Another in a long series of fitful dreams

Lord Turnips tossed and turned in his opulent cabin in his regal bed which according to custom was a full 2 inches wider and longer than Admiral Rossoroni's and made the hammocks slept in by the crew risablely inadequate.

His fitful dreams turned back to his alternate persona Hannon, the Troll-Slaying cleric of Heimdall.

In his dream Hannon was tending to his Troll-slayer keepe, serving as harried magistrate and Lord to his newly-peopled lands in the Troll Fens. Things were going well in his life but he suffered a sense of ennui. He tried to explain everything to Salina. She just didn't understand his desire to "loaf" now that he had means. He wanted to travel to the Eastern Marches to explore the idea of Brahman, the eternal Oneness. This was pretty sensitive stuff for Hannon as he was sworn to Heimdall: son of nine mothers, swords, one arm, wolf bites and all. Hannon had the inkling however, that Heimdall was part of a larger cosmogony. A meta-cosmogony if you will.

Salina listend to his discourse on this in utter disbelief. She had sincere feelings for Hannon and wanted him to settle down as Liege of the newly-conquered Troll Fens and maybe she would couple with him in a bond agreeable to their two Deities. Hannon's dabbling with this Brawmin meta-cowjury stuff was not good for him getting the ok from Heimdall for a marriage outside his faith. She didn't want to have to convert to the Norse mythology as she was just fine worshiping Athena in her native hellenic mythos. Besides the Norse services were just such a bore. The Hellenic mythos was also more empowering to women and she would not hold to have their daughter raised in such a boorish culture without the influence of the Sisterhood of Athena.

She also noticed that Hannon had taken to smoking french cigarettes and talking about art.
She became angry at Hannon and stormed out of the coffee house where he was laying his vibe on her about the potential for an alternate unified cosmology. This was to be the last time anyone had seen her alive.

It was with this dreamed backdrop of a conflict between Hannon and Salina that Lord Turnips awoke to the sounds of Vardaman and Cash outside his cabin door fishing and japing.

Vardaman

The incandescent sun raises a thin film of sweat on Vardaman.

Meanwhile, Cash observes the Mr. Binky push his small broom across the foc’sle. Cash imagines he favors constructing baby buggies rather than coffins. Geometry favors coffins over buggies though.

Vardaman returns to his fishing – he has still caught no fish. His mother was a fish, he thinks, but not as clever as Mr. Binky. Mr. Binky knows a lot more than he lets on.

In another land, Johnny Sixguns realizes no prison can hold him and he blows the cell door off its rusty hinges with a cocktail of bat guano and coal dust.

Oooh, Oooh BLACK DIAMOND or Coming To Your Emotional Rescue

Lord Toranaga continued his conversation with Lady M as his three henchmen, The White Shadow, PW Giant Chin and Jimmy stood mutely guarding the exits.

First, surveying the grand hall with sweeping hand motions, he spoke to his henchmen, “Dunderheads, do you recall when I bought this magnificent stronghold?”

The three simpletons nodded like marionettes.

“Are we gonna go downrange boss?” PW interjected.

“No, not now. I have yet to weaponize the combination of your common sense, the White Shadow’s pick-up lines and Jimmy's sense of humor.”

“OOOOH, I want to be called Jimmy Fresh!” Jimmy shouted.

To which the other two replied, “Shut up or we are gonna call you ‘&*# bird’!”

The situation was clearly headed in the wrong direction.

Lady Marzipan looked appalled at this cretinous behavior as well as the White Shadow's poor table manners (he was licking the top of his ale bottle). Toranaga realized he had to quickly regain control of this scene before this opportunity to sway Lady M's opinion was spoilt. Without her, his plans to extract and purify slag, phosphor-gypsum, and calcium sulfate wastewater from Antipodan Mountains would all be for naught for she had the technical knowhow.

Perhaps it was time for the tender, sensitive approach.

So, presently he turned to Lady Marzipan, appearing in soft focus; now holding a cute widdle baby tiger cub drinking from a bottle in his arms,” If this home doesn’t appeal to you we can live with our in-laws until we find the palace of our dreams or a citadel that some mid-level manager with Enterprise Rent-A-Frigate bought two years ago because it was real big and nice and he got a 3.8% loan with 42% ARM. Now he is divorced and has an addiction to oxycontin and Jack Daniels and can't pay the 4,500 gold piece per month mortgage. I love the pain and suffering of others during the holidays.”

Before, she could reply Toranaga added for good measure, “Oh and I’ll kill Johnny Sixguns if you don’t agree to marry me – being the sensitive type I’ll give you until the sunset tomorrow to decide – sleep tight.”

Sinister doings in the Antipodes

Woody, Rossoroni,

Have examined the multi-spectral imagery that indicates that enormouse amounts of slag, phosphogypsum, and calcium sulfate wastewater has been removed from Mount Cook Mountain. (Since Lord Turnips is indeed a decendent of Captain James Cook, I shall refrain from using the slang Aoraki Mountain)

My analysis indicates with 60% certainty (+-30%) that someone or something is building a deep tunnel facility in the very stout volcanic rock. Could this "doomsday facility" be designed to survive some impending catastrophe? Perhaps I've already given away my analysis by calling it a "doomsday facility".

In any event...If they do complete the Mount Cook facility it could well mean that Karen and Ken are preparing for an impending global catastrophe or merely are collectors of calcium sulfate wastwater, slag and phosphogypsum.

Your, Turnips

(although not at liberty to reveal sources and methods, this image of a large industrial sewing machine or air filtration system being installed in the Mount Cook facility was recently acquired at great expense and loss of life...oops I just gave away a source and method)

Karen-ologists at Odds Over Cryptic "RBBB" Reference

(AP - Washington) Karen-oligists across the blogosphere are fiercely debating the recent mysterious appearance of "Rubber Baby Buggy Bumper" (RBBB) in the list of "Dramatis Personæ of the Realm."

During the Cold War, Kremlinologists would often argue over the the appearance of certain Soviet luminaries in photos, or their placement on a reviewing stand during annual May Day parades. In this photo, we clearly can see that Defense Minister Ustinov was standing closest to Brezhnev. Is he now in favor? What about Kosygin? Why is he not pictured? Are the rumors of his stroke true? Perhaps he was the one taking the picture. Who knows.

But that's really all besides the point, since this article is all about Karen. Why did she choose the moniker Rubber Baby Buggy Bumper as her literary nom de plume? Author and intellectual Dan L. has his own theory. "I theorize that Karen is trying to drop a subtle hint that she has become a gravida, from the latin graviditas, meaning that her Oocyte has been fertilized... she's preggers." After putting down his thesaurus he continued, "I mean, just think about it, she's married to a New Zealander, world reknowned for their fertility, and she's living in an arctic climate where there's nothing to do for 8 months out of the year except flense whale blubber and procreate. It all adds up."

Others aren't so sure. One wag, Andy R., has a different theory. "I believe that Karen has started her own business and is now producing and selling custom-made bumpers for infant carriages. Dan L is correct in that she spends much of her time flensing whale blubber, but she takes the fat and fashions it into her new product. And with the arrival of the baby Lady Turnips known to all, Karen was merely trying to advertise her product in the hope of making a sale. QED."

Who is to say what the truth is?

We now return you to your previous D&D themed narrative...

