Approved Band Bio: Tris Landorin - CC'd by WK

[Quibby]

Name: Tris Landorin

 

DM Handle: minisamus

 

Origin: Tanchico

 

Hair Color: Dark brown

 

Eye Color: Hazel

 

Age: 14, lied and said she was 16

 

Weapon of Choice: hands and fist

 

Background:

 

Tris tapped her fingers impatiently from within the wagon where the

black crisps of the patrolman's pipe gathered in her hair. She thought

it only right to give the Andoran some entertainment via her makeshift

drums on his local beat.

 

After a while he said, "lad, this is where the Queen's jurisdiction

ends. Frankly I rarely come here at all, only twice a year to visit

family and look after the inn a bit."

 

Tris gathered her sack, into which she poured some of the hay from the

wagon. It could make for a good pillow tonight. No doubt she'd be

sleeping under the stars again. They were at the ragged outskirts of

Baerlon; miners, coalworkers left back in the town, getting plastered

on their hard-earnt wages. What won't I give for a good bath, she

sniffed. Ten minutes later, her rags were strew across some willows as

she bathed in the cold pond. Clean and presentable, even if she

appeared poor. Tris was reminded of another time when she was by a

pond at home.

 

They sat, and Ingrid appeared. She spoke to Tris’ father and her

master in the brisk jauntiness Saldaeans seem to favor.  Tris followed

well enough. The family coach was coming at half past to take father

away to the dress shop in Patriarch’s row. Later on, the stable-boy

would be taking Ingrid away for a night; she has to see a Wisdom

concerning her massive toothache. Tris heard her father ask Ingrid for

the lady’s whereabouts. I don’t know, sir. Ingrid repeated, as if

having reached the nub of her message. At half past five? Then she

bobbed her her head the usual way, and retreated to the mansion.

 

Father translated for Rhue, Tris’ half-brother. Rhue was trained in

the South and although he knew many phrases in Old Tongue he could not

be bothered to learn northern dialects in school.

 

Tris said, “Where’s mother?”

 

“I thought she’d be found already” he looked doubtfully at his son,

who in turn eyed Tris, then drily queried their Father back, “Was I

supposed to keep watch again? I just came back.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Blast,” Rhue gave Tris a small grin “looks like I’ll be out again huh, pip.”

 

That night Rhue came back with news, finally—Tris’s mother has eloped

with one of the Dragonsworn who had been wearing the

banner of a bloody hand on his sleeve and her whereabouts could not be

bought, as nobody seemed to know where they come or go. The search was

called off, and their father slumped.

 

After this Tris was watched very closely by her half-brother and

father. It was as though they expected her to be like her mother,

whisked away by the first man she fancied, even though she barely has

pubic hairs, and her chest was as flat as her back. She looked nothing

like her voluptuous, whoring mother.

 

Slowly Tris became very angry at her crazy adulterer of a mother, and

with Ingrid’s help snuck away. She had impulsively cut her hair, and

was travelling around ever since, hoping to find some closure. Maybe

if she claimed to want to join the Dragon's cause and enlisted herself

. . .

[Taymist]

Looks ok to me. CC'd.