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Lady Arlette

Countess of Northymbre

0 · 641 views · located in Winchester

a character in “On Icy Shores”, as played by DuBois_Scarlett


Full Name: Arlette Countess of Northymbre
Pronunciation of their name(first, middle/middle names and last):
Title(Mr./Mrs./Lord/Lady/Sir/): Lady

Sex: Female

Age(and how old they look): 25
Orientation/Sexual preference: Heterosexual

Height: 5'0
Weight: 9st
Age: 29

Eye color(s): Amber

Body build(slim, muscular, etc.): Curavaceous
Body abnormalities(Cleft lip etc.): N/A

Hair color(s): Black
Hair length: Very long, past the buttocks
Hair style: Most often braided

Complexion: Fair
Patterns/designs(on skin/fur and where they are, such as a zebra stripe pattern):
Scars: N/A
Birthmarks(and what they are/were): A large pink birthmark across her shoulder and back
Tattoos(what they are and where): N/A
Piercings(what they are and where): N/A
Dress: In traditions wear, gown with jewels befitting her rank

Mental state: Stable
Personality snapshot: Arlette is a strong Saxon Woman with a will of steel. The daughter of a Baron who served on the King's Council she was destined to raise her rank. She had always been a girl of a tenacious strength. As a child she was determined to be a Nun when she grew up like the infamous Abbess Hild. Her father, on the other hand had different idea and at 12 when she caught the eye of the young and newly raised Earl of Northymbre, Arlette was quickly wed off much to her dismay. Luckily the Earl was of a humour and patient and after sometime won over his feisty bride. Some may consider her an extremist in her views. Her intentions are almost always good but to achieve her means she is willing to do anything, and her actions, however are not always what one would consider fair or good.
Most prominent personality trait: Understands responsibility of her rank
Best traits of their personality: Caring
Worst traits of their personality: She is a sore loser

Current faith(religion): Christianity
Current superstitions/quirks:

Alignment(good, evil, etc.): Mostly good

Marital status(Single, married, dating, etc.): Recently widowed

Occupation: Countess

Good habits: Listening
Bad habits: Taking action on things she considers injustices even if they are none of her business, meddling, not taking good advice

Special skills(Not meaning powers): Herbs and potions
Hobbies: Weaving

So begins...

Lady Arlette's Story


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Gunnar Eriksson Character Portrait: Lady Arlette Character Portrait: Brynjar Witch-Breaker Character Portrait: Kotah Character Portrait: Aethelstan of Lincoln Character Portrait: Ekkhart Dumont
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Stormy seas and frozen fields greet the start of our story. It is February, not long since the death of Charles the Great, and Europe lies in turmoil. The sons of the dead emperor tear at the spoils left behind, leaving the back door to their kingdoms unguarded. Saxon England, reeling from another summer of raids by the Vikings, turns upon itself, the rising power of Wessex challenging the older kingdoms of Mercia and Northumbria. Across the North Sea the Norsemen of Scandinavia winter their longships in triumph. Yet another successful year. However, power struggles at home leave the Vikings in need of yet more wealth.

It is in this time of chaos and violence that out story begins in two very different places; Winchester, the capital of the kingdom of Wessex, and Uppsala, the principal holy site of the Norse faith in Svithjod. Our characters are as of yet unawares of the great task they will be called upon to achieve. They will face danger, death, and the fickle nature of gods and creatures old and forgotten. What is their task? Who can say, but that whoever completes it first will change the course of history forever.


Two moons have passed since the Yule festival, but the land still cowers in the grip of winter. Snow lies heavy on the ground, and icy winds whistle through the dense forests around Uppsala. A place where no man rules. A place where the gods alone reign. The skies are heavy with rolling clouds, threatening another heavy snowfall, even as the winter light fades quickly. Wolves prowl these forests, their howls echoing across the hills and hidden valleys. Only the strong survive here. This is a land of warriors, chosen by the gods for glory and conquest.


A small settlement lies along the river Mälaren, smoke rising from a few crouching huts. The only sounds as the long dark approaches are the occasional bark of a dog, and the crunching snow as some of the people move about the buildings. The huts themselves are simple wooden affairs, aged and insulated with sod. One structure stands taller than the rest, a small hall, from which the sounds of singing can be heard. Though not as grand as some other halls, this one appears homely. Going down to the shoreline, a small dock pushes out into the icy waters of the Mälaren. A few fishing boats have been dragged up onto the bank, and two longships sit tied to the dock, their dragon-headed prows silent and imposing in the gathering dark. Just outside the main village, there is a ring of standing stones. Some of these stones are carved with intricate runes, telling tales of warriors long dead, and gods long distant from the realms of men. More stones lead away from the circle, and along a well-beaten track into the forest.


