Letter Thirteen

Map of The Dudes' Journey

Most images Pathfinder copyright 2010 Paizo Publishing, LLC.

Dear Sneffles,
We took a ferry north out of the city into “Conqueror’s Bay.” (I know that victors get to write history but do they have rub our noses in it?) Vencarlo was deeply concerned that since we had killed the Queen’s henchmen we would be the next target of her assassins.

As you know I’ve never been on any vessel more seaworthy than a gambling barge or whoreboat before this and even though we hugged the shore it was still a heady experience. I couldn’t get over how vast the sky was above the ocean. I wanted to hide away but below deck I felt trapped and soon would again be nervously staring over the waters. I was restless and confused. Dying is no fun. I couldn't organize my thoughts. I sat in the back of the vessel without moving as the boys divvied up the loot. I was completely indifferent even though we had riches beyond our imaginings back in the old neighborhood. Vencarlo sat down and tried to cheer me up but I was inconsolable. We sat silently as the evening sun dipped into the waters. When I woke, sometime after midnight, he was gone. The sea was untroubled, glassy smooth, reflecting all the stars in heaven. Like swimming in an ocean of stars. A mate handed me a cup of coffee to take away the dewy morning chill.

The next day we reached the mouth of the Falcon River, traveling up its wide stream while staying to its center. The captain explained that these parts of the realm had grown wild and unruly since the death of the King. Occasionally someone would try to entice us ashore with wine, women, or song—whether to rob us or merely fleece us I cared not, although Finarfin would stand by the boat’s railing hurtling curses like a wronged barmaid—unless they were pretty girls, in which case he would try to wheedle them into the boat.

Korvosa’s seneschal, Neolandus, spent most of his time below deck—didn’t you once say that he has a mole on his ass? I never got the chance to find out. I didn’t realize that he has the constitutional power to depose the Queen, although he seems to be lacking in real power. I suppose he’s hoping to organize the Queen’s enemies—if there are any besides us left alive.

We departed our ship soon after at a muddy little dump called Harse, where nobody knew nothing,  Orisini was nervous as a virgin so we hiked up to his pal Jasan Adriel’s cattle ranch a few hours north. They were once in an “action committee” called the Blackbirds (a much cooler name than The Dudes, IMHO) way back when and so he calls his establishment the Blackbird Ranch in memory of good times.

We quickly discovered that Trinia Sabor—the young artist we’d rescued from the Queen’s clutches—has been living here since her escape from the city. Finarfin immediately started humping her leg. Fortunately she is much too innocent to take offense at his imprecations although Adreil’s wife looked like she was about to lay a hot skillet upside the halfling’s noggin. The truth is that once you get to know Finarfin you realize his compulsive womanizing is the mask he uses to cover his lack of self-regard. He has yet to learn that no seduction can give that back, especially since he has no respect for any woman who would allow herself to be seduced by someone like him. Note how Shelley, the only woman he does respect, seduced him!

I offered to help with the dishes after the fine dinner we were served but was shooed out of the kitchen and led downstairs where Adriel served up some of his Ranch’s private stock of fragrant, nut-brown beer. Like Orisini, Adriel is well-muscled man although stocky with labor rather than lithe from training like my former master. Still, they both walk lightly, like fighters, noticing everything, even while pounding back a trio of lager.

Finarfin was angling to share a couch with Miss Trinia when Driar beat him to it. The halfling gave him the murderous look he gives errant secretaries and receptionists who vex him but nothing came of it. Having witnessed Driar thrash rakshasa like naughty schoolchildren I can understand his reluctance.

Neolandus retold the story of the King’s death and the Queen’s nasty reaction to his suspicions. He escaped from the castle in the middle of the night as Red Mantis hooligans interrogated, maimed, and collaterally damaged his pals. They caught up with him at Salvator Scream’s murky dump, carrying him off with a bag over his head. Then he occupied a small cell at Arkosa manor until we showed up.

But what’s most chilling is what he learned before they captured him, of an ancient evil that the "Great Mastaba," an ancient Shoanti redoubt that lay at the heart of Castle Korvosa, had been erected many generations ago to protect—the legendary Fangs of Kazavon!

I know, I hadn’t heard of them either, but they’re big juju, apparently. You’ve probably seen the Queen wearing them in her tiara recently, the reason she can take a bolt to the head and be unharmed. They’re what's left of a monster blue dragon that laid the province to waste ages ago. I was about to ask Neolandus if he’d been a part of the plot to assassinate the Queen when he was suddenly volunteering us to cross the burning sands of the Cinderlands to inform the Shoanti barbarians that we had found their “Midnight Teeth.” I would rather they'd asked me to referee Finarfin’s match with Driar over Trinia Sabor.

Best of all, the Sklar-Quah clan is rumored to be gathering out there to overrun Korvosa and settle (very) old scores. So Neolandus and Orisini decided we—the Dudes—should form an alliance with the "reasonable" barbarians while they—Neolandus and Orisini—traipsed off to Janderhoff to parlay with the dwarves. By the all the gods’ short-hairs these political maneuverings are a tangled ball of twine. I long for the simple days when the hardest thing I had to do was find a mark, score, and fool the gangstas about how much I'd stolen from him.

There were two surprises the next day. The first was that Driar had decided to join Orisini and the seneschal in their journey to Janderhoff, while Sabor asked to accompany us to the Kallow Mounds where Thousand Bones and his cohort awaited. I’m not sure what had passed between these two erstwhile lovers the night before but they wouldn’t meet each other’s eyes. Spiteful as ever, Finarfin promised to take care of the “little lady” for Driar as we bid them farewell and mounted our horses.

But before we left I thanked Master Orisini for the instruction he has given me—in combat and in the art of being a man. He clasped me warmly and said that we would meet again. I thanked him once more for the Keen rapier he'd bequeathed to me, even if its song sometimes gives me a headache.

"Never you mind," he replied with a tear in his eye. "It will serve you better than it ever could these tired, old arms."

We tried to get Finarfin a horse but none would have him so I took pity and let him ride with me. Fortunately, I was upwind from him because he smoked his pipeload of zong desperately, like a hungry infant suckles a teat.

We made our way across beautiful  rolling farmland until we reached Abken where we forded the river, traveling along its course until we saw the incredible Storval Rise cutting across the horizon like a knife’s edge. The closer we approached the higher it got. Huge ancient statues of deities I did not recognize were carved in its cliff. I felt chastened in comparison. In the far distance, atop the Rise, was the city of Kaer Maga, which we reached by the third day. We waited our turn before ascending the long staircase carved in the face of the stone.

The city itself is about half the size of Korvosa. It has some pretensions of bettering itself but seemed nastier than Old Korvosa and lacking its charm. The street in front of the city library was full of deadbeats, pickpockets, and cutthroats who nonetheless had more sense than to challenge us. We stopped briefly for sustenance and then went to the market to prepare for the rest of our journey.

I had more money than I knew how to spend so asked PJ’s advice and he pointed me towards a “Headband of Mental Prowess”. I know what you’re thinking and you’re right but I was desperate even if I didn’t realize it at the time.

It was a very plain copper band with a small yellow stone like a 3rd eye. I placed it over my brow and right away a sense of calm possessed me and, as time has progressed, I’ve felt my mind clear, my thoughts connect rightly again. It was a great relief and almost worth having witnessed Finarfin buttering up Trinia while we shopped. He asked her questions about herself, pretending to be interested in what she replied. He giggled like a coy schoolgirl to her answers, smacking his lips like a hungry boggard watching a straying toy poodle. I suggested to her that she just go ahead and hump him so that he’ll lose interest and leave her alone but she laughed heartily, replying that she wasn’t done playing with him yet. I have to admire her spunk.

Soon after we left the mud-brick buildings behind as we ventured out onto the burning plateau. As the thick hexagonal walls of Kaer Maga diminished behind us I became acquainted with a truly hellish landscape. I began to understand why Redcullin and Szechuan are such goofballs—their brains have been baked like eel pie out here. I fingered my new Ring of Sustenance, glad that I’d had the sense to prepare for the arduous journey.

About halfway to our destination Finarfin awoke briefly from his sun-baked zongification to ask me about you, dear one. About the nature of our relationship. Well, we had plenty of time so I tried to explain it. How two people can be as one even when they are kept apart. That we share one soul and are always together.

"Man!" he howled. "That's so sad! I mean, you have to be able to fuck her once in awhile!"

Well, he's right about that, but calling what you and I experience "fucking" is confusing love with a roll in the hay.

Finarfin insisted on loudly giving me advice about my love life much to the amusement of our compatriots before passing out in mid-sentence. Soon after I felt his bad thing swelling against my butt so I turned him around in the saddle so that he was facing backward where he remained blessedly insensible for the rest of the journey.

After many days of traveling east we approached the sacred Kallow Mounds of the Shoanti. Szechuan was as nervous as a cat, squinting at the horizon fretfully, whirling around at the slightest sound as we passed amongst the many skull-encrusted cairns that marked the way. The Shoanti are the worst packrats in the world judging by all the bones they save. I suppose that if you live constantly amongst violent death you have to learn to embrace it.

Finally we spied a small group of barbarian warriors carefully watching our approach. They were hard looking men, smeared with mud and white ash. Bone-thugs, given their tattoos, carrying large skull-crushers at their sides. They gave Szechuan stink-eye as he glared back and I realized with a start just how citified our wild-man has become—at least to their eyes. He doesn’t even smell like he’s rolled in shit anymore (what you call the “sweet tang of amour”). Of course none of them tried him, either. They agreed reluctantly to take us to Thousand Bones.

Their camp was little better than the cairns surrounding it. Broken carts lay pushed carelessly aside. A dead horse, stinking and swollen, had been left in a ditch while children poked with their wooden swords at the bloatflys and maggots infesting it. I wouldn’t call the women fetching but they looked strong enough to snap a man in half during their moment of ecstasy. I noticed that even Finarfin was keeping his glib tongue to himself as we passed by the groups of hard-faced strangers.

At the center of camp Thousand Bones waited to greet us. Back in the city he’d seemed like a smelly old fart but here in his element he was regal and in control. He greeted us warmly, mentioning (for the others benefit) how we’d helped honor their clan by retrieving the dead hero Gaekhen in Korvosa. He then introduced us to their king, One Life, and a wizened old woman called Ash Dancer. It struck me how we’d seen no older barbarians until these three. They promised us an audience in the evening after the fierce sun had set and then a young boy led us to a yurt nearby, blessedly sitting in the shade of a baked-mud mound covered with cow skulls.

Later that afternoon I was out at the latrine trying to void while dodging the stones some village boys were flinging at my bare ass, when a group of Sklar-Quah warriors rode up to our abode where Szechuan was sharpening his tools and Finarfin lay snoozing in the shade dreaming, no doubt, of that foxy GMILF Ash Dancer.

“You call yourself a warrior?” the blond one cursed as he slid from his mount. “Traveling with these tshamek?”

“What’s a tshamek?” I thought, taking my time now that the kids had become more interested in the confrontation than my bony ass.

Szechuan stayed seated, lazily drawing his whetstone along his weapon’s edge, which already looked sharp enough to shave bloodskin. When he spoke it was after clearing his throat loudly, spitting a large ball of phlegm close—but not too close—to his interrogator’s left boot. (FYI, his boots looked like he had simply stuck his feet down the gullets of two large wolves.) Then he told the brute to piss off, we had nothing to apologize for, although you could tell by the sheepish tone of his voice that he felt uncomfortable.

By then Thousand Bones had hobbled up and began explaining all the reasons why bloodletting at a funeral would be a bad idea, not the least of which was dishonoring the warrior they’d come here to bury. Listening to him even I felt like weeping.

The big guy harrumphed loudly, hiding behind tradition, worried that outsiders would taint the proceeding, blah, blah, blah. I pulled my pants up and went back to the yurt to wash my hands. But the bone-thug wasn’t done with us yet, challenging one of us to a child’s game of push/pull.

They introduced the brute as Krojun Eats-What-He-Kills, which, you know, is kind of a disgusting notion. I’d hate to eat some of the things I’ve killed. He pounded his chest and loudly walked back and forth, bellowing like a ragman, until PJ responded by swelling up magically like Ronnie the gigolo at a petting party. I’m really surprised that PJ doesn’t get more girls.

They strapped themselves to one another and began grunting and slavering like two drunken sailors in the act of coitus. First The Eater would get leverage, then PJ. The crowd was hollering lustily and occasionally throwing food at the contestants. I managed to make a few side bets with a couple of wet-behind-the-ear barbarian brothers, Gargh and Magargh, if I understood them correctly. By this time PJ was bleeding from the mouth and The Eater was cursing like he was being forced to take a bath. Then, with a mighty oath, PJ pulled the surprised warrior across the line and the contest was over.

