“What’s wrong with you boy? Did you taste some of Magiloy’s foul spirits last night? Bah, I told you to watch out for that old pirate. You’re about as dumb as you look!” Harkman, the overseerer, sneered his typically toothless grin at Massimo and continued to bait him, but the tall, weather beaten man stayed silent. Massimo grimaced a bit as he dragged his newly formed clubfoot, trying to hide the affliction under his robe freshly purchased just last week. Alas, the robe would soon become as soiled as the rest of his garments as Massimo was among the lowest of the low, a gravedigger at Otari’s cemetery. As he moved to pick up his shovel, he noticed for the first time his fists were clenched in rage. His breathing was getting shallow, and skin flushing a deep crimson shade. He looked at Harkman and then the edge of the cliff. Even in his diminished state, it would be so easy to seize that disgusting little man and hurl him over the edge. After all these years of insults and abuse, seeing him crushed on the rocks below would be so satisfying. NO! Massimo fought back the dark thoughts.
Com 'on man, haven’t you learned anything from what’s happened to you? Nothing good comes when you succumb to evil and selfishness. He looked down at his foot one more time and cursed the day he had ever been born.
The afternoon dragged on, and the midday sun soon beat down harshly on the crumbling tombstones of the graveyard. Massimo carefully tied off his robe at the waist, exposing his chest and torso to the warm sunlight. He was drenched in sweat now, revealing a body rippled with cords of muscle. Today was a somber day at the graveyard as two new graves were being dug, but Massimo was not thinking of that now. Doing mindless work allowed one’s mind to wander, and his often did. He certainly wasn’t an educated or learned man and held a certain amount of scorn for those “brainy” types below. He could still think though, much more than that fool Harkman gave him credit for. The moist soil easily gave way to Massimo’s shovel, and he became reflective as his glance fell on his father’s grave not more than 10 paces away. A laborer much like himself, his old man gave all of his life to Otari’s lumberyards. Fond of drink and the soft touch of women, his passions were simple, maybe even contemptable to the upstanding citizens downtown. Nevertheless, one of his indiscretions eventually led to a harlot showing up on his doorstep with a baby in hand. A vicious argument ensued though it ended with the woman leaving with a bag of gold in place of her child, and the old lumberjack with a new mouth to feed. The old man finally did the right thing, and boy, he never let Massimo forget that either. He was already in the twilight of his life when this happened, and the ten years he had left were spent much like all the years before, the lumberyard, taverns, and women. One of these women seemed to last a little longer than the others, Olive was her name, and Massimo remembered her fondly. How long was she with him? 5 years, maybe? She taught him how to play the harp, and it was the only possession his father let him keep, though the old man still cursed at its uselessness and how many ales and tools it would fetch for him at Wrin’s....
Ah Wrin’s, brings everything full circle, doesn’t it? Massimo thought sarcastically. The final grave was almost dug, so it would soon be time for him to fade into the background as the burial rites began. Who would be the god invoked today? Sarenrae? Cayden Calilean? The Cosmic Caravan? Perhaps Calistia again? He gulped down that last thought. It was just last week when he dug the grave for that pretty young priestess of The Savered Sting. She was so beautiful even in death, and he remembered the young woman from his childhood, didn’t he carve an animal for her as a youngster? Yes! Yes, it was a wasp! Of course, it had to be a wasp! The cleric met her end exploring Gauntlight Keep of all places, and the mourners were out in force that morning. The winds were fierce off the cliffs, and Calistria herself seemed to be howling in indignation! Harkman smelled strongly of liquor, and Doruk pesh. The casket was ornate and heavy, and Massimo cursed as his workmates couldn’t handle their side of the task. The coffin lurched wildly in response to a brutal wind gust and then slipped out of Harkman’s grimy little hands. The poor girl tumbled out eliciting gasps from the shocked onlookers. The priest rushed to her side, Harkman and Doruk tended to the casket, but all Massimo could do was stare at a golden wasp broach that now lay at his feet.
It was a split-second decision, but he seized the broach and pocketed it in his trousers. Suddenly, he had a future. He would pawn the broach and buy gear with the profits. Go to Absolam and join the city guard; sign with a caravan and see the rest of Kortos, book passage on a mighty ship and explore the world! Foolish plans for a foolish man. Massimo hated himself and loathed his weakness. He did sell the broach at Wrin’s two days later, though he could swear the elven tiefling could see through his deception. He bought weapons and gear at the market and smithy the next morning; Wealday would be the beginning of the rest of his life. Until he woke up with his clubfoot, cursed by the gods themselves. Pitiful, pitiful Massimo, nothing ever changes. That morning, he gazed at himself in the mirror. Curly, disheveled mop of hair, decent face though lined beyond his 22 years, strong muscular frame; of course, now he was a cripple as well. The gear and weapons set aside in a corner of his father’s house (his father’s house not his house), he picked up his shovel and trudged towards the door. So, this was his fate, huh? Gravedigging until he was in the grave himself? Then he saw Olive’s harp out of the corner of his eye, could there still be a chance for redemption?
