Greenshield

Real Name: Ailsa Maeve MacAsgaill

Hero Name: Greenshield

Title: (Historic) “The Glaistig of Dunscaith”

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Age: 947 - appears to be a young woman

Gender: Female

Race: Glaistig (cursed human)

Hair: Golden blonde, falls in waves to her ankles. Legs: Piebald in shades of white, cream and golden.

Eyes: Emerald Green

Height: 4’11”

Weight: 120lb

Blood type: O+





Ailsa appears to be an unusually short woman, always dressed in flowing green clothing that brushes the floor. She leaves odd footprints behind her in soft ground, as though her feet are exceptionally wide. If you were to be able to see through her clothing, you would note that she appears to have the top half of a woman and the lower half of a goat, with her hooves stuffed into very stocky boots in public. Her skin is incredibly pale, with a greyish, washed-out colour, and her hair is a rich golden blonde that is almost a true yellow, falling in waves and ringlets to her ankles. Her eyes are a deep emerald green. Every item of jewellery that she wears is either made from gold, bronze, or copper. She is typically seen with a golden torc necklace with the head of a doe at each end.



Ailsa speaks in a soft, gentle voice, her accent colored by the lilt of the peoples of the Scottish Hebridean Islands. Her attitudes and tastes seem anachronistic for her apparent age, often reflected in choosing old-fashioned or retro clothing, often looking as if she has stepped straight of out a vintage clothing store or, on occasion, a historical re-enactment, humming a tune that exited the charts thirty or forty years ago or more. She is never at the forefront of technology, often struggling with machines and gadgets and choosing instead to do things the long, slow, old-fashioned way rather than engage with them.

She can be known to enjoy the company of a small, trusted few, and is attracted to small groups of friends, enjoying quietly listening to the talk of those who seem to care for each other, but is otherwise reclusive, keeping herself to herself unless she must interact with strangers.

Her foremost drive is to protect what remains of her family, which she has been cursed to defend. She is also particularly fond of children, deer and cattle, and will violently defend a child from any harm, or a doe from a hunter if they attempt to kill one, particularly around breeding season.

Although mostly protective and benevolent, she still carries the taint of the Fae in her blood and finds it hard to resist the opportunity to play practical jokes and tricks, and can take deep offence at insults, holding grudges easily which may, if the insults are not atoned for, persist for generations.

She has a particular love for dairy products, and is most frequently encountered in ice-cream parlours and coffee shops, sitting in a dark back corner surrounded by empty mugs, bowls and glasses.


Born in the 11th century on the island of Skye in the Inner Hebrides of Scotland, Ailsa grew up steeped in the legends of Scotland and the Fae. At seven years old, watching her baby brother one night, she fell asleep, letting the candle burn down and go out. She awoke to find the room in darkness, the silence disturbed by a pattering on the thatched roof and sounds of muffled laughter. Over the following few weeks, she acted as though nothing had happened, but the reality of the consequences of her inattention became clear as the small child sickened, and weakened, all whilst eyeing her with a knowing grimace and inhuman squalls. The young girl’s blood ran cold more and more as the days passed, haunted by all those cautionary tales she had been taught, but had never believed. At least, not until now. She plotted and planned in the long winter months after the scrawny changeling passed, tiptoeing guiltily around the grief of her parents. She knew the time to act was coming as the sun began to rise over the horizon for more than a scant few hours before dipping exhausted beneath the waters of the Atlantic once again, barely making an effort to hide its face behind the towering twin peaks of the Cuillins. Time for that raucous night when the fae would drop their devious skulking ways in favour of their wild celebrations of the turning of the year. Tracking an incautious Brownie to the Fairy Hill in the middle of the night at the spring Solstice with the aid of the family’s hunting dog, she wedged the door to the hill open with an iron blade as the heroes had done in her grandmother’s tales, before stealing into the Sithean and abducting her baby brother back again. The baby’s cries of fear at the din of the revelling fae alerted the inhabitants of the mound, who began to give chase. Although she escaped the barrow itself as the Good Folk were unable to pull free the jamming metal to shut the door to bar her, she was finally overtaken at the banks of the stream running through her family’s land. Tossing the baby across the running water, which true fairies cannot cross, with a shout for her parents, the little boy was saved, but at the cost of Ailsa herself. By the time her father opened the shieling door, she was gone, taken by the fairies and cursed, in their irate vengeance, to lose her full humanity and become a creature caught between worlds, both revered and feared in equal measure by the people she used to call her own; a Glaistig. Time passed, and Ailsa hid in the shadows of her family’s croft, too ashamed of her goat-like legs and hooves to show herself, acting as a guardian to the home and the cattle. She watched over her brother as the years went by, as he grew, took a wife, had a pair of fine, strong children, and grandchildren in their turn, all blessed with health and strength by his unseen sister, and finally she watched in sadness as the old man followed his parents to lie in the tiny, sea-battered churchyard that had been built along the road. She stayed, all the same, watching the generations of her family grow and pass, until the Clearances forced so many of her Clan to flee the land they had worked for so many generations, her great-great-nieces and nephews amongst them. As their ships sailed to the Americas, she stowed away alongside them, following their footsteps as they fought for new lives and homes across the lands that would become the United States.


