Washbard Tales a rivoting tale, told in weekly installments, of my adventures in the realm of Evenmoor and beyond. Collected here in the new complete edition which includes the 'Lost Chapters' as well as C.D. Bunker's report. chapter 1 The Darkclaw inn backstories A halfing and a paladin sat at a table in the Darkclaw Inn, listening to the tales of a peculiar character. The Washbard droned on about his time in the desert village to the east, where he witnessed a monster emerge from the well. Exiled for his peculiarities, and his unbelievable tale, he went west over the mountains. Chef the disgraced chef, and Absolon Arcite listened to his harrowing account of the great stone steps and strange landscape of the mountains. Finally the washbard made his way to Hanchorage, capital of Evenmoore, where he now sat, telling legends and strumming out rhythms on his lucky magical washboard for all patrons that would hear it. They listened eagerly, for a truly skilled washbard is a rare gift. But filling their hearts with stories was no substitute for filling their bellies with a good square meal. The Washbard’s flowing prose was underscored by a grumbling, the collective malaise of a city afflicted by famine. Absolon the paladin next relayed his history of woe, whilst Chef ordered up some vittles. Absolon was a knight of Stonewall by the Sea, entrusted to guard the door of the beautiful Margerine. The loyal knight stayed true to his noble appointment up until he learned a hard truth. Margerine was to marry Beetwif. Heart in shambles, he too fled west. Chef was a former chef of Yarbridge. His culinary and druidic talents gave him an esteemed position in his homeland. But one day, a stranger appeared and did one up him. “I want to throw down,” chef recounted the words of Fobby Blay. Blay produced a casserole of such exquisite taste that Chef had no answer for it. He now roams the world seeking out the freshest and rarest ingredients to craft a ratatouille that will rid himself of the embarrassment he suffered at the hands of Blay. the holy order of the marmed god Backstories shared, the parlay shifted to magic, which was a grave error. The Washbard presented a mysterious letter that was in a language unknown to all. Absolon, after a great length of time, was able to learn that the letter was in the common tongue, but coded in a personal cipher. He surely would have gleaned more of the letters secrets, but Chef then cast produce flame. Silence replaced the good cheer of the Darkclaw Inn and the patrons showed themselves out. Two knights bearing the insignia of the cosmogenesis remained. The Holy Order of the Marmed God sought to infiltrate all the lands of the world and impose a monopoly on magic and magic imbued items. Chef’s produce flame was an affront to the creed to which they pledged their chaste lives. Though he calmed one by means of charming, this left Absolon and the Washbard the targets of their fury, which was greatly inflamed by the Washbard’s weak attempt to conjure an illusion of the god Marmed. 1

bar fight Losing a grappling match, Absolon went through a table of swampwood, whilst the washbard rolled with the punches, suffering minimal damage. He quickly grew tired of the childish quarrel and ended it with a dagger to the heart of one of the knights, instantly killing him. Chef emerged from the kitchen with 5 bowls of soup, one of them poisoned. Absolon restrained the other knight in a full nelson hold whilst chef set the table for 4. They learned all they could from the defeated knight before feeding him the poisoned soup and condemning him to an agonizing death. Not wanting to endure the excruciating pain of dying for two long weeks, the knight made the sign of the claw and blew himself to bits. everyone loses their cool The troupe cleansed themselves of blood and remains in a nearby river. The washbard carelessly submerged the letter in the river, nearly rendering it unreadable. A noise from above was heard. They had been observed. Absolon vaulted the halfling up a wall to pursue their observer. He entangled him in a lasso throw, and silenced him for all time with 4 swift blows to the head. The rest of the crew caught up and were shocked at the sight of Chef. The disgraced cook hunched over the bloody body of an 8 year old orphan, breathing heavily. He turned to meet his troupe. Absolon and the Washbard were in awe of Chef’s display of ferocity. “Hey, everyone loses their cool once and a while, ya know?” said the chef. to grandma's house A unintelligible hobo witnessed the savagery of chef, but the troupe let him go. A long rest was needed before he could lose his cool once more. The body of the boy was searched and a letter was found. “From Grandma, 3rd house after the bloodstone, swamp.” it read. The group learned that the orphan was recently unorphaned, and that he was on his way to his grandmother’s for milk and cookies. Absolon, wanting to do the noble thing, wrapped the corpse up in a blanket and carried it out of town to Grandma’s house. “What happened to him?” asked a guard as they exited the city. “That hobo punched him to death,” said Chef, a murderer and now a liar. Absolon grew uncomfortable in the company he found himself keeping. The guards took the hobo away. An ill sounding wind swept through the treetops of the swamp. And as if on cue, the body of the boy began to move of its own accord. There was nothing to be done except to tie the body to a makeshift crucifix and burn it. Grandma would have to settle for ashes. And an old can of beans would have to do for an urn. A set of stairs were encountered, which struck suspicion into the Washbard. The troupe stood hesitant before it until Absolon mustered up the courage to climb them. Standing at the top, he could no longer see his group. It was as if they had vanished. But when they joined him, they were once again visible, with no other ill effects. a foul, thieving demon Disregarding the mysterious stairs, the troupe next saw an odd winged fellow with a pear shaped head. He stood unmoving in the middle of the bog, quite off the beaten path. The ashes of the boy were carried away on the breeze towards this odd man. It was a demon. Absolon charged for the demon, but was tripped up on a maze of protruding roots. The demon sprang forward. Chef and the Washbard watched in horror as the demon began to preen Absolon, more or less letting it happen. “Just let it happen,” encouraged Chef. “What do you even want me to do?” the Washbard asked. Finally Absolon was able to scare the demon away, but not before it stole the ciphered letter. The demon flew north. Absolon cast off all of his noble quests at that moment. “Fuck Grandma, fuck the famine, fuck the marmed god! We’re getting that letter back!” 2

chapter 2 The Swamp The swamp that surrounded Hanchorage could be described with one word: dense. Dense in its cacophony of amphibian croaks and chittering insects. Dense was its stifling humidity that birthed marauding clusters of insects. Dense in the way that the very light of the sun seemed to just barely pierce the canopy above. But the group would not be deterred. The Washbard climbed a tree to get an idea of what lay north. Through Chef’s borrowed telescope, he saw a dark tower. Amidst the looming construction’s four prongs, the Washbard believed he saw movement. But a straight and direct path to the tower was not to be had, as Absolon found below. Thick brush and deadly sharp thorns obstructed the way. But the Washbard spied another path that he thought might make its way around and eventually lead them to the tower. the bloodstone path A large stone protruding out of the swamp water marked the path. Covering it was a peculiar red moss. It had to be the Bloodstone. Chef filled all his pockets and pouches with the substance for further analysis. The disgraced chef never lost sight of his goal and gathered ingredients every chance he could get. The path continued as a wooden walkway. The Washbard tested the waters below with a branch, but this only alerted a couple of spiders and shriekers to their presence. The Washbard and Chef wanted no part of the battle. They both fled, leaving Absolon to dispatch the spiders, which he did with ease. those who dwell in the swamp Two huts lay ahead, nearby the second bloodstone on the path. The first belonged to Peatfisch Fischpeat, an archaeologist specializing in dead religions. Books annotated in a familiar cipher were strewn across the shabby hut. Recognizing many forbidden texts, the Washbard gathered as many of the tomes he could carry. For later. A page of Fischpeat’s journal was also carefully read. It provided insights into the tower to the north and the Yaozuwah religion, which Fischpeat had apparently moved to the swamp to study. Absolon would not be a part of the pillaging of the next hut. Thus, when he returned from collecting bear traps, Chef told a fib about its non-existent proprietor, Croc. “He said we could take all his stuff.” Absolon was suspicious of Croc’s unusual generosity. But inside the hut, carved upon the wall, were two hands bound with red cloth, the symbol of Ilmater. Absolon’s doubts were cast aside. It was this kind of generosity that he could expect from a follower of his own righteous god. They took everything. Chef emerged from the hut wearing a crocodile’s head beneath his chef’s hat, “He also said we could burn the place down.” But this was decided against. A mere produce flame spell attracted thousands of mosquitoes. He would not dare light a beacon for every insect in the swamp to swarm around. An arrow flung out from the swamp. On a crocodile, it would have been a clean kill. But on a halfling chef wearing the crocodile head as a hat, it merely parted hairs. The unseen archer recognized his mistake and yelled an apology. Chef demanded to know who was there. “Jeffy!” yelled Jeffy. A moist man came out from behind the third bloodstone. Greasy black hair tumbled down from his patchy scalp. He had a pallid appearance, a strange gait, and his skin was wrinkled as if he had just emerged from a 3 hour bath. Jeffy believed that the troupe had come to feed Grandma. After several misunderstandings, it was revealed that Jeffy was complicit in the cannibalization of several hundred orphans. But Absolon needed hard evidence before he could sentence Jeffy, so he sent him home with his copy of Ilmater’s Book to go and think about what he’d done. Off to face the witch, the troupe went. 3

the witch A hard battle was waged. The Washbard left it all on the the table. Absolon and Chef were coming to expect nothing less of him. But this time the mighty bard lost the most. A hail of swords rained down on him. The lucky washboard, as if giving one last final boon to its master, protected the bard from mortal wounds, but shattered into hundreds of pieces. Absolon finished the weakened witch off with a charging head-butt, but it was no consolation. The Washbard’s washing days were over. He was now no more than a dime and penny bard. He was desolate. the witch's hut They spent the short night in Jeffy’s hut to recuperate. Wamp played a tune on a flute, but it just wasn’t the same. Not even inhaling the smoke of burning bloodstone moss could restore his resolute spirit. After a long rest, Absolon strapped Jeffy to his back and the crew raided the witch hut. Absolon found an alarming recipe which he passed to Wamp and Chef. The recipe detailed the preparation of a sleep paralysis brew, which involved first drawing out the poison in the bloodstone moss. Wamp realized that smoking the moss earlier may have been a mistake, and so induced vomiting with powdered ginger. Absolon cast Lay on Hands on him just to be safe. relics of a lost era Beyond the Witch Hut lay the statues of the lost Yaozuwah Tribe. The tower was near, but there was no entrance in sight. Wamp remembered a line from Fischpeat’s writings, “I shall look to the heavens for answers.” The party waited until night. Sure enough, a red star in a constellation revealed by which statue the party would gain entrance to the tower. But behind this statue, a towering beast lumbered. The crew approached, but it soon fled into the brush. Just what this strange beast might have been, nobody, not even Wamp, could say. the dark tower After disposing of three crocodiles, the Absolon and Wamp swam through an underground tunnel and emerged within the tower. Chef went back for Jeffy who was placed bound by a statue. Where Jeffy should have been, now were giant footsteps leading away. Chef swam through the tunnel, meeting his companions at the base of the tower. In three chests were: A lute

3 crossbows

3 leather long shirts

A blank tome with a tongue pinned to it

An arrow of Slaying

A bow

A vial of strange honey

A book of the Folklore of the Sulking Coast

1 ring made of tin encrusted with a piece of moonstone The group ascended the tower. At the top was a large nest weaved together with assorted twigs, branches, and torn strips of letters. Among the monstrous weave, Absolon was able to recover the stolen ciphered note. But he had no time to decipher it, for the pear-headed demon then descended upon them. “Let’s make friends,” said Chef. To which Absolon replied, “No, we’re killing it.” 4

Chapter 3 Back to Hanchorage At last, after drudging through the accursed swamp, we came upon our prey. The pear-headed bird man thankfully obliged me, for I chose this inopportune moment to recap the events of the last few hours. My prose was uninspired. It seemed my delivery, renowned for enchanting audiences across the land, had died with my washboard. Battle commenced. Our party fumbled around ineffectively until Absolon connected with a one-in-a-million shot with the Arrow of Slaying, sending the demon hurdling through the sky. It crashed down in a clearing to the North. victory feast We descended the tower and uncovered a back exit leading to a pathway to the North. I noted that it appeared to be recently travelled. Vines were freshly cut, plant growth was crushed as if under foot. But there was no sign of whomever had here lurked now. The carcass was recovered, skinned, gutted, and cooked into as fine a field meal as I ever did have. I laud the expertise of our chef, who selected the most flavourful wood upon which to smoke the meat. I witnessed Chef drop a meagre bead of the honey he had found onto his portion. From his face, it was disagreeable. an insidious threat Indeed, so aromatic was our impromptu feast that it attracted all manner of swamp dwellers. A dwarf named Igneous came into our clearing, asking if he might trade ale for meat. His arrival was most unexpected, and I wondered what such a dwarf might be doing in the swamp. He was tightlipped, but a taste of Chef’s cooking soon set his jowls flapping. He and his troop were hired to dispose of the contents of all Hanchorage-bound barges, both crops and bargemen. This mysterious patron of theirs paid in a peculiar currency, gold coins with a pattern of acorns cast into them. I listened to his tale while sipping their dwarven mead, whereupon I felt a strange humour seep its way into my consciousness and cloud my usual mindful perception. I knew there was a connecting thread between all of these revelations, but I cared not to grasp it. I suddenly felt as if I had far too much time on my hands. The dead bargemen upset Absolon for some reason. The dwarves scattered into the swamp, rather than face his fury, but they were met by a strange a sound, save for Igneous, whom Absolon had captured. What manner of beast the sound emitted from, I cared not to investigate. We departed on the barge back to Hanchorage. The flow of the river turned my mind to Cricklet Hill and Ned Henderson, more threads in a web of mystery that I cared not to connect. decalcified Suddenly, my stupor ended. Absolon had laid his hands imbued with divine power onto me. I felt a great weight of apathy lift from my mind. I felt the fire of curiosity burn once again. I felt my perception sharpen into crystal clarity. Whatever manner of malaise that had befallen me, I would rather perish than be cursed by it again. Onwards to Hanchorage we went, to seek righteousness and truth. hanchorage Absolon turned over the villainous Igneous to the city guards. Noticeboards everywhere displayed crude depictions of our faces, wanted for the murder of two Marmedian Knights. I had no fear of being recognized, for I lacked the instrument of my renown. Chef was already well disguised, now bedecked in the head of a crocodile and the wings of a demon. Absolon drew his bandana over his moustache, hiding his most prominent feature. After restocking on weapons, collecting bounties for killed witches, and commissioning a new a washboard, we sought a place to reconvene in a lakeside diner and inn. There were so many leads to keep track of. But I would not be overwhelmed. I felt as if all were connected into a grand conspiracy: the disappearance of Ianetheus, the burning of the wheat, the acorn coinage, that dumb hobo, the cryptic message left on the back of Alexander’s note, and least of all, the opening of Bay’s new restaurant. All would lead me to the uncovering of an insidious plot. I was sure of it. But I could make no progress, for I was interrupted by a thunderous explosion. a dirge for sedgewick When we arrived at the sight of the conflagration, the remains of neighbouring houses were reduced to cinders. Of my dear luthier’s shoppe, nothing remained but a black smouldering pit, which we immediately descended into. I detected a strong magic at once. It came from beneath a pile of rubble. Underneath was my dear luthier, who spent his last breath telling me his name. I shan’t forget, my friend. The life left his earthly vessel. I felt pangs of sorrow in knowing that the melodies of the realm would slowly slide out of equal temperament. No longer would his talented hands tune finely the instruments of Hanchorage. But in those now dead hands lay the finished product. A new washboard on which I would play a dirge for my dear Sedgewick. The Washbard returns. 5

