Francesca Argento

Francesca Argento

  Cleric of Malendrii, Daughter of House Argento, Hand of the Empire   Race: Human   Culture: Caedean (Tibur Imperial Bloodline)   Alignment: Lawful Good   Birthdate: 595 PR   Height: 5’2” | Weight: 120 lbs   Features: Fair white skin, long white hair worn in a braid, emerald green eyes   Faith: Cleric of Malendrii, goddess of sacrifice, light, and empire   Francesca Argento is no pawn. She is a blade of faith, and she will cut her own path through the empire’s shadow.  

Family Motto:

  “Only the Worthy Endure.”   Used publicly as a proud phrase of strength. In truth, it justifies everything.     Born into the Argento family, an elite noble bloodline loyal to the rising Tibur Empire, Francesca was raised with one truth above all others:   “We are the spine of the Empire. Without us, it collapses.”   The Argentos were not lords, but they held the ambition—and the wealth—to one day become so. Their influence stemmed from ancient Caedean mercantile power and brutal pragmatism, a tool they used just as often as coin or blade.  

The Family’s Dark Creed

  Francesca was told she was an only child.   It wasn’t a lie. It was a justified silence.   Her older brother, Cassian, was born weak. His legs were twisted, his breath shallow. One day, he vanished. The servants said he died of sickness. But Francesca remembers the quiet—the hush in the halls. The lack of mourning.   Years later, whispers reached her ears: "The Argentos cull the imperfect."   Their ambition demanded perfection. Children deemed "unworthy" were quietly removed, their deaths marked as natural or tragic. It was all part of a secret eugenic policy, enacted over generations.   “Only the strong shall shape the Empire. Weakness is betrayal.” – House Argento family doctrine, privately taught   Francesca survived this unspoken test—not because she was perfect, but because she learned to become what they wanted.   But within her stirred a deeper flame: justice, not cruelty. Discipline, not cold ambition. She found no solace in her family’s ruthlessness—but rather in Malendrii, the goddess of radiant order and worthy sacrifice.  

Her Rise in the Clergy

  Trained in rhetoric, healing, and martial discipline, Francesca became a Cleric of Malendrii—sworn to serve the Empire, not just the gods.   She quickly gained the notice of the imperial court for her unwavering devotion, her discipline, and her refusal to abuse power. Unlike many Tibur nobles, she did not take bribes, did not hunt influence, and spoke harsh truths to soft tyrants.   This caught the attention of Emperor Caelus Tibur himself.  

The Emperor’s Missions

  Seeing in Francesca a patriot with conviction, Caelus Tibur entrusted her with multiple high-risk operations, each chosen to test her loyalty, purity, and capacity for leadership.   Investigate the God Hands and the Amulets   "These cults whisper in dark places. Find their roots. Burn them."   Purge Orc and Goblin Bands near Whitestone   "The borders must bleed clean before they infect the cities."   Hunt Down Garturn Halftusk and the Halftusk Clan   "They call him a folk hero. I call him a traitor with a club."   Forge an Alliance with the Whitestone Family   "They resist. Use faith and force in equal measure. Convince them."   Find the Truth of a Man Named Pehliff   "He wears many names. Uncover the one he hides."   Each mission tested her in different ways—violence, diplomacy, deception, and moral endurance. Francesca endured them all, never betraying her code, even when the Empire itself became difficult to justify.  

The Fire Beneath the Discipline

  Francesca is not naive. She knows the Empire is built on conquest and cruelty—but she believes in its potential, in the light behind the tyranny, in Malendrii's will to purify it.   She believes:   That justice can exist within the Empire, if held firm.   That people like her must shape it from within, not abandon it to vipers.   That she can atone for her family's sins, not by rebellion, but by redeeming their name in service of the greater good.  

Personal Journal of Francesca Argento

  12th Day of the 7th Month, 620 PR – Whitestone Frontier, Northern Outpost   “The man’s name was Fenn. Fenn Darsen. A smuggler. A liar. A traitor.”   That’s what the writ said. Signed in red ink. Imperial seal. The Emperor’s own words.   “Execute him before dawn. Make no spectacle of it.”   They told me he’d been selling arms to rebel orc tribes near the border. That he had betrayed soldiers, undermined patrols, spoken against the Empire.   They gave me a name. A tent. A blade.   And their blessing.   He didn’t fight.   He just looked up at me with tired eyes. Maybe he expected a bounty hunter. Or a sword-for-hire. Not a cleric in the robes of Malendrii.   “You’re not one of them,” he said. “You’re better than this.”   And in that moment, I didn’t feel better. I felt clean. And cold.   I told him the truth:   “I serve the Empire. I serve the goddess of light. And you endangered both.”   He didn’t beg. That was something. He only asked if I would tell his wife. I told him she’d already been moved to a safer place under Empire custody.   That was a lie. My first.   I drew my dagger across his throat. I thought it would feel... justified. Instead, it felt too quiet.   No fanfare. No divine chorus. Just the sound of blood on cloth.   I prayed after.   Kneeled in the snow outside camp and begged Malendrii to show me I had done right. No warmth came. No sign. Only silence.   Perhaps that's the real burden of justice—not the act, but the doubt that follows.   And yet… I would do it again.   Because rot spreads faster when left untouched. Because rebellion, once tolerated, burns whole villages. Because one man’s blood may save hundreds of innocents who never raised a sword.   But still… I cannot remember his face now without thinking:   Was this what Cassian saw before they gave him the draught? Was it the same silence?   Francesca Argento Cleric of Malendrii Daughter of House Argento Faithful to the Empire …For now  

A Whisper to Light

  Shrine of Malendrii, outskirts of Whitestone Night of the 13th Day, 7th Month, 620 PR   The chapel was cold.   Not because of the mountain wind bleeding through the cracked stained glass, but because the divine had not warmed it in days. The priestess was gone—taken back to Caedea for reassignment after preaching “too much mercy.” The locals had abandoned the shrine for safer temples and quieter gods.   Only Francesca remained, cloaked in ceremonial white, kneeling before the altar of polished sunstone, her breath misting as she whispered prayers no one else dared to speak.   She had cleaned the altar herself. Lit each of the seven braziers. Hung the golden cloths by hand.   Now, she knelt. And waited.   The gem around her neck—the symbol of her office—rested just above her heart, heavy.   She closed her eyes.   “Lady of Light,” she whispered, “Mother of Law, Flame of the Just—hear your daughter.”   No answer.   “I did what was commanded. What was necessary. He was a traitor. He gave weapons to monsters who would raze border villages. His hands were unclean.”   Her voice cracked.   “So I made them still.”   The fire in the braziers flickered.   She removed her gloves and placed her hands on the altar—bare flesh against cold stone.   “Was it justice, Malendrii? Or was it vengeance in a golden mask?”   A wind swept through the broken windows. The braziers trembled. The flames dimmed to embers. Then, one by one, they began to rise—just slightly, barely, and only for her.   A whisper stirred through the chamber. Not words. Impressions. Warmth. Weight. Grief. Discipline.   Then finally—resolve.   Francesca bowed her head until it touched the stone.   She understood.   There would be no applause from the divine. No shining sword descending from the sky. No absolution.   Only a reminder:   Justice is not clean. It is forged in sacrifice. If you cannot bleed for it, do not wield it.   She rose slowly, fingers trembling, and extinguished the braziers one by one.   As she turned to leave, she did not look back at the altar.   But the final brazier, unbidden, flared bright one last time—just for a breath—and then faded.   Francesca Argento will not ask for permission again. She knows now: if the path of light was easy, it would never need clerics to walk it.