Full name: Catherine
Age: 34 years old
Race: Human, Chondathan
Sex: Female
Date of birth: 10 Eleint, 1327
Place of birth: Western Heartlands (Shoresburyton, small hamlet)
Alignment: Lawful Good
Patron deity: Ilmater
Profession: Itinerant Monk
Classes: Monk/Favoured Soul/Sacred Fist
Primary language: Chondathan
Secondary languages: All (Monk ability, Tongue of the Sun and Moon?)
Physical description:
Kind blue eyes, ever-vigilant and watchful frame a sharp, Roman nose. She practices tonsure, sporting a completely shaved head. She is diminutive, slight in frame and stature, nigh always wearing her well-worn gray, hooded robes. Well-worn too are the smile lines upon her countenance, accompanied by slight wrinkles signifying her beginning into advanced age.
Psychological description:
She is typically somewhat reserved around those she does not know well, aloof yet observant. Kind and enduring, she is rarely prone to emotional outbursts, and maintains a grounded, practical temperament. Though she can be serious, she is prone to flights of silliness and levity, believing humour and good cheer are critical to enduring suffering and hardship.
She prefers contemplation in solitude, occasionally visiting temples and shrines to meditate and pray. She has a healthy obsession with cheese, in myriad forms and flavours. Fond early childhood memories of sharing the rare treat with her father, Laywoman Emma, and her sister all but ensured a proclivity for it. In her mind, it represents the small yet meaningful joys of sharing with others.
Perhaps most importantly, she is a wanderer. She rarely stays in one place long, favoring the road as company as opposed to forming attachment to places or people.
Religious views:
Catherine believes there is an all-encompassing war that under girds the shared, waking dream. It is fought between two sides: the Light and the Dark. In it, we all are pressed into service, willingly or not. She chooses the side of the Light, favouring Good deities for worship. Her tutelage under an itinerant Ilmateri monk led her to call Ilmater her patron, but she is not exclusive in her worship and regard to the Enduring One. The Triad forms a solid foundation for her belief in how we should approach the world.
In her view, in the end, Justice must be upheld. There is wrong, and there is right. There is error, there is truth. She believes mortals cannot truly discern the full consequence and impact of our actions, and that the echoes of deeds rendered will reverberate long after they pass. Thus, Justice, and Judgment, must be determined by the Gods and the universe.
Mercy, by its nature, is a suspension of justice. Grace, in her mind, is consequence withheld, judgment abated. A second chance, to join the Light. In this way, she believes we are called to emulate, best we can, the Gods of good and Light, and extend mercy wherever we can in our words and in our deeds.
She believes all sentient beings on Toril belong to one church, to which she devotes her life in service to. In this way, she may differ from clergy of her patron and other gods. Her devotion is more broad, seeing the Gods as manifestations of aspects of reality, reflective of the nature of those who live in the world, rather than objects of worship. She does not judge, nor condemn, and strongly believes in the redemptive powers of her patron.
She maintains three vows: A Vow to Purity, A Vow to Chastity, A Vow to Devotion. Purity of spirit, giving freely of the Love she has found to any and all she comes across, regardless of creed or background. Chastity of body, to maintain the creative energies within for righteous purpose and good deeds. Devotion, to the people of Toril, the living church that embodies the reality of the waking dream. In this way, she reflects Ilmater's Mercy and tenet of self-sacrifice, a life devoted to the betterment of the world and others.
Biography
Family
Father: Paul (status unknown)
Sister: Angela (status unknown)
Mother: Catherine (deceased, died giving birth)
Mentor: Brother Simon (status unknown)
History
Nestled in the leftmost corner of Shoresburyton, a small shack glows brightly in defiance of the twilight. Rustling leaves and the lapping waves, the soft groan of straining wood, almost taunt the pregnant silence. There is little to be said for the hamlet; unremarkable save perhaps for its starkly conventional nature. Yet, on this night, to a precious few, an event of great import was to pass.
Inside the cramped foyer, it had been a frightful few candlemarks. Laywoman Emma and Paul, the patriarch of the family, shared hushed whispers in the corner. Little Angela had long since fallen asleep, dreaming blissful, hopeful dreams of a sister. The sudden labour had rushed the family into action; now, a palpable, melancholic dread hung unspoken amongst the gathered.
The pregnancy had been wrought with difficulty. Prayers and medicine ministered, days filled with dread as Catherine, bedridden, convulsed in agony. Through great effort and perhaps a bit of luck, her term had finally reached its turning point. The expectant mother, tended now by the elder Sister Freya, lay unconscious, her breaths shallow.
