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The following is written in a strong feminine hand, crammed into a portion of the back side of a yellowing sea chart.
Cast away. Such seems destined to be my fate in life.
The opportunity to set pen to paper has not arisen since I left Promise – or rather, since I was cast away from my home for reasons I still do not fully understand. Assuming that there are in fact forces that guide mankind, the most likely scenario that I can fathom is that the “Gods” decided to voice some measure of displeasure to Glorious Mengkare through me. Why I was chosen – cursed or blessed I can no longer tell – I do not know.
Mengkare suppressed any knowledge of the Gods of this world, hoping that in so doing he would suppress any desire in Hermeans to bow to any will other than his own. To my exhausted mind, this is a logical fallacy; if a ruler’s people do not follow him out of fully informed free will and believe that his edicts are in their best interest as a matter of course, is the regency itself not an imposition of might upon those too powerless to be able to fight back? Although Mengkare postures the Grand Experiment as a grandiose set of ideals and principles, I am well past beginning to wonder whether it might not be better described as a form of slavery or, at best, indentured servitude. Perhaps the Gods conspired to inform Mengkare that they could influence events on his island regardless of his willingness to allow their worship. There is no way for me to know for certain.
What I do know is that my body no longer feels precisely my own. At times of great stress and trauma, it seems that my mortal coil is usurped by a force or forces greater than myself, and I become a conduit of some sort – perhaps a conduit of Life itself. The feeling, though alien, is not altogether discomforting. There is a sort of warmth and familiarity to the strangeness of it, as though perhaps half of what I am was always missing, and is only now returning home. In these moments I can speak (and, indeed, understand) only a tongue I have been told is called “Celestial”, the tongue of angels. What this portents, I cannot say – another mystery in a rapidly expanding pile of queries.
When I was cast away from Promise, I ought to have died. I found myself on a small sailing craft with a few others who had not passed their Tests, bound for the mainland. After a day of fairly smooth sailing, we were beset by Mengkare himself, swooping down on us like an avenging angel of death. It is clear that the rumors that are occasionally heard in Promise of bodies washing up onshore are not founded in myth, but fact. I survived only by my wits and my cowardice, staying underwater until the great lizard had flown back to my home, to continue his rule over my people. I clung to the mast with all my strength, knowing that it would likely not be enough, that I would fall into the depths never to arise. Fortunately, this was not to be.
What must have been days later, I was found, barely alive, by the merchant ship Jenivere. I was hoisted aboard, and set to recovering. Before I knew it, I was working for a man named Rambar, the cook on the ship. At first I thought I might be able to be useful to him (as my knowledge of herbs and spices is surpassed by few among the herbalists in Promise), but it quickly became clear that nothing I could do would help this man. He insisted on watering the soup down to the point of redundancy, and no amount of cajoling would sway his opinion of his recipe. With no herbs or spices onboard to speak of, I was reduced to little more than a serving-girl, which, while somewhat humiliating, was still better than becoming food for fish.
It was in this way that I met many of those with whom I am now stranded. My first acquaintance was Jask, a mountain of a man who was imprisoned in the ship’s hold. After only a few days of bringing “meals” to Jask, I knew that his kindly demeanor did not lend itself to a true criminal, and resolved that he was almost assuredly innocent of whatever he was charged with. It turns out that he was a fugitive of the Sargavan government, having been framed for uncovering corruption and reporting it to the wrong person. Ambrose tells me that he is a Cleric of Nethys, the God of Magic. I have never met a Cleric before, but if they are all like Jask, they are a worthy lot indeed.
Ambrose himself is a study in eccentricity. He is only the second Halfling I’ve met, the first being Bulgo, the chef and cooking instructor who prepares meals for Mengkare himself. As far as I know, Bulgo may be the only Halfling on the island of Hermea. Ambrose is certainly nothing like the fat little Bulgo, being a brave and intelligent Halfling. He has taught me much of the world at large already, and I can only imagine the things I will learn from him before we part ways.
