Part 15: The Less than Legendary Journeys

Less than Legendary Journeys




You return to Pentil laden with doubt. Everything that you've seen on Sucia Island has shown the horror that results when Shaping is allowed to spin out of control. Are the Shapers not the near-omnipotent force you've always believed? Are they, and by extension, you, perhaps even monstrous, even more so than the rogues you've pitted yourself against again and again since landing here?

This is not what you thought you were choosing when you first stepped on the path to becoming a Shaper. Nothing you've seen in Sucia is as it ought to be. Your faith in the most basic tenets of Shaper law, in the ethos of your people, has been shaken.

But the foundations of that faith are sturdy. Some truths remain inviolable. The power Shapers wield is immense and must be controlled. Access to it must be limited to those who have demonstrated that they can control it. Perhaps that is why the canisters were abandoned here -- devices which can grant any human such powers are too dangerous to exist, even if they make passing on Shaper knowledge much more efficient than the years of study and service you've sworn yourself to. Those years serve another purpose: to sort out the unworthy and incapable, and to reinforce the ethics and obligations required to use Shaping responsibly.

Maybe no one is worthy of that responsibility. You can't say that you are. When given the choice between an honest death or quick power, you've consistently chosen the latter. It's only natural to want to survive -- the serviles demonstrate that -- but perhaps it's not always the right choice. Not everything natural is for the greater good.

But you've already chosen the path of expedience. More, setting foot on it has revealed that a great danger threatens your people. You can certainly decide to abandon this road at any time, but you will not. Failing to act on what you've discovered is a far worse crime than unearned power. The changes the canisters are wreaking on your body and mind go well beyond strength, spells, and Shaping; you can sense even now the subtle shift of your personality, as though a baser nature is trying to rear its head and seize control of you.

You will not be driven by avarice.



Pixley smiles when she sees you. As usual, she's busily hauling goods and conferring with other serviles, but she is happy to set aside time to serve the Shapers.

"I've cleared both bridges to the east. They should be much easier to pass now," you tell her.

"My travelers doubted me, but I knew! They said our problems were too tiny for your attention, but I knew you had returned to help us. Thank you, Shaper!" She produces a pair of gourds from her robes. "These items are very useful when we are ambushed during a journey, but they would be better put to use by you." She gives them to you before excitement overcomes her and she rushes off to spread the good news.

Shaper power can be used for more than serving oneself.

You pass by the merchant stalls as you leave. The serviles are cautiously optimistic. "At least one of the bridges to the east is clear. We can now exchange supplies with the serviles to the east. Or, at least, those of them who will deal with us peacefully," the grocer says.

All isn't well, but it can be better, at least for a time.



A few days ago, you ventured north of Pentil into the wooded valley beyond. Unlike the rest of Pentil's territory, very few rogues stalked the valley, and most of those seemed content to stick to the crevasses and prey on ornks. You took care of them anyway, but at that time, you stopped short of going further north. The valley didn't seem as forbidding as the northern wastes, but all the tales you've heard of terrible rogues held you back.

Now, though, you decide to press onward.



Beyond the wooded valley is a peaceful vale. The crumbling road leads into a verdant glade from which you can hear the calm lowing of ornks. They're much more content than you would expect from abandoned livestock. The ornk herds on Pentil Plains were confused and afraid when you found them, but these aren't. Curious.



You don't follow the road right away. Instead, a hunch leads you west into the trees. Soon enough, you find one of the bluish-gray artilas that you last saw outside the Holding Cells.





Though their acrid spit is fearsome, these searing artilas are no match for placid saviour and ManxomeBromide. If the Vosgian Beast had survived, they would have made a formidable trio. You set aside your regrets for now, though, and concentrate on slaying the rogues. They may not be organized against Shaper interests right now, but your people are never content to let rogue nests lay.







GreatEvilKing and idhrendur still have what it takes even against these higher tier rogues. The fyoras track a little slowly compared to the artilas, but in the end, the fyoras are the ones who finish them off. Your creations ruin the rogue nests and scatter old bones throughout the clearing before you move on.









