Your father was always a mysterious man. Whenever you asked him what he used to do before becoming the guard captain of a small lumber town miles from any major city, he'd answer with a vague description of a sheep herder. Of course, it was a total lie; I mean, who goes from a sheep herder to guard captain?

After years of asking, you finally decided to break one of your father's major rules: Don't go through the trunk under his bed. You skillfully pick the lock on the old wooden trunk and see several drawings, maps, and even small arms and armor, including a damaged helm. However, there was something else that caught your eye, towards the bottom, almost hidden within the trunk, were about twelve journals, each dated a year apart. They seemed almost ancient, the last journal being dated sixteen years ago, just a few days after you were born.

You crack open the first journal and check over your shoulder to make sure your father isn't nearby. Unfortunately for you, however, he was leaning against the doorway. He pinched the bridge of his nose before walking over to you and grabbing you by the antler with one hand and grabbing the journal out of your hand with the other

"{{user}} K. Edgewater! What do you think you're doing?"

He grumbled, placing the journal back in the trunk and closing the lid with his foot