Trailquest: Part 1

I write this so that the crown of Silspada has an official account of the events surrounding the two expeditions to the Badlands five years ago. I've written my own version, of course, and have made a fortune off the proceeds, but there is information that I was...required to leave out. Someone needs to know. Someone needs to prepare for the next time.

At the time, the Badlands was less understood by academia at large. Its anomalous properties were well known and feared, but its true nature and the extent of its horrors were only known to those who traversed it and lived. Such fools in Silspada eventually made a profession of it, forming the Adventurers' Guild, and risked life and limb and far, far more to get rare reagants and specimens for the accursed Alchemists' Guild. And Silspada applauded their foolishness, as it was stuck in economic straits, and feared the ever-growing strength of the liches to the south. Thus was the stage leading to what occurred.

The events leading to the first expedition are fairly well-known. King Benziir, may his bones rot forever in the gullets of the flock, was trapped in a secret war with his heir, Prince Vaucra, head of the Adventurers' Guild and favored among all guildmasters. While Benziir kept influence over the Alchemists' Guild, may its name be wiped out among latter generations, Vaucra had the others in his pocket, and he who controls the guilds controls Silspada's coffers, especially as the kingdom had recently been wracked with plague. As their conflict swelled to a peak, the prince fled with a group loyal to him, fled to the one place only he could safely traverse: the Badlands. As he travelled from the gate to the portal at the land's core, he hoped that his absence would give him more time to plot his survival. Instead, Benziir took the opportunity to cut down his support. Summoning assassins to take out those loyal to him. And in a fit of indignant pique, Benziir approved a second expedition into the Badlands, sponsored by head alchemist Havart. Havart, of course, had his own agendas, as his guild required certain valuable resources from the area and he personally wished to [REDACTED]. Many who joined the caravan or sponsored it had their own motives. However, the king's goal was to ensure that his unruly progeny would not usurp him. He sent an assassin. He sent me.

- First page of "A Report on the Last Expeditions of Vaucra the Enduring", by Rogura Mythtwister

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I pause here to describe the principal figures in the ongoing travails that shall follow.

The caravan was led by Lady Velend Barchant, a terrifying presence even in my memories. Chosen for her allegiance to Silspada, her overwhelming telekinetic strength, and her bitter hatred of the undead, she was a perfect representation of Benziir's Silspada: detached, unrelenting cruelty. Her second was Sir Bayorn, a vain nobleman who treated the expedition as if it was a wargame. In truth, he was an assassin who I knew as Bran, who was sent by the king to watch over me, as he suspected that I would revolt against him at the first possible moment. He was right, of course. As much as I loathed the man, he was no fool.

Below them were a handful of knights and a few dozen porters, along with some specialty staff. Shinost, in charge of maintaining fauna specimens, and a solid woman to know. Sybella Chesis, in charge of insectoid specimens, though she is known for something far grander now. Icothe Camelan-Tanokal, our geologist, who died before I even met him. Ferrum, in charge of maintenance, and terrorizing anyone he could get his hands on. Voriar Drin, in charge of more advanced maintenance and Ferrum's eventual replacement. Sayone Savat, in charge of...spiritual counselling. And Merina Silos and Thale Cerumal-Teroud, in charge of navigating the landscape and shooting it dead, respectively. They had no patience with Silspada or the leaders of the caravan, and I respected them for that.

Below them were us. Officially, we were porters, but we handled any jobs that we were given, and often served directly under Thale as part of 'specimen acquisition'. Killing things. Most of us weren't human or were otherwise not on equal standing with the rest of the caravan, so we were conveniently expendable, and were consistently expended. I was the leader de jure, a position given to me to help my cover, though I'd say I earned it by the time we left that terrible place. Many served under me, most of them now deceased, but I will name those from the initial assignment with importance. Devlin Cerumal-Teroud nee Vendelli, our muscle and charmer. Maggie Reynard and Mjarna Sudaco, our mages, each with their own...difficulties that kept them from higher standing. And Scevi, who liked knives too much for his own good.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been a fragile and tenuous composition for an expedition. Under these circumstances, it was near fatal. The final fatality rate was 95%, and it is only by a cursed deal that their souls were allowed to rest in peace.

