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Ah, Nebok, I understand everything about you.

Doesn't like anything Russian

Doesn't like anything Russian.

That's not true.

Loves everything Russian.

- What an ugly and primitive people, - the elf thought to himself, observing the life of the city's inhabitants with little interest as he strolled through its streets. - The houses are like dog kennels, the town square is like a pasture, and the palisade is like a pen for livestock. - As he continued down the street, the wizard stopped at the market, where he saw a couple of burly men. - Ugly and stupid oxen, only capable of doing menial labor. - He continued to ponder the inferiority of the lower race, casually examining the goods.

Loves everything Russian.

Not true.

Due to her skills in ice magic, the cold weather didn't bother Meretil much. What did bother her were the locals: large, uncouth, and capable of enduring the local cold without the aid of magic, they constantly stared at her, and their children even pointed at her. But there was nothing to be done – the local count, referred to by the Dagorians as a "prince" or something similar, promised good pay for participating in the expedition. And a skilled sorceress, which Meretil considered herself to be, was guaranteed such a payment, as mages, as far as she could tell, were rare in Dagoria. And even these preferred to isolate themselves in the forests, apparently trying to distance themselves from their more primitive brethren. The local sorcerer was clearly one of them, and the girl intended, if only out of pure curiosity, to visit him. Of course, only if she had time after meeting with the prince.
I'm going to the prince, crouch.

Having traveled a long way to the Dagor city, Kragon couldn't think of anything but the hunger gnawing at his stomach. "Meat... juicy meat... I need to find food. In human cities, food can be bought. Humans will sell anything... even what shouldn't be sold, if you give them enough shiny coins..." With these thoughts, Kragon set out to find the nearest tavern.

Kragan couldn't think about anything but the hunger gnawing at his insides.

My character is doing well; he isn't suffering from hunger. Well, not during the day...

