Mercenarial Musings

I came to Sanctuary for the prospect of earning some coin. At least, that’s what I tell everyone—including myself. If I am honest with myself, it’s because I want to prove to everyone back home that I can be somebody; that who my parents are and what they did does not define me, But that isn’t important right now. I am here, and I’m here to make a profit doing the only thing I know how to do. I’ve been here less than a week and already made two forays into the dungeon. It’s surprising how many here are willing to risk themselves for a bit of coin. Fools. They haven’t seen real battle. They haven’t seen what bodies look like after being ripped apart by dragons, or heard the screams of men torn asunder by the undead. They will never understand how harsh the world is, and they will get themselves killed because of it. Just this last time one of them died—drank from some magic pool, and was dead within a minute. Then there were the others, naive and unprepared; they managed not to die this time, but soon they’re foolishness will get the better of them. It always does.
To be fair, there are a few who seem to know what they’re doing, but even they are misguided. The orc, who cleaved skeletons with a single swing of his sword—but has no sense of caution. I heard he fought a bear. Probably only survived through dumb luck; that won’t last forever.
I’ll only be here until I can go home and look people in the eye, not watch them duck their heads and pretend I don’t exist. Maybe then Iryn’s father will pay attention to me. I won’t go back before then.


Valarian Valarian

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