Hello good historian! I, a humble journal, thus updates itself automagically, at the very moment that good Sir Orgoo, my esteemed master, is in peril. Therefore, my humble account must fill in the gaps that open as he is having his most glorious posterior masticated by an Ogre Mage. One can only hope that in Sehanine’s infinite wisdom, my illustrious master might survive this conflict and write an account in a hand far more sure and masculine than mine. But, I am a mere book of poetry infused with the soul of a most humble and pox-ridden actor, and the best I might do is to transcribe the heroic actions of my glorious master Orgoo, and his esteemed companions.
The heroic party defeated the sinister Frost Dragon in the cave aforementioned by my most brave master Orgoo. They found in its horde a most magical sphere, a snowy white on one side and blood red on the other. When activated, it flung out bolts of arcane fire and pulled Marcus, Aria, and Wreth into its body. My master thereafter called it “The Pokeball”, a term unknown to a humble assemblage of parchment such as I. The remains of the party seemed quite unfazed by this sudden transport of their companions, somehow secure, in their wisdom, that they were safe in the small and round, and perhaps Feywildish, confines of the ball until they again return to serve the glorious cause. [In fact this Pokeball is a device to transport absent players’ characters in and out of the party conveniently.]
The esteemed party found a Foe Stone, which tells them of the weaknesses of their enemies. Huzzah! (If I may interject.)
They found a chalice full of a noisome ichor. Later they discovered that it stuns the awful bugs that have been plaguing them. Good to know, say I!
They found some gold and jewels, and Rosy most skilfully skinned the dragon to yield a field of scales.
When they wended their way back to town, they were attacked by the mighty Hive Lord of the bugs and many of its minions! The chalice was used by the glorious Orgoo as he most wisely protected his posterior in the cupboard of a house surrounded by bugs. How brave he was! May be never tear out my pages with which to wipe his bunghole!
On the trail laid by the dying words of the dragon, the party bravely marched to the West of the Forest of Fa-lir, wherein they found a Hut. In it was an old woman with a perfectly innocent huge morningstar on her wall. But with incredible insight, my master was suspicious. Why would an old woman need a club she could not lift, he bravely asked, while protecting his glorious posterior by pressing it to the humble wall? They asked her about Princess Parsy but to no avail. They started to suspect this woman, and some saw through a veil of illusion to see her as a mighty ogre. But, as my master is quick to point out, it might have been merely due to the mushrooms they wisely consumed in the forest on the long and boring journey to this distant part of the forest.
As the heroic party bravely intimidated this sinister, though old, very old, and frail woman, she revealed she was in fact the ogre spoken of by the dragon! Pressing their advantage, my master bravely strongarmed this frail and old—but sinister!—woman into letting them look under the foreboding trapdoor in her floor.
At this point the mighty Steeple decided He Was Bored With All This and left. The old woman likewise opted not to stay. Ignoring our entreaties to hold her for more questioning, Steeple admitted her through her own hut’s door as she sashayed into the forest. Piqued, he followed her. Meanwhile, unawares, we remaining in the party descended into the trapdoor.
Now, dear reader, I am merely a magical journal. I don’t know how I know what I do when I am stuck in the damp and fecund pocket of my master, Orgoo. But somehow I have a vision of what transpired for the mighty Steeple. I saw him follow the old woman into the Deep Dark Forest. I saw her turn with a wicked smile on her crinkled lips. I saw her breathe out a noxious purple mist. And, I must attest, I saw mightily Steeple crumple under this breath. In his most brave wisdom, he elected not to call out for his companions in the hut. Why not? It is not for me to say, a mere collection of magical parchment. So mighty Steeple fell in a glade under the wrathful eye of an Ogre Mage, unconscious.
Meanwhile! The rest of party, blissfully unaware of the symbolic (and perhaps, in time, literal) anal rapery of their mighty metal tank-man, explored the dusty and webbed space under the hut. In time they found a seething cadre of goblins, the slaves of the ogre. A long and bloody battle was averted by the wise and generous application of mean faces and intimidating roars of the party. [The Intimidate roll was so high and they so low, they cowed them, even though they were unbloodied.] The goblins, reeking of their own expelled urine, said the ogre was “Jacinda”, who enslaved them for various nasty purposes. They said, she has a nasty habit of luring people along out into the woods alone, then stealing their souls.
My master Orgoo, in his great articulation bred of years of poetic practice, said: “Wha! But! Ogre! Forest! Lure! <burp> Soul! Steeple! Yaargh!” And thus was the party motivated to tell the goblins to, in the urgent words of my master, “Fuck off and do no evil”, and then the party ran to Steeple’s aid.
And so the battle is joined! I can only hope my master survives, to recharge me with succulent residuum of course, but also to write in me with his own hand. I would hate to be left in this forest to be the mere paper with which to wipe an ogre mage’s stinky bum…
Yours in service,
Orgoo’s Automagical Journal