Played by Jade
Rona was born by the sea.
In Lyrabar, a coastal city near Waterdeep, life surged with trade winds, crashing waves, and the ever-present hum of danger. Her mother served as a city guard, disciplined and dependable. Her father and older brother sailed the wild tides, guiding fishing vessels through treacherous waters, their success buoyed by her father’s quiet command of magic.
But Rona had no magic, not in the way her family did.
Her gifts were in storytelling—vivid, melodic, and captivating. She spun tales that could make even the most hardened merchant lean in, eyes wide, and travelers often offered coin just to hear one more story beneath the stars.
She was closest to her mother. While her father and brother vanished for weeks at sea, her mother lifted her onto strong shoulders at festivals. Rona would sing and play her flute among the lanterns and dancers, the air alive with music and color. One year, her mother gifted her a flute carved with tiny snails, delicate and precious.
Then came the night the pirates raided her city.
Lyrabar was thrown into chaos. Rona still carries the scars, though she rarely speaks of them. She was taken aboard a ship and forced to perform like a bird in a cage, locked in a crate barely large enough to sleep. Somehow, she escaped.
Alone but unbroken, she stepped back into the world with a single goal: to find her brother and her father, to feel connected again, to be seen.
Her journey shaped her. She became bold, sometimes reckless, drawn to danger like a moth to flame. Her wit kept her ahead, and her silver tongue opened as many doors as it closed.
Still, something deeper stirred within her. A fire not born from fear or grief, but something more. Beneath the charm and performance, a power waited—unnamed, unexplained, but present.
Then she met them.
The adventuring party she joined was not just a way to earn coin or collect stories. Slowly, and without realizing it, she began to care. To protect. Years later, she would pass her treasured flute to Eliza, a sickly girl she protected during The Revellia Quest. Beneath the brightness and bravado, Rona’s heart beat loudest for the forgotten, for those left behind by the people who should have loved them.
Not wanting to part with her newfound companions, Rona followed them to Mere, a city drowning in shadows and secrets. Mere took something from her. It twisted her thoughts through the curse of an object she accepted willingly for the sake of a city not her own. But it also gave her something she never expected: the need to rely on others.
She grew close to Florien, mysterious and guarded. He listened more than he spoke, and for the first time in her life, Rona allowed herself to want someone to carry her, if only for a moment.
She admired Tarvo, wild and strange, with a soul more open than anyone she had ever met. His strength came not from pain, but from love. She saw it, and it changed her.
Arispira taught her that she did not need to shine brighter than everyone else to matter, that survival did not have to mean chasing gold or applause. She could be quiet and still be worthy.
And in Kerrick, she saw her mother—duty-bound, steady, worn by years of service but still led by a heart that refused to yield. From him, she remembered that duty and love were not opposites. They were kin.
Mere left her changed. There, she learned of the impending war between rebels and nobles in Waterdeep, the city she had avoided for so long, the place where her nightmares were born. She learned that the rebels bore her family’s name: her brother, her father. It gave her purpose.
Now, she walks toward Waterdeep with new clarity—not just to find her family, but to confront them, to face what was lost, or, if the path allows, to join them once again.