Alas poor Grimcrack

Sitting cross-legged in the tent, Rifkin takes out the small, cloth-wrapped gnomish skull from his satchel, places it beside him and re-leafs through the tattered remnants of Grimcrack’s worn, torn and now spineless diary. He’s not sure what motivated him to take it while he was gathering up the small knight’s magical equipment. Perhaps the injustice of his death or the unsatisfactory ending of his failed quest. Whatever the reason though, the empathetic Rifkin feels the physically tangible weight of grief, push down on his sentimental heart.

The Thin-Needle family had been right about the dangers of keeping the demonic Hag imprisoned rather than executing it. Poor Grimcrack had lost his life in his attempt to rectify his people’s mistake and his statesman Father had lost a beloved son.

Although, the Gnome had died nearly fifty years ago… or possibly a hundred (depending on whichever world’s timespan you consider) but Gnomes are long lived. Not as long as Elves perhaps but still, Baron Gewgore Thin-Needle is most probably still alive, with only the accursed feeling of unknowing loss. Forever assuming the worst but never actually having the ‘comfort’ of being certain. A forlorn sort of hope that never truly lets you rest.

Rummaging deeper into his leather satchel, Rifkin pulls out a few sheets of paper, one of his small, magical golden feather tokens, his stylus and a small bottle of black ink before beginning to write…

Bastard vs Wankel

During the first four days of the long camel-trek back through the desert and despite the Hag’s unscheduled and unwelcome visits, everyone tries to make good use of the blisteringly hot but idle ‘daytime’ rest periods. Rifkin continues, somewhat pointlessly now, to study Grimcrack Thin-Needle’s diary, while Liga Bur, Fortu and Arowe are mostly occupied with their own thoughts and concerns.

Thanks to the recent-ish execution of their prisoner; the Wizard Moody though and the mid-journey discovery of the rocky oasis, the Party now have more than enough water to spare for brief outdoor exertions beneath the hot suns and Henshaw and (the recently cured) Doberman use some of their free time to spar, using their newly acquired Bastard sword and Wankel shield.

Blond Henshaw, considering his profession, is an oddly cautious man by nature, but reckless Doberman’s enthusiasm for violence necessitates Barbella’s presence as referee/murder preventer. This time though, Liga Bur sits beside the bearded stabber-for-hire, just to make his own personal assessment of how much recent experiences have sharpened their combat skills. He’s been suspicious of them ever since Rifkin (out of concern for Fortu) pleaded with Estrid for their lives. They have appeared loyal since then, but the Halfling’s very aware, that if they ever did decide to cross them, it’d be three verses three, as he’s yet to see the Bard even draw a weapon. Although confident in Arowe and Fortu’s combat prowess, Liga Bur has lamented his own limitations of late. Next to the Elf’s remarkable bowmanship and the Human’s phenomenal one-handed skill with, what should definitely be a two-handed sword, he finds himself noticeably overshadowed.

Henshaw and Doberman have practiced this duel many times now with both combatants using their blades wrapped to prevent serious injury but Doberman has a lifetime habit of getting carried away and forgetting that one condition. This particular clash follows their now established pattern, with the bulky Doberman using Fortu’s generously donated hand-and-a-half bastard sword, two-handedly, as if it were a lumberjack’s axe, to rain down shuddering blows onto Henshaw’s magical wankel shield.

Although only minor magical items in the grand scheme of things, both of the men are amazed at their power and resilience. Despite being battered by Doberman’s near monstrous blows, Henshaw’s large, heavy shield remains without a ding. As is Doberman’s sword. Though not forged of the same indestructible metal of Fortu’s new flamberge, it’s enchantment still protects and maintains the blade’s sharp edge.

This time though, while still holding his awkward looking, crablike defensive stance, Henshaw manages to jab his Masterwork cold-iron longsword into Doberman’s large and exposed belly. There’s no real force behind the thrust and Doberman’s chainmail armour protects him from any potential harm, but the laughing Barbella calls the fight in Henshaw’s favour.

The lanky, straw mopped Henshaw, although surprised, grins in response and caws.

"Hah; that'll teach you Doberman! Nobody beats a Henshaw seventeen times in a row!"

