Bonelands

- Items found in the Bonelands -

- Creatures found in the Bonelands -

Ribcrab

Oslorica Decipula

Scuttling from bone to bone, the Ribcrabs take up residence in discarded ribcages and use them as makeshift shells. When a crab outgrows its ribs, it must quickly find a bigger pair lest it splits its current home apart, leaving it defenceless to predators. They are part of the Oslorica genus, a family of similar crustaceans who hide away in different body parts, specially evolved for their respective homes. If you had a Ribcrab, Skullscuttler, and a handful of other creepy crawlies, you could find a tenant for every individual part of a skeleton. What a horrible thought.

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Chapter Five : Bone and Rock

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The Bonelands were quiet. The silence hung in the air, almost sacred, like an invisible spider’s web strung between the protruding bones that stuck out from the earth like spindly mountains. The two of them sat in an alcove carved from one of the greater ribs, the whole thing having been hollowed out a long time ago by people who no longer called this land home, and as high up as they were the air felt cold and thin. Luckily, they had little trouble reaching the spot The Cartographer needed to do his work this time, and The Mercenary revelled in the rest. Despite its fearsome reputation, the Bonelands threw no marauders in their path, no creatures that scuttled and snapped. In fact, the trek from the coast where they had arrived from The Angel’s Teeth to the rib they sat in now was one of the simplest journeys the two had been on since the start of their journey. The rib arched to a slight curve, and from the window she looked out of it felt as if the world slipped away and gave her a perfect view of the surroundings, the horizon harsh and spiky and across the ground a faded purple heather coated the cold tundra, breathing a small flare of life into the otherwise dull whites and yellows. Like a wriggling fly, the scratch of The Cartographers quill shook the web of silence, each hill a buzzing and every river another flap of doomed wings.

“I’m gonna go explore the rest of this rib. See if there’s anything valuable left around.” Said The Mercenary. The Cartographer nodded and hummed a sound of understanding. When he worked she would be lucky to get more than a single word out of him, the trancelike state he put himself into seemed to shroud the world from his attention. All he saw were the peaks of mountains and path denotations, sprawling coastlines and choppy seas. She wondered what key she would need to understand how his mind worked, and how he did all of his map work without once looking up to the surroundings. For a moment she lingered by the doorway in case he had anything else to say, but it soon became apparent he had already assumed she had left, and so she did. Outside of the room stone stairs reached upwards at a steady and steep pace, climbing to the top. In the other direction they worked their way back down, eventually leading to the spiralling staircase they had spent a considerable amount of time traversing. Across the walls, swooping and intricate patterns had been carved into the pale rock and made her wonder who would go through the effort of hollowing such a monolith only to leave it abandoned, buffeted by the wind and rain. Perhaps that was the nature of all things here. No matter how alive they once were, they would soon end up dead. She decided to walk upwards and allow herself an easier downhill descent on her way back, looking into similar alcoves like the one The Cartographer currently resided that ran up the curve of the rib at even intervals. There were no doors, only frames, and the windows were just gaping holes in the rock that peered down to the heather far below, allowing the wind free passage to curl and wind around The Mercenary’s boots that kept a steady pace up the stairs. Each room was just as empty as theirs had been, sometimes a decayed wooden chair where there had been none in the room before or an old bedskin. It seemed they weren’t the first to have taken residence in the old ruins, and she was sure they wouldn’t be the last. That was another reason she wanted the walk – there was the possibility that some other wanderer decided to haul up in the rib, and whilst the Bonelands had been kind to her so far, the reputation of it being a hideaway for outlaws and others of the sort was a very real danger she wanted to clear her mind of.

After half an hour or so of walking, checking each alcove and moving along, bright sunlight streamed onto the stairs. They lead straight to the peak of the rib and as she stepped out into daylight she felt the wind pulling at her, far stronger here than outside. Holding her glaive like a walking stick, she powered through the gale and walked as close to the edge as she dared. It was beautiful. She had never been up so high, she thought, and from here the land below seemed so small, and inconsequential. She looked north, where the earth became overgrown and tall with blue grass and glowing fungus, then to the giant sword lodged into cracked ground in the Ravaged Plains. Mt. Voskus stood tall to the northeast, the Shale Flats dull in the cool sunlight and she laughed. She was so small. Maybe this is what they saw, she thought. Whatever creatures bones she stood upon, whatever creature could wield a sword as big as cities and have teeth riddled with worms the size of a dragon. This was how it felt. She sat, shivering ever so slightly. Her hand felt cold. She looked at her bandage, and slowly peeled the cloth away. Beneath, tender gravelscab had filled where her glaive had cut into her hand a week ago, the black gritty paste nearly solid and in the cool air it felt far colder than the rest of her body. She had never liked the cold, the way that water would seep into rock and split it when it froze had scared her so much as a child that she convinced herself that if she were to go into the snow after a meal she might shatter from the inside. But here, watching over the world, it felt amazing. She felt alive. She looked to her arms, stretching them in front of her and noting the cracks and scars that webbed them. Across her left arm, the gash left behind by the Avoskelle man in the Shale Flats some weeks ago now had nearly healed, only a pale marbled discolouration left behind from where his sword had struck. Some mercenaries, the ones who worked their way through the ranks to be house guards, would get fresh cracks filled. It was an honour, something that could only be done if the wound was received in some great act of heroism – usually defending their house or a member of it – and something she longed for. Mercenaries would have theirs filled with a cool grey steel, a symbol of their strength and precision, but other types existed. For example, the high priests who received their cracks through communion with their gods would have them filled with Palesilver or Umbrametal, depending on their alignment, and were some of the highest members of society. To have such a holy metal embedded in one’s own skin was to be close to divinity itself, and a sight to behold. She had a friend once, a mercenary like her who nearly shattered an arm protecting a member of House Whiteblood and was commended with a steel casting. It had hurt, she had told her. Like plunging your arm into the deepest most angry part of yourself and trying desperately not to get burned. The Mercenary shook her head, as if clearing her thoughts, and brought herself back to the present. Rolling clouds slowly moved across the sky leaving wispy trails, like giant slugs suspended in the air and The Mercenary stood up, feeling the gravelscab of her hand crack ever so slightly as she used the arm to lift herself. She would need to redress the wound later, but for right now letting it breathe would suffice as well as give her use of her hand back for a short while. She made her way back towards the stairs, soaking in the view one last time before she descended back into the old bone, the cold air feeling a little more suffocating when confined to such shallow passages.

