Have you ever wake up with a headache, three bruises, a dragon scale in your boot, and a fully annotated treasure map you don’t remember drawing?
I have. Twice.
But the time I’m talking about—the time we call “The Map Inked in Rum”—well, that one kicked off the maddest week of my life. And believe me, that’s saying something.
It Started, As Most Things Do, With a Bet
We were holed up in a tavern on the coast of Windmere—storm season, seafoam in the air, and not a sane sailor in sight. The barkeep served a rum so strong it could pickle a mimic. Naturally, I bet a passing cartographer I could out-map him using only rum, a quill, and my gut instinct for danger.
He laughed. I drank. And thus, the challenge began.
The Birth of a Disaster
Three hours, two overturned tables, and one unfortunate torch-related accident later, I had it:
A map. Not just any map—a living, swirling work of madness. Inked in rum, sweat, and the accidental blood of a kobold pickpocket who bit off more than he could chew.
It detailed a winding, impossible route through the Hollow Reaches, marked with cryptic notes like:
- “DRAGON? MAYBE.”
- “STAY LEFT (UNLESS RIGHT FEELS LUCKIER)”
- “X ≠ X”
It should’ve been gibberish. It looked like gibberish. But the next morning, the wizard in our party—Zarenth, who hated fun—scanned it with Identify and nearly passed out.
“It’s real,” he said. “Or worse—it wants to be real.”
Through the Hollow Reaches
We followed that map. Why? Because we’re idiots, obviously.
Every mark matched a real location. Every warning proved weirdly accurate. One time, a literal “X” exploded.
There were traps that only triggered if you didn’t laugh at the carvings. A bridge made entirely of basilisk bones. And a riddle door that only opened if you admitted your most embarrassing secret (don’t ask me what mine was; Jane still won’t look me in the eye).
We fought off salt wraiths, escaped a sentient fog bank, and at one point had to out-dance a cursed marionette to cross a river.
And at the End?
Nothing.
Or so we thought.
There was no treasure. Just a circle of smooth stones, a ring of glowing runes, and one more line scribbled on the back of the map that I must’ve added during a blackout:
Zarenth was furious. The rogue cried laughing. And me? I framed the map. It’s hanging behind the bar here at Grim Tavern.
Still smells faintly of rum. Still makes other maps tremble when left too close.
“Dave’s stories rarely hold together in the light of logic. But they often reveal a different kind of truth—the kind that can’t be measured by reason, only remembered by heart.”
— Jane Whisperquill
