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Magnimar, Late Pharast 4712

Winter was reluctantly releasing its hold on the city. Crusts of ice still formed along the river banks at night, and the citizens continued to wake to find everything coated by a soft and frizzled frost.

But even as the morning’s ice was forming Qatana was returning from an early morning errand. Some years ago a rickety old tavern along a back alley in Rag’s End had burned down, but the kitchen ironically enough escaped unscathed. For more two years now Qatana had made this kitchen her home.

The embers in the oven had all but died, and the room was chilly. Qatana put a handful of coal from the scuttle onto the grate before realized she had company.

Quickly turning around she saw three mice crouched near a small wooden box lined with soft wool. The boys had returned while she was away, possibly to keep a watch over Star while Qatana was out.

Star was old—just how old Qatana had no idea—but for a mouse a few years was a lifetime, and Star had been with Qatana for longer than that. There was little doubt Qatana’s care and feeding had allowed this little rodent to live far longer than was normal for her kind, but in the end, even the best care was not enough to stop the ravages of time on a mortal frame.

She now slept in a the small box Qatana had placed across from the oven to keep her warm through the winter. “Her last winter,” thought Qatana morosely.

She bent down and pulled the wool back to reveal an ash-grey body of a mouse. One of the boys softly squeaked, perhaps in sympathy. Star was gone.

Star. The last of the original eight mice Qatana had befriended since moving to Magnimar. Other mice had come and gone through Qatana’s kitchen, taking advantage of the warmth and a bite to eat, but most had passed on to other places, seeking some special mousy needs that only mice understood. But her first eight had all stayed, and she had known Star longer than the others.

Qatana was uncomfortable with feelings of grief and usually did her best to suppress them, lest she give herself totally to despair. But Star was gone, and she could not stop the tears: the first she had shed in more than a decade.

The boys seemed unsure of how to react. They did not visit every day, and usually stayed only a day or two at a time. She had found the three in a trash bin, next to their dead mother, and had taken them in a few months back. Star had given them a sniff and an approving twitch of the whiskers, and that was enough. But the boys liked to roam, and were not dependent on Qatana’s care.

Qatana looked at the mice, and they stared back at her. “Will you miss me when I’m gone?” was all she could think to say.

Qatana’s journal entry for October

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Fireday, Sarenith 22, 4712 Sunset
Brinestump Marsh

Two months in Sandpoint and I was still unsure what to do with my life. I was certain I needed to get away… far away. But there was the matter of picking a destination.

Huffy helpfully suggested, “Ask Kali — she’s been all over this part of the world.”

Of course, Kali! She came from some exotic lands far, far away, and has been to other places equally foreign. And like me she had recently returned from Magnimar, although we had only briefly chatted since.

Lately she had taken to hanging out at the Rusty Dragon, Sandpoint’s defacto hang out for travellers and other restless folk. Perhaps she too was looking for a change — when we spoke earlier she had mentioned the need to get away, but I did not think it meant anything more than a visit to the outhouse.

“You! Bath. Now.”

This is Ameiko’s usual greeting for me whenever I enter the Rusty Dragon, although for the life of me I cannot figure out why.

While I was in the bath house Ameiko had someone wash my clothes, and so some time later, reeking of soap and — lavender? — I was finally granted admittance to the common room.

Kali was there deep in conversation with a handful of common acquaintances.

“Yes, they have reinstated the bounty on goblin ears.”

“It’s the Licktoads — they got a hold of fireworks and are terrorizing travel and trade along the Lost Coast Road between here and Magnimar.”

“I heard they’ve actually killed some people.”

“Why the hell did they cancel the bounty? Goblins are like rats: if you let them breed unmolested you’ll have an infestation.”

“A few years back some teenagers went out to collect goblin ears for the bounty and their bodies were found days later. Parents complained.”

“I guess the latest acts of aggression have changed the mayor’s and sheriff’s mind and they are offering 10 gold pieces per goblin ear, and 500 for the head of the Licktoad chief.”

“Yeah, and some fools ran off a few days ago to deal with the goblins, but they never returned.”

“Unprepared.”

“Too few.”

“Inexperienced.”

And that’s when it occurred to me: travel is expensive, and my future plans called for a lot of travel. The goblin bounty would be a great way to quickly earn enough gold to get started.

Obviously I could not go alone: that would be foolish and I’d end up as dead as those unfortunates who set out a few days before.

Sitting around me in various knots of conversations were (mostly) familiar people who boasted a variety of skills that would be useful.