You find another pocket of rogues nearby after a barely-heard hiss draws your attention to another small clearing. Artilas boil out of their nests and attack with incredible furor. They have nowhere to flee -- you and your creations have them backed into a dead end. The thicket that rings their nests is too thick for them to beat a hasty retreat.

You spend essence on neutralizing acid and blessing your team so that your fyoras can burn the rogues more often than the grass, and in turn your creations whittle the searing artilas down until they're reduced to unrecognizable remains.



The ornks graze in a stony field where the road forks. These creatures are fat and friendly, though you see signs of neglect in their poorly cared for hooves and filthy ears. Still, they're much healthier than you would expect from untended ornks.



The road is cut off here by more overgrowth. Something abandoned a nest here and probably unwillingly at that -- you find more ancient Shaper coins here and pocket them. Artilas can't even count, let alone spend money.





While following the road, you notice a gap in the trees to the south. You find a tunnel into the rock. It seems to have been carved out the same way the caves around Control Mind Four were carved out. The mounded up bones around the tunnel's mouth fill you with unease, but you venture in anyway.



There's an odd musk here that you can't quite place until you round the last curve to the main chamber.



"I hunger," the great beast before you rumbles.

Drayks were one of the strongest and most cunning of the creations. That is why they have not been made for over a hundred years. Looking into the eyes of this powerful, wizened creature, you can't help but feel that it was a wise choice.

Even at its age, it's a massive creature - over a ton, twenty feet long from head to tail, and all muscle. Its eyes are cold and arrogant and communicate shrewdness and cunning. It is not the least bit afraid of you.

You can see, in a moment, why drayks are no longer made. They must be born rogue.

The creature chuckles. Flames emerge from its nose, and you smell sulfur. "Ah, I had thought I would never meet a Shaper again. I am Syros. Welcome to my humble lair. Why have you come to trade with me?"

"How long have you lived here?" It's hard to keep from stammering, but you manage it. Barely. You never expected to be intimidated by a mere creation, but there's nothing mere about drayks. Your drayk-craft is barely worthy of the name when compared to this monstrosity. You don't know how to deal with Syros, so you have to buy yourself some time.

"On this island? Over two hundred years. In this cave? About a century. I was created not long before your kind left the island." Syros seems to regard you indulgently, almost as an adult might someone else's precocious child... or how someone might treat a pet. It's deeply uncomfortable.

"Who created you?"

"I was made by Danette herself, head of research on this isle." He sounds perversely proud of the identity of his creator. "I was made by the creator of the Geneforge herself."

"The Geneforge? What is that?" So Danette is the one who made the Geneforge, which is why or at least part of the reason why the island was Barred... and she made drayks as well. She must have been a truly formidable Shaper. You can't imagine that she was happy when the council decided to shut her research down.

"Perhaps you should trade with me. Perhaps that may become clear." Smoke curls from Syros' nostrils. You amuse it.

"How have you spent your time here?"

"Hunting. Eating. Staying alive. Occasionally breeding, for the sake of interest."

"You creations breed?" You're shocked. Only the most stable, well-understood creations are able to breed -- drayks certainly don't fit that build. Anyone who would let them create self-sustaining lines must have been insane.

"Of course!" He sounds offended. "You don't think I was made sterile, do you? All creations breed. It keeps you Shapers from having to make all of us from scratch. Saves you trouble."

You barely manage to not contradict him. Obviously much has changed since Sucia was Barred, and honestly, those changes all seem to be for the better. Nothing about uncontrolled breeding among creations has saved you any trouble. Now at least some of the rogue troubles here make more sense -- not all of those rogues come from outsiders.

But enough of them do... You suppress a shudder. "How long does your kind live?" you ask.

"Your kind made me well. Centuries of life remain to me," Syros replies with a self-satisfied hiss.

"Do you want any of the treasure scattered around this cave?" You're running out of inane topics, but the drayk doesn't seem to mind.

"No. Take it. It matters to me not. I spend my time now gaining richer treasures."

