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 |
| Hometown | Greenbrook Foundling Spire |
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.
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 CHILD CALLED LEONARD[edit | edit source]
The Years of Silence
By the time Leonard reached seven years of age, the drama of her arrival had dissolved into the sediment of the Spire’s long and indifferent memory. Foundlings came with storms. Foundlings came with silence. Foundlings arrived on cold mornings wrapped in blankets, or carried by trembling parents, or left anonymously at the gate. There were stories among the older children that some were delivered by spirits or by wolves or by the wind, but the adults always dismissed these tales.
Children were brought. Children were kept. Children vanished into the routine.
Leonard became one more among forty.
If anything distinguished her in those early years, it was not beauty—she was plain in the way children are plain before adulthood writes meaning on their features—nor stature, for she was small and narrow-boned. What set her apart was a peculiar stillness, a way of looking at the world with the patience of someone already familiar with disappointment. Sister Catherine had noted it when Leonard was scarcely a week old: an intensity of observation unsettling in an infant.
“She watches everything,” the sister murmured once, though to whom she spoke remained unclear. “As if she’s waiting for someone to return.”
But in a place like the Spire, such remarks washed away. Children were often watchful. Children waited for parents who never came back. Children learned stillness out of necessity.
The Spire itself seemed to encourage such traits.
It was a place built for silence.
The Architecture of Discipline[edit | edit source]
Greenbrook Foundling Spire was not a single building so much as a constellation of gray stone wings arranged around a central tower—six stories of ancient masonry spiraling upward like a finger pointing toward a heaven that never answered. Time had worn it down, and moss grew in the mortar lines like soft rot, but the Spire stood with a stubbornness that felt almost intentional.
The children believed it could feel them.
The walls creaked when someone lied.
The floor settled when someone prayed.
Wind moaned through the spiral stairwell whenever a child wished for freedom.
No adult encouraged these beliefs, but none successfully dispelled them either.
Inside, spaces were built for utility rather than comfort. The dormitory for younger children stretched long as a ship’s hull, with a vaulted ceiling that trapped cold air high above and left drafts to nip at small ankles. The narrow windows allowed thin slivers of light to pierce the gloom, never enough to warm the stone.
Forty identical beds.
Forty identical blankets.
Forty identical pillow-suggestions.
Each bed had a wooden box at its foot. The contents of these boxes said everything about who a child was becoming. Children with no belongings learned quickly to seem as though they preferred it that way.
Leonard’s box was nearly empty.
A spare tunic too large for her.
A chipped wooden cross.
A small stone she had found in the courtyard—smooth, oval, with a faint seam of silver running through it.
The nuns believed she kept it simply because children kept useless things.
Leonard kept it because it hummed.
Not audibly.
Not visibly.
But in her hand, it warmed when she was afraid and cooled when she was angry. Once, when another child tried to steal it, the stone grew so cold the boy dropped it with a yelp.
Leonard said nothing.
The stone said nothing.
But from that day forward, no one touched her belongings again.
Leonard’s wooden box was nearly empty.
A spare tunic too large for her.
A chipped wooden cross.
The small stone. And beneath those, wrapped in linen so old it felt like tissue, lay a necklace.
She did not know it was her mother’s.
It was simple—too simple to be valuable—a silver chain holding a teardrop-shaped shard of glass or crystal, cloudy at the center with faint threads of color, like milk stirred into tea. The nuns assumed it was a trinket, the sort of sentimental clutter parents sometimes left behind in pity.
But Leonard could feel warmth from it on certain nights.
When the Spire was coldest.
When she felt loneliest.
When she dreamed of a name she had never spoken aloud.
Sometimes she woke to find the pendant on her pillow instead of in its wrappings, lying there as though someone had placed it gently beside her cheek.
Sera joked that the necklace liked her.
Leonard didn’t argue.
She simply kept it hidden.
Some things felt safer kept close and silent, like secrets the world was not meant to interpret.
The Season of Cold[edit | edit source]
Winter rewrote the rules of survival at the Spire.