1). Invisibility  - As with all Glaistigs, she can appear as a solid being, a light, misty apparition, or become completely invisible at will.

2). Fae Magic - Ailsa can cast curses and bestow blessings upon others.

Curse: Withering (Permission based) - Her target will gradually be sapped of strength and vitality until the curse is lifted with holy magic or by another Fae.

Blessing: Bolstering (Permission based) - her target will receive a boost sufficient to double the power of one skill or strength until the boon is dispelled by holy magic or injury with iron, silver or steel.

3). Eldritch Scream (Permission based) - The scream of the Glaistig is often compared to the Banshee. This ability can cause fear in the hearer, and temporary, disorienting visions, and can be used to call out to other Fae beings within a range of fifty miles.

4). Preternatural Strength - Numerous stories exist of Glaistigs, when accosted, using their superhuman strength to defeat opponents much physically larger than themselves. The Glaistig’s physical strength is on record as sufficient to effortlessly beat a strong adult man in a physical fight, or to destroy a modest stone dwelling with their bare hands.

5). Speed. The top speed of a Glaistig can be inferred from the legend that tells of one who spanned the distance between the Scottish Islands of Eigg and Barra, some forty miles, within the time it took for a pirate favourite of hers to light a fire with a flint, merely for a taste of his dinner. Assuming the man took twenty minutes to get his fire burning hot, it appears that a Glaistig can easily sustain 120mph over land or water for at least 40 miles without becoming out of breath.


1). Iron, Steel and Silver - Weapons of these metals cause increased damage to creatures of the Fae, including the Fae-cursed Glaistig. Ailsa will receive burn damage in addition to an equivalent physical injury sustained by an ordinary human if injured with these metals. Touching the metals directly is also known to be painful, and will sap the uncanny strength of the Glaistig down to that of an ordinary mortal woman if she is unable to break contact with it, enabling her to be overpowered by a strong enemy.

2). Like most Fae, Glaistigs are frightened of dogs. All dogs and other canids are able to see her in any form, whether otherwise visible or invisible, and are immune to her curses and screams. Even tiny lap-dogs are enough to make Ailsa break out in a sweat. Large dogs will cause her to flee in terror unless restrained. Able to sense the taint of the Fae about her, all but the most passive dogs will tend to behave fearfully or aggressively towards her.

3). Clover, St.John’s Wort - These plants can be used to render the Glaistig’s powers useless. Anyone who has consumed either can see her even when invisible to others. Touching either plant to her skin robs her of the use of her magical powers until contact is broken. If she is tricked or forced into consuming them, she will be unable to cast curses, bestow blessings or become invisible for 48 hours.

4). Holy Power - The powers of priests and priestesses, and holy charms, amulets, and symbols have increased effects against her. Wards against the Fae, or other pagan forces, will prevent her entry across a threshold until destroyed or nullified.

5). Ailsa is particularly vulnerable to attack and manipulation through those who she has been cursed, or chosen, to guard. Any harm coming to her charges is felt as a physical pain to herself, and she will often take impetuous risks in order to prevent the death of those under her protection.


Ailsa carries a simple, hand-carved rowan-wood staff, often masquerading as a walking-stick or the handle of an implement. This can be used to boost her magical abilities to double their usual strength whilst she is physically touching the wood, but has no special powers additional to the boon given to the Fae by their connection with Rowan, so these items are highly vulnerable to damage by fire or breakage. In addition it can be rendered useless with the insertion of a simple iron nail or blade, holy water, or saturation in salt water. Once one is destroyed or ruined, Ailsa will create a new staff if given access to a Rowan tree, or fresh wood cut from one.

None

Deer and cows are attracted to and seem soothed by her presence. Cats and children also respond positively to her.

The woman sat on a bench at the back of the book shop café, her legs tucked up beneath her, parcelled up in the flowing acres of the huge green hippy-esque skirt she wore, decorated with intertwining braids of embroidery and small circular mirrors that glinted in the gleam of the headlights shining through the window she leaned against. The afternoon was growing into evening, and the ice painted lazy feathers across the glass, shimmering against the swiftly blackening sky. A large, leather-bound book sat spread open on the table in front of her, faded and old, the papers within yellowed with age. She took a fountain pen from her pocket, and a small pot of ink, dipping the nib within the rich indigo pigment carefully, before inscribing a flowing, italic ‘d.’ and the day’s date beneath the lowest name on the page with a heavy sigh. As she waited for the ink to dry, she lifted the mug to her lips and took a long, deep drink from the liquid within, taking comfort from the rich sweetness within. It was a true marvel of this age, she considered, how they had managed to take something as perfect as milk, strip out most of the original flavour, and turn it into something bland and watery, only to then replace it with other tastes that made your heart beat faster and the small jet beneath your tongue attempt to explode with excitement.

