Chapter 1: The Smokey Coconut Shuffle

The sun had long dipped behind the fog-veiled cliffs of Pot Bay, casting its orange afterglow onto a city that never really sobered up. Lanterns swayed gently from crooked beams, and somewhere in the maze of alleys below, someone was either making a deal or losing one.

Johnny adjusted the strap of his satchel and stepped out of his small hotel room.
The Giggling Ganja Inn was exactly what you'd expect in Pot Bay—a rickety, two-story shanty leaning slightly as if drunk on its own foundation. The walls inside were paper-thin, scratched with ancient graffiti, and the lobby was a cloud of patchouli and burnt cannabis.

His room had barely enough space for a bed, a lopsided wardrobe, and a cracked mirror that distorted his reflection into some wide-eyed goblin version of himself. A lonely potted plant sagged in the corner, its leaves tinted suspiciously purple.
Johnny stuffed the last of his belongings into his satchel—a few battered coins, a rolled-up map, a flint striker, and his backup stash of Emergency Ember —a hybrid strain reserved for disasters, heartbreak, or particularly bad boat rides.

Clomping down the creaking stairs, the air grew heavier with the mingling scents of roasted hemp seeds, pineapple smoke, and last night’s poor decisions.

At the counter stood the hotelier: a round, jolly man with dreadlocks down to his waist and eyes that gleamed perpetually half-lidded. His nametag, pinned upside down, read "Mondo."

"Morning, sunshine," Mondo said, sliding a half-rolled joint behind his ear. His voice sounded like gravel wrapped in velvet.

Johnny chuckled. "Morning, Mondo. You see any frostbitten warriors sneak through here last night?"

Mondo laughed, the sound like a lazy bongo drum. "Only frost I seen was from the freezer breaking again. You headin' out into the jungle, or just prowlin' for breakfast?"

"Little bit of both," Johnny said. "Maybe pick up some rumors before I pick up another hangover."

"Well," Mondo winked, "watch out for the Snapdraggin' Squirrels. Cute lil' fellas—til they snatch your spliff and ransom it back for mango tarts."

Johnny grinned, adjusted his hemp cloak, and offered Mondo a lazy salute before stepping out into the steamy, sprawling chaos of Pot Bay.

The streets teemed with life—and not just the usual kind.

Vendors hawked everything from hand-carved pipes that sang when smoked, to enchanted munchies that floated six inches above their trays. One stall sold "One-Toke Maps" —maps that only appeared readable after a deep inhale of their accompanying "activation joint."

Street musicians tuned bizarre instruments: six-string sitars shaped like cannabis leaves, glowing bongos that puffed little bursts of sweet-smelling smoke with every beat. A ragged bard crooned a ballad about a pirate ship powered entirely by blunts.

Animals roamed freely, most with an herbal twist. A massive parrot with plumage like frosted marijuana buds perched atop a crooked lamp post, squawking insults about people's choice of rolling papers. A three-legged dog, its fur shimmering a vibrant green, weaved expertly through the crowd with a half-smoked joint clamped proudly between its teeth.

Overhead, kite-sized butterflies made of living smoke flapped lazily from rooftop to rooftop, leaving glittering trails that smelled faintly of vanilla kush.

Everything in Pot Bay felt alive, chaotic, and just a little bit high.

Johnny adjusted his worn hemp cloak, dusted with salt and sea air, and pushed open the warped wooden door of the Smokey Coconut tavern.

A warm wall of sound and stank greeted him—half laughter, half coughing. The room was thick with smoke that seemed to have existed longer than some of the buildings outside.

He paused to take it in.

Wooden tables clustered together like gossiping old ladies, and mismatched chairs bore the scars of a hundred drunken brawls. Cracked mugs clinked against the wooden tables, and the air buzzed with the low hum of bardic weed tunes.
Above the bar hung a taxidermied sea bass with a blunt in its mouth and a plaque that read: “Caught High & Dry – 1187.”

A battered sign swung from a low beam above the bar, reading: "No fights unless hilarious. No magic unless it glows."

