PeteWi the Disoriented

What a magical land we have stumbled into! Bananas and wheat, two of my favorite things, together! Well, not together actually. That would be foolhardy. And a gastrointestinal nightmare. I think. Banana whiskey? Perhaps?

We must speak with these scalawag pirates about offering a fair price for their goods. I shall bedazzle them with my negotiating prowess. If that doesn’t work, then stern words and the flaming sword.

If that doesn’t work, groveling.


More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

With the emotional scarring of removing troll toenails quelled by mugs of ale and jugs of whiskey, I stumbled my way to Tenebris Harbor to converse with the Drunken Ritualist and remove these horrid relics from my inventory. Plus, seize hold of my reward.

Not only did the ritualist prove a hard man to find, because so many answer to the call of drunken ritualist in these parts, he conducted business next to some truly unsavory chaps who did more than cast a suspicious eye to newcomers.

Doing my best to avoid the evil eye contact, I dashed into the ramshackle bungalow of the ritualist. But before I could bring up the topic, our business was interrupted by a pole arm wielding miscreant who demanded satisfaction for an injustice I’m quite sure I never committed.

Menacing stares, as well as a barrage of incredibly foul and hateful words were exchanged before the situation escalated to the point of no return.

Many items in the store were broken, including the rogue’s arm, knees and neck. Adding to the confusion was a fire elemental who tried to set me alight for the mere sport of it.

Dispatching the fire elemental brought me no joy, except in regards to my skin no longer blistering with pain. I have regret over the incident as she reminded me so much of Señora Caliente, but my fire elemental would never cause me such harm.

With the ruffians summarily looted and kicked to the side, I engaged in my business with the ritualist, although I confess to a great deal of fear and hesitation.

Is it possible to trust a sober ritualist let alone a drunken one? What sort of man needs the toenails of a troll? What unspeakable horror would be unleashed once he had these trophies in his possession? Further, what sort of reward would recompense me for the horrors I had face in bringing them to him?

With glassy eyes and swaying countenance, he relieved me of the items and declared, “perfection!”

“Egads, man! You really are a drunken ritualist,” I replied. “Have you seen the grime? Have you seen the dirt build up? Have you protected yourself against disease?”

He paid me no heed, swept behind his counter and before I could question his methods or motives, he told me to step forward into the circle.

“Oh nay nay!” I protested. “The last time I stepped into a circle, many bad things happened. Most of which I can’t recall to this date, but I am sure I don’t want to go through them again.”

“Your reward awaits,” he slurred.

“Oh? Is it a magical circle that conjures treasure chests of loot? That would be fantastic!” I exclaimed.

“Step forward to receive the magical incantation,” he said with a gesture.

“Would it be too much to ask to be compensated in coins? I’d also accept a fabulous sword of smiting if you have one. Or even some gauntlets that allow me to crush mine enemies would be nice.”

“Into the circle,” he repeated.

And then it happened. There was a blinding flash of light, a terrible rumble, and the weakening of my innards. But before I could protest to my treatment or offer apology for sullying the floor, it was over.

“There! You are blessed!” said the ritualist. “Come back any time.”

I quickly checked myself for burns, trauma and new appendages. Feeling nothing, I was relieved but stated, “I’m not sure anything has happened.”

“Oh, it has happened. While I am in no fit condition to give you the sword of smiting you seek, I am perfectly capable of instilling combat proficiency. At least for a limited time.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I replied.

“You now bathe in the glow of combat proficiency. You will have the grace of a cat, the stealth of the cobra, the speed of the mongoose.”

“Sorry? A what? What strikes a cat?” I asked.

“You!” he bellowed. “You are the cat! You will cast your combatants aside like peasants!”

“Oh, I am now able to smite mine enemies with great vigor and proficiency?” I asked.

“Indeed. Now go. I have much drinking and conjuring to do, but feel free to fetch more toenails of trolls and bring them back any time you like.”

“I think I would rather die,” I replied.

“I believe the chaps outside are plotting just that,” he countered looking out the window and sipping from his bottle.


I have to say, I am full of disappointment that we did not get an invite to this little soiree. Looks like they had a fabulous time without us, although from some of the charring, things may have gotten a little out of hand.


Quick man, make haste! Shut the door, we are under siege! That is the worst place and this is the worst time for a privy break!


I absolutely will not step inside that circle as you call it. I disagree that is a circle and I’m quite sure that is blood.


All right you arrow flinging purveyor of villainy, let’s see what these new skills can do!

Oh good gravy! Who told the urchin it was safe to play on the dock when grown ups are hurling fiery arrows at each other? The Oracle is surely going to frown upon this little blunder.

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

True words indeed my friends! True words indeed.

During my time as a legendary adventurer of note, I have been engaged by some rather unscrupulous citizens to retrieve some rather peculiar objects from some rather sullied and needlessly dangerous locations. This has lead to some less than savory encounters, with some nefarious characters of ill repute, who were less than willing to aid me in my endeavors. But this last request made me feel uneasy.

Several moons ago I was engaged by a ritualist to retrieve certain relics from a pair of trolls. I say relics, but I question that description. In fact, I should have questioned many things. I do not subscribe to the idea of a toenail as a relic. And certainly not one from a troll.

Mind you, I have no qualms with dispatching trolls. They are ill tempered sods, who, no matter how many times you extend a hand in camaraderie, or explain they have claim to horde bridge crossings, always cast aspersions and throw stones. It’s the casting of stones that bothers me most, so they deserve a solid thrashing from time to time.

But dispatching a troll, then engaging in toenail removal seems beneath me. Not to mention a hideous endeavor as it means touching those carbuncle covered feet. But, the promise of a fabulous reward compelled me to undertake the task and so I set off.

While strolling through the hills in meditative contemplation as to which bridge the troll may be lurking under, a rock was thrown into my mental pond and a troll leapt out from behind a rock outcropping.

The Senora and I quickly engaged in battle and with the calming nature of Immolation, the quelling nature of a fiery sword, and a Stone Fist to the underside of the kilt, we were victorious.

While it gave me no pleasure, and was quite possibly the most heinous act I have ever engaged in, I did indeed remove a toenail from each troll. The nearby river was soiled to putrescence as I cleansed said items before putting them in the folds of my robe.

With that sordid business out of the way, I must now make my way back to Tenebris Harbor to see what manner of reward awaits.


I shall stand here a moment and change my perspective. If I was a no good, no account troll, where would I hide? Besides a pub…


Huzzah! We have been victorious. Perhaps Senora, you could assist me in the toenail removal process? If we surround ourselves with flame, will that protect us from the plague and pestilence that surely exists on his person?


Victorious again! I had my doubts. Removing a toenail is one thing. Keeping it on my person is a mental and physical application that goes beyond my endurance.

One more and we can rid ourselves of this place. Fetch a stick Senora. I’m not touching this filthy rapscallion with my bare personage. I am getting the screaming horrors just thinking about it.

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia


Now this will do nicely. I’ve been meaning to clean those gutters on the inn. My original plan of scaling that tree, balancing precariously on a branch, then dropping like a cat onto the roof can now be put on hold. I can now take this ladder into the tree, balance precariously on a branch and shimmy down like a professional. I can avoid the drop altogether! Brilliant!

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia


It’s all very clear to me. A hideous pile of remains, a ramshackle encampment, abandoned weapons and unclaimed bottles of ale. This can only mean one thing! These ale bottles are now mine!

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

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