Zeebo's Journal has moved
All of Zeebo's Journal is now at Uncle Bear, including the latest entries, all of the entries in an easy-to-read PDF file, and blockstats for Zeebo himself. Enjoy!

I'd love to excite you with the thrilling details of Fail and Derek's battle with the shadow demon, but I wasn't there. Needless to say, they won.

Soon after, an orc band attacked. Falin and Derek worked out a tactic where Falin took to the trees to cast spells while Derek stayed on the ground as bait (and to engage in close combat). This reportedly worked very well, and the orcs were wiped out fairly quickly.
Well, up to the point where one of those tatooed orc spellcasters showed up and wracked Falin with pain and blistering skin. I was waiting for Doe to tell me that he'd fallen out of the tree, but someho he held on. Falin's reaction was to encase the orc in a web of thorny vines, which did nothing to disrupt the attack but did serve to shield the enemy from Derek's arrows.

Then, apparently, more orcs came rushing in, grabbed Derek, and carried him off to who knows where. That's the point where Doe shook me awake.

It's down to Falin and I. This will be interesting.

Alchemy is a delicate business. Many substances are toxic on their own, moreso in combination. My wagon/workshop was designed for my use alone, but on our quest it's served as general headquarters for the entire party. Lo Fan takes up considerable space on the floor; Falin and Derek, for all of their vaunted stealth outdoors, are clumsy in the confines of a space designed for gnomes.

Thus it seems inevitable that someone would spill something. Even more inevitable that they should spill it on me. Do I even need explain that what they spilled was toxic?

Tall folk. Sigh.

So I took to rest for a day while Derek and Falin took the kobolds hunting and gathering food. The next thing I know it's evening, Doe is shaking me awake and telling me I'm needed. Of course I'm needed. Every time they're left to their own devices, Tall Folk get into things. It's never the people under five feet tall that start wars.

It appears that around the campfire, Doe had visions and started speaking orcish. A knight from another land will die first -- okay, Lo Fan's not going to pull through. I've had my doubts about that for some time. Elven lovers will fall from the sky -- this takes us back to what Dorflum wrote about the Paladins of Elhonna. Then she snapped out of it, remembering nothing. Lo Fan screamed without waking (I apparently slept through it), and they were attaked by one of the shadow demons he frequently described.

That, I'm told, is when things got interesting.

Myroc's forces have finally arrived. To show how deranged my brother is, he sent a brace of soldiers and two large clockwork serpents to assault us; surely someone with a functioning brain would have held these forces back for the defense of Whale Roost, or at least contributed them to the liberation of Jandar, or to the war effort in general. Were there any organization to this war effort, I'd call the action treasonable and have him thrown into irons.

Maybe I should declare myself a general, raise an army, and after the war declare myself king. Hah! Jobs nearly as undesirable as hero.

Note to self: murder Myroc at next opportunity.

The bad news is that Myroc knows where we're headed, and as I expect him to be sloppy with this information, the enemy will likely gain this information as well and try to intercept us.

We left the parts of the machina scattered across the road. A few of the larger plates I set up as signs, with the words that loosely translate into Common as "nice try, dipshit" written in gnomish using the soldiers' blood. It did not feel good to kill gnomes, but an enemy is an enemy, even kinfolk woh make poor career choices. We beheaded the soldiers and left their sallow noggins on pikes, which we in turn trapped. With luck, any of Myroc's forces that follow will be injured, demoralized and become deserters or, with luck, decide that fighting orcs is safer work than opposing me.

My brother's anger must be reaching a lovely crescendo by now; everyone he sends after me fails to return. Falin and Doe have joined me; his soldiers die, his clockworks are reduced to scrap.

I've resolved myself to gain the Phoenix Goblet using whatever means are required. If Shattertail will negotiate, or surrender the artifact for the good of the world, so be it. If not, I shall plot to steal it; if that becomes impractical, I shall slay the dragon.

I am, after all, the Iron Badger,

We've found allies. This fact should hearten me, but it does not.

As we left the region of the Jade Swamp, we realized we were being followed. Derek drew his bow and picked off a few of the stalkers, whom we discovered to be kobolds. They were apparently servants of the hag I slew when we'd first entered the swamp. Rather than seeking to avenge her, they came to prostate themselves before the Pearl Knights.

Apparently, there's yet another prophecy, that the Pearl Knights will come at the time of the falling star or some such crap and slay the three sisters, setting them free. Yes, THREE sisters. There are two more hags out there.

Derek and I had no patience for this, not wanting to turn back and waste our resources on killing hags. Doe just wanted to slay and skin the kobolds for sport, which I would have been game for were we not in a hurry to save the world.

Falin devised another plan, which I must admit was ingenious. I whipped up a couple of doses of poison. The kobolds provide the sisters with their meat; Doe trained half a score of them to use the poison, and used hypnosis and diplomacy (as well as her fluency in the Draconian language) to bolster their morale so they don't bungle the job. Then we moved on; with luck, the kobolds will off the hags, and their warbands will join us later.

Lo Fan remains in a coma. Falin is absorbed in self-interest, and while I cannot blame him, his lack of focus on matters at hand has the potential to become a liability to our mission. Through his own mysterious sources, Falin has learned that the elvish isle has fallen to the demonic kin of Raphael and Fang. Nearly all of his race are dead; only those few living here on the mainland survive. He has, again understandably, fallen into a deep depression.

At present, Derek and I plan to abandon the wagon, leaving Lo Fan, Falin and Doe in a hidden location. We'll lead the kobold warbands to the Dragon's graveyard, locate Shattertail, get the Phoenix Goblet, and reunite with them on the way back. Piece of cake, right?

I sense this will become needlessly interesting.

When all of this began, the war was a distant thing, something to be handled by other people in other places. It had very little impact on me, or I upon it. Now I find myself in the position of being the war, or at least the key to its outcome. A frightening prospect to me, as it surely must be you to those of you reading this Journal. It is a tremendous responsibility to place in the hands of one who admittedly is driven solely by self-interest. It is a burden and a chore.

As for Pearl Knighthood: I'm still coming to grips with this. We're a group of adventurers who got suckered into fighting some salamanders. In truth, we were in it for the loot, not noble causes. This whole war thing is nothing but a large distraction to me; I'll use what means I have to end it so that I can return to the business of doing business, no more, no less.

Don't call me a hero. Pawn of the Gods, maybe, but no hero.

Zeebo,

What to say to a gnome of legend – a Pearl Knight? Your soul is made of sterner stuff than anyone had thought. Soon, I think, you will be leading all of us into battle.

It is sad news to hear that the orcish hordes have developed this "cannon technology." My contacts in the wandering gnomish community tell me that the Nom, as your people call themselves will be gathering near Glandar in order to discuss breaking the seals of the ancient texts that hold the secrets of other technology.

Gods know that we need new weaponry. The fight for Jandar is turning for the worst. A crushing blow came to our forces as the Paladins of Ehlonna fell to their knees during a battle near the Del-Kha University. The Narleth destroyed the Paladins with ease. The warrior-priests of St. Cuthbert have cordoned off the Academic Quarter in an attempt to keep the Narleth at bay.

Our guild-brothers are nearly exhausted through constant night patrols. Many of the patrols do not return these days. An unholy chill is carried through the city on the sea breeze. The foul breeze also carries a deathly blue fog from the port. The clerics and healers have named this new curse the Warp Fog.

