*** special guest post this week by a dear friend…
Notes from the campaign by Jolie Smoke, a tabaxi of fine & dubious reputation.
A LETTER TO LORD S. BRAMBLEBERRY, courtesy of Bernabo’s Courier Esquires
Dear Scott,
I find myself careening down Paradise Boulevard in a Cherry Red horsedrawn cab, and I want you to know how much I admire your sense of humor. That magic you do that makes a person topple over and roll on the ground laughing to where they can’t do anything else, like they are finally in touch with all Inherent Absurdity? Pure genius. I wish I had that kind of talent, but I am not you.
A pair of gangsters are running hard after the Cherry Red. They are much too incompetent to be Myriad, yet they are still intent upon my bodily harm. One of them is a short but massive dragonborn broader than you and me and Mirra put together. A dwarf dragonborn? Is that even possible? Or legal? What kind of city is this? At least it’s not the Evil Dwarf with the pink axe — I simply could not handle that right now. And they’ve just commandeered their own cab. And the law is not far behind. But what have I done other than ride at ludicrous speed down Paradise Boulevard with a full martini glass in my hand and no idea how it got there, trying to avoid getting swiped by the flying stingrays? I am completely innocent of all other crimes, or nearly completely so. You know that. I estimate that if we take the Cherry Red out of the city on the Way of the Lion and push the horses to complete exhaustion and replace them with stolen beasts of burden along the way, stopping neither to eat nor sleep, then we can be at Candlekeep in two and a half days. Two if we can find those owlbears and hitch them up. Then maybe we can set this whole business right. Scott, do you understand what I am saying? These are baffling times no doubt, but we must keep our thoughts clear on these matters of substance.
We leave the gangsters in the dust. I part ways with the Cherry Red, hoping that it will be there for us again when our need is greatest. I head straight into the nearest tavern and order a fresh martini and a rum along with a shot of espresso. It is only then that I comprehend that I am in a room full of Nicodranas Zhelezos with lizard heads growing out of their shoulders… chattering in some dreadful language understandable only to the densest and sickest of minds. Scott Brambleberry! Do you see what those Betrayer Gods have done to me? To cast me into this den of despicable reptilian Chaos Deniers! I sip my drinks slow trying to play it casual — one false move and I am food for these beastly conscienceless entities.
Make no mistake, my Dire Comedian — they will not be satisfied even when there is nothing left of me but bones. They are coming for you next.
Your friend,
Jolie Smoke,
Doctor of Cryptokinetics