"Run away, little blue bird," the man who raised you commands, before he closes a hidden door behind you. You pound your fists upon the hidden exit, tears streaming down your face as you beg for him to come with you. He repeats himself in his answer, commanding you to, "Run away and live. This old man will make sure those pigs can't follow."

"Father!" you scream at the door, which pretends to be nothing more than a wall of stone and brick. That wise old man never asked you to call him Father, but always smiled when you did. Always listened more intently. "Father, you can't stay behind, they'll... I don't know what I'll do without you..."

A familiar hand clasps your shoulder from behind.

With a bright smile, you turn around. You <span class="mu-i">knew</span> that old codger was just playing a trick on you!

Yet the reassuring figure standing behind you is only an illusion. One that fooled even you, his greatest pupil and apprentice, if only for a moment. The weathered face of the man who raised you cracks into a little smile and tells you that, "I'm sure you'll do just fine, little blue bird. I'm sure you'll do <span class="mu-i">just</span> fine. Now fly far, far away, as far as your wings will take you. You've very precious cargo in that haversack, and you must keep it secret and safe..."

At that reminder, you dry your tears with a wipe of your sleeve and bolt down the sewer's drainage way. Your arms pump with every step, your breath not quite too heavy to keep a curse from your lips: "Damn you, Father. This wasn't the plan!"

Yet you know plans change. It's more important than your father's life that the tome you carry and the ring you wear do not fall into the hands of unruly savages. Two hundred and seventy three forbidden spells are sealed within the tome against the day they are needed. Orcish shamans would use them without a care in the world for the consequences. As for the ring...

It is one of nine. Nine rings for the nine kingdoms, held in trust by the greatest sorcerers in the land. Father's ring holds domain over illusion magics, the magics he past down to you: his familiar, turned daughter, turned apprentice. With his fate sealed, you must bring it to the Conclave for safe keeping, until it chooses for itself another worthy hand to truly <span class="mu-i">wear</span> it.

The sewer line exits into a grate, where you return to the form of your birth to flutter through the iron bars. Your blue feathers match your hair, the golden beak matching your eyes.

You run faster as a human though, and to a human you return to follow the river to the sea.

The docks are clear, or almost so. Off to the side, a pair of orcs have struck a bounty of a lone guardswoman, whom they slowly strip of armor. You hear her squealing voice as they grope her shouting, "Get your hands off me, you dirty pigs!"

Roll a d100 and...
>Save her.
>Do not help her.
>Save her and demand she help you as payment. A swordswoman could be useful in your quest.