Black Rose

Known throughout southern Falkaar and Haradel, Erolis, the Black Rose of The Arlian, is a Bandit leader of renown. Daughter of a serving girl and a Highwayman, she remembers her father being hunted and killed by a Falkaaran nobleman.
Burning with a desire for revenge against all nobility, she asked her stepfather, a retired Falkaaran Pikeman, to teach her Weapons and leadership skills. The beauty inherited from her mother is marred by the patch covering her right eye, a souvenir of her becoming a bandit queen.
Erolis has a core group of thieves that are always traveling. They defeat lesser bandits and replace their leaders with one of her people, spreading a web throughout central Isarshael. Veteran of a hundred schemes and adventures, the Black Rose’s mind is as sharp as her longsword. Men have underestimated her to their own downfall.
https://www.dgsgames.com/black-rose-1/

Used By

• Black Rose Bandits - Freeband
• The Black Rose Bandits

Laughter and raucous cheers exploded in the common room, punctuated by mugs and fists banging on well-worn tables. The bard’s bow swept low, equal to what he would give a lord. Coins bounced into the large wooden bowl the keeper had provided at his feet. Three ribald and randy songs in a row had winded him, making a fresh mug of ale a welcome reward. He settled back into the tavern’s corner surveying the room as staff circled with more rounds. The patrons were mostly workers from the local mill and lumber yard, common men. They loved the colorful songs, but profit would be slim tonight. What looked to be two Ailean priestesses, alone in the far corner. Without escort? If they could have afforded guards they could have afforded more effort on his part. Best to focus on the men. The break of refreshment allowed him to think of his next move. These men toiled all day and for country folk the hour grew late, a story would allow him to recover and the crowd seemed ready to sit back and relax.
“What tale you would like to hear?” he called out, sparking much discussion between tables. “Mighty Heroes? Dangerous Quests? Lost Loves?”
“Do you know any tales of the Black Rose of the Arlian?” a young man’s voice called out near the back.
The bard took another swig, leaning back in his chair. “Aye, I know many tales of the most dangerous woman in Falkaar. She will steal everything but your small clothes and leave you begging for just one of her smiles. How many of you know anything about her before she came to be the Bandit Queen?” The bard paused, looking around the room, seeing he had their attention. Nodding, he eased back and began his tale.
***
It all began in a tavern - much like this one. The owner had a daughter. From the moment she could toddle on two feet she worked the inn every day at her father’s side. She glowed with an inner fire that matched her growing beauty. Tales of her charm brought men throughout the Barony to drink her father’s ale as she pranced between tables, serving food and drink while bringing cheer to her entire village. In spite of her unchallenged beauty, the men of the village looked on her as a little sister, having seen her grow up in the tavern they visited every day, and she viewed them all as her brothers. Indeed the town was one big happy family. Unfortunately their happiness would not last.
One night near closing, a tall, brooding man entered the tavern. He swept a long leather traveler’s coat off of his broad shoulders and hung it to dry. He turned to the bar and his dark eyes and easy smile seized our heroine’s attention. Those in the tavern that night knew the man was trouble. By the cut of his clothing, the worn longsword scabbard at his hip and no heraldry in sight, he was most likely an outlaw. The handsome young rogue moved with the grace of a predator across the room toward our girl, but she was not his typical prey. She had a power of her own and as he spun tales to ensnare her heart, she captured his with her own charms and innocence. The men of the tavern relaxed a little as it became obvious the young man was as smitten as she. The young man became a regular, often appearing among the late night patrons. His easy style and mischievous manners resulted in a grudging nod from the village’s patrons. No one ever saw him during the day. He simply walked into the tavern most evenings, not long before closing. Usually he stood at the end of the bar, keeping her company while she cleaned mugs. Sometimes, he sat with the men and spoke of a life on the roads of Falkaar. He always bought a round when he joined the men, resulting in many invitations to their conversations. They all assumed that he had given his name to her, but to the rest of the patrons he was known only as the highwayman.
