A Gift

Borma was irritated. He had travelled a very long way to get to the shore of the Southern Sea, and now that he was here, taking in the blue vista, listening to the waves wash over the sand… he didn’t know what to do. The view was pleasant, the fresh salty spray cooling his face, but whatever plans he had half made over the last few weeks, trekking through the jungle that separated the sea from the frontier city of Pella, the reality of the scene before him brought a hard reality: he had no boat. He had no net. He had no line, or hooks. His provisions were low, and it was a long way back to Pella.

He spun himself slowly, as though he expected to see a goal coming from the horizon to set him upon a path. Before him, the sea, bounded by miles and miles of beaches just like this one. Behind him, the jungle – food and water, yes, and stinging bugs and nettles and snakes and spiders. Then around again to the sea. In the far distance he could just make out a column smoke, most likely from one of the volcanoes that formed the pincer like peninsula which separated the Southern Sea from the ocean proper.

It was said that the Fire Giants still dwelled there, though no one in in recent history had seen the massive, ill-tempered brutes.

Of course, it might just be a storm cloud feeling its oats. Borma decided if he didn’t turn around and go back to Pella, he would also not try to find out if fire giants were still alive and ornery. He lived to see sights no one had seen, but he LIVED to see them.

A few hundred feet to the South he spied some rocks jutting into the surf. For no particular reason he decided to make for them and set up camp. Perhaps a day’s rest would refresh his sense of purpose. And maybe he could ambush a fish or two from the rocky overhangs.

The sun stood at a few hours past mid-day, and it was warm and pleasant on the beach. The jungle had been close and moist and altogether obnoxious. He couldn’t see anything! Well, trees and vines and creeping things, obviously, but no grand panoramas, no stirring mountains or enticing plains. If nothing else, the sea was vast and calming, and the spray cooled the air.

As he approached the rocky protrusion, he noticed driftwood and foam gathering at the stony base. He noticed that the foam was strangely coherent, though, and had more of a soapy look that simple sea foam. And there was something more. Something he couldn’t bring to the front of his mind. It felt like his brain was itching. He slowed his gait, eyes fixed on the bubbly mess.

The bubbles moved. Not because of the waves. They moved up the sand, steadily, purposefully. Borma stopped dead and put his hand to the hilt of his scimitar – then wondered what good a scimitar would do against stampeding suds. Still, his hand remained.

The foam, or whatever it was, also stopped. Borma would have sworn it was regarding him. And he was seeing it more clearly. It was not foam, or bubbles, but something… a jellyfish? No. But also yes. It gathered itself – it was quite large; he could now see. The size of a small shack, perhaps. But he did not feel threatened, and he did not know why. He removed his hand from the blade’s pommel.

He and the creature stood like that for several minutes, until Borma got tired of nothing happening. “Hello?”

“Hello?”

It was his own voice, but it came from the creature. “Ah… my name is Borma…”

“Ah, my name is Borma.”

Again, his own voice. What had begun as slightly reticent wonder was now fermenting into curiosity. He gestured at his chest with his non-sword arm. “I am Borma. That’s my name.”

The creature produced a strange, pulsing tentacle, mirrored Borma’s gesture, and said in Borma’s voice, “I am...” And then a strange, alien sound emerged from the thing. It was a word, Borma believed, but it was also just noise, like rags mopping a floor.

Borma thought. “Your name is... Shohshgofff?”

“Your name is Borma” came the reply.

Borma was amazed almost to the point of stupidity. He had seen birds that could mimic human speech, so he knew that sort of thing was possible. But in a jellyfish? No, not a jellyfish, but whatever this creature was? And it made its own sentence. What bird could do that?

“Yes. I am Borma. You are Shosgoth.”

The creature quivered and rose into a sort of cone. “I am…” and again it made the strange sound.

“Shoggoth.”

Again, the thing quivered. Borma decided this was its way of nodding or laughing. He hoped. “Well, Shoggoth, it is, uh, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you Borma.”

Somewhere in the deeper parts of his mind Borma was aghast at the absurdity of the situation. A house sized bubble creature had just traded pleasantries with him. Maybe the sting of one of those jungle bugs held a poison that was catching up to him. But everything else was as normal as could be.

“Where are you…from?”

“(Shoggoth) from…” and the creature extended another tentacle toward the sea.

“The sea!”

“The sea!”

“You live in the sea?”

“I live in the sea.”

