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Frostine
Frostine
| Name | Frostine |
|---|---|
| Occupation | A blacksmith's adopted daughter |
| Age | Unknown |
| Race | Man |
|---|---|
| Residence | With her parrents in their estate at Bree. |
| Kinship | None |
| Outward Appearance | Frostine steps with careful repose in every action or move she makes, her frail set shoulders slumped under Armour more often than not. Irons or steels of fine quality made for her by her father, his intention keeping her safe and untouched. Trails of silver hair spill across her snow white cheeks whenever a helm or cloak would be drawn away, her figure blessed with untouched beauty. Her sight very rare to those from any homeland or ethnicity. Every inch of skin as white as a cloud, maybe even a few skins whiter. Both soft eyes entailing just as much silver her hair presents. The woman's small build is frail like rotting wood in the foundation of a building, dangerously small without any sign of growing. Ranging below even five feet tall, robes or clothes sweeping over her feet. Her voice would be very hard to arise from her lips, the modest and shy nature she holds rendering her almost fully a mute.
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Background
It was a cold winter evening through the streets of Bree while John Steele along with his wife Hazel were trudging towards the South Gate, leaving disturbed blankets of white and footprints that would later that evening be erased by another heavy snowfall. Both intent to hold the others arm in warm, loving company. Their heads both bowed, conspiring about their future together, about their smithy or the coin that came to them as fast as a snail adventures up a tree. Sparkling fields lay on either side of them down the road south, into a frost covered Chetwood. Paved roads bringing them past a small lake just south of the gates, it's surface glazed over with ice, daring anything near it to take a step. However something even more pale than the snow caught Hazel Steele's eye, the face of a lone babe wrapped in white blankets. Her frail, sickly figure becoming devoured in a constantly falling snow. However the little girl made no sound, she did not cry nor did a tear fall from either eye. She simply lay there in her blankets as if awaiting her fate, a smile on her face from a few non identical snowflakes touching her nose tip. The woman and husband both rushed over towards a willow tree that protected the babe from entirely drowning in snow, scooping her up out of the sea to quickly draw her into both of their breasts. At first they were speechless, from strands of silver hair that drooped out of the blankets, to the girl's opal like eyes, her skin as white as the snow surrounding her. Scarse belongings left to the little girl by those who had apparently abandoned except for her tiny white dress, a circlet twirled through her hair along with a single broach wrapped about her thin neck. It's front reading ''winters'', with a family crest behind the lettering. Love swelled in their eyes at the blessing of the little girl, to them at least. Hazel could never bear children, though they had just found their answer to the problem. Taking to name her frost for her skin, along with where they found her. Thus the girl grew into a woman, under their care.
| Friends | ''none'' |
|---|---|
| Relatives | Her false parrents, who adopted her. |
| Rivals/Enemies | ''None'' |
| Loves | She quite enjoys the feel of cold air on her skin, the sound of rushing water, blankets of snow around the hilltops of Bree-Land, her parrents, the world around her. |
|---|---|
| Hates | If she had any, she would never state them openly. |
| Motivation | ''none'' |
| Quotes | ''none'' |
