Ever since the incident with Cyra, Andrew decided his place wasn't amongst the gods. He decided to pack up, and go back to Eldercrest, a small town in the kingdom of Hammerfall — one that was raided and burned to the ground years ago.
During his travels, he managed to use some of the nicer things he took with him to barter for basic tools, and enough food to last for a couple weeks at least.
As he approached the desolate, ash-covered remains of what was once his childhood home, he knelt down, scooping some of the ashes into his hand. He didn’t know whose ashes they were — could have been the building, could have been his mother, perhaps his childhood friend — it didn’t matter. The grief was the same.
He held the ashes up to his face and, with a solemn promise whispered only to the ghosts that still lingered, he blew the ashes from his hand and set down his bag. Then, he set off into the nearby woods to start procuring lumber. He was going to rebuild his town, by hand, alone if he had to.
And so, over the next couple weeks, he did.
Soon, others started to notice, and a few others made their way there as well, offering assistance for the opportunity to become one of the new town’s primary residents. The work seemed to fly by as what was once a graveyard for memories long forgotten suddenly became a small community.
It was during the construction of the new inn that he met Mirelle, an elven woman whose quiet resolve mirrored his own.
He was distant, of course, and rightfully so — the burn from Cyra still left a scar that hadn’t fully healed. But soon, an unspoken bond began to form. On the long days and late nights of backbreaking labor, when he was done taking care of the town, he found himself being taken care of by her. She’d clean his clothes, offer him a warm meal and a gentle conversation, and they’d talk for hours until he finally found rest.
And it went on like that — every night, for weeks.
Eventually, love blossomed. Not all at once, not like a spark
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