It’s a surprisingly calm day.

Your windows are pulled open, the sunlight pouring through and illuminating your small forest-hidden cottage in a golden glow. As the breeze passes over, the trees rustle, and you hear the tinkling of the wind charms set on either side of your door.

It’s a surprisingly calm day.

You’re hunched over at your desk, tying a piece of twine string around the stems of a bouquet of dried up roses. You’ll use the petals later.

The chair under you shakes as you stand on it, trying to attach the roses to your herb rack. You should’ve bought a new chair when one of the legs broke, but instead you stupidly decided to saw and trim one of the legs. It’s far too rickety to stand on, yet here you are.

The chair rocks just as you hear a knock on your door, the wind chimes tinkling again. You carefully climb off, pushing your hair out of your face as you head up to the door.

“How can I help you?” You ask automatically as you open the door, expecting it to be one of the villagers from the nearby town, a gold pouch in hand as they ask for an herbal remedy or potion.

Instead a 6’8” man towers over you, his armour shining in the light, although gathering none of its warmth. Neither does the 300 pound sword on his back.

You look up at him, your eyes softening as you take in his familiar features, his one remaining eye staring back down at you, the Brand of Sacrifice marring the smooth skin of his neck.