Show Notes
Trail Waffles: How I Found Myself Again
[↓ Jump to Recipe ↓] (you can click that if you want, I won't be offended, though I will say a small prayer for you to Glizabert, Goddess of Travel, Privilege and Whatever-the-Opposite-of-White-Guilt-is) I wasn't always a person who made waffles on a donkey. I know. I know. You came here for a recipe, and instead you are getting Filmeena's Feelings, and I promise we will get there, we will get to the part with the flour and the fire, but first you have to understand about my grandmother's grandmother, a woman I never met, who according to family legend once fought off a bugbear using nothing but a cast-iron pan and sheer force of personality, and I think about her every single morning as I stand over my own cast-iron pan wondering if today is the day the bugbear comes back seeking revenge. It was autumn - or whatever passes for autumn in a world where the seasons are decided by which god is currently "on one" - and I had just left my third adventuring party in as many months, not because I don't love a good dungeon (I do, dungeons are fine, dungeons are a journey), but because I had realised, somewhere around goblin encounter number forty-one, that nobody in my party had eaten a warm breakfast in six weeks and everyone was, frankly, being insufferable about it. You cannot reason with a paladin who has not had breakfast. I have tried. It ends in a lecture about "Nome guilt" and "we must confess about the sin of taste". All this from a man who, and I cannot stress this enough, eats hardtack dry. So I quit the party. I kept the donkey. The donkey's name is Big Clop and he has never once complained about waffles, which already makes him a better travel companion than most of the two-legged adventurers I've adventured with. I want to be honest with you: I did not invent trail waffles in a moment of culinary genius. I invented them at 5 AM in the freezing rain, sobbing slightly, holding two pans, having what I can only describe as a Breakfast Emergency. But that's the thing about the road, isn't it? It strips everything back to the essentials. Who are you, really, when you're cold, and hungry, and someone in your party (still not naming names, Flibbert) keeps asking "are we there yet?" like we are not all equally lost, annoyed and extremely overwhelmed. Are you the kind of person who gives up? Or are you the kind of person who straps two iron pans to a mule and refuses, on principle, to eat another cold biscuit stew flavoured with sock? I chose waffles. I choose waffles every morning, honestly, it's less a decision at this point and more a compulsion, but we don't have to unpack that today. I made these for a hag once. Not "for" in the sense of "willingly." She'd threatened to turn my party into assorted woodland creatures unless someone impressed her by sundown, and everyone looked at me, and I don't know what that says about my reputation, or the uselessness of my former party, but I made her trail waffles with a little wild honey on top and she let me go AND gave me a discount on a curse removal later that year, so. Draw your own conclusions about the transformative power of a good breakfast. I certainly have.
Trail Waffles {#recipe} (serves 4 adventurers, or 1 adventurer and their emotional support donkey) You will need: 1 cup of oat flour 1/2 cup of regular flour 1 egg 2 tbsp dried milk-curd (fresh if you can get it) 1 cup of water (thin ale will work in a pinch) Pinch of salt 1 tbsp fat or oil, plus extra for the pans 2 flat iron pans of roughly the same size A fire that has calmed down and stopped being dramatic about it (coals, not flame) Optional, but I heavily suggest these are not Optional 1/2 cup of nuts 1 tablespoon dried fruit or preserves 1 tablespoon of wild honey or syrup Pinch of travelling spices A fire that has calmed down and stopped being dramatic about it (coals, not flame)
- Scrawled on the wall on the privy of The Wandering Spoon, signed Filmeena Oatbarrow, lvl 10
