Magdalena "Maggie" Donahue: Airship Pirate
Character name: Magdalena “Magpie Maggie” Donahue (née Mary Madeleine Wolsriver Donahue)
Your name: Stephanie
Faction: PIRATES
Current Position
Crew: HMS Persephone
Position: Chief Gunner
Duties: Chief Gunner (or First Gunner) is head of crew-served artillery. This means she's responsible for the maintenance, repair, and firing of all the large-scale firearms aboard the Persephone: this means the cannons, the airguns that fire in the equal opposing direction to the cannons, the gearworks that interconnect them (though the airguns and gearworks are a bloody battle ground of contention with Engineering: see NPCs, the Persephone, and the Persephone's guns), their munitions, and the ship's three named guns (Gallina, Ophelia, and Big Mary) and their munitions. Her aim with Big Mary (the ship's four-man gun) will take out the captain's quarters on an enemy bird slightly slower than you can say "glass glare." And because her arm fits down the barrel to grab shit when the crew gets drunk and gets a bottle stuck down the barrel, shortly before Maggie goes off to kill a bitch. There are four full-time Gunners aboard the Persephone and a small number of part-timers passed around between specialties like VD and they all answer directly to Maggie. Nobody touches those guns without her say-so.
Skills: Maggie's a dead aim whether she's firing the 120-caliber Big Mary or she's lobbing a lima bean with a rubber band. She's also quite good at spitting; polishing; spit-and-polishing; smiling creepily at people; disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling a firearm in a truly frightening amount of time; disassembling, kludging, and reassembling a broken and formerly-useless gun in an even more frightening amount of time (just look at Maggie's face if you want to know why this is often a bad idea); having a poker face (though ironically not at poker, as she can't be bothered to remember the rules); making munitions; making homemade explosives; making oatmeal; sketching; and playing Bridge. She has incongruously lovely handwriting, freakishly quiet footsteps, and is a champion lurker: moving quietly plus sitting unnaturally still for hours at a time equals a lot of rookie crew who've pissed themselves at two in the morning. Finally she's an excellent shopper (and try as she might she just can't not be good at it, her pride won't let her), an unfortunate skill that has landed her on permanent duty with Darcy co-leading the Acquisitions Crew.
Single? She is now.
Significant Others:
Loves: Maggie loves her ladies and they sing to her so sweetly. Let me name off her ladies for you: Gallina, Ophelia, Mary, Ruby, Julia, and Jamie: Gatling, Gatling, mortar cannon, rifle, derringer, and pistol. The system of cannons and airguns she calls “the choir.”
Friends and drinking buddies: Vivian Prichard, first mate of the Persephone; XXX, propellerist of the Persephone
Soft Spots (grudging and otherwise): Third Gunner of the Persephone; Captain Roberts of the Persephone; Fourth Gunner of the Persephone (dotty old bastard but he's still a crack aim, and that's all that's important, now isn't it?); most of the propellerist crew, given that they keep her ass in the air and shooting; the technician who magics “her” gearworks for the cannons and airguns (though not enough to actually remember his name).
Rivals: Darcy Finnegan, Chief Mechanic aboard the Persephone. They hate each other, spend a great deal of their off time trying to one-up, razz, rattle, punk, prank, or sabotage the other, and would gladly toss the other one over the side if it weren't for that piddling detail of being too good at her job to spare... and yet there's a curious kind of devotion there, the kind you only find in ship's crews and close family. To their utter shame they work fantastically together, and have grown on each other (like athlete's foot) to the degree where if one died, the other would be pissed off that the bitch didn't wait for her to kill her.
Crackling Hatred: If a Mr. Carver in Port Townsend would bite off his own prick and die on it, Maggie could rest a happy woman. If she was the one who got to blow his face in she'd light a thousand candles to Jesus herself.
