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Author Topic: [LotR] Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth  (Read 2221 times)


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Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth
« on: March 29, 2017, 03:34:11 AM »


NAME: Lothíriel  
NICKNAMES (IF ANY): Swanling, Princess, ‘Thíriel 
TRILOGY: Lord of the Rings.
DATE OF BIRTH AND AGE (AS OF T.A. 2941/3019): 20, 1 October TA 2999. 
RACE: Man.
GENDER: Female. 

HAIR COLOUR AND APPEARANCE:She possesses long, pitch-black hair that is straight with the occasional errant wavy lock.  
EYE COLOUR: Her eyes that are a dark grey, a mirror of her mother's.   
BODY TYPE AND HEIGHT: While most of her family was graced with the height of the Men of Númenor, Lothíriel is much smaller in size: she barely reaches a diminutive five foot five inches, but she fills out her frame well and what she lacks in height she makes up for in presence alone. The Princess carries about her the grace of the Elven heritage that many whisper she has, and as many have noted, the entire line of Imrahil resemble their long-lost Elven kin in some way or another, and the young Princess is no exception, save in height.  
OVERALL APPEARANCE: Whereas the majority of the court of Gondor prefers stiff dresses and confining slippers, raised among the sea-people, Lothíriel learned early on that comfort was key to surviving the daily toils of life, whether it be the long hours spent with tutors or trekking along the sandy beaches of the Bay of Belfalas, tagging behind her brothers and vying for their attention. While her gowns are befitting a woman of her status, they are a far cry from the heavy materials that most ladies of court can be seen wearing. Indeed, the Princess tends to shun court finery whenever possible, preferring the freeing feel of the clothing of the common folk. She learned early on that heavy dresses became problematic when caught by the waves and drug into the water.
Sometimes, if she is feeling entirely scandalous, the Princess can be found in boy's leggings and tunics, sewn and hemmed by her since very few of the tailors would make them for her. This is not often, though: rebellion, while still a vague streak in her, does not run deep. Still, she rebels against the nature of the court women whole-heartedly.
And while ladies prefer to pursue lady things, such as fussing with the latest styling for their hair and what rouge to wear, Lothíriel eschews such things. A life spent sea-side rarely requires any additional aid in bringing life to already bright features: she is unblemished, tanned by the sun, with unruly hair that is often held up and back, but only because it is unruly and not because court deems it proper. This is also partly because of Telemanthea's raising: a kitchen woman rarely worries about proper or perfect, and so Lothíriel adapted the same habits. When need be, though, she can and does assume the role of lady.
DISTINGUISHING MARKS: The incident has changed things, though. The once lively Princess is becoming a shell of her former self. Worn thin by illness from the poison, dark grey eyes are now ringed with dark circles, a testament to the lack of sleep. Once sun-kissed skin is now pale, and if one ever gains a glimpse of the body beneath, unblemished skin bares scars she wishes did not exist: an angry, bright red keloid scar rests between the hollow of her breasts, the remnant of an arrow wound, and a long, jagged scar runs from the inside of her left knee to the top of her thigh, broken in two places where it seems the dagger was yanked away from flesh before reconnecting with it. These reminders are hidden and hidden well, though. Only a few see them, and even they are barely offered glimpses. She is, sadly, a wraith of her former self.
WEAPONS: A needlepoint dagger with a pearl inlay handle. 
FACE CLAIM: Olivia Wilde. 

STRENGTHS:  Resilience. Poise. Grace.
WEAKNESSES: Stubbornness. Occasionally reckless. Currently dwelling too hard on mistakes made and allowing it to deteriorate her well-being.
ASPIRATIONS: The Princess wishes to heal, fully, and be able to finally overcome the darkness that dogs her heels.   
FEARS:  The ever-pervading darkness of Mordor. Death.
PERSONALITY:  Born as the only female child to Prince Imrahil, Lothíriel is well aware of what duty means. Taught at an early age that duty is important, she desires to see her people live and thrive without the darkening influence of Sauron. As a prince's daughter, she knows of courts and councils and how a country should be run: from a young age she was inducted into the daily meetings when her busy schedule allowed it, being allowed to see her father and his councilors at work and reaping the knowledge that was set out before her, allowing it to shape her into the woman she has grown into. Even though she was born a woman, Imrahil knew the importance of all of his children knowing how to properly rule some day. Politics and understanding them were important, as she knows very well.
