NOVEMBER 6, 2012 - WORMWOOD VALLEY - 08:15, WVSST

The unconcious corpse-like form of Inkley Tolew III Esq. was found along the Wormwood River, just North of Headless Bridge early this morning, At approximately 07:45 local Wormwood Valley Standard Seasonal Time (WVSST).

Local Medical Examiner and Corpseologist Martini St.Claire VonBloodgluck reports he appears to have  suffered what appears to be a sudden malady, likely a curse, but even more likely a stroke or heart atack of the mucus membrane, quite possibly as a result of an over-ingestion of Wormwood Valley Fly Rot or even from the possible glutinous overindulgence of a curious concotion of Cantrip Cantelope.
He is currently in a state of psychosis-induced comma at the Wormwood Valley Health and Rehabilitation Institution.

Donations on his behalf may be made either at the Wormwood Valley Explorers Club and Adventure Supply Store (see Sir Finneus McShrinks for details) or through the communications and inquiries Notification Desk at Wormwood Valley Daily HQ, Wormwood Valley Square.
*Note that to visit the Wormwood Valley Daily HQ Office, may we suggest bringing a torch or light source, ample rope and a map to our current subterranian location. Details on the current status of Subterranian Wormwood Sewer Slugs may be found at the Wormwood Valley Explorers Club and Adventure Supply Store for local sightings and postings which may/may not inhibit direct office visits.

Blackroot and Sassafras petals may be delivered directly to the Wormwood Valley Health and Rehabilitation Institution, room 1313 c/o I.T.3 ESQ.
*Please do not bring Stinkflour or Barrackweed as these may result in immediate cremation and ejection from the premisis per Wormwood County Social Code #12-6-11-1066.

NOTE:
Until further notice, Wormwood Valley Daily  updates and travellougues will be spearheaded by Leonard Hortense Rumpskin, who has a profound knowledge of the Wormwood Valley flora and Fauna, and will be covering all Wormwood Valley Holidays until he retunrs to War Correspondence Coverage in the Westmoor Swamplands.

Thank you.


Virocious Crabapple,
Wormwood Valley Daily asst. Editor, now Acting Sr. Editor Commander In Charge.

Who is Inkley Tolew III Esquire?

I have been getting numerous emails as to the identity of Inkley Tolew the Third Esquire.
While this is a short post, this will hopefully clear the mirk surrounding the odd contribution from this strange fellow.
Inkley is the Exploratory Commanding Editor at Large for the Wormwood Valley Newspaper, sometimes known as the Wormwood Valley Daily, the Wormwood Daily, the Wormwood Occasional Chronicle, and even the Wormwood Wire Service. Most in Wormwood Valley, however, simply refer to it as, 'the Paper.'

Inkley is a distinguished member of the Wormwood Valley Historical Society, the Wormwood Order of the Silver Dragon, and an Explorer of the Third Degree in the Wormwood Explorers Club, although the mere existence of such a club is, of course, just here-say.

Soem have questioned wether Inkley is human at all, and that, as far as I know, remains to be determined by the Wormwood Valley Council on Genealogical Lineage.

 He can occasionally be seen tending the gaming bar or the shelves of the Wormwood Valley Hardware and Esoteric Supply store, managed by Sir Finneus McShrinks. He answers all emails at inkleytolewIIIEsq@gmail.com.

I have yet to capture a photo of Inkley while visiting Wormwood, as he is not a fan of traditional film cameras, nor is he much in favor of digital media. I am working on acquiring a photo by way of a turn-of-the-century Hasselblad which he did not, during my last visit, seem completely opposed to.

I hope this has at least answered a few of the questions I have thus far received. I apologize if my answers seem somewhat vague. I do wish to respect Inkley's wishes, and the wishes of the Wormwood Valley Council for privacy both of their citizens and their location. I have taken the liberty to address specific emails with answers only listed here chronologically.




Mellisa M: No, he prefers Earl Grey, but thats a great suggestion. I will share that with him when we meet next.