The Talented Mr. Binky

Mr. Binky pushed his broom along the deck. Sweeping and brooming, that was his job. Sweep, sweep, sweep. Broom, broom, broom. Sweep, sweep, sweep. Broom, broom, broom. He liked the sound that made, so he said it out loud. "Sweep, sweep, sweep. Broom, broom, broom." All day long he worked to keep the Planetary Sovereign spic-n-span.

It was after the evening meal and Mr. Binky was sweeping and brooming along sub-deck 4. He liked to listen to all the hustle-n-bustle that was always going on in the giant ship. He couldn't really understand much of it, but he thought he might get smarter if he listened more.

"George, you oaf! This etching is of the Captain beating Turnips at whist. What possessed you to frame it in white lace? The frame should exude manliness and triumph. I don't know WHAT you were trying to accomplish, you simpleton!" "Chief Artisan Michael, look what you did, you made Georgie cry." "Be quiet, Andrew, and finish your frieze. It looks like my drunken mother threw up on it."

Mr. Binky didn't know what the HECK they were talking about, but Admiral Rossaroni's Artisans did lots of important work on the ship.

As Mr. Binky continued to sweep along the passageway he thought about how much he liked living on the Planetary Soverign. The Admiral was a good owner, and treated him very well. He was a lot nicer than his previous owner, Zirkast the Omnipotent. Sometimes Zirkast the Omnipotent would beat Mr. Binky. Admiral Rossaroni won Mr. Binky from Zirkast the Omnipotent a year ago, while gambling. Mr. Binky didn't really miss Zirkast the Omnipotent, but ZTO did give Mr. Binky super intelligence, so that had to count for something. But super intelligence for a monkey is only enough to qualify you to push a broom, and not enough to be any kind of criminal mastermind or rollerskate or anything like that. I don't care what the stories you've read say.

Mr. Binky didn't even miss his brothers and sisters in the jungle much, either. It was such a long time ago anyway, and he could hardly remember back that far.

By now, Mr. Binky was sweeping and brooming his way past Reserve Art Supply Room #7. He saw there was a strange light coming from under the door, along with some very sinister incidental music. He strained his monkey ears as hard as he could to hear what was being said.

"Lord Toronaga, we have just come from Kristal Stadt." Pause. "Yes, yes, the artifact is on board, your unholiness." Pause. "We will be passing north along the Forbidden Coast in 2 days." Pause. "Yes, my master, as you command. There will be no survivors."

The light went out.

Through the astral portal, a glorious visage

The day's adventures behind them, Lord Turnips was minding his own business in his palatial cabin in the Planetary Sovereign when he began to see a shimmering light emerge from the normally not shimmery wall (er, bulkhead in nautical parlance). He covered his eyes to adjust for the blinding glare of the shimmeringness. He heard a voice that sounded not unlike that of his Lady Turnips, she of the beer funnel celebrations at Michigan State University, the expensive law degree, and the not so lucrative government job, and the fanatical love of all James Cameron films (whatever those are).



"My Lord, I announce the arrival of a daughter to this realm of time known as Northern Virginia in the early 21st Century"




Lord Turnips was surprised at his Lady's ability to use the astral gate without his help as she normally struggled with all electronic devices and seemed to make it a point that his knowledge of electronics was some sort of character flaw. But, his appreciation for her at that moment outweighed this foible. "My Lady, our daughter is born? Halleleuah!!! Praise the Lord! And just in time for me to change my benefits before the new year tide, and in time to take advantage of the additional beneficiary in this year's inland revenue filings. Lady you are truely wise and good."


She then asked him if he would like to see the etchings she had commissioned of the Baby Turnips?


"Verily, my wife"




(Behold!)

A Very Blue Monday

After having made up, Woody and the Admiral began discussing some other ways of profiting from their current adventures in order to satisfy the filthy lucre-hungry Schlamazel the Butcher.

"I was thinking that perhaps we could sell a souvenir mug or pictures of our heroic battle versus the vile Sahuagin to the locals at the pier or to our own crewmen as a 'keepsake'" Woody said.

The Admiral seemed confused.

"Picture? What is a "picture"? Do you mean the etching I had made of that battle? You've probably never ventured down to sub-deck 4 in the lowermost level of the Panetary Sovereign. That's where I keep my army of artisans who document every aspect of my life via skectches, etches, painting, writing epic poetry, creating interpretive dance routines of what I have for breakfast, and writing illustrated children's stories about my belly-button lint."

To which Woody testily replied, "I thought I was in charge of epic poetry!"

At that the slap fight recommenced.

Shoot that Poison Arrow Through My Heart

Johnny Sixguns was uncomfortable to say the least – it was low grade straw he was resting upon. Gazing up at the cell’s ceiling, he wondered if Lady Marzipan was faring any better. Probably not; Lord Toranaga was a pretty despicable varmit. He probably was applying the old honey and ant routine by now, laughing maniacally in standard fashion. Johnny Sixguns was going to make him pay for that.

Actually, Lady Marzipan was seated at one end of a long oaken dining room table in a quality, well-padded dining room chair. The chair arms were a little high and didn't fit under the table so that was a little awkward. Tornaga was seated at the other end per standard idiom. There were lots of candles and highly flammable fabrics draped about the room.

“I do not speak of love” Toranaga said.

“Your love is rotten to the core” replied Lady M

“I’ve told you before, I do not wish to speak of love” Lord Toranaga continued, “And I suggest you re-consider my offer if you care for your friends.”

Lady M would have none of this - “Toranaga, I care enough that I can never love you!”
The horrible Lord Toranaga rose from his seat and said “In that case you will bleed for I have no time to mess about!”

Lady Marzipan was outraged but maintained an unflustered exterior. As she idly picked at her cheese toast she quietly exclaimed, “My friends will come and crush you Toranaga.”

“Oh I don’t think so because EVEN IF they make it past my Sahuagin warriors and the Daughters of Odin AND Count Grimani AND the black chainmail turtleneck wearing assassins at the Kristal Stadt Coffee House at Kierkagaard Square, I still have two of my top agents on the Planetary Sovereign! MUHAHAHAHHAHAHA” Toranaga cackled.

Lady M looked momentarily taken aback.

Toranaga raised a crystal goblet of egg nogg to his lips and spoke, “Ah yes, I am well aware of what has been going on aboard your friend, the Admiral’s vessel - we shall be prepared for them and I’m afraid they shall all die.”

The Killing Moon Will Come Too Soon

Lord Turnips sat down at his desk in the palatial cabin reserved for the impossibly rich Lord. Admiral Rossoroni had taken a smaller cabin than Lord Turnips or Lord Woodpecker-Smythe out of deference to their social rank. Admiral Rossoroni had seemed not to mind one iota.

As Lord Turnips began to ruminate over the past few days he felt a sharp pain at the back of his neck along with a burning sensation. He could not place it but he felt a pang of unease whenever he thought about certain periods when he had less than perfect recall of events. He seemed to have an image in his head of a Valkerie speaking with him while he stood at the lip of a crater. He also seemed to recall that she refererred to him as Hannon Trollslayer.

Without consciousness he scribbled the following words on the beech parchment with a diamond tipped fountain pen that Admiral Rossoroni had provided :

Under blue moon I saw you

So soon you'll take me

Up in your arms

Too late to beg you or cancel it

Though I know it must be the killing time

Unwillingly mine.

Lord Turnips wondered where his son Captain Stuart Turnips was at that moment. He'd had no memory of his son or even thinking of his son for several months. It was as if he had dropped off the face of the earth. Perhaps his storyline was inconvenient to his peers. It was also possible that Captain Stuart Turnips was a Deus Ex Machina to whatever drama was unfolding.

