Soren leans against the nearest tree, satisfied in the feel of rough bark against his back. His eyes close as he arches his neck, the sharp texture of the trunk stabbing the crown of his head. It is slightly painful. Good.

The small sack he has been clutching drops to the ground with an audible thud. There isn't much in there anymore; he hopes to find civilization soon if he plans to eat. Beyond that, there is no concrete plan. It has been years, decades even, since he traveled the land. He isn't even completely sure where he is anymore. Not that it matters.

He slides down the length of the tree trunk, slowly, the bark snagging at his robes on the way. The act provides a throbbing, satisfying back scratch, and Soren is mildly disappointed when he reaches the ground. It is soft, the land beneath him, and mossy. Dawn is soon approaching. He has little desire to travel during daylight hours; he knows at least that he is moving southward, which means it will grow continually warmer the farther he goes.

Dawn, he muses, chuckling to himself. The word still reminds me of that war.

He picks at the knotted sack beside him, the old, red fabric threadbare with age. Not the best means of carrying provisions, he knows, but the only thing he could think of at the time. Not a sentimental man by any means, but it would be rude to leave with absolutely nothing. He would have wanted that much, at least, if…

Soren shrugs, shaking his head violently to rid himself of the thought. That was the whole purpose of leaving—to forget.

He nibbles at a strip of dried meat, not particularly hungry but not stupid enough to travel on an empty stomach. He cautiously eyes a squirrel nearing his food, who paws at the edges of the unraveled sack.

"Get out!" he yelps, quite unexpectedly, projecting his dried meat at the squirrel. It scurries away and Soren scrambles to gather the sack and its contents. Idiot squirrel could have the food. He doesn't care. But the blasted rodent had touched the sack, and it brought up that same emotion he tried so painfully to suppress.

Sentimental fool, he thinks to himself, mindlessly rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger.

Just as he settles to nap, the ground shakes with the approach of hooves. Grumbling, clutching his cloak tighter around his shoulders, he hopes the traveler will ignore him. He should know better.

"Ho! Traveler!" The horse stops mere yards from his resting place; Soren is grateful that he does not hear the sound of boots hitting the earth. Luckily, this conversation will not last long. "Need some help, lad?"

Lad? If only he knew.

"Are you okay?" The traveler asks, squinting down at him.

"I'm fine," Soren replies, deadpan.

"Where are you headed? Need a lift?"

"No." Soren peeks up at the man though half-closed eyes, who does not look much better than he feels. He must have been traveling some time; his clothes, once fine, are caked with dirt and dust. A cheap blade is slung across his back, though Soren doubts he knows how to use it. He wonders if it is even metal.

"Well, maybe you can help me," the man says, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm on my way to Melior." Soren cringes. Figures. "I'm pretty sure it's east of here, but I don't really know the way."

"East?" Soren sits up, rubbing the feeling into his hands. "This is Crimea?" Impossible.
"No," the man replies, hesitantly. "We're in Daein. Near Fort Nox."

"You have a poor sense of direction," Soren mutters.

"What was that?"

"I don't know the way."

The man tips his hat, clutching tighter on his horse's reins. "Thanks anyway, lad. Good luck to you." Soren is grateful when he departs, feeling no remorse for his lack of proper directions.

He forces himself to wake before the sun sets. His grumbling stomach is a friendly reminder that he still needs to stock up on provisions. At some point, he wound up hugging the red sack during his nap. He presses his nose against it, a comforting, familiar scent still present in the fabric. He knows it will not last long.

"Pull yourself together," he mutters, standing up. He straightens the cloak around his shoulders and, pulling the knot on the sack tighter, continues moving southward.

It is ridiculous, he knows, the way he is acting. The years have softened his bitterness, the glorious time away from the influence of other people. Annoying people, that is. Which, let us be honest, is most everyone.

He remembers suddenly what the traveler said—he is outside Fort Nox. He lifts his face to the sky, tracing the line of the trees with his vision. Of course. He knows exactly where he is, and he knows how to get out of this country. The thought unnerves him. Idiot traveler. Soren had little desire to know where he was, though supposes it was inevitable that he remember. He started his travels when his mind was not clear, when the mourning was at its worse. It was planned that way. If he traveled without a clear destination and no recollection of his surroundings, there would be no way for the memories to return. He had desired to clear his mind.

He sighs, forcing himself to move on, watching the path recede beneath his feet. Who was the bigger fool—the traveler, for revealing his location, or himself, for believing he could forget it all?

The concept of what to do later hadn't crossed his mind, until recently. When the war ended, and Crimea returned to its former glory, he and Ike left without a second thought. Ike did not reveal his plans to many—his sister, of course, who was unceasingly annoying with her tears. Titania, his second-in-command. As Soren packed his few belongings to go Ike had bid Boyd a farewell, which surprised Soren greatly. Boyd was an idiot. He hardly bothered talking to him. But someone had to care for Mist, Ike had explained, despite her protests that she needed no one. Putting on a brave face for her brother, surely.

By this point, Mist's grandchildren were probably roaming the land as well.

He prayed desperately to not find them.

It wasn't long before Soren stumbled upon civilization, a small village between forts. He stopped at a farm, bargaining for some vegetables for a small amount of gold. It did not come to much, but it was enough until he came to the next village. He knew now, after all, where that was. With his new provisions, he could last until the Begnion border.

"Need a new travel sack?" the farmer asks, watching as Soren shoved the food into the red cloth. "That thing's about to fall apart on ya."

"It's fine," he replies, sharply.

The farmer holds up his palms in defense. "Just asking, son. If it works for you."

Son? Why does everyone insist on calling him a child?

Soren leaves the village quickly, before he blows up at the farmer and reveals his true age. Ha! Wouldn't that be a surprise?

He knew the Branded were accepted into society these days, especially with The Maiden of Dawn being this country's queen. Was she still? It matters little. Point is, he should feel comfortable in these beorc-ridden lands, but does not. He probably wouldn't, even if he were a proper beorc. Other people are so… irritating. Soren sighs deeply, his footsteps heavy. The nap earlier did little to alleviate his weariness, but it would be stupid to stop now that the sun was setting. If he continued this way through the night, he could arrive in Begnion the following day.

But what then?

A thought creeps into the back of his mind, a conversation years ago that has been gnawing at him recently.

You have friends there.

He shakes it off. As soon as he crosses the border, he will go west. Not to Crimea; it would be too tempting to visit the old keep. He doesn't want to know. Maybe Gallia, though the thought of potentially seeing King Skrimir makes his blood boil. If he is still alive. Goldoa is more likely; King Kurthnaga would welcome him. But he has little desire to be welcomed anywhere.

Family. Pah. He had the only family he needed, and they are gone, and he doesn't need any more.

West. Just keep walking west.