Matron

*Since my arrival, all have begun to know my love. Subtle, with little skill of songcraft, and spoken in homely phrases. Some discarded it as simple dreams. But your artists, your downtrodden, your creatives, your undesireds felt it for what it was. An invitation, a poem, a song of love to all. In time. An invitation to join me in a Garden tended by a mother's hands.*

-**Matron**

Known simply as Matron, the matriarch of The Velvet Garden is an enigmatic figure seeming to spring fully formed onto Etera. An older woman somewhere in the depths of her middle years, she has set herself up in Meita, quickly becoming a favoured individual all citizens within and without know through deeds and word.

## Profile

### Biography

After arriving on Etera, Matron spent the better part of a year roaming the outer rim of the islands. From the northern coast to the Incandeth Peninsula as far south as Luroto. Meeting people, hearing about the continent, and learning of her new world, she began to understand sorcery, and endeavoured to find a place of her own within. Along the road, she made an acquaintance in Botan Inuyama, and the two began a few minor adventures together.

Settling in Meita, she sought the advice of a thousand voices he carries: Is it worth it to half her ability to move freely, but gain some measure of foothold without losing much ability to gather information, or more worthwhile to continue along their wanderings together, untethered from connections and expectations.

A question she needed to answer for herself, but with his aid came to a conclusion and began construction on the Garden, now a prominent pillar within Meita's bounds.

#### Godling

[DC 25 Knowledge:(Religion)]

With the rending of the fabric of reality, an eldritch devil like no other was spat from the screaming void of realms unknown. What scion or creature could claim relation or heritage is unknown, coming from beyond a seal of divinities to mar progress to and from.

With a display of infernal power, the devil-king's very presence warped the land, transmuting the earth to basalt and iron, flora to brass, and raising flowers of obsidian sea-glass that dripped bleeding glyphs into the earth. Within miles around her arrival mortals felt an intense fear they could not place, causing the closest to cower or run while the furthest would report strange dreams of a figure they would describe as a Great Mother, wreathed in a crown of silver-white or viridian flame. Her form terrifyingly beautiful to behold, each person saying something a little different.

In some she has no eyes, with a sheaf of brass and bone growing up to a pair of horns. In others, she possesses an angelic beauty, with seven arms outstretched to welcome you to her bosom before a vermillion twilight. Others still claimed her as a woman with an auric anima that shifts with prophetic sights. But perhaps the closest were the renditions artists would spin - that of a her immutable form, beautiful in her infinite possibility.

### Appearance

Matron is a woman of prodigious size. She stands nearly three meters tall, with a soft, pleasant expression on her face. The kind that comes with age and refinement.

The woman is...striking, to say the least. Ash-blonde hair falling in silken, shaggy rivulets from her crown, framing her face, parted by two pearlescent, draconic horns curling back along her head, the gold-capped tips curving upwards at the last moment. A thin wisp of silver-white flame sits in front of her brow outside her view, tracing the movements of her head, rising and flickering like a candle. Her face bears strong, feminine features with golden eyes and dusky skin with warm undertones and plush, sable lips. Her ears are pointed and leaf-shaped. Age and laugh lines are beginning to show on her face, placing her firmly in her middle years.

Heading down, she drapes herself in a fine, rouge dress with golden thread woven in to accent the brilliant colour in a similar holly and vine pattern to her wagon. Her sleeves bear the same gold colour at the overlarge hem, with emerald vines and holly dancing and playing along the cuff. On her hands she wears fine white gloves. Her clothing is obviously custom tailored, as hers is a rather endowed figure, even discounting her height. Were it not for her sweeping curves, and powerful muscle beneath, her proportions would be considered unhealthy. But as she is, it lends her a more exotic, matronly feel.

Resting upon her back are two enormous, feathery wings of snow white, dappled with black like a snow owls. From tip to tip they easily would give her more than twice her additional height.

## Daughters and Granddaughters

### Daughters

* Captain Vautha
* Teeza Mountainshine
* Sacha Kovacs
* Mal
* Kaara Zorrel

## Adventures

### Crushing Depths

"Twelve times...!" whined Alestrazsa Vastura, failing to keep the disappointment and hurt from her voice.

Matron didn't interrupt the woman immediately, smiling warmly her way with a rare compassion in the expression, or some would argue it was feigned. She had heard the story and similar innumerate times since the efforts started in the north, and knew making prospectives stand at attention and wait was, above all else, a display of power.

"Turned away twelve times," Alestrazsa continued, her fingers tangled in her brown hair. "Always with a 'come back later'!"