chapter 4 Sub-Hanchorage a message deciphered at last Right there in the pit, a repast of demon meat was held. Absolon suggested we go no further until he had deciphered Alexander’s note. I could not understand his impatience, but I used this time to skim my growing library, and, so that I may later commit them to the page, took note of our surroundings. It was not a pit in truth. And neither was it a sewer, for my nose, no stranger to the miasma’s neath the dwellings of man, could detect no foul odour. Indeed, the energy released upon its assemblage was so immense, that my washboard had bored a hole not less than 50 feet into the ground, unearthing an ancient cavern. I wondered at the power of the instrument I now carried. Absolon declared he had finished and read aloud the letter he had so long toiled over. “Monsters are real,” he read. This was no great revelation, for I could still pick the very meat of one out of my teeth. “The world is flat and travelling upwards at approximately 90 miles per hour.” Chef was quick to bring up the barge at Bhucdirr, whose mystery was further complicated by this insight. I myself was never a proponent of an upwards-moving earth, but by the conviction with which Alexander wrote, I would reevaluate my stance. Lastly, he read a dire warning of a cabal of death clerics, sorcerers and other formidable wielders of magic. I fear they were the ones who ordered his death. exploration We pressed on, guided by a faint whisper of the God Ilmater. It seemed whoever had built these passages constructed them in part as a shrine to the gods of the forgotten realms. Absolon marked the craftsmanship, which brought to mind his own homeland. Alas, the path through which Ilmater willed us had collapsed further on. We turned back, spurred on by the sound of damp footsteps. These footprints led to a chamber alight with a blood-red glow. There, there were four more paths from which we could choose. This moist lurker would not evade us so easily. We gave chase. in the basement of the enemy So thirsty for action was Chef, that he purposely triggered the mechanism that sealed the passage behind us. Not longer could we escape, but neither could our quarry. These tunnels seemed to cover a great expanse, for when we next emerged, we were in the cellar of none other than famed restauranteur Fobby Blay. I wondered at how far-reaching this network was. Chef bade me sketch the layout of the cellar and had me include in it a rat which he had strapped to his belt. I failed to see how a mere drawing could be damnable evidence of unsanitary conditions. The disgraced cook appeared childlike in body, and this latest scheme called into question the maturity of his mind as well. Nevertheless, I entertained him. In the end, he wisely decided against using this drawing, nor would he tamper with any of the ingredients in the cellar. Chef preferred to best Blay at his own game. It was in this moment that my respect for him grew. He himself was disgraced, but refused redemption by means disgraceful. The door above the staircase opened. There stood Blay himself, gazing down upon us. Thankfully, he took us for fish-men and shooed us away. We made haste back to the caverns. Absolon spoke a prayer to Sylvanus upon an altar to him before we dared go further down the tunnel. Soon we’d come upon our prey. 6

the second sighting Beyond a door, there they were. Two scaly fish-men, of the very same ilk of the monster I’d seen emerge from the well. In a corner they crouched, cracking open what we thought were stone rat figurines and sucking out the insides. They proved no match. Chef added to his grizzly costume, fashioning boots from their webbed feet. We found that we were now beneath town hall and overheard a curious deliberation, something to the effect of: “We need more funds for the circumnavigation.” “How much could a fake journey possibly cost?” “The High Crepitus will not be pleased.” We descended once more into the tunnels and were faced with a choice. With the passage blocked behind us, we had only two exits to choose from, Town Hall or Blay’s restaurant. We chose the latter. Blay had already shown his eyesight to be poor, not even able to distinguish us from fish-men. Perhaps in his near blindness lay the secret to his culinary expertise, one sense dulled but another sharpened to compensate. In any case, escape was easy, aided by fog both in the literal and aromatic sense. In the confusion, Chef laid his bedroll at the top of the basement stairs for Blay to later trip upon. I thought he had shown to be beyond such pettiness. I was wrong. the surface Outside at last. Absolon spread around a notice bearing a cryptic message. Spurred on by the revelations of Alexander, he sought to form a society of truth seekers, those who asked questions, and those who possessed free minds. Mindfrees, if you will. The notice contained a message that any sufficiently inquisitive mind would soon grasp. It called for assemblage and advertised free potato salad. The calling of Ilmater willed the paladin west. We encountered a group of Marmedian Knights who had assembled to guard the pit by which we gained entrance to the tunnels. I played the nosy fool, and asked after what had happened. “The God Marmed hath dealt punishment upon a heretic who dared dabble in magic. He hath smote him from the earth and upset his ground,” was what he said. The way west brought us to the house of Ianetheus’ widow. The dour-faced Absolon delivered the bad news, but would accept no reward. Exacting vengeance upon those who transformed Ianetheus would suit him much better. But Chef thought that no compensation, and demanded the coin forthwith. For his troubles, he received a lollipop from the widow, who mistook him for a small child. a boy no more That, apparently, was the final straw upon a pile that had been building for the past three chapters. The halfling barged into a nearby puppet-maker’s shoppe and demanded to be sold stilts. But he would not enjoy towering over Absolon and I for long, for we too purchased stilts. Absolon learned of the puppet-master’s weekly show by the market square outside, and the ribbing continued, “Would you like that?” he asked Chef. 7 where ilmater leads us We next went to the Umber Titan Hall. Chef made decent coin in a game of dice poker and stocked up on rum. Aside from that, it was a dead lead. South we went, to a cemetery wherein Ilmater’s signalling came to a peak. Anticipating much digging, we borrowed a shovel from the local grave-keeper. He told of a ghostly figure appearing by the tombstones at night. We sought entry into the tunnels below by the final resting place of Marcus Hanchorage. This man who was the city’s namesake was housed in the largest mausoleum on the grave island. But the secret entrance was more cunningly hidden. The answer was on the back of Alexander’s note, where Mandamus had scrawled a message in the scholar’s cipher. “South entrance, by the tip of the group of 13,” it read. Now that we stood where Ilmater willed us, this was no great mystery. The secret entrance was uncovered by pushing aside a particular gravestone that made the tip of a group of 13. Beneath, a shrine to the very force that had beckoned us stood. Absolon spent a while in prayer, for it had been some time since he’d last seen such an immaculately crafted altar to his god. I played a game of marbles with Chef to occupy his mind and keep him behaved. He proposed we wager coin, but each time the match came to a draw. I suspect Ilmater would tolerate no gambling in his presence, and influenced the rolls.

chapter 5 On the Trail of Evil Absolon completed his prayer and we pressed on. We came upon a large chamber that was filled with alchemical equipment. The walls were lined with jars that contained a preserving fluid. In them were the foetuses of pigs, embryos of birds, fish and snakes. What manner of experiments were being performed here, I had no time to investigate, for a basilisk charged us at once. I set in for a long and hard-fought battle, but to my surprise, my washboard still carried within it the explosive power by which it upset the ground by my luthier’s shoppe. But this power was unwieldily. Regretfully, both Absolon and Chef suffered burns to one degree or another. The basilisk was burnt to a crisp. Absolon would have to find some other target to smite thunderously. Chef wasted no time in harvesting the organs and glands from the corpse. Amongst the laboratory, only a solitary page from a journal survived. Another memo by this ‘Mandamus’, which read: “Perhaps that skinwalker which prowls the swamp would be worthy of study.” There was the evidence that suggested the nature of this swamp beast was wholly different from the bird-man Ianetheus, or the well-dwelling fish-men. We sought to know more, but the only man who was knowledgeable on the subject was now surely jailed for murder. Not a man in truth, but a dwarf. The villainous Igneous. Perhaps his true mission was to capture this skinwalker for Mandamus. We turned toward the exit. Chef, who was impressed by the divine power of Ilmater, wished to leave a donation upon his altar. But the god let his will be known. Better was it to give to the poor rather than let his coinage gather dust upon an altar. To the almshouse we’d go. We surfaced. To the peasants who had come to pay their respects, Chef must have appeared to them a ghoulish apparition. He now stood near six and half feet tall, with skeletal bird wings and the head of a crocodile. Several women fled in panic. swarm of hobos The almshouse presented no trouble in finding, for a congregation of the homeless lined up in front of it. While here to make his donation, Chef thought we might learn from the poor the location of the prison, since these folk surely had spent time behind bars. This assumption offended them however, and made any further conversation difficult to engage in. Chef and I grew impatient. By accident, we initiated a domino effect. Hobos toppled over hobos until a large cart of cans was knocked over. The homeless swarmed. Never before had I seen litter gathered with such alacrity. But to them it was not litter, but their very lifeblood, the currency of the destitute. I felt ill of having deprived this cart-pusher of his wealth of cans, so I gave him 10 gold pieces. This loosed his lips immediately. The prison was located on an island in the middle of lake Lachank. This complicated our plans of a prison break and left us aimless. the library But my generosity pleased Ilmater, and he rewarded us with divine direction. “Seek entrance neath the trove of knowledge,” was his counsel. “Hey pencil neck, where’s the library?” Chef shouted at a passerby. This poor man was understandably noncompliant, so chef then called for a bum fight. He rallied the homeless against this scrawny peasant. They robbed him of all material possessions and left him naked. Chef tossed him in the river for good measure. I hope for our sake he wasn’t anyone important. Meanwhile, Absolon politely inquired where the library might be found. He had immediate success with his civil approach. Eastward we went. The library was understaffed, and its shelves under-furnished. Books were being wheeled out by a homely librarian to be burned. Yet another tragedy under Marmedian rule. So too thought this librarian, who went by the name Eonnia. She bade us take any book we pleased from the basement. There, Chef found a field guide of mushrooms which he used to identify the fungus he’d collected. Eonnia was impressed with our perceived love of knowledge and guessed rightly that we were fellow Mindfrees. We now wondered at what company we’d attract with the notice. Perhaps mentioning potato salad had been a mistake. Ilmater spoke true. There in the library basement, a tunnel led back to the caverns beneath Hanchorage. A large chasm was crossed by making a bridge from a statue of Helm. The path led back to the central room. That left two paths out of five untravelled. We chose the southern passage. the prison We came upon an altar to Talos, God of storms, and by it, a staircase that led upward. When we emerged, we found that we were now on a tiny island out in the lake. A solitary fisherman stood on its shores. Being that he drew his sustenance solely from the lake, I asked him various questions that would serve as a measure of his calcification. “I’d say you have too much time on your hands,” was his reply. This confirmed the rumours. The water supply was being poisoned. Back down we went. Further south, the passage led to the prison dungeon. Several prisoners were chained to its walls. It was there we found Igneous. He seemed ignorant of this Mandamus, and the only thing he knew of the skinwalker was to keep clear of it. The lead was a bust. “But wait,” said Chef, “What kind of prison break is it if we don’t free anybody?” 8

