I. Harpy

The first harpy did not hatch: she was made,
As all the gods were not born, they became--
Haven't we suffered enough? Who's to blame?
A jealous lover she could not dissuade
From harming her daughters: them young, afraid
Of man, afraid of change. I know their names.
I sing of Queen Ozomene and her game,
Of the trickster god who came to her aid;
Of Iris and else, talons formed of hate,
Crafted from something that might look like lace
But was hate. It was hate. I do not blame
My sister. I won't fear the hand of fate--
I won't bite it or confuse it for grace.
The first harpy did not hatch. She became.

--Okythoe

Zaikkra, the Emperor of the Material Abyss,
He's among the grandest of foes, hear this.

Many have great legends and myths,
Such as necromancers with scythes,
Paladins with impressive blades,
Gravediggers with their spades,
And the kings, queens, and knaves.

Of the stones to summon Zaikkra, there are seven,
One for each deadly sin removing heroes from heaven,
Each of which causes an end ever so tragic,
Not all of which can be attributed to magic.

I hope to summon Zaikkra from the Sewers,
Getting all seven stones to create lures,
Catch him like a fish with a worm upon a hook,
And write of my exploits within a wonderful book.

The way there is not one with ease,
Though perhaps I should not tease.

We shall where this goes.
For whoever really knows?

I am Zilvyr, Master Bard. I scribe this scroll as a song has appeared on
the tip of my tongue and I have none to play it for. So instead, I shall
write it for you. Keep in mind however, I have no affiliation with those
written here.

-The Ballad of the Legion, as written by Zilvyr, the Tongue-

In the shadows deep, where the night conspires, Legion gathers, fueled by
dark desires. Whispers of Dogran, the shaman of the flame, Call to the
wicked, who bear his name.

Eyes like embers, hearts cold as stone, Seeking the vessels to make demons
their own. Liar, deceiver, their tongues twist the night, Spreading the
chaos with every bite.

Through the caverns low, beneath iron skies, Dogran's laughter echoes, his
power never dies. Duergar shaman, master of lies, Filling their spirits
with endless cries.

Cursed by the blood, they bear his mark, Turning to beasts when the world
goes dark. Liar, betrayer, their souls entwined, Seeking the innocent,
bodies to bind.

Oh, the world will tremble when they appear, Their hunger endless, they
spread the fear. Dogran, their master, they heed his call, As demons rise,
the heavens fall.

They conspire, they desire, Legion's flame, ever higher. Dogran's will,
they never tire, In shadows they burn, a deadly fire.

If you have need of my services, you may speak with me directly or send a
note. I am always willing to write about... Anyone. Should it be
falsehood or truth, I will make it my own.

This is my first written song, written many renewals prior to the one I
sent previously about the Legion. I was to perform this song at the party
of Valindra, but was rebuffed and ignored, time and time again. It is of
little matter, though I did feel... Something. I have since made amends
with the Mother Witch and decided to publish her song for all of Serin to
enjoy. So enjoy.

The Ballad of the Mother Witch

In the gloom of shadowed depths, a Goblin witch resides,
Her age a cryptic secret, where time and darkness bide.
Her eyes, a milky haze, her form a wrinkled tale,
In folds of flesh entwined, where age and night prevail.

Her hair, a sickly hue, like pus upon the skin,
A flicker in the darkness, where lesser magics spin.
Emerald could she be, if light her form did grace,
But green is the shade of shadows, where no light dares to chase.

From her waist, the pouches dangle, secrets old and grim,
Bone and mystery adorn her, shadows draped on whim.
A bulbous, stooped reflection, with a cantrips fickle breeze,
She weaves her dark enchantments, with a whisper on the leaves.


-Zilvyr-

This song is a bit different than the previous ones. This one is a form
of combat, a combat against the cowardly Elves and the Duke known as Aelar
Silverblade. He complains, he cries, he's a warrior with no pride. And so,
I shall now provide you the song of the cowardly Duke Aelar Silverblade.

In the ancient woods where the Elves reside,
Aelar Silverblade was born with pride.
Tales of valor filled his ears,
But deep inside, he harbored fears.

He trained with sword, with bow in hand,
A warrior's path, a noble stand.
But when the shadow grew and the night would fall,
His courage crumbled, frail and small.

