shivershiver

A Tale of Owls and Wolves (Casual Version)

Appearance: Merek cuts a pretty average figure, standing at 6’2 and weighing roughly 200 pounds.

@shivershiver

I think I will make Bram rather tall at 6'2" because why the heck not.

@Avanhelsing

PLAGIARIST

A Tale of Owls and Wolves (Casual Version)

@Rithy WOAH! That's some seriously impressive artwork! How long did that take?

A Tale of Owls and Wolves (Casual Version)

@GrizzTheMauler Hey now, he's only drunk some of the time! But Ferox may have to herd him around every once in a while :D

A Tale of Owls and Wolves (Casual Version)

Sir Merek

Sir Merek the Brave, Baron of Ashenfield, Champion of Armond, Guardian of the People, Slayer of Dragons, the Destroyer of Urak, Sentinel of the King, The Defiant One, Hero of Baker's Bay, Lord of the Dance, Master of. . .

Let's Drink!

Name: Merek

Continent of Birth: Carthian

Race: Human

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Age: 32

Appearance: Merek cuts a somewhat-but-not-really average figure, standing at 6’0 and weighing roughly 200 pounds. His muscles bulge slightly, but fail to achieve any level of strong definition, a thin layer of persistent fat preventing him from looking lean thanks to his love for mead. No potbelly, but certainly no 6-pack. Much of his tanned skin is marred with a variety of scars from his less fortunate days, though a collection of fresh cuts cover his face from a recent scuffle, likely to scar. Merek's wavy, swept-back brown hair is never extends beyond his ears and he tries his best to stay clean-shaven to accentuate his and strong jaw line and chin. His face is a little long, with a broad forehead and pronounced cheekbone, and a large Roman nose. Merek's eyes are large and dark, usually squinted from grinning or laughing, and are framed by thick eyebrows.

Starting Equipment: Merek carries most gear on his trusty stallion, a great white warhorse he can barely ride named Stormy Weather, or Stormy. In his saddlebags and slung across the beast he carries two modest healing potions, a waterskin of water and another two of wine, a small full coinpurse, his crossbow and bolts, a whetstone, a bedroll and small grey tent bearing his sigil on it. On his person, Merek carries a steel longsword on his hip along with a dagger in his boot, and a spear with a wooden shaft and long steel tip. He typically wears high-quality armor, but he appears to have lost much of it somehow. Merek has a simple red gambeson, chainmail shirt and pants, slightly faded grey trousers, plate boots, a single gauntlet and pauldron, couters, vambraces and a white surcoat with his sigil on the center.

Personality: Arrogant. Merek is just really arrogant. The haughty baron is extremely confident in his abilities, even though he truly isn't skilled in much, just graced with luck by the god Armond. Still, Merek feels as though he is simply great at everything. Philosophy? No problem. Swordplay? Easy. In his mind, there isn't much he can't do. Still, his self-assurance has some merits. He has an extraordinarily positive outlook despite his oftentimes pessimistic sense of humor, and is never afraid to give something his all, the thought of failure never even considered. Despite his comical hubris, Merek can be charming, though often in an overbearing way. His cockiness gives him an air of being almost larger than life, deep voice boasting of his hyperbolic accomplishments in both bed and battle, which may appeal to some. He doesn't often lie, per se, but definitely likes to exaggerate.

Merek doesn't much care for his new title as baron, though he loves to flaunt the others, preferring earned ones over those bestowed, though many of them were "earned" by drunken tavern rowdiness rather than any true feats. The man much prefers the company of simple commoners in a rambunctious bar over royalty in a stuffy great hall, and tends to mock the latter. Merek doesn't like to display his wealth either, placing more value in actions rather than possessions as evident by his rather worn-down gear and clothing. Merek hates being alone, and requires almost constant companionship, be it a lover or simply someone to share a drink with; the more the merrier, in either case. In private, Merek's confidence is slightly toned down and he becomes a little less boastful, one would never call him humble. Merek is terribly quick to trust people and always willing to give second chances, though those that cross him can be sure he'll do his best to slay them.

