"In the days before my soul was clean -- before the holy fire that cooked away my impurities -- I was less than the dirt on the bottom of a beggar's sandal. You see, I've always been clever -- even when wracked with fevers and false visions -- I was clever. Before Sarenrae kissed me, I was far too clever for my own good.
My days back then were spent refining pesh: Coax good curds from the milk, sample some; carefully mix in the resin to the desired potency, sample some; dry it for smoking, sample some; cut it for sales, sample some; sell it to the dealers, sample some.
Thus were my days wasted -- living a dark life filled with cacti, curds, sweat, nagri, spilled whey, dealers, bribes, smugglers, makeshift laboratories, and fear -- always the fear. Its shadow crept into my visions; into my dreams; into my hopes. It ruled my bowels. It ruled my head. It ruled my heart.
Then came the blessed fire.
247 days ago Sarenrae gave me a gift. She sent me the gift of flames. She burned away my impurities.
Some will say a hookah fell over, losing its cherry in a bottle of cleanser, which exploded and ignited stored lamp oil. Some will say this. I say Sarenrae works in mysterious ways.
14 drug dealers and addicts died in that fire. One was reborn.
I am no longer clever. I am fire-hardened. My life rests now in Sarenrae's crucible. I will become the instrument she wishes me to be."