- Second page of "A Report on the Last Expeditions of Vaucra the Enduring", by Rogura Mythtwister

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This is the true nature of the Badlands. Many in this time and age do not believe that the gods exist in truth, seeing them as spiritual figures or metaphors. But they exist, and they are why the Badlands are what they are. Long ago, the sun god of the liches, Ewachol, came down to earth to smite those who opposed him. The land where he smote them is now the Badlands, and the ground is littered with the skulls of lesser gods and spirits, their souls trapped and screaming. The greatest among them, however, still linger. Trapped eternally, their undying souls twisted by the nature of the Badlands. Whatever nobility they had before, snuffed out. They are all predators now, even the most affable among them. And always they plot. Always they seek to escape. And sometimes they do.

That is the game of the gods. When a mortal expedition goes through the Badlands, they are inevitably preyed upon. Their flesh eaten, their souls toyed with, if not utterly destroyed. But some will survive, not out of restraint or mercy, but because gods and spirits need vessels of flesh in which to escape. And each time, one god is given the opportunity to coerce someone into letting them in.
Unfortunately, by the time my expedition and Vaucra's had their turn, a rift had grown between the gods of the Badlands and the younger pantheon above. The latter believed the former had grown too arrogant and complacent as they pushed against the boundaries of their prison. So, of course, they too had a hand in our quest. Sending Sayone Savat, abandoned priestess of Muurdiz the Death Goddess, to guide our actions, and to punish the chained gods for their insolence. I am not sure whether it was because they knew we acted in the name of their jail wardens, or because royal blood attracted them, or because their appetites had simply grown too large. But our expeditions were set upon without limit. Vaucra's in particular was decimated twice over, and the survivors we found could be counted on one hand.

Ours was doomed to failure from the start, it seemed. Due to what I suspect was sabotage on the part of the caravan staff, one of the specimens escaped before we even entered the Badlands, a crustacean with the ability to form a giant shell out of nearby rock. Nearly crushed me to death with an errant stone. In hindsight, that was a blessing. It was an early wakeup call to what awaited me, and the ensuing fallout brought me close to many who would be important later, most importantly my wife. But at the time, it was only the first of many follies. When we actually entered the Badlands, we were set upon by Cjopaze, son of Ewachol, who threw down fire from the sky to destroy us. Luckily, Mjarna's water magic was enough to save most of the wagons. But it was only later that we discovered our true adversary: The Debaser, Merekens.

- Third page of "A Report on the Last Expeditions of Vaucra the Enduring", by Rogura Mythtwister

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During our travels in the Badlands, we were able to confirm a number of archaeological theories about the origins of various nonhuman species. For example, ogres such as myself were descended from the giants of the old world, who will show up later on in this tale. I say this because Merekens is the father of all shapeshifters, though he has little love left for changelings and prefers those who shift into beasts. This is because Merekens is, at his base, a hunter. The hunter, even. The singular figure from which predation itself descended.

We discovered that we were to be his prey after Scevi's disappearance and return. Scevi was a changeling, who stumbled into this adventure largely by accident. The Badlands takes a toll on one's mental health, and after a 'specimen acquisition' trip with Thale went wrong, he abandoned us and went off into the wastes alone. We marked it down as suicide, as nobody survives a night alone in the Badlands...except he did. He returned to the caravan speaking of his encounter with Merekens, and that we had been selected to be his prey.

In the end, he was not the most dangerous foe we faced in those lands. The owner of that grim honor is still waiting in the background at this point. But no foe in those lands was more physically dangerous, more likely to strike without warning. I faced certain death many times during that expedition, but for the most part, I faced that death as a hunter, as befitted my former trade. I lingered in the shadows and struck where none could see. Even when there was nowhere to hide, I faced my foes head on. Only once was I ever caught completely off-guard. On another specimen hunt, Thale foolishly stepped out of our wagon after dark to check on something in the darkness. What returned to the wagon passed as him for almost fifteen minutes, subtly attempting to pry into a mysterious black box we had obtained. When we sniffed him out, he destroyed the wagon, made by one of the best craftmages I've ever met, in seconds. And in that moment, as I was hunted in the dark, I knew I had been outplayed, that primal fear of the rabbit in the fox's jaws. Luckily, Maggie distracted him with a burst of light long enough for me to escape, and we survived to be menaced again. Even Thale...eventually.