"... now is not the time for unworthy thoughts, Paul. Sister Freya is well-versed in-"
"I've told you both a thousand bloody times, it's not going to work. It hasn't worked before, why would it now?"
"I assure you, she is by far the most competent healer in the convent. She has dealt with countless deliveries, if she deems the bloodletting to be the correct course-"
"Gods damn it, woman! Every time they have, it's gotten worse! I don't give a rat's-"
"PAUL."
"... sorry, Emma. It's been... difficult."
"We trust the Broken God to ease our suffering, carry our burdens. As the Gods will, so do we endure."
And with that, the father fell silent, his face grim.
---------------
Many years passed, but the echoes of that fateful night would ring yet. Young Catherine, named for her now deceased mother, was born small, colicky. Even in these early stages, she was the spitting image of her namesake. Many sleepless nights were had, Paul doing his utmost to raise both girls while holding his job at the mill. Often, Laywoman Emma would tend to the children whilst he toiled away for his meager wages.
Young Angela was torn, as much as a child could be. She doted upon her new sister, playing mother to her as best she could. Yet a growing resentment was festering in her soul, between the colic and the grief for her lost mother, she began to loathe Catherine.
Paul, too, found much difficulty in these hardships. As Catherine grew, the stark similarities to her mother grew, developing the same mannerisms, the same calm, gentle personality, and the same warm, soft smile he had come to cherish. The weight of his grief and the constant reminder did little to help his disposition. Still, he was a good man, patient and enduring, providing as he could for his two daughters without complaint.
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Laywoman Emma was startled, and then broke into a wide, toothy grin as Catherine danced the small orb of light between her fingers. She had, at first, been leery of the young girl's request for confidence. She was delighted when she learned that it was an earnest, timid foray into the realm of faith. The young girl confided in the Laywoman her secret prayers to Ilmater, to "help dad since he works hard all the time, help sis since she's always crying, even if she thinks no one's watching". Though she struggled to articulate it properly, Catherine shared with Emma a deep feeling of connection in her, to something beyond herself, a Great Reality that helped ground her when she was upset or frightened. Now, it would seem, that feeling had grown into a manifestation of power, what she would come to know as a cantrip to conjure light.
Emma advised her to continue her diligence in her secret practice. She also enthused greatly about the merit of authentic, private prayer for others.
"The best kind of good is the one no one knows about. In this way, its purest intention is helped along, Catherine. Far easier to guard against pride and self-satisfaction, when there's no one to praise you for your good deeds."
"... but it still <i>feels</i> good, doesn't it?"
The Laywoman smiled warmly. "Yes, it certainly does. Run along now, child."
---------------
Angela and Catherine grew into their teenage years, and the friction between them had reached a breaking point. Angela's resentment, fueled by grief and longing, had grown into a raging inferno, amplified to an extreme with the arrival of puberty. Paul did his best to mediate between his daughters to no avail. Catherine, too, had come to loathe her sister.
It had started as a small thing. Frustrated with Catherine over stealing her stuffed bear, Angela struck out of frustration with her sister. While her sibling cried in the corner, Angela stared, seething. Yet, somehow, the gnawing pit of despair, had abated. In its place, rage. It felt <i>good</i>. She was in control. For once in her existence, she had power.
And so the beatings began. Angela was a cunning child. She never left marks, nor would she assault Catherine with nearly as much vigor if there were adults present. Still, she had tasted the dubious luxury of a reprieve in 'righteous' anger. As time passed, the abuse grew in frequency and severity. By the time they reached their teenage years, it was all but daily.
The love she felt for her sister, the respect and admiration she had for her father, the rich depth of feeling she had been so thankful for, all retreated into the depth of Catherine's being. Her prayers stopped, and that endless well of connection from which she drew strength became long forgotten, an ever-present echo which she ignored. An unbearable loneliness and crippling despair gripped her spirit for what seemed an eternity.
Then, perhaps out of self-preservation, a great apathy overcame her. Even the loneliness and despair retreated, yielding to this new pervading influence.
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She ran. Catherine sprinted headlong, determined. No clear destination, no home, no family, in her mind. Sleepless nights of soft crying had all but exhausted her capacity for tears. The echoes of anguish had faded to a dull roar, ever-present, yet so, so far away.
She had come so close. Her dad, snoring softly, blissfully unaware. Angela, too, was sleeping soundly. The knife was sharp. The moment, perfect. The suffering might finally end. As she stood poised over her dreaded sister, she hesitated. As if a gentle hand was placed on her shoulder, quiet and reassuring. She relaxed, coming to her senses. No. I am not like her. The abuse would end, but not like this. Quietly, she returned the kitchen tool to its place, and left out the door into the twilight beyond.
