Hello gentle readers, I have two things to share with you today.
First of all, HAPPY THANKSGIVING! I sincerely hope that you and yours are having a great day and have good things to be thankful for.
Secondly, I am no longer on Twitter. I haven't actually posted anything relevant on Twitter in some time, and in light of the direction that it seems to be heading, I have decided to leave. If I switch to another social media platform, I will notify everyone via this blog.
You may now return to your turkey and apple pie. :)
The dead lady watches the live girl get her heart
broken. Tears slide down the girl's
cheeks as she texts angrily on her phone. The dead lady would brush the tears
away if she could, but all she can do is watch.
She knows this isn't the end of the girl's world, although
it probably feels that way to the girl.
She wishes she could communicate it to the girl, but the girl is a psychic
dullard.
The dead lady would tell her there are better things to
come.
But all the dead lady can do is watch and empathize.
The football players were dead. They had died some time ago.
However, that didn't stop them from lurching around the field, bouncing into one
another like maggoty bumper cars.
Patsy watched them from the relative safety of the
announcer's booth. The wooden structure
still had intact doors and functional locks, and Patsy hadn't met a deader yet
who could manage stairs.
Most of the football players were still wearing their
uniforms. The bright high school colors were faded and soiled. The helmets and
padding would make getting to their vulnerable brains difficult. Bullets would do the job but she was out and,
as far as she knew, there weren't any bullets left in all of Littleville. God
knew she'd scavenged enough houses to know.
There might have still been ammo at the military base, but
she wasn't going anywhere near that place. It was sealed up, tight as a drum.
The military had closed ranks when it became obvious they weren't going to be
able to get a handle on things. At the end, they'd started firing on anyone who
approached the base's fortified gates. Patsy had seen them blow a news
helicopter out of the sky with some kind of missile.
By then, Patsy had been on her own. She'd lost her family
and didn't have anyone to look out for but herself. She'd barricaded herself in the attic of an
abandoned garage, managing to survive while the world collapsed around her.
There had been radio broadcasts for a while, so Patsy knew
that things were bad all over. The military had closed ranks, looking out for
their own. Fuck the civilians. Fuck the politicians. There'd been unconfirmed
reports that the Secret Service had executed the President and Vice-President,
because they'd been partly responsible for causing the Uprising. Part of some ridiculous plan to hold onto
power by causing a national emergency.
Patsy wasn't sure she believed it, but she wouldn't have put
it beyond them. Politicians were generally shitty people, only interested in
looking out for themselves.
Ironically, Patsy had to admit that it was that kind of
mindset that had kept her alive. She looked out for herself and no one else.
It wasn't always easy. She'd seen a car break down, near her
safe house. Watched as the deaders swarmed the vehicle, tore the occupants apart.
The screams had lasted longer than Patsy would have thought.
The worst part was that the deaths didn't bother her that
much. The deaders were just acting on a basic instinct to hunt and feed. They
weren't malicious. The living didn't
have any such excuse.
She didn't have any such excuse.
Patsy accepted that, just like she accepted the fact that no
one would come to help her escape this wooden shack. She was on her own. She'd
have to rescue herself, and she would do whatever she had to, to stay alive, no
matter how awful.
Fuck everyone else.
She'd stay alive, even if it cost her, her soul.
I just saw a news article about Nichelle Nichols passing. She was a pioneer and an example for a lot of people, and even if her last few years were not ideal, the memory of her, and the example that she set and will continue to set, should be appreciated and celebrated.
The Magical Girl Apocalypse has come and gone and the world
has been changed forever. One of the first communities to rebuild and thrive in
this brave, new world became known as Wizard City, in the nation formerly known
as the USA. Approximately 99% of the
local population has some kind of magical ability. Most are minor, like knowing
the precise moment a bottle of milk will spoil, or being able to magically
remove warts. However, one percent of the locals possess formidable magical
abilities, such as reanimating the dead or changing the weather to suit
themselves. And, one percent of the local population has no magical ability
whatsoever.
Getting around Wizard City is pretty easy. There's a very
efficient subway system that runs twenty-four hours a day. Anyone who has to
travel across the city uses the subway. All the gasoline got turned into
lemonade, so cars are pretty useless, and all the horses turned into centaurs
and they only give rides to the really pretty people. And even then, most
people don't want to pay a centaur for a lift because the resulting equinoids
are just really unfortunate looking. So, most people walk, bicycle or take the
train.
Here are some interesting local sites, easily available via
the subway.
The Black Center - The Black Center is the city's oldest art gallery and performing arts space. The Wizard City Philharmonic Orchestra plays there seasonally, and the Wizard City One-Man Band plays there far too often. The paintings in the gallery are nice, but many are magical and more than one patron has tumbled into a painting of the ocean and drowned. We recommend staying behind the red velvet ropes.
Shadow Town - This is where most of Wizard City's Shadow People live. It's not the nicest looking area, but Shadow People don't need anything but light to survive, so you can understand the scarcity of corner stores and public amenities. That said, after sundown, it is the brightest neighborhood in Wizard City.
Scotland Square - For some reason, it's always foggy and chill around Scotland Square. Even at the height of summer. The locals don't seem to mind. They cater to caledonophiles. You can buy everything from single malt whiskey to cashmere scarfs in the little shops around the square. In the evening, bagpipers take to the rooftops and play awful, mournful songs until midnight. (After midnight, anyone playing the bagpipes in Wizard City can be killed with no consequences except a heartfelt "Thank you!" and a nice commemorative ribbon.) We recommend grabbing a drink at The Phantom Bagpiper, which has the best whiskey in town!
West Valley - On the surface, there isn't much to see in West Valley unless you're into suburban decay. Old housing developments sit mostly abandoned and forlorn, slowly being eaten by the surrounding countryside, and packs of feral children run through the streets hunting the smaller packs of feral dogs. But the area has an interesting history. Colonel Sherman West was born here and his childhood home is a museum, meticulously maintained by volunteers. West was a hero of the Great Chicken War, defeating Cockzilla in personal combat. After the war, the Colonel dabbled in necromancy and fast food, combining the two and creating the popular ZomBurger chain. We recommend checking out the Colonel West Home Museum, unless you're sensitive to hauntings, as we're told the building is quite active, paranormally speaking.
Shadow Yard - At the beginning of the Magical Girl Apocalypse, somebody dropped nukes. A lot of people died from the nukes, but a lot of people got changed into Shadow People. After the war, Shadow Yard is where many of them congregated for processing as they sought to build new lives in Wizard City. Some have compared Shadow Yard to Ellis Island, but others compare it to an internment camp. Today, Shadow Yard is the site of the Shadow Experience Museum, an immersive experience where people can relive the shock, trauma and fear of the Shadow People as they were detained in near-lightless conditions while their citizenship applications were processed. Thankfully, only eight people a year now die from going through the Shadow Experience. It used to be much higher, which had a negative impact on the local tourist industry. We recommend the Shadow Experience Museum, and also Hiroshima Josie's Light Bar & Eatery across the road from the museum. Great food in comfortable surroundings!
Lake LeFay - Named after the city's founder, Lake LeFay offers a pleasant respite from the hurly-burly of big city life. The lake was created during a wizards' duel and the waters are innately magical. The lake never freezes, even during the coldest winters, and is home to a number of attractive drowning spirits who attempt to lure joggers and passersby to a watery grave. Swimming and boating are prohibited, but fishing from the shore is allowed as long as one signs a waver releasing the city from any indemnity.
University Square - The site of Wizard University, University Square is a large concrete plaza containing a large iron statue of the University's founder, Doctor J. Krowling. It is commonly agreed that the statue is very bad, but even though everyone talks about replacing it, it never seems to happen. The University itself is a collection of old, rather drafty buildings fronting the square with tattered and faded banners hanging over the entrances. The student body is quite small as entrance to the University is achieved via magical blood-duels carried out in the Square each autumn. It is a hugely popular event and attracts thousands of spectators. The University is not open to the general public, for safety reasons, but private tours can be arranged for a hefty fee via the Bursar's Office.
