When nineteen-year-old princess Ona is abducted on her way to her wedding, her betrothed, Didé scours all of Out-earth looking for her. Dragged to the highlands of Kebo that she knows about only from legends, Ona discovers that her captor is not onl...
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The legendary Ivory Sand Route carved its path along the outskirts of the ancient Njo rainforest like a yugular vein mainly because these traders feared the unmentionable evils of the forest. This ancient trading trail meandered between towering iroko and baobab trees strangled with climbing rubber vines and dripping with hanging gardens of orchids. The forest floor was a dense carpet of raffia palms and decomposing plantain leaves, muffling the footfalls of those brave enough to traverse its primordial depths.
The route earned its name from the pale ivory sand forming the path itself, carried from the great Saharan desert by the hooves of countless caravans over centuries past. This pale grit provided vital traction through the perpetual moisture and decay blanketing the undergrowth.
It was known that strange creatures dwell within the Njo forests - from vividly colored poison arrow jaguar frogs to long-necked shoebill storks stalking the marshes. The haunting called of unseen snake monkeys echo through the canopy, adding to the primeval ambiance. Fortunately, the path was safeguarded by the ancestral spirits of past traders, their chanted Fantu blessings warding off the jungle's most fearsome denizens.
No journey along the Ivory Sand Route would be complete without stopping at the legendary Black Orchid Tavern. This ramshackle mud-brick and thatch structure seemed to almost sprout from the very rainforest itself. For over 300 years, the Black Orchid had been slaking the thirst of exhausted travelers of all sorts - merchants with laden camels and caravans, hunters with leathery faces, wandering holy men draped in faded robes etc.
Inside, the air was thick with woodsmoke, the aroma of sizzling bush meat, locally-brewed palm wine, and the babble of a dozen languages. Tribal masks, faded colonial regalia and dusty trophies adorned the walls, accentuated by swirling clouds of tobacco smoke. Brikali merchants spinning fanciful tales, troupe of Naasai blade-dancers entertaining the crowd, spice traders dicing for shillings at candlelit tables - the Black Orchid was a vibrant crossroads where all paths of Out-earth intersect.
At one table near the back, a trio of rough-looking men nursed their clay cups of millet beer. Their weapons and travel-stained clothes marked them as hunters or mercenaries for hire. One was bald and bore a wicked scar across his cheek, while another had filed his teeth to points in the style of the far-northern tribes.
"I tell you, that white lion we're after is no mere beast," the scarred one said in a low rumble. "They don't pay bounties like that for a simple kill." He took a long pull of his beer.
The tribesman with the filed teeth grunted. "Makes no difference to me, Mkunga. So long as the coin is good when we bring its head back."
The third man, a wiry little fellow with a bristling mustache, shook his head. "You didn't hear the rumors? They say it's an avatar of the spirit Ashanti herself, sent to guard the sacred forests."
In a dimly lit corner, the cloaked figures of Didé and Nakaba listened intently, their eyes locking meaningfully.
The scarred hunter, Mkunga, barked a harsh laugh. "What rot! I put no stock in such old wives' tales."
