It was a humid fall day, but a clear sky blessed the moist air and the sun was particularly gentle; the breeze was slow, and the world was quiet. But the dojo of Trent Garrison was a complete racket. Inside, a young man of 18 was sparring with his master. The boy's name was Farren, and he was fighting the man to who he lived under and whom this dojo belonged to. Trent's age was a mystery, but a fair guess would estimate him to be in his early sixties. The age was given away by his gray hair and wrinkled face; the rest of his body was in top condition, as was evident by the beating he was handing to Farren.

Using gauntlets, Trent would block and counter every staff attack Farren could throw at him. He found some enjoyment in dealing consistent, light blows to the boy's kidneys, hoping the gentle beating would allow for some sense to be knocked into the boy's brain on proper defense. Against any other rival, Farren was skilled; unmatched, some would say. Yet when Trent chose to test him he saw nothing but flaws, and was sorely disappointed by the end of each match.

A sweep kick followed by a back swing curved to the sky in perfect form. Trent leaned back and caught the staff in his grip, pulled Farren in and thrust his fist forward, but Farren ducked underneath it. Farren worked around Trent's over-thrust and kicked the old man in the lower back, followed by some hard pokes in the same area. Trent took two hits before grabbing the staff, twirling around it as if he were holding it himself, and caught Farren square in the eye with an intended and hateful elbow. The impact stunned Farren and a gentle push from Trent sent the tired warrior down onto the hard wood dojo floor.

"You pathetic excuse for a man. I raise you to be a man and you can't win ONE MATCH?" Trent shouted at his disciple.

"You're the only one I can't beat!" Farren grunted as he held his riving stomach, gasping for air.

"Thirteen years I have you! Thirteen years I raised you hoping you would stop being a little boy and grow up to be a REAL mercenary. But no! I couldn't pay you to ACT like a man!" Trent shouted at Farren, spitting in his face and kicking his ribs.

Farren knew better than to speak to his superior in the middle of a beating. Thirteen years and he could never find acceptance in the dojo he was raised in. When Trent decided he was finished, he picked Farren up, who obediently complied. Trent looked into his eyes for a moment, and was once again disgusted at the failure. Seeing Farren as only an object, as he always had, he threw a right hook at Farrens left eye, and watched him fall back to the ground.

"I certainly hope you saw that coming. Once you're done crying, fetch some buckets of water for the occasion."

Trent always called Thursday night an "occasion" but it was really just the local weekly holiday. Most of the town got drunk and gorged themselves with the finest meals. Outsiders called it the "Sabbath of Larush" though it had nothing to do with religion. It was just an excuse to let loose and act like fools.

Farren picked himself up. His stomach felt like it was going to melt; like it was dead and ready to rot out. His eye was throbbing; but he ignored the pain. There was no point in dwelling on it. The pain would go away, and more would eventually come; probably later tonight, when everyone was drunk and ready to see some blood drip. Farren was often on the receiving end of the town's people's beatings, especially the women.

He walked out of the dojo, and took a moment to try to see out of his left eye. Vision was faint, but he could still see color and his vision was clear. He saw as he looked up at the sky that there were a few clouds that hid the bright sunset. The crickets were beginning to chirp and the humidity was finally dropping. The weather in Larush for the past two years had been humid, with fog being an almost daily occurrence. It was a town stationed deep in the mountains, a far cry from the other towns and cities that populated Lorighilt. Larush was filled with mercenaries and drunks; many times it even had combinations of both in one man.

He walked around the dojo wall to where he last set the water buckets. He looked inside them, seeing that they weren't even spent yet. He took a moment as he leaned over to look at his reflection. The left side of his face was swollen; no surprise…he hated looking at himself. All he ever saw in the reflection was failure, and more reason to get on a battlefield and finally die.

Eighteen years I have been alive, Thirteen years I have trained under the greatest warrior in Larush, the most revered mercenary in his time, and I am still a failure…what could I be doing wrong? The thoughts irked his mind the entire half hour walk to the well.

The truth of the matter was that Farren was a natural-born warrior. At his age, he was among the most prominent mercenaries in Lorighilt, albeit the least known. His name enjoyed a fame of no kind; instead he was only known around Larush as the "Dog of Garrison" and was highly disrespected by all. He had no friends to speak of and fewer who ever cared to talk to him.

Finally, he had arrived at the well. It was well-kept, protected from the elements in thick brick housing with a heavy oak door. The well was built on a steep hill, with a path worn in over the years from Farrens' feet. Inside the old well, he was ready to dip the bucket when he heard a breath. His gaze snapped forward, his eyes fixed on a girl leaning on the back wall. Her name was Lida; She was the Sitrin's daughter; well respected, and arrogant. She was the typical spoiled brat who always found a way to get what she wanted. It didn't help that the town loved her. Farren stared into her eyes, wondering why she would even think to be here. The well was a place of labor and this girl had never done a days work in her life. She stared back into his eyes waiting for a response but quickly giving up knowing Farren rarely talked.

