(Guys. It took a really long time for our hero to walk from the Land of Lost Letters to Maker's March. Like REALLY long. Over a month. But I have a good feeling our hero is going to be pretty active in the next week. Lots of things are going to happen. Here's a little catch me up, because, you know, he spent all that time... walking.
Our hero is level 3. He uses a bow. Tends to fall on his face. Is a general magnet for conflict.
You have arrived at The Northern Territory.
North of Camp U.S., Maker's March is the home of The Makers, a cult of industrial types. They specialize in Making. Who knew?
The Makers are in a never ending struggle to maintain the Northern Territory. Their enemy: the Speakers. A race of performers and orators, they use guerilla tactics to keep the Makers in disarray. On the day our hero arrives, the Makers are preparing their final march on Speaker Stronghold.
You step over the hill and look down on the battlefield. A lone bell tower sits in the middle. Catapults form a diagonal facing a decrepit fort.
"It looks like they're marching on that fort!" You say redundantly, and take a step toward the crest of the hill -- suddenly you are lifted into the air!
Hanging upside down by a foot, you look on at the upside down battlefield. A man steps in your way.
"Look what we have here, boys. A Maker caught in a little trap. Your trap spotting skill must be dreadfully low."
You didn't even know there was a trap spotting skill. Seems oddly specific for a game like-
"We had better leave him. No time for pointless imbeciles. How did you even become a Maker if you're an imbecile?"
"I'm not a Maker." You respond, happy that your stupidity has helped you evade death... sort of.
"Not a Maker? You certainly aren't a Speaker."
"I'm a hero."
They laugh at you. Hard. Too hard, really. The man pulls a knife and cuts you from the trap.
You land on your face. Ow. - 5 health points.
"If you're not a Maker you can come with us. Not many people get to see a revolution first hard."
You look around. The speaking man and four others are dressed in matching Shakespeare Tights Battle Armor. There's no way that's practical.
The man extends his hand. "I'm Estudio. These men have equally fancy names. Luftuvio! Find our hero some tights."
You gulp and follow the rest of the men down the hill, toward the catapults.
On the Eight of Winter Warm,