[Abe Sargent]

In the twilight before dawn, you catch sight of the River Kinam less than a mile away to the west. You scan the surrounding landscape and note several small tracks (which lead to tiny farmsteads dotted around the vast plain) converging at a hamlet which nestles in a bend of this great river. During the past hour your horse has developed a slight limp, and a cursory look at his affected leg reveals that he has thrown a shoe. You know that unless you replace the missing shoe, and soon, he will be too lame to carry you further. Reluctantly, you decide to enter the hamlet and go in search of a blacksmith.

A signpost at the entrance to the hamlet announces its name: Kalma. It is a quiet, sleepy sort of place that in many ways reminds you of Dage, the Sommlending village where you were born and where you spent your early years. Near the centre of this humble village you discover a smithy where, even at this early hour, you can hear the sound of a hammer beating iron. You tether your horse to a rail alongside a moth-eaten old donkey, and call out for the blacksmith.

‘In ’ere,’ comes the curt reply. On entering you discover a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in a leather apron, busily shaping a horseshoe on an anvil.

My steed has shed a shoe,’ you say. ‘Can you replace it?’

‘Aye,’ he says, without bothering to look up from his work, ‘but it’ll cost you 20 Lune. In cash, and in advance, if you please.’

(I pay, I have 15 crowns left)

‘Leave y’ horse outside and come back in an hour—I’ll ’ave it done by then.’

The sun is now above the horizon and this hamlet is slowly stirring to life. You decide to wile away the next hour or so by looking around its simple shops and riverside stores. One building in particular catches your eye: it is a hall perched precariously on the end of a wide wooden jetty. You can hear an old man’s voice trailing from its open doors, answered by the occasional murmur of a crowd. Inside you discover a wizened old cleric administering to a sick woman whose head is swathed with bandages. The cleric is attempting to cure the woman of her ills by laying-on his hands, but the pressure is simply making the pain in her head feel worse.

‘Charlatan,’ mumbles one onlooker. ‘Old fake,’ whispers another. The aged cleric hears these dissenting voices and he becomes flustered. Although he may be incompetent as a healer, you sense that he is a good man at heart and so you decide to save him from the disgruntled crowd, who look as if they are on the brink of throwing him in the river at any moment.

‘Hold, good brother!’ you say, moving swiftly through the crowd to the small stage on which he and the bandaged woman are standing. ‘You should not be placing your hands upon this good woman’s head. Surely the source of her pain stems from her aching heart!’

And with this you take hold of the man’s hands and place them on the woman’s chest. Her first reaction is one of shock and she starts to pull away, but when you transmit your own healing powers through the cleric’s hands and into her body, the pain in her head suddenly vanishes. A smile of pure joy lights up her face and hurriedly she strips off her bandages.

‘Ishir be praised!’ she cries. ‘I’m cured. I’m completely cured!’

The woman reaches to her purse and counts out 40 silver Lune into the cleric’s trembling hands, and all the while she praises him loudly for taking the pain from her head. The cleric, whose name is Matho, sheepishly accepts her generous donation. Then, quite suddenly, he is swamped by the crowd of onlookers who all rush the stage at once.
Each one waves a money purse and demands that he cure them as well. The frail old man is in danger of being crushed to death until you rescue him from this agitated crowd.

Once safely outside, he offers you all of the woman’s donation, for he knows only too well that it was your healing abilities which cured her, and not his own. (If you wish to accept this money, record it on your Action Chart as 40 Lune.)

‘Where are you bound for, stranger?’ he asks.

‘The east,’ you reply.

‘That’s where I’ve journeyed from. Perhaps I can offer you a word of caution, eh? There’s plague in the Stornlands this year. You would be well to avoid the region if you can. If you can’t, well, this potion will protect you. I can at least guarantee that.’

The old cleric pulls a small flask from his pocket and offers it to you. (If you wish to accept this potion, record it on your Action Chart as Matho’s Potion.)

Then the old cleric accompanies you back to the blacksmithy where he, too, is having his mount re-shoed. You collect your horse, and he collects his ragged old mule; then you bid each other good luck and farewell before going your separate ways.

(I take half of the money – back to 20 crowns – I grab the potion as well)