Letter Sixteen

Dedicated to Takara—live long, be productive, find happiness and fulfillment!

Dear Sneffles,

Finarfin took our lists, our items for sale, and our money. He insisted that he had to be touching Trinia to teleport even though a sun-shaman, Kaddok Speaking-Stones-Point-at-the-Sky, was doing all the heavy lifting and he didn’t seem eager to touch anyone. The quick thinking girl slid her backpack between them just as he grappled her and they disappeared in puff of blue light—that’s what it looked like anyway. I drank the last of the ale and took a nap while PJ meditated.

Several hours later Finarfin reappeared with our old compatriot, Driar, cleric of beloved Desna. We'll need the holy man because the rumor is we're heading for a land of the evil undead.

Our reunion was typically understated. Driar asked for a cup of tea, unrolled his prayer rug, and began meditating in the corner of the compound without flies. I sat with him for a time before he asked me to describe my experience above the world where I had united with glorious Desna. I tried to describe the experience in my inadequate Varesian, with a few barbarian grunts thrown in for effect. He asked for directions to the Acropolis and then gave me his blessing.

Afterward, I visited Finarfin to pick up my new weaponry—a mace for bludgeoning things and Elixir of Fire Breath to burn them down. He looked smug and halfway sated so I guess he used the time off to get his knob polished. “Did you get Trinia back all right?” I asked him but he just grinned nastily. “How’s that sex-ay Sneffles doing? Seen her recently?” He pulled out a toothpick, sucking air noisily through his teeth.

“At least she’s no ghost,” I answered curtly before turning away, leaving him to puzzle my meaning out.

Soon after sunset the village’s final ceremony, the "Blessing of Ancestors," began with a huge feast near the still-smoldering pyre. The main course was barbecued Red Mantis, the sauce peppery, cactus-honey based, reddened with the enemies’ blood—and delicious. They served grog they had stolen from somewhere and save for special occasions—like when a quarter of their tribe is senselessly wiped out.

There were more speeches and glad-handing until Ready-Klar called for silence. Portentously, he introduced a sinewy old man—no, old is too gentle a word—aboriginal—a shaman of the sun, direct descendent of Mandraivus, the hero who slew Kazavon, the Blue Dragon of the Lord of flies, Zon-Kuthon, over 600 years ago. At Scarwall they split the creature into seven parts, hoping to put an end to its evil influence but could reduce it no further for a sliver of Kazavon’s soul remained in each tender loin, longing to reunite and once more dominate the world. Instead, they scattered the parts widely in hope that no one would be foolish enough to bring them back together again, forgetting, apparently, that there are fools enough to accomplish any feat. One of the parts, the Midnight Fangs, were secreted in pre-Korvosa, where it waited patiently several long ages, for the day when our simple-minded Queen desired a fancy new tiara made from the old dragon’s teeth someone had dug up in the basement of her moldy old castle.

The shaman, saying that he could talk with spirits, asked us to think of the dead acquaintance who could most help us prepare for our ordeal. I admit I was stumped. I would have liked to have seen Redcullin again but, improbably, he’s not dead. Then I thought of Majenko, but no reason the pseudodragon would want to see us again. Then Finarfin barked that it was Zellara we wanted—“Damn it!”—the medium who had first started us on the road to this mess.

Well, the Sun-Shaman started moaning and wriggling about like a cock’s eel at spawning time. Drier and PJ soon joined in, as did Ready-Klar, Krojan-the-Eater, and Szechuan-the-Dude. Finarfin stared determinedly into the fire as I watched the ceremony passively, letting my thoughts drift where they would.

There came a cool breeze—the first I’d felt since we entered this hellish country—and a growling sound like a barbarian’s hungry belly. Above the fire, the hurtling embers scribed the image of Zellara. The afterlife must agree with the old gal because, where she used to be as wrinkled as a walnut, she’s now as smooth as a new-girl’s bottom.

