Iknow5/Text_Adventures huggingface dataset:
In the courtyard, you grab a passing servant girl by the arm


"Have you seen my son?"


The servant seems unsurprised at your arrival; evidently news travels fast. She bites her lip nervously


"Ah... yes, yes I have, but-"


"Where is he?"


You inquire incredulously. The servant blushes


"He's in the stables my lord, but I really don't think you should-"


Waving off her concerns, you thank her and depart towards the stables.


The stables are large and ornate, a mix of carved wood and interlocking wicker. The smell is heavy of stale hay and horse manure, but the atmosphere is pleasant nonetheless.


At least three-dozen horses of various shades rest in the shade of the stable's long awning, but your son is nowhere to be found.


On a hunch, you decide to check the stable master's quarters, at the rear of the stable.


As you approach the door you hear a muffled laugh through the porous wood of the door. Undoing the latch, you throw open the door and enter the dimly lit room.


Inside, you son Eamon, a long-haired blond boy of seventeen lies under an old cotton blanket alongside a freckled girl of similar age. The pair are twined together, moving rythmically, and apparently neither noticed you open the door.


You clear your throat politely. The girl gives a shriek of surprise, and covers herself with a fold of the tattered blanket. Your son looks equally surprised, but emits only a startled cough. You grin


"Hello Eamon"


You turn your attention to the girl lying beside him.

You say "What's your name?"

You flash the young girl a warm smile


"Hello there, what's your name?"


The girl stammers out an answer


"L-lynette, milord"


You nod solemnly


"A very pretty name. Who gave it to you?"


While you spoke, Lynette had slipped on her threadbare tunic, in her panic she has managed to entangle the fabric around her face, and the cloth muffles her voice


"My mother works in the kitchen, milord"


"And the father?"


You inquire


"I don't know, milord"


She replies quietly, having finally wrestled her tunic into its proper position. With her attention switched from her tunic back to you, her embarrassment returns


"If milord will excuse me, I should be getting back to the kitchens"


"Of course"


Blushing profusely, the young servant girl scurries towards the door, executing a clumsy curtsy as she passes you. Your son stares after her longingly, he sighs, and you nod knowingly


"Is she a favorite of yours?"


Your son looks shocked


"I love her, father"
The courtyard is a chaos of raised voices and the neighing of horses and the splashing of mud, which coats the ground; it has been churned loose from the frosty ground and warmed by the trampling of hundreds of feet.


Across the courtyard from you is the inner keep, a building made from Roman stone and patched with Anglo-Saxon woodwork. It is where you host your warriors and organize meetings, and it also functions as your personal quarters.


You should organize a meeting soon, but it would be wise to meet with your family first.

You speak to Orvyn

Orvyn stands with a group of other men, all holding ale cups. As you approach he waves you a jaunty salute, but you sense a sullen undertone. You motion for him to follow you. Walking purposefully, you wait until there is no one in the general vicinity before speaking.

You say "We should be wary of Garyn"

"I'm worried about Garyn"


Orvyn nods vigorously


"I know exactly what you mean; bloody idiot will get us all killed with his recklessness"


Again making sure no one is listening, you put a hand on Orvyn's shoulder


"Can I trust you?'


Orvyn affirms loyally


"Of course Aethelwulf!"


You clap him on the shoulder


"I know, old friend, I know"


You lean in


"I want you to keep an eye on Garyn, make sure he doesn't blunder our men into a trap"


Orvyn checks over his shoulder suspiciously, as though he expects Garyn to materialize from thin air


"Don't worry, I'll watch him like a hawk"


"Excellent, let me know if he does anything foolish"


Orvyn salutes amicably and departs; you walk in the opposite direction, towards the main courtyard.
Orvyn stands with a group of other men, all holding ale cups. As you approach he waves you a jaunty salute, but you sense a sullen undertone. You motion for him to follow you. Walking purposefully, you wait until there is no one in the general vicinity before speaking.

