OOC
Minecraft Username: wisperingsquids
Are you at least 18 years old?: yea !!
Have you read the rules? (Link): yeeeaaa ヽ(*≧▽≦)ノ !!!
(Optional) How did you hear about Avalore?: through my wonderful girlfriend <3
(Max. 1) Were you referred by someone? If so, please provide their in-game username: paigekie
(Optional) Introduce yourself if you’d like, as well as any creations you want to share (e.g. art, builds, skins):
hai („• ω •„) my preferred pronouns are ae/aers, i am plural and more than willing to exchange experiences / answer questions about plurality to the best of my ability!! i am puerto rican and have lived in rural appalachia, and have used these experiences to inform my character!!
—
In-Character
Read the following prompt:
The rhythmic lull of hoofbeats are a marching drum to the small group of pioneers and variety of folk you have found yourself amongst, packed into a wobbling wagon. The rolling plains of the Southern Reach and a clear sky stretch out all around you, the buzz of excited chatter a dull wash in your ears as your mind strays to your former life and what has led you here to new lands.
“Nervous?”
You blink, returning to the present moment. A kindly older woman sat near you is smiling warmly with a crinkle to her eyes.
“I can tell it’s your first time. Still remember mine,” she flashes a grin and leans in.
“Tell me my dear, why have you come to the Reach?”
How do you respond (in character)? (250 word minimum - please make sure to include at least three references to our lore in your response, with two coming from different pages in the Compendium. Two of the three selected should also be in-depth, avoid simply name-dropping lore terms. Tie the terms into your character's backstory. Why are they important to them?)
Usage of AI to generate, modify or translate the writing on your application will result in denial of your whitelist. There will be no chance to re-apply afterwards.
Méabh gazes tentatively as meadow hills crest behind the horizon. Stones kick from the rickety cart, and the half-elf bounces her leg in a tight, anxious rhythm. The wagon’s creaking sway is a screeching sound, especially when compared to the heavy lull of waves crashing on rocky shores Mae is familiar with. Here, in the Southern Reach, the sun glares too brightly. The open sky brings a wind chill normally blanketed by cloud cover. Typically, these might’ve only mildly discomforted Mae; today, it only stirs the low, simmering anger rising in her chest.
The older woman’s voice is kind, warm enough to cut through the ache of distance settling in Maeve’s body- oh, how it sounds like home. But she couldn’t stop her eyebrow from quirking up, nor her eyes from giving the older woman a once-over. She trained her gaze back to the road traveled, her nose held a little higher now.
“Ain’t nothin special ‘bout why I’m here.” She huffs a small laugh, more breath than humor, “I'm just another victim of fate, lost at sea, forced to run from the shadows of their past.” A knot forms between her eyebrows; her words are laced with resentment.
If she were any more nervous, she would hop out of the cart and run straight home.
“... ‘Mm sorry.” She mumbles, “Where I’m from, the fog never fully lifts. I-I learned to see through that fog. Without it, I'm just stumblin’ around…”
Maeve's mind wanders in memory. She has spent her life in routine, sheltered deep in the mountains of a small, independent island in the Mist archipelago. She managed herds of horned beasts with her family, all while the hills were still blue with morning. Afternoons were spent with the matriarch of the farming village, an old, prickly druid, who taught Méabh every scrap of magic she had left.
The old druid - gods rest her stormy soul - taught Maeve cursesmithy in accordance with the old ways: by throwing her straight into the Nocturn and seeing if she sank.
Cursesmiths don’t have a clear separation between the two tides of life. They live somewhere between the waking world and the Nocturn, the dreaming sea that laps at the edges of the fogs that blanket the Mists. Maeve learned to feel through this dream fog, until she could feel the current of someone’s deepest desires tugging at her own consciousness. She learned to listen. To see the stories knotted inside people’s hearts.
But every time she pulled from the Nocturn, she felt an absence like a hole in her ribs. Her magic tastes like the storms of a friend shes long lost in that fog…
If life were kind to her, Mae would have no reason to leave the place she calls home.
She lets her gaze fall to the floor of the cart, the corners of her vision blurring in old thoughts. “My mama- she was a stormcaller. A real one.” Oh, how beautiful she remembers her mother to be, dancing to commandeer the clouds as if she was born from storm itself. Her mother never explained to Maeve why she’d been exiled from her coven, nor the village druid why the Siren Serene- a guardian, such a benevolent figure in their worship, would take her mother's life in the end. For a spirit so beloved, it never made sense. But loss rarely does.
The people of the Mist Isles believe the Siren Serene is both mother and tempest - she feeds and shelters the people, and destroys them when the balance calls for it. She is not worshipped blindly. They respect her the way you’d respect the ocean: with awe and a little fear. Méabh knows her as the fog that watches over their pastures, and as the spirit that allows her to commune with the dreaming world. She is everything to her spiritual practice, but when that same storm took her mother…
Méabh hasn’t had the spine to pray in the Mists since.
“I want to be just like her.” Maeve straightens her posture to face the older woman, her nose held high in a stubborn light of pride. She does not hate the Siren. She just… can’t understand her. She’s too big to understand. Mother bowed to the sea. And she was swept away in its currents “Aah want to be stronger than the tides of fate itself. I’ll make a pact with Ciern’na if she’ll have me. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure nobody I love gets taken from me ah-gain.”
Her voice softens despite herself. “Truth is… I ain’t ever bin’ this far from home. ‘N aah ain’t got the faintest idea what waits for me on the Reach.”
“Reckon I’m gonna meet it anyway.”
—
Character Name: Méabh Ceò-faireoir
may - vuh. Irish Gaelic name that is usually romanized as Maeve outside of Ireland for convenience.
k - yoH // farH - oyr, with a breathy, almost rolled H sound. Scottish Gaelic for fog watcher.
Character Race: Born from a fey touched father - who was born human, and an elvish mother.
Character Age: 26
Brief Physical Description:
Mae doesn’t stand out when pictured next to her immediate family; her most distinguishing features are her long, down-pointed ears, and the fact that she stands about a head taller than the rest of her family - Both features she inherited from her Arsa Sidhe mother.
Her face has settled into its age, with lines and wrinkles blossoming around her mouth as she smiles and around her eyes and eyebrows as she emotes mirth or discontent. The shape of her face is round with generally full and wide features, complimented by downturned eyes and a flat nose bridge. Her hair is fine yet highly textured, the kind that gets straighter and longer as it soaks up water. Her fringe cascades down to cup her face, with gentle swooping curls cupping just above her shoulders.
She stands average for a half race, at 6’3 or 190 cm. She's wide set and appears chubby and soft, but physical examination reveals her as solid, and when she flexes her muscles, they are well defined - features she inherited from working long morning hours in her agricultural town.
Image of Skin and Figura Model:
