Soldier- Bandit- Grave Robber- Cleric.
Raised in a culture of valor, honor, and pride, Ish’s younger years were spent waiting for his chance to take part in the battles and wars that raged nearly every summer between his native Lenorte and the neighboring city-states. When his beard finally grew in and he looked old enough to lie his way into the army, he was proud to find himself standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the levies at the front of the war column. They bonded and laughed and joked, and looked forward to returning home with accolades and stories of their daring. They looked forward to the fights to come. For most of them, however, there would only be one fight. Time slowed, in those long moments as the enemy’s heavy horse gathered for their charge, glittering like a sea of steel under the noon sun. Ish understood, then. He was going to die. The people he had laughed and joked and trained with were going to die. The armored men on horseback, with heraldry resplendent on their shields- they would not die. The war was a game, played by the families of noble blood. They play at capturing and ransoming back each other’s family and lands and treasures. And the people, Ish and all the other levies of war who dreamed of honor and future, were just the pieces the game was played with. He does not talk about the ensuing slaughter or how he survived it.
In the aftermath, he deserted. Ish and several other survivors camped together in a nearby wood, and due to momentum, or need for companionship, or some connection forged from surviving, continued to travel together. They lived off the land at first, never staying too long lest they be discovered as deserters. He doesn’t remember when it was that they started stealing. They didn’t need to- they were surviving, even if there were more lean months than not. But something that grew in them drove them to it. It all happened so naturally. No group meeting was ever called. No discussion of need, or ethics. It was easy. They had all already stolen crops before, when need demanded it. Now it was just a little further- just a few chickens. The bags of grain from outhouses, preserves from root cellars. First it was only the most rapacious of them that broke into the houses. Stole the candlesticks, the tools, the hides. But they all joined in eventually. The swords they had left behind were replaced with new ones. It felt only natural when they moved onto wagons, carriages, caravans. The pretense of peace they started with did not last, the swords in their hands inviting use, and violence became the way of things again. Years passed.
Ish the boy who had day-dreamed of a brighter future, grew into Ish the man who slept-walk through his days. People left their nameless group, people died, and people joined. No one commented on it much. Things changed. And one day even the small semblance of camaraderie that had drawn Ish to the others was gone. They were all sat around the evening fire, and when he looked up he found he didn’t recognize any of the faces there. Ish’s was the oldest. He stood, and walked away into the night without saying a word, and carrying only what he wore.