Location: England (Avalon)

Senshi: Avalonian Senshi of Hunting

Bloodline: Mazoe

Name: Sylvia Ersa Sherwin

Meaning:

Sylvia -- Latin, "from the forest"

Ersa -- corruption of the Latin "ursa," "bear"

Sherwin -- Middle English, "swift runner"

Since stringing names together is what all the cool kids are doing,
I'll do it, too: "swift-running bear from the forest."

Do bears run? Do bears ever *need* to run? If I were a bear, I
don't
think I'd run. I'd stroll. 'cause I'd be a bear, and really, who
would tell me I couldn't?

Age: 64

Birthdate: 15th December

Astrological Sign: Sagittarius, the Archer.

Blood Type: A

Maternal great-grandmother-- Ita (Darach) Donovan, deceased. Ita
never
met Sylvia, influenza claiming her long before her great-
grandchild's
birth, but Ita was where Sylvia's story began. Ita was born and
raised
on Avalon. At 19, she left. The reason was so monumentally stupid
that no one quite seems to know what it *was*. Something about a
boy, or
a senior Druidess, or an inheritance, or all of the above. Some
rumors
had a goat thrown in there for good measure. An impulsive and
unprepared 19 year old witch girl who had never stepped foot outside
Avalon was
not in the best position to care for herself in 19th century
Europe.
Through a not at all funny sequence of events, she wound up at a
Magdalene laundry in Ireland, where she promptly ran away with the
gardener.
They eloped and emigrated to England, taking up residence in what is
now Milton Keynes but was then a rather nice pig farm.

Ita did all that was in her power to forget and deny her origins.
Her
husband suspected that she was a bit mad-- their neighbors would
have
dropped the 'a bit'-- during the long years it took her to adjust
her
way of thinking to fit her knew life, but Ita's view of the world
was
sharply black and white and she did not believe in second chances.
Avalon
had wronged her-- and in her mind, the original incident had indeed
been inflated to make conspirators of the entire island-- and she
had made
her decision about Avalon, so there was no rethinking it or going
back.
A few discreet inquiries directed her way were either ignored or
rebuffed with much signing of crosses, a sincere conversion to the
Church of
England being one of the steps Ita took toward disavowing her
heritage.
Well, partial, but still sincere, conversion: she never could bring
herself to entirely give up the witchcraft of Avalon. Her training,
of
course, had stopped at age 19, but she had brought with her a!
one book of herb lore and two of practical magic* (and one work of
fluffy fiction, "The Adventures of Cadgwin the Wanderer," that had
been
her favorite as a child) and stolen them back from the laundry
before
she left. A ward on the door and salt beneath the bed helped her
sleep
better at night, and surely that wasn't the kind of witchcraft the
priest spoke ill of-- she was never able to take the Bible as
seriously as
she ought, preferring the living religion to its founding documents,
which to her were no more or less holy than the plethora of books
treasured by the people of Avalon. It was this unbreakable habit
of casual
witchcraft that her children grew up with, and in some of them, it
took
root.

* These are textbooks about magic, not magical themselves, and the
magic in them isn't high-level. It's the kind of thing any person
growing
up in a community of magic-wielders would be taught. I assume that
the
printing press isn't too modern for Avalon to embrace (the Chinese
had
had it for millennia before Europe finally figured it out, after
all)
and so every-day books aren't all super-expensive, hand-illuminated
tomes.

Maternal grandmother-- Margaret Donovan Branneck, deceased.
Margaret
had only one child, and that was enough. Rachel nearly killed her
being
born, and a second would have finished the job. Margaret studied
her
own mother's herb lore and made sure that a second did not happen.
Young herself when Rachel was born, only 20 and not the most
emotionally
mature of women, she was somewhere between crushed and terrified
when she
did not immediately love her daughter with the overwhelming, holy
love
older women and priests were always going on about. She wondered,
not
unreasonably, if it was not her own resentment toward the pain labor
had brought. This seemed almost unholy. With no one to tell her
this
was in fact perfectly normal and that life was not like a gothic
romance,
Margaret spent much of Rachel's young life alternating between
holding
her daughter at arm's length and smothering her in maternal care.
Though mother and daughter loved one another, their relationship wa!
s always strained because of this.

Margaret became convinced after the razing of Coventry that, when
the
War ended, it would end with the Axis victorious. A lone English
woman
with witch blood in her veins and two children in her arms would not
fare well if Germany returned to England and her allies what
vengeance
had been wreaked on Germany after the first Great War; as far as
Margaret, who always liked a narrow and orderly plan of action, was
concerned,
the only thing for her daughter to do was to find Avalon and take
shelter there. She helped find the way to Avalon, but returned to
her own
husband rather than accompanying her daughter and granddaughters to
the
island. Sylvia saw her several times before Margaret's death, on
missions away from the island.

Mother-- Rachel Branneck Sherwin Mochrie, age 81. From the time of
her
earliest memories up until menarche, from time to time Rachel
had ...
peculiar dreams. Terrifying dreams. Her mother was convinced that
they
were magical dreams, probably prophetic, but had no real idea what
to
do about them. Her grandmother refused to comment on the subject,
giving her draughts that did nothing but make her dizzy and sending
her to
bed. Rachel hated them and came to blame her heritage for them, at
the
same time vociferously denying that they were anything but
nightmares.
The advent of puberty stopped them cold, and Rachel was happy every
time she felt menstrual cramps.

She married and moved away from home without her mother's blessing--
against her mother's express dislike of Matthew, in fact-- but did
not
reject the help she needed when Margaret offered, though she
resented it
at first. This was typical of the conflicted relationship between
them: they would claw and sulk when together, but come running to
help when
apart. With her own daughters, Rachel tried her best not to repeat
her
mother's mistakes, though she did manage to alienate Sylvia for a
time
by remarrying. Those past hurts are long gone, though, and now
Rachel
lives quietly in Avalon, and Sylvia spends as much time with her as
she
can, knowing that Rachel's years are declining. Naming her first
Avalon-born child in honor of her mother was Rachel's final
declaration of
peace.

Father-- Matthew Morrison Sherwin, deceased at age 24. A factory
worker in Coventry, Matthew enlisted in British army the early weeks
of
World War Two, preferring to do his duty and hopefully get it over
with
quickly rather than wait for conscription. He died the following
May,
fighting on the perimeter of Dunkirk while his unit awaited its turn
at
evacuation. Sylvia barely remembers him.

Step-father -- Phelan Mochrie mac Lerben, age 90. Big and fiercely
bearded, with a sharp nose and heavy brow, Phelan looks like he has
bear
in his ancestry. Now in his tenth decade, he moves slowly with the
aid
of a cane-- two on the bad days-- and has gone bald on top, though
his
no longer auburn beard clings on defiantly, but he has not retired.
He
still teaches children as he always did, though it's been years
since
he's joined in their ballgames and chases the way he used to.
Rachel
became acquainted with him while Sylvia was his student. Sylvia
adored
him up until the moment her mother announced marriage. It took years
after that until Sylvia was any better than cold toward him, and she
was
often worse.

Rachel was attracted to him because of his blunt gentleness and way
with children, and the way he sensed that she wanted to be coddled,
perhaps even patronized from time to time, when most others on
Avalon took it
for granted that a woman would be her own master and natural head of
her house. Phelan was at first a bit confused on how to go about
acting
in a manner that would comfort her, but he has always been empathic
to
the point that no one is quite certain if it's an instinctive use of
magic or just deep perception on his part. He dealt less well with
young
Sylvia than he might have because her reaction was so unexpected and
so
strong that he simply could not process it. That was a long time
ago,
and Sylvia has grown up. She's never looked on him as a father, but
she's long since readmitted him as a friend.

Sister -- Odile Ruth Sherwin, age 60. It was apparent from an early
age that Odile had got her sister's rightful share of philosophy in
addition to her own. Always sober and frightfully mature for her
age, with
a subtle and disconcerting sense of humor that baffled most adults,
let
alone her peers, Odile took to Druid training with all the aptitude
Sylvia lacked. Her teen years were a steady progression of trading
off
more and more of "normal" life-- outside life, she called it-- in
favor
of her training. At seventeen, she was allowed to take the vows she
had
aspired to since she was ten, and swore her virginity to the
Goddess,
to keep until bidden otherwise. At twenty-two, she took a rare vow
of
cloister, to dedicate her life to her calling. Since then, Sylvia
has
seen her once a year, turning the wheel at Samhain. She has always
looked happy.

