The door swings open while you remain in the dirty straw examining your finger nails. The guard stops in the center of the cell waiting for you look up and when you do you see a middle aged man holding a bundle cloth. His blond hair is cut short but is well done and the beard on his face is neatly trimmed. He wears the same armored get up as the other guards but one sleeve is rolled up to reveal a tribal tattooed on one arm. Instead of soft, leather boots his are black motorcycle boots with rubber souls. Someone doesn't take his cosplay as seriously as everyone else.

"Here," he calls tossing you the bundle of cloth. You unfold them to find a woolen tunic, pants, and soft leather shoes. "You'll get a lot further in this world if you blend in."

"I don't understand," you say as examine the clothes. The shirt is huge and the pants are rough. Wearing them will be torture in itself.

"You're Merreh Kin," the guard explains. "Like me but it ain't got shit to do with eagles, apple pie, and freedom. Here it's means evil wizard's child and, surving death so many times, they believe it. You're a wanted race. Very wanted, but consider this your one get out jail free card. Keep your head low and seek Larson in the village tavern. He'll help you. But if I see you again you're going to lose your head." You nod, not truly indestanding. He leaves with a grunt but the cell door remains open. You pull the unfashionable clothing over your current clothing and step out the door into an empty corridor.

It's easier than you expected to get out of that dungeon and you're squinting in the bright sunlight once again. People, all dressed in same crappy clothing you're wearing, are walking up down rutted dirt roads carrying baskets or pulling carts. Armed guards sit upon horses on the street corner across from you and you quickly look away. Down the road is wooden sign in the shape of a tankard. Hoping that is the mentioned tavern you make your way to it and step inside.

It's dark, filled with smokey air and smells of heavy ale. A heavy set man in an apron stands before a long counter wiping out tankards. You weave through the tables and chairs of random shapes and sizes to the counter. There is only one patron in the tavern at the moment, a thin figure wearing a long, gray cloak. He smiles as you pass but you ignore it and continue to the counter.

"Larson?" you ask of the man. The large man raises a heavy eyebrow at you before asking a question you don't understand. You sigh, shoulders sagging.

"Twee ales aub, Lars," says a voice by your elbow. You look over to see the same man in the gray cloak. He gives you a smile and a wink. "I knew you'd make it," he whispers. The tarven man fills two not clean tankards from a tap under counter and sets them before the cloaked man. "Gray," prompts the man beside you as he pushes on to you.

"Dakota," you respond. He nods and lifts the tankard in a gestured cheers before downing it. When he emerges he engages in a rapid fire conversation with the barkeep. Gray sounds enthusiastic changing to pleading as the barkeep goes from harsh to reluctant. Gray wins the conversation with a smile and turns back to you.

"Done, I've got you a job." You stare slack mouthed before shaking your head. "No, it'll be fine," the hooded man assures you. "Lars will teach you about his hell hole and you'll work for him until you're ready to head out on your own. He's done it a few times already, and his father before him, and his before him. Don't worry, he knows some English." You sigh again. This isn't a situation worthy of thanks but you give it anyway as you look dismally around your new home.




CONGRATUALATIONS!

You survived! Keep an eye for the next chapter which I'll write eventually. Until then play around with some of the other paths and discover new ways to live or die.