Humble Beginnings

My Aching Head....

Dear Diary,

Wow my head hurts. These flyboys (and gals) really know how to stock a party with booze. Right — I’m just remembering it was their 10th anniversary of being a — what exactly are they? A hunting club?

I know I haven’t written in a while, so diary, I should start from a couple of weeks ago…

My comrades Mandork and Rowwwwem — I’m not sure how to spell her name; but that’s the sound she makes — and I were investigating some foul play at the Three Squires Inn when we were confronted (surprised?) by a suspicious elf named Hydrab. Wait — Hygard? Hybird? Hyrmar? Honestly, I don’t exactly remember his name. The elf-tongue may be a little too subtle for the likes of a simple soldier like me.

So: Hybrid seems to be a good enough elf and joins us in our investigations under the Three Squires.

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The Three Squires

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.

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