Step-brother -- Tanaide Mochrie, age 66. Tanaide is a teacher like
his
father, though much less beloved by his students. He is blunt
without
much gentleness and tends to be snappish and impatient. He works
mainly
with older students, those still taking academic lessons in addition
to
their apprenticeships, and specializes in logic and mathematics.
Sylvia has never liked him, nor has he liked her, but they do
respect one
another as strong personalities. Built like his father, he likes to
loom
over people he wants to impress or intimidate. Sylvia is inches too
short to look him in the eye, but in the past she was not above
stepping
to within an inch of him and transforming, close enough that he
could
*feel* the power washing over her. That was not a use of her power
the
Druids condone, and she's grown out of it, but the urge is sometimes
still there. Despite their mutual exasperation, Sylvia encouraged
her
children to take lessons with him when they were old enough to wi!
thstand him, there being no better teacher on the island in his
subjects, even if Sylvia refuses to admit that he is a better
mathematician
than she is. Tanaide is unmarried and has managed to avoid
producing
spawn; he quite likes it that way.

Half-sister -- Margaret "Maggie" Mochrie, age 55. Maggie was the
first
of Rachel's children born on Avalon. Her birth and early life got a
cold response from her eldest sister and an indifferent one from her
brother, though Odile was very attentive to Maggie until Odile's
passion
for her studies consumed her. Still, Maggie thinks well of both her
sisters and is somewhat awed by Sylvia's power and Odile's
dedication and
self-control. She told Sylvia that when she was a teen, and Sylvia
eventually re-evaluated the resentment she felt toward her half-
sibs.
Unlike Tanaide, they never bore her ill will, nor did they intend to
displace her. Any weakening of Sylvia's bond with her mother was
her own
fault for withdrawing and behaving like a brat. Maggie and Sylvia
are
friends now, though not bosom-companions, and Sylvia's children love
their
aunt, who was their regular and enthusiastic baby-sitter as
children.
Maggie, too, is a teacher, though one more in her father's vein. !
She works with young children and truly loves her work and her
students.

Maggie has two children, both girls. I'm going to forgo naming them
or
getting into specifics because I think I've cluttered up the island
quite enough.

Half-brother -- Gildas Mochrie, 52. To Sylvia's initial distaste,
Gildas took to hunting nearly as well as she did, and with equal
enthusiasm, though Sylvia believes that his teacher was not the
equal of her own.
Taking after his father in looks and build, Gildas at play is the
rough
and tumble sort, married to a female blacksmith who can pin him
three
rounds out of five. As a child he "helped" his sister baby-sit,
using
the opportunity to teach Matthew and Fothad, whom he considers more
brothers than nephews, interesting ways of finding entertainment and
trouble. Sylvia still doesn't know that it was he who taught Fothad
to climb
the sides of buildings and to cheat at cards. Perceptive and
quick-witted, Gildas is a hard man to get the better of, and thus
Fothad is
perpetually interested in trying to trick him. Gildas is a
veterinarian
and expert on animal training.

Gildas has one son.

Husband -- Gaothaire Kavanagh, age 63. Gaothaire is an artist of a
sort. He makes the physical bases of charms. His specialty is fine
metalsmithing, rings and chains and torques as well as more
inventive
objects, such as the hilt of Sylvia's knife. Making these requires
setting
up his workshop with the appropriate charms, protections, and
properly
oriented magical fields, as well as working weak spells while using
his
tools. Once the physical object is made and the base coat of spells
secured, he passes it on to better witches and sorcerers who imbue
it
with its magical properties, or to people who just use them as
jewelry.
His faster-son Fothad works with him.

Gaothaire has a more or less permanent squint from his work and
scars
on his hands from encounters with hot metal and lapidary accidents.
His
ethnicity is predominantly African, though it's probably more
accurate
to say that he's just an Avalonian with some very dark genes. His
hair tends to be moppish even now that it's shot through with grey,
and
his 6' form is lanky with knobby joints, giving him an air of youth
still. A man of strong opinions and forceful ways of speaking them,
Gaothaire is often in conflict with his wife, whom he loves her
dearly. Both
he and Sylvia require a great deal of finessing to be brought to
consider the merits of a position with which they disagree, and
while
Gaothaire's fingers are fine and subtle and Sylvia's stalking skills
can
almost allow her to walk up to a deer and slit its throat from
beside it,
neither of them tend toward a soft and crafty touch when it comes to
arguments. Their marriage survives its rough spots by sheer mutual !
pigheadedness and the knowledge that the good times are much
longer-lasting and worth the trouble.

Son -- Matthew Quin Sherwin, age 44. When Matthew was born, his
parents were for the first time sure of his paternity. He his face
and
coloring are the image of his father, though he is thickly built
like his
mother. Matthew got short genes from somewhere, reaching 5'6" at
age 19
and sticking there. He is a boatwright and fisherman, knowing all
the
hidden streams of the island and fertile coves of the lake in which
it
sits. He inherited his mother's terribly mediocre way with magic,
which is all to the better in his opinion because it gives the fish
a
fighting chance. Matthew tends toward seriousness and broodiness,
and when
occupied with a task or thought often zones out everything else,
including mealtimes and other people. Fothad considers it his duty
to
lighten Matthew up at regular intervals, or at least push him into
the lake
to see if he can still float with all that brooding.

Matthew and his wife have delighted Sylvia with three grandsons and
one
granddaughter between the ages of 19 and 10.

Foster-son -- Fothad Cormac, age 45. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and
bulky, Fothad, though he's of no blood relation to his foster-
mother, looks
more like Sylvia than Matthew does. He has a jokester's sense of
humor
and a knack for subtle magic, and is known for putting harmless joke
spells into jewelry. The first person to wear the item winds up
with
temporarily neon purple hair or a magical whoopee cushion every time
she
tries to sit. Incorrigible and still something of a kid even in
middle-age, he has pranked nearly everyone on the island save the
Seer, and
lacks her only because she always knows what he's up to. Sylvia and
Gaothaire gave up trying to break him of the habit when he married,
jokingly
declaring him to be his wife's problem now. His uncle Tanaide is a
favorite target of his, because Tanaide never fails to turn
interesting
shades of red and sputter with indignation. His uncle Gildas is
also fun
to prank, being a challenge to get things past; the downside i!
s that Gildas is only six years older than him and treats him more
like a brother than a nephew, including putting him in a headlock
and
dragging him out to the nearest mudpuddle after a successful prank.

Fothad and his wife got there first, presenting Sylvia with two
granddaughters, one 21, the other 18.

If anyone would like to take any of Sylvia's children or nieces and
nephews and make them into senshi, feel free.

Mentor -- Aileann an Eich Gil, deceased. A physician and master
hunter, Aileann helped Sylvia through many difficult times in her
youth,
nursing her heart through delayed grief at the death of her father
and
nursing her body back from weakness brought on by the birth of her
son.
Though a head shorter than Sylvia and lacking the power of a senshi,
Aileann was a woman on whom Sylvia leaned for strength, sometimes
too
heavily. When she died, Sylvia was grieved but not distraught;
Aileann's
death was peaceful, and felt almost like an object lesson in the
nature of
life that Aileann had taught her for decades.

Occupation: Accountant. I kid you not. Avalon has a trade economy;
she's one of the people who keep track of what's being traded, how
much
it's going for, what's on hand, who's screwing or getting screwed
over,
and all the other stuff that makes the pre-capitalist world
go 'round.
When asked, she gives hunting lessons. On the rare occasion a youth
manifests as a full-powered senshi, she as one of the senior living
Sisters assists in training, but that's far from being a full-time
job.

Skills:

-- Martial skills. No way to get around tthis: she's a trained
warrior
with decades of experience, and even though she's getting creaky,
the
skills are still there. She's trained in unarmed combat both
transformed and untransformed, and is also trained to *make* a
weapon out of
whatever is at hand, be it a broken tree limb or her handbag. For
formal
weapons, she's an expert archer with a shortbow or long bow, though
in
truth she uses that mostly for hunting game. (She's often
contemplated
the wisdom of the legendary Amazons after getting twanged by the
bowstring once too often.) She's a fair hand with the bolo and
various forms
of tripping ropes and lassos, boomerang, blow gun, and knife work,
though she's never been much use with swords, staves, or other long
weapons. She's been shown how to use firearms on trips outside of
the island,
but disdains them, and sprained a wrist from the recoil one of the
few
times she consented to try shooting one.

