caelin

Caelin, Medea's Sorrow, Cliath Homid Galliard of the Black Furies.

Glory:
Honour:
Wisdom:

Rage: OOOO
Gnosis: OO
Willpower: OOOOOO

Physical (7):
Strength OOO
Dexterity OOOOO
Stamina OOO

Social (3):
Charisma OOO
Manipulation OO
Appearance O

Mental (5):
Perception OOO
Intelligence OOO
Wits OOO

Abilities:
Talents: (13)
Alertness OO
Athletics OOOO
Brawl OOO
Dodge OO
Empathy O
Expression OOOO
Intimidation O
Primal Urge O
Streetwise
Subterfuge
Instruction

Skills: (9)
Animal Ken
Crafts O
Drive
Ettiquette O
Firearms
Leadership O
Melee OOO
Performance OOOO
Stealth
Survival OO
Archery OO
Cooking
Meditation O

Knowledges: (5)
Computer
Enigmas
Investigation O
Law
Linguistics OOO
Medicine OO
Occult OO
Politics
Rituals
Science
Herbalism
Lores

Backgrounds (5):
Resources OOO
Ancestors OO

Gifts:
Mindspeak (Galliard)
Heightened Senses (Black Fury)
Master of Fire (Homid)
Scent of Sight (Lupus)

Flaws:
Blind (6)
Nightmares (1)

Merits:
Cool in Battle (1)
Perfect Balance (1)
Concentration (1)
Common Sense (1)
Jack of All Trades (3)

XP Log:
Earned: 11
2XP Soft RP Scene April 2010
2XP Soft RP Scene April 2010
4XP Moot May 2010
3XP Alligator Scene 2010

Spent: 8
3XP Primal Urge 1
5XP Rank 1 Lupus Gift: Scent of Sight (out of cost)

Renown:
Honour:
Glory:
Wisdom:

Biography:
Medea’s Sorrow was born in England, to a family of Glasswalkers involved for the most part in banking, with a few who

dabbled in the world of software design instead. Her upbringing was sheltered; the height of her freedom being allowed to go

to the library or swimming pool on a Saturday. Part of this limited freedom of course, was secrecy, her parents preferred

their daughter’s society to be amongst those who were garou and kin, where she was no risk to their hidden world – and where

she would be safe. At least until she was taught a little more.
As might be expected of anyone who wasn’t unusually obedient and meek, Medea’s Sorrow did not take the restrictions laid on

her well. As she grew older, the scoldings occasioned when she was thwarted by her family in attempts to escape for a night

away only strengthened her will to do so. She found freedom first in dancing. Taking dance classes was regarded by her

mother as a suitable occupation for a young woman, and her father could have no argument with the fact that fitness and

agility were assets for a girl who might one day change. Martial arts classes too, whilst they made her mother frown a

little, were preferable to a repeat of the fusses before them as Medea’s Sorrow tried to creep out of back doors or windows.

So Medea’s Sorrow was given her way, and for a while her classes satisfied her and soothed restlessness.
It was a night one late autumn when it was awakened once more with fuller force. Leaving class late after a few minutes

extra practice for a recital, Medea missed her bus and found herself with an hour to wait in a rainy, windy bus shelter. As

she sat there, she became aware of what she had always closed her eyes to before. The strength of the wind, the life in the

cold humid air, the swish of the row of sad, fenced in trees along the street made her feel suddenly as though the world was

wider than this round of days within walls both physical and mental. As though there was still something wild and untamed

out there. When the bus came sloshing through the puddles, Medea boarded it deep in thought.
It was a few days before she had occasion to miss a bus again – and this time Medea did so with more trepidation. This was

not a quiet residential street, but a part of town she knew less well, a place with graffiti on the walls and scruffy little

patches of grass and gravel pretending to be gardens. But it had what Medea wanted – a large inner city park, the closest

she was going to get to nature without occasioning some odd questions at home and her mother’s worried frown. She slipped

under the rusty arch of the gate with a shiver, and drew in the musty, damp scents of night air, grass and trees. Her fear

slipped away, and she wandered the little paths with the wonder of a child, the soft leaf-litter making her footsteps almost

silent.
From then on, Medea planned things carefully. Telling her mother that her dance class hours had changed, she managed to

steal herself an hour each week to return to the park, and came almost to value those stolen hours more than the classes she

had once so longed for. There was some kind of excitement which always accompanied her on the trips, which was nothing to do

with the fear of discovery. She found joy and beauty in winter frost and snow, in spring flowers, in deep shade in summer

and in autumn’s turning leaves, and gave the joy to her dancing. More recitals came and went – until at last her secret came

out.
Her father came that fateful evening to remove his daughter from her dance class early. Afterwards, Medea would recall that

