Anchreon

Chapter 1: 3 years later

A/n: so as some of you guys may have seen I deleted the published parts because I wanted to go in a different direction with the story. Though most of it will be the same I wanted to add the elements that I felt the story lacking mostly filler so that it felt real and not rushed.

Clair sat on the floor of her bedroom floor, packing an old military backpack that her dad had used back when he deployed.Scattered around her were clothes for two or three weeks and camping supplies.er dad's favorite cast iron skillet, a few bags of dried jerky, and one tinder box engraved with a spider, her ranger insignia that she had received when she completed her training. Scrolls and books were piled haphazardly off to one side, next to a burlap tent and rolled sleeping bag. Her longsword, bow and quiver lay on her four poster bed. Clair was meticulously stuffing everything she thought was going to be useful into the rucksack.

It took almost four hours to get everything sorted and packed. Afterwards, Clair slouched back against the bed feeling mentally exhausted, even though she knew it was still early in the morning. She wanted to be on her way out of town soon. Closing her eyes for just a moment, she took a deep breath and focused on telling herself she could do this, then got up and grabbed her heavy bag. It must have weighed at least 140 pounds; at least it sure felt like it! Just few years ago she could barely lift, but after the rigorous training Ser Reginald had put her through, things were different. The endurance training had been like hell week on repeat for six months and Clair had wanted to wallow in despair for hours on end. Now though, she could run a mile in around the 8 minute mark, and with a rucksack she could do it in twelve minutes. She couldn't help the now-fond smirk on her face as she remembered that after endurance training had come the worse part; If Clair had thought running in full leather armor with a rucksack was hell, then Ser Reginald's sword practice was divine punishment. Months of broken bones, cracked or bruised ribs, and spending all too much  time in the healers court. Masha the head healer had called Clair her "bane" because of the times she was delivered a half-broken mess to the court's doorsteps.

Even after Clair stopped having to spend every other day with the healers, it was another couple of months before she could properly wield the longsword she had been given. The blade was a battered and burred existence that the blacksmiths somehow still called a sword, and had felt unwieldy in her inexperienced hands. But day in and day out she had practiced until her arms were like lead. By the time she could use the blade effectively, Ser Reginald took her out into the woods and told her to single-handedly clear out a camp of headhunter goblins. He'd given her a satchel of healing potions, concoctions of herbs that would speed up the body's natural healing process to crazy levels, and some very useful antidotes for a myriad of toxins.

Clearing that camp had been the hardest thing she'd done so far in her training. More than once, she'd almost died to poisoned arrows or daggers. On one occasion she took a nasty blow to her kidney from a goblin who played dead and baited her into walking past. All in all, in Clair's opinion she had done well to clear the encampment over the course of two weeks.

It seemed as though the rest of her three years of training passed in the blink of aneye,  and now she was a full fledged ranger.

Clair walked slowly down the stairs with her full backpack, her fingers trailing along the banister as her mind wandered down memory lane. She aimlessly walked through the now hollow house until she stood in the foyer. The front door still had a pile of mail that they had never sorted or would ever sort at this point. Kicking the pile aside and  casting letters all over the place, she yanked opened the door and exited the house with a sense of finality.

Outside, people bustled by, heading towards the market district that had sprung up like rabbits, where huskers and merchants peddled their wares for a few silver coins. Clair had spent her off days wandering aimlessly around examining the goods, smoked meat, cheese wheels and breads. Every now and then when the caravans rolled in some sold weapons and armor. Clair had seen a wicked looking longsword she became envious of at one of these rolling markets. Its purple blade was so dark it was almost as black as the night sky, and it was almost two and a half feet long. The sword had a rather plain crossguard with a purple gem embedded in the center.