The campfire crackles hungrily, its wavering folds of incandescent orange light satiated by the log thrown atop it by Azarael. The stars and moon shine through the pines in the deep blue night sky above, a beautiful sight rare in these dark lands of the dying kingdom. But against the world you an Azarael stand, as you swore to eachother when you met on that fateful battleground years ago, and the kingdom's slow atrophy does not weigh upon your minds, for you are brothers-in-arms, and comrades unshakable. Against the dark, yet darkening lands you shall have eachother, and so the prospect is hardly dire but more so exciting, for there are yet more adventures to be had, tales to be told, banter to share and of course, beer to drink. "So, there I was, face-to-face with the legendary blade itself. I picked it up and weighed it in my hands...but I liked my old sword better, so I thought I'd leave it there." Azarael laughs heartily at his own outrageous story. You did this often, sitting by a campfire and trying to one-up eachother with bizarre stories of your lives before your meeting. There were tales of legendary relics, beasts and even quite the few yarns of marrying princesses and the like. It was banter, but you both enjoyed it a great deal. You both raise your tankards, taking a sufficient gulp of mead in toast to Azarael's nonsensical story and to your time together both past and present, and that which was in the future to come. And hey, whilst perhaps marriage was off the table, you were both sure there was a good chance you'd find some legendary treasures or skirmish with beasts of myth at some point. It was a wide world, after all, and who better to take it on than two friends of the highest caliber, two who would gladly lay down their life for the other and who have journeyed through almost anything the world could throw their way. The world's both of your oyster, so why not share? "Go on, you spin your yarn. Let me guess, you were married to a dozen princesses?" Azarael grins.