Black Tom's Kingmaker

Game Master Black Tom

Having grown up outside of dwarven lands by no means meant that the ways of the elder race were lost on Mugnum. Since he could walk he carried a hammer and once he showed the maturity he was shown the forge and taught in its ways, history and significance. There were no temples to the dwarven gods in Brevoy but the young dwarf knew of them all but revered Torag and his non-involved view above the others.

He worked tirelessly at one of his father's forges and whispered prayers to the Father of Creation as he did so. But as he grew older he became somewhat restless to hammer his own through the world. So when the call came up for volunteers to head and start something new; Mugnum knew it was a sign from the Forge even if there were no sparks and heat.

A while later, Leonis Marko, a patron of the business, noticed Valymer practicing his sword play. Noticed that the young man possessed a certain grace not seen in many warriors. He talked to Valymer and offered him a position to squire for him while he was working in the Stolen Lands. Valymer accepted this offer gladly, and rode out with him within the week. Over their journey Leonis taught him as much as he was able in the few weeks they had on the road. As soon as they entered the stolen lands they were ambushed by bandits. Valymer rode for his life right after seeing Leonis shot down in the saddle. He escaped the bandits, and has been on the road for a week looking for work.

A wisp of thick air hung in the air as his breath left his mouth. The northern face of the mountain was deadly at all time of the year so he had to make sure to take caution. The tundra itself can be an unforgiving enemy if left to it's own devices, not to mention the wandering Orc tribes or the demonic horrors boiling from the Worldwound. It's all these factors and the constant threat from all sides that the Kellid people have such a strong distrust of outsiders. I know this but now I find myself an outsider in a land where one would be hard pressed to survive alone. It wasn't always this way, I had always shared on hunts and expeditions with my brother Jokon. We were inseparable at times even though we constantly argued, that was our way as brothers. He was the brains and I was the brawn, it always brings a smile to my face when I think about it.

My eye's were fighting back the bright light piercing from eastern sky, not only from the sky but from vast landscape surrounding me.

Experiencing this brought to mind an old saying that the village elders had taught us as children “Always fight with the sun at your side. If the sun is at your back, its reflection on the snow and ice can be as blinding as the sun itself.” The truth of this saying holds it's own when you have experienced battles upon the tundra of the north.

The ice and snow crunched lightly under my boots as I knelt to look at fresh tracks of a wandering meal for me and my tribesman. I had been out for the afternoon just biding me time until Jokon would be sworn in as a Huntsmaster. The honorable title of one of few elite hunters within the tribe. I was still too young to become one. Huntsmaster's are predators, versed in the lore of the great beasts and attuned to the spirits of the hunt. When tribes clash over hunting grounds, huntmasters lead their people to war. A huntmaster honors the prey animals that sustain their tribe, protecting the herds from foolish hunters eager to kill more than they need. She is always ready to travel far from their tribe to seek out new hunting ground, observe the health of the great heard, and learn wisdom in the dance between predator and prey.

We were always hunters from the time we were young, but that was always the task of them men in our tribe. Hunting was forever in our heritage and bloodline. Not only for sustenance but for pride and tribe protection. Using our tracking skills to keep our ever dangerous hunting grounds free from fey, orc, witches and any other of the like.

Today was a clear day, the sole sound surrounding you being the whispering yet hard northern wind. It brings you comfort and reminds you of the warmth to behold you when returning home, to be among friends and family. Closing my eyes I draw in a chilling breath and exhale with icy vigor. Flushing any stagnant air within my chest. Not long until I will be among laughter and celebration of this wonderful day for my brother. A moment after reveling in the night to come, I heard a distant thundering boom, not those of treading mammoth or ice giants in the distance feigning thunder. This was different, almost sinister. I couldn't determine what it was at first, quickening my pace to the crest of the hill to catch a glimpse. Reaching the crest of the final hill of my journey the realization at what the sound was horrifyingly apparent. I reached for my hammer and started to sprint. Witches.

Fire reached out to the sky pouring black smoke to the heavens as if in tribute to the lives lost within the licking infernos. My eye's darted the encampment searching in a mixture of disbelief and terror. The blood under my skin boiled while my heart furiously caressed every inch of my body with this lust driven rage. I had no time to dull my senses at this time, controlling myself until I could make sure that he was alright. Joken, my savior, my solace. I ran straight through the carnage and mayhem that exploded around me in every which direction. My leg sizzled with emerald acid, my focus did not waiver. I rounded the Bloodspeakers tent to the ceremonial grounds where Joken was to spend the day in preparation for his celebration. I felt the wince of pain, and the grip on my hammer loosen ever so slightly. I stood in disbelief, trying to remind myself that this may well be just a dream. My brother and father stared blankly back at me, suspended within a block of ice. A sudden blast scorched my back and I felt wet blood carry the chill from my wet tunic to my back. I did not feel pain, all I felt was the licking arctic air at my back. Moment's past as my heart pumped even faster, not fueled by hope or panic, but by rage. My grip tightened and I howled into the sky rivaling a winter storm. “Blood shall be spilt, and mine will not be of it !”

I pivoted on my right leg, locking gazed with a twisted frozen maiden of Irissen. My legs carried me stride after stride never faltering. The witch's eyes widened as my shambling ferocity bounded towards her with frightening speed. She tried to fly away but to no avail, even ten feet into the air she was not safe. A quick leap onto a weapons rack and my hammer was caressing her cold complexion, turning a once cold stare into a fine red mist. Red and black remained in my mind while I slipped into a battle fury. I battled to the end, whether it was my own or their it did not matter. Death will come someday, but for certain mine will not come cheap.

Darkness surrounded me.

“Gerad you cannot forget the way of life that we had, you have a strength that must be tested and wrought. You cannot stop until you have found a challenge worthy of your might brother. You know it cannot be found here, the north only holds an icy grave for you. Head south You shall find a piece of your homeland and cause worthy of your strength brother. You will find answers you seek along that journey.” I reached out to touch him and sooner than I could realize the image diffused into blackness.

What did this mean? I asked my self. Head south? What does the south have for me here? Why would my homeland, the place where I was born hold an icy grave for me? So many questions yet no answers. I chose not to question the spirit of my dead brother. The next day I bid farewell to my companions and headed to the south. A quick farewell and wishes of good luck were the last that I saw of Birgun and his Blackravens.

Day after day past as I wandered south. The days became warmer and the vegetation greener. I kept to myself, living off the land and sharing my camp with traveling vagabonds and merchants. I was just crossing into the region of the River Kingdoms when I saw something that would not waiver my attention. A mastodon trophy on display in a bazaar outside a town that did not peak my interest. I started at the head and looked quietly as I whispered to myself.

“...a piece of your homeland...”

The next thing I saw was a piece of paper with writing on it and a seal. I asked the man at the stall for help deciphering the words on paper. He told me to head into Restov.

“I will not waver Jokon, With all my might I shall prevail.”

I took stride, hoping that I would know where to go next, either by fate or with the help of the spirits.

A few decades ago, a group of traveling delvers out of The Shackles happened across a marsh inhabited by many creatures, the lizardfolk most of all. They resided along the Terwa River, pushed out of their homeland adjacent to Lake Ocota, the polyglot pioneering pygmies pushing them out of their original location. Constantly driven back by this expansion, the primitive beast-men of this lizardfolk tribe developed a seething hatred for them and like-seeming humanoids, attacking on sight. Unfortunately for the tribe, one of the vendors was an arcanist; he burnt them to a crisp. The same heat from his spells which cooked the grown defenders served to complete the incubation of a batch of their eggs, hatching as the group scoured the area for material gain. One of the more innovative tradeswomen took the hatchlings, hoping to sell them as exotic creatures for a noble's menagerie. That she did, and one of the offspring ended-up in the River Kingdoms - Mivon, to be precise.

In his early years, Wetscale didn't remember everything, but a few details stood out to him. He got his name from the numerous fishing errands the servants sent him on - after all, he was but an animal to them, a spectacle at best. They taught him how to speak - but not read - the common tongue to communicate, and even with none of his native tongue or culture known to him, he was content. Wetscale knew no other life, after all, and it wasn't as if the servants had it that much better; at least as the exotic pet, he needed to be kept well for show purposes to the haughty guests of import which reared their heads from time to time.

