Cannibals (Draft 1)

CANNIBALS

“Bottoms up,” Gascar exclaimed thirstily downing the acrid cherry mead in his stein. Dark lantern light illuminated the less-than-motley crew of gnomes gathered. I obliged our hired guide with a raise of my beer glass. Port half spoiled and bitter sloshed listlessly, matching the exhausted feeling in the room.
“How much farther did you say it was to the Bazaar?” I questioned loudly to Gascar wiping his sweetly soaked beard.
He huffed and laughed. “You’ll see your damned cannibals, Weis. Now the Long Road’s behind us, should be three days give or take a sandstorm.”
Twenty nights have passed since leaving our comfortable beds in Wall’s Cove and each journeyer showed the sandblasted wears of wilderness upon their faces. How many more nights will pass before I too will began to loose the grip my ambitions currently have? One thing rings clear; the nature of these ‘cannibals’ from across this stinging Sea of Dunes will be known to me. I unfurled the small map ripped from an elven expedition’s tome. The paper lay singed and weathered by time and futile attempts to smuggle it in my waistcoat. Long ago before that damned empire of elves started to fall, their explorers and envoys stretched far across Oren all the way up to the aged walls of Du’chan. This tribe of cannibals we seek, while backwards savages according to the texts, were premier glass blowers. Back before we left Wall’s Cove, I came across the expensive glassware set I now share with this skeleton crew.
The meady bearded guide shuffled over, kicking up the cooling sand in the tent. Gascar’s was a refugee dwarf from Mt. Dugar in the far northeast. One eye fully cataracted, he studied creased map and laughed. Dribbles of the honeyed wine slowly fell to the map. I was able to shift the parchment from his mess before too much damage was done.
Gascar simply slapped my back gregariously and exclaimed, “Come now, son. You’re finally getting to use that damned waste of money you call ‘edu-kitchen’ out here in the real world. No teacher will hold your pecker out here. Certainly not me! HA!” He slammed himself with shabby trousers down next to me and looked closer at the old cartographic relic. “Back in the mines, whips did the teaching and blisters did the learning. If that denny do it, brawlin over scraps would.” Gascar studied his now empty glass and sat it onto the sprawled out map. Magnified, the map revealed a small river past the ergs of the desert. “There.” Gascar spoke, his voice trailing. “There be the Ari Badlands, land of the cannibals.” Drying dregs from the glass outlined the two settlements bordering the anomalous channel. “ A true paradise o’ devils. Ain’t life cruel?”
I looked up to the dwarf, his form slightly towering over my slender form. “You seem well acquainted to this desert for someone of your kin. You’re sure this is your first time out here?” I inquired.
His eyes shifted down to mine filled with impatience. “For an anthrpo-whosits, ya sure a judgy lil’ shit.” His terse response was answer enough to sink me back onto the barrel from which I sat. He reached across the table where most of my comrades had laid their heads for a catnap to reach what remained of his bottle of mead. Refilling his glass, his inebriated eyes wandered out into the twilight skies beyond the tent flaps. “Nearly a month it’s been and still I know jack about whatcha doin out here. Your city friends here look like they’re already half dead. Tha Wanderin Bazaar is the last of home you’re gonna get. Once we hit dunes, then we’ll all see why they call it the ‘Stinging Hell.” He licked the mead from his lips as he continued into his new glass. “What are you actually doing here?”
“They’re hired hands from Wall’s Cove just outside of Du’chan. Old barmates, all of us, fed up with small town living.” I studied the table and pointed toward the closest asleep. Reb lay with his head on the table, arms as pockmarked as his craterous face. One of my oldest and angriest of mates, his head rested on a finely folded cloak. “Reb was an engineer. Pretty respectable job for us shortfolk. Too bad he was terrible at it. A rat’s nest has more structure than anything he’s built. Not sure why he said yes, probably just short on money so he can drown himself in ale.”
Crick sat buried in a large, ragged journal. His eyes followed the text of the book refracted by lenses with thick brass frames. Crick was always listening, always learning. Of this mighty group of disappointments, no ones fate was truly as undeserved as Crick. His crown of fine black hair had slowly begun to recede but by any measure he was the best and brightest of us. “Crick there is our resident bookworm. Ever since they started printing them, Crick has been digesting them.” Crick shifted his gaze to myself and Gascar and huffed half-hearted raspberry before interring himself back in his paper casket.
Finally, faced down on the plank table we’d assembled lay Baring. Definitely the most well fed of the group, Baring’s crimson goatee shot out from the table spearing one of his many flabby chins. I haven’t the slightest idea why Baring was out here, but he could definitely use some more activity. When you’re carrying an extra 20 pounds around, who can blame him? “Baring over here is our resident pussy destroyer.” Gascar lifted an eyebrow and grunted lowly. “By that I mean, while in Du’chan he accidentally crushed no less than four kittens by sitting and breaking through a crate where they were bedded. His bottom was as red as his chin!”
