The Wrath of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  To save energy, you seek out some dragons who are, for a coin or three, willing to fly you the majority of the way to the swamplands. They caution you, however, that they will have to drop you off just outside, for immunity to the swamp is not a characteristic shared by all dragonkind.

  “We can’t make more masks for them?” you ask Celestine.

  She checks the medics’ supplies and shrugs. “Not enough antitoxin.”

  You nod in reluctant acceptance. “It’s likely the foliage would only end up tying them up in knots, anyway.”

  After stocking up on rations and water, you take off. The flight proceeds without much incident, although at one point you think you see through a gap in the clouds an unfamiliar steel-gray dragon, with rider, starting to descend upon Whitetail. You couldn’t catch enough detail to determine who or what the rider was.

  You shake your head with indignance. We need to remain focused…

  Nearer the swamplands, you order your dragons to descend, then circle for a while in your own right, trying to gather more information on specifically where Omnara could be hiding. True to your suspicion, though, you can see little beyond the tops of huge trees and acre upon acre of moist, heavy overgrowth.

  This shall be a joy to slog through…

  Taking no more time to ponder than necessary as you start to gag and cough from the oppressive surroundings, you point toward the wooden hut and press your mask tighter against your mouth. The others nod in wordless agreement.

  You hustle toward your chosen shelter. An unlit lantern hanging on a porch hook barely registers in your mind; you grip the front door’s handle and open your way in, figuring that anyone who could have built this here must have done so in ancient times, before the area became swampland.

  Only then do you notice that the hut is indeed occupied. Three sickly-green hags stand huddled around a cauldron in the building’s far corner. One is taller than the other two, but all sport bloodshot eyes, uniformly black tatters for clothing and pointed hats.

  “Triple, triple, roil and ripple!” croaks the eldest one upon seeing the three of you.

  “Those aren’t the words, Emlina…” mutters the youngest hag while rolling her eyes. “And they’re not nearly as intimidating, besides.”

  “But… there are three of them,” she argues, extending a gnarled finger, “If there were only two, that’d be a different story…”

  You mutter toward Celestine and Galumnuk, “We’d better get out of here.”

  “Oh no, you don’t!” shouts the tallest hag. “We need more ingredients for our newt stew!”

  She incants a mystical word, and forked lightning shoots from her fingers, hitting all three of you square in the chest. You fall to the floor, writhing and twitching from the energy as pain shoots through your entire being.

  Just before you pass out, you hope if only for mercy’s sake that your innards will at least prove unappetizing.

  Your travels end here. Read another path! Return to the previous choice, or start again from the beginning.

  Curiosity burns within you as to the purpose of such a contraption in this context.

  Could the creators’ intent have been at all benevolent?

  You grip the wheel by a small peg jutting up from its edge. Somehow, the peg feels smooth, while the rest of the wheel appears rough in texture. Wary of its import, you pinch the wood tightly and spin the wheel. The objects all somehow stay in place, held by some unseen force. Once the wheel spins around completely, and starts upon a second time, and more, but you think you hear it creak quietly as it soon begins to slow…

  Finally, the wheel stops. The section with the key on top now faces you. The key itself flashes with a faint blue hue.

  You reach toward the key with caution. Lifting it reveals that the magical mooring seems to have been removed. You hold the hunk of metal in your palm for a moment, examining it, then pocket it.

  Very nice… you think, but dare I push my luck?

  What do you do?

  I spin the wheel lightly.

  I spin the wheel hard.

  I leave the chamber.

  How odd that we’d find that hut here, you postulate, and whatever else can endure these conditions and live there probably isn’t friendly…

  With a gesture but no words, you urge your party onward. They obey, although Celestine starts to look weak in the knees, shaking and limping her way through. Your innards churn and you feel like you’re about to vomit.

  Galumnuk notices your plights, closes the distance and reaches forward for you. Kneeling, he drapes each of you and Celestine over separate shoulders just as you start to lose consciousness.

  “Galumnuk last a bit longer than elfkind,” he grunts, “I here for you, take you rest of way. Hang on.”

  The orcblood stands and wobbles a bit, but quickly regains his footing. You feel little jostling as he carries you. Raising your head just enough to see upside-down, you soon find that the vegetation and gas give way to a clearing, buffeted by fresh air and sunlight.

  Galumnuk gently sets you each down, aligning your backs against massive tree trunks, then fans your faces with his gigantic hands.

  Celestine’s eyes flutter open. You reach out and rub the brute’s furry face with affection.

  “Thank you,” you groan.

  Galumnuk grins a toothy grin.

  Able to breathe easier here, you remove your mask, slowly recover from the surrounding swamp, and ponder…

  I still don’t understand how that man’s date back at the tavern failed to see such valor within him.

  We press onward.

  After some deliberation, you decide that you’d better be sure of your survival, despite the slight risk of running out of funds before journey’s end.

  “Let’s see the potion-maker,” you urge. “What do all of you have to contribute to the cost?”

  The others nod in acceptance, open their belt pouches and start counting coins.

