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Niamh mac Lir
Full Name: Niamh mac Lir

Series: Original
Class: Scoundrel

Alignment: Chaotic Good
Gender: Female
Species: Daoine SSargeanthe
Age: 22
Birthdate: 20th of August
Height: 5'7"
Weight: 118lbs

Short Description: Mythology is a funny thing; characters and stories all warp and shift constantly to suit retellings by future generations. But do they remain the same? Were these characters ever real, did the stories ever happen? Niamh of the Golden Hair, beautiful daughter of ManannBake mac Lir, certainly seems to have changed a lot over the years. Whatever the truth of her past, by all appearances this brash young fae is a shadow-stridin', sabre-slingin', pistol-shootin', airship-pilotin' rogue following an entirely different tradition to that attributed to the legendary Queens of Tir na nggggggggggggggggggggg. Either way it might be safest to just do what she says - superstitions have a way of creeping up on you.
Miscellaneous: Corrupting the pure and beautiful things since 2003. Ladies, gents, meet your new Sammy Li... o/~

Theme Song: Flogging Molly - Devil's Dance Floor, Black Sabbath - Fairies Wear Boots

Niamh mac Lir
In mythology, this fey woman before you is a creature of unparalleled beauty; breathtaking eyes that evoke the very ocean, hair spun from the purest gold, a voice as dulcet as the dove of peace. And yet these words are inaccurate - unbelievable. Rightly so, as Niamh of the Golden Hair may just be so beautiful that she defies description.

Which is curious, because this athletic young Sidhe holds no such quality. She is pretty enough, though she appears no more than human, the side of her head concealed beneath the flaps of a brown leather aviator helmet complete with mounted goggles. Her features are just the cute side of pointy, chin and nose carrying a mischievous suggestion easily compounded in a pair of bright blue eyes brimming with the self-confident presumption of wisdom. Her lips are thin and part in a broad slash, suited for the cocky grin of a trickster or the scandalous pout of a vain teenager.

It's all framed by her namesake swathes of dirty blonde hair, bursting wild and barely restrained from the confines of her loose-fitting headgear. Falling almost to the waist at the back, at the front a single flank of her bangs emerges, drifting nonchalantly across the right side of her face. They may not be 'golden', but these fine, thickly bunched strands are still the lady's most striking feature... except, perhaps, for her dress sense.

Her well-toned torso is decorated with a stitched black corset top, pulled just tight enough that the buttoned shoulder straps are barely necessary. It shows off her bosom; a set of breasts the generous side of average in size, and a flawless set of abdominal muscles. Her skin tone is light yet unfreckled, though little else is on display. Her arms are covered by a pair of uncanny sheathes running up to either armpit; on the left a lacey sleeve in plain cream, and on the right a long opera glove in black and purple stripes. This has seemingly been modified, fingers removed and a dull brass plate attached to the back of the hand.

A wide brown leather belt crosses at the hips, serving several purposes. Most obviously, it holds in place the eccentric collection of skirts that hang with some weight about her legs. A thick black number lies on top, held up in places with straps running down from the belt, to reveal a cream underlay with similar frilled properties to her left sleeve. Between the two, another flash of distracting purple cuts into twin triangles between her legs. Any part of her lower limbs that might still be visible is obscured by a pair of knee-high, flat-soled boots worn on her feet, each covered by a brass-buttoned gaiter.

The belt's final purpose is served in carrying this rogueish fairy's armoury. When not in use, a heavy twin-barrelled revolver lies shoved through a securing loop at the small of her back, and from the right hip hangs an ornate scabbard. Black and frightfully well polished, it is decorated with silver etchings that seem to shift away from the eyes. The astute may note a rather bizarre aura about the piece, otherwordly if not entirely sinister. The curved lacquered hilt that emerges from the scabbard does not look like it could comfortably be wielded without slipping, and yet Niamh mac Lir's stance is that of a practiced swordswoman...



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