A few months later the Baron had a visitor. The son of a high lord of the capital came to stay with him. Rumor spread that the lordling had gotten into trouble and was sent out into the country until matters were settled. Unfortunately he did not arrive in the Barony alone. Several other young men from the capital joined him in his exile. These lords rode throughout the Barony hunting every day and drinking most nights. They brought with them the airs of the capital where they expected all to wait on them as though their servants.
A few weeks later the exiled lord and his cohorts rode into the village with a large stag slung over one of their saddles. They stopped at the tavern and demanded the keeper roast the stag for them while they drank. Our girl began serving the young lords and any man present could see trouble growing. As the sun went down the young men were deep in their cups and becoming mean and surly. The owner’s daughter brought out large platters of the venison hoping it would fill their appetites. Most of the men set to the food, but their leader, the one with the soiled reputation, continued to drink and stare at her. Men of the village, regulars to the tavern, began to trickle in after their family meals. They clustered to the sides of the common room, keeping their distance from the drunken lordlings. The locals each drank a single mug that night and hastened back to their homes. The girl came to the group’s table to clear the venison platters and the young lord made his move. He rose up behind her as she bent to gather the dishes, and placed his hands on the table, one on each side of her. She dropped the plates and whirled around in her confines. The young lord’s face took on a feral aspect as he pressed into her.
“Do you know why I am here little bird?” slurred the man, “I am here because the serving girls are too delicate in Baramar. I think you country girls are tougher. Maybe you can handle the fun I like to have.”
The tavern owner had never needed a bouncer as his neighbors were a peaceful people. He came out from the kitchen with a large knife to find the lord’s friends blocking his progress. “Let us go out to the stables, girl.” laughed the lord, “I think we will need more room than this table offers.”
The girl screamed as she saw her father being pressed up against the wall and struck by the man’s friends. The remaining villagers fled or cowered near their tables. They were common men, not fighters and the nobles were all armed. She struggled as he dragged her toward the door. “Save that strength girl, I do not want you worn out before we get there!” he continued to laugh as his friends let the now unconscious owner slide to the floor.
He seemed to pause, silhouetted in the doorway, as his laugh turned into a deep wet gurgling gasp. A full foot of steel emerged from the back of his neck, and slowly withdrew as the dying man stumbled back into the tavern. The highwayman slowly advanced into the common room, flicking the lord’s blood off his blade with a quick turn of his wrist. He helped the girl to her feet, pulled her behind him and motioned her out of the tavern. The remaining lords shook off their shock and charged across the room. Their attack an ugly mess of drunken, stumbling fools rushing an experienced swordsman. He cut down the first two lordlings and the rest broke, fleeing out the rear of the tavern. The room quieted as those unlucky enough to face the man lay dead or dying. Two of their servants huddled behind a table as he finished off the survivors, collected their purses, cleaned his blade on the last lord’s jacket, and backed out, disappearing into the night.
***
The bard paused in his story to clear his throat and coat it with an inch of ale. A well timed break in his story allowed the patrons to order more drinks, improving the owner’s profit. In the room’s corner one priestess reached for her wine. An observant patron would notice her skin was dark for a Faeler, odd for a priestess of Truth. The wine drinker turned her head toward her companion, but the other priestess kept her hood well forward even when reaching for her ale with a calloused, paler hand. Drinks replenished and orders placed, the Bard settled in to continue the tale.
***
The two lovers rode off into the night, leaving behind the young nobleman and his companions, dead or having fled. Stories were the two joined the remainder of the highwayman’s crew, roaming all of eastern Falkaar, relieving local nobility of their excess wealth and living happily together. But truth is never that sweet. A little over a year later, three men appeared on the doorstep of the tavern; worn leathers, well cared for weapons, and the sleepy eyes of killers. What set them apart was the fourth member of their party. A crying baby girl rode in a sling across the largest man’s chest, while the other two held each other up, both bleeding from various poorly wrapped wounds. No one knows what passed between the tavern owner and the men, just that the baby was placed in the arms of the tavern owner’s wife. One of the men died later that day, his last duty in life being done. The other two stayed on, helping the tavern owner and improving his business. They split their time between working in the tavern and keeping an eye on the babe.