John S: Yes, plenty of times. Although I have yet to find a proper publishing house for this nonsense here in the real world. Thank you for the consideration and concern. Sorry about the parakeet.

AndygdaneE: Wow. Not sure how to respond.

Alfred Cummings: I wish I knew.

C. Aurora: Of course! I'm sure he would love that. Thank you for the sweet words of encouragement.

Daggerbreath: Doubtful. He hates bad drivers.

Ricky G: 13. Or perhaps 4, depending on who you ask in Wormwood.

Taylor: I don't think it's so much that he hates them, as he just can't stand their mediocrity and boring nature. Especially when mixed with such an air of pompous superiority.

S. N: He believes you simply do not have skin thick enough for the journey.

Bingo: He would gladly share a round with you, preferably burnt black and crusted with age. good luck with the Barbies. Stay away from pom-poms.

Marriage Biting in Borneo

In this most recent edition of my Explorer's Journal segment, I shall share a brief anthropological insight gathered from a journey many years past to the distant shores of Borneo.

While visiting the Washnoozle-Mozimbee Blood Clan of Southern Borneo to gain a better understanding of their ability to control the rapid degeneration of tissues brought on by consuming large amounts of transfigured worm carcasses, I found myself being ushered into the not so envious position of 'best-man' at a Washnoozle-Mozimbee Blood wedding.

Now, as everyone should know, the Washnoozle-Mozimbee Blood Clan gains its name from the great War of Turnips, dating to c.1184 and the untimely deaths of nearly everyone from both the Washnoozle and Mozimbee clans. For those not remembering 4th grade exploratory history, I shall briefly recount this tragic tale.

The chief of the Washnoozle clan, Gurglixx the Flatulent, was quite the connoisseur of Borneo wild turnips. In his clans mountainous region grew the very best borneo turnips ever known. Shipped to nearly every region of the world, and sought after by traders from across Asia for their curious pickled taste and rosy-red exterior, Borneo wild turnips, and Washnoozle-grown turnips especially, were known as the best to be had. This of course, brought great fame and wealth to all the people of the Washnoozle clan. Soon they were adorned in only the finest leaves, feathers and rotting pig skins that their currency of shell and bug excrement could buy.

But this claim to agricultural fame did not sit so pleasantly with the Washnoozle's neighbors, the Mozimbee clan. They claimed to have planted the first Borneo Blood Turnip along the borders of their territorial domain over two-hundred years before. Led by their chief, Gulrog, Master of the Mountain Petunias, the Mozimbee clan launched a full scale assault on the lush farms of the Washnoozle Borneo Blood Turnips. Burning, removing, destroying and ravaging every plant and shrub from Scab Corner to Pusscreak, Gulrog and his band waged a war of unknown proportions on the Washnoozle clan, until not a single living warrior remained from either side. Sustained through years of turnip-fed rampage, the warriors fought savagely for nearly three days, until only Gurglixx and Gulrog remained.

As the two warrior chiefs fought to the last, they finally collapsed, exhausted and clumsy upon the mountainous pile of dead. Both at once gave into their age and absolute fatigue as they were evenly matched, blow for blow, strike for strike. Looking about them at the waste and destruction that lay about, they swore then and there to never again wage such a war for turnips, or land, or money. A treaty, agreed to upon a mountain of slain warriors, and amidst fields of blood soaked Borneo Turnips.

It was then, that the two chiefs ceremoniously did a very strange, and a very peculiar thing that forever changed the future of wild Borneo agriculture.

As Chief Gurglixx and Gulrog braced wrists and each took a bite from a freshly cultivated Borneo Turnip, they noticed a strange scent, and an even stranger taste. this turnip, this wild, rosy-red Borneo delicacy, was even more scrumptious when eaten with a generous smear of blood! Pulled from the blood soaked ground of the battlefield, the turnip was rich with the strange taste of the fallen soldiers! A macabre and yet, to the two Chiefs, brilliant discovery!

It was after this delightfully disgusting discovery, that the two chiefs concocted a plan to hide their joint discovery from the world, forever keeping the hidden cash-flow of shell and bug excrement from ever reaching beyond their mysterious shores. Chief Gulrog, knowing his tribe's ability to farm the most beautiful and pungent petunias, agreed to share the Mozimbee clan secret in exchange for the agricultural mysteries of the Washnoozle-grown turnips. to seal this pact, each Chief then bit off the ring finger of the other, savagely sealing their pact forever in blood, spewed upon the bulbous form of a Borneo wild turnip; henceforth forever known as Borneo Blood Turnips.

But being the traditionalist keepers of ancient ways that they are, the now combined tribal populace of the Washnoozle-Mozimbee Blood Clan, swore to keep this secret recipe thriving. From that day forth, every marriage ceremony ends with the ritual Washnoozle-Mozimbee Blood wedding tradition, where each newly committed lover swears their allegiance to the other through a swift and brutal act of removing by teeth alone, the finger of their spouse, ring attached. The finger is then passed to the best man and the bride's maid accordingly, where the ring is removed and the finger is sautéed as a delicacy over a helping of, Borneo Blood turnips of course.

And to hide this most valuable of delicacies, Borneo Blood Turnips are germinated within the pollen of every Petunia currently present across the globe.  If the legend is to be believed, beneath the tangled twisting roots of the most pungent of Petunias, lies the growing seed of the Borneo Blood Turnip, doused in blood from ages past, and ceremoniously continued in the Borneo wilds with every new spring wedding.

For those most curious of readers, yes, I was fortunate to partake in the ritualistic sampling of the Grooms ring finger. Its taste is perhaps best described as a bit like pork, a bit like chicken, and quite a lot...like turnips.

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkley Tolew III Esq.

Exploring Editor in Charge

Wormwood Daily

Burny McTavish and the Wormwood Gnomish Curse

     As we delve into the changing seasons of spring here in wormwood Valley, we ponder growth, renewal, change, and the inevitable expansion and continued development of the Village and central town of Wormwood itself. Spring is nearing, and while winter still holds it's opaque grip upon the forests of the Wormwood Valley, the residents of Wormwood begin to look for whatever gleaming ray of sunshine and rising temperature they can find, if only to lift the spirit slightly from the long dark days that by this time each year, seem to have stretched from beyond history.

     In this strange time of late winter to early spring, one begins to see the coming forth of life everywhere, if one but looks around one's own feet. The scent of Snot blossoms dripping through the trees adds a nauseating stench to the sharp morning air as Elongated Scab Beetles make their nests of hair and candle wax along the disjointed and upturned cobbles of central Wormwood square, nearest of course, to the disposed of droppings of local Wormwood candlemaker, Burny McTavish, may he rest in pieces.

     As the Editor at large for the Wormwood Chronicler, I, Inkley Tolew the Third, Esquire, have had the pleasure to experience, explore, and research some of Wormwood's darker and more sinister moments. From following the infamous Pirating upsets of three seasons past to the continued expulsion of the Scallywaggers Pirating team to the dark discovery of the Viking ship of the Cliffs of Sidd, I have been in a position to judge which of Wormwood Valley's most sordid histories are brought to the light amongst the populace of our fair valley through ink and pulp and the occassional scripted drawing and photo.

But in this most recent exploration, I wish to only briefly delve into one such event of mystery, adventure, and shadow. One which, as the seasons now turn, took place also in this strange time between Winter and spring. And so it is to Mr. McTavish and the Wormwood WaxWorks that we turn for this installment of The Occasional Chronicle's Wormwood Valley editorial and history discussion.

