Ignis' First Firesday of Harvestfall, 1442, mountain pass in Stonereach.

Leoric descended from the craggy heights of Stonereach, the sharp scent of sunbaked stone and iron-rich dust clinging to his nose as he navigated the winding trails twisting through the mountain pass. The jagged cliffs seemed to loom closer with every step, their stark red hues glowing beneath the afternoon sun. It was a place of relentless solitude, where the wind howled through the canyons and the earth cracked beneath one's weight. Even now, as the path turned downward, the unyielding terrain seemed to resist him, as if reluctant to let him go.

But as the descent continued, the air changed. It grew softer, laced with the faint tang of damp earth and wild grass. The cliffs fell away, and with them, the oppressive heat of the red-sand wilderness. In their place stretched the endless expanse of the Nogoon Steppes, a tapestry of green and gold rippling beneath a sapphire sky. Here, the breeze carried not the biting grit of Stonereach but the gentle hum of life: the faint tinkling of bells from the woolly sheep grazing freely across the plains, the low call of herders urging their flocks onward, and the distant, keening cries of hawks wheeling lazily overhead.

The contrast slowed Leoric's pace. He let the tranquillity of the steppe ease the tension on his shoulders. Stonereach was a memory now, its jagged crags replaced by the rolling rhythm of hills. The low-level haven welcomed him with open arms, as if offering rest to a weary traveller.

As he walked, the familiar scent of roasting meat and freshly tanned leather first signalled his arrival near the trade city of Altansuun. Cresting the next rise, he caught sight of it: the great nomadic city, sprawling like a living organism across the open plains. Yurts in every hue imaginable formed a patchwork village, their colourful fabrics fluttering in the wind, while wooden market stalls stood clustered in busy rows, their awnings straining under the weight of wares. Smoke curled skyward from countless cooking fires, mixing with the rhythmic thumping of hammers on hide as leatherworkers plied their craft beneath the open sky.

Everywhere, life bustled with purpose and vigour. Half-blood felinae merchants, their ears flicking at every stray sound, bartered animatedly over bolts of dyed fabric and raw pelts. Noble burrovian shepherds guided their flocks around the edges of the market, their dogs yipping as they nudged the sheep into order. Children darted through the narrow gaps between yurts, their laughter blending with the lilting songs of passing musicians. The entire city seemed alive with motion, its energy unhurried yet undeniable, like the steady rhythm of the seasons themselves.

Leoric adjusted the weight of his pack and stepped into the flow of the crowd. He had not come to Altansuun for idle sightseeing. His goal lay in the city's bustling markets and open-air workshops, where he hoped to learn the ancient trades of shepherding and leatherworking—skills as essential to the people of the steppes as the air they breathed.

Despite his purpose fixed firmly in his mind, the intricate beauty of the surrounding city drew him in. Tapestries adorned the yurts, their rich patterns depicting tales of heroism and harvest. The savoury scent of spiced lamb wafted from a nearby stall, teasing his hunger. And through it all, the people of Altansuun moved with an unspoken harmony, weaving their lives together in the nomadic dance that defined their existence.

Something deep within him stirred as he moved further into the city, an ache that was at once strange and familiar.

Zephyrdale is where I spawned after character creation, but this place? My blood and soul both recognise it as home. I wonder… Do I have family here?

The thought gave him pause. It was a strange notion, but it lingered, nagging at the edge of his consciousness. How much of a past did the world create for him, for the body he now inhabited? He knew things he had never learned—how the calendar worked, the value of a cuprum chip against a ferrum shard, the various holidays. The knowledge had come unbidden, as though it had always been there, tucked away in the recesses of his mind. It made him wonder if these memories belong to him, or to Leoric, the character he had created?

Why have I left this place?

The answer came easily, almost too easily. Leoric knew why he had left—he could feel it in his very bones.

To become a ranger, and to follow the winds where they would take me.

But the thought brought no clarity. Was that a genuine desire? One that belonged to him, Leoric? Or was that created out of Sophie's desires? Did the game—or the goddess Zephyra—breathe life into a body, one matching every thought going through Sophie's head as she made her character? As she fashioned Leoric's aesthetic through a series of almost mundane choices yesterday?

Sophie hesitated, the question lingering like the last note of a song.

Does Leoric have a past of his own? Does his family have memories of his youth? Would he meet them while being here? How much of that was real to him… and to me?

The lines between herself and Leoric blurred with every step she took in this world, with every thought she claimed as her own.

