📜 Lore Entry: Drekin Cœur de Leon — The Lion Who Left the Hall

📜 Lore Entry: Drekin Cœur de Leon — The Lion Who Left the Hall

Aliases: Lion of the North, The Dragon Who Walks Like a Lion, The Lion Who Left the Hall Class: Warrior Origin: House Cœur de Leon, Caer Cœur (north of LaMut) Alignment: Neutral Good (with shades of principled defiance) Known For: Training village militias, refusing court summons, surviving the Frostmarch Siege, and walking away from nobility without scandal or bloodshed.

I. The Weight of the Crest

Drekin was born beneath the stone arches of Caer Cœur, a northern estate nestled in the foothills above LaMut. House Cœur de Leon was a minor noble line—respected for its martial tradition, feared for its cold pragmatism. Their holdings included several satellite villages, including Bran’s Hollow, a small settlement tucked into a wooded ravine. Technically under their protection. Politically expendable.

His father, Lord Alaric, was a man of measured words and ceremonial pride. His mother, Lady Serel, a scholar of Midkemian history, often found tracing bloodlines and border disputes with equal precision.

From a young age, Drekin was taught the tenets of nobility: restraint, rhetoric, and readiness. He excelled in swordplay, diplomacy, and the art of silence. But even as a boy, he asked questions that made the stewards uncomfortable.

“Why do we send letters instead of riders?” “Why do we host feasts while the North starves?” “Why do we speak of honor but never act on it?”

His tutors praised his discipline but warned him of “idealism unbecoming of a future lord.”

II. The First Fracture

At age ten, Drekin watched messengers arrive from Bran’s Hollow. The village had been struck by moredhel raiders. Survivors begged for aid.

His father refused.

“We protect what matters,” Lord Alaric said. “And Bran’s Hollow does not.”

Drekin had no power to intervene. But he remembered the silence. The smoke on the horizon. The way the guards turned their backs.

Among the survivors was a woman named Ressa, pregnant from the assault. Her child—Tori—would be born into the aftermath Drekin could never forget.

III. The Catalyst

Years passed. Drekin trained in Romney, earned rank, returned with maps, conviction, and the quiet fire of someone who hadn’t forgotten.

Then the second raid came.

Bran’s Hollow again—this time worse. Glamredhel warbands swept through the ravine with fire and steel. The village sent word. Pleaded for aid. House Cœur de Leon met in council.

They did not debate logistics. They debated optics.

“We cannot be seen acting without royal directive,” said Sir Vellian, a cousin and court advisor. “To do so would risk our standing.”

“Bran’s Hollow is ours,” Drekin said. “By charter. By oath.”

“It is not our responsibility,” Vellian replied. “Not without precedent. Not without protection.”

“We don’t need permission to do what’s right.”

“We need protection from what’s foolish.”

“Then this house is protected. But it is no longer noble.”

That night, Drekin packed his gear, stripped his crest from his cloak, and rode north beneath the moonlight.

This time, he arrived in time.

He fought alongside farmers with rusted pitchforks. Led barricades through alleyways. Held the line at the mill bridge until the glamredhel broke and scattered. His blade was steady. His orders were clear. And when the smoke cleared, Bran’s Hollow still stood.

Among the survivors was a girl with berry-stained fingers and a cloak full of pockets. She didn’t speak to him. But she saw him. Heard the name whispered. “The lion came.”

Drekin didn’t stay for thanks. He stayed long enough to bury the dead, mend the wounded, and leave behind what his house refused to give.

Then he walked away—not just from the battlefield, but from the hall that had failed it twice.

IV. The Farewell

Before leaving Caer Cœur for good, Drekin visited the estate’s stables, where Mira, a longtime servant and childhood confidante, was tending to the horses. She looked up as he approached, her eyes already wet.

“You’re really going, then?”

Drekin nodded. “They’ve made their choice. Now I make mine.”

Mira stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm.

“You were always the lion, Dre. Not because of the crest. Because you never looked away.”

He smiled faintly. “I’ll be back. Not for the hall. For the people.”

She handed him a satchel—her own stitching, filled with dried herbs, bandages, and a small carved token of a lion’s head.

“Then go. And make them remember what a Cœur de Leon was meant to be.”

V. Aftermath

Drekin never renounced his name—but he never used it in court again. He became known as The Lion Who Left the Hall, a warrior who trained village militias, defended border towns, and refused to play politics while lives hung in the balance.

Rumors say he once turned down a knighthood. Others say he was offered command of a royal battalion and declined, choosing instead to remain among the people.

He travels light, speaks little of his past, and carries a blade etched with the words: Honor is action.

VI. Legacy

To nobles, Drekin is a cautionary tale—a man who let principle outweigh pragmatism. To the Northlands, he is a legend. Children in Bran’s Hollow still carve lion tokens and whisper stories of the man who came when no one else did. And somewhere in Caer Cœur, Mira still keeps a candle lit in the stables. Just in case.