Oh, Duke Aelar, of the Silverblade,
In the light of day, your courage fades.
You talk of honor, strength, and might,
But in the dark, you flee the fight.
Oh, Duke Aelar, where do you hide?
Behind your tales, beneath your pride.
The coward's heart, you can't deny,
No hero's path, no battle cry.

He walks with grace, his eyes so keen,
But in his belly, fear is seen.
His silken hair, his piercing gaze,
Hide the truth of his cowardly ways.

The elders spoke of strength and power,
But Aelar trembles in danger's hour.
His fingers fubmel, his hands do shake,
The Silverblade, a name at stake.

And so, since you flee the fight and run at my sight, I CUT thee, Duke
Aelar Silverblade with a tongue so sharp.

-Zilvyr, the Tongue-

A song for your listening hearts, of Avenar, the Oracle of Stars.

In the city of Ofcol, where the noble dwell,
Avenar was born, with stories to tell.
Son of a priest, with wisdom so vast,
His mother, a scholar, of Serin's past.

With quill in hand and history in heart,
He dreamed of a future where he'd play his part.
Among the high priests, his father's kin,
Avenar's journey was set to begin.

Golden aura, radiant light,
Avenar stands, a beacon so bright.
With eyes of gold, and grace untold,
His story unfolds, like legends of old.

Avenar wrote in his gifted tome,
Of noble life and a future unknown.
He sought the gods of ancient lore,
Their creation tales he did explore.

Among friends he found his voice,
But in solitude, he made his choice.
To follow the path, his father laid,
With every word, his faith displayed.

Avenar, with auburn hair that flows,
Through golden mist, his power grows.
A sculpted form, serene and pure,
In his presence, all feels secure.

In Ofcol's halls, where the noble pray,
Avenar's light will forever stay.
A priest, a scholar, a guiding star,
In the history of Serin, he'll go far.

-the Tongue, Zilvyr-

This song is scribed as a suggestion. A suggestion of Rathek, Keeper of
Balance. He informed me of a story and I thought I would put pen to
parchment. The following is not an account witnessed by mine own eyes, so
take it as you will, but I do hope you enjoy it.

-The Minotaur's Lament, as written by Zilvyr-

In the shadows of the night, where darkness finds its mark,
There lived a Minotaur named Ractor, with a spirit faint and stark.
He joined the Legion of Darkness, with fury in his heart,
But beneath his brutish form, his courage fell apart.

Oh, Ractor, the coward of the Legion, bound by fear,
You held the might of a berserker, but your heart was never near.
You struck at the holder of the Skull, but only once, then fled,
In the river lands you hid, while your honor lay there dead.

The Skull, a cabal's treasure, dark power in its bone,
In Ractor's grasp for just a breath, before he turned to stone.
He ran from shadows in his mind, from foes he'd never face,
And in the murky river lands, he found his hiding place.

Then came Rathek, the Werebeast ranger, of the Keepers strong and true,
With the strength to challenge darkness, and the courage to pursue.
But Ractor cowered in the reeds, not a whisper, not a fight,
He let the ranger pass him by, vanishing into the night.

In the shadows of the night, your legend fades to grey,
For Ractor, the coward Minotaur, has lost his warrior's way.
The Legion marches on, with power in their stride,
But Ractor, the coward, in darkness still must hide.

I have a neck bot not a head,
And inside me is something red.

What am I?

I have a foot and a head,
And yet I've never bled.

I may be made of flowers,
Use of me involves hours.

I may be made of nails,
And rid one of all ails.

There is a time for me,
There is a room for me.

What am I?

Recently, Darkhan appeared and spoke of a key to open sealed doors, which
included portals to the Abyss. The Orbs of Night and Day were captured and
then came together to form that key, suggesting the end may be at hand soon.

But where have the Knights been lately? Sir Elyr noted a leave of absence
just before these events started, Sir Aethon has not been seen about
recently, and Sir Durgan cannot handle this alone when he is even here!

Furthermore, Ractor continues to rampage after becoming anathema for slaying
the Duchess Silunei, and it is like the Knights are on vacation, blissfully
unaware of the current woes of Serin.

Several vampires have risen and they stalk Serin on a regular basis, further
leading one to question if the Knights are actually doing anything.

- The Insightful Dove

The oath to Valour is supposed to be sacred. Or at least, that's what
the Knights hope it should be. It was not all that long ago that a drider
thief by the name of Ahvikari Mahatappa took the oath to Valour, only to use
that safety to become stronger. She then hide within the guild of paladins
and betrayed the Knights of Valour by attacking the squire Balagrin.
Balagrin was slain, and Ahvikari Mahatappa has become anathema to the
kingdom of Valour for her treachery.