Gascar slowly sat his glass to the table again empty. His expression was of disgust and worry. “That’s totally fucked up. Why’d you tell me something like that?” My own expression of halfhearted joy fell to shame. Silence hung like those cat pelts must have when we quickly fled the capital.
“We should get going soon. The sands should be cool enough now for our trek. Thanks for doing this Gasc. I just want to prove my worth. Back in Wall’s Cove, I never became an engineer like Reb or my parents. Now that elves are out of this part of Oren, maybe I can prove to them my studies were worth something. To meet and reintroduce a tribe to civilization again will be enthralling, but not so much lucrative. Ha!” I paused and peered over our guide. “… and you only wanted to get paid in alcohol and company. Fate really is turning around!” Gascar sighed, “About that…”


The sands blew hot those next few days. This side of the desert felt more like a large beach with fine, floating sand. As we walked across the flat horizon, the wind swept along sand as if a river above water. Away from the gaslights of Du’chan, the desert sky revealed a truly marvelous sight above us; Tiny specks of white light pierced through the dark firmament above us.
Resting at day and traveling towards night, our crew eventually arrived at the Wandering Bazaar. Scattered along a valley between the dunes it laid, a kaleidoscope of colored cloth. Fastened by stakes and anchored by rocks, various lean-to and tents stood as welcoming bastions to any wayfarers that happen across it. Bimonthly, the Bazaar coasts the Low Road to this specific spot havesting the minute amount of ironsand while allowing the more enterprising individuals among our kind to venture into the many ruins around. There would be no feeding the middling populations of the Vast Dune Sea without it. It wasn’t my first foray in the Bazaar but it was still quite the sight out here in the desert.
Without dropping our things for even the slightest rest, our guide brought us to a silvery tent with its ceiling lofted higher than the others. The air inside felt strangely cool, as if somehow funneling in the brisk air from up on Mt. Deep. In front of us sat a very tall figure… almost 6 foot from my vantage point. Draped in a cheap poncho from a kiosk just outside this tent, the figure stood revealing his angular features: angular eyes, angular face, and angular ears. Too fair-skinned for an elf… perhaps a half-blood from across the Tub? The effeminate shadow stepped forward into the light confirming my assumption.
“Gentlemen!” the half-elf cheered open armed. “I welcome your arrival and bid you please sit. I ventured out into the market earlier to fetch you a well deserved seat.” The man signaled to us to sit on a comfortable yet gaudy bench. While much too small for his size, it sat us five quite easily. Carpentry of this quality must have cost him well over a hundred gold, Gascar had mentioned to fear this man. Reb lay across the backless bench and loudly cracked his back with a shriek of relief. Our host maintained his cheery composure and continued. “May I be the first to congratulate for meeting me out here. Gascar, I feared you had… deserted me!” The man chuckled at his bone dry wit staring wanting into his audience. None of us cracked a smile. The air in the tent was as cool as our expressions. Unrequited, the elf swallowed his pride and proceeded. “Nevertheless, let me be frank with why I’ve called you here.” his voice more heavily grounded now. “Glass is translucent gold back in Isygrim now the elves have pulled out of this continent entirely.” He reached to his well-set table of gilded tableware and raised a fluted glass filled with a bluish liquid. “There is a fortune across those dunes and I intend for you to seize it for your new sponsor, Valdeer.” He toasted his glass to himself and finished its contents with a smile.
Valdeer pulled his equally opulent chair forward into the light and sat opposite us. “Those ‘people’ across the dunes remain the best glass blowers in all of Cabochon. Those old elven lighthouses need new lenses, as do your gnomish observatories. See this as a lucrative opportunity for us both.”
My party sat expressionless and half asleep on our cushioned perch. ‘For him.’ This was a diplomatic expedition, not a trading envoy! Peering over to Gascar revealed a steady eagerness mixed with an amount of comfort.
He slouched forward in his seat to eye level with myself keenly aware of my suspicion. “Do not think me daft.” He muttered lowly to me. ‘”’Why these professionals after all?’ A burgeoning anthropologist, a refugee trailblazer, a spineless engineer, two enterprising seatwarmers. A crack team of explorers?!” He bolted an impetuous laugh and shook his head in contempt. “You’re gnomes. Tribal cannibals across the waste wouldn’t dare waste energy on morsels so small. Gascar is the only dwarf dumb enough to realize this opportunity. No wealth in the world could draw a Halfling from their co-op. Besides, elven contact with those savages has been unsustained for near a century now. No better time to act.”
His giant hands reached and grasped my shoulders. Directing his gaze at me as cobra with its prey, he spoke softer “Know that upon your success here. I will see it that your life’s work is indefinitely funded. Build me a trade relationship with the ozwok and your studies will not have been in vain.”