The City of Spires is now the City of Sorrows. Many of the sailors and dock workers have died from a variety of maladies including infection from forever-open sores, loss of health as their bodies shrivel up on their own, some have even starved to death as their own mouths have sealed up. I used to wish that upon some of the council, but now that I've seen once strong men die from the foul curse, I will never wish that upon anyone.

Times are grave Badger, hasten your quest when you can. We need the power of the Phoenix Goblet. If anyone can unravel its mysteries, it is you.

May the All-Father watch over you and give strength in your times of need.

Dorflum, The Velvet Hand. Captain of the Midnight Watch.

---

Prophecy. Why does it always come down to prophecy.

I've been witholding information from this journal, on the off chance that a copy of the book may fall into the wrong hands. I'm going to clarify a few things now, for two reasons. First, to give my allies hope. Second, to let my enemies know how much trouble they're in.

It is true, Derek, Falin, Lo Fan and myself have indeed been conferred the status of Pearl Knights by the Gods. If you read earlier entries about our encounter with Falin's god, and that our clothes have turned pearlescent, that's why.

Derek regained his fingers. He didn't use his wish. Thus are the powers of a Pearl Knight.

I killed the Night Hag of Jade Keep. With a dagger. In one shot. Thus are the powers of a Pearl Knight.

Falin destroyed an entire orc army. Alone. Using his powerful magics. Thus are the powers of a Pearl Knight.

Lo Fan killed a highly placed servant of Gruumsh. With his mind. Thus are the powers of a Pearl Knight.

We're going to save the world, or die trying.

At this point, so much is going on at once that I'm uncertain what I've written, and I've composed in my head with the intention of writing when the opportunity arrives. I fear at this point that I am writing for myself, not knowing the location of the other Journals. I also fear writing too much, in the event one of the Journals has fallen into the wrong hands, and can be used against us.

Jandar has been invaded by the blue elves. Apparently the city was rife with them disguised, like Rafael, as "normal" elves or even humans. Our support from the Velvet Hand is effectively cut off.

Benwood has fallen to orcs; their armies are at last pushing east. To make things worse, they have cannon, a technology stolen from the gnomes, and undoubtedly forged by dwarven slave laborers. They are marching toward Lansend as we speak. Falin has used his magics to send animal messengers to warn them, but it may be too late.

Falin and Lo Fan have been meditating over a gem taken from the orc priests at Melaina's Dream; they determined that the gem contained the spirit of an orc priest, who was spying on us. The stone is destroyed; Lo Fan has since been in a fever, never fully gaining consciousness, babbling nonsense.

We continue to our meeting with Shattertail, the dragon. Our original mission was to trade the Demon Bottle for the Phoenix Goblet. Lo Fan did finally reveal the purpose of the latter item; the only way to kill the individual behind this evil is to trick him into drinking from the goblet.

We no longer have the Demon Bottle, of course, and we suspect it was Mortimer who stole it. We've also learned that the mastermind behind these wars -- the evles, the orcs, the ratlings in Lo-Fan's lands -- is a gnome. Falin believes that Morty was that gnome; I'm not convinced, although he may have been in the service of the big evil.

Our one hope is that Shattertail can be convinced to let us have the goblet anyway; although we have nothing to trade, rumor has it that the big evil is his own child. Half-gnome, half-dragon; the mind boggles. Depending upon the character and disposition of Shattertail, we may need to steal the goblet, or we may need to slay the dragon. I'm up for either, because the state of the world leaves us with very little to lose.

Most frightening of all is the discovery that I have convictions about the world, that I'm not only willing to fight to save it, but willing to die trying.

One way or another, things will be interesting, very soon.

Zeebo:

I am glad that you are still living. Like it or not, the Gods have a plan for you. It is such with all of us that are left in Jandar. The ill portal that was left open after the return of my daughter has proven to be an extreme liability to the King’s Council. The ‘blue elves’ from that other plan have taken over the ports and have begun to assault the city center. If you can, recall your courier. Your gold is not safe inside the walls of Jandar. It would be best to leave your newfound wealth there in Lansend under the protection of the moneychanger’s guild.

These demonic monstrosities are wearing down the Knights of the King’s Council. It has come to the point where my own organization has been called up by the King’s Council to help protect the city and what people are left here in the City of Spires. The juggernauts known only as the Narleth, or Silken Death in the language of the elves have overrun many of the Knights strongholds throughout the city. The four-armed shock troopers know no weakness save fire-based attacks. They truly are the essence of death. Between their strong webs and shocking swords, they are a menace to the innocent. The merchant sections of the city have all but dried up. As you know, many of the merchants have fled to Lansend for some hope of stability in this ever-darkening world.

It’s as if the Gods did not give us enough grief to deal with this Orc invasion from the west. Now we have to deal with an invasion from a different plane of reality. I’m beginning to wonder if the two species are not connected in some way. It is not unlikely. The King’s War Council is considering the possibility, but there is no proof of such an alliance. If there were an alliance between the Orcs and the Blue Elves, the entire kingdom of Jarmon, possibly the whole of Morhl, could be lost to their growing evil.

A representative from Melaina’s, came to me yesterday and informed me that Lady Melaina herself has seen visions of the forests surrounding Jandar blazing. She has also had visions of the Elf Isle grow even darker as they recede further from the political arena. Lady Melaina has also envisioned your group in the garb of the ancient Pearl Knights. From reading some of your exploits, I am fearful of remaining in Jandar. Lady Melaina seems to be quite the prophet lately. I might advise the King’s Council to take up solace in her small keep. The caves underneath the monstrosity may be their only hope.

My loyal informants in Whale Roost have also reported that Myroc has gone into hiding and may even be traveling. He has not been seen in many days and it is rumored that he has become afflicted with a severe form of filth fever. On a more positive note, I am glad for your renewed health. We should start calling you the Iron Badger. Few are lucky enough to be reforged on the Anvil of Life. Use your second chance wisely my friend.

Keep safe and please let me know if I can be of assistance. I’ll keep reading when I have the time. I must rush off at this point, the War Council is in need of my expertise.

Luck to you Badger, remember your quest. Remember your pledge. The Phoenix Goblet may be our only hope at winning this dual-pronged invasion.

--The Velvet Hand.

---

My friends, I apologize most sincerely for my lack of correspondance. We have been travelling these weeks with the merchant caravan toward Lansend, a journey that has been largely uneventful. I would say, however, that you would hardly recognize me these days; recent events have been good for both my health and my spirit. I've gained a bit of weight and gotten a bit of color into my cheeks. No longer am I the gauntly sickly creature you knew.

I will happily acknowledge that Doe has played a major part in my transformation, and you may take that as you like. I must unfortunately also report that Falin's Green God had no small hand in things, either. While I remain distrustful of gods on general principles, all alliances have their benefit, and at least this god is largely neutral and unobtrusive. It's balance he seeks, and I can in many ways relate to that philosophy. There are necessary goods, as there are necessary evils. Without the Druglord Wizards of Sren, the barbarians wuold overrun that city; if thieves guilds around the world ran things unopposed, who would they have to rob but each other?

Within the city of Lansend -- a place which, incidentally, impresses me not at all, lacking the grandeur of Sren and the diversity and nightlife of Jandar -- we sold off some salvaged goods, as well as various alchemical concoctions I developed in my wagon of wonders along the way, allowing us to adequately re-equip ourselves. Gone are the dented swords and torn armor, replaced with masterwork items, shiny and deadly. This also has made a large alteration in my appearance. Gone is the ragamufin; I now carry myself with the bearing of a successful and respectable merchant, with wardrobe and accessories to match.