Mr. Burny McTavish was a criminal. A dark, foul, nasty, mean and all-together unpleasant chap who enjoyed more than anything else in this world, burning things.
Burny enjoyed lighting everything from toys to camping cots to small kitchen pots in flames of flickering carcinogen, and watching their evil and twisted light dance and twirl. As he graduated his mischievous passion from small household objects and ramshackled scraps of last eve's meal, he eventually found himself in quite a fix when he doused the local graveyard in a Halloween prank of horrific proportions. Little did he know that the ancient and cursed grave of Burny McTavish's great great great Grandmother's Uncle, thrice removed, lay buried beneath the very spot where he first set ablaze a scraggly and withered pot of Old Gut Flower.
Now, Old gut Flower is a noxious weed, oft times laid at the grave of criminals and miscreants. Of which, Burny's great great great Grandmother's Uncle (thrice removed) was one. He too, was a criminal of the fire-provoking kind, and found himself in quite a spot of bother when he set ablaze the local constable's prized yard Gnome statuary collection, lighting each little statue's cone-shaped hat in a blazing pyre of prancing light.
Now, as all well-educated citizens  of Wormwood Valley know, one NEVER sets ablaze a yard gnome. Least of all, upon their great coned hats. It is quite well accepted that within those pointed little spires sits the ashes of the very gnome that statue represents. And nothing releases their spirited and paranormal fury like fire.
But even worse, is the curse which lays upon any who does such. And for Burny McTavish's great great great Grandmother's Uncle (thrice removed), his was just such a curse.
Well as any can guess, this made for quite a memorable Halloween as old Burny's long-dead relative, who died himself in a curious spontaneous combustion related incident (most widely accepted as Wormwood Forest Gnome magic of course) rose from the grave that very night and made quick work of poor Burny McTavish, ending his burning spree once and for all.
But the legend goes that soon after, a candlemaker started the Wormwood Wax Works, making candles that held curious properties, strange scents and ingredients that some swore created images of old Burny dancing upon the walls in their gentle waving flames. And this candlemaker, legend says, is the very spirit risen from the grave and exhumed from his cursed demise that night in the Wormwood Graveyard: Burny McTavish's great great great Grandmother's Uncle (thrice removed), now the proprietor of the Wormwood WaxWorks and maker of the most gentle, most warming, most fragrant, and most curiously sinister candles ever to light a Wormwood hovel.
On these cold nights of changing, when the Gods of nature are still deciding upon their seasonal path, look to your WormwoodWaxWorks candle, and in the distance, listen closely for the shadowy laugh of old Burny McTavish as he writhes and turns in the churning flames of his gnomish demise.

From deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkley tolew III, Esq.
Editor at Large
The Wormwood Occasional Chronicler

All who wander are not lost, but sometimes they are....

I know I know, I'm sorry. I have not been posting in sometime, but there is a good reason for it, I promise.

I once heard that blogs are but useless forms of personal dribble if you either a) don't have any followers, b) can't be found on the web, or c) don't post anything at least once a week. Well, I seem to be the captain fo the anti-personal promotion trifecta as of late, as life has simply just gotten in the way.

Wormwood Valley, this blog  really, started as a way to explore small snippets and stories that came to mind fro the setting, Wormwood Valley, a peculiar land of strange creations that gather in one locale from all over the world to reside in and amongst fables, fairy tales and legends from multiple cultures and countries.  Sort of a place where all stories and myths come to reside, along with every created and imagined "thing." From drawings to sketches to ideas half-realised, Wormwood Valley was where they came to reside. And Inkely Tolew the Third, esquire, is the Editor at Large For the Wormwood Daily, the chronicler if you will, of all things Wormwood.

But this blog has also become an exploratory place for the ramblings and wonderings and personal inquiry for an aspiring YA/Fantasy Fiction writer.  But it is in fact this goal, this aim, that has kept me away from Wormwood Valley all together. I am now finishing the final typed edits for Shadowborn, The Alliance of the Black Triangle, and am nearly done. Wether it will be a resounding success and usher in a new era of JRR Tolkien-esque fantasy with an old saga and biblical flare or just another shelved Fantasy remains to be seen. And from what I read about the ever-changing face of the Publishing Industry, I am even more skeptical. But none-the-less, it is a work of love and fun at the very least.
The more I learn and read and study and research about the modern Publishing industry and a writers place in it however, I learn that self-promotion seems to be the order of the day. And that having the career background and technical skills to carry out such a charge is even more important now than ever before. But yet, I still find myself reluctant to "promote" this blog and other projects via Social MEdia outlets such as Twitter and Facebook, because I am as of yet, NOT published, therefore, part of me questions:
What exactly do you have to "promote?"
Good question, with a slightly humbling answer.
Very Little.

