Before I begin, this may contain spoilers, depending on your definition of "spoilers". I've tried to keep things out that would ruin the story.

I've tried to take an unfortunate glitch in the game (the 5-star economy Bowerstone Market/furniture store won't stock glitch) and make it into an interesting read. If I failed, I apologize.

And with that, our tale...


Totally not my character, but close enough.

I didn't plan to commit any criminal acts, least of all murder; I wanted to stay on the path of purity, of righteousness. I wanted to be a beacon of light in the dark world of Albion. But what transpired that fateful day led me down a dark, sinister path, one I may never recover from.

It all started in Bowerstone Market, a section of Bowerstone which housed most of the shops and stalls. Of particular focus, the Furniture Shop, owned by Annette. A dowdy-looking woman, she did not give me a hard time when I first arrived in town. In fact, she was one of the people who quickly fell in love with me.


They all love me...hard.

It didn't take much to change her tune. Once the economy of the market hit a 5-star rating, she stopped stocking furniture. All she'd sell was a damn book, something about being "pretty on the inside". No matter what I did, she wouldn't sell any furniture. I bought multiple copies of the book. I sold old furniture to her.

"You own a furniture store," I told her. "You should be selling furniture!"

"The book!" was all she'd say. "Buy the book!"

What was it with this accursed book? It wasn't like the others, the ones that taught me how to get the villagers to love me (or fear me, a situation I avoided). Nor did it teach me how to get my dog to perform tricks. Hell, it really wasn't even a book; it was one page long. She was selling what could have been considered an unfinished pamphlet. And yet, it sold like hotcakes.

After buying the store outright and finding that she still refused to sell what she was supposed to be selling, I was out of ideas. The book kept being restocked, villagers kept buying it. But then, from a complete stranger, I was told of a way that might just work.


Tell me, good sir midget, have you any suggestions for getting the store restocked?

"Raise the rental rates and prices of your rental properties and stores," a wee man told me. "The villagers will not be able to buy this book that troubles you so, and the clerk will be forced to restock her wares."

Brilliant! But, what of my reputation? Here I was, a hero in the eyes of the townspeople. I had gained a halo above my head, a sign of my purity and goodness. Raising rent and prices would make the people hate me.

"Balance it out," the little one said. "Raise them here in town, but lower them elsewhere."

But where? Where could I buy out a good chunk of property quickly?

The gypsy camp!


Imagine more wagons and people...that's what the gypsy camp looks like

So, I was able to buy-out the entire camp and proceeded to lower the rates. I then returned to the market and raised them there.

And then, I waited.

And waited.

...and waited.

7 whole days went by. But there was no change in the economy. Even though the citizens complained about the prices, complained about having to pay extraordinary rental fees...the economy chugged along. And the furniture store still only sold one lousy book. My renters even complained about sleeping on horrible beds, waking up with splinters in their backsides. Yet, I was the only one trying to rectify the situation.


The calm before the storm.

I was at a loss. Frustrated, I visited the store, hoping that maybe this time, I could convince my now-employee to sell what we were supposed to sell.

I plead my case to her: "The people of this town deserve to sleep on soft beds, to sit in chairs that won't break under them, to display their books on shelves that don't look like termites have taken up permanent residence."

"Buy a book?" she responded.

Before I could even think, I snapped. My halo flitted in and out of existence, as if it knew what my fate held.

I pulled out my sword and gave Annette a quick slash across the throat. Blood pouring out of her new wound, she reached for me, and then fell upon the floor in a heap. I looked down at my shaking hand, at the sword I held. Once, it glittered in the sun; it was a weapon many beasts and bandits feared. Now, it dripped with the life blood of an innocent.

As I stood there, I failed to notice the sounds of the townspeople stirring to life. I didn't hear the town crier declare that the shops were now open. I didn't hear the small crowd that had noticed me from outside and decided to come to bask in my glory.


My fate was sealed; I became a messenger of death.

When I did notice them, I didn't hesitate. Working off of the fear that I'd be locked away for life, that I'd become another tarnished hero, I quickly eliminated the seven people where they stood. The screams from the final victim alerted the authorities, and though I tried to run, they quickly caught me and decided my fate: a 4000 gold fine.

A fine? A mere 4000 gold? Why did they not jail me, throw me into a festering cell to rot away?

I learned the reason soon enough.

"Monster!" a woman screamed as I hung my head and exited the store. "Murderer!" a man yelled, shaking his fist angrily. "Please, don't kill me!" a small girl cried as she ran.

Their hero walked through their town...but now, he represented a lie. A failed hope that perhaps they could believe in something, strive to be a better person. My punishment was their scorn, their hatred, the way they looked at me.

"How can they let you walk the streets?" a woman spat into my face.

I've asked myself that question dozens, hundreds of times now. I failed them, and yet I did not serve any time in prison.

I tried to erase my murderous deeds through donations to the Temple of Light, by rescuing slaves destined for a life of servitude and prostitution, through dispatching of as many monsters and thieves as I could. I even found other heroes, people who pledge to aid me in my quest to take down Lucien.

Sure, what I did that day dropped the economy at Bowerstone Market, and soon after a new furniture store clerk restocked the inventory with luxurious items. And yes, my halo did return.

The people of Albion soon forgot what I did; how, I do not know. Perhaps they considered this heinous act a small price to pay for the service I perform for them on a daily basis, or maybe they just don't want to anger me.

But, I cannot rid myself of the memories. I close my eyes, and their faces appear; empty eyes, gaping mouths, pointing, laughing...


Can I ever be considered a hero?

For now, I take small comfort in the returned adoration of the masses. All I can do is hope that I am forgiven for my actions, that my good deeds outweigh the bad.

But, part of me hopes I am punished when I leave this realm. Then, I can truly rest.