The Blue Sea of Lost Souls - Part 2
- Enekos
- Aug 15, 2023
- 9 min read
17 Books and the Cave
You may recall the tale of the nameless tall ship, where no one kept records, and no one remembered its origin. You may remember that as it ebbed and flowed like the morning tide. rumours in the local taverns suggested an Egyptian goddess was the original founder. If there’s any truth in the rumours, then SpartanGroupa may have some answers…
The Blue Sea brings many to the city of Ghenu and the elegantly dressed trader from the same land that tried to kill you arrived his first thought was to head to whatever served as the chambers of commerce and register his claim to some property close to the mountains. He had papers, arranged months in advance by someone he had reason to correspond with. The writer from Denaviim was said to be a trustworthy soul and he provided evidence* to the fact.
Evidence takes many forms but when coming from a writer in Denaviim, one must suspect that the writer also wrote the evidence. But across the Blue Sea, how could anyone know that writers and evidence from Denaviim were not to be trusted?
The papers suggested the cave he was acquiring lead someway into the mountains and promised unfathomable secrets should one be prepared to build the required bridges and walkways to make the cave safe. The writer concluded that he decided against a partnership as those tend to dissolve with sharp metal pointy things being involved, so he was happy to sell the property for, oh, let’s say 200,000 gold coins and assured residence in Ghenu. Some address was given and once his papers and the required gold were lodged at the Ghenu ministry of trade, he headed for the address.
It wasn’t what he expected. More of a private club – but he was given a place to sit and wait, so tea and biscuits. It was all very civilized. His name was called, and a man escorted him to a private office, with a mahogany desk. He was gestured to sit and did so. Questions were asked and the man proceeded to write answers down on, what SpartanGroupa imagined was a room registration form. It was all very civilized.
“Good, so we’ll need one signature and 10 gold coins as deposit.” The man behind the desk beamed back at him. Spartan signed, opened his purse, and produced said coins. “Excellent,” beamed the man once again. “We will provide you the first of your 17 books to read in the morning.
“Books?”
“Yes, yes. Look, get some rest because tomorrow will be a busy day as we prepare to accept you into our group. If you need to purchase a robe, and some offerings, then please see Jarne – he’s in room four.”
It was all very confusing: these people in Ghenu were far different from what he imagined from beyond the Blue Sea. But when in Ghenu, do as the Ghenuans do. And he certainly didn’t want to offend his hosts. His room was pleasantly decorated, and it even had a view of the sea. There was a small balcony with vines, but the colder air of winter was coming. He figured he’d need a robe and whatever these offerings were. So, he head down the steps to room four, knocked and an old man appeared. “Four silver coins,” and handed hm a white sheet and a sealed box. Spartan paid and the door closed.
“Hungry?” Another voice, this time a young woman. “Food’s this way. You’re new.”
The following day he awoke to a knock at the door. Breakfast had arrived. Some crackers, hot tea, and freshly churned butter. There was a note:
Eat, take a warm bath, and present yourself in the temple wearing your robe and remember to bring your offerings. Noon. Sharp.
There was also a book:
Ye first treatise of Hermes Trismegistus
While this was all very mysterious, he figured it would be over with an hour – two at most, and then he’d be free to explore his cave and begin making a rudimentary camp. Of course, he hadn’t factored in lady wearing a decorative headpiece and holding a dagger aloft, nor the chanting, nor the goat which appeared to be uncooperative with what was deemed a special event. In truth the goat didn’t care much for the smell of goat blood that seemed to rest upon the stone table. It ran, bounced between torch bearers and eventually one of the decoratively, draped cloths caught fire, which raced high into the rafters, met straw matting and, pretty soon, the whole temple was ablaze.
Before he returned to his room, he approached the lady with the dagger and place his offering on the stone temple and said, “Thanks for the show,” before returning to his room.
Heavy snow began to fall later that day as Ghenu experienced its worst storms in years. His room was comfortable though and a small hearth kept him warm in the evenings. The food was also good. There was some more chanting, but with repairs to the temple still ongoing, it was deemed that so long as Spartan read his 17 books, which would be the end of things and he’d be free to explore the city and beyond.
It was a few weeks before the snow cleared enough for him to confirm his registration and ownership of a cave. The clerk at the Ghenu ministry of trade looked at him with suspicion. “One cave ownership confirmed. Take the road at the top of the city and follow it for six hours. There’s a tree there, with two paths – go left and follow it for another three hours. But it’s doing to be deep snow up there and cold. Maybe wait until spring. Or just don’t go at all. It’s only a cave. Welcome to Ghenu. Next!”
The suspense was killing him and so, on the day before the eve of the new year, he packed a couple of horses, purchased thick and warm clothes, and ventured out. He reached the tree, made a small camp, ate food, fed the horses, and then set out on the road towards the Menavariyam. The road was bleak with nothing but snow but, eventually, he reached the mouth of the cave, set a fire going, tended to the horses, made more food, and then set up camp. Sleep came fast but he was awoken by an intense light, a brief pop, the sound of someone’s dinner being ejected from his stomach and another voice that simply said, “That never gets old.”
Spartan clambered out of his tent to see a hooded figure standing next to a man in green, bent double and cursing under his breath. The hooded figure considered him briefly. “Why are you here?” he asked.
“I own it. This is my cave. Who are you?”
