The Pest Beneath the Pews

Little Bertha Plumpbubble  loved mushrooms. Wild, smelly, tasty, foul, pungent, acidic, ugly and even artistic mushrooms. Every mushroom, both good and bad was near and dear to he heart. She ate them with salt, with pepper, with vinegar and with mustard. She especially liked them with mayonnaise, syrup, peanut butter, or sweetened cranberries and even Snot Sauce was not off limits. No, Berthas grotesque gluttony for wild Wormwood Mushrooms never ceased, and there was no ingredient to foul, to smelly or to pungent for her to exclude from her disgusting little delicacy. Wormwood mushrooms were indeed Bertha's favorite.

 

Bertha, however, was a greedy, mean, and all-together unpleasant little girl. And in fact, there wasn't very much that was considered "little" about Bertha at all. She was only in the Third grade and was the already the tallest most brutish girl in her class. She would often sit by herself at recess under one of the many old Wormwood Trees just on the outskirts of the playground, digging frantically beneath rotted tree stumps and tangled Bloody-Knuckle Weed in an effort to dig up a small fungal snack. Thus, it was quite common for Bertha's desk to be covered with dirt and mud and even the occasional insect that got in under her long dirty fingernails. Bertha's Teacher, Mrs. Cornelia Quatlebaum, always knew which paper was Bertha's, as they were characteristically smeared with bits of brown and of course, fragments of old mushrooms. 

Now Bertha's one-track dietary delights presented a bit of a problem, as both Mr. and Mrs. Plumpbubble loved wild Wormwood Mushrooms as well, but not quite as passionately or fervently as Bertha. Even Bertha's older Sister Wormina and her even older and less more social brother, Germ, partook of the family favorite. But none came close to having the same passion for the wild Wormwood Mushrooms as Bertha did. Wormina preferred beat roots and of course, anything with slimy, wet worm-related ingredients. She had an almost equal passion for Worms as her little sister did for Mushrooms. Wormina was the masterful creator of Wormwood's largest official Wormwood Flesh-easting Worm Farm, taking up the vats majority of the Plumpbubble home and sadly, being the cause for many a local pet disappearing without a trace. Wormina would never think her little fiends capable of such mischief however.  

Bertha's older brother Germ, who was mostly interested in science and specifically, microbiology and the history of Wormwood's participation in creating Germ Warfare Agents during the great War. His entire room served as a virtual museum of Biological warfare and doubled as a lab where, for a modest fee, he could serve up a cold, the flu, chicken pox or just about any other communicable disease that one desired to obtain to avoid that pesky test, appointment or day at work. Germ was currently deeply involved in studying the toxic and noxious effects of Wormwood Stink Beetle Milk and was cultivating and breeding Wormwood Stink beetles right there in his room. This was not something Mrs. Plumpbubble cared for at all and their home was famous for it's wide array of strong odors. 

But Bertha cared only for one thing, Mushrooms.  As a result of Bertha's one-track mind, she had grown somewhat larger than other girls her age. Her overeating, what with a complete and utter lack of healthy diet or exercise, had only contributed to Bertha's robust figure. It fit well, however, with her bullying persona and her other, more curious features. You see, it is often said that "you are what you eat." And that of course, made Birtha, a mushroom.

Bertha looked like a mushroom, smelled like a mushroom, and some say, that she even walked like a mushroom. Many wondered if she were some adopted half breed of the mythical and legendary Wormwood Mushroom people that were said to once roam the darkest parts of the Wormwood underground realm, but none of them had been seen in decades. they were known for being horribly ill-tempered and had a large mouth of slender, pointed teeth that could pierce through solid steel. They also had the reputation for being quite the eaters themselves, and it was not uncommon to hear of ancient tales of great battles between warring tribes of Mushroom people feasting on their enemies, and frying them up in great giant saucepans of butter and mixed greens. Bertha's most notable feature was certainly her hair. Her sandy brown top had become so shaped like a mushroom in fact, that many were not entirely sure just where her head stopped and her hair began. it looped delicately and methodically like the tiny veins of a succulent giant mushroom in a smooth curl, ending in the dark shadowy overhang of her bobbed neck-length hair. It was quite well known that she kept a good supply of emergency mushroom snacks deep in the curls of her overhanging hair, just in case she needed an emergency morsel at the most inconvenient time. 

And one such time occurred every week. Sunday morning church.  

Church was a torture for Bertha. Not only was Bertha required to dress up (and none of her Sunday clothes had enough pocket's to hide her required sustenance for the entire length of a typical Sunday service) but she was forced to act somewhat civilized, which for Bertha, seemed increasingly difficult to do.  Bertha only found pleasure in pestering the fellow parishioners. From making strange and threatening faces to grabbing their feet from under the benches, she had become somewhat famous for her constant array of crazed antics and generally atrocious behavior. Mrs. Plumpbubble would bring pencils, papers and books to keep her occupied, but what she really wanted was Mushrooms. This is precisely why she began hiding small bits of the mushrooms in her hair, ears, and even her nose! 