I interrupted Kali’s group and carefully explained my idea of forming a band to slay the marauding goblins and collect the bounties, and asked who would like to participate.

Right away I got seven people who were interested, and they began to discuss what sort of supplies and equipment we might need in the swamp. Machetes, scythes, water proof boots, water proof pants, hey how about a boat, should I bring my horse — wait, what? This organizing by committee was rapidly getting out of hand.

Fortunately Ameiko had kept an ear cocked to our disorganized attempts at planning a campaign and stepped in to offer assistance.

“Before you take off into the marsh, each of you should describe your abilities and discuss tactics you are likely to use when facing foes.”

Before the conversation fell to a discussion on who should start, and if someone should take notes, and whether we had the right type of paper or ink with which to record the events, I introduced myself.

“I’m Qatana. I wield a heavy flail and cause foes to be less competent. Oh, and I can heal… or end suffering — whichever seems more appropriate.”

I then pointed to Kali, who introduced herself and explained her mastery of arcane magics. She also had a bird who could act as a scout. When did she pick up a bird? Cardamom and cloves.

I then nodded to Olmas, whom I knew through Shalelu, albeit not well, “I go by Olmas, and wield a great ax. I prefer mounted combat.” Ah, that explained the request to bring a horse. Grass and horse sweat.

I had run across Ivan out hunting in the woods around Sandpoint years ago, but he vanished a while back. I was surprised to see him. “I’m Ivan, and I use a bow and can offer healing and guidance.” Smoke and brimstone.

Next I pointed to an unfamiliar dwarf heavily armored like a soldier. “Sparna. I use this.” He pulled out a massive pike, which instantly put him in my good graces. Oiled metal and stale beer.

“I am Anavaru and I hunt and usually fight with ranged weapons, and like Olmas I travel with a horse.” Right. A “horse.” Everyone in Sandpoint knew about her horse. Leather and camel dung.

Next was a woman I did not recognize. “I am called Radella. I wield a sword, and I am very observant and quite good with my hands. You might find me helpful in detecting traps and picking locks.” Patchouli and… snake oil?

I knew Etayne, but only casually, and I did not know what she did, or that she had a fox as a friend! “I am Etayne and I offer magic and healing. And this is my companion, Ling.” Whiskey and musk.

Ameiko seemed satisfied with our ad hoc team and pulled up a chair. Gin and sawdust.

“While it is not particularly large, the Brinestump swamp can make travel difficult. The ground is soggy, the undergrowth dense, and the trees crowd close together and block out much of the daylight.”

“There are paths fishermen use, but other creatures, including the goblins, make use of them too. In fact locals tell of a monster that dwells in the swamp and preys upon the unwary or ill prepared.”

“Some years back a recluse built a shack on the shore and he now calls himself the Warden of the Swamp. He is shorter than your friend here,” she said nodding at Sparna, “but he has managed to survive all this time in the swamp, and may give you advice on finding the goblins.”

“If you take the first fishing trail you encounter it will lead you to the beach near his place.”

Within an hour we had gathered our travel gear and met at Sandpoint’s southern bridge, from where we set out on the Lost Coast Road. The day was clear and bright, and the walk pleasant. By mid afternoon we had made our way to the fisherman’s path Ameiko had mentioned.

I led the way along the narrow path, which looked to have been recently travelled, although clearly not regularly. The vegetation became thicker, the ground more damp, and the smell of rotting plants (and other, less pleasant things) filled the air.

“It smells like Takoda’s butt,” squeaked Timber. “Shh,” I hissed, “now is not the time. Keep alert!”

We came to a rickety bridge crossing over one of the channels that make up the Soggy River delta. It had seen better days, but it looked safe enough, and so I crossed.

The others seemed more concerned, and so Kali and Ivan made use of Mending spells to make the structure more sound.

We continued on and the air became more oppressive, and the chirps, whistles, and rustlings of small animals seemed to intensify. Some distance ahead there was a soft splash, and a short while later we came upon another bridge.

We began to see tracks alongside the path: one disturbing set looked like it might have been left by a giant bird. Far off to our left a pig squealed in fear, but it was suddenly cut off.

Another bridge, and recent tracks on the path itself: those of a halfling and human heading in the same direction as us.

Soon the trees thinned out and a short time later the brush opened up, revealing a calm swampy lagoon before us. The tracks led south along the beach, and we followed.

