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Citizens of Serin,

The Midway Melee was wrought with struggle, bloodshed, mishaps, and drama,
and it has now come to its end. As the midway combatants struggled to maintain
their rank as well as meet, the beginning rounds progressed slowly and clumsily.

Finally battle was had when Josymba the monk defeated Vaalyun the healer.
The fighting was over quick as her strikes landed too fiercely for the communer
to overcome.

Next, the same Josymba faced Chayvudd the berserker. His rage was impressive
and struck true fear into the heart of the monk. She fled for her life from the arena,
calling upon the Gods to recall her home. Her wish sealed her defeat.

The monks Herquan and Tei faced off, battling to prove themselves as the next
great grandmaster. It was a drawn out battle, as the monks sparred and
skirmished but in the end Tei bled to death on the floor of the arena as Herquan
watched.

For the final and the championship it was Herquan and Chayvudd. Chayvudd
came ready for another duel with a monk, but his rage could not shake
Herquans resolve and her blows struck true and relentlessly.

Herquan the Seeker of Knowledge has claimed victory in the Midway Melee
and proven herself, bringing great glory to her future claims to pinnacle. Her
prize of Medals and gold well deserved.

To those who feel inspired to seek such glory for themselves, send an
application to Warlords.

And all be prepared for future tournaments. Steps are being made to ease
the meeting process. More tourney duels will be held soon!

-Thoom, Warmaster of Warlords

On the fair 9th Renewal of the Celestial of Order, Chul the Cowardly was
seen constantly refusing to fight Rhoa the Executor of Valour! Lady Rhoa
intruded upon the halls of Justice, and for some reason Chul spent more time
avoiding a fight and resting inside guilds than actually performing his
duties! Is this what Justice has come to, when members like Chul the
Cowardly become prominent?

The Fall of Solmundi part 1
---------------------------
In fact, I have seen how swiftly a demon may move to take the soul of an
elven paladin. I often wonder why the staunch oath taken by my kin draws
such a beast to feed upon the slightest crack, but that is a point requiring
further research. Of interest now is the slower fall of a jotun paladin.

It is well known that tension exists between myself and Commander Solmundi,
yet it may not be common fact that I once held great hope for him, when he
rose to his position. "If anyone," said I "a paladin must bring true safety
and honor to the position of Justice." A foolish hope, as it turned out.

With horror I watched as Solmundi inducted drow after drow. Worse, these
drow were obviously devious in nature, keeping to the shadows to spy on
citizens under the guise of keeping the law. When they showed their faces,
they antagonized the population with vitriol and offensive action such as
licking citizens. (I ask, why is spitting against the law, but licking
non-consenting citizens permitted?) A light of hope flourished when Fatma
was accepted into the ranks, but she proved just as rude as any from Unlit.
The rest have been complaisant, hiding behind the letter of the law to
justify the actions of their comrades.

In fact, you are correct. This alone is not proof of corruption. The proof
was to be made on the day Solmundi invited me to town to discuss how we
might have peace between us. He fined me for my weapon, then followed me
from town when I went to pay the executioner. I removed the weapon then
heard "Feel the sting of Justice, Wench" just before his blade struck me in
my chest. I barely escaped with my life.

I was not so lucky when Chul came for 'revenge.' I ask, was tearing my
body apart on the wheel not sufficient revenge for my attack on his person
within the City? In fact, such offense required him to murder me within my
own library.

The question becomes why. Is Vhrael behind these malicious acts, whispering
poison in the ears of the current officers as some sort of revenge? In
fact, it is equally likely that Dogran is behind it all, either with
standard bribes or perhaps some secrets held by Solmundi or worse -
Kedaleam! Or is the corruption a simpler affair? Is there a demon stalking
Solmundi, preying on every crack the law places on his armor?

The Lady Vanisse has set her two adepts, Sir Alkas and Lady Lumubella, the
daunting task of recovering his soul. It is my hope that they are
successful, but I have been trying for more than half my life to put sense
into that thick skull.

Together, may they succeed where I failed.

-II

Dear Reader,
Welcome to 'Wit and Whispers,' Serin's premier (well, aspirant) gossip rag.
I'm your faithful servant, Valindra Skitterwit: I see all, tell most, and
eat some. I saw you dancing in the flames, gentle reader.

Here you'll find all the news that's fit to print and some that frankly
isn't.

This week's highlights--

*Is JUSTICE blind? One might say near-sighted at the very least, for which
of the esteemed cabal's members faces public scrunity for violating the very
laws he's oath-bound to protect?

*A KNIGHT like any other? Sources embedded deep within Valour whisper of
friction at the top of the organization. Will the Archon corral her
disorderly elves? Will the Executor pause her tiresome crusades long enough
to lend the cabal some much-needed leadership? Only time--or, failing that,
I--will tell.

*Have you seen this bird? A Countess of Darkhaven has recently gone
missing: some say she withers in the dungeons of Valour; others say the
Minister has forsaken her!

Join me next time for an exclusive interview with controversial public
figure Chul and an exploration of five new uses for gyvel.

Of wit and whispers,
Valindra

An Adventure Through River Wood
-------------------------------
Having returned from my journey to Acadia, I decided it was best that I
begin anew my research on the lands of Serin. And so I chose River Wood, an
aquatic region that always both frightened and lured me as a young girl for
the powerful Water within. I began my visit from the south-eastern part of
Mystic Forest. The path in is a narrow and foreboding one, with a dying
rabbit and a lonely necromancer the only living creatures to meet along the
way. My feet began to sink deeper and deeper into mud as a recent rain had
raised the water level of the River itself. It seems to have been carving
its way through the southern mountains for some time, for it lies within a
lush, sub-tropical valley. The river itself, mighty as it is, cannot be
heard over the roars of the multiple waterfalls which converge at the watery
entrance to River Wood.

Behind one such waterfall is a cavernous tunnel with a swirling whirlpool
that carries one into the depths. Though the water at the entrance rushes
furiously, behind the whirlpool it quickly calms to a surprisingly stagnant
state. Here in the brackish delta, river pike and beavers can be found
making their homes in the silty stream. To the west, a huge cavern serves
as both home and training grounds for a number of newborn water elementals.
Sea ghouls also lurk here, occasionally preying upon the young. At the
northwest corner of this cave is the Lake Watcher, the instructor of the
newborns, who requests aid for a quest from nearby travelers. Occasionally,
one may find a water cube here created by newborns for combat training.

To the east of the entrance to River Wood, turmoil begins anew in the water,
and the temperature of the water also drops very quickly. Following the
path to the east and south, one may find two pockets of air, one an empty
bubble and the other containing a thousand-year-old treant trapped in the
water. North of the cold water, past a foul creature known as Kre'Qusan,
the Sea Wyrm, a chute leads one down through yet another whirlpool into the
underwater section of River Wood.

This whirlpool is much larger than the one at the entrance, and is further
more ominous too, as an enraged titan lives here surrounded by enslaved
Defenders. Still, the titan pays no heed to adventurers unless provoked.
Beneath the whirlpool is a section of watery channels that are guarded by
Triton Watchmen and Laurien elves, strange aquatic cousins of terrestrial
elves that can breathe underwater.

From here, one can traverse four paths (the fifth being a dead end).
Heading straight west will bring one to the eastern gates of the city of
Valour. East and to the south branch takes one to a winding, maze-like path
filled with reeds, seaweed, and triton Underlings. At the end of the path
is the hidden castle of the Whirlwind Keeper, a wild triton and lesser lord
in River Wood, who carries blue leg plates and a whirlwind staff. This
castle is guarded not by a dog, but a frog, which perhaps belies the humor
of the castle's owner!