The heating system, which the nuns spoke of as though it were a living animal prone to sulking, rarely worked past dusk. The stone walls drank warmth greedily. Children learned to sleep in groups despite strict orders forbidding shared beds.
“Discipline builds character,” Sister Agnes insisted.
But even Sister Agnes checked the beds at dawn with an anxious expression, counting heads as though fearing to find one still and pale.
Leonard’s small size made winter particularly brutal. Her fingers went numb easily; her lips turned blue faster than others. And though she tolerated pain with the stoicism of someone whose first week alive had included loss, she hid nothing from Sera.
Sera was her opposite in nearly every way—warm where Leonard was quiet, expressive where Leonard watched. Sera talked constantly. She talked herself awake, talked herself to sleep, talked during chores, lessons, and punishments.
In winter, Sera talked Leonard into sharing a bed.
“You’re freezing,” Sera whispered one night, throwing her blanket over Leonard without waiting for permission. “If you turn into an ice sculpture, I will be furious.”
Leonard didn’t speak.
She rarely did at night.
But something in her chest loosened—like a knot untangling itself without being pulled.
Sera radiated heat like a small sun.
And magic—quiet, non-human awareness—coiled under Leonard’s skin, warming in response.
If Sera noticed, she pretended not to.
For Leonard, warmth became the closest thing to affection she understood.
The Art of Invisibility[edit | edit source]
Children who thrived at the Spire did so by mastering invisibility. Some chose loudness instead—Sera, for instance, believed volume counted as identity—but even she learned when to retreat into silence during inspections or prayer.
Leonard didn’t retreat.
She simply faded.
There were rules to invisibility:
Do your chores without being reminded.
Answer questions correctly but without enthusiasm.
Cry quietly.
Laugh never.
Be helpful but not memorable.
Be obedient but not loved.
Leonard excelled at all of it.
Yet even in invisibility, she gathered observations the way other children hoarded crumbs. She learned which floorboards groaned before a nun approached. She learned how long Sister Margot paused at each doorway during nightly rounds. She learned that Brother Thomas hummed under his breath when copying manuscripts—a tune older than the chapel itself.
She learned the courtyard walls had hairline cracks shaped like constellations that didn’t exist in the human sky.
She timed the bells.
She memorized footsteps.
She mapped shadows.
If asked how she acquired these skills, Leonard wouldn’t have been able to explain that for her, watching felt safer than speaking. Her silence was less obedience than instinct.
Instinct born of something older than the Spire.
The Stone Bench Questions[edit | edit source]
Afternoon study sessions took place in the courtyard whenever the weather allowed. The children were told the fresh air helped them learn, though the courtyard was more stone than air.
On one such afternoon, Leonard and Sera sat on a bench copying scripture.
Sera’s quill scratched enthusiastically.
Leonard’s moved with quiet precision.
“Leo,” Sera said suddenly, “why do they call you Leonard?”
Leonard paused mid-letter. The question pricked her mind in an uncomfortable way. Small. Sharp. Familiar.
“It’s my name,” she said.
“But it’s a boy name.” Sera’s voice rose slightly in scandal. “A very serious boy name. Not even a nice boy name. Leonard sounds like a grandfather who smells like books.”
Leonard blinked.
Sera continued.
“It’s not a girl name at all. Why didn’t they call you Catherine or Anna or Elspeth or something soft?”
Leonard resumed copying.
“I don’t know.”
This was true in the way children’s truths often are: incomplete but sincere. She had been told once, vaguely, that names were sometimes assigned randomly. But Sister Margot hadn’t looked random the day she chose Leonard’s name. She had looked tired. And sad.
Sera, unconvinced, huffed.
“Well, Marcus calls you Leo.”
Leonard’s quill paused again.
Marcus.
He was the oldest boy in their study group—a child of eleven, almost twelve, with an arrogance earned not by talent but by the confidence adults bestowed upon boys who seemed destined to be tall. He was quick on his feet, sharper with his insults, and fiercely competitive.
But when he spoke to Leonard, something softened.
Not kindness.
Not tenderness.