“Y’alright, miss?” a voice interjected, making her jump, and her eyes open with a start. “Can I take these?” the man continued, reaching slowly for the collection of empty mugs that had gathered in front of her. “Sorry to startle, but, y’know, it’s getting late out there and we’re gonna be closing up soon. You take your time and finish that one up, now, though! I’m not throwing you out just yet. Not when you’ve been our best customer today, and all!”. She smiled up at him, shaking her head, and raising the cup again to pour the last of the coffee down her throat before handing the mug up to him to slot amongst the others on the crammed tray. “Thank ye, but I wil’nae tarry.” she replied with a smile. “Ah wis jus’ headin’ oot anyways, an’ ah cannae help it whin yer drinks are th’best in this guid city, aye?” She winked and nodded up to him, pleased to see the smile her sincere compliments on his brewing brought to the man’s face, but in truth it brought less joy to her today than usual, as she closed the heavy tome and slipped it wearily into her bag.

She had always hated this part, when another one of those long, spidery lines that traced down from Feargus ceased meandering its way down through trailing branches and became as static a sculpture as an old wizened oak tree that had long since died and left the skeleton of its branches still reaching for the sky until all the vulnerable little twigs snapped off and fell to the earth. The weather had no mercy for such tiny, delicate little scraps of wood, just as the world had no mercy for her family or any other, no matter how hard she had tried to keep them strong and safe. She was more disheartened than ever today, though, and her heart was sorely heavy.  So many branches, now, she had chased down, going all the way back to their source, and she had run out of directions. Perhaps, now, truly, the last of him was gone. How cruel was the trick of memory that let her feel the warmth of his smooth, chubby, baby cheek against her own as he clung to her neck as if it was yesterday, when forty generations of his line had been and gone since that day? But did that mean her debt was paid? It wasn’t her fault, after all, that the old man had never chosen to have children of his own! Was it? So why did this weight hang so heavily on her soul, if she even still had one?

It was purposelessness, she supposed, as she slipped the long, black, leather coat over her shoulders. She felt oddly ungrateful to be so agitated and morose now that the last of her work was done, and she could finally… finally… what? What did she do now? What do you do after over nine hundred years of the same vocation? Her thoughts trailed back to that night, long, long ago, and the words of her cursing echoed again in her ears as she sought for the answer.

“Ye who dare defile oor sacred Sithean Mound,
Wi’ blade of iron an’ wicked Hound!
Ne’er again fingers on nae vile metals shall ye set,
Nor yon filthy hound shall ye brave tae pet,
And for thieving flight ‘cross running stream,
Shall ye now call out wi’ bean sidhe’s scream,
Nor light-toed feet e’er more sneak to Sluagh hame,
Fore’er more tae wear Glaistig’s hoof and name!
Til sun dis’nae rise nae mair ‘oer Isle nor hill,
Ye’ll nae find yer rest nor shall yer heart grow still,
Regrets ‘a crossin’ th’Unseelie shall be bitter nursed!
Wi’ guardin’ kin’s blood an’ honour be ye e’ermore cursed.”

She stepped out into the frozen streets to the sound of the bell above the door, and the dropping of the shutters, frowning in puzzlement. The last drop of blood had stilled itself this morning, as she sat in the darkened room of the nursing home, softly held the old man’s frail, wizened hand and gifted him one last blessing of comfort, and of peace. She had always believed that when this day came she would fade into the aether, as insubstantial as the mists, perhaps to finally join all those who had gone before. But here she was. She would not deign to pinch herself. It had been no dream. She could still smell the acrid tang of disinfectants barely covering the odours of illness, age and foreboding, clinging to her nose. But the honour of her people? Did it still remain, clinging as stubbornly to this world as she did? Could she, the last of them all, preserve that fading echo, even now? Perhaps… Her mind drifted back to a grizzle-haired man, some eighty years ago now. A man with a fierce bravery in his eyes, pulling an injured colleague from the wreckage of a plane. That injured pilot had gone on to become the father of the man she had sat with this morning, but the hero who had granted him that chance? What of him? No, no, he would be gone now. But then, perhaps he too had a child, and they, perhaps, their own in their turn? If there was even one descendent left, one who needed help and her guidance, then perhaps the honour of her kin could still be kept intact in her repayment of that old debt. She knew someone. A man who knew how to find things out. Names. Families. Some soulless magic he did with that… computer of his. He was only a couple of states away. Tomorrow, if she ran fast, she might find a purpose once more… Her heart surged as she faded into the icy mists and disappeared, and the rhythm of hooves upon the earth drummed their hopeful beat faster and faster. Tomorrow…