On the Trail

A man sets out from the city, in search of adventure, taking a moment to reflect on the situation he finds himself in.

The road was wide enough, cobbled with stone and shooting straight through the stand of tall pines that sat in front of them. The grass about them was tall and deeply green, and birdsong could be heard somewhere off in the distance. All in all, it was a beautiful and peaceful scene as they began their march out of the gates. Vilk walked slowly, his backpack draped over his shoulders, with his maul resting against them as well. He was definitely drunk, having consumed more pints of ale than he could count at the moment.
He was shocked to see the carriages, and at first thought he was seeing double. He was shocked to see the dancer as well, having expected her to take whatever recognition and fame she would have earned from the crypts and the dancing gig with the guards and moved on. But there she was, and everyone was setting off on a fool's errand. He started wondering if he was the only one who didn't want to be doing this? The Dusk Tyrant and his foolishness didn't have anything to do with him, or his Goddess. He knew the Lady of Storms would set the Dark God in its place in due time, or at least ... he thought he knew that.
The wind sang softly by, swaying the tops of the grass, carrying with it the pleasant smell of summer. The sun was high and shining brightly, Vilk thought that today was a good day for the start of their journey, but with each step he took he could feel the personal struggle he was enduring just to move in his new armor. In his thirties, he already felt like his strength had begun to fade, and he was now paying for it. He thought once more his Lady had abandoned him. The years were taking his strength, and he needed it now more than ever. Seeing as the Dusk Tyrant had the souls of his sons, he needed all the strength he could muster to save them.
He thought back to the group. Everyone else with him was doing this for some personal morality or hopes of gain -- maybe even both. He alone was trapped, on a foolish quest he didn't care for because he couldn't take the risk of the Dusk Tyrant being dishonest. He glanced over at Ravennia’s carriage and shook his head. He had opened up to her and told her things he hadn't really talked about prior to that, but he had expected that when everyone met up at the Inn the following morning, she would say her goodbye's and they would part ways. But that wasn't the case. Her motivation was obvious enough -- A Hero’s fame would spread far more quickly and last far longer than any other.
It didn’t take long before the building sweat on his brow began to trickle down his face. He didn't want the others to know that his body wasn't strong enough, didn't want them to think him any weaker than they might already. Each step was made with care, causing him to move slower than he normally would. In time, just wearing the armor would help strengthen him, and he would adapt. His head was pounding trying to think about it, and he wished he had another ale in his hand. In the meantime, he used the drink as his excuse, moving with care and taking things slowly.
He was in for a long journey, and he knew it would be difficult.

Author's Note

A short story written from the perspective of the character I'm playing in a D&D adventure. His name is Vilk, and he's a Human Cleric whose passion for his faith has evolved into regretful duty.