Sandwich Stoutaxe
Sandwich Stoutaxe is a character from a series of writefag threads on /tg/.
Her Story
Sandwich Stoutaxe aka Sandy is a female drow who was found by a dwarf named Gilgan Stoutaxe in the tunnels deep below the Stoutaxe clanhold. Sandwich is so named because her adoptive father discovered the basket containing her, assumed it was filled with sandwiches and gambled for it. Upon getting the basket home, Gilgal was disappointed to learn that, rather than containing a delicious snack, the basket contained a drow infant. He ended up adopting her at the urging of his sister Vera.In his frustration, he named the child Sandwich.
Sandy had a difficult upbringing. After all, she was an elf living among dwarves. Early in her life, she had a problem with doors, specifically that they were designed for people half her height. Still, she adapted and grew to womanhood among the dwarves. Naturally, puberty was hard but even more so for an elf raised to like dwarf men. Try as she might, she just never could get any of the dwarf men to pay attention to her.
Finally, after watching her Chieftain cut down by a drow cleric and an assassin squad she took them all on and killed three including the cleric of Lolth before almost succumbing to their poison. Fortunately, she was rescued by Dorn Rogan, a human Paladin of Lathander. After recovering she swore herself to Moradin as a paladin. Becoming the first elf in history to swear themselves to a dwarven deity.
Personality
Sandwich seems to have narrowly avoided Drizzt syndrome, the emo disease that seems to afflict all good aligned drow, as she does not consider herself a drow at all but a member of the Stoutaxe clan. Sandy is to total opposite of what a drow woman is supposed to be. Rather than being a cold, controlling, manipulative, sexpot; Sandy is cheerful, open, considerate and wants to save herself for the man she loves. Sandy speaks in an impenetrable but cheery Scottish accent which sounds utterly bizarre coming from an elven throat.
The Posts
"Dear Diary,
Today sucked goat-balls. Finished clearing out another tunnel full of those elves what think they're gophers. One of them had a basket. Me and the boys drew lots for it, and I won. The damn basket had a baby in it. Stupid elves don't know that baskets are for sandwiches. Now I'm stuck with this girl, I think. Might be a boy, but nobody really knows what the elf 'men' have in their breeches. Whatever. Took the thing home. Named it Sandwich."
"Dear Diary,
It's been a while. Been busy taking care of Sandwich. She's finally stopped hanging off my beard and trying to stab me in my sleep, bless her heart. Can't help the way she sounds when she talks, though. Her dwarvish sounds like one of those nancy-human harps. How those freaks stand that softy music I'll never know. Made her a plate helmet today. I was getting tired of buying her sissy bandages for her head whenever she ran into a doorpost. I think she likes it. Maybe I'll make her a full set..."
Diary entry 432. Day 4 after the second moon of the 31th year of the 9th era. Sandwich has taken to the helmet I gave her. Complains about the dents. Or I think she is. Wouldn't know. She is probably trying to speak proper dwarven. Not doing so well though. I fix the helmet once a week. Last night I heard a banging noise. She was on the kitchen floor using a candlestick as a hammer and the stone floor tiling as an anvil. Fixing the dent in the helmet. Gave her a good yelling for waking me up. Never been so proud.
"Dear Diary,
Went shopping with Sandwich today. First time I've taken the little thing out in this big a crowd, but she needs to get use to it. Sandy has more energy than I did in my prime, I swear she has to know EVERYTHING about everything she sees. This wasn't an issue until I took her to the market. She alternated between questioning faster then meh poor ears could keep up with and just looking at things.
At one point I was getting into an argument with some rich Elf Lord Wannabe. Say what you want about those effeminate elven nobles, at least they have some sense of pride, unlike this blowhard. He was trying to chew me out for 'harboring a potential Drow spy.' HA! I'd bet my forging arm this bastard never worked a day in his life. It was like someone took everything I hate about elves and made...this asshole.
During the fight, Sandy managed to wander off. I fount her later in the hands of a couple of much less rich and much more reasonable elves. However, apparently they had accepted the small amount of coins I had given her for an emergency and gave her...I'm not kidding, a hair dye job.
I was about to chew her out for it when I noticed something odd. Her hair was now a rust-red color, just like mine.
"Now the stupid elf will know your my dad!" She said happily. I'm going to melt her pointy ears with the lecture she's going to get when we go home, but I have to admit...I kinda like this kid."
