While carefully cataloging my chest of looted and liberated goods, I was struck by the realization that I may have a mandrake problem. Through diligent harvesting and frisking of crushed mages, my mandrake supply far exceeds my usage. Some would say that’s not possible, but I admit that I simply have more than I need.

Under normal circumstances, I would slip the stockpile into some nondescript sacks, hitch up the wagon, and under the cover of darkness make my way to Owl’s Head to sell a few backpacks worth of goods to the reagents merchant for a handsome profit.

However, the sting of that salt transportation incident is still fresh in my mind and I would prefer not to have any constabulary entanglements and be held in the Clink at Lord Enmar’s pleasure.

So, instead of venturing into the dragon’s nest and putting myself to the hazard, I will bring those in need of mandrake to me. I have spoken with my man Habberdash, who has agreed to set up shop at our crafting pavilion. Since this our first batch for sale on the open market, we are willing to sell a small sample at less than market value.

In order to recognize a buyer who knows a high quality product from some clearly disguised enforcer of jurisprudence, Habberdash will only respond to a predetermined call sign. When greeted with the phrase, “The drunken condor wears no pants,” he will reply with “Hmm, I don’t understand.” This will weave a web of confusion to would be eavesdroppers.

If he’s comfortable with the transaction he will give a wink, a nudge, and then open the special chest containing our mandrake stash.

We’ve also got an excess of nightshade plants, so if you’re in the market for some quality reagens, we might be able to do some business.

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

While I welcome and encourage you to observe all my glorious deeds of virtue and courage, for there are many, I believe it can be done without you sneaking up from behind and probing me in the backside. Some would say that is a dash intrusive on your part. However, if such things must be done, I feel it appropriate that you at least purchase an ale for me and suggest you hold back and wait until the Immolation has dissipated before swooping in. You have proven, that unlike me, you are not fireproof. Your indiscretion and exuberance will get you incinerated and the Oracle will frown upon me even further.

My deeds are worthy of the Oracle’s attention, but these repeated “catastrophic failures” you suffer at my hands does neither of us any good.

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

After a resource gathering expedition in the Serpent Spine Foothills, that saw many a thug and bandit regret my approach, I received a missive from Alley Oop. She was hard at work in Greymark Forest gathering resources of own. Thinking she might be working on the trappings of a treehouse, I was anxious to join and see how I could be of assistance.

While she was indeed wood gathering, she had something special and a dash more dangerous in mind. Always ready to make use of my lumbersmithing skills, I made ready the Axe of Prosperity.

“Oh nay nay,” Alley said as I selected a maple tree. “This is a different kind of tree altogether,” she continued as she drew her blade.

“What manner of tree chopping is this?” I questioned as she leapt at the trunk and laid into it with a savage barrage of volleys.

As the bark and sap flew, I stood aghast at what transpired next. The tree literally leapt to life to defend itself. To my astonishment, the limbs swung violently and Alley was concealed within in whirlwind of leaves.

Going through my extensive knowledge of alchemy, I drew up the well understood fact that fire is the natural enemy of wood. To that end, I brought forth the power of Immolation, threw myself at the trunk of the beast and held on.

The Reaper realized the fiery nature of my designs and as a countermove used Root against me, pinned me to the ground and dealt a series of incapacitating blows.

Little did the Reaper understand that Immolation is all consuming whether I’m conscious or not. Using my distractionary technique to her full advantage, Alley obliterated the Reaper, splintering it into multiple pieces.

When I came to myself, the trunk was a shattered husk and it’s fiendish nature was revealed. To my horror, the Reaper wasn’t merely thrashing me to a pulp, it was tenderizing my person to make a meal of me. The gnashing teeth were now lifeless, but the danger was all too real.

As I poked at the beast with it’s broken limb, to ease my conscience it was indeed deceased, Alley made ready her blade and harvested some quality parts.

From there, it was time to relieve the Elven Archers of their pesky bows that seem to endlessly stab me in the back.

I know what you tried to do and I’ll have none of it! Alley will whittle you down to nothing and I’ll pick my teeth your remains! And then firewood for the rest of you!

