Trigger Warning

This character deals with:

• Non-graphic eye injury
• Non-graphic lung injury
• Commitment issues

Personality

Amara's an incredibly ambitious underachiever. She wants a lot, tries a lot, but way too often she doesn't have the patience to see her scrambled plans through to the end, if she scrambles any at all beforehand. She wanted to become a sharpshooter and ended up hitting her teacher in the elbow with her first arrow; she wanted to master insectoid hunting and almost got her eye burned out by acidic endriaga spit; she wanted to create a steady supply of bombs for the School and maimed a horse when the materials blew up half-way to the keep.

Amara is not in distress—Amara is the distress, or at least she's bound to create it, and to end up pulling herself out on her own. Unless someone dashing and daring comes along to ‘help’ (actual definition: get in the way), as happens way too often for her own liking. She's not a people person, and someone forcing themselves into her business for no reason other than mindless chivalry annoys her beyond measure. She's two centuries old, for Gods' sake, she can take care of herself! And what's with the constant glass gems and cheap jewelry she keeps finding in creatures' nests and getting paid with for clearing them out? Truly, Lady Luck must have a very personal grudge against Amy.

The only thing she seems to have perpetually succeeded in over two centuries is keeping her tongue sharp. Amy's fun to chat with, despite all her awkwardness and inability to figure out when to stop talking—or if you can tolerate those. The slightest interest in her creature research sends her into a rant with a good chance of her following you everywhere until you tell her to leave you alone for the fourth time. Plus being casually annoying is kinda fun, just the slightest bit.

It's no surprise she's dealt so much with jealousy and envy in her life, yet her age seems to not have brought her much wisdom (if any)—it's like with every passing summer her character issues magnify to match her lived experience. The trial of grasses must've made her more mulish than she was ever meant to be, or maybe it's the influence of the Cat she was given up as payment to, and the years dragging by have not made her much better. Sure, she'll adapt to survive, she knows she must—but oh boy she's gonna complain all along the way.

Her insecurities, stubbornness, and pride are three heads of the same unpleasant beast. Sure, it's bitten her in the, ahem, side before but it can be of some help, too: people don't know your weak spots if you don't reveal them, and being stubborn can take as many lives as it can save, and pride… well, that's a snake feeding on it's own tail, but really, who could possibly not enjoy being praised? She hunts giant monsters for a living! It's only just for her to love to brag, no matter how long ago something happened. Amara's boundless curiosity and insatiable desire to know everything seem to be the best of her traits—until you see her crawl into a hole in the ground where an arachas has recently laid its eggs to see whether birthing has impacted the creature's venom production.

Amy's morals are mainly centered on self preservation with a humanitarian hint: hurting someone (or something) is bad unless they hurt you first, then they've asked for it. You don't get caught stealing— ahem, steal unless you want something to be stolen from you. Wars are won by spies and traitors, not knights and priests, but that shouldn't stop you from trying to help wounded people or reforming broken systems—if it doesn't make your life better in the grand scheme of things, then at least someone will owe you a favor. She's a betting woman, she can't deny the high of victory even if risks make her anxious, and she never goes back on a promise or a debt, whether she's the lender or the borrower, the winner or the loser: one must hold onto their word if they ever intended to keep it, and never give it if they don't. Otherwise, what are they worth?

Her affinity for those dear to her—especially her School,—drives a hard bargain against Amara's flaws and principles, bending them into the favor of their well-being and survival, even if she will either beg you to forget it afterwards or will remind you of it until your eyes get stuck from rolling in annoyance; it's not quite love, not quite home, not quite family, but it's certainly hers.

Appearance

Standing at 5'6", Amara doesn't look particularly dangerous and could absolutely rock a ball gown—which she is perfectly aware of, and knows how to use it to her advantage. Or, well, has a semblance of the idea—her pride gets in the way too often. No better bait than what looks like a helpless human damsel in shiny silky garbs, right? You just have to make the dress easy enough to move in, dedicate some sleeve space to a trusty dagger… Amara's gonna hate it anyway, sure, but with those additions she'll be less likely to threaten to cut your head off after wearing the dress (and during, and before).

