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

Crisp fall mornings and tinkling on the trees...

The fall mist settles in flowing waves over the grasses , meadows and forested lanes of central Wormwood, and the trees begin to show their remarkable changing colors in slowly evolving waves, stretching and arching to capture beams of light as the sun brakes over the Eastern Mountains, cresting the old Abbey at St. Bernard's Peak. As morning light creates piercing lines of yellow across the dark sky and filters into the nooks and cranny's of Wormwood Valley, the town slowly starts to come alive.

Early morning in Wormwood always starts with the aroma of fresh coffee and exotic teas from Kashnipits Coffee and Tea, located just south of the Wormwood Fountain in central Wormwood. Now, as everyone should know, Kashnipit's prepares this time of year to celebrate it's annual origination from the Battle of Wormwood as the fall weather turns to winter, offering free cups of Slug Bean tea, piping hot and served with crumpets and cakes from Genghis Khan's Confectionary Delights.

It was in this fall frenzy of early morning palatable bliss that I found myself strolling this morning through the Wormwood Valley Forest, taking the old Forest Road past Lost Limb hill and West towards the Old forest crossroads and Old Pumpkin Bridge. There alongside the Old Forest Road, stands an ancient Wormwood Tree, named by the local residents, Crawley's Corner. It is a distinctly designed tree, with a most unique bark color and an unusual shape and twist to it's main trunk. This symbol of the power and majesty of the Wormwood forest inspired the desire to dredge up past Wormwood Valley histories and refresh the tale of Crawdad Crawley and his ill-fated thought to tinkle on a tree, something everyone in Wormwood should always be cautious of if they find themselves walking about under the canopy of the Old Wormwood Trees when nature calls.

It was nearly 30 years ago that Crawdad Crawley, a local Accumulator at the Wormwood Reclamation Facility and Lost Limb Hill Attachment Division had an unfortunate encounter with an angry old Wormwood Tree, forever sealing him as a local landmark and an unfortunate victim of the temperament of Wormwood Forests longest, and largest, permanent residents.

Now Crawdad Crawley was of course, a crawdad, his spindly legs and twiggy appendages worked marvelously for pulling small fingers, toes, thumbs and noses from the mixers on Lost Limb Hill. As everyone knows, Lost Limb Hill is rumored to repair and replace many of the "lost" or "erased" parts of local residents here in Wormwood, and while there mission remains somewhat secret and often just simply "not discussed" here in Wormwood, everyone has their own beliefs and opinions as to what goes on behind those massive steel doors. It is for this reason that Crawdad Crawley, a little known resident, was so valuable of a worker. He socialized with few, had little interest in local gatherings, festivals. or history, even in Pirating season, and kept to himself in his small dugout hole at the edge of the Wormwood River. He would don his yellow hard hat and bright orange vest each morning and scurry along the road, thermos in hand to his post at Lost Limb Hill, barely saying a word to anyone along the way.

The only time in fact, that anyone ever did see Crawdad in any form of regular occurrence was during Renaissance season, a time after the fervor of the years Pirating tournament has wained but before the onset of the typical Wormwood Valley Holidays like Turkey Death Day and St. Claws Eve. It was during this strange time that the local fencing, medieval warfare and table top wargaming clubs unite in Wormwood Central park for massive and often times bloodthirsty battles, both on paper and in person. Armed with a variety of foam, steel and even wooden weapons, the great battles draw huge crowds as armored knights, mail-clad warriors and fantastical beasts fight for the spectacle and entertainment of local residents. The fact that it coincides with the Wormwood Valley storytelling season is no small coincidence, and many of the participants are adept artists, writers and gamers. It is an all-together glorious time in Wormwood Valley when no costume is too outlandish, no story too fantastic and no fable too faulty.

It was at a large post-battle gathering, seated around a roaring bonfire one crisp fall evening, that Crawdad begun to spin a yarn of eerie forest spirits filling the very trees with intelligence, ferocity, and dark old magic. All in earshot sat poised for the climax to Crawdad's story, his slow drawl slurping the words from beneath the large woolen cloak he wore each year, hiding his iridescent green bug-like eyes and spiky shelled frame from the dancing light of the evening fire. At the end of the fictional history that Crawdad told of the founding fathers of Wormwood Valley loosing scores of explorers to the great lurking demons within the very trunks of the Wormwood Trees, the crowd cheered at the questionable history, the dark danger lurking outside their doors and the chill of fear pulsating through the crowd of well-wishers and imaginative re-enactors. They laughed heartily, giving little thought to the story Crawdad shared, and chalked it up to another fantastic tale of fictional history in Wormwood Valley, of which, there are plenty.

As Crawdad ventured home late that night, holding aloft only a single lantern, he thought about the story he revealed and scoffed at the naivety of his fellow combatants. Having lived along the shores of the Wormwood River his entire life, Crawdad had seen many a strange thing lurking in the trees late at night, and he knew for a fact, that what others thought of as an "entertaining story" was in fact, very very real. Each Wormwood Tree had it's own spirit, it's own mindset and temperament. Their branches stretched forth like great lurking arms, sprouting leaves and foliage in an effort to protect and shroud their individual trunks from the cares of the valley and its peculiar and quirky set of residents. And this night, Crawdad could hear the trees talking. They creaked and moaned, stretched and groaned with the rustle of a late night breeze. He quickened his pace as he scurried along the old forest road, looking behind, below, and above him in every direction as the ill-wind seemed to follow along at his heels.