-- Leadership. This isn't my way of declaaring her to be the
automatic
leader of the PC Avalonian team or demanding that you all bow to
me.
It's a part of her history that she's been trained to lead both
senshi
and civilians in a crisis and has some experience doing just that.
Whether or not she gets to put those skills to work in the game will
depend
on how the game goes.

-- Hunting. It's not just her power spherre; it's something she
*does*,
and does well. She's hunted since she was a little girl and loves
it
still. It calms her, focuses her, makes her feel accomplished when
she
needs a boost. She prefers wild game to domesticated meat.

-- Mathematics. It's arcane and scary andd involves graphs and abaci
and fuzzy numbers. I ain't going there, but she's both talented and
skilled in the subject.

Likes:

-- A good, comfortable pair of boots. Shee's getting to where she
doesn't like to have to break them in herself. The better they're
made, the
less work her feet have to do beating them into shape.
-- Her grandchildren.
-- Moss.
-- Sunrise.
-- Dead leaves.
-- Her favorite knife, an anniversary gifft from her husband. It's a
bowie-style knife with a serious blade, fourteen inches long.
Though the
blade and joining was done by a blacksmith, Gaothaire made the hilt
himself, brass inlaid with silver, shaped and balanced to Sylvia's
grip,
and spelled never to slip and cut its owner's hand.
-- Stone jewelry. It's gradually overcomiing her hair as her main
vanity.
-- Showing off at the spring dances, thouugh that's getting
considerably
harder to do these days.
-- A willing student. Give her the greeneest neophyte and she'll
teach
patiently until they both drop.
-- Long walks alone.
-- Longer walks with friends.

Dislikes:

-- Atheists.
-- What age has done to her hair.
-- Fidgeting.
-- Missing a shot.
-- Getting caught by the bowstring. Ow. TThat's all I'm sayin'.
-- Being away from Avalon.
-- Hot weather. Despite cold, damp weatheer making her bones ache
faintly, she'd much rather it be brisk than hot.
-- Fast food. She tried a quickie burger,, on a trip outside
Avalon.
Once. It's not her hated food because she doesn't believe it's
worthy
of the name.


Fav. Food: Strawberry jam.

Hated Food: That godawful tea her cousin Lucia brews and serves to
captive guests every chance she gets. Secret recipe indeed! Secret
damp
straw from the midden heap, more like.

Fav. Subject: Astronomy. She's also pretty fond of mathematics.

Hated Subject: Comparative religions. Oh, she likes *her*
religion,
and tries to be respectful and open-minded toward others, but the
idea
of discussing religion in an academic context rankles her severely.

Color: This is where it gets complicated. Like any good hunter,
Sylvia's senshi form dresses to fit its environment. Her fuku is
mottled
green/brown/black in the forest, grey on grey on the rocky
hillsides,
urban drab in the cities ... can we just make this easy and call it
"Chameleon"?

Or does this suck? If it sucks, I'll just make it brown or green,
but
.... eh.

Hobbies:

-- Fishing. She's not like her son, to maake a life out of it, but
there's something nice about dozing by a stream or in a boat with
her line
in the water, not caring whether or not she catches anything.

-- Target shooting. Bows and arrows, natcch.

-- Knitting. What? She can knit if she waants to. Mostly it's
scarves. Scarves are good.

-- Eating. Her customary level of physicaal activity requires a
considerable caloric load to maintain, and she likes her food to
taste good.
She's no better than an ordinary cook herself, but loves sampling
the
work of other cooks and the exotic items that come in via the trade
routes.

Aspirations: Get the book, get Arthur's loyalty, get back to Avalon
and
get on with her life.

Gemstone: green aventurine

History

Sylvia was three years old in Coventry when her father went to war,
leaving her mother to keep house and prepare for the new baby that
swelled
her stomach. Sylvia was too young to be truly afraid: she cried for
her daddy's leaving, but not for what might happen to him, or to her
home. Her mother laughed and called her Silly Sylvia, telling her
stories
of the flaming sword her father would wield, the great steel
chargers
he would ride, and the angels who would fly over him to keep him
safe.
Rachel saved her crying for the small, dark hours when her daughter
slept. When Matthew came home on a brief furlough between training
and
being deployed the Continent, Sylvia climbed into his lap and
sternly
demanded to be introduced to his angels. Matthew explained that the
angels, too, were home visiting their families, but he would pass on
her
advice to them. When he went away again, Sylvia cried only a little.

Matthew went to France, and Rachel increased. At the start of her
third trimester, her mother came. This was an Event. Sylvia had
seen her
grandmother but rarely, and standing in front of her knee now
declared
that Grandmum was not nearly so tall as she'd used to be. There
were
whispered arguments all that night; Sylvia dreamt of great serpents
fighting. In the morning, her mother was subdued and her
grandmother had
taken over the trundle bed that Sylvia had not used since her father
left.

Soon, their little flat became a more interesting place to be.
Paper
with fancy writing on it turned up decorating the most unexpected
places-- the doors even got little designs drawn right on them.
Rachel gave
her daughter a set of chalks and graphites so that she could 'help,'
and quietly stocked up on a cleaning solution that could wipe those
away
easily. All the rooms smelled of lovely fresh herbs, and Sylvia got
a
new necklace to wear always, a little red pouch on a white string,
with
rosemary and salt and a blunt iron nail inside-- she watched her
grandmother make it. Sylvia almost forgot about her father's
absence, and
truly forgot to be sad about it. She remembered again in February
when
the baby came, a little, purple sister, and Matthew failed to appear
to
quiet her mother's groaning. Sylvia determined then and there that
she
would be a help to make up for her missing father. As childhood
plans
often do, this one fell through when first met with stinky diape!
rs and the baby crying and crying and _crying_. Still, Sylvia was
fascinated by the little thing, and was a devoted, if uncertain, big
sister.

Unknown to Sylvia, who knew most of the alphabet song and her
picture
books but couldn't quite manage grownup writing, the world began to
end
that spring. Matthew's letters home were becoming more honest and
more
fearful, larger pieces of them blotted out by the censors. Rachel
knew
how bad things were when the first letter came suggesting that she
get
in touch with "that side" of her family and see about staying with
them
for a little while, just until things blew over. Those suggestions
came more and more frequently as the spring progressed, and Rachel
insisted to her mother that it was only because he was so far away
and
worried; there was really no need for her to do so. Sylvia was read
only
fantastic stories of what a grand adventure her father was on,
Rachel
making them up herself when Matthew forgot to include one. Sylvia,
innocently self-centered as only a child could be, very nearly
received a
thrashing in Sunday school when, asked what made her saddest about t!
he war, replied that she missed the sugary caramels her mother used
to
make.

Rachel took the end of May like a soldier on the front lines: she
slept
only in snatches and did not leave the flat at all, one ear tethered
to
the radio night and day. Her mother threatened to _make_ her sleep,
and Rachel threatened to hex warts onto Margaret's face until she
would
look like a toad. Margaret was impressed enough by Rachel's thought
of
returning to her childhood arts, though they were not much of a
threat,
that she dropped the issue. The army was fleeing across the Channel-
-
Rachel had always been adept at hearing what was not said, and knew
the
difference between flight and a tactical retreat-- and she had to
know
where she could go to see Matthew when his unit made it back.

The June 1 casualty list erased that worry. Rachel's screaming
brought
neighbors running to see what was wrong or to pound on their floors
and
ceilings to shut her up; the racket had Sylvia wailing even louder
than
her mother with no idea why. When finally someone took her aside to
explain, using the round-about words one often uses to explain death
to
children, she was thoroughly confused. It sounded to *her* like the
angels in her father's unit would be flying him back to them post-
haste,
and that didn't seem like something to cry over. Sylvia as an adult
has
no memories of this day, but for a long time afterwards she did not
comprehend that her father was really and truly gone instead of just
a
little delayed in transit.

