Section 1: Free drinks, costly rations

Sunlight cast hard shadows through blurry windows against the ale-stained floor of the tavern. The musk of split ale, piss, and vomit filled the damp room masking the iron-rich stench of blood from the evening prior's brawl between a group of half-orcs and local humans about whether a goblin with lycanthropy would become as tall as a typical lycan or stay small. The details were irrelevant but, in summary, the humans conceded after considerable violence that they had not, in fact, seen a tiny werewolf before and, yes, were absolutely fools before superior half-orc intellect. Ciaran groaned and flexed his back, wincing as the bruising radiating from his spine reminded him of his chance meeting with the wall after trying to break up drunken adventurers. “Well, if it hurts, it's still intact," Ciaran muttered through gritted teeth and moved to brace himself against the wall. With another far more audible groan, the gruff adventurer shifted to a standing position and began to take an appraisal of his situation. Checking his leather armor, boots, and gloves for any damage, the young man pondered how long the stench of ale would plague his gear. The plain short sword he kept at his side had remained secured, trusty as always. “Ah, at least you don't stink, Betsy," he remarked smugly. The battered man glanced at the tavern door. This was his opportunity and he was going to take it. With an attempt at stealth that would have made a concussed gnoll in a house of mirrors look graceful, Ciaran stumbled, tripped, and scampered between sleeping drunkards and unconscious commoners with eyes fixed on the tavern entrance. Haloed by the daylight beyond, that wooden door practically sang to him like a muse. Only steps away from his passage to the best night of free drinking he had ever experienced, Ciaran heard the last thing he wanted to hear, at least for now.

“Where in the Hells do you think you're going?" shrieked the tavern-keeper's wife from across the room. The older woman was dressed plainly carrying a rag and bucket that were as wary of the mess ahead as the woman herself. Through stuttering and stammering, Ciaran beguiled “I was just going to get my coin pouch. It's on my horse which is just outside, of course. Right over there." The woman valued Ciaran's performance for about as much currency as the adventurer had to his name: squarely none. “Tell you what, help me clean and we'll just call it even," she said with a resigned sigh. A long day of scrubbing floors and tables worked the soreness out of Ciaran's shoulders and into his lower back. A murky reflection in the water-filled bucket reflected the sorry state of the would-be hero. A patchy goatee and a thin scar above his left eyebrow looked less battle-hardened and more has-been than any man in his late twenties should rightfully appear. By the time the job was done, the tavern was bracing for the night crowd and usual bustle. “You're pretty good at this. My name is Janice, by the way, dear" the tavern-keeper's wife chimed in as Ciaran inspected his heroics of the day. “Thank you, kindly, ma'am. Perhaps when I finally make it, I will open my own tavern and use this incredible skill to improve cleanliness standards across the land," he chuckled. “Perhaps I could help you with that. You see, that man coming in right now is famous for sending adventurers to their deaths but with your luck, I'm sure you'd come back a legend in your own right," Janice purred pulling a long drag from a pipe that seemed out of character for the wife of a tavern-keep.

The man wore an attire that screamed wealth and renown. The fine satin gloves, the tunic had been delicately adorned with glinting green and blue flakes that resembled insect bodies, and the hat was something from the latest fashion gossip. Janice waved the man down and he moved towards the bar with a nod and a gingerly walk. “Sir Marco" the man said flatly. “I assume you've heard horror stories about my requests but I, frankly, think that it's not so much that I am unreasonable as these blokes don't understand the nature of my vision," continued Sir Marco, not even facing Ciaran. “So, you look like you haven't bathed in weeks. You reek of ale. I'm not sure if you're trying to grow a beard or if that's the aftermath of trying to shave with that sword but I only pay people who make it back alive so here's the details. To the east of this province is a dense jungle which I believe an old crypt rests within. You will be ferried to the edge of the greenery and I expect you to locate the crypt, open it, and retrieve a crown with two red gems. In and out, very easy. Will you do it, my urinous new companion?" monologued the well-dressed noble. “If it pays well and you'll provide me something to eat for the journey, I am your man," proclaimed Ciaran. With a sardonic smirk, Sir Marco uttered “Capital."