"I am here to request something of you."

Farren said nothing. He simply stared, waiting for her to make her purpose here known; it would come. All this woman ever did was talk.

"But I will not ask now." She said as she walked around the well towards Farren. "I want you to meet me here tonight, at midnight."

"What for?" Farren asked in distrust. The whole town discriminated against him, and this girl had made it even worse with her sharp eyes and tongue. She could bring any good man down lower than a snake's belly.

"You'll find out when you come. Take your water and go." She motioned him away with her blonde head, leaning her skinny figure against the rough well. Farren took up the water and left, not making eye contact with her again, nor saying anything in agreement. He didn't want to think about what she might want from him, it was useless trying to dig in to her mind and he was already frustrated enough with the days events. As soon as he would get back in town and leave the buckets of water outside the dojo, he would take his share of vodka and find a place to sit alone and drink. It was the only escape he had, the only thing that ever relaxed him. He could only do it once a week and he made sure every time to enjoy it. He worried he would gain a dependency like many others in town, but so far he hadn't sensed any. Perhaps it was because nothing thus far had ever stopped him from drinking on Thursdays; though there would be errands that he would later be forced to tend to, such as escorting helpless ladies home and fetching buckets of water that would be spilled over as soon as they were received. Of course, he could never do anything to defend his treatment. He was a slave of his master, and in Larush, women were treated as royalty. It was in the best interests of men to escort, fight for, feed or 'service' a woman, even if the man requested did not know her. Women in Larush were all the same in a single sense, and that was that they were all better than any male that could be mentioned or dreamed up. It was the nature of men here to treat ladies with the utmost respect. To outsiders, it seemed practically worship. Farren, like all men, complied with these rules. Though, for some reason, he found that requests for measly jobs were made to him than a greater number of the male populace.

He watched from the hill he walked down at the people jumping from door to door in the distance preparing for the "occasion." The houses were made up of both bamboo and oak with roofs of tile on the homes and straw on the sheds. Main sections of the home were often octagonal and comprised of oak and then other rooms of the home would split off the various sides of the octagon; those sections were commonly made with bamboo and flowing sheets they called "Aktepa" that were pinned to the four corners of the outer wall, the rest of the sheet was kept free to flow in the breeze. Tables were not much more then a foot and a half off the ground, as meals was eaten most commonly on a persons knees. Bathtubs were customarily roomy and built for lounging with the bathrooms designed to hold steam in. the living rooms were decorated with plush cushions and various art forms like calligraphy and Ukiyo-e paintings.

Same place, different day…always will be.

When he got back into town, he dropped the water buckets off and immediately made his way to the closest bar to pick himself up a bottle of vodka using the wages he had made throughout the week fulfilling various chores for townsfolk. Though they hated him, they still paid him to work for them; for though they refused to admit it, Farren did good work. He avoided the dirty glares a few villagers gave him as he passed through the crowds of the people demanding drinks and left the building with all haste.

Finally alone… He thought. As he made his way towards the woods. He took ten minutes walking to his usual spot on the edge of town, and sitting down, he popped the cork and took a swig.

Found when he was six years of age, Farren was taken in by his master, Trent. Trent was a bitter drunk, often caught drowning his sorrows almost daily. There was no denying, however, that he was a great warrior. His skill was unmatched; as was his advice. Trent could always identify a person's weakness in battle and tell them exactly how to improve it. This trait helped Farren grow to be one of the best fighters in Larush, possibly in all of Lorighilt.

There was no sense in being a great fighter, though, if there were no fights to be fought. Nor would there be any work for a mercenary. Sadly for Farren and much of Larush's young men, Lorighilt was in the middle of a long kept peace. Often the largest scale battle that ever took place would consist of less than a hundred men from clans, leagues, gangs, brotherhoods-whatever the separated cities of the land had in them. Work was scarce, and the little work that was available was commonly low pay, with no side-benefits. War was a trade in high supply and low demand-at least in Larush. Many young mercenaries could find no work at all, and resorted to the trades for income. Dreams shattered, they would stay in Larush and wait for the next "occasion" that never failed it's weekly Thursday schedule. It seemed like that was all there was to live for anymore. There was such a peace in the land that the souls of the action-hungry were vexed. To be raised on heroic stories only to have no calls to answer to when they come of age; such disappointment was too common.

Despite the hopeless futures mercenaries had in this day, Farren would never be allowed to take up a trade. His master and guardian, Trent, forbid it, claiming there was no better life for a man to live. On top of that, Farren was considered an outsider, not ever being officially born into any towns recognized by the Royal Family or the Senate. Even though he spent the majority of his life inside this single village, Farren was and always would be what was commonly called a wanderer.