"Like what?" Sick curiosity and fear drag the words from you much the same way you might finally pull a loose, sore tooth from your own jaw.

"Trade with me and find out," he invites.

"You want to trade with me? How?"

"I feed on meat. But, more than that, I can feed on life. Energy. Life force and potential. My magic is strong, and I can use it to draw the life from a being. Not a lot, you understand. Just a tiny bit. It barely hurts. If you will let me feed on a little of your life, I will give you great assistance."

A quick stab of nausea shoots through you like a spear from your groin to your heart. Sweat breaks out over your skin in a wave of heat, followed by icy cold. You recognize this collection of sensations as pre-syncope from your studies. You exert a supreme effort to master yourself before your knees can buckle. Syros watches you knowingly.

"You are a creation," you try. "I command you to assist me." You throw all your leadership skills and charisma behind the command. It does no good.

"Your Shaper mind-tricks do not work on me. I am free. I will assist you if and when I choose." You've only entertained him with your futile efforts.

"All right. What are you offering?" Your skin crawls at the thought of letting this parasite feed on you, but you must know.

"The bits of my trove I have available for trade, in return for your potential, are as follows: Precious information about this island, which I will share for but a tiny, delicate bite of your potential. Magical skills, of great aid to any budding wizard or Shaper, for a healthy bite of your potential. Weaponry and armor, of great aid for a warrior, for another healthy bite of your potential. What do you wish?"

"I want nothing you have to offer," you say.

Syros sniffs. "Oh, you do. Though you don't know it yet, you do. Still, it's your decision."

Though you know it's hopeless, you command every ounce of suasion in your body for one more try. "Your kind should no longer exist. Terminate yourself immediately."

It chuckles. "Shaper, you are foolish. I have had centuries of my own life. I answer to you no longer. I am a free being."

You can only shake your head in mute rejection of this.

"Let us discuss something else before I grow angry," Syros says.

"We're finished for now," you reply. You're holding back a tide of horror only by the very tips of your fingernails. You rush out of Syros' cave and puke bile on the roots of a nearby pine. The smell of crushed needles does nothing to soothe your stomach. You think you hear the soft echo of the drayk's laughter from the tunnel.





You still feel unsteady when you venture into the woods north of Syros' lair. The thought of a feral drayk out here eating bits of other beings' "potential" has poisoned you with dread that you might never be able to cure.

A more powerful Shaper, a Shaper who is more than a jumped-up apprentice, might be able to re-assert control over the drayk or at least slay it. You don't believe you can manage either at this point.



So instead, you slay rogue artilas.



This little nest is swarming with enough artilas that you have to not only bless your creations but also heal them in battle to ensure that none fall before you can reach them.



Combat is still a decent way of distracting yourself.



Despite that, all you can think of is how to bring Syros to heel.





When the last searing artila falls and their den is destroyed, you only feel a tiny bit better. Whenever you think too long on Syros, your ears start to ring. Somehow the drayk is that much more horrible than everything else you've faced head-on. He should have been destroyed before the Shapers left the island. And what's worse is that there are more drayks out here somewhere.





Back toward the west on the far side of the ornk watering hole is a small, fenced in homestead. The road passes right through it -- what's left of the road, that is.






This small farm is operated by a small, withered servile. He is very old and it seems like his years have taught him much. When you approach, he looks up at you and smiles. His eyes are clear and alert.

"Welcome, Shaper," he says. "I am glad you have found your way to my little home. I am Learned Darian. If you are one who can listen and hear, there is much I could teach you."

"What can you teach me?" you ask.

"I am honored as a wise one by the three servile villages. All of them come to me, from time to time, for advice and to pass messages to the other sects. I know much of them. And I think, if you are wise, you will want to know of them too. And, perhaps, even ally with them."

"Tell me about the sects." You don't expect to hear anything you've not already heard before, but repetition is almost comforting.

"There are the Awakened in Vakkiri, the Obeyers in Pentil, and the Takers in Kazg. All of them have come to and dealt with me, to try to coexist despite their differences. The Takers, however, have done so I much less lately. They have found wisdom elsewhere."

