Fortunate mistake

One thing I did not mention in my trip to Shoal and the underground hovel North of it, where I was stabbed in the back by two of my Alfar brothers, was formally changing my home from the small town to the East of Shoal. The reason I did not mention it is that it didn't happen. This is significant because when the I was murdered, I was revived at my original home to the East of Shoal. Far from my attackers, too far to make swift revenge sound very appealing.

This was the second time I had been viciously attacked by one of my own, and I was having serious doubts about my racial choice of an Alfar. There appeared to be no brotherhood, no camaraderie. That fact coupled with the loss of my favorite polearm and brand new set of armor was more than a bit disheartening. Songs from The Cure plagued my mind as I walked to the bank, and I was almost to the point of cutting myself to make sure I still felt alive.

Before I had settled into a state of permanent brooding, I caught wind of a message going around town. There was word of an Alfar clan with a similar view on things as myself, allegedly. This clan controlled a city on the South Eastern reaches of the Alfar borders where all members of the clan called home, defended, and supported with each other. The emo make up was immediately removed from my face, and I was determined to become part of this clan. I would prove myself to be both a valuable combat asset and trusted brother to them, that was my new mission. The slaughter of goblins and scavenging for their trinkets could wait. Finding a real home held much more importance than any paltry reward a shopkeep could offer me.

My mission was clear. My path was set. Nothing was going to stand in my way. And had I not been ganked by those cowardly, sucker punching, deceitful little douchebags, or had I remembered to declare that underground hovel my home, I may have never heard the call.
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