People Who Beat You To It: Three propellerists (well, more than that, but only three who are still alive and serving on the Persephone), Captain Roberts, First Mate Vivian Prichard
Those Who Came Later: Chief Engineer Darcy Finnegan, Navigator SAB BNT, Gunners Two through Four, Ship's Physician STV HLT, Interpreter Lavinia "Bert" Hortence Bertram-Pryce
Looks
Age: 28
Height: 5'11”
Build: long and lean
Face: sweet, friendly, a little bit smug, and decorated by a near-permanent goggle tanline and a very-permanent set of backfire-scarring on the right. Covered with an altitude mask more than half the time.
Coloring: pale, with dark brown hair cut short and usually stuffed under her hat and blue eyes
Ethnic Origin: Caucasian
Usual Mode of Dress: A much-patched out-of-style women's greatcoat, dyed dark, that has been attacked by someone with a needle, thread, and a basket of spare pockets. By this point almost nothing of the original coat remains: it is a collection of repairs, replacements, and additions, but the soul, if you will, of the original coat is in there. Somewhere. Promise.
Other clothes: pants (usually brown), shirt, and waistcoat; boots and blue spats; knit woolen armwarmers; a green hat with bill, goggles, mask, and ear protection; water bottle that may or may not contain alcohol; and Ruby the rifle.
Is Never Seen Without: Goggles and her gun. Everything else, even her beloved coat, is optional.
Personality
General Overview: Maggie is a jackal. She's a vicious stone cold bitch, cheerful and lackadaisacal in regards to everything but her territory, with a quirky (twisted) sense of humor and a low effort threshold for other people. She's happy to be that way. If she doesn't want to listen she will walk off while someone is talking to her. If they follow her she will shoot them in the foot. She's selfish, territorial, opportunistic, efficient, and, really, doesn't actually give a damn.
Quirks and Tics:
1. Some people finger something when they're nervous. Maggie silently stares at you with the same sort of expression as vultures watching a roadside daycare with a hole in the fence. Most people do not have the fortitude to keep talking into that kind of silence (her mother didn't), but then, most people are not on a pirate ship (or are her former mother-in-law, who could keep talking into the face of a torpedo. Or a bear).
2. She also tends to shoot people and ask no questions at all,
3. and has a strong suspicion of dead bodies she did not cause. To the point of refusing to check if they're dead and strip the corpse. Every now and then, in her experience, they are not actually dead and she just hates that kind of ambush. And if they are dead, well, she needs somebody else's mess like another hole in her head. Since she causes her fair share of corpses she's never really felt left out on the looting.
4. She collects buttons, often off corpses, and feathers. Darcy is very tired of finding buttons in “fuck-all” places.
5. Maggie's drawling accent is 100% fake, and tends to wander.
6. She catnaps in the gun mounts instead of her bunk.
Sins and Virtues
Sin of Anger: Don't you touch those guns. Maggie knows EVERYBODY allowed to lay a finger on those guns and most of those aren't even allowed to in non-combat situations. If you're not gunner two, three, or four the hand you lay on her lady is the hand you're going to LOSE, and THEN she will bash your skull in with Ruby's butt until HER frustration stops. It will take a long, long time. A Maggie crossed is a Maggie who just keeps coming until there's nothing left of her to move, and she does it in sideways, sneaky ways, testing and hiding and coming up on you from behind. Maggie never fights fair, ever. Fighting fair gives them a chance to fight back, and that's something Maggie never gives anyone if she can help it. She's vicious and tenacious and she remembers. If you piss her off just roll over right away and get it over with before things get out of hand. She'll usually let you live with a glare and a snort.
Now, her concern over the gatling guns is justified: they jam if you look at them funny. The possessiveness over ammunition, explosives, Big Mary, the empty ammo cases (used to store all manner of things), her rifle, and her coat, on the other hand, is just pure territorial cussedness. Now other crew do own their own empty munitions cases and lockers and use them to store things and they all make damn sure to paint or hammer their names onto the cases before they ever bring them aboard ship. Also don't go into the munitions locker. Just don't. Ever. And ignore those rumors about the previous ship's cook.
