Sigil: City of Doors

Elvolaer was the second child and eldest son of Yolaun Olaundran, one of the de facto leaders of the family business. He was the grandson of the patriarch of the clan, "Old" Gauthklaun. After him was his younger brother, Sardrin, and three more younger siblings.  https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki ... _Olaundran
 
He and his brother had taken to the family’s ostentatious ways as well as taking on their father’s cruel streak.  He was not yet an evil man, and so when he touched the judgement stone he survived.  He was instated as the family patriarch, and his beloved Clemence bore him three sons.  Raphael was the youngest.

The three brothers when into the family treasury with Elvolaer when they were of reasonable age to be judged. Elvolaer told them they would each touch the stone at once and he left them in the vault.  Elvolaer had grown crueler with age and become mad with the idea that the family Olaundran might one day rule from the Hulron Ward in Selgaunt and supplant the Sembian king. He had groomed his three sons in this image, but he had critically miscalculated.

For dire warnings become legends, legends become myths, and myths become fairytales.  He had assumed the story of the judgement stone was a coming of age ritual with no actual potency.  He was wrong.  Two souls cried out in unison as a flash of blue light blazed in the vault.  When Elvolaer returned only Raphael remained.  

Sembia’s golden family

A proper Olaundran hunted with hawks and gambled frivolously with their vast fortune.  They thrived on the mad adrenaline of chance.  They never haggled and paid top coin simply to show that they could.  The family fashion was to wear golden shimerweave, and for the past few generations they had also become known for their luxurious blonde locks.

Raphael was no exception, sporting a look by day that rivaled Lathander’s own golden light.  He was well known among the other merchant houses for his prowess with cards, and his hawks rivaled the hawks of true nobility.  The sun always sets, winning gets dull, and Raphael took to the night.
 
It was entirely unnecessary to steal, yet he did.  His father had taught him much of these skills, having been a restless and chaotic soul as well.  In the event that Rahael was discovered, his sword play showed his finishing… Not that anyone lived to speak of it.  The headmistress of the local finishing school for girls had attracted his ire today, so he slipped into her chambers and stole the necklace she so prized.  It was near worthless to him, but to the woman that insulted him it was her fondest treasure.   

One with the shadows he crept upon the narrow brick ledges between buttresses.  Then he saw her. . .
Sembian’s treasure things of fine beauty, so if a poor family produced an uncommonly beautiful daughter, they would often spend all that they had to send that daughter for finishing.  Every year a graduate’s ball was held.  Old Sembian merchants, or second and third sons would visit and pick out their new brides like cattle.  It was a tradition he despised, and yet there she was. 

Olaundran men get what they want. Without exception.

“Push!” The Midwife shouted, “One more, you can do it my lady!”

And with a final howl it was over.  A mewling, tiny infant was placed into Madelina’s arms in swaddling cloth.  Madelina was instantly in love with the squalling collection of wrinkles, blotchy from a rough entry into this world.  The infant girl was the most beautiful thing Madelina had ever seen.

“What shall we name her, my love,” She directed to her husband as he was allowed into the chamber at last. 

Raphael wore a brilliant smile as he strode in, but his eyes fell upon the infant and he stopped in his tracks.  His voice went cold, “Name it what you wish, my treasure… I have something I must attend.”

He left abruptly and Madelina was left staring after him.  The midwife hmmed as she busied herself with clearing the afterbirth. The old woman finally spoke, “Never seen a dark-haired child born to two fair haired parents.”

Madelina looked down in horror at the light fuzz upon the baby’s head.  It was indeed a dark brown.  Her arms tightened around the small child and she cried.

“Come down here, Wioletta,” Her father’s voice called up to her in the tree.

She frowned and slowly made her descent.  He tsked at her when her feet found the ground and said, “Ruined another dress I see? Come along then.”

She toddled along after him.  He was always a little distant but he so admired him.  Her father was a beautiful man who shined like gold everywhere he went.  His sure footsteps lead the dreaming little girl by her heart.

They walked into the family vault.  Among the glittering treasures, that stretch farther and were stacked deeper than her young mind could put a volume to, was a pedestal. Upon that was a silk cushion.  Upon that sat the judgement stone.

“You must never touch this,” Raphael explained, “It is a cursed relic which kills any who touch it.  I know it for truth as I watched it kill my two older brothers. The original family patriarch came to the aid of a small settlement of elves that were under siege.  He lost many men, but the day was won.  So grateful were they, for his heroic act, that they honored him and named him guardian of this cursed gem.”

Wioletta listen with wrapt attention.  Her father always spoke of the family honor.  He told the stories of the family’s lineage to her again and again.  They were great warriors, he said.  Sembia owed them a great debt.

“So, this stone,” He pointed to what looked like a very poor-quality sapphire, “Is a symbol. A symbol of the honor of house Olaundran.  You must never touch it, lest you die, but you must always protect it.”

Not long after that he was swept away to attend a matter of business.  She sat in her chambers and stared into her vanity mirror.  Of the heroes she was related to, not one since her great great grandfather had dark hair.  She would never shine like her glorious father and mother, clad in golden shimerweave.  She looked upon her rich, thick, chestnut locks and saw something repulsive there.  Perhaps he was so distant because she was ugly?

At least she had her mother’s dazzling silver eyes.  Surely she could become more beautiful in time.

Shy Violet...

Wioletta means Violet.  Aside from climbing trees and taking off into the countryside on the horse her mother bought her, she was a shy and retreating child.  They called her shy violet. They whispered, and eventually, she heard.

"Beautiful young girl."

"Yes, it's a shame."

"Terrible shame."

"She's not his."

She tried to shut it out. She focused on being the best heir a woman could be.  She learned to play cards proficiently.  She diligently applied herself to her finishing lessons.  She was even training her first hawks. Of course she was his.  Why would he tolerate a bastard?  Why would he groom her to a station she had no claim on. 

And yet the whispers were so loud... "She's not his... She's not his... She's not his..."

She was 12 as she waited outside her mother's chambers.  The screaming suddenly went still and a baby cried. 

Wioletta was 16 now and should have been weighing the matches proposed to her.  There were no matches.  Everyone knew what she was.  She was the shame of family Olaundran.  By her half-brother’s birth, their mother had confessed.  Wioletta was a bastard.

She had no claim to the vast Olaundran fortune.  While she possessed a rare, classic, Sembian beauty, she managed to rank beneath even the cattle brides of the poorer finishing schools that took on commoners.  Yes, she was beautiful, but she was a symbol of shame.  She marked her great “father” a fool.
It would have been easier to blame Marcus, now 4.  He toddled over and gripped her skirts in his nubby, dirty fingers.  Dirt seemed to reach up and grab children at this age. . . But oh, how she loved him.

She gathered him up into her arms and he gave loose an excited squeal.  He had those beautiful Olaundran golden locks already.  She used her kerchief to clean his hands, and sticky cheeks. She cooed at him, “Here now, what have you gotten yourself into?”

“Ms. Pearl gave me jam filled crepes!” He beamed at her and then looked ashamed, “I tried to save one for you… But I couldn’t find you, and I got hungry again.”

She chuckled and carried him into the nursey, “Never you mind.  Do you want a story?”

“Yes!” He nearly kicked himself loose of her grip in his excitement.

They settled in as they so often did.  She read him more than one story as they huddled in the rocking chair.  She saw her mother pass the room, looking in for a moment with absolute grief on her once delicate features.  These days that was how she always looked; gaunt and hollowed out.

Wioletta read on to Marcus.  She shoved down the slight pity that welled in her for her mother.  Madelina was, after all, the direct cause of Wioletta’s every suffering.  Perhaps it was justice for the woman to know some pain for the pain she caused.

A servant came to collect Wioletta to the main chamber to meet which Raphael.  She kept trying to make herself remember to call him that.  Then man to whom she’d ran when she was scared.  The father to whom she looked up to and admired for all his stories of honor, was not her father at all.

She had been collected so she might be informed.  He would offer a small dowry for her to more quickly get her out of his sight.  It was a pauper’s sum by the standards of the merchant nobility, and still more than a bastard deserved. He expected her best and most charming behavior for any gentleman that came to call.

He was a half bald man, three times her age.  His skin shown with a permanent greasiness, but his smile was flawless.  Somehow, that made it worse.  A few suitors had come an gone for Wioletta, and most had attempted to haggle a better dowry to take her away.  Only this one had accepted the terms as they were and remained.



He’d had two young wives before her.  She would be the oldest bride he’d take at 18.  The two prior had both died of mysterious illnesses.  The plans were made, the event was staged, and they were to be wed one month after her 18^th nameday.  That nameday came and went without celebration, as her winters had passed since she turned 12.

He collected her a week before the nuptials for a pre-wedding dinner.  As she climbed into the carriage she could not help but notice the haunted and hopeless look on his driver’s face.  The man sat at the reigns, staring unblinking at some unknown horror on the horizon.  They left the estate and sometime into the journey turned down a dark, barely visible forest road.  The carriage lurched and heaved about on the near non-existent path.  Violet was tossed in her seat, as the merchant aristocrat laughed.

“Gods,” She hissed, “Sir… Where are we going that is so… Remote?”

“It’s a surprise, my angel,” He said with a toothy grin.

They halted on a hilltop and the driver hopped down, laying out a blanket and a basket with fruit, cheese, and wine.  The aristocrat helped Wioletta down from the carriage. The driver retook his seat, looking pointedly away from the picnic as Wioletta fanned her skirts out and sat. 

The greasy old man sat and poured the wine, handing her a glass. She held up her hand in refusal and said, “I do not drink, good sir.”

“I suggest you start,” He grinned, “Wine makes much of life simpler.”

She took the glass he was shoving at her and held it, while he poured one himself.  The fruit and cheese was made into bite-sized chunks, which he offered and she only picked at.  Finally he said again, “I will insist you drink the wine, shy violet.”

“My lord?” She looked at him curiously and could not react before he had is fist in her hair, bending her head back and pouring the wine into her gasping mouth.  It went everywhere, all over her dress.  It flooded out of her mouth and nose across her face and into her hair. 

“Drink, blast you!” He hissed.

His smile was cruel and as she went into a half-drowned coughing fit, he forced his lips over hers.  When she couldn’t stop coughing into his mouth, he struck her hard across the face.  She cried out, “Please! Please help me! Sir! Please!”

She cried out to the driver who stayed in his seat, looking silently ahead.  He didn’t even flinch.  The vile merchant laughed out, “Think he hasn’t seen this before? He helps me pretty them up when I’m done.  If you behave, you might last three or four years before I get tired and he helps me bury you.”

One thick hand came down and pinned her by the throat as the other attempted to strip her down.  He laughed, “Should have drank, Violet.  You might have slept through all this messy business.  Now you are going to remember everything.”

“My father will kill you!” She choked out.

“Your father knows exactly what I am doing,” He laughed and leveled his eyes on hers, “And he doesn’t care, because he is not your father.”

“Liar!” She coughed, “I may be a bastard but Raphael Olaundran is an honorable man!”

“He knows,” The man insisted, “Asked me to spare your face for the wedding ceremony though… So there’s that.  Now hold still and this will be all over soon.”

Spare your face… Wioletta made no such promises.  As the world was going fuzzy from a lack of air she reached up and sunk her nails in.  She felt the elastic give of an eyelid under one finger but she did not stop to appreciate it going taut and then ripping as her hand tore downwards. A shriek rang out and suddenly his weight and his hands were off her. 

Blurry-eyed she stumbled in to the woods, coughing and gasping as the screams faded behind her.  It couldn’t be true.  All her life Raphael had spoked of the family honor.  No man of honor would have allowed this to happen to any woman in his care.  It could not be true.  She tried to stay close to the road without being on it.  She had to find her way back.  This was complicated already in the dark and was made worse by the tears rolling down her face. 

At 18 she was barely a woman, and inside she was so much smaller.

Daddy…



Mama… Please… I am so scared… 



She heard a carriage pass in a hurry along the road, leaving her alone… In the dark woods… Soaked in wine and blood.

A metallic rasping... Clicks, as one tumbler at a time gave and was held by a pick.  Wioletta looked up at the foreign noises as a man dove in and closed the door behind him. He ran his hand back through his dark hair and muttered, "Shit... Shit shit shit shit."



Then his eyes fell on her, traversing her body even through the sack of a dress she word.  He smiled, "Oh... Hello... What's this now? Have I found myself a princess in a tower?"

"I'm," She breathed out, "I'm Wioletta."

His brows lifted, "So the rumors are true? He keeps his own daughter locked in a cage? You poor thing."

He moved over to her slowly, "Look... I can..."

Just then the door flung open and the man drew his blades.  When Wioletta saw who it was she threw herself between them, "Wait, it's my brother, Marcus."

Marcus' face was red with tears.  He scowled at the floor and growled, "I heard there was an intruder... I had to try... I know you just came here to rob us, and Wioletta and I can help you with that, just get her out of here.  It's all I ask."

The man chuckled in a charming way, "I was just about to suggest that the lady show me out and I take her far away, but if I can get the loot too boy I'd hear your plan."

The trio made into the darkness.  Just when it looked like they were cornered Marcus whispered, "I know what dad was going to do... I couldn't let him... Run, sister."

"Half sister," She corrected, tearing up.

"There is no such thing as half family," Marcus corrected.

Marcus jumped out yelling for the guards, "Here! They went this way! Hurry!"

And just like that Marcus lead the guards away from the pair. Wioletta lead the rogue to the vault.  He filled two large sacks while she stared at the milky blue stone...

It was daylight before she finally made it to the city surrounding the estate.  The family had all but owned most of the cities that they had estates in.  The old family home was in Delzimmer where they somewhat ruled with the rest of the four great families.  Having “sort of” ruled where ever they went, perhaps it was natural that they would develop a hunger for a true reign.  Maybe that is why their eyes had fallen on Selgaunt and the Sembian King with his opulent Hulron Ward.

At her tender age she had spent time in the great trade cities of Tashalar, Calimshan, and Amn.  This estate was their primary foothold in Sembia on the edges of Saerloon.  It was in Sembia where they went from wealthy merchants to merchant nobility, and in Sembia she spent most of her time.  It was here where they could be called Lords and Ladies with a straight face and pretend at the bloodlines of great kings.  They really were almost kings here, and their disparate empire was property connected by a fleet of well-armed shipping vessels built from the remaining vestiges of iliyr-wood.  The once great elven forest had been cleared to provide the prized material.

As influential in the port city as they were, Olaundran eyes were always set on Selgaunt.  They thirsted for an invitation to hunt in the Hulron Ward, and then… To own it.

But that was all history and politics that she had no business to.  Today she was a scared girl in a ruined dress who had walked all night and now shambled through the streets as a spectacle on a tide of whispers.  No one offered help.  Most tried not to look at her, and some… Some glared openly at the broken young woman who brought such a visage of ugliness and despair to their beautiful city.

At last she found herself at the gate where two gaurds stood waiting.  The younger of the two looked shocked to see her.  He muttered as she drew closer, “You should turn around, Lady Wioletta.”

The older guard punched the younger man’s arm and sushed him.  He wore a bit of concern on his face as well, but what were poor retained guardsmen going to do in Sembia, where crime was only committed by those not rich enough to pay it off?  She barely noticed their pitying glances as they opened the gate and ushered her in.

Sitting in the cobblestone paved courtyard was a familiar carriage, but she convinced herself that Raphael Olaundran was a man of honor.  He would hear her.  He would see the state she was in and protect her.  There had been times in the early years where she had sat cradled in his lap.  Surely, he remembered that child.  Surely there was some affection, somewhere in him. 

The world vibrated and went hazy as her skull contacted the stone wall at the bottom of the steps.  It took her a moment to construct and process what had just happened to her.  Raphael's hand swung outward from his fine cloak, striking her so hard she staggered back and then tumbled down the staircase.

"You think you had a right to refuse him?" The golden-haired patriarch spat, "The fact that he would share his bed with disgrace such as you was more honor than you could have hoped for."

The shuffling clanks of armor rang in her head as the gaurds hurried down and collected her.

"Father!" She cried, "Father please!"

"I am NOT your father, wench!" He hissed, "How many times do you need to hear it? You have abused my good graces too long and now you have marred the face of your better.  The last kindness I can afford you is to hold you here instead of handing you over to be hung!"

Her mother and brother stood behind him.  Their faces twisted with concern, but they didn't dare to speak.  They had already born the brunt of his anger as they plead for Wioletta's life in the presence of the greasy merchant whose face she had improved with four deep gashes.  She wanted to be grateful to them for at least that, but her eyes fell the to woman whose actions had landed the shy violet in this horrible existence.  

I wish you'd drowned me as a baby... I wish you'd left me in the woods to be a meal to a wolf... Anything but imprisoning me in this life.

She was carried away to a cold cell with a barred window.  A bare mat was provided as a bed and a cotton sack of a dress.  She would have none of her prior comforts, not even a comb for her long chestnut hair.  There she would wither for 4 years, her only comfort would be visits from her brother. 

Marcus would slip away, and slide a book beneath the door to her cell.  They would sit, backs to the hardwood on either side, and she would read it to him.  Three years in Marcus made a promise. . . 

"I'll get you out someday, sister," His small voice cracked, "I'll get you out and I'll send you somewhere no one will know your name so you can live again."

The growing fingers of a 9 year old boy, making a promise she knew he couldn't keep slid under the door.  She brushed them, offering what comfort she could and wishing she could hug him and tell him it would all be okay.  She held back her tears until he was gone and then curled up into the cold night.