Wander stood at twenty-five with a lean frame hardened by years on the road, his sun-browned skin marked by faint scars and his dark hair cropped short beneath a weathered leather hat. Clad in a faded wool coat over a simple linen shirt and sturdy boots caked in dust, he carried himself with quiet steadiness, eyes the color of storm clouds that missed nothing. He sought only a patch of earth to call his own, a place free from the ghosts of a childhood spent drifting between failed farms and broken promises. Yet every attempt to root himself drew old creditors or restless kin who pulled him back into motion. Wander countered by taking odd jobs in quiet towns, fixing roofs and mending fences while humming forgotten folk tunes under his breath whenever doubt crept in. This patient labor earned him small trusts and hidden coins, allowing brief respites that felt like victories. In the end the road always reclaimed him, leaving behind half-built homes and fleeting friendships. His life tangled with the weight of family obligations he could never fully escape and the fear that true rest might demand more than he could give without losing himself.