The Diary of Skullweed Moonflower

Purple Elf and Selenite Moonlord: part 1

In search of a Rave…

Freezeday, Disorderweek, Seaseason, 613 TA

I’m in Freetown to liaise with the adanathen (pardon my Faerie, I mean humans as a race) Selene temple – one of those chores that falls to me because of prejudice back home – some of my folk are uncomfortable around a bestial Elf, so they say I’ll know the beasts of the city better but really they just sleep better when I’m not in the wood. Ah well, sometimes we minister to our flock by our absence.

I make my devotions, even on Freezeday – ‘the New Moon is still the Moon’, or ‘I Cýron nol ir Ithil’, as we say in Faerie – but, as I turn from the statue of the Goddess behind the altar, I hear my name mentioned and look round to see a minister sending a very odd bunch my way. It seems they asked in the temple for someone to join them on an investigation and, no doubt, temple staff immediately thought of that weird Elf. Well it can’t hurt to listen.

They’re being sent by a ‘wealthy patron’ to investigate a party – the great rave in Hohoho, in fact. I’ve seen the leaflets and posters all over Freetown and there are stacks of them in the temple - a week-long revel with free food and drink, staged in a village that didn’t even exist two years ago, until it was founded by settlers of the Reveller bent.

It seems a little odd so I take a look at my would-be comrades. The two speakers are Harlequin, a minstrel whose clothes (under his iron armour) make black and white look loud (I also happen to know he’s involved in a casino, part ducal owned); next is Tommy ‘the Goat’ Hitzelsperger – a rather Stormy name but sporting ram’s horns – he insists they’re goat horns, of course, but I think I can guess what cult Tommy’s in – this dryad’s son wasn’t born yesterday. These two seem to do most of the talking.

With them are Roxie, who everyone’s heard of – a seven foot dancer, armed like a soldier; Dan Ube is a Neibelung armourer who’s spent the last few years on the Sartac town council, though he doesn’t say in what capacity; Corbie Bressman is another adan (human male) Neibelung worshipper, a blacksmith, but says almost nothing at all; lastly there’s another Selenite, named Carrie Quinlan, an adaneth (human woman) gypsy jester in black and white.

It seems a little odd to send so many non-Selenites to investigate a Selenite rave. I ask about wages and I’m flabbergasted to be offered just 4 shillings a day – to an obvious Moonlord! I should feel insulted but I look at Mr Ube and Tommy’s horns and realise the pay just confirms that this must be a government operation.

This is why they’re asking me – they need some Illusion to water down the Truth. And, while there, we must also investigate some nobles suspected of plotting against the Duke – yes, definitely a government operation, I don’t know why they’re bothering to hide it. Well, we worshippers of Moonlight must flirt with the Dark Side occasionally, right? And if nothing else, it’s a party – sounds like fun! Though we’d better get a move on or the Rave will be over before we get there. We agree to meet tomorrow morning at the East Gate – this is the trouble with travelling with diurnal edain, they prefer to sleep when the Moon is in the sky.

Carrie stays once the others have gone, to make her own devotions. But once they’re out of sight she confesses that she’s really a worshipper of Lepora, the were-hare trickster. Now she mentions it, Carrie does look a shade bestial to me – and I should know – some say Lepora is or is not a facet of the Moon but, after all, the Truth isn’t at all important.

I ask a priest what he knows about the Revellers and he puts me right on a subtle misconception. Basically, they like to party. They may party for a variety of reasons, including the imminence of the end of the World, but aside from just the enjoyment of drunken revels, some of them seek mystic insights – and why not?

Waterday, Disorderweek, Seaseason, 613 TA

Today I’m an Elf of my word and I’m at the East Gate an hour after dawn to find a gypsy caravan – Carrie’s very own. We’ve been given a moderately large tent and a crate with a single carrier pigeon, in case we need to make an urgent report.

While we’re gathering Tommy produces a map and sketches our itinerary. It’s 26 miles to Hoebottom, which is a longish way but the road is good. From there it’s 7-8 miles to Heave-Ho, where Dwarves will lift us up the cliffs onto the plateau. Sixteen miles later we reach (or rather go round) Gung-Ho. Then it’s six miles to Hilltown and another six to Westard-Ho. Hohoho is about ten miles northwest of Westard-Ho. It’s going to take four days – I do hope there’ll still be some of that free food and drink when we get there.