You say "You need to cooperate with Garyn"

You wonder how to put this in a way Orvyn will comprehend; he is not, after all, a man who enjoys playing nice. You decide to start cautiously


"You know, of course, that I do, and always will, trust you with my life"


Orvyn nods slowly, you continue


"You also know that I rely on you to maintain order and discipline amongst the men"


Again, Orvyn nods, his bright green eyes watching you carefully. You press on


"I need you to be an example to the men, be something they can look up to"


Orvyn runs a hand through his jet-black hair distractedly


"Aethelwulf, I've always done th-"


You wave him off, and cut to the point


"I can't have you arguing with Garyn. It's bad for moral, and it makes the men lose confidence in their leaders"


Orvyn's pale cheeks are tinged pink, he stares determinedly at his feet


"If my lord would rather put his trust in me then Garyn, he need only say so"


The coldness of his tone shocks you. You open your mouth to apologize, but Orvyn has already stalked off.
Father Wilfrid kneels at the far end of the church, prostrate before a towering sculpture of Jesus upon a cross. He is dressed in a plain woolen robe that drapes loosely across his skeletal form. His hands are spotted with age, and his left shakes incessantly. His lips are thin and chapped, and they move loosely, muttering prayers in Latin. As he whispers, his head bobs slightly, shaking the wisps of white hair that sparsely cover his head.


You wait patiently for him to finish, ignoring the suspicious glances of the other priests. Your eyes drift upwards, where a lengthy tapestry occupies the farthest wall. You spend the next five minutes perusing it idly, watching grotesque caricatures of heathens smolder in the depths of woolen flames.


At last, father Wilfrid finishes his prayers and struggles to rise, heaving awkwardly against a weathered can that shudders under his minute weight. You offer a hand, and he regards it with unhidden distaste, as though you had presented him with a human heart as opposed to an offer of aid. You withdraw the hand tactfully and Wilfrid gets shakily to his feet.


He looks you up and down, as though he expects you to suddenly dematerialize.


"You're back"


You nod, trying not to think back on your less pleasant schooling days.


"How fare the people?"


Father Wilfrid looks at you with grudging respect. His teachings of angels and gospels have long since faded from memory, but his teachings on the importance of a lord's people have remained steadfast in your mind.


"They fare as well as one might expect. They grieve, and you cannot deny that their grief is largely your fault"


You exhale tiredly, Wilfrid grabs your arm


"We have our differences, you and I, but we agree on one thing; a lord should never forget about his people"


You nod and begin to speak, but Wilfrid cuts you off


"I know you must hate the Normans, but if you rebel, you will lose, and it will be the people, your people, who will suffer because of it. You cannot rebel against King William"


The old priest coughs harshly, his battered lungs quivering. He spits out the last sentence


"If you rebel, we will all die"

You say "I will rebel"

You lean in, forcing the old priest to take a half step backward


"Who do you give your loyalty to?"


His answer is immediate and unequivocal


"God"


Your snarl, taking another step forward


"Well, my loyalties lie with England. Always. You would be wise to develop a similar mindset"


Father Wilfrid watches you coldly


"Get out of my church"


Livid with anger, you storm out of the church, pushing open the heavy oaken doors and breathing in the calming December air.
You raise your hand and silence falls like a blanket over the crowd of people. Your eyes flick from face, some meet your gaze, others stare at their feet.


"We have been through hell, all of us. You have all lost people to the fyrd; fathers, brothers, sons. I understand your pain. But know this; they died with me, beside me, because we are the north! We live, we fight, and we die together! They say a warrior is only as strong as the shield held by his neighbor, they say this because it is the united who are strong, and we are the united!"


Your escort applauds, rattling swords on shields and roaring.


Some of the villagers clap nervously, but others remain still; one, a young woman with a grim face raises her hand.                                                                                                                            "Why was the fyrd so undersupplied? Why was it not provided with shields?"                                          One of your men barks at her to be silent, but she snarls back, tears bead her eyes                            "I lost my husband and my son! Don't you dare tell me to be silent!"                                               She stabs her finger at you, sobbing                                                                                            "Answer me! Answer me!"                                                                                                              One of your men reaches for his sword, but you wave him off. Looking the determined young woman in the eye, you give her an answer.

