I have written the stories of many people I have met, yet I have never written my own story. A new friend has just returned my satchel, and it seems I have been roped into some sort of adventure. I may die, and if I do, I want a record to show the world that Sheru the Tortle was here. This is the start of my new adventure.
“Sheru,
Thank you for the time you shared with me, your presence eased my tired soul, and it was wonderful knowing you were at my retreat, ready to help me prepare for my next journey. Thank you for your friendship and good luck on your own journey. Despite your tendency to get distracted by your own musings, you have a kind spirit and you will be a force of good in this world. Be safe, and I hope we meet again.
Your Friend,
Malaika Rehemakono”
I woke up in the temple of Uzeumaar. Malaika had led me through a ceremony where I talked with Uzeumaar. I don’t remember much, but I was accepted as one of his clerics. This note was left for me. Malaika had taught me about the gods, and I saw how Juanabbi worked through Malaika to ease the suffering of those we met. I would miss her, but It was time I made my own story. It was about this time I noticed my satchel was missing. I dug through my backpack, my careful organization ruined. My heart dropped into my gut and I wanted to cry. My notes were gone. My journals. My stories. I had stories of many I had met, and the people I hoped to always remember, and they were gone. I asked the other clerics in the temple, the patrons. No one had seen anything. I left the temple in a rush, searching everywhere in the Pumaango Oasis. For hours I searched, people began getting annoyed as I made the rounds once more, asking everyone if they had seen a satchel with my notes. Covered in sand, hot and exhausted from the sun. I headed to the Zumaji inn, maybe the dwarves were right, ale could solve everything.
