MARCUS VALEBRIGHT - LEONARD'S FATHER - CAELYNN'S LOVER
| Relatives | Marcus Valebright (father) and Caelynn (mother) |
|---|---|
| Languages | English, Wolf, Elephant, Turtle |
| Aliases | Len |
| Marital Status | Single. She picks up a new project in every town she lives in |
| Place of Birth | High Elven Brighthorn Palace Gardens |
| Species | Half Elf- Half Human |
| Gender | Female |
| Height | 6 |
| Weight | 190 |
| Eye Color | Brown |
Half-Elf Bard/ Lore Urchin AI Highly realistic portrait of a goth bard.png
Overview[edit | edit source]
Len Valebright is a prominent half-elf bard known for her extraordinary musical abilities, gothic aesthetic, and complex interdimensional experiences. Born as Leonard to the scholar Marcus Valebright and the noble musician Caelynn Silverbrook, she was raised in an orphanage after her mother died in childbirth and her grief-stricken father made the difficult decision to hide her identity for her protection.
As soon as she could, she changed her name.
Len has gained recognition throughout the realms for her unique combination of traditional bardic magic, energy manipulation abilities, and tactical expertise that appears to derive from dreams of military service in alternate realities. She is particularly noted for her refusal to use violence as a first resort, her supernatural luck that counteracts her legendary clumsiness, and her absolute devotion to protecting rabbits.
Prologue[edit | edit source]
This is the story, of a girl, who was given a name that never belonged to her. It wasnt because her parents were cruel—please. Life doesn’t need cruelty; it has strategy.
She was given a name that didn’t fit because hiding her identity was the only way to keep her alive.
Sometimes love shows up as presence.
Sometimes love shows up as absence that scorches.
Sometimes the only way to protect your child is to disappear so completely that even the gods lose your scent.
Leonard grew up in a cage.
A quiet one, disguised as survival. Every orphan learns the same first lesson: no matter how the world frames it, loss feels personal. But cages do funny things.
Leave something trapped long enough and it learns its own strength. Push something into darkness long enough and it grows its own light.
This is the story, of how a girl, named Leonard, burned her way out of her past and renamed herself Len—not out of spite, but out of evolution.
Of how she realized the scar on her face wasn’t a flaw, but a warning label:
Break me at your own risk.
She learned that trust has teeth. That hope is a gamble. That love is never neat—it’s messy, dangerous, and sometimes it leaves a body behind. But here’s the truth she wasn’t supposed to find: Being left behind wasn’t about her not being enough.
It was about a love so fierce it had to erase itself to save her.
So if you’ve ever wondered if you were meant to be claimed…If you’ve ever stared at your own reflection and asked, “Why wasn’t I enough?” —this story is yours, too.
Because Leonard didn’t just survive.
She transformed.
She chose her name.
She chose her power.
She chose herself.
And grace?
Grace isn’t a gift.
Grace is the aftermath of pain you outgrew.
…Rest easy, Dad. I’m telling the story now.
PART ONE: THE ABANDONMENT[edit | edit source]
The storm hammered the Spire the way grief hits a chest — blunt, relentless, unapologetic. Rain smeared the stones until the whole structure looked like it was melting into the hillside. Every window rattled. Every hinge groaned. The night felt swollen with something heavy and approaching.
Sister Margot was alone in the vestry, folding altar cloths in the quiet, mechanical way she always did when she was afraid. The grain was low. The vegetables were spoiling. Winter was coming fast. The numbers didn’t lie. Children could starve under her watch.
That worry evaporated the moment the knock hit the door.
It wasn’t timid.
It wasn’t frantic.
It was a single, heavy strike — like someone forcing themselves to remain upright long enough to reach shelter.
Margot froze.
The second knock was softer, but it carried something the first did not:
finality.
She crossed the chapel slowly. The storm pressed at the walls like it wanted in. Candlelight shook in thin, frightened shadows. When she reached the door, she stood there longer than she meant to, breath unsteady, hand curled around the latch.
The third knock didn’t come.
Silence did — thick, weighted, waiting.
Margot opened the door.
A man stood there, or the shell of one. Rain poured off him in sheets. Mud streaked his boots. His shoulders sagged from exhaustion so profound it felt like a physical presence beside him. He was young — much too young to look that ruined.
In his arms, wrapped in an old wool cloak, was a baby, desperately holding onto a necklace.
A newborn.
Small, silent, unnervingly alert.
For a moment, neither adult moved.
The man simply stared at Margot with eyes that looked emptied out by grief he hadn’t had time to feel yet. Not fear. Not shock.
Surrender.
He held the child tighter, as if his arms were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
He didn’t step inside.
