28 years later
In the town of syxxstedding the menacing Lord Aberron holds the dead at bay. Here in the ramshackle remnants of a walled fortress the only known presence of intelligent life. He looks down from the battlements and sends his soldiers to the wall. His Daughters of Night run the city and collect for the lottery. What they don’t address is feuded over by the bureaucrats, and priests. What isn’t paid up in tribute could be taken at any time by the gangs the run the streets. The factions feud within themselves for prizes far beneath the bloodshed. The populace struggles to coax what food it can out of the ground and to save what they can from the evil hordes without and those who would steal or destroy it from within.
One old flind stands as beacon of light in the darkness. When the great city fell he traveled from town to town trying to pick up survivors. Searching for a place of refuge he arrived in syxxsteading with a trail of orphans. Most tried to save them selves he saved what no one else could. You are those orphans
But flinds are foul beasts creatures of the dark and not to be trusted. the jackal’s pups as you are known in town are neither respected or befriend. When the sharing of a meal could make a lifelong friend few have found them. The orphanage you grew up in, once the town’s inn has a leaky roof and panels in the walls missing where neighbors have claimed pieces of your home to mend their own or simply to burn on cold wither nights. Never mind the draft they let in has kept many of you huddled together on those very same evenings.
Yet more come every year. Someone from the town or a member of the nightwatch will come bang on the door in the middle of the night. Another orphan made in a knife fight or a victim of plague or starvation. Another babe to clothe, another mouth to feed yet they’re never turned away.
Gathering round his old rocking chair your father would tell you stories. His tribe of many faces which he does his best to continue. Tales of great silks, fey leathers and phoenix down blankets, which were readily available in the markets of The City. Tales of the Old Gods and great heroes and their struggle against evil. Some are more believable then others but it’s obvious to all that all that’s left are the stories.
Yet he’ll come in from the hope garden and he’ll smile and he’ll sit and light the fire. Rocking back on his chair and stroking his hand, an old wound that pesters him in his old age. Though the stench of burning shit will fill the room none will leave for they know it will be time for another tale. And if there’s a knock on the door, it will be answered. For none are ever turned away. And on several occasions some have thought to ask him why. His reply never changes. “I’m just an ”/campaigns/chapter1/characters/dad" class=“wiki-content-link”>Old Dog doing what I was trained for. It’ll be up to you to save the world."