| eakratz |
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Earlier today, while pondering a story I plan on writing to include in the adventure log of Obsidian Portal, it dawned on me that my little group of friends not only enjoys playing the game, but writing supplemental stories for it as well. Each of us spends quite a bit of our time writing these logs for an audience of four. I then remembered that Paizo has a section of the boards dedicated to campaign journals so I thought this would be a good place to increase our audience to five, or maybe even six people reading our stories.
In case you are wondering why I named it "part I", it is because I am playing the AP as the first half of the campaign, and then we will play City of Brass as the "part II".
These posts will not be a complete account of everything that happens in the story arc but features highlights and behind the scenes actions. Also, the stories are each written by one of five of us. And finally, this campaign has several side adventures thrown in for added fun. I hope someone out there enjoys these. I certainly did and do.
| eakratz |
Come traveller, and rest you in the shade of our oasis. The gods, in their generosity, have given us fresh water and all manner of provisions. Rest your weary feet, and perhaps stay long enough to hear our tale.
We have also travelled, and have come far indeed. But one must start a tale in the beginning. Hear now the story of the war between the djinn. Our story begins in the bazaars of Katapesh, in the year 4709…
Our tale begins with a terrible villain. Cruel and sadistic, he left a trail of victims behind him. The entire city was gripped with fear, for there were none confident that they would live to see the next day. So, great was the celebration when Crimson was defeated.
The church of Sarenrae was given the task of burning the body to ash, but when that body was stolen…Well that begins the story of the four fortunate men….
| eakratz |
From Absalom to Solthis to Katapesh to Solku
The newly promoted Pathfinder bursts into the bar breathing heavy. His ship was late leaving him less than an hour to get from the docks to this out of the way shanty in the middle of the most convoluted maze masquerading as Osirion’s capitol’s streets. Luckily he is fast and made it with minutes to spare.
“Zedric ben Omar,” the alluring woman softly recites while she leans against the imported driftwood bar top. “New recruit straight out of Absalom I see. Your old trainer speaks highly of your skills and dedication.” She licks her lips and takes dainty sip from the goblet in her delicate hand as she scans the scroll in her other.
“Dedication is what I need now. I may not see you again for a year or more. Hmm?” She offers a new goblet to the young Desnan priest as his eyebrows raise in surprise. He had just arrived in Sothis, after a long sea voyage from Absalom. “Oh, I know. You just got here and we had barely gotten acquainted. But you see, something is cooking down by Solku…”
“Solku?” Zedric stammers. “But Mis…erm, Mithral? Ms. Scarab. That’s another 500 miles to the south?”
“I know, dear. And Mithral Scarab is fine. I know you just got here, but the mission is somewhat urgent. You are going to have to travel by sea to Katapesh. The capitol. You see, the trade route from Solthis to Osirion has been closed for some decades now, and the Pactmasters of Katapesh would like to have it re-opened. Part of that process is going to involve the liberation of a former battle market village called Kelmarane. It befell some kind of curse a while ago, and through the retaking of the place The Society is certain that there will be artifacts of interest to us for their historical and possibly magical significance.
“From the city of Katapesh, you will have to join a caravan to the city of Solku. There, you will find a man named Garavel. Give him this letter.” The Mithral Scarab hands Zedric a scroll sealed with the image of a silver scarab. “I have sent word ahead of your arrival, but that will not be enough to satisfy the Pactmaster’s agent. You will have to arrive in town well before the planned expedition to Kelmaren, and demonstrate your problem solving skills. There is always something going on in that out-of-the-way hamlet they call a city. Ok, that’s it. Any questions? No? Good. You must hurry now. Your ship leaves within the hour. It was nice to meet you.”
Her smile would have melted the young Pathfinder’s heart if it wasn’t already palpitating from his run from the docks and the whirlwind of news he had just received. He turns to leave the bar and hurry to the docks. He can just make it when he hears her angelic voice call his name.
“Oh, and take this,” she tosses him an item. He inspects the compass-like device. “you might need this in the desert you’ll likely be finding yourself in. Don’t lose it or you owe me 500 goldens. On second thought. Keep it. I’ll get a new one. Next time you report back to me, bring me the gold you owe me. Now, Zedric. Don’t be late. It’s a long walk to Solku.”
| eakratz |
Earning His Freedom
Kento stood at the edge of the training yard fuming as he watched the tall, bearded Pactmaster agent and the Osirian stand underneath Mustafa’s cage talking to Lanista Yodfah. His student stupidly tried to escape, and their master had decided that the brute needed to die hanging in a cage as an example. Kento was contemplating breaking him out so he could exact his own brand of punishment before taking him to continue his training in the capital, but instead it looks like he will be sold to the Pactmasters judging by the dress of the bearded agent’s guards. Pactmaster mamluks from the look of them. I can’t overtly do anything against the Pactmasters to get my student back, but I will teach him his lesson. Do not cross me. I will find you again.
| eakratz |
Battle Market
The two opponents took to the stage of the battle market arena. One of them, a large ogre that goes by the name of Hurvank the Strangler. The other, a stone face human woman named Haleen. She boldly strides to the edge of the arena and stares up at the humongous brute.
Hurvank, fists on his hips bellows, “Hoar, hoar, haor. You’ve got to be kidding me, Kardswann. You send me this?” He turns to the woman. “Little girl, you’d better turn around now and run back home, for I’m gonna spank you with that little blade you got there before I choke you to death in front of all these hungry gnolls.”
Haleen merely draws her rapier and holds it straight armed towards the ogre. “Sir, I think it is you who will feel my blade on your backside. I give you the chance to yield now and save face.”
“Sister,” the Strangler replies. “You’re going down slow.”
Haleen merely smiles, “Not for you, big guy.”
| eakratz |
Crimson Killed
“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez! On Toilday the 2nd of the month of Pharaste the Scourge of Solku known as Crimson, a serial killer on the loose for three months past has been found and killed by the adventuring troupe known as the Company of the Sagaris on order by his majesty Lord Hazic Kel-Kalaar. Crimson’s body has been relocated to the Lambient Citadel by the wishes of the Lord Hazic Kel-Kalaar, his remains are to be carried in a caravan on display through the streets of Solku and to be conflagrated abound a pyre of Sarenrae’s wrath until only dust remains. The procession will be held at sunrise as appropriate on Fireday the 5th of Pharaste of the year 4709. His honorable Lord Hazic Kel-Kalaar would be pleased to invite all citizens of Solku to attend this glorious celebration of the end of a truly rare terror to the citizens of Solku. All hail ye, faith to the Sun Mother, Dawnflower, and the Healing Light. Gods bless you!”
| eakratz |
Mustafa Awoke to Pain
Mustapha awoke to pain: bright, stabbing pain that lanced through every part of his body. At first, he could not remember why he was in the cage, suspended fifteen feet off the ground, his body folded up at painful angles to fit his immense bulk in such a small space.
The pit fighter looked down at his wounds. Jagged ugly stitching seemed to be holding him together in many places. He couldn’t see out of one eye, and he could barely lift his left arm. His body was a series of colors, a wash of bruises of various shapes and severity. Of all the terrible beatings Mustapha had taking, this one was the worst.
He had been fighting in the battle markets of Solku for as long as he could remember. Kenta, the Xian monk who had raised him, never responded to questions about his origins. Others had told Mustapha that the man had just returned to the slave pits with a child one day, and their owner never questioned Kenta. Since before he could even talk, the white-robed monk had been teaching him. Kenta was a terrifying fighter, but he was not a kind man. His methods were cruel and vicious. The boy was beaten, tortured, starved, and mutilated. But he learned to fight and he learned to kill with his bare hands.
At eight years old, Mustapha fought to the death for the first time. Kenta pitted him against three older boys, street rats promised gold if they would kill him. The monk had sent him to the market, and the boys found him cutting through an alley. training had taken over and they died quickly. And then he had run weeping back to Kentai. He emerged from the fight unscathed, but Kenta had beaten him unconscious for those tears. That was the first time he woke up bruised and battered and stitched together.
The years since had been spent fighting in the battle markets and training with his master. He had faced men, beasts and even constructs. And he had never lost. On many occasions he staggered out of the arena only to collapse. Each time the pit surgeons would sew him up and dump him into a cage to live or die. And Mustapha would claw his way out of the black only to find Kenta standing over him. And it would begin again. Kenta would train him, he would fight, and he would kill. So it had always been.
Now he woke up in a gibbet. He was thirsty, terribly thirsty. The thirst was so bad that it shouted down the hunger. Mustapha had been in the cage for days, but how many?
His one good eye was drawn to motion below him. Three men were talking . . . he couldn’t hear what they were saying but they were pointing to him. One of the men was his owner. Not Kenta, his true master. No, the man in front of him was his owner Yodfah, the obese merchant who toyed in pit-fighting for fun and profit. He and the men with him were clearly bartering, Mustapha recognized the body language. And they kept motioning to him again and again. What would someone want with him like this . . . broken and battered and starved?
He sensed Kenta’s gaze before he saw him . . . off to the right, standing in the cool shadows. Mustapha could feel the man’s malevolent rage. Yodfah must actually be selling Mustapha then. That is the only thing that could make Kenta that angry: the thought that his pet would be taken from him after all these years.
The memory of his escape attempt returned. And Jobal.
The boy was bought for next to nothing some months ago. He cleaned up around the pits, emptied the nightsoil buckets, carried food and water, washed down the fighters after bouts. While the other gladiators had treated the child with cruelty or contempt, Mustafa was kind to Jobal. A gentle word, help with a chore, games of hide and seek stolen during quite moments. Breaking Grazz’s arms when the animal had tried to rape the boy. Small moments like those built a friendship between the two. And when Jobal saw an opportunity to help his friend, he had taken it, stealing the guard’s keys and releasing Mustapha. He should’ve known better. Kenta would never let him escape. And his foolish hope, his desire to believe that they could flee the battle pits had cost Jobal his life.
They had made it to the streets outside of the battle market. Mustapha had scaled the wall while Jobal clung to his back, silently giggling. When his feet hit the ground, he knew immediately that it had gone wrong, and he turned to find himself facing the white-clad figure that had haunted his dreams since childhood. Kenta stood there quietly, his back ramrod straight and his one arm loose at his side. The small man’s face betrayed no emotion.
Mustapha did the only thing he could. He told Jobal to run and threw himself at his master, hoping that his massive strength and size could delay Kenta long enough for the boy to disappear into the streets. But he never touched skin; he felt himself suddenly up-ended, and he landed on his back with crunch that knocked all the air out of his lungs and sent blackness swirling about his eyes.
When he cleared his vision, Kenta stood over him, holding the boy by the neck. Mustapha did not even have time to tell the boy he was sorry. There was a sharp crack, and Kenta tossed Jobal onto the ground like a broken doll.
