Character Study: Valorie Essex - Gray Owls

Sometimes I'll have a character concept in mind and I will commence scouring the internet for something that fits said image, at least enough to be representative.  Then, while searching for such an image, I'll stumble across something else entirely, and it sends my mind aflutter with ideas, backstories, voice, and an in-depth concept.  It was in one of these particular moments that I stumbled across this particular image.

Alluring, I know.  But also completely badass.  And that's what got my mind running.  

See, at the time, the players were visiting the sister city to Stormwrack (where they've spent nearly a year of play time - about 3 weeks in game time), called Feathertongue.  Feathertongue is a high art, high class society.  Low crime, pleasant areas, knowledge and art celebrated.  It became a running joke in the city that platinum was like their gold here, and they weren't wrong.
​  So where does this woman fit in?  How does one get to such a point where you're that comfortable, and also extremely capable and dangerous.  I got to thinking what this person's story could be.

- Slates -
The Rock Stars of Feathertongue

Slates are the rockstar duelists of Feathertongue.  There are hundreds of them, and new ones sprouting up all over the place.  Now, to become a Slate, you need to win three competitive duels, and these are won in the streets, THEN you need to be offered the Queen's Favor, which is a ticket into a seasonal tournament where you need to win 3 matches in a row.  THEN, you have become a Slate. 
  Slates swear an oath to the crown, specifically the Queen, and act as a powerful and skilled militia at her service.  And for this esteem, you earn a generous pension and receive some nice perks in the city.  Get high enough, and you are awarded your own estate.  And, everyone knows your name and your exploits.  These are the celebrities of the city, and if you ever break your vow, all that fame and fortune is stripped from you.  You live instead as a Bruthan; a Slate who failed to uphold their code - and they can never return.
  It's a big deal, and a high honor.  So, if someone abuses it...

The Sins Of Lineage

Junaru Sumala was a decorated Slate.  Famed for mastering the "Art Of The Third Sword," Junaru was a charismatic favorite among the people.  He would frequent the bars and taverns of Caskmane, making a name for himself as a lucrative bachelor and a man of the night.
  But the secret no one knew was that while he galavanted the days away with his pension, he had a daughter at home.  Hair hidden and tied back, wearing rags and reading quietly each night, she stayed hidden from the world.  At market, it was assumed she was always someone else's child.  Big man Juna named her Sorro, but no one else knew this.  No one knew her, because she was his shame.
  So he drank his shame away each night, and met the harsh hangover each morning.  Meanwhile, she practiced.  Practiced with his discarded blades, forgotten armor; she pawned his rings and used spare change for food.  Whatever she took he forgot about.
  And then one night, he didn't come home.  And then it stretched into a week.  Then two.  Then it was the talk of Caskmane.  Junaru snapped, they said.  Drew blood on a unarmed boy, spewing belligerent epitaphs and shaming his name.  He tried to apologize, but Queen Ymir showed no mercy.  He was proclaimed a Bruthan on the spot, and now sits in Correnak Stockade.

Cutting Free Of The Past

With such a disgrace dragging her family name through the mud, and little hope of picking it back up, Sorro left it there.  She donned a new life, and a new visage; like her father before her, she would remake herself.  But not as a drunk, or a disgrace.  No, the armor she wears is more than a metaphor.   
  And knowing that so few had ever seen her timid face, knowing that no others could ever fathom who she really was, an opportunity grew inside her; a catch of wildfire on fallen leaves.  No longer would she hide in the tiny hovels of Caskmane, no longer shrouded by the din of alcohol and broken promises.  No, she take the poison fed to her father by his own hand and douse what little she had left.  And there, in the alley behind her four walls and a roof, she would light a single match, and set fire to her past.  
  The creature that emerged from that alley would not resemble her in the slightest.  Fitted in layered full-plate, ceremonial but functional, a shield slung over her back and a broadsword resting drawn upon her shoulders, the Knight saunters out from the catching flames.  After she's a few blocks away, she discards the helmet in a trough, smooth locks of black hair flowing free at last.  A slight hitch in her step as she feels the eyes upon her.  But her father taught her well.
  She relaxes her hips into a confident stride, the armor still clinking awkwardly, and rocks her head in the direction of a gasp.  She winks, blush spreading across the face of the lady in the crowd.  More people gather, whispers as she passes, then a man calls out from the crowd: "What's your name?"
  They think I'm a Slate already.  "You may call me Valorie.  Valorie Essex.  Now point me to the nearest duel!"  Always eager for a new hero, the crowd would embrace her.  