As the girl grew, people of the village whispered as to the identity of the child’s parents, but by her thirteenth summer, her lineage had become obvious to all. She was a perfect mix of the owner’s daughter and her highwayman, a raven-haired beauty with her mother’s charms and her father’s dark eyes and desire for danger. That summer she began training. Each afternoon, behind the tavern, as the lunch crowd left and before the dinner crowd arrived, her two guardians taught her the path of the blade. Each man had a different style and tricks they taught her, all the finesse of finely schooled swordsmen, as well as every dirty trick they learned during their rough lives. Come winter they moved their training indoors, fighting in close spaces, over tabletops, using any and everything in a room to her advantage. By her fifteenth year she sparred against both men together, and won far more than she lost. But, as it is with youth, her growing skill lead to a bold and reckless attitude. One morning, just before her sixteenth birthday, several men came to the tavern. Ruffians, men who would do most anything for coin, but two were different. One wore the livery of a hedge knight, bearing the sigil of Tarenna on his shield, the other, the leader, was a weathered, sunken-cheeked man wearing stained Varanic robes. His eyes had a feverish glint and he was surrounded by an aura of magic. They barged into the tavern, pinning the old innkeeper against the bar.
“You have a young girl here” rasped the priest, “dark of hair and eyes, where is she?” The innkeeper shook like a leaf, stuttering, too scared to speak coherently, as the newcomers threatened him. The priest’s questions were interrupted by a shout as the girl’s guardians appeared in the doorway and charged the group.
The swordsman pushed the priest behind him as the two guardians continued their advance. They savagely cut their way forward, dropping or wounding the priest’s men but taking wounds as they went. The priest began to pray and the swordsman began to glow and moved forward, faster than humanly possible. The two men faced him together, holding their own for a moment. The priest spoke again, in a different tone, and one of the men stiffened, dropping his sword. This was all his companion needed, he bashed the be-spelled man aside with his shield and plunged his sword into other. The swordsman turned on the remaining guardian and beat him down with sword and shield.
“Don’t kill him!” croaked the priest, “I need answers before we kill him!”
The girl was not present that morning. As with most days she roamed the market, looking through what the farmers had brought, and gathering ingredients for the lunch and dinner specials. She had headed back to the tavern laden with her purchases when she heard the fighting. She dropped what she was carrying and ran to the tavern’s stable, drew her father’s sword and charged in through the kitchen. The sight of a cowering cook made her stop and peer into the common room. She saw the dead and dying littered across the floor, one foster father dead and the other being mystically charmed by the priest while the swordsman held him down.
“I have spent years trying to find her. She will pay for the sins of her mother and father. Tell me where she is!” demanded the priest.
“She is right here,” she said, entering the room.
She leapt at the swordsman. He had set his shield aside to hold his victim down and rose to meet the girl with only his blade. He forced her back, or so he thought, but she wanted the fight in the center of the room. She let him get the advantage, parrying him at the last moment and just enough to miss her. As they entered the cleared space, he slashed downward with too much force, and she parried, dropped to one knee and kicked out with her other foot into his knee cap. The ugly popping sound along with his scream proclaimed her success. She launched her attack now, easily parrying his sword and riposting into his neck.
“There is no honor here knight, only life and death……the latter, yours,” she murmured, stepping over the swordsman to advance on the priest.
The priest was backing to the door. She lunged at him and he cooperated by tripping over the threshold, spilling onto the hard packed dirt outside.
“The Duke of Tarenna send you, priest?” She stepped on one of his hands, not sure if he could do something magical with them. She knew to always keep a mage too busy or in too much pain to cast.
“Aarguhhh, you black whelp, you will die for what your father did! I have spent years trying to find you and end his line!” She pressed her sword’s tip to his throat, drawing an ever so tiny droplet of blood.
