Fan Theory

Niles was your average reddit atheist before he was isekai'd into the PoE universe.

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Traveler1245 wrote:

Niles was your average reddit atheist before he was isekai'd into the PoE universe.

The ranger's not a man-hating feminist crusader or a domineering lesbian or any of those mundane things.

She's a dog person. You've met her, she is as sour on society as any of the above but for the simplest of reasons.

Rather than join any of the bandits in their profitable and tightly-knit fiefdoms in the forest, where her skills are the envy of all, she would rather live alone in a dilapidated barn with her four or five mutts, giving them the best of the hunt and glossing their coats and spoiling them absolutely rotten.

Love her, love her damn dogs. You can't have her over for lunch, because her 'dears' are all off-leash and instantly into every dish, onto every piece of furniture, they're large and in charge. She will just ignore you and other guests and sit on the floor and shovel roast chicken and kippers into waiting jaws, carrying on a lively convo with them to which you aren't invited.

The tools of this ranger aren't bow and arrows; the famed projectile prowess of the Deadeye exists thanks to canisters of tennis balls and bright plastic wiffle balls and matching atlatl's and a growing stack of scarred, scuffed Frisbees in the back of a minivan whose seats have been gutted by generations of Paw Patrol and reupholstered in myriad shades of cream, tan, russet, bay, and gray.

With her at the helm, all maps become Caer Blaidd, and all loot is coated with a tacky coat of inspissated dog drool.

The Marauder: He's Mama's little boy. And Grandma's little hero. Always has been, always will be.

"I don't care if you're as big as a barn and as old as the hills. You'll still be my [insert embarrassing diminutive term of endearment here]. Now come give Nonna some sugar."

So fast-forward to his current slate of jobs as enforcer, bouncer, HVAC technician, semi-professional athlete, crisis counsellor...he always sets aside time every evening to talk to his Nonna, his bubbeh, his maman.

"Yes mama, I'm sending you some more cacciatore, you'll need to put it right in the freezer as soon as you get it. No, mama, it's not rhoas. It's grass-fed Minotaur. Or at least I'm pretty sure it was, there might have been some rocks in it but they're big enough to pick out. You know i would rather be home for dinner but well here we are and here I am. Love you, mwah, ciao!"

"No bubbeh I'm not mining! For the last time! I've been working for Alva since years. I would never go down in a mine pit, you know I'm claustrophobic about such things" *puts phone on loudspeaker, sets it down, continues brushing azurite dust out of boots* "It's nothing, I'm pressing my shirts, like you said. Why don't I send you some more of those little frogs? YOu must have a great pond of them by now. Someday...yes, someday I'll come to see them all and see you too, and Mama and sis. I promise!"

So when you hear him say, "I give you to my ancestors" you know he's doing exactly that. He's a good boy, he is. And somewhere on a rocky point southeast of Te Onui, a clutch of old ladies are sitting at the Rec Hall enjoying a cup of imported Rumi's, swapping gossip about their sons and grandsons and daughters off on the mainland, doing reasonable things for reasonable people and remembering the folks back home.

"My baby grandson just sent back a passel o' frogs, anybody wanna have a craftin' bee over at my place, we're gonna start Saturday night," says one granny, regretting deep in her heart that if her grandson ever did find his way back to her, she would have to explain where all them li'l froggies went.