So we set off, making excellent time in cool, damp weather. We reach Hoebottom safely. Harlequin suggests practicing putting up the tent so we all have a go but strangely ‘all’ doesn’t seem to include Harlequin. While we’re doing that Carrie cooks up a meal, which proves inedible, so we all go eat in the George & Dragon, paid for out of ‘expenses’.

In the inn, gossip says 2-3 dozen locals went to last year’s rave and many go with the hope of becoming ‘blest’. Don’t seem to be any rumours of this year’s rave, which is a good sign, obviously it’s too good to leave.

We go back to the tent and set watches: Harlequin and Roxie on first, then Tommy and me for the middle, followed by Carrie and Mr Ube. But I don’t want to be in a tent when the Moon is in the sky so when I’m not on watch I find a nearby place to hide and sleep standing up to catch the Moon’s rays, such as they are, while Ithilté keeps watch on the wing.

Clayday, Disorderweek, Seaseason, 613 TA

Over breakfast, Carrie mentions that the only incident last night was a dog who made friends with Mr Ube before wandering off, presumably when it realised his new friend had no food – or possibly when it smelled Carrie’s efforts of the night before. But we’re all pleasantly surprised when Carrie serves up a very nice breakfast – I do love a good fry-up, though some people find it odd to see an Elf eating meat – one of the advantages of being touched by the Beast.

We set off for Heave-Ho – it’s only seven or eight miles. You wouldn’t think there’d be much risk so close to Freetown but none of us got so old by being complacent so, when we’re approaching a pinch-point, where the woods on the right draw close to the road and to the left we have broken scrub with plenty of cover, we all exchange glances and loosen our weapons without saying a word.

Actually, what I’m worried about are fellow Fae, who might be seeking a little archery practice. These don’t look like Elf-woods to me but I’ll bet there’s one not far away so I keep my eyes skinned in case I need to liaise with telienol Edhelen (literally, ‘sporting Elves’).

But it’s not an Edhel who steps out into the road ahead, but a man, well armoured, with a sword. Then in the copses to either side we catch glints of armour. He’s still a hundred yards ahead but it looks like perhaps ten or a dozen well-armed men lie in wait to either side – if they’ve all got bows we could be in deep trouble.

I think we need a closer look so I mime to the others about going walkies before slipping off the back of Carrie’s covered wagon and ducking into the cover to the right, casting Shimmer. I wake up Ithilté, my gwendfaer (ally spirit), and send her up for a bat’s eye view.

Our ambushers have chosen an excellent site, littered with cover, but what’s good for the goose… Actually I’d go for night if I’d have my druthers but I still take pride in my daytime skills, threading my way through the gorse, gliding silently over the underbrush as I cast Bladesharp on my sword and Speedart on my discus. To my left I see the wagon is stopped with Carrie still at the reins, while Mr Ube and Harlequin lead Tommy and Roxie toward the man in the road. He raises his hand in a ‘stop’ gesture but then I lose sight of the road as I’m deep in the copse. However, I hear the words, “The toll is fifty shillings” clearly enough.

My plan is to ambush the ambushers, taking this side in the rear with my discus and sword while Ithilté casts Befuddle each round. I may have to use some runemagic. If I can cause enough disruption the others may be able to make the ambush too expensive for the ambushers – of course, if we’re facing runelevels, it may be wiser just to pay the toll and add it to the ‘expenses’. I feel momentary regret for the bow my Goddess forbids the use of.

I’m as quiet as a ghost as I glide to within a few yards of the ambushers – but there’s no one there! Just random bits of armour – a cuirass, a helmet, one vambrace, etc, hanging from low branches. By the Smiling Moon, a ruse! How ingenious! I send Ithilté to take a look at the other side of the road but my respect for our ambushers goes up.

The branch moves, and not with the wind, thanks to a thin cord running off to my right. I follow it another dozen yards or so to find myself looking at a row of four firiath (mortals) in peasant clothing. The nearest is gently pulling the cord, making the armour move suggestively, while peering intently through the leaves at the road.

They’ve got swords and bows but hardly any armour, not even leathers, and they have no idea I’m here. Ithilté reports a similar setup the other side. We’re still outnumbered but by only two to one, rather than five or six to one.

