Working in the secrecy of my Combat Testing Facility, hidden deep on the first floor of the basement of my home in Stinging Tree Hollow, I poured over the intricate details of my stolen Kobold plans.

In a recent campaign to the heart of the Kobold city, I made a rather fantastic discovery. While sorting through the nitpicky and humdrum details of some life or death negotiations, I spied the schematics of a new type of armor the Kobolds had in development. Those wily, crooked-thumbed, cave dwellers had come up with something quite diabolical, yet genius.

Amidst the usual distractions of caustic insults and swordplay, I swept the plans into my hat for later perusal in private. If it contained what I hoped, it would advance my wolf smiting prowess by milestones!

In my mental absence, the dispute had been settled through the liberal use of bloodshed and some swift skewering with the lance. Since my work was done, and my aid was no longer desired, I quickly, but casually retreated with the nefarious plans.

By candlelight, I revealed that it was indeed a new type of armor, powered by powerful clockwork gears and driven by a mighty steam engine. When crafted from the right materials it would be brutally strong and nigh impossible to pierce. The wolves would be in for quite a surprise!

Trusting no one with what I had uncovered, I acquired the necessary materials to construct the suit through various underground channels. Away from prying eyes, I toiled at the smelting station through many candlelit nights casting special metal ingot molds, feverishly pounding the specialized metal sheets, and trying to follow the abhorrent handwriting of those Kobolds. How can a race with such abysmal quillmanship advance so far?

As I my secret work continued, I came to the shocking realization that while I had absconded with secret prototype parchments right under the noses of the Kobolds, I had absconded with secret prototype parchments that were incomplete with several fundamental elements missing. I was crestfallen. I was heartbroken. I was undaunted. Common sense had never stopped me before, and it would not be victorious this day.

Using my prodigious powers of deduction and my immense experience at the crafting stations, I formulated and calculated to fill in the missing steps and devised what I believed to be the proper missing parts. To my excitement and bewilderment, the pieces fit together perfectly. Except for the pieces that didn’t, which I merely threw away.

The final and crucial step was intact however, the dangerous, highly unstable, but ludicrously powerful steam engine to power my future suit of devastation. I raised a brow at  it’s placement, hanging at the backside within the leggings, but felt the Kobolds had done enough research to believe this the proper location for maximum power, effect and devastation. It also offered a shapely aspect, which did enhance the overall countenance of the armor.

Late one evening, after several blurry-eyed construction sessions, all my toils came to fruition. I hammered the last of the pieces in to place and stood back to take in the glory of my creation. It was indeed a spectacle to behold and the excitement to head out in to the forest and raise fury with those timber wolves that have taunted me for so long was nearly overwhelming. But I brought restraint to bear, and believed that it would be best to wait for the light of a new day to unveil my creation. The toil of the labor, the fumes of the smithing table and the multiple mugs of ale had gotten the better of me. Plus, I wanted the miserable miscreants to see me coming so their abject fear could wash over me.

However, I simply could not resist trying it on and the privacy of the basement afforded me the space of an initial test run. With eagerness, I donned the suit, stoked the boiler with coal, and made ready the practice dummy.

It was extraordinarily heavy and my first steps toward destruction were tentative and wobbly. It quickly became apparent the leggings would need a more robust heat protective shield, but I quickly became one with the suits movements and with my sword ablaze, reduced the practice dummy to splinters. The clockwork gears gave me amazing mobility and power. My strikes were brutal and effortless. And to prove my new found strength, I lifted the smithing stations with ease.

But alas, I ran into a downside. In my excitement and furor, I instinctively made ready the Immolation. This caused a chain reaction in the power plant of the suit and sent the steam pressure to critical levels.

Unable to dismiss the raging flames, the heat spiraled out of control and there was a mighty explosion in my backside. I was propelled at a frightening pace across the room, crashed violently into the wall, became woefully off balance and toppled over. The boiler gave another deafening explosion, obliterating my underground pumpkin patch.

My buttocks had suffered a catastrophic failure and to make matters worse, the suit’s mass was so great that I couldn’t right myself. I had fallen in the basement and couldn’t get up.

I struggled, thrashed and wrestled to no avail. After an exhausting hour, I came to the saddening conclusion that I would have to extricate myself from the twisted suit in order to rectify the situation. I had been completely immobilized on my first trial run.

My hope had been dashed! My spirit was crushed! In a fit of rage I grabbed the plans and stormed off to confront the Kobolds for their foolish design flaws and lack of attention to detail. I would demand satisfaction and restitution for the numerous salves that would need to be applied to soothe the scalding I had suffered.

But, then I realized confronting the Kobolds over this mishap and their stolen plans could lead to questions I couldn’t answer, even dire consequences and perhaps time in the Clink where they have no salve. Perhaps worse.

Who knows what manner of penal servitude the Kobolds subscribe to? Given their penchant for hostilities, I’m sure it’s quite severe.

As a combat ready weapon of destruction, the suit did not live up to expectations. However, I feel there is a silver lining. Before the great fire, the clockwork gears made me fantastically light on my feet and nimble as a cat. Plus, the metal coloration is quite fetching. Once I have healed, I believe I have found a way to improve the artistry in my dancing style at the next Harvest Festival.

But, salve first.


I say, this is both devastating, and devastatingly handsome


Well now, that boiler does heat things up a bit more than I expected. I could use a moist cloth at the moment


It looks quite dashing from behind, but a few air vents wouldn’t hurt

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

In an effort to change the wicked ways of the bandits and thugs, I am trying to show them there is more to life than banditry and thievery by introducing them to games of skill and chance. While it has no official title, the thugs are lining up to try their prowess. The first game of skill goes a little something like this.

