Chiton

- Items found in Chiton -

- Creatures found in Chiton -

Slugdrake

Limaxdraccus Regina

Hiding away from the sun in their tunnelling burrows beneath the ground, the Slugdrakes are nocturnal creatures, waiting for the moon to emerge before hunting. These creatures differ to their smaller cousins, and are in fact very fast. Using this darting speed to ambush their prey, they coat them in a thick, acidic slime making escape unlikely before swallowing them whole. Luckily for anyone setting foot in Chiton, these drakes are very unlikely to hunt humanoids, instead preferring to go after small shelled beasts who are unlikely to put up much of a fight. It is said that when a Slugdrake eats ten thousand shells, it hibernates and grows one of its own, but I highly doubt the legitimacy of this claim. Why would such a fast hunter want something to slow itself down?

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Chapter One : Grass and Shells

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Two figures stepped over a fallen branch coated in the shimmering trail of a slug. One of them was small, his eyes hidden behind rounded glasses and his body hidden under an enormous backpack overflowing with parchment paper and feather quills. The other was tall, and built to fight. Her skin was chipped and grey, made of a rough stone, and from under her short black hair two curled horns sprouted. They walked down a dirt path, and either side towering blue green grass loomed and cast waving shadows on the pebble peppered ground, hiding the horizon from view and making the two feel very small.

“So, tell me again,” The Mercenary paused, hacking away at one of the fallen blades of giant grass, “Why is this so important?” Her companion, the small man with the bag as large as himself, chuckled.

“Oh, you are wonderful, aren’t you? All that head with nothing inside!” he said, and The Mercenary let out exhausted sigh. This wasn’t the first time they had had this conversation. “Making this map is not just about making a map. It is about making me! Every line, every blot of ink and every word is a little bit more of me that stays out in this world, and to be a map would be a wonderful thing, no?” The Mercenary found The Cartographer odd with his words that stumbled and danced out of his mouth, but he paid her well and keeping him from harm was an easy enough job. The two paused for a moment and surveyed the path. They had been making good time, the occasional buzzing or clicking from the greenery probably keeping them at a sensible speed, and their destination drew ever nearer.

“Does it have to be a map?” Asked The Mercenary.

“Hm?” The Cartographer seemed lost in his own mind, looking up at the towering trees in the distance and swaying with their branches.

“The book you have to make. Is it always a map?” She repeated. The little man shook his head.

“No, no, not always a map. But it has to be a book. My father wrote a collection of poems that would make flowers bloom and crops grow, my mother wrote a love story that would make the fiercest dragon weep. I think my brother is writing a collection of all the known pebbles on the beaches of the continent. And I, I will make a map.” The Mercenary opened her mouth to speak, but then thought twice, and the two continued to walk in silence. Overhead, a moth fluttered and left behind a sparkling white dust that caught on the tips of the grass before slowly fading away, and The Mercenary and Cartographer came upon a fork in the road.

“Left, or right?” Said The Mercenary. Without answering, The Cartographer had already began walking to the right. “Right it is, I suppose.”

The two had been travelling together for a week or so now, not long enough to know a person, but enough to have a mouthful of their personality to swill and decide the taste. The Mercenary was yet to make up her mind on her companion. If we are still talking flavours, she thought of him as some cross between a chocolate cake and a fruit salad. Enjoyable, if not sometimes a little tangy, with enough zest to keep her surprised and unsure of what the next bite will hold. It seemed when they spoke she could rely on his inconsistent and whimsical responses, and found herself smiling as he would ramble in his jumpy poetic tone about some fact or titbit regarding whatever area they found themselves in. She was happy for the company, many of her clients were either silent or had her walk twenty feet ahead to scout forward, so the talkative mapmaker was a breath of fresh air. He had approached her in the town of Rockfern Creek, a small rural place that was almost in the exact centre of the known world, which made it the perfect place for people like her to wait for a new job. Every day new people passed through the town, and of those people usually one or two wouldn’t say no to some protection on the bandit riddled roads. As well as this, The Crossroads was a favourite of the many taverns she had spent her time in, the owners knowing the importance of good cooking rather than only offering watery ale and dry meat. So, there she hauled up, waiting for the next opportunity to arise while she spent her days filling out her journal with mindless thoughts and filling her stomach with slow-cooked fernstag stew. An opportunity arose in the form of the short stranger with round glasses who approached her table with a drink in one hand and a bowl in the other.