I hope that this message finds you all well. I will write again shortly regarding matters of business, but I wished to ease back into corespondance with a social missive first. I am anxious to hear how the orphans of Sren are faring under the tutiledge of Grundas Flint; Reaves, you will find that I have sent a note from the moneychangers of Lansend in the amount of one thousand gold pieces, to be applied to the care, feeding and training of said orphans. Dorflum, oh Velvet Hand, I have likewise send a note for five thousand to you for safekeeping, to be used for the funereal expenses of my dear brother Myroc, whose departure from this mortal coil is delayed only by more important business matters.

Yours,

I’ve spent several days thinking about my wish.

Derek’s will be obvious; he wants his fingers back. How fair is that, that his reward should be to regain digits he lost in the service of the god. What generous beings gods are.

Falin and Lo Fan are both thinking about their people.

If I could choose one thing, anything at all, and get it, what would I pick? My early thoughts turned to Myroc. I thought of wishing that all of my ill health, all of the disease and poison and curses, were transferred to him. Let me be the vision of good health and he be the twisted, sickly one for a change. Then I realized that without my hardships, I would not be the person I am today. I am a better person for having survived. And I’m going to kill Myroc anyway, when I get around to it. I want him to know his suffering is by my hand.

I thought of wishing for a certain god to perform unnatural acts with barnyard animals, but the though alone is entertainment enough.

I thought of wishing for all the orcs to be gone from the world, but there’d end up being some catch.

What do I want? For there to be justice in the world? No single wish can grant that. To end the orc war? Also too complicated for a single wish. To overthrow Myroc and take over the family business? Again, more satisfying for doing it myself, without the aid of gods who’ll likely come around later taking credit and asking for a cut.

In the end, I’ve decided that I’m going to save my wish. After all, a god owes me one. At some point in the future, I will call upon him to do a task for me, a mere mortal. That has to chap someone’s hide, which is almost reward enough, and you never know when a favor like that will come in handy.

I admit I’ve been in a grumpy mood lately. Too many things rub me the wrong way. Maybe it’s Doe rubbing off on my. Maybe it’s that fact that there’s too much unfinished business hanging over my head. I don’t know.

We got into the locked room; Derek had found a shield whose face was like acid, and would burn through anything it pressed against. This was how he’d lost his fingers; he’d picked it up. This is what happens when I leave Derek alone.

I questioned the wisdom of carrying such a dangerous item around until he used it to burn through the door.

The room had been a gnome’s last stand. His bones had largely turned to dust, and all that was left was a silly pearly-white coat, a diamond-tipped staff, and his journal. He’d been sent earlier by Falin’s god, and when he realized he was over his head, had holed up in here until he starved to death. See how this god business usually works out?

The good news was, according to the book Doe had translated, the staff was big magic. It also turned out that I was the only one with any working knowledge of arcane devices, so I acquired myself a powerful weapon.

After wandering around the temple for several more hours – no one had bothered keeping one of these lizard creatures alive to question it – we finally located the dead god’s crypt. Of course, it was guarded by a giant mummified snake with a humanoid head. A blast from my new-found toy froze it nearly solid, and the others managed to hack it to pieces rather easily.

It was almost anti-climactic when we opened the dead god’s sarcophagus, gazed upon his ugly dead body, took the lamp, and left.

We spend another hour trying to put out the magical wick. No one could agree on what the god had said; Derek insisted that he’d said to bring just the wick, extinguished, and not the whole lamp. No matter what we tried, the wick would not go out. It even burned under water. I finally suggested that, after centuries of wanting this thing and sending one group of gullible pawns after another without success, Falin’s god should be grateful for what he gets, and if he wants the facacta wick extinguished, he can do it himself. Frustrated, the others finally agreed.

The showed me where the portal they’d arrived from was located, and we drove out in my wagon. The driver was overjoyed to be leaving, less so when he heard we were detouring through a god’s domain.

Falin’s god was pleased. He thought I was the gnome he’d sent earlier; I made a crack about all gnomes looking alike, which I think went right over his godly head. He turned my clothes all pearly like the others, which still pisses me off, but at least he didn’t make them white.

Then he told us he would grant each of us one wish.

That’s when things got really interesting.

Let me just say that Doe and the others did not hit it off right away.

I had actually expected Lo Fan to be standoffish or even hostile, given how we had left things. Instead, he was glad to see me, like I was a long-lost rich uncle he wanted to be sure remembered him in the will. Then someone, he or Doe, made a comment about the other, which was matched by an equally unflattering comment back. I didn’t hear it all; I was busy talking to Derek, who had somehow lost the pinky and ring finger of both hands. I do know that an argument ensued, wherein Falin stated in with the “I’m oppressed because I’m an elf” thing, Lo Fan got petulant because he thought I was taking Doe’s side over his, and Doe threatened to murder the lot of them in their sleep.

Sigh.

I pulled Doe aside an convinced her to apologize. I managed to piss her off because I informed her that while she’d gone a long way to earn her stripe, she did not outrank the others and could not order them around like she commanded the urchins. Derek, Falin and Lo Fan did not work for me, they worked with me. Somehow, it irritated her that I didn’t assert myself as the leader of this group.

The situation was this: after being at the wrong place at the wrong time and saving some innocent people from some bad monsters, Falin’s god (don’t get me started) had shown up to reward them. He did this by giving them funky pearly-white clothing that had no apparent significance other than to look shiny and mark them as his representatives. Then he’d sent them off to the temple of his former arch-rival, a god who’d apparently been dead for centuries. The followers of this dead god had kidnapped his daughter (note to self – if I have daughters, teach them to fend for themselves) and eaten her, and were scheming to attack and eat the god himself, which would lead to the resurrection of their dead god. Oh, and the two gods had once been friends, up until the point where the not-yet-dead god stole something that belonged to the other god.

Gods. Definitely people you can look up to as role models.

The ultimate object of this quest was to find the object that was stolen so long ago and far away, a lamp with a magical wick, and return it to Falin’s god. There would then be great rejoicing, la la la, and all of that stuff. Bards would sing our names, la la la, great feast la la la, and so on.

No one could explain to me why any of this was my problem, until someone mentioned rewards.

That’s when things got really interesting.

After informing Orr that we were leaving the caravan and striking off on our own, we headed slightly east toward the sea. It was a dark night to begin with, but soon a dense fog rolled in and obscured our vision to almost nothing. Not a comforting sign.

After nearly an hour’s travel, the fog broke and we saw ahead of us a structure like an ancient temple. Partway up the side facing us was an opening, with light coming from within. Only one thing to do.

I had already changed into my working clothes, and Doe had done the same. I told the driver to wait, an order he was neither happy nor comfortable with, but an order he obeyed none the less. Doe and I climbed up the large steps to the opening, and wandered in. As I suspected, it was a temple of some sort, dedicated to no god I was familiar with. It was hot and dank, carved from large stones, and dimly lit by flickering torches.

Did I say temple? More like a tomb.

There were no signs of life as we made our way in, no sounds, no movement. Knowing Derek, Falin and Lo Fan, they’d run into something large and nasty and were holed up deep within the building somewhere. That, or some trap had sprung, trapping them inside with no visible way to get out.

Further along we began to find bodies, large reptilian creatures that apparently used iron spears as weapons. If my friends were in trouble, they’d gotten in a few good licks along the way. We found a brass door that was locked and bolted from the inside, something I couldn’t pick. I knocked a few times and listened, to see if they were inside, but got no response.

