Maerla Vex

Maerla Vex

Title/Position: Whispermaster of Nortland

(Or more discreetly, “The Listener,” “The Pale Hand,” or simply “Mistress Vex”)

Age: Late 30s to mid 40s

Background:

Born the bastard daughter of a minor noblewoman and a traveling bard.

Raised in the alleys and shadow-markets of Norwynne, where she learned to watch more than she spoke.

First caught Edwyn's attention during a foray into the city as a teenager, where she saw right through his mask.

Has no known family, and the only person she is known to truly serve is the Duke.

Personality:

Calm, detached, and always two steps ahead.

Speaks little, but when she does, it’s either poetry or poison.

Carries herself like a noblewoman when needed, but often blends into taverns and kitchens dressed as a servant or low merchant.

Keeps secrets like treasure, and trades them only to shape power in the Duke’s favor.

Role in the Court:

Oversees a vast web of informants—scribes, servants, innkeepers, jailers, disgraced knights, and even children.

Coordinates with "the Quiet Ring", a covert group of agents trained in eavesdropping, forgery, and social manipulation.

Known to plant ideas, rumors, and suspicions in ways that let others think they were their own.

When things need to elevate to action, she uses the Blackshields, a covert force of warrior's and assassins she recruited to do the Duke's dirty work.

Alias in Common Tongue:

“The White Moth” – Appears briefly, vanishes, and leaves unsettling ripples.

“Old Vex” – A nickname among her agents, used with a mix of fear and reverence.

Personal Quirks:

She’s never seen eating or drinking in public.

Keeps a diary in a cipher only she and the Duke understand.

Wears a single ring with a hollowed-out compartment—rumored to contain either poison or a Duke’s seal.

How Edwyn Fairmane Met Maerla Vex

It was an early autumn afternoon in Norwynne—damp cobbles, smoke from hearthfires curling through narrow alleys, and the hum of life moving beneath the city's polished façade.

Edwyn Karr, son of the Duke of Nortland, was fifteen and disguised in a merchant boy’s tunic, his golden hair tied back and dust smeared on his cheeks. Accompanied by two of his father's sworn men (now posing as his uncles), he slipped away from the castle's stifling formality, craving chaos—or at least something unscripted.

He wandered into the Lower Market, where the real city breathed: street games, cursing traders, and poor boys tossing stones for fun. That’s where he saw her.

A girl leaning against a cracked archway—maybe sixteen, maybe older. Her hair was dark, her eyes sharper than any courtier’s blade. She was barefoot, dressed in rags that didn’t match her posture. She didn’t beg. She didn’t blink. She watched.

When their eyes met, she didn’t smile.
She smirked.

"Bit young to be scouting the gutters for glory," she said, not looking at his sword hand, but at his eyes.
"You talk like a merchant’s son," Edwyn replied.
"And you fight like a boy who needs a reason."

She gave him one.

A few whispers to a half-drunk street tough, and within minutes, the older teen was pushing around younger kids near a vendor stall. A small crowd formed. Edwyn tensed. His guards moved—
—but he held out a hand.

"Let me," he said.

He stepped in, smashed a loaf of bread into the older boy’s face, and challenged him like a knight might challenge a rogue. He took a punch. Gave three back. Limped away bloodied but cheered.

The crowd loved him. He’d become the story.
And from the shadows, Maerla watched—and nodded.

That night, in the candlelit corner of the palace kitchens, Maerla was waiting.

“You owe me a name,” she said.
“You knew?”
“Golden hair. Too clean. Too smart.”
“And you gave me a fight so I could look noble.”
“No,” she replied, “I gave you a mirror. I wanted to see what you’d do with it.”

He offered her a position that night and she was by his side the next day—not as a servant, but as a quiet ear in the city.

Why She Became Loyal

He never lied to her again.
He shared things even his tutors and guards didn't know—his boredom, his need to be more than charming, his hunger to reshape things.

He listened to her.
Even at 15, he gave her space to speak and act. Her advice began to move pieces in the background—tavern feuds, guard rumors, merchant loyalties.

He understood her value, and never misused it.
He didn't try to turn her into a spy—he let her be one. And when she brought him secrets that could ruin reputations, he didn't flinch. He used them wisely.

She remained by his side, invisible to most, feared by all who guessed her true role. She would never kneel, but she would die for him.

Not because he was her master—
But because he had been the first noble who saw her not as a tool, but as a mind.

Her Public Role:

Officially, Maerla is nothing more than:

“Lady Maerla, the Duke’s Shadow Secretary.”

A vague, bureaucratic-sounding title that means everything and nothing. She’s responsible for “private correspondences,” “logistical advisories,” or “special oversight of sensitive affairs.”

She doesn’t wear armor or noble silks. Instead, she dresses plainly but immaculately—dark, practical dresses or hooded robes, a single ring, and gloves that never come off in public.

She rarely speaks unless spoken to. But when she does, rooms go quiet.

What People Say About Her: