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When she was little, Rosalyn looked up to her big brother Artair. He was the protector of the family, the Heir of the Crovane, the prodigal son. As she aged she saw him less as a mythical figure, and more as a human being with the same flaws and vulnerabilities as anyone else. Nevertheless, her fascination with the mythical remained. She consumed gallant songs, fables, and idyllic histories, but ultimately found herself disillusioned by the often unflattering reality. Although her passion for stories remained, she eventually settled on her faith asan outlet for the mystical. In her youth she was a wild child and a tomboy. She'd pilfer the kitchens for treats, or let loose the hunting dogs to play. More than once she tried (and failed) to hide the consequences of the freed hounds breaking into the chicken coop. Puberty struck her early, and it struck her hard. In a relatively short time she went from raising mayhem to acting more like a proper lady. But only act. By the time she was a young adult, she had discovered new ways of consorting with trouble. Her inquiries into the Abandoned lead to rumors of trysts and forbidden liasons, and her indignant defiance in the face of social pressures did little to quell them. When others urged for prudent distance, she went out of her way to be seen in public with them. Despite her wild reputation, her brother found her a favorable marriage and she was soon with a child. Many thought that having a baby in her belly would finally soothe the beast inside of her, and perhaps it has, but she never lost that feral gleam to her eyes. For the past two years she mourned her husband's death, but now she's ready to move on with her life, and only time will show whether age and motherhood has tamed her, or simply instilled a sense of subtlety.

Steeped in sunset hues, this woman's blazing orange hair pours just past her shoulders in a carefully cultivated tumult of flame given form. The shock of color frames a pale face barren of freckles and marked by rose-stained bow-shaped lips. Her features are fine-boned and delicate, with high-set cheekbones dusted with perpetual blush. The beginnings of crows feet crinkle the corners of her wild, storm-grey eyes, though laugh lines are conspicuously absent. Despite the marks of age on her body, she has the figure of a much younger woman. Her feminine contours shape a silhouette of such excessive, sumptuous curves that they verge on gaudy. Limbs lacking in definitive strength affirm her tender, almost pillowy physique.

Roisin adores the wild places of Arvum, where forgotten fables and ancient secrets live on. She shields her zealous heart behind a veil of diplomacy and propriety, but some savage tempest circles the periphery of her character. Despite whatever barbarism may lurk beneath the surface, she readily supplies motherly consideration to any willing to endure her doting.