Taking the path east and north of the Whirlwind Keeper's residence instead
will lead one to a sharp drop-off, below which can be found the Mastermind,
a wicked man who is plotting something nefarious in a hidden cave of coral,
and the Great Sea Dragon of the Deep, a huge and ancient dragon who carries
a crested helm in the shape of a serpent.

The last branch of River Wood, which lies just north of the exit to Valour,
takes one into the area where the most powerful Tritons reside: the Triton
Battlesmith, who carries a fearsome black double-bladed battleaxe; the
Priest of the Oceans, who wields the staff of storms, and King Paelloran
himself, who carries powerful items such as the Band of Light, speckled
coral leggings, and a flickering pearl.

Those who wish to visit these watery depths, however, are recommended to
bring some pills to enable breathing underwater, or at the very least an
invoker or druid friend who may assist them in such endeavors!

Scribed by Serra

How (NOT) to Make a Cheese, by Serra
--------------------------
In this document I detail all the knowledge I have gleaned about the art of
cheese-making. Of course, I am no farmer nor culinary expert, so I shall
not provide you with exact measurements or seasonings or the proper duration
for aging. Instead, I shall provide you with a methodology one can use to
elevate a cheese of rarity to such exceptional quality that it may only be
eaten by the gods. And along with it, my story of its discovery.

The first ingredient, of course, is a rare cheese. Where might one find
such a cheese in Serin? Until recently, I never knew such a thing was
possible - every cheese-shop I could find only offered humble cheeses for
the average consumer. Very few, I imagine, would pay a premium price for a
rare cheese that might be simply gobbled up in a matter of seconds. Without
sufficient clientele to drive demand, the artisans would have little
incentive to craft it. Indeed, the only cheeses found at the time of this
writing are the aged slices sold by Runya in Seringale and the fresh cheeses
peddled by Dahnil in Solace.

So imagine my surprise when, while exploring the depths of Evermore with
Ilromie, Kali, and Sir Alkas, we stumbled upon the remains of an unfortunate
who had been launched into a wall by a poor teleport attempt. While the
corpse had been fairly blown to smithereens upon impact, there was, lying
there among all the bloodied bits: A large, perfectly round cheese with a
small indentation in the middle, studded with bells.

It was rare. It was magical. Ilromie could wear it as a hat (although she
feigned it would mess up her hair). It was undoubtedly the most glorious
cheese in Serin!

As a distinguished Scholar of the Physical and experimenter supreme, I knew
what I had to do immediately. Imbue the cheese.

As it turned out, it was rather difficult to convince anyone to join me on
my quest for the holy cheese. I remarked upon it several times with close
friends who more often than not gave me a rather strange look, or remarked
plaintively about the smell. Only my dearest Lumubella, who has put up with
my silliness from the tops of mountains to the darkest crypts, was willing
to watch me bravely march up to Echuir with a recipe in hand and order the
elevation of the cheese. I set the ingredients for the Spellmaster's Bane
upon the counter and held the cheese aloft. Echuir peered at me and fiddled
with a wart hair. I felt the judgment of her ancient wise eyes piercing me
to my very soul. Then she nodded, and waved a hand. The cheese turned
onyx-black and smelled something awful.

No no, that wouldn't do! A black, stinking cheese that fills one's bowels
with alacrity? Such is not worthy of elevation. In fact (if I might borrow
Ilromie's words for a minute) it was even worse than how it had begun. An
identification even labeled it as "refurbished"! A lesson learned: Don't
buy your cheese from a witch.

There are many recipes in the lands, which I have collected rather a number
of over the years; Spellmaster's Bane was but one, and not the most powerful
among them. It so happened that recently, Executor Rhoa has been advocating
the powerful effects of one particular recipe which is found in the depths
of the Underworld. Following her recommendations, I had been gathering
balrog horns for many days in Shadun Dalghul, and so it was that I also had
the ingredients of this particular recipe on hand for the Holy
Cheese-Making. The name of this recipe, which in retrospect was impossibly
apt, was the recipe of disaster.

Now, any sane and rational person would have realized that a cheese found in
the darkest halls of Winter with bits of skull still upon it, to be imbued
with the recipe of disaster, would likely not bring fortune upon anybody and
would have left it well alone to rot... But ah, reader, I am apparently not
that. And neither seems to be our newest Scholar, Pauwyr, who is at least
as scientifically minded as me, and who jumped at the opportunity to observe
the next imbuing!

Thus it was that my young, naive colleague and I ventured down into the
depths of the Underworld. I have traveled there many a time performing
research on the imbuing process, and so the journey to the Demon Armorer was
no great challenge. My colleague's fire arrows and icicles made short work
of the creatures who attempted to stand in our way. Soon we stood before
him, and I took the precious ingredients from my bag and held the cheese
aloft again.

"Lord Kedaleam, please bestow your blessings upon this cheese," I prayed.
But probably he could not hear me in the cursed darkness there, for soon
after the cheese had earned its imbue (taking on a particularly earthen
character and smelling at least a bit less foul) the heavens began to rumble
with a storm. Moreover, rather than my Lord, a small, squat Immortal by the
name of Varliv rode out of the darkness on a fat donkey.

Pauwyr began fishing in his pockets and dropping all sorts of precious
gewgaws. I was too busy examining and explaining the properties and
construction of this newly elevated cheese to our immortal guest, when the
lightning caught up to us and a flash flood rushed through the room. When
it was over, I nodded and passed the cheese to Pauwyr - a welcome present
for his recent induction and the reward for our experimentation - and we
prepared to leave. Only... Dear reader, the doors above us had locked, and
the keys had somehow washed clean out of my bag and off into goodness knows
yonder.

Oh dear, I thought. Perhaps Lord Kedaleam will grant me the ability to
cleanse this room and provide us safe passage home! But I prayed, and
again, he did not hear me. Two days we spent there, huddled by a spring and
eating pancakes, with carrion beetles and amorphous oozes lurking about
waiting to devour us. Then, in the distance, even through the thick,
impenetrable walls of the Underworld, I sensed the warm radiance and safety
of the Knights' presence.

I looked at the quasit sitting next to me and sighed. This might be a
challenging request, but our lives were at stake. "So... Any chance you
and Alkas might be willing to rescue two sad scholars from a pit in the
Underworld?" I asked Dame Lumubella. There was a rather long and awkward
silence. And then... "Where are you? We will come."

I can now add to my list of lived experiences that of the damsel in
distress, rescued by gallant knights in shining armor (and one even riding
upon a horse). Moreover, my friend Pauwyr now owns possibly the most
unfortunate cheese that Serin has ever seen!

Glorbag, the Outlaw Ogre King
-----------------------------
Since the publication of our last issue, the ogre shaman Glorbag has
risen and quickly grown in notoriety to become one of the most feared faces
in Serin. He has been seen wreaking havoc and (in his terms) smashing heads
wherever he could find them, with no regard to cabal or affiliation. Below
I share the story he shared with me, from his youth to his present-day
status.

From an early age, Glorbag showed promise. His shamanic talents were so
keen that he foretold the coming of wars and burning lands from animal
remnants. However, he was also vulnerable as a young Ogre. The village
Seer pretended that he had in fact seen the future that Glorbag had scried,
and even turned the Chieftain against him, causing him to be cast out from
the village. Hurt and betrayed, Glorbag roamed the lands smashing things
and gaining strength before returning to smash the heads of those who had
cast him away.

