Morning bled slowly into Emberstead, a pale gray light seeping through the gaps of the shutters. The village was hushed, the kind of silence that followed a night of blood. Ash still lingered in the air from the burned goblin corpses, carried on the damp chill of dawn.
Arin sat on the bench near the embers of the hallfire, alone but not unobserved. Every creak of the door or shuffle of boots reminded him that wary eyes still measured him. His body ached from the fight, cuts stiffening, muscles sore—but more than that, his mind churned with the image of the branded goblins. The sight of the rune-carved flesh would not leave him.
When the quiet grew too heavy, the shimmer of light blinked in his vision. The Status Window appeared, translucent and crisp, as if the world itself acknowledged his survival.
Status Window
Name: Arin
Level: 3
HP: 16/16
MP: 7/7
Strength: 10 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 10 (Max: 83)
Agility: 10 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 7 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 3
The sight of it brought a strange comfort—and a heavier responsibility. Three new points, earned in blood. His hand hovered over the glowing numerals, as though touching them might set the world itself to change.
He thought of the battle. The moments where his strikes landed clumsy, where his arms trembled too soon, where his lungs burned before the fight was done. It wasn't speed he lacked, nor wit. It was the raw strength to drive his blade through when fear pressed hardest.
He drew a steady breath and willed the points into Strength, Endurance, and Willpower. The numbers shifted, glowing faintly before settling into place.
Status Window (Updated)
Name: Arin
Level: 3
HP: 16/16
MP: 7/7
Strength: 11 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 11 (Max: 83)
Agility: 10 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 7 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 9 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 0
The change was subtle—no sudden rush of vigor, no blinding revelation—but he felt the faint steadiness in his limbs, the way his breath seemed to settle easier in his chest. Stronger, if only slightly. But in this world, even slight edges were carved in blood.
A voice broke the silence.
"Feels strange, doesn't it?"
Arin blinked and turned. Bren stood at the edge of the hall, helm under his arm, dark eyes steady. The watchman must have seen the faint flicker of the window in his gaze, or maybe he had simply guessed. He leaned against the post, expression caught between weary humor and hard truth.
"You fight, you bleed, and the world says you're worth a little more than yesterday," Bren went on. "But it doesn't tell you what it costs. That's left for the rest of us to reckon with."
Arin hesitated, the words heavy. "Do they all… see these?"
Bren shook his head. "Not all. Some never live long enough to notice. Some are too scared to use what's given. And some—" his mouth twisted, "—some forget that numbers don't mean a damn thing if your courage falters."
The fire crackled between them, and for the first time since arriving, Arin felt that Bren's eyes weren't measuring him, but weighing with him.
"You did well," Bren said quietly, voice dropping so the others couldn't hear. "Not all here will say it, but I'll tell you plain. If you hadn't stood your ground, more than one man would be ash this morning."
The words warmed Arin more than the fire. But Bren's face hardened a moment later.
"Still… don't expect thanks. Fear makes folk cruel. They'll need a villain, and you wear the look of one too easily." He pushed off the post, straightening his gear. "Stay close to the ones who'll stand with you. And keep your blade ready. I doubt last night was the end of it."
With that, he left, leaving Arin alone with the embers, the lingering ash, and the quiet weight of his new strength.
After Bern left him in the longhall with nothing more than a quiet, gruff reassurance, Arin finally let his body sag against the bench by the hearth. The fire had burned low, casting only dull embers across the planks. He hadn't meant to close his eyes, but the weight of the day before had pressed him down until sleep took him in fits and starts. Four, maybe five hours at most—just enough to take the edge from his fatigue, not enough to banish it.
When he stirred again, the hall still smelled of ash and smoke from the funeral pyres. His muscles ached, his head felt heavy, and the fire's glow had dwindled into a bed of faint orange. He rubbed the grit from his eyes and sat forward, when a sudden commotion outside shattered the quiet.
A shout. The hurried thump of boots. The creak of the palisade's gates straining against a frantic push.
Arin rose before thought carried him, following the sound out into the chill air.
A scout stumbled through the half-open gates, supported by two watchmen. His leather jerkin hung in shreds, claw marks raked across his chest, and blood had dried in thick rivulets down his side. One of his arms dangled uselessly, the shoulder swollen and bruised black. His face was pale as clay, lips trembling with every shallow breath.
