Really, of all the places to land, it had to be Plegia. It wasn't like that was the exact
opposite of where he wanted to go. Not at all. When he left the army, he had done so to get
away from that blasted crusade, not towards it. Of course, he hadn't really bothered to ask the Captain exactly where they were going. In fact, he hadn't asked him much of anything. He had just hopped the first boat across the ocean he could find.
He hated the term 'stowaway'. He much preferred the term "Clandestine Passenger". Far less callous.
Still, he couldn't change the past, so as soon as he was in Plegia, he made the decision to be out of Plegia. Easier said than done, of course, but people were happy to point him towards the border ("East!" seemed to be the general consensus). It had been some time since he had landed, but he had managed to find his way from village to village, stopping at night to rest. People were more than willing to accommodate him, which wasn't that surprising, really: Nobles were a varied sort, and one could be a saint while the other starts a 100-year war because some bint looked wrong at him. Folks, though, were always the same. They don't much care for who's king so long as they can live their lives away from the wrong end of a spear.
That's why he couldn't bring himself to stay in the military any longer. He had joined to live a life of glory and wonder. Even when those dreams had worn off, he stayed for the camaraderie and prestige soldiering brought. But when news of a crusade spread, he knew he couldn't, in good conscience, stay. People believed things because that's all they've ever known. Besides, there wasn't ever really a question to Grima's existence, even if he did try to destroy the world.
Not, of course, that he'd be willing to stay. Plegia was
hot, and not in the "My, what a day out! Make sure to bring water before you go a-tilling!" sense, more of a "Stay inside, the sky itself is on fire". And the
sand! It was course, dry, and it found itself into the most cumbersome of places. Part of him understood why the Plegians must've wanted to end the world; it had to be better than living here.
He kicked the ground in frustration.
The desert regarded him dryly.
At the very least, he took some solace in the fact that he was, apparently, awfully close to Ylisse. The last place he had visited had told him that the border was only a few days away. He could stop at one of the smaller towns on the way, and be across the border in a day or two. Or, at least, that had been the plan.
But even from a distance, he could something was off. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but the town as a whole just didn't seem
right. Whether it was paranoia or providence, he elected to march ever towards the border, praying to whatever god was listening that he wouldn't catch ill-fortune on the way there.