Mathis Brand was born in a small village on the outskirts of the Archduchy of Alba, not far from the township of Elizabeth. His father, Willem, was a miller - not a serf, but not truly free either. He ground grain for nobles, paid his rent, paid his tithe, and asked no questions. Until one day he did. An imperial tax collector came through the village, and Willem quietly questioned why the rate had gone uo. Days later, the mill was sealed. He died two winters after, sick and without work. Mathis was twelve. His mother, Eska, kept them alive through needlework and mending. It was from here that Mathis learned his trade. Stitching leather, repairing boots and saddles, fixing what others had worn through. At seventeen he left, not out of ambition, but because staying felt like waiting for the same fate. He has been wandering the roads of the Empire since, taking work where he finds it, trusting few, and keeping his head down.
It is late afternoon when Mathis arrives at the gates of a small village. The guards wave him through without much interest. Just another traveller. But something feels off. The market square, usually the beating heart of any settlement, is nearly empty. A few villagers hurry past with their heads down, avoiding eye contact. Then he notices it: a body, covered with a rough cloth, lying at the foot of the village well. A woman nearby is weeping quietly. Nobody seems to be doing anyhting about it.
Mathis stands there, trying to comprehend what his eyes are witnessing. He tries to take a step forward, but his leg pulls back to where it was, and he is glued to the spot for the next minute, unable able to move - not even his eyelids. The only thing that drags him out of this paralysis is a sensation that subtly crawls through his body. It starts with a pinch, like a the tiny needle that stabbed his finger when is mother thought him to sew. It grows into something warmer, as he watches the poor woman weep. And it shattes the moment she pulls back the cloth: A man roughly her age. Mathis had felt this exact sensation before - the day he found his father. He knew it all along, which is why his body refused to move.
He cannot help. There were too many thoughts, too many feelings, and too many people around him. But he takes a slow breath, made the same step as before, and finally moves. As he walks past them, he did not look down - but his hand opens quietly at his side, and a crumpled piece of paper falls to the ground.
He had seen the expression in the woman's eyes before. The same one his mother wore the day his father died - a look of helplessness and a rage that had nowhere to go. He did not know this woman's story. But he recognised that look the way you recognise a scar.
The piece of paper was crumpled and worn at the edges, as if it had been carried for a long time - too long for something meant to be thrown away, not long enough to have been forgotten. On it, in careful but unpracticed handwriting, was a single sentence:
QuoteThe mill on Brennan's Road does not grind for the miller.
It meant nothing to most. A phrase heard once in a tavern, passed between two men who thought no one was listening. Mathis had written it down that night, not knowing why. He had carried it ever since, the way a man carries something he does not yet understand but cannot bring himself to leave behind.
He did not look back as he walked away.
((Upon reading the scenario, I felt inspired to write my own in order to give a more authentic portrayal of my character Mathis and how he would react to a situation. I hope this demonstrates my understanding of third person narrative, character-driven roleplay, and exposition. If a response to the original scenario is required, I am happy to provide one.))
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