After a minute of silence, Valdeer rose once more and exited the tent. He may have broken our stare but my eyes sat locked where his once were. Reb rose,corrected his posture with another loud crack, and chuckled, “He may be half-human but he’s still half-asshole.” He scanned the intricacies of the tent more closely and pocketed silver steak knife from a strangely well-set table in the tent. Between the spotless lace tablecloth and well-made bed, the whole nature of this tent seemed concerning arcane. Reb cleared his throat and glanced our direction. “No muled greyblood is going to talk to me that way. Let’s get what we need and get out.” Reb stormed out of the tent in search of our ‘sponsor’. None of us saw Reb or Valdeer for the rest of the day.
Baring was snoring quietly to himself with Crick quickly checking our provisions. The job of keeping up with our gear fell to his keen mind and sharp eyes. “We need water…” Baring muttered “Beer” before quickly returning to his sleep. “Beer, and pipeglory. Baring muttered again “Pork” before feigning his sleep. “AND PORK” Crick frustratingly continued. A collective sigh entered and exited the room enjoying this brief respite from the elements outside. After holding onto it as long as I could, we dispersed into the market.
Despite the scorching temperatures of the desert, the bazaar was quite enjoyable. The food and entertainment were enjoyment enough but the true pleasure lay in the antiquities. Various curiosity shops and even a wily caravan of oddities from across Cabochon had a spot. Werewolves, Bunnymen, and even a sea elf! I wonder how they could keep him hydrated in such an arid waste. Yet the real treasures were nestled in a small tent at the far of the camp. Owned by a small gnomish lass, Lint, her shop “The Empty Pocket” seemed to be quite the opposite. Books and curios stuffed its interior. Statues of ancients, philters and potions, and more tarnished silver than a dwarf could mine. I considered adding various dated elven maps to my collection, but what truly caught my eye was something astounding. A small ruby faceted into a pyramid was seated in the center of the tent. Without wood or smoke, this crimson gem emitted a blazing fire all on its own.
“A shard of elemental fire” the old woman rehearsed to me with a decrepit cackle. Her frail arms shot out and snatched the gem from the center of the room. “Left unattended, its flaming chaos. But in safe keeping, it’s not even hot!” she revealed easily holding seemingly innocent gem in her hands.
I had to have it! She was quite the salesmen as I spent nearly all my allotted provision money on this dice-sized ruby. Gascar lived mostly off cherry melomel, so I hoped there would be enough food for our journey. My pack had consisted mostly of survival guides, blank dairies, and unlit torches; the thought of lightening the weight of otherwise useless wood did nothing but thrill me.
Our group slowly reconvened at a tent hostel on the far side of the bazaar. Baring and Crick were anchored to each other unable to stand otherwise from their drunkenness. Thankfully, before blowing their entire allowance on Mordonan wine, they thoughtfully bought dried catfruit and nearly ten pounds of pork jerky. Gascar purchased us kitschy ponchos for warmth, several daggers to fend off jackals, 5 gallons of water, and a special order of cherry mead for himself to be picked up in the morning.
Sleep that night was restlessly restful. Reb didn’t return that night; our joke being he and the half-elf were having some ‘private time’ to let off their frustration. Gascar spent most of the night pacing back and forth outside the tent eventually hiking off to relieve his panic. I think we’re all a bit panicked. Between the hike across the dunes and dealing with a people labeled as ‘cannibals’, the risk seems insurmountable. Living a life well funded however was well worth it to me. I just hope we don’t end up too ‘deserted’. I grimaced at Valdeer’s lingering joke and began furtively praying the only traveler’s prayer I knew:
“ Lead me not, oh fated hands To omen drenched lands.
Deliver me not, oh cursed feet, To oblivion underneath “


We disembarked entering what Gascar lovingly called “Stinging Hell.” Truly an apt name. Even at night, the wind whipped around the dunes and into my eyes! We traveled always at night. Strangely enough, those delightfully colored ponchos served us quite well from the cool temps of the desert. Cool sand stung just the same as it did in the day.
It did not keep thirst at bay. While water is not beer, it is just as relieving in this wringing hellscape. Even at night, our sealed water flasks were evaporating. There better be water in the Ari Badlands or there is truly no returning from this.
Night carried its own risks. Echoes of cackling hyenas and phantom shadows cast by moonlight kept us on edge. That night we set up camp in some long abandoned ruins. Fire from the ruby shard I purchased revealed aging sandstone walls around us. Etchings of birds and snakes motifs lined most of the remaining columns in that place. I wonder what ancient empire built across this deserts just to fall to reduced sand. How many of these dunes were once capitals?
Sleep did not come easy that night. While absurd to say aloud, it feels like the sand is watching us. Judging us. Little did we know, it was.