[Character Sheet] Valkera

[Valkera]

Overview:
Name: Valkera Blackheart (Née Goldenthal)
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Age: 35
Culture: Thaian
Birth: unknown
Height: 1,72m
Personality: compassionate, arrogant, irritable
Profession: trader, councilwoman, (former runecarver, healer, fisher and thief)

Defining traits:
Feeble frame
This character was born delicate and is often sick and bruise easily.
Suspicious heathen
This character has a reputation for rejecting the divine truth.
Guttersnipe
This character grew up on the streets without a parent.

[Valkera]

The City of Liberty Bay, age 35.
Part 1
Absentmindedly playing with the quill between her fingers, Valkera Blackheart concentrated at the opulent table before her, where most of her fortunes had been calculated the past year. She made a mark and turned the page. The pattering of rain on windows had always put her mind at ease, a common enough occurrence she appreciated most about this city. That, and the sugary spirits Liberty Bay was so famous for.

Shadows danced on the walls, thrown by the candelabrum behind her, the silhouette of the stacks of ledger books detailing her trade; pike, pelts, and rum - the foundations of her hard-built trading house. A knock on her door broke her concentration.

“What the-” she muttered, irritation flashing in her dark eyes as she turned to rise from the grandiose chair. The Summerhaven trader was too early. Again. And if the night watch hasn’t finished their rounds yet and catches him outside her door, much could go awry, and she would have none of it.

“Enter!”

The palmwood door creaked open, revealing a novicium, Rhateus, his red cloak heavy from the night’s rain. He shifted uncomfortably under the glare of his host, who in the blink of an eye had gone through fear, relief, and landing on indignation. It hadn’t been who she expected, and she was not in the habit of receiving novicia at her trading house. Valkera drew her black robes around her like a bat to mask her discomfort.

“Well? Out with it,” she snapped, her tone sharp as a blade, “Don’t gawk like a troll.”

The novicium cleared his throat and produced a sealed scroll from his bag. “Miss Gold-,” he began, just remembering Valkera’s recent marriage into the noble family. “I, uh, mean to say. Blackheart. Yes. Lady Blackheart, I bring urgent news from Fibula.”

With an impatient sigh, she gestured for him to approach, immediately snatching the scroll from him to tear open the Rose wax-seal. Her eyes moved swiftly over the words, then again, slower. Her lips parted when it dawned on her.

In the name of our Lord, Banor the almighty, the Assembly decrees that Valkera of house Blackheart are appointed to the Council of Red Rose, effective immediately, to fill the seat and role of Magistra Noviciorum, vacated by Equoez Zoldan.

The name lingered bitterly on her mind. Equoez – the woman who had shaped the path of her life from the moment they met in the alleys of Thais. She had despised the bitch but was also indebted to her in a way that no amount of coin could repay. It was Equoez who had saved her from certain death, then used it as leverage to strong-arm her into misery and war. The nightmares haunted her to this day.

Valkera turned the scroll for an answer, only to realize that the novicium had to grant her this wish.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“She… is... gone,” he snivelled, his fear and worry a reminder that Equoez was his personal mentor. “Disappeared. Without a trace.”

For a moment, her usual arrogance faltered. Equoez had vanished, and Valkera named her successor. The letter provided no explanation, only a terse statement concerning her office, as if her existence could be snuffed out as easy as candlelight. No final shout in the winds as the knight used to say. It was a dizzying realization, and she struggled to catch her breath. Gone before anyone knew what had happened. It reminded her about the newsletter three months ago, the rotworm infestation on Fibula, and then, dark magic reemerging, powers as ancient as Tibia itself. It had all been planned from the beginning. Is there a connection here, she thought, and worse, is it linked to my appointment – a conspiracy? Surely not...

She had looked forward to a promotion for her hard work, but she had not expected it so soon. Valkera felt the weight of honour pressing down as heavy as the Calassan ocean. The thought of being positioned as a piece in somebody else’s game stung.