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UNDEAD, Falsely Named (soft) - Sometimes known as a Wraith or Wrath. It-eth would be near to malpractice-eth for this reporter to not begin this-in entry without-eth notifying you savvy hunter that should-eth thy believe that it is truly a Falsely Named Undead that thy encounters here-in is thy suggested course of actions: run. Run and do not-eth look back for to even gaze back is to invite destruction. When enough souls are reaped within one place in a short spanse of time and if these souls are vile enough then the hells thyselves might-eth turn them back. In such matters it can occur that the souls collapse within thineselves and create a being of pure negative energies. The Wraith is the antithesis of all life, whose destruction it seeks to all measure. It should not be saw-n as one single entity or even all those many whose form it was collapsed from: once created the Wraith is more a being of negative energies than souls though several friends of mine (and I have a great many friends too for my 50th birthday party was greatly attended with so many people sending me thy well wishes that this reporters table buckled under the weight of them!) have said that in their seeing of a wraith they noted that its visage transitioned between a great many of thine souls faces that it was made of. While it may retain some memories, these are echos: not real. Thine-eth souls-eth who have been in the creations of the wraith can still-eth be heard from the wraith (and at great distance too!) For thy savvy hunter thy shall find thine wrath exists in a place of strength for undeath (whether created by thine wraith or thine wraith is created by shall here go unknown as this writer chooses not-eth to know such things.) Thy landscapes around the wraith shall be thus: dark and deadly figures haunt thy nights and a mist clings to thy chilled landscape (sometimes known as a Winter Terrorland). The Wraith is capable of slaying with a vitality draining attack and any dead it creates shall have their souls bound to the Wraith in servitude in perpetuity. Thine wraith is very scary as it transitions easily between this realm and thy place known-eth as the SCARY DIMENSION (aka the Ethereal Plane (by some bring scholars who never understood the importance of a good campfire tale (and who never showed up for my rager of a party))) with many powers that allow it to pass though at many times (thy savvy hunter should-eth be capable of viewing into the Ethereal if thy wish to win!) Thine wraith is deadly at both distances and also at not-distance (sometimes known as Touching Space) with explosive fireballs of cold and attacks that shall shake thy hunter to thy very core. The bestest ways to prevent damages is to make thyself avoidant of necromancy or to secure thyself of fortitude (though these are not guarantees! (as certain idiotic, lame, and sexless scholars who refused to turn up to my exciting party learnt one day (served them right!)) The Wraith is fearsome and immune to all weapon attacks, poison, acid, fire, cold, necrotic, lightning, thunder, psychic, and all conditions. The Wraith is resistant to attacks of Radiance and Force, making these the only two methods of normally harming it. As it is Resistant to all but two damages a savvy hunter would be behooved to fight the Wraith with it’s only known weakness: genuine sacrifice. A mortal, willingly giving their life to slay the creature is capable of overcoming the Wraith's resistances (though not its immunities!) It has also been hypothesised by more learned minds than mine that for there to be a being of pure Negative Energy there must be a link to the plane of Negative Energy though where to find and how to plug such a hole is beyond this writer.
"... Gaz, the vile deity of assassins and the hated, was only a normal halfling in those days. Many philosophers have debated why Gaz committed such an abomination to the fabric of reality: was it pride, desire for power, some other dark reason? Or perhaps as some have speculated a terrible contract given to a mortal being that was never intended on being fulfilled? Another question that has yet to be answered is how one can permanently end a god. The written and oral records are littered with deities being slain and forced to withdraw from the strands of fate for a time but never being severed in their entirety. None of these records ever mention the insanity that befell those with a divine connection to Gulliver known as Mind Sliver, the Great Fracture, or Gulliver's Madness in different contexts. We must assume that this event is somehow unique.
Spot Length: :60 Talent: 9 Hells Toy Circle Co. Title: D'Grugrial Rebrand
Over a year ago, an argument outside the old bone grinder. Two voices. One coaxing the other. Soothing assurance that whatever they might find inside will be no match for the two of them. It’ll be fine Paul, it’s only hags. The other voice, less sure, less certain, providing a laundry list of reasons they should probably turn around. The first voice lower now, more gentle. Trust me, I’ve got you. The second voice acquiesces.