To Eyon’s surprise, they came across a small group of goblin arquebusiers amid the tall grasses, apparently reinforcements that had been thrown in willy-nilly. With a cry of “Ane, ctonb!” one of the goblins wearing the White Smile swung at Eyon with an empty and crudely-made gun. Eyon was able to bring his own sword up in time to parry the blow, and with a twist of his wrist he was able to hurl the gun out of the goblin’s hands.

Disarmed, it glared at him. “Go on then, ctonb,” it muttered. “Finish it.”

“No,” said Eyon. “I’ve no quarrel with you, good sir goblin.”

“Young master,” said Gob. “As Gob is sure the elder master already knows, you must follow through and do as this gob asks.”

“What? Why?” Eyon cried. “The rightful king must be merciful. King Eyon IV won’t be called a butcher, or a murderer.”

“Which is more a mercy, young master: to let this gob die in battle, keeping its name or even earning one if a witness survives, or being cast down and nameless in defeat?”

“It is the Code of the Gobs,” the disarmed arquebusier said. His comrades, all of them wounded, nodded, even as some whispered about Eyon’s reference to himself as king. “The gytoh would show no mercy in his sparing.”

“Just ignore them,” Gullywick said. “We need to get out of here, Eyon! We’ve no time to bother with these twigs!”

“Live on and fight another day,” said Eyon. “No one would think less of you or strip you of your name for bad luck.”

“The gobs are stained with the sin of their creation and must therefore earn the right to all which they possess,” replied the disarmed gunner. “Gobs must earn names and pronouns for themselves through their actions. Only gobs who have earned a name will be remembered to their families and to history. The Code of the Gobs.”

“The Code of the Gobs,” the other wounded repeated.

“I won’t do it,” Eyon said. “I won’t strike down an unarmed foe, goblin or not.”

“Then you force me to do what the gytoh refuses out of cowardice,” snarled the goblin gunner. He snatched up the lit match on his shattered arquebus and tucked it into the vest he was wearing. It had looked like armor, but up close it became apparent that it was a simple leather harness with metal tubes in it, each with a charge of powder and shot for the goblin to pour into his gun to make reloading easier. With the burning charge, he limped out a few paces and seized the leg of a passing Ioxan attacker.

A moment later, the charges on his chest detonated. Goblin and foe vanished forever in the explosion together.

“Mabl eyp hame tnbe lopebep, tog,” his fellows, all too wounded to do the same, cried. “Your name will be remembered!”

“What?” Eyon cried. “Why did he do that?”

“There is no time for that, young master,” Gob said. “The young master had his chance to act and he did not. We must get him to safety in the trees.”

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“I just…I haven’t seen her in so long,” bawled Vakt the Rosy into his cups.

“There, there. Tinuviel’s just not feeling well after getting scratched up by a jackalwere in the middle of a cavern infested with gibberlings,” said Iffy the elf. “She’ll be down soon enough.

“She’s just so short…so sweet…so tiny…so…so…” Vakt began bawling again.

“I think you’ve had enough,” deadpanned Chanel the elven cleric. “How much have you had to drink already?”

“It’s just root beer,” Vakt sniffed. “House blend. Iazgu’s still making my first tequila slammer.”

“Maybe you should go a bit easy on the tequila slammers,” said Adenan the halfling.

“HEY!” barked Iazgu the Flayer, demon of the Abyss and chambermaid/bartender for the Demon Arms Inn. “I’ll not hear a word said against my tequila slammers! It’s a recipe of the abyssal realms, strong enough to stun a quasit, and it’s the only thing close to a real drink that’s been served here in 10,000 years!”


Creeping up on the clearing, they saw Mercury the bulldog in the midst of a crowd of howling gibberlings, not unlike the ones they had fought in Ransack Cavern earlier. He was being ridden bareback by a gibberling while the others hooted and cheered at the spectacle. For his part, Mercury seemed rather resigned to this, accepting it as just a fact of life: the sky was blue, the trees were green, and he was ridden by tiny hyperactive monsters.

Adenan grabbed one of the scruffy horrors by his hair and yanked him backwards. “What do you think you’re doing?” she growled.

“Riding! Fun!” squeaked the thrashing gibberling. “I know you! You killed Gus! And Gus Two! I’m Gus Four!”

“Let the bulldog go,” Adenan continued, as menacingly as any halfling could, “or I’ll squash you into jelly before I throw you in the river.”

“No! Not jelly! Jellied gibbs can’t get into gibberheaven!” The gibberling seemed to steel himself a bit. “But dog is ours. Has been forever.”

