Becoming

After much practice, tears, and patience from the monks, I have finally learned to read and write legibly. And so, I must tell the sad tale that is my childhood.
 
My father died when I was only 3 years old. I was never told his name, nor how he died, but I always felt that Mother loved him, and I have only the vaguest memory of his black hair. Mother moved us to the city so she could sell her beads at the market, which I would help her make every night before bed. We didn't earn enough money to pay for a roof over our heads, but we always had food in our bellies before going to sleep in our corner under the stairs in an alley way. 3 more years past, the beads ran out, and meals became more scarce, but we had each other and a few worn blankets Mother traded a handful of beads for to help us survive our first winter under the stairs in the city.
 
On a night unusually cold for summer, there came screams from down our alley. Slavers were chaining up the other homeless families and throwing them into covered carts. With no time to run, Mother hid me under the blankets and told me not to make a sound. More screams. the screams that still haunt my dreams. I remember peaking out from under my blanket and watching as the slavers beat, shackle, and take away my mother. Too terrified to move, I stayed under the blankets in a motionless alleyway for two days. Finally, hunger and the stench of my own waste forced me to leave the stairs I called home. So began my life as a "street rat."
 
Over the next 4 years I learned the inner workings of the city, how to become undetectable, the art of misdirection, and how to read people. I earned the nickname Rye from the other homeless children because of the rye bread I would steal and sometimes share with them.
 
My life changed the day I pickpocketed a group of old men in the market. At only 10 years old I had never seen men like them before, but my past experience told me that old men were slow, hard of hearing, and therefore an easy target. I was removing a string of beads from one of the old men's pocket, when before I could blink, his hand was around my wrist and he was looking straight into my eyes. Petrified, as I have only ever been caught once before and quickly learned my lesson, we stared at each other for what seemed like days. He finally spoke, not a hint of anger in his voice, giving me two choices; loose one of my fingers to pay for my crime, or return with them to the monastery and work off my debt. Rather fond of my appendages, and my curiosity getting the better of me, I made the journey back to their monastery.
 
This monastery was dedicated to knowledge, where books were valued above all else. Wizards, sorcerers, and the like, travel miles to roam these halls. As a young girl working off a debt, however, most of my time was spent doing chores such as refilling the ink wells, scraping candle wax, and dusting the seemingly endless rows of bookcases. I worked off my debt within the year, but had no desire to return to the life I use to own. I stayed with the monks. They fed me, taught me to read, helped me master my mind, and gave me new meaning. However, there are some scars and skills that cannot be forgotten. The monks introduced me to The Way of the Shadow to put my particular skill set to good use and keep me out of trouble.
 
Through much training, I now serve as the monastery's Retriever. As such, I am tasked with tracking down and returning books that have been stolen from our great library. I still sleep with my back to the wall and will never fully trust anyone but myself, but I owe a debt to these monks who gave me a second chance.