The following entry was taken from writings found in a spellbook that looks to have been purchased somewhere in Southern London. Though the handwriting is neat enough, the book itself looks to have gone through several things that sane men wouldn’t dare—it has tears, burn-marks and scratches.
Turns out this spare spellbook came in handy after all. Whod’ve thought a showbiz guy like me’d bother keeping a journal, eh?
So I’ve been doing this job for years. Come to think about it, my job is pretty sweet. I get all the fame and glory of the Pit without any of the dirty work. People see my face in London and they’re all like, “Hey, you’re that guy!” Doesn’t matter that I’m a goblin and all that. Well, they all love me except that Loblaw fellow. Claims I called his win wrong or something. I swear, it looked like Stonehammer was pinning HIM.
Anyway it all starts when I wake up one day and tell myself, “Gork, this isn’t a good career path for a goblin of your talents.” I know I’m great at whipping the crowd into a frenzy when I say my lines in the Pit but I just know that a little guy like me’s gotta have bigger plans in life. There’s that little special-effects thing I can do with the fire and the bouncy sparkly thing. I don’t know why I can do it, but I do know not everyone can put on their own pyrotechnics and lights.
What do I do about that? Take it up with the boss of course. Strangely enough he takes it all in stride and before I know it, I’m sitting in one of the Volsons’ lofts with Loblaw, some chick named Gaga, a doctor and some big foreign guy. Then there’s Ben Volson, Val Volson’s second eldest up front—looks like serious business.
Apparently the Volsons are assembling a suicide squad…excuse me, an adventuring party to strike out into the Briar Patch and get to the other side. Well, it’s certainly a place I can put my unique talents to good use. Who knows? Maybe I can get in touch with my roots out there. The charming city Gobber comes home to his long-lost country cousins and all that. Looks like I’ve been lumped with some very…enterprising people too. Gods, that was a long shopping list.
So now we’re off on some cow-drawn carts to follow some lead about goblin attacks somewhere past King’s Blade. Hey, maybe I’ll get to put my people-skills to good use.
Though there are no dates indicated in the journal, the segregation is made evident by the author’s intentional skipping a line before the next paragraph.
Hey journal, it’s been a day (give or take a few hours) and we’re at Langley’s Rock north of King’s Blade. According to the guards, the goblin attack was a week ago. They’ve also got some science-y people studying the Spire out there with a telescope. I never liked sciency-y people. They try to explain EVERYTHING. They definitely can’t explain my special effects.
The fighty people in our merry band decided to go on with the suicide…I mean scouting out in the Briar Patch. Meanwhile, Doc Tiberius and I have elected to stay behind and watch the cows. Not a bad fella, that Doc Tiberius. He just seems a bit cynical, but I guess any doctor in a place like London would be.
Well, I guess I better go. I can hear the guards shouting about lights in the distance and “Not being paid enough for this shite.” Funny guys, those guards. And so easy to hustle at Poker.