Taking another drink, He let out a sigh of relief. The more I drink, the better I feel. Maybe I am becoming dependant. The request that was named to him earlier at the well was called to remembrance. He sighed again and stood, having to stabilize himself a bit after standing so quickly. He smiled at his buzz and made his way with his bottle to the well.

The night had passed by too fast. All too soon the moon had come out and the pigs that drank away their sorrows in the taverns were howling as loud as the wolves. Clouds had since passed over the mountains and covered up the stars to the south east, leaving plenty of room in the sky for "Old Gray" to stare down at the sinful people. The light zeroed in on the well's house. Farren, for whatever reason, opened the door and shut it behind him quietly. When his ears had recovered from the clicking of the handle, and the settling of the dust, he heard Lida breathing close beside him.

"You came."

Farren felt no need to respond to her. The cracks in the roof let in too little light to see around him, but he slid his feet along the ground away from her and into a corner lit by a crack spilling in the moonlight. He looked up at the moon through the crack, shining brighter than before in that pitch darkness of the well house. Lida, knowing the well better than she ought, followed him to the corner and put her hands on his shoulders.

"You're drunk." She mentioned, not at all surprised. She had, in fact, had a bit herself. It made her scheme all the more arousing.

"Buzzed." He corrected. "Sober enough to run an errand. What did you need, Naru?"

Lida recognized the common title given to her gender in that town. "Call me Lida tonight."

"Lida," he corrected, "What do you need?"

"I'll tell you; but first, swear you will tell no one. Say nothing of it, ever."

He hesitated, but knew she would patronize him until he did. Chances are she would let the whole town know in a few days anyways."

"I swear."

"YOU…DISGRACE!? HOW DARE YOU!?" A man shouted from the crowd of people who surrounded Farren at the front gates of town. It was early morning but it was not in the least peaceful, an uprising had occurred against Farren and he struggled with all his might to quell the peoples' anger. They pushed him and threatened his life every sentence, finally letting out the steam they had built up for so many years. It was only when the mayor raised his hands in the air that the multitude was calmed.

Everyone stood around Farren, who had been pushed back to just outside the gates of Larush. Each person lingered over him, and though he was a decent height, he had never felt so small and insolent.

"Farren, the adopted child of the wood" The mayor said slowly, as it was customary to state one's full name when being banished. Everyone knew that as Farrens' full name because no one ever knew where he hailed from, but was found by Trent in the woods when he was but a child.

"As the mayor of Larush, I hereby banish you from this place, never to return under any circumstances. Your fate is sealed. Your burdens and your responsibility is no longer ours. Be gone."

The mass was lifted into a hollering cheer with whistles and clapping. The gates were closed in his face and people began poking at Farrens still figure between the gates bars with sharpened tools and weapons.

I can't go back. Were the words that echoed in his mind again and again. I can't go back. Farren walked and walked until the roaring crowd was a hush and the town was a dim on the horizon.

Later that evening, the stars came out in full and the earth had settled into a calm and peaceful slumber. Farren lay against a rotted log and covered himself in a peigha bush; a low standing, insulating plant that was ideal for shelter. An inexperienced traveler would be bothered by the itch its' leaves caused. But as for Farren, he was used to it.

The events of the day and his newfound loneliness caused him to look back on everything that had happened in his life that he had loved and hated, things he regretted and things he would do all over again. He also looked back on the one thing that threw everything that he had ever worked for away.

He had been training all his life to be a mercenary, to kill and destroy for pay, and he had come to peace with that. The sad part of his situation was that mercenaries had a reputation for coming from Larush, and only Larush. He could no longer call that place home, nor claim any title to it. Banishment was as good as never being born.

My Father and I were traveling when I was six…I think I remember a city, us leaving, for what cause I cannot remember. All my memories are of Larush, and now I am never to return there again. Maybe I should consider myself lucky. At least I got to stay there for twelve or so years. I wonder if I could call it my home, not anymore, that's for sure. But before? Trent gave me shelter, I lived with him, but I also had to live with that bastard, Nitesh, who was two years older than me. He was probably the biggest reason I was disliked. It's not that he couldn't have friends, he simply chose not to have them. He would spend all his days training, as I did. Maybe it was so we could both keep up with each other. Life was always about meeting the approval of our master, so we both struggled to be the approved apprentice of Trent, as Nitesh was also found as a young child by him. He was older than me however, and had been there years before me. Still, that didn't make the favor of Trent go to Nitesh. He favored us both, and favored us both equally. I'm thankful

I should travel to Careemn…I can't be caught outside a town, and that one seems to be the closest. I will decide what I need to do when I get there…I will head that way first thing in the morning.

Chapter 2: Careemn, City of Trade