"Back then, in the endless desert, three Sandstorm Stalkers were hot on our tails! You gotta understand, just one Sandstorm Stalker could wipe out an armed caravan, and we had three—three!—chasing our asses!…"
In a no-name tavern in some backwater town, a bearded man clutched a mug of malt beer, loudly recounting his crew's adventures in the Eight Greed Kings desert. The other patrons had set down their drinks, hanging on his every word.
The bearded guy chugged his beer, let out a long, boozy belch, and kept going: "We were scared shitless, running blind, nearly lost the damn map. We piled onto the desert flying carpet and just floored it. You know those carpets the Takla clan sells—cheap junk that barely gets off the ground. Then, out of nowhere, we spot the ruins of a palace up ahead, so we hightailed it inside…"
A guy in a wide-brimmed cloth hat banged his mug on the table, cutting him off. "Sounds like you're full of crap! Three Sandstorm Stalkers? They'd have boxed you in and shredded you into meat paste and bones! No way you outran 'em!"
"By the Six Great Gods, I ain't exaggerating one bit!" the bearded man thumped his chest, swearing up and down. "If I'm lying, may I never reach the divine realms after death and get tossed into the God of Death Surshana's hell to burn for eternity!"
The tavern patrons all wore looks of absolute conviction, and even the guy who'd first called bullshit was nodding, totally sold. In the Slane Theocracy, faith was no joke. Swearing on the Six Great Gods was as ironclad as it got.
"Which route did you take through the Eight Greed Kings desert? Find any treasure?" The tavern owner slid a wooden mug of black rye beer across to the bearded man.
"This one," the man said, pulling a yellowed map from his bag. "We stumbled on a massive temple surrounded by a sandstorm, but we couldn't get in, so we turned back. Picked up a decent haul of goodies along the way, though…"
In the tavern, EeDechi, Barrett, and Franco lounged in their chairs, eavesdropping on the bearded man's hyped-up tale of adventure.
"Is he for real?" EeDechi whispered.
"Doesn't sound like he's faking it. The details check out," Barrett said, thinking hard. "We're short on maps—hell, we need a ton of 'em. The desert's no joke. Word is, the magic out there's so wild it screws with compasses. Since this guy just came back from there, we could buy his map. Better yet, if we can hire a guide, we're golden."
In the center of the tavern, the bearded man, one foot propped on a wooden chair, was mid-rant, voice booming with passion, when he suddenly went quiet. A sharp-looking woman with a buzzcut had grabbed him by the ear.
The bearded man's head was yanked to the side, and he whined, "Big Sis, I fucked up, I won't run my mouth again, please let me go!"
The tavern erupted in laughter. The bearded man and the buzzcut woman, called "Big Sis," slunk to a corner table, quietly chugging beer and tearing into some meat. Sitting with them were a cocky-looking young guy and a teenage girl dressed like a cleric.
Barrett rehearsed his pitch, then strolled over to the four. After some back-and-forth, he explained he was headed into the Eight Greed Kings desert for an expedition and wanted to buy their map, offering a fat stack of coin for it.
Barrett threw out a tempting price—one that, in his experience, no sane explorer or adventurer could turn down. But to his shock, all four flat-out refused to sell even a scrap of their map.
After wasting more breath, Barrett trudged back to his seat, empty-handed.
"It's just a map. Worst case, we buy one somewhere else," Franco said, sipping his malt beer. He daintily sliced a tiny piece of shredded pork with an iron knife and popped it into his mouth with a wooden fork, acting all high-class. You'd think he was eating steak with red wine, not tavern slop.
"Maps aren't something you just grab anywhere," Barrett said, shoving a mouthful of savory onion and meat drippings into his face, chewing loudly.
"In places where hardly anyone lives, maps are a crapshoot—hard to tell the real ones from the fakes. You've gotta sift through a pile of junk from shady antique shop owners to find one actually drawn by a traveling mage. And when it comes to getting scammed with fake goods, our captain's got plenty of experience," Barrett said.
"Hmph, I was just trying to help out those miserable old shopkeepers," EeDechi grumbled, slumping over the tavern table, teasing Cheeko as the creature lapped at some black rye beer.
"Whatever," Barrett said, his eyes flicking toward the four explorers' table. "A legit map is sitting right there in front of us, and we can't let it slip away!"
…
In the heart of the Slane Theocracy's capital, behind towering walls, a secret underground chapel lay hidden.
The dim light of flickering candles cast long shadows from six towering statues of the gods. An old man paced anxiously in the darkness, his steps heavy with frustration.
"Nonsense! Utter nonsense!" the old man roared, hurling a wax-sealed letter to the ground. A young boy with pale blond hair stood trembling against the wall, not having seen his teacher this pissed in ages.
A stone door creaked open with the grind of hidden gears, swinging halfway. An old woman, leaning on a cane, shuffled slowly into the chapel. If anyone caught a glimpse of her eyes, they'd be shocked—both were a lifeless, dull gray. She was blind.
The old woman waved a hand at the blond boy by the wall. Like he'd been handed a lifeline, he bolted out of the chapel through the stone door.
"The Scarab expedition team actually agreed to help the Berdystch city knights clear out some bandits. Do they even know what they found in the desert? Do they have any clue what they're escorting?"
"In truth, they don't know a damn thing," the old woman said, her hunched frame steady, her voice eerily calm.
The old man let out a long sigh, his anger fading into weary resignation. "Ignorance is bliss."
His hair and eyebrows were pure white, his face etched with deep wrinkles like the bark of an ancient pine, proof of the many years he'd walked the world. Yet his eyes still burned bright, the fire of life unquenched.
"The Scarab team's back now, which means they've found the path to 'The Sevenfold Heavens' temple," the blind old woman said with a soft sigh. "It wasn't easy. We've been searching for fifty years. The Plan can finally take a big step forward."
"Yeah, fifty years gone in a blink," the old man mused, lost in memory. "Fifty years ago, I was just a Cardinal Archbishop. The weight on my shoulders keeps getting heavier. May the Six Great Gods protect us—let us finish the Plan before it crushes me."
"The prophecy in the sacred texts, about the coming of the demon gods, lines up perfectly with the appearance of the Great Tomb of Nazarick. We're running out of time."
The old man took a deep breath, straightening his back, his spirit sharp and alert. "To make damn sure nothing goes wrong, I'll go myself to get the route map from Scarab's hands."
"No need," the old woman said, hesitating. "You're the head of Clearwater Scripture. If you move openly, it'll tip off the Pope. Send a Cardinal Priest instead."
"Don't worry. I'll disguise myself as a Skyterror cavalryman and slip out. No one will notice a thing."