Sin of Lust: Rumor has it that Maggie used to be married, but whether "Donahue is her married or her maiden name, what happened to her husband, or if the rumors are even true at all... nobody has any idea and Maggie ain't telling. Some of the cruder humor says that Magpie takes her rifle to bed with her... to which, when she catches it, she replies "that's stupid. I already blew off my face, why would I want to blow off my hoohoo?" Crude below-decks rumors respond (out of earshot) with the rumor that she already did and that's why she takes no lovers and no loves except guns and explosives. Either way, Maggie's the next thing to celibate.
Sin of Greed: see “Anger” up there. Maggie's greed manifests as possessiveness over her firearms, and see also “Pride.” It's not that she wants stuff. She really doesn't. She just wants what's hers.
Sin of Pride: Maggie has a cast-brass backbone and the mold was made of pride. Pride won't ever let her do anything less than her best, even when she suffers for it. Pride won't let her mess up the supplies, even if it means she wouldn't have to go with Darcy any more (ignoring the masochistic kind of enjoyment she gets out of Darcy). Pride wouldn't let her ask for help from anyone for anything in her first life, and so pride taught her to be self-reliant in a world were other people wiped your ass for you. Pride let her respect and even admire Darcy, a woman she dislikes intensely, because Darcy goes at it like a terrier, in a straight line, and never backs down. Pride wouldn't let her lie low behind a crate on the moonless night two gun-runners clashed: pride, and the fact that one of the bastards managed to loot Ruby from her when she was busy. Pride made her grab a busted shotgun from the crate of rusted-useless guns she hid behind, break it apart and force it back together with derringer parts and a blunderbuss lock and blow off the head of the man who held her pinned behind that crate, and pride (and rage) made her keep coming after it backfired in her face, grab the bitch who set her up, and beat her skull in with Ruby's steel-banded butt.
Yeah. Maggie's got pride.
Sin of Sloth: No more than anyone else: the real reason Maggie gets such a kick out of lounging on deck “sleeping” with her mask and goggles on is she gets a lot of free entertainment out of creeping out the newbies.
Sin of Gluttony: For someone so blame'd skinny Maggie eats a lot, and she likes to eat well. Her favorite foods are pigeon and rabbit cooked almost any way, spicy duck, quail, tea cakes, and scones. She doesn't like chicken, pork, or fish. Like most sailors chow is important to her: there's not all that much to do underway so food becomes the center of attention right quick. 'Course, get her distracted with maintaining the guns or making new rounds and she'll forget to eat for up to a day and a half. And ignore those rumors about the previous ship's cook. There never was any evidence of foul play, and the piece about half-exploded boots is just poppycock (and more likely to have been the Chief Engineer, anyway).
Virtue of Patience: Maggie's patient like the grave to the fullest extent of the expression.
Virtue of Charity: NOT HARDLY
Virtue of Fortitude: If “fortitude” is pulling four hours belowdecks in munitions, two on an upside-down clockwork Gatling gun on the outside of the hull and racing topside to man a mortar cannon for another two, then service all three ladies and the choir before getting to so much as wash her face, then yeah, Maggie has fortitude. If “fortitude” is taking a shotgun backfire to the face and a derringer shot to the shoulder and still yank your lady out of the hands of the unworthy to belt some bitch like the rifle's a Louisville slugger and you've hit a home run, then yes, Maggie has fortitude. If “fortitude” is having to go shopping with the shrew for three hours every damn time the ship hits port, then yeah, Maggie has fortitude. If “fortitude” is pretending to listen to someone who wants to pay you, or sitting for dinner with your mother-in-law, then no, Maggie has the fortitude of milktoast.
Virtue of Justice: Only coincidentally. Maggie doesn't believe in Justice, because Justice is blind. Justice couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a stick. Maggie believes in Revenge. The coincidentally part is that Maggie's so lazy, interpersonally, that most petty squabbles are not worth her time. What is worth the time to watch for the opportunity (being an opportunistic predator and all) are the big things in Maggie's world... big things by big people that have probably wronged somebody else, too. Maggie isn't blowing their brains out for them, hasn't shot anybody for anybody but Maggie in a long damn time, but, in a twisted, coincidental sort of way, she is.
