In the Service of Death
|Height: 5’1”||Exp:||Magic Points: 1||Fate Points: 2|
|Class: Acedemic||Career: Wizard’s Apprentice|
- Excellent Vision
- Arcane lang. – Magick
- Channeling (2nd ed.)
- Cast Spells – Petty Magic Arcane
- Secret Language – Classical
- Drive Cart
- 3 small darts
She was the only child, the last in a short line of goldsmiths. For two generations, her family was known for their finely crafted items as well as their stubbornness. Their work was quickly popular with the upper class and “merchants who were making good.” The nobility respected their work, but as the family refused to encrust the purity of their golden art with gems, they were rarely ever deemed “worthy.” As far as the family knows, Royalty has never laid an eye on their work, and as humble people who love their craft, they were very happy to be free to create what pleased them.
She began to learn the family business of smithing gold, but it was apparent very quickly that her heart did not lie in the crafting of gold. Her lack of love showed clearly in every item she attempted to create, and since they loved their daughter more than they loved creating, she was released from the forge and was allowed to roam the forest.
The forest was her sanctuary. She loved the city and the people, but there was something about the peace of the forest that always drew her. She learned to hunt with a bow and arrow, and was learning the ways of the animals and the names of the plants. She was only 14 when the fire came.
She could see the smoke from the top of the tree she was loafing in. Horrified, she ran to her family’s home and the screaming in her ears became louder. Her father was in the window, carrying the limp figure of her mother, when the roof collapsed.
She thought the movement from the newly made rubble was her father. She charged into the smoldering mess, only to see it was too late. It was too late to save her parents, and it was too late to stop the figure running away from what once was the back of her beloved house.
She had to try. She notched her arrow and let it fly. It missed.
The guards tried to track him. He was quick and slippery. They caught him only long enough to recognize him before he seemed to vanish into thin air with his spoils.
The only thing left of her parents was a small twisted mass of gold, bearing the marking of her family. It was a ring, once. She laced a cord through it and wore it close to her heart.
It took her five years to track him down. She demanded the return of her family’s treasure, only to have him cruelly laugh and say he sold the lot of it years ago, and spitefully wished her luck in finding it. The arrow that missed him five years before pierced his heart, and his life ended before his laughter did.
If only she had been happy in the forge. If only she hadn’t been in the forest that day. If only her arrow hadn’t missed it’s mark the first time.
She became fiercely over-protective of those she cared for, and they helped her the best they could on her hopeless task of finding the rings, bracelets and small figurines that were carried away in a sack on that tragic day. They knew that the pieces were scattered like the wind, or worse – melted down and forged anew.
Her quest became her obsession. She was validated when she found a merchant who had a “unique miniature statue of a golden dog” that bore her family’s mark. She purchased the figure with the few coins in her purse, and her hunt intensified.
Her finds were few and far between. She was often frustrated, and found her senses tuned to the sound of gold, the glint of gold in the sunlight, the pale shimmer of gold in the moonlight. If she closed her eyes, she would swear that she could taste the gold in the air. Obsession became too weak of a word. She was possessed.
She found a bracelet. It was on the arm of a well-dressed woman who refused to part with it. In her desperation to bring her family back to her in the only way she knew how, she threatened the woman by knife point and took the golden circle by force. She fled with the bracelet into some nearby woods, horrified with the realization of what she had become. She ran though the woods, deeper into the forest and out the other side. She skirted past the next town as quickly as she could, her shame would not allow her to face another. In one day and one night, she ran back to her home, a journey that would have otherwise taken her four days.
She was found laying neatly between the graves of her parents, the stink of the poisonous herbs still fresh on her lips. Resting, at last.
Janeton Crecy. A wizard’s apprentice in Heimdaal.
She traveled as part of a caravan from Gisoreux and was ambushed in the mountains. She escaped and made her way to Heimdaal.