(to whoever posts here, let me apologize in advance for my inability to post very frequently. I can unfortunately only come on Arda once every three or four days, so just keep that in mind. Thanks)

It was the start of just another day in the small village of Estolad, as the sun began peeking over the horizon. Another normal, uneventful day, undoubtedly. It was something the man standing a few inches taller than most around used to like until he'd gotten a taste, a glimpse of something more, things outside the village, outside his normal life of hunting and tending his fields.

Adventure.

A word he never much liked before, but that now started calling to him since that week ten or so months ago. He left the village, saw the mountain ranges, saw the big city of Lomedor up close instead of simply hearing about it, was tested in battle, even met a dragon. A dragon, of all creatures.

And now it was the middle of winter, blankets of white covering the ground, shimmering red under the morning sun, and the man, garbed in an earthen brown with a wide green shawl wrapped loosely around his neck, quiver of arrows at his side and bow slung backwards across his right shoulder, was ready to travel off to the horizon where the sun rose. Pausing to look back at the home he'd return to, which belonged to friends of his deceased parents; not some tragic death or anything of the like, but normal deaths; he began to leave the village, looking around at the people he passed to see if he could find anyone that was just visiting, that could perhaps guide him.