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

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

Letter Twelve

Dear Sneffles,
I died today, twice, or so Finarfin says. I don’t know. I don’t remember that much. All I know is that I’m sick to my stomach and I’ve got a headache. Things had been going so well …

I knew that we were shit without a ladder when Glorio decided to kick our collective ass. He didn’t like us allying with his wife/sister and he especially didn’t like that she had told us the terrible secret about the two of them being rakshasa. Can’t blame him for that, I guess. We certainly came to regret knowing it as well.

So he brought down his heavy hitters to kill us—they made no bones about that. PJ tried to sea-lawyer them but they were having none of it being a law unto themselves, don’t you know?

The battle was hard-fought and Vimana wasn’t much help, nor was poor Master Orisini. I was beaten senseless despite everything PJ and Driar could do to keep me alive. I used my bag of tricks and then Glorio basically squeezed the life from me. It was my own fault. Driar tried to warn me. When Finarfin reached the end of his rope he had the good sense to disappear, but good old Cordobles had to fight the good fight and get himself killed. I don’t know what got into me, Mama always taught me, “When in doubt, run.” It was good advice but like most things she said, I didn’t listen.

I woke in a village outside Korvosa. There were children playing a game of hoops. Several Barbarians lounged in front of a beer hall. I recognized them as some of Redcullin’s ghost-pals. “Hey, Big Arckle!” I called but he only looked at me silently. A younger one, called Yakko, asked my why I was there. I wasn’t wanted. This kind of made me mad because they’d spent weeks haunting my apartment after Redcullin left without complaint one from me.

I decided to ask them about that. “Hey, have any of you seen Redcullin around?”

“Nay, wee laddie,” one of them, called Snarglepuss, answered. “He would have to be dead to be amongst us and he naught am that I swear by all the gods of violence and thunder.”

“Well, there’s good news at least. I may collect that debt he owes me after all. How about Szechuan?”

“We’ll have to ask the scrying ball,” a one-eyed fellow called Gabloon said, leading me to a cave where our old friend Zollara sat obviously expecting me.

“Ah, young Cordobles,” she purred. "How is your quest working out?”

“You tell me.”

She chuckled like a low-rent freebooter spending his last copper betting on a rigged game of quoits. “You wouldn’t be here if it was going at all well.”

“You’ve been reading my mail.”

“He wants to find a hero called Szechuan,” Gabloon interceded.

She sniffed, then mumbled a few words to her crystal ball. Suddenly she exhaled sharply, uttering an obscene oath while motioning me over.

In the ball a miniature Szechuen was copulating fiercely with six or seven wenches (one was the crone who cooks for the Keep and never washes her hands) and at least three yeomen. “Ah, I see he’s recovered from his hangover,” I said thanking her.

I found myself in a comfortable lounge. I seemed to recognize the furnishings—plush carpets of intricate design, overstuffed velvet sofas and chairs, silk curtains covering huge expanses of glass, exquisite paintings, some by … Salvatore Scream. That’s when I noticed the occupants: greenish skin, vacant eyes, rigid movements—it was the walking dead from the upper-class party we’d investigated looking for young Ruan.

The smell was disgusting but worse was seeing those moldering corpses engaged in the most depraved activities. Their flesh had the consistency of warm cheese, rending due to their lustful exertions. It was worse than your senior class prom. I had to turn away and when I did I beheld a man on a tall pillar of fire—it was King Eodred sitting upon his throne, his thrall surrounded him, men and women who had disappeared after the Queen took power. He looked very sad.

I approached him, the ghosts tried to intercede but I walked right through them. He was inert, as if … well, he was dead, I guess. I bowed respectfully (I hear you giggling as you lie on your bed while reading this). Silently he gazed at me, his rheumy eyes seeking mine, surveying the harried lad there. “She didn’t surprise me, you know.”

“What a guy won’t do for pussy, eh, sir?” I don’t know why I decided to pimp the old goat. He reminded me of those sailors who wake up stripped of everything they own down by the waterfront. They have no complaint because it's their own fault. “I hope it was worth it.”

He smiled his sad smile. “I suppose it’ll have to do, at least until she joins me here.”

