GOZR Solo Campaign Journal, Chapter 2
This is Chapter 2 of a Narrative Recounting of my GOZR solo-play campaign.
Chapter 2:
Sore Boulevard stretched before them like a winding scar through the city's southern quarter, its cracked pavement dotted with overturned carts and scattered merchandise. The usual bustle of street commerce had given way to an eerie quiet, broken only by the occasional screech and thump of simian combat.
"Terrible," Fooz muttered, stepping over a broken banana crate. "Think of the lost revenue." Her coral hair-formations twitched as she mentally calculated the economic impact.
They passed a group of Gooz celebrating over a fallen monkey, their weapons still dripping. "The eighth one today!" one of them called out proudly. "These things just keep coming!"
"WITNESS!" bellowed a voice from ahead. A spindly Gooz in patchwork robes stood atop an upturned fruit cart, gesturing wildly at the crimson sky. "The red vault of heaven signals our doom! The Monkey Times are upon us! Repent! REPENT!"
Butter's lavender eyes narrowed. "False prophet," he growled, hand tightening on his flail. "The Angry Sun's true judgment comes not through monkeys, but through—"
"Look," Kwobe interrupted, his beak-like face pointing toward a weathered stall. "A functioning tap house." His moon-shaped ears twitched at the sound of liquid sloshing in ancient kegs.
The vendor, a grizzled Gooz with skin the color of old brass, brightened at their approach. "Ah, customers! Nothing like a Chow Beer to wash away monkey troubles, eh?" He pulled three mugs from beneath the counter, each one uniquely chipped and character-worn.
The beer came out thick and green, with an iridescent sheen that might have been concerning in another city. Fooz examined her mug with professional scrutiny. "I taught advanced beverage quality control just last week," she announced, then took a long drink.
"Fascinating emotional resonance," Kwobe mused, sipping his beer thoughtfully. "I detect notes of... anxiety, desperation, and possibly mild food poisoning." He touched the salt shaker mark on his belly. "Though that last one might just be the beer."
Butter drained his mug in one go, the angry face on his belt buckle seeming to grimace at the taste. "It fortifies the spirit for the coming crusade," he declared, though his voice was slightly hoarse.
They continued down the boulevard, the strange beer warming their bellies as they picked their way through the debris of commerce and combat. The red sky cast everything in a bloody hue, making the empty streets look like something out of an apocalyptic vision – or just another Tuesday in Goozer City.
Finally, the party turned the corner from Sore Blvd onto Broken trail, and, just before reaching the Smokey Canal Bridge, they spotted their destination. A fungal tower loomed before them like some prehistoric sentinel, its mushroom-shaped growths stretching toward the red sky. Smaller caps branched off at odd angles, one serving as an unlikely chimney, wisps of multicolored smoke curling from its gills. The structure seemed to breathe, the fungi covering its surface subtly pulsing in the afternoon light.
"Fascinating architecture," Fooz observed, her yellow eyes scanning the windowless ground level. "I believe I taught advanced fungal engineering last month. Or was it interpretive root systems?"
"There," Kwobe pointed with his beak-like face toward a crudely made sign, barely visible among the fungi. It featured an arrow pointing to what appeared to be a doorbell made from an old robot's eye.
Butter reached out with his flail handle and pressed it. The "doorbell" made a sound like a hiccupping toad.
A window suddenly popped open, making them all jump. A wizened Gooz face appeared, wrinkled as a dried mushroom and about as friendly. Her eyes were the color of old pennies, and a collection of fungi grew from her head like a living hat.
"What?" she barked. "Who's bothering Grizzle Pot?"
Fooz stepped forward, producing the Commissioner's document. "We come with official documentation from—"
"That bureaucratic barnacle!" Grizzle Pot's face twisted into a snarl. "Still sitting up there playing with his toys while the city falls apart, is he?" She snorted, fungi quivering. "This whole monkey business is his fault, you know. His fault entirely!"
"The stars whisper of old grievances," Kwobe murmured, his moon-shaped ears twitching. "And... something about a stolen pinball machine?"
Grizzle Pot's glare could have curdled milk. "Don't. Just... don't." She disappeared from the window, then reappeared at another one slightly lower. "Well, come on then. In here, if you must."
They climbed through the window into what appeared to be a vertical maze of rooms connected by spiral staircases. Grizzle Pot led them down, down, down, past rooms full of bubbling cauldrons, mechanical oddities, and what appeared to be a small jungle.
As they made their way down the tower, Grizzle Pot had paused in a room filled with glowing mushrooms, their light casting strange shadows across her weathered face.
"So," Fooz ventured, her coral hair-formations bristling with calculated interest, "about these monkey attacks. Our investigation would benefit from any additional intel you might—"
"Don't know nothing about no monkeys," Grizzle Pot snapped, though her fungi-hat quivered suspiciously. "Except that they're his fault, the pinball-pushing pencil-pusher."
Kwobe stepped forward, his eggshell skin taking on the mushrooms' glow. "The emotional resonance of your words suggests otherwise," he said softly. "There's a pattern here, like constellations waiting to be connected..."
"Pattern? PAH!" Grizzle Pot spun around, her eyes flashing like old copper. "The only pattern is that fool Commissioner making the same mistakes over and over! But you won't hear why from me. Some things are better left buried, like bad mushrooms and broken promises."