She started shuffling her cards like three-fingered Monty, the head dealer at Fat Jack’s, laying them in a divining pattern. Turning as pale as a ghost scribed in glowing embers can be, she pointed out at us with bony finger, telling us in rickety voice to, “get-thee-hence to ancient Scarwall.” I nearly jumped out of my skin as the drums boomed forth melodramatically. Scarwall is a cursed place in orc country, filled with ghosts, skeletons, and who the hell knows what else, where we get to hack our way through the undead to retrieve Serithrial, the legendary sword of Mandraivus.

Zellara imperturbably turned her cards as a lad sprung forth to loudly recite her poem:

“Fate of steel…Serithtial
Her cage for years sustained
Four enthralled in lost Scarwall;
Undead to keep her chained.
A spirit first, red war his thirst
Still stands at post of old;
A second foe, infernal soul
Waits high in tower cold.
In kennel’s grime, third bides his time
Then vents his killing breath.
And on a stone ’mid ash and bone,
The final dreams of death.
The spirits worn and battle torn
And locked in their damnation,
The chained one’s hold at last grows old
And ushers in salvation.
Yet hope remains amid the chains
When blade’s stone cage has crumbled,
Friends to dread and the death of the dead,
Keys to Kazavon humbled.” *

Each of us received three Harrow cards to help us in our quest (her words), and two others to help us cheat death. Then, with a ghostly cackle, the apparition disappeared. I drank grog as the ceremony wound down and sometime after midnight Szechuan and I held each other up as we returned to the Boneyard.

“You ain’t so bad for a gay guy,” he belched.

“Neither are you,” I replied. Before I knew it he was pulling off his pants and calling for the bear grease. I could have easily slipped away but I realized that, half-clothed, he was already snoring pitiably on the ground by my feet. I painted a couple of obscene gang signs on his jerkin before finding a remote spot to rest my eyes.

* * *

 The next day we were transported far north to the eastern tip of the Kodar Mountains—within the orc-controlled Hold of Belkzan. We were standing on a hill overlooking a dry valley, which the gloomy fortress of Scarwall commanded from an island surrounded by a deep, wide lake. A small fort guarded the entrance to the bridge leading there.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I said as we began making our way through the dry scrub.

“Man up,” said Szechuan, giving my ass a reassuring (for him) squeeze. “We’ve come this far, haven’t we?”

“True,” I sighed, “every road is an opportunity.”

“Would you stop it!” Finarfin cut in. “I mean, really. Are you going to cry now?” Typically, he misunderstood my quotation from Desna's holy scriptures. “Maybe we should have dropped you off in Janderhoff with Trinia.” He growled nastily, revealing his true attitude towards her, despite all his pretty words to the contrary.

“Leave him alone, Finarfin,” Driar suddenly spoke up, surprising us all. “He’s just expressing what we’re all feeling,” he looked down upon the volatile halfling warily. Finarfin was quivering like a tuning fork with nearly uncontrollable rage. Vencarlo calls this sort of thing “combat nerves,” and it can be quite deadly.

“Well, at least I don’t prattle on about such things,” he finally grunted.

“Ease up, wee lad,” Szechuan said, patronizing him. Finarfin’s eyes bulged as he turned towards the much larger man, who seemed as innocent of his offense as a newborn babe.

“Would you all just shut up for a minute,” PJ hissed, halting the confrontation in the nick of time. “Someone is coming.”

Looking up, my heart skipped a beat as the three approached us, led by Laori Vauss. She looked rumpled, as if she had just climbed out of bed. She glanced at me briefly but I saw only disdain there. I dropped behind the others.

Quickly she introduced her companions: Shadowcount Sial and his servant Asyra, a chain demon, who incongruously wore a thin bracelet of enchained hearts around one wrist.

Laori quickly acknowledged that we were on opposite sides of the fence but offered a truce of sorts because the castle held many traps, the least of which would impede us, or them, but not both. “You guys are too good and we’re way too bad,” she smirked.

I could not keep my eyes off her. You know how it is when you’re attracted to someone you shouldn’t even speak with? It can only end badly but you can’t help yourself, something inside you really wants that person and you wonder if it’s because, deep down, you share with them the quality you find so disgusting. Yeah, that’s how it felt, and I was as helpless as a corpse wrapped in sheets. Worse, she knew it. What will happen to little Cordobles if he has to kill her someday and will she come when I do? Vencarlo calls this sort of thing, “performance anxiety.”