Cocky • Brave • Generous • Trusting • Ignorant

Strengths:
Drunken Champion: Alcohol has a peculiar effect on the champion of Armond. He is able to draw significant power from drinks depending on the type of alcohol. Wine provides Merek with wit and persuasion at the cost of some of his motor functions, beer and mead make him stronger but even more idiotic, and spirits allow the baron to shrug off heavier blows but cloud his vision severely. To receive these bonuses, Merek must drink enough that it would intoxicate a normal man his size. The bonus lasts for as long as he is intoxicated, which is roughly 4 hours. If he tries to drink enough of each, or more after four hours, however, Merek just gets sloppy drunk, and possibly sick. Afterwards, the positive effect returns to normal, but the negative effect remains for another 6 hours.

Wheelin’ and Dealin’: Merek knows a good deal when he sees one. His time as a merchant, though tainted with bad luck, has given the him a knack for buying and selling goods of all sorts at better prices than most could manage.

Iron Will: Even when his body is broken, Merek’s spirit will never falter. He spent almost his whole life on the down-and-out, but always managed to look on the bright side of life, or at least ignore the bad. Merek is less susceptible to mind spells, intimidation, and torture than the average person.

Folk Hero: Merek’s deeds in Ashenfield haven’t gone unnoticed by the peasants the realm. The tale of “Merek the Brave” slaying the evil baron and breathing life back into the town is known all across the land, and his reputation earns him instant rapport in the household of any peasant; they will go out of their way to help him and his companions, be it friendly advice or safe lodging. However, many nobles are not fond of his actions, calling him “Merek the Fool,” arguably a more accurate title. Royalty tolerate him at best, and become hostile at the most insignificant slight.

Praying Man: Once a day, Merek can pray to the god Armond and receive his blessing. For an hour, Merek is luckier, stronger, and able to absorb heavier blows, but after the hour is up he is very fatigued and noticeably less lucky. The prayer takes little time, maybe half a minute, and requires no sacrifices or paraphernalia.

Read’em and Weep: After years of losing, Merek loves playing card games and emptying others’ pockets. Not just lucky, Merek is a skilled player in all card games, and is quick to pick up any new ones he encounters.

Weaknesses:
Flirtatious: No matter the situation, Merek is always seeking out worthy wenches to bed, a trait that has earned him many scars over his life. He is very susceptible to seduction, and partnered with his inflated ego, it would be very easy to lure the champion into a trap with a little exposed flesh. Merek isn’t particularly picky either; humans, elves, orcs or sirens, he will attempt to sleep with any of them. Some folks even talk of how he tried to seduce a forest troll, but people love to talk.

Novice Combatant: Though he’s been in countless scraps and fights, Merek doesn’t often brawl with trained fighters, and as a result is fairly inexperienced. He’s been training with a sword and spear as of late, and knows enough to get by, but relies heavily on luck alone to win.

Merek the Fool: Though the champion is skilled in a few fields, like whoring, gambling, and bartering, Merek is far from the wisest man in the realm. He can barely read, knows little of formal matters like royalty or lineage, and distrusts magic or mages. Merek travels, or more appropriately wanders, based on his poor intuition and luck alone, relying on his reputation among commoners to make it from place to place. Though he’s travelled far and wide, he hardly remembers the places he’s been or how to get there. His squire, a more worldly and well-traveled man, left Merek, so he is currently rudderless.

Friend? Friend!: Merek is hyper-trusting, putting far too much faith in his natural charisma and ability to persuade. He believes that almost anyone he speaks with are immediately won over by his charm and he puts all his trust into them, especially if they’re a female. Merek knows no strangers and has no enemies, or so he thinks, and this mindset has gotten him into many misadventures.

Head in the Clouds: Merek pays little attention to his surroundings, usually lost in conversation or thought, though his thoughts aren’t particularly revelationary. The champion is much more susceptible to ambushes and traps, as he simply waltzes about, almost believing himself invincible.