For all the conflict within her, it was clear the days of trade were over. No more secret meetings with Summerhaven traders, no more haggling with hunters and fishers over wolf pelts and pike. Regret washed over her. She would miss turning small goods into chests of gold, but temptation of a legacy that would outlast her was greater than coin.

Rhateus snivelled again, breaking the awkward silence of her inner thoughts. He had been shifting from foot to foot, waiting for her response.

“The guest room is upstairs, to the right,” she said, her voice steady from appreciating the gravity of the situation. “Rest, and tomorrow, you find us a ship to Thais.” The novicium nodded curtly and turned around. She observed the man’s relief of leaving her presence, and considering she had just inherited the responsibility of his mentorship, she made a mental note to fix that later.

The sudden paradigm-shift in her life made Valkera restless, and she strode back and forth lost in thought. A Council seat would grant her sway that reached beyond any market stall and harbour. Besides having influence, it was an opportunity to immortalize her name. She had marvelled at the propraetors’ portraits and re-lived their lives through Red Rose’s ancient records, and she had thought the prospect of becoming one of them an impossible ambition for someone of her birth and past. Now however, she had the chance at her own portrait, her own stories, something that would endure her feeble life.

Still, two questions tugged at her: Why name a successor before Equoez’ fate was established, and of all candidates, why her? It was too coincidental to be innocent. The circumstances of her promotion made her a target for manipulation, and Valkera could not shake the feeling that she might be next in somebody’s dark schemes. In her mind, she saw the blank canvas of her portrait dirty before she could paint it. She shuddered at the thought and collapsed in the chair.

No, if her predecessor had been removed in favour of using Valkera for their own ends, they didn’t know her. Unlike Equoez - that naive and gullible moron - Valkera hadn’t grown up in the safety of decent folk. She was used to having daggers and runes hidden in the folds of her robes, surviving the gutters and twisting alleyways of Thais. If there is a trap, she needs be prepared.

With determination sparking in her grey eyes, she reached for a fresh parchment and quill. There were letters to write, meetings to arrange, pacts to be made. The quill scratched Othelen’s name, forming the first of many letters. It would be sent with the next trade cog passing by Senja, where the old elf had retired. If there was a scheme in motion, she needed help disrupting it, and in doing so, ensuring that ‘Valkera Blackheart’ grows beyond a mere footnote in history.

Part 2
Distant moonlight flickered erratically through the window as large bamboo leaves thrashed in the wind outside, and the rain was now pouring in torrents. At some point after Rhateus had slipped beneath the cozy sheets of Lady Blackheart’s guest bed, the night’s rain had evolved into a full-blown storm.

Rhateus jolted awake, his heart pounding and breaths coming in quick and shallow gasps. He thought the Vanduran humidity made nights here a torment. He had been drifting in and out of the space where unformed dreams and reality is a hazy blur, but something had drawn his awareness. Only faintly did the sound of a conversation cut through the noise, and it came from below. Silently, Rhateus slipped out of bed and pulled on his tunic, then reached for the hatchet on the floor, careful not to stir the studded belt it was fastened to and went for the door. If something is amiss, he thought, the two-hander would be of little use in this house.

Wearing nothing but his briefs and tunic, he had crept hidden under the shadows to the top of the marble staircase. Looking down, light from the candelabrum cast shadows of an ominous man in the foyer of Lady Blackheart’s trading house.

“Well then, I suppose this is it,” the man said in a low, silky tone. “This could have been beneficial to us both. Given the stakes, I urge you to reconsider.” Rhateus thought he could hear something threatening underlining the final word.

After a short hesitation, Lady Blackheart responded carefully, her voice soothing. “There is always space for a little wiggle room in negotiations. Tell me, who are you representing?”

The man chortled. “Negotiations? Don’t be absurd!”

Rhateus frowned as an enormous lightning bolt from the storm flashed through the windows below, casting shadows along the staircase wall. He blinked, having registered the shapes of their silhouettes in delay: the robed woman in her chair, clearly at a disadvantage to the man who stood before her, a sword in hand, ready to strike.

