Accept the Honor. Don the title of The Red Lance. (You never liked your name anyway)
From Create Your Own Story
There is no celebration. Your Oathsworne brothers and sisters take you to one of the empty rooms in the old tavern. They mend whatever wounds you incurred from the battle, provide you with clean clothes, and brief you on the situation. One of your sisters, one you have known for many years is here. She's from the east. Everything about her is small. Small hands, tiny feet, lythe legs, and that compact yet buoyant ass. Her olive skin and clear complexion give her the look of youth you feel almost uncomfortable with. You've given her the nickname 'Orphan', since she usually plays the role of an orphaned girl turn night-walker to infiltrate and eliminate her target. This happens frequently, ever since the Norlandic Empire overran the Eastern Islands.
You have another female compatriot. You have seen her around, but don't know her name. She is a tall woman. A frigid-looking, amazonian ice queen. Her platinum blonde hair is cut short, and jagged. Her face is sharp, but her lips are plump and welcoming. The black robes she wears does little to hide her ample cleavage. Her pale skin reminds you of snow. She is obviously younger than Orphan, despite the size difference. You can tell by the way they carry themselves. Young Oathsworne have something to prove. Those who take the Oath and manage to survive more than a couple years learn to take it easier.
Dusk, the only brother who made it into your room briefs you on what needs to be done. "Well, Squire.... We're giving the Duchess the 'treatment' at another location. We'll take you to her tomorrow. Red Lance says you'll be playing the charade until he's healed up, so once we bring her in - consider yourself the new Big Red."
You nod.
"In the mean time, I suggest you get some rest. Orphan and Winter will fix you up. I've got some business down stairs. Do you need anything else from me?" Dusk leans forward, as if to stand up if you have no more requests.