Mustapha remembered the rage. He had lunged at Kenta again and again, and each time the older man had hurt him. Soon blood poured from a dozen places on Mustapha’s body, but still he attacked. He could not see out of his left eye. His ears were ringing so loudly that he was deaf. At some point he lost the use of his left arm. Long gashes in his skin wept red into the street to the point that Mustapha splashed in his own blood as he threw himself at his master. And Kenta never showed emotion. When Mustapha finally collapsed, the man stood over him silently. As the black washed over him, the last thing he saw was Kenta’s cold eyes.
Mustapha shifted uncomfortably in his cage, frowning at the screaming pain such movement caused him. He stared down at the two men who appeared to be buying him. Despite the pain of his wounds . . . despite the grief he felt for Jobal . . . Mustapha felt a glimmer of . . . something. Was it hope? Was that possible? Could he be free of his master after all this time? He would go anywhere, do anything. The salt mines, the death pits, the Mwangi diamond hells . . . anywhere to escape the man who had been torturing him for as long as he could remember.
Mustapha caught Kenta’s gaze. The look he saw in his master’s eyes crushed that hope. Mustapha closed his good eye. No, it didn’t matter. He would never escape. Kenta would come for him, wherever his new owners took him. Kenta would find him. And Kenta would punish him.
| eakratz |
ThePurchase
Zedric cringed as he heard the crack of the whip. Frozen, he waited for the blow to strike. After a minute, he realized that the whip was not meant for him. Not today.
“Keep moving, priest” spoke the caravan master. “You’re here for a reason, and there’s work to do”
Zedric brushed the sand from cloak, and forced his feet into action. He wanted desperately to run, to be somewhere, anywhere else. He tried to keep his eyes on the ground, and tried to ignore the hard men, staring at him with dead eyes from within their cages. “Great Dreamer, guide my steps this day”
Zedric knew he had been brought along solely to assess the health of the new slaves, and return it, if needed. Simple enough, and then into the desert for the long road. But he been sent a dream last night. Vague, and hard to recall upon waking, Zedric only remembered the sitar music.
“What do you think of that one, priest?” said the caravan master, pointing toward a tall Mwangi warrior. “He’s impressive, taller than most men by a head” Zedric looked into his eyes, and saw nothing looking back. The Mwangi was unafraid, and fight without hesitation, that was sure. But he was already dead inside.
“We should take that one” said Zedric, pointing at a more distant cage at a balding man covered in scars.
“He’s in rough shape. Why pick someone who loses fights? My man looks like he wins”
“One who has never struggled may not have the stomach for hardship. This one knows how to shoulder a burden. With Desna’s grace, I can heal the damage. The goddess has spoken to me, I am certain”
Unwilling to spend the time arguing with a zealot, the caravan master sighed. “If you’re sure you can patch him up, we’ll take him then. If he’s a problem, though, you’ll answer for it.”
The caravan master left to speak with the slave owner. Zedric was left alone with his thoughts.
“He’s had a hard life, this one. But healing the body is simpler than healing the mind. This one hates the cage as much as I do, maybe more. For now, that’s ally enough.”
| eakratz |
The stars
Zedric laid on his bedroll, looking up at the stars drifting slowly through the sky. “How unlike a man,” he thought “their path is fixed and unchanging. Their course is set and they walk their roads with neither fear nor haste. Would that I could see my own road so clearly.”
As sleep began to approach him, his thoughts drifted. Forward, to the caravan journey that lay ahead. Many miles across the desert, and the locals spoke of gnolls raiding across the dunes. Storytellers spoke of more fantastic things as well, djinn and ifrit that could grant a man whatever they wished, and terrible ruins of things best left forgotten.
The stars were a comfort as Zedric fell asleep under the night sky. They had ever been so, even when things were far worse. He remembered his youth, spent pulling, and lifting, and building the tombs of the Osirans. The day brought unrelenting heat, and the eyes of the overseers.
But night brought the stars, slowly drifting in their courses. And it was to those stars Zedric trusted his fate one night, setting out across the desert. At that time, he did not know if he would be caught by the guards, or if he would be pursued, or if he would be eaten by jackals. All he knew is that he could no longer stay.
| eakratz |
Nine Flawed Sapphires
“Garavel, darling!”
The major domo nods towards the beautiful dusky skinned human woman and answers without inflection, “Ayyam.”
Ayyam sways as she strolls around Garavel’s temporary office, taking note not just of the ever-present mamluks, but of the new addition. A huge slave-warrior that looks like he went toe-to-claw with a basilisk and would have been lucky to have been turned to stone.
“What is this I see?” she purrs. "He looks like he did a round with The Strangler and lost. My, my, where did you get him?
“I purchased him from the gem merchant, Yodfah. It seems his dalliance into the gladiatorial arts was not profitable, and he had to unload some cargo.”
“Well, that does make things interesting.” She steps in front of the monstrous man standing guard along the wall. She only comes to the warriors mid-chest, but she seems bigger. “What is your name, handsome.” She is completely genuine.
“Mustafa, uh…ma’am.”
“Mustafa, the Fist!” Ayyam pumps her own dainty fist into the air. “I have seen you fight. Once, you had wrestled a minotaur if I am not mistaken.”
Garavel coughs, “One of my associates believes he has some valuable skills that we can use for our undertaking.”
“The retaking of Kelmarene. We have heard your mistress, Herr Printzessa Roveshki, has been chosen for this task. My my, are you up to it?”
“The crew that Mustafa is a part of was integral in the return of Crimson’s corpse. They have shown great aptitude.”
Ayyam eyes the muscles rippling across Mustafa’s chest, as well as the scars. She runs a finger along one and whispers, “Would you like a bit of revenge against this master of yours that held you in a cage and allowed his doctore to mutilate you within inches of your most precious life?”
The grim giant smiles.
“Garavel, may I borrow this one?”
| eakratz |
Rashad's Story
The quartet of Ayyam, Mustafa the Fist, Bazzok the Bloody, and the newly rescued Rashad of Sarenrae ride the mules back to Solku from the secret hide-out of the underground wine operation owned by Mustafa and Bazzok’s former master, the merchant named Yodfah. Rashad is eternally grateful for his rescue from the torturer’s clutches and relays his story to his rescuer’s.
“So I’m noticing that people are getting unusually sick on the morning after wine parties, which shouldn’t be so unusually except that even people who claimed to have only partaken one or two glasses of the wine had been also displaying inordinately intense hangovers. After receiving the blessings of Lady Cynore I investigated incidences and determined that all of this wine had one particular producer of the vintages that were causing these hardships and they were all tied to the merchant Yodfah. After bullying a few of the distributers I was able to trace the culprits operation to Sakina Falls was then foiled by the cunning waterfall secret entrance. There I waited until one Mustanir, a surly and blasphemous dwarf came to the entrance and tried to subdue him into letting me in. Instead he subdued ME if you can believe that one. He sundered my scimitar in one slice of his cursed dwarves waraxe. Anyways, they have been torturing and questioning me ever since, I think about a couple weeks or so. They thought it humorous that I would lay on hands myself to heal the wounds they inflicted only to have them continue…”
And he continued all the way back to Solku.
| eakratz |
Mustafa's Shame
As he sat balanced precariously atop the donkey, Mustafa barely listened to the paladin prattling on ahead of him. He had fallen in battle again! The giant man silently cursed. Never in his life had he been defeated except at the hands of Master Kento. Yet, in the last week, he had fallen a handful of times. To street thugs! And a wizard! A wizard!!
“Bah!” he cursed, and spat on the ground. Every part of his body hurt. Blood leaked from a half dozen places where old wounds had opened or stitches had torn. His body looked no better than the day he had awoken in Yodfah’s gibbet. Would he ever heal from Kento’s beating?
Mustafa glared at his battered knuckles. He remembered the satisfying crunch of the guards’ bones as he struck them down, one after the other. He had barely felt the blades of their scimitars as they cut him again and again. But that damned dwarf . . . a month ago Mustafa would have torn him limb from limb with a smile on his face. Today he had barely escaped with his life. If Bazzok hadn’t come to his aid . . .
A low grumble rose in his throat. To be humiliated in such a way in front of Yodfah’s half-orc . . . He glared at Bazzok’s back. He had tossed that fool around in sparring for years. And now he needed that second-rate “gladiator“ to rescue him . . .
Ahead his companions shared a laugh. Mustafa glared down at the road, praying that if he fell next time, he never wake up. The shame of defeat was too much.
| eakratz |
Yodfah Escapes!
“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez! As of Fireday the 26th day of the month of Pharaste the Merchant-Prince known as Yodfah has evaded capture after evidence was turned to the Pactmaster authorities that showed the prominent businessman of many endeavors had been found to be committing tax evasion using several unregistered wineries. But that is not the worse of the offenses! Yodfah had aligned with a member of a cult dedicated to an unknown nihilistic FIRE deity, demigod, or higher power of some sort. Although we may never know the goals of this arrangement, one thing the investigator’s did find out is that the wine produces has been spiked. And not with pest, as one would expect, but with an unknown drug that at best results in a VERY rough next day, but has been known to cause DEATH!”
| eakratz |
Heading Forward
Looking around the dank slaughterhouse, Zedric removes a small box of bronze and cedar from his belt. Opening the well-oiled hinge, a brilliant blue light is revealed. The glass lens in front serves to focus it, and light is provided to reveal every corner of the room.
“Where did you find such a thing?” asks Melaku
“It is a wayfinder, something all Pathfinders carry with them. I had not thought to ever own something as wondrous as this, but Desna led me to Absalom years ago. It is an immense city, and wondrous for those with the coin to enjoy its many delights. I was not so lucky in those days, but managed to feed myself enough to live on by seeing to the health of the poorest inhabitants.
One day, the island shook, as though the gods themselves had set upon Absalom. Our district began to once again flood, and I found myself fleeing the city for higher ground outside. Others did the same. I spoke with the some of the other refugees, and word came of a hillside ruin, now split open. I was curious about what long dead race of conquerors had built such a thing. It was possible that long-lost treasure lay within. Desna cautions us to be prepared for travel, but I felt it would be safer to recruit companions for this journey. I found an Osirian paladin, a Chelish halfling bard, and a Varisian sorcerer who was one of the most attractive women I have ever seen.
Melaku added “Cheliax has a grim reputation”
“Indeed, he claimed to have been a slave as a child, and had an eye for finding things of value” We found a way into the ruins, and the halfling climbed in to take a look. We faced a series of challenges within, including a deadly spider that almost killed the Osirioni. She claimed to be a follower of Iomedae, but her faith did not protect her well, and neither did her sword.
“That is why I do not rely on a sword” added Melaku.
Other dangers lay within as well, and nearly overcame us, but we managed to survive through Desna’s intercession. And when we found a captive Pathfinder within the ruins, he was grateful indeed, and sponsored us to be initiates.
| eakratz |
Nothing New
Mustafa leaned against the doorframe, glancing at the puddle of his own blood at his feet. He would need to have the Desnan restitch his wounds after this was done. Again.
