“A wandering fighter? A vagabond, you mean!” He still remembers the conversation with his Uncle Gallinford as he lies in a half fever roped to the tree. Bitter words. On both sides. He'd known the old fellow had only wanted what was best for him, but he was no longer able to hide what was in his heart.

“This is what killed your father, you know? He got the wanderlust, just like this. In his thirties. Did well enough for a time. Then just vanished from the world. Haven't heard from him in twenty years. It nearly killed your mother. So now you'll go off and finish the job!”

He didn't point out that it had been his father's treasure that had started the company his uncle now ran: Bristlebeard Brothers: Silversmiths and Fine Gems. Without that influx of hard currency, his uncle, admittedly an artist with a small hammer, would still be working for someone else instead of running his own successful shop. And there was a place for him in the trade. He knew that.

But it wasn't enough. He had always had the same disease that had taken his father out into the wide world, and he knew it probably would kill him too. But he couldn't just sit on his hands for a hundred years and be a shopkeeper and marry someone his mother chose for him and wait to die of old age. And in addition to the need to see what was out there, meet it on his own terms with hammer and shield in hand, he also harbored a secret fantasy that he might find out what had happened to his father, Gallisman Bristlebeard, who had vanished so long ago.

His mother wept. His uncle commanded, then wheedled and eventually wept as well. To no avail. Gillifian was determined, and when a Bristlebeard sets his mind on something, it is time to get out of the way. And they did. His mother baked a big pork pie for him. His Uncle bought him a better set of armor and a fine war hammer to set out with. And they waved to him from the bridge until he had passed out of sight along the road from Highhelm.

He had hired on as a guard with a caravan to Isger, and he quickly found out that working as a caravan guard had more to do with shoveling shit and the care and feeding of mules that it did with fighting. Nevertheless, he did clash with bandits and a bridge troll on that first voyage and earned himself a pocketful of gold and a handful of friends by journey's end.

A week later he set out with another caravan, taking another route. Same old shit shoveling and mule tending, no bandits this time, but bridge trolls seemed to be in season. He handled himself well in the skirmish and felt he might be getting the hang of things.