Aedaric silently holds a single finger up, wordlessly asking for a moment of patience, as his hands move to his neck, and he begins to unfasten the collar of his steel-blue hauberk.  A few moments later, he pulls the collar down to reveal a wicked-looking, ear-to-ear scar on his throat.  He makes another gesture with his hand, as if her were speaking, and closes his eyes before slightly drooping his head and shaking it from side to side.  Aedaric looks up as be begins to fasten the collar once more, offering a stoic nod, and then pulls out a small, brown leather book, tied shut with a pretty, red hair ribbon. He sighs deeply, pausing a moment, before handing you the small, brown leather book…

 ***
My name is Aedaric Mallory.  If you are reading this, then I am either dead or I have given you a modicum of my trust.  Either way, there is no doubt that you have seen the scar that adorns my neck.  Contained within these pages is the story of how I earned that particular scar, and why you must read the story instead of me tell you.

I was born twenty-seven summers ago, on a small farmstead located between Far Chetwood and the mountains.  I never knew my father, as I was raised by my Mother and grandfather.  My grandfather did not speak about his past, but Mother hinted that he use to do violent things for money; apparently he was very good at what he did.  One day, however, he decided he wanted a different life.  Mother said that he paid his debts with the men he use to work for, and disappeared never wanting to go back to that life.

Our life was honest and simple.  Grandfather became a blacksmith, doing work for some of the farmers in the eastern Bree fields.  He tended to avoid places where people gathered because it apparently reminded him to much of the past.  He hunted in the forest and hills surrounding our little home, when he wasn’t working the forge, and Mother would take care of the few farm animals we had, in addition to the house.  As I said, an honest, simple life, but a shadow was slowly creeping across our quaint little world.

Both Mother and I could tell that Grandfather was cross about something, but he wouldn't say about what, just that it wasn't our fault. Mother pressed hm one day and he became so angry that he yelled curses before storming off - he never did that.  I followed him to a clearing where he was smoking a pipe - he never did that either.  He was grumbling and muttering all sorts of swear words, then abruptly stopped and expertly threw a concealed dagger not six inches from where my head had been a moment ago. "Go home boy!"

We were hunting a weekly later, deep in the Far Chetwood, when I told him I wanted him to teach me how to fight. "What makes you think I know how to fight?"  I told him Mother said you use to do violent things for money, and only someone who knows how to fight could do that. "Why do you want to fight?"  I looked down a few moments and then asked him, 'what happens when you're gone?'  "Good point boy. Be ready before the sun rises tomorrow."

For a month straight Grandfather trained me to fight with fists, staves, knives, swords,  and axes. He taught me how to quickly don and doff armor.  Every day after training he would have me practice reading and writing; "what good is a blade if the mind controlling it is dull".  I didn't realize it then but grandfather had another motive for training me, and we were all about to learn if I was ready.

Grandfather and I had just finished hunting. Mother had finished cooking breakfast and was putting it on the table.  We were about to sit down and eat when they came charging into our land, and surrounded us with their horses. A dozen rough-looking men; armed and armored, faces covered from the the eyes down and the hood of their cloaks pulled up. There was going to be trouble, and blood.

Their leader stepped forth, and patronizingly addressed Grandfather; he hated that. I could see in Grandfather's eye that he was planning which ones he would strike first. Once the pleasantries were done, the rider's leader told my Grandfather that he was here to "bring the old man's blade out of retirement, or take his head". Grandfather chuckled and put his hands on his hips, "you're the stupidest sack of Orc filth, and I pity the bastards following you."

The leader started to say something, but was cutoff by the butter-knife Grandfather threw into his throat.  After that, three more were dead almost instantly.  He was so fast it was both terrifying and awesome to behold. I did as Grandfather & I prepared for - I stayed with Mother, armed only with my long hunting knives. While Grandfather was fighting the riders, I took Mother into the house. Our cellar had a hidden tunnel that would take us out to the foothills of the nearby mountains. The last time I saw grandfather he was fighting the last three of the biggest riders.

When Mother and I reached the end of the tunnel, we were taken captive by three lynx-eyed, evil-looking ‘men’.  One of them tossed Grandfather’s head at our feet, while the other two bound us with thick ropes, and put burlap sacks over our heads.  After that, there was a sudden, sharp pain at the back of our head and then everything went black. 

When I awoke, Mother was nowhere to be seen, and my captors gleefully implied that they were taking “real good care of the lady.”  I was beaten and tortured for three days until someone finally told me what I did to deserve such abuse.  These villains, who were apparently the men Grandfather use to work for, were part of a larger group known as the Blackwolds, and these Blackwolds “have friends in the North who are going to be making some changes”.  Grandfather was suppose to “join up”, but didn’t make the right choice.  The Blackwolds still need bodies, whether doing their dirty work or serving as target practice, and they were not to come back empty-handed. 

For a short while I was their servant; cleaning, fetching, delivering messages, etc.  One day, one of those lynx-eyed, evil-looking ‘men’ came into the camp with a message from their friends in the North; something was going to happen and soon.  When it was done delivering the message, that lynx-eyed, evil-looking man approached me; “you are the pup of that old man.  He gave us good sport.  Let’s see how you fair…”

Again, I was beaten but this time they put a sword in my hand, and sought to use me as a training dummy; however, that evil, ugly bastard didn’t expect to have his side opened up by a whelp like me.  Most were speechless, but the camp leader thought it was amusing enough to have me burned and hung from a tree at the same time.  I guess they figured that if the hanging didn’t kill me, the fire would.  The hanging did something to my neck, taking my voice from me, and leaving the scar you see now; all the fire did was burn thru the rope. 

Still alive and flailing around madly to put the flames out, I didn’t even know they had thrown me in their jail cell.    I don’t know how long I was in there, because I was in and out of consciousness, but when I came to, there as a grim-looking Ranger standing before me…