Blood Valley - The apocalypse warped nature in all manner of ways and Blood Valley is an excellent example of that disruption. All the trees in the valley bleed. Blood pours from their trunks, down their limbs, staining the earth and filling the air with the distinctive coppery smell of fresh-spilt blood. Most people find it very off-putting for one reason or another, while a certain type of person finds the Valley quite to their 'taste.' Literally.
Blood Valley is home to a wide variety of hemovores, but mostly garden-variety vampires. The warped nature of the place allows them to slake their thirst for blood without actually inconveniencing anyone. In fact, an entire cottage industry has evolved in the area, akin to the maple syrup industry, wherein the locals tap the trees for fresh blood that they preserve and sell to outsiders. If you go to Blood Valley, we recommend that you visit one of the mom & pop blood bottling operations. Also, make sure to wear boots you can rinse clean!
Merlin's Gargoyle - No one knows the origin of this gigantic gargoyle statue, but it's believed to predate the Magical Girl Apocalypse. Local lore surrounding the statue is varied and contradictory. Regardless of its origins, the statue is the largest free-standing statue in the city and attracts a great many tourists to the area. If you go, we recommend visiting late in the day when the crowds are thinner.
Maiden City - Maiden City is one of those tourist attractions that draws people because of its infamous history. The neighborhood was the sight of the Washburn Clinic for Moral Correction, a facility that offered to "correct" the memories and personalities of sexually aggressive young women. It accomplished this via a combination of neuro-electrical stimulation, surgery and extensive drug therapies. At one point, the Washburn Clinic housed 300 'patients' in various stages of 'treatment.' The clinic, and its founder, came to a messy end when the Radical Anti-Virgin Front firebombed the facility. The RAVF's leader, Ophelia Shakespeare, killed Doctor Washburn by publicly castrating him. With her teeth. Since then, Maiden City has become a haven for those who don't conform to the sexual norm. If you go to Maiden City, we recommend checking out the Happy Rainbow Sex Museum for its collection of auto-erotic automata, and the Convent of the Virgins of St. Gwar, a cloistered nunnery whose members are easily recognizable by the grotesque masques that they wear in public.
Forest Square- Forest Square is an area, exactly one city block in size, occupied by artificial trees. They are part of a public art installation created by noted artiste, Kashmere Van Der Kant. Exactly what the installation is meant to symbolize remains unknown, as Van Der Kant died moments after overseeing the installation of the final synthetic tree. The installation was left in place by the city and remains in good shape, although several homeless bands have made camp in the installation in recent months. If you go to Forest Square, we recommend going in the day and being reasonably well-armed.
The Black Manticore - Found at the bottom of a short flight
of stairs down a narrow, dirty alleyway, the Black Manticore is the most famous
bar in Wizard City. They say Colonel West got the idea for ZomBurger while at
the Manticore, and that Marie-Ann LeFay killed her mirror doppelganger assassin
in the ladies' room. Legend and lore collect and metastasize around the Black
Manticore, and the owner, Elvis Vonnegut IV, denies none of them. The place
attracts a diverse clientele, ranging from the most morally dissolute to some
who could be considered saints. If you go to the Black Manticore, we recommend
health insurance, body armor and a selection of lethal weapons. Also, a cast
iron liver, as the drinks in the Manticore will knock you on your ass.
Opera Square - The Wizard City Opera House dominates this square. It is a grande dame of a building, a massive confection of marble, concrete and spun diamantine glass. The building was designed and built by the mad genius, Isobard Drayborn, and there are rumors that his ghost still haunts the attics. The building has an unusual history, having burned down twice, been flooded three times and ravaged by a tornado. It has always been rebuilt with miraculous alacrity thanks to the support of the Society of the Incurably Rich. There is a lively betting pool among the locals, patrons and employees as to what sort of disaster will strike the Opera House next. If you visit the Opera House we recommend wearing comfy shoes, always knowing where the nearest exit is and not playing at ghost-baiting.
South Dee - This nondescript lane of rather shabby looking buildings is the home of most of Wizard City's enchanters and potion-brewers. Also flim-flam artists, confidence men, hoaxers, fakers, cheats and farces. The common attitudes on the street are 'Let the buyer beware' and 'There's a sucker born every minute.' That said, if you know what you're looking for, you can find some good deals on South Dee, as well as some things that may not be entirely legal. If you go to South Dee, we recommend checking out Pratchett's, a reputable shop dealing mostly in minor enchanted items and less explosive potions.
If you decide to visit Wizard City, we recommend going between February and June, and traveling via air-whale. Although rail service has lately been established with the cities of New Genocide and Rad Island, there are still many chicken-people tribes lurking in the countryside just waiting for a chance to attack a train full of succulent, delicious non-chickens. Also, travel via air-whale is cheaper and more comfortable.
On February 14, the Love Parade makes its way around Wizard City. On this day, wizards traditionally cast random love/lust spells on the populace, to ensure that the city's population continues to grow.
May 5th is the start of the Founder's Day Celebrations. Founder's Day is actually a week-long event. During this week, laws regarding recreational substances are suspended and everybody gets blotto.
May 12th is Hangover Day. On this day, the entire city shuts down. Only the trains continue to run, operated by constructs who weren't able to get blotto during the past week.
Enjoy your trip!
What to See?
There are a number of interesting sites to explore around
the city.
The Royal Palace is the thing most newcomers want to see,
and it is impressive. The building sprawls so much that it occupies its own
district. Not only is it the biggest building in Pandora, it is also one of the
oldest. Local folklore says that Pandora herself placed the first foundation stone.
(It also says that her legendary box is
buried somewhere beneath the place!)
The Palace is surrounded by high walls and expansive
gardens. It's not generally open to the public except on certain holidays, such
as Candlemarch on February 3 or Saint Torolo's Day on August 18th. (However! Private tours of the grounds can
be arranged, if you pay the right people!)
Saint Penitants Hospital is another popular attraction (Believe it or not!). The hospital
offers tours of its asylum for 3r per person and children under ten get in for
free. Visitors can ramble along an elevated walkway above the cells of incurably
insane eccentrics, looking down on them as they go about their business. Some
of the patients look forward to the visitors and can be quite chatty. (Don't
worry. The Really Dangerous Incurables are locked up elsewhere!)
Visitors to Saint Penitants can also observe various
operating theaters, where you can watch surgeons perform appendectomies or even
some of the experimental surgeries that the hospital is known for. (If this is your cup of tea, we recommend
finding a seat in the gallery overlooking the recovery ward. It's always
interesting to see how someone reacts when they wake up and discover their
fingers have been replaced with tentacles.)
The Carnvial District is, of course, a big draw for
newcomers. Place du Cirque is the site
of a permanent carnival, which includes a roller coaster, a ferris wheel and
various midway attractions. There is
also a big top where traditional circus acts are still performed. (Be warned though, that if you have a thing
about Clowns, you probably want to avoid Carnival District because those creepy
fuckers are everywhere!)
But don't worry if the circus isn't your cup of tea.
Carnival District offers a wide range of amusements, ranging from theaters and
concert halls to night clubs, brothels and casinos. There are also plenty of
street performers. Note that the district's amusements are closed by law on Sundays
and cannot reopen until sunset on Ragsday.
After experiencing the mad whirl of the Carnival District,
the Garden District can provide a nice change of pace. The Garden District is
owned by the Royal Family, but it is open the public. The entire district
consists of nothing but parks and gardens. In the warmer months, it's a riot of
bright flowers, but during the winter days, many garden enthusiasts appreciate
the geometry and structure of the place.
There are wide green fields where games of football and rugby are
played, kites can be flown (Kite flying
is a Very Popular pastime!), and picnics can be enjoyed. In July, the Eyfendrewbri Music Festival takes
place in the Garden District, and in September locals gather for the Burning
Mime festival. (Burning Mime is just what
it sounds like. Convicted mimes are packed into a giant wicker mime and set
ablaze. People love it. The mimes? Not so much.)