a suspicious character He chose a hooded man who lurked in the corner by the name of Skeet. I hit it off with him immediately. He was well versed in various conspiracies and knew of the evils of calcification. He accompanied us down the fifth and final path where we came upon an altar to Mystra. Skeet delivered such a charismatic prayer that we were all granted boons of magic. I pitied whomever would next be on the receiving end of my washboard’s wrath. A set of stairs led upwards to a large laboratory much like the one we’d already incinerated. By the end stood a man, a basilisk, a fish-man and a second bird-man. This fellow appeared to be experimenting on a humanoid woman. “This is evil,” Absolon quietly declared, “Let’s get out of here.” We brought Skeet to the surface and explained our plan for him. We would fund a journey to the lands of Bhucdirr, where he would investigate that peculiar barge. We set him on his way. We sought a place to reconvene in the very lakeside inn where we had left a goose egg tip. Absolon wrote out a letter of instruction to his housekeeper. Chef made his alimony payments to his ex-wife. I chose this moment to show my companions the once blank tome that now contained the words, “I await the commands of my master.” I wrote in reply, “Tell me what you do.” 9

Chapter 6 Chef’s New Best Friend There were a few grumblings over the length of my last great work. This time I have chosen to rely on drawings rather than the written word. It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words, however I must argue that the words which I delicately weave into tale will never accurately be depicted by a mere sketch. But, dungeoneering folk we are, and some sacrifices must be made. As we stand here in this pit, at odds with Ingvar, I bid you gaze upon my drawings that you might remember how we came to this point. Below is our meeting with Aswang of the Southern Lands. Despite his ghastly pallour and vampiric tendencies, he proved to be a valuable companion, and a worthy addition to our party. 10

The Puppet Show Gerald the puppeteer clearly had been drinking the night before his show. He made a mockery of the art. When I pressed him about it, he blamed the Marmedians. Apparently he had a grand tale to tell but is too afraid that the Marmedians will kill him if he speaks. I left him with a few inspiring words and we told him we'd be back next week, expecting the performance of a lifetime, Marmed Knights be damned. 11

Mandamus' Lair We met up with Ingvar in the tunnels beneath Hanchorage. He was accompanied by a gaggle of pencil-necks, but he quickly dispensed with them once he learned that we were fellow adventurers with similar goals. We teamed up. We spent a while in discussion. Mandamus, this supposed mad alchemist, lay before us, a basilisk, fish-man, and bird-man at his side. This would be our most formidable battle, and it would be foolish to charge in head-long. A careful plan was thought out. All went well at first. Absolon's aim was true and Aswang did glide neatly through the air, carrying chef in salamander form upon his back. They landed on the back of the basilisk and immediately took control of it. My memory of the entire battle is hazy, for I again suffered from calcification. I clearly remember the bird-man being turned to stone, then Ingvar, then poor Eonnia. The basilisk I believe was brought down by my hand. I called upon my strange book for instructions on how to reverse the gaze of the basilisk. It would trade the potion's recipe for information. I don't even recall what I wrote in it, so bad was my calcification. Nevertheless, it must have been satisfied, for soon the ingredients were listed. Chef had all of the ingredients but one, and he would have had it too, if I hadn't incinerated the basilisk. Luckily, it appeared that Mandamus' latest experiment was indeed half basilisk, half human. We hoped that the liver of this abomination would suffice. Ultimately, we chose to revive Ingvar.

Absolon questioned Mandamus before we crucified him. We learned that he was a hireling of the High Crepitus. Their plan was to forge the likeness of deities of various religions in order to turn their followers to the God Marmed. This sickened Absolon. He was right when he declared this place evil. It had to be destroyed. The Chamber Finally, we returned to the central chamber with the pentagram carved into the flooring. It led below, to similarly shaped room that had inside it 5 chests and 5 levers. I found in my chest the sword which was the object of Ingvar's quest. That brings us to here and now, where I intend to stake my claim as the rightful owner of this sword, having first discovered it.

12

The Lost Chapters The Lost Chapters are comprised of the writings of two titans of discredited academia, Ingvar Lindberg, and the Washbard himself. Chapters 7 and up to the latter third of Chapter 11 are all written by the Washbard after the ordeal in Bloomvale. The journal of Ingvar, though crude, is included as it is the only written account of the events which transpired during the Washbard’s period of calcification, of which he has no memory of. However, Ingvar himself perished neath the mountains while fighting trolls, so the tale is then picked up by Igneous, who thankfully was in the habit of keeping mine logs. Though they are sparse, they are included here for completion’s sake, along with a writ of C.D. Bunker, with whom the party met in Bloomvale Chapter 7





Friends & Foes If it wasn’t clear whether Ingvar was friend or foe, it would soon be made so. This day’s events proved to reveal much of his character. But first, a list of the items we found in the chests: An aged Liquor by the name of Sweet Lo, rusted pieces of metal, bent into angular shapes, various coinage in gold and electrum, and in mine own, the object of our current strife, the sword. I approved of the fit of its hilt, and could already see myself putting it to great use. But not only because of the sharpness of its edge. From Ingvar, we learned of it’s magical properties. The righteous blade would shine a light upon the words of it’s holder. It would banish shadows wherein dwell those who hope to deceive. Had there ever been a weapon so much in the vein of its wielder? I think not. And it would not be given up lightly. Though this Ingvar Lindberg boasted of his strength, he would not chance taking it by force. He enticed us into a one on one duel and offered his own gauntlets of ogre strength as wager. Absolon Arcite would be my champion. We agreed that the island above Talos would serve as battlegrounds. Before leaving the chamber, we each pulled one of the five levers but were as of yet left in puzzlement to their function. escaped prisoners In a strange new development, we found the island to be recently inhabited. And these inhabitants, murderers, for lying face down in the sand was the unmoving body of John the Fisherman. We tracked them to the end of the island where two of these fiends were making their escape by rowboat. Chef took the form of a crocodile and dragged one back, so that he might pry from him by interrogation what he had done. “What haven’t I done?” he said. His reply was guiltless, and would soon prove to be a familiar refrain from the escaped prisoners, of which this fiend was one of 40. We should have exercised discretion in our first venture into the prisons. For when we liberated Skeet, we revealed the way to freedom for all to see. Chef slit the prisoners throat. the duel Now the duel, a true barn-burner that would have been the talk of many a tavern-dweller for ages if they had but witnessed it. Dare I say such a battle deserved a more rapt audience than we were, for at this time Chef was inspired to streak around the island. At the start of the second round, though both could barely stand, I saw a mutual respect had grown between them. I watched as both men beat each other into bloody senseless pulps until there was but one left standing “Margerine! Margerine!!!” was the cry of victory that rang throughout the air that day. Though on weak legs, the bellow was strong. I sometimes wonder if this victory cry, Ilmater willing and winds favourable, was heard by Absolon’s love. For we did not know it yet, but she was on her way to Hanchorage. 13