And so, I go back to the laptop and continue to revise in hopes that soon this will change, and that feeling of shameless self-promotion and public relations will soon subside when I do indeed have the accolades or at least the publishing contract to support such endeavors. In the meantime, I basque in the inspiration-giving shadows of Stacia Kane, Holly Black, Tor, Christopher Tolkien, Wizards of the Coast, Trevor Kidd (you have such an awesome last name..."Captain"....), Bloomsbury, Simon & Schuster, Amanda Devine, Random House, The Black Library, DK, and the list goes on and on.

People always thank those that follow them. But for a brief moment, I just wish to thank those that let me follow them. Thanks for the daily dosages of inspiration and often times random banter that reminds me that even you icons of the industry are in fact, real people. And often have real life distractions as well....

On Adventure, and Giant Wormwood Mountain Leeches...

It is with great relief and much relaxation that I return to Wormwood Valley after so long away. No one in Wormwood ever truly asks too many questions about what lies beyond our great mountainous borders, but for a few of the hardy and adventurous here in our small town, we seek to know more, even if it is done through the guise of “good readership and literary inspiration.”

It is my proud honor to be a member of the Wormwood Valley Adventurers and Explorers Guild. We are aptly located beneath the catacombs of Sir Finneus McShrinks Adventure, Exploration and Hardware Equipment Store. It is a secluded and private membership of course, but going against such staunch social norms can prove quite difficult in Wormwood Valley, especially for such notable members of society, therefore, we must, to some degree, keep our membership a secret. Besides, we are, if nothing else, creatures of habitual, ritual and classical pomp and circumstance.

But I am using this months’ Wormwood Daily update not to invite or encourage such exploration, so much as to detail the initial part of my findings, in however a brief form they may take, that were discovered just beyond my very door. For it is there, often in plain sight, that if one is looking with a keen eye and a true heart, that they may find just the adventure their soul is seeking. And sometimes, they don’t even know it yet. And so it was with me. Being somewhat of a history aficionado, I felt it in my bones to explore the north –western mountains above Wormwood Valley, a most formidable and horrific place, if one was to believe all that is taught here in the Wormwood Valley Educational Institution.

Crossing the snow capped peaks, equipped with little more than a tent, a sturdy pack and as many provisions as I could carry, I set out up the North slopes of Mount Wormwood towards St. Bernard’s Peak to investigate the historical mythology and rumors of the long lost Abbey of the Knights of Wormwood. As many of my fellow residents know well enough, I am nearly half, well almost entirely of the ‘Toad’ species. Wormwood Forest Bullfrog to be exact. Therefore, bugs, worms and various carrion-esque delicacies take up little or no room in ones sack. As a result, I am quite fortunate to be able to carry quite enough food for several weeks. Being only three and one-quarter feet tall as well, makes travel quite easy, albeit somewhat longer. It is of course quite difficult to “leap” or “hop” when equipped with sturdy boots, fur-lined parkas, climbing ropes, carabineers, a sturdy ice ax, stove and various survival provisions. But equipped with a special Wormwood Bullfrog-sized pair of Glacier goggles (courtesy of Sir Finneus McShrinks himself) and a full pack, I set out for this long lost mountaintop castle.

After a long days walk through along the Old Forest Road and across the Wormwood River Bridge I found myself finally exciting the north end of Wormwood Forest and beginning up the tundra and grassy-covered slopes of the Northern mountains. It was here, at the first plateau above Wormwood Valley that I made my first nights camp. Looking out across Wormwood Valley, and seeing the clear skies blanketed in milky waves of sparkling stars, shimmering like diamonds on a sea of black, gives one a new perspective, a fresh outlook and a renewed vigor in the bones. Inspiration for a new day and the adventures it may bring.

