Molly sat on the beach, looking out at the waves crashing on the breakers. She smelled the salt in the air, and felt the warm sand under her legs. Picking up a piece of driftwood, she let her mind drift back to events recent, and distant, to how she had come to these isles.

Molly had no recollections of where she was from, though she always assumed it was somewhere along the Moonsea. Her earliest memories were of her parents and the fishing boat her father would take out every day. She grew up in a small village, though the name escapes her, if it even really had a name. It was only a handful of fisher families and a small shrine. A quite, happy childhood, learning the trade, tying knots, mending nets, and gutting fish after fish after fish. To the 8 year old Molly it was, of course, a living hell. She longed for the adventure in the stories the village story teller would tell on those long cold nights during the winter.

And then, she abruptly became a character in one of those stories.

She was out with her father on the fishing boat in a place her father had described as his secret spot. She was gutting a rather large fish when the mate first spotted the other craft. They were far from the normal trade routes so that other ships were not common, but then again, not unheard of. She did not recognize the flag it flew under, but her father seemed to and ordered her below decks as he began to order the crew to haul in the nets.

She learned later the ship belonged to Zhentil Keep. The memories of what followed she blanked out, even to this day, but she assumed it was bloody and one sided as the Zhentil's boarded her fathers boat, killed her father and the first mate, conscripted the others, including Molly, took what they wanted, and set the boat aflame. The only memory she does retain is of being held roughly while seeing her father's boat burning in the distance.

She then remembers being behind bars, cleaned, examined, and sold. Although only 8 years old, she was a strong girl, and had quite the reputation as a scrapper back home, so when she sent not one but two of her guards to the healers (one with a broken nose, the other wish a gash in his side from a spoon she had somehow stolen) the slaver sold her not as a pleasure girl but to be trained as a pit fighter.

The next 10 years she spent in chains, in training, or in the pit, fighting for her life. She was not the fairest of women, and had developed a rather rough outlook on life, but she proved to be effective with a blade and rose to some prominence as an audience favorite.

And then came the sale. A noble from down in Turmish had arranged for her to be bought to his lands for his own games. Although she had never been treated well by her owners/captors, she knew from other slaves and pit fighters that she could expect a lot worse.

The thought of which bought her to her recent history. The Siren's Song flew under whatever flag would ensure safe passage. The journey from the Moonsea to Turmish had been quiet and uneventful. Her escape was also quiet, and mostly uneventful.

She had stolen another spoon and used it to dig away at the wood that held her chains in place. She started it as her journey began and spent days gradually and subtly digging at the wood around the bolt. Finally, one night, the bolt came loose and she was able to slip away from the 'cargo' hold. They were anchored just off shore and she could see lights.

Though not a sneaker by trade, the crew never noticed her as she slipped up to the deck and down a rope to the water. She recalled how cold and choppy the water had been. She was thankful her father had insisted she learn to swim, unlike many of the other fishermen who would simply leave their fates to the gods if they got tipped into the drink.

She was strong, she was healthy, but even so, the mile of swimming left her exhausted, especially with the chain still on her ankle. But she made it. And now, two months later, she looked out at the sea. She discovered the town she had swum to was no friend to pirates. The blacksmith, a frowning man who never seemed to like her based on the prices he offered, broke her shackle, leaving her for the first time in a decade, free.

She decided then and there that this place had the makings of a home. Now she just had to make a name for herself.

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