I lost track of him after that, ending up on a side street behind a steaming manure pile. There, sitting on a stool, I found a sinister old man who was all too familiar—my daddy Gaedrun Lamm!

“Pa!” I cried, but he stared at me coldly.

“Don’t you know me? My mother was Wild Cilly McGill.”

That reached him. “Dobles? Why are you here, lad?”

“Glorio Arkona kinda … killed me.”

“Ah. Well I suppose he does that.” After a pause he leaned forward, eyes glittering like a piece of him wasn’t yet dead. “How goes it with that Sneffles girl?”

An icicle stabbed me along the spine. “What do you mean?”

“I was the first to recognize that she was special. I had her trained. I sold her to only the best. Then they took her away. Why would she go? I gave her everything, even the big-dicked sailor boy.”

“They paid you plenty for her.”

“Never enough,” he looked down upon me bitterly. “She is worth so much more.”

I found myself walking along a street leaving town. Sunken-eyed women stood in doorways suckling mummies with their withered paps. The village was merely a waystation for those waiting to move on to the hallowed land. 

I kept on walking when I reached the last house, far out into the countryside. It was peaceful in a way I’ve never found anywhere in Korvosa. Quiet, except for the distant sound of falling water.

The waterfall dropped splashing into a crystal pool of water. I removed my bloodied leather armor and bathed in the pure, refreshing liquid. Suddenly I realized I was not alone. Turning I beheld a lithe young woman, an elf, Laori Vauss, naked and alone, hair long and dark, body studded grotesquely with sharp metal studs embedded in her flesh.

“Desna’s teeth!” I cried. “Are you dead, too?”

Shaking her head she replied, “No one is dead. When you arrived here they asked me to come get you. You don’t belong here, Cordobles. She took my hand, leading me to a quiet bower where we lay down together. Her kisses were warm and intemperate, dangerous, yet needful. Her studs pierced me all along my body, blood coursing down my belly and thighs. I entered her gratefully, as you taught me, and she whinnied like a mare in heat, but before I could find my release I felt a strong force lifting me away, separating us. She smiled evilly up at me as I soared away, eyes never leaving mine. “I’m saving your death for myself,” she promised.

“Sweet,” I thought as I woke in PJ’s arms while he poured life into me. Driar stood concerned nearby, Finarfin grinning at his side. “I’d heard that some men orgasm when they die but I never expected to actually see one do it,” he chortled.

“Welcome back, squirt,” Driar grinned. Marvel of marvels his face didn’t crack from the exertion. If that was the afterlife I think I’ll remain here.

The rest of the adventure passed in a fog for me. I think we got Neolandus back and Vimana gave us a good breakfast in the morning before sending us on our way. I'm not sure where we're going but apparently it's out of town.

Missing your safe and cordial embrace,
Cordobles

Followed by Finarfin's Fourteenth Report

.

Letter Eleven

Dear Sneffles,
I was preparing to hit the sack when Szechuan raided the Keep’s spirits room and proceeded to tie one on. Preferring to stay alert I took some ale and climbed back up the top of the tower, watching the evening dusk accumulate. Outside the wall life went on as normal, albeit carefully. I watched the children playing hide and seek in the street, and fight mock-battles using the helmets and regalia of the men we’d slaughtered. I suppose they’d had dreams of glory, too, when they were children. Now they were fit only to feed the hogs.

Down below Szechuan was singing lustily and grabbing at the wenches who slipped away with practiced ease. One or two offered to pleasure him but he was too drunk to comply, so he roared instead, like a toothless old bear in a circus.

I woke at dawn, my Cloak of Resistance protecting me from the morning’s damp chill, and watched the sun rising, wondering as always if I would see the end of the day or glimpse your shining face.

When I finally climbed down I found that Szechuan could not be budged. Quite honestly, I was glad because nothing is worse than entering battle with a hung-over barbarian (even though they usually are). Finarfin was staring into space, eating a radish. After wishing me good morrow, he asked if I was ready to leave for House Arkona. “Why not,” I shrugged, watching PJ going through his bag of tricks in preparation and Driar nearby practicing prayerful breathing while stretching his hamstrings.