Wrapped up in a freshly laundered wool blanket and sheltered against the icy wind beneath a good stiff canvas tent, I settled in for a bit of late night writing before bed, basking in the yellowy-glow of lantern light. It wasn’t until much later that eve, that I encountered my first official ‘adventure’ of this particular excursion.

One only ponders the word “adventure” when in the relative safety and warmth of comfortable, and often, familiar surroundings. Adventure is quite often best described as “when something goes terribly awry. Should everything unfold quietly and uneventful, it could hardly be detailed adventure any more than a simple walk to the store. Adventure without risk is merely ‘travel.’

But it is a rare thing indeed to consider one’s experiences, in the thick of them, “adventure’ when life and limb and froggy-booted legs are at risk of being eaten by a large carnivorous mountain leech, quite common on the slopes of wormwoods grassy peaks, but not usually quite so early in the spring.

And so it was the low grumble and familiar grinding of stone and dirt and tundra that I awoke from a pleasant dream of tea and crumpets with the Queen (her wardrobe curiously resembling that of a Wormwood Valley Carrier pigeon). As I leapt from my warm blankets, reaching for my ice axe, I found my tent rising high into the night sky, attached firmly to the roaring and spiny-clad back of a white Wormwood mountain leech, its’ frosty tundra covered hide rippling with twitching muscles and spindly poison tipped spines. Rising to a roaring height of nearly 15’ and crashing down upon my once roaring campsite fire in search of an apparent midnight morsel, I dodged to the rocks bordering my small plateau , utilizing my frog-like agility to position myself just above it’s gaping may, teeth shimmering in the night sky and the hot breath steaming from its cavernous mouth, blindly searching for its next meal. Now, as everyone knows, or at least, should know, Wormwood Mountain Leeches have no eyes. Therefore, my target could be only one single spot, the interior upper roof of the monsters mouth. Waiting for it to approach my position atop the rocks, I readied myself, ax in hand. When the nostrils of the great beast began to sniff and blow, covering me with the thick translucent goo of its slimy nostril snot, I waited, positioning the tip of my ax just so, wedged into a crack in the rocks at my feet. Being so small, I would hardly satisfy this great hulking demons desire for food, and therefore, could not allow myself to become little else than a single swallow. As the great mouth opened, the razor sharp teeth gaping wide to swallow me whole, I hunched back, waiting for either my ultimate end or the warm and wet sensation of Wormwood Leech blood to flood my entire camp.

As the disgusting worm bore down on me in one foul swoop, my ax held fast, piercing the roof of its soft pinky mouth, just beyond the inner rim of its massive teeth (nearly equal in size and length to myself) and driving straight up into its miniscule brain. Letting out a squeal as if from the very fathoms of hades itself, the worm stopped completely, dripping its foul smelling, but oh-so-sweet tasting blood all around me, bathing the rocks and all my gathered equipment in a virtual deluge of thick gloppy blood.

Thankfully, for Toad folk such as myself, Wormwood Mountain Leeches are also a rare delicacy. And so, not only did my attacker become my morning meal, it’s massive frame provided me with quite the shelter for a warm evening spent wrapped up in the inner workings of its thick slime covered tongue. Drying off the massive amounts of blood and hanging my equipment from the inside edges of the creatures massive curled teeth, I found that I had not only a finely constructed shelter, but all the food I could eat, only a hands length away.

Tomorrow would bring new sights, new perspectives and all thing going “un-adventurously,” the top of St. Bernard’s Peak and my first view at the rumors of the ruined and abandoned castle of the Knights of Wormwood.

But that my dear Wormwood Readers, will have to wait until the next issue. Worry not, for it shall surely satisfy the adventurer in you all.

Writing from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkley Tolew III Esq.

Wormwood Daily

The Lost Treasure of Matacoombe'

This morning for the Wormwood Daily, we wish to recount a tale of local history that is oft forgotten here in Wormwood Valley.

