Campfire Revelations (1/2)

Threadbare studied the card that he'd caught, turning it around until it was right side up. It showed a man in impressive robes, wearing a rounded hat with a point. He was standing before an altar, preaching to an eager crowd. Below the illustration were the words “The King of Clerics.”

“I think they dropped some game cards or something,” Buttons said, scurrying around and grabbing up more of the pasteboards. “It's pretty wet, we should probably get them all before they get soggy.”

“There's something on the back,” Apollyon said, squinting down at one of the fallen cards. “It's very small writing...” he picked it up. “Help! Captured by pirates! Please write name of contact at next major city on card so our Scout can whisper! Write within next five minutes!”

“Write on the card?” Threadbare said, turning his gaze up at the departing ship. “It doesn't look like they're turning around, so I'm not sure what good that will do.”

“So they were... hm... pirates,” Dracosnack said. “I had my suspicions. But as a landlocked country, we... mmm... never really had any pirates before.”

“Her voice did keep going up every time Anne said they were honest merchants,” Glub said, rubbing his chin. “And she said that a lot, now that I think of it.”

“She lied to us! That was mean!” Fluffbear squeaked.

“Well,” Threadbare said, “they seemed like fairly nice pirates. And they didn't try to rob us.”

“We WERE fixing their ship,” Apollyon pointed out. “Though we should probaby check that magic weapon to make sure it's not cursed or something.”

“I think... mmm.... it's best to comply with the card dropper's request,” Dracosnack said. “Who should we write on the card?”

“Garon or Celia,” Threadbare decided. “Actually both. Let's do three and three.”

So they wrote Garon Frogstomper on three cards, and Cecilia Gearhart on three more.

And with a minute to spare, they gathered the cards, put them down on a rock, and stared expectantly. The airship was an apple-sized blot in the sky at this point, but Glub kept an eye on it, just in case.

Sure enough, at the five minute mark, something happened. The cards disappeared, flickering and vanishing from sight.

“Hm. Definitely some sort of teleportation magic,” Dracosnack said. “I had Analyze Magic up, and if I had to wager a guess, I'd say that whatever skill they used returned their cards to their sender.”

They watched the ship vanish from sight without incident.

“Well, whatever the case,” Threadbare said, “they're not part of our mission. We have to do that first, then we can get back to Bigstump Outpost and send a golem bird back to let people know to watch out for pirates.”

“True,” said Buttons. “Right now that dragon is our problem. If it survived those cannon blasts, I mean. Those were some pretty bitchin' guns.”

“Man, it'd be nice if we got there and found out the problem was already dealt with,” said Glub. “We could just free the people it had captured and go back home.”

It was a nice idea. But in their hearts, all of them knew that it wouldn't be that easy. Final Boss Forest had eaten both the unwary and the prepared alike. The odds that a band of passing pirates had blown away the biggest threat in the region seemed remote at best.

Now that the storm had blown itself out, the group made good progress toward the Forest. The terrain dropped as they went, turning from hills and valleys to long stretches of forest broken by the occasional rise, and they followed sparkling mountain-fed creeks to tranquil rivers, camping only when their flesh-and-blood members were feeling tired. They'd lost some time with the airship business, after all, and after a few more days in the wild, Fluffbear shook her head. “I don't know if we can all get back before the festival's done, now. I mean, there's a waystone to Cylvania City at Bigstump Outpost, but it's for emergency uses. And it would only take one person.”

“We could get someone to loan us a Merchant's pack,” Glub offered. “Like that time when Mastoya got me into the castle.”

“I don't think that works anymore, sorry,” Threadbare said. “It was one of the things that Nurph forbade a year or two ago. Now it's only one person per trip per waystone. I'm a bit surprised you didn't hear about that.”

“What? Nurph got us that bad? Shit,” Glub slumped down, defeated. “I been traveling by myself a lot, guess it didn't come up. Might have been out of the country when it hit or something.”

Nurph was the god of honor, fair play, and sportsmanship. He seemed to have some sort of control over fundamental functions of reality, and spent most of his time nudging and tweaking various magics and skills with the intent of attaining some sort of “balance,” for everyone. It was very much an unending struggle, and his priests had the unenviable job of going out to people whose lives had literally changed overnight when the skills they had depended on for their living changed drastically overnight.

It was probably just as well that Clerics were good at healing, because many Nurphites who tried to spread the “Good news,” often found themselves an easy target for the wrath of those who had neither asked for nor desired their god's influence in their lives. As such, most surviving Clerics of Nurph tended to highly tactful, sympathetic, and good at running when all else failed.

But regardless, that much was clear. The Waystone at Fort Bigstump wasn't going to be much help. The Midsummer festival would probably have to proceed on without them.

And that night they checked the map, checked it again, and set up on what had to be the very outskirts of the Forest of Final Boss. They set a fire against the night's chill, built a quick tree platform with some judicious carpentry, and got ready for a long march in the morning.