It wasn't as preferred as the entire fungus of course, but it would have to do. Desperate times she felt, called for desperate measures. She had taken to crawling along the floor beneath her family's church pew, usually the third from the front, far left, and when reaching down to recover a "dropped Pencil" she would sneak a snack from one of her cleverly disguised hiding spots. 

It was here, during a typically dry Sunday sermon, that Bertha developed an idea. an idea, sadly, that would ultimately, lead to her current state of appearance. 

She realized, if she could somehow, dig right through the very floor of the church, she could plant her own secret stash of mushrooms, right there beneath her seat!  She went right to work, each sunday bringing a small trowel and a pick, just quiet enough to peck away at the rotting wood floors of the old church. Soon enough, Bertha had reached the dirt below the church floor, her fat little hand just barely able to reach the ground beneath. Soft, supple, moist rotting dirt! He nose squished as her increasingly pointed teeth began to smirk in a disgusting little grin, he tongue flicking her mushroom encrusted lips in anticipation as her eyes squinted in a mischievous little glare at the rest of the congregation. No more would she be without her beloved fungal fantasy. 

Well as Bertha began to eat her way through Sunday's as well, her appearance seemed to, change. While Bertha always appeared a bit "mushroom-like" she never really took on the appearance of the foul fungi until she partook of the mushrooms she planted, right beneath the church.  Some say it was the buried dead, cursing her for bad behavior during the sermons. Others said it was the old religions of the Wormwood Valley and the haunting ghosts, coming back to curse the very soil that the church was built upon. Still others said it was simply the potency of the soil itself, hidden beneath the rotting wood floors and crumbling old pews for more years than anyone cared to remember. But it was on one Sunday in particular, when Bertha dug a little too deep, that she really began to change. 

The Congregation was deeply entrenched in the second verse of "Oh Hallelujah" (an old Wormwood sea song praising God's safe delivery of the Pirate founding fathers to the shores of Wormwood) when Bertha began her weekly slip under the third pew from the front, far left. None gave it much thought, until she squealed in annoyance as she fell right through the floor and disappeared into the darkness of the wet dirty foundation below. Her pudgy little hand, gripped precariously to the rotting floor, her fingers clinging to the splintered wooden floor like filthy little sausages, just visible from beneath the wooden bench. If it wasn't for her last minute clasp onto the shoe of Sir Finneus McShrinks, seated directly behind the Plumpbubble family (much to his regret, having arrived somewhat late to the mornings service) she would have likely fallen right through the dirt and into the dark undergrowth below Wormwood.  She had found of course, a deep hole right beneath the church, and filled with the most curious and strangely colored mushrooms she had ever seen. As they peeled Bertha somewhat unwillingly from the hole in the floor, her gasps seemed somewhat less audible. And to no one's surprise, Bertha of course emerged from her  hole, mouth, and hair, full of these new Mushrooms.  

The Minister quickly repaired the floor, and yet still every sunday, One can see Bertha, peering below her seat, watching for a free moment when she can slip away for a strange snack, her ever-expanding mushroom-like-hairdo twitching with anticipation as she attempts to quietly slip under the third row from the front, far left. 

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.

Manager, Operator, Owner 

Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication    

 

Sir St. Claws of the North

There is a legend that somewhere outside of Wormwood (as if there IS such a  place to begin with, and if there is, one certainly shouldn't wast one's time exploring and asking too many questions. It's simply not polite.) there is a jolly, elderly, overweight gentleman dressed head to foot in red velvet and white fur,  who through the use of witchcraft and pageantry slips his rotund frame (he is known for being quite large, and some say even grotesquely overweight)into tiny little chimney holes late at night on Mid-Winter Solstice Christ Mass Eve. 

Apparently, he parks a flying sleigh atop ones rooftop, led by several enchanted reindeer who have the strange ability to fly through the night sky. This far away legend says that if one decorates the inside of  their home with an ornamental tree or bush, that this individual will slip quietly down the fireplace and deposit small packages underneath said tree. There is even a snippet of this belief that if one leaves a bit of hosen or a stocking at the entrance to their fireplace, it will be filled with large amounts of candy, treats, prizes, presents and generally sweet and favorable items come morn. This of course is based on a child (or even an adult) behaving themselves throughout the preceding year.  apparently this individual is able to "see" the actions of said individuals through some means as of yet unknown. most believe this to be psychic incantation or more likely, a Mirror of Seeing or crystal ball. 

Nothing is said as to how this decadently dressed dandy makes his way down the fireplace if one has a full blaze roaring in the flu however. 

