|Nickname(s)||Vore 'n' Gore|
|Guild||Harlots of the Pirate Isles|
|Professions||Plundering and Whoring.|
|Build||Voluptuous, but thin at the waist|
Voracia McKree is a half Aquilonian, half Vanir woman, and looks every bit the part. She stands an imposing height of over six feet, with a shapely, muscled body and a firm set to her jaw. Her aquilonian blood gives her a somewhat aristocratic look, high cheekbones, somewhat thin lips, and a somewhat 'snooty' look to her face, the idea that she looks down on people only emphasized by her height.
Voracia's eyes are a dull yellow in color, somewhat 'empty.' They are not lacking in intelligence, her somewhat slanted gaze often narrowed studiously on her opponents, targets, or her next client, but they seem devoid of... well, something. Her hair is not too long, hanging to her shoulders, blond but somewhat dull. Her hair, half braided, half straight, with three braided ponytails hanging over her shoulders and from the back of her head, is 'taken care' of, but notably, nothing particularly radiant, having a dull luster at best. Her skin is faintly tanned, though fair, from too much time spent on the battlefield.
Ms. McKree favors loose clothing that leaves most of her flesh exposed. There are various reasons for this... being a harlot, she prefers to keep the goods somewhat 'on display.' But there are darker reasons as well... for one, as a mercenary, she spends a good deal of time in battle and prefers clothing that does not hinder her movement. Likewise, though Voracia is not often vocal about this, she likes to have as little armor as possible between her skin, and her opponents' blood. The barbarian woman takes a curious pleasure from the feel of fresh, hot blood falling upon her skin, and the glory of battle, or the throes of particularly wild sex, are the only times Voracia's eyes seem to shine.
She favors large two handed weaponry, in particular axes or hammers. She does not mind two handed swords, but the sounds of bones crunching brings a grisly delight to Voracia and often results in somewhat mindless giggling.
Voracia is, when not in battle, not particularly sociable unless she smells gold. She is somewhat grim, not too unlike the Cimmerians, refusing to talk at length about anything that doesn't strike her interests. She is not the type who goes out of her way to make friends. The woman, on the other hand, is likely to sell her body, blade, and maybe even her soul for the right amount of coin... some say she might have already. She rarely makes promises, though the few she does make she keeps, keeping to some faint semblance of honor, though she seems as prone to stab someone in the back as any rogue. Opportunistic, calculating, cold, and clearly still being at least half a snob, Voracia is somewhat hard to get close to or even to tolerate at times, but at least she 'seems' sane when she's barely talking.
On the other hand, on the battlefield, Voracia becomes far too talkative about things most people simply don't want to talk about. She has been known to rant about how rabbits are taking over the world, and thus, must be butchered on sight. She chases prey just for the sake of killing. The crazed barbarian usually has enough intelligence on the battlefield to pick her battles, but has been known to charge into unreasonable situations only to find herself overwhelmed and running for her life, laughing wildly and bleeding from uncounted wounds, or... on her better days, having a bit of a 'misadventure.' Her swings seem wild and flurried, her screams not unlike the hot passionate cries one might expect to hear in the bedroom, but her strokes are still measured and one underestimating her in her ecstacy will still find themselves sucker punched or flat on their asses when expecting a completely different attack.
Voracia is much friendlier and easy to associate with after a battle, but far too tense before one, though whether anyone wants to be friendly with her when she's covered in blood and thinking about it is another story.
Voracia's mother, Streighra McKree, was a 'middle class' Aquilonian back in her day. That is to say, she was just rich enough to be a noble, with the right bloodline, but not famous nor rich enough to make it into the better noble circles, particularly unwed as she was. With a lot of time on her hands and interests that didn't suit most noblewomen, Streighra wanted to be a fighter and trained to be one, spending an unladylike amount of time at the barracks and considering the Captain there for her bed, since he wasn't too low-ranking in Aquilonian society himself. Streighra could hardly get his attention without being impressive though, and in the, at that time, rather tame Noble District, one didn't really have much opportunity to make an impression beyond practicing and sparring.
When the opportunity to assist their not too far away neighbours, the Cimmerians, came up, Streighra was one of the first in line. Decorated in shining armor, longsword and shield in her hands, Streighra looked every bit as impressive as she hoped to, a lovely gem amongst rocks, but she had no idea what she'd gotten herself into. The Captain was indeed impresed already, and had been for a while, truth be told, but his attentions would only get in the way of his hard work, and so he said nothing beyond 'good luck' to the recruits as they headed north by the wagonload, to assist the Cimmerians against the brutal Vanir. Streighra was 'pretty good' at cutting down Vanir, and while she was not worthy of being utright championed a hero, her name still made the rounds through the camps as the small regiment and Cimmerians worked to push the Vanir back. After a few months of hard, bloody work, Streighra found herself promoted to Sergeant, and given a few volunteers of her own to lead.
