Sessions 11 - 15, Aelfric's Journal: The Town of Hommlet

15th of Patchwall (Autumn) 579 CY

As the landscape began to give way to open terrain and ancient hedgerows, I realized that we were coming upon the village of Hommlet. It was just a few days journey from the encounter with the goblins. There was a distinct chill in the air marking the advent of Ready'reat. To the west, the distant Lortmils were peaked with the white of first snow.
The holy day of Iuz the Old was upon us and I felt it necessary to seek sanctuary in a house of St. Cuthbert. It was of great comfort that the village we were entering was home to just such a shrine. The place was a gift to Hommlet for the townsfolk's help in routing the forces of evil at the Battle of Emridy Meadows and in memory to the great Serten of St. Cuthbert. It may have been disappointing to my friend Sorin that the nearest temple to Pelor was located in Sobanwych, a full twenty leagues distant. However, I invited the entire group to seek shelter with me in the home of the Cudgeled One. The fellows of the moat seemed much more interested in seeking out the establishment known as the Inn of the Welcome Wench - especially the elf. I could not fault them as the place had a reputation for fine fare throughout the central Flanaess.
We came into town early on the fourth day of our trek. We had recovered fully from our encounter with the bloody goblins. Various townsfolk were up early going about their trades, such is the lot of their lives. We found ourselves approaching the hanging sign of a young buxom woman brandishing full flagons of ale. It was a warm and open barroom with a smiling and jovial bartender named Ostler Gundigoot. The season was late, so there were plenty of other patrons enjoying a drink and a bit of food. We each ordered a small breakfast and something to wash the dust of the trail from our throats. It was then that I noticed the elf eyeballing the other denizens of the tavern. I considered the dancer for a moment. On our journey I saw that Elledan had a certain begrimed demeanor. While the good Knight of St. Cuthbert and the Pelorian were somewhat meticulous about their own personal hygiene, the fay rogue kept very little faith in that regimen. I thought that this was quite anomalous for one of his kind.
I asked, "Where do you hail from?" with a tacit nod to the elf. His wandering gaze focused on me and for just a moment I felt I saw a hint of discomfort instead of the expected twinkle in his eyes. "Fax" he said, referring to one of the cities of the Wild Coast. I nodded and felt it best to let any further questions slip to the wayside. Sorin indicated that he also was from Fax and that his cat was from Elredd. Sir Branden was reared in Courwood and had met these fellows on this very trip, shortly before I had. The nameless mage, appearing to avoid the question, got up to warm his hands at the blazing fireplace. The Pelorian raised an eyebrow asking "And where do you call home, good Aelfric?" I told him of my background on the streets of Hardby and how I've known no parent but Cuthbert, my patron. This brought about a discussion on theology and we spoke at some length on the various minutiae of each another's doctrine. The whole time, Sorin's feline lay curled around his nape, snoring gently.
As I rose for another fine sample of Gundigoot's ales, I realized that one of our number was missing. I found myself unsurprised by the fact that the culprit was the shifty elf. "Where's Elledan?" I asked Sorin. "He does this from time to time," he answered with a shrug. "He just... takes off." I didn't feel that this was the proper way to get to know one another, but again, to each their own.

Sessions 1 - 10, Aelfric's Journal: A Chance Meeting

10th of Patchwall (Autumn) 579 CY

I stood, looked briefly at the rough group and yelled "goblins!" I turned, cudgel in hand, hoping that the silent band would understand and keep my back. As the first member of the little group of vermin crested the embankment I could see in my peripheral an arrow fly through the air and plunge into the chest of an unfortunate goblin. It looked as though the entire group of monsters with the exception of the leader and the strange hoofed creature, were coming over the rise. They all appeared to be quite surprised by the impromptu group I had stumbled upon. They foolishly attacked anyway.
A pale mage spewed forth bluish missiles at one of the creatures - killing it. The rest of the travelers drew weapons as the goblins advanced. A knight held his ground and dutifully beheaded another goblin while a white arrayed Pelorian was able to dispatch another with his mace. Plying feathered death at his rank targets, a sure footed elf flitted from one vantage point to another. I, for my part, charged with my holy club and writ destruction upon the fiends. It seemed that more goblins than I had known originally began to pour over the embankment. Nevertheless, my new associates and I were sending enough of the vermin to their abyssal home that those still alive began to hesitate. Others began to turn tail and run. Many more died. Eventually, a majority of the creatures lie expired around us while the three or four who escaped were fortunate to get away with some life left.
As we stood there viewing the slaughter, we looked at one another with some small amount of suspicion. I introduced myself: "Hail and well met," I said, "I am Aelfric of Hardby and I thank you." I proclaimed that I would be willing to provide my healing powers to them for their aid. It was obvious, however, that the Pelorian was quite able to deal with the wounds of his comrades as he was already performing these duties admirably with the power his lord of light granted.
I asked the Pelorian of the group's destination as I also was bound north. He informed me that the evil temple near Nulb, sacked many years ago, was what they sought and the village of Hommlet was a way-station on their expedition. I was delighted to learn of this as my objective was also Hommlet and the church of St. Cuthbert therein. They invited my to join them in their endeavor and I gladly
accepted as the Evil One was said to still have a hand in the current activities of the vile edifice.
So we were on our way. This gave me the opportunity to size up my newly found companions. The Pelorian was a gentle appearing man as is the proclivity of the clergy of Pelor. He seemed a proud fellow as he took a great deal of time to preen his raiment after the recent battle. He said his name was Sorin. The priest seemed unusually attached to a cat, a common house cat. During our trip to Hommlet he spent much time training the little feline. It seemed to me a great deal of time was wasted on this endeavor, yet the animal appeared amenable to the regimen. "To each man his own," goes the saying...
The mage appeared to prefer to keep to himself as he made no answer when I asked his name. Some might find this reaction rude, however; the teachings of St. Cuthbert tell us that those with closed lips hold the law dear. He appeared to be talented dweomercrafter, so I felt it best to hold my tongue at any rate. It is not uncommon to see those of Suloise descent evince of curmudgeonly disposition.
The elf seemed a pleasant enough sort. Unlike the Pelorian and most elves, for that matter, he seemed much less interested in his own personal appearance. Peculiarly, he approached me with hat doffed and a jig in his step, introducing himself as Elledan. He seemed to be free of the Olven accent. I deduced that he must have been brought up by human parents. I would place his common speak accent as being from one of the great cities of the Central Flanaess.
The Knight was named Branden and was part of the military arm of St. Cuthbert. His demeanor was easy-going and affable. I was certain that his charisma and presence formed the nucleus of the party.
So it was that I met some of the future members of the Moat House Men. We made our way north through the golden autumn twilight toward a land beset by an ineffable evil.

