The Chronicle of Burne, and Some Others of Lesser Importance *Updated May 17th, 2009*

[Mallus]

Interlude: Into the Mystics

"I am here today to tell you that there is no Shirac race. ‘What?!’ you will say. Of course there is a Shirac race. They are tall and thin and their hair is like the fine feathers of a delicate bird. They are all witches; they live in Marimbra and sell priceless goods, even magic, in the Great Bazaar.

I will proceed to demonstrate why these are falsehoods. First, there is no Shirac race because being Shirac is not a matter of parentage. Surely most Shirac are born of Shirac. They are tall, and thin, and have hair like delicate feathers. They have beautiful eyes that can see in the faintest starlight. They posses what appears to be witchcraft to those who have never drawn away the Veil, except perhaps in their dreams. Surely these are the Shirac.

But this is not always the case. It is also true that there are Shirac who have been born to humans. This is sure? Absolutely, it is a I say. And Shirac born to Ruhk, and to creatures for whom you have no name. There are Shirac with hair like fine feathers, and those with the shells of turtles, and the eyes of cats, as well as those with the shapes of men.

So I have shown you there is no Shirac race, only the Great Ummab of the Shirac. Say it, as it is our proper name. The Ummab is not family, nor tribe, nor nation, it is simply the sum of all those who follow the Way. For the Great Ummab of the Shirac is itself a journey. A migration towards Heaven. Just as birds seek the warmer places as the winter approaches, so the Shirac seek the warmth of Paradise. And it has been so for half an eternity.

Are we all witches? No, that is not the case. We are simply travelers. And in our travels we have seen many worlds, and thus passed through the Veil many times over. This is not witchcraft. It is only experience. You may call the fruits of our experience witchcraft, but you are motivated only by your love of falsehoods. Perhaps you should learn to embrace truth. Or find better words.

Surely, you say, at least the Shirac live in Marimbra, where you sell your beautiful wares? Again, a misrepresentation. The Shirac move through Marimbra, so some are always there, and yet it is never the same ones, year after year, for the Way is a journey. You say we sell you wares, I say we give you priceless gifts. We only charge for them because if we did not you would assume they have no value. And the gifts of the Way have value beyond measure.

So many untruths spoken about the Shirac. Some say the Way is like a heavy yoke made of many strange laws, that we are not a people but a cult. This is not so! There is but one Shirac law: Honor the Seeker. For they will open the Way to Heaven.

Not bad, eh?

Would you join with us? For the Great Ummab of the Shirac is open to all seekers. Join us, for we welcome you, and we fly towards Heaven. As our great poet Wudi Al-Harazed once said “I do not want to achieve Paradise through death, I want to walk there on my own two feet”.

-- taken from Mommud Harb-Houri’s “The Preface to the Way”, Hrazbo-Y lectures, 288 MSY.

 

[Rolzup]

Last night, round about evenin', we set out for the Dancehall, on the Cocks Swallow docks.

Nah, nah, get yer mind from out the gutter, lad. Ye might know it as Gibbet's Dock, but most folks call it the Dock o'Cocks Swallow, after ol' Dead Pirate Guilford Gibbet. Seems he was freed from his own public hanging by an angry mob, what up and killed the poor bastard by choking him with his own severed manhood. Ye might have seen the statue of Gibbet by the wharf-side, eh? Surrounded by a bunch of little statues of flyin' swallows? And one statue of a rooster?

Aye, that's the one. It's a bit of a pun, like.

Well, 'twas a pleasant enough walk, all things considered. The crowds cleared out of the way right quick when the saw who was coming; nobody wanted to risk offending the Pretty Man, seein' as how he's so quick with his sword.

We were passin' the Bluefins Tavern when the damnedest thing happened. The doors flew open, and a whole crowd people came runnin' into the street, all screamin' and carryin' on. There were dogs howlin', and ladies weepin', and grown men terrified outta their wits.

And why? Rats, o'course. Little ones, mind, but lots of 'em. A wave of the little beggars came spillin' out the door, chewin' on anyone they could get their teeth into.

Now, I'm no swordsman. And I'm none too good with a bow, I'll not deny that. But show me rats, and I know where me duty lies. Took Knocker in me hand and waded right in, hittin' those rats to the left and to the right. Felt damned good, to be doin' some honest work again. Took a few bites outta me, they did, but wasn't but a trifle. Duchess and me, we cleared things up right and proper, quick as sin.

Never did find out what that was all about, come to think on it. Might be they were layin' in wait for me. Not the first time I've been ambushed by rats, likely won't be the last.

The Pretty Man gave me a little nod as I finished the last of 'em off. Recognized a fellow killer, so he did, and no mistake. Gave me a bit of a chill, to be honest. I kill for a livin', true enough, but I'm no murderer. Not like him.