We rounded a hummocky thicket and came upon a two storied shack — signs indicated it was inhabited, and so I called out a greeting, but there was no response.

Anavaru and I walked up to the door as the others fell in behind. Ana knocked.

“Do you think there’ll be mice here?” asked Huffy. McLovin replied earnestly, “Oh yes, I can feel their presence!” “And maybe they will share their food!” added Timber.

The door opened and a halfling stood in the entrance. He was bleeding from numerous wounds, and gaped at us with mouth ajar before saying, “Now is not a good time.” Fear and blood.

Ivan pushed his way up and used a spell to heal him.

The halfling seemed surprised, but thanked him.

That seemed to put our host at ease, and by this time my friends were frantically chanting, “Mice, mice, mice, mice!” Before Pookie broke the cadence with a prolonged squeal of, “Cheeeeeeese!”

It seemed like nothing would quiet them down, and so I stepped through the doorway, with an, “Excuse me, my friends were hoping to find comrades within,” by way of an apology.

First the hallway. Nothing there, and so the next door — ah, a dining room.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Badger, “Check that other door.”

The pantry, and out from the pantry slithered a snake — a viper. Silence from my friends, but the serpent behaved like no wild snake I had ever seen. It passed between my feet and into the dining room.

Curious, but not what I was looking for. Back out into the hall.

Olmas was discussing the goblins with the halfling — I guessed he was the warden Ameiko had told us about, but he seemed confused, and was making little sense. He did seem to think it a good idea that we should go after the goblins right way, but was offering no useful information about what they might have been up to or how to find them.

He denied having been out on the path earlier today, although clearly the two sets of footprints, both halfling and human, were made just hours before and led right up to the shack.

Hmm, yes, interesting, but not very helpful. Our host was standing before another door, but seemed unwilling to move aside.

“Did you know you have a snake in your pantry?” I asked.

“Snake?” said the Warden, “I hate snakes — they bit me! You need to go now and kill all of the goblins.”

Beorn said, “He’s hiding something — he needs to move.”

I pushed the Warden aside and opened the door.

“FRIENDS!” echoed eight little shouts.

Friends indeed. The room was filled with wicker cages of mice and little birds.

How unexpected, but then my guys had been telling me this from the moment we arrived.

“But he’s afraid of snakes,” I said puzzled.

Ivan glanced inside and turned to the Warden and asked, “Why do you have snake food?”

“Oh, I eat those.”

“Really?” I thought, “Then why do you have a pantry full of regular food?”

The Warden was getting positively anxious by now, and Kali had slipped in and suggested that my behavior had put him on edge. My behavior? Olmas and Ivan were the ones talking to him as he got more and more upset, not me.

The Warden was standing next to the remaining closed door where I had pushed him, when suddenly he started, looking fearfully at the door as he edged away.

Olmas reached over and opened it. The room was a vivarium with a score of vipers slithering about.

I thought the halfling was going to faint from the fright. “Snakes, kill the snakes!”

Clearly the halfling was not in his right mind, and thinking that he might be charmed and under mental control of someone else, I climbed the stairs and began to open doors. Ivan was close behind.

But we failed to find anyone else. The first room was an armory of sorts, the second an unused bedroom, and the third clearly belonged to our host.

Kali then called up in Elvish that the halfling was radiating some form of transmutation magic, and maybe I would be needed downstairs.

Oddly enough the Warden answered back (a hermit halfling that can speak Elvish?) that it was probably just the result of Ivan’s healing spell. Hmm, conjuration: not likely.

Meanwhile downstairs the Warden finally snapped and ran up the stairs to stand threateningly in front of me.

“Bite him!” snapped Star.

This did not seem like the best of advice, but perhaps if he saw me swinging my flail he might feel more inclined to talk.

No. He did not. Instead he transformed from a feeble looking halfling to a human sized creature with boney limbs, long claws, and a featureless face.

What the hell? I should have listened to Star.

He slashed at me and grabbed me with surprisingly strong arms. Fortunately Olmas and Sparna were hot on its heals, although the narrow stairwell made it difficult for them to reach the thing.

Olmas and Sparna each tried to hit it, but missed, which at least caused the thing to let me go and strike at Olmas.

Ivan let fly an arrow and shot it, and then both Olmas and Sparna struck it solidly, felling it. They drug its bleeding body downstairs, where I killed it.

warden

So if this was not the Warden, then where was he? Radella had been out scouting around the grounds and said she had seen signs of a struggle, and so we searched both in and out for the body of the halfling.

