Branston Tales


The letter from the museum owner...

In the colonial city of Branston, if you don’t play by the rules, chances are – you’re coming home with your legs broken. Strict police force, to which the most of our tax pieces go, never lets their guard down. If you’re looking to earn money for a good business, you need to either have worked for the city’s police force for at least ten years, or have a good relationship with the chief.
You’re still in your younger days – the mayor, Sir Tiblog, respects younger kin of his city. Violence against little ones holds higher punishments than murder. It used to, at least, until the new Head of Government Security, Braxton re’Strax, proposed a set of new laws to ‘equalize’ kids with adults, after two teenagers broke into the city’s treasury and stole all they could gather, and got away with it without punishment. You’d consider that normal, lads, but the treasury runs the city. It feeds us, builds roads for us, brings construction resources to us, keeps us warm.
Now, the kids and teenagers, who are weak, are subject to being beaten up or abused in any other form. We used to call this place a “population surge”. Now it’s no more than a population butchery. Forgive me for my crude language, I know you’re too young to read about all this, but considering that you’ve come to this town all armed and sweaty, word quickly spread out that you’ve escaped from an orphanage in a neighbouring city and made your way here through the traps of dangerous monsters of this still dangerous colonial continent.
I am Endrin Khrall, the owner of my father’s Branston Museum of Fine Arts. I ask you to take the matter into your hands and save the younger generation from disappearing, before the war enrages and leaves only the city’s ashes, because only if we’re united – we can defeat our common enemy.

- Endrin Khrall, a letter sent with a pouch bag containing 500 gold pieces.



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