Russet Foxglove grew up in a village so small it never earned a name, nestled in the shadow of Bramble Hill. Life there moved with the seasons—planting in spring, harvest in autumn, and the endless rhythm of tending the family farm. His parents expected him to follow the same path they had, and their parents before them. But while Russet’s paws worked the soil, his mind wandered far beyond the fence line.
He’d heard the stories, of course. Travelers occasionally passed through, bringing tales of distant cities, ancient ruins, and treasures hidden in forgotten places. Russet collected these stories like others collected coins, turning them over in his mind during long days in the fields.
Everything changed the night three adventurers arrived. They were pursuing a band of brigands who’d been terrorizing the countryside, and they needed a place to rest before the final confrontation. Russet watched them around the communal fire—a scarred warrior, a sharp-eyed ranger, and a mage whose fingers danced with barely contained magic. They spoke of their quest with such certainty, such purpose, that something in Russet’s chest ached with longing.
By dawn, he’d made his decision. While his family still slept, Russet approached the adventurers with nothing but a worn pack and an earnest plea. He could track, he could forage, he could make himself useful—he just needed a chance. Something in his desperation, or perhaps his determination, convinced them to say yes.
He left a note for his parents. It wasn’t enough, but it was all he could offer.
That was years ago now. Russet proved himself in that first battle against the brigands, and many times since. He’s seen wonders his younger self could barely imagine and faced dangers that would have sent him running back to the farm. But he’s never regretted leaving. The road is his home now, and adventure is the only harvest he needs.
Though sometimes, on quiet nights, he wonders if his family ever forgave him.