Fears:
Merek almost drowned as a young boy while trying to learn how to swim, and is frightened by water. He avoids large bodies whenever possible, and despises sailing. Even crossing bridges over water makes him nervous. Merek fears losing his status as champion of Armond and returning to his life as a normal, terribly unlucky man. Though he isn’t currently in danger of losing Armond’s favor, the thought is always in the back of his mind. Aging scares Merek more than anything else, becoming an old man incapable of doing anything and stuck in his own home, now a prison. Also, snakes. Merek hates snakes and other manner of slithery creatures.

Class: Champion

Brief History: Sir Merek of Ashfield didn’t always live in the fine Ashen Keep with his regal title. No, when he was born, the baron was known as simply known as Merek, a simple peasant and son of a poor wares peddler in a village south of Ardent's Fall. Merek inherited little aside from his parent's terrible misfortune, and he quickly earned the decidedly un-noble epithet “Merek the Unlucky.” He was an average boy, a little dumber than most, but the root of all his woes came from his terrible luck. If there was a sickness plaguing the village, Merek would be the first one to catch it. If a thief slipped into the village, they’d steal everything but the kitchen table from Merek’s home. Though he constantly suffered, the young Merek learned to power through any challenges life threw at him with a smile. After his parent’s early death, Merek slipped out of his village by joining a passing merchant’s caravan, puffing himself up as both a savvy trader and excellent swordsman; the former had some truth to it, but the latter was a complete lie.

Though the scenery changed, Merek's hardships did not. After taking him on, the merchant noticed that he was constantly being hit by bandits, corrupt guards seeking bribes, and missing goods. Merek quickly found himself unemployed, though this time in Ashenfield, a tiny city east of Bear Hill in the nation of Astoria. The town is surrounded by bountiful farmlands, though this wasn't always so. The town earned its name after the War of Splitting Branches, when the whole area, farms, houses and all was burned to the ground and reduced to ash. In a strange twist of fate, the ash fertilized the soil and made the town that rose from the destruction even more prosperous, with crops growing at almost twice the speed. Some even think that the elves left behind some residual magic that makes the food grown there taste even better. The young man traveled the lands, bouncing from job to job, gambling and drinking his money away when he ever had any, but always ended back in Ashenfield. After being fired for the umpteenth time, Merek visited the local tavern to waste his meager severance package on as much mead as he could drink, which wasn’t much; the baron of Ashenfield, Sir Roderik, was harsh on his citizens, taxing them heavily, restricting the flow of alcohol within the city to almost nothing, enacting primae noctis, and executing citizens for the slightest charges. Suddenly, armed guards burst through the door, arresting all occupants of the tavern. Sir Roderik had set forth a new law that day, completely prohibiting the consumption of alcohol for peasants. Merek was taken to the dungeon below Ashenfield Keep and locked in chains along with the others.

Merek wasn’t sure how many days had passed in the dungeon, but one night, a vision came to him in his sleep. A robed, heavy-set man sprawled not-so-elegantly on a floating cloud with a goblet of red wine in his hand and surrounded by coin spoke to him. He said he was Armond, god and patron saint of merchants, gamblers, and drunks. The god explained little, but named Merek as his champion to return wealth to the downtrodden city. When he awoke, the newly crowned champion of Armond found the bolts binding his shackles to the dungeon walls were heavily rusted and shattered with a tug. Merek found the rest of the escape just as easy, with the door unlocked and the guards asleep. He was about to leave Ashenfield for good when he remembered the dream; it was best not to anger the gods. For better or worse, Merek charged into Roderik’s great hall and challenged him to a duel, despite his inexperience with a blade. Seeing this as a good opportunity to show off his prowess before the peasants, the baron accepted.

The duel took place in the town square, Sir Roderik wearing full plate armor and wielding a massive mace and shield, while Merek was armed with nothing but a crude and rusted broadsword. The baron mopped the floor with the peasant, knocking him senseless with blow after blow, intentionally drawing the fight out to make an example of him. Just as Roderik wound up for the killing strike, Merek staggered and tripped on his own feet, falling flat on his face before the baron. He waited for the mace to crush him, but all Merek heard was the clatter of armor as Roderik fell beside him, a rusty sword sticking out of his stomach.

