Intro, or a canoe and a swift pair of boots

The colossus outside of the Port of Feeno towers above the bay like a green mountain. Its prominent jaw juts out over the crashing waves in a permanent snarl, revealing jagged teeth that are chipped with age, with edges worn smooth by the eternal winds. Stubborn slime clings to its cheeks, which are taller than the largest spire in the great castle in Veral Ski. Hundreds of feet above the sloshing waves and sneering stone grimace, the brow of the Bay Guardian is furrowed in constant displeasure at those who sought to plunder the rich trading town, the anger and power of the stone still evident despite hundreds of years of exposure to the slashing winds and thunderous sea. Its eyes were pits of despair where fires taller than any two men once burned. Its fearsome countenance was modeled after Bloorn, the irritable god of the undersea, and designed to strike fear among the pirates and villains who patrolled the coast of Knorr as well as respect among the sailors who made their living on the tempestuous waters. It was frightening and majestic.

The clerk in the Temple of Yaner in the town of Alt, far removed from both the coast and its age-old guardians--the man who reminded me of that grand sculpture--was not. He was merely hideous. He probed his few remaining teeth with his tongue as he hunched over the parchments in front of him. Hair curled from his misshapen ears like burnt grass, and one thick strand stuck out from a rumpled mole on his temple like a flagpole.

"Is that all you have, then," he asked. "A map?"

It was amazing he could see anything through eyes so rheumy I could not distinguish their original color. I hoped, then, that he could only see my smile, and not detect the irritation behind it.

"It's a very detailed map," I told him, "better than anything you have in your archives."

"Hmmm." The tongue went back to probing his teeth. I was reminded of a mole searching for grubs under loose soil. He spun the paper around and bent closer to it. I was afraid the bubble of snot hanging precariously from his nose would fall, smear all of my delicate ink work and rob me of the few coins this effort would bring me.

"See, here? Your map shows the village near the Green River, while the river itself is a league away. 'Tis only a tributary that passes that close," I pointed out. "And the hills? They are much closer. Why, someone could follow your map to the river and find themselves surrounded by hill giants, instead. Imagine that. Pack a canoe and need a sword, instead--or a pair of swift boots."

I craned my neck to catch the signature, wondering if the Falcuhn who created the document had even been to that area—and how he or she had earned the quill in the first place. Ah. Connell Malak. No wonder. He was to facts what dwarves were to ocean fishing. Yet Malak managed to connect with the right heroes, tell the right legends and earn much more coin. Even now, he was probably resting on some well-padded divan, drunk on fine wine, while I was left chasing ghosts and quibbling over the position of trees and creek beds. And correcting his mistakes.

"You do show much attention to detail," he allowed. "And your strokes are sure; your lines clean. Have you ever considered scribery?"

I blinked and took a half step away from the counter before I recovered and give him a sweet smile. "You are kind to offer, but I fear my backside was not meant for a desk." A scribe? A...a copier? There was no appeal in that. Not for me.

He peered over the counter and grunted in agreement. I felt offense, but could not show it. I had to show nothing but patience while he poured over my map; my immediate future was in this abhorrent man's hands. My stomach rumbled, my legs were tired. My head itched and the gray hair that resisted most attempts to contain it probably looked like a wind-tossed nest. I wanted a bath, some food and a room and I had coin enough for none of it.

Finally, he favored me with something like a smile and pulled a heavy box from behind the counter. "The good queen's efforts to document the land are noteworthy, and the crown is usually quick to reimburse. I am happy to offer you some payment for your work, paltry though it may be."

I had hoped for the musical jingle of silver or the solid weight of gold and felt dismay when the pouch he pulled out rattled with the dull clamor of copper. The bath, needed as it was, might have to wait.