Ok, so Hydraababa — whatever. Me and that elf and Rowwwwen and Mandork — I swear to Tyr, if I keep keeping this journal, I’m going to find comrades with easier-to-spell names — push on into the cellars of the Three Squires.
DId I mention they are known for their sour beer? It may not sound great — “sour”, right? — but it is actually really damn good.
Anyway, we stumble into this strange trial going on with an Inn guard — “George” was it? I’m not the best with names — tied to a table screaming his damn head off. Or maybe it was his damn foot off, ’cause his damn foot was missing.
George — let’s call him George — is screaming and me and my comrades gather , quietly assessing the situation.