Lord Turnips began writing again:

A child arrived just the other day,

He came to the world in the usual way.

But there were planes to catch,

and bills to pay.

He learned to walk while I was away.

And he was talking 'fore I knew it,

and as he grew, He'd say, "I'm gonna be like you, dad.

You know I'm gonna be like you."

Suddenly it dawned on Lord Turnips that he heard music ringing in his ears at a nearly imperceptable volume. "Tis strange to have these tunes. "What could be thine cause?"

As soon as he said these words Admiral Rossoroni burst into his room with a bottle of Schnapps, two glasses and a deck of cards. "My good man Turnips. You fancy a game of solitaire?"

Harmony Restored and A Perilous Decision Awaits

The two sparring warriors calmed a bit following Turnips departure. Each looked quite abashed.
Woody: "I'm sorry"

The Admiral: "No, I'm sorry"

Woody: "I'm sorriest"

The Admiral "Ok, you are the sorriest, but I'm still really sorry"

Woody: "Friends?"

The Admiral: "Friends!"

The brave and manly former-combatants shook hands and reviewed the situation.

Woody: "Where did Turnips go?"

The Admiral: "Oh brother, weren't we trying to cheer him up?"

Woody: "I think he was kind of upset about all that sacking even though the sacking was only light to moderately sacking."

The Admiral: "I agree, he's too lawful good for his own good whereas you and I are rather more of the chaotic variety. And, a little more neutral-ish (and here he caught himself) although we are totally committed to rescuing Lady M and Johnny Sixguns, re-building the magic dingus of seven parts and restoring Livoniumtonchester to its former glory. Yes, ok so we are a little chaotic neutral-ISH. But certainly not EVIL! And, I did get a nice Hummel figurine that I was looking for - Its rated quite highly on the Bradford Exchange."

Woody: "Oh sure, but you know if you don't pay Schlamazel the Butcher back, he'll grill our &%%^%^$ that'll take more than a Hummel Figurine and a couple of enchanted gizmos."

The Admiral (putting his finger to his chin, pensively): "True, True, that means we might just have to do some more freebooting."

"Back to Kristal Stadt?" asked Woody? "All we got there was this magical porcelain horseshoe shaped thingy."

Writing Frightening Verse to a Bucktooth Girl in Luxembourg

Hannon/Turnips was in a deep funk.

He sat at his spartan bunk gazing through sunken, red-rimmed eyes at his two adventuring mates, Woody the Half-Elven Illusionist and the Admiral. He absentmindedly twirled the magical dodecahedron in his fingers.

Lord Turnips/Hannon clearly re-emphasized that whilst the Good Party enjoyed many outstanding adventures and had blasted to smithereens, rendered unto dust, dispatched with make-do monster vertebrae flails, and generally smoten . . . many a foe, they had done so under the banner of lawful goodishness.

He also raised a point about the appropriate casus belli that led them to sack the Temple of the Daughters of Odin and Count Grimani’s Castle.

But, it was more than this, it was more than Salina or the imprisoned Lady M or the creepy pair of characters constantly building coffins in the ships’ hold.

Woody hesistated at first but decided they had to do something, “Look Turnips, you know what I do when I when I’m feeling down in the dumps like you? I compose another brilliant poem!”

The Admiral sensing an opening added “And I write entertaining stories in my logbook in which I visualize outcomes to my liking!”

“Sure” Woody added, “And look at old Bocking, he composes rude songs about people when he’s not planning their murders. That’s how he takes his mind off his troubles.”

“I’ve actually started one” replied Turnips as he showed them his own notebook.

Inside was indeed an introduction to a poem. It went as follows: “The day is gone and all its sweets are gone, soft voice ..”

Woody broke in sounding annoyed, “No, no, oh no, not all gooey like that! You need to write poems about dragons, dirks and lances and vanquishing wicked Lichs!”

“Now wait a second Woody, I’ve seen some of your stuff about certain ladies and its just like that” the Admiral chided.

“What were you doing looking in my personal poem book Freebooter?” said Woody, hands place petulantly on his hips.

“Well, it just so happens that I’m the Captain of this vessel..” but the Admiral was unable to finish his statement because both he and Woody somehow found themselves in a slap fight with Turnips caught between the two - each launching highly ineffective blows on the other.

“I think I’ll go talk to Cash and Vardaman” said Turnips as he escaped the cabin.

The Inept Wizard of The Rusty Palm

After receiving the gift of the Magic Dingus of Seven Parts from the glistening misty figure: Raven Odinsdottir, Hannon/Lord Turnips considered his plight. He looked into the blood-strewn crater and saw a scrap of a parchment. He picked it up and read it. It was an editorial from the Elders of the Fort of the River Straights, an important center of artisanry in the Kingdom located in the South East Corner of the Peninsula of the Rusty Palm (aka Michigan).

(Carl the Inept)

Carl the Inept --a wizard who has sat upon the Council of the Important in an impressive marble building for 30 years (1979-2009) in league with fellow important wizards. This wizard sat upon as chairman of the all powerful Armed Services Committee of the council of the Important for most of these years. During this time his home province, the Peninsula of the Rusty Palm has received naught in federal military spending and indeed even drew down several important bases. Carl the Inept now stands up to defend the Peninsula of the Rusty Palm during its most critical hour. He mounts no rebuke at all to the Bane of the Peninsula's citizenry, Lord Shelby the Jackass, of the Province of Crimson Tides who has secured innumerable federal dollars for the seer-sucker and straw-boater garbed denizens of his province, and provided lucrative incentives for lucky foreign artisans who have protected home markets to come produce at lower cost in his province so as to undercut the people of the Peninsula of the Rusty Palm. So now when Lord Shelby the Jackass argues that the artisans and industry of the Peninsula of the Rusty Palm are to be cut off from survival funding due to the failures of the Merchants of the Skyscraper Island to keep the banking system of the land afloat, it appears he has an agenda: to destroy the artisans of the Peninsula and all the people of that state so that there is greater power for the Province of the Crimson Tides and its sister provinces.

(Lord Shelby the Jackass)


Well, thanks a bunch Carl the Inept and thanks a bunch Lord Shelby the Jackass, from the people of the Peninsula of the Rusty Palm and our sister states of the lands of the Snowy North. We'll keep you in mind when the next hurricane comes to your land. Perhaps you should have seen that coming? Wishing a plague of ghoul frogs to devour your homes and for a Basilisk to kiss your mothers. Eds.

So back to our story.....

After reading the editorial parchment, Perhaps it was a memory from his own youth when last his home peninsula was under the same level of duress, Lord Turnips/Hannon remembered a little better that he wasn't supposed to call Debbie V. In fact she was the sister of John V and she was often tantalizingly present to enjoy the banter of meetings of the Good Party co-led by John Wisshard and Hannon Troll-Slayer. Although John V served in a Chief Financial Officer role and had substantial perks and benefits of the other members of the C-suite, he had no veto power over party adventuring activities.

Lord Turnips/Hannon recalled also that whilst the Good Party enjoyed many outstanding adventures and had blasted to smithereens, rendered unto dust, dispatched with make-do monster vertebrae flails, and generally smoten . . . many a foe, they had done so under the banner of lawful goodishness. So it was with some confusion he asked Admiral Rossoroni the appropriate casus belli that led them to sack the Temple of the Daughters of Odin and Count Grimani’s Castle?

Hannon, Warlord of Turnips

Homework, twenty-sided die, thief …that was weird.

