|Hair Color||Sunshocked Wheat|
|Eye Color||Faded Bluebell|
|Authored By / Featured In|
Blonde hair cut on an angle sweeps around her shoulders, a mixture of bleached bone and softer traces of faded straw. She parts her hair offset, and her windblown strands are usually pulled back off her striking face with a scrap of sea-bleached cloth or some kind of leather thong. Individually her features might be overpowering: strong mouth, patrician nose, a chin tapering to a pert, firm point. The sum of them is fascinating, a collaboration that speaks to the inner spirit of the woman. She delivers fearless, direct looks through eyes almost too fair and light to really quantify blue in any sense, the traces ringing her irises a bold shore of darker colour. By no means is Breidaia short or weak, and her body is a testament to an active lifestyle, with timelessly defined musculature and toned limbs that radiate fitness.
Breidaia has a booming, wide personality that takes the world by the horns. Not for her the days of living quietly at the fireside, shrinking away from the plate full of delicious possibilities. She has gained refinement over the years, but that hasn't dulled her enthusiasm more than a shade. The expectations to pony up and behave well with a crew rather than acting the freewheeling hellion still have their effect. Beneath the polite graces, a veneer only skin deep, lies the vigorous fire that will sail to unknown shores and go where others might fear to sail or tread.
She has a thorough appreciation of risk and an appetite for adventure. But Breidaia too is the leader and mother hen over those under her charge, and she constantly takes measures to assure their safety. She isn't reckless or irresponsible, but an irrepressible force no more contained than the sea.
The Northlands are a harsh place for a commoner. Breidaia knew the hardships of a hungry belly, an empty quiver, and lips turning blue. Her father died before she was five, memories of him gone dim with the years. The tiny village she dimly recalls was overrun by Abandoned or plague, alternating disasters that signalled a need to move on. So her mother did, uprooting them in a straggling band of starvelings harried by the closing season. The small family nearly perished before they reached Giant's Reach, or close enough to eke out some modest existence. They were never prosperous after any fashion. Some days it was merely enough to life.
Hunger motivates as well as necessity. Breidaia had no future on the outskirts of Giant's Reach, being without desire to work in mines or muster some small craft. She had a far-roaming nature and a quest to see the sea. It took her nearly six years to make it to the shores of Sanctum on the Eventide Vast, working the river bit by bit, but she had enough competency on the ropes and the sails of inland waters by then to buy her way onto a ship. It was a terrible position and she thoroughly hated it. The next posting was better, less given to abuses. The crew tolerated her quirks more. She grew into her skin.
The lure of the water wasn't really what it was about. The excitement, the colour, the wonder all found on a ship boiled down to the heady experience she loved. Sailing gave her choice. She went far west with a trading coster funded by the Redrains, and through the distant patronage of their economic interests, would criss-cross the ocean. She became the second mate on a respective ship, got a name for honest dealing and good leadership. None of that mattered for piss during a brutal storm somewhere northwest of the Saffron Isles, when they were cutting for the far storm-wracked coast of the Compact. Men died. Her lover, the captain, died with a spar to the chest that no one could heal. The first mate was riddled by rage and sickness, forcing Breidaia to take up the role.
And she was good at it. Very good. By the time they made landfall, half their cargo lost, a third of the crew down, it looked like a disaster. She got a second chance, with a second ship, and that was that. She's been sailing for the Redrains ever since.