It had been many years since he'd been home. Since he'd sat down with his brother in the evenings.

But yet he walked.

So long ago was the past. So much pain it held.

And so he walked, and walked, and walked into the sunset.

He was a farmer at heart. He had loved his crops, more than he loved his brother, more than he loved his god. He loved his wheat, and his barley, and his orchard, they were all he cared for. Not anymore.

His brother was dead, and so were his crops, everything near and dear to him, gone in the blink of the eyes.

Now he roamed the paths of the world searching for a new home, or companions to aid him in his new calling, he was not sure.

He slowly became a living legend, a passing rumor. Of a man who survived a god's wrath. And now he was going to kill that god.

Salerian stirs. The ground is hard beneath his back. Cold seeps into his bones and makes them ache where stones beneath him dig into them. Salerian blinks the dew from his lashes as he breathes in the dawn air.

He sits up and looks through the thin, bare sticks that can barely be called trees. His lips smack together a few times dryly as he throws off his threadbare, wool blanket and rolls over to grasp at his waterskin.

The cool water is just what he needs to wake up. There is another long day ahead of him. He has been walking for a long time and still hasn't found what he needs. Salerian has chased rumors into every nook and cranny of this realm. He's even chased some into other realms on a misadventure or two. However, they have never yielded anything remotely useful. Now, he's chasing another one.

Salerian rolls his wool blanket up tight and straps it to his pack, groaning as he slings it over his back. He's getting up there in years. This search has gone on for so long. It needs to end. Salerian needs to kill this god.

He thumbs over the amulet resting around his neck. His age has caused his hearing to start to weaken. Salerian is pretty sure he can't hear subtle sounds anymore. However, when he rolls the amulet between his fingers, he swears he can still hear the seed rolling around in the compartment on the inside. This seed is the only thing he has left of his beloved crops, and one day he will plant it. He jabs his walking stick into the ground and sets off on his path towards the snow-capped mountains.

His walking was interrupted almost as soon as he started. Waiting for him on the path ahead was a lone traveler, hunched over a pack nearly as battered as his own. The stranger lifted their head just enough to acknowledge him, though their expression stayed carefully unreadable. Salerian slowed his steps, unsure whether this meeting would mean trouble or simply another delay he could not afford.

Salerian clutches his walking stick tightly, ready for a fight. The two lock eyes as Salerian passes the stranger slowly. The hunched man doesn't move a muscle.

Salerian passes without incident and is several paces along when he hears a thud. A shrill wail breaks out behind him. He whips around with his walking stick pointed at the stranger.

The hunched man had pitched forward and landed in the dirt. Salerian's eyes dart between the man, the bag, and his surroundings, looking for trouble. Ultimately, there is nothing except for the trembling man in the dirt and quiet sobbing. Salerian turns to continue on his way, but is stopped by another shrill cry.

He pivots with a sigh, ready to put this miserable man out of his misery with a hard thwack to the head. Salerian's boots crunch on the dry twigs on the path as he approaches, heavy staff raised over his head. The stranger looks up at him blearily from the ground, clearly starved and unable to go on.

“W-wait,” the stranger croaks out, but Salerian has no supplies to spare.

Salerian brings his arm down, and with a dull thud, the man collapses face-first into the dirt. His fingers twitch, and a choked sound stirs the dirt near his lips. Salerian brings his arm down again. The stranger stills, and the dirt begins to turn a dark red.

That's that. Salerian turns back down the path and resumes his walk.

A shrill cry disrupts the quiet of the bare forest. Salerian lifts his eyebrow in confusion and turns around to toe at the stranger. His body shakes limply, and his eyes are glassy and unblinking. Salerian huffs and turns his face to the man's bag. He pulls open one of the flaps and is met by the squished-up, red, blotchy, crying face of an infant.

Salerian frowns and drops the flap. He considers leaving it here for a moment, but that would be a cruel death. He opens the bag again and draws the child out. It's skinny and dirty, just like the man Salerian presumes is its father. Salerian sets the child down on his knee so that its back is to his chest and prepares to end its life as well. Fingers firmly on the base of its skull. His thumb brushes over the wispy baby hairs on its neck.

And Salerian takes a pause. The movement revealed a mark on its neck. He looks closer and grunts in recognition. He moves his hand from its neck to its stomach and instead bounces the infant up and down to soothe it as he digs through his bag with the other hand. He withdraws a scroll and awkwardly pulls at the string with his teeth before unrolling it.

The thick vellum of the scroll unravels and reveals an ancient, arcane language that Salerian doesn't even understand. However, the translator explained exactly what the large symbol in the middle of the sheet meant. He moves the symbol so that it is next to the child's neck.

It's a match.

Salerian draws in a breath of frustration as he glances over at the body of the stranger. But, he supposes this is his own fault. He hushes the child one more time before placing her back in the bag and slinging it over his chest.

Salerian continues towards the mountains, infant in tow, so he can chase the weapon that this symbol is meant to lead him to.