Greg

The picture lies a bit. Overall, Greg is indeed a powerful enough man with a rather unpleasant appearance, but in his case, this unpleasantness is amplified by the fact that part of his face is burned and he is shaved bald.
Liarum, 30 years ago.
-Greg, come eat!
-Aw mom! We're killing a dragon right now and if I leave…
-If you don't come eat this instant, your ass will burn so much that no single dragon can compare to it!
The kids laughed and Greg, frowning slightly, went home, leaving the other children to achieve great victories over evil without him. When he arrived, his mother, named Leslie, and older sister, named Alice, were already sitting at the table.
-Finally! Alice and I have been waiting for you. Come on, eat, I baked some porridge here, just how you like it.
Greg loved porridge, but a wounded sense of dignity prevented him from letting out a cry of joy, so he only frowned as he sat at the table. However, he worked his spoon quite quickly and vigorously, which was more eloquent than any words. His mother looked at him with tenderness:
-What a beautiful boy you are, Greg. Just eat well—and you'll become just as strong and handsome as your father… - a tear welled up in her eyes and the more perceptive Alice anxiously took her mother by the shoulder. She only shook her head and discreetly wiped away the tear. The same boy, noticing nothing, finished his meal and loudly clattered his spoon into the empty dish:
-Can I go?
-Yes, run and defeat your… - the mother's answer was interrupted by noise and commotion in the street. Grabbing the children by their hands, she ran outside. Other people were leaving their houses to see who was responsible for this turmoil. It was a column of Bedingian soldiers entering the village. The emperor's flags hung limply in the windless weather, and an unpleasant smell emanated from the soldiers themselves, more characteristic of homeless people than an army, but the sight was still terrifying. At the front of the column walked, apparently, some herald who shouted loudly:
-Rejoice in your liberation from your tyrant king, Liarumites! Long live Emperor Friedrich I!
Leslie, who had lost her husband in the war with the Bedingians, turned pale and quickly went back into the house, still dragging the children behind her. Alice also looked anxious, while Greg didn't understand why there was such a commotion. Mom quickly led them to the cellar and, opening it, quickly pushed Greg inside:
-Son, remember, I love you very much. Promise me that no matter what happens, you will not come out of here.
-But wh…
-Promise!
-Fine, fine, I promise, but…
-That's good, now help me get the pickles, we need to make room for your sister—she rattled off in a blur and quickly kissed Greg on the cheek.
Greg began lifting some jars and placing them on the floor, but before he could clear even half of the space needed for a person, suddenly there was the sound of a door being kicked open.
-Hide in the closet! – the mother hissed at Alice and slammed the cellar lid shut. There was a very wide gap in the cellar, so Greg stood on tiptoe and began to look through it. Meanwhile, Leslie, grabbing two jars at random, went to meet the liberators.
-Well hello there, little housewife—greeted the tallest of them—will you shelter soldiers tired after a long march? – he asked and ruffled his mop of blond hair.
-Of course, of course, come in, help yourselves, here, I even brought you jam and…. uh… pickled cucumbers. But as for lodging, I'm sorry, but I am a married woman and my husband will return from the fields soon…
-We don't give a f**k—interrupted another, red-faced with squinted eyes—we'll sleep here.
The tall one smirked insolently; the remaining three soldiers chuckled.
-Fine, fine, if you insist…
-Get the food ready already—the red-faced one interrupted her again and Leslie ran to the stove. The tall one loudly slapped her on the butt, causing another fit of laughter among the soldiers. Greg clenched his teeth resentfully and wanted to jump out and beat whoever treated his mother this way, but he had given her a promise and therefore did not move.
A few hours passed; it began to get dark. The soldiers had eaten their fill and were belching gutturally, telling obscene jokes and slapping Greg's mother on various protruding parts of her body.
One of the soldiers stepped away for a moment but soon returned with a small barrel of some liquid.
-Guys, check this out! Amori—well, Am means—found a local brewer here, beer is flowing like a river there! Here, I grabbed some for you brothers, help yourselves—with these words, the liberator of Liarum slammed the barrel onto the flimsy wooden table, nearly breaking it.
Approving shouts rang out from all sides (excluding Leslie) and a stream of frothy yellow liquid flowed from the tap into mugs. The soldier who brought the barrel continued his story:
-And this brewer had daughters, oh man! Spirited fillies, asses like this, tits like this! – the fighter supplemented his story with corresponding gestures – well, Am and his crew decided to give them a little ride on their stallions, heh-heh. True, their dad started acting up, so they drove a shiv into his gut. It turned out a bit bad, but it's his own fault if you think about it.
-Damn, we could use some young Liarumite sluts right now…
-Well look, there's one—the most disgusting of them, the red-faced one, guffawed and pinched Leslie on her backside—a bit old, of course, but she'll do with some beer. Well, what do you say, mama? Your husband still hasn't come, probably lied to us about everything? Strip, basically, or we'll strip you ourselves, haha!
With trembling hands, Leslie pulled off her clothes. This fact in itself did not evoke strong emotions in Greg, but he didn't understand why strange men were forcing his mother to do such a thing. As far as he knew, it was very indecent.
At that moment, the tall soldier, who had gone to another part of the house, returned, dragging Alice behind him. Seeing her, the mother's face twisted with an expression of wild fear and she began to wail:
-Please, I beg you, take me, but not her, she is still a completely innocent child, I beg you have mercy…
In response, the red-faced one simply punched her in the face, sending Leslie flying to the floor. The tall one laughed gallantly:
-Yes, that was a lucky time to go relieve myself! Now I can taste a young and juicy girl instead of this old wreck! – with these words he began some manipulations around the pelvis regarding Greg's sister, which Greg himself could not see. However, Greg saw the grimace of pain on Alice's face, her tears, and heard her piercing scream. Somewhere in the corner, the mother wailed.
-Not bad, eh? – the tall soldier smiled a yellow smile – consider it as preparing you for your future groom! Hey, what the f…
He stopped because he saw Greg. The boy stood there covered in tears and would have looked pitiful if he weren't holding a crossbow aimed straight at the blond brute. Probably, at that moment, he regretted having carelessly left his weapon by the entrance to the house.
-Hey, boy—the red-faced one began insinuatingly—give the nasty thing back to uncle, okay? Taking other people's things is not good, weren't you told?
