**A Fighter Seeking Purpose in Edana**

[MLorian]

*Sits by the fire outside Edana, the flames crackling low as his horse stays in the dark. Turning meat slowly on the spit, sending thin smoke into the night sky*

Been living on the edge of this town for months now… not born of it, but tied to it all the same. Ive walked this land from end to end, axe on my back, learning every lesson the road could carve me into. But the road only sharpens a man so far. The rest… the rest needs a masters hand.

*He mutters to himself, poking the coals with a stick*

And no!!! I wont waste my swing guarding some weak‑necked lord in velvet.
I serve the land, not the throne.

*He turns the spit slowly, listening to the juices sizzle, then settles it in place, letting the fire do the rest while his thoughts drifts*

I have sharpened myself as far as the road can take me. Blade cannot temper itself. A man cannot forge his own soul.
I need someone who can shape whats left of me. Someone who can carve the last shape out of me…
So I may stand not as a wanderer, but as a fighter worthy of Edana trust. Before the world does it in ways I wont survive.

*His horse snorts loudly, stamping once against the earth*

Aah the horse senses storms before we do.
The beasts feel the world in ways men forgot.

*He adjusts the saddle blanket, glancing toward Edanas distant lights*

Folk in town think I am just passing through. Truth is… Ive been here months. Long enough to know its roads, its shadows, its secrets. But Im no citizen. Ive understood Mercadia laws and discipline. Learned their old ways, the Keltic fury and order...

*He rises, taking the horse by the reins, beginning the slow walk toward Edana*

Fighting on borders, guarding caravans, uphelding the lawz. Uphelding hole Charter when others forgot it. Steel and duty will shape me more than comfort ever could.

If Edana has need of a fighter, one who keeps his word, one who knows the weight of justice. Ill answer -
Not for titles!
Not for war‑politics!
I am fighter, not a pawn! A man of steel, not a piece on someone political board.
But for honest work the coin is worth the swing.

*And he walks on with his horse beside him, reins in hand, ready for whatever work the night will bring*

[MLorian]

Lorian missing for months,
Returned without a word....



It happened in a tavern - late at night, when the ale was already softening the edges of every story.
A stranger sat beside him, hood pulled low, voice barely above a whisper.
He spoke of a legend:

A warrior from Tilverton.
A former Mercadian guard.
Alive. Hidden.
Willing to teach a man who sought discipline and direction.

Exactly what Lorian had been searching for.

Only later did he understand that this man was no wandering traveler.
He was a Brotherhood scout - one of those who had been watching Edana for a long time, knowing precisely whom to lure into a trap.

Still warm with ale and far too trusting, Lorian took only his sword and cloak and followed the hints into the mountains.
An abandoned hut, door slightly open, fire burning inside - everything looked like a place someone truly lived in.

He stepped inside.

And the darkness struck him down.

When he opened his eyes, he was already in the Brotherhood camp.
His gear was gone, his clothes torn, his head bleeding.
The imprisonment lasted for months - not in a torture chamber, but in the arena.
Hungry and exhausted, he was forced to fight in their private ring where every blow earned someone coin.

But Lorian did not break.
His strength and stubborn will soon made him one of their “favorites.”
Not as a friend - but as a useful tool.
One day they even tossed him a red bandana, a sign that he had earned their respect… or at least their entertainment.

The chains came off.
He was allowed to move more freely around the camp.
But he never forgot where he was.

The escape came unexpectedly.

One night the camp was drowning in celebration. Drunken shouting, singing, dancing, the clatter of metal mugs.
And then… chaos.
Someone attacked the camp.
Not Mercadia! Lorian knew Mercadian armor and discipline too well.
These were others. Random raiders.
Dangerous. Unpredictable.
And certainly not the kind of people Lorian wanted to run toward, lest he end up in a new prison.

In the confusion, he saw his chance.
With the red bandana on his head, he blended in just long enough to slip toward the boss’s tent — the place where valuables and trophies were kept.
There he found a chest where his belongings had been thrown.
He recovered most of his clothes and some of his gear.
Not all of it.

He slipped into the night before anyone noticed.
Crawled, ran and hid until he finally reached the outskirts of Edana, tired, silent, and changed.

But he didn’t go to the guards.
He went to the place where it all began. The tavern.

He drank the ale that still stood half‑finished on the counter,
drank it to the bottom, silent, eyes deep in the mug.

And when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw a hooded figure at the door.
The same posture, the same step, the same shadow that once lured him into the mountain hut.

The wanderer saw him.
And vanished.
Like a shadow that refuses the daylight.

Lorian said nothing.
He placed the empty mug on the counter.

The Brotherhood made one mistake.
They left him alive.