She hinted that they were actors for Zon-Kuthon, god of darkness and pain, who had something against the castle’s current management. This seriously perturbed PJ who exploded in a somewhat confused diatribe against “all you death-dwarves and the horse you rode in on!” But ultimately the holy guys held their noses and agreed because they knew Laori was right. She winked at me with satisfaction, her smirk returning when she glimpsed my longing gaze—the spider and the fly.

Up above we could see ghostly lights flickering at the windows and the shadow of movement of something that was probably both mean and smelly.

PJ and I crept around the back of the blockhouse while the others kicked in the front door and started slaughtering orcs like chickadees. I managed to kill one and lame another. You always say that the best thing about orcs is that they never stay long. Another good thing is that they carry lots of valuable loot, although we made Finarfin do the disgusting job of emptying the pockets of the ones he’d fried like Founder’s Day quail. He wrinkled his nose but did it, pulling the flesh off with their rings and other jewelry. Laori, who had been following along behind with her crew, mocked him delightedly, saying, “Don’t forget to check their cocks, they wear gold rings down there.”

“You’d know!” he growled in reply, but I noticed him checking their crotches from that point onward.

 We split up opals galore and I saw a necklace of seven silver-plated wyrmling skulls that I really wanted but didn’t think they’d let me keep. By the front gate we found an information kiosk with pamphlets about Scarwall and its history printed by the local chamber of commerce. It read:

“The castle sits atop a small island in a crater lake made of the caldera of a long dormant volcano. The keep is an imposing collection of towers and fortifications. (Note the clouds of dark carrion birds perched upon its pinnacles, riding the winds above its towers.) A single span connects the castle to a small peninsula on the lake’s southern edge, where a crumbling gatehouse stands. The barbican consisted of a moldering curtain wall flanking the remains of two towers, the western of which has collapsed on itself. The other, though battered, still stands, supporting a ramshackle lean-to. Hosts of undead wait to welcome you to Zon-Kuthonland, a world beyond anything you’ve experienced before.” *

We disposed of the bodies in the black water surrounding the castle and were surprised by a surge of movement as something very large and hungry gobbled up their remains—like trout sucking bugs under the water’s surface. Gods keep me from such an ignoble ending.

With a loud thump that reverberated throughout the valley the far gate opened and a coterie of skeleton shambled towards us, armor clashing against their bones, longswords held stiffly and inexpertly. They were led by a monster’s skeleton bearing an immense lance riding what Laori called a “Night-mare,” which is an overly large horse, flesh rotting beneath silver armor, with glowing, demonic eyes, fire coming from its nose, and smoke hissing from its asshole.

I don’t know why they bothered except to clean out their deadwood because we’ve become so powerful that we wiped them clean, like Aunt Eldoron sweeping ants out her kitchen. Even the Nightmare and its rider were no match for us, although they hurt us some. Licking our wounds we were soon on our across the causeway again.

We were walking into a strong wind. I soon recognized the familiar sensation of spirits gathering—like in my old apartment after Redcullin left. Looking back I saw Zellara’s ethereal form besieged by flying darkness but before we could react she was gone, swept away by a “swarm of souls.” I vow that we will find her again.

Our way was blocked by a tall latticed gate framed by two heroic statues of warriors bearing flaming lances. Szechuan and Finarfin lifted the cumbersome portcullis as we scuttled beneath it. Once inside we saw that the hallway was littered with bodies, orc and human alike, in a desperate, final struggle. Many of the bodies lay pincushioned by arrows, and I eyed the firing slits lining both sides of the hallway uneasily. I guess I’ve become inured to gruesome sights because I was indifferent to the ruined lives and lost dreams represented there.

Suddenly I spied movement in one large pile of bodies that had started creeping towards us, cursing all the while from a dozen mouths. I found out later that this thing was a "corpse orgy," which sounds fun but in fact is a nasty scavanger that absorbs the dead. For some reason this one was being prevented from finishing the process of assimilation—a sort of a chunky stew instead of the puree it wished to be.

