After he rebirth, Dibus
would sometimes have trouble recalling his life, before: days filled with
gnomes, gears, cogs, smoke, and fire. But he did remember some things.
The middle child of
five siblings, he felt he was often forgotten by his family. He never really
seemed to mind though as it left him time to go on walkabouts. He loved to be
in the wilds, and felt at times as though the plants, animals, very land could
speak to him. When he shared these impressions, his family -in a rare showing
of focused attention- scoffed; such daydreams were all well and good but his
place was in the workshop with the family. Frustrated, Dibus discovered his
love of food and cooking (and the acceptability of these pursuits); the scents
of stew and mash and dishes he had to learn the name of seduced and inspired
him. As he shifted from being an enthusiastic eater to a cook himself, his
meanders gained a purpose: to procure only the freshest, only the most
delicious vegetables, spices and more to improve his culinary craft Through
cooking for his family, then his extended family, and finally the clan in total
Dibus carved a comfortable, and somewhat fulfilling, niche as the go-to chef
for every meal of importance. But still, his itchy feet drove him to wander
further seeking some new (gastronomic) adventure till his wanderlust finally drove
him to the legendary city of Salt in Wounds and the promise of tastes and
flavors that couldn’t be found elsewhere.
As his chartered
caravan drew close to the city, Dibus heard a call “Come to me… I have all that
you seek…” as plainly as if the caller were seated next to him though none of
his companions were speaking. He was confused, intrigued, and -almost in spite
of himself- knew he would have to heed the call. Waiting until the caravan settled
into sleep, Dibus started off into the Heartsblood Marsh. He had heard rumors
of how terrible the marsh was, but also knew that mushrooms and insects of a
kind not seen elsewhere grew here; that was almost enough reason for the journey
even without the call.
As he walked, further
and further, that voice would repeat itself, growing stronger, more insistent
as it pulsed. ‘come, Come, COME.”
Marching through the
red muddy ground, pushing past stalks of strange willowy mushrooms that reached
to the sky, and coughing hazy air filled with some kind of particulate; Dibus looked
up to find a castle of fungus with a river of blood -surely it couldn’t be
blood, could it?- flowing into it. He thought this to be some sort of metaphor
vision or illusion, but as he stared it only solidified. This was real.
Dibus had found the
Fungal Sieve, the structure stemming the tide of the Tarrasque’s blood form
corrupting more of the world. And instantly, Dibus knew fear and knew he was
not alone. Above him, a dozen frog-men (grippli they were called he remembered
as though the bit of trivia mattered) watched him from the fungal stalks, tall
as treetops, and it felt as if the growths themselves were watching him.
From within the
sieve, a figure lurched out. Lithe and thin, it reminded Dibus of one of the
elf-blood warriors he’d known. But rather than the regal appearance that Dibus
was used to, this creature was covered in fungus of various types from head to
toe. As he/they/it opened their mouth, Dibus turned and ran as fast as his legs
would carry him.
Huffing and puffing
through long minutes, or maybe hours, later he was lost amongst the marsh and careening
as though drunk to avoid the ever-present dangers. And yet the fungal elf
continued, tireless. Growing slower, Dibus leaned against a large mushroom
stalk. It had been several years since he had attempted to commune directly
with nature, but he figured now may be the last chance he would ever have.
Dibus tucked himself under
the base of a giant mushroom and began to seek council with whatever powers may
be present in the area. But this land was not like the glens and pastures of
his home; this land had a distinct personality to it, one that was strong and
forceful and quite insane. Reaching out with his subtle senses, Dibus’s consciousness
was jerked towards the Fungal Sieve. In a vision a face appeared, a fungal
version of himself, but… no. It was clearly a gnome, but the eyes flashed open
with a sickly green hue to them. This face was whatever or whoever whoever had
been calling to him.
“I am Afrindi, no I
am Heartsblood Marsh, no I am the druid who controls this land, and you will
serve me/us/I now.” Dibus felt his mind start to slip as the world shifted. He
felt something gently burst near him and -mind still filled with the face of
the fungal gnome- he felt a patter of spores coat his face and fill his nostrils.
Dibus was surrounded by the images geometric shapes in cascading patterns, all
life wobbled and weaved. He saw the iconography of ancient civilizations flash
before him and began to feel more connected to the world around him and less
connected to his own body and self.
In an instant
everything went dark and he was again face to face with the fungal visage of
Afrindi. This new visage was much more imposing and detailed than before, more immanent.
As Afrindi/the marsh/whatever spoke his voice echoed through Dibus’ mind, body,
and soul. He told Dibus things the former cook couldn’t begin to understand,
spoke in language that made no sense. Dibus felt as if he was being
deconstructed to be rebuilt into whatever form Afrindi intended for him. He
could see again the fungal elf and other frog-men standing perfectly still in
their new fungal forms in a ring. Dibus let out what he thought was a low
guttural growl, and began to fight back. He immediately met resistance as
Afrindi began shouting instead of simply speaking. The commands began to come
quicker and his mind swirled deeper into and away from itself.
Then Dibus let go. Realzing
fighting was pointless, he shifted his focus to things he could understand.
Dibus remembered at that moment every recipe he had ever cooked and ingredient
he had ever used. He set out to recite each and every one in his mind, and looked
to expand into making new dishes he would have never thought of before.
He began to see a
light amidst the darkness and he focused on it allowing himself to be drawn
deeper into its light. It was far behind the visage of Afrindi and the others
that he found the small pieces of them still left inside the Fungal Sieve. In
unison they whispered “Take this knowledge, this second chance and fight…” The
light washed over Dibus and his mind began spiraling backwards to where he had
sat down to commune with nature. The fractals and ancient geometry faded back
to the fungal marsh. The fungal elf dropped from the mushroom cap overhead
bearing down on him with a blade of hardened chitin – a weapon grown rather
than forged. The blade buried itself to the hilt in Dibus’ stomach and deep
into the mushroom behind him. Dark lines shot through Dibus as the blade
infected him. His eyes went dark and shut as he drew what would be his last
breathe as Dibus Dulpinzo.
It was many days
later that Dibus Morelskein would open his eyes. He stood up from the base of
the mushroom where he had fallen to the fungal sword. He shook a few toadstools
from his face that looked more like fungus than actual hair. He stretched his
fingers felt for the influence of other minds: no, as far as he was aware there
were no other influences in his mind. Whatever Afrindi had tried to do hadn’t
worked, or perhaps had in ways the mad druid hadn’t anticipated. Dibus was no slave
to the mad arch-druid who’d spun away his life into the fungal sieve; he was
servant of the land and the creatures (mostly fungus) that longed to be free of
the warped domination they suffered under.
Dibus knew what he
had to do, tend to the marsh, check Afrindi’s reach, and finally wrench control
of this place away from the madness of its creator… to be steward, part and
parcel of the wildness here without being master was the path he needed to
take.
But to do that, Dibus
would need to learn more about himself, his new powers, and more about Afridini
if he had any hope of winning. He sensed many of the answers he sought might be
found in Salt in Wounds (and it was perhaps not a good idea to linger here in
the marsh, where Afrindi’s schizophrenic attention might well return to him),
so he set to walking to the city as the land whispered secret things in a voice
just below the bickering chatter of Afrindi.
His stomach grumbled,
and he wondered what sorts of meals he could find (or make!) along the way.
This post by Neal Powell and J.M. Perkins - Art by Jeffrey Chen.
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