Age: 16 Years Old Height: 164 cm (5'4) Nationality: Irish Born in Dublin Ireland
Scrawny, young and covered in freckles.
She's everything a growing Irish girl is supposed to be, complete with red hair and a cheeky smile.
But Caoimhe doesn't get called by her name much anymore. —BACKGROUND—
The tickets were bought for cheap, the seats near the back of the plane. Her Dad hadn't lots to spend outside of work, after all. Eamon Foley had found that being a Historian was a hard career, and that working as an exhibit designer meant hours of study for the periods being showcased, with the pay not as steady as it should be. But he'd brought her along with. She'd remember those tired brown eyes peering over his glasses, rough hands putting their luggage away as they tucked themselves in for the ride. The warmth coming off his shoulder when she fell asleep part way into the flight.
The plan had been simple. He could spend a few days hopping between one of the many buildings that the National Library of Russia encompassed, while she was promised time to spend exploring St. Petersburg. One of the benefits of homeschooling. They had to swap to a different plane on hitting the capital of Norway -- even then, Caoimhe noticed that some of the passengers had come off the same flight from Dublin. The businessmen, a sweet mother and daughter with their grandparents, a couple of rougher men in casualwear, and a few louder, attractive Irish lads who seemed to be from some sort of sport team. Caoimhe stopped paying attention to others after noticing them getting on the same flight. They weren't any quieter after the left Norway, but she didn't mind.
It wasn't until part way into the flight that things took a turn for the worse. One of the engines failed. Everything after was a blur.
The masks falling from the ceiling, the pilot calling for an emergency crash over the intercom, someone screaming. Grabbing onto her Dad.
She couldn't remember the plane hitting the earth, just the feeling of being thrown.
Waking up was hard. Hearing the creak and whine of overheated metal, everything hurting and aching.
The feeling of someone grabbing her sides, pulling her out from under something -- and coughing out smoke and the taste of gas.
They survived the crash.
Others, recognized and not, came out of the wreckage. A weeping mother and grandmother. One of the businessmen having lost a leg, being supported by his friends. A fellow wearing a hoodie that never spoke. Most thankfully survived. The group was determined to get help -- something that would've been easier if the war ravaged country hadn't just been hit with large scale, biological, seemingly-viral epidemic. The news of the blasts and toxic gas hadn't even left the borders back then. And by the time they ran into soldiers, they learned that no one was going to be going anywhere.
Jerome, the businessman without a leg, died weeks in. A few of the soccer team got themselves trapped in a house and didn't make it out. It only took a month before Devlin Moriarty and Kian O'Cathain started making a name for themselves. They were familiar with guns and violence, and when their numbers dropped, the two quickly convinced a few of the men to take the remaining group by force. The survivors would either serve them, and work towards what they decided, or they'd die.
Only a few chose the second option. She was chained with the rest.
Her Dad was determined to get her away to safety, and away from the slavers, but found it harder then he thought.
They were caught once, and warned what would happen if they tried again. She doesn't like to talk about what happened after that.
He didn't live to see the winter.
The cold was sudden and harsh, huge snow drifts and ice blowing over South Zagoria. Food became scarce, and what little she found was to be given over to the men. She survived, barely, small form becoming scrawny and painfully lean. Learning to devour whatever she found first when she scavenged, so she could bring the remaining back and not starve off what few scraps they'd toss her way. They'd hunt, and the man who never spoke knew how to butcher the food they brought back. A few cows, deer and rabbits helped things along, but it was rare and none of them were seasoned hunters. That's when people started to disappear. The men never said anything, but Caoimhe would come in during the evenings, only to find them already cooking and carving up a hunt she hadn't been part of. There wasn't ever much, but they didn't ever share.
By the end of the winter, there were only four of them left.
Now there's just the three.
—OVERALL HEALTH— "Don't mind me none, I'm just clumsy is all."
Left Side of Face — "I'm lucky it wasn't any worse." It's not a big scar, the blade having caught her cheek and eyebrow, but it's permanent.
Left Forearm — "I messed up." A reminder of her who she belongs too. A knee was put to her chest and she was pinned her to a bench so she couldn't move. A boot knife was used.
From a distance, it looks like lines. If you turn your head, the name is more easily read. The arm is still bandaged up.
Left Ear — "When he runs outta room, he figures he'll start back on my eye." Her left ear is a mangled mess. It's been cut, pierced, and had holes ripped into it using various means over time. Bits often reopen and bleed.
There's no hiding that these were purposeful.
Back and Lower Back — "The biters tried to get at me." What looks like seven or more lashes and welts on her back, along with nasty purple bruising on her lower back.
Neck — "Tripped and got my shirt all tangled." Finger impressions and clear hand prints from someone with a nasty grip. Old bruises and new overlap around her neck.
Eye — "I just fell."
Bruised eye socket on her right eye, but it doesn't look too fresh.
Left Hand — "I fell into some rocks." Heavy bruising and scratches, covering most of the hand. Caused by a large and sharp object.
Left Foot — "I fell into some rocks." Heavy bruising and scratches, covering half of her left foot. Caused by a large and somewhat sharp object.
Sweets, peaches, hearty foods, roasted meats.
Reading, usually fantasy or horror. Fires and explosions, but only when not life threatening.
Helping. Earning praise, or even just being appreciated. Being useful.
Listening to the Radio. Fishing.
Being tied up or restrained.
Going hungry. Being forced to cook when hungry. The cold.
Being treated like a child. Making mistakes.
—GENERAL RELATIONSHIPS— "I'm not really allowed friends." Work In Progress