“Not all who wander are lost,” proclaims the cross-stitched pillow in your humble flat.
A simple cleric, if oversized compared to your peers. The pale blue-gray hue of your skin, your bulbous nose, your long pointed ears. Unmistakably a firbolg, draped in the sacred cloth of Urbanus.
You tell yourself that your flock is your family, that your brothers and sisters are linked by holy symbols and a genuine desire for community.
I always find you dreaming across the city, deep in its densest places, its most fascinating structures.
But your dreams always bring you to the wilds. The humid summers of the forest, the frosted winds of the tundra, the dry heat of the mesas. Ancient memories of your firbolg clan linger in your mind. Survival techniques and herbology studies, as they’d be called by your peers.
You tell yourself you have a wonderful home in the city. And yet your soul longs to feel the canvas of a tent pitched in the wilderness. There is a yearning in your blood for the natural world, away from the constructed systems of organized society. The chaos of nature begs to be experienced.
And you fear that you will never see your firbolg clan again. Your mothers and fathers, your sisters and brothers, bound by your connection to the thriving land around you.
That fear creeps up your body like vines up a garden wall. When you travel between cities. When you step outside to gather fruits and vegetables. Every passing day makes you wonder if it’s too late to go home. That your mental image of their waving hands and smiling faces will remain the last you’ll ever see of them.
There will come a day when it’s true.
You promised to return, Iefyr of the Civic Divinity. And upon that return: Forgiveness.
Until then, only condemnation awaits.
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Orcanist 