After his revenge was complete, the desire to smash heads only grew ever
stronger, so he continued on to Serin's major cities, smashing heads
wherever he went. Despite being cast from his village, ogre culture flowed
strong in his veins, and he next sought to gain the achievement of Prettiest
Ogre. As Glorbag described it, an ogre's prettiness factor is determined by
one's success in smashing heads, as well as the gathering of fancy furs and
"bone neckers". Prized above all other furs are "human fur", which I can
only guess would refer to their hair, as usually they are not altogether
that furry. Over time, Glorbag has collected sufficient furs, neckers, and
smashed heads such that he can confidently claim he is the Prettiest Ogre in
Serin.

His actions, smashing the heads of all who cross his path, have not only
taught fear to his enemies but also garnered a great deal of attention.
Today, the Justices seek him out as a five-star wanted criminal, for which
he has gained (and is very proud of his) Outlaw status. Even more striking
is the attention that was granted to him by the Dark Lord of Trickery,
Vhrael. It appeared that the war and devastation Glorbag had scried as a
young shaman-in-training was the very same that Vhrael described to an
enraptured audience including myself, many years later. Perhaps that very
same destruction he had scried is the chaos which Glorbag sows today.
Still, this fated connection between the God and the Ogre drew them together
towards a united cause of disrupting the peace of Serin. Shortly after
pledging his allegiance to Vhrael, Glorbag was chosen as the dark Lord's
adept and granted the title of Undying Fist of Vhrael.

It is clear that Glorbag lives a brightly burning life, rich in experiences
and tales. Through our interview, I learned that we may not see eye to eye
on some things and approach life from completely different angles, but we do
share a common love for naps. I look forward to writing more about his
story in the future.

Scribed by Serra

Duchess Ilromie tasked me with interviewing a cleric of the light to get
the other side of the story and learn the intricacies of holy prayer versus
arcane magic.

I was able to interview Deloraine Westman the Holy Patriarch of Healoing.
He was amicable to discourse related to his faith and his guild. Deloraine
began by telling me of his worship of the Sun God Ceridwel. About how his
prayers are answered by Ceridwel.

Ceridwel allies with Phostan and Soluminus and is rivals to the elements of
Shadow - Vhrael, Zylernier and Lodur. Followers of Ceridwel are protectors
of Good and champions of the Light, apparently striving to eradicate evil at
all costs.

I questioned whether following a god of the Sun would grant him fiery magics
such as the guild of invokers has regarding fire and other forms of immolation.
Satisfyingly, Deloraine told me about specific affects granted by his god called
Solar Flare and Phoenix Flash.

Solar flare apparently flares a bout of solar flame into the room, while Phoenix
Flash does basically the same thing. This is quite comfortable and familiar to
myself, given that is basically overlapping spells in the guild of invokers.

We discussed our methodology of magic. I asked whether he has the same neat
spell book that I have, to study and memorize magic terminology and phrases.
Deloraine reports he is granted specific prayers by the presence of his God in
his heart and mind. I was quite surprised that he has no words to memorize, no
gestures or wiggles of his fingers to practice, nor sneers or glowers to direct his
magic in a direction. He was clear to report that the onus was on his prayers,
not on his memorization or spellbook.

I will admit that this interview exceeded my expectations and gave me much to
think over.

Scribed by mine own hand,

Pauwyr Rauwyr

Ilromie and I had a talk within her tea room on the 6th Renewal of the
Celestial of Order. I asked her a few questions. First of all, I asked
what was her greatest adventure and she stated that it has yet to be
completed: scale to the top of Mount Omedan. Second, I asked what she
thought of Lady Rhoa; Ilromie said that Lady Rhoa had to fill big boots,
both figuratively and literally, taking over after Sir Trovo was gone.
Furthermore, Lady Rhoa is "honorable and thoughtful; a rare combination",
and Ilromie would trust no others with the position. Third, I asked about
the situation with the Keepers; she claimed that between the strength of
Rhoa and Dogran's army, the Keepers are hardly needed, though the scales
could tip in the other direction due to an increase in drow in Justice.
Fourth, I asked about Rodakki due to his recent passing, and she only knew
him as a foe. He was "fearsome, but seemed to lack discipline." Finally, I
asked what she would wish for if given three wishes. Her first wish would
be for Justice to modify their laws to reflect a goal of protecting citizens
instead of controlling them. Her second wish would be for Legion's cabal
ground to fall into the ground, perhaps even into molten lava, and with them
the skull and anything and anyone inside at the time. Finally, her third
wish would be to have her mystic tendrils draw magic from her body without
harm, so that it could be used in its purest form.

Scribed with open eyes and a trace of sugar,

Ocelia

Sympathy for a Devil

What is the nature of evil? Is it thrust upon a soul as it enters a new
body, or does it accrue, like a debt, through choice and circumstance? The
answers to such philosophical questions evade me, for I am but a simple
goblin witch who eats children.

Our story begins, as so many in Serin do, with a death: Chul's mother, a
matriarch of fading renown in the Unlit City, set out to wash the stain from
her family's name. Her weapon of choice, of course, was not soap, but
rather a spear, thrust firmly through the throat of the husband who'd
gambled away her fortune. She tied this last gift for her son with a rope
around her own neck and left a note urging Chul to restore honor and order
to the family crest.

I ask Chul if this sacrifice influenced his decision to join JUSTICE.

"Of course. I'm here to protect order--and you."

"Protect me from whom?" I prod.

"Degenerates."

I repeat the word back to him as a question, and he explains.

"From those in the East who would kill you for the god you worship, from
those in the West who would do the same."

He adds, a malevolent smile twisting his lips, "And those in the South who
would kill you for killing." He seems to enjoy this.

As his watch ends, he excuses himself from the guildhall where we speak, and
I am left with a complicated portrait of a Drow governed by dueling
influences: the devil of his worse nature and a devotion to order born of a
mother's last wish.

--VS

What can one say of Alkas the Cynosure of Spirit. First off that he is
an Archon of the Knights of Valour. Secondly, he is a devout follower of
Vanisse. He even credits Vanisse and her teachings are what shaped him to
be the Archon he is today. Having gone from an ill tempered footman to a
cool headed Archon, Alkas has learned much throughout his life.

He joined the Knights while in his youth, having just come into the world
after leaving his home. He was an zealous individual, at times to a fault,
and dreamed of being a hero. Even though he knew nothing of the world, his
beliefs and his stout conviction drove him forward. And as with most
things, time does change a person, but throughout it all, there is one
belief that Alkas has that has never changed. That all life is precious.
And as a Knight he will defend the lives of those who can't defend
themselves, to hold back those who seek ill to the downtrodden.

Whilst a footman, his often hardest trials involved a creature named Nyth, a
quasit who often used his ill temper and overzealousness to place the monk
off balance. Even then Nyth would strike further and aim at his virtues,
but over time Alkas learned from these trials. Storing them into this mind
as he honed his abilities and tuned his very being with the Spirit of all
things in Serin. Using such lessons to better himself in all he does.

When asked if he sought to become Executor, should the worst happen, this
was his response. "I pray that no such thing will befall her. In truth, I
do not hold such lofty aspirations. If the time and need should arise, and
I am called to lead, I will do so with dignity and honor and the utmost of
my ability." I personally believe that should such an event come to pass,
Alkas would honor and exemplify what it means to be a Knight.

As a monk, and one who believes in the living Spirit of all, Alkas believes
that all beings should be given mercy. He knows that there are some who
would deem him too forgiving. That is in part due to his understanding of
the Spirit of the world. The insights he gleans of Serin and its denizens
through his life is due to his connection with it. He deeply believes that
the Spirit of Life in all things is valuable and that bloodshed should be a
last resort. However, as is the case, there are those beings most heinous.
The Anathema. Those individuals who have been marked in such a manner, are
not extended the grace of his mercy. The only way to save those lost souls
is through the ritual of purification that the Knights implore.

