Tall, broad shouldered and dense for a member of his species, Garence appears to have earned somewhat roughened hands and arms from a rather laborous existance.  His deep tan speaks of fishing or field labor, especially if his shirt is off, and he's about as exotic as a plowhand gets.  However, there is a fire in his eyes as though his calm assertiveness might reach out and grab you.

 Once there was a life of toil, tilling the good earth and nurturing growth through devotion and gracious communion.  This was a quiet way, unspoken and reserved.  Thoughtfull were the slow hours as well as the tedious.  Solemn halls and serene courtyards, atriums and gardens. Why would one wish for anything more?

 There really weren't any good times or bad times.  There was enough to eat and everyone knew one another.  Hardly was there cause for complaint, all things being relative to a zero sum.

 The slow, grinding truth is that not everyone lives the same way.  One person's liberal feast is another's withering famine.  Of course, it doesn't have to be this way, at least, until the soldiers arrive.  What once took ages to erect out of the stones of the very soil can be reduced to weeds and rubble in less than a generation.  Nay, sometimes far less time than that.

 Why does the philosoph roam?  Why find new homes when the peacefull days of one's youth can be summoned on a breeze with but the closing of a weary eye.

 One might claim that sequestered subsistance bred food for the soul while the spirit wept.  Though; that would only be part of the story.