The History of the Theif.

[Sadism]

My name?

The woman that birthed me decided my name would be Anya-Marie. I was 'gifted' with the family name of Dubois by the bastard that is technically my father. I'm sure you can already discern just how my affections run when it comes to my parents. I admit it; I'm bitter. I wasn't loved enough as a child. I will give her credit, though; my mother did want to care. It was just that she couldn't.

My mother was a whore, you see. These are not the spiteful words of an angry woman, but simple truth and fact. My mother was a cheap prostitute, and my father an incompetent cut-purse and pick-pocket. I was their little mistake, the by-blow generated in one night's back-ally fuck, paid for by a bout of success from his sticky fingers.

I have a hard time dealing with the memories of my parents and my childhood. It's quite hard to come to terms with, all of it leaving me feeling hurt and resentful. In one perspective, they tried in their own ways to provide for me. To show me something I could use when I was an adult. On the other hand... They both tried to teach me their trades.I know that sounds as if it should've been a sign of love and concern, but for two people scrounging for every copper they could, I was a means to get more. Likely it's quite obvious that neither of them should be a role model; being a whore is not a career choice any child should have to consider.

I did learn many things from my mother, however. Tricks that have served me well, though I know she meant for me to use them in a less savoury way than I have chosen to. Perhaps if she had belonged to a brothel, or was a true courtesan, I might have become like her. A whore is a whore is a whore, no matter how pretty a title they may carry. Courtesans get some respect servicing the wealthy and nobly born, while women who spread their legs for a couple of silver...

My father, on the other hand, had a considerably lower success rate with his...employment. In truth, if he had any skill at all, he'd probably not have coupled with my mother that night. If he had even been mediocre, we probably would have all ended up better. Failure though he was, he tought me some important things about stealing. About fences and appraisal. My father was not a stupid man; he knew what he needed to know to make a living off of his crimes. He knew how to walk the walk and talk the talk when it came to dealing with the shadiest of the shady. It was all simply because he was so painfully inept at performing. I think he could have been better selling lies than lightening pockets.

When I was eleven, my mother passed from illness. I know nothing of medicine, and we could not afford even the cheapest of the worst doctors. I will never know what disease killed my mother, but that's not something that saddens me. As my father had taught me to watch, I saw the world they moved through. I saw more than most children should even know about. That leads to growing up fast in certain ways. And one of the things I saw was the type of men my mother serviced, and I saw the disease-worn faces of the other cheap whores she called her friends. That's enough to satisfy my curiosity.

Her death incited a dramatic change in the world I knew, though likely you might wonder how it could possibly be any different. As bad as it was, it would only get worse, though I had no way of knowing that at the time. I understand now that my father never truly cared about my mother or I; because he was helping to raise his child, he didn't have to pay to be serviced. And as far as I was concerned? I was just another potential angle to net him that big score he so desperately seemed to believe was coming his way.

In a way, I think he at least had that right.

I officially became property six months after my mother's death. Heavily muscled men came one night and took me while I slept. Really, I should not have been so surprised at their showing up. Given the way my parents lived, it was really only a matter of time before one pimp or another decided to 'hire'on a new girl. I was young, and youth brings naivity, even in the most knowledgable of children. There's still that hope that a fairy tale might happen to you, and you'll live Happily Ever After. When they took me, I screamed for help, for my father, from where I had been caste over one shoulder like any sack the dock workers tossed about. In my young mind, it made sense for him to protect me; he was my father. And while he could not have fought either man and won in a fair fight, I knew there was very little truly fair about my parents. I had seen my father draw blood on a few occassions. I knew he had a knife or two. Of course, my father couldn't hear me over the deafening sound of all the coins.

As my story seemed to be nearing a very dark tale with a horrific ending, fate and fortune finally smiled on me. Even if it was only faintly, it was a good sight better than what might have played out otherwise.

[Sadism]

The man that had purchased me was lecherous in the worst ways. He drooled over me copiously, and more than once, literally. Nothing so disgusting as that; now and then, his lust would overcome him and revert him to a less than sentient state. And during such occasions, he would get close to smell me, to lick my cheek in the revolting fashion he had. Sometimes the saliva would come a little too fast for the man-beast to take care off. I knew what he wanted from the way he had looked at me. It was the same way so many men had looked at my mother; cheap as she had been, she was pretty enough. This man's porcine gaze was no different then the others had been.