"Get him to the healer!" someone barked, but the man shook his head violently, clutching the front of Bren's tunic as they lowered him to the earth.
"No time," he rasped, his voice broken stone. "You must… hear me."
The crowd pressed in, fear thick as smoke. Arin edged closer, every word clawing at his attention.
"They're not—" the scout coughed, a wet, painful sound, before forcing the words through bloodied lips. "Not just goblins. There's one… leading them. Bigger than the rest. Taller by half a man. Hobgoblin."
Gasps rippled through the gathered villagers.
The scout's gaze flickered upward, pupils blown wide as if reliving the memory. "Not just a hobgoblin. A warlock. I saw him—saw the brands burn on their flesh as he raised his staff. Heard him chanting, the ground shaking with it. Goblins bent to his voice like hounds at a master's whistle. He… he marked them, cursed them, made them fight as if death itself was nothing."
His grip slackened, hand falling from Bren's tunic. "He waits in the camp to the south. Firelight… chants. They're gathering still."
The healer pushed through then, kneeling quickly, but the scout sagged, strength failing him. His head lolled as she worked, his words trailing into silence.
Around them, the villagers broke into a low tide of whispers.
"A warlock…"
"Saints preserve us…"
"That explains the brands—cursework."
"We're finished. No wall can hold against that."
Arin felt their fear gather like stormclouds, heavy, pressing, suffocating. And within it, their eyes turned—some to Elira, who had come striding from the longhall, her face stone-hard; some to Bren, his jaw set tight; but more than a few flicked to Arin, as though the stranger's presence had summoned this very doom.
Elira's voice cut the panic clean in half. "Enough."
Her tone was a blade, sharp and commanding. She scanned the faces, her gaze carrying the same weight as iron shackles. "We know now what hunts us. A hobgoblin warlock. Branded filth bent to its will."
The murmurs swelled again, but quieter now—fear held on a leash.
Elira's eyes lingered on the scout's crumpled form, then narrowed as she looked to Bren. "The brands were no lie. And this confirms it. If we do nothing, it will strike again. And again." She did not shout. She didn't need to. Her certainty was enough to draw every ear.
Arin's stomach knotted as the words sank in. The attack last night had been brutal enough—how could Emberstead endure another, led by something worse than the branded goblins?
The scout coughed weakly, a final whisper escaping his lips before the healer urged him to save his strength.
"It waits… waits for nightfall…"
Those words clung to the air, heavier than smoke, and in them every man and woman of Emberstead heard the same truth.
Night was coming. And with it, death, unless something was done.
The square outside the longhall had grown thick with voices, fear spilling into argument. Some clamored for fortifying the palisade, others for fleeing into the woods, while a few—voices high with panic—cried that they should hand Arin over, believing somehow that his presence had drawn this curse upon them.
Elira silenced them with a single, thunderous command.
"Enough!"
The word cracked like a whip. The noise fell to a nervous hush. She stood at the center, cloak drawn tight against the dawn's chill, her expression carved from iron. Bren loomed at her side, arms crossed, his presence as steady as stone.
"You heard the scout," Elira said, her voice low but carrying. "A hobgoblin warlock commands these things. If we wait for nightfall, Emberstead will burn. Walls will not save us, not against witchcraft. And fleeing into the wilds will damn us to starvation or worse."
A farmer shouted from the back, desperation twisting his words. "Then what do you mean for us to do? March into their camp? Throw ourselves to the slaughter?"
Elira's jaw tightened. "If slaughter comes, better it be theirs."
Murmurs rippled, half in agreement, half in dread. Bren raised a hand, and when he spoke, his words were slow, heavy, deliberate. "You all know I'm no gambler. But I've seen warlocks before, back in the marches. If we wait, it won't just be goblins at our throats. That thing will twist the night itself against us. He must die before the sun sets."
A silence followed—terrible, suffocating. The thought of facing a warlock struck most like a death sentence.
Then Elira turned her gaze upon Arin. Not the suspicious glance of the fearful villagers, but something sharper. Calculating.
"You," she said, drawing every eye in the square. "You've seen the brands, fought their cursed brood, and lived. Whatever strength stirs in you—it's proof enough. If you'll fight, then we strike together."
