The Bowerstone Old Town Massacre was hardly small news in Albion. Within a month, the travelling traders had informed everyone from Hook Coast to Bloodstone about the Hero's assault on Old Town. Over thirty villagers had lost their lives in an hour and a half, although the reason remained unknown. A popular rumour spread that the Massacre was because the Hero couldn't find any houses in his price range.
Other horror stories of the corrupt Hero's crooked acts were passed around like lollies. How the Hero had extorted small change from children in Bower Lake, only to be shot at by the parents. Of course; the Hero made quick work of them – and four others. People started whispering. At least four gypsies in a month had disappeared from Bower Lake; but surely not...the Hero had been raised there, he wouldn't...would he?
Albion spoke quietly of the gossip that the Hero was working with the Assassination Society, a black market hit-man group that was run out of Old Town. When people disappeared, there were always questions. But it wasn't like anyone was going to ask the Butcher (as the Hero came to be known). He would make short work of anyone who questioned him – as was well believed.
The Hero's reputation beat him almost everywhere he decided to travel. Albion's guards tried to look tough, but each and every one was quaking in their standard issue felt boots. Guards had vanished, over ten at last count, all over Bower Lake and Bowerstone. It was hard work protecting the citizens, many guards thought, but perhaps it would be better to let someone else try for a while.
Beggars slunk into the shadows whenever the Hero was spotted in a town. It was common knowledge the Butcher hated beggars. And bards. He killed beggars on site; saying he'd done the town a favour. Quietly, some upper-class aristocrats believed the same thing. "That Hero,' they'd say, sniffing to their acquaintances (for aristocrats don't have friends), "I don't agree with all this Massacre business, but it is nice to see the streets free of those smelly riff-raff."
Whenever the bards spotted the Butcher, they shook so much their lutes played themselves. "I'd best be on my way," they plucked quickly, "or I'll be killed today." They would then proceed to fling themselves into the shrubbery on the sides of the road, holding their breath and begging the Hero didn't notice the quivering bushes.
The Hero was happy with this outcome. Albion feared him – no one knew his name. He heard cries of 'Butcher!' whenever he entered a town, and if he didn't, it was nothing a quick bullet in the nearest forehead couldn't fix. He especially liked walking into Oakfield. While it was true, he owned a manor there and his "wife" lived there with his "child", and the people didn't fear him as much as he would like, there was one society in town that bolted at the mere mention of his name; the Temple of Light monks. It had been no secret that the Hero had been the last person seen with Brother Graham, Brother Neil and Brother Andrew, and many of the monks whispered about the rumours coming from Rookridge. "The Hero convinced them to follow him," they'd say to each other (while doing penance for gossiping; might as well do two jobs at once), "and I've heard that the Temple of Skorm has had an influx in monk sacrifices." The Hero would grin when he saw a monk. Sometimes he chased them for fun. It was so humorous to watch them squawk and try to hurry in their robes. Whenever he was in Oakfield it was very rare that Butcher didn't go home smiling.