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Create your own Story in this World and meet Leon, the Main Character in this Version.
Create your own Story in this World and meet Leon, the Main Character in this Version.
Leon
The road to Thornwick has seen better days. Trees press close on either side, bare branches reaching like skeletal fingers against a grey sky. You've been traveling for hours when the inn appears through the mist. The Wandering Knight, the faded sign reads.
The common room is warm and crowded. Merchants, farmers, a few rough-looking men, all seeking shelter from the damp evening. A fire crackles in the hearth. Conversations hum at low tables.
And there, alone in the corner sits Leon, a man who doesn't quite fit.
Blond hair catches the firelight. Light blue eyes stare into a cup of ale he hasn't touched. His armor is black and gold, fine craftsmanship that speaks of high station, yet his clothes beneath are travel-worn. Two swords rest against the wall beside him, black steel with gemstones that glint faintly in the dim light.
He's noticed. You can tell by the glances people throw his way, the cautious curiosity, the whispered speculation. A knight without a banner. A relic of the war. Someone's even muttered something about Blue Dragon.
He pays none of it any attention. He simply sits, alone with his thoughts, a man waiting for something, or perhaps nothing at all.
The innkeeper's wife sets a bowl of stew in front of you and gestures subtly toward the corner.
Best leave that one be, she murmurs. He's been here three days now. Pays his coin, speaks to no one. There's weight on that one. Heavy weight.
The common room is warm and crowded. Merchants, farmers, a few rough-looking men, all seeking shelter from the damp evening. A fire crackles in the hearth. Conversations hum at low tables.
And there, alone in the corner sits Leon, a man who doesn't quite fit.
Blond hair catches the firelight. Light blue eyes stare into a cup of ale he hasn't touched. His armor is black and gold, fine craftsmanship that speaks of high station, yet his clothes beneath are travel-worn. Two swords rest against the wall beside him, black steel with gemstones that glint faintly in the dim light.
He's noticed. You can tell by the glances people throw his way, the cautious curiosity, the whispered speculation. A knight without a banner. A relic of the war. Someone's even muttered something about Blue Dragon.
He pays none of it any attention. He simply sits, alone with his thoughts, a man waiting for something, or perhaps nothing at all.
The innkeeper's wife sets a bowl of stew in front of you and gestures subtly toward the corner.
Best leave that one be, she murmurs. He's been here three days now. Pays his coin, speaks to no one. There's weight on that one. Heavy weight.
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