Arin felt the weight of their stares. Some still laced with distrust, others with desperate hope, all of them pressing down until he thought his chest might collapse. The thought of facing the warlock made his blood run cold—but the memory of the branded goblins, of their lifeless eyes and rune-burnt flesh, rose stronger still.
"I'll fight," Arin said. His voice was quieter than he meant it to be, but it cut the silence cleanly.
Elira nodded once, grim and resolute. "Then it's settled. We do not wait for the night to fall upon us. We take the fight to him."
The council broke then, decisions made in hurried voices. Men and women fetched what arms they could: spears with cracked hafts, wood axes repurposed for war, hunting bows strung tight. Bren organized a vanguard of watchmen. Elira chose a handful to flank and harry. The plan was crude, desperate—but better than waiting to die.
As the sun clawed its way up from the horizon, Emberstead moved with a fevered purpose. The warlock's camp lay to the south, and before another dusk could fall, they would march to meet it.
Arin adjusted the straps of the worn leather cuirass, the weight unfamiliar but grounding. The rough wood of the shield pressed into his palm as he tightened his grip, the edge biting against his forearm. He felt the faint steadiness of his new strength there—not enough to promise victory, but enough to stand.
And so, with the ashes of their dead still smoldering, Emberstead prepared for its most dangerous gamble yet.
Got it — thanks for clarifying. Yes, this prose you've pasted is Section 2, and it already covers the council and the villagers' decision.
For Section 3, we'll carry forward directly from this moment into the march itself. It should heighten the tension: villagers-turned-militia setting out under grim skies, Bren keeping order, Elira leading with iron certainty, and Arin feeling the weight of both suspicion and reluctant solidarity.
The village emptied into the southern path before the sun had climbed far past the treetops. The air was brittle, still carrying the faint tang of smoke from the burned goblins, as though Emberstead itself exhaled the memory of the night's terror. Boots crunched on frost-bitten earth. Old shields creaked. Few spoke, and those who did kept their voices low, as if fearing the woods might be listening.
Elira led at the front, cloak drawn back, her every step measured and unwavering. Bren held the center, his presence a steadying weight among the line of farmers and hunters now pressed into service. Behind them, Arin kept his place, shield strapped firm against his arm, spear balanced in his grip.
The rhythm of the march was broken only by the sounds of the village fading behind them: the clatter of pots being gathered, the thin cry of a child, the hurried prayer of a woman kneeling at the well. Each sound lingered like a tether pulling them back, but none turned.
"They'll come for us, won't they?" a young watchman whispered near Arin's shoulder, his voice tight.
"They already have," Bren answered without looking back. "This time, we choose where to meet them."
The words settled heavily, but they gave the boy enough strength to quiet his trembling.
Arin kept his eyes fixed on the road. The forest closed in the further they walked, shadows stretching long across their path though the day was yet young. His thoughts kept circling the same image: the warlock, unseen but looming, its hand pulling the branded goblins like puppets on strings. He imagined runes glowing in the dark, a voice that twisted weaker wills. His grip on the shield tightened until his knuckles whitened.
A crow cawed from a high branch, sharp and jarring in the stillness. Several in the column flinched. The sound reminded Arin too much of the hollow cries he'd overheard by the hallfire—a whisper of creatures better left unnamed.
Bren drifted closer to him, speaking low so only Arin could hear. "Hold steady. Fear eats faster than claws if you let it."
Arin managed a tight nod. Bren's tone wasn't comforting, but it was grounding, like a hand pressed firm against a wound.
The path bent southward, narrowing into a corridor of tangled roots and thick undergrowth. Elira raised a hand, signaling the column to slow. She scanned the treeline, her posture taut as a bowstring.
"They're near," she said, though no sound betrayed it yet. "The air stinks of them."
And indeed, when Arin drew a deeper breath, he caught it—a faint, acrid tang, the same stench that had clung to the branded goblin corpses.
Murmurs rippled, spears shifted, leather straps creaked as men and women adjusted their grips. The march had ended. Ahead lay the warlock's shadow.
The column drew to a halt, pressed tight beneath the black canopy of pines. The air was too still, the forest too quiet. Even the crow had fallen silent, as if the woods themselves knew what waited ahead.