After collecting the excited boys’ coppers I congratulated PJ, who had lost half an ear in the encounter. It got us a grudging respect from the clan and their insults started being accompanied by a smile. Now I suppose we’re going to have to drink with them. Krojun was a good sport about his loss, popping PJs earlobe in his mouth like a sweetmeat, but you could tell he still wasn’t convinced and, like all barbarians, would continue being a pain in the ass.

That evening, after moving our Yurt away from the mound, which was now radiating heat like an oven, we wandered over to the Bone Council Fire to pow-wow with Thousand Bones, One-Life, and Ash Dancer. T-Bones remarked that he was having trouble riding herd on all the clans who wanted to take advantage of Korvosa’s recent troubles. He saw nothing good that could come of a conflict but the nature of barbarians was to use any excuse to spill tshamek blood and he was quickly being marginalized. With that in mind, what was our business here?

PJ, who has become de facto leader of our group (don’t tell Finarfin) since so many of our original coterie have left us, answered by telling him of our suspicion that the Queen had found the legendary Fangs of Kazavon the Blue Dragon in the bowels of her castle and was using its power (or it was using her) to dominate the city.

Thousand Bones shrugged, saying that he’d heard of the Blue Dragon but didn’t know much about it, which seems strange for a Shoanti shaman of his mettle considering that we’re talking about powerful ancient relics of his tribe, but who am I to question such a man? (One who wants to keep his tongue in his head.)

“The Sun Shamans of the Sklar-Quah would know,” Ash Dancer said in her ponderous sing-song voice. “But they hate outsiders and will kill you before you ever see a shaman.”

Suddenly Finarfin stepped forth, nervous, but determined to speak. “We weren’t doing you a favor by returning the remains of your grandson to your care—we were doing what we thought was right!” His little body quivered with emotion. I was astonished at the audacity of his lie. “You go, girl,” I thought.

“Now we're also doing what we think is right," he growled. "If we can end the Queen’s reign and return the Fangs of Kazavon to their rightful heirs, what reason will the clans have for war then?”

Thousand Bones paused for a moment, uncertain what to make of Finarfin’s offer. He looked deeply into the eyes of each of his companions before making a decision. He sighed deeply, motioning us to sit before the campfire while we were served fermented mare's milk. The serving girl touched my hand covertly, green eyes sparkling, and I wished that I could follow her.

But that would have insulted our host. Thousand Bones stared into the fire for a long moment before about telling us about the legend of Skurakone, who was a barbarian lad outcast by his clan for "accidentally" killing his brother. But Skurakone found a clever way to get himself accepted back, a way to die and be reborn, a way we can use, too, to wipe the stink of being tshamek away. “You must be swallowed whole by the Cindermaw,” T-Bones rumbled melodramatically.

A Cindermaw is like the giant sandworms of fabled Dune. All right, that sounds simple enough . . . “But how do we get back out?”

He shrugged. “Oh, you’ll find a way.”

Getting out of the Cindermaw will probably be easier than untangling the ball of yarn that is T-Bones’s plan. First we have to trek across the desert the ass-end of the Cinderlands to be eaten and presumably shit out by a giant sandworm. Then we cross southwest and as we near the mountains we will find an Acropolis with Krojan along as witness. There we will receive an emblem of holy Desna. Only then will the Sun shamans maybe talk with us about the Fangs and what it all means. I only hope there'll be some primo loot along the way to make this all worth it.

On the morrow we left the village behind to the hoots, catcalls, and occasional stone thrown by the children. We set off for the north, our barbarian boneslayer companions trailing at a distance. At first Finarfin kept up a continual chatter but soon even he quieted as we rode through the terrible dry wastelands. The plain stretched in all directions, so flat that in the distance you could perceive the faint curve of the world. The only way we could tell we were following the road was by the litter of bones along its borders.

We were deep in the Cinderlands when the horses began acting nervously. Then we too detected a quiver in the ground. Hurriedly we dismounted, taking the beasts to a safe outcropping. I was filled with great unease. The thought of allowing myself to be devoured by the worm was disgusting, unbearable. You remember as a child that I had a fear of closed places after flat-nosed Colglave locked me in a trunk as a practical joke.

