Chat'G'Hak

Thr-kreen rogue, Athasian Minstrel

Description:

Bio:

For a couple of years, Chat’G’Hak has lived in Tyr.

Chat’G’Hak has plied her trade at Anzo’s Pleasure Argosy (“The Argosy” for short), a sprawling complex of buildings in Tyr’s Artisan District that serves as an entertainment and pleasure center for the well-to-do. The Argosy includes a theatre area, two separate taverns, a gambling hall, a wing of baths, and a building with spacious and well-appointed rooms for rent (sometimes by the hour) for sleeping, meeting, or other activities. Information trading, companionship, poisoners and assassinations, muscle, black-market deals, and other activities occur within the Argosy, and nobody except Anzo knows everything that’s going on at any given time. Hell, only Anzo completely knows how all the mazelike passages and rooms of the complex connect up.

Dreams in the Dragon-House
You are in the red-clay mountains of Altaruk, looking upward at the empty sky. And there, in the distance, the monstrous winged form of the Dragon, gliding eastward.

Your heart stops as the Dragon swings its head around and looks directly at you, fixing you with its horrifying gaze.

Then you are wandering the sandy wastes, like those plied by your kreen ancestors. It is scattered as far as the eyes can see with obsidian spheres of all sizes; hundreds of them, from as small as a dra’s eyeball to the size of a watroach.

Sun beats down everywhere, but in the center of the plain is a nexus of flitting shadows: shadow men, shadow monsters, shadow dragons; a shadow city. Suddenly, the shadows are dispelled by an enormous glowing white butterfly. As its light falls on the shadow-city, you see that all of the shadow-things were cast by leather cutouts on sticks: shadow puppets. You realize then that the giant butterfly is a puppet as well.

A crunch sounds from under your foot as you watch the massive puppet show; looking down, you see that you have crushed an enormous centipede. It twitches, dying, its purple blood staining the sand. As you stare at the purple blood, suddenly you realize that the sand is gone—scrubby grass is in its place. The crushed centipede is gone—in its place are a few crushed scuppernongs. You realize you are in a small vineyard, with green and purple scuppernongs hanging lusciously from the trellis overhead. You wander the vineyard, snacking, and over the hill in the distance you can see the city of Tyr. You hear yourself murmuring, “The son is wiser than the father, I see.”

Then you are nowhere, and you see an ocean of frothing water. It smells fresh and salty, and it is so loud—birds scream overhead, and in the churning waters you can see brilliantly-colored animals and plants in a thousand bizarre forms. The ocean swells, and it begins to flood over plains, mountains, deserts, and cities, rushing through the streets and subsuming the buildings and people.

Then it dries up, leaving a salt crust behind on everything. Nothing moves, nothing is alive, just white salt-covered structures. The drying and withering continues, and the mountains and trees and buildings crumble to grey ash, blowing away in the wind, until there is nothing left but black defiled plains as far as the eyes can see.

Dreams in the Lake-House
You are wandering the burning black mountains of the Smoking Crown range. The air is choked with ash and everything is suffused with a red glow from the volcanoes that line the horizon.

On a mound of cinders sit two men. One is weeping, his shoulders shaking. The other is staring up at the volcanoes with his face set in an emotion that combines stern determination and peace. You suddenly realize that they are both the same man.

The ground shakes, and one of the volcanoes erupts with a thunderous boom. Lava pours down its slopes, rushing toward you. You suddenly realize that you are no longer in the black and ashy mountains; instead, you stand in a clearing in a much more peaceful, cooler mountainous area. There are industrious miners emerging from caves heaping material into carts, but you see that it is not obsidian—it is iron. But looking back up the slope, the lava is still pouring down towards you—an enormous, wide swath of it. The miners now seem to see it, too, but instead of running or attempting to protect themselves, they fall to squabbling. The lava wave consumes it all and you are enveloped in an ash cloud.

The cloud begins to clear and you find yourself in a sandy waste. A silt crocodile as large as a house, its scales encrusted with gems, blinks an eye and slips into a river of silt winding across the plain. The plain is scattered as far as the eyes can see with obsidian spheres of all sizes; hundreds of them, from as small as a dra’s eyeball to the size of a watroach.

Sun beats down everywhere, but in the center of the plain is a nexus of flitting shadows: shadow men, shadow monsters, shadow dragons; a shadow city. Suddenly, the shadows are dispelled by an enormous glowing white butterfly. As its light falls on the shadow-city, you see that all of the shadow-things were cast by leather cutouts on sticks: shadow puppets. You realize then that the giant butterfly is a puppet as well.

A crunch sounds from under your foot as you watch the massive puppet show; looking down, you see that you have crushed an enormous centipede. It twitches, dying, its purple blood staining the sand. As you stare at the purple blood, suddenly you realize that the sand is gone—scrubby grass is in its place. The crushed centipede is gone—in its place are a few crushed scuppernongs. You realize you are in a small vineyard, with green and purple scuppernongs hanging lusciously from the trellis overhead. You wander the vineyard, snacking, and over the hill in the distance you can see the city of Tyr. You hear yourself murmuring, “The son is wiser than the father, I see.”

Then you are nowhere, and you see an ocean of frothing water. It smells fresh and salty, and it is so loud—birds scream overhead, and in the churning waters you can see brilliantly-colored animals and plants in a thousand bizarre forms. The ocean swells, and it begins to flood over plains, mountains, deserts, and cities, rushing through the streets and subsuming the buildings and people.

Then it dries up, leaving a salt crust behind on everything. Nothing moves, nothing is alive, just white salt-covered structures. The drying and withering continues, and the mountains and trees and buildings crumble to grey ash, blowing away in the wind, until there is nothing left but black defiled plains as far as the eyes can see.

Chat'G'Hak

The Lost Seas timothyascott