|Eye Color||Dark Hazel|
|Authored By / Featured In|
Hella is a quicksilver-swift young woman, sculpted by seventeen years of sailing on the Compact's seas. The hourglass curves of her body have been toned and streamlined by a life of deckwork, swordplay and swimming in the ocean, while the sun's rays have coaxed out gilded freckles across her button nose and round rosy cheeks. She lacks the salt-weathered complexion often found among sailors, with only a whisper of fine lines beneath doe-like eyes of liquid-dark hazel. Her hair is a dusky brown that's inclined to bleach into golden highlights or to redden during blazing summers, falling down her back in a cascade of often-tousled waves. A feline smile transforms her face from something cute into something roguish -- a wide grin that reveals a flash of straight white teeth.
You might think that being raised by a methodical, scholarly merchant would mean that Hella would develop those same traits. But no -- for whatever reason, she's an impulsive young woman of fluctuating moods who tends to act on a whim. On the whole she has a curious streak that pulls at her attention-span and sometimes drags her into all manner of chaos, but she's not the type to sit around reading books and mulling over deep thoughts for overlong.
Hella likes swords, silver, strong booze and big noisy songs. Oh, and ships, of course. Indeed, maybe the only time she can delve into self-reflection and relative quietude is when she's sailing calm seas, watching the gentle ebb and flow of whispering tides. Otherwise, she's an impatient soul and often can't be bothered to apply a diplomatic filter to her words unless she /really/ has to. It's better to just let everything out into the open, right?
Hella was born of Victor and Cibale Andrasko, both favoured servants of House RedTyde, who served faithfully up to the death of their House, standing proud with their Lord when the Thrax came to lay waste. Hella herself was pulled from the burning rubble of her home by Fredrik RedTyde, who then fled with her in turn to exile, so very small and growing up with no memories of that horrible night of fire and death.
She was raised by Fredrik RedTyde, who treated her as a daughter in truth, even if not in name, living with him on his ship as he plied the waters of the Compact. Never taking truly to her father's teachings on economics and business, she instead grew to love the feel of the waves, the roughness of the sailors they sailed with, and the life-or-death play of swords. Her father may have worried, but she grew into the role of a swashbuckling, outspoken woman with aplomb, even if it meant a flash of steel (or, more often, with her father having to soothe feelings with words or coin).
Following him since she was old enough to make the choice, she has only known of Fredrik's true status for a short time, and was shocked to learn that her father was, in fact, a Lord of some stature. Once she grappled with that secret, she kept it well, and was understandably infuriated when he went to Arx without her, claiming he would 'send for her when it was safe'.
But Hella doesn't /want/ to wait and just run freight or sit in Tyde hall (as an honored guest). She wants to be where the pulse of civilisation throbs; where rings glitter on the fingers of the silks, and steel flashes in the hands of quick-witted scoundrels; where the booze runs freely, and so does the silver. What could be better than that?