Hannon / Turnips was back in the crater again … same black hat, same miscellaneous body parts, same ethereal figure of a gorgeous Northern maiden bearing down on him.

Wait. Check that. That maiden bit, that was new, he hadn’t noticed it before.

The misty figure spoke, “Fear not brave Hannon for I am Raven Odinsdottir and I have a gift for you.”

“Nice! What is it? A magic sword? A magic ring?” replied Hannon/Turnips.

Raven Odinsdottir tossed her lovely hair back, raised her right hand skyward and said, “No, it is a dodecahedron of wondrous power!”

She continued “I also have a Hummel figurine – it’s a limited edition – a young lad with a pot on his head, having his hair trimmed by the village barber. I didn’t want the Admiral to leave the Temple of Odin’s Daughters empty handed.”

Turnips was confused “What shall I do with this regular geometric solid?”

“Oh that? I think its part of the Magic Dingus of Seven Parts – one down, six to go” the ghostly figure added for good measure. You can find another one in Kristal Stadt.”

Good heavens, Miss Sakamoto! You're beautiful!

Lord Turnips awoke with a start. He was standing in a very sticky pool of a red fluid. Sticky but slippery. He looked down. In his right hand was a bastard sword which gleemed brightly indicating some form of incantation, although he wouldn't know that. In his left was a shield which also gleemed unaturally. He was wearing a set of plate armor that was unusually light and comfortable. Upon his head was a mail cap also of unusual light weight and comfort.

This was not his usual sartorial fare. Normally he adorned himself in loose hanging comfort typical of his station as a middle aged, minister of government and supremely rich proponent of agriculture and the arts.

As he looked around he saw the severed limbs, heads, and torsos of dozens of orcs. Slightly further away he saw the snakey vertibrae of an Ogre that had been used as a flail to dispatch several dozen skeletons. [ed. SEE] A little beyond that he saw a crater which contained naught but a black wizards hat and staff and possibly a few body parts strewn across the crater indicating that someone who had been dressed like a wizard had been blown to smithereens (although Turnips did not know what a smithereen was.)

At that moment he remembered that he needed to phone Debbie V. on the pretext of helping her with her homework and that she kept promising to come over to play a thief character named Salina. Maybe he could get her to come over to check out his dice collection?

Shot Through the Heart and You're to Blame: You Give Love a Bad Name (Bad Name)

That evening, following the somewhat less-than- successful sacking of the Temple of the Daughters of Odin, the party gathered around the steam harpsichord in the Planetary Sovereign’s ample lounge. The Admiral was holding forth beneath the swaying, candle filled crystal candelabra on the topic of the mysterious and charming Salina. In support, Mr. Mudskipper, the ship’s graphic artist had designed several charts depicting Salina in various slinky guises for the purposes of visual recognition. The entire party paid absolutely rapt attention of the sort normally reserved for a Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show.

“Gentlemen, and I use the term loosely, prior to charting a course through mer-man territory we’ll be paying a brief visit to the port city of Kristal Stadt, located here” and the Admiral gestured at a crudely drawn map with an X identifying the port’s general location somewhere to the southwest.

“Oh please” cried an exasperated Lady Lyme Weoghe, “That is absolutely the worst map ever! Schott could have done a better job – just how do you expect us to navigate with that? I mean, this is the bonehead that convinced us that there were just a 'couple' of skeletons and orcs at that so-called 'temple' and that 'fire elementals' were actually just a type of matchstick.”

But she was unable to finish as the hubbub rose.

Woody raised an eager hand.

“Yes Woody, what’s on your mind?”

“Why are we going to Kristal Stadt? Are we running low on Courvoisier?”

“Not Courvoisier exactly, but we are running low on the stuff that puts the ‘booty’ in ‘freebooter’ and by that I mean, gold, gems and the like – someone else’s of course.”

The Admiral continued, “Plus, I want to stop at my favorite restaurant, ‘Le Glace Lune’ to grab a quick bite.”

Rushing turned to Ali Baba el Mendab Penna the Younger and said quite excitedly “I hear you can get the best grilled cheese sandwich in the entire doggone Theocracy of Pale there.”

Ali Baba el Mendab Penna the Younger began to reply but before he could finish Zimbar stepped between the two and placed his grimy halfling hands on the lads’ shoulders “Why yes indeed that is true, and I shall take the opportunity to renew my partnership with our dear friend Kaotic E, thirteenth level fighter/thief. I believe he’s currently their executive chef – I understand he’s been looking to moonlight though.”

Turnips broke in. “Now wait just a second because (dramatic pause), A: who is Kaotic E and B: what about Salina?”

He was starting to feel there was no sign of the morning coming; that he’d been left out alone, like a rainbow in the dark.

Luckily the wise Admiral had a plan. “Ahh, Salina. You see Turnips old boy, she’s made a financially advantageous engagement to that aging lothario Count Grimani. No need to fret then, we will execute a financially advantageous sacking of Count Grimani’s Castle; rescue Salina and buy some spare parts for the Fedor.”

“Sorry” Turnips replied, “When there’s lightning, you know it always brings me down.”

The Temple of the Daughters of Odin

The 11 adventurers had marched through the Wild for two days in their search for the temple. "Temple" was a misnomer, actually, as the place was more like a fortress. Had to be in this part of the world.

It had been 10 days since Turnips had started having his dreams. Or, at least, since he started telling us about them. Then they got worse. It wasn't just during the height of battle or while sleeping that Turnips would assume his Hannon persona, with its strange Northern tongue and accompanying Berserker battle rage. This certainly wasn't something that was advertised when the Admiral signed Turnips up for the "sugar cure." There must be something else afoot. And, while having a Berserker was defnitely handy in battle, we were now in real danger of losing the Turnips identity for good. This could not stand.

All morning the landscape was strangely silent. There was no sound nor sight of flying birds or ground creatures, both large and small. The land itself seemed to have lost some of its color. There was a faint charred smell to the air. The group was in a subdued mood, and even Bocking the Bard's songs could not rouse their spirits. In addition, for the past mile there was the strangest glow in the sky ahead of them. The orange glow would start then quickly fade. This would happen several times a minute.

Now there were faint, but growing, sounds of battle.

Not wanting to be taken unawares, the Admiral had ordered the fighters to the front of the group, in the Standard Adventuring Tactical Formation (SATF). Then came the theives, bowmen, and Zimbar the Halfling Paladin. In the rear were the healers and spell casters, as far away from melee weapons as was possible. Turnips was in the front line, as it was assumed that, during any combat, his Hannon Berserker persona would take over.

Rossaroni looked over at his friend, Turnips, as they trudged up the hill, whose summit must surely reveal to them what was afoot. Turnips was dressed in a leather jerkin, +1 enchanted chainmail (softly glowing green in the dim sunlight), an iron helm atop his head, and the famous Seven League Boots on his feet. On his back was the Bag of Holding, which contained all the Fellowships food and bedding. And a couple of ponies too, I think.

The Admiral remembered how Turnips had begged him not to interrupt the journey to Toronaga's Island for his sake. Rossaroni was adamant though. They had already lost Fedor. Another loss must be avoided, if possible. So the Planetary Sovereign put in to Woolly Bay, left the ship in the capable hands of the Chief, and made tracks for the Temple of the Daughters of Odin. Surely, the reknowned Sisters would know something about Turnips' Nordic affliction.