Going from room to room, we found nothing but more bodies. Then, in a shadow in the corner, I saw a foot. Someone was standing there, attempting to hide from me. The boot looked familiar. Scanning upward, to where I though a tall folk’s face would be in relation to the foot, I said, “Falin?”

“Zeebo?” was the response. “Guys, it’s Zeebo!”

And there was great rejoicing, up until the part when it got really interesting.

Our caravan had stopped for the evening, and Doe was outside gathering firewood. Dinner was simmering inside the wagon, and I was working to complete some special elixirs for future use when a knock came at the door.

Before I had a chance to answer, a well-dressed gnome entered unbidden. He was obviously a man of no small wealth, judging by his dress. He had the gleeful look you see on most gnomes, that overly-cheerful-about-nothing smile, that up-to-no-good twinkle in his eye. Small wonder I rarely associate with my own people.

He had a book with him, a slim volume of no more than twenty bound pages, and he’d come to me as an alchemist so that I might date the paper and tell him how old it was. While I was at it, he asked if I could have the book translated as well. It wasn’t a language I was familiar with, but Doe, being proficient with languages, identified it as draconian. I took a sample of the paper to work with, invited our uninvited guest to sit down, and set to to work transcribing the work into the common tongue.

Within minutes I was able to date the parchment back several centuries, using techniques I shan’t bore you with describing here. I held off on naming a price for my services until I knew what we were dealing with. If this book turned out to be something important, my fee would increase exponentially.

Our guest – for some reason I’d never bothered to ask his name – was getting restless and impatient. He continually picked things up, fidgeted, and acted as if he were intentionally trying to irk me. When he realized I was pointedly ignoring him, he asked if he could speak to me privately. I invited him to step outside, so that Doe could continue working.

“I apologize for the delay,” I said. “These things do take a while. We should discuss my fee.”

“Yes, your fee.” He grinned. “I really just wanted to see what kind of gnome you were.”

“Excuse me? Do I know you?”

“Yes, I do” he answered.

“Are you sure?” I asked. He was sure. Damn. Likely an illusionist altering his appearance, taking me off-guard. Now I was outside, away from Doe, and the caravan guards were beyond earshot. Stupid move, Zeebo. And just when I was beginning to enjoy a respite from paranoia as a lifestyle.

“I wanted to know what sort of gnome you were,” he repeated. “Did you read the book?”

“No, I myself don’t read Draconic. That’s why my assistant is doing the translation.”

“Ah. But you dated the book,” he said, idiot grin widening.

“”Yes,” I confirmed. As I said, I was awaiting the translation before revealing anything I’d learned, the better to set my fee for services rendered. He seemed to be going somewhere with the conversation, albeit at a painful pace, so I provided him with my estimated age of the document.

“Interesting,” he said. “How can it be that old, if it’s about your friends?”

“Excuse me?”

“The book is about your friends. They’re in trouble, you know.”

“No, I wasn’t aware that… hold on. How do you know so much.”

He continued grinning like an idiot. I figured out who he was. Damn it.

“Okay, whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying today. Let’s call it a hundred gold for my services this evening, and you can be on your way.” I’m sure I was visibly angry as I turned my back on him and started back toward the wagon.

“What about your friends? They’re not at Lansend where you plan to meet them. They’re in another place. I can get you there, for a price.”

That was enough. I spun and moved toward him, getting right up in his face. I resisted the urge to grab him by his lapels. “Look,” I said, “no more cryptic. I don’t do cryptic. I know this game. For some reason, you want me to hook up with my friends and provide them with aid. This is something you want, or you need. Fine. You’re going to tell me what’s going on, the straight truth. Then you’re going to arrange for my transport – that’s me, Doe, my wagon and driver – as well as my transport back, at your expense, not mine, because the look in your eyes right now is telling me that you need me, not the other way around.”

Just to piss me off, he clapped his hands and squealed with glee. It excited him that I would stand up to him, rather than beg or grovel or blindly obey.

“And we’ll discuss my fee for helping you with this problem at a later date,” I added, just to be obstinate.

“Good,” he said. “Everything is in the book. Read it, get everything ready, and be prepared to leave in one hour.”

Gods. Have I mentioned how much I hate gods?

I hate gods. This statement will seem blasphemous to many, but please indulge me by following my logic, no matter how tenuous. Gods are powerful beings who like to tell those with significantly less power how to live their lives. Some gods have no use for lesser beings other than to manipulate their lives for their own amusement. Some gods seem to actively despise those weaker than they, and go out of their way to create chaos and torment.

Why do we put up with this? Because they’re gods. We’ve been told that they’re our betters and to not question their will.

The orcs are, at the moment, more powerful than the gnomes and dwarves in the west. Should we simply accept this status quo? By the logic of gods, might alone can justify their abuse of other races. Myroc, my own brother, delights in the torment of others and feels it is his right in life to command others less powerful than he. As with gods, another’s world view is imposed upon others and declared to be law.

One day, a couple of gods decided to stick their noses into my business. If they were bored, I’d like to think that I made things more interesting than they expected.

Her name is Dolynn Duanno, but prefers to be called Doe, like the female deer. She’s one of Myroc’s enforcers, or at least used to be. As many seem to be doing these days, she’s changed sides. I wonder how many others have fled, or would if they didn’t fear his wrath.

It seems my brother’s decent into abomination has continued apace. His brutality increases daily. Myroc did indeed send Doe here to kill me, but in his madness seemed to forget that he’d coerced her into his service through torture, and that after having tortured, raped, killed or otherwise destroyed every other man, woman and child in her family. Not the sort of behavior that breeds loyalty.

Doe has sworn fealty to me so long as I vow to murder Myroc in my own good time. She assumes a bodyguard’s posture, standing behind me to my right and scowling at strangers who approach. It’s amusing, this slip of a girl acting guard dog to the badger. Armed with naught but a dagger and sling, at that. I tried nicknaming her Bulldog, the irony being that she is stunning of appearance and quiet unlike a squat, wrinkled hound. This only infuriated her; she seems to have quite a temper. I dropped it immediately, not wanting to upset her, but occasionally, in private, I will tease her with it.

Of course, I of all people should know not to put too much stock in appearances. The day after we sent the urchins back to Sren – she did not like the idea of my traveling without my “army”, but disliked the idea of being master of a traveling nursery more, and I am boss – she set out to prove her worth to me. No, not like that, you fiends! There were reports of troglodytes along the road (spatula!) and Emands Orr the caravan master was deciding whether to make camp early, or to attempt to travel on past the area where they were seen.

Over a lunch of cold chicken in Orr’s wagon, Doe declared to us that she would go this very moment and resolve the issue, neutralizing the trogs and insuring our safe passage. We laughed; she did not.

“Zeebo, you are a poisoner,” she said.

Trying not to wince, I corrected, “Alchemist, my sweet. I am an alchemist. Poisons are illegal.” Orr just smiled at me; he knew full well what I was.

“In any case-sss, do you have somethink ‘alchemical’ that would be harmful to reptile-ess?”

“I might, why?”

“Can you fetch it for me? I want to leave immediately.”

“It’s broad daylight,” Orrs demanded, incredulous. “Surely you’re not planning to go off and hunt troglodytes alone, in plain sight?”

“I do, and I will,” she said.

We went back to my wagon, where I mixed some herbs for her. “How much will you need?” I asked.