“What brings you…here,” Borma gestured at the ground, “to this beach?”

The creature seemed perplexed. Borma guessed it did not yet have the words to explain. Of course! “Too much of a question yet, eh?”

“Too much.”

“Well, that’s alright. I am here to explore.”

“Explore.”

“Yes, but I came here and realized, I have no boat, little food and no direction.” He laughed a bit at his own expense.

“Food.” Said the creature, and it quickly squooshed back into the sea. Borma watched after it for a minute, then made his way to the rock formation. He dropped his knapsack, sat down against the rock and pondered. He had heard of many creatures in the wilds of Loria, strange and dangerous. But he had never heard of anything like Shoggoth. The same part of his mind that found all this bizarre realized that he should be terrified of this creature. It was a monster by almost any definition.

Except it was friendly. He could feel it. It meant him no harm; he somehow knew. And if it had wanted to hurt him or eat him, it certainly could have. No, whatever this animal wanted, it was not his flesh or blood.

A splashing roused him from his musings. Shoggoth was back, and with it was one of the largest fish Borma had ever seen. It lay flopping frantically on the sand where Shoggoth had tossed it. “Food,” said Shoggoth with what Borma was certain was pride.

“Food indeed!” said Borma, and leapt up to take care of supper.

Over the next few hours, as he cleaned and prepped the fish, he talked to Shoggoth, a stream of conscience, trying to use as many words as basically as he could, aiming to build Shoggoth’s vocabulary. Strangely, the creature seemed to understand how to use Borma’s language, but had to learn the words to do so. How this could be, Borma had no inkling. But Borma loved to talk. Too much, he knew. It had gotten him thrown out of the army of Vanam, thrown out of several young lady’s bedchambers and thrown out of too many taverns.

He told Shoggoth his life story as he built a fire and began roasting the huge slabs of meat over it. Born to a small-time merchant, he hadn’t the patience for the family business. He was too curious for his own good, and too easily enticed by women and songs and drink. But he was mainly restless to see the world. Travel the frontier. He had done a year’s service with the army before being jailed for a month and then discharged for gross insubordination and abandoning his post. Technically, that last charge was nonsense. He was at his post, just not in a position to guard it, as the young tavern maid he was with preferred him horizontal rather than vertical.

But he had been at full attention, he quipped, just before being sentenced.

He tried hiring himself out as a caravan guard, as he had been something of a prodigy with a blade, and that had paid well and even allowed him to see something of the wider world. But that only lit a fire under his wanderlust. The river Marin was beautiful, and the grassy plains and little forests between Vanam and the port city of Vel were very pleasant.

But in Vel, he realized what he wanted. So many stories; so many adventures from so many people. Stories of strange animals and stranger cities. Monsters, women, treasure. The sailors filled his head with tales of the frontier, and Borma knew at once his destiny was out there, seeing things no one had seen, going where no one had gone, kissing who no one had kissed, and so forth.

From Vel he joined a caravan to Pella, and there learned about the Southern Sea. A two week -at best – trek through deep jungle to get there. He loaded up on salves and remedies, provisions for a month and headed southeast.

The jungle was more than he had bargained for, however. Two weeks became three. Remedies emptied, salves used up, and food running low, he started to worry. But the Southern Sea! Who could say what he might find there? Adventure, certainly, and that was the whole point.

“And that”, he said as he tore off a piece of flesh from the roasting fish, savoring its aroma, “is how I got to here, friend Shoggoth. Now I just need to…find a boat. Or make one. Plenty of wood around. How hard can it be?”

“A boat. You want a boat.” Said Shoggoth in his own voice.

“Yes. With a boat I can travel along the coast until I find…something. A village or a treasure map or... a better boat. Whatever it is, with a boat I can get to it! I can smoke this fish and that should last me a few days. I will find water. Then it’s off to adventure!”

Shoggoth had left him during his monolog. Where to, Borma couldn’t guess. Maybe to get more fish. The more the better. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the fire made the rest of the world seem like a black curtain. Well, even if he never saw Shoggoth again, he was at least in better spirits. He had a plan.

He awoke to the sound of wood clashing together and a sense of industry. This annoyed him, as industry was more his father’s bailiwick. His eyes opened to a bright blue sky dappled with white wisps of clouds. Sea birds hovered around the camp, squawking impatiently. Many had fallen upon the bones and leavings of the fish, but that and smoke of the fire kept them away from the heavy flanks of meat hung above them.