truth laid bare Chef claimed the gauntlets for himself, though rarely do I recall him putting them to use after that. We did not leave Ingvar while he lay unconscious. A worthy opponent he was, and he deserved more than that. And indeed, I’m glad we stayed by his side, for in his battle-induced delirium, he began speaking of things he wouldn’t dare otherwise. Incriminating things. Things related to the High Crepitus. Now I was especially motivated to see him awake again. I had to uncover his connection to the Marmedians. He awoke and the truth was laid bare. Ingvar Lindberg was in the employ of the High Crepitus. He had started out as a discredited academic much like myself, but in his curiosity, delved to far into secrets the Marmedians would rather stay hidden. But instead of disposing with him, they put him to use as controlled opposition. Now I saw the purpose behind the publication of the outlandish “Tales of the Farulf Region” as nothing more than hogwash meant to discredit good scholarship. But I was sympathetic, for Ingvar claimed that he still had designs on Marmedian secrets and still was in operation as a double agent. Of particular interest to him was my own homeland of Springrave, where he admitted the sword which I now wielded would act as a key to the source of all magic. It was no surprise to me that the marmedians would forbid research on such a topic, for it went against their very doctrines. (As you may recall, it was told to me by marmedian knights in the Darkclaw Inn that it is their belief that the God Marmed is the source of all magic). heist We now were in a predicament. All the routes to the mainland were inaccessible to us since the burning of the library and the sealing of the pit that once was Sedgwick’s workshop. But there was one we did not uncover while plodding through the soggy tunnels neath Hanchorage, the way by which Ingvar gained entry. He led us across the statue of Helm, which we had toppled over to bridge the chasm, and up into the bank’s basement. Ingvar parted first, since it would not do for us to be seen together. The plan was to regroup in several day’s time at the Lakeside Inn. We were due to exit after a few minutes, but we were tempted by the contents of many vaults on either side of us. It had been a long dream of the troupe to purchase a galleon and crew it with Hanchorage’s prisoners, something that would be within our reach had we only the gold that lay behind these walls. The temptation was too great. Aswang took the form of a spider to analyze the lock. It’s mechanism was uncovered, but the mental prowess required to crack it did not exist in our group. Temptation was strong however, and we abandoned stealth, breaking down the door. This alerted the guards up above, leaving us with little time to gather all the gold coins upon a blanket and hoist them back through the tunnels. Chef bought a few moments by spreading ball bearings on the floor. But the guards regained their footing and were soon after us. In their haste, Absolon and Aswang were not as surefooted when crossing the chasm. Chef’s strength alone was insufficient to pull them up by rope so he too fell. If only he had remembered the gauntlets which he now owned. That left me to ward off the guards by myself. It was no easy task, but I was eager. Inexplicably, killing had become a thing I looked forward to. More than that, I positively craved it. I happily unleashed upon them the full wrath of washboard. The outpouring fire was so hot it melted the very stone of Helm. Down below, Aswang or Chef must have summoned a fog cloud, which was well, for it aided in our escape from newly arrived crossbowmen. A few coins were lost in the fall, but all were unhurt and my bloodlust was satisfied. In all, it was a favourable outcome. We hurried to the island to bury our treasure, which perhaps by fate, we saw now were the very coinage that Igneous had been paid in. The Acorn coins of Bloomvale. It was well that we buried it, for making any payment with this distinct currency would surely bring unwanted attention. The galleon would have to wait. 14

a simple fisherman Now we were faced with the same problem, with yet another passage back closed to us. We stared out onto the lake, hoping to flag down a virtuous fisherman. It was then that Aswang noticed something peculiar about Hanchorage’s skyline. It had changed in some way. Surely now we would learn about the consequence of pulling those levers earlier.

Though the boatsmen were wary, and rightfully so since they had no wish to near the site at which 40 murderous prisoners had escaped, finally, one approached. His name was Pappy, a simple fisherman like his father and his father’s father before that, and he would come to be one our party’s most trusted friends. Pappy ferried us back towards the mainland and told us of the emergence of 5 statues of the gods in quintinity. Even then the Marmedians plotted on their removal, which irked Absolon. Travelling through Hanchorage by boat was a joy, so we hired Pappy on full time to ferry us here and there. I also gave him a little extra just to stay the way he is. visiting the puppet maker To the puppet maker we went, only to find that he was being accosted by marmdedian knights. Absolon made short work of them, but left the disposal of the bodies to Gerald. We had only come to ensure that he wasn’t back to drinking, and now two more lay dead by us. The time would soon come when Hanchorage would no longer harbor us, I was sure of it. We left the puppet maker with some words of encouragement. He was the only source of entertainment we had until Fobby Blay’s opening and when our treasure cooled off, so he had better put on the show of his life. Pappy brought us back to the lakeside inn and we retired for the day. 15

chapter 8 Ilmater Returns Mail awaited us at the inn the next morning. I fear its deliver to us was of no great priority to our hostess, given our tipping history. But even now, we could not spare a single copper piece. Dreams of commanding the seas in our prisoner-manned galleon kept our purses tight. We had our first word from Skeet since we sent him West. All was well. A rat was obtained, and he was on track to arrive in Bhucdirr within a month. Coincidently, there were reports of a series of arsons along the western road. We had learned a day earlier from Eonnia (may Ilmater rest her soul) that Skeet was imprisoned for being the most prolific arsonist in the land. Curious. absolon's ire With nothing to do until the money cooled off, and the grand opening of Flay’s restaurant still a week away, we decided to wander about town. I summoned Pappy by whistling the distinctive tune, “Down by the Docks”, which he had been instructed to answer to. Pappy once again took us to the 5 statues. A crowd had gathered to observe the foul mardedians as they laid explosives by the base of Ilmater. The general sentiment of the townspeople was clear. They were as displeased with this planned demolition as Absolon, though they were too cowed, calcified or both to wear their displeasure openly on their faces in front of the knights. But the spark of resistance was there, and Absolon knew it could be inspired to ignite. He donned his vestments. Standing at the prow of Pappy’s boat, he delivered an impromptu sermon that lifted the hearts of all those faithful who heard it. But the unfaithful would not tolerate such blasphemy. The marmedians immediately swarmed us and readied their crossbows while Absolon cried his final words, “Gather by the statue of Ilmater at Midnight.” A fog cloud enabled our escape. We chose to hide amongst the alleyways while Pappy sped away by boat. We evaded the marmedians by entering a broken down house, which we thought was abandoned. It was not. Upon our entry, a scraggly looking gentlemen emerged from the bed. He had the look of a recently escaped prisoner, so I was distrustful immediately. But at present, we at least were alike in the need for shelter from the eye of marmed, and could risk no quarrel being that our pursuers were directly outside. And I’m glad we did not, for, despite being an escaped prisoner, Father John was not guilty of anything but having the wrong ideology and was a good man at heart. He had been a priest of Ilmater, and was locked away when he would not renounce his god. It seemed it was not only the wicked whom we had liberated. Aswang discovered several interesting tomes in the cellar, among which was “Ingredients for Calcification,” by Archcrep Fazheulias. There was a picture of the author on the sleeve, and there was an immediate recognition, but none could place exactly where we had seen him before. We forgot it for now, and analyzed the tome. The concoction was so vile, even Chef dared not add it to his recipe book. In another tome, we learned of a method of water filtration by swampwood. Father John was eager to aid in our cause, so we asked him to fetch us a few faggots of the boggish boughs. 16

god's work These were not the cellar’s only secrets however. A false wall behind a shelf led back to the very caverns where we encountered the altars to the gods of quintinity. Now that the statues had rose to the surface, we discovered their bases and even the statues themselves were hollow. This would be a crucial point on Absolon’s plan. Pappy was sent to gather the right materials for tonight’s business. Absolon required a horn to amplify his voice and Chef had a need for tinsel to play the part of Ilmater’s angel. We waited for midnight, right before the explosives were to be detonated. Time was short, but Chef was able to reposition the explosives by the church to the god marmed across the canal. He waited, his hands on the detonator, for the coming of Ilmater. The statue’s eyes shone, and the god’s deep voice declared his tenets:

Keep it Down

Cut it out

Hrmmmm…

On cue, Chef set fire to the Church. The townspeople were so spurred on by the speech and the destruction that it awoke a primal bloodlust within them. The guards had no chance. But though much blood was spilled that night, it was one that would surely be commemorated each coming year (the only time when the first tenet may be violated). Only a few books in the church’s basement survived the inferno. Of which was another by the Archcrep Fazheulias, titled, “My thoughts on the subversion of the populace” which I’ve taken an excerpt from and included here: “The people of hanchorage are curious. Little can be understood from the lofty heights of the nobles and privileged religious figures such as myself. I shall blend in amongst the populace, ‘play the fool’, only then can we know the most effective method for subversion.” Still we were puzzled by his uncanny resemblance to some unknown figure from our past. On a hunch, I penciled in longer hair and beard. The portrait’s identity was now striking. It was clearly that homeless guy that witnessed the murder of the orphan at the hands of Chef. And what’s more, this revelation meant that Igneous had not been receiving his money through a middleman, but by the mastermind himself. If this journal was to be believed, the subversion was already underway. There could be no doubt with the rate of calcification that I’d encountered among the townspeople. But what could be done? The next book offered hope. It contained the recipe to reverse deep calcification. Needed was the fabled flower of Bloomvale, the Vale’s Bloom. The pieces began to fit. So that was the reason the marmedians had the old ruined city under watch. If we were to resist this great evil, we’d need the help of legendary hero. We would travel to Bloomvale, get the flower, brew the potion, and bring Ned Henderson back from the brink of total calcification. But such a plan needed time, something we didn’t have with the coming opening of Fobby Blay’s restaurant. That was mended by a quick trip to his restaurant, where we broke his spatula wrist. I began to wonder just who the villain was in chef’s arc 17

Chapter 9 Final Dealings in Hanchorage The noticeboard contained two accounts of last night’s events. From the mouth of the Marmed, the story was that the burning of the church was nothing more than a planned demolition. And this would have been the accepted narrative were it not for Pappy’s sons, whom we had hired to spread the word of that night’s true accounts, and no less, the tenet’s of the returned god Ilmater. Ingvar joined us by the hearth as today’s mail was delivered. He had heard of the uprising last night and suspected we had a hand in it. Absolon received a few letters, but the contents of which he kept to himself. If possible, his face became even more dour than usual. So I presume the letters contained disturbing tidings. It must have been so, for his next actions called into question his character. “Waiter, bring me a cold one,” he ordered. We all watched as he held it in his hand, wondering if he would willingly calcify himself. Ingvar cheered him on, and would continue to enable this kind of behaviour. For whatever reason, his pineal gland was particularly resistant, one of the great mysteries of the world. I would have liked to have studied it, but, alas...





















Absolon’s conviction was clearly shaken, so I do not blame him for pounding back that ale. There comes a time when calcification is the best option, as strange as it might seem to say so.

Other mail was addressed to the Mindfree’s in general. A mysterious fellow, claiming to be within the inner circle of upper Hanchorage nobles wrote to us, advising we exercise caution, but also offering encouragement and funding if necessary. Another letter was from orphan John Hodgkins. He was a distraught youth with much energy and enthusiasm, and thought the best avenue to put this to use would be to work for the Mindfrees. He had a deep resentment of the Marmedians, who had slaughtered his parents and more recently, his brother, who was found with his skull punched in, silenced for all time. These people, we would meet at the puppet show. We talked with Ingvar about preparations for our journey to Bloomvale. It was our intention to leave after the puppet show at noon, with all the supplies and rations ready and gathered in a cart. We pooled our funds together and sent Pappy and Ingvar to the trade quarter. Of course there were a few special requests, such as a grappling hook for Chef, and ‘blood-jug’ for Aswang. “Don’t forget to buy some cold ones for the road,” Absolon called after them. “Way ahead of ya,” Ingvar replied. There was an influx of nobles from foreign lands arriving then, all eager to dine at the opening of Blay’s. But the word had just gotten out of his assault, and so last minute arrangements had to be made for their lodgings. Which in short led to us being kicked out of the lakeside inn. That was the owner’s reason, but it’s hard to imagine our paltry tipping didn’t play a hand in our ejection. In truth we had little need of the Lakeside Inn any longer, since we were quite welcome in the house of Father John. It was there that we went next. John had been busy. He had fashioned 5 swampwood water filters to our exact specifications. These would be crucial to our survival on the path to Bloomvale. Additional plans were made for what was to be done in our absence. There was talk of constructing a dam of swampwood to filter all the water that flowed through Cricklet River. But the exact logistics of it, we left up to Father John, who had already showed himself to be quite resourceful. And though unsure at first, still retained some of his clerical healing powers. This was enough to rid Absolon of his superficial calcification.

































With that taken care off, we went off to the puppet show. Tommy Hodgkins awaited us, whom we identified by his red hat. As Absolon spoke to him, I watched him very closely. The question of the Archcrep was brought up. There was no one in this city that was beyond suspicion, not with the insidious powers of calcification abound. Questioning even of this young boy was warranted. As Absolon described the Archcrep, I saw a familiar stirring in the boy’s right hand. It was the sign of the claw. We had no wish to explode, but neither did we wish to have the blood of another orphan on our hands. Luckily, it was Absolon who thought quickest that day. He chopped the offending hand clean off and then brought the poor boy back to Father John’s. 18

19 mockery of the art As he left, Gerald the Puppeteer emerged. It was well Absolon was not present for what followed. I thought wrongly that I had inspired Gerald to greatness. If he had even prepared a narrative, or delivery for this, his greatest of performances, it showed not. He stammered through a tale that I could not make heads or tales of. And it was no more elucidated by the crude puppets he brandished. Strangely enough, one of these figures carried a perfect replica of the sword which I now wore at my hip. But that was all I could say of the ‘show’, for Marmedian knights intervened to end the blasphemy. As they carried him away to be killed, I grappled with the decision, “Are we really going to save this guy?” He had made an embarrassment of the medium not once, but twice. Yes. We would save him. But that meant missing out on meeting with the mysterious noble who had wrote to us. So be it. We killed the knights and allowed Gerald to escape. Absolon returned then and we ran off to the north end of the city were Ingvar awaited us. We said farewell to Pappy, who could not follow by water. But even if he could, I would not separate him from his family. He was a good man. If anything happened to him, I’d be really upset.

20 chapter 10 On the Road Our beasts of burden, two horses and two mules, were named Rex (the mount of yours truly), Chef Junior, Roach and Sour Hoof. It was they we relied upon to carry our heavy load on the road to Bloomvale. 20 days of rations, feed for the animals, our waterskins and filters, not to mention extra sets of clothes and the various paraphernalia demanded by Chef, whom himself was saved from saddle sores by lounging in the back of a carriage. It was an arduous load to impose upon our poor animals, and now we know their burden was increased by the substantial amounts of whiskey Ingvar had stowed beneath some of the other supplies. I do not remember most of my period of calcification, but I’m told I did my part to lighten that load. A crow flew above us. It would have been overlooked as any other bird, were it not for the fact that it circled above us repeatedly. It was shot down, recovered, and found to have message wrapped around it’s leg. The letter was from the Hanchorage nobleman, and warned of 3 shadow assassins from the north and a squad of 15 Marmedians knights tracking us from the south. It was not long before we saw evidence of this pursuing party behind us. A plume of smoke arose from their presumed camp. But not all of that party rested there, for we were soon visited by two of their scouts. They offered little in the way of challenge, and when we had killed one, the other turned to flee. He would have gotten away from us to report on our location if it were not for Ingvar. He spent the whole quarrel searching for something to throw, but when he found the projectile, it met its mark.