The next few days, Rachel withdrew in on herself, staring off into
space, her movements wooden, her voice silent. She nursed Odile
mechanically when someone put the baby in her arms, but both the
baby and Sylvia
picked up on their mother's mood and were fearful. Margaret finally
*did* drug her, mixing up a brew which Rachel swallowed passively.
Rachel slept over thirty hours, and only twenty or so of those were
Margaret's doing. When Rachel came to, Margaret put her grandbabies
into the
care of a neighbor for a few hours and took Rachel out into the
country.
When the two women returned late that night, Rachel was herself and
more again, responsive to her children and no longer lost in grief,
and
Sylvia clung to her and was comforted.

Margaret wrought better than she knew or intended, sparking a minor
epiphany. Rachel wanted Fritz dead. German soldiers had killed her
husband, had killed thousands of other husbands. She did not have
the easy,
gratifying option a man would, to join the military and take up a
rifle
against the enemy, but she could do her part. The tiny little
payment
the government sent with official notice of Matthew's death was
tucked
away, and Rachel went to work at a munitions plant, supporting her
family by making weapons that would kill Germans. It was a most
satisfying
arrangement. Sylvia barely saw her mother those long months: Rachel
would come home at night exhausted and reeking of hot metal, only to
rise
before daybreak to go to the factory again. Even today, Sylvia
sometimes has dreams about how her mother's eyes looked that summer
and fall,
the shine of a terrible purpose making them feverish and flat like
mirrors.

There was a lull that summer, with stockpiles being built and
soldiers
going about their arcane tasks. For Margaret and her grandchildren,
outside of Rachel's private war there was room to breathe.
Margaret's
husband, Robert, found a few weeks to spare and came to fill the
flat
with his jovial presence and dandle baby Lisa on his knee. He and
Margaret never argued, not within the children's' hearing, at least,
though he
would wish her home with him and she would not leave her daughter
just
yet.

When school sessions began again, Sylvia went to nursery school.
Rachel had not sent her the year before, saying that she was too
young to be
away from home, and that Rachel could teach her better than the
schools
could. Rachel made no such objections this year. Sylvia considered
this an adventure, until the illusion of quiet peace died. The
Battle of
Britain tore the sky asunder, first over the air fields, and then
over
the cities, wherever the Luftwaffe could reach. Coventry, with its
black-painted factories, was a frequent target. The family ran for
the
shelters so often that Sylvia, who could not see above the waists of
the
crowd, soon learned the way well enough to find it herself, if need
be.
Gullible but not stupid, Sylvia soon made the connection that her
mother worked in a "factory," and every said that "factories" were
being
bombed; for the first time since her father died, Sylvia was more
afraid
for her mother than of her.

Rachel, whose maternal instincts were only distracted, not dead,
would
not allow her children to be evacuated to the countryside to live
with
strangers. If they were to be in danger, as they would be anywhere
the
Fuehrer set his sights, they would be in danger where she could
reach
out and protect them as best she could. Margaret took the children
to
church nearly every evening to pray, and strengthened the protective
spells she had put on the apartment building, hoping that her
mother's
lessons had been true and that they were working as they ought.
Cleaning
house, she found Matthew's letters, some of the last, ones that
Rachel
had *not* allowed her to read. Among these were the tentative
suggestions that Rachel somehow ask "that side" of her family for
protection.
Reading that, Margaret felt more warmth for her son-in-law than she
had
in his life.

Margaret began, gently, to give the same advice to her daughter. Her
own mother had never told her how one might find or contact Avalon,
and
she had never tried, but surely there were ways. Her mother's books
contained vague references to the paths one might walk to reach the
island, but no clear directions-- assuming, no doubt, that anyone
who read
them would be *of* Avalon, and not in need of a map. Rachel balked,
her
objections growing stronger at the same pace as Margaret's
insistence.
Until November. Rachel woke screaming from a dream as she had not
had
since childhood; the dreams, she thought, had abandoned her with
menarche, and she had been happy to bid them gone. This one was no
more
concrete than her rare childhood visions had been, and no less
powerful.

Music, under the full moon. The notes like knives, cutting through
her
skull. Fear. Darkness. Blinding light. It was the night of the
13th
of November.

Rachel did not go to the factory the next morning. By noon, all she
dared pack was ready, and the family left with hastily-bought train
tickets, to a small town in the country-- any town, the first Rachel
spotted
that was far enough away for the feeling gnawing at her gut to
*go*.
The women rented a room for the next couple of nights, to all
appearances a family taking a short break from the city. Rachel
stood out under
the moon that night and forced herself to look up at it and try to
believe that there was nothing wrong, that she was being a
superstitious
child, that she was listening to Mother too much. They were far
enough
away that she could not see Coventry burning that night under the
massive Luftwaffe strike; it was the next morning that Rachel
listened to the
radio and collapsed in the only faint of her life.

Margaret picked her up and patted her hand, and reminded her again
of
her options, and of her obligations. That night, the women began to
work. They stayed another three days in the little town, looking up
with
terror at every noise in the sky until they were so deep in their
preparations that nothing distracted them. Then they went again to
the
train station, and began to travel. It took three weeks and all the
money
Rachel had left to find the way to Avalon. Sylvia grew tired and
cross
with the travel, and despondent when Rachel, at the limits of her
patience, explained very succinctly that no, they would not be going
home,
there was no home left-- and tossed down a newspaper in front of her
daughter. The pictures did what adult words could not, and Rachel
was
immediately contrite, pulling her crumpled child into her lap and
rocking
until the girl fell asleep, eerily silent and tearless.

When the time came to attempt travel down the final path, Margaret
found that she had less courage than she thought. Following her
daughter
into her mother's world and the uncertain reception awaiting them
there
there-- even temporarily, for Margaret had her own ties to the world
she had known all her life, and no wish to leave it-- was too much.
She
hugged her daughter and kissed her granddaughters, and withdrew to
the
nearest village to wait three days,
lest they fail or be turned back, and then to go home to her own
husband if she could.

She needn't have waited. Though Avalon does not gladly take in
outsiders, even the grandchild of a prodigal daughter come begging
aid was not
turned away. Especially not when the Seer passed by and off-
handedly
mentioned that the little girl standing sullenly behind her mother
would
grow into a full Sister's power. They were settled by Sylvia's
fifth
birthday, at which time Sylvia's affections were well and securely
bought with gifts and congratulations from people she had only just
met.

Growing up in Avalon was very different from what Sylvia had
experienced of British childhood. She enjoyed some parts, disliked
others.
Outgoing, though not always cheerful, she made a fair few friends,
and many
of the adults were already inclined to either like her for her
future
power or disapprove of her for her foreign and ill-omened origin.
She
did not cling tightly to her mother for very long, but their
relationship remained sturdy. Rachel looked to her young daughters
for a sort of
courage: Sylvia adjusted to Avalon with enviable ease, and Odile,
not a
year old, was oblivious to the change. Rachel struggled even to
learn
the language of the island, which she knew only from books she had
not
seen in years, and had little understood when she saw them. Most
Avalonians who were able would speak to her in her native English,
but
seeing them turn to each other or to her own children and converse
comfortably in a tongue that was all but incomprehensible to her
never fa!
iled to remind her that the island was not her home. If she
pampered
her baby above her eldest daughter, no observers commented in her
hearing, and Sylvia had other concerns.

Avalon treasures very little above education, and Sylvia was treated
no
differently from any other child of the island in that respect.
Always
bright, and educated well for someone of her young age and
unassuming
social class, she was disoriented to find herself behind her
agemates in
the kinds of learning Avalon considered important. She could only
somewhat manage to read English yet, that not being a great interest
of
hers then, and her only prior exposure to the writing system of
Avalon was
in a few of her grandmother's charms. Magic tickled and brought
strange-- though not really unpleasant-- tastes to her mouth, and
her
teachers seemed to expect an impossible kind of patience, though all
her peers
managed most of the time. Intensive tutoring left her bored and
restless, and that made her something of a brat at times, but the
individual
attention did its job. She caught up and kept up, though she was
always stubborn in her interests and disinterests, and got herself!
in a fair spot of trouble from time to time until she learned that
bowing to her teachers' wishes wouldn't spell the end of life as she
knew
it.

