Flint was in trouble.
The life of an adventurer was not taken on with ease. He'd spent years as a barber-surgeon, perfecting his trade and earning himself a living. It meant owning a decent house, avoiding the hardships faced by journeymen and beggars. It meant avoiding danger, unless he'd decided to seek it out for himself -- which he had.
He enjoyed his job. It allowed him to meet all kinds of people, hear all kinds of stories. Though this brought with it a certain degree of envy. He too longed to travel long and wide, to live the life of a valiant hero, a daring loot runner or a hardy monster-hunter. He even had the combat experience to back him up. A childhood of training with his uncle, and a few close encounters with thugs down Elbion's alleyways had allowed him to hone his skill with his blades. His own abilities helped in that domain too.
So, when the barber had first travelled through a town being terrorised by bandits, he'd been excited. Finally, an opportunity to see some action, to prove to himself that he was capable of the adventurer's life. He'd identified some of the resisting townsfolk, joined their effort to fight back against their invaders. They'd questioned a barber's worth in a fight, but Flint was able to assure them that he had capable hands. They'd mounted an assault on the town hall, in which the invaders had taken up residence. A bloody battle ensued, as the townsfolk fought for their home, for their freedom. Flint had done well in combat, but there was only so much they could do against a force that was trained for combat. This was proven to be even more true when it was learned that the bandits were being lead by a Necromancer, who'd been resurrecting the corpses of his fallen allies, possessing those of his slaughtered enemies. The townsfolk were overrun, systematically killed and reanimated. It had reached a point in which only the barber had remained, and Flint found himself fleeing from a small undead army.
He'd taken up residence in one of the town's old barbershops (where else, eh?), in which he'd managed to sew up some of his wounds. Regardless, the barber sat against the wall, wincing against the pain brought on from the previous battle, furious that he'd failed those he'd tried to protect. He lay low, well aware of the revenants that walked by the shop overhead. In his state, and considering the opposition, it appeared as though there was no hope left, until the barber heard something drop to the ground further inside the shop.
At first he thought it to be one of the undead, having finally tracked him down, sneaking through one of the windows out back. He gripped one of his throwing blades, prepared for a last stand. Thankfully, the eyes that his met belonged to a living being, and while they did not resemble one of the townsfolk, the person that crept towards him looked neither like a bandit or like the Necromancer. The barber brought a bloody finger to his lip, urging the newcomer to stay silent, before pointing to the window above, where a corpse walked by. He looked to the newcomer, eager for them to explain themselves.
The life of an adventurer was not taken on with ease. He'd spent years as a barber-surgeon, perfecting his trade and earning himself a living. It meant owning a decent house, avoiding the hardships faced by journeymen and beggars. It meant avoiding danger, unless he'd decided to seek it out for himself -- which he had.
He enjoyed his job. It allowed him to meet all kinds of people, hear all kinds of stories. Though this brought with it a certain degree of envy. He too longed to travel long and wide, to live the life of a valiant hero, a daring loot runner or a hardy monster-hunter. He even had the combat experience to back him up. A childhood of training with his uncle, and a few close encounters with thugs down Elbion's alleyways had allowed him to hone his skill with his blades. His own abilities helped in that domain too.
So, when the barber had first travelled through a town being terrorised by bandits, he'd been excited. Finally, an opportunity to see some action, to prove to himself that he was capable of the adventurer's life. He'd identified some of the resisting townsfolk, joined their effort to fight back against their invaders. They'd questioned a barber's worth in a fight, but Flint was able to assure them that he had capable hands. They'd mounted an assault on the town hall, in which the invaders had taken up residence. A bloody battle ensued, as the townsfolk fought for their home, for their freedom. Flint had done well in combat, but there was only so much they could do against a force that was trained for combat. This was proven to be even more true when it was learned that the bandits were being lead by a Necromancer, who'd been resurrecting the corpses of his fallen allies, possessing those of his slaughtered enemies. The townsfolk were overrun, systematically killed and reanimated. It had reached a point in which only the barber had remained, and Flint found himself fleeing from a small undead army.
He'd taken up residence in one of the town's old barbershops (where else, eh?), in which he'd managed to sew up some of his wounds. Regardless, the barber sat against the wall, wincing against the pain brought on from the previous battle, furious that he'd failed those he'd tried to protect. He lay low, well aware of the revenants that walked by the shop overhead. In his state, and considering the opposition, it appeared as though there was no hope left, until the barber heard something drop to the ground further inside the shop.
At first he thought it to be one of the undead, having finally tracked him down, sneaking through one of the windows out back. He gripped one of his throwing blades, prepared for a last stand. Thankfully, the eyes that his met belonged to a living being, and while they did not resemble one of the townsfolk, the person that crept towards him looked neither like a bandit or like the Necromancer. The barber brought a bloody finger to his lip, urging the newcomer to stay silent, before pointing to the window above, where a corpse walked by. He looked to the newcomer, eager for them to explain themselves.
