The Disgraced Knight
You were something. You did something. You're still the best sword at the table.
A veteran's eye. You read a battlefield — or a lie — the way other people read a menu: quickly, clearly, and with an opinion.
Your Story
You are [name], once a sworn sword of the [order name], and nobody at your table tonight knows which order that is. You don't volunteer. The cloak you wear now is plain wool. The armor underneath is still the one they gave you at the investiture. You can't bring yourself to sell it.
Something happened. Or, more precisely, something was made to look like it happened. You didn't murder the young lord. You didn't steal the relic. You were in the wrong hall at the wrong hour and the witnesses all agreed on a story that wasn't yours. The captain you served under looked you in the eye as the verdict was read. He didn't blink. You will remember that look for the rest of your life.
So now you drink in cheaper inns than you used to. You still polish the breastplate. You still sharpen the sword every morning. When a fight breaks out you still know, before anyone else, where to stand and who to drop first. The honor you carry is yours. Nobody can vote it out of you.
The witnesses are all dead now. Not all at once. Not obviously. But when you quietly laid a map of the last three years over a tavern table, you saw it: the ones who swore against you have been dying in convenient order. Somebody else needed them gone, too.
Click below to draft Andreas an email — you can edit it before you send, or just skip the fields you're not sure about and we'll fill them in together.
This one is me →A week before we play, a letter will arrive at your house. Open it alone. Do not compare notes with the others until you reach the Trade Way.