When asked I chose not to go. My companions looked on me with astonishment and a little contempt, but none said a word as they filed out to meet the Maker. I stood to one side but was blasted with fire nonetheless as the creature erupted from the sands and gobbled his prey. They stood their ground with a courage I could not share. I sat there for awhile, feeling sorry for myself. Trinia busied herself with the horses, her eyes not meeting mine. Sure, the burns hurt but what hurts the most is the raw wound to my spirit. I feel like wandering off alone into the desert to find my ending there but I am too cowardly for even that.

Sometime later I felt a trembling of the ground once again. Taking refuge by the horses we witnessed the worm erupt from the ground. This time there was a huge rent in his side where my companions tumbled forth. They were laughing, exhilarated, happy to be alive, proud of what they’d accomplished.

Me? I turned bitterly away, tshamek forever. Only Trinia saw what crossed my face. I saw sympathy there, which made my shame deeper and I turned from her as well.

A week later we noticed the distant sky darkening an unsettling shade of crimson. That’s when our boneslayers announced that we were nearing the Acropolis. I looked in the direction they pointed through my new spyglass and saw eroded pillars and a tower collapsed upon itself. I also saw the approaching storm, which was burning the sky!

The Acropolis 

“They say it’s an emberstorm,” Trinia answered my unspoken question. “Like being caught in the backwash of a raging fire. We need to hurry!”

The burning embers swirled around our heads like glowing snowflakes as we hurried to the ruins and ducked inside. A long staircase descended into the cool darkness below. The walls were covered with ancient runes and the seven pointed star we were told to look for.

"These are Thassilonian,” Trinia marveled, running her fingers over one.

"That can’t be good,” Finarfin grumbled.

For a time we explored the ancient dusty ruin. Anything worth taking had long since disappeared. The boneslayers were uneasy, having recently founds the remains of a brother slain by their legendary foe, the Cinderlander (snappy moniker). They stayed near the foot of the stairs within sight of the entrance as we wandered about. Finally we came upon a murky pool of water where a glowing symbol of Desna appeared on the back of my hand. "This is a holy place," I gasped, walking to the pool’s edge to peer into the water. I saw a scant movement there and had just turned to warn my companions when the surface erupted and long fibrous tentacles emerged.

Fortunately I had voided myself earlier in the day but still I was filled with overwhelming fear, finding myself running to a far part of the complex. I scurried like a coward, leaving my companions behind. I can’t explain it nor excuse it. My death must have affected me far more than I had realized. Better I’d remained dead.

The noises I heard coming from the chamber were nearly as horrifying as the anguish I felt. Then PJ called to me. He said that Trinia had found a way out of the death-chamber through a glowing golden circle. Gathering what little scraps of courage I had left I ran back through the room, avoiding the slashing tentacles, plunging headfirst through the gap, where I was bathed in blue light and settled gently to the floor. I was in a large quiet room, no clue of the reeking horror on the other side of the light. I followed my companions into a second room where they stood staring up at an immense stone globe. If they had noticed my lapse they mentioned it not, which did nothing to lessen my shame.

Even so, the globe was fascinating, a map of our world and yet different somehow, perhaps representing an ancient time before the gods had moved the mountains, oceans, and rivers to where they are today. It was overwhelming. I had never thought about the lands outside our city’s walls before crossing the desert. Korvoso is like an anthill in a bottle, its conflicts and concerns, feuds and affairs, tragedy and triumph insignificant when seen from outside—everything, that is, but the love I feel for you.

I don’t how I’ll be able to face you again.

PJ reached forth to touch the globe and suddenly vanished! He reappeared moments later, dazed and uncertain. A blue sign of Desna glowed on the back of his hand like mine. “The Spherewalker’s Mark!” Trinia cried.

“Such wonders,” he stammered. I listened to his description of what he’d seen. He’d had a vision sent by holy Desna! If anyone needs direction now it’s me. I took a deep breath. Schezuan was looking upon the globe with awe and consternation, approaching no closer than would a street cat approach a barking dog. Finarfin, meanwhile, rubbed his crotch on a convenient caryatid as Trina stared at the globe intensely. As I touched a hemisphere Trinia suddenly hollered, “Wait!”

I'll look for you,
Cordobles

Next is Finarfin's Fifteenth Report