Originally Published at Rob.BearSwarm.com on 2012-04-25.
“They don’t tell stories about men who lead simple lives.”
My father’s words hung in my ears as I departed the seminary. That was his favorite wisdom for me when he was five cups into the night. Depression clung to my father. He said it as a challenge, and would go on about how bards shouldn’t fill young minds with tales of dashing, bravado, and tomfoolery. His words worked for a time. I left the mill when I was eleven and joined the Priesthood of Kal’eval. I thought that I could reform the Church and then the bards would sing the praises of the simple preacher.
Six years later the son of Jackson Müller looked to the morning sky and spoke to his father, “They can’t tell stories about my simple life.”
As I left the temple that spring morning I had my path already laid out. I will walk from temple to Danton and from there to Gilden, the city where the rivers meet. I would take up my father’s profession and work the mill until I was old and grey. I would have the simple life and not bother with the bard’s stories. I would be in Gilden by my twentieth birthday and my future could begin there.
At first, life wasn’t to hard on the road. Everyone took care of a man of the cloth and I didn’t have it in my heart to correct them. I preformed rituals for the young and old, the new and forgotten. I earned my stay in every farmstead I crossed and in the small inns I could bless the meals. Surely the Gods would see that my intentions were true. Then again, the Gods are fickle creatures.
Word then caught up with me that I was a Rash’ada, a False Priest. I would find doors barred and windows drawn shut as I approached. If I wasn’t for Masterson’s Volunteers I fear the road would have claimed me.