Heroes of the Lore Backstories

Renna

With the migration of the Elves from their Forest Kingdoms into the general population in centuries past, the Elves retained their reverence for the nobility of the Old Kingdom. The members of the Old Elven Court established their family homes in similar settings across the land - upon hills near forests, often overlooking flowing bodies of water. These settings were reminiscent of the Old Kingdom, and Elven nobility were more than willing to fork out the gold to secure their seats in the new lands.

Upon one such hill at the edge of the Human kingdom of Blacktower stood the ancestral home of the Bloodrose family. The old house once graced the Elven Court as the blade of the realm, first as legionnaires, and in peaceful times, as sworn protectors of the Elven royals. As time continued its slow march and the races found peace, the Elven monarchy was absorbed into the governance of the greater realm. Elven pride saw the old King holding on to his crown, working with the realm as an ally, instead of as a servant to the Kingdom. While most of the elves knew times of peace in recent days, discontent stragglers plotting for the old days of segregation sought to drive a dagger through their Elven liege’s heart in hopes for a resurgence of the Elven Kingdom.

It was with this pressing concern in mind that the Lord Arlo Bloodrose stood at the edge of his balcony, absently running his fingers along the stiletto blade in his hands. The dagger was a work of art. Its narrow blade was riddled with veins of dark ore running through polished metal of some sort. It was an old blade, one gifted to house Bloodrose for its servitude to the Elven Kingdom. Lord Arlo twisted the handle in his off-hand, admiring the workmanship of the carved stone handle. At the hilt of the blade sat a dark purple gem. Almost the colour of a finely aged wine, the Arlo stared into the dancing flecks of light trapped within the stone.

A cry from below broke his reverie, as Lord Bloodrose turned to face the messenger running up to the gate of the manor. A frown crept onto the Lord’s otherwise stoic visage as he recognized the human boy carrying a tightly rolled scroll in his left hand. Boric was a messenger from Well’s Mouth, a small trading town at the mouth of the God’s Trench. Words from the Trench often bring tidings of the last batch of unfortunate adventurers seeking to carve their name into the annals of history by exploring The Dungeon. It was four nights ago that the last hunting party left from Blacktower, with two among the party of eight having left from Bloodrose manor. The first was a stableboy, and the other was a cook - neither of whom had any business looking for The Dungeon to begin with. Lord Arlo looked beyond Boric, his keen eyes searching for any sign of the two elves.

There were none. With a sigh, the liege of house Bloodrose walked down the curving stairs to greet Boric.

“What news this time, boy?”

“My lord”, choked Boric through laboured panting. “No survivors, but I did find this. Twas right by a burned out campfire my lord, still warm and everything. I..don’t think they even made it to The Dungeon..”

Lord Arlo looked down at the blood stained half-helm in Boric’s hand. The helm was caved in from the back, and appear to be punctured from both sides.

“Four puncture marks, a caved in helm..the stableboy was something’s lunch”, he said to nobody in particular.

“Any bodies - not ours, from The Dungeon”, he cut the messenger off as the boy began to pipe up.

“No, my Lord. None besides our elves and two dwarves. The other four bodies were nowhere to be found, and it does not appear that the hunting party made any leeway with their attackers”.

Lord Bloodrose sighed inwardly this time. Too many elves lost to The Dungeon, all for naught. Old elven tales sang of the Vine Circlet, and ancient Elven Artifact lost to The Dungeon long before Lord Arlo came into this world. No doubt these questing elves sought to bring the artifact back to the King, as a gift for his favour. More worrying were the ones who sought the Circlet for their own, for while nobody could say for sure what the Circlet did, it certainly did enough to send thousands to their death in search for the Artifact.

The Lord of Bloodrose manor snapped his head up at the sound of..trumpets? A herald?

As he looked beyond the gate, he recognized the gold and green standard being marched towards the manor. A party of six elves marched up to the gates, led by a smirking elf adorned in green leather armour accented with gold. That snide fool was Prince Veron, third in line to the Elven throne after the King and his prince son. While Prince Veron lived a life of luxury, his ambition was not to be made light of. A keen military mind, Prince Veron was an excellent swordsman and an even better strategist. However, none of that explained why he was here on this day.

“The Flower of the Court!”, bellowed the Prince as he approached the increasingly uneasy lord of the manor.

Boric dipped into a bow so deep he almost struck his head on the paved ground beneath his feet. As the Prince walked past the messenger, his gaze fell upon the mangled half-helm.

“So you’ve heard. That’s the third hunting party this moon, gone, with not one adventurer returning home to their wives. What ever are we going to do about all these widows?” he sneered at Lord Arlo. The two had grown up together, learning the ways of blade and horse side by side. Arlo could never stand the Prince.

He remained quiet until the Prince spoke again.