Collecting King Piltsy (who didn’t seem to recognize me, BTW) we put a sack over his head and walked him through the untypical quiet streets of Bridgefront. Aye, the times we had there! I was eleven and it was the happiest bit of my life for maybe three months. Then Lamm took my mother away and I learned the opposite lesson.

Castle Arkona, of course, sat brooding on the hill atop Old Korvosa, as a fat man sits on the chest of his withered old Pap—not wanting to smother him completely, of course, just to make him more tractable.

The Arkonans there were definitely interested in what we were trading. One-eyed Carnochan greeted us at the door, showing us to the public room where we sat on plush red couches among the giant ferns waiting for an audience with one of the family. Driar sat whispering prayers by the fireplace while PJ stared with mouth agape at the luminescent paintings on the walls. Nothing by Salvatore Scream here, I noticed. Finarfin, nervous as a cat, rudely cast a spell of invisibility on himself. The halfling must think the perfect way to begin negotiations is to insult your host.

That’s when Glorio Arkona swept into the room, wearing silk robes and smoking a stogie. You may remember him as one of those dangerous characters you never wanted to work for because so many of his mistresses end up in the canal. He noticed immediately that Finarfin was gone, of course, and waited until his spell wore off and he reappeared with a “pop.” If Halflings could blush, he would have, especially as his fly was unbuttoned.

Arkona smiled unctuously, thanking us for our little gift of King Piltsy and offering in return the “opportunity to find your friend” by searching for him in the labyrinth beneath the Castle. Yeah, it’s never easy. Glorio Arkona, as you remember, was always a twist, who loved to pull the wings off flies and teach cats to swim. He’s a big boy now and big boys have bigger concerns. Oh, he was going to enjoy toying with us and there was nothing we could do if we hoped to see Master Orisini alive.

In the garden was a jade oliphant. Underneath, a small switch allowed entrance to the cellars as one chanted the incantation “shamadu is blind,” which seems unnecessary, but you know how rich men love their toys.

I took my sweet time searching for traps as the statue's base slid shut above us. For once even Finarfin was subdued. At the bottom was an outlet to the river where, I suppose, the Arkonans could smuggle anything in or out. It was dark but I was beginning to get a sense of the place when three trolls shambled out of a nearby tunnel below the mansion. Their smell was sharper than their weaponry. I performed a trifecta by landing the killing blow on all three of them.

I wondered what Burns would have said of my performance that morning as we painstakingly inched through the corridors and rooms of that elaborate puzzle. He wasn’t the kind of guy to hand out compliments cheaply but I think even he would have appreciated the methodical way I dealt with traps and kept my more volatile compatriots from ripping down doors and farting acid spray at every wavering shadow. But I really owe it all to Driar’s sage counsel and PJ’s steadying presence.

It was weird but somehow we made all the right choices. We ran a gauntlet of tigers, restrained only by a magical trap that I left unsprung! We found Orisini, who had the "good" news for us that Arkona was not a man, but a rakshasa called Bahor. (The statue of Arkona wearing a cat’s head that we’d found suddenly made sense.) As goes the song:

“Rakshasa are tough mother …”
“Hush your mouth!”
“Just talkin’ ’bout Bahor!”

The more the Master talked the less sense he made. He argued with PJ for awhile as I watched him closely. His face seemed liquid somehow, and his movements where not that of a fighter, even one as injured as himself. Finally, with a snort of frustration, the shapeshifter emerged from what had seemed the Master, unfolding as a beautiful origami reveals its hidden shape. You guessed it, it was sister Vimana Arkona, the woman with a thousand faces. She carried even better news, that to find Squarehead and the Master we’d have to go through a Dark Sphinx, which was lurking nearby. Attacking with a guttural roar the creature charged towards us, brutally slavering over Finarfin's new shoes. Surprised, Finarfin sort of annihilated it. I felt for both of them but it turns out these sphinxes are overrated.

I freed the Master, who was chained behind the monster with a leather plug stuck up his ass and down his throat. They’d worked him over pretty well. I found him changed by his abasement, and not for the better. For the first time he was merely human to me, old—a great man still, don’t get me wrong—but a man nonetheless. Of course, you took his measure when you were just thirteen, but it was a revelation to me.

