Lorraine

A half-orc cleric of the Memory Domain who dons ceremonial white robes beneath a steel breastplate and steel pauldrons. A hood shades her head; a fitted mask covers her eyes and nose while leaving her mouth exposed. Her overall presence is solemn and formal—still hands, measured posture, and a quiet, holy bearing—while the metal is etched with faint page-like lines and the white fabric is layered like bandages, clean but marked by subtle ink stains. Abandoned at birth, Lorraine was taken in by a church devoted to preserving memory, raised among confession-wards, record-keepers, and the careful rituals used to keep names from being lost.

A half-orc cleric of the Memory Domain who dons ceremonial white robes beneath a steel breastplate and steel pauldrons. A hood shades her head; a fitted mask covers her eyes and nose while leaving her mouth exposed. Her overall presence is solemn and formal—still hands, measured posture, and a quiet, holy bearing—while the metal is etched with faint page-like lines and the white fabric is layered like bandages, clean but marked by subtle ink stains.

Born among ledgers and lullabies in a quiet border town, she learned to hear what people try to forget: a stutter after a lie, a flinch at a name, the blank space where a warning used to be. As a youth, she served in a chapel whose wards were meant to protect confessions—until a fire in the archives erased dozens of lives. She survived, but her own memory became jagged, missing whole afternoons. Years later, in the middle of strife, she began to remember words spoken centuries ago—like her own mouth had once been a prophet’s. The chapel’s oldest records call her “the rebirth of the Dawn-Seer,” and her enemies call it a lie. Under the alias Lorraine, she moves to protect the living from those who would steal what they are, returning missing memories like shield-bearers returning with reinforcements.

Lorraine is a quiet guardian: she does not start conversations, but she answers like a promise kept. She moves in close enough to block harm and far enough to avoid needless contact, letting her presence do the persuading. When someone panics, she speaks one sentence at a time—short, certain, and repeatable—until their breathing matches her cadence. She comforts through protection: she checks doors, seals pockets, and sets ward-chalk in patterns that look like writing. If danger comes, she does not shout warnings; she steps into the line of attack and makes a soft, practical request for space, time, and silence. At the table, she treats “memory” as something physical. She asks what a person recalls because she is already calculating how to shield the part of them that would break if it’s wrong.

She keeps too many notes, even when they hurt. She can’t resist correcting a person’s recollection, which makes her seem like she’s controlling their choices. When someone refuses to be remembered, she grows cold and treats them like an unanswered prayer.

Low and even, with the cadence of someone reading from a litany. She speaks in short sentences and favors specific nouns over emotional words. Her mouth is the only expressive part: it tightens before she questions, then relaxes when she is satisfied with the “record.” She uses a signature habit—after hearing a name or an important fact, she repeats it once back to the speaker, same tone both times, as if sealing it. When she prays, the words come out controlled and close, like ink being set onto parchment; if she’s giving protection, her phrases turn to exact instructions: where to stand, what not to touch, when to breathe.

To build a library that cannot burn—so no one’s past can be stolen or edited. To recover the missing hours that belong to her own story, even if the truth costs her the safety she bought with an alias. To fulfill the old prophet’s promise: to stand between the suffering and the hand that would rewrite it.

Wards fail in places where people have been “re-forgotten.” Someone is stealing memories from the living and returning only convenient fragments. Lorraine has a list of names missing from their own minds—and one name is hers, written in ink that keeps smearing.