Reaching the edge of the old forest, he quickly drew out his tarnished pocket watch, a gift from his father, Count Crayfish Crawdad who unfortunately had met his demise some years earlier at the end of a long fishing pole as he wandered carelessly some ways downstream. Crawdad clicked open the small steel cover, peering at the time beneath the flickering lamp light, and hoping beyond all hope that it was not yet midnight. It was, as all should wisely know, considered extremely foolish to be out past midnight in the Old Forest. Any number of dark unmentionable things could be hunting their evening meal along the old road, and those things seen are never half as bad as those that are not. As he peered down at the watch, he let out a sigh of exasperated relief as he realized it was nearly thirty minutes to twelve, and that should leave him plenty of time to reach Old Pumpkin Bridge and his warm sandy hole at the edge of the Wormwood river.

Unwisely however for Crawdad, he had partaken of far too much of Madam Mickering's Madman Punch, a drink made from rotten apples, old cloves and a bit of dried fig. He quickly looked about the road, seeing to his privacy as he attempted to relieve himself on the edge of a large Wormwood Tree. And that's where he learned his great and final lesson. Never tell a story, be it true or not, unless you plan to apply what you create. Stories, especially in Wormwood Valley, have a certain way of coming true. And more often than not, they have a dark and contorted end. Sadly for Crawdad, his was no different.

As he sighed with relief, he heard the crackling stretching arm of the branches above him, the twisted knots and aged bark of this giant lurking Wormwood Tree contorting into a cruel and wicked smile. He looked up horrified, and realized his foley, but it was too late. In one swift arch, the Wormwood Tree groaned a great ancient growl, and scooped poor Crawdad up in it's leafy arm, twisting and cracking his small shell-fish frame until it was swallowed hole into the dark cavernous maw of the great old tree. Crawdad scratched and clawed at the inside of the wooden tree bowel, but his digestion was complete. His twisted growl of foolish agony can, to this day, be seen within the bark itself, the trunk formed into a perfect replica of his last horrified expression. Even his hands, held aloft in clawing fear are formed in perfect statuesque wood. And in the distance, on cool fall evenings when the clock reaches nearly thirty minutes to twelve, some have claimed hearing a slight tick, as if the very tree itself still held the old pocket watch deep within it's trunk.

So as the fall weather turns cool, and the skies darken early, the leaves turn a deep golden hue and the trees stretch and groan to hold onto their last remaining bits of weathering foliage, remember, always ask before tinkling on the trees, for you never know which ones may not take kindly to your hasty relief. Dark things lurk in the trees come fall, and the warning of Winter is only weeks behind.

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkley Tolew III Esq.

Commander in Charge

Wormwood Daily

Ahhh...the contrast of creating the right welcoming...

There exists in writing Wormwood valley a contrast that continues to present a problem, akin to the removal of a wart from the nasal crest of a giant Wormwood Forest Root Ogre.

This contrast is creating the proper introduction to Wormwood Valley for young readers, and yet, adequately providing interest in Wormwood Valley's primary character, Eye Ball Boy (or E.B. for short as he prefers to be called). If he were nothing other than a regular human lad, then perhaps the problem would not be quite as extensive, but his strange and somewhat disturbing physical feature (or lack thereof) provides quite the challenge. How does one become instantly "attached" to a young boy that consists of little more than a giant eyeball, and a set of gangly pre-teen limbs draped in faded jeans and a grey hooded sweatshirt?

Such is the twisted realm of Wormwood Valley!

An excerpt from Wormwood Valley-Quest for the Golden Hook...

A small sampling of the first chapter of Wormwood Valley, straight from the un-authorized archival version personally owned and transcribed from ancient anglo-saxon celt-nyrdyvian by Sir Finneus McShrinks, owner and curator of the Wormwood valley Natural History and Ancient Free-Explorers Guild.

Our thanks to our readers who have so fervently requested said transcription as part of our weekly series on the mythology, history, and fables of Wormwood Valley.

From deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkley Tolew III Esq.

Editor-in-Command,

Wormwood Daily Information Publication

1.

Wormwood Valley

Wormwood Valley is not your typical place. And Wormwood Valley is not your typical book.

You see, in Wormwood Valley it is extremely important to keep an open mind. So perhaps things should be explained a bit first.

Wormwood Valley sat along the coast of a far off land, long forgotten and surrounded by high snow-capped mountains. No one really knew exactly where Wormwood was, and no one really cared to find out. Wormwood consisted of nothing really; No amusement parks, attractions, tourist spots or even an abundance of noteworthy natural beauty. The one thing Wormwood did contain was trees, lots and lots of trees. Strange, dark, crinkly old trees. They were un-friendly and all-together uninviting trees. Trees that hid things.

