Peek: Ragnar

"Ach, he's got yer mother's beard."

"Such a wee treasure!"

"Have ye' decided a name?"

"Aye.  Ragnar, after m' grandpappy."

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"Tha' all ya got?" wheezes the battered young dwarf, not giving an inch to the bullies.  He can take it,  but he doesn't think his younger brother can.  The bullies look about finished, too, holding their bruised hands and wondering just who got the worse of this beating.

The leader prepares to give a sneering response, but is stopped by the schoolmarm grabbing his ear and pulling.

"So this be where ye went, and what y' be doin'?!"  The others scatter, but the marm doesn't chase.  She knows who they are, and will be giving their parents a stern talking to later.  She's too old to go chasing them down, and too wise to need to anyway.  Her eyes fall on the battered Ragnar and his younger brother.

"Sven, help yer brother t' the cleric."

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"What d'ye mean mind affinity!?" demands the young dwarf.  The scryer simply nods, very used to someone not liking what their innate affinity ends up being.

"I know you know what it is.  You are mind affinity, and you can't change that, no more than if you tarred and feathered yourself and called yourself a birdkin."

The young dwarf throws his hands up and paces in the testing hall, trying to come to terms with it.  "M' Pa always said mind is fer thieves, spies, and worse... politicians!  I dinnae want t' be any of those!"

The tester chuckles at that.  Young Ragnar's father has a good head on his shoulders.  "Most are, sure.  But there's another option that I think would fit you well, young Ragnar."

The young dwarf stops in his tracks and stares at him, daring to hope, and the tester is confident he'll like what he has to say.

"While mind can be excellent for diverting attention away, it can also gather it.  Some of the best front-line fighters I've seen have been mind affinity.  It's one thing to be able to take a hit, but it's another to ensure the second and third hits continue to be aimed your way."

The young dwarf strokes his short beard as he considers that, and the tester already knows he'll take that path.

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"On yer feet, y' hairy goblins!" demands the drill sergeant, and Ragnar and the others scramble out of their cots and into something that may dream of, some day, being an orderly line.  The dwarves do their best to stand at attention, though each can keenly feel the disapproving eye of the drill sergeant on every imperfection.

"It's time t' stop coddling ye recruits," he says simply, and magnanimously ignores the groans that answer him.  "Yer real training begins t'day!"

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Ragnar stands at proper attention in the drill sergeant's office, the hard dwarf behind the desk looking much more sympathetic than when out on the training grounds.

"I understand ye've gotten yer class, aye?"

"Aye," answers Ragnar with a bit of pride, though he fights to not show it.  He knows he got a different one than most of the other recruits, and he's smart enough to guess that's why he's standing here.

"At ease," says the drill sergeant with a sigh.  He glances at the papers, as if they'll magically change to his whim, but they don't.  "A Rager," he says, and Ragnar nods.  His confidence takes a hit as the drill sergeant sighs at that and stands.

"A good class.  A strong class.  Honestly, I cannae think of a better suit fer ya.  You already c'n take a hit that would floor yer fellows an' grin an' demand a chaser.  With your new life and kinetic affinities, ye'll be a right terror in a battle."

His eyes meet Ragnar's, and he feels a dread in his stomach far worse than from any actual incoming attack.  "But the army cannae use ye.  Ragers ride the flow o' battle, and sometimes guide the tide of it, but they don't work well in numbers, lad.  Ye'll charge into the first dangerous thing ye see on your own, instead of marching wi' yer brothers an' sisters ta battle."

He grips Ragnar's shoulders and meets his eyes, seeing the dreams shatter in them.  "Ye'll be discharged wi' honor, Ragnar.  But dinnae let this be th' end.  If ye' cannae fight with an army, fight wi' a few trusted companions.  Join the Adventurer's Guild, lad.  Any party would give their beards t' have you on their front line."

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"Are ye sure ye cannae stay, brother?" asks Sven, and their parents nod.  Ragnar, however, shakes his head.

"Nay, I cannae.  Th' dungeons here're fine, but... there's somethin' missing.  I c'n freelance outside a bit, see more o' th' world, meet new people, see new things."

"Ye'll write," asks his mom, though her tone brooks no negative answer.  Ragnar chuckles and draws them all into a hug.

"O'course!  Ye'll have t' write be back, too!  All o' ya!  And dinnae worry, I'll be fine out there, you'll see."

The tears will have to wait, as Ragnar can hear the whipcrack of the caravan master getting the beasts moving, meaning there's no more time for goodbyes.  He gives his family one last squeeze in the hug before running for the last wagon and scrambling aboard.  The driver rolls his eyes, but Ragnar can see the smile under his beard.  He waves at his family until they're out of sight, before settling down beside the driver in a comfortable silence.

It's time for him to be on the job now, so he keeps an eye on the surroundings, even this close to the Hold.  He'll shave his beard if he actually spots something before the actual scouts, but it's still part of the job, and gives him something to do.  Maybe he can hustle some coin once they make a stop for the night.  Wagering on dares isn't the best of past times, but is harmless enough.  Well, as long as they admit defeat before they break their hands trying to break his smile.  It's been a while since he's been around anyone who doesn't already know that's a losing bet.