Legends all have an element of truth to them one may suppose, no matter how small that element may be, and Wormwood is no different. We have our own legends of a red-suited individuals leaving gifts for the masses as well, and certain elements of this far away tale seem all the more normal here in Wormwood. Reindeer of course can fly, as that has never been in question at all. But each Mid-Winter Solstice Christ Mass Eve, Wormwood's slightly different traditions play out in great revelry and delight to the entire Valley.

The Story of Sir Saint Clause comes from several hundred years ago, long before the founding Pirate fathers of Wormwood ever came to our balmy shores. It is said that Sir Claws, a knight of a long distant order was fleeing across the snow capped mountains, escaping from a pursuing army seeking to destroy the last of his kind. He had fled for thousands of miles, but still, the relentless soldiers of King Philip the Unfair as they were said to have been called, gave him chase with reckless abandon across mountains and seas. There was a great blizzard raging and Sir Clause had long since lost his dearest friend and companion, his horse Breehy to a pack of marauding Wormwood Winter Wolves who attacked in the worst of the storm. The bitter ice and cold had frozen Sir Clause's sword in it's hilt, and his shield was battered and broken from years of use. His only refuge was his long white cloak and hood, now soaking through with the raging snow. 

As he pushed on, struggling to take each step in the snow that seemed to reach past his waist, slowing him like thick cold mud, he looked through the blinding spray and in the distance, high against a mountain peak, he thought, for just a moment, that he could make out the faintest hint of light. this was quickly followed by the shimmering shadow of a turret and a steeple. And as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone. 

Behind him he could hear the horns of his pursuers and the howls of the few dogs that still remained in their keep, the rest long since having fallen victim to the cold. His maps were long since gone, as he used them as kindling to make small fires over the past several months of his escape. As a result, he knew not where he was. No compass, no map, and no stars were visible to help guide him on his way. Only cold black emptiness, filled with the piercing darts of ice and snow that froze through his chain armour and leather jerkin. The mountain rose steeply to left and he looked back briefly, seeing the flickering lamplight of the soldiers below only a few hundred yards away now. He again looked towards the peak, the strange light flickering behind the shifting clouds and snow, just momentarily giving him hope of shelter, safety and warmth.

As quickly as his faltering strength could muster, he pushed on towards this faintest apparition of safety. He clasped the rocks jutting from the mountain for balance, their coverage stripped clean by the relentless icy winds. As he lowered his head in exertion, reaching for the top if the small outcropping, he could see the beginning of what looked to be a monastery, a place of Sanctuary both from the cold and his pursuers. He pulled himself up over the ledge, his chainmail gloves packed with ice and snow, and the leather stripping and tearing against the black jagged stones. there on a flat outcropping, overlooking what he could only assume through the white storm was a massive valley miles below, sat a stone fortress, a monastery that exuded a sense of peace, light, and warmth.  He noticed immediately that there was little snow around it's borders, and that the few trees on this entire ridge seemed to weather the storm with little effort.  Standing in a lighted doorway, he could barely make out the figure of a robed monk, his arms open in welcoming comfort. He stepped forward, nearly collapsing upon the stoned walkway that led to the castle's entrance. He crawled now, grasping onto tattered ropes that led to a small wooden bridge overlooking a massive crevasse several thousand feet deep. he peered into the gloomy blackness momentarily, before lifting his head and moving on, his strength failing him as he finally reached the doorway. 

Quickly the monk led him inside, pulling him into the warmth and safety of the fortress. The rough brown cloak and the shadowy hood hung far over the monks face, only a shadowy set of eyes peered from beneath the darkened hood, but a soft voice uttered comfort as Sir Clause struggled to drink from the small wooden barrel that the monk held to his parched and cracking lips.

"Your Pursuers are close now" the monk finally whispered in a voice that was soft and gentle. It instantly transported Sir Clause to his youth, the warm summer sun on his back as he raced through his fathers fields and forests on the back of  Breehy. 

"You'll find your strength renewed" he continued, as Sir Clause began to breath deeply, his body almost instantly feeling warmed and refreshed.  Feeling returned to his feet so long entrapped in his black leather boots like a warm rush. His hands felt strong, and light, his armour suddenly clean and polished. He rose quickly, the snow still dripping from his dark hair as he pulled his white woolen hood back from his helm. 

It is said here that the priest gave Sir Clause a set of chainmail gauntlets that would aid in the ensuing battle, if he would agree to protect the monastery from the attacking marauders. Sir Clause of course obliged and as he did so, the priest slid off his armoured gloves, revealing hands that seemed curiously deformed, thick, flat and covered with a white spotted fur, almost dog-like. Sir Clause slowly slipped the armour over his own, their fit seeming to meld and mesh with his hands. He felt a renewed strength and agility as he turned towards the door,  now hearing the soldiers crossing the wooden bridge just outside the fortress. Suddenly the door split open wide, a large axe blade appearing through the enlarging crack and tearing it clean from it's ancient hinges, wood splintering into the entry. The soldiers rushed at Sir Clause as he drew his sword, sliding it gracefully from it's sheath as he leapt at his attackers with a renewed ferocity. He instantly noticed the long dog-like claws extending from his hands, some curious spell of these enchanted gauntlets! He fought viciously, tossing the soldiers like toys, and moving with the grace and agility of an acrobat in the raging storm. His attackers stumbled, tripped, and disappeared into the crevasse and the valley below, the howling dogs running in fear into the darkness of the night. 

