tread was the library of the house - a marvellous thing, but left neglected in the basement, where it secrets had been forgotten beneath the slowly-gathering dust. As she spent her time down there, blowing away cobwebs and parting parchment that had not seen candlelight in far too long, she began to read of things that perhaps ought to have been forgotten. She read of the [color=gold][b]Sun[/b][/color], and the splendour it [color=black][b]once had[/b][/color]. She learnt of the [color=red][b]Light-And-Flame[/b][/color], the [color=skyblue]tenfold essences that made up the soul[/color], of how autumn did not lead to winter, but instead the [color=white][b]Silence[/b][/color], and then she learnt of the [color=purple][b]Threshold[/b][/color], and [color=purple]she began to understand enough[/color]. One day, her mistress noticed that she had not seen the young Madame Mervivanne around for an unusual while. Nor had her servants, and the master of the house could not remember a young woman by the surname Morvanne having ever worked at their estate before. Soon enough, the servants could no longer remember a Madame Morvanne either. When the master of the house passed away - a tragedy for a sleeping sickness to strike like that, it truly was, all memories of Morvanne had left the house entirely, along with the quiet library buried in the earth. But not all are as suceptible to such things as unwitting nobles, and not all are pleased by the twisting of [color=purple]shoulds and should-nots[/color]. Among Trist's people are those wise to the ways of ancient memories, and Morivanne, with no tutor to guide her beyond the books, was not terribly apt at disguising the profession in which she found herself. When Wych-Hunters came to her new abode she was forced to flee, and then flee again, until at last she realised that, for now, Trist was unsafe for her to say in. The Pilgrim's Caravan came at an apt time to allow her to quietly slip away, but she knew more than most that Trist is an [color=purple]old[/color], [color=purple]forgetful land[/color]. She will return there, one day. Of this she is certain. [/hider] [color=purple]Personality:[/color] The good Madame is a quiet, studious sort, who tends to travel alongside unusual companions wherever she can, the more unusual the better. She is the sort to listen, long and hard - the sort of listening that can rarely be feigned, and seems to take great and legitimate interest in the things that others have to say. She is fond of books and tea, of long strolls to [color=purple]nowhere in particular[/color], of the houseplants she tends to in her wagon and in the careful sorting of the many curiosities and knick-knacks she has accumulated. In short, she is a regular homebody, except one whose home now rolls along the road. [color=purple]Motivation:[/color] If she had her way, Morvanne would be back in Trist, sat beside a small hearth in a pleasant house nestled firmly behind a set of thick walls. Perhaps she'd even have a husband, or let herself grow heavy with child, but above all she would have her library. Until Trist has forgotten her then, she works on the last objective most of all. At every stop along the journey, and indeed between stops as well, she goes about, gathering literature, cataloguing it and then, most of the time, selling it or gifting it onwards. Most of the caravan probably knows her best as a book merchant and librarian, which suits her just fine. [color=purple]Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:[/color] Morvanne is an occultist - but mind how you refer to such a thing around her, because to Madame Morvanne, the 'occult' is not the domain of fussy old fellows in Hermetic Lodges, or tentacle-wielding scholars muttering at skulls. Her practices are easy to miss. She does not read the cards or cast the bones, nor do her spells pour forth darkness or sunder skin from bone. She reads, and she writes, and things that oughtn't ought, and things that ought oughtn't and peculiar [color=purple]bargains[/color] lead to peculiar [color=purple]happenstance[/color]. [hider=Morvanne's Occultism] In plain English, Morvanne is a spellcaster dedicated to the various powers who those in the know refer to as the Oblitarchy, and the [color=skyblue]tenfold essences[/color] that their occultists categorise. Morivanne in particular found herself predisposed to the Oblitarch known as the [color=purple]Threshold[/color], associated with the essence of [WIP]. [WIP]. is the essence of the sleeping mind - where experiences become memory and memory engrained, and thus the [color=purple]Threshold[/color] is a peculiar thing - gifting and taking away knowledge in equal parts, and reigning over all that has been murmured in the night. Because of this, Morvanne is unusually well-educated considering her age in matters both of and not of this world, but this comes with it not only a forgetfulness of her own past, but also with remembering things that are not true, at least not within this Time. Outside of the [color=purple]Threshold[/color], she also dabbles in the essences of [WIP] and [WIP]. [/hider] [WIP] [hider=Optional: Extra Details] [center][color=purple]What They Most Want:[/color] [color=purple]If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:[/color] [color=purple]Three Likes:[/color] [color=purple]Three Dislikes:[/color] [color=purple]Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:[/color] [color=purple]Worst Fear:[/color] [color=purple]Favorite Color:[/color] [color=purple]Most Like The Animal:[/color] [sub][i]That is, which animal they are most like- not which one they like the most.[/i][/sub] [color=purple]Favorite Time of Day:[/color] [color=purple]How They Dress:[/color] [color=purple]Favorite Season:[/color] [color=purple]What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):[/color] [/center] [/hider] [/hider]