Aelfric's Journal: Beguilement and Breakout

When I opened my eyes I could see only gauzy red. My head felt as though it had been staved in two, the pain was so great. As I shook off the blurry haze and surveyed the scene before me a squat voice declared "prisste, use powers to giblini." The wavering, cloudy figure before me glared directly into my face. I began to make out the pock marked face and his bulging blood-shot eyes, smell the pungent breath. I had been tied securely to a stalagmite and my wrists and feet were bound as well. I was able to see a number of other goblins watching our interaction. A campfire burned in their midst and I could discern a small figure cowering underneath rotten deerskin.
It occurred to me, despite my rough treatment, that the wretched denizens wished for me to heal their companion's wounds! After a moment's pause I nodded, "Yes, yes of course," as it seemed an ideal opportunity to make my getaway. "I will need my gear - including my cudgel," I said. "It is my holy symbol and I'll need it to help your friend," hoping that the half-ruse would be enough to fool the little cretin. Pugnut (as I internally began to call him ) appeared to be going through pains to wrinkle his pimply forehead as the act of thinking brought great consternation to his puny mind. After a full minute of this he shouted something to his companions and they lowered their cow-pokers in my direction. A smaller sort of fellow approached and began to loosen my bindings. Pugnut watched anxiously as I stretched and rubbed my wrists. The little one brought me my gear and cudgel while some of the motley band prodded me toward the huddled figure.
As I approached the rasping form I began preparing the compounds to make my cudgel something more dangerous than just a humble club. My plans were to bash in the heads of these unbelievers, these adherents of chaos, these ravaging brigands! these... And then I saw it; a tail, wagging, from underneath the dirty skins. The figure looked up at me with the eyes of something akin to pure innocence. "Must heeeel!" Said Pugnut. I was torn between breaking and running or kneeling to give comfort to the fallen creature. In short order my mind was made up by a strange sight: a cloven hoof. A portion of the skins had fallen away to reveal what was unmistakably the be-furred leg of a goat.

I turned on Pugnut and shouted with the power of the Cudgel - "Die!" I leaped over the now limp form of the goblin chief, getting nicked by one of the pot-stickers along the way. I rushed in the direction of what I hoped was the opening of the cave with as much speed as St. Cuthbert could bestow upon a humble servant. My feet were luckily unhindered by the rocks and hidden obstacles which frequent such lairs. I could see the light of grey morning and the autumnal leaves of  bronzewoods draped over the cave's toothy maw. My longer legs were outrunning the short strides of the humanoids, but I could hear them just within earshot. As I rushed out of the unholy grotto I could feel the whiff of a spear just over my left ear. The bandits were following with gusto.
The chase continued for a good deal of time. I ran like my brothers taught me in the streets of the Old Town. I thought of those days. "Grab the uskfruit and run zigzaggy-like," Fanny said. "Take the side streets," he said in my mindseye, as I jumped into a small gully. I could see that the forest was beginning to thin as I approached an embankment. The fiends were following closely. I gave it all I had and scrambled over the embankment with a last gasp. I came tumbling down the other side and into the presence of what might well have been more trouble.

Aelfric's Journal: Deep Guano

I am Aelfric of Hardby, Acolyte in the Order of the Holy Chapeaux of the Church of St. Cuthbert. I shall testify of the travels of the group who have come to be known as the Moat House Men. Whether this moniker was bestowed by the good folk of the central Flanaess or by the adventurers themselves is a subject best left for scholarly speculation. Some have named them heroes, while others would tempt the gods with a villainous accusation. It is nevertheless a tale of weal and woe, as is the tendency of all good stories
It all started with a lowly fruit bat, a creature of dark tidings. One day in the late autumn light I was chasing down a much needed ingredient to a number of my orisons. Guano, as any good Chapeaux or naturalist knows, is found on the dank floor of a cave. I had been tracking (as such) one of the winged rodents through the early evening in a particularly unpleasant region of the Gnarley Forest when I happened upon it's batty lair. My obsession was such that the bones and bits of hair outside the maw and throughout the cavern failed to grasp my notice. Only the sharp point of a goblin pike roused me from my odorous ministrations.
"Wuntle prissste, turdish!" the imp at the other end of the poker squealed. I looked up from my feculent studies to find a band of eight or ten of the little buggers. It seemed that my harvest had come to an end and, indeed, my life in service to the god of the cudgel. A sharp sudden pain at the back of my head and darkness were the only things I recall from that moment.