And while she is a woman who loves politics, she also loves the scholarly side of things not politically inclined: lore and tales, myths and legends, languages (of which she is fluent in Sindarin, due to her insistence on learning it at a young age and tutors finally giving up and giving in) and people...they intrigue her, and when she is not busy directing the order of the Swan Hall, she is usually holed up within her study, pouring over tomes and books either given to her or borrowed from Minas Tirith (more specifically, Faramir) or seen out among her people. It is her knowledge that aided her in her dealings with the common folk, finding common ground and building upon it.
She is an easy-to-love leader, following in her mother's footsteps and endearing herself within her father's people. She understands the importance of the fishermen and their trade, and before darkness fell was often seen among them, chatting about the catches of the day and how their lives fared, along with their families and the going-ons of the city. She would even partake in the swimming games the children and young folk are so fond of, having a love for the water that is the life source of her father's kingdom. And protection lies in the hands of the people when darkness descends, both trained and untrained.
She did not have to solely rely on others for protection, though. While her proficiency lies in archery and she has some knowledge in protecting herself with her dagger, Lothíriel is a far cry from a soldier. Taking up a sword was never allowed, and while she desires at times to know how to fully protect herself, she realizes it is a desire that may never come to fruition, much to her chagrin.
Perhaps she would have fought harder to know how to properly protect herself if she had knowledge of the incident to come. Since the incident, however, the Princess has changed: she has become withdrawn, reasonably so, and her once pleasing demeanor has turned into that of a haunted woman. With the ill effects of the incident still lingering, night terrors have become common place, and the young woman has had no choice but to leave her homeland, leave behind the place where horror haunts her waking and sleeping moments, and try to move forward, to become the woman she once was and wants to be.

HISTORY: "A girl," Aearheron whispered, face pallid and dark hair plastered to it as fingers gently brushed against a head of soft, sparsely present blue-black hair. Storm-grey eyes gazed up at her: the same eye color she possessed. The bed clothes were soaked with sweat, dark blood drying on the numerous white linen sheets that had been placed under the formerly struggling body of the Princess, but the woman and the child at her breast did not care. Nor did the man who gazed down on them as he gently settled upon the bed, dark blue eyes taking in the swaddled girl in his wife's arms. Happiness and love emanated from both, the smiles on their faces reflecting their contentment at the birth of the child cradled close to her mother's body.
"She is beautiful," Imrahil whispered, brushing his own fingers across a cheek that was still covered in vernix. He looked up as the door opened, three dark heads peaking around it, curious at the silence that had covered the birthing chambers and a moment of worry crossing their face. "Come," he beckoned and his three sons entered, eyeing the tiny girl child in their mother's arms as relief washed over them.
"What will her name be?" Elphir asked in a soft whisper, so much different than the usual deep timber of command that his voice was now easily adapting as he eased into manhood. He reached a hand out to touch the child's cheek, smiling as she made a small grunting noise at being disturbed before closing her eyes once more.
"Lothíriel," Imrahil said as Aearheron gave a weak smile in satisfaction. Their sons all smiled, the middle and youngest moving forward to get a better look at the child who was comfortably resting in their mother's arms. For a moment, the family stood around as a picture of perfection: mother and father and sons, all staring at their desired and beloved daughter and sister.
The birth of a young Princess had been precious news for the people of Dol Amroth. Three male heirs had been produced, a joy to know the line of Imrahil would live on, but finally the much-anticipated and desired daughter had come. However, such happy times were short-lived. A mere six months from Lothíriel's birth, Aearheron finally gave in to the complications of her final but most precious and desired pregnancy. She had been warned by the healers and midwife that the pregnancy would be problematic--she had seen forty naming days by the time she birthed her daughter in the fall month, and while her youngest son had already passed his fifth naming day, his own birth had taken a toll on her. Aearheron refused to give up the daughter she knew she carried, though. And so, she passed in silence. A city mourned, a husband and sons grieved, and a daughter was forever destined to be raised without the gentility and wisdom of her mother.
