The rest of the evening flew by in a blur as Finnigar—a traveling storyteller of some skill—and I spent time sitting around the crackling fire, exchanging yarns and swigs of potent emerald liquor from his hip flask. One tale of note is recorded below—I would scribe more, but my quill grows heavy and the comfort of my bedroll beckons.
The Legend of the Whispering Tyrant
Long after the rise of Aroden, the Last Man, but early in the expansion of his empire, a band of his missionaries bound for points north encountered a tall, lonely tower on the banks of Lake Aletheia. In a single window near the tower's peak, a feeble light flickered. For days, the faithful had wandered through the barren lands, and the sight of habitation brought them much joy. Upon entering, however, they found only empty cobwebs and brittle bones slowly turning to dust. Climbing the dusty stairs to the tower's highest chamber, they discovered a single candle in front of the window, so freshly lit that the wax had barely begun to drip. Night fell as the missionaries waited uneasily for whomever resided in the barren tower to return, and as the darkness grew, so did their fear. Quietly at first, then slowly increasing in volume, sinister whispers rose, a low susurrus that tugged at the edge of their hearing, murmuring of wicked deeds and even darker delights. With prayers to Aroden for protection, they sought to flee the tower, but quickly found that the door they had entered through had disappeared, leaving a blank stone wall. As the hours passed, the whispers grew, and their urgings became commands. Minds cracked and broke under the strain of the vile suggestions, and those missionaries who resisted were set upon by those who had been claimed by the madness. In the darkness of the tower there was a carnival of unspeakable acts, the ruined monks cavorting in the blood of their fallen comrades, draping themselves with viscera and wallowing in perversion and depravity. Their shrieks echoed through the sinister tower, but only one of the former brothers was left alive to hear them, a missionary who had barricaded himself at the top of the stairs. Only by throwing himself from the candlelit window did he survive, but in doing so he left behind more than just his brethren. For the Tyrant of the Tower had demanded payment for his escape, and on quiet nights the pathetic mute can still hear a vague buzzing in his ears and feel a flutter in his throat as, far off in a forgotten tower, his voice is added to the tyrant's choir.
18 Gozran, 4707 ar
I awoke this morning to find Finnigar gone, along with the pair of coins I had left in my pouch. Removing the rest of my gold from my boot, I brushed down Redmare and continued on my way, peeved but unsurprised. Filthy bards.
20 Gozran, 4707 ar
Today's journey was swift and uneventful, and I passed only a single traveler making his way hastily toward Magnimar. The Dry Way remains close to the Yondabakari here, and the bugs are thick. Hopefully my campfire will keep the pests at bay long enough for me to get some rest. It is quiet here, and a warm fog has rolled in off the fens, bringing with it the strange calls of swamp life.
23 Gozran, 4707 ar
Perhaps that coin in the fountain bought more than I know, for surely it is only by Desna's blessing that I'm able to write this. Redmare is worse than dead, and I'm afraid it will take a dozen scalding baths to wash the stench of the Mushfens from my skin.
The trouble began three days ago, when I was awakened by the sound of Redmare whinnying in fright. No sooner had I sat up, grasping for my sword, than a sharp blow to the back of my head sent me back into darkness. When my senses returned, I found myself bound by tight reeds to a long pole carried by a pair of enormous frogmen. The creatures, known as boggards, are a serious threat to travelers in the fens, but are rarely sighted north of the river. It seems that my fire made me too tempting a target.
We traveled for what felt like hours, me slung underneath the pole, my back and neck raked by the tall thornweeds that infest the swamp. Another pair of boggards led Redmare along behind us, her nostrils foaming and eyes wide with fear. Despite my attempts to communicate, my captors seemed either unable or unwilling to speak to me. Instead, one of them actually stopped to pinch my side at one point, as if sizing up a succulent pig.