As Leoric moved deeper into the flow of Altansuun's market, a peculiar odour reached his nose, piercing through the market's heavy aromas. It felt warm and familiar and stopped him cold, his feet rooted to the spot.

He soon found the source: a small stall shaded by a faded striped awning. A Half-blood felinae tradeswoman with pumpkin-orange hair, about his age, stirred a steaming copper pot over a low flame. The gentle crackle of the fire was a quiet counterpoint to the bustling market around them. He recognised it: Ayrish brew. A strong, earthy smell that spoke of long brewing processes and a rich, dark colour. It hit him full force, its spiced aroma weaving through his memories like a thread tugging him backward in time. Without realising it, Leoric stepped toward the stall, drawn in by nostalgia.

The woman looked up as he approached. "Lee?" she said, apparently recognising him. Her feline ears twitched with recognition as she straightened from her work. Her tail waved behind her, and a faint smile curved her lips, though her golden eyes searched him carefully, as if confirming it was truly him. "By the winds, it is you."

Leoric froze. The name hit him like a stone skipping across the surface of a pond, sending ripples through his mind. Lee. The same name Hana had called him earlier today, in that quiet, playful way that had felt both strange and oddly intimate. Now it sounded different—more familiar, spoken with the warmth of someone who had known him for a lifetime.

"It's been years! Come on, let me get you a cup!" she said, nodding toward the copper pot. She dipped a ladle into the brew and poured a generous serving into a carved wooden cup, which she handed to him, leaving no room to argue. The steam rose between them, carrying the heady scents of cinnamon and dried herbs. "Your favourite. You used to come running whenever mom and I would set up our stall near your family's yurts. I remember you always begged your mother for a shard or two. And then, we'd share drinks and talk while cloud watching for hours."

Leoric's hand closed around the cup, its warmth sinking into his palm. For a moment, he felt utterly untethered, caught between two selves: one who knew this place, this drink, and this merchant, and another who could only guess at the life he had left behind.

"I..." He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. "It's been a long time, Miska."

Miska. It was her name; he was sure. Once again, the information appeared in his thoughts, a familiar feeling, as if he had always known—a simple fact from an unknown past. She had been a childhood friend. Or friendly acquaintance, at least.

"Too long, if you ask me." She nodded, her ears flattening slightly. "Or your father. He wasn't happy to see you wander off. Eldest children, you and I. Both expected to carry on the family trade. You had big shoes to fill, watching over your family's flock. But you left it all behind." She paused, studying his face. "Your mother always said you'd follow the wind before you'd follow tradition. Just like Zephyra herself."

Leoric took a slow sip of the brew, its familiar flavour flooding his senses. The spices were just as he remembered, though sharper now, as if the years away had made them more vibrant. For a moment, the surrounding crowd faded, and he was a boy again, crouched beside his father's yurt as he cupped the warm drink in his hands, Miska at his side, cradling a cup of her own.

Another memory visited him, but this time, of the Ice Vanilla Bean Latte from earlier, and the short but pleasant conversation with Hana.

Shaking the thoughts away, he focused on his conversation with Miska. "I didn't mean to disappoint him," he said finally, the words falling from his lips despite himself. He was not sure if he spoke them aloud for the merchant, for his sake, or for someone else entirely.

Miska tilted her head, her expression softening, some of her long hair falling over one eye, which she brushed away. "You'd best tell him that yourself. Not everyone will be happy to see you back, Lee. But some will. I know I am." She gave him a knowing look and reached out to squeeze his shoulder briefly. "But what brings you back here, anyway? Just passing through, like the wind?"

His gaze stayed locked on the cup in front of him. He drew one long breath, the smell of cinnamon grounding him in the present. "I came to learn leatherworking," he said finally. "And shepherding, if you can believe it."

He chuckled. Guided by some ironic twist of fate, he found himself in the epicentre of his childhood's traditions and destiny, about to seek the very tutelage he had previously escaped. He worried about the fallout he would have to endure.

Miska's hand gently let go of his shoulder. He raised his head and met with her intense golden eyes. His gaze shifted, drawn by the felinae's unnaturally coloured hair. Something struck him in the way she wore it: she had neither ribbons nor hair ornaments.

That… This means she's still single, then?

The thought struck him like a stray ember, unbidden, and strange. If he had stayed, would have things ended up differently between the two of them? Had he broken more than just his father's heart by leaving? Had Sophie's decisions to make Leoric a whimsical wanderer to blame for their relationship?

