Thaliel Thornquill

Thaliel Thornquil

“I wouldn’t speak his name too loud, lad. Thornquil hears everything. He probably wrote a limerick about me already… gods help me if it rhymed with ‘Redmarch.’” — Sorek Redmarch

Thaliel Thornquil is the half-elf-shaped consequence of secrets. Draped in black silk and scandal, he’s been plying his craft for over a century with a lute in one hand and a noble’s reputation in the other. He moves from court to gutter with the same ease some men change tunics, spinning satire that’s just a few adjectives shy of slander—and somehow dodging retaliation every time.
He calls himself a "Lyric of the Realm" but everyone else calls him worse, especially after he’s left the room. Or stage. Or pulpit. **No one is safe** from his barbs—not kings, not knights, not tavern wenches, and certainly not adventurers who think they're above scrutiny.
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Known For

Shredding reputations with the precision of a court assassin

Smiling like he knows what your mother calls you in private

Wearing black on black, even to weddings and executions (especially to weddings and executions)

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Thaliel on the Famous and Infamous

“Sorek Redmarch? Picture a statue that’s only just realized it has feelings. I adore him—he glares like someone broke his oaths and tracked mud on his soul.”

“Orin Kharne swings that sword like he’s trying to fix his problems by cleaving them in half. Which, fair. But I’ve seen meat pies with more subtlety.”

“Braga the Brazen is what happens when a bad mood and a blacksmith’s apprentice have a baby. Glorious, but gods, don’t tell her I said that. Or do. It’ll be good material either way.”

“Blue Sylvanranth is either the future of Gorundia or a beautifully muscled catastrophe on delay. Either way, I’m selling tickets.”

“Dame Venom? Perfect form, perfect poise, probably dreams in poetry. I once watched her disembowel a man and somehow he looked honored. I envy her restraint, but not her taste in crushes.”

“Bertram Moffet writes sonnets with his life, all tragic meter and weeping stanzas. He’s what happens when a man thinks romance outranks politics. I adore him. Like a fire you can't put out and shouldn't try.”

“Theron Sylvanranth? The gloves stay on because if he ever touched the world bare-handed, it might weep. Or burn. Possibly both. Either way, he’s the final verse of a very long, very grim ballad.”

“Ponzio Bordella is what you get when too much ego and too many trophies are left in the sun too long. He once glared at me for *implying* he had a mistress. I hadn’t even gotten to the funny part.”

“They say the night is dark and full of terrors—wait until Thranduil strings an arrow. Even shadows scatter when he draws back his bow; and you… you’re the beast he’s hunting.”

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Notable Works

• "The Ballad of Bertram the Blind" – Part tragedy, part roast, all scandal. Banned in polite company.
• "The Dragon Sleeps with Gloves On" – A satirical biography of Theron Sylvanranth so sharp it nearly counts as attempted murder.
• "Cornelia the Cloistered" – A romantic tragedy rewritten as political farce, performed at a wine-tasting and ended in duels.
• "Blue and the Sword Too Big" – A whimsical, slightly indecent children’s fable not meant for children.
• "Oaths, Orchids, and Other Redmarch Regrets" – A theatrical reading that made Sorek leave halfway through.

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Tavern Gossip on Thaliel

“He once seduced a baroness, exposed the baron, and got paid by both to write the ballad. And then read it at their daughter’s wedding.”

“You don’t hire Thornquil. You just live in fear that he finds you interesting.”

“The last time someone tried to kill him, they slipped on a spilled wine goblet and broke their neck. He called it poetic justice and added a verse.”

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Unconfirmed Rumors

May have once worked as a royal spy—or a court jester who got promoted via blackmail.

Keeps a list of “final targets,” some say including archbishops, archmages, and one very confused baker.

Possibly immortal. Or just too petty to die.

Sidebar: “Of Blades, Blushes, and the Braid in the Background” By Thaliel Thornquil, Bard-at-Large and Trouble-by-Trade

“It’s like a play where no one knows their lines, everyone’s armed, and the only person who’s read the script is seventeen and judging them *hard.*”

Let us speak of the slow-burning courtship between **Dame Venom** and **Sir Beringer**, a romance so repressed even the furniture has started whispering. But every great tragicomedy needs a supporting character, and in marches **Katherine Kendal**, Beringer’s young, stoic, and *violently unimpressed* squire.
She’s strong, silent, and built like a temple statue that judges you from across the nave. She follows Venom with quiet admiration and glares at Beringer like he owes her an apology for existing near her role model.

“Katherine looks at Sir Beringer the way a falcon looks at a mouse that just tripped over its own feet. You can almost hear her praying for her master to say *one* smooth thing to Venom. He won’t.”

