For as long as you can remember, you have wanted to be a warrior, a soldier, a knight – anything like that! You have spent many years practicing swordplay and archery in your spare time, but were always too young to sign up for the militia when recruits were needed. Your father, a mild mannered shop keeper, has forbidden you to leave the town on military duty. It seems as though your dreams aren’t meant to be.
One day, a
trade caravan comes to town. Your father is busy haggling with the merchants and asks you to step over to the caravan and unload some goods he has purchased. As you walk towards the gathering of carts, you notice a gruff-looking
band of mercenaries that have been following and defending the caravan. Sneaking out of your father’s view, you speak with the one that seems to be their leader. He is older than the rest, and sports a thick and pointy mustache.
“A little small for a mercenary, aren’t you?” asks the mustachioed man. His face conveys very little emotion, and you are not sure if he is agitated, amused, or interested in hiring you. Another, younger, mercenary steps forward- and smiles at you briefly. He interrupts the leader:
“How ‘bout we settle this with a quick little duel? I’ll fight the lass and if she isn’t bluffing about her skills, why shouldn’t we take her? We have been a few hands short since, well, you remember…” As his sentence trails off, the leader grits his teeth. He ponders in silence for a minute before responding.
“Sure, but make it quick. Time is money to those traders, and if we keep them holed up in this dead-end town too long they’re gonna whine about it all the way to
Ferron city!”. The younger mercenary throws a practice sword to you – you fumble it in your hands, but at least you don’t drop it.
The two of you lock eyes and begin dueling. It seems obvious to you that he is holding back on his swings, but the wooden sword still stings as it strikes your wrist, your collarbone, and then your ribs. You cannot get any hits past his defense, but you defend yourself long enough to gain an approving grunt from the mercenary leader.
“That’s good enough. We’ll take you along, just until our next trading stop. If you don’t run off by then, you might just be worth keeping as a permanent hire…” The leader chuckles to himself. “Just know what you are getting into – there are terrible people out there. They would slit your throat just to steal the boots off your feet. Depraved,
starved, lawless souls.”
Nervously, you sneak back into your house and gather your belongings. A note left for your father reads nothing more than ‘Gone to fight, I will come back. Some day.’ A little dramatic, but you don’t have time to write anything better. It’s probably for the best, anyway. If your father knew where you were headed he would drag you back to town and then you’d REALLY never leave.
After you’ve left town, the caravan guards seem to relax. The road is their home, and you think that you’d like to make it yours too. The leader introduces himself as
Jorin, and tells you he has lead the guards of this caravan for nearly 7 years. He knows where to expect bandits and highwaymen, and the best tactics for taking care of them. The young man introduces himself as
Ardan. He has only been following the caravan for a few months, but trained as a professional soldier under one of the land’s knights. With a warm smile, he promises to teach you a few tricks to let you use your shield as a weapon.
Dinner is dried fish and… bread. Still fresh from the ovens of your hometown. It makes you feel a little homesick. You have trouble sleeping, but eventually drift off and dream of becoming a warrior of legend. People who’ve never even met you will sing songs of your journey and your feats!
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loginArdan,
yourself, and
Jorin. What the heck is your name, anyway?
