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Race: Human, Drykas [Female] Date of Birth [Age]: 11th Winter, 493 A.V. [18]
Every inch – every line, every muscle, every sinew – of Mealla’s body speaks of a life lived within the Sea of Grass, and of countless hardships and difficulties. Physically fit, she’s all lean muscle; any and all fat burned away by days spent riding, roaming and fighting. Her figure is, as a result, rather boyish, and she stands at a height of 5’11”. She does not wear her height well, and is often rather awkward in both mannerisms and appearance, almost as if self-conscious of the fact that she towers over many of the women around her.
Like all Drykas, Mealla wears her hair long, and - more often than not - down, whereupon it falls past her shoulders, pushed behind her ears. In terms of colour, it’s a dark brown, and is also straight. She favours wearing individual braids rather than wraps, though oftentimes these are in the process of coming undone, giving her an almost dishevelled appearance. When on rare occasions she does wear her hair up, it’s often simple, reflecting her rank– low.
Her face is thin, her nose long, and her lips full, her chin almost sharp. Her eyes are a pale blue-grey and are frequently thoughtful, serious, and faraway, almost as if her thoughts turn away from the Sea of Grass and dream of other places.
Scars litter her body, some large, some small, and most are from fights or run-ins with predators. The Sea of Grass, after all, is not the safest place to be, and one runs through her Windmark – a swirling pattern of flowers trailing down one arm to wind around her wrist – which itself was given to her when she was ten.
And, finally, she wears the clothes of her clan, favouring whites and silvers; the latter whenever she gets the chance to wear jewellery. At the moment she has a silver necklace – a gift from her grandmother, and one that has been passed down through her family for generations.
Character Concept
To describe Mealla’s personality would be to say that everything about her is intense and often at odds with each other. She does not do anything by half-measures. Whether it be anger or joy, sadness or fear, she feels them all to the extreme. She is passionate and fiery, stubborn and wilful, and lusts for adventure, hoping that one day she can range beyond the Sea of Grass and discover from where her mother came, but at the moment she does not dare, for the one thing that will always colour her is her lack of confidence. She does not trust herself or her skills, and will, as a result, quite often hold herself back and let opportunities pass her by. She will stay with what is safe and known, despite her longing for adventure. She just needs that push.
Like all Drykas, she is loud and open with her opinions, her thoughts and emotions, since she knows no other way to act, and yet there is a certain shyness to her when it comes to being around other people. She’s not the most trusting, and she won’t reveal her deepest, darkest feelings; her fears, her dreams, her hopes.
She is thoughtful - calculating - and has learnt to temper her reckless impulses so that she can take a step back and think through things. She will always question, always ask, and will always, always test.
She is a Drykas through and through, but she wants more.
To be more.
Character History
There’s not much to say about Mealla’s life so far. She was born of the Stormsong Pavilion of the Diamond clan; the oldest of eight children to her father’s second wife (the first having not been able to bear children). Her mother was a foreigner, born beyond the Sea of Grass, but accepted by a Strider. She herself accepted the Drykas’ ways, and became one in every way possible. She does not speak of her life before, despite Mealla’s many, many questions. From the very beginning, Mealla has always turned her gaze towards the lands that lie beyond the Sea of Grass. She hopes one day to see them, and to see where her mother came from.
Her childhood was a normal and happy one. Oh, it was hard, harsh, tiring, but the family were close, and Mealla was closest of all to her father. They spent a great amount of time together until his death some few months ago. It was he who taught how to ride, and he who told her stories of the gods and of what lay beyond the Sea of Grass. It was he who started her desire to travel and to go further; to seek new things. She wanted to – and still wants to - see if there is any truth to his stories.
She spent the first seventeen years of her life travelling around with family, never staying in one place for too long. Her father, as a warrior, was often called away, and Mealla helped to tend the herds of Zibri and look after her younger siblings whilst he was gone. Unlike many girls, she did not dream of marrying, of becoming a wife, but instead dreamt of joining the Watch and becoming a warrior of renown, thinking that that would then give her the freedom to wander and follow her desires, and to not be bound by loyalty to her clan. She practiced her hunting and fighting skills every moment that she was able, striving to improve; seeking to become the best that she could.
When she was eight-years-old, she gained the attention of the god Zulrav by running to the rescue of a foal in the midst of a storm without thought for herself, and received His mark.
At the age of twelve, she was accepted by a Strider – Andraste - the very same one she had rescued four years previously, and, as a result, gained her first windmark. That same year she was attacked by a predator. It caught her, injuring her before her father and uncles managed to drive it away. Its claws had slashed through her windmark, marring it.
