Open Chronicles We Built This City on Muck and Souls

[Harrier]

(Artist: Karine Villette)


BAYOU GARRAMARISMA

Three dozen undead pirates, no matter how rusty their tools, could build quite a lot in a year. They never slept, rarely tired, and cost nothing in upkeep. And they'd worked more or less reliably while Harrier traveled abroad.

As places of magic went, this one lacked a certain respectability and always would. The undead had built it from shipwreck: vessels that had come to the Bayou for shelter or trade and never found home again. The main hall and outbuildings each smelled of the Akiva Sea and the docks of Alliria. Anywhere else you'd have called it a stink. Here in the swamp it was downright refreshing. Everyone said so: the local traders who brought supplies, the witches and wonderworkers who'd started drifting through, and the travelers whose need or interest outweighed their fears.

Now that the skeletal pirates had finished their work, most of them rested under the mud in case of trouble. The exceptions, along with undead birds and the like, found themselves tasked with posting handwritten notices in every swamp town for three hundred miles. Some might even make it to the Shallows, in Alliria where no orthodoxy dominated and everything was for sale.

Each notice included a simple map, and read as follows:

CROSSROAD MIRE
LEARN MAGIC
TEACH MAGIC
BUY MAGIC
NO QUESTIONS ASKED​

 

[Urberus]

Maester Urberus happened to be in the Shallows in the pursuit of rare and exotic plant specimens, among other things, when he saw one of the notices.

The orc stroked his white beard and looked at the odd little monkey perched on his broad shoulder.

“What do you think, Chime?”

The monkey squawked.

“Yes, I agree. It could prove very fruitful. Yes. Very fruitful,” he had a breathless, wheezing chuckle from a life spent inhaling the vapors of his alchemical concoctions.

Some time later, the professor moored his boat at the dock leading to the Crossroad and disembarked with a heavy pack, a walking stick, and his pet Chime.

Huffing slightly, the elderly orc made his way carefully down the docks, looking around at the buildings that rose like specters from the swamp. Whenever he stepped, glass vials could be heard clinking together.

 

[Bard]

"When I came upon the shore," he sang proudly as he sat upon an old barrel. His barely three foot frame still feet shorter than most passersby, "The shroud of night twas still falling."

He raised a hand and flourished at the wrist to send a spray of colors above his head in the air. His hand returned to the small lute in his lap and he began strumming the slow tune as the colors coalesced into the imagery from the song.

"And as I passed along the quaaaay, from the mist yon voices started calling." he hid a grin as a merry few dropped a coin or two on the crate he'd used to climb onto the barrel, "I heard waves upon the huuuullls, the gentle creaking of the moorings."

The illusion slowly changed line by line showing a young sailor's first dusk visit to The Shallows.

"My lovers hand did wave good byyyee," he continued, "But for my love no longer longing. For I sailed upon the tiiidee, to the banks of mist undying."

With a nod and wave he dismissed the illusion and collected all but a few coins before he hopped back on the barrel and stood this time so his voice would carry farther.

"I thought I heard the old man say, 'Leave her Johnny, leave her. Tomorrow ye will get yer pay and it's tiiime for usss to leave her."

He continued into a new song weaving a mood of longing and loss into his notes to give people pause. It was a cheap trick really, but a pensive soul tended to be a listening one, and with feeling usually came...generosity.

 

[Ashieron]

How in the name of hell did that tip leave me to heading here. Ash thought to himself looking around at the undead pirates work without break, that spectical did not make him feel at ease. If anything he felt bad for them. Their bodies just being used, he knew necromancy was involed and he felt he should stop it. Ash listened to a bard sing his tales and to the sounds of a monkey and its master.

The stench of the undead pirates overridden his nose the closer he got, and for once the elf wished that he was a human. He’d look them over as they worked through his raven feather shoulder black tattered cloak. Its dragon pin holding it together. Tossing a fifty gold bag onto the bard’s barrel the elf smiles, “What a lovely song you sing halfling.” He’d compliment the gentleman once he was finished with his song, “Do you mind telling me of this area?” He’d say motioning to the coin pouch with a nod.