Aerys is a drunkard. She hopes one day to become a ship’s captain – although whether our current predicament has cured her of that brand of insanity yet, who can say? She is a pitiable thing, always begging Flute for a drink of whatever alcohol he might have, although he assures her repeatedly that he has none to give, and would not even if he did.
Flute is the most hilarious man I’ve ever met, although “man” is hardly the right term for him – he’s about half the height of a normal man, and half again as wide. Ambrose tells me that there is a whole race of these “dwarves” – they live under stone, and are as adept at slaying the monsters of the deep as they are at singing, drinking, and making merry. I have thoroughly enjoyed Flute’s company since I’ve known him.
Tun’ada strikes me as being more in his element lately, since the crash (more on that in a moment). He stalks the land with the experience of one who has long lived off of it. He is a quiet man, and seems to speak more through his actions and his strange weapon than from his lips.
On the Jenivere, James always struck me as aloof, even anti-social. Since we made land, though, he has become an engaging and interesting fellow. Sometimes he is quite frightening – he tends to completely allow his emotions to overtake him in battle. Although in many ways his culture seems to be much more primitive than that fostered in Promise, James is a complex and nuanced man.
Gelik is annoying; I’ll mince no words on him. He is a member of another short-statured race called “Gnome”, but if all gnomes are like Gelik, I’d be glad to be shut of the lot of them. He’s interesting enough, and when he turns his mind to it he can weave an interesting tale and a song, but too often his mind is allowed to idle, and he becomes pompous, brazen and crass. Never without a snarky comment or a rude observation, Gelik is the one individual amongst us that I could easily live without.
Finally, Ishorou. He is a man of duty and honor foremost, but I do not know much beyond that about him. He hails from the faraway land of Tian Xia, which I have only read about in books, and even then the tales seem to fold in upon themselves until one cannot be sure what is real and what is exaggeration or outright fantasy.
To whatever extent possible, I actually enjoyed my time on the Jenivere with these new acquaintances, but that time came to an end more quickly than any of us could have expected. There was some confusion among the crew as to our course and bearing, but I made nothing of it, being an inexperienced sailor myself. Then, we were called to a celebratory dinner – Rambar prepared it all – to revel in the completion of our journey. Our journey was indeed complete, but not in the fashion that we had foreseen. I blacked out after eating only a few mouthfuls.
The next thing I knew, I heard the sound of battle around me (which I have come to associate with confusion and a kind of buzzing, blurred vision, both accompanied by everyone speaking a mishmash of nonsensical words). James and Flute were laying about them with their weapons, and bodies of scorpion-like creatures lay everywhere. In my confusion, I called to the heavens, and was rewarded by a sense of well-being and confidence. My allies have since assured me that they were similarly effected, lending credence to my theory that I am acting as a conduit of a divine force somewhere. Before long, we had vanquished the strange creatures, and began to pull ourselves together.
As we acclimated ourselves to our surroundings, we found two interesting things. The first was an elf by the name of Chi that had been quietly hiding in the ship’s hold with a very intelligent cat who seems to be a companion of sorts. It was clear that she was as confused as we were, though, and Jask spoke for her, so my initial concerns about her soon faded. Chi has since proven to be a trustworthy and loyal friend, although she also seems unaccustomed to the close interaction with other people that our current situation demands.
The second thing we noticed was that what remained of the Jenivere was clinging desperately to a cliff just down the beach. James, Tun’ada, Chi, Ambroze, Flute and I decided to investigate quickly, while there might be supplies to scavenge from the boat. We fought several more of the scorpion creatures, but James and Tun’ada made quick work of them, their bright blades flashing in the sun. Chi was bitten by one, though, and I fear that she has still not fully recovered from the effects of it’s poison sting. I did what I could, but no amount of beseeching the Gods has yet allowed me to restore her full sense of well-being.