She soon recovered - bounced back - and carried on with life. The years passed, until she was eighteen and things started changing. There was unrest in the Pavilion, and one day her father and oldest uncle, the Ankal, went hunting with their sons. They did not return, though the sons did, and the rumours started as her cousin took control and became the new Ankal.
Mealla was devastated by her father’s death. She disliked her cousin, and as the rumours continued to grow -whispers that the Stormson Pavilion might be tainted - she took the decision to leave, setting off with her Strider and a few possessions; enough to see her by, and she took with her the necklace given to her by her grandmother. Her cousin would have seen her married, and that would not do. Her dreams came first, after all.
“Stop it! Give it back! It’s mine! My papa gave it to me, not you! Give it back now! Daimhin!”
But the boy kept on running, laughing as he did so, turning back every now and then to look over his shoulder at the young girl that followed close on his heels, her face a picture of pure fury. She was coltish, thin, with a streak of mud across one cheek that she scrubbed at in annoyance with the heel of her hand, even as she continued to run, trying to catch up with him. A huge grass-stain covered the front of her white shirt, almost as if she had not long been pushed over, and her hair was falling from its tie, sticking out, giving her the impression that she had quite literally been dragged through a hedge backwards, or had been involved in a fight.
“Daimhin!” she yelled again, her voice a shrill, offended screech that only rose with each word. “Daimhin! I’ll tell your father! And, as Ankal, he’ll be forced to punish you! I swear I’ll tell him! Daimhin! Stop!”
She didn’t know if the last was true or not, but the boy, Daimhin, just laughed, uncaring, and lifted the wooden toy that he clutched in one hand – a small carved horse – waving it at her once before darting off through the grass yet again. Mealla let out another offended screech, almost in tears. The toy had been a gift from her father for helping out in the Pavilion, and for doing a great job. She’d been so proud, but then her cousin had shoved her in the grass, snatched it off her and run, his laughter mocking.
She skidded to halt, her chest heaving, face flushed, completely out of breath, and pushed a lock of hair from her face, seconds away from tears. It had been hers. Hers. A present. She’d worked so hard! She’d scrubbed pots, cleaned clothes, sewn and sewn and sewn, seen to the Zibri, fed the horses, and... and...! Mealla stamped her foot in frustration and crossed her arms, silently fuming away. Daimhin would pay. He would. She’d see to that. She’d-
The sky darkened briefly -a mere flicker – but it had her attention. Storm, she thought, as she froze. Storms were common. The sky would darken, the clouds would lower, and the thunder would rumble and the lightning flash, and the horses would scream and scream and scream.
The horses.
Mealla darted forward again, breaking into a run, not sure if the others had noticed the approaching clouds. The horses needed to be guided to shelter before it was too late, otherwise they would bolt, and then a day’s hunting and foraging would be wasted as they were rounded up. And they couldn’t waste even a day. Not if they wanted to continue to survive.
Mealla continued to run towards where the horses grazed in the distance, not far from the pavilion. People were already emerging, rounding them up, as the first crackle of thunder rumbled overhead, sounding like a booming drum. She increased her pace, knowing that that they would need and want all the help they could get.
A hand clamped down suddenly on her arm, pulling her back, and she spun, getting ready to kick out, lash out, her breaths coming in harsh pants. She needed to get to the horses! To help!
“Mealla! Stop!” It was Daimhin, her cousin. The wooden horse had disappeared as he gazed anxiously, his grip almost painfully tight. “Go home! Go back to your mother! Leave it to the adults! You don’t want to be outside for this!” He shoved her towards the pavilion as the rain began to lash down, the sky growing darker and darker. “Go! Go! Go, Mealla, go now! Go home!”
She dug her heels in, not moving, and pushed another strand of hair from her face, scrubbing at the mark on her cheek. “I’m eight! I’m old enough! I can help!”
But Daimhin was no longer looking at her. He looked past her at the horses, his eyes widening in horror.
“Oh no.”
The rain continued to lash, and the wind howled, whipping their hair about their faces. Mealla could feel herself start to shiver as her clothes plastered themselves to her skin, but she ignored it as she turned to look in the direction in which Daimhin was transfixed.
Oh no. Oh gods. Zulrav help her...
One of the foals had broken away from the herd – bolted- heading closer to the storm, fear clear in every inch of its body.
No. No. No.
