- "'Course ya didn' get m'name. Never gave it."
- Name: Callide Drachmas
- Pseudyonyms: Fells Drachmas, Callide Mondego, Fells Clemens
- Aliases: Nist, Tara, Elana, CatCat (Don't ask, elves are insane).
- Race: Human
- Class: Rogue
- Realm: Feathermoon
- Inspiration: "Elevation" - U2
- "Past's past. Ain't 'mportant."
Nothing ever goes the way it should.
If it did, then little Callide would have grown up to be a spoiled debutante. By all rights, she should have. She was born to her merchant father and not-quite-noble mother aboard one of her father's ships. One of his many ships. Callide should have matured in leisure, growing pretty in a frustrating, unattainable way. She should have married her arranged husband (having been engaged at a full eighteen months old), had a couple of haughty children, and lived and died a quiet, comfortable life.
Callide was two when the first of her father's fleet was commissioned to fly Alliance colors, bolstering the naval presence for the approaching war. Two and a half by the time the rest had followed suit. She was oblivious to the world changing around her, coddled by her nursemaid and doted on by her mother. She was a very loved, very spoiled child. She should have never had to leave.
Little Callide assumed that she was allowed to wear her best dress because it was a special day. It was her third birthday. She had asked for a red dragon whelp, and her parents were taking her to a farm to pick one out. An older child might have wondered why she was dressed in silks to traipse about a farm. A more astute child might have thought that taking a picture before leaving was a little out of place. Most any child would know that dragons weren't raised on farms. But little Callide's head was full of leathery wings and skybound rides, and she didn't wonder at any of these things.
She did wonder at the low, humble buildings of the town they stopped in. She wondered at the plain man walking towards their carriage as though it could grow fangs and bite him at any moment. Her father opened the door a crack, reluctant to let him intrude on their warm, cushioned little world. Her mother cleared her throat. She sounded strained. "Vernon?"
The plain man cracked a nervous smile. "Yeh. Issis the gal?"
Her father grimaced at his thick Elwynn drawl. "Yes." He handed a envelope through the door and turned to little Callide, lips pressed into a thin line. "Sweetling, this...this is the farmer I told you about. He's going to take you where you need to go."
Callide giggled. "To the dragons, papa?" He nodded stiffly, sending Callide bouncing out of the carriage. Dust rose around her as her skirts brushed the ground. She turned. Waited. "...mama? Papa? Are you coming?"
Her parents glanced at each other. Her mother finally spoke. "Go with the nice man, darling." She glanced at the plain man. "Vernon, please, tell Bertha to take--" The carriage door swung shut, and the footman reigned the horse into action. It slowly wheeled down the dusty road.
Callide turned, smiling up at the man. "Where is -your- carriage, sir?" she intoned with the utmost politeness. Her parents had raised her well.
The plain man chuckled. "Ain't got no carriage, little. We're walkin' from here." He held out his hand. Callide glanced at it dubiously. It was rough, calloused. Each crease seemed to be lined with a new and exciting kind of dirt. She hesitantly let the plain man hold her hand as they started down the road. It would have been rude not to.
A long, dusty walk later, the plain man led her to a farm. They passed a barn, then followed the fence of a freshly plowed field towards a humble cottage. Callide couldn't believe her eyes - it was so tiny! How could the plain man live there? But she saw others standing at the door, waiting for them - an older boy and a young woman holding a baby. Surely they didn't all live in the little place. It was impossible.
The woman was smiling broadly as she and the plain man approached. "We was jest startin' ta worry! Everythin' go...a'right?" The plain man nodded, handing her the envelope. She opened it, pulling out a letter. "Ken - read this fer me, willya?"
She handed the paper to the boy who frowned, mouthing the words as he read. "Sez we're paid up with the merchant in town - they talkin' 'bout Farley? - fer 'least a few months. That'll help. They're thinkin' it'll be done that fast? Peh..."
Callide felt increasingly uneasy as he continued to read to himself. She looked around the farm...a plow, a well-worked horse, some chickens... She was brought out of it by a cackle from the boy. "Listen ta this - 'She should be helpful around the farm. At home, she fells butterflies with ease.' Like that's gonna be useful out here!" He smirked down at Callide, not unkindly. "Yer fast enough ta smack 'em outta the air, little butterfly slayer?"
Callide brooded silently. Why would her parents tell these people about that? The boy shrugged with a grin and finished reading the letter. "Huh...it don't say her name nowheres. S'strange. Whatcher name, little?"
Callide frowned at him. Her nursemaid never dared talk to her this way! "What if I don't want to tell you?"
He chuckled. "Ain't no matter. M'gonna call ya Fells." He pointedly ignored her petulant look. "So, Fells, this here's yer Uncle Vernon an' Aunt Bertha. Bertha there's holdin' on ta yer cousin, baby Niphe." He smiled. "An' I'm Kendel."
She glanced at the plain man, whose expression was blank. Her toddler's voice lisped. "Sir...I'm sorry, but I don't know any uncles or aunts."
The woman sighed. "Aw, Light - yer ma didn' tell ya any'a it, did she." She handed Niphe to Kendel and knelt on the ground. "Yer gonna be stayin' with us fer a while, hun. We're yer fam'ly."
Fells stared at her with wide, unbelieving eyes. "Staying...here?" Aunt Bertha nodded. Fells cocked her head, eyeing the tiny cottage. "...where?"
- "Y'say yer spell can clear a room? That ain't so special - m'cousin Dennys could do that, s'long as we had roast fer dinner. On command, even."
- Father - Renald Mondego - Deceased
- Mother - Isabel Al'Aram
- Stepfather - Ulric Al'Aram - Deceased
The Brackwell Household
- Vernon Brackwell - Deceased
- Bertha Brackwell - Deceased
- Kendel Brackwell - 31
- Fells - 19
- Niphe Brackwell - 16
- Sandy Brackwell - Deceased
- Dennys Brackwell - Deceased
- Third Cousin - Avers Brackwell - 12
- Lenna Brackwell - Deceased
- Alys Brackwell - Deceased
- "Sorry...yer from where, now?"
At any given time during peak hours, there are over six thousand players on Feathermoon. Of those six thousand, I am sure several hundred have backstory based in Elwynn Forest. Of those several hundred, I have no doubt that perhaps two or three hundred characters are "from" the Brackwell Pumpkin Patch.
Now, I'm not invalidating those claims per se - I'm just saying that, for my personal RP purposes, these folks are "the" Brackwells. If your Brackwell ever bumps into Fells or another one of my Brackwells, she's just going to assume that the other character has a pumpkin patch somewhere else. Another branch of the Brackwell family tree or something. I've put a lot of time and love into fleshing out the previous occupants of that little farm. I totally call dibs on being from "the" Brackwell Pumpkin Patch.
In that vein, please don't write yourself into my Brackwells without talking OOC with me first. I would love to play around with the Brackwells' story with other players and characters, but please talk OOC with me about it first? ^_^? That would rock out on several levels. Having someone running around claiming to be (the very dead) Lenna or somesuch, on the otherhand, would make me cry.