Snagsby woke with a start and frantically looked about him. He was in his same cot, in his same lean-to shed, in his same soul sucking mining town. He was still safe. Moonlight filtered in through the cracks around the door as he settled his mind from the nightmare that had awoken him.

It was the same dream/not-dream that he had relived all too often.

He was back in the cell, chained for the night to the other dozen or so captives that slaved away at their master’s work house during the day. Snagsby had been born into slavery, or so he was told, and as there was nobody to tell him different he believed it. And while it was the only life he had ever known he had always believed that freedom under any condition was better than this. But there was no hope of escape. No hope of betterment. No hope at all. He would die here worked to death as so many others had already done before him.

But this night there was a distant dull boom that shook the floor. He heard shouts of alarm from the watchmen and guards that quickly turned to pathetic mewling. The door to the cell suddenly flung open, banging so violently against the stone wall that it splintered to flinders.

She stood there in the doorway, silhouetted by the stairwell’s feeble lamp. Black hair waving madly in the air like a medusa’s snakes. The figure stepped into the chamber and the ceiling began to glow, but the stronger light did little to comfort the slaves trapped within. She looked grim and wielded a vicious looking flail who’s head glowed in the form of a hideous face, grinning with delight at having smashed open the door.

She snapped, “Free them!” and half a dozen mice with glowing eyes crawled down from her robes and scurried across the captives’ chains, which turned to rust as the spectral rodents bit them.

“Pookie will lead you safely out of the city, but from there you are on your own. Flee this place. Take anything of use you find on the way and then run as far and fast as you can.”

She left with her entourage of mice, but in her wake another mouse with eyes like sparkling emeralds waited. The slaves were confused and hesitated but the mouse chittered something soothing and a calmness flowed over Snagsby and his cell mates. They swiftly rose to their feet and followed the mouse, which despite its diminutive size, had no trouble keeping ahead.

Out into the courtyard the master and his foremen lay on the cobbles locked in a fierce embrace, biting and gnashing at one another as foam dribbled from their mouths. Bags and chests of valuables and useful items were helpfully strewn about and the mouse paused. Snagsby suddenly realized it wanted the slaves to take what they could use, and he helped himself to gear and coin and his fellow slaves quickly followed suit. After a few minutes the mouse continued on and the slaves (“Ex-slaves,” Snagsby thought) followed.

They crept along the streets of the Cavalcade district and Snagsby saw gouts of flame from above the roof tops and heard distant shouts from an adjacent district. This gave him some comfort because it meant the bulk of the city guard was occupied elsewhere. They moved toward the great southern gate, but the way was blocked. Kaer Maga had long prepared for a slave uprising and each district had its own posting of guards. A dozen armed men stood blocking the way and behind them a thin evil looking man was gesturing towards them, his hands glowing with conjured magic.

The mouse squeaked in alarm. Another mouse appeared by her side. Not a calm and comforting figure but an angry one with eyes that glowed like fire-garnets. It made a sound Snagsby found unbearable and he and his companions fell to the ground and covered their ears as It appeared.

The thing defied description and indeed may have had no actual shape, but merely a presence of corruption, dread and despair. When he dared look up there was little left of the guards but bodily fluids oozing between sets of weapons and armor. The head of the spell caster was suspended in the center of a shimmering void, silently mouthing screams. Snagsby shuddered and cowed his head. The man next to him retched violently.

The calming mouse then ran among them and with a soft touch of its paw each of the escapees stood and haltingly half walked and half ran through the gate. Snagsby ran madly into the night, leaving the thing, the mice, and the crazy woman who had set them all free behind.

Snagsby sighed and pulled the blanket up to keep off the early morning chill. He should feel grateful for his freedom, he knew, but the repeated nightmare was a steep price to pay. He was sure parts of it were real but was equally sure other parts were a product of his subconscious. They had to be.

Diamond Lake wasn’t the sort of place he had envisioned fleeing to much less living in. “Then why did I end up here of all places?” he wondered.

His thoughts returned to that frantic night and those hectic weeks that followed as he fled for his life. “Or to it,” he told himself, grimly.

There were dozen of slaves running. Crazy, desperate clumps of half orcs, men and a few gnomes, all unexpectedly unchained, outside of their cells and outside of the city with no overseer to order them about. Some dashed about mindlessly, and were undoubtedly caught quickly. The others fled with a purpose, although not necessarily with a plan.