The wagon was clearly a lowest bidder transaction. The lone passenger adjusted his position to find a spot on his rear that wasn't sore from the bumpy ride. Ciaran knew that the jungle was close and was ready to take care of his big break. “In and out. Easy peasy," he huffed. “Easy peasy" he mumbled repeatedly while fighting the greatest foe Ciaran had ever known: his own mind. Perhaps he could have made it by now if he had only stuck to the slow and steady path of a township guard post or joining up with a group of rookie adventurers but, now, he was a fantastic failure at any job that required a lick of survivalism or delicate touch. The irony of his situation was not wasted on him and anxiety was becoming too great for Ciaran to ignore. He might have solved the issue of paying for food for the last few days but there was only a day's worth of rations left and he knew he was not going to be in any shape for the wilderness on an empty stomach.

With not a ration left to his name, Ciaran moved into the brush at the edge of the tropical forest. The interior of the wooded area was loud and buzzed with life. Ciaran was never much of a zoologist but this place seemed especially foreign to the damp caves and goblin warrens he had ventured into previously. The heat and humidity chipped away at the man's stamina and soon the debate would roar within him as to whether he really needed that stuffy leather armor for this job. Over the course of the first 2 days, Ciaran was able to remain convinced that armor would save him from whatever a jungle bear or jungle goblin would try to attack him with, assuming such fierce monsters existed. By the end of the first week stumbling lost through the vines and towering trees, he was ready to let the armor go. A true Samaritan, Ciaran convinced himself that his abandoned armor might be useful to whoever was ambitious enough to take this quest next.

Tree bark and the condensation that could be sucked off of low hanging leaves was not enough to sustain the adventurer for much longer. Ciaran needed food and something to drink. Within his head, the gears spun furiously trying to find a solution to what was soon to be his last problem. “The animals must go somewhere for water. A stream or lake has to be in this tropical hellhole," he thought to himself while continuing in the direction he thought would take him further into the forest. By the middle of his second week in the jungle, Ciaran found his rambling prayers of desperation answered with a convenient solution to all of his pressing struggles. A stream of water that was clearer than the tavern windows and what appeared to be leftovers from some large reptile's carcass. Raw? Yes. Likely rotting? Absolutely. Ciaran had crossed the foodbourne-illness event horizon a week prior and gnawed at the vaguely tail-shaped remnants with determined vigor. The meat was raw and bitter with an earthy taste but the time to be a gourmet had long since passed the naïve explorer of verdant wildlife. With his short sword as an improvised carving knife, Ciaran sliced strips of meat from the hindquarter of the massive beast.

Fresh water and exotic meats had moved this isolated jungle up in the ranks of quality dining establishments in Ciaran's mind as he folded large leaves from a nearby tree around some shorter carvings from the corpse to save for later. With a full stomach and his thirst clinched, the idea of a short nap seemed rather appealing and there seemed to be a notable absence of wildlife in the area. Was there something strange to the lack of tracks near the fortunate meal he had discovered? Ciaran had never had much faith in the gods but maybe this was going to be his moment of true belief. Slipping off into a well-shaded spot a few minutes jog from the stream, the self-described luckiest adventurer was ready for a hard-earned rest.

Ciaran was not a scholar by any measure of the term. While he had encountered learned people along his resume of pitfalls and mediocre successes, scholarly knowledge had never seemed to matter when trying to find an opportunity to sneak past an ogre or avoid a poison barb trap. Despite this lack of academics, Ciaran recalled as he fell through an endless expanse of sky that an inebriated scribe had once espoused to him over a round of drinks that dreams were the subconscious mind scrying the future through a personal sieve of madness and egoism. Having neither found high places appealing nor found himself purchasing scrolls of flight or jump spells, this dream was horribly out of place with the mind of a man that found boots on the ground to be completely satisfying. The awareness of this being a dream had occurred after the initial panic of falling to his death had worn off but this lucidity had not eased the continued and increasing concern Ciaran had for how to wake himself from this trial. The classic techniques such as pinching himself or holding his breath had done nothing for his plight and, worse yet, he would occasionally spot through the clouds he seemed to be falling or at least passing through a location that was familiar. A bell tower with a green clay roof, the burned down remains of the city hall of Taggetshill, and even the very plain town where he had taken this awful job seemed to be sliding by far beneath him.

The sudden shift from flying or at least floating to falling violently and with terrifying velocity left Ciaran wailing and flailing about for a support that did not exist, the moment of impact with the ground was something he did not experience. Awake and sweating like any flightless creature which had experienced falling from low-orbit, Ciaran shifted uneasily to his feet expecting any moment for his body to crumble under an impact not meant for any human to bear. There was no crumbling, no surprise death lurking at the climax of a standing position, not even an ache in the arches of man's feet. By all accounts, a nap that appeared to have not even taken the afternoon had restored Ciaran's endurance more than any night's sleep he could recall in months. Stretching wide, he remarked “nothing like the outdoors."