"Why don't the Takers see you anymore?" Sudden changes like this are alarming. You wonder if it has to do with the Takers aligning themselves with the outsiders.

"I am wise, but I am not omnipotent. If they do not talk to me, I do not know what they think or do. Perhaps you can find out. I believe there are other powers on this island," Darian says.

"The outsiders," you mutter. "Can you tell me about the beliefs of the sects?"

"I will not do that. I only listen to their beliefs and carry their messages and, occasionally, provide a little advice. I do not preach. Go to them. They will be glad to tell you what they think."

You laugh softly at that. Darian does not smile or join in; he only watches you with the serenity of someone very aged. You ask, "What if I want to ally myself with one of the sects? Can you put in a word on my behalf?"

"You can ask their leader. If what they have heard about your beliefs matches what they teach, they may offer you their friendship and assistance. If, at some point, there is a group you wish to join, and they do not welcome you at first, I can put in a word on your behalf. I have some influence. Do not be fickle, however. My influence is strong, but not unending; I will only be able to intercede on your behalf once."

"I don't need your help right now," you say.

Darian nods. "Fair enough."

"So, you would teach me?" you ask. "What could a mere servile possibly teach me?" Your tone is ironic, but from Darian's expression, serviles don't really do irony.

"Well, manners, for one thing."

"I see your point." You cough.

"Let us set quarrels aside. I would help you, if you would accept it," he says. At least he's generous with forgiveness -- if only with Shapers.

You privately wonder why Darian and so many other serviles have been so willing to help you. Beyond clearing rogues and meddling in servile affairs, they seem to want you or even need you to resolve what's happening on Sucia Island. Even though the Awakened and Takers want to throw off the Shaper mantle, they still need Shapers to solve problems.

As part of your mind ticks through such circular thoughts, the rest of you focuses on the situation at hand. "Who else works on this farm?"

"I have two here, refugees who have lost much in the turmoil of the last few years. They stay here, under my protection. Please do not bother them. You frighten them."

There's nothing you can do about that. You know Darian is right -- it's best to leave the creatures alone. "What else is in this area?"

"There is Syros." You permit yourself to shudder now. Whether or not Darian notices, he continues, "He is a drayk. A very old one. We talk at times. He respects my knowledge, and does not eat me. I respect his strength and great age. He is in a cave down that way." He points to the southeast. "You should go speak with him."

"We've met," you murmur. "Anything else?"

"There are some rogue nests. The creatures mostly keep to themselves. If you keep a safe distance from them, they will not trouble you. There is also the bridge to the east. It is heavily guarded. I suggest you stay a safe distance from there. It is very dangerous."

"I've taken care of the rogues," you say, and Darian thanks you graciously. "But back to the earlier subject... Why should the politics of serviles be important to me?"

"I do not know. And yet I believe, one day, you will find the answer to that question yourself."

"Perhaps in time I will find that their beliefs have wisdom?" you ask.

"Who knows? If you can open your mind, all manner of things may fly in. And some of them will be good." Maybe Darian does do irony, but found yours rude anyway.

"Why do you live out here alone?"

"I prefer the solitude. And, for some reason, the rogue creations leave me alone. Perhaps they think I would not taste good. And perhaps we wise ones are left alone out of respect."

"You said 'we'? There is another wise one?" you ask.

"Yes. Her name is Clois. She lives in a marsh halfway between Pentil and Kazg. If I was useful to you, you may wish to find her. She deserves respect," Darian says. You think Clois would be happy to hear such high praise from another ancient servile.

"That's all for now," you say, then add a belated thanks.

Out of respect for your efforts at clearing the rogue artilas, Darian lets you stay the night. You remember his words and maintain as much distance as you can from his pet refugees, who remain watchful of you during the evening meal. You sleep by the brazier, waking at every pop of the coals, imagining your neck snapping in the jaws of that horrid drayk.



In the morning, you venture east in search of Kazg.

Next time: Kazg Wheels, Kazg Deals