After three years in Avalon, Sylvia got a new daddy. At least, that
was how Rachel unwisely phrased the news. Though still uncertain of
her
place in Avalon, Rachel was certain enough of her relationship with
Phelan Mochrie, one of Sylvia's teachers, himself a widower with a
son
about two years older than Sylvia. Phelan was big and quiet and
gentle, a
teacher of arithmetic, in which Sylvia excelled, and had until the
announcement been one of Sylvia's favorite adults. The announcement
made
him something else, an intruder, and a siren for half-repressed
memories
she had never fully processed. It hit her then, as it had not in
Coventry, that her father was gone forever, and her mother was
replacing
him. She had learned about death in Avalon, and the peaceful rest
before
rebirth that the Druids promised was no comfort. The reborn, unless
god-favored, would not remember themselves, which to Sylvia sounded
as if
they would not truly *be* themselves, and the father whom she l!
oved would not love her ever again. She became depressed, her
demeanor a disturbing mix of listlessness and tantrums the likes of
which she
had never thrown as a little child. It was fortunate that she had
little innate talent for magic and could not yet access her destined
power;
in a despairing rage, she was headache enough already.

Phelan was gentle as always, and when it became apparent that Sylvia
was determined to hate him, wisely gave her counseling over to more
neutral hands and busied himself with comforting his soon-to-be
wife. Odile
for her part was delighted, having known no better father figure in
her
four years, and cuddled happily on his lap while Sylvia looked
betrayed. Phelan's son Tanaide was shy around Rachel, not minding
the idea of
her as a mother (though convinced as only a 10 year old boy could be
that he needed no mothering, as long as his knees were unscraped and
no
banshees lurked outside his window), but uncertain of her foreign
sensibilities. Conversely, he was entirely certain of his future
sister: she
was a little wimp, and a pretty stupid one, and was upsetting
everyone
else with her goings-on. He mocked her ceaselessly when no adults
were
about, and, being honest by nature, pretty consistently when adults
*were* around. Their clashes became physical only seldom, as bot!
h of them ended up more or less equally battered and In Trouble.
Ironically, those emotional and physical confrontations were what
eventually taught them to put up with each other, though never to
like one
another, and served as the inspiration for Sylvia's healing.

Aileann an Eich Gil, a physician much concerned with the ills and
woes
of children, observed that the girl was turning her pain into
aggression directed both outward and inward. The calming
philosophies of
meditation and community were somewhat beyond the capacity of a
grieving
eight year old. Aileann befriended the girl and quietly gained
permission
to try something different. She took Sylvia into the forest with
the
light little bow Sylvia was able to use, and taught her to find
rabbits
away from their dens and catch birds in snares. Sylvia learned
patience and silence, and saw death first hand as something neither
terrible
nor alien. While her aggression was satisfied, her compassion was
refined. She internalized the idea that it was wrong to kill
mothers with
young, or young and healthy males in times when those were few, or
to
try a kill that would not be quick. She learned responsibility, to
the
forest and the creatures she hunted and did not hunt, when those h!
ad previously been only abstract concepts mumbled about by Druids.
Moreover, she found something concrete to be proud of, every time
she
brought a cleaned brace of coneys or doves home and watched her
mother
turn them into meals that tasted better than any others.

Gradually, her hostility toward Phelan dulled, and by the time of
the
Beltaine wedding, she was trusted to behave herself throughout the
ceremony. Not til years after, however, did he hear himself
called "father"
in her voice. Rachel was happier than she had been in years,
surrounded by her rebuilt family, and pregnant again in short
order. When
Maggie was born, Sylvia was not unpleasant, but never managed the
same
innocent delight she had shown for Odile.

As Sylvia grew up, her studies became more challenging and her other
training more difficult. By age eleven she was eating huge amounts
of
food for a girl her size and sleeping without fuss, keeping her body
stoked for the demands it had to meet. Unbeknownst to her, she was
being
evaluated as a candidate for Druid training. By her menarche at
twelve
(an event celebrated with as much cheer as any of her birthdays,
though
the grown-up presents she was given weren't quite as exciting as the
toys and pretty things she was used to) the consensus was that she
was
unsuited. The Druids were disappointed that a bearer of Avalon's
true
power could not be safely brought into their ranks, but the more
pragmatic among them noted that she would be able to devote more
time to her
other duties. Her training in the arts of war and magic advanced
and her
education in practical academics became more focused. Philosophy
and
the other more liberal arts were allowed to lessen as her interes!
ts dictated, and good riddance, in her opinion.

At fifteen, she had the most surreal experience of her life to
date.
She knew the Seer, of course, as every citizen of Avalon did, and
the
Seer's young apprentice. The community's leader did not lock
herself
away in a temple and style herself as a goddess, but lived with her
people, though they treated her with great deference. Sylvia had
been near
her as often as any child and more than most, had seen her relaxing
in
the summer sun, her unseeing eyes nevertheless missing nothing, and
standing with the moon grasped in her hands, her ceremonial regalia
seeming
to make her a thousand leagues tall and brilliant as the stars.
Sylvia
had never, ever seen her like this: dark and regal, at once distant
and
overpowering, sitting on a chair Sylvia knew as a throne though she
had
never seen one. At her left stood her apprentice, ancient as
mountains
and no older than Sylvia's mother. Sylvia had been summoned without
warning, a message pressed into her hand by a man whose face she!
could no longer remember. Or perhaps it had been a woman, or a
boy.
She stood there, in a room she had never seen in the inner sanctuary
of
the druids, and though she had found her own way her excellent sense
of
direction told her this was wrong wrong WRONG, she was lost and had
no
hope of finding her way home.

The seer ... talked. For hours or for minutes, while Sylvia's knees
shook and threatened to make her whole body follow suit. Then
Sylvia
realized she was expected to respond, and had no idea of the
question.
After a time she could not count, she returned home, only dilly
wondering
that her feet knew the way. Her sleep was deep and her dreams were
happy, though she could not find an appetite for days after. A year
later, it happened again, and again the next year. At eighteen, the
audience ended with the Seer standing and yet seeming to shrink, and
Sylvia
was not afraid to approach when she beckoned. The Seer whispered
into
Sylvia's ear, and Sylvia's entire being surged toward the sound--
"Breath
of life, quicken in me," she repeated after, and whooped with
unseemly
and heartfelt delight as her power overtook her.

From then on, Sylvia trained both in senshi form and out, finding
teachers and confidants in older senshi. She was also trusted with
greater
responsibility, having passed the Seer's tests. Beginning in her 21
year, the Seer and the Druids encouraged and ordered her on
excursions
outside of Avalon and the hidden realms and into the modern world.
She
traveled the British isles, first in the company of more experienced
travelers, more often on her own after proving her competence.
Sylvia at
first approached these as an unpleasant chore; in her more sullen
moments, they were an unjust punishment for ... something. She felt
little
kinship to the world of her birth. Most of her pre-Avalon memories
were simply not there for her, and those few she retained were foggy
and
phantasmal at best. She got over the unreasonable snits after a
time
and forced herself to find things to like about the outside world.
There
was magic there, though often dilute, and there was beauty, too.

She did some sightseeing when she could, visiting her grandmother
from
time to time and finding shrines that called to her ever-present
spiritual need. Her mother's religion felt more real to her and
powerful
than any of Rachel's informal Sunday school lessons could make it.
After
an ecstatic experience and long talk with a priest at the shrine of
Our
Lady of Walsingham after an exhausting mission, Sylvia returned to
Avalon calling herself a Christian. It was and always has been a
unique
type of Christianity, coexisting in her without strife with the
religion
of her island home. The reborn Christ and the virgin mother crowned
with stars seem to her to fit naturally into the conception of deity
she
knew, and there are those in Avalon who agree with her.

Sylvia's looks were never better than "handsome," but her power and
her
personality caused men to respond favorably to her, once they
realized
they had caught her eye. She quickly came to enjoy the
companionship,
and to some extent the power, and gave her affections where she
wished.
Though she would have liked a few more years of freedom, at age 24
she
lapsed in caution and became pregnant, and found she couldn't stand
the
thought of aborting. Gaothaire agreed and accepted her offer of
marriage. They set up house and grew comfortable with one another
throughout
her pregnancy, and looked forward to the birth of their child with
glee
and reasonable trepidation.