He looked sad when Finarfin pulled the “Black Jack” outfit from his bag of holding, fingering the scuffed leather tiredly. “I guess now you know the truth.”

I laughed, “Yes, Master, you fight for what you believe despite the consequences. I knew you were a good man before; I think you’re a great man now. I wish you were my real father.”

“I might be,” he winked, a sad tear rolling down his cheek.

“Oh, please,” snorted Finarfin as the clerics tried not to laugh. “This crap is more lethal than the sphinx!”

Much love,
Your ’Dobles

Finarfin's Thirteenth Report be next.

Letter Ten

Dear Sneffles,
I think I’m finally getting the hang of adventuring, although stabbing guys to death is still kinda gross. It’s even worse when they’re fungus creatures like we recently encountered. They smelled like the ripe, dead wino you and I found that time behind the arcade, the one whose eye you popped out with your stick.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Amin was the name of Master Orisini’s student who led us to his nearby hovel. It reminded me of the squats where we used to hide out with our little-kid gang—the Band of Gypsies. He told us that the same Red Mantis assassins who had been laying for us had also attacked the Master. The most amazing thing he said was that this part of town was being run by old limp-dick himself, Pilts Swastel! Piltsy styles himself the “King of Old Korvosa.” What a laugh. He’s more weasel than man, at least by habit.

Amin’s place was clean enough and as poorly furnished as you would expect of a student. He had only one moldering old couch that looked like it had been stuffed with rat fur, and a rickety stool made of bamboo that Szechuan immediately sat on and crushed. For his sin we let him sleep on the couch.

In the morning Amin served us groats on which he placed a spell to make them taste like the sweetest ambrosia—three-day-old ambrosia, but ambrosia nonetheless. Finarfin spiked his with zong oil. Anything to keep the little twerp happy, I say. I left munching an apple.

Scream was living in a dump in Laird’s Divide, below the swine pens. The boys decided to bust in the front while I watched the back door. It opened freely on its own, inviting me inside. Expecting to find punk kids or a tramp passed out, I stepped into the dark, musty room, which smelled papery, like a vampire’s armpit after a decade’s sleep. Paintings and drawings were crammed everywhere. I looked a few over trying to appraise their value. He’s a skilled artist for sure with subject so vile that’s it’s bound to be worth a fortune in the decadent circles you favor. I took a few small ones as keepsakes.

In the next room I found that I was not alone. An elf-wench lounged insouciantly against the table, a self-assured smirk on her pretty face. She held a very graceful, very sharp weapon in her hand. Lethal devices hung from her outfit like overripe fruit. Her henna-dyed hair was cut short as a boy’s, hard to get a hand on in a fight. Her tattoos shouted allegiance to Zon-Kuthon, god of pain, torture, and murder. God’s balls she was hot! I paused as she languidly regarded me from my toe to my temple, taking in my snakeskin Boots of Striding, the Starknife at my side, the Keen and Human-bane rapiers framing my package. Her eyes caressed me, gauging my size, my strength, my quickness; seeing past my foppish ways, lingering at my eyes, her knife ramrod straight, pointed towards my liver. All the while she was smiling an invitation and a warning. I dipped like a dowser’s wand, cautiously approaching her.

A loud noise from the front room interrupted our affair. Her smirk widened as the door broke open to reveal a sweating, swearing barbarian, meekly followed by two clerics and a halfling cynic.

Finarfin, of course, immediately started drooling on her ass. For her part she considered him frankly, her tongue flickering meditatively against the blade of her knife, as a butcher contemplates the boar she’s about to slaughter. Finarfin got the message clear enough, scuttling back to his side of the room with a “hidey-ho.” She winked at me as if to say, “I’ll let the minnow go.” Oh, Sneffles, let’s adopt her!

Her name is Laori Vaus. She has also been looking for Scream but has some deeper reasons (although I don’t buy her as an art lover). Finarfin quietly drew my attention to the torn rag of cloth bearing the seal of the Korvosan seneschal that she was carrying. “WTF?” I thought. Since our interests neatly coincided PJ invited her to accompany us on our visit to the new king of Old Korvosa and she readily agreed.