Greg's hands shook; he bit his lip and managed to almost completely suppress the trembling. The trigger lever was hard to press—much harder than in their children's games—but still, he managed to press it all the way. The bolt whistled through the air, and nearly hitting Greg's sister in the face, struck the brute soldier in the stomach.
-You are f***** d****** - roared the red-faced one and cursed filthily. Greg, suddenly seized by wild fear, turned around and ran as fast as he could toward the forest. The shouts of the soldiers followed him.
Greg returned to the village only a day later—by that time it was already burning down. Such was the custom of the Bedingians—if a village resisted and killed even one soldier, it was burned to the ground. This was an effective tactic, instilling fear and submission in the hearts of Liarumites. But it was not designed for people driven mad by grief. And it only worked as long as there was a strong leader in power—for example, like Friedrich I.
Bedingian Empire, 2 weeks ago.
A knock sounded at the door of a simple village house. When the mistress of the house, a plump matron around forty years old, opened the door, she saw before her a stranger in a long hooded cloak with a cane. The hood hid his face, but a gray beard could be seen beneath it.
-What do you need, good man? – she asked politely
-Good evening! Might you have a bed and something to eat for an old man? – the stranger's voice was tired, hoarse.
-Come in, elder! We never turn a guest away from the threshold, especially one who is tired and hungry.
-Oh, may God give you health…
Entering the common room, the stranger saw two other people—a stout mustachioed man with a red face, apparently the owner of the house, and a young girl of marriageable age.
-Look Antoine, see who's knocking at our door, asked for food and bed. I told him he would find both here—the custom of hospitality must be honored.
-You did the right thing—nodded the mustachioed man—are we so stingy as to deny some stew and a spot on the bench? Forgive us, pops, there's nothing more—as rich as we are, that's how we welcome you, as they say.
-I thank you for that, good people—rasped the old man—I thought you might turn me away.
-What do you mean, how could we? It's a trifle, it won't take anything from us—and a wanderer, especially an old man, should be honored.
-You are a good man, owner, a good man—suddenly the old man threw off his hood. Underneath was a bald head with burn marks on the skull where people usually have hair.
The women gasped, and the owner whistled:
-Wow! I see you've been in some tight spots, haven't you?
-What, don't recognize me? – no trace of hoarseness or fatigue remained in his voice. Greg threw off the fake beard—And now?
-What kind of joke is this? Be careful, lad, or I might…
Greg whistled loudly and several more Liarumites burst into the house, all in green capes under which gambesons were visible.
The women now screamed in fear, and the red-faced man began to beg:
-Take everything, just I beg you, don't kill me!
-You really don't recognize me, dog—rage was heard in Greg's voice—if you thought I wouldn't kill you. Remember, scum! Thirty years ago! A little Liarum village! Two women and a boy!
-I remember, I remember—stammered the mustachioed man—I swear by God, I went to church every day to atone for my sins…
-You lie—interrupted Greg—shamelessly and brazenly…
-I swear on the graves of my father and mother!
-I don't care about your oaths. Begin, boys—the Liarumite nodded to his compatriots. They quickly tied up the mistress of the house and the man, who could not offer them any serious resistance. After that, they began to tear the dress off the owner's daughter.
-Please, don't touch my little daughter! Kill me if you want so much, but don't touch my dove!
Greg smiled maliciously:
-My mother asked you for something along those lines.
At that moment, the young Bedingian shrieked even louder than before—Greg turned and saw her in the arms of his comrade-in-arms.
-Not bad, eh? Consider it as preparing you for your future groom—said Greg with a strange half-smile. The words echoed in his head; it felt as if thirty minutes had passed, not thirty years.
The mustachioed man burst into sobs.
A few hours passed. Greg himself did not participate in the festivities—he only looked at the red-faced man's face, trying to catch every emotion in it. When everything was over and Greg's accomplices began to leave, a small boy suddenly came down from the same room.
-Run, Jacques! – the mother screamed loudly, but the boy did not run. He only looked angrily at Greg. The Liarumite slowly approached the boy and knelt before him; the young warrior immediately hit him in the face with a tiny fist.
-Wow, you're quite the strongman and brave one! – laughed Greg – just like your father!
-I will find you—the boy lisped—find you and kill you for what your friends made my little sister, and mom, and dad cry!
-You know—the Liarumite answered almost thoughtfully—any other person wouldn't take your threat seriously. But not me. I believe that you can do what you say. One day.
The boy's face lit up with pride and confidence.
-… and I cannot allow that—Greg finished, cutting the child's throat with his dagger. Blood splashed onto his face. Both parents screamed loudly.
-I will leave you both alive—said the warrior of the forest—I think your daughter will make an excellent slut, since so many men have already been with her! Haha! – Greg himself felt that the laughter sounded fake, but he experienced absolutely sincere joy from this moment. Leaving the house, he saw that the house was already surrounded by branches and brushwood. Other houses in the village were already burning down.
-Set it on fire—he nodded and the Liarumites followed his order.
And Greg just stood and watched. Watched as the flames slowly engulfed the building. Watched as they completely consumed it. Then he began to hear the screams of the people inside. After some time, the screams died down, but the house continued to burn. The archers surrounding the house hooted like owls—this meant that no one had tried to run out of the house during all this time. Greg roared like a tiger—it was the signal to leave positions. Anyway, anyone who remained in the house would have already suffocated. Even in the cellar. Greg blinked and surprisingly felt moisture on his cheek. Touching it with his fingers, he saw that these were not tears, but the boy's blood, which had cooled over time and felt like simple water on the skin. Deciding that a bloody appearance was only good for villains from fairy tales, he went to the nearest trough and washed himself. He cast one last look at the burning house. Greg never learned to read or write in his life, but he knew one letter. The most important letter of all that could be. With the tip of his boot, he drew two lines connecting with each other in the loose soil, like scissors.
"L" - means Liarum—he whispered and went into the forest with his detachment.
Present moment.
Hearing about a significant monetary reward and needing money to liberate Liarum, Greg arrived in Dagoria.
Nationality: Liarumite
Class: Archer
Skills:
Snap Shot
Number of attacks x2, damage -20%, crit chance -10%, accuracy -25% X8

