Bellamy’s earliest memories are of her mother. The memories are foggy for the most part, but she remembers with startling clarity her mother’s hair; the sensation of being blanketed by her mother’s tresses that were long enough to cover most of a tiny Bellamy’s tiny body every time they embraced. And their smell, coriander and jasmine. But that was all she remembered of her actual parents. Who her father was, she had no idea and no clue what her mother even looked like.
Bellamy spent most of her childhood in the orphanage of Mother Lucinda, an ageless half-elf woman who devoted her life to the care taking of lost children. It was a simple building, an ancient family home converted to an orphanage, located somewhere in the hills to the west of K’Tawl swamp. Mother Lucinda was beyond benevolent, forgoing food for herself whenever food was sparse (a rare occurrence due to the patronage of several anonymous nobles from across the region) and nursing the children back to health whenever they were stricken ill. Bellamy was a bright girl, romantic and curious, and Mother Lucinda took a particular shine to the girl, allowing her access to the library which most of the children were forbidden to enter without permission.
As a child Bellamy spent most of her time reading or exploring the woods that surrounded her adoptive home. She had a fascination for dead things, manipulating the carcasses of animals she found in the wild, but never without burying the bodies afterward in her best facsimile of a proper burial. The young half-orc instinctively knew the other children would find this queer, so she kept her dealings with the dead secret, even from Mother Lucinda.
For an orphanage as secluded as theirs, the old house had a surprising turnover. A new child, shivering with downcast eyes, was brought by caravan or abandoned every few moons, and a home was found for the orphans at nearly the same rate. When one of the children was adopted, they were whisked away unceremoniously, often disappearing without every saying goodbye. This made a young Bellamy quite sad, but Mother explained that goodbyes were painful, and she should be happy that they found a home. After all, isn’t that the goal? The orphanage was temporary and eventually, Mother would say, all her children would find their way home. The adoption of a child always seemed to put a pep in her step, so much was her joy.
By the time Bellamy had turned ten, she was by far the longest resident of the orphanage. This didn’t bother her, beyond the fact that she’d seen so many of her friends leave, because in her mind the orphanage and Mother Lucinda were her home. The other children treated her as a secondary authority in the house, coming to her when they felt ill, as she was becoming quite skilled with a bandage and herbal remedies. She was perfectly happy to live out the rest of her life following in Mother’s footsteps, caring for the children, healing them when they were ill (as she had become good at under Mother’s instructions) and it was clear that she was Mother’s favorite as well. Bellamy was maturing quickly due to her orcish blood and she was allowed free run of the place, except for a few crucial exceptions such as Mother’s quarters, located in the basement.
It was on Bellamy’s eleventh birthday that she began to dream of the raven. No matter the scene or scape of her dreams, at some point during the night a raven would appear within her mind’s eye, huge and threatening, and its cawing would jolt her from her rest. Not one to complain, she kept this to herself, although the disturbances wore on her spirit and kept her up at night.
One night the cawing woke her again and this time Bellamy could not quell the disquieting feeling in her chest that accompanied its cries. She rose from her bed, moving carefully so as not to wake the quietly snoring children, and left the dorms where they were all quietly snoring. She’d intended to go to the kitchen to get a drink of water, but her footsteps drew her elsewhere. As if in a dream, she walked the moonlit hallways of the orphanage along an unfamiliar path. Something was guiding her and to this day she could not say what. From the dorms, she went down the stairs, her eyes seeing clearly in the dark night with no assistance from the extinguished torches that lined the walls. Before she knew it, she was outside Mother Lucinda’s door. She raised her hand to knock, but something held her back and instead she reached out, turning the knob she fully expected to be locked. To her surprise the cold metal turned smoothly in her hand and the door cracked open without a creak. With a racing heart, she peeked inside and saw…Mother Lucinda.
The old woman stood in her chambers, lit by the ghastly light of candles. She was not alone, but there were four figures, standing hooded and silent. Bellamy was ashamed at her intrusion and was about to return to her bed when she spotted what…or rather who was on Mother’s bed. Her heart jumped into her throat and she froze. Lulu, a sweet dwarven child that had charmed Bellamy with her singing. Mother had told them the day before that she’d been adopted by a family of merchants from Emon, yet…there she was. She was tied to the bed and though her eyes and mouth were covered by some dark cloth, from the way she stirred Bellamy could tell she was awake.
From her vantage point in the crack of the door, a great fear washed over her, but so did some other feeling she couldn’t name. A relief? A satisfaction of some sort? Mother Lucinda, who was speaking in some dark, guttural language the half-orc didn’t recognize, and her hooded guests didn’t seem to notice her, and she didn’t dare move. From her coat, Mother produced a long, wicked dagger and in her other she held what looked like the horn of a ram. Bellamy was frozen, sweat forming on her skin. There was a tension in the room that was palpable, otherworldly and before Bellamy could blink or scream, Mother Lucinda plunged her blade into Lulu, who spasmed violently, attempting to scream through her gag. Mother yanked the dagger from Lulu’s writhing body and stabbed her again and again, her usual benign expression replaced by a bizarre mask distorted in reverie. The figures were humming violently and at some signal from Mother Lucinda they all dove on the now still body of Lulu, lapping up the blood that flowed freely from her wounds.
At this point something gave, and Bellamy jerked away from the door, horror finally piercing her paralysis. Her heel knocked against a wooden stand and she saw one of the hooded figures turn to look her way. Barely repressing her own scream, she turned and fled like a wild animal. Not to her room, but to up the stairs to the kitchen, then to the foyer of the orphanage, outside and beyond into the night air. She didn’t stop running until her lungs gave out and she collapsed, gasping, her body wracked by the heaving sobs that failed to express her horror. From her place curled up on the soil, underneath the moon-wreathed silhouettes of trees she heard the cries of a raven.
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The next few years of Bellamy’s life are a blur of harsh living in an uncaring world, hardening the runaway into a survivalist who learned to suppress her altruistic instincts in favor of realism. A timely growth spurt and her experience with the work of first-aid and elixirs allowed Bellamy to defend and provide for herself. From begging on the roads to brewing bootleg potions and selling her skills at a discount, the young half-orc found her way to Stilben where her talents for medicine were noticed by a community in need of discrete clerical work. Before long, she became involved with the smugglers' community, often testing shipments of materials alchemical or herbal in nature, as they came in or out, and becoming the go-to woman whenever deals went bad and injuries occurred. Addison Shelley has an eye for talent, and Bellamy has no qualms with working closely with the Clasp, despite their reputation. She didn't trust them, but she trusted their selfishness and greed. When they asked her to be more directly involved with their smuggling operation, she agreed with some skepticism. They provided protection and resources, and Bellamy knew all too well the vulnerabilities of going it alone.
On quiet nights, when no patients bearing sloppy knife wounds come stumbling through the door, Bellamy's mind will sometimes wander onto the raven and its warnings that night. She can feel it’s presence within her growing, and even though it no longer visits her dreams, she can feel it watching her. Within the puddles of blood left on her floor by the clients, she can even sometimes see the reflection of a raven's shadow and the divine connection that moved her that night has grown, allowing her to heal patients who should have died on her table and surprising her in her most desperate moments.
She is suspicious of her budding abilities, and of the raven. Like everyone else, it has an agenda of its own and Bellamy wonders why it warned her that night and what purpose she is to play in its grand scheme.