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Fabricating a claim on dat ass
Mademoiselle Alielle Pierrel is the Royal Court-Witch of Daggerfall, and the daughter of the reigning Archduke of Pysant. Without a doubt one of the most peculiar figures in the western court, Alielle spent most of her life training as a Psijic on the mysterious isle of Artaeum - only to make an abrupt return one day five years ago, and assume the most prestigious arcane office of the realm with all the calm certainty of a rightful owner.
Alielle Pierrel

Title

Mademoiselle Court-Witch of Daggerfall, Princess of Pysant

Age

30(?) (born 3E 431)

Gender

Female

Race

Breton (Daggerfallian)

Height

5'6

Appearance Edit

Honey-blonde hair curling down to her shoulders, disconcertingly vibrant eyes of violet only a shade deeper than lavender and a figure invitingly svelte, the Mademoiselle Court-Witch is no stereotypical witch, that much is certain - though this fact has done nothing to prevent her from holding the traditional honorary seat in the western capital's Inns of Covenance. Not at all fond of sitting cooped up in some or other high tower, bent over dusty old tomes, it is instead all too easy to confuse her for a lady of the nobility - and she actually is, in her own way, a scion of Daggerfall's high aristocracy. Amazing how far a tasteful whiff of perfume and a proper pose can go in reminding people of such.

Alas, the Psijic in her conspires to twist all this immediately to her own devices. Some voidlike spice, something well and truly arcane lurks in her scent and clings to her like the dazzlingly colourful butterflies she keeps as equal parts pets and decorations; swirling around her sometimes in a frenzied cloud, and at others - resting calmly in the folds and creases of her dress. Somehow, this alone is enough to outweigh all her simple elegance and twist the nigh-on naive amiability that pervades her pleasantly soft, almost chubby features into something altogether more troubling; an instinctive unease, perhaps, that the proximity of irresponsible mages often inspires.

The same natural elegance corrupted by dangerously mischievous witchery pervades also the Mademoiselle's wardrobe. All dress robes and robelike dresses, she never quite seems to make up her mind if she is princess or witch, or something else altogether; the only constants are a live (and quite petulant) butterfly perched in her hair in place of a hairpin, and a small silver shield-pin etched with a dragon rampant, which she wears pinned here one day and there the next - her badge of office, marking her out as a member of the royal household.

Biography Edit

Perhaps the least likely of all the overqualified witches and wizards ever to have absent-mindedly roamed the halls of the Tower of Raven, the Mademoiselle Pierrel was not born a coven-child - but rather, the cream of the aristocratic crop. Of Daggerfall's four ancient archducal bloodlines, House Pierrel might not be the richest or boldest, but it is the most spectacularly prolific; which, on reflection, would make the emergence of an oddball of Alielle's sort something of a statistical inevitability.

She was a straight enough child, one of the few Pierrels to grow up without having to constantly push and shove her way through a dozen siblings (those would come later, and in almost those numbers: Alielle turned out to be the third of eleven children). Perhaps she was unduly obsessed with butterflies, and maybe a little too eager to play around in the dusty parts of the family reliquary - but nothing to suggest that, on a bright and unbearably hot summer day in the eleventh year of the Fourth Era (she was thirteen then, and quite adorable), she would give one of the serving maids the fright of her life when she plucked a mouse's soul from its body. After some initial fluster over whether her exceedingly noble parents should feel elated or horrified, the search for a suitable tutor to guide the young princess along in this tumultuous period of her life began in earnest. Unfortunately, as the incident with the mouse had exemplified, events do not always proceed in a neat and orderly fashion.

The local wizards could not contain her. In the wake of their grumbling, His Majesty's Imperial Guild of Mages would not take her. A witches' coven might have made a perfect home, but, as conclusively established by the Archduke Pierrel himself, "No daughter of mine will EVER! BE! A WITCH!" The months wore on, and hope seemed in shorter and shorter supply.

Until, one day, an Altmer that didn't look like any Direnni they'd ever seen knocked on the castle gate. And, after a surprisingly brief chat with her parents, whisked the little Alielle away to distant Artaeum, where butterflies were larger, towers - more ancient, and time - far more fluid.

Blink, and little Alielle was, all of a sudden, not so little.

Blink, and one very forgettable Morning Court in 4E 23 became a little less so when a violet-eyed young lady made her own introduction, and put forth her candidacy for an office that was not even vacant - backed by a bundle of letters of recommendation that seemed to pulsate gently with the heartbeat of the world, and almost slipped away entirely (in the most final possible sense) when the little piece of string tying them all together came undone.

By the next day's evening, Mademoiselle Pierrel had already moved into the Court-Witch's tower and made herself comfortable. It'd be a week before her father learned, and then a month before she visited her childhood home at Cagnay again, and then a little more than an hour before he vowed never to be in the same room as her again. And things would continue in much the same vein for the next five years, the Tower of Raven now home to the inimitable Lady Butterflies.

Talents Edit

The Mademoiselle Court-Witch is a Psijic - her talents with the arcane cannot be anything but formidable, and it is perhaps for the best that no one in Daggerfall's royal court or the Inns of Covenance knows for sure their true and final extent. It seems enough to note her uncanny connection to the flock of brilliant Artaean butterflies that seem to follow her wherever she goes, and that she is uncomfortably well-informed about all but anything that goes on at any given moment; the latter fact more dependent on the former than is perhaps often realized. Everything else is left for the beholder to infer, and everything beyond that is surely simply a surprise that the Mademoiselle has yet to spring on you.

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