“Not much. Enough for three or four trog-ess, and maye two of those-sss giant lizard-ess I’ve heard they ride upon.”

“Wait, you’re going to go hunt trogs and you’ve never actually seen one? You’ve heard they ride giant lizards?” The world is full of crazy people, and they all want to be my friend.

“Yes-sss. I have never seen a trog,” She said. “But neither had you, until you and Falin Meliamne wiped out an entire troglodyte city deep beneath that mountain.” Okay, so perhaps I’d exaggerated a little when I told her that story. Who hasn’t stretched the truth a bit to impress a pretty girl? At least I shared the credit with Falin. The thing is, she had me there.

I couldn’t stop her. She refused to let me go with her, although I began to make plans to follow her. I made sure there was a cleric in the caravan at the ready to heal her after my inevitable rescue mission to save her from a troglodyte’s stewpot. I let her go about sixty yards into the woods before I started after her. After about two hundred yards, I lost her. Admittedly, I am not a woodsman and cannot track as well in the brush as I do in the city, but I’m no slouch, either. She vanished without a trace. I wander that spot for an hour, looking for any sign of her, and found none. After two hours of turning over rocks, looking for secret holes, and calling out her name in desperation (always a smart move when alone in trog-infested woods), I returned to the caravan.

Orr feared that she might alert the trogs to the caravan’s presence, thus insuring an attack. He was preparing defenses when Doe returned carrying a large walking stick. At the end of it was the freshly dead head of what she claimed to be the local troglodyte chieftain. She was completely unharmed and assured us that there would be no retaliation, and there was. We camped peacefully that night.

In the privacy of my wagon that night, she told me how she’d done it. It was a plan worthy of me; this girl would make a good Kantelleki. I would share the story, but she works for me now, and I can’t have all of my organization’s secrets revealed now, can I? Suffice it to say that the tale was very, very… interesting.

Reaves,

I am informed that the House of Gar has settled on a trade agreement with the Velvet Hand, which pleases me to know end. We will all be the better for it down the road. I also understand that as part of the agreement, Dorflum has bestowed upon you the services of a justicar named Grundas Flint. His reputation seems fearsome.

I am bestowing some additional resources upon you myself. A score or so of urchins – from Sren’s own barbarian quarter – will be visiting you under my orders. No doubt your neighbors will be scandalized, but this won’t be the first time the House of Gar has hosted unruly children, eh? Take care of them, feed them, clothe them, and teach them to read. Be sure they wash behind their ears, comb their hair and brush their teeth. Use them as couriers and spies, and even as muscle is need be. Do this as a favor to me.

All my best,

When I finished reading the scroll, she rolled up her left sleeve to show me the scar on her bicep.

“Why are you showing all of this to me?” I asked.

“For the same reason you told the Velvet Hand why Myroc had sent you and Derek Glenthorpe,” she replied. “I’m layink all my card-ess on the table because I want you to trust me, and understand that we’re on the same side.”

“And you don’t think that demonstrating a working knowledge of my tricks, or admitting that you know all about my relationship with the Velvet Hand, will make me too paranoid to trust you?”

“That iss where I have to trust you.” She smiled.

She had me in a bind. I could hear Derek’s voice in my head screaming “Don’t trust her, man! Don’t trust her! She’ll wait until you’re asleep and eat your eyeballs or cut off your willie or something!” Then again, Derek was a little high strung and paranoid about everything. Falin would likely just stare at me if I asked his opinion. Who in the Nine Hells knows what Lo Fan would think?

“What about the urchins?” I asked.

“Your army, my liege.”

I was about to laugh at her, when I realized she was serious. “You’re serious,” I said.

“Quite.”

“But they’re children.” I flung out an arm to my side, gesturing wildly at them. Interpreting this as favor from me, several that were sitting on the ground sprung up and grinned like idiots.

“Under your leadership, these children assassinated a demon elf and his-sss honor guard.”

“They throw rocks!” I screamed. This was getting crazy. I pinched the bridge of my nose, between my eyes. I was developing a headache. I pulled some roots out of a pouch and began to chew. “They’re not an army. The pulled that off because I planned it.”

“They know that,” she said. “Zeebo, you showed them their potential. You’ve shown them their own power. And revealed a bit of your own, I might add.”

“I’ve turned them into bloodthirsty dogs,” I said, suddenly horrified at my own actions.

“You’ve set them free. A week ago they were beggar-ess and thieve-ess and courier-ess and prostitute-ess – yes-sss, Zeebo, playthink-ess for the sick and twisted of Sren. ‘Killer’ is a step up for them; you’ve given them self-esteem and purpose.”

“Oh, what have I done,” I said, feeling like weeping. In the moment, I was thinking only of Raphael, and Fang, and avenging Travers Gar. Now I was facing the consequences my anger had inadvertently set into motion. “What am I going to do with an army of feral barbarian children?”

“They are children now, but one day they will be Tall Folk. Whatever they grow up to be, if you treat them well they will be loyal to you.”

She had a point. There was a war on; at least one. And my mind couldn’t think of a worse way to die than by buggery, disease and slow starvation. They were also barbarian children which meant they’d grow up to be drug addict, assuming they weren’t already. “They’re not heads yet, are they?”

“A few are, but not too badly. With your knowledge of herb-ess you should be able to fix them up. Most of them have survived on a higher class of scraps and trash, and are free from addiction. “

“They throw rocks,” I repeated. At this, she smilled.

“Srevgen!” she shouted in gnomish. Fall in. Great, I thought. She’s teaching them to speak Nom. “I’ve only had about a day to train them, so they’re a bit jagged around the edge-ess.

The urchins jumped up and fell into relatively neat lines. She pointed to a sapling tree about thirty yards off. “Loiosh!”, she commanded, which translated from Nom means roughly ‘to let fly’. The urchins pulled out slings. Spinning them over their heads, they released a barrage of rocks at the tree. Most of them hit. The pummeled sapling fell down as the trunk transformed into splinters.

“Crude, but effective,” she said casually. “Incidentally, your mouth iss open,”

“I don’t even know your name,” I realized aloud.

“You’re right, you don’t,” she said coyly, hooking her arm through mine. I wondered how much more interesting this could get before my nerves gave out.

I want to take a moment to document my newfound associate's unusual speech pattern. I've never heard its like before, and with certainty is no dialect I've previously encountered. Upon reflection I have decided it's a speech impediment, rather than the result of some exotic language. This was more or less confirmed when I learned for certain that she was from somewheres near Whale Roost. I wondered if she'd been tortured or abused by Myroc at some point, resulting in damage to mind, throat or pallette. I made a note to ask about it later, because there were more important inquiries I wished to make of her at present.

First, she seems incapable of pronouncing the letter "g" at the end of a word. Thinking, learning, fighting come out thinkink, learnink, fightink. At the start of the word, she can do it - good, not kood. Within the bosom of a word, she can do it - singink, not sinkink.

Second, if a word ends in "s", she pronounces it not only as if it were a separate syllable, but as a separate word. The phrase "Let's eat some apples", for example, would be pronounced "Let. Sss. Eat some apple. Ess." The former coming out as a soft hiss, the latter like the word "yes", minus the "y".

I find these vocal irregularities minorly endearing and slightly annoying at the same time. So long as we have no discussion regarding rings and kings and butterfly wings, all should be well.

Let me state something for the record. I have no illusions regarding my appeal to members of the opposite sex. In spite of all my numerous positive qualities, I am pale, gaunt, physically un-strong, and admittedly less than tactful in my outspokenness. I do not cut a dashing or heroic figure. I thrive and survive on a combination of wit, luck, and careful planning whenever possible.

