Twin Wheel Tavern, Shiboleth, Gran March

[A few miles outside of the town of Shiboleth, I arrive at my first destination: the Twin Wheel Tavern. Along with the tavern's namesake of two wagon wheels hung next to the sturdy wooden door, there are several horses and wagons tied up along the roadside; apparently the tavern is a popular spot once the day's work has finished. Inside the building is full of noise and smoke, as easily two-dozen customers sit around tables and talk over bowls of stew and mugs of ale. I myself am seated at the bar with a cup of water and my notes, as the owner of the establishment hands out a few last mugs and takes a stool next to me. James Georgeson, despite his graying hair and expanding stomach, still gives off an air of health and vitality that he relied on as a fighter in his adventuring days.]

Sorry about getting pulled away there… so, where did we leave off?

We were discussing how you got started in adventuring.

Ah, right! That was it. Well, like most folks around here I was raised on a farm, harvesting wheat and watching the cows day in and day out. Plenty of work that was good for the body, but boring as Hells. That's not to say I don't respect my old man and what he and my brother did with the place, I just couldn't accept in my youth the idea of settling down and that being the end of it.

I was sixteen or so when I first brought up the idea of setting out as an adventurer to my old man, and he shut me down right quick. In hindsight I know he was worried I'd go running off like most of those young fools who dream of glory and then get stuck by the first goblin they come across. At the time I just saw him keeping me stuck there, not seeing the greater world. That kept up for another two years, until my temper finally got the better of me and I resolved to set out. I carved out a spear from a tree, broke down a barrel to use the lid as a shield, and set out for fame and glory.

[James chuckles and shakes his head.]

Two days later saw me lost, hungry, and afraid in the woods near the Lort River. By all rights I should have turned around and headed home to apologize, but my pride wouldn't let me. Thankfully it was right about then that I came across a small mercenary camp. The Flanaess Irregulars, they called themselves. All I cared about is that they had gear, food, tents, and were hiring.

So that was the start of your life as a fighter?

Right in one. I spent the next five years with those men, doing odd jobs ranging from clearing out infested dungeons to escorting fat merchants between towns. Over time I developed my skills as a front-line defender, blocking attacks with a shield as big as me and occasionally poking with a spear as the rest of the group would do the real damage.

Now, I know that some people are awfully quick to dismiss the role that I played. "Oh, anyone can hold a big plank and stand there." Those people haven't had an Owlbear smashing at your shield, and you have to hold it back so it doesn't sweep past and slaughter the archers who are trying to take it down. I may not have dealt the most damage, but I-

[We are interrupted by a commotion, as a drunk patron has knocked over his table and is busy yelling slurs at a nearby group of dwarves. With a sigh, James reaches behind the bar and pulls out a stout club, before striding over to the drunkard and tapping his shoulder. The man barely has time to turn around before James smashes the weapon across his face, and he drops like a stone. With a slight grunt, James hefts the man over his shoulder and carries him to the door, where he is unceremoniously dropped next to the horses. Back inside, the tavernkeep takes a moment to check on the dwarf table and top off their mugs, before coming back to the bar.]

As I was saying; I was never the star attacker, but I did my part. More importantly, I kept other intact so they could do theirs.

In any case, I kept at it for those five years, until I finally faced the fact that I should head home and face my father again. Saying goodbye to the company, I took a series of wagons back to the farm. A nice little note for any aspiring fighters who end up reading this: half the time a wagon master will let an intimidating-enough adventurer ride for free, as we scare off bandits who would otherwise attack.

A few weeks later, I was finally home. I made sure that my plate armor was on straight, and then hefted my tower shield and steel spear as I marched up to the door, intending to show my father just how much I had accomplished in my absence. I knocked on the door as loudly as I could, and soon enough it was opened by my old man himself, a little shorter and older than I had last seen him. He glanced up and down, took in all my gear, then looked me in the eye and said:

"About time you showed back up, you lout. Go ahead and head back to the barn, help your brother. Those bales aren't going to put themselves up."

[James lets out a mighty laugh and slaps me on the back, nearly causing me to spill my water all over my notes.]

Ah, it was good to see my father again, and in his own way he was glad to see I was ok too. I tried to give him some of the gold I had earned over the years, but he turned me down every time, insisting that he was getting along fine. I left about a week later to look up a new mercenary crew in Hookhill, and he saw me off, making me promise to write this time and keep him up to speed.

I kept up that general state of affairs for the next two decades, moving between merc groups or smaller parties of adventurers as the need arose. I made some good friends, lost some as well, and got into some real fights. I got the occasional offer to stay around on a more permanent basis, a few merchants or lesser nobles who wanted a good shield at their side, but I valued my freedom to keep traveling and stayed independent for a while longer.

In the end, though, I had to accept that I was falling behind. Every battle I was taking more injuries and requiring more healing, and I knew that if I kept it up I end up not coming back. So I packed up my gear and sold my treasures, used the gold to buy a little building and start a tavern. I've been here for almost as long as my adventuring time, and I've loved every minute of it. I may not be on the front lines any more, but I still keep up to date with every story that comes through these doors.

[With a calm sigh, James finishes off his ale and looks around the tavern, taking in the full tables.]

When it comes down to it, what I feel most proud about is when a young kid comes in and tells me "I want to be an adventurer." I keep a good collection of packs back here, filled with the things that I could have used when I first set out on my own: bedroll, flint and steel, trail rations, things of that nature. My rule is that I'll give them out on one condition: they have to spar with me and be halfway decent at it. Even if I can't fit in my old armor anymore I can still knock around the occasional youngster or two, and this way I can be reasonably sure anyone I equip won't end up taken down by a wolf or some such. But after all is said and done, I can only get them started. It's up to them to survive being an adventurer.