The Realm of Joroin
Aria Black Hand is a cursed woman seeking vengeance against the gods and their servants.
Time flies when you’re cursed by the gods. One hundred years had passed since she was born and yet she still looked eighteen, exactly the same as she did on the day the ancient curse manifested in her blood. She sighed and brushed her hair, staring into the mirror as her thoughts drifted back unfettered.
She was born Aria Caswell in the city of Devonshire, on what is now recorded as the 30th day of Birth’s Night in the 9th year of the Old. She was the only child of the noble Caswell family to survive birth, and was raised, briefly, in the luxury and comfort their lot in life allowed.
That changed with the razing of Devonshire by Simon and his armies. Her family fled with her, using all their money to purchase their way out of the city. Destitute now, they attempted to make a go of it out in the wild, only to give up and trickle back into the newly created Daous with the uncountable other refugees.
There they struggled to survive and had other concerns to worry about than the ancient rumors of an ancient plague upon their noble line, back from the time when gods still walked the earth. Little did they realize that with the return of the gods, their ancient pacts were renewed once more.
On her eighteenth birthday, the ancient curse some heroic ancestor of hers had earned manifested in her. Turned into a creature of the night, a vampire, a monster of legends, her parents turned her from their door into the city and refused to even acknowledge her existence anymore.
Bereft of all but a family ring bearing their coat of arms, an object passed down through their line from its beginnings so long ago, she was forced to utilize her new-found gifts to ensure her very survival.
The Watch soon learned of a new thief making the rounds through the city. Black-Hand, they called her, for she didn’t shy away from killing, although it seemed she picked only the worst of the worst to bestow this gift upon.
Soon, the Caswells died, as did anyone else who remembered their lovely daughter Aria, who used to love the play in the streets, especially when the sun was shining so brightly.
She sighed and stood up, stretching. She had overheard some drunken nobles boasting of a destroyed family’s wealth that they had uncovered the other day in one of her many frequent haunts. She had some liberating to do.
One day she would find out why this had happened to her, what her family had done and to whom, and she would wreak her bloody vengeance upon them with the very curse they had leveled against her, but today she needed money.
There were bills to pay and gifts to deliver. The families in her neighborhood might live hard lives, but they survived, thanks to their guardian spirit. She wouldn’t let them down; she couldn’t. They were one of the few things left to remind her of what she once was.
She threw on her cloak and climbed her way out onto the rooftop. Looking out above the lower and upper mazes of the city, she spied her destination in one of the nicer sections of town and took off, another lonely shadow in the night.