Lucia was born into an interracial marriage, between an elven mage and his beloved human wife. She was raised in a wealthy household, wanting for nothing, and dotted upon by the servants, well loved by her parents as their only child. Had she not suffered from severe dyslexia, her father might have allowed his daughter to pursue academics. When she could not read any of the hundreds of hundreds of books in the manor’s library, every night her mother would sing songs or tell her daughter tales and stories. Inspired by them, instead of sewing and dancing, Lucia grew up riding and playing adventurer: Seeking lost treasures and fighting dragons. Only she never wanted to be maiden in need of rescue, but the hero who slew the dragon or other beast, often played by her father himself. He was an important man with many responsibilities yet made time for his daughter. He was an adoring father, his love for her second to only the deep love he bore his wife.

That is why a cold darkness fell over their household, when Lucia’s mother died when Lucia was still young. The loss was too much for her father to bare, the great man broken as his heart broke. And slowly, his mind it seemed started to crumble as well. Some days weighed down by the heavy burden of his sorrow into apathy or speaking to shadows when haunted by the ghost of her mother. But as Lucia was growing up to be a young woman in her mother’s spitting image, her father’s attention returned to her. Fearing her father’s growing madness, fearing he might keep her locked away like a bird in a cage to keep her safe, keep her close – Lucia ran away from home.

She wanted a life that was her own, experience for herself the things and see the places she’d been told through bedtime stories. And her ambition: To become the greatest adventurer there ever was, to do something extraordinary worthy of a saga for bards to sing and to be written down in the chronicles by those who could write.