There was no warning...no time...you were completely unprepared.
They came from nowhere, with no reason, and once they were gone, there was nothing left.
Outlaws, some say, grown strong and bold with the nearest nobels gone in the crusades. Maurading Welshmen across the border say others. A knight who wants the land, the French, king's men, Saracens, faery demons and no men at all...no one knows who they were or why they came. They came in the night and decimated a town already halved in size from a recent plague.
They had you at their mercy, and half the town was in flames before you could even attempt to organize and fight back. But in amongst the flames and smoke, the yelling murderers and screams of wounded dying friends, Gareth Thrompson rallied you to himself. Without him, it is doubtful you would have survived. Without him, there would have been no hope when the attackers returned a second time.
They had you at their mercy, and half the town was in flames before you could even attempt to organize and fight back. But in amongst the flames and smoke, the yelling murderers and screams of wounded dying friends, Gareth Thrompson rallied you to himself. Without him, it is doubtful you would have survived. Without him, there would have been no hope when the attackers returned a second time.
Stretton is gone.
Guild halls and homes are merely piles of charred timber. Many of your neighbors and friends have left, but you have remained.
For some of you, there was nowhere else to go, no one else to join. For others, you have lived your live in Stretton and refuse to imagine a life beyond these well worn roads. And for some, you fear the uncertainty of remaining - but even more you fear the danger and loneliness of the road.
On the advice of Gareth, you have abandoned the burnt out town and fortified yourself at the inn, The Black Plowe. A camp of sorts has sprung up around the comfortingly solid stone building and if it weren't for the constant fear of a second attack, the atmosphere would be almost that of a faire. Recently constructed fortifications, the smell of smoke, and freshly dug graves are an all too sobering reminder of last night's violence.
On the advice of Gareth, you have abandoned the burnt out town and fortified yourself at the inn, The Black Plowe. A camp of sorts has sprung up around the comfortingly solid stone building and if it weren't for the constant fear of a second attack, the atmosphere would be almost that of a faire. Recently constructed fortifications, the smell of smoke, and freshly dug graves are an all too sobering reminder of last night's violence.
