I can’t be sure, but you might have saved my life today.
After that vile rat fountain exploded, my new companions and I retreated to the Cracked Anvil and the Doc saw to my wounds. Nelly dropped off an old letter to the three of us, which unnerves me to no end since our association hasn’t even lasted more than 24 hours. Inside was an illustration of some old woman, which a bar patron (this weird Pathfinder calling himself “Pops”) insisted on holding a secret map, and would help us interpret it if we catered to his gremlin poaching. In begrudging agreement, we turned in for the night to start Bayouward tomorrow morning.
We found the slob on the Anvil steps, and we made our way outside the City walls. We snuck past some of the more worrisome swampfiends with decent military tact (maybe there is more to this Hoshaem and Sara characters), and were able to dispatch three gremlins. One seemed to rattle the Arab with its ramblings… I don’t know what the gremlin said, but hopefully Hussan will learn soon as I did the worth of drunken gremlin ramblings.
The map brought us to a shack of sorts above the bog water. Before I could make the connection of who’s abode we just stumbled into, we were “invited” into the Swamp Witch’s house. The Hag offered us a fragrant sludge for a supper, and while my logic mind told me not to take it, a louder voice prattling on about proper manners, compelled me to take it.
I don’t know if it was Pops’ whiskey or the Crone’s stew, but I began to see and hear horrible things, Cal. Dark things. Memories. Things that I wanted forgotten… it pains me to recount all that I saw in that shed, so I will leave it at that…
In the end, I’m man enough to admit I was a sobbing heap, hopefully slaying a past I want so desperately to be obliterated. The Witch claimed these haunts will stop, as I arise a new man.
It makes me think… “Time heals all wounds,” they say… but it wasn’t years or decades that saved me from those visions. It was you. You, Cal. Time has only been responsible for making soldiers like me slower and more absinthian to those around me. It is love that could ever heal me. Only love could ever complete and repair me again. Finding you must be my new life purpose.
And so, we find ourselves off again. The old woman has us searching for a new treasure, like obediant lackeys instead of the hired merc I should be, but I don’t mind. A weight has been lifted from me, and if I can get on good terms with this Zoraida, maybe I can the the first to truly have their wishes granted from a game of Bayou Two-card…