All that he requested was for her name to be Leonard, to keep her safe from the evils of her parents.
He only nodded once, a stiff, desperate gesture — not permission, not explanation — and extended the bundle toward her.
Margot didn’t reach for the child right away.
She looked at him.
Just looked.
At the soaked, trembling hands. At the bruise blooming along his jaw. At the way his mouth kept trying to form words and failing. Something terrible had happened, or was about to. It will be something he wasn’t built to carry.
And he was already breaking under it.
He managed a few words — quiet, cracked, barely carried over the storm:
“Please. I… can’t keep her safe.”
That was all.
No story.
No defense.
No promise to ever come back for her.
Just a father who could barely hold himself together and a child who had no idea her life had already begun with loss.
Margot stepped forward.
The baby was warm.
Too warm, like she’d been held close for hours by someone afraid to let her go.
The man’s hands lingered a second too long when Margot took the child. Not for reassurance — for goodbye.
He swallowed hard, wiped rain from his face with the back of a shaking hand, and looked at the infant one last time.
There was so much love in his expression it hurt to witness.
Not a dramatic love.
Not a storybook love.
A raw, exhausted, bone-deep love — the kind that forms in people who’ve already lost too much.
He didn’t say another word.
He stepped back into the storm, shoulders hunched, head bowed, the wind swallowing him almost immediately. He didn’t look back.
Margot stood in the doorway, stunned, the child heavy in her arms.
The storm didn’t ease.
The Spire didn’t soften.
The night didn’t offer explanations.
Just a newborn named Leonard with no past, and a father walking into darkness without knowing the mother of his child was dying — or already gone.
Margot held the baby closer.
And for the first time in years, she whispered a prayer not for the children in her care —
—but for the stranger who had just abandoned his daughter in her arms.
THE PARENTS OF LEONARD: MARCUS & CAELYNN[edit | edit source]
A History of Forbidden Love, Destiny, and the Kind of Trouble the Universe Never Plans For
MARCUS VALEBRIGHT: THE NOBLE WITH A FRACTURED HEART Marcus Valebright was born into privilege the same way some people are born into storms — surrounded by lightning, but never allowed to touch the rain. Everyone around him assumed he’d been blessed. Wealth. Land. A name with centuries of dust and expectation baked into it. But beneath the veneer, his childhood was a quiet battlefield of disappointment he wouldn’t understand until much later.
His father, Lord Matthias Valebright, was old money and older pride — the type of man whose spine could hold a sword without needing to sheath one. His mother, Lady Eleanor, was elegance sharpened into a blade. She collected accomplishments like porcelain dolls, and her children were just another shelf to arrange.
Marcus was the third son. And if you know anything about noble houses, that tells you everything.
The heir gets the empire.
The second-born gets the church or the sword.
The third? He gets “freedom,” which in noble-speak means:
You’re on your own, kid. Don’t embarrass us.
His eldest brother, Matthias the Younger, was bred for inheritance — a walking business deal in human form. His middle brother, Geoffrey, took vows at twenty and fled to the priesthood like it was the last lifeboat on a sinking ship. Their father called it “a tragic waste.” Everyone else called it “predictable.”
Marcus, meanwhile, floated between lessons and sword drills like a ghost in his own home.
He learned languages.
He learned logic.
He learned that his mother saw him as another project to polish and display.
He learned that his father saw him as an expense.
And privately, he learned the one thing nobody wanted him to:
Marcus asked why.
Why do nobles rule?
Why do peasants obey?
Why does tradition matter?
Why are lives shaped by old names and older grievances?
That kind of questioning, in a house like his, was a sin worse than blasphemy.
He should have become a soldier.
A diplomat.
A husband in a politically convenient marriage.
That’s what third sons do — they fill space. Quietly.
Instead, Marcus inhaled philosophy like oxygen. He snuck into lectures given by traveling scholars. He devoured books about justice systems, ancient governance, and the way societies collapse when built on hollow foundations.
All that thinking made him inconvenient.
Tall, strong, handsome — yes.
Suitable for marriage — absolutely.
But Marcus’s eyes were too awake. Too restless. Too alive.
He wasn’t looking at the world the way nobles were supposed to. He was looking through it, searching for something that didn’t exist in polite society.
His father called him “ungrateful.”
His mother called him “a dreamer.”
His tutors called him “intense.”
And Marcus… Marcus just called himself lost.
By his early thirties, he’d become a kind of walking contradiction:
A noble with no ambition for power.
A scholar with no institution.
A man built for swords but obsessed with systems.
He was fully prepared to live and die as the Valebright family’s disappointing enigma.
