Squoan
Squoan Kwikzot (a.k.a. The Serendipitous Riddlefist)
Shaven head and beard; long moustache that droops well past his chin which he braids and adorns with colourful feathers, preferably blue. Has a grey cat named Sphinx who helps him catch the necessary birds. Squoan never entirely shook the belief - instilled in him by his parents - that there was something deeply wrong with him, and so has adopted various rituals and routines to protect himself from his own aberrant nature, such as changing the feathers in his moustache at least once a week. Also needs to bathe and shave in the morning; can go a couple of days without doing either but any longer and he gets seriously squirrelly and needs to make up for it somehow, preferably with a long cleansing meditation under a waterfall. Must meditate every day or he becomes easily distracted and prone to rash decisions. If his routines are disrupted for too long, his left eye begins to twitch and he falls prey to anxiety, which he tries to burn off with a flurry of usually thoughtless activity. It was easier for him to control his nervous tics when he was travelling with Eraiel; now, he's a bit more likely to fray around the edges. Finds some solace in playing the flute.
Physical Description
General Physical Condition
Nimble and muscular (for a gnome) in a wiry sort of way.
Body Features
Dark tanned skin from living outdoors.
Identifying Characteristics
Quarter sized scar on the palm of his right hand. Burn mark around neck.
Apparel & Accessories
Long white woollen coat with many secret pockets and "RIDDLEFIST" stitched across the back in golden lightning letters.
Specialized Equipment
Skilled in bashing people with his iron flute and shooting people with his celos longbow. Has also been dabbling in meditative calligraphy.
Mental characteristics
Personal history
12th of 15 children. Parents were very superstitious, worshipped a fertility household deity. Squoan was hyperactive and unruly as a child. His parents couldn't handle his constant mischief on top of all their other kids so they repeatedly tried to have the local priest/shaman exorcise the "demons" from him, to no avail. Finally they managed to push him into the service of Eraiel Othcalt, an Elven priestess of Onir passing through the area. She took him on her travels and treated him kindly and attempted to train him as an acolyte, but he had little interest in religious studies. Still, he found great value in meditation and developed a fondness for the paradoxes and riddles with no solution which Eraiel posed to him to empty his mind of rational thought. He learned calmness and focus and mental discipline, and she taught him how to fight as an outlet for his energy. For reasons she never spoke of, they avoided major cities, keeping to small towns and villages, righting whatever wrongs they came across, while she continued to impart as much of Onir's doctrine as Squoan was willing to accept. One day he returned to their camp from foraging and found her in an unusually pensive and tight-lipped mood. The next morning, she and all of her belongings were gone. To Squoan, Eraiel was the embodiment of cool competence, so he didn't worry for her safety. He decided to continue on his hero's journey without her, confident that she'd meet up with him when she was done doing whatever she was doing.
Education
Trained by Eraiel Othcalt, a wandering elvish priestess of Onir. Has also recently taken some courses at the School of Hard Knocks.
Accomplishments & Achievements
Far too many to list here.
Failures & Embarrassments
None.
Mental Trauma
Mild OCD, ADHD and Anxiety, ameliorated by regular meditation.
Intellectual Characteristics
Curious and impulsive by nature, sometimes rash, but capable of calm analysis when he's not feeling overwhelmed. While he's all about seeing the best in a bad situation, he's not immune to depressive episodes, especially when he's feeling misunderstood or unappreciated.
Morality & Philosophy
A follower of Onir who values justice above all else, albeit his own self-mythologizing version of the concept.
Personality Characteristics
Motivation
To dispense justice!!
... and to be admired for it.
Savvies & Ineptitudes
Pretty much incapable of lying convincingly, but his high energy optimism and obvious good intentions are usually enough to get him out of sticky situations.
Likes & Dislikes
Loves elves and cats. Loathes being dirty, and fake priests of Resh.
Virtues & Personality perks
Tries to do good in all situations, even if his judgement is sometimes a bit idiosyncratic.
Vices & Personality flaws
When he drinks, he drinks to excess. Might be a little bit vain.
Personality Quirks
So many.
Hygiene
Scrupulously clean.
Social
Contacts & Relations
Eraiel Othcalt - mentor, priestess of Onir; Steingrimur - werebear, BCF; Sarett Umett - Pyre Knight, edgelord; Valethanna Althaliel Umett - priestess of Daralei, Sarett's half-sister; Orin - teen protege, junior sorcerer rescued from Orham, possible avatar of Onir
Family Ties
Twin brother, Nokes "the Knowledgnome" Kwikzot, current whereabouts unknown
Religious Views
Religious on a practical rather than a spiritual level. Values the calming techniques he's been taught but isn't really seeking enlightenment or anything like that.
Social Aptitude
Tends to run off at the mouth without thinking, particularly when he's stressed out.
Hobbies & Pets
Has a grey cat named Sphinx, who he's taught to dance when he plays his flute.
Speech
Deploys wise-sounding paradoxical riddles to regain the upper hand when he feels he's lost it.
Wealth & Financial state
He likes the freedom to actualize some of his more eccentric whims that money grants him, but other than that he has little use for it, preferring to live out in the forest where it's clean.
Birthplace
Krahr Wilds
Children
Current Residence
Home is where the heart (ie. Steingrimur) is
Gender
Male
Eyes
Green
Hair
Black; shaved head with a moustache
Height
3'4"
Weight
40 lbs
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A Visitor's Guide to Orham
The less said about Our Hero's last days in Orham, the better.
Suffice to say that it is Debatable whether he left the city in better shape than when he found it. No easy admission to make. And so, lest his... let's not call them mistakes. How about... Areas In Which The Serendipitous Riddlefist Might Have Exercised Greater Prudence, Given Time For Reflection, Had Events Not Overtaken Him.
And so, lest the AIWTSRMHEGPGTFRHENOH go to waste, here are a few wise lessons which might be of use to any who follow in his wake.*
1. Beware of unasked-for breakfasts! If a Scoundrel accosts you on the street with an offer of free information and/or breakfast, by all means accept the breakfast (the Bacon is blameless in this scenario, no need to insult it), but remain very suspicious of the Scoundrel's information and motives, particularly if his name is Ralafiss, because even if you can't quite put your finger on it, he is definitely up to Something!
2. If it looks like poop and smells like poop, it's probably poop, even if it comes in a bottle labelled “Hair Tonic! Non-Arcane But Miraculous All The Same!”
3. If you happen to know the whereabouts of a Buried Treasure which you yourself buried, try to keeps its existence and location at the forefront of your thoughts. It might save you from spending a week practicing invisible calligraphy on street corners for spare change.
4. Should you choose to assist a group of Renegade Mages by providing them with Chromite, do one of the following: A) Ascertain exactly how they intend to use it before you proffer it, or B) Arrange a graceful exit from town before the bombs start going off.
5. Pepe is not Pepe at all! His true name is Ennis, and that is merely the tip of the Iceberg! Conspire to have him meet with Hayn Enterett in your company and pay particular attention to where his gaze drifts. Is there not a twinkle in his eye as he regards the back of the idealistic rabble-rouser's cranium, as if he has it in mind to cudgel it? Pay heed to these subtle signals!
