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FL Seanchan bio for Freen Kirwan - CC'd by WK


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Bio for Feen, Damane


Full Name: Feen Kirwan


Age: 16


From: Seanchan


Height: 5’ 2”


Weight:  64kg


Hair: Brown


Eyes: Blue




Appearance: Feen is a slender girl, with large blue eyes that seem perpetually vulnerable and shy.  She is pretty in an unconventional way; her eyes are large, her nose thin and her lips a bit thin.




Character History:  She was scared, when the people came.  The villagers boiled around, trying to make sure that their esteemed guests felt welcomed, yet all Feen felt was fright.  From her vantage point the other villagers ran around like headless chickens over the green, into their houses to make their appearance as tidy as possible and the objects of the guests’ visit were prepared and ready.  Children not quick enough to move or hide were pressed into service to wash dishes, protesting all the while as their mothers or older sisters rubbed smears of dirt or grease from their cheeks with swift, firm dabs from a handkerchief.  Overhead, the clouds mimicked the villagers; colliding and moving in haste as though precipitous.  Feen shrank further into her hiding place.  The smell of pickled food filled her nose along with the dirt underneath her and the dust of ages, and she closed her eyes trying to blot out what was happening.








A memory stirred.  She was a young girl, looking up at her mother’s smiling face.  Her father would be hard at work in his study, looking at receipts and bills of sale; he was a trader and out of the village for long periods at a time, and Feen wanted to be with him more than anything.  Her mother was adamant, however, that her father should get his work done first before showing his daughter any attention.  That he barely finished before her bedtime, for sleepy seven-year-old girls should not question her parents’ decree even for something like this, was beside the point.  Soon, her mother promised, they would all have enough money to move to the city, and then all of their problems would be solved.








The memory moved forward in time.  Three years on, and ten-year-old Feen and her family still remained in the little village on the outskirts of Seandar.  Her spirits were low, and her mother’s face was still kindly, but it was now lined with the strains of age and hard times.  The village, the whole world it seemed, was enduring hard times.  High in the big house on the hill, the Lord would occasionally send extra grain to them but beyond that the villagers were on their own.  Ten years old and she was already worrying where her next meal would come from.  She began to withdraw into her own world, finding a measure of escapism in the hope of a higher name and one day becoming something more than she was, but it never lasted.  Reality put paid to that.








Three years on.  Feen and her family hadn’t moved into the city yet, and her father was obviously beginning to despair no matter how he tried to hide it.  Feeling that he had destroyed the hope of survival and honour for his family, he took a knife from the kitchen and closed the door so none could enter.  He did not miss his heart when he stabbed himself.  Blood pooled around him and by the time Feen’s mother forced her way into the kitchen, the last vestiges of life were twitching away from her father’s body.  Her cry of loss and anguish roused the entire village.  For many nights Feen would not sleep due to her mother’s tears keeping her awake, and the sadness filling her own heart with heaviness.








Booted feet stopped just beside the barrels Feen hid behind.  Instantly she held her breath, waiting for the shadow to move away from her hiding place.  A flash of grey skirt, panelled with a lightning bolt, came into view and Feen bit her lip, trying not to make a sound.  Tears ran down her cheeks, blotting onto her collar and changing the colour of the fabric from mid-blue to dusk.  She bit her lip in harsh remembrance.








Six months ago.  Age fifteen.  Her birthday not two weeks’ passed.  Feen stared down at the broken fragments of vase at her feet, not wanting to explain what had happened to her mother.  Silent tears rolled down her cheeks as realisation hit.  Was she marath’damane?   She had channelled the One Power, there was no other explanation for it, and now her mother’s favourite vase was broken at her feet.  It had only been a shout, Feen had thought, a vent of frustration that their situation would never change.  The vase had moved across the tabletop as though it had been struck, and clattered off the edge into myriad pieces.  She felt sick, nauseous, and had gone to her room in tears.  The vase lay in bits still; Feen resolved to tell her mother she had accidentally banged into the table.  She would have to.  If she could just hide it for long enough…








The sound of boots shifting position on gravel indicated that the shadow beyond the barrels was not going to go away.  Risking a look, Feen saw the figure had bent down and a dimly visible length of silvery metal flashed the sunlight once, twice, and was then pulled up.  A face replaced the leash, and words that would stay with her forever pierced her hiding place.




“There’s one more for the testing.  Get up, child!  This could be more honour than you will see in your lifetime.  Move!”




Feen was going to stay where she was, but the Sul’dam on the other side started moving the barrels out of the way.  Standing and brushing her skirt down, Feen moved out into view, hastily wiping tears from her face.  Faces all around her watched her, wondering why she was hiding on such a happy day, and then Feen saw the questioning glance of her mother.




She did not remember the testing.  All Feen could think of was that her name would be stricken from all records, her existence effectively erased, for she was less than human.  Able to channel the One Power, she would be leashed for the safety of the world and the glory of the Empress, may She live forever.  Her mother looked stonily ahead, not meeting the eyes of her daughter.  Now she was nothing, with no future or status.  Her home would be wherever her Sul’dam chose for her to sleep.  And the sound of the leash clicking around her neck had the sound of shackles being fastened, and the metal felt as cold as the grave.

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