“No he isn’t.”

“Is too! Used to guard cave! Hatched him ourselves!”

“No you didn’t.”

“Don’t know where dogs come from!” the gibberling wailed.


The library golem was impassive. “You must return the stolen book and pay the fine, or your life is forfeit. The fine is 50 gold. Pay or die.”

Iffy raised her hands. “But my library has an interlibrary loan program with the Elderbrary,” she said in her most convincingly scholarly tone. “We don’t have to pay any fine if we return it!”

Clicking and whirring as it processed this, the golem demurred. “Very well. Surrender the Monster Manual and we will consider your hold lifted.”

Longingly, reluctantly, Iffy gave up the tome. The library golem inserted the volume into its book drop slot, whirred some more, and departed.

A moment later, Iffy the elf turned on Mr. Funderberger IV, who throughout the conversation had been trying to back into the tick copse of woods surrounding the meeting spot. “YOU!” she roared. “THAT BOOK WAS STOLEN!”

“I gave you a good deal,” he whined.

“NO YOU DIDN’T!” Iffy shrieked. “I HAD TO DO THINGS FOR THAT BOOK!”

“What exactly did you have to do?” said Chanel the elven cleric. “You still haven’t told us how much sugar you had to give.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny a specific amount of sugar given!” Iffy roared. “But he’s gonna pay!”

Mr. Funderberger IV had quite enough; he made to bolt. Iffy, in an uncharacteristic show of physical prowess, tripped him with her staff.

Then, she proceeded to pummel him senseless.

“Let’s see how you like THIS sugar!” she screamed, drawing her dagger. Casting Phineas’s Phun Phoam on Funderberger’s head, she used her dagger to shave off his carefully coiffed locks. Then she took everything of value in his pockets, even down to his phony tin sword.

“I think you’ve gotten your revenge, Iffy,” said Adenan.

“Hardly!” Iffy continued. “Mercury! Bulldog! Get over here and piss on Mr. Funderberger IV! We’ll see how much sugar you get after that!”

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Ros, Reverand Mother of the True Temple of Jovan (not to be confused with the False Temple of Jovan that sent gibbering minions and skeletons to attack defenseless towns), appeared at the door of the Demon Arms Inn, resplendent in her crimson robes.

“Were there not more of you before?” she said in melodious tones. “I have come to offer thanks and apologize for my earlier brusqueness.”

“Tinuviel and Chanel decided to spend the night outside, camping in the streets,” said Iffy the elven conjurer. “Gora the Seventh did kind of pick our pocket before she offered us free room and board for the winter.”

“I see,” said Ros. “Well, I wanted to offer you a nugget of information in recompense. When the followers of false Jovan invaded, as you know, you allowed them to escape with a wagon filled with prisoners.”

Adenan the halfling bruiser bristled at this suggestion that they had failed. “What about it?”

“One of the Jovan cultists was captured by the city guard. He…perished…under interrogaion, but not before revealing the heading that the prisoners may have followed.”

“Excellent!” Iffy cried. “We can go rescue them, really live up to our status as associate junior guards!”

“I must admit,” added Reverend Mother Ros, “normally I have to pay quite handsomely in bribes for this sort of information from the guards. But this time, one of the guards offered it to me quite willingly.”

Iffy and Adenan looked at each other with loaded expressions. They knew all about their halfling ne’er-do-well friend Tinuviel’s continuing flirtations with Vakt the city guard.

Ros held up a scroll. “The guard only insisted that the information be given directly and personally to a short woman,” she continued. She thrust the scroll into Adenan’s hands, oblivious to the halfling’s eyes suddenly swelling to saucers. “He also asked that I give you…something else…but I regret that my oath as a Reverand Mother of Jovan makes that impossible.”

The Reverand Mother departed, leaving Adenan holding the scroll, stunned, and her companions overtaken by hopeless laughter.


The last gibberling–a tiny whirlwind of teeth and fur that seemed a cross between a gibbon and a Pomeranian pup–took Chanel’s blow to the head and passed out cold. The others tied him up, and turned to Adenan to converse with the creature, since she had taken a minor in Gibber Languages at university.

“Who are you?” she said in Gibbertongue. “Who else is in this cave? Talk or I’ll throw you into the river!”

“You-killed-my-friends!” the gibberling motormouthed. “You-killed-Gus! You-squashed-him-into-jelly! Gus-had-gibberlettes-and-a-gibberwife!”

Adenan bonked the gibberling over the head. “Who are you?” she repeated. “Who else is in this cave?”