There’s a rumor (and if there’s a rumor, I started it) that Katherine has appointed herself unofficial chaperone of their relationship—not for propriety, but because someone has to make sure they *actually do something* before menopause claims one and a stray lance claims the other.
She allegedly interrupted a near-confession by loudly asking if “we were going to train today or *just sigh dramatically until dusk again*.” Beringer dropped his sword. Venom smiled. The sky wept.

“If those two ever find a moment alone, Katherine will be nearby, sharpening a blade and muttering about ‘mission focus.’ Gods help them if she ever finds out what innuendo means.”

Still, some say Katherine doesn’t fully understand what she’s guarding. Others think she understands *exactly* what’s going on—and plans to keep it going until *she* decides they’ve earned a happy ending.

Excerpt from Thaliel Thornquil’s *“Companions and Coincidences: When Knights Get *Too* Close”*

“Braga the Brazen and Dame Venom—now *there’s* a tale of sisterhood so intense it could forge steel. Or bend it. Or twist it into interesting shapes behind closed doors.”

It is, of course, purely *coincidence* that as soon as Braga marries Sir Orin Kharne—himself a slab of beef with noble titles—her dearest companion Venymara Gylenda arrives at court, all smiles and swordplay, and promptly latches herself to Orin’s closest confidant, **Sir Beringer**.
Coincidence. Surely.

“First Braga weds the hammer. Then Venom eyes the whetstone. Either they’ve planned a charming double wedding, or we’re watching a very armored mating dance with a guest list.”

One could argue it’s all just noble solidarity, of course. Knights supporting knights. Friends leaning on friends. *Very* closely. With wistful glances and late-night strategy sessions that require candlelight and lowered voices.
Nothing to see here.
Except everything.

Excerpt from "Blue and the Sword Too Big"

“A whimsical tale of violence, growth, and very poor mentorship.” —Thaliel Thornquil

Once upon a battlefield, in a land that smelled faintly of regret and dried blood, there lived a girl named Blue. She was strong, she was bold, and she had arms like trebuchets that skipped leg day.
Blue wanted to be a knight. Not the flowery, poetry kind, but the real, proper kind who breaks helmets with a handshake and eats swords for breakfast—literally, she once tried. The handle got stuck. It was a learning moment.
Her mentor was the mighty Sir Orin Kharne, a man so large he had to duck under clouds. His sword was named Choppah, because "Subtlety" was already taken by someone with better aim. Orin was famous for two things: defeating evil and being functionally useless at teaching.
“You see, Blue,” he said one day, resting Choppah across his shoulder and crushing a fence in the process, “the secret to battle is—uh—just don’t die.”
Blue nodded solemnly. She wrote it down. She titled the parchment: Essential Combat Philosophy, Volume 1: Don’t Die.
One day, Blue picked up Choppah while Orin was busy arm-wrestling a hill. She lifted it with a grunt that cracked a tree, swung it once, and accidentally demolished a grain silo, two goats, and a small bard named Gary.
“I did it!” she shouted, beaming.
“You did,” Orin said, returning from the hill (which had lost). “You’re ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“For consequences.”
And so Blue rode forth into legend, armed with a sword far too big, a sense of justice slightly askew, and a mentor who once mistook a bear for a jousting opponent and won.

Excerpt from "Blue and the Sword Too Big: Special Edition"

“For mature readers. Or immature ones with imagination.” —Thaliel Thornquil

It was late, the campfire crackling, shadows long and whispers longer. Blue sat polishing her buckler with firm, practiced strokes when Sir Orin Kharne approached—his armor half-unbuckled and his smirk half-illegal.
“You’ve done well today, Squire,” he rumbled, voice low like thunder with good manners. “But there’s something else I think you’re ready for.”
Blue blinked. “More training?”
“Something... longer.” He set down Choppah with a satisfying thunk, then reached behind the bedrolls and produced a gleaming, sheathed relic—longer, thicker, and older than anything Blue had ever seen. The sheath was etched with runes. The hilt was wrapped in aged leather.
“This,” he said, unsheathing it slowly, letting the blade catch the firelight, “is my ancestral sword.”
Blue gulped. “It’s... massive.”
“Aye,” he said. “Most say it’s unwieldy. Dangerous. Best handled with care.”
“Can I touch it?”
“Only if you promise not to flail. Or cry.”
“I—I never cry!”
“Good. Because this blade doesn’t just cut... it teaches.”
Blue held it reverently, both hands wrapped tight around the grip. “It’s heavy.”
“It’s meant to be,” Orin murmured, very close now. “You’ll get stronger. Or it’ll break you. Either way... it’s a fine rite of passage.”
The fire crackled again. Somewhere, a bard took notes while hiding behind a saddlebag. And thus began Blue’s real education in swordplay—bold, awkward, and just a touch inappropriate.