Tales From Moran

Ivanoff, the, petty criminal, veteran of the Moran wars, who spends most of his time too drunk to remember his last thought
Yasmine, his daughter, the illegitimate child of a princess, brutal, cold, and very near evil
Kristoff, the orphan, not knowing how he wound up with these two, and yet fitting in well enough, always distrusting, always on guard, no room for mercy.
The basement of an abandoned building, where the only furniture is a trio of straw sacks, a pair of stools, and an old, rickety table.
These are not heroes. These are not saviors. They are not good.
But something does shine through.
Something almost buried under hostility, under glares and curses.
Something one cannot see unless they observe, closely and carefully.
These are not heroes.
But they are not yet villains.
They have time.
They have each other.
They have a chance.