My brother Myroc, on the other hand, is handsome, charistmatic, well-spoken, and a complete and utter git so far as strategy and tactics are concerned.

For this reason, I was able to deduce that the gnomette before me now was a hired killer after about three seconds. The first two, I was preoccupied checking out her figure.

I opened the door of the wagon and one of the urchins ran up, tugged on my sleeve, and began babbling furiously in the barbarian tongue. I shot a puzzled look to Emands Orr, who provided translation. 'Mr. Kantelleki,' he said, 'these children say they owe you much, and the nice lady suggested they should continue to follow you. You bring them good luck, he says. So the nice lady led them here, to meet up with the caravan.'

'Hello, nice lady,' I said, smiling my wickedest smile.

She opened her pouty little mouth and said, 'Hello Zeebo. I've come to offer my services as well.'

By Garl, she truly expects me to fall for this? If she wasn't hired by Myroc, she was obviously some sort of miscreant demigod sent to punish me for past sins. This last option actually made more sense. No mortal gnome had eyes that green. Like sparkling emeralds.

Slowly, her eyes never leaving mine, she reached into a scroll pouch and produced a piece of parchment. I traced her movement with my peripheral vision to make sure she wasn't drawing a weapon, and I had confinence that Orr and his bodyguard would intervene if she tried anything tricky. I was wearing gloves, so I didn't concern myself with the danger of contact poison. There was nothing overlty magical about the paper itself, so I felt safe in unrolling the scroll and reading.

The words before me made my jaw drop. That's when things got really interesting.

Let me be forthright in stating that I am a bit uncomfortable travelling on Reaves' money. I swept into Sren for less than a week, avenged Travers' murder, got Reaves established as the heir to the House of Gar, and moved on. I felt guilty taking as much as I have, but the truth is the we'll need the provisions to meet a Dragon and negotiate the trade of an Artifact, all the while evading local laws, orcish patrols, and whatever demonic forces lay in wait for us. With nothing less than the liberation of not one, no two, but three races of people riding on our success or failure.

Okay, I've talked myself out of that discomfort. I should have taken more.

Still, when I realized that there were eyes peering back from the woods, my first thought was to protect Reaves' investment in me. I shouted the alarm, then immediately ducked into the wagon, shuttered the windows, bolted the door, and prepared to stand my ground from within. Reaves had, after all, paid for me to join this caravan, and that contract provided protection. Let other people fight for a change. I'm sitting this one out.

I had a strange feeling I'd been here before, and I didn't enjoy the experience the first time around. Quoth the ranger: Troglodyte. Spatula. Whatever.

The alarm went out, followed by the clatter of steel as arms were drawn, the rush of horses as our bodyguard rode up and down the length of the caravan, and then, silence. The moment stretched out uncomfortably long. There was no sound of battle. I heard murmurs of conversations, followed by a knock at my door.

I slid aside the peephole and cautiously peered out. Emands Orr, the caravan master, stood there. He was surrounded by smiling urchins. The children of the barabarians' quarter had followed me out of the city.

That wasn't all. with them was the most stunningly beautiful female gnome I had ever encountered in all my days.

I pray to the powers that be that things are about to get really, really interesting.

For a small fee paid by Reaves, the caravan of Emands Orr is providing me with both a driver and protection. The wagon and horses have been supplied by Reaves as well, and with luck I can maintain them intact until I meet up with my compatriots. It would be a great boon; the wagon was designed for use with a travelling medicine show, repossessed a few months ago when its previous owner could not pay his debt to Travers Gar. It affords some measure of shelter and privacy within, and also houses a small alchemical lab.

Knowing my luck however, we'll either be hijacked by bandits who'll set it ablaze before reaching my destination, or it will be blown to bits within 24 hours of my reunion with Derek, Falin and Lo Fan. Such is my lot in life.

For now, however, I have no worries. I am dressed as a middle-classed merchant, not too rich but neither too poor. I am not an adventurer or rogue, merely Mr. Kantelleki, travelling dealer of things alchemical. I'm even wearing a rather jaunty pointed hat, to complete my appearance as just another gnome, no one special, pay no attention to me, laa dee doo.

Of course, my daggers and small sword are close at hand. I'm travelling incognito, but I'm not an idiot.

The first day of travel was uneventful, the first and only time I've had peace and quiet on the road. I periodically watched behind us for signs we were being followed, and kept an eye on the side of the road ahead for ambush. Nothing.

At least, not on the first day.

About an hour after sunset, I was riding in the front of the wagon alongside my driver when I caught a flash of something off on the woods to the north. A campfire, perhaps? Torchlight, or the flash of a spell being prepared? As I craned my neck and squinted after a better look, I realized that something out there was squinting back.

That's when things got really interesting.

The following arrived via carrier pidgeon the morning I was preparing to venture out of Sren:

Zeebo,

As a dwarf of many years, surprise is something that is a delicacy. You have indeed surprised me. Your resources are most surprising indeed. Your nimble fingers, eyes, and ears are near everywhere that mine are. The fates have apparently cut us from the same cloth and have had the two of us inhabit different bodies. Again, as a dwarf of many years, it is a surprise to meet someone of your calibre and talent.

In all fairness, my emotions ran deep on the day that your intrepid band bolstered into my club. They were road-weary and ill kept. I do understand their explanation given, otherworldly encounters are enough to turn a dwarf's hair white down to the beard. However, your Second, Derek, is one of the most uncharasmatic fellows I have ever dealt with -- and I have dealt with many. The former prisoner, Lo Fan is also one of those egregious humans who think that the world is here for their sole amusement. Your elf, thankfully remained silent throughout the proceedings. Gods know that we do not need vocal elves. Especially in these dark days.

Few barge into the club with their bravado and live to tell the tale. I'm a dwarf of great ego because I've earned it, not because I consider myself above anyone. My own beginnings were more humble than yours. I was not born into an organization as you were. I made my own through necessity and, oddly enough, fealty. If you could pass along lessons in dealing with people your Second may live longer. As it was, I was grateful that my beautiful daughter was delivered to me safely. This is why your warriors still live, as I have stated to them.

I have even discounted the fact that your Second found loopholes in my words and raided my armory to raise capitol for his journey to Benwood. I surmise that the gemstones that I gave to Lo Fan were not quite enough of a reward. Just so you know, we now live in the days where two-thousand gold in agates are incense and smoke -- as this is what he did with them. He ground up the agates into his incense and prayed for two days straight! This seems to be a monitary managemet issue on the part of your Second.

Between you and I, I do appreciate your candor, young gnome -- in the right venue. You have chosen well. The assumed privacy of this magical artifact is an appropriate avenue. I have to admit that there are some times that I do not see the forrest for the trees. You are a different sort of Kantelleki and I did fail to notice that. Please accept my heartfelt apology for thinking you were of the same mindset that your sodding brother is. In truth, I believe that even Little Dunnie could run the Kantelleki Organization in Whale Roost better with a kinder hand. There are few times where I have to don the Iron Gauntlet of my youth. Unfortunately for all, those times are becoming more and more frequent.