Despite the darkness of Wormwood Valley’s vast forests and very long nights, it could be a very adventurous and exciting place to live. Sundown in Wormwood was usually around four in the afternoon, and sunrise somewhere in the neighborhood of ten in the morning. The people of Wormwood never had much use for the sun. The darkness and the moon were much more fun, and besides, who needs all that light anyways? The darkness hides things, and sometimes, that’s a good thing.

In Wormwood Valley there were of course flowers, parks, and miles and miles of trees to play, run and hide in, and creativity was highly encouraged. The residents of Wormwood (if you could call them that) were most definitely ‘strange.’ They were not your typical neighbors and each had a unique, and sometimes, secret history all their own. There were of course families, children, pets, schools, dentists, doctors, mailmen and sanitation engineers, but no one, not even the town mayor, knew exactly how they got to Wormwood. You see, in Wormwood, no one ever grew up, and no one ever got old. There were old and young of course, but that’s how they had always been, and that’s how they always would be. They just were. This never really mattered much to the people of Wormwood Valley because these questions were not something they necessarily wanted to know the answers to. And you may not either!

Wormwood was a very strange place, and the people of Wormwood (if you could call them that) were most definitely ‘strange.’ There were of course families, children, pets, schools, dentist’s doctor’s mailmen and sanitation engineers, but no one, not even the town mayor, knew exactly how they got to Wormwood. You see, in Wormwood, no one ever grew up, and no one ever got old. There were old and young of course, but that’s how they had always been, and that’s how they always would be. They just were. This never really mattered much to the people of Wormwood Valley because these questions were not something they necessarily wanted to know the answers to. And you may not either!

You see, in Wormwood, no one ever asked questions, about anything! They never asked for a menu. They never asked for directions. They never asked where to mail a letter, or where to sharpen scissors, or even where the restroom was located! And they certainly never asked how Wormwood came to be! It was not important, and it was not considered polite. Everyone had stories and legends and myths and ideas of course, but no one really knew for sure. One of the many things that made Wormwood Valley so peculiar was that no one asked too many questions. It was considered quite rude. Oh you could certainly ask, but questions were not believed to all have answers, and those that did were often ignored altogether. In Wormwood Valley, the residents lived by a strict motto:

Don’t ask too many questions, for you may not like the answers!

So just where and what, was Wormwood? To explain the people of Wormwood Valley, one must have quite the imagination. If you are not such an individual, this is perhaps the best place for you to now put this story down, and move along to something that makes a bit more ‘sense.’ Go ahead. Here is your chance.

Very well. Since it is considered rude to ask, I will save you the trouble and tell you how the people of Wormwood come to be, even though they themselves do not really know (and they certainly would never ask). Have you ever wondered what happens to all the people, things, ideas, sketches, stories and drawings that get ‘thrown away?’ What do you think happens to that poor half-drawn doggy that you crumpled up and discarded because it looked more like a rhinoceros then a Springer Spaniel? What do you think became of those gruesome images you put onto paper of what you would like to do to your teacher, little brother or even your sisters’ dolls? Every drawing, every painting, every piece of scrap ever imagined through ink and chalk and paint and lead…becomes real!

When that line is drawn, when that ‘magic wand’ you call a pencil touches the paper, amazing, wonderful, and magical things can begin to happen! Even dangerous things! Look closely, and you might begin to see them appear, right before your very eyes! They all have to go somewhere. And that ‘somewhere’ is Wormwood Valley. So as I’m sure you can imagine, there is quite a range of citizens in Wormwood Valley. All different, all unique, and all, very, very real!

How to spend a rainy afternoon in Wormwood

Ahh..fall.

As the rains and the clouds begin to roll through our little valley, and the air turns to that slightly sharp feel, leaving just a tint of burnt smell on ones nose, it causes a reflection that makes one seek the great indoors. and here fellow Wormwood readers, is a recommended recipe for a safe and satisfying rainy afternoon in Wormwood. Afterall, we all know that the rains bring out all sorts of nasty's in the forests, and what better way to spend a dark dank fall afternoon than surrounded by a smart blend of good advice?

1) Start with a nice hot cup of Wormwood Peppermint Tea.

Everyone knows that in wOrmwood valley everything is bigger, stranger, and in the case of Wormwood Peppermint, far more potent than anywhere else in the know Realms. I recommend three leaves of wormwood Peppermint steeped in a piping hot cup and served with just a smidgen of rosemary (also a local WOrmwood favorite!)

2) Move on to a comfortable spot, a nice chair, a soft couch, a large wooden desk, preferably one surrounded by old books, dusty tomes, and various instruments of imagination, exploration, and inspiration. there is nothing better than spending the afternoon exploring ones imagination over a hot cup of team and in a nice dark study. Wormwood Peppermint tea tends to open the pathways n the brain, enlightening it's partaker and creating new ideas, interesting thoughts, magical stories, and even more magical happenings!

3) Surround yourself with good music. Put a quiet disc on the phonograph machine, plug in your latest electronically activated contraption or sit quietly and hum your favorite tune as you look at the rain, dropping like crystal sparks of bouncing mercury from the mottled pillows of grey far above the valley.