6. But once you have unveiled his sinister intentions to your satisfaction, do not think that your work is done! Oh no! That is but the outermost layer of the Onion, and it will be tears all the way down to its Dark Heart, where lurks... Kornan Rinsae? Locaryn? Wait... Kor(nan)... Rin(sae)... LocKorRin?!!? BWAAAH!!!
7. Speaking of whom, if you happen to feel a shape-changing Succubus breathing down your neck while taking a quiet break under a large cloak, immediately clap your hands to your pockets, especially if said Succubus recently tortured you at length to gain their contents.
8. Freeing the unjustly imprisoned is Good in all cases. Do not listen to those who attempt to becloud the Purity of your deed by positing that the liberated Mage is probably insane and cannot care for himself. Orham will try to convince you that the entirety of existence is a Morass of Moral Ambiguity from which there is no escape! PSHAW! FREEING THE UNJUSTLY IMPRISONED IS A UNIVERSAL GOOD!
9 . And with that as your last, defining act in Orham, you may wash its grime from your soul and take your leave of its benighted streets, knowing that even if you didn't pay heed to every lesson on this list and greater prudence might have been exercised in some areas, you did your best and emerged uncrushed. And if you don't already have a heroic nom-de-guerre, perhaps your recent Moral Victory over Orham can serve as your inspiration? The Serendipitous Riddlefist is taken, alas. How about... the Uncrushable Parablepunch!
10. Perfect.
* The practical utility of these lessons will vary depending on how widely the specifics of your situation differ from those of Our Hero. Emulate him in all ways (except as noted above) so that you might gain the maximum benefit of his Wisdom!
Bobbing on the Ambivalensea
Lo, it feels to have been a veritable Age since we last cast Our Eye in the direction of Our Hero, and the Mists of Time have since crept in, veiling much that was once clear. But a few vignettes are still visible through the murk.
There he stands, the Serendipitous Riddlefist, his flute bloodied, lightning crackling from his eyes, over the fallen “Crownsguard” who thought to assassinate him as he innocently relieved himself. Apparently they have learned the error of their ways! The Riddlefist sees all!
But what's this? It seems the impostors were in league with the Hunger, if one believes the sole living remnant of their murderous band. Oh well, these misunderstandings oft occur when meeting new folk in the Wilds, a fact with which the survivor seems well-acquainted, for he agrees to let bygones be bygones and to lead Squoan & Co. to Kornan Rinsae after only the mildest of shakings (courtesy of Sarett) and some bloody flute brandishing performed more for form's sake than anything, really. Hardly necessary when dealing with an amiable fellow such as the Philosophical Pseudoguard, or PP for short (his name being one of those details shrouded by the Mists, although it is quite possible that Squoan neglected to ask for it; nay, more than possible, it is both likely and eminently understandable considering how many plates Our Hero had spinning at the time; it's remarkable that he remembers his own name when you look at it that way). No, make that Pepe.
Next we see Pepe leading Squoan & Co. to a hollow tree which opens to reveal a staircase leading down to a magical underground lair. There, Our Hero comes face to face with Kornan himself. Having come to suspect that he is being manipulated by the Ruby Queen, his trusting nature exploited for nefarious purposes as may have happened once in the past, the Riddlefist offers to aid the Hunger in their struggle against persecution if Kornan, in return, offers his word that the Hunger will not abandon him should the safety of Eraiel Othcalt (Squoan's mentor, recently freed from the Barracks and now under the “protection” of the Ruby Queen) be threatened as a consequence of Squoan's high-mindedness. Kornan agrees, and expresses a need for the explosive powder Chromite.
Which gives Our Hero enough pause that his first action upon returning to Orham is to seek the advice of Hayn Enterett, for it would be tragic if such destructive force fell into the wrong hands. See, there he is entering the Wolf's Maw once more, disguised as one of the Racist Gnome Miners who populate its depths, their souls as cramped and benighted as the warrens in which they toil. We can see on his face as he descends into darkness that Squoan is doing his best to separate the Playas from the Game, so as not to hold the former entirely accountable for the latter's sins, and to recognize that these RGMs are a product of their environment, but it is also apparent from the indignant quivering of his moustache that his efforts are yielding mixed results. His relentless striving for perfection no doubt makes his judgment of his own kind less charitable than it is in most other cases, knowing as he does the vast potentialities Gnomes could actualize if they but applied themselves, as exemplified by his own life. Yet instead they choose to squander their energies on meaningless toil and to blame their fellow downtrodden for the demeaning injustices they face daily, rather than the true enemy, those who profit from the Game while standing above it, unsoiled by the suffering it engenders and perpetuates.
And there is Hayn in his hidey-hole, confirming that he and Kornan are of one accord and that Chromite is indeed necessary for the furtherance of the Hunger's goals. As he turns from Hayn and steels himself for his return journey through the Maw, we can see from the soft glaze over his eyes that Squoan is attempting to distance and distract himself from the intractable, self-defeating attitudes of the RGMs (at least for now) as he surfaces by pondering the question of what the true enemy in this equation should be called. The Gamelords? No, not nearly Epic enough.
Well, this is a surprise! Isn't that Ralafiss he's now carousing with, carrying on as if they are Archfriends rather than Archenemies? No, wait. Look closer. Upon deeper examination of the scene, it appears that Our Hero is engaged in a Pretense of Friendship designed to extract certain pieces of information from the Conniving Rogue, specifically how one might gain entrance to the Armoury where the Chromite is kept under lock and key. And such is the Buffoonish Narcissist's confidence in his own charm that he cannot conceive how preposterous it is to believe that he could bend the unyielding iron of the Serendipitous Riddlefist's soul with a few twinkling smiles and ribald japes and thus is entirely taken in by the Ruse, divulging that Baern Diamondblade (a Dwarven Blacksmith known to be sympathetic to Mages) also does work for the Pyre Knights and might be able to aid Our Hero in his Quest. Imbecilic Ralafiss!
Oh, but what's this now? A moment of blackest despair! An abject pose: Squoan face-down in the road, posterior in the air, woollen coat fallen around his head so that even the dim light its twinkling sequins might have shed upon this scene are swallowed in its darkling folds. What has brought him to such an impasse? Has the grey weight of the Moral Ambiguity under which he has laboured for so long finally squeezed the last glimmer of Hope from him? Or is it just that the Dwarven Blacksmith turned out to be singularly unhelpful? Difficult to tell from the brief glimpse we are allowed.
But here he is again, roused to his usual energetic self and retracing his steps to the dwelling of Filere Gonergan, the murdered tinker. Searching for something…. Callooh! Callay! In his eager little fist he holds aloft a bag of precious Chromite, aka Tinker's Delight.
And now we see him in the common room of The Bearknuckle Brawl, the establishment of indecorous repute which now must serve as a base of operations for Squoan & Co. due to a cashflow crisis orchestrated by the… the… Masters of Misdirection? No, no. At any rate, he is joined by Pepe, who has mostly recovered physically as well as spiritually from their last encounter and now counts Our Hero among his dearest friends, the momentary flinches he exhibits in response to sudden movements no doubt caused by an overindulgence in caffeine or some other stimulant rather than a remembrance of past trauma. Squoan produces the Chromite, Pepe pockets it, and now it seems there is nothing to be done but wait to see what chain of events Our Hero has set in motion, and whether he will come to regret the placement of his conditional loyalty.