The journey back down the stairs was far easier than the uphill hike, and The Mercenary quickly found herself back at the alcove she had left The Cartographer in. She was excited to note her view from upon the rib in her journal, as well as some other thoughts that had been idly floating around in her head for hours now, begging to be immortalised in ink. When The Cartographer worked on his map she found it the perfect time to work on her journal. It was a nice, a small moment of the day where they would share a comfortable silence. No words would pass between them, they would both just sit, and create. As she thought this thought she realised that this was why she found The Cartographer so different to her other clients. Usually she would work on her journal alone, perhaps when it was her turn to keep watch at night or she would find a secluded area to sit and write, but his map had taken that vulnerability away. They would both be making something. She smiled as she entered the room, and straight away she felt something off in the air. The web of silence was still, and The Cartographer had stopped working. The man was still where he was when she had left, upon one of the few stone seats carved into the rock and facing away from her, but his quill had gone still in his other hand. Slowly, she walked inside the room and saw from behind what had drawn his attention. As he sat, he had pulled up his sleeve so that the skin of his forearm was visible, his skin was dark skin with a tinge of yellow – like parchment paper – but it was what was on his skin that had both him and The Mercenary transfixed. Coating the man’s arm were hundreds of tattoos. The Mercenary watched as the ink shifted and moved, moulding mountains and lakes, peninsulas and plateaus. A living map. The lines moved, and formed familiar shapes and outlines, The Angel’s Teeth, Chiton, all the places they had visited together before reverting back to a flat looking area with small thin mountains. She realised in a sudden that she was looking at where they were stood – they weren’t thin mountains but the line of ribs they were inside, the waving hills were the heather coated tundra outside. Softly, she let out a small gasp, and The Cartographer snapped around, pulling down his sleeve in an instant.

“Tala!” He barked. He very rarely used her name, she was always the ‘valiant protector’ or ‘most musing of mercenaries’.

“I’m sorry, I…” She trailed off. “Wow. Your arm…” Was all she managed to say. The Cartographer uncomfortably fiddled with his quill, stroking the length of the feather with his gloved forefingers.

“I apologise, but have you not heard of knocking?” The Mercenary glanced to the doorway, and then back to him.

“I– There’s no door.” She said. The Cartographer let out an amused breath and The Mercenary felt some of the tension dissipate in the room.

“It’s beautiful.” She said, unsure if it was the right thing to say.

“It’s unfinished is what it is.” He put down the quill in the inkpot, looking away from her. “And besides, from where I hail from a work in progress… It’s not proper to share.” Suddenly The Mercenary felt a hot flush on her cheeks.

“Oh, Light above I didn’t realise! I was just curious and-” He cut her off.

“No harm done, oh airheaded one. Perhaps I should have been listening to those heavy footfalls of yours, eh?” He said, and she smiled a little, still worried she might have offended the mapmaker.

“If I might ask, do you draw them yourself?” Said The Mercenary, her eyes now looking to the various sheets of paper spread around the room covered in similar designs. The Cartographer thought for a moment, and then responded.

“To a degree, I suppose. Some inner mechanism, some deep magic of my own creation must be responsible for them. But if you mean by hand, no. All my hands do is sharpen the image, translate what I already know onto paper. Practise, more than anything. Each piece of paper-” He gestured widely around the room, “Is like a rehearsal. To better the true map.”

The conversation paused for a moment, as the words sunk in.

“You mean, you’re the map?” She said, and The Cartographer nodded.

“You see why this task is so important to me. Every day of travel, every moment spent drawing is one closer to my creation. For the meantime, here I am. Existing, yes, but finished? Not finished. Not yet.” The Mercenary stared at him, and then to the world far below, out of the window, with its winding creeks and twisting gorges. She smiled.

“Sounds like a lot of work, huh?” He laughed at this, and then unrolled a fresh piece of paper.

“What is creating if not work?” Taking the quill from the inkpot, he drew a line, and then another. “Now if you don’t mind, there’s work to do.” The Mercenary smiled, and sat across from him, pulling out her journal. There was work to do indeed.

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