When they reached the summit a most unnerving sight greeted their eyes. Half a mile away stood the Temple, its sturdy polished granite walls rising twenty feet into the air. But surrounding the fort was an attacking army. Behind the army was a small hill, obscured by fog or smoke. Just then a orange glow flared up inside the mist and a glowing fireball flew towards the fort's wall, sending splinters of stone in all directions as it hit.

"Penna the Younger," ordered Rossaroni. "Come up here and tell me what your young elf eyes see." "Half-elf, Admiral," he joked. Even the sight in front of him could not douse his good humored nature. "On the left I see skeletons, perhaps 20 or 30 of them. The center has a troop of orcs. I reckon about 80 of them. On the right are 2 dozen earth elementals. And surrounding the hill are a dozen centaurs, galloping in a loose skirmish formation."

Undated picture of Penna the Younger

"I say, other than the chap with the fireballs, this lot doesn't look all that bad," Woodpecker-Smythe interjected.

"It's that 'chap' I'm worried about, Woody," replied the Admiral. "A low level sorcerer who can only summon elementals and skeletons could never throw fireballs like that. And they don't attack well defended castles either."

"So what's he up to then?" P the Y asked.

"Good question, my lad." The Freebooter responded. "Well, if he's not showng his entire hand, neither will I. No offensive magic until I give the word. Woody, can you whip up an illusion to hide or disguise us?"

Woody nodded and started rummaging through his pack. "Sure thing, boss. Give me a minute to find the blasted scroll."

The Admiral continued rattling out instructions. "Zimbar, you and the Padre are in change of dispelling those summoned creatures. You take the skeletons and the Padre will tackle the elementals, as they are a bit tougher to take down. Padre, keep your eyes open for any life-suckers. If that sorcerer is as bad as I think he is, he'll have a few liches or ghasts hanging about. And make ready with your bows, gentleman... and ladies," he said with a nod toward Lady Lyme-Weoghe, perhaps the best shot of the group, "I don't want those centaurs to get within 100 yards of us. Woody, are you ready?"

W-S closed his eyes, chanted quietly for several seconds, and the group faded into near invisibility. Only a slight shimmering in the air betrayed their presence. The Admiral hoped it would be good enough to get close to that hill before whatever was in there noticed them.

The Admiral looked over his motley group. "Alright people, no attacks till we're spotted. Stay alert for surprises."

"Follow me..."

The Feminine Thief Mystique

Lord Turnips decided that he had seen one too many coincidences when Admiral Rossoroni handed him the calling card from Salina the thief. "Struth! 'tis just like my dream."

"D'ya mean?" The Admiral inquired. Incredulous at the strange portent of this female thief having appeared in the dreams of his friend Turnips.

"Pon my soul, I had a dream of this cleric figure named Hannon and . . ."

"D'you just say 'Hannon'"? Interupted Rossoroni. "'Hannon' is a name you insisted we call you during the battle with the Sahuagin. You seemed to have slipped into some sort of battle fever and spoke in tongues. You were quite the show, Old Bean."

"Hmmm?" Turnips pondered the meanings of this revelation. He knew that he had recently been through some strange blackout periods that happened to coincide with his band of voyager's greatest excitement.

Of course Admiral Rossoroni feared something like this would happen when he put his friend Turnips through a fortnight of mental conditioning in order to help him overcome an addiction to cane sugar. The "sugar cure" that Turnips signed up for provided a freebie for Rossoroni. He used the opportunity to train his normally sedentary friend into a autotomic weapon that could be useful in situations like the Sahuagin attack. but the entire dynamic of Hannon, (to say nothing of this Salina figure) was not in the programing.

"So who is this Salina?" Rossoroni asked.

"Really I'm not sure. I can't even put a fix on her face. I seem to know she's charmingly lovely but its sort of a blur. Perhaps I can get a fix if I take another nap."

"Well can you describe her at all?"

"Hmmm....maybe a sort of Vanessa Hudgens meets Xena appearance?"

(Vanessa Hudgens: Cuter than puppies)

(Lucy Lawless as Xena: Sorta attractive, but definitely bad ass)

He paused . . . "Maybe a little bit of Hallee Barry in there."

(Hallee Barry: Hollywood Icon)

He paused again . . . "Seems like she's got some sharp corners too. Like she's got this sense of propriety. She's very independent."

(Betty Friedan: Feminist Icon and communist agitator)

"Here, I'll try to sketch her."

(Salina?)

The Queen of Diamonds Redux

Before Zimbar could reply Bocking continued “Well I guess, on second thought its really sort of an odd amalgamation of flesh golem and bronze or brass, I can never quite tell.”

“Wow, check this out” Zimbar exclaimed as he lifted the chest plate, “It’s a secret chamber and there’s a business card inside.”

“Fork it over munchkin”

“Hey, what’s with the munchkin talk?”

“You see Zimbar my simple friend, it’s your crainial capacity I reference, not your stature”

“Ooh I get it”

“I don’t think you do, now let me examine this calling card.”

“Alright already, don’t get your chain mail in a wad.”

Bocking examined the card, turning it over and over again in his fingers, “Classic white vellum with narrow blue piping below the logo – this is the work of elvish printers. Hmm, this reads (in old elvish and common), ‘Manses Burgled, Marks Charmed , Security Systems Evaluated’ and it has a name and address on it as well - ‘Salina, 10^th Level Thief, The Goblin’s Head Tavern, No. 8 Kierkegaard Square’.”

Zimbar was elated “Do you think she’s cute?”

“Would you please focus on the task at hand?” Bocking continued, “I think she has something we want, namely the device that was stored here inside Fedor for safekeeping – I wonder if we can get this Fedor-golem started.”

Meanwhile, topside, Turnips awoke with a rude sunburn. He’d been tormented by dreams of Hannon again but this time another figure from his past had appeared – a charming and dexterous thief. It was a sign surely. He would alert the Admiral to put in at the next port – he remembered her having an office there in a tavern on Kierkegaard Square. That tavern was kind of odd in that it was frequented by young people in black turtleneck chainmail but the hot chocolate and hummus they served was delicious!

Turnips was momentarily lost in thought but the knocking at his cabin door proved hard to ignore.

“Come in – its open” he called out

Woody and the Admiral entered.

“So what do you think about this Fedor business Woody?” Turnips asked.

“Why Fedor is the kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful human being I've ever known in my life.” Woody replied.

Like a Shiny Metaphor Burning with the Heat of a Thousand Suns

Lord Turnips was sorrow-filled from the [apparent] death of Fedor. He decided to take to his cabin aboard the Planetary Sovereign. As he drifted off to sleep he noted that he had blacked out during a portion of the fight with the sea creatures and had missed the action [or so he thought?].

He began to dream again of Hannon the ennui-suffering, troll-slaying, time-travelling, cleric of Heimdall. The Heimdall the vaunted guardian of Asgard that would have no sympathy for one of his more powerful lords moping about after achieving all of his life goals. Yeah, that Heimdall.

Hannon decided to talk to Trose, the uni-dimensional, non-player character he met during his encounter with a demon spider goddess Lolth in the infamous Q1 Module Queen of the Demonweb Pits.* Sadly, Trose was only good for basic lawful good advice and could be relied upon to reveal no true insights into the kind of metaphysical suffering Hannon faced. Lawful good characters were supposed to be so devout and true to their beliefs that you seldom saw them at cafes, clad in black turtlenecks, chain-smoking unfiltered Gauloises and reading Sartre or Kierkegard.

