Oh sweet Vihi, light of mercy and touch of tenderness, what is this itch beneath my skin? I can't sleep. I can't settle. I tell my husband it's the harvest, that the oats are whispering again, but truly, my mind's not on the fields. Not anymore.
I heard of them again. The same ones. I haven't spoken to them proper, only seen their shadows pass or caught pieces of their stories passed from merchant to messenger. Folk like that draw attention the way honey draws flies. There is something stirring around them. It sets the horses restless.
One day they were seen boarding a steamcart, ridding goblins of all things. Then they were riding with scholars and some old elf who has lived through more than a dozen summers of mine. There was talk of a grimoire, some secret spellbook bound in silence. I do not know what it contains, but I know the weight of dangerous knowledge. I know how it presses down on a person's shoulders, making them walk as if they carry more than their own body.
They picked up a hawk, named it Memati. Luckily I was there in the market. Beautiful creature. I've tried to spot it in the skies when I'm out in the pasture, but it does not fly for just anyone. That bird has a purpose too.
And then the trouble at the Adventurer's Guild. Magic gone sideways. Someone forgot themselves. Someone else dreamed things into waking. It frightened some. Not me. I dream like that often. Always have. Places I've never been. Names I've never spoken aloud. I think Vihi is whispering through them, though I don't always listen well.
They were attacked later, ambushed on the road by cold-hearted fanatics. One of them died. Then another. Then one came back, and one did not. I didn't see it, but I heard about the fires, the mourning, the bard who came asking for the dead's last music. People talk in Fex. I listen more than they know.
I saw them from a distance the other day. Brows furrowed. New faces among them. Supplies slung over shoulders. They do not linger long. There is something in them that keeps moving. I understand that. I've never stayed in one place long. Not truly. My hands might plant seed, but my heart is always looking at the road.
I still tend the horses. Still smile at the grocer and kiss my husband goodbye when I walk out with grain sacks. But I've started carrying my boots in the cart even when I say I'm not going far. And I've hidden away a pack beneath the hayloft. Just in case.
I am no adventurer. Not yet. But I think I will be. This world is heavy with sorrow and tangled with old wrongs. Someone has to undo them. Someone who believes in goodness but isn't afraid to get dirt under her nails. Someone who knows how to read the look in an animal's eye and when to leave before the field turns fallow.
I think of them often. The ones I've only seen a few times in passing. I wonder if they'd recognize me if I walked up and said hello. I wonder if they'd think I belong.
Maybe not now. Maybe not yet.
But I will.
Vihi guide me.