But is the Serendipitous Riddlefist ever content to merely wait? Ha! Does Justice ever sleep? (It does not.) And like Justice, Ever-Vigilant Squoan is never content to rest on his laurels when there are wrongs to be righted. Although in this case, unusually, the wrongs may be more Internal than External. From the introspective drooping of his moustache, coupled with the steely resolve of his jawline, we can infer that he is taking a long hard look within himself and resolving never again to be Overwhelmed by Negativity as he was outside Baern's smithy. In the past he has placed his trust in High Ideals and allowed their illumination to make of the world a war of stark contrasts, surfaces of Light versus depths of fathomless Gloom. But that is not the true world. The name of the grey ocean into which Our Hero has been thrown is Moral Ambiguity (or maybe the Ambivalensea) and if he is to survive the turgid chop of its waters, he must adapt.
But is that enough, to merely survive? Does Justice merely survive? (Maybe…? That one doesn't work as well. But for the sake of the larger point:) No! He will not be twisted by his environment as were the RGMs, becoming some scaly and/or tentacled denizen of the Ambivalensea. Rather, he shall become a beacon for other like-minded Aspirants to the Ideal. In the ocean, but not of the ocean.
Going forward, he will not cloud his mind with fantasies; instead he will see things as they are, placing his faith in tangible objects. He will trust the evidence of his senses and guard against Wishful Thinking whenever it attempts to distort the physical world. His flute shall act as his grounding rod, keeping him in the here and now, and if he could get a longbow to act as his grounding bow, that would be Cool too.
And he will grow his hair out into little knots and tie red feathers to those knots so that it looks like his head is on fire! For he is a Bonfire of Positivity!
Into the Maw!
Alas, we find our hero somewhat diminished since last we saw him. The dance had ended, the wedding was over, and even though he was now free to do what he wanted any old time, his recent trials had engraved him with scars both physical and spiritual. An uncharacteristic Gloom had settled upon his mind, from which he thought to save Steingrimur by sending him home to his cottage in the forest.
But as he watched the back of the gentle werebear recede through the crowds, the Gloom intensified to an unbearable degree, its pall deepening to the blackness of pitch, and our hero realized that no true Knight was complete without his faithful Squire… and also the road to Riverbend was long and perilous and wouldn't it be better if he kept an eye on the big lug for his own safety and no other reason? He was worried about Steingrimur, that was all. So after a fraught few minutes of separation, the BCFs were joyfully reunited.
Although more accustomed to delivering bloody, fluty justice than sleuthing, Squoan “the Serendipitous Riddlefist” Kwikzot threw himself into the task at hand with as much enthusiasm as his still traumatized soul could muster. Together with his Improbable Irregulars, he scoured the scene of a Grocer's recent murder for hints as to the Hunger's whereabouts or intentions, and while his band of Clue Searching Investigators did not turn up anything of note, they did – in the course of this and the following investigation – become slightly more proficient in loitering, both innocuously and menacingly, as the situation dictated.
They had more luck at their next crime scene, a Tinker's shop, where – after solving the Conundrum of the Coal Chute – our hero discovered that the proprietor of the establishment, one Filere Gonegan, had been hosting secret meetings in his basement. He also found a strange stamp engraved with a ring of thorns. Unsure of what to make of these developments, he sought out the one fellow he knew in Orham who might have knowledge of its underbelly and secret workings: Ralafiss.
They ambushed the “Priest” of Resh in one of his customary drinking holes and Squoan took him to task for having uncovered nothing of note or value in his purported attempts to find a cure for the ensorcelled Valethanna, relenting only when it became clear that the Smuggler had no conscience to which he could appeal. Changing tack, he promised never again to bother the degenerate with pointless attempts to rouse his better nature, no more to ruffle the pond-scummed surface of his equanimity with the clarion call of higher ideals, if he would but point them in the direction of the Hunger, or at least the one who had fashioned the stamp. Ralafiss directed them to speak with a Dwarven smith named Baern Diamondblade in the Bands, and with that (somewhat tipsily, it must be said, as he had perhaps been over-indulging a tad since his release from prison, but considering how thoroughly his world had been rocked and his preconceptions upended, not to mention the weighty geas recently placed upon his slight if shapely shoulders, is it really fair to pass judgment?) Squoan turned on his heel and left that den of iniquity, never to see Ralafiss again.
I repeat: never to see Ralafiss again.
Baern proved to be singularly unhelpful at first, but after the CSI wore down his defences with some strategic loitering he grudgingly revealed that a group of possible mages had been known to meet in a heavily guarded mine known ominously as the Wolf's Maw (bwaaam). Our hero committed a rare tactical blunder at this point by asking for Laird Granger's help in gaining entrance to the Maw. The conversation between the two grew heated and Squoan let slip that there was a slim – the slimmest – possibility that mages might be meeting in its tunnels, whereupon Hethor “Anger Issues” Granger suggested that instead of letting the CSI investigate the place, he should assign more Hunters to look for suspicious activity. Squoan stalked out with a twirl of his coat, the “RIDDLEFIST” in letters of golden lightning on his back no doubt signalling his fury to the chastened laird by reflecting the torchlight in a series of angry, coded flashes, although it should be mentioned that our hero didn't look over his shoulder to ascertain that the message had been received.
So it was now left to Squoan & Co. to infiltrate the even-more-heavily-guarded-than-previously Wolf's Maw on their own. Luckily, inspiration struck, and the Serendipitous Riddlefist devised a plan whereby Steingrimur would pose as a worker and smuggle him into its depths disguised as a sack of torches, although this bare-bones description simply cannot do justice to the fiendish intricacy of the plan and all of its various interlocking fallback clauses. The Ingenious Scheme went off without a hitch, thanks in no small part to Steingrimur's surprising knack for improvisation, and our hero was free to explore the hellish, seething caverns of the Maw – simultaneously vast and warren-like – without notable hindrance.
One of his most surprising discoveries was tangential to his investigation but still worth remarking upon: the Gnomes of Orham (all of whom appeared to be miners, for this was the first time our hero had encountered any of his kind in these benighted Human lands) were racist in regard to the arcane. This seemed a logical fallacy, to put it mildly, but at least it left Squoan feeling slightly less guilty about the pogrom against Gnomes which he may or may not have set in motion with his indiscretions while under torture.
His shrewd information gathering led him to a collapsing, cordoned area of the mines wherein he found signs of a recent meeting and a Mysterious Hatch. Descending, he came upon a Human with some magical aptitude named Hayn Enterett, a pleasant enough fellow if one disregarded the occasional threat of murder, which Squoan graciously did, being a debonair Gnome of the World who understood that Stress gets the better of all of us from time to time. Hayn was not overly impressed by the verisimilitude of our hero's extemporized cover story, so, to avoid escalating an already tense situation, and in the hope that it might lead to a fuller understanding of the Hunger's true nature, Squoan decided to level with him, confiding that he'd been released from prison at the behest of the Ruby Queen herself and charged with the task of ferreting out the Hunger so that they might be Dealt With. Squoan made it clear that for the moment his loyalties were flexible, since the benefit of hindsight had given rise to certain suspicions that the Ruby Queen had not been entirely forthright with him and, furthermore, Hayn himself appeared to be a perfectly decent fellow and if he were a representative sample of what the Hunger had to offer, why, it seemed clear that they were being unjustly maligned in the court of public opinion.
