The combined light show of the full moon and the uncountable flurry of stars lit up the empty clearing which surrounded the city of Stormfront. The towering walls and guards roaming their stations reminded our young adventurous hero of worker ants protecting their nest. Who is this mysterious, strapping young lad, you may ask? Aragon Vanirr, a recently christened ogre from the Ghov tribe. Raised on a steady diet of adventure and legends, Aragon wanted nothing more than the respect (and resulting power) from his elders. He wanted to be the next Odysseus, his name forever imprinted in the texts of old and new! But that would have to wait.
Aragon was stationed on a grassy hillside to the north of Arach. His fire, hidden by the treeline, crackled and jumped as he checked over his marked, hand-drawn map of the interior of the fortress. He wondered to himself what possible scenarios could happen. What happens if he gets shot by an archer? What if he finds himself in an inescapable bind? To become a hero he must live through his harrowing tale, right?
As the day broke he looked over at the castle.
"I'm looking for a bounty," he said, as if addressing the people of Stormfront themselves.
"And that bounty is Erin Whitefang, the true leader of the barbarians."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
He slowly approached the gates to the city. He hoped maybe the guards wouldn't notice him from up in their watchtowers of brick and mortar. The walls of the city gleamed, with sandy tan sheets of rock making up the bulk of it. Luckily the watch guards didn't notice---but the interior guards certainly did.
"'ey, you there! Green skin! What's your business 'ere in the Capitol?"
His accent was thicker than his skull, and you tried stuttering out an answer, but words escaped you. So you grabbed the guards by their collars and slammed them together like children's toys. You rushed off, looking for the chamber where they kept Erin. A horn sounded and guards flooded the market square. Your short blades wouldn't be able to take them down all at once, so you reached for your best weapon, which was strapped to your back. It was a long carved tree branch; almost curved, with a beautiful blue cloth wrapped around the slim end for a grip. The thick end of the branch was covered in tree knots, which had small steel buttons in them to maximize pain. He sweeped soldiers off their feet; he picked up a poor private off the ground, and stabbed him through the chest with his own sword.
After the carnage, you found yourself in the dungeon. You could hear the sound of someone tensing up as you neared a bolted cell with a plaque next to it:
'The holding cell of Erin Whitefang, the first living war trophy. Keep alive at all costs.'
