Jorrin prowled the woods and saved people time and again. He was an expert sword fighter, too quick for any of the lumbering outlaws. Each time he prevented a robbery, Jorrin ensured his face remained obscured under the hood. And he never asked for anything in return, always ensuring the merchants or travellers safely continued their journeys.

In the tavern one evening, Jorrin sat in a corner. He listened to stories of his deeds and admitted to himself the talk was exaggerated. The biggest band of crooks he had ever faced was about six men, but they had never been trained in the art of swordsmanship. He smiled when tales of derring-do were overplayed to the point where one hooded man took on dozens of roguish thugs and beat them all without even breaking into a sweat. The reality was Jorrin often beat two, maybe three at a time until the others ran away.

But legendary tales of those unruly times told how a solitary man fought marauders and saved many a person. Rumours were rife about the hooded swordsman of the Foijen. Some even questioned the existence of this maverick who may be a spirit of the forest protecting good against evil. Jorrin’s escapades were reaching almost mythical proportions.

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