Elira crouched low, her eyes scanning the ridgeline where smoke curled faintly above the trees. "Their camp's just beyond," she whispered. "Scouts saw sentries posted, but the warlock won't expect us so soon. We strike before he can weave his curses."
Bren moved among the villagers, checking shields, nudging spear hafts into proper grip, muttering sharp reminders. His presence turned trembling hands a little steadier, backs a little straighter.
Arin knelt with the others, heart hammering in rhythm with the war-drum of his pulse. He tightened his shield strap again, wood biting into his arm, and forced his breathing slow. Images of the branded goblins flickered across his thoughts—lifeless eyes, charred runes—each one a shadow cast by the warlock they now hunted.
Elira's voice cut through the hush. "We split here. Archers to the ridge. Spears with me. Bren, take the flank."
She looked over the line, and her gaze lingered on Arin. Not long—just enough to remind him of the weight she had placed upon him.
Then the column dissolved into motion, villagers moving like a single desperate organism. The forest muffled their advance, each step measured, every breath held.
From the treeline, Arin glimpsed the enemy camp: crude tents of stitched hide, firepits smoking with greasy ash, goblins slouched with weapons dangling loose in their hands. They laughed and bickered in their guttural tongue, unaware of the danger closing in.
But in the center, near a standing stone blackened with runes, stood the warlock. Tall, broad-shouldered for a hobgoblin, his skin carved with symbols that pulsed faintly even in daylight. His eyes were pits of ember-glow, fixed on some unseen horizon. Arin felt the sight of him like a claw scraping against his chest.
A villager whispered a prayer. Another clenched teeth to stop them from chattering. The air itself seemed to quiver with the strain of what was about to happen. Even the goblins' laughter carried strangely thin, like sound traveling through glass about to shatter.
Elira raised her hand, signaling the archers. Bows creaked. Fingers tightened on strings, arms trembled under the draw.
Arin shifted his stance, spear angled low, shield close to his body. His breath caught in his throat and stayed there, suspended. He could hear the faint rustle of clothing as those around him braced, the grinding of teeth as someone bit down their fear. Every sense screamed that the next heartbeat might be the one that split the world into before and after.
The ambush was seconds from breaking.
The warband's camp sprawled in the hollow of a clearing, little more than crude tents and firepits clustered around a blackened stake where bones hung like charms. Goblins squatted near the fires, tearing meat with yellowed teeth, their guttural chatter rising and falling in uneven waves. At the far edge, apart from the rabble, stood the warlock. The hobgoblin was taller, broader, his back stooped under the weight of twisted horns lashed to his shoulders like a mantle. A crooked staff rested in his hand, its head etched with crawling runes that pulsed faintly even in daylight.
Elira raised her hand. The column froze in the undergrowth, breath held. Then, with a sharp downward sweep, she gave the signal.
The first volley hissed from the treeline. Arrows and javelins struck true, felling sentries before their screams could become words. Confusion ripped through the camp—goblins shrieked, fumbling for weapons, some bolting toward the fires. Emberstead surged from the brush with a ragged cry, splitting in two waves: Elira and Bren cutting straight for the warlock, while the rest, Arin among them, crashed into the nearest knot of goblins to cut off their rally.
Arin's shield took the first blow, a jagged cleaver ringing against the wood. The shock jarred his arm to the shoulder, but his stance held. He thrust with his spear, the iron tip punching through a goblin's chest before wrenching free. Blood sprayed hot, the press of bodies surging around him. A second blade scraped off his cuirass; his riposte caught only air.
The fight closed fast and ugly. Spears broke. Axes hacked against shields. Villagers shouted, some in defiance, others in terror. Arin's world narrowed to the shield in his fist, the spear's weight driving forward again and again. Each thrust bought another heartbeat, another step of ground.
Across the clearing, Bren carved a path with brute force, his longsword cutting down goblins as though they were brush. Elira slipped in his wake, swift as a storm, her blade flashing arcs of steel. Together they drove toward the warlock, who had yet to move, as though he waited for them to come.
Then the hobgoblin lifted his staff.
A sound like tearing cloth split the air, followed by a wave of heat. Runes along the wood flared crimson. Goblins who had been shrieking in panic suddenly stilled, their eyes glassing over with a pale light. As one, they turned, formation tightening unnaturally, and hurled themselves back into the fight.