4) Envelop yourself into your surroundings. Light a candle, spark a flame, a bit of incense, a smidgen of potpourri.

5) Think upon the mysteries of time, adventure, exploration, creativity, and by all means, let the mind wander and take you on a journey. Be calm, be restful, breathe in deep the aroma of peppermint and rosemary as you listen tot the thunder roll and boom through the valley and echo off the Cliffs of Siddle far to the east over the rolling waves of the great sea.

That my friends, is how to best spend a rainy day in Wormwood.

Although you could of course join the town guard for a day of Giant Flesh Eating Slug hunting as they rid the roads of the harassing robbers and meat-eating bandits and their slimy trails of foul putrescence.

There is always the Wormwood Rain Drop Guild's annual semi-weekly bi-monthly (weather permitting of course) rain drop counting extravaganza that takes place in the heart of Wormwood Square. A winner has yet to ever be decided, and the competition is now in it's 333 year!

Lastly, we should suggest one more treat for the materialistically inclined shopper of all things Wormwood. The Wormwood Rain market, where one can find only the most peculiar of oddities for sale only brought to market under gloomy skies and foul weather. It is here that one can by anything from Mandrake root to broken wands to spell books gone awry. There is a peculiar array of old bones and unidentifiable skeletal remains that the Wormwood Natural History collegium has all but given up on identifying as well. They are always needing to make room in their archives for some newly discovered monstrosity, and that of course, means out with the old, and in with the, well...older.

Yes Wormwood continues to be a magical place as the season change from summer to fall, the leaves twinkle and the rain begins to keep the valley that deep shade of misty green. So enjoy the change, embrace the rain.

For once the darkness of winter sets in, Wormwood is a much more uninviting place. Dangerous even.

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.

Manager, Operator, Owner

Wormwood Valley Daily Information Operations Publication

Cool September mornings and blood in the Water...

As we approach the coming pirating season, on of the most famous of all Wormwood Pirating mysteries is the secret underground location of the Peg Leg's Pirate ship, the SS Pointy Pontoon.

The SS Pointy Pontoon supposedly sits anchored deep underground, reached only through a complex and confusing set of catacombs, mazes and tunnels connected directly into the Wormwood Valley sewer system. The sewers beneath Wormwood are quite ancient and astoundingly complex. they overlap, twist and turn every few feet only to end in long dark holes, shallow drains and mysterious closed doors deep beneath the Wormwood Mountains.

The only entrance and exit known is that of the Wormwood River flow-through gate, south of town and nestled somewhere deep in the jagged rocks of the Wormwood River Cliffs. It is somewhere beneath these dark and foreboding waters that the Peg Leg's, one of the most ferocious and dedicated of Wormwood's Pirating teams struggles for their chance at this years Golden Hook Tournament. But it is their surroundings and their peculiar choice of practice locales that gives the SS Pointy Pontoon and even darker reputation, for legend says that the SS Pointy Pontoon sits anchored directly beneath Billy Blood Falls.

Billy Blood Falls was named after Billy Bilgerat, a local resident who attempted to float down the falls of the Wormwood River in a barrel he had made in his 17th century cooper arts class specifically for the feat. Billy advertised his stunt all over Wormwood, tacking signs to every light post in town and even taking out a full page ad in our very own Wormwood paper, the Wormwood Valley Daily Information Operations Publication. It was a warm September morning when the entire town turned out to witness Billy’s amazing stunt, complete with the Wormwood School String Ensemble and Celebratory Funeral Band. Banners flapped in the morning breeze, the sun glistened off of the foaming spray of the Wormwood River casting shimmering rainbows across the many residents gathered at the waters edge. Everyone watched as Billy entered his barrel just at the edge of the rapidly falling river, his pudgy frame squeezing into the barrel like a tiny black silhouette against a clear morning sky of deep blue. He sealed the lid shut with the help of the towns local Master Cooper, Mr. Abacus, and put in above the waterfall, some 375 feet above. The barrel bobbed and bounced as it neared the edge of the waterfall, and momentarily stopped as if stuck on a branch or rock. the crowd gasped, the band fell silent, and the anticipation hung in the air like the droplets of water sticking to the dense branches of the surrounding Wormwood trees. Curiously, the barrel continued to hover, right at the edge of the falls as if there was some unseen hand keeping Billy from completing his foolish attempt. Suddenly the barrel pitched to its side, rolled and slowly fell from the river above in an almost slow-motion like descent.