Johnny made his way to the bar where a towering woman in a leather apron cleaned glasses with a rag that looked dirtier than the mugs.

“What’ll it be?” she grunted, eyeing Johnny like she was trying to guess how much coin—or trouble—he carried.

"What's good?" Johnny asked, flashing his best traveler’s grin.

She slammed three cracked tankards on the counter.

"Swamp Swig—cheap and effective. Coconut Kush Ale—sweet but it'll sneak up on ya. Or Captain’s Cough—tastes like regret and hits like a hammer."

Johnny grinned wider. "Let’s start with the Coconut Kush."

The bartender nodded approvingly. "Good choice. Ain't nobody wanna start with regret."

The beer arrived frothy and golden, carrying a scent of roasted coconuts and deep, smoky undertones.

Johnny took a long pull, savoring the strange blend of sweetness and burn. It warmed him like a friendly slap from an old friend.

Johnny weaved his way toward a dimly lit corner booth, nursing hopes of overhearing a tale or rumor worth chasing. His goal was simple—or so he thought: find leads on the mythical Winter Weed Warriors and their rumored strain of Glacier Ganja—a cold-burning bud said to turn even the tamest soul into a frost-fueled berserker.

Settling into his booth, Johnny dug into his satchel and pulled out a crinkled paper and a few sticky nuggets of local green. He worked carefully, grinding and rolling with the practiced ease of someone who had done this on the back of camels, boats, and even during minor earthquakes.

The joint lit easily, and he let the first long drag curl into his senses like a warm blanket.

As he smoked and sipped his beer, he studied the tavern.

The walls were plastered with faded paintings of legendary tokers: an eight-armed monk dual-wielding pipes, a pirate ship powered by bongs, a bearded king inhaling smoke shaped like a crown.

The patrons were just as colorful. One table had what looked like a lizard in a trench coat losing badly at cards. Another corner featured a wizard with a staff made entirely of knotted hemp, snoozing mid-spell, smoke trickling lazily from his nose.

This was Pot Bay at its finest.

He didn’t sit long before voices behind him pulled at his attention like a good bassline.

"—I tell ya, it was glowing like frost-fire. We called it Icy Reaper... or maybe Snowbong’s Bane, can’t remember—either way, it'll shave the hair off yer lungs and make your heartbeat do a drum solo."

Johnny froze mid-sip.

He slid his mug down and glanced back—casually, he thought, though probably more like an eager puppy.

At the table behind him, conversation drifted loud and sloppy, flavored with enough wild detail to make any Strain Hunter’s ears perk. Three figures hunched over a cluttered mess of drinks and smoking pipes. As Johnny stood to order another beer, he “accidentally” bumped their table.

Johnny sidled closer, offering a grin as casual as he could manage under the cloud of secondhand smoke.

"Oops—sorry," he said sheepishly after bumping their table, lifting his mug in apology.

The woman with violet eyes—Mistress Vexa—gave a lazy wave of her fingers, inviting him to sit.

"No harm done, traveler," she purred. "You lost, or just bored?"

"Bit of both," Johnny chuckled, settling onto a battered chair. "Long trip behind me. Longer one ahead."

The old man—Dankmar—peered at him suspiciously, one eye squinting more than the other.
"You got that fresh-off-the-boat look. Or maybe fresh-outta-luck."

Slick Rickle snickered and tapped a claw on his battered tin box labeled Not Traps.

"What's your story, buttercup?" Dankmar asked, rolling a fresh joint with fingers that barely seemed to move.

Johnny shrugged modestly.

"Name's Johnny. Strain Hunter. Just passing through. Chasin’ stories... chasin' strains."

That got a reaction.

Vexa’s grin widened.
"A Strain Hunter?" she said, voice like velvet draped over barbed wire. "Now that’s a rare bloom around these parts."

Johnny took a long pull from his mug, letting the tension settle.

"Rumors travel faster than ships out here," he said carefully. "Figured Pot Bay’s the place to catch a few before they vanish."

Dankmar chuckled, the sound like gravel rolling over old bones.