I lagged back as we were leaving to be nearer her and tried to steal a kiss but she was having none of it—although she didn’t seem to mind me trying. Your receiving this letter proves that fact.

I stealthily followed my companions and Laori did the same from her end. (I couldn’t make her out and I was looking for her.) As we approached the “Kastle” we encountered a small squadron of toughs and roustabouts. Szechuan quickly sent more than a few of them to hell while I plucked easy victims from around the edges. Laori proved to be an artist of mayhem, when not blasting huge swaths through our enemies she clearly enjoyed a little one-on-one, inserting her knife slowly, painfully, into her victim, laughing as she watched his reeking bowels falling into the mud. Her violence was unsullied by fear or pride or anger. It was purely a sexual need, although a bit extreme for my taste. We saved a couple of the poor (but lucky) bastards to question.

It soon became obvious that the two were mere patsies, probably signing with King Piltsy for a meal and dry place to sleep. That’s when more of the “king’s” emissaries arrived to palaver a truce and take us right to the heart of the keep, or barn, or whatever it is. (Which was a dumb thing for Piltsy to do but he’s always been a mark.)

The Castle turned out to be a weary little warehouse waiting for the proper time to fall down. King Pilts the first (and last) sat on his improvised throne towering above his gangbangers. A rusted guillotine sat in one corner where a worn-looking gnome was picking over what appeared to be a well-gnawed human forearm.

We let Szechuan handle the negotiations so, of course, things went quickly awry. I sneaked over behind the king’s throne and started climbing. I really wanted to see Piltsy’s face when his droogie from the old neighborhood came crawling over the transom with a razor-keen blade for his throat, but Laori and the boys dispatched the flunkies so quickly that by the time I arrived PJ was bitch-slapping Piltsy like a red-headed stepchild. Where do clerics learn to do such things?

Looking down on the piles of dead I felt sick to my stomach, although I’d certainly done my share of killing. Finarfin was rolling around in the gore like a dog rolls in carrion. I’ve never known anyone who lusted more—for women, for battle, for peeing on his conquered opponents. Where does he get that from?

Laori was trifling with one the few who was still alive, like a well-fed cat with some hapless chipmunk. If I ever make love to this woman it will have to be in an empty room with her clothes outside, after a full cavity search. Even then I’d have only half a chance of making it out alive.

Piltsy was rightly quivering in fear as PJ sat him down too-near a growling Sczechuan, still high with the blood-lust. His royal purple robes were stained shit-brown and smelled as sorry. It took us a few moments to calm him down enough to tell us where he’d stashed the artist, Salvatore Scream.

Scream was less than helpful until he saw Vaus regarding him coolly from the shadows. They know each other. He told us that Orisini had been seeking the seneschal, Neolandus (Squarehead), who had information against the Queen and had gone to the House of Arkona to find him. (Remembering the scrap of cloth she'd been carrying I wondered what Laori knew of his fate.)

The King of Spiders was mentioned but I admit I wasn’t paying much attention at this point for I saw that Laori was preparing to depart. She had what she wanted—Salvatore Scream. For once her voice grew reverent as she described his work as inspired representation of the transcendence found in giving—and taking—pain. Looking at one of his paintings is like seeing through the eyes of god, she said—the badass god, Zon-Kuthon!

We bid her adieu but I followed them out and tried again to steal her kiss. This time she wacked me with the knob-end of her mankiller, smiling the while. Stars whirled brightly through my vision as I felt the earth move. “I’ll see you in hell,” she promised sweetly as Scream leered at me until she brutally yanked his leash tight, pulling him whimpering along behind her.

I watching all the while.

Pray for me loved one,
Cordobles

Paintings from Paradise and Hell, Haywain by Hieronymus Bosch
Finarfin's Twelfth Report is next.

Letter Nine

Dear Sneffles,
During the interregnum in our battle our new colleagues introduced themselves. The barbarian calls himself Szechuan and is very straightforward, as is their kind. The Cleric of Desna is called Driar and I immediately asked for his blessing, just in case.