When Merek awoke, he was no longer just a peasant merchant. The laws of the land dictated that the victor of a duel is entitled to all property of the defeated, and with Sir Roderik soundly dead, Merek became baron of Ashenfield, much to the citizen’s joy. As the new ruler, Merek set about striking down all of Roderik’s laws, and the town became a haven for gambling, taverns, and merchants. The peasants loved him, and Merek enjoyed the perks his newfound luck brought. He spent his days travelling, drinking and adventuring, delegating his noble responsibilities to Rolph, his seneschal and a former inn-keeper. Unfortunately, it came to Merek's attention that he had not only inherited Sir Roderik's wealth, but also the great debt the former baron accrued. In danger of losing his keep, Merek set out with his squire, an elderly reformed bandit named Ergon, to make his fortune abroad.

Little behind on the character, but here we are! Looking forward to bumble my way through an adventure.

Forgotten Realms

Any word on the other players @Diexsmiling ?

Forgotten Realms

I threw mah post up! Who needs to study for finals anyway?

Forgotten Realms

“No, no, no, MEREK. M-E-R-E-K. Sir Merek, Baron of Ashenfield. You know, where you get your mead from? Ashenfield Mead? No?”

Though he couldn’t see the guards faces through their closed helms, Sir Merek, Baron of Ashenfield was almost certain these two cretins preventing him from entering the capital were sniggering at him.

“Listen, certainly the King knows I’m here; I sent him a messenger last week. Just go and fetch the King, I’m sure he can clear up this little tax you’re trying to pull out of me.”

Any other lord or lady born into their title would have been clear past the city gates by now, supping in the King’s great hall, but Merek… Well, he didn’t have the authority, nor the coin to negotiate past the two heavily-armored guards. Truthfully, raising some coin was the only reason the baron found himself at the capital gates in the first place. Ashenfield was almost bankrupt after the gluttonous spending of the past baron, and though Merek had claimed his title, he claimed the fiend’s debts as well. Paying a hefty sum to these guards simply wasn’t an option.

“Fine, I don’t have time for this, let me just…” Merek began, reaching into his coinpurse, when he looked up to his right and end exclaimed, wide-eyed,”By the gods, A DRAGON!” The guards scrambled from their positions to get a better view while Merek grabbed his reins and spurred his horse forward. ”Hyah! So long fools!" he shouted as his white stallion galloped through the open portcullis and over the bridge. ”Don’t forget, today’s the day you were bested by Sir Merek!” The ragged baron’s voice trailed off he rode into the heart of the city. The guards shook their heads and turned to the endless line of peasants and merchants who had formed behind him growing restless from the delay.

Sir Merek rode through the city as if he were the king himself, smiling and waving to onlookers. He was met with nods of recognition and cheers, especially in the run-down lower districts filled with average citizens, but as he made his way towards the king’s keep, Merek received more scowls than grins. Still, he was blissfully unaware of the wealthy noblemen and women shaking their fists as his steed trotted along the cobblestone streets. Sir Merek looked quite out of place in the wealthy district, his ragged clothes, missing armor, and cut-up face a sharp contrast to the regal garb and flawless skin of the upper-class citizens of Zespah. Though Merek wasn’t extremely wealthy, he wasn’t always this disheveled. On the journey to Zespah, Merek was accompanied by his squire, Ergon. The man was perhaps 60 years old, a little long in the tooth for a squire, and spent most of his life as a thief, but wanted to change. Merek wasn't one to judge, and he took the fellow under his wing. One night while on the road, the baron was woken by some rustling by the campfire and managed to make out a group of ruffians making away with his supplies! Unarmed, he managed to defend himself and chase off the thieves, but not without losing a significant portion of his supplies. Dazed, Merek noticed his squire was missing, and feared he was captured, but heard faintly in the distance,"Merek ya bleedin’ fool, tis’ what ye git fer trustin’ strangers!" Merek shrugged and simply went back to sleep.

