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Words In This Update - 2513
Total Words So Far - 15063
One nice thing about living in the Razan desert is we're so close to the Inallen Range, which is a direct route to the Poakraeli Tropics. The mountains cast their shadows on us, blocking most of the moisture form the tropics and keeps us as dry as we are now. In a few day's time, we could make it through and head on in to the lamian jungle, if we were brave and stupid enough to do so, so we could trade or citrus and ammunition for this sweet, bitter nectar they call coffee. Sure, we have to bribe the dwarves in the range with things like coils and whatever enchanted ores we come across we can't use so they'll let us through, but since we can't do shit with those anyways, it's no loss to us. The dwarves have never been on our bad side either, so it's not like I have anything to gain by bartering for higher prices. Being able to safely trade for coffee with the lamias is worth it.
As such, I've brewed myself a massive pot of the stuff, having pinched some from the communal supply. We'd made a run for some just before this trip started and made sure we were well stocked up before our monthly trek across the Razan sands to survey the area. It's a good thing most lamia are easily distracted by me firing blanks just to ooh and ahh at how The Marshal fires so they wouldn't attack us as the merchant elves did their bartering thing and got us enough for our trip. I mean yeah I can barter, but I'm far too rough for even the sweaty, scaly lamias to be able to handle. I'd just wind up poisoned from their venomous bites and then I'd get blamed for pissing them off and not allowed a single drop. I mean, who does that, withholding coffee from someone for someone else's temperamental issues? All it teaches me is that the only thing lamias are good at is raising the crop and throwing fits, not anything about myself. It's not like I'm two or anything else, either. I can handle myself just fine. They're not my real mom anyways. Not that she's any better, she ran off and remarried to a bard, leaving dad here destitute and pissy. She wasn't even separated yet; she'd been cheating, just because she said he could do this thing with words and his tongue. Ew. Too much information. But still, they're both losers I disowned ages ago, and last I heard they were part of a traveling sideshow stationed in a far-off resort town called Layabout. That place is just full of prostitutes and losers, so whatever, I won't be stopping by no matter how many postcards they send via messenger bird. Stupid birds. Stupid bards.
I made myself sad. I'll need the coffee though, as night guard, especially as part of a surveying group made up entirely of just myself and The Marshal is rough work, and I'm going to want to caffeinate and have a hair-trigger inside there. Anything in there is going to be beyond creepy and in need of several shots anyways. I've got a thermos I can take in and I'll take a few canteens of juice as well. Though let's not mix the juice and coffee, last time I did it tasted like I was drinking vomit. Either that or it did make me vomit. Same thing, really. That's just a waste of money. Speaking of, I'll bring a large sack in and loot to my heart's content. I'm pretty sure I'll find some stuff I can recycle and sell for parts or strip for bits I'll need, and until if and when I find a mine cart in there, well, this shit can't carry itself. I wish it could, but I don't think I have any way of inventing that just yet.
So here it stands, only really one thing left to do, and that's go check on Lock. I should probably also try to feed her, but she's not getting any of my rock melons. I wonder if I could convince Kattu somehow to let me drug Lock's food so she doesn't get out or do anything while I'm in there. Or even better, perhaps she has some kind of mind control potion so Lock can act as my personal chariot and meatshield! Hey, if she's got something that can make me write paragraphs of who knows what (I know I still can't read it myself) then this should be easy for her. I'll just not show any fear and convince her it'll be worth her handing supply over to. I could promise to buff her up a nice fancy ol' filtering machine I find inside so she can make better whatever it is she makes. It's not legal, whatever it is, I'll bet. Technically though doesn't that mean she could sell it for a high (wow that's pretty funny coincidence that high) price and make us easier money and fund me more? Kattu is more selfish than I thought with her hoard.
I go in to her wagon to find her taking a few seeds and rolling them around like one of the dune cats does with any empty casings I give it to chase. Her eyes are as wide as one too, a wide, relaxed smile on her face, eyes half open as she yawns and looks up at me. At least she's more subdued right now. Her wagon smells like Our Lady knows what and there's definitely something off about it. Well, more so than usual. I walk up to the counter slowly and greet her. She just yawns and tells me to shush, pointing at her seeds. Okay, I'll bite. Or look. Yeah, they're red and fat, and the shells feel almost hard enough to replace my bullets, what of it, ma'am? After a silent minute that seems to drag on longer than my own ramblings, she pops one so it spills on her counter and laughs.