"The Angry Sun demands truth!" Butter declared, the flame symbol on his bicep pulsing in the fungal light. "If you know something about these servants of chaos—"
"The Angry Sun can take a nap for all I care," Grizzle Pot retorted. "What I know or don't know ain't your business. The Commissioner wants to play hero again? Fine. But he's the one who..." She caught herself, mouth snapping shut like a trap. "Never mind. Just never mind."
"Perhaps," Fooz suggested, producing her ledger, "we could arrange a mutually beneficial exchange of information? I'm sure we could structure a deal that—"
"Put that away before I feed it to my pet spores," Grizzle Pot growled. "Now, you want the Rakkadon or not? Because I got better things to do than stand here playing twenty questions with a bunch of nosy students."
The three exchanged glances, recognizing the unmistakable wall of stubborn silence when they saw it. Whatever history lay between Grizzle Pot and the Commissioner, it was clearly as tangled as the fungi covering her tower – and just as likely to be poisonous if disturbed.
Finally, the group emerged into a vast underground grotto. Bioluminescent fungi provided a soft, otherworldly light that illuminated their remarkable hosts: the Rakkadons. The creatures were like something out of a fever dream – the size and shape of Brachiosaurus, but covered in thick, luxurious fur. Their faces were distinctly canine, with floppy ears and wet noses the size of dinner plates.
"Beautiful creatures," Kwobe breathed, his umber eyes wide. "Their emotional aura is... surprisingly cuddly."
Several mushroom-like constructs suddenly lumbered past, carrying pieces of what appeared to be a small hut. They began assembling it on the back of the smallest Rakkadon, working with surprising dexterity for creatures made of fungi.
"That one's yours," Grizzle Pot announced, pointing to the young Rakkadon. "Name's Snuffle. Don't feed him anything spicy, and for the love of all things fungal, don't let him chase squirrels. Last time that happened, we lost three market stalls and a very surprised fortune teller."
The Rakkadon in question looked at them with enormous, puppy-like eyes, its tail wagging with enough force to create a small breeze.
"A noble steed!" Butter declared, the flame symbol on his bicep glowing with excitement. "Truly, the Angry Sun provides!"
"The investment potential of such a mount is significant," Fooz noted, already pulling out her ledger.
Grizzle Pot rolled her eyes. "Just bring him back in one piece. And tell that pinball-obsessed peacock we’re even!" She paused, then added darkly, "He knows what he did."
The party crawled up a rope ladder attached to one of Snuffle’s flanks, and hopped into the little hut, a domicile just large enough for the three of them to rest in. It came furnished with a sleeping mat for each, a tiny table with a pair of stools, and four windows, one for each direction.
“Now get out of here before I change my mind and keep my pet!” said Grizzle Pot as she slowly turned and left up the nearest flight of stairs.
The party would depart through a hidden ramp that led out of the grotto and onto the bank of the Smokey Canal. The screeching of distant monkeys echoed off the buildings around them, a reminder that somewhere, an imposter was possibly pulling ancient strings, and chaos was spreading through the streets like spilled Chow Beer.
Inside Snuffle's hut, the three gathered around the small table, the Rakkadon's gentle swaying making their tea cups slide precariously.
"We need a methodical approach," Fooz declared, steadying her cup. "One that maximizes our resource efficiency while—"
"I can track them," Kwobe interrupted, his raptor-like mouth curving into a slight smile. "Once we're outside the city walls, where the sand holds their prints... I have a spell that might prove useful."
Butter's lavender eyes gleamed. "Then what are we waiting for? The Angry Sun's judgment cannot wait!"
They guided Snuffle through the western streets, drawing stares and whispers from passing Gooz. Some pointed at the rare creature, others at the strange hut on its back, but most simply gaped at the sight of a furry brachiosaur with a dog's face trotting down their street.
The West Gate loomed before them, its massive doors made from salvaged spaceship parts and decorated with warn warning signs in seventeen different languages. Beyond lay the endless sand, and there, clear as day, they saw them – hundreds of monkey tracks, carved into the desert surface like a chaotic roadmap.
Kwobe reached into his purple and green tunic, producing an ornate pipe carved with celestial symbols. His moon-shaped ears twitched as he packed it with something that sparkled faintly. The salt shaker mark on his belly seemed to shimmer as he began his incantation.
With practiced grace, he drew in a breath and released a cloud of iridescent smoke. Instead of dissipating, the smoke hung in the air, forming a window into the recent past. Through its ethereal frame, they watched ghostly images of screeching monkeys bounding across the sand, their crossed-sword brands glowing ominously.
"Behold the Vapor Trail," Kwobe announced, his umber eyes reflecting the magical smoke. "The emotions of their passage leave echoes in time, like ripples in a cosmic pond. We need only follow them to their source."
"Remarkable," Fooz muttered, already calculating the market value of such a spell. "Though I did teach advanced temporal visualization last... no, wait, that's next week."
"The Angry Sun lights our path through your mystic vapors, brother!" Butter declared, adjusting his clerical bands. "Onward, noble Snuffle! Justice awaits!"
The young Rakkadon barked happily – a sound surprisingly similar to a trumpet being played underwater – and began loping across the sand. Behind them, Goozer City's patchwork walls receded into the heat haze, while before them, the tracks and Kwobe's revelatory smoke promised to lead them to the heart of the mystery.