I have my longsword in my left hand, my discus in my right. I fling the discus at the second in line who falls with a scream, disembowelled. The man in front of me starts, glancing to his dying friend, as I transfer my sword to my right hand. He spins to face me in shock, dropping his bow and reaching for his sword. I yell, ‘They’re all dummies!’ for the benefit of the others. (This is not technically true but Selene is not a cult of Truth.)

My opponent has actually got his sword out but he’s nowhere near my blade as I take his arm off with a textbook perfect stop-thrust with a twirled flourish that sends the limb yards away. I whirl to meet the other two but all I see is a back vanishing into the trees – I briefly consider Befuddle but it’s not worth the power. Ithilté reports another four runaways the other side of the road.

The man without an arm asks for help so I help myself to his purse and sword after cleaning my blade on his trews. Then I retrieve my discus, wiping it too (firiath are so messy inside) before stowing it carefully, and taking another purse and sword.

When I get back to the road I learn the man there said the toll would be 100s if we offered any violence. But then they heard screams and my shout about dummies so Tommy shot the man with his arbalest, which is why his leg is off.

The man writhes and screams for help. Through the trees I hear my own victim’s screams as they begin to fade in strength – won’t be long now. But our friend in the road induces pity in the others and they all try to stem his bleeding, to no avail. Oh very well, I admit I also try – against my principles – but femoral arteries are tricky things. I briefly consider going back to the man in the trees but then he stops crying and pleading so it’s probably too late – as I said, principles.

It looks like it’s all up for our friend – but then, salvation! Harlequin offers Healing, if our friend can refill his faerivrin (literally ‘spirit-crystal’ or PSC for you Lunatics).

We get iron armour from him, but it turns out to be just bronze with an illusion. We’ve also got two longswords and a bastard sword. Most of the ‘armour’ from the decoys turns out to be trash but we find some usable items: 2 light helms, 1 shortsword and 2 composite bows. My purses turn out to hold 2s 50d and 6s 10d but our friend in the road has 2 Moons and 5s in his.

Our friend in the road whines about his predicament. I imagine he must have a name, but it seems pointless to ask in view of his life expectancy – the firiath are such ephemeral creatures; it’s best not to get too attached. Instead he asks if I killed his friends in the woods – I reply, “Just two, the others ran away”. He asks if he could ask me to bury them and I reply, quite truthfully, that he can, so he does and I say no – it would take a couple of hours and I only have so many, we are on a schedule.

Then it’s a question of what to do with him. Well since we’ve saved him from bleeding to death I suggest taking him to Heave-Ho on the cart. Someone says they’d only hang him there so instead we leave him lying in the road, minus his leg, purse, sword and metal armour. The humans think this is the moral thing to do – humans are strange. He says the ambush was his idea – I wonder if the runaways will come back to succour him? Or do something else?

We reach Heave-Ho an hour later and drive straight to the lift where the Naugrim (Dwarves – literally ‘stunted ones’) give me dirty looks. I briefly wonder if it’s safe to place my life in the hands of the Naugrim and the answer is obviously not; but they would never betray the work of their own hands, especially a mechanism, so the lift is probably safe.

But that does not mean they will not inflict their prejudice in other ways. Mr Ube negotiates the fees: the Neibelung’s go up for free, it’s 2s for the cart, 1s for each of the edain and 5s for me – how petty! It goes on the expenses, so the Duke pays for noeg discrimination.

At the top it’s only an hour or so past noon but we’ve a long trip tomorrow (thanks to a need to give Gung-Ho a wide berth) so we stop at the inn here, where we join in the entertainment: Roxie does hand-springs, Harlequin sings, I mimic bird and animal calls. I think Harlequin makes a few shillings. Carrie makes a few quips at the expense of the landlord, but I don’t know why she doesn’t give him a straight answer to, “What are you drinking, love?”

Windsday, Disorderweek, Seaseason, 613 TA

Over breakfast, our very earnest landlord, looking at Tommy the Goat’s horns, Roxie’s, height and possibly my hairiness, advises us to bypass Gung-Ho. We were, of course, intending to do this anyway, but the landlord gives us specific directions – apparently there’s separate paths past Gung-Ho to either side but each is one way, so we need to take the left-hand road when we reach the junction. He says it’s all well signposted in various languages so we can’t go wrong if we follow the signs.

We have an easy morning, making good time under overcast skies, but early-afternoon, passing over open country, we spy riders coming toward us from up ahead. Harlequin and the others start loading arbalests. My natural inclination is to hide in the scrub but the terrain is flat as a pancake, covered with grass that would put a noble’s croquet lawn to shame, so I hide in Carrie’s covered wagon.

