Tyding Trades Some Teeth

My belovéd best-book,
 
Will this infernal camping never cease? I'd thought I'd made it clear that I'd had enough when I successfully led our intrepid band back to within sight of Korth, dirty and dreadful though it be. I don't mind telling you, I was positively gob-smacked when the others turned around and marched back into the... the... Oh, bother. (What's the name of this dark, wooded area again, GamGam; something like The Freakish Forest? Nightwood? Really? ...That's a bit on the nose, don't you think? Yes, I'm aware you weren't the one who named it.) She's old enough to have dated that unimaginative chap, though, wot, journal? Was around back when it was called The Mid-Afternoon Wood. (Ouch! You know I don't have my toiletries and my ears get tender when they haven't been oiled! It was a joke. Oh, don't be so sensitive! Fine. I'll carry on writing, and you carry on reading over my shoulder.)
 
After we inexplicably opted for several more days of nightly tick searches and morning privy-hole digging, Fynn took over as navigator and was quite effective. I'm not sure how since he can't see over the undergrowth (huzzah!), but who am I to argue with success? Although, if success is tramping about aimlessly through a mushroom-y maze of trees and spiderwebs, perhaps it's overrated. Success, as it turns out, requires a great deal of effort. One has more time for comfort when one is comfortable with failure. (Egad. That was both clever and wise, wot, Gam? It won't be etched on many family crests, but I daresay it might get stitched on a throw pillow or two!) One night while we camped, we were assailed by brigands, although Gammy foretold their coming and we dispatched them without much trouble (see, I do so write nice things about you). Fonzie claimed that the brigand leader had one of those invisible dream monsters in his brain, and then spent the next few minutes trying to open it up to show us. He's a nice enough fellow, but perhaps a few stones short of a henge, if you catch my meaning.
 
But who am I to bring silver to a shifter's party? (What do you mean I can't say that anymore? Racially insensitive!? It's just a fact; they don't like silver. ...They aren't the same thing? But that Silver Flame chap I met last year said... Yes, perhaps we should save it for another time.) Where were we? Oh, yes. Fynn was walking in the direction an ordinary cloth doll told him to go, and I was following Fynn. The doll, which the Club has taken to calling Cassie for some reason, only “moves” when no one's looking. And it's not as if she's rolling up her sleeves and drawing us a map, either. At best, she slightly shifts an arm. I've had wooden soldiers that were more animated! In fact, PopPop once animated my wooden soldiers, and they re-enacted the entire Battle of Beskarfield. He might've left out the beheadings at the very end, but like all Aereni he was a stickler for the details. I have to remind myself that my friends are poor. It's not their fault they've never seen a proper toy. I mean, they stare at the doll (nothing more than a sad, peasant dust rag really) with such earnest reverence, you'd think it housed the soul of a saint. (What's that, Grandmummy? And when did we establish that? ...I'm there when a lot of things happen, you can't expect me to recall all of them. ...What zombie!? Oh, the lumberjack with all the teeth? I was just getting there...)
 
We finally found a shelter from the elements in the form of large boat wrecked deep in the forest nowhere near any body of water. (...That can't be right, can it? I suppose I should make an effort to be more present, but in my defense, the jigsaw, sewn-together person is much worse than me. Half the time it's like they're not around at all!) Inside the boat lived some fairies, and these fairies bartered with teeth instead of money. (Ah, I hear it now. I apologize, dearest journal, for making such a hash of this tale. It's simply non-sensical at this point. I fear I ate the wrong mushroo... It was real? But an economy based on teeth would never work, Gammy. You'd just keep adding more teeth into the economy without any way to eliminate the old (to pull teeth out, if you will (double huzzah!)). They'll suffer crippling inflation in a matter of months! Every fairie will be hauling around so many teeth that a crust of bread will cost five bags of biters! Thank the fates we met them when we did while the currency still held decent value.) As you know, friend journal, I can be a shrewd negotiator when necessary. On this occasion, I turned a modest number of liberated teeth into 6 magical acorns, a treasure trove of valuable information, and one un-molested, half-human boy!
 
The charming lad's name is Dax Steele. (I've been meaning to ask, GamGam, mightn't he be kin of Lord Remington? You said yourself that Remington had more than just a lust for wandering, wot wot. Well, I don't know the etiquette. Perhaps I'll just ask if any of his grandparents are bastards. I suppose you're right. We'll let him bring it up.) Apparently, the boy's ladyfriend was seduced and sold by a satyr (I'm no racist, but they really are all quite beastly and ought to be rounded up) to yet another self-styled fey “queen,” this one choosing autumn as her particular bailiwick. Yes, yes. You're very impressive for three months a year. Some of us were groomed to rule ALL YEAR ROUND. Ugh! I'm afraid I'm quite over these self-important, rural fey behaving like hayseeds and bumpkins just because there happens to be a “Wild” at the end of their realm's name. This is Eberron, cousins; try to act like you belong. Two weeks ago, I met a veiled medusa named Gorjenna doing her shopping at the Kingsgarden open-air market. A month before that I saw a child-sized woman sitting astride a saddled dinosaur talking to a dragonborn I once saw kick an armored skeleton in the face. No one is impressed by your self-appointed titles or your shaggy goat legs!
 
I beg pardon, friend. You're always there to listen, and tonight I fill your pages with cross words. I'm just miffed we're still in the out-of-doors, and I suspect GamGam is, too. We'll both feel better after some rest and meditation under the wooden roof of a thoroughly smashed ship. (Keep an eye on my teeth, Gammy.) Until the morrow!
 
I remain,
 
TG