The Marchands were part of the original Varisian settlement present when Sandpoint was founded. Father, mother and son Zaqanda acted as the traders for the tribe, bringing in resources from across the different regions of Varisia. When the founding families arrived in 4665 from Magnimar and the Scarnetti family led the treacherous tack on the original settlement, the Marchands stood firm defending their people. They were one of the first of the Varisians that worked with the new arrivals, and helped to build Sandpoint’s economy.

Zaqanda Marchand took over his parent’s business when their ship was lost at sea, after which he married his long time sweet heart, Qaruni. Some years later, in 4691, Qatana was born.

A small, quiet and inward focused child, Qatana made few friends in her first ten years in Sandpoint. She delighted in exploring the coast or forests, either alone or with a special friend or two.

Her father made frequent trips to cities and town across the region, and occasionally Qaruni and Qatana would join the caravan with him. Qatana especially loved these journeys, where the wide world and all of its possibilities would unfold before her.

In 4699 on a trip to Nybor their caravan was attacked by bandits. Qatana hid beneath their wagon, peering out from between the spokes of the wheel as her father fell, pierced by arrows. Qaruni tried to rally the survivors using shields to fend off the arrows, but she was taken down by a large brute charging in on horse back.

Qatana looked on in horror as the thug jumped from his horse before her mother, having his way with her before slitting her throat.

Meanwhile the other bandits had bound the survivors, and dragged Qatana out from beneath the wagon. They were tied in a line behind the wagon, and made to walk as their captors began began to move out with their loot.

Loot. That is what Qatana was now, and she was treated little differently than the sacks of goods piled atop the wagon… other than she had to walk, while the sacks got a free ride. She was somewhat protected by her age, but the other women were cruelly used, until the thug leader ordered his brigands to stop spoiling the merchandise.

The bandits made little secret about their destination: Kaer Maga.

It took more than a month to reach the city. The bandits were in no hurry, and they shadowed the main roads along the way, waylaying travelers and other caravans, and adding to the parade of misery that trailed behind them.

When they finally arrived the carts were hauled away and the captives were marched to the slave market. Qatana knew what to expect — she had heard the bandits talking about their arrival in Kaer Maga for weeks. The road became narrower as they were led into the more squalid sections of the city. Filth was piled upon either side and most of the people they passed appeared as dirty and down trodden as the captives.

Before a heavy steel grate they paused, while a man in bright silk robes came out and looked them over, checking their hair, teeth, and anywhere else he felt like running his hands.

He flashed a toothy yellow stained smile at the bandit who brought them there, and the two fell to haggling. Coins were exchanged and the bandit left. Yellow teeth whistled and a half orc came out and marched the slaves through the archway into a narrow, stony yard beyond.

“Strip,” He demanded.

The slaves did nothing, and so he smacked the nearest woman hard against the side of her head.

“Strip!”

They disrobed and their clothes were taken away. The ropes with which they had been linked together were replaced by manacles, and men on catwalks above dumped buckets of water over them.

After that, they were placed into a small room with no windows and little space. A near-full bucket in a corner provided the only facilities, and by the next morning it was well past over flowing.

At sunrise they were led back through the narrow yard, where another dousing removed much of the slime from their overnight ordeal, and they were led out onto an elevated walkway, much like a stage in a theater, which opened upon a public square.

There Qatana and her fellow victims were joined by others from deeper recesses in the slaver quarters. They were forced to stand, naked, while potential buyers (and lookers on) gaped and jeered at them.

Qatana was purchased that morning, and after shoving a sack like shift over her head, her new owner dragged her away, hands bound by leather chords.

Her new home was an inn not far the the slave district. Her hands were unbound and she was taken out back to a courtyard with a water pump, given a large pile of laundry and a bag of soap flakes and told, “Have this lot cleaned and hung to dry before night fall.”

The inn keeper left, and Qatana looked around. The rooms for the inn were on the upper floors, and were accessible from walkways that led up from rickety stairs near the back door of the inn. Nobody was looking, and there was an archway leading out to the street.

Qatana took off, but did not get far. The inn keeper had been waiting for her around the corner, and caught her by the hair. He bashed her repeatedly against the wall before taking her back to the courtyard and dropping her before the pile of dirty laundry.

She managed to get through the laundry not too long past sunset.

She waited more than a week before her next escape attempt, and while she made it it further, her punishment was more severe. After that her wrists were always bound with the leather chords. By day she was tied to an iron ring in the courtyard wall, where she worked on various tasks, regardless of the weather, and by night she was tied to ring in the floor of the inn’s cellar.

Months passed, and Qatana was worked hard. While her food consisted mostly of left over scraps, or food the inn’s dog would often spurn, there was enough that Qatana’s physical strength increased with each passing week.

But still she could think of no way to escape, nor any place to flee to even if she could get away. The laws of Kaer Maga called for severe punishment for anyone caught aiding an escaped slave, and her owner frequently reminded her that no one would be willing to risk themselves for her.

And then, in the dark hours after waxing moon had set, Qatana heard something working the lock on the cellar door. At first she thought it was one of the drunken guests at the inn, coming down to try out the “younger flesh” the inn keeper often boasted of. Instead, a stealthy figure crept in and looked around. Moments later Shalelu crouched before her and cut her leather chords.

“Quickly now, change into these while I cut your hair,” she whispered.

