Rolan had spent a great deal of time after receiving his acceptance letter to study under Lorroakan imagining what his apprenticeship would be like, how his natural talent despite being completely self-taught would blossom if given the proper mentor and tools to hone his humble craft. Surely after a life of hardship and determination, he was owed that boon. Eventually he had to wade through the worst of it and come out a better wizard, right?
He'd been loathe to stay in the Grove with the other refugees, wanting to just take Cal and Lia and be on his way, but damn him for being talked into it. If only he'd gone with his gut and not let himself be swayed, perhaps things would have been different. The shadow-cursed lands leading to Baldur's Gate had been insurmountably worse in comparison. Rolan had failed his siblings when it had mattered most, choosing to defend the scared group of children instead of helping his kin who were carted off to be tortured and killed. He hadn't signed up to be a hero, dammit! How could he not when the one who'd meant to save them failed? In the end, it hadn't mattered, he still failed. He'd been content to drown himself in drink in the aftermath of his failure until that insufferable man with a hero complex had come to claim he was on the way to Moonrise and he'd save Rolan's siblings. That, he couldn't abide. And of course the hero saved his arse again and Rolan could only feel mortified at his inability to do the one thing he'd promised. What an older brother he turned out to be.
Somehow they made it and he'd started his apprenticeship. Only it wasn't at all what he'd imagined. His days were spent mostly behind the front counter of Sorcerous Sundries being little more than a glorified teller. He very rarely saw Cal or Lia, staying in a small room above the shop. When he wasn't working, he was attempting to study under Lorroakan, but the wizard was difficult to please and his anger was as explosive as his obsession with a relic called the Nightsong.
Rolan is more disappointed in his apparent inability to please his mentor or pass what feel to be obvious tests.
He's been fielding more and more "adventurers" claiming to have information about the bloody Nightsong, which is growing so tiresome. His face hurts, but he keeps that blasted smile plastered on his face despite how he'd very much like to crawl into bed and practice his modified Frostbite cantrip. Another walks in and his response is immediate, practiced.
"Welcome to Sorcerous Sundries, how-- Hells below, what are you doing here?" The words are hissed and his eyes narrow the moment he recognizes Zevlor. His palms may be a bloody mess from how tightly his fists are clenched.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2024-08-12 09:56 pm (UTC)He'd been loathe to stay in the Grove with the other refugees, wanting to just take Cal and Lia and be on his way, but damn him for being talked into it. If only he'd gone with his gut and not let himself be swayed, perhaps things would have been different. The shadow-cursed lands leading to Baldur's Gate had been insurmountably worse in comparison. Rolan had failed his siblings when it had mattered most, choosing to defend the scared group of children instead of helping his kin who were carted off to be tortured and killed. He hadn't signed up to be a hero, dammit! How could he not when the one who'd meant to save them failed? In the end, it hadn't mattered, he still failed. He'd been content to drown himself in drink in the aftermath of his failure until that insufferable man with a hero complex had come to claim he was on the way to Moonrise and he'd save Rolan's siblings. That, he couldn't abide. And of course the hero saved his arse again and Rolan could only feel mortified at his inability to do the one thing he'd promised. What an older brother he turned out to be.
Somehow they made it and he'd started his apprenticeship. Only it wasn't at all what he'd imagined. His days were spent mostly behind the front counter of Sorcerous Sundries being little more than a glorified teller. He very rarely saw Cal or Lia, staying in a small room above the shop. When he wasn't working, he was attempting to study under Lorroakan, but the wizard was difficult to please and his anger was as explosive as his obsession with a relic called the Nightsong.
Rolan is more disappointed in his apparent inability to please his mentor or pass what feel to be obvious tests.
He's been fielding more and more "adventurers" claiming to have information about the bloody Nightsong, which is growing so tiresome. His face hurts, but he keeps that blasted smile plastered on his face despite how he'd very much like to crawl into bed and practice his modified Frostbite cantrip. Another walks in and his response is immediate, practiced.
"Welcome to Sorcerous Sundries, how-- Hells below, what are you doing here?" The words are hissed and his eyes narrow the moment he recognizes Zevlor. His palms may be a bloody mess from how tightly his fists are clenched.