The tradition of the swordlords being strong in the region, one of the young scions in his family - Fondel - got into a squabble with another and decided to settle it with a blade. Not a stated duel, Wetscale took the clashing of steel as a mortal threat - and it would've been. The challenger gouged the Lizardfolk's young master between the ribs, and he defended the wounded teen as he was taught to; his claws ripped through the aggressor's throat, and the cold-blooded creature was covered in warmth for once. Fondel, seeing the lack of a living future for Wetscale once the opposing family discovered what happened, bid the creature away, telling him to swim as far as he could. Wetscale wasn't dumb, just uneducated; he swam.

*******

After a few weeks living on the wild, he reached a new large civilization. Fortunately for Wetscale, his tribe's generations in the Sodden Lands had favored lineage with thicker blood to retain warmth, so he did not perish outright in cold Brevoy's wilds, but his sluggishness meant he was barely getting enough food to survive. His muscles had dwindled, and his frame was laughably overkill for the meat on it. He came ashore on the docks of New Stetven, shivering, hungry, and utterly weak. At first meeting him at swordpoint, the guards were astounded to learn the beast could speak. Sentience upgraded him to a jail cell, apparently, but he at least got old bread to eat while his fate was decided, and it was no colder than the waters of the river.

To his great fortune, there was a trademeet in the city, and history repeated itself once again: A certain minor member of House Orlovsky decided the family at the roof of the world would show its affluence best with a beast from so far away when news came to him about Wetscale. A few coins and a week later, the malnourished Lizardfolk found himself at Skywatch. This time, however, he found under the watchful gaze of more than simple mirth-seekers. Speaking a human tongue earned the reptile a certain amount of unspoken respect among the more learned of the house, and some took more than a dabbling interest in him. Each had their own motives - train the beast to be better at sums than the lady's son to snub her, teach him how to outcook the servants to threaten the servants' job security and make them work harder - the list went on. Wetscale saw he was being used for their gain, but his past experience in Mivon told him not to get invested - it would only cause trouble.

One day, a visiting arcanist who'd seen the lizard once or thrice before returned with a proposition: He would teach the orphan about his true culture in return for besting a swordsman in a duel, and he must agree to keep the arrangement a secret. The vast political web of the unstable nation wasn't fully known to Wetscale, a young adult at this point, but he knew keeping his mouth shut was often a good idea. Not rocking the boat with the Orlovsky family, he'd been well-fed, well-warmed, and even taught to read. He towered above all men in stature now. However, his heart yearned for nourishment. He had no friends, was treated like a thing more than a person, and had no sense of self. His emotions won over his logic, and he accepted the man's proposal, the memory of his past experience with a duelist returning to him. The bearded man smiled and handed him a book. "I'll be back to see how you're doing planning for that duel." He left with a hint of haste. Not bothering to ask him the details, Wetscale opened the book. It was ... a lingual text. A note scribbled on the side read: "Start with your real tongue, and we can discuss more in it when you've learned."

Each night after his duties were complete, he tried his hardest to learn the alphabet, the phonics, the grammar. The structure was so much more complex than the human language, but it felt so ... right with his own tongue, as if he were born to speak it. Excitement took over him, almost as if he made his first friend with the parchment. In a way, he had; the learning in (relative) secret gave him a sense of self, and it gave Wetscale confidence in his abilities to do something besides fetch and kill.

*******

The better part of a season later, the man returned, looking somewhat older than last time. Using German for Draconic for flavor. Wetscale's eyes shone with happiness when he saw the man, who bid off the servants which were usually around the reptile. "Wie finden Sie das Buch?" Did you like the book?

"Esss war Ssspitzzze!" replied the Lizardfolk, his long tongue and lengthy respiration drawing out the consonants. "Ich habe sofort angefangen, weil es mich freute, über meine Leute zu lernen." It was fantastic! I began it immediately as it filled me with joy to learn about my people. The man nodded, and looked about. "Sind Sie für den Zweikampf fertig?." Are you ready for the duel? Not having completely forgotten his end of the pact, Wetscale was a bit taken aback by his contact's abruptness. "J ... Natürlich," replied the reptile in affirmation, showing his vocabulary. "Wenn?"

"Morgen." Tomorrow. The man's smile disappeared, his face deadly serious. "Good luck." His last words in common, he spun on his heel and walked out. He was left to dark confusion as sleep took him hours later. How would it happen? Where? With whom?

