Alric Varoche was born in a modest village in the Holy Empire of Man. The son of a farmer and a seamstress. His upbringing was neither harsh nor particularly comfortable, simply ordinary. That changed when Alric was fourteen. A sickness came through the village. Alric fell ill and the fever lingered for days, leaving Alric in a state between dreaming and walking. In this state he felt not words or a voice but a still presence amidst the pain. Once Alric recovered he was not the same. He became intensely contemplative and withdrawn.
He took to sitting alone in the village chapel and helping the clergy there however he could, cleaning, carrying water, and copying passages as best he could. He never entered the church, something in him was still hesitant. Once he came of age he determined that he needed answers and left his parents for the capital of the Empire.
The traveller has just arrived in a small town. As they look around, their gaze is met with run down houses and shops. They duck into one of the shacks, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the small room, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town?" She begins, then pauses to study their face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a chair, “Where do you come from? What do you hope to make of yourself?”
Alric looks around hesitantly before siting down. The strange light of the suspended candles draws his gaze upward for a moment, unease flickering across his face before he lowers his eyes respectfully. "I...did not know anyone would be expecting me." He admits quietly "I come from no place of importance. A small village...I left behind."
After a brief pause he continues. "I was told....no....I believe I need answers and guidance form the church. I feel I have a purpose, though I do not understand this yet." His brow furrows. "If you where expecting me then perhaps you know more of that purpose than I do."
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