Letter Twenty

Dear Sneffles,
We’re coming home! Somehow we survived Scarwall. . . .

After taking down Mithrodar’s last anchor we paused to survey our loot, which was far greater than I could have ever imagined possible. Part of me wanted to stop right there, grab my share, and run home. What do I care about a conflict I only half understand? You and I could disappear forever, buy our own vessel, travel the world, own an island, and make babies. I can hear you laugh and, truthfully, I dismissed the notion as soon as it entered my head. How could I raise sons knowing that I’d walked out on my friends? What could I teach them? Come what may I’m in this to the end, which I hope will be glorious. Besides, there’s more loot to be had and no natural son of Gaedrun Lamm can turn his back on that!

We’ve seen so many dead things since entering Scarwall that we’ve become quite jaded, so it took us all by surprise when, while Szechuan was prying gems from one of the many skulls littering the room, it suddenly spoke to him!

“I am Andachi of Tamrivena!” it proclaimed.

“I didn’t do it!” Szechuan replied, hastily dropping the chattering pate, wiping his hands on his bloody tunic.

Nobody was too sure of who Andrachi was, or any of the other skulls who gave us their names, but they’d obviously come to a bad end. I shivered, realizing that I could end up like one of them, especially if we’re dealing with that fucker Rovagug.

On this note we packed the stuff we’d won by rite of combat and dragged it back to the guardhouse where we rested before searching out Mithrodar. Like the previous evening, I woke early and, feeling restless, slunk carefully out into the night under our watchman’s (i.e. Finarfin’s) nose, who was—typically—smoking zong and staring dreamily out a window.

“Laori, where are you?” I whispered. But there was no answer. Then I heard a sound down a long hallway and followed it to a door that was slightly ajar. In the dim glow of an oil lamp I saw Asrya, the chain demon—but she was not alone. It took me a moment to realize that what I was seeing was her making love to one of her own kind! They lay entangled, chains lustily entwined, rattling and clanking in rhythmic harmony, blue sparks flying, the smell of ozone, sighs like wagonwheels over cobblestone.

“Very charming,” a husky voice whispered into my ear. Startled, I jumped haphazardly, bouncing off the heavy door and landing helplessly on the flat of my back. In a heartbeat she was next to me, breathing hotly in my ear, undoing my belt.

“Laori,” I gasped.

“Ta ta,” she grinned. I felt her cold blade against my scrotum and, Desna help me, my erection became all the greater.

“That’s my boy,” she giggled and took me right there on the floor. After our first orgasm together she put the knife away and we rutted like two barbarians on the corpses of their enemies. Making love to Laori Vauss is something like fucking a porcupine, only worse, because she makes the pain feel so good. I treated her in kind and soon we were slipping over one another in our own sweat, blood, and come. She bit and cursed me as I gouged and bruised her. Dawn found us exhausted in each others’ arms, gasping for air, so sensitive that the slightest breeze sent us both into ratcheting orgasm. I kissed her full red lips, which were covered with my issue, as my lips were covered with hers.

 Ah, I considered asking her to come away with me, but then I remembered you, my love. You, whose love is unqualified, healing and pure, as wholesome as mothers’ milk, and who loves me for what I am, not as a trophy on her wall—Laori would be the death of me, sooner rather than later, I think. I watched her closely as she put on her clothes, wincing at times, and leaving me with a final lingering kiss—she seemed suddenly bashful, but I watched her all the same, as much to make sure she didn’t circle back to kill me, as to express my love for her. Then I crawled back to the guardhouse—bleeding from a thousand wounds; stinking of sperm, shit, and vaginal fluid—where an astonished, and possibly nauseated, Driar healed me without a word (although his eyes burned brightly with indignation).

Then I took Szechuan’s proffered cup of coffee and tried to stop my hands shaking.