he never mentioned why he had done so, that he was angry not only with her disobedience, but as though the risk she had

taken was much much greater than simply walking alone in a park. That night, her own anger was roused, and she thought of

nothing the unfairness of it all. Finding his daughter gone, Mr Johnstone made enquiries, and was told by one of her

classmates that she had ‘gone down to that old park’. Finding his daughter there, Mr Johnstone embarked on a lecture he had

never bettered. Two hours later, Medea found herself in her bedroom in the knowledge that she was forbidden to leave the

house, that her dancing lessons and martial arts lessons were over, done with, and that she would not even be allowed to

have friends over to visit her in her isolation.
Enough was enough. Medea was stronger now, more agile now than she had been years before. It was not difficult to work out a

way to leave the house once her parents were gone to work the next morning, and catch a bus into town unseen. Some instinct

drew her away from the town almost as soon as she got there, so Medea caught another bus, leaving behind the little rows of

houses and neat brick walls. She got off at the last stop, a housing estate bordering empty fields.
She met the man there. She never knew his name, never saw him again. Just a mild-face, mild-mannered older gentleman,

leaning on his spade in his vegetable patch, who enquired if she was alright. And for whatever reason, whatever spirit

possessed her, Medea poured out her tale to him. He listened with the patient wisdom of the old, nodded, and said simply to

her ‘the flood that is contained is all the stronger when it is loosed at last’. He looked to the river between his home

and the fields – he could have been speaking of its trickle, but Medea took it as a sign. Instead of running away as she had

planned, she thanked the old man, caught the next bus back, and returned home. There, she endured all scolding and disgrace,

waited out the time until she was allowed back to classes and friends, and thought of the fields and the vegetable patch.
School was another of her parents complaints. They wanted another banker, or at least a software engineer, but Medea had no

thoughts of that. Dance was the path for her, and so she worked towards that goal, and proved she had the skill and

dedication for it. To fund her own teaching, she began herself to teach. In time she found that those she taught became not

only well-off children with desires to emulate tv heroes, but also people who were frightened with a fear Medea herself had

never known till then. Most of these were girls, scared for their safety, one or two who had already suffered and sought to

find some way to avoid a repeat. A fire was kindled once more in Medea, anger that burned hotter with each new pupil.
The dam on the flood was bound to break, and so it did. When one of her pupils came to class with face bruised and eyes red,

Medea snapped. So did many bones that night, and the morning light found Medea garou. Her family arranged to cover up what

had happened, and Medea found herself on the way to London, and new studies there as a cub and as a dancer.
And it was there she found the love of her life, a black fury kinfolk. It was there she conceived her one and only daughter,

Karina. For a time there, once the shock of her change was over, things were almost peaceful. With her rite of passage, came

freedom, but also came trouble. Her family had expected her to be a Glasswalker and follow in the family footsteps, to ‘come

to her senses’ as her mother put it. Instead, they found they had a Black Fury, fervent that the wyld could be nurtured

within the city as well as in wilderness. All their words could not change it, and they found steel in their daughter as she

refused to walk the path they chose for her.
Then there came more trouble, and Medea first gained a hint of what might have caused her father to be so

fearful of her time alone in the park. Returning home one lunchtime, she found signs of a break in to her house. A month

later, she herself was attacked one night, and though she fought off her attackers, she was severely injured, her back and

her shoulder so badly torn that they healed with great, deep scars. Enough was once more enough, and Medea and her husband

left London for a new life as far away as they could go, in America.
For a short while, it worked. Medea and her family lived happily. Then, it all came apart. Medea awoke in the night

to find attackers in her home, and in the struggle, her husband was killed and her foes escaped. Medea blamed herself for

her husband’s death, and ever after felt lingering guilt around any other man, guilt which led to rising anger, that she had

not saved him, that something about her had endangered him. That night, she made a decision. Her child, her daughter, at

least would be spared it. And so, she left. This time, without her family. She slipped away in the night, once more seeking

a new sept and a chance to keep her family safe. Once again, she established a new life, in a new sept, the anger she had

once felt at the men who frightened her pupils, and at how weak those girls became tempered with the grief for her husband

and her new understanding of what it felt like to be so helpless. The anger at herself never faded, making her short with

men, even rude, as the memory roused up once again blame within herself.
Even this third move was not to be her last. Though a month or two passed in relative peace (for no warrior of Gaia knows true

peace for long), at last her unknown heritage yet again caught up with her, and she found herself and her pack lured into a

trap, and caught in a burning building. By a cruel trick of fate, the attempt on her life which had once more caught up

those she loved left only Medea alive. Blinded, burned, stunned, Medea crawled from the ashes and ruins… and fled.

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