An elder tortle took me in last night. He found me huddled outside his shop using his trash for warmth. Offered me a meal. As though he'd never seen a homeless tiefling in Waterdeep.
He was kind. Showed me the things he was most proud of. A wife. A son. A thriving business. And he never once considered that I might try to rob him or hurt him. I asked as much. He simply smiled and told me an old Syvan saying he had picked up from a trader years ago. "What will be, will be." Of course, this saying is common parlance in any language, but he said he enjoyed the rhythm and history of it when it's spoken in Sylvan. I came to agree.
He and his wife, a boisterous little mousefolk woman, live here happily. It's beautiful. A simple, loving existence. I envy them.
Their son, who takes more after his mother than his father, happened to drop by. This man had a more predictable response. I had him pegged immediately - some poor accountant in the pocket of some Masked Lord. He was kind and gracious, but sending silent signals to get out. And I tried. But to his dismay, his parents insisted I stay the night.
They sent me off today with a full stomach and a few packed meals. I told them if they ever needed a blade, to ask about for Lucy Faith. I'd find them.
YOU ARE READING
The Diary of Lucy Faith
FantasyLucy Steele-Faith has given her wife, Nora, a large, well-worn tome, filled with adventure and regret. Her diary. The seven-year journey of a young tiefling woman from savage cult assassin to a dedicated and powerful wife, mother, scholar, and warr...