Just how many paths and ghosts of what could have been, did the choices I made at creation leave behind unfulfilled?

Miska noticed how Leoric had been staring at her. She blushed lightly, stepped back and gestured to the wooden bowl in his hands. "So you're headed home to go talk to him, then? Drink up, it's on the house. No use facing the past on an empty stomach. Just promise me you'll come back and tell me what you've seen out there, alright? It's not every day the wind carries an old friend back home."

With a barely perceptible nod, he silently acquiesced to her request. With a warm smile, she waved him goodbye as she turned to tend to her other customers and her simmering pot.

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Leoric stepped away from the stall, the cup still cradled in his hands. The name Lee carried a weight in both worlds, spoken with warmth by Hana and Miska alike. Had Sophie chosen it deliberately, or had the game pulled it from her subconscious to weave into Leoric's story? Either way, the name fit him now, as much as the drink warmed him.

Sophie wondered if she was the one who had decided to come back—or if the game had brought her here to finish what Leoric had left behind.

How much of this world is mine? And how much of me belongs to it?

His fingers tightened around the cup. The grass of the steppes bent beneath his boots as he made his way toward his family estate, savouring the hot Ayrish brew, one small sip at a time. He wanted this moment to last forever, but he knew that was an impossible and selfish dream.

Just like the idea of being welcomed home after my prolonged absence.

The terrain here was gentler, rolling in soft waves toward the horizon, dotted with sheep whose thick wool glistened like clouds beneath the sun. A low stone fence snaked along the boundary of the pastures, broken only by a tall wooden gate that had once seemed so imposing to him as a boy.

Beyond the gate, the yurts of Torgar Hold came into view. The hold belonged to Leoric's family, the Torgarin clan, his memory reminded him. The central yurt, his father's, stood taller than the rest, its dark, weathered hide marked with painted patterns of running hares and spiralling winds—a symbol of their family's heritage.

The painted hares on the yurt's hide were more than mere decoration. They were the clan's symbol of vigilance and renewal, passed down through generations. His father once taught him how hares always faced the wind, always kept watch for what was coming. Now, standing before the yurt, Leoric wondered if his ancestors were watching him.

Smoke curled lazily from the yurt's chimney hole, the smell of burning dung and pinewood carried on the wind. Smaller yurts clustered around it in a loose circle, their bright fabric covers patched and mended from years of weathering the elements.

Leoric hesitated, one hand resting on the gate. A single bell hung from the post, and as the wind shifted, it gave a low, mournful chime. It was the same bell he had rung before he left all those years ago, when the wind had tugged at his coat and his family had gathered by the gate to watch him go.

Now, as he stood here again, he wondered if anyone would come to greet him.

A sharp-eared, wiry-coated shepherd hound was the first to react to his arrival. It bolted from the pastures, barking excitedly as it raced toward him, its tail wagging furiously.

Leoric's heart caught in his chest for a moment. A smile crept up to his face. He called out the name, "Altan!"

Until moments ago, Sophie had no memories of them having a family dog. And yet, as soon as the golden coat flashed across her vision, the name had surfaced like it had been waiting for her all along. The feeling left her uneasy.

Memories involving Altan resurfaced as the excited hound skidded to a halt before him. It let out a series of sharp, joyful yips before pressing its head against his thigh, its tail wagging in frantic circles.

"Altan? What is it, boy?" a voice called out from beyond.

A figure emerged from the grasses, standing tall against the horizon. His memory instantly identified her as his younger sister Rhovan, the second child. She approached with an easy gait, her broad shoulders squared beneath a woollen shepherd's cloak. Her tall burrovian ears twitched at the sound of the dog's barking, and as she came closer, Leoric could see the sharpness in her gaze—her all too familiar amber eyes, though they lacked the warmth from his memories. Her hair was of the same dark brown shade as his, and she had blonde highlights, same as he did. Unlike him, however, she wore her hair in a practical braid.

"Well, well. Look who the wind blew back," Rhovan said, staying at a distance. Her voice was steady but carried a chill beneath its steadiness. Altan excitedly ran circles around Leoric, tongue out.

"Hello, Düü Rhovan," Leoric said quietly. Düü. The term for any younger sibling. As soon as he uttered the word, he immediately regretted using this choice of honorific. Rhovan was no longer his younger sister, she was the next family head. He should have called her Akhai instead. The word for leader. But deep down, he still struggled to think of her as anything else than his younger sister.

