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Outlands 16 Jan


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The saga continues...

The saintís bones of Lord Olegsvet are on display in Tmutarakan. The rivalry with Cherson has been resolved by goblets, finery, music and courtly politics. I drew a map for a place that does not exist. The vizier Gennadi is an outcast. He tried to slay us by summoning a sea god. But we weep for that sea god. Itís offspring hate us for wounding the father, so much that he will not rise again in my lifetime. Cross fingers. But I get ahead of myself.

I am slowly losing my humanity. I care not for the ways of man, Anathema to them; I no longer cry or smile (Unemotional). I am as dull as my nickname portended, but I now disembowel anyone who calls me such. I am Butsecarles, the Third Remige of rowers. I know how to hurt the lowly when they fall off the rhythm. It neither pains me or delights me to see them suffer. Suffering is manís fate before the gods. Each day we must suffer.

We were traversing a dark river, through tombs of the first kings. I found a small treasure and told no one. We had electrum enough aboard. The boat is hale, thanks to our Provisioner, Ralf. Four times he has rid the craft of rats. They make poor stew but good chum; the fish we catch make the hands strong. I hardly need the lash, but it seems part of my hand.

After some teasing the Sjef boatswain post is filled. Sigmund actually is quite skilled. I think I have told him so, but I may no longer speak.

We should not be in the underworld, but a wiser magic user than myself said it is our destiny. We were close to Myya, then we were not. A strange voice titters, a first face in the dark, then strung skin faces of many men, what was left of them after the spiders ate the rest. In chain we dance; they swung before us, asking for pity and play. We slew the spiders the only we could, with magic. We thrive in that aspect, but our focus is dark.

A glorious demonic lord is among us. I do not shiver, instead I need such fear to keep the rowers eyes lowered. I too know demons, but not from dreams. A voice now guides my actions, but I donít enjoy its nagging. My blade gives me comfort as it transforms. Golden now after striking the Titanic Triton. I think I killed the god, but Cyrul says the blow was his. He can have the joy; such is wasted on me. Iíd rather just live and watch the next terrible thing rise from the salty froth.

After many weeks we seem to exit the underworld about the same place we entered. Tamoon says this was by design. I do not ask if he made a mistake. He used shrieks of demons to shock and frighten away a sea wagon, whale. The noise was soothing; the smell of the menís loosened bowels less so.

We stepped off the boat in Tmutarakan hoping to be met with a parade. Instead we met spell casters, and Gennadi hurling worse. He would strike three times. The first from the river banks. The second at the docks, and a third by summoning the sea god. I do not count the magic portal he created; I easly coached another in rendering it moot. We were in siege and both sideís men should do their best to end such tactics. The suffering in the city prevented the sale of cheese. I like cheese, or I once did.

Moridin flew to the stars. I believe the gods wanted to chat. She has yet to come back. But she seems pained by carrying the Shield of Einherjar. I should be the one to hold it, cause I care not. I suppose we should find a way to rid ourselves of this marvelous burden.

I cannot be sure if an alligator was changed to a monster or the Invincible monster was only similar to an alligator. I was more afraid of the four gigantic toads. My comrades fight well. I slew several amphibians, ones oozing an acid. The remaining monsters asked leave; Huginn granted them departure. I believe if he was an alchemist he would have wanted the gall bladders. But his interest is in lore. He wanted to meet a god and would.

We fought the Sea God in three stages. I failed at breaking his thumb, but Tammon did the job. He was the only one who truly felt a struggle; not his fault. He was dragged into the cold waters by clawing nymphs. Yet he surfaced covered in their blood. After Tamoon caused the monster to drop itís talisman, freed the Triton, we all stabbed and struck and bashed our way on the Brass beast. Many of us were ineffective. The combat seemed pointless, except the action added powers to our blades. We chortled, smiths striking hammer to anvil.

A voice told me of the creatureís only flaw. Maybe Cyrul did dive into the waters and release the sand from the monsterís corked heel. I was wet, drenched, but my shipmate told me I merely fell off in celebration. The crew rose him up and proclaimed him their king for a day. He and the men took relief from the city. I stood on the rocks debating my life choices with something unseen. Warned that the Son of Triton has risen. His daughter, far the worse, opens her eyes in the far frozen north. Pounding her chest to trigger the venomous heart to pump. She obsesses on a name, Crytoole or Cyrul; maybe I will tell him this tomorrow (to help his hangover).

We continue on 30 Jan in the Epilogue of adventure six. May Einharjar protect us. May Einharjar be calm as the seas. The wind is no longer needed; men do row.


Yours,

   red



Message Replies:
Ralf's Log -- Iron Ralf (posted: 1/17/2019) 
Without Desires, But One -- red (posted: 1/17/2019) 
(Journal of a crazed man of magic) -- Mike, Son of Mike (posted: 1/17/2019) 
Ph'nglui, harsh words indeed -- red (posted: 1/17/2019) 
 
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