“I’m-Gus. Gus-Two. Lots-of-Gusses,” the gibberling…well…gibbered. “Lots-of-us-in-here. Some-big-green-ones-too. And-the-boss.”

“What’s the boss?”

“Big!”

Adenan rolled her eyes. “What about the prisoners?”

“Oh-yeah-boss-has-some-prisoners. Gonna-eat-em-soon! Taste-good. Like-the-horses-outside. Ate-them-and-then-burned-the-bits-for-fun!”


Attempting to sneak around a corner of Ransack Cavern, Tinuviel the halfling rogue instead came face to face with a young troll–one of the “green-ones” that Gus Two had gibbered on about before he had run off screaming and broken his neck in a deadfall trap.

Normally, she was decently sneaky. But this time, Tinuviel tripped over her own foot-hairs and tumbled straight to the ground. Her cooking set tumbled out of her rucksack, making such a ruckus that it could have woken the dead (had any of the skeletons they’d fought earlier been present).

“What that?” the troll cried. “Who there?”

Thinking quickly, Tinuviel got up, dusted herself off, and bowed deeply. “Why, I’m one of you! My most humble apologies, sir. I seem to have gotten lost looking for the boss.”

The troll regarded the tiny halfling with deep suspicion. “You smell like Gus,” he snarled. “Smell like Gus Two. Like Gus Two’s gooey bits. You kill him?”

“Of course not,” saif Tinuviel, bowing again. “He killed himself by running into a deadfall. But I’m still one of you, one of the Ransack Cavern gang through and through.”

“What the password?” the troll said, readying its fists.

“The password is…” Tinuviel racked her thoughts, and coughed up the first word that came to mind: “…flugelhorn.”

The troll gaped. The password was indeed “flugelhorn,” after the boss’s ill-fated stint as a brass player. “How you know that?”

“Like I said,” Tinuviel grinned. “I’m one of you.”

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“Don’t worry yourself, Majesty,” said Wyllbow. “We are quite safe.” He tightened his mailed fist on the jeweled hilt of his sword, the elaborate blade exclusive to members of the Arcane Guard.

“Yes, Nadeen, safe,” purred Loat indolently. “You are quite safe. Safe from the creatures of this place, for the Arcanes plan to kill you. Safe from the Arcanes, for the creatures plan to eat you.”

The other Arcanes traveled in a wary circle around Nadeen, their weapons drawn or ready in sheaths, their breath misting into the cool forest air.

“Hush, Loat,” whispered Nadeen, glaring at the wispcat. “I’ve no patience for your tricks.”

“Who are you speaking to, Majesty?” Wyllbow said. “Are we not quiet enough?”

“No, I mean…never mind,” said Nadeen. “How soon will we be there?”

“Soon enough, Majesty,” said the Arcane Guard, gently sliding his weapon free of its frosted sheath. “Soon enough.”

Inspired by this.

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“I do not believe you for a minute,” said Ockham the Red. “You are surely one of them.”

He had an impressive countenance as a full-blooded orc, made all the more so by his immaculate sky-blue uniform with crossed white belts and brass polished to a mirror-shine. It was undermined somewhat by the fact that he and the other two Vallia guardsmen, Vakt the Rosy and Pyse the Peach, had been locked in the jail of their own stockade, blindsided by the insane cultists of Jovan and their attendent skeletons.

“Didn’t you see the light show downstairs?” said Tinuviel the halfling. “Our cleric Chanel just channeled enough positive energy to be seen from the Caldera rim and it double-killed four skeletons all at once.”

Ockham harrumphed. “You lie. I wouldn’t believe you if you laid the severed heads of those Jovan-addled brigands downstairs at my feet.”

“Funny you should mention that,” said Tinuviel. “Adenan, let ‘erm rip.”

The two halflings each unfurled the dripping bundles in their hands, revealing the severed heads of the brigands that they had just killed. Adenan rolled the head of the white-kerchiefed brigand who had sicced the skeletons on them into Ockham’s cell. Tinuviel spun the red-kerchiefed head of the villian who had stabbed poor Iffy to within an ich of her squishy life into
Vakt’s prison.

Ockham picked up the dripping countenance and nodded curtly. “I am not afraid to admit when I am wrong,” said he. “This is definitely one of the foul brigands from the hills who turned of late to Jovan-worshipping insanity. Truly you are not one of they.”

“Damn straight,” groused Adenan, handing the cell keys to her halfling compatriot. She was still upset that her threat to hurl Ockham into the river had been laughed off.

