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A Writer's Notebook

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Boral Chernon, swineherd of the seventh plain of Arengoth, walked into the Waning Moon Tavern, tired from a long day. He sat at the bar, ordered a stout ale, and had hoped to to enjoy his drink in peace and quiet.

Not long after the bar keep had sat the amber liguid in front of him, though, Frunek Gerswogon took the seat next to him. Big, burly, smelly, and loud mouthed; Frunek wasn’t exactly an ideal companion.

“Good day, Boral,” Frunek said.

“Good day,” Boral replied, hoping simple greetings were all the blacksmith had in store.

“So, have you heard the latest,” Frunek asked. Boral felt his yearnings for a simple, solitary draught evaporate.

Boral took a long drink of his ale before he said, “No, what’s that, then.”

“Our Duke has become a Lich they tell me,” Frunek said with emphasis.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“What…

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