Skirmish/Shoot on the move
Can move and shoot in one turn (not required for throwing weapons). X14

Bow 1
Additional attack/ +25% damage, +20% accuracy, +5% crit chance, +12 range (longbows)X12
Bow 2
+20% to damage and accuracy, +10% crit chance. X12
Bow 3
Additional attack. X14

Concentration
For one round all attacks automatically hit and deal critical damage. X12

Characteristics:
Strength 12 (+3)
Endurance 13 (+4)
Agility 28 (+17)
Intelligence 8
Will 7
Luck 8

Inventory: Light gambeson, green hooded cloak, long enchanted bow with magic arrows dealing fire, water, electric and earth damage with dispel of enemy spells, or something decent at the GM's discretion, travel gear, money, and a dagger in his boot, of course.

Added after 21 hours 27 minutes
Sigh, no one wrote a separator.
The journey turned out to be difficult, but not because of the frosts. Greg's homeland was also not distinguished by a warm climate, although it was certainly much warmer. The problem was the events that had happened not so long ago. The Liarumite felt no remorse for what he had done—he felt only emptiness. What? Is this all? He took his revenge? His personal life goal is fulfilled? Tormented by these thoughts, he paid almost no attention to the cold or the people surrounding him. All that remained for him was the struggle for the liberation of Liarum. And for that, money was needed. A lot of money. Therefore, upon arriving in the city, Greg immediately went to the prince to find out if his journey had been in vain or not.

Felina preferred to avoid large cities. But now that she was here, she thought it would be a good idea to find out what was expected of her. The girl quickly tidied herself up and headed to the prince's audience chamber.

"Well, that's how it was. Alright, goodbye," Vsevolod waved to another random acquaintance, then, grabbing his heavy gear, headed straight to the prince.