Roused from his sleep by a couple of the house guards, he was marched out of the residence to the town square. Dawn had come not long before, but a crowd was gathered. The headsman was present ... his axe sharp and waiting. On a platform sat the lord, lady, and a few of the family - including his purchaser and the arcanist, their eyes deadly serious. "Wetscale, you stand accused of murdering Lady Medvyed's youngest daughter. What say you?" The visiting lady happened to be on the platform as well.

Stunned with the suggestion, he didn't know how to respond initially. "...No," came from his mouth slowly.

"YOU BUTCHERED HER!" screamed the woman. "Her throat cut overnight to shreds by those claws, her bosom with teeth marks all the way to her ribs. THAT BEAST KILLED MY BABY!" Their family had been visiting that week, Wetscale recalled. She pointed a condemning finger at him with the last yell, appealing to the crown with a wild cry, tears, and a sweep of her head.

Lord Orlovsky shut his eyes, sitting straight in his chair. Clearly, he did not enjoy this. "It seems there could be no other killed in my own keep. You are sentenced to death by steel in, combatant or coward alike." The traditional pronouncement cut through his surprise-paralysis. It had only happened twice that Wetscale had seen, but the convicted were allowed to duel for their lives with a champion of the lord's choice; most chose the silent death instead without putting up a fight. As the guards restraining him attempting to force his head to the block, the lizard spoke up. "I choose combat! Gasps of surprise took over the crowd.

The lord stood up after a moment's pause. "Silence! Trial by combat it is. Let victory be the judge," He glanced around, his eye falling on someone. "My new swordsman from the South, exact my justice this morning in my name." The crowd gave way between them.

It was Fondel.

Either the now-adult dandy didn't recognize him, or his new loyalty was more important, for he drew his blade - the same one he'd had as a youth, judging by the markings - saluted his lord, and approached. A sword was handed to Wetscale by a servant, and he palmed it absentmindedly. He'd seen enough of the fights to know how they went, but he wasn't skilled in them at all - or with any weapon for that matter.

"Master Fondel, don't -"

"HEATHEN!" yelled the scion as he took a thrust at his old companion, Wetscale dodging the jab just in time. "How dare you soil my name with that filthy tongue of yours!" Another two swings came, both wide, arcing - perhaps for the public, which now was cheering the young man.

Whatever empathy Wetscale had for Fondel evaporated in the moment though, and he began to defend himself in earnest, treating him as one of the wild beasts he'd felled on the hunts. Luring him into range seemingly, then darting away, looking for an opportunity to pounce. Such an opportunity occurred. The Lizardfolk tossed his useless sword at Fondel, his overconfidence getting the best of him; it tore through his ornate clothing and gave him a gash on the swordarm. This shocked the crowd back into silence.

First blood must have activated the man's adrenaline, for he flew into a flurry like Wetscale had never seen. His face was red with fury, his arms moving with superhuman strength, the bloody arm seemingly forgotten. Like a bear, an unstoppable force. Wetscale could not hope to stand against him with that fatally-sharp blade butchering the air; he wove left and right, hopping over a cut to his waist. Then his opening occurred; Fondel righted himself with a garish upswing, throwing his balance off in the other direction. Wetscale seized the opportunity, charging his opponent, a claw wedging itself in between the ribs as another's sword had done years ago, his other grabbing the man behind the shoulders, culling his swordhand's mobility.

"Fondel, stop this!"

"What did I tell you, beast?!" The man was seemingly impervious to pain and memory, giving one last futile stroke with his hindered arm; the slash scraped along Wetscale's armored skin without harm.

"Finish it," a familiar, but just-out-of-recognition voice whispered in his mind. It wasn't Fondel's. Heeding his id and its bidding, history repeated itself as the Lizardfolk sunk his teeth into the exposed throat of his former master. As the duelist dropped to the ground, the rage faded from his eyes, and his mouth opened slightly as if to say Wetscale's name. A chill ran up his spine as silence deafened the area.

What seemed like hours passed before Lord Orlovsky broke the spell. "Gorum's grace has declared you innocent." The god held much sway in these lands. Wetscale turned to see a sobbing Lady Medvyed run from the scene. "Approach." Queerly, Wetscale did not see the arcanist - or his seat - upon the platform anymore.

His voice merely a whisper between them, Orlovsky quickly relayed to the exonerated reptile. "I will not have a war because of this. You'll die anyway if you stay around the Medvyed's lands. Understand that." He took a step back and raised his stentorian voice, a thing not often down by the ambivalent lord. "You are hereby exiled, Wetscale. You will have a weapon and a flask of mead. Out of my land with you!"