"I know, dear," Matron's tones like soothing hearth, her accent like silk. She reached out and patted the hand resting on her countertop. "An unfortunate truth that comes more and more these days."

"Twelve times," said Alestrazsa again, "I stand in line to make my mark. Not to plead or beg, but to promise."

"Promise?" the matriarch looked at her quizzically, knowing Alestrazsa needed to get her thoughts out and let a weight off her shoulders before any offers are made.

"Yes," she answered. "To promise them the glory I'll win for them, the lands I'll bring back from the cult's control. Etera is my home, and with War and Death infecting the land, I want to do my part. Expansions are being mobilized, scouts are being sent out to probe defenses and secure takebacks for the people each day. I can do this for them, too. All I need is a chance to prove it."

"I'm afraid this isn't an unfamiliar story," Matron intoned. "Unproven with no sponsor to back your claims. I can't say I blame them." She shook her head, rivulets of shaggy hair falling out of place. "No. But, if you had a sponsor to speak on your behalf..."

Alestrazsa stiffened. Frustration frayed her ability to think. "But where would I even get a sponsor? Like you said, nobody knows me this side of the mountains."

Calmly, Matron put her hair back in place and rose from her seat. She towers over everyone in the room, the light catching her pearlescent horns and nonpareil constitution earned from a lifetime of combat. She gave Alestrazsa a smile. "I will be your sponsor," she said simply.

Meita's harbor was a throng of activity. Merchants, traders, dockworkers, and your occasional vagrant crowded alongside ship crews embarking and disembarking from ships in a constant stream. Shipments of food and weapons from all corners of Etera were being offloaded from trading vessels and distributed for further transport along the Wildlands. Capital and merchandise moved around and offloaded to be sold off to the next merchant hopeful of turning a sizeable profit and expanding their reach. It was a breathtaking scene, a living estuary where goods, supplies, and near anything that could be purchased could be found.

All of this from a once-small trading hub of the Verk Empire beset by criminal syndicates until only a handful of years ago. Matron gazed upon the rapidly growing town and its peoples. No better a place to serve her goals than this. A goal underway as the town's people gave her nods of acknowledgements, greetings, and an occasional prayer.

Matron spared a few more moments to take in the scene around her, before her gaze settled on a line of prospectives growing shorter and shorter and the purpose that brought her here took hold of her thoughts.

She availed herself of her size to make her way through the throng, away from the prospectives and to a more prominent ship moored within the harbor. The *Foe-Beater* sat with pride among the waves, and bore the scars its name would suggest. Wounds accumulated across a decade or more pockmarked and spread across her hull like spiderwebs, from the battered iron speartip of her prow to the creaking of her aftcastle. These orcish frigates had little prominence in the region until Captain Vautha was brought on to aid Meita's interests. They were designed to crash into enemy pickets, and soak up fire as interdictors and to be expended to their last ounce of usefulness before being scuttled or left to sink. The *Foe-Beater* seemed determine to outlast its captain to Matron's eye.

The crew on its deck was leagues better. A motley assortment of men and women labored together in an organized manner, loading provisions and cargo with ease while offering a greeting and stilted conversation. As expected of the orcish captain. Matron smiles as she passed them by.

Through to the captain's quarters, she found herself in a darkened interior lit by an oil lamp with only an hours worth of provisions left. Captain Vautha's quill scratched at parchment, stopping to search who had interrupted her. The woman's hard expression softened.

"Oh, it's You," the orcess murmured. Placing her quill down she rose to greet the woman, gesturing to close the door.

With its close, the towering matriarch gently chided, "Vautha, you know why I'm here. Your subordinates are turning away those that would aid the effort."

Vautha heaved a sigh from her nose. "Yes, I know. They are good men and good women, I can't deny that. But I need a coordinated effort to reclaim what Death stole."

"Coordination will come in time, if you'll let it," Matron's form began to shift in their seclusion, taking on a more true expression of her eldritch nature.

"Time we may not possess, Mother. Training and coordination takes time for us, and for every day I spend whipping this parcel of galoots into something resembling a useful shape is a day our enemy has to recuperate and prepare. Meanwhile charging in with this particular group would border on the imbecilic," she grumbled, dropping back into her chair.

Matron listened with rapt attention as She stalks around the room. "Oh, Vautha," She spoke without words, speaking out in three silent voices in unison. "You know I don't like you getting so worked up. It's not good for you."

"I know, Mother. I know," the Captain sighed. "Normally, I need them to understand and follow the chain of command without question," she flashed Matron a smile.