Due to her skills in ice magic, the cold weather did not cause Meretil any particular inconvenience. What did bother her were the locals: large, uncouth, and able to tolerate the local cold without the aid of magic, they constantly stared at her, and their children even pointed at her with their fingers. But there was nothing to be done – the local count, called "prince" or something similar by the Dagorians, promised a good reward for participating in the expedition. And a skilled sorceress, which Meretil considered herself to be, was guaranteed such a reward, because, as far as she could tell, mages were rare in Dagor. And even those preferred to isolate themselves in the forests, apparently trying to distance themselves from their more primitive brethren. The local mage was clearly one of them, and the girl intended, if only out of pure curiosity, to visit him. Of course, only if she had time after meeting with the prince.

The journey was not easy, but not because of the cold. Greg's homeland was not known for its warm climate either, although it was certainly much warmer. The problem was the events that had happened not so long ago. Liarumets did not feel remorse for what he had done – he only felt emptiness. How? And is that all? Had he taken revenge? Had his personal life goal been accomplished? Tormented by these thoughts, he paid almost no attention to the cold or the people around him. All that remained for him was the struggle for the liberation of Liarum. And for this, money was needed. A lot of money. Therefore, upon arriving in the city, Greg immediately went to the prince to find out whether his journey had been in vain or not.

The door to the prince's chambers was open, but no one could pass beyond the entrance hall. A Dagorian, who looked to be in his late fifties and was dressed in unremarkable clothes, presumably a steward, came out to meet the travelers.
-- Greetings, travelers! I'm afraid I have to disappoint you: you arrived at such an early hour, and the prince cannot receive you yet. I sincerely apologize; you will have to wait an hour or two. In the meantime, I suggest you go to the dining hall, as you seem to have just arrived and should rest. If you need intellectual entertainment, the prince has instructed me to open the library for you.

The werewolf girl had not yet been in the city. Traveling through the forests, avoiding roads, she stumbled upon a solitary sorcerer's house and became interested in it.

The sorcerer's house was a small semi-underground dwelling without windows. There was no lock on the door, and there shouldn't have been – if the sorcerer didn't want to see visitors, he could have protected himself with more reliable methods.

After a long journey to the Dagorian city, Kragon could think of nothing but the hunger gnawing at his stomach. "Meat... juicy meat... I need to find food. In the cities of humans, food can be bought. Humans will sell anything... even what shouldn't be sold, if you give them enough shiny coins..." With these thoughts, Kragon set out in search of the nearest tavern.

In the early morning, there were few people in the tavern. Some drunkard was sleeping peacefully in the corner, and in another corner, a group of gambling enthusiasts were slowly gathering – three people at the moment. The innkeeper was bored behind the counter; upon seeing the ratkin, he frowned slightly but didn't say anything bad out loud and didn't show much displeasure.

Hearing the words about intellectual leisure, Todalenka barely managed to contain her laughter. Nevertheless, due to her innate curiosity, she found the prospect of exploring Dagor literature intriguing.

Felina cast a scrutinizing glance at her potential future companions. They didn't inspire confidence in her, nor did they cause any serious concern. After a night of hunting, the cat wasn't feeling hungry, so she politely asked to be shown the way to the library. Perhaps there she would find something interesting to her liking.

-- Greetings, travelers! I'm afraid I must disappoint you: you've arrived too early, and the prince cannot receive you yet. I offer my sincere apologies; you will have to wait for an hour or two. In the meantime, I suggest you proceed to the dining hall, as you seem to have just arrived and should rest. If you desire intellectual entertainment, the prince has instructed me to open the library for you.

Vsevolod, who had recently enjoyed a meal at a nearby tavern, once again felt that familiar pang of hunger, and therefore politely accepted the invitation to the dining hall. After all, reading books wasn't exactly his cup of tea. The village dweller was practically illiterate, and the few scraps of knowledge he had gleaned from his mother only allowed him to decipher the simplest sentences. However, this did not bother the mighty warrior in the slightest, and he was more than happy to sample the delicacies from the prince's manor.

In the early morning hours, there were few people in the tavern. Some drunkard was sleeping peacefully in the corner, and in another corner, a small group of gambling enthusiasts were gathering – three people at the moment. The tavern keeper was bored behind the counter; upon seeing the rat, he frowned slightly but didn't say anything bad aloud and didn't show any particular displeasure.

Kregon approached the bar.
-I need food, man. Lots of food! How much money do I need to pay for it, and who are those people gathering in that corner?