A Dark Winter's Tale
STR: 8 / CON: 14 / DEX: 11 / INT: 16 / WIS: 12 / CHA: 18
AC: 13 / FORT: 12 / REF: 14 / WILL: 15 / HP: 26
Logen’s hands were shaking and he spilled a few grains of the chalk-like powder onto the table. THWACK! The master’s hand cuffed him upside the head, rattling his teeth.
“IDIOT!” boomed his master. “If you knew how much powdered Dragonshard cost, perhaps you wouldn’t be so clumsy!”
“Now take out the chamber-pot, since that’s all you’re good for! And don’t spill any of that either!”
Logen shuffled to the corner and picked up the pot, its contents swished releasing a putrescent cloud of vapour that made Logen’s eyes water.
His master was picking up the grains one by one and placing them back into the bowl, muttering all the while. “Stupid tiefling, I knew it was a mistake but no, I had to go and be all charitable.”
Logen could barely contain his fury – it boiled and seethed inside him – the chamberpot buckled in his hands. Charity! This was slavery! He received no pay, slept on a pallet in the workshop and cooked, cleaned and fetched for his master. And for what? A few lessons in alchemy and some simple tricks that he could have taught himself.
He reached the pit, lifted the trapdoor and upended the contents.
As he started back to the workshop, he heard laughter coming from over the wall. He quickly scrambled up, resting on the flat wall with his elbows. From his vantage point he could see some soldiers walking some ladies past the narrow alley onto which his master’s house backed. One of the soldiers suddenly grabbed his partner and ducked into the alley.
The soldier pushed her roughly against the wall and put his hand over her mouth. They were only a feet below him and Logen could hear the woman’s muffled cries and her breath snuffling against the soldier’s hand.
Logen was no prince but after the months of impotent humiliation from his master, this was something he could do something about. He closed his eyes and focused on the darkness that lived within him. His pulse raced and he took a deep breath. His eyes flicked open, he extended a clawed hand towards the solider who was fumbling with his pants and spoke a single word “Drak”.
And now he was hunted as a murderer. Far from being grateful, the woman had screamed and screamed for the guards as the soldier’s dead weight pinned her to the hard cobbles. Logen had taken the only option he could see – he ran. He ran as he had run so many times before. He’d always been running – from bullies, from the tiefling haters, from the guards, from his father and from the demons that battled within him.
North, then. Into the Northern lands of the hill-folk and the dwarves. Perhaps in less-civilised lands he could have a chance at a new life. A chance to leave his metaphorical demons behind him.