It is said that Sir Clause was asked in by the Monk to return payment for his hospitality by keeping the Monastery a secret and that he agree to go about doing good deeds for the people of the Valley below. He was told that if he travelled to the valley below, and looked to the deep blue pond at it's center, just south of Wormwood Falls, there he would find a friend to help him in his duty. It is rumored that it was here, at Wormwood Pond, that Sir clause found his beloved Breehy, alive and well and drinking from the ponds crystal blue waters. Sir Clause soon learned that this Monk was no normal monk at all, but it is said that as the Priest peeled back his shadowy hood, he saw not the face of a man, but that of a large, protective, and friendly dog. His name was Bernard and he served the travelers of this region by coming to their aid when needed most and protecting the roads from the dark things that haunt this shadowy mysterious land. It was into this order, that Sir Clause was ordained. It is said that it took 13 days for Sir Clause to travel from one end of Wormwood to it's most western shores, and he would make this trip yearly, stopping each time at Wormwood Pond to give his steed a drink from the pool on his journey, bringing gifts to the residents of Wormwood who helped him maintain order, justice, and good deeds.

 

Over the years the stories and fables of his heroic deeds spread, with his clawed metal gauntlets always saving the land from the fiercest of beasts, marauders, and dark creeping things. Thus, Sir clause, soon became "Sir Claws" in honor of his justice-upholding appendages. And it is for this reason that the gifts most often given are swords, shields, flasks of a curious red liquid made from Slug Berry, a vile tasting medicinal liquid said to warm the hands and heart this time of year, usually mixed with Snot Beetle, also popular in drinks of the holiday season. Of course gloves are a popular gift, and it is not uncommon to see everyone from the most proper lady to the youngest child running through the holiday decorated streets of Wormwood with large clawed gauntlets.This is also the reason for an increase in first aid and bandage sales prior to the 13th of December each year, much to the liking of the Wormwood Bandage and Stitchers Union who are employed both at the Wormwood Valley School and at wormwood Valley General hospital and at the Medicinal intervention Facility. the residents of Wormwood remember, are a curious bunch, and they do enjoy a good fight now and then. with so many walking the streets with clawed fingers, it is bound to result in a  little bit of good old fashioned violence.  

It is also the tradition to celebrate St. Sir Claws through the giving of horse (in honor of the famous Breehy, Steed of the Dead as he came to be known) and dog-related paraphernalia, specifically for the breed of canine named in the Monk's honor, the Saint Bernard. Every December the 13th, the residents of the Wormwood Medieval & Mountaineering Expeditionary Club make a venture to the ruins at St. Bernard's Peak, the believed location of the ancient monastery. No one knows the location for sure, and many believe it is high in the mountains outside of the Valley, unreachable by it's residents and hidden amongst the towering walls of Ice. Many have claimed that late at night, if you look to the North, you just might be able to see a faint light flickering through the snow as St. Bernard's Monastery lights up the night. And if you listen closely, and peer through the trees just right, especially at Wormwood Pond, you may hear the gallop of Breehy's hooves as St. Sir Claws makes his way across the valley, slashing and fighting the beasts of the dark, protecting the roads for pilgrims, and bringing gifts to the good residents of Wormwood Valley. 

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.

Manager, Operator, Owner 

Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication    

    

 

   

  

  

Wolve's Bane Wednesday...

As the winter season moves from the high Mountains surrounding Wormwood down into valley, the snow begins to drift, slowly at first, from the tops of the trees and collect onto the streets, piling higher and thicker with each day. And with the coming cold, the hearts and minds of the residents of Wormwood begin to turn to the brief period of time between the winter holidays of Turkey Death Day and Mid Winter Solstice Christ Mass. Hidden deep in the folklore and mythology of Wormwood Valley is the little known holiday of Wolves Bane Wednesday.  

Wolves bane Wednesday has a very peculiar and rather sad beginning, and it is no wonder that the Wormwood Valley Council decided some years back to not regulate or sponsor any such event as they felt it was a bit too, well, depressing in an already fairly dark, cold and depressing time in the Valley. Winters can be very long and very dark in Wormwood. Now the people of Wormwood have never been ones to shy away from anything dark, but they are, as a general rule, a happy populace, but a superstitious one as well. Wolves Bane Wednesday was just a bit too dark for most of Wormwood.

 It all began with Snaggleraf Jenkins.

