Heroes of the Lore Backstories

Crop

The hallmark of a great society and kingdom was the adequate separation of duties among its inhabitants. No different was the case in the Greater Kingdom, where entire families and their descendants dedicated their lives to being the provider of food to the Kingdom. One such group of people lived within the Flatlander Farmlands, a gargantuan patch of level land situated on the Easternmost ribs of the continent.

The Flatlander Farmlands were a geographical miracle, almost as if the Continent itself was hellbent on providing the best possible conditions for farming. Largely encapsulated by the landmark Salamander River, the Farmlands were well-watered all year round. The river snaked from the top of the continent and carved its way across the lands, connecting the Farmlands to the populated Human and Elven cities. The Salamander also served as an effective trade route, with the farmers loading their harvests onto dinghies to be transported to mills and grain warehouses across the Kingdom. Beyond the Salamander, the Giant’s Tooth mountain range shielded the Farmlands from the harshest of winter winds, enabling at least a modest harvest during the harsh seasons.

At the northern edge of the Farmlands stood the Crowley Farm, a medium sized, wheat-centric farm close to the Salamander Delta, where the river meets the Blue Sea. Durham Crowley was an honest man and a harder worker. His skin was a deep bronze and leathery to the touch, belying a tough life of work on the farm. Durham rose with the sun and tended his fields until the sun slipped beyond the Giant’s Tooth, a sign for him to tend to his other crop - the Crowley family. The farmer’s wife Marla was a portly woman, whose warm friendly face hid a shrewd business mind. Marla herself was a businesswoman, selling freshly baked bread and pastries to the other farmers in the Farmlands. Her crowning glory was catering her signature pastries, the Jelly Triangle, for the crowning of the Elven Prince Veron. The Prince had disappeared some moons ago, perished in some unnamed land on his silly Dungeon Quest, no doubt.

As Durham Crowley gazed upon his wheat fields in the orange glow of the sunset, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment; a luxury royals could not buy for all the gold in their coffers.

“Father! They are here!”

The voice of his oldest daughter, Jayne Crowley, cut through his silent reverie. Durham straightened his back, and with the sigh of hours of hard work, turned heel towards the demure figure on the horizon. Of all his meager achievements, Durham’s crowning joy was his daughter Jayne. Well read beyond anything expected of a farmer’s daughter, Jayne was also pleasant on the eyes. Auburn locks framed her gentle face, and her large brown eyes were flecked with the gold of a hundred sunrises. Durham was old and tired, but he knew the Crowley farm and his legacy would be safe with Jayne at the helm.

As the two turned the corner towards the Crowley home, the humble hut was buzzing with a small crowd. Men in burnished plate armour stood at the front door, and something had Marle agitated. The armour bore the emblem of the Human Lord Blacktower, ruler of the Kingdom of Blacktower. Durham jogged up to his wife and placed a reassuring arm on her shoulder, instantly relaxing the portly woman.

“Sir Holden, to what do we owe the pleasure? Come to pick up a fresh batch of Marla’s Jelly Triangles have we?”, he asked the head guard, nervously eyeing the 12 men that had come to his home this evening. One thing Durham knew in his gut - they weren’t here for Jelly Triangles.

“We’re not here for pastries, Crowley. Well, we wouldn’t say no either”, Sir Holden shot an expectant glance to Marla. With a nod and a mumble, Marla Crowley disappeared into the home.

“Lord Blacktower is hosting the Elven King in three weeks, and the Kingdom of Blacktower is in need of your services. We’ll call it a tribute of sorts”, Sir Holden continued with a smirk. “We’ll take the whole lot, the wagons will be here at dawn”.

“Sir, you can not mean to take our entire harvest. Crowley farms is beholden to the Flatlander Farmlands, we owe them at 10% tithe. And what of the merchants that have already placed orders for wheat? We run a business, this will tarnish our reputation. No Sir, we can do a quarter of our stores, Lord Blackwater may pay us within the moon, as per our usual arrangement”, Durham rebutted urgently.

Sir Holden took a menacing step towards the farmer, towering over the older man. His other men moved in closer, surrounding the nervous farmer in front of his own home.

“Thing is Durham, Lord Blackwater isn’t asking. Give us the grain, and Lord Blackwater will remember your contribution. This feast is important, hosting the Elf King is more important than your merchant’s feelings”, he said with a scoff.

“Give us the grain, and we’ll be on our merry way.”

As the loaded wagons left Crowley Farm the next morning, Jayne felt a fire in her heart. The sight of her forlorn father haunted her, and the feeling of powerlessness gnawed a hole in her heart. We bend because we are too weak to stand tall, she thought to herself. Jayne averted her gaze to the dim oil lamp in the corner of her room, and focussed her thoughts. The flame flickered and glowed brighter, illuminating the room as though it had been fed. Beads of sweat began to appear on Jayne’s forehead, and as her concentration broke, so did the bright flame falter. She knew she had an affinity to magics, but Jayne Crowley was not going to become a mage in his house. Not as Jayne Crowley, the farmer’s daughter.

She was a young woman now, 16 years of age and the desire of many other farmer’s children within the Flatland Farmlands. But this simply wasn’t her destiny, it couldn’t be.

And so, Jayne Crowley made up her mind that morning. When Durham resigned himself to the fate of the small man and finally went to bed, the young woman packed her few belongings and crept out of the farm. She would head to the mage stronghold, the Lightning Spire, and plead for admission. While her control over magic left much to be desired, Jayne knew of the power that grew in her breast, and she knew that she would do what it takes to nurture that power. Never shall the Farmlands be subject to the whims of fancy lords in their gilded towers again.

As she took her first steps toward her new destination, Jayne gazed upon the freshly planted crops that spanned as far as the eye could see. The fresh seedlings were barely poking out of the tilled soil, reaching towards the sun for nourishment. She too was like a seedling, she mused.

“The Spire shall be my farmer, and soon I too will stand tall and serve my purpose”.

And so Jayne Crowley took upon herself the name Crop, a symbol of the home she abandoned in order to protect. It would be a while before she could defend herself, much less the people she cared about, and bearing the Crowley name would only spell peril for the farm.

After a moon of arduous travel, the human maiden Crop stood at the large stone doors of the Lightning Spire. For days she waited at the foot of the Spire, which never opened despite her numerous knocks. Crop, as Jayne decided she would be known on her journey, was at the brink of frustration.

“Let me in you pointy hat bastards!”, she screamed at the deaf stone.

“Let - me - IN!”, she bellowed in a voice much too powerful for her small stature. With the ending of the sentence, a blinding flash of lightning preceded a deafening crack overhead. With a shower of sparks, a single finger of lightning struck the door of the Lightning Spire, which began to groan as it swung inwards.

“Gotcha”, said the usually demure Crop, with a grin foretelling the true beginning of the human mage.