Never like him.

Thank ye, lad, thank ye. Needed another drink, after that. Where was I?

Right, right. Well, I never did find out what that was all about. Nobody knew where the beasties had come from, and the only clue was the howlin' of a dog just before they all up and manifested.

Spontaneous rats...that's a problem I can sink me teeth into. I ain't done with that situation, friends, and ye've got me oath on that.

But on we went to the Dancehall. Ever been there, Gerard? Not a nice place, not like the Pig here. Not so clean, this bar of yours, but it's honest. And that counts for a lot, so it does.

The Dancehall, it was nothin' but pretty lies. All glittery, and fancy-like. And nothin' but scum inside. Pirates, and thugs, and gutter trash. A bunch of them primitives, the hairy folk with heavy brows, were hangin' about and draggin' their clubs. Swayin' to the music, they were, and that should tell you what the place sounded like.

Just horrible, it was.

The Pretty Man, he walked right up to the bar, and demanded to see the owner. You could see the crowd wasn't too happy to see any of us, and they really didn't like the Pretty Man...but they didn't do more than grumble a bit. They knew better than to trifle with the likes of us.

There was some talkin' back and forth, and finally they agreed to take the Pretty Man back to talk with the owner of the place. The Queen Bitch, they called her. Just the Pretty Man, mind, and his pet monkey besides. Wanted him to leave his sword behind, but he just laughed a cold laugh and shook his head.

It's his soul, you know. I've heard 'im say it with me very own ears. Blasphemous, that. Must have eaten his soul first, right off. It's hungry, that blade.

They didn't argue, and took him into a back room. We stood ready, weapons at hand, prepared for trouble. The Bloody Archer, he was like a damned statue. Never moved, never twitched, but for his eyes. He's always lookin', that man. Huntin', like.

The Prof, he started in to talking to one of those cave-men I mentioned. 'Bout what, I can't imagine. I heard 'em mention time, and space, and how impressed the Prof was by the cave-man's club...but nothin' that made any sense, really.

And then came the sound, from behind the door the Pretty Man had gone through. Sounded like a dozen thunderclaps, all at once, and was enough to set my ears to ringin'. Magic, I knew, and no mistake.

Duchess and I, we had that door down in a trifle. In we went, the Archer and Prof on our heels. And let me tell ye, things went right to hell.

 

[shilsen]

Nah, nah, get yer mind from out the gutter, lad. Ye might know it as Gibbet's Dock, but most folks call it the Dock o'Cocks Swallow, after ol' Dead Pirate Guilford Gibbet. Seems he was freed from his own public hanging by an angry mob, what up and killed the poor bastard by choking him with his own severed manhood.

Now that's gotta hurt!

Ye might have seen the statue of Gibbet by the wharf-side, eh? Surrounded by a bunch of little statues of flyin' swallows? And one statue of a rooster?

Aye, that's the one. It's a bit of a pun, like.

*wipes away a tear*

Spontaneous rats...

There are heroes who stride across the ages, destroying hordes of demons, and then there are our PCs...

And let me tell ye, things went right to hell.

Well, of course they did! It's not like you had the magnificence that is Meiji to pull your fat out of the fire. Remind me again, did Rackhir get pasted here too?

 

[Mallus]

*wipes away a tear*

Enjoying this little bit of CITY's local off-color, are you?

Remind me again, did Rackhir get pasted here too?

Let me spoil at little: no.

That happens next adventure.

 

[shilsen]

Enjoying this little bit of CITY's local off-color, are you?

Absolutely. That little reference actually sounded a lot like a Pratchettism, which is the top of the scale for me where humor is concerned.

Let me spoil at little: no.

Drat.

That happens next adventure.

Aaaah! You know, every time I see Rackhir get beat up I get a sense of vuja de (another Pratchettism). I know that I'm going to see it again in the future.

 

[Mallus]

That little reference actually sounded a lot like a Pratchettism, which is the top of the scale for me where humor is concerned.

Why thanks. I have to say, of all the places I've stolen inspiration from, and the list includes everything from "Some Like it Hot" to Preston Sturges films, Pratchett isn't one of them. I hadn't even read 'The Colour of Magic' yet by that point in the campaign...

I'm on Discworld book 2 now. Only about 30 to go, right?

 

[Rolzup]

Following the Sound of Thunder

Ye can't trust wizards. Oh, you might think that ye can, but trust me: ye can't.

Take the Prof, who seemed a descent enough sort. Duchess and I, we're ready to deal with the Bitch's guards. Took out one as we came through the door, into a little room. There was another door standing open, obviously where the Pretty Man was, but before we could get there?

