Olwyn was born with music dancing in his bones. As far back as anyone could remember, his hands cradled a lute that lay across his back as he wandered the land. He could coax coins from even the stingiest merchants, and kisses and more from the women for whom he wrote his songs. But a man cannot live on charity alone. His angelic voice and heartfelt lyrics drew any who drew near closer still
And while they leaned in, Olwyn’s fingers worked.
He never stole from those who tossed a coin or two into his upturned hat, but those who listened freely, who took without giving, his magic fingers teased coins hust the same. With the grace of a snake in calm water, he slid rings from fingers, purses from belts, diamond hair combs or pins rocked loose by the sway of a dance. His touch was so swift and so soft, most of his targets only realized their loss when Olywyn was well down the next road.
His world was the road laid at his feet. His world one of music, mischief, and the quiet satisfaction of balancing the scales in his own small way.
One night, at the foot of the Queen's castle, his world came crashing down.
In the lower market, along the edge of the castle wall, Olwyn filled the air with his sweet voice. A crowd gathered, swaying and laughing and clapping in turn as Olwyn grinned around the lyrics, bathed in the golden lamp light.
Merchants and servants stood side by side with nobles risking the slums for an evening of thrills. A knot of the Queen's guards elbowed their way through the gathering, eyes bleary with drink, feet stepping and stomping as Olwyn raised the tempo. They jeered and catcalled, shoving and pushing as ale sloshed from their cups. The crowd stepped back, and with them, Olwyn's chance for a hot meal, warm bed and pretty companion.
Frustrated, and hungry, Olwyn played too boldly, and too close to one of the inebriated guards.
The man felt the tug at his belt.
Olwyn didn't even get a chance to run.
The guards dragged him into an alley, and his world became a storm of fists, boots, and pain. The knights beat him until his vision went white, then grey, then his world faded to nothing at all. When their rage was spent, the guard tossed Olwyn's limp form in the gutter. As the guards turned their back, the Queen's mark broad and bold across their backs, the rain began to fall.
Olwyn's mouth filled with water, his nose slipping beneath the surface, one last breathe before -
A pair of strong arms lifted him from the filth. A deep voice—rough, steady, unexpectedly gentle—broke through the numb space between his mind and his soul. "Hold on, sir. Just hold on."
Studs found him, another in a long line of wounded animals to care for and heal. The gentle giant carried Olwyn through the forest and over the Seven Hills, all the way to the their house in the trees. Under the instructions of Belden, Studs tended to him, and brought Olwyn back through fever and delirium.
When Olwyn finally woke, something inside him had changed.
His gentleness remained, the music building in is bones desperate to get out, but something was wrong. His soul had grown an edge—sharp, bright, and unbreakable. He picked up his lute with trembling hands and composed a song about the guards who had left him for dead. It was scathing, clever, and wickedly funny, immortalizing their cruelty and incompetence with poetic precision. He sang of their bluster, their vanity, their fragile pride, and the way power makes small men feel large.
The Thieves howled with laughter, welcoming a new brother into the fold. Olwyn looked around and felt the urge to move on ease into something more important - the loyalty of a new family and the cold yearning for revenge.
Olwyn vowed then that he would steal from anyone who wielded power without honour. He would lift every coin, jewel, and secret he could from nobles, courtiers, and knights. The need for revenge tore at him, at such odds with his nature until it all came clear. He was not interested in spite. His need was for justice, for balancing the unbalanced, for righting the wrong of any soul dented at the hand of the Queen.
And where his hands could not go, his songs would. He knew the power of song. Blades can would deeply, but only till death. A song can change history, and echo through through time, celebrating or condeming the subject with a carefully crafted verse.
The theives welcomed the gifts and missions of their new brother, and in his honour, they began to plan their next heist.
The theives welcomed the gifts and missions of their new brother, and in his honour, they began to plan their next heist.
***
I hope you enjoyed this origin story lore drop about Olwyn, one of Snow White's Seven Thieves. To read the whole story, check out the links below.
With Love,
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Check out her books:
Snow White and the Wicked Queen: Chapter 1
Snow White and the Vicious Curse: Chapter 2
Snow White and the Seven Thieves: Chapter 3
Snow White and the Poisoned Apple: The Final Chapter
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