Your apt premonition of needing as many allies as possible are indeed true. Sages under my employ are highly concerned about the portent of doom that the new comet brings. The people in Jandar are becoming ill tempered and wary because of it. I would wager that the smaller towns are already building barricades to block the entrance of strangers. Benwood itself is a huge metropolis nearly the size of Jandar. Beware Zeebo, the guards there are under the rule of the Battle Guild. Crimes are not punishible by prison time or by death -- it is by gladatorial combat. The Battle Guild has recently acquired the sanction from the King's Council to utilize slavery to combat their increasing crime rate. I would not want you to become fodder for the masses.

Walk with care, Zeebo. I fear that this is only the beginning.

The Velvet Hand

So in other words, things are about to get very, very interesting.

Once I meet up again with the party, I'm considering having the third copy of this Journal sent back to Dorflum, the Velvet Hand, permanently. Oddly enough, I hadn't considred the tactical advantages. To have associates in Sren, Jandar, and Whale Roost all able to communicate instantaneously would certainly give an edge to the alliance I'm proposing. I've set Reaves to the task of locating Travers Gar's note on the creation of this Journal; I envision battlefield commanders putting such a tool to great advantage (and purchasing such tomes at advantageous profit to us). I've also set Reaves (who has taken the last name Gar, as is his right now) to developing some sort of encryption, so that if a Journal should fal into the wrong hands, it would be unreadable to an enemy.

I have also sent a message back to the Velvet Hand on behalf of Reaves to see if some muscle could be lent or sold. While Reaves is a fine lad, he remains a lad, very green, and untried in the arts of ruthlessness he'll need to manage the type of business he's inherited. He needs a second. He needs a justicar.

My wagon is packed and ready. I will be joining a merchant caravan headed for Benwood within the hour.

At this point, I know at least that the journal made it safely to Jandar and into the hands of Dorflum, who turned it over to Derek. The excerpt below is testimony to that fact. Do not ask me how I acquired an exact copy of a page from the diary of the Velvet Hand; a gnome must keep some secrets, aye?

The return of my daughter was quite an emotional escapade. The adventurers from that sod Myroc in Whale Roost did not bungle as I thought they would. The young prisoner seems to be the most trustworthy. It seems as if the gnome, Zeebo, had gone missing - or dead. Either one is truly acceptable as the only Kantelleki you can trust is a dead one.

The human, a ranger by occupation, seemed to control the group as a wild animal. The group was constantly moving and seething under his newfound control. He is not a
leader yet, but he could be tempered into one. I could use his talents in my organization. In truth, I could use Zeebo as well, if his family name did not already tarnish the deal. This human had a little trouble explaining why he was dealing with me to the prisoner that was in cell number three. After a few hums and haws, the ranger came clean.

My own aged father used to say, "Honesty is a powerful tool. It can be sickly sweet as honey and as bitter as feverfew. Use it sparingly and with skill." The ranger, without knowing, followed this nugget of advice that my father likened to a creed. He came clean with the prisoner. Rage seemed to highlight the Tenguoan. As many of his ilk, his hand went to his ancestral blade in an attempt to 'rectify' his dishonor. What the warrior-monk did not understand was the fact that *I* ruled in my own home. I told him as such. He did not know that I had knowledge of his culture. One does not get into my position without the ability to gain knowledge of his friends and his enemies.

The ranger told me an incredible story. One of such strangeness and horror, I could nearly not believe. My daughter confirmed his words with a reassuring touch. Their friend and confidant, Zeebo, had been lost in an otherworldly realm of demons. My nemisis in the council, Raphael, was of this demonic race. The band had been tasked to
kill Raphael and rescue my beautiful Axissus. So far they had succeeded, or so they thought.

They had destroyed the vessel, the body, that Raphael had inhabited. They had gone to the otherworldly plane to battle the quick-fighting demonic elves. They had rescued by beloved daughter and found more of the blue-skinned warriors bowing to an open flame that spoke in Raphael's voice. A cold shiver went through me. The blood in my veins turned to chilled wine. My mask must have fallen in shock because I found my jaw had dropped open. The ranger brought up a good point concerning the war with the Orcs. I could not finance a two-pronged attack. The Holy Orcish Army was encroaching the Kingdom of Jarmon from the west. A group of the foul invaders had been found in the north under Melaina's Dream. Now a portal to this otherworldly realm existed underneath the tavern that Raphael used as his front. My priorities were now divided.

The band needed rest, supplies, and payment. All three were given to them. Sometime the next day, a package was delivered. As with all suspicous packages, I had my mages discern what it was. It was a diary -- it was Zeebo's diary. The strange thing was there were newer entries in the journal than what my guests had told me. Apparently the young gnome was absconded to Sren.

I called for the ranger and gave him the book and the explanations as to why I read the excerpts first. The ranger appeared relieved and was now resolved to find the dragon Shattertail to try to make the trade for the Gnomish artifact that would win the war, The Phoenix Goblet.

Derek, please convey the following to Dorflum, if you would:

Most Exalted Velvet Hand,

I take no offense at your disparagement of the Kantelleki name. Understand that I am not Myroc, nor am I my father. Know that one day after current business is settled, I intend to lay claim leadership of the family, to take over Whale Roost and its affilaited business interests, to right wrongs and put things neatly in order. At that time, I will be seeking your blessing.

Forgive any arrogance on my part, but thus far in our relationship, I have managed to burgle the church of St. Rosenbaum, enter and exit the underlevels of the Gentleman's Club alive, plot (and accomplish, at least on this plane) the assassination of two elf-demons, help uncover a cabal of orcish sorcerers operating uncomfortably far beyond the war front, and aid in the rescue your daughter. The only person to whom I have lied is Lo Fan, for reasons you certainly understand. I was ever truthful with you about Myroc's intentions in sending us to work for you, and in fact betrayed my brother to side with you and yours in this Demon Bottle affair. Honesty is, indeed, a powerful tool.

Were I to be offended, it would not be because you give my family name the scorn it has earned, but because you fail to recognize that I as an individual am an honorable gnome who has served you well and earned your trust many times over. Were I merely after wealth or power, I could live out the rest of my days quite comfortably in Sren, rather than repeatedly risking my neck going on adventures and fighting enemies. I have no interest and Sren. Know that I have no interest in Jandar, in the event you decide I might one day pose a threat to you.

No, this is and has always been about one thing: family. Should I aid in some way in turning back the orcish horde from our mutual homeland, my deeds may outweigh the misdeeds of my lesser relations. My betrayal of Myroc is for the good of the family. That -- what was you word -- "sod" Myroc's continued existance is in no one's best interest.

If nothing else, we shall all need as many allies as possible in the days to come. And even if my heartfelt pledge of fealty above does not stir you, wouldn't it be best to keep the Kantelleki where you can see him?

I am presently travelling toward Benwood to rejoin the others on the journey to seek Shattertail. As you now understand the nature of this journal, know that any message for me may be conveyed Reaves the Alchemist in Sren. I look forward to the day when we can meet again and discuss this thing of ours. Until then I remain

Your humble servant,

Zeebo,

We are glad you were not left behind with the blue elves. Sorry to hear about Travers - I know you will avenge him. On the dragon front, we found a Dragon expert who thinks that the Draconian temple is probably located somewhere between Og and Benwood - the area currently being overrun by the Orc army.

I hate orcs.

If you can meet up with us, we are going overland to Lansend and then onto Benwood. From there we will start searching the mountains. I'm tired of all of these political maneuverings by Dorflum and Raphael. I told Lo Fan the truth about our missions. Once we get the Phoenix Goblet, we can figure out who gets it first - I don't care anymore.