“It’s time Arlo. The Circlet calls to us, I know its there. Lesser fools leave in caravans and return in body bags, but they are not us. They are not the Elven Prince, nor are they the Flower of the Court. I have gathered a party - two human knights, two dwarven warriors, I even have two wizard bird people with me, and..two elves.”

Lord Arlo looked up at the Prince confused.

“No - my Prince. It is suicide. The Elven Kingdom is at peace, I will not march to my death to secure an item that at best, will start a war”.

“Oh but you will. Your Prince commands it.”, said the Prince with a dangerous look in his eyes. The Lord looked back down to the dagger in his hand, his fingers twitching at the thought of what lay ahead. The Prince was not only stubborn, but often cruel when tides did not turn his way. Lord Bloodrose had his back against the wall, and this expedition was happening whether he wanted it to or not.

Looking back at his manor, the Lord thought of his family. His two children were barely grown, with the older daughter on the cusp of adulthood and his young son still a babe.

“Give me until sundown to gather my things”.

Arlo Bloodrose left the front door of Bloodrose manor with as much care as he could muster. He had left a note to his children and his lady wife, a goodbye would be too painful. He would come back to them, he vowed it. He had a long trek ahead of him, as the Prince’s hunting party was set to meet at the God’s Trench in two days.

Before Lord Arlo made it halfway down the path towards the gate, a nimble figure burst out of the Inkberry bushes lining the walkway and charged towards him. With barely a moment to react, the shape collided with the Lord, resting him neatly on his behind. With a fluid motion, the figure whipped back the dark cloak around her, and Lord Arlo found himself staring into the angry eyes of a beautiful elven face, her golden locks fluttering about despite the windless day.

“Rennala Bloodrose, you’ll be the death of me”, he sighed towards his daughter.

“You’re leaving, and you don’t have the decency to bid your family farewell?”, she glowered at him.

“The choice is not mine, my rosebud. What the Prince wants, he gets. I will come back to you, I promise”, Lord Arlo said as he made towards the gate.

The was the last time Rennala Bloodrose saw her Lord father.

Weeks passed without word, until Boric came barrelling down the gates of Bloodrose manor. In Lord Arlo’s absence, the manor was under the able care of her lady mother, who let the messenger in with hopes of good tidings. The messenger took a mere few steps before Rennala saw the battered circlet in the messenger’s hands. The gold headband bore a single, ruby crusted rose at its front. Not one of the eight hunters came home that day, neither alive nor dead.

Six long years had passed since then, and not a single day did the hope in Rennala’s breast dim that her father was still alive. Since her father’s departure on the forlorn quest, she had spent countless hours a day practicing the bladecraft that earned the Bloodrose house its name. She would travel to The Dungeon herself, and bring her father back. If he was alive, she would bring him back to his rightful seat in Bloodrose manor. And if he was dead, then she would see to it he was laid to rest in the Bloodrose burial ground, where his ancestors lay interred.

On this moonless night, Rennala let a smirk creep up to her lips. How ironic that she despised her father for leaving the way he did, yet found herself very much on the same journey the Lord Bloodstone set on all those years ago. Rennala took with her three items from the manor.

The first, was her sturdy dark cloak. Plain as it looked, the cloak was expertly woven to keep out the elements, while offering her dexterity in movement.

The second was the armour she wore. Rennala chose a leather relic from the armoury, devoid of any Bloodrose emblem. Her journey would be treacherous enough without being recognized as the scion of Bloodrose. Devoid of symbolism as it was, the grey and purple leather armour was nimble as it was sturdy, and would turn most piercing blades.

Finally, Rennala liberated a dagger from Lord Arlo’s study. The deep purple gem almost beckoned to Rennala as she held it in her hands. Allowing herself a brief respite to admire the expertly crafted weapon, she said a little prayer to the stars to guide her on her quest.

As Rennala walked down the pathway, she stopped to look at the Inkberry bushes lining the path. With a moment’s hesitation, she gathered a handful of the berries and pressed them into her hair, its dark juices staining the golden locks that were typical of the Bloodrose house. Best not to be recognized, she thought. She had heard whispers in the market districts, ill-intentioned rumours of Lord Arlo abandoning his post and fleeing at the idea of The Dungeon.

The Bloodrose is not a coward, she thought to herself.

Tilting her head up once more to the stars, Rennala uttered her vow.

“Hear me now, and heed my celestial challenge. I shall wear no crest, and bear no name, nor shall I walk the halls of my house until I bring either glory or my father back to these gates”.

Pressing more Inkberries to her now stained hair, she continued. “I forsake the Bloodrose name, and the gifts of my station. I forsake the golden hair passed down to me by my ancestors.”

Twirling the dagger in her dominant hand, Rennala looks forward, beyond the gate. “I move forth as Renna, the Blackthorn, and shall return only with my vow complete”.