Role

Chapter 2

As I said before, life was much simpler in the woods. On an ill-fated day, my
father bid me to journey for the first time alone to Galadon to sell our
pelts and bone knives. I had made the journey countless times with my father,
and everything seemed as it should have been.

But when I arrived, Galadon was in tumult. As I approached the leatherer's
shop, something seemed amiss. The smell of burning flesh came from within the
store, and smoke slowly seeped from under the shingles of the roof. Glancing
within, a wicked dark elf had flayed the leatherer open on his counter, and
was lighting the place on fire with glee. Rizdyn, the Nightreaver's name was,
darted into the alley as guards from around the town were yelling of the
assault of the ranger Yualiss. Both of these were known criminals with
posters about town. Yet other unknown vagabonds, like the shaman Bergern were
assaulting citizens with no recourse since no Magistrates were present.

I could do little but stand there and bear witness to the pandemonium.

Shopkeeper's barred their doors, and the citizens moved inside. Unable to
sell my wares, I had little recourse but to return to Aldevari. But the
grizzly scene did not at the gates, in fact it grew worse the further east I
traveled. First, it was the corpses of patrolmen, but that was almost to be
expected with the murderous reputation of those in Galadon. But, unexpected
was the tipped carts strewn about by vegetables, and the still warm corpses
of the farmers who so painstakingly grew them.

As I entered the trees to Aldevari, the trees were marred with blood as well.
Worried, I made haste to my father's hut. As if made into some sort of
grotesque sculpture, my father laid cold in his entrails, strewn about him
into the shape of some tree. In the midst of his splayed open abdomen was an
unusual, sharp seed, surely a criminals grotesque call sign.
As I entered the trees to Aldevari, the trees were marred with blood as well.
Worried, I made haste to my father's hut. As if made into some sort of
grotesque sculpture, my father laid cold in his entrails, strewn about him
into the shape of some tree. In the midst of his splayed open abdomen was an
unusual, sharp seed, surely a criminals grotesque call sign.