To start, the band of roughs creates a menacing circle and attempts to close in on me with designs of causing harm to my person. My goal is to stop them in their tracks using only my arrow attacks and I receive extra points if I bring them down without them striking me first.

While some of the players are quite wily and tricky in their approach to bob and weave and almost make it to the point of doing me harm, most will stumble and fall to the ground several yards distant of me.

If they make it close enough to strike, whoever falls first has to buy the other a mug of ale. To date, I have won many rounds, but the lads still try to win the day.

Our game of chance involves feats of strength wherein a contestant sees how many pummels of Stone Fist he can take to the chest. I will buy a round of ale for each strike that doesn’t render them incapacitated on the floor. So far the record is three, but that poor chap had to be carted away to a healer. And alas, I haven’t seen him since. Perhaps I had the positive influence I intended and he has turned away from his life of lawlessness.

Word has spread of my games with bandits along the road and thugs in the foothills lining up to try their luck. I think I’m making progress and reaching them, but time will tell if they decide to follow the straight and narrow.


All right, let’s see how many hits you can take from one of my Fist skills. Yikes, that one looks like it’s done some internal damage.


Careful now lads, pay attention! Don’t try and catch the Ice Arrow, that’s just the height of folly!


That was indeed a palpable hit! You’re going to have to get a move on if you want to make it over here before the scalding flames get the better of you.


Nice game lads, but it looks like I won this round. After you’ve regained consciousness, you can join me in the pub

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

My prowess with the blade is on the cusp of becoming legend, with onlookers gasping comments like, "I’ve never seen it done like that before," and "he’s certainly going to put out an eye." But, as gifted as I may be, I must acknowledge the skill and acumen of others.

As an example, I’ve noted that Jobe, of the LOTC guild, is progressing in fine fashion with his bow skills. He shows great promise and if he continues to practice, could one day be a formidable adversary.

Since he’s committed himself to ranged attack, I’m not able to offer proper council or aid his skill development as if he had taken up the blade. However, he was good enough to detail his exploits, so I will review his style and offer pointers where appropriate.

Don’t be too critical of the lad, he’s still learning.

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

In order to keep me safe from the perils and dangers of the realm, Oba Evesor constructed a magnificent suit of armor made from White Iron. This will give me the valuable protection I need when faced with the onslaught of spiders, wolves, bears and the undead. No longer will it be a simple matter of stabbing me in the kidney and rendering me incapacitated. They’re going to have to work for their supper!

It’s a complete suit too, from boots that were made for walking, to the helm that casts and eerie shadow and makes me look as though I have stepped from the Netherworld. That is always a good look when trying to instill the proper amount of fear when first encountering an adversary.

Not to be outdone, I have crafted a mighty two-handed blade from bronze. This should prove useful as I endeavor to skewer bandits and the mage that never cease to do me harm by trying to set me ablaze. We’ll see who gets the last laugh.

To add the coup de grace to this magnificent set, I toiled at the crafting table and created a dye ensemble that would give this plating the brilliance it deserves. I had to loot a tremendous amount of bananas from that ungrateful Myra in Owl’s Head in order to complete it. I think she could be a bit more accommodating after all my work to sneak into the Clink to try and extricate her brother. It’s not my fault he’s suffering from the ill effects of dungeon fever and refused to make a getaway with me. I possessed the sword of smiting, what could have possibly gone wrong? Daylight and a fortifying sandwich were at hand!

Nevertheless, it is time to behold the awesome power of the White Iron Epic plate, adorned with Yellow Gold and trimmed with Dark Yellow. Don’t get too close, it’s sharp!


Don’t try to take it in all at once, there is simply too much.

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

After attending several PvP styled tournaments, I have come to the conclusion that Stinging Tree Hollow would benefit by the inclusion of its own combat arena. I have no personal desire or the skills necessary to engage in such feats of strength and combat, but rather, my reasons for such a structure are somewhat selfish.

While in attendance of previous tournaments, I, and several other unsuspecting onlookers where assailed with random acts of devastation. It seems spells such as Chain Lightning have no regard for the innocent and I was electrocuted in a most savage way. This lead to the embarrassing situation of losing control of my viscera and the more mortifying result of being knocked unconscious, forcing me to drop my drinking horn, thus spilling my ale. Additionally, degenerate gambling seems to be frowned upon in other towns and I feel compelled to rectify this situation.

To create a safe environment for ale consumption and the time honored trading of betting on people’s lives, the groundwork and the wheels have been set in motion. Alley Oop, with ever a keen eye and attention to detail has marked out the playing field and set up the boundaries we shall work within. With the help of the local vendors, suitable seating has been installed and appropriate lighting is being set.

Whether he realizes it or not, Oba Evesor has been tasked with preparing the field for battle. It rests upon his worthy shoulders to create a pitch well suited for combat. When completed it will create an area where participants must be aggressive and vigilant in order to hunt down their prey. Small areas of cover will be available, but there shall be no cowering the corners and no escaping the area. In the end, they must fight or submit. And, I of course, shall wager on the outcome and revel in the results knowing full well that errant arrows or misfired bolts of lightning shall not come between myself and my ale.

It shall indeed be a grand spectacle. And in order to spur on construction, I’m off to get the lash.


Well, things are coming along nicely. I see Oba is putting in some sort of diabolical maze.


Very good, my hot air balloon is in place so I can watch over the proceedings. And I see my wheel of pain has been delivered, excellent news.

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

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