"Depends what you’re fishing for," he muttered.

"Big fish?" Rickle offered with a crooked grin. "Or frostbitten ones?"

Johnny leaned forward, setting his mug down with a soft thunk.

"I heard whispers," he said quietly. "About strains... from the north."

For a heartbeat, the table stilled.

The tavern’s smoky din faded into the background, as if the whole room leaned in.

Vexa tilted her head, studying him.

"North’s a long, cold, unforgiving road, darling," she murmured. "Not for green nugs like you."

Johnny smiled, a little sharper this time.

"I’m stubborn," he said simply. "And stupid enough to try."

Rickle snorted approvingly. "He'll fit right in."

Vexa raised her mug.

"To stubborn fools," she said.

"To good smoke," Dankmar added.

"And terrible ideas," Rickle cackled.

They clinked mugs and drank deep, the momentary tension dissolving.

Dankmar was the first to speak again, eyeing Johnny over his crooked roll-up.

"What's a fresh-faced buttercup like you want with the frostbitten fire, eh?"

"You look more like a pineapple kush kinda lad," Rickle added, snickering through his twitchy nose.

Johnny smiled awkwardly and held up his mug in a peace-offering.

"I'm just... curious."

Vexa leaned forward like a cat discovering a particularly interesting mouse.

"Well, aren’t you a fresh nug off the vine," she purred.
"Tell you what, Johnny—buy us a round. And maybe... just maybe... we’ll tell you a little story."

Johnny hesitated only a heartbeat before nodding eagerly.

"Of course! Drinks are on me."

"Now you’re speaking our language, Strain Hunter," Vexa said, her voice curling around him like silk.

Three drinks turned into six.
Six drinks turned into a pitcher.
The ale here was strong, suspiciously fruity, and left a menthol aftertaste that made his nose tingle.

And it wasn't just the ale.

Dankmar lit joints like matches, passing them around with the solemnity of a priest offering communion.
Slick Rickle kept producing glittery bowls packed with Crystal Catnip or Frostbite Fog, sending up clouds that glittered under the tavern’s sputtering lanterns.
Vexa, smooth and graceful even while exhaling thick rings of dragon-shaped smoke, handed Johnny a slim, violet-wrapped joint labeled Fire’s Breath.

He coughed out his first hit like a drowning sailor—then grinned like a stoned idiot.

The trio wove tales like fishermen bragging about sea monsters—only here, every sea monster was high and half of them ran black-market smoke circles in the frozen north.

"I once rode a snow-saber into the frost fields," slurred Rickle, banging his mug against the table for emphasis.
"The glacier weed—it makes ya forget pain, fear... basic hygiene..."

"The Winter Weed Warriors don't talk," whispered Dankmar, leaning in close enough Johnny could smell decades-old hash oil soaked into his coat.
"They commune. Through puffs of smoke that shape into words. You breathe in a sentence... cough out the answer."

"And the Glacier Ganja?"
Vexa’s voice dropped dramatically, her violet eyes glittering.

"They say it grows only from the tears of the Cryo-Colossus, harvested during the moon’s coldest sigh. It's not smoked... it's whispered to."

Johnny clung to every word, even as his world gently tilted.
He scribbled terrible, ale-smeared notes, half-laughing, half-gawking, as the stories got taller and the joints got fatter.

Eventually, Rickle excused himself “to powder his nose”—which Johnny was fairly certain involved less powder and more mischief.
Vexa stretched like a lazy cat, knocking over an empty tankard with a casual flick of her hand.

"We’ve given you more than most would, darling," she said sweetly.
"But be careful where you chase frost-dreams. Some legends bite back."

Johnny blinked, his head full of smoke, warmth, and a growing dread that his wallet was significantly lighter.

"Wait—you didn’t finish—what about the map? The... the location...?"

But they were gone.

Johnny’s head felt like someone had rolled a keg of kush down a staircase inside his skull.
Blinded by the unforgiving Pot Bay morning light, he staggered to his feet in the alley behind the tavern—regret and spilled ale pooling around him like old promises.

