that damned trumpet

day 3: onward

The morning was not particularly pleasant. Waking up drenched in sweat, foul machinations running through my head as if tossed between a nightmare and monsoon. I could feel my pores oozing viscous liquid, every single one, like pushing boiled potatoes through a fine strainer. My heart weak. My head groggy. My body aching as if it was calling out to me to end its suffering. It was not until noon that I found the culprit of my condition. The ampule that held my specimen, Death’s Trumpet as the call it, Daatura, was crushed during the night, and the prolonged exposure over had.. some ill effects on me… one might say.

I was lucky enough to have found the remnants of an abandoned outpost that had once been owned by the Red Sparrows. Adorned in bright crimson and gold livery, I bet it looked quite magnificent in its prime. A large structure, used for intercontinental trade by the single largest guild in the world? Yes it was an awesome sight, even in its ruined state. The forest had grown over, through and under the building over the years. My guess is that at the time the guild build the outpost they had not known of the fierce nature of the forest, and thus built into the ground. This is now known as quite the folly. Everyone knows that the people of Kaara build in the trees. Modular systems that can move and shift with the forest. The Sparrows must have thought they could tame the beast, I wonder how long it took them to realize the effort was worthless.

I made myself a cup of coffee, from beans I found in a large golden tin sealed with a sparrow that I found in one of the quarters and headed off Northwest towards my destination. The Spine, it was so aptly named was the path that ran through the forest, twisting and doubling back upon itself through magnificent trees, lush brambles and under great roots. The Spine was the local travel route that all people took when cutting through the brush. Signs lead the way, others warned of dangers when straying from the path. All shorthand, all a bit confusing. But arrow meant that way, and cross meant the other.

Once on the path I met many travelers, some local, some from other continents heading towards Aeris as well. The effects of the Daatura had subsided, though the sickly green patch of tinted skin would take a few days to go away surely. It was a beautiful day, sun beaming through the trees, dark shadow patches accentuated the highlights atop the canvas, the rich red clay dirt of the Spine caused a vibrant hue to fall upon the green fence of flora. I met a few traders who were selling goods along the road out of large wooden packs strapped to their backs. Tinctures of powder, hard pressed into pucks, shimmering in the sun decorated the exterior of one man’s trunk. Affa. The magical powder that allowed one to control the elements held within the puck at will. I am not a user of Affa myself, though I have studied its effects and properties deeply. The red Ruubrum, the Flame of Fortune. Dolomite, the Desert Winds. And… Daatura, the Devil’s Trumpet. The bright almost glowing green powder that many used for nefarious purposes, poisoning oppositions, creating toxic potions or poisonous agents. I did not have a preference towards any Affa, though I did not like that damned trumpet.