“Join us, brother!” Haldrik shouted. He was the defacto leader of the half orcs chained together each night in Snagby’s cell. But he already knew Haldrik’s plans — he had spoken of them often enough — “If I ever get free from this pit I’m making for Uglin where our kind will be welcome!”

Snagsby wasn’t so sure. Half breeds were considered half breeds from either side of their family tree. He also didn’t fancy their odds of escaping the bounty hunters that would be out by day break. A lot of heavy feet tramping together made tracks that even a blind man could follow.

“Thanks, Haldrik,” he called back, “I already have a place to hide. You and the lads go on and good luck!” The other half orc glared for a moment (not in anger or disappointment: this was just the way he looked when thinking) before giving one last “Hrumph! and leading his band northward.

This was only partly true. Snagsby had heard of the grandeur of Korvosa and wondered what life must be like in such a fine city. He ran south. Until the land just ended at his feet. The Storval Rise! In his haste and excitement he forgot about the sheer cliff face. Maybe north wasn’t such a bad idea.

But he had found a way down. It was only a little risky and he had almost died only once. He trotted along side the road that lead to Korvosa, avoiding lights and encampments on the way. By morning he was tired, but not so tired as to miss the mounted men hunting for something along the road behind him.

Hunting for slaves. Hunting for him. He should have known that the city would send trackers out on all of the main roads leading from Kaer Maga. He turned off the road and slunk across country.

For over a week he slowly made his way through the wilds moving only at night, but with no clear destination in mind. “Just stay free. Hell, die free if it comes to that,” he muttered to himself. He wasn’t a hunter but managed to forage enough to barely survive and to keep moving. He came upon a road heading east and followed it, daring at times to travel during the day when he could beg for scraps.

He liberated some clothing hung on a line at a homestead and later found a discarded rusty knife blade which he sharpened with a stone. Wearing regular clothes, his hair cut and clean shaven Snagsby looked almost human, and unless one looked carefully at his skin tone and slightly oversized canines they could easily mistake him for one. The marked difference in the way he was treated as he walked now in broad daylight down the center of the road convinced him to continue the ruse indefinitely.

The road ended at Diamond Lake, which is to say it ended badly. But it was better than the life he had fled and better than starving in the wilderness or resorting to a life of thievery.

He visited the Church of Iomedae that first day for help, but quickly realized that the priest, Jierian Wierus, was a pompous wind bag and so he left.

Snagsby had some skill at mending things, and had even been selected at times to do more skillful tasks than the brute labor usually demanded from his fellow captives. And so at first he did odd jobs around town for a few copper pieces, staying each night in one Jalek’s rooms, which weren’t much better than his cell in Kaer Maga.

But his handiwork and surprising ability to carry on a pleasant conversation resulted in a permanent job at the Rusty Bucket. “No more fleas… or worse!” he thought happily. He knew this new life was only marginally better than the one he had escaped, but he was not yet ready for a change.

Nearly a year later Snagsby came upon a trio of clerics who had set up camp at the old observatory just out of town. He passed them by with no more notice than he gave Wierus’ clown show when he saw a moon with smirking lips embroidered on the back of one of their cloaks. He suddenly remembered a dark grim figure wielding the image of a moon with a grinning face.

He came closer for a better look and one of the clerics waved him over to the fire. “Come, friend, and join us for dinner.” Snagsby thanked them and seated himself on a stone near the fire and was quiet for a while as the three discussed the events of that day and their plans for the next. They handed him some roasted rabbit on a stick and a wine skin and they ate in companionable silence.

Snagsby eventually worked up his courage and asked in a low voice, “Are you the ones who freed all of those slaves in Kaer Maga last year?”

“We are not,” they replied, “Although you are not the first to ask. It was devotion to a different moon behind that act! We follow the Lady Nocticula, who has been redeemed.”

He was silent for some time but one studied him and said, “But know that exiles are particularly welcome in Her fold.” The idea took hold and Snagsby spoke with the clerics until sunrise.

They remained for more than a month. Each night Snagsby would join them and slowly he took on an understanding of his new friends and their devotion to the Goddess of Midnight.

A broad pale light now filled his room. Day had come and he had work to do. He threw off his blanket, splashed water on his face and went to stoke the fires in the Rusty Bucket.