You know, I wonder sometimes how I went from being a Marguul tribesman; from being respected all across southern Darguun, to being led around by some wandering Halfling priest. (No offense Plymouth.) I rack my brain for a good, respectable reason, and all I can come to is being exiled by those ungrateful “Heirs” to the Empire.
And then I look for a reason to not kill myself. I’ll wake up and be two seconds from turning my head in to a wall trophy. And I remember: I’m being led around by this wandering Halfling priest, and I owe him too much to just back out.
That would be the definition of a vicious cycle, wouldn’t it?
(Lobo mutters something low and inaudible, but you can pick up a hint of longing in his voice, then goes about trying to figure out where the party wound up and how to get to Stormreach.)