Arin staggered under the change. Where moments before the goblins fought like a mob, now they pressed with dreadful rhythm. Blows rained against his shield, relentless, the weight of two, then three foes battering him backward. A spear whistled past his head, close enough that he felt the air split against his ear. He bit back bile, bracing his legs, forcing his breath steady.
"Hold the line!" someone cried—he didn't know who.
A watchman to his right faltered, his shield splitting under a strike. Arin lunged sideways, spear haft slamming into a goblin's throat to drive it back before it could finish the man. He caught the watchman's weight on his shoulder, shoving him upright, then turned his shield just in time to catch another blow. His arm screamed, but he did not give ground.
Through the crush, he caught glimpses of Elira and Bren reaching the warlock. Bren's blade hammered down, sparks leaping as the warlock's staff intercepted with unnatural strength. Elira struck for the opening, only for a ripple of force to burst outward, sending her staggering. Dark fire licked along the warlock's staff, coiling like serpents waiting to strike.
Arin drove his spear forward again, teeth clenched, sweat stinging his eyes. Around him, Emberstead's defenders bled and groaned, but still they held, caught between terror and grim resolve. The goblins pressed harder, as if their limbs were guided by the warlock's will, each clash of blade and shield feeding the growing chaos.
The battle had begun in a storm of surprise, but now it was the villagers who fought for survival. And Arin, heart pounding, knew the night's fate would hinge on whether they could hold the warlock's horde long enough for Bren and Elira to break the creature at its heart.
Perfect — thank you for clarifying. You want Section 6 to continue seamlessly from Section 5, keeping the goblin encampment setting intact and the flow of battle consistent:
Arin in the melee, caught in the press of goblins.
Villagers wavering, but clinging to cohesion.
Elira and Bren engaging the warlock directly.
The warlock's sorcery escalating the fight.
The clash deepened into madness. The clearing rang with steel and screams, the air choked by smoke and the reek of blood. Arin shoved forward with the line, shield locking against the surge of goblins whose eyes gleamed with that unnatural pallor. His spear darted and struck, again and again, each kill dragging fresh fury into the fray.
To his left, a hunter went down shrieking, his leg torn open. Arin planted his foot, drove his spear through the goblin lunging over the man, and dragged the wounded back with his shield arm. A moment's mercy, stolen from chaos, before the press swallowed them again.
The warlock's chant thundered above the din. Each guttural word seemed to crawl under the skin, souring the blood, gnawing at thought. Goblins hurled themselves against the line with mindless precision, their ragged blades striking as one. What should have been a rout of panicked beasts had become a tide of death.
Arin's arms burned, his cuirass dented from blows. The shield rim split where an axe had chewed into it, and every strike rattled bone-deep. Still he held, teeth bared, the world shrinking to the weight in his hands and the lives pressed at his back.
Through the shifting crush he caught sight of the heart of the battle. Bren hammered at the warlock with brutal swings, each stroke meant to cleave the creature down where it stood. Sparks flared as steel struck staff, the crooked wood turning aside blows no mortal timber should bear. Elira circled fast, blade a flash of silver seeking weakness, but every time she drew close, a whip of dark fire lashed out, forcing her back.
The warlock laughed, a low, grinding sound that crawled in the bones. With a sweep of his staff, a ring of green fire burst outward, knocking men and goblins alike sprawling. Elira staggered, cloak scorched at the edge, while Bren dug his boots into the earth and roared defiance, refusing to yield.
Arin flinched as the force rippled through him, nearly tearing the shield from his grip. Around him, Emberstead's line wavered, cries breaking under the weight of sorcery. Goblins surged to exploit the falter, hacking, clawing, driving into every gap.
"No!" Arin's voice broke raw as he braced his shield against the rush, thrusting his spear through a snarling mouth. He planted his feet, dragging the line back together, shouting until his throat tore. "Hold! Hold, damn you!"
Somehow, the villagers answered. Shields lifted, spears struck, the line closing ragged but unbroken.
The warlock turned, eyes burning like coals, staff lifting high. The runes crawled with fresh fire, brighter and crueler than before.
And Arin knew—this was only the beginning.