It was many decades past that Sir Finneus McShrinks began to contemplate a new map for the Wormwood Valley regions. Well, as I am sure you can imagine, this did not sit well with many of the town's local residents who had their own ideas about what lay beyond their doorstep and frankly, didn't want to find out.

There are a great many opinions as to the history of Wormwood Valley and the residents as a whole don't believe in asking too many questions about much of anything, much less local history. Especially if it might conflict with pre-established mythologies, folklore, and the love of the belief that Wormwood was established by retiring pirates. Residents of Wormwood of course all tend to relish a good story to be sure, but the reality of the fables that surround are dark little township are far to eerie for the common listener.

The story of the Lost Treasure of Matacoombe' is just such a tale. One that, while dark and a bit dangerous, bears far too much potential "real history"to be of much concern, and therefore, we feel it is perfect to bring up during these in between days, spanning the boring and generally dull periods of the week between holiday events and the average Wormwood Valley workday.

It was so long ago that no one, other than Sir Finneus McShrinks himself could tell you exactly when, but the fable goes that Sir Finneus, in an effort to complete the last portion of his full Wormwood Valley Gazetteer set out on a crisp fall morning under heavy rolling grey clouds and dense fog to map the last remaining section of Wormwood Forest. Or so he thought.

What he was said to have found was detailed in his book (We do love to read here in Wormwood Valley!) Mapping Gold: The Lost Treasure of Matacoombe' and the dark corners of Wormwood Forest. Being the anniversary of Sir Finneus's discovery (or lack thereof depending on how one chooses to look at it) his tale is now on sale at Cargin McBluff's Wormwood Readery in central Wormwood, just north of Kishnipit's Coffee and Genghis Kahn's Confectionary Delights. Recently the Wormwood Daily spoke with Sir Finneus about the book itself and gathered a short synopsis of the tale as it happened. Without giving away too much detail of course...

Sir Finneus had finally reached what he believed was the far corners of Wormwood Valley. He had walked for days, finally reaching the Ring of Fire, the last set of mountains in the far northwestern reaches of Wormwood Valley. It was here that he encountered the massive black obsidian walls and pouring volcanic lava that he thought, bordered Wormwood Valley. His exploration boots crunched the deep powdery sand as he set foot from the edge of the forest into the desolate wasteland of suit and ash. It was red, orange and filtered with rays of sunlight, pushing through the dense black clouds like beans of power, illuminating the hell-like landscape before him. The smell of sulfur, and even a hint of Fireseed with it's tangy licorice-like smell from the plants that would grow along the borders of the flowing Volcanic rivers filled the air. But what Sir Finneus hooped to find was beyond the ring of Fire, beyond even Wormwood valley itself! Thinking that surely this must be the very edge of creation and that no growing thing could exist in such a fiery and desolate desert, Sir Finneus pushed on, twisting and turning and carefully choosing his path along unstable rocks, flowing islands in rivers of magma, and crumbling mountains filled with fire and plasmic flows. It was by the sure will of his determination and the power of his imaginative curiosity that he pushed on.

Now, as everyone knows here in Wormwood valley, SIr Finneus McShrinks has a somewhat less than proportional sized head, on account of his running into Tabooboo, the ancient Medicine Witch Doctor that shrunk his entire cranium so very long ago in the far reaches of Darkest Africa. What many do not know, is that his brain, while shrunk as well, lost none of it's quick whit and adventurous thinking. Therefore, because of the decreased size of Sir Finneus's nasal capacity, only a small amount of the sulfury toxic air could actually reach his miniscule preceptors of smell, thus allowing him to easily hold his breath, walk for miles and not suffer the same consequences that you or I may in such a horrible and dreadful place.

As he positioned himself precariously on a flowing mass of black rock, he balanced himself in his jompers and worm exploration boots, balancing his helmet upon his unusually small head and curling his handlebar mustache with nervous anticipation, his walking stick balanced in his right hand as he clinched his map between ash stained fingers. He stood balanced, legs spread wide to bob and weave upon the geological floating craft he perched upon, allowing himself to be taken down the river of Lava and further to the North, all the while, scanning the horizon through the clouds of thick red and orange haze, seeking to know what lay beyond this impenetrable wall of mountains.

