Lidda Underbough, was happy to live an unassuming life on her small family farm, far to the east of any major settlement. Her family managed to grow almost all the food they needed, and had little cause to associate with anyone outside the small community. It was a lonely life, but Lidda was a rather introverted girl, and was well-suited to the provincial life.

Thus it came as a surprise, when in the middle of a horrible storm, a halfling came begging at her door for shelter. The poor fellow was soaked to the bone, his wool cloak plastered to his skin. His teeth chattered, and his tousled mop of blonde hair, did little to hid the twinkle in his eye and the roguish grin he flashed Lidda.

Lidda couldn't help but be disarmed by him, and felt drawn to him despite herself. He introduced himself as Milo Greenbottle, a merchant from far to the south. He lamented the loss of all his wares, and had, by the grace of the gods, managed to find this farm before he lost what remained of his strength, and passed out into one of the massive pools of swelling water.

Lidda stared at her feet, rubbing a toe against the muddied floor of her cottage. “May I interest you in a place to sleep sir? I have a spare room that you are more than welcome to... I might be able to get some of my da's old clothes, if you would like something dry to change into...”

“Oh, you are too kind. I'd be more than happy to just find a dry spot near the fire to warm these weary bones.” He again flashed a winning grin, as he shed his sodden cloak. “And mayhaps a pint, if you have one.”

Lidda scurried off, her face ablaze as she grabbed a wooden mug, and filled it from a small barrel. By the time she had returned to the main sitting room, Milo had made himself at home in front of the fire, his shirt hanging near the fire. She gasped, and dropped the mug, when she saw the massive scar that marred his pale flesh just below his breast bone.

Milo looked up, a sheepish half-grin on his face. “Sorry miss. I didn't mean to startle you.”

“What...what happened?” Her voice came out in a shaky whisper, nearly drowned out by a peel of thunder in the distance, as she stooped down to wipe up the spilled ale with a two she had grabbed for Milo.

“This old thing? It's a violent tale.” He fingered at the puckered edge, seemingly absentmindedly. “I'm sure a pretty lass like yourself would not be interested in such a gruesome tale.”

She moved closer, the spilled ale forgotten, a look of wonder on her face. “No... I don't mind. My da and my brothers used to tell the most horrible stories... I'm used to it, I swear.”

Milo nodded his head, and gestured for her to join him by the fire. As she sat down, he began his long narrative. A story that had Lidda gasping, and occasionally covering her eyes. It wasn't long before she was cuddled up against the unfamiliar halfling. As the storm raged on, and the fire slowly died, she found herself lost in his arms.

She didn't know what sparked the events that followed. All she knew was that it wasn't long, before she and Milo had done what young halflings had done in the privacy of their homes for untold millenia.

When the morning light broke through the windows, Lidda found herself alone and naked in front of the cold dead fire. If it hadn't been for the sticky mess of the spilled ale, and an unfamiliar soreness, she might have assumed that the whole ordeal had been some strange dream.

It was a few months later that another bit of proof of that strange night's activities presented itself. Her family saw her gravid state, and could not accept her story of a mysterious visitor in the middle of the night, especially in the middle of the worst storm their farm had known in decades. She was shunned, and fled the farm in disgrace.