Trose offered that perhaps if Hannon, on bended knee prayed and made certain offerings things might become clearer. As Trose said this he placed an encouraging hand on Hannon's shoulder. After a few minutes of looking into Hannon's eyes in a blandly spiritual way, Trose placed a very alarming hand on Hannon's hip. Hannon abruptly got up and left the vestibule where Trose kept his sacraments to some never clearly delinated god of a different pantheon from Asgard. No wonder Trose had never married.

Hannon decided to go visit a female friend, the lawful good thief Salina. Salina was a dazzling person to talk to and she was as beautiful as she was dexterous [charisma 17 and dexterity 17...see?] As usual, Salina was in the nearby Theocracy of the Pale gaol because she had left her calling card at the scene of her latest crime. This was an occupational hazard of a life of thieving as a lawful good character. Poor Salina, was enormously proficient in footpadding and cutpursing from evil characters, but the line between good and evil was becoming especially blurry now that major combat operations in the Troll Fens had come to an end.

Salina and Hannon had never been a romantic item because it was strictly professional between them [again: lawful good]. But Hannon was fond of Salina in a chaste, blood allies; till the poisonous death; self-sacrificing; powerful sense of emotional longing; is this sounding too much like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon sort of way. His feelings perhaps could no longer be denied now that he was suffering so. Perhaps this comely lass could shake him from the horse latitudes in which he found himself? Hannon was sure that Salina was also fond of him. Still it was possible that she also kept a warm spot in her heart for the co-leader of the party John Wisshard. It was all so complicated to consider. Hannon became distraught with inertia.

Perhaps it would be best if he approached Salina about changing the nature of their professional relationship under some pretext rather than just coming out and asking? His warrior heart weighed him with the combined gravity of over 1000 suns and burned slightly less hot but still his chest thumped as if 1000 plate armor barding-clad warhorses were charging on the dry stones of very hot desert. Hannon considered coming out and asking Salina to be his helpmate in a more familial sense. He considered his options. Perhaps he could think of some excuse to meet her in the boat house? Such a scheme might blow up in his face because as a lawful good cleric he was not supposed to be deceptive and surely Salina would be as filled with rage as . . . a something that is filled with an enormous amount of rage. Salina would be filled with nearly 1000 burning suns full of rage. Perhaps it was time to make a direct inquiry of Heimdall? Perhaps he would sanction a union of such a powerful force as Salinas with a favored warrior-cleric?

Hannon realized that he thought of the 1000 sun metaphor before and as he considered why he would be thinking that . . . Lord Turnips awoke with a start as he realized that he left his tanning lamp on in his cabin of the Planetary Sovereign. Crikey! He was going to have some bad sunburn.

*Q1 Queen of the Demonweb Pits (1980) is the final chapter in the mega-adventure which includes T1-4 The Temple of Elemental Evil, A1-4 Scourge of the Slave Lords, G1-3 Against the Giants, D1-2 Descent Into the Depths of the Earth, and D3 Vault of the Drow.

The Lamp's Turgid Savage Gleam!

At dinner that night, a rather somber affair given the events of the day, the party assembled to enjoy a meal at the Captain's table.

Sir Bocking leaned over to whisper conspiratorially to Zimbar, the halfling paladin, "You know, Zimbar, old mate - Something about that Fedor death speech didn't sound quite cricket to me."

"I know" Zimbar replied, nodding in a knowing fashion, "It seemed like a bit of diabolical overacting, if you know what I mean."

"No dumbkopf, that's not what I meant" Bocking replied testily.

"I mean didn't you think he knew just a bit too much about geometry, mechanics and naval grade rope ?" Bocking continued.

"Ooooh, I get it now"

"I'm not sure you do"

Finally, Zimbar suggested that the two excuse themselves and pay their "final respects" to Fedor in the Planetary Sovereign's chapel in order to settle the matter once and for all.

Sir Bocking got up and addressed the guests "Zimbar and I will be heading down to the chapel to see poor old Fedor off - by the way, my compliments to the chef, that 'Mindblower Sandwich' was simply delicious!"

A few moments later, the pair found themselves in the chapel facing Fedor's lifeless body now laying atop a makeshift funeral pyre.

Zimbar was first to speak "This is awfully strange - but I didn't notice .."

Zimbar did not finish the statement for he noticed two others were in the chapel as well, Cash the coffin maker and Vardaman the fool.

Vardaman had an old cane pole laying across his knees.

Cash says to him "You ain't gonna catch any fish down here - ain't nuthin' down here - you need to go up on deck."

Vardaman answered, "Aw hell Cash, cain't you see that them turnip greens are mightly spindly eating for a fellow of my frame."

Cash ignored the comment and returned to planing then stopped and squinted to check the trueness of the plank. He wanted to make sure he got the bevel just right on account of animal magnetism.

"Hand me 'nother one Vardaman, will ya?"

Bocking broke in just in time to save Zimbar from further moronic speech, "Oh just ignore those two yokels ... look at Fedor, there's no blood!"

"Great Heimdall!" Zimbar exclaimed, "And, look at this" He pointed to a place where Fedor's skin had been abraded by a Sahuagin flail.

"Merciful Idun!" and Bocking retreated a step, "This isn't Fedor, its a Fedor-shaped IRON GOLLEM!"

The Wheat, the Wheat

As Fedor lay dying, Rushing, the naïve young druid, knelt and supported Fedor’s head.

Fedor croaked, “Alas and alackady, for now I shall be unable to follow you, my brothers and sisters into glorious combat with that most wicked of Sorcerers, Tornaga!”

The gathered adventurers murmured their assent as Rushing tried to reassure Fedor that everything was going to be ok. Sir Bocking started to say something untoward but was knocked into politeness by one of those wooden billy club looking things you see on the rails of sailing vessels.

“Do not vorry, Fedor my friend – ve shall have ze cleric cure your wounds; I’m sure vee haf many healing potions!” Penna the younger added gravely, looking round at the Admiral’s younger brother, Carolus Quintus.

Carolus Quintus replied after a moment, “Uh, well about dem potions, uh, I had to give them to Sir Bocking – he had a really bad tummy ache.”

The scene was about to get ugly but Fedor broke in and called for the Admiral to come closer.

Fedor spoke, his face a portrait of nobility, “Admiral Rossaroni, I’ve got to tell you, I’ve solved the Kobayashi Maru test – chart the parabolic course through the merman neutral zone (cough) – chart – the – parabolic course THROUGH the merman neutral zone – its our .. no, your only hope!”

Naturally, any mention of mermen was of deep cultural significance to the sailor and usually the mention of that race was considered to bring ill-fortune.

Sir Bocking and Schott, a second level fighter, interrupted, “But crossing Merman territory - that is MADNESS!!!!”

Fortunately Lady Lyme Weoghe settled the matter matter-of-factly with a simple, “Would you two shut up! Can't you let Fedor at least die with some dignity”

At her ladyship's direction, the two cads were silenced and the group’s attention then returned to Fedor.

Fedor, flooded by a reddish glow on the rain-spattered deck, raised his glinting, silver mailed sword arm to the sky, his aura glowing brightly as Wagnerian incidental music played.With a final breath, he explained some of the finer details of friendship, poetry, naval grade rope milestone B entry requirements (such as IOT&E) and capability package enhancements which could certainly improve the interoperability and efficiency of entropy based adventuring.

Upon the conclusion of his speech, he passed away and crossed the rainbow bridge at Asgard so to speak. The remaining crew and party members doffed their helms in respect. Funeral music played and everyone reflected on how they would be nicer to one another from now on and not hog all the healing potions and try to pay closer attention to tech orders and acquisition processes.