Dear Diary,
Today sucked goat balls. I was late for militia practice again, and Warden Helga made me run the track four times. I asked her why I had to do that when the other militia only have to do it twice for the same offense and she replied "ta stretch out yer taffy legs, ya pointy eared daisy muncher!" Then she she made me run again, "fer sassin' me."
Dammit, why can't she see I'm just as much a Stoutaxe as anyone here. Sure I'm over a foot taller than everyone else, have black skin, and a voice that sounds like one of those nancy harps from the surface but Father Mogrim at the Temple of Moradin tells me it's what's inside you that counts.
On a lighter note, Poppa promised to help me finish the leg plates for my armor. Love, Sandy.
Dear Diary,
Great news! Poppa tells me that there's a clanmeet coming up and Bazghan Bronzebeard will be there! He's a distant cousin from a cross-clan marriage. I met him at great Clanmeet with the Bronzebeards years ago and I've had such a crush on him. I hear he's even been adventuring on the surface and killed a dragon!
Moradin's beard, I have not time I've got to get ready. I told Aunty Vera and she promised to help me finish that dress I have been working on all winter. I know I should have finished it sooner, but Poppa's kept me so busy at the smithy.
Oh what to do with my hair? I suppose being born an elf has some advantages. I used to try to dye my hair red, but it just grew so fast that my white roots showed no matter what I did. Still, it's nice to have the longest braids of any woman in the clan. Should I go with one braid? Two? Three braids braided together? Well, gotta go. I really have to get to market and pick up some gilded hair ornaments. Nothing fancy, little clips for the end, I want to accent my hair not overwhelm it. Gotta go. Love, Sandy.
Dear Diary,
Tonight's the big night! I finished that dress and not a moment too soon. I think it looks very fetching. A nice off gray, with a matching knitted wool coat. Aunty Vera said I should use silver ornaments instead of gold because my hair is such a bright white. After trying it on, I have to say it was a great choice. I polished it off with a silver-studded leather belt once and a half the width of my palm. I think I look every bit the proper Dwarven lady.
Except too tall and black skinned.
Oh well, some things you just have to adapt to. Wish me luck. Love, Sandy.
Dear Diary,
Tonight was the worst night of my life. I hate Bazghan Bronzebeard, I hate him!
Everything started out so well. Poppa finally saw me in my new dress. He said "would ya look at that. Ya finally look like a proper lady and not a scrawny waif!" He gave me one of his characteristic slaps on the back, when I was younger they would have sent me sprawling across the room. Now I'm older it just knocked the wind out of me and made me stagger.
We got to the clan meet right on time, the ritual greetings to the Chieftan and the speeches seemed to take forever. It took a while before I spotted him. There he was, Bazghan the Dragonslayer sitting three tables down from us.
It took me forever to finally screw up the courage to go talk to him. He must have caught me staring seven times. Poor Aunty Vera finally had to elbow me in the ribs to get me to go for it.
Well, I asked him to dance he accepted. We must have spent an hour dancing and talking. I was as giddy as a little girl.
Then he introduced me to his fiance. A halfling, a bloody halfling. I managed to keep my composure long enough to excuse myself. I spent the rest of the evening staring at the bottom of my ale mug.
When we got home, I just couldn't take it any more. I started sobbing right in the middle of the common room. It was so wrong of me, it's not how a dwarf maiden is supposed to act but I'm not a dwarf maiden. I'm a weak, bloody, stupid elf. Bless Aunty Vera. She took me to her quarters and asked me what happened. I told her and must have spent forever crying in into her lap while she stroked my hair. Stupid elf hair, I should dye it red again. Love, Sandy
Dear Diary,
I'm still not sure what I want to do. I want to serve Clan Stoutaxe to the best of my abilities, but choosing how is becoming a problem. I have to say, Ive surprised myself in the militia and I'm not the only one. I really seem to have earned Warden Helga's respect. She says I have potential and that I should become a Warden. She even said she would start training me to be a Hammerer.
It sounds good, but I don't know. I think Aunty Vera wants me to marry. Ever since that clanmeet decades ago she has trotted a seemingly endless parade of eligible Dwarf and Human men in front of me. I humor them, dance with them and laugh at their jokes but I have yet to start courtship with any one of them. She only tried elves once, that didn't go so well but I'm sure you already know all about that, eh Diary?
