This takes place five years in the future, February 23, 313 A.C, where a longstanding rouge has settled away from his life of crime within Regalia. Though his past has inevitably haunted him, causing him to settle, now older, and with a family within the forests of Osteiermark. All dues were settled on this day.
↔
↔
↔
↔
The children ran rampant with their imaginations by the creek, clashing sticks together as they embodied the fantasy-driven knights of old. Though, their amusement was short-lived as the trotting of horses clouded the atmosphere, stomping through the muddy surroundings that enveloped the rich soil. Soon, they were running home, through the fields of wheat and broken trails that stemmed from their cabin-like home, soft footprints left behind them as the unfamiliar sounds of horses intruded on their family's land. Something that never had happened before.
Once entering the vicinity of the home, the boys rushed to the porch where their father rested, light silver streaks within his light brown hair which were highlighted through the sunlight that just barely made it through the thick brush of the treetops overhead. The man was leaned over, his left hand placed down flat on the table, and his right twisting at small screwdriver, tweaking as his left brass mechanical fingers that were plagued with rust, telling of the age. The man waited, hearing his children banter on nonsensical words in their excitement of the troupe of horses that were well on their way up the trail. One simple statement left his mouth after a few long-awaited moments.
"Get inside, find your mother." he ushered out under his hoarse breath, and his children quickly obliged with obedience as they ran inside to find their mother, the wooden door closing behind them which was subsequently locked by the children's mom. It seemed to follow some sort of taught protocol, a mentally instilled routine.
The middle-aged father let off a guttural hum at his children left his company, gaze flicking up toward the group of men that now ambled forth through the trail that led to his home. He reached up, behind his head to unclip the aged leather eye-patch that held the sigil of a golden-engraved unionist eye over it. Something it wouldn't seem likely for him to be able to own, given his occupation, nevertheless, he settled the piece aside on the small table that sat in front of him. Stepping down from the porch, the scar over his right, greyed eye, told of a horrendous punishment that was often hidden from his children. He folded out a match from his pocket, and a sigg, placing it between his lips as he lit the match against the bottom of his boot, holding the flame to the sigg as he craned his head left, waiting as the men encroached upon him.
Once entering the vicinity of the home, the boys rushed to the porch where their father rested, light silver streaks within his light brown hair which were highlighted through the sunlight that just barely made it through the thick brush of the treetops overhead. The man was leaned over, his left hand placed down flat on the table, and his right twisting at small screwdriver, tweaking as his left brass mechanical fingers that were plagued with rust, telling of the age. The man waited, hearing his children banter on nonsensical words in their excitement of the troupe of horses that were well on their way up the trail. One simple statement left his mouth after a few long-awaited moments.
"Get inside, find your mother." he ushered out under his hoarse breath, and his children quickly obliged with obedience as they ran inside to find their mother, the wooden door closing behind them which was subsequently locked by the children's mom. It seemed to follow some sort of taught protocol, a mentally instilled routine.
The middle-aged father let off a guttural hum at his children left his company, gaze flicking up toward the group of men that now ambled forth through the trail that led to his home. He reached up, behind his head to unclip the aged leather eye-patch that held the sigil of a golden-engraved unionist eye over it. Something it wouldn't seem likely for him to be able to own, given his occupation, nevertheless, he settled the piece aside on the small table that sat in front of him. Stepping down from the porch, the scar over his right, greyed eye, told of a horrendous punishment that was often hidden from his children. He folded out a match from his pocket, and a sigg, placing it between his lips as he lit the match against the bottom of his boot, holding the flame to the sigg as he craned his head left, waiting as the men encroached upon him.
↔
↔
The men, all adorned in cut-throat like wear, the majority with steel helmets and leather gambeson the owner of the land noted, his one eye steadily looming over them as he pulled the sigg from his mouth, exhaling a large plume of smoke through his nostrils as he extended his calloused hands out to either side of himself. He spoke out in a heavy Highland accent "To what great /pleasure/ do I owe this company to?" he asked, calling out amongst the crowd. After a long pause, one horseman came to the front of the company, his gaze set upon the Highlander as he spoke out "I still have business with you, Dead Man."
···
Any wanderer who ventured through the forests of Osteiermark and came across the foregone farm burned to the ground. Completely empty, though outside the porch, settled on the beaten-down path was a strange burial. Piles of rocks, and in the middle, a single dagger- the handle stemming out from the rock formation. Though there was no name left behind, no scent of the man that was buried. He would be forgotten.
You're free to post character responses to this, remember this is about five years in the future. Rumors would spur around the underbellies of cities and whatnot.
