You’re a plucky young traveler. Unassuming, bindle half-full of bread crusts. Born NAME but going by VAGUELY THREATENING TITLE. You’ve come a long way from TOWN. Where’s that? No one’s ever heard of it. Probably for the best. You’d rather not revisit CHILDHOOD TRAUMA.
It’s dusk and you’re nursing an ale in the shadowiest corner of TAVERN, waiting for something to trigger the INCITING EVENT. The townsfolk get real skittish around strangers, as they should. Anyone who gets close to you gets hurt.
You drain your mug, drop your bag of CURRENCY on the table. Wipe your mouth with the back of your gloved hand. Wait for the CALL TO ADVENTURE to approach in the form of a haggard turnip farmer. He notices your INCONGRUOUSLY FANCY WEAPON and, more importantly, your cool scar.
Please, he says, my daughter, and tells you how long she’s been missing, which is of course a fortnight. You, being of MORAL ALIGNMENT, cannot deny his plea.
Pray tell, good sir, you say, what manner of creature corrupts this fair realm?
And, wringing his MEDIEVAL HAT between calloused hands, he says, Why, I can’t be sure, but methinks ‘twas a FELL BEAST. None have faced it and lived.
None have NAME OF INCONGRUOUSLY FANCY WEAPON, you say with a dramatic flourish. Where might one find the lair of this FELL BEAST?
But you already know the turnip farmer will point you to the cave mouth in the north hills. You know the subterranean paths will branch like a cancer. You know you will encounter MUCH ADVERSITY, but will prevail despite THE COST.
After all, you’re the hero because you have the most to lose.
