Alfred Creathwine, a young bandit on the run

Your village's main occupation was banditry. It came with it being located in such an inhospitable area, most years it was impossible to grow enough food to feed everyone, making it necessary for groups of young men to travel down to the main Imperial road and waylay travellers for loot. Dangerous work, but it was often necessary, and the glory you could get on the road made it attractive for many.

Your father had always warned you against being swayed by the pursuit of gold and glory, though he had been one of the best bandits himself back in his day. He often spoke with fiery eyes about the friends that had fallen on the roadside, never to be given a proper burial.

Your mother however, had always been drawn the prestige of the bandits. She had tried to join them themselves when she was a lass, getting turned down for, well, being a lass. When you were young, she used to sit you on her knee and regale you with tales of glory, and your child mind was enthralled.

Once you were old enough, you often asked your father if you could go on the raids, but he always refused, saying that he needed your help on the farm. However, one year, when your sisters and younger brother had grown enough to also help, he had wilted under the pressure of you and your mother's pleas, agreeing to let you on a raid. At the time, you were overjoyed.

Now, you find yourself feeling that you should have listened to your dad. The raid was an abject failure, as your group had the horrific luck to run slap-bang into an Imperial patrol. You barely escaped with your life, and the zealous soldiers pursued you for hours. By the time they gave up, you were in an unfamiliar mountain pass, and snow was starting to fall.

And there, you assume, you must have died and gone to heaven, because right now you're waking up in a warm, soft bed, and a beautiful drow is smiling at you from the door.