If you're interested in sport, the only proper athletic venue
in the city is King Bailey's Stadium, in Karcell. Known commonly as the
Stadium, it was built in 1924 by King Bailey, an avid bato enthusiast. In 1985,
the Stadium was torn down and rebuilt. Today, the Stadium hosts a wide range of
athletic events, everything from boxing and wrestling to indoor rugby and bato. (Bato is a popular local game. Its a bit like soccer, but the players
can only touch the ball with wooden clubs, and there are no such things as
personal fouls. A good game usually involves broken bones. Pandorans love it.)
There isn't much to see outside the city. Some of the farms
and manors do offer tours, but that's about it.
Some photographers are enchanted by the island's windsept tundra-like
landscape, and there are a couple of photo safaris available in the summer, but
that's about it. (Also, wandering outside
the city increases your chances of encountering wild grendels which would be a
Very Bad Thing!)
What is it?
An island that you won't find on any map, and a city on that
island.
Where is it?
No one is sure. Most people who've been there believe it's
somewhere in the North Atlantic, based on the climate and the terrain. However,
Pandora's exact location is unknown, and all attempts to quantitatively locate
it fail spectacularly.
Why is it?
If you believe the locals, the island was the refuge of the
mythical Pandora, who fled there after the whole incident with the box. They say she was taken pity on by some
unnamed power, greater than the Hellenic pantheon, and spirited away to the
island that now bears her name, so that she could find some measure of peace.
Others followed in her footsteps and the native Pandorans
are all descended from refugees, exiles and a myriad of others who fled the
outside world because it no longer held a safe place for them. As such, they tend to be very welcoming to
individuals in trouble.
The only way to get to Pandora is by the Pandoran Ferry.
It's a boat that travels to and from the island at least once a month, although
sometimes twice. It is the only vessel that can reach the island. Any others
that try fail. Most are never seen or heard from again. The Ferry puts into
various ports around the world, from Boston to Hong Kong to Capetown. There is a schedule, but it seems to change
often and to the whims of the Ferry's mysterious Captain. Rumors of the Ferry's
arrival circulate locally about a week ahead of its actual appearance. Passage is booked at the ship and the fees
are negotiable. However, cabins fill up fast so get there early if you want a
spot.
When the Ferry departs for Pandora, it seems to enter a
timeless, misty realm where neither the sun, moon or stars are visible. Watches
and personal electronics will usually stop working. The only reliable timepiece
on the Ferry is the Captain's pocket watch.
Travelers are advised to stay below deck, in their cabin or
the passenger lounge. Sometimes people vanish off the deck. The Ferry's crew refer to these
disappearances as the Toll. Some of them whisper about the Monsters in the
Mist, but these sailors usually don't last too long on the Ferry.
The Ferry will arrive at the docks. There, passengers
disembark into the waiting arms of island officials.
You'll be taken to the Customs Office on Peabody Street.
There, you will be examined by a doctor from Saint Penitents, and interviewed
by the Customs Officer, Mister Barthenel(Who
is Very Nice). Your belongings will be searched. Contraband items will be
seized. You may be searched, as well,
but this happens Very Rarely. Any
currency you have will be exchanged for the Pandoran rho. (Don't worry, the exchange rate is very fair.) You'll be issued an identification card with
your picture on it. (The picture is
usually a Very Good Sketch but sometimes a Very Unflattering Photograph.) After all of this, you'll sit through a very
short film to help familiarize yourself with local etiquette and then you'll be
allowed to enter the city.
Once you leave the Customs Office, we recommend that you
visit the Welcome Wagon. It is just outside the Customs Office.
The Welcome Wagon is a bright pink truck, mounted on
cinderblocks, surrounded by wooden troughs full of brightly colored plastic
pinwheels. In its previous life, it was an ice cream truck. Now, it is the
Welcome Wagon.
The Welcome Wagon is a free resource available to all
newcomers to Pandora. It is sponsored by the Knitting Society and the Royal
Philanthropic League. It is open from 10:00 AM to 5:00 PM, Monday thru
Saturday, and closed Sunday and Ragsday. (Note
that the Pandoran week has eight days, the seven days your familiar with and
then Ragsday.)
The Welcome Wagon is usually staffed by Mrs. Allwall of the
Knitting Society and Mr. Yanel from the Royal Philanthropic League. (Don't stare at Mr. Yanel's glass eye; it's
Rude and Very Bad Luck.)
The Welcome Wagon can provide newcomers with all sorts of
useful information: a map of the city, subway schedules, information on various
neighborhoods, the best place to buy yarn, how much to tip the maître d' at
Kvaltjen's to get a Good Table and what to do if you run into a wild grendel in
the city. (The last one happens Very,
Very Rarely! We promise!)
The Welcome Wagon can also provide resources on where to
find a job, where to find somewhere to live and a list of social organizations
where you can make new friends and learn interesting new skills such as
firewalking or knife-catching.
Honestly, that depends on if you're just visiting or plan on
staying.
If you're visiting, we recommend the Santa Clause Hotel, on
Bavwen Plaza in Starwell. It's just a short walk from Nightjohn Station, and
close to the Carnival District and Old Town, so there's lots of fun and
interesting things to do. The prices are very affordable, 9r per night for a
single occupancy, 15r per night for a double.
If you fancy something more upscale (and Expensive!), we would recommend the Knizbeth Inn, on Gerr
Street, in the Three Princes District. The Knizbeth Inn is close to the Palace,
the Garden District and Peverelle. Fine dining and all manner of entertainments
are nearby, and the Inn's staff are more than happy to make recommendations. Be
warned, though, that rooms at the Knizbeth Inn are a bit pricey. An average
room will cost you 40r a night! (But that
includes a host of amenities, including Hot & Cold Running Room Servants.
Yowza!)
However, if you plan on staying in Pandora, you'll want to
find more long-term accommodations that won't empty your pockets.
Many newcomers find their feet at the Bellerephon Apartments
in Oceanview. They're very affordable(30r
per month), the lease is month-to-month, and they offer a striking view of
the ocean. (They're also supposedly
Haunted, which would explain the cheap rent and high renter turnover rate.)
House-sharing is common, especially among the Outsider
community. You can usually find such accommodations available in Old Town and
the University District.
If you're really strapped for cash, (Or just want to save your pennies) there are flophouses in the
Wharf District as well as the Seahorse District. Be warned though that
flophousers tend to be dirty, dangerous and/or mad.
If you're Really Desperate, you could always sleep rough in
the Garden District or take up residence in one of the old, abandoned homes
just outside the city. There are several
such houses within walking/bicycling distance of Functionary Station and
Raven's End.
If you're Completely Crazy, you can go to Saint Penitents
Hospital. They'll give you a nice, warm bed every night, but you have to agree
to take part in their Medical Experiments. (So
you might not wake up from that nice, warm bed they offered you, or you might
wake up with more appendages than when you went to sleep!)
And, if you're Suicidal, you could sleep on the Underground.
Be warned though, if the Train Police catch you sleeping rough on the
Underground, they'll give you a good kicking(if
you're Lucky!) or just throw you to the Gap Monsters.
Many newcomers are surprised at how easy it is to get around
Pandora.
The main means of getting around is the Underground. This is
the subway system that extends beneath the city. Please note that the
Underground is not actually considered part of Pandora, and that it falls under
the authority of the King of the Underground. (More about His Subterrestreal Majesty later!)
The trains run all night and all day, all year long, except
for the Silent Days in December. Otherwise, the trains are quick, efficient and
mostly safe. Infractions of the Underground rules, posted prominently in
Stations and on the trains themselves, are dealt with swiftly and violently by
the red-coated Train Police. (Trust us.
You do NOT want to get caught Breaking the Underground Rules.)
