There are people who have nothing to prove, and people who just say that to make themselves sound tough. Guess which one this is?
(pronounced “Mott-yuhl knesh-na go-resh”)
Being born in the slums of Westcrown doesn’t lend itself to optimism. The odds that a child survives to adulthood are depressingly slim, to the point where many parents don’t bother naming their children until their 6th birthday; somewhere between a rite of passage and an “I guess you haven’t died yet” party.
So when a group of Puritatem Primum – Cheliax’s single largest Human Supremacist organization – came through the slums for their annual “cleansing rites,” slaughtering, among others, Ehk & Ahkhana Goresh? Their 5-year old daughter was left alone in the world with no home, no family; not even a name of her own.
This, if anyone was curious, sucked.
But fate, as it turned out, was not without a sense of irony. What Motyl hadn’t told her companions (until very recently) was how exactly she managed to survive the raid. The answer was both simple, and far more troubling than anything else happening at the time.
Her father – her real father, showed up, and painted the streets in the blood of those who dared threaten his plans. The humans suffered greatly; the process was not swift, nor particularly clean.
It was the most beautiful thing Motyl had ever seen. And this fact terrified her more than anything else.
The Kyton – her father – explained himself through grinning, blood-soaked teeth. He spoke of a plan to bring Westcrown to its knees. He said that she could be the key, that she was so very like him, yet so unlike.
But as luck would quite literally have it, there was a group of Desnian acolytes passing through Westcrown at the time. Devotees of the goddess of luck and travel would often undertake these wandering pilgrimages, trusting in the Lady of Luck to guide their way.
With a wink, the Kyton told his daughter to “follow her heart,” and departed to places unknown. To the acolytes, it seemed that they had stumbled upon a lost, frightened orphan. To late to stop the lynching itself, the group took it upon itself to take the young miss Goresh under its wings, and raise her in the Sylvan Glade that doubled as a training ground for Desnian Clerics. Horrified that the child didn’t have a proper name, they asked her what she’d like to be called. Without hesitation, she responded “Motýl-Kněžna”
Because when you ask a distressed 5-year old girl what they want to be called, sometimes they respond with “Butterfly Princess” in Orcish.
Being followers of Desna, the goddess of chaos who appears as a giant ethereal butterfly maiden, the clerics figured that this was either a good omen, or their diety making a joke. Either way, little Motyl was brought into the fold.
She tried to be a good acolyte; be serene, go stargazing, learn to play the flute; she wanted nothing more than to be a proper follower of the goddess of luck, dreams, travel and chaos. But the combination of her fiendish blood, and the horrifying trauma she’d just escaped proved to be a bit much, as try though she might, her temper continuously got the best of her. (To this day, the Varisian monestary has a warehouse full of replacement windows, in case any other students decide to throw chairs to express their feelings)
Motyl’s feelings of inadequacy were only exacerbated when her closest friend, Alisandra, became the Chosen of Desna; her herald and oracle. Not that she wasn’t happy for Alisandra (who promptly went a little crazy due to becoming an Oracle) but she couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out where she fit into things.
So she stopped throwing chairs, and took to throwing tables in the hope that the change might help.
Everything changed when one day, woman named Imrijka – a devotee of the Lady of Graves, and a half-orc herself – passed through the enclave. At the behest of some pretty exasperated clerics, she took some time to speak with young Motyl, who was having all hells of a time controlling her rage.
In a move that nobody bothered to run by the clerics, Imrijka told her not to bother.
She laid out her own story, and described the discipline of channeling one’s rage, divinely. That sometimes, gods need someone who’ll break their rules for them, people who’ll get their hands dirty, who can channel their aggression in a way beneficial to the faith.
They were called inquisitors. And they were totally allowed to throw tables.
Things were different from that point out. Desna didn’t really have any Inquisitors, nor plans for them; having said that, the whimsical goddess of chaos seemed amused by Motyl’s endeavors, and bestowed her blessing – perhaps to see what having an inquisitor was like, or out of compassion on the young orc, so desperate to fit in somewhere. That, or she was bored.
Regardless, Motyl and Alisandra both left the enclave, setting out on their own wandering pilgrimages, in hopes of discovering their greater purpose in the world. Alisandra wandered off randomly, the hand of the goddess guiding her.
Motyl didn’t need the hand – after all, was she not the fist? She set out for Westcrown, the place of her birth, where the cryptic words of her father still hung over her like a miasma. The pull of the place was inescapable to her – she was going to do something, though she knew not what.
But she strongly suspected it might involve throwing a chair.