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THE SHIPWRECK

      West of the triple-headed, Dwarven Mountain called Jebul, lie the Cracks of the Hora-medion.  The cracked plains were south of the haunted forest Kinderval, beyond the white beaches of the Great Sea.  It was a barren waste-land, where the rocky hills grew into the great heights of Mount Jebul, the jewel of the southern dwarf kingdom.  Seldom did it rain enough for any vegetation beyond brush to even grow as the earth never drank her fill.  Hence, were the large three foot cracks in the earth, where even the horses of unwary explorers, became ensnared.  Some cracks were bottomless pits and others were openings to greater doom.  Those sparse broken-lands were harsh and most inhospitable to any but the aborigines who lived there.  They were called Hora-medion: ‘the flesh eaters’.   The many disappearances were more than rumors to impede travelers, as shaken, scarce survivors could attest first hand.  Even the stout dwarven miners of Jebul bypassed that parched domain, out the uncertainty of overland travel.
   At the moment, all that Captain Traclee knew was that his ship and crew of fourteen had run ashore.  They had left the port city of Lindol only two days before under the hope of clear skies and promise of a safe dwarven harbor.  Neither was the case.  A sudden storm tossed The Grey Gull and her men and cargo upon the jagged rocks.  Unable to remain in a sinking craft the sailors quickly gathered their belongings.  They loaded as fast as possible, crates of: pipe weed, rum, bundles of boar pelts and what food provisions they could muster.   Only the lives of nine men were saved, and the barest of supplies filled a single dingy.
     Their overland travel had just begun.  The old seafarer surveyed the land before him, seeing only flat beaches to the left and right.  Traclee knew exactly where he was.  Despite the fear-laden rumors of where they beached, the Captain bellowed orders to disembark the smaller boat.  Off in the distance loomed the monster infested forest that appeared to float on the rays of desert heat.  Many of his men were new and had never before witnessed such a frightening sight.  The barking Captain ordered them to keep moving.  The illusion before their fearful eyes would do better fixed on Jebul, and recalling that breaking a trade agreement with dwarves was a more dreadful thing.  Two men carried one of the rolled up sails at either end, with goods in the other hand as they all marched east.   Everyone was heavy laden with the burdens of commerce.  

   The weather worn Captain was three times the age of his men; yet his own experiences in these dark lands came rushing back to him.  His own eyes held back the fear of what he knew lay before them.  The old man hoped that he had cheated death enough for his wisdom to keep his men safe.  But this trip felt like a replay of Traclee’s own maiden voyage.   He prayed like never before to all the gods of Lindol that the journey ahead was not a repeat as well.  He kept those secrets to himself as he pushed his crew forward.  Pointing to the right, they headed east.  He aimed to round the back side of Jebul, heading north near the Gorge of Talkers.  From there they would turn south and head for the front door of the dwarven kingdom.  Such was the plan and hope.

   A young boy, carrying a pack on his back and an oar as a staff, called out up ahead to the Captain, “Sir, why do they call it the Gorge of Talkers?”
   It was the First Mate who replied instead, “So, the cabin boy is the first to conversate, and what a topic, eh Cap’n ?”
   Traclee did not answer but kept pressing forward without looking back.  He kept his thoughts to himself.
   “Jonas, they call it that because legend has it that the very rocks themselves speak.  Now, do you believe in such tales boy?”  The First Mate asked playfully.
   “Yes I do, Mister Sanders.  I believe in the Prophet Kyon too, sir.” The boy of sixteen caught everyone’s laughter, but dismissed it with a smile of his own.
   “Good to believe in something, boy.  You will all need as much faith as you can gather before this is done.”  The Captain’s voice silenced everyone.


   Two hundred yards north of the beach they came upon a crevasse, then another hole in the ground and then another.  Like a lizard, a little man squeezed his way out of one of the holes.  He sprang to his feet making the intruders halt.
   The tiny, mud caked figure had a broad nose that covered its wide face.  Soulless black, deep set eyes peered at each of them in turn.  With a downturned mouth that muttered its own speech.  Through tarnished, sharpened teeth unfamiliar words clicked from the creature, each one demanded attention from the hearer, “Deeda motta uba su-ota ma ha-tuma?”
   Looking at one another the sailors did not know how to respond to such a coded message.   Then, astonishing everyone, the Captain answered the thing back, “Noa u-oma wda sayeis Deedo.  Keta Lindol, yeta mama du-ma.”
   The first mate was going to ask Captain Traclee what was going on, but he could tell from the look of the old man’s face there was nothing good being shared.  The seafarer’s introduction agitated the man that stood half their size; yet, as the two spoke several more crawled from the cracks encircling the nine lost men.  With their growing numbers the tiny odd looking aborigines took on a more fearsome appearance, each armed with side blades and spears.  Wearing just loin cloths their dark bodies were coated in colored mud; war paint to be sure.

   Suddenly, the first one that had appeared and begun speaking burst into laughter, at which all the others aimed their weapons at the new comers.  More concerned with commerce than war, none of them were armed except for the Captain, who left his sword in its sheath.  Traclee removed his hat and bowed, as did his men in turn.  The Captain stayed bent down for a long time, when the leader yelled out, “Demo!”
  When the old man slowly rose up, Captain Traclee saw that he and his men were all alone on the deserted beach, and then ordered, “March.”  They did so all the while silently heading east, making their way about the ever widening cracks of the growing desert.   After a long time the first mate whispered to the cabin boy. “That was no garden gnome, and if they do not get us these cracks will!”


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