Reclamation

As the years went on and her bouts grew more lucrative, her armor would become better fitted, customized, lightweight, and strong.  Also, she would grow lonely.
  Earning a modest income as a smith and weapons trainer by day, Valorie would drift into steady brothel visits in the evenings.  An entity of the night herself, only in intimate company could she feel truly alive.  She is forceful, confident, and athletic - a companion many in the business vie for, and though she had favorites, nothing was truly the escape she needed.  It was around this time that a gentleman Slate found her.  
  On a fateful night, she found herself standing outside Duunspear, a bottle of amber liquid loosely gripped in one gauntleted hand.  It is full, and currently corked.  The methodical clip of finely made boots twitches her ears.
  "Miss Essex, I presume."  The voice is slow and weighted, but smooth like silk.  
"You presume correct.  Who's asking?"  She doesn't turn to look, instead letting her gaze drift upward to a pretty tiefling man perched on the upper railing of the building.
  "Someone who knows your father."
The bottle drops and her sword is drawn before it shatters.  She whirls to face the man, and is left between decisions.  The well-dressed gentleman in front of her wears a stylish set of pauldrons and gauntlets, effortlessly woven into a beautiful doublet and ascot.  A man of toned frame, his stance is both defensive and non-threatening.  He is motionless, hand rested on the iconic hilt of a sheathed sapphire rapier, lazy arcs of lightning shuddering into existence around it.  Only his half-cape billows in the wind from the surf.  Any idiot would recognize the greatest Slate the city would ever know, Lir Obidiah Skurr.  Legend has it he's saved the King and Queen of Feathertongue countless times, and is probably one of the very few that could be called their friend.
  "Come.  We don't have much time."
She sheathes her sword, and abandons her quest for companionship this time.  Instead, Obidiah leads her down to Correnak Stockade.  Moss clings to the walls, and the surf crashes angrily against the tower.  And here, no guards in sight, deep in its recesses, sits an unshaven, filthy man...gently singing to the dirty walls.
  At first he tried to hit on her, but when she grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him a few times into the bars, his eyes clarified, a tiny sound escaping his parched lips.  A word, laced in wonder, and deep, deep shame.  "Sorro?"
  "My name is Valorie.  Valorie Essex.  I don't know you, and you don't know me.  ...Your name is Alejandro.  Alejandro Esuarve.  The greatest duelist this city will ever see.  Never forget this.  ...Or I will kill you where you stand."

In Finished Form

Valorie became a player favorite quickly.  Nonchalant and no BS, she tells it like it is and won't wait around to let you know what she thinks of you, which makes sense.  On paper, she's more intimidating than persuasive, but definitely inherited her father's natural charisma.  Where she departs from him, though, is in her primal resolve.  As a sword and board fighter, she's strong as heck, and comes off more aggressive than most.  There's a lot of pent-up anger to sort out, so opportunities to throw down are always welcome.  But sometimes, if you can move past her fronts, you might actually catch a glimpse of that little bookworm still clinging to old dreams.

HP: 192 --- AC: 21
Levels: Fighter 14 --- Style: Protection
Feats?: Sentinel, Mage Slayer
Notable Equipment: Giant Slayer Broadsword, +1 Shield, Fitted Slate Armor (+1 Full Plate)
STR: 20, DEX: 14, CON: 20, INT: 12, WIS: 13, CHA: 15

Some of these stats, and now her backstory, might also explain how undeniably frustrated she was when a PC came on to her only to LITERALLY RUN AWAY.  Oh boy.  Sir Gavin, you will have a hard day in the future.