Pig Iron Unexpectedly Forged Into Steel

Tythanis Tendertomb thrummed his doumbek steadily as we entered The Nevermore. Rusted iron doors lined the walls of this ruined cellblock and partially burnt wooden support timbers held the ceiling precariously in place. Rivulets of water dripped down the wall, creating a shallow pool and filling an oubliette hole in the middle of the chamber. We could only imagine the grisly punishments administered in this horrible place as we experienced an eerie, debilitating haunting by its final inhabitant, Professor Hean Feramin, the so-called Splatterman.

But the day began solemly as brother Gregor made arrangements for the funeral and visited the jewel merchant parents of the deceased to deliver the sad news and bring closure to them. During the previous night, our dwarven companion previously known as Urgilash announced that he is to be known by a new name, "pig iron unexpectedly forged into steel", and this phrase is pronounced, "Zarkendraal." Indeed–he is a dwarf of unexpected actions, and keeps us guessing often. The presence of Tythanis, however, seems to be one that we can count on, for he is a delightful companion socially, and in battle seemed to provide the luck Zarkendraal needed. Together these two seem to balance one another, as balance is the way of things–the way of Pharasma.

And of companions, I cannot speak more favorably than about Gregor whose great wisdom I have come to know as my cornerstone of decisions. He explained to me privately that he noticed my discomfort at Cynthea's death, perhaps intuiting my deep grief and sorrow over the loss of my own daughter. He advanced our friendship greatly, by offering an ear to my woes at such future point when I am ready to disclose the source of my pain.

That morning I set out to free Gibs, and found him slumped in the squalor of his internment. Gibs does not seem to be guilty of splattering blood letters upon the town's memorial statue. I was reticent to challenge the authenticity of his confines in front of the head jailor and thus freed Gibs, returning him comfortably home, with only a stern warning of distrust. Gibs must now fight against any threat of possession by spirits again, lest he find himself relaxing six feet under the Restlands. I told him I know the quality Gregor's shovelwork all too well, and I won't be as discerning next time Gibs raises force against us. When a priest of Pharasma becomes close friend with a gravedigger, our enemies should be wary what lay in store for them!

And Harrowstone awaited us. We returned to slice through googantuan extoplasmic creatures. The likes of their sticky, shifting shapes I've learned through academic study, but it was a treat to finally see them up close. Dear journal, I'm including some hand-drawn sketches of what I witnessed to further the study of their form and substance, for although drawn from the Ether, they appear substantively like thick tangles of grotesque slimy linen. And what skeletons reanimated in the subsequent room were of no consequence to us.

Our day concluded with Tythanis' thrumming doumbek, and the Splatterman's mental assault upon us, whose psychic conflagration seemed to burn away the very wisdom from our minds. Thus, having splattered the Splatterman, we no longer fear his blood-splattering timeline, and proceed with cleansing Harrowstone, and the town, of its undead manifestations.

On a much lighter note, I recall from years ago my master Angelo's loathing of Doumbeks. He would, at every turn, insult Doumbek players as having no rhythm, intelligence, nor sense of musical taste. For example, one sunny Oathday, during a lecture on Thassilonian algebraic mathematics at the University of Caliphas, through his tall lecture hall window came the incessant thrumming of a Doumbek (back then it was spelled Dumbek). Then, after a rather long pregnant pause, he turned to his students and asked three questions, answering them himself after each one:

• "What do you call 500 dumbeks at the bottom of the Inner Sea?"
• "A good start!"
• "What is the difference between an onion and a dumbek?
• "Nobody cries if you chop up a dumbek."
• "Why is a dead kobold in the road more tragic than a dead dumbek player?"
• "The kobold was on its way to a paying musical tributum."

Still smiling at his own wit, he then slowly shut the tall lead glass framed window and laughed uproariously. The students wanted to hear more. So, at the risk of his own reputation as a serious scholar, he caved to their request:

• "You're in a room with the Splatterman, The Lopper, and a dumbek player and your quiver has only two sheaf arrows left. What do you do?"
• "Shoot the dumbek player twice just to make sure."

And with that, he ended the lesson early, still chuckling as he exited the lecture hall.