Rosalie I

I was born Rosalie Isadora Emilie d'Orenius-Hautala, daughter of Lord Pascal and his famously radiant wife, the Lady Colette. The great bloodline of my family hails from the distant past, and the men of my family have been protectors of Ascalon for days unnumbered.

I spent an idyllic childhood, as the only heir, in the lush, green landscapes of our family estates, protected from the world outside, shielded from death and destruction. As my father was a trusted advisor of our beloved King, I can recall many grand feasts held in the glittering ballroom of our home. Adalbern himself sat me on his knees and told me tales of heroes and their prowess during those golden days of my youth.

The time passed in a haze of pleasure and fun, with only the frequent changing of my nurses and governesses marring the perfection.

Sadly, this all came to an abrupt end when my father died of a mysterious illness in my twelfth year, and I was sent by my mother to a prestigious girl's school for promising Mesmers. I had always shown an aptitude for the arts of Illusion and Domination, and perhaps my mother did not want the responsibility of bringing me up herself, now that my father had deceased.

In this school I spent a great part of my formative years, the days flying by in a rush of feminine pursuits, making shallow, but then meaningful, friends along the way.

Lies. All lies.

It soon became clear that I was not the only one in the family with a penchant for deceit and illusion.

Some years after enrolling in the school, my classmates and I were having our customary duel practise, and I was paired up with one Elissa, my school time nemesis. Childish squabbles had always been present during our interactions, and I cannot say I was best pleased with my adversary.

While we were perfecting our skills of the Imagined Burden hex, Elissa said something to me. Something I no longer remember, or perhaps care to remember. I felt a primal surge in me, and the next thing I was aware of was Elissa lying dead. I had used Blood Magic with devastating consequences.

The next days passed in confusion. My mother was sent to fetch me home. Luckily Elissa's family was not an influential one, and my name carried far more weight. The event was hushed up though I, naturally, was expelled.

The journey back to our mansion was a long and silent one. My mother, the perfect, superficial chatelaine, who had a smile for everyone, sat staring and transfixed. Not one word was uttered. I had never imagined my weak mother as having any depths before, but now I wondered.

The following two nights were spent in this oppressive gloom, us sharing our dinners at the large state table, avoiding the eyes of the other. A novel feeling reigned over me: for once I wanted to know what my mother was thinking about. What she was hiding from me.

On the third evening the Lady Colette entered my bedroom with unusual solemnity. I realised that I missed her smile. That night she told me who I really was. She told me of my father. My sire was not Pascal d’Orenius-Hautala, but a being she had believed to be a God.

My mother had displayed considerable charm, beauty and skills in the Mesmer art when she was young, and the eye of my sire was caught by her life and vivaciousness. A village dance in the hamlet where my mother grew up as the squire’s daughter, led to something very different. It was the Harvest Festival and feelings were high.

I can see it now, burned into my mind’s eye. The sweet, rustic, apple cider, the music, the excitement of the chase, the sweat-soaked bodies locked in the dance of life, writhing in the moonlight. This sordid coupling sowed the seed that was to be me.

Who was the man I had called father then? A peer of the realm that had fallen in love with my mother in the days of her glory, before the realisation that Lokutus’ love was not for her, made her a shell of her former self. The foolish Lord Pascal thought he could save her with his love. To awaken her from the curse. To make her care for him in return, instead of that desperate adoration she felt for her paramour of the Harvest Festival.

He failed. My mother became nothing but a shining jewel to display to friends. That one night of passion has taken her life from her. I am glad that the man I called father is dead. I shudder to think of the shame and degradation he must have felt every day of his marriage to his true love, to his gem, to this fallen, sinful woman.

Of course I thought her mad at first. What ridiculous drivel! Clearly the illusions of a mind unhinged. A lonely woman with ideas of grandeur. Laughable!

Then she said it. She told me my true name. A name that my sire had whispered to her during their encounter all those years ago. I knew then that she did not lie. The name reverberated inside my mind. It brought up ancient wells of power yet untapped into. I knew that my incident with Blood Magic was not the first or last encounter of its kind. It explained the reason my mother had always looked at me with a mixture of adoration, fear and hatred,

Old, forgotten (or willfully hidden) memories sprang up. I remembered childish experiments conducted on animals. Watching their bodies twist in the convulsions of pain. I recalled the dark, frightened looks of countless nurses and governesses and knew now the reasons for their swift departures.

Only Lord Pascal had loved me. Did he know who, what I was?

I left my home and took on half the ancient name meant for me. I kept the other firmly locked inside my mind, where it still rages, willing to be released by my tongue. But I wished to remind myself of what half of me was. I am Rosalie Scarabae and I have left my home in search of something.

A greater truth perhaps? An answer to who I truly am? An explanation of why the crude powers of Necromancy seem to slowly be overtaking my beloved skills of Domaination?

Death will hold no secrets from me.