High above the river and the settlement, sits the ancient temple of Uppsala. In all the world, no other place can bring someone closer to the gods. The forest around the temple is eerily quiet, and approaching the temple is in itself a task, as you always feel as if you are being watched by unseen eyes. Tokens, and offerings to the gods litter the trees, some as simple as wicker symbols, some forming small piles of bones. Even as the more grisly offerings are covered in a layer of snow, the empty sockets of skulls still bear an oppressive quality to any prospective worshiper. The temple itself is a tall, wooden structure, its eaves decorated with images of the gods. Small braziers flicker outside the doors, the flames flickering in the cold wind. Inside the temple the light is dim, the interior lit only with a multitude of candles. Statues of the gods loom out of the shadows, in places with solitary worshippers knelt in front of them. A woman, her flaxen hair in two long braids, kneels in front of a statue of Freyja, her belly showing the early signs of pregnancy even through her cloak and furs. An old man stands before a statue of Odin, his once strong hands shaking as he holds them raised to the heavens.



High above the waters of the English channel, sits a great, stone-walled town. Above the wall can be seen the tower of a cathedral, and myriad rooftops made of everything from thatch to tiles. The ruins of some ancient Roman buildings are evident outside the wall, and the great stone roads leading to and from the gates are obviously from the same time. The guards on the walls huddle round braziers, as cruel winter winds whip along the ramparts. As night closes in the gates are sealed, great wooden cross-beams laid in place to hold them shut. But despite this the town is still lively. Many people go about the streets, and light spills onto the muddy streets from houses and taverns. The sounds of a busy town fill the air, but louder than most is the sound of blacksmiths’ hammers. Working hard into the night, the smiths labour to produce hundreds of swords, and the heads of spears. Wessex is preparing for war.


Close to the center of town is the palace, home to the kings of Wessex. Once a Roman villa, the palace has been expended by generations of Saxon kings, though the hypocaust remains intact. The halls are richly decked out with tapestries and oak furniture, carpets and furs covering the stone floors. In the main hall, a throne sits on a raised dais, looking down across two long tables leading to the main door. A group of housecarls sits drinking at one of the tables, their conversation often interrupted with raucous laughter. Fires burn brightly in the fireplaces dotted around the palace, and servants scurry along the corridors. In a chapel, attached to the royal chambers, a richly dressed man kneels before an ornate altar. King Egbert prays for guidance. His recent wars against the Welsh have seen Wessex soar in prominence and wealth, but now he faces opposition from the king of Mercia, the largest landholder in England.


The setting changes from Dark Age Europe to Winchester


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Lady Arlette Character Portrait: Lord Landry Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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The cart rumbled unsteadily down the uneven road. They were finally, at long last coming to the end of their treacherous journey. It had been down right dangerous! From the long travel by wherries to cart. It seemed as if she had been holding her breath since they had set off; Arlette let it out in one large exhalations as the carriage rolled into Winchester.

The security of her recent life seemed a bitter memory now. The Countess knew that they lived on borrowed time and shaky grounds. Since her husbands death at the hands of Viking raiders while trying to protect his lands, no more than three months ago, the Lady knew there would be snakes vying for her late husbands title and his lands. Though he had left some of it to Arlette in her own right; neither of them had ever thought he'd die so young and without a male heir . . . Arlette's hand came to rest protectively over her growing belly. The sting of tears threatening to escape the corner of her almond shaped eyes were held back by sheer will of force.

The wedding of her sisters daughter had been a blessing with which she could disguise her true reasons for travel down to Winchester in such a position as she was. Arlette gazed at the three somber faces, snoozing around her. They looked so much like their father. With their golden hair, fair skin and light eyes. Not one looked like her. Tucking the blankets tighter around the girls; she had to protect them all now.

The flash of clamoring horse flesh, caught the Lady's attention. Arlette spied the party soaring past her. Her gaze locked with the aforesaid rider, even if only for a second or two but the blatant smirk scrutinizing her with almost a gleeful glance over the shoulder, caused Arlette's jaw to clamp. Her difficult task had become excruciatingly more impossible.

"Son of a whore!"