After a fairly long time of wandering through wastelands, our crusader is back. He looks older and more tired, then he used to be. He has some fine new scars, his horse went out, his sword is broken, he barely walks. But he can see the light in the dark night. Small light, his last hope. If it´s not the little village the old mad man told him about, but some rogue camp instead, he is dead.
Freezing wind bites him in face.
He gets close and recognizes buildings, small houses made of stones and wood. The light comes from a high building with a signboard hanging above it´s door.
He opens the door and smell of potato soup punch him in his nose. He hasn´t eaten for days.
The warm of fire in the fireplace is like a balsam for his numbed body. His head is heavier and his legs refuse to carry his body. Last thing he sees before falling down on the wooden ground is face of a young girl.
He made it.
What kind of stories he brings is a mystery, but we all hope he will tell us at least some of them...
A Short History of the Old School Renaissance
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