Name: Jocelyn Byron, formerly Jocelyn Roy
Alias: Lady Death
Age: 25
Hair: Deep chestnut
Eyes: Mostly an icy blue with a brown patch in the right iris
Physical Appearance: 5'6, lithe build that is tempting in the trappings of her gender and inconspicuous in the trappings of her trade
Language(s): Common, passable and fleeting knowledge of the local languages where she is assigned on missions to better blend in
Sexual Orientation: Straight
Weapons on her: At any given moment, at least two small daggers, and sharp hair pins that will do in a pinch
Weapons in her wheelhouse: Her common upbringing made her skill with a bow and traps, as well as lethal talent with knives. Her adoptive father trained her to use swords in various fighting styles, and her current profession has extended her knowledge significantly in throwing knives and darts, poisons, and generally honed her body into a weapon in and of itself
Magical Abilities: Unknown
Family: Her biological parents were killed in the last war against Pentakot, shortly after which she was adopted by Commander Thomas Byron and his wife Eloise.
Background: Born to a weaver and a woodsman in the village of South Bend, Jocelyn had a quiet early life with her parents. They were not wealthy by any means, but were rarely left wanting, kept paid and fed by her parents' efforts. From a young age, she was introduced to both her mother and father's trades, assisting her mother with spinning yarn and weaving, while accompanying her father into the surrounding forests, both gathering resources and hunting wild game. Of the two, Jocelyn found herself drawn to the woods more than anything, the rich air and quiet, the satisfying knowledge of where to find mushrooms and herbs, the awareness that she needed to engage during a hunt.
They led a peaceful life, and it was easy for Jocelyn to be oblivious about the goings on around the kingdom, the war and chaos that had not yet reached her village aside from the gossip and growing fear she would hear from her neighbours. The war was as real to her as a bedtime story. At least, until it made its very real presence known while on a hunt with her father.
A contingent of soldiers had been cutting through the land to join with a larger army. They had not moved delicately, not bothered to conceal their presence, and Jocelyn and her father had seen them coming long before the father and daughter could draw their attention. At the time, Jocelyn had been more displeased by their interrupted hunt than aware of why it was significant that the soldiers wear Arkon Blue, but she slipped away into the brush as her father instructed, kept low and silent as three soldiers approached.
What followed, both in the coming minutes and coming days are memories that Jocelyn can not easily access, both subconsciously and due to her intentional repression of what she had witnessed, what she herself had done. But there are glimpses that still haunt her: her father's blank stare up at the canopy of the forest, his life bleeding out of him from the slash at his throat; the mad dash she had made when shock had released its hold on her limbs long enough to go to her village only to find its charred remains; the days she had spent following her clumsy prey, observing the camps they set; the sound of men choking on their own blood; the blood that coated her hands as she knelt in the middle of the silent camp, utterly numb to what she had done.
By the time a heavy coat was being wrapped around her shoulders, Jocelyn had been too tired, to empty to object as she was led away from the small camp into a much larger one. She noted the blue uniforms, made herself sip the tea that a kind, wary eyed man gave her, asking for her name, her story. To his credit, the man was patient, fitting for someone of his rank, she would soon learn. Commander Byron watched over her personally, keeping her away from the curious eyes and whispers in his war camp before he sent her off to the capital, to his wife. The girl had seen enough of the war to last her a lifetime, what she needed now was peace, ease.
Eloise was at more of a loss than her husband when Jocelyn arrived with little more than the poorly fitting clothes of a soldier on her back and a blank face. She would write to Thomas, suggesting they send her to a temple or an orphanage that was better equipped to deal with the children orphaned by war, but the Commander was adamant. The connection was slow to form, but in the months that passed, there was a delicate kinship between the child and the lady, the older woman coaxing some words from the girl, getting preferences on clothes, sweets, music. By the time the war at last came to a close and the Commander returned, there was no question about Jocelyn remaining in their care.
She was raised privately, often away from the other children at court, if only to avoid the ridicule regarding her origins and her peculiar behaviour. Her upbringing was an odd continuation of what she'd had in South Bend, learning the gentle, feminine hobbies from her adoptive mother when she was not catching up on the education she had lacked in her forest village, while Thomas nurtured her appreciation for the outdoors, taking her riding, hiking, teaching her to swim, and eventually, teaching her how to fight.
He had been hesitant about it at first; in fact, Thomas had kept her well away from the royal barracks where he worked, away from the soldiers and the sound of clashing, sparring weapons. But Jocelyn had been drawn to it, watched the movement of the blades, the precise footwork practised in the training ring. When she was 15, Thomas at last asked if she would like to try.
It was like a missing piece finally being nudged into place. There was a certain fluidity, a meditative quality to training that cleared Jocelyn's mind, put it at piece. Working alongside Thomas and the soldiers under her command felt natural and slowly, finally, she began to feel like she fit.
But the life of a soldier would have been wasted on her, or at least that was the opinion of Efraim Bonacorsi. The king's spymaster had long been curious about the Commander's ward, had heard the stories of how she'd been found in a camp full of dead men, uninjured herself yet covered in blood. The girl was a little monster, a she-demon that Lady Eloise was parading around in fine clothes, a quiet pretty little thing that contained such capacity for death. And when it appeared the girl was not only skilled but impressionable, following the orders of the Commander without question, Bonacorsi coveted the loyal soldier for himself, though a soldier wasn't quite was he was looking for. What he wanted was a tool, a weapon, an assassin, and if there was anything that could be said about the spymaster, it was that he was very good at getting what he wanted.