- The Insightful Dove

Greetings fellow members of the Invoker Guild,

It is with great humility and sadness that I reach out to you on this day to
inform you that my supreme enchanting prowess has incurred the wrath of the
Gods. Oh, how foolhardily I wielded the the power to slow myself as I
callously laid nine or ten layers upon the blades of our finest champions.
And now, to barely be able to enchant at all without rest after each layer,
I find myself lost for meaning. I have no doubt that you feel the same way.
In truth, I cannot say if it is the God of Air, Lady Valindra, who has
maintained our lost powers for her cohort or the so called God of mythical
luck, Lumubella, that I have angered. However, I can say with utmost
certainty that the mighty God of Shadow, Lord Dogran, Sinister Minister, has
the power to correct this wrong upon our guild. I assure you that I devote
myself to Lord Dogran and encourage you to do the same. As vessels, we can
embrace his strength and without his wisdom, who knows what the lesser Gods
will try to take from us next?

Yours in truth and practice,
Hennef

Over the course of several Renewals, Zilvyr "the Tongue" was pursued for
an interview. The initial attempt happened on the 5th Renewal of Celestial
of Death, when an initial inquiry was met favorably but the reporter was
told now wasn't the time for it. The next Renewal, Zilvyr "the Tongue" was
consulted for some time but the interview was interrupted by the arrival of
Ractor. Zilvyr had openly admitted two things by that point: first, that he
wished to be the greatest bard in all of Serin; and second, and that he
wanted to best Ractor.

The second part of the interview took place on the 7th Renewal of the
Celestial of Death, just after Zilvyr and Rahki finished a set of duels
leading to a tie of one win for each combatant. Zilvyr asked the reporter
what she knew about the Black Pyramid, which was not enough to satisfy a
specific inquiry he held. Zilvyr's first several works have been included
within this Mystique. Zilvyr said when asked in Legion would fare well if
Ractor ends his life that he thought there is always someone else readily
available to replace them.

Zilvyr also said he has no doubt in his abilities, and I quote, "Whether
with blade or song, each cut equally."

- The Insightful Dove

With the recent departure of two major members (see obituaries section
for KRAGN and ZAITHIRAX), Legion seems far less dangerous nowadays.
Dorakkan is known to serve the Dark Lord, and Mordrith is an unconfirmed
member. Otherwise, Legion's membership remains unknown. Their agenda seems
to involve the production of black masses and attempts to terrorize the good
citizenry of Serin (Well, they were more frightening when Kragn was around,
but that's no longer that case) and anything else remains unknown.

Excerpted from Loitering with Intent: the Letters and Diaries of Bonfo
the Brazen, Master of Moustache - Volume 2, the Golden Years.

Part 1

You dear reader, who has nothing better to do than consume such tales of
daring and true romance as this, might be interested to hear just how a
halfling thief in the twilight of his years managed to slay the Titan known
as Kragn, Dragon of Serin. It is a tale of teamwork, derring-do, and crafty
guile, but for me it all started with a hangover.

The day in question, I awoke with the fuzzy head familiar to those who have
enjoyed too much elven wine too late into the prior evening. Outside it
sounded like one of the great storms wrought by the Immortals was raging, so
I burrowed back down into my sheets, and the limbs of my bed companion,
where it was warm and luxurious and no one could hurt me.

As I tried to drift back to sleep, something odd about the sound of the
storm caught my attention. The booming peels of thunder seemed all wrong
somehow. Curious, I crawled carefully over the sleeping form of my second
bed companion, peered out the window, and promptly reeled back in horror.
The Titan himself was lumbering down the Eastern Road, his sunken, bloodshot
eyes almost at a level with my second story window and his footsteps
reverberating through the streets like thunder. I pressed myself against
the wall, fearing he might have seen me. Soon I heard a second set of
ringing footsteps and risked another look. Raodan, his golden veins pulsing
with adrenaline, was charging after the Titan. The clang and clash of their
battle practically shook the nearby buildings. Kragn was a known threat to
the Realms; it was clear I had to do what I could to tip the scales of Serin
back towards balance.