Silence fell over the gathered masses, the only sound the echoing thunder of the crashing water. The crowd watched as the barrel seemed to float gently down, disappearing into the white misty abyss below, the roar of the falls deafening the barrels splash to silence. Everyone shuffled quickly to the edge of the river, scanning the water frantically for any sign of the barrel’s surfacing from the thick frothy depths. They watched, and watched…and watched, but Billy, and his barrel, never surfaced. The only sign of Billy’s ludicrous stunt was a faint shadow of red watery blood, swirling in the waters and churning with the falling river.

wormwood called out the local town rescue militia, complete with a cadre' of the towns best swimmers and searched all day for poor Billy or any signs of his barrel. by nightfall, the search had to be called off. the woods were far to dangerous to search at night, and the Wormwood River especially. All sorts of nasty things were known to come out to drink at night along the edges of the Wormwood River, and that would only make the search more complicated. It's quite difficult to swim in a raging river in the dark when one is being hunted by a Giant Black Fin Water Worm, or the notorious Wormwood River Gulp Gulley's, massive silvery fish that glow by the light of their own beating organs, ever pursuant up stream for their next meal.

for three more days the crews searched, all the while bringing no sign of Billy Bilgerat or his barrel. The Mayor of Wormwood Valley, Prime Grinnister Marvin ‘The Hack’ Burnstyle, declared it a day of morning, banned barrel stunts from Wormwood Valley and re-named the waterfall Billy Blood Falls in his honour.

To this day, some say that the waterfall splashes forth a faint red cloud of mist each morning in the month of September as it splashes into the river below and continues its flow through the Wormwood Pirating Arena and out to sea, as if Billy’s ghost is calling from beneath the depths, longing to be remembered once more for his foolhardy and ludicrous stunt.

He was awarded, posthumously of course for his record-setting barrel float and his prize winning barrel. Mr. Abacus, the Master Cooper and teacher of 16th and 17th century Coopering Arts at the Wormwood Valley School never quite got over the loss. Billy's barrel was said to be one of the best barrels he had ever seen made by one of his students, and he felt Billy had quite the future in pirate barrel making ahead of him.

To this day, many an eye watches the banks of the Wormwood River as it flows and ebb's its way through town in the month of September, each looking for a spot of blood, or a sliver of wood that might bring them good luck, passed down the falls by little Billy Bilgerat.

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.

Manager, Operator, Owner

Wormwood Valley Daily Information Operations Publication

There be change in the wind, and Pirates be afloat...

As the sun rises over St. Bernards Peak, slowly filtering the muted late-summer sun into the deepest and darkest corners of Wormwood Forest, one can't help but think briefly of the coming storm, slowly moving across the horizon towards the eastern shore of Wormwood Valley, this approaching concoction of gunpowder, wet wood and soggy students means can mean only one thing...Pirating Season is nearly in full swing.

As the local reporter for the entire Pirating Season, it is my fair duty to make the best initial judgment possible for the outcome of this eyars Golden Hook Tournament.

It is difficult to say that the upset of last years events, what with the dismissal by somewhat superntural means of the SS Cranky Canker and the Not-So-Jolly Rogers, did not tend to cast a bit of a dark shadow over this years projections as we sat at the rotten stump table deep below Wormwood hashing out our predictions for this years tournament over crinkle tea and slug snot, but with the rising star Eye Ball Boy and his faithful companions, and the slightly disgruntled cantacerisms of the Peg Legs, this is sure to be a year to remember, even in the shadow of last.

But a whisper, a slight rumble, eggy in it's descriptive odor has slowly crept it's way into the deepest halls of the Wormwood Daily, and it smells of eggs.

Yes, the Eggelstein's and the SS Yellow Yolk has ben spotted hard at practice. Everyone should remember the Plank walkers from their previous Pirating season strategy of just surrendering before the matches often began, and then in some form of lemming-like initiation, running at full speed to the planks of their vessel and plummeting overboard, white flag in hand.

Well, it just may be so, that this will not be the case this year.

The new guidelines to co-incide with plummeting Math and Science scores in the Wormwood Educational system which allows and encourages students to utilize their imaginations at creating all sorts of wild contraptions and devices to aid in their Pirating endeavors, has, rumor says, created just the spark of enlightened courage the Plank walkers needed.

Yes, some have said that the ingenuity and science know-how of the Egg-shaped captain and his crew has resulted in a supposed army of pirating robots to accompany them on their first match coming October the 1st.

We shall see, but if the small wooden contraptions as they are being described, are as ingenious and effective as the Plank Walker's previous strategy of flailing wildly off the yard arms to complete an utter assurance of a last place placing, year after year, then perhaps, just a bit of "yellow" luck will flow their way and they might capture a victory, or at least, find themselves accompanied by an army of following contraptions as they plummet into the depths of the Wormwood Pirating arena, waving their white flag in customary failure.

We at the Wormwood Daily however, would like to see an upset, be it fair, other-worldly, or just plain "piraty!" Afterall, that's what Pirating is all about...

Let the cannons roar, and man the main sail, Pirating season is afloat...

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.

Manager, Operator, Owner

Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication

Wormwood Valley...now on Twitter...

Follow the darkly twisted happenings of Wormwood Valley as it continues to grow...

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Hair of Troll, Fur of Mole...

In the late summer, the Valley of Wormwood begins to grow bored with the seasons activities. The snow is gone, the woods are green, and Pirating season is in full swing, teams clashing and flailing to grapple their way to the top of the local ranks for a chance to compete in the Annual Golden Hook tournament each October the 13th. 

