Rosemary Fairloom

A cursory glance at Rosemary would reveal an average-looking individual, whose countenance is so clearly shaped by the rigors and meagre trappings of a simple life. Her features are uneven, split between too soft and too fierce: pale blue eyes, less ice and more a puddle of rainwater; a regal brow and a too-strong jaw inherited from her father; and full, dramatic lips and a button nose passed down by her mother. Her face is only lifted from confusing mediocrity by its emotive quality—her expressions fully portray the joy, anger, or sorrow she feels at the present.

As a farmer and seamstress, Rosie has no use for fashion, preferring to keep her apparel practical and simple unless there was an important occasion. After all, no matter how beautiful a row of gossamer lace looked on a dress, it would only be torn to shreds in the fields. The same sentiment was absent for her hair, though; she took care to weave in flowers and reeds into the long, rope-like braid which flowed down her back.


The tiny village of Eldhearth, so named for the sacred glade nearby, was part of the Featherdale, the smallest and most peaceful region in The Dalelands. It was insignificant enough that most kings and queens—and their noble underlings—paid it no attention, and the villagers existed on in a rustic cycle of survival. One day, a lone seamstress with a toddler in tow and a babe in her arms settled in the village, leaving many of the townsfolk ablaze with gossip. The Fairloom matriarch took up a trade and established her residence after a bit of trouble—their father was nowhere to be found, leaving rumor-mongering folk to speculate that he was a raving drunk, and that she escaped from his clutches, or perhaps even a noble who fathered two bastards in case his bloodline ran out. After all, they whispered, the boy certainly had the chiseled, defined features of nobility. Whatever their theories, the truth was left unconfirmed; the mother took the secret to the grave once her children were in their late adolescence.

The Eldhearth community took care of the orphans as if they were a part of a larger, extended family; it was easy to do when they were already self-sufficient. The Fairlooms learned to tend their fields for grain and vegetables, forage in the nearby forest for fruit and berries, and weave plants into sturdy baskets and strips of cloth, which little Rosie then sold to the nearest city or kept for personal use. This would repeat with the rise and fall of the seasons. It was a simple life.

Until Netheril collapsed.

Every able-bodied man and woman across the Heartlands heard of their newfound freedom, and Rosemary’s elder brother Adair was one of the few in Eldhearth that left to watch the proceedings in Sembia. She was a newly-anointed cleric of Eldath, then—her childhood sickness healed by the goddess—and the event seemed so far, far away. News of great kingdoms flying in the air or clashing against one another always seemed like a dream to a community so well-hidden in nature.

Sure, it happened. But not to little people, like them.

As the years passed, prices rose and the roads grew more perilous. Adair’s letters home dwindled, until months passed with none. Rosemary grew increasingly worried for her brother’s well-being; she decided to pack up and leave to search for him, spreading Eldath’s grace wherever she may go. Her mentor was old and frail but wise in the ways of The Quiet One… The community needed him more than her in the days to come.


It would not come as a surprise that a devotee of Eldath was as calm and gentle, and possessed by a silent determination, as her patron deity. The truth is, Rosemary had always been the quiet and compassionate type. Her delicate condition during her childhood kept her confined in their farmstead where she, instead of developing a rebellious streak and a hatred of hearth and home, flourished among the plants and the livestock. It was also during this time that she became close to the clergy of Eldath and adopted Her tenets. Rosemary, by her own self-admission, is not the smartest or most educated, but she defends what is precious to her with a solid, unrelenting resolve—like the roots of a great tree, slowly but surely crushing the stone underneath.

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