And so it was Wetscale wandered South along the river, through the lakes, skirting the forests the slain daughter had called home. Why wouldn't he stop? Did he not recognize me? The day haunted him endlessly. The Stellen River met him at its Eastern end, and he swum along its path until he reached the place where he was sold. Stronger now than in his youth, he weathered the trip better, but still was cold and hungry.

A forceful hand on the back took him by surprise. "If it isn't the the Dripping Dragon!" Wetscale turned to see a ... jolly follower of Gorum's, judging by the symbols on his belt, surely a couple of pints in him. His puzzled look must have transcended even the stark racial difference between them. "Tales of you besting a swordlord in single combat - unarmed - are known to us even here. Come! Let us drink spar, and talk."

*******

And so it was the temple took him in, attempting to train him in the ways of steel, scolding him for letting his gifted sword rust. An odd man - nearly an outcast by the standards of the temple - got along much better with him though. He came from the South, looking for famed warriors that matched "his expertise," as he put it. Using no armor or sword, he invoked the ire of the temple, but they revered his prowess in battle, moving as fast as the wind, staying out of harm's way. Though he didn't much harm his sparring partners, he tired them out. If only I could've done that to Fondel instead of .... The two shared tales and trained together, two outcasts making a friendship far from their homes.

One day, an opportunity arose. Land in the South, a way to leave the ever-present threat of a Medvyed assassination in retribution. Wetscale sought out the chance, seeing were fate would take him...

He worked tirelessly at one of his father's forges and whispered prayers to the Father of Creation as he did so. But as he grew older he became somewhat restless to hammer his own through the world. So when the call came up for volunteers to head and start something new; Mugnum knew it was a sign from the Forge even if there were no sparks and heat.

Eran Leafblade has lived his whole life in the south of Brevoy, with his father who was a village druid. His father raised him to be an explorer and pioneer, and how to take care of the land. Eran and his father did not travel much, but on one occasion that they did, Eran found himself a best friend: a tiger named Shadowclaw.

It wasn't until later in life that Eran learned that his mother was actually a celestial being sent by Erastil to give his father a son. Eran's father had served Erastil and the woodlands so well, the god wanted to have his son continue the the tradition.

Now it is time for Eran to go out on his own and explore the Stolen Lands to learn more about his duites as a druid.

HP 9 INI +2 SPEED 30
AC TOUCH FLAT
BAB +0 CMB +1 CMD 13
SAVES
FORT +4
REF +2
WILL +6
+2 vs. effects with evil descriptor. +2 to stabilize.

Languages: Common, Celestial, Druidic

FEATS
Angelic Blood (Aasimar): You gain a +2 bonus on saving throws against effects with the evil descriptor and on Constitution checks to stabilize when you are reduced to negative hit points (but not dead). Furthermore, each time you take bleed or blood drain damage, each undead creature or creature with the evil subtype that is currently adjacent to you also takes 1 point of damage.

SPECIAL ABILITIES/OTHER
Spontaneous Casting: A druid can channel stored spell energy into summoning spells that she hasn't prepared ahead of time. She can “lose” a prepared spell in order to cast anysummon nature's ally spell of the same level or lower.
Nature Bond (Ex): At 1st level, a druid forms a bond with nature. This bond can take one of two forms.
The second option is to form a close bond with an animal companion. A druid may begin play with any of the animals listed in Animal Choices. This animal is a loyal companion that accompanies the druid on her adventures.
Unlike normal animals of its kind, an animal companion's Hit Dice, abilities, skills, and feats advance as the druid advances in level. If a character receives an animal companion from more than one source, her effective druid levels stack for the purposes of determining the statistics and abilities of the companion. Most animal companions increase in size when their druid reaches 4th or 7th level, depending on the companion. If a druid releases her companion from service, she may gain a new one by performing a ceremony requiring 24 uninterrupted hours of prayer in the environment where the new companion typically lives. This ceremony can also replace an animal companion that has perished.
Nature Sense (Ex): A druid gains a +2 bonus on Knowledge (nature) and Survival checks.
Wild Empathy (Ex): A druid can improve the attitude of an animal. This ability functions just like a Diplomacy check made to improve the attitude of a person (see Using Skills). The druid rolls 1d20 and adds her druid level and her Charisma modifier to determine the wild empathy check result. The typical domestic animal has a starting attitude of indifferent, while wild animals are usually unfriendly.
To use wild empathy, the druid and the animal must be within 30 feet of one another under normal conditions. Generally, influencing an animal in this way takes 1 minute but, as with influencing people, it might take more or less time.
A druid can also use this ability to influence a magical beast with an Intelligence score of 1 or 2, but she takes a –4 penalty on the check.
Darkvision 60’
[bDaylight once/day[/b]