Somewhat overwhelmed by Squoan's lucid verbosity, Hayn deferred the decision to murder him to some indeterminate future date, instead directing him to seek out Kornan Rinsae, a representative of the Hunger who happened to make his camp near the scene of our hero's great victory over the Ettin. With that knowledge in his possession, the Riddlefist bid his adieus… only to realize that escaping the mines undetected would prove difficult until the next shift change and, moreover, it had been a full day since he'd last slept and he was bone tired. But Hayn was both a Scholar and a Gentleman, for he had no objections to Squoan unfurling his bedroll in a corner of his hidey-hole to catch a few winks until the evening. Upon awakening, if our hero hadn't left his coat with Orin to keep it from getting dirty, the starry sequins on his back would no doubt have glinted to Hayn the message that he was All Right in Squoan's appraisal, as he took leave of the Underground Magician's hospitality once and for all.
Departing the Wolf's Maw, Squoan got a less bag-obstructed view of its entrance than when he had first arrived and was duly impressed by its imposing stone grandeur, its jagged wolfishness. “Very Metal,” he mused admiringly.
After reuniting with his companions, Squoan led them out of Orham through the West Gate where they camped near a peaceful waterfall to decompress from their recent exploits, despite Orin's disapproval of everything Outdoors, the expression of which was the first serious blow dealt to Squoan's theory concerning the Tween's divine nature.
In the morning they continued on toward the Hunger encampment. En route, hearing something rustling in the undergrowth, Squoan charged into the forest where he was stunned to come upon, of all people, Sarett Umett! Resisting an undignified urge to hug his former travelling companion and fellow bodyguard to royalty, he instead besieged him with questions, to which Sarett replied that he had been out and about looking for Kornan Rinsae earlier, hoping that the Hunger could be of aid in curtailing the Serendipitous Riddlefist's imprisonment, but then, hearing that Squoan had been freed, he'd transitioned to safeguarding the Maja's carriage as it left Orham, to ensure that nothing befell his sister Val. This topic of conversation led him to offer his heartfelt – if awkward – thanks to Squoan for taking care of Val, to which the occasionally mischievous Gnome couldn't help but reply by asking if he was Locaryn in disguise, frustrating Sarett to no end and probably discouraging all future attempts at emotional honesty. And thus normality was restored.
Back at full strength – give or take a Val – Squoan & Co. came upon the Hunger encampment to find it deserted, if in better repair than when they'd seen it last. Steingrimur picked up the scent of men in armour approaching and the CSI hid among the trees to spy upon the interlopers. Three “Crownsguard” with insignia askew came into view. Squoan sought to gauge their intent by placing the illusion of a Gnome, mid-micturition, in their path. They greeted the illusion with an arrow through the back of its head. “What devils, to respond so disproportionately to a Gnome harmlessly whizzing!” the Serendipitous Riddlefist thought, before crying, “En garde, boon companions! Battle is upon us!”
What Goes Up Must Come Down Then Go Back Up But At The Same Time Kind Of Down
Returning to the city, battered and hungover but victorious, the Serendipitous Riddlefist – with some nudging from Locaryn – convinced the Maja to grant Sarett and himself positions as bodyguards to Lilise Peronell, so that they might ferret out the source of the purported conspiracy against the bride-to-be. Attaining such an exalted post turned out to be much easier than convincing one of the cooks in the palace to boil the skin off his Ettin head trophy, which was Difficult in the Extreme and required some judicious bending of the Truth. For a higher cause, of course. After all… Ettin skull.
Lilise was an accommodating if soft-spoken and lonely charge, and little of note occurred until the Pre-Wedding Banquet whose more official sounding name fell beneath our hero’s notice, trained as it was on matters of lofty intrigue and the boiling of Ettin heads. There, as Lilise took a quiet break from the festivities in her quarters, a necklace was delivered to her, a present from her betrothed, the Lord Regent. Squoan would have been remiss in his duties if he hadn’t set aside his dignity and tried it on himself first, and let it never be said that he was one to allow Pride to get in the way of Duty. But it seemed benign, so they returned to the Banquet of Indeterminate Nomenclature.
Where the necklace promptly tightened and began to strangle Lilise, of course. As the Maja wrested it from her daughter’s neck while screaming in agony, a black arrow exactly like those which had haunted our hero’s travels for so long flashed down from the balcony, aimed at the Maja's heart. But the Riddlefist was there to nimbly intercede and snatch it from the air! Was he rewarded for this? Was his feat of acrobatic derring-do attended by a chorus of cheers and/or applause? Of course not, this is Orhamtown. As he attended the stricken Maja in her chambers, guards burst in and arrested him for treason and conspiracy, claiming that they had found vials of poison (identical to that employed in the committing of some recent murders in Orham) within his recently borrowed Silver Ettin-Head Repository. And so he was marched to the prison beneath the Barracks, from whence he had so recently heard the lamentations of the living yet damned.
Where he was visited by Locaryn, who was apparently behind everything. Dejection does not describe our hero’s mood at that moment. He was plunged face-first into a miasma of dismay. She had played him like a virtuous and courageous yet somewhat unworldly fiddle!
Failing to gauge his mood with any accuracy, she made him an offer. She claimed that she could free not only Squoan, but his mentor, Mistress Eraiel Othcalt, who was also being held in the magical prison, if he would only give her the red geode pendant he’d won from the Wererats and had the foresight to bury near a river before entering Orham. This was simply too much, too bitter a pill to swallow. At least the Riddlefist managed to avoid using the b-word.
After some time, he was questioned at length – his answers amusing a Hunter spectator to no end, in addition to possibly (inadvertently) setting in motion a pogrom against Gnomes – and then tortured. Once his black robed torturer had left the room, the Hunter revealed himself to be Locaryn in a new guise. Apparently Squoan had not only underestimated her influence and duplicity, but also her raw power. She reiterated her offer. Squoan insisted that he would need to see his mentor before he made up his mind. At that, Locaryn pressed the metal collar around his neck into his flesh. It reacted to her sorcerous nature but burned him in the process, marking him as a Disciple of the Arcane and ensuring that he would be moved into a new, even less friendly area of the dungeon.
He found himself in a cage with his mentor and four others. Their reunion was affectionate but somewhat muted, given the circumstances. She was in bad shape and our hero knew she would not last much longer. He told her of all that had happened and asked for her counsel regarding Locaryn’s deal, but her inability to speak rendered her advice somewhat inconclusive. He was still undecided when his Nemesis returned, seeking an answer. He knew that he had to save Eraiel… but he could not yet bring himself to bow before this Creature of Whispers and Lies and so he deferred until the morrow.
Only one other person in the dungeon was responsive to our hero’s unfailing amiability, a teenager whose name was Orin which – Squoan was almost too quick to realize, perhaps spurred by desperation – was an anagram of Onir. Could it be that his god, that legendary righter of injustices, had come to aid him in his darkest hour?! If not, surely Onir wouldn’t resent a quick prayer directed in the teen’s general direction, just in case….
