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Mithildae
Mithildae
| Name | Mithildae |
|---|---|
| Status | Active |
| Occupation | |
| Age | Middle Aged |
| Race | Elf |
|---|---|
| Residence | Rivendell |
| Kinship |
| Outward Appearance | Dark-skinned she is, like rich loam beneath a summer canopy or the deep bark of an ancient oak warmed by the sun. Her eyes are large and expressive, deep brown like the forest floor at twilight, but shot through with flecks of pale grey, some say like ash drifting across dark water, others like starlight caught in river stones. When she is moved by strong emotion, and she often is, those grey flecks seem to brighten and dance. Her hair falls long dark and thick, and she binds it in loose braids interwoven with dried lavender, small feathers dropped by finches, and sometimes a strip of soft doeskin. A few errant strands always escape to frame her face, for she has never possessed the patience for perfect grooming. She is not tall for an Elf, standing perhaps a hand shorter than many of her kin, yet there is a sturdiness to her frame, not the lithe grace of a hunter. Her hands are calloused and strong, the nails kept short and clean out of necessity, and the fingers bear small scars from a thousand cuts of herb-knife and thorn. Her smile comes easily and often, crinkling the corners of those grey-flecked eyes. When she laughs, which is frequent, it is a full-bodied, helpless, wheezing sound that sometimes ends in tears and always draws the attention of everyone nearby. |
|---|
Background
Mithildae was born in Greenwood the Great during the twilight of the Second Age, a daughter of the Silvan folk who dwelt in the southern reaches of that vast forest. Her mother was a healer of modest skill, known among their scattered community for her way with feverfew and her steady hands. Her father was a trapper and guide who marched with Oropher's host to the Dagorlad and, like so many, never walked the forest paths again.
She grew up beneath the boughs of a Greenwood still green, learning the names of plants and the songs of birds long before she learned to hold a bow. Wandering Elves passing eastward from the ruins of Beleriand brought tales of older lands.
When the shadow began creeping into the southern forest, first as a thickening of the air, then as spiders grown bold, then as a sickness in the trees, Mithildae stayed longer than she should have. She tried to heal what was breaking. But the herbs she needed no longer grew where they once had, and wounds that should have mended festered overnight. After a young Elf died of a spider-bite that should have been trivial, she packed her satchel and walked west.
The journey took years. She crossed the Anduin at the Old Ford, passed through the desolate Brown Lands where nothing grew but thorns, and climbed the Misty Mountains by narrow goat-paths known only to a few. She survived on berries, stale bread traded from Beornings, and the kindness of strangers who took pity on a lone Elf with dirt on her face and a rowan staff in her hand.
She arrived in Imladris with her clothes in tatters, her herb pouches empty, and a stubborn smile that refused to fade. Elrond's house became her refuge. She has spent her days since learning what she can from the healers there, offering her own hands to the wounded, and quietly falling in love with every story and song the valley has to offer
| Friends | |
|---|---|
| Relatives | |
| Rivals/Enemies |
| Loves | The smell of athelas. hot tea with honey. Old epic lays sung by firelight. Debating the properties of yarrow versus comfrey. Seeing a fever break. Rain on dry ground. Spring crocuses. The feel of linens and silk in her hands. Learning a new fact |
|---|---|
| Hates | Cruelty to the helpless. Giant spiders. Wasting healing herbs. Being told to calm down. Having to triage between two dying patients. Mockery of sincere emotion. The stench of orc camps. Silence after a death. Unearned arrogance. |
| Motivation | To mend what is broken and let no one die alone. To learn all the healing lore the world still holds. And to prove that a Silvan healer belongs beside any scholar of the Elder Days. |
| Quotes | "Have you eaten today? No? Well, sit down and drink this tea before you fall over. The world will still be ending tomorrow." |