The baron finally reached the Opal Keep and spotted the temporary building erected where a ragtag group of ruffians and adventurers were queuing up. Merek received a letter from the king one-week prior begging for the brave baron’s help. Well, in truth, the decree was posted on the notice board in front of the tavern, and addressed any brave adventurer rather than him specifically, but still, Merek interpreted it as the king’s cry for Merek the Brave’s assistance. He led Stormy to a nearby hitching post and tied the stallion up before swaggering towards the shack. "Alright, alright, excuse me, pardon me, lemme through, knightly business and all that, king’s expecting me," Merek said as he pushed his way through the line. He finally squeezed through the crowd and into the building just as he passed a strange, ant-like creature with a couple more arms than him. Jeesh, bet that guy’s handy in a fight he mused before taking in his surroundings. He stood in front of a small, circular arena with a dirt floor, behind which was a great wooden table elevated on a platform about three feet high. He recognized the tall, slender man sitting in the center as one of the king’s aids, Valanthian heraldry stitched onto his long robe. Before the aid could open his mouth, Merek spoke. "Sir Merek the Brave, Baron of Ashenfield, at your service," he said, giving a lazy bow. "Heard the king needed me. Go ahead and tell’em I’m here.”

The king’s aid raised his eyebrow at the ragged champion before him. ”Hmm, yes. Well, Sir Merek, the king is occupied at the moment so you’ll be dealing with me. Now pray tell, what are your skills?" Any ordinary onlooker could detect the disdain dripping from the aid’s voice, but Merek hardly noticed.

”Skills? Come on, you haven’t heard of me? Merek the Brave? Slayer of Dragons? Destroyer of Urak? Guardian of the People? Etcetera, etcetera?" Merek was tempted to regale the aid with the exaggerated stories that accompanied his titles, but he managed to restrain himself.

The aid rolled his eyes. ”I’m afraid I haven’t. Now. Skills please.”

Merek scoffed. ”Well, I thought the king’s aids would be a little more cultured than this. But I’m more in the habit of showing rather than telling, and I’ll show you I can best any knight in this room, starting with…" Merek’s gauntleted finger stabbed out to an unassuming knight standing at the sidelines. "You, sir!" Just as he spoke, however, an armored knight two heads taller than anyone in the room and a neck thicker than Merek’s waist pushed his way through the crowd and stood in front of the knight Merek challenged. Oh boy.

The aid smirked as the hulking knight stared down at Merek, his eyes burning coals. ”Very well, Sir Merek. Clear the arena, lords and ladies, for a duel is afoot!”

Forgotten Realms

@0 Azzy 0 Oooo right right right, totally missed that, thanks! I'll get to working on a post pronto.

Forgotten Realms

And character is up! Question: are we posting in IC or have we not gotten there yet?

Forgotten Realms

Hider

Sir Merek the Brave, the Giving, Baron of Ashenfield, Champion of Nesaelyra, Guardian of the People, Slayer of Dragons, the Destroyer of Urak, Sentinel of the King, Master of. . .

Height: 6’1

Weight: 200 lbs

Age: 32

Race/Species: Human

Appearance: Merek cuts a pretty average figure, standing slightly above most and with a normal physique. His muscles bulge slightly, but fail to achieve any level of strong definition, a thin layer of persistent fat preventing him from looking lean. Not a potbelly, but certainly no 6-pack. Much of his tanned skin is marred with a variety of scars from his less fortunate days, though a collection of fresh cuts cover his face. Merek's wavy brown hair is usually cut fairly short and he tries his best to stay clean-shaven to accentuate his and strong jaw line and chin.

Personality: Arrogant. Merek is just really arrogant. The haughty baron is extremely confident in his abilities, even though he truly isn't skilled in much, just graced with luck by Nesaelyra. Still, Merek feels as though he is simply great at everything. Philosophy? No problem. Swordplay? Easy. In his mind, there isn't much he can't do. Still, his self-assurance has some merits. He has an extraordinarily positive outlook despite his oftentimes pessimistic sense of humor, and is never afraid to give something his all, the thought of failure never even considered. Despite his comical hubris, Merek can be charming, though often in an overbearing way. His cockiness gives him an air of being almost larger than life, deep voice boasting of his hyperbolic accomplishments in both bed and battle, which may appeal to some. He doesn't often lie, per se, but definitely likes to exaggerate.

