Muireen do Morny a'Lordeine
|Muireen do Morny a'Lordeine|
|MEWR-een doe MOR-nee ah-lord-AYN|
|Portrayed by||Carey Mulligan|
|Affiliation||The Grey Tower|
Muireen is considered to be plain at first glance, though is often considered to be much prettier upon interacting with her; she’s incredibly emphatic, and her features are often drawn into expression that are in sync with her state of mind. Her hazel eyes are always lively, and curly brown hair exudes her spirit, even more so now that it’s been cut like a boy’s. Her heart is her guiding star, and though she may be hesitant to voice her thoughts, they are generally decipherable whether or not she speaks them. She’s passionate, spirited, and stubborn - though not quite beyond chastising - and is more sensitive than she wishes to be.
She’s willowy, long-limbed and short-torsoed, seemingly too slim to be full grown - her hips aren’t much wider than her waist, her waist not much thinner than her chest - which is an irritating denial of her 17 years. It's even a more irritating hinderance in the Yards; not quite strong enough to draw a bow nor hoist a sword, she’s settled upon something that suits her style. Throwing knives are small, and allow her to exercise ballroom grace. Muireen would never admit it, but she dearly misses life at court. Silk and lace aren’t allowed in the Yards, and neither are the trinkets and jewels she would otherwise wear. Despite this rule, she keeps a single piece of gold from home - suspended on a delicate chain and tucked beneath her shirt is the sigil of the House do Morny a’Lordeine, a swallow in flight, barley clutched in one talon and a leafy sprig in the other - not even upon close examination would one be able to discern that it was mistletoe. The house motto, written in Old Tongue (which she never learned to read or speak) loosely translates to “Feed the laborer, stifle the master.”
Muireen do Morny a’Lordeine, born in the depths of winter, in the dead of night, would thaw her father’s heart. His first born child, screaming, wrinkly, and with a disproportionately large head, stole his heart from her first breath - as he held the squirming babe, with a wonder-struck expression, he vowed she would never come to harm. She lived a charmed life, with plenty of food, plenty of clothing, and an excess of love. Though Murandy was not exactly the most stable of places to raise a child, Muireen was sheltered from the hardship of war. Two siblings followed her three years after, twin boys, but she always remained her father’s favorite. Intuitive enough to sense his preference for her, but considerate enough to remain silent, she grew very close to her da, and though she loved her mother, her companionship was never quite as fulfilling as his; her mother made her feel liked - her father made her feel valued.
He taught her culture, economics, arithmetic - she had put her nose up at Old Tongue and Daes Dae’mar, and he did not protest, but instead cultured her scientific mind. Muireen loved learning the laws of the seasons, mapping the stars, and sketching the anatomy of the creatures their indentured workers kept and cared for. Herbcraft, she knew a little of, but her mother always disdained the time she spent with the working women, and Muireen preferred to stay in Lady Gyllian’s good graces, though she wanted to know more dearly.
As she grew, she became more inclined to listen to her mother’s pleading; a young lady shouldn’t be spending all day in the fields, drawing precise udders, for Light’s sake - a young lady needed to at least attempt to try and maintain her honor and good breeding. Muireen learned to dance, and to appreciate the finer things in life. It was because of this appreciation that she met Daev do Morny a’Lordeine, her cousin fourth or fifth removed, handsome, tall, and alluringly mysterious. Her mother approved the match immediately, and Muireen was too enamored by the way her name rolled off Daev’s tongue and by his touch trailing through her long hair to take heed of her father’s warnings.
Daev promised to marry her, if only she’d share his bed before he left for Whitebridge to make a name for himself - away from Murandy - as proof of her devotion, and that he would fetch her once he had secured a steady living for himself. Muireen, though apprehensive, didn’t wish to make him think she didn’t love him, agreed. She woke to an empty bed with a terse note - I won’t forget you, Reen - and she waited faithfully, for a time. Months passed, and she found that she grew restless. There was not a letter nor news of Daev, and she feared the worst. Her father, with some sad, knowing look in his eyes, begged that she forget him, but as most young women know, there are simply some lessons that one has to learn on their own. She snuck out in the night, taking nothing but the gentlest, sturdiest horse, a satchel of food, practical clothing, and her favorite sketchbook, and a large fistful of golden coins from her father’s study.
The next month was the hardest she had ever known, despite the money that provided her with a warm bed each night. She was cold, she was lonely, and more significantly, she was trapped in her thoughts. Her father’s words bounced around the inside of her skull, and though she tried to be optimistic, she found that her courage was dwindling. The night she rode into Whitebridge was one filled with anxiety, though she took great care to wash her hair and scrub her skin for what was to come in the morning.
Daev was easy enough to find, as she rattled off a precise description to anyone who would bother to listen to her, and she met him in a butcher’s shop, wearing an apron that was dyed with dried blood. He was short, sharp, and unwilling to relent to her reminders of his promises; finally, after she was sure she’d cry, he told her that he had married, was expecting a child, and that though he had loved her once, he hadn’t felt like waiting once a prettier girl had come along.
Muireen wished she’d punched him, but knew that she’d only make a fool of herself. She left, silently, not looking back once, and asked for a bath to be drawn once she returned to the inn. She had gotten a strange look for asking for a bath at 10 in the morning, especially since she had bathed just the night before, but the water was drawn anyway. She sat in the tub until she pruned. She sniffled and shivered and tried to pretend that it was only because the water had grown cold, and resolved to go somewhere, or find someone, that could teach her to throw a proper punch - and maybe a bit more. Though she missed her father terribly, she felt as if she couldn’t face him, not after blatantly ignoring him and being so foolish.
She made her up mind. She cut her hair, leaving near a foot of curly locks in the floor to be swept away by a maid, and set out for a life that was far away from Daev and far away from ladylike behavior.
- Drin (12 November 2014)