 

[Gerrard]

Once Gerrard had simply scribbled down what items and reagents he might have needed on a scrap of paper. One of the boys looking for an apprenticeship at the college would have come and taken it away and everything he needed would arrive at his lodgings. The system was it's own kind of magic. One he had failed to appreciate.

The disgraced devil of Murant missed those days. He would never admit as much. If pushed he would happily launch into stories of professors in towers who failed to appreciate the important of his work. After all, it was their fault it had all gone so wrong. If they hadn't cut off his research grant and forced him to 'make do' then he was certain he would have found success with his experiments years go.

Even those days before the incident seemed like a dream now. The college might have cut him off but he had still held titles, land and power. Now he was looking to scrape together what he needed on the black market. Even...

Gerrard slapped his neck as another nasty insect tried to drain him.

...even in the swamps on the edge of the world. Where they probably could not even pronounce civilisation.

 

[Harrier]

A small crowd sprung up around the Bard. Good music was relatively rare in the Bayou Garramarisma, and illusory accompaniment even more so. Harrier put an Allirian coin on the crate with the rest of the halfling's take. She found herself singing along with the mournful shanty under her breath.

"Leave her Johnny, leave her - oh leave her Johnny, leave her..."

She trailed off as she recognized two faces she very much had not expected: heterodox Maesters of Elbion, just like her. Urberus was still affiliated with the College, so far as she'd heard. Gerrard Duvont most definitely was not. Based on what she remembered of the elderly orc and his reputation, she very much doubted he'd pursue violence against either her or Duvont. Even though they ranked among the College's top exiles and heretics.

Her supposition was about to be tested. All three of them happened to converge.

"Maester Urberus, Maester Duvont, welcome to Crossroad Mire. Harrier Wren." A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I assume you're both here to learn sparkly lights from the bard over there?"

 

[Urberus]

Delightful music and festive lights drew Urberus closer and as he thumped along the docks with his walking staff he noticed some familiar faces.

He came to a stop before a dark haired woman and a gray haired man. The woman spoke first and the orc wagged a finger at her as enormous bugs buzzed around them. A wheezing laugh escaped him at her jest.

"No, no, not quite. I remember you, Harrier, was it? Yes, yes. You were in my alchemy class. Always the dry jester. It has been some time, what a nice town you have built."

The monkey on his shoulder shot out a tongue several inches long and nabbed a juicy mosquito from the air. It smacked its lips contentedly.

"And you, Gerrard," kindly jade eyes glittered in sputtering torchlight, "Two former students in one place. My, my. What stories you must have."

 

[Velle]

A bard's song resonated through the air.

And the child would leap from one log to another which lined the plank walkways. Tap tap tonk. Tap... Tap... tonk! And then he would hold balance!
Falling would be...death! Or so he imagined at least. Yet each time he gazed at the muddy shallows, he couldn't quite shake off the feeling that something was watching back.
Maybe if he fell something would grab him and drag him down under.

Ah...who cares. A massive leap awaited him next, and so he readied himself.

Oddly how sometimes you can see kids wandering around alone. Somebody somewhere in the fringes of the Bayou must likely be very very very worried right now. The kid just found one of the flyers lying around and followed it right here. Right. Here. To this place. He expected something more exciting.

The kid landed on the last pillar of this particular walkway. His head shot upwards. Apparently a lot more people came round and the song grew more illustrious. He hopped down and made his way towards in a somewhat brisk pace.

 

[Bard]

His small voice carried on the coastal breeze farther than his size would have suggested as he continued his sailor's lament.

"Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow.
And it's time for us to leave her..."