In the hallway in front of him, a glowing hound harried the ogre. The giant brute had challenged him, but he could not answer. He was too weak. If Mustafa believed in such things, he would say that the gods were humbling him. From a once great pit fighter, he had been reduced to a weakling who can barely defeat watchdogs in a butcher’s shop. He growled to himself.
For a brief time today, he had felt like his old self. When the muscle-bound fool downstairs had attacked, Mustafa had laid him low. When the foul undead creatures had shambled towards him, he had struck them down. But his wounds then bit deep, and he himself had fallen to his knees repeatedly. The Desnan had pulled him from the black again and again with his healing magics. With a chuckle, Mustafa realized that, despite the different scenery, his life had not changed. Fight and fall. Heal and fight again. Mustafa laughed aloud. And so it had always been.
With a crash, the ogre fell to the ground. The angelic hound had brought the monster down. Mustafa’s laugh rose to a roar as he stepped out of the doorway and brought his fist down on the creature’s head. There was a satisfying crunch, and he felt the warm spray of the ogre’s lifeblood splash across his face and chest, mixing with his own to drip down onto the floor. He stared down at the puddle at his feet and grinned.
And so it had always been.
| eakratz |
Malice of the Medusa
It has been two weeks, and the newly formed group of adventurers has just finished their procurement of necessities and are now reporting back to Garavel. They had already been congratulated on a job well done with the Crimson case and now with a few weeks to go, they learn about another task that Garavel thinks they can accomplish to prove their mettle.
“Fellows, I trust you have had a restful week and have spent some of your new fortunes on useful wares. I have heard talk from the people of how I have another task I’d like you to accomplish on behalf of the Pactmasters. It would be very appreciated if you would pay a visit to town council spokesman Amik Sha, about the rumors of nobles and merchants spontaneously burning in some magical flame. Please listen to the man and do what he asks. I am sure solving a problem like this would only elevate your status in this town as well as make you look even better in my mistresses eye.”
| eakratz |
The Night Before the Funeral
Mustafa crouched in the corner of the common room. His wounds pained him. The jagged black stitches were weeping again. He glanced over at the Desnan cleric. Perhaps that man could ease his discomfort.
No, I will not show my shame. Kento gave me these wounds. I will not dishonor Jobal’s memory by asking for relief. Each moment of pain reminds me of my master’s crimes, of how much I have to pay him for. Mustafa took a swig from his wineskin.
“Qerd, come here!” he growled. The monkey was prowling in the bags of the one called Mellaku. The half elf was telling a story to the others, flashing white teeth and winking. There were good-natured laughs. Laughter made Mustafa uncomfortable. In the pits the fighters had laughed . . . but quietly as to not draw attention of Kento. This freedom . . . this open joy . . . Mustafa shook his head. It invites disaster.
Qerd scampered across the room and onto his shoulder. Mustafa fed the monkey a date. The final member of their company sat next to Zedric. Fedi was his name; he was watching Mellaku with a quiet smile. Some sort of scholar. Mustafa shook his head. Who has time in this life to read dead words on dry paper? Death lurks behind every corner, in every doorway. To live is to drink, to take a woman, to kill an enemy. Sitting in those dead places filled with paper . . . he could not fathom such a thing.
Mustafa settled down and pulled out his beloved, the battered sitar left behind by some dead gladiator. He had been toying with it for years, slowly learning how to pluck the strings and make it sing. Qerd climbed on top of his head and settled down. The beast loved the sitar’s haunting sounds.
As he began to play, Mustafa felt the room go silent. His brothers in the pit had appreciated the music, a break from the grinding, bone-breaking life they suffered. Perhaps these men too might appreciate such a thing.
He quieted his mind and followed the music. Life was battle, blessed only by brief glimpses of beauty. These moments must be held close and treasured, for such things were too rare. And so it had always been.
| eakratz |
Nightly Ministrations
Outside the Tomb of Two Kings, Mustafa stood next to the fire as Zedric ben Omar tended to his battered body. For several nights now, the priest had spent an hour or so examining his stitches, the various deep black bruises, and several poorly set bones, particularly his left arm. The Desnan’s ministrations were having an effect. After only a day or so, Mustafa had been able to don armor for the first time in weeks without rupturing numerous wounds and fainting from loss of blood. And just today, he had been able to throw an effective strike with his left hand, which for some time had been useful only for half hazardly blocking attacks.
He was growing stronger.
Zedric circled him, checking the heavy stitching across his back and legs. Mustafa could hear the man muttering to himself. He looked down at his own body, tracing the many scars that criss-crossed his skin. Raised furrows of puckered flesh, deep red webbing, white slashes . . . his body was a scroll, recounting his many battles. These fresh wounds were just the latest words to be written. Two weeks ago, Mustafa believed it likely that they would be the last words, that Kento had finished the story. But now he knew better. Mustafa would survive.
The priest was reworking some stitches on his thigh. The pit fighter felt the needle dig in, the heavy thread pull and tug. Zedric Ben Omar was a talented healer. Mustafa would follow this man for no other reason than these nightly sessions. He would follow the Desnan until his body regained its former strength. Then he would have to decide what to do about Kento. He owed his former master for Jobal’s death. But he was certain that, if he fought Kento again, the results would be the same. Even at his healthiest, he was no match for the monk. What would he do? Mustafa growled at the thought.
“Did I hurt you, my friend?” Zedric paused his sewing.
Mustapha shook his head and grunted. He put away thoughts of his master. There would be time enough to plan his revenge. No point in thinking about such things now.
“Zedric Ben Omar, you said my arm was healing wrong.” Mustafa held up his twisted left limb. “How do you suggest we fix it?”
| eakratz |
Field Report - one
My most esteemed Captain,
I trust that you are well, and that this letter finds you in good health. I am reasonably well, and write to you from a place known to the locals as Scorpion Rock. It is a large hill that in the setting sunlight, does bear some resemblance to that creature, with a dark altar in front of a narrow opening.
There are signs that this altar has been used to make human sacrifices. Hakim, who is knowledgeable about such things, identified the signs as belonging to Lamashtu. The name means little to me, I confess, but many of the bones belong to children and mere infants. Hearing from desert dervishes that our answers lay within, we entered the cave.
Within, we came across a great beast of a creature. It was fully the size of an ox, and stank like a corpse. Most remarkable, while shaped in aspect like a man, it had the head of a great jackal. We were most surprised when it lumbered to life. It was amazingly strong, but my companions and I were able to defeat such a creature. I send you what poor images I can create, along with a more detailed description of the creature, in the hopes that other Pathfinders will be forewarned of such dangers.
We believe that more dervishes lie deeper within, but they have shown themselves to unimpressive thus far. They probably use tales of scorpions to frighten away the superstitious villagers.
In return, I ask if the Pathfinders have any knowledge of King Shishak, who parted the river of serpents, or his brother? We may be facing their ancient enemies soon, or their descendants. Success would allow me to repay your generosity with greater haste.
| eakratz |
Dashki’s Story
Dashki, Zedric, and Hakim scout ahead, following dozen’s of faint tiny tracks that were lead to and fro around the camp at Sultan’s claw. Among them, the tracks of the missing goat can be found. Rombard’s tracks are scuffed, as if he were dragged away against his will. As Hakim and Dashki stare at the small footprints leading away to the northwest into the hills, Dashki reveals his story to the bard.
“Almah hired me about a month ago to tell her all about the gnolls living in these hills. Gnolls killed my mother and grandfather when I was a boy. They put fire to our village and slew hundreds. Somehow I escaped with my father to the town of Solku, not far from here. It was a long time ago, I’ve forgotten most of what I saw. Terrible things. But I find it’s the sounds that stay with me. The shrill howls and barks—hundreds of them at once—that sounded deliriously close to an audience. Laughing at us.
“Father raised me to know everything about the gnolls, their customs, their language. So as better to track them down and wipe them out. All of them. Together we scouted out their lairs, studied their tribes, listened to them speak until we could understand what they were saying. They’re
not dumb animals, you know. Not like you might think. In some ways they’re even smarter than us.
“Dad didn’t survive our first raid on a gnoll camp of the Three Jaws tribe. I saw them fall on him like hyenas on an abandoned kill, slathering themselves in his blood and innards. I can
still hear the tear of his scalp and the sound of his bones against frenzied teeth. Against this scene I was forgotten. Ignored.
“I escaped, and I carry on the work of my father.”
*copied from Howl of the Carrion King
| eakratz |
So Many Stars
The cool night wind blew and Mustafa pulled his cloak tight around his face. He stared up at the sky. The stars above were beyond his ability to count, and they hung heavy over his head. Qerd snuggled around his neck, snoring softly. Mustafa’s camel followed the caravan ahead without any guidance from him, leaving Mustafa to doze and ponder the past few days.
After the Desnan had reset his arm and blessed it with the Dreaming Goddess’s power, it had felt better but a sharp pain had still nagged him. Zedric had discovered the following night that a long shard of bone remained from the break. It had pulled free and lay buried deep in the muscle of his forearm. It had taken nearly a quarter of the caravan’s wine provision to get him to sit still for the following procedure. The memory sat in his mind as a haze of blood and pain and booze, but Zedric had cut out the bone and healed his arm. Since then, it had felt wonderful. He flexed his great fist in front of him and grinned. He was not back to his former glory yet, but now his allies would see what he could do with two hands.
The Desnan had also continued to check his wounds, and he seemed to be healing much more quickly. The priest’s magic had made much of the stitching unnecessary, and only the thickest and blackest of Kento’s threads remained across his abdomen and his back. Zedric had often unknowningly praised his master’s work until Mustafa’s face one day betrayed him. The priest had not had not mentioned such matters since.
Regardless, he was feeling much stronger. His back remained stiff. Zedric had said there was something wrong with his spine but that it was currently beyond his powers to fix. Mustafa felt no regret. He knew he was lucky to be alive. If he spent the rest of his life limping and in pain, Mustafa would count himself lucky. He was not one to pray . . . the gods seem too distant from his existence. But the Dreaming Goddess and her priest had earned his loyalty at the least. He would protect Zedric and kill for him for the rest of his days. He owed the small man that.
During his ministrations, Zedric had been telling Mustafa of his mistress. She was the patron goddess of musicians, he said. Mustafa had not understood the Desnan’s meaning until he had motioned to the beautiful new sitar that Mustafa had purchased. He had laughed. He was no “musician” . . . no simpering bard or lilting dandy. But he had also understood the priest’s point. The sitar’s music had soothed him, eased his pain, lifted him from the filth of the pits for all of his days. Zedric said that this was Desna. It made Mustafa think. Perhaps he was indeed what Zedric had claimed . . . one of the Goddess’s “chosen”. The thought made him smile. If his had been the life of the “chosen”, he pitied the lives of Desna’s enemies.
