Shortcut¶
Dubious Canon
This book does not currently exist in version 2.2, and was posted as a teaser for the 2026 PRIME MOTOR OIL April Fools' event. Its canonicity is questionable.
Coordinates¶
| X | Y | Z |
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| ??? | ??? | ??? |
Transcription¶
Gona Ferahnya let out a roar of exasperation as he hacked his way through another twisted vine with his axe.
“Graaaaaaaaggh! Gut your worm-infested hides!!”. Gona stomped on the green shoot of a new stem and ripped off a thorny branch with his free left hand. Forehead veins churning and jaw clenching, he gradually steadied his breath. Overhead, far above the canopy of palm fronds, a single bluegull squawked at him.
Sea couldn’t be far now. Just couldn’t. Bluegulls nest on the shore. But every time he finally stepped out of one thicket, he found himself face-to-face with another identical field surrounded by another chest-high wall of stinging vines.
Onward Gona went, swinging right to left, left to right. The rhythm helped. Reminded him of his time behind the oars. The branches flew away with meaty thwacks, and he made steady progress for a time.
Another clearing. Another thicket. Lift and turn. Slash and repeat.
If only he had a hull beneath him now. Even against the wind in a twenty-snap gale, a good Mohtan craft would make better time. Wood should sit quietly in neat planks. It should not accost innocent travelers on urgent missions. The bluegull called again, and a chill wind blew, uncomfortably prickling Gona’s sweat-soaked back. He had come to another clearing, this one a roughly triangular field of dew-covered grasses between three especially tall palms. Perhaps he could afford a short break. He threw down his axe, untied the ropes around his chest and gingerly shrugged the heavy pack from his shoulders and onto his upper arms, wincing as he stretched his aching old back.
The journey into the Bebec foothills had not been as difficult as he had feared. Sticking to well-trodden paths, he had made good time. He found the cave with the ancient shrine. He recovered the artifact within a central pillar marked with the smiling visage of the Aspect of Blood. And he had nearly made it out of the densest jungle when he espied a pack of Rotted on the trail below. Not in the mood to join their mindless crew, Gona decided to trust the Torahn, the moons, and his sailor’s intuitive sense of direction.
Fat lot of good it did him on land. Now he was trapped, and it was getting dark. Dark? With a jolt, Gona noticed that the shadows of trees rising from behind him were standing tall. Cursing his laziness, he hefted his pack, picked up his axe, and bit it into the next thicket.
As the light turned golden on the trees in front of him, he heard two sounds. One of them filled him with relief. Not too far ahead, the familiar crash of waves! But the other was strange. Loud and grinding. A pang of worry sped his heartbeat. Was he too late? He began to hurry, taking less care to clear his path of the hostile vines. He came to a particularly large plant, taller than his house in Mohta, with long, black thorns. Swinging his axe into it with desperation, Gona watched with dismay as it stuck and would not come loose. Without a moment to lose, he elected to sidle around its perimeter, wincing as one thorn drew a bloody gash across his flank.
The menacing growl only grew louder and uglier. Birdsong had ceased completely. The thorns bit at his hands and face.
“GrrrrrrrrAAAgh!” Wincing and yelling, Gona Ferahnya charged into another identical clearing. The shadowed silhouettes of palm trees rose in front of him, silhouetted against the cloudless, twilit sky. There, in the direction of home, rose thick plumes of dark smoke. The acrid scent of burning oil filled the air.
The Maelmari had come, and he had failed.¶