Only them am I allowed to speak to her. What kind of insane ritual is this? Oh well, not like it matters, beyond being a waste of words and paper, so long as it keeps her calm and not bugging that left eye out at me. Last thing I need to see before maybe marching to my caffeinated doom is the wicked, haunting image of an eye ready to fly out of its skull and into the nearest drink. That wouldn't be a very popular party trick, because you could only do it once. She just grins and asks what I would like, sounding like she's sleep talking with how slow and gone out of her head she is. I just lay my offer on the table; one refinery machine, cleaned up and serviced, in return for something that will get Lock to behave while she's out. “I hadn't pegged you the type to be into leashing and leading girls around at your whim, Basira!” Kattu says, her voice carrying a song-like quality to it. Don't tell me she's in cahoots with the bards now. I swear, they're going to be the death of me yet. Do they want me to save their asses or not? I just scowl. “Oh, men then? You two going to fetch some husbands?” For the last time, I don't want anyone, the damn prisoner's just going to work off what she's done to us by being a hornsucker.
That's when I peer over her little counter here and notice a few cacti in pots. With a very suspicious shape. Oh yeah, those are definitely growing off in the shape of pricks. Pricks that prick, how appropriate. Just what kind of store is this? Is this where the smell's coming from? I notice one is cut open at the head and gouged a little. Yeah, that doesn't look suspicious at all. Is this some kind of smut shop on the side? I linefaced at her so hard I'm pretty sure the gravitational pull of our world shifted a little and made everyone a little weightier if even just for that brief moment. It's all I can do to clear my throat and bring attention to it.
“Not mine. Don't worry, I don't go for cactus trips. Too busy, too bright. Just stashing it here for my apprentice. She makes good use out of it. Well, most of the tribe does, just only my apprentice can salvage it after and make good medicine out of it still.”
I'm just writing this down so you're about as disgusted as I am and if, in the future, you still have these prickly pricks growing around Razan? Burn them all. They've probably been defiled by who knows who or what's holes. That's incredibly unsanitary on every possible level. What if you got high through your bits, then what? Most embarrassing trip ever. Now I also have the mental image of someone gnawing on the end to get high and well, ending correspondence on this now to spare everyone. We agreed to the deal and she gave me enough of the seeds she was batting around to keep her subdued and open to suggestion for a few days, on the condition I leave my hammer and wrenches as collateral. If I didn't bring her her machine back and pay up like I should, she threatened to tell everyone that I expressed incredible interest in the pricks and wouldn't leave her alone about it, even going so far as to trying to bribe her to hand some over, an insane lust in my eye.
That just clinches it; the pricks in the Stormlock tribe aren't just limited to the plants around here. Tell me why I'm so intent on saving them again? Oh yeah, revenge and debts, that's why. If I can save the day, they'd owe me all the statues and to be forced to tell my story for the rest of time, ensuring my legacy. Come on, Basira, just put up with it and Lock a while longer, and I'm sure you'll get everything you deserve and more for being so brave and smart and beautiful.
I get out a nice pigsteak, raw, and slather it in the juice that one of the seeds produced. I go over to where Lock is, undo her muzzle, and shove this down her throat before she has even a word in edgewise. Using all my strength, I wrest the muzzle back on and force her to swallow her food, only speaking to her once I notice her eyes go wide and her mouth drooly, an actual smile across her lips. As a test to see if it was indeed hitting her, I asked her to do her best impression of a dune cat. Lo and behold, she meows and purrs happily. I get out some of my chains and form a leash on her, unlocking her once she promises to behave and follow me.
There's a contentment to her, like a genuine beast of burden. Her wings flick happily in time with my ears and she coughs up embers to light our way. I dig out an extra hard hat and put it on her, asking if she likes her gift. A simple nod comes from her, smiling still as she rubs her face and yawns a bit. I wonder what would happen if I gave her some coffee to mix with it. A cup couldn't hurt as an experiment, right? Who knows, I might come up with some excellent results!