Tinuviel unlocked Ockham’s cell, and then Vakt’s. That guard, given the gift of the dripping head of his enemy, looked down at the tiny halfling opening his cell with starry eyes. He fell to his knees as she opened the door.

“T-thank you, my lady,” he whispered through trembling besotted lips. “I have never seen a woman as…short…and as…formidible…as you.”

Tinuviel winked at him and tossed him the weapon the Jovan-crazed villains had deprived him of. Already on his knees, Vakt swooned a bit and awkwardly blew her a kiss.

The halfling mimed catching it, and placed it in her pocket before traipsing off and opening the last cell.

“I hope you realize that you’ve just made that poor guy fall in love with you,” groused Adenan.

“It’s cute,” said Tinuviel, dismissively. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Adenan looked back at Vakt the Rosy, who was busy composing a love poem on the blood-soaked kerchief of the severed head in his cell. “What indeed,” she sighed.

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“Nope!” cried Tinuviel, looking at the ten-foot-high battlements of the Vallia Stockade. “You are NOT throwing me up there! Nobody tosses this halfling!”

Adenan walked up to her halfling compatriot, on whom she had a good few inches (to say nothing of her much more fit physique). With her nose a mere inch from Tinuviel’s, her eyes narrowed, she riposted: “I’m going to toss you either way,” she growled. “It’s up to you whether you land on the battlements or in the river.”

The vivacious halfling wilted like a summer daisy in the face of her companion’s intimidating surety. “Fine, fine!” she cried, raising her hands. “Just be careful Watch the face!”

“I’m always careful,” Adenan said in her customary monotone. “Now stop whining or I’ll carefully chuck you in the shallowest part of the river.”

“How is she going to do it?” whispered their companion, Iffy the elf. “They’re practically the same size.”

“Don’t screw around with a halfling who knows what she wants,” replied Chanel, their other elf fellow-traveler. “Adenan can throw anything.”

As the fairfolk whisprered, Adenan seized her smaller compatriot by one arm and one leg. Spinning around several times like a shot-putter to gain momentum, she lifted Tinuviel up and released her at the apogee of the swing.

“Crap, crap, crap, craaaaaaaaaaap!” shrieked the smaller, shorter halfling as she sailed upward in a parabolic arc. It was enough to surmount the low battlements of the stockade, and the others hear her come to a safe landing above, at least judging by the volume of complaints that drifted down.

“Now throw down a rope so I can help you get in,” huffed Adenan. “We’ll open the door from the inside and get the drop on them.”

“No, I’m going in alone!” Tinuviel pouted from the battlements.

“I’m coming up there whether it’s with a rope or with my nails,” said Adenan flatly. “And whether I beat the window in with my fists or with your head depends entirely on that.”

“Don’t screw around with a halfling that knows what she wants,” Iffy echoed with a low whistle.

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The Caldera’s massive eruption entered into folklore around the world, with many temples to the faiths the Black Year founded and vanquished built within. But the lands nearest to the great crater hold a very particular set of stories to be true.

The tale goes that the volcanic massif that collapsed into the Caldera was the site of an advanced but evil civilization, one skilled in the art of magic and the manipulation of their world. They embarked upon a great project that, it was felt, would harness the Deep Fire of the earth to generate intense and unlimited power–enough to make every member of that civilization, known from what few fragments survived as the Lihas, into a god.

Jovan was a general of the Lihas, and decided that the scheme, which would destroy the planet through a release of all its innate magical energy, was genocidal madness. With what few followers he could muster, Jovan was able to sabotage the Lihas’ plans through fierce combat and at the cost of his own life. Cast this way, the eruption of the Caldera and the destruction of the semi-mythical Lihas, was a blessing and a small price to pay for the continued existence of the world.

Jovan has since been hailed as a deity himself, and many temples dot the Caldera and the surrounding regions. It has never become a major faith, being outcompeted by many others in the settled lands to the south, but remains strong in Vallia, Ulat, and certain denizens of Welkor’s Light and Morinth’s Delving.

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In order to manifest itself upon the mortal world, Iazgu the Flayer had forced the artificers of Beamcog to craft a soul-gem housing its true essence. When its schemes fell apart, and its bid to take control of Beamcog by subtlety and force failed, the soul gem was captured by the canny hero Gora.

Soul gems being what they are, Gora had a choice: she could shatter the gem and banish Iazgu to the Darkness Beneath for all eternity, or she could issue it a single, binding command. The choice had to be made in an instant, as the demon raged at her in an attempt to reclaim its lost soul.

Gora’s solution?