Magic, thanks to the Prof. He conjured some kind of web, hangin' all through the room. Got the guards tangled up, sure, but how were we to get to the Pretty Man? The web was so thick that the Archer couldn't shoot through it, and he was none too pleased about that.

Sure enough, before I could start hackin' my way through, there was that crash of thunder again, closer still and even louder than before, and a yell from the Pretty Man along with it. Didn't sound at all happy, neither.

It only got worse.

Friends, you know me. You know my line of work. I spend more than my fair share of time in the sewers. That's where the rats are, after all. So me, I know stinks. I've smelled 'em all, in my time. But this? This was somethin's else entirely. So strong that it hung in the very air, thick and green. Made even my eyes water, standin' as I was on the very edge of it.

Hell, the damned cloud made Duchess herself ill! And that's no small feat, makin' a rat like her sick up.

Maybe the Prof thought he was helping. Maybe he was, for all I know. I imagine that the Bitch's men weren't up to much with that smell in the air. But it wasn't doin' us any much good either. The Archer was cursin' up a blue streak, when he wasn't retchin'.

Lucky for me, I had a secret weapon.

See this ring, here on my finger? Not just a particularly handsome piece of jewelry, this. No, this is an heirloom, handed down from my great-great-great grandma, Anne Finké herself. And it's magic, this ring is.

Ever hear of a ring of invisibility? Well, this is better. This, me friends, is a ring of insmellability. Turn it on your finger, like so, and see? Your scent disappears, like you ain't even there. Makes it a lot easier, this, sneakin' up on a canny rat.

But that's not all, y'know. The ring protects me from smells, too. Shields me, like. And it was enough to let me push my way through the Prof's little cloud without revisitin' me lunch.

Took me a bit, pushin' through the web. But I made it through, until I could see the Pretty Man though the haze. He was bleedin' from the ears, and he looked a little shaky, but he was still standin', with his monkey by his side.

There were bodies all about, some of them dead and some just pukin' their guts out. Religious types, or so they seemed to me. I gave the closest one a good kick as I went by, just on general principles like.

The Pretty Man, he was facin' down two figures, and one of 'em.... Well. One of 'em was Jack Fancy, sure as sure. Had one a' them skinny swords in his hand, and he kept tossin' knives at the Pretty Man. But that other....

Hell, I need another drink, I'm gonna remember that.

Thank ye, Gerard. Thank ye kindly. I've seen things, friends. Terrible, horrible things. But nothin' like this.

It was a woman, ye thought at first. And if he'd been wearin' pants, or anything below the waist, maybe I woulda kept bein' fooled. But no, we weren't so lucky as that. Worse still, he had the head of a dog, all snarlin' and snappin', and the skin we could see -- too damned much of it, ye ask me -- was covered with fur.

I don't mind tellin' ye, friends, I was taken aback. Shocked, even.

Just for a moment, mind, but that was time enough for the Bitch to hop down into an open trap door. And Fancy followed a second later, as one a' my knives hit the wall behind where he'd been standin'.

Took us a minute to get organized, like, what with the smell and the web and all. The Pretty Man told us what had happened, that he'd been hit with half a dozen spells at the same time. Not once, even, but twice. He wasn't at all pleased about it, and what's more? It was the first time I'd seen his hair anythin' less than perfect.

Down through the trap door we went, all but the Prof. He'd had enough, he said. Maybe it was seein' the Bitch that did it, and if so I can't blame 'im a bit. Wished 'im well, although the Archer seemed happy to see the back of 'im, and off he went.

And down we went.

 

[HalfOrc HalfBiscuit]

Spontaneous rats...

It's not just rats you know ...

It is a well known fact that wandering monsters do not in fact "wander". They are in fact spontaneous manifestations of the universe's (understandable) antipathy towards adventurers.

 

[Mallus]

Interlude: Races of Dirt

"'Scutters', 'Scuttlers', 'Domed-fuddlers', 'Grubs', 'Sadpackers', 'Molies', 'Holie-Molies', and perhaps the most insulting, simply 'the Gardeners', I'm sure you've heard all of these before, the derogatory names for the Garahjah. I am here today to tell you that they are a proud race with a complex culture, language, and strong preference for the subterranean. And yes, they love a good strong cup of tea...

An average Garahjah stands between four-and-a-half and... well... four-and-a-half-feet tall, there being little deviation in their general physiology. They are typically as wide as they are tall, and covered with a short coat of fine downy fur. To make up for their physicalsimiliarity, Garahjah wear the hair on their broad, domed heads in thick elaborate, braids strung with ornaments and rich, clay-bearing mud from their burrows, commonly refered to as 'dredgelocks'. A Garahjah always seeks to stand out from his brethren, either through grooming and dress, or by complicated elaborations of speech. Or a funny accent. Or by frequent singing. Or hats. They really are an odd lot of birds, when you come right down to it.

