A lifetime ago, you were a peasant. You had a pitchfork, a head full of dreams and stories, and nothing else. You left your village in search of adventure. Well, to make a long story short, you found it. It started when word reached you that old King Oswald was dead. Normally you’d just raise a glass to the new King, wish him long life, and go on with yours. But this time, there was a complication. Alaric, the King’s heir, was said by some to be sickly and incapable. Others whispered that he’d come under the thrall of a vampire, or been cursed for some sin of his own or his father’s. What everyone can agree on, is that within a week of his father’s death, someone stuck a dagger in his back. And then, the Kingdom of Nalin tore itself apart. A civil war is a nasty business, but for a young, foolish peasant dreaming of glory, it was the chance of a lifetime. You joined a band of irregulars, supporting Duke Rickard, the King’s cousin, against his various rivals for the throne. Over the next few bloody years, you learned the arts of war. You saw glories, and horrors to match. But it turned out you had a knack for survival, and earned one promotion after another. Finally you ended up in command of your own small company. And in the final battle in the fields of Orrin, your life changed forever. Rickard’s remaining rival was a man named Martin, who claimed to be Oswald’s bastard son. Fully half the nobility supported him, and their forces had massed near the farming town of Orrin, to settle the war once and for all. The battle was a slaughter on both sides. The kingdom’s best warriors fought, and killed, and died, under the pitiless summer sun. It was near twilight when you picked up a fallen banner, shouted a last desperate battle cry, and led anyone who would follow you in one last, desperate charge. You expected to die, but somehow, fate was still with you. Your attack broke what was left of the enemy line, and the day was yours. Everything changed after that. Word of your bravery reached the new King, himself. In a solemn ceremony, he pronounced you a Hero of the Realm. And even better, he bestowed on you the Barony of Orrin, the site of your victory. You have a title, land, and wealth now. But a Baron needs heirs, so you’re expected to marry. You have just the woman in mind.

You ride your dappled stallion slowly, following a half-hidden track across the moors. No one comes this way, none but the lost, or the desperate. Finally, you reach a small wooden hut with shuttered windows. Herbs hang to dry from a rack on the porch. An intricate charm is painted over the doorway. It looks like a witch’s house, and, in fact, you know that it is.

You’ve been here before. In your first major battle, defending the pass at Dokkrus from Count Roderick’s army, you took an arrow in the gut. The pain was excruciating, and infection soon set in. Weak and delirious with fever, you knew you were going to die. But as fortune would have it, your companions dragged you here, to the hut of a reputed witch named ${What is her name?}.

Your memory of that time is uncertain. You remember a pale, soft-featured face, and a gentle voice. You were given a warm broth, infused with strange bitter herbs.

Your dreams were terrifying, full of monstrous shadows and the certainty of your coming doom.

After what must have been two or three days, you awoke to see ${What is her name?} looking down at you. She clasped your hand, and spoke.

“I’ve done all I can for you, with medicine.” She says. “Your wound is mortal. Yet there is one last hope. I know a spell to change your fate. But there will be a cost, for both of us.”

You struggled to sit up. “I want to live.” You managed to say.

She nodded. “Lie back.” She said. “Focus on the sound of my voice, and hold tight to life.”

Then she chanted something in a language you didn’t understand. A strange warmth filled your body, and you lost consciousness.

When you awoke again, several days had passed. But you felt like a new man. Your fever was gone, and nothing remained of your injury but an ugly white scar across your stomach.

${What is her name?} helped you dress, and returned your weapons and belongings.

“Your fate is now twined with my own.” She said. “Your path has changed. Perhaps for the better, perhaps not. Go back and serve your King. When your war is done, come back to me, and we will speak again.”

Whether from the witch’s charm or not, you never took another serious injury throughout the rest of the war. Now, you’re standing on her front porch, wondering what strange fate awaits you.

“Enter.” She says from within.