The GM accepted it, so here it goes:

[hider=Éolan]
Look at Éolan! – a young lass whose dreams and stoic perseverance are her weapon of warding off the darkness of misfortune that seems to follow and shroud her every step ever since the night of her birth, 2493 T.A. She is beautiful in face, slender, healthy-looking, green-eyed, her cheeks often rubescent, lips full and naturally pink. There is a small almost unseen beauty mark next to her left eye. Her coiffure simple: blonde hair reaching the middle of her back, with a braid or two to keep it tight. Her arms are long and pale, hands usually scarred by thorn, dust and soil adhering to her nails. Her ragged green dress covers her frame, a yellow horse skillfully sewn on it just above each of her firm breasts, and a leather belt to hold it. In her leather boots are tucked woolen trousers with a pocket on each side. Not rarely a lad’s eyes would follow her.


In her 19 years – for that many have passed since she was found screaming and bloody in a basket under the storm that beat upon Greenhoof, the mountain above her village – Éolan has worked as a baker with the couple who adopted her and raised her as her own, as a gardener for the neighbors, as a hewer of wood with the men thrice as hard and strong as she, as a drawer of water, as a horse-tender in stables, as a maid, as a cook’s apprentice, as a field worker. 

Twice she broke her ribs, once her left elbow; countless times she fell and just as many she bled. She had a man she called brother in this world but she had seen him last before her breast grew. The kind man she calls father lost a hand to a wolf carrying her freezing infantile body to his home. The woman she calls mother suckled her from her own bosom and is now in tears with each dying sun for her firstborn. 

She had never learned save from experience. She can neither read nor write. Her Westron is limited and broken, but she does not feel ashamed of it; her prejudices she does not hide, for her experiences is lacking in friendship with folk outside her village. She is cautious of strangers, yet soon friendly once names and stories are shared; she is innocent of many dark secrets in the hearts of men that Illuvatar did not intend, but curious to know the wishes and dreams of those who grow close to her; she is shy, yet speaks in words shaken by awe and delight when her muscles relax in new company, and listens carefully.

Joy she finds in finding herbs and brewing tea, in cooking and baking, and in watching the riders sweep across the plains whose trails she daily treads. She watches them fight and spar, and learns by observing. She understands cavalry formation and battles stances, remembers all the advice captains shout to their men. Of horses she is fond, and they of her. She learned to ride but never had a chance to own a steed of her own. Jewelry and pompous trinkets displease her, and so do the tales of evil sorcery and unnatural power she hears by the fire – she prefers tales of valor and wisdom of the ancient knights of the houses of men whose glorious deeds echo in tongues of their descendants to this day. 

When alone, she clads herself in her father’s old armor, for he is a man of smaller stature than other of the Rohirric race, and his gear fits her perfectly. During rare sleepless nights, she swings his cold sword and ax in the woods, pretending to slay the phantoms who took her brother away. She then drops her shield and sits on a stump and watches the stars fall through her hair swirling in the nightly breeze. A torch on a caravan or a merchant’s wagon passes through the darkness, the sound of wheels an whistling wakes her from her fantasy, and she departs to her home and waits awake until the shrill cry of the cock sounds sunrise.
[/hider]