Soon Qatana looked like a boy, and Shalelu took her by the hand as they walked through the city and out the western gate just as the sun was rising.

By dusk they made camp in the side of a hill with a view to distant Kaer Maga. They had hardly said a word all day, but looking back at the city Qatana asked, “How did you find me?”

“One of the caravan guards that fell was not slain. He was found and nursed back to health by gnome traders. As soon as he was able he returned to Sandpoint and brought us news of the attack, and his belief that some of you had been captured.”

“A group of us set out to find you, but months had passed, and the trail was cold. We heard rumor of a troublesome band of brigands that had harassed caravans along the great southern route, and so we gambled and followed their trail westward. At last their trail led to Kaer Magna, where we were able to locate their leader, who was still living high from his profits.”

“From him we learned that you and others had been sold, but the slavers remained silent. They have the support of the city. This was a week ago, and most of our party returned home then. A few of us remained, walking the back streets and alleyways of the city, hoping against hope to find those of you who had been taken.”

“You were not the first to be rescued, although I am afraid you will be the last. The others have set off for home going different ways, as shall we, to avoid chase and capture.”

Qatana thanked Shalelu for all she had done to save her, and asked, “To what end did you put the bandit leader?”

“Patience, little one. They are many and with friends. We are few, and quite alone. I had to pay for the information he gave. Justice…. or revenge, must wait for another season.”

They made their way slowly to Korvoso, and from there Shalelu was hired on as a guard for a large caravan heading to Magnimar. From Magnimar they quickly traveled along the Lost Coast Road to Sandpoint.

The Marchand Trading Company was still operating, and in the year since her parents’ disappearance the head clerk had taken over daily operation of the firm. He agreed to buy the Marchand warehouse, office and residence, the details of which Shalelu handled.

Qatana’s old friends found her changed. No longer shy and retiring, Qatana was now forceful and often abrupt and rude. Social norms and skills eluded her — even when she bothered to try, which she did less often over time. Qatana also found she had no tolerance for bullies or people who were cruel or caused others to suffer.

Slowly what few friends Qatana had drifted away, except for Kali Nassim, daughter of another merchant family, and fellow outsider (or freak).

Qatana spent most of her time with Shalelu and the two would patrol the wild lands around Sandpoint together. Whenever Shalelu left the area on some other business she arranged for Qatana to board with a family in town, but more often than not Qatana stayed in a small camp she and Shalelu had created just to the south of Sandpoint.

Often when Shalelu was gone Qatana found herself in the chapel, asking questions from Father Tobyn or the acolytes. She enjoyed debating such lofty ideals as the meaning of life, or what it meant to be called to serve. She felt the need to do something more than just exist and survive, which is all she had done since returning to Sandpoint.

She was heart broken when the chapel was burned to the ground in 4702 and Father Tobyn killed. But other equally disturbing events in town made conditions more difficult and dangerous for all of Sandpoint’s citizens, and Shalelu kept Qatana busy and distracted helping out as needed.

Life eventually returned to normal, and construction began on Sandpoint’s new cathedral. A new priest, Father Xanthus, assumed the duties as Sandpoint’s cleric, and with his encouragement Qatana decided to become a cleric herself.

The six deities represented by shrines at the new cathedral were each appealing in their own way, but some darker part of Qatana was pulled toward Pharasma. She left for Magnimar soon after making her decision.

Qatana enjoyed her time at the Church of Pharasma in the Keystone district of Magnimar. For one, the building was small and unimposing, which suited her fine, and for another it was just a few blocks away from the magnificent and tranquil Seerspring Garden.

But in the big city of Magnimar she saw cruelty and suffering every where she turned. In some cases she saw members of various religious groups assisting, but mostly not. Over time she noticed clerics clad in unassuming (some might say tattered) gray robes were often in assistance where suffering was most acute.

Intrigued, she approached a gray cleric, who identified himself as one of the Followers of the Gray Sign. They were clerics of Groetus who believed in the “Sign of the Destroyer” doom. They embraced the inevitable end of all things as a mercy, and in the mean time worked to relieve or end suffering when they encountered it.

Mostly they practised their beliefs alone, but in Magnimar some would gather together in an abandoned chapel to join efforts when the mood hit them, or the stars were right.

Both the compassion and the solitary nature of the religion appealed to Qatana, and something about the perplexing nature of Groetus pulled her in.

Before long she was spending more time with the Followers of the Gray Sign than the Church of Pharasma, until she eventually became an acolyte of Groetus. Much of the knowledge and skills she attained while a student of Pharasma aided her in this transition.

Qatana had been accustomed to wielding a mace (even Magnimar could be a dangerous place for the unarmed), the clerics of Groetus taught her to use a heavy flail. She enjoyed the challenge this new weapon presented, and appreciated the devastation it could wreak when skillfully handled.

She also learned of less benign followers of Groetus: those who used the promise of the end of times as an excuse or justification for their tyrannical behavior. These evil folk believed in the “Mouth of Apocalypse” and were called the Teeth of Oblivion. Fortunately they were not common in or around Magnimar.

Within a few years Qatana felt comfortable with her skills and the divine magics granted by Groetus, and she decided it was time for her to seek her own destiny.

But first she returned to Sandpoint to visit Shalelu and decide from there where she would venture forth.