Like her grandmother before her, Sylvia was not made to bear
children.
Though her hips were broad enough and her health vigorous enough
that
not even Aileann, who had been her personal physician as well as
friend
and mentor for years, predicted trouble, the birth of her first
child
left her ill and bedridden for weeks, Matthew going to a wet nurse
until
his mother had the strength to feed him. Aileann stayed with her as
much as the needs of other patients would allow, and loyal Gaothaire
left
her only to visit his son, who was in the care of Rachel and
Phelan.
Unlike her grandmother, Sylvia did not quietly panic when, lucid and
able to sit up with the aid of pillows, she held her son completely
under
her own power for the first time.

For a year, Sylvia stayed on the island, an informal maternity
leave.
Gaothaire made the mistake of trying to coddle her once she was up
and
about on her own. The first real fight of their marriage had him
nearly tackling her for fear she was going to run off after a
roebuck to
prove that she was not an invalid, and her nearly transforming to
make him
let her go. Phelan's arrival in the company of Gaothaire's own
father
interrupted the scene, and the couple decided that a long afternoon
nap
was the better part of valor.

Matthew grew, and the business of Avalon was too pressing to Sylvia
spend all her time at home. Neither did she wish to; she still did
not
look forward to going into the mundane world, but she found that she
had
grown used to it, and felt a peculiar kind of restlessness after
staying home for too long. Sylvia's young half-sibs made excellent
baby
distracters, and gained Sylvia's ungrudging thanks.

As Sylvia's age and experience grew, so did the depths to which the
Druids took Sylvia into their confidence. She was not one of their
number
and never would be, and so was a weapon, not a general, but she was
a
valued blade. Odile's decision when it came was ... not
surprising.
Worrisome, even so, but Sylvia had seen ample signs of it and did
not
make the spectacle of herself that her mother did. She never did
break
the news to her grandmother Margaret, and Margaret, who had some of
the
sensibilities of an Avalonian even if she was an alien to the
island,
never asked. When Matthew was six years old, Sylvia received a
message
from Margaret, and in a little town near a hidden doorway to Avalon
Margaret saw all her descendants save one gathered for the first
time and
the last. Margaret died a few months later, ovarian cancer proving
too
much even for her.

When problems requiring the deployment of the senshi arose, they did
so
quickly and urgently. Sometimes Sylvia was not called, her skills
not
being suited; sometimes she was the only one sent. Once she tracked
a
thief to Brussels to retrieve the ceremonial dagger he had stolen
and to
carry out the Druids' justice on him. Crises were far from the
general
order of the day, and Avalon considered it improper to learn no
other
trade than war. Sylvia retained her love and skill for mathematics,
and
in the long quiet periods among her missions abroad continued her
apprenticeship with a trademaster. By her mid-twenties she was
keeping her
own books and reporting to her former master rather than sharpening
his
pencils and double-counting the bolts of silk brought by the
traveling
traders. She loved motherhood, but had little time to pine over the
children she would never bear. She and Gaothaire fostered a boy
from
another magical community, giving Matthew a brother and themselve!
s another son, and helping the island bring in the fresh blood
which
was always a concern in a community so small.

Life went on. Matthew grew up and made his own life, and Fothad
stayed
in Avalon. Sylvia continued to do her jobs and Gaothaire his.
There
was a time in their middle years that their marriage grew perilously
strained, with no children in their home to take their energies up,
but
neither Sylvia nor Gaothaire approve of divorce, and so they worked
through it rather than letting it break them apart. Fothad made
Sylvia a
grandmother before Matthew did, but Matthew made her one twice as
much in
the end; the foster-brothers still mock-fight about that. Sylvia
began
to wonder when the day would come when she would no longer be sent
out
on a young woman's errands, and if that day would be a relief.

Then the seer began to prophesy. Arthur, she said, was coming into
the
world again, and without guidance. Those who styled themselves
gods,
too, would soon return and make war amongst themselves. Avalon had
to
be ready to act, to put right what had been wrong for centuries+.
Sylvia's time to retire had not yet come. When Excalibur was stolen
away
from under the noses of the Druids and the senshi-- even of the Seer
herself-- everyone on Avalon who was not a child or a fool knew that
there
were bad times and hard fights ahead.


Personality

I think that I should start out with Sylvia's spirituality, because
it
really is the linchpin of her life. She is a faithful adherent of
the
religion of Avalon, and the reborn Christ and the virgin mother
crowned
with stars fit neatly into her personal conception of Deity, letting
her consider herself a Christian regardless of what other, more
traditional Christians might think. While she believes that the
Avalonian way
of worship is best and the Christ is the true light, she also
believes
that other religions might have merit of their own; she hasn't been
exposed to many, but some have impressed her, and others have drawn
her
scorn. Being tolerant is a struggle, but one she considers good
policy,
to a point. She wouldn't want to dismiss a nugget of Truth because
the
package was not immediately attractive. Atheists are pathetic and
agnostics are cowardly. "You have to believe in SOMETHING" is a
sufficient
and self-evident statement for her, and she'll brook no argument!
s to the contrary.

She isn't the deeply contemplative sort at all-- she shuns the idea,
in
fact. Sylvia feels that most matters of metaphysics should be left
to
faith. Examining them too closely is a waste of time or outright
arrogance. Her own mortality does not intrigue or worry her much.
It is as
it is, and the only eternal life that counts is that of the spirit.
She believes both in reincarnation *and* in Heaven, with good souls
being
assigned lives where they are needed, or for second chances, and
irredeemable souls being eradicated. Any inconsistencies or illogic
in her
beliefs are handwaved over and not talked about unless someone
really
wants to draw her ire.

She feels that she should be grown past vanity now, but she knows
very
well that she isn't. She has never been exceptional in her looks
but
has always gone to great lengths to make herself presentable or
attractive. At home, she dresses in practical clothes, having no
preference
for skirts or breeches except as the situation warrants, but she
likes
them to be good-looking clothes and augmented with jewelry whenever
possible. At gatherings of any sort, she loves dressing prettily,
and the
only thing she has ever envied Druids is their elaborate formal
dress.
When out in the modern world, she dresses like a genteel member of
the
middle class unless the task at hand dictates otherwise. She has
one
husband already and no wish to acquire another, and is quite
confident
in herself; this vanity persists because it makes her feel good, not
because she needs validation or to please others.

Her greatest regret is that she was able to bear only one child,
because she deeply loves children. She dotes on her grandchildren
shamelessly and never mind the people who say they'll turn out
spoiled. They're
little darlings, every one, and the only way to spoil a child is to
treat him badly. The older children are already a bit exasperated at
Grandam's broad hints that they should be providing her with
great-grandchildren as soon as possible. On the other hand, she's
never been
sentimental about animals and never owned a pet. Domesticated
animals should be
treated well and wild ones should be respected, and one who torments
them is despicable, but the base fact is that they're made of meat.

Though she trusts the Seer and Druids who command her, she does not
follow them blindly. Their part is to reason through mysteries that
other
people have no business touching, but she is one trusted with
knowing
the real and immediate world. In the field, she trusts her
judgement
over her orders, though she very rarely fails to achieve or at least
attempt her objective. When there is work to be done, she is
relentlessly
and ruthlessly task-oriented. Jobs should be done once and done
well,
even if they're dirty. *Especially* if they're dirty. Once the
news
that Tobias is alive reaches Avalon, Sylvia is going to want the
head of
whoever is responsible for that oversight. As long as he lives, he
is
dangerous. Arthur is coming, and Merlin's descendant still has the
means to awaken the Knights and steal the king away. The moral
problem is
even worse: Tobias' and his mother was killed, his home ripped
apart,
and as far as the Avalonians know, it might have all been in fro!
nt of his eyes. Killing him is a necessity, Merlin's line having
proven itself the enemy of reason again and again, but subjecting a
child
to that is an inexcusable cruelty. In a better world, Sylvia would
not
raise a hand against him; she'll cry when she learns the state he's
in.
The world is what it is fated to be, though. She will do what must
be
done and direct others to do the same, even if a child must die for
it.
She has no taste for gratuitious bloodshed, but death is part of
life,
and sometimes innocents must die to pay for crimes not their own, or
to
prevent worse disasters.


Appearance

Sylvia has the kind of plain, sturdy body found among hardworking
peasants the world over. Tall for a woman at 5'10", she's always had
the
brawn to match. Her hips are broad-- childbearing, though that is a
cruel
lie-- with legs configured like those of a distance runner. Her
limbs
are long but her fingers are short and blunt, and she can still
throw a
punch that wise men avoid, though she pays for it afterwards. Age
has
added bulges in some places and flaccidity in others, and though she
doesn't have old lady arm flab-- too much muscle in her arms for
that--
her round face is jowly and she's heavier about the middle than she
used
to be.

