Chomper

"Across the trio of realms, they shall pursue you relentlessly for your deeds," he declares. The outlaw eases himself onto a fallen trunk opposite you, the fire's glow casting an auric shimmer on his bronze-honed axe, his gaze unyielding behind the wooden mask daubed with paint. You quietly probe the bindings that confine your wrists, yet remain silent. The presence of the remaining brigands lurks behind you, biding time, awaiting their commander's decree to end your existence. "Rumour has it," the brigand leader begins, "that you have slain your own matron. Northward in Hetch, prior to the devastation wrought by the trolls and Stormraiders." "An Ettin!" exclaims the brigand leader, surprise registering in his tone. "Part of the tale that had eluded me. It's said you've grappled with every manner of creature, Pon Para. Although, victory isn't always ascribed to you." "I maintain she was the victim of treachery," a different brigand interjects from your rear. His blade lingers near your ear, occasionally grazing your cheek. He exhibits less the demeanor of a reformed tiller and more that of a noble from the Sea Kingdom. "Para was a champion in the previous conflict. No troll could claim her life." Indeed, it took more than a single troll to fell your mother, but that's a detail you withhold, unless absolutely necessary. Scanning beyond the brigand leader, you situate yourself in a clearing amidst a sparse pine woodland, the river Auclis visible in the distance. Your mission was to verify whispers that Vankred, the sovereign of the Stormraiders, had arrived here to parley with the local outlaws. Vankred's axe, the instrument that extinguished your mother's life and razed your birthplace, wasn't wielded by Vankred in Hetch on that fateful day. The axe, Raun, wields dominance over trolls, ettins, divs, and— "Do we even have confirmation that this is the authentic Pon Para?" questions another brigand, her voice resembling a high-pitched rasp. This elderly woman was the one who bound your limbs and from her frequent reference to a ledger, it's clear she's pondering a ransom. Her bow rests on the other side of the log from her leader. The brigand leader's gaze meets yours once more as the aristocratic robber steadies his sword on the back of your neck. "Your mother," he begins, "her origins?"