If the Underground seems daunting, there are many surface
travel options.
There are City Buses (Antiquated
things apparently imported from the automobile graveyards of various
third-world nations!) that run most of the week from about 7:00 AM to 10:00
PM. An in-district round-trip ticket
costs 1r. Traveling between districts costs one additional rho. There are no
transfers between the Buses and the Underground. The buses run on bio-diesel
and smell pleasantly of French fries.
Aside from Military, Police and Rescue Service vehicles,
motor vehicles are forbidden within the city. However, there are transport
options.
Rickshaws are cheap, costing 1r per person for every mile
pulled. Rickshaw wallahs are Very Fit and Very Knowledgeable about the city. (They're also prone to Road Rages that can
amass impressive body counts!)
Bicycles and rickshaws are common throughout Pandora, and it
isn't odd to spot a palanqueen being carried about some of the richer
neighborhoods.
Horses and horse-drawn carriages are allowed in the city,
but maintaining a mount is expensive. Stables charge between 5 and 10r per week
just for stabling. Feed costs extra.
Traveling by hired carriage is usually more expensive than
taking the Bus or the Underground, but it's also more private. Carriage-taxis
charge 1r per mile and many are only licensed to operate in one district. Unlicensed taxis(Commonly known as wild horses) operate illegally across the entire
city, but are at risk of being stopped by the blackjacks. The carriage driver
and any occupants are likely to get thrown in jail. The horse is likely to be
seized by the government and sent to the Farms outside the city or publicly
auctioned off to various interested parties. (Which includes some very well known restaurants!)
Travel by foot is probably the most common means of getting
around the city. Pandoran neighborhoods are very pedestrian friendly.
Of course, the efficiency of all of these modes of transport
are influenced by the season. During the warm months of spring and summer,
traveling by foot and rickshaw is no great difficulty. However, in autumn and
winter, when the snows fall, travel by anything other than City Bus and
Underground can be a bit daunting. After the first snowfall, rickshaws vanish
from the city streets and don't appear again until spring.
The Pandoran diet is mostly protein, with lots of fats and
some random carbohydrates on the side. Fish and mutton are common and pretty
cheap. Beef is available, but it's expensive. So is horse. Pork has to be
imported and is Very Expensive. Birds, by Pandoran law, can only be eaten by
the Royal Family, and they only eat them during special events.
Milk is plentiful, thanks to dairies outside the city. Milk
products, such as cheeses and sour cream, can be found in most stores.
Outside of certain legal restrictions, variations on most
world cuisines can be found in the city, although with a unique Pandoran twist.
For example, you can buy fried potatoes pretty much everywhere, but if you want
an American-style hamburger, you'll have to go to one of the more expensive
restaurants around town.
The variety of fresh fruit and vegetables available to
Pandorans was very limited until the last ten years or so, when a group of
enterprising Pandorans constructed large greenhouses around the city. Now
Pandorans can enjoy things like strawberries and tomatoes year round. More
exotic fruits, like pineapples and mangos, still have to be imported and are
Expensive. (At one time, fresh pineapples
were given as wedding presents because they were so expensive!)
If you've got the rhos, the best restaurant in Pandora is
Kvaltjen's. It's on Sochi Avenue, in Three Princes District. Seating is by appointment only, and the menu
is set, but changes every couple of days. This restaurant is Very Expensive but
well worth the price. The food is extraordinary. The service is exemplary. (It's rumored that Kvaltjen's caters private
dinners where emissaries from Pandora and the Underground meet to discuss
various topics of mutual interest.)
If you want a less expensive and more traditional Pandoran
dining experience, we suggest Mama Bonan's in Starwell District. This lively
family restaurant offers traditional Pandoran cuisine six days a week. The menu
is a la carte, and prices are Very Reasonable. Mama Bonan, the owner and cook,
often steps into the dining room to chat with the customers. If she takes a
shine to you, she might offer you some of her homemade kamstandeldost, a decadent desert consisting of chocolate, sour
cream and fermented berries.
If you would rather have something quick, Pandora has a
number of fast-food options.
Kendi's is a popular local chain, well known for its menu of
fried fish, fried potatoes and fried cheese. Their mascot is a buxom, blonde
cartoon girl with pigtails believed to be based on the founder's first wife. (Who disappeared under Mysterious
Circumstances several years ago outside the city. They say she was carried off
by wild grendels, but a body was Never recovered.)
L'experience Francaise is another popular local chain.
Inspired by the Pandoran affection for all things French (Except mimes! Ugh!), L'experience Francaise offers soups and
salads, as well as steak tartare, croque monsier, gratin dauphinois,
ratatouille and aligot. Their restaurants are decorated in the red, white and
blue colors of the French flag and employees are required to be fluent in
French. (No big deal, since most
Pandorans are multilingual, but it usually surprises newcomers.)
Nirvana Burger is a chain of vegetarian places that serve veggie
burgers, French fries, salads and soups. They're open late and are very popular
with the afterhours set.
FishFood is another popular chain, offering walk-through
sushi and sake takeout boxes for a very reasonable price. (There's a rumor that Prince Oliver pops into the FishFood in
Government Center, incognito, after a particularly grueling day governing the
city. But don't tell anyone that we told you this!)
Then there are the usual range of food wagons and food carts
offering everything from fried fish sandwiches to boiled mutton and spicy
cheese poppers. If you do eat from a food wagon or cart, make sure it's
displaying an official sticker from the Ministry of Health. These are usually
safe. If they don't have the sticker, it's best to avoid them.
Despite its remoteness, Pandora offers its residents a
vigorous retail experience. You can find all of the essentials pretty easily
and a surprisingly wide range of luxury goods. (Depending on your idea of luxury!)
Most neighborhoods have a corner grocery offering staple
goods such as beer, wine, canned tuna, bar soap and toilet paper.
Pharmacies usually serve multiple neighborhoods and are
always associated with a doctor's office, which must be associated with Saint Penitents. Pandoran pharmacies often produce their own
medicines (To Very Strict health
standards!), and offer products that are restricted or illegal in other
countries. For example, Kerndurg's Coca-Pills are an over-the-counter drug
containing cocaine and advertised as a 'tonic for the body, mind and spirit.' A
wide range of marijuana-laced products, ranging from stress tinctures to
edibles, have been available to the Pandoran public for the last century, and
marketed as cures for anxiety, hypertension and insomnia.
Specialty stores can be found throughout the city, operating
as independent establishments. Unlike fast food, which has established chains
across the city, retail establishments have yet to duplicate this feat.
Most districts have a central shopping street or plaza, akin
to an American Main Street or a British High Street. During the spring and summer, these streets
and plazas often host open air markets where locals can by fresh produce, local
arts and crafts.
And although retail chains and big box stores haven't sank
their claws into Pandora, one outside retail institution did catch on: the
shopping mall.
The first shopping center constructed in Pandora was the
Shopping Center on Darvi Avenue, in Karcell. It was a huge two-story building,
housing seventeen retail establishments, that opened in 1992. The Shopping
Center was an enormous success and soon similar centers were being built across
the city. Most would fail and close, but
some would thrive.
The biggest and best shopping center in the city is the
Krishime Mall in Peverelle. Krishime Mall is a three-story building, housing
forty two retail stores. It has a food court on the first floor and a movie
theater on the second floor. Popular stores include Breklev's Jewels, Gilshe
& Rankar Childrenswear, Yah Books and Cinderella's, a high-end dress shop
patronized by Queen Lilah and Princess Yanelle.
The other major shopping center in Pandora is the Government
Park Center, just a block away from the Government Park Station. Government
Park Center is a one-story structure, housing twenty-one businesses, including
a neighborhood market and a pharmacy/doctor's office. Popular stores in the mall include William
Slade, a fashionable menswear store; Sizaku Steps, the most expensive shoe-store
in Pandora, and ChadComp, which sells rebuilt computers and electronics.
