About Brigid auf Whitehelm
female Human fighter 5
Spd 30 ft. (30 ft. armor)
Str 14 (+2)., Dex 19 (+4), Con 12 (+1), Int 10 (0), Wis 12 (+1), Cha 11 (0)
Backpack, bedroll, belt pouch, sack, set of clothes, 10 torches, 12 days rations, waterskin. Cost: 7 gp (Pathfinder Beginner's Box, HH p.48
The tall, northern woman with the flaming red hair nocks an arrow into her well-used bow. Her eyes narrow as she sights along the shaft.
Brigid auf Whitehelm traveled south, fleeing from a tragedy in her northern barbarian village of which she will not speak. She arrived in Brevoy penniless and nearly starving after a harrowing overland journey. She took on mercenary work, with her skills with steel and sinew well-serving those who risked ridicule by hiring a woman for warcraft. Before long, the stern, flame-haired woman became known as a capable warrior, so it was only natural that she answered the call for stout and brave souls to tame the Stolen Lands.
Personality and role-playing notes:
I usually play the loquacious sort, with big speeches and witticisms. With Brigid, I'm interested in playing someone who is introverted and haunted, full of brooding silence. I have a couple ideas for the tragedy that befell her and her home in Issia, but I'm willing to work with the story so it matches up with the campaign. In the end, the tragedy doesn't matter so much as the effect it'll have on Brigid -- that and the effect of the campaign as it progresses along with the camaraderie of the fellow players that will aid in the healing process. Eventually I see her coming out of her shell, though only with a few who have earned her trust.
While a PBP game may be tough for a strong, silent type to flourish and add to the campaign, I think it should be a great exercise for descriptive storytelling, as I can describe her actions in a way that hopefully shows her personality without resorting to dialogue.
Brigid's Memories so far:
She was home, where the high, cold air had a sting to it. Tears were on her cheeks, feeling like ice in the wind, but she couldn't stop them from flowing because she held the torn and chewed remains of her favorite poppet. She knew she shouldn't be reacting like this. She was getting older, and the time for toys would soon be past. But Gigi was her favorite doll, a gift from her father and a comfort for when he was away.
A sound of footsteps behind her, in the small twist of hills to where she had retreated to hide her grief. "I'm sorry Fenro chewed up Gigi." She looked up, and the handsome youth stood before her, looking contrite. A large, shaggy hound sat at his feet, and also managed to look sorry. She wiped her tears.
"Umm, here. Maybe you'd like this," the boy said, and passed her a bow and a few arrows. She smiled at him, and accepted the gift.
It was too early; the cold bite in the air still refused to be warmed by the spring sun, but Mother had insisted. She stepped out and into the village, hoping the burning in her cheeks would be attributed to the cold air which also caressed the bare flesh below her neckline. The Songbird's gift had arrived during that long winter, and she was a gangly stick of a girl no longer. Mother had stuffed her in this low-collared dress and sent her out to pick the first of the snowdrop buds for her kitchen.
She had nearly filled her basket of the white petals on the southeastern slope when she heard a noise. She looked up from her task and saw him -- Bron, the chieftain's son, obviously just returned from the winter's lodge, laden with a heavy pack. His long blond hair had grown several inches, and the scruff of hairs along his chin were new. His ice-blue eyes were fixed on her, and her breath caught. Then she suddenly realized her stooped posture, her dress, and his gaze. She--
The high clear air whipped across the meadow as she stood defiantly between the goat and the approaching wolf. Father would later tell her that it was old, and likely put out of its pack by a younger wolf. Hunger and desperation drove it onward, despite Brigid's shouts and the arrows she sent its way. Father said she had done well; she had not run, which would have been certain death.
Her arrows spent, she waved her hands and tried to look menacing, but the wolf still kept coming. The goat bleated behind her nervously, though it remained close. She threw rocks, but the wolf jumped closer each time she bent to scoop up something to throw. She had to remain on her feet. She would not run.
Finally, it moved close enough to lunge at her. She was ready; all she had left was her bow, but she whipped it at the mangy old wolf and stung it across its nose. It retreated, and she took several steps back and glanced at her bow. It had splintered along its length, and was ruined.
The wolf recovered, and gathered itself for another leap. Suddenly, a dark blur tore through the meadow and slammed into the old wolf, sending them both rolling in a tumble of teeth and snarls. Brigid recognized Fenro's form come to rest on top of the pile, his jaws clamped down on the neck of the wolf. She scooped up the goat and started to back away from the melee. Still she would not run.
Arms grabbed her and she spun, looking up into the familiar face of Bron. He held her as he intensely watched his hound fight. She watched the concern on his face ease as Fenro easily dealt with the old wolf, and then he smiled and looked down at her. The danger was passed, but her heart kept beating fast. Was it speeding up? She felt her cheeks flush as she leaned harder into him. She reached up to touch--
The ice burned hot on her skin. Brigid again struggled to rise; she pushed herself up to her knees, then slowly tried getting her feet under her. Her heel slipped and again she went down hard against the ice.
Ingretta's laughter rang in her ears as she looked up at her furiously. She stood safely on the bank, with her dark hair and impossibly pale blue eyes, and cackled again. The hex upon Brigid continued, turning her gangly limbs against her.
"Give it up, you red-headed skækja," Ingretta said as Brigid floundered upon the ice, "You're never going to get it and get back to the competition. You'll be lucky to get off that ice before you freeze." She punctuated that with more mocking laughter.
Brigid turned her head and looked at the middle of the frozen lake where her bow rested. The witch's throw was pretty good, and she had waited until Brigid was well out on the ice before hexing her. She fumed, feeling none of the strange friendship that had come upon her suddenly and led her to allow Ingretta to lead her out here and hold her bow.
Gritting her teeth, Brigid drew two of her arrows and gripped them in each hand, just above the tip. Using them as little claws, she started pulling herself along the ice, hand over hand. As she started making progress, Ingretta's laughter fueled her fury.
She reached her bow, snatched it up and nocked one of her arrows. She had wanted to scare her -- to put an arrow at her feet to prove she could do much worse -- but when she turned around...
"Amma, I won!" Brigid shouted as she threw open the door into her grandmother's room. She was flush from her triumph over Mera, Birgitta, and Faori, and the other girls in the spear competition in the summer festival.
It was important for all women of the village to know the spear, for when the men went raiding or hunting, they would defend Whitehelm. So these competitions among the young girls were encouraged, although the girls with the talent for magics were excused. All the while, she could feel Ingretta's eyes on her as she competed. But more importantly, she knew that Bron was watching as well.
"Wonderful, my lítið hlébarði," Grandmother said, full of pride. Then, with a wink and a knowing grin, "You could be a Bardagamaður mær, you know."
Brigid stared at the ancient woman, gray hair in a single tight braid looped over her shoulders. Her wizened, knobby hands still with great strength in them reached over to touch the pommel of a great two-handed sword. A zweihänder. "Take it. Draw it, and see if you can wield it," her grandmother offered.
The young girl shook her head. "That's... not what I want. There's someone who..." she turns her head to hide her furious blushing.
"The chieftan's boy?" the woman laughed as her grandchild registered surprise. "It's no great secret you have eyes for him. And I believe eyes for you." Her eyes twinkled underneath her wrinkles.
"You don't know what the future holds, dear. I see the path of the Bardagamaður mær before you. It's a fine fate."
Brigid looked again at the sword and shuddered.