Five days of walking and Dorn was almost home, but his thoughts still lingered on the morning he took his vows and passed through the gates of the Abby, knowing it would be the last time he crossed that threshold. He knew Miri had been there on the parapet, but he didn’t dare to turn back to look; leaving her was Torm’s greatest test of his faith… a test he only barely passed! He’d been tempted to stop in Velarsburg when he passed it shortly after highsun, but the thought of being home for dinner after six long years had driven him on as he trudged through the gap between the Cormanthor and the Velarwood and couldn’t help but think about the last time he pass this way, heading in the opposite direction, to the Abby of the Just Hammer. He’d just come of age then and had to answer the call he’d heard since his childhood... the call of faith... the call to serve, but he’d mistaken who’d called him. Through the years at the Abby, while he studied the sacred text, he’d felt that something was wrong. No matter how hard he tried the teachings of Tyr didn’t fulfill him. It wasn’t until a wandering priest of Torm stopped to tend the shrine and spoke to the novices that he realized the truth; it wasn’t Tyr who’d called him… it was Torm! Though disappointed to lose a potent warrior from his flock, the Abbot recognized the passion that had come alive in him and allowed him to remain at the Abby, studying on his own until he was ready to take his vows. The revelation was like a rebirth for him. He threw himself into studies and training like a man possessed; mastering not only the teachings of the Loyal Fury, but the skill at arms to serve and protect as his faith demanded. Leaving the Abby was the hardest thing he’d ever done, made so much more so since it meant leaving Miri as well, knowing that the next time he saw here would likely be in the House of the Triad, but he knew that once he swore himself to Torm there would be no place there for him. Climbing a small hill, he brought him thoughts back to the present; he could see his family’s farm from here and his heart rose just thinking about that sight, but as he crested the hill he froze and his heart sank like a rock… The farm was gone! The neatly tended fields were overrun, the barn had burned to the ground, even the stout stone walls of the cottage had collapsed, and everything was overgrown from years of neglect. With tears pouring down his face, he rushed down the hill unable to believe his eyes, but the truth could not be denied as he staggered about the ruins of his childhood home. Then he found what he feared the most, four graves; simple but respectfully made and marked with carved stones… his father, mother and sisters. Collapsing to his knees, he wailed to the heavens in heart-broken agony; “Why have you forsaken me like this… haven’t I sacrificed enough already… wasn’t it enough that I pledge my life to you!?!” “The gods didn’t do this… orcs did!” Lost in his heart-wrenching grief, he hadn’t heard the grey cloaked rider’s approach. Then the gruff ranger, one of the veterans who patrolled Harrowdale’s fields and wilds known as the Grey Riders, answered the questions that choked in Dorn’s throat; “It happened in the fall of the year you left, but you couldn’t have done anything if you were here… it was a savage massacre. It’s actual a mercy that they killed the girls… afterward!”