As the rock picked up speed along it's river-like path, Sir finneus looked ahead to see a massive crater opening up right beneath him, the lava flowing like a gigantic waterfall into the mouth of a sunken Volcanic abyss thousands of feet below. Reaching with all his effort in an attempt to save himself from a fiery grave, he latched his stick onto a clinging branch of Fireseed just at the edge of the flowing river of Lava, his feet dangling far above the orange-red glowing lake below. As he watched his floating volcanic craft fall into oblivion, he watched it's final plunge with a sudden fiery splash , disappearing forever beneath the lake of lava that stretched to the horizon. Scrambling onto the dried pyroclastic flows bordering this massive sunken lake, he took a deep breath of foul sulfur-heavy air, brushed himself off and with a sigh of English pride, set off again to the new landmark, the edge of this dismal glowing hole. As the hours passed and he bordered the massive crater, he could see the ridge line dropping off below into a vast dark valley! With exuberance and excitement he had not felt in years, he quickened his pace, his rope and compass bobbing erratically along his waist as his pack jingled with expedition supplies and survival necessities.

Finally reaching the slope of the black flowing rock, he looked out over what appeared to be a massive range of snow capped peaks, far greater and far wider than even those that bordered Wormwood Valley itself. He saw before him, years of further exploration. With each dip in the vast mountains stretching out before him he could see trees., miles, and miles...and miles, of trees.

It was nearly heart braking. He was no nearer to finding an end to his map than he was before he had risked his life to cross the Ring of fire. But he pressed on. After a short stop for a bit of tea and a snippet of shortbread, he packed up his gear and began to rappel with great agility and finesse down the massive stone cliffs in front of him, vowing to explore and document whatever it was that lay beyond his reach. He wandered for days through thick jungle-like underbrush beneath a massive green canopy, passing ruins of indescribable beauty, unimaginable wealth and facing creatures of unspeakable horror.

It was in one of these small valleys that he encountered the Lost Temple of Matacoombe' learning the name from the archaic inscriptions upon its deserted stone walls. And it is this very treasure that is now on display in the window of Cargin McBluff's Wormwood Readery. The gold glistens through the panned glass window as visitors and onlookers pass by to acquire the full story of SIr Finneus's travels to the edges of Wormwood Valley. And it is said, that late at night after Cargin has closed his doors, and drawn the curtains shut around the front window display, that the building itself begins to shake, rumble, and groan from within, a strange light filtering through cracks in the floor, separations in the framing and deteriorations in the ancient wooden structure. The skulls of Matacoombe' that guard the treasure, so cheerily smiling with their fleshless toothy grins by day, lead some to believe that what Sir Finneus brought back from Matacoombe' may not have been wholly willing to make the return trip.

And while Mapping Gold: The Lost Treasure of Matacoombe' and the dark corners of Wormwood Forest is set to be a most popular read amongst the devoted followers of Sir Finneus previous exploratory works, it is with some trepidation that residents line up this evening to be the first to gain an autographed copy from SIr Finnenus himself, several of the towns youth having set up make-shift shanty's and pitched tents outside of Cargin McBluff's in order to be the first in line. The question remains however, will those hearty few remain after Cargin McBluff shuts his doors and the Treasure of Matacoombe' begins to stir in the dark hours of the night?

We shall see, for tonight at exactly 3:33 am Wormwood Valley time, Sir Finneus McShrinks will enter the bookstore to face off against whatever supernatural force the potentially cursed treasure holds. And of course, to make himself available for immediate late night book signings. Onlookers are rumoring that SIr Finneus will come dressed in his best battle gear, complete with armour, sword and shield. Look for the glistening glow of a polished breastplate or the rattle of a customized kit, or pitch your tent, lay out your bag, and stake your claim to what may turn out to be one of the most notable events in recent Wormwood Valley History.

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square

Inkey Tolew III Esq.

Commanding Editor in Charge

Wormwood Daily