Princess Macda Grayson
Kiss your knuckles before you punch. It's how you show 'em they're appreciated!
Description: Wiry strength and sturdy muscle are the keynotes of Macda's short, compact frame. Athleticism defines the angle and curve of her body, and though she'll never be tall, that won't stop her from striking like a hammer. Her hair, down, is a wild fluff somewhere between deep gold and light brown; up, it sweeps back from her heart-shaped face but is never tamed enough to entirely avoid flyaways. Dimples enliven her smile, and her eyes, a vivid blue-green like a glimmer of cut turquoise, are wide and electric with mischief beneath her brows.
(Wearing green and fire colors, this woman looks formidable)
Personality: Macda loves to feel alive, and will go to almost any length to own that for herself. She's a fun-lover and a brawler, who loves nothing better than bare-fist, barefoot fighting or running around having adventures. She has a weakness for fine drink and fine jewelry that she uses to balance her rougher tendencies. Reckless, with a bluff vigor that makes her a nearly irresistible force, still her desire to be a trouble is less than her desire not to cut herself off from the family and the family fortune. It's a balance that she has learned well over the years, even if it did require a few close calls. Who doesn't love a good throwdown now and again? Well, lots of people, and Macda won't judge (much) -- she hurls herself at life full speed, no holds barred, and would prefer to let nothing at all stand in her way. Her favorite evening? Go out, drink whiskey, break a table over some guy's head, make a general mess of things -- then get herself cleaned up the next day with brightly colored outfits and rings of champagne silver to go out dancing. If there's anything she never learned, it's to pace herself. Life is just too damned short not to embrace with everything you have.
Background: So here is the thing about growing up in Bastion, as a daughter of Grayson, in the House of Grayson. Everything around you has a great deal of weight to it. The weight of expectation. The weight of history. The weight of legend. Especially for a little girl who has been named so obviously for a Hero of Yore, as Macda was: Macdon's tale being a favorite of her father's, she grew up hearing ever more elaborate ballads of it, around the table and among the others.
And here is the thing about growing up under all that weight. You either bend, twist into the shape that they want you to mold into, or you don't. Macda was pressed, shaped, and folded -- until she could be pressed, shaped, and folded no more, and burst into her teen years like a geyser of rebellion. Skinned knees, scored knuckles, on one memorable occasion a lord's son's broken teeth, mud tracked everywhere: these are aspects of childhood, maybe, but aspects of childhood that most young people leave behind eventually. At 16, Macda was living out loud, recklessly making more scrapes for herself than ever. Ride hell for leather, start brawls in the pub, dangle your little sister over a brook by her feet, sing bawdy songs in the street at the top of your voice at two o'clock in the morning: life is too short to be well-behaved.
With age came temperance because if it hadn't, she might've driven her family to throw her out. Love is the tie that binds duty even to the least dutiful daughter of a house, and Macda was never short love. She loved fiercely, just sometimes stupidly and without as much guilt as most people develop over the course of their young lives. Acting without thinking was second nature. Thinking... took time to develop.
Macda is sure she'll never stop being a hellion. It is not in her to grow into a lady of dignity. But there's a way to be a grown adult person about it. A way to recognize boundaries and limits. Sometimes she is still working on it, but she really does mean well.