It was a dark and stormy night.
Rain sluiced off the dilapidated roofs and into the garbage-strewn gutters of Bet Seder, cleaning away the accumulated filth of the last week. This occasional cleaning was only a temporary solace – the filth would be carried out to the sea, only to return with the tide again and again.
But for now, the rain kept the smell at bay, and most of the beggars had sought dry corners and were not visible to the traveler. This was good, for he would almost certainly have emptied his purse of his own free will, trying to better their meager lot one silver at a time. As it was, he only had just enough to pay for a few nights’ lodging.
He sought an inn, someplace he could dry his clothes, and perhaps find a bed without too many vermin. As he passed beneath a street lantern, somehow miraculously having avoiding being extinguished by the weather, it could be seen that he wore a pale blue robe and bore a staff topped with a curious symbol: a “y” atop a shimmering rainbow. He was a cleric of the Lord of Silver Linings, and these accoutrements were the symbols of his faith. A weather-worn pack was slung over one shoulder, and when a gust of wind threw back the corner of his robe the glint of metal could be seen. The Lord of Silver Linings was a merciful and compassionate god, and his clerics followed his example. This did not mean, though, that they were not fit to defend themselves should the need arise.
His name was Lysorn Raelthais, and he was young, and he was naive, and he walked with a purpose.
Finally, the young man found what seemed to be a reasonable establishment. The sign above the door depicted a fat, content halfling with a flagon in one hand and a pipe in the other, reclining on a beer keg. Above him was carefully inscribed the name of the inn, written in Kalamaran (the language of this region): The Jolly Halfling.
He stepped into the common room with what he imagined was dramatic intent – he did have a Purpose after all – but amounted to little more than a half-hearted stumble as he shook the water out of his robe. He was soaked.
The place was nearly deserted. Most people, Lysorn supposed, were taking shelter at their homes. It wasn’t really that late; the weather made it seem darker than the hour.
A seat was available near the fire, a fact for which the weary cleric was both amazed and relieved. Muttering a prayer of thanks to his god he sank into it, the wet cotton of his robes squishing out rivulets of water in a most undignified fashion. He knew it would feel like ages before the warmth penetrated the robe and the chill scale armor he wore beneath, but already he felt better, as though one stage of his journey had been completed.
This later turned out to be true, but at the moment he didn’t really know where his journey was leading so it was very hard to judge.
“What’ll you have?” asked a serving woman in thickly accented Merchant’s Tongue, as she bustled by. The common room was nearly empty, but the pretty young Dejy had the air of somebody who was almost too busy to be bothered.
“What do you have?”
She rattled off a list of drinks, and Lysorn picked the one that sounded the least expensive. Luckily for him the Lord of Silver Linings did not forbid the imbibing of alcohol, not to excess at least. He hardly tasted it, though, so occupied was his mind.
He had been schooled and trained as a cleric for five years at the Church of Everlasting Hope in Segaleta. They had taught him the ways of mercy and compassion. Before he joined, he had been filled with relentless anger, a brooding coal waiting to be fanned into flame by the slightest remark, a chance glance. But now he had the skills to accomplish what he sought, and he was no longer driven by anger. He trusted the Lord of Silver Linings, and had faith that if he followed the tenets of his new belief, he would be led on the path to that which he desired above all else. He had to find them. Lysorn remembered a man’s green eyes, a woman’s auburn hair…
His drink was nearly empty. The Dejy woman returned to refill it, but instead of wandering off to do her work, she pulled up a seat and joined him, pouring a glass of her own.
“I’m off,” she said, matter-of-factly, “And you look like you could use some company.”
Lysorn blinked, saying, “Oh, no, I don’t mind. I could use somebody to…” then he blinked, a realization filtering through his distracted thoughts, “Oh! You don’t mean, I mean, I’m an honest cleric, and I wouldn’t want to…”
She looked at him curiously for a moment, then burst into laughter, “Relax, Peacemaker. I’m not that sort of barmaid,” she pondered for a moment as he relaxed, taking a sip of her drink, “Though now that I think about it, I’m probably the only one in the city who’s not. I’ve only been in Bet Seder for a few days, and I’m already sick of it. My name is Dust Thirdmoon, of the Chord tribe.”
“I am Lysorn Raelthais, a Gentle of the Church of Everlasting Hope.” Now that he was sure it wouldn’t be construed as flirtatious, he allowed himself a closer look at her. Dust was clearly Dejy – her tanned skin, dark eyes and hair, and accent made that quite clear. He could also see under her loose-fitting clothes that she was thin, almost waiflike, in a way that bespoke poor health. No, not quite poor health, she was obviously a healthy woman, she was just frail. She was still pretty, though, in her own way.
“So what brings you to this wretched place, Lysorn of the Church of Everlasting Hope? There honestly isn’t much to recommend it.”
“I’m looking for someone, ultimately. Have you seen a woman, probably twice your age, with auburn hair and green eyes?”
Dust laughed, “This is a city of seventy thousand people! I must see dozens of people matching that description every day!”
“Never mind… never mind,” Lysorn muttered, “If you’d seen you, you’d remem…”
“That said,” Dust interrupted, “I think I’ve seen her.”
“What? When? Where?”
“I said I think I’ve seen her. About four months ago. In a tiny tavern a hundred miles north from here.”
“Why… I mean… What makes you think…”
Dust shrugged, “She got drunk and was telling me her life story. She didn’t say much, but was sobbing in her beer about a baby she was forced to abandon years and years ago.” She paused to take a large gulp from her own frothing cup.