Derek

---

I have dispatched one of Travers', or rather, Reaves' best couriers to Jandar. He carries with him one of the three copies of this journal. As I do not know where Derek and the others are at the moment - they may be elsewhere, they may be back in the city, they may be on the moon for all I know - I am having this delivered to Dorflum. If Derek, Falin and Lo Fan are in Jandar, they will find him, or he can find them. With the journal, they will know that I am well, and hopefully will write back so that I know were to find them.

As tempting as spending more time in Sren may be, I know that I must be on my way as soon as I am equipped. I am considering taking a handful or urchins with me as bodyguard, although how effective they will be outside their familiar crawlspaces and alleyways, I do not know.

Derek, please write me back.

What follows is what Deelia reported to me, for she was there. As reported previously, I was dining with several respectable citizens of Sren in a very public place.

Fang, as I've come to call the unnamed demon elf who murdered Travers Gar, did not stay long in the tavern known as The End for long after I left. He apparently took me seriously enough, or had learned from Raphael that sitting and waiting for me to come to him was not the most prudent, or survivable, thing to do.

I expected as much. In fact, I counted on it.

I had told Fang that he would be dead within two days. When two days had passed and nothing had happened, he likely grew impatient, or tired, or overconfident. Who knows the workings of his mind? I knew that if he were like Raphael, he would be too curious to just leave. He would be plotting to trap me. This would give me ample time to make preparations. I am not a fighter, and I did not have Derek and Falin, or even Lo Fan, to back me up.

What I was up to took balls, if I say so myself.

So it was that two nights following my challenge, Fang and his men mounted their horses and rode across town to bring the fight to me.

The simplest route from The End, in the Barbarian's Quarter, to Travers Gar's shop in the Merchant Quarter, is along the Street of Bridges. This street is so called because of one block in the oldest section of the city. There are number of walkways connecting buildings on opposite sides of the street.

As Fang rode under one of the walkways, a dozen nooses fell down upon his head. Five of them actually made it around his neck. He was lifted off his horse, and was suspended in the air. His hands clutched at the rope as his legs flailed madly, seeking purchase on something. When his men turned and moved to help him, they were met with a hail of rocks from every direction, knocking them from their spooked and rapidly fleeing horses. Fang was also pelted. His face turned red, his tongue lolled from his mouth, and eventually he stopped kicking.

The Street of Bridges was left silent. Fang hung there, dead and bloody. His men lay on the ground, buried under hundreds of stones. My message had been sent.

Two days previous, I had ordered Deelia to bring me ten urchins. This was easily done, requiring no more than a trip to the Barbarian's Quarter where orphans are legion. To each of these I promised a silver piece to carry out a mission for me. They were to recruit as many other street rats as they could. They would be paid an additional copper for each friend they brought to the party, and each of those would be paid a copper as well.

I spent four hundred gold pieces on poisons to kill Raphael. I spent three gold pieces to have Fang and his men stoned to death.

Things stopped being interesting for a while, and I was able to get a few days' rest.

Let me explain a bit about Sren, for those who have never been there. It's a free city in the midst of barbarian lands. It's a jewel that would fit nicely into the crown of any conqueror. Yet the city is left alone, and no warlord had every beaten at the city gates.

Most every educated child has been told that the barbarians are afraid of the wizards. Barbarians are, after all, stupid, backward, and superstitious. The people who spread these "truths" have likely never met a barbarian. While most barbarians do not share the sophistication of us city folk, they are far from stupid. They may not know how to read, employ wizardry, or tinker with devices; they know things that so-called civilized people couldn't begin to understand. They are hard people. They are survivors.

And this is why the barbarians fear the wizards of Sren.

Luxury is a tempting thing, especially when you work hard for your existence. Walk into any tavern and you'll find drunken laborers unwinding from a day's efforts, warriors returned from battle, adventurers returned from some quest of another. Wine, women and song are the reward for stress and strain. To barbarians living from hand to mouth, never knowing where the next meal is coming from, to which war is a way of life, tiny things we take for granted become luxuries.

The barbarians need what Sren has. Should Sren be attacked, the supply line is cut off until the siege is ended. Should some other power rise to attack the city, the barbarians would rise to her defense. They hate the city of wizards, but cannot live without her.

My brother Myroc sent me to Sren partially to get me out of his hair because my appearance offended him - I was small and weak, even by gnomish standard, and he felt that my condition somehow reflected on him, or that my weakness might be contagious and rub off. He also feared that although I was feeble of body, I was quick of mind, and fearless in challenging his decisions. He knew that I did not agree with the cruelty and brutality he used to advance the family business. He could not kill me - I'm family - but he could send me away. He feared that someday, I might oust him as head of the family. So he sent me to Sren.

I was apprenticed to the wizard Travers Gar for 9 years, yet learned no magic. This is because magic is not the business Travers Gar was in. To the public he was an alchemist and herbalist, a brewer of potion and elixirs, but that was not Travers Gar's main business, either. Had Myroc even an inkling about Travers Gar's business, he would never have sent me there. If he knew what I was learning, he would never have sent me there.

Travers Gar was one of the largest drug dealers and crime lords in Sren. He sold addictive substances that were peddled to the barbarians through the food and drink they were sold. Other drugs were sold in the taverns they frequented. The barbarians hated the wizards for making them into addicts. They feared the wizards because their supplies could be cut off on a whim. They obeyed the wizards because they needed their fix.

Drug addiction is a terrible thing, but it kept the citizens of Sren from being burned, raped and pillaged. It also resulted in the creation of a whole new class of peasants. Addicts who were too weak to be useful. Deaths due to overdoses and suicides. The sick, the weak, and the orphaned that would do nearly anything for a scrap of food or a night's shelter.

I admit that aspects of my plan gave me some pangs of conscience. I have used people, it is true, but always toward a greater purpose, or to lead them to what they deserved. That I had qualms about drugging the barbarians, in spite of what they'd do to the city without the reigns of their addiction, was a large reason I turned Travers' business over to Reaves.

There was no comfort for me in the knowledge that many members of Sren's victimized underclass ate and slept well tonight or even that they toasted my name for their well being.

Lo Fan once told me that to his people, it was a curse to wish a person to live in interesting times.

Two nights later, I sat in a respectable dining club. Travers Gar had been a member, and because the establishment knew me to be a close associate of the late wizard they had transferred his membership to me. Earlier in the day I had attended Travers' funeral. It was a small affair, mostly his apprentices and employees. There were representatives from various guilds and the houses of other wizards, but no actual guild masters or mages themselves. Travers was known and respected, but not overly social. He wasn't disliked, but he had few friends.

After the funeral was the reading of the will. Travers' solicitor informed me that he'd left a substantial portion of his estate to me. I immediately had him draw up papers transferring ownership to Reaves. The apprentice, now master by default, understood the arrangement. He ran the business, the day-to-day operations. If I needed something, I could come to Sren and get it. I could come back at any time and collect my share of the profits. In return, he got the benefit of my growing reputation.

I know you're asking, Zeebo, why not take the inheritance? You could be head of the House of Gar? But that's not what I'm after. I'm a Kantelleki. And one day, I will be head of House Kantelleki. Nothing else will satisfy.

I dined peacefully that evening, on roast pheasant and fresh pears. I dined publicly, smiling gracefully at the humans I knew were following me to keep an eye on me. Reaves was with me, along with the son of the mason's guild master, a captain of the city guard, and courtesan of some political influence. I enjoyed my lovely dinner party because I knew, at that moment, across the city, murder was being committed.

The interesting part may have already happened.