A Traditional Sload Tale

Glub Glub Glub. Arise, little grubs. Come hither that this one might tell you an
educational tale. Shy not away from the ripples caused by this one’s motions,
come hither, this one shall not eat you! At least, if you come close and listen
to this one’s story. What, you doubt that this one’s bulk can move with enough
speed to catch your nescient little forms? Understand this one’s massive girth
is telling of years of knowledge and deceit. A long period of feeding and of
being able to keep fed.
You draw near, that is wise. And very bold. *grnch* Let that be a warning
against further brazen behaviour, little grubs, and do not regret that one’s
passing, for that one moved too fast and trusted enough to snuggle against this
one’s bulk and this naiveté is precisely what this one warns against with the
telling of this tale, which should be virtuald in your mnemocrypts to be referred
to as a catechism up to, and including, the time you develop your land-limbs and
leave the wet for the dry.
Now having your attention, this one begins. The folds of this one’s flesh
speaks of the geography of bygone atlases, when Thras was a thousand times
greater than the cloud shadow that it is now. And that is where the story begins,
with a Sload named K’tala, young and brash, wisdom-jowls hanging barely noticeably
on that one’s face and thus barely capable of knowledgeable discourse. Yet
that one had a droplet or two of knowledge, collected like dewdrops do in
the cup of a flower, and the image in the droplet shimmered slightly whenever
that one walked and ate and slept, so eventually, it quite nearly consumed
him, like the blinding shine of a diamond of the finest water.
This droplet was the knowledge of one successful soul merchant, turgid with
wealth in souls and pearls and coin; a treasure coveted by multitudes, K’tala
amongst them. However, K’tala was not so foolish as to believe that a waif of
such modest size could succeed where no other could. ‘A fool and one’s money
are soon parted’, as they say, and the soul merchant was neither, being in
possession of a respectable girth. Almost all that one’s commerce was conducted
through proxies, corpse-ambassadors controlled like puppets, except on those
rare occasions of high provirtual customers that it behoved that one to meet in
the flesh, and in such cases, that one left that one’s hidden abode by
airship and met with clients in a litter made of coral and bone shaped like
a tub and filled with Thrassian seawater, bubbling and steaming from a
mixture of firesalts and carried aloft by the sturdy shoulders and indefatigable
strength of undead Nordic porters, skin still milk-white and eyes still
sparkling and precious gems hammered into the joints. And yet, no one had
ever seen from where that one left or to where that one returned during
these business excursions onto dry, rich land, or where that one’s treasury
might lie.
K’tala travelled throughout Thras to unravel this mystery, consulting with
the largest of the Sloads and showing the proper forms of mocking deference
expected of him. To the furthest reaches of Thras banshees were sent to howl
the question to all who would hear it, aquatic screeches that tore through the
water with such force that they caused tidal waves to fall on Hammerfell, like
- if one might concede to this one a small joke - like a hammer. On and around
the shores, rusalka, valuable because of the difficulty used to acquire them,
usually by manipulating drowned husband sailors whose visitations were used to
lure them to a watery suicide, were sent to query the aged and reclusive ones,
big as whales, blubber swaying gently with the water, who plotted and schemed
such grand schemes they became lost in the convolutions of their own scenarios,
and were kept alive only by the ministrations of their decaying attendants and,
occasionally, nourished by the reckless larvae who accidentally swam inside
their mouths in search of crumbs. All gave the same answer, counselling caution
and reconsideration while evasively referring to the north.
But then one of the questing phantasms returned, the spirit relaying the
message impressed upon its ectoplasm.
"That one is cunning, yes. No ostentatious vault to proclaim that one’s worth
to the world. A simple cave hidden on the northern coast of Vandor, near Lokar
serves as treasury, reachable only by swimming through a lake, a moat infested
with a swarm of reanimated sharks. Beware! A shark in life knows as much as it
does in death, which is little except killing!"
Before K’tala could grab the phantasm’s coalescing form in an effort to ring
 the name of that one’s mysterious benefactor from out of its chthonic substance,
 the ghost lost its coherence and dissipated in a spluttering of half-remembered
 regrets. K’tala cursed that one’s own craftsmanship and prepared to plan.
This was not a task that one could entrust to a temperamental toyol, nor did
 that one wish to burden himself by carrying a jar sloshing with blood and
 amniotic fluid. K’tala left after a week of thoughtful contemplation, a small
 group of well-preserved revenants at that one’s side should trouble burst
 like a volatile corpse. At the water’s edge, that one paused and sent a
 revenant lumbering into the depths, which was promptly dragged below the
 surface as the waters frothed and churned. A limb floated to the surface
 but did not stay there for long before it too quickly disappeared from
 sight, followed by stillness and quietude like that of a virgin crypt.
 K’tala stood at the edge of the water and considered possibilities.
Hours turned to days, days to weeks, and still no solution enlightened him,
but action was overdue. The only way was forward. Leaving behind that one’s
revenants, and slowly, with the minutest of steps like ghostly footfalls,
that one entered the water, naked but for that one’s wits. A simple spell kept
 that one from floating to the surface and bringing that one’s presence to the
 attention of the sharks, for, as yet, not a ripple or a current had betrayed
 that one’s presence. With the most deliberate of motions, K’tala edged forward.
 An hour passed before that one moved a step. A day passed before that one
 had even crossed half the distance required to reach the cave wherein
 lay the treasure, all the while, one eye was fixed upon the sharks,
 the other upon the shadows of the cave. Yet even within the split focus
 of that one’s attention, other details emerged from the murky water,
 such as the striking desolation of the place. Though no stranger to the
 clinical silence of a laboratory or the stillness of a tomb, K’tala
 noted that even the coral in the lake was hard and dead and scratched
 at that one’s underbelly, and the sharks showed signs of lamentable
 decay where the preservation magic had failed, festering untended
 by the fishy parasites who happily live on the rot and mould of
 our servitors. Their pus-filled yellow eyes stared blankly in
 front of them as they circled mindlessly.
Eventually that one entered the cave and emerged in a grotto, starving,
 but for much more than food, though so weak that that one could barely flop
 up onto the rocky floor. A foul stench hung thickly in the shadows of the
 cavern. A globe of light dispelled the shadows and that one looked away,
 expecting to be dazzled by a king’s ransom in soulgems and gold, but
 when that one raised his head and observed the details of the cavern,
 that one found only the rotting remains and cartilaginous frames of
 dead Sload. K’tala reached into one of the fresher corpses, feeling
 inside the head for the soft and squishy mnemocrypt. That one closed
 that one’s eyes and muttered a cantrip, speaking to the memories,
 swimming through them, being enclosed and sustained by them like
 placenta. Slow, painful. Dying. Realisation. Soulsnare. Poison.
 Now K’tala understood the absence of living parasites in the pool
 and the soul merchant’s near limitless wealth as a wave of nausea
 swept through that one’s body and that one collapsed onto the floor.
 That one’s body gurgled in agony as that one’s soul began slipping
 free only to became happily entangled within a web of magick, strung
 along on a path made by a rosary of glittering soulgems and held
 captive by a beatific vision of wealth.
So concludes this one’s tale. Fitting punishment indeed for such
 hotheadedness. Take heed of this story, little ones, and respect your
 biggers, so that one day you too might become old enough to have a
 clutch of young grubs to feast on the accretions on the underside of
 your belly.