It seemed like a good time to try out my elixir of fire breath, which hurt it some but stunk up the joint, causing the critter to try to absorb me! Fortunately, Laori and her pals had followed us in and helped put the creature out of its misery. I guess there are worse things than being eaten by a lake monster.

We decided to take a break and found a corner unfettered by corpses, where we rested and counted our loot. Laori continued ignoring me so I sat by a broken-out window gazing out over the lake, a light breeze cooling my brow.

Always yours,
Cordobles

* Quotes (the second one rewritten) courtesy of JollyDoc’s  SCARWALL.
Next is Finarfin's Seventeenth Report.

Letter Fifteen

Dear Sneffles,

The next day the men returned. Their shock and rage at the carnage greeting them threatened to escalate into a fight with us but Ready-Klar and Krojan the Eater talked them down, explaining that but for us there would no one left alive. This calmed them somewhat until one smart-ass remarked that if we hadn’t been there in the first place the Red Mantis would have had no reason to attack them, and the grumbling renewed. Thankfully, the diversion had bought just enough time for Ready-Klar to get his lieutenants deployed. Soon everyone was too busy cleaning up and preparing the dead for the funeral to pay attention to us. Ready-Klar asked us to stay until the next evening when we would take part in the grand funeral’s closing ceremony—the "Blessing of Ancestors." Until then, “stay the fuck outta the way.”

So we hung out in the shade of a huge pile of dried up old bones. Szechuan went off to help his pals clean up while the rest of us got a card game going. That’s when a young barbarian shambled into our encampment, looking about with distracted air. Trinia quickly went over to him to find out what he wanted. Finally she turned to us to translate as the youth asked haltingly which one of us was “Phan-arf-faine?”

Finarfin looked up at him disdainfully. “Who wants to know?”

The guy scratched his dirty blond head, looking as abashed as a mule at Marshmallow Park, stammering, “They told me you were with Toska at the end—when she died.” The boy was too miserable to be angry and when he said her name his voice cracked a little. Finarfin didn’t know what to do, so he stood there diddling with his electrical thingamajiggy, just in case he had to fry the lad.

A tear crept down the boy’s cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. “I just want to know that she died bravely . . . and that she didn’t suffer.”

Finarfin visibly gulped. He stared blankly into the distance for a moment before gathering himself. “She saved my life,” he lied, surprisingly humble. And maybe she did—that blade was meant for him. “She took on those Red Mantis fuckers wearing nothing but . . . well, uh, anyway she was tearing them a new asshole when that Cinderlander dog shot her down from behind. She died whispering a name . . .”

“Was it Klogg?” the boy interrupted hopefully.

“Yeah, sure, I think so,” Finarfin shrugged. “It was kind of noisy out there.”

Finarfin stepped back warily as the young man pulled out a very large knife and opened a vein in his arm, bidding Finarfin do the same. The halfling wasn’t enthusiastic so I quickly put a nick in him, using the silver knife—he barely felt it. Then the two clasped arms, bleeding on each other profusely. There were more tears and hugs and Trinia told me that Klogg had called him, “Brother of the womb,” which seems to mean that they’d fucked the same woman.

I guess that makes me brother to half of Korvosa.

That night they started their mourning. We sat by our pile of bones listening to the ceremony unfolding down by their fire-circle. Each stanza of the shaman’s steady cadence of ancient verse was answered by the clan’s hearty response. I fell asleep to the gentle sound of Trinia’s rhythmic translation, somewhat after the recitation of their “Trail of Tears,” which happened  during the time they call the "Cheliax Scourging."

As dawn approached they finally lit up the pyre, consigning their loved-ones to the afterlife. That took the rest of the day to accomplish as a choking pall of smoke reeking of oily flesh enfolded our hilltop. They fed the Red Mantis corpses to the dogs, after dissecting the big Mantis for spare parts. They also kept the Cinderlander’s head as a souvenir, proof that he really was dead. To his face they’d glued a beard. When I asked why, they told me it was fashioned from Toska’s “private hair.” A jape, I suppose. I admit that it smelled of her.

