A storehouse of thoughts on RPG's and other non-sense.
Monday, April 10, 2017
Just to the north of Wolfsdale, near the the crossing of both of the king's highways is a permanent gypsy camp. Made up of a few permanent builds, and a couple dozen wagons. Most of the wagons haven't moved in at least a decade or better.
While mostly accepted by the local community. Their are a couple bad apples that give the place a bad name. Provoking a bit of discrimination. A skinny, smooth talking man named Shifty cooks illegal alchemicals and herbal remedies. A dirty, fat man with a bad attitude named Blake is a black marketeer. A good looking, chain smoking woman, with a heart of gold wrapped with a dirty sock, named Penula runs a sometimes crooked card game.
The vast majority of the people are hard working good folks. Like Miss Alitony a sweet little old lady is a fortune teller of great power. Then there's Richard Turner. A stout man of few words. A wood worker, his creations are just this side of magical, sometimes more.
In reality the biggest beef the village has with the encampment is the question of grazing rights. As the camp maintains a large flock of sheep.
I am thought to be exiled gentry, a vagabond, a scandalous rogue, a troubadour, armchair tactician, amateur grifter, self taught mechanic, would be author, adventurer, rogue scholar, traveler of strange lands, and an all round near do well.