The door to the next room squeaked open like a coffin’s lid and inside we found something just as nasty—an insouciant vampire named Ramoska Arkminos (where do vampires get their ridiculous names?), who was more than a little perturbed at us interrupting his “work”—vivisecting a young man on a nearby slab.

Arkminos claimed to be independent of Rolth but my guess is they both work for the same person, and I think we know her name.

The boy on the rack turned out to be the musician, Ruan, we’ve been looking for. Still seeming to misunderstand the danger he was in, Arkiminos tried bargaining with us in a backhanded way, and when that didn’t work tried the “turning into bats” con. I picked one off with my bow but Bardar had a better idea, destroying his casket so he could not gather his parts in his refuge. Personally, I would have liked to see him try and return with half his pieces missing but that’s an experiment I’ll save for later.

We did the right thing first, which was loot, finding plenty of evidence about Arkiminos’s research into the Varisian resistance to the Blood Veil and information on a possible cure. Ruan was strapped in his bed with some tricky contraptions that would have killed him outright if we’d proceeded hastily but we were able to avoid all that and release him from his misery. At least one story has a happy ending.

Kroft finally showed up and Finarfin started making googoo eyes at her. I would say that combat makes him horny except that everything makes him horny.

I acquired some primo items during our looting and the Queen laid so much gold on us for finding the Blood Veil cure that I had to hire some boys for a couple of coppers each to haul it home. Bardar and PJ helped me pick out shadowed armor and some other righteous equipage. That’s how I was able to meet with you that day in the chapel with no one the wiser. I know your keepers have the best guards money can buy and magic traps galore but it was easy to sneak in using my new gear. I watched from the darkened nave as you approached, supple as a young cat and just as alert. I watched your every move closely with delight and despair before stepping from the darkness to reveal myself to you. You gasped sweetly, as you do when I’ve pleased you, then stepped into my arms. I’ve missed you so!

We could not talk, nor make a sound. I could only hold you there, breathing your sweet breath, tasting your mouth, the warmth—nay, heat!—of your body pressed to mine. Then came the discrete knock at the chapel door as your nurse, bless her caring soul, came to fetch you. With one final desolate look, hesitation in your step, you slipped away. A good thing my comrades weren’t along to help me because I wanted to kill all those who keep you from me. “Patience, my love,” I hear you say, and I agree. Only time can bring our plans to fruition and we can leave this gods-damned city behind and maybe join Finarfin and Shelley at Callistra’s sex camp in the sticks. Then I’ll track down Redcullin for the rent he owes me.

We had some time off after our adventure. PJ and Driar set up shop to brew up a cure for Blood Veil using the notes we’d discovered. Kroft told us that the Gray Maidens were massing in Old Korvosa so I sent a note to some of our friends to watch out for themselves. Kroft then told us that there is now a bounty on our heads! If only my old Mam was here to see this, she’d be so proud of her little boy! Kroft wanted us to stay at her Keep but I scoffed at this, who knows what traitors, assassins, and spies linger there? I preferred returning to my rooms by the docks where I know the lay of the land.

Before leaving to take his Shelley back out to her old dad’s farm, Finarfin confided that he was planning a special surprise for her and by the twinkle in his eyes I’d bet that he’s about to pop something (other than his rocks) to her. I admit, the thought of a bunch of little—littler—Finarfins doesn’t do much for my appetite but love hath mysterious ways.

Back in the ’hood I discovered that more people wanted to avoid me than congratulate me. Some hero. Picking up a couple flagons of wine I wondered if I’d been hasty to refuse Kroft’s offer of sanctuary but soon forgot all that when I got home and discovered that a new ghost had joined the crew, my old pal Majenko!

It was a happy reunion. I confessed my guilt over his demise but he cared not a whit, saying that he was heading for a better place where he will be reunited with his ancestor-kind. I promised to make a good pair of boots from his hide. For the rest of the evening I drank wine and laughed as he told me funny stories about living with Burns—what a wacky guy, I never guessed—and that idiot who put him in a cage, the King of the Spiders. Talk about low rent!

