Letter Sixteen

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

Dear Sneffles,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always yours,
Cordobles

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

Letter Fifteen

Dear Sneffles,

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was it Klogg?” the boy interrupted hopefully.

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

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

I guess that makes me brother to half of Korvosa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love,
Cordobles

Followed by Dear Sneffles Letter Sixteen

Letter Fourteen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Failure is a setback, not an end,
Cordobles

Next is Finarfin's Sixteenth Report

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

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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.