“We’re going to need to borrow it for a while. Here,” the hooded figured tossed him a pouch, which he carefully opened to see the gentle twinkle of diamonds. “For your trouble.” Spartan opened his mouth, but words had failed him. “We may be some time, there’s much to arrange. Could you bring us some food?”
Days were spent helping the strangers and despite more heavy snow, more provisions of crates, fresh meat and fruit arrived. There were no cart tracks, so Spartan had no idea where or how these provisions arrived. Other people began to show up too – again no tracks. They’d appear from within the cave. Some wore armour and greeted him with a simple “Fedaloup” before heading off to whatever duty they’d been assigned.
Eventually, the man dressed in green approached him.
“Mr Spartan, we need your cave for an extended and somewhat unknown duration. We’re quite happy for your name to remain on the deed – in fact, we insist upon it. We also insist upon your discretion. Now Mr Wick here is going to take you somewhere. Have you eaten?”
I just got off the ship…
Those damn sands of times rush backwards yet again to another vessel on the Blue Sea that carefully edges its way into the port of Ghenu. You have to wonder where names come from – especially when the owner comes from a place where Spiders can (and do) bite. So, when Spider disembarked and introduced himself, there were some funny looks. There were also some street urchins with questions such as, “Hey Mister, where are you from? You talk funny? Why are you called Spider? City watch, scarper…” And it takes you a few moments to realise that the bag of coins you had has also scarpered with the urchins.
“Where you from?” This was the city watch. Spider responded, reporting the theft.
“You talk funny.” Was this normal in Ghenu?
“Why do they call you Mr. Spider? What’s in those bags?”
“Well, Mr. Spider we of the city watch are not hired mercenaries but we is required to help you and we is required to take payment from our visitors from ‘cross the Blue Sea and as your purse has been taken, we will take this bag as your payment for our services. We will find the urchins and, if any of your gold remains, we will return it to you. Good day.”
And yes, this was the last time Mr Spider saw them. It began to rain.
There is a homeless shelter in Ghenu – a refuge from where to hide from the rain. It was called Saints and Sinners and it catered to all with no judgement. Perhaps the children are known here, although such questions usually came with blunt knives being pointed back as answers. It was in Spider’s nature to be helpful, and he volunteered to help give out food and blankets where needed. He told stories from beyond the Blue Sea and explained rudimentary mathematics. But they tended to enjoy the stories most.
As the new moons rose and fell, he became liked and respected and often found food being saved for him. He helped people across the city and became known as someone dependable. He even found a part-time job which gave him a few silver coins every week – enough to afford new clothes and the occasional glass of wine.
The Spider in the Tavern
In the same moments, Dobby – first of his name – was seeking calmness with a pencil in one hand as he attempted to draw an old lady who fidgeted a little too much. It was his way of escaping his more serious endeavours at the Veraku Moderno where the incident between the student Saxo and a certain professor quill face was still laughed at in hushed tones.
His endeavours at the Veraku Moderno were aimed at helping small business-owners achieve much more success in a more sustainable way – which was an arduous process to master given an abundance of everything and no thought about tomorrow. “Literally, sir, I could be robbed and murdered before I reach home, what not.”
Despite his appearances, Dobby was an elf, and his credentials prove it. He went to elf school before reaching Veraku and bounced between the foresaid secret society of business leaders and advisors to the Queen and the (now infamous) Cider House tavern. And it was in the tavern where he met Spider. Wait! How did poor, destitute Spider make it to Veraku, let alone be seen drinking in the Cider House tavern?
We have said that Spider was a good soul who like to drink wine. We’ve also said that he resides in the Ghenu homeless shelter. We also know that Ghenu is a few days sailing from Veraku, while by horse, wagon or caravan you could be talking weeks and more than a few gold coins.
Unless of course you’re Spider and save the life of a caravan owner who’s so grateful he tells you all about the capital city and invites you to his home. But you explain you’re poor and could never reach that city, so he offers you employment and you’re only too keen to help and Ghenu soon becomes a memory. Along the way you continue to help and share stories of your homeland. Each village becomes a new home, and your stories draw in new customers for the caravan owner. He begins to give you gold coins, instead of silver and you buy some fancy clothes and when you reach Veraku, you have enough to purchase a room in the Cider House tavern.
As Spider, you make friends quickly and you help in more nefarious dealings. But you adapt to survive, and you make friends with an elf. And others too. And when a bad batch of cider arrives and people blame each other, then you (Spider) and others (Dobby and the nameless ones) leave and find themselves stood the Veraku port looking at an ominous black tall ship and a sign which reads: Want to see the world. Free food, apply within.
The Sands of Time
The Sands of time reach forward once more to the Spartan’s Cave above Ghenu. A small fire flickers and horse quietly chews on dried grass. Crates and barrels of food, gunpowder and other things that are unimportant as we reach the rear of the first chamber and slide through a slit in the rock face. Rope bridges have been formed, while rope fences guard the steep cliffs that descend into the mountain. Torches flicker and some voices are heard. As we reach ever lower, we find a glowing light hidden within a temple and centred within an obsidian-type wheel that’s attached to neither the ground, walls nor any structure. There’s a quiet hum and there are the sands of time.
They shift and shape, wisps blow up and whirl until a form appears. Sand dan Glokta steps out of the maelstrom and issues one order. Find xGentleman.
Comments