Soon after, we stopped at an immense mound made from mud, rotting wood, and swamp reeds, sculpted to resemble a gigantic frog with its maw open wide. There, sitting on a throne of alligator bones, was a monstrously fat boggard wearing the mud-stained regalia of a king. Upon his head was a crown of reeds bedecked with small stone fetishes, and about his neck hung a necklace of shells supporting a thick piece of amber above his breast. These, plus the obvious deference accorded to him by my captors, singled him out as their chieftain.
My pole was set upright, the bottom end jammed deep into the peat so that I might face their leader. After sizing me up for a moment, the king belched out a command and Redmare was brought before him. At the sight of my horse, his eyes glazed over with delight. The frogman then muttered a few croaks that sounded suspiciously like an invocation, and a host of gigantic dragonwasps the size of bucklers emerged from the swamp and made straight for Redmare, stinging her multiple times as she cried out in pain and terror. One of the boggards was nearly pulled from his feet trying to restrain her, but as the stings continued, her protests grew weaker. Every muscle in my body ached to break free and attack the boggards, but my bonds held firm, and I dared not reveal any of my other skills while so many of them stood ready to finish me off. Instead, I watched with burning eyes as my dear companion screamed, twitched, and gradually grew still, the red dragonwasps dancing about her prostate form.
...I do not know what day it is, or even what time of day. I can't be sure, but the night carries strange sounds and I believe the creatures are giving chase. If anyone finds this journal, please send it to Venture-Captain Shevala at the Grand Lodge in Absalom.
Eventually the boggard chief gave a signal, and I was carried a short distance away, where my captors divested me of my gear, cut the bonds on my sore limbs, and dumped me into a shallow fen. The boggards then placed a lattice of stiff swamp reeds over the pit and secured it with heavy rocks, turning it into a soggy prison. No amount of ink can describe the stench that invaded my nostrils as I carefully treaded water, attempting to keep my face above the surface. Presently, the priest-king himself paid me a visit, pouring a bucket of foul-smelling oils into my pit while his long, sticky tongue darted about, probing the muck. Rumors hold that boggards prefer to marinate their food before dining, but I never imagined I would experience it firsthand.
In the gloom of the Mushfens, it's difficult to keep track of time, but it soon began to lighten and I was able to peer over the pit's edge and take stock of my surroundings. Most of my gear was only ten feet away, piled in a heap near where a single guard lazily devoured the carcass of a large dragonwasp like those that attacked Redmare. The drone of the ever-present fang flies was only overpowered by the cracking and slurping noises of my captor consuming his meal.
Fortunately, the wilderness is full of opportunity for those who know how to spot it. After an hour of patiently waiting, I was able to trap a cricket that had come to investigate my prison. From there, it was a simple enough incantation to put the boggard guard to sleep. With a low croak, the frogman tumbled to the ground and began to emit wet, snuffling snores. Using another minor spell, I was able to pull my dagger from its sheath across the way and into to my waiting hand, where I quickly put it to work cutting the reeds that made up the bars of my prison.
The box is fascinating, but I'd rather not be the one who tries to open it.
Within seconds I was free and dashing through the swamp with my most essential possessions, this journal among them. I caught only a glimpse of poor Redmare, now tied to the ground with a number of terrible bulges squirming in her belly, but that was enough. I shudder to think of the fate that befell her, but an attempted rescue would likely have had me back in the stewing pen, preparing to share her fate.
I covered a lot of ground in that first panicked stumb
le, and quickly became lost in the twisting meres and mangroves of the Mushfens, but here my wayfinder saved me, for even without its ioun stone, a compass is a handy thing. Two days later, feverish and weak from exposure, I stumbled out onto the banks of the Yondabakari, with the twinkling lights of Whistledown in the distance. I must have been a sight, staggering bloody and mud-coated between the quaint whitewashed houses, but the locals took pity on me and ushered me into the Azure Cup, a human-sized inn where I was barely able to rent a room before collapsing.
Outside my window, the tiny wooden chimes that swing from every eave catch the faint wind and create the subtle harmonies that give the town its name. Tomorrow I will undoubtedly begin re-provisioning for the next leg of my journey, but at the moment I haven't the heart. A soft bed and oblivion will have to suffice.