He looked up at the stars above him. So many. The priest said these two were Desna’s . . . Mustafa shuddered. So beautiful . . . so distant. What did it mean? Was She watching him right now?
Qerd stirred. Mustafa made a low rumble in his throat, and the monkey settled. Perhaps he would ask Zedric to tell him more about the stars. If he was going to serve this Dreaming Goddess, he’d better know all he can. He sighed and made himself more comfortable. The camel traveled on across the sand in front of him.
Mustafa drifted off to sleep under the light of those stars, thinking of this goddess, of battle, of wine . . . of life.
| eakratz |
Tempest
August 23, 2012 08:42
Melaku lies on the floor, in and out of unconsciousness as the animated water spout flows over the supine mage, engulfing him in a pool of cool liquid. Some of the water pours into his mouth and nose, causing the Kelmarene native to cough, but it just flows in. Purpling and yellowing bruises reverse their darkening of his black skin, and return to his normal shade. A broken tibia knits and he dreams…
…a dream more like a memory: he’s standing in the mountains, the shadow of the Pale Mountain falling over the region, Tempest gripped tightly in his hand as he brings it up to parry yet another blow from the fiery figure looming over him, humanoid from the waist up, but a serpentine trail of fire below. Steam issues forth as his foe’s flaming spear clashes against Tempest’s icy length, causing him to stagger back under the relentless assault. He knows he shouldn’t look away, but the fighting has gone on so long, and he’s exhausted and he needs to know… did the Princess escape? He spares a glance… the merest glance… In that instant, his opponent is gone. It takes but a moment longer for his battle-honed senses to realize the serpent-man is behind him… but too late… before he can turn to face him the head of the flaming spear burst out of his chest. Fire fills his veins, and Tempest falls from his now limp hands as he drops to his knees then, as his world fades to grey then black, then his body topples and lies contorted, bleeding from his chest and back.
An unconscious Melaku sits up strait, eyes open and staring blankly. He rises to his feet and shuffles to the stairs which his former companion, Dashki, fled only hours before. He makes it to the top and it is dark now. He staggers through the dormitory and past the statue of Sarenrae and down the hallway in the overgrown courtyard. There he wanders through the tangles, tripping on occasion because his vacant eyes miss a root or vine.
Suddenly he drops on his hands and knees and scratches at the dirt with his dagger, pulling vines and saplings out of the ground. He digs and scrapes with the dagger and with his other hand with fingers bleeding where a fingernail is pulled off or a stick has pierced his flesh. But he doesn’t notice and keeps digging…and digging…and digging.
The sun is rising and Melaku wakes up, leaning against the wall in the courtyard. His father’s staff is lying next to him and his hands are cradling a diamond embedded in a medallion of some sorts. He is confused, his last memory being underground, drowning and being pummeled by walls of water. But here he is. He winces as he notices the pain in his left hand, and sees the blood and missing nails. He inspects the medallion. It is cold to the touch. He lifts it to his face to take a closer look and gasps as his breath crystalizes when it passes over the diamond. Something compels him to look closely at his staff and he sees that the at the tip is a place where something can be mounted that he had never noticed before.
He places the medallion on the tip of his staff and jumps as frost forms over the length of the weapon and runs up his arms briefly, filling him with a sense of new power and vigor.
* Italicized section originally written by ProfPotts
| eakratz |
Flight
Panting from the effort and grimacing from the pain, the two men close the door to the ruined library. The faint musty smell of long lost knowledge is overwhelmed by the smells of sweat, and blood.
Slumping to the ground, the larger man says “I don’t like it. We shouldn’t have left him.”
“There was nothing we could have done. That thing struck him, and he collapsed to the floor” replied the smaller man.
“You healed my arm, you could have healed him too” said the larger man, ripping the seal from the vial Father Zastoran had provided earlier.
“Alone, I might have helped him. But that..thing…that water spirit would have killed me as well. And eventually you would have fallen as well.”
“I’m not afraid to die in battle” growled the larger man.
“I know, my friend. And you would have gone to your death bravely, I am sure. But the result would be the same, our bodies would lie in this place for a hundred years, and some future explorer would pick through our moldering bones. Perhaps even Dashki will come back for them.” Zedric smiled as he thought of their next encounter.
He bowed his head, and after a benediction to the Goddess of the Night Sky, he began to glow with a purple-tinted light. As he did so, some life flowed into the two men, and ensured that they would live to see that day.
The larger man remained silent.
“That was no creature of flesh and bone, Mustafa. That was an evil spirit, created by dark enchantment. We are fortunate to still have our lives. Come. I am no great singer, but I can teach you the prayersong for the dead as we leave this place behind us.
| eakratz |
Mustafa's Dream
September 09, 2012 10:06
The night on the day that Mustafa and Zedric had to abandon Melaku to the water-spirit, he turns fitfully in his bedroll…
You dream… a dream more like a memory: you’re in the mountains, the shadow of the Pale Mountain falling over the region, flying through the air which is as flesh to you, the Princess’s wrist in your hand as you pull her along with you, drawing her away from danger, despite her protests. Men of fire leap from the ground to hurtle towards you. A wall of fire bursts into existence in front of you, blocking your path, even as scorching rays of flame blast through the air, one nearly hitting your head as you protectively move the Princess behind you, and deflect a second burning ray with your finely made scimitar. You duck under the falchion wielded by the first flaming man to reach you, its blade glowing orange from the figure’s heat, you movements like the very air as you twist and turn, dancing around your opponent until you see your opening and, with a mighty roundhouse blow, you decapitate the man of fire. The Princess’s scream causes you to turn, fearing the worst, but the second assailant is already tumbling from the air – no, you follow her pointed finger to see the General, facing the worst of the enemy horde alone, collapse to the ground, a flaming spear transfixing his body…
…and awakes, sheets damp with sweat and breathing heavily.
* Italicized section by ProfPotts
| eakratz |
Zedric's Dream
The night on the day that Zedric and Mustafa had to abandon Melaku to the water-spirit, he turns fitfully in his bedroll…
You dream… a dream more like a memory: a man… a giant… of fire stands before the gargantuan grave, the powerful magics he’s calling forth cause reality itself to ripple and warp around him, even as the bones of the monster smoulder… then ignite. He grins down at you, his flaming flesh fading as that of the great abomination begins to form anew on the bones of its carcass. The monstrosity stirs, an avatar of fire and destruction, its very blood flame… but it is wrong… it is impure… anathema to the spirit of flame within you, a perversion which should never have been, and which must never be again. You feel it drawing you forth, calling to the fire within, trying to infect it with its own dark purpose. Your flame seems… is… tiny in comparison, but it doesn’t matter – the flame must remain pure, and this monstrosity must not come to pass…
…and awakes, sheets damp with sweat and breathing heavily.
* Italicized by ProfPotts
| eakratz |
Mustafa's Reflection
Mustafa carefully buckled the breastplate over his worn, grey tunic and hooked it to the metal kilt that hung at his waist. He had polished the metal to a bright sheen, though he made no effort to hammer out the various dents and grooves, “scars” from his recent battles. The piece was a thing of beauty. The armorer in Solku had built it to provide him with more maneuverability. The old man had seemed quite pleased with himself, and Mustafa admitted that he had done a fine job. As he pulled on his heavy galerus, he marveled at how well the massive hunk of steel worked with the breastplate. He practiced presenting the galerus in various ways, warding off attacks from high, then low, then left, then right. Mustafa grinned and slid his left hand into the massive leather and metal gauntlet, admiring the raised steel knuckles. His fingers moved freely and he had no trouble donning the matching gauntlet on his right hand. With the rough, worn armor of the fighting pits, he had often needed the help of another gladiator to dress for battle. Not anymore.
He bent over and checked the straps on the large greaves that protected his legs from ankle to knee. Then he retrieved his thick leather belt with its dozen small vials held by loops and straps, ready to be retrieved at a second’s notice. He checked each of the weapons attached: the light mace, a crudely forged rod, oversized on one end with the other end wrapped in a worn leather grip. Melaku claimed it was charmed to strike fast and true. The metal knuckles, cast in silver, that Zedric had suggested he acquire lay tucked into the belt. The priest claimed there were strange beasts that could only be affected by silver. A razor sharp hand ax hung from a loop at his hip. Lastly, a simple dagger lay tucked into his left greave.
Mustafa threw the quiver that held his javelins across his back, and then he clasped his white silken cloak with the strange azure scarab they had found in the old fort. It felt warm to his touch. Hakim the Traveler had told him that the brooch would provide him with mystical wards against evil magics. Mustafa shrugged. He did not need such protections. Any sorcerer fool enough to target the Fist would soon find himself pounded into paste. But he liked the shiny thing, and it held his cloak on well enough.
Finally, Mustafa reached down and picked up his spear. Worn and familiar, it felt comforting in his hand. He walked over to the tall polished brass mirror Melaku had claimed from the ruin and admired himself.
If only Jobal could see him now. He look like a warrior out of one of the boy’s stories. A hero off to rescue a princess or slay a sand wyrm. A prince who was never defeated, who won every victory, who never watched his comrades die.
Ha, Mustafa barked out loud. I am no hero. I am a pit fighter. A killer. A slayer of men, thought the Fist. But he paused a second longer to gaze at his reflection and listen to stories in his head.
We’ll make a hero of you yet, Freeman. a feminine voice softly sings in his ear. He jumps, looks over his should in the mirror but sees nothing.
| eakratz |
Skulls
Father Zastoran wakes up from his slumber in the laboratory, which he rarely leaves now thanks to the new adventures Mistress Roveshki hired. He stretches his aching muscles and cracks his neck, wrists, back, ankles, knees and hips; all of which proceed to pop and snap as he climbs the stairs. As he passes the vestibule leading to the rooms the heroes had claimed for themselves, he hears a deep grunting mixed with heavy cursing. He stands in the doorway, staring at the sight of the monstrous Mustafa furiously trying to wipe a pugwampi skull with a dirty handkerchief. Occassionaly, the former gladiator will spit on the skull, grunt, and wipe harder.
“What the hell are you doing, young man?” inquires the alchemist.
“Erm,” grunts the warrior. “Trying to wipe skulls clean. I want to put them in my beard.” Zastoran is dumbfounded by the statement. Poor boy. He’ll never get them clean that way before he has to leave for the shrine.
“Why by Nethys for?”
Mustafa looks grim for a second. Then another second. Then his eyes roll up and left. Then he licks his lips and chews a bit on the tip of his tongue. Zastoran realizes that the giant is trying to think.
“Look fierce for gnolls,” he finally admits.
“Well, son. That will never work. See all the grease on there? That’s fat. That doesn’t just come out. They need to be dried out and bleached. I have some stuff down stairs to render out the fat and I can make those gleam for you. It’s the least I can do for one of the heroes helping liberate Kelmarene. I can actually have them ready in two days, tops. Don’t you have to get moving?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Give those to me. I’ll see you when you get back.”