I offer her some and watch as she gleefully downs it, a bit of it dribbling down her chin as she sqwaks in delight. “Hey, not too bad, shortstuff! Lock could get used to this treatment...Yeah, put me to work, longear boss! I feel like I could tackle a whole undead army like this! Just follow me and follow my nose!” Wow, she even sounds like the part. I tug on her chain and point to the Solim Mine entrance, putting my own hardhat with light on and putting The Marshal on my back with my pickaxe in my free hand. My sack is tied around my neck and all my rations and drinks are on me. My gunpowder horn and bullets are in easy reach. Let's do this thing. Put yourself to use, Lock, and maybe I'll spare some of your scales when it comes time to construct my pilot's cap.
What I wasn't expecting her to do is take me full speed ahead and down into the mines, barreling through them head first, only stopping once we get a decent distance in and whanging herself right into a mine cart. Oh hey, score. Or it would be, if this one didn't have its wheel rusted in place. At least my hat's light enough that I can record my adventure and observations as we go along. Maybe draw some of the neater things in your margins, oh dear diary, for who knows if the future will have any of these marvels or not, and you may as well name them all after me. Unless it's entirely worthless. Or shaped like someone's prick. Unless you name it so that it sounds like I had a massive prick, then go for it, because everyone should aspire to be as cocky as I am, get it?
Now what I wasn't expecting was for her to get up and barrel on ahead the second I said I was okay and had everything. Stupid dragon. Maybe the caffeine in her system was a bad idea; there's such a thing as being too eager. Either that or it's just her tiny lizard brain at work again. How did they ever coordinate a raid on us, anyways? Maybe I should shoot some more of her friends down and medicate them so I have cheap labor to make my stuff while I do the actual hard work, like thinking of everything.
(Israa's note: Huge splotch here and a tear mark. No words are lost, but something rough definitely happened after her thoughts here. Her next passages confirm my hypothesis.)
I write the next passage in you form the bottom of the mineshaft. Guess what idiot dashed right in to a split in the ground, claiming her nose smelled something incredibly familiar. Lock's resilient as all get out, already back up on her feet and sniffing around, slurping my face like one of the wolves and giggling, eyes still wide and glassy from the drugs. I'll need a bit to re-organize and hate myself. Coffee and mind-controlled flamefuckers are not a thing that mix well. Might be good for a trap, though. All I know is that this is going to be a very, very long night.
-Basira Nejem
Dated still the sixth day of the third week of spring in the year 367 which is also the current number of lumps on my head
Total Words So Far - 15063
One nice thing about living in the Razan desert is we're so close to the Inallen Range, which is a direct route to the Poakraeli Tropics. The mountains cast their shadows on us, blocking most of the moisture form the tropics and keeps us as dry as we are now. In a few day's time, we could make it through and head on in to the lamian jungle, if we were brave and stupid enough to do so, so we could trade or citrus and ammunition for this sweet, bitter nectar they call coffee. Sure, we have to bribe the dwarves in the range with things like coils and whatever enchanted ores we come across we can't use so they'll let us through, but since we can't do shit with those anyways, it's no loss to us. The dwarves have never been on our bad side either, so it's not like I have anything to gain by bartering for higher prices. Being able to safely trade for coffee with the lamias is worth it.
As such, I've brewed myself a massive pot of the stuff, having pinched some from the communal supply. We'd made a run for some just before this trip started and made sure we were well stocked up before our monthly trek across the Razan sands to survey the area. It's a good thing most lamia are easily distracted by me firing blanks just to ooh and ahh at how The Marshal fires so they wouldn't attack us as the merchant elves did their bartering thing and got us enough for our trip. I mean yeah I can barter, but I'm far too rough for even the sweaty, scaly lamias to be able to handle. I'd just wind up poisoned from their venomous bites and then I'd get blamed for pissing them off and not allowed a single drop. I mean, who does that, withholding coffee from someone for someone else's temperamental issues? All it teaches me is that the only thing lamias are good at is raising the crop and throwing fits, not anything about myself. It's not like I'm two or anything else, either. I can handle myself just fine. They're not my real mom anyways. Not that she's any better, she ran off and remarried to a bard, leaving dad here destitute and pissy. She wasn't even separated yet; she'd been cheating, just because she said he could do this thing with words and his tongue. Ew. Too much information. But still, they're both losers I disowned ages ago, and last I heard they were part of a traveling sideshow stationed in a far-off resort town called Layabout. That place is just full of prostitutes and losers, so whatever, I won't be stopping by no matter how many postcards they send via messenger bird. Stupid birds. Stupid bards.