Recognition.
As if he sensed a secret in her.
As if he felt truth around her like static.
“Leo is better,” Sera insisted. “It suits you. It sounds like someone who’ll run away someday and join a traveling troupe. Or become a scholar. Or grow wings.”
Leonard did not mention the dreams—night after night—of standing on a cliff with wind humming beneath her feet like a promise.
Her voice barely broke the air:
“Leo is fine.”
But fine was not honest.
Leonard disliked the name Leonard.
She disliked its awkward heaviness, its dull consonants, its foreignness in her own mouth. But she also sensed that the name had been chosen not to fit her, but to hide her. A disguise offered willingly by someone who needed her to be overlooked.
She didn’t yet know she was right.
The Stone That Hummed[edit | edit source]
One evening, while children scrubbed floors under Sister Agnes’s stern watch, When Sister Agnes seized Leonard’s stone and threw it away, Leonard did not cry. She rarely cried.
But that night, as the dormitory fell into its usual chorus of whimpers, yawns, and shifting blankets, the necklace around her neck warmed—so faintly she thought she imagined it.
Leonard lifted the pendant.
It pulsed once.
A tiny warmth, like a heartbeat she wasn’t sure had come from her fingers or the crystal itself.
The next morning, her stone had returned.
Placed neatly beside the necklace in her wooden box, as though they had been introduced.
Sera swore Leonard’s belongings were “moving around like they’re alive.”
Leonard didn’t correct her.
Because the necklace was warm again.
And the stone hummed softly beside it, like two notes of a chord she did not yet know how to play.
A Name That Didn’t Fit[edit | edit source]
A name is a container for identity, but Leonard’s had always felt like someone else’s box. She wore it the way she wore the Spire’s heavy garments—necessary for survival but not made for her.
Sometimes, when Sister Catherine called her name during morning roll, Leonard felt a strange dislocation, as though she were answering for a different child entirely.
At night, as the wind curled through the cracks of the dormitory, Leonard sometimes whispered a different name into her thin pillow. A soft name. A shape her mind offered without memory:
Lyralei.
She didn’t know what it meant.
She didn’t know where she had heard it. But every time she whispered it, the stone hummed.
And for the briefest moment, she felt like the world answered back.
The Invisible Years[edit | edit source]
Seven-year-olds rarely understand the significance of their own existence. Leonard certainly didn’t. She did not know she was being looked for. She did not know the world beyond the Spire had begun, quietly and steadily, to shift in her direction.
She did not know faint magic lingered around her like dust motes floating in still air. She did not know her presence softened arguments between nuns, made sick children sleep easier, or caused candles to burn longer when she sat near them.
She did not know she was the reason the bells sometimes chimed off-beat, as though confused by her heartbeat.
She did not know that the boy who called her “Leo” would one day recognize her face in a far different world and whisper her name with reverence—
Not Leonard.
Not Len.
The name she had not yet learned to claim.
Everything remained just stable enough to seem permanent.
The Spire held.
The routines held.
Leonard floated through days with quiet competence. Sera’s chatter anchored her.
Marcus’s occasional glances puzzled her. Her stone hummed, and she kept its secret.
Life felt suspended—thin, fragile, but intact.
Had she been older, she might have recognized the sensation of standing in the breath before something shatters. But children don’t see foreshadowing. They only feel restlessness in their bones.
Leonard felt it constantly.
Something was waiting.
Something was coming.
Something familiar.
But the Spire had taught her patience.
It had taught her silence.
It had taught her to tuck her strangeness into the deepest corners of her chest.
And so she waited.
A child named Leonard.
A child called Leo.
A child who whispered Lyralei into her pillow.
Unremarkable.
Invisible.
Magical in ways she didn’t yet understand.
The world beyond the Spire would come for her soon enough.
But for now, she was seven.
And silence still held.
THE FORBIDDEN RELATIONSHIP: WHERE LOVE BROKE THE RULES AND THE RULES BROKE BACK[edit | edit source]
The couple's 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.
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.
Lute
Flute
Drum
