Letters to Zadib

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(( Below is the translated transcript of Khifa Afsana's correspondence with Zadib ibn Ammu Afsana, an individual in Waterdeep known locally as Zadib, the proprietor of a dock-side wayrest and tavern. Several copies of this message was sent via several different ships, merchant vessels hired out of Port Avanthyr to deliver the letters alongside their usual cargo. Each message is written in Midani, and further complicated by a cipher constructed by Khifa Afsana, a character who is well-versed in Decipher Script. ))






Verily, my faith is to Eight Gods and my adherence is to Grand Caliph Khalil al-Assad al-Zahir, Master of the Enlightened Throne, Most High Sovereign of the Land of Fate, the Worthy of the Heavens, and Confidant of the Genies. Upon these two pillars, even the humblest of servants might stand tall.

Since my last correspondence, I have entered the land called Sundren to bear witness on the truth or falsity of aforementioned rumors. Of my brothers and sisters and kinsmen, I am the sole Afsana in the region. I beg pardon for any inadequacy in my report.

A city does indeed fly in this northern country, a metropolis populated by people who live and breathe among the clouds. And yet, it is not an echo of lost and wondrous Netheril, nor the pinnacle of a rising civilization. That it flies is the result of desperation, brought about by the extremities of war.

The city, which like the greater region, bears the name of Sundren. It was, and still claims to be, the capital of a lush and verdant valley. An emperor reigns in this city, and from his throne he continues to assert sovereign authority over the land.

But on the ground, the country is carved into a patch-work map, held by both invading armies and theocratic cults. The military power of the nation of Sundren, divided into numbered legions of professionally trained soldiery, is a fraction of its prior strength.

Much of this valley belongs to the Bloodmaim, a subsection of the orcish race who appear to be as brutal as their name suggests. They are many and aggressive, displaying little of the stoicism or civilized restraint of the orcs in our enlightened continent. The rampage of these Bloodmaim over the greater region is the source of many of this nation's present woes.

In the north, wild men and women have overtaken a city. These denizens of the frozen lands worship Auril, a power that claims frost and winter in her portfolio. Jealously do her followers guard the settlement called Aquor, once a wealthy home to Sundren nobility.

In the west, a town called Sestra is occupied by a cult devoted to Bane. This northern god embodies tyranny and fear, qualities which flow down through the hierarchy of his followers and unto the common folk they rule over. It is the "Black Hand" that had lain siege to the city, Sundren. And it is their influence that had spurred on the Bloodmaim.

While there are settlements still that do not fly the banners of invader or usurper, it is debatable whether they still follow the authority of Sundren's emperor. Indeed, many voice the opinion that the flying city has abandoned those on the ground to their fate.

This unworthy observer will not detract from the simple feat of it. To bring a city into the sky, and keep it there, is no mean task. Yet the tribulations of the people speak of the desperate circumstances in which this came to be.

The journey to and fro the flying city of Sundren does not take place via airship or balloon, or other well-established means of free travel. Rather, there is a single great portal through which all traffic must be ushered. Day by day, long lines of refugees struggle to pass through the portal and escape the strife of the surface. Carts and caravans sit idle in a long backlog on the roads outside.

Within the floating city, the poorer districts are packed with the destitute. Logistical difficulties mean starvation is rampant.

Nor is the city's architecture built or designed for a life in the sky. It is said that, along the periphery of the capitol, people and whole homes have fallen off and tumbled into oblivion.

The court of the Grand Caliph, in its eternal wisdom, has dispatched this Afsana to learn of a possible civilization to rival the mighty Shou or the Kingdom of Cormyr, or even our own enlightened Land of Fate. This one is burdened to say that it is not so; the flying city is not the product of strength, but of need. The capitol was launched into the sky, not out of the same exuberance of power and knowledge that intoxicated the ancients, but merely in order to escape a siege by a militarily superior force.