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

In my nightly confessions to the Oracle, regarding my deeds and in some cases, my misdeeds, I received a less than favorable reply regarding some of my recent actions. It appears I am on a rocky road toward the Path of Truth. The Oracle has seen fit to frown upon my filling my pockets with trinkets I am firmly convinced others no longer need. Or they will simply look better in my home than whenst I found them.

I can’t say I agree, but perhaps I really didn’t need all the goblets I took from the banquet hall. And perhaps I may have taken one too many potatoes from that Clink Bazar. But, I take exception with the comment about looting the dead.

Come now Oracle, they were all bad men. They did bad deeds. They hatched bad plans. They fell in with a bad crowd. They smelled bad.

I feel perfectly justified in that if I put myself to the hazard, come out victorious and leave my adversary face down on the field of combat as a shattered wreck of a man, I am at liberty to rifle through their pockets for loose coins and weapons. Clearly what they had were ill-gained goods.

And if I happen to come across a body in field or in the Clink, that is already face down and a shattered wreck of a man, then I should be able to proceed with the looting as the work has already been done and clearly whatever I find he won’t need any more.

I shall balance matters by supplying the tavern owner with a satisfying income and myself with a satisfying plate of mutton and mug of ale.

Frown not upon me Oracle. What you see as reckless and selfish looting, should really be seen as righting a wrong by creating harmony and balance.

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

Upon entering the town of Crooked Shank, I was greeted by the mayor who apologized for the disarray in his town due to a storm. I saw no evidence of a storm and he quickly moved on to ask if I might be able to offer aid. He was a keen observer of my adventuring prowess and ability to locate trinkets of value.

Byron proceeded to explain, with some embarrassment, the loss of his house key. This was due to a wild night of frolic that started at the local tavern and concluded with a raucous round of dance with the ladies.

“Fear not my good fellow, at least you got away with your leggings in tact,” I assured.
“Beg pardon?”
“You take care now, I shall return directly with your wayward key.”

My first stop, as with all new towns, was the local tavern. This brought me to the town drunk, the only one not talking about the aftermath of some storm. He was far more concerned about the loss of an entire town.

“I can’t say that I have ever lost a town at the bottom of a tankard, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be done,” I said cheerly, moving on to the pavilion.

There I found the minstrel in mid tune and amidst the twirls, sashays and toe tapping, I asked if any had laid eyes on the mayor’s key.

There was many a giggle and blush. The mayor is known for his dancing and his love of the wine. He is also known for his misuse of the pavilion hedges and town fountain.

While listening to these terrible tales, my eyes set upon the missing key. As I set to return it to the mayor, I became powerless to a mischievous urge.

Using the breaking and entering skills Blake and I honed on the streets of Ardoris, I entered the mayor’s domicile unobserved. I was in admiration of his fine decorating style, especially his golden goblets, of which I now have a matching set.

My admiration turned sour as I entered his office and noted the myriad of skulls on his bookshelf. These were clear signs of a nefarious purveyor of ill deeds and miscreant behavior.

“If this is what you have out in the open, I wonder what you have secreted away?” I mused.

This lead me to scour and loot the remainder of his quarters.

While pilfering his upstairs game room, I heard a muffled cry coming from a concealed chamber. To my dismay, I uncovered a woman and her companion being held captive. While this sort of deviant behavior may be tolerated in Ardoris, I frown upon it all the same.

I did my best to free the poor mistress, but she was in the grip of terror. I checked her companion, but it was too late. I removed the tightly held key and asked why they didn’t escape if they already had the key.

“Find the prison,” she mumbled. “Go to the caves.” She sobbed and crumpled herself into the corner.
“Prison? Caves?” I asked. But she would speak no more.

That town drunk and I need to have another chat about the mayor.


Good evening! Pity I left my dancing shoes at home. I hate to be a bother have you seen a key lying about?

Holy Halmar’s Teeth! What is the meaning of this?

Oh, sinister deeds are indeed afoot…

Secret door. Iron bars. You have explaining to do Mr. Naughty Pantaloons…








More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

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