“You were there, the day my parents died?”
“Yes! We thought we had you all! But your mother lived long enough to spit in our faces and tell us you had escaped. The Duke has commanded me to find you and reap the blood debt.”
“Oh, I think I will be the one collecting debts.” She finished him, and went to help her grandfather and guardian.
The townspeople helped the tavern keeper burn the bodies and scatter the ashes. She took the men’s horses, her belongings and the swordsman’s shield. ‘I will leave the shield someplace the Duke will find it with a message from me, and far enough away that no one will think to look here,’ she thought as she out that night, to start her own story.
***
The tavern had grown almost as empty as the night outside. The bard put away his harp, and felt the approach of someone behind him. Glancing down at the floor past his feet he saw the robes of one of the two priestesses of Ailea. He turned to face a deep cowl pulled forward, leaving the woman’s face in shadow.
“My mistress wishes to speak with you…in private.” The bard stiffened as the words were spoken in Faelish, but unmistakably with a Chaler accent.
“I would be honored,” the bard heard himself mumble.
“Excellent,” declared the voice from the darkened hood.
The priestess spun away from him toward the center of the room. As she moved, the hood fell back and long black hair spun around her head, not enough to conceal her skin, which was clearly too dark for a Faeler. The woman completed a circle on the toes of one foot as she declared in Chalish,
“Uyku Hali,” blowing a handful of sand into the air. As she ceased her movements the bard looked around the tavern. No one besides himself and the two women were on their feet, everyone else either sprawled on the floor or slumped across their table.
“A little too theatrical wouldn’t you say?” spoke the other priestess, still hooded, a wry tone with a hint of disdain, but clearly a Faeler.
The Chaler woman laughed. “Theatrics are remembered. They will tell stories of these moments for the rest of their lives.” She turned back to the bard. “Don’t worry little man, they are only asleep, how else will they spread the tale?”
“The Dark Enchantress,” breathed the bard.
“Who else?” she whispered in his ear as she wove her way around him to close the tavern door. “So, then you certainly must know my mistress!”
The bard tore his eyes away from the Chaler beauty, shifting his attention to the other woman. She threw back her cowl as her robes fell open revealing a sword belt. The Black Rose of the Arlian placed her fists on her hips and gave the bard an amused one-eyed look as he knelt down on one knee.
“So, storyteller, wherever did you obtain this little bit of history?” Erolis unclipped her robes of disguise and used the tip of her longsword to raise the bard’s chin to look up at her face. The beautiful bandit leader raised her one visible eyebrow while staring into his face.
“A year ago. A young woman, a singer with a lute, north of here, she told the tale!”
Erolis pursed her lips, “Hmmmmm, it seems a certain acquaintance of ours needs a talking to, Adelika.”
The other woman chuckled, “Will I get to do the talking? I would love to exercise my talents against her songs, I have not had a challenge in some time.”
“I think we will both talk to her this time.” said the Rose. “Go now and make sure our way is clear."
The other woman whispered something in Chalish and faded from sight right before his eyes.
The bard swallowed, steeled himself and spoke up. “Mistress, please, if I may ask a question?”
“Certainly," Erolis smiled, "maybe I will answer it”.
The old man spoke more earnestly now, gaining courage, “The Black Rose, how did you decide on it, as your name?”
She stepped forward, lifting the bard to his feet by his tunic, pulling him up so his face was even with hers. “It was the name of my grandfather’s tavern.” His expression must have changed for she laughed and said, “What, not romantic enough for you, you son of a Haradelan goat herder!” She laughed again and then considered him for a moment. “Oh, and by the way, there were only two thugs with the priest and swordsman.” A loud whistle came from outside. “Add it to your tale next time if you want so that you have at least a couple of the facts straight.” She turned to leave but paused at the doorway. “No, on second thought, make the group even bigger. The Enchantress is right, theatrics are important.”
She turned and disappeared into the night.