Matron stopped Her stalking. "You can always just tell me what you're getting at. I don't like guessing games."

"I would like You to escort and guide the newer recruits, Mother. Keep the neophytes safe and out of harm's way," she says. "I know You have to leave soon, but it will only be a few days. You have my word."

A sigh reverberated around the room unheard but for the silence so deep you could feel it by the absence. "You will visit me more often. And drop the silly little captain's tones with me. We know you too well for that, dear."

Vautha smiled. "Yes, Mother. I love you."

"I love you most."

After restocking their provisions with an odd assortment of local fruits and preserved fish, the company sailed on past the floating trading post. Alestrazsa joined Matron along the aft, gripping the rail with excitement. The shoreline opened a path inland, a dark river leading deeper into the jungle. The crew of the *Mistral* had been sponsored by Matron, following through with her agreement. A motley assortment of men and women banded together in a disordered group. Barely more than a skeleton crew. She hadn't been on a ship in ages, and felt the loss of skill that once commanded vessels of worse crew against reavers with success.

Even so she would have them working together by landfall. Days had passed in an uneventful stretch, with the *Mistral* making for an outpost just inside the northern shore around a deepsea lake. Basket-weavers had spent their time ensuring their stock of baskets had never run down for reasons best known only to them.

Matron took a few moments more to look over the sea as it retreated from view. A boundless plane of cerulean separated from the sky by a delicate heatwave of the midday sun. A sight she's missed. When more river creeped in she turns to Alestrazsa and greets her with a bright smile.

"Thanks. Again," said Alestrazsa. "For sponsoring us. I don't know what you said or did to get us here, but I can't express enough my gratitude."

"You have more than capably expressed yourself dear," Matron assured. She nodded to the sea behind them. "A beautiful sight, non?"

Alestrazsa nodded. "Never been on a ship before. It's quite different than land. Frankly, I think I prefer the land," she joked.

Matron gave a polite chuckle, earning a smile from Alestrazsa.

"We'll be arriving soon, right?" asked Alestrazsa, leaning her knuckles against the railing. "Means you'll help us to the scouting party, and see us off?"

Matron nodded. "I'm afraid so. I have business to attend soon, so I'm afraid I can't quite do more than get everyone organized, and ensure you arrive safely with little hassle."

"I see. Well, for what it's worth? I'd be much happier with you at least sticking around the camp. You've been good to us, and everyone here likes you, you know. That kind of presence can be helpful keeping spirits up."

"I know, dear. And I'm happy to help, but prior obligations must come first. I'll see you after this, in the Garden," she invited. "You, and everyone else."

Alestrazsa beamed at the older woman, "I think we'd love that."

### Meita Conflict

The chill winds whip through the town with a hollow whistling sound. Icy waves crash on the misbegotten shore, red with the early sun’s rise. Heralds of autumn’s end. The mortals had begun to wake, straggling over the beach and docks in sleepy solitude. Her children will meet them in their guise. Same as they would any other day.

The Mother does not sleep in Her domain. She sleeps anywhere, and everywhere, and nowhere. Sometimes all at once.

The opulent boudoir where She now chooses to rest Her body for a few hours could quiet even royalty. A veritable dream of sybaritic display and comfort. It is not the dour living of most who have yet to welcome Her embrace.

She disentangled Herself from those sharing Her bed, making Her way to the garden below. A quiet place She visits often, and usually by Herself, but She is never *alone.*

She places a hand to the cool bark of the tree She had chosen. Many feared that the blossoms would never return – a sign of trouble to come, and imbalance permeating Etera and the East. A generation had come to age without the blossoms, without the festival.

But Matron had learned over lifetimes that, no matter how long the blossoms were away, they always came back. A blessing, it must be, that similar trees grew in Her home.

Now, for the first time since Tavian’s rule, there were fresh buds upon the spirit tree, delicate and pearlescent and perfuming the air with a biting sweetness. Matron remembered the festivals of her home well and mourned for those that shared the memory. It had arrived a few winters after the birth of Her daughter. She and Her wife Onyx River drank the spirit tea together and spoke with River’s lost loved ones, making sure that they remained well on their way to Lethe, and showing them that they were remembered. A way to let go, find peace, and move forward after loss. Then her loved ones continued their journey to Lethe, content knowing that the family would continue thriving.

This time, though, there would be no spirits, or River by Her side. She had died in a world beyond this one’s reach. There was still much to tell her. So much left unsaid.

But the chance was gone.

