Since he could remember, Tarsius just seemed to find himself in the right place at the right time. There was plenty of activity in the old capital of Logas, so maybe it was not all that strange to have odd little things happen.
Odd, at least at first. Oh, it was pretty small stuff, like happening to be right next to his father when he found a coin on the ground. His father said, with a smile, “you take it, son.” It was being chosen to represent his school at the regionals over his chief rival, Axios. But it was hard not to notice that, as he got older, his luck seemed to grow too.
It was having an old branch fall off a tree in a strong wind, but being able to push his buddy out of the way before he got clobbered in the noggin.
It was finding the leak in the barrel when he offered to help the barkeep unload a few casks of ale – it would have been emptied into the ground by the next day had he not noticed.
It was deciding on the spur of the moment to take a leisurely walk through the countryside and coming across someone who’d been thrown from his horse, unconscious and bleeding badly. The rider could well have died if Tarsius had not found him when he did.
It was finding the tiny piles of sawdust that heralded a new termite colony out by the stable – a colony which, had it gone undiscovered, could have weakened the old structure to the point of collapse.
It was Fate, right?
Sometimes at the end of the week, when the work was done but the sun was still up, his grandfather would go to one particular trunk, carefully move some neatly folded clothes and pull out a tarnished old sword wrapped reverently in well-worn linens. He would hand Tarsius a stout stick, and have mock sword fights with him. Tarsius could always see the attack coming from the old man, and he would grin and deftly parry. His grandfather would always look surprised and laugh with him. “You are getting good at this!” he would remark.
After maybe thirty minutes of this, his grandfather would grandly pronounce him “Champion of the Order of the Stick,” carefully rewrap the sword and put it away at the bottom of the chest, neatly stacking clean clothes over it again. It was a ritual that Tarsius enjoyed. “Perhaps someday,” the old man would say, “we shall switch roles.”
Every attack, he saw coming. It was Youth and Speed, right?
But although these moments of good fortune were sparse at first, they grew in frequency as he got older. And it got him thinking: was it really Fate and Youth and Speed? Perhaps it wasn’t any of those things – weren’t all of these events taken together a bit of a coincidence? Actually, a really big coincidence?
These questions finally caused him to seek out the wisdom of several local priests. Several, because it turns out they all had different explanations. One told him his experiences lined up perfectly with the writing of some prophet 400 years earlier, and that he should beware the three legged newt. Another told him these events were clear signs that the mythical Runelords were returning. A third suggested he might be able to see its meaning more clearly if 5 gp were donated to his church.
In the end, he felt the most harmony with the cleric of Nethys. The cleric he spoke with reminded him that without Tarsius’ intercession, these people would have been worse off. His intervention did not make anybody fabulously wealthy, but it did divert misfortune. It kept things balanced. Since no mortal could possess that kind of foresight naturally, it followed that it was a divine intervention. Nethys was a god that strove constantly to correct unbalance in the world, but even gods have to prioritize. While Nethys was dealing with monsoons and droughts, he used other mortals to handle “the small stuff.” Now that he was aware of this, the cleric said, Tarsius was at a decision point. Did he want to continue to be Nethys’ tool? Or did he want to stop waiting for the world to come to him, and instead go meet the world?
Tarsius had not planned to be an instrument of the gods. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be, either. (Who does?) And yet, if a god was selecting him in any way to manifest that god’s influence in the world … Tarsius shook his head. That’s a big deal.
He gave it considerable thought. Given all that had passed in his life, he concluded that Nethys, the god of Magic, was preparing to use him for something big. Nethys would make sure he was always in the right place at the right time, but once there he needed to be ready. He needed to both learn more of the church, and also more of how to defend himself against agents of discord and imbalance.
On Neth 21 4716, (the date of the balanced, half dark/half light moon of the month of Neth) Tarsius formally started his training to become a cleric of Nethys.
As part of his training, he learned that the task(s) Nethys has in mind for him would require him not just to be ready to channel divine energies but to also be adept in his use of weapons. He learned how to properly handle many different weapons, but he found himself working most with the longbow and a sword. His teachers desperately wanted him to work with a quarterstaff, as that was Nethys’ favored weapon, but remembering the bouts with his grandfather, he couldn’t ignore his desire to distance himself from “the stick”. During his training, his teachers noticed he continued to have remarkable luck – once, for instance, an errant arrow from another student streaked by his ear and impaled itself in the tree next to him instead of giving him a new hole in his head.
Fate, they said. Lucky, they murmured. Still. But by now, Tarsius knew differently. Nethys had something else in mind.
A mere two years later – a full year sooner than most – Tarsius was granted his vestments. He was now a rather green (yet well-trained) warpriest of Nethys. His parents were proud, but it was his grandfather who took this opportunity to lead him once again to the chest. He pulled out the familiar sword but this time when he unwrapped the sword, it gleamed and shone. “I polished it up a little,” his grandfather admitted. “This was my father’s scimitar. He was a warrior, as was I when I was younger. Your father never showed an interest in learning how to use it, and I despaired that my legacy would not be passed on. But here you are, all trained and eager to provide balance to the world. It seems appropriate to give it to you now. It is a cold steel scimitar, masterfully made. It is particularly effective against demons and fey, which you seem far more likely to trip over now than I. I think you will find it more useful than that stout stick they gave you.”
“Quarterstaff,” murmured Tarsius, and in a flash he realized his interest in learning to wield a sword was again, no coincidence. “You have had plenty of practice with a stout stick,” chuckled the old man, “but I think you’ll find this sword does better.” Tarsius nodded. “I am not a follower of Nethys, but I will still pray he watches over you.”
As he took up the sword, a small piece of paper fell from the linens and caught Tarsius’ sharp eye. “What’s that?” His grandfather leaned over and picked it up, scowling. “All the times I unwrapped this sword and I’ve never seen this before. Hmmmm. It’s a harrow card.”
“What’s a harrow card?” asked Tarsius.
“It is said they can be used to tell one’s Fate,” he said. “There’s usually a whole deck of them, and using them properly is a skill in its own right. This one is The Keep, a symbol of strength.” He handed it to Tarsius. “I’ve seen more than one harrow deck, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a version with these stylings.”
Tarsius inspected it closely. “There’s some old writing on it. Says …” He squinted a bit. “Says ‘Breachill 30 Era’.” He paused. “30 Erastus? That’s either a date long missed, or a date almost a year away. What’s Breachill?”
“It’s a town at the far east of Isger, up in the mountains near the headwaters of the Conerica,” said his grandfather, scowling. “I know it only from maps. It’s no small journey. I myself have never been there. I doubt anyone in our family has been.” He stared at the card. “There is no reason for that card to be in this place. I’ve no idea how it came to be here.”
Tarsius looked at his grandfather. “Nethys,” he said simply. “Nethys is making sure I am again in the right place at the right time. I believe I need to make a journey.”
“That’s quite a journey to satisfy a hunch,” said his grandfather slowly.
“Not a ‘hunch’,” replied Tarsius. “It is a sign from Nethys to be in a certain place at a certain time.” He looked somber for a moment before adding, “I would be remiss in my new duties were I to ignore the call.”