So it is in this odd between season times, when one grows glum of the current season and begins to look forward to the next, that the weary resident often finds themselves, when caught unaware, coming dangerously close to the many un-niceties that exist year round in the dark corners of Wormwood forest. Such was the case of Ms. Juniper Shlocklovia Dracul and her parents, Gustaf and Winifred. 

It was some years ago that Juniper, at the time only a child of about ten years of age, traveled along with her aprents through the dark corners of Wormwood Forest one late summers eve. Gustaf and Winifred had recently fled their fellow Gypsies after a squabble surrounding missing dishcloths and old diapers. A Local Gypsy woman, a crazed and wethered old maid by the name of Shlovka Grotesquy, had accused Juniper of stealing her dishcloths and enchanting her child's diapers with her twisted magical abilities, something Gustaf and Winnifred had recognized since Junipers birth.  You see, Juniper enjoyed gathering bits of string, old cloth, ragged twine and even lost hairs from local wildlife to make elaborate enchanted jewelry, mysterious tokens and magical charms that could be used for everything from warding off bad odor to dispelling giant toads. This time, however, Juniper had gone to far in her efforts to gather raw materials and was caught red-handed, pilfering through old woman Grotesquy's wagon trash. Well the caravan soon fell under old woman Grotesquy's influence, and accused Juniper for every bit of bad luck, ill fortune and un-sprouting crop in the entire camp. The Shlocklovia Dracul family had to flee late at night, dodging torches and pitch forks as they rolled their wooden wagon into the darkness, seeking a new home and a safer location to foster their daughters unusual and as of yet un-appreciated talents.

As their wooden wagon rolled and thumped over the rotted tree roots and putrid undergrowth of the old Wormwood Forest Road that late summers eve, the sun began to creep below the western mountains, and the creepy crawlies began to emerge. Juniper sat in the rear of the families wagon, her bare feet slathered in mud from a day spent walking and gathering old oak sprouts and fairie stool mushrooms, dangling carelessly off the back of the cart as she turned the pages of some ancient Gypsy book of spells. Her mother and father sat at the front on the small wooden bench, leading their mule Oxnard at an increasingly slagging pace, his spindly grey legs exhausted from a day on the trail. An old map said that somewhere up the road lay a fertile valley, and this was the place the family planned to establish their new home, far from the accusing yes of the gypsy clan and old woman Grotesquy.  As Juniper turned the crinkling pages of her ancient tome, the wagon stopped with a sudden thump, a squeal echoing through the woods. She turned quickly, looking through the arched wooden interior of the old Gypsy wagon past pots and pans, blankets and boxes, old candles and worn clothes. As she peered through the tangled web of their family belongings towards the front of the cart, she could see neither her parents, nor Oxnard the mule. All that remained was an empty bench, two torn leather harness straps, a bit of spilt blood, and a large tangle of matted brown hair. 

Now Juniper was not at all saddened by the sudden realization that she was alone in the woods. She felt all to comfortable in the dark depths of the forest and immediately recognized the mass of tangled hair, random stiff spines of it spread throughout the wagons front bench. She had made plenty of good use of this stiff black thread over the years as it made wonderful material for bracelets, necklaces, and charms against colds and runny noses. It could of course only be one thing: Troll nose hairs. Everyone knows that Trolls, especially Giant Forest Trolls, shed their nose hairs when the sniff out fresh prey. And everyone should know (for their own safety of course) that Trolls prefer Gypsy's over any other roadside snack. Now the one curiosity in this tragic scene was of course Oxnard, for Trolls most certainly did not enjoy Mule. In fact, they hated it. So much so, that they often would not attack a caravan if it was pulled by a mule. Unless of course, they were accompanied by a giant Mole. The two often worked in cahoots to attack their prey from both behind and below, the Mole's digging large pits in the roads and swallowing the livestock whole. a forest road can be a very dangerous place you see.

Juniper smelled the air, slowly pulling a charm of enchantment from her tunic pocket, a pendant she always carried close in case of an emergency such as this.  She knew a Mole was near as she could hear the scruffing and scratching of the dirty beast feeding on poor Oxnard. Sure enough, as she slowly crept around the front of the wagon, there, just out of sight, was the Giant Mole, dragging the poor mule below the surface of the Old Wormwood Forest Road. Fearing her parents were long gone, since Trolls waste no time in returning their prey to their lair, she turned her attention to escaping the ever blackening forest. She quickly spoke a slurred Gypsy spell as she held aloft the Charm of Enchantment, it's small wooden bead twisting and swirling with color as it began to spark and ignite in a flare of subtle blue sparks. As it shook ever more violently, the mole looked up from it's hole, it's nose sniffing, eyes peering, just above the dirt to see what disturbed the air above it's newly dug trap. 

No sooner had the furry beast turned it's scraggly whiskered nose to the trees than a giant arc of blue light shot from Junipers hand, igniting the forest in a glow of hazy blue smoke, and filling the air with the horrid cry of the mole, it's furry frame twisting and writhing in revolt as the charm took effect. Forcing the mole to follow the stream, magnetically enslaved by its spell like power,  the mole moved uncontrollably towards Juniper. She spoke slowly, methodically chanting the incantation as she forced the mole to the edge of the cart, the leather straps once worn by her dear old mule, now magically floating around the mole and buckling tight around his fat haunches, the reins and bit gagging into his sharply  toothed maw.       