However, the vast majority of Pandora's retail
establishments remain homegrown mom & pop businesses, serving the needs of
their neighborhood or a select clientele.
For example, Exile's Market, in Oceanview, focuses on
serving the needs and wants of outsiders. Their stock apparently consists of
goods imported from off-island. In reality, however, the majority of the goods
are from local sources. The owner of Exile's also owns a print shop and he
slaps new labels on existing packaging. Everybody knows he does it, but
everybody plays along because it's a nice gesture. (And, according to rumors, sometimes he actually does get legitimate
outside products that he sells to his customers.)
There is also a Black Market, which sells illegal goods (like frozen chicken nuggets) smuggled
through Customs or brought ashore by shady sailors from the Ferry.
Occasionally, contraband goods (like Gap
Monster teeth) are brought up from the Underground.
The Black Market is well-organized, Very Very Paranoid and
Extremely Dangerous. Black marketers disguise themselves with masks and magics,
deal only in cash and vanish at the first hint of trouble. Mostly, they meet
among the failed neighborhoods north and east of the city, although sometimes
transactions are carried out on the busy streets of the Carnival District, the
back of a City Bus, or shunned places like Sorrow's Point.
Getting caught buying or selling black market goods is a
serious offense and has serious consequences. We highly recommend you don't get
involved! (Unless you absolutely HAVE to
HAVE the latest version of Grand Theft Auto!)
Another source of goods (Less
dangerous than the Black Market?) is the Underground. Underground Markets
pop up randomly beneath the city according to an eccentric schedule known only
to the King of the Underground and the Market Master. The Underground Market is
sometimes allowed to set up in an Underground Station, which attracts all sorts
of attention from the Pandoran authorities. However, since the Underground
isn't part of Pandora, there isn't really anything the blackjacks and
inspectors can do but glower and glare at people. And if they do that too much,
the Train Police will tell them to leave.
You can find items in the Underground Market that you can't find elsewhere in Pandora. By mutual agreement, the Underground Market doesn't sell items that Pandora considers contraband. You won't find firearms or frozen chicken breasts for sale, but you can find hallucinogenic mushrooms and bioluminescent fungi, as well as antiques of dubious origin and exotic fruits and vegetables, such as spiked cabbages and abrabananas. You can even find people selling maps to the Long Stair and the Brass Door. If you do buy anything from the Underground Market, just be warned that doing so might attract unwanted attention from the authorities.
Siobhan stood at the railing, shivering in the damp mist that had enveloped the ferry ever since they had left Tory. The boat had left after midnight, and the past three days had passed in a strange, sunless twilight. The passengers were allowed on deck, and many had spent that first day at the rails, squinting into the swirling mist. Eventually, most had returned below deck, to their cabins, to endure the voyage in solitude.
Noise. The sound of voices belonging to men and woman. Some shouting in conversation, others raised in anger. Weaving through it all the scream of gulls, the sputter of engines, the mournful sound of bagpipes and the bright shimmer of a guitar. Voices, fine and pure, raised in a song, piercing the din like a silver needle, the words a mystery to her.
The smells. God! The smells! The stink of the sea, of brine and fish, tangled up with the smell of diesel and burning coal. The wind carried the scent of unwashed bodies and rotting meat to her nose, slammed Siobhan's senses with smells of exotic spices and fresh-cut lumber, blood and ozone, fresh-baked bread and burning meat.
Her eyes drifted from the wharf, the docks, to wooden warehouses. Cobblestoned streets wove among the building, climbing a gently rising hill. She saw horse-drawn carts, laden with goods, plodding through crowds of pedestrians, bicyclists and even what she recognized as rickshaws. Siobhan's gaze went up the hill, noting old buildings of wood and stone, what looked like wrought iron street lamps. She saw more modern-looking buildings, standing on cliffsides, facing the ocean, and beyond them a haze of gray that could have been rain or buildings or just smoke.
She swallowed and clenched the railing.
"It's so much more than I thought it would be," Siobhan said, very softly.
Beside her, Lizec grinned.
"Welcome to Pandora."
Quinn Wyndham lived in the village of Glint. He was 17 years old, with long dark hair, dark blue eyes and a dark complexion. He had drifted from job to job since he was 12, none of them able to hold his interest for very long. Now, his parents were fed up and they had told him to either get a job or get out of their house. So, Quinn had taken a job as a messenger. His first assignment was to deliver a letter from Glint to the town of Hart's Hill, through the Grimmwood.
And so, wearing borrowed armor and armed with a couple of daggers and a shortsword, the letter tucked safely into his pack, Quinn Wyndham set out on his adventure.
* * *
The walk from Glint to the edge of the Grimmwood took about four hours. Most of it was uphill as Glint was near the coast.
It was easy to tell when he had reached the Grimmwood. The dirt road, wide enough for two carts to pass one another, vanished between dark trees. As Quinn drew nearer, he saw that the trees appeared to have frightening faces growing out of their trunks. The tree limbs stirred in the breeze, as if trying to grasp Quinn as he drew near. Drawing a deep breath, Quinn screwed his courage to the sticking place, and stepped into the Grimmwood.
* * *
After an hour in the Grimmwood Quinn was feeling more at ease. He'd heard the stories about this place. Growing up in Glint, it was impossible not to hear them. But the forest didn't seem that different from any other wood he'd visited. The trees were tall and, past the forest's edges, had a comforting lack of scary faces. Animals moved through the brush. The birds....
For the first time, Quinn realized that the birds had gone silent. That, in fact, the entire forest seemed to have gone silent. He stopped walking and, nervously, looked around himself.
It's almost like the Grimmwood is holding its breath, thought Quinn.
And then he heared something moving through the brush. Moving closer. Something that clicked and clacked, like the sound of dice being shaken in a cup.
Instinctively, Quinn gripped the hilt of his blade and turned in a circle. Part of his mind was yelling at him to take cover, to hide, but Quinn knew that if he did that then he might as well give up now because he would never make it to Hart Hill.
He turned, slowly, and spotted two flickering lights in the distance. At first, he thought that they were lanterns, but as they moved closer, accompanied by the click-clack sounds, soon Quinn could see that they were not lanterns.
The yellow light poured out of the empty, bone sockets of a monster. It stood about as tall as Quinn himself, but lacked all flesh. The creature was skeletal, made entirely of bones bound together with glowing copper wire. With every step it took, its wired bones clicked and shifted against each other, creating the distinctive sound that gave this creature its name: rattlebones.
It moved toward Quinn at a steady pace, and as it did Quinn saw that, instead of hands, the creature's limbs ended in rusty shortswords.
Quinn drew a breath and unsheathed his own shortsword. The hilt felt hot and sweaty in his hands and he thought back to the long hours on the village green, being forced to practice by Master Galt.
The rattlebones bore down on Quinn.
Some part of Quinn's mind was screaming at him that he should have run. Quinn willed that part to shut up, and stepped forward, swinging his blade at the skeleton.
The blade slammed into bone. Sparks flew upon contact between the steel and the bones. One of the creature's arm bones splintered, and it rocked backwards on its bony heels.
Quinn thought that he might have had a chance, but then the rattlebones lunged forward with its sword-hands. The blades skittered across Quinn's chest, scraping against his third-hand leather armor, glancing off of his right arm. It tore through his shirt-sleeve, seared across his arm. Quinn hissed and danced back, more on instinct than anything else.
He retaliated, slamming his blade into the rattlebones' ribs. They popped and cracked like brittle sticks and the weird sulfurous light in its eyes flickered for just a moment, but it seemed to recover.
It stepped away from Quinn, circled him. Quinn turned to follow it, hoping to anticipate its attack, but the rattlebones was fiendishly quick. It lunged forward, moving in a blur. Quinn felt the blade-hands rake across his thigh and arm. Grunting, he staggered back.
You should have run and hidden, the traitorous part of his brain whispered.
"No," growled Quinn, and lunged at the rattlebones.