Merek doesn't much care for his new title as baron, though he loves to flaunt the others, preferring earned ones over those bestowed. The man much prefers the company of simple commoners in a rowdy tavern over royalty in a stuffy great hall, and tends to mock the latter. Merek doesn't like to display his wealth either, placing more value in actions rather than possessions as evident by his rather worn-down gear and clothing. Merek hates being alone, and requires almost constant companionship, be it a lover or simply someone to share a drink with; the more the merrier, in either case. In private, Merek's confidence is slightly toned down and he becomes less boastful, one would never call him humble. Merek is quick to trust people and always willing to give second chances, though those that cross him can be sure he'll do his best to spite them.

Statistics:
-Strength: 5
-Perception: 3
-Endurance: 5
-Charisma: 7
-Intelligence: 3
-Agility: 3
-Luck: 9

Abilities, Talents, Traits, Powers:
Drunken Champion: Alcohol has a peculiar effect on the champion of Nesaelyra. He is able to draw significant power from drinks depending on the type of alcohol. Wine provides Merek with wit and persuasion at the cost of some of his motor functions (+2 charisma, -1 agility), beer and mead make him stronger but even more idiotic (+2 strength, -1 intelligence), and spirits allow the baron to shrug off heavier blows but cloud his vision (+2 endurance, -1 perception). To receive these bonuses, Merek must drink enough that it would intoxicate a normal man his size. The bonus lasts for as long as he is intoxicated, which is roughly 4 hours. If he tries to drink enough of each, or more after four hours, however, Merek just gets sloppy drunk, and possibly sick. Afterwards, the positive effect returns to normal, but the negative effect remains for another 6 hours.

Novice Combatant: Though he’s been in countless scraps and fights, Merek doesn’t often brawl with trained fighters, and as a result is fairly inexperienced. He’s been training with a sword and spear as of late, and knows enough to get by, but relies heavily on luck alone to win.

Wheelin’ and Dealin’: Merek knows a good deal when he sees one. His time as a merchant, though tainted with bad luck, has given the him a knack for buying and selling goods of all sorts at better prices than most could manage.

Iron Will: Even when his body is broken, Merek’s spirit will never falter. He spent almost his whole life on the down-and-out, but always managed to look on the bright side of life, or at least ignore the bad. Merek is less susceptible to mind spells, intimidation, and torture than the average person.

Folk Hero: Merek’s deeds in Ashenfield haven’t gone unnoticed by the peasants of Gadabastia. The tale of “Merek the Brave” slaying the evil baron and breathing life back into the town is known all across the land, and his reputation earns him instant rapport in the household of any peasant; they will go out of their way to help him and his companions, be it friendly advice or safe lodging. However, many nobles are not fond of his actions, calling him “Merek the Fool,” arguably a more accurate title. Royalty tolerate him at best, and become hostile at the most insignificant slight.

Praying Man: Once a day, Merek can pray to the goddess Nesaelyra and receive her blessing. For an hour, Merek has a +2 bonus to luck, strength and endurance, but suffers -2 to these stats for 24 hours after time is up. The prayer takes little time, maybe half a minute, and requires no sacrifices or paraphernalia.

Read’em and Weep: After years of losing, Merek loves playing card games and emptying others’ pockets. Not just lucky, Merek is a skilled player in all card games, and is quick to pick up any new ones he encounters.

Items:
Merek carries most gear on his trusty stallion, a great white warhorse he can barely ride named Stormy Weather, or Stormy. In his saddlebags and slung across the beast he carries two modest healing potions, a waterskin of water and another two of wine, a small full coinpurse, his crossbow and bolts, a whetstone, a bedroll and small grey tent bearing his crest on it. On his person, Merek carries a steel longsword on his hip along with a dagger in his boot, and a spear with a wooden shaft and long steel tip. He typically wears high-quality armor, but he appears to have lost much of it somehow. Merek has a simple blue gambeson, slightly faded grey trousers, plate boots, a breastplate with his crest painted on the front, one gauntlet, couters, and a ragged grey cloak.