Had my parents not been who they were – a whore who knew how to incite the cock-driven side of men and a fast-talking, conniving crook – I would have been just another notch on that man's belt the first month. Like most men with his peculiar tastes, there is a ritual to what they do. A routine that must be followed, or it's just not right. Not good enough. Like I had been taught, I watched him when he played with one of his other toys. I listened when he spoke to them, to the other new girls he had paid for. I listened and I learned his weakness. and like all men like him, they were many and obvious. Any one of the other girls could have seen them, had they known where to look. Had they been able to see through the fear that filled them once they understood what was on his mind.

He was a weak man. He wanted to be loved. Wanted to be desired. Wanted a girl to be as excited for him as he was for them. That was why he had so many; none of them had given him exactly what he wanted in a lasting fashion, so he always moved on to try with another. They never really loved him, only acted the part for fear of what might happen otherwise. Eventually he would see the truth, and discard the girl. I can't say what happened to the ones before me, only that they disappeared one day and never came back. I fear the worst, but I can only hope he wasn't so monstrous as to do the worst. Perhaps he sold them to brotherls or pimps. Surely, even as horrid as life that may be, at least it is life.

I played his weakness. I was clumsy at first; I was so young, trying to ply the tricks my mother had demonstrated without becoming my mother. The last thing I wanted was to be a peice of meat for any man, I had already decided. It was a challange to use my mother's tricks without driving him to levels of lust that would cause him to just take what I was alluding to offering. I wanted him to believe I could be that girl he had always wanted. For six months, I was terrified I would misstep and become just another one of those girls, used and discarded before I'd even grown to a woman.

I won his trust by leading him to think I was the obedient little thing he desired. I wore his dresses and said the things he wanted to hear. I let his maids curl my hair and tie in ribbons. I won my freedom by leading the leech into thinking I was enamored of him. I'm not sure how I managed to keep him in line for so long. I think it must have been pure luck; his desperation so great he was willing to grasp at any chance at all, and perhaps having learned from the other girls that moving too soon would ruin it all. I will never know, and like so many other mysteries of my past, I truly do not care to. When I could wander the house unsupervised and unquestioned, I began to use the skills my father had taught me. Small at first; a coin here and there, buried in the garden bit by bit, carefully. For weeks I slunk around under the guise of being the perfect little doll, all the while pilfering what looked easy enough to grab, to sell.

I wish I could say I escaped without notice, but that's simply not true; my leaving was very much noted. My 'owner' wasn't a truly monstrous man, though he was evil indeed. While his actions and his tastes far out-shadow any virtues with in him, I have to admit that he took very good care of all the girls in his possession. He did not beat any of us. Did not whip us. Did not let his few guards do whatever they pleased, which I'm sure they must have wanted to. What man could knowingly allow such things to happen, unless he ageed with them in some way? In his own way, I think he cared. I think he was just sick, that something in him was just not the way it was supposed to be, and that he was not in control of himself. Perhaps he had become possessed by a malignant spirit. Certainly, it is possible. Ultimately, it's unknowable. For as decent as some of his behaviour had been, he'd done unforgivable things, and for that very reason, I did what had to be done so he could not indulge his vile habits any more.

I can still see his eyes, whenever I let my mind wander. The surprise. The hurt. The recognition and the understanding of my betrayal. The realization of what exactly was happening. I never let go for a second; I pushed the knife in even deeper, as if to show him this was no accident but a choice. I watched his eyes, and watched the illumination of life dwindle and fade. I can't say how I came to the conclusion, but I knew that murder was never something that should be easy. My father might have taken his fair share of lives, now that I reflect on it. When murder becomes easy, you risk your soul. Only the soulless could sell a child to a monster.

It's one of the few rules I live by, to remember everyone whose life I take. The blood of every last one of them is as fresh on my hands today, and never will I wash it away. It is my reminder, and in a fashion, my penance.

Those are stories for another time, if such a time can truly ever exist.

[Sadism]

Without someone to care for me, I learned another truth about the streets. About how hard they really are. All that my parents had taught me made survival a little easier on me, yet my life with them did not really prepare me for a homeless existance. For all their faults and how ramshackle our home had been, there had always been a roof over head and food provided. I had not had to fend for myself before.

