So Alternéah has suggested we keep a diary of our adventures as a sort of log, perhaps in case we’re found dead? I don’t understand the use of that as any skilled mortician would have no trouble finding the identities of such high-profile travelers as ourselves, but whatever makes him happy. My only trouble is finding time to write this without him constantly leaning over my shoulder to correct my spelling or laugh at some ironic musing. Ah well.
I found myself traveling today towards a town that didn’t seem that important to me in the first place. We walked outside of the woods as opposed to through, which I found quite odd considering the shade and comfort the trees would give. Were it not for the dwarf with us (a slightly brutish barbarian named Bazinga, who wears long braids and fails exceedingly at trying to hide her mustache), I think we would have let the leaves shelter us from the sun. But I digress.
After walking for some ways, we came upon some Orcs having trouble with a broken wagon wheel. Bishop approached and helped them pry the wheel out of the rut while…You know, this is all very droll. The rest of my companions did some things to free up this wagon as I contemplated the different uses for Mage Hand…1) Stirring a fine stew. 2) Lacing my boots in the midst of battle. 3) Killing insects.
Some more things were said, some jerky was bought (Orcish jerky? No thank you…), and then we paid a small travelers fee to ride in the back of the wagon. The Orcs gave me a strange metal wand as payment for us helping them out, peppering their speech throughout with racial slurs involving Ogres. Whatever. The rest of our few hour trip passed without incidence, besides Alternéah believing he’d seen something in the woods. Monks…a fine trade to have at your side, but always looking over their shoulder. I guess someone has to.
We arrived in town and left the cart without trouble, the Orcs promising to meet up with us later at a local tavern. We headed off towards said tavern (The Golden Gadget). On our way a local guard named Gestal stopped us to check our passports, which were of course in order. I mention this only because Gestal made a later appearance in the day…a slightly noteworthy one.
The tavern smelled of strong incense and hops, something I hear humans find endearing and “cozy”. A few blood-stains were noticeable on the floor, with rugs thrown haphazardly over to hide. It was a comfortable enough place, littered with local color as well as a large gray skinned Ogre who reeked of outsider just as much as we did. Keep in mind, this was a fairly small town. I headed towards the bar where I haggled with a “delightful” barkeep who, I feel, overcharged me for some ale that was palatable at best. I returned with a round for my companions, as well as a gazetteer entitled the “TNC Newsletter”. A newsletter for adventurers.
A newsletter for adventurers. I had the first laugh of a boring day thinking about that concept…if mother and father knew this existed, I think I would find them well placed in their own morgue. Cause of death? Hilarity.
So we drank for a bit and made small talk, wasting time in this small tavern. The barkeep told us the story of the original owner, a gnome who had vanished years ago whose name I forget because seriously, who remembers gnomish names? Grunt and myself decided to head upstairs to check out our room (which was cozy, albeit gnome-sized) and meet our neighbors.
I returned downstairs to see why my small friend Bishop was drunkenly yelling my name, and talked to him for a few minutes about how “Yes, I got us a room” and “No, I don’t want to watch you flip your knife around” before a human charged down the stairs and accused us of stealing. A petty thief? No thank you.
But it is late, and I’ve much to recover from. I’ll continue this in the morning after nursing my wounds from that damned metal minotaur.
Boccob be praised!