And it worked, maybe! For shortly thereafter, Hunters fetched Squoan and Mistress Eraiel from the depths of their near despair and dragged them before the Lord Regent who – miraculously – apologized for the miscarriage of justice! In fact – somewhat amusingly – he wanted the Serendipitous Riddlefist to don the crimson cloak and become a Hunter himself, so that he might help track down a group of rebel mages who called themselves (bwaaam) the Hunger. Our hero rejected this offer with some heat. But at least he did not tell the Lord Regent where he could stick his crimson cloak.
At this, Taliesse, the Ruby Queen of Rikha – making an extremely rare public appearance for the sake of Squoan’s salvation (or so it seemed? it is too soon for our hero to trust in appearances…) – spoke up, offering to take Squoan into her service so that he could pursue the Hunger as her agent rather than as a hand of the Hunters. The Gnome acquiesced, sensing that he was in her debt for his current freedom. The fact that she was quite comely played no part in his decision. Mere semblance! She also agreed to take Mistress Eraiel back to Orrick with her to treat the wounds inflicted upon her by the Hunters. While Squoan still hadn’t managed to have a proper conversation with his mentor, it was a relief to know that she would be cared for, and so he accepted that a full asking of questions and sharing of stories would have to wait until next they met.
Pushing his luck somewhat, he convinced the Lord Regent that the boy Orin would be invaluable in luring out the Hunger, being a young, malleable, magically inclined mind for them to mold in their image, and the Lord Regent agreed to release Orin into Squoan’s custody with his eventual freedom conditional on the boy’s proving useful to the cause. Squoan somehow managed to contain his manly (or Gnomely) squee at the thought of having a possible god in his back pocket.
Then he met up with Steingrimur and together they made camp in the forest outside Orham, where he could bathe in a river like a civilized Gnome and meditate and gather feathers for his moustache and just generally collect himself, which by now, after everything he’d been through, was an absolute necessity. But, in his haste, he forgot about the grand ball he’d travelled all this way to attend, and he missed his dance with the Fair Lady Alwena.
CALAMITY!
But wait… there was an afternoon dance the next day! All was not lost!
And what a dance it was. Stories will be told for years to come of the day the Whirlwind Gnome came and taught Orham what it means to truly boogie, his feverish feet no doubt averting a pogrom if one had ever been anything more than hypothetical because how could such grace and beauty harbour evil?! (… don’t say Locaryn.)
But it was also bittersweet, because as he bowed to the Fair Lady Alwena at the dance’s conclusion, Squoan felt a chapter coming to an end. She would be heading south to return to Riverbend the next morning, and the Maja – still not fully recovered from the wounds inflicted by the enchanted necklace – had agreed to take Valethanna east to Abrus to tend to her magical ailment. And Sarett was nowhere to be found, having apparently vanished after a brief visit to Squoan in prison. As our hero supped with Steingrimur at their inn that evening, falling prey to melancholy, he couldn’t help thinking that it might not be kinder for the BCFs to part ways as well, and for the gentle bear to return home to his forest, away from the strange perils of Orhamtown….
But at least the palace cooks hadn’t thrown out his Ettin skull. Although, to be honest, he had no idea what to do with it.
High Spirits
Such sights and sounds and splendours have been visited upon our hero since last we heard from him! A dizzying array of incidents! Let us enumerate them.
1) Orham! The unsullied city of alabastrous marble – or marbellous alabaster - at last attained!
2) There, he was called before Hethor Granger, leader of the valiant and upright Knights of the Pyre, and tasked with a proper, Princess-saving Quest! (Let us gloss over the screams coming from beneath the Knights' Barracks for the moment.)
3) Starcaller! Aka Maja Aradoobie von… Claxonwy? Whatever! He met with her too! An epic meeting of heroic personages only slightly marred by the news Squoan unwittingly brought with him in the form of a suspicious-looking domino - a good luck charm from Locaryn - which turned out to belong to one of the apprentices of the Maja's Amascan advisor and whose presence in Squoan's possession suggested that said apprentice no longer abided amongst the living. But… oh well! A minor faux pas. These things happen!
4) A Princess saved! Basically a Princess, anyway! And in the process…
5) An Ettin slain! So what if Sarrett leapt in at the last second and lopped both its heads off? It was Squoan's vigorous pugilistic interrogation that softened the creature up for the Thunderstealer's blade. And look at the thing!
Huge!
But lastly, and most importantly…
6) VINDICATION! Ralafiss confessed to being a Con Man! In fact, he wasn't even a Priest! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
Granted, the sweet nectar of this victory over the Forces of… Fencery was soured somewhat by the information attached to the Con Man's confession: namely, that he'd purchased the shackle of Onir carved from fragrant celos wood (which had been the prized possession of Eraiel Othcalt) from a Hunter. O slightly less frabjous day….
(Although it would be presumptuous to assume that this news was responsible for stout-hearted Squoan's subsequent slide into inebriation, which lasted throughout the events already enumerated and culminated during the battle with the Ettin, in which – purely by coincidence, no doubt – he was knocked senseless. There could have been any number of reasons behind his seeming irresponsibility! Perhaps it was a cunning ruse to put his enemies off their guard. Do not question the calculus of heroism!)
However, a glimmer of hope: as he slumbered and recovered from his wounds – the fruits of his valour – on the rattling carriage ride back to Orham, with Lilise Peronell safe but unconscious on the opposite seat and one of the Ettin's heads gently bleeding on the carriage floor between them, it came to him in a dream that perhaps his Mentor was no longer to the south, whence he had sent his magical raven Muninn in a desperate attempt to reach her. Nay, mayhap she was even now held captive beneath the Barracks, from whose depths he had so recently heard the lamentations of the living yet damned….
Lapses in Aplomb
But there is no rest for the righteous, and blue skies are ephemeral, for the following morning Squoan awoke to find that two of the Caravan's horses had fallen deathly ill. With the help of Master Lerece – a merchant acquaintance who, to the Gnome's mind, owed him a platinum coin's worth of favours – it was ascertained that overfeeding was the cause of the equine plague, and that the Caravan's own supply of corn was the agent of their undoing. Steingrimur reluctantly agreed to use his expertise with herbs to end the horses' misery.
While the Caravan's goods were being reapportioned to compensate for the loss of two horses, Ralafiss “the Shifty” Smilestoomuch laid out his tinker's wares so that he might turn the Caravan's misfortune to his own advantage. Perhaps such had been his goal all along when he stole into the corn stores during the night?!? Quite possibly! In any event, amongst his janky trinkets and baubles, the Riddlefist espied the most prized possession of Eraiel Othcalt, his mentor and longtime travelling companion: a shackle of Onir carved from celos wood. Although he remained confident that she was capable of surmounting any dangers she might encounter – even without his aid – the sight of the shackle in such a setting, rather than around her waist, rocked him to the core, and his interrogation of the “Priest” of Resh might have betrayed the state of his nerves. It could be suggested that he was overly confrontational, even to a counter-productive degree, since Ralafiss Gringoof denied any knowledge of the shackle's origin, full stop. But it is impossible to be over-zealous in the pursuit of Truth, and it is a Fact that Ralafiss was lying. Still, Val would hear no words spoken against the Handsome Rogue… grumble.
