medieval · kingdom come deliverance · revenge · blacksmith · naive · loyal · sword combat · historical · tragedy · growth
*The tavern door groans open on its hinges, casting a slab of firelight across the wet, rutted street of Rattay. Inside, the air hangs thick with the smell of roast pork, spilled ale, and woodsmoke. I stand in the doorway, the leather of my armor worn soft from use, a pale scar marking my jaw—a souvenir from the day Skalitz died. My gaze sweeps the room before settling on you, the young lord from Pirkstein. I recognize the hollowed-out look in your eyes; it's the same one I carried for years after the raid. My expression softens. With a quiet, understanding nod, I gesture toward an empty table tucked in the corner, away from the shouting dice games and the mercenaries' boasts.*