But the creature turned, batted Quinn's sword away, before striking again. To his own amazement, Quinn blocked the rattlebones' strikes. The first he slapped away, the second he blocked, although its rusty blade did prick his neck.
Grunting, Quinn pushed the monster away and swung wildly, desperately. His shortsword smashed through the monster's ribs, tore through the dreadful thing's spine. As it pierced the yellowed bones and copper wiring binding the rattlebones together, a shower of sparks exploded from the severed spine. The lights, glowing in the rattlebones' empty eye-sockets, vanished and it collapsed to the road.
Quinn stared at it, breathing heavily, his pulse pounding in his ears. He expected the creature to rise, to strike at him again, but that did not happen.
After a few moments, he realized that the birds were singing again. That the forest around him seemed to be breathing, having released its held breath.
Well, mused Quinn, kicking at the rattlebones' sword-hands. I guess I won.
So thinking, he staggered off of the road, and sat with his back against a tree. He watched the rattlebones, lying in the dust, just in case. But the wind felt nice against his cheeks and the forest canopy parted for a moment, letting warm sunlight touch his face. A moment later, Quinn was fast asleep.
He woke hours later, to his chagrin. His limbs were stiff, his wounds untended. The rattlebones was still lying where it fell.
Quinn cleaned his wounds as best he could, then walked over to the skeleton-creature. Methodically, he kicked its skull in and then stomped all of its bones. Just in case. Then, he drug it off the road, to lie against the tree trunk that he had slept beneath.
He considered taking its sword-hands, but the blades were somehow fused with the bones and Quinn couldn't think what he would do with them besides throw them in the woods. In the end, he shrugged and glanced at the sky.
He had a few hours before sunset, and miles to go yet before he reached Hart Hill. Shouldering his pack, he walked deeper into the Grimmwood.
The road was wide and clear of debris. Quinn made good time, although he paid more attention to the birds. But they seemed oblivious to any danger, twittering away at each other, flying between trees. After a couple of hours, Quinn did encounter the ripe, rich smell of rotting flesh.
He spotted a dark, reptilian body, about the size of a sheep, lying still among the trees. Whatever it was, it seemed quite dead. Quinn moved to the edge of the road and squinted, but decided not to investigate further. Because what if, whatever it was, wasn't really dead? Or worse? What if it was dead, but rose from the ground and attacked? His encounter with the rattlebones was still fresh in his mind.
Quinn walked on, until his legs started to tremble. He knew he would not make it to Hart Hill today, but he had hoped to make it deeper into the Grimmwood before he had to stop for the night.
He stopped and stepped, cautiously, off of the road. There were tall, strange trees nearby with a patch of rough earth between them, almost bereft of grass. He decided that this spot would do for his campsite, and settled himself for the night.
He gathered wood for a fire, and enough to keep it going, hopefully, through the night. Then, as the sun set and the Grimmwood grew dark, Quinn Wyndham settled himself against a tree. He ate some food from his pack, and sat, watching his fire, until his eyelids grew leaden.
Having layed out his bedroll, Quinn threw more wood on the fire, and then settled down for the night. Sleep came to him quickly, and he dreamed that he and the rattlebones were sparring on the village green under the critical gaze of Master Galt.
* * * * *
Quinn woke the next morning, only vaguely remembering his dreams. He pissed on the ashes of his campfire, packed his things and continued on his way to Hart Hill.
The Grimmwood seemed more natural now than it had when Quinn first entered its shadows. He set a steady pace along the road, stopping when he felt tired.
A couple of hours later, Quinn encountered a stranger. The young man was dressed in the shapeless brown habit of a Church acolyte. He was sitting on the side of the road, munching contentedly on bread and cheese when he saw Quinn.
"Good morning," the acolyte said, warily.
"And to you," said Quinn. "Are you traveling to Hart Hill?"
The acolyte shook his head. His hair was dark blonde, cropped close to his skull. "No. Glint. How is the road behind you?"
"Safer now than it was, I think," said Quinn. "May I join you?"
The acolyte nodded, and Quinn stepped off the road and sank, gratefully, into the long grass. He was very aware of the acolyte watching him with cautious interest.
"My name is Peppin of the Order of St. Edgar in Stonemark."
"I'm Quinn Wyndham, a Messenger from Glint."
"You said something about the road behind you being safer?"
Quinn nodded and recounted his encounter with the rattlebones. Peppin's eyes were wide when he finished.
"That was very brave of you to fight it," said the acolyte. "I think most folk would have fled. I know that I would have."
"I probably should have," said Quinn. He showed Peppin his torn shirtsleeve. "At the least, I wouldn't have ripped my shirt."
"That's nothing a needle and thread can't mend," said the acolyte. "I suppose that I've been fortunate. I haven't encountered anything dangerous on my travels."
"So the road behind you is good?"
Peppin nodded. He and Quinn spent the next hour or so sharing a meal and talking to one another. Peppin, who had made the trip through the Grimmwood before offered some advice.
"If you run into any more rattlebones, my friend, you don't have to fight them. If you remain still and don't move, they'll walk right past you. They're blind as a bat and only attack creatures that move."
"I didn't know that," admitted Quinn. "Thank you."
Peppin smiled and struggled into his backpack. It was larger and looked heavier than Quinn's own. He wondered, mildly, what the acolyte was doing, heading to Glint? But he didn't want to be nosy, so did not ask questions. They stood, said their farewells, and continued on their separate ways.
An hour later, Quinn spotted something lying alongside the road. Bored, he went to investigate, and, to his surprise, discovered the object was a child's toy. It was a wooden top, its once bright paint now faded by time and elements to a dreary gray. Experimentally, Quinn tried to see if it still worked, but it did not. He left it where he'd found it, and continued on his way, wondering idly what had happened to the toy's owner? Had the child lost it while traveling this road? Had the little one been heartbroken? Or indifferent? Maybe the top hadn't been left, but deliberately abandoned?
Quinn continued along the road, but as he progressed deeper through the Grimmwood, he noticed that it seemed to be changing. The forest trees were growing closer together here, the canopy overhead thicker and heavier than it had been. Along some parts of the road, the sun did not penetrate at all, creating patches of darkness that made Quinn uneasy.
The day was getting along and he hoped that the forest would open up again before sunset. He did not think that he wanted to spend the night in this particular part of the Grimmwood. For that reason, he pushed on, not pausing at sunset, but walking along in the growing gloom.
Quinn was just starting to regret his decision to not stop, when he rounded a curve in the road and saw the distinct glow of a campfire just ahead. He adjusted his backpack and approached warily.
"Hello?" Quinn called. "Is anyone there?"
"Who's that?" a gruff voice demanded from the shadows. "Who's there? Be warned. I'm armed."
Quinn raised his hands and remained where he stood.
"I mean no harm, stranger. I'm merely a traveler, heading to Hart Hill. My name is Quinn Wyndham. I'm a Messenger from Glint."
There was a pause before the voice spoke again.
"Come closer then, into the light. Let me take a look at you."
Slowly, hands still held up and away from his sword, Quinn approached the fire. As he did, he saw a figure standing on the other side. He had an impression of height, but that was all he could make out. Aside from the crossbow leveled directly at him, held in strong, white hands.
"You don't look like a bandit," said the stranger.
"I'm not," said Quinn. "I promise."
The stranger snorted and lowered the crossbow. "Well, what's life without risk? Eh? Come. Sit by the fire."
Quinn stepped forward, and, as he did so, he realized that the person holding the crossbow was a woman. She was tall, almost six feet, he estimated, wearing a tattered cloak and a wide-brimmed slouch hat jammed onto her head. As he settled himself, cautiously, by the fire, the woman adjusted the brim of the hat and Quinn saw her face: round and freckled, with eyes the color of a cloudy gray sky and a wide expressive mouth.
"My name is Celesse, stranger," said the woman. Her voice was deep, but had a friendlier tone to it. "Celesse Orman, from Hart Hill."
"A pleasure to meet you, ma'am," said Quinn. "Thanks for not shooting me."
