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.