You say "I am sorry for your losses"

What can you say? The truth, you suppose.


"War is brutal, it is horrific and ungodly. It is savage and barbaric. That your son and husband died is tragic, but it is also a reality, and it is a reality that we fast approach. William will come here, and the killing will continue, because that is war. And in the world of today; war is life. It is terrible and tragic, but it is the life we live and I cannot shield you from that."


You search for more words, but none come. None are necessary. The woman exhales heavily, fixes you with a mixed stare, and then departs, melting into the crowd. Did those eyes hold forgiveness? Maybe. The crowd is equally divided; some seem unmoved, but many others look at you with a new appraisal.


Satisfied, you turn your horse homewards, and your escort follows.
You smell the town before you see it. A horrid combination of sewage and rotting thatch permeates the crisp December air. The town has perhaps a hundred homes at most, with most people living in farmsteads around the surrounding area.


Normally, the town would be fairly quiet, however today is Wednesday, marketday, and the town is filled with crowds of villagers from the farthest corners of your realm.


As your horses move through the center street, villagers hurry to make room. Some cheer, but others eye you with suspicion or even fear.


At the center of the town, you hold up your fist and your party draws to a halt. A crowd quickly gathers, all eyes are on you. Pausing to gather your words, you address your people.

You say "You must be strong!"

You raise your hand and silence falls like a blanket over the crowd of people. Your eyes flick from face, some meet your gaze, others stare at their feet.


"As a husband and father, I can understand the devotion one feels for a family member, and therefore cannot even comprehend the pain of your losses. I wish I could tell you that they died honorably, but in truth they were butchered! William slaughtered them, mercilessly. What happened at Hastings cannot be repeated, and to ensure that I need your support. If not for my sake, or England's, then for the sake of avenging your loved ones. William must pay!"


Your escort applauds, rattling swords on shields and roaring.


Some of the villagers clap nervously, but others remain still; one, a young woman with a grim face raises her hand.                                                                                                                            "Why was the fyrd so undersupplied? Why was it not provided with shields?"                                          One of your men barks at her to be silent, but she snarls back, tears bead her eyes                            "I lost my husband and my son! Don't you dare tell me to be silent!"                                               She stabs her finger at you, sobbing                                                                                            "Answer me! Answer me!"                                                                                                              One of your men reaches for his sword, but you wave him off. Looking the determined young woman in the eye, you give her an answer.
You smell the town before you see it. A horrid combination of sewage and rotting thatch permeates the crisp December air. The town has perhaps a hundred homes at most, with most people living in farmsteads around the surrounding area.


Normally, the town would be fairly quiet, however today is Wednesday, marketday, and the town is filled with crowds of villagers from the farthest corners of your realm.


As your horses move through the center street, villagers hurry to make room. Some cheer, but others eye you with suspicion or even fear.


At the center of the town, you hold up your fist and your party draws to a halt. A crowd quickly gathers, all eyes are on you. Pausing to gather your words, you address your people.

You say "I am truly sorry for your losses"

You raise your hand and silence falls like a blanket over the crowd of people. Your eyes flick from face, some meet your gaze, others stare at their feet.


"I know the losses you have experienced have hurt you all deeply, but you must remain strong. William's butchery of your loved ones cannot go unanswered, we hurt him at Hastings, and those you lost were a part of that. Do not let them die in vain! William must pay, and we will bring justice to him!"


Your escort applauds, rattling swords on shields and roaring.


