You wake up in your house, in the middle of the night. You move your covers away from yourself, stretch yourself up and get up out of bed. The room is almost pitch black.
Currently you are in your underwear. You can see your
wardrobe.
So far, you have nothing in your inventory.
You instantly remember of the
old man. He was telling of a tale, as of yesterday. Something about a stupid sword of cool or something.
Your name is Dale Hewitt Bradwrom. You are a law writer, or you used to be.
You're a smart, funny, an ex-drunkard, bald, blue eyes and you're kind of overweight.
Your career ended after learning that you have a mental condition unsuitable of law writing. You write with your left hand.
No matter how objectionable you are towards this mixup, it doesn't change the fact that you have no career.
You have a slight headache from last night, you recall drinking yourself into a drunken haze. You were always the best out of your school friends as far as not getting a hangover. You then dwell on the though of how you used to drink all the time with your friends at the local pub. All the fun you had at that pub.
But now you just want to turn the light on and get your clothes on and go outside stargazing.
What do you decide to do?
