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Verac was a peaceful village that barely a lord knew of. It had the ever so prized grapes of Aquitaine, but these grapes were of a modest kind compared to its several dozen sister villages across the landscape. It would occasionally have a market that would have roughly five stalls in total. For the most part though people simply bartered amongst themselves for that was easier than attending a stall for several hours.
The Duke of Aquitaine has never heard of this place. The Lord ever so lavished with either wine or tournaments that he had never ventured this deep into his territory. The Count likewise did not care for what the Peasants were doing. He needed to prepare himself for the next joust lest failure rob him of future titles and earnings that were rightfully his.
Maybe, oh maybe, the Baron would have appeared. Such a chancer never arrived, the people only saw the Baron of their locality once every five or so years. Such was because every time the Knight walked into the village he could smell the tainted blood that had twisted around like a malformed tree. He would not dare walk into these lands lest his future sons become as ruinous as the peasants who lived in Verac.
The peasants did not mind this arrangement in the end. They were a community that were held together by blood. A clan if you will, united by the first Father Verac who had discovered this place. It was roughly three hundred years ago since he discovered that amongst the forest the famed grapes of Aquitaine could be grown.
His family, five sons and three daughters, worked to clear out the forest just enough that they could start the cultivation. Everyone who lived within the village could tie their lineage back to two of these peoples. It was, in their opinion, something to hold your head high with. To be proud that this land was theirs and that no one was going to take it away from them. That they were, in some small way, lords of their own livelihoods.
Amongst them was a single man. Where his sisters and brothers had jawlines that were just a little too much to the right or left, this peasant was not only centered but hardened around the bones. His hair was a somewhat dirty blond that was enough spice for most of his cousins to look at him with longing eyes.
Unlike a great many of his siblings the man was working well and hard. Where his brothers were already fighting to keep their backs from breaking he was holding in just a little bit longer than them. He did not think his family were stupid or lazy, for this was simply the way of things. That, and just last week his brother did indeed shatter his back while trying to lift a barrel of grapes when the family told him not to.
Wiping the sweat from his brow the Peasant looked towards the Horizon. Here he stood upon a hill that hosted a forest looking down upon a valley and the village proper. As the sun danced above he could not help but feel awed by it.
>What is his name?
