Lukan Swane was born to a prostitute in the slums of New Stetven. His mother, Maribel Swane was a favorite of a Rostland swordlord that frequented the establishment under hood of cloak, and it was his seed that was planted in Maribel's womb. Although Maribel had other ‘suitors’ she knew who’s child she carried. She was torn, unable to decide whether to keep this child or abort it like all the rest. Being pregnant hurt business, but this was a child of a prince. It’s one thing to stifle the blood line of a commoner, but an entirely different matter to stifle a royal bloodline. One night as she was once again visited by the lord, she stole his signet ring. She knew no one would believe she carried his child, but at least she could give her child some hope, some symbol of his lineage.
Maribel continued her work until her pregnancy began to show. Saving what coin she could, she set out to Restov in hopes to start anew, find a husband, and raise her prince. She accomplished all that she set forth and married a local guard. He raised Lukan as his own, teaching him the ways of the sword and shield. Lukan’s childhood was a normal, save one small whisper. A whisper that continued to be heard in his ear anytime he was alone with his mother. “You are a prince. It is your destiny to rise up in glory.”
All it took were these whispers for Lukan to truly believe his birthright. He practiced hard and long with his father, for he knew he stood no chance in politics, the clergy, arcane studies, or even mercantile endeavors. He knew his body was strong and willing to fight. Honor, prestige, and glory would be his, through feats of strength and combat. There was only one place he could accomplish this within his homelands. That was with Restov’s ninth regiment.
The ninth regiment was renowned for its exploits in the stolen lands. Many of its commanders had begun as mere foot soldiers elevated to that position through countless battles. Battles that ended the lives of many less-hardened men, and weaker commanders sent from elsewhere. For the men in the ninth, life is short, but glorious. A few of the ninth’s commanders that have survived were often elevated in position to serve Rostland's swordlords. This was Lukan’s goal.
On his sixteenth birthday, he was easily sworn into the ranks of the ninth. Volunteers are rare. The ninth finds many of its bodies through conscription. Volunteering to serve in the ninth brings great glory, but it leaves many questioning the volunteer’s sanity. Courage and insanity share many things in common, but Lukan is far from insane. Donning the crimson scarf of the ninth, he courageously fought many bandits and monsters - defending his home with honor. That was until the ninth was sent on a fool’s errand.
It was the ninth that showed the Restov sword lords that the stolen lands would be too costly to settle. The ninth regiment was sent to secure a small area west of the East Sellen River. It was here where they were slaughtered by the bandit lord of Pitax and his ‘armies.’ Only Swaney, as he had been nicknamed by his comrades in arms, and a handful of the ninth survived. Although badly injured, Lukan and what had become ‘his’ men of the ninth returned to New Stetven and informed the Rostland's swordlords what had happened. Three hundred men, men of the ninth, had been slaughtered. Lukan was given an honorable discharge from the ninth and received a commander’s reinforced crimson scarf for his gallantry in arms. His men were afforded the same. The ninth was never reformed.
Lukan returned to Restov empty handed. His dreams for glory were shattered. The ninth was his only chance. He joined his father as a city guard and watched his mother fall apart. Two years went by painfully slow as Lukan’s mother health faded. It seemed as if her dreams of seeing her son rise to glory were the only thing keeping the blood moving in her veins and as the dreams began to fade, so did the blood from her face. She died two years after the ninth’s defeat.
Swaney, as his comrades called him, continued to wear his crimson scarf while serving in the city guard. It was only a semblance of the glory he once had. He was 22 and a respected city guardsman with aspirations to the captain of the guard when he received the charter to journey into the stolen lands and serve the swordlords of Rostland. It was his second chance, a chance that could not be turned away.