Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-7262318-20180208203611/@comment-7262318-20180213131106

“Can’t say I do,” Goriyn said, drawing his own weapons.

This time, the rope snapped and Irasil fell to the ground, unceremoniously landing head-first in a patch of dirt.

The men kept coming, but slowed down as they saw what they were dealing with. “Damn it, our trap!” One of them exclaimed.

A brief silence fell, as the small troop leveled their spears at the group. A young man, who could be more than 25, stepped up. He was Breton, face covered in war paint and hair tied back into a pony tail that brushed against his lower back. Their clothes were fur, most likely stitched together by what they could find.

“You... who are you with?” The Breton asked. “Hunters? Boa’s militia?”