"Ugh… I’ve made worse decisions," he muttered, patting his cloak pockets.

He still had his boots.
Still had his dagger.
Still had a tiny coin pouch, blessed be the green gods.
Enough for either a cheap boat ticket... or a solid travel stash.

And let’s be honest: Johnny had priorities.

Dragging himself through the winding alleys, Johnny eventually stumbled back to the Giggling Ganja Inn.
Mondo watched him wobble through the lobby with a knowing smirk.

"Rough night?" Mondo asked, handing him a chipped mug of something steaming, suspicious, and pungently herbal.

"Don’t ask," Johnny croaked, slamming the drink back. It tasted like regret and mint.

After a half-assed wash in a cracked porcelain basin and a change into his last semi-clean shirt, Johnny felt about halfway human again.

He rolled a fresh joint, blessed it with a solemn nod, and tucked it behind his ear. Positive vibes equipped.

Midday Pot Bay was an entirely different beast—louder, smokier, and even more unpredictable.

Vendors peddled not just food and pipes, but Living Lighters (tiny fire elementals trapped inside glass jars) and Cursed Rolling Papers (guaranteed to disappear mid-smoke for "extra adventure").

Tattered wanted posters flapped against cracked walls, showing crude sketches of various local legends:
WANTED: Captain Blazehook — Reward: 300 Gold and a Lifetime Supply of Munchies.
MISSING: One Very Important Magical Bong — If Found, Please Return Before Tuesday.

Kids chased a giant floating smoke-bubble down the alley, shrieking with laughter.
A nearby bard strummed a lute made entirely of polished hemp wood, singing the Ballad of Bongbeard the Pirate.

Johnny ducked past a group of dreadlocked monks debating loudly about "the true divine shape of a nug" and found himself standing in front of a creaking wooden sign:

"The Dank Tank — Come for the Weed, Stay Because You Forgot Why You Came."

Inside, The Dank Tank smelled like a humid forest after a thunderstorm.
Thick vines curled along the low-beamed ceiling, sprouting little buds that sparkled faintly in the smoky light.

Shelves sagged under the weight of ancient glass jars, some labeled, others merely marked with ominous symbols—like a skull coughing, or a very panicked goat.

The budtender stood behind the counter, arms folded, posture as solid as an old tree stump.
He looked like he’d been carved out of driftwood: skin like tanned bark, a nose like a ship’s prow, thick knotted arms covered in faded ink.
His nametag just said: "Dug."

Behind Dug, a massive marijuana plant swayed slowly inside a crystal terrarium, its leaves shimmering between shades of emerald and amethyst. Wisps of visible aroma leaked from tiny vents, forming little puffs that spelled out "Relax" before dispersing.

"Best deals on this side of sanity," Dug rumbled, not even blinking as Johnny approached.

Johnny slapped down most of his remaining coin, flashing a hopeful smile.

"I need something affordable and strong. Travel weed. Preferably something that won’t kill me mid-trip."

Dug chuckled—a sound like stone grinding against stone—and reached under the counter.

He slapped a pouch onto the wood with a meaty thud.

The label, handwritten and slightly singed, read:
Budget Blaze #3
("Burns fast. Hits harder than it should. Tastes like cough syrup and campfire.")

"Perfect," Johnny muttered, tucking the pouch carefully into his cloak.

As he sealed the deal, a conversation from the shadows caught his ear.

"They’ve stopped all ships to Ganjagarde," muttered a cloaked traveler hunched over a steaming mug.

"Aye," said another, hood pushed back to reveal a gnarled beard. "Redirectin' everything to the front lines. High Command’s makin’ a push into Royal Realm borders. No safe passage to the North Coast."

Johnny’s stomach sank faster than an anchor.

He turned back to Dug, urgency creeping into his voice.

"Is it true? No boats to Ganjagarde?"

The old budtender scratched his beard thoughtfully, dislodging a small puff of green dust.

"Not under attack, but locked down," Dug said. "High Command wants clear routes for troop ships and gear. No joyrides north, not for now. Nothing personal—just war."

