Even with his ability to call on the great green hand of Gork to speed things up, it took Jyrrud the better part of two hours to reach the nearest Seraphon settlement in the valley. That turned out to be the great walled city of Tlacopan.
Someone approaching the city could see the walls for quite a distance before reaching Tlacopan. They stood high above the river’s surface, easily fifty feet tall. The nearest trees were still taller, but not by much in some cases. Blue-grey stone stood out in stark contrast to the browns, greys, and greens of the forest. The walls were not plain though. Like pretty much every Seraphon structure Jyrrud had ever seen before, the walls were carved with bas-relief images of great events in the legends of the Seraphon, as well as more local events and myths. One of the grot’s favorite images was on the far side of the city, depicting a battle between the lizard-kin and a force of wolf-riding grots. If one looked closely at the carvings, the leader of that greenskin force bore a crown that looked suspiciously like the one perched atop the shaman’s bald, green noggin.
Tlacopan wasn’t Jyrrud’s first choice of places to contact the lizards. He usually avoided the city like the plague, as he was never quite sure what the saurus warriors patrolling the streets and walls would do. They’d long before made clear their displeasure towards his presence in the valley, and Jyrrud suspected they tolerated him only because the priests found his knowledge of fungal remedies useful. Given a choice, the shaman would have preferred to talk to his contacts in one of the smaller villages, but he suspected that his message was one that needed to be delivered quickly.
Emerging out of the forest, he stepped onto the roadway, shook some stray leaves from his boots, and set out for the nearest gate. To his surprise, as he approached the bridge over the Lustrare, he realized that there was a line of people waiting to get into Tlacopan! Frowning, he queried the first person he saw about it, and was informed that for some reason the saurus at the gates were checking any and all visitors to the city today. Mulling the concept over in his head, Jyrrud let out a frustrated sigh, asked the nearest travelers if they minded him lighting his pipe, and settled in to wait his turn at the front of the line.
It took almost an hour in the baking sunlight before he got to the gates. Jyrrud was shocked to find, not the normal gate-guards, but the bone-helmeted Temple Guard standing at attention next to the entry to the city! As he got closer, one saurus stood out from the rest. Tall, powerfully built, and scarred, the horns on his stegadon-skull helm adorned with rings of hammered, intricately carved gold, Eternity Warden Xla was well-known to the grot.
They did not get along.
When Jyrrud finally reached the front of the line, the Eternity Warden towered over him, a snarl of anger emanating from his fanged, toothy jaws. “What do you want, swamp-stain?”
Trying to remain calm, Jyrrud reached his hand over to the edge of the walkway and dumped out the ash from his pipe’s bowl before answering. “I ‘ave a message fer someone in charge,” he replied in a sour tone. “Last I checked, ya qualify, so I’ll tell you. I ran inta skevven in da forest today,” he stated bluntly. This elicited gasps of horror from a few of the people in line behind him, and an angry growl from the Eternity Warden. The knuckles on his right hand grew pale as Xla tightened the grip on his stone-headed mace, and the angry look on his muzzle deepened.
“You,” Xla growled, a red tint coming over his eyes, “ran into skaven, in the forest?”
“Yep. I wuz gatherin’ mushrooms and dey tried ta kill me. Whole bunch ov dem.”
A snort of derision blasted from the saurus’ nostrils, wafting over the grot’s bald head. “And I suppose you killed them all?”
“Killed dem?” Letting out a bark of sour laughter, Jyrrud shook his head. “Heck naw! Dey out-numbered me twenny ta one! I used some smoke ta hide my escape an’ legged it outta dere like a griffon wuz after me! I got some magic, yeah, but I ‘ent one-a dem glowy fire-wizards from dem humie cities! Da odds wuz not in my favor!” Pausing for a moment, the shaman cleaned the bowl of his pipe with a scrap of rag before tucking both items into a pocket inside his robes. “Ennyway, I figgered dis was important ’nuff ta warrant telling in charge, so I came ‘ere.”
Jyrrud shivered as the saurus’ growl turned subsonic, a deep vibration that the grot could feel in his gut. Xla leaned in close, his nostrils flaring, then suddenly scowled and straightened up.
“Grrah, fine, you do have the faint stink of rat about you.” Glancing over his shoulder, he called out to one of the Guards in the Seraphon tongue. Jyrrud hadn’t bothered to learn more than a few phrases of that language, so he only caught about one word in three. Something about a star? The other saurus nodded and made a gesture with one hand that the shaman suspected was the Seraphon equivalent of a salute. “You should know, however,” Xla told Jyrrud, a smirk crossing his muzzle for a moment, “that I am not in charge. Ex’klik here will take you to someone who is. That one will know if you are lying. For your sake, you had better not be, or I will personally see that your entrails grace the altar on the next full moon!”
Having said his piece, Xla stalked away towards the next being in line. Jyrrud, in turn, fell into pace behind and a little to the side of the Saurus Guard Ex’klik, then followed the latter into the city. They walked down one of the main streets, passing the unusually high towers that played host to the terradons and ripperdactyls that rode the air currents high overhead. To Jyrrud’s surprise and annoyance, he was brought up a long, winding lane that ended in a small, park-like balcony overlooking a deep spot in the river. Waiting for him was a familiar skink, whose presence made the grot frown.
“Good afternoon, bearer of the Wolf-Fang Crown,” the skink said bitterly. “I have been given to understand that you had an encounter out in the forest?”
“Well, dat explains da ‘star’ bit,” Jyrrud muttered irritably. “I see yer still up an’ walking about, no matter dat yer older den sand.”
Itzli-Citlalli’s time-faded scales shifted as his mouth curled up into a wry smile. “Indeed I am, oh Lord of the Snarlfang Hunt.”
Jyrrud raised a hand to cut him off. “Oi, ’nuff with da fancy titles! Ent nobody at dis end of da realms dat knows ’bout my past ‘cept you, and da last time we met I asked ya not ta talk ’bout it!”
“True, you did,” the starseer replied with a sour drawl, “and I asked you, in turn, not to grace Tlacopan, and myself, with your presence again. Yet, here we are!”
“Wuzzn’t by choice,” the shaman grumbled. “I figgered dis wuz important ’nuff ta break my promise.”
“So you did encounter skaven in the forest?”
“Not just in da forest, but wiffin a stone’s toss of da river! Dey ‘ent out in ones an twos, neither! Whole group ov dem surrounded me!”
“Hmm. Had anyone else brought me this news, I may have dismissed it as a flight of fancy. I know your kind and mine have not traditionally gotten along well,” the starseer mused. “But while you do not necessarily speak the truth to those you encounter, neither do you lie to them.”
“’Ent no reason fer dat.”
“Indeed, and you likely know the skaven better than most of the other inhabitants of this valley. Tell me, were they all of one clan?”
Shaking his head, Jyrrud reached for his pipe, then thought better of it and slid it back into his robes. “Naw, ‘least three clans. Dey had somma dem plaguey-skevvin, an some normal rat-men, but some ov dem ‘ad whips like da monster-trainers use.”
Wrapping his mind around the grot’s unusual grasp of language, Itzli-Citlalli frowned. “So either Clan Pestilens or somehow associated with them, with elements of Clans Verminus and Moulder? Interesting, and yet worrisome. What did they want with you?”
“Didn’t stick ’round ta find out. Dey ‘ad some kinda plaguey’d up mushroom growin’ along da river. I fink dey laid it as a trap ta catch da curious. I ‘ave ta admit, I was wonderin’ wut was up wif it, but I ‘ent stupid, so I let it be. S’got da same feel as da magics da poison-skevvin use, jes so ya know.” Shaking his head, Jyrrud let his gaze wander out over the edge of the balcony to the river, far below. “Look, Starseer,” he said, using Itzli-Citlalli’s formal title for the first time, “I know ye and I don’ see eye ta eye on a lotta fings, but I like dis valley. I know my ancestors wuzn’t exactly good neighbors, but when I wuz on da run, ya let me hide here, wifout askin too many questions. I dun wanna see anyfing bad ‘appen to dis place.”
“I see.” Choosing his words carefully, Itzli-Citlalli asked Jyrrud some more questions, probing for any details that could be useful, before finally nodding and bowing his head. “Thank you for telling us about this, Jyrrud. I know you have little reason to trust us, but we appreciate your information and will act upon it once we decide what to do.”
“Dat’s all I ask,” the shaman said with a sigh. “Meanwhile, I’m gonna head back ta my place ‘an prep fer visitors. Dey tried ta get me once, dey might try it again.”
“That is a wise precaution, King of the Redwolf Tribe.”
“Don’t call me dat,” Jyrrud mumbled irritably as he turned to leave. “You ‘an I both know dere ‘ent no more Redwolf Tribe ennymore. Jus’ old Jyrrud…”