By late afternoon the village was sleeping in the acrid heat. I tried to rest, too, but ended up at the cliff’s edge staring out over the rusty plain in the direction of Korvosa, where everything I hold dear awaits me. I’m getting a very bad feeling about our adventure and can only beg you to visit the Count’s summer retreat on the coast until I return. I know, you’ll say, “I can take better care of myself than you can yourself but, unless you’ve suddenly acquired a taste for violence, I guarantee you won’t like what’s coming.

“Hey pinhead,” I heard Finarfin call. “We need your help.” I quickly returned to the “Boneyard” (which I learned was where they compost their "middens") to find my compatriots hurrying about, dividing our Mantis loot. Finarfin had magically acquired the ability to teleport great distances and decided we should revamp our weaponry. I couldn’t argue with that and put dibs on the Cinderlander’s own mithral shirt! It’s light, looks sharp, and is as strong as an m-word fucker. If only I’d gotten it autographed!

I also got Szechuan’s spare Gauntlets of Power to augment my noodle arms.

Trinia, who had been distracted and haunted all afternoon, suddenly announced she was returning to Janderdhoff with Finarfin to stay at Orisini's and Adriel's bachelor pad. I held him by the shoulders, looking deeply into his beautiful green eyes. So that’s how it plays! “It will be comforting for all of you there,” I agreed. “You’ll be able to help the old boys with whatever they're doing.” I opened a small pint of ale we’d rousted from some Dead Mantis’ belt, toasting her.

With a guilty look, she confided that the night of the attack she’d sent a succubus to Finarfin in her place, just to shut him up, and now he's got some kind of sex-jones for her. She knew she shouldn't have done it but the guy was way too obnoxious. She's afraid that if he finds out the truth his berserker-revenge fetish will kick in—she knows the type—making her life a living hell. So it’s fare-thee-well, young sailor. When this is finally over, my sweet girl, I’ll introduce you to him, and we’ll all take a long vacation together along the coast, in your winter-boyfriend’s yacht.

[I’m giving these letters to Trinia to post when she arrives in Janderhoff. I asked her to give Vencarlo and Jasan a kiss for me when she arrives. She blushed prettily and said with a crooked grin that she intends to do more than that!]

Much love,
Cordobles

Followed by Dear Sneffles Letter Sixteen

Letter Fourteen

Dear Sneffles,
And I was transported far above the world. The vast Cinderlands were no more than a bowl of sand within the confines of its mountain ranges. Who would have thought the world was so immense? I followed the rivers to the sea and then to Korvosa where I watched its citizens going about their daily routines: pickpockets following their marks, streetwalkers hustling their johns, citizens waiting in line for free bangers and mash. A couple of Hellknights were getting their boots blacked on Zhuangzi Square. The sky above me was dark and forbidding. The stars more numerous than I’ve ever seen, even in depths of the desert, shining with a ferocity that hurt my eyes. Most disturbingly they didn’t twinkle, as they do when gods talk amongst themselves.

My eye was drawn to a star that was steadily increasing it’s brightness until it outshone all others. I realized with a start that this could only mean that it was approaching me. I reached for my weapons but to my surprise was carrying nothing but my starknife, the symbol of Desna forged there glowing deep cobalt-blue. With no other choice I grasped it stoically awaiting my fate.

It was impossible to judge the star’s closeness to me. When it was about the size of a fly I saw that there was an object inside its light. By the time it was the size of a butterfly I knew, somehow, that what I was witnessing was the approach of holy Desna herself! She was coming to take me home. When she was the size of a rabbit I began having trouble easily perceiving the shape inside her halo of light, which squirmed and transmuted into many things—animals, faces, monsters, and things I have no name for. By the time she was Finarfin’s size my mind was eased somewhat by the orderly pattern governing the shapes within, like waves falling on a beach.

By the time she was the size of a little girl I saw, with shock, that it was Brianna, the child we'd saved from Blood Veil back in Korvosa. I was filled with awe. Then she grew as large as an ox, a small building, a city block, Old Korvosa, all Korvosa, and still she approached me! Multiply the many heads of Khalni Hydra a millionfold within a universe of soft healing light and it would be shadow compared to what I experienced. When she was the size of a mountain she passed through me—or I through her. Desna smiled upon me. A bolt of pure sexual electricity passed through me, leaving me as spent as a weekend lying in your arms. I know now that my struggle has purpose, however it ends. It’s not for me to decide my fate, it’s for the gods to use me. I’m just going along for the ride.