It didn’t take us long to find Mithrodar’s lair. While most of the boys went in the hall’s front entrance, Driar followed me around to the back door. I’ve never written much about Driar despite the fact that he is a cleric of our beloved Desna. He’s a chilly and imposing figure, an authority type who is not impressed by my waggish incorrigibility. He sees Desna-worship as a very serious thing and doesn’t believe me sincere but, as you know, if it wasn’t for Desna I never would have made it out of the slums, never twigged that there was more to life than rolling drunken sailors, breaking and entering, or convincing young girls to try their luck on the streets.

Of course, I didn’t tell him that.

Driar entered first and quickly realized that we were close enough to the ancient guardian to count the hairs on his ass, so I stayed outside the door and used my shortbow to good effect as Szechuan, typically, went toe-to-toe with the creature. With his anchors gone Mithrodar was vulnerable. I concentrated on his spectral minions as the boys wailed on him until he literally gave up the ghost, leaving us with a loud hiss, like a fat man on Bean Day. There was a moment of silence before we heard the heartening sounds of the ancient curse being lifted from the castle and the release of many trapped and suffering souls, including, I assume, our old pal Zellara.

Outside of loving you, this is the proudest moment of my life.

Then things really got freaky as the air in front of us shimmered and shook as an old geezer emerged, like he’d stepped from some ancient time, the buckles on his shoes giving him away, about a thousand years out of fashion. Raw strips of skin peeled from him in a languid and haphazard way until his flesh was completely gone. Then he healed and the process started over again. He didn’t seem to mind, like he’d grown used to it.

He spoke with difficulty, it being so long, I suppose. At first I didn’t think he was speaking a language I understood but I soon realized that it was like our speech, only noisier, with glottal stops we would never use. It was Count Andachi himself (the same guy whose skull we’d found) and he said that he had ruled Tamrivena a long time ago until his general Kazavon (yeah, the fang guy, whose partial spirit in now living inside Ileosa’s brainpan) caught up with him and turned him into a BLT.

(FYI: The guys look down on me for using street-talk like BLT, LOL, IMHO, etc. They say it’s not dope and no true PC would ever sully an RPG with such chattertalk. I don’t know, I hear the NPC’s using it all the time, and even the GM himself. WTF? If we would all just LOL we’d be much better off, IMHO. That’s how us kids discussed what we were going to do with the bean-sniffers and bent eagles in the old days, without them suspecting a thing. Yep, so if I lapse into old-school once in awhile STFU, I’m LMFAO. LSMFT!)

Anyway, Count Andachi was trapped here afterward, even when Mandraivus arrived to ram his mighty sword Serithtial up Kazavon’s ass. His victory was short lived because soon after the orcs made sure Mandraivus’s spirit joined him with the many others the castle’s foul aura captured. Finally, after many centuries, a party of “true heroes” (his words, not mine) arrived to finish the job.

Only the job was not done. “You must retrieve the sword, Serithtial,” he told us. “Kazavon is returning, gaining power every day. He’s taken your Queen and the world itself hangs in the balance.”

Melodramatic, I know, but that wasn’t the end of it. “Even now the minions of the Midnight Lord, Zon-Kuthon, seek to deny you your prize. Go to the Star Tower. Go. . . .”  With a sigh like an old man passing gas he embarked for the next world.

“Damnation,” hollered PJ. “Let’s move!”

Naturally, there was no way into the Star-shaped tower, which had grown a cap like the hood on a penis. With the lifting of Scarwall’s curse, though, the gargoyles had apparently migrated back to hell so Finarfin was able to fly us to the top where Laori waited with her pals, Shadowcount Sial, and Asrya, the chain demon, who looked none the worse for wear after her amorous interlude. For that matter, neither did Laori, who chose to ignore me as frostily as she had been passionate just hours before. I didn’t blow our cover.

“WT”—I mean—“What the fuck?” PJ said.

“We were waiting for you,” Laori shrugged, with a sharp insouciance that caused his eyes to bulge in anger. We followed them down a long spiral staircase, arrogantly cut into the living stone by the Midnight Lord Zon-Kuthon’s thrall. At the bottom was about what you’d expect for a freak’s bedchamber, although it’s been a long time since anyone died here in bondage.