I for one can say that after my time spent with him, I do believe Alkas to
be a pious man. One who is driven to do and be better than before. And
that even if one falls so far, I have no doubt that Alkas would be such a
being who would aid them back onto the proper path.

penned by Vallidan, Bard

The Midway Melee
----------------
(Below we have reprinted the announcement of the Midway Melee, an event
held during this publishing cycle.)

Citizens of Serin,

It is my honor to announce to you a tourney! I, Warmaster Thoom, have
prepared The Midway Melee as a contest of strength and courage. Those
of rank 25 are invited to participate and earn honor and glory in arena
combat! Let it be a taste of the future one could find in the Fortress of War
as an honored Warlord.

The Tournament will be held as those in the past, with eight contestants
competing in single elimination. One victor shall be named champion and
earn as his prize a mountain of Warlord Medals, as well as 100,000 gold
coins from my own personal coffers.

If you are of the guild rank midway to your pinnacle then TOURNAMENT
JOIN. The tourney will begin when all eight contestants have entered.

All others are invited and encouraged to participate at the entrance to the
Arena during the bouts of combat. Wagers can be placed, and sackfuls
of gold won. Also be sure to make your voices heard when combat has
finished, as the terms of these duels are open to be determined by the
voice of the people! Should the victor spare his opponents life, or take it?
You decide!

However, let us not forget of the sanctity of the arena and what it represents.
The fights that take place inside are fought under agreement and with respect.
Any who think they can shame that by over aggression, or by assaulting the
Juggernaut will receive their due for such cowardice.

Remember, the doors to the Fortress of War stand open to those who
seek a life of combat, full of Honor and Glory.

- Thoom, Warmaster of Warlords

Kaeno, the half-elf monk Warlord, had requested a duel with me on my
second awakening after my return from Acadia. Though my last duel with one
of his halls ended in sad tragedy and the loss of my dear friend Prince
Sylac, he was so reasonable with his offer - that it was training for
further battles in an increasingly dangerous realm - that I promised him I'd
do so once I had had a chance to refresh my skills somewhat and gather some
things to wear. Fortunately, a celebratory reunion adventure with my dear
friend Ilromie provided just this opportunity, and thus when I saw him again
today, I accepted the duel. This was to be the first of four duels fought
by Kaeno in the arena today, and six total from the Warlords combined, which
I was fortunate to glimpse. I thereby commit them to history for our next
Mystique.

Kaeno vs. Serra (1-0)

This duel was a battle to the stun, set in the luxurious expanse of the
Ford. As I had few tools at my disposal, I spent most of the time simply
running for the hills and hoping he would tire. Initially, he seemed
destined to beat in my head immediately, for his fists flew in a wild flurry
and my mind panicked. After I had surrounded him with a pink aura and
placated him with calm, there was not much else I could do but run and heal.
Luckily I managed to do so. With the advantage of Lord Kedaleam's gift of
flight at my disposal, I was able to run until he could no longer keep up,
after which it was more or less a game of "wild goose chase" - with me as
the goose! Still, after days of running about like this, we both realized
the futility of continuing and I yielded to his superior skills.

Kaeno vs. Kremina (1-0)

The drow shadow Justice Kremina wished to test the efficacy of a new weapon
she had acquired, and so she jumped into the arena following my bout. As I
myself had experienced, Kaeno's fists flew furious against Kremina's new
blade, the poisonous ruby-hilted dagger. Though its poison did taint
Kaeno's skin, he managed to quickly heal himself. With a combination of
force and dexterity, Kaeno quickly overpowered Kremina before she could
escape to heal, and won the bout.

Kaeno vs. Thoom (0-2)

After this, Kaeno challenged the Warmaster Thoom himself, who had come to
watch the fight. Though Kaeno did his best, Thoom's immense power and
innate resistance to Kaeno's fists put the monk at a disadvantage. Though
Kaeno attempted to break away and heal several times, Thoom was swift to the
chase and thus claimed two victories over his fellow cabal mate.

Thoom vs. Kremina (0-1)

Thoom took on Kremina in the next bout, for she wished to test her blade
again. This was a very close battle, with a strong showing from both sides.
At the beginning, it seemed as though Thoom would simply overpower Kremina
as Kaeno had done. However, she managed to pull off a nasty sidestep and
slipped her poisoned blade between his ribs. Heavily bleeding, Thoom then
went after her again. At one moment it appeared as though a few blows in
either direction might have ended it - but again, she managed to slip away.
The distance she gained enabled her to apply her healing arts, while Thoom
could only try to sleep when he could. Her enhanced recovery ensured that
the final round of combat was heavily in her favor, and Thoom knew it as
well, nodding as the final blow fell.

Thoom vs. Breiwyn (1-0)

The final battle I watched was Thoom battling the poet and bard Breiwyn.
This was a short battle, with Thoom quickly beating her senseless with his
simple powerful strikes - although Breiwyn brought some levity to the scene
as she sang of the Devil's Dance, forcing him to jig endlessly. Lady Luck
was not with her, though, for he managed to catch her with several nasty
attacks just as her aura fell, and she could not escape quickly enough to
recover.

With luck, I happened to be passing through town as two of the duelists
in the Midway Melee were limbering up for their match. It also happened to
remind me of my own duel with Kaeno several renewals hence, for the two
fighters were Josymba, a young half-elf monk, and Vaalyun, an avian healer;
their battleground was set in the Gnome Village.

Vaalyun attempted to reserve some of his mental energies by employing purple
potions from the start of the match. This unfortunately came to no avail,
for Josymba's fists fell hard and true despite Vaalyun's best efforts to
evade. Josymba also followed him quickly as he attempted to acquire
distance to heal. The brevity of the bout was ensured as Vaalyun's aura
fell in the last rounds. Alas, although Josymba held her last blow after
her opponent knelt defeated, Vaalyun had suffered too grievous wounds and
bled out upon the sands of the arena.

Through this swift victory, Josymba has earned her place in the second round
of the Midway Melee.

Scribed by Serra

Light and luck prevail, by Serra
----------------------
I report today on a battle I had the fortune to watch, fought by three of
my good friends. Led by the intrepid Knight priestess Lumubella, we
initially sought to rid Drkshtyre Forest of its plague of serpents. With us
were Kali, the elf illusionist, and Gwevym, the dwarven paladin.

It was not long before we were interrupted from the serpent hunt by the
appearance of the Sinister Minister and new Forsaken of Legion, Dogran. Of
course, as her sworn duty, Lumubella flew immediately to Darkhaven to
challenge him to combat. As the shaman has been no friend of any of us, and
moreover has been a terrible foe to his beloved Ilromie, Kali immediately
offered his aid in battle as well. Gwevym offered a third hand only in case
of emergencies, and I followed him, mostly out of curiosity, with the aim of
simply keeping him safe.

With the help of Kali's army of illusions, our two main combatants worked on
defeating the Master Occultist and transporting the Legion's Skull to
Valour. During this ordeal, Gwevym and I watched from the safety of the
road, wincing as we heard the shouts of our friends under attack in the
cabal grounds, yet heartened as they managed to eventually capture the Skull
and whisk it away. As Gwevym and I watched, another evil entity appeared, a
dark-knight by the name of Lareribwyn. It was not long before the two evils
joined forces. At this point, Gwevym also entered the fray, attacking
Dogran in Timaran so as to slow his chase of the Skull.

