Each time I polished my father’s sword while under my brother’s roof, I wanted nothing more than to cut into the man who had taken Richard Hardi away from me.

… was the English nobility. My native land had jumped from disputes with France to disputes over the throne as one House waged “war” against the other. That seems like such a long time ago, in another universe, but it was your reality and it was mine.

That, however, was the last time our realities converged.

You’ve lived out your lives in relative apathy. It’s alright; had I the option, I might have done the same. My life was never simple, but in 1465, it became much more complicated. What happened to me… Well, let’s simply say that I was forced to get creative with my existence. And this is where I wound up.

I once believed if you had a story worth telling, you owed it to the world to share it. I don’t know if the world is ready to hear mine. You have no idea how many times you’ve faced extinction as a race. You don’t have the foggiest clue about the things that have gone on under your noses while you bickered over bread and clawed and scratched for social position. I don’t blame you. Like I said, had I the choice, I would’ve continued living much the same way. They took that option away from me, however, when they killed my father.

My name is Christian Richardson. I once was a mercenary, one of the best assassins the Brotherhood of the Black Rose boasted, who could claim a decent coin by reputation alone. If I carried on about my mortal clout, however, you would miss the big picture, much the same as I had before being claimed by the shadows. There are beings out there looking to destroy each and every one of you. People you have only ever imagined in your absolute worst nightmares.

And it’s my job to make certain they don’t succeed.



Christian Richardson

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