Preparing for battle, I adorned myself with a bold little poncho the color
of dragonblood, an admittedly flamboyant amulet of wounding, and a signet
ring gambled in a fit of good fortune when Echuir, Jaloro, and I last made a
late-night pilgrimage to the Unlucky Smuggler. Echuir made out wonderfully
with a silver-gray cloak and boots, but Jaloro nearly gambled away Mockers
Tavern (although why you care about such details dear reader, I do not
know). Finally, I put on my Trinket of Lady Luck, that most divine of
mistresses, polished to a gleaming bronze. Emblems of Lady Luck are not
actually for fighting, but instead for making you ride tall on your mount,
full of audacity and unearned confidence. I winked at my bed companions and
swaggered out of the room. Once out of sight of my lady friends, however, I
began sneaking and stalking through the shadows. Look, elderly halflings
who ply their profession as thieves arent going to approach a fight as if
they were a raging berserker or a rough-and-tough warrior now are they? We
all must use such gifts as the Gods gave us, so sneak and stalk in the
shadows I did.

Out of the inn and onto the street, the trail of combat was not hard to
follow. At the Eastern Gate I spied the Titan. I had to climb the leather
ropes that criss-cross the gate itself just to get high enough to blackjack
him! The awful splattering sound Kragns head made when it cracked the
ground was deliciously satisfying, I must say. I alerted Raodan at once.

"Hail Raodan!" I said to him, "here's a wonderful day to be alive! There
is a blackjacked Titan at the Eastern Gate that may be of special interest
to you. Please hurry, I think he will only nap for a short time."

"Hail Bonfo!" Raodan replied, "do you hear the sound of hooves on the
cobblestones? That's me on my mount rounding the Seringale fountain now."

With time for one last gambit, I pulled from my pocket a leather pouch
filled with herbs of an unbelievable nastiness. Holding my breath, I lit
the herbs on fire and placed them directly under Kragn's nose. The Titan
roared to life and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Help! A distinguished
silver fox of a halfling just tried to drug me!"

At that same moment, I felt Raodan's shadow loom over me. The time for
subterfuge was over; the time for battle had begun. Together we rushed the
Titan.

Elderly halflings of full habit, as Nelwin the tailor says, very rarely
duck, dodge, and scamper around the feet of stampeding giants, but duck,
dodge, and scamper is just what I did. You should have seen Raodan! He was
marvelous, a model of lethal efficiency. He seemed to be in all places at
all times, behind the Titan, in front of him, beside him, parrying high,
shield blocking low, and responding to Kragn's attacks with a will made of
iron. The Titan was so consumed with repelling Raodan's onslaught that he
momentarily forgot about me, a mistake that would cost him dearly.

In my youth and before my arrival in Serin, I was in one of those
not-so-secret-secret coteries. During that time, I was instructed in the
techniques and tactics of disarming people. And do you know what? I was
rather good at it.

So, when Kragn whirled Khyer-Dirohm at Raodan's neck, no doubt hoping to
relieve him of the burden of his head, I stepped to the side, snatched
Kragn's wrist 'en xiete' (as the elves would say), slipped my grip up to his
thumb, and then pulled the appendage cruelly backwards. His hold thus
weakened and his own momentum carrying him forward, Khyer-Dirohm went
twirling into the air. Quick as a flash, Raodan knelt to the ground and
sacrificed it to the Gods. How's that for teamwork, eh?

At this, perhaps sensing that the odds had not changed in his favor, Kragn
performed an about face and fled.

He went and hid in Emerald Forest of all places! Have you ever seen a giant
Titan trying to hide behind a tree? My oh my, he did look silly. He even
attempted to move on tip toes if you can believe it, prancing about the
trunk of the tree and pivoting this way and that, peeking at us all the
while through the foliage. I think it was our laughter that ultimately
drove him to confront us.

The skirmish in the forest did not last long. My daggers, smeared and
swathed and saturated with venom, sapped the Titan of his strength and he
soon began to grunt and struggle with his belongings; Raodan's divine blows
bashed and battered the Titan about the forest, leaving Kragn no room to
launch a counterattack. The Titan once again turned tail and fled, and who
can blame him really? Not only was it a wise move given his circumstances,
it was a predictable one. Here I must confess that I was slow to join
Raodan in the forest because I was busy placing several tripwires at key
intervals on the path to Emerald.

