When looking to Meala, one could easily see the distinguished earthen coat hugging a voluptuous, long-legged frame, a sunny disposition and a graceful way in which she carries herself. Effortless, open, and welcoming. However, her deep pools of orange as they shimmer in the daylight, however slight, seem to carry with them a danger hidden far beneath the surface, a raging fire that still lay encased in her soul's mirrors giving those who stare into them an unnerving feeling, as though they are about to see something they shouldn't. Rumor has it that any who stare too long will be cursed just like all who dared get close to her, but those are such silly things, aren't they?

Ever the optimist, Meala buries the brunt of her tragedies beneath a veiled laughter and the desire to make others happy. The world itself was far too serious so why did she have to be? Following the tune of her own drum and simply going whatever way the winds blow, some may find her carefree attitude as something both incredibly infuriating and something to strive for as it could at times feel like she didn't care about anything going on around her. However, that couldn't be further from the truth.

1710

Fae Ick

1709

TBU

1708

TBU

From Before

In the world to which she was born, Meala was entertained by the stories of superstition and nature, the Old World, how it used to be, by the aging who had lived long, precarious lives and could do nothing more than pass on their wisdom to the new generation. For her family, she only had her father and sister. Her mother's identity was settled in mysterious, caring rumors that she could only catch in the angled halls when they thought no one was listening. While some gossiped of a commonwealth mainlander being run out as the tensions between the two lands rose, others whispered of faes, of the north, of the singing stones, of Tir Na Nog, of father's preferences in men, but the only one who could truly answer any of it was a man who rarely spoke aside from what his stoic gaze could muster. It wasn’t for others to know, to judge, and yet they still did because they could. And father didn’t care at all.

As time continued, their small family was thrown into the politics of their homeland, arms that had long since put away their swords raising again in outrage, and she and her sister had no choice but go along. News of death became a natural occurrence, their youth stripped away day by day as every gentle smile they recognized was returned to them in a peaceful slumber. Without much to do, the youths were tasked with preparing the bodies for burial, a rite built on tradition, a service to lay them at rest for the loyalty they kept until the very end. She had all but gotten used to that hollow and draining feeling of seeing so many lifeless bodies until one night she had looked upon her sister.

While there was nothing in particular that called to her attention, the rise and fall of her breathing was normal, her coat was growing in especially lovely, something made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Something was wrong. Something she couldn't shake... like a predator stood looming over her, casting her in a shadow that couldn't be wiped away, baring its fangs and waiting for just the right moment to strike. It wasn't until the next evening or so the unnerving feeling had subsided only to be replaced by a grief she had never known.

"Your sister... M-meala... I'm sorry." A cliffside had crumbled under her weight it seemed, casting her into the ocean. She never resurfaced.

The shadow she at first deemed a trick of the fair folk, their unknown mark of those they would next target to take, only became stronger and quicker to lunge as the fighting dragged on. The feeling wouldn't stray, her reactions becoming more and more strange to those around her as she tried to understand it, tried to stop it, all to no avail. After a while, and by absolute accident, her lips unknotted themselves from the secret they held and under her breath muttered something that would deem her too soon an outcast among what was left of her family. A curse. A Caoineag. Another one of the fae's tricks. A mistake. However, it was her father that protected her even then, standing in between her and the ire of war-worn people that wished to claim her, but once he too had been consumed by the shadow, Meala was chased out for good. Still, she preferred to remember it as she having no more reasons to stay.

As time continued, the ebb and flow of political struggles dulled Meala's interest, finding listening to wolves older than her unable to get along beneath her capabilities, beneath them as a species. Where her younger self had been hoisted into a world of fangs and venomous words, she found solace in nature, untouched by their cacophony of shrieks as they tried yelling over the other. So, it was a miracle, really, that she had come upon a man then, a mainlander it seemed considering he wasn’t one to hesitate at the sight of her, an expression that seemed so untrusting yet so much like a boy who had gotten caught stealing. What was he doing so far north? Perhaps he was a spy, perhaps one of the guard on his way to reach a hidden militia. She invited him to her home.

While the decision was made on a whim, the confidence in her speechcraft emboldened her, making her believe that she could garner some kind of information from him once she had shown some manner of hospitality. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be given, nothing she hadn't already known, nothing they hadn't realized. So, she sent him on his way. What she didn’t expect was his continued visits over the course of the months he was stationed there, the hardened gaze that would soften just a little bit at every single hello he mumbled under his breath, and a smile that became more genuine at the sight of his frame appearing over the rolling hill. It wasn't so much of a shock when she found out she was expecting during the next breeding season.

In their preparation, the small family left the north, left their duties, and settled in the lowlands. Those days she would recall even on her deathbed as one of the happiest, but as often as good things do, they weren't made to last long. Still weak from labor, the new mother once more had that unnerving feeling, that shadow that consumed the living looming so confidently over her home, over her family. Who did it target, what was going to happen? Where it first settled so narrowly on her sister first then her father, it didn't choose a target this time. What did that mean? Every day she waited with bated breath for her world to fall apart, for her chance to perhaps change the target to herself, to trick and tempt whoever decided these things to simply leave them, but it was unresponsive.

During the night so many weeks later, brigands found their remote home. In their haste and desperation in realizing they wouldn’t be an easy target, the life she created and the home she built was reduced to nothing but ash with her family unceremoniously buried inside while she was left there to die from the outskirts of the burning hovel, watching their final moments as their cries slowly faded to nothing.