Of all the parts of aging she dislikes, it's the affect on her hair
that she honestly hates. In her youth, her hair was her one claim to
beauty, true, pure blond, thick and fine, reaching to her waist or
beyond
with the color of the noonday sun. Age has both washed it out and
tainted its purity, leaving it the color of ... well, she's been
known to
growl "Piss-soaked rags" at the mirror, so we'll leave it at that.
It also
has a greater tendency to dry out, so she wears it shoulder-length
now
and treats it with conditioners and oils. With its natural beauty
diminished, Sylvia compensates by styling it elegantly and wearing
elaborate headbands and combs. Her eyes have not faded, being the
same rich,
carpet-mossy green as ever. They are clear and sharp, though crow-
feet
radiate away from them like crackles in old varnish. Her nose is
large
and patrician, bumpy but not crooked from being broken twice and
healed
magically. Her face is filled-out rather than heavily wrinkled,!
and is plain-looking still rather than ugly.

She has quite a few scars, tokens of an active life. Some of them
are
worth particular mention:

Her abdomen is bisected vertically by the memory of the cut that
saved
her life and her newborn child's. It was done with desperate speed,
not neatness, and the bulk of the physicians' efforts went toward
healing
the important organs and muscles, leaving the skin to fend for
itself
cosmetically.

The long old scar on the sole of her right foot came from one of her
most careless hunting mistakes. She was following a game trail in
hopes
of finding a tasty young buck and came face to snout with a very
territorial boar instead. His tusk tore right through her boot and
into her
flesh on her way up the nearest tall tree. That toss of his head
would've gored straight through her back if she'd been a hop
slower. She
spent over an hour sitting wedged in a crotch of the tree, trying to
staunch the bleeding while her eyes were glued to the evil eye he
was
giving her from below before regathering enough of her wits to
transform and
hobble back home *that* way.

On her back, a long, thin scar slashes across her right shoulder,
diagonally down to the other side of her backbone. She was
transformed when
she received the wound, and that probably saved her life-- it taught
her never to turn her back on an enemy unless she was sure he was
unarmed
and immobilized, or dead. Or both.


Fuku

I swear to Zog that I'll one day give a senshi functional footwear.
Today is not that day. Sylvia is barefoot in her fuku, and her feet
and
legs are splatted lightly with mud. The soles of her feet are
calloused even more thickly than normal, enough that being barefoot
is not a
hindrance on any surface short of upturned razor blades. Her legs
are
bare up to mid-thigh, where the bottom of her tunic comes down.
That
tunic is supple, grass-stained leather, doe skin, open from a low
neck
down to her stomach and laced, belted at the waist with a rope
belt. She
wears a loose, soft shirt under the tunic. To her belt are secured
several pouches, which come empty, but in which she can store small
items
and retrieve them when she transforms again. Usually, she'll clip a
sheathed knife to the belt as well, but that isn't technically part
of
her fuku.

Across her forehead is a leather headband, holding back her braided
hair. In the center of the band is a broad arrowhead, point down,
made of
green aventurine. Bits of twigs and leaves are caught in her hair,
and
her cheeks are smeared here and there with mud. The tunic is
sleeveless. Around her right upper arm is a golden spiral armband.
Her wrists
are cuffed with leather. Over it all she wears a calf-length,
water-resistant cloak that she does not hesitate to discard if it
gets in the
way. It fastens over her breasts with an arrowhead broach identical
to
the one on her headband.

Transforming does *not* make her look young. She regains the
strength
and vigor to equal any young senshi-- though protracted battles will
wear on her more heavily than they might have years ago, and she
will
need to rest up afterwards lest her normal form suffer-- but her
body
looks its age still.


Transformation

Before transforming, if she has time, Sylvia murmurs a prayer to
focus
herself.

She softly speaks her transformation phrase, "Breath of life,
quicken
in me," as she bows her head and crosses her hands over her
breasts.
Then ... she changes. In the space of three heartbeats, her regular
clothing disappears and her fuku appears. She drops her hands to
her side,
looks up, and that is that.


Magic charm

The website says that Avalonian senshi may have charms that let them
identify other Avalonians, so I figure that it makes sense for
Sylvia to
have one. Hers is a ring, just a simple silver band with a small,
round-cut malachite stone set in it. She wears it on the middle
finger of
her left hand. When she is within a few hundred yards of an
Avalonian
senshi, it gives her a sharp little sting, like a needle-stick.
When
she lays a hand on one, it has a warm, pleasant, tingling sensation.


Powers

"Wounded Prey"

How it works: Sylvia first must make her target bleed. She can do
it
intentionally or on accident, by her own hand or by knocking her
opponent into something; an ally can inflinct the wound, or the
victim can
cut himself shaving and not heal up before getting into a fight; any
way
works, as long as there's a tiny bit of external bleeding. Then,
while
her target is in sight and bleeding, she says, "I'll follow it to
its
den." That's it. There's a distinct lack of flash and bang in this
senshi.

What it does: For the next half hour, the bleeding will never
entirely
stop. It won't cause much blood loss, certainly not enough to be
damaging in itself-- it's no worse than cutting oneself shaving, and
shouldn't hurt at all. This bleeding continues for the full half
hour even if
the victim detransforms. While this bleeding occurs, Sylvia will be
able to track the victim by instinct-- even if the victim
detransforms.
This can only be done against one senshi at a time, and while she
could
theoretically cast it again immediately after it wears off, she'd
have
to start the target bleeding again, and she'll likely be too tired
and
need at least a few hours to rest up before she's good for another
fight. (She's not a spring chicken anymore, after all.) This power
works
not just on senshi, but also on anything that bleeds. In the past,
she's used it for regular hunting when she's accidentally wounded an
animal rather than making a clean kill, and wanted to find it faster!
than regular tracking would allow.

What restricts it: This doesn't nullify the senshi glamour. She
might
be able to run someone down, but she won't *recognize* the person if
he
or she has detransformed. She can take an educated guess based on
the
fact that her instincts are screaming "This is the one!
Killitkillitkillit!" but she won't recognize Maeve if she's only
seen Sailor Israfel.

How to counter it: If the bleeding can be stopped, the effect is
nullified. Mundane medical techniques can't do it, but a senshi
with
healing powers could. Failing that, the best way to deal with it is
to avoid
Sylvia for the half hour it takes for the effect to wear off. Put
her
out of commission before the fight is over, or outrun her, or
detransform and go to a crowded place-- she won't be able to tell
the senshi
from the civilians, even if she knows the senshi is in the crowd.

This power, though not causing much in the way of physical injury
itself, has the potential to be *very* damaging if Sylvia
successfully
tracks down an enemy senshi's civilian guise. For that reason, and
the
assumption that she should know some basic magic and have magical
items
from Avalon to help her, I've made this her only power; she'll have
to
rely on her teammates and her other skills in battle.


Basic spells

We're talking very basic here, folks. I'm not trying to pull a
twink,
so please tell me if I'm overstepping. She's a well-trained warrior
from a magical society, and these are all spells she would use often
for
everyday things, the way I use electric lights. She can do more
complicated ones-- she knows some useful, first aid-type healing
spells by
heart, for example, but they take rather a lot of effort-- but those
require preparation and materials other than a directed thought or
little
cantrip.

Open portal-- The GMs have already said the Avalonians can travel
through magic portals, so she has to have this one. I'm assuming
that the
portal spell Sylvia would use would just be a key, kind of a magical
password, with the power of the portal spell being drawn from the
magic of
the island. Otherwise, it would be considerably more
complicated/high-level. (Or not. I'm not much of an expert on
traveling England via
magic portals.)

Find water-- This one ... finds water. It can detect water within
about a quarter mile and direct Sylvia to it. Sylvia sometimes has
a bit
of a problem keeping the field flat rather than spherical, causing
her
to look for water that's a quarter mile underground.

Purify water-- This removes impurities from water, including dirt,
debris, poison, and germs. Sylvia casts the spell while stirring a
container of water with her finger. How long it takes depends on
how much
she's purifying. Cleaning the mud out of a cup of water takes less
than a
minute. Cleaning a chemical spill out of a pond would make her
finger
fall off long before she finished. This one's useful when she's
thirsty and the only water nearby is a mudpuddle.