Her hair is blonde, tangling into little curls at the ends, and Amara does her best to keep it out of her face, mostly in a ponytail or a short braid. She looks her best with it half-down, or in small braids, or simply loose—but being pretty isn't in her job description, fortunately. There is a part in everyone wishing at least a single person in the world would consider them beautiful, sure, Amy is no exception, but she's come to realize that her good looks are both a blessing and a curse. People don't trust her professional skills, yet she's easily let into towns or taverns. Men (and not only men, to her delight) hit on her, but usually stop after a disinterested glance with a finger pointed at the two swords on her back.

Amara's grown insecure about her vision following the endriaga incident: her left eye healed splendidly, yes, but not her sight. You can still see the irregularities if you take a close enough glance: the discolored hardened blotches of skin, the wobbly line of her iris's edge against the sclera, the thin smoke covering the cornea. Hardly anyone dares to do so, fortunately, since people don't tend to let the witcheress close enough, and she's in no rush to invite them into her bubble either.

Most times, Amy's wearing her light leather armor, anxious about being caught in an unfavorable position. When safer attire can't be arranged or, in rarer cases, when she deems it unnecessary, the Cat wears working clothes, always preferring pants with pockets over any kind of skirts, and does any handiwork she can get to in efforts to prove herself… if not needed by others then at least somewhat useful. Fellow witchers can hear the quiet dingling of a delicate chain mail hidden under her shirt, an expensive ‘parting gift’ she ‘borrowed’ from a Povissite lady when setting on the road. No matter the situation, she keeps something sharp close—specifically the age old dagger she killed that damn griffin with and has cherished ever since.

History

Amara was born to a small noble family in Vattweir who owned heavy-duty carriages and draft horses for transporting mining equipment and resources. They've always had trouble with highwaymen, obviously, but never enough to actually impact the business. Well, at least until a monster showed up in their parts and started ravaging the land—horses with a side dish of guardsmen turned out to be it's favorite meal. It got her father, too, when the beast dared turn up at the doors of their stables. Her mother had to hire a passing witcher to deal with the beast, but the damage to their reserves has been done, and Amara was given up as payment. You can guess where her aversion to griffins first came from.

Or, well, that's what she's always been told. The only childhood memory of hers that survived the trial by time was the dark blue silhouette of the mountain range against the amber evening skies when her father carried her on his shoulders; Amara's not even sure if that's ever really happened, or if she's dreamed that up—she was way too young to remember anything else of her old life, too. Figuring out where she came from has always been a fascinating secret to her which she has relentlessly pursued in her downtime, yet two hundred years haven't been enough to crack this mystery open. Maybe she was looking in the wrong place, or maybe she didn't have a significant origin at all—but she'd sooner kiss a grave hag than believe that.

Her trial by grasses came soon, too soon, but so did everything else, to think of it: all her other tests, her first hunt, her first winter alone. Sure, Amara killed enough ghouls and nekkers before scoring her first big kill, and it took her way longer than other newly let out of the bag Cats—yet it still feels like it happened way too early. Amy set out on the Path with a clear goal in mind: she wanted to go to Kaedwen, hunt down the biggest griffin she could find this side of the continent, and mount it's head above her bed in Stygga. Along the way she'd sketch and note every creature she encountered, especially ones differing from those she's seen in Ebbing.

To Amara's own dismay and, in hindsight, great luck, the griffin she found was a small sickly young male (which nobody at all needs to know, reaaaally) already being targeted by a local excuse of a knight; she didn't spend much time tracking the beast before finally baiting it with a sheep corpseful of explosive charges. What she saved up wasn't enough to knock the beast out: the fight had to end with a lucky knife to the griffin's eyeball, and Amara almost choking to death on her own blood in a crushed breastplate. The last of fortune's favor was said knight following her around everywhere in case the damsel ended up in distress, and that day, she did. The Cat lost the first of her nine lives, and it seems like most of her luck went with it, too, but at least she had an awesome story to tell by the fire now: who else can brag about killing a griffin with a dagger by pure chance and then getting hauled to a medic by her annoying brother in shining armor?

Amara's never been too good with people: too straightforward, or too stubborn, or simply too much, but if there is one thing that day made her—it's anxious to keep someone around. Just in case an emergency happens. Didn't give her a single clue on how to build a relationship properly, though, so the medic responsible for keeping her number of ribs even tried for years instead. She was weird, too—and too was the key word. It was nice not to be alone, even if only for awhile, and to have a bed to sleep in, even if Amara utterly despised the idea of having slid into the position of a court cat without noticing. Years have passed by, and her debt still remains unpaid.