Continuing on his journey through the jungle with a waterskin filled from the stream and enough meat that was probably edible for another day or two at his disposal, Ciaran found himself in high spirits. As the sun began to set on the canopy of trees, something inorganic and rather man-made seemed to contrast with the balmy orange glow of the horizon. Making use of the fading daylight, the man broke out into a sprint and weaved through the trees and bushes towards his likely quarry. The structure was vast and even in the twilight of evening seemed to gleam with a polished stone edifice that had been stoic to the passage of time. At the center of glaring structure sat a gaping maw of marble with stairs like a lolling tongue which perhaps at one point had invited the masses to witness some spectacle of culture and faith lost to the world. Ciaran approached cautiously expecting the usual barrage of traps and instant deaths accustom to ancient temples-turned-crypts. Every slow, measured step was a potential torment. Every shifting in ancient stone a trap lying in wait for a would-be plunderer. At the top of those stairs, Ciaran found not death but only disappointment in the vast emptiness of a chamber that had long ago been defiled by the hands of others. The shattered urns and upended altars told a classic story of a transient world where gods were born, lived, died, and forgotten not unlike the people who served them. The mosaics along the walls and arches of the spacious cloister depicted various scenes of what seemed to be a strange tale of a monstrous beast being slain by a smaller reptile and then people worshipping their new savior. Ciaran traced the perimeter of the room as his eyes followed the meticulous detail of the small tiles and the grand story they still sang in vibrant color. The creature depicted as the hero of the ancient art seemed fickle and intelligent as it oversaw agriculture, a balancing scale which Ciaran presumed meant something to do with trade, and even directed armies. Despite this, a person who was depicted with rather unambiguous reverence seemed to cut the philosopher lizard's tail off and eat it. “A people who eat their gods. That's a new one," mused the adventurer while continuing to follow the mosaic's circular pattern around the room. Something seemed off to him soon, however. Between the golden figure eating the tail and the next appearance of the slate-gray lizard, another lizard had been added to the mosaic complementing the first creature. Not interested in finishing a story that appeared to be missing the middle, Ciaran scanned the room once more for any possible sign of the crown he had been commissioned to reclaim. There were various objects littered around the room including dusty baubles and a couple of trinkets that might have been a crown at one point or another but the general appraisal plunged the salvaging adventurer into despair. If the crown existed, it wasn't here and he was not prepared to delve further into the crypt with limited supplies and not another soul within miles to bring help if something did go wrong.

Beyond the entrance, night had embraced the land and with it an inherent danger that taunted Ciaran. Humans were not a species known for feats of dark-vision and torches in a forest were a great way to offend any number of elven naturalist associations. Perhaps if Ciaran had considered wizardry and magic less of a “way for bookworms to avoid adventure" he may have mustered an illumination spell but that was just another entry in the long list of minor embarrassments which turned into titanic errors. Lost in a sea of darkness, Ciaran decided to take his only option and hold camp within the antechamber of the crypt for the night. The meat had dehydrated somewhat from the heat and dry air within the structure but it was food all the same. Sipping from his waterskin and chewing at the not-quite-jerky, Ciaran felt the heaviness of sleep creep into his mind. The torch he had propped upright in a pile of rubble near the center of the room projected shadows across the mosaic and the decrepit sculptures which had been shaped into the room's upper reaches. The humanoid shapes seemed to at one point held something in their hands but whatever they had wielded had been lost to thieves or time. Ciaran imagined his current bedchambers at the height of its glory. “A mighty people led by a giant reptile and, at some point, someone ate the tail of that reptile and then another lizard showed up to be the first one's assistant. That makes sense, leading a country has to be difficult when you don't even have thumbs," he mumbled as the battle between his imagination and sleep raged in his mind. For the briefest moment, something caught his attention and sleep fell to the dagger of adrenaline. There was something moving outside of the entrance when Ciaran should have been alone. He knew he hadn't encountered another person the whole time he had been stuck in this humid nightmare. Thinking frantically, he realized that he hadn't seen anything larger than a small bird since getting to the stream that ran less than an hour away from the crypt. Something was wrong and there was no path to escape this time. No chance to try to sneak away, no place to hide, and not even time to plan for whatever was out there. The thing that was outside of the entrance was getting closer and Ciaran realized that the shadow it cast was large, very large. The hole that had once been a ticket out of the crypt soon filled with a slate-gray mass. As the slick stone-like texture moved slowly, Ciaran heard a slow, low pulsing sound almost like a timer ticking or perhaps a heartbeat. This sound pumped through the room in contrast with his rapidly beating heart. The creature had to have seen him, Ciaran thought. Was there a chance he could bargain with whatever this giant monster was? It was worth a shot if he was dead either way. Voice trembling, “Hey, uh, listen I'm just one guy. A big guy like you? Nah, I'm not going to be satisfying at all. Look, I found a big uh something down by a stream not too far away from here. I'll take you there if you let me slip by you," he whimpered. As Ciaran finished his pleading, the pulsating sound halted. The sooty wall of flesh pulled back and rotated with startling speed revealing a scaley, varanid face. The gargantuan reptilian's eyes focused on Ciaran but, almost as fast as it had located him, the creature's gaze softened. Ciaran was startled by the confusing change in expression. In his nearly ten years of adventuring, he had never discovered a non-humanoid that seemed capable of empathy, sympathy, or any other emotion but anger and hunger. Confronted with the possible moral quandary of having to stab a remarkable discovery in the history of monsters, he hesitated. Hesitation was an opportunity and the creature's maw creaked opened and words drifted out with the finesse of a throat that hadn't spoken in centuries. “Safe. Sleep," rumbled the beast and Ciaran struggling to breath found that the floor was fast approaching his face.