It smelled heavenly. As much as he relished the taste of a fresh cooked meal, something in the tang of the preserving smoke always appealed to him, whether it was bacon, beef, or fish. His stomach seemed to roll him to his feet of its own accord, and he made his way to a desiccating breakfast.

Then he stopped. Just beyond the smoking fire there was indeed industry. Shoggoth had gathered…somehow… heavy wooden planks and logs into a large chord. And was busily fiddling with many of them at once, as though he were four or five men. Tentacles…well, they were not tentacles. Closer to pseudopods. Whatever they were, they held the planks together, while other … arms, just call them arms… drove dowels into them. The planks, he realized, had been worked into a tongue and groove pattern. He saw several large pieces had been shaped into what looked like ribs, with strategically placed holes.

By the nine hells, Shoggoth was building a boat!

He staggered a bit, and sat hard on the sand, eyes locked to the busy bubble creature as it did the work of a shipwright’s team all by itself. He couldn’t take his eyes from the creature. He was literally watching a boat being assembled, a process that took weeks to months in the best shops, in the time it took to build… well he didn’t know. A lean-to? A bonfire? How? Shoggoth had started placing the ribs in a trestle he assembled out of spare logs, down the center of which it had laid the keel. At this rate, the basic carpentry would be done by nightfall.

Suddenly his stomach gave his consciousness a wrench: he was starving. He stood back up and tore a strip of meat from the smoky slab. He chewed it thoughtlessly, his eyes never leaving the spectacle of the Shoggoth. After a few hours he finally said to Shoggoth “My friend, you are building us a boat?”

“Building Borma a boat. Borma needs a boat. (Shoggoth) builds a boat.”

“It’s for me, then?”

“For Borma.”

“Shoggoth, this is too great a gift you give me. I cannot accept this!” But he would, of course.

“Shoggoth is not the giver. The giver is BLOD”

The sound that Shoggoth made was like a thunderclap. The volume knocked Borma back down, and his ears rang. “Did you say the giver was…Blod?”

“Yes. The giver is Blod” This time the sound was of his own voice rather than the explosive noise.

“Who is Blod? What do I owe … him?... for this magnificent gift?”

The creature paused its work. “Blod is of the sea. Blod is master under the waves. Blod is King. I serve Blod.”

“King Blod.”

“Yes. Powerful. Terrible. Wonderful. Blod is King of all the ocean. He is King of the deep.”

“And King Blod wants me to have a boat? I am honored. But why?”

“I do not know. Blod wishes you to journey. Many places on the shores of the sea. To the north. To the east. To the south.”

“The south? To the archipelagos and the volcanoes? To the… fire giants?”

“Fire giants, yes. Many treasures await. Borma will become wealthy. Blod wishes this.”

Borma swallowed some dry morsel that had been stuck to his tongue. Fire giants. Borma against a behemoth? That was suicide. “I can’t steal from a fire giant, Shoggoth. I wouldn’t survive a second against such a monster.”

“You can survive. Travel the sea. Allies, weapons, slaves. You will gather them. Then you can kill fire giants. Then you will have wealth and power.”

Borma was aghast. There had been more to this. This was planned, somehow. King Blod… what was it? Tales of creatures from the sea were rampant in Vel’s taverns. Merfolk, saguagin, locathah – fish people. Was it one of these? Merfolk were unfriendly at the best of times, he was told. But the other creatures seemed to hate humans. Was King Blod a merman?

Whatever he was, why would he care that some nascent adventurer got rich? Care enough to send a bubble monster to build him a boat? There had to be something in the treasures of the fire giants. Something Blod wanted. “Can you tell me, is there something Blod wants from the horde of the fire giants? Am I to bring him something?”

“Blod wants only that the treasure be taken. Fire giants have possession of things Blod wants taken from them. That is what I know.” Shoggoth returned to his mad business.

“Ah. Well, I suppose I will do what I can. The gods know I would like to see the world and get rich in the process. I don’t want to turn back, now that I’m here. Why not go ahead with this, and see what there is to be seen?”

“Yes. Borma is wise, and will become very wealthy. I must work now.” And with that the creature doubled its speed.

Borma watched the work until he dropped off to sleep. In the morning, he thought of the fish, but Shoggoth had already folded it in some palm leaves and stuffed into Borma’s knapsack. In his heart, Borma was uneasy with all this. There was some greater mystery here he just could not grasp, and that annoyed him.