TRAITS
Pioneer: You begin play with a horse. +1 to Handle Animal
Resilient: Growing up in a poor neighborhood or in the unforgiving wilds often forced you to subsist on food and water from doubtful sources. You've built up your mettle as a result, and gain a +1 trait bonus on Fortitude saves.

WEAPONS

SCYTHE 10lbs
Attack Bonus +1 Crit x4 TypeP or S Damage 2d4 +1

COMP. LONGBOW +0 3lbs
Attack Bonus +2 Crit x3 Type P Damage 1d6 Ammo Arrows (20)

ARMOUR

WOODEN ARMOUR 25lbs
Armour Bonus +3 Type Light Armour Check -1

Other Gear

Light Load 43
Medium Load 86
Heavy Load 130
Lift Over Head 130
Lift Off Ground 260
Drag/Push 650

Current Carry Weight: 38 (Light)

Money: 11gp
Experience: 0

BAB +1
HP 17
AC 15 TOUCH 14 FLAT 11
FORT +4
REF +6
WILL +2

Starting Statistics: Size Medium; Speed 40 ft.; AC +1 natural armor; Attack bite (1d6), 2 claws (1d4); Ability Scores Str 13, Dex 17, Con 13, Int 2, Wis 15, Cha 10; Special Attacks rake (1d4); Special Qualities low-light vision, scent.
7th-Level Advancement: Size Large; AC +2 natural armor; Attack bite (1d8), 2 claws (1d6); Ability Scores Str +8, Dex –2, Con +4; Special Attacks grab, pounce, rake (1d6) .

SPECIAL
Link (Ex): A druid can handle her animal companion as a free action, or push it as a move action, even if she doesn't have any ranks in the Handle Animal skill. The druid gains a +4 circumstance bonus on all wild empathy checks and Handle Animal checks made regarding an animal companion.

Share Spells (Ex): The druid may cast a spell with a target of “You” on her animal companion (as a spell with a range of touch) instead of on herself. A druid may cast spells on her animal companion even if the spells normally do not affect creatures of the companion's type (animal). Spells cast in this way must come from a class that grants an animal companion. This ability does not allow the animal to share abilities that are not spells, even if they function like spells.

TRICKS
Attack

SKILLS
Acrobatics +3
Climb +1
Escape Artist +3
Fly +3
Intimidate +0
Perception +2
Stealth +7
Survival +2
Swim +5

FEATS
Dodge

Sal grew up knowing she was different but tried hard to be a good Kobold. She was never trained to be a soldier but learned to fight by getting into scraps with her clutch mates, as she was always being ambushed for sport. Years went by, and even though she was not treated as a full member of the tribe Sal managed to earn at least a grudging respect. Life may have gone on this way for Sal until she was old and grey, but for her tragedy would allways find it's way in. Sal became enamoured of a young hunter. When she finally professed her love for him, he laughed at her for such stupidity. In a rage she beat the object of her misplaced affection to death.

Fearing what would happen to her, Sal fled the tribe. Her flight was long and difficult, never having been allowed to stray from tending to the muck cleaning and water hauling she had done all her life. It seemed for her that her ill luck would finnaly bring her down. Sal finnaly gave in as she stumbled into the ruins of a long destroyed temple, her will to live having given out some time before and only the mechanical continuation of walking having kept her going. As she lay there a soft white light flowed over her, healing her scrapes and bruises and revitalizing her will. A ghostly figure of a man floated before her. The ghost introduced himself as Johnathon Braxis a long dead priest of Abadar and one of the clergy that had resided in this temple so long before. Over the course of many years, Johnathon and Sal became teacher and student as Sal gained a new purpose in life. She took Abadar as her personal lord and heeded his teachings. When she felt she was ready, Sal marched forth into the upper world with what meager belongings she could piece together and set forth to bring the light of civilization to the savage corners of the world.