When the priestess appeared, it was in the full robes of her order, and Pinch was frankly shocked at the transformation. The robes imbued her with a radiant femininity that had been hidden beneath her plain working dress. It was clear he'd been too quick to dismiss her before. The orange, the pink, the golden ribbons, and the sun-sparkled headdress that had looked tawdry on the elf shone on her like cloth of gold. Her hair escaped the edges of her headdress, and her face beamed with fresh-scrubbed brightness.
"Greetings, Lissa," he began with an unfeigned awkwardness, so suddenly taken aback by her beauty, "I- we-have come for you help-"
"You look terrible, Master Janol! What happened?"
Lissa's compassion was just as Pinch had hoped, and his nervousness faded as she gave him the opportunity to spin his tale. "Thieves-we were set upon by thugs looking for the amulet. Sprite's been stabbed." The half-ling picked up his cue and gave an appropriate groan at this point.
"But you-your clothes-" She stopped, noticing the putrid smell about him for the first time. "And… your appearance."
"A bath and clothes will set me right. I seem to be going through my wardrobe of late." Pinch tried to make light of his own state. Now that he was here, it did not seem such a good idea to reveal the brand that the amulet had given him.
Discretion failed him though, for Sprite blurted, "And his hand-he hurt his hand too, miss."
Pinch gave Sprite one of those glares, and the half-ling could only look drunkenly sheepish as Lissa firmly examined the regulator's burned hand.
"What did this?" she demanded. By her tone, it was clear she already knew the answer. "You've been marked, haven't you?"
"Marked?"
Her soft compassion was replaced by earnest concern. "The amulet-you were holding it?"
Pinch nodded to buy a little time to create an embellishment to his story. "When the thieves jumped us, I sought to protect it. I was sure they meant to steal it, so I held it in my hand."
"And?"
"I don't know. It flared in a brilliant burst of light-"
"Killed them outright it did!" The halfling blurted out the fabrication to corroborate his leader's tale. Unfortunately, at that same moment, Pinch finished with "-and scared them away."
"Killed them or scared them?" Lissa asked suspiciously. It was clear there was more to this than she was being told.
"Scared them," Sprite hastily corrected.
"Both," Pinch expanded, though once again tripped up by his companion. The regulator gave Sprite another look to shut up. "Some were… killed and the others ran away."
Lissa gave the rogue a hard look. She doesn't believe me, Pinch thought. A better story was needed. "I-"
"Where is the amulet?" She poked at his burned hand and Pinch bit back a wince.
"I have it."
"Give it to me." She held out her hand without even looking up from her inspection.
"There's no cause for worry. I have protected it."
"I have unjustly put you at risk. Please, give me the amulet."
Argument was hopeless, especially here in the center of Lissa's stronghold. Reluctantly Pinch produced the bauble and handed it over to the priestess. Sprite sucked his teeth in unvoiced disappointment.
"Will you see to Sprite now?" the rogue asked pointedly. It was his nature; he couldn't help but set a price for all things.
Lissa took the amulet and hung it around her neck. "Brother Leafcrown will tend to him." She nodded to the elf who waited patiently behind her.
"Ooh, an elf!" Sprite said in mockery of the stereotype of elf-fascinated halflings. The jibe was not lost on the brother, whose expression of benign beneficence soured at the comment.
"As for your hand," Lissa continued as Sprite was led away, "I can heal the pain, but the scar will remain. You have been marked by Lathander."
"What! I'm going to have this brand for the rest of my life-like some common thief," blurted the outraged rogue.
Lissa nodded. "It is the price of calling upon Lathander."
"I didn't call him-or any other god," Pinch snarled, risking blasphemy within the Morninglord's very temple. "The damn thing just happened! I didn't ask for it."
"Nonetheless, it happened," she countered with the absolute resoluteness of one whose faith can only be unquestioned. "Therefore within your heart you must have called upon Lathander's might. How else could you have gotten his mark?"
Pinch stared at his numbed and blackened hand, fearing the scars before his eyes. If he could never use his hand again, that would destroy the only talent he knew. Without a good hand, how could he hope to pick a lock or nip a purse. A one-handed thief was a cripple to be pitied by his companions and mocked by his former prey. This then was the Morninglord's revenge. "Damn the pain!" the rogue bitterly hissed. "Can you make my hand work?"
Lissa hesitated, and that hesitation was not encouraging. "I-don't know. All I can do is try. It is a great honor, you know, to be marked by the Morninglord."
"Wonderful. I'm a prophet now."
"Not like that," Lissa shushed him as she prepared her healing work. "It means that Lathander sees in you something different, something greater than common men. Prophets, sages, bold captains-all of these have borne the mark."
"Greatness-hah! I'm no prophet or king." Pinch's heart was filled with bitterness right now. His world was crumbling around him regardless of what the god saw in his future.
"Nonetheless, Janol, our lord sees something in your future. Perhaps you will be a brave hero someday."
"Why not? I'm no good for anything else right now- thanks to your god."
"Mind your tongue!" Lissa snapped, furious at his casual blasphemy. She grabbed his wrist and twisted his hand palm-up, then made the passes needed to cast the spell. The burn tingled and then the pain subsided. The blackened flesh peeled away to reveal pinkish fresh skin underneath. The brand gleamed pinkish-white like a fresh scar. The pain vanished.
Experimentally Pinch tried to make a fist, but it was to no avail. The best he could do was curl his fingers into a clawlike grip, but the palm was a thick pad that would hardly bend.
"Crap. Your god has ruined me," Pinch moaned, his voice filled with sorrow. He sat staring at his useless hand, bitter salt filling the corners of his eyes. Everything he was, everything he could do, was in his hands. What kind of cutpurse could he be, unable to hold a knife? Would he be a rooftop man unable to hold a rope? Maybe he could take up mugging and beat his victims senseless with this paw-that's all it was good for. He was only half, less than nothing in the eyes of his peers.
"I'm a blighted cripple," he whispered to no one.
Fatherhood
It was well past dawn by the time Pinch and Sprite left the temple, found their friends, and retired to the back tables of the ordinary. There, in the tawdry depths of the common room, Pinch drank. He drank with a bleak-hearted vigor, without joy or camaraderie. He drank with the bitter determination of a man trying to blot away the memories of his life. He gulped the sack without tasting it and demanded more before his cup was even empty. With his stiff hand he fumbled at the jug, and the more he fumbled the more he cursed his fate and drank again, until he would bitterly sweep the mugs, the crock, the candle aside in a rage and glare at his friends with his aching dry eyes.