And Justice is served cold, with a side of Revenge.
Insecurities:
Most Cherished Posession: her coat.
Most Cherished Memory: The first time she saw the gleam on Gallina's brass-plated barrels. It took her back to the first time she shot and hit what she aimed at, smelling her grandfather's cologne-gunpowder-and-cheroot and the teacakes after. Seeing that brass gleam gave her the same feeling. That is why not buying those Gatlings was not an option.
Most Reviled Memory: There's a bit of competition for the title but her most reviled memory is the night a gun blew up in her face. Too many things about that night still rankle with her, too many things went wrong that she should have seen even if she couldn't prevent them, and she pokes them, turning them over and over in a slow hateful rotisserie and, one by one, resolving them.
By getting even.
Would Rather Be Wearing: Knee-high boots, leather pants with reinforced knees, and, sometimes, a dogfighter's jacket. She just can't let go of her coat long enough to wear one, not even if it's just on her bunk as a blanket. Oh, and there was a delightfully wicked-looking set of sniper's goggles in a catalog. She'd like to try those out.
Past
What Are You in For? Very few people on the Persephone know how Maggie came to join them. The Captain knows, the First Mate knows, and roughly half the propellerists know, though only three of them were actually there for the event. The rumor is that when Captain bought Ophelia and Gallina they threw Maggie in for free, probably because the devil himself couldn't pry her away from those guns, cold dead or otherwise. Nobody really believes it, but nobody can come up with a better story and Maggie just smirks and eggs them on to greater and more ridiculous yarn-spinning heights.
The truth, ironically, is close to the spirit of the rumors: Maggie did come with the guns, just not the guns they thought of and not for those reasons. Captain bought a brace of cannons from a black-market dealer and the services of a technician to install them with the tandem airguns, and just happened to leave port without paying... and with the technician.
The technician not only didn't mind, it was her idea.
History: Maggie doesn't talk about her past. It's not a secret, and she doesn't care, but lighting fires under the false information is just too much fun to stop and answering honest questions is more work than it's worth. If somebody really wanted to know they could use what brains God gave 'em and do a little research. Nobody has, and to Maggie this just proves her unspoken point. (Pesterers are, naturally, shot before they ever build up momentum.) Every now and then she'll run into an old contact from her gun-runner days. These contacts are useful, especially since they stopped mentioning how pissed her “boss” was a long time ago; the grin they got in response did not bode well for anybody but Maggie. Her previous employer is toothless and she's a jackal and everyone knows it. The only thorn in her side from those days is the underground antiquities dealer, Mr. Damon Carver, who wants her eye for genuine antique firearms almost as much as he wants in her pants. The most irritating part about it is that the more dangerous those pants get the more he wants them. Hm.
For Magdalena Donahue's sordid beginnings, go here.
Anything Else?
Maggie is actually very, very fond of Captain Roberts, dementia and all. She loves the “dirty old bastard,” and the blacker a bastard he is the better she likes him. It's not hard to see, but it's also not something she talks about. He reminds her of a mix of her grandfather (who taught her to shoot) and her brother-in-law (who is old enough to be her grandfather anyway), of whom she was very fond. Her grandfather died long ago in a hunting accident and she has no contact with anybody not connected to the black market network of supplies that keep a pirate ship in the air and running- but every now and then Maggie will read the paper, turn to the financial section, and snicker.
She also loves food. Preoccupy her with her ladies and she'll eat hardtack and burnt seagull and barely notice, much less complain, but she kept her girlhood soft spot for tea cakes and scones, with clotted cream and jam, thank-you, and a good rich roast hare in gravy. Dear Magpie Maggie's favor and good behavior can be bought with a bakery box and almost nobody knows this. Pigeon done properly, preferably with lime, is her new favorite food, and damn near the whole crew knows that. Since half of them have been shot in her self-appointed defense of the galley they'd be hard-put not to.
Her hobby is hazing the new guy, and she pursues it with great creativity and joy.