Right on cue, Kragn clanked his way into the first of them, entangling
himself in the process. Raodan fell on him, his weapons cutting thick
chunks of flesh from the Titan's well-nourished body. Up on his feet, panic
in his eyes, Kragn fled towards Seringale and promptly clotheslined himself
on the second of my tripwires.

Sensing an opportunity, I changed weapons from my customary dagger to a
dragonbane spear. You might think the image of a diminutive halfling
wielding a spear twice his size is a silly one, but it doesn't bother me one
bit. Besides, even when the spear fails to penetrate heavy or medium armor,
the force of the blow can still be counted on to bang up the spleen,
bladder, and other butcher's awful quite nicely.

Surging with the thrill of combat, I gored the Titan once, then twice, and
suddenly, it was over. He didn't really fall as much as slump to the
ground, the life drained from his body. He tried to utter some semblance of
last words in that stentorian voice of his, but all that came out was a kind
of honk. Best for all involved really, long winded that one, much to the
annoyance of those around him. Still, as a precaution I stomped on his head
when stepping over him.

When Kragn did crawl back to his corpse (on his hands and knees, oh the
shame of it!) He wheezed out a question about why a halfling such as myself
would ever attack a Titan like him.

(The tale continues in Part 2)

Excerpted from Loitering with Intent: the Letters and Diaries of Bonfo
the Brazen, Master of Moustache - Volume 2, the Golden Years.

Part 2

Before I could respond, Raodan replied, "You do not know Bonfo, now you
do." I mean can you imagine having the presence of mind to say exactly
those words at exactly that moment? What aplomb, what composure, what
deftness. Here we must acknowledge that Raodan is the true hero of this
story. I scored a lucky blow against Kragn, but it was Raodan who weakened
the Titan in mind and body during a battle of attrition that lasted the
course of an entire storm. If I could do it over again, I would stay my
hand on that final blow so Raodan could deliver the killing strike and
receive the recognition he justly deserves. Please, dear reader, tell no
one that I have grown so sentimental in my old age.

The battle finished, Kragn crawled off to lick his wounds, Raodan went to
celebrate in a pious fashion befitting a Paladin, and I suddenly felt stiff
and sore all over. Perhaps, I thought, I could convince Vikka to bring a
tub up to my room and fill it with hot water so that I could soak my aching
joints. Perhaps one or two of my lady friends could join me in the tub as
well, with a few bottles of champagne for good measure. Yes, I thought,
that would be the perfect way to end this tumultuous day. It was not meant
to be, however, for as soon as I entered my room someone stepped out from
the shadows and clubbed me over the back of the head with a lead-filled
sack. As I fell, my chin hooked on the edge of the bed and I hung there
awhile, feeling old and incapable and stupid. A voice whispered in my ear,
"My sweet, silly little Bonfo, it's wonderful to see you again." It
sounded, I recalled distantly, like the voice of my ex-wife. Then I was
blackjacked again and at this I fell through the floor, fathoms and fathoms
and fathoms, into the beautiful darkness.

Hear ye, hear ye! The Consortium is still accepting new applicants!
With the return of Valindra, things are much more lively these days. You
will not suffer from lack of things to do if you join the Consortium, nor
suffer from boredom for very long! If you have even minor talent with a
quill, apply today and aid us with the Mystique! If you want to go places
and save the world, apply today and join us on marvelous adventures! If you
want to learn more about combat, apply today and dedicate yourself to the
Warfare pillar so you can focus on war correspondence!

This message is brought to you by the ever insightful and resplendent dove,
who is currently also feeling lonely and overworked!

Found: one corpse of a titan,
which was mauled by a Triton.
It is plain and obvious to see,
that the "Emperor" twas he.
Did he ever have an empire,
Or did he fancy himself higher,
Thinking himself above most,
When he only ruled compost?

Gone: an illithid among demons,
One who no longer serves Legion.
He was among the psionic mages,
Regularly filling these pages,
None have ever been very great,
Zaithirax, he is gone, or late.

Pan-Fried Avian Wings with Spicy Pepper Sauce

Ingredients:

1 spicy pepper
2 bone-in, skin-on avian wings
1 packet of spice
1 reddish herb
1 onion tasting platter
Stock


1) Cut the spicy pepper in half through the stem. Fill a large pot with
water. Hold the pepper under the water and remove the seeds with your
hands. Set 1/4 cup aside.