  After a moment, Celestine offers, “Forty silver, perhaps. Don’t quote me on that, though.”

  Galumnuk follows with, “Three gold pieces. And, old spoon from tavern in Sungaze.”

  You giggle gently and pat the orcblood on the shoulder. “Oh, Galumnuk. I’m sorry, but that utensil’s not bound to be worth much.”

  He frowns, but also smirks. “Is to me! I keep it to remember when you helped me.”

  Celestine gushes, “Aww. That is so sweet.”

  “After all,” the orcblood continues, “no one usually treat Galumnuk that way. Wish people would look past teeth and speech, to person inside.”

  The tinkle of money halts. A long pause ensues.

  Celestine titters a little, smiles brightly and whispers in your ear, “Are you sure you wouldn’t be able to move on? You know, with someone like him? Strong, yet sensitive…”

  You chuckle, then poke her in the ribs.

  “Fortunately,” you say, still smiling, “I have a bit stashed away from my days as mayoress. Together we should be able to pay anyone just about anything they could ask.”

  You lead the others to a local who serves as an informal banker, who snappily makes some marks in a ledger, then hands you a small burlap sack.

  “Thirty gold,” he states. “A pleasure doing business.”

  You confirm the stated quantity and wish him good day. Heading thereafter to the northwest quarter, you track down the local potion-maker, a portly human with a tremendous braided beard that goes only by his surname of Hickleton.

  “Swamp antidotes?” he asks after you explain your need. “I believe I have all I would need, and can whip that up lickity-split. You should know, though, that I ask fifty gold per three.”

  You wince. Galumnuk groans.

  Sounds like we wouldn’t be able to afford taking other non-immune dragons into the swamp with us…

  “Is there no room for negotiation?” Celestine implores.

  Hickleton replies, “A man’s gotta make a living, you know.”

&
nbsp; You shove a fist into your hip and tap your toe, thinking. “If I offered you the equivalent of forty,” you eventually propose, “and pledged to perform a favor of a sort you define later, what would you say to that?”

  Hickleton reels, then scans you up and down, raising his eyebrows over and over.

  “Don’t be a creep,” you calmly defend, “since I didn’t mean that kind of favor.”

  The potion-maker frowns, clears his throat and spits, “Pah. I knew you didn’t and wouldn’t. Fair enough. If you promise in writing that after you’re done with whatever you need these for, you’ll work an hour for me gathering ingredients out in the northeastern steppe, I’ll accept forty gold.”

  All three of you exhale, feeling the tension drain away.

  “You have a deal.”

  Now nearly broke, you spend the next several hours browsing the market square among foot traffic that spikes as the sun climbs ever higher. Overall, the weather seems brisker than the local economy today, you note, although almost any activity would seem busy compared to how you last left Sungaze.

  I should pay the fishermen there another visit soon, you reflect.

  At about the time you think Hickleton should be done, Celestine meets you back near the central fountain. The orcblood, however, is nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s Galumnuk?” your elf friend asks.

  You scratch your head. “Let me go look,” you offer.

  You find him finishing a conversation with a merchant. Something appears to change hands between the two, in each direction, before he abruptly turns to face you.

  “Miss Titania, I done here. Sorry to make you wait.”

  Curiosity burns within you, but for now, you smile and say nothing, except to help the orcblood back to your meeting point.

  You return to the potion-maker’s shop to find that your estimate was correct. He hands you a trio of small vials, each filled to the cork with a cloudy white liquid. You stash one in your belt pouch, then distribute one each to your friends.

  “Let’s head out.”

  As you leave the shop, Celestine points and chimes, “We’re in luck! Look…”

  A cluster of medium-sized dragons lay sprawled about just a few yards from the town square, sunning themselves. Townsfolk casually mill about and around them as if they were part of the surrounding architecture. You approach and, without divulging so much detail as to scare them, explain why you need to see Omnara. Three of them volunteer to fly you to just outside the swamp in question. From there, though, it sounds like you’ll have to find her within on foot.

  “Thank you so very much,” you say in your most genuine tone, which elicits three slow, simultaneous nods. Celestine pats the dragons’ heads with affection.

  The flights proceed without incident, and as you approach the swamplands a short time later, you instruct your fliers to circle a few times over the landscape, just to get a good view of the outlay and see if you can pinpoint Omnara’s specific location before landing. Unfortunately, the foliage and overgrowth stretches so tall and thick that you can’t see much of what is sure to be shifting, soggy, uncertain ground underneath.

  “There,” you instruct, “let’s land where the ground starts to transition.”

  Your party does so, but you wait until you’re dismounted and completely ready to enter before quaffing the potions. You detect the protective magic coursing through your veins, along with an oddly sweet aftertaste.

  You search the swamp among noxiously thick clouds of gas, avoiding the wrath of venus flytraps and other carnivorous plants you’d never seen, yet only occasionally must stop to rest. Breathing remains easy the entire time.

  I’m going to have to extend double thanks to Hickleton when we get back, you ponder. I never would have…

  “Over here! A clearing.”

