Barons, Bargains, and a Bubbling Brew
Amrynn
Every step in this sodden realm seems to uncover another layer of ambition and despair, each tangled with the next. Our search for Baron Illig of Muckstamp today led us through a veritable gallery of the desperate and the deluded, each convinced their path is the one that will lead Downfall out of its misery, provided it leads them to a throne.
Our journey began with a profoundly melancholic encounter. Near a patch of toadstools, we found an elf named Octavian Melaiamne, playing a sorrowful tune on a double flute. His dispassion was a chilling thing to behold, a void where a soul should be. He claimed to have made a bargain with the hag to forget a lost love, a transaction that cost him his heart, which was replaced with that of a goat. A grotesque, yet potent, reminder of the price of dealing with creatures like Bavlorna.
Pressing on, we were introduced to no fewer than three separate conspiracies among the bullywug nobility, each transparently self-serving and poorly. First was Lady Squelchtoe of Slime Gully, whom we found hastily trying to conceal papers detailing assassination plots. Her ambition to be queen was matched only by her flimsy attempt at plausible deniability regarding the hut she was in. Pork-Bottle, with his usual directness, uncovered yet more of her plans in a nearby chest.
Next, we found our quarry, Baron Illig of Muckstamp. He and his cohorts fancy themselves revolutionaries, intent on deposing the monarchy for the good of the people, with the Baron, of course, stepping in as “protectorate.” His grand strategy involves tripping while presenting a ceremonial dagger to King Blackcroak the 2nd. The plan’s foolishness was so staggering that I felt compelled to contribute, suggesting that if the act required “deftness and cunning,” they should perhaps use two daggers, named as such. To my astonishment, they embraced the idea with vigor. It seems even the most brutish minds appreciate a touch of theatricality.
Our tour of the local aristocracy concluded with Duchess Volvamp of Bogwater, who was engaged in a bizarre “game” with the king’s toad, which involved the creature swallowing her whole. Her professed loyalty to the crown was as shallow as a bog her reptilian playmate would live in.
The political theater was interrupted by a more arcane mystery. A large cauldron by the water’s edge, which Barnabus discovered was animate when it scurried away from his grasp before he could grab it. From the flames beneath, a small fire elemental emerged, speaking in a broken form of Infernal that only Fable could parse. For the price of a few torches, it offered us the password to the cauldron: “spittlespew.” Upon Pork-Bottle uttering the absurd word, the pot unlocked. Barnabus stirred the bubbling gray contents and fished out a horn. The cauldron, we learned, belongs to Bavlorna herself, a fact that instills a healthy fear in the local guards. Its purpose remains a troubling unknown.
Our day concluded near a great, dead-looking tree, where I felt a familiar, chilling tingle, a sensation I have not felt since my near-demise at the Witchlight Carnival. My senses told me the tree was not dead, but sleeping, and possessed of a distinctly malevolent presence. Our attempts at a private council were thwarted by a group of sprites, who mocked our words and pelted us with acorns. Their chatter, however, was revealing; they mistook us for Bavlorna’s taxidermy creations.
With the writ from the king, we have secured the release of Mugwort. The sight of Gullop’s head now adorning a pike near the bridge served as a grim punctuation mark to the day’s events. The stakes here are lethally high, literally.
Now, we must navigate this treacherous political swamp. Our primary strategy is to determine if Mugwort can be positioned as a viable, and perhaps more benevolent, ruler. Should that fail, the dubious Duke Ickrind remains our fallback. We are surrounded by schemers, strange magic, and petty fey. One must remain vigilant, for a single misstep in this muck could be our last.