You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
"Aye. I can do that." mutters Rickard.
"Well, what is there to know? My father and mother come from these parts 'round here."
"The Kingdom of Hanseti-Ruska"
"Aye." says Rickard, proudly.
"The two things I was taught growing up were love of Godan and love of the Koeng. Mother and father were both strict Canonists and naturally they brought me up the same. Father had also served in the Brotherhood of Saint Karl. I think that's where the love of the king came from. He left after about only four years. Never told me why. But he went back to farming and working the land."
"So you grew up farming."
"You could say that..." Rickard said, "...you could also say that I grew up worked to the bone to keep the family from starving. That's the Highlander way: duty, work, and honor. That's what we have."
"So how'd you end up here?" asked the old woman.
Rickard pauses. "Well, father died about two years ago. Mother is still around but she's with my three brothers. I'm passing through for the moment to consider enlisting in the Brotherhood. Who knows if they'll need me? If not, will simply go home and carry on with the old work there."
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