Some of the villagers clap nervously, but others remain still; one, a young woman with a grim face raises her hand.                                                                                                                            "Why was the fyrd so undersupplied? Why was it not provided with shields?"                                          One of your men barks at her to be silent, but she snarls back, tears bead her eyes                            "I lost my husband and my son! Don't you dare tell me to be silent!"                                               She stabs her finger at you, sobbing                                                                                            "Answer me! Answer me!"                                                                                                              One of your men reaches for his sword, but you wave him off. Looking the determined young woman in the eye, you give her an answer.
With a bitter taste in your mouth, you kneel. Orvyn looks openly disgusted, but he too gets down on one knee. William smiles contemptuously, he speaks softly, in an English that is only faintly accented.


"Ah, this one knows his manners. Good."

You remain silent

You hold your tongue, but anger wells up inside of you like a storm, like an enraged beast trapped inside a frail cage of flesh and bone. Beside you, Orvyn notices your anger and tenses up, every muscle in his body is ready to spring into action. Even William notices the tension and waves discreetly to the Norman soldiers behind you. You feel cold steel pricking at your back. William glares icily, he leans forward.


"You might be wondering why you are still alive, no?"


You shrug sardonically. William pretends not to notice your insolence.


"The North has proven especially difficult to pacify. I could have you executed, and place a Norman in charge, however I believe the peasants would disapprove, and I would prefer to keep them alive"


He pauses briefly, mentally collecting his words


"As such, I am reinstating you as lord in the North, providing you swear fealty to me"


He leans even closer


"Make no mistake. You will be closely watched by one of my men, whom you will take orders from. This is not an offer. Swear to me, or die. Your choice."
You remember what this room was like a year ago. Men and women laughed and cajoled, children played with the great wolfhounds that were always on the hunt for table scraps, and bards echoed melodies that filled the rafters with pleasant music.


But that was a different time, under a different king.


The throne room is empty, other than a handful of guards and a few servants milling idly, the throne room is devoid of people. It is silent too, the place is blanketed by an austere noiselessness, so that every footstep makes a clattering echo. Residing over it all, William sits in the throne, glaring at you thoughtfully.


With just a handful of meters separating you and the king, your guards stop you. William looks at you expectantly.

You remain standing

You remain stonily silent, and stiff as iron. William sneers and barks a command in French, the two guards behind you force you and Orvyn to your knees. William smiles patronizingly, he speaks softly, in an English that is only faintly accented.


"I cannot imagine how tiring it must be to stand all the time. I thought you might appreciate a break"
"Harold!"


You call out, sprinting towards him. He half turns towards you, and flashes one of his charismatic bright smiles.


The single arrow that flies through the air surprises you more than Harold. Curving gently, it hisses downward and slams into Harold's eye.


He lets out a startled cough and staggers backward. You keep running towards your king, but a Norman rider cuts in front of you.


Turning his horse neatly, the Norman swings his blade and opens your King's throat, spraying blood.


Harold falls to the ground, dead.


You falter indecisively, filled with wordless horror and remorse.

You kill the bastard

You sprint full tilt at the Norman rider.


Your shield feels heavy on your arm, so you toss it aside.


Seeing your approach, the Norman wheels his horse around to face you. He knees his horse into a canter, driving it straight for you.


At the last moment you drop down and slide along the mud of the hill, under the belly of the horse. Thrusting upward, you plunge your blade deep into the horse's gut, drenching yourself in thick blood.


The horse collapses, but you roll out from under it.


You leap to your feet quickly; the Norman rider is slower to rise. From under the horse carcass, you see the hilt of your longsword protruding.

You go for your longsword

The Norman struggles to rise, his leg is broken. He stabs at you feebly with his sword. You knock it aside and retrieve you own, pulling it from the horse's stomach with a sickening wrench.


Shoving the rider onto his back, you stand over him with your sword raised high.


"For Harold"


You breathe, and then plunge the blade into his chest, shattering the mail links and piercing his heart.


You stand there awhile, alone in the middle of a slaughter. Orvyn reaches you, and tugs urgently at your shoulder, he is yelling something, but you cannot understand him. The words sound far away; small.


You see a Norman on horseback charge towards you, he wields a cudgel.


