Carrion Captain's Crown
Praise unto the vanquishers of the undead
The final dying death of the undead dangles in the air as I write. Today, we touched the face of evil and came away even prettier than before. We are so awesome. I feel I have found my calling, for years I looked for it amongst unwed mothers and orphanage nuns. Now Iomedae has shown me the way and the way is the way of slaying the undead! I was lost but now I am found, I was blind but now I slay the dead with righteous anger. I may travel the valley of death but I fear no evil, for Tammy Fae Baker is riding shotgun beside me, her makeup my shield. Oh, where have the days gone? It was only yesterday when the odd knocking at Kendra’s door led me down this sweet path of rotten flesh slashing and brittle bone bashing. First fell the zombies, then I stood toe to toe with the lividity that was once Proffessor Lorimar’s corpse, but was risen only for me to strike it down with the great fury of justifiable violence. Like so many blades of grass underneath the lawnmower of justice I laid the undead low. Then I continued onto the town meeting, and into Harrowstone like a John Deere dealing death to the undead skulls of flaming. Somewhere along the way I pledged to help the town and made some kind of inspirational speech. I’m not sure what I was thinking, it just kind of happened. May have had a bit too much to drink. Really not that important, but I think some of the fine young ladies about were checking out my awesome Aasimar while we patrolled the town earlier today. On another note, our group seems to be coming together, we are a delight to the citizenry of Ravegro and a scourge to evil. I find myself almost able to understand the strange utterances of Dr. Lazlo. I was amazed to find he actually does make sense! Grigore may be a bit cautious on his own account, but comes to the aid of Vanteer as fearlessly as the lizard man faces down the faceless faces of death that come before his mighty menacing battle blade (and shield, let’s face it, that thing is freaking huge!). Then there is the matter of that little boy who keeps insisting on killing us, cutting off our kneecaps, or some such violence. “I’m a Halfling,” he says,” I’m a Halfling. You’re all prejudiced against me.” Not really little trooper, as it says in the Iomedae’s thirteenth letter to the fifteen followers of the sixteen ways on the seventh day of the tenth month in the year of four spotted cows-“Know this, that those who trip five year old girls are prone to falling prone themselves and who so doeth this in my name shall stand tall amongst the shoulders of the short.” Every time he seeks to abandon us I grow hopeful, but then he reappears. I look forward to ‘Laying Hands’ on him in the near future.