By Sam Witt

September 22nd, 2003

The Golden Shore is a delightful place, filled with the hedonistic pleasures one would expect from the bloodhold of a creature as self-indulgent as Narcis. Its glittering minarets gleam above the waters of the Cistern, gilded beacons for those who wish to forget their troubles—at least for a time. Within the Golden Shore, one can become lost in all manner of pleasures, if there’s enough coin in his purse to pay for the trip. For those who live here, however, there is more toil and danger than pleasure.

My father was once employed by one of Narcis’ people, carting fragrant pipeweed and glittering vermillion dreamdust from the warehouses to the shops scattered throughout the Golden Shore. He ran himself ragged, worked longer hours than any of the other runners, and he became well known in Narcis’ court as a frey who could get things done. We did not live extravagantly, my family and I, but my father fed us and kept the roof over our heads. He was an honest frey in a nest of liars and cheats. He was doomed.

The runners bid for their contracts. My father was good, he could figure the travel times and fares in his head, bid low enough to get the contracts in the morning and still have some leftover when he went home at night. Other runners were lazy or stupid; they were left with the less lucrative deliveries, or the more dangerous trips to the edges of the bloodhold. They grew to hate my father.

Rather than compete honestly, they chose to attack my father to punish him for his skills. He would never tell me what happened that day, but when he finally staggered home, his ribs were broken and his snout was a bloody wreck of shattered teeth. Wracked with pain, he could do little more than collapse in a heap on the doorstep and whimper at the door until we hauled his blood-drenched frame into our little hovel.

We watched him through the night, I remember staring at the water-stained ceiling, listening to his rattling breaths, afraid he was dying. But in the morning, he was up at the table, his snout bandaged and his ribs wrapped in tight loops of burlap. He had a sheet of stained cloth in front of him, with words, though shakily written sometime deep in the night, clear enough on its surface. He gave me the note, and I carry it still, telling me what I should do.

Scattered in the blocks surrounding our home, my father had left tiny packets wrapped in oilskin. Each one held a few pinches of ashcrave, a substance worth many times its weight in gold. Over the years, my father had earned the right to carry this, one of the most precious of all Narcis’ cargoes. And from each brick of ashcrave that he had delivered, the old frey scraped a tiny bit, a razor’s width from the ends and sides, and no more. It was his hedge against dark times, a bit of insurance if the worst should happen. If I sold the ashcrave in one of the little pouches, the money would feed my family fresh meat and milk for a week. But I would not sell it.

Ashcrave numbs the senses to pain and intensifies all pleasures. At full strength, the powder is strong enough to stupefy an asherake; diluted it brings soothing relief from pain. I mixed the crimson powder in a small cup of milk and dribbled it on my father’s tongue. After a few drops, he limped out of the house and returned to work. He came home later that night, his limbs stiff as the ashcrave wore off and the agony returned.

So it went for more than a week. I fed him the stuff and he went to work. But he was becoming slower and the pain more intense – it took more and more of the powder to keep him pacified. The whites of his eyes became a sickly yellow and his breath stank of old blood and rotting meat. His temper became uneven, he would lash out at anyone who crossed him and we—his kits—took the brunt of it.

In the deeps of one night, I crept through our little house, sniffing in the cracks and crannies for what I knew had to be there. My diligence was rewarded when I found a tattered book bound in cheap leather hidden under our family’s bed. In tiny red letters, my father had recorded hundreds of tiny deposits, all over the Bloodhold. I did not have his head for numbers, but I knew what I saw in that book was a great deal of wealth, enough to start a new life.

I made my decision, then. I slinked through the house and took the pouches of ashcrave from its hiding spot beneath the stones of the hearth. I mixed it with my own spit, formed it into a pasty pellet. Numbed with the powder he’d taken before bed, my father never felt the little pill disappear down his throat. As it dissolved in his belly, a fit tore through him. Concentrated, the powder was a poison; it numbed his heart, his lungs. Before anyone could wake, I stole out of the house and left to start my new life, my father’s journal under my arm.

I live in a pawnshop now, or rather over it. The ashcrave I took from my father’s hiding places, pounds of the stuff, is still with me, most of it. One brick I broke up to buy this place, and the loyalty of a group of young toughs with no better prospects. We run a small canton a few miles from the Golden Shore. It isn’t much, but it’s growing.

My name is Threnod Graystalk. I’m going to become a Bloodlord.

Ashcrave

This crimson substance is extracted from the stalks of rare wildflowers related to the baban. Found primarily on the plains surrounding Penance, all attempts to domesticate the ashcrave flower have thus far failed.

One dose of this poison (roughly one-sixteenth of an ounce) is strong enough to render most individuals nearly comatose and numb to all pain. Those who ingest ashcrave are entitled to a Fortitude save (DC 35) to avoid its effects. If the save is successful, the user becomes mildly groggy (-2 to all attack and damage rolls and skill checks), but is otherwise unaffected. Those who fail their save, however, suffer a –4 penalty to all attack, damage, and skill rolls, but are also able to ignore virtually any pain they suffer while affected by the ashcrave. The plant’s effects persist for 2d4 hours. Those who failed the save also receive a bonus of DR 2/-, which stacks with any other form DR they receive from other sources.

When the effects wear off, the imbiber immediately suffers 1d4 hit points of damage and 1 point of temporary Constitution damage. At the start of the second day after the ashcrave was taken, the user must make a successful Will save (DC 20) or he does everything in his power to procure another dose of the stuff as soon as possible. If he does not take at least one dose during the day, he will suffer 1d3 points of  temporary Constitution damage at the start of the next day, and 1 point of temporary Constitution damage each day thereafter until another dose is taken. Once another dose is taken, the ingester must make another Will save (DC 20) or the process begins again.

Half doses can be taken, as well. These offer no mechanical benefits, but allow the user to ignore all effects of minor pain from injuries for twelve hours. These half-doses do not require a Will save when they wear off, unless taken over the course of three consecutive days. At that point, a Will save (DC 20) is required, or the target begins the process for addiction outlined above.

If double the normal dose is taken, the target is allowed a Fortitude save (DC 15) to avoid death from an overdose. If the target survives the increased dosage, treat it as if he had consumed a standard dose of the ashcrave.

Cost: 20 gp per dose

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