You make no attempt to dodge. You just stand there, frozen. It is Orvyn who saves you, he ducks under the cudgel swing and drives his axe into the horseman's chest. The cudgel blow loses force and changes direction, clipping your helmet as opposed to killing you. Your vision fades and you feel the ground rush towards you, feel the mud leeching through your mailshirt.


Your vision blackens.
You sprint full tilt at the Norman rider.


Your shield feels heavy on your arm, so you toss it aside.


Seeing your approach, the Norman wheels his horse around to face you. He knees his horse into a canter, driving it straight for you.


At the last moment you drop down and slide along the mud of the hill, under the belly of the horse. Thrusting upward, you plunge your blade deep into the horse's gut, drenching yourself in thick blood.


The horse collapses, but you roll out from under it.


You leap to your feet quickly; the Norman rider is slower to rise. From under the horse carcass, you see the hilt of your longsword protruding.

You attack the Norman unarmed

The Norman struggles to rise, you ignore your sword and instead dive for him. Knocking him down, you press him down with your legs and drive blow after blow into his face, cracking your knuckles and snapping his nose.


The Norman writhes, and as you try and secure him he drives a fist into your gut. As you recover, gasping, he draws a dagger and stabs it at your neck. Twisting out of the way, you avoid most of his strike, but feel the blade cut up across your jaw.


His momentum throws him off-guard, and in an instant you are both clutching the knife's hilt. He fights hard, but his strength is the hot struggle for survival, and yours is the cold power of vengeance. You force the dagger down and plunge it into his chest, splintering his mailshirt and piercing his heart.


You stand there awhile, alone in the middle of a slaughter. Orvyn reaches you, and tugs urgently at your shoulder, he is yelling something, but you cannot understand him. The words sound far away; small.


You see a Norman on horseback charge towards you, he wields a cudgel. You make no attempt to dodge. You just stand there, frozen. It is Orvyn who saves you, he ducks under the cudgel swing and drives his axe into the horseman's chest. The cudgel blow loses force and changes direction, clipping your helmet as opposed to killing you.


Your vision fades and you feel the ground rush towards you, feel the mud leeching through your mailshirt.


Your vision blackens.
Adding your voice to the English battle cries, you advance on the fleeing Norman foot soldiers. In front of you, one stumbles as his boot slides through a patch of reddened mud. He only falters a moment, but it is enough. Your longsword lances forward, piercing the fleeing Norman's calf. He screams and falls, holding up his arms to futilely ward off your blade.


You keep moving forward, using your heavy shield to shove the wounded Norman out of your way. Behind you, Orvyn's axe resonates with a heavy crunch as he finishes off the crippled soldier.


Ahead of you, another Norman stumbles forward, a heavy javelin slamming into his shoulder. He manages one strangled yelp before your blade connects with his neck, a heavy swing that severs his jugular and jars against his spine. You wrench the sword free and keep moving. This charge has filled you with fresh energy, filling your mind with bloody courage, but now it is starting to ebb and your mind is working more clearly.


There is something very wrong here. This retreat is far too organized, too simultaneous. The Norman foot soldiers are increasing the distance between themselves and the beleaguered English soldiers, the pounding of their feet grows fainter, but another pounding grows louder. Horse hooves.


You turn to your left, Harold has thrown off his battered shield and carries only a Daneaxe, which he wields two-handed. He is completely out in the open.


You turn and race towards him.

You say "Protect the King!"

"Protect the King!"


You cry, and several weary Housecarls bound into action, following your lead. You sprint towards him.


He half turns towards you, and flashes one of his charismatic bright smiles.


The single arrow that flies through the air surprises you more than Harold. Curving gently, it hisses downward and slams into his eye. He lets out a startled cough and staggers backward.


You keep running towards your king, but a Norman rider canters in front of you, blocking your way.


Turning his horse neatly, the Norman swings his blade and opens your King's throat, spraying blood.


Harold falls to the ground, dead.


You falter indecisively, filled with wordless horror and remorse.