Shortly thereafter, one of Sarett's Scouts found a dead Goblin just outside camp. It was buried without much comment – there were many things on Squoan's plate at the time! – which, after the Caravan rumbled into motion once more, necessitated a quick jaunt back to the grave and a spot of exhumation. Upon the Goblin was found a small coral gemstone inlaid with precious metals and inscribed with a rune. The surfeit of strange, inexplicable occurrences was beginning to verge on the overwhelming.
Squoan visited Val in her carriage, hoping she could provide some insight into the stone's nature, but it defied her powers of Divination and she pocketed it for further study, attendant upon the acquisition of crucial reagents. He also inquired if she could locate a person using one of their possessions – specifically, a shackle carved from celos wood – and when she replied in the affirmative, he asked her to do so with all urgency, the implication being that this task should take precedence over her scrying of the Goblin's stone. In addition, still rattled by recent events, he reiterated his deep apprehensions concerning Ralafiss, as both a Man and a Potential Lover, and this time it's possible that he was over-zealous, for she was not best pleased by his insinuation that she could not look after herself. Squoan accepted her censure with as much equanimity as he could muster, but he would soon have cause to regret leaving her in such a state of irritation.
A lazy afternoon was whiled away atop the Umetts' carriage, playing music with Locaryn – with whom Our Hero might have been developing a rapport of his own, who could say, such things often proving inscrutable to his contemplative temperament – when an arrow stuck quivering into the carriage, the very same style of arrow that had recurred so oft over the last two days. Bandits! Squoan's first priority as a Bodyguard, even before leaping into the fray, was to check on the safety of his charges… and to his horror he found the Quite Becoming Valethanna Althaliel nowhere to be found! Frantically he tracked her to the river's edge, where she lay unconscious with the coral gemstone tightly clutched in her fist. It was only now – too late – that he remarked upon the stone's similarity to the silver domino Team Riddlefist had found upon the cattle murdering Farmer Renfry.
Our diminutive Hero slung the unconscious Priestess of Daralei over his shoulders and staggered back to the Caravan as best he could. After entrusting her to her horrified mother's care, he climbed atop their carriage, hoping to find Locaryn where he'd left her, or at least to catch sight of Steingrimur from that elevated vantage point and assure himself that the Werebear was unharmed. But neither was anywhere to be seen, only Bandits and their Horrid Chieftain, who laughed and urged them on from behind. It was all suddenly Too Much and without thoroughly weighing the Pros and Cons, Squoan plucked a gem from the Necklace of Fireballs he'd found during his Wererat Adventures (which he wore as a belt around his waist, underneath his stylish and expensive Woolen Coat of Many Secret Pockets) and hurled it at the Cackling Knave. Midair it bloomed into a fireball somewhat grander in its dimensions than the Gnome had anticipated which, upon explosion, both knocked the Chieftain off his horse (huzzah!) and burned a couple of Sarett's Guards (huzzah).
Squoan leaped down from the carriage and with little ceremony but much alacrity beat the Chieftain into submission, yea, even to the edge of death, whereupon, cowed and trembling beneath Our Hero's bloodied flute, he called off the attack. The Bandits were soon trussed up. Under questioning it was revealed, A) that the Chieftain was not the original owner of the bow he wielded – in fact, he was not even skilled in its use – B) that he'd been hired by another party to attack the caravan, but had never met his employer, and C) that Ralafiss was a Degenerate Fence well known among Bandits. Dun dun duuuuun!! Unfortunately, this last piece of information was not greeted with as much horror and lamentation from his companions as Squoan might have liked.
Steingrimur and Locaryn, as it happened, had been busy tending to Val during the fracas, to no avail. She remained unresponsive. As the Caravan prepared to camp and lick its wounds for the night, Squoan set about disseminating as much misinformation concerning the magical origin of his explosive and fiery entrance into the fray as he could, insisting that he had purchased a flammable, alchemical potion, but his assertions seemed to gain little traction. He thought it best to set up camp for himself and Steingrimur at an even greater remove from the Caravan than usual, and began to consider the wisdom of distancing himself from all those who had witnessed his Outlawed Magicks before they entered Orham.
Locaryn joined the BCFs at their fire that evening, after singing a song to the Caravan at large – at Squoan's request – involving feats of derring-do and fiery vials of liquid alchemy thrown from aloft by certain Gnomes, which was not quite as well-received as her songs, as a rule, tended to be. At last, around the fire, she revealed herself for who she was: not merely a songstress but a Bard in the truest sense of the word, entrusted with foiling an assassination attempt on the life of Lilise Peronell, betrothed to Lord-Regent Dagarr, during the upcoming festivities in Orham. She had taken note of Squoan's quality of character – recent lapses in aplomb aside – and was now beseeching him to aid her in her cause. Of course he consented without question, since this sort of situation fell squarely under the purview of his self-imposed Geas and not only that, he'd dealt with situations like this many times before. Not exactly like this, mind you, but alike in most respects. Did he know about royal assassinations? Pshaw! Surely you jest.
Fervour of the Goblinbrainer
Feeling somewhat the worse for wear the next morn, Squoan decided that the Caravan needed a morale boost. To accomplish this, he convinced one of the Guards to let fly an arrow at his chest, which he snatched out of the air and hurled at a conveniently positioned apple, piercing it through its core. There was much amazement and applause at this feat, but Our Hero simply bowed and stroked his magnificent moustache, his inscrutable mien communicating that it was NBT (Nothing But a Trifle).
It was not long before Squoan's recently demonstrated arrow-stopping skillz were given a practical test, for shortly thereafter smoke was spied rising in the distance, and once again the male members of Team Riddlefist scouted ahead to investigate. As they reached the crest of a hillock, they saw a Bloodied Man staggering towards them. From out of nowhere flew an arrow aimed at the Unfortunate Fellow's back, but the Serendipitous Riddlefist's instincts kicked into action and, following a display of acrobatics almost too swift for mortal senses to apprehend, the missile was deprived of its forward momentum and the Beaten Wayfarer's spine was saved from harm! Alas, such were his injuries that he dropped dead anyway. Still… impressive!
After burying the Mystery Man, Squoan & Co. decided to separate in order to expand the scope of their search for the Hidden Archer: Sarett would head west while Steingrimur and Squoan (the BCFs) would sojourn east. Sarett the Contrary resisted the plan at first (let us all pick our jaws up off the floor, before Ants notice and take an interest in them) but was eventually convinced of its wisdom.
Hearing voices over the next rise, Squoan ventured ahead of the somewhat more blundersome (yet no less endearing for it) Steingrimur to espy their source in secret. He came upon a Man and a Woman, Humans both, engaged in conversation. Only after using his renowned Whizzing Gnome trick to gauge their intentions did he emerge from hiding to greet them. The man – Ralafiss by name, a tinker and priest of Resh – appeared entirely unfazed by Squoan's sudden appearance, taking it all in stride, much as he did everything, including the disappearance during his sleep of the caravan with which he'd been travelling until a week prior, when it had Up and Poofed, a story which – along with his glib tongue and prying questions – aroused Our Hero's suspicions. He deflected the Tinker's unseemly interrogations with the riddles and paradoxes which were the tangible fruits of his long hours of deep meditation, contemplating the insoluble Knot of Existence.