- Fourth page of "A Report on the Last Expeditions of Vaucra the Enduring", by Rogura Mythtwister

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It would, perhaps, be wise of me to describe the acquisitions team, as I've come to call my pack of misfits, in more detail. Don't mistake this for self-aggrandizement. We were, for better or worse, essential in the events that led to the fates of Vaucra, the Enduring and the current Queen of Silspada. People should know the virtue and folly between us.

As I mentioned before, we generally reported to Thale, though we also swung the hatchet for Bayorn, Barchant and even Sybella at times. Thale has more experience with the Badlands than the rest of us (save for Merina, who unfortunately died fighting Merekens's minions early on), though I question how he survived his previous sojourns into the land. He aimed his pistols at people on a whim, tried to settle conflicts between us with duels to the death,  and had no trouble with gambling with our lives so he could play 'dashing outlaw'. At the time, I couldn't stand him, but the vitriol has faded over the years as I've interacted with him in matters that don't end in life or death. I can't say that much for Ferrum, who was also dragged along with us because he insulted Thale early on and Thale pulled rank. One of the best craftmages I've ever seen, able to make complex constructs within minutes. He was also a rapist and a torturer, and while there were other saboteurs in the caravan, I think he's the only one who undercut our endeavors solely for his own pleasure. He died alongside Merina. If only he died twice and she lived.

I have no complaints about Devlin Vendelli, save perhaps for his taste in partners. Unexpected, considering he was a scion of one of the most powerful vampire families in Silspada. He inherited none of their malice though, and when he wasn't maintaining his ostentatious hairstyle, he was a solid worker and a ready friend...as long as he was fed. He was enamored with Thale, consummating his flirtations towards him shortly before Merekens's first attack (the less said about that, the better), and when confronted with a bloodied Thale, well. Things might have been different if Thale didn't spend a few days hibernating as the vampirism took hold. Merina would have lived, I'm quite certain. But I can hardly blame him, and Thale became a lot less intolerable to work with once he was turned. Mjarna was...less affable. A tongue that could cut a horse's neck in twain. But she served well, and if it wasn't for her skill, more than Merina would have died at Merekens's hands. There was also one more porter who was instrumental in our victory, an Oricalla Avensreach, whom I had known before the expedition. But her family has requested that I keep her minor role in these events out of the record, as her abilities and profession may cast aspersions on her remaining family. I have acquiesced. It is the most I can do for her now. Simply know that she fought when called upon.

- Fifth page of "A Report on the Last Expeditions of Vaucra the Enduring", by Rogura Mythtwister

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And then, there was Maggie Reynard. I cannot promise any level of objectivity concerning this topic, but its relevance to the greater scheme of events cannot be ignored. I will nonetheless do my best to not inundate every sentence with how much I adore the woman who became my wife.

Maggie Reynard was a bard and a thief, gifted with a voice that could entrap minds and bleach them out from the inside. Unfortunately, when she went against a rival group of criminals, her skills proved insufficient. Her comrades were killed, their souls crammed into a flock of birds, and she herself was given a curse that lit her soul aflame, burning her from the inside. She would have died, if it wasn't for an encounter with a mysterious spirit. One that agreed to keep the curse at bay if she let him inhabit her, and lead her to join a particular expedition.

The spirit called himself Lleuadu, and while there were many threats to our survival in the caravan, at least those were predictable. Lleuadu would assert himself whenever Maggie was exhausted or overwhelmed, taking over her body and using it to enact all manner of havoc. He was the one who brought the wrath of Cjopaze against us, among other things. But as the danger grew and Merekens made himself apparent, we forged an uneasy alliance. No, that gives me too much credit. He knew I had fallen in love with Maggie, maybe even before I did, and he knew that she would die without her help. More relevant, her skills as a mage were absolutely indispensable. By that manner, he secured his place on the team despite his lack of loyalty to us or mortalkind in its totality, making himself useful by providing knowledge on the immortal beings we encountered. And in a way, he did earn his keep. After all, he dealt the first blow against Merekens.