I guess that's just the elven part of me that I will never fully be able to erase. I asked one of the Elven traders about it last summer and she called it "melancholy" and said it could last for a long time. Well damn it, I'm a Stoutaxe and I'm not about to let my emotions rule me.
I think I'll accept Helga's offer. Love, Sandy.
Dear Diary
Damn me. Damn my weakness! I met my biological kin for the first time yesterday and those bastards killed my Chieftain right in front of me and I couldn't stop them!
It was my day, I had finally finished my full plate armor and I was standing at attention with the other Milita who were ready to be inducted into the ranks and become full fledged Wardens. We entered the Chieftain's hall as he was entertaining a delegation from another clan.
Then, it happened.
One moment, the 6 figures before the Chieftain were dwarves in royal regalia. The next, they were lithe tall humanoids with luminous white hair and black skin. They looked like me!
5 wore leather armor and wielded scemitars obviously men. The sixth was a tall, lithe woman dressed more like a whore than a priestess and weilding some kind of sceptre or mace in the shape of a black widow. Instantly, they fell on the Chieftan and his guards.
With a banshee roar I charged the woman as the men rushed forward she was unprotected. As it happened, I underestimated her. She heard me coming and moved with oily speed dodging the first swings of my warhammer with unnatural grace and landing several blows of her own that stung even through my armor. I finally landed a blow that left a huge welt on her side, she snarled in rage and countered with a blow that knocked my helmet off.
Things seemed to move in slow motion. Her expression changed from one of triumph and rage to one of confusion. She froze, I didn't. I brought my warhammer down on her head with all my might with a sickening crack. I felt her head pop as my arm and face were splattered with wet, gooey material.
My triumph was short lived. I turned just in time to see one of the assassins wrenching his scimitar from the Chieftain's chest. "NOOOOO!" I screamed as I charged the closest assassin. He finished decapitating a fellow Warden before turning to face me. His blows clanged harmlessly off my shield and my counter blow shattered his right shoulder, but he ignored the pain and spun driving a slender dagger through a slit in my armor on my left side. I grunted in pain, swung and missed.
I soon realized the other assassins were moving to surround me. I dropped my shield, the wound in my shoulder made it too painful to hold and it was slowing me down. The assassin with the shattered arm tried to rush me. I swept his feet out from under him and brought my hammer down on his chest with a sickening crack. As I stood, I heard a rush of air and felt sudden, sharp pain in my back. The cowards had shot me. I turned to face them, but already I could feel the strength draining from my limbs. I staggerd, but gritted my teeth and swung anyway. I was a Stoutaxe and if I was to die that day, I would take as many of those bastards screaming into the hells with me as I could.
The assassins circled me like predators savoring a kill. I swung at them, but my eyelids were heavy and my arm felt like a ton of lead. The blows refused to connect. I could feel my life draining away. It was no use, I sank to my knees cursing myself. I glared into the eyes of the lead assassin as he raised his hand crossbow. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me grovel. "Do your worst." I snarled. He merely laughed.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle sounded and an arrow drove through his eye socked at pierced his skull. His other eye had just enough time to register an almost comical look of surprise before falling to the floor.
A bellow of holy rage filled the room as a human in gleaming full plate charged the farthest assassin. He stood well over 6 feet tall, was broad across the shoulders and had masculine features with long, blonde hair and piercing green eyes. The front of his armor was adorned with symbols of the human god Lathander. He bellowed a prayer as he drove his massive greatsword clean through the nearest assassin's body. The second assassin was charged by a bald man, also in plate wielding a Bastard sword. Not wanting to be left out, I llept to my feet and attacked the last assassin. He parried three of my blows, but the third got through and knocked him to the floor before I delivered the finishing blow.
Finally I stood, staring at the blonde human. He stared back, not sure if I was friend or foe. I tried to walk towards him I stumbled. It was taking nearly the force of my will just to stay conscious. My gore coated warhammer finally slipped from my weakening fingers as I staggered and fell
He rushed forward, I heard his sword clatter to the floor before he caught me. I looked into his green eyes and struggled to form words, but my strength was leaving me and I could only make weak gasps and choking sounds.
"She's been poisoned! Septimus, quickly!" He called out, the cleric rushed towards me and began muttering some thing, his hand glowing but my head rolled back and the world went black.
I awoke in my quarters at home. I don't know how long I had been out. Hours? Days? Aunty Vera was right by my side. She was nearly beside herself. "Oh Sandy, lass we thought we had lost you!" This time, she was the one who lost her dwarven composure. Poppa was there to. "You did us proud, lass." He said.
I managed to find out who that man is. His name is Dorn. He's a Paladin of Lathander. He has been traveling with a Cleric of Helm named Septimus and a Halfling Ranger named Royl Swifthistle. Apparently, they had found the real dwarven delegation murdered in the tunnels and had rushed to warn the Chieftain. Now Dorn wants to meet me, but I can't imagine why.
Love, Sandy.
Dear Diary,
It's been almost a week since I met Dorn Rogan, Paladin of Lathander. I could hardly imagine why a hero of the gods would want to meet little old me. Still, as I walked out into the common room with Aunty Vera supporting my arm (I was still a little weak from the poison, you see) I couldn't help but feel a little giddy. Almost like I felt the night before Bazghan Bronzebeard took my little adolescent heart in his hand and crushed it.
When he saw me, he stood and I finally got a good look at him. He was tall and masculine, with broad shoulders, a muscular yet lean frame and a chiseled jaw. His long, blonde hair was tied behind him in a ponytail.
Dorn introduced himself and asked how I was feeling. He complimented me on my bravery. He was worried that the poison might have some after effects so he had come to check on me. I thanked him and we began to chat. I must have seemed like a little girl smitten with a handsome Deepwarden but I didn't care. I was fascinated by him, his tales of what he had done. More than that, I wanted to know what being a Paladin really meant.
He told me he would be leaving soon. I desperately wanted him to stay, but I could do nothing. Still, a sense of certainty filled me. I knew what I wanted to do with my life.
I have just come from the temple of Moradin and a long talk with Father Mogrim. He was unsure, an elf taking the oath to the dwarven god was unprecedented but I was bound and determined. I knew my path.
I start my Paladin training in the morning.
Love, Sandy.
Dear Diary
Well, today's the big day. Father Mogrim says it's time for me to leave the clanhold. A Paladin's place is not to simply stay in one spot, he must undertake a quest for the good of all. So, father Mogrim has sent me out into the world at large to do great deeds in Moradin's name. Don't get me wrong, I want to do this. Ever since Dorn Rogan, Paladin of Lathander saved my life I have known this was my true calling. I just feel a little melancholy about leaving. I have only been to the surface a few times and never gone out of sight of the clanhold.
Poor Aunty Vera is almost beside herself. I can tell Poppa doesn't want me to leave either. I wish I could stay, but this is my duty. The world at large is an anvil on which Moradin is going to reforge me. When I return, I will be a champion of the All-Father better suited to defending my home.
I have to travel light, so that means I can't take you along, Diary. You wouldn't believe some of the things I found while cleaning out my quarters. I still have the 1235 edition of "Rangers: Summer Collection." Fortunately, Poppa was still at the smithy and I manged to burn it in the hearth before anyone saw. How embarrassing.
There was a meeting in the clan hall to see me off. Everyone was there, even Bazghan Bronzebeard and his wife. I'm going to miss this place.
Well, time to turn in. I have to get an early start tomorrow.
Love, Sandy
PS. On second thought, I think I will bring you, Diary. I really don't want Aunty Vera finding all those love sonnets I wrote when I was a girl. She might get it in her head to try and marry me off again.
When Sandy pushed the door open to her father's workshop, she heard the familiar sounds of his work. She could even read his moods by the pace of his movements, the tone of hammer-blows or file rasps. He turned as she entered, eyes flicking across the heavy armor she wore--armor he had largely crafted himself, fitting each piece to his daughter in his last act of fatherly protection.
"I'll be leavin' wi' the clerics for Oakhurst soon, Poppa."
She smiled, moving to his side at the workbench. Her own helm sat there, and Grilgar was wordlessly brushing its surface with an oiled cloth, buffing the thin layer of blueing that would protect it from rust. She saw that he had added a hinged visor to the helm; a series of diagonal vents across its surface allowing excellent vision, yet covering the entire face. Finally, not looking up from his handiwork, he spoke.