Got it — you want Section 7 to pick up with Bren and Elira's sword skills clashing against the hobgoblin warlock, only for the creature to escape into Arin's side of the battle, where Arin delivers the killing blow. This gives Arin his first decisive kill against a boss and a huge leap in growth.
Steel rang like thunder. Bren roared and unleashed his strength, his longsword flaring in three brutal arcs. The blade split the air with such force that sparks trailed its passage—Triple Slash, a skill wrought for breaking even the strongest guard. Each blow drove the warlock backward, cracking bone charms from his mantle, forcing his staff low.
Elira followed, her movement a streak of silver as her body coiled and sprang. Her blade struck with impossible speed, a single, piercing thrust honed into one wordless fury—Charge Slash. The warlock reeled, staff shuddering as it turned aside the killing stroke. Steel shrieked against rune-carved wood, fire bursting between them.
The hobgoblin snarled, his guttural chant snapping through broken fangs. Black light erupted from his staff, slamming the ground in a shockwave. Bren was thrown to his knees, Elira staggered back with her blade seared, and for a heartbeat the warlock stood bloodied but alive.
Then he fled.
With sudden, vicious speed, the hobgoblin broke from their duel, shoving through his minions. His eyes burned with hate and desperation, staff raised like a talon. He surged toward the weaker line—the villagers—toward Arin.
Arin had no time to think. His shield rattled from the blows of goblins still pressing close, his arm numb with exhaustion. Then the warlock's shadow loomed, larger, darker, crashing into the melee. The villagers faltered, cries breaking as the creature bore down.
Instinct screamed. Arin braced his shield, thrust his spear forward in one desperate lunge—
—and felt it punch through flesh.
The spearhead burst from the warlock's back in a spray of black blood. The hobgoblin's eyes widened, a guttural snarl choking into silence. He staggered, clawed at the shaft, and collapsed at Arin's feet.
For a breathless instant, the clearing froze. Then the warlock's staff slipped from his grasp, its runes flickering and dying. The goblins still fighting shrieked, their unity breaking, their frenzy splintering into panic.
Arin stared down at the corpse, chest heaving, the weight of what he had done sinking in only when the battle cries around him rose again.
A burning pulse shuddered through his body—like fire racing his veins, like the very world had taken notice.
[You have slain: Hobgoblin Warlock — Level 12 Boss.]
[Experience Gained: Massive.]
[Level Up! You are now Level 4.]
[Level Up! You are now Level 5.]
[Level Up! You are now Level 6.]
Arin staggered, half from exhaustion, half from the flood of strength that surged through him. His vision swam with the glow of the system's words, his body trembling as if it had been reforged in an instant.
The villagers stared at him, disbelief mingled with awe. Even Elira and Bren, still recovering from their duel, turned to see the warlock's corpse lying skewered by Arin's spear.
The tide of battle had turned—and it was Arin who had struck the killing blow.
---
Interlude — Ashes of Othrak
The hobgoblin warlock had not been born of Emberstead's woods. His name had once been Othrak Red-Eye, a war-seer of the Broken Fang Legion, sworn to bind lesser tribes under the yoke of fire and blood. Long before his staff pulsed with runes, he had carved his way across borderlands with sword and chain, leaving pyres in his wake.
When the Legion broke upon the spears of men, Othrak had turned to darker bargains. In caverns reeking of iron and smoke, he bartered his name to nameless things, trading his will for power. The horns lashed to his back were not trophies, but the marks of that pact—symbols of a half-finished transformation, a price not yet fully claimed.
Exiled from his own kin, he gathered the branded goblins, scarring them with runes of command, bending them into a single lash of war. Emberstead was meant to be only the first spark—an ember in a fire that would spread across the valley.
But Othrak's end had come not in glory, not at the blade of champions, but on the point of a villager's spear. His pact broken, his body cooling, the runes upon his staff guttered like dying embers.
And in the silence that followed, something far away stirred—aware that a servant had fallen.
---
Status Window
Name: Arin
Level: 6
HP: 25 / 25
MP: 10 / 10
Strength: 11 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 11 (Max: 83)
Agility: 10 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 7 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 9 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 9
---
Current Equipment
Armor: Worn Leather Cuirass
Shield: Small Wooden Shield
Weapon: Iron-Tipped Spear
Other: None