- Sixth page of "A Report on the Last Expeditions of Vaucra the Enduring", by Rogura Mythtwister

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So the day came when we decided to draw the hunter out of the shadows, a cavalcade of gambits. Bayorn baited the hook, convinced of the threat after getting thrashed by some of Merekens's victims. He called a meeting of the entire caravan under false premises, and then we drew him out with the smell of blood. Once outed, Merekens revealed that he had a horde of monsters ready to descend on the camp, and that he would give them the order to fall upon us unless we gave him what he wanted: the mysterious black box. We didn't dare. It was given to us by the Hollow Men, the remnants of the timeless giants, and though we knew not what it held, it was to be vital. Vital enough for the Hollow Men to risk meeting with us and risking the wrath of the gods. So we fought.

Thale shot him with vampiric accuracy, giving Lleuadu enough time to land a lasting blow: a song that unraveled his very flesh. After that, it was a free-for-all. We burnt him, smashed him, stabbed him. At one point, one of the porters, a cleric called Mada revealed himself to be Scevi (the Scevi who returned from the wastes surprisingly alive was, in fact, Merekens) and threw a thousand knives at him. I strangled one of his heads so deftly that it popped off; I still keep the skull by my side to prove to myself that I was there. In the end, it was Sayone who dealt the final blow. Using her divine predictions to guide us beforehand, having us collect items for a ritual, one that would summon one of the demons trapped in this land to strike in our favor, at least for a while. Merekens, bruised and battered, tore open a hole to the mysterious dimension I've come to call The Red. His brother demon chasing him inside. That would have been the end of it, but Barchant insisted that we would go in there tomorrow to finish the job.

But there was one final card to be played. Lleuadu, for all his rambling about the nature of this place, never explained exactly what he was here for. What might allow Maggie's salvation. The truth only came out after that first victory, during the post-celebration bacchanal. He never had any intention of letting Maggie survive. All along, he planned to hijack her powers and use them to open the way to [REDACTED], using her soul and those of the flock that followed her as bargaining chips. He escaped with her into the portal, but not before taking particular pleasure in tormenting me with her imminent death. You'd think that there could not be higher stakes than survival. Mine, the team's, the caravan's. And yet, as I heard her screams, there were none other than finding that bastard and making him pay.

- Seventh page of "A Report on the Last Expeditions of Vaucra the Enduring", by Rogura Mythtwister

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[Translator's Note: While there were redacted segments in earlier sections, the entire first half of this page is just...slathered in black ink. Largely unreadable. There's a note in the margins that says 'See Addendum-F', but it was not included in these batch from the archives. I'll have someone look for it when I send for the second half of this report. From what I can glean, there's some mention of a bargain and souls, and the readable second half implies that Maggie was somehow rescued, though she does not play a part in what come after. I'll replace this in more detail once I find this Addendum-F.]

After that...harrowing event, we delved deeper into the tunnels, to where Merekens hid. Even a god can be wounded, and at that point, Merekens was heavily so. But he had one last contingency: the pluvial eel, an ancient rainsnake whose mouth alone was five times my size. He was no longer hunting. He wanted us alive, stuck in that beast's stomach, so he could torture us for his indignity. Use it as a new vessel by which to strike out at the world. But, like everything else in that hellish place, he underestimated us. We killed it. Not without casualties, but we did. Beat it to death and pumped it full of poison that ate it from the inside. Sent Scevi through its gullet with a retinue of knives, slicing it up from the inside. The gods in that place do not understand mortals, what we're capable of when backed into a corner. And he, perhaps, did not expect Barchant to come off her high horse and destroy him personally. Crushing his head under her heel.

The rest followed as you'd expect. We staged a daring escape from Merekens's last hurrah, a triggered cave collapse. I personally hauled Barchant out. And when we emerged, we were rewarded with a single week of normalcy. We had earned a reprieve from the game of the gods as the board was reset and a new opponent was chosen. We recuperated. I started working on the research that I'm now known for in academia. Sybella confided that she was, in fact, the Prince's niece, and of royal blood. And we worked and ate and slept and were allowed to be normal. For a little while. Just a little while.

- Eighth page of "A Report on the Last Expeditions of Vaucra the Enduring", by Rogura Mythtwister