Dunamin
First Post
Woe puts his hand on the doorknob and… hesitates. He casts a glance back at his companions with a look of deep contemplation.
“Perhaps this isn’t right, fellas. Perhaps we should reconsider this whole thing, our perspective of life, our approach to conflict and strife.”
He lets go of the handle and faces the group resolutely.
“We could change. We could abandon this glorified errand-running and bounty-hunting business that the common folks call “adventuring”. We could leave it all behind, repent our ways, and take up honest and simple trades.”
“I could become a monk, live a life of internal reflection and discipline my mind as well as my body. Tander could become a scribe and teach the homeless children to read and write, Atreus could take up farming and work the fields. Palindrome could start an orphanage.”
“Think about, fellas. Life is precious...”
Woe’s throat begins to run dry. With well-practiced routine he searches his pack for a sealed tankard of ale, opens it up and downs it all in one go.
He sighs in satisfaction. The usual smug smile is back on his face.
“On second thought, I’m dirt broke and all too sober. Let’s go make somebody bleed.”
Woe flings the tankard over his shoulder and kicks the door off its hinges.
“Perhaps this isn’t right, fellas. Perhaps we should reconsider this whole thing, our perspective of life, our approach to conflict and strife.”
He lets go of the handle and faces the group resolutely.
“We could change. We could abandon this glorified errand-running and bounty-hunting business that the common folks call “adventuring”. We could leave it all behind, repent our ways, and take up honest and simple trades.”
“I could become a monk, live a life of internal reflection and discipline my mind as well as my body. Tander could become a scribe and teach the homeless children to read and write, Atreus could take up farming and work the fields. Palindrome could start an orphanage.”
“Think about, fellas. Life is precious...”
Woe’s throat begins to run dry. With well-practiced routine he searches his pack for a sealed tankard of ale, opens it up and downs it all in one go.
He sighs in satisfaction. The usual smug smile is back on his face.
“On second thought, I’m dirt broke and all too sober. Let’s go make somebody bleed.”
Woe flings the tankard over his shoulder and kicks the door off its hinges.