They are wanderers without a manifesto. The more prosperous Asterleeds becomes, the lighter their packs grow.

As the brick walls of this trade city climb ever higher, As the scent of fish is washed from the port by the weight of coin, As the stone steps of Ocean Hill gleam from a thousand soles... They choose to leave. They sell what they own, give up their jobs, tuck an old coat into a cloth bundle, or simply walk away with nothing at all.

Purposes? Must it always be so utilitarian? Wiping down every window in the city, Scraping barnacles off the hulls of every fishing boat, Measuring the Regnus Coast with the soles of their feet... Do these count as "purposes"?