That's when I became a thief for real. Had to. I was homeless, dirty, and feral. Nobody was going to provide for me, so I had to take care of myself, and I dare say I was good at it. Considering my age and experience, of course. Very amateur, now that I look back, but even in the beginning I surpassed my father. I managed more in a month than he did in an entire year. More in a year than he had in his lifetime. I had even gone a step above my father; my small frame made squeezing through tight openings easy. By the time I was thirteen, I'd added burglary to my sheet of sins.

Of course, chancee catches up with everyone, and I'm certainly no exception. You can't be a crook and not run get caught. The world just doesn't work that way. A dozen times I had almost been caught more than a few times, sneaking through some well-to-do merchant's house with his wife's jewelry. I could always save myself from retribution in those situations by simply falling back on the tricks my mother had shown me. If anything positive can be said about my parents, it was that they had good breeding. I will never know their heritages, but it's evident their families hadn't been hardy folk of the earth. By some fluke, I came out with the best of both of them, on a physical level. Even that young, I'd possessed the glimmerings of what womanhood would bring about.

And men always like pretty women. Pretty girls.

Naturally, it is bred into men to act tough. To pound their chests and use their size to intimidate others, if possibe. All it takes, though, is an allusion to what lies between your legs and the idea that just maybe, they can find out for themselves. All too often, they become little more than village idiots. Overly gullible idiots, I might add. The angry brute that was watching to see which way you would jump so they could beat you, suddenly believes he's won because you might give him a taste of something.

I have no doubts that they all tell the same story the next day; the burglar was a huge man – twice their size – who jumped them in the dark when they had gotten up to take a piss. Naturally, they could not have stopped a man bigger and tougher, especially not if the burgler caught them from behind and knocked them on the head.

If they must tell lies to protect their manhood, then let them. So long as they learned a lesson, even if they never share it with anyone else, then there is no harm in them protecting their pride. I certainly do not need any infamy. Once you've achieved the limelight, it becomes that much harder to find things that sell well enough.

As I said, I've found myself corner more than once. I just don't consider it being caught, as I was never handed over to the law, or personal guards. While I might have been restrained a few times, I always got away, and always with my loot. The first time I failed to make my escape , however. was when I was foolish enough to sneak my way into the tower of a sorcerer of some local renown. I'm still embarrassed to admit to the fact. It was awful. I was so foolish, believing I could just walk in and out. As if someone with arcane knowledge wouldn't have some source of protection.

[Sadism]

By the time I was seventeen, I had become quite adept at thievery. I dare say I was rather good at it, able to get into some of the hardest places and get out again unnoticed. Unfortunately, this meant arrogance had begun to display itself, and to prove how great I was, I aimed for bigger and better marks. My biggest boast would be the one that would bite me in the ass; the sorcerer's tower. As anyone with more than a few years under their belt already knows, arrogance is folly.

Naturally, I watched the residence for a while. Learned the routines of those in the sorcerer's employ; what time on what days the delivery boy showed up. When the cleaning staff came by, and how long they stayed. All the little mundane rituals that occur that make a mark predictable and easy. For the first while, it went well enough; a few pieces of jewelery here, a few coins tucked away there. Nothing grand scale, you understand, but I was still working my way to where all the big ticket goods would undoubtedly be kept. All those fancy things that make sorcerers so arrogant and cock-sure.

After only a few minutes in the main chamber, my pouch was half-full of scrolls and fancy trinkets that had been laying around. As the matters of mystic nature are jealously guarded by those that understand them, I knew nothing about them but I knew that caution was key when dealing with magical things. There were too many stories about would-be thieves setting themselves on fire with arcane flames, or summoning some nether-world demon that promptly devoured them. Everyone knows a story, a 'truth' about the sorts of things wizards and their ilk get into.

As smart as I was, obviously I wasn't smart enough. My arrogance led me to pretend I believed the sorcerer wouldn't have guards of some fashion; as if someone who can bend the universe to their will would rely solely on fallible humans to keep their property and premises secure. All the creepy looking statutes that those magely types seem to adore? Seems they all make great guards, too. Unable to feel pain, highly resilient to damage, unfettered by needs of the flesh; aside from the simplicity of their minds, they are the perfect guards.

The gargoyles moved faster than I expected something stonewrought to be capable of. It took only a few seconds of indecisisve 'dancing' before it was painfully clear to me that escape was not a possiblity. Coupled with the fact there were considerably more 'guards' than burglers, it was all too evident that I would not be leaving by any ordinary fashion.