Rest in Pieces

As the Planetary Sovereign plowed through the waters of the Drawmidj Ocean enroute to Lord Toranaga’s Keepe, Lord Turnips (or was it his alter ego Hannon) held court with the lower-ranking, more expendable members of the party, Rushing, Fedor, Penna the Younger and another un-related Schott.

“Ah, yes, there I was, the mountain dwarf Obmi had been enslaved by the fire giant king Snurre Ironbelly of the Hellfurnaces and it was only through my cunning and my steel that he was freed!”

Here, however, Turnips brought the tale to an abrupt halt. He turned to Rushing.

“Rushing, where are the fluffernutter sandwiches I asked you to bring up from the galley?!” he barked, “I’m absolutely famished!”

Rushing dashed off to retrieve the sandwiches and Turnips, calmed, began his tale with renewed vigor.

“You see, Zagig and his adventuring band delved deep into the Crypt of Lyzandred the Mad. Zagig remained for a short time to learn at the lich's feet and gained inspiration that would aid him well in the later construction of his masterpiece, Castle Greyskull! “

“Sir” said Fedor timidly, “I don’t quite get the connection between Snurre Ironbelly and the Crypt of Lyzandred. According to historical records, those events occurred a hundred years apart; in fact I had a dream about it last night where I was in a crypt; I ….”

Fedor was unable to finish the statement of foreshadowing because at that very moment of tranquility the foretopman cried the warning “Sahuagin attack!”

Immediately, the adventurers drew weapons and sundry magical devices. Rushing dropped the fluffernutter sandwiches on the deck where they were squished beneath Penna’s hobnail boots during the commotion.

The Admiral grimaced, “Sahuagin – they are so evil, they even hate the almost as evil ixitachitl –these sea devils are only befriended by the shark!”

Woodpecker-Smythe looked confused, “What’s an ixitachitl?”

Bocking sounded off first. “Oh don’t be such a dullard Woody, it’s a type of highly intelligent, chaotic evil manta ray.”

“What’s a manta ray?” Woodpecker-Smythe asked.

Sir Bocking was losing his temper.

"I mean that doesn't make any sense, I just don't get it, Is it some kind of wyvern? I'm a big fan of wyverns you know!" Woody continued ad nauseum.

“Oh good lord, who invited him on this trip?” he whispered, under his breath.

As this argument played out, the Sahuagin began to clamber aboard the Planetary Sovereign via their fiendish grappling hooks and fifty feet of naval grade rope. This, despite the best efforts of the crew. Compounding matters, crossbow bolts flew in a thick cloud across the deck - an extreme hazard to sailing safety no doubt!

Things looked dark for our party but just as the Baron Sahuagin was about to lead the final assault, his webbed feet became stuck in the large patch of fluffernutter Rushing had so carelessly dropped on the deck. Unable to move, the Baron was mercifully chopped into dozens of pieces by the heroic adventurers. Without a leader, the remaining Sahuagin attempted to flee but were similarly cut down by a variety of missiles, blades, clubs, maces and halberds.

“Wow! That was fun” exclaimed Penna the Younger.

Rushing joined in, “It sure was, I wonder where Fedor is though?”

Sadly, Fedor would be unable to enjoy their victory or share in the experience points for he had been slain at the hands of the evil undersea dwellers.

“Yep, too bad about Fedor, may he rest in pieces,” Sir Bocking lamented, “Let’s see what these boys have in their pockets!”

Naturally, the subsequent looting of the Sahuagin’s underwater city brought the party great treasure and lots of laughs. And, of course, Turnips was finally able to enjoy his fluffernutter sandwich in peace.

Death of Dr W. G. Grace: Britain loses its finest Cricketer

http://century.guardian.co.uk/1910-1919/Story/0,6051,99003,00.html

Monday October 25, 1915....Manchester Guardian
We regret to announce the death, which took place on Saturday morning at his home in Kent, of Dr. W. G. Grace, the famous cricketer. Dr. Grace, who completed his sixty-seventh year last July, had an attack of cerebral haemorrhage last week.
Dr. William Gilbert Grace was by common consent the greatest and most attractive figure that ever appeared on the cricket field. In his all-round mastery of the game, in the length of years during which he stood far above all rivals, in the amazing sum total of his cricketing achievements, and by no means least of all in the popular interest he excited, no cricketer, living or dead, has ever approached him, and it is doubtful if any ever will.
While Dr. Grace in his stupendous total output hopelessly outdistanced all rivals, he had a remarkable list of isolated achievements to his credit. For many years he held the record for the highest individual score. This was an innings of 344 made in 1876 for the M.C.C. against Kent, and it remained the record score until MacLaren beat it with 424 against Somerset 19 years later. The most remarkable year of Dr. Grace's career was 1895, when he was 47 years of age. In that season he scored a thousand runs before the end of May, completed his hundredth century and finally scored 2,346 runs. He received more than one handsome testimonial in recognition of this feat, and a letter of congratulation from the Prince of Wales gave him 'profound pleasure'. Like Barlow, Dr. Grace went through his long experience of first-class cricket without ever getting a pair of spectacles.
A Great PersonalityDr. Grace was always an attractive personality on the cricket field, and in the later years of his great career carried a certain atmosphere of romance about him. His great towering figure, with his strong features and full black beard, instantly commanded attention, and there was always the expectation among the spectators that he might be out for some great performance. Descriptions of him even at his best make no reference to any special degree of style in his batting. His great height made it inconvenient for him to hold his bat down to the block-hole; it was generally held some distance off the pitch, looking a mere toy in the hands of a giant. Yet it was with a remarkably straight bat that the ball was played. His batting was distinguished for its strength and certainty rather than for its elegance; his regard, however, for orthodoxy of style comes out in his own statement that he was forty years of age before he adopted the fashionable 'pull' stroke. "Style is ease, and ease is strength," he once said, and that summed up his creed on the point.
As a bowler in his later years he looked rather ponderous; his leisurely amble up to the wicket and slow round-arm delivery often excited merriment, but the simple-looking ball which he delivered - a slow good-length one with a slight break, generally from the leg side - was by no means easy to judge. And perhaps his success was partly due to the fact that most of the batsmen felt that he knew a bit more than the best of them. He held to the old-fashioned theory that length and straightness were the secret of good bowling, and that one of the greatest mistakes a bowler could make was to try to 'break' too much. In his early days he fielded in various positions, frequently at fine leg, but later his recognised place was at point. Many a fine cut he snapped up in his large, safe hands, and his little trick of holding the ball behind him after he had caught it often excited vain hopes of an escape in the unlucky batsman. He held to the view that a thoroughly efficient fielder was worth his place in any team, even if he got no runs at all, and he considered 'mid on' the least risky place for a duffer.

Le Morte De Arthur

Lady M cradled Johnny Sixguns' beaten and bloodied head in her arms. He had been thrashed within an inch of life by the Lord Toranaga's Locathah henchmen in a vain attempt to solicit information about locating the remaining 6 parts of the Magic Dingus of 7 Parts. Toranaga was a wicked sorcerer indeed and he understood fractions, making him that much more dangerous.

"Wake up Johnny, wake up, I'll need you to help me escape" whispered Lady M in the darkeness of the sixth level dungeon cell.

Johnny groaned but luckily the light of life still flickered just barely in his sunken eyes.

Lady M spoke quietly, "I shall tell you a story Johnny, the story of how King Mark mocked Sir Dinadan and Sir Dinadan thought anon he just had seen these six knights and he thought in himself he would bring King Mark by some wile to joust with one of them. And anon they took their horses and ran after these knights well a three mile English."

