Unravelling the Bugs Money Trail

Evening, Midwinter, 1497

“DEE DEE NA NA NA!” Coll, reluctantly dragged on stage at first by Sunday, finishes off the song with an enthusiastic flourish. He and Sunday leap down to cheers and whoops from the audience, the raucous reception fuelled more by alcohol and adrenaline than any technical merit or musical prowess inherent in the performance.

As the next performer clambers up to take his place, Coll heads around to the business side of the bar, pouring drinks and taking orders from the waiting customers. Sunday walks back towards her table to reclaim her seat. As she nears, she sees Markas is already sitting at the table, a glass of wine in front of him.

The tiefling and the half-elf embrace for a moment as he stands to welcome her. “Not one of my best,” Sunday laughs. “But it seemed to go down alright!”

"It's really not fair you know" he replies with a smirk, gesturing back to the stage "he's really got his work cut out for him now… you're a hard act to follow."

Sunday playfully gives him a push to brush off the remark as they take their seats, a smile dancing across her face.

“Hey, are you doing anything tomorrow?

"Well I was going to get some training in but since you're asking, I can make myself free."

“Great! I’ve got some errands to finish off tonight and tomorrow morning; some stuff about that drow, S’lim, and the Council. But how about I pick you up at second bell tomorrow afternoon?”

"Perfect."
Having literally picked Markas up onto the back of eLk from where he had stood waiting in the town square, the trio turns south and - cutting a straight diagonal a degree of two southeast from Daring - begins to make its way towards the northern treeline of the Feythorn.

The wintry sun is low in the sky as eLk glides over the sudden boundary between rough arable land and untamed forest. Only a day past Midwinter, the forest is still wearing its annual coat of frosty stillness. From some distance away, Markas can easily spot the gigantic willow towards which they are heading, breaking through the forest ceiling and dwarfing the trees around it. It stands out from the flora around it not just because of its size, but also because it has retained much of its verdant greenery and life.

eLk coasts in low among the trees, touching down about 100ft or so from their destination, which is growing out of a grassy mound; a sluggishly moving stream, choked with ice, curves away out of sight around the left-hand side of the small hill. As Markas and Sunday jump down, eLk takes off again, wheeling away to the east.

Sunday leads Markas up to the base of the tree. Standing this close, the top of the willow is far out of sight above them - and much of what lies on the other side is blocked by the sheer circumference of the trunk.

As the two walk around wooden behemoth, a sheltered glade comes into view at the bottom of the small hill. About 60ft in diameter, the floor of the dell is covered in soft pale-green loam and moss strewn with wild flora: viburnum, helleborus, dogwood, and cyclamen. Throughout these habitually winter flowers, shooting star clerodendrum and faded roses seemingly vie against one another for space, growing around each other in twisted clumps. All the vegetation covering the ground is incredibly thick and at least thigh-high, making it far more difficult to traverse than it otherwise would be. Two or three channels are cut into the dense foliage, providing easier passage to key areas of the glade.

A few rocks of various sizes protrude from the earth in random places. In the centre of the clearing is a small ring of river stones, worn flat and smooth by the passage of water over time - a simple, box-like construction made from clay lies to one side of the ring. The stream they saw before curves back into view from the left, seeming to pick up its pace as it enters the glade, ice thawing and adding to the momentum of the water’s rush. Markas watches as the flow slows as it passes out of the glade once more, blocks of frozen water gradually reappearing as it wends its way back out of sight.

Sunday heads down into the glade, unclipping her hammers from her belt as she goes, laying them to one side. She shrugs herself out of her armour and unbuckles her greaves and gauntlets, hanging everything up on a miniature oak tree growing at the base of the mound.

“Tea?” She calls over her shoulder. “Something to eat?”

It takes a second for him to answer as he snaps out of his wonderment at the scene around him before he focuses back on Sunday, “Oh, tea would be great, thank you!”. Markas catches up with Sunday down in the glade, taking in every detail as he goes, “Sunday… this place is incredible!”

“Thanks!” She smiles warmly at him, lifting the box up to hang between wooden stakes standing vertically on either side of the fire pit. Sparking a flint over the wood chips and ash, Sunday lets the flames build a little as she carries the box over to the stream and part-way fills it with fresh water. As the makeshift kettle begins to slowly heat the water, she meanders through the glade picking leaves from the occasional herb bush or plant. Heading over to the mound, which Markas can now see has been hollowed out somewhat to make shelving and storage, Sunday rummages around and re-emerges with a couple of clay mugs to see him idly sketching in his journal while watching her work.

“I’ve been here about a year or so. Moved in after Aribeth gifted it to me. I do occasionally miss living in Daring with everyone, but here just feels so right for me, you know?”

"I can understand that. It's nice to have familiar faces and friends around but….well, home is where you feel most yourself, I guess. And this-" he gestures around at the colourful, flourishing scene around them, "... this is what I see in you anyway."

As they wait for the water to boil, Sunday goes over to her gear and pulls out two empty vials. She walks back over to the stream and sets them down in the long grass alongside a line of other similar vessels; some full, some empty. She picks up two full ones and walks back to her armour, tucking them into a pouch hanging from a ivy-woven belt.

“Holy water.” Sunday says matter-of-factly, noticing the look of curiosity on her companion’s face. “Some people brew their own beer or sew their own clothes. I like to make my own holy water.” She laughs, making her way back to the fire and preparing the tea. “Had to use some in Sigil recently. Have you been?”

“Sigil? I have. We were sent to look for a book and ended up in a house full of burglars. It’s a pretty interesting place… What were you there for?”

