A gentle wind blew across the entire continent. Though it was gentle, it carried within it a message, spoken loud and clear within its whistling. It was a solemn sound, much like the music one would play at a funeral. Funeral. The word catches in your mind and stays. This wind, however it came about, was summoned as an invitation to you. When you direct all of your attention to it, the wind begins to push at your back, leading you…somewhere. As you walk, ride, drive or fly towards it, a feeling of dread begins to fill you. It pricks at your skin, tugs at your hair, chills your blood and stalls your breath. You know where the wind is taking you. It is in fact taking you to a funeral, being held at a tall and proud keep, which, with its tall towers and stout central building, built out of shining marble and precious metals, once seemed a great testament to its owner. In recent years, it seemed to become less a celebration and more a cruel joke at their expense, a constant reminder of how they were no longer the person who ordered the keep built, but a stranger who inhabited its halls. You are being led towards Keep Aldrey, haven, headquarters and home of your friend, now also his final resting place. You are invited to the funeral of Sir Albin Quantar, once the Blade of the Hills, the Threadless, and the Chosen Knight. A Legend’s Funeral indeed.
The greatest hero in the continent has perished. In stories such as these, one would think he either died in a grand battle, slaying his foe with his final breath, or in an ironic manner, such as dying of one too many drinks in the tavern after a successful quest. In this case, it was, surprisingly, neither. He had gotten sick after one too many journeys into unforgiving lands, and in order to avoid dying too soon, retired. He would spend the next several decades in his keep, only letting in his most trusted confidants, you. You were allies of his before he retired, and unlike him, you stayed an adventurer. Now you, old like him, have gotten word that he has finally succumbed to his illness, and in the declaration he wrote with shaking hands, he spoke of how you were the ones he most wanted to be at his funeral, for you are the ones who knew him when he was Sir Albin, the Blade of the Hills, the Slayer of the Eye, the One with no Thread, not just old man Albin, the sick elder spending the last bits of his life in a bedchamber. Now, you have arrived at Keep Aldrey, ready to say one final good bye to your friend. There is no conspiracy, no secret plot, just a ceremony celebrating a great man. And you are the ones he ranked above all others. Why?
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