And then he saw her.
CAELYNN SILVERBROOK: THE PRIESTESS OF THE ANCIENT RITES[edit | edit source]
If Marcus was a man born without a path, Caelynn Silverbrook was a woman born with one chained to her wrist.
House Silverbrook was old — ancient by human standards — its roots sunk deep into the First Forest, its bloodline saturated with magic so old it had its own gravitational pull. Fey born into this house didn’t choose their purpose. Their purpose chose them.
Caelynn was marked for the priesthood before she could walk.
A Silverbrook daughter — brilliant, gifted, touched by the old magics — destined to serve the Ancient Powers. She would be a priestess, then a high priestess, then a living symbol of Fey tradition.
Her education wasn’t schooling. It was shaping.
She learned real magic — the dangerous kind that reshapes you from the inside.
She learned languages that predated human memory.
She learned the constellations and the spirits and how to walk between worlds.
She learned everything except how to be herself.
Because being herself was never part of the job.
High Priestesses belonged to the gods, not to themselves.
They didn’t marry.
They didn’t love.
They didn’t touch or get touched.
Intimacy was forbidden not because it was sinful — but because it made you human.
And a priestess couldn’t afford that.
At twenty, she took her vow: three days of ritual death and symbolic rebirth.
When she emerged, she was supposed to feel divine purpose humming in her bones.
Instead, she felt hollow.
Caged.
Perfectly sculpted on the outside and quietly cracking underneath.
Her beauty did not help.
Her Fey-gifted grace did not help.
Her luminous skin, silver-threaded and impossibly smooth, did not help.
Her voice, resonant and melodic like it remembered other worlds, did not help.
They made her untouchable.
Worshipped.
Alone.
She never complained.
Never faltered publicly.
Never revealed the fracture beneath the flawless priestess mask.
And then she attended a diplomatic celebration in the human capital — a peace ceremony full of pomp, boredom, and political theater she’d seen a thousand times.
That’s where she saw him.
A tall human noble — handsome, confused, restless in a way she recognized instantly.
Not performing.
Not pretending.
Just… present.
And painfully sincere.
When he approached her, he broke seventeen protocols.
When she answered him, she broke twenty-three.
For three hours, they spoke the language both of them had been starved for — truth.
She told him things no one else had earned the right to hear.
He told her things no one else had cared enough to ask.
When they parted, both of them knew what they’d just done.
Something dangerous.
Something irreversible.
Something forbidden.
Neither regretted it.
THE FORBIDDEN RELATIONSHIP: WHERE LOVE BROKE THE RULES AND THE RULES BROKE BACK[edit | edit source]
Their love became a rebellion written in stolen moments.
Marcus traveled “on business.”
Caelynn traveled “for diplomacy.”
Both were lying.
Both were damn good at it.
They wrote letters in coded metaphors.
They met in hidden gardens, behind temples, in forgotten forests.
They carved out a world where duty couldn’t find them.
Marcus rearranged his entire existence around the possibility of seeing her — something his family waved off as a temporary obsession.
Caelynn began slipping from ritual perfection.
Her fellow priestesses noticed.
Her family noticed.
And when the High Council realized the truth — it detonated like holy fire.
“You have broken your vow,” they told her.
Her entire life — the only life she’d been allowed to imagine — was suddenly a trial.
Confess.
Submit.
Return to purity.
Forget him.
Or…
Leave the priesthood.
Lose her title.
Lose her home.
Lose her people’s trust forever.
“And the human?” Caelynn asked.
“If you choose him, he will never again be permitted on Fey soil.”
The sentence wasn’t punishment.
It was exile for both of them.
Her duty demanded one answer.
Her heart demanded another.
Act II – The Child Called Leonard[edit | edit source]
Growing up, she’s recorded as Leonard, whispered about as odd, teased but never broken.
The other orphans call her Leo. The nuns call her stubborn.
But she listens for music everywhere — the drip of rain in the cloisters, the rhythm of bells, the songs of traveling minstrels.
Act III – Awakening the Bard[edit | edit source]
Her voice blooms early, powerful and haunting. When she sings, the others fall silent — even the strict sisters.
One day a visiting retainer hears her song. He flinches, recognizing a voice that echoes through the noble halls he serves. Word spreads: there may be more to Leonard than an orphan’s name.
Act IV – Claiming Her True Self[edit | edit source]
As she grows, she refuses to let her father’s cruelty define her.
She rechristens herself Lorelei, twisting the name forced upon her into something melodic, dangerous, unforgettable.
“Leonard” becomes a stage name she sometimes wields like a blade, unsettling nobles who know the truth.