She climbed aboard the wagon, all the while keeping the charm poised over the Mole, commanding him to lead her on to safety, the blue light igniting her face from beneath her woolen cloak, giving her both a powerful, and an ominous presence as the cart continued to roll slowly through the darkening wood. 

Juniper was led from the old forest road to what is now downtown Wormwood, where she was welcomed and invited to park her families cart right in the center of town. She became  favorite amongst Wormwood's strange inhabitants for her uncanny abilities at predicting the weather and at suggesting the right spell for the right price. 

Juniper, being saddened by the loss of her parents of course, has searched for them ever since, scouring the woods and mountains in search of the Troll that took her father Gustaf and her mother Winifred, vowing revenge on any Troll she meets. It is in Junipers many travels that she has gathered countless amounts of materials for her now famous Wormwood Gypsy acutraments, charms, tokens and jewelry, all of which can be purchased at both her store, Wormwood Gypsy Supply and Troll Hunting Hardware, on main street and 13th next to Sir Fineus McShrinks Bookstore and Adventuring Equipment Outfitters, also a good place to stock up on Junipers enchantments for the battle-hardened traveller. 

So it is, that in this late summer season, in honor of the arrival of Ms. Juniper Shlocklovia Dracul and the tragic loss of her parents, Gustaf and Winifred, Wormwood Gypsy Supply and Troll Hunting Hardware has their annual Troll Hunting sale, where one can purchase the famed bracelets, necklaces, and enchanted Wormwood workings of Ms. Juniper made from hair of Troll, and fur of Mole.  

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.

Manager, Operator, Owner

Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication

For additional information on purchasing Ms. Junipers enchanted Wormwood wares, one may inquire outside of the Wormwood Valley to:

Wormwood Valley@gmail.com

attn: Ms. Juniper Shlocklovia Dracul 

The Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication

Wormwood Valley ebbs and flows like the tides. It is simply a season of change and thus, we have been exploring the depths of the underdark of Wormwood Valley, and collecting new and exciting tales to share with the readers who dare venture into the strange, peculiar, and slightly dark valley that is Wormwood.

So do not fret. The Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication is still being produced for all residents of Wormwood Valley. We mustn’t have too many residents seeking out information, asking questions, or snooping around now, it just wouldn’t be polite. Not to mention dangerous.

A new feature will be starting in our weekly publication, Poetic Perversions and Pestilence by Mrs. Horbgrub Lillyspit, the Wormwood Valley Poet in Residence. She will provide a bit of beauty, a bit of humor, and as always a bit of dark truth and history in each of her disturbing little sonnets each week.

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.

Manager, Operator, Owner

Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication

Kashnipit's Coffee & Slug Bean Tea

Brrrr! The chill of winter sets across Wormwood Valley as the holidays pass and we find ourselves entrenched in the depths of the duldrum days between Winter and Spring or as they have come to be known in and around Wormwood, the Slug Days. And nothing warms the soul better than Slug Bean Coffee and hot Slug Snot Tea after a good outing of Slug Smashing. Not only does this traditional and disgusting activity keep the limbs moving and the blood flowing, but it has become a somewhat questionable tradition in Wormwood as of late also.

Wormwood Valley, with it's vast dark forests, hides a great deal of secrets, and secret species as well. And one such species, unknown until only a few years back was the Wormwood Forest Slug. these are not your average slime dripping slug, moving slowly across wood and rock and leaving a foul little trail in their oozing wake. No these are all of the foul and tasteless things that make up their smaller brethren, as well as a set of very sharp, very corroded, and very nasty teeth. they grow in length from several feet to well over 20, and often when rising up to feast on birds and small animals from the trees can stretch to a height of nearly 30 feet at their worst. They are often seen only when delving underground (which one should never be seen doing in Wormwood, as this is of course a very dangerous and culturally frowned-upon way to be spending one's time) as they inhabit great caverns and dens of goo-infested caves deep beneath Wormwood where it is said they feed on the insects and tree roots of the massive forest undergrowth, stretching their roots deep below the ground. Why they developed a taste for meet is relatively unknown, but they have none the less. these giant crawling creatures of disgust become an even greater problem in the wintertime, and for whatever reason, after the Holidays. It could be the tendency to discard old Christmas Trees, or the drippings of old candy cane and rotten fruitcake that draws them up from their subterranean pools of filth, or it could be that they enjoy a good frolic in the snow every now and then, but they become quite the dangerous and ill-tempered nuisance this time of year. 

Thus, the tradition of scattering them back to the woods grew into an outright battle some years back.         