Imrahil had no idea how to handle a girl; he had elder sisters, yes, but they had helped properly shape him into the man and ruler he was; he had not assisted in raising them. His sons were a different matter: they were raised as heirs and soldiers, swords and battle plans a daily part of their ever growing lives yet tempered by the etiquette and manners their mother so loved and impressed they must know to be steady and worthy rulers. But a daughter? He knew that the path before them would be hard-paved; he knew nothing of dresses and sewing and the proper etiquette of the lady of the house--that was to be Aearheron's hand, not his.
A squirmy infant turned into a curious toddler who then adapted into the gangly girl that traipsed after older brothers and male cousins, wishing to be part of their sword play and archery lessons. Raising her did not prove to be too difficult, that is until she wanted to follow her elder brothers' paths at such a young age. Imrahil was understanding, though. He knew attempting to thwart the influence of brothers and male cousins in her life would be futile, so he indulged in her learning archery but refused to allow her to touch a sword. After all, boundaries had to be laid: horseback riding was by side saddle only, needlework was a skill that was useful and needed in her repertoire, and her history and etiquette lessons came before anything else.
In secret, though, Erchirion taught his sister how to use and handle a dagger properly. One could never be too safe, after all.
She had no mother to temper the tomboyish nature she was adapting, and the only companion aside from her siblings was the eldest and only female grandchild of the housekeeper Telemanthea: Avariel. Raised as sisters, both girls were shadows of Lothíriel's brothers as they grew, but soon they grew out of those shadows. Their formerly boyish manners melded into the feminine grace that came with womanhood, each young woman blossoming into mirror images of the women who came before them thanks to the strict yet skillful hand of Telemanthea. Lothíriel was transforming before Imrahil's eyes into a mirror image of his beloved Aearheron, and he was pleased by such a transformation; he knew she would be a beloved woman some day, just like her mother.
A woman's lessons can only go for so long, though, especially when age becomes a factor. Mere months after the Princess passed her fifteenth naming day, mere months after Telemanthea finally told the Princess that she had taught her everything she would need to know as a lady in order to properly run the household as her mother once had, the elder Dol Amrothian passed into the halls of her fathers, surrounded by those she loved and those who loved her.
After Telemanthea's passing, Lothíriel's path was comfortably set before her--she had the proper raising needed and the knowledge that would aid her in becoming like the woman who had been most adored by the citizens of Dol Amroth. She was becoming a beautiful young woman: gracious, poised, genteel, intelligent, a bit rebellious at times, but ever aware that she was a woman and her duties lay with her family and her future was shaped by those duties. Duty shaped their lives, after all. It would always shape their lives.
Time passed, and Lothíriel aided her father with duties of the court and smoothly tended to the needs of the Swan Hall while growing ever more certain in who she was. It was then those duties she knew she would have to face came to the forefront of the Princess' life.
On her eighteenth naming day, Imrahil announced the betrothal of his daughter to the citizens of Dol Amroth. In a year and a day's time, as tradition and decorum dictated, she would wed Maethor, the Captain of one of the famed fleets of Dol Amroth. While it was a tradition she was not overly fond of, an arranged marriage, Lothíriel knew her duties as Princess and knew Maethor would be a proper husband. While she did not love him, she knew in time she would come to love him. Perhaps her mind would have been different if she had known it was Denethor who desired her to wed Maethor in order to secure his parents loyalty to his Stewardship, for they were one of the most influential families within Gondor.
The betrothal period of the Princess and Captain went as according to tradition and with little upheaval between the two: when he was not sailing to make certain waters were safe from attack, he spent as much time as possible with the young woman, learning about one another, even though it was sparse. It was a betrothal without passion, it seemed. And while still young, Lothíriel desired passion in her life: whether in love or how she lived her life, all she truly wanted was passion.