It turns out this is but one of a series of Star Towers that stitch the earth together binding “The Rough Beast” (Rovagug) within.

Things were spooky enough when a disembodied voice greeted us cordially, told a couple of mildly amusing jokes (Why did Rovagug cross the road? To destroy the world! Ha ha!) and asking which one of us needed a job. To be honest, guarding Rovagug’s left nipple didn’t appeal to any of us, but really, he was just asking our pals, Leori and Sial.

Sial is a snotty prick and seemed to think insulting Laori was a winning strategy, but instead she got a look in her eye that would give Zon-Kuthon pause. I think Laori could have handled him alone but I felt restless, sideling behind him with a quiet hand at my rapier of human-bane. The others boxed him in on either side.

Sial reddened, but wisely decided to make no move.

“Hey, don’t take it so hard, Sial,” Laori smirked, “it’s only until the end of time.”

“Damn you,” he cursed bitterly. “Damn you all!”

The disembodied voice chuckled. “You two come back to the top of the tower and we’ll hash out your new duties. The rest, follow the stairs down to find what you seek.”

“Crap,” said Laori, surprisingly me with a desperate look. I crossed to her expectantly, secrecy forgotten.

“This is it,” she said, looking first at me and then beyond me. “I give this pain to Zon-Kuthon, and thank him for it.” She then embraced me. Her barbs pricked me and the pain was sweet. I glimpsed no hidden knife so I returned her caress, tasting her tears, hoping Finarfin was watching my back rather than her backside.

“You’ve still got a lot to learn, grasshopper,” she said, not unkindly, giving me a peck on the cheek. “I’ll come back for you when you’ve grown up. Look for me with the first new moon of a new year.”

“I’ll be waiting,” I said to her departing back. She stopped at the foot of the stairs, turned, and gave me a little wave before disappearing.

“Wow,” said PJ, slapping me on the shoulder. “What a hottie!”

“Yeah,” I replied dreamily, wiping blood from my face, still not believing she was gone.

“I don’t think I’d keep that date with her, though.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you know? The new moon of the new year is the Kuthites’ Eternal Kiss ceremony. For ten days they give their special guest anything his little heart desires and on the eleventh they yank his entrails out to foretell the future. Those mackerel-snappers are crazy as coots, but it’s considered a great honor.”

“Yeah . . . ,” I sighed. “Honor.”

Finarfin came over to commiserate as well. “You’ll see her again, ’Dobles,” he said brightly. “If not in this life, then the next.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, little buddy,” I smiled. “Come on, let’s end this thing.”

“Yeah,” he snarled at our enemies, wherever they were, whoever they might be; running ahead of us in his excitement like a little boy at a picnic.

At the bottom of the stairs was a large cavern where a deep recess in the floor exuded glowing blue mist. Its walls were pitted and it looked like an easy climb but we found ourselves falling to an icy floor far below. The clammy mist roiled about us as we caught our breath. Finarfin sent out his arcane eye to scope out the cavern. It found two passages, one leading nowhere, the other to a large underground lake, with a light burning in the distance. That’s where we went.

“I hope that light ain’t Rovagug,” Szechuan muttered.

We had just carved up a few guardian turkeys when the big show arrived, erupting from the lake like a corpse-rat from the guts of a week old green cheese. Despite its power, it had a fatal weakness, being of just two dimensions, so we hacked at the thing until it was gone.

We were so tired by this time that we were just going through the motions, sending Finarfin over the lake to reconnoiter the light. It was Serithtial, all right, glowing brightly with purity and power. He grabbed it roughly from the rock it was embedded in to bring it back, thinking it now belonged to him. But, like many a virgin, it didn’t care for his touch. But like a virgin, he grabbed it anyway, flitting back and forth over the dark water like an errant firefly as it tried to escape him. Finally he made it back to shore where the sentient weapon literally threw itself into Szechuan’s loving arms.