I am sorry, Redmare.
Appendix: Dangers of the Mushfens
Numerous hazards and predators lurk in the Mushfens. What follow are just a few of the dangers travelers might expect to encounter when passing through the notorious bogs and fens.
Boggards: These savage frogmen are a deadly threat to any who wander the swamps (see page 84 for more information).
Dragonwasp: Beautiful but dangerous, these Small insects come in a variety of iridescent colors and hunt in swarms, attempting to sting and lay their eggs in any suitable hosts. (Use the same stats as Small monstrous centipedes with fly speeds of 40 feet and perfect maneuverability.)
Faceless Stalkers: The ugothol, a race of degenerate shapeshifters, linger in the depths of the swamp, sparking tales of body snatchers (see page 88 for more information).
Fang Flies: Oversized flies sporting long proboscises breed by the millions in the swamps, latching onto larger animals and drinking their blood. Attempting to remove them with force generally results in the proboscis breaking off in the victim's flesh and possibly becoming infected. Instead, applying a small flame or hot object causes the flies to detach without harm. (These creatures have no stats, being little more dangerous than mosquitoes.)
Marsh Giants: These hulking, misshapen brutes dwell deep in the Mushfens, adhering to a sinister animistic faith.
Moss Pigs: Similar to their forest counterparts, the flanks of these boars bear long strands of moss and fungus from rubbing on the sickly trees. (Use the same stats as a boar.)
Hand of the Handless
By James L. Sutter
2 Desnus, 4707 ar
Standing at the foot of the Storval Rise is like looking into the face of a god—sometimes literally, as in places the rocks have been hewn into massive representations of kings and demagogues whose identities are long lost to memory. The point where Kaer Maga breaks the relentless trudge of the plateau is no exception. Even as I write this, the city leers down at me from its perch, a thousand feet of vertical cliff face separating us. Waterfalls from the city's underground aquifers cascade down among graven images and portals into the fabled dungeons honeycombing the rock beneath the city, joined by long streaks of a less pleasant nature—I suppose when your window overlooks a chasm, the motivation to walk elsewhere to empty your chamber pot grows less and less.
While most trade caravans follow the Yondabakari all the way to the pass a few miles southeast, taking the easier ascent and following the ridgeline to the city, I decided to take what I find the more romantic approach: the Twisted Door. While most of the dungeons beneath Kaer Maga remain unexplored and viewed—correctly—as dangerous by the locals, there is one notable exception. From a set of huge bronze double-doors at the base of the cliff, the Halflight Path rises up through the rock, occasionally emerging to wind in treacherous goat paths along the exposed cliff face before plunging back into the stone. Vital to the city's trade efforts, this particular path is kept clear by the Duskwardens, a devoted group of almost monastic guardians who see through merchants and other travelers and keep horrors from the rest of the catacombs from invading the passage. All for a modest fee, of course.
Tomorrow morning I'll make my ascent and begin looking for Dakar, but for now, the sunset over the lowlands demands my full attention.
3 Desnus, 4707 ar
Sweet Desna, that was a lot of stairs. I need a drink.
3 Desnus, 4707 ar
Evening
Please excuse the wax drippings on this page—the owner of the Sorry Excuse charges extra for lighted rooms, and I'm already paying an arm and a leg for the use of this hacked-up desk. I shudder to think what the bargain rooms must be like, though judging from the commotion in the common room below, most of the patrons will be in little condition to pass judgment. But I digress.
I awoke at dawn this morning and joined the already growing line of merchants and travelers forming in front of the Twisted Door. Up close, the gates are even more impressive—the gleaming bronze is covered in embossed runes. Moreover, the doors themselves, which appear straight from a distance, are actually subtly warped, their edges seeming to rotate at strange angles, yet still fitting together without a gap. Running your eyes along any particular line, it's perfectly straight, yet when you reach its end you find that your vision has somehow curved, like the toymaker's twisted rings that have only one side. Truly curious.
