Bones of the Dead Eleven
The Rogue who's anything but
Lucky was not always fitting her namesake. Born to presumably Brandobian parents and summarily seperated from them before her twelfth year, she was promptly captured by an agent of the Mercata Cartel and destined for a life as someone’s cook, maid, or whipping post. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately for someone else), she had mastered the fine art of being a terribly slippery thing – breaking out of her holdings no less than three times aboard the ship returning to Zoa (once unintentionally), avoiding any beatings and mistreatments by virtue of unexpected happenings – another raider’s ship attacking, a spontaneous fire in the kitchens, an uncleaned section of deck sending one man overboard..
.. and it only continued when they landed. She broke out several times, yet never left – always found perched somewhere in the Mercata hideout and warehouses; watching, stalking, and occasionally stealing. Yet even then, her penchant for last-second and timely saves continued – earning her her nickname and a rather unfounded fear. Was she blessed by Risk? Or was it a curse sent to them from the Confuser of Ways?
As the frustration began to set in, they gave up – she wasn’t actually harmful, and she was too scrawny and untalented to command much at the market anyway. Besides – could they really even get rid of her?
So they trained her instead, half-heartedly – the finer arts of breaking, entering, and escaping undetected; with a bit of murder and acrobatics on the side. She took to it like a fish to water, though her naivete and occasional unexpected lack of common sense made her a potentially risky field weapon.
And then they hit on a plan to get rid of her.
One of their caravans never made its expected report, lost in an area notorious for being full of bandits and dragons and worse. They sent someone actually competent out to recover it – then sent her out to kill one of the caravan guards they’d wagered was already dead, hoping it’d get rid of her for a while (or forever).
That was five years ago. Still she searches – and now even her namesake has turned against her, finding her best-laid plans wrecked by a combination of flaws and pure random chance. Whether it’ll turn back around remains to be seen..
Three inches over five feet tall, Lucky is a slender little thing, blessed with an almost unnatural flexibility. She keeps her mouse brown hair in a short bob, untamed bangs frequently obscuring her emerald green eyes. Her pale skin is usually hidden behind camouflaged clothing or dark grey armor, dotted with a number of knife sheaths in unexpected places.