Forgive me, Father Fury. Forgive me my sins. Forgive that I let those poor whelps that scarcely passed for militiamen die without giving the goblins so much as a flesh wound. Forgive me that I did not slay more of them and die a glorious, blood-drenched death. Allow me to redeem myself in your burning eyes. Redemption through slaughter.
Their timing couldn’t have been better. I was half-mad with boredom when the two strangers strolled into town, garb reeking of long travel, of wanderlust well-sated. I don’t know what brought these two into Shalehart, whether it was the constable’s vaunted bounty or mere happenstance. I don’t rightly care.
A queer company they were; a bronzed half-elf that stank ever so slightly of arcana yet was too well armed to be some wizard’s apprentice, and one of those tree-worshiping wild-folk. I believe they call themselves “druids”. They wasted no time in seeking out the taciturn old constable, Owain. And people say I have a stick up my arse. Pah! Here they come, these two, waltzing into town demanding direction to the local goblin horde, charging off into the woods like two brazen boys drunk on the idea of glory. Naturally, this is where I saw my opportunity.
Redemption through slaughter.
They were quick enough to welcome my company, upon learning of my lust to spill goblin blood and my desire to avenge the two brazen boys. Between the pompous little dwarf and the tight-arsed constable, I couldn’t leave Shalehart quickly enough. Don’t get me wrong; the folks there are honest, hard-working, and generally good sorts, and I am honor-bound to protect them as best I can. Doesn’t mean I have to like them, though, and most of them certainly don’t give me much reason to do so.
Now here I sit in a serene forest on a perfect spring day wiping fresh, black blood off of my axe, my companions painstakingly collecting goblin ears for the coin promised us by stalwart old Owain. Father Fury smiles upon my blade once more. A bloody task lies before us.