Eachna's father was a kindly, respected older gentleman of the nobility. He had placed himself in many situations benefiting himself and his family, at least, politically speaking. He had worked hard to bring his father's decrepit estate back from the brink of ruin. His connections were scholarly, political, and in trade. He was known for his generosity to those less fortunate, and for his hobbies of philosophy and herbalism. He had done well for himself, in the eyes of others.
But he had, in those eyes, a failing which could not be ignored.
Lord Skarde had married Lady Feidlimid after her father had perished in some accident of which the woman never spoke. They had been acquainted since childhood, and the match was a love match. For five years, their marriage was one of wedded bliss. Indeed, Skarde doted on the woman. He adored her more than even his research and his politics, the things that had kept him busy in his younger years.
But during the sixth year of their marriage, Feidlimid became heavy with child. A great rejoicing, they thought, until the time of the painful and terrible delivery arrived. Naturally Skarde had hoped for a boy, one who might become his heir. But what arrived was a redheaded little girl, one who bore more of a resemblance to her mother than her father, but for her intent gaze.
Feidlimid was never the same after the difficult birth. Slowly she withdrew, leaving Eachna to the wet nurse and her father. She stayed in her rooms, and refused to see the child. Skarde knew she was unhappy, but, with the well-behaved Eachna in his arms, he could not see why.
He spent the next few years trying to find cures for his wife's madness. Indeed, rumor spread around the city that Lord Skarde's wife refused to take visitors, and was often seen walking the parapets of the estate, alone. His friends were saddened, and he brought many physicians and herbalists to the house, hoping to find a source. He experimented with various herbs, plants and fungi on her, but little helped in the long run.
And so Eachna grew to her eighteenth year, being betrothed to a certain Lord Vollert, a younger friend of her father's who had more connections to trade, and some to the King. She spoke little to her mother, but Vollert had taken an interest in her, one which she had first thought flattering.
Lord Vollert was handsome in a cold way, the way one might find in a statue--an imitation of humanity. His dark brown hair flowed to his shoulders, though it was often kept in a queue. His eyes were the color of dark waters iced over, a deep blue which pierced its viewer. He was elegantly attired, but beneath the robes of a dignitary, there was a great silent, physical strength.
For a time, Eachna even fancied that she loved the man, but his courting soon turned to abuse. After a year, Eachna knew it was time to leave. She was, she thought, inheriting her mother's madness. That was when the crawling sensation beneath her arms began.
She began scratching. When it came upon her, she could not stop scratching until the scratching overrode the feeling of the crawling. Pain outweighing discomfort. Eachna, already small for her age, dwindled to next than nothing. She had to find a way out.
And so, she spent a month planning her removal. She stole from her dowry funds, stole from her trousseau, sold items secretly, and saved for the moment when she would leave. In the late hours of the night, on the eve of her wedding to Vollert, Lady Eachna stole away from Dale.
She had heard of Bree-land, and this was where she sought to go. It was a long journey with pleading and some theft involved, but she finally made it. A new life, a better life, she thought.