The dark-knight complained bitterly when he saw me flying about after
Gwevym, making up wild rules about the Consortium code of conduct. I
envisioned him with Sir Pinchalot's hat. At any rate, I did not enter
battle unless he flung a fireball at me and drew me into it.

The stage of the battle then shifted to Valour. For a time, my companions
fended them off there. Kali's illusions and spells were most effective in
putting great fear into their dark hearts. Gwevym attempted to slam them
with his shield, particularly the dark-knight, to keep him at bay. In turn,
the dark-knight hurled fireballs at all of us and rode around willy nilly.
There was quite a bit of running on all parts. After a brief pause of
recovery, they returned to Valour again to directly attack the Castle,
knowing only Lumubella could enter there.

My dear brave friend flew in without hesitation. Though there were two in
there with the strength of the damned, they could not best her. Kali and
Gwevym stood at the gates to keep the fiends from chasing her, allowing her
to gain rest, while the evil ones plotted and seethed inside. Finally, the
both of them drained, they realized the futility of it and ran away. At
this Kali and Gwevym gave chase while Lumubella recovered. As we searched,
they were caught variously in hiding spots. Kali found them once in Exile
and gave them a short trouncing, and here and there they would be spotted in
the distance. Ultimately, it was discovered that they were simply luring us
away to return to Valour and regain the Skull.

It was unnerving how quickly they obtained it and fled back to Darkhaven.
At this, my friends regrouped and went again to invade. At first Dogran and
the dark-knight stood side by side, and I caught a few fireballs to the face
in the process. Lumubella and Kali initially focused on recapturing the
Skull. Dogran yelled something about blood and chaos and Thorgoth I did not
quite catch.

Then, to my horror, Dogran abducted Gwevym right before my eyes. I prayed
to my lord Kedaleam to keep him safe. When he informed us he had been taken
to the Mansion, Kali immediately traveled to his aid, while I watched
Lumubella work on the Shadowdemon Guardian in Darkhaven and rested my tired
legs. (I really do not know how these young whippersnappers run about so
quickly!) After being separated from Gwevym, I eventually meandered back to
Seringale to rest and wait. Lumubella continued her pursuit of recapturing
the Skull while Gwevym and Kali neatly avoided the death Dogran aimed to
inflict.

Finally, as the two of them escaped the walls of abduction, Lumubella
secured the Skull. Heartened by her progress, Kali took his leave.
Lareribwyn ran through town alone, with Gwevym in hot pursuit, and Lumubella
not far behind with the Skull tucked under her arm. From the Infirmary I
saw Dogran show his face at the Eastern Gate. When he saw three of us
(Gwevym, Lumubella and myself) all in town, he fled back east and
disappeared. As she secured the skull for the second time this Renewal, we
saw the two evils flee the lands almost simultaneously.

As Lumubella put it, this day was a "victory o' attrition with no dyin'."
It seems her Goddess was looking over us, for this end was a perfectly apt
confluence of Spirit and Luck!

The battle starts out with Chayvudd quaffing a potion for protection
while Thoom takes his stance. Chayvudd wastes no time in engulfing in a
rage to assault Thoom with all his might. Unleashing fury-filled blow after
blow upon Thoom. After a reckless body slam, Thoom retreats as Chayvudd
stars to furiously seek after his foe. The berserker starts his assault on
Thoom again, leading to a timely counter against the berserker before they
take a break in their bout. Assessing the situation they start to seek each
other out. After a moment Thoom bellowed out his mighty war cry and starts
to seek his adversary. Leading in with a massive chop and starts to go into
a flurry of blows. The two skirmished a bit longer before Thoom broke off
to adjust his arms, moving to guard himself with a shield. At this point,
Thoom starts to shift his tactics, and enter a new state of mind. He lead
after Chayvudd with a salvo of javelins and went in with his trusty axe,
blocking all blows from Chayvudd and claiming a victory over the berserker.

Gremlin Games
=============
There once were two trebuchet
Which appeared in the squares one day
Gremlins flew through the air
The score kept by referee fair
But the gremlins themselves got no say

The Crown of Queen Victoria
---------------------------

Once you were admired, set upon royalty
Now you rest alone, combat the only sight you see.
Stolen from your resting place by vindictive hands,
A holy relic, purloined for purely political plans.

While Victoria lived, you emphasized beauty,
in her death, you rest an empty sign of cruelty.
Gems to match no gown or throw,
A staunch batallion all you know.

Instead of King and courtesan,
your company numbers but one man.
Even he remains outside your reach,
the shadowform a wall few can breach.

To be a crown without a head,
is like to a wife that's never wed.
A hallowed hoop, languishing
polished to the finest sheen.

The Knights rely upon your metaphor,
let none be taken, as the queen before.
They fight for you, but a memory
of a thing they love, but never see.

The Bribe
---------
By Ilromie Illistarre, Polymath of History

With a chill blew the wind as I arrived
The Legion, lurking cast his evil eye.
Vile curses were spoken, hellstreams did fly
across all of Serin, he refused to die.

In town we scuffled, then guards called my name.
The Legion laughed loud, without any shame
when shadows split and Justice focused aim.
To earn his bribe, my flesh he'd need maim.

The task was quick, I was already hurt
and soon turned about by a well-aimed dirt.
They snickered and sneered as my blood did spurt
then Legion fled, my vengeance: avert.

We gathered to watch Solmundi's short duel
with Wylsin, a gnome with hellstreams so cruel.
We saw not his loss per an ill-mannered fool:
Kali and I knew we had to kill Chul.

We sent our friend south, out of the fray
Though as we battled, she got in the way.
"It was in the stars" was all that she'd say,
We loaned her the gold, for her fine to pay.

The commander struck first while sergeant waited
watching paladin fight elf, his greed stated.
He struck from the dark, in a move calculated
to rend flesh from bone, meat mutilated.

I fell in town, but Kali made it out
another drow waited along his route.
Dirk at the ready, elven blood would spout,
he fell victim to a dastardly lout.

The childish reader may grasp for a moral
But you would be wrong to start such a quarral
They want you think the breaking wheel normal,
but where is their mercy?

'Stoking Spell'

Kissing covens,
Crones, and creeps,

Whatever's sticking
In your teeth,

Pluck the sinew
For a charm:

Wear this bracelet
On your arm.

Whisper words
To punish those

Who'd look upon
Your warty nose

With malice. Yes.
Suckle them from

Witch's chalice
Till the poison

Turns them glaucous.
Then to the basement

For abasing and grab
The matches from

The casement. Don't
Sweat their sweat, ignore

the ruckus. Fully furnace
Those who'd fuck us.

--VS

In one time, during one day,
There was a love, they say.
As they have all said,
There was lady and man,
Tied betwixt two hands,
Yet not tied til they bled.
Man and lady were lovers,
almost birds of a feather,
the type of bird that hovers,
and they were always together.

The man and lady were both elvish;
The man knew spells of the mind,
The lady knew spells of the raw kind.
But neither of them was at all selfish.

When the man took them for a ride,
She was constantly by his side.
Before riding, he grabbed her waist;
and then, they made great haste,
going anywhere which was far and wide.