"Added this for ye, daughter. Ye might find...well, yer eyes ain't likely to be used t' th' sun just yet. And..." He let out a soft harumph, broad shoulders straightening. "Ye know I never taught you t' be anything but proud o' yer face, lass. But outside th' hold...well, maybe sometimes ye may want strangers t' know ye by word an' deed before they can judge ye unfairly. Is all."
He finally glanced up, meeting those red-violet eyes he had come to find so familiar, so lovely. He could see the welling of tears, blinked away, and he harumphed again, as always never quite able to respond to the ease with which his daughter showed emotion.
Sandy leaned down slightly, kissing the top of her father's head, his greying hair having long ago receded from its peak. A change for which he had often, loudly, blamed her.
"I love ye, Poppa. I'll make ye proud, I swear it."
A pause of a few seconds, then his quiet, rumbling voice. "I'm proud of ye already, lass. An' always will be."
Sandy held her father for some time longer, saying nothing. Then she took up her helmet, and turned toward the door, father and daughter alike hiding their tears from the other.
[Disclaimer: The following was, in fact, written by the same author to the above. It's still terrible]
Dear Diary
Oi, what a day. So I awoke from my trance before the rest of the family had even stirred and made breakfast. I roused Aunty Vera and gave her a little peck on the forehead before leaving. I would be traveling with a caravan through the southern road. Apparently, the caravans had been having some bandit trouble lately. Smiting some foul cut purses seemed like a perfect way for a young paladin to cut her teeth.
Our caravan was led by a surly old dwarf named Belgar. Belgar left before dawn. The trip stared out alight, but soon things started going wrong. For one, the "southern road" actually runs more east to west, and this being the mountains it created a perfect channel for the sun. I was never quite comfortable with that big, glowing ball in the sky. It hurts my eyes something terrible. Two minutes after daybreak, I was squinting in the blinding light. Two hours later, I was staring at my saddle with watering eyes. Damn sun.
Of course, it was at this point that the bandits decided to attack. Murphy's law and all that. Our first sign of the attack was the sound of rocks tumbling down the mountain. I might be half-blind in sunlight, but that doesn't mean my other sense aren't sharp as a nail. I suppose there are more advantages to being born an elf than just the hair.
Next thing we knew, the caravan was being swarmed by Goblins, urging them forward was a big, hairy giant with two heads. An Ettin from the looks of it, and my target. I charged through the goblins, scattering them like so many pins as I lept from my horse and readied my warhammer.
The beast swung at me, wielding an uprooted tree like a club, but I managed to leap out of the way. I suppose there are other advantages to being born an elf. Channeling the holy power of Morain into myself, I brought my hammer down on the beast's foot with a satisfying crack of bone. As the beast reeled and I prepared to deliver the killing blow, however I felt myself being pulled aside.
A big, blonde, oafish-looking fellow in plate armor leapt in front of me. "Fear not, fair maiden this beast shall not harm you." He said, his back was to me, so he missed me staring daggers at him.
He also missed the Etin's arm coming down next to him him and knocking him off balance. "I'm doing just fine, thank you very much!" I shouted with more than a little annoyance in my voice. "No, fair maiden. Stay behind me, I will not let this beast lay a finger on you." He said, holding his arms out to block my charge. In the process of shouting at each other, we missed the Etin bringing the tree up to swing at us again. As the tree began its descent that would surely squash both this oaf and myself, two arrows buried themselves in the Etin's chest. As the beast fell, the man turned to the shooter, a goblin wearing a tabard, and said. "Sniff, don't you dare screw me up like that again."
"Sorry, sir." The goblin replied, turning it's eyes downward and sighing in resignation.
That was how I met Smite Brannigan.
Love, Sandy
Dear Diary,
We FINALLY reached Oakhurst. I still don't know why that caravan driver decided to take the detour through troll country. It felt like we were on the road for weeks, and that insufferable Oaf of a knight droning on in my ear the whole time. I feel tired, wet (from the snow, you degenerate pervert) and a little dirty from spending so much time within earshot of that blaggart.
I must say, I was pleasantly surprised by the Oakhurst villager's reaction when I removed my helmet. I attracted something of a crowd after a while. It seemed that word of the dwarven drow had spread south along the trade route and the locals wanted to see if the stories were true. I shouldn't let this lull me into a false sense of security. My dark skinned race are known and despised in every corner of Faerun, father that my own legend could have possibly spread.
I managed to get his goblin squire, sniff, alone once and asked him how such an unusually intelligent goblin ended up travelling with such an unusually thick knight. The loudmouth Sir Brannigan claims he rescued Sniff from a tribe of giants who were about to eat him. The truth is, he won sniff in a bet on a pit fight. The poor dear, stuck traveling with that insufferable lout masquerading as a proper knight.
Thankfully, we are parting company at Oakhurst. They are heading north into the mountains to hunt frost giants. I offered to take Sniff with me, but he feels honor bound to Sir Brannigan. If Sir Brannigan had any shred of honor in him, he'd turn Sniff loose.
As for me, I will go southeast, into the deep forest. There are stories that the woods are cursed and that evil things lurk within. To be honest, I'm more worried about running into surface elves. My encounters with the elven traders at home were not pleasant, and then I had Poppa and the whole clan to back me up. I hope I don't run into any wood elves.
Or giant spiders. Moradin's beard, I hate those eight legged bastards.
Love, Sandy
Sandwich, you've really done it now.
Dear Diary,
I am currently writing this from a guarded cell high in a tree. Higher up than I have ever felt comfortable without walls of stone surrounding me. Do you remember what I said last time we talked, diary? About the one thing I did not want to encounter in these woods? Guess who I ran into not half an hour after walking in. Bloody wood elves, a whole bleeding clan of them.
So I reached the High Forest, following the rumors of monsters and ancient, cursed ruins that lay within, the perfect place for a Paladin to spread the light of the gods. I had never seen trees before. Well, not for real anyway. When I saw the sketches the merchants brought I was sure they were exaggerating. The tree canopy was a welcome relief from the constant, bright sun that had dogged me all the way from the hold. I was just starting to get comfortable in this place when I heard something moving in the canopy above. Suddenly, I was reminded of how alien an environment I had just blundered in to.
I scarcely had time to feel just how lost and alone I really was here when an arrow struck the ground not three feet from me. I heard the rustle of something slithering down a branch behind me and the stretching noise as a new arrow was drawn in the bow. "Don't turn around." The voice was firm, angry even. It didn't seem quite elven, it had the lyrical quality to it, but it seemed all together rougher more human. "You are either bold, or stupid to traipse into our woods so brazenly, cursed one."
I realized then that I had removed that I had removed my helmet when I entered the High Forest, my dark visage was now plain for all to see. "You are making a mistake. My name is.." He cut me off. "I don't care what you call yourself, to me you are but a filthy murdering drow who should be thankful she is still breathing right now."
The insult stung a bit, but I had endured such cruel taunts throughout my childhood. They had lost their sting long ago.
My captor continued. "I am taking you to the Elder. He will know what to do with you."
So I was led into the wood elve's camp. My hands upraised for fear of getting an arrow through my heart if I so much as flinched. As we arrived, we passed by a burbling stream where a pretty, blonde elf was gathering water. The poor thing actually gave a little scream when she saw me and dropped the clay water jug she carried where it shattered into a thousand pieces.
I heard my captor barking some orders at her in elvish. Before I knew it, my hands were bound and I was standing before the elder. I finally got a good look at my captor, he seemed like an elf but he was fuller some how, more muscular, broader in the shoulders. His most striking feature was something that I had never seen on an elf before. A beard, well more of a little tuft of hair on his chin but still I had never seen an elf with facial hair before. His long, chesnut brown hair and piercing green eyes made for a rather handsome and less effeminate, example of the elven species. Of course, the look of absolute contempt and disgust he regarded me with kind of ruined the view.
The elder pulled my head out of the clouds when he started questioning me in some bizzare language I had never heard before. It sounded like someone trying to speak elven with a cold. He finally asked me in common, "who are you?"
"I am Sandwich Stoutaxe of the Stoutaxe clan. I may have been born a drow, but the heart that beats in my chest is that of a Stoutaxe."
"You're either insane, or the most incompetent infiltrator I have ever met. I say we kill her and be done with it."
The elder turned to to face the bearded ranger. "Enough, Kanihel. We shall hear what she has to say, then make our judgment.
So began a very long and very boring interrogation, that I just don't feel the urge to recount for you, Diary. At least they let me keep you when they locked me up in here. The elder doesn't want to kill me, but nor can he fully trust me and if the legends about my people are even half true, I can't say I blame him.
Love, Sandy.