They were considered a slow moving, albeit foul annoyance until it became clear they were not just satisfied with Wormwood residents half-eaten leftovers and undecorated drippings.  When old Mrs. Stewson of Milldrip Lane saw a fairly young and rather rambunctious hoodlum of a slug making its way along the forest road past her wood side cottage one winter morn, she tried to shoo it away with a friendly offering of her recently put-out-to-trash undecorated Christmas tree.  As she hoisted the tree as best she could over her wrinkly shawl covered arms, she inadvertently pricked her hand on the Wormwood Pine's spindly sharp branches. As she yelped, the blood trickled down her arm and on to her freshly crocheted shawl, wrapped delicately around her fragile geriatric limbs. As this slug began to chomp away lazily at the tree, it's tentacle like eyes peered down from their greenish-black goo covered stalks and saw the bright red life-juice drip hypnotically onto the white snow. As the creature gulped down the trunk of the tree into it's great cavernous belly, it quickly scooped it's neck down to partake of this curious substance, and in the process, took a bit too much of a snippet from Old Mrs. Stewson's left arm. As it's great suctioning mouth lifted her entire frame high into the air, her normally crotchety and ill-tempered demeanor grew increasingly more panicked with every foot he lifted her up into the forest canopy above until suddenly, in one great sad swoop, it swallowed her whole, her cane flailing in agony as it dropped to the snow, her legs and orthopedic shoes disappearing forever into the great green slime covered mouth.  

The next morning as the mailman delivered her monthly issues of Kitty Cat Collector and Denture Aficionado magazine, all he saw of old Mrs. Stewson was her cane, a crooked wooden crutch, lying haphazardly in the freshly fallen snow. The only sign of her great disappearance was a glop-covered trail leading into the woods, the clear sign of a giant Wormwood slug. Well spreading the news as quickly as he could, the mailman rushed into town and spread the word to everyone he could all across town square. Soon after, the snails were considered major threats, not just slimy foul smelling vandals. Bats and pitchforks and weapons of every imaginable contortion and design were developed with salt-encrusted blades, salt-filled grenades and even salt-spitting became a popular protective past time, all in defense of this great disgusting threat. 

Sure enough not a week had gone by before another attack took place, this time as Mr. Willoughby crossed the Old Wormwood covered bridge in his newly restored jalopy. He came to a great massive slug, stuck head first inside the covered bridge as it attempted to free itself from it's oversized predicament. As he honked and yelled at the massive green road block, the putter of the jalopy and the pitch of it's archaic horn drove the slug into a rage.  Squishing and jostling from it's aging wooden prison, the slug shot forth like a slime covered rocket, straight at Mr. Willoughby, mouth gaping wide as Mr. Willoughby looked deep into the encroaching, and utterly disgusting smelling pit of doom about to engulf not only him, but his freshly painted vehicle as well. In one great swallow, they both disappeared from Wormwood Valley.   

Now, word of this surely must have reached the great Slug colonies because more and more of the great beasts were being seen on the borders of Wormwood Valley, and their fear and obedience to the residents had grown less and less. The town Militia was called to the footsteps of the old Wormwood School, once a great Pirate fortress, and the townspeople enacted the Slug Smashing Act which, with the help of the Mayor and the Wormwood Valley Council, became a traditional day of driving out the foul creatures once and for all. 

One of the townspeople who fought most bravely at the battle of Wormwood River, Mr. Varishnu Kashnipit actually allowed himself to be swallowed whole by the beats and cut his way out from the inside! A very disgusting move that did not win him any popularity in the arena of good aroma's, but was an effective albeit simply grotesque maneuver.  He was also the only resident interested in cleaning up after the battle. With the mayors great thanks and heart-felt approval Mr. Varishnu toiled long into the night, picking every piece of smashed slug, scalloped skin, and sliced slime from the trees, rocks, and bridge of the Wormwood River. No one could understand why in the world Mr. Varishnu would want such a mass of fetid foul smelling flesh. Until the next morning. 

As the residents of Wormwood Valley began their day, they were greeted by the strange swirling smell  of Mr. Kashnipit's Coffee and Slug Bean Tea stand offering steaming hot cups of wormwood Slug Bean Tea, and Slug soaked coffee. It grew to such a raging success that he soon had to find a more permanent residence than his rattling wooden cart. It was right there on that very spot that now sits the fine Wormwood establishment of Kashnipits Coffee and Tea, complete with european style cafe tables overlooking the gurggling waters of the Wormwood Fountain and allowing a picturesque and post-card worthy spot for all Wormwood residents to enjoy the wormwood Square ice skating or the gentle breezes of the summer.  No, many have questioned how Mr. Kishnipit stays in business with the almost complete abolishment of the slugs, but it is also well known that he is quite the spelunker. And it is believed that eh has a series of underground tunnels, passages and secret doorways right beneath Wormwood square that delve deep below the surface of Wormwood and into the deepest, darkest, and most dangerous corners of the slug-infested underground. While the secret of his Slug Slime Coffee and Slug Bean Tea remains a mystery, the popularity and prominence of his establishment does not. 

So sit back, take of your ice skates, and take in a deep breath of one of the most curious delicacy's in all of Wormwood Valley.

Cheers!

Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,

Inkly Tolew the Third Esq.

Manager, Operator, Owner 

Wormwood Valley Information Operations Publication