The Sword is Mightier than the Quill!

Rifkin hadn’t actually seen the unrelenting and seemingly unkillable slime creature, but he’d heard the panicked screams from the men below. Screams of true fear drawn from tested men; men of action. They'd all escaped, but somehow he just knows that the abhorrent creature is still silently searching for them, slowly oozing up the stone steps behind and below them.

Fortu, seeing Arowe, Liga Bur and Barbella examining the glass cabinet, moves straight over to the ornate metal door in the opposite corner of the spacious room.

It's large, heavy and definitely cast out of the same cold-iron that the outer doors and spears were made of. It also has a full-sized embossed image of an eyepatch wearing, crowned and bearded man, his stockinged legs planted wide with his right hand, palm out and fingers splayed. Fortu recognises the features but, beyond the eyepatch, can see some differences. The figure strongly resembles Sir Briefadel and is of a similar age, but is markedly stockier. His Father; Lord Urdurel perhaps? Something's wrong though, as the iron is weirdly discoloured and warped. It's as if the door had been super-heated and, while soft and pliant, forcibly pushed out of the way, before being wedged back into place. 

As Fortu gets to within touching distance, the iron moulding speaks... Or attempts to at least. It sounds like words but muffled and distorted through partially melted lips. The Gladiator scowls though and activates the magic mouth for a second time. Listening harder this time, he can just make it out, for as garbled as it is, it's still in the common tongue.

"Halt, whether you be friend or fiend. If you know the answer to this question, through you may go... What was my beloved Daughter's secret middle name?"

From behind the broad-shouldered Pit-Fighter, Rifkin's slightly arched, elven-ish eyebrows shoot up. After quickly rifling through his overstuffed knapsack, he starts to furiously flick through the tattered remains of the Gnome; Grimcrack’s diary. Despite the Bard not being able to actually read the Gnomish script, Arowe had underlined certain words and passages in the loose scraps that seemed, potentially important. Finally, finding the page he’d been searching for, Rifkin looks up to see the smiling Fortu cutting horizontally through the metal figure’s knees. The armoured Fighter's already more than halfway through slicing a large rectangular block out of the thick cold-iron door with his astonishing new sword. Sighing softly, and knowing it's too late to make any difference, the Bard doesn’t have the heart to announce what he’d found…

Instead, Rifkin just whispers the answer into the cool, still air around him…

“Lamenta Angela Urderal.”

‘Angela’. Clever. A secret name no witch, fiend or demon would even dare think, let alone say aloud.

The Tragic Tale of Grimcrack Thin-Needle

Diary entries: (All written in the Gnomish script.)

Inside front cover: Diary of Grimcrack of the Thin-needles of Mount Snaufang.

Day 2: Since learning of my beloved father; Baron Gewgore Thin-needle’s original and vehement objections to the council's agreement to build this prison, I've resolved that it's my duty as a knight and his son to undo this vile preservation of evil.

Day 4: An ageless creature such as that can not be safely imprisoned forever. This demon should not be preserved but executed at the first opportunity.

Day 18: I've discovered the hidden location of the banished tower. I have doubled my commitment to destroy the shameful work of my people and dispatch the hell-spawn creature held captive there. 

Day 21: Finally, with the knowledge I have garnered, I have embarked on my mission. I hope my Father will understand why I have borrowed his magical Lance and forgive me. I fear I shall need its legendary tip before I am done with this quest.

Day 36: With the aid of my God Gaerdal Ironhand, I’ve found a path through the dimensions and am closer now than I’ve ever been to completing my quest.

Day 47: I’ve been practicing the magical harp and hopefully, I’ve grown skilful enough to overcome the first and most powerful barrier. My otherworldly nature should take care of the rest.

Day 63: The desert trek has proven more hazardous than I had expected but the powers blessed to me by my God have enabled my stout War-boar and myself to endure the constant heat and quench our continuous thirst.

Day 65: Perhaps just a day or two from our objective and I’ve discovered a sheltering Rocky outcrop. Pepper and I will make camp here and replenish our water supplies before our last charge toward the tower.

Drawings: 

There is also the torn scraps of a short musical arrangement.