A Heart Lies Shattered
----------------------

You forget yourself, never knowing your limit
as you strive towards what you're seeking

A limitless possibility that could have been spawned
from but a whisper in my own ear from thine lips

The horrid wilting of the summer bouquet
until winter's icy, frozen grip claims those words

Left alone, backs turned and family spurned
into the great unknown of a promise left broken

_____A_______________________________

__________heart______________________

_________________lies________________

__________________________shattered__

To which one must admit that the heart was cared for
that those who dropped it must have once cherished it

How can one admit such with the taste of bitterness
never knowing of the pieces will be picked up

Never knowing if they can be made whole again
left to wonder and move on, a broken heart left behind

penned by Villidan, Bard

Dame Rhoa, she is the Queen;
Dame Rhoa, is very clean.
At once, she came back;
Whence, none did attack.
Dame Rhoa, Sun's Embrace:
She has great, amazing grace!

In Seringale city
there's a quest for the witty.
If you solve this mystery
you'll uncover some history.
The old monk wants to make
it known that criminals are wrong
but the bells don't ring, ding dong!
When he tries to take
the rope he sails right through
and the bells don't ring, poo poo!
There's a little boy crying
and a hermit always lying
and Garp din see nuffin
except maybe Vevier's muffin.
With those clues maybe you too
will figure it out.
Yes, that's all I had for you...
Don't pout.

Jibbity jabbity jab,
the shaman poked the head.
Stibbity stabbity stab,
the poor thing oozed and bled.
Again and again the eyes rolled back
until the shaman stuffed it in a sack.
If only there wasn't a dagger in there!
The last poke caused an explosion of air
so foul it caused their person to reek
and their robes to flap like a giant fart.
Everyone in smelling range was instantly weak
and one or two clutched their hearts.
"It was the head!" the shaman cried petulantly,
but was forevermore titled "Their Flatulency"

Once upon a balmy afternoon
I wandered through a market
A tiny demonic thing buzzed by
and I heard her yell "Watch it!
There's a wild elf running about
and he's mean and gave me a terrible clout!"

I went on my way, got lost in a forest,
was stomped by a gnome and recalled in a mess.
Recovering my wits at North Square,
again I saw Heratta there.
She held a familiar head in her hand -
"My god it's the pie lady!" said I, dismayed.
She said "Ho ho! D'you like it? She smells so grand!"
and took a big whiff - Poor Miss Piff!
While I hemmed and hawed finding words to say,
oh dear, oh dear, the wild elf appeared!
CHARGE! the shaman went flying south
in a cloud of fear that was slightly yellow.
Thalandir stood with a smirk on his mouth,
tipped his hat in a quick hello.

The two of them dashed in and out,
While I watched blood spatter and spread.
At some point a body was there
that smelled a little bit like a pastry fare.
I guess this means those that collect heads
had better look out!

Listen close, gather round:
A battle for the ages!

Two foes born of opposite faiths face off.
A heart of light, a blade of night,
The might of law and the essence of chaos.

Fated to fight, the drow and elf struggled.
Slice, stab, wrath!
Their crimson shadows stretched long
As they fought and healed with aplomb
Trip, feint, slash!
The stakes suddenly doubled.

The elf dashed into town.
By some hole in the law he found
a way to summon the drow to fight.
In the graveyard he called her name,
And against her will she came.
His blows rained down with no respite.
The drow quaffed potions for dear life!
By luck or destiny the elf's wrath laid a curse.
Exhausted she fell, her worst submitted:
A fine for summoning in the city limits.
Her life for a twenty thousand gold purse!

This I guess is partly fiction because I never actually heard the whole
story about the ent and the minister. But it made me imagine the first part
and a poet has special license!

The day the circus came to town,
there were no acrobats or even clowns.
Just an elf, an ent and a minister,
two of three with moustaches sinister!

A holy reckoning was beckoned forth.
The Legion swore and fought for all their worth.
The Ent chanted for rain with all his might
while the shaman cast harm and plagues and blights,
but the elf somehow ducked and wove through it all
and his blows continued to fall.

Ouch, ouch! the duo cried.
Their plaintive whimpers echoed across the skies
to the ears of their Lord, the spurious one,
who wrote a poem in a threatening tone.

It erupted days later in Echo Point.
In the middle of a roomful of attentive ears,
bellies full of wine, goodwill and cheer,
Ilromie was forced to lend her voice
to the Lord of Trickery, Vhrael.
The pall it cast made everyone pale,
save one uproariously cheerful bard
who clapped too long and a bit too hard.
(A performer like him should have known
how to read the room, I think.)
Alas, he affronted one of his own
causing her fist in his face to sink!

At least one part of the dark Lord's tale
came true at terrible last.
That is, he promised blood in Seringale
and chaos did come to pass!

Three cheers for Thalandir,
the elf whose blade overcame all fears!
His weaving form inspired a storm
of squires and elven swords for hires.

A gentleman elf, he strode with such a pose.
Still, I never saw him look down his nose
though he met in his many travels
such different kinds of rabble.

I never saw him back away from a fight.
Indeed, he faced a monstrosity while I, knuckles white,
flung rays of vindication to the very last inch.
He was a blow from death. He never flinched!

On the last day our fun was casually paused,
for brave sir Alkas offered a trade:
A cuirass for some legplates were the cause
of an arena duel, with the winner to be paid.

The Knight rode down, a sage Corgi at his side.
Thalandir spun after him with a leap!
At first Luck held our hero in her eye,
for the blows of his blade rained quick and cut deep.

The monk fled soon, with his dog still reeling.
As he gained some distance and began his healing,
Thalandir's blade found the Corgi's neck!
The animal slumped and fell to the deck.

Alas! Some wicked prank was played,
for the Corgi whom Lord Phostan made
was the undoing of his most faithful adherent.
That strike consumed his soul with malevolence
so foul it turned his eyes to embers.

Not a soul who was there will fail to remember
The bravery of my friend, sir Thalandir,
Who turned the world upon its ear.

Such a beautiful, shiny dome!
It glistens in the weeds.
A shelter or a tiny home
For mice or ants in need.

Big feet all around it stomp
Big hooves around it also clomp
Making its roof wiggle a bit
While inside its inhabitants sit
And watch their tea go splashing.

Until one day an enormous hand
Plucks it from the loamy sand
And all their dishes go crashing.
Chomp! Chomp! Big teeth and jaws
Suddenly masticate them in a giant's maw!

The mice inside start squeaking in fright
The giant startles and spits with might
Like furry wet cannonballs they fly
Streaking moistly across the sky
And land on a tree with a splat.

The treant says "What's that?"
His lady-friend faints with a falling BOOM.
Instead of flowers, her lover bloomed
Tiny tails, feet, and a bloody stain.
But it washes away in the rain.

There was a man made of bones,
who had eyes made of gemstones.
In life, he wore a great cloak,
colored red like blood had soaked.
He used to whistle, shout and sing;
now, he simply moans and groans.
Yet death did not take everything;
he kept a hat even as the bells tolled.
Even as his body fell and his head rolled,
the man of bones kept his hat.

The hat was simple, made of leather and colored black;
it protected him from weather and was no knickknack.
It was also circular with a thick, wide brim;
it also had a peculiar band which was quite thin.
It was also noticeably wider than it was tall;
and yet, it was indeed not something small.

The man of bones kept his hat even unto death;
He wore it long after he drew his last breath.
Even now, it lays atop his head, upon the crown;
though he is unable to tip it, salute, or bow.

The tragic tale of poor, simple Kalict, by Kali Windbreeze
--------------------------------------

Mere generations ago, there was a vampire that walked the lands that went
by the name of Kalict. There was a rumor that due to his name he was
somehow linked to the house of Windbreeze. In truth, he was merely a
pitiful admirer and destined for failure. This is his tale.