The Jenkins family, and their eldest son Snaggleraf specifically, was well known for a generally skeptical attitude towards holidays. It was rare to see them celebrate any holiday, civic event, Valley gathering or even Church function. Oh they came alright, they just didn't celebrate. They were more than willing to partake of the ample amounts of food, pies, cakes, muffins, tarts and delectable’s made by such prominent Wormwood Valley residents as Lady Sluggish St. Lawrence or Miss Marmalade, famous for her Melancholy Maladies, a sour little desert made from burnt toast and a pinch of secret ingredient that smelled of warm summer days and soft grass but tasted more like old dirt and moldy cheese.

 The Jenkins were happy to arrive early, stay late, and comment and complain when everything was not just so, but they certainly had no intention of having a good time or showing any appreciation whatsoever  for the efforts of their fellow residents to lighten the mood in the dreary winter season. The Jenkins family as a whole was not a very friendly bunch. One could often hear them coming from miles away, complaining and grumbling and fighting and wailing the entire way. They were an altogether miserable bunch, but they liked it that way and any offer to help was usually met with such a nasty reprieve that over the years their neighbors just grew accustomed to their bad behavior and ill tempered ways and expected little else. They were dirty, untidy, foul-smelling and had simply atrocious oral hygiene.   Of the two Jenkins boys, Snaggleraf and his younger brother Giddle, Snaggleraf was by far the most unfriendly and was particularly fond of bullying other students at school. His disobedience had grown quite legendary in fact, earning him the honored nickname “Headmaster Jenkins” amongst fellow students, as he spent more time in the Headmaster’s office than the Headmaster did himself. It was a rare day indeed that he was not sent by almost every teacher to the office at least once for disciplinary action on account of his horrendously bad behavior, ill temper, and disruptive nature. 

 On this particular winter Wednesday in December,  The entire Jenkins family was in attendance at the Wormwood Valley church social, where the congregation was about to vote on the best religion-related delicacy made by parishioners from across the Valley. As Minister McCloud called to the stage the three finalists, they gathered their succulent sacrilegious snacks and began the applause filled march to the stage. The votes were in, and this year’s winner would soon be announced. The finalists were, to little surprise, Lady Sluggish St. Lawrence and her dish titled Daniel’s Den of Lion’s Surprise, a meaty mush that actually smelled quite foul but looked rather tasty, packaged in a  pie crust that was glazed to a golden brown and adorned with a hand-carved lion’s head in delicate pastry decoration across the bulging top of the steaming hot pie. The rumor was that she used real Lion’s dung in the pie, as it would be deemed quite foul to go about actually cooking such a magnificent beast as a lion just to win a silly contest.  She blushed underneath her large fur coat and wide brimmed hat and glowed in her moment of temporary limelight as the crowd applauded and cheered at her confectionary creativity.  

 Following close behind Lady Sluggish was of course Miss Marmalade with a new and improved version of her famous Melancholy Maladies titled Martyrdom Marble Sponge Cake. She hid the desert beneath a large hand-sewn napkin depicting an ornately embroidered image of the Martyrdom of Saint Amphibalus, the pan still bubbling and steaming, and much to the happiness of both the Minister and the audience, it smelled much better than her former entries.

 Lastly was Mr. Sniggish deLawrence and his 7 Horseman of the Apocalypse  Armageddon Chili Cheese rolls  which curiously, both appeared and smelled rather scrumptious! He was new to this year’s event and everyone eagerly anticipated his arrival into the fiercely competitive contest.

Minister McCloud called each in turn as they stepped forward proudly, lifting the cover and revealing their masterpiece to the applause of the gathered crowd. As he called the final name, Mr. Sniggish stepped forward, his tiny round frame waddling to the front of the stage, arching his plump balding head as he slowly lifted the grey woolen napkin from the plate he carried to reveal…nothing! An empty, stained and barely a crumb-left barren pan was all that remained of Mr. Sniggish’s saucy sacred surprise!

 Gasps echoed through the church pavilion, drowned out only by the sound of the heaters turning on as the door swung open at the back of the hall, clanging and rattling in the astonished silence. As everyone looked, they saw a shoeless, haphazardly dressed Snaggleraf Jenkins leaping from the church steps and into the deep snow, his arms full of confectionary morsels and his mouth stuffed with Mr. Sniggish’s potentially prize winning pastries.

 Now one thing everyone in Wormwood remembers this time of year, is that the sun sets behind Old Kobold Hill and St. Bernard’s Peak rather early, and that means that in the winter, if you are venturing outside after dark you never do so without Wormwood Wolves’ Bane. It was the tradition in Wormwood to attach Wolves’ bane, a noxious weed-like plant  to the outside of one’s home, clothes, fences, animals, and even cars to ward off the potential danger that came from the hungry Wormwood Winter Wolves, searching for prey to take back to deepest corners of Wormwood Forest. Since the forests of Wormwood Valley were so vast, dark, and unexplored, any victim of the Wormwood Winter Wolves was rarely seen or heard from again. The Wormwood Winter wolves hibernated all summer and only came out in the most dire of conditions to search for food. They stood near as high as a man’s shoulder and were covered with thick grey and black matted fur that was often encrusted with the remains of past meals and bits of brush. Often many of the pack’s fiercest wolves could be seen in bits of scrap armour or leather hide protection they crafted themselves as they were a ferocious and warlike bunch of beasts. Some believed they were a bizarre and unnatural cross-breed from some far off land and had migrated to Wormwood Valley in search of Prey during the long winter nights.

