The Noble House of Locke has called Avalon home for hundreds of years. With their land and manor situated on the borders of the empire, they have taken their sworn duty to protect the land and serve its peoples with grave devotion. With Pellor’s teachings held close to their hearts, the house takes pride in demonstrating honour, justice, and loyalty.
Quick Facts:
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Though House Locke are not known for any specific kind of hereditary spellcasting, most scions of the bloodline have a good capacity or potential for magic. Regardless of how much truth is actually held in House Locke’s tale of origin, this is attributed to the royal blood that flows through their veins, whilst their physical and mental fortitude is said to originate from the tin knight.
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Platinum blonde hair and dark eyes run strongly through the bloodline. They also tend to be tall, but favour a balance of physical traits.
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The house colours are dark blue and silver and their seal is that of an anemone flower.
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They have a family heirloom, passed down heir to heir; an locket fashioned in the shape of an anemone flower, made from tin. Historians conclude that ‘Locke’ is a bastardisation of ‘locket’, referring to their tale of origin.
Current Members
Count Alder Locke (†) & Lady Myrtle Locke (neé Fairskies) 40 (at death) and 75 | Classes unknown | Human
Count Basil Locke & Countess Rosemary Locke]] (neé Grasswhistle) 49 and 42 | 14th level Inquisitive and 14th level Domain of Light Cleric | Human
Lord Marshal Sorrel Locke 45 | 16th level Eldritch Knight | Human
- Leader of the house guard and forces.
**Lord Orris Locke 23 | ?? Necromancer | Human
- Current heir to the house.
Ladies Angelica Locke and Anise Locke 16 | 3rd level Inquisitive and Arcane Trickster | Human
Mick & Joey 25th level Goodest of Boys
- The family greyhounds, belonging to Basil.
Past Members
Lavender 25 | 9th level Zealot Barbarian | Human
- The eldest child of Basil and Rosemary and, prior to her brother’s birth, heir to the House. She was stripped of her name and titles and exiled after an event that fractured the entire family.
Staff and Guard
Knight Commander Edith de Bessoc 38 | 15th level Battlemaster | Half-elf
- Sorrel’s second in command.
Preceptor Alfred de Bessoc 38 | 15th level Domain of War Cleric | Half-elf
- Retired from active duty to train House Locke healers.
Sir March Sterling (†) 27 (†) | 10th level Berserker | Human
Rowan Smith 21 | Civillian | Handmaid
Tale of Origin
Inspired by and adapted from The Brave Tin Soldier by Hans Christian Andersen (https://www.shortkidstories.com/story/brave-tin-soldier/)
House Locke is said to have descended from a knight who was most notable in that he was only born with one leg. Not only this, but they ran out of iron when smithing his armour, so he had to wear tin. Still, he stood as firmly on his one leg as his brothers-in-arms did on their two, even if he had to work twice as hard. As a knight, he was sworn to defend the King’s castle. It was a grand fortress, built into a mountainside, and surrounded by trees and a lake that was so large and so smooth, it reflected the castle’s towering stone walls, forest, and sky as if it were a mirror. It was a breath-taking sight, especially in the early mornings, which was the knight’s favourite time of day. The sun crept up from below the horizon and beams of light would stream through the battlements and arrow slits, rippling over the water to turn it pink, and bathe him in a cold warmth. It was beautiful.
Yet, not as beautiful as the King’s daughter, the princess. She was the other reason the knight loved the mornings so much. Just as the sun rose, so did she, and every morning she danced in her tower. She was the most beautiful person the knight had ever laid his eyes on. She had red rosy cheeks and hair made of platinum silk by the way it flowed and flirted around her shoulders. She always wore the same pretty dress of buttercup yellow and a lace shawl that, when the sun shone through it, glowed with Pellor’s light. The shawl was held around her by a wonderful clasp fashioned after an anemone flower. Utterly taken by her beauty, both without and within - for the stories of her kindness, compassion, and bravery were endless - the knight found himself infatuated. Not only that but, by the way she turned and turned and turned upon one leg, he mistook her for being just like him.
“She would be just the wife for me,” he thought to himself, “if she wasn’t so grand. But she is a princess, and lives in a castle, and I have naught but my bunk and my brothers-in-arms. That’s no place for a lady.” He sighed longingly. “Still, I must try to meet her.”
When the evening came and he was relieved from his duty until the next morning, whilst his fellow guards visited the tavern to drink, eat, and revel, the knight slipped away to the princess’ tower. Quite suddenly, the knight that must be twice as brave and work twice as hard to achieve the very same as his brothers didn’t feel quite as bold. What would she think to him, a lowborn guard with one leg and tin armour? Stood on the battlement beneath her window, a moment from calling out her name, she quite suddenly turned and their eyes met. Both frozen with fear and stunned by her radiance, which he was sure must be divine for no woman had ever touched his spirit like that before, the knight could do naught but stare. She stared back and, from that moment on, the knight felt so much love in his heart he knew it could not be just his own. He loved her and she loved him too.
Then, when the clocktower struck midnight, arms snatched her from the window. A Lord appeared, whom the knight knew would be promised the princess’ hand in marriage, and snarled down at him. He was a grotty looking man, with greasy hair, ears too big for his head, and a bulbous nose with a wart upon the end of it. “Tin knight,” He sneered, “keep your eyes to yourself. Do not look at something not for you.”
The knight pretended to be on patrol and quickly fled. Once he returned to his bunk, heart racing, it took him many an hour to fall asleep but, when he did, the princess was there to caress him in his dreams. She had been watching him too, each and every sunrise, and every dance had been for him.