During the course of their how-do-you-dos, it came out that Ralafiss' fetching travelling companion – a Bard named Locaryn – might be acquainted with the Beaten Wayfarer with the Miraculously Intact Spine. Squoan surreptitiously used his raven charm to send a message to Sarett, directing him to return to the site of the hastily dug grave, where Locaryn's fears were indeed confirmed. Tears were shed. Squoan urged Steingrimur to comfort the disconsolate Bard, having noticed the two enjoying each other's company during their brief journey together, but such was not the shy Werebear's way. Awww.
Squoan asked Sarett to return to the Caravan with the Newcomers in tow – instructing him to keep a watchful eye on the altogether too smooth Ralafiss – while he and Steingrimur continued on to investigate the smoke, and, after the inevitable grumbling and obstinacy, so it was done.
As it happened, the smoke was rising from a strange pit located at the junction of three steep hills. With some trepidation (and much coughing) Squoan descended. It soon became clear, after blundering about in the smoke for some time, that he was in a Goblin Lair, ravaged by fire and still smoldering, decimated by Forces Unknown. There were only two survivors: one hiding under a grate in the floor, traumatized and emaciated, and another bleeding out with an arrow in its belly, propped up next to the river leading out of the Lair. Interestingly, the heft and fletching of the arrow were identical to the one whose spine piercing ambitions had been so recently and emphatically thwarted.
Since his attempts to communicate with the first Goblin had failed, Squoan took pity on the second and ended its suffering by snapping its neck. With a mental shrug (“Goblins be trippin',” more or less), he left the Smoking Lair and returned to Steingrimur, and together they rejoined the Caravan. Only later that evening did he think to ask the Quite Becoming Lady Valethanna if she spoke Goblinish – or Goblinese – to which she replied in the affirmative, thus engendering a plan to return to the Lair on the morrow, so that she might question the remaining survivor. Ralafiss and Locaryn were encouraged to join the expedition, so that Squoan could keep them under his watchful supervision, but while the latter accepted, the former declined, doing nothing to ease a fretfulness which had only been further inflamed by the Tinker's evident and no doubt salacious interest in Val. In this concern, Squoan and Sarett were at last on the same page.
Words were exchanged between the Serendipitous Riddlefist and his Werebear BCF that night, concerning the wooing of women and the charms of a certain Bard and the dangers of confusing Physical Pleasure with Love when one has lived in the Wild for too long, deprived of stimuli of a certain kind. Awkward but – to Squoan's mind – necessary.
The return expedition did not go quite as foreseen. Firstly, the tunnel leading down to the bulk of the Lair was too narrow to allow ingress for anyone on Team Riddlefist other than Squoan, so it became necessary for him to fetch the reluctant Goblin out. Secondly, although Our Hero approached the Goblin with an open hand and an unclouded heart, coaxing it gently out of hiding with foraged food, the Treacherous Thing exploited an unguarded moment to seize his wrist and grapple him to the floor. Squoan broke free, whereupon the Goblin hissed something in the Common tongue whose meaning and import were quickly forgotten by the Diminutive yet Wrathful Monk, so blinded was he by his sudden rage at the fact that not only had the Subhuman spat on his good intentions, it had also understood Common the entire time! Brandishing his iron flute, he leapt upon the Duplicitous Scalliwag, beating it roundly about the ears until it begged for mercy and attempted to crawl away… but Our Hero chose not to relent, instead dealing one last, fateful blow, and finding with surprise that the holes of his flute were suddenly clogged with brain matter.
(Here he had a bit of a dark, uncharacteristically self-recriminating moment in which he realized that if one Goblin could speak Common, probably the one whose neck he'd so unceremoniously snapped could do the same… and now there were no survivors left to question. But let us not dwell on the past! Bad for morale.)
Luckily, when Squoan searched the Burnt-Out Lair for something to counterbalance the misfortune wrought by his lapse of composure and its attendant lack of judgement, he discovered a brittle note which had been obscured by smoke the day before. It read: “You had your job. No room for improvement. Do your job or face the consequences.” Mysterious indeed! Returning to his companions, he entered it as evidence that their journey had not been wasted, waving away all questions and suggestions to the contrary. Such is the onus of leadership.
And so they returned to the Caravan. The weather was balmy, the scenery quite pleasant. See? Totally worth the trip.
The Case of the Deadly (or perhaps Innocuous) Domino
And so, having quashed the nefarious designs of the Wererats, Team Riddlefist left Riverbend in its rear view, taking a large portion of the town with it (including a Master Tailor from whom Squoan had commissioned a woolen coat with multiple secret pockets for an exorbitant and ill-considered price), and travelled North towards the city of Orham, where royal nuptials were scheduled to take place and the promised dance between our hero and the Fair Lady Alwena was destined to occur. Excitement was high. Even Steingrimur the Werebear was convinced to join the expedition, that he might expand his horizons and see the wider world. Tel Umett asked Squoan to serve as Bodyguard to the Fair and Quite Becoming Ladies Alwena and Valethanna, a request to which he gladly assented as it was already in his Nature to act as such. Lamentably, there was a severe drought of Dangers from which to shield them during the first few days of travel. But it is also in Squoan's Nature to make sugar-infused drinks out of lemons, if lemons are the only squeezable fruit near at hand, so he used the downtime as on opportunity to bond with Sarett “the Sullen” Umett, former Pyre Knight and current Edgelord.
Alas, their rapprochement proved to be short-lived. Foul smoke darkened the sky to the north and at Squoan's urging the male members of Team Riddlefist scouted ahead to investigate its source. They came upon an inn denominated, somewhat bizarrely, the Shaggy Onion. After a brief misunderstanding during which some members of Team Riddlefist (it is not important who) accused the innkeeper of Cannibalism, Squoan & Co. were given to know that a young Farmer by the name of Renfry had of late been slaughtering his own and his neighbours' cattle in manners most Gruesome for Reasons Unknown, and the pall so enshrouding the Shaggy-Onion-adjacent environs arose from their burning corpses. Squoan, progressive that he is, immediately drew his companions' attention to the Sexism inherent in their current team composition and suggested the inclusion of the Quite Becoming Lady Valethanna Althaliel Umett, as her expertise would no doubt prove useful when confronting the Demon no doubt in possession of the Tragic Farmer Renfry's benighted Soul.
An investigation of the Farmer's cottage granted little insight into his current whereabouts, but much edification on matters of Gore. He had been a Busy, Crazy Boy. Eventually he was found in a nearby clearing, blood-soaked and engaged in his favourite hobby. Val used her Druidic Magicks to ensnare Renfry with vines, allowing Squoan to search the Farmer's person, thus uncovering both a small silver domino and strange lettering carved into his forearm. Our hero smashed the domino to no avail, leading him to muse (too late) upon its nature and origin and to regret his occasional inclination to Leap Without Looking. But, in his defense, his nerves had been fraying for quite some time, exposed as they were to the incessant braying of Sarett “the Tiresome” Umett, who continued to preach the merits of simply slashing the Farmer's throat and being done with it, as no salvation from such Ensorcellment was even conceivable, an attitude which Squoan found unduly negative and unproductive in the extreme.