Then time ran out, Eternal Fire started to rise in its brutal prominence, and Amara had to get on the move: from Ban Ard to Cintra, from Beaucler to Metinna, any place where it burned the slightest gleam less bright than where she was coming from. The trip ended back in Stygga, about to be taken by the Nilfgaardians—with no fight, not even a hand laid onto a sword's handle. Boris giving up the keep without a single word of an argument pissed Amy off, but there was nothing she could do to help it, so she excused herself to the hunt and went as far as she could without getting burned, hating herself for not making a bigger fuss over it.

The road went back up the map, unfortunately, now further than Amara's been before and with a semi-clear goal: leave the Nilfgaardian sun behind, avoid being burned alive, take one last look at the Great Kestrel, be it just a blot on the horizon, and then—wherever, which ended up being Lan Exeter. She heard vague echoes of School news once in a while, some true and some exaggerated and some made-up. Before long, Amy decided to cross the flaming north again, now to find the caravan Varani's set up—only the blazes burned too hot now, and Amara had to navigate, pretend, and sneak from Pont Vanis to Novigrad to smuggling channels from there. Long, cold months passed before she caught up to the caravan, and she's still not sure if the risk was worth it.

Abilities

Amara is far from the most gifted of Cats, let alone of all witchers in any regard. Does she wish she was? Kind of, a little bit, her ego demands it every once in a while—but notoriety brings too much hassle into one's life, so she lets the strife die down after the day's training is done. Her act for the caravan's show is mainly juggling daggers and throwing knives, plus assisting magic tricks if any are presented. Amara knows how to keep her balance and has learned some simple useful acrobatic tricks but she is far from best, her flashiest move being jumping without falling off the tightrope. Amara's incredibly fast in her reactions and even more so on her feet—oh, if only she'd still possess the stamina and the lungs needed for marathons. At least the time spent traveling along mountain peaks taught her good climbing, if slow.

Contrary to popular belief, the nickname Birdie (unlike Fowler and the ilk) came before Amara killed the griffin due to her looks and decent singing voice, more as a joke and a hint for her to shush already than in appreciation, and Amara isn't in a rush to put that straight. She's somewhat proficient with a lute, nothing noteworthy, seems to be strictly campfire stuff. She's a capable artist if given a pencil, but what little focus she has always belonged to creatures and targets.

She learned a few most common Northern dialects in her travels, plus some Elder or Dwarven phrases relevant to her profession, and despite having been brought up in Ebbing she still speaks Nilfgaardian with a noticeable accent despite being more proficient in it as a scribe. Her personal monster notes are written mostly in Nilfgaardian with an addition of Kaedweni and Koviri dialects of common speech, a mess of jumbled scrawls only she seems to be capable of easily deciphering.

Both and advantage and not: Amy is left-handed, and she's had to improve the use of her right arm considerably after her eye healed—it's hard to aim with a crossbow in your left hand if the world is all blurry on that side.

Which leads to the fun of the fair, which are Amara's eyes (which she always complains are dry) and lungs (which she always complains are shrinking with age). Also worth mentioning: as of now, her hearing seems to have fully recovered from when that griffin screamed its head off at her, but sudden loud sounds still daze her for longer than they should.

Her right eye was luckily unharmed, and she still believes she's gotten off relatively scot-free with her left: sure, the gleams are out to kill her, the light sensitivity sucks, the pupil doesn't dilate as it should on occasion, but her vision remains intact even if significantly blurry. She does her best to keep people on her right side, in the line of her full vision without letting them know the real reason for it. Those who've known her for long enough know, but that won't stop Amy from trying to make everyone forget her imperfections and soft spots. Her blurred vision made Amy compensate, focusing her lackluster attention span on her hearing and sense of smell when it comes to anything to the left of her, and consequently to anything around; it hasn't turned her into a hyperaware bat, of course, but that's only limited by her ability to survive a few more centuries, if her jokes are right.

To add onto the previously mentioned lung trouble, Amara might be a good runner and a decent swimmer, but not a good breather—at all. She seems to never have enough air in her lungs, not after that damn hunt, and every once in a while her speech is broken up with a cough; too much physical exertion sends Amy into fits of it, and she's started keeping a handkerchief on her person for those a long time ago. She says it's just alchemic vapors and the dryness of the air around here, and yet it always sounds like a lie.