D&D

[Rem-13]

The night Vernaster Graff was born there were no trinity of wise kings to greet him, and on his eleventh birthday no giants handed him a pass to any prestigious wizarding academies. But he did keep faith in his heart, and in between milking the goats and docking sheep every book within his grasp was read, reread and dreamt about. These were painfully few. His parents were prosperous as these things went, but books were expensive and not as useful as oxen. Thus it was an auspicious night that brought an ailing book merchant to their doorstep bloody and more dead than alive. A glance told Mister Graff the whole story, the bolt in his side, the brown blood crusting over his lips, and the book clutched to his chest like rigor mortis was setting prematurely.

“Bandits.” Vernaster could remember his father’s rasp to this day. “Shot him and took his wares. Old blood, and a bad place to take a bolt. He’ll not make the night. But we can make his death comfortable.”

He somehow managed to pry the book from the merchant’s fingers and lay him down by the fireplace. Water was offered, and bandages and salves. All a courtesy, the only thing of any substance to offer was prayer. Vernaster did not take it easy. The difference between an injured farm animal (bad enough) and a human was a gap wider than the one between this plane and the next. His parents left him there that night, knowing there was an experience to be had here at least. As the fire dwindled, seeking something to think about besides death, he reached for the merchants book and read it in the flickering light. Psalms of Pelor’s Grace. Of all the books to save…

The fire was dead, and the sun making its first stirrings when Vernaster’s parents found him still awake clutching the merchants hands, lips forming prayers that died before they reached their ears, the tome open in his lap, and tears in his eyes. It wasn’t until the first ray of dawn fell through the window and touched the merchant’s cheek that they noticed something odd. He breathed.