A week before her marriage, Maethor and Lothíriel found themselves walking along the bay, two guards a good distance ahead as was required for the Princess. Maethor had insisted they not return to the bay, for while a corsair ship had not been seen in a fortnight, he knew there was unease among sailors and fishermen and even the soldiers. Lothíriel loved the bay, for it was her second home, and after much pleading, she had finally gotten the Captain to consent. The Harvest Feast had long since passed, but the people were still celebrating such a plentiful harvest that would help them through the long winter.
While their betrothal period had not been full of passion, he had tried his hardest to prove he would and did care for her. So, Maethor had his own surprise for his soon-to-be wife: a small, needlepoint dagger with pearl inlaid in the handle that would easily be concealed upon her person if need be. As Erchirion's comrade in arms and friendship, he knew that protection could not always be had by soldiers, the same thought shared by the middle Prince. This dagger was one small token to prove his care and his desire to see her happy.
It was a befitting gift. Yet the happiness was short-lived.
What happened next was seen by none, and not even the Princess could tell what happened. Only rumors followed, the truth hidden.
The guards that had been assigned to stay with the Princess had gone ahead, unaware that their charge and her intended had stopped. A strangled cry rose out above the gentle sound of the waves, and the men knew something was amiss. Upon arriving to the shore, they saw a grisly scene before them: two corsair scouts lay dead upon the short, the smallest man's throat ripped open with a jagged cut and blood pooling onto the sand below, mingling with the water. The large man, nearest to Maethor's body, had a large knife wound in his stomach and the tip of an arrow pierced his eye. Maethor and Lothíriel lay near one another, the soldier's body pierced three times by arrows and the Princess's own body stained with blood that spread from the hollow of her breasts and her leg, the dagger moments before gifted to her now bloodied and clutched tightly in her right hand. Both were suffering spasms and seizures, and it seemed Death was near.
They were taken to the healers while soldiers and sailors summoned to destroy the corsairs who waited nearby to destroy Dol Amroth.
Leech craft could do little for Maethor. As the battle began for the protection of Dol Amroth, the Captain of the fleet died in the healing halls, his poisoned wounds and torn heart beyond the healers' capacity. The Princess, however, struggled to survive. It was Falthrial, the new head housekeeper of the Swan Hall, who came to her aid. After looking over the contents of the satchels the guards had retrieved from the dead scouts, noticing herbs that few ever needed, she realized what poisons coursed through her charge's system. Measures were quickly taken, for unseeing eyes struggled to stay open as breathing and convulsions became more severe. Fear hung over all present; would the Princess survive this or would she give in to Death?
The battle upon the bay was short-lived outside the sea port of Dol Amroth. The corsairs well-planned attack ended in their ships burning dark upon the bay while a storm arose, the men slaughtered and burning alongside their dark sails. As the four Princes returned to find the dead body of their comrade and commander and the struggling form of daughter and sister, Imrahil prayed to the Valar to spare her and pleaded with his child to fight. For a moment, the outlook was grim.
It seemed his pleads did not go unheeded, though. Two weeks from the attack, the young Princess awoke from her fitful slumber, her body aching and muscles weak, while the fever that had burned her body for nearly a week after she slipped into unconsciousness finally abated. It was her spirit that broke, though, as Imrahil told her of Maethor's death and his internment to the sea. She found herself settling into the role of grief, once more weakening.
The leech craft of the few healers in Dol Amroth could not fully heal the young woman, though, neither physically, emotionally, or mentally. Imrahil worried, for he feared his child would waste away before him as her mother did. He worried Maethor's death had affected her so deeply she was beyond hope, and their only hope lay elsewhere, beyond the nightmares that still seized her mind on the darkest of nights and the place that might have reminded her of the love she lost. How was Imrahil to know she was not in love with Maethor, that she mourned the loss of her happiness and innocence, the loss of the possibility of passion that had been so violently ripped from her when the arrow pierced her and the men attacked? In a desperate attempt to save her, he decided she should go to the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, to more skilled hands, and so on the 21st of November, along with Avariel to keep her company and tend to her charge, Lothíriel was sent to there to be in the care of the healers and her aging Aunt Ivriniel.
How could he know that in mere months War would come?
YOUR NAME:  Meren.
AGE:  Too old, yo.
EXPERIENCE:  16 years? Somewhere around that time.