When I opened my eyes I was back in the room with my companions who were impatient to be on their way. They didn’t even bother to listen to my story, shrugging it off even as they bragged and bickered with one another. Finarfin and Szechuan are like big and little brothers now. Cute, I grant you, especially as Finarfin plays the part of older brother to a somewhat addled sibling.

Cautiously we poked our heads out of the portal but the monster’s pool was once again placid and its resident asleep. We tried looting the rest of the building, in a halfhearted way, but only managed to get caught in a nasty lingual trap that kept PJ and me enraptured for a long fucking time. I finally sussed it and came out of my trance in time to keep from peeing my pants. As I ran past my compatriots I sent them after PJ, warning them not to look at the symbols. Finarfin managed to get trapped anyway and the others had to hustle him out of there. I caught a quick nap before we left for our next destination, the village of Flameford.

I remember little of the journey, enraptured as I was by what had just happened to me. At night I would lie far from the campfire and stare into the heavenly vault searching for my Desna. In my dreams I flew through the heavens with her. Someday I will return to the Acropolis with you, my love, and together we’ll join her forever.

Finally, we began to see the mounds of animal bones that meant we were approaching a barbarian village. A bright light shone in the distance, a reflection of the sun off the sides of a tall mesa of razor-sharp slashrock. The evening sun wrapped the bluff in a towering chimney of flame, thus the name of the place.

We followed Eater and his boys up a long steep path and saw a sad collection of hovels huddled at the top. Its residents lined the track into their village, hooting in derision, and curious as to why we were there. They probably thought we had been captured trespassing by Eater and his pals who had brought us for their evening’s entertainment. One of their dogs tried grabbing hold of my leg and was surprised by a quick boot in the ass. After that their mongrels left me in peace, although Finarfin had to fart acid at a couple of them.

Eater took us to chief Ready-Klar who was disappointed to be told that we weren’t there to be sacrificed to whatever minor deity he holds dear but were, in fact, (almost) respected warriors on a mission that required their help. They were suspicious but reassured by Eater that we had passed the Barbarian test—all but one of us, anyway. My pals laughed as I turned beet-red with humiliation.

As dusk approached Ready-Klar declared a “Boys’ night out!” (his words), and all the men except for Eater’s crew left the encampment. The rest of the clan, mostly women and children, settled down from the day’s excitement and began preparing their evening meal. PJ went off to pray while Finarfin waylaid one of the local girls. I joined Trinia at the firepit where the yokels sat around swapping tales; the teenies chasing tail; and the kids playing in the dirt. We were all drinking some kind of fermented mares’ milk that wasn’t half bad if you didn’t mind picking the occasional hair from your teeth. I played catch with some of the kids until it was too dark to see their ball easily—an oblong bladder filled with air.

By this time Trinia had begun regaling the townies with stories from the heroic age. Sweetly, she would pause every so often to hurriedly fill in the translation for me, although I am starting to pick up their lingo. As I watched her act out the scenes of her narration, I began to consider that she may actually be a very pretty boy. Something about the way she swivels her hips when she’s excited. The barbarians seemed to think so, too, which made her all the more exotic and worldly to them—and me, to be honest about it.

“The Peacock Spirit held all of ancient Thassilon in its thrall,” she said, holding the women and children in a bit of a thrall herself. They sat open-mouthed while listening to her tale. Even the punks stopped fidgeting, drinking in her story, eager to learn. “The Peacock Spirit was neither god nor goddess, but both at once.”

“Like Elrick!” one of the older boys called. Trinia joined in the general merriment as Elrick glowered from his sewing circle. She smiled on him sadly, knowingly, beautifully. Finally, she continued, “The Peacock Spirit was worshiped by the practitioners of Rune magic . . .” Here she used a simple spell to scribe runes of fire through the air. The rubes gasped in awe. I considered taking advantage of the situation but knew with certainty that they would carry maybe a few dried biscuits and a bone or two—nothing worth stealing.

