The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
People say many things about Mayrin, and unsurprisingly, the majority of such things are insults and demeaning accusations. The woman cuts very close to the difference of a street thug and a brigand, and so those who know her are quick to judge her actions as well as guess-usually accurately-as to how she may react. One thing that May has heard quite often is not exactly the truth, but touching upon a correct subject: 'She must be the bastard daughter of a brigand leader.'
Mayrin can only recall a single man knowing just lightly of her past; she may be a horrid liar, one who cracks and spills the truth when given enough pressure, but some secrets she will guard until her last bated breath.
Her childhood is such one.
Mayrin has, or had, one sister and three brothers. She was the third-born, two older brothers, and her younger brother and sister. Her father was a drunk with a job at the lumbermill within Combe, her mother a whore of a housewife. The mill job was hardly enough to support a family so large, not including the expenses of the drinking father. Whilst he worked during the day, or passed out in the inn when he claimed to be working, her mother often had visitors making their rounds to their small abode; when father questioned the influx of income, she'd just reply that she had made up sime headache remedies for the neighbors. It was a joke, to the family, that the older sons looked exactly like that hunter's own kids, save for their eyes; Mayrin was once asked by a store's owner is she were the daughter of one of the fishers out by the winding river.
On top of general neglect, they were not safe from the sharp sting of an angered hand, the toe of a leather boot if they strayed in the path of a parent for too long, and passing night after night were they'd be lucky to snag abandoned bread crust, or half-chewed sweetgrass. The older boys took jobs on as fishermen and netters, bringing in meager coin that they hid to themselves for their own meals. Not a child shared coppers nor bread, as you'd go starving if you even dared; it was a dog-eat-dog world, for the bastard children of the Caspers.
It wasn't long until May came of age of a woman, and took on her own sort of job. It was, however, influenced by her mother—as she really had no choice in the say, she was told it was for the best. Husbands, drunks, traveling folk found their way to the small confines of the Caspers house, little Mayrin a popular attraction.
It was up until this point that May had remained quiet, slinking about to keep out of the way, nothing more than a shadow in the corner in wait for beck and call. She began to speak outloud, become bold and abrasive; growing proud when no men came to see her, raising her chin in defiance to her mother's harsh words, scolding her refusal.
Born by a poisonous womb of a venomous family, the seed of a man who never knew his true daughter, siblings of wolves that were feral at birth, Mayrin dared to become proud with there was no pride to take; always quite small, she held herself tall, shoulders up and chest out like a rooster in brawl. She abandoned the shadows and wrapped herself in a cloak of flame, her voice becoming as loud as a bear's in demanding claim.
Her silent step became a sharp clang, lightning in the distance, thunder declaring it's dreadful approach. Her defiance broke the chain, and within years of building the consuming pressure, she gave her last lash by escaping; from Combe, she ran, all through the night until she'd reach the gates of Bree. Guards raised brow at her mangly, skinny form, but let her pass as she flashed a pouch of meager silver, saying that at the inn is where she'd stay. But her silver would not be spent on three nights of a proper bed, aggressing herself to snag a small bit of space where those in poverty stayed. From only there, she grew, a spitefire in the face of a world she only believed to be cruel; for what else could stir in a land like this? Bree was much more corrupt than little Combe, giving little point to test the waters of life.
She'd give it no advantage and plunge in headfirst, a thief, a thug, a whore in the desperate nights of winter, where a strangers bed proved more warm than the rags of her own. Whilst they slumbered in the fall of their own endurance, she'd make to snag and steal stowed cotton quilts, furs, burlap bags of anything from carrots to raw potato.
And so, Mayrin had come to be, the rude and daring thug that had caused many problems about Bree. This tale is for no pity, as anyone could break as she had in any condition; there is little she had done to redeem herself, little that she could ever do in the future to dig for forgiveness.