The next morning, though warmed by not only the sun but the memory of the princess’ ethereal touch upon his soul, he was disappointed to see that she was not dancing. He stood watch on the battlement, doing his duty for his King and country, but her absence left a hollow in his chest. But then, whether it was a sudden gust of wind or the lord with the greasy hair he will never know, he went tumbling over the crenelations, through the forest, and came to be stuck in a tree. Once he found his bearings, dangling awkwardly from his one leg much like a doll, he saw some poachers pass. If he were to call out, he might have been heard, but he did not think it right; he was supposed to be a knight, stout and brave, and certainly not hanging from a tree with his limbs flailing.
It began to rain. Faster and faster fell the drops, thunder rumbled in the distance, and it wasn’t long before the rain became a deluge and the knight was caught in a storm. A crack of lightning arced through the sky, struck the knight’s tree, and sent him hurtling down the slope once more. He tumbled, fell, rolled, and rumbled his way down, but still he did not call out. He was brave, even if he was in a lot of pain, and he would suffer this for his princess.
With an immense splash, the knight broke the immaculate surface of the lake and, to his horror, began to sink. Further and further he descended, darkness swallowing him into its clutches, and the knight could do naught but watch the pink morning sunlight disappear from above the surface. Blood rushed and roared in his ears. He knew he was drowning, but he could not swim and he hurt ever so much from his fall that his limbs refused to move. The water grew cold. Stillness overcame him and, amongst the distant ringing in the back of his mind, he thought of his beautiful princess, who he’d never see again, and heard her voice sing a wordless song. It whispered into his soul and, just when she breathed strength into him and he was filled with a surge of hope, something shot through the water like a snake and swallowed the knight whole.
Oh, how dark it was! Even darker than the depths of the cursed lake just moments ago. But, rather than being surrounded by an infinite abyss, he was encapsulated in a foul, slimy, narrow passage. He lay inside the great monster, remaining brave. He clutched the echoes of the princess’ song to his heart and endured. To and fro the fish swam, turning and twisting and making a manner of all strange movements, until it was quite suddenly still. There was a flash of light. “A tin man! He’s alive!” someone cried.
The monster had been caught and slain! But it was not morning when the knight saw the sky. He knew not where he was. A cart trundled beneath him; he must be miles and miles away by now. And just how long had it been? “I must go back!” He exclaimed. “I must return to my princess!”
The hunters who had defeated the lake monster looked upon the knight with puzzled eyes. They lead him to a pond where he could see his reflection for the first time. He had been turned to the very tin his armour was made of, that’s how he had survived! His arms felt heavy, but they were stronger than before. He felt this new strength run all across his body, through his bones, muscles, and chest. From his heart radiated the warmth of the princess’ love. He would stop at nothing to return to her side.
The hunters gave him directions and offered him food, but the knight politely declined; he was made of tin and he longer felt hungry. With a copy of their map, he made his way back to the castle. He marched through the day, then all through the night, and all through the day again and again and again. He did not tire, driven only by his desire to see his princess once again.
By the time the tin man made his triumphant return, the guard had either forgotten about him or didn’t recognise him and threw him out at the barbican. He waited until the evening once again, then snook in to find his princess. Up on the battlements, he could see her through the window. She did not dance. Instead, she looked mournful as a newborn suckled from her breast. Overcome with sudden sorrow, the tin man refused to let his fear get the better of him this time, and nor would he give into anger or jealousy. She would not hurt him so! He threw the door open and ran up the stairs. He took them two at a time until he burst into her chambers. “My princess!” He cried. “I am returned, and I swear we shall never be parted!”
The princess looked up, having just placed the infant into its basket and, just like that, the tin man saw hope, relief, adoration flood her beautiful eyes. She leapt forward into his arms and he spun her around. Warmth spread between them and he felt his whole chest might burst with the loving glow that came from within. When he placed her back upon her feet, she took his hand and lead him over the basket. Though the baby was bundled up, the tin man could see it was just like him, with just one leg. The love swelled to divine heights and, just when he was about to sweep the princess back into his arms and whoop for joy once more, the door suddenly flew open and the lord was there. He stormed over, his face the picture of the devil himself, overcome with rage, and grappled with the tin man. Unknowingly weakened by months of travel and weathering from the elements, the tin man buckled under the lord’s show of force. He fell into the fire place, which scattered smouldering embers all around, and his beaten body gave in. The tin man was stuck, bent and contorted, in a blaze of red flame. It was hotter than he could ever imagine or describe, but he looked at his princess and he felt himself melting. As if possessed, the princess leapt forward and tried to rescue him, but the flames caught her too. She wrapped herself around him as they and burned up into nothing before the lord. The lord, horrified, fled into the night and was never seen again.
The next day, the princess’ handmaiden went to her room to find it barren and ashen. She rushed to the infant’s basket in horror, but found him entirely untouched by the fire. He gurgled and giggled happily. Looking around in wonder, the handmaiden saw a glint amongst the ashes in the fireplace, where the princess’ anemone flower clasp, reforged into a tin locket hanging from a chain, lay. The handmaiden, taken with the trinket’s beauty yet feeling like it didn’t belong to her, nestled it amongst the infant’s blankets. This left her oddly content and peaceful, like she had done the right thing, and that the child’s parents would look over him no matter what. She scooped him up, cradled him in her arms, and took him to see the King.
The bastard child was kept as a ward by the King and it was soon discovered he was an unparalleled prodigy of both might and magic. Though he was never legitimised or recognised as the King’s grandchild, he was kept close and was considered one of the closest advisors to the royal family. Bestowed land and titles after a lifetime of service to the crown as the commander of the King’s forces, the bastard child lived a long and propserous life, with a wife and many children, and became the founder of what would become House Locke.