On board the wreck, we found the remains of Master Rambar and Master Devers, the first mate of the ship. Among the more interesting points of this journey was our discovery that Master Rambar had apparently been killed before our meal had been served the night before, even though the last thing I can remember is him serving the Captain his meal. He was apparently bitten to death by a snake of some sort, but I don’t recall any being on board. There is a connection here, but I can’t put it together as of yet…
After finding some supplies, maps and documents, Jask’s equipment, and a key to free him from the manacles he wears, we left the ship. Upon reflection, our situation became much more clear. The Captain had become enamored with a Varisian scholar named Ieana – I suspect this was a magical compulsion, but that is conjecture on my part as of now. She had persuaded him to set into motion the events that brought us to the island we are now on, names Smuggler’s Shiv. He almost certainly killed his first mate, and would have been the death of us all, had first mate Devers not deigned to risk his life and limb to save our skins prior to dying, himself. The captain is almost certainly somewhere on the island even now, with Ieana, doubtless pursuing some nefarious end. He will be brought to justice for what he has done, and although I have some reservations about harming a man who was acting under compulsion, I am not sure that James or Tun’ada will see it that way, nor anyone else for that matter. Ieana is almost surely the main culprit behind our dire situation, and for her I will have no pity when our wills meet.
A few other opportunities have presented themselves – Jask wishes to prove his innocence, Ishorou knows of a hidden pirate treasure, Gelik believes a missing Pathfinder ship may be wrecked in this area – but we have only recently used the supplies we found to erect a base camp of sorts, so those items remain to be addressed. For now, I am so hot that I can barely stand up, and must rest.
I am cast away again, and I remain resolved to hold my head high. I will not submit to despair, and by the will of the Gods – if indeed they exist as they are commonly conceived of – I and my companions will pull through our current predicament somehow.
Gwenyth E. Finley
Formerly of the Jenivere, Currently of Everywhere and Nowhere
I love to lurk
Definately an entertaining tail, I look forward to listining to you spin a bit more of it. You would seem to me to one of those oracles I've heard tale of. Next time you need to take to see you should seek me out, I can promise you an easier trip, or a more exciting one if that is your fancy.
((I feel like I'm about to get lurk envy ;). ))
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Quite some time has passed since I last had opportunity to put pen to paper, yet much has remained the same.
Our group of stranded survivors remains on this island, which Tun’ada and Ambroze have identified as a place called “Smuggler’s Shiv”. After I last wrote, we set about clearing the area around the camp of the local fauna, which is invariably vicious and unwelcoming. More than once I found myself near death, but the courageous actions of those around me – I have come to think of them as friends, now – saved my life on each occasion.
We have since moved the camp twice, each time to the south. It seems we were initially stranded near the northernmost part of the island, so in our explorations of our surroundings we quickly determined that any hope we might have of rescue would lie farther south. Unfortunately, the farther we have come, the more deadly the challenges we face have become. Foremost on this list, I am finding, is disease.
Growing up in Promise, disease was rarely a concern. The civil engineers that Megkare brought to Hermea – the best and the brightest, of course! – ensured that running water was available everywhere. The rodent population never got out of control, probably due to the amount of dogs and cats that were around. There were insects, certainly, but without any serious diseases for them to spread, they proved to be more of a nuisance than anything, at least within the city walls. As with most things, though, disease was not unstudied in Promise. The herbalists and healers had a divine mandate (which I now know to be the fear of an old lizard) to study diseases and prepare response scenarios, should disease ever reach the island.
Having spent as much time on Smuggler’s Shiv as I have, I realize now that the real problem for Promise and Mengkare was a lack of clerics. Although I cannot cure disease through this curious link to the divine that I have been gifted (or is it cursed?) with, I constantly feel as though the ability to do so is possible – a fair way out of my reach, but possible. Jask assures me that this is so, although he has not reached the necessary level of communion with his patron, Nethys, to grant access to the necessary spell either. Thus, if clerics had been permitted on Hermea, there would have been no need for either herbalists or physiks to combat disease or injury.
