This, for amusement, is what I ended up doing with yesterday's exercise.
Darac has been the famous Black Road Highwayman for five years, but now is forced to return to hide out with his old cronies. When he is summoned by the mysterious female mastermind who runs the underground in the city, he gains a new perspective on his career.
With the authorities hot on his heels, Darac, the Black Road Highwayman, arrives in the city of Yieth to hide out among the pickpockets and bravos that were his boon companions before he took to the road. He is summoned by Carmeide, the female mastermind who still directs operations in the area. He is surprised to find how advanced in years she is. They are interrupted by the city guard. Darac offers to fight them off and is puzzled when she refuses. She offers him a place to hide and, when he accepts, turns him into a frog. After a few days trapped in her fishpond, the reckless highwayman is ready to consider a more measured approach.
"Will you keep your voice down?" Darac demanded, barely suppressing the urge to slap down his companion's hand. "I don't want to attract attention."
"That's not the Darac Broadhand I know," Peril said, his lip twitching and threatening to dislodge the straw mess of his fake mustache. "What gives?"
The other men leaned forward around the tavern table, thirsty for the excitement even though their lives were far from dull - not unless the Yieth city guard had gotten sloppy or the enigmatic Carmeide had gotten less ambitious with criminal crew.
Darac tried not to puff up his chest too much, but the pride of his forthcoming proclamation was heady. "I'm the Black Road Highwayman."
In any other company, save these men who had known him a teenaged ruffian, the inclination might have been to laugh. Darac was tall and muscular, but his build ranged to the heavy rather than the impressive, and his eyes were the green of dewey grass. The rotund, almost cherubic face, looked nothing like one would expect from a famed highwayman.
Which might have been the reason for the mask, really.
Peril emitted a low whistle. "That's some kind of turn," he said. "But why are
(Yes, I always stop mid-sentence, not just for this. ;-) Move along.)