“Asked the keep what you liked the most,” He slid the bowl across the table to her, the smell of diced onions and salted potatoes blending with the fragrant meats and herbs and making her stomach growl. “And might I say, what a splendid choice it was indeed! Very nearly swayed me. Alas, I ate before I arrived, something I am now coming to regret.” He sat down opposite her, and set his drink down. She raised an eyebrow.

“And for yourself?” She asked. The man stirred his drink with a thin metal rod, and she watched as gently glowing golden bubbles rose out of the tall glass.

“Quite the delicacy, ma’am. Pollenfizz, they have to ship it in all the way from Chiton, way in the West. Which, actually, leads me to my proposition, if you don’t mind me being so rash. Have you travelled much, mercenary? More importantly, would you like to?” The two sat and talked for some time as The Cartographer explained his plan, and finally he politely asked for her assistance. That was another thing she liked about the man, most would just hand her a bag of crown-pieces and tell her to kill anything that gets within arm’s reach of them. His transparency – as well as the free food – put him in her good books. He wanted to document the Western reaches of The Continent, the Deadlands as the United Council had deemed them, to learn more about the six unique lands and – of course – map them. Recent maps of the area were rare things come by due to the hostility of the place, and any that were accurate to any degree would cost a lord’s fortune to purchase. This meant a lot of unprepared people meeting unexpected ends. With her aid, he told her, he would be able to safely create the most accurate map the world had seen and house it in the Library of the Commonwealth, free for any adventurer to view. It was, as he put it, his calling. She laughed at this, but stifled it as she saw his firm expression. More than that, it was the excitement behind his eyes that convinced her – that and the heavy pay he could provide. The next day she met him at the edge of town, fully armoured with as many provisions as she could carry and her trusty glaive mounted on her back, ready to set off to the West.

In the distance, a tall mushroom watched the pair approach its stem. How odd, thought the mushroom, to see such unfamiliar figures in such a familiar place. It had seen many figures over its life, mostly the bugfolk scurrying here or flying there, all attending to some mindless task set to them by their queen, or maybe the occasional merchant looking for something to sell back home. But these two - the man with a shell of leather and parchment, and the woman with horns of stone? Very odd indeed. How delighted it was when the two scaled its stem and sat on its cap! Such an unfamiliar thing in such a familiar place.

The Cartographer sat down on the mushroom, the flesh below firm yet spongy, and took out his sketching equipment. The Mercenary sat upon the edge of the cap, her feet dangling below, and watched the world so far below. She could see the tall Mt. Voskus to the East, and to the West the stretching expanse of the ocean filled the horizon. For a few moments, she let herself breathe. Always ready for an unseen ambush or sneak attack, The Mercenary decided that if anything could reach them all the way up here without being seen first, her guard being up probably won’t be able to help anyway.

“What happens when you finish it?” She said, her eyes drifting over the scenery in front of her. From up here, the grass looked normal, and the path they had been walking was indistinguishable from the rest of the ground.

“Well, when I finish it, it won’t be it, it will be me, and me? I’ll be gone. Drifting away in the breeze with the rest of my pages, waiting to be found again.” The Cartographer smiled at the thought and continued his work, his quill moving in slow steady movements. The Mercenary watched him for a while, and saw how for every line he drew he never once looked out to the world around him for reference. As if the knowledge was already inside of him, and he just needed the time to get it out. The two sat upon the mushroom for some time, and soon the moon joined The Mercenary in her watch over Chiton, her white glow glinting off of the giant shells and getting tangled in the crystalline webs that stretched over the land. She pulled her journal from her belt, an old, leather thing, and scratched out a poem that had been running through her head as they had been walking.

Queen of slime, Queen of wings

Queen of legs and crawly things,

Queen of teeth and Queen of stinger

Herald of rot and honey bringer,

Queen of mites with crown of shell, Ruling where the great bugs dwell.

Her mind had obviously strayed to the stories she had heard of the Queen of Chiton, the tall horned creature who lurked somewhere in this land, ruling from some deep nest as her children hurried to and fro, attending to her needs and sustaining her kingdom. There was a simple sense to it, she thought. Each member like another limb to a huge, interconnected beast able to do a thousand tasks a thousand different ways all at once. Actually being able to see this place though, it was unlike anything she had thought it would be. For once, she was excited to do her job, not dreading what dangers she would have to face but thinking of the different sights and wonders she might be able to see and archive in her book.

As she gazed at the stars, The Mercenary felt her eyes droop, and she let herself rest. Far below, the crickets played a soft lullaby as a The Mercenary and The Cartographer slept.

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