Role

Chapter 2

Arathian was on a common run to Galadon for supplies, nothing out of the
ordinary for him, flour for bread and spices. He took his time, admiring the
wonders of the cities and its guilds, tossing his spare copper to the beggars
and street performers. After a few hours, he began the long walk back to his
farm. He had a book he had purchased on the basics of transmutation, a topic
of interest to him to read on the road and in his spare time. He read, and
walked, and barely paid attention to the road ahead until he smelled a
horrible smell. Looking into the distance, he saw black smoke coming from his
farmhouse. He rushed home, quarterstaff in hand without the slightest ounce of
training to support its use. It would turn out the quarterstaff would matter
not. Orcs had tore through his farm in the mid day, bold and uncommon for
their kind, but the savages had done their worst. His mother and father were
dead, brutally murdered and drained of blood. Devastated at losing his only
loved ones in this world, Arathian broke down and wept for hours before he
could finally bury the bodies out back in neat gravestones marked with their
names. He took his fathers Jaguar pendant, a family heirloom and placed it
around his own neck. At the time, he did not know what it meant, but in time,
it would be important to him. The next night, he slept deeply in pure
emotional exhaustion. The next terror awaited him when he awoke. His parents
graves were empty when he went to pay his respects. Their graves were dug from
the inside out, the results of a necromancer ripping them from his peaceful
rest. Enraged, saddened, and devastated, he locked up the farmhouse and packed
a bag for himself. He begrudgingly hit the road, leaving all he knew behind
and not knowing where he was going. All he knew is he could not go home.