wiz bits

Tuk is a monk who has broken his vow of silence, his vow of poverty, his vow of chastity (reportedly) and many others besides, but not his Vow of Truth. Ordinarily, the breaking of a vow would mark a monk like Tuk with a certain disgrace, but our monk’s monastic tradition is anything but ordinary. Owing to the peculiarity of his monastic order, if he is so marked it is only in his own private thoughts. Nonetheless, he has flown from the monastery, the one place he has known all his life. One might ask, is there an angry abbot or abbess giving chase? Were the shun and scorn of bitter peers too much for him to take? Did he flee the monastery to escape these things? No, he did not.

What kind of monk is Tuk? Why did he leave the monastery? Where is this monastery anyway? Perhaps these questions are better answered by the circumstances of his birth. Tuk was born, naturally enough, an only child to an adoring mother. Except for a small physical deformity^[1] he was quite like any other human boy. This common combination of commoner traits — his humanness and boyness together — are precisely what made him singularly distinct from those people he would call his family. From birth, Tuk was blessed with a large, large family of adoptive grannies, grandpas, aunts, uncles, and sisters (as well as some third cousins twice removed on his father’s side). In his early life, due to circumstances not unrelated to certain changes in municipal policy, the family grew quickly and constantly. Many came to visit, and once sparse living quarters were soon bustling with liveliness. Of these many visitors, few ever left, and they by one door only.

Was Tuk a prince? Maybe. Was he an orphan? Hardly. What will become of him? We know not. What we can say for certain is this: He was charmed, blessed. He was loved. He enjoyed an upbringing that was not without its privileges. In a place of strict order, his mischief was often overlooked or even encouraged. In a place of scarcity, he had plenty. In a place of longing, he had a home. He was one set apart. What else would one expect for the sole natural-born citizen of the Baldurian Detention Center for Wayward Women and Little People?

Founded in recent years, the Baldurian Detention Center for Wayward Women and Little People represents one of many dark underpinnings of new leadership’s “clean streets” campaign. In a promise to restore the districts of Baldur’s Gate to its former glory, a coalition of mayors and magistrates have rounded up jobless women and halflings, some criminals, many not, orphaning their children and gutting their communities. Detention Centers such as this create reduced scarcity among the general populace by imposing scarcity upon detainees, not to mention cheap, forced labor at the cost of only the barest food and shelter. The program has been immensely well-received by the Baldurian middle and upper classes, who know only that the price of butter has never been better. Tuk’s mother is one of the first detained, and he was born soon after.

To call Tuk’s home a prison is more a matter of fact than description, which is to say that his upbringing in Cell Block B was really rather nice. As mentioned before, he had many aunties and nannies, each one more doting than the last. In the adjoining wing, he would come to learn a sort of wisdom that is known to few, and seldom shared so openly. Educational offerings certainly could have been worse. A smattering of lectures were available daily, representing each of the city’s major religious institutions. His hands found work in the kitchens, the cleaning closets, and even the occasional community service project.

Through endlessly repetitive work — sweeping, scrubbing, scraping, mopping, brushing, pushing, placing, throwing, bending, lugging, catching, straightening — he found great familiarity and comfort in everyday objects. From this familiarity grew a certain art, in which Tuk found a physical practice of his own. As a youngster, he could even hold his own in the occasional mess hall scrap. As the adoptive son of not only the inmates, but also the Warden and guards, Tuk enjoyed a certain amount of protection from violence. Nonetheless, he was not entirely immune.

Mealtimes were the great unifying events of each day, taking place in the courtyard adjoining Blocks A and B, known colloquially as The Cloister. Meals consisted primarily of hot porridge in the morning, and notably less-hot, chewier porridge in the late afternoon. The rare donation of potatoes or vegetables from a house of worship, or the addition of salt and spice on holidays, raised spirits to near mania. Were meat on offer, it was a truly momentous occasion bordering on holy.

Gatherings in the Cloister were often joyous times of song and dance, and a folk song or cutlery-juggling act was not entirely out of place. Sometimes a bawdy joke may even have sufficient lustiness to crack the stony facade of a guard or two. These were also crowded affairs in which simmering conflicts would now and then boil over into brawls. As for the lone youth sometimes caught in the conflagration, a ready hand with a mop, feet quick to scale chairs and tables, and a few acrobatic tricks on the quadrangle balcony were often enough to scare off would-be assailants.

In their own savory way, Tuk’s living conditions were near-idyllic, so why did he set off? To find others like him, perhaps. To know what lay beyond the the courtyard, on the other side of those cell walls. Maybe all that talk of being imprisoned finally convinced him. Why does anyone leave their home behind? This is a question we may explore in future installments.

Though we do not know the precise reason for his escape, we are more or less aware of the means. Annually, on the eve of Returning Day, the Warden arranges for the release of a handful of prisoners. Under din of festival chants and glimmer of fireworks from the city ahead, the small contingent of freed people board a cart that takes the long road away from the outer prison walls. One night, Tuk conspires to join them, hiding away in the wagon and making his escape before the Warden grows wise. Imagine our sheltered young monk’s surprise when he discovers that this cart and its passengers have been purchased by slavers, and at bargain rates no less!

Far from his home, shuffled from one oppressive hand to the next, Tuk turns inward. He learns the practice of meditation, turning over thoughts, feeling their weight, pushing and pulling them like a broom, balancing them like a stack of bowls, dangling from them like the Cloister balcony. By appearances, he is a lowly man of the cloth. By behavior, a seeker of the way. By speech, one who favors truth. You may call him a friar. You may call him a fool. But of his fraternity you may say only this: There is but one.