Johnny pinched the bridge of his nose.
It was supposed to be simple: Pot Bay ➔ Ganjagarde ➔ Frostheim ➔ Frosty Weed Glory.

"So... how do I get north?"

Dug smirked.
"You detour. Luna Nexus. Golden Grinders’ trade city. Big port, loose rules, plenty of 'alternative' captains willin' to risk a cold breeze for the right price... or the right buzz."

Johnny sighed, tucking his new travel stash securely inside his cloak.

"Luna Nexus it is," he muttered.

The harbor was alive with chaos.

The sky above was a dizzying blur of screeching gulls, lazy smoke trails, and the occasional floating lantern trying desperately not to crash into the rigging.

Sailors cursed creatively as they hauled crates of salted fish, barrels of pickled ganja stems, and squirming sacks that suspiciously meowed.

Johnny wandered the busy piers, dodging seagulls and avoiding dockhands too eager to unload cargo onto the nearest fool.

Smoke from dockside grills tangled with the scent of oil and rotting rope.

Johnny wove through the madness, dodging a merchant arguing with a goat over cargo rights.

At a dock post, a guard leaned lazily against a crooked spear.

"Any ships north?" Johnny asked.

The guard barked a short, wheezing laugh, nearly dropping his weapon.
"Not unless you’re swimming with sea-glow sharks, mate."

Nearby, a dock worker overheard and ambled closer—a wiry, hunched man with a nose redder than a chili pepper.

"If you’re lookin' for someone who knows the back ways north," the man rasped, "ask for Captain Murk. But you'll need to find 'im in Nexus first."

Johnny tucked the tip away gratefully.

"Thanks," he said.

"Tell Murk old Rednose sent ya!" the man called after him, already hawking up a spectacular glob of something onto the cobbles.

The ticket clerk at the harbor was a squat, grizzled woman chewing something that smelled suspiciously like fermented mango leaves.

She sat behind a battered desk with a quill in one hand and a half-eaten hemp pastry in the other.

Johnny approached, trying not to look too broke.

"One ticket to Luna Nexus. Cheapest you’ve got."

The clerk eyed him, then glanced pointedly at the smoke-scented pouch sticking slightly out of his cloak.

"You’ll be in the hold," she said flatly. "Near the fish barrels. Hope you like the smell of ambition... and regret."

Johnny grinned wearily.

"Fine. Long as it floats."

"She floats," the woman said ominously.
"Mostly."

The Salty Serpent was a cargo ship that looked like it had lost an argument with a reef and never fully recovered.

Its hull was patched with mismatched planks, half the sails were stitched together with hemp rope, and the crew looked suspiciously more baked than sober.

As Johnny trudged up the creaking gangplank, a wiry halfling with sharp eyes and a deck of tattered cards slung over his shoulder waved him down.

"First trip to Luna Nexus?" the halfling asked, grinning like a feral cat.

Johnny nodded, adjusting his satchel.

"Name’s Tumbler," the halfling said. "I know routes. I know people. Might even know a thing or two about some places... if you’re buyin' the first round when we land."

Johnny grinned back.

"You’ve got yourself a deal."

He settled into a cramped corner of the hold, squeezed between crates of salted reef fish, broken oars, and barrels leaking suspicious purple fluids.

The ship shuddered and groaned like an old man standing up from a too-soft chair. Slowly, painfully, the Salty Serpent pulled away from the crumbling, misty sprawl of Pot Bay and Johnny climbed topside for air.

Johnny leaned against the railing, salty wind tousling his hair, and watched the city fade into smoke, light, and a thousand distant songs carried on the breeze.

Ahead lay the eastern trade routes, unknown dangers, shady deals, and—if luck and lung capacity held—the glittering, frozen promise of Frostheim...
...and the legendary Glacier Ganja buried deep beneath its halls.

Johnny sparked the end of his Budget Blaze #3, the harsh cough syrup taste punching the back of his throat.

He exhaled a shaky, hopeful cloud into the wind.

"One step closer," he whispered.
"One puff closer to legend."