"Come closer my friends, and hearken to me:
Whatever the ailment - here's your remedy.
If ye'er weary and sore here's a tune to cure
If ye hanker for adventure - I've got tales for sure!
If ye've got troubles or just an evenin' free,
Then Moira Magee's the bard for thee!"
Born: 1227 (Age 24)
Race: Half-elf
Class: Bard
Theme Song
And another one! She is a bard, after all.
Biography
Her past shrouded behind her songs, Moira Magee travels from tavern to tavern, spinning stories for whoever cares to listen. Laughter heralds her arrival, and her passage is marked only by a pleasant, bewildered reverie, and a stirring in one's breast — whether from the inspiration of grand tales, or the lingering impression of her liberal lips. A slightly lightened pocket is also a common symptom.
The persistent inquirer may discover, however, that the accomplished raconteur hails from a small inn - the Singing Selkie - in Nuri Harbour. With a few judiciously applied drinks, the questioner may discover that, pawned off at age five to the proprietors by her vagrant elf mother — a former performer at the Selkie — Moira has known music, if not love, from the start. Accustomed to general neglect, Moira's business-like relationship with her foster parents seemed quite natural. They provided food and board, and Moira worked. In this arrangement, she quickly leaned her wily ways: never applying force or diligence where cunning would serve more efficiently. Her isolated and loveless existence cultivated an inward-looking disposition, and spawned a general distaste for the rude mass of humanity in the little half-elf.
However, in conversing with the bard, her bright-eyed enthusiasm and open countenance seem too fresh and candid to be a facade. Instead, to the perceptive observer, they may indicate an incorruptible core where a cheerful child still resides. If, for example, the conversation should happen to turn to poetry and quiet country, watch carefully, for you might detect a wistful cast to her normally penetrating gaze.
In any case, Moira's natural quick wit, clear voice and precocious cynicism made her a favourite of the raucous patrons, and they taught her many things: music, reading, writing, history, and other subjects perhaps not suitable for a young girl. An almost indecent curiosity was fed and inflamed by these attentions.
What is not concealed, however, is how as Moira grew, so did her ambitions. Excitement, wealth, renown — these would all be hers! The scent of adventure constantly wafted in on the ocean winds, and up from the boots of travellers. She hoarded stories as she hoarded her tips, and the lonely little innkeeper bided her time impatiently.
On the eve of her fourteenth birthday, Moira stole away from the hotel, and into the wider world. Acquiring a harp and a good thick cloak, she set off to find her story — past and future. The world is dirty and harsh, but Moira knew that. She also knew however, that a young half-elf with a pleasing smile may go many places, and the weaver of tales may hear many in return. After all, the most respected currency is not coin of any country, but secrets.
Ten years of wandering blend together in her memory, even as extensive maps tattooed on the back or her hands denote her travels. Moira will tell you she is never more at home than with the dirt road beneath her feet, and her song in the open air. Teachers, traitors, friends false and true, came and went with regularity. In her restless ways, attachments could never last. She had wanted their knowledge, and acquiring it, she moved on. Moira walked for a time in the Elven forests, and learned dark hints of her history. She dwelt for a time in the rolling hills and by the warm hearths of the Shire, and discovered a tender weakness in her heart. She sailed open seas and stalked crowded cities, and found power in her voice. But, Miss Magee will not relate these tales. Attempt to press her, and watch as with a half smile, she whisks you seamlessly to the opposite end of the conversational spectrum.
Such a directionless, carefree existence may only continue so long however. Stagnation in her heart, Moira paces the continent like a caged beast. Still young and selfish, the world has yet to provide its purpose to this ardent, yet drifting spirit. And so, though she may fill a hall with sprightly song and careless laughter, the empty soul of our bard listens always for the call.
But of course, that can wait until tomorrow. If you have a copper piece, how about another tune?
