You are on the world of Coroleya a land filled with mythical creatures and monsters. There you will fight for your right to exist every single day. Survive and you'll become stronger. Lose and you will die a miserable death like the many creatures...
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The suns came far too early for Gregor, it's brilliant tendrils of light burning through his eyelids, combining with the nauseating stench of vomit and piss to tug him awake.
Groaning, he lifted up an arm to try and block it all and get a few more winks of sleep, but the light seeped right through his fingers to warm his face.
With no other recourse but to get up, he sighed heavily, rubbed his mud encrusted cheek and wearily sat up in the muck and dirt. Memories of last night's drinking replaying through the back of his mind like a hazy dream. He couldn't really remember much of what happened, but he got the distinct impression that he might be in trouble, a feeling all too familiar to him.
Brushing fingers across the back of his jet black hair, he felt a bump, confirming his theory that something bad had definitely gone down, but he had no idea what it could be. Either way it might be a good idea to get out of the town for a little while, before whatever trouble was chasing him caught up.
He checked his pockets to see, if he still had all his possessions on him and found his last two remaining gold pieces and his steel dagger. Not exactly much to live on, but it would have to suffice for now. Besides he'd heard news from the local tavern that a nearby village was looking for hunters to slay prowling silver wolves. Dangerous work, but well worth risk the seeing as he was almost out of gold and needed the money to fill his belly.
He'd been working as a mercenary for close to five years now, and before that he'd been a soldier fighting in the Redling BattleGuard, a military force assembled by King Royan to deal with the Giants, Cyclops, Vampires and Dark mages that had plagued their lands.
Army life being a mostly dull affair, patrolling roads, making sure farmers paid their taxes and the occasional burning down of villages that refused to pay them for military protection. Nothing really serious that'd bring any gold his way. Eventually he'd gotten sick of the screams for mercy and joined a mercenary outfit called the Wingdarts, a dumb name for a mercenary company, but they payed well and there was always plenty of work to be had with them.
With them, he got to hunt down bandits, take on beast contracts, and go on raids to clear out nests filled with monsters. Nothing where he had to deal with people, and their problems. Lately though his luck had soured, first with the botched prison escape and then the loss of cargo to bandits that had snuck up on him from behind to knock him out cold. Both jobs tarnishing his reputation with the Wingdarts who'd kicked him out on his butt. And in a town like this where everyone talked, his only chance of work now was with outsiders.
Tilting his head upwards, he stared up at the four suns blistering above him, before slowly turning his attention to watch the garishly dressed elves, minotaurs and redlings wandering through the streets of Berlem, a few of them shooting him looks of disgust as they passed him by. Clean-faces no doubt wondering why he the hell he was here, and why the town guard hadn't come to arrest him for loitering in the streets like that, but that didn't really matter much to him.