History: Sir Merek of Ashfield didn’t always live in the fine Ashen Keep with his regal title. No, when he was born, the baron was known as simply known as Merek, a simple peasant and son of a poor wares peddler. His parent’s terrible fortune bestowed upon their last son of many, and he quickly earned the decidedly un-noble epithet “Merek the Unlucky.” He was an average boy, a little dumber than most, but the root of all his woes came from his terrible luck. If there was a sickness plaguing the village, Merek would be the first one to catch it. If a thief slipped into the village, they’d steal everything but the kitchen table from Merek’s home. Though he constantly suffered, the young Merek learned to power through any challenges life threw at him with a smile. After his parent’s early death, Merek slipped out of his village by joining a passing merchant’s caravan, puffing himself up as both a savvy trader and excellent swordsman; the former had some truth to it, but the latter was a complete lie.

Though the scenery changed, Merek's hardships did not. After taking him on, the merchant noticed that he was constantly being hit by bandits, corrupt guards seeking bribes, and missing goods. Merek quickly found himself unemployed, though this time in Ashenfield. The town was surrounded by bountiful farmlands, and rested in the shadow of a massive mountain, once a volcano but now inactive. The place earned its name long ago when the volcano erupted and coated the land in black ash, but that very same ash created the fertile soil hundreds of years later. The young man carried on in the city bouncing from job to job, gambling and drinking his money away when he ever had any, but always ended back in Ashenfield. After being fired for the umpteenth time, Merek visited the local tavern to waste his meager severance package on as much mead as he could drink, which wasn’t much; the baron of Ashenfield, Sir Roderik, was harsh on his citizens, taxing them heavily, restricting the flow of alcohol within the city to almost nothing, and executing criminals for the slightest charges. Suddenly, armed guards burst through the door, arresting all occupants of the tavern. Sir Roderik had set forth a new law that day, completely prohibiting the consumption of alcohol for peasants. Merek was taken to the dungeon below Ashenfield Keep and locked in chains along with the others.

Merek wasn’t sure how many days had passed in the dungeon, but one night, a vision came to him in his sleep. A scantily-clad, voluptuous woman sprawled elegantly on a floating cloud with a goblet of red wine in her hand spoke to him. She said she was Nesaelyra, goddess and patron saint of thieves, gamblers, cheats and drunks. The goddess explained little, but named Merek as her champion to return “the light” to the downtrodden city. When he awoke, the newly crowned champion of Nesaelyra found the bolts binding his shackles to the dungeon walls were heavily rusted and shattered with a tug. Merek found the rest of the escape just as easy, with the door unlocked and the guards asleep. He was about to leave Ashenfield for good when he remembered the dream; it was best not to anger the gods. For better or worse, Merek charged into Roderik’s great hall and challenged him to a duel, despite his inexperience with a blade. Seeing this as a good opportunity to show off his prowess before the peasants, the baron accepted.

The duel took place in the town square, Sir Roderik wearing full plate armor and wielding a massive mace and shield, while Merek was armed with nothing but a crude and rusted broadsword. The baron mopped the floor with the peasant, knocking him senseless with blow after blow, intentionally drawing the fight out to make an example of him. Just as Roderik wound up for the killing strike, Merek staggered and tripped on his own feet, falling flat on his face before the baron. He waited for the mace to crush him, but all Merek heard was the clatter of armor as Roderik fell beside him, a rusty sword sticking out of his stomach.

When Merek awoke, he was no longer just a peasant merchant. The laws of the land dictated that the victor of a duel is entitled to all property of the defeated, and with Sir Roderik soundly dead, Merek became baron of Ashenfield, much to the citizen’s joy. As the new ruler, Merek set about striking down all of Roderik’s laws, and the town became a haven for gambling, taverns and brothels. Half of the harvests were directed solely to the production of alcohol. The peasants loved him, and Merek enjoyed his newfound luck, and the perks that came with it. He spent his days travelling, drinking and adventuring, delegating his noble responsibilities to his seneschal, a former inn-keeper. Even then, Merek still grew bored, and when he caught word of the King sending out need for assistance in a dire matter, the baron immediately left for the capital in search of adventure.