Leona
Leona’s story is one of hardship, resilience, and an undying connection to music and mischief. Her tale begins in a city where the streets were as crowded as they were dangerous—a city where the wealthy towered over the poor, and the downtrodden could only dream of a better life. Orphaned at an early age, Leona grew up on the rougher side of town, the details of her parents’ fate lost to time. Some say they died in a plague, others whisper that they were victims of a political purge—no one really knew, and Leona didn’t care to ask. What mattered to her was survival.
From the time she could walk, Leona had a knack for music. The sounds of the city—carriages clattering along cobblestone streets, the murmur of bustling markets, the occasional clink of coins—had a rhythm all their own. And Leona, with her sharp eyes and quick fingers, would find ways to turn that rhythm into something more. She began picking up instruments at a young age, first a simple flute that she’d “borrow” from a street vendor in exchange for a quick tune, and later, bagpipes that she found in the attic of a long-forgotten inn.
Music was her escape, the one thing that made the gnawing hunger and the cold nights bearable. It became her way of communicating, her way of connecting with the world. The melodies she played weren’t just notes—they were stories, emotions, and dreams. As a child, she played for the scraps of food or the few coins she could gather from passing strangers who were moved by her melodies. In her eyes, a coin was as much a payment for the beauty of music as it was a means of survival.
But it wasn’t enough. Leona learned quickly that the world wasn’t kind to orphans, and the life of a street performer wasn’t exactly lucrative. She had to be clever, sly, and resourceful to make ends meet. By the age of ten, she had already mastere†d sleight of hand and the art of deception. She learned to manipulate a deck of cards as well as any seasoned gambler, and she could swindle a mark with nothing more than a smile and a well-timed distraction. She didn’t flat-out steal—no, that would attract attention and make things harder—but she was an expert at making people believe they were getting the better end of a deal when, in fact, they were losing everything.
Her youthful exuberance and quick wits earned her the favour of certain underworld figures, individuals who appreciated her talent for getting out of sticky situations. One such individual was a grizzled old thief named Grel, who took Leona under his wing when she was barely more than a child. He taught her the art of the con—how to read people, how to weave lies into truth, and how to turn the smallest advantage into a victory. Under his lead, Leona flourished, and she soon became known on the streets as “The Silent Songbird,” a name that spoke to both her musical talent and her ability to effortlessly disappear into the shadows.
Despite her success as a con artist, Leona’s heart wasn’t in it. She was constantly searching for something deeper, something that could give her life meaning beyond survival. That’s when she met her—a fellow street urchin named Celia, who shared her love of music. Celia was different, though. Where Leona had always been driven by necessity, Celia played for the pure joy of it. She had a carefree spirit, a twinkle in her eye that made everything seem possible. They began performing together, their music blending seamlessly—Leona’s flute and Celia’s lute creating a sound that could stop anyone in their tracks.
For a brief time, it seemed like Leona might have found the family she never had. They became inseparable, partners in music and in life. But fate, as it often does, had other plans. One night, they were involved in a heist, a job that was supposed to be easy—just a quick snatch and grab, a little misdirection. But things went wrong. Leona made a mistake, a misstep that cost them both dearly. The guards showed up too soon, and in the chaos, Celia was caught. Leona, with her quick thinking, managed to escape, but Celia was taken. She was imprisoned, and in the end, Leona learned that she had been executed for her crimes.
The loss of Celia was a wound that would never fully heal. Leona blamed herself for the mistake, for the reckless choice that led to her death. The memory of her face, the look of trust in her eyes as they shared their music, still haunts her every day. Her death is a constant reminder that even the smallest slip-up could lead to disastrous consequences.
Now, Leona travels the world, a wandering bard who has found solace in her music. She seeks redemption for the mistake that cost her so dearly, and though she still uses her wits to get by, she’s learned to use her talents for more noble purposes—though she can’t help but enjoy the occasional card game or well-timed trick. She plays her flute and bagpipes not just for the joy of the music, but as a way to remember Celia, to honour her memory, and to remind herself that even in a world full of lies and deception, there is still room for beauty.
Driven by guilt, but also by the desire to create something good in a world that has shown her very little kindness. She’s not a saint, and she doesn’t pretend to be, but she’s learned that music is the one thing that can save her soul from the darkness within. It’s her way of showing the world that even in the face of loss and betrayal, there’s still something worth fighting for.