I guess I passed out where I was sitting because the next thing I remember I feel a familiar tickling in my brain from Majenko trying to wake me telepathically. There was a funny smell and flames leaped voraciously across my floor towards me. Bastards! I flung myself heedlessly through the bay window, falling to the street below. I watched the entire building, then half the block, burn. I guess not many firefighters escaped the Blood Veil. Thank Desna I’d left my gear with Kroft.

Unexpectantly came a howling as the flames released the barbarian spirits from their ensorcellment in my rooms. While the screams and cries of real people surrounded us, Redcullin’s pals lined up to say their farewells. Their joy at finally being free lightened my mood. Lastly, I thanked Majenko again for saving my life and bade him farewell, watching him gyre happily away to join his soul to the Ancestors. Then I picked up more wine before heading back to Kroft’s. She was good enough not to say, “I told you so.”

The next day I was still nursing minor burns and a wicked hangover when Bardar dropped his bombshell. He’s hooking up with Kroft to help run the bigger picture. I caught them canoodling a short time later so it’s more than altruism motivating our pious friend. I guess it’s just the season for love around here.

On his way back to town Finarfin noticed graffiti saying “The Dudes Abide”. He brought back news of a cult of “people’s warriors defying the wicked Queen.” Worse, their heroes, The Dudes, turn out to be us! By Rovagug’s black teeth all I’ve wanted to do is loot, party, and wear nice clothes. I’m not comfortable with this hero shit.

That evening Kroft introduced us to Marcus Endrin, Commandant of the Sable Company, badasses all. Oh, Desna, such is the uncertainty of life, for by the next morning Endrin was dead, slain by the Queen’s own hand after failing to assassinate her. Incredibly, she had used his own bolt against him after he’d given it to her through the head. I’d like to know the spell you need to cast to get away with that.

Also, the Gray Maidens had made their move, burning all but one of the bridges to Old Korvosa. Why they’d want that rat-infested hellhole is beyond me and they’re welcome to it, except Master Orisini is asking us to join him and there is no way I won’t respond. The others feel the same way so Kroft opened up her armory and we took what we thought we’d need. I whirled my new Starknife on the tips of my fingers, giving Driar a wink to buck him up.



We made our way up towards the old town, things growing quieter the closer we came to the channel separating the city. The few citizens who were about avoided us, scurrying from doorway to doorway.  All the ruined bridges were a sight to behold, like a crocodile’s broken teeth, most were burned, the rest ripped apart like so much balsa. Only one bridge was left, arching across the fetid waters, and it was barricaded. While I could see only a few Gray Maidens scrutinizing the citizen’s who dared their wrath, I knew many more were hidden in the nearby buildings with crossbows at the ready.

The worst part (so far) was in taking the potion of breathing and entering the water. You know how I hate swimming anyway and this was ten times worse. We actually walked along the bottom while breathing water. It stunk like a camel’s ass. I finally took Driar’s hand, shut my eyes, and let him draw me along. The water was truly filthy. We literally had to make room amongst the grinning corpses, guts leaking from their bellies, to get out of the water. Thankfully the dead gave us cover and we were able to gain the other side undetected.

Since I knew this part of town best I took the lead and soon we stood before Master Orisini’s mansion. All was quiet as a grave. It was dark inside except for the low flames in a fireplace. Upstairs there was a strange, familiar smell that I could not place. A pattern of dust lay on the floor, as if someone had sifted flour over the boards and rugs. Driar was the first to realize what this implied and I suddenly remembered the smell in my apartment as it was erupting in flames. It was a trap. They were expecting us.

There wasn’t time to worry about who had betrayed us. Two henchmen leaped out of the shadows igniting a conflagration that quickly spread around us. They caught me unaware and hurt me badly before I gutted one of them with my rapier while Szechuan filleted the other but it was too late. Quickly we searched the room, finding a large trunk filled with Master’s finest weaponry. But what caught my attention was the black outfit folded on top. In amazement I held it up, realizing with a shock that it was Black Jack’s costume, which means that Orisini was Uncle Jack! I felt naive as a boy watching his mother make the two-backed beast with a stranger for the first time. No wonder he never visited without his mask. No wonder he took interest when a wet-behind-the-ears young punk like me asked him for training. I will avenge him if it kills every one of us.

