*sigh*
Vanyan leans against the tree, his travel clothes covered in dust.
Vanyan stares over his old homestead. Well, it was not *his*, it did not belong to anyone anymore, but he grew up there. But that was 11, 12(?) years ago when he left Roslar's Coffer to join the Pathfinders.
At the age of 16, he has snuck out of the house to pursue his glory. He went where he thought he might learn and grow and explore.
That was a big mistake.
The Pathfinders were a waste of time. At the same time, I might be dead if I had stayed.
I might be dead like my parents. Or they might live because of me.
Vanyan shakes his head, trying to shake out the fight he'd been having with himself for the past 12 years. It was a fight that he could never win, either way. The attack 4707, mere months after he had left, had destroyed most of the town. He probably wouldn't have made a difference. Or would he have? Could he have saved his mom? His dad?
He had left the Coffer in 4706, a youth at 16 to join the Pathfinders. It was a fool's quest. He had been admitted to the Society (the entrance mission was a piece of cake), but his time there was a joke. He wasn't highly trained before his similarly untrained Pathfinders had be thrust into all matter of crazed and dangerous undertaking. After about the fifth or sixth near death experience, they took him off the active, outgoing lists to the passive, supporting capacities. It's not like he ever died. Or caused anyone else to die. But the Society didn't see to send him out much anymore. They didn't have much use for him.
And that's how he wasted about 8 years of his life: being underused and hiding from life in the Society. He could craft a homebrewed hangover remedy, tell you a bit about the history of Absalom, & name 3 types of giant, and knew plenty about magic, but the Society didn't care. And so neither did he.
Vanyan's gaze again goes to the remnants of his home: the brick chimney, a few bits of fencing that used to hold goats and chickens, and then to the back wall that once was part of his bedroom.
To his right used to be big fields of kale, to his left, used to fields for livestock. It was a good farm, back when he was young. Everyone had a job, everyone knew their duty.
Duty, an angry memory hits Vanyan hard. F@@@ the Pathfinders.
The last straw had come when the Pathfinders had sent a crew to *his* hometown to handle something called the Reaver. He hadn't even known it was happening, much less been invited. He had to read about it in a Pathfinder Chronicle, like a common golarimuggle. They could have *asked* him to go to his hometown.
He could have come to face the Reaver.
He could have come home to show the town he was a famous Pathfinder now.
He could have really been someone.
He never had the chance.
Vanyan shakes his head, looking down at what he had left in his life: a broken wayfinder, a nice backpack full of rarely used adventuring gear, and whatever he could do with his two hands and two feet. There were still a few coins in his purse.
Maybe the militia is hiring until I can get my feet under me. Maybe get a business started. I dunno.
He looks left, then right, as if hoping to see a neighbor or an old friend to help him re-attach himself to the Coffer. He finds none. He would ask where his parents are buried, if their bodies were found at all. He would like to pay his respects.
With another glance back at his old home, Vanyan picks up his backpack and walks into town. He hopes for a better welcome than his family's now-tomb offers him.
He hadn't trod this road in a long time. With more and more uncertainly with every footstep, Vanyan wonders what is next for him.
