Her first refuge was the farmer’s family. But, though they had been friendly enough towards her during her time with the old man, it was clear that they weren’t comfortable actually raising a kobold. The decision was taken from them anyway when the monks came to clean up his house and they discovered his will. They took his unfinished work on kobolds, which would sell well in years to come at his bequest, but they also were required to take in the kobold named Kreet as a payment of sorts for his blessing to publish his works.

A few days after the funeral, Kreet was bundled up onto a cart and taken to the Monastery. The monks were austere and not disposed to talk. She moved into a special cell made just for her. She did appreciate the work they’d put into it, to make it comfortable, but she missed the old man and she sat in a stone chair in her cell for hours, knitting for the monks but humming songs that Ka’Plo had taught her while wishing he was back.

He had told her, not long before he died, about his complicity in the massacre of her family. Perhaps he had felt his life was coming to an end soon and needed to be absolved of that crime. She was too young to consider this at the time, but later, when she had learned more of life and people, she thought about it. She was happy that she had done so - absolved him of his guilt - at that time. Young as she was, she could not fix blame on this person who had quite surely saved her life.

Yet her years at the monastery were not the bleak solitude it seemed they would be at first. Two boys were delivered to the monastery as Initiates and she befriended them both. Since she was no human girl, the awkwardness that they might have felt did not appear, and the three spent many happy hours together. For her part, she appreciated their boisterous attitude when the three would manage to get away from the strict watchfulness of the older monks. Though she could not laugh as they did, she nonetheless could enjoy their company in the same way, and was every bit as mischievous as they were. She got in trouble with the older monks as well, but she resented that her punishment was always solitary confinement while the boys received direct physical punishment.

Not that Kreet was any glutton for pain, but it certainly bothered her that she was treated so radically different than the boys, even though she’d committed the same ‘crimes’. She was never sure if it was due to her race or her sex, both of which were foreign to the monastery apart from Kreet herself. Yet, the boys also brought her secret information. She learned her first cantrips by reading the books the boys would smuggle back to her while they explained what they had learned in the Acolyte school. While she was always well behind their capabilities as Clerics in training, still her progression was never more than a few months behind their own and occasionally she might grasp a subject better than either of them.

And then one day the boy named “Karl” fell out of a tree. The three had been in a small wood nearby, climbing and generally doing the terribly risky and dangerous things kids do at that age when Karl lost his grip while jumping from one branch to another and fell to the ground, hitting his head sharply against a rock at the bottom. “Brand”, the other boy, was panic stricken.

“Kreet! I think he’s dead! KREET! What should we do!?”

Kreet examined the boy. The blood was pooling under his head and there was no reaction in his eyes, yet he still breathed.

“Brand,” she said, trying to summon all the confidence she could muster. “Did you learn that healing spell you were telling me about last week? Do you know how to perform it?”

But the boy looked at her with eyes wide, uncomprehending. “I don’t remember! Kreet, we’ve got to do something!”

She thought for a minute. She was fairly sure she could remember it, but really it didn’t matter. If it worked, she might save him. If it didn’t, he would probably die anyway. It simply couldn’t hurt to try. But they’d need help from the monks either way.

“Brand, I need you to run back and get your Master, the Cleric. He’s the best at the healing arts. Tell him what’s happened and get him back here as soon as you can.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked, but she shooed him away. “Go you idiot! Every second counts and if you stop running for a minute you may be too late. Go!”

The boy’s feet flew and he was out of sight in an instant. But Kreet had already turned back to Karl. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the book she’d read. The words formed in her mind and she spoke them aloud, holding her hands near - but not touching - the broken skull. At first she didn’t think anything was happening, but she closed her eyes tighter. She knew that this kind of magic required belief. It could not work if you didn’t believe it could. Well, she had believed. She believed more than anything else in the world. She was sitting here, with her friend, and his head was healing itself. The bones were stitching back together. The blood stopped flowing, through the power of Pelor. His power was flowing through her - from her brain where the belief was, down her neck, across her chest, down her arms and out of her claws into the boy’s damaged skull.

It wasn’t a question of it it was working or not; she knew it was working. The question was simply if it was too late or not. She knew she was still too young to handle the amount of power required for a major injury, her faith too insecure. She heard a muffled crack that might have been a twig, or might have been the skull knitting itself back together.

She kept it up for the full half-hour it took for the Cleric, named Quint, and some other monks to return with her friend Brand. She did not open her eyes until the Cleric put his hand on her shoulder. “That’s enough Kreet. I’ll take it from here. You’ve done well.”

She opened her eyes, still wearing the lenses that darkened the sunlight, and looked at the experienced monk as he closed his eyes and began an incantation. She caught a few words, though she couldn’t have summoned it herself. It was a probe of a sort. He was examining the boy’s condition, and specifically the condition of the skull and one leg that she hadn’t noticed before. The skull’s condition was surprisingly good, considering. The leg was badly broken though, and she’d done nothing for it. Though no words were exchanged verbally, she was still linked to the power of Pelor, and she heard his words through that link.

“Very, very good Kreet. We need to talk about this ability you’ve learned, but you have undoubtedly saved this boy’s life. He will recover, though he may not awaken for another day or two. His brain must mend itself. But now, remove your link to the great Pelor and let me take your place. I will work on his leg.”

She did as she was bid, and was led back to the monastery with the other boy. He was talking incessantly, obviously relieving his nervousness. But Kreet was silent, and she was worried. The Cleric had complimented her, but she also knew she had learned something she wasn’t supposed to learn. It could go bad for her. She couldn’t regret what she’d done, but she also worried about her future. It had been nearly two years since the old man had died and she had come to live here, but she knew she was still too young to face life outside the monastery without support. Most likely she would be killed or enslaved.

When the Cleric came back with the other boy, she stood inside the grand hallway doors as he entered, but he neglected to acknowledge her presence. Instead he went straight to the Abbot’s inner chambers, so she returned to her cell. She prayed all night as fervently as she knew how. To say she lacked faith would be untrue. She had seen what Pelor could do. The power to heal had to be coming from somewhere, and if that somewhere happened to be named Pelor, so much the better. Inside though, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was doing something selfish. She wasn’t praying for the boy’s recovery. She was praying for her continued shelter in the monastery. Life was monotonous here, and arduous at times, but it was, above all else, safe.