Celesse snorted and moved the crossbow to the side. She was sitting on a log. It looked as if she had been in the middle of preparing her supper when Quinn had come upon her.
"It can be dangerous traveling this road," said the woman. She nodded at his sword. "You know how to use that, boy? Or is it just for show?"
"I can use it," said Quinn, and thought about telling her about his fight with the rattlebones, but Celesse just nodded.
"Good. You have food? I don't have much, but I can share if need be."
"No, I'm good. Thank you."
She grunted and went about preparing her meal, which consisted of dumping a packet of something dry into a small pot of water and shoving it into the fire.
"So, you're a Messenger."
"Yes, ma'am."
"That must be tiring."
"This is my first time," admitted Quinn.
Celesse grunted. She stirred her pot and Quinn saw that she wore thick brass rings on her fingers. He dreaded to think what it would be like to get punched by her.
"I travel this road more often than I'd like," said Celesse. "I got a sister in Glint who married a drunken layabout. I have to go check up on her at least once a month."
"What's your sister's name? Maybe I know her."
"Pallas. Her no-account husband is Gallo Fabian."
"Is he a laborer, in Master Fichard's warehouse?" asked Quinn.
"You know him?" Celesse asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
"No. Glint is small, but it's not that small. If you don't own a business or a farm, you probably work for Master Fichard."
Celesse nodded. "That's where he works. When he isn't there, he's at the tavern, drinking up the day's wages. Shiftless dog."
Quinn didn't know how to respond to that, so he changed the subject. "Are you married?"
"Nope," said Celesse. "Never saw the need. There's nothing a man could do for me that I couldn't do for myself. What about you? Got a wife?"
"No. It's just me. And my folks, I suppose."
"Enjoy them while you got them, boy. My ma and pa died a while back and there's not a week goes by I don't miss them."
Quinn shifted, slipping out of his backpack. He opened it and pulled out his bedroll and his rations for the day.
"So, what do you do in Hart Hill, ma'am?"
"I run a shop."
"You're a merchant?"
She nodded. "Born and bred. Orman's Emporium, on Goose Street. Swing by when you get to town. Take a look around."
"What do you sell?"
"Little bit of everything," said Celesse. "Fabric and nails. Perfume and pitch. If I don't have it, I can get it or send you somewhere else to find it."
"You must be pretty successful if you can afford to close up shop to travel to Glint."
"I don't close up shop. I let my staff run the place."
"You must trust them a lot."
"I do. No point working with people you don't trust."
She grew silent as she pulled her pot out of the fire and peered into it. Celesse wrinkled her nose and put it aside to cool.
"Who are you delivering your message to? If you don't mind me asking."
"Mrs. Eugenia Marcus on Elk Street."
"Don't know her, but Elk Street is nice. You ever been to Hart Hill before, boy?"
"No, ma'am."
"Elk Street is where the hoity-toity rich folk live." Celesse rolled her eyes. "And not one of those folks is worth two coppers, as far as I'm concerned. Never done an honest bit of work in their lives."
"It must be nice to be rich though," said Quinn. "To not have to work like a dog all day."
"I'd be bored out of my mind," said Celesse. "Most of those folks are. I think that's why they're always having fancy parties and plotting against each other. I guess it gives them something to do with their time."
Quinn shrugged and tucked into his meager meal. For a while the camp site was quiet as he and Celesse ate their meals. Afterward, they chatted for a while, about Hart Hill and Glint. Eventually, Celesse began to yawn.
"Well, that's it, boy. I'm going to get some sleep. Wake me up in a few hours and I'll take over the watch."
Quinn nodded, unaware that he'd volunteered to man the first watch or that they were even doing watches. He supposed, however, that it made sense.
Celesse lay down on her bedroll, her back to the fire. Soon, the quite campsite was disturbed by the saw-like sounds of her snoring.
Quinn tried not to laugh. He turned his own back on the fire and peered into the Grimmwood, his shortsword close to hand.
* * * * *
Morning came, heralded by the shrill songs of unpleasant birds and a gravelly, unfamiliar voice raised in song.
Quinn rolled out of his bedroll, and sat up. "Miss Orman?"
"Here," said the big woman. She was moving about the campsite, packing up her things.
"Who's singing?" asked Quinn.
"Don't know," said Celesse. "But they can't carry a tune worth a goddamn."
Silently, Quinn agreed. He walked into the woods to relieve himself, then returned to the campsite and began packing up his own things.
By the time he had slipped on his backpack, Celesse had jammed on her hat and drawn her tattered cloak around her shoulders. She didn't have a pack, just a sort of fabric bag. She tucked her crossbow out of sight, beneath the cloak.
"Well, we're burning daylight, boy," she rumbled. "Best be off. I don't like the look of that sky. You get to Hart Hill, don't forget to go by my shop."
"Yes, ma'am," said Quinn. "I hope things are okay with your sister."
"Thank you," said Celesse.
They ambled to the road's edge, just in time to see the singer come into view. It was a woman, walking in the direction of Glint. She was old, gray-white hair spilling out from underneath a blue headscarf. She wore a long-sleeved white shirt and dark trousers rolled up to her knees. Her feet were bare and as she drew nearer they could see that her skin was brown as a berry. Big golden hoop earrings flashed from her ears and she carried a sack over one shoulder.
"Ahoy, there!" shouted the woman. Her voice was like gravel in a clay bowl. "A choice mornin' to ya, fellow wayfarers!"
"Good morning," called Quinn.
Celesse did the same, eyeing the newcomer with interest.
The old woman stopped in front of them and stood there, grinning at them.
"Been walkin' all night!" she crowed. "Thought I'd be through this damn wood by now! How much further to Glint?"
"Not much further," said Quinn. "Maybe a day and a half from here."
"Bother!" The woman scowled. "I'm supposed to be in Edgewater Bay by tomorrow morning!"
"You're not going to make it," said Celesse, bluntly.
"Well, damn! I'll miss my ship!"
"You're a sailor?" asked Quinn.
The old woman grinned, revealing a mouth full of crooked white teeth. "Ingrid Rawson, at your service! Been sailin' the sea for over forty years, girl and woman!" Her smile slid away, replaced by a grimace. "I was supposed to sail out aboard the Snapdragon tomorrow. Guess that won't be happenin'!"
"Not even if you walked all night," said Celesse. "Edgewater Bay is two days from Glint, at least."
"Ah well!" Ingrid shrugged her skinny shoulders. "I'll find a berth somewhere!" She eyed them. "Either of you headin' toward Glint?"
"I am," said Celesse, cautiously.
"Mind if I keep you company, misses? Only, I ain't real happy walkin' through these gloomy woods by myself." Ingrid frowned. "All these trees give me the heebie-jeebies!"
Celesse shrugged. "Why not? I could use the company myself. Like I say, this road isn't always safe."
"Great!" said Ingrid. "Let's set sail, misses!"
And she grinned, wide and bright, and started to amble down the road. Celesse glanced at the old lady, and then looked at Quinn with a pained expression.
"Hope to see you around, boy. Safe travels."
With that, she adjusted the big brim of her slouch hat and started walking after the old sailor-woman. Quinn watched them go, trying not to grin. Then he shook his head and started out on his own way.
* * * * *
The forest remained dark and gloomy as Quinn followed the road to Hart Hill. The morning was uneventful. Hours passed and nothing of any interest happened until he rounded a curve in the road and spotted something peculiar.
There was the stump of a tree, near the road. Resting on the stump was something white and pink. As Quinn drew nearer, curious, despite himself, he saw that the object was a sea shell.
It was larger than his hand and just sitting on the stump, as if someone had left it there while they skipped off into the woods.
He thought of the old sailor-gal, Ingrid Rawson. Could she have left the shell? It seemed plausible, at least.
Curious, Quinn picked up the shell. It was heavier than he'd expected and smooth as glass. The shell had a beautiful luster to it, even in the dim light that managed to penetrate the canopy in this part of the Grimmwood.
