Philza climbed out of the hole he had been digging underneath his home. His leathery hands reached down and rubbed around his ankle where a monitor had been placed to make sure he stayed within the bounds of his residency. He sighed at the idea of four pieces of iron keeping him from checking on his son.
"Governments are overrated anyway," the father reasoned with himself as he carefully transferred the monitor over to an armor stand positioned in the middle of the room. He waited until nightfall to slip out the back of his home and head down the semi-familiar path to the abode of his eldest surviving son.
He had travelled the path only once before to meet with the warrior that isolated in the North. Without the compass he had loaned to Ghostbur, he was traveling blind and depended on largely instinct to determine the location of the cabin. He arrived after several hours through heavy snow and his eyes laid upon the home. A single torch illuminated the porch and signaled to the father one clear message: his son was in danger.