“Yer, pretty much the same.” Sunday lifts her mug to her mouth to cover her gently mocking smile. “Went to find out who was behind the plot in K’ul Goran. Ended up killing two Beholders. One of which was undead.”

Markas cocks his head to one side. “A Beholder?”

“Yer, big floating eyeball. Loads of smaller eyestalks coming off it. Bit of a fucking maniac, to be honest.” She raises her hand and creates an image of a Beholder in the air above her outstretched palm. “Looks like this!”



“The undead one, a Death Tyrant that’s called, looks like this!” The image flickers.





Markas leans in close as she shows him the creatures, still obviously entertained by the displays Sunday makes. “Oh wow… I’ve never seen one before. Were they involved in the-”

As Markas leans in closer, the image lets loose a terrifying, piercing shriek and lunges towards the half-elf’s face, swelling in size, jaws snapping, eyes blazing. Markas, completely falling for the ruse, is cut off immediately and reels back suddenly. In one swift motion he rolls backward onto the grass and springs up onto his feet, Scimitar now in hand - before seeing the puerile grin plastered across Sunday’s face. His shoulders drop as he relaxes and breaks into laughter. “Ok, I was asking for that one.” He takes his seat again, grinning as he picks up his tea. “So, were they involved in the K’ul Goran events?”

Sunday leaves the image of the first Beholder floating between them and sits down on the grass, her back to a rock, watching the image slowly rotate. “No, they weren’t. Beholders do love to plan and plot, but the scheme in K’ul Goran is beyond even the devious mind of a Beholder. They’re too mad to see much before their own immediate vicinity, thank the gods. I shudder to think what they could achieve if they mastered their self-obsession and started to look outwards. They’re convinced everyone is out to get them, you know. And they loathe others of their own kind more than they hate non-Beholders.” She sips her tea and cradles the clay mug in her hands. “It’s kinda sad, really. Must be very lonely and scary being that colossally paranoid.

But no, the Beholders weren’t behind the cluster fuck in K’ul Goran. We followed up on some information on Mogtron, the Arcanaloth you sent back to the Hells. Turns out he was operating on someone else’s orders. We went to Sigil to speak to Shmeska, another arcanaloth and an information broker, to find out more. She asked us to take care of some local issue. Turns out a Beholder had killed another Beholder and raised it from the dead. Nightmare scenario, tbh. Anyway, we went and dealt with the two Beholders.” The image of the mad creature fades as Sunday stands up and walks back over to the fire, collecting Markas’ mug as she passes. Pouring them both another cup of tea, she returns to her rock and hops up to sit on its top, feet swinging slowly in mid-air.

“As thanks, Shmeska told us that with Mogtron sent back to the Hells she reckons either a new agent is now controlling things in K’ul Goran on behalf of the ultimate prick behind all this; or the mastermind themselves has... now come to...” Sunday trails off, head cocked to one side, looking at Markas, who hasn’t really reacted or stirred since the trick with the illusion.

“Markas? Are you ok? Sorry, I’m banging on about this stuff. You didn’t come here for a lecture on Beholder psychosis.” She jumps down from her seat to go and sit beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“Hmm? Oh.. I’m ok, really”, He smiles at Sunday but sees she isn’t buying it in the slightest. He sighs heavily, the smile fading with it. “Sorry. I love hearing what you’ve been up to it’s just… Well, I spent most of my time out in the woods this week, not nearly as exciting as what you were up to by the sound of things. Basically we were trying to stop some poachers killing the… Almiraj? We were out there for days tracking them down until we found a field of these flowers Vibrant Red roses but….” He frowns. “They were different. Hard to look at. Just SO red… BB had heard something about them being dangerous so we avoided them.”

“Who’s BB?” Sunday asks, interjecting quietly.

“Oh, BB’s one of the adventurer’s who came with us. She grows flowers out in New Hillborrow.” He takes a long sip of the tea. “It’s a good thing she did to be honest or we might have been in trouble. When we found the poachers, they had all walked through the field and were not doing well. One was unconscious, two had gone completely insane and the last one was barely holding onto his own thoughts. From what we could get out of him they had been like that for a few days. I tried to make an antidote for them but it didn’t take, except for Sheryl, she got better almost straight away.”

He pauses for a moment. Sunday doesn’t move or interrupt.

“Then finally one went into a frenzy and attacked Wil and… well, we had been talking for a while about what we could do but they were just too far gone. The last one said they had given up hope and just didn't want to end up like his friends. Wil gave him a weapon and made an attempt at giving him some kind of honourable death. But the last was just a mess on the floor. I had to step in before Sheryl tried to put him out of his misery. It, uh…” He rubs his palm in frustration, “It’s just really shit! If we had someone else with us we could have saved them.”

Sunday slips her hand into one of his, saying nothing. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze.

“It’s…. I’ve… It’s not something I want to do again, Sunday. I keep wondering if there was another way…” he stares off for a second before refocusing back on Sunday. “But I didn’t want to take away from your story.” The smile gradually returns to his face as he looks into her eyes.

Sunday exhales slowly, letting the peaceful silence of the glade wrap around them for a moment before answering.

“Yer, that sounds pretty heinous, not gonna lie.” She smiles sadly at Markas. “Seems like you made the only decision you could. Doesn’t make it any easier, though, right?” She thinks for a moment, before getting to her feet, pulling Markas up after her. “Come on, we’re not gonna sit here moping. Let’s try an approach I’ve developed myself that always cheers me up: let’s punch the shit out of each other for a bit. I call it the ‘Way of Catharsis’.”


(joint write up of two different games with Markas Virnala)