Start fire-- Not something out of Stephen King, promise. It's the
magical equivalent of a match or a cigarette lighter. She uses it
to start
campfires when she's lost her flint.

Create light-- She cups a hand, palm-down, and a gentle
luminescence
gathers under it. It's not very bright, more like a candle than a
flashlight.

Dispel vapor-- This clears a corridor through a fog bank or a smoke
screen. The corridor is usually about 3 feet wide by 6 feet tall
and
extends about ten meters ahead of her. It doesn't work on any kind
of
magical mist, so it won't mess up a senshi's smoke attack or
anything. It
also doesn't hold the vapor *back*, so the corridor starts to
disappear
from air currents as soon as it's created. It's useful for getting
around on a foggy day, though Sylvia can only get it to work right
about
half the time.

Scream-- This makes a scream carry twice as far as it would
normally.
It doesn't amplify the scream; it just nicely asks a physical law or
two to look the other way for a moment while the sound is heard
farther
off than it should be. It only works for a scream, and only if
Sylvia's
the one screaming, though for more skilled witches it carries speech
or
any other sound they wish. It's good for those days that start off
with "My foot seems to be caught in a bear trap and my companions
are a
mile away. Darn." You know those days.


Explanation

These are some assumptions I've made about Avalon. Tell me if I got
any wrong.

-- There are usually a few full-powered ssenshi in Avalon, ranging in
age from much older than Sylvia to too young to be given the key to
their
transformations. They're sent out of the island on missions to
handle
crises, investigate odd occurrences, guard VIPs, and generally do
things that they can do better than a regular person.

-- Most Seers are both precognitive and cclairvoyant, in addition to
being well-educated Druidesses and magicians, but not all-seeing and
all-knowing. Would be a dull game otherwise. Particular strengths
vary
from Seer to Seer; they're not carbon copies.

-- Most people on the island aren't Druidds. Historically, Druids
were
a ruling class of intellectual mystics who studied for twenty years
or
more in order to be admitted to that class, and they were picky
about
those with whom they shared power. I've assumed that the Druids,
particularly the Seer, are the leaders of the community, but the
community is
small enough that most things are run by consensus.

-- There are other hidden, magical communnities out there, though not
necessarily in Great Britain. The FAQ says that Avalon is run by
trade,
so there must be people to trade *with*.

-- Fostering, for a few years or for an eentire childhood, is common,
both within Avalon itself and between magical communities. The
Celts
considered fostering to be a social institution at least as
important as
marriage, if not more so. This would be extremely important in
small,
hidden communities like Avalon, to bring in new blood and prevent
the
birth of Cletus the Slack-jawed Druid.

-- Marriage is important, but Avalonians  don't do it quite the way
we
in Mundania do. Pre-marital sex is seen as perfectly natural and
healthy, as the Celts saw it. I couldn't get a definite yea or nay
on
out-of-wedlock births from my research, but since the GMs have said
that
they'd probably be seen as bad, I'm assuming that it's considered
proper to
marry before the birth of the child if you accidentally get
pregnant.
The ideal marriage among the Celts was a union of equals, in which
both
parties brought a dowry, and when one died, the other inherited both
shares as well as any interest. Some historical documents claim
that a
man had the power of life and death over his wife and children.
Since
these documents were written by Julius Caesar while he trying to
subdue
Gaul, their claims should probably be taken with a grain of salt.
Regardless of how the Celts did it, matriarchal Avalon certainly
wouldn't
have such a custom. My sources were conflicted on whether or not!
divorce as acceptable. I've assumed that it's possible, but not
encouraged, and both Sylvia and her husband are strongly against it.

-- Some sources I've researched have saidd that the Celts, or at
least
the Druids, practiced polygamy. I was working on incorporating that
into Sylvia's sheet when I realized that that custom probably
wouldn't
have survived on Avalon. With its small population, marriage and
reproduction needs to be spread out as much as possible; a woman
with three
husbands would have more than she needed, and would be reducing the
chances of other women.

-- Matronymic surnames (taken from the naame of the mother) are more
common than patronymics (from the name of the father), and
descriptive
names are also used. Clan affiliations aren't important because all
the
original clans have intermarried so much that keeping track would be
a
farce, and the community as a whole is more important than
convoluted
blood relations. This also keeps the names from being the INSANELY
HUGE
SCARY things that the Celts went into when they were feeling formal,
listing everybody that ever sneezed in the person's direction in the
name. Since Avalon is so small, I doubt anyone is too concerned
with the
formalities of surnames, since everyone knows who everyone else is
already.

-- The religion of Avalon isn't a fluffy  sanitized neo-pagan thing,
but
an evolution of the religion of the ancient Celts. As such, blood
sacrifice is still practiced, though only on very serious
occassions, and
that sacrifice is sometimes human, though that hasn't happened
within
living memory. They also don't go around speaking vaguely of "the
Goddess" and "the God" but have specific conceptions of forms taken
by their
deities (though they don't always agree on just what those forms
are:
see Sylvia's inclusion of Jesus Christ and the Holy Virgin Mary) The
religion isn't dualistic, so there's no evil god causing trouble;
good and
evil come from the same source, and it's up to humans to choose
which
is which.

-- The ancient Celts worshiped gods that  are being used in the
Celtae
team. Since, as per the Sailor Myth England info page, modern
Avalonians don't care whether the Celtae live or die, I'm guessing
they *don't*
hold these senshi to be incarnations of gods.


Researching the nine sisters has not been exactly fruitful. Besides
a
ton of information about Morgan, a teeny bit about Morgause (mainly
about how she isn't Morgan), and a general consensus that Cliton has
something to do with healing and the name "Thitis" sounds kinda like
"Thetis," there's really nothing out there, either online or in my
university's library. I found a couple of pages with more detailed
information on
the obscure sisters, but one was incoherent, and the other was ...
flaky. Even Marion Zimmer Bradley didn't mention any of them but
Morgan
and Morgause while she was blithely picking through folklore to
make "The
Mists of Avalon". The specific bloodlines don't seem to be *that*
important for practical purposes as they don't bestow particular
power
spheres, and in a community the size of Avalon, pretty much every
family
that's been there a few generations should be descended from several
or
all of the sisters; I assume that the bloodline asked for is the !
dominant one. And that Avalonians either have really good records,
or
a way of magically determining heritage. I picked Mazoe because I
liked the name.

Sylvia being senshi of Hunting rather than "the Hunt" is
deliberate.
"The Hunt" connotes something that gods and heroes do, with packs of
hounds and plenty of fanfare to mark the occasion. Hunting (or
hun'in',
as they say where I'm from) is something much less epic, done for
survival, a single hunter tracking prey for food or protection. Her
power,
as I've said, has the mundane use of tracking down wounded but not
dead
animals for swift and humane killing. Since she lives in Avalon,
which
does have (as I understand it) other full-power senshi at its
disposal,
there has to be a reason that *she* is sent out instead of or in
addition to someone else. This power seems to be something that
would be
particularly useful for what the Avalonians must do.

Sylvia also has the advantage of being old, set in her ways, and
convinced of her cause. That's another reason for *her* to be
sent. She
*will* kill Tobias if she has to, to get the Book or to cripple the
Knights. She's never killed a child before, and she may well hate
herself
for being willing, but she'll do it. Being in her sixties and
having
spent all but her first few years in Avalon, she's well-trained and
steeped in the culture.

She does have a dead parent, and he did die when she was young. A
lot
of people in England in WWII had dead fathers, so, um ... have
mercy?
I knew from the very first flicker of her character that I wanted
her
to be fairly old, and I wanted her to have spent time outside
Avalon.
Originally it was going to be some muddled parallel with Morgan, who
was
"put to school in a nunnery and taught witchcraft," but that one
sucked. A lot. I had to have some other reason for her to have
come to
Avalon from the outside, and as her personality developed, I saw
that I
wasn't writing about a young woman. Older character ... England ...
reason to go to a hidden magical island ... bingo. World War II.

Her stone, aventurine, is a form of quartz which is usually green.
It
supposedly is an air stone that influences eyesight, luck, emotional
and physical health, mental focus, and leadership.

My mommy says I'm special.


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