“Thanks. Uh, Sir. Doctor, I mean.”
| eakratz |
Visitors
Five travelers, astride well laden camels are spotted on the horizon to the south by the mercenary Yesper through a spyglass while standing watch from the balcony in the chapel of the Shrine of Vardishal. “They’re still about a mile out. Five of them.”
“Let me look,” replies Trevvis, the sergeant of the sellswords orders as he takes the spyglass from the woman’s calloused hand. Hours practice with a glaive will do that to even the most delicate of fingers. “Hmm, a human warrior of some sort; possible a follower of the Dawnflower leads. Followed by a well dressed woman as well as a pretty woman carrying an infant. Behind her, is a soft looking Kelishite man and holding the rear appears to be a, holy s%@@! An orc dressed in a breastplate and a kilt.”
“If they follow Sarenrae, this can’t be bad news,” observes the sultry mercenary. She starts when she hears a new voice.
“Oh, don’t be so sure about that.” Garavel somehow materialized next to her and Trevvis looking through a looking glass of his own. He isn’t wearing his keffiyeh, and Yesper notices the metal bolt protruding from his left temple. She knows not to ask about it.
The two mercenaries and the accountant stand staring through the open-air window at the travelers, who’s features are now easily distinguishable with a naked eye.
“She’s beautiful,” whispers Yesper with awe.
“Don’t let your guard down around her,” Garavel says flatly. Yesper taking note that she has never seen the man show a hint of emotion. Even now, his tone sounds like he should be irritated, but instead he sounds merely bored. “She could talk the rattle off a rattlesnake if she new how to talk to them.”
“Trouble this one?” asks Trevvis.
“Not really. Her methods…” Garavel stops, stroking his bearded lost in thought. “Aren’t always becoming of a lady.”
Trevvis laughs, “Right up your ally, Yesper!” and he punches her lightly on the armored shoulder.
Garavel climbs down the ladder to meet the newcomers with the two mercenaries close behind. He struts down the entrance drive and stops in front of the first camel. The warrior riding pulls the reigns tight and halts.
“Well hello again, Sweety!” the stunning woman greets. Garavel sighs.
“Hello, Ayyam.” he responds. Yesper notices a hint, just a hint of excitement from the dour man. “Who are your friends?”
“Well the man here is Rashad, a lovely paladin of Sarenrae and my devoted charge for another eleven months. He is more than willing to help Mistress Roveshki in her endeavor here.”
“How do you do, Sir Garavel? May Sarenrae watch over your immortal redeemable soul.” the paladin reaches out to shake the major domo’s hand. Garavel takes it, noting the firm steady hand and replying his own pleasure at the introduction.
Ayyam continues, indicating the orc. “This Bazzok, a former slave-gladiator from the pits in Solku. I believe he has fought alongside your own charge, Mustafa, whom I’ve had the pleasure to work with.” The half orc merely grunts through his fangs. Garavel notes a keen intelligence behind those eyes despite the bestial appearance. I’ll have to have the Zephyrs keep an eye on this one. he thinks.
“Here is Sedila, warrioress and ward to the child rescued by your heroes.” Sedila bows.
“And finally this is Muli, a man of many talents.” Garavel moves to shake Muli’s hand and introduce himself but Muli is quicker with the tongue.
“Oh I am so pleased to meet you, Sir Garavel. I have heard so much about your and this operation you have set up with Princess Roveshki. I have been dreaming every night of this journey from Solku of meeting your mistress and pledging my service and loyalty to this noble cause of the Pactmasters to return this wonderful town to its rightful glory. I have heard tales of the terrible misfortune that befell this town and I will help however I can with my meager skills. Why, I…” Garavel tunes out while the jovial man continues to talk of the glories that will come, and so on, and so on.
Finally, when Muli takes a breath and Garavel can get a word in, he welcomes the group to the monastary, showing Ayyam on company around and to their rooms.
| eakratz |
The Great Black Snake
Mustafa eased himself through the rubble scattered about the large hole in the wall of the house. He felt strange: the hair on his arms seemed to be standing up, and occasionally it felt like bugs were running up and down his skin. Zedric said that was normal, a result of the protective magicks from the Staff of Shishack. Mustafa didn’t like this sensation . . . but if it worked, it would be worth it. His comrades behind began to quietly make their way into the building, but Mustafa was distracted by the horrific sight in front of him.
Though the room inside was dark, the great black form in front of him was impossible to miss. It filled much of the space, coiled in loops piled as high as his shoulders. Mustafa clenched his fists; Zedric claimed that the serpent wouldn’t be able to sense him, but still he waited for the beast to strike. The smell of it, a heady mix of musk and desert, was so strong that his eyes started to water. Behind him, Hakim pushed him forward.
“Move, you ape!” the man hissed. Mustafa shook his head but moved forward regardless. He squeezed himself against the wall to his left and slide past the creature. Where is it’s head? He couldn’t tell. Faintly, he heard the sound of the snake breathing. It didn’t emanate from the form in front of him. It seemed to be coming from all around them. Mustafa edged slowly around. He would position himself opposite his allies and at just the right moment . . .
“Gods dammit, Mustafa!” He nearly shat in his breeches at the sharp bark of Zedric’s voice. “Move your ass, you fool! I told you it can’t sense us at all.”
Mustafa’s eyes went back to the great, motionless form in front of him, fully expecting the head to explode from the coils and impale him with fangs dripping with venom. But nothing happened. The strange breathing sound continued . . . no explosion of scales and fangs . . .
Mustafa grinned back at Zedric sheepishly and shrugged before striding to the other side of the room. His allies found places around the great serpent and prepared themselves. He moved closer to the black coils and discovered a delightful surprise.
“I’ve got it’s head,” he growled aloud, staring at the triangular shape in front of him. It’s black, shiny eyes seemed to stare right at him, but it made no move.
“Well, then let’s kill the damn thing and take it back to Hakim’s new girlfriend,” Melaku sang out from his left.
“Piss off, wizard,” the archaeologist spat from Mustafa’s right.
“I don’t know, Hakim. I certainly would . . .” he started to stay.
“We know, Mustafa. We know exactly what you would do. Now focus on what we are doing,” Zedrik ordered. “On my count. One . . . two . . .”
Mustafa raised his clenched fists over his head, a grin splitting his face in to. It was fun being a free man, he thought.
| eakratz |
The Sphere
As the Sun set, Zedric stared into the crystal sphere, as he had so many nights before. But this night, things were different As the sky grew darker, so did the interior of the sphere. As things became darker, identical stars began to appear above and below.
“It’s a good trick, but what’s the point? Just look up”
“If that’s all the sphere did, it would only be a trick. But it does more. Watch the stars within” Zedric chanted a prayer to Desna, and then asked “Great Lady of fortune, what do our steps lead us to tomorrow?”
And below, the stars shifted in their courses.
“If you know the signs, looking up tells us about tonight. But looking down tells us about tomorrow.”
Mustafa smiled at the Desnan’s words as he plucked at the sitar.
Who wants to know about tomorrow? he thought. It is enough to know that we survived today. Foes were vanquished. Wine was drunk. Friendship was shared.
As the notes began to spill out from the strings, Mustafa chuckled. Only a very wise man worries about tomorrow after surviving today.
“Would you two pipe down! Man already can’t enough sleep around here worrying about horny harpies and whatever that big monstrosity we saw this morning trudging through the town was,” exlcaims Hakim as he “refluffs” his bag under his head. What in the name of the gods was Haleen doing in this town, and more importantly if they’ll get to her in time.
| eakratz |
Dashki's True Story
“Almah hired me about a month ago to tell her all about the gnolls living in these hills. Gnolls killed my mother and grandfather when I was a boy. They put fire to our village and slew hundreds. Somehow I escaped with my father to the town of Solku, not far from here. It was a long time ago, I’ve forgotten most of what I saw. Terrible things. But I find it’s the sounds that stay with me. The shrill howls and barks—hundreds of them at once—that sounded deliriously close to an audience. Laughing at us.
“Father raised me to know everything about the gnolls, their customs, their language. So as better to track them down and wipe them out. All of them. Together we scouted out their lairs, studied their tribes, listened to them speak until we could understand what they were saying. They’re
not dumb animals, you know. Not like you might think. In some ways they’re even smarter than us.
“Dad didn’t survive our first raid on a gnoll camp of the Three Jaws tribe. I saw them fall on him like hyenas on an abandoned kill, slathering themselves in his blood and innards. I can still hear the tear of his scalp and the sound of his bones against frenzied teeth.
“I escaped, and I carry on the work of my father.”
His story is true up to the bit about his escape. In fact, the gnolls who killed and devoured his father adopted the young Dashki into their hunting tribe and raised him, after a fashion, as one of their own. Nonetheless, Dashki suffered years of cruel abuse at the hands of his new family in the Three Jaws tribe. He was a frequent target of humiliating (often violent) practical jokes, and retreated into a stage of savagery to preserve himself. Eventually, the impersonation became the truth, and Dashki became a gnoll in all but physical form.
Then, a few years ago,Dashki’s chieftain decided to turn the young human into a spy operating from within his old town of Solku. They cast him out of the tribe until he learned to become a human again. Seeking to regain the trust and companionship of his pack-mates, Dashki attempted to regain his humanity. When the gnolls did not respond—indeed almost disappeared into the mountains—he turned against them, siding with the only person in life he could ever trust: himself. In revenge he acted as a regional scout, leading teams of hunters and government men into the wilds to reclaim lands lost to gnoll incursions. That’s how he met Almah, working from a stall in the markets of Solku, eager for coin on the edge of desperation.
Three weeks ago, Dashki’s eldest gnoll “brother” from the old tribe appeared from the foothills. He slew Dashki’s clients—a pair of wealthy hunters from Avistan looking for an eccentric pelt to add to the collection—and welcomed him, at long last, back into the tribe. The chieftain had heard rumors about the Pactmasters’ increased interest in the gnoll-lost lands. His particular interest, Kelmarane, was currently under the control of Kulldis tribe, but would make an excellent addition to the holdings of the Three Jaws. The gnolls encouraged Dashki to stay with Almah and await further instructions.
* the above is out of Howl of the Carrion King.
“You forgot to add coward and thief to his list of accomplishments. If not for his betrayal, we might have been able to leave the Monastery with Melaku, instead of abandoning him. As it turns out, he has the favor of the gods, but it was still a shameful deed.”
“The roads will be safer without a guide such as this.” As the body burns in the desert heat, Zedric turns away.
Mustafa watched Zedric walked away. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. The pitfighter grinned.
“I take great pleasure in knowing that this dog’s last memory was my fist breaking through his skull. He was a coward . . . he was weak. He had no honor and he died. And so it has always been.”
Mustafa spat into the fire and turned to follow the Desnan.
| eakratz |
The Fist Is Back!