As they get closer we see they’re two nobles with a couple of guards. One seems to be an Azraeli, from his austere black clothing, bearing both a mace and a sword. His friend is slightly more colourful with a turban round his head. (Turban – now that’s one of those words I got from Horace Dresden, the infernal book-seller, I wonder where he got it from?) One of the guards bears a death rune. Carrie pulls the cart over (much to Harlequin’s disgust) while I stay hidden in the back, but I keep my ears open.

The Azraeli hails us, introducing himself as Sir Mortimer Luneabor, asking what brings us to the Hoe Downs. Someone mentions the Rave and he sounds despondent. He tells someone to avoid Gung-Ho, asking him for his name and Tommy’s proud to do so. Mmm!

I crawl out and sit next to Carrie once they’re 200 yards behind us and we get chatting, mainly about scripture. She claims a fondness for were-pigs, and learned much about the Ravings as a layman of Algie. I confess most of my knowledge comes from in-depth readings of the Ravings and the Apocrypha themselves, but that has led to my love of Lunatic literature – Ah, The joys of Alice in Mirrorland and the works of William Moonspear!

An hour later we reach a 3-way fork. We can tell this is the junction mentioned by the landlord from the signage in several languages, including Lunatic, Helionic and Stormspeech. Gung-Ho is dead ahead (with emphasis on the dead for at least three of us). The right fork is for oncoming traffic, we take the left as per the landlord and all these signs.

Half an hour later, as we swing past south of Gung-Ho, we all spot a stag grazing just forty yards from the road. In some sort of impromptu training practice, we all ready our missiles and let fly together and the stag dies in a hail of arrows, bolts and one discus. I don’t think any of us miss; it never stood a chance.

The carcass is a mess – it looks like a chariot ran it over – several times. None of us know a cut of meat from a rochadel (literally, ‘horse’s behind’), even when they might be the same thing, so we wrap it in a tarpaulin and throw in the wagon. Venison for dinner, hopefully.

It’s getting dark when we make Hilltown – it’s well-fortified, planned from the first as a refuge from Trolls, Baboons and Gung-Ho berserkers. It even has a barracks and there are several armourers and weaponsmiths.

We stay at the Knight’s Rest. It’s too late today but tomorrow we’ll sell the looted armour and weapons from the ambush before setting out, since it’s only about sixteen miles to Hohoho. But we can offload the stag carcass right away – the landlord is delighted to take ownership of the meat. We get no cash but we’ll eat tonight for free and leave with venison sandwiches tomorrow. Again I notice that Carrie never gives the landlord a straight answer, though she’s always honest enough with me.

Fireday, Disorderweek, Seaseason, 613 TA

So after breakfast we sell off the looted armour and weapons – we don’t get a lot but every shilling helps. Then it’s back on the road for the last leg of our journey.

An hour later, Westward-Ho is on the horizon when we spy two upturned carts on their sides up ahead – one covered wagon and one open. The cloth of the covered wagon is partially burned. I spy a pair of boots sticking out to the right, but there’s no trace of movement and I feel they belong to a corpse.

As we get closer we hear a very odd tapping noise – I think woodpecker but it’s not quite the same, definitely a bird would be my guess. Harlequin goes round the side with his arbalest to find a crow pecking at the face of a corpse. It flies off at first sight.

We find some animal tracks and two dead people, one by each wagon, both male edain – though soon it will be hard to tell. Harlequin thinks they’ve been dead a week and I agree. The wagons both have superficial fire damage but strangely the fire is only a day or so old – like someone found two looted wagons with corpses and made a half-hearted attempt to burn them. Humans are strange.

In the covered wagon there’s a few empty crates. They’re a bit charred but in one Tommy finds traces of a white powder and wonders if they might have been taking hallucinogenic drugs for the Rave. Stolen or otherwise, they’ll still find their way there, since it must be the single biggest market for mind-altering substances this side of Moonguard.

We also find two edain leg bones together with a completely uncharred purse containing a Moon, 7s and 6d. How very odd; the bones must represent a third person but there’s no sign of the rest of the body. Was it destroyed by fire? But the bones seem completely unburned – and there’s no sign of residual flesh. I didn’t think humans were that strange.

Oh well, the Rave won’t last forever – we better keep going.