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"Say your prayers to the Merchant of the Black Lily Crown", they say. Both moons are in the Sign of the Dog, and you can't dream when you're out of kifsmoke. It's been a rough week. Every evening you vomit up half the shellfish eaten that day, but it's the only thing edible along the swamp path you've been following. The mushrooms are supposed to be safe, but even that damn old man who's been guiding you through this mosquito infested nightmare won't touch them. Now you know why those dirty Chlendi wear turbans. Thankfully only one more day until you reach Pugshlow. You have two bags of amberite that have to be taken to the Master. So far two of the of the helper nogs have been eaten by the smelly finned beasts that have been pulling the rickety barge along. At least now you have room to meditate in the proper godforms.
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