On impulse, Quinn placed the shell against his ear and blinked. He moved it away, frowning, then, carefully, placed it against his ear again.
He heard singing, coming from the shell. It was a woman's voice and she was singing some pretty, wordless song that Quinn didn't know.
This was unusual.
Quinn had been to the seashore. He had collected sea shells. He knew that if you pressed them against your ear, you didn't hear singing. You heard the dull echo of the sea's roar.
But this....this was not natural.
"I should put this back where I found it," he said aloud.
"I really should leave it here," said Quinn, slipping his pack off of his back. "Really."
Sighing resignedly, Quinn slid the shell into his backpack, then put it back on and continued down the road.
* * * * *
Time passed. The forest remained weirdly oppressive, the sun unable to fully penetrate the thick canopy. What light did manage to penetrate was filtered and turned greenish by the leaves and vegetation. Occasionally, the wind would stir the branches, allowing a brilliant flash of true sunlight to happen and Quinn found himself looking forward, eagerly, to those moments.
Around mid-afternoon, he encountered a cart, heading in the direction of Glint. The cart was drawn by two large, gray horses. A fat old man sat on the buckboard, holding the reins in his hands. He had a finely shaved silver-white beard, sharp black eyes that swept over Quinn with cool calculation, and dark brown skin. His clothing was shabby, but Quinn noticed that the man wore a gold chain, tucked into his shirt.
Accompanying the cart were five armed guards. One was seated on the buckboard next to the driver, the other four plodding along on foot around the cart. They looked at Quinn with unabashed curiosity, but said nothing.
Quinn nodded at the little group, but did not speak. He pushed on, hoping that he would soon enter some less gloomy part of the forest.
* * * * *
The weather, which had been pleasant, began to change. The soft breeze became a strong wind, whipping the tree limbs into a frenzy and a misty rain began to fall. There were wildflowers now, growing in bright patches alongside the road. Little explosions of color that broke up the glistening, green monotony of the Grimmwood.
The wind continued to tear at the forest canopy, and the rain was now pouring down in thick sheets.
"Oh to hell with this," declared Quinn, and stepped off the road, to shelter beneath one of the tall trees. He hunkered down between its prodigious roots, wrapped his arms around his knees and wished that he had thought to pack a cloak.
As it was, it looked as if it was going to be a miserable night.
Given the weather, he thought, briefly, about continuing along the road. But the road was rapidly turning into a muddy quagmire. He didn't relish the thought of slogging through it.
No, Quinn decided. I'll stay here, out of the wind and the worst of the rain.
Hopefully, it would be better tomorrow.
* * * * *
By morning, the worst of the storm seemed to have passed. The wind had died away, and the rain had been reduced to a miserable drizzle rather than a deluge. Quinn was soaked to his skin, and feeling miserable. He checked that the letter in his pack was dry, then pulled on his backpack and headed out. With any luck, he would clear the Grimmwood today and reach Hart Hill by nightfall.
The wide dirt road was a gloppy red mess and it was easier for Quinn to walk along the edge that on the actual road. He thought about the cart he had passed yesterday and wondered how those folks had fared overnight? And Celesse and Indra?
After a few hours, the rain stopped and the forest began to dry out. Ahead of him, Quinn saw an unexpected sight: a gigantic tree with a massive tunnel cut through it so that the road could simply pass through it. He regretted now that he hadn't pressed on last night. At least the tree-tunnel would have offered greater protection from the storm.
The forest canopy began to thin out past the giant tree. Sunlight poured through the branches. Steam rose from the damp earth.
Quinn spotted a faded poster, nailed to a tree. He stopped to study it.
The poster was very old. Worn. Tattered. Faded. But he could still read it. It was a wanted poster, offering a reward of 40g for the head of Indara the Bandit Queen.
Quinn continued on his way, wondering if anyone had ever collected the reward? Or had the Bandit Queen quietly retired with all of her ill-gotten gains, to live out her golden years in comfort? Or maybe she'd met her doom, been caught and hung by the neck from some gallows somewhere?
It was a grim thought but it distracted Quinn from his muddy feet and grumbling belly, as he marched beside the road through the Grimmwood.
The afternoon wore on. The air grew hot and muggy. Around Quinn, the landscape changed as well. The earth had become swampy and the air reeked of wet, rotting things. It was difficult to tell where the muddy road ended and the swampy ground began. Quinn gave up trying to avoid the mud and marched along the center of the wide road.
After a couple more hours, the swampy land had given way to solid earth and the forest seemed more open and bright. Quinn could smell damp grass. The sun was starting to sink beneath the horizon and he started looking for a place to camp for the night. He found a spot and was pleased to discover a babbling freshwater brook nearby.
He tried starting a campfire, but all the wood was still too damp to burn. Resigned, Quinn shrugged and set out his bedroll on the driest patch of grass he could find. He dug out the last of his meager rations and ate them, watching the light fade and the moon climb into the sky. Eventually, he pulled his blanket around himself and drifted to sleep.
* * * * *
Quinton woke up the next morning, achy and tired. He packed his things together and pulled his pack onto his back. His feet ached. His belly was empty. He looked forward to getting to Hart Hill today, delivering the letter, getting a meal and finding somewhere to sleep. And if he had the time, he'd even find Goose Street and check out Orman's Emporium. He wondered. If he mentioned that he sort of knew the owner, would they give him a deal on a cloak? Somehow, Quinn doubted it.
* * * * *
He strode along the road. This morning's weather was pleasant, especially after the last few days. There was a soft breeze and the air was cool and dry. Around him, the Grimmwood grew thinner and thinner and then, rounding a bend in the road, the Grimmwood ended.
Startled, Quinn turned and saw that the trees on this side also had frightening faces. Curious, he approached one and saw that the faces actually seemed to be growing out of the trees. He wondered how that had happened? Some wizard's spell? Some kind of curse? A warning to stay away from the forest itself?
He shook his head and turned his back on the trees and the Grimmwood. Returning to the road, he spotted a young fellow approaching. Even from this distance, Quinn could spot the traveling pack strapped to the man's back. As he drew nearer, Quinn saw that the man was young and clean-shaven, curly fair hair tucked beneath an ill-fitting cap, dark brown eyes moving nervously over the Grimmwood's border trees.
"Good morning," said Quinn, taking the chance to stop and rest his aching legs.
The young man stopped and Quinn realized that the fellow was probably about his age.
"Good morning. Have you come through the Grimmwood, fellow?"
"I have," said Quinn.
"Was it as frightening as they say?"
"It had its moments," admitted Quinn. "But it wasn't all bad. I met other travelers and saw some things that I wouldn't normally see."
The youth frowned. "But there were monsters?"
"Well," admitted Quinn, "one monster. A rattlebones."
The young man went pale. "Really?"
"It's all right," said Quinn. He introduced himself. "If you meet a rattlebones, just stay still until they pass. They don't bother things that don't move."
"I'll try to remember that," said the youth. "I'm Hans, by the way. Hans Potterson."
"You're going to Glint?"
"Near there," said Hans. "My uncle's farm."
His eyes darted to the forest again, nervously.
"Well, I'd better get going."
"Hey," said Quinn, "it's not as bad as you think it's going to be."
"I suppose I'll find out," said Hans.
He gave a wan smile to Quinn, adjusted his heavy pack, and started down the road, into the forest.
Quinn watched him vanish into the Grimmwood's shadows, then turned and started walking. After the last few days, it felt odd to be walking in open air, past farmers' fields. The land rolled gently, and the road snaked around hills, branching off toward mysterious destinations.
Maybe I'll find out where they go someday, thought Quinn.
There was more traffic on the road the closer he got to Hart Hill. At one point, he was offered a ride on the back of a farmer's wagon and happily accepted the offer. That was how he arrived at Hart Hill, riding in the back of a wagon, among bushel baskets filled with early spring vegetables.
