PeteWi the Disoriented

…of filth ridden, flea invested, dirty, rotten zombie pirates!

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Sure, I had to wade through pestilence infested skeletons, senselessly roast rabid wild boar over an open fire, and shived a multitude of cantankerous Elves camping under the stars, but it was worth it. Look at this view!

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d I’ the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.

Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

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More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

As is the custom for the holiday season, I took time out of my busy schedule of dishing out justice to thugs, rattling skeleton mages to dust and chasing Corpion tail, to visit what I was told was a sincere pumpkin patch. I doubted it would rival Stinging Tree, but I felt it was worth my perusal and observation nonetheless.

It was a festive day with a gentle breeze and the fine colors of the autumnal season. I noted several others on a similar pilgrimage. We all took to the field to evaluate it’s sincerity.

To my astonishment, it was indeed a fine pumpkin patch, replete with scarecrow to keep the hooligan crows at bay. Was it more sincere and thus more entitled to receive a visit from the Great Pumpkin? Oh nay nay, but I investigated further.

When I moved to the middle of patch, the true and deceptive nature of this field revealed itself. I was shocked to see the gourds were rotten and festering on the vine. As I looked to express my dissatisfaction at this kind of nurturing, I was greeted by a small field hand wearing a costume paying tribute to the Great One.

He seemed just as outraged at the deplorable pumpkin condition as I, brandishing his scythe with dangerous vigor and bellowing muffled words of condemnation.

“I agree with you completely,” I said, not truly understanding what he said. “You would be wise to make haste and remove those infected gourds from the vine before they leech the life out of the entire crop! You are on the verge of total disaster, and only mere hours left before the Orange Exalted One makes his yearly visitation. If you wish to be considered for patronage, you must make amends!”

I felt my words landed on deaf ears as the lad advanced upon me without a hint of understanding as to the dire circumstance he and his patch were in. And then it struck me. Or rather, he struck me. With his scythe. In the shins. Rotten cur.

It was a devastating blow to be sure, and the rapscallion cackled with delight as I crumpled to the ground.

“Egad man! Cut at the vines, not a me! What’s the matter with you? Learn how to use that thing before someone really gets hurt,” I cried. With real tears in my eyes.

“It’s Pumpkinhead!” came a cry from the field. “Destroy the tainted pumpkins! He draws power from their rotten, festering carcasses! Trample them under your boot! Divide and conquer!”

“Oh my, that sounds bad,” I said. “And just who is this Pumpkinhead? Some sort of misguided impersonator? They always turn up at this time of year, trying to get praise, trying to sway followers.”

My thoughts were interrupted by another savage blow from the pumpkin-headed attendant and his scythe. Then it became clear.

“You are no farm hand come to tend to the plight of this pumpkin patch. You are a gourd minion of evil!” I said. Realizing the peril I was now in, I leapt to my feet, set my blade alight and fortified myself within a ring of fire.

“I’m going to roast your seeds of destruction over an open fire!” I cried as I leapt forward with an injurious thrust to his rind head. Pumpkins are surprisingly flammable, and soon he was a charred, pulpy husk at my feet. With no time to hesitate, I waded into the decayed field and kicked each and every pumpkin that crossed my path.

The horrible things spewed fetid spores into the air, most likely giving me a terrible disease that won’t present itself for years to come. But, there was more dangers ahead as Pumpkinhead bellowed in anger at the smashing of his minions. I flicked off their seedy remains and made ready for battle.

With his power weakening, we leapt into the fray. We realized Pumpkinhead was still a formidable adversary. He retched up pestilence and rot, covering each of us in his filth, our eyes burning from the stinging spores. We were stunned, but not stopped. Attacks came from every side as this malcontent impersonator soon met a fiery, carved up fate, just like his ill-tempered minions. There was much rejoicing as the pumpkin body was frisked for valuables. Regrettably, he had nothing of note.

Confused by the loss of their leader, the remaining minions were rounded up and trampled back into the soil from whence they came. Not wanting him to rise up and repeat such destruction, his grotesque body was severed from his even more shocking gourd of a head, and each was buried in separate parts of the field. A sternly worded sign was then erected to give warning to others who might mistake this for a sincere pumpkin patch.

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Quickly lad, we need to get to the main patch and save those pumpkins, there’s not a moment to lose.

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Now see here, you need a scythe or some type of cutting implement. What do you expect to do with that bow?

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Go back to whence you came you fetid imposter! You’ll be punished for this blasphemy!

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

allhallowtide2018

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More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

Like that busy little cricket, or dung beetle, or inch worm, or whatever he was, I must prepare for the upcoming winter, for it shall be cold and dark, and I wish to not be caught unaware.

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Let us take stock of what we have.
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One for me, one for Blake. Check
Two for me, one for Blake. Check

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Three for me… Oh dear, this will never do! The inconceivable horror of it all! Famine will be upon us! Our meager supplies will not last the winter! We’ll never survive! We’ll be shriveled up, dead husks before the end of the first week!

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Even if we use the snow to chill our drinks, we’ll be praying for death. Where did I go wrong? What did I do to deserve such a fate? Sobriety is a harsh mistress and I will not face her!

But wait, all is not lost. To the crafting pavilion with all haste before it’s too late!”

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

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