Instead we found a secret door to a bolt hole, where the Warden was hiding. He had been seriously injured, but after a little channeled energy he (along with Olmas and I) felt much better.

He explained that the creature was a “stalker,” which could assume the shape of its victim. They roamed the swamps, which is why he kept vipers, their mortal enemies, but this one caught him outside, beyond the aid of his snake friends.

He introduced himself as Walthus Proudstump, aka the Warden of the Swamp. Mouse and bird droppings.

Walthus was very grateful, and invited us to spend dinner and the night at his place. He also gave us a cloak of resistance, which was nice. It was also too small for any of us except Sparna to wear.

[100] +1 cloak of resistance (small) (Sparna)

He was also happy to provide information about the Licktoad goblins.

They lived deeper within the swamp, in a ramshackle fort they built for themselves. There were a couple of fishermen’s paths that led to their stronghold which we could take one to get to them, although it was likely to be watched.

He discouraged trying to trailblaze through the swamp and so come upon the goblins from an unexpected route. The mires, bogs and creatures — especially the Soggy River Monster — would make that route unnecessarily dangerous.

We will set out first thing in the morning.

 

Starday, Sarenith 23, 4712 Mid day
Brinestump Marsh

We ate a hasty breakfast and wished Walthus well, promising we would return at nightfall if we were in need of a nearby place to stay.

After back tracking over yesterday’s path we found the trail leading to the goblin fort. Little footprints of goblins and their dogs showed they must race up and down the path like squirrels.

The same sights, sounds as smells as the day before assaulted us, with the stench becoming especially stronger as the sun rose higher in the sky. We came across more bridges, and an unexpected fork in the way, at which we went west (right) further into the swamp.

Presently we came upon a crudely built fort: a palisades of rotting timbers driven into the muddy ground extending on either side of a foul smelling pool.

A gate had once barred entry, but had been pulled down and was lying, broken upon the ground.

We cautiously approached and looked around. Lots of little goblin prints ran out from the gateway, over the fallen gate (which appeared to have been pushed down from within). There were also human sized prints, but these were from boney feet — boney as in skeletal!

The structures within were on stilts to keep them about five feet up off the muck (and I had always thought goblins were beneath such cares), and raised covered walkways connected them.

The smell of smoke filled the air, and we could see that at least one of the goblin buildings had burned to the ground.

But a much stronger and far more wretched smell came from a large pit just inside the gate. Refuse, bones, and goblin corpses littered the bottom, and large black flies buzzed about, swarming anyone who came too near.

We carefully walked around the pit, and Sparna climbed up the short ladder to peer inside the first building. He called out, “Goblins!” and entered.

Kali looked at me with concern and asked, “Do you think this is right?”

“No, but healing might be needed,” I answered and followed Sparna.

Olmas climbed onto a walkway and entered from that direction.

There were perhaps a dozen goblins cowering in the corner. They seemed fairly pathetic and cowed at first, but when they saw us their look changed from that of prey to predator. Ah well, I needed the gold anyway.

Ivan shot an glowing arrow into the room, hitting a goblin and lighting up the space.

And so went our first fight together, with ranged folk sending in arrows and spells from a distance while the rest of us bashed goblin skulls to paste.

Goblins from another building leaned out a window and began to shoot arrows at our party outside, but they turned their attacks to this new threat, eliminating it in short order.


goblinfortA

Our goblins were killed, and we quickly followed the walkways from building to building. At some point we unintentionally separated into small groups as we opened doors, and so when Radella opened a door and yelled, “Lots of goblins!”
we had to scramble to get over to her.

Lots there were, and these put up stiff resistance, but we eventually killed them all, slaying the last one as it fled toward a pair of double doors.

The doors were barred.

We’ve taken a moment to gather together — how the hell could Kali risk exploring a full quarter of the fort on her own? I have drawn a quick sketch of the goblin fort layout based upon what we have seen thus far.

Prelude: Qatana’s journal entry

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Moonday, Gozran 16, 4712 Sunrise
Seerspring Garden

Spring is my favorite time to be in Magnimar.

The cold darkness of winter with its barren trees and washed out hues has given way to the pale green of awakening plants and the riot of blooming flowers. People reflect their surroundings, and heavy dark clothing has been shed to reveal the bright colors beneath. The chill in people’s hearts has also thawed, and kindness is now the rule rather than the exception.

The sun is just peeping above the horizon, highlighting the dew laden leaves with fire, and the webs strung between twigs glow with anticipation of the day’s warmth.

