I don’t really RP, because I can’t take myself seriously and have trouble sticking to one story, but here you go.
Long ago on a tract of Gilneas since sunk beneath the waves, a little known and reclusive estate was. All but the fate of the House is lost somewhere in time, the manor, barracks, stable, and storehouses burned to their foundations and the earth, tainted deep by the family’s devilry, rendered forever barren. Bare of detail, but all true, for Maurdeth had been there.
Scant harvests and sickly soil fed rumors among villagers, and loathing for the already loathed House. Winter leered nigh, and, desperate, the villagers sought the aid of the Lord, Demian, whose House and land it was. The messenger sent did not return, nor the one thereafter. The third did, beaten and frenzied, clothes in tatters, raving of blasphemous rituals, human sacrifice, and a screaming blade. Fear and fury spread, the latter waxing just enough that the courageous among the peasantry formed the rest into a small crusade and marched upon the estate. Held fast to their simple faith, grinding through delirious guardsmen and the other fell things which had there taken residence, they razed the whole and made sure it burned.
Maurdeth had been inside, but in no part that they had trod. Below, in the lightless dungeon, was she, carving through tortured beasts of flesh and other less describable things. There had Demian gone, toward a self-made escape into the wild, and to its barred gate had she pursued him. Demian’s sword howled as he tore it from its scabbard, snarled as it sparked against Maurdeth’s own and lit their smoky arena. Their duel was long and costly; Maurdeth had paid an eye and gash across her face, Demian the fingers of his favored right hand, an ear and corner of his mouth. But age, wit and reach were in Maurdeth’s favor, and at length she had perforated his lungs, left him choking to death on his back.
His black blade clattered to the floor, the eyes of its raven crossguard burning a hungry red, staring at Maurdeth. Bitten by its edge she knew her days were numbered, that in time it would devour her soul and leave her a depleted husk. So taking up what had been her goal from the start, and had become her sole hope, Maurdeth sated it upon her flagging father instead ere she fled into the wilderness.
In the decades since she has served as many things; soldier, bounty hunter, criminal liaison, entertainer. She toiled in deep mines far from any lordly regulation, worked aboard a Gnomish steam vessel where her interest in engineering was born, pursued esoteric arcana in deep and lonely places, ever and always fighting to stay the fate sheathed at her hip and shadow over her days cast.