 It was nearing three thirty in the afternoon, and it was in these in-between times as they were called, the moments just before and Dawn and just as Dusk began to arrive that one needed to be especially cautious of the Wormwood Wolves, and should never go outside without a good strong shot of Wolves’ Bane in the belly(a foul-tasting tea sometimes brewed that many believed could be taken internally to ward off the Wolves) or on the breast in a small lock of weed tied to a jacket or scarf.

 Sadly for Snaggleraf, he had neither.

 What he did have, was a full load of pungent and tasty treats, warm and aromatic, that filled the night air with a distinctly Wormwood-like smell. It was only after a great deal of screaming and yelling that the fellow church goers were able to refrain Mr.Sniggish from angrily chasing Snaggleraf out the door and into the night air. But before his stumpy little legs could even reach the end of the hall, the entire crowd stopped still. Off in the distance, just barely audible above the breathing of the astonished audience was a howl, faint and distant and laced with a cold chill that trickled down the spine of everyone in attendance. It was soon followed by another, then another. Barks and wails began to rise until it was clear that the Wormwood winter Wolves were just outside the church grounds. Immediately everyone knew what fate lay in store for the glutinous and greedy Snaggleraf.  As the wolves barks and wails grew louder, they strained to listen for Snaggleraf, but there was no scream, for Snaggleraf’s mouth was surely too full of food to yell for help. He was much too enthralled in his confectionary criminal activity to know what was coming for him through the trees. And as soon as the growls and barks and howls reached their crescendo…they stopped.

 Sadly, and to some, not so sadly, Snaggleraf was of course never heard from again. But some say they did see footprints scurrying into the woods, staggering as if carrying a tremendous load. And the next morning, deep within the woods, Mr. Sniggish found a lump of uneaten and very frozen 7 Horseman of the Apocalypse  Armageddon Chili Cheese rolls. It is on this Wednesday every December that Mr. Sniggish bakes a large portion of his potentially prize winning dish and delivers it to the Jenkins in tribute to their loss. They still accept it only begrudgingly and often complain about it’s needing this ingredient or that spice. But they are more than willing to eat it regardless.  And it is in honor of poor greedy Snaggleraf that a Wolves’ Bane vigil is burned each Wednesday night in December outside of the Wormwood Valley Church, just at the edge of Wormwood Valley forest. Curiously, each Thursday morning, fresh footprints can be seen in the snow, leading from the church to the darkest, deepest corners of the woods…

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.

Manager, Operator, Owner 

Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication    

Wormwood Turkey Death Day

Wormwood has a centuries old tradition of slaughtering Turkey's once a year and eating their remains in a festive and decorative manner. some have rumored this to be called "Thanksgiving" in the outside world. But in Wormwood we call this disgusting little holiday Turkey Death Day and it has just as dark of a history.

It all began with the founding fathers of Wormwood who were believed to have been pirates. They travelled to Wormwood (although no one is quite sure how they arrived on Wormwoods barren shores, as this remains a long speculated mystery to this day) to live out the remainder of their days in peace and quiet after a lifetime of pillaging and pirating across the high seas. When they arrived, they soon realized that they should celebrate said arrival through a rioting good pirate-esque celebration. And what better way to do that by finding and killing  local wildlife. 

The problem you see, is that this is exactly what the wildlife was thinking when they saw these gangly salty seamen making their way across the Wormwood River and establishing their foul-smelling base camp at the very spot that would later become Wormwood Square. 

Wormwood has always, well as far as anyone has ever been told, been a dark and dangerous place, full of mystery, legend, and creepy things that go bump in the woods. And the native inhabitants of Wormwood forest were no different. One particularly nasty local pack of forest roaming meat-eaters was the Worm Turkey. They often roamed in the woods in packs, their clawed scaly legs quickly darting through the woods in search of any prey unfortunate to be out after dark. they had an extremely mischievous glare in their beady little eyes, solid and black like two marbles set deep into the wrinkly sockets of a scaly bald and scabby head. This frightening appearance was only augmented by the greenish-yellow beak that peaked in a cruel curl, ending in a spindly sharp point at it's end. And unique only to the Wormwood Worm turkey was their small, but very sharp rows of serrated teeth that lined the tops and bottoms of their foul facial accessory. The name Worm turkey came to be on account of their ability to squiggle and worm from the hands of any hunter on account of the long, snake-like neck that ended in a squat and rather foul-smelling hodgepodge of mottled feathers and wrinkled fluff. they had a pension for scratching, and so it was not uncommon to see your average Worm turkey with various bald spots spread across their backside and under their small and utterly flightless wings.   

It was on a cloudy and overcast November evening that the Pirates of the galleon Bloodroot gathered to celebrate their freedom and future retirement in a blazing bonfire in the forest clearing, just west of the beachfront. Muddy Midge and Sven "the Axe Head" as his shipmates called him had stepped outside the circle of tattered deck chairs and wooden stumps to forage for a bit more wood to place on their ever-growing heat source. As rum was passed around the group, tents were pegged and mead and mutton were shared, Sven and Midge hobbled into the woods just out of sight of the rest of their crew. 

As Midge slowly gathered kindling and small scrub from the overgrown tree roots he noticed a rank stench coming from the darkness, just beyond the light of the dancing fire, casting strange and eerie shadows across the twisted bark of the massive forest canopy. As he looked up from his crouched position, his arms full of the dark scratchy branches, he squinted into the darkness and thought, briefly, that he say movement. He watched as the dark shadow seemed to split into three, then four, then more...everywhere! It slithered and waved in the shadows like a strange dance. 

"Sven!" he called quietly over his shoulder.

Sven, being a giant of a man, was not prone to fear in the shadows of the night. But he had also been raised on the seas, and so was not entirely familiar with the land, nor comfortable on unexplored shores. He moved slowly closer to Midge, staring at the same ever growing shift in the forest darkness, his axe twisting in his hand nervously. Sven was not called "The Axe Head" for nothing. Not only was his head a peculiarly similar shape to a dull and randomly blemished axe, but he was never without his trusty weapon, a massive norse-looking device he called "Svort"suitable for splitting both enemy ships and limbs in one swift blow. No one aboard the Bloodroot was truly sure what "Svort" meant, or why he chose such a distasteful sounding title for his most familiar companion, but few really wanted to know, nor dared to ask him. 

As the two seamen stared into the distance, Sven suddenly swooped his head back as a cloud of splintered wood and tossed sticks flew into the night air from below. He looked down and saw the round shape of his shipmate disappearing into the underbrush, his gathered wood flying in the melee. Midge screamed as the shadows, dark gangly looking birds of a species Sven had never seen wrapped their jagged beaks and twisting necks around the feet of Midge and dragged him out of reach. Quickly Sven grabbed his axe, and put Svort to work on these long spindly heads now attacking from every direction. Swooping and arching in wide motions of skill and brute strength, Sven fell the foul looking birds in single sweeps and before his crew mates could reach the end of the forest he emerged from the darkness, a wide smile across his face and an armful of Worm Turkey's in his massive arms. 

They of course honored the loss of Muddy Midge by roasting the foul beasts right there over the fire, and Turkey Death Day was born. Now, Why, you may ask, was it not named Muddy Midge day? A just question, but do remember, pirates were used to living in close quarters, and often it was not uncommon for them to grow quite tired of each other after long months at sea. Unfortunately for Midge, he had become quite 'muddy' (hence his well-suited nickname) from working in the bilges aboard the Bloodroot and he had become severely ripe with the scent of old seawater and dirty bilge water. Few were sad to see him go, but then again, Pirates are not known for their sincerity either. So, because the birds provided such a memorable feast for the crew, it was celebrated each year as an annual holiday. One is encouraged to eat until they are sick, participate in any number of pirate games brought to the shores of Wormwood, such as Pirate Dice, Pirate Checkers, or even Pirate Poker, and lounge, cavort, lollygag and idle away the afternoon with loved ones and close relatives in as Piraty of a way as possible. 

Happy Turkey Death Day, and may your heart be as full as your belly. 

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq. 

Manager, Operator, Owner 

Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication    

  

 

  

  

Snafflegrass & Snot Beetle

As the Holidays approach, it is only appropriate to offer our readers the Weekly Wormwood Recipe of Renown that has become so famous throughout Wormwood Valley during the Holiday season.

First, some history. 

Snafflegrass is a noxious weed first planted eons ago to keep out the insectoid creatures of the Wormwood Forest from the edges of the Valley's abundant farmlands. The first farmer to employ Snafflegrass was Farmer Hiles of Gam. He had been growing the weed in his basement for decades, much to the dismay of his wife, the lady Bountainhew. She was best known for her oversized Blackbird pies, and the Snafflegrass filled the kitchen with such a horrid odor that it eventually worked it's way into the very fabric of Lady Bountainhew's nostril cavity. This unfortunate event destroyed and contorted her nostrils to a most ghastly shape, and even worse, removed her sense of smell all together. It was without even noticing, that her pies began to take a turn for the worse, for she had eventually lost her sense of smell entirely. Sadly, the final straw was the Wormwood Valley Pie Extravaganza and Carnivale' where she was expected to deliver another award winning Black Bird pie. As Lady Bountainhew stood before the crowds and unveiled what she deemed her finest confectionary creation, the smell of the Snafflegrass, permeated into the pie crust and even the black bird filling, reached the crowd with devastating and horrid results. The smell of Snafflegrass of course leads to immediate vomiting, followed by an extreme thirst, and often capped with a good deal of time spent in the water closet. 

