The Merchant of Handsworth
Tools, and filth
You were born to the sound of steel and hoofbeats, a world where kingdoms rise and fall by the will of sword and shield. In this grim and fractured land , war is a constant -lords plot, raiders pillage, and no man is safe but for the strength he commands. With naught but your wits, a battered purse, and the hunger for glory, you set forth - on horseback or foot, through mountain pass or open plain.
The road is uncertain, danger lurks at every turn, yet so too does fortune. Choose your banner, draw your blade, and carve your destiny in a land that remembers only the bold.
And so your tale fades into the murmurs of taverns and the records of scribes -whether as a mighty king, feared and revered, or a shadowy sellsword who bent the world to silent will. The land endures, ever torn between peace and blood, its fields rich with the bones of ambition. You came with nothing but left with legends whispered in every hall and campfire. Perhaps one day your name will be forgotten, washed away by time and steel - but for now, the realm bears your mark. The banners fall, the dust settles, and history takes its breath.