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Nothing.

At all.

Seriously.

[CJ1145]

So... journal time!

Kogan's Journal

Between the random scribblings and rantings of "I am worthless", are a few coherent words.

I don't know what's happening to me, but sometimes I lose my sanity, and other times it is enhanced, putting me in a state so lucid I begin to think that perhaps I've been drinking non-alcoholic drinks by mistake. But during these moments, a vision comes to me: It's something in the shadows, but it's almost there. It's an axe, beautiful. The handle is of a wood I cannot identify, it's almost pitch-black in color, but a green sheen keeps it from being a total shadow. It is well carved, with many intricate patterns that would surely make the axe unusable if created on any lesser wood.

It is two-sided, with two blades. It seems that they are steel, but the edges are different, almost blue. I know that metal-it is adamantine. Etched into the blade are more patterns, they seem to depict the dwarves that died back in the Mountainhomes, and our own party's arrival in this land.

On top of if all is a spike, purely decorative. It seems to be bone, though I can never see it clearly. It gleams with a magical power, and seems to have a face; a dwarven face.

This axe is beautiful, no words can do it justice. I must have it! But I am kidding myself, I know no such weapon exists.

But perhaps... perhaps I could make it?

See? I was going somewhere with all the crazy after all!

[Limul Thak]

We're going to need a bigger workshop...

[Heron TSG]

Only emos can go fey?

[Tack]

Only emos can go fey?

My my.. you could hurt yourself with such razor-sharp wit.

[Heron TSG]

yes, that was a rather cutting remark.

[Labs]

Oh god! The puns!

[Jackrabbit]

Guess what?

My laptop seems to have deleted its own operating system, presumably because it was bored.

So no updates till this crap is sorted out.

However the group is in a situation where they can use their journals, because you're all so good at it.

Sorry.

[Vilien]

Journals are for those who have the creativity and mental capacity necessary for writing them.

As such, I will not be writing any.

[Archangel]

I really should get around to writing my journal.

[Heron TSG]

Journals are for those who have the creativity and mental capacity necessary for writing them.

As such, I will not be writing any.

Welcome to the club!

[GruffyBears]

Apoligies, schoolwork takes precidence.(spelling?)

[Limul Thak]

Limul Thak's Journal

We've been tracking that goblin's steps to try and find where he came from.

"You may want to rewrite that sentence."
Oh, what do you know?
"It implies that the goblin is still alive and making steps to track."
I'm almost entirely certain that anyone reading this will know that the goblin bit it.
"I am not too sure."
...

Okay, okay. We found this now deceased goblin's tracks after rescuing Walter. We're tracking them to find the green bastard's friends, home, family... anything. However, it's hard work, so we may have to stop soon to do other things that may be more important.

"You may want to leave an example."
Bloody Armok (*snicker*), what are you, my mum?
"Well, if you're going to be writing this down, you should help the reader as much as possible."
Okay, okay... for instance, if Walter gets kidnapped again. Or a dragon attacks us. Or we get some critical information about something or other. Or you drive me to the scrumble again. Not that I would need much encouragement...

~LT

[Limul Thak]

Aaaaaaaaaaand now it's been too long. Updates, anybody?

[CJ1145]

I've done mine. We just have to wait for the crazy crime-solving rabbit to bring us the update we crave.

[Jackrabbit]

Journals still allowed.

Camp

“So your dad is nobility?” asked Barbarossa. “Never trusted ‘em. Always making silly demands. No idea how to run things. No wonder you ran away.”
“Well, that, and he was totally immoral. He was always kind to me, but never paid much attention. If he had, I might have grown up like him,” replied Walter. “May the Gods forbid.” Barbarossa grunted in response. What Walter had to say was troubling. Goblins were coming. This could mean their doom. Not that most of the other dwarves saw it that way. Many of them had cheered at the prospect of killing a few goblins. Bjorn tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to regard him.
“Aye?” he asked. The man clearly had something to say.
“Trading caravan just came past,” he said. “I bribed the caravan master, and I learned some disturbing news.”
“The price for ale just went up?” chuckled Barbarossa. Bjorn stared at him.
“Yes, actually. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem is the Warlord is raising an army. Well, that’s part of the problem.”
“I had a vague idea of that already,” said Barbarossa. “We’ll be fine.”
“That’s part of the problem.” repeated Bjorn. “The other part of the problem is he’s not the only one. There’s word of an army massing to the east. Probably the same group who attacked this place originally. There’s gonna be a war.”
Barbarossa looked upwards, seeking answers from the silent Gods, and sighed. They obviously weren’t paying attention, probably more concerned with bonking other family members and turning into trees if he remembered some of the more classical literature correctly. He looked back at Bjorn.
“Thoughts?” he asked.
“Well, there’s more,” said Bjorn. “We’re wanted men. And dwarves.”
“Figures,” grumbled Barbarossa. “I walked out on the asshole of a Warlord. He must have thrown a fit.”
“Well, I say we head south-west,” said Bjorn. “There’s a port there and I know a few guys.”
“Wait, that place run by the racist Warlord? Why should we go there?”
“No, that’s to the west of that place.” Said Bjorn.
“To the west? How large is this place?” asked Barbarossa incredulously.
“Well, I have a map…”
“No, I really can’t be bothered. Okay, what’s the ETA?”
“Two months walking, one month in carts assuming we’re travelling at a good pace.”
“We get wagons. I just can’t be arsed walking. Were can we pick up the carts?”
“Uh… I think there’s a small township about half a day from here.”
Barbarossa nodded and turned around, walking out into the clearing that served as a makeshift camp. Kogan came up to him, looking haggard, his eyes sunken.
“I need wood.” He said.
“What?” said Barbarossa, momentarily thrown off balance.
“I require steel.” Mumbled Kogan, before starting to mumble things at random.
“Adamantine.”
“Bone.”
“Wood.”
“Steel.”
“Steel.”
“Blood. Everywhere, blood. Blood..”
“What is this? You want me to write to Ortho Clause?” he chuckled nervously. “Maybe he can come up through the well and drop your gifts off in your chest?” Ortho Clause was a mythical messenger for the Gods that manifested once a year to give gifts, or used to. He was all but a myth for the children now. Always getting caught in traps. In all honesty, he was probably stuck forgotten in some cage trap somewhere.
“Ha. Ha.” Mumbled Kogan. “Death will come. Burning. Blood.”
Barbarossa started. Death will come? He’d heard that before. He grabbed Kogan roughly by the shoulders.
“Kogan? Kogan, pay attention. Have you,” he said, enunciating as clearly as possible. “written any depressing poetry lately?”
“No.” said Kogan. Barbarossa relaxed.
“Couldn’t find anything to write with.” Kogan continued. Barbarossa let him go and stared at a tree for several seconds.
“Shit.” He spat. “Shit, shit, shit. Everyone get here now!”
Everyone gathered around, except for Kogan, who sat back against a tree and began to sharpen his weapon, methodically.
Barbarossa looked back at Kogan.
“Kogan’s Macabre.” He said. The dwarves gasped. The humans didn’t.
“What do you mean, macabre?” asked Walter.
“I mean he’s Macabre,” said Barbarossa. “He needs materials quickly or he’s doomed.”
“What?” said Bjorn.
“I’ll explain later. We need to move out now. Suddenly, we have a deadline.”