It feels as though the jig is up the moment you enter the tavern. Every eye in the place turns up to take in your entry. You walk quickly, though stiffly (for the wound on your leg has not fully healed), to the counter. It's a clean enough establishment, as far as Allonden watering holes go, the sort of sleepy nook where every man knows every other man’s business. Strangers are not always unwelcome in such places. A traveler may carry tales, reports, and above all, news, for which the townsfolk are always happy to pull out a chair. Besides which there is the common hospitality offered to the travel weary—if not always fugitives, which, admittedly, you are.

Here, there is none of that.

>You are Sir Dagon, one of the many landless knights that served under King Tonbeald the Second, until his untimely demise at the hands of the Pretender of Beline, Orsith. Now you are a wanderer, a knight errant, and a rebel.
>You are Rudolph, a deserter from the army of Baron Longstroke, one of the many liege-less lords of Allonde embroiled in endless war among themselves.
>You are Ranulf the Cheat, a small-time outlaw that once led a band of highwaymen that preyed chiefly on baron convoys
>Write-in