Matriarch Mòna Mimn, a Fimir Meargh who seeks to gain revenge upon all Mankind for the deaths of her clan at their hands.[1a]
Mòna Mimn is a Fimir Meargh of the Wasteland and the former matriarch of her extinct clan, who hopes to use a waystone to turn the Old World into a vast cold mere, as everyone must experience the suffering she has known watching her clan slowly whittled down by the murderous actions of Men over the long decades.[1a]
History[]
Loneliness is a terrible thing, and Mòna Mimn has been lonely for a terribly long time.[1a]
Slow extinction is the fate of many Fimir clans, and the last of Mòna's Dirach died centuries ago. No apprentice was born to her clan, no one to match the long life of a Meargh. There has been no one to pass her knowledge on to. No one for company during the long dreary years, alone in the marshes of the Wasteland with only the croak of frogs and the patter of drizzle in the puddles to remind her that life and time still went on around her.[1a]
A thousand years old, the ancient Meargh lives in her ever-leaning black tower. Her dead clan's huts and buildings have long since rotted or sank into the bog around it, only rocky mounds verdant with moss serving as a reminder of her family. She wanders her gloomy lands, accompanied by one of her Fenbeasts, muttering and grumbling to it as she gathers toadstools and frogs for supper, but getting little response. She is wary of the company of Daemons -- they always want things.[1a]
Mòna has become quite mad, and it's a bitter madness. She once found joy in her watery land, seeing life and possibility, but now it represents only the inevitability of decay. She does not embrace death, but neither does she embrace life. There is only gloom and the marsh.[1a]
She blames much on Men, the creatures who slowly killed her clan over bleak decades. They are despicable things, and yet sometimes she finds herself wishing some would come to her, so she could rant at them, rage at their heartless cruelty. Maybe she would not kill them. She would shout and demand answers, so she could listen to their excuses. So she could hear the sound of another voice again.[1a]
During one long, solitary walk into the marsh's depths, Mòna found a curious set of time-worn menhirs, tilted over, half-buried. Crumbling carved glyphs stirred memories, so she returned with Fenbeasts to excavate and reset the stones as they would once have stood. Running her wrinkled clawed hands over their surface she sensed an ancient but dwindled power within, and realised what they were.[1a]
The Elves called them "Waystones," magical devices of the Old Ones for channelling powerful magical energies. Mòna had found something to excite her for the first time since she could not remember. But something interesting. Something powerful. And she had an idea. That idea became a plan, and her reason to live.[1a]
Mòna believes that others deserve to understand what her existence has become. They, too, should experience the loneliness and suffering of her life in the marsh. To this end, she is expanding the marsh, forcing it to grow beyond its natural limits. Let it engulf the surrounding hamlets. Let it swamp the towns, flood the cities. Let it cover the Empire until it breaks even the mountain borders. By properly reviving the Waystone and directing the flow of magic she believes it can be done. It requires time, but she has enough of that.[1a]
Mòna's work is underway. Even though there are many boggy miles from Mòna's tower and the Waystone, the villagers of Weldmarkt and Schattenlas have had to move huts from marsh-side to the other. Old folk grumble it's drizzling more and greyer too, and the damp seeps into their aching bones. It ain't natural, they say.[1a]
Having a goal has sparked long-dormant life into Mòna. She has fashioned more Beaststones, drawing several Fenbeasts from the mire. Quietly sunken into the ground, three guard the Waystone, two her tower, while another accompanies her. She travels widely, searching for Waystone remnants, whether whole menhirs or simple fragments. Fragments are easier to find, and she buries them along the borders of her expanding marsh to direct the Waystone's magical energies.[1a]
She seeks other Waystones to gather more power. Finding an undamaged one with legible glyphs might allow her to construct her own. Perhaps all she needs is a drawing of them. A wizard's library may contain such knowledge. She doesn't want to start messing about with Daemons unless there is no other option.[1a]