Jingo's Halfassed Scribblings
Jingo’s handwriting is scribbly and hasty, interspersed with crossed out words, stains from what looks like ink spills, and doodles of himself, Blanc, a cow, some fire, Callis, some naked ladies, a wrapped present, and a chicken along the margins of the page. He’s clearly rushing to get it all written down, as the doodles obviously have more effort put into them than the penmanship.
Blanc’s been scribbling in that journal of his, says he should make an account just incase something happens to us, because this town needs some serious assistance, no matter what it says.
Bored. So, I’m doing one too. Double the chances of someone finding out, I guess. Dunno. It’s something to do. Can only do so many pushups before I get bored. Guess I should actually write about something of interest, other than how mindcrushingly shitty this little town is, and how drafty as fuck this inn is. Not the worst place I’ve been by far. BY FAR. But still kinda boring. Maybe I’ll see what kind of produce they have around here soon and make a nice dinner. Blanc can eat here, so he may as well get some mileage out of it. Plus, any excuse for me to eat well. Heh.
Took us long enough to get here. Lost four wagons out of five on the way. The passes were treacherous and the bandits even more so. People mostly kept to themselves on the whole trip, and to be honest, even I was feeling pretty somber. Somber? No, I’m sorry, I mean FUCKING COLD. IT WAS FUCKING COLD. Yeah, that’s more accurate.
When we finally got to town, the place seemed dead. There were people, but no kids were playing, there was no bustle, and even the woods were quiet. No ambient noise. Even I noticed it. You know something’s wrong when I notice it.
So when we get there, I just want a drink, and maybe to set up a room for the night, yanno? Get something laid out before Blanc and I have to share a tent down the trail because everything’s been booked for the night. It’s cold, man. One of the people travelling with us, a hot drow chick named of
Donor Heart Dolomite Dolorhart. She was headed our way, along with a guy whose name I didn’t get. Loud, brash dude in a hell of a lot of armour. Never took it off, either. Must stink in there. We get stopped on the way by a trapper, Callis, or something. He’s all, “We don’t like yer kind around here,” and decides to do everything short of actually throwing the first punch. Did draw the first blade, though. Luckily, the mayor got him out of our way, schmoozed us, and went on his way.
Hit the inn. Place is a drafty shithole, but there’s beds, and booze. Cold, but Blanc actually produces body heat now, so I won’t be sharing a bed with a freaking icicle. Have extra blankets just incase.
We had drinks, bought rooms, bullshat with the drunk-ass innkeeper, and I hopefully made an impression on the hot drow chick. I can look, right? No rule against window shopping, no matter how bad an idea Blanc says it may be.
Caught up with the armoured guy, and a rather quiet guy named Tadashi that came in with us. We commissioned Callis to take us into the woods to check out some old temple to Pelor a druid supposedly lived in. Turns out there’s a history of cult activity in this town. Blanc was immediately interested, what with his deal with cults and all, so we went to check it out.
I don’t know how to describe it. We get into the temple, and it’s dark. Magically so. It’s suppressing even our sunrods, and man do I wish I had my old aurasight now. We wandered in, and it was way bigger on the inside than the outside. Blanc’s talking to nothing, says the wind is answering him, and starts throwing prayers to the Raven Queen, the goddess he’s been working for here. We wander around, the wind starts howling, and we realize we have no idea where the way out is. The wind starts screaming at us to get out, and suddenly, Blanc yanks us over to an obsidian alter with screaming faces on it. One of the other guys we rode in with, a Deva name of Osiris, was laying on the altar, sans heart. We try to pick up his body, and it crumbles to ash. Blanc has some of it in a bag. So we try and bolt, Blanc’s sunrod goes flying, and shadows wearing obsidian masks start trying to drag us through the floor. The armour guy tries to fight them, and we end up being saved by Callis, shooting salt petered, flaming arrows at them, helping us find the way out.
Okay, I guess I did know how to describe it, but I’m certainly not sure how to process it all. Apparently the cult itself is gone, but the fruits of its labours still haunt the area. We’re going to look further into this, I think. Blanc’s been making holy water since we got back to town, intermittently writing in a journal.
Me? I’m just hoping this is as interesting as it seems. And that the drow chick stops with the short jokes. Small things come with big packages, yanno.