Born and raised in Archet, Catilyn was always a troublemaker, from the time she was six and made a bargain with her father to allow her to swordfight until she was old enough to marry, to running away at thirteen. She never knew much of the world outside of her little town, considering Bree to be the biggest city she’d ever see. That’s mostly come true. With a fierce hatred of the idea of marriage growing in her, after seeing the way her father insisted that a woman could do no good and make no change beyond the household, she grew more and more rebellious, to her father’s continual frustration. He loved her and her mother, as untraditional as they were.

She left home at thirteen, with all the skills she’d collected (cooking over a campfire, sewing up a wound, and how to swing a sword without taking herself to the ground in the process), fleeing from the fear of her father forcing her into a marriage. She only went as far as Bree on a stolen horse, in a child’s idea that it would be far enough. Her parents, of course, knew precisely where she’d gone, but her mother convinced her father not to follow. She was given the space she thought she wanted. Such space ended with her stealing and sleeping in alleys, picking up the accent her mother had been so careful to break her of. Her mother eventually pursued her to Bree and ensured that the then-fourteen Cat had the coin required to legally survive for a week. But after an incident with bandits in the Chetwood, her mother no longer returned, and Cat was left to fend for herself.

She finally married and had her daughter--and, ultimately, was widowed, or considering herself as such. The loss left her with enough coin to secure a stable life, and she turned back to her swords and fighting, working as a sellsword until the present moment. Life hasn’t been exactly kind to her, leaving her with more paranoid habits than most, and a tongue too sharp to be any good, but the only victory she’s given her troubles is transferring from the heat of a fight to the controlled chaos of a healer. Most of the stories she could tell are unpleasant enough that she only shares them when sufficiently drunk. She’s got a weakness for good whiskey.