She was astonished! flabbergasted! Stupefied! Bewithered! For the crowds fled in a dire panic at the smell of her pie, and the Wormwood Valley Pie Extravaganza and Carnivale'  was never held again. In fact, just the sheer mention of said event will often lead to similar maladies and sickness amongst any in earshot. Well when Lady Bountainhew returned home, you can be sure that all Snafflegrass was immediately eradicated from the Hiles of Gam home and Farmer Hiles was never again allowed to cultivate Snafflegrass in the farmhouse basement. Since he had no control over the development of the plant, it remained in it's toxic, foul-smelling, albeit beautiful looking state and so it remains to this day. 

Sadly for the Gam household, in a fit of anger and frustration over her public debacle of nostril intoxication, Lady Bountainhew vowed to eradicate all the snafflegrass from the Gam farm. As she did, the insectoid creatures (which can grow to quite unmanageable sizes you know) moved ever closer towards the Gam household and crops. Soon little was left of Farmer Hiles of Gam's croplands, and it was on a crisp November morn that as Lady Bountainhew hung hr freshly laundered sheets on the clothes line, she encountered a Wormwood forest Snot beetle, just feet away from her clean laundry, slyly creeping through the tall grasses. She ran of course, as anyone with a bit of sense would, but it was to no avail. The Wormwood Snot Beetle had her in it's slimy oozing spray, and she was believed to have been dragged into the darkness of the woods, lost forever. 

To commemorate the sad loss of Lady Bouintainhew, a gravestone was set in the Wormwood cemetery, surrounded by a beautiful, but quite pungent flowering array of snafflegrass. For everyone in town assumed it to be her favorite. It is in honor of Lady Bountainhew and the Wormwood Snot Beetle that the traditional Wormwood wreath of Snafflegrass is placed upon many a door. Snafflegrass tea is offered this time of year as a barrier against the cold chill of Wormwood Valley evenings, often served piping hot with just a touch of Snot Beetle for that extra kick. 

And if your feeling extremely festive, it is an old tradition to share a spot of Snafflegrass Tea with the ghost of Lady Bountainhew by pouring just a smidgen on her headstone before mid winter's eve. 

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq. 

Manager, Operator, Owner 

Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication    

  

   

Wormwood re-grown...

Wormwood Valley...and it's corresponding blog have been...well let's just say "out of commission" for some time and "unable to be reached."

According to the wormwood Valley Power Authority, this is due in part to the large number of Ice Squirrels this time of year who find it amusing to burrow into local power poles throughout central Wormwood, creating a series of cavity's for their convenience and close proximity to downtown Wormwood and the holiday shopping. The Squirrels can be a bit lazy and are know for their utter hatred of traveling long distances to do their shopping. This of course leads, much to the Squirrels dismay, to the power poles rotting away from overcrowding and generally bad behavior and eventually their temporary holiday housing come crashing down at irregular intervals, stripping the valley of power for days on end. 

Reports are heard of giddy laughter, mixed with spewing pieces of chewed up wood as the Squirrels run from the collapsing structure and find accommodations in other vertically imposed architecture throughout the central Wormwood Valley. It's a frequent and almost annual occurrence. 

The Town Council has recently met to hire an official Wormwood Valley Ice Squirrel Eradicator and Conflict Resolution Specialist, a Mr. Hootenany J. Pumperstein. Apon his initial employ, he was immediately assigned to negotiate terms for the Ice Squirrels removal from Wormwood Valley with the King of  the Ice Squirrels, Lord Shnickety Templeton Rathbon who's Kingdom was believed to be located deep within Wormwood Forest in the old Happy Lumberjack Mill Processing and Woodworking plant. 

While traveling through Wormwood Forest is task enough for a single individual, meeting with the Squirrels and expecting them to be willing to negotiate for new real estate is just simply foolhardy. Everyone in Wormwood knows that they have a tendency to be quite temperamental. This is believed to be due in part to the cold and it's icicle-like effects on the Squirrels main two front teeth. This also presents another problem, as understanding them becomes quite difficult, what with the large conglomeration of old ice built up on their mouths. Thus, negotiations have never gone very well with the Squirrels of Wormwood Forest.

As of press time, no resolution had been reached, and as expected, Mr. Pumperstein has yet to have been seen.  Most believe, that like many before him, he fell victim to the Squirrels bad temper and poor character. 

So as communication lines are re-drawn, re-drilled and and re-established with the onslaught of the Wormwood Holiday Christmas season, further updates from Wormwood Valley will be included as they are deemed necessary. 

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq. 

Manager, Operator, Owner 

Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication