I have been called many things in my life, most of them uncouth, almost all of them earned. You may know me as The Blackthorne, Shade of Camorr, Garrista of the Two-Tone Royals.
You may also know me as the royal assassin, who ended the life of the wise king.
Before I was any of these things, I was the daughter of a man named Ezra Herne. In another life, he was known as Tharne.
I want to begin this record by establishing two things. One: I did not kill the wise king of Eredhen. The Royals were framed for his assassination. I'd say we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but even lacking evidence I'm convinced the whole damn thing was a setup. Which brings me to my second point: When I find whoever really was responsible for the king's death, they'll wish I'd thrown them to the wolf sharks of Camorr.
When I was young, I lived in a small town not far from Orillion. Somewhere north, in the mountains. My father, Ezra, was a bounty hunter, famous in our little town for being able to find anyone with the smallest scrap of information. He was so good, the town guard put him on an unofficial payroll. Most of the people he had to track down were visitors, out of town folk who thought they wouldn't be around long enough for anyone to remember their faces. One of those was a man from Camorr, a member of a small gang called the Two-Tone Royals.
One summer, a festival passed through town. This man, Lorenzo Eccari, watched as the few nobles of our small town spent their fortunes on goods they wouldn't have access to the rest of the year. He saw the things they purchased, then followed them home, climbed through their windows in the middle of the night and took their new belongings as well as anything else he could get his hands on. My father staged a purchase, dressed as a visiting nobleman from Orillion who had missed the travelling merchants when they passed through the city. Eccari followed him home that night, and found a trap waiting for him. Then, my father hauled him off to jail.
I broke him out.
I saw the kind of revenue he was bringing in, and I was interested. So, for a small fee, I promised to break him out. Some coin, obviously, as well as some information. That was the night I learned about Camorr--the gangs, the garristas, the floating revel, the shifting market, and Capa Barsavi. I made my way south a month later, paid with coin from releasing prisoners my father helped put away. I joined up with the Two-Tone Royals, who had gotten themselves the distance.
There are over a hundred gangs in Camorr, and most of them pay their loyalty to Capa Barsavi. He keeps close tabs on all of them, except for those with the distance, who he generally trusts to be acting...appropriately, unless they give him reason to think otherwise. So, we were left generally unchecked, which allowed us to get up to an impressive amount of mischief, including breaking Barsavi's number one rule: We can steal from anyone we want, except the nobility. Any house with a legitimate coat of arms is to be left alone, no exceptions. Since we had the distance, we just sort of did as we pleased.
We created a masked figure, the Blackthorne, who plagued the nobility, much to the Capa's dismay. Each of us took turns playing the part. At times, three or four of us would go out at a time, making it seem like the Blackthorne was some mystical figure that could be several places at once, and the nobles of Camorr ate it up. It all went so well, until it didn't.
Long story short, we were blackmailed, forced to do the bidding of a mysterious organization on the threat that Capa Barsavi would be informed of our misbehavior if we refused to cooperate. So, we did what they said, and all the while kept doing as we pleased, all the while trying to discover who these mystery assholes were. We got close. Then, the king was killed, and the blame for the assassination was placed on us. The royal guards caught my pezon, set the execution date for later in the day.
I am the last surviving member of the Two-Tone Royals, and all I want now is to find the people responsible for the deaths of my friends.
You may also know me as the royal assassin, who ended the life of the wise king.
Before I was any of these things, I was the daughter of a man named Ezra Herne. In another life, he was known as Tharne.
I want to begin this record by establishing two things. One: I did not kill the wise king of Eredhen. The Royals were framed for his assassination. I'd say we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but even lacking evidence I'm convinced the whole damn thing was a setup. Which brings me to my second point: When I find whoever really was responsible for the king's death, they'll wish I'd thrown them to the wolf sharks of Camorr.
When I was young, I lived in a small town not far from Orillion. Somewhere north, in the mountains. My father, Ezra, was a bounty hunter, famous in our little town for being able to find anyone with the smallest scrap of information. He was so good, the town guard put him on an unofficial payroll. Most of the people he had to track down were visitors, out of town folk who thought they wouldn't be around long enough for anyone to remember their faces. One of those was a man from Camorr, a member of a small gang called the Two-Tone Royals.
One summer, a festival passed through town. This man, Lorenzo Eccari, watched as the few nobles of our small town spent their fortunes on goods they wouldn't have access to the rest of the year. He saw the things they purchased, then followed them home, climbed through their windows in the middle of the night and took their new belongings as well as anything else he could get his hands on. My father staged a purchase, dressed as a visiting nobleman from Orillion who had missed the travelling merchants when they passed through the city. Eccari followed him home that night, and found a trap waiting for him. Then, my father hauled him off to jail.
I broke him out.
I saw the kind of revenue he was bringing in, and I was interested. So, for a small fee, I promised to break him out. Some coin, obviously, as well as some information. That was the night I learned about Camorr--the gangs, the garristas, the floating revel, the shifting market, and Capa Barsavi. I made my way south a month later, paid with coin from releasing prisoners my father helped put away. I joined up with the Two-Tone Royals, who had gotten themselves the distance.
There are over a hundred gangs in Camorr, and most of them pay their loyalty to Capa Barsavi. He keeps close tabs on all of them, except for those with the distance, who he generally trusts to be acting...appropriately, unless they give him reason to think otherwise. So, we were left generally unchecked, which allowed us to get up to an impressive amount of mischief, including breaking Barsavi's number one rule: We can steal from anyone we want, except the nobility. Any house with a legitimate coat of arms is to be left alone, no exceptions. Since we had the distance, we just sort of did as we pleased.
We created a masked figure, the Blackthorne, who plagued the nobility, much to the Capa's dismay. Each of us took turns playing the part. At times, three or four of us would go out at a time, making it seem like the Blackthorne was some mystical figure that could be several places at once, and the nobles of Camorr ate it up. It all went so well, until it didn't.
Long story short, we were blackmailed, forced to do the bidding of a mysterious organization on the threat that Capa Barsavi would be informed of our misbehavior if we refused to cooperate. So, we did what they said, and all the while kept doing as we pleased, all the while trying to discover who these mystery assholes were. We got close. Then, the king was killed, and the blame for the assassination was placed on us. The royal guards caught my pezon, set the execution date for later in the day.
I am the last surviving member of the Two-Tone Royals, and all I want now is to find the people responsible for the deaths of my friends.
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