Letting his breath ease from his lungs, Mustafa looked around him. Gnoll bodies lay strewn about the interior of the keep, but none moved. He eased out of his fighting stance and loosened his shoulders. His companions too dropped weapons and seemed to exhale in relief.
Mustafa glanced down at his gauntleted hands. The metal was bright with the blood of his enemies. He smiled, stretched his arms and jabbed at the air in front of him. He felt . . . good. For the first time since . . . , the pitfighter thought for a moment. Since Jobal died. Since Master Kenta had beaten him almost to death. Since he had woken up in that cage, stitched together and barely breathing.
The Desnan priest had healed him finally. It had taken weeks. The broken arm, the deep gashes stitched together by heavy thread. He felt normal again . . . strong again.
Last night the Desnan had been looking over his wounds, as he had every night since they had begun their journey with Alma’s caravan. Mustafa remembered that Zedrik had removed the last of the heavy black stitches. The priest had ordered Mustafa to lay on his stomach so that he could once more examine the warrior’s back. For weeks his spine had baffled Zedrik. But last night Desna smiled down on Mustafa. The priest had laughed with joy, then told Mustafa to brace himself. With a series of rapid punches, Zedrik had struck his back with great force, sending pain shrieking throughout his body. Darkness covered his eyes, and Mustafa passed out.
When he had awoke, Mustafa had felt strange. Now he knew why . . . the pain that had haunted him since Kenta had murdered Jobal and mutilated his own body had disappeared. He hadn’t realized it until now. He was healed.
Mustafa took a deep breath and roared his joy to the heavens. The Fist was back.
-----------
Zedric said little as he watched the big man lift his hands in triumph. But he shared only a little of the joy. He knew that the body was simple to heal if the patient was strong. The soul was harder, and Mustafa had suffered terribly in the pits. But Mustafa was loyal, and Zedric knew that he had to try.
He prayed for longer than normal that night.
| eakratz |
Gust Front
If one were to look at the slopes of the Brazen Peaks one might observe four silhouettes several peaks over from the ruins of the old fort. If one were very astute, one might notice the animal-like muzzles of their faces. If one had keen hearing, one might notice the barks and yips from the conversation between the shapes.
“The Kulldess tribe is no more,” purrs the smallest of the group, a female.
“Yes,” barks a male. “Taken down by some interlopers from Solku.”
“Pactmaster’s broods?” growls the largest of the group. “They have taken the fort and brothers Narg, Hargk, and Dashki?”
“That is what the scouts have reported,” yips another female. When she speaks, hairs on the necks of the other three bristle at the inferior gnoll. The large male growls again.
“And why should we trust an envoy of the Al’Chorhaiv? Maybe you killed my forward observers.”
“As you can see I am unarmed. A hostage offering from my esteemed leader, good sir. As you can see I am at your mercy. My chief offers a alliance to take the town of Kelmarane now that is ripe and undefended. Before the Carrion King moves in. With the town, when Ghartok’s comes to integrate us. And you —”
She is interrupted by a spit. “Over my dead rotting corpse!” the leader interjects.
“You know that he would be more than happy to make that happen.”
“Yes, you are correct. But I will make him earn his title.”
“Then join us and let’s together take the town from the usurpers and give him something to bargain for.”
| eakratz |
Something Unexpected
As the various needles attached to several tubes running from the infusium are removed from Mustafa’s limbs, he felt the world start to spin.
“What did you just stick me with, you old lunatic?” he growled at Father Zastoran. He felt . . . strange.
“Oh, just something Undrella and I’ve been working on. It is a solution derived from several local plant roots I have been studying. Fascinating properties! I found a particularly intriguing species of . . .” The alchemst’s voice droned on.
Mustafa took a step towards the door. It felt hot in here. He staggered, going down to one knee. His stomach was churning violently. The Fist groaned. He felt Zastoran’s on his shoulder, and he shook it off and stood. The dizziness already seemed to be passing. But Gods, his stomach!
“I’m going to puke, you crazy bastard!” he croaked, looking for a bucket.
“My, my. That’s strange. It should not be having that effect. Come. Sit down and let me look…”
“It should be fine, Undrella interrupted. “I added a little something.”
“You did what?” an exasperated Zastoran gasped.
“Oh it’ll be fine. You were already in bed when I discovered this little tidbit in my notes while I was simmering the serum. It turns out it needed to be added at just after midnight and it binds well with the splinter drake root I suggested. You see…” Mustafa stops listening and continues to look for a bucket as Father Zastoran listens in fascination at Undrella’s lecture. As she speaks, she walks over to Mustafa and patted and prodded him as she makes various points.
“Bugger off!” Mustafa staggered towards the door. His head was clearing but something was definitely rising from his stomach. He lifted his hand to wipe his sweating brow and groaned at the sight before his eyes.
“My hand! Zastoran, why is my skin turning grey?”
“Well, look at that! Your skin does look slightly grey, doesn’t it?” the priest responded, sounding genuinely surprised.
“It must be the gorgon’s essence I added.” Undrella cheerily declared. “I felt that the serum needed a little punch. If all goes as pla…”
“What have you done?” His head was fine now. In fact, the Fist was suddenly feeling quite well. Better than he had in weeks. Stronger even. Except for his stomach . . . He reached for the door. It was coming up . . . he had to get outside before . . .
A thunderous roar exploded out of Mustafa. Zastoran’s entire room seemed to shake, and the door in front of him was blasted into a thousand shards. Through the opening, several of the mercenaries could be seen peering out from hastily-found cover, their hands clasped over their ears, their faces white with shock.
Mustafa stood there, stunned. He turned to see Zastoran cowering behind his overturned work-able, bottles and broken glass scattered in disarray and liquids splashed across the floor. Undrella was standing in the open, clapping and cheering.
Then in a seductive voice only a harpy could manage Undrella whispers close into Mustafa’s ear, “Come to my house tonight to see if the other benefit has taken effect.” She then steps out the door and takes flight towards her home.
“Well,” the old man said in a soft voice. “That was unexpected.”
| eakratz |
Spring Thaw
“Man it’s getting hot,” complains Utarchus to know one in particular as he removes his helmet and wipes sweat off his brow. Trevvis, hiking behind him overhears.
“Quit your b+~~*ing and keep an eye out.” Two days ago, Garavel ordered the three mercenaries to scout out to the north fork of the Kelmarane River. Gnolls have been spotted on the horizon since after the defeat of the Mouth of the Carrion King.
“There it is,” Brotus announces. “Now we can finally turn around and head back.”
“Whoah” exclaims Utarchus. “Look at it. What the hell?” The river is a mess of rapids as far up and down as they can see.
“Spring thaw of the snow from the mountains.” Trevvis stares at the horizon. Very little snow is left on the peaks. “It floods the river for a time.”
Thunk. An arrow lands in the dirt a few yards in front of the group. Thunk. Thunk. Two more arrows land, just falling short. The trio look across. A squad of gnolls is standing on the opposite bank, waving bows and taunting them in broken Kellish. Trevvis squints his eyes, trying to get a closer look. These gnolls are not provisioned for a long scouting. Then he spots various streams of smoke rising from several location up slope.
Brotus raises a spyglass to her eye and studies the hills. “It looks like a troop movement. At least a hundred, maybe a couple. Oh wait!” She scans the hills, farther down river. “It looks like a they are herding bison.”
“Let me look,” Trevvis takes the spyglass from the woman. “Well well. A supply train. They are definitely up to something. We should report this to Garavel. That river won’t remain raging for long. Then it looks like there may be a war.”
| eakratz |
The Star Gems of Nefeshti
Dearest Pathfinder Zedric,
Soon Almah will be hiring you to make sure the old trade route through the Brazen Peaks to Ipeq is clear. Once in Ipeq, I would like you to meet my contact there. He will have a barge charter ready for you to travel up to Sothis where you will meet with me. I have a mission that your group is uniquely suited for. Even up here in northern Osirion, we have heard about the exploits of the Knight Protectors of Kelmarane. Congratulations on this new title.
The mission involves a curse enacted almost five thousand of years ago by Nefeshti, the leader of a group of genies called the Templars of the Five winds, who used to protect the crumbling Ancient Osirion between the first and second ages. Some of the lore has been lost in the eons since her disappearance, but she left behind clues in the forms of some prophecies.
These prophecies tell the story of the imprisonment of a dangerous genie of unimaginable power named Zayifid. This power was bestowed by the Nefeshti, who was a princess among the djinn and was a master of wish magic. For centuries, Zayifid was a loyal templar, but one day he betrayed Nefeshti for the efreet prince Jhavhul. He took up armies against the disparate people of Ancient Osirion as a general in Jhavul’s army and quest to become a god. Nefeshti was severely weakened during this period of time. She and the rest of the Templars or the Five Winds were merely able to imprison Zayifid and Jhavhul. But the magic has limits, and is growing weaker over time. This acted ended with the death of her human lover Andrathi, and eventually Nefeshti herself.
According to the prophecies, the prisons will fail this year.
What I know of Jhavhul’s imprisonment is scarce. All I know is that there is a weapon called the Firebleeder which is said to be lost on a demiplane of some sort; possibly one created by the archwizard Nex.
The prophecies regarding Zayifid are more clear. Nefeshti enchanted five large gemstones she called Star Gems, and hid them in various locations within Katapesh and Osirion. By gathering these Star Gems together in her tomb, she will be able to be brought back to life with her powers restored and she will be able to end the threat of Zayifid for good. My contact will have more current information on how to find these Star Gems for when you arrive. I am working on leads right now.
Of course, the Pathfinders are very interested in containing a threat of this magnitude, but we are also interested in any historical or magical artifacts, archaeological discoveries, and anything else that might be found in ancient tombs. I understand you have an actual archaeologist in your group. That works out perfectly since much of what I am uncovering involves archaeological dig sites.
Please be careful, Zedric. I look forward to seeing you again and hearing first hand of your heroics.
The Mithril Scarab
p.s. Thank you for paying back the loan.
| eakratz |
Jobal's Song
Mustafa lay sprawled out on a pile of pillows, listening to the heavy snores of the three whores nestled against him. The half orc wriggled her face into his side, her wide yellow tusks digging into his ribs. A big smile lay across his face. This was the life! Booze, whores, gold . . . let his comrades waste their days with their heads buried in books! He would live!
He eased himself up, ignoring the growls and whines of complaints from the females. Standing up, he stretched in all directions, delighting at the popping sounds as his body rearranged itself. Mustafa rubbed soreness from his left shoulder and kicked a cramp loose from his right leg. He issued a loud, delighted belch while enthusiastically scratching himself.
In the corner, he saw his possessions dumped in a large pile. The warrior had half expected his stuff to be gone. Nothing better than a honest whore, he thought to himself as he rummaged around. He pulled his sitar from its heavy bone and leather case and settled himself down in the center of the tent. Slowly he teased a melody out of the instrument, playing softly in the dark. The song was one he had been toying with in his mind . . . it started out about freedom and blood and love before gently shifting into one about pain and loss. He had been playing the tune over and over again for what seemed like an hour before he realized that it was about Jobal. The thought stopped him short, and he sat in silence, missing his friend.