His tone and the inflection of his voice in perfect balance for the subtle magics woven into the song. A delicate charm to calm the agitated and sooth the weary. People tended to be far more generous when a song made them feel better about the massive mountains of crap and disappointment that was the life of more static towns.

"Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high, Leave her, Johnny, leave her! She shipped it green and none went by, and it's time for us to leave her.

Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow, and it's time for us to leave her."

He watched mouths move singing along and grinned around the words of his song. Were he only to ever sing his own praises, he'd never have time for another song. He amazed even himself." He proceeded thoroughly losing himself in the weave of the delicate magics.

"I hate to sail on this rotten tub. Leave her, Johnny, leave her! No grog allowed and rotten grub, and it's time for us to leave her.

Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow, and it's time for us to leave her.

We swear by rote for want of more. Leave her, Johnny, leave her! But now we're through so we'll go on shore, and it's time for us to leave her. Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow, and it's time for us to leave heerrrrrrah!"

He bowed and waved and collected more coin into his quickly filling pockets.

"I don't know the last time I've seen such a wonderful audience." He did it was two weeks ago and they smelled far better, "Any request from my new favorite crowd?"

 

[Beatrix Germaine]

"Ooo, shanties."

"And faerie lights from the look o' things."

"All sorts in there. I can smell 'em. Makin' an awful thirst, it does."


A dark figure broke up the pirates' chatter, their quiet voices and laughter dying to silence as their captain approached.


"You dogs feed when I say you can feed and not a heartbeat before," she growled. They'd restocked supplies recently, the larder full of Bloodrum and Red Grog, but it was hard to pass up a fresh meal, especially after weeks at sea on diluted substitute. Despite a few rebellious looks, the lesser vampires of her crew gave a chorus of quiet assent. Her authority asserted, she moved on to more important things.


"Mr. Riggs, Mr Bulfer, ready the longboat. Ms. Lafluer, take the helm."


The assorted crew jumped to her orders as quick as they could. They'd long ago learned Captain Germaine's ire had it's bloody dues. They'd be lucky if she simply nailed them to the prow for a week as punishment for slacking.


Beatrix readied her weapons as her crew worked, running over her plan in her head. The papers said they taught magic here. If things went according to plan, she'd find a suitable teacher. If not, plan B, kill everyone and take what she wanted, usually worked well enough.

 

[Harrier]

As Beatrix Germaine and her longboat of vampirical pirates pulled up to the dock, skeletal pirates watched them from under the mud. Perhaps they missed the sea or sensed a kinship; perhaps they wanted freedom from their labours; perhaps they viewed Germaine's crew as a threat or rivals or prey.

The Bard had attracted quite a crowd of swampfolk travelers and motley sapient jetsam. Someone cracked open a cask of sugarcane spirits. Someone else offered Bellerophon a cup of said spirits.

"Well thank you, Maester Urberus," Harrier said. "I wouldn't necessarily call it either 'nice' or 'a town' but it's getting there. Mostly hedge-witches, necromancers, people from strange traditions...it's all most exciting. Alliria's lack of...magical orthodoxy...works in our favour in this region. Throw in natural and unnatural defenses of various kinds, plus geography that'll flummox any army or fleet, and we're looking at a recipe for some degree of success."

 

[Garrick Knight]

While Garrick expected to be greeted by the sounds of croaking frogs and buzzing dragonflies as he entered the Shallows, he did not expect to be greeted by a jovial song. His face bore are slight grin as he walked in, as well as pasty white skin and a disheveled heap of hair that appeared to make it to his shoulders.

As a thief with a somewhat respectable double life, Garrick made it a policy to use illusion magic to disguise himself when going to less scrupulous venues. The student had heard tale of a Necromancer that was a firm believer in discrete yet free markets for his talents. He brought with him a small box containing a skeleton perhaps a foot in length. It had a body not unlike a cat, wings akin to a bat, and a long narrow beak like a raven. It was rumored to one of the first undead manticores, where an ancient Necromancer presumed to mix several skeletons for a more advantageous body. His goal was to get to Necromancer to appraise it's age, as well as confirm if it was sealed with Necromantic magic or simply fused together as a forgery. If the skeleton was legit it'd Garner a few months tuition in Elbion's black market, if not it was essentially worthless.