One thing that the Knights of Valour are known for is their marvellous
steeds. Majestic, towering battle stallions with gleaming coats of shining
white, rich brown, deep black, and luscious chestnut. These magnificent
beasts are selectively bred and then trained from a young age to be the
finest of battle steeds. Their trainers are held in high esteem amongst the
equestrians of Serin. As are their caregivers that lovingly feed them,
armor them, and brush them down after training. As majestic as these
creatures are, however, they are not free of worldly necessities. No matter
how enchanting, beautiful, and close to perfection they are, they are still
horses and therefore produce inordinate amounts of shit.

Being a shit-scraper of Valour is not a prestigious vocation. Tasked with
roaming the streets, searching for shit, painstakingly scraping it off of
the cobbled road, washing the road, and disposing of it is their lot in
life. As hard as it is to imagine, however, this is not the least savory
role that one could have. That distinction is reserved for the
stable-shit-slingers. These unfortunate souls have the task of sitting in
the stables at all times, scouring it for the foul excrement that these
beasts produce. The Knights of Valour decree that any waste produced by
these magnificent stallions within the stables be collected and disposed of
immediately, lest it mar their pristine hooves or foul the air with it's
scent. Unfortunately this task often involves sitting quite close to the
beasts - sometimes even within kicking distance, whilst waiting for the
inevitable.

One such stable-shit-slinger was a human man named Furray. He lived as good
of a life as a human with less than average intelligence could. Despite his
inability to grasp complex concepts, and his quite unfortunate appearance
with crooked, jagged teeth, foul breath, bulbous nose, and wide set eyes, he
was able to find love with a female shit-scraper. Such things often lead to
children, as it was with this union. They had a son and when it came time
to name him, Furray thought long and hard (a difficult task for him) and
finally came up with the perfect name. He would name the child after the
most famous

It was quite clear from an early age that Kalict was even less attractive,
and somehow less intelligent, than his unfortunate father. Furthermore,
when he was the age of sixteen, his father had him in the stables, showing
him the ins and outs of shit-slinging so that he may one day take up the
task himself. This desire to teach is son led to a tragic accident that
could not have been anticipated. Kalict and Furray were positioned behind a
beautiful chestnut stallion named Pollus. Unfortunately, whilst grazing,
Pollus ate a patch of toxic mushrooms. These mushrooms did not disagree
with him and the result was quite unfortunate.

There was a brief rumble before the tail lifted and the vilest, most putrid,
liquid filth sprayed out directly at Kalict and Furray. Caught completely
by surprise, they cried out in despair. This spooked Pollus and he lashed
out violently with his hind legs, catching Kalict square in the face -
caving it in. It was only through the quick reaction of a cleric walking on
the road outside the stables that Kalict did not succumb right then and
there. He was able to cure the wound and save Kalict's life but
unfortunately there was a dark melding of magic. The curative powers
somehow bound the scent of excrement into his flesh - into his very being.

That pivotal moment changed the course of poor Kalict's life forever. He
became a twisted, resentful, hateful shadow of a man. He came to loath
Valour, the Knights, the Clerics, and even his parents. His soul was
shattered and he lived only so that one day he might have revenge on the
world that had so cruelly wronged him.

Still a very simple man, unwise, untalented with magic or blade, but driven
by hate and a desire for revenge, he sought out the dark gods. He wandered
the lands, learning of the different gods of darkness and pleaded to them
all in vain. One night, whilst lost within the forest of Dankbark, he
stumbled into a shrine. Thirsty, starving, and looking quite pathetic he
cast himself down upon the rough stone floor. Crying and begging, he prayed
for the strength to carry out his fury. He was in luck, for he had
unwittingly found the very shrine of the dark god Resatimm.

Slowly materializing, Resatimm was a mere moment away from smiting this
wretched creature. In a rare act of mercy, however, he decided to delve
into the pathetic creature's mind to see what circumstances had brought it
to his temple. Deigning that it would serve his purposes, and at the very
least, amuse him, he decided to give Kalict what he desired.

The dark god Resatimm offered Kalict the gift of undeath that fateful night.
His offer came with a warning, however. With the potential for great power
also came very high expectations. The life of a vampire is not easy, though
if skilled they can be exceedingly deadly. Dragging himself up from the
floor, Kalict promised that he would be the most vicious, most skilled, and
most feared vampire of all time.

Oh, how he was wrong. It turns out that poor Kalict was as useless in
undeath as he was in life. He fumbled about Serin, fleeing from one enemy
to the next. He was constantly hounded everywhere he turned. He was slain
by paladins, warriors, healers, giants, elves, gnomes, men, women, and even
once by a child that stabbed him straight through the heart with a toy sword
whilst he slept with his coffin completely unhidden. Too pathetic to
actually kill adventurers, he sought easy prey for sustenance. He was
nourished primarily by the blood of rats, mice, and slow moving reptiles.

Eventually, out of disgust, the dark god Resatimm put Kalict out of his
misery. Without discussion or warning, he ended his existence, and thus his
shame and suffering. In the end, it was an act of mercy, for who knows how
long poor Kalict would flail about in undeath, full of rage but without the
intelligence or ability to use it on his foes.

Thus ends the tale of poor, simple Kalict - as dissimilar to the House of
Windbreeze as any creature could ever be.

The Woes of Sir Pinchalot, by Varrun
-------------------------
Sir Pinchalot was a rather bothersome crab, his name was well earned
within the crab world for being known for a rather nasty pinch his robust
claws would give one's bottom if one's bottom ever came close enough to
pinch. If that wasn't enough he was also quite well known, to those
impacted anyway, of being a selfish little thief. Now neither of these
traits may not be much valued outside of the affairs of crabs, but I can
assure you they are very highly regarded and he was even given the rather
grand title of 'Sir Pinchalot' for those very traits.

If there was one thing Sir Pinchalot liked pinching, it was pearls. Oh my
how he loved them. His dream was to pinch a string of pearls from around
the rotund bottom of some of the well-off and well-to-do ladies who happened
to put pearls on their frilly undergarments.

Two pinches for the price of two though Sir Pinchalot!

Sadly for him - and possibly sadly for you dear reader (though perhaps not)
- his endeavors did not end with him pinching a bottom or indeed pinching
anything of note.

Rather he was stamped upon by a startled and quite bad tempered young
dwarven Noble residing within Valour. Sir Pinchalot's head was badly
bruised and his ego was sadly squashed. His head remained very swollen and
painful and strangely, very sensitive to sunlight. A hat was of course the
obvious solution to a swollen head and sun sensitivity as everybody knows.

This demanded a serious hat - a hat with a message. He ordered (because he
still had some clout) a crab with a talent for making serious hats to create
such an item which would not only protect Sir Pinchalot's now rather large
head but also to explain (without the need for explanation) the sour
expression now etched permanently on Sir Pinchalot's face. Why waste the
time explaining when a hat will do it for you?

Fellow Members,

You can find me at the intersection of Myth and History, bartering bone
trinkets for raspberry flan. I am especially drawn to stories of the
uninvited, for I myself have crashed a few parties in my day.

Please find 'The Curse of the Anathema King' below.

<><><><><><><>

Like rabbits, like maggots, like roaches, the race of hobgoblins is among
Serin's sturdiest and most productive. In fact, one can hardly turn the
corner of an abandoned Tenebrian mineshaft without encountering the
creatures, extracting magic and ore for their Anathema King. But what of
that king? What of his court, buried deep beneath the Gnome Village, where
for so long notable Serin adventurers have traveled to sharpen their claws?
Before disease pocked his skin, before avarice and cruelty misted his heart,
the Anathema King of All Hobgoblins made a pact with a devil to enshrine his
rule forever.