“Play it again.” Mustafa looked up, and his three companions all lay watching him. The battered pit fighter looked at them, soaking in the sight of the three nude women in front of him. Then he shut his eyes and began to play once again.
| eakratz |
The settling dust
Zedric tried to wash the wounded clean, but he doubted there was water enough in all Golarion to make this place feel wholesome again. The zombie was bad enough, the undead were unsettlingly common in Osirion, as he remembered from Childhood. But the crawling, scraping mass of body parts which followed? Truly the worst perversion of the healer’s art.
There was nothing to be done for Yesper, the poor girl. She had been so excited to go on an adventure, to use her newly mastered battledance…such a waste. And Melaku, that was truly a loss. He was a brilliant man, well-educated and skilled in the arcane arts.
Zedric busied himself with the familiar routine of the healer, it helped distract him from the horrible things that had happened. Washing and drying and sewing and wrapping. Hopefully the zombie at attacked them had no diseases, some Of the undead were afflicted in ways that would not be possible for a living creature.
If he and Mustafa could stay healthy, perhaps they could find a way out of this place. Zedric thought maybe they had seen enough. And that’s what he was thinking when the others appeared.
| eakratz |
The Death of Melaku
Desperately, with arms outstretched, the air-mage Melaku of Kelmarene finished the incantation and a gust of wind sprang forth from his being. He stared in triumph as the guts, toes, bowels, and tissues unidentifiable spray off of the unconscious beauty Yesper and plummet into the shaft at the far end of the hallway.
His moment was fleet, and his jaw dropped in disbelief and horror. The remains of Hetshepsu, the Find Pharaoh, splattered themselves covering the entrance to the shaft, and before they disappeared from sight, intestines and fingers gripped the walls and floor, halting their descent. Melaku, Zedric, and Mustafa had seconds of respite to prepare themselves for the onslaught of organs that was about to reenter their world.
Hands, feet, and tongue crawled along the floor while offal and muscle slurped along the walls and ceiling. Soon Melaku and Yesper were engulfed again in a constricting mess of veins and lymphatic ducts, strangling the life out of them. He could not move nor speak, his mouth full of millennia old mummified bile and blood. Yesper had just expired.
Zedric and Mustaf finished off the pieces of the swarm of organs just as Melaku sank into unconsciousness, and finally death as the stomach of the ancient pharaoh fed on his face with a sick, sucking sound.
Melaku erupted in a geyser of icy cold water, obliterating the remain bits of pharaoh were obliterated by the tsunami that sprang forth from the elementalist’s mouth and pores. Zedric could only look on in disbelief from dozens of meters away as the impossible tidal wave shot down the hallway to the vulnerable Mustafa only feat away. The tidal wave carried the gladiator and slammed him into the far wall knocking him into unconsciousness.
| eakratz |
Hakim's Aside
Hakim stalks away from the crowd filled alley with dismay. His quarry slipped away into the crowd and shook him. He’d been trailing the half-orc and human who had caused the disturbance in the museum, but when he followed them around a corner, it was as if they disappeared into thin air. Well, nothing to do now but head to the inn and get a drink while he waits for the others.
As he made his way back he spied Neferet, the Ancient Osirioni expert whom they had decided to hire for the search for the mysterious pyramid. She was at a stall contemplating some scarves when she catches his eye and smiled brightly, eyes twinkling. Hakim changes his plans and went over to strike up conversation. It was near dinnertime, so naturally, he invited her to one of the the local open air eateries.
He wasn’t sure what happened over the course of the dinner, but Hakim found himself infatuated with Neferet. He suddenly felt that he would do anything for her. He paid for dinner and she invited him to the inn she was staying at. Given the circumstances she described for herself, he was expecting something a little more austere. Instead, it was more of a luxury sweet in one of the prestigious districts. No matter, she was wonderful.
She led Hakim to the room and ordered the concierge to have a bath prepared and ambrosia sent up. The door opened and he watched her curves as she swayed through the door, removing her hijab. He stepped into the room, which with quick inspection was a multi-roomed suite, and noticed the human from the museum leaning smugly against the inside of a door frame smoking a cigarette and cradling a unique looking rifle. Then he heard a voice low and to the left.
“Nice tail, Loni. What do you think Hroken? I go high this time?” Hakim noticed a bald halfling cradling a sap. To his right was standing the half-orc, nearly a head taller than himself, but thankfully no Mustafa.
“Oh you must be high, ok. I’m game.” Before Hakim had a chance to move, the half-orc drove a sap into his stomach doubling him over and the halfing slammed one down onto his head.
.
.
.
He wakes up hands tied and strapped over a camel. He is quickly put out by Hroken.
.
.
.
.
Hands tied, Hakim walked alongside Neferet, actually Lonicera, as she flirts with him as if she did not kidnap him, towards the four pyramids as Julistar takes the Mask of the Four Pharoahs of Ascension out and puts it on. The air among the pyramids shimmered and a huge green veined stone pyramid appears and incorporates the smaller pyramids.
Scepter, the human from the museum, carrying several ropes walks up to the side of the pyramid with the opening, pulls out a scroll, and casts a spell. He walks up the side of the pyramid, stopping every thirty feet to hammer in a piton and tie off a knotted rope.
.
.
.
.
Hakim is sitting in a room with Lonicera, admiring her figure as she leans forward staring into the dinner-plate sized lens of the giant telescope. “Wow, what is that ringed planet called again? It’s beautiful.”
“Aucturn.” Hakim mumbles. The rest of Her Majistrix’s Expeditionary had gone down to the bottom floor, sure that that was where the greatest treasure would be. They had been down there a half hour before he heard the rumbling thuds of Kahotep as he carries the platform up from the lower levels. The platform came to a stop and Julistar, covered in blood from several wounds stumbled out followed by Scepter, also similarly bloodied. He glares at Hakim as he sees Lonicera drape an arm around the captive archaeologist. Hroken just sat on the platform, breathing heavily. Xaven, the halfling, was not present.
“Well, friend Hakim. It appears we have bitten off more than we can chew.”
“Oh,” replies Hakim. “So f!@%ing sad for you.”
“Also,” the paracount continues as if he didn’t notice Hakim’s tone or vulgarity. “Your friends are down there. They look in bad shape. And one more thing…”
| eakratz |
Water water everywhere . . .
Mustafa eye’s fluttered open, and he awoke to find himself violently vomiting water. He couldn’t remember what happened or even where he was. Through watery eyes, he saw he was in a passageway of worked stone. Still the water came up. How could he have this much water in him? Then he noticed the searing pain in his hand. Bringing his palm to his face, he saw a blue stone embedded there.
The warrior dragged himself to his feet. Melaku lay in a crumpled heap nearby. Now he remembered. Melaku was dead, strangled by the entrails of some long dead pharaoh.
Where was the priest? Mustafa tried to speak, but his efforts only brought on more vomiting, and he dropped down to his knees. The pain in his hand was fading, replaced by a numbing cold.
He felt a touch on his shoulder, and looked up to see Zedric next to him. The Desnan spoke a prayer to his goddess, and healing warmth spread out through Mustafa’s body. The soothing sensation stopped short at his elbow and did not penetrate the strange chill in his hand.
“Get up, friend,” Zedric said. “We have visitors.” He pointed down the hall, and Mustafa saw rising from the shaft a familiar group of figures. Staggering to his feat, Mustafa growled.
“It’s about gods’ damned time, Hakim.” Or that’s what he tried to say. The words were unintelligible through the next wave of water spewing from his mouth.
| eakratz |
Size Matters
The thing exploded from beneath the piles of gold. Coins showered down on Mustafa as he looked in disbelief upon the undead horror in front of him. A dragon?! A mummified f$#@ing dragon?! The pit fighter staggered back as the ancient husk flapped dried, dusty wings and, impossibly, rose off the ground.
Mustafa could hear his friends shouting around him, but the words were drowned out by his fear. Hovering above them, the dead god Tukanem-Hanam opened its terrible jaws wide. For a second, he heard a dry, croaking hiss. And then the lightning came. The air crackled with pain, and Mustafa felt himself fly through the air. He crashed to the ground. Around him, his allies and recent enemies lay crumpled in heaps. He looked down at his limbs. The skin on his arms was red, and blisters welled to the surface. Mustafa spat blood before dragging himself to his feet.
Above the dragon slowly banked, returning for another attack. Mustafa yanked a vial from the bandolier across his chest and downed its contents. Father Zasotran’s elixir burned his throat, and he immediately felt the strange, slightly painful swelling. Those around him grew slightly smaller in his eyes. He felt his strength grow.
The dragon was returning, swooping down on him, on all them. Now standing twelve feet tall and weighing nearly twelve hundred pounds, Mustafa grinned at the abomination hurtling towards him.
“Come on, you old bastard. Come and try to kill the Fist.”
| eakratz |
A short rest
Mustafa lay in a heap, his breath coming in short pants. He was in pain . . . real pain for the first time in a long while. He thought about getting up but decided he wasn’t quite ready yet. That damned, red-eyed devil gnoll. The bastard had sucked the life right out of him. He had felt his life force leaving his body and watched the creature’s wounds heal while the world went dark around him. Mustafa had awoken to Hakim poking him with the heal-y stick and cursing at him to get up.
The battered warrior looked down at his body and winced. His arms and legs were withered and twisted, wracked by the foul priests’ curses. Mustafa peeked into his leggings and howled. Even his gods’ damned pecker was a shrunken horror!
Desna, he thought, please let the priest heal me. At least let him restore my cock.
Taking a deep breath, Mustafa dragged himself to his feet. Hakim had rushed off to help Zedrik with the devil-gnoll. He could hear them shouting, and that horrible laugh told him that the creature was still alive. He began to stagger down the hallway towards the fight.
This should be interesting, he thought. I can barely stand up. But it will make my inevitable victory all the sweeter will I crush that chicken f&&~er with these weak, wrinkled hands.
He lurched forward in a wobbly run. Cursed with weakness or not, he was a killer. That’s what he did. It didn’t matter if they ripped off his f!%&ing arms. He would keep fighting. He would fight until he died. What was he going to do? Retire and become a goat farmer? Read a book and learn to be a wizard?
Mustafa let out a barking laugh, followed by more curses of pain.
| eakratz |
Please, have mercy...
Too battered to make a sound, Zedric’s lips moved silently as he ran, running through the blessing for safe travel, as he had so many times before. Behind him, the red-eyed creature pursued.
“Blessed Lady, help us to find our true destination”
While it wasn’t overly fast, that thing was nearly unstoppable. Even the Staff of Shishak did little against his matted hide. Holy Water? Used against the flying creature. Father Zastoran’s fire did less than nothing. Zedric’s prayers were nearly all spent, and a few gallons of water wouldn’t help.
