17 May 2024 - Transcribed by Paul Turner
Underground, beneath a long abandoned and thrice foreclosed castle, sat a family crypt which dated back to the earliest kingdoms of Crimson Rock. Despite still being accessible, it had lain undisturbed by Men, Elves, Half-Elves, Orcs, Drow, Goblins, or even Double Goblins. Yet in all this time, a new kingdom arose among the detritus and decay.
King Whiskers, third of his name, clanged his tiny acorn to signal the guards to shut the council chambers. The two armored mice sheathed their little drink swords, and closed the makeshift doors to the chamber. The Ruling Council, clad in leftover dish rags they had fashioned into robes, became still. The King sipped from his ratwine, relishing the uncomfortable silence which had fallen over the room. He had already thrown back several thimbles full, and he finished off this one in a single gulp to steady his nerves. As he stood on his back feet, he carefully removed the tiny crown which had once been a ring in a set of costume jewelry. Even without it, the regalness of the silver streak along his back gave credence to his royal blood. His reign had been a long six months, and many hoped for more. He addressed the room.
“Squeak…,” he began. “Squeak squeak-squeak!”
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10 May 2024 - Transcribed by Paul Turner
Artist depiction of the underground stairway.
The leaves and branches began to blur as Elara dragged Fwanklin through the forest. A trio of bandits dropped from the trees just before they reached the edge, brandishing swords and daggers with dangerous intent. Elara Taloneye, eyes red and her face cut from the vegetation she pushed past, immediately threw three knives before the men could utter a demand. Two of them dropped dead instantly, while the third managed to crawl to safety with a knife handle sticking out of his left butt meat. Before bleeding out from his injuries, he told his friends of a demon elf with fiery eyes in the woods who ambushed them while carrying off an ugly, mewling child it had kidnapped. Being bandits, no one cared.
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03 May 2024 - Transcribed by Paul Turner
The forest floor was dark save for two beams of light pouring in from where they had broken through the dense canopy. Elara Taloneye sat up and inspected herself for injuries. Finding none, she let out a small sigh of relief before staring up into the light. She waited for a moment, hoping to see the flicker of shadow. When it did not arrive, she deflated.
“How can a bird so large be so blind?” She asked herself.
She knew Ironclaw would likely come if she could reach the treetops. It would be their best chance since he was unlikely to find the exact spot where they fell through. She also knew there would be little chance of him hearing her through the branches and leaves overhead. Her head throbbed, the fall having dazed her more than she would ever admit. Plus, something was missing. She sat for a minute on the forest floor, barraged by the symphony of various animals hacking, retching, or fornicating while she tried to simmer the tempest in her head.
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26 Apr 2024 - Transcribed by Paul Turner
Artist depiction of the Land of Dreams.
Elara Taloneye stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking Spike Trap Fields. The wind blew her shoulder length dark hair, revealing her High Elven ears and fair features save for the jagged scar across her lower lip and chin. She could hear the tribesmen approach and turned to face them.
“Return the idol!” Demanded the man in front as he edged closer and brandished his spear.
“It belongs in a museum,” she called back.
“What? What’s a museum? It’s our sacred dowsing rod! We need it to survive the dry season. You have no claim to it!”
Elara smirked. “Finders keepers, losers. Time to fly!”
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19 Apr 2024 - Transcribed by Paul Turner
Deep in the woods of Crimson Rock Forest National Park and Snack Bar sat a sword from a forgotten age. It was stuck into a stone nearly to the hilt, and despite being open to the elements, it never rusted or displayed any signs of deterioration. The trees around the stone could not permeate it with their roots, so a natural clearing was formed. For the local bird population, it was prime real estate. Middle class robins often dreamed of saving up the worms required to rent it from the thrush owner who bought it early from the local squirrels.
One day, a small cadre of knights entered the clearing. The leader, with a simple crown adorning his head knelt before the stone and wept openly.
“For a lifetime, I have dreamt of this moment,” said the wizened knight. The other two remained on their horses and clasped a hand to their chest as a sign of respect and reverence.
The crowned knight brushed aside the bird nest at the base of the sword, causing a rapturous sound from the birds of the clearing. He took it as a good sign. He took a deep breath and placed his shaking hands around the hilt and pulled.
Nothing happened.
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