He hurled Absolon’s war hammer through the air not less than 60 feet, where it then came down upon the scout, crushing him. As per our modus operandi, we crucified one corpse and strung up the other in a tree. Then, rethinking our strategy, we toppled the same tree to create a gruesome roadblock. cricklet hill Cricklet Hill was not far off from there. I had been there once before to ask a few questions of its mayor Ned Henderson, and determine his collusion with the invading Marmedians. When I met him, he in no way lived up to hero of the grandiose tales of legendary exploits. I should have suspected calcification then. My second impression of the town was much like the first. It was a busy, close-knit, farming community, peopled by simple, industrious folk. We hit it off with one of the farmers right away. It was our plan to get the villagers on our side so that they might waylay our pursuers. With the combined culinary and theatrical talents of our troupe, this was easily within our means. Ingvar parked the cart and carriage out of sight behind the old cemetery, and we set to work. Chef was given access to the cellar and kitchen where he would produce a masterful appetizer, main course and dessert. Aswang and I asked some of the townsfolk about any suspicious characters and received a lead. There were in fact 3, what looked to be northmen, staying at the inn currently. Could they be the shadow assassins that we were warned of? Aswang and I went to investigate, missing out on the appetizer, which was nothing to write home about, much like the main course, I’m told. It was not until the dessert where chef really came into his own. It was then, I’m also told, that Ned Henderson made an appearance, and in his calcified way, made his approval of the festivities known. But at that moment, Aswang and I were on the second floor of the inn, about to peer into the room of the supposed shadowmen. A moment before we had spoken to the innkeepers son, who was charged to look after the inn while everyone else made merry at Chef’s feast. I pushed open the door and could see nothing. I felt a resonance on my washboard and perceived the strands of magic that interweaved to produce this illusory abyss. Though we could not make use of our eyes, Aswang and I destroyed the source, which appeared to be a shadowy glass ball. Outside, I heard a commotion. I learned from Absolon, who, with Ingvar, joined us now, that there was a sighting of the skinwalker. However, from Absolon’s report, this may have been a false interpretation of himself and Ingvar emerging from the cemetery. Though it would not have been out of character for this fiend to prowl the hill. I’m sure he observed us much like he did on my first venture into the town. All of the party, less chef, were assembled and so were greatly emboldened. We rummaged through the belongings in the room. From the wardrobe, a large body tumbled out. It was Ingvar. But who then was now at Absolon’s side? We found out soon enough, for their glamor fell away, revealing a wispy being who seemed to be composed of shadows. We did battle, and were largely ineffective once the shadowman had deployed another of those spheres of darkness. We organized our efforts to destroy it quickly, and soon had the assassin on the ropes. At this moment, the window was broken by a familiar grappling hook. The assassin took this opportunity to flee, transforming himself into an incorporeal form and being carried out of the room on the wind. Chef now joined us and we stood above Ingvar, whom Absolon declared still alive.

Perhaps it would have been wise to leave Cricklet hill then and there. But we chose to hole up in Ned’s house and ‘home alone’ it, as Absolon put it. If it was to be our last stand, then so be it. Hour by hour, my bloodlust grew stronger. 21

chapter 11 Calcification Ned was still at the festivities when we arrived at his house which was atop the hill that the town was named after. We examined all points of entry and left Ingvar to stable the horses in the back. I perused the back of the home where I found Ned’s former war room. Doubtless, it had received little use since his heavy calcification, as evidenced by the layer of dust on the map, and dated positionings of representative figurines. But there had to be some window into the mind of the legend here. I searched while the rest of the party readied the home. I had seen Aswang climb upstairs and Absolon convert the front door into a deathtrap. But there was still time until we would have to fight, so I continued my search. A desk drawer caught my attention. When I pulled on it, I felt something give way, and knew immediately that the crafty old war general must have rigged the desk to either inform him of its unauthorized access or to destroy its contents. It was the latter. The desk burst into flames. In my panic, I tried to suffocate the flames with a blanket, but only ended up fanning the fire. Soon the entire room was consumed and the adjacent chambers were at risk. This was a critical blow to us, for I had inadvertently created another point of defense which we would have to split our forces to cover. Finally, relying on the help from Chef Junior, Rex, Roach, and Sour Hoof, we doused the fire. At was at this point that the proprietor of the home returned. I was thankful for Ned’s heavy calcification, for he seemed to care little for the damage we had done. showdown Up above, Aswang cried out a warning of the impending arrival of the squad of knights. But what’s more, they were accompanied by a long white-haired fellow. The Archcrep himself. This called for a hasty change of plans. We could not hope to stand against 13 knights, 3 shadow assassins and now a dark wizard. Escape was the only option. Still I lamented these changes, for the book which I carried held a tight grip on my mind then, and I thirsted for blood. All of the supplies, cart and carriage were lowered down to the sub cellar, where it was discovered a tunnel led underneath the hill and some distance to the north. The home’s defenses were shored up when the remaining roof of a chamber otherwise hollowed out by fire, folded in on itself and took the place of a wall. It seemed we could not be flanked now. Emboldened by this, we assembled in the central room of the home where we would put up some semblance of a fight before fleeing, perhaps to get some sort of exposition or explanation. Ingvar stayed with the animals below, Aswang kept his fog cloud at the ready, Absolon remained in the open, Chef shut himself within a box, and I remained behind a support pillar. As the Archcrep showed himself, I struggled to keep myself from lashing out at him. The bloodlust was strong, but I would not foil our plans again. 21

The archcrep spoke of the nature of the book which I carried. The source of its power was the God Marmed. Indeed, every time I wrote in it, I was in rapport with the very god of our most dreaded enemy. I gave an attempt, but could not willingly part from it. It’s hold on me was too strong. This was all a part of their plan to enfold me into their schemes, to use both my destructive and inspirational powers afforded to me by my skill at the washboard to further their own ends. It was then I made that most infamous decision, one I had been pondering on for a while, but never spoken of. Suddenly, it was time to act. Chef burst from his box and took the Archcrep by surprise. I leapt into action as well, and kicked him through the burnt out roof where he then fell through to the cellar. Then, before the Archcrep could prepare a retaliatory fireball, I unleashed the full wrath of my washboard’s fire upon him. We left then without inspecting the aftermath, and evading the remaining knights. But there was one measure by which we could determine whether or not the Archcrep was defeated. My bloodlust still coursed strong within me. He lived. It was this that now brought our party to a head. “I’m not going down a tunnel for who knows how long with somebody who’s got a bloodlust,” was the majority sentiment then. “Wamp, give me the book,” they asked, but I could not. I wanted, needed, to kill, to tear the throats out of my friends. Marmed’s hold over me was so powerful, I could not but do else. Except for one thing. It is here that the Washbard’s account ends. Following now is the journal of Ingvar Lindberg. I thought we were going to see a good old fashioned, inter party scrap. But no, that Washbard’s a clever one. I’ll tell you who’s not though. That chef guy. First thing he did was pick up the cursed book and invite that bastard god into his mind. But no matter. He could be squashed easily if the bloodlust got into him. The Washbard had honour. He’d rather turn himself into a glassy eyed husk than hurt his friends. I’ll see if this chef can match his character, but I doubt it. He had the book for a minute, and I already didn’t like the squirrely look in his eyes. By the end of the tunnel, Chef had already drawn a few things in the book, since he was too stupid to write anything. Are all halflings this stupid? ---> Research more. Up ahead were 13 dwarves. I got a bad feeling immediately. I normally like to stay clear of dwarf business, especially if you’ve got 13 of them, then you know they’re up to no good. Sure enough, they were trying to unearth the entrance to some centuries old mine. I guess it led to Bloomvale much quicker than the usual way, because that’s where we went. I think we found some keyrunes of some sort and then ran into one of Chef’s homunculi, something he drew in the book. Now, I can’t confirm this because at that time I had gotten deep into the super whiskey, but when they sliced that thing open, I swear, flying dicks poured out of it. Yeah. The skinwalker killed all the dwarves except one loathsome prick by the name of Igneous, a name far to close to my own to be added to my party. I pretty much considered myself to be calling the shots since Wamp was a useful idiot now. I’d take on this dwarf temporarily, but only for him to show us the way neath the mountain. We entered the mine and I immediately regretted it. That skinwalker thing sealed the door behind us, so there was no escape. I took a swig from my flask to calm my nerves. I don’t like enclosed spaces.

Absolon decalcified Igneous and he was all high and mighty now, swearing off the drink for good. Fuck that.

Somebody triggered a tripwire but nothing happened except a far off rumble. I looked back and saw more of those disgusting homunculi. Dozens of them caressed Chef. Why would he command this of the Marmed god? I’m beginning to see why his wife divorced him. The group was falling apart. I’m embarrassed to say I could not lead properly. I was too anxious from my claustrophobia and had to toss back flask after flask just to keep going. Wamp, though calcified, was good to me as a drinking buddy. We played a game he thought of called, eat a ration, throw a ration, and later, read a page, tear a page. I saw a troll and some slimy gollum-looking fucker. Absolon got lost at one point, so I had to navigate us back to the starting point. Don’t matter how drunk I am, nobody can beat my sense of direction. I don’t remember much after that other than dicks flying out everywhere. Then Chef was talking, and it seemed he had a lot more charisma than before. I guess he could lead for a while. Even that kiss-ass dwarf fucker started calling him “My fearless leader.”