“That’s the thanks I get?” Finarfin huffed, but no one paid him any mind as we admired the glowing sword, the legend Serithtial. Then Szechuan made an astonishing announcement.

“In accepting Serithtial, and she me, I have pledged myself to Iomedae, goddess of righteous valor, justice, and honor.”

“Wait until Bardar hears about this,” PJ said with wonder.

I won’t bore you with the logistics of our journey to Janderhoff. Hauling the loot turned out to be more trouble than any of our foes had ever been. We did make one last exploration—into the once forbidden west wing where we found the last mortal remains of the hero Mandraivus, and figured we might as well take him, too.

So we made it back to Janderhoff. Driar was eager to give his prayers to Desna so I gave him a copper for the alms box. He also assigned us tasks—mine was to accompany Finarfin to check-in with Orisini and “Squarehead” Neolandus. I was eager to tell him of our adventures and of how his pupil has grown, but his abode was quiet and still. We decided on a simple plan: Finarfin would go into a nearby tavern and keep an eye on the joint while I drifted around the neighborhood to look for trouble. Finding none, eventually I joined him inside.

“Let me just stealth in and see what’s up,” I begged.

“No, no,” he replied. “These guys are clever. We gotta watch a while longer.”

So I had a brew and a shot of something they call “Orc’s Delight” until he was finally satisfied. I went in first, picked a suspiciously easy lock, and passed inside to disable their traps. Finarfin watched from outside before coming in a few minutes later. We nosed around, finding nothing incriminating, or valuable—but I didn’t expect to.

On a whim, Finarfin cast detect secret doors and was surprised to spot a loose bit of trim around one of the front windows that opened to reveal a small hollow. Inside was a sealed envelope with a single word scrawled across it: Dudes.

“You think that means us?” I asked.

“Of course it does, you nimrod!” Finarfin snapped, reaching for the letter eagerly.

Crack!

A loud snap—mild lightning, I’m guessing—passed through him from head to foot like a bright wave on the beach. Reeling, he handed me the smoking envelope.

“Sorry, man,” I tried not to laugh. “I guess I missed one.”

So I bought the next round. The letter said they’d gone back to Korvosa and that we should follow them there to the temple of Pharasma.”

“Cool beans,” said Finarfin standing up. “I’ve got to go see a man about a dog, so I’ll talk to you later.”

“Whatever.” I watched him walk away jauntily, like a sailor his first day ashore. “Good luck, you little booger,” I thought before going my own way.

A sky citadel like Janderhoff might sound aerie but they are really claustrophobic places, buildings on top of buildings on top of buildings; with passageways up, over, around, and through. Like old Korvosa, only the ceilings are lower and the citizens wider. I was constantly in danger of being head-butt by a dwarf or catching a Barbarian’s elbow in my ear. Every once in awhile I’d see a bit of blue sky, or catch a whiff of fresh air.

I walked down to the leatherworkers block, where I took the strips of dragon I’d removed from Bellshallam. But none of the craftsman would catch more than a glimpse of the hide before shooing me out of their store. “Where’s you get that?” they’d rasp. “Don’t you know it’s against the law to tan dragonhide? I’d get my license taken away!” I was rolling the strips up and putting them back into my pack when one of the shopkeepers gingerly approached me.

“Look—for a tenner,” he whispered, “I’ll give you the name of someone who can help you.” I happily paid him the 10 gp and a half hour later found myself in a pungent, disreputable alley leading into a dark cul-de-sac. I asked passers-by for the dwarf I sought but no one would talk with me. Finally, a kid stopped and asked me who I wanted.

“Harsk, jr. the bootmaker.”

“Oh, shit.”

I waited.

“It’ll cost you.”

