Andy Peterson

The Carefree Son


The tallest and skinniest, Andy stands at 6’1" and weighs 180 lbs. Being the youngest, Andy refers to himself as the pretty boy of the three brothers.


The harvest was good this year, thought Andy. It was just such a pain to be loading all this hay into the cart to be bailed and stored. He didn’t understand why it had to be him doing all the manual labor while musclebound Dan went to market with Dad and dutiful Paul was cooking with Mom. He’d much rather be in the tavern, having a nice pint and people watching. He leaned on his pitchfork as his thoughts turned to the freckly redheaded bar wench. As he began to get lost in his thoughts of her buxom thighs, Andy was snapped back to reality by the sound of wheezing lungs and the smell of freshly upturned dirt.

“Why hello there” said the man in the dark purple robes, flanked on either side by a half rotten man in ratty funeral attire. “Um, hi. Can I help you?” questioned Andy, sizing the man up. “Ah, what a kind young man, offering aid so readily to a stranger. You see, I’m a collector of men. Dead men to be precise. And you do ever so look like you’d make a fine addition, so if you could be a dear and get along with the being dead part, that would be great.” Dan burst out into laughter. “That is the worst sales pitch I have ever heard. All right sir, you’ve had your fun, but if you could right kindly fuck off back to wherever you came from, that would be much appreciated.” The necromancer stared in disbelief at the audacity of this peasant boy for a second before pointing a gnarled finger at him and screaming “Attack!” The dead men darted forward, carrying out their master’s will. The first one got 4 tines of cold steel through the chest. “One” chimed Andy. The second caught the back end of the handle to the temple, freeing the fork head from the first. “Two.” The necromancer had begun a chant in an ancient tongue, but was only able to loose a shrill scream as he was lifted off the ground as the pitch fork pierced his chest. “Three” said Andy, with a cheshire grin on his face.

“So you killed a necromancer? Single handedly? With a pitchfork?” asked the Inquisitor skeptically. “Don’t forget about the two zombies” Andy offered cheerfully. “You’re awfully chipper considering what happened to your family.” “Of course I miss Ma and Pa, but you know. Spilled milk.” “I suppose a good heart IS necessary in this business. We’re always looking for those brave enough to step forward and volunteer to be Paladins. Before you join our ranks, we have on final question: Why…” “Oath of the Ancients” blurted out Andy. The inquisitor stopped, quite taken aback at being interrupted. “What?” he asked. "You were gonna ask me “Why have you chosen to fight?” and based on my answer, you were gonna tell me what Oath I would swear. I’m telling you I’m swearing the Oath of the Ancients" beamed Andy. “Why?” asked the Inquisitor. “Have you seen the ass on Captain Anders!? Now SHE’S some leadership I can really get behind, if you know what I’m saying. I don’t have to swear a vow of chastity, right? Oh stop looking at me like that. If you want a real reason, I just don’t wanna be tied up with all the moral quandaries of the other Oaths. I’m not one for being a stick in the mud after all. Besides, I’m already a natural green thumb.” The Inquisitor rested his head in his hands, massaging his temples. “When you’re done with your training you’ll go to Squad 7. Just try not to embarrass us.”

Andy Peterson

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