Before contemplating the meaning, Rhateus’s instinct had already chosen to come to Lady Blackheart’s defence. With a tight grip of the staircase railing with his left hand, Rhateus took a deep breath and raised the hatchet with his right. Leaning over, he could clearly see the features of the man’s back underneath his robe, and then, let out a grunt as he hurled the hatchet in a downwards throw towards him, aiming between the shoulder blades. The man below had shifted slightly before the spinning hatchet struck his shoulder, staggering him, and he let out a grunt. Witless in the moment, Rhateus charged with all his might – armed with nothing but tunic and briefs – only to find the man dead at his feet. While he had run down the steps, a crossbow bolt had whistled across the room and slammed into the man’s neck, whose legs had buckled beneath him. His blood was now pooling on the beautifully treated flooring of Lady Blackheart’s foyer.

More than a little surprised, Rhateus gaze rose on Lady Blackheart, who sat comfortably in her grandiose chair with an amused expression on her face. She lowered the magically imbued crossbow that had finished what he had started.

“You couldn’t have delayed until I was done questioning him?”

The silence was awkward. Rhateus felt rather exposed standing before the newly appointed Councilwoman without trousers.

“Uhm,” was all he could say, and was just about to return upstairs to get dressed when the woman rose with a groan and walked with a slight limp towards him and the dead man.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” she muttered, looking surly again. She nudged the corpse with her boot. “Check what he’s got on him.”

“But,” he muttered, glancing down at himself, his cheeks turning red. This was unseemly, and he really wanted to get dressed.

“Later,” she growled impatiently and leaned a hand on the Venorean cabinet for support. She looked more than a little twisted in ache standing up, and Rhateus realized she must have sat at her table all night.

Rhateus kneeled by the dead man and rummaged through the man’s satchel while Lady Blackheart poked the sword away with the tip of her boot, then leaned down to inspect it.

“Curious.”

He eyed the sword fleetingly, then examined the man’s robe for hidden pockets. The craftmanship was beautiful he thought, not quite fit for a real fight however. “Curious? Curious how,” he asked.

“It’s a Carlin sword. Not something you’d find in Liberty Bay’s slums.”

As he patted the man down, something rustled inside his robe, and he reached in to discover a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he was uncertain what he was looking at, and turned it over, examining it from different angles.

“What is it?”

“Looks like a drawing of… a hand,” he replied, not recognizing the symbol and turned it over to Lady Blackheart’s outstretched fingers. She examined it very briefly before pocketing it. Her expression didn’t reveal if it meant anything to her either, but the glance they shared told him he better not ask.

She gestured towards the table cluttered with ledger books and parchments.

“Take the envelope,” she began with a weary sigh, “the one with Othelen’s name on it. Bring it to the Captain of the Iceicle’s Gamble.”

Rhateus walked over to the table and scanned for the envelope through the clutter. She must have been busy, he thought, it’s nearly buried with letters. After a moment, he found Othelen’s letter hidden beneath one addressed to Galion.

Lady Blackheart grabbed Rhateus’ wrist as he walked past her towards the staircase.

“Pay the Captain handsomely, and try to look intimidating, alright?”

The shock on his face must have been obvious, because the woman’s gaze hardened with iron determination.

“We have a missing Councilmember, presumed dead, and the culprits attempting to blackmail her successor,” Lady Blackheart growled. “I can count on your discretion, yes?”

A sudden pang of guilt hit Rhateus as he took the meaning. For a brief moment, he had almost forgotten that his mentor had disappeared without a trace. They had to find her. Alive.

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Disclaimer: the framework of this story was in parts built with aid of ChatGPT.

[Regin]

Love the storywriting!

[Faeryndil Sironoth]

Wow! What a master piece.
You have a true talent with words. The great amount of detail really takes it to the next level.
I'm looking forward to read the next chapters!