We barely made it outside before the building erupted like Taxing Day in the spring. We were trying to decide on a place to regroup when one of Orisini’s students, who had been staking the joint out, ran up and offered us a place to hide. It turns out he’s a “Dudes” fanboy and was so excited to meet us he stuttered like toothless Crosby when you flashed your tit at him. I’m sure we’ll have many questions for this boy but his first answer was a doozy—Master disappeared while meeting with “The artist known as Scream.” You know, the guy who killed everyone at the art opening of his “Blood Veil” paintings when the paint he’d used turned out to be infectious. Why are there so many artists involved with this crap?

Amidst all this craziness, returning to you is what keeps me alive,
Love,
Cordobles

Finarfin's Eleventh Report is Next

Letter Eight

Dear Sneffles,
As Marcus Twainiax once said, “The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.” We managed to slog through a stack of corpses—barely—but I’m dispirited nonetheless because I lost sweet, noble Majenko today. Burns would kill me if he knew what I allowed to happen to his beloved pseudodragon.

The room we entered was a large, high-ceilinged warehouse with a catwalk arching overhead where fucking Rolth stood grinning, surrounded by his stooges—more physicians, zombies, and priests of Urgathoa, the last group stinking like a wino’s rotten-toothed breath.

Finarfin fried a bunch of them but the spell took a lot out of the little bugger. We were all packed into a tight space and I couldn’t get the room to maneuver so I hacked away like a butcher with my new rapier. I tossed knives down a couple of gullets as well. Majenko got zapped right away by Rolth (who is a lot more powerful than I imagined) when Finarfin kicked the door in. He wasn’t killed outright but I had him hide away until the action was over.

Things were looking as badly as predicted in my last letter when, with a loud roar and body odor strong enough to stop an orc in its tracks, a strange Shoanti barbarian waded into the fray trailed by a cleric of Desna, blessed be Her name!
        
We slowly hacked our way to Rolth who rewarded those dying in his name by slipping through the dimensions past us.

Without time to rest we entered the next room. Five doors, two leading somewhere evil where in four glass chambers four horse-headed  leukodaemon simmered in their sour red-yellow amniotic fluid, deep blue veins pulsing obscenely, like woebegone sailors lying senseless in their own blood and sputum beneath the docks. Veneration tithes waited nearby for a christening. One of the creatures moaned softly and PJ—for reasons I cannot fathom, him being a cleric and all—made it an offering. It rose forth like Big Mable emerging naked from some octogenarian’s birthday cake. It killed Majenko outright, the same blast parting my hair. But I was more stunned seeing the roasted stump that was once a friend. Majenko, I hardly knew ye! I failed to protect him like I promised I would. I fought the rest of the battle in a daze of sorts, my throat burning, tasting gall.

Finarfin had run out of tricks, retreating to the back. He was the one who had been carelessly urging Majenko on though the poor guy was badly injured and I wasn’t savvy enough to naysay him. May Lamashtu find him sleeping! But that’s unfair. Majenko was my charge and in that I failed him.

Before Finarfin retreated he did manage to engorge the Barbarian. Like an 8-foot erection he re-killed the undead as quickly as they threw themselves on him, his turgidity making him bleed faster—but show me a Barbarian who doesn't like the taste of his own blood. My new rapier got a workingout carving slabs off the creature but it took a higher power to put the kibosh on it.

We were invited into the next room by a Priestess of Urgathoa. I know, I always said I wanted to fuck one but I’ve changed my mind. We emerged inside a chapel dedicated to the goddess of the putrid and foul. The priestess levitated above us. Like all of them she was arrogant in her power but we fought like a team and conquered her. Unfortunately she was then reborn as a Daughter of Urgothoa and rumbled us again. The barbarian had enough juice left him to beat her back down and we celebrated by collapsing on the floor exhausted. I’m taking the time to write you again, loved one. If my body survives I’ll bring it to you personally.

Your friend,
Cordobles

Finarfin's Tenth Report Next