He has, quite simply, regretted it ever since.

<><><><><><><>

The Hobgoblin King awoke with a start. The alarm bells clanged, signaling
another attack upon the throne of his rule. He did not know what treasure
drew so many to his court, yet good and evil alike attended him almost
daily. His advisors urged him to move the strong and true race of
hobgoblins to another home, for many of the caverns they mined might provide
respite from this steady stream of interlopers.

But. What of the treasure? Something enticed this swarm of gadflies to his
door, and--though he'd lost nearly twenty bodyguards in the last week
alone--the King would not yield even the promise of a prize so easily. He
began the ascent from his sleeping chambers.

"Your highness, a visitor awaits you." His most trusted advisor hovered at
his shoulder.

"A visitor?" The king had not entertained an audience since the attacks had
begun nearly a year ago, his days spent instead lording over a depleted war
chest and motivating the mine chargehands by any means necessary. They must
find this treasure soon.

"Yes. She is of our kind, but afflicted by a strange pestilence. I would
have thrown her to the dogs except ..."

"Out with it then," the King spat. The spikes of his gauntleted fist
crunched against bone as he manifested his displeasure. He would not suffer
fools today.

"She whispers of treasure," the councilor said. He struggled admirably to
make himself heard through a mouthful of blood.

The King quickened his step, sending the harried hobgoblin off to visit his
royal shaman. This was not the first time the King had writ his
dissatisfaction large on the face of a loyal subject. Best then to keep a
cleric close.

The old hobgoblin awaiting the King in the throne anteroom could have used a
healer herself. Leprous pustules blighted her skin, and her odor fouled the
air with such a miasma that one could almost reach out and touch it. Yet
she seemed unbothered by the sharp clang of steel intruding upon the silence
of the royal chambers. The King held his breath.

"It is good you came, my king. I have that which you seek." The old
hobgoblin smiled broadly, revealing several missing teeth.

"Do not play games with me, hag. Where is the treasure?" The King resisted
the urge to pinch his nose as he strode forward to menace his visitor.

"Why, there is no treasure here. The only treasure these fortune hunters
seek is you, my king--your heart, your blood. Every ounce of it strengthens
them."

The king said nothing but drew his sword. He eyed the other hobgoblin's
neck as he hefted the weapon in his hand.

"But--but I can help!" The old hobgoblin prostrated herself before him with
her hands outstretched.

"What could you possibly offer me?"

"What is your wish, my king?" The creature looked up slyly.

"I care little for wishes, only my throne and the treasure you mock."

"Then simply wish it. The gods grant me certain gifts, my king, and I can
share them with you."

"Do not be impertinent."

"This is no jest, but a magic born of bone and blood. You need only wish
it."

The barred doors to the anteroom rattled as the invaders encroached further
upon the royal sanctum. Clearly the king would need to impress more guards
into his service. He amended the body count in his head to include the five
he'd stationed at the entrance.

"Wish it, my king. Wish it!" The hag smiled encouragingly. Coupled with
her weeping sores, the effect was gruesome.

The doors burst open, and in poured a wave of eager-bladed elves. The king
parried a wild swing from the first to reach him. He could still hear the
sickly hobgoblin crooning in his head.

The king made his wish, though he could not speak it before the sword
reached his neck. He felt it enter him as his own had entered so many
others. A violation. He collapsed to the floor where his eyes met those of
the only other hobgoblin in the room.

"I wish ... I wish to live forever," the King gurgled, though it sounded
more like a boot squelching in the mud than any language of Serin. He
labored for that next breath, and also the next, and then no more.

The old hobgoblin extended two diseased fingers to close the King's eyes.
This had gone better than she'd expected. She rose from the mass of bodies
in which she'd hidden herself during the melee and shivered as the sores on
her arms began to dissipate, the curse leaving one body and entering the
next. She strode from the chamber.

Then the Anathema King awoke with a start.

My task assigned to me is to replicate the way I research spells based on
inventor, creation, use, spell words, and what (if applicable) I use it for
on a day to day basis.

As assigned to this flesh vessel by Scholar Serra, for this task I will
elucidate you all on the origins, history, usage and common misconceptions
of a spell. In this case, this spell is "locate object".

To back up a smidge: As I near mastery of all, I have decided to give in to
my compulsion to know everything. My plan is to research all spells, regardless
of arcane branch. I will interview knowledgable representatives of all
applicable guilds. I do have some thought for this to apply to holy & unholy
prayers, but that is the cart before the horse, so to speak. In beginning
this particular journey with such an oft used, and commonly known spell, I
will clear the cobwebs out of my already incredible writing style.

The arcane spell "locate object" was designed and perfected by the Immortal,
and widely believed to be the first Mystic, Denadlyr. This spell, when chanted
properly sounds just like it is scribed in this scroll. However, to the
uninitiated, the sounds of the spell are best described as "hiqahz abyzqh".
The spell it self will locate items and objects matching the description
chanted into the spell by the Arcanist. The limit of this spell is to the
strength of the caster. As well, some items and objects are constructed to
be hidden by the ether which this spell cannot penetrate, regardless of how
strong a spell.

To my knowledge, which of this scribing is not all-knowing (yet), this spell
is not limited to Arcanists. The guild of illusion and the guild of
necromancy also teach this spell to their disciples. Evidence suggests that
a form of this spell is available to those forest druids, but I have yet to
establish the veracity of the aforementioned evidence.

Common usages of this spell are to see if certain wonderous items are available
in Serin to attain, or to find consumables, such as those strange purple potions
from Tenebria. My own personal useage of this to find piles of gold coins. I
admit a certain attraction to those round and shiny tradeable objects. Not a
fatal attraction I assure you (yet).

I hope this scroll was as useful to you as it was to myself in scribing it. I
think all Quasits secretly yearn to scribe scrolls (not really).

Pauwyr Rauwyr the Sage of Arcane Power

Once upon a time, there was a young pixie who was obsessed with sugar.
Sugar tasted good, it made neat patterns when you sprinkled it the right
way, it was an ingredient in many of the pixie's favorite treats... It had
all kinds of uses. This pixie was sometimes a little naughty, particularly
if she thought she could get away with it. Whenever she thought nobody was
looking, she would dip her fingers into the sugar jar owned by her
grandmother. However, she would always manage to leave a small, tell-tale
mark that somebody had been into the jar: a tiny amount of sugar would be at
its base and easily noticed to the trained eye. As this pixie began to grow
up, she started to use the sugar more for the baking of treats than trying
to play with it as a sort of ink on the countertop. However, the young
pixie's grandmother knew for a long time that her granddaughter had been
naughty. She finally decided to teach her granddaughter an unforgettable
lesson in taking what's not yours. So it came to be one day that the
younger pixie was once again dipping her fingers into her grandmother's
sugar jar. "What are you doing?" The grandmother asked. "You are not
supposed to be putting your fingers in my sugar jar!" The younger pixie
blushed, and said, "I can't help it, sugar is so good..." Her grandmother
replied, "Well you should keep your hands out of my jar unless I give you
permission to use it!" The younger pixie whimpered and said, "But,
Grandma..." "No buts! I don't want you dipping your fingers in that jar
any more, do you understand?" "Yes, Grandma."

And so the younger pixie learned her lesson about taking what wasn't hers.
Her grandmother passed away several years later but noted in her will that
her granddaughter would get her sugar jar and a small allowance to refill
the jar regularly. The sugar jar became a prized possession of the
no-longer adolescent pixie, and she enjoyed it (and its sugar) forever
after. The end.

The Serin Mystique, Volume 15, Issue 3