Return of the Hydra: prologue

Theron's Musings 2

A view into the mind of a genius

“Another day, another riddle, and still no step closer to this elusive treasure,” mumbled Theron as he withdrew into a sulky silence. “God, how I hate these riddles,” he thought, “Always have.” And still, buried somewhere between these lines lay the key.

Four Hydra heads guard the gate

find the right one, but don’t be late

For only deepest darkness opens the door

to treasure no soul ever saw before

You need the sun and the White Hydra Head

True Blood and the Gold of the Dead

But beware, both blood and gold attract the Beast

Your ship it shall break, on your flesh it shall feast

the Weak will wither, the blood cannot hide

Gold and Ghosts will be your Guide”

Straton the Abstinent

What could it mean? The author proudly proclaimed his name. Straton the Abstinent, fell necromancer and right hand to Baelor Bloodbeard. No surprises there apart from the fact that Straton’s name was know to several of his companions, none of them initiates to the Art. A little nugget of knowledge he squirreled away in his mind. The deepest darkness surely meant the solar eclipse that he had calculated to happen within a scant few days. The references to True Blood an the Gold of the Dead, those he could place to some extent although he still had this uncomfortable feeling not all was revealed there either. The Beast he would worry about when he felt the comfortable weight of a backpack filled with gold on his back. But what to think of these Hydras? His companions had remained silent when he queried them about it. Too silent in fact. They were omnipresent on this forsaken peninsula en held some religious meaning to its barbarous inhabitants. He found it hard to believe that none of the deluded religious frauds amongst their pitiful band knew anything about them. But if they did, they would not share it with him. Very well, he supposed he still had some knowledge with which to barter. That and his talent for patience. A talent he had cultivated for many a year, he thought, as he caressed the stumps that were all that was left of his right pinkie and ring finger. “All good things come to those who wait,” he mused, “And to those who plan …”



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