I shrugged and reached for my pouch but he didn’t want money. He liked the Starknife I was carrying. Now I’ve never used the weapon with its silver symbol of Desna that is only visible when spinning rapidly towards the heart of a foe. It looks cool but is not much use, so I gave it to him and he took to me Harsk, jr., right across the street. I don’t begrudge the boy because he reminded me a little of myself at that age—more interested in style than substance. As he was leaving with his prize I told him to look me up in the north ward sometime over the next few days if he wanted lessons on how to wield the thing.

Inside, Harsk, jr’s eyes lit up when he saw the skin I was holding. “Oh, yeah, man, have you got any more?”

“I’ve twice as much but you’ll only get it when you finish the boots.”

“And a thousand gold pieces.”

I laughed. “You’ll be happy with the leather.”

“Come back in two days,” Harsk, jr. grumbled while accepting the skin, taking it immediately into the back to begin a spell of curing.

I walked back to our little hut in north ward, which is also where most of the Barbarians live. The streets were wider there, the buildings taller, and although the air was not sweeter, there seemed more of it.

Szechuan and PJ had found a house with a little space around it and a defensible border. I went in and took a nap, waking towards evening when Finarfin and Driar arrived. Smelling of pussy and zong Finarfin decided to take a long bath and rest so I went over to a nearby tavern (The Glowering Beetle) with Szechuan and PJ for dinner.

Before you knew it we were invited to a table with some Barbarians just in from the Cinderlands who’d discovered we knew Krojun-Eats-What-He-Kills.

“How is the old Eater?” I asked.

They all laughed uproariously.

“What’s so funny?”

“Something he ate killed him!”

We got home quite late that night.

During the following days we sorted our loot and used the proceeds to prepare for our return to Korvosa. In my spare time I showed the boy, Glanili, how to use his new weapon. When he could swing it without cutting himself, I tutored him in the art of bluff, taking your opportunities, flanking your opponent, how to cut low, stab high, and when to run away.

“Only a coward would run,” he said contemptuously.

“Yeah," I quoted the Bard:

'A coward lives another day,
while the heroes have all turned to clay.'"

He didn’t come back after that. It’s what I get for being honest.

I content myself with playing with the house’s cat, Mortimur, whose trick is to let you brush his long red and black coat for few moments before suddenly catching your wrist in his sharp teeth. It is all in play, though, he never bites too deeply. The trick is to brush him until he's about to snap, and then calm him down with your free hand. Of course, at some point he always snaps. Then we roughhouse until he or I become bored.

I sold off some of my baubles and the weapons I never used. I had intended to return Orisini’s Keen rapier to him but sold it instead. His note did say that we should prepare for the final battle, so I think he would want it this way.

I bought a ring of invisibility, upgraded my amulet of protection, doubled the resistance of my cloak, and acquired a few other surprises to spring on the Queen and her toadies. Most amazing, Driar took me aside and, with a very serious look, suggested we share a ring of friend shield. I was agog at the honor he did me. He’s kind of signed on as my big brother now. When Finarfin asked, “Why him and not me?” Driar shrugged, saying, “The boy has a good heart but lacks direction.” I don’t know how the direction thing will work out but I feel honored nonetheless.

My one last chore was to go pick up our new boots. Harsk, jr. did a beautiful job, a true craftsman, and I’m looking forward to personally slipping yours onto your beautiful feet. I handed over the rest of the dragonhide to him as payment. Harsk, jr. hastily checked the contents, indicating his satisfaction even as the treacherous dwarf had arranged for neighborhood thugs to take the boots away and all they could strip me of as I left his shop. I was unsurprised to see that one of his lads was Glanili, who smirked when he saw me. It was all so predictable I had to laugh. A minute later they lay groaning in the street and I had my Starknife back.

“Look me up when you’re ready to carry this again,” I told the cowering boy. “Ask for Cordobles of Korvosa.” I left the shop, whistling a happy tune while twirling the Starknife with my free hand.

Dear lady, I’m coming home.

Love you soon,
Cordobles

Next is Finarfin's Twenty-first Report