Although this may seem on the surface to be a trivial topic, I have concluded that it is far from trivial. It is my belief – my firm belief – that the Gods have gifted me with the abilities that they have in order to one day bring accountability to Mengkare’s doorstep for leading so many of the bravest and best of humankind away from the worship of the Gods. I do not know how I will do this; Mengkare is ancient and powerful, and I am young and fairly insignificant by comparison. But if it be the will of the Gods, it will come to pass – the end is as certain as tomorrow’s sunrise, though the means be occluded. I don’t doubt that if I am to serve as a conduit for this change, my new friends must, by needs, be a part of it as well. The more I know about them, the more confident I am that we were meant to find each other in the way we have.
As we have managed to divert or otherwise mollify the other castaways, they have revealed interesting aspects of their own personalities. Aerys, now largely cured of her alcoholism, turns out to be an engaging author. Jask, cleared of the charges against him (as I knew he would be), is a knowledgeable and helpful cleric, whose powers and abilities the island is already putting to the test. Ishorou is an honorable if mysterious character who has recently instructed Chi in the skills needed to open locked containers and fight with weapons in a style that is designed to exploit enemies’ weaknesses. Sasha has turned out to be almost a parent to one of the vicious dinosaurs we encountered – I don’t know that anyone saw that coming. Gelik remains the one individual who we have yet to help in some way, but even he has proven far less abrasive than I originally assumed, while still managing to come in somewhere short of “pleasant”.
Sadly, our dwarven friend Flute is no longer with us. He wandered out of camp one day, only to return two days later as an undead thing. I will miss him greatly; his quick wit and his knowledge are irreplaceable. We have also met another companion, a different dwarf named Savarend. He fights barehanded - not unheard of, but I had thought it rare for dwarves. Regardless, he has already proven his worth in several fights. It is sad to miss Flute as I do, but at the very least we have found a worthy ally in Savarend.
We have fought the walking dead, we have encountered savage natives who speak a derivative of a language used by creatures of the lower planes, we have battled beasts and the elements. Smuggler’s Shiv is testing us, surely – but it is my belief that the mettle of those here assembled will rise above the task at hand and find our rescue. It may even be that we will rescue ourselves through force of will, I don’t know.
We’ll find out.
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Again, I find that my desire to chronicle my exploits in this strange place is exceeded only by the lack of time which I have to do so.
I could speak of many things - friends lost in horrible fashion, friends gained, disasters averted, epic battles - but these things are still too close, the emotions too raw. Suffice it to say that James, brave James, is lost to us, and our newest companion Savarend as well. Others have emerged to fill the void left by their absence, but James's strength and bravery and Savarend's wit and courage are difficult to truly replace.
The contrast between the two newest castaways is enough to cause me a moment of humor, though, even in the midst of painful memories. Marcus is a stalwart fighter, seemingly more conventionally trained and disciplined than Tun'ada is or than James was. Under his tutelage we have become something of a unique regiment of fighters, combining Chi's foreign brand of magic, Ambroze's neverending litany of information about our assailants, Tun'ada's ferocity, and my somewhat feeble efforts to keep everyone alive for another day, another hour, another minute. Marcus certainly seems to serve as a lynchpin for us - something we badly needed, although it pains me that James isn't around to see it.
And Mawj! Mawj Gro-Balmog. I am in the company of an actual goblin! Mawj is certainly crude at times, but that bothers me not a bit - for surely even his too-hairy ears would redden at some of the things I overheard while aboard the Jenavere! But he is brave as any knight of Promise, and a vicious flurry of action in combat. He seems to recognize me to be our "shaman", and as such I often seem able to sway his opinion when it is trending in a less than desirable direction. It's odd, but he is...cute, somehow. If he ever heard me say so, he would either cut off my ears or die of shame, but a fact is a fact.
I will save the stories I could tell for another day - the battle at the gorge, the cleansing from the island of the would-be blight from the Darklands, Lady Aycenia and her grove. For soon, we will have caught the b#@+* that started all this in motion. I love all that lives, but she does not deserve life, nor (I suspect) will she long have the benefit of it. Even were I to feel differently, those who have suffered with me so valiantly - Chi, Tun'ada, Ambroze - I am not sure they would choose to spare her. But I wonder...
Awesome J! Thanks for posting this!
Excellent!