As she ran, her nerves settled. The pounding of her feet along the path slowed to a halt. The stillness of the night enveloped her as she recovered, a soft tranquility to the pale moonlight. For the first time in her life, she would be free of her sister. She had endured.
She wondered if things should've been different. Angela accused her often of killing their mother. Perhaps she was right: maybe it would've been better if, instead, she had perished. As it stood, her existence had mostly consisted of bitter suffering and a pervasive, consuming sorrow.
Her numbness lent well to a life of a working girl. The first offer -- food for a night of comfort -- while taking her by surprise, did little to dissuade her from the path. She was surprised at how easy he succumbed to her suggestions, the first taste of the seductive power of control.
The powers she had explored as a child manifested themselves on occasion as she worked. Spontaneously, cuts and bruises on her customers would fade and heal as she "caressed" them in an attempt to solicit their coin. Even as she tried to suppress these oddities, at times, her hands would move before her thoughts had caught up, drawn to pain as if it called to her.
She never lingered long in any place, as most of the places she went did not take kindly to a woman who plied her trade in flesh. Blessed, or perhaps cursed, with her mother's looks, men seemed drawn to her detached, coy demeanor. She, like her sister, found solace in the perverse comfort of power.
The last vestiges of softness hardened to stone. Memories of early childhood joy, once a refuge in times of hardship, faded, replaced with a calculating and cruel outlook on the world. People were to be exploited and used to her own ends; after all, in this world, you took what you were owed. She would not adopt her sister's barbaric approach; manipulation would become her ally. Her acute insight would become a blade, to use others as pawns in the game.
Still, as the seasons passed, a faint whisper lingered in her mind. Quiet, familiar. Perhaps there was a better way.
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Brother Simon was an oddity. A cool, detached demeanor hid a bright warmth of spirit, and a penchant for silliness on a whim. He was tall, lanky, sporting a tonsure. His beaked nose was framed by hazel eyes, ever-vigilant and intense. His gray robes were well-worn from travel, his feet rough and callused from decades of his peculiar habit of walking barefoot.
He had traveled to this nameless hamlet, as was his custom, to offer word of the road and curatives besides. After speaking with some of the few townsfolk, he came across Catherine, who shared a coy, faint smile. Brother Simon observed her for a long moment, silent. Many years on the road, and a natural intuition, had made him a good judge of character. Though her expression was veiled in thinly masked scorn, he saw kindness in her eyes.
He took her in. Times had been lean for Catherine, and she was but a half-starved little scarecrow. Yet, she had spirit. They spent many years together, the good Brother sharing much of his own meditations and practices. Childhood memories of Laywoman Emma came flooding through, the warmth of kinder times burgeoning her spirit, steeling her resolve to learn. A natural aptitude and genuine curiosity led to great progress.
An accomplished pugilist, Brother Simon of the Broken Ones (a monastic order of Ilmater) passed down many of the teachings he had discovered. Connecting with her body, she discovered the value of disciplined action. Instead of a life of manipulation and control, Brother Simon taught her the freedom of spirit that comes with the responsibility to your own words and actions. The genuine gratification of anonymous deeds of good, as she had enthused about as a child to Emma. As time progressed, the peace of the Gods that comes with quiet contemplation and a life of service to others, gradually grew within her. Like a patient friend, the personal, intimate relationship with the spirit within her welcomed her returned attention with warmth.
"There are no accidents." The Brother would remark, when Catherine would comment on serendipitous events, which she became more alert for as time went on. He was adamant that he, too, was but a student in this game of life, passing along what little he had learned to the young woman. Though he had no divine powers of his own, Simon helped guide Catherine as she attempted to develop and refine her healing powers. In his mind, it was a calling the woman had been given, to relieve suffering and extend compassion for the people of the Church.
She swore vows to guard her newfound freedom in salvation. A vow of chastity, to channel the creative energies into righteous endeavors. A vow of purity, to leave judgment in the hands of the Gods and the universe, giving freely of her love to all she comes across. A vow of devotion, to dedicate her life in service to 'the Church' -- not an institution, but the people themselves. Perhaps heretical, Brother Simon believed all the people of Toril embodied a living church, to which we all belong. Her great capacity for compassion now embraced instead of suppressed, Catherine simply knew this to be true.
Upon swearing these vows, her time with Brother Simon came to an end. A long, tender embrace punctuated the legacy of kind endurance she would seek to bring to the world. She was ready.
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