Garahjah are exceptionally hardy, all but immune to toxins and disease, as befits a race that spends much of its time in dank holes or classifying strange flora using their sense of taste. They can see in near darkness, and some in pitch blackness, utilizing the very vibrations of the earth to guide them. Garahjah have an extraordinary relationship with dirt; it speaks to them, in fact sometime it even listens, moving out of the way to let one pass. Some think the Garahjah can burrow in the manner of burrowing animals. This is not the case. The earth parts for them, albeit quite slowly, like a crowd of the morbidly obese parting for passing royalty.

The Garahjah effectively rule themselves and their home city of Ling-Garah, whose name usually means 'The Constant Garden' in their perplexing native tongue. Natural philosophers suggest that the Garahjah language 'is rooted in the very language of nature, with meanings shifting like the play of streams over stones, with only a few concepts as solid as the stones themselves'. Linguists, however, suggest the Garahjah are lying to us, foiling any attempt to accurately translate their language as some kind of species-wide joke.

Take, for example, the Garahjah governing body, the so-called 'Bishopric of Trees', which isn't particularly remarkable until you realise the Garahjah have no word for 'bishop', or priest of any kind, really. Which is odd, seeing as the Garahjah taught early man the art of 'speaking to the dirt', which gave rise to modern-day urban and ex-urban Druidism. Yes, there's nothing quite so funny as a Garahjah, except, perhaps, when one is trying to behead you for despoiling its garden.

-- taken from Sir Paltry Bearkiller-Jones's "Some Things Gleaned from a Conversation with Mr. Mole", Hrazbo-Y lecture series, 288 MSY.

 

[Rolzup]

Bowie Isn't Just a Knife.

The Bitch was considerate enough to have provided pillows for us to land on, so it wasn't much of a fall. No sign of her, or of Jack, in the little room that we'd landed in. Just a mannequin, wearin' parts of a fancy dress, in one corner. And only one way out, a dark little tunnel.

Too dark, if you catch me meaning. Pitch black, and it swallowed any light that hit it. Magic, again.

But not a problem for Duchess, me darlin'. Looped a rope 'round her neck, and she sniffed her way through, with me trailin' behind. The dark didn't last long, and there we were in a hallway...and we had company. The Bitch, she had friends. And where she met 'em, gentlemen, I don't care to speculate.

It was knife and club work for me then, while the Pretty Man and the Archer did their bloody work. And what did we fight? You'd hardly believe it, friends.

Dogs, made of pure diamond. Spat knives at us, they did, and do I look like I'm lyin' about that? And they weren't the worst of it. There was this...thing, that the Bitch called up. Part snake, part bird, part lady. No face, but it wore a diamond brooch that kept shimmerin', and changin' shape. Had the voice of an angel, but friends? She was the meanest little hussy I ever did meet.

Gave the Pretty Man a good squeeze, she did. And he didn't find it all to his likin', either. Can't blame him for that, not at all. He managed to free himself, and we came through it all right, although I'm damned if I know how. I remember standin' there, pieces of broken dogs at me feet, starin' down the Bitch herself. And that's when the Pretty Man cleared his throat.

He talked to her, all soft and reasonable, and I found myself noddin' along. It made sense, what he was sayin'...that Fancy, the miserable bastard, was no friend of hers...even if they did share a bed from time to time.

Yes, ye heard that right. No, I shan't elaborate. Rather not think about it, truth be told.

But there was no point in us fightin' like this, since we had no quarrel with her. And that it was in everyone's best interests if we brought Fancy to ground.

She agreed to show us, in the end, where Fancy'd made his escape. Through a tunnel, into the sewers. So we took our leave of the Dancehall, and glad I was of it. Because now we were on my home ground. I know the sewers of Narayan like the back of me hand, and with both Duchess and the Archer trackin' him, Fancy didn't have a chance. We made damned good time, winding our way through tunnels and such, until we came to a Gate.

You probably don't know how many Gates there are in the sewers, do you? Well, let me tell you, friends, that there's plenty of 'em, and a royal pain in the arse they are. This one was at the top of a ramp, see, and was lettin' through a stream of clean water from gods-only-know where.

And Fancy's tracks, they went right up to the Gate. And through it.

Too right, Durrin, m'lad! Fancy's no citizen, and don't wear a gate-mark. Everyone knows that, he boasts of it often enough. He shouldn't have been able to pass through, not him. But there was no denyin' it; that's just what the bastard had done. He'd left some signs behind, traces of some sort of ash.

Only one answer. Fancy was a Gatecrasher, plain as plain. And what could we do, but follow his trail?