this is the next few pages in the story, enjoy!! feedback always appreciated

----------------

Now, I know what your thinking: a lowly tanner? Starting a war? It seems impossible! Fret not, dear reader, leave your incredulity behind. For it is my duty as a humble bard to guide you through these twists and turns.

You see, after leaving his father in that fairly uncomfortable state of un-life, Beldan had to make a hasty departure from his humble hamlet. And when out on the road, alone, he had come to find that his years of leatherwork did little to keep him warm and his belly full.



However, a life of stiff labor and unjust cruelty had made him considerably strong and unusually capable of inflicting violence on passers-by. And thus, he began a most lucrative career in thuggery.
From the dusty roads of Tobb’s Belt, to the verdant paths along Lower Bernavand. Up and down and crossways throughout the bustling trade routes of the Red Rim Province, Beldan peddled his newfound trade.
And let us not mince words, though that is among my greatest of passions, Beldan was exceptionally good at his job. You see, the toil of a tanner had very little in the way of reward for their efforts. But the life of roguery was replete with riches. Gold, wagons, weapons and wenches. The rewards seemed endless on those busy roads. The least reputable men from all around began to flock to his cause and in due time, our timid tanner began to garner a fair amount of infamy. And with no minor feat of alliteration, Beldan’s Butchers were born.

Ah, now I sense it. Recognition. Recollection. A spark of remembrance dances at the edges of your memory. Of course, you have heard of, oh seeker of stories, that treacherous troupe of terrible tyrants. Their trail has been tracked by many a trepidatious troubadour.

But Beldan and his butchers are but the start of our tale. The plot has yet begun to twist. As on one faithful day, on a merchant’s road just north of Lairdcrest, Beldan himself had captured yet another fine merchant’s cart full of wine, spices, bolts of fine cloth, and more than a few blades of rare frosteel, and other spoils to boot. One of which was the cart’s owner herself. A startlingly fair maiden with a mane of fiery hair and a temper to match, though it would be unfair to harshly judge her mood at the time. Laden with names and title far too long and complex for Beldan to belabor his mind with absorbing, he thusly dubbed her Red. None the wiser as to how his life was about to be turned sideways yet again.
But let not the ramblings of a humble bard distract you from our fine tale. Perhaps we need a closer look? Close your eyes and listen to the dulcet tones of my lute as we travel back to that fateful day…

“Drink?” The rogue offered his winesack to the red shock of hair that rested upon a bundle of burlaps.
The burlaps rustled and a muffled reply escaped from the vermillion mop.
“No.”
“Pipe?”
More rustling, and a pair of emerald-flecked gold eyes appeared from the heap, glaring darkly at the longstem bone pipe. They soon disappeared back into the folds of the roughspun sacks.
“No.”
The rogue, shrugged and took a long drag from the alabaster stem. A ghostly wisp of the spicy-sweet graybloom smoke escaped his lips and hung in the still air.
“How about a song? Arric sings nearly as well as he drinks.”
A hidden hole in the road sent the carriage bouncing hard as its wheel popped in and out, sending the pile of sacks and its occupant into the air.
She landed hard and smacked her head on one of the iron bars of the wagon that imprisoned her. More than a few chuckles could be heard from the various riders in the company surrounding the cart.
“No, damn you!...