Garrick leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His usual stoic expression held a tinge of amusement as he took a moment to gather his thoughts. The others had shared their stories, some with lighthearted banter, others with hints of sorrow buried beneath their words. Now it was his turn.
"Alright," he said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much, yet found a way to make peace with it. "My story, huh? Well, let's just say it wasn't the happiest childhood, but it made me who I am."
Jhaeros leaned against a nearby rock, his ears twitching with interest. "That's usually how these things go."
Garrick chuckled. "True enough. I was born in Basker, a city that wasn't exactly the best place to grow up in—especially not when it was at war with Gabaze, the Dwarven city to the north. The conflict between our nations had been going on for years, but by the time I was old enough to even understand what war meant, the fighting had become a way of life. Everyone either fought, worked for the war effort, or died in the streets. There wasn't much of an in-between."
"You were an orphan, right?" Lyra asked, her tone softer now. "You mentioned that once."
"Yeah," Garrick nodded. "Don't know what happened to my parents. Maybe they died in the war, maybe they just abandoned me. Either way, I grew up fending for myself in the streets. Begging, stealing, doing whatever I had to do to get by." He paused, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. "But when you're big for your age, people notice. And the military? They always need fresh bodies."
Kalem frowned. "So they just… took you?"
"Drafted," Garrick corrected, though the bitter edge in his voice said otherwise. "One day, a couple of soldiers came through the streets, rounding up anyone who looked old enough to hold a weapon. I was taller than most kids my age, so they didn't even question it. Didn't matter if you were twelve, fifteen, or twenty—if you looked strong enough, you were given a sword and sent to the frontlines."
Nara clenched her fists. "That's disgusting."
Garrick gave a short, humorless laugh. "That's war. At the time, I didn't have much choice, so I did what I was told. But I'll be honest—I was terrified. Every battle, every skirmish, I was afraid of dying. Unlike some of the others, I didn't fight because I wanted to. I fought because I had to."
Isolde tilted her head slightly. "But you're one of the toughest people I've met. I can't imagine you being scared."
"You'd be surprised," Garrick muttered. "Fear does strange things to people. Some run. Some freeze. Me? I threw myself into whatever would keep me alive. That's why I trained in charge-style warfare."
Kalem's expression darkened slightly. "The most brutal style of all."
"Yeah," Garrick admitted. "It's simple—put on heavy armor, grab a weapon, and charge. Don't stop. Don't hesitate. Just keep moving forward, crushing anything in your path. It was one of the few things that made me feel safe on the battlefield. If I kept moving, if I was covered in enough armor, maybe I wouldn't die."
There was a moment of silence. Even Nara, who was usually quick with a quip, remained quiet. They all understood the unspoken truth beneath Garrick's words. It wasn't just about battle—it was about survival.
"But you made it out," Jhaeros finally said. "And you didn't stay in the army."
Garrick exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Yeah. After two years, the war ended. I was still young, but I had no home to return to, no family waiting for me. So I just… wandered. I fought in arenas, worked as a mercenary, took on jobs wherever I could. But the more I traveled, the more I realized something—I wasn't just interested in fighting. I was interested in history."
Lyra raised an eyebrow. "History?"
Garrick nodded, a small, almost sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I know. Doesn't exactly match the whole 'charge into battle' thing, does it? But every place I went, I heard stories. About old wars, lost civilizations, ancient ruins. I started collecting books, listening to scholars talk. And the more I learned, the more I wanted to know. That's what eventually led me here—to Arcathis."
Nara smirked. "So, the big guy with the hammer turns out to be a scholar at heart."
"Something like that," Garrick said, chuckling. "I still fight. I still train. But I've found something else that gives me purpose. And that's enough for me."
The group fell into a thoughtful silence before Lyra spoke up. "Well, Garrick, your story was… definitely something."
"See?" He smirked. "Told you it would be entertaining."
Kalem shook his head, though there was a faint smile on his lips. "You shouldn't call your life entertainment, you know."
"Yeah," Lyra added.
Isolde looked at him curiously. "You don't feel bad sharing that do you?"
"No," Garrick said after a moment. "I just said it was a good story."
Nara crossed her arms. "Well, don't say it that seriously."
"Fine, fine," Garrick conceded, raising his hands in mock surrender.
Lyra leaned back, exhaling slowly. "Well, that's two stories down. Who's next?"
Jhaeros smirked. "I have a feeling we're in for more surprises."
Kalem simply nodded. "We always are."