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About the Taint of Sandpoint

Khime the Taint of Sandpoint

The unending grey dampness of drizzle and the stink of pig s$@$ threatened to suffocate the lot of em’; and Khime wished it would. “Four!” Crack. “It shouldn’t hurt to be a child.”, the old krone muttered with condemnation to the hog farmer from her front stoop as he kissed his son with the well worn leather of his belt. “Five! Get f*$%ed ye dried up c@%$. Crack. Keep yer f#~%in’ opinions to yer’ self. Six! Crack.”, slurred the fat drunk between lashings.
Khime couldn’t but agree with old lady’s words; however the rising welts filled his heart with a deep hatred for her lack of conviction. Hollow words are salt for a raw lashing. “Seven! Crack.” Yet, Khime’s own swelling hatred was an anesthetic to the bite of his father’s belt. The more hate mustered the less pain felt. And Khime harbored ample hate for them all. He hated his toothless mother whose love for the pipe and bottle outweighed her love of him. “Eight! Crack.” He hated that hypocrite priest who spoke butterflies, liberation and luck; yet left him chained to this farm of mud, s#~& and pain. “Nine! Crack.” He hated Burl Big Foot, with his loving parents, fine cloths, Chelish accent and purebred colt.
“Ten! Crack. And if those f&*#in’ pigs is not be tied and set to butcher by da morn’ ye be gettin’ 20 more ye gimp ass good for not son of a whore!” But most of all he hated that f$$&ing belt. He knew the world did not have his back. He knew the woman’s words were hollow and powerless. He new dark folk deserved dark deeds, and the dim, broken man he called “father” was the most deserving among them. Watching his father thread the leather terror through the loops of his britches, and stagger back to his mead in their tinder box hovel, Khime resolved to never feel it’s bite again.
That night Khime set his father’s belt on fire. Too bad for the old man, he passed out in his day clothes. Khime regretted the brutes bad luck to be wearing the infernal strap when spark kissed oil. Like the good father said, “Desna’s blessing of luck and fortune will set you free.”
Too bad for his mum, to f*&%ed in the head to know tis’ better to walk away from fire than into it. Too bad for the krone whose bad luck it was to know too much, do too little, and live too close to flammable things and the luck of brutes. Good fortune to the pigs and the sons of whores who have the sense to f%@! off when the fiery winds of chance present the opportunity.

Khime was 12 when he torched his parents and neighbor. He survived as best he could on the streets into Sandpoint and survived as best he could picking pockets, stealing food, and eventually fell in with the Sczarni. His mentor, Ray the Mover taught him the art of card sharking and thievery. Khime had a knack at the table, which he honed into a fine art for for the next 4 years; during which time he developed a gambling addiction. After losing over 800gp of Ray’s cash in a four day bender that resulted in 3 dead Sczarni collectors, Khime received the moniker, “Khime the Taint of Sandpoint.”
The fourth collector, who was notably not Sczarni, but a Pistelero and High Planes Drifter was so impressed by the Taints quick thinking, decisive action and hopeless addiction that he offers him a job and a way out of Sandpoint as a contract killer. Khime agrees.