However, even this unworthy agent realizes the conundrum of such a conclusion. How was such an afflicted land able to accomplish such a feat? The answer to this question appears to be a local resource known as Sundrite.

This material possesses unique qualities, channeling and perhaps amplifying the energies of the weave. An entire trading cartel has established itself in this land for the singular purpose of searching out and exploiting deposits of the strange metal.





And strange it is indeed. One infested Sundrite mine contained many defiled beings, humanoids and animals alike, that have been corrupted by the metal's radiance into twisted and unreasonable forms. This one has included some preliminary sketches of the resulting anatomy. The full extent of the metal's malign influence has yet to be studied.

It is said that devices composed of the metal, Sundrite, have played a role in the city's flight.

By the grace of the Sovereign of Fate, this humble agent shall remain to investigate the anomaly called Sundrite, to observe the strife engulfing this nation, and to report on who ultimately triumphs in the struggle to control this land and its unique resource.

Wise are those who honor the gods and speak the hundred proofs.


~ Khifa of the Afsana, Descendant of the Unworthy Poet

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(( Another such letter, sent and coded in the same manner. Included in the package is a cedar box with a modest sample of a locally-grown pipeweed. ))

الحركة بركة.

It is related by men worthy of belief that movement is a blessing.

In the time since the last missive, this lowly Afsana has been exploring the contours and dimensions of the land men call Sundren. While the shadow of the floating city falls far, there is far more to the realm than what is suspended among clouds.

The history of the valley speaks of an arcanist called Mundus, by whose diligence and magic was the land first opened to the outside world. Indeed, the borders of the realm are nigh-impenetrable. Sundren is separated by mountains from the rest of Faerun, mountains which link with the Spine of the World - those jagged peaks that conjoin the continent with the pole of Toril.

While there are narrow passes to the north, snaking into the snow-laden land called Icewind Dale, there is truly but one viable land route between Sundren and the civilized lands to the south and east. This route is through a magically-carved breach in the mountains known as the Sunderer's Gate, fortified since the founding of Sundren and manned constantly despite even the depredations of invader and ursurper.

The sea presents no less of a challenge. The valley is surrounded by rocky shoals and difficult shores. There are but few passable landings. One of the noble houses of this land, Meriadoc, owes much of its fortune to a former patriarch that painstakingly charted a sea lane over the course of a year. And indeed, Meriadoc is the de facto ruler of Sundren's only major port and outlet to the sea - the city they call Avanthyr.

As a minor aside, Avanthyr is where this humble servant has chosen to reside in furtherance of her duties. It is by access to the shipping lanes are these missives sent.

With such a favorable geography for the defense of the nation, one would think it all but secure against outside threats. And indeed, the great armies that ravaged Sundren of late did not come from beyond, but within.

The Bloodmaim orcs, which I have referred to in the previous report, originate from a forest in the northeastern valley. Even prior to the tumult that launched the capitol into the sky, these orcs were known for their martial skill and proclivity towards war. From this one's observations, the Bloodmaim have rallied about the faith of Gruumsh, a deity for whom the most fervent worship is conquest.

I have included a coordinate set by which a map of the land can be reconstructed, with use of the proper protocols and the seventy-seventh proof.

Progress has been made regarding the investigation of the ore, Sundrite. Samples have been obtained, and I shall perform what limited field testing I can with my inadequate skills. I have also included a few flints of it within a smokeweed box. Please do remove those flints before smoking; I cannot attest to the consequences otherwise.

There is much further to to write of, for I have attended trial and sentencing, seen ritual combat between dueling faiths, and made contact with the ruling house of Avanthyr. Such will have to wait else the length of this missive betray its disguise as a personal letter.

Wise are those who greet the djinn with proverbs.

- Khifa, Descendant of the Unworthy Poet

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شحات ونزهي.

It is relayed by men worthy of belief that beggars should not comport themselves as if they had wealth.

Since the prior missive, this Afsana has spoken with the natives of this valley, ascertaining the form and lineage of the sovereign of Sundren.