Waking in a field by the edge of the jungle, Ciaran found himself not in the guts of a talking lizard nor dying from food poisoning but sleeping with what appeared to be an elk or most of an elk, at least. The furry animal seemed to have been torn apart by a vastly superior force and Ciaran had a feeling he knew what had done the deed but wasn't going to march back to that crypt and find out. Hollering back to the tree line a loud thanks, Ciaran began his hike back towards the province and the tavern where he hoped there would be some sort of reward for at least confirming the crown wasn't in the crypt. It didn't take long to locate a desire path and he was on his way back to a warm bed or at least some ale. The trail plodded down by decades of foot traffic and wagons weaved around hills for miles and that gave Ciaran plenty of time to process the events of his past few weeks. While there was probably some larger lesson to be had in putting more consideration into simple requests and pacing the consumption of rations, he found himself distracted by pain radiating from his hands with an intensity that was alarmingly similar to the time he tried to stop a club from greeting his face by putting his hands up to block it. Inspection of his hands provided little insight into what was causing the throbbing aches but the stiffness and swelling left him wondering he had hit the floor before his presumed scaley protector had dragged him to relative safety. The aching soon reached a point where Ciaran was certain there were broken bones and he made a quick decision to cut off a small section of his tunic in order to bind up his hands. The slight pressure of pulling free his short sword was nearly unbearable. Ciaran had lost the negotiation and he was only going to wrap one hand for now because he frankly wasn't sure he had the strength to handle casting both his right and left. Wrapping his left hand tightly with the section of cloth which had been cut from the bottom of the tunic, the hand throbbed. If there was a broken bone, immobilizing it was the right call, he believed. With as much pain then as there had been in unsheathing it, Ciaran sheathed Betsy. By nightfall, Ciaran's left hand was numb and the pain in his right hand had begun to spread further up the limb. The pain in his extremities robbed him of any deep sleep and he took to his feet early the next day. This might not have been divine punishment for attempt to loot some ancient god's temple, but Ciaran wouldn't have been surprised if it was.

Days into his trek back towards the west, Ciaran's right hand and arm had developed a dark undertone. The adventurer wasn't exactly pale and few were who spent as much time sleeping and loitering in gutters and on road sides but this wasn't a tan. The grayish shading that was emerging in the limb traced the pain that thrummed through it down the bones themselves. The thought of losing a limb to a break or infection troubled Ciaran but he wasn't convinced that either was the case anymore. For as much as the limb ached, it was fully mobile. Ciaran could grip his sword, scratch his itches, and even sleep laying on the arm with no additional discomfort. The scenery of along the trailside was getting more familiar and Ciaran hoped he could convince the town doctor to give him a once over without coin when he got back. Two days later, Ciaran was no longer sure that it was his right arm that was the issue. His left hand was still wrapped tightly and ached but no matter how tight the wraps felt, Ciaran knew to leave it to a professional to remove his shoddy handiwork. He was concerned, though, that his right fingers seemed longer now than the fingers on his left. In fact, his whole right arm seemed somewhat longer than the left arm. It was slight, perhaps only a few inches but it was not something the man was imagining. Ciaran was not a doctor and had no idea what could cause such strange developments but the urgency to make it to town was pressing on him now and he picked up his pace.