Unfortunately – despite being well-bred and pretty enough – I was very much ordinary. No matter how talented I in the skill of larceny.

It was a week before the sorcerer returned from wherever he had been. A week stuck in the center of a room, surrounded by unmoving, unsleeping, silent sentinels. At first, I had worried about food and water only to learn soon enough that the sorcer had taken precautions for just such an event. The cleaning ladies who came by to take care of the mundande aspects of the sorcerer's tower had been asked to look in on the lab. Thankfully, they provided me with a few amenities - as instructed - to make my incarceration a little less unpleasant; food, a blanket and a pillow, a chamberpot. It was hardly an event I would choose to repeat, but I'm quite aware it could have been worse. I could have been left to starve to death.

The sorcerer was obviously none too pleased to find me sitting in the middle of his laboratory; the flash of anger I saw in his eyes when he swept into the room made my stomach flip. I was quite sure I was going to spend the rest of my life as some sort of farm animal. That was what those who studied the arcane arts did to the common folk, after all.

Eloran, as was his name, turned out to be a decent fellow. I wish I could say he let me go, but that's not how events played out. I was, technically, imprisoned. My jail might have been a spot bigger and less drab, but the premises that Eloran owned were as much a cell to me as any dungeon. With a spell that seemed far to easy and trivial he shackled me as surely as if I had been slapped in irons. For my trespass, I would become a thankless laborer, doing whatever menial tasks my jailer demanded, no matter how repulsive and unfit for females.

This doesn't turn out as bad as it might seem to imply; Eloran never demanded my body. He lusted after me, obviously, but during the entire time I was his captive, he was a perfect gentleman. I must say, if I ever have to serve a term for my crimes again, I do hope to serve it in a fashion similar to Eloran's. He was the first man who sought to win my heart, rather than pry my thighs apart.

Neither was my forced servitude overly onerous, either. Mostly, I served as an assistant for his studies, as few people were willing to be so close to uncontrolled, new magic. In the end - though I could not leave until my term was complete – I was hardly a slave. After the first year, once I came to see Eloran was a good person, my 'stay' seemed more like a choice on my half, than a punishment. It lasted for two and a half years, and in that time Eloran had begun teaching me a bit of his art, having found I had some skill for it. I would never shape the face of the world or be held in awe, but I could perform small, easy cantrips.

Life was good, until the local head of state declared war with a neighbouring country. Being one of the local celebrities, Eloran couldn't avoid combat. Everyone would note his absence and his reputation would suffer. As any mage can tell you, a reputation is half the battle for privacy. Either through fear or respect, the end result they desired was always the same thing. Of course, being as powerful a mage as he was, he could have ensured his privacy, but he had a reputation for being a good, kind, and just man. While he did not support the cause of the war, he supported the people. His inaction would not prevent the conflict, but only ensure more of his fellow countrymen died needlessly.

I watched him go, unable to leave his tower. And as he stood, waiting to mount his horse, he professed his love for me. He asked my hand.

It would have made a good fairy-tale, I think. I was going to accept his offer.

If only he had come-back.

[Sadism]

Eloran died as most mages seem to do; despite working miracles, it was ultimately something mundane and pathetic and wholly unbelievable that killed him. While he stood casting his magics – defensive spells on the troops, rather than offensive abilities unleashed on the enemy – an archer nearby fell to the blade of a footman, his fingers loosing the nocked arrow. With fate as twisted as it is, as the archer fell his aim was knocked astray, and the loosed arrow lodged itself through Eloran's neck.

The war was ultimately lost, with the enemy taking control of the country, slaying the head of state in a public execution. Eloran was buried a public hero, celebrated not only by his fellow countrymen, but by the soldiers of the other country; so many of them could have died by a few words from his lips, but instead he'd done his best to preserve as much life as he could. Even his enemies could appreciate that, for in the end they are really no different than we are.

With Eloran's death, I was granted my freedom; the spell that had confined me to the tower faded, unwoven at that fatal moment. While I felt elated that I could leave once more, I found I could not. I had been in love, and that had been lost. Desperately, I clung to what I as if I could somehow bring him back by my force of will. For months, I stayed, digging through all the old, musty tomes in his library for an answer, a spell. Something, anything, that would let me bring him back. Lacking any true skill, everything I found that might have worked was far too complex. Had I been an apprentice, had I been gifted with the years - decades - of study needed, perhaps I could have yielded something.