I made myself sad. I'll need the coffee though, as night guard, especially as part of a surveying group made up entirely of just myself and The Marshal is rough work, and I'm going to want to caffeinate and have a hair-trigger inside there. Anything in there is going to be beyond creepy and in need of several shots anyways. I've got a thermos I can take in and I'll take a few canteens of juice as well. Though let's not mix the juice and coffee, last time I did it tasted like I was drinking vomit. Either that or it did make me vomit. Same thing, really. That's just a waste of money. Speaking of, I'll bring a large sack in and loot to my heart's content. I'm pretty sure I'll find some stuff I can recycle and sell for parts or strip for bits I'll need, and until if and when I find a mine cart in there, well, this shit can't carry itself. I wish it could, but I don't think I have any way of inventing that just yet.
So here it stands, only really one thing left to do, and that's go check on Lock. I should probably also try to feed her, but she's not getting any of my rock melons. I wonder if I could convince Kattu somehow to let me drug Lock's food so she doesn't get out or do anything while I'm in there. Or even better, perhaps she has some kind of mind control potion so Lock can act as my personal chariot and meatshield! Hey, if she's got something that can make me write paragraphs of who knows what (I know I still can't read it myself) then this should be easy for her. I'll just not show any fear and convince her it'll be worth her handing supply over to. I could promise to buff her up a nice fancy ol' filtering machine I find inside so she can make better whatever it is she makes. It's not legal, whatever it is, I'll bet. Technically though doesn't that mean she could sell it for a high (wow that's pretty funny coincidence that high) price and make us easier money and fund me more? Kattu is more selfish than I thought with her hoard.
I go in to her wagon to find her taking a few seeds and rolling them around like one of the dune cats does with any empty casings I give it to chase. Her eyes are as wide as one too, a wide, relaxed smile on her face, eyes half open as she yawns and looks up at me. At least she's more subdued right now. Her wagon smells like Our Lady knows what and there's definitely something off about it. Well, more so than usual. I walk up to the counter slowly and greet her. She just yawns and tells me to shush, pointing at her seeds. Okay, I'll bite. Or look. Yeah, they're red and fat, and the shells feel almost hard enough to replace my bullets, what of it, ma'am? After a silent minute that seems to drag on longer than my own ramblings, she pops one so it spills on her counter and laughs.
Only them am I allowed to speak to her. What kind of insane ritual is this? Oh well, not like it matters, beyond being a waste of words and paper, so long as it keeps her calm and not bugging that left eye out at me. Last thing I need to see before maybe marching to my caffeinated doom is the wicked, haunting image of an eye ready to fly out of its skull and into the nearest drink. That wouldn't be a very popular party trick, because you could only do it once. She just grins and asks what I would like, sounding like she's sleep talking with how slow and gone out of her head she is. I just lay my offer on the table; one refinery machine, cleaned up and serviced, in return for something that will get Lock to behave while she's out. “I hadn't pegged you the type to be into leashing and leading girls around at your whim, Basira!” Kattu says, her voice carrying a song-like quality to it. Don't tell me she's in cahoots with the bards now. I swear, they're going to be the death of me yet. Do they want me to save their asses or not? I just scowl. “Oh, men then? You two going to fetch some husbands?” For the last time, I don't want anyone, the damn prisoner's just going to work off what she's done to us by being a hornsucker.
That's when I peer over her little counter here and notice a few cacti in pots. With a very suspicious shape. Oh yeah, those are definitely growing off in the shape of pricks. Pricks that prick, how appropriate. Just what kind of store is this? Is this where the smell's coming from? I notice one is cut open at the head and gouged a little. Yeah, that doesn't look suspicious at all. Is this some kind of smut shop on the side? I linefaced at her so hard I'm pretty sure the gravitational pull of our world shifted a little and made everyone a little weightier if even just for that brief moment. It's all I can do to clear my throat and bring attention to it.
“Not mine. Don't worry, I don't go for cactus trips. Too busy, too bright. Just stashing it here for my apprentice. She makes good use out of it. Well, most of the tribe does, just only my apprentice can salvage it after and make good medicine out of it still.”
