Latest revision as of 01:12, 4 June 2017

Author's Note: This tale was heard from a tawny elder rescued from wrecked corsair off the Moonshae. He wished to express his gratitude, but had nothing but legends from afar to give. Sail past the southernmost reaches of Faerun, over the Great Sea, and you might find a land called Zakhara. This isolated yet civilized continent is a realm of expansive deserts and cultured cities.

One such city is Wasat, which straddles where the al-Qalil River blossoms into the Suq Bay. It is a city of trade, where the bayside market stretches a full mile along a forest of ship masts.

In this metropolis lived a merchant, an ordinary and honest man who dealt as fairly as he was able. His stall was one of many in a vast market, but he was satisfied with his life, and content.

One evening, after the day stalls had closed, the young merchant took a shortcut going home. He had no fear entering the narrow side street, just wide enough for two men abreast, for the stern orcs of the Caliph kept the peace in Wasat.

But as he saw a stranger approaching from the opposite end, he was struck with horror.

The city of Wasat, blessed with a thousand domes, sits on the edge of the Haunted Lands. In that realm, death is not personified in the grim and solemn Kelemvor. Rather, the spirit of death is seen a peddler in red robes, a gaunt man with a peculiar one-eyed half-mask. That dread sight is the spectre of one's demise.

And it was that very spectre that the merchant saw, approaching him from the opposite end of the street. The merchant was so stricken by fear that he could do little but continue walking. Thus the two passed each other by, with not a word exchanged between them.

It was then that the merchant saw a curious sight. For death's half-exposed face bore a look as surprised as the merchant was frightened. When the merchant summoned the will to glance over his shoulder, the spectre was gone.

This experience terrified the man, and without ever reaching home he went to consult the wise men and imams of Wasat. All told him the same thing. To be able to see Death itself meant that the merchant had a but a day left to live.

But the merchant loved life.

With feverish intensity, he continued his search until he found one who spoke differently than the rest. The homeless propheseer, through broken teeth, told the merchant this:

"Seek you the gates of Holy Halwa, for its walls are sanctuary against even Death."

That very night, the merchant sold whatever he could, abandoned his home, and purchased for himself a horse and a sword. With but a few scant supplies on his person, he rode off into the darkness.

A moment, here, must be taken for those unfamiliar with far Zakhara. Between the thousand domes of Wasat and the burnished walls of Halwa lies a land beneath the shadow of the Ghost Mountains. This is an inhospitable stretch filled with exotic daemons, where evil sha'irs wield strange magic and bind genies to their will. Not one man in a hundred and three generations had ever made the journey between Wasat and Halwa in a single day, let alone in the dead of night.

And yet, the merchant braved this trek. Dawn found him stumbling onwards, his steed dead leagues behind him and his sword broken and stained. What fine clothes he once had were spectral tatters, and he bore the bleeding marks of untold horrors.

And yet. he lived.

But when he arrived beneath the tall walls of Holy Halwa, the merchant saw a familiar sight. The Spirit of Death sat there upon a low stone road marker, legs crossed. The spectre was waiting patiently, in front of the fabled gates.

With neither strength nor hope left in him, the merchant walked up to Death and spoke.

"Before I am taken away, Mask of Endings, I wish to ask but one question."

To this, the Spirit of Death nodded assent.

The merchant asked, "Why were you surprised to see me last night, in the streets of Wasat?"

"Because," replied Death, "I was told to meet you today, before the gates of Halwa."

Thus ends the story of the Merchant and the Mask, as heard by Shäalira, the Younger. This tale was committed to ink on 6th day of Eleint, 75 AR.