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.
The dungeon of Fort Resilience is a dismal, foul-smelling place. Its head jailor is no better, a stout, unpleasant man with bad teeth and worse breath. But the sight of your Baron’s signet ring makes him servile and accommodating.
“She’s right down here, your Lordship.” He says, leading you down a steep stone staircase, past a row of empty cells, and finally to a heavy iron door. He fumbles with an oversized key ring to unlock it, then pulls it open.
“Leave us.” You tell the man, and he scuttles away. In the dim light of the cell you see a woman, dressed in rags, bound with heavy shackles. Her hair is wild, her face filthy, but her eyes glare at you with an undimmed fire.
“Come to laugh at the notorious outlaw, before they cut my head off?” She asks, her voice bitter.
You step closer. “Don’t you recognize me, ${What is her name?}?”
She stares at you for a long moment, and then her demeanor changes from defiance to confusion.
“${character.name}? What are you doing here?” She says.
For years, ${What is her name?} led a band of ruffians hiding in the deep forest near your village. Her merry companions stalked the highways, preying on rich merchants and nobles as they traveled. She never stole from the common folk, though, and her regular gifts of food and coin helped you and your family and friends survive more than one long winter.
You reach into your cloak, and take out a rolled paper. You hold it up to the light. “This is a Royal pardon.” You say. “We have a new King, now. And King Rickard wants a clean slate.”
You smile. “As for me, I’ve moved up in the world. I asked to deliver your pardon personally. Come on, let’s get you out of this hole.”