It rains. Tasaril Ingon – “Tas” to his friends, “You cur!” to some husbands, fathers or brothers of a few girls in Sasserine, and “travelling bard extraorinaire” to people he introduces himself to – hates rain with a passion he would have thought impossible just a few months ago. Born in Sasserine, a harbor town built partially on islands, water has been part of his life since his birth. With the sea, pathway to exotic lands and adventures – and pathway to riches through trade – so dominating the town, rain had meant fresh, clean water for the town – and often a relief from the heat during summer. He had loved the smell of rain drops hitting hot cobblestones.<br/><br/>These days, rain stands for shame, humilation, embarassment, and his curse. And it rains a lot in the south. The young man – he is just 20 years old – eyes the treacherous sky as he makes his way through the wet streets of Cauldron, hugging the walls so the overhanging roofs provide shelter for him, and pulling his hooded cloak closer to his body. Getting wet is... bad. Getting wet means changing.<br/><br/>“Everyone, everything changes” the older tutors at the academy in Sasserine used to say. They did not mean the sort of changes he is going through, that much Tasaril is sure. They spoke of people changing, life changing, through experience – and adventure. Not feeling your body changing, important parts disappearing and other, unwanted – at least on him – parts appearing, clothes not fitting right anymore... If only he had never put his hands on that stupid idol! If only Claire had never put that thing in her study, where he had hidden when her husband had unexpectedly come home!<br/><br/>Tasaril still shudders when he remembers the first change, the first time another face had stared back at him from a mirror, the first time he looked down at his body, finding his manhood missing, and finding those mounds on his chest, where they had no business being. The terror when he thought it was a permanent change, until by chance a hot bath restored his gender. The embarassment of finding some of his so-called friends making unwanted avances on him while he was changed, those curs! Even if they didn’t recognize him they should not chase every pretty girl!<br/><br/>Tasaril sidesteps a splashing little waterfall, created by a leaky roof, and wonders if he should use his magic to keep the rain away. He is no trained mage, but he has a gift for some magics – some parlor tricks, as wizards would say, but which have proved to be useful in the right situations. A bit of magic would keep him safe for an hour... He decides against it though. He is almost where he wants to go, and will spend the next few hours in a dry tavern anyway – and since he can’t work much magic, squandering it on a bit of convenience when he might need it later for something important, like impressing a pretty wench, would be foolish. Tasaril is proud of his reasoning – he is growing up, as he expected. If only his parents could see him now, they would see he is not wasting his life pursuing knowledge and music. Not completely, at least.<br/><br/>Of course, his curse has thrown him off course. Just a bit. He hadn’t planned to visit Cauldron any time this decade. But all he had been able to find out about the idol that got him cursed had been that it was found somewhere south of Sasserine, maybe near Cauldron, where Claire’s mother had bought it on a whim. And after a number of spells have failed to remove the curse – curse those priests for false promises! – finding out more about this idol by himself is his best, maybe last hope to get rid of his curse. Which has brought him to Cauldron, the famous city built inside an old volcano. If there’s anything to find about this idol it’ll be found here.<br/><br/>The young man avoids another hole in the roof and the water that drips down from it. Almost there. Then he hears a call for help. He turns around, looking for the origin of it. Such calls mean someone is in trouble, and trouble has a tendency to spread. When he sees the two thugs harass the man he frowns and grips his rapier's hilt - he left his bow in his room, in this weather the string would get wet too soon, and a rapier is a better weapon for a night of carousing, even if his skill with it was a bit lacking.<br/><br/>It’s none of his business – it’s not a damsel in distress – but what’s this about an orphanage? Tasaril’s curiosity, which got him into more trouble than he cares to remember, is piqued.<br/><br/><em>(Bardic Lore: 19, Spot 12)</em><br/>