Shortly after my arrival, the doors swung open and disgorged a dozen armed men garbed in dusty browns and grays, each bearing a badge on his right breast depicting a gold arch against a midnight blue background. These, then, were the Duskwardens. With an efficiency born of repetition, the bored-looking men levied their fee—a not-insignificant sum—from each trader and wanderer before organizing those assembled into small groups, which they then led into the gaping tunnel at intervals, each headed by one of the wiry, stern-faced men. The warden assigned to my group was named Darien, and when queried, he explained that the gaps between groups were intended to help the Duskwardens keep order, give them room to fight if necessary, and keep the travelers from proving too tempting a target for the dark things that hunt beneath Kaer Maga.
After a short wait we set off into the tunnel, the wardens loaning small glowing pendants to those in need of light. The path began to rise almost immediately, and though the way curved and doubled back enough to remain feasible for the merchants' horses and carts, before long the muscles in my legs burned like hot wires. Our guide, for his part, moved nimbly before us and between us, not quite dancing circles around us, but constantly ensuring that the darkness beyond our meager illumination held no surprises. Though the wardens sweep the tunnels constantly for danger, the threat was not so distant that we could afford to be careless. At several points we passed side-tunnels that had been bricked up, and in these places Darien instructed us to move as quietly as possible lest we attract the attention of creatures that might view the bricks as mere inconveniences. At one such wall I paused, and from beyond it I heard the faint sounds of roaring, a deep bellow that made the rock buzz, combined with a high squealing that cut off sharply. From that point on, the merchants and I found renewed strength to quicken our pace.
The path itself is an architectural hodgepodge. At its base it's hewn primarily from the raw stone, following natural seams and tunnels, but at several points it changes drastically, at one point becoming a tube so smooth that only the sand spread on the floor keeps the foot from slipping, while at another suddenly displaying ornate masonry and elaborate frescoes. Once, we seemed to actually be walking down a hallway in some grand subterranean city, the doors flanking us barred with locks and chains. The most harrowing portions of the journey, however, were those in which the tunnel emerged onto the cliff-face, becoming a ledge just wide enough for a cart, before plunging back into the rock. The view was magnificent, but one look over the edge at the sheer drop below us was enough for me, and I spent the rest of these spans hugging the wall.
Finally, however, the tunnel disgorged us into a small stone-walled corral on the plateau's surface, just a stone's throw from the walls
of the city. Darien collected our pendants, thanked us brusquely, and loped back into the tunnel's mouth, scarcely winded.
Over half a mile in diameter, Kaer Maga's hexagonal ring of eighty-foot-high walls looms stark and imposing. The numerous doors and windows the residents have chiseled out at every height hold anchors for ropes and baskets, wooden ladders, or vast nets like the rigging on a ship. Up these precarious routes men and women climb without hesitation, the children scampering fearlessly from landing to landing, to pass through the haphazard portals into homes or thoroughfares. For where any other city might have a curtain wall, Kaer Maga is its walls—a solid ring hundreds of feet thick, hosting chambers large enough to house entire districts, many of them stacked one on top of the other.
For the outsider, though, the most common road into the city is through the Warren, and it was there that I found myself. Just as no one knows Kaer Maga's original purpose before generations of squatters turned its mysterious chambers into a bustling city, no one today knows what cataclysm might have breached these walls, though several theories reflect the fact that citizens born in the Warren seem subtly twisted, their women more likely to miscarry. Where the huge stones of the Ring end, blasted away to reveal the layered chambers inside, a new structure rises up to bridge the gap: a precarious shantytown of scrap lumber and broken stone. Here, in the Warren, a maze of scaffolding as high as the surrounding walls hides the city's poorest citizens, a vertical slum where bare planks create a maze that threatens to swallow the unwary. Through this the main road passes with no gates or guards—simply seven stories of staring eyes and grasping hands. The latter I managed to bat away, staring down the would-be guides that descended like flies as I moved through their muddy streets and into the open-air city center that locals call the Core.
The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline Page 2