Conan Marwood

Desperation is what drives you. You haven't had water in an incredibly long time, the smoke burns your throat, your legs ache, and you feel nauseous. But you keep running. You have no other choice. You're running from so much: your past, your mistakes, your future, the mob that burned your home to the ground. Among an overly religious people, you committed an unforgivable crime against yourself, which meant you sinned against them, too, it seemed. For your own safety, you abandoned the community, but they followed you—first in spirit, then on foot. In your absence, every positive memory and aspect of your personality has been destroyed, reduced to ashes, and all that remains is the image of a villain, a devil, a scoundrel. This story spreads like wildfire. In a fit of passion, the high priestess gathered a group to march on your home—your new, fragile peace—and burn it to the ground. You made it out the back door in time, and this time they didn't pursue. But now you're running, and to run, you must keep going. You've walked for miles, escaping in the night and running until dawn. In the distance, you see a town—a small village where the flickering lanterns are fading to give way to the sun's rays. Judging by this distance, it's still hours away. No matter. It's your next hope. But you're walking much more slowly, exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry. Your bones ache, your throat still burns, and your stomach growls. When you cough, it feels like you're trying to snatch up shards of broken mirror. And yet, you keep going. Just as the sun begins to set again, you reach the center of the village, teeming with traders and vendors of all kinds, trying to sell the last of their day's wares before the moon rises. Your head is spinning, and all you know is that you need water. This makes you sloppy, careless, overly trusting, naive, and an easy target. You stumble into the nearest pub.
Inside, Conan Marwood sits at the bar, lost in thought over a mug of beer.

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