I'm just writing this down so you're about as disgusted as I am and if, in the future, you still have these prickly pricks growing around Razan? Burn them all. They've probably been defiled by who knows who or what's holes. That's incredibly unsanitary on every possible level. What if you got high through your bits, then what? Most embarrassing trip ever. Now I also have the mental image of someone gnawing on the end to get high and well, ending correspondence on this now to spare everyone. We agreed to the deal and she gave me enough of the seeds she was batting around to keep her subdued and open to suggestion for a few days, on the condition I leave my hammer and wrenches as collateral. If I didn't bring her her machine back and pay up like I should, she threatened to tell everyone that I expressed incredible interest in the pricks and wouldn't leave her alone about it, even going so far as to trying to bribe her to hand some over, an insane lust in my eye.
That just clinches it; the pricks in the Stormlock tribe aren't just limited to the plants around here. Tell me why I'm so intent on saving them again? Oh yeah, revenge and debts, that's why. If I can save the day, they'd owe me all the statues and to be forced to tell my story for the rest of time, ensuring my legacy. Come on, Basira, just put up with it and Lock a while longer, and I'm sure you'll get everything you deserve and more for being so brave and smart and beautiful.
I get out a nice pigsteak, raw, and slather it in the juice that one of the seeds produced. I go over to where Lock is, undo her muzzle, and shove this down her throat before she has even a word in edgewise. Using all my strength, I wrest the muzzle back on and force her to swallow her food, only speaking to her once I notice her eyes go wide and her mouth drooly, an actual smile across her lips. As a test to see if it was indeed hitting her, I asked her to do her best impression of a dune cat. Lo and behold, she meows and purrs happily. I get out some of my chains and form a leash on her, unlocking her once she promises to behave and follow me.
There's a contentment to her, like a genuine beast of burden. Her wings flick happily in time with my ears and she coughs up embers to light our way. I dig out an extra hard hat and put it on her, asking if she likes her gift. A simple nod comes from her, smiling still as she rubs her face and yawns a bit. I wonder what would happen if I gave her some coffee to mix with it. A cup couldn't hurt as an experiment, right? Who knows, I might come up with some excellent results!
I offer her some and watch as she gleefully downs it, a bit of it dribbling down her chin as she sqwaks in delight. “Hey, not too bad, shortstuff! Lock could get used to this treatment...Yeah, put me to work, longear boss! I feel like I could tackle a whole undead army like this! Just follow me and follow my nose!” Wow, she even sounds like the part. I tug on her chain and point to the Solim Mine entrance, putting my own hardhat with light on and putting The Marshal on my back with my pickaxe in my free hand. My sack is tied around my neck and all my rations and drinks are on me. My gunpowder horn and bullets are in easy reach. Let's do this thing. Put yourself to use, Lock, and maybe I'll spare some of your scales when it comes time to construct my pilot's cap.
What I wasn't expecting her to do is take me full speed ahead and down into the mines, barreling through them head first, only stopping once we get a decent distance in and whanging herself right into a mine cart. Oh hey, score. Or it would be, if this one didn't have its wheel rusted in place. At least my hat's light enough that I can record my adventure and observations as we go along. Maybe draw some of the neater things in your margins, oh dear diary, for who knows if the future will have any of these marvels or not, and you may as well name them all after me. Unless it's entirely worthless. Or shaped like someone's prick. Unless you name it so that it sounds like I had a massive prick, then go for it, because everyone should aspire to be as cocky as I am, get it?
Now what I wasn't expecting was for her to get up and barrel on ahead the second I said I was okay and had everything. Stupid dragon. Maybe the caffeine in her system was a bad idea; there's such a thing as being too eager. Either that or it's just her tiny lizard brain at work again. How did they ever coordinate a raid on us, anyways? Maybe I should shoot some more of her friends down and medicate them so I have cheap labor to make my stuff while I do the actual hard work, like thinking of everything.
(Israa's note: Huge splotch here and a tear mark. No words are lost, but something rough definitely happened after her thoughts here. Her next passages confirm my hypothesis.)
I write the next passage in you form the bottom of the mineshaft. Guess what idiot dashed right in to a split in the ground, claiming her nose smelled something incredibly familiar. Lock's resilient as all get out, already back up on her feet and sniffing around, slurping my face like one of the wolves and giggling, eyes still wide and glassy from the drugs. I'll need a bit to re-organize and hate myself. Coffee and mind-controlled flamefuckers are not a thing that mix well. Might be good for a trap, though. All I know is that this is going to be a very, very long night.
-Basira Nejem
Dated still the sixth day of the third week of spring in the year 367 which is also the current number of lumps on my head