“. . . and served by an ascetic order of monks living in monasteries on the Storval Plateau—your home. You have probably seen the mounds that contain their ruins. In fact, this bluff you live on—didn’t you ever wonder why it’s the only one in this valley? Maybe you’re living atop the buried remains of a stone-giant enclave!”

That stirred them up. I began to wonder if she had overstepped her bounds but  soon every one settled down as she moved on to the story of Beau Marie and the Peacock Spirit.

“This happened well before the birth of the later deities: Desna, Rovagug, and so on," she began. "This land was a place of milk and honey. There were wells of butter and roasted meat trees everywhere. There was at peace throughout the land. In the city of Snorg—where only ghosts dwell today—lived a young and beautiful woman known to everyone as Beau Marie.

“Now everyone loved Marie, not just the men, she was the center of attention everywhere she roamed. Just to see her lightened your day. Many men bid for her hand but when she refused them—and she invariable did—they loved her anyway.

"Perhaps you know someone like this. They're not like you and me. Every day is a joy, everything an adventure. Most women know this feeling in their youth, but even as she aged Beau Marie remained youthful and eternal.

"One day, outside Snorg, Marie encountered a wraith in the forest. It sat forlornly by a mead stream but when when it saw Marie a crafty look entered its eyes."

I never found out what happened because at that moment shadowy, winged creatures were descending through the dark night sky. It wasn’t until stone-hued gargoyles began dropping their passengers—red-armored, insect-masked Red Mantis assassins—that we realized we were under attack.

With most of the warriors gone the women and children leaped to defend themselves but were no match for the trained killers and their rocky pets. Still, I saw the boys I had been playing feetball with flaying a gargoyle on an outcropping of razorstone, and a grandmother savagely coldcocking a Red Mantis who had skewered her babies.

With a hard glance I wished luck to Trinia, who was digging through her bag of tricks, then leapt to battle. Determined to make up for my recent failures I struck down the nearest Red Mantis and turned to help PJ. That’s when I was hit by a bolt from a blue-robed cocksucker across the way. He was dressed like a shabby frontiersman, although I caught the gleam of mithral armor through a tear in his shirt. I could barely see his eyes beneath the worn, floppy hat he wore but they were lit with feral madness (like Podge “the butcher” in one of his fugues). He was aiming his crossbow at me again—one of those repeating kinds—when he suddenly realized that Krojan was about to make him two feet shorter and planted his bolt into the bone thug’s hairy chest instead.

“Gotta hurt,” I whistled, suddenly realizing the red Mantis I’d knocked out had returned in his true form—an actual Giant Mantis! I wasn’t prepared for that so I quickly put a yurt between us, coming upon a ribald scene of gore. Gouts of blood gushed from a naked headless woman onto an equally unclothed Finarfin laying trapped beneath her, while some bozo stabbed at his head. I quickly put the kibosh on the spaz, almost falling off the cliff in the process. That’s when I spied the asshole who had shot me

I was dowsing towards him when I was overwhelmed with remorse and found myself fleeing from battle. I knew I had been ensorcelled but couldn’t resist the spell. I spent the rest of the fight cowering amongst a trio of dwellings with the feral cats and infants, listening while the screams and curses of the dying mocked me. One old grandmother stared at me with disgust. She waved a huge bone ladle while cursing me in guttural Sklar-Quah. Thankfully she was too infirm to brain me as she wished to do. I fell to my knees and prayed for release. Finally, the big Mantis went down (whispering “Thank you.” to his killer, PJ) and the crippling fear left me.

I wandered shamefaced back to the firepit with the infirm and the youngest children who immediately started wailing over their dead kin. It was a heart-rending sound. Krojun, by the way, really does eat what he kills—this time it was the bastard who shot me. I owe him for that. I have no idea how he survived a full-on shot to the chest. (Maybe he’s eaten an armadillo.) It turns out the guy was the fabled “Cinderlander” himself—the maniac serial-killer of the Sklar-Quah—Krojan will now be a made man and have many children by many women.

In the morning my partners said nothing as we split the loot, but neither did they meet my eyes. Shit.

Failure is a setback, not an end,
Cordobles

Next is Finarfin's Sixteenth Report