HOW DID YOU FIND US?:  I had a reference by someone a wile back.
“The earth laughs in flowers.” | Summer TA 3011
"What are you doing, Lothíriel?"
Age had slowed Telemanthea down a bit: it was more noticeable in the slight limp she had as she walked, the way she now relied more heavily on a cane than she had the summer before. Still, she was hale, even if the lines on her face had deepened over time. It had taken her a bit to find the Princess, though. Her brothers had not seen her, and since Imrahil was locked away in council meetings, she had been left to searching the child out through the servants who may or may not have seen her. It was Falthrial who had led her to the garden, though, mentioning she had seen the girl going out in a simple cotton dress and carrying gloves. Moving out among the garden where the young Princess was elbow deep in dirt, gloves cast aside, she settled on a bench near the girl who looked utterly defeated. "Come, swanling, tell me what is wrong." A wrinkled hand pat the empty spot beside her, and she smiled invitingly as the girl rose, knees and dress dirty, face streaked with dirt and tears, a most unbecoming look for a young woman.
"I was trying remember what flowers and herbs are what...and to weed the garden so it would look nice but..." Sniffling, Lothíriel wiped at her nose, streaking dirt across her upper lip in the process. "I think I have pulled up some of Falthrial's good plants and left the weeds behind, and she will be upset!" Forcefully digging the palms of her hands into her eyes to wipe away at tears, she looked away from Telemanthea, who was only smiling in amusement.
"Why were you trying to garden?" It was a gentle question, one hopefully the girl could give an answer.
For a moment, Lothíriel refused to answer and refused to look at Telemanthea; she eyed the plants she had ripped up instead with sadness and then bit back tears once more.
"You know you can tell me," came the soft whisper of the elder woman as she pulled dark hair back from the girl's face, trying to lock eyes with the girl, hoping an answer would come then.
In a burst of emotion, the Princess confessed. "I was trying to be like mother! Father said she loved to garden and this was her most favorite place in the entire castle and city and how she tended so carefully to it but when she passed it seemed to lose some of its vigor so I was trying to bring it back to life like Naneth had it so Ada would be proud of me but I have failed, 'Thea, I have failed terribly, and now everyone will be so disappointed in me because I cannot garden!" A heart wrenching sob escaped the girl then as she collapsed into herself. For a moment, her words had struck her elder caretaker silent, but then the woman gently gathered the girl up into her arms, stroking her back and whispering soothing to words to her to quiet the sobs.
"Listen to me, swanling. Listen closely.” She lifted the girl’s face up then to lock eyes with her. “Your father is right: this garden was your mother’s pride, along with her children. She loved it and tended to it when she had time, watching your brothers grow and play here as she tended to the flowers and herbs that we used. It did lose some of its vigor when she passed; it never heard your laughter or felt your footprints as she tended to it, child. But your mother was not the sole caretaker of this garden.” It was too large for just one person to tend to, but Telemanthea did not figure that needed to be pointed out to the girl. “There were others. And while she loved it, cared for it, it was not only her hands that helped it grow.” Looking out among the garden, Telemanthea closed her eyes, remembering.
Lothíriel’s voice drew her out of her thoughts. “What else helped it?” The child’s voice was soft, thick with the tears she now wiped away.
Opening her eyes, Telemanthea smiled at the girl. “Her voice. She sang to the garden.” Looking out among the plants, the elder housekeeper smiled. “In truth,that is why I think it flourished; not only because of loving hands, but loving words.” Rising then with the help of her cane, Telemanthea smoothed Lothíriel’s hair. “Perhaps your gifts do not lie with your hands,” she offered and moved off to go back inside.
As she opened the door that lead into the kitchens, Telemanthea stopped, ears perking up. Drifting from the garden where she had left Lothíriel, she heard a tentative voice begin singing.

« Last Edit: March 30, 2017, 05:01:24 PM by Lothíriel »


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Re: Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth
« Reply #1 on: April 04, 2017, 02:55:28 AM »
Ah! Very nice to see another Gondorian character, not to mention a cannon from Dol Amroth! You are good to go Meren, have fun with her!


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