Johnny interrupted her after her third 'Anon.'

"I can't understand a word you're saying. (hack, wheeze) I'd rather you recite a grand adventure like the kind I read about in the penny dreadfuls like M. Schmutzmacher's Derring Tales Dragon Quarterly (tm); 'Wyvern Hunting', 'at's the ticket (gasp, cough) Its a five part series (more gasping, wheezing, coughing) started last month. Tell me that story .."

Johnny had not the strength to finish so Lady M patiently replied "Very well Johnny, please attend and try to conserve your strength as I tell you this tale."

She began ....

“That was a jolly fine soup Mr. Jack.”

Mr. Jack was silent. He always was. If you could get him to say more than five words at a time, then you won a shiny penny. Of course, no one got a shiny penny. Or a yucky green one. Mr. Jack just nodded and smiled. The smile said something like, ‘When winter comes, I won’t be wanting for firewood. You’ll burn nicely.’ Though everyone knew he didn’t really think that. Maybe he did. He never said any thing.

It had been storming. The screeching of small animals getting struck by lightning had faded away. The scene in the parlor was a jolly one that would look nice on a Christmas card. One person hanging the star on the tree, a pair of lovers curled up with mugs of cocoa and a wild guest, passed out from all the sherry, that sort of thing. It was summer though, so no cocoa or stars. There was sherry.

Lady Jeanine looked out the window for any signs of a dreaded wyvern. They came swooping out of the sky quickly after the rain. “Not to fear about the wyverns Lady Jeanine,” came the voice of Mr. Simon. “I’ll have them taken care of.” Lady Jeanine turned around. Mr. Simon couldn’t get rid of wyverns. No one could. Her father had tried. They found his arm eventually, and offered to sew it back on but he had refused. “I’m not living here with those buggers around!” he had shouted at the sky. That was right before they came swooping back. What was left of father went to live in the city.

Mr. Simon was confident. He was also the Greatest Hunter in the Land ©. His hunting expeditions were exciting to hear of. If there was an animal out there, he would massacre it in some clever manner. Lately, he had been fascinated in wyvern hunting. He had spent months researching the scaly devils. Today it was all going to profit.

“How about a bit of sport, now that the rain has cleared,” he proposed. No one answered. Mr. Jack gave him a long stare. Mr. Simon continued. “Those bloody dragons have made this place unsuitable for good old English life. I say we shoot the damn things.” No one said anything again. The silence was getting on his nerves.

He turned to the skinny young lad known as Jonathan Eldritch. Jonathan was a healthy boy and might be keen on the idea. Jonathan cleared his throat in a quite irritating manner and said, “Those ‘bloody dragons’ are extremely dangerous, Mr. Simon. Hunting them is suicide.”

“Poppycock,” barked McAngus the Unknown Title. “Them things will be dead before sunset!”

Johnny turned his head upward. "Ooooooo, this is getting good," he said before passing out.

An Ill-Tide or Mal-Digested Mutton?

Lord Turnips had the same dream again. Here he was Hannon again, with and amongst his grand party and serving his master Heimdall as healer and warrior all over again. Except in this dream he saw himself slumped over as he sat on the edge of the bed in a darkened room. He could not raise himself from his bed no matter how hard his chums implored him with their imploring good cheer. "Hannon, here is a good lad, why not come out and slay something evil with us?" They implored cheerfully.

Hannon ignored these well-meaning chums. He could not raise his voice to speak. He surveyed his darkened surroundings. He was grateful that in his last fit of manic troll-killing energy he had installed the extra dark blinds in his room.

He looked over at the Troll-slayer sword which had proven so helpful. It had the benefit of +3 sharpness and provided additional 2d6 damage when used against trolls. The same sword had been rather mediocre against the massed armies of ghouls and ghasts who you just did not want to fight in close combat if possible because of their soul-sucking rot. You just didn't want to give up a level of experience if one of those touched you. No, for these he used his ability to turn the undead and his trusty 7.62mm belt-fed thunderstick acquired in one of his journeys to something called a National Guard armory in the distant future of some strange parallel multi-verse.

He strained his eyes to see a framed passage he had ripped out of the infamous Greyhawk Gazetteer. It read something like:

Troll Fens:
These fens are well named, for all manner of fierce and gigantic trolls, ogres, gnolls and their ilk prowl the desolate wastes of this fell place. The fens are always misty - clouds and swirls of chilling fog drift down from the Griffs and Rakers at the head of the Yol River and settle on the Troll Fens. The Theocracy of the Pale hedges the area with watchtowers, keeps, and three great castles, watching for unwelcome visits from the monsters of this dire place.

Hannon, sighed. Here he was in the middle of the Troll Fens. No sign of troll, gnoll, ogre, orc, or kobold would darken these misty swamps again -- at least not while he or his breedlings dwelt here. Indeed, even the climate had improved modestly -- the fens were not nearly as desolate and the infamous mists had taken on the aspect of soft spring rain at their worst. These swamps proved very productive for rice, turnips and other crops where soil moisture was critical. Hannon was able to grow surprisingly large volume of asparagus per acre. These crops proved to be quite profitable due to the voracious appetites of the nearby Theocracy of the Pale. Of course cash would never be a problem for him after capturing the hoarded wealth of the trolls, and of course those of the supreme lich lord Thankstostrock* of the Land of Black Ice.

He spat at the thought of living out his days as a farmer of leafy greens. "Pweew" he spat. This was no way to live. There remained no further evil of a kind strong enough to oppose him or the party. Maybe he would try to read a little of the works of the sage philosophers today. What would Lord Heimdall say? Probably something bloodthirstily encouraging. The sort of lawful- good, hail fellow, cold-baths, stiff upper lip, muscular religiosity that was all fine if one was fighting all the time -- but was utterly useless if all the foes were smote and you had to sort out the meaning of existence.

Hannon's chums were useless of course. They wanted him to go down to the local village and perform healing ceremonies on the sick. Yawn. Bloody peasants always had the same complaints. Double yawn. "Lord Hannon, though you are so wise and good...could you heal me of my afflicted nether parts which appear to be cursed horrid and vexxing." And of course, like a sap, he would heal the luckless fornicating peasant and he would be on his way to catching the same pox from the same serving wench.

Or, there would be the ingenue twirling her golden locks around her finger. "Lord Hannon I have a desperate need to make Grimbold marry. Say lest yee cast a spell of [REDACTED]." Pathetic.

And the upper classes were no better...indeed in many ways much worse. He could not count the number of times he was called upon to stand in lawful judgment of a dispute between two merchants. "Lord Hannon, though are wise...can you tell Scootero the Bold that he may not let his cattle graze upon my prized clover fields as these are indeed lucky clovers which if consumed by mere cattle will empower these cows to make wishes thrice. No more wasted a wish was ever made than that of a cow for more grass."

Hannon the Troll Slayer needed to get away from this gilded cage he had constructed for himself on the disintegrated matter of many, many, untold many trolls. Perhaps a voyage to sea? He turned over in his bed and returned to the land of dreams......

[Await the next dream where Rogers and Hammerstein meet hack and slash]

*so-called Thankstostrock as homage to Richard Strock who designed the supposed Good Party-defeating characteristics of this lich lord. Little did Strock or the rather lazy deity supervising this aspect of the campaign was that John Wisshard reviewed these characteristics through snoopery and relayed them to the Party in time to avoid mishappenstance.