Permungus' Tales

Chapter I: An Unquiet Knight Inn The sun did not seem to set upon this day, if indeed it ever appeared to rise. The grey sky and constant mizzle have been your only companions on the wearisome road west from Lockforth. Your legs ache and you can feel your feet beginning to blister even despite your fine new boots, which you hope haven't been completely ruined by the mud. Stronger than even the most legitimate gripes, however, is your desire to not spend another night camped out along the road. With all the talk of banditry, and worse, along the very stretch you have just traveled, it is a wonder you have made it to the walls of Fenmoss-town without trouble. You drift in through the field gate as the dusk is nearly complete, counting yourself lucky on more than one count as you gleefully, but cautiously ponder the contents of your pockets. Who would have thought that the old elven structure visible from the road had a side entrance covered only by a little bit of scree from some recent landslide. Who indeed could have imagined that there would be a jar full of ritual offerings just sitting in an alcove within, overlooked by centuries of treasure hunters. That handful of coins, rings, and votive figurines ought to be worth more than you've made in your last year of trading, odd jobs, and caravan guard work. It is somewhat strange how they seem to give off a faint buzzing noise when you're not looking though, but no matter… Too tired to get lost in such a reverie, your thoughts of dubious loot are taken over by thoughts of food and bed as you gain the low hill and turn northward past the Alderman's hall. Just ahead lies your quest’s end. Tonight will not be for begging or relying on the charity of any old acquaintance. No, with your precious discovery in hand, you've more than earned both fine fare and a quiet bed in its own room at The Carrot & Stick. Chapter II: Permungus Says So it is that you stride proudly into Fenmoss-town’s finest –and only– true inn, well and truly caught off guard by the spectacle unfolding within. It would appear as though a group of forest goblin-folk, too bedraggled for members of the Southwood Rangers, have arrayed themselves about the hearth, all but one bearing…musical instruments?.. One holds a bowes lyre, another a many-stringed chordophone that defies description. One keys a cranked fiddle, and a pair struggle, one on the other's shoulders, to play a bass horn. In the back you cannot see, but can hear one moving faster than should be possible about a vast array of percussive oddments. Finally, up front, gaudily-clad and hunched, stands a figure you have previously only heard of in passing. “Greetings ye dames and dandruffs, it is I, the lord of the riff-raff, the pontiff of needless pontification, and the only game in town if you catch what's floating by… Permungus Leopil’s the name and you- “Sir, can we start the-” SHUT UP GORBAG, NOBODY CARES ABOUT THAT NEW SOLO PIECE YOU CAME UP WITH LAST NIGHT. WE'RE DOING MY STORY AND THEN IF WE HAVE TIME LEFT, IF. IF… We will get to yours afterward.” “But I was just going to say-” NOTHING, YOU HOOKWORM! Adjusting his belt and straightening his chaperon, he continues. “I, the legendary Permungus Leopil, lord of yadda yadda, the only swamp in the drift if you mean whatever, guy who's standin’ here, do humbly present, the greatest tale of derring-do that your uncultured ears shall ever here. Maestro, if you please…And so help me, Horkz, if you miss your damn cue again… “Nah, nah, I got it this time!” Can we get this a little faster? C’mon, it’s gotta be lively, this isn’t a dirge. It’s a tale of how I rolled some poor sods, and composed a little ditty in the process. Now, come on, speed it up a little…will ye? Alright, that’s more like it! Now, who’s ready to go Down, Down, Again?”

Chapter III: Down, Down, Again...Again Around a twisting bend, the cavern opens up into a larger room. This mighty gallery of flowing natural limestone is somehow warmer than the cold, dank depths through which you have wandered. The room seems to also be lit with a sickly, flickering light. All around, the glowing eyes and stunted forms of dozens of goblins begin to appear. Their rhythmic chants grow in volume and intensity as you enter. All attempts to back away are quickly rendered futile as the goblins surround you. Moments later, a high voice intones, “Well then, it’s Bogwallop rules, no moves barred. Shall we begin the dance-off now?”

Chapter IV: A Pottic Farce You will never forget those words the lead goblin said before you parted and went off to the room you have rented with part of your adventuring fortune. They are burned into your mind like a bad, yet catchy tune, and you can’t help but repeat them in your head as sleep evades you for the time being. “WELL, there you have it. If you farmers were not thrilled from the first spellbinding moment to the last, then woe betide you, for you are doomed to a life of artless mediocrity. Barkeep paid me before I went on, so I'm out. Please welcome to the stage, some other troupe of mummers or something. They can't follow me, if they know what's good for ‘em they won't even try… …And Gorbag, if you aren't packed up and out of here by the time I finish talking, all your debts are due tonight with double interest…” Chapter V: The First Kingdom (Histories of the Vale II) Long now lie these years, numbering one thousand, one hundred, and eleven since the day in which our kingdom was brought together. When Grand Turil of the Idarings and Fair Turith of the Averungs did wed, and so join their forces to resist the tide of invaders, then only did the onslaught end. With that mighty blow that the spearhead of the empire was broken, and the Sumidean force, mighty in their thousands, fell as many raindrops on the sides of our mountains. With girded swords and fearsome hordes, we gave back what they brought. With every night another fight and victory was wrought. With sword of king and queenly horse our victories accrued, with sacrifice of Hilvattaar, foes were at last subdued. With aid of Ingjaz, we went forth to strike the southren flanks. Like scythe into the harvest field, until we broke their ranks The old and wizened empire slid then into decay, so Suvaron and Lingothian, followed each in their own way. But from the graves of kingdoms, so too are kingdoms born. When those three of old did perish, so began fair VALENDON. When king and queen passed from this world, a house of heirs they left, but seasons came and seasons went, until we were bereft. Of noble Turovar, and Tirilyn Queen, of lofty names we sing, of Turothir and Turaldin, of autumn and of spring. When noble houses wane and kingdoms tarry on, so find we new beginnings for eternal Valendon. Chapter VI: By Fading Emberlight Thankfully sleep does eventually find you in the hours of the waning fire, though you fear you may never again be un-plagued by dreams of goblins, their mischievous voices, their tall tales, or their maddening penchant for getting down...