"Don't worry, Mom, I'll be fine. You'll hear from me in no time and back before you know it."
These were the words Victor would say to his mother before he left his small town in Amn to see the world and be an adventurer. Victor's family was a modest farming family; they grew what they could to sell, and grew good to eat. They weren't rich by any stretch of the word, but they weren't poor. The town had a decent economy off of selling it's produce, livestock, and ore from a nearby deposit, and so the homes were well made to stand strong through the weather. Victor read the stories, talked to whichever sellsword passed through. He wanted to hear their wild stories, but every time his parents tried to keep him away from such people.
When he grew older, barely sixteen, the hairs on his chin just barely came in. He grew more eager and more persistent, asking for his parents' permission. It was when times were hard, the crops didn't grow as well as they should've. Those times looked dire for the Godfreed family. It was harsh; his parents argued nonstop, his newborn brother barely able to walk around, looking to Victor for comfort, especially when his parents argued. He saw a sellsword company arrive in town, and finally, one fateful day, he asked if he could go off.
They were looking for recruits or weren't opposed to taking any recruits with a reputable reputation, so they said. Victor's parents reluctantly agreed as long as he wrote home and promised to come home. He left off with them excited as can be with his new company of sellswords to carve out his own story. He quickly learned he knew nothing about even holding a weapon or even how to fight. The first fight he ever got into was a training match; the first punch to his face made him cry from the new horrible sensation. None of the stories ever mentioned this. He did his best to learn, being teased by the other more experienced sellswords or mercenaries.
When he took his first job with the sellsword company, it was a rude awakening, or getting his first taste of taking a life. Once the job was said and done, it was a celebration by the Company he joined, but deep down, he felt like something had changed for better or worse.
"Don't worry, Mom and Dad, things are okay. I hope things are going fine back home and the tarans I sent are helping"
As time passed, he would write home telling his parents things were fine as much as he could, despite the teasing of his companions, but in truth, they were glad to see he was adapting fine and didn't cry when punched in the face. He was outgoing, talkative, and always happy to hang out with his fellow mercenary. The jobs they took grew more daring, earning him his own stories he looked up to, and part of him wanted to write a book one day about his exploits. The jobs he took were more daring as his crew grew more experienced working as a disciplined unit. They worked alongside all sorts of colorful people with some work questionable at best, but it paid and paid well. He took the money and sent what he could home, keeping just enough for himself for food, lodging, supplies, and repairs.
It wasn't the questionable work that made him lose a bit more of himself. It was the job that cost him a dear friend, close companion, someone he would call brother. As time went on, recruits joined, including some hopeful kids like he was barely a couple of years ago, and some just desperate thugs. He helped them the same as he was helped. The old heads stayed together, but the sellsword company leader got greedy, wanting more coin and reputation. The jobs were dangerous and costly, working for shady groups in lands Victor hardly even knew or could remember. The jobs slowly cost him another close friend, another brother, or seeing a kid meet his end on his first time out, and having to just bury him in a simple grave. Victor tried to push it to the back of his mind, but over time the thoughts grew heavier, and he could feel more and more of his old self being killed. He was quieter and softer spoken now.
It was one final job that his company leader wanted to do despite the opposition the company's veteran sellswords had against doing something so insane, but with the promise of wealth for everyone to retire. It sealed the deal. Victor and his company moved, working with other sellsword companies to take a fort held by pact mages, bandits, and trapped monsters. The battle was a brutal slog that started by laying siege, with people dying before the fighting even started from disease, lack of food, or in-fighting. Once the fighting started, it was a harsh and bloody battle, scaling up ladders, fighting in narrow hallways, shoulder to shoulder with death, something Victor hadn't had to deal with. He had no choice but to watch his company die quickly or agonizingly slowly, pleading for help.
The battle wasn't won; it was a slaughter from a coordinated defence and the sloppy work of the attackers. Victor's mercenary company, which he had left home with at the age of sixteen years old to see the world, be an adventurer, and write tales of wonder. Victor stared at the ruined remains of the war camp. He turned away his plate armor, bloodied, warhammer-battered, and stained with blood. He left with everyone he knew, and the mercenary company he left home with was gone. The silver lining was that he was sending home most of his earnings to help his family. So he went to return home.
"I love you, Mom and Dad. It's good to hear things are going well. I got another job, and can't go home just yet"
When he finally returned home, it was as if he had gone back in time; everything was the same as he left it, the same people that knew each other, but none of them knew him. They looked at him like he was some other sellsword. He stood on top of the hill overlooking his old home, the house still standing, the farm bountiful, and his parents working with his younger brother, a bit more grown up now. He looked at them, staring at them, not knowing how to even talk to them, too ashamed to talk to them over the things he'd done, work he was willing to do, and he couldn't talk to them with the blood on his hands; he could still feel the blood of his comrades. He turned without a word and went to the courier's office to give them a letter to send home and what money he could again. He turned his back on his home and went to step onto the wagon to the next place of opportunity, Murann.