Regardless, he needed fresh water and any fruit he could find. “Shoggoth, I am heading into the trees to find water and what have you. I will be back before nightfall. Can I…get you anything?”

“I have all I require, Borma.” The boat had taken shape now. Its design was a marvel. The carpentry was flawless, the hull looked as though it had been carved from a massive trunk in one piece. The gunwhale and capping were stained with something dark and pleasant, and they had little carvings and designs, as though Shoggoth had idly doodled as he set them into place. The thwarts were smoothly curved so that no sharp edges would catch on clothing or sails. The Bow was inlaid with fearsome bas reliefs of some great sea beast.

“Shoggoth, this craft is astonishing! You are a shipwright to be reckoned with, my friend.”

“I serve Blod and Blod wishes your boat to show his magnificence. I am glad you are pleased. I am exalted that Blod’s will is done.”

“As am I. I will return soon.”

Borma had found a little stream and followed it to a spring, filling three skins with fresh water. He found a tree that held some tough-skinned fruit. He cut a piece of one and tasted a bit. Sweet, slightly tangy. No sign bitterness or stinging or burning. He gathered several. With his remaining rations and the fish, he should be good for at least a few days sailing along the coast.

He wished he had a fresh loaf of bread, and he wished he had the pleasant company of a lady, but he would not go hungry, and his adventure was finally beginning. He practically skipped to the campsite.

When he got there, there was no sign of Shoggoth. The boat was already in the water, held by a plank that attached to a pile driven into the sand. Borma had barely remarked on the strength and precision of Shoggoth’s arms. It had, after all, beveled and planed and sanded and awled solid pieces of wood with both power and finesse. He thought back to his hand on the grip of his blade when he first spied the creature. What folly it would have been to have drawn and engaged Shoggoth. He shuddered. “Well, I didn’t, and now I have a boat. Haha.”

The boat was large enough for a small crew, but small enough to be sailed by one man, at least in calm seas. It had a single mast, and tiny cabin. The rigging and sailcloth were a mystery. How did Shoggoth get rope and canvas? Perhaps there was a shipwreck somewhere nearby? Or a sunken boat?

No matter. He would have liked to bid Shoggoth farewell, and even invite him to share his journey for a while. But Shoggoth was nowhere to be seen. The beach was clean of debris and nothing of the trestle remained. It was as though the ship had appeared whole from nowhere. Using the plank, Borma began stowing the provisions. He found a net for fishing in the cabin, and his heart was so full he poked his head out and yelled at nothing “Thank you Shoggoth! You were a true friend in need! And thank You, King Blod! I will name this fine vessel in your honor! “Blod’s Gift”!”

And so it was that Borma of the Family Damier of the city of Vanam set out on his first adventure, spirits high and mind on a new purpose.

In the deepest part of the Southern Sea, where life knows only its own light there is a vast estate. In the center there is a grand, intricately decorated palace. Within the palace many shoggoths labor and bustle, always repairing and maintaining, fetching and disposing. And there is a great hall, all mother of pearl and oyster shell, shined to a brightness that reflects the bioluminescence of the various deep-sea fish that swim there.

There is a divan of immense proportions at the end of the hall, and upon it rests Blod, King of the Deeps. He is all tentacles and teeth and eyes and greed. His mind thinks thoughts only another of his kind could truly understand. He speaks to hoary Dagon, and they plot and scheme very carefully, very patiently.

A Shoggoth approaches the behemoth. Through no sound, they communicate.

“It is done, master.”

“So, it begins to fall into place. He can be trusted to attain my goals?”

“I believe so, master. He is hungry for adventure, and if he survives long enough, the lure of the treasures of the fire giants will be overwhelming.”

“You have done well, my servant. Take a prize from among my own treasures.”

The Shoggoth shuddered gleefully, and roiled to a small chamber. Inside there was a magical bubble of oxygen that never ran out. There wea a mess of fish bones and shells strewn about the floor. And there were a dozen terrified humans of various ages and sexes. The Shoggoth opened the lid. The humans made no move to escape - where would they go? They were miles from open air, and the sea would crush them immediately.

The Shoggoth snaked a tentacle into the chamber and drew out a screaming human figure – it believed this was male, and young - drew it into itself, creating a pocket of air for the tiny thing. Closing the lid, it made off to its own little chamber, there to play with and then feast on its prize. “Thank you, Borma” it thought to itself, and quivered.