The Chosen One in Denial
Strangers bow when you walk past. You keep walking. It's got to be a mistake.
When an omen passes through a room, you feel it first — a ringing in your ears, a chill down the back of your neck, a single clear word in your head that isn't yours.
Your Story
You are [name], and until three weeks ago you were mostly worried about the roof of the tavern where you work in [hometown]. You wiped tables. You poured drinks. You argued with the cook. The dreams had always been there — you didn't think anyone else would care.
Then the stranger came in. Cleric's robes, a quiet voice, and they knew your name before you told it. They said a sentence you had already heard, word for word, in a dream the week before. They bowed. Not to you exactly — to something behind you, or inside you, or coming. Then they left without ordering. You've been shaking ever since.
You are not a hero. You have never been in a fight that wasn't in a kitchen. You didn't ask for this. But when the dreams come now, there are sometimes names in them — real names, of people you have never met — and the next day those people are in trouble. When you try to warn them, your voice does a thing it didn't used to do, and they listen.
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Aldis Penn, formerly of the Burning Cloak Tavern
Third of four kids on a tenant farm a half-day south of Beregost. Came into town at sixteen to wipe tables at the Burning Cloak. The dreams had always been there — a name, a number, a word in a language they didn't speak — and they'd long since learned not to mention them. Three weeks ago a stranger in cleric's robes walked in, knew their name before anyone said it, recited word-for-word a sentence Aldis had only heard in last week's dream, bowed, and left. When Aldis tried to warn the next stranger about a cart accident the dream had shown them, their voice did a thing it had never done before. The stranger listened.
Hero prop a small wooden sun-disc holy symbol — carved by Aldis on the night the dreams got loud.
The dreams are getting clearer. There is a room, and an eye that is not on a face, and a whisper that sounds at first like wind through a keyhole — until you realize it is forming a single word, over and over, and you are half-certain it is your own name — the one you were given at birth, or the one you haven't yet earned.
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This one is me →A week before we play, a letter will arrive at your house. Open it alone. Do not compare notes with the others until you reach the Trade Way.