Needless to say, there weren't many volunteers to go around... not many Aquilonians favored the idea of dying for a bunch of barbarians. But some saw this as a chance to impress the King, and so they pushed forward, eager to make names for themselves and hopefully return home with heads held high. Streighra, this thought on her mind, led her own small group out one day to patrol one of the closer Cimmerian settlements between Conall's Valley and the Field of the Dead, and here, they found themselves ambushed and overwhelmed by the Vanir. It had been decided amongst the Vanir that killing and raping the Aquilonians and any other volunteers would dishearten any that were considering helping the Cimmerians, and, initially, this was true. Streighra's troop was devastated, surrounded by a pack of hungry Vanir and their wolves, every many slaughtered and Streighra, and another woman, taken captive. They were put in stocks, and for at least two weeks, they lost count of the number of men who humiliated and used them, and the women who taunted them and took pleasure in throwing rocks at them.
The other woman died between a Vanir and a Ymir after two weeks, choking to death, and Voracia feared her fate would be the same. But a Vanir shaman took great delight in taunting her with the belief that she was pregnant with a Vanir child, and ridiculed the broken noble, jeering at her and often slapping her in the belly, though not hard enough to give her the miscarriage, and death, she somewhat hoped for. The jeering got worse when her body betrayed her, and then, finally, she was given shackles and a collar, becoming the chieftain of that clan of Vanir's slave girl. Feeling her curves ripening, her belly starting to swell, Streighra was without hope until, one day, approximately four months later, a Cimmerian warband came across the Vanir group. The Vanir were slain brutally, and Streighra almost was too, only her pregnant belly, and the shrill scream no Cimmerian woman would ever cry willingly saving her from being put to the block. She was dragged back to the Cimmerian camp as a spoil of war, and there, several months later, is where she had her child.
The Cimmerians were a grim and unforgiving bunch, and Streighra, unfortunately, never made it back to Tarantia alive. Mind you, they didn't kill her... the child did. The child that would grow to be over a foot taller than her mother was rather large at birth, and away from the magicks of Aquilonia and Stygia, and without any proper midwife to assist her, Streighra died giving birth to Voracia, the mother finally giving in to life's apparent cruel desires as she passed away. A brutal life for the mother, a brutal life for the daughter. Voracia grew amongst the Cimmerians for a short time, only about five years, before the girl ran away. She was a stray, and an old woman took care of her but took pleasure in jeering at her and treating her as less than dirt, and Voracia had no mind to clear the old woman's hovel for the rest of her life. When some of the other children dared to be so cruel as to make fun of her mother and fatherless life, she simply fled the camp, and none moved to stop the half-Vanir bastard child.
Being half-Vanir, however, is exactly what saved her, for a time. She stumbled into a Vanir camp with a half-starved wolf hot on her heels, and the Vanir took her in for a time, putting her, of course, to work. The barbarian qualities in her form and growth were recognized and intriguing, and besides that, they didn't have enough ladyfolk in their camps anyway. She'd grow up eventually. Voracia, knowing herself to be half-Vanir, decided to stay, and worked hard for what little bit of coin would be tossed her way as a child. She learned to hunt, from rabbits to Cimmerians themselves, and as she began to grow, she, unknowingly, began to counter everything her mother had tried to do for the Cimmerians. She began to take bitter delight in hunting the barbarians and stalking them, often finding camps that were supposed to be hidden, and bringing the Vanir with her.
When she hit the age of twelve, the somewhat grim but hopeful girl had her dreams crushed when the Vanir chieftain decided to make her his own. Too young, too confused to deal with such things, Voracia did not resist him for a time, and lived with the chieftain for approximately half a year before realizing he would not let her fight or go out into battle ever again. The way of Vanir women, naturally, was not holding weapons. Instead of trying to reason with him, Voracia re-evaluated her life. She killed the chieftain in his sleep, filled her pockets with his coin and valuables, took his weapon, and then made her way out of the camp. She wandered aimlessly, selling her blade and body to both Cimmerians and Vanir as long as they didn't recognize her, until she made the mistake of running into the clan of Vanir she had beheaded several years later.
Time had not dulled the rage of the Vanir, and Voracia was well on the way of following in her mother's footsteps in stocks, when several Stygian arrived. This far north, they were an odd sight, but they were hunting for slaves and they were paying nicely. Voracia was given over for a healthy helping of coin, and the barbarian did not protest in the least when she was branded just over her right breast. She was sent off to Tortage amongst many other slaves, to eventually serve Thoth-Amon.
Voracia's soul and spirit had been broken and, perhaps, hollow from the beginning, but when the slave ship crashed on the edge of Tortage, and she nearly drowned, what little shreds of sanity and soul she might have had seemed to be gone. It is hard to tell, even now, if she's not merely a puppet on Thoth-Amon's strings, or simply insane.