The Story of Zeynap Shiravadakar

by Jeff Mason

My name is Zeynap Shiravadakar and I have always been a thief. It was the only thing that brought me joy - taking things from others so that I could have them myself.  I fell into smuggling as a relatively low risk-high reward way to earn some coin to buy my family out of slave-debt.  But to be honest, I sort of had a problem spending on me most of what I should be saving.  Hey, when I buy off the debt, they will still be just as happy, even if it takes a little longer!

So one day, not that long ago, some very dank buggers had a package they needed moved.  It was this giant crate with what they said was a special horse that needed to get moved into the city on the down low.  I could tell right away that they were cultists.  First, cultists never bathe. Check! These boys stunk of rank sweat and cheap incense, and death.  Definitely a smell one doesn’t forget. Second, cultists often wear smashing dark robes to hide hideous tattoos. Also Check!  Black robes and these weird tattoos on their arms that seemed to move if you looked at them to long.

But, their coin was good, and they had lots of it.  So they made arrangements with the Guild Master, and lucky me, I was chosen to be on the crew.  I remember being excited that the bonus would go a long way to buying my family’s freedom.  Or, there was this lusty wench at the Flying Dragon who could do such amazing things with– Well, that bonus would be put to good use in any event.

So the crew and I set off and I could tell straight-away that there was something not right about the cargo.  It was not like any horse I had ever heard.   It neighed, sure, but they sounded more like crying than a horses whinny.  And I could hear chains from inside the box.  Plus, I kept feeling this strange urge to open the box and look inside.  That was NOT part of the deal – we were to have as little contact with the cargo as possible - and I was fine with that.  Keep your eye on the prize.  That bonus money, that saucy tart, maybe some new clothes – but what was in that box.  It was really starting to nag on me.

It was at this point that we approached the entrance to the smugglers' tunnel that led to the docks.  There were five of us, I drew the short straw and had to stay near the cargo.  I think everyone else was feeling the same way I was and wanted to be as far away from the box as possible.  Two in front, two in back, me with the cargo – a typical formation.  Once we were underground, and in the dark with torches, the group fanned out and I was alone.  With the horse.  In a box.  A horse that sobbed instead of whinnied.  And barely moved.  Only the merest clink of a chain link.

I held out for a moment but the urge became too strong.  I had to see what was in the box.  I pried off the lid as the cart rolled along, and what I saw inside changed my life forever.  Maybe not for the better, either.

Inside was a unicorn fettered in black chains that almost seemed to drink the light of the torch I carried.  It was hobbled by the same kind of chains, and then they stretched from a collar to the four corners of the box.  The animal was clearly in pain, and was looking at me with the saddest eyes.  Liquid eyes, filled with tears.  So deep, you just sort of fell into them-

-and then I was literally falling!  Maybe there was a bump, maybe the Unicorn was able to pull at me through the warding’s it was under, but I pitched forward and reached out with both hands – and touched the Unicorn’s horn *and* the dark collar at the same time.  That was a mistake.

There was a blinding flash of what felt like slow time, and an agony warped through me.  I had created some magical connection – a link between the Celestial freedom of white magic in the Unicorn’s horn and the dark, restricting, binding magics of the collar.  It was like a battle fought and my soul was the battleground.  I could feel the surges ebb and flow, all in an instant.  The torment was incredible, and was down to the very fiber of my being.  No blow from sword or arrow could ever hurt like this.

I knew now that the cultists worshiped some Dark Old God wanting to start an Apocalypse of Death, and that this Unicorn was to be the sacrifice that started it.  In that realization I could see a chain of events unfold in front of me that led towards an inevitable doom and part of me rebelled at that twisted thought.  I would not be the one that was responsible for that happening.

And then the blinding pain was gone leaving me breathless in its wake.  The dark collar was sheared in half.  The Unicorn touched its horn  to the fetters and they fell off, their magics rent and no plain steel would ever hold it.  It looked at me - and then spoke to me in my mind!

It said, “You have done me a service, Man.  I am free, and will return to the Aeon, the source of Light and Life. Yet I am changed. In the freeing of Me, the Cultists' magic has been twisted into something different.  I am still fettered.  There is a connection between you and I.  I can feel it.  You will feel it too, when you learn the way of it.  You are marked by me, and will carry that mark to the end of your days.  I suggest you make the most of it.”  And with that, the Unicorn traced a pattern in the air with its horn, and stepped through to some other place in a shimmer of sparkles and dust.

Finally, I could use my own senses again,  and realized I was in a real bad spot.  I heard the crews shouts in front and in back, and I didn’t want to think about what would happen when they saw the top off and the cargo gone.  It would go very badly for them, and the Guild Master as well.  And I was responsible!  I looked for a place to hide, and then when I thought for sure all was truly lost, I remembered that there might be just enough room under the cart to hide if I wedge up against the base and the axle.

When both I and the ‘cargo’ were seemingly gone, they got in a big fight.  Some thought they should all run for it, but eventually they decided to go back to the Guild Master and blame me for everything.  I knew then that I carried two marks, one for death and one for life, and neither one of them would I easily be able to shake.

They weren’t wrong - it was all my fault.  I was able to slip off in the night once they dragged the cart back out of the tunnel.  I ran and have been running ever since.  I later discovered that I have large knot or bump in the middle of my forehead, that would be right where a Unicorn’s horn would be on a man. In the quiet hours of the night, I learned that I could communicate with the Unicorn, and discovered that I, too, am now a magical creature of sorts.  I can now channel some of the Celestial Magic of Aeon into this world, with sometimes devastating effects.  I have also discovered to my chagrin, that the Unicorn also has sway over me in other ways too.  I have this compulsion to do good works, to oppose the forces of Skion, the domain of darkness and death, and to give to charity and those less fortunate.

This compulsion brought me to Chult.  A savage realm in the middle of nowhere.  I'm not exactly sure why. All I know is that those cultists were trying to smuggle a unicorn to Port Nyanzaru for use in some kind of sacrifice to the dark gods of Skion and I had to stop them.

Once in Port Nyanzaru, I learned that the smugglers originally planned to somehow secretly ship the unicorn up the River Shosenstar – to where I knew not.

I managed to assemble a new crew consisting of a mage, a priest, a scout, and a handful of local natives. We mounted an expedition upriver in two rowboats. We managed to get as far as what was once Camp Righteous – only we learned that there wasn't a Camp Righteous anymore. It had been destroyed and abandoned. Before we could even set camp we were attacked by two giant walking corpses! They laid into our group and sent us running. We got split up.

I ran through the jungle for days. I made a mistake and drank the water. I got sick. Badly sick! I wandered around in a delerium.

Fortunately, I recovered and was found by a patrol of soldiers from the Knights of the Circle - the survivors of Camp Righteous who had regrouped and established a new base upriver at what they called Camp Vengeance.

Unfortunately, one of them recognized me right away as a smuggler from Meropis. They put me in irons and locked me in a stockade.

Now I sit while they decide what to do with me. They don't want to set a wanted smuggler free, they don't want to keep me, and they don't seem willing to allocate any soldiers to take me back to Port Nyanzaru. I heard their commander say something about keeping me until reinforcements arrive - then they'll send me back.

I'm no hero. I'm just a smuggler more interested in self-gratification than altruism. But I am a man at war with himself, geised with a magical curse I never asked for, to do things any sane man would run screaming from. All I know is that I need to keep going. I need to reach the interior and find out what those cultists were up to and stop them.