2) Lay the avian wings skin side up and use a carving dagger to score the
skin in a crosshatch pattern. Be sure to cut into the skin only - not far
enough that the meat is exposed. Season the flesh well with spice and
reddish herbs.

3) Place a frying pan on a cooking fire of medium heat. Lay the wings, skin
side down, on the frying pan. Cook slowly until the skin is crispy, about 7
minutes.

4) Flip the wings over and cook to medium rare, 5 to 7 minutes. Transfer to
a plate, skin side up, and set aside to rest.

5) Pour off the fat from the frying pan and add 1/2 of the stock. (Note:
see Zafrin for stock recipe).

6) Dice the onions from the onion platter and add to the stock. Stir
frequently until onions are soft and golden, about 6 minutes.

7) Add the pepper halves and the 1/4 cup of water used to remove the seeds.
Simmer until reduced by half, 3-5 minutes.

8) Slowly add the remaining stock, stirring frequently, and simmer until the
sauce is thick and flavorful.

9) Carve the wings and arrange in a fan pattern on four separate plates.
Add the reserved pepper seeds to the sauce. Spoon the sauce over the wings
and serve immediately.

Halfling Stew with Potatoes and Corn, served with Warm, Crusty Rolls

Ingredients:

1.5 pounds of fresh halfling meat, trimmed of excess fat and cut into 1
inch cubes
1 onion platter
1 carrot
4 medium potatoes peeled and cut into 1 inch cubes (I prefer to get mine
from Alanna in the Holy Grove)
4 ears of corn, each cut in half
1 dusk of timian herbs
0.5 bottle red wine
6-8 warm, crusty rolls (see Polira in Timaran)


1) While your cooking fire heats, season the halfling meat with Timian
herbs. Using a metal cooking pot (see Calma in Seringale for a high
quality item) brown the meat on all sides. Transfer the browned meat to a
plate and set aside.

2) Set the pan back from the cooking fire for less heat, then add the
onions and carrots, scrapping up any remaining bits of meat from the
bottom of the pan. Cook until the vegetables begin to soften, about 4 minutes.

3) Return the halfling meat and any of its juices to the pot and add the
red wine. Increase the heat and simmer until the wine is reduced by half.

4) Add the potatoes and ears of corn and stir to coat them with the
juices. Add water until all is covered and bring to a boil.

5) Set the pot back from the heat, cover, and simmer for 45 minutes.

6) Remove the lid and continue to cook until the halfling meat is tender,
about 30 to 45 minutes. The sauce should be reduced to thick gravy; if it
looks too watery, simmer uncovered, to reduce the sauce to the correct
consistency.

7) Serve in warm bowls with a generous portion of warm rolls on the side.
Dip the crusty rolls in the gravy for an extra treat.

A Bowl of Shame

Ingredients:

1 skinless Drow thigh
1 piecrust (see Runya or Miss Piffle)
2 carrots diced (for this recipe use the carrots grown around the Standing
Fortress)
Mushrooms, diced (the mushrooms found in Mount Saidan are quite pathetic,
suitable for this recipe)
1 stalk of celery One onion tasting platter Chicken broth (see Zafrin's
adept)
Milk One huge egg Some spice Milk (I prefer farmer Elizabeth in New Ofcol)
One bottle of dwarven fire breather


1) Roast the drow thigh over a spit, then pull apart the meat with your
fingers into bite sized pieces. Set aside to cool.

2) Line a frying pan with pie crust.

3) Over a cooking fire, saut the onion, carrots, celery, and mushrooms in a
giant sauce pan until tender, about 2 minutes.

4) Slowly add chicken broth and milk to the pan. Mix well until smooth and
bring the mixture to a simmer. Let it simmer over medium heat until
thickened to a desired consistency (similar to gravy), about 2-3 minutes.

5) Remove the pan from heat and add in drow meat. Season with spice and
allow to cool a bit.

6) Fill the frying pan lined with the pie crust with the sauce, vegetables,
and drow meat.

7) Place the top of the pie crust over the mixture. Flute the edges of the
pie crust and cut several vent in the top of the crust. The vents may or
may not resemble the wounds that killed you.

8) Crack the egg over the top of the crust and "wash" all over. This helps
your pie develop an extra golden crust.

9) Place over an extra hot cooking fire and cook until the top turns golden
brown, about 30 minutes.

10) Spoon into a bowl, the messier the better, and consume with an entire
bottle of dwarven firebreather while you wallow in the shame of your defeat.