Not a good day. But I slept it off 22

chapter 12 The Group Falls Apart Whenever we decalcify Wamp, I’m sure he’ll be interested in that letter from Alexander that I had. I think I mentioned to the party how the room I rented in Hanchorage blew up, along with its contents, but I’ll try to remember what the letter said. Ingvar, if you ever come across Wamp, or as he is also known, the Washbard, promise me you’ll do everything in your power to help him. I’m so very close to uncovering the nature of this world, but I fear, for all my efforts, I’ve brought the eye of Marmed upon me and will soon be suicided. It must be Wamp that continues my work. Tell him of my hidden laboratory near Bhuccdir and how to find it. I think that was everything, but I can’t be sure. There may have been something or other about an ice wall and a fake circumnavigation. Chef rounded us up and led us on. I guess the guys started a secret society or something, because this weird fucker dropped down out of the light shaft and asked to join the ‘brain freeze’. I didn’t get asked to join, but that was fine. I’ll start my own secret club and I won’t invite them. The new guy’s name was Zeb, and he talked too much. He couldn’t even put a dent in Wamp’s calcification even though he was a cleric. Now we were a party of 7, too much deadweight if you ask me. Next we found a large chamber full of statues of dead dwarves. There was light coming through the ceiling, and we could reflect it using mirrors. This was a great dungeon idea, if I ever get around to building my own, I’ll use this gimmick. We lit up a path to the north and went that way. There was a chest there, but when Aswang opened it, I saw its bottom was eaten away and it only lead down into a pit. More of those slimy gollum fuckers crawled out of there, so Absolon pushed a statue over it to block the hole. It turns out Aswang and Absolon had been scheming to get that Marmed book ever since Chef picked it up, and they chose now to take it from him. The little guy got cut up pretty deep, and he wouldn’t have made it if we didn’t have a cleric. They’re useful, but who the fuck wants to be a cleric? Anyway, they got that book and chucked it down that slime hole. Chef was revived, and he seemed to be back to normal. He blathered on about hearing the voice of Wamp and some fucker named Skeet. Wamp never said anything the entire time I was next to him, so he’s obviously full of shit. I wonder how much of this I should tell Archcrep Fazheulias. Being double-controlled opposition is hard sometimes. I’m going to send him a letter as soon as that messenger crow heals up. Most of it is already written, including the part where I accidentally give him the wrong place of our destination. That will probably be the last straw with him. After all that gold was stolen, even though it could never be proven I was involved, I’m on thin ice. 23

Here ends the journal of Ingvar. Following are the mine logs of Igneous. It is believed that he omitted certain details of dwarf lore that he would not have been permitted to share according to the custom of his people. Troll onslaught, Ingvar and Absolon fell through floor, thought dead

Aswang jumped down after them, also thought dead

Ran back to the great hall and shut the doors behind us

Leader Chef, Wamp, Zebediah, horses, mules and myself all unharmed

Leader Chef acting unwonted, spewed blackened blood

Leader Chef ran back to the grim pit, I fear he lusts for the book

Aswang and Absolon edwend, Ingvar acknowledged dead

Chef blocks path to him by wall of fire, andfinds book and quinks, thought unseenly

Underseeking showed that he went back in time 1000 years, acknowledged not invisible

Absolon asks about blotan, but I mislead, some things are for dwarf ears only

Absolon sends Aswang up a light shaft to behold the lands, after fears that Chef made himself inbreach with the timeline and reshaped the world

Met Rock it Joe, stunt man by trade, cool guy

Hurled into the Highbarrows, stunt failure, willed?

Came upon puzzle room, unriddled, forge fired, stocks filled

Umber titan hulk indwelling grown markedly since last bewriting

1 mule and 1 horse dead in the onslaught

stone bridge crossed, no further dead

trolley boarded and cart fitlinked

then began the bulk of the ferd to Bloomvale 24

Chapter 13

The following is an excerpt from Dr. C.D. Bunker’s anthropological studies on the Bloomvalians and surrounding Talong Mountain Tribe (funding for the study was provided by Dwarvish sovereigns of the north on the condition that the language be suited to their people.): Where the Winds End The Talong word for wind is “Aiy” /īē/. That it is once stavesetted is a clue that it was oft brooked in daily life, as any tonguelorist will attest to. As we will see, the winds shaped not only the Talong tongue, but all of highbarrow life, the very shape of the land not withholding. The land itself is windswept. Kinds of grass lay flat; moss and wort grow only on the eastward side of trees. Stones lie smooth and barefaced after yearhundreds of blustering. When I reached the Highbarrows, I myself was nearly swept away by the winds, for I underguessed at their strength. I now reckon them at 400 knots, even with winds born from seagale. But unlike seagale, these winds, in weekly andgivings were not less than seven. Thankfully, the steepletops whistled forewarning of each onset. But that was not the only omen. Though they could barely be seen through the fog, the barrow vultures were nearly always in flight, other than when they themselves took shelter from the winds. It is a forthputting of mine that they are keen to higher witherclings or else have a means of making out that which is read by weatherglass. Where these vultures sheltered, I could not guess, nor could I learn this from the landfolk, of which only one lingered.

Mon Mon MonTalong was the lone outliver of a slaughter done by Marmed hand. He was firstly shy and thewless, but soon saw me as no kin of Marmed, and so our friendship began. I mourned that he was the last of his folk, not only for the loss of life, but because this was a setback to my writ on Highbarrow Folklore. I wondered why I had not seen signs of this slaughter, but once my swot began in earnest, the reasons were forthcoming and twofold. It was the burialwone of Highbarrow folk to lay their dead out in the open for the vultures to feed on. Once picked clean, the bones were swept away by the wind. This was far from the only byspel of kinship between man and bird in barrow-wone. MonTalong namely would have been head flockherd but for the slaughter of his folk. And though there were none left to bewonder it, he still donned the headsmock that beaconed his rank, and little else. 25

These were among the findings that I now put to leaf within the shelter of my lorestead, which was newmade from one of the many steeplehouses. These buildings were well-drafted, for they were laid out to allow wind to pass through rather than agive withsetting. They were ordered in henge ring, where at its heart stood the lorestone. This great stonerock had borne the lore of the land and henceforth became the underthrow of my swot. Though I could see them sharply, I could take no meaning from the stream of carvings. It was not until after the next high wind that I took heed of its berth and found that the stone was set on spindle. It is now my forthputting that the tale can only be understood if witnessed during high wind, while the lorestone spins. But how now might I bear witness? I deemed myself weak and wholly without windworth, nor could I learn from second-hand. MonTalong was tight-lipped, either by choosing or because we were as yet unlearnt in one another’s tongue. I hoped for the latter, and took upon the lone goal of becoming smoothspoken in the Highbarrow Tongue. Though I am no tongueloreman by trade, on this I was one-minded. I took care not to forsake my folkloric oath and was never made inbreach into Highbarrow wone. Alas, the Marmeds took no such oath and MonTalong and I were oft burdened by them. I was yearnsome for their leaving, for they made haltstead in the vale, whereby there were more wrecks of eld I wished to unriddle. Still I went on with my tonguelore. I learned much about the foodline of Highbarrow folk and now grew my own stalk of cashews and tubers. But still, I was no nearer to understanding the lorestone. One day I took shelter from those I thought Marmed in my bolt-hole. They were not, thankfully, but I did not foresee such a team reaching the Highbarrows. They were among them, a strong-jawed man of Stonewall, a southern cleric and ghoul, a “washbard” and “rock-it” Joe. I had no wish for further inbreach into my swot, but they in the end showed to be for the bettering of mine and MonTalong’s welfare. I was all too happy to spell out the lay of the land and happenings as of late. After all, it is my wont to say “When one teaches, two learn.” Only, one of these newcomers, the “Washbard”, seemed to have no mind to grasp these teachings. The laf of his kith spoke of his ailment, a short-lived benighting that they hoped the Vale’s Bloom would cure. I would have given help if I knew where the blossom that was the land’s namesake might be found. But woe, this was beyond mine own knowledge and that which I could pry from MonTalong. 26