Posted by A clear, warm dawn rose on the Laetarran town of Landel, and the first rays of the sun entering the town’s inn roused the members of a caravan that was preparing to ride south to trade with one of the orc tribes in the mountains. The caravan was hauling fresh crops from the recent harvest, tools from the town’s smithy, and adventurers from the Laetarran Adventurers’ Guild. Most of the adventurers; who were comprised of humans, elves, and halflings; were only present to guard the caravan from the odd attack by beast or bandit, but a few were riding as passengers in hopes that the south would offer new work.
After a brief breakfast of eggs and bread in the inn, the caravan members began loading their wagons and donkeys, and the early morning was full of barked orders and chatter between young adventurers. One of them, a young human, hung back for a moment to speak to his father, a farmer from the coastal region of Eralas.
“Are you certain you must go to the mountains, son?” Anlasser asked. He scratched at his dimming blond hair and frowned at his son. “Surely the orcs simply want business done as quickly as possible, why bother them?”
“I told you, father,” Ralen said, “that the Maker guided me to go. My dream was too specific to be anything else.” The youth’s gray eyes were lively determined, and Anlasser sighed as he relented.
“So be it,” he said. “I’ll not hold you back then. But, please, hurry back for your mother’s sake at least.”
“She worries too much!” Ralen said, shaking his head. He embraced his father. As they parted, Anlasser reached out one last time and held Ralen by the shoulders. The old farmer looked at his son’s white tunic, plain except for a patch bearing the symbol of the Church of the Maker on the left breast, and dusted an imaginary speck from the cloth. Ralen’s leggings were brown, and made of sturdy, flexible elven leather. The black belt holding them up was girded with a short sword in an elegant sheath on the left hip, while the right bore a leather book pouch that held the Annals of the Shaping, the holiest of the Church’s texts. The young man’s boots were caked with mud and well-worn.
Ralen climbed into one of the wagons and waved to his father as they left the town. Soon enough he was caught up in chatter with the other adventurers, even as the caravan leader barked orders to the others.