To be a bastard, and a lowborn, Adunian bastard no less, is a terrible thing. Aranthion, unfortunately, was dealt such a hand. His mother was, to put it nicely, a camp follower, moving with the imperial armies of Oren during the Sedan Rebellion. There, she met Vath, a kind soldier. The two fell in love, and after the end of the war, moved back to Vath's hometown, where they established a small house outside of town and had a child, Aranthion. Unfortunately, Vath disappeared on a hunting trip two months after Aranthion was born, leaving Esmelda, his mother, alone to raise the boy. This wasn't the easiest task, given Esmelda had no employment and a very hyperactive son. But, she made it work. Aranthion himself was an impulsive and reckless, always running off and getting into one form of trouble or another. This, slowly, morphed from getting stuck in trees or covered in mud to fist-fights and more than one duel, which Aranthion should not have won but turned out to have a passable skill with the blade, better than his opponent. By the time he hit seventeen, Aranthion had managed to build himself the reputation of a glory-seeker, always harrying off to dive off cliffs or anger wild animals. The mayor, thoroughly unimpressed by him at this point, gave Aranthion a choice. Leave the town for five years, or be pressed into the village militia. Aranthion, told the probably embellished stories of his father by Esmelda and the great knights of legend, chose the former, sent off to find his glory, or at the very least, give everyone in his hometown some quiet for a while.
Aranthion stops, feeling himself relax. By the Daemons, he hates boats. Another pause, this one to survey the city. Something different. Something new. A great fortress city, a myriad of sounds and smells hitting his senses like a wall. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back as he lets it all wash over him. Enjoys the tangled myriad of smells. Meat cooking. Sea air. Spices. The sounds. Men yelling, women talking, children running. His reverie is interrupted by the sounds of boots on the dock. He opens his eyes, noting the figure in front of him. Better dressed than Aranthion. Affable nature. It takes the Adunian a moment to register his question.
"Well. That's an excellent question." He says, faintest lilt of a rural accent filtering into his voice. "Adventure. I'm Aranthion Vareth, can you show me where I can find a mercenary company?"
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