She crossed her arms, the corners of her mouth twitching. "What's the matter? Tired of playing ranger out there in the wilds? Or did you finally remember there's work to be done here?"

Leoric opened his mouth to respond, but Rhovan cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Don't bother. They're inside. Eej is probably cooking, and Aav... well, he'll want to see you himself." She turned toward the central yurt without waiting for him, but he followed, petting the family dog walking by his side.

Inside the family yurt, the scent of stew simmering over a low fire filled the space, mingling with the faint musk of wool and dried herbs that hung in bundles from the rafters. Leoric's mother, Sanura, knelt by the fire, her long ears turned slightly toward him as he entered. She looked up with a sharp intake of breath, her hands pausing in their motion of stirring the pot. She looked just like he remembered her. The decade separating the events failing to age her even by one wrinkle.

Perk of being a member of one of the longer-lived races.

Her hair was the same blonde shade as the highlights on Rhovan's hair.

"Leoric," she breathed, her amber eyes wide. Her ears fluttered forward, a nervous habit he remembered well. "It's really you."

Before he could speak, she rose to her feet and crossed the room in quick strides, wrapping him in a tight embrace. Her hands pressed against his back, as if she needed to feel the solid weight of him to believe he was real. Despite her height—at least six feet tall, maybe six two—his mother was smaller than he remembered.

Leoric must have left when he was still a young teenager?

"You've come back," she said into his shoulder. "Oh, thank the kindness of the Sixteen!"

He hesitated for only a moment before returning the embrace. "It's good to see you, Eej."

It felt weird to say that to someone he had known for fifteen years, but also met today for the first time.

Sanura pulled back, studying his face. "You're thinner than I remember," she said, her voice turning teasing but warm. "With all that wandering about, I imagine you rarely have the time to sit down and eat a decent meal. Sit! I'll get you something to eat."

As she reached the cooking fire, the yurt's entrance flap opened again, and a shadow filled the space.

Leoric's father, Tural, ducked beneath the threshold, his tall frame and powerful shoulders filling the room. His ears were shorter than Leoric's, clipped at the tips from years of working with stubborn rams, and his dark brown hair framed a face etched with lines born of tirelessly working under the sun. His ears perked up slightly, the scars at their tips catching the firelight. Leoric remembered how he used to call them badges of honour—but now, the way his father's gaze lingered on him, they looked more like weights Tural had carried alone for far too long.

"So," Tural said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. He stepped inside and let the flap fall closed behind him. "The prodigal son returns."

Leoric's father's presence was imposing, and his words were sharp, though there was no outright anger in his tone—just a deep-cutting, quiet disappointment. Sanura hovered nearby, clearly torn between joy and tension. Rhovan leaned against the yurt wall, arms crossed, watching the exchange with a frown.

"You've been gone a long time," Tural said, not waiting for an answer. He took stock of his son's appearance. "Long enough for the rest of us to forget what it's like to have you here. But not long enough for me to forget the promises you broke."

His father had meant him to inherit the entire holding and become the head of the family when he would grow to be of age. But Leoric had never agreed to that. Tural frequently considered his monologues to be the same as conversations. This behaviour surfaced many of Sophie's memories. The way her ex, Daniel, and her father, Kevin, seemed convinced they had "talked with her" about something, when they had clearly "told her about it" instead. Whenever she brought the nuance to light, they failed to understand the difference.

No matter where I go or whose skin I inhabit, is it always going to be the same thing?

Leoric swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the strap of his pack. "I came back to train," he said, the words feeling small in the heavy air. "I came back to learn to care for animals. The way of the shepherds. And I can think of no better instructor."

There was something calming about the idea of caring for the flocks. A shepherd did not rule over the sheep; they guided, protected, and followed the rhythm of the herd. It was a quiet form of leadership—and Sophie wondered if that was the kind she needed in her own life.

Rhovan snorted softly from her place by the wall. "A bit late for that, isn't it? Some of us have already been doing that job for years."

Her voice was steady, but there was something brittle about it, like a blade worn down from too many whetstones. Was that anger in her eyes—or exhaustion?

"Rhovan," their mother said sharply, her ears pinning back.

But Tural raised a hand, silencing them both. He stepped closer to Leoric, his sharp gaze narrowing. "That will not earn back your place, Hüü. Rhovan is in line to be the clan's chief after me, and you knew you gave up your claim to that position when you left. Nothing is going to change just because you came crawling back."