Seeing a crowd Garrick decided to wait. He might have appeared as a sunless hedge-mage, but he still made a point of keeping his manners.

 

[Gerrard]

"And you, Gerrard," kindly jade eyes glittered in sputtering torchlight, "Two former students in one place. My, my. What stories you must have."

"I seem to remember a much younger orc who thought me back then," Gerrard replied, raising one silver brow. He smiled despite his sharp tone.

"Though it is long enough since I was a student and my memory is not what it was."

The bard seemed determined to continue and he mire held a scent that had probably been rancid even before the necromancy took place.

This was not the kind of place he wanted to be, but he had little choice in the matter. He didn't want to be in the pocket of some house noble in Vel Anir or indebted to Dreadlords. He was entirely cut off from any supply in Elbion.

He tossed a coin towards the bard in the hope that his parlour tricks and mediocre songs.

"You sell ingredients?" he asked bluntly.

 

[Urberus]

The old orc chuckled politely at the jests from Harrier and Gerrard. He hooked a thumb through his belt and leaned heavily on his staff. Clear, green eyes like polished jade tracked from the bard’s crowd, then back to Wren.

“Quite, quite. I too am looking for some, ahem, unorthodox ingredients.” He smiled at the necromancer.

 

[Harrier]

"We do. The swamp is a pathway to many abilities...well, you know the rest."

Harrier led Urberus and Gerrard Duvont just off the waterfront to a shabby outbuilding. A filthy skeleton gave them the eye but shuffled aside and let them pass into a tidy, well-labeled storeroom. Harrier bypassed the more mundane ingredients and went straight for the first of the local curios.

"I like to preserve samples in context when I can. For example..." She indicated a series of small jars under a splayed, flayed, and well-dried eel. At least, it might have been an eel. Even in death, its five eyes twitched and focused on Harrier. "The locals call this a gristo. It dies a piece at a time, slowly and in chartable patterns. The eyes go last. I've pickled a good quantity of gristo eyes, hearts, and whole heads in alcohol or brine for further research."

A pickled head blinked reproachfully.

"Do either of you have any particular projects in mind?" Harrier gestured around the outbuilding, which held many suchlike things. "That might help narrow it down. Or wander at will, by all means. It's easy to get lost in here, in a good way."

 

[Velle]

There was quite indeed a diverse assembly of people, and it seemed to only grow larger. The cheer was perhaps quite intoxicating.
But the little kid would've rather-

Oh, what's this? Bellerophon took the cup, inspecting the spirit before taking a sniff.
The kid grimaced, set aback by the unique but not awful odour. Not too much. Maybe it tastes different than how it smells.
The adults seemed to gulp it down quite merrily, and they acted somewhat funny too.
If it's a drink of the adults, how bad must it really be? Afterall Bellerophon wanted to be an adult one day.

PWEH!
Some of the witnesses cackled and heaved, one petting bellerophon on the back. Apparently the grimace on his face was that of eating at least a thousand lemons at once.

»A... Demon slaying song.« Bellerophon later suggested, still holding the cup.

 

[Urberus]

Urberus peered into one of the Gristo jars.

"Mmmm. Very nice, very nice."

He stroked one of his beard braids thoughtfully.

"I am working on another chimeric creation. Something special."

The monkey squawked.

"Yes, yes. Of course," he patted the monkey's foot, then continued, "I was hoping to obtain a sample of Grootslang skin, if you have any. And myakka skunk ape glands, perhaps? I hear they're more common in the Bayou. But this Gristo, I am very interested. It only dies a piece at a time you say? Fascinating. Fascinating. Might I take a sample with me?"