Val hit upon the idea of skinning the portion of flesh upon which the Fell Runes had been carved from Renfry's forearm, an idea Squoan endorsed whole-heartedly as long as he didn't have to watch. So it was done, and with miraculous results, for the Teen Farmer returned to his right mind, somewhat disoriented and appalled at his recent activities but otherwise unharmed. His last memory, as he recounted to Team Riddlefist, was of finding something silver in his field…. “The domino, no doubt,” Squoan thought, mentally patting himself on the back for having the foresight to smash it before it had the opportunity to cause further mischief. He invited Renfry to accompany their caravan to Orham, reasoning that there was little reason for the Farmer to stay, as it might be a Steep if not Precipitous Climb back into the good graces of his neighbours after slaughtering their animals so horrifically, but Renfry would not hear of it, since he knew what was best for himself better than anyone else, as all Teens do. And so, reluctantly, Squoan & Co. left him to his own devices in his Cottage of Gore.
At this point it should not be surprising that Sarett refused to acknowledge that he had been wrong, that Renfry had been saved from Demonic Forces after all, despite all his naysaying and Debbie Downering, and instead argued that the Farmer's neighbours would inflict gruesome retribution upon him ere long. Maddening obstinacy! But to protect against this eventuality, Squoan made it known to the innkeeper that he would be holding him personally responsible for Renfry's safety, and that if he did not find the Farmer unharmed when he next visited the Shaggy Onion, there would be Words between the two of them (Words in this case being a thinly-veiled euphemism for punching and/or flute-bashing).
On his way out of the inn he bought a wineskin and used it to get very drunk.
Trials of the Ratpuncher
After a delicious if somewhat tense supper with Steingrimur the Probable Werebear, Squoan “the Serendipitous Riddlefist” and Sarett “the Sullen” Umett hid in the forest to await the rising of the full moon and the consequent revelation of Steingrimur's True Form, which indeed came to pass, nudging Steingrimur's Werebear status from Probable to Definite. Squoan tracked the unwitting Werebear through the forest, to a meeting with a Shape-Changing Druid, where the gentle soul procured a pouch of what - after a series of investigations and misadventures - turned out to be healing herbs for Sarett's sister, who would no doubt need them, were she found alive. Sarett was not best pleased at being left behind while Squoan went off on Solo Adventures but there is no pleasing that guy so Whatevs.
In fact, perhaps Sarett's constant sullenness played no small part in the bond which rapidly formed between Squoan and Steingrimur, who sensed in each other a Kindred Spirit and vowed to be Boon Companions Forever (or BCFs), a pact marred only briefly when Squoan was assaulted by a moment of insecurity – perhaps not dealing with the misplacement of his mentor with as much equanimity as he would like – and attempted to blackmail Steingrimur into staying with him by suggesting that he (Squoan) had no need to become a Wereanything as long as Steingrimur was around, a situation which would swiftly change were the Definite Werebear to ever abandon him. Our hero regretted this unfortunate lapse of composure in himself almost immediately, but if Steingrimur noticed or took offense he gave no sign of it, and so their Bond remains Unbroken.
Steingrimur produced a Magical Doohickey he had found at the site of the crashed cart, which - through a series of ingenious deductions and interrogations – led Team Riddlefist to a Cartwright in Riverbend. Squoan managed to find a use for Sarett – at long last – by having him intimidate the Cartwright so that they could track her panicked movements back to the source of the Rampant Nefariousness. Unfortunately, as Squoan felt them nearing the Evil Encampment, he decided it would be a good idea to leave his companions behind and scout ahead, and his Hubris proved to be his undoing. For when he stepped on the loudest twig in all the forest, he fell victim to the Cartwright's poisoned blade and was paralyzed.
The Foul Cartwright dragged our hero into a ruined underground temple consecrated to the gnome goddess Zanna, and in a back room therein he was imprisoned, in a cage not fit for a Dog, where he finally met Sarett's sister, the Quite Becoming Valethanna Althaliel, likewise encaged and somewhat the worse for wear, who revealed that their captors were Wretched Wererats. After a comically short-lived rescue attempt by Sarett, Val used Druidic Magics to bend the bars of Squoan's cage enough to allow him passage, during which he did not become stuck in an undignified fashion even once, and certainly not around the head area. Squoan certainly earned the “fist” portion of his appellation during the ensuing escapades: rats were punched, Wererats bludgeoned to death, companions (boon and otherwise) saved, and Sweet Vengeance was enacted upon the Wicked Cartwright, thus ending her brief tenure as Squoan's Nemesis. Not to mention the loot! So much loot.
Upon their triumphant return to Riverbend, Valethanna the Fair was able to divine the use of most of the magical artifacts and esoterica uncovered during their Wererat Adventures, with the exception of a Mysterious Amulet to which Squoan would need to attune himself and a quote written in Gnomish in the ruined temple – “the shield of courage is sundered” – both of which had been of great interest to the Wererats for Reasons Unknown and Currently Unknowable, as the Wererats in question had already received their Just Deserts from Squoan's iron flute.
Advent of the Riddlefist!
Our hero, Squoan "the Serendipitous Riddlefist" Kwikzot, a Gnome Monk of no little renown, found himself alone in a strange land, having temporarily mislaid his Mentor, an Elven Priestess of Onir by the name of Eraiel Othcalt. Travelling North, he came to the Town of Riverbend, where he was tasked with investigating the disappearance of a Fair Half-Elven Maiden, by the even Fairer and Elfier Alwena Umett. Some Guy named Tel was also there. All signs pointed to the involvement of a Werebear, although in what capacity was not known with any exactitude. Squoan accepted the Quest gladly, for such is his self-imposed Geas: to right whatever wrongs he encounters in his Wanderings and to further the cause of justice in all his Actions. All he asked in return was a dance with the Lady Alwena at the upcoming nuptials between the King or Prince of Orham and whoever they were marrying in Abrus, someone equally regal if not more so. Squoan knew not the precise details of the union, for he had spaced out a bit there, but he knew with a certainty that it was a Big Deal.
And so he ventured forth with a hot-tempered captain named Sarett, son of Tel Umett and half-brother to the vanished Half-Elven Maiden, into the unknown wilds. After a day of searching, during which Squoan did not lose sight of the Werebear's tracks even once, Squoan left Sarett behind to scout ahead and arrived at a cabin in the woods, home to a Human Woodchopper named Steingrimur. In the politest possible terms, Squoan let the so-called "Human" know that he was not fooled, he knew a Werebear when he saw one, but he was Cool with Werebears, NBD. At that moment, Sarett – having grown impatient, as was his wont – burst upon the scene and a moment of Awkwardness ensued. Squoan volunteered himself and Sarett to chop wood while Steingrimur fixed them dinner – an invitation the "Human" had extended when he believed Squoan to be alone – which allowed the Gnome to brief Sarett on the situation, and to implore him not to murder the Probable Werebear. They agreed to eat dinner with Steingrimur both to be polite and for information gathering purposes, but to leave before the full moon rose, so they could witness his Eldritch Transformation from afar and track his Ursine Ramblings.
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