This is my favorite place in all the city, sitting with my back against a mossy stone wall as I gaze east over the tranquil garden and the still sleeping metropolis.

Nearby, the spire of the Church of Pharasma juts above the tree line, clad in brown, gray and blue shingles of slate. Had fate proved different I would be there still.

The soft voices of my friends remind me that I have some place else to be this morning, and that I had best be on my way. I stand and pick up my pack, heft the flail that lay at my feet, and head to the northern gate.

The time has come to leave Magnimar, and I shall miss it.

Moonday, Gozran 16, 4712 Sunset
Lost Coast Road

We are moving slow, but I suppose that is to be expected. On horse back you can make Sandpoint in a day from Magnimar, but it is 50 miles of hard riding. Most folks take two days for the trip (or longer if on foot) to spare the horses and their lower back-sides.

Originally I thought to hire a horse and make the trek in a day, but then Takoda suggested going up as part of a group. “Find a caravan in need of a guard. The extra coin won’t hurt, and you said you were after change, and you have been alone for so long this change will do you good.”

I wasn’t so sure how much good the addition of people would be, but he had a point: I was looking for a change. What was I going to do with my life? The world was a big place, and the maps I had seen in Magnimar showed nearly limitless possibilities. Kali told childhood tales of exotic and far away places she had already visited, and I found the idea of extensive travel appealing.

But for starters I wanted to return home to Sandpoint for perhaps one final farewell.

Apparently there was a glut of guards (or people posing as such) looking for caravan duty, and it was doubtful at first if I’d even be hired. I suppose I should have cleaned up some before the interview to make an impression. But what do you want in a guard, the smell of soap and bathwater, or someone who can fend off attackers? And so what if it had been a week or so since I last washed my clothes — and Timber, there is no need to snort “or so” as if to imply it was any longer… or much longer, anyway.

Fortunately Badger reminded me to tell the caravan owner I was a cleric (I do not look much like one), and so he’d be hiring both a guard and a healer for the price of one. That did the trick, and I was signed on. Clever Badger!

I rode in one of the wagons, which was comfortable enough. I told the leader that I could ride a horse, but he took one look at my two handed flail and said, “That’s no weapon for a rider!”

Well, duh! It’s not like I planned to fight from horse back — the poor dispirited animals they brought along wouldn’t be much good in combat anyway. But I held my tongue (thanks for the reminder, Huffy), and silently climbed aboard.

Fortunately the driver was neither inquisitive nor talkative, which gave me ample opportunity to think about the future, and to rest (I have the late night watch).

Toilday, Gozran 17, 4712 Sunset
Sandpoint

Last night was mostly uneventful. Some time after midnight the horses became uneasy, and there was a loud screech in the distance. I thought I saw a winged horse silhouetted by the moon, which brought to mind the old tale about the Sandpoint Devil, but nothing more happened.

Camp was broken and we headed out at a steady walk north.

The road headed west, and climbed over the rolling hills and down into various river valleys, and then slogged back up again. Clouds rolled in at mid day and graced us with a stady downfall for half an hour, after which they broke apart and went along their way, leaving us to our own.

By afternoon we were crossing over the Foxglove River and into the lands of my youth. A battered and weathered sign on the far side of the bridge announced “The Misgivings”, with an arrow pointing off to the left. Tacked below this on tattered parchment was a warning in faded ink:

WARNING

The house has been looted, but the evil remains

– Olithar –

Shalelu had mentioned something about this place some time ago — some story her bard friend, Sedjewick, liked to tell (or sing, more likely).

As we continued northward my heart began to rise. It had been some while since I had last been to Sandpoint, and each bend in the road revealed a familiar vista that triggered memories from my youth.

And as the sun began to set we crested a hill and found the quaint harbor town of Sandpoint quite the same as I had last seen it. Or so it at first appeared, but as we approached I could see new construction mixed with the old, and the remains of charred pilings poking up from the water in the warehouse quarter.

“It’s just as I remember it,” quipped Pookie. Yes. Well, Pookie claims she stowed away on caravan in her younger days and has seen most of Varisia, but I only half believe her.

We brought the wagons through the south gate and over to the market houses, where the goods were unloaded and I collected my pay.

I’ll ask around to see if Shalelu is about, or if worse comes to worse I can ask at the Rusty Dragon… but Ameiko has put conditions on my visits to her establishment.

Qatana Marchand, 21-year-old human Cleric of Groetus

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.