“Blessed Lady, guide us away from danger”
Opening the door, Zedric moved into the next room, and felt another premonition of danger. “Praise Desna!” As the gnoll demon appeared in the center of the room with a blast of smoke, Zedric dug his feet into the stones, and ran back the way he came, shutting the door behind him.
“Blessed Lady, speed our steps”
The creature howled, and pursued. He gives chase like an animal, thought Zedric, and will follow if I look weak and afraid. Easy enough. Zedric changed direction again, and soon reached the portcullis and the sands outside. The beast appeared in the doorway, and howled. In the open, Zedric knew he could outrun it, surely the creature would use up his ability to teleport at some point.
“Blessed Lady, lead us not to what we desire, but what we need”
Then, with a blast of smoke, the creature vanished. Zedric was aware that he stood, free, under the wide desert sky. His prayers had been answered, and he was safe. From here, it would be easy to turn, and travel onward. Was he not obligated to travel on, as a priest of Desna?
Zedric took a deep breath, and re-entered the temple of Lamashtu. Perhaps there was still time.
| eakratz |
Zayifid lays waste
The mummified dragon fell. The massive hero lifts the lid of the sarcophagus as the archeologist swipes the Star Gem from the top. They hear laughter.
The fools! He seeps out of his tomb and out into the Osirion sky for the first time in thousands of years. His acute vision is able to make out the ringed planet of Aucturn without the aid of the giant telescope built into the Pyramid of the Four Pharoahs. Nefeshti thought to imprison me? I still have my powers and…, he concentrates for several seconds. She is still trapped. Dead. Then he spots the campsite of the Cheliaxian retainers. They’ll do for a start.
The poor servants and evil legionnaires did not know Zayafid was upon them until the fireball burst in the middle of the main tent, blowing servants and slaves into small bits and sending a percussive blast leveling the rest of the camp.
Then he descended, flaming scimitar flashing through the survivors. Men, slave, it did not matter. Only the feel of bone on his sword pleased the crazed genie.
Once his carnage was done, he flew south.
| eakratz |
Vow's Revenge
Othine lay in the priestess’ chamber for a day nearly dead. Over the night she recovers enough to regain consciousness. That big damned lump with his icy fist! He dies first. She looks over to Ukrammak’s corpse. Good, that idiot gnoll nearly killed me with her energy burst. By Lamashtu, whey oh why are gnolls your chosen ones?
“F*@*ers took my armor!” she exclaims as she notices her nakedness. Bruises cover almost the entirety of her body. Some frostbite too. “What the hell.”
She grasps her longsword and uses it as a prop to help her stand. “Lamashtu heal these wounds.” she chants several times as the power of her demon-goddess rushes through her weary body. “Now it is time to find these fools and make them pay. No one f@@!s with the Mother of Monsters and lives!”
| eakratz |
Qerd's Mark
Qerd springs from the balcony, sailing over the nightime crowd at the festival grabbing ahold of an rect pole on the other side of the street. He slides down to street level and scampers along the edge, keeping to the shadows and out of the way of the clumsy legs of the big-folk. Ah, there. He sees a a pair of humans drunkenly sway their way out of the crowd and down a side-street.
This could be interesting. He leaps up and snatches a date out of a nearby cart, does a backflip and takes a bite. With the fruit in his mouth he shimmies up the side of a building and follows the couple as they stumble down dark alleys, looking for a private place to romp. He occasionally stops to take a bite of his date until he is down to the core and mindlessly tosses it through an open window, chuckling at the shouts of surprise and anger.
Suddenly the hairs on his haunches stands strait on edge. He hears a low rumble coming from an adjacent alleyway. He stops and listens intently. The sound is a growling, and it is traveling parallel to the alley the couple are moving down. The young couple comes to a stop and start playfully necking each other while leaning against a wall. They are oblivious to all but each other.
Qerd’s eyes widen as he spies the hulking monstrosity cast its shadow over the couple in the dim moonlight. How could they not realize it is standing right there? With a flash, the man is gurgling, a blade sticking out of his chest spraying blood all over the screaming Kelishite girl. With a roar, the beast grabs the girl with its free hand and pulls her close, biting down on her neck nearly tearing it off.
Oh my! The rhesus macaque can do nothing but watch, unseen.
When the beast is finished with its meal, it stands erect and sniffs the air. Its pantherine head darting left. Right. Up. UP! Oh s!+*! The beast raises its blade towards Qerd and lets out a deep chuckle. Qerd bolts.
| eakratz |
Honor thy Alignment
“Ugh,” grunts Scepter, frowning while rubbing his shoulder where his right arm used to be. His complexion pale from blood loss, eyes rheumy with drink. “Let’s just get the hell back to Cheliax and leave it be.”
The Paracount Julistar slams his goblet against the table causing pale wine to splash over the edge. “Because it is OUR responsibility to fix this. He was one of ours.”
“Well f!+& it, I’m gone either way.” the beautiful redhead Lonicera snaps. “Ever since that pyramid everything’s gone to s%%$. Xaven’s dead, you’re missing your arm. Hroken!” She points at Scepter and he grimaces. “Maybe that team out of Katapesh is hiring they seem to be having some luck.” she mumbles.
“But WHY Julistar?” Scepter growls.
“Because by Asmodeus it is our DUTY! And he has the stone.”
“Well count me out too, I’m in no condition to fight! At least until I get this grown back.” Scepter indicates his stump.
Julistar fumes at his two colleagues. “And how do you expect to pay for it? Regeneration is not cheap you know.”
“I. Can’t. Fight one-armed!”
Julistar glares at the assassin, whose expression changes from fury to despair as he realizes that Julistar would have to be the financier of any healing magic he would need to replace his arm. Then Julistar’s countenance softens.
“No you are right,” he sighs. “But you can contribute. Lonicera, while you are trying to see if those good folk from the south we betrayed once are hiring, do you mind bringing them a message?” He hastily starts to scrawl a message in perfect Kelish.
| eakratz |
New footwear
As Melaku ducked into the tent, the sounds of the Bazaar faded behind him, and the heavy scent of incense assaulted his nostrils. As his eyes adjust to the dim light, he saw Mustafa seated on a wide bench. The large man was hunched over, his head in his hand.
“Mustafa?” Melaku called out.
Mustafa groaned. ““Gods, wizard. Do you have to shout? You’ll split my head in two, you sadistic bastard.” The giant of a man seemed to shrink into himself.
“Where the hells of you been, man? Zedric’s been looking for you for days.”
Mustafa stood, wobbling a bit. Melaku was horrified to realize that the man was stark naked. What was worse, the scars or all that hair? It was like looking at an small gorillon. The pit fighter staggered over to a large bucket and vomited loudly, then reached for a pitcher and gulped something out of it.
“I hope for your sake that’s water,” Melaku commented, perhaps a bit louder than necessary. His words elicited a miserable moan from his friend.
“I met a woman. You know? A woman? You damned eunuch! Unlike you and that celibate of a priest, some of us need a bit of companionship, once in a while.” Mustafa grimaced at the sound of his own voice. “She’s a beauty, Melaku, let me tell you. About your height but twice as wide. She’s got hips on her like a godsdamned auroch. She drinks like a Cayden Caylen himself and she swears like a Mwangi mule driver.” Melaku thought Mustafa was actually smiling for a second, before he groaned and grabbed his head again.
“So you’ve been off rutting for how long now? We haven’t seen you in a week.”
“We’ve been holed up for days. Balls, man, I don’t know how long. She left this morning. Or maybe it was yesterday. She said she had to check in with her husband . . . some merchant.”
“You’ve been f~%&ing a merchant’s wife, you ape? Please at least tell me he’s not a successful merchant?”
Mustafa grunted. “He must be pretty successful . . . she dresses like a sultana. And I think I remember some servants standing around while we . . .” He belched loudly and frowned at the taste.
“You oaf! You’re going to get yourself killed! Cuckolding a Sothis merchant? These maniacs kill people for just making eye contact with their wives!”
“Mercy, Melaku. Lower your voice, I beg you!” Mustafa pleaded, rubbing his temples.
The tent flap opened and a large Osirion entered. Though naked from the waist up, the man was covered in gold jewelry. He had gold rings in ears and his nose. His sizable arms bore numerous golden bands. There was a large, bejewelled scimitar hanging at his side. Melaku stepped away and began forming the words of power in his mind, but the man dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
“I bring greetings from my mistress, pit fighter,” the man said to Mustafa, who tried in vain to cover his ears to block out the noise. “She wishes to thank you for your . . . attentions this past week and gives this gift as a show of her affection.” The servant tossed a large leather bag on to the ground. “She also wishes me to tell you that her husband appears to have become aware of your presence.”
Melaku cursed. “I told you, you motherless goat! You’re going to get yourself killed. You’re going to get me killed!”
The servant glanced in the wizard’s direction and gave a hint of a nod before returning his gaze to Mustafa.
“My lady suggests that perhaps you might have grown weary of the noise and chaos of our glorious city and encourages you to seek out new adventures somewhere else . . . preferably somewhere far away.”
Mustafa didn’t seem to be listening to the man. In fact, he appeared to be trying to burrow under a pile of pillows in an attempt to get away from the noise of the conversation.
“If I may,” Melaku intruded. “Would you say that Solthis might be a dangerous place for this one?” He gestured at the motionless body of his friend.
The servant nodded. “Solthis is always a dangerous place. But for this one, I would say particularly so. There are always knives in the street, arrows in the dark. Always people willing to take gold to avenge a wealthy man’s honor.”
In a rage, Melaku stormed over to Mustafa’s prone form and begin to vigorously beat the wretch with his staff. “I knew it, you camel raping son of a whore! You are going to get me killed!”
Mustafa barely seemed to feel the blows as he crawled over to the bucket to vomit again.
“Please, Melaku, please . . . I’ll pay you a thousand gold to just stop shouting . . .”
Melaku cursed again but gave up beating the man. It was like hitting a boulder anyway. He turned to find the servant gone and the bag sitting in the middle of the floor. Curiosity got the best of him, and he opened the bag with the end of his staff.
“Probably full of vipers . . . ,” he muttered, but in fact the bag held only an enormous pair of sandals. Intrigued, Melaku picked them up. They were of wondrous quality, with detailed stitching that zigged and zagged in geometric patterns. The wizard muttered a few syllables, and the footwear glowed. The stitching rearranged itself before his eyes, and now he saw cats appear within the patterns. Melaku let out an appreciative whistle.
“Very nice, Mustafa.” He turned to find the man face down on the floor cradling the bucket in one immense arm. Melaku sighed and then whacked him with his staff again.
“Get up, man. Get up and get dressed. And put on your fancy new sandals. We’ve got to get the others and get the hell out of town before your paramour’s husband has us all killed.”
The only response was a low, pathetic whimper.