Sophie bristled at his words, though she could not tell if the anger was hers or Leoric's. He had no interest in redeeming himself to his sister or father.

Why would I want to earn anything back, old man? You're the one who wanted this for me.

She already hated the idea of becoming the person others expected her to be. But what really ground her gears was when those people ignored her own opinions on the matter.

Leoric met his father's gaze, his throat tight. He nodded once, forcing the words past the lump in his chest. "I know all of that. I am not a Torgarin anymore, Aav. My name is Stargazer now, and I follow Zephyra's winds where they take me. All I can ask is that you treat me like any other disciple while I train."

Tural frowned but nodded after considering Leoric's words. "We'll work you to the bone."

Leoric smiled. "Oh, I expect nothing less."

Sanura interjected, "Yes, yes. You do that, but not before we feed the poor boy. He's all skin and bones."

She took him by the hand and dragged him to the hearth. "Come, come. We're having some of your favourite. You still like Torgarin-Style Khuushuur soup, yes?"

Leoric nodded. He recalled the family's specialty perfectly. Their clan's version of the traditional lamb dumpling dish. Tender lambs, carrots, and foraged greens cooked in a lamb-based broth with garlic, onions, spices and yogurt.

The rich scent of lamb stew greeted him like a warm embrace. His mother hovered by the firepit, her hands deftly working dough as she shaped small dumplings, pinching their edges closed before dropping them into the bubbling pot. The broth, a deep golden hue, shimmered with droplets of fat, its surface broken by chunks of tender lamb and ribbons of carrots and onions. A bouquet of wild herbs—thyme, dill, and something faintly sweet—wafted upward, filling the air with its comforting aroma.

"You've come back just in time," she said with a faint smile, her hands moving quickly. "A stew like this needs to be shared."

"This isn't fair," Rhovan muttered, arms crossed as she leaned against the wall. "He shouldn't get to just come back like this, be welcomed at our table."

Their mother, busy shaping another dumpling, glanced up. "He's your ah, Rhovan. That doesn't stop being true just because he left."

"He's not Torgarin anymore!" Rhovan shot back, her tone sharper than she intended. But when her mother's gaze softened, she looked away. "I've done everything he was supposed to do. Everything!" She was clearly bitter and tired of carrying the weight of responsibility alone.

"And we're grateful for that," her mother responded gently. "But being a shepherd isn't just about the work. It's about the people we share it with. Don't forget that."

Leoric watched as she reached for a wooden ladle, stirring the pot before glancing at a stack of flatbreads toasting on the hot stones beside the fire. Their edges had darkened, crisp and charred in places, but their centres remained soft, perfect for soaking up the stew's rich broth. It was a meal steeped in memory, and the sight of it tugged at something deep in his chest.

Sanura turned to him, her ears twitching slightly. "Well? Don't just stand there like a lamb lost in the wind. Sit down. I'll ladle you a bowl. You too, Rhovan."

Leoric sat, and his sister and father soon joined him. As Tural sat himself, Leoric caught a flicker of something in his eyes—not anger, but weariness. His father's shoulders slumped slightly as he sat down by the fire, his hands reaching for the wooden bowl Sanura handed him. The years had weighed on him just as much as they had on the yurts, and for the first time, Leoric saw how much his absence had cost—not just his father, but the whole family.

"The flock's been restless this season," Sanura said, ladling more stew into Tural's bowl. "We lost two ewes to the wolves last month. Rhovan's been out there every night with Altan, keeping watch."

Tural grunted. "It's work that needs two pairs of hands. Not one." He did not look at Leoric as he said it, but the words landed all the same.

This was not a miraculous homecoming worthy of fairytales, but it did not need to be. Altan leaned against Leoric's leg, his tail thumping happily against the floor. It surprised him how the dog's loyalty had remained unchanged after so many years. Altan did not care about promises broken or expectations left unfulfilled. Leoric's return was all it cared about right now. For the rest of the family, though, Leoric was not so sure.

Slowly, as they shared the meal, the topics of conversation around the table turned to more pleasant matters. For Sophie, the warmth of the broth hit like a memory she did not know she had—rich, tangy, and full of warmth. The meal felt like it had been her favourite all along and reminded her of her mother's cooking. For a few fleeting moments, both Leoric and Sophie felt like they were welcome here. They felt as if they had come home.

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