“That was me!” the cleric exclaimed. “I figured,” muttered Dust, but Lysorn was rushing forward, “It must be a sign! The exact thing I’m looking for! Tell me about yourself. What’s a Dejy doing in Bet Seder? You said you were new here.”
“I’d like to say that’s a long story,” Dust sighed, “but it’s not really. The Chord tribe is still nomadic, clinging on to the old ways, despite Dejy everywhere abandoning them. I was married five years ago,” she broke off at Lysorn’s blink of surprise, “Oh, yes, we marry young. I was lucky, though, and the man chosen for me was brilliant, and handsome… a respected hunter and warrior. I was chosen as a match because of my magical abilities – do not look so surprised, gentle cleric, but yes, I am a sorceress. Wolf – my husband – died in an accident, or so it was said. I tell you this in confidence,” she leaned a bit closer and spoke more softly, “but I suspected foul play. I feared that something sinister was happening, and that whatever it was, it would not spare me. So I left the tribe – in order to maintain my freedom and advance my abilities. When I am ready, I will return and seek the truth.”
As she spoke her eyes darkened and her tone grew grim and serious. Breaking the mood, the young Dejy chuckled, “In my tribe my… abilities… were looked upon with a mixture of respect and suspicion. Now, I make my way in the world as a barmaid, and I do not dare practice my talents openly, lest it become easier for them to find…”
“Dust Thirdmoon?”
Both Lysorn and Dust turned. The inquiry had come from a strong, handsome woman standing by their table. She was dressed in furs and armor, had an unstrung bow tied to her back. The worn handle of a sword at her waist peeked out from behind her worn cloak. Her height, stockiness, and cheekbones marked her as a Fhokki – the people beyond the mountains to the northeast, to whom civilization had come painfully, if it had come at all.
“And what if I am?” Dust replied somewhat bitterly, barely glancing at the newcomer.
“My name is Raven Southwind. I have a message for you from the Chief of the Chord. Are you Dust Thirdmoon?”
“You must know, or you wouldn’t have bothered coming up to me like this,” Dust sighed, “I am she.”
“I’m happy to have found you at last, Dust. I am one of a trading mission between my tribe and your own. Your chief could not spare any of his own warriors to find you, and so he implored me to help him.”
“And what does the Chief say?”
“Your period of mourning is over. You are to return to the tribe and marry your new husband. I am to ensure your safety until you are again under the protection of the Chord.”
“What, are you taking me prisoner or something?”
“Of course not. I am an honest woman, Dust, and you have done nothing wrong as far as I can see, even had I the authority to arrest you, which I don’t. I presume you were going to return to your tribe eventually, yes?”
Dust nodded.
“Then it is my job to ensure that nothing happens to you until that time.”
“And what did my Chief offer you for this duty? What is the price for the allegiance of a Fhokki tracker?”
Raven stiffened slightly, “Do not insult my honor, Dust Thirdmoon. It is no simple thing that drove me to follow you these hundreds of miles.” She looked Dust in the eye, “It is a matter of love. I met a hunter of your tribe, and we would be together forever, but the Chief would have none of it unless I proved myself worthy by completing a task. If I arrive at the Chord camp with you, safe and sound, he will allow us to marry. He told me of your magical talents, and I am aware that, even were I to try to take you by force, which I will not, I cannot be sure of my ability to do so. So I will follow you as a companion, not a captor, until such a time as you return to your people and I can be with my love.”
Dust held Raven with a steady gaze, “I’m not going to be able to get rid of you, then, am I?”
“No. But it need not be cumbersome. Our peoples are not so different. I’m sure we can find common ground to become friends, with time.”
Suddenly Lysorn burst out, “This is it! I understand! I’ll help you, Dust. It’s fate. Destiny. I traveled to Bet Seder because I know how many people there are here who need help, and I knew I would find myself with somebody who needed my skills. And then, straight away, I met you, with news of my mother, and… and…” he trailed off, red with excitement.
“Destiny is it?” Dust asked, amused.
“Laugh if you want to, but I believe in it,” Lysorn replied, nonplussed, “My quest is to find my parents – who twenty-two years ago abandoned me at an orphanage. The Lord of Silver Linings will guide me to them, I know, if I hold true to the lessons he has taught me. It stands to reason that, by following as closely as I can the life of a cleric of the Lord of Silver Linings, that he will be pleased and draw me, seemingly by chance, closer to my goal. Already I can see that it is working.”
Dust looked at Raven, then at Lysorn. The cleric was positively buzzing with young enthusiasm.
The Dejy sorceress sighed, “In the space of a half hour it seems I have become no longer alone,” she muttered, “You both seem like good people, and I would be honored to have you with me. But I do not intend necessarily to return to the Chord immediately. I will stay here, for a few days at least, working and earning enough money to last a while.
“There’s an Inn nearby – the Sleeping Sands. Let’s go there and sleep on it, and if we still want to be together in the morning, then so shall it be.”
The rather suddenly-formed trio turned to the door, Lysorn gathering up his staff and pack from next to the table.
) and decided the creature (which pretty much every D&D player would recognize as a Rakshasa, but they didn’t) must have used magic to flee. There was a pair of chests flanking the throne, which they cautiously opened. The first contained a scattered pile of coins and a small jar containing a blue, ointment-like substance. The second chest contained a terrified Halfling child, barely two feet tall. 