Matron forms the sleek obsidian crest that anoints Her brow and covers Her eyes from Her flesh, hiding the lines of age. Looking out across the town through eyes borne by Her children, She knows She must protect them. Eldritch intelligence squirms against each of their minds, alerting them to their Mother’s intent. They will find Her Daughters and prepare for winter’s storm as She prepares Her ritual to defend the town.

After her guidance, Matron returned to the Velvet Garden’s halls, and readied the lodgings and common areas with the closest of Her children: washing the floors with wine, gathering the necessary essence and matter, placing two heatstones by each doorway, and dividing materials for the onfall of Her children needing aid She was expecting. They had started early in the morning, but the golden light of mid-afternoon shone on them by time the ritual was ready to cast.

*I have witnessed the glorious light of a thousand suns, swallowed the pitch-eggs of a war gods war-machine, and walked the Endless Desert unmarred. Not long ago, my essence was rent from within my breast, and I was sent howling into the abyss between worlds. When I landed in Chronus, I had lost everything – even my name. Yet even in such a piteous state, recast poorly with crude materials, I wept for you - my children.*

*The abandoned. The spurned. The forgotten. Born to a reality where pain, suffering, and cruelty reign – where the souls of men and women are traded as though tokens by hollow, callous gods. I can scarce say whether my mutilation or such sights hurt more.*

*And so, I began an undertaking. Consolidating what little embers of my essence remained, I built myself anew with a goal: I will sever this world from Fate’s grip. A world where love reigns - a garden for me and my family, tended by a Mother’s hands.*

Matron paused Her address, to let Her words sink in throughout the chattering town. None of this is new for them. Between Her own visits, Mal, and the conversion process, they all know it.

Frosty mist rises from the ground throughout the town, accompanied by the scent of the spirit blossoms. Her ritual takes hold, steadily dropping the temperature. As the wind whispers, the town grows unearthly silent with rapt attention

*My message is not welcomed by all. Even now, there are those that stand against us and hate my love. Do not hate them, my children. They are simply misguided, and whether this life, the next, or even the next after, they will be replanted in my Garden, as you have been.*

*One whose message of hate burns brightest would drown us in magma, were he able. He martials his forces to strike against us, and we will meet his sound and fury with the strength of our city. By grace, I have blessed us with that most elegant of truths: each of you stand here as testament. That a city is its people, and its people are its heart. And it is together we will stand against the coming of the dark.*

The cold mist has risen above the cityscape and swirls in great clouds. A boreal host to enfold Her domain in winter’s embrace. Matron tilts Her head back, letting forth an eldritch howl that echoes throughout Meita, nourishing the storm with Her wrath until it expands in a tempestuous whirlwind. The sea begins to freeze in the harbor, and flurries of early snow begin to fall to earth.

*My children, I am so pleased with you. I have taken away your hunger – I have taken away your pain. You were reborn like me. In turn you have given your Mother and sisters all your love.*

*We will defend what is ours. This necromancer will not be able to harm us. He is but a single mote of frost, and we are a blizzard.*

The howl that erupts from Her children threatens to split the sky and deafen the mortals that remain. Matron’s mind traces the forms within the town. Teeth and flesh. Monsters, some would say, in the guise of mortals.

An easy assumption to forgive.

With Her address concluded, Matron sets Her sight on the second time-consuming task; erecting walls and battlements of ice around Meita to defend from siege. Carried on wings of ivory, She reaches the gates and begins to weave sorcerous puissance to forge great barriers of thick ice. To place the burden of their defense upon glass is pure folly, and yet it will hold all the same.

The flutter of prayers She receives in the back of Her mind assures Her this will be simple, and that Her Daughter’s work is underway.

Vautha, the precious admiral, will lead a fleet of icebreakers to maintain movement within the harbor, while providing an armed flotilla and blockade.

Kaara, the loved mirror, will supply supplies to weather the storm for businesses and interpersonal use.

Teeza, the innocent, will teach what she knows of winter survival to stave off the most harmful effects of the cold.

Mal, the lyrical adaleus, will keep the faith strong, and instill trust that there is grace beyond these storm clouds.

Sacha, the warrior, will teach those willing how best to use their newfound abilities to defend and stave off the forces of the necromancer.

Supplies, defense, offense, morale, skill, and health. All are provided, and crucial to the success of defending a siege. Matron does not believe the necromancer capable of martialing a true force against Her, but even a simple siege can last months. She trusts Her daughters will manage while She maintains the weather and walls.

Settling back in to Her sybaritic room and Arshea's embrace, She feels the old fury deep within Her bones. When the necromancer shows his face, She will meet him and plant him deep in the cold below.