As the reports have noted, an emperor in the flying city claims rulership over all the valley and its peoples. This lowly agent was yet puzzled with this fact, as the people here do not show the reflexive, ingrained respect to the authority of the throne. In the Forest Kingdom, for example, one need but mention the Queen of Cormyr for nearby passersby to utter blessings and raise drinks in honor of their monarch. Even those who have never set foot in Suzail speak reverently of the mythos of the crown.

Such accrued habits are not present in Sundren. With some investigation, the reason became evident.

The man who is called emperor was not always such. He had no ruling forebear, nor even a lineage before him. He is the first absolute ruler, a general who claimed the title through force and influence. Prior to the emperor of Sundren, the land was ruled by an oligarchic council. Power was divvied between noble representatives and members of such sturdy institutions as the local orders of Helmites and Triadists.

The catalyst for change was insurrection and war, fought largely by Bloodmaim but masterminded by the Black Hand. The ruling council was perceived to be ineffectual; the leading general of the armies first acted without their authority, and then eventually took it for himself.

With the capital desperately launched into the sky, and much of the land on the ground ceded to the victors of the battle, the nation of Sundren is ruled in a seemingly permanent state of martial law. The continued existential threats are justification for the emperor's title, his fiat, and the budding mechanisms meant to ensure his rule. Rumors now speak of people disappearing in the flying city, of outspoken voices silenced in the forgetfulness of night.

Of course, little of this means anything if the emperor cannot re-establish respect for his rule on the ground of the valley. Else, the former general will remain but the potentate of a flying city, and one much-starved for supplies.

The numbered legions of the flying ruler have again started to patrol a limited stretch of road from the Sunderer's Gate to a commonly-traveled crosspath. The obvious result was ambush and assault by their enemies. Soldiers disappear regularly on this perilous patrol, a woeful fact to the ranks of men still nurturing their strength.

The desire to assert authority was evident in the recent trial of a man named Gray, witnessed by this lowly Afsana. The individual, Gray, was seeking to make repairs to an outpost abandoned by the Legion. The wisdom of this course of action is certainly debatable; the land is surrounded by entrenched and victorious enemies.

Gray was arrested and sent up in charges. The mainstay of the case against him was specious evidence of an encounter where he attempted to speak to a vampire to determine 'what it wanted.' It was admitted that he later raised arms against the vampire, however ineffectually. This tack was a curious one - if Gray was so harmless as to pose little threat in battle, why take the time to publicly try him as an enemy of the state?

The answer, it would seem, is the message the flying authorities wish to convey. That is, they will not permit individuals on the ground seeing to their own defense and arranging for their own forms of alternate rule in the absence of Sundren's Legions. The man, Gray, was given the choice of exile or conscription and chose conscription.

The path chosen by the authorities of Sundren in response to crisis is the expected one. Yet, given the nature of their enemy, this raises a conundrum that is more than philosophical. Can one truly oppose the armies of the God of Tyranny and Fear by exercise of authority that is both tyrannous and terrorizing? This Afsana cannot help but feel that, whoever emerges victorious on the field of battle, the god Bane will be well-pleased by the result, his portfolio fed with a gluttonous meal.

And on the matter of the Black Hand, they have settled comfortably into the role of governors of Sestra, the farming community in the western lands of Sundren. Even a passing traveler cannot help but notice buildings leveled and rebuilt, the spires of dark temples rising into the sky, and the foundations of wall and wharf. The usurpers and conquerers seek to establish the bastion of what will be their own state.

Meanwhile, the northmen are unharried as they are fed and clothed by the slaves they have made of Aquor's populace.

Such is the plight of the nation of Sundren. This Afsana remains in the port city of Avanthyr, where she has arranged beneficial relations with the ruling nobility in exchange for certain services rendered. Further words will follow as the situation develops.

Wise are those who turn their backs to the campfire when the moon wanes,

- Khifa, Descendant of the Unworthy Poet