The bed and a simple clothes box made up the bulk of her furniture, but the life of a shaman wasn’t one spent indoors. Her home was only expected to be a place for her to sleep, for her waking hours would be spent caring for the people of her tribe, and her days would be long and busy.

Staring blankly at the bed, the notion she should probably make it before leaving her home empty drifted by, but was soon replaced by an absent musing of how she had come to be at this point in her life.

She didn’t resent that her life would be spent in service, she enjoyed helping people, and to be able to put the gift of magic that she was born with to good use would give her life purpose. But a life spent with the people of her village would simultaneously be a life alone, as shamans seldom wed or had children, their lives instead being full of the care of other’s children, or ill or injured loved ones.