How I Came to Moorgate

I was born far from Moorgate, on another mass of land far across the great ocean. My mother died giving birth to me, and I have only vague recollections of my father, as he died also when I was very young. He was a tall man, I remember, and he had a beard.
My father had been a ranger, or so I was told by my uncle, who raised me after my father's death. Uncle was a shopkeeper, a good man, who raised me as his own son. It was his hope that I too, would become a merchant, and so he tutored me in the ways of his profession. While I loved reading and writing, the other subjects bored me, and it was seldom that uncle could keep me away from the neighboring forests. When I was ten years old, he finally
admitted that I was indeed my father's son and allowed me to balance my studies with swordplay and archery. At twelve, I was very much at home in the woodlands. I could track and hunt game, identify the calls of various creatures, and live off the land as well as any adult. Still, to appease my uncle, I put in my share of time at the shop as well.
The years passed, and at sixteen I had resigned myself to the life of a shopkeeper who sometimes lurked about the woods. It was not the life I would have chosen, but it made my uncle very happy.
Happiness, it seemed, was never to be a permanent part of my life.
Uncle left on a short trip to purchase goods one day, and I was to watch the shop for the week that he was gone. The week went by and he did not return. After three more days, I closed the shop and went searching for him. Taking my trusty bow with me, I set off down the road he had taken.
I found his wagon less than a day's ride from the town. My uncle's body lay in a ditch beside the road. He had been robbed and killed. I buried him beneath a large tree just off the road.
The tracks of the killers were only a few days old. I trailed them for five days before coming upon their camp. There were eight of them.
I found a bit of cover that would allow me a good field of fire and did what I had to do.
The first three were dead before anyone noticed. Then there was confusion and much running around and yelling. They tried to spot me. I kept picking them off one by one.
As the seventh fell I heard a noise to my right. One of them had managed to discern my location after all. I spun, off balance, and loosed my arrow. It went through his throat even as the bolt from his crossbow pierced my side.
The wound was mortal. I knew that for certain. Slowly I crawled away, not wanting to be near any of the scum when I breathed my last. I found the shade of an oak tree by a small stream and lay there, waiting for the inevitable.
When the lady touched my brow and bid me wake, I thought she was an angel. She was much more than that, though. She was a goddess.
"So young to stand before the gates of my kingdom, " she said to me. "How is it that you come to me as a boy, Lawrence, and not a stooped old man?"
I told her what had happened, and she smiled.
"No shopkeeper are you, young Lawrence. That is not your destiny. You are gifted in the ways of the rangers. You must follow in your father's footsteps."
"But I am dead," I said. "Will you not take me into your kingdom? I have no family anymore."
"No, Lawrence," she said. "You still have work to do. And while you have no blood kin, you may yet find a family. Go to Moorgate, far across the sea. Seek the Guild of Fighters. They will be your family."
And with that she faded from view. I sat up and found that my wound had vanished without a trace.
I returned to the shop only once, to get the money that we had saved. I used it to book passage on a ship to Moorgate. The journey was long and ardous, and I stepped into the city without a single gold piece to my name, but as I stood before the towering structure that was the Fighter's Guild, I knew I was truly home.
Lawrence
Wandering Ranger