  Galumnuk interrupts your thoughts with his beckon. You do your best to hastily rejoin him.

  Are we getting closer?

  Your excitement heightens with each item you earn, and you figure at this point that you might as well go for a clean sweep. You grip the wheel, and spin yet again…

  Look up again at the nearest digital timepiece. Add together the ones digit in the hours and the ones digit in the minutes. Then, follow the corresponding link below.

  The sum is greater than 14.

  The sum is between 9 and 14, inclusive.

  The sum is less than 9.

  “What does this youth herb look like?” you ask Celestine.

  “It’s a lot like seaweed,” she replies, “except for a bluish color that really makes it stand out…”

  You nod, processing this information.

  “And it is supposed to have a certain number of veins per frond, although I can’t quite remember how many.”

  “Still,” you conclude, “given this information, it does sound like we would be more successful if we searched the actual sea.”

  The others accept this decision and begin preparations for the journey to Sungaze. Although you could technically ride dragons and get there in no time, they don’t generally enjoy being employed as couriers, so you settle for horses instead, renting three from Matthias at the Whitetail stable.

  The first day of travel proceeds without much fanfare. You stretch and sit on a stump just off the path, taking watch. Hours pass, during which you stare at constellations and try to recall just which ones represent which parts of the zodiac. Celestine breathes heavily but with a lilted sigh while asleep, as Fedwick snores away within his bedroll.

  Just as you stand, ready to switch out your post with the dwarf, you think you see via the firelight a faint human-sized silhouette. It approaches your campsite with slow, deliberate stride, appearing to drag the edges of a robe in the dirt.

  “Halt,” you half-whisper. “Who goes there?”

  It stops with a lurch, then merely stands there.

  What do you do?

  I wake the others.

  I threaten the figure!

  I do nothing and simply wait.

  While it seems Omnara knows the least about the Amulet of Dragon Soul, you reflect, maybe that’s all the better a situation in which to take advantage of your leadership, negotiation-related and interrogative abilities.

  “I’ll track down the amulet,” you volunteer. The others nod in acceptance. Since Galumnuk is part monster himself, he professes to feeling most comfortable going after the shield, which leaves Celestine with the sword.

  You work your way back out of the swamp, which somehow takes much less time and energy then it took to get in. After a final hug with Celestine and a confident chest-pound by the orcblood, your party splits up, each going his or her own way.

  Your way, you ponder, could take one a few possible forms, although any of them would be best pursued in Ambrosinia’s largest city, the capital of Whitetail.

  Where do you go to gather information?

  I trek to the Pig’s Foot Inn and Tavern.

  I question local authorities.

  I ask members of the merchant’s guild.

  Camping to rest partway through this leg of the journey, you make it to the capital without much fanfare. As it is a popular gathering space and the staff often overhear their share of gossip, you decide to visit the Pig’s Foot Inn and Tavern.

  Before you even make it through the tavern’s double doors, the ruckus of multiple interweaving conversations meets your ears. You enter, then scan the area. In one corner, a druid in tan clothing sits waiting for someone, eyes closed, his tamed wolf companion sitting at ease near his feet. An ancient grandmother surrounded by tots tells stories of old-fashioned times and ways of living, while merchants and sailors of every race sit at almost every table, playing or trying to explain the latest drinking game. You start to stroll toward the bar, but dodge one gentleman’s flying fist, which hoists a tankard high into the air, to thereafter clink the container noisily against his friend’s.

  “Do exercise care, if you please,” you say.

  The
merchant ignores you completely.

  You shake your head, and look ahead, toward the barkeep.

  “Titania!” a jovial voice rings. A portly woman with braids and apron emerges from behind the bar and offers a hug.

  You smile and return the gesture. “Hello, Josephine.”

  “We have a stool free over here,” she continues, “since these jokers”—she indicates the jolly men—"must have known your name was all over it. Ha!” You chuckle, pull the stool up to the bar and sit. “Can I prepare your usual? Come to think of it, do you even have a usual?”

  “I appreciate the prompt service, Josephine,” you reply, raising your voice to ensure you’re heard, “but I’m afraid I need to stay focused and alert. In fact, I need to ask a few questions.”

  Josephine emits a ‘mm-hmm’ in acknowledgement, picks up an empty tankard and starts wiping it down with a rag. Her eyes remain locked on you.

  “Have you ever heard of, or has anyone around here ever heard of, something called the Amulet of Dragon Soul?”

  She arches an eyebrow, thinks for a moment and answers, “I can’t say that I have. Nor has the scuttlebutt implied anything, to my knowledge. Why? What is it? What does it do?”

  “I’m interested in using it to prevent a very tangible threat to Whitetail, nay, all of Ambrosinia. In fact, I’m surprised that this area hasn’t yet been targeted.”

  Josephine puts a hand to her mouth. “It can’t have to do with dragons, now, can’t it? We have the Draconic Citizen’s Pact. They swore they’d never hurt us as long as we all lived.”