But as Lorelei, she carries her own legend — not as a castoff, but as a voice too strong to cage.
Overview[edit | edit source]
Len Valebright is a prominent half-elf bard known for her extraordinary musical abilities, gothic aesthetic, and complex interdimensional experiences. Born as Leonard to the scholar Marcus Valebright and the noble musician Caelynn Silverbrook, she was raised in an orphanage after her mother died in childbirth and her grief-stricken father made the difficult decision to hide her identity for her protection.
As soon as she could, she changed her name.
Len has gained recognition throughout the realms for her unique combination of traditional bardic magic, energy manipulation abilities, and tactical expertise that appears to derive from dreams of military service in alternate realities. She is particularly noted for her refusal to use violence as a first resort, her supernatural luck that counteracts her legendary clumsiness, and her absolute devotion to protecting rabbits.
Physical Appearance[edit | edit source]
Leonard, or Len, commands attention through her imposing 6-foot stature and striking appearance. Her rich, warm brown skin with distinct red undertones creates an almost ethereal quality, particularly in firelight. Her deep black hair is long, straight, and wavy, showing a nice flow and frame against her face elegantly while remaining practical for her adventuring lifestyle.
Her most distinctive feature is her deeply expressive brown eyes, which possess an almost supernatural quality of connection. Observers frequently describe feeling as though she can see directly into their soul—not invasively, but with profound understanding and empathy. Her facial structure shows her mixed heritage through high cheekbones and a gentle square jaw that provides strength while maintaining feminine grace.
A prominent scar cuts through her right eyebrow and extends to her forehead and cheek—a stark reminder of a near-fatal fall during early adventures that she was remarkably fortunate to survive.
Style & Clothing[edit | edit source]
Len favors a gothic aesthetic with flowing fabrics in midnight blacks, blood crimsons, and deep purples. Her clothing features intricate silver embroidery depicting thorned roses, skeletal hands, and musical notes arranged in graveyard-spiral patterns. Her signature black velvet cloak, lined with purple silk and fastened with a raven-shaped silver clasp, billows dramatically behind her like dark wings.
Her beloved lute serves as both instrument and gothic statement piece, adorned with an extensive collection of charms including tiny silver skulls, obsidian roses, miniature coffins, crescent moon pendants, and mourning bells that create a haunting musical announcement of her presence.
Personality[edit | edit source]
Core Traits[edit | edit source]
Len possesses a complex, romantic personality that finds beauty in decay, hope in darkness, and meaning in suffering. She approaches the world with melancholy wisdom gained from intimate familiarity with loss, abandonment, and mortality, yet maintains an underlying optimism about the possibility for redemption and growth.
Her charismatic nature stems from her ability to acknowledge life's darkness while finding reasons to continue fighting. She believes deeply in transforming pain into beauty, isolation into connection, and despair into bittersweet hope through music, stories, and genuine human connection.
Distinctive Characteristics[edit | edit source]
- Supernatural Clumsiness: Legendary ability to trip, stumble, or accidentally activate magical items at precisely the wrong moments
- Miraculous Luck: Accidents invariably work in her favor, creating advantageous outcomes from potentially disastrous situations
- Grateful Disposition: Maintains daily practices acknowledging her fortune and never takes her survival for granted
- Bunny Obsession: Absolute devotion to protecting and helping rabbits, will abandon tactical plans to assist them
- Adventure Enthusiasm: Insatiable appetite for grand quests and new challenges
Combat Psychology[edit | edit source]
When confronted with injustice or threats to innocents, her usual melancholy transforms into focused determination. She prefers non-violent solutions but possesses a cold, tactical mindset that draws from mysterious military memories. Perhaps from a distant past? Her combat style blends classical techniques with modern strategic thinking, creating unpredictable and effective approaches.
The eMarine Dreams[edit | edit source]
Len experiences vivid, recurring dreams of serving as an eMarine in steampunk warfare scenarios. These visions are so detailed and realistic that she often awakens confused about which life is real. The dreams provide tactical knowledge, combat instincts, and psychological insights that enhance her effectiveness as an adventurer while creating ongoing questions about the nature of identity and reality.
History[edit | edit source]
Act I – The Abandonment[edit | edit source]
Languages[edit | edit source]
Elvish, Necromancer, poor mans English
Powers and Abilities[edit | edit source]
I like keeping my moves spicy! People automatically think I will take a back stance in a fight, they'd better think again! I also like keeping myself on my toes. Thunderstrike, Faerie Fire, Mythic Hand, Bane, Dissonant whispers. I also have scrolls now!
Attacks and Weapons [edit | edit source]
Rapier and Dagger: they are the only ones she chooses to continuously use.