Without thinking, Mealla ran forward again, after it, her feet slapping against the ground, slipping and sliding. No one else had spotted it yet. Only her and Daimhin. And it was getting further and further away.
“Mealla! Stop! Don’t be stupid! Stop!”
The voice was almost drowned out by the wind, but Mealla didn’t stop, didn’t listen, didn’t think. She was closer to the foal than anyone else, and the storm wouldn’t hurt her; she prayed to Zulrav most days. He wouldn’t hurt those who worshipped him. He wouldn’t. Mother had said.
She finally came close enough to the foal to reach out and grab it. It danced away, rearing, whirling, twirling, panic clear in its eyes as it tossed its head back. It shrieked, a sound of pure fear as the world suddenly flashed white. The ground trembled, the air rumbled, and Mealla felt her heart pound, though not from fear. Storms did not scare her. She had to get the foal back, back to the herd, back to shelter. She heard voices, cries, but they came as if from a million miles away, and she saw nothing as she turned to look – only rain and darkness. Clouds. She turned back to the foal, arms outstretched, trying to calm it.
“Stop! Please! Zulrav,” she prayed under her breath, still not scared, still somehow calm, even as she shivered, soaking, her clothes and hair clinging to her, and even as the thunder continued to roar, the lightning flash, and the wind howl. “Zulrav, help. Save this foal. Please. I beg you.”
It could die. One fall and it could break its leg. Gone. She couldn’t let that happen. Never. She was Drykas. Without horses, without Striders, they’d be nothing. They couldn’t be allowed to die.
“Please, Zulrav. Please!” Urgency filled her voice. “Please! I beg you!”
The thunder crashed. The lightning flashed. The ground shuddered and heaved. The foal screamed. And Mealla shut her eyes, still praying, still hoping, still reaching out for the foal.
"Child, you're either incredibly foolish or incredibly brave.”
Mealla spun, eyes springing open. One of the adults had finally reached her, had finally come to help. Thanks the gods, thank Zulrav. Thank...
Her eyes widened as she stared at the thing in front of her. A figure. But it wasn’t human. No human could look like that, and it wasn’t any creature she had ever seen or heard. It was as if it was made from the clouds – the storm clouds that raged overhead. It came closer and closer, but she did not move. Even the foal had fallen silent beside her; still.
Zulrav.
She knew. Instinctively, she knew.
He swirled about, enveloping her, covering her completely, and she felt no fear as her hair whipped across her face. He wouldn’t hurt her. She’d prayed.
“Please,” she whispered. “Save the foal. Please. Save her. I beg you.”
There was the sound of laughter, but it was like no laughter she had ever heard. It was like a breeze, like a wind, a gentle caress.
“You truly are brave or foolish.” Another laugh, though this time it was like the booming of thunder. The voice matched. “So I will grant you your lives so that we might see which it is.”
The rain stopped, the wind stopped howling, and the sky brightened. Everything became still. It was as if the storm had not happened, though she could hear the drip, drip, drip of drops of rain as they fell from the tips of the grass. The heat beat down on her, and the foal moved and nudged her back. Mealla reached out without looking, stroking its nose, the rest of her frozen. She could hear whispers. Whispers on the breeze. Voices.
And the figure was gone.
So soon. So sudden. Like a dream.
“Mealla! Mealla!”
Daimhin’s voice. Filled with panic.
Numb, Mealla turned, her wet clothes still clinging to her. She stroked the foal’s nose again, calming it, reassuring it, as the breezes continued to whisper. Senseless words. Words with no meaning. Words that she could not yet decipher. Mutterings. Whisperings. Voices.
“Gods, Mealla!”
Her cousin swept her up in a hug, and beyond him she could see her father, her uncle-the Ankal-, her mother, and other members of the pavilion.
There were mutters among them. Zulrav. Zulrav had come.
Her father pulled her from her cousin’s grasp, his face pale, and pushed aside her shirt to reveal her shoulders. A swirling hurricane marked her skin. She squinted, looking back over her shoulder, though she continued to cling to the foal, refusing to let go.
“Zulrav’s mark.” It was a whisper. Her father’s face remained pale, awe in his voice. “You’ve been marked.”
And she had.
The swirling hurricane. Zulrav’s mark.
Child, you’re either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish...
... I will grant you your lives so that we may see which it is.
Zulrav had marked her
And she could hear the breezes.
Zulrav had marked her.
Fluent Language: Pavi Basic Language: Common Poor Language: Arumenic
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Mealla Stormsong 
by Mealla Stormsong on July 20th, 2012, 9:04 pm 
