Solitude Background Story:

The acrid smell of burning wood billowed around and through the hide tents. The fading fire showed five people huddled together against the coming cold, and made the eyes of their horses gleam. It reflected sharply on the metal manacles around the wrists of one of the travellers, the shackles of a slave. It was a small circle of light that faded into the hungry darkness of the open desert.

"Well, boy, you might wonder why you're alive when all the others are dead." The speaker was the oldest of the men there. A thin and graying beard was all the hair left on his head, and scars decorated his scalp.

"I don't want you to make a mistake and be gutted for impudence, not with all the promise you showed with a knife. So I'm going to do you this one favour, and you listen carefully."

He spat into the fire.

"Where we're going, there's two factions. They're both formed around destroyed noble houses from our fair land of sand and snakes. The one you'll be used to be called the House of Tor. They dealt in goods from Khitai, and grew rich. And lazy. The House of Nebtawi attacked them,
stole their lands and wealth, and made them into a slave army now just known as the Chapter. But amongst those riches they found a prophecy. Talked about the coming of a king, or somesuch foolishness. The nobles of Nebtawi saw what problems that sort of nonsense would cause in the
court of Luxur, and tried have the scrolls burned. Their own advisors turned on them, opened the cages and released the Torites to take their revenge. The Nebtawi were slaughtered."

The old man took a swig from a wineskin, and chuckled, teeth gleaming in the firelight. He made a stabbing motion with one hand.

"Slaves turning on their masters is a delicate matter, and the King responded by putting a hefty price on the heads of all involved. They fled into exile, with the advisors calling themselves the House of
Solitude and the warriors becoming the Chapter. Our heads, and now yours is included, boy. So you best listen and learn well, because you're marked now. That brand on your arm is worth a fistful of gold to such men as want to turn you in. We're going to the very borders of Stygia now, and you better hope you don't have cause to go back into this country. But you mind your manners. Obsessive mystics and embittered bondsmen make uncomfortable bedfellows. And it's not just us there, now.
All sorts have come for this prophecy, lunatics that they are. Even amongst those that believe in it, there are uneasy bedfellows. Priests of all sorts, merchants, mercenaries, working together now and doubtless planning to slay each other in their beds as soon as they think the moment of fulfillment is at hand."

The speaker's companions laughed as he finished his story, and shook their heads.

"Prophets are cursed by the gods for good reason," one said. The noise slowly faded and one by one they pulled animal skins around themselves and fell asleep.

The old man held his hands close to the dying embers. "You sleep, boy. I'll be on watch."

The slave did not move. He simply stared into the firepit, his eyes reflecting the glowing coals.

Dawn came slowly.