Thistle March | D10 | finished

A smallish and fragile looking thing, Thistle is all pale skin and slight build, with the lean sort of muscles that prove she's no stranger to working for her supper, despite not being the most able bodied person around. She can, and does, carry hay bales just as often as her brothers, though maybe not as many or as quickly as the boys.

While not a Capital beauty, she's hardly unattractive, if a bit work worn. Thistle's face is rather round, with grey eyes that tend to look bruised under heavy, dark brows. Her nose, cheeks, and arms are often red and peeling from the sun, and freckles cover every square inch of her, from crown to heels. Her small hands are calloused, the nails ragged and chewed at, and usually rimmed with dirt. Her front tooth is notably chipped, though thankfully it only hurts when she eats something cold.

Thistle's hair is kept long, and if pulled straight, would probably reach her waist. Instead, the mess of tight curls hangs just below her shoulder blades (or, more often, gets tied up with whatever bit of leather or twine she can get her hands on). She prefers messy tails or buns, but doesn't say no to a braid if she has the time. Her clothes are usually worn and plain, made of dark, earthy homespuns that have typically seen at least one previous owner.

While she was once violently ginger, the curls have darkened with age to somewhere between copper and brown. Sunlight tends to bleach it, but Thistle deeply suspects her hair will be just as dark as her mother's had been by the time she has children of her own.

Thistle is a girl made of sunshine and joy, and almost entirely unaware of just how much her family shelters her. She works, and works hard, but quotas and tesserae and the pain of an empty belly are somewhat abstract ideas better left to her father and brothers-the boys have something of a conspiracy amongst themselves to keep her happy and fed and away from the eyes of pretty much anyone they can.

Thistle isn't the violent sort. She leans more toward quiet sulking and depressive moods when emotions get the better of her, but when her good will eventually runs out, Thistle's anger is fierce and bright and short lived. Typically, she's rarely not smiling or laughing, and and why not? One girl is a small target in the grand scheme of things. The beasties under her care are steady things, used to the weight of human hands and a tendency to be small and weedy and useless to both meat men and Capital equestrians alike. In fact, the rangy horses aren't good for much beyond driving stock and eating the bare minimum; her own favorite mount is small and lean, like her, and mean, and just as ugly as a fence post. She's only kept her this long because no one wants anything to do with her.

She's a bit of a prankster, and has no greater joy than teasing her brothers, but her tricks and games are tame-no one has food to risk wasting or equipment to damage after all, and no matter how much she might like to see Sorrel with blue hair, it just won't happen.

With her light hands and careful ways, Thistle is the sort of person who's good with small and delicate things, be they children, animals, or complicated stitches. Thanks to her stepmother, she is developing an affinity for fiber crafts, particularly knitting-and spinning, though her yarn is still lumpy and clumsy-and like most girls her age in the lower districts, she's done more than her fair share of household chores; she likes to think there isn't anything she can't clean by now.

The youngest of a sprawling family, Thistle was doted on by a whole herd of brothers-four in all: Sorrel, Cress, Vega, and Roan-a stroke of luck, considering she was never particularly healthy child.

Born the first of a set of twins, Thistle was the only survivor, and even that was by tooth and claw. Now, when there's a cold or cough, fever, or stomach bug to be caught, Thistle is almost guaranteed to catch it. Her father remarried a pretty young thing, Larisa, who hasn't gotten with child yet, but brought with her three healthy sheep.

Although not wealthy by any stretch, the March family is among some of the better off in District Ten; they're among the few who raise and train the horses that the cattlemen use to control their stock (and, of course, the odd especially fine beast that's sent to the Capital for whatever reason.) The March table almost always has meat, even if it's bunny, dog, or prairie chicken, cheerfully traded for a bit of her step-mother's yarn or breaking a recalcitrant horse.

Because of her poor constitution, Thistle's work tends to keep her in the barns and paddocks instead of the open range land. It often translates to mares in foal and those animals in need of extra work. It isn't exactly lighter work, but keeping close to home affords her a small amount of security.