Today is Leyan, 8th day of Charlatos, in the year 5100 of the Modern Era.
March 8, 2000
[River's Rest, Large Tree]
Several (perhaps five?) darkly cloaked and hooded shapes bustle past you.
Odd, you remark to yourself, how they make no real noise excepting one, a
hand and a half taller than the rest and quite a bit broader. It is this
one individual upon which your sharp sences focus. It seems that where the
others fade into and out of the shadows, thus making their true number difficult
to count, this one is clumbsy by comparison. A sore thumb.
From the general height of the dark silent glimmer you've witnessed... You'd
call all the group, a pack of Dwarves...but for that one, large enough to
be named any else of a half-dozen races. It does, indeed, seem that one of
their number hardly cared if his manner was known. While the smaller ones
all seem bent on covering this oaf's tracks.
One (all?) of the four black shadows notices your gaze and tugs at the cloak
of the larger, clumbsy "shadow" who glances in your direction, visibly shrugs
and audibly grunts, sadly. The clumbsy one tacks a parchment upon one of
the lower branches of the Haon tree and with a flurry of silent black
cloaks....there is nothing left to see.
Hmmm. These were no ordinary travelers. Smug with your obvious "perception"
you approached the tree and peer at the fresh Troll-skin scroll... upon it
are words you feel compelled to learn as by rote:
Frens. Brudders. Ones dat has been loved.
Tis witta heavy hert dat dis foogative comes likka teef inna nite to post
dis breef scroll.
Ifn ye kin nay cypher whom dis been penned by, den nay werry...der's naught
fer ye to feer. (---ink splatter---)
Mine troubles issa mine own. Dw(--scratch marks--) Meself woulnt bring em
heer to mine beloved Rest. Gived dat mine kinfolks kin nay stands one o'
der own to be caged likka monkee..dey'ved sent certin skilled darkly clad
fellers to , well, bust mineself outta mine perdickamint. (Fer ye lasses
o' sqwemishness, pleez dunno fret, was naught need fer much blodshed attall...er
so dese fellers tell me).
Tis assa "Free" Dwar(--more scratch marks--) Persin, o' a sorts, dat me leaves
dis missive upon dis tree. Free, yet aint free. Mine chains tis th sea, mine
breath tis o' th unnermountin caverns. Howe'er bein 'scaped frem doo justice...it
seems dat mine chains anna breath shall be fere'er strong. Tho dey ne'er
Th sweet cares o' th Rest tis a ting o' mine past now. Anna to ye dat has
born mine foul temperments thru thick anna thin...dis be wot yer left wit...hopes
Bah. Dem aint teers falling frem mine peepers...
Keenin's fer wemin anna fer weepers.
Fer dem dat has fited...
Anna dem dat has blited,
Your stories is kept.
Tho one lone Dwarf wept.
--(a quite familar rune)
...my last day in these lands can be found at:
You'll doubtless note a similar theme in my decision to remove the dwarf
costume and the parading of grand egos in this topic which some of you are
trying to reign in at this time. Please remember that the magick of River's
Rest was always that "they" ended up leaving town and "we" stayed.
This is my last post. I go now to perform the fatal <cluck>...uh er
I will surely miss some of you. Certainly all the "we".