She opened up an inn with the proceeds of her adventures, but like all inns it had need of hard labor in turning down sheets, serving drinks, and the like. Now, people come from miles around to the inn in order to watch, and mock, the once-mighty demon that is now condemned to serve as a chambermaid for all eternity.

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A land of unusual warmth for its latitude, and as notable for its hot springs as for the many miles of caverns that snake beneath it, the Caldera is the site of an ancient catastrophe. Millennia ago it was the site of a violent volcanic eruption, the cause of the Black Year written of in many chronicles, and the culprit behind the collapse of more than one ancient civilization. The cataclysm resulted in a crater-shaped depression surrounded by jagged peaks that are difficult to traverse in the summer and all but impassible in the winter, with only Screefall Pass to the south being open year-round.

The warmth and incredibly rich volcanic soil of the Caldera led to a period of intense settlement after memory of the eruption had faded. Colonies of humans, dwarves, and elves were all established, with the settlements of Vallia, Morinth’s Delving, and Welkor’s Light dating to this time. Pilgrims were also attracted from many of the faiths that had the Black Year as a centerpiece of their cosmology, and many ephemeral temples rose and fell in the area through time.

Perhaps the most notable figure to emerge from the Caldera was Minaka the Conqueror, who was born in Vallia and was able to use the Caldera as a base to carve out an empire for herself. Her tomb, carved into living volcanic rock, is the centerpiece of a great abandoned necropolis–the Valley of the Dead–that houses the bodies of many of Minaka’s most powerful friends and advisors. Unfortunately, Minaka the Conqueror died without an heir, and her incompetent nephew led her realm to dissolution within a generation.

The Caldera has largely remained a backwater since Minaka’s empire fell, attracting a steady number of visitors to its hot springs and a diminishing number of religious pilgrims to the crumbling sites of fading faiths. It has largely wound up being in thrall to whoever has occupied the large walled city of Ulat to the south of Screefall Pass, and the population has been in decline as its remoteness has grown with the turmoil of the world.

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Devtpo – A large but sparsely populated barony in southern Pexate known for its peaks, straddling as it does the Gambeaux Range that helps divide Pexate from Layyia. Its remoteness and solitude have led the Sepulcher to establish many monastaries there. Due to the danger from marauders and Layyian raids, most of the monastaries are fortified and manned by guards, doubling as fortresses.

Toan – A large city on the river, Toan has long been a gateway for shipping inland goods that come from the southern sea, as all but the largest boats can sail up the river to reach it. This gives Toan a cosmopolitan air and its marketplaces and back alleys are among PExate’s most powerful engines of commerce. As a barony, it is among the smallest, encompassing only the city itself and a bit of the surrounding countryside as a legacy of its former status of a Liberated City of the Crimson Empire. It is also ruled by a bishop rather than a baron, thanks to its status as a coveted prize and the Sepulcher’s reputation for neutrality

Exor – A barony in central Pexate, directly on the border with Layyia. It has been the site of many battles between Pexate and Layyia, and as a result has traditionally been allowed considerable latitude to defend itself. Known for its iron mines and high-quality steel, Exor blades have long been the arms of choice for the kings of Pexate.

Hecoran – A mostly rural barony in central Pexate notable for its many rivers and dense hardwood forests. Like Exor it borders Layyia and has been the site of many a clash between the two kingdoms. Its hardwoods are prized for furniture, and it also has many sites at which the components of gunpowder may easily be gathered.

Ioxus – A large barony in the plains of central Pexate and home of many herds of wild and feral horses. The capture, breaking, and training of hoses has long been its specialty, and Ioxans in general are known for their horsemanship. The barony provides heavy cavalry, scouts, and many other essential troops. It is also a matriarchal barony in that power passes from mother to daughter rather than father to son, a feature that Ioxus has carried over from its long-ago existance as an independent principality.

Gattne – A barony in northern Pexate consisting mostly of wild grasslands and home to the majority of sheep in the kingdom. Its vast herds of sheep have also made it a center of dyeing and weaving. The city of Bleachfield is particularly noted for its textiles, and its finery is famous throughout the land. Bleachfield has been the source of clothes for the Pexate court for centuries, the process behind their brillian “Bleachfield Crimson” a closely-guarded trade secret.

Varrett – A barony in the north of Pexate, notably covered by Greywacke Wood, the largest and densest forest in the kingdom. Its people are notoriously hardy warriors, most of them having hunted from an early age, and forestry is the basis for most of its economy. Notably, Varrett’s forests and fortified crags at Aiov and Ogre’s Reach have meant that it has never been conquered.

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