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Post by JonathanM on Mar 11, 2015 18:34:35 GMT
Last last night young Devon Sunderoak was seen leading ten pale, worn, beat down, dirty, individuals clad in naught but rags into his family home. Dirty, smelly, bruised, and exhausted, his guests were not ones typical of meriting late night audiences at the Omicron Highborn's family manse. As curious as this is, yet more curious was the sight next day, when those same men and women walked from the courtyard of Sunderoak Hall.
They were barely recognizable.
All were clean. The men trimmed and shaven, if it fit their fancy, and the women with their hair neatly arranged. They wore clothes. Real clothes. Not the beggardly rags they had worn upon entry. Each carried means of hunting and defending themselves. A light crossbow with a quiver of bolts, and a small blade. And each led a plump little gray donkey, laden with all manner of supplies and tools.
The biggest difference however, was that faces that had once gazed with dead, sad eyes towards the earth now looked out across Mileria with hope. . .with pride. . .and with joy.
Rumor has it some of these beneficiaries of the young lord's kindness actually stayed on to work with his family, while others took their gifts and hit the road in search of a new life.
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Post by Tel Vinrae on Mar 17, 2015 18:27:30 GMT
(Bonus XP Awarded)
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