I know I could never have gone through with my wishes, not only because I lacked the power but because Eloran would disapprove of what he would be. Would have been disappointed that I had walked down such dark paths. And I was afraid, as well. Always he stressed that death was a part of reality best left untouched, as the dark energies needed to fuel necromantic incantations always twisted the magic and would corrupt the caster. Nothing good came from necromancy, he stated more than once, often with intense fervor.

I packed what few things I had, and selected some mementos Eloran had gifted me with; magical trinkets that were as pretty as they were powerful. Tricks and spells to protect me, though I doubt he thought I would ever need them with him around. He had believed we would have a life together, after all.

To escape from the grief I was forced to carry, I reverted back to what came naturally to me; thievery. Only this time there was no arrogance as I had nothing to prove, and nobody to prove it to. Now I was stealing just for the sake of stealing, to let the rush of fear of capture wash away the sadness that Eloran's death had left. The two years I had spent with him, training, did not go to waste. I think he might have frowned to see how I used the magics he had taught me, but only lightly; I did no harm with the magic, which was something he had preached quite often enough.

Of course, my tricks did not make me unstoppable. Once more, two years after I had left Eloran's tower, I found myself caught by magic, though in this situation the owner of the palace I had snuck into was not adept at the arts himself. It had turned out someone I had once known had come into the employment of the sultan, and chance had it that the fellow saw me in the marketplace. Injured by some past wound I had apparently inflicted, he had hurried back to his master to warn him and prepare him. It was only evident I would go for the richest person.

So it was as I snuck into the vault that I found a reception waiting for me, complete with the sultan's own mages, resplendant in their robes and mystic tattooes. With them being true and full mages, and myself being nothing more than a hedge-mage if you wanted to flatter me, it was hardly dramatic. I have done many foolish things, but I have never been a fool, and with the odds stacked so highly against me I did the only sensible thing and surrendered without a struggle.

After all, those who survive today can escape tomorrow

[Sadism]

It was for the best that I had given myself up without a fight. Had I resisted, I might have been executed. Perhaps. It's hard to say for sure, as the palace's owner was quite male, and I quite female. I saw the lecherous approval in his eyes the moment he walked in the room. Had it not been for those very same pretty features that had bought me time before, I would have been cut down then and there. I read it in that gaze. And I could sense that the affront of my theivery weighed heavily, making him indecisive as to whether or not my prettiness was worth the trouble.

All too soon, my fate became evident when I was hauled off to the throne room and stripped. Stripped, and left to stand uncovered before so many filthy gazes. Was I afraid of anything the guards might do? Not if they wanted to get rough, no; I could take a couple of hits, and I could give as good as I got if I wanted to. Any beatings they decided to give me wouldn't break me. But standing there, naked before them all... I knew what they wanted, knew what would happen if they had their way. I wasn't afraid of the possibility of becoming a plaything for them. I was afraid that their lord might grant them that pleasure.

I needn't have worried too much, had I known the sultan's reputation better. He was not a man that shared things, and certainly not rare treats. I was a foreign woman, which made me exotic to him. While there were any number of more beautiful women in his harem, none were exotic in the fashion I was, and that made me special.

I must have been blessed with good fortune to have gone through life untouched by males despite having found myself in their grasps so many times, and even now it seemed that luck held. The sultan viewed me as a prize; as a trophy. Llike all braggarts, he needed to show me off to all the other nobility so that they might see he was better because he owned a novelty they couldn't have nor get. As well, the sultan seemed to learn lessons as they were prevented to him; I had heard from more than a few of the harem girls that few had chosen to be sex objects. Which meant he had taken what he wanted, and broken them in the process. Here I was, an exotic creature, wild and untamed. That was why I was nothing more than a trophy so far; my wildness added to my allure and made me more valuable. Few of the sultan's peers would be impressed by a timid, meek, broken woman. Like a child with a new toy, he cared for me with an obsessive quality. As it is with children and their toys, it was only a matter of time before the shine wore off and he began to play rough.

So I was to be a display piece for his parties, chained to his throne so that I could hardly move, forced to suffer the indignation of being petted like a dog. But I did endure it, because I knew one thing the sultan did not.

I knew some magic.

It was after one particularly rowdy and jubilant party that my opportunity presented itself. Having drunk too much, the sultan had passed out in his throne, a goblet of wine in his hands. Like most who held wealth and power since birth, he became complacent in ensuring his dignity in his own home. With all the others fearful of his wrath, few dared speak up in a fashion that would signal the sultan that his decorum was lacking considerably. Few rulers with an ounce of self-respect would drink themselves into stupor, nor would they be so uncouth as to pass out in their throne. That made it good fortune for me. Under the guise of doing what any master would expect their property to do, I took the goblet from his hands. What I did with it next was not at all what any master would want. I poured it on the brackets of my chains, where they were bolted into the wall. The guard on duty watched curiously, but did nothing to stop me. After all, I was only making a mess, and nothing I was doing could aid in my escape or injure his lord. As far as he knew.

What he didn't know was that my aptitude for magic lent itself only to water. The manipulation of it, at that time in my life. I could control it, making it move as I wanted, and I could freeze it. Nothing drastic. Pparlor tricks really, unless you knew how to use tricks to your advantage. Eloran had made sure I learned just how powerful and useful these two minor abilities could be when he saw how disappointed I was that they were all I could muster.

The memory brought a smile to my lips even as I exerted my will while whispering the familiar incantion under my breath. I commanded the water up the length of the chain - and slowly - between the bracket and the wall. That wasn't all, however. I guided the water along the bolts working it between the metal and the stone. And then I made it cold, cold enough to freeze it all.

One thing Eloran had shown me was displacement. Not a magical sort, but a mundane sort. He had demonsrated with a tub of water and a rock, showing me how the rock made the water overflow. And then he'd shown me how that knowledge could be applied in other way, how I could apply it to my previously weak tricks. I used one of those ways now, knowing that the expansion of the ice in the tight confines of the bolt-hole would have some effect. I won't say it was instant; given the volume of liquid I had in the bolt-hole, it took hours, But eventually...

I feigned a feint knowing that the guard would come check it out, for the sultan would be most distraught if anything unpleasant happened to his toy.

[Sadism]

The guard was a young man, probably fresh in the ranks. I feel bad for what I had to do, but I could not stay there as a piece of meat for the sultan, and I knew that the boy would not let me just walk out. He is one of the few I regret having to kill, but I knew it had to be one of us that night. So when he crouched over to check on me, I lept up, smashing my head into his chin. Disorientated as he was, it was easy for me to sharply tug on my chains to pull them free, the stone spraying in a cloud of dust from where the water had eroded it enough to let the bolts slide free. I worked quick, using one of my chains as a garrote to make it as painless as possible for him, taking care to make sure he did not injure himself as his body failed him.

I am sorry he had to die.

I am not sorry about the sultan, however. Yes, I could have escaped without taking his life. But like the man my father had sold me to, he had done some very bad things, and would continue to do them if I just walked away.

My escape from the sultan's palace went without much fanfare; having the guard's keys made sneaking out an easy affair.With so much drink available, no few guards had indulged once the festivities were ove, making escape that much easier. In all my time in the palace, I had quickly learned where guards were stationed at all times. Those, I avoided altogether. Scaling the wall was trivial, a rote action for me by this time. With just a little moisture and some cracks, I could climb down easily enough. In the dark, speed wasn't an issue. When I was finally within the city and out of sight of the palace, I helped myself to some housewife's laundry and made my way from the city knowing the guards would be looking for me as soon as they found the sultan. It would not be hard for even the slowest of the guards to figure out what had happened, and I had made no effort to make it seem as if there had been a struggle. It was quite evident the sultan's prize had been responsible.

The death of the sultan at my hands would not go unnoticed, and no few nobles had seen my face. As much as they might have disliked the sultan, they would dislike the knowledge that a slave had killed one of their number and escaped. If I went unpunished, other slaves would get ideas, and the nobility knew this. Knew that their own slaves might strike out just the same as I had.

I found the money I needed and booked passage on the first ship that left harbor. It would be much harder for them to find me if I were on the other side of an ocean. It was on that voyage that I heard of a placed called Myrken Wood. No few swore they would stay away, for it was a country infested with monsters and troubles.

Somehow, the thought of being in a place with literal monstes instead of the human variety seemed a novel idea.